Erotica : Shine a Light – Masturbation Monday #148

Masturbation Monday is the weekly erotica writing meme hosted by Kayla Lords. From time to time, I like to play along. 

The prompt this week is Candlelight – based on an image by Marie Rebelle. Not only is it a gorgeous image, it’s also a prompt that’s perfect for erotica.

At midnight,

by candlelight and sound alone,

she walks up the creaking steps to her waiting bed.

It is where her lover

waits for her, the promise of his lust

pulsing in the suffocating summer night air

like a lifeline coming through.

At midnight, she walks up those stairs,

nothing guiding her but for one flame

and her endless nerve.

The house is silent,

the only noise coming from

a lonely bird outside, somewhere distantly hidden in the nighttime tenebrosity of the moors.

The house is silent, apart from the sound of her breaths,



quickening as she approaches her door.

He waits there, sat on her bed,

illuminated by one flame, one flame shining a light on the aching need

brewing between both of them, brewing all throughout the day until she spoke the words to him

meet me in my bedchamber at midnight

spoken softly into his ear, softly so mother and father and sisters and maids wouldn’t hear, this scandalously unladylike display of desires put on for his ears and his alone.

He stands to approach her, takes her hand and presses a kiss onto

the back of her hand. The candlelight shines a light, and she is once more taken aback

at the sheer perfection of him.

The candlelight shines a light

but after the string of hidden passions snaps, and clothes are stripped and flesh is bared

it’s only when the flame blows out that both of them

can truly see each other

for the first time

at last.


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Writing Update #1

One thing I don’t often do, and which I am very, very remiss in, is promote my other writing. The stuff I do away from this blog, be it the anthologies I’m in or the writing I do for other websites.

So, I’m changing that. I’m aiming to do a regular writing update post, telling you where else I’ve been popping up. Which, in itself, was something I’d originally planned to start doing at the start of the year. That was when I had a Twitter conversation about self-promotion with the amazing Dr. Emma Southon (seriously, keep an eye out for her book on Agrippina). But then, depression decided to say hello and stay over for a few months.

Ah well. Better start late than start never, I guess.

So, here’s what I’ve been up to!


This month (thanks to Girl on the Net, who passed me a writing request), I started writing for YNOT CAM. This is a website aimed at webcam models, with articles on topics ranging from tech to health and beauty, to internet law. My first article was a lot of fun to dig into – it concerned the recent development of a one-of-a-kind 3D printer by a team at the University of Minnesota, and how it could, in the future, influence sex tech and its uses in the camming world.

Kink Craft

I’ve been writing for Pixie and Andrew on a regular basis for a while now, and they are just the loveliest humans to work with. This article I wrote, on sex and depression and the power of knowing you’re not alone, is from a while back, but I’m putting it in here anyway because I can.

I do so love writing for the good folks at Fuck.comhere I am, chatting about erotica and my top recommendations.


Speaking of erotica, SACRED AND PROFANE, edited by Torrance Sené and featuring my story Down On My Knees, is still out and still kicking ass. It was even made into a Top Pick on The Romance Reviews! If you haven’t yet bought your copy, DO EET.


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The Couple in the Car

Moments don’t have to take long to imprint themselves on us. Even the smallest flash has the power to stick in your mind for ages. It was like that with the couple in the car. This happened a few weeks ago, but somehow I keep thinking back to it. Maybe it’s because it happened so quickly. Maybe it was one of those moments where my mind filled in the blanks.

Because my mind does like to fill in the blanks. Writer’s thing. It could have been nothing at all. It could have been exactly what I thought it was.

It was early evening. Dark already, the kind of foggy cold dark you get in early autumn. We were walking back from something unspecified and family-related. Birthday thing,  possibly. Doesn’t matter. All that matters is that standing at the top of the road was a car. Which isn’t that remarkable considering it’s a suburban road and there’s cars all around. But there’s a car.

And the window’s foggy.

And for some reason, I spot the foggy window in the corner of my eye. Along with the woman. And the man on her lap. I think they’re kissing before we pass by. Or it might be the mind filling in the blanks. They might be fucking, but it might be the mind filling in the blanks. She may catch my eye and we may exchange a glance.

But it might be… well, you know.

