Lust Bites

by Jeremy Edwards"How do I love you?" a composite character from my stories could hypothetically (and rhetorically) ask another composite character.

I love you letting me talk obsessively about your ass, though the subject bores you: "That's why it's my job, and not yours, to appreciate this ass we speak of." [Any Day of the Week at Oysters and Chocolate & Sex and Satisfaction]

I love you inviting me to masturbate with you, despite the fact that we can never be a couple: "Oh, but it is a compliment . . . . You obviously have no idea how much I love masturbating alone in my bedroom." [If We Were at Clean Sheets]

I love you dressing up as your three best friends, one after the other, because you know I fantasize about fucking each of them: “Last I knew, this was a monogamous relationship.” I looked around from left to right, as though expecting extraneous women to emerge from the pantry or laundry chute. [Any Friend of Hers at The Erotic Woman]

I love you deliberately, sensuously pissing your panties for me: Ah, to hold her hand across the table and watch her features relax as she gave in to her wetness. [Slightly Ajar in F is for Fetish]

Am I a "romantic"? I think I am – though Hallmark hasn't approached me just yet in re. of their Valentine's Day line. (Hmph. I thought "To my lover/Golly gee/It turns me on/To watch you pee" was rather inspired. But I guess "golly gee" is a bit outdated.)

During college, I was in a brief, ambiguous relationship with a woman who was sort of breaking up with her boyfriend – or maybe not so much. (You get the idea, probably a lot faster than I did.) One evening, I showed a lack of interest in something she said along the lines of long-stemmed roses. "Don't you have a romantic bone in your body?" she asked. Leaving aside the question of which bone, when properly stimulated, might be the romantic one, I protested that my university punk-rock ethos was romantic – by which I basically meant idealistic, with extra hormones. She seemed impressed by this (but, then again, the boyfriend was out of town).

Now I'm going to step back even further and, since you insist, tell you the details of my first wet dream. It simulated a chaste encounter with a sexy high school teacher, who was based loosely on a real-life sexy Latin teacher. (Yes, I had the good fortune to learn early on that the world was replete with counterexamples to debunk every unjust stereotype. As an adult, I would be cavorting with librarians long before it became fashionable.) In the dream, the teacher was giving us a tour of "ROMA ANTIQVA". (She wasn't shouting, she was merely conforming to ancient Roman typography.) Just before debuting my virginal seed, I noted that the above phrase sounded sort of like "romantic-a" – decades before Ellora's Cave had their own wet dream and trademarked the term. Other writers may boast of their masturbatory proclivities for wordplay, but I may be the only one who doesn't mean it metaphorically.

And if only I'd thought to mention this piece of personal history when my bones were accused of being 100% unromantic: "It just so happens you're looking at a guy who's had wet dreams over the word 'romantic.'"

I continue to invoke a broad personal definition of what's romantic. As a reader and writer, I find there's a special kind of erotic electricity to be enjoyed in romantic synergy that crystallizes around the mundane, the absurd, the incongruous, the funny, the awkward, the silly, the strangely compulsive, or (last but not least) the ass-in-your-face raunchy.

My enthusiasm for the offbeat romantic doesn't mean that I think modern or even postmodern life has rendered rose-giving and other traditionally "romantic" experiences obsolete (except, perhaps, those that depend on modes of transportation that are no longer extant; it really is hard these days to make love, in either the archaic or contemporary sense of the term, atop a penny-farthing bicycle, and don't think I haven't tried). Nor do I assume that the offbeat romantic is a modern invention. I don't know my Sappho or my Catullus, and it's been a long time since I dipped into your Flaubert or the neighbor's Stendhal . . . but, surely, the entire history of good literature must be full of unique, unpredictable, and surprising romantic images.

