Biologists suggest that one of the things that allows for a species to prosper is “reciprocal altruism.” If the members of the species cooperate with each other, then the individuals within that species have a better chance to become adults, mate, and produce offspring. The principle seems to work. At least, most of the time it seems to work. You do something for me, I’ll do something for you. And if not directly for me, or directly for you, for someone among our affinity group, whose own enhanced chances for survival will tangentially enhance ours.
This works with sex, too. Basic fucking is, of course, mutually beneficial when it comes to species survival. If people stop fucking, then they’ll also stop having babies, and eventually there’s no next generation and everybody dies off. So, if we’re going to have a next generation, people need to fuck.
But that’s not the only reason for sex. While I don’t believe that humans are unique in actually enjoying sex, we certainly seem to spend more time seeking it out than other animals. We do seem to be the species most likely to have sex simply because we enjoy it.
I certainly enjoy it. And I want a certain amount of reciprocity myself. Particularly, that means I expect to cum. None of this, you get off and I don’t shit. If you cum before I do, either you keep going–not always practical as men age, but try anyway–or you get down there and start eating.
In fact, if your goal is convincing me to suck your cock, you can certainly help your case by first worshipping at the altar of my clitoris. A lot of men don’t know how to do that, but I’m often quite happy to do a little teaching. I like a bit of delicacy in tongue action. And don’t just lazily lick in one place. Explore a little. See how far you can get your tongue inside. Be a man.
Unless you’re a woman. But, of course, if you’re a woman, you most likely already know what feels good.
That’s one of the things a President is supposed to be. That’s also one of the things our current “leader” isn’t. I frequently doubt that the man even knows what a conscience is.
I suppose I could give him the benefit of the doubt. When he says there are good people on both sides, I could allow that he’s just trying to be fair. I could, but I won’t. The problem with “fair and balanced,” to borrow a phrase from a network that rarely is, is that both terms are highly subjective. Fair to whom? What do you mean by “balanced?”
Conservatives are particularly disposed to argue in favor of presenting both sides of issues that have only one side. Evolution is about as thoroughly proven as anything can be without access to a TARDIS to hop back in time and actually observe it happening. Creationism, on the other hand, can provide no evidence at all in its favor. So the “other side” Conservatives want taught in school turns out not to be a side at all. True, they’re not pushing Creationism any more, since the courts have ruled it to be a religious doctrine, not a scientific one. Now they call it “Intelligent Design,” despite tons of evidence that if we were designed at all, it was done so poorly that it would seem intelligence had little to do with it. And, of course, it didn’t. Evolution puts the esophagus behind the trachea, which is a remarkably bad arrangement for a being who eats while upright, but works sensibly enough in four-legged creatures who eat with their heads relatively inverted.
There is a generally laudable tendency for Americans to side with the underdog. Usually that’s fine. But there are times when it’s stupid. Strictly speaking, both the Confederates and the Nazis were the underdog, since they both lost. But that breaks down when you consider what they were fighting for. The Confederates fought the war to insure they’d continue to be able to own other human beings (or, if they didn’t own slaves, to insure that others still could, because a free white man would still be better than a slave, even if he had nothing), and the Nazis fought to insure they’d be able to continue murdering other human beings. Their causes were lost, but they were lost because, morally, they were unjustifiable to begin with.
Fine, sure, God thinks slavery is just peachy. It says so all over the Bible, both testaments. Most Christian denominations didn’t condemn slavery until after the Civil War. Most of them also put it about that their condemnation came much earlier, and a ridiculous number of people today believe that antedated lie. If you think the mainstream Protestant churches were anti-slavery and pro-integration, ask yourself why there’s an African Methodist Episcopal Church. It isn’t because the Methodists were happily welcoming black people into the church from the beginning.
