Thursday, July 20, 2017

All's Well That Ends Well/Time to Say Goodbye

by Giselle Renarde

There's a radio program I've been listening to for the past ten years. It's on from 10pm until midnight. The host has the perfect voice for that time of night. She shares the perfect anecdotes for that drowsily contemplative space of hours. Better still, she plays the perfect music.  Over the years she's introduced me to music from Bjork, Tanya Tagaq, Owen Pallett, Anohni, and so many other artists whose talent I've grown to crave and adore.

Over the past month or so, there's one particular song that kept making its way onto the playlist. I noticed it sticking in my head. I heard myself singing it around the house, and I didn't mind because I liked it so much.  The song is by Blood and Glass, and it's called Punk Shadows. The first lines in this song are exactly what you see as the title of this post:

All's Well That Ends Well
Time to Say Goodbye

Two weeks ago I was at the cottage ("the cottage" = someone else's cottage), staying in a room without a radio. For me, for someone who would chose music over food, being without a radio at night is like... I don't even know what. Tragic.

The owners of this cottage are family friends, and these people are very choosy about who they invite. My mother had warned me not to use "too much internet" but there was one night when I couldn't help myself. I knew I had to tune in to my radio show. An imperative. Something was telling me I couldn't miss it.

I listened online, time-shifted, because it was already past midnight.

That night, the host announced she would be leaving the show. The show would be leaving the show. The radio program I'd been listening to for the past ten years would be no more.

How do I describe how I felt, hearing this news? Gutted. Yes, gutted. There's no other word for it. I found this out two weeks ago and I'm still in mourning.

I don't begrudge the host her choice. I'm not mad at her for leaving. It's not personal in that sense. I just feel a deep, deep sense of loss in knowing this show will be coming to an end.

Maybe part of the reason the news hit me so hard is this:

At the beginning of my relationship with my girlfriend, we chatted for hours every night via instant messenger. We still do, but nine years ago I didn't have a wireless modem. Every night, I chatted with her on the Mac in my bedroom with my radio right behind me. This radio show I'm telling you about--it was the soundtrack of those early chats. I associate the show with my relationship. The idea of the show ending automatically triggered panic: is it foreshadowing things to come? When I left for the cottage, Sweet and I weren't on the best of terms. Time apart helped a lot, but when I heard the news of my show ending, I didn't feel that I was on the firmest footing with my girlfriend.

The other thought that popped into my head was this:

I need to tell my readers I'm not going anywhere.

Loss is a part of life, sure, but like Cameron said the other day--I'm not catching a fad wave with my writing career. Some of you have known me a good long time. I've been doing this job for more than a decade. I plan to continue. Forever. Or at least until I die. You can count on me. There's not much in life you can count on, but stick by me. I have been there. I will be there.

The only real commitment I've ever made in my life is to my readers. I don't know if that's sad and pathetic, or if it just goes to show how highly I value the people who read my books. I treasure this writing career. When I think about dying, I don't wonder who will take care of my cats (that's a no-brainer: my brother will do it), I think, "Who will take care of my work?"

There's nothing I can do to prevent the inevitable end of my favourite radio program. That's going to happen whether I like it or not. But hopefully this post will set a few minds at ease. As Cameron mentioned, lots of authors bolt when the coffers are running on empty. I'm not one of those.

My coffers have always have been empty. I'm still here.

If you'd like to commune with me through music, I created a playlist to accompany my novel In Shadow. I hope you'll give it a listen. A lot of these songs came to my attention through the radio show whose praises I've been singing in this post.

Wednesday, July 19, 2017

"Drowned" A Faddish Sketch

(This is a weird, possibly offensive germ of a story.  A first draft with a spell check that seems like it could be something interesting with a little work)

Her hand pushed the weathered screen door, she stepped into the chill of the Caffe Buono coffee shop.  The ever present smoky aroma of the coffee roaster in the back, the hushed chatter of the people at the tiny round tables and the clink of cups created the feeling of stepping from one world to the next.  In both worlds she felt alone.

