"For the Men and the Women Who Love Them" An Interview with Rose Caraway

Just in time for the release of the new erotic anthology For the Men and the Women Who Love Them on September 26, 2016, here is my interview with editor/narrator extraordinaire Rose Caraway. We talk about the project, about the editing process, about narrating audiobooks, and even a little about the future of the genre. Because of her unique position in the industry, I also wanted to ask Rose some questions that might be helpful to aspiring writers. I think you'll find it all makes for some fascinating reading. Enjoy! (TAS)


TAS: First, let’s talk some about this project, For the Men and the Women Who Love Them—of which I am so pleased to be a part! Where did the idea for an anthology of erotic stories for men come from?

Rose Caraway: The incredible listeners of my Kiss Me Quick’s Erotica Podcast have influenced every single anthology I’ve ever put together. They email and phone-in their appreciation, opinions, questions, and suggestions regularly. My Lurid Listeners have expressed not only their gratitude but their continued hunger for more stories that support masculine desire. The KMQ listening demographic was mostly male in the beginning, but over the last two years, I’ve been getting a lot more feedback from female listeners expressing similar sentiments. Couples started getting in touch, indicating how much they enjoy stories that appeal to both ‘him’ and ‘her,’ and would I be putting together a book? Well, once my husband, Dayv and I felt we were in a position to offer our audience what they were asking for, we took a hike. (Hiking is great for brainstorming.) As we hiked along the lake, we discussed how we’d curate an anthology that acknowledged the scope of male desire while at the same time appealing to our female audience as well. We needed to come up with a book for men, and the women who loved them. The title presented itself.

TAS: Around the time of World War II, the American industrialist Henry J. Kaiser used to say “See a need, fill a need.” (This maxim was borrowed for the delightful animated film Robots with Robin Williams and Mel Brooks a few years ago). Do you have a sense that you’re filling a need here?

Rose Caraway: The short answer is; yes. I absolutely do. I’ve spoken to male authors and what I’ve discovered is that many of them feel quite hobbled professionally; by Amazon, by other writers, and have actually been shamed for their fantasies. Male desire has been branded as too taboo. I didn’t want this anthology to be about fetishizing or exploiting men’s desire nor any particular fantasy. This project isn’t here to shock and awe. That’s not how it was conceived. It certainly isn’t here to represent all men either. For The Men represents a place where masculine fantasy is welcome within the erotica genre. It’s about putting men’s desires front and center in an anthology featuring well-crafted storytelling—both genre-based and literary based.

TAS: Emmanuelle de Maupassant—who also has a story in the collection—did an extensive survey recently, asking male and female erotic writers about their approach to their craft. Do you see significant differences in the way men and women deal with the erotic as writers and as readers?

Rose Caraway: I tip my hat to Emmanuelle for taking such a project on. Yes, I do see differences, but I also see tremendous similarities—tastes, tendencies, fantasies. And that is where my focus lies. I believe that male and female writers can write any gender they set their creative minds to. It doesn’t much matter the sex of the ‘pen.’ Gender, much of the time, has nothing to do with the how a character might behave. Instead of asking yourself, ‘What would a man think?” Take out the ‘man’ part (okay, that sounds ominous.) and give him a name. Instead, ask, ‘What would Kevin think?’ ‘What is Kevin’s personality?’

TAS: I’d like to ask you about the editing process—something that I find endlessly fascinating. I noticed when we were communicating about my story, Making Hay, that you had a very clear sense of what I needed to do to make the story better and more satisfying to readers. You felt that something was missing; that I hadn’t explained one of the plot elements in a way that would sate readers’ curiosity. You actually asked me to add a few more paragraphs—and here, I’d been so careful to stay within the call’s stated word count! I have to tell you that I was extremely impressed by your perception—your sense of what makes a story ‘click’, as well as your desire to turn out a quality product. Your passion really does shine through in your work—and it is infectious.

Rose Caraway: My goodness. Thank you, TAS. You know, there are many fine elements to Making Hay that I adore. And, as a narrator that I greatly appreciated, but we will get to that in a little bit. The edit that I came back for you was well worth going over the word count limit for. It’s incredible what that one little bugger of a question, ‘Why?’ can do for a story. And that is what matters to me as an anthology editor. I love my work and I want readers and listeners to love it too.

You see, a few years ago, I learned the value of beta readers. I sent out my very first short story which I intended to publish, to a handful of carefully selected individuals who were competent, accomplished writers. And, they were all total strangers to me, save one. I asked them specifically, to be honest in their opinions of my work—to give me the double-barrel treatment if necessary. I truly wanted to know what they thought before I put the story up for sale. Well, only one beta reader didn’t hold back, just as I’d asked. He shot my ass with buckshot and. Yes, my heart sank. For something like 2 days, I trudged through every single bright-red Word-tracking notation he made. Tears be damned. When I got to the very end of my document I noticed that my generous, shot-gun toting beta reader had written a final note. It has stuck with me ever since:

Chekhov’s gun. Look it up!!

TAS: So, let’s talk a little about what makes a story work or not work.  Are there certain elements that successful stories all seem to have in common? What ultimately makes a story good or even great?

Rose Caraway: Boy, if I knew the answer to that…

What makes a story work?

Well, I can definitely tell you what doesn’t make it work.

Lack of trying. Giving up.

Does the story pull the reader in?

As much as I hate to vomit clichéd sentiments, I believe that this one holds true, but that doesn’t automatically make it ‘great.’ Good, probably. Hopefully. But not necessarily great. Beta readers are a great resource for this kind of thing.

To me, a great story is one that a reader devours. But what one reader considers great, another might think, ‘meh.’

I think greatness begins with relativity. Can the audience relate to the characters? In Sonni de Soto’s Odd Man, she writes from the second person point of view:

You’ll know the second she sees him, her eyes—sweet and soulful, a brown as rich and dark as the earth—will light up like they used to for you. She’ll rush through the crowd toward him, leaving you to be swallowed up by the throng.

But she loves you.

You’ll stand there—dumbstruck—as they make their way back to you, her hand in his. Your teeth will grind, a sharp screech in your head. Your nails will dig small crescent-shaped resentments into your palm like Braille as your fists form.