If you’re marching down the street waving a Nazi flag, don’t be shocked if I call you a Nazi. You’re thirty-years-old, so you obviously didn’t capture that flag while tramping through Germany in 1945 with the 82nd Airborne Division. You bought the thing because it represents your political outlook, that blacks should know their place, and that Jews should be exterminated, or at least forced to move to Israel. You’re marching to “defend” statues that represent what you think of as your heritage, despite the annoying fact that most of them were put up in the 20th century and sited in front of the courthouse as a reminder to local blacks that the courthouse, and particularly the voter rolls found there, were for the benefit of whites. Older southern courtrooms, city halls and country commission meeting rooms nearly all have balconies. That’s not to accommodate an overflow crowd, but so that any blacks attending trials or meetings could be stuck upstairs where the white people wouldn’t have to see them. The last thing a black man in 1940 Georgia wanted was to be on the main floor in the courtroom, because 95% of the time that meant he was the defendant, and the other 5% probably a witness whose testimony would be accepted, or ignored, more or less in direct relation to whether it supported the prosecution or the defense.
It often seems to me that Conservatives are binary people. They don’t think more than two options can ever exist. Everything is zero sum. If black people gain a right, that means white people lose one. If you let gay people marry each other, straight people’s marriages will become meaningless. If a computer projection on climate change isn’t 100% accurate, then climate change is a myth. If a clerk in a store says “happy holidays” instead of “merry Christmas,” it’s because there’s a liberal war on Christmas, and not because the clerk couldn’t reliably identify your religion just by looking at you. If the Bible says the world is only around 6,000-years-old, and science says it’s more like 4.3-billion, science has to be wrong, because it’s obvious a bronze age shepherd who could talk directly to God would know more about it than a modern scientist. (Strange that God stopped talking to people about the same time they started to understand a little about how the world actually worked, isn’t it?)
There are people in this country who would love to bring back blasphemy laws, so that atheists could be punished for their disbelief. Fundamentalist Christians think atheists hate God, which is ridiculous. It’s hard to hate something you don’t believe exists. Most atheists really don’t care about God at all. If they object to Ten Commandment monuments on courthouse lawns, invocations at high school football games, or changing the proper motto of the United States (E pluribus Unum; out of many, one) to the obviously sectarian “In God We Trust,” they’re in good company. James Madison, who wrote the first amendment they claim to be defending, would have happily told them they’re wrong. Madison stated quite clearly that even having congressional and military chaplains was unconstitutional if they were being paid with government funds. He also admitted he probably couldn’t do anything about it, but he still made the original intent of the law clear.
It should be fairly obvious by now that Trump isn’t really competent to be President. Whether or not he’s actually a racist himself, he won’t condemn them, which is just as bad. He doesn’t seem to understand that he isn’t running a real estate company any more, and can’t just tell people what to do and expect them to do it. This is someone who has actually tried to threaten members of Congress who didn’t do what he told them to.
And yet, bad as he is, what’s the solution? The House could vote to impeach him, and if the Senate voted to convict, he could be ousted. But if that were to happen, Vice President Pence would assume the office. Do we really want to go from someone who is merely incompetent and venial to someone who is competent and actually evil?
As Yul Brynner would say in The King and I, “It’s a puzzlement.”
The Gods Are Horny is based on Moronite mythology. The Moronites were an ancient Middle Eastern culture, mostly confined to the mountainous areas of what is now Lebanon. They existed earlier than the more familiar cultures found in the Bible, and had their own distinct mythology.
That’s the story, at least. It’s also possible I just made the whole thing up, just like most religions, except the only way I want to profit from it is by selling a few books to my horny fans. As religions go, the one followed by the Moronites has some distinct advantages over most of the others.
For one thing, it’s relentlessly peaceful. If the Moronites could be said to have a motto, it would probably be, “Fuck, don’t fight.” These are people whose temple rituals include the high priestess fucking a sacred phallic idol on the main altar, followed by the high priest cumming on an idol of their principal goddess, with a little help from the priestess, who’d give him a blow job to get him going properly. This is all in front of the congregation, who presumably watched in reverential awe.
If you were thankful for something, you’d go to the temple and seek the blessing of one of the attendant priestesses, who would consecrate your good fortune by sucking your cock and swallowing your cum. If you were a woman, of course, she’d eat your pussy instead. Being a priestess was a highly honored calling, and significantly raised a young woman’s status as a potential marriage partner once her term was concluded. One of them even married a demigod, Naloro, who was sort of the Moronite Heracles. His mother was a young woman named Zara, who’d been noticed by Oroyna, the chief (earthly) god. He popped down from his mountaintop, got her pregnant, and while he was at it, granted her eternal life and youth.