She scanned the faces, some of whom looked up as she moved into the new space of noise and smoke and boundaries.  Where was he?  She was sure it was a he.  It sounded like a he on Facebook.  There was an older man sitting in the back typing, tight in his world.  He would not be the one.  Would be extra creepy if he was.  Some scholarly kids with laptops, maybe, but not interested in her.  Was there someone, this was the appointed time, was there someone, some young man looking at her with interest asking the same question on her mind.  Is this the person?

She continued to stand in the door, scanning the tables, the faces, waiting for some unplanned intuition to speak to her.  There was nothing for it.  It was possible the guy wasn’t even here.  Maybe he had decided to off himself without her.

She went to the counter and glanced over the chalkboard listings.  A new one "Affogato".  

"What’s Affogato?" she asked the counter guy.  Could he be the one?  He looked too cheerful.  But what did that prove?

"Affogato means drowned," he said.  "It’s ice cream with a double shot of espresso poured over it."

"I'll have that."


If she found the guy, would be hungry?  Would a person like her, under these circumstances be eating a scone?  "No scone."  It occurred to her that a person even eating a scoop of ice cream might be too cheerful or even celebratory for all this.  She handed him her credit card.  He swiped it on an iPad and passed it to her and she signed with her finger, a bright curlicue.  It reminded her of Fourth of July picnics at night, waving a sparkler through the night, running down fields.  She felt a pang. She looked to the door.  It wasn't too late to run, just run.

"Thanks," said the counter guy.  "We’ll call you."

She stepped away and stood against the wall.  She waited.  Affogato.  That could have been a code word if she'd known there was such a thing. I'll be the one sitting alone eating an Affogato.  I'll be the drowned girl. 

Drowning seemed like a particular bad way to go.  Violent. Your body would fight you, resist the betrayal the mind had imposed on it.  Drowning was not the way.  What were the logistics of this thing?

Everything had logistics.  If you were a thief, the logistic was not breaking in, it was about not getting caught.  If you were a hacker, it was about not getting caught.  If you were trying to kill yourself it was about not getting caught by your own body, your fear at the last moment.  If you jumped off a building and had second thoughts on the way down, it would be too late.  How many people had second thoughts after the commencement of seeing it through?

"Affogato." The counter guy was looking at her.

"Drowned," she said.  She took the dish.

Drowning wouldn’t cut it, she thought.  It doesn't make a statement to those you leave behind.  It can be accidental.  One does not want to be accidental.  This is about you, she would want to say.  You broke my heart, you did this.

She found an empty table near a group of boys and just sat.  The ice cream did look a little drowned as the hot coffee began to consume it into a frothy cream.  The whole business, it was just ungrateful.

"You wouldn't drown yourself would you?" said a bios voice behind her.  She turned.

"Facebook?" she said.

"Yeah," he said.  He sat down.  "I'm -"

"You're not going to tell me your name are you?" she said.  "I don't want to know your name."

"Okay," he said.

"Want a bite?"  She raised the spoon.  "No cooties yet."

He took the spoon and put it in his mouth.  He looked kind of cute. Suspiciously cheerful.  If he should have been dressed in black like a sulky Hamlet - to be or not to be, maybe not - it would have been more obvious. Nothing about this was obvious.  She wondered if even her weariness showed.

"Gonna miss ice cream," he said.

"I don't believe in that shit," she said.

"Ice cream?"

"After life.  Regret."

"Oh let's not talk about that shit.  How you going to do it?"

"I'm looking for ideas."

"I can't believe you haven't thought about this."

"What about you?"

"I'm thinking of freezing to death.  It's like going to sleep. "

"How you going to do that?"

"I know a guy who has a meat locker.  Gets about 35 degrees."

"Is that enough?"

"I guess."

"What about a gun?"

"I don't have a gun."

"You can get one.  That's what I'm thinking."

"We're doing this together right?  That's the deal we said."

"Well what's a good gun?  I don't have much money."

"Maybe a little gun is cheaper than a big gun.  Maybe a 22?"

The next table over had gone quiet.  Chairs turned.  Guys leaned in.  "Naw,
man.  Don't use a 22."

They turned and looked the guys.  "You been listening?"