You’ll want to hit him. End him.

Shake his hand instead as she makes introductions.

He’ll have a stupid name, something fake-sounding that couldn’t possibly be real. Or maybe a bastardization of a given name. Like Deek or Fin or Wen. Or Rand.

He’ll be bigger than you. Of course.

Comfort yourself in the fact that, at least, you’re better looking.

You think.

He looks…expensive, you’ll think as you take in the muscled wall of black silk and leather. Tall. Dark. Tailored. Manicured. He’ll look like an honest-to-God, spitting-image, leather-bound Dom.

You’ll look like a CPA.

Automatically we are in the main characters head. We are him. The second we begin reading de Soto’s words, we see and feel everything her main character feels because she’s made us participants. To me, that’s a great story. Editors of anthologies are some of the most open-minded people. They have to be. Otherwise, you get a shitty anthology. So, writers should aim to captivate. Immediately.

TAS: How fine a line is there between competent-but-mediocre writing and truly great, memorable writing? Is there a gray area sometimes? What do mediocre writers ‘not get’ that great writers do?

Rose Caraway: I think it comes down to clarity. How clear is the writer’s narrative? A memorable story is obviously one that sticks. We all know that a writer’s craft develops over time if they exercise it. Some writers have a wonderful concept, but they can’t execute a well-developed, realistic, or convincing character, or a working world. The difference between mediocre and memorable writing is the balance of elements within the story. Take Allen Dusk’s contribution, Wayward Drift, for example. His narrative is very relaxed, yet direct. His environment is easily visualized. His character’s movements within the world are easily followed:

Daikyu was the largest gas planet I’d yet encountered. From my perch in the cockpit, I could see alkali clouds storming beneath gleaming lithium rings belted around the equator. Bettie skimmed the ionosphere, struggling against gravity wells to keep her nose pointed toward Nippon, the largest of Daikyu’s eight moons.

“Any Black Armada ships pissing in the kiddie pool?” I asked through a prolonged yawn while stretching my arms above my head.

“There are no vessels bearing the Black Armada call sign,” my ship replied with her breathy, synthesized voice.

“That’s guaranteed not to last long, but I’ll take it. Hail the Kyudo Station when we’re three clicks out, and send them the supply list.”

“Yes. I will complete those tasks.” Her voice was always devoid of emotion. The hull could have been ripping apart, and she would have responded with the same monotone announcement. “May I complete any other tasks for you?”

“Yeah, you can. How about a blowjob? I mean, like a dirty, sloppy blowjob with a lot of drooling and ball sucking.”

TAS: Along the same lines, is there a difference between a great story and a commercially successful one? (Do you sometimes find yourself having to reject a good—or even a great—story because it doesn’t fit in with the commercial aims of a project?)

Rose Caraway: To me, if it’s a great story, it’s valuable. If it effortlessly conveys its reason for existing, its good. If a story is easy, ‘brain candy’ I like that too. Sometimes readers just want a nice easy (wank) escape. I don’t want an anthology chalk full of stories that challenge me. I like to cruise too, man. Commercially speaking, ‘easy’ seemingly works, but there’s a lot of those for sale. How many paranormal romance shifter books are out there are killing it right now? It feels like too many, good for them. There are writers writing literally for the consumer. I’ve never rejected what I would consider ‘a great story.’ If a submission didn’t quite fit my call, but it blew my socks off, I like to think that I would try to make it fit in the anthology, or save it for another call, or hell, offer to publish it myself. A great story is a great story is a great story. And it wants to be read, but that doesn’t equate to being a commercial success.

TAS: Beyond the stated parameters of any call for submissions, what do you look for first when deciding on what stories to include in an anthology? Is there a sort of instinct you have or a ‘gut feeling,’ or is it something more tangible—more measurable in a conventional sense?

Rose Caraway: This is a great question. The first thing I look for is to see if the writer has followed my call’s guidelines. It’s really the simplest thing, and has no bearing on the craftsmanship of the author, but if a story is posted in the body of their email, I sadly, automatically, pass it by. I dislike doing that, but have and will do it every time. My time is precious. Then I examine the story’s opening. I can tell immediately how well a story is going to be written. But it’s that first page that really determines whether or not I can make it to the end. If the story is going to be worth the public’s time. That opening determines whether a submission is going to be a ‘yes’ or a ‘possible’ or a ‘no.’

TAS: What are some of the things that an aspiring writer can do to ‘stand out’ in a submission call? What makes an editor sit up and take notice?

Rose Caraway: Follow the guidelines. Get beta readers.

Before sending off your submission, get your story read by at least 5 beta readers. Sure, you can ask friends or family, but if you really, really want to be a good writer, then you need to bite the bullet. Ask for double-barreled honesty. It’s ridiculously easy to find a beta reading group these days. But you must tell them what you need from them. I personally recommend the Facebook group, The Slush Pile. I CANNOT stress how valuable beta readers are.

It doesn’t matter how long you’ve been writing, how many publications you already have. Even Stephen King fucks up. Things get missed. Eyeballs, other than your own are essential. You don’t have time to dick around. When you are ready to email your submission, highlight to the editor, let them know that you utilized beta readers for optimum story quality. I also recommend that you beta read for others.

TAS: Let’s take a few minutes to talk about audio books and the spoken word.

Maybe because I was read to quite often when I was little, the spoken word is extremely important to me. Later, when I was in high school, I listened to a lot of the Talking Books for the Visually Impaired (Gosh! Could I go all fan-geek about some of the amazing narrators on those old phonograph records! Great voices like Arnold Moss and Alexander Scourby reading Don Quixote and Edgar Allen Poe…) and that made me conscious of the importance of the quality of the spoken word. I know that now when I write—and especially when I revise—I try to be very conscious of the physical effects of my words, a quality of rhythm, euphony and flow in the language.

Rose Caraway: I could tell immediately, TAS, that Making Hay was going to be a smooth narration. (My favorite storyteller voice was, Boris Karloff in How the Grinch Stole Christmas. I loved David Attenborough and Lawrence Olivier too! Last year I found, Grover Gardner’s narration of Bury My Hear at Wounded Knee. Today, my favorite narrator is Kate Mulgrew. Her narration of NOS4A2 is fucking stellar.)

