Review of V. Moore's "Youthful Indiscretions" series: "Ten Reams", "Nude and Tattooed", "Illustrated Woman"

Ten Reams

Nude and Tattooed

Illustrated Woman

 

V. Moore and her generation should give us all hope for the future of humanity. A promising newcomer, this self-described alt-girl has re-choreographed the traditional mating dance for a new century, and while not exactly reinventing sex itself, brings a refreshing open-mindedness and casual maturity long lacking in many so-called “adult” discussions of the subject. Sex among today’s youth is not some tortured metaphor for life, nor is it some dirty little secret to be euphemized and talked around, set on some ineffably sacred pedestal, closeted, hidden or compartmentalized from the rest of existence. It is what it is, a normal aspect of being, seamlessly integrated into the fabric of everyday reality, to be spoken of as naturally as one speaks of the weather. This trio of short stories—surprisingly good, ultimately rewarding—offers a furtive glimpse into the erotic minds of contemporary twentysomethings—and we are the richer for being allowed to look.

Moore’s stories are understated, realistic, and straightforward. She effectively occupies the minds and bodies of her characters—both male and female—to reveal authentic emotion and internal conflict without resort to florid simile or pretentious homiletic asides. These three tales are loosely interconnected, populated by an extended circle of acquaintances, friends and lovers, easily referencing one another. Each story is a little slice of life, a sharply focused vignette depicting the most seemingly mundane moments of workaday life, mined for their erotic potential. A young man buying office supplies fantasizes about the cute clerk who waits on him (Ten Reams). Another guy waits nervously in a coffee shop for a meeting with his ex (Nude and Tattooed); and later, the ex gives us her side of the story Rashamon-like (Illustrated Woman).  

 

At its best, Moore’s writing is taut, weightless; unburdened by superfluous ornament. The narrative is succinct and well-organized, flowing with a pleasing natural rhythm. At times though, the texts are troubled with a number of glaring editorial flaws, and the careless bandying about of stale “porn-o-centric” clichés.  (Why must every mention of bodily parts come with the same gratuitous adjectives? Why repeatedly modify anatomical description with words like huge, long, fat, thick, round, throbbing, hot or wet? Why not allow the reader to use some imagination every once in a while?)  

 

Such easily-fixable concerns aside, after reading each story several times, I must confess myself thoroughly entertained, enlightened, impressed, and pleasantly turned on. Who could ask for better?

TAS 

Review of Andre SanThomas' Sensual Submissions series

NOTE: The following reviews first appeared on Amazon in June of 2012. Thought they might be fun to revisit just in time for Valentine's Day 2013. Enjoy! TAS


Pursuit

Andre SanThomas is a talented writer with a decided gift for descriptive prose. She is rapidly establishing herself as one of the brightest new voices in erotic "crossover" fiction; combining elements from different--often seemingly disparate--genres to create new and interesting sensual fantasy worlds. Her excellent Realm of Janos series cleverly hybridizes High Fantasy and classic tales of bondage and submission. This title, Pursuit is the second entry in her contemporary Sensual Submissions series, an artful mélange of erotic romance and BDSM epic.

By all appearances, Garrett Wilkins is one of those romance-story demigods; older, magnetically attractive, über-wealthy and hyper-confident; a guy who always gets exactly what he wants, no questions asked. He sets his jaundiced eye on Botany, a struggling young college student, aimless, diffident, lovely, if vaguely rough around the edges. Garrett quickly insinuates himself into Botany's life, surprising and upsetting her with a dazzling gift--the sort of extravagant high-end bling she doesn't feel right accepting. Here, she tries returning it to her admirer, only to be seduced:

"Try it now. Let me just see it on you. Isn't that fair? I went to quite a bit of trouble to get it, don't I at least get to see if it's as perfect as I imagined?"

She was wavering. He pressed the button and the box opened in front of her. He picked it up delicately by the chain, holding it before her. "Try it for me Botany. Let me see if it measures up to your beauty or not."
He stood and came around her. Just like last night, she didn't protest, didn't pull away. He scooped her hair from the back of her neck, pushing it to the side. He draped the necklace against her throat, letting the fine stones rest against her sweater. He leaned close, his breath touching her skin. He brushed his fingers over the nape of her neck then secured the clasp. His touch lingered on her, teasing her before he whispered in her ear.
"You're a masterpiece, Botany. Don't ever forget it. I won't forget it. Ever."

Obviously, there's much to like and enjoy in this writing. SanThomas has an eye for the intimate, and the best parts of Pursuit are in its discrete episodes; individual scenes, interesting vignettes that feel like embryonic short stories; visits to a sex-toy shop, a bizarrely bespoke jewelry store, and a piercing salon; a wrestling match between two "subbies;" truly tantalizing. But beyond these lucid flashes of atmospheric brilliance, nothing really animates the narrative as a whole. It is as if a composer set out to write a full-length symphony with themes better suited to small-scale chamber music; a painter with far too broad a canvas and not enough variety in her palette to cover it convincingly. In fact, we are led to wonder if this aspiring novel might have worked better as a series of loosely interconnected short stories. As it is, there are some serious problems with structure, pacing, and characterization.

