Rope and the great British countryside

I can't wait for my author copy of Best Bondage Erotica 2014 to arrive. I've been reading about all the stories on the book's Tumblr site, where authors are talking about their inspiration and sharing their favourite lines from their stories. And every single one sounds hot as caramelised sugar (and I should know, having suffered a popcorn-related injury recently). 

My story is called Tight Rope Walker and it focuses on two things: a karada tie and a walk up a hill. At the time I was planning the story, I happened upon this blog post by Fulani, which is a practical guide to tying a karada and proved to be most useful for research purposes. Most useful indeed. (And I've just realised he follows the word with an exclamation mark in the title, thus: Karada! That's how it always appears in my mind, like Oklahoma! for some reason.) 

Obviously, the anthology is about bondage. But there are just so many avenues you can go down to write a bondage story. Different styles, different purposes, different equipment, different relationships, different levels of experience, different mindsets... The funny thing is that you can't just write a description of ropes and knots and the process of tying. My story takes the idea of this quite elaborate tie, which creates a sort of rope corset, and then takes it out for a walk. 

One of my new year's resolutions as a writer is: Write less, walk more. I find many things - writer's block, backache, general grumpiness, existential angst - can be solved by going for a walk, preferably somewhere with a few trees or rocks or a bit of water. My characters take a walk up the Wrekin, a hill in Shropshire, England, with the karada, hidden under winter layers, being their delicious little secret. 

Best Bondage Erotica 2014, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel and published by Cleis Press, is now out in paperback and ebook at Amazon, or for pre-order at Amazon.co.uk.

And for writers, Rachel also has a new submissions call for Best Bondage Erotica 2015.

Getting into character

Simon Neil, Biffy Clyro

Ok, so having said that I like writing shorts, I am now trying to make progress on the long, the novel, the proper book. The first-person narrator is Jeremy, a normal working-class bloke who's a natural dom. I'm having to write a character profile, because I'm struggling to get into his head. I have no trouble writing from a male viewpoint, but male and straight and naturally dominant is fucking with my brain. 

So I've written him a little confessional-type history and then I thought, I could do with some visuals of what this guy looks like. Now, he can't be the besuited, billionaire business type currently beloved of erotic romance, because I can't stand a man in a suit and if I was a man I certainly wouldn't be one who dressed smartly. I'd be one who favoured jeans and t-shirts but had probably mellowed from his younger days as a messy-haired, grungy kind of dude. So I looked up some hunky rockers. And what did I find? Not one from my list of fanciables who has a dominant look in his eyes, damnit. This probably says more about my taste than it does about hunky rockers in general. But it's also useful in its own way, because, as I've probably said a million times before, I hate stereotypes. And what could be more delicious than a dominant man who's confident enough in himself to show a little vulnerability on occasion?

Anyway, here's the start of the character profile:

Jared Leto, 30 Seconds to Mars

Hi, my name’s Jeremy and I like to hurt women.

That’s how I imagine it would start, my confessional at some kind of Sadists’ Anonymous.

And how long have you had these feelings, Jeremy?

This is more like how I imagine the psychiatrist’s consultation would go. As long as I can remember, I’d say. I used to tie up my sister’s dolls and dangle them over the steam from the kettle spout by their luscious blonde hair. She had so many, she didn’t notice when I took one, stripped off its wide, pink princess dress and buried it upside down in the soil at the bottom of the garden so just its legs were sticking out. Well, its legs and bum, which was about the extent of my anatomical knowledge back then.

I vividly remember the Saturday teatime programmes in which someone was most likely to get captured and threatened with all manner of devious tortures. Only threatened, mind you, this was family viewing. I was the Sheriff of Nottingham, the bad guy who snatched Daisy Duke, Indie gone bad when he locks Willie in the cage in The Temple of Doom. I drew the line at being Jabba the Hutt...

New release: Women and gay romance

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Writing what you know

We’ve all heard this one: ‘Write what you know.’ And, as erotica writers, possibly worried about the assumptions people might make about us based on our subject matter. Just me? No, I didn’t think so. And no matter how many times you repeat the mantra that Agatha Christie wasn’t a serial killer, it's unlikely you'd write about kinky sex if you had no interest in it whatsoever.

But, and it’s a big but (no pun intended), writing what you know doesn’t mean that every story you produce is autobiographical. That would mean there would be no such thing as fiction. And you’d run out of stories pretty quick (speaking for myself; perhaps your life is one big sexual adventure!). 

I think writing what you know is more about the detail than the grand plots. We all have a unique set of experiences and knowledge to draw on and combine in our work. That’s why there’s always room for another decent writer in what might seem like a saturated marketplace. No-one else can write quite like you, or me. I might be able to describe what it’s like to break up heavy soil with a spade because I have an allotment. You might be able to describe something I know nothing about, like reading computer code or the smell of a ferret. I recently read Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea and was struck by the depth of the description that can only have come from an intimate knowledge of the sea and its wildlife. It doesn’t mean Hemingway ever battled an 18ft marlin like the old man does in the book. But it does mean he used his skills as a writer to bring that to life realistically for someone who doesn't have the same knowledge or experience of the sea.