TAS: My question to you, as someone who wears both the editor and the narrator’s hats, is this: what do you look for—or listen for—in a story? Are there particular elements that ‘speak to you’—as if the story were begging to be read aloud?

Rose Caraway: When I go through the editing process, its automatic that I look for potential narrative hang-ups. I always have an audio audience in mind while editing and writing. The fact is, reading a story is a different experience than listening to one. But it all starts with the words. The better the writing craft, the easier the narration. The better writers don’t usually hear anything from me regarding audio fixes. No matter what, a story must flow easily through its scene transitions. Word repetition and sing-song narrative is bad form in writing, and it is horrendous to narrate (particularly in erotica) because listeners hear it, and it sounds silly, unprofessional. Unless it’s Dr. Seuss, there shouldn’t be anything sing-songy in the text. When we read to ourselves, those types of clunky moments are easier to miss, because inside our minds everything is silent. When a narrator gets hold of the script, we can find some whoppers. Keep in mind as you’re are writing that listeners will hear every cringe worthy rhyme. It’s why I recommend that writers read their work aloud. Another easy tactic for finding this kind of trouble spot is to use the ‘Control F’ function. You might even be interested in trying wordcounter.com. You shouldn’t have, for example, the word ‘pussy’ eight times in one paragraph. It really shouldn’t be in there more than once. Twice is the absolute limit.

Our dialog should occur seamlessly—naturally, without confusion as to who is speaking. It would surprise you how many times I’ve had to get in touch with an author to ask who is shouting “Fuck!” during orgasms. Internal dialog can be the most challenging to convey through narration, especially if it’s an extensive portion of the story or if it occurs every other line. Between character voices and narrative, if listeners aren’t obviously informed which character is actively thinking, the scene becomes muddied—worse, it loses the listener’s interest. There aren’t italics in narration. Listeners shouldn’t have to work to understand. Concise, clear writing is essential for narration. Generally speaking, when someone is listening to an audiobook, they are doing something else at the same time. They may get distracted while choosing the appropriate washing machine setting to use for their delicates. The point is, we want it to be easy for listeners to slip back into the story. That’s something you did really well in your story, Making Hay, TAS. Your dialog was natural—seamless:

Her brothers called me Blindy because of the patch over where my left eye used to be. Little berserkers were always pestering me, following me around the farm like month-old puppies chasing their own tails, watching without lending a hand, leaning on the fence-rail as I cleaned out the hog pens or tinkered with one piece of machinery or another.

“Blindy’s sweet on Gunni!” The oldest made kissing noises, and the other two joined in on the chorus, trying to get a rise out of me.

“Your sister’s one mighty fine filly,” I allowed. “Don’t know how she ended up being related to you homely little mouth-breathers.”

“Told ya he was sweet on ‘er!”

“Yeah! When’s the weddin’ gonna be, Blindy?”

“Who needs a wedding?” I pitched a shovelful of muck in their direction just to keep them on their toes. “Besides, a good little worker like Gunni could do herself a lot better’n some old one-eyed rambler.”

“So how’d you lose that eye anyway?” the youngest brother piped up.

“What else?” I said. “Got into a fight over a woman.”

“Bull! That’s not what you told us last time!”

“Oh? And what did I tell you?”

“Said a crow come and ate it right out o’ your head—”

“‘Nother time you told us you lost it in a dice game—”

“Other fellow cheated,” I said, half under my breath.

“—time ‘fore that you said it got shot out in the war—”

“Naw! I swear fellas, this time, I’m tellin’ ya true. It was in a knock-down drag-out over the finest pair o’ jugs anybody ever saw.” Except maybe for your sister’s, I thought.

TAS: Can you talk a little about the place of dialogue in an erotic story that’s meant to be read aloud? How important is it? What makes it good—or not so good?

Rose Caraway: It really depends on the story. I personally love dialogue and think characters should speak as often as necessary. What makes it good is if it accentuates the scene or the moment. Especially in erotica where sexy talk is a major turn on. The not so sexy kind of erotic dialog is when it’s ill-fitting or forced. When it has no business being in the story. I will cut dialog if it’s useless. Whether I’m writing or editing, I run a test. If I feel inclined to cut any dialog out, I reread the text without it, to see if it makes any difference in the story. Sometimes, dialog does nothing but hold a story up. If it isn’t informative or if it doesn’t move the story forward, why is it there? If you have a really great line in your head that you absolutely must have your character speak, then make the character and the situation call for it.

In Tamsin Flowers’, Rope Burn, the female character answers with ‘yes’, repeatedly. Ordinarily I advise against that kind of thing, but Tamsin Flowers has been doing this a long time. She sets up her narrative so that it’s obvious that there is tension building, and that her male character’s questions are escalating, so I know exactly how each of those responding ‘yes’s’ should be narrated. No dialog tags required:

I closed my eyes, and he laughed. Gently, and slowly at first, he stroked my inner thighs and the rise of flesh below my belly. His fingers traced a path down one side of my labia and up the other; he teased me until I was panting for him. My hips pushed down against his naked lap and I nuzzled at his neck with my mouth. And as he explored me with eager fingers, I was rewarded with the feel of his cock getting hard again underneath me.

“Will you let me take you out riding and make love to you in the forest?”

“Yes.”

“Will you let me eat your pussy in the back of my truck?”

“Yes.”

“Will you let me tie you up again, Cally?”

“Yes.”

“Will you let me tame you, wildcat?”

“No. Never that, Ray.”

TAS: Can dialogue mechanics—so essential in a printed story—sometimes get in the way of effective narration?

Rose Caraway: Dialog should only be considered essential if it is indeed, essential. Some stories have minimal dialog. Others are nothing but the exchange of dialog. When I’m narrating I should have a solid idea of a character’s tone. When dialog gets in the way it’s usually indicative of lack of writing skill. Writers should consider why their characters are saying what they’re saying. Again, ‘Why?’

TAS: How do you deal with characterizations, especially in a dialogue-heavy story? If you’re going back and forth a lot between a male and a female character, for instance, how to you effectively differentiate the voices?