The Moronite gods and goddesses bore a certain resemblance to the Olympian deities, though that was mostly when it came to hooking up. The earliest god was Kolek, who was the original god who created everything. He was undoubtedly the oldest of the gods, but even he wasn’t sure how old, since he’d spent a great deal of time before there was time, so there was no way to know how long he’d lived before there was a way to measure it. He created by universe mostly out of boredom. Every so often he’d get bored, start masturbating, and ejaculate a galaxy.
After a few million years, he even got tired of that, so he ejaculated a daughter to keep him company. Naturally, being a god, he married her once she was grown (which wasn’t very long, since she was born full grown), but he still waited a few hundred years before he started screwing her. Just to be safe, you see. Even someone who’s born as an adult still needs to hang around for at least 18 years before they start fucking. It’s just a rule.
Getting his daughter, whose name was Kanzeki, knocked up, which he’d quickly decided would be a lot less painful than ejaculating any more fully grown gods or goddesses out of his giant prick, he became the father of Oroyna and Nalima, the fraternal twin deities who were immediately given dominion over the earth.
There were already people there. Kolek hadn’t bothered to create them, it just took him so long to get back to the place after he first ejaculated the Milky Way into existence that they’d evolved on their own. He was more of a Deist sort of god. “There, I’ve made you, do whatever, I’ve got other stuff to do, so maybe I’ll pop in again in a few million years and see how you’re getting on, but, mostly, you’re on your on, so don’t fuck it up.”
Being gods and twins, Oroyna and Nalima naturally married each other, and quickly started popping out a few more sets of twin deities, who also married each other. If this sound sort of incestuous, well, that seems to be how gods work. They were always marrying their sisters or their daughters.
If you want the full story, your best option is to read the book. It’s on sale now at Lot’s Cave.
Writers, as someone once said, write. With They All Cum at Carlisle’s finished, I naturally started right in on something new. One Room is a bit of a departure for me. There are only two important characters, and they’re not even related. No more related than any other two people, at least, which is generally not that close.
Considering that the last four books all had an incest theme, why doesn’t this one? Simple answer: the plan is to publish it for Kindle, and Amazon doesn’t allow incest. Not once they notice it, anyway. They don’t seem to care if people are screwing everybody in the vicinity, but they can’t be related. But just let them be related and the next thing you know the book is blocked. Worse, they’ve been known to decide to simply close the account and keep the money.
I have mixed feelings about that. I abhor the idea of censorship, but strictly speaking what Amazon is doing isn’t. Censorship is when the government tells you what you can write or publish. If you want to write fiction about incest, the government officially doesn’t give a damn. They don’t even care if you make it about kids, as long as they’re imaginary. I can’t think of many publishers who’d be okay with anyone under eighteen, mind you, except for the big mainstream publishers, when the book is about feelings, and psychology, and a great deal of pretentious silliness and any sex is just incidental, or is going to be massively punished. Actual porn publishers tend to be more responsible.
Anyway, the Canadians do seem to care about how old imaginary people are, and you never know where your customers are coming from, so I don’t put anyone in my stories unless they’re old enough to vote. At one time, I’d have said old enough to drink, but it seems that someone decided drinking required greater maturity and judgment than voting. After the last election, I can almost agree with them, except it was apparently the more mature citizens who acted like idiots and voted in a complete whack job.
The point is, Amazon isn’t the government, it’s a private company, so they get to decide what they want to sell. If they don’t want to sell fiction that includes incest, bestiality, or underage sex, and their stockholders don’t vote to overrule that policy, then anyone writing fiction for the Kindle platform just has to conform. It’s not like we’re really barred from the Kindle itself. Other companies sell books in Mobi format, so they can be easily loaded into the reader. And it’s not that difficult to write sex stories where the people aren’t related. People might be surprised to discover how often “incest” stories are repurposed from non-relative stories. (Back when Amazon was still selling them, I did a few that way, but using a different pen name.)
