Within erotic fiction, the genre is constantly struggling against the restrictions imposed by societal taboos.  The three classic taboos in the genre are: incest, bestiality and underage relationships.  There are other taboos.  Non-consensual sex is a no-no.  Scatological sex is unwelcomed by most publishers (certainly, as written material, I’m not sure what most publishers get up to in the privacy of their own boardrooms).  Necrophilia comes under the heading of ‘illegal activities.’  The list could go on.  And it does.

And I mention it here because I’ve known publishers refuse fairy tale stories because, thematically, the idea broaches dangerous territory between adult material and that aimed for a younger audience.

This is, of course, all bullshit. 

It’s bullshit for several reasons.  If no one ever wrote about incest we would never have had a story like Wuthering Heights.  If no one touched on bestiality or necrophilia the concept behind the Twilight novels would be dead in the water.  If we all adhered to the strict rule regarding non-consensual sex, it would be near-on impossible to write a BDSM story of reluctant submission.

And, when publishers have told me that ‘fairy stories are for children, and erotica is for adults,’ I have bristled with righteous indignation at the stupidity of that notion. 

Historically, fairy stories are NOT for children.  Fairy tales are an integral part of our history of storytelling.  Stories have been in existence since before we began to learn to write or read.  The oral tradition of narratives (oral, as in spoken – not oral as in the fun way) has been an integral part of our literary heritage.  Camp elders would sit around tribal fires, mesmerizing audiences with stories that broached fantastic subjects and reinforced important moral and philosophical points.  These were the original fairy stories and they were never intended for children. 

Unfortunately, some publishers are too stupid to be aware of this distinction.  Fortunately, Spice Books and Alison Tyler seem to understand that fairy tales have always been intended for adults.

Not that Alison Tyler is alone in this understanding.  She’s managed to find more than two-dozen authors who share her kinky sense of fun.  In Alison’s Wonderland there are twenty-seven scintillating stories of fairy-tale shenanigans to set your red shoes tapping and make you wonder what might happen if you go down to the woods today. 

It should be noted here that, in excess of 100,000 words, Alison’s Wonderland is the largest collection of erotic stories that Alison Tyler has ever published.  It should also be noted that this one, possibly more than any other, contains some of the most celebrated names in the world of erotic fiction.

The collection opens with Nikki Magennis’s “The Red Shoes (Redux).”  Nikki Magennis is the author of Circus Excite and The New Rakes, and far too many short stories for me to list here.  “The Red Shoes (Redux)” is characteristic of her style for making the commonplace uncommonly sexy, and delivering sultry, poetic prose. 

This is quickly followed by Shanna Germain’s “Fools Gold”: a clever riff on the old story of “Rumpelstiltskin,” and Sommer Marsden’s witty re-imagining of a classic story with “The Three Billys.” Germain writes raw sex appeal that consistently excites and satisfies.  Marsden excels at blending humour and hedonism in this contemporary revisit to classical territory.  Both authors contribute to the superb quality of this collection and make it easy to brand the book as unputdownable.

The fairy queen in Portia Da Costa’s “Unveiling His Muse” reminds us that Da Costa has always had a command of short fiction despite her recent years producing novels.  In “Unveiling His Muse” she combines narrative and sexual tension to an incredible erotic effect.

And, in “Managers and Mermen,” Donna George Storey (author of Amorous Woman and innumerable erotic shorts) shows that she possesses an unrivalled mastery of erotic fantasy. 

This collection is a have-to-have anthology for every connoisseur of erotic fiction.  The table of contents reads like a who’s who of contemporary erotic writing and the quality of the stories in unsurpassable.  If you don’t already own Alison’s Wonderland, rush out and buy the book now.  This is one that you’re going to treasure for a long, long time as you enjoy your happily ever afters.

My knowledge of Japanese culture has never extended much beyond sushi, karaoke and bukake, and all three of those leave a fishy taste in my mouth. I suppose it’s my own fault for choosing to sing tracks from "The Little Mermaid" when I go to a local karaoke night.

In my youth I did once think of visiting Japan. I was going to go with a girlfriend but we eventually decided against the plan because she was a large lady. A very large lady. The main worry that stopped us from going was the fear that, as soon as her elephantine feet started clomping through central Tokyo, the Japanese authorities might mistake her for Godzilla and start shooting at her with tanks.

That relationship didn’t work out for three reasons. She kept saying I was insensitive to her weight issues and she claimed I never listened to what she was saying. I can’t remember if she told me the third reason.

But, I only mention these points to show that my knowledge of Japan had never stretched much further than bukake and Godzilla. (Please note that reference there was to Godzilla AND bukake as two separate events – not Godzilla performing or receiving bukake, which would be surreal at best and possibly a little disconcerting. Although it might suggest the terror in the actors’ eyes when they all screamed, “Godzilla is coming! Godzilla is coming!”)

However, Donna George Storey’s Amorous Woman has helped me bridge some of my ignorance of all things Eastern.

For those of you who follow erotic fiction, the name of Donna George Storey will already be familiar. Donna is a mistress in the art of the short story and has been in more anthologies than the word copyright. Donna’s shorts are renowned for being hot, exciting and invariably blend intelligent storytelling with sexually arousing subject matter. Amorous Woman is Donna’s first novel length exploration of erotic fiction.

And it’s a bloody good read.

For those of you who don’t know Donna, she is a talented American author who has always had a penchant for Japanese culture. This affection comes across powerfully in Amorous Woman, a story that has its roots passionately thrust into Japan’s civilised heritage. The amorous woman of the novel’s title is an inter-textual reference to Ihara Saikaku’s seventeenth century fantasies of a Japanese courtesan-turned-nun. Donna brings this story up to date with her protagonist (Lydia) who isn’t quite a courtesan but is a long way from being a nun.

The first thing that struck me about this book is the fact that the author is maddeningly clever. The eloquence of Donna’s writing matches the elegant style of Japanese culture (as it is probably perceived by those who aren’t boorish bukake/karaoke/Godzilla louts). As I mentioned before, I’ve previously encountered Donna’s work in her wonderful short stories. Amorous Woman is similarly presented in a series of short and manageable chapters which, despite their brevity, are each exciting, arousing and carry the narrative along with startling swiftness.

And it’s definitely a narrative worth pursuing. Lydia, teaches Japanese culture to American businessmen. Lydia knows her subject inside and out. And Lydia enjoys teaching and learning. The story begins when Lydia is indulging in a little tsukiai, the Japanese custom of bonding over drinks after work, with two of her American businessmen students. As she relates her intimate history to them, we get to learn about some of this remarkable heroine’s fantastic adventures.

The central theme of this Bildungsroman story is maturation and the passing of innocence to experience. Donna cleverly works this tale so we can see her heroine maturing, but we’re always wondering if she has finally grown up.

As I said before, Amorous Woman is beautifully executed. The text is accessible and easy to read, but it carefully mimics the ritualised politeness of so many familiar elements of Japanese culture. From the carefully worded section headers, ("A Dancing Girl of Easy Virtue," "A Monk’s Wife in a City of Worldly Temptations" and "Lusts of Learned Men" – to name three of my favourites) to the skilfully recreated scenes of passion (there are too many of these to name favourites) the inherent politeness of the Orient is effortlessly woven throughout the fabric of this enchanting story. The end result is as exquisitely economical with words as the most well-written haiku; as cultured and civilised as the most ritualised tea ceremony; and as satisfying as the most gifted geisha.

Lydia’s progression from naive student, to experienced sensei is carefully catalogued and, although Donna clearly knows her Japanese culture, there is never one place where she leaves the reader behind or patronises with her skilfully worded translation for an unfamiliar term.
If your knowledge of Japanese culture could do with a little stretching, or if you simply enjoy well-written erotica, you won’t go far wrong with meeting this “Amorous Woman.”

Sex and the sea have always had a strong association with each other, and not just because of the fishy smell.

I went on a cruise recently and I have to admit there was something inherently arousing about the whole experience. I’d watched "Titanic" before embarking on the journey. Watching apposite disaster movies before travelling is a superstitious ritual that I perform before trying any new form of transportation. I’ll sit through "Final Destination Two" before I go on a long car journey. I have to watch "Cast Away" (for the aeroplane scene) before I take a flight. And I needed to watch "Titanic" before I set foot onboard our holiday cruise liner.

And the movie turned out to be an informative experience. I learnt that the correct term for my accommodation was “steerage.” I played that game Kate Winslett taught to Leonardo DiCaprio (where you spit on the heads of people walking on lower decks) and thought it was a little like “Pooh Sticks” but with phlegm and irate sailors.

And I discovered that the reality of the sea is just as sexy as its Hollywood and fictional counterparts. Obviously "Titanic" was a sexy movie (Kate Winslett spits, Leonardo DiCaprio goes down, etc) all of which is only mentioned for cheap gags and to confirm my original assertion that the sea and ocean travel are incredibly sexy.

Which is probably why R.V. Raiment starts Aphrodite Overboard on a boat. There are few things more sexually exciting than the anticipation of travel, the thrill of exploring new shores, and the old world charm that comes from using such an anachronistic mode of transportation.

Technically, Aphrodite Overboard doesn’t actually start onboard a boat. The framed narrative presents the manuscript as having been found in the bottom of a sea chest, the personal memoirs of Susanna, Lady F, offered to the reader by one of the protagonist’s forebears. But the story proper begins in Chapter the First, when Susanna encounters “an ugly little man and an ugly little ship.” And, as this beginning sets the stylish tone for the remainder of the narrative, it seems appropriate to mention the nautical theme.

Not that Aphrodite Overboard is all about sailors and seamen. The first chapter includes a ship going down, Susanna getting rescued, Susanna going down, and then Susanna finding refuge on an idyllic tropical island. Which is where her adventures really start.

And I really have to ask at this point: what’s not to love about this book?

There is something innately endearing about the style of a Victorian novel. Usually, the inherent charm comes from learning to hear the distinctive timbre of the narrator’s voice and that’s an absolute delight with this story. The pleasure of that artifice is invariably compounded in erotic novels of that period as the reader is politely introduced to the very unvictorian concept of the characters possessing genitalia and daring to break societal protocols by doing things with them. And, R.V. Raiment has kept true to the period language in this story by chatting freely about bubbies, cunnies and manhoods.

That last sentence is probably a little misleading. R.V. Raiment doesn’t “chat freely” about those various parts of the anatomy. Each time Susanna refers to a cunny or a manhood, R.V Raiment has written the prose so eloquently you can almost hear those forbidden words being whispered naughtily from behind a discreet hand covering the lips of his narrator. It is probably this secretly prurient voice that lends the story its authentic feel and inescapable charm.

Now, call me old fashioned and remind me I need to get a life but, if I was ever sad enough to compile a list of my favourite words, “cunnie” would be somewhere near the top. Compared to its contemporarily more popular etymological cousin, “cunnie” lacks the harsh and vulgar sound of “cunt.” Cunnie is almost sufficiently twee and inoffensive to be the name a small child would give to a pet hamster.

“I had two hamsters as a child: Bubbies and Cunnie.” (Actually, this isn’t true. My pet hamsters were called Funbags and Minge, but I’m sure I would have been a happier pet owner if they had been called Bubbies and Cunnie.)

None of which has much to do with Aphrodite Overboard but I mention it because the language in this book is so thoroughly entertaining.

As I said before, R V Raiment has cleverly packaged this epistolary tale as the fresh found memoirs of a long lost grandparent. Susanna’s manuscript is filled with the typical twists and turns of the Victorian novel. But the work is written by a contemporary author with more than enough wit and style to keep the narrative interesting and compelling for a modern day reader. The sex scenes are arousing and extremely well written. Even as the story progresses toward its denouement, and the bump-and-grind should have become dull or commonplace, Susanna’s distinctive voice maintains the shocked innocence and wonder that seems quite proper for the tone of this time period.

The story opens with Susanna’s own introduction to her memoirs:

“I begin, knowing that what I write may never be read…”

I only repeat this line because I think it would be a terrible shame for any aficionado of the eloquence and artistry of Victorian erotica to not read Aphrodite Overboard.

The metaphoric symbolism of werewolves and vampires has been analysed to oblivion by contemporary society.  Werewolves, with their monthly cycle of personality changes and their ability to transform into something unrecognisable, represent the dilemma of being human yet still behaving like an animal.  Vampires, defined by a love of the night, an exchange of bodily fluids, and an aversion to religious symbolism, represent the attractive freedom offered by sexual irresponsibility.  Consequently, it should come as no surprise that when these archetypical characters appear in the same work of fiction, conflict ensues.

Maybe it’s because I’m a dog lover but I can’t bring myself to dislike werewolves.  Even when a werewolf is ripping out a virgin’s throat in a movie, I still keep thinking, “He’s just being a bit playful.  Tap him lightly on the nose and tell him, if he keeps doing that, he won’t get any Scooby Snacks.  Then give him a tummy rub and see if he’s got a waggy tail.” 

Vampires are another thing.  Vampires embody excitement and sexual freedom.  In erotic horror they epitomise the lust in blood lust.  In contemporary horror fiction it’s easy to see the threat presented by the vampire is analogous to the danger of sexual irresponsibility.  Fuck without a condom and the exchange of bodily fluids endangers the frailty of human mortality.  Fuck with a vampire and run a similar risk of personal catastrophe. 

So, what happens when vampires and werewolves come together in the same story?

Well, in “Peacemaker,” the first story in Paige E Roberts’ Bare Throat, Naked Hunger, the conflict seems pretty well established before the start of the story.  “Peacemaker”begins in media res, with a protagonist werewolf trying to get away from the human and non-human animals in the concrete jungle, to return to more familiar turf with plenty of trees and she-wolves.  What starts as a simple tale of boy meets girl (or dog meets bitch) is complicated by the arrival of werewolf hunters.  The potential relationship is further jeopardised when the hero discovers that the she-wolf of his dreams is also part vampire.

Bare Throat, Naked Hunger is efficiently written and should please fans of erotic paranormal fantasy fiction.  Paige E Roberts is able to expand on the established vampire and werewolf myths and build fantasy worlds that are richly coloured and multi-layered and cry out to be explored further.  In fact, if I had to make one criticism against this book, it would be that all of the stories left me wanting more.  This is not to say that Roberts’ stories are not complete, or lack sufficient elements of horror or eroticism.  This is my way of saying that each story in this anthology could have been the first chapter for a novella or novel.  Roberts creates entire mythological universes, builds characters that fit within these unreal environments, and introduces the reader to one small aspect of their world. 

This is illustrated most strongly in “Peacemaker,” where the tribes of skinwalkers (werewolves) are introduced to the reader, along with their history and the bleak outlook for their future.  After such an immense creative effort in building this fantasy universe, Roberts could have expanded on this story to produce an epic work that explored more corners of this universe. 

A similar criticism could be made against “In Service Immortal,” the second story in this anthology.  “In Service Immortal” is the tale of a simple man and his devotion to a very special monarch.  The symbolism of mythic fantasy and vampirism is skilfully worked into the narrative.  The story is effective, erotic and entertaining.  And, again, it would have stood well as the first chapter in a much longer story. 

The phrase “good editor” is something of an oxymoron.  It’s a little like saying “honest lawyer” or “rap music.”  The two words just don’t sit naturally together and, when they are combined, they produce something that clearly cannot be true. 

Not that I’m trying to say all editors are bad. 

I’m sure not all of them are into sacrificing baby goats, deflowering virgins, painting bloody pentagrams on consecrated ground or demanding first-born children.  DLK at Erotica Revealed is surprisingly charming for an editor and I’ve never once seen her involved in a satanic ritual invoking diabolical forces in her attempt to claim mastery of the universe’s blackest powers. 

I’ve not seen that once.

Yet many of the editors I’ve worked with have had sides to their personalities that are most kindly described as maniacally evil.  The merciless way I’ve had copy butchered; the masochistic manner in which royalty cheques have been withheld, lost or neglected; and the downright deviant exploitation of my naïve authorial innocence has invariably been exacerbated through my contact with editors.

And it’s not just my personal experiences that make me think editors have a sinister influence on our society.  Hitler only turned into a scum-sucking piece of evil sputum after writing Mein Kampf.  I’d wager, if that book had been published without an editor, Hitler would have simply continued a banal existence as a petty criminal, bad moustache-grower, and mediocre house painter.  However, through his contact with an editor, he went on to form The Third Reich. 

Spiderman’s arch nemeses usually have the full support of newspaper editor J. Jonah Jameson.  Is that a coincidence?  I don’t think so. 

Clark Kent had to endure the orders of that despicably evil fucker Perry White.  (I’m aware that most readers don’t perceive Perry White to be inherently evil but I can foresee a long-ranging story arc that shows he is either Beelzebub or the Son of Satan.  How else could you explain his recovery from lung cancer?)

But, as I (hopefully) mentioned earlier, not all editors are evil.  Some of them (especially those I’ve worked with over the past few months) are wonderful, charming people and it’s been an honour to work with them.  And, while the phrase “good editor” does remain something of an oxymoron, I have to use it here: Basketball Bonnie and Other Erotic Stories could have used the services of a good editor.

There’s nothing intrinsically wrong with this book.  In the tradition of the Victorian erotic novel it contains short stories from a distinctly male perspective that would make a contemporary feminist want to burn her pubes in protest.  The writing is conversational in style but the plot exposition is so belaboured and obvious it’s often hard to engage interest with the fiction.  Whilst going through this book I found myself reading on because the writing had the ghoulish appeal of driving past a car wreck.  I didn’t have any real desire to know what was going on but some twisted and macabre need inside me compelled me to keep looking.
This extract from “Checkmate” illustrates what I mean.

“Daisy took me by the hand and said, ‘Come, my dear, over to the bed. The floor is too hard. You know what I want. And I’ve wanted it for a long while. The arguments I initiated with you were just a pretense. I wanted you all along, but I didn’t want to make Hazel feel bad. I have been pretending to be indifferent to you.’
‘Well, the feeling has been mutual with me.’ I said. ‘Our arguments were superficial and really a kind of sexual expression.’”

Checkmate also contains a layman’s introduction to the game of chess, the sort of anecdotal sexual description one would expect from a drunken college student who’s trying to disprove accusations of virginity, and dialogue (as illustrated above) that is so wooden it could give splinters to Pinnochio. 
But it’s not just the dialogue that makes this book so special.  The description of sexual intimacy is one of the key factors in erotic fiction.  Any decent author of erotica, with or without the help of a good editor, can produce intense scenes of passion that balance graphic description with literary integrity. This is part of what follows the previous extract from “Checkmate”.

