Tuesday, June 19, 2018

Download a damn-fucking good novel for free

OK, folks, this is the last time I'm going to plug this novel here or anywhere. If you have yet to purchase The Seven Seductions, this is your chance to get a copy of the final, fully-revised version abso-freakin'-lutely free, this weekend on Amazon from Thursday June 21 through Sunday June 24.

I generally refrain from tooting my own horn when it comes to my writing. In fact, I'm absolutely lousy at promotion, not because I don't think what I've written is worth promoting, but because I expend so much time and energy in creating my work, that I tend to be all tuckered out when I'm done. I HATE schmoozing or sucking up just to sell my wares, and I despise the idea of spamming my friends or whoring myself to strangers for the sake of a few lousy sales, hogging bandwidth with  endless self-congratulatory postings that don't move the reader-interest needle so much as a fraction of an inch one way or the other, while effectively making me look like a money-grubbing asshole.

But, you know what? I'm a FUCKING GOOD WRITER, and The Seven Seductions is a DAMN FUCKING GOOD NOVEL, and that is the TOTAL IN-YOUR-FACE HONEST FUCKING TRUTH. Download  The Seven Seductions gratis this weekend on Amazon, Thursday June 21 through Sunday June 24 and find out just how fucking good it is!

What else can I do to tempt you? It's probably not cool (or even legal, let alone practical) to offer a free hum job with every download, or even a sensual foot massage--though I've been told I'm pretty good at the latter. Believe me, I'd happily do that without the slightest promise of anything in return. So, think of  your free copy of The Seven Seductions as a super-sensual foot massage, except it's for your brain. Goodness knows, we could all use a nice brain massage from time to time; after all, the 'big brain' is the largest, most complex sex organ in the human body, and it requires its share of attention. You can also make your brain happy by indulging it with finely-crafted, sexily stylish language of the type to be found in The Seven Seductionstotally free this weekend on Amazon, Thursday June 21 through Sunday June 24...

Still not convinced? Do I need to write one of those sneaky fake reviews like the ones so many unethical authors put up on Goodreads, or pay to have posted on the Zon? How would I go about it?

Terrance Aldon Shaw's The Seven Seductions  is not only a brilliant piece of writing, and a sexy-storytelling tour de force, but one of the steamiest reads to come down the erotic-romance pike in something like the whole history of ever...  Believe me, you'll be peeling yourself off the ceiling when you're done with this one! Shaw has a gift for evoking rich erotic atmosphere, pulsing with sexy potential, and, like the lovers in his story, he knows how to delve deep and hit the literary G-spot time and time again. 

Haunted by a demon's prophecy, Nebraska farm girl Gretchen Ausslander grows up dreading the destiny she cannot escape—not even within the walls of a convent—the lustful longings of the otherworldly creature she knows only as The Nameless One.

Uncanny things have always had a way of happening ever since her older sister read aloud from a book of black magic, unwittingly awakening the demon. But now, after having become Sister Mary Chastity, Gretchen must struggle with the stirrings of her own long-buried desires, the undeniable yearnings that overpower her flesh, and the guilt that inevitably follows when memory intrudes upon the present and dark secrets come back to confound her.

On “holy retreat” in a vacation house by the shores of a lake in the Great North Woods, Mary Chastity meets Magic, a handsome, carefree young artist who tests her vows even as he speaks to something deep within her heart. Can this beautiful boy help her to face her fears—or is he part of the future The Nameless One has foreseen for her all along? Is Magic the key to Mary Chastity’s salvation—or nothing less than the incubus itself in human guise? 

Admittedly, Shaw's novel takes a while to warm up, but when it finally comes to a boil, absolutely no one will escape the heat. The story reaches an earth-shattering climax, when past and present at last converge and the reluctant heroine is forced to face her demons in a blazing set-piece that takes her to the very depths of Hell and back. The Seven Seductions will leave you breathless, horny, and happily enlightened all at the same time. (Who wouldn't pay absolutely nothing to feel that way???) Enthusiastically recommended! 

Still stubbornly unconvinced?? I guess the only card I have left to play is the writing itself. Here's an excerpt from The Seven Seductionswhich--surprise!--you can download for free this weekend on Amazon, Thursday June 21 through Sunday June 24... 

