Thursday, November 23, 2017

Not So Psychic

by Giselle Renarde

My mom just got back from a vacation with her friends.

A couple weeks before she left, I had a dream my mother died during her trip. You'd think it would rip my heart out, but it didn't.  There was a voice in my head saying the universe had given me enough signs. I knew this was coming. So, emotionally, I was on the numb side of being okay.

It was a very bureaucratic dream. An unusually pragmatic one, for me. My dreams are usually fun, entertaining. This one was dull, grey. My siblings and I were dealing with all the mind-numbing paperwork that goes along with the death of a parent... instead of dealing with our emotions. That's par for the course, with us.

In my dream, I got the quote for how much it would cost to ship my mother's body home, since she died overseas.  I remember thinking, "My credit card won't cover this. What kind of person has a credit limit this low?"

I woke up the next morning to the familiar sound of an envelope shooting through my letterbox. Mail from my credit card company offering me a higher credit limit.

I'm not psychic.  I don't have precognitive dreams, never have.  But that one shook me. Not just the dream itself, but the confluence of dreaming about needing a higher credit limit and immediately being offered one.  That's a little spooky.

The last time I saw my mother, we were sitting around my grandmother's kitchen table.  My mom was saying how excited she was about this trip.  She mentioned that someone at the office was saying "Aren't you afraid of going there?" because the city she was travelling to has been hit with terrorist attacks in recent years.  She said she wasn't scared.  She didn't want to live her life that way.

Life is full of measured risks. She'd already decided she didn't want to be afraid about this trip.

That's why I decided not to tell my mom about the dream I had.  Yes it put me on edge, but I don't have a history of being psychic so I figured what was the point in frightening her?  Even if she dismissed it (which she almost certainly would), it would always be with her in the back of her mind. I didn't want her carrying that weight with her on a vacation she was so looking forward to.

The other side of the coin, of course, is: if I have what is potentially life-or-death information about someone else, shouldn't I share it with them?  Probably.  Maybe.  I don't know.  If someone knew I was about to die, would I want them to tell me?  I... guess... possibly?  What would I do differently? Get rid of anything incriminating. But if someone else had a dream that I would die, would I want to know about it?  I don't think so.  It's hard to say.

At any rate, my mother's plane landed safely back home this evening. I know because I checked the airport's website.  I can only assume my mother was alive and aboard.

Wednesday, November 22, 2017

Rescue Squad: A vignette about conscience

Here she comes.  Youthful, busty, unchanging.  Probably not looking a day older than the hundred plus years ago when she was a milk maid in Oberammergau, squeezing tits into a bucket on her daddys beat down little farm, before everything went sideways for her and she entered into that shadow world of the night hunter.  We love each other in our way.  She is my shadow self. I am her conscience.  We will argue, make each other mad, even speechless, she may tease me and more than once has touched her killing teeth to my neck the way a beloved cat might bite your hand to back you off, hard but not that hard.  But of all the people in the world, I am in the least danger from her.  We have saved each other.  

Nixie has brought a couple of comrades from her blood family with her.  These men have swagger as though they’re the posse of a rock star.  These chosen few who managed to do what the Van Helsings of this world could never do.  Take her off the street.  Take her off the kill.  Almost not quite domesticating my Nixie with their willing blood, delicately traded for hers.

“ ‘allo Scheißkopf.”

“Hey Nix.  How’s tricks?”

The guys nod and settle in.  They look slightly stoned like blissful Deadheads.  She must have given them the little taste just before they got here.  She told me, they can smell each other and when they’ve been on the Little Taste, the smell of her skin makes their dicks hard.

One of them goes to the open bar and brings back our bottles.  Paulaner Salvator for me and Nix.  The woman has taste, though she never swallows.

“I almost want to say, Nix, you look like you’re gaining a little weight, although I wouldn’t know how.  I guess you’re eating well these days.”

One of the guys looks at me sort of threatening.

“Karl,” says Nix, “This person, you hear me call ‘Scheißkopf’here, is my friend.  He likes to write.  He knows my story.  We have saved each other.  You must be his friend too.  Karl.”

This guy Karl seems like a loose cannon.  I dunno.  “Where’s everybody else?”

“At home, at work,” she says, “what people do.  How is Thanksgiving?”

“Small meal for a small family.  It would nice to eat at the church with all my friends, but my wife wants a turkey dinner even if its just us.”

“Good man.”

“Yeah, I wish.”

“Hah,“ she says.  She takes a swig of Salvator, swishes it around, holds it, spits it on the sidewalk.  “You’re a good man.  Good enough.”

“Getting old.  Don’t like to see myself in mirrors.  You never get old.  Why do people think nosferatus don’t like mirrors?”

“It’s just the movies,” she says.  She’s looking at my tarot cards.  She reaches for the High Priestess card.  “These are what I don’t like.  I hate these.  Didn’t you know that?”

“I know what happens when you tell your fortune with them.  I’ve seen it.”

“Do you know?” she says to the men.  “Have you ever seen a nosferatu have their fortune told?”  She looks at me.  “May I?”   