The novel adheres too rigidly to genre conventions, often at the expense of tension. Much of Pursuit is choreographed like a mainstream Romance; the girl playing coy; the guy trying to keep her off balance; it is the familiar ritual mating dance reduced to fossilized formula. Romance requires love; but here, love seems to come out of left field, almost as an afterthought, the heroine "talking herself into it" some four-fifths of the way into the book, and even then not wholly believable in the context of these people's relationship.

The characters themselves are robotic and one dimensional, shallow constructs; their roles rigidly defined by genre archetype-casting; their psychologies superficial and largely unexplored. Garrett is a selfish a-hole; but even a-holes have some self-doubt from time to time; some inner conflict; some redeeming contradiction and paradox to lend depth and interest. (If not, what we have is a sociopath to whom no self-respecting woman would ever willingly submit. Just because you play at BDSM, doesn't mean you're sick or perverted!) And if Garrett always gets everything he wants, using his wealth to overcome any and all obstacles while Botany's submission is inevitable; where's the story?

Botany is too weak a character to be an effective foil for Garrett; she is often too passive; too easily dominated; too willing to go along with whatever her "master" demands, even when he is overtly sadistic and uncaring beyond the definition of their game. In retrospect, the seduction is too easy, too pat; drained of drama. Where's the uncertainty that makes the tale worth telling--that compels readers to keep turning pages? Where's the conflict--the pursuit?

And where are these characters' backstories? We are told little of Garrett's past beyond a few of his own disparaging references to an ex-trophy wife and a disappointing daughter. In fact, forty per cent of the way into the book, we know more about his servant's home life and backgrounds than we do of his. (The weirdly casual, almost incestuous relationship he has with the servants tends to strain credulity. How did such a relationship develop?) What, beyond his fabulous wealth, formed his rather banal, predictable tastes? If Botany has dreams, we don't learn about them until near the end of the story, and by then, they seem to have appeared spontaneously out of nowhere, glued on like craft-store glitter. What is her "ruling passion" (as James N. Frey would call it); her central motivation; the thing she truly wants? For far too long, we simply don't know--and that's a problem.

This story could have benefitted from more overt action beyond the bedroom and the dungeon. There were several intriguing missed opportunities for dramatic story-telling. If Garrett is portrayed as such a controlling jerk, why isn't he also jealous? I kept wishing for a good fist fight to break out over some misunderstanding about who is and isn't allowed to touch or talk to Botany; but the green-eyed monster never reared its head--not once. Alas.

In sum; not a terrible or bad book; but it could have been considerably better. Andre SanThomas clearly has the talent to do something better--even brilliant, and I sincerely hope she will with her next offering.

Driven

With Driven, Andre SanThomas has given her fans an interesting new world to explore, populated with realistic, recognizably modern characters. Another clever mash-up of genres; this one melds contemporary romance with BDSM epic, and does it quite successfully for the most part.

SanThomas' language is, as always, lovely and evocative, a considerable cut above the dismal norm of so much recent erotic writing. Here's a good example, taken from her first chapter

Honestly, he didn't think such things were real. Greg assured him they were though and now here was the proof. The house was a mansion secluded with security gates and gorgeous landscaping, trickled over the hillside with spectacular views. It rose two stories in the front with a huge picture window perfectly situated to take advantage of (the) beauty of nature. Instead, tonight at least, the naked beauty of nature was on the other side, held in a web of hemp and illuminated by the spotlights hidden in the foliage.

The two well-drawn main characters are likeable and sexy, engaging and believable. Cerena is a magnificent creature, imbued with beauty, verve and humor; a willing submissive, but never a pushover. She embodies the spirit of the ancient Greek hetaera, the Japanese geisha, and the Gorian slave girl, all in one delightfully vivacious package. For Cerena, the thrill of bondage and submission is the comfort of unconditional belonging, the certainty that transcends pain.

Alec, Cerena's lover and a first-time "master," is portrayed with just the right amount of self-doubt and uncertainty. He is the kind of sensitive, romantically-inclined male many women claim to look for in a relationship; and he must overcome his doubts; his reticence; his initial reluctance to inflict "loving pain" on the woman he adores, even as she begs him for it.

So what happens to these people--apart from their having a lot of fantastic, mind-blowing sex, that is? A good novelist gets her characters into trouble early and often. Throw a villain into the mix, and we have the makings of an intriguing dramatic plot. The first inkling of conflict comes at exactly the right moment in the story. The villain, Cerena's loutish ex-master, Hal, wants her back. His off-stage machinations cast a shadow between the two lovers, and haunts them throughout the story.

