Uncategorized – Lauren's Hot Blog

At the Movies

I’ll admit it, I like good porn. Most of the time, this means older porn, the kind where, if you met them today, more than half of the actors would be collecting Social Security, but they were young when the movie was shot. Porn from the days when there were essentially two primary categories: twelve to fourteen-minute 8mm loops used in peep shows in porn shops, and feature length productions, often shot in 35mm, intended to be shown in theatres. The loops were mostly random sex scenes. The features had plots, better production values, and often better acting. When the shorts were still largely on 8mm film, many lacked even a basic soundtrack, since most home projectors didn’t have sound capability. Sound loops existed, but most people couldn’t show them and often didn’t realize there had ever been sound recorded until the old loops were transferred to video.

Generally, I prefer the feature-length oldies, a huge number of which are now available on DVD/BluRay or streaming services. Over the last few days, I watched both parts of the Little Girls Blue series, filmed in 1977 and 1983, and directed by Joanna Williams. Like most of these old features, these were shot with the intention that they would be shown in a theatre, so they included a plot and good production values. Williams obviously had a desire to put out a product that would look good on the big screen and send the viewers home with sex on their minds.

Donna Ruberman evokes a fountain of cum from an essentially anonymous Turk Lynn in the opening fantasy scene from *Little Girls Blue 1*. Director Joanna Williams was noted for such scenes.

We don’t think of this as often today, but not that many years ago theatrical porn was a shared experience, and, for the viewers, the sex largely came after watching the film, not during. If you got caught masturbating in the theatre it would lead to being thrown at the least, and arrest, a fine, and possible imprisonment if it was a cop and not the usher who caught you. There was even a time when viewing theatrical porn was considered rather chic, and it was common to go to an X-rated theatre on a date. Something we don’t see today, not only because porn theatres have almost entirely vanished from the American scene (if there are any remaining at all), but because a “porn date” today usually means watching it in the living room or bedroom, frequently while naked.

That’s the way I did it recently, anyway. While I was watching that pair of classic movies, my friend Chuck was sitting beside me on the sofa. We’re not the sort of people who feel clothing is necessary if no one else is around, so we were both naked, sitting on towels (something you learn if you spend much time at naturist resorts), and playing with our own or each other’s genitalia as the spirit moved us. Chuck has always said that you can gauge the quality of a porn feature by how many times you cum before it’s over. He managed twice on part 2; I managed six times and ended up having to rewatch the film in order to write the review, having been somewhat distracted for too much of it.

Elaine Wells (Buffy) has just got her quiz grade raised to an “A” after fucking Mr. Barrett (Paul Thomas). Porn condones student-teacher relationships real life definitely frowns on.

Little Girls Blue is a classic take on the venerable schoolgirl theme, long popular. I’m not sure if it’s supposed to be a Catholic boarding school (at a couple of points I thought a nun might have been briefly in frame), but the uniforms had a distinctly European rather than Catholic look. Solid blue skirts, white blouses, and knee socks, more like what you’d find in a British girls’ school than at Saint Agony’s of Toledo. In any event, it’s clearly a private girls’ boarding school, and the general appearance is of a private high school. If that’s the case, one can only presume that all of the girls are seniors and over eighteen, because there’s a great deal of sexual activity happening.

An obvious advantage of older porn for people like myself, or my friend, Chuck, is that the actors are more esthetically pleasing. Tattoos are rare, which is fine with me. I simply don’t find them attractive. Today they tend to be so extensive on many performers that they literally break up the physical outline of the body, which is hardly something you’d consider advantageous in a profession where physical attractiveness is a major consideration.

Something I noticed in the first installment was that Casey Winters’ character, listed as “Debby” in the credits, seemed to mostly be addressed as “Misty” in the film. At least, that’s what it sounded like to me. I heard “Mariam” for Lori Blue’s character, but the credits called her “Marium,” so I guess cutesy spellings were already a thing in the late 1970s.

Casey Winters as Debby, or possibly Misty, sucking Paul Thomas’ cock in a classroom fantasy in part 1 of *Little Girls Blue*. Fantasy scenes play a major part in both movies, though they tend to be a little more obviously abstract and surreal in the second feature.