"Twenty two?" said another kid.  "That's stupid.  That's like using an ice pick on yourself.  Shoot yourself in the head, you don’t die, just an impromptu lobotomy."

"Wait, wait," said the girl. 

"Hemingway used a shot gun," said another kid.  He put the barrel under his chin, and just sort of wrapped his toe around the trigger - BOOM!"

Now people were looking.

"Don't use a 22, not if you're serious.  Serious people, shot gun."

"Would you use a shotgun?" said another kid.

"Hell, I'd use a nerf gun."

"What??  Get the fuck out."

"No, man, you get these nerf guns, they look real.  You go somewhere, you wave it around, some cop shoots you."

"Fuck, that's sick."

"Well, what isn't?" 

"Well, for one thing, it makes you look like an asshole.  Threatening people with a gun.  Little kids.  It makes you look like a total asshole.  Get your name on the news, but it's the wrong message.  It's not 'you done broke my heart, fuck you Cruel World,' its like ‘Mommy made me nuts and I wanna cry but I got a cop to shoot me cause I’m too chicken shit to off myself.'  That makes you a punk.  You couldn’t do it.”

“Plus you're wasting your fifteen minutes of fame."

"Fifteen minutes.  I like that."

"Warhol said that."

"Who the fuck's Warhol?"

"The guy that's doing your mama!  You don't know who the fuck Andy Warhol is?  Get the fuck out of here.  You’re repugnantly ignorant."

"Warhol is cool," said another kid.  "He did Marylyn Monroe.  And soup cans and shit."

"A shotgun?” said the girl, “that’s what you're telling me?"

"Course you could end up just blowing your teeth down your throat, like that guy on the show 'Preacher'?  That motherfucker is gross."

"No!  That clown in American Horror Story!  That's what he did!  Blew his face off with a shotgun.  So he has this mouth mask.  That was some fucked up shit."

"Naw man, don't use a shot gun."

"I think we're getting off the subject," said the boy. 

"You're not going to freeze to death," said one of the other kids.  "Not in high summer in Georgia.  But if you did freeze to death when it's a hunnert fucking degrees out there, that would be cool. Now that would a statement."

"Irony," said another kid.  It's got irony."

"It does, it does."

"What's wrong with pills?"

She ate her ice cream.  Worked the spoon around the bowl.  Feeling the boy’s eyes on her she put her tongue out.  She had a long tongue and licked the edge of the bowl.  Then the inside of the bowl.  With their eyes on her she licked the spoon, long and slow.  She worked that spoon.

Their eyes were on her.  All their eyes. 

“You got talent,” a boy sighed.  “Don’t waste that talent you got.”

She set the bowl down and stood up, looking towards the door.


She turned and all the boys were looking at her.  "Feel better now?" said one.

And then she knew.  She did.  It was out of her system.  It had been a dumb idea.

"I know what I'm going to do now," she said.  "I'm going into show business.  If I'm going to die on stage I want to get paid for it."

She walked away without looking back.

Outside, the heat and the sunshine felt beautiful.

Tuesday, July 18, 2017

Erotic Writing - Fad or Not? (#erotica #selfpub #eroticromance)

I’m not very good at following fads — especially in terms of clothing. Ask anybody who knows me in real life and they’ll tell you that my fashion sense is my major failing point as a gay man.

In truth, though, I would buy more clothing if I could afford it — but things like mortgage payments, cat food, human food, and bills tend to take precedence. And when I do have some money for clothing, that tends to be about when my underwear needs replacing, and that stuff is expensive. Buy a few pairs of underwear and my budget for buying a shirt is blown.

There is an upside, though. By sticking with generally non-fad clothing, what I wear tends to stand the test of time. I might not be the most color-coordinated or be wearing any fancy labels, but I never have to feel like I’m dressed dumpy.

Today, I’ve got on plaid shorts and a blue tee, as well as brown sandals and red underwear. None of it is particularly current or fashionable — but as a whole, it works and it’s affordable. The shirt is the newest clothing item — I think I got it last year.

But there’s more to fads than just clothing. There was that whole fidget spinner thing that’s just about burned itself out. And, of course, being an erotic author often seems like a fad.

