I feel so happy to be visiting with the lovely Brit Babes again, asked over by the perfectly wonderful Tabitha Rayne…who will be visiting my blog soon! Come join me as I talk about why I am feeling ever so ebullient these days, there!
The truth of the matter is this post is a challenge.
I had looked at my blog lately and kept thinking, insert non-fiction post here–but nothing came. I wanted to be witty about the reading that I did for the Between the Covers, and the beautiful corset that I won there. I have only ever read my stories in public twice. Both times happened this year: once in Bristol at Eroticon and Between the Covers in the Bronx. The fact that they were both cities that started with the letter B, and that both stories had chocolate in them seemed like a slam dunk post wise!
But I did not write it.
I went to Paris, and if you have ever read my non-fiction posts you know I am a committed Francophile. I had every intention of writing a post about it…but somehow I never got around to doing it…I’ve written about my obsession with gadgets, yet did not even mention that I got a new iPad.
I respond well to challenges, to prompts to be more specific. I faithfully write entries for Wicked Wednesday, Sunday Snog and A Darker Flame. They are things that have to be done by a certain time. I am never tardy, I always eek my entry in right before it is due. I am doing NaNoWriMo this month, I have no trepidation about it, because I have won it before. If there is a deadline, I will meet it.
Charlie from Sex Blog of Sorts, who seems to be the only person who has wrangled me to do all of her contests, got me again! She wanted non-fiction posts and tagged me so I am doing it. A prompt, a deadline–I am up for it!
Maybe this will inspire me to make sure that I do one non-fiction post a week, I don’t know. I feel like writing–particularly on a blog–should be a labor of love. This is mine, this represents me and what an injustice it would be for me not to give genuine me. To go through the motions with a post that is not from my heart.
That being said, as a writer, I have writer friends who I wish that I was doing the things they do. That I was full of the innovation they have, and the stamina. I can proudly say I am getting there. I posted today on Twitter from Brain Pickings, Neil Gaiman’s rules for writing. I cannot agree with him more. I have never read one of his books, but I can understand why people read him if that is the discipline that he is following. All the time I have been a writer, if you asked me I would tell you that I was a writer even before telling you I was an editor. Well I was a writer long before I was an editor! Yet I was always happy to beat myself up about all kinds of things deterring from getting done what I said I would not be able to live if I wasn’t doing it.
In the past few months, I have written a great deal more than I have in the past. I am a ton more disciplined, and my writing style has improved in ways I cannot even have imagined. Writing more improves your ability to do it, amazing! You will be able to see an example of this in the upcoming Chemical [se]X anthology edited by my friend, Oleander Plume. Again it was a prompt, she asked me to do it. So I did write a story, called Chocolate Covered.
It is amazing to me that the drive to write can come so strongly from outside sources, I am working on strengthening it from the inside.
Okay, I am going to make the deadline! I need to return to NaNo! The NaNo challenge is going very well, and then a little later I have a snog to give you for tomorrow…well a Sunday Snog!
typewriter via life magazine
This is inspired originally by Blacksilk–the entire concept. This particular note is inspired by the rain, and facts true and false. I executed it because of the lovely, lovely, lovely Marie Rebelle, who runs Wicked Wednesday and so inspired my last post too…
Transcript: the missing word is a caveat of writing on the train.
i don’t care if i get (wet). you don’t he says. i don’t. she opened the door where literally buckets fell on her of rain she had lingered with him until the sky darkened and the drops were thick before buckets, buckets poured on her. it was outside without looking back that she felt him, not the rain, but him and what it had been like to linger with him using the premise of the fear of rain to stay even though he did want her to go but she had to in the pouring rain except the rain was him.
photo of sticky note taken on the lap of f dot leonora while on the train
I had an idea for a story last night, one that mixed horror and erotica. It seemed a good idea to start with a story on a sticky note a la Being Blacksilk, to whet my appetite. Plus last night, I had unexpected inspiration from Twitter to start really brainstorming something…
Conveniently it is raining today, and I have a gorgeous picture I saw on Tumblr in mind to put me in the mood…This is a very rough draft on a pink sticky note below…typos included!
She had outdone herself. Her taste in men was always particularly bad: an assortment of creative types, overzealous creative types, addictive personalities, semi-abusive–she had been lucky to get out of that. And now, now, she smiled as the rain beat against the windows of the car and on its roof like a melody she must observe. now she was heading to a motel to meet a man whose online darkness was so sparkling. he told her he’d do things to her she would be ashamed she asked for. It was all part of the game. He said he could kill her.