However, I'm not here to speculate about the classics; I'm here to excerpt some hot contemporary erotica. So let's all open our textbooks to a scene from Stan Kent's My Finest Hour, one that makes my toes curl with joy. At this point, the narrator has been watching his wife fuck another guy for page after luxurious page:

They're on the shower floor. He's eating Lizzie. With their splayed bodies blocking the drain the water builds up in the shower, but they don't mind. They're like some primeval amphibious creatures writhing in a stream, struggling for the land so they can multiply or die. He has his hands on Lizzie's hips, and he's working her on his face, and she's pressing down on his back with her legs and they're squirming around. Lizzie wedges herself in the corner and sits up facing me. This is the first real eye contact we've enjoyed since she began fucking the sharply-dressed man, and she smiles and blows me a kiss.

Sigh.

Our Kristina Lloyd's Nothing But This is a bizarre, mysterious, enchanted tale of refined sensuality and transcendent eroticism – and, dare I suggest it, of love. My favorite moment in the story is one in which the romantic connection between the characters reveals itself through mutual knowledge and understanding, cutting through the haze of unreality and disorientation that KL has masterfully created:

"Hey, brother," calls Uncle, addressing Tom, "does she like it in her ass? Huh? A big prick in her tiny little asshole?"

Tom's too zonked to reply immediately. He just sprawls there, half-dead, before his head rolls sideways, eyes still closed. When he finally speaks, it sounds as if it's costing him an enormous effort. "Probably," he croaks.

Like Kent, KL evokes an erotically convincing emotional connection between lovers at the very moment that one of them is physically rather connected to someone else.

Anyone for Alison Tyler? As if I need to ask! Other People's Panties, for instance, is a showroom showpiece of kinky romanticism. The structure of the brief story is such that to excerpt it might risk spoiling it – so I'll just link and insist that you scroll down and read it. Now.

Personally, I can't think of anything more romantic than what happens in the AT story you just read. And yet, I'm told, Hallmark still hasn't made an offer on this one.
In Christopher Hart's Drift, two jaded characters are whisked away from a glitteringly sordid reality by an impossible, inexplicable, externalized romantic force that is literally beyond their control:

Her feet too were dangling free in the air, and kicked lightly against mine. We were six inches off the grass, a foot, two feet and rising. We were also drifting dangerously towards the house.

"Um . . . " she said, cautious, English. "Is this . . . ?"

I was cool about it. "Gravity seems to have failed us." I didn't feel cool about it all. This was supposed to be a hollow seduction, nothing more.

Perhaps this externalization is an example of an antiromantic's romanticism that is quintessentially postmodern. Whatever it is, I find the description of the cynical couple's absurd ascent into a magical mingling to be – well – truly uplifting.

Now I look forward to hearing about your favorite offbeat romantic moments. And shameless plugs are encouraged!

***Kristina says: Add a comment and you could win this sexy little quartet of books featuring Jeremy's work and some of his hot picks: A is for Amour, F is for Fetish and Caught Looking, all from Alison and Cleis Press, plus Quickies 3 from Black Lace which includes my enchanted tale of – ahem – my story, Nothing But This, reprinted from Sex and Shopping.

by Kristina LloydIt’s here at last! The one we’ve all been waiting for: Black Lace does paranormal erotica. Tomorrow sees the UK release of Love on the Dark Side (known affectionately as Man Tits), and we’re sizzling hot and spookier than you’ve ever known us. In this anthology, our imaginations have been let off the leash (huh, like they were ever on one) and we slide into the sinister to bring you sexy tales of vampires, werewolves, timeslips and witches, of shapeshifters, sorcery, spirit lovers and semen.

Well, that’s not an exact quote from the back cover blurb but that’s the gist. Love on the Dark Side features fifteen stories, over half of which were penned by Lusties. This is our biggest haul yet and that’s because we rock! To celebrate, we’ve got two super hot prizes on offer: a bundle of Black Lace novels from Lust Bites authors in Dark Side and a runner-up prize of a fistful of Quickies, mini volumes of shorts from BL collections. Both winners get a copy of Dark Side and the biggest stash of smut also comes with a special bonus prize of my friend, Bam Bam (right)!

