I rubbed my shiny genie lamp mid-May and who should pop out in a fragrant wisp but my inspiration, Alison Tyler, with another 250-word story contest I'm hallucinating was originally called "All About Ink." At any rate, it was being held in honor of that particular liquid because Alison had just launched a blog dedicated to tattoos.
She led us to the diving boards: "Do with ink what you will. Tattoo you? Sure. Dip a quill pen in it? Fine," she cooed. And so, peering down into the deep dark possibility pool, I jumped...
Eve had beautiful lines. She enjoyed showing them off. Mornings she visited each reporter's desk, loaded tray slung around neck—the office version of cigarette and candy girls pacing movie aisles at intermission, hawking their wares.
Eve was a filler girl. Her tray held ink bottles, dangerously-pointed unmolested nibs, typewriter ribbon spools, sharpened pencils, even packs of Lucky Strikes. She filled my inkwell just so—bending over the desk, behind slightly perked upward like a bunnytail, ample breasts oscillating above my writing pad. I could smell the perfumed handkerchief wedged between those glorious pendulums, see the minute rose tattoo anchoring Eve's nape to heart-stopping body. I had to have her.
I followed Eve to the supply closet. Her posterior twisted with her gait—angling right-left like windshield wipers—stocking seams running heels-skyward, directionals to Eve's fine rump. Always straight, those lines, perfect as the rest of her.
She locked the door behind us. A chair stood amid the supplies—I sat. Eve dove across my thighs, facedown, her lines' destination wiggling hello.
"Spank me."
My hand lifted and descended, slapping tweed.
"Harder."
I struck more forcefully.
"I need to feel it," she said, unzipping her skirt, slipping it floorward, leaving a view: pink satin tap-pants, garter belt ribbons securing stockings, unwavering seam lines.
I spanked repeatedly, producing high-decibel squeals.
"They might hear us, Eve. Quiet, or I'll have to fill your mouth with that handkerchief."
In my increased enthusiasm I rolled down underpants, garter belt, stockings, exposing porcelain skin—heels to mid-thigh tattooed with straight brown lines.
Copyright 2009 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.
Another day, another surprise, or rather a double surprise. I was nominated for the mysterious Kreativ Blogger Award by two of my utterly awesome writer-magician friends. Yesterday, Donna George Storey paid me the honor and today Nikki Magennis followed suit.
I tried to trace this phenomenon's provenance but was overwhelmed by the Google searchresults. If anyone knows who started this thing please do tell.
Anyway, as the name implies, this award recognises a blogger who is creative -- I imagine -- in ways going above and beyond the usual, whatever that happens to be.
The Kreativ Blogger Award meme works like this: if you accept it, you are supposed to list seven of your favorite things and nominate seven blogs that deserve this award.
Now, I confess to having a problem with numbers -- i.e. making decisions from a multitude of excellent choices -- and I also do not wish to hurt feelings by inevitably leaving out bloggers who are no less Kreativ than the ones I select. And, I know that everyone is very busy, so although this chain -- in theory -- would ultimately remain unbroken, if the spirit doesn't move my nominees to pay it forward then by all means they should not.
That said, here we go:
These are a few (well, seven) of my favorite things, subject to change at any time, and in no particular order of importance. In their parts they are not the sum of me, but a random sampling of the whole:
1) My shredder, from Staples. No longer on their website otherwise I'd show you. Cheaper than therapy.
2) Paris. We'll always have it, you know?
3) Venice. Hopefully it will stay afloat.
4) My collection of oddball notebooks and journals (surely they'll all be filled one day!).
5) The telephone as a communication medium. I have an aural fixation.
6) Casablanca, the movie.
7) Flying.
*
I nominate the following bloggers, who manage to enlighten and surprise me with a zest of this or that, teaching me things I don't already know. I'm listing ten, not seven, because I nominated one of the people who tagged me, another was also named by someone else (sorry, couldn't help meself; they're just too damned Kreativ!) and because -- remember -- I am not very good with numbers:
New bird on the block: I don't know what possessed me but I now have a Twitter account. I have no idea what I will Twit about -- as if I need another distraction -- or how frequently, but here I am, newly flown in and ready to flap my wings with other birdies. If you want to follow me feel free. Right now I am in my cage, eating colorful bits of birdseed. Soon it's time for a bath. My feathers are a tad dirty. Tweet tweet!