Rose Caraway: If the writing is good, my part as a narrator is fairly easy. My ‘performance’ should never be distracting, nor should it overshadow the author’s story. In narrative, there is such a thing as over performing. It can be downright obnoxious. Male and female character’s voices are determined by what’s written. Their traits and personalities. While I don’t possess the vocal range of Whitney Houston or Mariah Carey, I can alter the tempo and texture of my voice. I thank Kate Mulgrew for teaching me that. My goal is to work within my range, and never distract. To perform a cast of characters in such a way that the listener clearly understands who is speaking.

TAS: So, assuming For the Men is a success—and let’s hope so!—do you envision a sequel, or even a series?

Rose Caraway: “Yes. A thousand times yes!”

TAS: Penultimate question, and it’s a great big messy one—sorry! At a time when many experienced and extremely gifted erotic writers are becoming discouraged, sometimes even to the point of dropping out altogether, what future do you envision for erotica as a literary genre? Where are things trending?  Where do you hope they’ll go?

 Rose Caraway: I really appreciate this question, and think it well worth asking. To any discouraged literary writers of the erotica genre; please, don’t give up. Please. And definitely don’t lose heart. Your ‘hearts’ are what make your ability to express the human condition so valuable. You show us strength and vulnerability like no other. I enjoy putting together anthologies that provide both the literary and genre fiction style stories. I specifically look for plot, theme and character driven stories. For me, variety is key.

Sometimes theme grabs me. (Breasted by Landon Dixon):

I clutched Samantha’s huge, creamy-white tits. Squeezed them. Kneaded them. Sucked on the rigidly pointing pink nipples—filled my hands and my face. The babe was stretched flat on her back, on the bed—me on top of her, all over her tits. I’ve got a raging penchant for stacked broads, and this one was double-decker material.

Sometimes a character does. (Labyrinth by Emmanuelle de Maupassant):

Under the moon, he guides her through the garden, towards the tall hedges. The shadows stretch out of sight. She moves as quietly as he, neither wishing to disturb the silence, so laden with possibility.

“All paths lead to the heart of the labyrinth,” he had told her. “There, you’ll find your true desire: what you covet most, or the inhabitants of your nightmares…”

“I’m not afraid,” she’d said. “I know my monsters.”

“If we go in together, you may meet mine.”

As far as trends go, they are like the tide. They are in, they are out. Then, they are back in again. I can say with utter certainty, that through my anthologies, literary erotica will always have a home.

TAS: Last question—the one I ask everybody and never get tired of hearing answered—what advice would you have for new writers, especially aspiring writers of erotica?

Rose Caraway: Reach out to other writers who’ve been in the business a while and whose tastes are similar to your own. Even if you are afraid to, ask for advice anyway, and ask more than one person. (What works for one writer may be total crap for another.)

This goes to new and aspiring writers: It is essential that you get your work out to reliable beta readers. Read your story out loud before submitting. If you are able, get your work copyedited. Follow your editor’s submission guidelines to the letter. Expect rejection. Submit again. And again. And again.

If you are an aspiring writer, start small. Something in the neighborhood of 3k words or less. Start with a short scene, or better yet—build a character. Strive to utilize and understand “the economy of words”. Invest in and read a few anthologies that interest you. It will help you with POV and guide you to finding your own voice. Put time into developing your craft. Social Media is a HUGE time suck. Be picky about which Facebook groups you belong to. It’s okay to say ‘no thank you’. Most groups out there are just noise and distraction—someone else’s agenda. Block that shit out of your life. Don’t worry about jumping into the water and trying to win the race. A good story is a good story is a good story. Get it written.

Review of "London Triptych" by Jonathan Kemp

Jonathan Kemp’s 2010 debut novel comes as close to what I would call a complete work of art as anything I have encountered so far this century. London Triptych is a at once a poignant and sympathetically observed character study, a compelling work of historical fiction comprising trenchant social critique, and a vivid evocation of the eternally-unfinished,  perpetually renewed and renewing city of its title. Here, the stories of three gay men from three different times play out and sometimes overlap; Jack Rose, a young rent boy in the late Victorian period, Colin Read, an artist in the cruelly closeted 1950s, and David, a male prostitute, writing a letter to his lover and betrayer from a prison cell in 1998--a poignant echo of Oscar Wilde's De Profundis from a century earlier.

Jack’s search for pleasure and profit lead him into the shabby, exuberant demimonde of queer life in 1890s’ London, where he eventually meets an aging Wilde. Lonely and still deeply naïve at fifty-four, Colin lives a severely buttoned-up existence, in constant fear of being found out, only to be coaxed out of his shell by, Gregory (Gore) a beautiful young model. Growing up in the 1980s, David escapes the stifling conformity of small-town life to seek fortune and adventure in the city as a prostitute and porn actor. The three stories are neatly tied together by Gore, who, in the 1950s is acquainted with Jack, a man by then in his seventies. Gore goes on to become one of young David’s clients in the 1990s.)   

The stories may be as striking for their similarities as their differences: each of these characters makes the ultimate mistake of falling in love where love is forbidden or simply foolish, inevitably leading to betrayal and desolation. There are no happy endings, but only life continuing for better or for worse—fiction is seldom more real than this.

As readers have come to expect, Kemp’s writing is gorgeous, clear and confident with a rich vein of metaphor, often approaching the poetic, yet never becoming overly effusive or strained. Seldom has a debut novel been so well organized or cleverly thought out with such near-perfect economy of expression, eschewing the inessential so as to evoke a world like no other.

Wholeheartedly recommended!

What I Read This Summer--And Why

We’ve been having a discussion over at the Erotic Literary Salon group on Facebook based on a question I posed recently: What ultimately convinces you to read a book? I’ve noticed that there’s a kind of natural resistance in many people—even people who read obsessively—to picking up a book on somebody else’s suggestion, recommendation or assignment. People have this cat-like quirk when approaching a new book: reading it must be their idea or it’s not going to happen. You can even put a free book directly into someone’s hands, and, like a cat presented with a shiny new toy, they will almost always turn their noses up at it, at least until they think you’re not looking.