Gretchen lay alone in the dark, wide awake on a dull sword-edge of anticipation. Excruciatingly alert, she had ceased to live in the present, her whole attention focused squarely on what was about to happen. Her mind was racing out ahead of her, minutes into the future, building up a terrible momentum as it roared past possibilities like sights along a railway line, and she a reluctant passenger, not wanting to imagine, yet wholly incapable of not imagining.
Is he going to finish what he started in the bathroom?
Was it her fear that held her captive—made it impossible to move? Or was it her curiosity, her need? No one had drugged her. No one was holding her down, or threatening her. She could get up and leave if she wanted, run away if she felt like it, put it all behind her and never look back.
Why is he making me wait? Oh! Why doesn’t he hurry up and get here?
Her hearing had become so unbearably acute that sound itself was palpable, dull blades slicing into her skin, and she startled at the slightest noise. Is that him? Is he here? Oh God! Oh God! Yet, she remained still, if unrelaxed, muscles tensed like taut bondage ropes suspending her an inch or so above the bed.
Please! I can’t stand it—this waiting, this not knowing—not even a second longer! He can do whatever he wants. I don’t care. Only let it happen now—
“Oh!” Gretchen started up as someone rattled the doorknob from outside. A burst of frozen heat erupted from the middle of her gut as the tension that had been building up was violently released; as the “later” into which she had projected herself suddenly became the “now,” and she was born into a new and terrifying reality.
A sliver of dull reddish light slowly widened across the bed as the door creaked open. A black smudge loomed up within the middle of this lambent pillar, resolving itself into the negative image of a human form, a faceless wraith, stepping through the portal of a nightmare.
My shadow is upon you now and you are bound to me forever.
The intruder shut the door, plunging the room back into dusky obscurity. Gretchen felt its presence in spite of her senses’ confusion, the preternatural heat of its intention projected towards her as it came on through the pouring gloom.
“Mm.” He stood at the foot of the bed, staring down at her for a moment, or so Gretchen supposed, for she still could not make out his face.
“What are you… what are you going to…”
Swiftly, silently, he hooked a meaty finger into the wedged point of her décolletage and pulled, rending the flimsy fabric with a single merciless motion. The negligée fluttered open, limp and useless at her sides, its stylish shoulder straps framing her neck like a pair of drooping wings. She could feel the sickly moistness of the air caressing her newly-exposed flesh, her breasts her belly, her cunt.
She heard the ominous clink and snap of a belt impatiently unbuckled, the buzz of metal teeth, muffled by the parting denim, as he unzipped the fly on his jeans. Tyge hummed softly to himself, a lazy series of three notes, indistinguishably off-key, maddeningly repeated at random.
He toyed with her, pressing his cock against her inner thigh, drawing it slowly back and forward again to plow the coarse tangles of her mound. His penis seemed unbelievably heavy to her, a balky iron club wrapped in velvet, as thick as her own upper arm, hard, yet not wholly rigid, its movements imprecise, unwieldy, clumsy in a childish sort of way, still uncannily aware of its own terrible power.
She whimpered, wanting it.
“Mmm-MM-mm.” Tyge hummed the strange tune, more incantation than melody, ignoring her need, unmoved, yet in constant, slow, delicious motion.
“I think… I’m ready.” Gretchen whispered the words more bravely than she felt them. She lay on her back, limbs splayed wide, wanting him to see her—all of her—and know that she was his to do with as he pleased.
“Please?” She was practically weeping now, her voice ragged with emotion as she tossed her head to the side in a fevered agony of longing. “Please, I want…”
“Mm-MM?” He stopped in mid-hum. A bolt of lightning ripped through her lower body as he brought the tip of his cock into contact with her clitoris.
Oh Jesus God!” Gretchen clutched the bedding on either side of the mattress, gathered up into tight wads in her fists, as if bracing herself in this way might keep her soul from flying apart.
“Mmm-hm-hm!” Tyge seemed to chuckle as he pressed at her again.
“Please,” Gretchen sobbed, “now!”
“Mm-MM-mm…” In no hurry, he rested a flat palm in the wide valley of her bosom.
“C’mon!” She shoved her pelvis up at him. “I’m right here!”
“Now!” Gretchen sobbed through gritted teeth. “Now!” the word repeated like a mantra as her desperation rose, inflected in a dozen different ways. “Now!” she moaned and whined and begged and pleaded until she was cursing unaware, lashing out blindly in her frustration. “Now, goddamn it! Now! I want… I want…”
“I want you… I want you to…”
“I want you to…”
“Fuck me!” she screamed at last. “Now! I don’t care! Just do it now!
He was already prying her lips apart with the tip of his cock. She felt it quivering there like a diviner’s rod, seeking the hidden well of wetness deep within her folds.
“Oooh!” Gretchen moaned, the sound abruptly cut off by a sharp intake of breath as he eased forward. “Oh… Ohhh…. OHHHH!” She screamed again, but not from pain or fear.
He leaned over, bearing down, filling her easily though he came into her with twisted serpentine thrusts, as if careening around a corner. Their movements were wildly out of sync, like awkward swimmers reaching out for one another beneath the water, repelled by mutual surface tension.
“Fuck me!” She was panting, her voice barely more than a bated squeak tinged with the pain of unfulfilled desire. They moved obliquely together, joined at the crotch, twisting and corkscrewing around the immovable axis of his penis, she turning her thighs away from his, off-center, a little to the left; he rolling his hips in the opposite direction in order to pull her back into alignment, though he continued to impale her with a steady, mechanical rhythm.
“Oooooooh!” That noise again, somewhere between crying and singing, though Gretchen was barely aware of any sound at all.
Tyge crawled on top and crouched above her in the bed like a soldier poised to do pushups, pinning her there with the bony weight of his hips. Her moans came in syncopated gasps, soft replies to the regular pulsing thrusts that drove her back and back towards the middle of the bed, the syllables rising in pitch like the sound of water filling a narrow glass to the brim.
Her limbs seemed impossibly buoyant, her whole body in a state of languid atrophy, shrinking down with each relentless thrust until all weight, all substance was concentrated like an imploding singularity in her cunt. Gretchen opened her mouth to cry out again, but no sound reached her ears. All sense was lost. All save for the feeling of those tender inner walls eagerly expanding around her lover’s extravagant girth, aspiring to become the center of a new cosmos, a cornucopia of pleasure overflowing with light.
And they had only just begun.