Schoolgirl erotica has a long history and reflects a fair amount of historic reality. One of our high school science teachers was fired when he married a former student a year after she graduated. This was based on the presumption that she started dating him while she was still a student. In fact, I knew that she was, but didn’t see any reason to complain about it at the time. I don’t know if they were having sex or not, though it wouldn’t surprise me. I do know that he was actually only about five years older than his future bride and, considering how long they’ve been married, presumably it was a love match sanctioned by whatever gods, or spirits, or compatibility genes bless such unions, regardless of the school board’s opinion. That was at the public high school the real me attended, not the somewhat liberalized version of a Christian high school the semi-fictionalized version of me found in my books attended.

Getting back to feature-length porn, I think there’s a lot to say for long-form sex movies. Aside from the personal benefit I occasionally derived from writing scripts for these things, it’s just nice to see an actual story. While I often got the impression that Williams secretly wanted to be directing some French avant garde work of art, particularly in the fantasy scenes, it was all still remarkably entertaining. You could care about these people.

Mariam (Lori Blue) in part 2 of *Little Girls Blue*, during one of the fantasy segments. Shot six years after the first installment, the makeup is far less extreme, and her hair is done in a more becoming style.

You don’t find that in many modern porn flicks. Too much recent porn consists of nothing more than some overdeveloped palooka pounding away at the poor actress’ asshole or trying to shove his cock all the way down her throat. There doesn’t seem to be much in the way of caring involved. In many older films the plot unfolds in much the same fashion as a conventional romantic feature, except that in these films the sex is explicit instead of merely suggested or only briefly glimpsed. The final sexual encounter in Little Girls Blue 2 could easily have been lifted from a mainstream feature with only a few cuts. It was artistic as hell, which is another way of saying very moody, intense, and obscurely lit. It also gave the impression that it meant something profound to the participants, while the dénouement of most modern porn seems to signify nothing more than a couple people have had orgasms and will now go on with their individual lives unconcerned with anything except that it felt good for a few minutes.

Needing Inspiration

a Muse? — Muses are supposed to be inspirational. I’m suddenly inspired to eat someone.

Inspiration is a fickle friend. Which Muse do you appeal to when the story bogs down? There doesn’t seem to be a ready answer, for the Muses’ traditional realms were various sorts of poetry, not prose accounts of sexual activity. The current work is fiction, but the story is spread over seven millennia, and there’s a lot of history mixed in with the fucking, so do I appeal to Clio? Her realm is history, after all. Or Terpsichore? Well, she’s into dancing, but if you remember Xanadu, she apparently gets into art as well, and looks a lot like Olivia Newton John. Clio apparently looks like Kerry Butler, proving, if nothing else, that when someone adapts a cult film into a musical play sometimes they get their Muses confused, or repurposed, or something. Personally, I don’t imaging the Greeks were picturing beautiful blondes as Muses, but probably inspirational spirits who looked a bit more, well, Hellenic.

What does this have to do with inspiration? I’m trying to inspire myself to finish the book I’m working on. Money, however, seems to be more of an inspiration than art. People buy my books, but a lot more people probably read the absolute dreck I turn out trying to convince them to buy soap, or cars, or toasters, or what have you. The books and stories satisfy my artistic yearning, but writing advertising goes a lot farther when it comes to paying the rent on my apartment and buying groceries.

If I could claim to have an actual hobby, this would probably be it.

For most of the last year, I haven’t even had to go into the office to do that job. I could sit in front of my computer at home and come up with the same slogans I’d create in the office, but with the added advantage that I could write them with one hand on the keyboard and the other on my pussy.

Covid has undoubtedly helped to make masturbation even more popular than it has always been. Certainly sales have been up a little for my books and stories. Not as high as they were back in the days when Amazon had most of them on sale, but up a bit from their pre-Covid averages. I can only conclude that more people are staying home and need something to jerk their cocks or diddle their cunts to. Inspiration to do something sexual is much easier to come by than inspiration to write something sexy.

I do sometimes wonder if my books would sell better if they were illustrated. I’m not a very good artist, though. And good artists are expensive. Photos would be cheaper, but it isn’t easy to find a set that exactly fits the story. You can’t just grab pictures from the web; you have to pay for them and obtain a proper license to use them. That isn’t easy. It’s surprising how few of the photo agencies allow their products to be used as book covers or interior art. Most are only licensed for online use. And commissioning photos to fit the story isn’t in the budget.