My suburban tale of debauchery, "Blind Tasting," appears in the newly-released eBook and paperback, Coming Together: Against the Odds, a short story anthology edited by the altruistic Alessia Brio as part of her Coming Together series published by Phaze Books. All proceeds will benefit the charity Autism Speaks. (The profits are highest when books are ordered directly from the publisher). The Kindle version is available from Amazon. The print edition can also be purchased from Amazon and Barnes and Noble.
The singular, inimitable noir/erotica writer and editor, Maxim Jakubowski, has penned the introduction. Behold! Here is the stellar lineup of contributors:
When I first read the submission call, soliciting "mystery-themed erotic fiction," I wasn't sure I had anything that fit the bill, though the accompanying description gave food for thought:
All behavior is communication. The trick is to figure out just what it's saying. No behavior communicates as clearly or on as many levels as sex. All the physical and emotional senses are engaged. Add the element of intrigue, and the intellect is engaged as well.
Then I heard Alessia Brio interviewed on Gracie Passette's Cult of Gracie internet radio program. Towards the end of the hour-long discussion, Ms. Brio talked about the anthology, providing the exact words I needed to hear. She said the story could be "any sort of mystery -- it doesn't have to be a crime-drama type of mystery -- it could be a 'which one of these party guests is licking your backside while you're blindfolded?' type of mystery." Ms. Passette laughed and said she'd much prefer that to "the dead dinner guest" while I practically screamed into my computer's loudspeaker holes, "Alessia, have I got a story for you!"
In fact, "Blind Tasting" does involve -- among other things -- dinner guests (though none are killed off), and it's closer to what Ms. Brio proposed: not exactly a whodunnit, but rather a "who done it to whom?"
I find it especially ironic and poignant that the profits from Coming Together: Against the Odds go to Autism Speaks. Firstly, this is a condition quite familiar to me, and secondly, though the majority of autistic people do speak -- contrary to popular misconception -- my story tells of four couples who, at a strategic point in the narrative, are not permitted to communicate with speech or sound or even by using physical/body language, if doing so causes the "message transmitter" to be identified by the recipient.
To whet your proverbial whistle,* here is an excerpt -- a wee taste of "Blind Tasting." I shall begin as most mystery stories do: at the beginning...
Blind Tasting by EllaRegina
They called themselves The Montridge Eight, after the metropolitan area suburb in which they lived, a thirty-nine-minute commute to the City, and though the name sounded like an underground terrorist group from the 1960s, their most incendiary efforts had involved turning on a Viking stove or lighting a Weber grill. A four-couple gourmet cooking club, The Montridge Eight met once a month, their homes revolving as venue, to travel the world gastronomically, one country and cuisine at a time. Creative professionals all, they were detail-oriented: an evening's theme would extend well beyond the food, to the decor, the wine, the music, sometimes even to the furniture.
The Greens, the Blacks, the Grays, the Whites: a box of crayons -- an odd one since the Blacks were not, the Whites were light brown and the Greens and Grays beige variations. They were the epitome of sophistication and urbane modern living. The men had long been vasectomized, completely relieving their marriages of pregnancy scares and latex fluid barriers. The couples were close and getting closer. The Montridge Eight gatherings elicited flirtatious behavior that grew stronger over the years. It began with one foot finding another under the table, or venturing further, toes slowly massaging a crotch. Hands would sneak inside waistbands from behind. Soon, parlor games were incorporated: first dirty Mad Libs -- "Name of Person in Room" particularly revealing -- then adult Charades, followed sequentially by Twister, strip tease, Strip Poker and Spin-the-Bottle. The Blacks, who lived in a former firehouse, offered their pole for dancing when they hosted, a mirrored ball on the high ceiling throwing sparkles over the dimmed space as each woman spun around the shiny brass upright, inspired by the thumping disco groans of Donna Summer and company. With each installment of the cooking club The Montridge Eight became increasingly daring and experimental. Perhaps it was the Cabernet, or the Pinot Grigio, or the Riesling, or the Rioja.
