Oh my, I'm late...

...For a very important date. The announcement of my Sunday Snog winner, in fact. I went off on a weekend away in deepest, darkest northern England and forgot that this would stop me picking my winner. Even my mobile signal was patchy, although the view of the Milky Way at night was pretty damn clear. 

I know you're all dying to know what highly scientific method I used to pick a winner. Well, I wrote all the names in biro on the flesh of a willing sex slave before beating him to see which one looked the reddest. Oh, no, I just made that up. I wrote all the names on little bits of paper, fed them into a willing sex slave's mouth, then waited to see which one was still legible when he spat them out. Oh, no, that was just a dream. I got someone to wank over the bits of paper and decided which got the directest hit... Ah, no again. I put the bits of paper in my teapot, shook them up a bit and pulled one out whilst looking in the opposite direction and humming a little fanfare sort of noise. Yes, that would be it. I'm  not sure where the fanfare came from. But I can never think of teapots again without thinking about Slave Nano's reading at this year's Smut by the Sea event. He read this excerpt out to us, shared here on Giselle Renarde's blog, the unabridged, uncensored and highly amusing version. 

Anyway, fanfare please... The winner is Anonymous. Ha, that's disappointed you all, hasn't it? But thank you to Anonymous, who said 'I've been wanting to read this anthology!' for your comment. Your wish is about to come true via the modern wonder of email. Hope you enjoy it. 

Incidentally, the 100th Sunday Snog event has raised £234.72 for Medecins San Frontieres, smashing the £100 target to smithereens. (Now there's a word.) A big thank you to Victoria Blisse for organising it all.

100th Sunday Snog!

Well, this may be my first Sunday snog, but it’s Victoria Blisse’s 100^th. Lucky her. And to celebrate, she’s raising some money for charity and organising a bumper giveaway. She’s already raised more than a hundred quid for Medecins Sans Frontieres and she’s rounded up dozens of authors to give away some freebies on their blogs.

I’m going to give away an ebook copy of Smut by the Sea Volume 2. Comment on this post for your chance to win. I’ll use some highly scientific method to pick a winner if I actually get more than one commenter! You’ve got until midnight on September 27^th to enter. And if you’d like to go off and have a chance of winning dozens more prizes, then all the authors taking part are listed on Victoria’s Blisse Kiss page.

This snog is taken from my story in Smut by the Sea Vol 2, Stuck on the Edge. Gareth and Claire's last paddle in the sea before they’re meant to be going home from their little island hideaway is getting a little out of hand:

Gareth swam up beside me, the arms of his t-shirt wrapping round his biceps. I put my feet down, feeling soft sand between my toes instead of shingle out this deep, and let him get his arms around me. You’d think I might have been getting used to the temperature by now, but in fact I felt like my lips might be turning blue. He kissed them. And somehow his lips were still warm. As mine melted against his, it felt like the rest of my body was a marble statue. Only my lips were real, flesh and blood, pulsing with heat. His tongue was hot too. He darted it out and I opened my mouth to let him in. My throat felt tight and deep within my frozen belly a little spark went pop.

I may have moaned a little. He drew back and said, “You did once tell me you fancied sex in the sea. And somehow we’ve never got round to it.”

“Are you kidding me? Sex? Here? Now?” My voice rose in pitch until I was sure it was audible only to bats. I was shaking and my mind was already wondering how long it would take for Gareth to run to the warden’s cabin, for the warden to radio for help, for a helicopter to arrive, winch me up and transport me to the nearest hospital to be treated for hypothermia. And frostbite. And crazy, irrational lust. My nipples were already rock hard because of the cold, but now they were tingling too. Because of the lust.

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...

In which I get drunk and talk bollocks.

So what's new, you might think. Well, apart from the fact that I've stopped drinking for most of September and so this is a strictly virtual world event.

I'm over with the charming Oleander Plume today, who is plying me with (virtual) beer until I spill all my dirty secrets. It's getting messy, I can tell you. I think we should have stuck to the tea and petit fours.

Guest - Oleander Plume

I have the fantabulous Oleander Plume visiting today, talking about her first foray into writing erotica. She's my book-fellow in The Women Who Love to Love Gay Romance. Her story is both sexy and funny and uses the amazing phrase: 'Oh, holy sweet shit on a cracker.' Here she is:

I used to write erotica with the door locked and the shades drawn. Sure, I tell various friends and family members that I 'write', but I never give details. The only one that I let in on my little secret is my husband. How I broke the news to him is kind of a funny story. It went something like this:

Me: Um, you know I've been writing a lot more lately.

Him (he was staring at a football game on ESPN): Yeah, I know, the laundry is really piling up.

Me: Well, I have a short story I'd really like you to read.

Him (still staring at TV): Okay, yeah, sure.

Me: It's different from my usual stuff, um, it's dirty.

His head jerked my direction so fast I thought he was going to have whiplash.

Him: Huh?

Me: Yeah. I'm writing smut now, it's what I do.

Him (wearing a large grin): Can I read it now? (he grabbed for my laptop)

Me: Fine, but don't laugh at me. And don't judge me. And don't tell anybody.

Him: Shh, reading.

I sat next to him on the couch, wringing my hands and turning five different shades of red. He started sweating, and shifting in his seat.

Him: Holy shit.

Me: Do you hate it? Oh, crap, I should have never let you...

Him: Shh, reading.

Occasionally he would glance at me with a stunned expression on his face. I need to mention, he's a slow reader, so watching him read is like watching paint dry. Finally, he got to the end. He sort of nodded, then looked at me.

Him (shrugs): It's good.

Me: It's good? That's all you have to say? You're really saying you hated it, right?

Him (he gave me a glare, then lifted the laptop): Does it look like I hated it?

Me: Oh. OHHHHHHHHHH!

Incidentally, that story went on to win a contest. Consequently, I use him as my barometer before I send anything out. It's a body part that never lies.

*****

Thanks for visiting, Oleander! You can get your hands on a copy of The Women Who Love to Love Gay Romance at  Amazon.com, Amazon UK, All Romance and Smashwords.

And you can find Oleander blogging at oleanderplume.blogspot.co.uk and tweeting @OleanderPlume.
And you can comment to tell me how to get rid of the damn white background, should you so wish.

Pretty picture

Seems I'm all about the pictures lately. You might call it lazy, and I wouldn't be offended, but I'm going to call it that pesky thing known as real life.

I've only recently started to explore Tumblr. I know, I'm decades behind the times. But this is my favourite picture so far. It's by Creative Intoxication on Deviant Art.

Writer's retreat

In lieu of words, I give you my idea of the perfect writer's hut. This one's on the Faroe Islands, picture by Marie Mathilde Fogh. Get more inspiration for your fantasy retreat at cabinporn.com: