Having a porntastic career

Not in the sense that you actually do any sex work. In the sense that you work in a highly fetishised career. I imagine nurses, firefighters, cops, doctors and others have some similar feelings, but I was a librarian.

And not just a ‘lady who works in the library’. I have glasses – black-rimmed plastic usually. I habitually wear my hair in a bun, so it doesn’t get caught under bag straps or yanked by children. I have a 50s sort of shape. I wear pencil skirts and cardigans and stockings in the cold. In short, I look like a librarian. To the point people think I’m being sarcastic when I describe what I do.

This can bring out some interesting things in people, mostly men. When you’re new, someone takes you aside and warns you about the creepers. The calls, that start out normal, and draw you in, and ask you to read out all of Nancy Friday’s titles for example, with requests to repeat them. The patrons who request books from the top shelf, or the bottom, and need your help. The ones who write you poetry (my body is no mere vessel, it is a chalice, according to one wordsmith).

I do not say this to brag (lest certain people are reading) but to explain the way I’ve been treated as a librarian, with a Masters degree, based on fetishes people have. Based on old scripts.

And I get it. A friend of mine has explained his own attraction to librarians (“I assume you’re smart, and if you’re hot too, and surrounded by books, and you’re funny, it’s just really really hot.”) and I get it. I read this and Jesus Christ do I get the appeal of the library. I write erotica specifically because I love the power of words who who wields that in a more overt and easily codified way than librarians (…maybe literature professors? Which is my other career?)?

But I also read that piece and think ‘oh man I have to clean up after that’ and ‘you might think you’re discreet but you aren’t’ and ‘other library fuckers are not so kind’. So it’s a fraught topic for me.

And like all fraught topics I’m gonna write myself some library porn. Look for an excerpt coming up soon.

Wednesday Work in Progress: Sharing

Dav nodded, his eyes on Tian. The other man was still smiling, crooked and wicked, tapping his fingers on his bent knee. Dav looked at them and swallowed hard; they glistened. Tian saw his glance and met his eyes once more, before dipping his fingers into his mouth. Dav made a strangled noise and Alina drew back, looking at him and then at Tian. A blush rose as she took in the tableau. Tian grinned around the fingers still in his mouth, then withdrew them with a lascivious noise.

“Tian!” Alina’s voice was strangled, but her hand was still around Dav’s waist. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Tian laughed, then rose to come and stand close to her, trapping her between the two men.

“Nothing, nothing at all.” He nibbled her neck and Dav felt her hand clutch at his shirt.

“Fuck. What are you doing?” Her voice was strained, but Tian simply turned her so he pressed against her back and pushed her against Dav’s bulk.

“No seriously, Tian, what the fuck man?” Dav’s voice was harsh, but he didn’t move away from Alina’s softness. “This is not cool.”

Tian looked up; he was the same height as Alina, both of them a few inches shorter than Dav.

“You can leave if you want. Or you can watch. Or you can join in.”

(I have such a thing for squishy dudes.)

Condoms and BDSM::safe sex and SSC/RACK – responsibilities of writing erotica

I’ve been thinking about this for a few days.

I was a librarian when Fifty Shades of Grey hit big time. Latex gloves on check in, constantly updating paperback stocks, my assistant coming in wide-eyed and shellshocked because her mother took her copy and told the poor girl that “oh me and your dad are reading it together”. It was a good time in the library, we had lots of discussions about the role of porn in the collection, about censorship, about young people’s access to sexually explicit material (that wasn’t contravened by law) and so on.

I kept my views on the realism of the BDSM to myself. Apart from any issues around disclosure and my job (the children’s librarian talking about BDSM does some things to people), I hadn’t read it, didn’t want to deal. Plus, y’know, I’ve read some shit. Not just erotica, but fanfic and online erotica and I’ve spent a lot of time talking and researching the way people use literature and writing to explore and expose issues. So unsafe, dumbass, ridiculous BDSM is something pretty damn common in my reading-of-erotic-stuff experience.

I’m not entirely sure why it is I have more of a problem with unsafe sex than with unsafe BDSM being represented in erotica. I think part of it is experience, in that unsafe BDSM practices aren’t always ‘unsafe’ – established long-term partnerships tend to have a connection that changes how certain kinks are practiced, and the experience of both partners makes a difference (someone with years of rope experience can gauge and understand knots better than someone who might have watched a few videos). It doesn’t technically change all that much of the risk – breathplay for example doesn’t really change according to experience – but there is a difference. Fucking without a condom, without a discussion/understanding about pregnancy and STD just doesn’t get the same leeway from me.

So I’ve been thinking about it all a fair bit, reading what other authors think about condoms in their work, but also the reactions to Fifty Shades of Grey. About the elided spaces between realistic and real, the norm and the normal. Unsafe sex, unsafe BDSM, are actually normal – in the sense they are common and regular – but aren’t ideal. Particularly I think for BDSM, where there’s an enormous cultural imperative to emphasise safety. And condomless unsafe sex gets a bit of the ‘not me (except when I make a mistake, not like those other habitually unsafe people)’ treatment.