Ever since I read Being Blacksilk’s post on post-it size stories, I keep my pink stickies in my bag, hoping that I will be able to come up with a story to fit its tiny pages. Generally with me it is never a lack of desire to write, it is just that the words do not always come pouring from me. It must have been pouring rain outside this morning however, because the thunder literally woke me up. It was so loud, it took me a second to realize what it was. A text later rejogged my memory, and I dug down in my purse for my pad. I started with thunder, and the rest followed…transcription of my relatively neat print below…
She could not sleep through a storm, the smallest sounds put her off. The thunder woke her up. She had not slept on the plane and even the soft hotel bed was not going to help her. The flight to New York had been fraught with a lot of things racing through her mind like a horse race without mint juleps. She drank wine on the plane whenever it was offered. Very tipsy, she’d hoped the alcohol would lull her into rest. But her mind could not rest. He was on top of her as if he were there.
If I had to write this post as a detailed report of every photographer I saw and what they were trying to do with their work at this exhibition, I would not do it. I did not like doing that in grade school, and I certainly would not write for pleasure that way. Suffice to say that, I went to the Met today to see their Paris As Muse exhibition, and it served me well…
Paris always inspires me, inspiring me for years before I even visited. Once I went, it seeped into me, became part of me. To define how and why, I am not that eloquent. As soon as I became aware of this exhibition (which is closing this Sunday), I knew I had to go. Sadly pictures were not permitted. The photographs were filled with shadowy people, but mostly architecture and streets. There were a lot of Brassais, who I have been obsessed with forever. He captured the dark side of Paris, and made it look bright. A Man Ray photograph of Meret Oppenheimer was in the collection as well.
Some of the photographers were connected with surrealism, which is my favorite movement in modern art. Like Brassai, it captures a dark side of art. It has been tagged often as being misogynistic, but this does not hinder my appreciation of the style. It was this ode to surrealism, combined with the body of forty photographs that comprised Paris As Muse that ended my writer’s block.
I have a short story I am supposed to write, but it was not materializing. I realized after the idea came to me tonight, that I was afraid of settling. Afraid of settling for an idea. Subconsciously I knew what I wanted, but nothing that I was coming up with was it. All my ideas seemed like a caricature of what I really wanted to write, but now I have got it.
All that is left to do is write it, it which of course will be based in Paris…
I guess I got attached to my characters from last week, because in the middle of trying to write something completely different this story came to me:
She had no idea Paris was rainy, everyone knew it except for her. This trip to Paris was her first, and by herself. Rafe was still in New York, unable to leave his job and join her.
Paris was more than she expected it would be but even so, she was hungry for more: of the city, of life or of something she could not define while studying her alleged grande cafe which had beads of honey on the edge of it from the spoonful she had put in it. Her heel knocked against the wooden leg of her chair.
“Your engagement ring is lovely, you must have quite a love story.”
Eliza looked at the man at the table next to hers, her heel stopped knocking.
“I do,” she said as she would say eventually with Rafe when they married.
Her foot tapped again on the wooden leg of her chair.
“Do you want to tell me?”
She shook her head, and stood up on the high heels that Rafe had encouraged her to be comfortable in.
“It’s a long story.”
His answer was lost in the rush of heat that overcame her, at the sight of the man walking toward the fountain across the street. Eliza put several euros on the table and walked outside in her trench coat. She looked down from both from the rain and not wanting to be seen.
What would she say to him, him to her? She did not know his name, only his body and scent. She had to abide by his rules–no guilt, no names and no questions–because she had none of his details. It felt suddenly as if her heart had moved from her chest to between her legs, she felt her labia twitch in response. The thumping there was so intense, she could barely walk but she did staggering far behind him. He did not seem to have a destination, so it was awkward for her to appear as if she was not following him.
She took a deep breath, and turned in the opposite direction.
The next few days were filled with meetings. Her heart had returned to its rightful place in her chest, and she had nonstop correspondence with Rafe.
After one meeting she saw Angelina, their notorious hot chocolate called to her from what she had read about in guidebooks. The chocolate would be a meal as well since she had not eaten. Waltzed into the grand dining room by the hostess, she immediately ordered a hot chocolate in French, and when the waitress walked away her heart dropped back down between her legs.