“Daisy gripped me with her vaginal muscles and treated me to a round of snapping pussy. She was good and I came off deliciously. She enjoyed a strong orgasm and, shuddering, she blacked out.”

The eponymous heroine of Basketball Bonnie is named Basketball Bonnie not because of her interest in recreational sports: “Her marvellous chest inspired her name, although the persons she encountered never called her Basketball Bonnie to her face.” 

As I said before: Basketball Bonnie and Other Erotic Short Stories is not a bad book.  It’s just not one I could honestly recommend, except to illustrate how one should not write fiction – erotic or otherwise.  The writing has the feel of Victorian erotica with all the wordy, conversational and misogynistic humour one would expect from that period.  It’s easy to consider such a style dated in this age of equality, tight-writing, subtlety and authorial competence but it would be wrong of me to suggest that this book was past its sell-by-date before it hit the shelves.  It just needed the services of a good editor. 

I also think the involvement of a competent author might have helped.

Best Lesbian Erotica ’09 is to be the final collection of lesbian-focused erotica to come from under Tristan Taormino’s editorship.  Taormino founded the Best Lesbian Erotica series back in 1995 and has repeatedly thrilled readers with short stories from a collection of gifted writers who can best be described as world-class.  Best Lesbian Erotica ’09 is no exception and, once again, she presents an anthology of stories that are hot, heady and filled with all the thrills that readers have come to expect.

The anthology kicks off with Jean Casse’s splendid story “The Virgin of G.”  “The Virgin of G” explores a relationship between a couple from different religious backgrounds.  Ordinarily religion can drive a couple apart but Jean Casse uses it in this vibrant and vivid story to bring her protagonists closer together.

Lisabet Sarai’s “Velvet” is a wicked tale of attraction and satisfaction at a software convention.  Lisabet has the ability to bring her characters to life and present them in glorious and rich detail.  This story of headhunting, seduction and burgeoning romance is as typically exquisite as is to be expected from the divine Lisabet.

The inimitable Shanna Germain, “On Snow-White Wings,” is equally capable when it comes to pushing all the right buttons.  “On Snow-White Wings” is the bittersweet story of love found and lost and replaced by hope.  Powerful writing.

Jean Roberta does not usually approach her erotic scenes in a way that can be described as “gingerly.”  However, with her excellent story, “The Placement of Modifiers,” it’s fair to use that word as a vague description without giving too much away.

Teresa Noelle Roberts’, “Tough Enough to Wear a Dress,” reveals a tender story that remains hot and horny whilst addressing the artificial differences we all employ through our choice of clothes. 

The thing that always startles me with these collections is that they are such an undiscovered talent of treasure.  I have had many friends say to me, “Why are you reading a book of lesbian erotica when you’re not a lesbian?”  (NB – They don’t use these exact words.  I’m paraphrasing for the sake of clarity).

Most of the people I’ve encountered (that is, those people who haven’t read any of the Best Lesbian Erotica anthologies) assume that the stories within are either a collection of lurid masturbatory fantasies or a canon of extreme feminist propaganda.

The truth is, the Best Lesbian Erotica series is (and has always been) a collection of outstanding stories told by outstanding storytellers.  It’s true that the focus is on lesbian relationships and the erotic content is invariably arousing.  It’s also true that the stories lend themselves to positive feminist criticism because the absence of traditional male roles in these erotic stories leads to a direct usurpation of the stereotypical male taking over his supreme position in the narrative’s patriarchal hegemony.  But that doesn’t mean the anthologies are nothing more than lurid sex stories.  And no honest connoisseur of these collections could dismiss them as pro-feminist propaganda.

If you’re unfamiliar with Best Lesbian Erotica, rush out now and order your copy.  If you are familiar with the series, convert a friend by buying them the latest edition.  Good storytelling is always an absolute.  Good storytelling transgresses the arbitrary conventions of typical gender roles.  Best Lesbian Erotica ‘09 shows exactly what good storytelling looks like.

There is an awful lot contained within the pages of Best Lesbian Erotica ’09.  This is a wonderful collection of girl-on-girl stories that will warm the winter for every reader and start 2009 with a very enjoyable bang.  The only problem I can see is that Taormino has raised the bar pretty high for when Kathleen Warnock takes over this series with Best Lesbian Erotica ’10.

It’s hard to believe that it’s been five years since Marcy Sheiner published the first Best of Best Women’s Erotica.  “Best of the Best” is one hell of an accolade to foist upon anyone’s shoulders and I honestly don’t envy Violet Blue having to judge which stories from the Best Women’s Erotica series should be placed in the compilation title Best of Best Women’s Erotica.  Yet Ms Blue has managed this task with style and aplomb and I can’t see any stories in this collection that don’t deserve such elevated praise.

The collection is prefaced by a highly personal introduction from the editor, which is as arousing and well-paced as any of the stories included.  It then moves onto Rachel Kramer Bussel’s “Animals”: a tour-de-force encounter that celebrates the physicality of sex in a powerhouse rush of literate erotica.  This is followed by Kristina Wright’s “Call Me,” an obscene phone call that successfully uses dialogue to impart conflicting ideals of taboo-breaking and arousal.  And then there’s Teresa Noelle Roberts’ “Voice of an Angel” which imbues a deliciously unreal sexuality and passion to baroque opera.

I could go on, listing author after author, and producing an incredibly dull review that is the antithesis to an incredibly exciting collection.  Instead, I want to focus on two stories that highlight the diversity of this anthology whilst illustrating its phenomenal power to consistently arouse.  The titles are “Heat” by Elizabeth Coldwell, and  “Chill” by Kathleen Bradean.

“Heat” is a story of sultry, smoldering passions.  Coldwell writes with graphic intensity that hurtles the reader toward the satisfying conclusion of this sweat-fuelled fantasy.  The simmering tension between the central characters is exemplified by the following extract:

When I think of Ian, I think of heat.  The heat of the sticky days of summer and sweaty sheets.  The heat of the flame that draws in the moth.  The heat of passion, and shame.  I think of that sultry August night, and the things he did tome, and I still hate him—and I still want him.

Coldwell’s story is written to inflame.  The story produces a warmth of welcome arousal as well as the uncomfortable glow of embarrassment.  It’s an erotic encounter that many will find reminiscent of tasting forbidden fruits: a discovery that the flavor is so delicious it should be forbidden.

This contrasts with Bradean’s treatment of arousal in “Chill.”  Here the story dwells on a single and uncommon fetish.  The fetish, as suggested by the title, includes an extensive use of ice cubes and an emotional distancing that enhances the story’s powerful premise.

It wasn’t healthy, this thing, this need.  I’d go for months without it, and then I’d be on the phone with a client, or at dinner with friends, and I’d yearn for the cold.  Thinking about it would make my breasts ache.  I’d cross and uncross my legs, and fidget in my chair.  Sometimes, I’d take an ice cube from my drink, put it into my mouth, and excuse myself to the ladies room, where I’d rub the cube against my clit until I came.  Then I’d smooth down my clothes and take my seat, and no one would ever guess.  But it was never a really good orgasm.  It was a shadow, a knockoff, a little something to see me through.

Bradean’s use of language is as cold and clinical as the fetish that drives her protagonist.  The story employs such intense description it blends the heat of arousal with the chill of the fetish, accumulating in unprecedented peaks and troughs of physicality.

And I mention these two stories because they show the perfect balance Violet Blue has achieved in this anthology—selecting stories that can warm the reader, or chill them to the core—without losing sight of the focus that these stories are written to arouse.

There are other stories in this collection, and a collection of respected names from the genre including Kristina Lloyd, Donna George Storey and Kay Jaybee, all of whom deserve their place in a collection entitled Best of Best.  If you don’t regularly subscribe to the annual collection of Best Women’s Erotica, you’d be foolish to miss out on the Best of Best Women’s Erotica 2.

According to the introduction of Violet Blue’s Best Women’s Erotica 2010, editing anthologies is a lot like professionally tasting chocolate.  I can embrace this opinion because I’ve worked with some editors who seem equipped with nothing more than the skill to masticate, and most of those types often appear to have a mouth that’s filled with brown stuff. 

Not that all editors are like that.  I can name at least three I’ve worked with who aren’t like that.  Four, if you include Violet Blue with whom I don’t think I’ve worked, but who has always struck me as a dedicated and competent professional.  And Violet Blue’s Best Women’s Erotica 2010 shows (as always) that she is capable of producing a world -class anthology of high octane erotica brimmed to bursting with exciting explicit fiction.

Alison Tyler’s “In a Handbasket” is a witty tale of ostensibly mismatched lovers finally finding each other.  Kay Jaybee’s “Equipment” is a raunchy yarn of one woman switching roles on her partner.  Emerald in “Shift Change” is tempted by an Apple and shows that computer repairs are not always interminable drudgery.  I could go on and praise the abilities of Sommer Marsden, Angela Caperton, Kristina Lloyd or Rachel Kramer Bussel and a host of other sensational authors.  This really is a wonderful anthology of highly-charged stories that are filled with surprises, sex and scintillating scenarios.  

So, call me a curmudgeon, but I always wrinkle my nose with disapproval when I see the words ‘women’s erotica’ on the cover of an anthology.  Don’t get me wrong.  There’s nothing else annoying about the title.  The word ‘best’ deserves its place.  The date 2010 (even though I’m reviewing this title at the arse end of 2009) is close enough to be accurate.  But I have to shake my head with dismay at the words “women’s erotica” and wonder if this isn’t an anachronistic holdover from an antiquated age.

As I say, the stories in this anthology deserve the word “best” because they’re all bloody good.  But why do we need to differentiate between ‘women’s erotica’ and other erotica?  (Notice there that I didn’t say “men’s erotica.”  There are no titles out there that I can find that market themselves as ‘men’s erotica.’  There are some books listed as ‘erotica for men’ but that is semantically and pragmatically different.  Presumably the reason there is no ‘men’s erotica’ is because it’s a known fact that men can usually tug off to nothing more erotic than the memory of partially glimpsed underwear in a launderette).  But referring to a collection of world-class erotic stories as “women’s erotica”strikes me as labeling for no good reason. 

In the publishing world it was once commonplace for people to discuss “women’s fiction” as a separate genre.  The term referred disparagingly to romantic stories, usually with ubiquitous purple prose and an obligatory “Happily Ever After.”  The term was seldom used as compliment and even Ms Blue, in her introduction to BWE 2010, suggests that the sight of too much florid euphemism is enough to send her heading to Harlequin HQ with a pitchfork, a can of gasoline and a road flare. Which makes it all the more puzzling as to why the term “women’s erotica” is so warmly embraced. 

Could it be that this collection is only for women?  Admittedly, the possessive ‘s’ in the title would suggest as much (in the same vein as the words women’s clothes in clothing stores and women’s studies in academic disciplines) but I personally think this is unlikely.  I thoroughly enjoyed reading BWE 2010 and I’m guilty of being very male.  I’m so male I drink beer, never go shoe-shopping and drive a Ford with a stick-shift.  That’s how very male I am.  If I had any interest in competitive televised sports I’d be exceptionally male but I can only honestly carry a stereotype so far. 

Admittedly,  the stories in BWE 2010 have all been written by women, but does the author’s gender ever make a difference to the style or quality of the story?  Literary theorist and philosopher Roland Barthes famously said, “the author is dead.”  Barthes assertion has been used predominantly in literary criticism to indicate appraisal of a text from the reader’s interaction solely with the words, rather than a mystical relationship between the reader and the distant (and invariably unknowable) author.  It’s an attitude that makes sense to me.  It also circumvents issues of whether the author is a man, woman or kangaroo. 

A few short years ago no one would have conceived that computer games could be considered sexy. The idea of a person sitting alone, wiggling their fingers and enjoying some form of erotic stimulus wasn’t unheard of. But it didn’t apply to computer games.

Of course, if you’re still thinking of computer games in terms of Tetris or Pac Man, then you’re not going to think they are erotic. Yes, there is the satisfaction of filling an appropriate gap with your four square length in Tetris. But, if you get an erection while you’re doing this, it suggests you have serious social problems. Similarly, anyone who has found it that Pac Man “lives to swallow,” is certainly playing these games for the wrong reasons and should possibly seek professional guidance.

However, the advent of superior graphics technology, and the popularity of the RPG (Role Playing Game), are bringing contemporary reality closer to the fantastical premise that is core to the story within Samantha Brook’s Brought to Heel.

Ostensibly Brought to Heel is a story of female domination and male submission or, as it’s usually called, marriage. Josh is a nerdy computer programmer who likes dominant women. Cindy is a dominant woman who likes Josh. This marriage made in heaven is presented as an uber-erotic entanglement. Josh happily consents to becoming Cindy’s matrimonial whipping boy. Cindy happily consents to do the whipping. With the help of her workmates from the hospital, and an eclectic combination of friends and acquaintances, Cindy treats Josh to a tour de force of male submission and female domination that could be construed as any computer-besotted nerd’s "Final Fantasy."

One of the main problems with stories in fem dom/male sub genre is the tenuous balance between naughtiness and nastiness. A certain level of trust needs to be developed between characters before she can stamp on his balls and spit in his mouth without the scene coming across as a pastiche of exploitative cruelty. Samantha Brooks has managed this tightrope walk with consummate skill. Josh willingly surrenders to Cindy’s dominant nature and the balance of consensual naughtiness is consistently maintained throughout the novel.

It’s not an easy trick. The psychology of the characters in this story is complicated and, as in real life, sometimes downright contradictory. Josh is naturally submissive but this doesn’t mean he’s a weak person. Contrarily, he is strong enough to recognise his need for a dominant woman and sufficiently confident to allow her to assume full control of his life. Cindy is naturally dominant but she does not automatically assume the masterful role of being Josh’s mistress. Samantha balances Cindy’s natural desire to dominate with a pragmatic understanding that contemporary society won’t readily accept a woman with so much control over her man.

Although Cindy doesn’t vacillate as much as other stereotypical fem dom heroines (such as the annoyingly indecisive Wanda from Venus in Furs) she does show a degree of reluctance that comes across as a natural and necessary prudence. However, once she does consent to be the master of Josh’s destiny, the story becomes charged with a powerful eroticism.

Tension is brought in when Cindy introduces new characters to the relationship, adding to Josh’s excitement, developing erotic interest in their adventure, as well as satisfying her own carnal needs.

Samantha Brooks creation of Cindy is surprisingly well-drawn. Again, this is a difficult feat within the fem dom/male sub genre because the psychology of such heroines is surprisingly complex. Cindy comes across as domineering and bullying in her relationship with Josh. She keeps him in his place and controls his life with the authority of a woman born to rule. And yet she is also willing to surrender herself to other men either in the pursuit of her own gratification, or to remind her husband of his inferior status.

Ordinarily the juxtaposition of a dominant woman sexually surrendering to any man can come across as contrived or unconvincing. But Samantha manages this difficult narrative technique by repeatedly focussing on Josh’s humiliation through Cindy’s infidelity and his own exaggerated status as a cuckold.

Brought to Heel is a very contemporary story that revisits an erotic fantasy dating back to Chaucer and beyond. Samantha Brooks presents a neatly told tale, unflinching in her presentation of the domination and humiliation, with a clever twist at the denouement. If you like your men strong enough to serve and surrender, and your women weak enough to willingly wield the whip, Brought to Heel has to be this summer’s reading.

I have to admit I'm still reeling over the demise of Black Lace.  One moment the UK boasts a prestigious publishing house of superlative erotic fiction, written by women and written for women.  The next moment, the doors are being metaphorically closed and the publisher is explaining that the list will be closed for at least twelve months.  Knowledgeable industry insiders have already pointed out that this is as good as the publisher's putting up a sign saying they've closed the shop for this particular imprint.

There have been some authors who argued that the Black Lace ethos of only publishing female authors was somewhat sexist.  Regardless of whether a body is discriminating against men or women, it's still discrimination.  To that end I can sympathise with that point of view, even though I think, in this instance, it had its advantages.  Black Lace was an icon of female-friendly erotica and, in a society where women are still undervalued in the battle for equality, I was always in favour of a publisher who thoroughly supported female authors and offered a comfort zone of erotica that female readers knew had been written specifically and exclusively for them.  Maybe it did have overtones of political correctness taken to a ridiculous extreme.  However, if it gave just one reader an opportunity to enjoy well-written erotica through providing a safety-net of assurance that had been produced by a female writer, then it's served a valid purpose. 

Dark Obsession by Fredrica Alleyn is a perfect example of why Black Lace should not have closed its doors.  Dark Obsession is an erotic bildungsroman novel that explores Annabel Moss's journey from work-obsessed young-womanhood to sexual understanding, awareness and maturity.  The content is explicit, arousing and stylishly written. 

We open the story with Alleyn building background as Annabel is introduced as the rising protégé of two successful gay interior designers.  Annabel is young, attractive and solely focussed on her work.  She is trying to shy away from the responsibility of taking on the Leyton Hall contract but her employers believe she is more than ready for the challenge that this will present.  Consequently, Annabel is shipped off to a large country estate where all manner of sexual shenanigans are taking place. 

The hedonism within Leyton Hall is representative of the hedonism that the Black Lace imprint perpetually exuded.  The sex takes place in a variety of decadent locations, from stables through to stylish stately-home bedrooms.  There is a suggestion of borderline incest between the incumbent brother and sister-in-law that borders on being a revisitation to Wuthering Heights but with orgasms.  There is an air of cool distance between the reigning couple who head the household, reminiscent of something from John Updike.  And there are a wealth of salacious romps between minor characters as they revel in the general bonhomie of being centre stage in a well-written erotic masterpiece.  Again, if we're going for a literary precedent, lets put this in the milieu of John Cleland. 

As the story progresses, Annabel succumbs to the atmosphere of sexual egalitarianism that abounds at Leyton Hall.  Because the majority of us mature into our sexuality it is only fitting that the character in this story develops her awareness of her place as a valid member of society through her developing interest and exploration of sex and sexuality. 

As stated previously, the sex is constant, exciting and exquisitely written.  Fredrica Alleyn knows how to press buttons.  Fredrica Alleyn knows how to put a light to the blue touch paper and then stand back so we can enjoy the fireworks. 