Download The Seven Seductions absolutely free this weekend on Amazon, Thursday June 21 through Sunday June 24... 

Saturday, June 9, 2018

Review of 'Perfect Strangers: A Memoir of the Swinging 70's' by Dorothy Freed

When I grow up, I want to be as cool as Dorothy Freed. Well, that might be a tall order: no spring chicken any more, it’s getting harder to deny that I am finally, in spite of all my efforts to avoid it, a rather drab excuse for an adult.  Still, if I could hope to be even half as cool as the fantastic Ms. Freed, or write about my own life-experience with the same deep self-awareness, honesty,  passion, and grace that she brings to this amazing new memoir, I would consider that something worth celebrating.

Perfect Strangers proves once again that real life is often farther-out than fiction. Freed’s story has all the elements of a well-crafted erotic page-turner, including the plucky heroine with a problem on her hands, a seemingly endless series of obstacles to negotiate, and conflicts to overcome—her storytelling all the more powerful for being true! As in any good tale, conflict  comes right at the beginning, in this case when Freed discovers her husband in bed with her best friend. Lacking the confidence that comes with experience, the young heroine is, at first, very much adrift: married at seventeen and a dutiful housewife for twelve years, her husband is the only lover she has ever known, though he never seems to miss an opportunity to remind her of what he perceives as her sexual inadequacies, particularly her (supposed) inability to achieve vaginal orgasm.

Soon divorced with two young sons to support, Freed made her way to the west coast in the mid-1970s. “If you come to San Francisco,” Scott McKenzie so famously sang, “be sure to wear some flowers in your hair…” Had she known what awaited her there, Freed might well have arrived with bells on. Already the legendary mecca of seekers, and undisputed world capitol of the dawning New Age culture, San Francisco in those years was the very pulsing, exuberant heart of the Sexual Revolution, and Freed found her element—and herself—there, truly at home for the first time in her life.

The city is much more than mere backdrop in this narrative, with its sleazy clubs and peep shows, steaming bathhouses, velvet-upholstered swingers’ retreats, greasy bistros, head shops, and cafes, high-quality psychedelics, and easy sex—what Erica Jong notoriously referred to as the zipless fuck—San Francisco is the magical canvas on which the story of Freed’s quest for liberty and self-knowledge assumes vivid life.