It’s just a tiny moment, which might not have even happened. I may have seen nothing at all. I may have seen everything. It’s been stuck in my head for a few weeks now though. The kind of moment where I keep pondering whether or not I can turn it into something more on the page. The kind of moment when that sort of pondering makes me want to smack myself on the hand because sometimes I need to switch the writer brain off.

Whatever it was, it was a moment.

Or was it?

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Slicker Than Your Average

I like writing stories set in the summertime. To me, there’s something about the change of seasons from the blushing days of spring to the all out glory that a summer can be that somehow mirrors the blossoming of a sexual connection between two people. I like the idea of heat from the outside assisting in generating heat from the inside.

In real life, summer’s effect certainly made a good go of it. When the sun first started to hit in earnest a few weeks back, I noticed the change in myself.

My mood slowly lifted. My general depressive funk from the last few months took a back seat, if only for a while (note- yes, on the back seat, but it’s still there, and still an awful bastard). And my libido, oh man. My libido was like a little angel/devil hybrid sitting on my shoulder, whispering utter filth in my ear.

I’d like to imagine, by the way, that this little angel/devil hybrid is actually Alice Clayton, considering I’ve been heavily into a Clayton reading binge.

Summer. Yeah. I got into it. ILB got into it. We got handsy and frisky and all kinds of naked, wrapped up in cuddles where the comforting warmth of him glowed right through me. There were orgasms, there were giggles, and all was well. I am a pale, freckly sort with a dependence on factor 50 who works in a place which is never any less than sauna-level hot. I’ve gone on record plenty of times grouching about how I don’t enjoy this kind of heat.

But… I think that’s actually a bit of a lie on my behalf. Only a bit. Or maybe not a lie. Just an underestimation of how a good lashing of summer could make me feel a bit better. The kind of loveliness with the occasional breeze. The kind where you can walk and bask and just for a moment marvel at the little bits of beauty in the ugly stuff.

It’s one of the other reasons I like setting stories in summer. It’s a gorgeous season, blooms and colours everywhere. Tiny moments of happiness can become wonderfully large in these halcyon days. With sex, momentary touches and kisses can spark such an insatiable fire. Sweat beading on foreheads, the glistening of skin…

Having said that, there has been something distinctly unsexy about the past couple of peak summer days. It’s like that The Oatmeal cartoon about microwaving butter – too much? Then nope, you don’t get to do sexy times because you won’t even have the energy to lift a finger, let alone fingering. Sexy moans and groans are replaced by moans and groans as a means of conversation, often punctuated by pointing and nudging your head. You feel like a human Pritt stick.

Still. When it comes to writing erotica set on days like these, I’m allowed to play around with the truth just a teeny bit, right?

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Wicked Wednesday #215 – At Night

This is a piece of short erotica written for this week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt – “Night World”. If you want to see the accompanying picture, shot by Molly Moore, visit this week’s page here.


At night is when I think of him the most. When I miss the way he touches me, talks to me, whispers love into my ear and on to the surfaces of my skin. At night I miss him the most because nights have a sharp air of loneliness about them. The dark, illuminated by amber dots of streetlights, is a harsh mistress. It teases you, taunts you with the empty space next to you in bed.

I look out of my window, down into the little cobblestone backroad where the Friday night stragglers and Saturday night lovers pass and lean against the brick wall for support when they kiss or try and get their bearings through the haze of alcohol and whatever they might have been sweetly smoking. The pulse of lust glows through the streets, the summer heat having its way with the minds and libidos of the lovers of this city.

My lover never leaves my mind. Summer heat or not, he’s always there even when he isn’t there for me to hold and taste and inhale. He’s there when I let my hands slip between the folds of my labia, dipping into the ever-growing needy wetness and stilling the throb in my clit with the strum of my fingers. He’s there in little words or moments that make me smile to myself because they make me think of his voice or his laugh.

He’s there when I spot them, at an hour of night where most of the city has given up and gone to bed. They’re giggling, staggering, pawing at each other with a lust that’s messy and almost teenage in its wantonness. I can see her, backing against the metal of the doorway across from my living room window, a doorway to a storage room at the back of the pub on the other side. I can see him, kissing her all over, her moaning with the joy of new lust, new love or just something for the night only.

Whatever it is, it makes me ache for him. So far away, only available through webcam pixels and laptop speakers. So far away and always so close.

At night is when I think about him the most. When I wish with my heart and body and soul that the day where we can be as messy and lusty and carefree as the two people outside my window is now.