I got into the erotic genre right around when Fifty Shades of Grey was taking off. I had no knowledge of the book at the time, nor did I have any real knowledge of self-publishing and how thousands of people were scribbling out dirty stories to make a quick buck.

If I was in it for a quick buck — if I was following the fad — I would’ve copied what everyone else was doing and just start cranking out the smut. Instead, like with clothing, I took my time and I invested in what I was doing.

I don’t sell as well as those who are able to follow the market with more agility. I write the stories I want to write and I take my time doing so. I may be behind on trends, like with clothing. But also like with clothing, my books and my presence as an author seem to be standing the test of time. They might not be the most current or trendy, but they do the job.

Like with that whole fidget spinner thing, we all know of authors who burst onto the erotic ebook scene with half a dozen short stories because they heard it was a good way to make some easy money — and then when it doesn’t work out like they expected, they give up and move on to the next thing.

I don’t mean to denigrate those authors at all. Those who can make it work are writers whom I admire. And those who didn’t make it work and who gave up — well, if they were in it for the money and nothing else, then they were in it for the wrong reasons.

Fads come and go. Eventually, the fad of “there’s easy money in smutty ebooks” will pass — and those who are in it because they love it, and not because it’s supposedly an easy buck, will still be here and benefit from the suddenly-decreased competition.

Success in writing erotic fiction more often than not comes from persistence, patience, and productivity. This means writing and releasing work on a semi-regular schedule and not getting discouraged when sales are low, but rather knowing that with time and more releases, sales will grow.

Erotic writing is a fad to some, but not to me.

Cameron D. James is a writer of gay erotica and M/M erotic romance; his latest release is The President And The Rentboy. 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

Sunday, July 16, 2017

Dirty Flash

Obviously, as has been discussed earlier, "dirty" is at the very least a subjective term for a lot of us. It also carries various connotations both negative and positive.
I was intrigued to see that my basic little quickie dictionary, when defining the sex-based usage of "dirty", had only negative associations. At least, that's how they read on the cold and clinical page, with no visual human signals nor tone of voice to modify the words.
When I tackle flash fiction, I tend to strive for imagery and metaphors. It could well be argued that this style of writing takes some of the dirt out of a story. After all, a part of that kind of dirty is its coarseness, and its vulgarity, both of which a metaphor is usually intended to dilute.
A little over three years ago I was in a group on Facebook where the admins would post an image and ask members to write a flash fiction inspired by that image. The intervening years show me several flaws in the story, but it was never meant to be one I'd publish for sale. It was for nothing more than an exercise.
As I read through it, I realised it certainly could have been much dirtier. I just don't think I'd want it to be.


Helena’s stocking-clad knees fill my hands. The hem of her dress, stretched taut by wide-spread thighs, forms a false horizon.
On my knees before her I see only eyes. Two pure globes—sun and moon—hovering above that black line.
My kiss on the creamy softness of her skin brings an eclipse, both solar and lunar. My lips cascade, skim down the dunes of her thighs and I find the sunset. Dusky corals framing fiery pinks. The scent of the ocean fills my body.
I release that rich breath and Helena’s body trembles beneath its feather-like touch. Her beautiful wet waves of flesh break against my lips, a feast of scents and sensations.
From above, I hear her keening cries, a gull on the breeze, as I dive into her. Searching, tasting, drawing her into me as she pulls me into her.
The pearl of Helena’s oyster slips between my teeth. Her voice breaks, rolls inside her, as my fingers leave marks in the velvet of her thighs.
My hands frame the lush wonder of her pussy as I drink the rich salt water from her.
She rolls her hips and washes all over my cheeks, nose, chin. She bucks and shudders as I drive my tongue forward, a fleshy boat sinking blissfully in a turbulent sea.
The soft thickness of her thighs clamp against my head and she engulfs me. Wave follows wave as she rolls and rocks, gives and takes, until my breath burns inside me.
She ebbs and I breathe. She calms and I rise.

And I turn the tide.

Thursday, July 13, 2017

Stories That Should Have Been

By Annabeth Leong

Rather than talking about stories I’ve written that should have been dirtier, this topic makes me think of stories in books and films that I wish explored their sexual dimensions more thoroughly--and also times I’ve held back in my life, when I wish now that I hadn’t.