Oh, okay. You don’t win Bam Bam. Sorry. Slave auctions are down the corridor, second door on the left. You do, however, win this amazing Lust Bites Monster Woman bag as modelled by the divine Bam Bam, looking sexy and sultry on Brighton beach.

To be in the draw, add a comment to this post and we’ll announce the winner in a week or so. But first of all, gather round, my lovelies. Pretend it’s a dark and stormy night, and check out these other-worldly openings from Love on the Dark Side.

What Witches Want by Mathilde Madden
‘You know the worst thing about being a witch?’ Lilith said, world-weariness chiming in her voice.
‘The clothes? The religious intolerance? The cackling?’ Cate didn’t really want to be drawn into one of Lilith’s circular conversations, but she didn’t dare completely bail out either. Not after what had happened during the coven meeting. Lilith was clearly not in any mood to be trifled with. As usual.
‘Men,’ Lilith said.

The Black Knight by Olivia Knight
Once upon a time, there was a hero of most unusual qualities, known as the Black Knight. He was as beautiful as the night, with long silky hair like the sky spangled with stars. His long limbs were as lithe and swift as a deer’s. On the battlefields, his bravery was famous, and every knight would rather fight at his side than anyone else’s. His quick eye, fast reflexes and dexterity with both sword and bow had saved many of his countrymen’s lives – and ended many of their enemies.

An Earthquake in Leamington Spa by Kristina Lloyd
I am having an affair.
There, I’ve said it.
Even the words make me feel giddy and alive.
I am having an affair!
Oh God, how he touches me: his big hand in the small of my back, his big arms carrying me to bed, his big cock moving inside me. Everything about Harry is big, even his heart. Especially his heart.

Stranger to My Shores by Sophie Mouette
He was behind me, hands on my breasts. I was braced against one of the benches as the hot tub bubbled around us and steam rose up to meet cold stars. It was spring on Cape Cod, and the parts of me that ended up out of the water must have been cold, but I wasn’t paying attention to anything except him, his thick cock in me, our bodies rippling together.

Lust for Blood by Madelynne Ellis
That night … The night my world screwed up, started with the same ghastly routine as every Friday night: work, pub, restaurant, club, trying to blot out the numbing emptiness of my life. The invasive greyness of Messers Cox, Cooks and Evans, accountants and soul-suckers, is what pushes me to these shallow pools of warmth and comfort. I knock back alcohol, gyrate with strangers on the dance floor, anything to rub away the feel of old paper and tweed.

Sun Seeking by Janine Ashbless
He had the most beautiful arse.
I’d seen a lot of naked backsides that morning, male and female, big and small, but one glimpse down the length of that hall took my breath away. It was … just awesome. Not a bum; bums are soft and round and a bit silly. There’s no muscles in a bum. Kids have bums. Women have bums, particularly when they’re worrying about whether their pants are too tight. Even builders have bums. This was emphatically not a bum. It wasn't a nearly non-existent student slacker rear either, or a slightly hairy squared-off male backside.
No, this was an arse.

The Shadow of Matthew by Gwen Masters
Alison opened the bedroom door.
It was a simple thing, opening a door that she had opened a million times before. So why did the knob seem to burn in her hand and why did the door open so slowly, like it was just as afraid of her as she was of it?

To Stand between the Wild and the Human by Teresa Noelle Roberts
I stood on the narrow beach and watched as the fishing boat motored away from Torishima, shrinking and finally turning into a speck on the blue-tossed horizon.
The boat had answered my distress call, and was now ferrying Akiko, my Project Albatross partner, off to the nearest hospital, some eighteen hours away.

* * *
Love on the Dark Side is special for a couple of reasons. Firstly, it looks like being the last anthology for a while as Black Lace launches a series of novella volumes, kicking off in November with vampire erotica from Kristina Lloyd (me!), Mathilde Madden and Portia Da Costa. Secondly, Dark Side brings us a sneak preview of characters from Tilly’s Silver werewolf trilogy, arriving in October with The Silver Collar. Tilly’s story in Dark Side not only has me hungry for the wolves, it also contains the line, ‘Come on, witch, suck my dick.’ Personally, I think that alone is worth the cover price.