Hotels and sex are natural bedfellows.  We go to hotels for sex.  Admittedly there are occasionally other reasons – business meetings, holidays, the necessity of travel etc – but, as a general rule of thumb (not to mention those other important parts of the anatomy) we go to hotels for sex.  Which is why it is only natural for the inimitable Rachel Kramer Bussel to link hotels and sex in her latest anthology: Do Not Disturb. 

I regularly go to hotels for sex.  And not just because people pay me.  (I don’t mean people pay me to go to their hotel rooms for sex.  Usually my wife gives me £50 and tells me to fuck off to a hotel for the night). 

Hotel sex is better than regular sex because hotel rooms already have a bed in them, so there’s no worrying about where the gear-stick might go, or what to do with your hat or your sandwiches.  Hotel sex is also good because, when you turn up at the hotel with your partner, the obviousness of the situation means you might as well be wearing a T-shirt that says: WE’VE COME TO THIS HOTEL TO LOCK OURSELVES INTO OUR ROOM SO WE CAN SPEND THE FORESEEABLE FUTURE HAVING WILD MONKEY SEX.

Even if that’s not the intention.  Even if your wife has actually destroyed and disposed of your T-shirt (which bears the aforementioned slogan) and privately warned you that you are not allowed to touch her with a ten foot barge-pole or any other part of your anatomy: everyone still thinks that’s why you’re there.  And, in this day and age of visual cues, if people think it’s happening then, whether it’s happening or not, it’s definitely happening.

So, we’re all agreed?  Hotels and sex go together.  If you’re still not convinced, go out and pick up Do Not Disturb. 

The anthology begins with Amanda Earl’s “Welcome To The Aphrodisiac Hotel.”  Aside from writing saucy, sultry stories, Amanda Earl is also a poet and people watcher.  Her people-watching prowess comes to the fore here as her story’s persona watches the occupants of a hotel lobby bar.  The idea is deliciously simple and, in Amanda’s skilful hands, the story comes to life in an enchanting, effective and erotic fashion.

Are you more interested in the honeymoon suite?  Madlyn March’s “Heart-Shaped Holes” is a pithy blend of pathos and the prurient as she introduces a confused new bride, a callous new husband, and the sympathetic ear of a neighbouring hotel guest.  Madlyn March’s story is a bittersweet sojourn with a conclusion that should warm the coldest heart.

Fancy trying something wicked?  They don’t come much more wicked than Kristina Wright’s “The Other Woman.”  Hotels are there to fulfil our fantasies.  Five Star hotels are there to fulfil our richest fantasies.  And the characters in “The Other Woman” get to fulfil their fantasies, even though things don’t work out quite as everyone expected.

In “Talking Dirty,” Shanna Germain’s characters use their hotel room as an escape from reality – or maybe an escape from unreality.  Whichever the reader decides it might be, the overall verdict will be that this story excels as a sympathetic and poignantly rendered tribute to deviance and dysfunction.

Saskia Walker leads us to the Kilpatrick in London where the waiting staff bend over backwards to satisfy their customers.  They also bend over forwards too in “The Lunch Break.”  Saskia Walker knows how to write smouldering hot fiction and “The Lunch Break” is no exception. 

And then there’s Lisabet Sarai’s “Reunion.”  This is a story that is powerful in its sexual content and equally profound in the depth of the relationship shared by the two central characters.  Written with a simplicity that is stylish and sexy, “Reunion” is one of those narratives that lingers with you for days after as you brood on the characters’ futures. 

If Do Not Disturb were a hotel it would a 5 star hotel with the luxury of 24/7 entertainment available.  The anthology includes authors of such renown as Thomas S Roche, Maxim Jakubowski, Elizabeth Coldwell, Donna George Storey, Alison Tyler and, of course, Rachel Kramer Bussel. 

It’s often said that beauty is only skin deep, but usually this is just the whining observations of ugly people who are trying to make themselves feel better after a bad experience with the mirror. Beauty is a revered and quantifiable commodity. Many people long to be considered beautiful or, if that’s not possible, they seek the company of beautiful people in the hope they will be considered beautiful by association. I know this is true because of the number of fuglies that hang around me in the hope that some of my divine brilliance will shine positively on their Quasimodo-like features.

Fuglies, for those of you who don’t know, is a collective noun used to describe people who are fucking ugly. It might sound like a cruel way of dismissing individuals and overlooking their inner worth, but I’ve always found that doesn’t matter with ugly people. And some of my adoring friends are real mingers. One friend’s face could not look more like a dog’s arse if his nose became a waggly tail. Another friend has the sort of features that mean she only receives party invitations on Halloween.

I tolerate the repulsive presence of these fuglies because, as well as being superbly handsome, I’m also beautiful on the inside and I take pity on pathetic charity cases with their heads from the Horror Channel. But please, don’t start thinking I’m a saint. I do have some minor flaws. I’m obscenely modest and far too self-effacing.

However, that’s enough about me and my gorgeousness. I only mention my legendary good-looks (and my incredibly altruistic nature) because Enthralled is a novel about one man’s obsession with a stunning beauty. In fact, it’s more than an obsession: it’s an overwhelming obsessive compulsion. The story’s hero, Matthew Crawley, sees the gorgeous Jasmine Del Ray and his need for her is instantaneous. This initial meeting is the catalyst for a self-destructive adventure of Herculean proportions.

To describe Matthew Crawley as the story’s hero is possibly misleading. Matthew works in a dull job and lives a dull life. He endures an acceptably grey existence and has little that is remarkable or heroic within his life until the story begins. But as his tale progresses, and Matthew surrenders himself to the indifferent Jasmine Del Ray, he displays a heroic dedication to servitude. In that regard, Matthew bursts through the boundaries of what could ever be considered acceptable and shows himself unequalled in his heroic devotion to this beautiful but barbaric bitch.

Enthralled is a cleverly executed story in that it takes the fantasy theme of male submission and makes the narrative shockingly real. Unlike the typically fictional exploits of servile men, Matthew is a credible individual in frighteningly believable circumstances. He does the nine-to-five routine. He eats, sleeps, drinks and wanks. He works with a woman who is vaguely fanciable but she’s not nearly the Goddess he longs to worship. His undoing/salvation (depending on how you perceive male submission) only comes when he encounters the cruelly good-looking Jasmine.

For want of a better word, Jasmine is probably best described as a bitch. No. That’s unfair. There are two words that better describe her: she’s an absolute bitch. She’s attractive – and she knows she’s attractive – and she associates with the sort of beautiful people who wouldn’t ordinarily give Matthew the time of day. When she notices Matthew’s interest her first reaction is amusement and scorn. Her second reaction is to tease and exploit him – simply because she can. Her third reaction, not surprising considering the realistic feel of this story, is to toss Matthew aside and forget about him.

Perhaps, in the real world, the story might end there. But Matthew is heroic in his need to be near Jasmine and that heroism is matched by his obsessive desire to be a part of her life – no matter how small or ineffectual. Her rejection of him only marks the proper beginning of the story.

Matthew stalks.

Matthew calls.

Matthew follows.

And Matthew plots.

Eventually, Matthew’s efforts and persistence pay off and Jasmine consents to let him be her whipping boy: literally, figuratively and regularly.

Ordinarily I’d offer a warning at this point and say that Enthralled is not for the faint-hearted. Matthew subjugates himself beneath Jasmine. Jasmine, being the absolute bitch that she is, takes his suffering to some pretty vicious extremes. The couple complement each other in his tireless need for her humiliation and her easy ability to push him down to the next level.

And then down to the next level.

And then down to the next.

If you enjoy credible stories of female domination and male submission, then Enthralled is going to satisfy on many, many levels. Well-written, credible and exciting, Enthralled delivers the goods in excitement, eroticism and energy.

Not just erotic tales. Also erotic poetry. And, when I say erotic poetry, I mean the good stuff. Not the little rhyming quatrains I’ve been known to compose in the bath.

She was beautiful, bare and breathless,

My prize at the end of the hunt,

She lay on her back with her legs in the air,

And I played around with her mobile phone.

See? I can never get that final end rhyme. It always eludes me. This other one I started also tripped me at the same final hurdle.

Topless, we sit on the pier,

The sun on the lake’s surface ripples,

I daub my ice cream cone, twice, on your chest.

Then spend the day licking your décolletage.

Which is one of the reasons I have nothing but respect for the skilled poets who have contributed to this title. Writing poetry is never easy. Composing odes that venerate the tension of a single erotic moment, or the physical bliss of a passionate union, is a rare talent. Yet Justus Roux has managed to include works from fourteen different poets who each bring their own unique skills to the blend. From accomplished and multi-published poets, like Lawrence Schimel and Karen L Newman, to the clever wordplay of up-and-coming talent like Gia Anderson, the poetry in this anthology is intelligent, erotic and arousing.

But this book is called Erotic Tales 2 so I need to make some mention of the prose as well as the poetry.

The short fiction in Erotic Tales 2 is an eclectic blend of stories that embrace a wide panorama of sexual tastes. The balance is slanted toward the heterosexual, but the contributions also include homoerotic narratives with arousing stories that have a core of gay and lesbian sex.

I’ve written a few erotic short stories in the past, as well as a handful of erotic novels. (Well, it’s about two-dozen erotic novels but I’ve got large hands – and you know what they say about us guys with large hands? That’s right: we need large gloves.) It always surprises me when people say, “How can you write about so many variations on sex? Surely it’s the same all of the time?”

This question, which exposes so much about the innocent who has raised the point, can be answered in a number of ways. “Fuck off and stop talking to me!” is one of my personal favourites, although I have been known to say, “You shouldn’t be reading that, Mother.” However, it only takes a quick glance inside an anthology like Erotic Tales 2 and any reader can see that erotic encounters are seldom the same on any occasion and variety and deviation are at the heart of imaginative and well-written erotic poetry and prose.

Erotic Tales 2 covers a broad spectrum of erotica. And, just as the oeuvre is eclectic in the sexuality of its erotic content, it is also equally diverse in the approaches each writer has assumed in their take on what makes a story sexually exciting. From the heady passion of Gwen Masters "Better Than Brazil," which is quickly followed by the foursome frolics of Lynne den Hartog’s "All the Nice Girls Love a Sailor," the anthology shows that sex can be loving and luscious and playful and powerful – and, invariably, a lot of fun.

There are some outstanding writers in this anthology. Justus Roux’s own contribution, "Sarah’s New Beginning," is a tautly told tale of a newly wed woman’s need to submit. Michelle Houston’s "Nice Kitty Kat" is an inventive and intoxicating introduction to the world of (amongst other things) public spanking. H.L. Berry’s "Nightgirl – The Prisoner of Brenda," is a hilarious romp in the companionship of a wannabe super-heroine who encounters her arch nemesis.

There really is a lot to enjoy in this collection. There is certainly enough to ensure that every reader will find something to satisfy their personal appetite and, perhaps, encourage them to savour the flavour of something a little different to their usual fare.

Justus Roux’s previous anthologies include Erotic Tales, Erotic Fantasy: Tales of the Paranormal, Bosslady and Who’s Your Daddy? Erotic Tales 2 continues Justus’s tradition of collecting well-written erotica from a range of venerated veterans and very-promising virgins.

And, just to remind you all again that the poetry presented in this collection is not as easy as these talented folks make it seem, I’ll finish with another of my painstaking attempts at verse. Again, the more literary minded of you might notice that end rhyme is just not quite working for me.

Naked we lay in the bedroom

I called you “The Sexiest Lass.”

And then, when you’d knelt in the doggy position,

I buried myself deep in Justus Roux’s Erotic Tales 2

Ashley Lister

NB – It should be noted that the poetry quoted above is the work of Ashley Lister alone and is not (nor does it resemble) the poetry published in Justus Roux’s excellent collection.

Those of you who are familiar with Lisabet Sarai’s writing won’t need to read any further.  Exposure is a very good book – another example of how a talented author can make the erotic genre work effectively – and well worth the time and money it takes to purchase and enjoy.  Go out and buy it.

For the rest of you who aren’t familiar with Lisabet’s writing – what the hell is wrong with you?  Why aren’t you familiar with Lisabet’s writing? 

Lisabet is a doyen of erotic fiction.  For anyone who wants to enjoy a guaranteed good read in erotic fiction: pick up one of Lisabet’s titles.  The same advice goes to anyone who wants to know how erotic fiction should be written: pick up one of Lisabet’s titles.  The lady knows how to tell a gripping story, make it saucy and keep the pace cruising along at Ferrari-speed. 

Exposure is Lisabet’s latest title and it tells the well-crafted story of Stella Xanathakeos, a 28 year old stripper who finds herself wrapped up in the political intrigue of a murder mystery.  The story is exciting and compelling, the characters are strong, likeable and credible and the sex is powerfully arousing. 

In many ways a murder mystery shares a lot in common with a typical striptease.  As one layer after another is removed, a little more is revealed but the audience remains hungry to see even more and they won’t be satisfied until everything has been wholly and totally exposed. 

Lisabet manages this authorial trick with typical aplomb, setting the story up so that the reader is presented with a Stella–eye view of reality.  The intrigue of the murder mystery is cleverly executed because Stella’s understandable paranoia allows the reader to have doubts about so many of the characters as they struggle – alongside Stella – to work out who are the heroes and who are the villains. 

This device also allows the reader a chance to experience Stella’s passionate involvement in the story as she is driven by her high-octane libido from one gloriously steamy encounter to the next and then the next.  Stella has a voracious appetite and Exposure gives her the chance to enjoy a lot of life’s most satisfying pleasures before it reaches its fulfilling climax. 

A lot of editors have told me that they don’t like seeing sex and death mixed together in erotic fiction.  I disagree with this arbitrary attitude.  I’ve written graveyard sex scenes and found, as long as the hero doesn’t go into the cemetery with a shovel to find a partner, the two themes can usually work quite well together. 

One of the many things I enjoyed about this title was Stella – the heroine.  Stella is an eminently likeable character.  She knows that her profession is frowned on by most people but that doesn’t stop her from enjoying her work and taking as much pleasure from it as she can.  She tries her best not to take her stage show too far but, when she gets caught up in the moment, Stella knows the best way to keep her audience coming back for more. 

I think it’s fair to say that the world Stella lives in is ruled by men, and the majority of women in Stella’s world are mere commodities owned by the ruling hegemony.  Yet, despite the dual ideologies of patriarchy and money-is-power that control her universe, Stella lives by her own code.  Her attitude toward life is a remarkably refreshing and honest approach. 

All-in-all, Lisabet’s story is a fast-paced action-packed adventure that’s filled with lots of erotic encounters and a plot that twists and turns with the skilful limberness of a well-practiced exotic dancer.  Stella’s appetite is not only voracious – it’s also eclectic.  Stella slips between the sheets with men and women, always ensuring that she squeezes as much fun from each encounter as her well-toned muscles will allow.

In short – buy the book.  It’s bloody well written and a bloody good read.

I wish I lived on Fascination Street.

Actually, I wished I lived anywhere that didn’t have the problems that are my current neighbours. It would be wrong to say I hate my neighbours. Hate is such a strong word. And the word hate doesn’t properly express the way I loathe, detest, despise and revile the obnoxious bastards.

Obviously, the feelings are reciprocated. Adolf and Eva, as I like to call them, share the same deep-seated animosity for me that I harbour for them. It all started from a simple misunderstanding. Adolf (the one with the toothbrush moustache and the stiff military gait: the female half of our neighbours) called on me as I was rushing out of the front door on an important trek to the tobacconists.

“Your dogs have been barking!” she exclaimed.

“That’s right,” I agreed. “When they start meowing we call them cats.”

“Can you keep them quiet?”

I paused before answering this one, and possibly looked a little retarded as I tried to understand what she meant. It’s probably one of the dumbest questions I’ve ever been asked. For outright stupidity, it ranks alongside the world-class no-brainers like, “Do you want a beer?” or “Who Wants to be a Millionaire?”

“Can I keep them quiet?” I repeated.

I was wondering if she thought I released the dogs into the back garden each morning and told them, “Run outside, my pretties! Bark as loud as you can! I adore the sound of shrill yapping on a morning!”

“Of course I can’t keep them quiet,” I said patiently. “That’s why they bark all the time.” I stared at her with an expression that said one of us was incredibly dense. In fairness, I hadn’t yet decided which one of us that might be.

“Well try!” Adolf insisted. And then she slammed the door.

I was tempted to give a Nazi salute but I’m a mature adult and beyond such juvenile reactions. So I just shouted, “Suck my balls, Adolf!” and tried to forget about the incident and go on with my business.

The main problem with neighbours is, as much as you try to ignore them, the bastards are always living next door to you. Adolf and Eva made several attempts to keep the dogs quiet, most notably by shouting, “Stop barking,” whenever the dogs barked. The rationale behind this tactic baffled me. Our dogs bark at a number of things. Helicopters, cars, unexpected noises and people shouting: “Stop barking.” Clearly Adolf and Eva put a lot of faith in the dogs’ intelligence (believing the creatures would understand and obey their command) and very little faith in my intelligence (believing I hadn’t ever thought to tell them, “Stop barking!”)

For amusement I changed the dogs’ names whenever I was within earshot of the neighbours. “Come on in, Himmler!” I’d cry. “Goebels! Mussolini! Fluffy! Stop barking at Adolf and Eva.”

They retaliated with a noisy protest, playing loud Christian music until all hours of the afternoon, disturbing my concentration and generally making me worry that they could be putting the “mental” into Christian Fundamentalism.

I intend to take our neighbourly dispute to the next level once I’ve hooked up loudspeakers to an adjoining wall and can feed the soundtrack from one of my favourite porn movies into their bedroom at an ear-shattering volume.

Not that I’d have any of these problems if I lived on Fascination Street. If I lived on Fascination Street I’d brandish my copy of the Fascination Street Codes of Conduct at my neighbours and simply remind them to obey the rules.

Fascination Street is the latest title from Bridget Midway, author of Adam and E-V-E, C-A-I-N and A-B-E-L, Walls and Suburbia (amongst other titles). Published by Phaze Books, Fascination Street is the everyday story of a young couple, a new house and a host of horny new neighbours.

Grant Valente and Zora Hall move into Fascination Street and, before they’ve finished unpacking, they notice that something about their new location is different. Subtle things give this away, like the blowjob happening on the driveway across the road from them; like a neighbour walking in on them while they’re having sex; like the welcome basket that includes porn DVDs, handcuffs and whipped cream. Grant and Zora finally get the message when they’re invited to a house party and the neighbours begin to raunchily frolic in front of them.