Every so often, I like to emphasize that I write fiction. I’m arguably fictional myself. It’s my life, but there may be a bit of exaggeration and fantasy involved in the memories. There may be a great deal of it. But sex in an Amtrak roomette, among other things, is definitely something I recommend. At least, as long as you don’t make too much noise. There’s not much in the way of sound insulation into the passageway. And I certainly do love the taste of an excited pussy.
Since One Room is intended for Amazon, it will probably be on sale much more quickly than Carlisle’s. It’s shorter, for one thing. And Lot’s Cave, the publisher for most of my books, does a lot more work getting these ready, since they’re publishing them in multiple formats while Amazon only has to convert into one, and that’s just about entirely automated. I may do several of these short works, just to see if I can get some extra money coming in, while I plot out something longer for my primary market.
What’s One Room about? Well, you know how sometimes you’re on a business trip and there’s a convention in town and the hotel gets the reservation screwed up? Yep, coworkers having to share a room, nobody brought PJs, since they expected to have their own rooms, Marion is a hot redhead, and Bill has a ten-inch cock. What could possibly happen in a situation like that?
I’m not entirely hopeless when it comes to electronics, but I figured out a while back that it’s usually easier to get someone who knows what he’s doing for anything complicated. That includes building websites, installing blogs, and other web-related things. Fortunately, Jim was available, and at a very reasonable price, considering how hard I’ve worked him.
Of course, I do my best to provide him with a warm, friendly workplace. He does all this on my home computer. Being a writer, and growing up in the days when we used real typewriters, I learned how to type when I was quite young. So I naturally prefer an actual keyboard, and not the flat monstrosity you find on a laptop, with that idiotic touch pad just getting in the way. Why it’s never occurred to anyone to put that damned thing at the top is beyond me.
Anyway, I have a desktop setup. The system was designed for gamers, which means it’s way overpowered for what I use it for. But, as Jim told me a while back, you can never have too much memory, especially for graphics. He has a laptop he takes around to clients, but he downloaded the web software onto my system and works on that.
If you’ve been reading my books (and, if you haven’t, why haven’t you?), you may have noticed I sometimes take vacations at nudist resorts. The truth is, I’m just as comfortable naked as clothed, particularly when I’m at home. Jim doesn’t seem to mind if I run around naked while he’s working. Often, if I’ve got him working late, I can talk him into working the same way. He’s an older guy, but I can’t complain about the way he looks naked. And he seems to respond to me, even if all I’m doing is looking over his shoulder at the computer screen and rubbing my tits on his back.
I mentioned that he works cheap. I get him for less than half what he usually charges for the work he’s been doing. But I give him a little bonus whenever I can. He gets to see me naked. Sometimes he gets to see me playing with myself. Because, honestly, I absolutely love playing with myself. I’ve still got that old, souvenir miniature baseball bat I’ve been using for a dildo since high school. When I start playing with that thing, Jim’s typing slows way down, and a lot of the time it stops altogether and he’ll start jerking off while he watches me. I love that. I makes me feel good to inspire that in any man.
Well, I do feel that such dedication should be rewarded. There’s hardly a day goes by when I don’t provide a bonus blow job. Sometimes, if I’ve kept him really late, I’ll take him into my room and fuck him.
I attended a private Christian high school, which, to protect the guilty, I’ll continue to refer to as the Jesus Loves America Christian High School, or “JLA,” as I did in the first volume of my memoirs, The Life of Lauren. That’s not the school’s real name, of course, but the real one was just as silly. The place was more or less what you’d expect. Lot’s of moralizing, cheerleader uniforms that would have been right at home in 1940 (worn over tap pants, just in case), and a lot of illicit sex that everyone pretended wasn’t happening. Like the time my friend, Rhonda, caught the boys’ gym teacher and Miss Simmons, our English Lit teacher, sixty-nining under the gym bleachers.
