Apr 242014
 
Originally Posted on www.AntoniaCrane.com  
images-3As usual, I drifted off to the True Crime channel at 3a.m. after stripping for 13 hours straight then L and I slept in a double bed in the Motel 6 off Highway 111 to save some dough. L sleeps exactly like me; I don’t even hear her breathe. She’s stiff and still and silent. We are like a couple of bruised dead dolls slathered with anti-aging eye cream, fantasizing about stalkers and sociopaths teeming in the parking lot below us, after our purses stuffed with stripper bills. But for once, that Motel 6 was quiet.

Our room was hot and stuffy in the morning and the door was stuck, so I used the wall for leverage and pulled hard. Outside, snow-capped mountains towered against a pristine blue sky. Palm trees lined a packed parking lot. I thought I recognized a customer from the club the night before, walking his dog on the lawn. He called me “Humboldt” all night then in a drunken stupor, asked me to be his Valentine.

Stripping has never flattered my real romantic relationships. It makes them look like fat neglect machines, poking holes in my pincushion heart. While guys in strip clubs shower me with easy, unconditional adoration, my real relationships are tense and difficult. Lately, I’ve been filling up my empty wallet and my emotional well with knee-jerk marriage proposals from strangers. I’m not saying it’s right, but I’m grateful to have found Desert Showgirls; at least, my ego is.

L is my stripper spirit guide. She knows where to go and I listen, pack my survival kit and hit the trail. Years ago, she swore by New Orleans, so after a bloody Mongol fist fight broke out at an Italian restaurant (that also illegally allowed us to strip) near Pasadena, I borrowed $200 for a one-way plane ticket and spent the next three years falling madly in love with NOLA and the clubs that embraced me there. Ever since then, I follow L’s lead. The best place to strip in LA is not in LA at all but near Palm Springs in a nondescript strip mall. Desert Showgirls is the Snickers Bar of strip clubs: Generic and dark on the outside, creamy gold mine on the inside. And like most places of ill repute, it’s near an adult video store and shares a parking lot with a suspiciously vacant cigar shop and a very good Mexican restaurant that keeps unpredictable hours.

A strip dancer performs for customers at the Mons Venus strip club in Tampa

Unlike San Francisco, dancing in LA has always sucked. After dropping the drunken girls off at their overpriced apartments in Hollywood, I wondered why I didn’t go put on a skirt and wait tables at Swingers instead. Actually, I knew why. I’m a terrible waitress, but a great stripper. The two jobs are similar but different. Both jobs require being nice to rude, demanding people and having superb listening skills. But, I have no instinct for that perfect balance of timing and attention to detail when it comes to serving food. However, I am acutely aware of other hungers: the desire to be desired and the need to be heard. And In twenty years of stripping, I’ve always been a night girl, never a day shift girl, but now I see the benefit of being the one girl on the floor at noon. Day shift guys are different. They seem sadder, sneaky and more stoned which can attract a strange breed of clientele, like Jerry, the man who cried while I gave him a lap dance.

No matter what time of day, strip clubs invite a heightened sense of suffering and affection, kind of like kissing the hand of someone dying; meeting their suffering head on and dancing with it, like last Saturday, when Jerry cried during our lap dance.

In issue #441 of The Sun, Janna Malamud Smith recalls psychoanalyst Jonathan Lear’s belief that we are “finite erotic creatures.” Meaning, we dangle on a tight rope between our “expansive desire and our inevitable death.” We Strippers shimmy to that tune. We experience the world through erotic movement and connection and that movement is towards our death.

Antonia AcraneAn older dude in a bright red sweatshirt kept calling me “honey.” He followed me around the empty club, so I had to deal with him.
It was about 4p.m. and he was shitfaced.
“Honey,” he growled. “I’m sixty-four years old. I’ve been to clubs all over the world. I saw Jim Morrison perform in public for the first time.”

“Oh yeah? Where was that?”

“The Rainbow Room. He was scared.”

“Scared of what?”

“Performing in public. What’s the matter, Honey. You too cool to dance for me?”

“I’m about to go on stage right now,” I lied. “You like Pink Floyd? Led Zeppelin or the Stones?”

“Oh, Miss Attitude is too cool, huh.”

A petite brunette finally joined me on the floor. I told her Jerry was looking to spend some money. She refused to talk to him. He stunk. He was rude. He was shitfaced.

“I’ll dance for him, so he’ll leave,” I said and pulled him into the VIP area, slightly worried he didn’t have enough cash on him to pay me.

He grabbed my hands when I took his glasses off his head.
“What is wrong with you?” I whispered, my mouth brushed his ear.

“I love women. Been married four times and they always leave me.”

“Why is that?” I asked.

“I cheat. I get bored. I hate women.” Tears streamed down both of his cheeks.

I kept dancing and he kept crying. At the end of the song I said, “I’m not taking any more of your money, Jerry.”

“Keep dancing,” he said, still crying.

“Fuck you, Jerry. Go smoke.” I snatched his cigarettes, phone and his cocktail, his headphones and his wallet.

“Listen honey.”

“Get up. We’re going.” He over tipped me by fifty bucks and I walked towards the door where guys could duck outside and smoke.

The bouncer walked up to us. “Your cab’s here sir.” I kissed Jerry good bye on his wet cheek.

imagesAntonia Crane’s work has appeared in: The Rumpus, Salon.com, DAME Magazine, Black Clock, SLAKE, Word RiotPANK, The Whistling Fire, The Coachella Review, Phantom Seed, Smith Magazine, Diverse Voices Quarterly and lots of other places. She holds an MFA in Fiction from Antioch University. She wrote a memoir about the sex industry and her mother’s illness: SPENT and is one of the editors of The Citron Review. She teaches Creative Writing to at-risk teens for Write Girl and Woodcraft Rangers. She lives in Los Angeles where she runs, tweets and blogs.  Check her out on … Twitter: @AntoniaCrane  Web: www.AntoniaCrane.com

Nov 122013
 
Rachel Kramer Bussel shows of her latest anthology, The Big Book of Orgasms.