You might ask, what’s in the upcoming work? As I’ve mentioned elsewhere, the current working title is Undying Lust, and the protagonist is an immortal originally called Zara, and renamed Sarah in more recent times. Roughly 6,600 years old, she’s seen a lot and done a lot. She’s been involved in a threesome with Robin Hood and Maid Marian, fucked an actual god (which is how she ended up immortal), given birth to a demigod, survived a disaster or two, once knew Shakespeare, and been involved in more than one marathon sixty-nine session with me. Her original religion involved a lot of sex and the frequent praise of a set of gods and goddesses who held to a general non-interference policy with the people who worshipped them, but did enjoy watching them have sex (well, who doesn’t, if you’re going to be honest?).

yummy — Not the characters in my story, but she looks to be having a good time.

Naturally, this being one of my books, there’s a good bit of consensual incest. Zara’s people, the Moronites, didn’t actually see anything wrong with the concept as long as all involved were old enough to know what they were doing, and their gods and goddesses were nearly all married to their siblings. The one exception was their creator god, Kolek, who was married to his daughter, Kanzeki. Kanzeki had no mother, but was created entirely by her father, who masturbated her into existence. He’d previously spent most of his spare time masturbating galaxies into existence, but eventually became lonely and created a daughter instead. Kolek was more of a Deist-type god, letting the galaxies he’d jerked into being evolve on their own while he was off spewing out more. So if a widowed Zara felt comfortable fucking her grown son, the gods didn’t care and neither did her neighbors.

And, of course, there’s a certain amount of pee involved. Call it a personal fetish. One of the things I like about Sarah is her oversized bathtub, big enough for two to play around in. If you’re already in the tub, who cares if you get a little wet?

Weird World

I’ve been fairly busy since the last time I wrote anything on this blog. The “biggest” news is that An Erotic Life has now been published and is on sale wherever the censors will allow it to be sold (which obviously doesn’t include ol’ Jeff’s place). If you liked the four “autobiographies” I’ve done so far, you should enjoy this. It contains everything that was in those, but rearranged so that it’s all in chronological order, and I’ve added enough new material that I could have just done a fifth book instead of putting it all together.

Something else that’s new since my last post is that WordPress has finally managed to make it so ridiculously difficult to wrap text around images that I’ve completely given up on even trying. I guess I’m just going to have to use larger images and put them inline between paragraphs. Tech people are always trying to “improve” things, but as often as not they just screw them up instead.

Something else that’s new. One Room is now available as an audiobook. If you’re in the US you can get it from Audible here. It’s also available from Audible in the United Kingdom, France, and Germany. All of those are in English, of course, they just have separate markets for those countries. Amaya Thompson reads it.

There’s also my other audiobook, Lust for Blood, read by the appropriately British Angela Mannering.

This is also available on the US, UK, French, and German Audible sites, and can also be had in both Kindle and paperback editions from Amazon. You’ll want to use the links, because someone has apparently noticed there’s a lot of sex going on in here and they’re making it difficult to find. When I put my name in as a search term the site just gave me several pages of clothing from some guy named Ralph.

Getting serious here, it seems that my mother still believes there was something funny going on in the last election. So do I, but what I’m inclined to question is entirely different from what she thinks happened. “It was those voting machines,” she says. Maybe, but not the ones you’re thinking of, Mom. I’m a lot more suspicious of how McConnell managed to get reelected, despite being such a miserable excuse for a human being. I don’t see much of problem with the Dominion machines. I really think the Reps dislike them because they’re so freaking difficult to tamper with. If you could somehow rig them to change votes at the input stage, the voter would be able to see it on the printout that goes into the scanner. And if you fucked with the scanners, then the count wouldn’t match the paper ballots. Which they did in all but one case, and that one had to do with some ballots being laid out wrong because of a local race, not with any attempt at fraud.

They want an audit? Okay, but you realize most fourth graders could manage that, right? The machines they like, on the other hand, look like they’re a lot easier to screw around with. Guess who won most of those elections.

On the bright side, even if Fearless Leader doesn’t get convicted in the Senate–and there’s a pretty good chance he won’t, considering the number of Republican senators who’ve essentially said they won’t even consider the evidence, they’re just going to vote to acquit–it looks like Georgia will be hauling his ass into court for election tampering. With any luck they can get Graham as well. I’m not sure if they have him on tape, but they’ve got the big guy, and Georgia is a “one-party consent” state, so the tape is admissible in court.