Abscence. Heart.

At night is when I feel it grow fonder.



At night is when I feel it.

And how I wish, I always wish the daylight would break right then and there. Another day ticked off the endless waiting list. Another day closer to wild and carefree.

But until then, the view outside my window, late at night, will have to do to keep me company. To remind me that I am not alone in wanting.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

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Little Stitches – for BOAW16

Written for August McLaughlin‘s Beauty of a Woman BlogFest 2016 – check out the other entries by clicking the button at the end of the post.


It sounds strange, but lately I’ve found myself wishing that I can write my libido back to life. That I can use my skills as an erotica writer, my imagination and my fingers clacking on the keys of my netbook keyboard to write it back into place properly. To reach into my brain and body and jiggle the chemicals around just enough through the power of rewriting it like an edit to a story. Would that it were so simple. Would that libido wasn’t an incredibly complex mess of science, chemicals and circumstances.

Sometimes it feels jarring to me how the lines of my comfort zone have shifted, moulded anew through the lens of depression and fatigue. I try. Oh god. I try to think myself into the mindset for sex, which feels unreal and still goes wrong in the end because my brain has become really brilliant at backtracking, especially from PIV-sex.

I’m trying my best to figure out why that is. And in the meanwhile, I take little steps. Little steps like a few nights ago, when we lay naked on the bed and joked as he lubed me up and played with me, first with his fingers, then with the Doxy. It didn’t lead to much more than an orgasm of sorts, but it was good. I’m also trying to masturbate more, just to remind myself that masturbation is a thing I enjoy and it helps me relax.

I look to the amazing Crista Anne and her post from last year’s BOAW, and this quote basically echoes my own experiences.

When I am in dark places due to my mental illness, I can orgasm as a way to remind myself that there are pleasurable feeling to be had. Not a cure for my depression, not a fix, but a tool that I’ve used as long as I can remember to keep myself going. My ability to find pleasure in the darkness saved me more times than I can count.

Little steps.

Little steps of reconnection.

Recently, I’ve found that my low libido, oddly enough, has also had a negative effect on my ability to write erotica. So now I also find myself wishing I could use my skill as a writer to write my… writing… back into place. To reach into my brain and body and jiggle those self-same chemicals around just enough that the words start flowing more naturally, to stop making them feel like an old car in desperate need of a fix.

If that makes any sense. I wouldn’t blame you if you couldn’t make sense of it, because I sure as shit can’t.

But I can make sense of this: two parts of my life, two very important ones, are ripped at the seams. Not unfixable, but it’s going to take time. These two parts are connected, somehow; parts of the quilt that is my life. And when you’ve got a rip in the fabric of a quilt, you get out your needle and thread/sewing machine and you try your best to join the pieces back together.

The pieces haven’t been lost, though. Libido is there. Erotica writer is there. Neither of these pieces of the quilt will unravel and be lost just because I’m not using these pieces enough. It just takes time. Little steps. Little stitches.

Waterolor beautiful girl. Vector illustration of woman

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“Hot Tahiti” – for Charlie Powell’s Lippie competition

Last year, the gorgeous and awesome Charlie Powell held a short story competition in which you were to write a short piece of erotic fiction using the name of a nail varnish as your prompt. This year, she’s putting a twist on it.

I’m not a big wearer of lipstick, so instead of my own collection, this competition will be based around the names of classic MAC lipstick. It’s simple – if you want to enter, you drop me a DM, I’ll select a lipstick name for you at random and you write a piece of erotica using that lipstick name as a title. Sound familiar?

Oh, you know I had to get in on that. Plus, Charlie is donating £1 to the charity Refuge for every story entered (up to £30). How great is that?

The lippie name Charlie gifted me with? Hot Tahiti. It’s a magical place, that.

_ _ _ _ _


The roads grief leads you down can be strange. Inside the walls of my flat, I lose track of time because there’s no need for time with her gone. In those last months and weeks, all I cared about was time because I didn’t know how much of it, of us, was left.

The TV becomes my timekeeper.  Just another noise alongside the non-ending cliché chorus of “How are you, really?” and “You’re so brave.”

Except the TV is a noise that doesn’t seem to question the ways I’m grieving her. The TV doesn’t judge me for not doing it properly, as if there’s any way to properly grieve the woman you thought fate had planted into your life until the end of time. The TV doesn’t make it sound like there’s some sort of manual on how to be a good mourner – one that I, according to some bastards, apparently wasn’t handed staight after the funeral.