I push all the cards to her.   She stacks them and shuffles them like a pro even though the cards are fairly large.  She cuts, reverses, shuffles again.  “Watch, boys,” she says.  She lays out a row of four cards face down.  She turns them over, one by one.  The High Priestess.  The Tower.  The Devil.  The Moon, reversed.  She sweeps them up, shuffles several times.  Lays them out, one by one.  The Tower.  The Devil.  The Moon, reversed.  “If I did this all night long, it would always be the same cards.  This is how it is to live outside of time.” She looks scared.  “I hate these cards.  The crucifix doesn’t scare me, mirrors don’t scare me.  These cards scare me.  Because they speak the truth”

At the next table a girl sits, a skinny little goth girl all in black, with green hair and nose piercings.  She's thumbing away at her phone, waiting for someone.  We’re all looking at her.  In a minute, another guy shows up.

They speak in low voices but we can hear.

“You’re from facebook?”

“Yeah,” says the guy.  “Romeo”

“Hi Romeo.  Juliet.  I still haven’t decided how,” says the girl.  “But I want to do it together with you.”

“I want it to be with you too.  I couldn’t do it by myself.  I couldn’t go through with it, but with you I could.  We need a place.”

“At home, my parents bed.”

“That would really fuck their shit up.”

“Especially my step dad.  Perv bastard.”

“Or we could jump off a bridge.”

She looks at us, we pretend not to hear.  Nixie pretends to be absorbed in her beer.  She spits it on the sidewalk and the guy makes a face.

“Bridges are scarey,” says the guy.  “and they have to be really high.  Water doesn’t compress, you hit it at high speed its like concrete.  But it doesn’t always kill you.  You have to be high up to off yourself right.”

“Savannah river bridge is high up.”

“I don’t think it’s enough.  Pills?” he says.

“I can’t get the right pills.  Maybe a gun.  That’s what guns are for.”

“I can’t afford a big gun.”

“I can get a .22 from this guy,” she says.

“Don’t use a .22,” says Karl.  The kids look at him.

“Fuck off,” says the girl.

“No, he’s right,” says Nixie’s other guy.  “A .22 won’t cut it, the payload is too small.   May as well stick an ice pick up your nose and lobotomize yourself.  You’re not serious unless you get a 9 mil at least.”

“Nine mil,” says Nixie appreciatively.

“A .22 payload just bounces around in your skull chewing your shit all up and doesn’t waste you.  Wasting your time is all.”

 “A shotgun,” I say, “that’s the right way if you’re serious.  That’s what you want.  That’s how Ernest Hemingway did himself.  Fucking elephant gun or something.”

The guys wag their fingers at me approvingly.  We’re all bros now.  “Shotgun,” they chorus.  

 “Shotguns a stopper,” says Karl. “Sweet fuckin’ A there, bubba.”  

“A .22, fuck that shit,” says the other guy.  “Get real with that shit or don’t even suit up for it.  Spend your life in a wheel chair drooling on your dick.”

Nixie has this sad, pensive look.  I know what she’s thinking.  Back in the day, she’d have been glad to give these two kids what they think they want.  “It is my business to know such a one,” she’d once told a suicidal priest.  Now they’re right here, practically sticking their throats out and she just watches.  She’s wrong about the cards.  She can change over time.

“I knew a guy used a deer rifle.  Very clean.  If you can catch the back of the palate just right, almost no blood.  Almost.”

“Wow,” says Nix.

These two kids are looking sick now.  No.  They’re going to be okay.  I hear the guy who tags himself Romeo get up.  “Forget it,” he says to the girl.  He disappears into the urban night.

The girl stares at her phone.  She stares at all of us.  “You are some sick fucks,” she says.

“Oh, are you offended?  We’re sorry.”  Nixie smiles and raises her bottle.  For an instant I see them under her upper lip, long, sharp as stilettos, inhuman.  A kind of nosferatu boner from these kids and their death wish.  This talk must be like pornography for her kind. I don’t think the girl saw the teeth, she just gets up and goes.

“A good night’s work,” says Karl.  The other guy turns to me and lifts his chin. I see the circle shaped scar about as wide as a pencil.

“So that’s how you know so much about .22s?” I say.

“Lost a couple teeth, that’s all,” he says.  “I was a just real dick head at it.”

Nixie pushes my cards back to me, all but one.  “They’re good men, my men.  They don’t want it to happen to anyone else.”

“Did you know those kids would be here?”

She gives me that look, like a wolf considering a rabbit and holds up The High Priestess card.  “You don’t know all about me, Scheißkopf  You just think you do.”

Tuesday, November 21, 2017

My conscience is clear

We went shopping earlier today. Black Friday has reached us here in the UK so the city centres and malls are full of people sniffing out bargains. Needless to say, the car parks are pretty full too. We arrived at the shiny new mall near where we live and cruised around in search of somewhere to park. Zilch, so we did a second circuit and spotted one solitary space up one of the aisles. Problem was, to reach it would have involved going against the arrows painted on the tarmac. So, we did another circuit and approached from the right end this time, just in time to see a white van settling into our space. He’d spotted the space, and driven straight in the wrong way.

