The Green Room, a Story

A theatrical interlude... The result of another Alison Tyler flasher contest -- this piece is roughly 1,000 words -- where inspiration was an artistic rendering (above) by Mr. Naked Chicks on Post-it Notes. This tale is also the companion piece to Fucking Green, a lustfully verdant palate-cleanser hosted by the most hospitable Donna George Storey. Ticket, please!

The Green Room
© 2008-2009 by EllaRegina
I've always been a sucker for Broadway. Some productions appeal to me more than others and so it was with WICKED. As it happens I also had a crush on the woman who played the Wicked Witch of the West, otherwise known as Elphaba. I didn't know her actual name—despite my devotion to show business I never look at a PLAYBILL—but it was love at first sight. I simply had to have her.

I went to matinées almost every week. I attended nightly performances on a regular basis. I hung around stage door and finally got her autograph. She wasn't green then, except for her eyes. The long nose was off but she was no less dazzling. And, when she signed my PLAYBILL with her green Sharpie and looked straight into my baby blues, I knew and she knew it, too.

The next week there I was, Thursday night, ten to eight, center Orchestra, ninth row: just perfect. When Elphaba came on stage she looked directly at me and I nearly lost it. According to legend, after the Beatles performed on the Ed Sullivan Show the audience seats required re-upholstering, so copious was the collective female effluvia. I was producing quite a stream myself, leaving behind a sopping bouquet for whomever would be sweeping up gum wrappers post-curtain.

Right before intermission Elphaba gave me a special wink. I knew what it meant and I knew what to do. It was going to be a longer break than usual that night. Something had gone wrong with a gobo light filter—green of course—and they needed extra time for its repair. I snuck backstage. I knew this theater like a blind man knows how many paces take him to the bus stop. I found Elphaba in her Green Room, sitting on the make-up counter, pointy boots swinging, drinking Coca-Cola from a bottle, the old-fashioned kind, made with thick green glass. Everything in the room was green: the walls, the daybed, the flowers, stuffed animals from fans... And, Elphaba.

She motioned for me to come closer. We would never exchange a word. I knew she was capable of speech—and of singing!—but we communicated in other ways. She started taking off her costume. Even with her nose she was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. She threw her black dress on a green vinyl armchair and undid several more layers until she got to her flesh—all of it green. I had read somewhere that she was a Method actress and liked to stay in character while costumed. She demanded the full body coat of green, though most of it would not be visible on stage. She was regal, like the Statue of Liberty, only naked and in a different hue—more of an emerald, like her eyes. She even dyed her pubic hair for the role. Never was there a more dedicated actress.

Elphaba gestured that I disrobe and I did. When my clothes were off, none of them the proper color, she put her soft green-nailed fingers over my eyes and gently slid the lids shut.

It felt funny at first—like having your teeth cleaned with that mini-sandblaster—the paint sprayer going over my body. Elphaba was good at this. She did it every day. And it was easier airbrushing someone else. I dried quickly and was all hers. She drew me close, her green lips meeting mine in a verdant kiss. It took a few seconds to adjust to the nose—it was all in the angle. If I'd had pants on I would have peed in them. I had to lie down, it was far too much for me. I was shaking.

Elphaba sensed my nervousness and led me to the daybed where we lay down together. We continued kissing, our red tongues the only things out of order color-wise, though with red being the complement to green maybe not. I wrapped my green legs around hers. She took me in her green arms. She smelled like a Granny Smith apple, like grass, like basil, like cucumber, certainly nothing like a witch. The paint tasted of kiwi, of springtime, of lime all-day suckers. I couldn't stop licking her. She couldn't stop licking me. Fortunately the paint was saliva-proof; she needed to be onstage in a half-hour.