As in any quest-narrative worth the telling, the heroine needs a guide or mentors to help her learn the workings of this strange, new, and sometimes scary world. Enter a series of fascinating acquaintances and “perfect strangers” to help Dorothy navigate the Yellow Brick Road. At one point, Freed informs us, she was simultaneously dating no fewer than seven men, and would ultimately have close to a hundred lovers in the space of four years. She describes a few of these encounters in frank, unblinking detail, the good, the bad, and the bat-shit crazy, along with what lessons were learned along the way. But probably the most influential and constant figure in her life at that time was “Jake,” Freed’s friend-with-benefits galore, who, in his constant challenging of her inhibitions and hang-ups, ever pushing the envelope of convention, was instrumental in helping her realize her true sexual self, the dazzling butterfly at last emerging from its cocoon of uncertainty and self-doubt.

Freed’s musings about the pitfalls of love, the search for deeper connection and meaning in life, are often extraordinary, and beautifully written, rising to the level of the most memorable personal literature. Throughout, her language is direct, frank—but seldom brutally so—and never convoluted or confused. This is by no means a difficult book to read, though it is certainly an easy one to love.

Enthusiastically recommended!

Monday, June 4, 2018

'The Erotic Writer's Thesaurus' now available on Kindle

The Erotic Writer's Thesaurus is now available in an unabridged Kindle edition. This e-reference features easy navigation and searchability. $22.50 USD.

Amazon UK

Sunday, May 27, 2018

Fixing the Novel

[NOTE: The revised (fixed) version of The Seven Seductions is not yet available. See below to read the new Chapter 1]

Hello! My name is TAS and I’m a perfectionist. Believe me, this is not an easy thing to be; if others find it difficult to live with me, I find it virtually impossible to live with myself much of the time: no ones suffers from the perfectionist’s obsession more than the perfectionist themself. Nowadays the term “obsessive-compulsive” is bandied about so carelessly as to be devoid of any clinical significance; but there is, no doubt, a powerful strain of obsessive-compulsion in perfectionism—if, in fact, the two terms aren’t actually synonymous. The thought that there might be a mistake somewhere in my work—even a tiny one—is enough to keep me awake at night, and I will do whatever it takes to fix problems that do come to light, even years after publication.

So it is with my most recent foray into fiction: The Seven Seductions: A Novel was published in February of this year, and has, to date, gone over with all the grace of a gaudy lead balloon. As far as I can tell, no more than five people have actually purchased a copy. Of these, it appears nobody has bothered finishing the book, and no one who starts reading seems to get much further than about page 80. (I am basing this on statistics from the Kindle Unlimited program.)

It would be easy to cry sour grapes or dismiss this failure as a case of readers not sharing the author’s “brilliant vision”. But that’s bullshit, and I know it. The problems with the book lie squarely with me. I tried readers’ patience, confused them almost from the opening sentence, and wasted their time endeavoring to demonstrate my own cleverness, offering a surfeit of unnecessary detail and unsolicited opinion.

I see this all now with the mad rush to complete The Erotic Writer’s Thesaurus behind me. In the “down-time” that has followed, I’ve cast about for work to do, and recognized an opportunity to go back over the novel in order to address its most serious issues. I strongly believe in this story, and want to share it with readers. I am convinced that the fixes I’m making will result in a much more rewarding reading expeirnce, a book truly worthy of its story. 

Some of the book’s problems were pointed out to me when I  submitted it to an editor. (Still under the gun with work on the EWT to do, I thoughtlessly shrugged off some of these concerns.) Perhaps the most serious problem was a sense of temporal confusion, the story leaping back and forth in time without preparing readers for the jumps. Generally, I tried to alternate chapters between the past and the present, but, particularly in the first chapter, the temporal ambiguity was rampant and off-putting.

I have re-written the first chapter to focus it more clearly on a single point in time, with an emphasis on action, and setting up the basic “problem” of the story—the initiating event. I have gone through the book to identify and fix (or delete) other passages that might similarly confuse readers.

Other problems: again, near the beginning, the book had too many long, digressive passages aimed at elucidating, explaining or “justifying” the characters and their actions. Some of these passages have been redeployed to later parts of the book, where they appear in a more natural context.

Certain references in the novel would frustrate readers who had no way of picturing what was being talked about. All references to Arthur Rackham's Illustrations for Wagner's Ring have been removed, and references to the operas have been re-cast in more general, accessible terms. 