Good luck everyone! Comment away.

Amazon UK | All the latest from Black Lace Books | Amazon US

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The fab Monster Woman bags are available to buy from our Shameless Lust Bites' Merchandise Shop for a mere $17.99! And if you want more Bam Bam, go be her friend on MySpace where you can listen to her gorgeously haunting, sexy song.

Alison Tyler

That is, I'm in love with this...


I have my author copies in hand. The book is beautiful. The weight. The cover. The fonts. God, I love a good font.

And check out this all-star line-up:

Shanna Germain
Vida Bailey
Jen Cross
Teresa Lamai
Rachel Kramer Bussel
Nikki Magennis
Lisette Ashton
Ryan Field
Brooke Stern
Zaedryn Meade
James Walton Langolf
Kristina Lloyd
Xan West
Sommer Marsden
Donna George Storey
Stephen Elliott
And, um, me.

Here is an excerpt from the intro:

Love is a dangerous game.

No doubt about it.

From the moment your eyes meet, until that first touch, first kiss, first tryst on the living room floor, your emotions run ragged. Your heart races. Every look burns with intensity. Every statement is loaded, filled with double-meanings. You hear things differently. You speak in a brand-new language.

But love in a pain-pleasure relationship—well, that just ratchets things up another notch. His hand on the back of your neck is no longer the prelude to a sweet caress. It’s the move before he puts you in your place, drops you to your knees, shows you who’s in charge...

One from Kristina's delicious story:

He twisted the fabric tight, wringing it into a tail which he tucked behind me, leaving me exposed from the waist downwards. He stooped for more raspberries then, pulling the elastic, he slid his hand into those tight white panties and crushed soft red berries into my cunt. His leather fingers paddled and probed, mashing me and the fruit into one glorious pulpy crimson mess.

I groaned, wanting to slide down the tree in mindless, soporific lust. He took more berries, pushing them higher into me this time, his hard, leathered fingers stirring in my hole. I felt like I was part of a recipe: insert fruit and mix well. Around us, trees whispered in the breeze, a bee buzzed somewhere at ground level, and I could feel my face flushing with shame and arousal.

Brett watched me, his blue-grey eyes shy and fascinated. “Is it good?” he smiled, fingers still working.

I could barely speak. “Fuck, yes,” I breathed. “So good … it’s so good.”

And from the back cover:

Whether you dream of surrendering to a lover or of taking control, the dark fantasies and heart-pounding suspense of erotic bondage in Love at First Sting will have you begging for more...

XXX,
Alison

My cat is purring
And scratches my skin
So what is wrong
With another sin

The bitch is hungry
She needs to tell
So give her inches
And feed her well
—The Scorpions

P.S. I'll be giving away a copy of Love at First Sting - the book and the CD. (And, no, you can't get one without the other. I insist on sending you a copy of the Scorpions' CD along with the book. Deal with it.) How can you win? Post a comment. Extra points for clever ones. No pressure. I'll choose one randy (I mean "random") commenter. Winner will be posted in the Coming Attractions on Sunday. And Sommer, you can't win. Your contributor copies are on their way. I swear!

by Alison Tyler

When the effervescent Kristina Lloyd came up with the idea of a Midsummer’s Day flasher contest, I thought, "Great. We’ll get our readers to supply the smut for us! And then I’ll go through and pluck a winner from the slew of sexy selections." But, damn. I had no idea how difficult this would actually be. I’m only supposed to choose one? Who was the eejit who made up that rule? Oh, hell, it was me. Well, I definitely didn’t expect to find such bounty. So forget one, I’m picking the following four:

Freeway
By kenthegradstudent

Profound shyness hid G’s beauty. She was the star grad student yet an idiot about love.
One day in the library our eyes met. After we fucked she asked shyly, “How can I thank you?” “Let go.”
A week later, she asked me to meet her at a hotel. I passed it daily on my way to the university.
When I arrived, she opened the curtains, stripped, and pressed her breasts against the window. I entered her. Fifty feet away, cars raced by on the freeway. Those glancing up saw everything. If only they could have heard G’s screams.