Although beyond familiar, the Greens, Blacks, Grays, and Whites -- a living version of the board game Clue -- decided from the onset that during these occasions they would refer to each other, including their own spouses, as Monsieur or Madame, evoking old black and white movies where the husband called the wife "Mother," lending the evenings a certain frisson of staged formality -- an interesting counterpoint to the sub-table footsie and miscellaneous lusty doings -- often inspiring unscripted postprandial role-playing once the couples were back in their own bedrooms:
"Would you do it to me in the Library with The Lead Pipe, Monsieur Gray?"
"Most assuredly, Madame Gray. My very large one. Where shall I put it?"
Across Montridge's verdant tree-lined streets, a parallel scene was unfolding at the Green house:
"In the Billiard Room, on the table, with The Rope, Madame Green?"
"Of course, Monsieur Green. A hog-tie is definitely in order," she replied, spreading her excited legs as Monsieur Green undid his perfectly slip-knotted neckwear, anxious to truss Madame's limbs, rigid cock pointed towards her from an unbuttoned fly.
To be continued, dot dot dot. Buy the book, dot dot dot!
Copyright 2009 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.
A clue relating to a key scene in "Blind Tasting."
One of my inspirations for the story.
"Blind Tasting" was initially featured on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association website in their February 2009 Erotica Fiction Gallery. Kisses to Rose and Adrienne! And a special hug to Donna George Storey for plugging "Blind Tasting" so nicely at the time on her blog.
In those few moments during which they unloaded his white-enshrouded body from the green helicopter onto a maroon-padded gurney atop the Los Angeles Coroner's Office building, one could decipher within its mummy-like shape: the feet pointed together as if tightly bound, and it was a sad feeling to know that they would never dance again.
Michael Jackson's patent for a special shoe-engagement system.
I am chuffed to bits at the news that my O. Henry parody, The Gift of the Magic Lump of Coal, has been selected by the discerning and ever-esteemed Maxim Jakubowski, editor nonpareil, for inclusion in his prestigious anthology, The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 9, a showcase of literary finery. (Of course, my story will first be translated into proper English.) The annual volume, containing works by over 40 writers -- both established and "new" voices -- will be published across the pond by Constable & Robinson (January 2010), followed likewise in the US of A by Running Press. I am most humbled and honored to be in this respected collection once again. 'Tis my supreme pleasure, Maxim! Thank you!
All we know is that Alison Tyler -- the lovely and talented writer, editor, publisher, gift-giver, contest-thrower, door-opener and all-around creative inspiration to many -- blasted into this world during the fair month of June, tilting our green blue planet slightly off its axis with her entry. And, of course, nothing has been the same since. We are choosing today to celebrate though Alison herself is partying until July.
❤
So, without further ado, Alison, I present your birthday presents: a duet of vintage cards expressing my felicitations; an eternal bouquet of balloons; the Happy Birthday song, as sung by one of the omnipresent "hot monkey sex" monkeys; and a topical Donald Duck cartoon. Then, get your dancing shoes on for a singalong Beatles Birthday and a Japanese animation cover of their song. (It's hallucinatory when both are played together.) Finally, it's time for deliciously psychedelic birthday cake. Oh, I also got you a pony! For birthday boots, please go here.
❤
I hope you enjoy(ed) your birthday, Alison! I wish you many more! And, may they be happy and healthy, always!
XOXO
❤
Your friend and admirer,
ER
This cross-blog birthday party present is the brainchild of the ever-charming Nikki Magennis.
In the previous post I referred to The Dark Room, my entry in the recent 250-word story contest held by the lovely Alison Tyler. Our instructions were to write about sound and hearing, or lack thereof. Feeling like I'd missed the mark with that piece -- which seemed focussed on a different sense -- I assembled another 250 words to make up for it. Enjoy! No earplugs necessary:
I couldn't have invented better upstairs neighbours. No television, loudspeakers, not even a radio. The previous occupants' sonorous electronic lifestyle had regularly bombarded my senses, so I was quite relieved at a change of tenancy.
They kept apart, not speaking to others in the building, smiling at me whenever our eyes aligned; walking arm-in-arm, both nattily dressed, trailing plumes of hypnotic scents. I envisioned them artists from some exotic land.