When you write about sex, I don’t think it means you have to have been promiscuous, or to have done absolutely everything that you write about. Otherwise we could never write from the point of view of someone not our own gender or orientation. This doesn’t mean you don’t have to do your research and get your facts right, but just like researching how to write a murder wouldn’t mean carrying one out, researching sex and kink doesn’t mean you need to be having one-night stands every weekend or own a fully equipped dungeon full of gear.

That’s what your imagination is for; a little knowledge goes a long way in the imagination of a writer. Writing what you know is more about observing the world through a writer's eyes and storing away quirky little things you see and hear for future reference, then applying those unique little details to the fantasy world of your stories to make them really come to life.

Smut by the Sea: Inspiration

Inspiration’s a funny thing. Stop by on Friday May 3^rd and you can read master storyteller Kay Jaybee’s thoughts on the matter. I’ve been thinking of the roundabout ways in which I pieced together my story, Stuck on the Edge, for Smut by the Sea Vol 2.

The story is set on Bardsey Island, where a happily married couple escape for their first holiday alone without the kids for several years. They have one last paddle in the bay near their little stone cottage before they’re due to get the boat back to the mainland and drive home. But it turns into a little more than a paddle – and then they discover that their journey home isn’t going to go quite so smoothly after all.

You’ll often hear the writing advice to ‘write what you know’. When it comes to erotica, I don’t believe that this means you have to be particularly promiscuous or have done every sexual act you write about. Horror writers don’t go around chopping people up with chainsaws, after all. If you had to write only what you’d personally experienced there would no fiction, only autobiography. This isn’t an excuse for not doing some research and getting your facts right – because you can bet some of your readers will have done the things you write about (unless we’re talking tentacles, which I gather is a big thing in fantasy land) – but the point of being a writer is that your imagination can extrapolate a lot of story from a little information.

I think writing what you know is more in the little details that bring the story alive. So what do I know about my story? Well, I almost went to Bardsey Island once. Yes, almost. It was as a reporter to write a travel feature. But the weather was too bad over several days for us to actually get there because although the island is not far from the end of the Llyn peninsula in North Wales, the waters are pretty treacherous. So I’d done some research and had an idea of what the island was like although I’ve had to use my imagination and stretch the truth a little in places. And I knew it was possible to get stranded there for longer than you might have planned.

What else? Well, I’ve swum in the Irish Sea and I’ve paddled in mountain lakes and when I describe the ‘bone-crushing chill in your ankles that makes you wince’, I bloody well know what I’m talking about. And I have a fondness for rustic pottery, which the couple’s cottage is full of. So when my female character whispers her reply to a milk jug, I’m picturing a jug I have that’s in shades of brown and cream with a vaguely Celtic kind of swirl scraped into the glaze.

Gareth stood behind me and put his fingers to the flimsy bit of fabric at my hips. He drew my knickers slowly down. I lifted my legs in a detached sort of way as I gazed at the view, as if I was barely aware of what he was doing. Although when he reached a hand under my ass to push his fingers up the slit of my pussy, I may have moved my legs further apart. Ever so slightly. I was wet already, and not with seawater any more. With his words and his tongue and my imagination. He found my clit and rubbed it gently, making me stick my ass up higher and whimper. A whimper that said “harder”, but which he ignored whether he understood or not. The clouds were racing across the sky and I saw a cormorant fighting into the wind.

“I’d better check the water,” he said. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“Okay,” I whispered to the milk jug.

You can get your hands on Smut by the Sea Vol 2 at All Romance, Amazon UK and Amazon.com. And if you're free on June 22nd, why not come to the seaside in Scarborough for the Smut by the Sea launch. Entry for readings and talks during the day is free, and you can grab a ticket for the evening's entertainment along with all the info at the website.

Research: Mud and yeast

The list of anthologies I want to submit stories to is growing again, mostly thanks to Alison Tyler's Trollop with a Laptop blog and the Erotic Readers and Writers Association calls for submissions page.

In the course of research, and I won't be revealing which call this is for, I've been viewing pictures of fit, muscular guys running, crawling, swinging and floundering through fields of mud, pools of ice, walls of flame and dangly bits of electrified wire. It's a hard life being a writer, I tell you. The pictures are from Tough Mudder, obstacle courses designed by British Special Forces for the kind of people who've got bored of Ironman triathlons.

They hand out beer instead of water at the end, which is an extremely tenuous link to the next topic of research, sourdough bread. It's all about men who can bake. All that kneading must lead to strong hands and well-honed forearms. And those big ovens make it oh-so-hot.

Inspiration: Woods and wells

My short story, Pleasing the Nymph of Woodwell, is now live at Oysters and Chocolate.