***
Appetiser
By Erastes

Two blocks from the pub and he can't - won't wait. Sod the bed, sod the rain. Sod it all. Sod him.
They stumble into the alley, and he devours Andrew's mouth, pulling his lover's cock from his pants. Eyes wide, Watch the lust-laid-bare by the flickering helium. Watch the rain drizzle down his face, taste the want, take the need. Amuse Bouche. Appetiser.
Andrew surges, damp, hard--harder into his squeezing fist; there's a groan, then another, rising, rising. Rhythmic. Regular. Ready. Ready. Steady. COME.
His fingers take the bounty, shared between them before the rains steals it away.

***
Blown Glass
By yahnilei

Mardi Gras. Midnight. Swarms of sweat-soaked bodies lined along the streets. I'm pushed into an alleyway, pushed against a rough, stone wall.
Two masks. He was only hazel eyes and a cleft chin. He lifted my skirt, prodded thighs apart, dug three fingers inside me, filling me up like air into newly blown glass.
"People can see us," I said through a sharp gasp.
He placed a long finger to my lips, and slid his shorts down. Japanese lanterns loomed high over our heads, and he fucked me as drunk gagglers peered into shadow and rocking light.

***
Untitled
By Sacchi Green

We were Dharma Bums,
Hanging with Kerouac and Ginsberg,
Jailbait chicks high on the Road and the Word.
Lip service was all we paid to how they were hung,
Swallowed up, instead, in the urgent mysteries
Of each other.

We played their game of Yab Yum, silent, still,
Close, closer, never touching,
Breast not quite to breast, cunt to cunt, nipples seeking nipples,
Hunger pulsing hot and slick between damp thighs;
We pierced each other with blue-hot sparks of longing
Until need broke down the will, the game well-lost,
And bodies clutched at joy with tooth and claw.


Honorable mentions go to:
Craig, for the lovely line “Cleanliness is overrated”
Jude Mason for the memorable statement: “You got me hornier'n a three peckered toad.”
And to Jeremy, for fucking us in the blog comments. Best 115-word shag I've ever had.

Winners, please email your contact information to msalisontyler at yahoo dot com.

XXX,
Alison

You're a thousand minds, within a flash
—Peter Gabriel

by Alison Tyler

I want heavy petting at the stop light. I want a blow job between the front door and the dining room. I want there to be just enough time for the old “in and out.” And for this Midsummer’s Day contest, I want you. That is, I want you to give me your best 100-word flashers. Like “Madrid” by our own lovely Nikki Magennis:

I wore my red shoes. Your hair was gloss black and tangled, melting into the night, leaving only a glitter of teeth.
You kissed me at dawn, took me to the house where you slept. A cousin’s, you said. ‘Seventh heaven’, you said.
There were no sheets on the mattress. We fought our clothes, came out naked, fell on the floor. The silver crucifix round your neck hit me in the face as we fucked – fast, urgent, silent. Your skin was gold and slippery.
Afterwards we waltzed through empty streets. The world was asleep, and we were dreaming in colour.

And “Flashers” by Stephen D. Rogers:

In the half-light of dusk, they had the park to themselves. They wore matching raincoats and nothing else.
She stepped from behind a tree and flashed him.
He flashed her from behind a trellis.
Their bare skin glowed in short bursts, like two fireflies dancing around each other until darkness fell and the two lovers finally met and joined on a bed of soft grass.
They took turns watching the stars blink to life.

Or Sommer Marsden's "And You":

And you are right there inside me, gripping my hips. Clamping down on the flesh as if your fingers might pass right through me. And you say, "Don't move, baby."
And I don't, except for the ways you move me.
Push me here, pull me there. Keep me full. Thrust and pump.
Use me as I'm meant to be used.
Your teeth on my neck. Just as you come. It‘s my signal to let go.
And I am light and heat, brimming with you.
Perfectly used.
Complete.