The initial question has, thus far, elicited some interesting and fairly diverse responses. There are some readers who prefer to stay in their own literary comfort zones and seldom venture beyond a preferred subgenre. Some are excited at the prospect of a new book from a respected author, while a few are content to re-read their old favorites—there is an undeniable element of sentimentality where many readers are concerned. Others have more wide-ranging and adventuresome tastes, developed over lifetimes of challenging views and discussions with friends and colleagues. Some are influenced by customer reviews; others are mostly indifferent to the opinions of their fellow readers. The decision to read a new book can be based on a desire to “see what all the fuss is about” or it can be a gesture of defiance, a quasi-political act of intentionally “going against the grain”. Many readers do stress that quality of writing is paramount. As such, these folks often desire to dip a toe into the water before they commit, preferring to see a sample or an extended snippet from the book before they take the plunge.  

As for myself, I am an inveterate literary thrill-seeker. I am drawn to the new, the unfamiliar, and the out-of-the-ordinary. There may be no new stories under the sun, but there are near-infinite ways of rearranging the basic elements of story in new and exciting ways, and what I look for is that restless creative spirit, like my own, that will not be content with the same-old same-old. I read for inspiration, creative renewal, and cerebral re-creation—and I aspire to write original books that will do the same for others. I will read—and have read—almost anything, but what I look for, first and always, is excellence in writing, style, fluency, clarity, depth and complexity of characters and plot, originality and intelligence in the approach to storytelling. I recognize no sin other than the sin of bad writing.

Reading is essential to a writer’s creative growth and maturity. For a writer, the need to read the work of others is akin to the essential human need to imbibe water: it is not a question of providing fuel to the body, but of keeping that body properly lubricated. So, reading keeps the writer’s mind sharp and running smoothly, allowing ideas to flow more freely. (And, by the way, the notion that reading will somehow interfere with one’s own creativity is a myth embraced by amateurs and perpetuated by idiots.) As such, a writer should seek out the best available models. Over the summer, I tried to do just that, and the factors that ultimately convinced me to open those books can all be referenced in the list above. I picked up the short story collections Quiver by Tobsha Learner and Macho Sluts by Pat Califa based on glowing recommendations from respected colleagues. Jonathan Kemp’s 2015 novel Ghosting was a no-brainer for me after reading his amazing short story collection Twentysix (I will shortly be reading and reviewing Kemp’s London Triptych as well). I was drawn to a trio of anthologies based on the editors’ reputation for seeking out quality, originality and superior craftspersonship in short fiction: Laura Antoniou’s Best Lesbian Erotica 2015, Rose Caraway’s Tonight She Yours (Cuckold Fantasies), and Susie Bright’s Three the Hard Way. While I won’t be going into great detail about any of these titles, all of them are heartily recommended here and now.

First published in 1998, Tobsha Learner’s Quiver has gone on in the nearly twenty years since to assume the cachet of a modern erotic classic. This collection of a dozen exquisitely crafted short stories almost perfectly embodies my sense that before one can tell an exceptional story about sex, one must tell an extraordinary story about people. It’s the characters who truly make these stories memorable, from the frustrated artist in Man of Sighs and the disaffected porn star in Peel, to the very-publicly cuckolded symphony conductor with insomnia in Doubt—to mention only a handful. The writing is luminous, multi-textured, and occasionally disturbing, but almost always inspired and undoubtedly inspiring.

While not a work of erotica per se, Jonathan Kemp’s most recent novel, Ghosting, is an understated but highly assured piece of writing, a beautifully observed masterpiece of intimate gestures—what one might be tempted at first to call domestic magical realism, though ultimately the story and the characters who populate it are as down to earth as you or I. On a London street one morning, 64-year-old Grace believes she sees the ghost of her first husband, a man who abused her without mercy, and her emotional life is plunged into turmoil as she reexamines the painful past. A gorgeous, unassuming little novel of everyday life that rises well above the mundane, bright flashes of imagination shine through on every page, but it is Kemp’s deep sense of empathy that makes Ghosting a truly exceptional book.

One is immediately impressed by the sheer diversity of voice and style in the Laura Antoniou-edited Best Lesbian Erotica 2015. I was particularly impressed by those authors who drew on mythic themes for inspiration: Arachne by Catherine Lundoff, set in ancient Greece, and the depiction of a proud civilization in ancient Africa, Kiss of the Rain Queen by Fiona Zedde, both stories in which vivid, colorful settings enhance powerfully drawn characters. And, speaking of truly great characters, one cannot help but be intrigued and ultimately drawn into the orbits of intelligent, strong-voiced, and occasionally funny women, as in Behrouz Gets Lucky by Avery Cassell, Learning to Cook by Nan Andrews, The Bullwhip and the Bull Rider by Sacchi Green, Second Date by Miel Rose, Naming It by Jean Roberta, and My Visit to Sue Anne by Anna Watson. At about 6,000 words apiece, Antoniou has given her writers plenty of room to develop their characters and get those characters well and truly laid, often in something close to microscopic detail. (Some of the stories do get a bit sing-songy in places.) Small quibbles aside; this is nothing short of a great anthology,

The 13 short stories in Tonight, She’s Yours delve into what many of us of a certain age used to refer to as swinging, now sometimes simply calling it the cuckold or cuck fantasy. (Personally I despise the word “cuck” not only because of its unsavory associations with the political Alt Right in the US, but because it’s an ugly sounding word for what is supposed to be a consensual and fun activity, as it is portrayed here.) Some of these fantasies are quite steamy, indeed: Kate Ellink’s Michael’s Moment is particularly memorable for its priapic effect, as are Winfall by Tamsin Flowers, The Third Man by Emily Bingham, and The Tea Shop by Abigail Saint Clair. A few of the stories feel a bit too ‘safe’ to be truly transgressive or effectively arousing, but when the writing is good—when the authors’ imaginations soar— it is truly superb.

I’m still working my way through old paperback editions of the Califa and Bright collections. It’s very easy to see what a revelation Macho Sluts was to a generation of writers back in 1989. So many of the things that we take for granted in erotica now had never been said out loud before; the writing is fluent and engaging, but also relentless, unabashed, fearless, angry, in-your-face—the kind of writing that foments revolution and sends shockwaves through the literary space-time continuum. If this book appears on many writers’ lists of influences, there can be little doubt as to why.  