It was also the school where I was awarded five swats across my bare ass with the principal’s paddle for blasphemy, of all things. I made the mistake of saying that Darwin made sense, which in that school was considered the same as saying that God wasn’t real. The people who ran the school were young-earth creationists. From what I gather, they still are. Old Mr. Fartface (his real name was Farthingale) was a bit of a perv, if you ask me. When he swatted me, he had me bent over his desk, and he was the one who flipped my skirt up over my back and pulled my panties down to my knees so that he could swat my bare rump. He kept me that way for quite a while after he was done with the paddling, too.
Did I mention there was no one else in the office. I always figured he was squatting back there, studying my pussy, and maybe even jerking off. At least this was before digital cameras, which can be set to take pictures without making a sound, so I know he wasn’t doing that.
I was a cheerleader. When we were seniors, past our eighteenth birthdays, we used to gather after football games for what we always told our parents were Bible study sessions. They approved of that sort of thing. Sometimes, we even got out our Bibles and did some studying. Mostly, we just had our little cheerleader lesbian orgies. But I’m not going to get into that here. If you want to read about what happened at those, and at a reunion a few years later, you should buy the book.
No, here I’m going to look at some of the stuff we got into when we actually did open up our Bibles and do some studying. If you’re someone who’s interested in kinky sex, there’s no better place to start looking.
The first thing we came up with was that Adam and Eve were siblings. I know, that sounds a bit out there, but think about it. Eve was made from one of Adam’s ribs (Gen. 2:22), which means that she was genetically almost identical. Obviously, God was the first GMO creator, since he’d have had to modify Eve by eliminating Adam’s “Y” chromosome and making her a double-“X”, or he really would have created Adam and Steve. But, despite that, they would have had the same genetic affinity as any brother and sister. So, in that sense, Adam married his sister (or maybe himself?), and the entire human race is descended from an initial incestuous coupling.
Then there’s the question of just who Adam and Eve’s sons married. Genesis says that they had sons and daughters, but since there was, presumably, no one else around except those sons and daughters, they obviously had to marry each other, so the incest carried on through the second generation of humanity. Even in the third generation, you couldn’t get further apart than a first cousin, and there were probably still a lot of brother-sister unions. No real rules on that yet, remember. And you would have run into a similar bottleneck with inbreeding after the Flood, when all you had was Noah, his wife, his three sons, and their wives. At best, it was back to nothing but first cousins again, and likely a few sibling unions until the population could build itself up again.
Okay, it probably wasn’t like that in reality, since Adam and Eve, and Noah and his family, weren’t real people anyway. Nor was there ever a “first” human being. At some point in the evolutionary chain an ancestor became what we’d call a human today, but it was an incremental step, not a leap from one species to another. There would have been hundreds, or perhaps even thousands of generations between the “pre-human” and the “human” before they were so different they could no longer mate with each other and produce viable offspring. For a very long time they’d be like horses and donkeys, still closely related enough to mate and produce a hybrid mule, but far enough apart that the mule is sterile. It would take a lot longer until you had humans and apes, who still could presumably mate, but the mating could never result in a pregnancy (except, maybe, in a few conspiracy nuts’ imaginations).
But, back to the Bible, the Dirty Parts. The three major western religions, Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, all trace their origin back to Abraham, and the first two to Abraham and Sarah (Islam, or Arabs, at least, trace their line back to Abraham and Hagar). This is interesting, because the Bible states very clearly that Sarah was Abraham’s half-sister, which is incest no matter how you look at it. Even in the weird, the child is really only the father’s product, the mother just provides a place for the seed to grow, biological fallacy espoused by the biblical writers. Abraham states, “She is the daughter of my father, but not the daughter of my mother; and she became my wife.” (Gen. 20:12) I guess things were a little different back in Ur, before Abram became Abraham.
It was also around this time that Lot was screwing both of his daughters in a cave somewhere around Zoar. Genesis gives the excuse that they thought the world had ended, and there was no one else left, so the two girls got their father drunk and had sex with him when he wouldn’t realize what had happened. Personally, I’m not buying it. I’ve been around a few guys who were so smashed they didn’t know what they were doing, and memory isn’t the only thing alcohol takes away. By the time you’re that drunk, nothing will be rising until you’ve sobered up again. The “he perceived not when she lay down” thing is just a whitewash. He knew who it was, and he knew what he was doing. The whole thing has always struck me as a lot of making excuses for what is, after all, probably nothing more than a myth.