Tom and Maria have packed off the kids to their grandparents so they can have a dirty weekend away, without any little ones wandering in and wanting to know why mummy's all tied up. But will their sexy exploits please the ancient spirit of Woodwell Cottage's magical spring?

One reader comments: 'That was probably THE most erotic outdoor story I have ever read! I hated to leave them! I hope there's more to this... or I'll have to come up with my own ending. My wife may be in for a real treat!'

I certainly hope she is.

I thought I'd share a couple of things that inspired it. One being this cottage owned by the Landmark Trust in Shropshire. It's actually called St Winifred's Well. The Landmark Trust takes historic buildings of character that are in danger of falling into disrepair and restores and preserves them as holiday cottages.

I've stayed at their properties before, notably a very remote converted chapel in North Wales, but not this one... yet.

In the course of my research, I also came across this wonderful little site, Wooden Dildos. Lovingly carved by craftsmen from Scottish hardwoods and sealed with an ultra-smooth waterproof finish - so no, you won't get a splinter! Sounds so much nicer than some kind of plastic affair made in a factory.

The top image is Water Angel by Stephen Perry, prints available at ObsessionArt.com.

Thoughts: A bit of rough

I read something that got me thinking about romantic heroes the other day. It's probably a good job I can't remember where I read it. But it suggested that the chiselled, strong, successful Alpha male is universally loved by female readers of erotic fiction. It definitely used the word 'universally', which first made me think, 'What about lesbians?' and secondly made me think, 'What about me?' Because I like my romantic heroes to be quirky, flawed, rough around the edges, sometimes unsure of themselves like the rest of us. I wondered whether I am truly perverse in the widest sense of the term. I don't equate money or status with success, for example. I find perfection dull. I find glistening, muscular, hairless torsos objects of bizarre fascination rather than desire.

And there's a major subgenre of romantic fiction dedicated to the admiration of 'a bit of rough'. I was thinking about this as I re-read DH Lawrence's Lady Chatterley's Lover a while back. First published in Italy in 1928, it wasn't openly available in the UK until 1960 because of its graphic descriptions of sex and use of words like 'cunt'. But its dangerous subversion of class boundaries was probably equally to blame. Compared with the wonderful erotica we have around now, it's pretty tame stuff. But what it does share with a big chunk of today's sex fiction is the fascination of a well-bred woman fucking a bit of rough. It's just that in contemporary terms it's a professional career woman perhaps seeking excitement with the pool boy, a squaddie or the scruffily gorgeous rogue from the travelling fair.

And no, this whole post wasn't entirely an excuse for a picture of Sean Bean, seen here playing Mellors in the 1993 BBC adaptation. No, it really wasn't.

Research: Spinning a Yarn

In the course of planning a short story about Penelope, the wife of Odysseus in the ancient Greek epic, I've found myself needing to research spinning and weaving to know how to use words such as spindle, whorl and distaff, and to explore the erotic potential of the upright loom. It happens to be a large, upright wooden frame from which the warp threads are suspended with weights, allowing the weaver to pass the weft threads through to make the cloth. All useful stuff to a warped mind. Especially when Penelope has 12 loyal maids and 108 boisterous suitors who all want to convince her that her husband is dead and she should marry one of them instead. Endless possibilities. 

Anyway, I found the following passage at the Fiberville USA website and found it amusing enough to want to share (yes, I really do find yarn sexy):

 WARNING!!! Spinning reduces stress and promotes well being. It can also be habit forming and lead to obsessive behaviors such as, but not restricted to: caressing and hoarding all fibers; dying them with food colors and things from your garden or whatever you have laying about; spinning the fluffy bits of the weeds in your fields, the cotton wad in your vitamin bottles and even the lint from your dryer! Proceed with extreme caution!

In Homer's tale, Penelope spends twenty years waiting for her husband. He's away fighting at Troy for ten and takes another ten to make his way home to Ithaca, whilst falling prey to various perils including being forced into being the lover of the witch-goddess Circe and the nymph Calypso. Doesn't sound so bad. I think it's time Penelope had some fun.

Incidentally, if anyone knows how to avoid getting the white background on text pasted against this blog template, do tell!

A teaser: Short story snippets

The short story I'm writing at the moment is taking longer than I expected, the result of being a working, single parent, I guess. I could do with a holiday, which is exactly what the couple in my story are having - at a historic cottage sited over an ancient spring. What I didn't realise when I started writing was that I would need to try to imagine what sphagnum moss smells like and how to describe a hand-carved wooden dildo. It's hard work, you know. Here are two snippets to whet your appetite:

‘No reception,’ he said, glancing at his mobile. ‘And no TV, I notice.’

‘That’s why I chose it,’ Maria said. ‘Remote. Secluded...’

‘No-one to hear you scream...’

‘Precisely.’

****

He dipped the moss in the well and squeezed it over her, again and again. She wriggled and moaned in frustration as the cool water tantalised her clit.

*****

I'll put the finished version on here soon, but for now you'll have to use your imagination. Feel free to speculate on how the story goes in the comments section!