He was sitting diagonally across from her, there was no way he would not notice her. She looked down at her napkin until the word Angelina on it became a blur, as she studied it to not look at him. When her hot chocolate arrived, she looked up helplessly and he was staring at her. Only because he was looking at her, did she look back at him. If she had wanted to say anything, he silenced her by putting his fingers over his lips. The thumping increased between her legs, she could barely sit still.
Eliza dipped a spoon into the whipped cream next to her chocolate. She remained silent after a quick merci to her waitress who handed her more napkins. Using peripheral vision, she watched him sign his check and get up. She closed her eyes as she brought the chocolate to her mouth to savor the rich liquid. It was everything she imagined it would be: Paris, the chocolate, but she was empty.
When she opened her eyes, there was a hotel card on the table and she knew he had left it there. She wanted to jump up from her seat, and the reckless way she desired to she would have spilled her thick liquid chocolate all over her lap. Instead she pretended that she was savoring the chocolate that had become flavorless because she was so excited to follow him to the room number written on the card. She licked her upper lip for flavorless whipped cream and chocolate. When she paid her bill and got up, she felt as if she would black out from anticipation.
Relying heavily on the GPS app on her phone to get to the apparently nearby address, Eliza managed to find the hotel which was blocks away. He waited for her. Burping up a little bit of hot chocolate that she had sipped too quickly, she walked over to him. Nervously twisting her engagement ring, she stood in front of him. He took her hand and kissed her fingers, and almost the diamond of her ring.
She became lachrymose. It was not that she was sorry about what she was doing. She had never done anything like this until him, and she wanted to do it again. Wanted to touch him again, wanted him to kiss her again, wanted him to everything again. Her thighs tremored with the heavy thumping between her legs.
She had hungered for him, for what she had had with him in a dark hotel room ever since she had had it. Nothing had been the same since. Even with Rafe which was nice, but it was not this. Rafe fucked her like she was perfect, and she was not perfect.
She wanted to be fucked like an imperfect woman.
They got into the elevator together, Eliza studied his long fingers pressing the buttons for the floor they were going to. This hotel was not like the mirror-filled one where they had met, but she was happy. She did not want to see the lust on her face, just wanted to feel it thumping between her legs.
Inside the hotel room, he kissed her and she gnawed at his lower lip as if it were a meal. She wrapped one leg about him, and he kissed her neck. Offering more of her neck to him, she pressed her head to the wall as he pressed himself to her. And even as between her legs thumped harder with lust, she felt something quench within her.
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photo by f dot leonora
I have been very inspired this week, and very inspired today. This day in Twitter, there were several tweets about a woman walking a man on a leash in London, which became my singular fascination for the day. Was it that he was “smartly dressed?” Or that he was so obedient as she walked with her to-go coffee or tea? A media source said people did not dare suggest this was a BDSM scenario…
Having my pink sticky notes in my purse ever since I was inspired to by Being Blacksilk’s blog post a few weeks ago, I wrote my second very short story on the train which I am pretty sure I will expand at some point…
This is the sticky typed out:
it was almost his idea, but anything great that came from him was ultimately inspired by Her and he had no desire to take credit. it was a pleasant evening at home with her early summer so still bright. he saw the sun from her feet and when he looked up at Her the setting sun made Her look like the Madonna. she rubbed just under his chin, and he was soothed. she was happy with him and it was then he suggested that they go outside on his leash.
“Please Sir,” he asked her humbly.
photo by F Dot Leonora
Eliza was always waiting. As a younger woman with her friends in bars looking for Mr. Goodbar like the novel and movie she had read and seen. Now she was in the hotel bar waiting for her fiance. Curled protectively over her drink, she thought about all the things going on in her life, all at once at a pace she could barely control. Slowly, a man sat beside her at the crowded bar, everything about him was slow, measured including his smile at her. Eliza felt inside her as if everything had stilled in that moment.
She tried to be still, still curled over her drink. The man did not even seem to notice her after he smiled, which she felt was for the best as she stirred her drink aimlessly with the cutoff straw that was inside it. She crossed her legs, hooking her ankle so her legs seemed crossed twice.
Eliza’s lips had just touched the rim of her glass, as she looked up at him startled by his sudden speech.
“Yes,” she choked slightly even though she had not had a sip. Looking around nervously to avoid looking in the man’s eyes, she remembered she was waiting for her fiance conveniently.
“Looking for your fiance? He’s probably not going to come.”
“What do you mean?”
She was sure her eyes darkened like Rafe told her they did when she was mad at him. The stranger was taken off his game for a moment which pleased her.
“I mean I don’t think your fiance is going to come, and I think you are coming with me.”
