Remittance Girl

Remittance Girl is a writer of literary erotica, commonly known as smut.

#Instinct – #twittersmut

Don’t give me reason or caution or polite civility. Give me desire: the truth that only flesh tells. Not considered or strategized, but instinctive and irrational. Want me because you sense me. Because my skin, my muscles, my cunt call to you and will not let you sleep. Because no breath is deep enough to…

Word Abuse: Rape

Just the other day, a friend of mine with a daughter of school age told me about a disturbing incident in which a little boy of the same age, 12, threatened her daughter with ‘rape’. Being both a concerned mother and an eminently sensible woman, she wondered just how far she should pursue the incident.…

The Unreliable Keeper of Time

I slip your mind like sand through fingers leaving only salty dust to be brushed off like a deed accomplished. Time can be broken as sure as lover’s hearts in a fragile moment of blameless forgetting or of a world too much with you, braying its demands, flashing even teeth, its Christmas ornaments, its ringing…

UnKindled & Paypalless: Ethics and the Bottom Line

I’ve been thinking hard about this topic for about 24 hours. I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night. I realized that my decision is going to affect more than just me, but, to paraphrase Edmund Burke, evil triumphs when good men do nothing. I have decided to take all Amazon links to my…

What’s Wrong With This Picture?

That’s not a joke question. What is wrong with this picture? Exactly what could anyone possibly find offensive about it? Great light, wonderful muted colours, great contrasts between skin and sheet, the soft green fabric and the ochre glow of the lamp. Any splayed cunt? Any penetration? Abuse? Cruelty to animals? Sharp edged power tools?…

Come To Me (Twitter #cometome)

Come to me singing, with pipes and drums, of mysterious moons and secret souls that live in the babbling brook. Come swaying hips And breasts, with chimes jingling from belt and ankles. To wave your hands and weave tales into a starry feastday tablecloth. At the dawn, sing me born of births, of brothers grappling…

The Things that Grow in a Vacuum

I have recently had a friendship come apart. It died from neglect and I admit complicity in its demise. I get too focused on things. I don’t water the flowers as much as I should. I tend to assume that, once I have had a meeting of minds with someone and a level of affection…

Mysterious Small

If you were here in the humid, scented dark, I’d tell you what the moths whisper with their wings when they brush stars. If you were here I’d show you where the wet green moss makes love to ragged stones. If you were here I’d carve your breath into rain clouds and watch the sun…

Somata for your pillow, love

I come for you in the bright tear of dawn, the silence of the dead afternoon, the brooding hum of evening, searching for the comfort of your continued existence. My mind launches, sticky-tipped toward the nest I have built for you, somata for your pillow, love, in my fertile neural forest. A tap, a touch,…