She was a cluster of staccato taps, a path over my head -- likely travelled wearing sexy heels -- traversing my sitting room ceiling, an invisible moving dotted line. His full frame lumbered through their flat with a distinctively masculine gait. Normally, such aural evidence of human ambulation would bother me but with them it did not, given the other sounds they provided...
I most appreciated their proximity at night, abetted by open summer windows. She moaned fifteen feet above in a bedroom mirroring my own, cooing like a pigeon in a beguiling indecipherable sing-song. His outbursts were deep and guttural, synced to her sonic erotic dance; their rhythms parallel, complementary. A hand met flesh in resounding slaps; I imagined his palm on her nicely rounded behind. She'd whimper following each blow. Words were never used; their language seemed purely physical.
Months passed before I first encountered them beyond our building. They sat outside the cafe, each gesturing in a fast-signalled lexicon of fingers, something between a puppetless puppet show and how the ancient black-clad women crossed themselves in church.
Copyright 2009 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.
Writer/editor/publisher/contest-runner favolosa, Alison Tyler, has done it again! This time with a challenge for us to write a 250-word story about the senses, specifically sound and hearing or the absence thereof. I somehow slid into Home and Alison wanted to interview me for her most exclusive Trollop Salon. She has titled this journalistic inquiry Elephants, Microsurgery and Guilt, which is beyond utterly perfect! Please head over there and check out our conversation.
For your psychological preparation, here is the interview-prompting story, "The Dark Room."
It was like a game. I imagine that's why he responded. In truth, I didn't want him to see me.
The hotel room resembled a ship's cabin: portholes, blackout shades rendering them lightless; a bed topped by a floating white duvet cloud; dark, wood-paneled walls. I memorized the scene before extinguishing the lamps, sliding naked into cold sheets -- the linens pulled over my head -- waiting for the door scratch of his keycard.
As agreed, the least amount of hallway fluorescence was to spill into the room upon entering.
Something crackled and was placed on the floor. An electric fabric friction accompanied his unclothing.
We wouldn't speak, at least not with words. He rolled in next to me, his breathing audible and excited. We only kissed at first, belly-to-belly, arms around each other, a perfect fit. His tongue enwrapped mine, his erection a baton between us, as if it were a baguette kept piping hot by our holding it in this fashion; resultant emissions loud, primal and uninhibited. His cock filled me as we screeched, yelped and growled. When we came it was as if we'd done this countless times before.
He slipped away to the bathroom and in that moment forgot the rule of darkness. A tile-framed window illuminated a handsome face, smiling at me, happy with the view. Then, as I heard his stream meet porcelain and water I saw it, against the opposite wall: a cane -- black, white and red -- folded into a W.
Copyright 2009 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.
Toot toot! Welcome to my stop on the Blow Hard 2009 Blog Tour. Only, since I'm rather old-fashioned, let's pretend we're travelling by train. I think it's much more romantic. And imagine the kind of locomotive from days of yore, like the 2oth Century Limited in "North by Northwest."
What are we doing here, you might be asking? Well, Sommer Marsden started it! All because of one woman's remark. But, look what happened! The happy little suckers came out of the closet and the kingdom rejoiced! And people connoitered -- even reconnoitered -- and there was dialogue, discourse, amusement, food for thought. Most important were the words and the words and the words and the words and the words and the words, even! My, there were so many of them, with a cascade of vocabularystill to come! And there shall be prizes! The more frequently you comment the greater your chance of winning, like the Lottery!
BTW: Comments are now open! The doctor is in! Anyone stopping by before but too shy to speak, you are most welcome for a return visit. Come again, comment often, in fact!
So, here we are, just past our journey's midpoint, and I thought it was time for a palate cleanser. I'd like to offer you a medley of distractions, in case you get bored. I have music, singing, pictures of funny things, videos. We go down in elevators, too! (My personal suggestion is to play the YouTube fare simultaneously, for a Babel Tower experience.)
As for today's theme I hope the title of my post gives you a tip: I'd like to guide you towards observing two senses that interest me very much, especially when it comes to sex: taste and smell -- they're intertwined. Here are two multiple choice polls, which I am leaving open forever. [Please select any and all choices in each poll before you click 'vote' -- repeat votes won't work; you only get one chance. So if, say, five options apply to you then check them and pull that voting lever!]. I'd love for you to participate! Remember, once you draw the curtain closed behind you nobody but you and your conscience will know how your vote was cast. Not even me.