I chose these three because of how wildly different they are. Realistic, romantic, and raw. Look at the power of a paragraph, the seduction of a single sentence, the wonder of 100-words.

XXX,
Alison


I want you.
I want you so bad, babe.
I want you.
I want you so bad, it’s driving me mad.
It’s driving me mad.
—The Beatles

P.S. One lucky winner will receive Down & Dirty (volumes one and two) plus the thrill of seeing your words in print in FlashFucking, my new collection of ultra-short stories (pending approval of Cleis Press). Flashers don't need to be exactly 100 words—but they should not be more than 100 words, including title.

by Kristina Lloyd

"I had been Jonathan’s slave for about a year when he told me he wanted to sell me at an auction. I wasn’t in any condition to respond when he told me this – I was carefully licking his balls, concentrating on doing it the way he liked … "

I know, I know. It’s so damn good, isn’t it? This is the beginning of Carrie’s Story by Molly Weatherfield, a classic of erotic S/M lit. Molly (aka romance writer Pam Rosenthal) was on Lust Bites earlier this week in her first ever interview. Yes: first ever. Last year, Playboy.com put Carrie’s Story at number 12 in their ‘25 Sexiest Novels Ever Written’, sandwiched between Lolita (11) and Erica Jong’s Fear of Flying (13). Yup, it's that hot.

And, oh boy, thanks to Kate Pearce, we popped Molly’s interview cherry! Check it out. It really is a warm, wise, fascinating piece.

Anyway, I’m here to get hot and firsty with you because Sex with Strangers, the latest short story collection from Black Lace is about to be published (10th May, UK; 26 June, US) and it’s the first time a man’s big beefy arm has appeared on a BL anthology cover. Is that right, Lusties? I can’t recall any others. Did Tilly, our resident arm-nut, put our publishers up to it?

Sex with strangers is one of the most popular female fantasies, and is it any wonder? It’s dark, dangerous and risky, and there are no arguments about who has to sleep in the damp patch. Why do we like it so much? Is it the thrill of the unknown? The urge for instant gratification? Is it the edgy appeal of the faceless man in rape fantasy? Or simply the power of an encounter that it is pure basic sex, no sweet-talking lovey-dovey, just rutting for the hell of it?

Delve into Sex with Strangers to find some of our answers. The anthology features stories from top-notch Lust Biters Nikki Magennis, Mathilde Madden, Teresa Noelle Roberts, Olivia Knight, Dayle A Dermatis and me, Kristina Lloyd.

Here’s a taste of some of our stories with their first (and sometimes 2nd and 3rd) lines to tease and please.

'My flatmate couldn’t even imagine the desert that was my sex life.' Nikki Magennis - The Art of Fucking
A brief encounter with a life model reminds an artist just how beautiful life can be. I’m happy to say this is another Nikki M gem: sumptuously written, thoughtful and delicate - which makes the hard, messy sex all the harder and messier when it happens. Delicious. (And she swore in the title!)

'Tuesday nights mean only one thing to Gracie, William, Mark and me: Lust. Oops. Actually, that’s a bit of a Freudian one – not Lust, Lost.' Mathilde Madden - Lust for Glory
A single girl uses her mouth at a big nutso gay orgy. Witty and wonderful, and very, very dirty. Only Tilly could have written a story like this.

'I stopped pacing long enough to glance at the clock. They’d be home soon, my boyfriend Gary and his friend Matt.' Teresa Noelle Roberts - A Stranger, and Yet Not
Karen's loving boyfriend finds a safe way for her to live out a risky fantasy. And I can safely say this story is m/f/m, and that’s hot.

'When she’s on holiday, she play-acts herself (unless, of course, she’s in Spain with other English people around, in which case she pretends to be French).' Olivia Knight - Barely Grasped Pictures
Olivia is a stunningly talented new writer. She crafts sentences that practically wrap you up in silk and dribble honey down your throat – which doesn’t mean she isn’t also completely filthy.