Elphaba's face found its way to my pussy, or the other way around, and there I was, sitting in a Green Room at the Gershwin Theatre on West 51st Street in New York City, with a green nose fucking the life out of my green-sprayed pussy. She was talented, Elphaba was. The best lover a girl could have. It was a shame she had to take the nose off each night—it had magical powers—but I bet she had other tricks. I came on her face, my juices making the paint glossy. Then I put my head between her green legs and spread them wide, putting my tongue inside her, finding the one place that made her wiggle. With the help of a few fingers I located it. Perhaps they named the G-spot after the color green. I made her come with my hands and mouth and she arched her green body in delight. It's funny—in the theater world wearing green is considered bad luck, but for Elphaba and me it was anything but. The clock seemed not to be ticking but I knew that it was. Soon there was a knock on the door and an announcement: curtain going up in ten minutes.

We put ourselves back together. I hoped I would see Elphaba again, like this, but who could be sure? I know I'm not her only fan. In five minutes I was reinstalled atop my damp seat, not concerned in the least that everyone was staring at me and probably wondering why I was green. I bet they could figure it out. But I didn't care who knew. And shortly, after the orchestra tuned up for the final time, the curtain rose and there was my green girl, looking me straight in the eye. She smiled—her emerald skin framing luminous white teeth; a marquee lighting up the theater—and I knew we were the luckiest girls on Broadway.

Copyright 2008-2009 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.

John Lennon's Thighs

John Lennon's Thighs
© 2009 by EllaRegina
It was the way they moved—legs spread apart, pulsing steadily, strongly—bouncing with the beat. She could imagine them through his narrow black pants, musculature toned and tense, well-shaped—almost girlishly-curved but manly without a question—Paul and George undeveloped by comparison. And John seemed to know what he was singing about—And when I touch you I feel happy inside... She wanted him to touch her. She wanted to make him happy inside—those thighs gripping her like a nutcracker as she leaned her mouth towards the microphone pointed at her from his groin. He could make her sing—and she would make his heart go boom.

On an index card she noted the exact timings where John's thighs appeared throughout the YouTube clip—including a solid twenty-one seconds during "I Saw Her Standing There," coming in strong and steady from 1:13; and twenty-four seconds at the final strums, from 2:36. In motion again beginning "I Want to Hold Your Hand"—especially nice between 4:56 and 5:11.

She played those bits repeatedly, the other Beatles non-existent—Ringo atop his circular platform, Paul, George—extraneous. John Lennon's thighs, over and again, just for her. And, if she concentrated hard enough, she thought, she could find the secret YouTube button to click: after shaking Ed Sullivan's hand, John would emerge from the screen—alive once more—and lie down with her on the living room couch, his thighs enveloping, pulsating. He would still be in out-of-focus black-and-white but she would not care—and she would let him be her man.

Copyright 2009 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.

Manual Transmissions, a Story

The sidecar companion piece to Rear View Auto Show. I'm on a roll, rolling down the highway...

Manual Transmissions
© 2008 by EllaRegina
I

While he was teaching me how to drive a stick I would grasp Alberto's flaccid cock in bed at night and review the day's lesson, using his flesh to move from first into second gear, then to third, idling in neutral, by which time he was usually hard and would fuck me well beyond fifth gear.

II

Sometimes, when Alberto was behind the wheel, I would reach across and try to pull his cock out and tease it as I had in bed. Were he not such an excellent driver we would have been killed several times, or arrested by the Carabinieri. Once, on the Autostrada del Sole, I leaned over Alberto's busy hand, coaxed his fat prick out of his baggy pants, put it between my lips and sucked him until he had to pull onto the shoulder and stop the car. If my skull had a blowhole Alberto would have spouted some Abstract Expressionism onto the soft ceiling upholstery.

III

The round-knobbed black leather stick shift on Alberto's Fiat was so inviting that I slid it into myself—once I'd sufficiently mastered the gears—using my pussy to shift up or down while Alberto manned the wheel and pedals. I was very happy to relinquish the clutch. We somehow managed this vehicular collaboration and tooled around most of Tuscany one summer quite successfully in this fashion—a shaft of leather and metal rammed inside me as I rode shotgun—my pussy driving the car. It was a great feeling, knowing how to work a stick.


