Thursday, July 14, 2005

 

Since When Is Erotica a Sin?

Seriously, the way people have been reacting to the "bombshell" that I would actually consider writing erotica for side money makes me think I'm living in Puritanical Virginia -- or at least some 14 year-old boy's version of how the world is supposed to work, where women would never consider discussing sex in public unless someone is paying them to.

If I want to invent B-grade tales of sexual discourse (or intercourse), I consider that my prerogative, as well as a clever way to take advantage of the male-dominated lit market. I would rather drag my Powerbook into the bathtub with me than entertain the notion of writing "Chick Lit," where an upwardly mobile woman with a wacky roommate and parental issues is forced to choose between the man of her dreams and the man in her bed. I'm already living that story, in case you haven't noticed, except the man of my dreams must not have gotten the memo (or else Chloe stole him while I was blinking).

So, what's the purple prose that's been generating all this controversy? At the risk of undercutting sales of Glitterhole Monthly itself, I think I can safely publish an excerpt of my own work if it helps dispell the notion that I'm a degenerate.

Consider this a teaser for the whole story, formally titled "Chokeback Fountain" (oddly enough, not the title I suggested. Funny how they'll change the title of my work when I don't ask, but not give me a penname when I do ask. Sigh). If you're 18, go watch Maury instead.

To wit:

In a moment, he was behind her.

“How loud do you scream when someone fucks you?” he whispered quietly, his breath damp along her neck. She smiled deviously and tried to turn around, but he gripped her wrist harder.

“I want to know if you moan.”

She leaned into him and her hands found his upper thighs. As her manicured nails slid slowly, firmly, over him, he stiffened. Here they were, locked together in this crowded bar, music surging around them; what no one could see was his desire as he thrust his pelvis closer to her tight little ass. The feeling of her skirt tightening and the pressing urgency of his cock made her dizzy.

It was delicious.

Turning to face him, she tasted his lips against hers. He groped her roughly, fingertips straying beneath her skirt to find her willing pussy, soaking through layers of lace onto his hand.

“Why don’t you show me what a good little whore you are?”

Eyes wide, she nodded emphatically, grabbing his throbbing prick for emphasis. With one final assaulting kiss, they stumbled and fell over each other until they reached their destination.

The yellow lights of the alley cast their glow upon her glistening cleavage as she bit her lip in exquisite anticipation. With a dexterity that surprised even herself, she freed his massive member from its denim-constrained imprisonment. The night air caressed it, and soon her tongue joined suit.

She licked her lips as she submitted to him, collapsing onto her knees over newspapers and bottle caps. Like a girl for hire, she moaned and spit against him, working her mouth and tongue, over and around, again and again. In one smooth motion, he entangled his hands in her hair and jammed himself farther down her eager, innocent throat. She sputtered and gagged, but her eyes were shining.

He leered like a devil at his cock-guzzling gutterwhore with a clitoris that burned like the Hindenburg. Punishing her lips with the callous thrusts of a cum-swollen meat reservoir, he made certain to aim his reward at her petulant visage. Her juices, sweet as sugar, ran from her aching slit and down her milky thighs as his cock came drunkenly, lacking in rhythm or dedication but making up for it in volume. Wave after wave of his nectar cascaded across her flushed face, anointing her with his secret sin.

But this was only the beginning..."


Etc. etc., they come and they die, or they don't die. You'll have to read it, won't you?

Boy, maybe I'm better at this than I thought. Perhaps Shout! could use a "blue" section...

Thursday, June 30, 2005

 

Catching Up Is Bland to Do

I have been gone for a long, long time. I apologize. Life gets crazy sometimes, and writing about every minute detail for a horde of strangers is only so satisfying.

Andy: we dated and we broke up.

Dean: we're kind of dating. How? Don't ask. Why? Because it seemed like a good idea at the time, though so did the space program and they've had some failure to launch lately, too.

Dean refuses to tell the world we're dating. I can't tell if it's because he's ashamed of me, ashamed of himself, or ashamed of the people we work with... or if he just wants to fuck his new co-host, Jessie, without having to feel overly guilty about it. I admit that's shallow and distrustful of me, but you must remember this is the same man who cheated on a previous girlfriend (and videotaped it) while under the impression that it would be okay because his girlfriend was in class.