What do cupcakes, Hello Kitty and sex have in common? The answer is best- selling erotica writer, editor and anthologist Rachel Kramer Bussel. Aside from being a talented and accomplished erotica writer in her own right, one is immediately attracted to her girly sense of whimsy, fawning over cupcakes and Hello Kitty anything, to her keen sense of the carnal and concupiscent. It’s this sexy and charming juxtaposition that makes Rachel  and her work so alluring.

17465824

WIN a copy of The Big Book of Orgasms from Cleis press!
CLICK THE BOOK ABOVE!

Her latest (and some say greatest) anthology The Big Book of Orgasms: 69 Sexy Stories (available in paperback and Kindle from Cleis Press) was just released this month. Not even half way through November and The Big Book of Orgasms has already  been able to glean enthusiastic reviews from readers and reviewers alike. This accomplishment has made me extra enthusiastic because I am lucky enough to have written one of those 69 Sexy Stories. You can read an excerpt from my true tale HERE. Perhaps the best part of this new anthology is it’s bite size portions of scream worthy stories (no more than 1200 words each) that make your entire body pulsate and sing.

There are some super-stars of erotica between those covers including: Emerald, Tess Danesi, Stella Harris and Rachel Kramer Bussel herself as well as some newbies (like myself). The Big Book of Orgasms is 351 pages tightly packed into a snug 7″ x 5″ paperback package you can carry in your pocketbook, perhaps fodder for 69 of your own sexy orgasms.

I asked Rachel to give me a list of her five favorite sex toys and a lube. Since one of her favorite sex toys IS lube, I decided to leave it at that. It’s an eclectic and sexy mix. Would you expect anything else from the Empress of Erotica?

RACHEL KRAMER BUSSEL’S FIVE FAVORITE SEX TOYS:

Hitachi Magic Wand – my favorite, must have, go to vibrator. I use it to get off and to relax and also sometimes for back pain.

Tantus Pelt Paddle – though really all their silicon paddles pack a wonderful punch. I can’t take them all the time but when I get spanked with them it’s a special treat.

Crave Droplet Necklace – I love anything that I can multitask with, and this necklace is beautiful, makes me feel a little naughty when I wear it since I know I’m wearing something that can vibrate, and makes me feel like I can whip it off at any time and put it to good use. I also like that it’s small but strong.

Juliette Cuffs de Luxe – I’m a sucker for silk, and these feel and look amazing.

BabeLube by Babeland Lube! Last but not least, lube is the sex toy I use the most often and for the most variety of sexual activities. Main one I use is BabeLube, I’m not tied to it but like the pump bottle.

 WIN A COPY OF THE BIG BOOK OF ORGASM FROM

SMUT FOR SMARTIES AND CLEIS PRESS!

ENTER HERE!!!!

 

magic-wand

Hitachi Magic Wand

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Tantus Pelt Paddle

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CRAVE Droplet Necklace

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Juliette Cuffs De Luxe

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BabeLube

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rachel Kramer Bussel:

Rachel Kramer Bussel is a New York-based author, editor, blogger and event organizer. She has written for numerous publications, including Alternative Press, CNN.com, The Daily Beast, The Frisky, Gothamist, The Hairpin, Huffington Post, Inked, Jezebel, Lemondrop, Mediabistro, The Nervous Breakdown, New York Post, New York Observer, New York Press, Playgirl, The Root, Salon, San Francisco Chronicle, Time Out New York, The Village Voice, xoJane and Zink. She has edited 40+ anthologies for Alyson Books, Avon Red, Cleis Press, Pretty Things Press, Ravenous Romance and Seal Press, including Anything for You: Erotica for Kinky Couples, Suite Encounters: Hotel Sex Stories, Going Down, Irresistible, Women in Lust, Orgasmic, Fast Girls, Passion, Obsessed, Bottoms Up, Spanked, Tasting Him, Tasting Her, Gotta Have It, The Mile High Club, Do Not Disturb: Hotel Sex Stories, Best Bondage Erotica 2011 and 2012, Best Sex Writing 2008, 2009, 2010 and 2012, and 6 of her anthologies have won Gold IPPY (Independent Publisher) Awards for Erotica and Sexuality/Relationships. She has contributed to over 100 anthologies, including Susie Bright’s Best American Erotica 2004 and 2006 and X: The Erotic Treasury, as well as The Sexual State of the Union and Yes Means Yes.

Rachel conducts reading and erotic writing workshops worldwide, and including Chicago, Las Vegas, London, Minneapolis, New York, Portland, San Francisco, Seattle, and Toronto. She has presented, spoken and taught at conferences including Dark Odyssey, Erotic Authors Association, Sex 2.0, and SXSW. For five years, she hosted In The Flesh Erotic Reading Series in New York City, which featured 300 readers, including Kevin Allison, Jonathan Ames, Laura Antoniou, Mo Beasley, Susie Bright, Lily Burana, Kerry Cohen, Jessica Cutler, Mike Daisey, Mike Edison, Stephen Elliott, Polly Frost, Gael Greene, HoneyB (Mary Morrison), Debra Hyde, Maxim Jakubowski, Diana Joseph, Jillian Lauren, Neal Medlyn, Scott Poulson-Bryant, Julie Powell, Josh Kilmer-Purcell, M.J. Rose, Susan Shapiro, Danyel Smith, Grant Stoddard, Cecilia Tan, Carol Taylor, Jo Weldon, Susan Wright, and Zane, among others. Rachel holds a bachelor’s degree in political science and women’s studies from the University of California at Berkeley.

 

May 192013
 
bella-key1m

Maddie sunk into the deep feathertop of the full sized guest bed. The rhythmic push and pull of the surf lulled her into a state between sleep and wakefulness. Slipping into an exquisite dream, she lay on a beach blanket, the sun beating down on her back as she grabbed a fistful of sand and let it slip from her fingers. Warm liquid drizzled along her shoulder blades and down her spine. Her muscles relaxed under strong but soft and delicate hands massaging the oily substance evenly over the planes of her back. Her nerve endings stood on end as she gathered her hair into one hand. The pads of fingertips circled the base of her exposed neck, before traveling over her shoulders. Maddie sighed as the same talented hands continued down her spine, applying pressure to her lower back and pushing her pelvis into the warm sand. Heat surrounded her mound while her bikini bottoms slid down inch by inch until the sun kissed the bare skin of her ass cheeks. She tried to pick her head up to discover the owner of such wonderful hands but her heavy head and eyelids wouldn’t cooperate. She gave up without a fight and settled in to enjoy the erotic massage. More oil drizzled over her newly exposed skin and her bottoms were swiftly whisked down her legs. Warm skin nudged her thighs apart while administering circular patterns over her ass. The hands were familiar but not large and calloused as those of most men she’d been with. They were delicate with smooth fingernails, which raked over her sensitized flesh. She moaned louder when those fingers slid down her ass to her desire-swollen nether lips.