Of course, if you’re really looking for the dirty parts, read Song of Solomon, or Song of Songs, whichever you prefer to call it. Rev. Killjoy always claimed this was a beautiful allegory about Christ’s love for his flock, but, I have to be honest with you, it’s mostly about fucking. Rev. Killjoy, you may recall if you’ve read the book, also believed in sharing the “tower of blessing” with the prettier high school seniors, so they could receive the “divine anointing” after they’d paid proper homage to it.
I always have these strange, confused feelings when I finish a book. I wonder if I’ve put in everything that should be there. I wonder if I’ve put in too many things that shouldn’t. It’s a strange craft, writing.
A few minutes ago I finished the last words of They All Cum at Carlisle’s, which will be the latest installment in my “autobiography.” I put that in quotes for obvious reasons. I may be exaggerating a bit here and there. Okay, a lot. I’m not saying I didn’t spend the summer teaching a writing class at a nudist camp, and I’m not saying there wasn’t some sex going on. It’s just that, being a fiction writer, I might not be entirely accurate about who was having it with whom. (No, that’s not me in the picture, and it’s not me in the other one, either. They’re models.)
This can become an issue when you write stories about “loving families” and other kinky stuff. People wonder if you really did that. And I really can’t help feeding the fantasy, making the stories about myself, suggesting that it’s all real. If you want to think it is, well, I can’t stop you. But if anyone decided to investigate very thoroughly, I’m afraid they’d be disappointed. There are certain things that literary Lauren did, and can do, that real Lauren didn’t and can’t.
For this book, the next step is to email the manuscript to my editor. If you’re thinking of writing anything, erotica, or a guidebook to raising tulips, have it edited before you send it to the publisher. If you’re one of those people who are busily adding to the pile of self-published books at Amazon, definitely send it to an editor. You have to pay them, but it’s worth it if you get back a manuscript with the spelling errors fixed, punctuation where it belongs, and all the characters keeping the same name all the way through the book.
Inattention to details like that is how Bruce Banner found himself transformed into David Banner in an old comic book, and eventually compromising on being David Bruce Banner a few issues later. One of my uncles has all of those old comics. He pointed that out as something to be careful about, once he was convinced I was serious about writing for a living.
I’m not sure what I’m going to do next. Take a couple days off, I suppose, though that’s a questionable tactic for the self-employed. I don’t get paid for taking a vacation. If people don’t buy books, I don’t get paid for anything, which is why I’m on Twitter all the time plugging away.
If you’re considering writing the Great American Novel, or the next piece of Great American Erotica, and you need a good editor, drop me an email at the address on the website and I’ll hook you up with mine. He prefers to remain anonymous here, and since he lives several states away, I can’t bribe him with blowjobs the way I can my IT guy, but he’s fast, and he’s good, and more I really couldn’t hope for. If you want him to edit your book, obviously, he’ll tell you who he is, if only when he sends the bill. Editors get paid. How much depends on how long the book is, since he charges by the word.
What’s next? After the brief vacation, I mean. I remember when I was a teenager, hanging around with the other cheerleaders, diligently studying our Bibles. It was a Christian high school, so we were expected to do that sort of thing. Of course, being the teenaged heathens that we were, we spent most of our time looking for the dirty parts, and discussing it in between the naked daisy chains (after we were 18, obviously). The Old Testament is loaded with sex, mixed in with the incest, murder, genocide, and general silliness. Maybe I’ll write something biblical. Adam and Eve, perhaps? If she was made from his rib, that would make her genetically identical to him, apart from not having the “Y” chromosome, which would technically make her his sister, so it appears the whole basis of religion starts with incest.
As for now. I’ve got that email to send with the manuscript, though I suspect the old geezer is probably asleep by now. Then I think I’ll just go masturbate myself into a stupor.