Unfortunately, the villain is more talked about than seen; we are told a great deal about what a lousy excuse for a human being Hal is, but seldom shown how in terms of real action. This almost feels like gossiping behind someone's back--a guilty pleasure, to be sure, but lacking the more satisfying adrenaline rush of direct confrontation. The author's consistent use of a third-person-limited point of view works well when alternating between the two main characters--avoiding the common pitfall of "head hopping"--but does, in fact, limit our understanding of the other characters. We never get into Hal's head, and that could be incredibly interesting or unbelievably scary and probably both. Instead, we miss out on a great deal of potential insight.

Readers might also benefit from more backstory in order to understand the events and motivations leading up to the climax of the novel. Again, we are "told" that Cerena's family disapproves of her lifestyle, but there's not enough detail or substance in these oblique references to make what happens seem wholly plausible in the end. Characters have a tendency to pop up as needed, whack-a-mole-like out of nowhere; but it would have been so much more suspenseful to have seen them coming from at least a little ways off. Far too many interesting things seem to occur out of sight, ultimately related to the reader as hearsay, and explained after the fact.

Still, all things considered, this is a fine effort and well worth a look. As with all her previous titles, Andre SanThomas' Driven is cleverly imagined and deftly written, helping to fill a new and growing niche in contemporary erotic fiction. Her fans will not be disappointed, and this might very probably gain her a few new ones as well.

Review of Yasmine Jones' Gratifyingly Graphic: Teeny Weeny, Error-Free, Very Descriptive Erotic Tales Vol. 1

Yasmine Jones: Gratifyingly Graphic: Teeny Weeny, Error-Free, Very Descriptive Erotic Tales

What if Boccaccio, the great 14^th-century pioneer of erotic realism were to be transported forward in time to modern day America? What would the author of the Decameron make of internet porn, social media, on-line dating, IPhones, e-books and flash fiction? He might well be pleased to find his droll and rollicking bawdy spirit still very much alive in the writing of one Yasmine Jones.

In fact, I don’t know if Jones has ever read Boccaccio, but she seems to have channeled something of the poet’s tone along with a keenly sardonic attitude towards her characters; libidinous clergymen, “sweet young things” who aren’t so sweet after all; naïve sugar daddies asleep on the job; amorous friends in the serendipitous throes of sensual discovery. Then again, it may be that human nature has barely changed in the intervening 700 years; human corruption just as rampant and ridiculous; foibles no less funny; self-serving institutions no less ripe for satire.

And Jones does it all quite well; a talented newcomer with a gift for highly concentrated story-telling. The five tantalizing miniature tales in this collection range from as many as 2800 to as few as 100 words, all deliciously tongue in cheek, spiced with a healthy hint of cynicism; each with its own satisfying erotic twist at the end. Jones’ humor can be broad; bordering on adolescent cutesy-ness, yet the writing is never so undisciplined as to devolve into insufferable banality or mere stroke-book flippancy.

These little stories were a pleasure to read, and I can only hope that more will follow soon. How about a flash-fiction inspired Decameron for the new century—one hundred stories of 100 to 250 words a piece?  In the meantime, Yasmine Jones’ Gratifyingly Graphic is most warmly recommended.

 

 

An Erotic Writer’s Resolutions for 2013

So, I’ve returned from several weeks of semi-non-vacation, having taken time off to deal with the bustle and chaos of the holidays, now struggling to get back into the swing of a daily writing schedule and recalibrate my tattered focus on the vast new-year’s to-do list. Normally I’m a pretty solitary soul, and several weeks of trying to cope with the unfocused energy of small children and flighty adults in large groups reminds me of why I love to write; more often than not, it’s the only opportunity I have to carry on any sort of intelligent conversation without fear of interruption. It’s nice to express myself in complete sentences once again, even if re-orientation in January feels something like doing a cold boot on a disused hard drive, and I am as irritable as a bear called out of hibernation by a phone solicitor. 

I’ve often wondered at the wisdom of trying to make life-changing resolutions during the coldest, gloomiest hours of the winter. The date for the start of the new year seems rather arbitrary in any case. No change is apparent in the weather or in the alignment of the stars; life’s at its lowest ebb, utterly static, dull and dormant—hardly what I’d call inspiring. One would think resolutions are better left to Autumn or Spring when change is palpable, and those acute connections between creative energy and quickening libidos are most potent. Still, if I’m not burdening myself with too many unrealistic expectations, a few New Year’s resolutions might be helpful. (Though, let’s be clear, as they say in those pirate movies, these are to be thought of more as a set of guidelines than immutable commandments.)

1.

Worry less about the last project. In other words; work harder to get things right the first time.

2.

Cut down on gratuitous adverbs. In 2013 I resolve to avoid those long strings of modifiers ending in “ly” the way some people have pledged to avoid empty calories. This year I aspire to write less like Dean Koontz, and more like Shanna Germain.

3.

Expand my backlist while resurrecting some of my “murdered beauties”. I hope to complete a new novel (Legend of the Lake) and a collection of short stories this year. Since I never delete anything I have an enormous archive of interesting passages that, for one reason or another, didn’t make it into any of my final drafts. A few of these leftovers are actually pretty good, and I’m exploring the possibility of recycling them, perhaps incorporating one or two of the more promising tidbits into some new stories. Waste not, want not, right?