“Please…yes…”

The words weren’t from her lips. Maddie held her breath. More muffled moans combined with the crashing surf put her body on alert. But she also recognized another sound – a softly grinding motor. Maddie sat up and perked her ears. Her heartbeat pounded in her chest as she realized Sunny’s breathy moans filled her ears.

“Mmm…yes…”

Maddie slid out of her bed and crept to the partially ajar door. The floorboards creaked and she froze. Sunny’s moans stopped for a moment before resuming with a flurry of audible breaths. Maddie’s curiosity got the best of her and she slinked into the hall, the call of Sunny’s passion beckoning her like a moth to a flame. The hallway was dark but a sliver of moonlight shining through Sunny’s door offered enough light for Maddie to view Sunny on her knees. One hand gripped a post of the headboard, the other held a pink device at the apex of her thighs. Maddie retreated a step as Sunny threw her head back. But she couldn’t return to her room. She couldn’t look away from Sunny’s raven hair caressing the crease where her hips met her smooth waist. Maddie yearned to trace her fingers along the woman’s curves. She leaned against the wall outside of the woman’s room and slid into a crouch. Cupping her panty-covered mound in her palm, she rubbed circles around her outer lips over the fabric in unison to Sunny’s moans. The purr of Sunny’s vibrator changed from a steady hum to quick short revs. Maddie bit her lower lip so as to not allow an audible moan to escape her lips, as she slid her hand inside her panties. She closed her eyes and imagined that Sunny’s moans and cries were coaxed by Maddie’s own touch instead of a powerful vibrator. Spreading her legs further apart, Maddie’s fingers mimicked the rhythm of Sunny’s device. Sunny’s grip on the headboard tightened and she called out Maddie’s name. For a fleeting moment, Maddie considered making her presence known. But instead she stayed in the shadows and her own climax soon followed. Shocked at what she witnessed and the arousing effects it had on her, she slowly crept to her room. It wasn’t her first experience getting aroused by another woman but it was the first time she was close to acting on her desire.

copyright © 2013 Scarlet Chastain

bella-key1m

For more steamy, erotic encounters between Sunny and Maddie, check out Scarlet Chastain’s new book “Bella Key” available on www.ScarletChastain.com / Evernight Publishing / Amazon US / Amazon UK / AllRomance eBooks / BookStrand

DESCRIPTION:

Maddie Jacobs must be crazy. At least that’s what her mother thinks. Professionally, she’s confident and secure; personally, she’s a hot mess. Not even a marriage proposal from a man who adores her can quell her search for something more.

In need of an escape, Maddie flees to Key West’s most southern island, Bella Key, to rest and recharge at Casa Bonita. She almost gives up on weekend retreat when the Bed & Breakfast is closed for repairs until Sunny Rojas, the inn owner, extends an offer of friendship, sweet tea and a room. Still reeling from a breakup with her longtime partner, Sunny is thankful for the diversion from her own broken heart.

The arrival of a fierce storm forces the women’s emotional journey to a head and leads them into each other’s arms. But can Maddie throw her hangups to the wind and go with her heart? The magic of Bella Key teaches her that passion cannot be placed neatly into boxes labeled right and wrong, because love knows no boundaries.

AUTHOR BIO:

Scarlet Chastain is the semi-secret pseudonym of a multi-published, best selling author of sensual erotic romance. Scarlet’s focus is female-centric sizzling stories written about women, for women.

She lives in the suburban shadows of New York City but her heart belongs to the beaches of Key West. Scarlet can usually be found in her favorite chair of her newly acquired writing cave with her maltipoo, Coco.

Stalk Scarlet here:

Website: http://scarletchastain.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Scarlet-Chastain/524838890901873

Twitter: @scarletchastain

Email: scarletchastain@gmail.com

 

 

May 192013
 
bella-key1m

Maddie sunk into the deep feathertop of the full sized guest bed. The rhythmic push and pull of the surf lulled her into a state between sleep and wakefulness. Slipping into an exquisite dream, she lay on a beach blanket, the sun beating down on her back as she grabbed a fistful of sand and let it slip from her fingers. Warm liquid drizzled along her shoulder blades and down her spine. Her muscles relaxed under strong but soft and delicate hands massaging the oily substance evenly over the planes of her back. Her nerve endings stood on end as she gathered her hair into one hand. The pads of fingertips circled the base of her exposed neck, before traveling over her shoulders. Maddie sighed as the same talented hands continued down her spine, applying pressure to her lower back and pushing her pelvis into the warm sand. Heat surrounded her mound while her bikini bottoms slid down inch by inch until the sun kissed the bare skin of her ass cheeks. She tried to pick her head up to discover the owner of such wonderful hands but her heavy head and eyelids wouldn’t cooperate. She gave up without a fight and settled in to enjoy the erotic massage. More oil drizzled over her newly exposed skin and her bottoms were swiftly whisked down her legs. Warm skin nudged her thighs apart while administering circular patterns over her ass. The hands were familiar but not large and calloused as those of most men she’d been with. They were delicate with smooth fingernails, which raked over her sensitized flesh. She moaned louder when those fingers slid down her ass to her desire-swollen nether lips.

“Please…yes…”

The words weren’t from her lips. Maddie held her breath. More muffled moans combined with the crashing surf put her body on alert. But she also recognized another sound – a softly grinding motor. Maddie sat up and perked her ears. Her heartbeat pounded in her chest as she realized Sunny’s breathy moans filled her ears.