“Has he no conscience?” my husband wondered aloud.

Not sure about a conscience, but what that guy did have was a parking space.

So, here are some random thoughts of mine on the subject of conscience.

Over the years I’ve arrived at the conclusion that for most of us conscience is a somewhat fluid concept. Some things matter, to some people. Others, less so. I suppose I’m more of a pragmatist than my husband. If I’d been driving I doubt I would have even noticed the arrows on the ground. That space would have been mine. I guess though that’s why I’m the one with speeding points on my driving license and parking tickets stuck to the front of the fridge (I save them, like trophies). Those rules are more like guidelines, right?

Drink/drive laws though… now those might as well be etched on stone tablets as far as I’m concerned. Those rules matter. I don’t think I could bring myself to down a couple of glasses of prosecco then get behind the wheel, and if by some weird circumstance it happened I’d be wracked with guilt afterwards. But enough to turn myself in and possibly lose my license? Nope. Don’t think so.

Fluid, see?

There are lots of things that set me off on a mini-guilt trip. Forgetting to take poo-bags when I go out for a walk with my dogs is a case in point. Of course, I mean to take the bags. I have piles of them stashed in my kitchen drawer and in most of my coat pockets. I do my best, honest. But sometimes I screw up and on those occasions if one of my little Westies crouches down to do the necessary I’ll be casting furtive glances around, hoping no one sees and lining up my excuses (not that anything would assuage the vengeful approbation of the dog poo police). But do I go back afterwards to clean up? Not a chance.

The dog poo police are one thing, but what about when no one would know? I was brought up with the Protestant work ethic firmly ingrained in my psyche. I’m convinced I should work hard, something terrible will happen if I don’t, and I don’t expect anything for nothing.  These days my idea of working hard is writing, and I treat it like a job. Because it is. But I work for myself, I keep my own hours, set my own targets and standards. If I take a day off, no one would have anything to say about it.

No one except me.

So, I work every day, all day, including weekends and a lot of evenings. I tell myself it’s because I want to, but in reality I feel guilty if I don’t write. I feel I’m letting someone down, though I couldn’t rightly say who that might be. I promise myself to do better tomorrow and I usually do. My conscience demands it.

And here I am, completing another OGG post, and on the correct Tuesday at that.

My conscience truly is clear.

Monday, November 20, 2017

What would Sigmund say? #spanking #psychoanalysis #flashfiction

Sigmund Freud
By Lisabet Sarai

What would Sigmund say if he could see you now, Nathan—stretched across my lap with a bare bum and a hard-on?”

Ow! Hilda...”

Dr. Schultz, you mean.”

Right, right...Damn! That hurts!”

Stop squirming and answer my question.”

Um—probably something Oedipal—ouch!—something about wanting to crawl back into my mother’s womb...”

I’m twenty years your junior. Though you certainly do like to suck on my tits.”

Gorgeous—ow!—gorgeous tits, Dr. Schultz. Take your blouse off and I’ll play with them while you spank me.”

My diagnosis? I’d say you had an overactive Id, Nathan. Only stern punishment can keep your ravenous lusts in check.”

And you, Hilda, with your crops, floggers and dildos, have penis envy—OW! Your fingernails are like knives.”

I’ll carve my initials into your ass, my infantile little analyst. You won’t be able to sit for a week.”

Oh no, don’t... Marilyn will see the marks!”

Doesn’t your conscience bother you? Deceiving your unsuspecting wife?”

Ow! Yes! No! Not really...Oh, Hilda, Dr. Schultz, please. May I come?”

Naughty, naughty boy. You’re a mess of unconscious urges and repressed fantasies.”

Argh! God, I can’t stand anymore...”

It’s fortunate you have me to play the role of your SuperEgo.”

Saturday, November 18, 2017

Hey, Presto!

I don't have a whole lot to say about underwear. While I think lingerie is nice and all, I get much more of a buzz from seeing a woman in workout gear, for example.

But underwear does, of course, perform a vital function. Though it can be painful, fiddly and just plain annoying, there's nothing quite like underwear for avoiding some aggravating and frustrating incidents.

I'm talking, of course, about Amazon's Adult Filter. That's right, people without underwear on covers have been proven, time and again, to cause your book to be suppressed, or even banned.

So what, pray tell, is an author to do, when the perfect shot for their cover happens to have a woman with no top on? Doesn't matter that there are hands covering those earthquake-and-tornado-inducing buds of erectile tissue mounted upon said fleshy globes. Doesn't matter, even, if her back is to us. If she ain't wearin' a bra, then in the Adult dungeon she goes. (Wait...that sounds kinda hot...)

Well, in answer to the first part of the previous paragraph, what an author has to do, generally, is ask their cover artist to sneak some underwear on 'er., as if by magic. Hence the title of this blog.

But in the absence of a Brassierus Appearus spell, I've always found Photoshop gives me all I need to clothe the nekkid. And I thought I'd share some of my examples with ya. A couple of these are rather old—dating back to the first days of the 2012 Pornocalypse, when the tits hit the fan.