4.

Redouble my committment to "paperless publication". No forest shall be felled, no returns pulped, no landfill or recycling center clogged, nor any green thing perish in order that my work be read.

5.

Expand my sexual consciousness, open my mind to new, potential turn-ons, and see beauty in places I might once have been afraid to look. I want to think about the things that excite me as I proceed into middle age; examine the way my appetites have changed even as I cultivate a more sophisticated pallet. Though orientation is something we discover about ourselves even if we never consciously “decide” to like the same, the opposite or both sexes, it’s important, periodically to reexamine our tastes and preferences as we would think about any changing aspect of our life. At fifty we don’t necessarily enjoy the same foods as we did at five or fifteen, and certainly not in the same ways. Yet, too many people are stuck in puberty when it comes to thinking about sex. I want to apply some genuine, mature thought to this in 2013, not only in hopes of becoming a better erotic writer, but, perhaps more to the point, a better, healthier human being.    

6.

Finally, in 2013 I hope to continue the “mission” of Erotica For The Big Brain; discovering and encouraging talented erotic writers, raising the literary and intellectual standards of the genre, doing it all, I would hope, in a friendly way that entertains even as it enlightens. I’ve already agreed to read and review books by a number of fine writers so far this year. I have to say, it’s wonderful to be able to say “yes” to a review request when the quality of writing makes it easy. In the next few months, look for reviews of work by James Wood, V. Moore, Y.C. Jones, I.J. Miller and  Donna George Storey, to name but a few. I think it’s going to be a great year!

Happy New Year!

Two Erotic "Imports" from Yumiko Ozawa and Alicia Torres

These are not literary masterpieces, and under normal circumstances, I would have given them a pass. In attempting to write explicit stories with broad appeal, both authors fall back, rather lazily, on the imagery, if not the attitude, of conventional mainstream porn. Still, while both books are seriously flawed, even allowing for the obvious “English-as-a-second-language” quality of the writing, I found something to like in each of them. Both are well-enough organized to capture initial interest, and each in its own way has a compelling tale to tell. While I do not recommend either book, I invite curious readers to judge for themselves.

Yumiko Ozawa: Yumiko’s House of Secret Dreams

This is the first in a projected series of books about the life of a contemporary Asian courtesan. It’s not entirely clear whether these are fictionalized accounts, or true stories about the author and her clients. The very personal autobiographical narrative style suggests the latter, but Ozawa is demurely cagey, holding our interest in no small part by keeping us guessing.

Ozawa’s English is quite good, though clearly not that of a native stylist. The narration has the detached feel of English overdubbing in some imported Japanese films; uninflected, dispassionate; a bit stiff. She is at her best when offering glimpses and unique insight into Japanese and East Asian culture. But it is her open-mindedness, her empathy, and above all, her infectious spirit of sensual adventure that hooks us:

I set up this house because I wanted to help people live their most secret dreams. But this is also a place where you can find your true self, a place where the body helps the soul find the right path . . . Do not be shy, my friend. No matter what your age or looks are, you will always find someone who will feel your charm. I have felt the charm of many men, and given myself to them, feeling happy when they enjoyed their sexual fantasies with me. I love to look into the eyes of my lovers and see that they desire me, and they see that I desire them as well. That is why I chose this career. I am not one of those who pretend. . .

Unfortunately, the writing loses much of its artless charm when the narrator tries to relay secondhand her clients’ stories, which are little more than shallow porn-inspired vignettes full of clichéd descriptions of always-unbelievably huge body parts, spontaneous threesomes, convulsive, earth-moving orgasms and bad road-construction metaphors. (Granted, traditional Japanese sexual iconography is quite exaggerated  by Western standards, but that's still no excuse for bad writing.) The well-worn devices of the epistolary novel simply don’t work very well here. In the end it’s Yumiko herself we want to be with, and her gentle, welcoming voice we want to hear.    

 

Alicia Torres: The Devil’s Breath  

A beautiful, sociopathic femme fatale cuts a swath of sexual intrigue and criminal mayhem through contemporary Colombian society in her search for revenge. Noone escapes this ruthless anti-heroine’s seductive wiles or the mind-altering drug she employs to manipulate her marks, whether the naïve British and American tourists she meets in the bars of Bogota and Cartagena, or the brutal narco-trafficker who destroyed her family years earlier. Sexual sparks and tracer bullets fly thick and fast in The Devil’s Breath, with near equal impact.

This purports to be a true story, though I remain skeptical, especially as much of the plot is wildly over the top.  The story is not uninteresting overall, and holds together quite well. The tone and cadence of the narrative do seem authentic (one of my ex-in-laws was from Colombia). The sex scenes are sufficiently steamy, if somewhat formulaic and repetitious, liberally borrowing all the familiar visual clichés and triple-X tropes of lowbrow hardcore porn. Unsurprisingly, the writing is often less than stellar, and the editing is downright amateurish in places.