The TV becomes my timekeeper and, after several months, my faithful companion. I trust TV because it doesn’t judge – it just happens at me. If there was some way to make a reasonable case for never getting off my sofa again, I would be shouting it from the rooftops.

“You’re so brave.”

Sod that shit. I’d rather be a cowardly hermit than ever go outside without her again.


Sometimes she comes to me in my dreams, and I get fooled again by the warp of reality. I wake up bathed in sweat and clutching at the empty side of my bed. I wake up hard, my cock straining as much as my heart at how our sex replays itself in the middle of the night.

It’s like being trapped in a limbo, reliving the same encounter night after night and waking up to silence. But if I am truly honest with myself, this would be the one encounter I would gladly relive for the rest of my days.

It isn’t the memory of some landmark night, like the first time we fucked – weeks and weeks of sexual tension culminating in a torn shirt, scratches on my back and the feeling of floating on air. Nor is it the memory of the last, desperate, agonising night of passion before the dark ghost of her illness commenced its endgame. Instead – funnily enough – it’s the memory of  just another Friday night…


“Is this a bit too much?”

Lila had gingerly stepped into the living room of our apartment, dressed up to the nines for the engagement dinner of a friend of a friend. Neither of us were chomping at the bits to go, but still, Lila liked to make an effort. And my God, she looked every inch like a preternatural goddess in that beautiful red dress of hers.

“Joe. Seriously, your eyes’ll fall out if you keep staring like that. Is this too much for the dinner? I mean, I know it’s not the actual wedding but I don’t really fancy upstaging the bride to be just by wearing red. Do you like it?”

I couldn’t help staring. Lila, three years into our relationship, still had the power to render me entirely speechless, whether with her intelligence, humour or beauty. She was never too much. She was all I’d ever wanted from life itself and in that moment, I wanted her badly. I wanted to take her in my arms and carry her to our bedroom and still find the marks of her delectable-looking lipstick on my body the next morning.

So I did.

I pulled her to me and kissed her, hard. She tasted like sunsets and Mai Tai’s and dreams of a life lived less rushed. The soft red on her lips smeared as she kissed me back, grabbing me by the hips and pressing her pelvis against mine. One kiss and already I was embarrassingly hard for her, needing her, not giving a shit about what time it was and how much time we had before we had to leave for the dinner.

“I take it that’s a yes, then?” she breathed, before grabbing me by the hand and pulling me towards the sofa. She hiked up the hem of her dress and wriggled her knickers off, beckoning me closer.

“Oh God, yes.”

“We’re going to be late for the dinner, Joe.” she said, less a warning, more a tease. I chuckled, undoing my belt and unzipping my trousers. The chuckled turned into a gasp as Lila wrapped her lips around the head of my cock, leaving her red lipped mark and making me ache for her.

Time didn’t matter in that moment. Nor did space, or the rest of humankind. There was only the feeling of Lila’s warmth, of her inner walls clenching around me and her hands under the hem of my shirt. Nothing else mattered apart from being alive and in love and in sex…


Sometimes I wonder if I’m a sick fuck for masturbating over the memory of her. But when those dreams happen, and I wake up drenched in sweat and hard and desperate for a release without tears, it’s the only thing I can think of.

It was just another Friday night, but it will be the one seared into the depths of my soul exactly because of that. Some people choose to remember milestones and special days. I choose to remember just another Friday night.

I remember shifting down the straps of her dress to reveal her soft, round breasts. I remember the feel of her nipples, pebbling at my touch. I remember the moment my cock slid inside her wetness, the sounds she made, the friction against her clit. Those lips, in that shade of red…

I remember all of it, replaying it like a reel of old film as my hand wraps around my shaft and I jerk the need out of me. I hear my own echo bouncing off the silence, crying out her name, remembering her lipstick and the words she said to me when we finally managed to peel ourselves away from each other.

“Hot Tahiti.”

“Seriously? I don’t understand why they give lipstick names. What’s wrong with a number?”

“Lipstick’s a fantasy, baby. You need to give it a name because you can’t fantasise about a number. Besides, this one spoke to a very particular fantasy of mine.”

“That fantasy being?”

She stayed silent for a few seconds, lowering her voice so the taxi driver couldn’t make her out.