'This was it. Tonight. The biggest job of our short but so far quite illustrious career.' Sophie Mouette - Behind the Masque
Distracting a sexy security guard is just one of the perks of a jewel thief's job … or is it? Hot rocks, hot thieves, and even hotter sex!

'In ten minutes, the office would open. Claire sat ready at her desk, behind the window sprayed with photographs of clouds in blue skies.' Nikki Magennis - A Whole New City
Yes, that’s two stories from Nikki! She’s either a brilliant writer or a mucky little tart who’s had more than her share of casual sex. My money's on both.

'The bus station was lit up with colour, rain falling in yellow and orange drops, headlights fraying into the drizzle. I was trying to act natural, standing in the bus shelter like someone waiting for a bus.' Kristina Lloyd - Wet Walls
A journalist stalks a mysterious graffiti artist in surreal city streets.

I wrote this slightly odd story so I can tell you it was partly inspired by Edwardian supernatural and horror writer, Arthur Machen, partly by contemporary graffiti artist, Banksy. The picture of me here, acting coy against Banksy’s kissing policemen in Brighton, was taken around the time I wrote this story. And then some weird, nasty shit happened to the graffiti which made me very spooked indeed because it was as if the story I’d written had suddenly come true. But not in a good way. Sorry, I can't reveal any more than that because it will spoil the ending. Just read it ... and be afraid. Be very afraid.

I don’t know if this happens to other authors. It seems to keep happening to me. I write it, and it somehow comes true, and I have to ask myself: What am I? A writer or a witch? (Lusties, don’t even think about answering that one.) I really ought to harness this power and write a novel about, say, a woman being pursued by a randy football team, all David Beckham lookalikes. (Apart from the goalie, obviously. Goalies are always odd.) Plot spoiler: the final chapter takes place in the showers.

Of course, if you listen to any other of the Lust Biters, they’ll say I wrote the story because I’m obsessed with sex and seduction up against a wall, and they might have a point. Technically speaking, Wet Walls isn’t a classic of the Up Against The Wall genre (UATW is a genre, right?) but I’ve written others which are. Many, many others if you listen to Madelynne Ellis. (Don’t listen to her. She’s dangerous. She’ll tell you stuff about yourself you hardly knew.)

And if all this strangeness isn’t strange enough, click on this link for a mini excerpt from Portia Da Costa. Portia’s sex with strangers story, Eyes of Desire, will be published by epublishers, Phaze, in July and I’m guessing this is a Phazey first for Portia. No doubt we’ll hear more about it nearer the time. However, because I’m a witch, I can see into the future and read Portia’s first line. Here’s your sneak preview: “Good afternoon,” said the tall, blurred shape.

So, Sex with Strangers? Do you want it? Well, pop back tomorrow when I’ll be here to launch Lust Bites’ third whopping great giveaway contest. We’re giving away several Strangers (the book, silly), a delicious range of Alison Tyler edited smuttery and lots and lots of our hot, sexy novels.

I can hardly wait! But until then, I’d love to know your thoughts. What is it about strangers that makes them so damn appealing? And if you’re not fantasising about a stranger, who are you fantasising about? Your partner of 27 years? Ten Beckhams and a goalie? The guy in accounts? Do tell.

Also, what should I call my football novel?

And am I a witch?

By Mathilde Madden


Sex is a staple of comedy, from vicars and tarts to the filthiest 'blue' comics, from seaside postcards to the rather lovely Boyce and Statham and their dubious relationship in the Channel Four sitcom Green Wing. But how about going the other way (missus?) – how about comedy in erotica?

I used to be funny.
I used to be a stand up comic. I made a lot of jokes about sex. I had jokes about breast implants, jokes about male sexuality. I had a joke about fisting. (Get me drunk and I'll probably tell it.)

And actually, writing erotica and writing or performing comedy are very similar. In both case you are using nothing but words to create a physical reaction in your audience. You can never be sure if you've got it right. You can only do what you find funny or hot, but the way your audience react will soon let you know if you've hit the spot; be it the funny bone or somewhere lower down.