Yet, in spite of her many literary shortcomings, Torres does manage to succeed in portraying a character with some depth, more than a few interesting thoughts in her head, and even a smattering of human empathy. Good sex writing not only gets into the characters’ beds, but, almost as importantly, into their heads, and the author redeems herself quite well in this regard.

Not so, the publisher, who, I think, must be faulted for attempting to promote this story as a heavily sensationalized pulp-sexploitation piece, when, in fact, it’s more of a splashy telenovela, often quite explicit and gratuitously graphic to be sure. But ultimately the sex scenes have a perfunctory feel to them, as if added in more for commercial reasons or length-padding, than narrative value. Several early passages are conspicuously “redacted,” which seems more a crass, ham-fisted marketing ploy than an attempt to protect the innocent.

Readers in search of steamy, fast-paced entertainment that feels like low-budget adventure cinema may well find something to like in The Devil’s Breath.

Best of 2012

These are the books that dazzled me, turned me on and blew me away in 2012. While not all of them fall strictly into the Literary Erotica category, I’ve always believed in getting my orgasms where I find them, and a good book is truly an orgasmic experience, regardless of where it ends up being shelved.  The one thing that all these titles have in common is a fearless originality; an adventuresome spirit—a willingness on the part of the author to break out and try something new, damn the prudes and censors, full steam ahead. Readers rejoice!  

 

Shanna Germain: The Lure of Dangerous Women

These are stories to be savored, reflected upon and dreamed about, returned to again and again; and always with that same quickening delight of first discovery. Germain's language is lithe and lyrical, prose ravished by poetry; dark fantasies turned on subtle lathes of light. Rare alchemy indeed; these tales are evocations of the elemental drawn from the most exquisite strata of quantum possibility. The author captures those infinitesimal flashes of human experience--the unconsciously commonplace--drawing out what we know in our bones, yet could never express in anything less than music, at least until now. Ms. Germain is fearless in exploring the shadowy erotic impulses at the heart of some of our most chastely cherished legends. She does not blink when the disturbing logic of her premise is carried out to its inevitable, sometimes horrific conclusion. It is a rare author who can so easily break out of established genre patterns to create settings and characters with such consummate economy and soul-searing truth. Germain invites her readers to use their own imaginations in concert with hers. These stories take shape before our eyes as if viewed from over the shoulder of a master artist at work on a drawing; a single boldly sketched line is all it takes to define a whole new world; a few more delicate strokes of the pencil, a hint of shading, bring that world and its remarkable inhabitants to unforgettable life. We may, perhaps, be left guessing, pleasantly, at the end, having been given only enough information as our imaginations require to soar.

 

 

Elizabeta Brooke: Never: An Erotic Retelling of Peter Pan

With Never, Elizabeta Brooke has accomplished a rare feat in erotic literature, creating an elaborate, extended, character-driven story that remains exciting and fresh throughout. Clearly the product of a brilliantly fecund sexual imagination, the story is as vivid as it is varied. Cleverly conceived, elegantly executed and beautifully written, this book has the potential to become one of the great classics of literary erotica. The author’s insistent emphasis on plausible story and character development is remarkable; a probing, deeply sympathetic exploration of her subjects’ inner lives. This takes time to do well. But like the most exquisite foreplay, Brooke’s narrative builds deliberately, logically, inevitably, missing no opportunity for psycho-sexual drama and illumination.  For all the magnificently explicit portrayals of orgiastic excess and visceral delight to come, there are no one-dimensional cardboard cut-outs or stock characters here; these are living beings, complex and complete; each with her—or his—own set of deeply personal conflicts and contradictions. But make no mistake; while this is clearly a well-crafted piece of writing with genuine literary merit and substance, “Never” is also one hell of a sexy read; a veritable smorgasbord of sensuous wonder where we are invited to cast off our inhibitions and revel in every exotic texture and taste. Each new scenario in Brooke’s vibrant omnisexual universe is as unabashedly adventuresome as it is refreshingly irreverent; no obeisance paid to taboo here; no patience for prudery, and, best of all, no squeamish self-censorship—the proverbial lead balloon of far too many failed erotic narratives.  Elizabeta Brooke’s Never is a nascent masterpiece, an unburnished gem; it truly deserves to be read, seriously discussed and widely celebrated.