And, of course, New York will be going after him for a lot of questionable stuff involving his businesses. In the end, it may not even matter whether he’s convicted in the Senate and barred from holding office in the future. There’s a pretty good chance he’ll be living somewhere that won’t let him run anyway.

That’s an interesting legal question. If a prisoner managed to get himself elected President, do they have to let him out so he can serve? Or does he have to try to run things from the Ossining White House? Honestly, I think that would at the very least be 25th Amendment time. Being locked up for, well, in his case, probably the rest of his life (given his age and life expectancy), would certainly constitute a viable impediment to fulfilling official duties.

Progress?

I think I may be getting lazy in my old age. Well, my current age. I’m not old. I was born in 1965. It says so right there in my bio. I mean, would lie about a thing like that? Okay, maybe I would. Technically, I’m as fictional as any of my characters, so that does give me a bit of leeway.

The lazy part may be true, though. I noticed today that I haven’t added anything to this blog since September 2019, which is a long time to go without writing something here. It’s been quite a while since I published anything, too. How much longer that will go on I’m not sure. I sent a new book in not too long ago, so it really just depends on how long it takes the publisher to get it out. Sometime it takes longer than others.

My four published autobiographies will be part of my big new book.

The next thing out is called An Erotic Life, and combines everything that’s in my four existing “autobiographies” with enough new material for a fifth book, so even if you’ve already read these you’ll still get your money’s worth. And I didn’t just throw the four existing books in and add a little between them. It’s all been rearranged in proper chronological order.

This is a big book, particularly for something in the erotica category. Almost 107,000 words; a very healthy length even in a mainstream novel. Naturally, it finds me involved in the usual situations. I’m still fucking my brother, getting it on with my aunt, some cousins, an uncle, and the usual strangers and friends. It’s purely coincidental that I didn’t start doing any of this stuff until after I turned eighteen, and has nothing whatever to do with my otherwise ‘almost anything goes’ publisher having a character age limit. As usual, I don’t know what the cover will look like yet (but if one suddenly appears on this post, it means I went back and added it).

Not Sarah, obviously, but another hot redhead I’m sure she’d like to get together with.

Meanwhile, if you’ve read The Gods are Horny, you’ll already be familiar with my friend Sarah, the lovely redheaded lady who’s been knocking around the world getting into all sort of sexual hijinks since around 4685 BCE. She’s the protagonist in the book I’m working on now, Undying Lust, which follows her through the last 6,600 or so years as she gets involved with a host of fascinating and horny folks from history, folklore, and legend, including me. After all, here’s someone who’s been a priestess in a Moronite temple, where the male worshippers expressed their thanks by getting a blowjob from the priestess, a loving mom who thinks her sons should be kept satisfied, the mother of a demigod, granted immortality by the god she once fucked, and a witness to some of the more interesting events of the last few thousand years. This is someone who’s been in a threesome with Robin Hood and Maid Marian, lived through the Black Death more than once, and enjoyed rural Victorian English life as the intimate friend of an incestuous baron and his sister. She made an eventful Atlantic crossing to America, did porn in the ’70s, lived next door to me when I was finishing high school in Georgia, and, well, been pretty busy ever since.

I don’t think Undying Lust is going to be as long as An Erotic Life, but it seems pretty likely to hit 80,000 words or a bit more. Like most of my books, it’s going to have a fair bit of plot mixed in with the fucking, sucking, and lesbians.

I’d really like to have it illustrated, but I’m a terrible artist, and I don’t have the budget for a good one. Ah, well…

Plot v. Porn

There is always a question when you’re writing erotic stories. What is the proper ratio of plot to action? Is there a fixed percentage of the story that should be devoted to graphic descriptions of sexual action? How much description and exposition is enough, and how much is too much?

There doesn’t appear to be any hard and fast rule on this. Porn videos have obviously leaned in the direction of action over exposition. It used to be that porn movies needed to include a good bit of plot and non-sexual action in order to avoid being censored, just as porn magazines, while loaded with pictures of naked people having sex, also contained “scholarly” articles explaining why the things the models were doing was healthy and psychologically important to their mental health. These days, with porn more or less established as legal, there’s a lot less of that.

In 1980, a 70-minute porn feature might contain 30 minutes of people talking. Today, a same-length feature is likely to contain 60 minutes of fucking and just enough plot to get from one bed to the next.