The first story that comes to mind is Bend It Like Beckham. Ostensibly, it’s a coming of age story between a girl (Jess) and her soccer coach (Joe). However, I’m not the only person who’s noticed the considerable chemistry between Jess and her female friend (Jules). (This story would be less confusing if the producers of the film hadn’t given everyone names that start with J). While there are rumors that the story originally explored a relationship between Jess and Jules, the version of the film that was released ends with an apparent happy ending for Jess and Joe.

I say, why not get into it all? I think this story would be super hot if Jess explored her bisexuality and dated both Joe and Jules. Also, one major point of conflict is that Jess and Jules both have feelings for Joe. There are times when I’d really, really like to see people solve their problems with bisexual polyamory, and this is one of them.

Over the course of the last couple weeks, several people have rightly pointed out that there’s something inherently judgmental to calling a story “dirty.” I don’t want to play into that here. I’m not saying it’s bad or dirty to practice bisexual polyamory (unless that’s what turns you on--I wouldn’t want to ruin anything for anyone). Here, what I mean by “dirty” is onscreen explicit activity. I want to see more people making out. I’d really love to see Jess and Jules have no holds barred lesbian sex (not just the kind that’s symbolized by gently burning candles and footsie). And, of course, in my version, everyone is age appropriate.

Another story that holds deep eroticism for me is the movie Labyrinth, starring David Bowie and Jennifer Connelly. There’s plenty to suggest a predatory romantic and erotic relationship between these actors’ two characters (Jarreth, a full-grown goblin king, and Sarah, a young and precocious girl), and I think it would be really hot and interesting to explore that relationship more thoroughly and explicitly.

Some of the lines in Labyrinth would make for incredible BDSM. At one point, Bowie’s character tells Sarah, “Just fear me, love me, do as I say, and I will be your slave.” There’s a fascinating power dynamic between them.

Ultimately, what Jarreth wants seems threatening and abusive, and I would always want Sarah to realize that (as she does in the released version of the film). But I think it would be pretty amazing to see these characters do more obviously sexy things first.

As far as life experiences go, I’m personally torn. The idea of held back desire is very intense, fascinating, and arousing to me. There are probably people and moments that I remember exactly because I didn’t take the opportunity that was presented to me. It’s possible that the eroticism of not-doing has at times been greater than any eroticism I might have experienced from doing. At the same time, I have lifelong curiosity over what might have been.

The friend who frequently drew and painted me naked--what would have happened if I’d made a move on her? The time the guy I was crushing on invited me to shower with him, but I was afraid to say yes, even though I wanted to. Those are lifelong regrets, but they’re also centers of erotic power and fantasy.

I guess the point of this is that, as others have pointed out, there can sometimes be a great deal of eroticism present precisely when nothing explicit is happening. Maybe Bend It Like Beckham would be another mediocre lesbian movie if the relationship between Jess and Jules had actually been consummated. Maybe the shower with that guy wouldn’t have been any fun.

What I do know is that I’ll always wonder, and a part of me will always think these things should have been dirtier.

Wednesday, July 12, 2017

In The Zone

by Daddy X

For this post, let’s say that ‘dirty’ means the most transgressive of acts. When sexual intensity overrides the intellect to such a degree that all sense of propriety takes a back seat to gratification, without concern for mental or physical well being. When extreme desire conquers our better judgment.

Consider this excerpt from A Woman In My Position, now firmly ensconced deeply within “The Gonzo Collection”.

I want to add that this is an early work of mine, written in 2012 when my libido was considerably more lively. (Also first story requested for the ERWA Gallery and Treasure Chest).

You all know the feeling of being in The Zone: When our fingers can’t keep up with what’s playing out in our heads, the story taking on its own driving inertia, the details of which we learn as we dance across the keys. I loved that aspect of writing and wish it occurred more often.