 

Fulani: The Museum of Deviant Desires

The eleven very-short BDSM-themed stories in this collection are sexy and cerebral; breezy, thought-provoking, laugh-out-loud funny and utterly addictive. The author strikes just the right balance between light fluffy diversion and crunchy intellectual substance, letting his horny inner nerd come out to play delightfully kinky games; whimsically creating new words and worlds even as he establishes fascinating new paradigms for the next generation of erotic fiction. Informed by everything from Roland Barthes and Stanislaw Lem to Nu Fetish, industrial bondage; flash fiction and on-line piracy; underground music festivals, and those pulpy sexploitation magazines of the 50s and 60s with their lurid cover paintings and thick black “censor bars” redacting all the naughty bits in the grainy photos accompanying the articles, Fulani’s stories draw their inspiration from an astonishingly diverse cosmos of commonplace artifacts; vacuum cleaners, toasters, plumbing supplies, burned out autos, melted plastic forms, all weirdly apt when turned to the author’s singularly amusing purpose. And yet, there’s great beauty here, too, however unexpected; the language can be lyrical even as it educes degradation and pain; the poetry of domination and submission set amid dystopian landscapes of industrial decay and urban blight. Entertaining, sexy, hilarious, Fulani’s The Museum of Deviant Desires is a trenchant, self-effacing critique of contemporary erotic literature with its finger firmly on the g-spot of popular culture; a treat, not to be missed.

 

 

 

Elizabeta Brooke: Poe

This sexy, bleak, beautiful, occasionally disturbing short story is well worth the adventuresome reader’s attention. Talented Australian writer Elizabeta Brooke invokes for us a gritty, gray urban world of alienation and despair, illuminated with aching lyricism and deep emotional insight. Brooke’s characters vividly embody W.B. Yeats’ notion that “sex and death are the only subjects that can interest a serious mind”; Eros and Thanatos; the erotic, creative impulse and the self-destructive death wish, not so different from one another in the final analysis. In the author’s deep-probing vision, we find ourselves at that terrifying nexus of sex and death; flesh and mind, introspection and lust. Perhaps most memorable and poignant is Brooke’s  portrayal of her characters’ longing for creative intimacy—an emptiness only a true artist can know—the poignant search for mutual understanding, the melding of inventive minds.

 

James Wood: Taking Jennifer

Taking Jennifer is the second entry in Wood’s Erotic Stories of Domination and Submission series.  This taut, well-crafted story offers a new scenario from the surprisingly introspective point of view of a passionate female submissive. The language is never effusive or pretentious; but reminiscent of the finest chamber music, intimate, logical, transparent, without a single note out of place, nor a syllable wasted—extraordinary prose by the standards of any genre. Wood has a keen eye for the most exquisite, often unexpected details. But the true epiphany to be experienced here is in the author’s probing, poignant exploration of his heroine’s deepest thoughts and feelings as she suffers the agony of anticipation—more painful than her master’s physical disciplines—the long minutes of waiting which seem to her an eternity of unrequited need. With Taking Jennifer, James Wood has written the kind of story with the power to inspire a generation of talented, courageous erotic authors. Why should this genre, so steeped in the intricacies of deep human emotions, be left to the hacks? 

 

 

 

 

Shanna Germain: Beneath Sea and Sky

Ms. Germain is as persuasively adept at sci-fi and paranormal fantasy as she is with more poetically-tinged magical realism and mainstream narratives; her settings, often mysterious, vaguely alien, yet sometimes frighteningly familiar as if viewed through weirdly distorted mirrors, turning taboo on its head and trite assumption on its heels. She takes infectious delight in probing the darker erogenous recesses of familiar legends and fairytales. How, we wonder, can a writer so easily, so believably occupy her characters’ spaces—inner as well as outer?  How is she able to get into their heads so completely, so convincingly? It is, perhaps, Germain’s unfailing sense of wonder that makes these stories so compelling. This is not a naïve or child-like wonder; nor jaded, synthesized sentimentality, the facile façade of lost innocence; but, rather, the inextinguishable joy of discovery; the sublimity of the ever-new.

 

 

Adam Penenberg: Virtually True

This techno-thriller from Adam Penenberg is a frenetic headlong rush through a colorful multi-verse of intrigue and illusion, hard-boiled noir and high-tech magical realism; squalid dystopian nightmare and lush cyber seduction; a cosmic data-storm of brilliant ideas and unforgettable imagery. The author portrays a future not so very far off; unnervingly close to present reality for much of the world; less prophetic vision than logical projection. Into this bleak future, Penenberg’s protagonist, journalist True Ailey emerges from the great literary tradition of smart-mouthed gumshoes and hard-boiled reporters, though he has not wholly succumbed to cynicism. A cyber-savant, able to navigate massive data streams manifested within virtual reality; inside these “meta-worlds” True has no equal. But VR addiction—“mnemonia”—has compromised his health, alienated the love of his life, and all but ruined his professional career. Now he finds himself in the capitol of Luzonia, one of the bleaker corners of the developing world, little more than a stringer for a CNN-like infotainment network, itself part of the vast “corpocracy” that dominates the globe.  An old friend offers a tantalizing scoop—a story that could put True’s career back on track—but the friend is assassinated before he can spill the details, and True is left with more mystery than he can handle on his own.  The search for the killer takes the form of classic whodunit with the smartest elements of sci-fi, techno-epic and geopolitical thriller folded into a rich, spicy mix; think Philip K. Dick at his post-apocalyptic perception-bending best including his familiar recurring theme of the phantom twin; the brooding zeitgeist of Alan Moore’s Watchmen, the cyber-punk whiz-bang of Max Headroom, and the artist’s unerring eye for the minutiae of human suffering in Alfonso Cuaron’s masterful cinematic interpretation of P.D. James’ Children of Men. The dialogue sizzles in the best “better-than-real” tradition of Robert Heinlein, Elmore Leonard and Raymond Chandler. But Penenberg is at his most original, vivid and animated when describing the irrepressible life that teams in the dusty slums and choked thoroughfares of the developing world, far below the radar of sheltered Western consciousness. Readers will be richly entertained even as they wrestle with the most acute questions of our times. How do we maintain our essential human connections in an age of hyper-connectedness? How do we keep ourselves grounded in reality when there are so many realities to choose from; one layered thinly on top of another in a perplexing veneer of “maybes?”  What defines sanity in a world where avatar and self have become hopelessly interchangeable? How do we hold on to those genuine but intangible lifelines to our humanity; emotion, intimacy, community?  And, having “evolved” this far, what is the inevitable next-step in hyper-connectedness? Virtually True is a riveting read that leaves us, as most intelligently entertaining books do, with much to think about and replay in our imagination long after our e-readers have been turned off.