“Getting hot… in Tahiti. With you.”

Back then, it had almost been enough to make me come in my trousers. But now, as I come sticky and hot over the palm of my hand, it’s the thought of that unfulfilled fantasy, that unfulfilled life that makes me cry anyway.

I am not brave, because right now, try as I might I can’t see a way of living without her. Even though I’ve been doing so for four months, every single day is just another sting, another corner of hell.

I am not brave because I know that, buried under a pile of mail and receipts and junk in the bedside drawer is a letter from Lila. I know that inside that envelope, along with the letter, is a ticket to Tahiti. I know that she never had the chance to explain why she wanted to go there, and I know that the answers are in that letter. I know she wants me to go.

I am not brave because that would mean I can live with the pain of not having her with me.

I am not brave. Not yet.


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Erotica – Back To Me chapter three

Hey, how about we just pretend that it wasn’t actually ages ago since I last wrote a full chapter of Back To Me (aka Anna Triplett’s Adventures in Sex And Stuff) and get back to it?

No, in all seriousness, this is the long-awaited (by probably only two people) third chapter of Back To Me. I will try and do semi-regular updates, but I can’t promise anything for now. This was just scratching at my head, begging to be written.

In all fairness, I should have thought better about going on top.

“Oh God, yes!” he moans, making the walls vibrate with his panty-melting baritone. I like him. He’s the kind of guy that can talk you to orgasm, complete with both an Australian accent and surfer’s tan.

His cock’s great, too. His cock is thick, brutal, big. He’s big and brutal as well. He’s got his hands on my hips, giving back everything he gets. My fingers can barely keep steady on my clit and for a moment I really hope that he’s not going to thrust me straight through the ceiling. I like enthusiasm. I like this guy- coincidentally named Guy.

My back, however, is not liking Guy at all. My back, still healing from the unfortunate incident in the staff room, is hurting from Guy’s sheer ferocity. He’s pumping away, and yes, it’s all fun and I’m close and he’s probably even closer but when I’m more pre-occupied with trying to remember if I’ve got ibuprofen in my handbag it quickly becomes not at all fun.

He comes before I do, and has the kind grace to help me finish. It’s a Saturday night, and I’m off from work. I’ve let myself be tempted out on the pull by a couple of the other nurses, and Australian Guy is the result. He’s taken me back to his flat in Camden, which is small, but nice and doesn’t give you a secondhand pot high. Neither of us are drunk, Guy’s been a perfect gentleman and his is the kind of kiss that you’ll have wistfull, smiling memories off in the days to come.

It’s all good apart from the fact that I feel like I can’t move. And he’s still inside me.

“You okay, babe? That was intense!”

I try, dear God, I try to smile sexily at him. I try, but I’m in absolute agony.

“Yeah. Fine. Okay.”

He smiles expectantly. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I need a drink.”

I know what he wants – I want to get off him too. In fact, I’d quite like to go home and have a nice lie-down.

“Yeah. Same.”

There’s a silence, one so mortifying that the obvious has a very hard time leaving my mouth. Guy is still smiling, and I am desperate – DESPERATE – to get off his dick and on painkillers. Which would have been so much easier if he wasn’t still hard.

“Unless you fancy a round two?”


“How is that even medically possible?! I mean, are you okay? Are you still in pain?”

I shake my head, trying not to laugh at Mara’s concerned face. “I don’t really feel like talking any further about it, if you don’t mind.”

“But… five times and he didn’t even go soft? Christ, he should see…”

“I think you’ll find he was already very busy seeing a doctor, thank you. Now. Moving on.”

Mara’s a wonderful friend and a wonderful junior doctor to work alongside. She’s also a wonderful baker, and has essentially coaxed this story out of me through her devious skills with cream cheese. I prick my fork into the last of the dense chocolate cake she’s made when she sighs.

“Are you, though? Moving on?”

Suddenly I’m wishing there was more cake left.

“No, seriously, is this you, moving on? The beginning of a new leaf? Chapter one?”

I thought about leaving Mark the Artist’s flat, thinking something like that. And then I did my back in, and then Australian Guy nearly did it in again for me. If this really was me moving on from him, I was making a piss-poor go of it.

“I don’t know. How easy is it to move on from having your engagement fall to pieces? Can’t just be as easy as one-two-shag.”