I’ve also tried to identify scenes or sections of dialogue that do not move the story forward. I have deleted about 8,000 words so far, including an entire chapter, to better concentrate the storytelling, and keep things moving. The Seven Seductions is still a fairly long novel at aproximatley 110,000 words, but in the end, I hope, it will be a much better—more memorable—book for these efforts.

[UPDATE 6/6/18: After one more pass through the book, I have eliminated another 1000 words, spruced up or deleted a few "worrisome" passages, and, generally, made the story a lot more concise and to the point. The final manuscript is now in review at both Createspace and KDP.]

Forbidden Books

It all started when Gretchen’s sister discovered the dusty old Schwarzbuch upstairs in the attic. A witch’s black book of spells—Lord knows where it had come from. Dawn sure as hell hadn’t asked when she started fooling around with the thing, reading the coupled rhymes aloud as if they were punchlines in a jokebook. Innocent enough… until another voice began to speak, reciting the lines with her in disembodied unison. An acrid burning smell filled the air, as something—a brooding presence—took up residence in the girls’ room.
Even after all these years, Gretchen could still see the spectral outline of the thing her older sister had unwittingly awakened, the curve of its back illuminated like the sliver of a crescent moon. Livid handprints had bruised Dawn’s pale inner thighs as the creature held her legs apart, her belly rippling beneath its invisible weight like waves of wind-kissed wheat. And Dawn had been beside herself, caught somewhere between heavenly delight and unspeakable hellish terror, biting the inside of her lip so as not to cry out and wake their father in the next room.
Nor could Gretchen ever forget the way Dawn appeared afterwards, lying there naked, breathless, wanton, her flesh aglow, eerily transfigured by the demon’s lust. There in the gloom, Dawn had assumed the guise of a wayward angel, a creature reflecting the infravisible light of another world.
“It’s amazing, Gretch,” she kept murmuring as if in a trance, “just amazing… amazing… amazing…”
Bad enough if that were all, but The Nameless One had set its deathly eye on the younger sister from the start, and Gretchen’s life would never be the same. The demon had seen something in her that night, discerned potential the way a teacher intuits a spark of brilliance in a promising student, something dark and restless like itself, yet even more potent for the very flesh that contained it and fed it unceasingly. Was it her vulnerability—her doubt—that drew the creature to her? Or had her heart called out to the shadows, her desires, so long denied, like a magnet, irresistible to the darkness at the demon’s core?
The entity had been relentless in its pursuit, dogging the younger sister, stalking her, spying on her, finding her wherever she tried to hide. “You are mine,” the creature declared, and Gretchen could feel its hot breath like a breeze out of Hell rustling the delicate hairs on her neck, its voice low and harsh in her ear, pouring out an endless litany of seduction, hungry—so insatiably, urgently hungry—for her. The demon’s nightly entreaties were tinged with a weary impatience, as if it were an effort to keep its appetites in check or mask its true intentions, the petulance and cruelty that filled its unhuman heart.
At other times the incubus would try to court her, leaving small gifts under her pillow or in her “secret place” in the garden shed, odd tokens to entice her, little polished stones, agates, amethysts and quartz, gaudy glass beads and loose pieces of jewelry that Gretchen could never be caught wearing in public, pins and broaches, unmated earrings, delicate silver chains. Even books—these frightened her most of all because she could not resist them, and the demon, itself being an entity born of a book, seemed to know precisely what she wished for. Gretchen had always loved to read, though it was considered a frivolous pastime in her father’s house.
The creature still came to Dawn nearly every night, filling her head with erogenous longings, dreams of lust, seduction and surrender, or, sometimes, taking her outright as she slept. Unable to move or speak, Gretchen could only watch as The Nameless One lifted her sister off the bed, carrying her nearly all the way to the ceiling. Dawn would moan dreamily, her naked body suspended nearly eight feet above the floor, born up by invisible arms about her waist, breasts pointing skyward, head lolling back, hair streaming down like a golden waterfall. The creature seemed to make a show of manipulating her limbs, twisting and contorting her body into strange positions, all the while fondling, touching, caressing… more. And after the phantom had sated its need—amused itself with this bizarre airborne ballet—Dawn would appear to float back down to the bed. The incubus would lay the still-sleeping girl beside her sister, pulling the covers up over them, gently tucking them in.
A slave to dread her whole life, no fear had ever been greater than the one Gretchen knew on those terrible nights; the thought that somewhere, deep down in the dark reaches of her soul was a dormant seed of desire, a part of her that wanted to be ravished, taken and used the way The Nameless One had taken her sister. A part of her that wanted, truly, desperately, madly, against all she had ever been taught—against all she had ever believed—to say yes.