And that’s when the story properly begins.

Without wanting to give too much away, Fascination Street is built on strong foundations of love. Grant and Zora both concede it takes a lot of love for a couple to enjoy the social side of their new address. Their neighbours each seem equally besotted with their own partners – even when they’re engaged with extra-neighbourly activities. And they all acknowledge that it takes a lot of love to forsake the security of monogamy for the sensual pleasures of swinging with the neighbours.

But Fascination Street is more than just a love story.

Bridget Midway plunges Grant and Zora into the trappings of this sublime suburbia and allows them to explore, enjoy and expand as the story develops. Bridget’s sex scenes are exciting and detailed without being salacious. Her characters are fresh and multifaceted. Bridget’s characters have a multicultural diversity that truly makes this novel stand out from many others I’ve read tackling similar themes.

Grant and Zora’s doubts about joining in with the constant party of Fascination Street are credible, and their adventures with their neighbours are explicit, entertaining and distinctively rendered.

If you’re blessed with neighbours as beautiful as those on Fascination Street, and if you’ve ever wondered what sort of things they might enjoy: Fascination Street and its "Codes of Conduct" could provide you with the rules you need to properly enjoy your neighbourhood. If you’re cursed with neighbours like Adolf and Eva next door to me, Fascination Street could give you the insight into how good life might be once you’ve forced them to move house.

Flesh and the Devil, by Devyn Quinn, comes from Aphrodisia’s Erotic Romance range of titles. Please note, just because it says “erotic romance” on the cover that does not mean the content is tame or unerotic. Devyn Quinn is a mistress of paranormal penmanship and a delightful deviant in the art of erotica. Here she presents a neatly told tale that blends romance and the paranormal. But it is far from tame and never unerotic. Flesh and the Devil smoulders with flames that could have come straight from Hell.

In some ways it’s easy to see why writers choose to make the paranormal erotic. From Bram Stoker’s Dracula (and long before for those literary historians who specialise in this field) readers have been thrilled by the idea of a sexually seductive creature who takes control of a character’s will and forces them to submit, surrender and suffer. The individual’s blamelessness is enviable. As readers we can identify with the pleasure of exploring our deepest and darkest desires, and then innocently protesting afterwards, “But I didn’t want to do those things – I was compelled to do them.”

Yet Flesh and the Devil doesn’t follow that hackneyed format. Yes, there is a demonic and diabolical presence in this story. There is also a great deal of power play, some enjoyable domination and submission scenes, and a mesmerising control that could be supernatural in origin: or it could simply be the power of love.

But I’m not going to spoil the plot by telling you any of the story details. There is too much cleverly woven tension in this tale for me to risk unravelling a single thread.

I will say the hero of this story is not the sort who is shallow enough to go to the depths of depravity against his will. When he does explore his dark needs the reader knows that he is an individual who has made a conscious choice. Brenden Wallace is a believable cop who knows his limits can plumb some torrid levels. But he’s man enough to be comfortable with his desires and lucky enough to explore them with the beautiful Líadán Niamh.

Tall, slim, raven-haired (and with a figure to die for) the story’s devilishly attractive heroine is first seen in a tight red dress that doesn’t just show her desirable curves: it also reveals that she can inspire an unholy arousal.

The story begins in media res as Brenden and Líadán indulge in a soupçon of sensual bondage. From there the plot twists like the loose knot in a scarlet silk scarf and quickly becomes binding and inescapable.

Devyn Quinn has written a convincing tale of a heroic yet credible police officer encountering the deviant side of the paranormal and enjoying (nearly) every sordid moment. Pain, pleasure, punishment and passion sit side-by-side as the story rockets through the darkest streets of Louisiana and into the darker realms beneath.

The sex scenes in this novel are well painted but some of the most powerful erotica comes from those moments when Brenden and Líadán are bonding romantically rather than sexually. There is a genuine frisson between the characters that Devyn has managed to capture with style and authority.

Readers who are already familiar with Devyn’s writing will know she is a competent author who can effortlessly blend the paranormal with rude reality. Readers who aren’t familiar with Devyn’s writing should find Flesh and the Devil is a pretty good place to make her acquaintance.

I have to say before I begin this review that I don’t approve of revenge.  Revenge is the selfish face of subjective justice.  Revenge is the acceptable justification of an unacceptable vendetta.  Most importantly: revenge is just too bloody time consuming.

I speak here with the voice of experience.  To quote directly from Gilbert and Sullivan:  “I’ve got a little list.” 

Actually, my list isn’t that little.  If I bothered to print it out I expect it would look like the Oxford English Dictionary – the twenty volume, 750,000 word edition.  Many people have pissed me off throughout my time on this planet.  And I’m petty enough to carry grudges the way a boy scout carries badges of merit.

I’ve also taken the trouble to list my nemeses alphabetically and by individual category.  And I’ve also cross-referenced both lists.  Former bosses take up quite a large category on their own.  The boss that didn’t know how to flush the lavatory in the small office we shared – he’s on the list.  The boss that told me he couldn’t afford to give out pay rises because he’d just bought a new BMW – he’s got a special place on there.  The boss who tried to sue me after I’d left his company, because I owned the copyright to his company’s website – that worthless little tosspot has his own category. 

But part of my problem is that I don’t have the time to exact revenge on these cretins.  More distressingly: I don’t have the imagination to plot the appropriate revenge.  I stress this latter point because I sincerely believe that all revenge should be poetic.  The Bible tells us we should seek “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.”  I know Jesus came along after that part, and suggested some pacifist bullshit about turning the other cheek, but that sentiment only appeals to pussies who are too weak to get the job done properly.  Turning the other cheek is for those mere mortals who don’t want the powerful satisfaction that comes from exacting a cruel and sadistic (yet wholly justifiable) revenge. 

However, whilst I know my last employer needs to suffer a payback appropriate for the sleight he has made against my reputation, my gut reaction is to simply kick the little bastard in the balls. 

Of course, this plan is hampered by the fact that he doesn’t have a pair.  But, if he had a pair, I would don my steel toecaps and that would be my first option as a course for revenge.  Yet it wouldn’t be poetic – and a good act of revenge needs to be singularly apt.  It’s a rule that seldom applies to justice but it always applies to revenge: the punishment must fit the crime.

Getting Even: Revenge Stories contains some exquisitely poetic revenge stories.  Editor Mitzi Szereto has compiled a collection of stories that are clever in their execution, stylish in their composition, and wicked in their eventual denouements. 

I should state here that this anthology is not the collection of erotic stories one would usually expect from Mitzi.  There are some erotic elements, granted, but with this anthology Mitzi has focused strongly on the theme of revenge.  The content of each different tale varies through various levels of payback.  The stories are always exciting, often devious, and sometimes sexy, but they seldom venture into the lurid or pornographic. 

However, whilst the anthology isn’t erotic, it is extremely compelling and certainly makes for powerful and unputdownable reading. 

The Spanish say that revenge is a dish that’s best served cold.  Of course the Spanish would say this.  Spain is a fairly hot country and most dishes are best served cold over there to counterbalance the risk of dehydration.  Personally, I think revenge is best served steaming hot with a side-serving of smouldering passion.  Cold revenge can be seen as plain vindictive – boiling hot revenge is the sort of delicacy that leaves you sated, drained and wholly satisfied.  Getting Even contains recipes for revenge that are hot enough to make a volcano blush. 

I have favourites from this collection.  I adored the clever turnaround in Becky Bradford’s “More Than Skin Deep,” the tale of a philandering tattoo artist and his mistreated partner.  I also loved Stella Duffy’s genius catalogue of retribution from “Payment in Kind.”  Danutah Reah’s “Glazed” is a wickedly inventive way of beginning the anthology and Jean Lamb’s “Esprit de Corpse” is a wonderfully dark and twisted way to bring about the conclusion.  I was also enamoured by Tony Fennelly’s genius methodology in “How to Kill an Aries” as well as Mitzi’s own devilish contribution to this anthology: “Hell is Where the Heart is.”

In short: it’s impossible to find fault with this collection. 

I think everyone looking at this page, if they’re honest, will have harboured thoughts of revenge at some point in their life.  Forgiveness may be divine but forgiveness doesn’t give the gut satisfaction of revenge.  Whether it’s pain, purgatory, misery or murder: we’ve all contemplated payback and Getting Even shows how revenge can work at its best in fiction.

Academics will tell you that the title of the book is the most important part of the text.  This is the area of the book that a reader first encounters.  The title initially catches the eye of the reader – sparking their interest or otherwise – and suggesting a flavour of what is to come within the pages of the text.

And so it seems a shame that Girl Crazy!, an otherwise exemplary anthology from the marvellous Cleis Press Inc, is flawed by its title. 

Yes the anthology includes some intensely exciting tales.  All of them are well written and every one – without exception – is designed to stimulate the brain as well as other vital organs.  The over-riding theme of the anthology is erotic exchanges between women and other women: some lesbian, some bisexual, some just too curious and horny for their own good.  The anthology includes authors who most readers will have encountered previously (such as Sommer Marsden, D L King, Jean Roberta, Jacqueline Applebee, Kristina Wright, Catherine Lundoff, Cheyenne Blue and Sacchi Green).  There are also less nefarious authors – I’m including here those whose fiction I haven’t personally encountered before – all of whom provide outstanding narratives that are erotic, exciting and eloquently executed. 

Yet the book’s title leaves a lot to be desired.  I am aware that there has been a Gershwin musical of the same title, which opened on Broadway in 1930 and was committed to film in 1932 and 1943.  I also know that the pop band Hot Chocolate released a single with this title which got to #7 in the UK pop charts in April 1982.  However, Girl Crazy! in the context of a title to an anthology of erotic fiction doesn’t seem to be an intertextual reference to either of those items.

I’m assuming here that Girl Crazy! takes its title from the modern usage of the word ‘crazy’ suggesting enthusiasm, infatuation or mild obsession (rather than straitjacket insanity or the taking-your-pet-goldfish-for-a-walk-type of mental illness).  I’m OK with this vernacular terminology, even though I sincerely believe this idiomatic employment of the adjective reached the peak of its popularity in the late 1970s or early 1980s.  What I’m not comfortable with is the reductive use of the word ‘girl’ to describe women who are mature enough to be in control of their sex and explore their sexuality. To me, this just sounds derivative and somewhat demeaning. 

You may be reading this and thinking: “Take the stick out of your arse, Ashley.  It’s just a title!”  However, if I began to review this article and cheerfully referred to the authors as a bunch of “crazy girls,” I would be (deservedly) pilloried for:

• a) casting doubt on their mental health
• b) using clichéd terminology, and
• c) undervaluing adult female authors.

Which all sounds like I’m having a rant – and that’s most likely because I am. 

However, I have never come across a Cleis anthology I didn’t enjoy and I only stress my distaste for this book’s title because I don’t think it’s worthy of Cleis’s distinctive brand of top quality, balanced erotica.  I also think the title is especially not fitting for this collection of intense and arousing well-structured stories.

Take, for example, Sommer Marsden’s beautifully stimulating story “Spitting Seeds.”  Sommer is a fantastic author who never fails to blend beautiful prose with a lyrical ability to excite.  “Spitting Seeds” manages to capture the erotic thrill of daring to do the forbidden without making this oft-visited scenario seem either trite or gratuitous.  “Spitting Seeds” is a fantastic story, yet the characters, although presented as alluring young females, could not reasonably be described as ‘girls’ unless they were being spoken about by some leering old uncle.

D L King’s “Tasting Chantal,” is an intense encounter in the New York BDSM club the Whip Handle.  The mature dominant protagonist, Neela, finds herself in the company of the delightfully submissive Chantal.  The dialogue is sharp; the intimacy is passionate and powerful; and as Chantal is 23 years old and Neela is her senior, it would only be the most condescending misogynist who described either of these characters with the epithet “girls.”

Please note – none of this is being said as an indictment against the contents of the book.  The fiction in these pages is outstanding and exciting.  The compassion and sympathy in Jean Roberta’s “Getting It” is beautifully realised, gloriously stimulating and truly heart-warming.  The humour and verve in Kristina Wright’s “Muddy Waters” is refreshing and a pleasant contrast to the intensity of passion and emotion in her characters’ erotic exchange.  The realistic characterisation in Catherine Lundoff’s “Wine-Dark Kisses” will leave the reader sure they know Janeece and Ingrid more thoroughly then they knew their last lover. 

In the introduction to this book, Alison Tyler says, “I don’t want nice and clean. I don’t want good and kind. I want hot and fast. Dark and dirty. Basically, I want hardcore.”

It’s a sentiment I’ve echoed myself, although it’s seldom a successful way to start job interviews.

H is for Hardcore is the latest anthology in Alison Tyler’s erotic alphabet. It might be worth mentioning here that H is also for HORNY and HARD-ON. H is also for HOT, HOTTER and HOTTEST. This collection of twelve short stories comes from a pantheon of erotic authors who have gleefully produced fiction that meets Ms Tyler’s original remit. This is hardcore at its horniest.

Mathilde Madden, Gwen Masters and Radclyffe. John A Burks Jr, Jean Roberta and Sophie Mouette. Chris Costello, Rakelle Valencia and Shane Allison. Teresa Noelle Roberts, Michael Hemingson and the inimitable Ms Tyler herself. The combined talents of these authors have been used to produce an anthology that is graphic and gratuitous: sordid, sexy and splendid. The content is extremely hot and exceptionally fast. The stories are wonderfully dark and deliciously dirty. The anthology is, in a word: hardcore.

Hardcore is a peculiar word to define. One person’s definition of hardcore is another person’s idea of tame. Or another person’s version of too extreme. To illustrate this point, I was recently eavesdropping on two friends who were discussing hardcore. One friend claimed she liked some hardcore activities, and these included using the F-word – although she drew the line at the C-word. The other friend said that no cunt had ever told her what the C-word was, and her definition of hardcore started with rusty barbed wire and at least four pairs of nipple clamps and it invariably ended with a scream.

Yet this collection of shorts manages to consistently deliver fiction that can only be described by that single word: hardcore.

Mathilde Madden opens the collection with a first person narrative of bondage and teasing to outrageous excess. Gwen Masters follows with a torrid tale that plays with the power balance between a protector and the protected. Radclyffe then takes the reader into the darkened corners of a BDSM world and blends male terminology with female anatomy in a disconcerting meld of the boldest and most brutal sexuality.

John A Burks Jr. has written a satisfying story that introduces the reader to a powerful man who, at the beginning of the narrative, can best be described as “anal.” Jean Roberta, always a pleasure to read, stuffs her tongue in her cheek as her characters mix role-playing with bondage. Sophie Mouette takes bondage to the next level as her characters are bound together in an inevitable climax.

These are forceful stories that evoke passion with a capital P. Every one of them is hauntingly hardcore. Each could be adequately described as hotter than hot.

Chris Costello tells a tale of girl meets girl, but with a wealth of kinky twists to keep the reader riveted. Rakelle Valencia’s characters rope and ride an unsuspecting rancher. Shane Allison gives us a homoerotic taste of full-on, fantastic foot fetish.

All of these stories are written by authors who know how to excite. The sex scenes are gloriously graphic. The erotic content is constant and consistent in its strength.

Teresa Noelle Roberts writes about a woman with a passion for knives. This rarely written kink is perfectly exploited in "On a Knife Edge" and, after the tour de force of the anthology’s previous stories, manages to introduce the reader to a delicious and deviant new delight. Michael Hemmingson’s, "The End of Celibacy," presents a girl who has been looking for love in all the wrong places. The stilted dialogue between the characters perfectly matches their stilted relationship. The delicious twist to this story is wicked, wild and wonderful. Alison Tyler’s "Ashes and Diamonds," raw passion embodied in three short but intense pages, concludes this collection in a powerful and satisfying climax.

H is for Hardcore is undoubtedly the strongest of Alison Tyler’s alphabet series to date. The focus is fixed firmly on erotic extremes. Ms Tyler asked for hot and fast. She asked for dark and dirty.

The result is the sensational H is for Hardcore.

If you’re not already familiar with Debra Hyde’s name then you should go away now and return to the cave where you’ve been living since the start of this century. Clearly you’ve not being paying attention to erotic literature over the last decade and this is obviously no place for you.

However, if you are familiar with Debra’s name, you’ll probably be aware that she has written and published more short stories than most people have read. Aside from being a prolific author of short fiction, she’s also enviably good at what she does and highly respected throughout the industry.

To illustrate this point: I once made the mistake of privately ascribing one of Debra’s stories to a friend (another established author of erotic fiction). This happens more often to me than to competent authors/reviewers. I have the memory span of a goldfish with Alzheimer’s and I’m one of those people who should have my family member’s names tattooed on my forearm so I can remember what to write on birthday cards. It’s become so embarrassing that, during moments of sexual climax, I’ve started shouting out my own name, just so I’m sure I’m mentioning one of the people involved.

I’m perpetually making mistakes of this ilk, so when I made the mistake of ascribing Debra’s story to the output of my friend, she understood that I am “challenged in the memory department” and corrected me immediately.

“No!” she said, “I didn’t write “Tic Sex,” although I wish I had. Debra’s a phenomenal author of short fiction.”

Now, with the release of Inequities, it’s fair to amend that comment and say that Debra is also a phenomenal author of full-length fiction.

So, sit back and relax, and allow me to introduce you to Cynthia Barnett: widowed, wanton and wonderfully wild. Cynthia narrates her own story and it begins as she tries to ends her period of mourning for a husband, Paul, whom she loved dearly.

Despite the motif of bereavement, there is no melancholy or self-pity in this narration. Cynthia pragmatically accepts love and loss as an inescapable fact of life and death. Now she’s ready to move past grieving for the loss of her belated beloved, she can begin looking for something to fill the emptiness in her life.

Beginning at a party with her late husband’s colleagues, and swiftly moving to a deliciously seedy fetish bar, Cynthia’s story sets off at a swift pace.

However, it’s worth mentioning here that Cynthia’s participation at the fetish bar is not the usual fare of erotic fiction. Cynthia is still finding her feet (which is probably why she ends up in the company of a foot fetishist) and things don’t go as either of the characters anticipated. This is one of the (many) features that made this book come across as deliciously realistic.