“Mmm…yes…”

Maddie slid out of her bed and crept to the partially ajar door. The floorboards creaked and she froze. Sunny’s moans stopped for a moment before resuming with a flurry of audible breaths. Maddie’s curiosity got the best of her and she slinked into the hall, the call of Sunny’s passion beckoning her like a moth to a flame. The hallway was dark but a sliver of moonlight shining through Sunny’s door offered enough light for Maddie to view Sunny on her knees. One hand gripped a post of the headboard, the other held a pink device at the apex of her thighs. Maddie retreated a step as Sunny threw her head back. But she couldn’t return to her room. She couldn’t look away from Sunny’s raven hair caressing the crease where her hips met her smooth waist. Maddie yearned to trace her fingers along the woman’s curves. She leaned against the wall outside of the woman’s room and slid into a crouch. Cupping her panty-covered mound in her palm, she rubbed circles around her outer lips over the fabric in unison to Sunny’s moans. The purr of Sunny’s vibrator changed from a steady hum to quick short revs. Maddie bit her lower lip so as to not allow an audible moan to escape her lips, as she slid her hand inside her panties. She closed her eyes and imagined that Sunny’s moans and cries were coaxed by Maddie’s own touch instead of a powerful vibrator. Spreading her legs further apart, Maddie’s fingers mimicked the rhythm of Sunny’s device. Sunny’s grip on the headboard tightened and she called out Maddie’s name. For a fleeting moment, Maddie considered making her presence known. But instead she stayed in the shadows and her own climax soon followed. Shocked at what she witnessed and the arousing effects it had on her, she slowly crept to her room. It wasn’t her first experience getting aroused by another woman but it was the first time she was close to acting on her desire.

copyright © 2013 Scarlet Chastain

bella-key1m

For more steamy, erotic encounters between Sunny and Maddie, check out Scarlet Chastain’s new book “Bella Key” available on www.ScarletChastain.com / Evernight Publishing / Amazon US / Amazon UK / AllRomance eBooks / BookStrand

DESCRIPTION:

Maddie Jacobs must be crazy. At least that’s what her mother thinks. Professionally, she’s confident and secure; personally, she’s a hot mess. Not even a marriage proposal from a man who adores her can quell her search for something more.

In need of an escape, Maddie flees to Key West’s most southern island, Bella Key, to rest and recharge at Casa Bonita. She almost gives up on weekend retreat when the Bed & Breakfast is closed for repairs until Sunny Rojas, the inn owner, extends an offer of friendship, sweet tea and a room. Still reeling from a breakup with her longtime partner, Sunny is thankful for the diversion from her own broken heart.

The arrival of a fierce storm forces the women’s emotional journey to a head and leads them into each other’s arms. But can Maddie throw her hangups to the wind and go with her heart? The magic of Bella Key teaches her that passion cannot be placed neatly into boxes labeled right and wrong, because love knows no boundaries.

AUTHOR BIO:

Scarlet Chastain is the semi-secret pseudonym of a multi-published, best selling author of sensual erotic romance. Scarlet’s focus is female-centric sizzling stories written about women, for women.

She lives in the suburban shadows of New York City but her heart belongs to the beaches of Key West. Scarlet can usually be found in her favorite chair of her newly acquired writing cave with her maltipoo, Coco.

Stalk Scarlet here:

Website: http://scarletchastain.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Scarlet-Chastain/524838890901873

Twitter: @scarletchastain

Email: scarletchastain@gmail.com

 

 

Apr 052013
 
Cheeky-480x640px

BY   Orginally appeared on TheRumpus.net   on  4/5/13

Tweet sex sites are a many splendored thing, opening doors to fluid identities that are both sexy and risk-free while erecting an emotional firewall to avoid real, personal rejection. My hackles go up whenever I think about technology replacing human touch, but when I met Lady Cheeky and heard her story of seeking and finding passion via tweet sex, I witnessed a brave new world where one woman’s sexuality was accessed in an accelerated way that involved wooing, teasing, and palpable passion.

“Lady Cheeky” is her Anglophile cybersex identity name, where she is a servant/vessel/wench. We met on the floor at Marilyn Friedman’s essay writing workshop, which I signed up for during a dark time. After dozens of agent rejections flooded my inbox for over a year, I longed to sit in a room with other writers again, hoping to inject my writing with joy by learning new literary tricks from veteran journalist, Taffy Brodesser-Akner. Our assignment was to tell the group what our essay was about and then say one more line declaring what our essay was “really” about.

Lady Cheeky’s wavy, Lucille Ball hair matched her bright red lips. Her curves punched out of her ’40s frock, as she told a hilarious topsy-turvy tale about role-playing on a True Blood-themed, Twitter-based direct message and tweet stream, which led her to start her smart and sexy websites where she met “Lord Byron,” hired a P.I. to check another lover out, and divorced her husband. She also overcame a rare sexual disorder; started a popular sensual images blog; began writing and publishing real-life erotica based on her new, passion-filled experiences; is in the process of working on a memoir; has a new story in Rachel Kramer Bussel’s upcoming erotica anthology, The Big Book of Orgasm; and is currently speaking about body image and sensuality, as well as integrative sensuality.

Lady Cheeky’s story beneath the story was flesh and bone ache deriving from a phantom limb that was pummeled awake by HBO’s True Blood series. I wanted to know more about how True Blood was the springboard to becoming a sexually actualized woman, capable and deserving of passion.

… To read the rest of the interview, CLICK HERE:logo-sm

Apr 052013
 
Cheeky-480x640px

BY   Orginally appeared on TheRumpus.net   on  4/5/13

Tweet sex sites are a many splendored thing, opening doors to fluid identities that are both sexy and risk-free while erecting an emotional firewall to avoid real, personal rejection. My hackles go up whenever I think about technology replacing human touch, but when I met Lady Cheeky and heard her story of seeking and finding passion via tweet sex, I witnessed a brave new world where one woman’s sexuality was accessed in an accelerated way that involved wooing, teasing, and palpable passion.

“Lady Cheeky” is her Anglophile cybersex identity name, where she is a servant/vessel/wench. We met on the floor at Marilyn Friedman’s essay writing workshop, which I signed up for during a dark time. After dozens of agent rejections flooded my inbox for over a year, I longed to sit in a room with other writers again, hoping to inject my writing with joy by learning new literary tricks from veteran journalist, Taffy Brodesser-Akner. Our assignment was to tell the group what our essay was about and then say one more line declaring what our essay was “really” about.