Copyright 2008 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.

Rear View Auto Show, a Story

The result of another 250-word story contest presented by Alison Tyler: "Auto Erotica." No, not that kind of auto-erotica, but the sort involving sex and a vehicle. She invited us to start revving our engines and so I did, even though the particular automobile I describe is not moving. That would have been very dangerous.

Fasten your seatbelts for a nasty ride...

Rear View Auto Show
© 2008 by EllaRegina
Just the idea of it turned me on. Roger, too.

Me kneeling in our car trunk, naked from the waist down, ass and pussy hanging out, bungee cords holding the lid closed, hiding the rest of my body. We'd been driving cross-country when I thought of it, taking scenic-view pauses in designated highway stops.

Lots of semis were parked, especially at night, brawny Marlboro men in the front cabs trying to catch my eye. Furtive movements blurred below their windows; it was monkey-spank time for these lonely roadsters. So, I figured, why not help them out?

Roger suggested doing it Candid Camera-style. He'd hide within eyeshot until a curious trucker bounced from loaded rig to investigate. Then Roger would appear, make sure the driver wasn't Charles Manson, and hand over a condom.

"Yeah, that's my woman in there. She digs the idea of being fucked by a stranger. Go for it, dude."

He'd discreetly move out of range, letting the man have at me.

There was a string of them one night—Roger would make an ace pimp—and several of those latex-covered cocks made me scream and reel inside my little carpeted space, crowbar within reach should anybody get out of hand, but nobody did.

Sometimes a sweaty head poked in asking my name. I didn't want a name. I was just an ass and pussy getting fucked in the trunk of a car at a rest stop along the Interstate. The ultimate mooning—shining orb and telescopes, anonymous all.

Copyright 2008 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.

LINES, a Story

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...


LINES
© 2009 by EllaRegina
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.

K is for Kreativ.

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 search results. 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:

1) P. S. Haven
2) Tara Alton
3) Marina St. Clare
4) Susie Bright
5) Joss Lockwood
6) Scarlett Greyson
7) Jeremy Edwards
8) Craig J. Sorensen
9) Alison Tyler
10) Nikki Magennis

Thank you, Donna and Nikki!

Pina Bausch (27 July 1940 - 30 June 2009)

R.I.P. Pina Bausch.

It's a Mystery! OR... Whodunnit?

Image: New York Public Library Digital Gallery
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:

Introduction Maxim Jakubowski
Will She Kiss Me? Giselle Renarde
Under a Moving Star Angela Caperton
Blind Tasting EllaRegina
Undercover Angel Alessia Brio
Always a Bridesmaid Andrea Dale
Choke Gregory L. Norris
The Booty Call Caper Kathleen Bradean
Sen-Sen Alicia Night Orchid
It Had To Be You GS Wiley
Missing Pieces Jasmine Black
Claim Mate Brenna Lyons
Sixth Sense Teresa Noelle Roberts
No Boundaries Moondancer Drake
The Arch Eva Batonne

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 particularly ironic and poignant, given my story's scenario, that the profits from Coming Together: Against the Odds go to Autism Speaks. The majority of autistic people do speak -- contrary to popular misconception. "Blind Tasting" offers an interpersonal counterpoint: 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.


Image: New York Public Library Digital Gallery
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.

*A big thank you to phantaglyph of thefreesoundproject for the 2-second wolf whistle recording.

R.I.P. Michael Jackson

Photograph: Shaan Kokin/Julien's Auctions/Reuters
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.

Happy Birthday Dear Alison!

...to a Groovy Chick!
❤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.❤

HIGH FIDELITY, a Story

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:

HIGH FIDELITY
© 2009 by EllaRegina
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.

Alison Tyler Interview & The Dark Room, a Story

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."



© 2009 by EllaRegina
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.

A little head & a swallow. A palate cleanser...