Example One
Girls Only: Pool Party by Selena Kitt

Possibly the most aggravating part of this cover being Adult filtered was the fact that so many other covers out there at the time had hand-bras, and those covers were NOT filtered. The only difference Selena and I could find was that those other bras were made by male hands. So there was the distinct smack of double standards in the air, as well as (arguably) a soupçon of homophobia.
In order to get around the issue, I slipped a cheeky bikini top on our braless brunette. It was a tad tricky getting it between the palms and the pillows, but I was very proud of the result.

Example Two
Sybian Club by Selena Kitt

It was a fun construct to get all the various pieces in place with this cover. The initial, rude, version of this cover actually had the main model's underwear in purple, as it is on the chastened version. I kist wanted to show it this way because it was another adjustment I made to ze undies...which is, after all, what this blog is all about! But it was the seated model who was the reason for the kerfuffle at the Adult Filter section of the Zon. Side note, but it was fiddly trying to find images which would hint at a sybian without actually showing a sybian in use. This was a neat enough work-around, I thought. Until the bare-assed-ness brought us down. Still, hey presto! and I pulled some black panties onto seated girl.

Example Three
A Baby for my Billionaire Stepbrother 4 by Cassandra Zara

I believe this li'l baby is unpublished now, but it's another case of sideboob being front-and-centre. Essentially the same solution as for the Pool Party cover. Find a bra and put it on, all the day you'll get good Zon.

Example Four
Someone Different by Gina Kincade

This is the most recent example of ninja tricks fixing commando models. Not only did I get a nice black bra on the ley-dee, I also got a good tatt on the dude!

Thursday, November 16, 2017

Underwear and Opinions

by Annabeth Leong

For something most people don’t see, underwear sure as hell seems to be about making a statement.

I found bras mortifying from an early age because they meant so many things. One of the first times I wore a bra, my dad mentioned that he had washed it, and I was so embarrassed I didn’t wear try wearing one again for several years.

When I was young, getting a bra meant growing up and becoming a woman. I didn’t want that. Becoming a woman meant, based on my observation, a sort of slavery that I wanted no part of. It meant being shouted at to fix some man a plate, whether he was your father, your brother, your husband, or your son. I watched my breasts grow and felt my stomach churn. I wanted to avoid this fate.

So my breasts swung free for years, as if by refusing to binding them, I could refuse to bind myself into the role of being a woman and all the terrible things it seemed to mean.

People were incredibly concerned about this detail of my appearance. My (lack of) bra was a true or false question on a trivia quiz some boys put together at my college. Women at a church group had an actual phone tree to figure out who should talk to me about how I needed to wear a bra. Men pulled their trucks over on the street to scream “titties!” at me. Women pulled me aside on the street to warn me that my breasts would sag when I was old.

My former sister in law brought over a catalog one time to show me. Maybe I didn’t like ordinary bras, but would these do? Her husband, it turned out, had admitted to eyeing up my breasts, and she wanted to fix it. Surely it made me uncomfortable to know that, didn’t it? Surely I’d want to make myself decent.

I sometimes tried to wear a bra because I wanted nothing more than to make people shut up about my breasts. But every time I tried, the squirming feeling would start in my stomach. It felt too horrible. I felt constricted all day by the contraption. I wanted to chew it away the way a wolf wants to chew its way out of a trap.

People assumed that I wasn’t wearing a bra because I was a slut or a feminist or a lesbian or all of the above. In reality, I wasn’t wearing a bra because I couldn’t bear it. I can submit to being bound in a sex scene, with a safe word, but all other forms of binding make me struggle and fight. As a child, I had eye surgery, and they had to strap my hands down afterward because of my singleminded determination to tear away the bandages. When I go to a music festival and they snap one of those wristbands around me, I worry at it all night, and tear it off with my teeth the moment I leave the venue.

The weirdest thing about it, in my opinion, is that I look sexier with a bra on. That’s what lifts my breasts, makes them bulge out of the top of my shirt. People’s associations with this garment make no sense to me, and I’m truly amazed by how many people over the years have made it their business to discuss with me what’s underneath my shirt.

Underwear is a different beast, perhaps less political, but still quite thorny. I don’t like to shave my crotch, and that makes it hard to find underwear that doesn’t look weird on me. You would be amazed, or perhaps you wouldn’t, to know how many lovers I’ve had who have fought with me about this, who felt they had some right to force me to shave there. I’ve had lovers who wanted me to wear certain underwear that I was not going to wear.

It took a long time for me to figure out that I feel good and strong and sexy, all at the same time, when I wear boxers, so that’s what I wear now. I know it’s hot to some people and not to others, but I don’t care, and it feels political and important to say so.

Tonight, I’m thinking also of the man who took my underwear away after we had sex and wanted me to go home without it. It’s a common move in erotic novels, but it squicks me out whenever I read it because it makes me think of that man, and he was a jerk. I like BDSM because I like pain, but as I’ve said before, I hate being controlled. It feeds a side of me that I don’t like to feed. I am a healthier person when I can tell a person, these are the boxers that I’m wearing because I like them, and you can fuck right off if you think you can order me to wear a certain thing.