Kinky sex is great when it works but – in the real world – the initial demands and expectations of kinksters come together as rarely as pre-orgasmic couples. Debra’s acknowledgement that things don’t always go smoothly makes this story throb with the pulsing vibration of realism.

Overcoming her confusion, with the help of an old family friend and the assistance of her faithful strap-on, Cynthia recovers her composure and re-emerges from the experience with the confidence of a natural dominatrix.

Only to be faced by further challenges.

Meet David. Meet Miles. Watch as Cynthia tries to make a decision between these two potentially submissive partners. And then the plot thickens as Cynthia becomes intrigued by the charms of boorish and dominant Spencer.

I won’t give anything more away about the story. It’s a fun read, well told and powerfully satisfying. I will say that one of the most engaging things about this novel is the strength of the characters. Cynthia’s voice is distinctive and likeable as she narrates the action. And, in Inequities, there is lots of action that needs to be narrated. The sex scenes are explicit, well-crafted and stimulating. Debra Hyde writes erotica that is arousing without being gratuitously explicit.

Yet, as I’ve said before, strong, credible characters, and memorable character interaction, are where Debra Hyde’s storytelling excels. In her short fiction Debra creates characters who are living, breathing and three-dimensional. In Inequities, because she has the length of story to build more layers, Debra’s characters are even more fully rounded. By the time I was ten pages into Inequities, I was hooked and unwilling to leave Cynthia and her world.

If you like erotic fiction to be intelligent and believable, then Inequities has to be on your summer reading list. It’s hot and horny and fresh from the wonderful Debra Hyde: what more could you ask for?

What is kinky?

Sometimes I wish I had the right body shape for T-Shirts. My head is too large for my pencil-like neck and the ratio of my torso to my limbs is proportionally akin to a turnip with cocktail-sticks for arms and legs. When fashion designers were originally designing T-Shirts, they weren’t thinking of individuals with my malformed physique.

Of course, if I had the ability to change the shape of my body through wishing alone, moulding myself to appear presentable in T-Shirts would be way down on the list. First, I’d correct the problem of having one ear bigger than the other. I swear that problem didn’t exist until I started to wear a Bluetooth earpiece for my mobile phone. I got it cheap, and it weighs nearly three kilos, and I’m beginning to suspect the burden of this extra weight may be a contributory factor in the condition. Since I started wearing it my left ear now flops over and points south every time I watch a sunset.

And there are other areas of my body I would change too. I know that everyone says size doesn’t matter but there’s certainly one part of my anatomy that could do with losing some length and maybe trimming a little of its vast girth. Of course, I know some people find a large nose attractive, but I guess body shape is a personal decision.

But I’m digressing, aren’t I? I was talking about T-shirts. And my desire to wear one and not look like a famine victim on holiday. Or a badly constructed scarecrow with a wasting disease. I’ve always wanted to wear T-shirts because they can be printed with such pithy observations.

My wife hankers after the T-shirt that says, “Yes, I do have some spare change. Thank you for asking, you homeless piece of shit!” As you can probably tell, her application for a position with the Samaritans was unexpectedly rejected. My son wants the T-shirt that shows a picture of Harold Shipman and is framed with the words, “Carry On Doctor.” And me: I’d be happy with the T-shirt that says, “It’s only kinky the first time.”

Michelle Houston’s collection of four short BDSM stories, Kinky Girls Do, got me thinking about what constitutes kinky. Of course, I’m often thinking about things that are kinky, and not just because I’m a pervert, subversive and deviant. I consider these thoughts to be the necessary preoccupations of an author in the erotic genre.

And I keep coming back to the question: what is kinky?

As some of you may know, I’ve written a non-fiction book on swingers and I’m currently working on a follow-up title. To write this book I’ve interviewed many, many swinging couples and, not surprisingly, the word kinky has been bandied around with the frequency of the word parrot at a Monty Python convention. But no one has pinned it down to a universally acceptable definition.

One young lady I spoke with catalogued her interest in leather and rubber fetish wear. We followed this with a discussion on the most judicious locations for watersports and the inherent problems of outdoor bondage and flagellation. I then broached the subject of missionary position sex in bed, in the dark, with the lights off and she lambasted me for being outrageously depraved and kinky.

Which I only mention to show that one person’s kinky is another person’s commonplace.

But, for a primer into the world of kink, you could do much worse than enjoy Michelle Houston’s Kinky Girls Do.

Michelle Houston is a veteran writer of erotic fiction. While it’s not exactly true to say her name has been in more anthologies than the words, Table of Contents, it’s an inarguable fact that she is prolific and well-published. Her short fiction can be found in a variety of collections including those published by Alison Tyler, Rachel Kramer Bussel, Justus Roux and many of the Renaissance anthologies. Unleashed, a collection of Michelle’s short erotic fiction, includes sixteen sensationally sexy stories and this is just the tip of the metaphorical iceberg for her true output.

In Kinky Girls Do, Michelle entertains us with four stories of BDSM kink. As with all Michelle’s fiction the narrative is graphic without being gratuitous and sexy without being salacious. She creates rounded characters and masterfully takes us with them as they grow just a little bit more.

The first of these stories introduces exhibitionist Angela. Michelle makes the woman gorgeous and credible and pens a delicious story of steamy stripping, sultry show-womanship and a sensuous, satisfying conclusion. But, to show her diversity, Michelle brings a blend of sensitivity to the kink in this collection, and shows that however deviation might be defined by most, it can always be tempered with humanity.

If I say much more I’m going to spoil the plots of the other stories. It’s enough to say Michelle Houston writes sensational erotic fiction and these four shorts will strike a chord with every discerning reader of erotica.

There are a number of effective ways to remove lipstick stains from a collar.  The most popular method is to dab against it with a moist cloth.  Don’t rub – this only makes the stain more difficult to remove.  The correct action should be similar to “blotting.”  If the stain proves stubborn, moisten the cloth with alcohol and then repeat the “blotting” action.  Pre-washes are advised (fabric permitting) for those marks that have become ingrained between wearing and laundry day.  If the mark proves really stubborn (and again, fabric permitting) it’s suggested that a dishwasher detergent is used because these contain powerful de-greasing agents.  Failing all of the above, a specialist cleaner needs to be brought in.

Of course, the most effective way of dealing with lipstick stains on a collar is to educate the woman you’re kissing to put her lips on flesh rather than fabric.  It’s not that difficult and examples of this fabric-friendly practice occur with pleasing frequency throughout Sacchi Green and Rakelle Valencia’s Lipstick on Her Collar. 

In case the title hasn’t given it away, I’ll explain here that Lipstick on Her Collar is an anthology of lesbian erotica.  Coming from those clever people at Pretty Things Press, including 22 scintillating short stories from an impressive collection of authors, Lipstick on Her Collar is one of those books that offers something new each time you slide between its pages.

At the beginning of this book, Cecilia Tan introduces the short stories as though she is guiding the reader around a party and this is possibly the most apposite way of looking at this collection.  The anthology begins with a warm welcome that is provided by Cheyenne Blue’s sensitive and witty “The Hairy Matchmaker.”  Cheyenne Blue’s short fiction is invariably hot and she draws characters with a realism that makes them live and breathe.  Julia Talbot, with “Straight Seams,” narrates an entertaining yet intense story that shows how two women come together through their interest in looking breathtakingly beautiful.  The stories in this collection are as diverse as the guests at any well-planned party.  They vary from the exquisite literariness of Andrea Miller’s “Holy Fruit” – which shows that vanilla does not have to be synonymous with mundane – through to the commanding thrill of Jean Roberta’s “My Indentured Slave” – a story that shows the most acceptable and fulfilling way of exchanging goods for services. 

The consistent motif through these stories repeatedly shows femmes and butches interacting in the way that femmes and butches best interact.  That said, as anyone who has ever read an anthology from Pretty Things Press should know, all of those interactions are deliciously varied in their dynamics, mechanics and execution.

The title story of this anthology comes from Sacchi Green’s own contribution to the collection.  “Lipstick on Her Collar” (the short story) is set in Vietnam at the end of the sixties.  Following Ms Green’s typically efficient narrative, the story introduces a femme journalist to a butch WAC sergeant and allows their relationship to develop.  Sacchi Green is clearly conscious of the era’s climate in relation to this story.  The sixties was not the most inclusive time for anyone who operated outside the boundaries of heterosexuality.  That undercurrent of homophobic hostility tightens this story and its tension comes from a combination of the malevolent dangers posed by the VC and the more subversive threat to individual freedoms that epitomised this non-inclusive era.

All of which lends credibility to the background against which the two central characters meet.  It gives their developing relationship an edge of nobility as the reader begins to appreciate that these women are fighting their own battles for freedom – separate and unsupported by those exchanging bullets in the battles around them.

Lipstick also appears on the collar of Rakelle Valencia’s protagonist in “That’s Horse Breakin’.”  This short story returns to the familiar territory of the previous Green/Valencia anthology Rode Hard Put Away Wet.  Valencia writes butch cowboys with an authenticity that could leave a studious reader saddle sore – and smiling because of it.  This bittersweet tale of a butch woman, who can control the most powerful beasts but can’t control a flirtatious femme, combines innate eroticism with humour and pathos. 

Whenever I tell people I’m superstitious, they laugh at me.  Maybe that’s my curse?  I appreciate that superstition is, for want of a better word, ‘stupid.’  However, I was raised and educated by stupid people and some parts of that learning have stuck.  I don’t walk under ladders.  I touch wood for luck and I go to painful extremes to avoid spilling salt. 

I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do with black cats.  Some cultures tell me black cats are lucky – others say they’re unlucky.  Inside my head black cats offer the same imbalance of cognitive dissonance as the cancer/comfort appeal I get from cigarettes.  I could genuinely go insane brooding on the subject for any length of time.

I constantly carry lucky charms.  I have my lucky silver pen, my lucky silver lighter, and I used to have a lucky rabbit’s foot.  I carried the lucky rabbit’s foot until I realised it hadn’t been that lucky for the rabbit and it was probably that particular trinket which gave me Myxomatosis. 

And then there’s the number 13.  I try not to leave the house on Friday 13th.  Ironically I’ve lost jobs because of this.  How’s that for proving that the date is genuinely unlucky? 

I know I’m not alone in this superstition.  The fact that the fear of Friday 13th has a specific name (paraskavedekatriaphobia) indicates that it must be a problem for more than just me.  There is even a name for a general fear of the number 13 (triskaidekaphobia) which also suggests that I’m not the only stupid person on the planet with that similar aversion.  When I take into account the number of buildings without a thirteenth floor, and the difficulties talked about by estate agents trying to sell properties burdened with the number 13, I realise there are probably millions of us labouring under this irrational and stupid superstition.

However, I am rational enough to accept that the number 13 is not always unlucky.  There were thirteen figures painted in the picture of the last supper.  This doesn’t mean the number is inherently ‘lucky’ but you have to admit that Christ looks happier in that portrait compared to all the miserable ones where he’s nailed on a cross and looking characteristically disconsolate. 

And 13 is also the number branded on the cover of Sommer Marsden’s collection of short stories: Lucky 13.  Sommer Marsden is an erotic wordsmith par excellence.  Her short fiction appears in so many anthologies I’m not even going to start listing them here.  It’s sufficient to say, if you own an anthology of short erotic fiction, the chances are that you’re already familiar with Sommer’s work. 

And, if you’re familiar with Sommer’s work, the chances are you won’t want to miss this fun collection of erotic short stories from an über-competent mistress of the genre. 

Lucky 13 is subtitled Thirteen Tales of Getting Lucky.  The unifying theme of this anthology (aside from the skilled penmanship of Ms Marsden) is that the central characters ‘get lucky’ in the most erotic sense of that idiom. 

Noelle, the first person protagonist in the collection’s first story, “Pause,” would probably not be considered lucky on an initial examination.  She’s just broken up with a partner and is suffering the typical unhappiness associated with such a devastating blow to her relationship status.  However, when she is consoled by an old friend, Noelle does manage to get lucky. 

Similarly in “Underpass,” the first person protagonist Brenda does not appear to be lucky in having a forceful, jealous and domineering partner like Jared.  However, as the story continues, and as Brenda gets lucky, the complex relationship between the characters is exposed to illuminate the fine distinction between what we consider fortunate or otherwise.

Sommer Marsden’s skill as an author is in her ability to depict living breathing human beings and make them interesting, exciting and entertaining.  The fact that she chooses to write in the erotic genre means that we lucky readers get to see these vibrant individuals enjoying the complexities of a passionate and carnal existence.

If you enjoy well written erotica, and you want to get lucky with your choice of reading material, it’s a safe bet to pick Lucky 13.

Eva Cavell likes to go to the movies.  And, when she goes to the movies, she allows desperate strangers to fondle her in the dark.

I once encountered a woman like this at the cinema.  I complained to the manager.  I said, “Manager, there’s a woman in this cinema who allows desperate strangers to fondle her in the dark.”

The Manager said, “Are you making a formal complaint?”

I said, “Of course I am.  She keeps changing seats and I can’t find where she’s gone.”

Sinning in the cinema is not all of the story in Messalina, Devourer of Men, but it introduces us to Eva and a few of the main issues she brings to the novel.  She lacks confidence, she feels she’s a few pounds overweight, and she’s conscious of a class-culture that subjugates her because of her race.  Either Eva is thinking we’re all the same size and colour in a darkened movie theatre, or she’s come across a much more satisfying way of being entertained whilst watching the latest Hollywood blockbuster.

Without wishing to sound mean, if there had been someone like Eva in the cinema when I went to see an epic showing of those Lord of the Ring movies, there’s a strong likelihood I might have stayed awake through the damned things.  Instead, I watched the first one up to the point where the characters started walking somewhere, and woke up when all the Hobbits were in bed together looking eerily excited and pleased with themselves in a scene that was more camp than a row of pink tents. 

I’ll say now, this is a well-written and entertaining story.  Zetta Brown can tell a compelling tale and she makes her characters rich, real and risqué.  Eva’s journey from being the beloved bane of The DeLuxe Theatre is strong in detail and always filled with sensuous, sexual developments.  Zetta Brown writes exciting erotic scenes but she’s not afraid to inject the fantastical fulfilment of passion with a healthy dose of realism. 

At the movie house, whilst enjoying a Thursday afternoon matinee performance, Eva encounters the smooth and irresistible Jared Delaney.  From there we enter the territory of an unconventional romance.  Jared and Eva begin to discover themselves (and each other) and slowly learn that what they want from life is not necessarily those things they have spent their years chasing.

But Zetta Brown’s eye for credible detail stretches beyond incredible naughtiness in the back row.  When Jared and Eva become an item they bring with them their baggage from her job and his previous relationships.  Their relationship is passionate and intense from the first moment, but this doesn’t mean that Zetta Brown doesn’t force Jared to go through the ritual of meeting Eva’s parents.  Nor does it mean that Eva gets to escape the trauma of having to work on a campus populated by spoilt, rich brats and ivory-tower superiors.  And this tapestry of background detail makes the story richer and more believable. 

Messalina, Devourer of Men is fun from beginning to end.  The characters in this story are deliciously realistic and, even though the situations sometimes border on the fantastical, they are always grounded in Eva’s pragmatic reactions and responses.  Faults are discovered, and either addressed, dealt with or accepted. 

It should come as no surprise that this story completes itself in relation to the cinema where Eva has been spending her Thursday afternoons.  At the beginning of the story she has been watching contrived stories of happiness and excitement whilst struggling to find a place for her own unfulfilled sexuality.  At the climax of the novel, Eva has contrived her own story and finally found the place where her needs can be satisfied.  As to whether or not she’s written her own “Happy Ever After” – that’s something you’ll need to find out from reading the book. 

A lot of people have described my writing as hardboiled.  Or was it half-baked?  It had something to do with cooking and the foreign words they used probably meant “noir” in French.  Early on in my writing career someone actually said, “Your writing reminds me of Mickey Spillane.”

“Is that because it’s a good story that’s well told?” I asked.

“No,” they said.  “You remind me of him because I can’t stand that bastard either.”

I mention all of this only because I’ve been reading Vicki Hendricks’ hardboiled noir thriller, Miami Purity, and I figured it would be apposite to indicate that I’m familiar with this genre, if not an authority. 

Miami Purity has been rightly described as “a modern noir masterpiece.”  The story follows the first person narrative of Sherri.  Sherri is trying to get her life back together after a spell in prison, the accidental murder of her long time partner, and a history of substance abuse that she wants to put behind her.  Working at the dry cleaners – the eponymous Miami Purity – seems like the ideal way to get rid of the dirt from her past and make a clean start.

But Sherri hasn’t anticipated meeting someone like Payne.  And, whilst Sherri has enough emotional issues to disturb the sleep of a trained psychiatrist, Payne is an even darker character.  By most people’s standards Payne should be a bastion of the community and ideal material for a heroic template.  He’s a hard working businessman, takes a personal interest in the company’s finances and the staff’s development, and he loves his mother.  However, it’s possible to take all of those beneficial traits to a sinister extreme and Payne does all of that and then some.

One of the repeated failings of contemporary noir is that post-modern cynicism is often overtly represented, masquerading as black humour at the author/reader level – usually above the level of character interaction.  Invariably this comes across with the I-narrator making some abstract intertextual reference that is intrusive for readers familiar with noir and too oblique to be relevant for those new to the genre.

Yet Miami Purity has none of these failings.  Hendricks’ protagonist has a fresh voice and enthusiasm that flourishes and shines within the bleak world of noir Miami.  She is practical enough to realise that life is crap, hopeful enough to believe that change might just be possible, and sufficiently pragmatic to deal with the after-effects when everything starts to fall apart. 

Sherri’s healthy appetite for sex, its application hindered by the accidental murder of her previous partner, is foregrounded early on in the story.  This incessant libido drives her into the arms and the bed of the story’s disturbed antagonist Payne.  The sex in this story – used as a device to provide depth for Sherri, complications for Payne, and a motive for the story’s progression – is harsh, brutal and (usually) satisfying. 

It is genuinely refreshing to read a stylish noir thriller that is not trapped in the quagmire of patriarchal hegemony.  Admittedly, Sherri could be considered socially oppressed by her occasional lapses back into stripping and easy, casual sex.  And her salacious sexual appetite is one of the driving forces that power the plot to its delicious, dark denouement.  But Sherri’s resolve to get the job at Miami Purity, her determination to conquer Payne and to forcefully deal with the issues that trouble and threaten their relationship, make her dynamic enough to be a post-modern icon of the feminist femme fatale.  Whilst the genre still subscribes to the belief that men are men and women are either dangerous or convenient, Miami Purity brings a fresh approach to this masculine-dominated world of story-telling.