For the bulk of this story, told in the first person present, the main character (we never get her name) is crouched on the floor, ass in the air, face resting in a massage table donut. She’s waiting at home, just inside the vestibule, anticipating her husband coming through the door. Quite thin and not a pretty girl, her only attractive assets are her ass and cunt, which are truly beautiful and that her husband truly admires. He calls her ass her “Golden Arches” when she’s in this position. Meanwhile, multiple personages inside in her head (actually aspects of herself.) make their presence and opinions known.

In this scene, she experiences flashbacks of her time before she married Eduardo, an oily skeeveball from uncertain areas of South America. He’s been thrown out of several countries for public sexual occurrences with prominent figures, not to mention other reasons left to the reader’s imagination. At Arturo’s party, the attendees do ‘tricks’ to show off their kinks.  


Yeah, Arturo’s big party. That same girl showed up. That little masochist girl who came so hard from the spanking. Where I’d met Eddie. Well, it was a couple of years later and she had a different guy with her. To show her off. Just for fun and games. She looked much older than when we had first seen her, still cute in a heroin chic sort of way. But terrible. Used up. All dark circles and all. Eddie and I think there may be something kinky in their relationship. 
For the most, the party was nothing special. Ho hum at first. The hostess gave “really fantastic” blowjobs, or so said the men. But I think they were just being polite because only two of them even came in her mouth. Then some guys excused themselves or just put it in for a couple of sucks, saying “Oh, wow,” and then said they would have to save themselves for their own tricks. Ha! But then they would go into another room and stick it in someone else’s mouth.
And then Arturo brought out a bowl of coke. He said that now that his wife had sucked so many cocks, her lips were all puffy and sore. That she would have to service the ladies at their next party. All the girls pretended to be disappointed, but I don’t think so.
Arturo had a really big dick and several of the women and girls snorted up a shitload and tried taking the whole thing on. In several positions. I got the whole thing in my mouth and in my pussy when Eddie said I should.  After all, I’m the guy’s guest. But Eddie didn’t want me to really fuck him, or suck him till he came. Don’t ask me why—I guess he just wanted to see if the thing would go in all the way. Or maybe just to show me off. And maybe too much of the blow made him a little nuts.
You know, the usual sort of thing. Some of the younger girls thought picking up things with their snatch was a big deal. Of course somebody balanced on a dick.
And, ha! That two-bit size queen. Yeah, sure. Tried. And failed. Failed to take Arturo up her ass. How embarrassing for her. I didn’t try, but I probably could for crissakes. And I don’t even call myself a size queen.
Size princess?
A young girl in a Catholic school uniform brought a small inflatable swimming pool. Green and white. She did a mini-bukkake that was pretty hot, but for the most part, you know, pretty dull stuff.
Until that dark haired girl got rolling, that is.
Where did that voice come from? 
Yes, the position that one was put in that night.  
The blood in my head whirls. The word “position” reverberates in my head. The wonnn-wonnn-wonnngs waver like a wha-wha pedal. My cunt juices up even more.
The little slap girl did the same trick as the last time we saw her. But only from the one guy this time. And then, after she came—
Guy must have wailed on her for fifteen minutes or more! comments my timekeeper. She’s not too precise.
Both of them… Exhausted. My empathetic personage.
But the host and his wife said that the girl had faked it. Arturo said that she only peed herself and “Where?” and in “What depraved world,” was “Pissing one’s self anything tantamount to having an orgasm?”
And the little girl cried, pushing out her bottom lip and her backside too, right there in the middle of us, sobbing about how it’s “Not Fair!” And how if they would only “Give me forty minutes or so and I’ll do it again!” and I thought that just the way she said “again” that probably she did come the first time.  Her date said that he just couldn’t hit her for that long again. Not just now. She pouted. Stood half naked from the waist down in the center of the room, rubbing her eyes with her knuckles. Standing with her feet a foot apart, bent a little forward, her inflamed ass stuck out from under a t-shirt, staggering around, stumbling like she’s drunk for chrissakes, begging for coke. Her round steaming ass with a thick network of blue streaks running mottled throughout the glowing hot embers. Finger shaped 3-D blisters where her date’s individual digits had slapped her skin over and over again so damn hard in the same spot. Heat waves rippled off her ass and somebody held a platter of coke under her nose. She mashed her face into it, raising a cloud of the stuff. Then the guy smacked the platter hard on the girl’s ass and she thanked him very much but said that it would still take another forty minutes or so. And she huffed and puffed and blubbered on and on.