And so if you strip me down to my underwear these days, you’ll see that I’ve finally learned to make choices for my damn self, despite a lifetime of being beleaguered by other people’s opinions about this intimate attire.

(Friends, I’ve been having problems leaving comments on the site recently--maybe something to do with the device I’m using? Anyway, I’m sorry to have been quiet, but I’ve been reading your posts. Hopefully, I’ll figure out how to fix that issue soon.)

Wednesday, November 15, 2017

Munsingwear Dude (#Munsingwear # goingcommando #cotton briefs)

By Daddy X

From Flash Daddy.

If you think like I do, and if you’re a guy, you probably want to take good care of your balls. Like to have them swing free in the breeze, unencumbered by harsh restraint. For much of my life I went quick-draw.

On the other hand, it’s pretty nice to feel soft fabrics caressing your junk too. Silk, satin, Pima cotton—all have their devotees. Of course silk and satin have the advantage of added sensitivity when it rubs over the end of your dick. Ooo that glans!

So even though I did wear tightey-whitey briefs all through elementary school, my testicles, later, in their rush toward maturity, took on dimensions that were outsized for my mass. My dick and ball sack got bigger, more malleable. Especially in hot weather, all that steamy flesh would no longer fit in tight skivvies.   

Boxers tangled things down there with all the expected  knots and complexities of a South American three-balled bola, used for downing llamas and wild pigs on the pampas. Not to mention boxer shorts don’t perform well under tight jeans like all us cool guys wore. Decided to quit wearing underwear altogether. Commando-chango turned out to be the only way to go. Worked out well in crowds.

But that sometimes caused problems. Like when I’d dance a hard grind in khakis with some hot chick, hand pressed on her butt to draw her closer (my knee advancing a tad ahead of the beat) and leak viscous bodily fluids down my leg, staining myself to embarrassment.

Chick would say something like, “Can’t you just dance?”  Sometimes they slapped me.

And that would put a damper on another potential relationship. A guy could get a reputation, or even a nickname for chrissakes (Juicey) and never have a girl say ‘yes’ again. To a dance even.

So after a life experiencing all that freedom, when I was approaching seventy years old, my balls stretched out my sack so it became quite painful, what with the live and active benwahs hanging there by whatever tendons or internal drapery cords for sixty-nine fucking years without external superstructure. Doctor prescribed the dreaded cotton briefs to keep myself contained and supported. No slack, no swing.

No, no, no. Not cotton briefs!

Remember those tight bastards? The ones that screw your scrotum up in your ass crack? Those sadistic Haines, Jockeys and Fruit-of-the-fucking-Looms? With those overlapping front vertical flaps where you twist your dick through a couple of hairpin racetrack turns just to take a leak?

Alternatively, one could yank the front elastic down and pull out Henry, creating a tight band right across the underside of the urethra, making it hard to pee. Then eventually the elastic gets all stretched out. As it will when you pull your dick out through the side by the thigh. ‘Cause then the fabric gets all misshaped, and when you skip down the street your entire package slides down through the stretched part, sticking against your thigh and sweating. Not a pretty feeing. Feels restricting, choking the poor, unassuming scrotum at the base.

The hell with that.

So a friend suggests: “Munsingwear, dude!”

Man, are they the best damn briefs. First, they’re made of the softest of cotton. But best of all-

Munsingwear now has a patented horizontal flap! Just pull down your zipper, reach in and retrieve! Or have a friend do it for you. Right through the fly, affording accessible ingress and egress for the limp, lazy little fellow or anyone interested in making it harder. All so easy for you and your family.

And when you think how long men have been wearing underwear, you’d think they'd have come up with this sooner.

We can all thank the geniuses down at Munsingwear.

Tuesday, November 14, 2017

Gay Underwear

I wear gay underwear.

I feel stupid saying such a thing, but it seems to be the case.

I reject the “boring” underwear — the black, the navy blue, the white, the gray — and prefer colourful underwear. Well, I have one pair of navy blue boxer briefs that I’m wearing today, but only because it’s laundry day and it’s my last clean pair. Tomorrow I’ll be back to the sunshine yellow or the red and white pinstripes or the purple camouflage.

There used to be one chain store here in the city that sold colourful underwear — and I live in a fairly big city — and it was Superstore, a national grocery chain. They manufacture and sell their Joe Fresh line of clothing, which used to include colourful square-cut boxer briefs that were super comfy. Now, though, they’re all black or dark gray. In other words, they’re boring. I’m no longer interested in their underwear.

There is no longer anywhere to get non-boring underwear for men in this fairly-major Canadian city.

I find it so stifling to wear “normal” colours all day at work. I’ve got my nice gray cords or my slim-fit blue jeans and a variety of t-shirts that run the gamut of colours and are appropriate for work — but all of it is… well… it’s blend-into-the-crowd clothing. It’s hard to get stand-out clothing on a writer’s budget.

Underwear and socks are generally the exception — I can usually find good stuff at a good deal, and it’s where I can go crazy with colours.

I wear socks and underwear that are bright colours and clash with whatever else I’m wearing. And I love it. I do it for the simple fact that I want to wear bright colours. Even if I’m the only one that sees my hot pink briefs or my purple socks, it makes me happy to wear them.