Mara furrows her eyebrows, mulling it over while she sips from her coffee. “Not likely, no. But there must be some kind of way to get… you know, back to you? Who you were before all this happened?”

“I was with Simon for four years, Mara. I have little recollection of what went on before that, really.”

“Surely that can’t be right? Surely you must remember what you were doing back then?”

“Studying, probably. Trying my best to remember which bone’s connected to which, and such.”

“That’s not what I meant, but I see your point.”

“Good, because I don’t see yours! Going back to me?”

“Yes, back to when you were actually happy. Doing… you know, stuff! Not studying or shagging about, but… you know.”

“Stuff. Yeah.”

The conversation stalls on Stuff. I stir another sugar into my coffee, just for the sake of having something to do with my hands. Mara rearranges her jet-black hair into a ponytail, sticking her tongue out in concentration as she does so. Suddenly, it’s like a Eureka light appears above her head.

“Got it! How about we make a list of all the things you want to do now, but couldn’t do before when Simon was still in your life? And then you tackle these things, one by one. Could be sexual, could be creative, could be anything you think of. And if you happen to come across a nice guy, or a nice girl, who you reckon you want to spend more time with in the future…”

“Project Get Anna Over Simon?”

“Yeah! What do you reckon?”

I reckon many things. I reckon that my coffee is now oversugared and going very cold. I reckon that I’ll have to take the Tube home tonight because my bus will probably be late.

“I don’t know. I really don’t.”

I make my excuses and leave my slightly befuddled friend behind. I reckon she’ll have forgotten about it by the morning.

Just before I dip into the station, my phone buzzes with two texts. One from Australian Guy, still hopeful for a round six.

And one from Ricky.

Hi Anna. Hope your back’s okay. Would you like to meet for coffee tomorrow?


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I’ve got a Patreon page now

You’ve most likely seen me tweeting about it, or caught the news on my Facebook pages, but I did promise to also shout about it on the blog. So, here goes… *gets loudhaler*



Quite. Yep, I now have my own page on Patreon. What’s Patreon, you might ask? It’s a bit like Kickstarter, but instead of making one big donation for one big project, it’s a way of making a continued micro-donation for ongoing projects from your favourite creator. It’s your way of being a patron of the arts, supporting and engaging with the people who make what you love and what you’re passionate about.

Why did I get a Patreon page, and why now? Well, I’ll do the fantastically ego-ish thing and quote myself from the page.

Writing Lady Laid Bare (and writing erotica, for that matter) has changed my life completely. I’ve done things I never imagined I’d ever be able to do, I’ve met brilliant and inspiring people and I’ve grown so much as a human and a writer. I’d like to be able to keep writing Lady Laid Bare and keep putting my truth out there in both fictional and factual words. But it is a lot of work and takes a lot of time. And the erotic fiction writing market is *whisper it* a very scary place right now. I want to be able to keep doing what I love with some security.

And that, my friend-stranger, is where you come in, because if you decide to become my Patron, you will help me continue doing what I love so much: writing. Your pledges help me make it easier to keep my work going and even expand what I am doing.

Lady Laid Bare started as a way of keeping record  of my own self-sex-education – I was a late-bloomer when it came to sexual discovery, and found it incredibly frustrating that the sex-education me and my peers had received in school was minimal and not relevant to what we actually needed to be learning about.

So, as writing has always been my way of keeping track of life, I set up this blog to write my way through what I learned about life, sex, love, relationships and the awkward things that tend to happen. Along the way, I started writing and submitting (and later, editing anthologies of) erotic fiction. And I do still love all of it. But I have a niggling feeling that I might not be able to carry on for much longer if the erotica market keeps going the same way it is going now. As I mentioned, I want to be able to keep doing what I love with some security. Not only that, I want to take what I’ve learned and how I learned it and use it to help other people who might feel like their sex education was lacking and want to self-educate. I want to help other erotica writers, be it through editing their words or giving them a shoulder to cry on/hand to hold/listening ear when they feel alone. Because I know what it feels like to feel like no-one’s out there to answer your questions, no-one out there to listen to you, and everyone there to judge you for what you’re asking.

Hence, setting up a Patreon page. The way I see it, it will serve as a a metaphorical kick up my arse to keep creating beautiful words for you all, and a metaphorical kick up the arse to get my plans to expand my work in gear, with your kind support – because I couldn’t be where I am right now without you all reading and liking my words and supporting what I do. It’s like a virtual tip jar.