Lady Cheeky’s wavy, Lucille Ball hair matched her bright red lips. Her curves punched out of her ’40s frock, as she told a hilarious topsy-turvy tale about role-playing on a True Blood-themed, Twitter-based direct message and tweet stream, which led her to start her smart and sexy websites where she met “Lord Byron,” hired a P.I. to check another lover out, and divorced her husband. She also overcame a rare sexual disorder; started a popular sensual images blog; began writing and publishing real-life erotica based on her new, passion-filled experiences; is in the process of working on a memoir; has a new story in Rachel Kramer Bussel’s upcoming erotica anthology, The Big Book of Orgasm; and is currently speaking about body image and sensuality, as well as integrative sensuality.

Lady Cheeky’s story beneath the story was flesh and bone ache deriving from a phantom limb that was pummeled awake by HBO’s True Blood series. I wanted to know more about how True Blood was the springboard to becoming a sexually actualized woman, capable and deserving of passion.

… To read the rest of the interview, CLICK HERE:logo-sm

Apr 022013
 

In_the_Office_Cover “Can you hold my sweater for me?” she whispers. “It’s a bit warm in here.”

I hadn’t noticed the sweater. She arranges it on my lap. Then the penny drops.

“There,” she says. “Comfortable?”

“Very,” I whisper back. Am I reading this right? There is no other way. I can feel my heart start to pound as I see her slim hand slide under the covering.

“Allow me,” she whispers. She finds my zipper and tugs. I look around quickly to see if anyone has heard but all eyes and ears are focussed on the front.  Some bullshit presentation about avoiding your “triggers”. Too late for me. I help her as discreetly as I can, pulling up on the fly so she can unzip me. Jeans open, warm hand and long fingers reach into my boxer briefs and expertly circle my cock. She moves a bit to adjust her arm’s angle then squeezes. Squeezes oh-so-gently, and then waits. I don’t take my eyes from the screen.

And it begins, the tortuous grasp, her beautiful hand on my shaft stroking up and down slowly, achingly. Up to the head to rub and press just the right spot, then a quick subtle twist and back down. Her hand is lotioned with something floral and tantalizing. Not overpowering, just right. My cock is standing full at attention now and aching to be free of my jeans. There is no way we can do that, I realize. I glance quickly out the corner of my eye and see a soft smile on her beautiful face. She turns slightly to wink quickly before looking back to the screen. A dimple. A dimple in her beautiful face tells me she’s enjoying this. She crosses her legs and closes her eyes a moment. Oh yes, she’s enjoying this too. God I can’t wait to fuck her.

Her hand works faster, bringing me close to my breaking point. Up, down, twist, pressure under the tip of the head. She can’t reach inside my pants more so I can only imagine what it would be like to have her hand have free rein over my cock and balls. Pulling, squeezing, agonizing fluid motions, no hesitation as she works my dick and balls til I come all over her tits. Or ass. Anywhere.

alyssa_halford-CUBEAbout the Author: Alyssa Halford

A male-focused author.  Women may enjoy too, of course; but it seems men prefer.

I write erotica and romance, including light BDSM, public sex, and casual encounters. I do not write hardcore BDSM or torture. I err on the side of Eros, not Thanatos.

I’m a big fan of HEA and HFN, whenever I do write romance.

In my spare time I suffer greatly as an actuary, but manage to find time to take long hot bubble baths with my sexy, nubile girlfriends. We giggle, kiss, paddle each other’s bums and then I write about it.

I like koalas.

Facebook:    https://www.facebook.com/pages/Alyssa-Halford-Author

Twitter:      @AlyssaHalford

Site:    http://www.alyssahalford.com

Buy Links: http://www.alyssahalford.com/shoppe.html

Apr 022013
 

In_the_Office_Cover “Can you hold my sweater for me?” she whispers. “It’s a bit warm in here.”

I hadn’t noticed the sweater. She arranges it on my lap. Then the penny drops.

“There,” she says. “Comfortable?”

“Very,” I whisper back. Am I reading this right? There is no other way. I can feel my heart start to pound as I see her slim hand slide under the covering.

“Allow me,” she whispers. She finds my zipper and tugs. I look around quickly to see if anyone has heard but all eyes and ears are focussed on the front.  Some bullshit presentation about avoiding your “triggers”. Too late for me. I help her as discreetly as I can, pulling up on the fly so she can unzip me. Jeans open, warm hand and long fingers reach into my boxer briefs and expertly circle my cock. She moves a bit to adjust her arm’s angle then squeezes. Squeezes oh-so-gently, and then waits. I don’t take my eyes from the screen.

And it begins, the tortuous grasp, her beautiful hand on my shaft stroking up and down slowly, achingly. Up to the head to rub and press just the right spot, then a quick subtle twist and back down. Her hand is lotioned with something floral and tantalizing. Not overpowering, just right. My cock is standing full at attention now and aching to be free of my jeans. There is no way we can do that, I realize. I glance quickly out the corner of my eye and see a soft smile on her beautiful face. She turns slightly to wink quickly before looking back to the screen. A dimple. A dimple in her beautiful face tells me she’s enjoying this. She crosses her legs and closes her eyes a moment. Oh yes, she’s enjoying this too. God I can’t wait to fuck her.

Her hand works faster, bringing me close to my breaking point. Up, down, twist, pressure under the tip of the head. She can’t reach inside my pants more so I can only imagine what it would be like to have her hand have free rein over my cock and balls. Pulling, squeezing, agonizing fluid motions, no hesitation as she works my dick and balls til I come all over her tits. Or ass. Anywhere.

alyssa_halford-CUBEAbout the Author: Alyssa Halford

A male-focused author.  Women may enjoy too, of course; but it seems men prefer.

I write erotica and romance, including light BDSM, public sex, and casual encounters. I do not write hardcore BDSM or torture. I err on the side of Eros, not Thanatos.

I’m a big fan of HEA and HFN, whenever I do write romance.

In my spare time I suffer greatly as an actuary, but manage to find time to take long hot bubble baths with my sexy, nubile girlfriends. We giggle, kiss, paddle each other’s bums and then I write about it.