Gretchen had grown up to become a nun. The demon had been silent since the day Sister Mary Chastity took her solemn vows. Nearly seven years now, yet the memories still haunted her. And were those same feelings still calling out to the creature, drawing it like a beacon to her bed in the hallowed silence of the night? “My love…” the demon’s voice was a dry, rasping hiss like the far-off rustle of dead leaves. “Remember the bargain you made...” The thing hovered above the bed, its presence a perplexity, like the image of a starless night sky reflected in an ink-black pool, the surface disturbed from time to time by subtle undulations, tiny ripples, barely perceptible, belying an illusion of perfect stillness. She sensed its attention, its eyes, cold, lifeless, legion, hidden yet undeniably there within that veiling cumulus of gloom. Felt its gaze consuming her like something crawling underneath the skin, feeding on her fear, its hunger boundless, insatiable.
“Remember your promise...” The incubus fondled her breasts and inner thigh, probing and pressing through the soft linen of her nightdress. The creature had never taken such liberties with her before, and when he cupped her mound in his leathery palm and squeezed, Gretchen knew that her body had betrayed her, responding on its own in spite of all her saintly aspirations, swelling and budding, a million dormant nerve-endings awakened all at once as the first searing trickle of moisture invaded her folds.
Invisible claws tore at the front of her gown, rending it from neckline to hem. The crucifix between her blushing breasts rose slowly into the air, as if drawn by some ineluctable magnetic force, sparking and poring smoke before being torn roughly from around her neck. Phantom mouths, hot and moist, closed around her pebbling nipples, both at once, while still another claimed her clitoris, all three working in fiendish concert, sucking hard and fast. The breath was pushed from her lungs as the thing itself bore down, while something hard and smooth and cool like sculpted glass was slowly dragged across her mound. The rounded tip traced the curve of her opening, tilling the dewy furrow of her woman’s lips, pressing insistently against her clitoris with each impatient pass.
She closed her eyes tightly, preparing herself for what must surely happen next. There would be no escape this time—escape had never been a possibility. This consummation had been inevitable from the moment Dawn read the words in that awful book. Gretchen had always known that it would come, though she had dreaded it no less intensely, fought it no less fiercely. Yet now Mary Chastity wondered if it might not be better simply to surrender and be done with it. Would The Nameless One then at last leave her in peace?
“God forgive me.” The young nun bowed her head, but not in prayer. Gathering her resolve, her lips silently formed the word that had waited, poised on the knife-edge of her dreams through a lifetime of longing and loneliness. She whispered it a second time, questioningly, as if trying to convince herself. And then she said it aloud, the word her sister had spoken in another place and time. The word that would damn her soul for all eternity.
Sister Mary Chastity held her breath.
Hands invisible hoisted her from the bed, making room to remove the remnants of the ruined nightgown. The ghostly mouths encircling her nipples and clitoris let go abruptly as a billion simultaneous kisses lighted on her skin from all directions, touching her everywhere at once. A roar of release boiled up from her core like the furious chain reaction that follows an earthquake under the sea. Mary Chastity threw her head back as she rode the tidal wave, mouth open wide in wonder, though no sound escaped her lips. She arched her middle, shoving her pelvis up and up as she threw herself into the demon’s embrace.
The unseen hands held her spread-eagle in midair above the bed, her long legs splayed wide apart, her thighs open and ready. The Nameless One thrust forward in a single earthshattering stroke and, in that moment, he was all around her, enveloping her body like a halo of dark matter.
“My God!” Mary Chastity cried out as the darkness began to absorb her. But it was a cry of surrender, an orison of ecstasy.
The monster bulled forward. Merciless in his terrible hunger, he drove at her again and again, tearing her flesh, battering the walls of her womb. And suddenly his white hot seed was spilling into her, flowing like molten brimstone, melting her loins, vaporizing her organs, filling the hollow interstices of her soul. She cried out again, screamed with all her failing strength, something that might have been a prayer, before the final vestige of consciousness was absorbed into the void.
“Forgive me!”
The words returned to her across an abyss of nightmares—dark distances impossibly vast—her own screams echoing through the ether like misremembered music, tormented melodies, garbled and twisted, ground out on some backward-cranked barrel organ.
Am I... am I… am I... “naked?”
Sister Mary Chastity started up on the bed, coughing herself awake. Her throat was dry, tight and sore, its spasming cords strained in protest against the ghost of a notion—the uncanny sense memory of something that simply could not be, though it had seemed so real only a moment before. She could still feel the pitiless, claw-like things that scraped her flesh, the cold, stony pinions crushing her windpipe as she came…
Mary Chastity lifted a hand to her neck, anxious to reassure herself that nothing was there. And nothing was. “Jesus, Mary, and—” She was naked. Naked and wet, loins flooded with unbidden arousal. Her nipples, too, were stiff and sharp, puffed up extravagantly as if someone had trailed a cold hand across her breasts.
“Oh dear God! He’s found me again…”
A chill of apprehension coiled through her veins, a rush of recognition. She had known this horror before, this strange infusion of dread and fascination. Remember your promise... The creature’s parting words still hung on the air like the scorching stench of ozone, though the thing that had ravished her in her dreams was gone, if only for the moment.