A tad more toned down, the trio of novellas in Three the Hard Way are well-crafted and eminently entertaining. Greg Boyd’s The Widow is a fascinating two-tiered narrative, while the always-entertaining Tsaurah Litzky’s The Motion of the Ocean is a delightful if somewhat disjointed romp through the sexual revolution as experienced by one woman between the 1960s and the early 2000s. I haven’t yet gotten to William Harrison’s Shadow of a Man, but am certainly looking forward to it.

So, now you know what I read this summer, and, perhaps, you have some insight into why as well.

Emmanuelle de Maupassant interviews erotic authors (link)

Emmanuelle de Maupassant presents the first in a series of articles based on her survey of more than a hundred erotic authors, including me. It's a long article, but well worth the time.

Read it here:

The Erotic Vein: The Male Pen

Review of "Constraint" by Siri Ousdahl

Siri Ousdahl’s Constraint is mature literary fiction at its finest, masterfully conceived and exquisitely written, unflinching, dark, disquieting, boldly amoral, never judging its characters or coddling its readers. This story of dubious consent is handled with a seriousness seldom encountered in the BDSM subgenre, a refreshing frankness, trenchant observation turned acutely—and often painfully—inward. Safe, sane, and consensual this is not; dazzling, mind-expanding, and addictive it most certainly is. 

It would have been easy (and no doubt commercially tempting to a less-imaginative writer) to turn this story into a two-bit pulp thriller, the like of which we’ve all watched or read a hundred times before: a beautiful woman is kidnapped by an eccentric and conveniently well-to-do admirer who holds her prisoner in an isolated compound somewhere in the wilds of Wyoming. Eventually the classic signs of Stockholm syndrome manifest themselves, and the woman stays with her kidnapper, even when afforded the opportunity to leave. It’s a classic case of what John Norman referred to as ‘captor bonding’, titillating grist for yet another episode of Criminal Minds or a drearily predictable Lifetime TV movie. That route certainly would have been easy and obvious. Thankfully, Ousdahl is no ordinary writer.   

The beautiful woman in question is a gifted and successful artist, Linnea, who specializes in fantastically twisted sculptures, binding dissimilar woods together with metal rings, creating torturous, yet often surprisingly beautiful unities out of contradiction and chaos—does this sound like an elaborate literary symbol or what???  Linn is no Mary Sue; she’s hardly perfect, a loner who isn’t particularly missed after her disappearance, albeit strong-willed, driven, independent, and nobody’s pushover. The kidnapper, Alex, does cleave more closely to genre stereotype, wealthy but not impossibly so, a long-ago casual acquaintance of Linn’s who has obsessed about her for ten years, and now commands the means to make his twisted fantasies come true. He is, of course, involved in some vague form of international finance, which affords him the opportunity to travel. Alex has explored the kink scene on three or four continents. He is accustomed to getting what he wants where sufficient cash buys blind-eyed complicity and unwavering discretion.  

Yet beneath this broadly-outlined mass-market paperback blurb of a plot is something unexpectedly original. The material is handled with surprising seriousness and magnificent poise. The characters are psychologically complex and almost always interesting—more often than not because we don’t agree with them, or like the way their minds work, or approve of the actions they may or may not choose to take. Ousdahl does not treat her characters like pawns on a chessboard. She consistently refuses to judge them, or manipulate the reader through them. The author skirts the morality of the situation—a hint of doubt flitting through Alex’ mind, a word caught on the tip of Linn’s tongue—but never confronts those issues head on. (This may well infuriate some readers.)

In the past I have complained about writers casually flirting with darkness, psychologically unprepared for the horror and ugliness they awaken in themselves. Here, at last, is a fearless fiction; an author who not only embraces the darkness, but ties it up, bends it over, and makes it their willing slave.

Enthusiastically recommended!

Review of "Scary Old Sex" by Arlene Heyman

This collection of seven longishly-belabored literary stories disappoints as often as it pleases: after slogging through to the end, I cannot escape the impression of a blandly competent author, seriously out of their depth. In tone and style, the stories in Arlene Heyman's Scary Old Sex have the feel of superannuated student exercises, assignments turned in for some late-sixties undergraduate creative writing seminar, aping the modishly arch nihilism of the day, every detail, no matter how trivial, unfailingly observed, with a cold clinical detachment and precious little sense of direction or purpose, Many of these pieces seem to have been taken out of mothballs, the hopeful typescripts dusted off after decades, lightly revised to a minimum standard of editorial presentability—whatever the hell that means in this post-FSOG day and age—and published to great fanfare, no doubt along with the percussive popping of half-a-dozen self-congratulatory champagne corks.

The project as a whole has a suspiciously cynical, mercenary pungence about it. Why should anyone be bothered to give a flightless fuck about yet another aging star-schtupper cashing in on her youthful relationship with a famous literary figure? It is no secret that Heyman, as a 19-year-old student at Bennington College, carried on a two-year affair with her professor, the middle-aged Bernard Malamud. No secret at all—in fact, much of the publicity for this collection centers on that relationship, a drably fictionalized version of which comprises the second story in the book. It might be one thing if Heyman’s writing was in the least bit inspired—it is not—insightful or profound or even remotely interesting—most of the time it is none of those things. Apparently authorial success is a matter of who you know—or, at least, who you once knew in the Biblical sense—and, having once caught the eye of the Great Man, every amateurish pecadillo is now effectively washed away in the blood of the lamb, and the “critics that matter” fall over themselves to hail a major literary event.  (Perhaps I’m growing cynical or senile in middle age, but I am rapidly coming to the conclusion that the New York critical establishment is easily titillated.)

Even in the two stories I came close to liking--Night Call and Artifact--there's little or no emotive range in these narratives. Bitterness and ennui are Heyman’s go-to emotions, and she goes to them with tedious frequency.  The female characters, whether young, old, or middle-aged, seem to have nothing better to do than break down and cry at the drop of a hat, or complain shrewishly about the lack of sexual satisfaction in their all-too-ordinary lives.  The men are emotionally clueless, shallowly articulate, and indifferently characterized—current husbands always coming up short against former dead ones. Children are the ever-present bringers of chaos, either too good or too stupid to live. Conflict amongst these ‘types’ too often feels forced and over-effortfully imagined.  Everybody has a torturously-detailed backstory that ultimately adds nothing to the reader’s understanding. Amateurish head-hopping, inconsistent point-of-view, lack of narrative direction or coherent structure, downright foolish attempts at getting into the heads of characters the author clearly knows or cares nothing about—in the end creating a soggy non-critical mass of who-the-hell-gives-a-healthily-introspective-termite’s-turd.  