 

Andre SanThomas: Mayia (Realm of Janos series #4)

Bad girls may not necessarily have more fun—but they’re definitely more fun to read about. I’d guess that they’re also a lot of fun to write about, if this engaging, well-crafted tale from Andre SanThomas is anything to judge by. Mayia is the fourth installment in SanThomas’ superb Realm of Janos series, and very probably the best of the lot so far, combining elements of classic High Fantasy saga and heart-stopping heist-caper, pagan erotic romance and BDSM debauch. One of the real joys of this series over time has been to observe the author’s growing maturity and command of her craft. The writing is lovely, spare, and increasingly more direct.  Having established the rules by which her imagined realm is governed, SanThomas has begun to play with the possibilities within those boundaries, and the results are wonderfully entertaining. Where, in some of her earlier books, I occasionally got the sense that she was too rigidly constrained by her own pre-established conventions, often missing opportunities for drama and conflict; here she begins to flex her muscles as an original creative force, recognizing what great artists have always known, that infinite possibilities are found within a well-conceived set of limitations.  With Mayia, Andre SanThomas has given her readers an unforgettable, entertaining, fast-paced character-driven story, and that is a literary feat in and of itself.

 

 

 

 

James Wood: Amy’s Choice

Amy’s Choice is a story about voyeurism and erotic dreams come true, beautifully told. The third in a series of finely crafted short stories, this entry offers a sensuous, colorful glimpse into the world of domination and willing submission. At his best, James Wood is a brilliant miniaturist with an eye for the most exquisite details, working with words as a jeweler might work with tiny precious stones; delicately turning and polishing each facet until it becomes luminous. The reader is enthralled by the sheer art of it; the way in which the connection of the minutest detail to the whole is skillfully revealed. Wood’s   sentences are short, elegant, telegraphic; reminiscent of Hemmingway or, perhaps more aptly, Somerset Maugham at his best; and like Maugham, Wood does not judge his characters for their kinks, or begrudge them their excesses. The language itself puts one in mind of certain passages in The Pearl or The Boudoir, those notorious Victorian-era pornographic magazines, utterly scandalous in their day, though by modern standards somewhat quaint, if not downright tame.  Once enticed, readers will find themselves happily enthralled in this lovely shimmering matrix of language and lust. Yes, this is a story about voyeurism and erotic dreams come true; and what may be most ingenious about it is that we have all unconsciously accepted the invitation to watch. 

 

 

 

Smart Smut: Hot Springs

A masterfully written, beautiful, evocative tale with genuine literary substance, this short story is an erotic tour de force. Set in a region so remote as to seem almost magical, a botanist travels with an aged native shaman in search of a rare flower with legendary medicinal properties, and finds more than she could ever have hoped for.   Particularly striking is the manner in which the author infuses the setting itself with vibrant erotic energy. The narrative has a near-cinematic sweep to it, which in no way detracts from the "turn-on" factor; and while the story itself is fairly simple, the telling of it is so colorful, at times so achingly vivid, as to transport us directly into the scene. Readers in search of a good, intelligent sexy tale need look no further.

 

Big Ed Magusson: Irie No Kaubutsu

Bondage ritual meets monster-movie matinée in this intriguing short story from Big Ed Magusson. The author has drilled deep into the shadowy vaults of the reptilian complex to uncover mysteries of the male Id that most guys would just as soon keep buried. Adventuresome readers will be pleasantly terrified, enlightened and entertained by this unusual, highly imaginative foray into the steamy realm of "tentacle titillation.”


 

Mr. Friday's Midlife Crisis

Brand new and hot off the press, Mr. Friday's Midlife Crisis: An Erotic Entertainment 

is now available on Amazon Kindle. 16,000 words at $2.99 (USD); this title may also be borrowed free through Amazon Prime. (Be sure to check out the kick-ass cover designed by Sharazade and Andre SanThomas.)