I’m going through this calculation with my current work in progress, which will be called Memoirs of an Immortal. Because the story has to cover a span of over six millennia, there is obviously lots of space for both plot and sex. So far, there’s a good deal of both. My primary character, Zara, who also goes by Sarah, Elissa, Veronica, and a few other names between her birth in 4685 BCE and modern times, spends much of her time having sex. Being immortal, she’s also immune to the various plagues she lives through, and stopped aging at 36, remaining eternally a hot redhead (hence the pictures of hot redheads scattered through this essay).

The story naturally includes that standard “no resemblance” disclaimer, though some of the characters that appear are definitely real. They’ve just been dead long enough to be historical, so you get to mess around with them a bit more. So she gets to meet people such as Caligula, Bocaccio, Shakespeare, and others. What sort of interaction depends on the historical person, how they’re perceived, and what they’d be likely to do in a given situation.

Would she have sex with Caligula, for instance? I think she very well might, at least before he went completely nuts. With Shakespeare? Oh, no doubt, and he’d most likely write a sonnet or two about it, if not an actual erotic play. Fucking in blank verse. Not sure I’ll go there, but there is a certain temptation.

Honestly, you’re going to find plots in all of my stories. I find pure, mindless sex rather boring. Even if I’m watching some Japanese newsroom bukkake video I find that I need to come up with some sort of plot. Must there not be a reason why this ridiculous parade of men are wandering up to the anchor desk and cumming all over the newsreader? And she isn’t trying to kill them? Is it possible that aliens from Planet X have issued a threat to destroy Tokyo if this doesn’t happen? If you’ve ever watched old Japanese sci-fi movies this sort of thing might just make sense.

As for the original question, I can’t really make up my mind if there’s a magic formula for plot v. porn in an erotic story or novel. In Lust for Blood there were a number of chapters with no sex at all, and others where there wasn’t much else. Shorter works tend to have more sex as the encounters are more central to the plot.

What’s On the Way

The real cover art will no doubt be somewhat less explicit, since it has to meet the various online booksellers’ criteria for display.

Looking forward to the next few weeks, this is what you can expect to arrive. The first new book is likely to be Wet, my soggy little tome in tribute to the art of erotic peeing. Admit it, it feels good when you pee. Of course, in the book, it isn’t always solo pissing. There’s a bit of peeing in most of my books. This one centers on the subject, so it may just be a little on the specialized side for people who just care about ordinary, everyday fucking.

Now, if you read some of my stuff, you might come to the conclusion that I’m an absolute fiend for having pretty young women pee into my mouth. Not true. I write fiction, for one thing, so you’re just going to have to guess how much of what’s in a particular story actually happened and how much didn’t. I’m not saying I never indulge, I just tend to discriminate more. All pee doesn’t taste alike. All cum doesn’t taste alike. All pussies don’t taste alike. Hell, all bread doesn’t taste alike. What you prefer is a matter of personal taste.

A very photogenic cunt. The sort a popular stripper who was fucking her brother on the side might wish to display when she’s squatting on the bar top.

I believe Wet should be out fairly soon now. After that, you can look forward to The Donkey Show, which is about exactly what it sounds like. Three male friends, and the stripper-sister of one of them, take a vacation in Tijuana in search of the legendary animal act. They even manage to find it.

I’ll admit, this one takes it to the outer limits even for erotica. Almost nothing I write ends up on Amazon now. Their standards don’t allow stories about incest, and they don’t allow stories that include people fucking animals in a night club. So why write about it, then? Because people buy it. When Amazon still allowed that sort of content it sold astonishingly well. Today, not as much is sold, most likely because the marketplace is much smaller, and a lot of potential buyers really don’t know where to look, or whether they can trust the seller if they find it. It was a lot easier before Amazon decided to give in to pressure from the moralists.

I know I have a tendency to include an actual plot in most of my stories, so that often my readers find themselves with a good bit of story to get through in between the fucking, sucking, and other goodies. If your sole reason for reading one of these tales is to masturbate while you do it, I hope I provide enough stimulation. But the next story, the one I’m in the middle of writing, may be fairly heavy in that area.

Frankly, this picture just makes me hungry. And I’m not talking about the fruit and yogurt.

Memoirs of an Immortal is going to be a long one. It’s at 12,000 words now and our heroine has just consummated her marriage (in public, since that was the custom then). That means she still has well over 6,000 years of adventures to recount before she gets up to modern times.