What disturbs and disappoints me most as someone who cares deeply about great erotic writing, is Heyman’s stultifyingly conventional approach to sexual subject matter, especially where ‘old sex’ is concerned. Where the hype has led readers to expect something revelatory, daringly paradigm-shifting in the literary exploration of geriatric eroticism, what we get is the all-too-familiar horror and disgust at the prospect of physical decay and declining performance, still measuring everything against the insipidly narrow, bourgeois vision of youthful health and beauty. In this regard, at least, the title of the collection is apt: as Heyman would have it, sex is scary—old sex is even scarier.

What a crock of crap!

Books like this suck all the air out of the room for serious writers who care about quality and sincerely desire to explore new erotic frontiers. Use sex to sell something second-rate like this, and no one will give a truly worthy book a second look, no matter how genuinely mature, inspired, thoughtful, well-crafted, and brilliant that book may be.

Not recommended!!!!!

Now available everywhere: TAS' "A Song for the Girl with the Almond Eyes" (with excerpt)

A Song for the Girl with the Almond Eyes (A Novel)

E-book release, Friday June 3rd, 2016

Available at
Smashwords (all platforms)

(enter discount code QW79D on checkout to receive the special price of $1.50
(62 percent off the regular cover price of $3.99).
This coupon will be good through August 1, 2016)

Also now available at

Amazon Kindle

Barnes and Noble Nook

And in paperback at 

Amazon

Createspace Direct
Barnes and Noble 

and all other retailers worldwide (on request).

from Chapter 2:

Laughing and belching, we trooped across the street for a round or two of miniature golf—the perfect game to play when you’re drunk, or have no athletic ability even when sober. We picked up our clubs and paired off: May-Lin and Chris, Heather and me. That left Erin odd woman out, though not for long. A big guy in a brown fishnet body shirt and a Coors baseball cap started following her around like a lovesick pit bull. Not exactly her type, he looked like a redneck version of The Thing from The Fantastic Four comics, or maybe the Incredible Hulk’s trailer park-dwelling lookalike cousin without the smart alter ego. Not that it mattered to Erin. She was in one of her expansive, fun’s-where-you-find-it moods, even more flirtatious and frisky than usual—and a lot less picky. She played the ditzy redhead for all it was worth, flaunting her magnificently articulated body to stunning effect, a living, breathing Vargas girl in Daisy Dukes.

“Here, lemme show ya!” Brownshirt bent over and guided Erin’s hands on the club, the oldest, sleaziest trick in the book, except this guy wasn’t even trying to be subtle about where his hands went. Subtlety probably wasn’t part of his repertory to begin with, and Erin wasn’t helping any. As he leaned over her, she shoved her ass back into his crotch, giggling like a middle-school airhead at her first mixer, which seemed to be about this guy’s usual speed.

And so it went, with The Thing taking every opportunity to cop and grope and grab whatever he could get his hands close to, and Erin not seeming to take the whole thing too terribly seriously at all. Only once in a while, he’d go a bit too far, Erin would give a playful squeal and skip away, laughing at him, “Naughty, naughty!”

“C’mon, Legs, let’s go some place private—” Brownshirt scratched his crotch “—let’s you ‘n’ me lose these losers and have ourselves a party.”

“Maybe some other night,” Erin said. “I just decided I’m on the rag right now.”

“So what? I don’t mind it a little sloppy. ‘Sides, I ain’t got me a rubber. You can get down on your knees and suck, can’tcha?”

“Not like you,” Erin muttered. Her critical faculties seemed to be coming back online. She kept on for a while, deflecting the hulk’s cumbersome come-ons with jokes and jibes, but the effort was clearly beginning to tell. After a while, she called over to us. “Hey guys! What time’s it getting to be?”

“About time to go,” Chris said.

It was the only cue any of us needed. En masse, we headed out, turned in our clubs, and made our way towards the parking lot, moving as quickly as we could without looking scared.

“Get back over here you cock-teasin’ cunt!” It had only taken a second for the big guy to come after us.

“Excuse me?” Chris was cool as a Zen cucumber.

“Not you, punk! I’m talkin’ to the birthday girl, the redhead with the legs—the ten-cent slut!”

“You wanna rephrase that?” Chris said.

“Yeah!” Erin put her hands on her hips. “I’ve never charged less than fifty cents in my life.”

“Real fuckin’ funny, Legs. Who’s this guy, your boyfriend?”

“Maybe he is and maybe he isn’t;” Erin said, “but he’s a helluva lot closer than you’ll ever get.”

“I see three cunts and a pair o’ peckers. Looks to me like you’ve got a surplus of pussy, buddy. Maybe that’s more pussy than you can handle.”

“Oh, like you could?” Erin made the L-for-loser sign on her forehead.

“Let’s not piss him off too much,” Chis side-muttered.

“You got a problem sharin’ the wealth?” Brownshirt gestured towards May-Lin and Heather.

“No,” Chris said, “but I do have a problem with loud-mouth assholes who think I should pimp for them.”

“Asshole? Hey, that slut was comin’ on to me. Big-time. Promised she’d give it to me, and I’m holdin’ ‘er to it.”

“Jesus! Get over yourself,” Erin said.

“You lyin’-mouthed whore!”

“I think you should apologize now,” Chris said.

“What’re you gonna do if I don’t, shithead?” Brownshirt took a menacing step forward.

“This.” Chris stripped off his belt in a move so deft and fluid and blindingly fast that it still seems unbelievable. Quicker than you could say Raiders Of The Lost Ark, he was putting the belt to good use, lassoing Mr. Big around the leg, and pulling him off his feet. The whole thing took less than a second. When it was over, Brownshirt lay sprawled on his back in the gravel of the parking lot, cursing and spitting, trying to get up, but not having much luck, seeing as how Chris’s foot was planted firmly in the middle of his chest. “Now, shall we try this again?”