 

Sixtysomething and seriously oversexed, Mr. Friday’s long overdue for a midlife crisis. The old man still has two or three items left to cross off his bucket list of ingenious kinks when he meets beautiful Sami Rosenberg; a smart-mouthed, vivacious nineteen-year-old college coed with major cash-flow problems and a boyfriend who bores her to tears.

When Mr. F offers an ungodly amount of cash for her to play the courtesan, Sami tells herself it’s all about the money. But more troubling questions persist. How far will she go to get what she wants? How deep do her inhibitions truly run? What’s the real price of a thrill?

Definitely NOT a sweet romantic yarn about nice, agreeable people, Mr. Friday’s Midlife Crisis is the gritty, sometimes disturbing story of what happens when headstrong opposites attract, when honesty takes a back seat to greed, and lust goes on the take. Sexual sparks fly, triangles are shattered and dark emotions laid bare in this contemporary character-driven erotic entertainment from Terrance Aldon Shaw.

 

 
I’m not sure exactly when I heard it—late 2011 or early 2012—but I clearly remember following a piece that aired on NPR about the inconsistency of condom use in the developing world. One particularly pause-inspiring section of the story involved college coeds in Uganda; eighteen or nineteen-year-old women stepping out on weekends with their much-older sugar daddies; all with the full knowledge of the steady boyfriends left behind. This struck me as an intriguing premise for a story, though I would have to transpose the action to the more familiar turf of my native Midwest, which in itself would prove an irresistible challenge.

A few years earlier the local media had been abuzz with sordid details of a lawsuit against motel employees who had used CCTV cameras to spy on, and sometimes capture compromising video footage of their female guests. Voyeurism always makes excellent grist for erotic fiction, especially when it has that fresh, “ripped from the headlines” aroma about it.

These ideas by themselves, while fascinating, weren’t quite enough to reach what I would call a narrative critical mass; the point at which a story takes on a life of its own, transcends the sum of its parts and achieves natural dramatic momentum. For that, I needed an ensemble of strong, memorable characters. I did not want to populate my story with nice, agreeable cardboard cutouts for whom everything has a way of working out just so with nary a hassle, all difficulties smoothed over with a fairy-dust sprinkling of cutesy coincidence or a mawkish movie-of-the-week moral tacked on at the end. Real, interesting people are not all-good or all-bad all the time; they are steeped in contradiction, animated by the need to overcome obstacles, perpetually piqued by their own intractable inner conflicts. A character who behaves the way we always expect is dull indeed.

The Mr. Friday of the title is based on someone I had the great misfortune to know years ago; selfish, bitter, arrogant to the point of megalomania; so thoroughly convinced of his ultimate damnation as to perceive no gain in being kind. And yet, he could occasionally surprise with bouts of spontaneous altruism and self-effacing humor.  A colorful conundrum to be sure. If anything, the fictional Mr. F has been toned down; his mood swings less histrionic; his internal contradictions not quite so complex; his motives greatly simplified. The fellow in the story is certainly more thoughtful, creative and generous than his real-life alter-ego, who would have been quite happy to bed a nubile young thing like Sami so long as it never threatened to cost him anything. In both cases, I think, the old men’s reflexive orneriness comes from their own unexamined insecurities; their cruelty to others rooted in deep self-loathing.

Less clear is where Sami comes from; this beautiful Amerasian-Jewish coed who speaks with the mildest hint of a southern drawl. My characters are often born in imagined conversations. Sometimes I’ll spend hours simply “transcribing” long stretches of dialogue, even before a story has begun to take shape. It’s a great way to get a feel for a character, to figure out what makes her tick, learn her endearing idiosyncrasies and foibles, all the while growing more familiar and comfortable in her presence. Admittedly, I tend to fall in love with my female characters, and Sami was no exception. I liked the way she talked; her smart mouth and self-effacing humor; her powerful sexual self-confidence and cultivated poise alternating with painful reticence and debilitating uncertainty. There’s a sweetness in Sam’s interactions with her roommate, Gwen; but there’s a callous side to her, too; no small measure of selfishness, and a serious mean streak. Being with Mr. Friday has a way of bringing out these darker tendencies in her, a fact she willfully ignores till it’s too late. I borrowed her beauty from several women I’d admired in Playboy over the years, and built her unusual background from diverse strands of experience—my own, and the freely shared knowledge of others'.

I began work on Mr. Friday’s Midlife Crisis in March of 2012, and completed it in November of that year. It is the seventh in my series of Erotic Entertainments, short stories ranging in length from 5,000 to 16,000 words—the first six stories are collected in Six Erotic Tales (The Complete Entertainments, So Far)

I’ve tried hard to make this e-book user friendly and easy to navigate with an active Table of Contents, Hyperlinks to and from the TOC, as well as active URLs to all my other product pages, blog and e-mail. An added feature in the TOC is the option to jump directly to some of the “juicy parts” in the book.

Let me know what you think.

cheers

TAS