Why do I remind myself of these things?

Now that Leo is living with him, I've convinced Dean that we at least need to tell the bastard, if no one else, because I don't want to have to creep around his house at night like a fictitious gremlin when I stay over. Maybe if he gets some practice telling Leo, he can start telling other people, and soon maybe we can even hold hands in public like civilzed people.

I love my life.

Monday, May 17, 2004

 

State of Flux

I covered an art event downtown tonight: Flux 12. Everyone was there...I was trying to be professional, but Dierdre, Jack (with his ex, Alison, no less) and Leo don't make it easy.

When I got there, I actually had to pay the entry fee for Leo because he is an idiot and was refusing to make an artist donation. Andy, the intern who was unfortunately conscripted to work with him, seemed like he was at his wit's end, so I took pity on him and let him shadow me. It didn't hurt that he was cute, though he didn't really understand what any of the art was "for," which kind of concerned me.

Long story short, we spent the whole evening wandering through the galleries together, and at the end he asked me if I'd like to come swimming in his pool sometime. I wasn't sure if it was a metaphor or not, and if it is, he's got it backwards, but he seems harmless enough so I figure I'll take him up on it. Anything to keep me out of the house while Dierdre and Jack pretend to be platonic rommates.

Someone remind me why I allowed my brother to move in with me again?

Tuesday, May 04, 2004

 

Freelance Goddess

Well, it's not ideal, but it's a job. Shout! Magazine decided to call me...finally. They need a freelance writer to work on events and Pittsburgh culture (Pittsburgh and culture in the same sentence?). Perhaps I can now afford better than ramen noodles.

I asked Jack what he was thinking coming back here. I think he's immersed in his quarter-life crisis. Having him back here has been strange, and Dierdre was initially, um, displeased at his presence. She can go on being pissed, not that it's out of the ordinary for her anyway. If she actually paid her half of the rent on time, then I could possibly consider her side of the argument. The girl is insane. She goes from psych major one day to photographer the next. Silly me, I assumed you might need training and experience to be a professional photographer. Sometimes I think about what it might be like for her to wear a color. If I cared more, I would stage a makeover, but then we might have to cross the line of Sharing a Wardrobe and that won't do.

This Shout! development means I'm going to be working with Leo, kind of. I have to admit, I'm a bit intimidated. He's got this attitude about being a journalist: "Oooo, look at me, I'm Leo Straub, I wear a trench coat when it's summer." I think I need a dueling signature look; a pencil in my hair, perhaps?

Saturday, May 01, 2004

 

Seriously?

So I decide I'm going to jump on the bandwagon and compose this blog.

What else do I have going on? My post-graduation routine consists mostly of me waking up in the afternoon, scanning the web and newspapers for job leads, and showering only when the need arises. And rarely, my friend, does the need arise. My sweat pants have become my closest companion.

I've had a few interviews, but none of these jobs actually interest me. The interview process itself makes me queasy. They ask you this ridiculous strand of questions, thereby assembling some incomplete model of your personality. Every time I answer one of said questions, I feel a little corner of my soul crumbling to bits, BECAUSE I'M LYING. I'm patronizing you, Mr. Stick-Up-His-Ass-Human-Resources-Coordinator. No, I cannot think of ten reasons why I would make a valuable asset to your team, because in all likelihood, I'm going to end up peeing in your coffee cup if you hire me and I have to put up with your incessant use of team-building exercises. How about this? I'll give you an itemized list of the reasons why you shouldn't wear that tie, and we can call it even? Then you will be blown away by my tact and intellect, and instantaneously promote me to the position of Vice President. My first act will be firing you, you tacky bastard.

I'm still writing. Never fear. My portfolio is growing, so hopefully some freelance writing will pop up.

And I hope you noticed that my name was taken when I tried to register this blog. Yeah, by some nine-year-old who is apparently using this site to invite people to her birthday party. How about this, Caroline Boyd 2, I'll be your friend if you let me have your blog name? C'mon, I'm older! Dammit...

I hope this little girl enjoys the attention of my thousands of male admirers who mistakenly hit on her.

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