The longstanding relationship between sex and death is best exemplified by the phrase la petite mort: the small or little death that is the French metaphor for orgasm.  Roland Barthes suggested that la petite mort was the chief objective for reading literature.  More explicitly, and especially in terms of Gloria Vanderbilt’s Obsession, la petite mort exemplifies the binary duality that is the quintessential nature of sexual passion.  On the one hand there is the life-force and vitality that inspires the procreative/reproductive urge, wherein sexual arousal is manifested and all life energies begin.  Conversely, there is the massive expenditure of energy that mimics the termination and expulsion of all life resulting in that much vaunted experience known as la petite mort.  This duality, supported by other seemingly insurmountable paradoxes, is the central theme of Gloria Vanderbilt’s Obsession. 

A slender tome, Obsession deals with the aftermath of Talbot Bingham’s death and the subsequent effects of his passing.  His wife, Priscilla, is devastated by the loss.  More distressing for Priscilla is the journey of discovery she must undertake to come to terms with the dual life Talbot appeared to have lead during their marriage.

And, constantly, the reader is faced with the conflict of binary oppositions as the dead male continues to control the live female; the frigid wife encounters the libidinous widow; and the truth comes face to face with the lie.  Queen bees and worker ants; monogamy and polygamy; masters and slaves: are all used as metaphors for the conflicting nature of binary opposites combined in a single relationship.

The resonating impact of these dualities is relentless.  Exploring the contrasts between frigidity and passion, fidelity and promiscuity, and faithfulness and fecklessness, Vanderbilt teases the reader with shifting perspectives that show each of these binary opposites is never more than the converse side to the same coin. 

A great expanse of this story is narrated in the epistolatory form.  Again this reinforces another duality (the spoken word in written form) followed by the conflict of first person narratives interspersed with expository commentary from an omniscient narrator.  As Priscilla reads letters that weren’t intended for her eyes, the story also raises the conflict of what should be known and what should remain unknown.

Obsession begins:

If ever two were one, it could be said of Priscilla and Talbot Bingham.  How charmed Priscilla would be to hear the couple described in this Victorian manner, conjuring up old-fashioned valentines with quaint phrases entwined by ribbons and hearts, bordered by paper lace.  For to her, image was all: childless by choice, proud to devote her life “constructing,” as her architect husband might say, “brick by brick,” castle-high topped by a banner proclaiming to the world the success of their partnership.

Tellingly, the story opens with the omniscient narrator’s explanation of the closeness shared by Talbot and Priscilla: so close that this pair are commonly perceived as a single unit.  Talbot and Priscilla flourish beneath the neologism Talcilla: a blending of their names to label their Maryland estate and the name of Talbot’s fellowship of architects. 

The dictionary defines ‘Obsession’ as: Compulsive preoccupation with a fixed idea or an unwanted feeling or emotion… 

The key word here is ‘unwanted’ which again returns us to the duality of an emotion that embodies an overwhelming desire, even when that irresistible preoccupation is essentially unwanted.  It is that ‘unwanted’ emotion which fuels Priscilla’s story as she is buffeted between desire and disgust and ignorance and knowledge on her journey toward self-actualisation. 

Ultimately, Vanderbilt suggests that obsession can be overcome by an acceptance of the dual nature that fuels this irresoluble conflict.  However, this richly layered narrative should leave the reader returning to the text to search for deeper meaning.  To quote Joyce Carol Oates from the back cover of the novel:

In her new novel, Gloria Vanderbilt has created a remarkable tapestry of human passion – an interior world of highly charged erotic mysteries that teasingly suggest, but ever elude, decoding.  Obsession is a poetic tale on the nature of possession and obsession.

I shouldn’t really read romantic novels. It’s not because the genre is usually prohibited by Erotica Revealed’s review policy. I’m a rebel who can read what the hell I like (and, of course, I asked DLK’s permission first). I shouldn’t read romantic novels because, sometimes, my manly tears can be so strong they make my contact lenses come out.

And One Breath At A Time is, first and foremost, a romantic novel.

However, cast aside your assumptions and presuppositions about the “prohibited genre” and settle back into the sultry world of passion and punishment that Gwen Masters has created. One Breath At A Time is the simple story of what happens when boy meets girl. However, Gwen Masters is a gifted mistress of erotic storytelling and the simple idea of boy meets girl becomes something extremely powerful in her skilled and capable hands.

Kelley, the story’s heroine, encounters Tom in the first chapter. Tom is hot and Kelley finds him irresistible. The fact that his kinky tastes match her own deviant appetites means that this is a marriage made in heaven. The blossoming couple soon discover that their unconventional tastes are perfectly suited.

(I should make a note here that I’m not frowning on kinkiness. I have been accused of being kinky in the past and I have never seen it as being a slur. The truth is, I was once with a partner, we were having vigorous sex in a vaguely unconventional position, and she said to me: “You’re a sick and depraved individual.”

I said, “Wow! A talking sheep!”

However, that incident has nothing to do with this review or Gwen Masters’ excellent novel!)

One Breath At A Time is a deftly told story. The heroine and hero are painted as believable people. Both of them come to the story with their own personal baggage and the plot develops as they grow closer together and grow further from the pasts they are each leaving behind. It isn’t easy for either of them. But their adventures in the bedroom (and the kitchen and the wilderness, and the gym etc.) help cushion the problems they face in building a new life.

Without wanting to give too much away, Kelley has a natural tendency to be submissive while Tom is more naturally dominant. This aspect of their relationship is boldly foregrounded when Tom rides Kelley roughshod across a picnic table shortly after their first meeting. The theme of dominance and submission is later expanded on with a variety of paddles, whips, floggers and a cat o’nine tails.

Except, like it is in real life, the powerplay between this couple isn’t quite so neatly defined. Kelley is certainly submissive for Tom – but she is also sufficiently confident to make her own demands and occasionally hold the relationship’s reins.

After the delicious scenes of her submission to Tom, and the exquisitely written elements of her sexual punishment, I have to admit one of my favourite parts of this book came from Kelley taunting her eager soul-mate about the prospect of a potential threesome.

Not that a book of this strength can be reduced to a series of favourite scenes. Meeting Tom and Kelley, watching them grow together and stretch each other’s boundaries, was a total experience rather than a collection of cumulative encounters.

Did it make me weep? A good romance doesn’t always have to be a tear-jerker. Admittedly, I had a box of tissues close at hand while I was reading, but they weren’t there for tear-jerking. Overall, I have to admit that One Breath At A Time was a satisfying love story, beautifully told, and with some powerful, passionate (kinky and clever) sex.

Of course I shouldn’t have been surprised by the quality of Gwen Master’s novel writing. I’ve been a big fan of Gwen’s short fiction for ages now. Her "Confession" in He’s on Top, is a wonderful portrayal of a realistic couple dealing with a new way to overcome the ennui of a staid marriage. "The Craziest Thing," in Hide and Seek is another example of how Gwen is able to take real people and present them in erotic circumstances that defy the dull and dreary conventions of vanilla relationships. ("The Craziest Thing" is reprinted in J is for Jealousy).

Seriously, if you’ve not encountered Gwen Masters’ writing before it’s time to broaden your horizons and get to grips with a man who knows his own mind and a woman who minds her own man. And One Breath At A Time is just the place to make that acquaintance.

Personally, I think One Breath At A Time, with its strength, passion, credibility and sexual ingenuity, is how every contemporary romance should be written. Kelley and Tom are presented as living breathing human beings. Their appetites defy normal conventions (but the same can probably be said for the majority of people reading this review). Kelley likes Tom to play rough – and he can. Kelley doesn’t mind having ties, toys or Tom’s friend in the bedroom. The variations on the familiar theme of sexual pleasure are all used to enhance their relationship. As this story’s focus is fixed on a burgeoning romance, it makes sense that the couple’s appreciation for alternative satisfaction is central to the plot.

If you’re looking for well-written fiction, that dares to venture into the edgy world of extreme sex, you can’t get much better than Gwen Masters and you can easily get there with One Breath At A Time.

I recently taught a class where the subject of the Twilight novels was broached.  Several members of the class were huge fans.  Others were less enthusiastic.  My favourite quote from the whole lesson came when one student said the books were simply: one girl’s choice between necrophilia and bestiality. 

But it got us onto discussing werewolves and vampires and how, in the current trend for paranormal fiction, vampires seem to be winning the battle for popularity.  This is understandable when you realise that vampires are cool, vampires are sexy (and sometimes sparkly) and vampires are immortal.  But it overlooks the appeal of werewolves.

You’ll have to forgive a personal bias here but I genuinely feared werewolves when I was a small child.  I was young, impressionable, and had been listening to adults with twisted senses of humour.  They convinced me werewolves were real and I spent several sleepless nights each full moon petrified that I was going to be devoured by an extra from The Howling.  Fortunately, thanks to medication and the work of a good therapist, I’m almost over that fear now.

Almost.

This is not to say that I think werewolves should replace vampires.  (Buffy the Werewolf Fighter would sound plain stupid as the title for a TV show).  But I do think they are undervalued as a genuinely scary theme for paranormal fiction.

Take Pack of Lies as an example.  Written by the extremely talented Vanessa Vaughn, and published by Ravenous Romance, Pack of Lies is a well-paced tale of wily werewolves.  It smolders on every page.  Vaughn makes the tension in this story as tight as can be suffered, creating characters who appear realistic even when the subject matter is paranormal creatures that mutate from human to werewolf beneath the light of a full moon. 

The suspension of disbelief in any paranormal story is a hard trick to navigate.  The writer has to make the world believable and unbelievable in the same moment.

Vaughn manages this with aplomb.

Similarly, trying to make the unbelievably believable story erotic, whilst maintaining some semblance of a plot, means the writer needs to play a balancing act akin to spinning plates on a pole, onboard a pitching and yawing boat, during a thunderstorm.

Vaughan does this with sufficient style as to make it look effortless.

If I sound like I’m going overboard with the praise (and the nautical similes) then you’ll have to bear with me.  As a reviewer I’m not just exposed to good books.  I’m also forced to read some pretty dire wastes of paper.  This means I’ve seen the shipwrecks that have been sound ideas, piloted by some of the writing world’s less-talented captains.  I’ve read through the flotsam and jetsam of spurious crap that make you weep for the future of humanity.

Vaughan doesn’t fall into that category.

Pack of Lies is marketed as m/m paranormal romance.  The story begins with a werewolf orgy that blends m/m relationships with hetero scenes and the rough and ready passion of understandable animal instincts.  The characters are introduced as complex in media res creations that live their life beyond the confines of the narrative.  When the story’s central human character is introduced, accidentally running over a werewolf, the excitement moves up a notch, the plot’s complexities kick into overdrive, and the pace never lets go.  

For anyone who enjoys being gripped by werewolves, Pack of Lies is the erotic download you need to read.   Well-paced, well-written and well worth the investment of time and money.  Don’t wait for the next full moon to have your fun with this one.

In the UK during the 1930s the practice of homosexuality was forbidden by law.  Those found guilty were incarcerated and ostracised from ‘decent’ society.  Those suspected were often subjected to brutal and vicious physical attacks from vigilante gangs of bigots.  With the period’s economic problems, and the impending threat of another World War swelling from Europe, it’s hard to imagine a less appealing time for any man to lust after another man. 

The Palace of Varieties is set in the 1930s.  The story follows the homoerotic adventures of Paul Lemoyne.  Its author, James Lear, manages to do something that few other novels would dare attempt.  The Palace of Varieties dares to make the depression gay.

The Palace of Varieties comes from Cleis Press, one of the US’s leading imprints in erotic fiction.  James Lear, author of Hot Valley, The Back Passage (and several other highly acclaimed titles) takes his readers to a London variety theatre in the 1930s: the perfect setting for a risqué romp where the men are men and the women are incidental. 

The Palace of Varieties is more than a well-written erotic novel.  James Lear has captured the spirit of 1930s England by writing in the distinctive style of the Edwardian novel.   Quickly introducing his cocksure hero, Paul Lemoyne; wrenching him from the family home in the country and thrusting him into gainful employment at the South London Palace of Varieties; Lear leads the reader backstage with a pass that is firmly stamped: ACCESS ALL AREAS.

It’s hard not to enjoy this novel.  Lear’s central character, Lemoyne, narrates the events and his voice his that of a roguish uncle, sharing confidences and reminiscences over a postprandial brandy.  The period setting of the story is, as previously mentioned, hostile and homophobic.  Yet the story pushes this bigotry to its rightful place in the background as Lemoyne concentrates on the important things in life such as money, sex and love.   

My late father worked the UK’s music halls at a time not so long after the setting of Palace of Varieties.  His anecdotes about the conflicting camaraderie and cattiness of theatrical life were brought to mind as I read the interactions between Lear’s richly crafted characters.  Consequently, I can’t fault this story for its feel of authenticity. 

On one occasion my father asked a musician who shared his dressing room if he could borrow a comb before going on stage.

“No,” said the musician.  “It’s my comb and I’m not going to lend it to you.”

“Then shove it up your arse,” my father replied tersely.  He then went on stage to perform his act.  When he came off stage the musician was in his dressing room, bent over, with a comb sticking out from between his buttocks. 

“What the hell are you doing?” asked my father.

“You told me to shove it up my arse,” the musician explained.  “What do you want me to do now?”

I mention this only because either of these real life characters could have been drawn from Lear’s Palace of Varieties. 

Lemoyne’s story properly begins in the Palace of Varieties but the character springboards from there toward bigger and brasher adventures.  Lemoyne works as a stage-hand, a male prostitute and a model before moving out into the world to broaden his horizons in other areas.  However, the essence of Edwardian theatricality remains a mainstay of this brilliant, boy-on-boy novel. 

The sex is wonderfully written with Lear treading a fine balance between the gratifying and the gratuitous.  Lemoyne’s character is an affable chap, game to try anything once and anxious to do it repeatedly if it proves enjoyable or profitable.  His hedonistic amble from one encounter to another makes for a compelling read that hurries the story along like a runaway steam train. 

Predictably, Lemoyne is handsome and hung but I’m of the mindset that no erotic fiction (homoerotic or otherwise) would work well if the central character were ugly and equipped like an under-developed gerbil.  That said, the main feature of Paul’s attractiveness is neither his good-looks nor his donkey-sized dick: it’s his charm that shines through every page.  Lemoyne’s excess of personality makes the denouement of this novel a climax that has to be reached. 

For anyone who enjoys their fiction when it’s fun and frantic, The Palace of Varieties will provide all the entertainment a reader needs.

Many years ago, I recall once being engaged in a discussion of literature with my sister-in-law.  At the time she was a huge Catherine Cookson fan (well, she’d read three Catherine Cookson books and she was very fat, so I suppose that qualifies her as a huge Catherine Cookson fan).

“I thought I’d read all the Mallen books,” she confided miserably.  “But it appears that I haven’t.”

I expressed interest.  Well, I didn’t tell her to shut up, which amounted to the same thing. 
“I’ve read The Mallen Litter,” she began, between mouthfuls of pie.  “And I’ve read The Mallen Streak and The Mallen Girl.  But now they’ve brought out a new title.  I’m going to have to buy that one too.”

“Really,” I said, feigning interest.  “What’s the new title called?”

She consulted the catalogue she was perusing and frowned over the unfamiliar word I was expecting her to pronounce.  Taking a deep breath she said, “This new one is called The Mallen Try-Logie.”

I glanced at the catalogue and said: “It’s pronounced ‘trilogy’.”

I mention this, because whenever I encounter any trilogy, I always think of it as a ‘try-logie’ and then smirk at the memory of my sister-in-law’s disappointed face when she realised she had spent valuable pie money on a collection of the only three books that she’d previously read. 

Personal Demons is the last of Jay Lygon’s trilogy (try-logie – can’t shake that habit) which began with Chaos Magic and continued with Love Runes. In this novel Sam, the God of Sex, and his master Hector, God of Love, bring their relationship to a climax.  I’m picking my words carefully here because I don’t want to include any spoilers for those who’ve been following the story so far. 

Readers who are familiar with the work of Jay Lygon will have come to expect a high quality of writing, combined with well-structured stories, deeply layered characters and explicit, arousing sex scenes.  Better than that, the dialogue is rich, credible and has the authenticity of natural speech.  Consider the following excerpt:

I tried on the damn gray suit. I even modeled two of the shirts, but the next time I came out of the dressing room, I was in my street clothes. “I’m done,” I said.

“You’re not done, Boy, until I say you are.”

The clerk and the tailor exchanged a glance. Backing away, they muttered excuses to leave us alone.

Hector’s brand on my butt cheek seared. I swore I could feel the exact outline of the capital H. That was more warning than I usually got, so I should have backed down. No, I should have crawled across the floor to his feet and begged forgiveness. Instead, my lips twitched a little into a sneer and then my chin lifted. The next thing I knew, Hector was out of that chair with his hand on my upper arm.

“Sam and I are going to have a little chat,” he told the clerk through gritted teeth. “I’ll be out to pay for all that in a moment.”

They rushed to collect the clothes I’d tried on. Hector dragged me back into a dressing room and slammed the door shut. He sat on the cushioned bench and yanked me over his lap. “Bare that ass, Boy.”

Previously on these pages I’ve criticised books for containing dialogue that is nothing more than artless words on the page pretending to be speech.  The example above shows that it’s possible to put black print on a white page and structure it in a way that makes the characters whisper their words into your ear. 

The whole ethos behind Personal Demons is supremely clever.  The supernatural abilities of the central characters are only occasionally exploited as a convenient device – allowing Sam and Hector to fuck over their relationship the way we mere mortals invariably fuck over our own relationships.  Indeed, the presence of the central characters’ omniscience is a constant reminder that Sam and Hector are voluntarily putting themselves through the ordeal of a ‘normal’ relationship which, in itself, says volumes about the level of construction that supports each character.  And, if any one of us had the opportunity to become a God, where better to reside than in the heartland of Hollywood’s glitterati? 

I could go on: I could mention the fun and excitement of reading about Ophir, Alberto and Deal, or Lygon’s elegant, eloquent description.  But instead, I’ll just say that Personal Demons is an excellent book on its own: but it’s a better experience if you read the whole trilogy (try-logie).