My goal is that these questions and answers, besides possibly making you laugh, provoke further research and development behind the virtual curtain, in my comments section. Feel free to join in and contribute, even if you're new to these parts. You don't have to register or pay dues and can even be anonymous or naked, or both!
To add grist to the proverbial mill, here is a provocative article to start you off, and a product that claims to make semen taste its sweetest. Otherwise, according to the manufacturer, you'll need to purchase and/or digest a pineapple plantation. In a bit of a coinkidink, Sommer herself posted about taste yesterday, with a lovely compendium of information she received from Jeremy Edwards. I'm repeating it not to copycat but because it incidentally relates to my topic for today's stop. Also, there will be a quiz later. (Just kidding.) I thought it would add more stimulation to our discussion, as if we needed any.
To be honest, I feel like somewhat of a Fellatio Fraud. I realised I only write about it in spurts, no pun intended. So, last night I penned a little piece from Memory Lane. It's all true. Name changed to protect the not-so-innocent. It's not completely about fellatio, either, but it's a kind of penis portrait study, a still life. Well, yes and no... Please enjoy this page from my diary. There's been so much good writing on this Blow Hard Blog Tour that it humbles me. And, most of the preceding Tour Guides tend to write about things based in reality, or about what I call "innerings." I generally do not. One foot is always somewhere else (not sure where that is but it's not here). Oh, there's also a snippet of a piece I wrote about smell. It follows the illustration of swallow heads. At any rate, there's lots to keep your attention. The real show is the gabfest behind the scenes, in the back room, i.e. the comments area.
Once upon a time, long long ago, when people still had pubic hair, I knew a beautiful man in a country bounteous with attractive folk whose names had many vowels. He taught me things. He showed me things. He had a lovely thick snake between his legs with a branch of veins and I found that I could easily charm it, and make it expand like an accordion, sometimes just by being in the same room.
The snake cried long thin tears, clear rice noodles. Once I went away to a distant land and the beautiful man told me that while I was gone he thought of me. He recounted how he had stood one August afternoon on the Via Whatever, and as my image filled his head, so his snake filled and started to cry its fishing line noodle tear downwards, where it met the sidewalk from inside his baggy shorts. His underwear, if he wore any, was not tight fitting.
He could do nothing, he said, but stand there thinking of me, as if he were playing a game of Statue. He was stuck to the sidewalk, a strand of Spiderman's web holding him in place, going from point A to point B like a string.
A woman passed by at that very moment, he reported, and saw the clear noodle's shine -- a ray of light from his clothing, gluing him in his sneakers to the warm cement -- and gave him a very dirty look. But he was paralysed.
I took his snake inside my mouth and it performed tricks, ultimately filling my stomach with slippery warm noodles. Sometimes I would stroke him just so I could watch the spouting of Morse Code bursts. I knew they spelled something. It contained a Marconi message expressly for me. That was certain.
When he was as deep inside me as my small mouth would permit, my nose in the forestation of his curly brown, I breathed in his mix of coffee and Jack Daniels, of oceans away, the briny deep, swimming pools, bleach and sun, blended with metal and funghi porcini mushrooms grown in the pitch of wooded shadows -- collectively a dark consuming spice. I wanted to eat him. Surf and Turf.
I was always asking questions -- sometimes about words, expressions, their origins. I had not seen many snakes by that point. His was the only one a carnival member had let me see the most of and for such an extended time. I really got to know that serpent. One day after charming its head and smooth snakeskin with my too-small mouth I asked the beautiful man: "Why do they call it giving head?" In my mind there were just three possible answers; I posed each one in the form of a question:
1. Is it because the head of your snake is involved?
2. Is it because my head is the active participant?
3. Is it because your overflow resembles the head of a glass of beer, as it's filled from a spigot?
He laughed and said "All of the above."
And then we charmed each other some more.