But it’s getting increasingly hard to find these things in person. I think I’m now forced to buy all my underwear online.

And I think it’s because straight men (and I’m generalizing here) think colourful underwear is gay.

There is, of course, the “really gay” underwear, like what Andrew Christian manufactures and sells. These are the ones that have the “anatomical pouch” that makes someone hung like a shrimp look like he’s hung like a horse, and usually have ultra-revealing designs, or maybe even the words “cum slut” printed on the bum.

But I’m talking the “mildly gay” underwear. They fit nice and they’re bright colours. Their websites seem to be clearly targeted at gay men (or perhaps at women buying for their straight male partners). They seem to know that straight men wouldn’t be caught dead looking at an underwear website. Perhaps they assume the straight men are just going to buy Hanes because it’s what’s available at Walmart.

I find it depressing sometimes that colourful underwear — which is identical to other underwear in every way except for the colour of the fabric — is seen as gay. My husband (who, haha, is gay), only wears black or gray underwear. He doesn’t want to wear anything colourful in case he goes to the gym that day.

For me, though, I don’t care what underwear I’m wearing to the gym. I’m comfortable in bright colours, so that will make me comfortable at the gym. I wear my teal briefs to yoga all the time, and when I start up again at the gym, I won’t feel any shame or embarrassment if I wear my blue and white polka dot briefs.

I think straight men, in our sometimes-toxic-masculine culture, are taught that underwear is a utilitarian piece of clothing. Only women and gays wear non-utilitarian underwear, apparently.

Straight underwear is so boring.

I find it stifling.

Cameron D. James is a writer of gay erotica and M/M erotic romance; his latest release is Dominating the Freshman. He is publisher at and co-founder of Deep Desires Press and a member of the Indie Erotica Collective. He lives in Canada, is always crushing on Starbucks baristas, and has two rescue cats. To learn more about Cameron, visit

Monday, November 13, 2017

Burn, Bra, Burn

Sacchi Green

I have to admit that I never burned my bra, not even back in 1968 when early radical feminists staged a protest demonstration at the Miss America contest in Atlantic City. It turns out that nobody else did, either, at that or any other major demonstration. They did toss bras, girdles, nylons and other articles of constricting clothing into trash cans, but there was no burning involved. One of the organizers is quoted as mentioning “symbolic bra-burning,” but there’s no documentation, photographic or otherwise, of any burning bras, and with the heavy media coverage of the event reporters would certainly have noticed any actual fire. I’d be surprised if no adventurous girls ever tried it in imitation of what some mythical reports said had happened, but if they did, it doesn’t seem to have been documented by anyone.

The “bra-burner” mythology was generally attributed to a sensationalist male-dominated press’s determination to trivialize the feminist movement, but the Snopes fact-finding web site found that in 1992 a young female reporter for the Washington Post (later a contributing editor to MS. magazine) admitted to having tried to compare burning bras to young men burning their draft cards, in the vain hope of having the women’s liberation protests taken as seriously as the Vietnam War protests. Instead, “bra burning” became fodder for comedy and disdain.

So, no actual bra burning. What many young women did do to feel revolutionary was decide not to wear bras at all, somewhat to the puzzlement of women of their grandmothers’ generation who thought they had been modern and radical in adopting those new-fangled bras in the first place.

I was of the age and inclination in the late sixties and early seventies to declare my adherence to the cause of women’s liberation by going braless. Not being particularly dramatically endowed in the frontal department, it didn’t make a whole lot of difference what I wore, but I was comfortable, and living in a college town where plenty of girls were doing likewise. By the mid-seventies, however, I needed to wear a nursing bra until my second child was weaned, and after that I never felt comfortable without a bra’s support. TMI, I know.

What, I wonder, made bras the focus of the “burning” myth? Mere alliteration? "Burning girdles" was too much of a tongue-twister? Actually, I don’t wonder. Our culture is more obsessed than most with women’s breasts, whether braless or crammed into structured garments intended to uplift, enhance, and shape them. Women going “topless” in public are considered outrageous and, in most areas, are breaking the law. To be fair, they’d be breaking the law by going bottomless, too, but so would men, so it’s the ban on exposing female breasts that challenges equality. These days, though, the ban seems to have focused mostly on the nipples. If the nipples are covered, you can get away with showing just about everything else. Is this because the nipples are the most sensitive areas? So are men’s, but those are acceptable anywhere, and it’s the rare romance novel that doesn’t feature a buff and burnished male torso complete with implausibly taut abs and unabashed nipples backed by implausibly robust pectorals. If the cover shows women at all, they’re garbed in either wispy drapery or elegant gowns, which may show most of the breast, but not the nipple. And not a trace of a bra.

In any case, breasts, and bras, are arguably our dominant markers of binary sex. Women wear bras, men don’t need to. For people with female bodies and masculine-of-center gender identities, this makes the question of bras tough, even painful. This is where binders to flatten the breasts come in. Binders are far from new, having been common for women in various cultures and eras, but they seem new these days as a means of avoiding presenting as female if you don’t feel entirely female. They send a message, a more complex and nuanced one than bras do when it comes to erotic relationships.