I like koalas.

Facebook:    https://www.facebook.com/pages/Alyssa-Halford-Author

Twitter:      @AlyssaHalford

Site:    http://www.alyssahalford.com

Buy Links: http://www.alyssahalford.com/shoppe.html

Feb 092013
 
TheFrisky
Photo: Mary Rozzi

Photo: Mary Rozzi

I shook my head recently when I read about New York Observer film critic, Rex Reed’s personal insult toward actress Melissa McCarthy.   In a review of her latest offering, Identity Thief  he called her “tractor-sized” and as big as a “hippo.”  Isn’t it interesting, I thought, that a man, who himself is part of a marginalized and often supressed segment of society wields his pejoratives so freely when directed toward another similarly ill-regarded community; the “un-thin” or “un-commercial.” The part of our population that still hides in a closet of self-hatred.   The part of our population, fearful that they won’t be accepted or seen for anything other than their physical appearance. You don’t have to be overweight to be part of our collective; you just have to have a self-loathing of some physical feature you feel you possess.  Surely, this is something that everyone can relate to at some point in their lives and certainly, unless he was blessed to have grown up amongst royalty, Rex Reed himself must have had to deal with.

And that’s when I realized that Mr. Reed‘s subjugation of Ms. McCarthy could only rex_reed.JPG.728x520_q85come from his own self-hatred.  Think of the little boy who is constantly bullied in the schoolyard.  Done often enough and without appropriate correction, that bullied little boy internalizes the hateful words spewed toward himself and those words becomes part of what I call his “life tape;” subconscious lessons we learn about ourselves from the outside world.  Negative, untrue messages like these, left unchecked become the villains to our self worth.   Sometimes making us strike out against others in order to ease the pain of our own misperceived failings.

This gave me some compassion toward Mr. Reed, for it must be monumental self-loathing that gave him license to personally attack another based on her appearance.  And to do it in a such a public forum.  Only another person who had not processed the misfortune of being so inelegantly treated himself would have the capacity to do the same thing in such a righteous and flagrant a manner.  But this incident brings up a deeper issue. Those of us with self-esteem or body issues.  Those of us who have been through years of therapy, read the latest self-help books and prayed for self acceptance at the local house of worship.  Are we ever really free from the self-judgement?  Does the “life tape” ever get erased or does the sound, though faint and scratchy, still remain buried in our psyche?

Andre MalrauxQuote

Recently, I went out to breakfast with my good friend Evan. It was a cloudy and cold L.A. day and I was feeling emotional and depressed. PMS had reared its ugly head and I was using all my emotional energy to keep the hateful thoughts in my brain from permeating my day and my time with Evan.

Evan and I dated briefly and soon decided that we made better friends than lovers (well, friends that occasionally kiss with tongue). Since then, he has been a trusted confidant and steadfast supporter … everything you want in a buddy.  Even though we were platonic, Evan always treated me like a sexy, desirable and smart woman.  It felt good to go out with Evan. We’d do movie nights and dinners and though we were chaste, he always made it known that he thought I was hot. What girl wouldn’t love that?

By the time our eggs arrived, we were engaging in silly and entertaining conversation.  Pop culture trivia, favorite movies, cool hangouts, teenage angst, and then Evan posed this question to me: “Who would you want to play you in the movie of your life?”  Hmmm, I’d never thought about it.  Evan thought for a minute and then an almost visible light bulb appeared over his head, “I got it! That chick from Bridesmaids!”

“Awww, bless his heart” I thought, “He thinks Kristen Wiig should play me.”  I was flattered. Kristin Wiig was one of my favorites on Saturday Night Live and I loved her in Bridesmaids. She was funny, talented and cute.  My heart warmed.  Evan added, “You know … that woman on Mike & Molly

My heart sank.  He, in fact, did NOT mean Kristen Wiig, he meant the very plus-sized Melissa McCarthy. In a nano-second the realization that the man across from me who has seen me naked, has equated me with a “fat girl.”  I started to cry.

Photo: Mary Rozzi

Photo: Mary Rozzi

Now let me be clear, Melissa McCarthy is every bit as cute, talented and funny as Kristen Wiig, however Melissa McCarthy happens to be a woman of size.  I was angry with myself for being so upset. I was a self-proclaimed, body & sex-positive advocate.  One of my biggest causes has been for women of all shapes and sizes to integrate self-esteem and realize their inherent sexuality (and worth) regardless of shape or weight.  Yet, here I was, apparently feeling slighted that Evan viewed me as a “fat chick.”  He immediately felt horrible that he made me cry and I was more than ok with that.  I was offended and hurt and my ego was bruised.  Evan back-pedaled, and in an effort to stop my tears he grabbed my hands across the table and said he thought of her because she’s so “funny and sexy and pretty.”  “Oh you did not,” I snapped.  “You thought of her because she’s big. I’m not as big as that!”  Evan was speechless. I groaned and excused myself to go to the bathroom to gather my fat self.

I stood in front of the streaky diner mirror and reviewed myself in vile self-loathing.  I felt ugly.  I felt worthless and I felt like a fraud.  I was embarrassed that I had automatically reacted this way when being compared to an extremely talented woman who happens to be fat.  Closing my eyes and holding onto the sides of the sink with my head hung low I took some deep breaths and started to do some quick inner self-examination.  “What are you really feeling? Where is it coming from?  And is it true?” I asked myself.

The first thing that entered my mind was that I was feeling shame … Indignant, unlovable, undesirable and unworthy.  I immediately remembered all the boys is elementary and middle school that commented on my big butt and preferred to date the tanned, athletic surfer girls to the pale, soft theatre-nerd that was me … ahhhh, that’s where it was coming from.  I lifted my head and looked in the mirror again.  “Is it true?” I asked myself.  I squinted and took a long breath.  From deep within my self I heard a tiny, barely audible voice say “No. It’s not.”  It surprised me that even after many years of criticism from the opposite sex and myself,  that this little voice could even be heard.  I guess the 20 years of therapy had sunk in.

