On Jackie…

I was not planning to write a post today, but when I saw the news about Jackie Collins on Twitter…I was heartbroken. You see, I would not write the way that I do if it were not for her. Yeas ago, I read an interview with her, about not knowing how her book ends until she is finished writing it. I realized that I did not have to write an outline, or even know how a piece is going to end to create it.

Jackie Collins was serious about her craft. People always categorized her novels as trashy. My mother had a copy of Chances which was recommended to her by a friend, and I skimmed it like it was my job. My mom did not finish it, but the bits of it that I skimmed stayed with me and influenced my earliest writing endeavors. When I was younger, I always wanted to write stories with glamorous backgrounds and lots of romance and sex…I hung onto to the lots of romance and sex, and Paris is pretty glamorous as a backdrop for many of my stories (and New York!). But they are included because I love them, not for their glamour. 

Jackie took on her critics, she was passionate about the stories that she wrote. I remember her with her big hair and leopard skin clothing in interviews–the epitome of glamour herself–being so animated with a glint in her eye as she talked about her newest novel. She never stopped. I was delighted to follow her Twitter account, because her enthusiasm and zest for life was so evident in it. 

My interpretation of her spirit and dedication to the craft stayed with me. When I first started writing, I mimicked the authors I first saw around me (i.e. Jackie Collins!). The more I studied writing in school, the more I veered off onto my own ideas. My form is still evolving. I just wrote a story, and experimented with something I had never experimented with before. When I gave it to my editor, I was not sure what they were going to think. I only knew I was passionate about what I had created.

They loved it.

It is so important to write what you love, and not to overthink it. There is so much going on with this industry right now, with this genre in particular. When I was on a publishers’ panel last month, the big thing that I kept telling the audience was to write what they want to write. That is what is going to sell. Not some made-to-order confection that is what you think is going to be successful. It might be sweet, but is it for you?

Jackie Collins was one of my earliest influences as a writer, and her joie de vivre and love of the craft will always stay with me. If you imagine me writing, it is always with joy, with love and reference for genres that people like to smirk about.

It is my joy, and I am thankful for writers like Jackie Collins who helped me embrace it.  


Jackie Collins holding Power Trip via wikipedia

Sinful Sunday, Week 232: The Week In Review

Brooklyn, 19:50

  
Nolita, 20:36

 
Midtown, 16:25 
More Sinful Sunday here:

  

Yesterday…

Yesterday was a really awesome blog day for me. I had my amazing, brilliant friend Vena Ramphal as a guest on my blog. I met Vena at Eroticon a few years ago. Her session was so life-affirming and rich, and her post is the same–full of love and life…You can read it here if you missed it, or again!

This year at Eroticon, I met the equally amazing and brilliant Girl on the Net. GOTN was there last year, but I did not get to meet her. This year I did, and she is really awesome! She did a fantastic session which you can read about here, and gave us lots of chocolate–so I am a friend for life! But most of all, she is full of such great energy and shares my suit fetish–which is what my guest post on her blog is all about! You can read it here.

It only seemed fair in an ode to my great blog day yesterday, to honor something else of yesterday…Don Draper in his suit!

photo of Don Draper via flickr

Guest Blogger and Dynamo, Vena Ramphal!!!

Vena Ramphal sensual ladies I know. I met her in person a few years ago (she is UK based), and have stayed in touch ever since. She is mesmerizing…without further ado…