“You cock-suckin’ bastard! I get up, and you’re a dead man!”

“Wrong answer,” Chris said. “Believe me; I can stand here all night if you’re not willing to work on your attitude.”

“She was comin’ on to me! She owes me. Ask her!”

Chris did.

“Is this true, Erin?”

“He wishes. OK, maybe I was flirting a little, but you know me, Chris. I flirt with everybody. Only an idiot would be taking it seriously.”

“I think the shoe may fit in this case,” Chris said.

“Well I sure as hell didn’t promise him anything.”

“That’s a fuckin’ lie,” Brownshirt howled. “She said she’d show me ‘er tits.”

“Boy, some people should never play miniature golf,” May-Lin giggled.

“Get back in the van, you guys,” Chris spoke evenly. “We’re leaving. You too, Erin.”

“I’m gonna follow you,” the troglodyte growled from the ground. “I’m gonna find out where you live, and then I’m gonna come for you.”

“Not a wise plan,” Chris said.

“You, I’m gonna kill, faggot,” Brownshirt said, “you and your limp-wristed butt-fuckin’ buddy over there. Then I’m gonna party with your girls, startin’ with the chink. Hear that, Legs? I’m gonna fuck your little gook friend right in front of you. Then I’m gonna bend the tall one over and do her up the ass. That’s before I start messing you up. When I’m done, you ain’t gonna have nothin’ left t’ tease with.”

“You’re not a very nice man,” Chris said. “You’re also not very smart. Or didn’t you notice? You’re the one with your ass on the ground.”

“Why don’t you let me up and see if you can pull that fag belt trick on me again?”

“Tell you what,” Chris said, “I’ll let you up, you apologize very politely to my friends, we’ll leave, and you promise not to follow us.”

“Or what? You kick my ass?”

“Well, maybe I did get lucky the first time. Maybe I caught you off guard, and maybe I wouldn’t be so lucky a second time. You know the old saying? ‘Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, yada yada yada.’ And it could be you’re not the kind of guy who can be fooled twice, I don’t know. It’s possible I wouldn’t be able to do it again, and if you want to take that chance, I’m cool with the outcome, whatever it turns out to be. I always try to play by the rules.”

“Lemme up. Lemme up now!”

“OK, I’m letting you up. Sure hope this means you wanna play nice.”

Chris removed his foot from Brownshirt’s chest, quickly stepping back a pace. The hulk rose to his feet, grunting and groaning and swearing disgustedly under his breath, brushing the gravel and dust from his clothes. He turned his back and started to lumber away, leaning over to pick up his Coors cap.

Chris was ready for the sucker punch when it came.

Brownshirt pivoted on his right foot, aiming a broad left hook at Chris’s jaw. For so big a guy he could move pretty fast, and against anybody other than Chris, he probably would’ve done considerable damage. His aim was dead on.

But Chris’s face wasn’t where it was supposed to be when Brownshirt’s fist arrived. He’d ducked and danced out of the way with the speed and grace of a skinny white Muhammad Ali. Before the jerk knew what was happening, Chris had gone all Indiana Jones on his ass again, flicking the belt with expert wrist action, catching him around the neck like a lizard snarfing a bug with its tongue.

Brownshirt winced, the momentum of his missed punch still propelling him leftward. A quick turn of Chris’s wrist, and suddenly the big guy was hurtling in the opposite direction, wrenched off his feet. His head cracked into the side of the minivan with a dull thud. The girls let out a sharp collective scream, but nothing else happened.

The big guy stood there for a long moment, face glued to the glass, with a look of pure imbecilic surprise. It was the kind of “oh shit!” expression Goliath must have had when he realized the shrimp with the slingshot had made him his bitch.

May-Lin gasped. “Holy shit, Chris, have you killed him?”

“Naw, he’s fine. Might have a helluva headache for a while, but, hopefully, he won’t remember anything when he wakes up.”

“Hell,” Erin said, “now I almost feel sorry for the jerk.” She slid out of the driver’s seat, making her way back to the window. “Hey!” She tapped on the inside of the glass, making sure the big guy was paying attention. “Hey! Is this what you wanted?” Erin lifted her shirt, flashing her boobs for a half second or so. Apparently, it was enough. Brownshirt’s legs buckled, and the rest of his body followed, collapsing slowly along the side of the van, leaving a trail of drool on his way to the ground.

“Holy—” Erin said. “Let’s get the hell outta here before he wakes up.”

Heather hadn’t spoken a word through all of this. I’d kept my arms around her and May-Lin like a protective older brother, and we’d all climbed into the back seat together when Chris told us to move. But between the unfolding drama of the fight and the erection-inducing thrill of May-Lin’s trembling body so close to mine, my whole attention had been drawn to the left, and I’d completely spaced anything even remotely Heather-related. Suddenly, I became aware of my girlfriend’s hand, squeezing mine so tightly that it had begun to hurt. I willed myself to turn to the right. The expression on Heather’s face was like an emotional multiple-choice exam where the correct answers keep changing without warning. Anybody with even a smattering of “female-ese” could have told me what this meant. Roughly translated, she was saying “pay attention to me, you stupid blind jerk!”

But I wasn’t paying attention. In fact, I hardly gave it a second thought. Everybody was experiencing their own personal catharsis. May-Lin and Erin were all pumped up like hot-to-trot groupies at a rock concert. Chris was leaning back, eyes closed, totally calm and relaxed, silently recharging his batteries. I figured Heather was dealing with things in her own way and if she wanted something she’d ask for it. Obviously, I knew nothing about women. It wouldn’t be long before my insensitivity came back to bite me on the butt.

In the meantime, I soaked up as much of the older girls’ vibe as I could.

“That was absolutely amazing, baby!” May-Lin gushed. “I’ve never seen anybody keep their cool under pressure like that before.”

“Cool’s what it’s all about,” Chris said. “In a situation like that you never wanna get to where you see red. That’s the first thing that’ll get you in trouble. You need to get cold in a predicament, not hot. You need to calculate and observe like a computer, and let the other guy make all the mistakes.”

“Well, I’m just glad you’re on our side.” May-Lin leaned across me to meet Chris with a congratulatory kiss.