He held her upper arm loosely, but his grip was firm nonetheless.
His finger on her mouth was soft, almost a caress, and she was lulled into silence. She knocked over her drink, and burned with embarrassment. When she looked up at the bartender, he waved her off and she got off the stool as she was being gestured to by this man who she did not know. Her heart was beating calmly, nothing about her was wild as he took her out of the bar.
They waited near the elevators, as he took out a pack of cigarettes. He offered her one, she shook her head but he kept the cigarettes extended until she took one.
“You are going to have a hard time with the obey part of the vows, aren’t you?”
“They do not have that in the vows anymore.”
“They should,” he said inhaling smoke.
Eliza raised her eyebrow at him as he lit a cigarette for her. She had stopped smoking a few years ago when she became domesticated, or rather when she started living with Rafe. But now the feeling of the cigarette in her mouth made her feel happy. Made her think of a time when she was free. It was almost as if she were that person again.
“You think so, huh?” she said blowing out her own cloud of smoke. “Does your wife obey you?”
“I’m not married. But if you vow to be with a man you should obey him, and he should protect you.”
Eliza inhaled and shook her head. She wondered if Rafe was looking for her now. It was a very dim thought in her head, she did not think it would be awful for him to wonder where his perfect fiancée was for a moment.
Perfect, perfect, that was what he said about her and what he expected. She did obey him, and he did protect her but it was hard to be perfect.
“My fiance is perfect,” Eliza said out loud what she was thinking.
“Then what are you doing out here with a stranger when he is looking for you?”
Shrugging and swinging her cigarette back with her arms, from her perfect black dress that Rafe loved her in so much, she declared.
“I am not perfect.”
He grabbed her and kissed her so hard she thought she would lose her breath. Her lips throbbed from his after he pulled away from her, and put his arm about her.
The elevator was right on time and they walked into it. It was mirrored all around and she could see every angle of their bodies.
He kissed her again, this time she was not out of breath but wanted more even as he gave it. When they pulled away this time, he lifted her chin so she looked up at him.
“Are you going to obey me?”
“I am not getting married to you,” she stuck out a her tongue with insouciance.
He pulled her close to him.
“But I will protect you if you do.”
“Protect me from what?” she questioned looking up into his eyes. He looked down at her without blinking.
“From what will happen if you don’t obey me.”
Her eyes fell to the floor, she felt him looking at her. When he tilted her chin to look up at him again, she tried to avoid his gaze, but he made her look.
“I have simple rules: no names, no questions, no guilt and you keep your ring on.”
He nodded then pressed her to the coolness of the mirrored wall, kissing her so that she almost believed she would go through the glass. Peeking for just a moment as they kissed at the overhead mirror to see how it looked to have him cover her. The view made her so wet she shifted her legs, so he pressed himself all the more to her. She moaned unexpectedly even to herself, as he kissed her neck which was always her weakness.
They came to his floor and managed not to look so disheveled, since she could see in the mirrored hallways. But in his room, he did not turn on the lights. There was just the light from the moon outside.
She clapped her hand over her mouth.
He took her hand from her mouth and kissed it. She did feel protected from herself when he did that, as if to say he was okay that she had forgotten for a moment.
He pulled her hands up over her head, and pulled her body closer than close to his. Eliza was on a tilt as if dangling from a puppeteer’s string, pressed herself to him and closed her eyes opening herself to the darkness. His mouth on hers was so divine she almost wanted to pull out all of her hair as he tugged at it, her hand rose tugging at her hair with his until he kissed her fingers after pulling her hand away.
Everything she experienced was going to be him: his hands, his mouth, his body. And he was much more gentle than she would have expected considering how brutish he came off at the bar and in front of the hotel smoking. She liked the smell of cigarette smoke on their clothes as they floated past her against the wall.
Against the wall he pounded into her, her head rolling and bobbing, knocking her into another reality. He held her so close she almost could not breathe, she closed her eyes and embraced this other world she was in where she was not perfect. A world in which her arms were tight around a man whose name she did not know, but whose savory scent she wanted to scrape with her teeth.
Because it would end, this would end…
They dressed in the moonlight, and he walked her back out into mirrored hallway, and into the mirrored elevator where she watched him cover her overhead in the mirror again with a kiss. The elevator opened and revealed the bar from a distance. Eliza walked out first, Rafe was standing facing the opposite way at the bar. She walked over to him with a spring in her step, knowing she was imperfect.
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photo by f dot leonora
photo courtesy of http://www.feltmusic.it