Beckoned. Beloved. Bereft.
I recall choreographing these words in a daydream of longing. This tiny dance of language sums up my erotic voice. I know that for many people, this isn’t remotely erotic. There is no sex, no nudity, nothing explicit….
As a reader I’ve always relished the the power of words to stroke the imagination. As a writer I want readers to shimmy their way into the space between my words. I want them to imply themselves – their body, their story, their emotion, their fantasy – in the writing.  My erotica is implicit…..
Its only recently that I’ve claimed the label ‘erotica’. I want to say a bit about the challenges I’ve had with the label in the hope of helping other writers claim their own erotic voice.
Leonora and I first connected on twitter, where I share my tiny dances of language. When we first met in the flesh she said to me,”Vena, I think you would write erotica really well.” I was flattered but surprised. While I knew my writing to be sensual and erotic, I didn’t think of myself as being in the genre of ‘erotica’ per se.
I was surprised at her statement because the erotica I had read was very different to my writing. There was plenty of variety in what I’d read – from BDSM, to vanilla couple sex and plenty more besides. Some things I liked. Mostly, I really didnt. But most significantly I couldn’t relate to any of it as a writer. I simply couldn’t see myself in the genre. So, I decided that what I was writing wasn’t erotica.
But Leonora’s statement – and it really was an “I know what I’m talkin’ about, kid” kind of statement – made me think. Upon reflection I realised that at a subconscious level I was waiting for someone to give me permission to join the club. By trying to find erotica to which I could relate, I was unconsciously asking for permission to include my writing in the genre. When I failed to find that permission, I excluded myself.
Next, came the realisation that if I had excluded myself I could simply include myself. Realising this was one thing. Being able to do so with authenticity was another.
Analysing My Writing
The numinous Line
From the nape of his neck
To the base of his Spine
There are three core components in my erotic writing. They’re not all explicitly present in every piece but the vibe is there. They are:
1. Visceral: I want the words to land in the reader’s body. ‘Visceral’ doesn’t necessarily mean ‘sexual’.
2. Romantic: I mean romance in the broader sense of tapping into the existential ache of the human condition. I’m not aiming to answer the question, “What is the meaning of life?” I’m aiming to leave the reader feeling like they can sigh into the answer for themselves. I want their heart to catch a little.
3. Sacred: To me the body is utterly sacred. I hold my own in delighted, familiar reverence.
These components set my standards. Being clear on them means that I can be authentic in my erotic voice.
Embracing My Influences
The thing that really helped me to claim the label ‘erotica’ was acknowledging my influences and fully embracing them. I know that some philosopher somewhere – probably several in fact – have noted that all writing is autobiographical to an extent. By recognising the influences that shaped my erotic voice I went from feeling like I was flapping about in the wind to seeing that I had a clear, strong baseline. I’m not a fan of the ‘anything goes’ approach. I like to have a framework, whether I’m writing or……. dancing.
Which brings me to my influences. Classical Indian dance, the sculptures of Kajuraho etc., the devotional-erotic literature of classical Sanskrit. This isn’t any old baseline. This is a fully fleshed tradition of erotica. These influences have been a huge part of my life as a professional dancer since I was a teenager.
Classical Indian art – dance, music, sculpture, literature, architecture, painting, even jewellery making – is permeated with the erotic. Erotic love is championed as a true and direct expression of divine love.
Suddenly, I understood my erotic voice – visceral, romantic, sacred. By actively hanging out with my influences I slipped into the confidence to claim the label ‘erotica’ for my writing. I became unapologetically comfortable with the boundaries of my language and style.
 I no longer excluded myself.
Learn more about my gorgeous friend Vena at venaramphal.com
photo by Vena Ramphal

Wicked Wednesday #172 — Epiphany

Eliza stared at the frosted glass of the hotel bar, and hoped for some kind of epiphany. She was with Rafe, they had finally gotten out of bed.
Being in bed with him made her lazy, and her body craved the familiar warmth of his. He could not keep his hands off of her. She knew that she was an addiction for him, the same way sleeping alone was an aberration for her.
The frosted glass behind the bar made her see things in a frosted way.
Frosted and dreamlike.
Rafe put his hand on her thigh, every time he touched her it felt very right, but she still waited for the moment when she did not question. When she realized again that she did want to marry him.
She loved him, through everything she loved him and that was why it hurt so much. Why she had had to leave, and created the dream sequence that was her life since they were not together.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked looking into her eyes.
“You.”
He looked down, she knew he was not confident now. That her saying that she was thinking about him, did not have to be good. He looked down at her, his hand still trailed her thighs like he was trying to find his way…
“Your table is ready.”
Eliza looked up at the gorgeous woman, who was dressed in pinstripes with suspenders and whose eyes slid over both of theirs. Her name tag said Josephine, and they followed her. Both of them slid past her, incidentally caressing some curve of her body. Josephine lingered at their table for a moment, after she told them she would be their server.
“You are the most exquisite couple I have seen here for a long time,” she said. “It will be my pleasure to serve you both tonight.”
She walked away, her curves oozed effortless sensuality in tandem with the swaying of her body.
“Wow,” Eliza said under her breath, as Josephine walked away from them.
This was not the first time that Eliza saw Josephine. Josephine worked every night that she had gone to the bar, and that had been often. Rafe was the third man that Josephine saw her there with.
But Josephine had never said that she was exquisite with Oscar or Marcus.
Eliza knew that she and Rafe looked like a couple. They did not even have to engage with each other for it to be obvious. The fact that they had spent so much of the day in bed together, it was like they were still in bed. The way he touched her, the way she looked at him. 
She wondered of he was looking at Josephine, who was the kind of woman that made men and women alike look at her. Heads turned to follow her every movement, so that they looked like waves that splashed against her.
“She is beautiful Liza, but I do am not interested in her,” he said, reading her mind.
“I didn’t…”
“I fucked up with you so bad Liza, but I cannot live without you. I cannot be without you, you saw how I looked when I was at your hotel room door…”
Eliza look down at his hand on her knee, she still fiddled with her engagement ring in her hand. It had become so much of her identity that even if she did not put it back on, she needed to fondle it. She looked up at Rafe and studied the growth on his face, he did look haggard.
“But you will do it again. It is what you do.”
Eliza sucked the diamond on her ring looking at him, and he leaned to kiss her mouth filled with the diamond.
“Put it on,” he said in her ear, his lips lingering there sent shivers through her first and then the bristle of his cheek made her tremble.
Rafe got down on his knees and in an even more dramatic way than he had the first time, he kissed both of her knees and her between her thighs before he said,
“Marry me.”

