General Blog Posts
“The mastodon hours lumber their way into extinction, sinking wearily into the sticky tar pit of the evening†In the last piece of flash fiction, I used the above imagery – a metaphor – that prompted the following comment from Oatmeal Girl: “I could hate you for this. I was going to say I...
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It’s muggy hot. Too heavy for my bones. The mastodon hours lumber their way into extinction, sinking wearily into the sticky tar pit of the evening. It will go on like this until June: leaden days of drowsy impatience. I’m scorpion in amber, my sting ever at the ready, and no way to get...
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That first thrust felt so fucking good. Everything I had imagined it would be. Fiercely hot, impossibly tight – she had the angriest cunt I’d ever been in. It was monstrous, delicious. I ploughed into her over and over, bracing myself against the back of the sofa, lifting her until the blood rushed to...
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There are days I wish I’d not met you, never tasted the metal of your words, the bitter tang of your moods or the musk of your heat. There are days I want to cut off my hand, knowing that I cannot let go, yet finding no other way to rid myself of the...
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It took me a moment to work up an appropriate reaction. My cock twitched to life, like the predicable, mindless moron it was. I took in the display: the petulant expression beneath the tangle of curls; her nipples, small and nearly black against the skin of her small breasts; her hips canted, pushing out...
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There was no way to read her acceptance. I puzzled it as we walked along the wide, silent boulevard. The pride of the French who had colonized the place, Le Duan was deserted at midnight. Only the occasional passing motorcycle shot through the thick, humid silence. We didn’t talk and, every so often, I...
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Writer’s note: This has been slightly edited from its original Twittered version, because writing on the fly is fun, but not as polished as I can bear allowing to live on my site. “This is what you want, isn’t it?” she said, tugging my hand down the front of her skirt and pressing it...
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This is not an erotic story. The only one I ever wrote that wasn’t. It’s based on a series of six drawings made by Mr. Masayoshi Takamoto, a survivor of the Hiroshima bombing of August 6th, 1945. His interview and his drawings appeared a documentary called “Drawing A-Bomb Memories,” produced by NHK Television, Japan,...
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The weevils of lust worm their way into my dreams breaching sleep’s stillness. Penetrating skin, pores admit a slurry of sweet obscenities. A diorama of desire projected on a private screen. A red mouth, wet-lipped fingers persuade, then demand; sinews tense on touch. An endless wheel of lust inflamed and satisfied in warm, wet...
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I wanted to let you know why I’ve been pretty quiet the last week or so. I’ve been putting the finishing touches on a group blog called Publish and Be Damned. It’s a blog about erotica – writing it, reading it, loving it. It also aims to provide a resource for people who are...
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