I could feel the truth of the little voice.  I could understand her intention.  The reality is that I really am beautiful regardless of the size of my hips.  I have had proof of this on a subjective level from ex-lovers and boyfriends but more importantly I’ve had proof of this by what I saw in myself.  For in that bathroom, looking into my mascara-stained reflection, I realized that even though my ego had a flashback to old feelings and modalities that I had identified with for so long  … that in this diner bathroom feeling pre-menstrual, emotionally taxed and having just had a surprising crying-jag, I came to more fully understand in that moment that as bad as I felt at the time, I still felt sexy.  I did!  I couldn’t believe it.  It was possible to be healing an old wound while at the same time recognize a newly realized truth.

I re-joined Evan at the table, refreshed and much more cogent than when I left.  He was a puppy with his tail between his legs until I explained the catharsis I just had.  Evan’s body un-tensed and he became energized, jubilant and seemed oddly proud that he had something to do with this “satori.”  Nothing had changed.  To Evan, I was always smart, funny, sexy … no matter what size I was, that’s how he saw me (subjective) because that’s how I saw myself (objective).  I saw myself that way because of a lot of good therapy, hard work and self-inventory that proved to me that those features were indisputable.

Nothing’s perfect, there will always be people (and sometimes even myself) who don’t see that in me (subjective) and that’s fine, it doesn’t mean it’s less true (objective).  And there will always be times when something someone says or does will trigger old wounds with a repeat reaction.  But, the point is, it is just a reaction from times long gone and just like when Craig Michaels called me a “lard-ass” (subjective) it has nothing to do with who I really am (objective).  Who I really am is a woman with flaws, but those flaws don’t make me any less worthy or any less lovable or any less beautiful or in Ms. McCarthy’s case any less talented.  It’s those flaws that make me the special package that (at least when I’m not PMS-ing) I realize I am.

Which brings me back to shaking my head as I read Rex Reed’s review of Melissa McCarthy’s physique.  I’m human, I can’t say I don’t harbor some displeasure toward Mr. Reed, but it’s more like the exasperation you feel toward a child when they throw their Spaghettios across the room for the third time. You can’t dislike a child for his actions because – he’s just a child … he’s not working with fully developed facilities. I feel the same way toward Mr. Reed. After reading his review I just click to another screen and remind myself of a quote by French writer Andre Malraux “The attempt to force human beings to despise themselves is what I call hell.” In my perception, this must be the place that Mr. Reed wrote his review from. I just hope that in the future he might move to a brighter location.

Photo by Gene Reed

Photo by Gene Reed

As a writer, Elle Chase (Lady Cheeky) has been featured on Fleshbot and is a regular contributor to the online magazine EvolvedWorld.com. Elle will soon have an erotic short story appear in the upcoming Rachel Kramer Bussel anthology The Big Book of Orgasm (Cleis Press, Sept 2013) and an article in next month’s issue of Corset Magazine on pornography vs. erotica. She has also won the Domi Dollz True Tales of Erotica competition, and will be seen in the upcoming CBC documentary Women and Porn. Elle will be speaking as part of a panel of women on Sex and Body Image at CatalystCon: Sparking Communication in Sexuality, Activism and Acceptance in Washington DC, March 17, 2013.
Twitter: @Lady_Cheeky | Facebook: The Lady Cheeky Fan Page |  Website: www.LadyCheeky.com  | LinkedIn: Elle “Lady Cheeky” Chase

Feb 092013
 
TheFrisky
Photo: Mary Rozzi

Photo: Mary Rozzi

I shook my head recently when I read about New York Observer film critic, Rex Reed’s personal insult toward actress Melissa McCarthy.   In a review of her latest offering, Identity Thief  he called her “tractor-sized” and as big as a “hippo.”  Isn’t it interesting, I thought, that a man, who himself is part of a marginalized and often supressed segment of society wields his pejoratives so freely when directed toward another similarly ill-regarded community; the “un-thin” or “un-commercial.” The part of our population that still hides in a closet of self-hatred.   The part of our population, fearful that they won’t be accepted or seen for anything other than their physical appearance. You don’t have to be overweight to be part of our collective; you just have to have a self-loathing of some physical feature you feel you possess.  Surely, this is something that everyone can relate to at some point in their lives and certainly, unless he was blessed to have grown up amongst royalty, Rex Reed himself must have had to deal with.

And that’s when I realized that Mr. Reed‘s subjugation of Ms. McCarthy could only rex_reed.JPG.728x520_q85come from his own self-hatred.  Think of the little boy who is constantly bullied in the schoolyard.  Done often enough and without appropriate correction, that bullied little boy internalizes the hateful words spewed toward himself and those words becomes part of what I call his “life tape;” subconscious lessons we learn about ourselves from the outside world.  Negative, untrue messages like these, left unchecked become the villains to our self worth.   Sometimes making us strike out against others in order to ease the pain of our own misperceived failings.

This gave me some compassion toward Mr. Reed, for it must be monumental self-loathing that gave him license to personally attack another based on her appearance.  And to do it in a such a public forum.  Only another person who had not processed the misfortune of being so inelegantly treated himself would have the capacity to do the same thing in such a righteous and flagrant a manner.  But this incident brings up a deeper issue. Those of us with self-esteem or body issues.  Those of us who have been through years of therapy, read the latest self-help books and prayed for self acceptance at the local house of worship.  Are we ever really free from the self-judgement?  Does the “life tape” ever get erased or does the sound, though faint and scratchy, still remain buried in our psyche?

Andre MalrauxQuote

Recently, I went out to breakfast with my good friend Evan. It was a cloudy and cold L.A. day and I was feeling emotional and depressed. PMS had reared its ugly head and I was using all my emotional energy to keep the hateful thoughts in my brain from permeating my day and my time with Evan.

Evan and I dated briefly and soon decided that we made better friends than lovers (well, friends that occasionally kiss with tongue). Since then, he has been a trusted confidant and steadfast supporter … everything you want in a buddy.  Even though we were platonic, Evan always treated me like a sexy, desirable and smart woman.  It felt good to go out with Evan. We’d do movie nights and dinners and though we were chaste, he always made it known that he thought I was hot. What girl wouldn’t love that?