There are plenty of perks involved if you fancy pledging, no matter what you decide to pledge. I haven’t set up any creator goals yet, as I want to see where this takes me in the first place before I start commiting to raising funds for anything specific. But if you want to help me concentrate on goals, and on creating more erotic fiction and sex curious blog posts, visit my Patreon page and pledge (all the perks so far are at the bottom of that page).

I will put up a little button on the sidebar to redirect you there as soon as possible, of course. And if you decide to pledge, I can but thank you with all my heart. Love you lots.


PS – I will also put up the link to some of the other fabulous sex-positive people on Patreon, because spreading the support is cool, y’all.

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These are the stories that taught us about sex, volumes pilfered from our parents’ bookshelves, books passed girl to girl, hidden in desks, whispered and wondered about.

A few years ago, on a last-minute panic book buy while waiting for my Eurostar train to start boarding, I bought a copy of India Knight’s The Dirty Bits – for Girls. In the book, India had collected the dirty bits (you know, those bits from mainstream novels that you chance upon as a teenager and start clandestinely passing along to you all your mates, with the message that there’s this one bit on page 82, and OH MY GOD SHE TOUCHES HIM ON THE BITS) from the books of her youth, providing for me a veritable treasure trove during my pre-erotica reading/writing days.

Here was an entire book dedicated to an act that I not only recognized but had actually done several times in my secondary school years – I’m pretty fucking sure that there are books lying around my mum’s basement with spines cracked to those exact pages where the magical words lay dormant. I’d love to find my old copy of Nicci French’s Secret Smile, just to relive the thrill of having that dirty, awful, psychotic bastard Brendan Block gleefully tell the main character, Miranda, how he was looking at her mouth

Yeah, I was a weird teenager.

Anyway. Among the books India mentions (which included Fear of Flying and its zipless fuck, Jilly Cooper’s best filth foot forward and Meggie and her beloved priest in The Thorn Birds) is a novel called Scruples by Judith Krantz. Scruples, if you’ve not heard of it, could sort of be pitched as The Bold and the Beautiful in bonkbuster form (were it not for the fact that B&B only started airing about a decade after this first got published). Scruples does have a few points that can be compared to this particular soap (and soap operas in general as a broader net of reference) – it takes place in a fashion environment, with a self-made protagonist (Billy Ikehorn, who after an unhappy childhood spent as the overweight “poor relation” to an aristocratic Boston Brahmin family, reinvents herself as a successful, slim woman with an upmarket fashion boutique – named Scruples – which she set up after inhereting a shit tonne of money from her late first husband) on her second marriage and a little glitz and glamour, and sex and dirty games to spice it up.

Where it differs with a soap opera is that it doesn’t close the door when the sex comes. And the excerpt India picked, of Billy’s hotel tryst with pilot Hank Sanderson (… yeah, I may have that name wrong. Apologies if.), was for some reason the one that resonated with me. The one that haunted me for days, and the one that sent me on one of my patented Book Quests because I wanted to read the rest of that book no matter what I had to do.

Turns out, all I had to do was wait a couple of years before the book found me.

Last week, while out on my own exploring the little town 47 and The Musician call their home, I walked into a branch of The Works, which as I remembered from my days living quite near one in Essex, is a pretty fucking great shop if you’re on the lookout for a bargain.

And let me tell you, my friend, I was not dissapointed. Because on one of my trips there (I pretty much made a habit of going whenever I wasn’t helping with wedding stuffs) in amongst copies of some rather dubious looking novels and books about how a special cat/dog/hamster/shark changed lives and touched hearts, I found the grinning face of Mrs. Billy Ikehorn Orsini calling out for me.

Sometimes you find the best things in the most unexpected places. And in my case, in a discount book shop in North Wales, I found a beautiful, untouched and brand new copy of Judith Krantz’s Scruples for the total price of 59p. In that moment, I wished for nothing more than to be able to travel back in time and tell my younger self that, no really, this is a book you will buy one day, and for less than a quid at that.

I may not be a teenager on the frantic lookout for any sliver of sex in the books she reads, but I’m pretty goddamn sure that my copy of Scruples will soon have a crackled spine of its own. And maybe, possibly, several post-it notes on the pages where the really, really dirty bits lie – after all, as an erotica writer, I take inspiration where I can get it…

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