She stuck her hand between her legs and choked out, “Feel! It’s not all pee! Boo hoo!”
And all the women and girls in the room looked at each other and rolled their eyes like “Yeah, like we’re all juicing up here for heavens sake honey. So what’s the big deal?”  
And then the girl said it would “Prob—prob—bub—probably—wouldn’t take as long the next time ‘cause—’cause (according to her) it really hurts like the fuck already back there to start with and what if—if she just didn’t pee at all the first time and how there wouldn’t be any question at all if she just didn’t pee herself. It was just a little. But how she was so sorry but she just couldn’t help it, it hurt so fucking much she just lost control, and how she was having such a goo—good time before all this shit and how it was such a great party until all this shit. And why this kind of bullshit shit always winds up happening to her? How she’s always such a good sport at these shit things even when that one time they told her there was some shit party and then when she brought her sister and it turned out it wasn’t a real party. Just six guys, a jar of coke and the two of them. And how she didn’t mind so much—what happened. But then the guys didn’t even consider what might have been a brand new dress her sister had worn to the so-called party. And now how the sister wants the boys to buy her a new one and how the sister hasn’t even talked to her since that night and how the sister won’t even return her calls and that if someone could please bring her some fucking coke and she screamed that the host was just mad because she wet the floor. And how it’s really ‘cause his wife couldn’t suck cock for shit and- And if… if only somebody else would please help her date spank her and could someone melt some ice on her fucking ass (which looked like you could roast marshmallows on it)… 
And of course the thought that was going through everyone’s head was why the fuck would anyone let someone blister the bejesus out of their bottom and not come for chrissakes? Unless of course she was just a little slap slut or if she’s just doing it for the guy’s pleasure alone and not getting anything out of it herself or maybe it’s just for a place to stay for a night or something. And, or—or god forbid—taking money for it.
And then the cruel host guy stroked his big dick and said that if she didn’t cork her bellyachin’ he would really give her something to cry about.
And the little girl said how that would be ok too, but that her ass still needed forty minutes or so to settle down.
For sure everybody hearing this thought how from the looks of it, how it looked like it would be taking way longer to settle down than that (like a month.) And then the host said “Maybe. But from now on, this is exactly why there had to be some better criterion for this shit.”
And then my brainy Eddie got an idea. He said, “Watch this-”
He had me sit up on the couch, legs spread. I—
Cool you heels, baby girl. and Whoa girl!
I take a deep breath. Chill, Slut! says an attentive mind-attendant. I take another breath. Continue.
I wore no undies that night. That kind of party. Beside himself with lust and passion for me, my loving Eddie ripped my blouse apart. Popped the buttons around the room to expose my skinny chest. Wrinkly little tits. Looked like a freckly grasshopper on the sofa with the black leather mini skirt skinned inside out above my waist. My bony legs spread flat against the back of the sofa, pink pussy glistening wide open for everyone to see. I felt so ashamed of myself I started to juice even more. It stained the sofa cushion. That embarrassed me plenty. When Eddie said “Watch this,” again, he stood in the middle of the room. Everybody gathered around. Eddie started pointing at me, telling all these funky stories about me and who I’ve  “focked” and how many I’ve “socked” and about the things people have talked me into sticking up my ass. What “feelthy” things I’ve done, just because he’s asked me to, ‘cause I will.
He talked of how “nobody should laugh at her big Dumbo ears, because they made such good handles.” Because… Oh it was so embarrassing. And the longer he talked. Oh! I just. Oh! So wet.