But what does it all come down to for me? That I’m happy writing barely negotiated, or unnegotiated, scenes but I can’t write a scene without a condom in a mileu that I expect one? That I write condom use with genital-genital contact but not other penetrations/fluid swaps? Because those things are certainly true. There’s a division in my head that isn’t necessarily a fair one. But it is there, and I am thinking about it.

Wednesday Work in Progress: Pestle

I nodded, and pelted for the shower. I scrubbed myself clean, pushing my fingers into my slick cunt, into my ass. When I was clean, I got out and dried off then walked naked into the bedroom. He’d laid down our nicely absorbent blanket and I knew I was in for it. All our toys, the nice bit of cord I’d scored on sale at the fabric store, the chopsticks and clips and clamps and lube. And him. He still had the dark slacks on, the white shirt, he’d worn to the party but he’d taken off his shoes and socks and untied his tie. The dark flesh of his skin contrasted with the shirt, and the tie made his eyes look stormy grey. His beard was trimmed close, and hairs curled on his toes. I breathed deep and he smiled.

“God, you’re so fucking gorgeous.” He ran his fingers from my throat to my left nipple, then stroking over to my right breast. “You’re flushed, all the way down.”

“Please don’t make me wait, please.”

“Oh no, don’t start begging yet honey, not yet. We haven’t even started yet and you’re already wet and begging?”

(improvised sex toys ftw. Sort of. This has stalled a little but I still like it.)

disparate inspirations

  • getting a thorough patdown at a European airport, standing atop a box while a white haired gentleman (ha!) squeezes along my limbs, stroking up and down over my body but it isn’t until he grabs my waist, a direct mimic of that motion that precedes a thorough fucking from behind, that I begin to blush
  • trying to explain to a friend that weight is not a turn off, realising I cannot put into words the desire to rub my face against the curve and juncture of someone’s belly before pleasuring them with my mouth without going from ‘conversation’ to ‘dirty talk’
  • fucking in the summer sweat and humidity, rain and thunder and lightning putting me on edge
  • my lover’s tongue in my mouth and his hand in my hair pulling me up with the taste of his cock still on mine
  • seeing a woman with her hands on the tools in her belt, a twist of humour on her lips
  • drops of water in dark salt and pepper hair
  • the dark, terrible, curl of the word ‘whore’ said with a soft accent
  • the interminable, undefinable, what if

Wednesday Work in Progress: untitled

Jack looked up at Paz. Her dress was form-fitting, black, the zip long and still undone beneath her lace covered ass.

“Can you zip me up?” She walked over and turned, presenting her ass and wriggling it. She paused. “Your webcam is off, right?”

Jack snickered. “It is, I was just chatting with Peter. About you actually.” He let his hands rest on her hips, not touching the zip. “I think he’s a little bit in love with you.”

He could see the blush begin, low on the pale flesh of her back. He trailed one finger along her spine and laughed.

“You wear your thoughts on your skin. You like that idea, don’t you?”

Paz nodded hesitantly.

Jack grinned. “I’m just gonna turn the cam on, in that case. Show him what he’s missing.”

Paz’s dark eyes met his, her eyebrow cocked. “Just how far should we go?”

“As far as it needs to.”

(I like using technology in my contemporaries. There are so many interesting ways tech can be used in sex, and relationships, and it’s not all teledildonics and vibrators linked to your iphone – like sex always has been, it’s about the connections and how you make them)

Behind Automatic Transmission

Oh, Automatic Transmission, so very close to my heart. Firstly, it is with Violet. Fucking. Blue. in Best Women’s Erotica 2015. Oh god, that was one of those fannish moments where my brain shorts out for a little while. Violet Blue. Jesus.


Automatic Transmission has its roots in a few things:

  • the gamer who was casting and forgot and loaded up some porn and started masturbating so people not only could see him take himself in hand, but also what he was doing it to;
  • my own indecent level of interest in men’s hands on their cocks;
  • stupid shitty apps and websites with godawful privacy;
  • the amount of times people have forgotten to mute their microphone while having intimate conversations with their partners while the rest of us in the game listen and pretend not to.

So those four things gave rise to another story sans ‘proper fucking’ but replete with the power differentials that I adore. There are a few reviews out, Amos Lassen for one, and some from fellow writers like Tamsin Flowers, Malin James

Also. Violet Blue. *faints dead away*

Wedesday Works in Progress: gothic

Then I opened the door. In the flickering light of the fire and the candles I walked, my head and feet bare, into the pews. Before the altar the you and the Doctor both kneeled, shoulders almost brushing. The Doctor wore the same kind of robes as I, homespun and dull. But his hair, his hair it was drying to an auburn sheen and his eyes were as green as the water in the bays. I could hear the roar of the waves, can hear it now as I write, with the howling of the winds and the rumble of thunder. His head was bowed and his hands clasped. You echoed his pose and I watched you both for a moment, feeling a smile pulling at the edges of my mouth.

You were perfect. Ripe for ruin.

I could somehow feel the moon overhead, heavy and full beyond the clouds. I walked into the room with the power of it wrapped around me, Lucifer’s hands heavy on my shoulders.

I would lead you into temptation, as surely as the Devil led me.

(this is a behemoth out of proportion, and filthy, and blasphemous to the extreme. Utterly ridiculous and so much bloody fun to write!)