Fifty Shades of Grey is a stand-in phrase for sexually explicit writing and now a racy movie about power and pain… in high places. Very beautiful people playing with sex gadgets and tensioners, oh! so extreme. It’s a big shift from having incidental sex (spies, cops, criminals doing it between ‘important’ plot-advancing activity) to a film using the sex as a character, an energy.
I have always focused on the appetite for E.L. James’ trilogy rather than the taste level of it… wildfire sales gave me hope as an indie author-publisher that people remain curious in this video-porn-saturated world; they want romance and intrigue and details of seduction with illustrative outcomes of any such contact.
The problem with designating this or any other work “erotica” is that it requires a subjective sense of engagement to be moved by words. Sexotica qualifies on content alone: specifically, information about options and alternatives is presented. Turning you on isn’t the objective, increasing your knowledge and appreciation of sexuality is. Humans like to learn about things we’d never do (suck toes, chase a cheetah, fly a rocket…) but we are extra shy about our non-essential sexual curiosities. Remember, sodomy used to mean anything that didn’t make a ‘legitimate’ baby which disallowed pre-marital, extra-marital, anal, oral, manual and masturbatory release. It seems unseemly to ask for details on precisely how not to do those things specifically.
One reason the Fifty Shades movie will disappoint some viewers is because they won’t give over to it in a crowded theater. Put it online and it will go-go-go. Pretty pretty sex… in oh-so-faux perilous situations. Contrast it with Fatal Attraction making it dirty by framing sex in a dingy elevator and against a sink full of dishes. The beautiful and arch expression of peak physicality in the actors themselves puts a shine on a common enough man+woman encounter, statistically speaking. Maybe not at the sink but it isn’t about the sink.
I’m beckoning rowdier readers to request a sample book in exchange for a review. Only you can give us your reaction to the books. I write for folks who like the vernacular, the language is freewheeling. Focus remains on the inventiveness of the physiques and techniques in these mucho many vignettes and scenarios: the rundown and roundup of specificities in general.
If the idea of smart and sexy language sets you a’Twitter: @KathleenKxxx
I rode that sweet cunny like a desperado heading for his hide-out: crazy-wild getting there and unleashed when I knew I made it home.
from Honey B., The Buzz (Coming. Soon. Summer 2015) Honey B. is a sexual consultant who tells truer-that-true tales of a retired pay-to-play girl who turned to giving Frank advice about Dick. Sassy, sharp and seriously experienced, Honey advances the belief that sex is about learning. In Book IV of the quintet, it is the consorts and cohorts who tell us stories about her, what it meant to meet her, to interact, to (pretend) to dominate, to (actually) submit. Told in alternating explanations about the impact of her sexual intervention, and quicker snippets of encounters with an inventive, intelligent sex⇔love partner, The Buzz is another oddly thoughtful look at choices and strategies in the carnal markets.
Honey B., The Suite Life – Book I available now
Honey B., Sexual Consultant – Book II available now
Honey B., Erotic Advisor – Book III written, not yet in production
Honey B., The Buzz – Book IV in production
Honey B., Happy Endings – Book V written, not yet in production
She had her way with me, I presented myself for her ministrations without a single limiting request… who was I to tell a sexual artist what she must do to please me? I was not shy with my body but my feelings were sheltered deep inside. Piece by part by portion, she blended the tactile rush of her educated fingers with the whisper-kisses of entreaty. I withstood the call of her sex so she could push against my boundaries, the ones unspoken and thus most feared.
I cannot give away her secrets but I can share this moment: She’d got me standing at the edge of the bed upon which she is prone, her face at my groin, panties at her ankles. And she did this for me!
I never met an investigative reporter before, I hope this book idea works out because the world is full of surprises and Honey is one of them. I had lived half my life in a fog and one woman blew me clear into a whole new life. Opening my eyes to the desire for sex gave me a new outlook on existence.
I expected to go to yet another counselor with my husband Tony and try to figure out why we weren’t making our marriage work. I loved him and he loved me, and yet we bickered and fought over every little thing. We had done so much sensitivity training that we could hardly brush past each other in the hallway without attaching interpersonal significance to it, we had sex every night and worked at it doggedly until we were mutually satisfied.
Honey said, “For god’s sake, take a break. Quit fucking so much, you’re ruining your love life. You need more sleep and less sex.”
Tony’s jaw dropped. We were not used to being criticized for our sexual endurance. Most counselors reassured us that our continued sessions of orgasmic-at-all-costs intercourse held us together. Honey disagreed because we spent too much time at it. We were in a sexual rut. I thought marriage was symbolized in sex and that our commitment to daily exchange of sex would ward off all evils that threaten marriage. What Honey did was simple as pie. She let us see ourselves differently. We went on a sex diet.
For three days in a row we went to bed, kissed goodnight, and rolled over. The extra hour of sleep helped us start the day easier. We could take time to have breakfast together and plan the day. The fourth night we made love so fast that we didn’t miss much sleep. Three more days without sex and we planned a feast. We took a bath together, we ate each other to orgasm, we had dinner, we made love.
I hadn’t been so horny in a long time. We had broken our old pattern after two weeks of this and then Tony suggested to try two days off, one on, because the rapid-after-waiting sex was intensely exciting for him. He loved how quickly I got ready for him to enter me, I was flattered that the first sight of my body aroused him. We feasted on each other on Friday nights, and sometimes we snuck a fuck on Saturday afternoon but we were being naughty then and it didn’t take much to knock us out.
The other counselors did not understand sex as well as Honey did and although these other people offered reasonable methods for improving our interpersonal communications, it took a sexualist like Honey to give us a boost toward truer love and deeper sex.
Once we got past our scheduling problems, we looked more closely at the components of our pleasure. I was re-taught how to handle Tony’s penis by watching him whack himself off. I learned to close my hand around it like a tube, not intended as a vise; visualizing the pliant vagina for which it longed; I learned to get rhythmic and repetitive so he could focus on the sensation and intensify it mentally – I had been changing my strokes too often and too radically. I quit laying next to him to do it (the angle was all wrong). I sat on the edge of the bed and he stood before me, I used two hands to scoop his cock and balls into an orgasmic storm so he could splash my chest with his cum.
Tony took pointers on eating me; we discovered I preferred to include a dildo in the act because I loved the penetration. As eager as he was to tongue me, and as much as I liked to be nuzzled as foreplay, in fact it took a thick stick to fill me the way I wanted. I got so wet from this that it was embarrassing to me at first until I understood that the lubrication was sexy to Tony, he thought of me slicked up for his dick.
I thought I’d never think about sex again after Tony died, we had been so in tune and it was such a physical love – then I took out our dildo and I filled myself with memories. I didn’t realize how good it was for me to do this until I started weeping after my orgasm: I was wide open, like I used to be, like Tony encouraged me to be. Like Honey presumed we intended to be all along. I remembered our love was expressed through desire and I could still feel that.
The cleft of her ass started at her nape and moved along her supple spine, punctuated by two little dimples notched like thumb-holds at her hips. Even now I can position my hands as if hauling her back up against me, remembering her fleshy ass yielding to the command in my fingers. I could just about control myself when she was facing away, her fine rump bumping me back. Still couldn’t face her, didn’t think I ever would. This dog style humping was all I deserved.