He told the one about me and the museum guard. Then the one about him propositioning that bartender to trade blowjobs from “that sock-happy redhead over there” for the drinks.  Eddie said how the guy said: “No way would he put heess sweet deeck into that face” And then about him telling me to slip a goose under the skirts of several waitresses the same night. Yeah. And then how they all stared at us from the bar, shaking heir heads, frowning. That’s when Eduardo went up to the bar. He said to apologize to the bartender. Then he, the bartender, waitresses, all stared from way across the room. They pointed at me, laughing together.
I fingered myself. I flashed ‘em! Reminds my trickster gal. Then Eduardo came back but all night after that he had to go up to the bar himself for drinks. And, he told about the time I flashed the teenagers on the bus. And, what I did in front of the nuns, and what I—Well, he had me sit there hearing all these seamy things about me and telling these stories to strangers and to almost strangers. I was mortified to tears. I tried to hide my parts. I tried to hide my nasty face. I tried to hide my bigger ear and I tried to hide my ugly flushed countenance. Tried to hide it craned into the back of the couch from the shame. Archetypal ancient protection instincts kicked in, trying to squeeze my legs together from the shame. It took two people to hold my legs open. Someone threw a handful of cocaine at my pussy. Somebody else held my freckly mooshed monkey face so I had to see the camera and everyone else could all see my hot flushed face, my hot pink cunt and all the contradictions down there, and up here. And my shiny brown asshole and my ugly face and the yin and yang of it all and all my stiff clit sliding in and out on the filthiest parts.
Then Eddie shouts: “Hold her! Hold her hands! She gon’ feenger herself.”
But honest, I just wanted to rub the coke in, but somebody held my arms back and then he started to tell a story about me that wasn’t at all true. I cried. He was making it all up and I cried “Oh no!” and “I didn’t do that! Please! Don’t say that!” He made it seem like I was the liar. That I was really capable of such things. I was so wet. That I had no limits and about farm animals, about—good god, motorcycle gangs. Gang bangs. About removing bottle caps with my asshole!  Echhh!  And you know how it is when you’re accused of something you didn’t do, couldn’t possibly do? My head was about to explode because my cocaine-dry tongue had pasted itself, folded double, trying for a quick breath through my gaping mouth. Blocked all possible air passages to my lungs. Stacking up the oxygen in my head. Turning redder and redder.
I was coming.
That film. It’s so—so Me. The close-up shows first my ruddy face, already pug ugly, now morphed into the ugly of abandon. Someone’s hands grip my head from behind, folding the bigger ear forward. One end of my open mouth turned down like a stroke victim. Gaps, the missing teeth, eyes watering.  Mortification. Lust. The underside of my tongue glistens purple in its open cavern. I howl at the bunch of them.
They took a full frame sequence. My whole humping torso bridging my heels on the cushions, head on the sofa back, screaming up at the ceiling. The pelvic rolls, the gaping rosy center of it all gyrating in mid air. A man off-camera, doesn’t speak very fluent English. He makes a guttural comment. Sticks in a forefinger, fucks it back and forth a few finger fucks.
Eduardo’s yelling something about a Great Dane and fucking Interpol!  And then—then the camera tries to focus in on my cunt. I’m grinding deep pelvic rolls bridged in the open air. Some people shove my middle down. My ass on the cushion once again. A man and a woman I don’t know hold my knees to the back of the sofa. They keep me still for the kneeling girl taking a close-up.
In the background Eduardo’s hollering and waving his arms, pointing at me, shouting, spitting. He’s sputtering on about the apocryphal Twelve Pound Dildo.
At that point I quit fighting them. I looked down at my snatch. It was for the best.
Up close the fleshy lips had swollen to the point of puffing into a pair of pink peeled peach parts contracting in pulsating plips. My clit, now completely freed of its sheath, wiggled about like the head of a pearly albino tadpole. Very pretty.
I was yelling, how can you do this, how you can say things like that about me? About the one you love and about how you love me so. How I love you so. How we understand me so well. And how I don’t know a fucking thing about you, your past. Why you can’t even go back to certain countries. How I trust you and the way you make it all. And if all of them out there just went and jumped in the fucking lake and if he didn’t stop saying all the filthy things about me—The Sphincter and the Potato, my god! — I’d pop! And then... I… I…   
There was no mistaking it. Super Squirt was coming. Talk makes me come. Yes, dirty talk.
No one disputed that orgasm, says my wise guy girl.


BTW- This is my only story where drugs are featured, except perhaps the mention of a joint or two here and there. I really don’t think drugs and sex go together well. Ummm...  Not on the page, anyway. ;>)