I’m not saying that getting email can be annoying. I enjoy that. It tells me that someone is actually paying attention. What’s annoying is when I get an email, reply to it, and the reply bounces. It’s even more annoying when I find out it’s bouncing at my server. I had to get my IT guy to come over here on Labor Day to fix it. Something about something not being checked, or maybe it was something being checked when it shouldn’t be.
It probably tells you how much email I get that I’m just now noticing this. Most of what’s come in up to now has been administrative stuff that required a web response, not an email reply. Or it went through my IT guy’s email. I’m not really sure what I’d do without him when things get technical. Fortunately, he’s old and horny and easily bribed. Yes, I know that sounds horrible and exploitative, but that’s only because you’ve never seen his cock.
Also, he plays the trumpet. Trumpet players can do amazing things with their tongues. So amazing. You wouldn’t believe how amazing. It’s so amazing. Really, you should see how amazing… (Alright, Lauren, stop channeling that guy.)
Since one reason for having a website is to sell books, and another is to make any extra money that might be available from other sources, I’ve just added a Vibrators.com affiliate link. You know you need a new vibrator, so why not help me pay the rent and buy it from them. They’ve got a great selection.
I’m getting very close to finishing They All Cum at Carlisle’s. My brother, Sam, was visiting, and we’ve sent him back home with a nice little farewell orgy. I get to travel from Cleveland to New York by train, sharing a roomette with my friend, Julia. Those bunks are narrow, but it’s amazing what you can do in them, and the motion of the train really enhances the experience. And did you know that if you arrange your legs just right, two women can share a single bunk when each has her head at the opposite end of the bunk from the other? Ever so stimulating.
Also, my cousin Eve will be visiting from England in the last chapter. You remember her from Across the Pond, I’m sure. If you don’t, you should buy it and see what sort of mischief we get into. Eve tends to pee when she cums, or maybe it’s the other way around, but she’s a lot of fun if you’re into that sort of thing. It’s even kinkier with a British accent.
I’m presuming you noticed that you have to say how old you are now to get in here. That’s for purely practical reasons. For one thing, it lets me be a little more daring when I’m choosing pictures to accompany a post. Without any sort of age verification I was a little reluctant to show boobs, for example.
No, you won’t be seeing mine. Not my own, anyway. Any boobs you see will be mine in the sense that I paid for a license to use the picture. They’ll be my boobs from that perspective. But they’ll never have been attached to my body.
Anyway, now that we have that out of the way, it’s time for an update. Writing continues on my latest book, They All Cum at Carlisle’s. It’s pretty close to finished now. Plotwise, it really is finished. I just need to add a few thousand words in the form of sex scenes. Those are always the most difficult to write because, really, how many ways can you say, “he stuck his dick in her pussy,” or “she sucked his cock,” or “they ate each other out?” Honestly, sex is a lot more fun to do than it is to write about.
I expect to send my 100th tweet sometime tomorrow. Or, possibly, today, depending on when I finish writing this. It’s already 11:20 here in New York, so tomorrow isn’t very far away. I’m having a lot of fun on Twitter. It’s a good place to plug my books. I don’t have that many followers yet, but I’m working on it. I find it interesting to see how many times a tweet is seen, and how many times it’s re-tweeted, or someone clicks on a link.
Re-tweets are rare, but, of course, I’m plugging books where the plot usually involves some guy screwing around with his sister, so not that many people are going to re-tweet those. It’s a bit like the holy roller relatives I mention in a couple of my books, who may have caught their niece sucking a dick in a porno, but never tell anyone, because if they did, then the people they told would know they watch porn. Jesus wouldn’t like that, so they keep their mouths shut.
We used to get a lot of computer viruses, and we ultimately traced them to a relative who was spending most of his spare time on the Internet looking at porn. He claimed he was trying to find illegal stuff, so he could report it. I don’t think anyone believed him.