Sister Mary Chastity had little doubt that it would soon return. 

Tuesday, May 22, 2018

Official Launch of 'The Erotic Writer's Thesaurus' paperback edition!


The Erotic Writer's Thesaurus (Amazon.com)
(also available in the UK, here)

With over 10,000 entries and more than 1,800 examples of words in ‘real-world’ context, ‘The Erotic Writer’s Thesaurus’ is the most thorough, in-depth, serious reference of its kind. Besides all the expected “obvious” words—with long lists of creative substitutes—users will also find entries representing a wide range of gesture and emotion, words to establish erotic context and setting including common expressions, expletives, “swear words” and insults with “clean” alternatives, plus many antiquated or obsolete words  and phrases of value to writers of erotic historical narrative.

The Erotic Writer’s Thesaurus differs from “traditional” reference books of this type in two significant ways. In most thesauruses, word lists are arranged hierarchically, that is, synonym lists will first show the nearest alternatives to the entry (headword) followed by more remotely-related words, all regardless of alphabetization. In almost all earlier thesauruses, headwords were arranged so as to reflect an editor’s judgment about which forms of a word were most common or useful, thus, a word like “exact” might be presented first as an adjective, and then as a verb, while in the same book,“advance” might be presented first as a noun, than as a verb, and then in its adjectival form “advanced”. All synonym lists in the EWT are arranged in strict alphabetical order. Where a word may belong to several parts of speech, those variants are always presented in the same order: verb, noun, adjective, adverb or preposition. Some words or phrases also function as intensifiers, interjections, or colloquial expressions, and these functions are indicated as appropriate. There are some words that defy synonymization, and so, occasionally, ‘The Erotic Writer’s Thesaurus’ also functions as a dictionary, offering brief definitions, which may be used as a starting point for more in-dpeth research.  

Praise for The Erotic Writer’s Thesaurus:

Believe me, if you write erotica or hot romance, you need this book
Janine Ashbless, author of ‘Named and Shamed’

Aside from its obvious utility, the tremendous fun of this thesaurus is in simply browsing its thoroughness: who knew the Yiddish word for buxom? That one of the many terms for having sex is “playing the blanket hornpipe”? So many possibilities...

LN Bey, author of ‘Blue

A landmark work, this is the last word—or rather the last 10,000 words!—in erotic vocabulary reference books
Jeremy Edwards, author of ‘The Pleasure Dial’

…an amazing achievement…‘The Erotic Writer’s Thesaurus’ is a major work of reference that also manages to be highly entertaining… It’s an aid to reading as well as writing; if you come across a term that puzzles you, just look it up here. And for we writers, whether or not we write erotica, chances are we can do it even better with the help of Terrance Aldon Shaw’s book.  