More epiphanies here:
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frosted bar photo by f dot leonora

E[Lust] No. 74 — The Magical Edition!!!

Ginger nic1
Photo courtesy of Switch Studies

Welcome to Elust #74

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #75? Start with the rules, come back October 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Machine
She wanted to let the light in…
Reflections on the Male Nude

 

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Trudy
Is it play acting?

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*

Can a Woman be a Good Mother and Write a Sex Blog

 

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Leaden Heart
Summer awakening
Our Kind Of Monogamy
If You’re Gonna Be A Thot Do It With Grace
Playing at Poly
I’m a-Lousy-Monogamist
Sharing the bed
The Couple and the Coquette
Four Love

Erotic Fiction

All Girls Night
Unresponsive Satisfaction
i don’t want realism, i want magic
A Stranger’s Tale
Motion Capture
Checking Southward
His Slave Heart.

Erotic Non-Fiction

Sexy Riding
Relaxing
I noticed without paying attention
Humiliating an ex-Nazi submissive: sex slave
The End of a Rut
Rayne is a Fucktoy Cunt
Mindful Orgasm

Events

5 Reasons Woodhull Was an Amazing Experience

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Sex: Vegans, Carnivores, and Apex Predators

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Location, Location, Location
Seven Dimensions of Dominance
Light That Fire: Motivational Tools

When A BDSM Scene Ends Abruptly

Writing About Writing

You Down With OPT?
Cover Me
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Masturbation Monday No. 54

Nichy clutched her vintage polka dot dress at the crotch, her fingers pressed into her labia and caressed her clit gently through the material. Her body was so heavy with lust, she could barely move. Walking almost made her come, because the tiniest sensation between her legs aroused her. She pressed her head to the bathroom mirror behind the door, and that coolness shot through her body like a current.

Sloppily she ended up on the bathroom floor, mindless of the cool tiles beneath her skin sending jolts all through her worked up state. She had spent her last few days with not one, but two men…but she was on the bathroom floor relieving herself alone. Unconsciously, her fingers moved like Gavin or Dorian’s had moved over her…there. Her sex felt silkier than any flower, as she caressed the skin before she tried to make herself come. The soft silky skin was not dissimilar to the silkiness of her favorite chocolate, that exploded like silk in her mouth. The part of her tongue where that explosion occurred throbbed now in time with her clit, which she was not ready to address manually.

Dorian was still staying at the hotel from which they left, to bring her back home. She was going to meet him there again. If for nothing else, she wanted to see him when she did not fear that he was going to abduct her as he had and because she simply needed to see him again. Being in bed with him, brought too many memories back to her…

Her finger dragged all the more over her labia, she felt gooey wetness when she inserted her finger inside herself. Her finger was clutched by her inadvertent spasms, and she just left it there for a bit. Gavin had used his fingers like this when he went down on her, and thinking about that made her involuntary spasms even more frequent. She was going to come without really touching herself it seemed. Between her legs was hot and wet, and the coolness of the tiled bathroom floor had disappeared for the most part.

Her phone rang, just as she had started to circle her clit with her dampened finger. Nicky rolled her head back and forth on the floor. She was not getting off of the floor, until she got off. Her hands sticky with her own pre-come, she pulled up her polka dot dress and rubbed her clit hard. She dipped inside herself to lubricate her finger over and over, because it felt best when she did it that way. Damp but not too wet, or she could not grip herself the way she needed to.