I’ve been having a lot of fun with this one. In the earliest part I get to create a new civilization, which most authors secretly want to do, but generally don’t get the chance to. I did a lot of the work on this in The Gods are Horny, but there’s still plenty of detail to add. After all, I have to get Zara from her one-year stint as a temple priestess at age eighteen, to widowhood at age 36, when the Moronite god Oroyna catches sight of her sucking off her son, decides he likes what he sees, and comes down off his mountain, seduces her, knocks her up, begets a demigod with her, and gives her the gift of immortality and eternal youth.

Well, eternal mid-30s, anyway. She’ll be a gorgeous redhead forever.

After that, we can get her mixed in with history. Sort of like Forest Gump, except that Forest was worked into modern history, and Zara/Sarah gets to involve herself in ancient history. Who but a Moronite immortal could find herself variously at the royal courts of King Solomon, Ahasuerus and Esther, Caligula, Macbeth, Elizabeth I, Victoria, and numerous other important people of more recent vintage. I don’t suppose there’s anything to stop her bumping into some fictional types as well, Sherlock Holmes, perhaps, or Dracula.

You just never know where a story like this is going to take you.

Immortality

Not Sarah, but might be a candidate for the book cover.

Sarah Norman has now found herself in several of my books. She’s a hot redhead I met recently, or so the story goes. She first turned up in The Gods are Horny, where I dropped a few rather pointed hints that the 36-year-old Sarah might just be the same person as Zara b’Biktar, a 36-year-old Moronite beauty who ended up screwing the Moronite god, Oroyna, and having his demigod son, Nalaro, a sort of Moronite version of Heracles. Oroyna liked fucking the young woman so much that he made her immortal, so even a bit more than 6,000 years later she’d still be alive, healthy, and the same age.

Another possible candidate, though I’ve used her on the *One Room* cover already. Might depend on whether the licensing company has a good set with longer hair.

I have a feeling this is going to be one of my longer books. I’ve hit 10,000 words already, and the poor girl is still only 19. Nearly all of the detail has happened since her 18th birthday, naturally, that being the nature of erotica these days. I suppose there will be a bit of skipping as the years pass. A character who’s over 6,000-years-old presents an obvious opportunity for insertion into various historic events, which she can describe “in her own words.” I know she’s going to spend some time in Caligula’s court, hang around with Elizabeth I, perhaps provide some inspiration for one of Bocaccio’s horny nuns, or lend her tits and cunt as inspiration for King Solomon when he’s writing Song of Songs. I don’t think she’ll be meeting Jesus, no matter how great an opportunity to offend the maximum number of people that might present.

An interesting thing here is that, since I’m working with an established character, there are some things I can’t change. Where and when she was born, her service as a priestess in the Temple of Oroyna and Nalima in Valtera, her demigod son and personal immortality, her connections with (the fictional) me. That sort of thing. Since these things have already been set down in permanent form, about all I can do is expand on them, maybe provide a bit more of the dirty details. I presume my readers are okay with the dirty details.

One thing I do plan to do is take a slightly more active than usual part in selecting cover art. For most of my books, my publisher has provided the covers, and done a nice job of it. For this one, whether I’ll pick the image myself, or just specify stricter criteria, I haven’t decided yet. Zara/Sarah’s red hair is a very clearly delineated part of her characterization. It wouldn’t do to have a blond on the cover. Maybe I’ll pick one of the models used in this post. Maybe it’ll be someone else. I have licenses for those two sets (among others), but I may just see something I like better before the book is finished.

Which, right now, is something I need to get back to doing.

Catching Up

I obviously should write in this blog more often. I realized recently that I’d had nothing to say since Darwin Day, while quite a lot has happened since then. The audiobook version of One Room seems to be languishing, with the sound files long past due. I suppose that means I need to ask my publisher to cancel the contract and find another narrator for that story.

It’s another story with Lust for Blood. The audio version of that is coming along nicely, with only ten chapters left to go. My publisher has been sending me the audio files as they’re received. It’s going to be a nice audiobook, presuming no one at Audible suddenly decides it’s too racy or something.

In other developments, Sis and her Friend should be out before much longer. I don’t have a lot of control on scheduling for the books that will carry the #TooHotForAmazon tag. The tamer stuff comes out a lot faster than the incest stories.