Sacchi Green, editor of the ‘Best Lesbian Erotica’ series
Every writer should have a copy of The Erotic Writer's Thesaurus on his or her virtual desktop. Not just for the writer of erotica; if sex or the erotic enters your work in any fashion, you will find this reference invaluable and just plain fascinating.
D. L. King, editor of ‘The Harder She Comes: Butch/Femme Erotica’

A truly invaluable resource, and an incredibly useful tool for my writing. I genuinely believe that this will be one of the most useful titles an aspiring erotic fiction author can purchase
Ashley Lister, author of ‘How to Write Erotic Fiction and Sex Scenes’

At last! The thesaurus I've been waiting for! Not only a definitive guide to word usage for authors of erotic fiction, but easy to navigate and brimming with inspiration for making more adventurous vocabulary choices. A must-have for veterans and new writers alike. I've no doubt that this has been a labour of love in its creation; a labour for which I'm hugely grateful.
Emmanuelle de Maupassant, author of ‘The Gentlemen’s Club’

With the American public’s appetite for erotica on the rise, Terrance Aldon Shaw’s The Erotic Writer’s Theraurus gives writers the language and creativity to publish successfully. Erotica involves risk, challenge, and non-conformity. “One’s destination is never a place but rather a new way of looking at things,” Henry Miller once wrote in Big Sur. This book allows authors to conjure words, to transform them into something powerful and magical. It should definitely be included on the reference shelf of any writer of erotica serious about their craft.”
Cole Riley, author of ‘Making the Hookup: Edgy Sex with Soul’
editor of ‘Too Much Boogie: Erotic Remixes of Dirty Blues’
(Making The Hookup, Too
A delight for all lovers of words and a must-have for smart erotica writers in search of the mot juste.
Donna George Storey, author of ‘Amorous Woman’

(also available in the UK, here)

Sunday, May 13, 2018

New on-line version of 'The Erotic Writer's Thesaurus'

Today, EftBB launches a brand new, fully updated on-line version of The Erotic Writer's Thesaurus a few days ahead of the publication of the unabridged print edition (available Tuesday, May 22, 2018 (see below)). As before, this free, abridged on-line edition is available to everyone. More comprehensive and consistent than the earlier version, the new on-line EWT is divided into two pages:

The old EWT page got its 10.000th hit yesterday (5/12/18), so this seems like an appropriate time to launch the new version.

Watch for the print edition,
Coming quickly to your favorite book-seller!

With over 10,000 entries and more than 1,800 examples of words in ‘real-world’ context, ‘The Erotic Writer’s Thesaurus’ is the most thorough, in-depth, serious reference of its kind. Besides all the expected “obvious” words—with long lists of creative substitutes—users will also find entries representing a wide range of gesture and emotion, words to establish erotic context and setting including common expressions, expletives, “swear words” and insults with “clean” alternatives, plus many antiquated or obsolete words  and phrases of value to writers of erotic historical narrative. For all serious writers, editors, and fans of adult genre and literary fiction.

Available Tuesday, May 22, 2018
through Amazon and Createspace,
All other seller shortly thereafter.
510 pages, 8.5 x 11, double columns, featuring 10-point fonts.
 (Note that most dictionaries feature between 4- to 6-point type)
$22.50 USD

Availability of other formats TBA

Sunday, April 29, 2018

Erotica for the Big Brain at Six—A Mission Statement

Hard to believe that I’ve been at this for a little over six years now. It had never occurred to me in all that time to post anything like an Official Mission Statement for EftBB, although I have articulated all these principles separately over the years. So here, at last, is something like a coherent mission statement:

(1) Erotica is literature—not smut, or filth, or garbage, but real literature.
(2) The quality of writing and storytelling in erotica should be subject to the same critical standards applied to any other type of literature.
(3) Well-written erotica is no less worthy of serious discussion and appraisal than any other form; it deserves the same level of critical attention—thoughtful long-form critique—as any other “serious” form.
(4) By regarding erotic literature with high expectations, and by working to raise the standards of craftspersonship and professionalism within the form, my aim is to show that it is not only possible, but perfectly natural, to be a creature of profound intellect, wisdom, and spirit, as well as a thriving, fully-realized sexual being. “Smart and sexy” is not an oxymoron. “Wise and sexy,” “sane and sexy,” “ethical and sexy,” and “happy and sexy” are not contradictions.

[NOTE TO READERS: As I race to complete work on The Erotic Writer’s Thesaurus by the launch date of Tuesday, May 22, I hope after that time to have enough breathing space to get back to a regular schedule of reviews, articles, and stories. Thanks to all EftBB's faithful readers for their forbearance in this hectic time. TAS]