See? I finally got around to erotica. Just settle down, loosen your bra or binder (or somebody else’s) and, I hope, enjoy this excerpt from my story “Carved in Stone” from the little-known anthology “Desire Behind Bars: Lesbian Prison Erotica.” The characters are Yevgeniya, a Russian Olympic medalist in wrestling, and Alex, a stone carver, both in prison and on yardwork duty. (It helps if you’re familiar with Andrew Marvell’s poem “To His Coy Mistress.”)

In the back, Yev bolted the connecting door and resumed pacing while I dutifully chipped away at rust and filed dull edges. A paint-streaked tarpaulin heaped in a corner caught my eye. I filed it in my mind for future reference.
“You look like a caged lioness,” I said after a while. “That marble mantelpiece I told you about had a lioness crouched above the poem, looking ready to spring.” If she didn’t spring pretty damned soon, I would. The thunder grew ever louder, heightening the sense of urgency.
Yev didn’t spring, exactly, just took one long stride. “So, you like your pleasures with rough strife?” Her growl vibrated into my ear, no distance at all between us now, bodies moving against each other slowly to savor the rising heat of friction. Her arms wrapped around me, mine around her, grasping each other’s butts, pressing into each other—but I raised my hands and bent my torso back just enough to yank my shirt off first. I hadn’t bothered with an undershirt.
“Nothing up my sleeves!” I gasped. “But you’d better make sure I’m not hiding anything down below.”
Instead of pulling my pants down, she tightened her grip, lifted me off my feet, and shoved me up against the locked door. Her knee came up between my legs, supporting my weight, while she gripped and squeezed and probed every inch of my hips and thighs. Visions of magnificent bruises flitted briefly though my head, vanishing in the urgent need to feel more of her. I rode her knee, bent my head to bite along her shoulder through her shirt, then lower, respecting her binder, yet coming back again and again to leave damp spots with my tongue where I knew her nipples were swelling into soreness.
When, for balance, I had to grab Yev’s shoulders, her own mouth got busy with my breasts, telegraphing more and more wild need into my cunt, until I pushed off, landed on my feet, and got my fingers inside her waistband. “Fuck rough strife!” I panted. “Just...just fuck!”
Yev was panting too, and maybe swearing—some of it was in Russian, some didn’t sound like words at all. With a twist of my body that she could easily have countered, but didn’t, I got her to the tarp and we dropped down onto it, rolling over and over each other for the sheer joy of it. Knees, hands, mouths pressed into whatever warm hollows they found until the need for more focused intensity overwhelmed us.
Yev pulled my pants down and off with expert speed while I was still fumbling with hers. I gave up the attempt, lay back, and let myself be swept along by her mouth working hard at my clit and her big fingers demanding more and more space inside me. My hips arched upward for even deeper penetration. I clutched at her short hair, trying to tug her head down harder against me, but she refused to be forced past the point where her tongue could move freely. She kept my desperate need mounting and swelling until my screams of frustration surged into incoherent cries of pleasure. Only in the afterglow did I realize that the full force of the storm had just passed over us, and Yev had perfectly orchestrated my climax to match the fiercest blasts of thunder.
When I had enough breath, and some control of my body, I rolled on top of her, streaking her bare thighs with my wetness as I slid between her legs. I couldn’t remember how her pants had come off, and didn’t care as long as I could get into her musky heat to torment her for at least as long as she had done it to me.
But Yev wouldn’t let me get away with that. Her powerful scent and taste demanded more than teasing licks and the hands pressing my head hard against her were too strong to resist. I managed to make room for my own hand to work deeply into her heat, and set up a pounding rhythm of thrusts.
Sounds more growls than moans rumbled from Yev’s throat. Her walls clenched harder and harder around my fingers, her strong thighs gripped me until it hurt and her hips bucked so fiercely that I had to brace myself to stay with her. I managed to hang on, not easing up, riding her peak as growls became one long, rising howl, then descended gradually through harsh gasps to mere panting. By that time my head was pillowed on her belly, rising and falling with every deep breath. When I couldn’t resist any longer and moved my lips across her sweaty skin, over her binder, and up into the hollow of her throat, I felt as well as heard the words she muttered low in Russian, then English.
“So long...such a long damned time...”
I knew exactly what she meant. It had been a long time since I too had opened up to sex this intense. And it wasn’t over yet. With very little rest we worked each other into another burst of glorious spasms, and then, taking my time, I stroked and nibbled and licked her to yet another, only slightly more gentle. The sounds she made were enough to give me aftershocks.
We lay there, nearly comatose, until I said, “We’ve missed count. How screwed are we?”
“Maybe a lot, maybe a little. So what?” She was quiet then for so long that I thought she was asleep, until she opened her eyes and grinned at me, more wolf than lion now. A supremely satisfied wolf. “You have not quite managed to kill me yet, although you came close! I have decided what you must carve on my tombstone, just in case. Yevgeny Yevtushenko, now there’s a poet!” The lines she recited in Russian meant nothing to me, though the resonance of her voice stirred both my mind and body. Then she translated, stumbling over a word or two:
“Sorrow happens. Hardship happens. The hell with it, who never knew the price of happiness, will not be happy.”