Just now, I’m working on a new story, with incidents starting as a high school senior (because, you know, all characters have to be at least eighteen), and continuing from there. It’s not quite the book an early fan suggested, but it’s sometimes headed in that direction. The original suggestion was a book about women who could pee standing up. Some are good at this; some are not. I’m only really good at it when I’m writing. In actual practice it’s more likely to go down my leg.

This young lady seems to have the knack for it. My story does include a certain amount of outdoor peeing. And indoor peeing. I have no idea if this girl has ever peed on Fearless Leader, though I’d suspect not. There’s not much point in speculating on a model’s actual personality anyway. The stories I write are fiction, even if there may be a bit of reality here and there. The girl in the picture is a professional model, I paid to use her pictures, and that’s about all I can say about her. That’s a combination of a licensing stipulation and the fact that, really, I don’t know anything about her to begin with.

I’ll admit I’m suffering from a bit of writer’s block at the moment, lying on the floor of a school friend’s family room with my tongue in her pussy. I’ll figure it out. Since it’s a pee story, or possibly a pee book, I have to presume continuing is going to mean someone gets peed on.

You’ll just have to wait and see.

Cumming at Carlisle’s

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.

The sort of thing you might see by the pool at Carlisle’s. Full photo set will be in my member area.

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.

Not me, and not Rev. Killjoy, but a pic just like this is more or less what got me my scholarship. (set and video in member area.)

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.

There was a lot of this stuff going on at Carlisle’s.

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.

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That First Time

International Blasphemy Day isn’t until next Saturday, but there’s nothing like getting an early start when it comes to screwing around with imaginary overseers. I just found myself wondering what it was like for those two imaginary ancestors of humanity, after they finished eating and found themselves evicted. So this story, more or less, happens between Gen. 3:24 and 4:1.

Adam and Eve stood on the gravel path leading up to the gate and didn’t care for what they saw. An angel was blocking the gate. He wasn’t one of those nice, benevolent looking angels, either. He was one of the nasty ones, face all screwed up in an appropriately wrathful expression, glowing with righteous indignation. Partly, he was indignant because that was his job, and partly he was indignant because he was a angel. Angels were usually handsome and perfect, while he was wrathful and perfect, which might have been okay except for the being an angel part, since perfection apparently didn’t include having genitals. He was as sexless as a plastic boyfriend doll. He was also waving a flaming sword in front of them if they got too close, and that could get a little boring after a while.

“Well,” Adam said, after a while, “this really sucks.”

“You shouldn’t have eaten that fruit,” the angel commented. Scary as he looked, his voice was surprisingly high pitched. It was like Godzilla talking in the voice of Barney Fife, Adam would have thought, if he’d ever heard of either of them.

“It was her idea,” Adam reminded the angel. He was starting a precedent. If there’s blame for something, make sure you blame somebody else.

“No,” Eve said, “it was that damned snake.”

“You said ‘damned,'” the angel pointed out, shaking a finger at her.

“Well, God took away his legs and cursed him, so I think it fits.”

“She’s got a point,” Adam said.

“Okay, fine,” the angel conceded, “the snake is damned. You still can’t come back in. The boss said so.”

“But the snake,” Eve objected. “That sneaky bugger is still in there.”

“You two have free will,” the angel declared. “He was just doing his job and being a snake. So it’s your fault.”

“Yeah, but we didn’t know that until afterwards,” Adam complained. “Your boss can be a little cryptic, you know.”

“That’s just his mysterious ways. That’s how he works. Mysteriously. Because he’s mysterious in his mysterious ways.”

Adam shook his head. “Overtly would be better,” he said. “Then we’d at least know if we were fucking up or not. I mean, honestly, we screw up, so God is going to send our ten-thousandth-great-grandchild to hell for eternity because of that?”

“It does sound a little extreme,” Eve agreed.

“I don’t know,” the angel said. “Maybe. He won’t be sending anyone to hell for the next 4,000 years or so. The Christians need to invent it first. Mostly, I think he’ll just kill people and that’ll be the end of it.”

“I don’t much care for that, either,” Adam said.

“What’s a Christian?” Eve asked.

“I’m not entirely sure,” the angel admitted. “I found them mentioned in our library up in heaven, but the boss hasn’t quite decided how to do them yet. To be honest, the bookmaker angels are already giving 9:1 odds that they’ll just be a lot trouble.”

“So, you’re definitely not letting us back in?” Adam asked.

“Not a chance. Anyway, once you two get on your way, I’m supposed to pack up the whole place and move it to Missouri.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure. Some guy named Smith wanted it done.”

