A couple of days ago, I reviewed Kristina Lloyd’s wonderful “5p.m. Somewhere” as part of Alison Tyler’s circle of love – authors reviewing authors.
Now, the lusciously literate Jeremy Edwards has reviewed my story in “Morning, Noon and Night”. I have to say that Alison’s introduction and Jeremy’s review have made me insufferable all day. Inane grinning and non stop good humor can really annoy people, especially if you don’t tell them why. Check out what Alison and Jeremy have to say. Yowsa! 🙂
When I receive a new erotica anthology, the first thing I do is check the table of contents. Mainly it’s to check that I’m really there (after eleven years and over seventy stories I still can’t quite believe it), but after that it’s to check who else is there. Writers that I’ve come to love over the years or the newer writer whose story I adored in a previous anthology. And although I always read the stories in order, I have a sort of mental list: “Ooooh, story by A. coming up next!” or “Clever title story by someone new to me soon”.
Kristina Lloyd is in the first category. Quite simply, I love her stories. So when Alison Tyler, editor of the upcoming “Morning, Noon and Night” called for writers with a story in the anthology to do a mini-review of another story, I jumped on Kristina. Well, not literally.
Kristina’s story “Five p.m. Somewhere” is everything I love about erotica. It’s smart, it’s clever, it’s original, it shows the imperfections and the people behind the tab A into slot B, and it’s hot.
Kristina’s story is about a couple who celebrate their wedding anniversaries by recreating the cocktails they drank on their first date: whisky sour for him, dirty martini for her. Only problem is that Brynn forgot the gin. And they’re snowed in miles from the nearest grog shop. Kristina’s character gets pissy. She sulks, she takes a bath, and that’s when Brynn shows his creative side
One thing I love about this story is the reality of it. Erotica can be, well, somewhat fantastical at times (and there’s nothing wrong with that, says the writer who once wrote about a couple having sex on the wing of a biplane). But the stories that touch me most, the memorable ones, the slice of life ones. Real people. Real situations. Real sex. Real hot sex. Kristina has nailed all of these. I love the way she works the little details so skillfully in the writing: Brynn’s hair wonky with static. The feel of a rough towel on tender places. Of a 69 with someone, not for the first time but the 1,000th. Kristina’s writing flows with a natural fluency that is so easy to read, so easy to get carried along in the story.
I’m not going to give away the details of Kristina’s story, but I defy any reader not to love Brynn’s solution to the no gin problem.
I’d like to borrow Brynn. My cocktail of choice is a Harvey Wallbanger.
Marriage ain’t what it used to be. And thank zod for that!
Personally, I have never felt the need or the urge for marriage. Like oysters, it’s something that other people enjoy. Marriage used to be cozy and vanilla and inextricably tied to the white picket fence and 2.2 snotty nosed children – and hey, I like my yards unfenced and children taste worse than oysters.
However, Alison Tyler’s new anthology, “With This Ring, I Thee Bed” is everything I do like about modern marriage: unconventional marriages of all sorts. Gay marriage. Poly marriage. And above all, smokin’ hot marriage.
So given my general unconcern about traditional marriage, it’s strange that my contribution to “With This Ring, I Thee Bed” does include a highly traditional young, squeaky clean heterosexual couple tying the knot. But my story isn’t really about them, it’s about the bride’s parents, Jonas and Penny, free-spirited hippies, living their own unconventional unmarried life and wondering in quiet bewilderment how they produced such a conventional daughter.
Even though Jonas and Penny never had a legal wedding, their love is enduring and true, solid as mahogany and yes, highly sexual.
I think that most people hope, when they marry, that their marriage will last, that they won’t become another divorce statistic. That they’ll be the snowy-haired couple rocking contentedly on the porch together. And that love and togetherness is something I do aspire to.
Here’s an excerpt from my story, “Mother of the Bride”.
As the younger people settled back in for another round of drinking and dancing, I slipped my hand into Jonas’. “Think we can leave now?”
He hummed in affirmation, and together we slipped out the door of the ballroom, down the long anonymous corridors of the hotel, up to our room on the third floor. The lights were off when we opened the door, but I’d left the drapes partially open. When I turned on the light, I saw the bouquet of flowers on the bed. Skye’s bridal bouquet. I picked it up, and turned it over in my hands. The only tradition she’d omitted was throwing her bouquet. Now I knew why.
Her note was simple and to the point. “Because I love you, and because you loved me enough to give me the wedding I wanted, not the one you wanted for me.”
Tears pricked at my eyes, and I handed the note to Jonas. “Obviously, we didn’t hide our feelings too well.”
“I doubt we could have kept them from her. She’s very astute.”
Carefully I set the bouquet on the bedside table and reached for my partner again.
His hands moved to the top button of my despised lilac and gray dress. Working swiftly, he slipped the buttons, pushing aside the cloth, moving it down my arms until I stood there in my simple cotton bra. Bending, he set his mouth to my nipple, warming it through the fabric. The dress pooled around my waist.
In a glissade of motion, we moved to the bed, dropping our clothes as we went. We’d moved like this a thousand times before. We knew each other so well. No need for a slow striptease that night, no need for the ritual undressing of each other. This time was all about us, and a celebration of our life together. And a celebration of Skye too; our daughter, made in love who today was leaving us for her own love and life.
We lay on the bed, facing each other. I stroked the long gray strands of his hair, reaching behind to release his ponytail, combing out his hair until it flowed free over his shoulders.
He growled at me, biting my nipple playfully. “I should let you be. Maybe I’ll go and have a drink at the bar. A fine bourbon… some good company…”
“You wouldn’t dare,” I said, and wound my fingers tightly into his hair, tugging as he tongued my breast.
I treasured these moments, lying together in bed. Whether it was the afterglow, or a slow buildup to intimacy — the warmth and the loving were the same. Even when we didn’t make love — when he couldn’t or I wasn’t interested — we still held each other, and stroked and played and cavorted like puppies, softly warm and playfully tender.
I haven’t received my contributor’s copies yet (a tiny woe of a peripatetic lifestyle) but I’m greatly looking forward to reading.
“With This Ring, I Thee Bed” edited by Alison Tyler and published by Spice is out now.
More news: “North Star Dyke”, my Northern Irish story will be included in “Best Lesbian Love Stories” published by Alyson. Another Alison, the great Alison Tyler, will be including an excerpt from my story “White Rush” in her upcoming book “Never Have the Same Sex Twice”. I also have a tentative acceptance for another lesbian anthology, but I’ll hold my horses on that until it’s confirmed. Unfortunately, I didn’t make the cut for “Best Lesbian Erotica”. Next year, maybe!
Bad Cheyenne! Months without an update. Firstly, I have in my hands a slew of contributor’s copies. “Tales of Travelrotica for Lesbians Volume 2” edited by Simone Thorne contains my story “Carrowkeel”, which is the last story in the book. Rightly or wrongly, I always get a real kick out of being one of the first two or last two stories. Not that I’ve ever been the number one cab off the rank. Someday, maybe. Travelrotica has great stories from great authors. Don’t miss “In from the Cold” by Lynne Jamneck. Also edited by Simone Thorne is “Best Lesbian Love Stories: Summer Flings” which has my Colorado story, “Warm Hands”. Continue reading “Bad Cheyenne. No cookie.”→