She came before she was even ready to, and she bit inside of her lip in the same place that she had bit it before when she came with Gavin, and with Dorian. Nichy got on her knees, where the coolness of the bathroom tiles was evident again and panted. She had come so hard she was out of breath, as she caressed her polka dot dress-covered nipple.

Getting up slowly, so she did not have a head rush, Nichy picked up her phone and subsequently dropped it. She pressed her hand to her head, and her nose was filled with her own fresh come along her fingers…distracting her from the ominous caller…

More Masturbation Monday here:

Masturbation-Monday-header3

polka dot dress photo by f dot leonora

Sinful Sunday, Week 231: Retro Legs

This is an old photo I took for another blog incarnation of mine, about magic which is following me as a theme…before I ever knew I would be a Sinful Sunday contributor…or make my first Polaroids Past hosted by the lovely Modesty Ablaze contribution…

There are no filters or effects on this, my early pics are raw…

image
More Sinful Sunday here:

  
More Polaroids Past here:

  

Poet Guest Blogger: Jade A. Waters

I wrote this blog post, early in my blog career before I really knew Jade…long before she became involved in Pillow Talk , or we were both part of Chemical [se]X…because Jade is an awesome lady. Listen to her podcast with Rose Caraway, she is one of the most amazing and just completely infectiously wonderful people I know. 

I love that she chose to write about poetry, today because she reminds me of when I used to write it myself. She is able to flow from prose to poetry, so that you do not think about her form…you just think about how beautiful her words are…let’s flow into Jade…

Hello everyone! I am delighted to be here today, thanks to the fabulous Miss F Dot inviting me to visit—what a sweetheart! And, since Leonora happens to be one of the most supportive and enthusiastic people I know when it comes to my poetry writing, it seemed fitting that I talk a little about the art of poetry.
Now, before I begin, I must preface this entire this post with an acknowledgment that I am not a true scholar of poetry. I took maybe three workshops and read four books on poetry in my entire life, and at one point I did teach a short workshop, so I could probably whip out some serious terminology if need be (with a manual readily in hand)—but none of that could really allow me to share any more than my own personal experience. Which is to say that, having tried numerous styles and forms, I’ve found I prefer poetry to be a big wide open field to run free in, with no rules boxing me in. Whereas in a story I am crafting with an actual arc in mind, poetry feels completely different—it’s like spilling lines all over a page in an extremely chaotic manner: willy nilly, on a whim, and without any structure or regularity like I plot in my fiction.
All that aside—I do find I keep some straightforward strategies in mind, which are rooted in the verse I wrote in my youth. I’m a pretty happy person, but then, while there was some chaos around me, I found I needed an outlet…and poetic snippets became that very outlet. The goal then was to write an angry rant to the person causing me pain, and since I tend toward the dramatic but generally prefer being nice, I guess my young brain thought the best way to ration this anger was to put it in verse. Then it was pretty anger in neat, organized, flowing lines. ☺ It grew a bit more angsty by my teen years (doesn’t everyone’s?) and tended to center around boys, but I figured out it wasn’t about the rhyme or structure. It was about the message I was trying to convey, and to whom. I remember constantly imagining dropping my journal so whoever I’d intended the message for would finally get it—so when I wrote, I did it as though I had a microphone, and I was finally able to tell the objects of my affection every little thing that was happening in my head.
While most of the stuff I wrote then is utter crap (heck, lots of it still is), the act of writing with all that anger, hurt, and desire provided massive practice in the one to five poems I was writing in a single day. And the strategies I used then still hold when I write poetry now:
Know your intended audience. 

Know your message.

Spill it on the page like you’re gushing a secret.
Ursula Le Guin recently said there’s no fancy recipe to writing something, and while I’m no Le Guin (if only!), I have to agree. You have to find what works for you, and in my case, the first two guidelines are what I must know before I sit down to write any piece of poetry, and the third follows rather naturally from there.
Okay, so now that you’ve heard my rambly how-to (without really being a how-to) backstory on writing poetry, I thought I’d share two brand new poems to demo what I’m up to behind the scenes.
This first one got tapped out on my phone last week while I was on an elliptical machine at the gym. It’s a bit on the silly side, but for demonstrating the strategies I mentioned, I think it works:

THE ROWER
I watched you on the rowing machine

(Well, tried not to watch

Is how it really went for me),

Hair slicked back as I worked over here

Sweat rolling down the sides of my face,

Letting me imagine what it would be like

Trailing down those sleek sides of yours,

Over the lines of muscle crossing 

Your abs, chest and back

(Oh, that back)

Flexing with every shift you make

On that little seat, back and

Forth, back and forth…

I don’t mean to sound smitten,

That’s why I’m biting my tongue

(Imagining biting your tongue)

Wondering if it would be advisable to 

Introduce myself, here, in this gym—

To risk my special haven

For those eyes.