I think comedy and comic writing, if it's a skill you have, can be really useful tools in erotica and erotic romance. I'll explain here how I use them and how I think they can enhance the book. And you can chip in at the end and let me know if I've got it right.

Funny Boys
So the heroine and the hero finally fall into bed. Passion is rising. After 150 pages of bickering and unrequitedness and angst and conflict they're finally going to do it. And it's *hilarious*.

Yeah. So, I know. Sexy and funny don't always mix.

But a lot of women say the main thing they look for in a guy is a good sense of humour. So forget tall dark and handsome – for a really sexy hero give him a few good lines.

Actually though, why not make him gorgeous *and* sexy.

David in my book Equal Opportunities is a good example. He's a great looking guy. He's also in a wheelchair and, a lot of the time, he's pretty pissed off about that. But whiny self-pity isn't really attractive in a hero, even if - like David - they have lot to feel sorry about. So I gave David a strong sense of humour and a sardonic voice that could poke fun at his own problems without making them trivial.

In my second novel, Mad About the Boy, my heroine Sophie is torn between her long time boyfriend Rex and male escort Mark. Mark is absolutely gorgeous, and Rex, well, Rex is lanky with bright orange hair. But Rex is way sexier than Mark because Rex is, just, well, Rex.

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Rex parades into my sitting room, right on time, carrying a huge stack of dirty magazines.

'I have presents,' he says, answering my yet-to-be-asked-question, 'sleazy presents.' And the magazines drop from his arms onto my stripped floorboards, sliding over each other glossily, like a sort of naked-man-slick.

I pick up the nearest one. It's called Boy Time and it looks like a gay porno. 'Rex,' I say, brightly, turning the shiny prettiness over and over in my hands, 'do you have something to tell me?'

Rex laughs, shaking his head cheerily. 'Sadly not – I was still heterosexual last time I checked. But you know, if I had turned to the dark-side in the last twenty four hours, I so would tell you by throwing a pile of gay porn across your front room.'

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Funny Heroines
There is some debate about whether funny women are sexy. I've never had any complaints, but some female comics used to say it stopped them getting dates. But in erotic romance having a funny heroine can give her a sassy quality that means she doesn't take herself too seriously. In a book like my novel Peep Show, where the heroine is doing some fairly unethical things (spying on gay men having sex, using a photo of her own super-hot boyfriend so she can chat up gay guys online), giving her a sense of humour about them stops it all getting too seedy.

Here's a short example. Our heroine Imogen's take on her online beau Dark Knight's reaction to the photographs she sends him of her hot boyfriend Christian.

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Funny Stories
Sometimes comedy can be more than just a character. Sometimes a whole erotic story can be comical. In the upcoming Wicked Words collection Sex in Public, my story – Lust for Glory - is pretty much a comic romp. Albeit a romp through a world of glory holes and getting crushes on the men from Lost. But this is quite definitely a comic story as much as an erotic one.

It's from the heroine Lou's point of view and, as with Peep Show, the heroine needs a sassy voice because of some rather unethical behaviour (you'll have to read the story to find out just what) but this is the closest I've written to out and out erotic farce. And I like it.

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Funny Business
I was going to say here that I don't always write funny. But I do actually usually tend to get a little joke or funny line in somewhere. A recent story I wrote I thought was pretty straight until a crit partner told me how much he liked the little jokey line about the Christmas present. (I'll tell you where you can find that joke as soon as it's confirmed.)

So, I guess I always write a little light hearted, but when I read, I like allsorts. In fact I love angst and buckets of gore and abject misery. But, for my writing that's just not my style.

Course there's funny and there's funny. Nothing in erotica is worse than an unintentionally funny sex scene. You know that thing about having people laughing *with* you rather than *at* you? Never more important in funny erotica.

So, tell me, do you like your heroes funny or brooding? Are funny heroines sassy or just smart arse? Do you like comic scenes in your erotica, or does it break the mood? Do you want to laugh and squirm?

Should good erotica laugh you into bed?

Tilly aka Mathilde Madden