By the time our eggs arrived, we were engaging in silly and entertaining conversation.  Pop culture trivia, favorite movies, cool hangouts, teenage angst, and then Evan posed this question to me: “Who would you want to play you in the movie of your life?”  Hmmm, I’d never thought about it.  Evan thought for a minute and then an almost visible light bulb appeared over his head, “I got it! That chick from Bridesmaids!”

“Awww, bless his heart” I thought, “He thinks Kristen Wiig should play me.”  I was flattered. Kristin Wiig was one of my favorites on Saturday Night Live and I loved her in Bridesmaids. She was funny, talented and cute.  My heart warmed.  Evan added, “You know … that woman on Mike & Molly

My heart sank.  He, in fact, did NOT mean Kristen Wiig, he meant the very plus-sized Melissa McCarthy. In a nano-second the realization that the man across from me who has seen me naked, has equated me with a “fat girl.”  I started to cry.

Photo: Mary Rozzi

Photo: Mary Rozzi

Now let me be clear, Melissa McCarthy is every bit as cute, talented and funny as Kristen Wiig, however Melissa McCarthy happens to be a woman of size.  I was angry with myself for being so upset. I was a self-proclaimed, body & sex-positive advocate.  One of my biggest causes has been for women of all shapes and sizes to integrate self-esteem and realize their inherent sexuality (and worth) regardless of shape or weight.  Yet, here I was, apparently feeling slighted that Evan viewed me as a “fat chick.”  He immediately felt horrible that he made me cry and I was more than ok with that.  I was offended and hurt and my ego was bruised.  Evan back-pedaled, and in an effort to stop my tears he grabbed my hands across the table and said he thought of her because she’s so “funny and sexy and pretty.”  “Oh you did not,” I snapped.  “You thought of her because she’s big. I’m not as big as that!”  Evan was speechless. I groaned and excused myself to go to the bathroom to gather my fat self.

I stood in front of the streaky diner mirror and reviewed myself in vile self-loathing.  I felt ugly.  I felt worthless and I felt like a fraud.  I was embarrassed that I had automatically reacted this way when being compared to an extremely talented woman who happens to be fat.  Closing my eyes and holding onto the sides of the sink with my head hung low I took some deep breaths and started to do some quick inner self-examination.  “What are you really feeling? Where is it coming from?  And is it true?” I asked myself.

The first thing that entered my mind was that I was feeling shame … Indignant, unlovable, undesirable and unworthy.  I immediately remembered all the boys is elementary and middle school that commented on my big butt and preferred to date the tanned, athletic surfer girls to the pale, soft theatre-nerd that was me … ahhhh, that’s where it was coming from.  I lifted my head and looked in the mirror again.  “Is it true?” I asked myself.  I squinted and took a long breath.  From deep within my self I heard a tiny, barely audible voice say “No. It’s not.”  It surprised me that even after many years of criticism from the opposite sex and myself,  that this little voice could even be heard.  I guess the 20 years of therapy had sunk in.

I could feel the truth of the little voice.  I could understand her intention.  The reality is that I really am beautiful regardless of the size of my hips.  I have had proof of this on a subjective level from ex-lovers and boyfriends but more importantly I’ve had proof of this by what I saw in myself.  For in that bathroom, looking into my mascara-stained reflection, I realized that even though my ego had a flashback to old feelings and modalities that I had identified with for so long  … that in this diner bathroom feeling pre-menstrual, emotionally taxed and having just had a surprising crying-jag, I came to more fully understand in that moment that as bad as I felt at the time, I still felt sexy.  I did!  I couldn’t believe it.  It was possible to be healing an old wound while at the same time recognize a newly realized truth.

I re-joined Evan at the table, refreshed and much more cogent than when I left.  He was a puppy with his tail between his legs until I explained the catharsis I just had.  Evan’s body un-tensed and he became energized, jubilant and seemed oddly proud that he had something to do with this “satori.”  Nothing had changed.  To Evan, I was always smart, funny, sexy … no matter what size I was, that’s how he saw me (subjective) because that’s how I saw myself (objective).  I saw myself that way because of a lot of good therapy, hard work and self-inventory that proved to me that those features were indisputable.

Nothing’s perfect, there will always be people (and sometimes even myself) who don’t see that in me (subjective) and that’s fine, it doesn’t mean it’s less true (objective).  And there will always be times when something someone says or does will trigger old wounds with a repeat reaction.  But, the point is, it is just a reaction from times long gone and just like when Craig Michaels called me a “lard-ass” (subjective) it has nothing to do with who I really am (objective).  Who I really am is a woman with flaws, but those flaws don’t make me any less worthy or any less lovable or any less beautiful or in Ms. McCarthy’s case any less talented.  It’s those flaws that make me the special package that (at least when I’m not PMS-ing) I realize I am.

Which brings me back to shaking my head as I read Rex Reed’s review of Melissa McCarthy’s physique.  I’m human, I can’t say I don’t harbor some displeasure toward Mr. Reed, but it’s more like the exasperation you feel toward a child when they throw their Spaghettios across the room for the third time. You can’t dislike a child for his actions because – he’s just a child … he’s not working with fully developed facilities. I feel the same way toward Mr. Reed. After reading his review I just click to another screen and remind myself of a quote by French writer Andre Malraux “The attempt to force human beings to despise themselves is what I call hell.” In my perception, this must be the place that Mr. Reed wrote his review from. I just hope that in the future he might move to a brighter location.

Photo by Gene Reed

Photo by Gene Reed

As a writer, Elle Chase (Lady Cheeky) has been featured on Fleshbot and is a regular contributor to the online magazine EvolvedWorld.com. Elle will soon have an erotic short story appear in the upcoming Rachel Kramer Bussel anthology The Big Book of Orgasm (Cleis Press, Sept 2013) and an article in next month’s issue of Corset Magazine on pornography vs. erotica. She has also won the Domi Dollz True Tales of Erotica competition, and will be seen in the upcoming CBC documentary Women and Porn. Elle will be speaking as part of a panel of women on Sex and Body Image at CatalystCon: Sparking Communication in Sexuality, Activism and Acceptance in Washington DC, March 17, 2013.
Twitter: @Lady_Cheeky | Facebook: The Lady Cheeky Fan Page |  Website: www.LadyCheeky.com  | LinkedIn: Elle “Lady Cheeky” Chase

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