“Some guy?” Adam asked. “I thought there was only the two of us.”

The angel shrugged eloquently, his arms wide-spread. The flaming sword sliced off a large branch that overhung the wall.

“Oops,” the angel said. “Well, one less thing to pack, I suppose.” He looked at Adam and Eve and let just the slightest hint of compassion cross his wrathful face. “Look, I don’t know who the guy is. I think he’s somewhere way up in the future, but he needs the garden to be in Missouri for some reason. Now, go on, get out of here.”

The two humans shrugged. Hitching up his rabbit-skin loincloth, Adam headed off down the path, with Eve walking dejectedly by his side. They walked for hours, until they came to a pleasant brook under a cliff, with a convenient cave for shelter.

“Looks like a good place,” Adam said. “We’ve got water, and a place to sleep, and there should be fish in the brook.”

Eve was a little tired after their hike, but found herself remembering something else God had told them. “You know,” she said, “I’m noticing a desire for you. You think we should fuck?”

Adam considered. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” he said.

“Oh, good.” Eve quickly threw off the rabbit-skin bikini she was wearing.

“You know, ” Adam said, shucking his loincloth, “all that time we were running around naked, I never really noticed how hot you are.”

“Is that supposed to look like that?” Eve asked. “It always used to just hang there, didn’t it?”

“Sure. But I kind of like it this way. Feels good.”

“But if it stays that way for more than four hours, you should see a doctor,” a heavenly voice intoned.

They both looked around, but saw no one.

“What’s a doctor?” Eve asked.

Adam merely shrugged. “No idea. I’m not even sure what an hour is.”

“He never explains anything, does he?”

“No,” Adam agreed. “I guess we really are on our own.” He embraced his wife, trapping his magnificent member between them.

Eve suddenly pushed him away. “I just thought of something,” she said. “God made you out of clay, right?”

“Uh huh.”

“And then he made me out of one of your ribs, no?”

“Yeah, right.” He pointed down at his trembling timber. “Pay some attention to this, why don’t you?”

“Well, it’s just that, if I was made from one of your ribs, doesn’t that technically make me your twin sister?”

“I’m not sure. It might, I suppose. Or maybe it means you’re really me, but prettier.”

“So if we fuck, it’s either incest or you’re fucking yourself, and it’s a weird kind of masturbation? Something like that?”

“I never really thought about it.”

“Oh, just fuck her,” the heavenly voice intoned. “There isn’t anybody else.”

“It’s a philosophical problem,” Adam said. “It needs answered.”

“It’s not a philosophical problem,” the voice said. “Philosophy hasn’t been invented yet. Just get to it.”

“Are you planning to watch?” Eve asked. She was starting to feel shy again.

Not a sound was heard from the heavenly voice. It was not for the human to know that they’d been created mostly because God was bored, and wanted to watch porn, but there hadn’t been any people yet, so he’d made a couple, figuring they’d sooner or later start fucking and give him something to watch.

And He said, “Let there be oral,” and there was oral; and he saw that it was good.

Eve had an idea. She got down on her knees and started sucking Adam’s cock. She decided she didn’t care if he was genetically her brother. How could she? He was the only man there was and, besides, God had stopped them with the fruit only half-eaten, so they’d just got the notes, not the whole knowledge package, and she didn’t know what genes were.

“Praise me,” God said to himself. “The ingenious little buggers have invented oral!”

“Uh, wait a minute,” Adam said.

“For what?” Eve asked. “And what’s this white stuff you’re squirting all over my face?”

“Well,” Adam said, “I’m not sure, but it feels really good doing it. No, I was just thinking, if we’re going to be fucking, shouldn’t we be married first?”

Eve looked around, gesturing. “Do you see a priest anywhere?”

“No. But I’m fairly sure God wanted us married.”

God was a little frustrated. The blowjob was nice, but he wanted more. Guess I’ll have to handle this, he thought.

“Hey, you two. I now pronounce you husband and wife. Adam, you may now fuck the bride. In my name I pray. Now get to it.”

And so Adam knew his wife, who was genetically his sister and also himself, and before long Eve had popped out Cain and Abel, and she was already tired of the whole thing, which is why she named Abel “Abel.” Of course, she called him “Havel,” really, which is how the name is pronounced in Hebrew, and it means “futility.” She probably should have considered that more carefully.

Buy my books at Lot’s Cave.

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