Often, while he was still asleep, especially in the morning when his snake turned into a sturdy sapling, I would creep underneath the blanket or slither my way up his body between steamy skin and the long nightshirt he wore, which enveloped us like a hobo pouch, until I found the dormant snake, curled slightly like a snail. I would suck it slowly, a thumb without a bone, until it grew one, coming alive in my mouth and, in the process, awakening the slumbering man to whom it was attached.
I called these sessions Breakfast in Bed. They were all Self-Service, not Room. No need to call out. And you knew it would be a good day when it started with liquid protein, fortified and filling, delivered piping hot from a dependable snake.
Here is a snippet about smell, from a shorty I wrote for one of Alison Tyler's wonderful short-short-short story contests. My piece was called Around the World and it had three parts. This section took place in Roma:
We come to Rome after an extended period in a soulless Northern European country. The difference between the two places is palpable, literally. All one has to do is clamber onto the early Monday #44 bus ascending the Gianicolo hill in late July -- no air-conditioning, everyone perspiring. Women don't shave under their arms. Americans are trained to abhor this, as well as any corporal odor, but luckily my boyfriend and I are not most Americans. The #44 smells like sex on wheels and we are in olfactory heaven.
He turns to me and says "You can tell who just got fucked this morning," and I agree. The other thing: you know that everyone on the bus has a clean set of genitals; Italians are meticulous about bidet use. Every ass, pussy, cock and ball is fresh -- ready to be had and enjoyed At Any Moment. Benvenuti in Italia! We arrive at his apartment and are fucking like dogs as soon as our shoes reach the entryway floor tiles, luggage dropped, the keys still lodged and swaying in the half-open door.
GOING DOWN AROUND THE WORLD:
ALERT: If you listen closely a man says one must swallow to alleviate any discomfort while going down.
Please disembark this love train at the next village, where our Tour Guide, the delightful Marina St. Clare, will take you by the hand and carry your bags.
Here is the entire lineup, including who, um, came before, should you need to bone up! (The links go directly to the Tour posts; ditto re the Tour Guides after me. You'll be taken right to their offerings, as soon as I have the respective posts' URLs.)
Take a deep breath because you're going to need it. Tomorrow launches the first annual Blow Hard Blog Tour. Sommer Marsden (a k a Smut Girl) will deal the first blow -- I'm just giving you a little head start. In the meanwhile time to bone up, perhaps in front of a mirror.
My most excellent friend, writer Donna George Storey, has been examining different aspects of the writing life in a kind of intime online writers' workshop and has focussed on the second-person narrative voice for the past few days.
I weighed in, having written a few stories from that POV -- one that is curiously almost universally maligned -- including a little tale entitled "The Lonely Onanista," which has enjoyed some success despite the fact that it uses a voice one is supposed to avoid at all costs.
I said that in my mind the YOU of second-person placed any prospective reader right in the "driver's seat" -- a good thing! They'd just land there from above, in position -- sitting, knees bent, hands up with fingers curled as if already gripping the steering wheel -- like in old television commercials. (Or am I making that part up?)
I go into some detail about the background of the story and why I chose that particular voice to tell it.
Yesterday I was just a cock tease but now I can blow my cover. I've joined an all-girl team of contented cocksuckers for the Blow Hard 2009 Blog Tour. Beginning March 31st, this itinerant 12-day blow job feast will sing the praises of suckage -- from the mouth of one sated fellatrix at a time -- so wipe your calendar clean!
We will be offering discourse, fiction, memoirs and who knows what else -- all blow-job-centric. You can win a titillating prize! And, hey, no road tour worth its weight in ejaculate is without its roadies -- I say we call them our FlufferNutters -- so go ahead and apply! We'll need lots of help carrying our knee pads.
Literary erotica, often with a surreal element. Quirky, filthy yet refined.
"Glorious madness!"
"Wonderfully strange."
"Original and fresh."
"A lovely fusion of the surreal and the sublime."
"Intelligent, sensual and deliciously filthy."
"A master with language and magical ideas."
"Witty, inventive and sexy."
"A quirky talent for words and stories."
"Superb, surprising, surreal."
"EllaRegina is a pervert of the highest order."
Another day, another surprise, or rather a double surprise. I was nominated for the mysterious Kreativ Blogger Award by two of my utterly awesome writer-magician friends. Yesterday, 
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