“Carve it in Russian,” she said cheerfully. “There are better words for everything in Russian.”

Saturday, November 11, 2017

Black, White, and Burgundy

by Jean Roberta

Even nudity can be a costume. I knew that in the 1970s when I supported myself as a part-time university student by modelling for art classes. I was in demand, and I was told it was because I was very good at imitating an object: a mannequin that could hold different positions for longer and longer periods, and move myself on command.

A budding feminist art student in one of the classes once offered me sympathy by saying the job must be humiliating. I told her I didn’t mind. No one in the art classes actually knew me, and studying my bare body wasn’t going to give them anything more than generic information: I was young, white, female, short, pear-shaped (teacup breasts, tiny waist, concave belly between womanly hips, a perky ass), with long brown hair that hung over my shoulders. I wondered whether any of the males in the class knew there was anything more to know.

Sex work in the 1980s was somewhat parallel, but it was more like acting than modelling. I collected sets of lingerie in matching colours: bras, panties and garter belts, with a wardrobe of stockings. I had a black lace set that I wore with seamed stockings that were a few shades darker than my skin. For a more innocent look, I wore the white set, sometimes with startlingly red stockings. The set I loved best was burgundy, and I thought it contrasted well with my pink skin. At one point, the burgundy bra disappeared from the communal dryer in the single-parent co-op where I lived with my young daughter. As it happened, all the women who lived in my building at the time were about the same size, and when anyone passed me in the hall, I wished I could see what was under her T-shirt. Mysteriously, my bra returned to the laundry room like a homing pigeon.

I sometimes paired my lingerie with ridiculous shoes that couldn’t be worn for long walks. Four-inch heels were the highest I could stand if there was any possibility that I might need to walk quickly in them. I had to do this once when a john refused to pay, and he seemed to think I owed him free service. Luckily, I was still dressed. I ran out the door, stepped quickly out of my dove-grey leather pumps, and continued briskly down the street in stockinged feet, my shoes in my hands.

My clothes were my companions on various adventures, and I associated my lingerie with different johns and different occasions, much the way Top Ten songs on the radio are embedded in my mind with periods in my past. When a pair of my stockings became too laddered to wear, I grieved for them, especially since I couldn’t always replace them with an identical pair.

Did the johns appreciate my lingerie? It’s hard to know. They rarely commented on it. Since they were paying by the hour, they wanted all my clothes to come off as soon as possible. I was sometimes tempted to ask their opinion of underwires and seams vs. a more natural look, but I suspected that even the guys who knew something about the construction of buildings and furniture weren’t really interested in the construction of clothing, including their own. They weren’t seamstresses like me.

One john became my regular, and I let him continue seeing me for five years after my job for an escort agency ended abruptly on April Fool’s Day when the owner for arrested for theft. I felt lucky to avoid jail, and I wanted to keep a low profile, but the steady income I earned from “Mr. Johnson” (who liked Johnson’s Baby Oil) was too essential to give up. I could say his money was more supportive than underwires.

Eventually, I found out that “Tom Johnson” wasn’t his real name at all. He had a wife, grown children, and grandchildren who apparently had no clue that he came to visit me approximately every two weeks. It was important to both of us that our sessions together should remain separated from the rest of our lives. Separation was often bragged about as a feature of various bras that were advertised on TV, and I could see its value.

When does a costume become a uniform, and when does a performance become a lifestyle? I never intended to continue wearing show-off lingerie and garters under my clothing after I had earned my Master’s degree and (with luck) acquired a place in a university classroom. I knew that teaching was also a performance art, but it would require concentration on ideas, not body-awareness. The academic robes worn at graduation rituals are a sign that academics have traditionally been expected to function as much as possible like disembodied minds whose bodies are an irrelevant secret.

“Tom” didn’t see why we couldn’t continue to see each other forever. He told me that if anything “happened” to his wife, he would ask me to marry him. He seemed to imagine a shared future in which I would never grow older, and I would spend my days cooking, vacuuming carpets, loading the dishwasher and the clothes washer in my lingerie, complete with stockings and heels.

I looked forward to a completely different future.

He knew I dated women, and he seemed to think this was something I did on the side, as another performance, part of my role as a kinky slut. I wanted an honest, long-term relationship.

It was inevitable that “Tom” wouldn’t be willing to give me up until my new girlfriend had introduced me to some police officers who were willing to enforce the new anti-stalking law.

Eventually, my sweetie and I and our three children moved in together to form a fairly chaotic household of five distinctly different personalities. There was no room in my life for the lingerie of my past, but I couldn’t bear to give it up, so I kept it in a bag in the back of our closet, with my stockings at the back of a bureau drawer. I didn’t want my new partner to run across this stuff by accident, because I knew she was unsettled by what it represented. I was still as fond of my old costumes as though I had once performed as Cleopatra, and still had the serpent headdress.

In time, of course, I realized that my lingerie would no longer fit me. I gave it away to a used-clothing shop, and I hope it found a good home.