My latest book was released on Saturday, December 9, to the usual blast of promotional tweets and no noticeable critical attention. They All Cum at Carlisle’s is part 3 of my “autobiographical” series. The other two books are The Life of Lauren, which started it all off, and Across the Pond.
The series isn’t exactly chronological. The first book starts with me in high school and finishes fairly recently. The second is set between my freshman and sophomore years in college, and Carlisle’s is set when I was 30. That was a helluva year, because I spent the summer at Carlisle’s Nature Resort, where the dress code was officially “clothing optional,” but “just go naked” was more what was meant. Usually, the only person you’d regularly see wearing anything was Julia Carlisle, the 26-year-old co-owner (with her brother, Jordon) of the establishment. Julia was often seen in a bikini, because she spent a lot of time in the office, on the “public” side of the boundary fence and hedges. That was where people checked in, and where there was a reasonable expectation that the odd non-nudist might show up from time to time.
Julia was a gorgeous brunette, who bore a certain resemblance to a young Bettie Page, and did everything she could to emphasize that. Jordon was actually three years older than his sister, but absolutely hated anything to do with bookkeeping and the tedium of running a popular resort property, so he did the maintenance and let his sister run the place. He was fairly popular with the female guests, since he was handy, could fix stuff if it was broke, and had a 13″ dick that always seemed ready to spring to attention at the first hint of interest.
Carlisle’s was what you’d call an “adult” nature resort. No kids allowed. Most naturist places are crawling with the little darlings, and, in general, they’re safer there than they are in the clothed world. Social nudists are, for the most part, surprisingly prudish. Carlisle’s, and another place I used to go, Hidden Cove, didn’t allow anyone under eighteen, so the usual horror of hardons didn’t apply, and people would sometimes fuck right out in the splendors of nature. It used to be that way, at least. Hidden Cove was bought by a fucking church, so now the place is clothing-mandatory and praise Jesus.
Considering it was Reverend fucking Killjoy’s church that bought the place, I couldn’t help wondering if he was still pulling the “holy anointing oil” and “tower of blessing” stunt on the high school seniors.
I suppose I shouldn’t complain too much about the old pervert, though, considering he paid for an Ivy League education for me once I had pictures of him with his cock in my mouth. I wouldn’t call it blackmail, exactly. Okay, maybe I would. The statute of limitations ran out on that years ago, so what does it matter?
Julia and I became great friends during my stay. Neither of us are lesbians, exactly, but we’re definitely flexible. Perhaps not as flexible as my friend Hilda, who’s a professional contortionist, and can eat her own pussy, but flexible enough. (Hilda might be worth a story on her own, come to think of it.) Julia and I took the train back to my place in New York, which was an experience in itself. If you’ve never had sex in an Amtrak roomette, you haven’t lived.
While I was at Carlisle’s, I found myself teaching a creative writing class. Some of the stories my students produced are included in the book, and some of them are pretty wild. One of the students stated, very clearly, that nothing in his sister’s story of a family orgy upon their arrival at the resort was true. Naturally, we all figured that it was. One guy apparently wants to be the next John Norman. Norman, if you’re unfamiliar with the guy, wrote the Gor series, which includes a lot of “women should be sex slaves and men should be the masters” nonsense (along with some mistress-slave relationships as a counterpoint). His story is included, and it’s fairly awful, but might just appeal to a certain demographic. Everyone else can just read and say, “This guy’s an idiot.” (My student, not Norman, whose day job is philosophy professor.)
They All Cum at Carlisle’s is fairly typical of my autobiographic books, or, for that matter, my Lot’s Cave books. There’s a lot of sex, a certain amount of incest and, I hope, some decent literary value.