“Breathe,” Dominic whispered again as he dropped his body onto mine, plunging into me and grasping my shoulders as his breath rushed against my ear. He thrust into me with rhythmic strength as I lay like a doll, sprawled powerlessly across the hard foam beneath me. Dominic pumped hard, holding my hips solidly. His breathing changed as he thrust just a bit harder and came inside me, my body like a deflated balloon, a beautiful, motionless receptacle for his come.

“Power Over Power” by Emerald

Please, Sir, Erotic Stories of Female Submission, is the latest anthology to be published beneath the skilful editorial hand of Rachel Kramer-Bussel.  Regular readers of erotica will be familiar with Rachel Kramer-Bussel’s substantial contribution to the canon of erotic fiction.  And those with good taste and sufficient savvy will probably already possess their own well-thumbed copy of this title by the time this review goes to print. 
If I had to pick a favourite subgenre of erotic fiction, female submission would undoubtedly be near the top.  There are other niches where my proclivities can sometimes stray.  But the concept of masculine domination and female submission works on an aesthetic level complemented by well-written prose.  The example from Emerald (above) illustrates this beautifully.  The piece below equally exemplifies the high standards of writing in this anthology.

Oh, fuck. I can no longer breathe, much less make a noise of want. This is what he does to me, every day: whips me into a frenzy of words that makes me miss him more than I have the power to say, that makes me so wet that if he were here, I’d fuck him right now, bent over this table, with all these people watching, groaning his name with every thrust. I’d be begging him to fuck me, beat me, make me come with the kind of orgasm that makes everything else disappear.

“Anticipation” by Shanna Germain

One of the key misunderstandings with female submission, as a genre of erotic fiction, is that it does not revolve around misogyny.  Admittedly, there may be elements of denigration, humiliation and subversion, all characterised by patriarchal authority: but these are invariably contextualised by the protagonist’s desire to suffer those abuses.   It is never power wielded for the sake of wielding power: it is only ever the imposition of consensual authority over a willing subordinate.

“I think that the first time I beat you, I should use a riding crop. Each stroke will hurt more than the last. The pain of a crop is sharp, searing, biting deep. Eating into you, body and soul. I’ll beat you into a lather, my little pony. Your ass will look like it has been barbecued. You won’t be able to sit down for days.”

I could see it all. I wanted it all, wanted it now. The delicate trace of his fingers on my flesh burned like the trails of fire he promised me. His silken voice made me weak with desire. My clit was a red-hot coal threatening to burst into flame.

“Touch yourself, girl. Show me how much you want to be my slave.”

“Stroke” by Lisabet Sarai

Lisabet Sarai is a supremely competent wordsmith.  Here she uses her abilities to bring dialogue to life combined with her razor-sharp knack for charging a scene with powerful eroticism.  The heroine in this story has a subordinate streak – complemented by the antagonist’s penchant for domination.  The whole union is perfectly realised beneath Ms Sarai’s exquisite penmanship.

Satisfy Me Tonight is a collection of three novella length erotic romances bundled into one, single tome.  From Kengsington’s Aphrodisia imprint, the collection starts with Fiona Zedde’s Sexual Attraction, followed by Sydney Molare’s Driving My Man Wild and concluding with Kimberly Kaye Terry’s Captive. 

This is the third title under Kensington’s ‘Satisfy Me…’ label which started with Satisfy Me, continued with Satisfy Me Again and has now progressed to Satisfy Me Tonight.  The titles seem popular with readers and the intention is to blend romance with erotica in the genre of erotic romance. 

Sad to say, I have to admit I wasn’t satisfied. 

This is probably a fault on my part.  Reading the reader reviews on Amazon its clear that these authors have a huge following and the books are extremely popular.  I’ve previously read and enjoyed Fiona Zedde’s Bliss and have long regarded her as a competent author.  I’m unfamiliar with the previous works of Ms Molare and Ms Terry.  However, my research tells me that both these authors are popular with a loyal and enthusiastic readership. 

In Sexual Attraction Fiona Zedde introduces us to Kenna and Ben.  Their relationship begins as love at first sight.  They meet in Belgium.  They consummate their passion.  And they hump like filthy-minded bunnies that have been force-fed Viagra.  However, they both know they will never see each other ever again.  This is Belgium.  Kenna is due to return to her home in Atlanta, Georgia.  And yet, three months later, whilst Kenna is still licking her metaphorical wounds and, savouring the taste of what might have been, she recognises a pair of honey-coloured eyes…

Then there’s Sydney Molare’s Driving My Man Wild.  Six years into her marriage Berze is sitting alone in the hot tub, surrounded with romantic candles, and wondering where the spark has gone.  The romance for Berze and her beloved Jare is rekindled by the purchase of a second-hand wedding dress which comes with a chest of saucy nineteenth century love-letters.  The smouldering heat of these belles-lettres inspires Berze and Jare to rediscover those important parts of their relationship that they’d almost forgotten.

And, finally, there’s the story of Tessa’s kidnap in Captive.  Tessa is vociferously protesting against a wicked conglomerate.  Others who have protested have been threatened.  And then Tessa finds herself in the custody of a gorgeous kidnapper.  Rather than revisiting the territory of Stockholm Syndrome, there is a more complex rationale behind Tessa’s response to being abducted.  However, the results are similar.

If I have to be honest, I think the reason these three stories failed to satisfy me was because they gave an impression of being hurried.  I don’t know if it’s the novella length format and its subsequent restrictions and limitations of space, but the shortness of each story left me unsated and wishing there had been more substance to these tales. 

If I’m being picky, I’d also say that there were several issues in each narrative that could have been addressed by either a little more time and patience from the author or some circumspect attention from the editor.  Again – this gave the impression that things had been rushed.

This is from Sydney Molare’s Driving My Man Wild:

“The dick was so good, I couldn’t do shit but fuck him back.  I turned all the sexual frustration I held into pussy-clenching strokes.  My back hurt, my lungs were bursting, my heart was thumping against the wall, but still I fucked.  Even when I felt him stiffening up, making mewling sounds, I fucked.  Even when I turned my head and saw his fuck face, I fucked.  I fucked, Fucked, Fucked, and FUCKED until his legs gave way and he collapsed on the floor.

Then I stopped fucking.”

Themed anthologies, I find, have you guessing at the contents before you’ve properly cracked the spine on the book you’re reading.  As soon as you read the title you’re predicting the content of some of the stories.

For instance, an anthology about sex and vampires had me thinking there would be stories about fluids being sucked.  An anthology about spanking made me think there would be bruised buttocks somewhere in the tome.  An anthology of sixty second erotica had me thinking that my wife was writing about our sex life.  (Please note, I’m not trying to brag about the sixty second thing.  The sixty seconds includes foreplay and lighting the cigarette afterwards).

Consequently, when I received my copy of Sex in the City: London, my mind began to predict the contents before I’d opened the front page. 

Sex in the City: London is one of four recently released titles from Xcite Books.  The others in the series are Sex in the City: Dublin, Sex in the City: Paris, and Sex in the City: New York. 

I can already imagine that Sex in the City: New York involves at least one story with sex in a yellow taxicab, or sex beneath the shadow of the Statue of Liberty.  I suspect Sex in the City: Dublin includes something seductive involving a pint of Guinness.  And I’d guess Sex in the City: Paris has a story with a woman who doesn’t shave her pits and a man who’s never brushed his teeth. 

But it’s Sex in the City: London I’m looking at and, before I glanced beyond the cover, I wondered if it might include sex with the queen (never going to happen), sex with the prime minister (even less likely with the current mob of fugly incumbents) and sex with someone called Big Ben.

Fortunately, my expectations were usurped when I began to read the stories.  Instead of taking characters roughly up the Old Kent Road, or riding a character’s tube until they’re snugly settled in the West End, the collection is credible, entertaining and literate.  The stories here are certainly erotic: but they each contain the essence of a city dweller’s grudging adoration for the place they call home.

And, perhaps that’s what makes each of these stories come to life.  Anyone who has ever lived in a city knows that the instinctive affection for home is tempered by a weary distaste for all its shortcomings: a duality of cognitive dissonance that is irresoluble and inescapable. 

Or, as Kristina Lloyd points out at the beginning of “The Caesar Society,”

I like Soho.  It’s horrible.  It used to be worse and I liked it better then. 

This duality extends to people, as Justine Elyot observes in “Thames Link,”

He’s a creep, he’s a sleaze, he’s a perve.  He’s my kind of guy. 

Or, as Maxim Jakubowski explains in “Woke up with the Hampstead Blues Again,”

There’s London.
Then there’s the real London.
And then again, there is the unreal London, a world of shadows, imagination and loneliness.

This is a collection to be savoured like a sightseeing tour.  The stories show imagination and excitement without once forgetting about their shared background. 

In “Monster” Francis Ann Kerr takes her readers to the nefarious Torture Gardens.   “The Tourist,” by Clarice Clique is a veritable whirlwind visit through the city, touching on the Tate Modern, the London Eye, Piccadilly Circus and a handful of other venerable attractions.  In “What are you Wearing?” Matt Thorne appears to answer every visitor to the city’s question about what happens to all the luggage that goes missing form Terminal 5. 

As a writer, and as someone who also teaches creative writing, I think the most appealing element of this collection is that each author has provided notes on their inspiration. 
Elizabeth Coldwell talks about the influence of Soho, and how that dictated her narrative for “Rain and Neon.”  NJ Streitberger discusses the true incident that inspired the fictional account of “The Girl on the Egyptian Escalator.”  Kevin Mullins and Marcelle Perks explain the mechanics of their winning collaboration on “Strawberry Pink.” It’s a fascinating glimpse behind the thought processes that have created these compelling stories.

Perhaps the clever thing about these anthologies is that they’ve been edited by Maxim Jakubowski.  Anthologies need to be edited by someone who has a feel for the subject matter and it goes without saying that Maxim is well travelled: regularly jetting between New York, London and a host of other exotic places.  He is undoubtedly savvy to the nuances of each anthology’s destination – making him ideally placed to edit stories focused on specific locations. 

And Maxim also knows about sex.  As the presiding editor of the Mammoth Best New Erotica series, it’s acknowledged that he knows a good erotic story when he sees one.  In short: Sex in the City: London is a testament to Maxim’s abilities as an editor and it deserves to be a triumphant success.  The authors who have contributed know how to tell a story and how to convey the essence of a city.  And who could ask for more than that in a book?

In these politically correct times, it’s hard for me – as a heterosexual man – to write about spanking without coming across as a raving misogynist.  Just because I condone consensual spanking does not mean I’m a woman hater.  Nor does it make me one of those dimwits that tell gags like: “What do you say to a woman with two black eyes? Nothing you haven’t told her twice before.”  However, the moment I mention spanking with any form of approval, I’m immediately seen as a man who likes to hit women.

Of course, the difference between spanking and abuse is like the difference between good sex and rape.  One is a consensual pleasure for all involved – the other is an abhorrent crime. 

In some ways it’s a comforting thought that spanking remains so taboo.  It resides on the periphery of society’s acceptable behaviour and therefore it’s seen by participants as deliciously deviant behaviour.  Personally, I don’t think there are many things more arousing than the idea behind the words: “We shouldn’t be doing this, but…”

Clearly Rachel Kramer Bussel agrees with my thoughts about the pleasure of spanking.  Spanking is one of the repeated elements in a lot of Rachel’s fiction, it was one of the main themes in Naughty Spanking Stories from A to Z and Naughty Spanking Stories from A to Z II.  Not surprisingly, spanking is also one of the main topics in her recent anthology, Spanked.

During a recent interview with Rachel (for ERWA), I asked her about her interest in the subject as a subject for fiction and she made this comment:

To me one of the greatest things about spanking, as a topic and activity, is there there’s such a vast range of motivations. You could watch, say, two men get spanked by two women. Both have their hands above their head, standing against a wall. Both women use the same black paddle. To an outsider, the scenes look the same, but maybe one is being “punished” by his mistress, and maybe the other has never been spanked before, and is curious. Or maybe he’s usually the top and they’ve decided to switch. You never know, and by telling the story in an engaging way, we can find out.

This eclectic attitude toward the diversity of motivations within spanking is fully reflected in Spanked. 

The collection begins with “Spanking You.”  This cleverly written short story, from the talent of ribald Rick Roberts, is a gentle introduction of a male hand against female buttocks.  This is followed by the wonderful Shanna Germain’s “Perfect Bound,” a pithy little story about a female spanker and her male subordinate. 

The collection includes Donna George Storey’s delicious tale,  “A Rare Find,” which brings a triptych of couples together for a cheek-reddening night of fun.  There is also Madlyn March’s wickedly entertaining “Reunion,” a punishing story of girl-on-girl retribution; Therese Noelle Robert’s naughty “Daddy’s Girl;” and the anthology concludes with Rachel Kramer Bussel’s stylishly dark denouement: “The Depths of Despair.”  

Obviously, there are other stories – all of them equally exciting and only overlooked here because I’m too lazy to read the table of contents.  But it’s sufficient to say that, as with all Rachel’s anthologies, the standard is fantastically high and every story manages to entertain, arouse and excite.

Spanked takes the time to consider a broad variety of approaches that can be used in this most pleasurable of sexual punishments.  From the traditional employment of bare hands on bare bottoms through to the innovative use of a trade paperback and even a cheese paddle, Spanked repeatedly shows that even if the mechanics of spanking are predetermined – the essence of spanking is always open to imagination and individual interpretation. 

Short version review: Good book.  Well-written.  Go out and buy it.

Long version review:

I’ve recently done a blog about where erotic fiction authors get their ideas from.  If you can find it on the net, I’d encourage you to search it out and enjoy it.  I’m typically humorous in the blog and some of the things I say, although  comically absurd, contain an existentialist germ of truth.  However, I could have saved myself the time from writing that blog and directed readers to Carrie Williams’ excellent new novel, The Apprentice. 

The Apprentice charts Genevieve’s story as personal assistant to a renowned author.  Stated so baldly it doesn’t sound like it’s going to be a story of constant couplings and saucy sexiness.  The phrase, “as sexy as a writer” is not one that will become a cliché through its constant overuse.  However, The Apprentice comes from the highly-acclaimed Black Lace imprint and Carrie Williams is an author of repute with titles such as The Blue Guide and Chilli Heat to her credit.  Consequently, it goes without saying that this is a very hot read.

Genevieve applies for a job as a writer’s assistant and she is successful in her application.  She finds herself working for the legendary Anne Tournier and it seems like a match made in heaven.  Genevieve is an ardent fan of Anne’s work and desperately needs the job.  Anne, without wanting to give too much away, desperately needs Genevieve.

The Apprentice is a cleverly told story.  Writing about writers is never easy because, whilst all we authors want to make writers look glamorous and exciting, the truth is that sitting in a grubby office and making up stories is hard to portray as anything other than a mental health issue.  Nevertheless, Carrie Williams manages this trick with aplomb and Anne Tournier comes across as coolly exciting and consistently glamorous.

What about the sex? I hear you ask.  Well, it’s kind of you to offer, but we’re talking about this book, aren’t we?

Carrie Williams conveys the essence of passion and sexuality with subtle power.  Erotic fiction remains one of the most potent genres of writing because, when executed efficiently, it can produce the strongest physical reactions from reading any literary form.  Writing about a writer of erotic fiction (which Carrie Williams has so cleverly done) demands that the eroticism presented on the page should be so vivid it is almost tangible.  Fortunately, the erotic element of this story is presented with lucid precision and exquisite detail.  Genevieve’s assignations come across as realistic but, by necessity for the story’s main motif, the reader’s position can sometimes be perceived as voyeuristic.  At times this can almost be perceived as a technique that distances the reader from the eroticism.  However, on a second reading, most people will understand that this is the most appropriate way for the sexual elements of the story to be presented. 

I think the factor I found most enjoyable about this novel was, even though it’s an erotic novel that has come from Black Lace, Carrie Williams has been bold enough to put the story first and allow the sex to take a natural subordinate position to the plot.  Admittedly, the prologue is explicit and arousing: but it also raises enough questions to have readers intrigued and hankering to know what is going on in the story.  The first chapter, although it’s only a mere seven pages, simply alludes to the frisson of sexual explicitness that will develop through the story. 

In our modern world of McFiction and on-demand-satisfaction, the fact that Carrie Williams takes the time to patiently build to her story’s satisfying peaks is a pleasing contrast against many of the in-your-face and rush-to-the-bush stories that currently masquerade as erotic fiction.

So, it’s a book about a woman who writes saucy stories and hires an assistant.  It’s explicit, erotic and all of this carried by a very compelling storyline.  I’d tell you more but I’m in danger of spoiling the plot or giving away the denouement.  If you like well-written erotic fiction that is intelligent, arousing and engaging, then The Apprentice should make your have-to-have list for 2009.  To reiterate what I said in the short review:

What could possibly be sexually arousing about hospitals? OK, there are nurses, and untold opportunities to be forcibly undressed, and the chance you could be subjected to enemas, and bed baths and…

Wow! It looks like I answered my own rhetorical question.

The Melinoe Project starts in the not too distant future when we meet Raymond Reynolds. Raymond is sick of his job as an office temp. He’s a photographer by vocation and specialises in pictures of submissive men – a subject with which he has a lot of sympathy. He’s proud to admit that his own sexual preferences run to being submissive. And he’s eager to explore his limitations in that sphere of personal development. Taking a break from the temping work, and hoping it’s going to be a permanent break, Raymond enrols as a test subject for the Melinoe Project.

[In a way I think DL King may have made a slight mistake here. If Raymond were really into suffering and humiliation (and wanted to be at the mercy of domineering, ball-busting bitches) he would have ignored the Melinoe Project and stayed working as an office temp. I’ve done that gig. I’ve grovelled beneath power drunk females as they forced me to plumb the depths of office servitude and lick their metaphoric boots – or at least do lots of invoicing.]

The Melinoe project is the brainchild of the beautiful and brutal beauties at the Melinoe Research Institute. These are the same people behind Club Melinoe: “the hottest and most exclusive Fem Dom club in the country.” All these elements are tied neatly together as the story progresses and we learn more about Raymond’s goals and ambitions, his dreams and desires, and his dark, deviant needs.