One tweet has been seen over 10,000 times without ever being re-tweeted. Even more annoying, that tweet’s link to the book it was plugging was clicked nearly 200 times, but as far as I can tell, no one bought a copy. It’s a really good book, too. It’s not a part of my “autobiography,” but it’s got a brother and sister going at it on a train, then having a minor orgy with two of their cousins when they get to the farm. A set of triplets (one boy, two girls) have some sexy fun down at the old swimming hole, with Mom getting in on the act a little later. And a hot girl plays with herself out by the pool for the benefit of a peeping Tom neighbor, then dragoons her brother into the act just to really drive the old fart next door over the edge. Not a bad haul for $3.99, really.
However, I’ve probably spent enough time fooling around here. I really do have a book to finish.
I used to sell books on Amazon. I still do, under a different pen name, but what I write under that name is so wildly different from what I write under this name that never the twain shall associate. The books I used to have on Amazon, which were under yet another pen name, used to bring in several hundred dollars a month. Then somebody at Amazon actually read them, decided they were too racy, and that was the end of that. They were moved to other markets, but honestly don’t do nearly as well without that broad reach.
These days, my raciest stuff goes to Lot’s Cave, where they don’t have a bit of trouble with siblings fooling around, parents getting way too close to their offspring–I mean, they named the place Lot’s Cave, didn’t they?–or characters who like to get each other wet, so to speak. You can also have boobs on the cover, which you couldn’t at Amazon.
I always got a kick out of the whole Lot episode, back when I was a teenager, and me and the other cheerleaders would get together for Bible study. The old guy screwed both of his daughters! We weren’t looking for inspiration in the Bible, we were looking for the dirty parts. We found them, too. Lot and his two daughters. Noticing that Abraham was married to his sister. Song of Songs, which is really just a long ode in praise of kinky sex.
The difference between the two publishers is one of time. Amazon usually had the book available for sale within a few hours of uploading. Lot’s Cave often takes two or three weeks. That’s the difference between an essentially automated process and one where actual human beings take your submission and turn it into a book. Even if you’ve never sent anything to them, you can likely tell that Amazon’s ebook production process is automated by the number of errors you find in the books.
I’m waiting for two books to finish the process at Lot’s Cave right now. My Brother, the Porn Star is pure fiction, told from the viewpoint of a young woman just getting started in porn. The other is The Gods Are Horny, about an incestuous pack of pagan deities and how they were worshipped in an ancient, mythical culture. The rites involved a lot of sex, from the high priestess humping a phallic idol and the high priest worshipping that god’s sister by ejaculating on her idol, to ordinary worshippers giving thanks for their good fortune by receiving oral sex from beautiful young priestesses.
There’s also a demigod, creation myths, and a beautiful young woman gifted with eternal youth and life.
I’ve often wondered what it would be like if you could really live forever and not get old. What if you were physically 36 forever? There’d be problems with Social Security, I’m sure. You’d look too young, and the bureaucrats honestly do expect people to die, not just go on collecting for several hundred years. The whole idea behind picking 65 as retirement age for Social Security was that most people would already be dead (remember, that age was set in Germany in the 19th century, not America in the 1930s). If they’d adjusted the age for the same actuarial results, we wouldn’t be able to retire until we were about 83.
Now, while I’m waiting for those two books to be published, I’m keeping busy by writing another one, called They All Cum at Carlisle’s, about a summer I spent at a cute little adults-only nudist resort when I was thirty. There was a lot of sex in that place, and I certainly got my share of it.
I’ve also been working on my website, LaurenMilfinger.com, and lately we’re adding some affiliate links. They’re not as popular as they used to be, but the point here is to make money, and it all helps. So if you’re looking for a web host who will let you show naked pictures, there’s a link to one. Or if you’re the sort of guy who likes to play with himself on a web cam, click on a link and you’ll be taken somewhere you can do that. The one thing I don’t have is an Amazon affiliate link anywhere on the site. I’ve got an account, but it has my real real name on it, so I can’t use it on this site, and they only allow you to have one account.
I’ve been keeping my web guy, who has requested anonymity, fairly busy with all this stuff. Apparently these guys have some sort of ethical code that includes not working overtime just because your employer is willing to throw in a few blowjobs as an incentive. He’s maybe not as ethical as he’d like people to think. What can I say? I like sex.