But…well now. Wait a minute.

It seems I’m not the only one taking peeks here.

I blush when I look at you—

Because you are staring too. 

I turn back to my machine

(That’s why I’m here, right? 

Not crushes or lust or love—

Just this godforsaken equipment),

But when I look again

The rowing machine is deserted.

You clear your throat and I nearly jump—

You’re standing right next to me.

You say, “So I was wondering

For every mile that I rowed

If you might be interested

In going out to grab a drink—

After you’re done working out

Of course.”
I smile, and I don’t even care that

I’ve got sweat in my eyes

(It doesn’t seem like you do, either).

You smile back when I say yes. 

This machine may be

Kicking my ass,

But I’m thinking that

Drink with you?

That is the best reward

For calories lost

That I could ever dream.

All right. I chose this one because it came to me quickly and easily as far as the strategies I tend to employ. It’s certainly not my best (not even close), but the intention is clear: woman has a crush on gym gentleman (audience) and she wants to share it (message). I’d actually spotted a man sweating rather nicely on a rowing machine when I walked into the gym, and I thought, What if he was the type I tend to crush on and I wanted him to see me over here? How would I feel imagining his approach? And from there the poetic confession came forth!
Okay…now on to another, slightly more erotic poem.
LONGING ON THE SUBWAY
On the subway, I spot her—

Eyes locked on the pages

Of her book as she

Mindlessly plays with her hair,

Long tresses curling about

Her face, of which I can make out

The smooth brow furrowing

As she trails a finger along the lines

Of the text in her lap.
That’s where I long to be.
It’s those legs encased in the

Thinnest sheer fabric,

Crossed at the ankles

As she skims the pages opened up

On her clenched thighs.

From those glorious legs

I could build an entire fantasy—

She strips off her tights,

Showing me the smooth skin along her

Calves and knees, before she parts

Her perfect thighs and beckons me. 

She’ll trace fingers up her skin,

Along supple curves leading straight

To her sex, glistening and pink.

Heaven.
That’s where I long to be.
The man beside her jostles her leg

And she lifts her gaze,

She’s all smiles and laughs

And my vision shifts:

Me, tangled round those

Magnificent legs

Kisses making their way

Up her skin, over her hips,

Fingers stroking rounded thighs

And finding their way up to

All her sweetest spots

But the subway grinds to a halt.

When I rise to leave,

Her eyes meet mine

And I realize that in them—
That’s where I really long to be.
Some of you know that not only is Leonora a sweetheart, but she has amazing legs—this poem was actually inspired by one of her sexy leg photos. When I first saw the image, I immediately pictured a man spying her on the subway, completely captivated by the look of her legs and caught up in that—and then discovering she was much more than the legs (much like our fabulous Leonora). So again I had a message in mind (I love your legs but you’ve won me with your eyes), an audience (the reader, to whom he’s sharing this realization) and the secret spilling happens along the way.
Whether it is erotic, playful, or romantic poetry, those are basically the goals I’m employing before I start drafting. Even when I’m working on more serious, non-erotic poems, I have the same strategies in mind: who is the recipient and what am I trying to say to him/her/them? And from there I write it out like I’m confessing or sharing my secrets. 
So, there you have it! My thoughts on writing poetry. I know there are more poets out there, so I’m curious what strategies others use when writing their poetry. Do you think it through beforehand? Plan an arc? Work with rhyme? Choose a structure and work with that? Please share!
In the meantime, I’m sending a huge hug and a giant thank you to lovely Leonora for having me over today!

 

XX,

Jade

You can find Jade A. Waters on Twitter, and on her website. You can also find more of her poetry on her secondary site, Poetry by Jade

photo that inspired Jade’s poem, and is being used for the Prompted anthology cover by f dot leonora

Guest Post: The Beautiful F. Leonora Solomon On Food and Attraction