The Melinoe Project is DL King’s first full length title. The author of many arousing short stories, King exudes a formidable talent for teasing, torment and titillation. In this all out extravaganza of female domination and male submission King excels. The tone of The Melinoe Project is tempered slightly by the flavour of romance, but it’s a romance on the strictest of terms and with an edge that’s as hard and cutting as surgical steel.

Although I try to avoid clichés [we all know they’re old hat – I usually avoid them like the plague] the phrase “pushing the envelope” kept springing to mind as I read The Melinoe Project. King takes the punishment further than anything I’ve read before. Raymond is a tough cookie, and he takes more than most men could endure. But still DL King makes him, and the reader, squirm as the story moves to its satisfying climax.

The characterisation in this story is strong. The reader can sympathise with the frustration of Raymond’s plight and empathise with his desire to succeed. The opportunity to be a part of Club Melinoe is his ultimate ambition, which lends credibility to the effort he invests in getting there.

But it’s not just the protagonist who is competently portrayed. The dominant but kind-hearted Sunny blends a penchant for mastery with a wholly believable soft, seductive centre. In contrast the vicious and brutal Susan was so perfectly created she reminded me of every bitch of an office manager who has ever tried to metaphorically brand me with a cat-o-nine tails.

The Melinoe Project is not for everyone. The story does push boundaries and takes the genre of fem dom and male sub to a new and shocking level. But we all need to push ourselves to new levels every now and again. Do you still want to know what could possibly be sexually arousing about hospitals? Read The Melinoe Project. If you like your women strong enough to make your men cry, and you like your men punished good and often, you’ll find the answer written on every page.

Call me a Luddite but, when someone gives me a book of literary fiction, the first words that spring to mind are seldom, ‘Thank you.’ 

I don’t mind holding my hand up and admitting I’m not a literary fiction type of person.  I enjoy stories that are exciting, entertaining and accessible.  You don’t often get that with literary fiction.  The words ‘literary fiction’ on a book cover are invariably an albatross tied around the damned thing’s neck, warning off those other poor damned souls who would potentially run the risk of being burdened with the tome.  It’s like giving a DVD the accolade ‘Oscar winning’ which invariably means it’s a sleep-inducing crock of shite without any of the good things a person wants from a film such as near-nudity, car chases, serial killers or big explosions.

So I approached The Silent Hustler with a natural wariness.  The back cover blurb describes the opening story, "Things I can’t Tell My Father" as ‘literary.’  It goes on to describe another story, "Burn the Rich" as ‘revolutionary.’  I described my reticence as characteristic.

But, on eventually delving into the book, I discovered I had no reason to be frightened away by the scary language on the outside.

"Things I Can’t Tell My Father" is a sensitive and erudite exposition of the stumbling relationship between Meriwether’s first person protagonist and an antagonist father.  The language used is direct, realistic and uncompromising – yet the duality of the truth hidden beneath the words is still something of a revelation as Meriwether gives each brief entry his own distinctive interpretation.  Good – yes.  Literary – yes: but not in a bad way.

"Burn the Rich" is a gritty tale of brutal erotic realism, told in fragmentary snatches that mimic the central character’s libido-driven call-and-response arousal.  Admittedly, "Burn the Rich" could be described as revolutionary because of its anarchic content, but please don’t let such epithets dissuade you from making a purchase of this book if you’re worried it’s wholly cerebral.  Above all else "Burn the Rich" like every other story in this collection, is an entertaining, intriguing and well-constructed read.

Sean Meriwether is described as "The Naughty Harry Potter" because of his magical ability to create worlds with words.  As nicknames go I have to admit this one is pretty cool.  People used to call me "The Nasty Harry Potter" but that was only because I spent so much time playing with my wand, and the title didn’t have the same ring of dynamism that Meriwether’s name projects. 

Those who enjoy literature in its traditional style (i.e. boring) probably won’t get much of a thrill from The Silent Hustler.  Admittedly Meriwether does include stories that show his mastery of craft.  "Knives and Roses" presents the story from an eerie second person perspective, making the narrative all the more compelling and convincing.  The stream-of-consciousness interludes that demarcate episodes of "Into the Mouth(Becoming the Fly)" show a keen sense of character and its representation within literary forms.  But the stories in this volume are also exciting, intriguing and enjoyable – far from the literary norm.

If you enjoy gay erotica that’s well written and presents a variety of challenging styles and interpretations, Meriwether’s The Silent Hustler is a title you need, to complete your current collection. 

I’m thinking of getting a slave.  I’ve put an ad in the local paper. 

SLAVE WANTED
UNREASONABLE HOURS
CLOTHING OPTIONAL

However, I’ve not had many positive responses yet.  Unless you count the enquiry I had from the police.  But that doesn’t really count because they weren’t willing to supply a candidate for my vacancy.  Or tell me where they buy their handcuffs. 

Please, let me say here, that I enjoyed The Slave Zone.  Granted, it has many of the faults one would expect from a first novel.  There are a handful of sentences that a more experienced author would have trimmed, cut or lost completely.  However, overall, the novel is competently laid out and tells an intriguing story.

The intriguing story in this case is Lana’s journey from virginity and inexperience to a world of sexual-enslaved-servitude on a Caribbean island.  (I have to point out here that Lana is one of my favourite girl’s names: mainly because it’s ‘anal’ spelled backwards).  Lana’s story starts off with pathos – her mother dies and her father turns into a shit – but Lana has sufficient spunk to turn things around and take her life in a more satisfying direction. 

The more satisfying direction begins with a wet T-shirt competition (which Lana wins).  After the consequential induction to sexual slavery, there is a five year gap in the narrative followed by a Fine Form competition at a biker bar in Arizona (which Lana wins). 

It would be interesting to analyse here whether Lana’s participation in these contests is the author’s subtle critique on the shortcomings of contemporary society, or simply an excuse to write about tits.  We live in a shallow world that advocates the idolisation of physical perfection over spiritual, mental or emotional substance.  This is particularly prevalent in the objectification of attractive young women through the medium of beauty pageants, Fine Form competitions and wet T-shirt contests. 

In some ways, the inherent sexism is a double-edged sword that inflicts misogyny on a society in a twofold fashion.  Initially it is reductive to female participants reducing their contribution to nothing more than appearance – reinforcing the stereotypical sexist ideal that a woman’s only value in society is to look pretty.  Secondly, those women participating in the contests contend that the experience is empowering – a view that could be construed as an extension of sexism’s self-subjugation.  However, whilst this misogyny could be considered detrimental to the ethos underpinning Fine Form and wet T-shirt contests, it’s also a good chance to see tits, so we shouldn’t consider the experience to be a total loss.

This is not my subtle way of saying that The Slave Zone contains sexism.  There will always be an element of some sort of “-ism” in a book about sexual slavery because the dynamic of sub/dom politics requires some sort of power exchange.  If the characters were portrayed as being in an interracial relationship it would be deemed racism.  If the characters portrayed had an extreme age difference, it would be deemed ageism.  If the characters portrayed are of different genders it will either be misandry or misogyny, depending on whether or not it’s a woman striping a man’s backside or a man dominating a woman. 

Wolkoff presents the power dynamics of a slave/master relationship with stilted competence and describes a variety of characters of differing genders who take various roles as either dominants or submissives.  Admittedly, the tendency in The Slave Zone is for men to be strong and women to be willing but the story’s conclusion shows that Wolkoff has his own ideas about what constitutes real strength in a woman and it’s an innovative conclusion to the story.

At more than 400 pages in length, The Slave Zone presents an epic story of sex and submission.  Lana is an intelligent and likeable heroine who knows what she wants and usually gets what she deserves.  Her adventures are summarily catalogued and presented in a style that is accessible despite the aforementioned handicaps of first-novel-itis. 

I think it’s fair to warn readers of this column that the book is fairly predictable.  It's moderately well-written but there is no engagement with the central character on an emotional level.  Lana just goes from fuck to fuck without developing as a person and, over 400 pages, you'd expect a better understanding of the character.  Or perhaps I’m too jaded from living a life immersed in a mire of erotic fiction? 

Abraham Lincoln was once asked to review a romantic novel. 

It may seem absurd to think of a wartime president being asked to do something as trivial as reviewing a romantic novel.  However, whilst America was recently at war with Iraq, George Bush appeared on the TV show Deal or No Deal, so it seems there is a tradition of America’s leaders pursuing trivial pursuits during times of national crisis.

Having read the romantic novel, Lincoln said, “People who like this sort of thing will find this the sort of thing they like.”  These, I think, are some of the wisest words I have ever read.  As a book reviewer, I consider this pithy summary to be a mantra which I keep at the forefront of my mind when I’m compiling my own thoughts about a piece of fiction.

Trailer Park Nights V: L.A. Women Don’t Wear Underwear by Randall Lang, is the fifth novel in an ongoing series of stories.  There is a prefatory notice, urging readers to start enjoying the series from the beginning.  However, this is followed by an explicit prologue presented as “…a brief introduction and explanation of the events leading up to the beginning of this portion of the story.” 

This prologue involves Randy, Marianne, Linda and Jordan in an entanglement of swapping, swinging, group sex and strap-ons.  The scene concludes with Randy worried about the homoerotic tones of an episode of explicitness that occurred between himself and Jordan.

Randall Lang does a good job of explaining his character’s motives and reactions to such developments.  Randy (the character) is presented as uncomfortable with the cognitive dissonance of receiving pleasure from an experience outside his boundaries of perceived acceptability.  This is shown to the reader with the thoughtful detail of the character’s subsequent confusion.

Fortunately, Randy gains perspective with the help of his old acquaintance Terri.  And, from there, he is able to help Linda move out to L.A. pursuing her dream of becoming a porn movie star.

I can’t criticise Trailer Park Nights V overtly because I haven’t read Trailer Park Nights I, II, III or IV.  I can say that the writing style didn’t particularly work for me.  However, I suspect the readers who have been faithfully following Randy and Linda et al from the beginning will be used to Lang’s authorial voice and comfortable with the tone.  The sex scenes are explicitly detailed and competently paced, to produce an arousing effect as well as to illicit sympathy for the existing characters.

If you’re a follower of the series, and wondering what happens in this instalment, I won’t run the risk of including spoilers.  Instead, I’ll quote Lang from his author’s notes at the conclusion of the novel:

This fifth book was started with the intention of introducing hard core BDSM and homosexual exploration into the storyline. But, as authors always say, the author does not write the story, the characters write the story. These characters were more interested in the pure enjoyment of sex than they were in dominating or being dominated by others.  Instead, in true trailer park fashion, they opened their world to new characters and embarked upon the adventure of chasing a dream, all within a tapestry of exciting sexual encounters.

Perhaps my reservations come because I’m simply not a lover of sequels.  Terminator 2 aside, I have yet to see a follow-up movie, or read a follow-up novel that matched the promise or satisfaction of the original.  Or perhaps, because I came to this series of stories so late, I’m missing out on a lot of the soap-opera style qualities pertinent to the developing narrative as it follows Randy and Linda’s continuing sexual adventures.

Nevertheless, to quote the ineffable Mr Lincoln:

People who like this sort of thing will find this the sort of thing they like. 

I’m essentially a nice guy, no matter what the rumourmongers might say.  As a consequence of my amiable character, it would seem inevitable that I was going to say good things about Ultimate Burlesque.  However, Ultimate Burlesque deserves to have good things written about it because it really is an outstanding anthology.

This collection of 30 short stories comes from Accent Press’s imprint, Xcite Books, with profits benefiting the cancer charities associated with Burlesque Against Breast Cancer, and a minimum 15% of the cover price going to the UK organisation: Macmillan Cancer Support. 

I won’t go into the details of what Macmillan Cancer Support do.  I think it’s sufficient for the sake of this review to say that they are a charity who perform a tremendous job to alleviate suffering.  I certainly won’t go into the details of the devastating disease that is cancer.  I suspect that, sadly, most of us will know someone who has suffered because of this horrible, horrible illness.  Rather than concentrate on the grim stuff, what I want to do here, instead, is concentrate on the great anthology that is Ultimate Burlesque.

A quick glance at the table of contents reveals some of the top names in contemporary erotic fiction.  Alison Tyler, Elizabeth Black, Marcelle Perks, Portia Da Costa, Jeremy Edwards, Nikki Magennis, Donna George Storey, Maxim Jakubowski, Kristina Lloyd and Emily Dubberley.  There are other enormously talented writers contained within Ultimate Burlesque – more successful journalists and acclaimed novelists than I have space to mention here – but the good news is that you can see the full table of contents when you go out and buy the book. 

Above anything else, Ultimate Burlesque is a celebration of life – and those saucy interludes that make all our lives fulfilling and satisfying.  From Jo Rees’s “Inner Diva,” a beautifully crafted story of backstage breast obsession, Ultimate Burlesque reveals itself as cheeky as it is charitable.  In MonMouth’s stirring story, “Watching,” the anthology goes away from a fem/fem obsession and playfully introduces a couple and their special friend.  Alyson Tyler, “Like Those Girls,” shows us how deliciously demanding it can be to work in a B&B. 

Like all good anthologies, Ultimate Burlesque has that special quality where the reader can dip in and out, consistently finding one tantalising gem after another.  Jeremy Edwards introduces us to “Laura the Laugher” – an antagonist with a remarkably appealing burlesque act that has the audiences rolling in the aisles.  Portia Da Costa entertains with characteristic joie de vivre when she presents us with a “Private Dancer.”  Kristina Lloyd brings stylish and sexy wit to “The Lion Tamer’s Scars.”

There are an abundance of stories about burlesque in this collection: if you hadn’t guessed that was a possibility from the title then you’re probably best not trusted with things that have sharp edges – like books.  Nikki Magennis’s, “Catch Me If You Can,” takes us backstage with a raunchy stripper and a very enthusiastic fan.  Mark Farley skilfully transports us to a house of ill repute in San Francisco, 1862 with “The Intimate Diary of Martha Rae.”  And the inimitable Donna George Storey gives us access to a powerful, private performance in “All Eyes Upon Her.”

This is a fun, frisky and fantastic collection of shorts that showcases a host of talented writers all writing sex-positive and upbeat tales that are rousing, raunchy and risqué.  Readers who are interested in finding out more about Burlesque Against Breast Cancer should visit Burlesque Against Breast Cancer.  

I think it was Alanis Morisette who sang the lyrics, ‘Isn’t it ironic?’ 

As it transpires, for those who’ve heard the song, Morisette’s examples aren’t particularly ironic.  Rain on a wedding day.  A black fly in white wine.  A free ride when you’ve already paid.  These things don’t genuinely demonstrate irony.  They are more indicative of annoying stuff that pisses us off. 

Which brings me to Wanton Writers by Rae Clark. 

Wanton Writers is a ‘sizzler edition’ title from Renaissance E Books.  I took comfort from the fact that no trees were harmed during the production of this novel.  And I’ll hold my hand up now and say I haven’t read all of this book.  More accurately, I couldn’t read all of this book: I have standards.

I might sound as though I’m being disparaging.  The truth is I am.  Wanton Writers is written in a style that foregrounds the author’s lack of technical craft and makes the willing suspension of disbelief impossible. 
To illustrate:

Stella De Palo's eyes hardened as she waved a single sheet of paper in the air. "Here is the proof in depressing circulation figures for the last quarter per kind courtesy of the executive of this organization – I don't think." She cast the report back on the desktop where it slid away and fell to the floor. "Leave the friggin' thing," she snarled as Roger Cruikshank made to pick it up. Flushing, he retired to his chair.

This is from the second paragraph of the novel, where the virgin reader is still trying to come to terms with the reality of the fiction and willingly suspend their disbelief.
I’m not sure what Stella De Palo is saying in her first piece of dialogue.  There is something about circulation figures, an errant word ‘per’ and a final negation.  I suspect this inciting incident might be integral to the plot.  As I say, I couldn’t bring myself to read all of this book.  The paint on my garage walls won’t watch itself drying.

Or, selected randomly:
"Stella. Call me Stella." She gave an evil laugh. "You don't want to know what my enemies call me. Ha-ha."

"I didn't know you had any enemies, Stella," Roger chuckled.

"Everyone's got enemies in this magazine publishing dog-eat-dog business. You should know that, Roger. Now take a seat please and you too, Derek. Well, firstly, everyone, on behalf of WHAM, I'd like to officially congratulate Rachael on winning the WHAM's Inaugural National Short Story Writing Competition. Well done, Rachael..." She led a round of enthusiastic clapping.

The dark-haired seventeen-year-old paraplegic blushed and nodded her thanks.

In some ways, I find I’m almost drawn to ghoulishly leer at Stella’s dialogue in the same way I observe events every time I drive past a car wreck, aesthetically decorated with mangled bodies.  If there really is a person on this planet who speaks like Stella I suspect the individual is a badly programmed robot impersonating a human being.

And then there’s this paragraph from the opening of Chapter Eight. 

Charlie thought Stella had never looked so happy, and why shouldn't she? The editor-in-chief sprawled unladylike across her leather recliner, one bare leg casually cocked over an arm of the chair. The fact that a good deal of thigh was displayed to the world – well, the staff of WHAM – didn't worry her one bit. Then again, Charlotte mused, who had ever classified Stella De Palo as a lady? One of the most successful editors in the country? Yes, absolutely. Ruthless in the dog-eat-dog business of magazine publishing? Undoubtedly yes. But then again, you had to be to succeed, even to just survive in that circus.

I must admit, by this point of random delving, I’m beginning to suspect that magazine publishing might be a dog-eat-dog business.  Or a circus.  And, without being facile, I have to say that I think the text is expository (flouting the writer’s maxim of show don’t tell), the dialogue is unconvincing (making it difficult to empathize or even believe in the characters) and the combination of fragmented sentences with convoluted subordinate and interdependent clauses makes the whole thing (for me) inaccessible.

I found this book annoying for three reasons. 

1. I enjoy reading and reviewing well-written books and I don’t enjoy wasting my time on dross. 
2. I think e-books get enough bad press, with people arbitrarily claiming that e-books are inferior in content and quality to their print cousins.  This standard of poorly executed fiction is only going to engender negative opinion on the quality of e-books. 
3. I’d expected so much more from a book called Wanton Writers.

Of course, you have to smile at the idea of a book about writers being a book that is badly written.  On some level this could have worked as a satire with a heavy-handed dose of mocking wit.  And, under those circumstances, I’m sure that even Alanis Morisette would have asked, ‘Isn’t it ironic?’