A little head from: Kiosk

Image: New York Public Library Digital Gallery

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 vocabulary still 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.

So, let us step into the Time Machine, shall we?

SUCKING A.

© 2009 by EllaRegina
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.


Image: New York Public Library Digital Gallery

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:

Around the World

© 2008 by EllaRegina

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.)

March 31st: Sommer Marsden
April 1: Alison Tyler
April 2: Dakota Rebel
April 3: Erobintica
April 4: Cora Zane
April 5: Heidi Champa
April 6: EllaRegina (Me! You're already here.)
April 7: Marina St. Clare
April 8: Emerald
April 9: Kristina Wright
April 10: Isabel Kerr
April 11: Neve Black
April 12: Surprise Mystery Guest #1!
April 13: Surprise Mystery Guest #2!

You just put your lips...

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.

Me on YOU!

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.

Check it out, you!

And thank YOU, Donna, for giving us more food for thought!

Thank YOU, Erobintica, for the video inspiration!

All-Day Suckers! Coming Soon...

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!

Our bush league has some pretty heavy hitters:

March 31st: Sommer Marsden
April 1: Alison Tyler (No Fool, she...)
April 2: Dakota Rebel
April 3: Erobintica
April 4: Cora Zane
April 5: Heidi Champa
April 6: Moi!
April 7: Marina St. Clare
April 8: Emerald
April 9: Kristina Wright
April 10: Isabel Kerr
April 11: Neve Black

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.

More to come. Watch this space!

Thar She Blows...!

I'm not much of a joiner but now I'm on a team! Details soon to, um, come.

Erection, set. THE EMPIRE STATE, BUILDING; a Story

(IMAGE NOT ACTUAL SIZE)
Idea magician Alison Tyler did it again this week with another powerhouse mind-bending short-short-story contest. This time the subject was masturbation, in 250 words, from the opposite gender's point-of-view. As it happens, I've always wondered what it would be like to have a penis (shut up, Sigmund!) and now I can happily report that it was just fine! I only wish we'd been allotted more words -- I had so many other ideas of what I could do with this handy new piece of equipment!

I came up (oops!) with the following:

THE EMPIRE STATE, BUILDING
© 2009 by EllaRegina
On my back, left eye shut, I align my hard cock with the Empire State Building -- my bedroom's eastern view -- until its antenna is a needle rising from my prick's eye -- a fleshy hypodermic, ready to inject.

The window in the opposite wall overlooks an apartment building, the nearest room close enough to jump into, were I Spiderman. Every night it presents a beautifully framed scene: a pale girl, face down on an unmade bed, naked except for knee-highs and pink stilettoed Mary Janes, ankles bound together with an ever-changing inventory of unassuming objects: a pair of shoelaces today, a scarf or dishtowel tomorrow. Her hands are beneath her, rump bobbing in air like a cork riding swiftly downstream. She hides her face under a pillow. I coordinate my strokes to match her behind's rhythmic levitations, as if posting atop a galloping horse.

My hand glides up and down my cock as her plump moons rise and fall. I grip myself, holding the Empire State Building. I wonder if the tourists on the Observation Deck know they are part of my erotic strategy. They've waited hours on line to unwittingly appear within the crosshair sight of my warm gun.

My balls ache. A feverish trail bubbles forward from the base of my spine. The Empire State Building turns into a geyser, a firework display. On the landmark's 86th floor dozens of Japanese visitors wearing I [HEART] NY buttons open black umbrellas simultaneously. I reach for a tissue.

Copyright 2009 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.

Hot Sheets

My generous friend Donna George Storey is not only a gifted short-story writer, novelist, journalist, gourmet, and columnist; she now sports a hotelier's hat (whatever that looks like). For the past few weeks she has been hosting a literary orgy, Suite 69, at her blog Sex, Food, and Writing, wherein writers' hotel stories are showcased.

I'm the guest there today in Welcome to Hotel Guacamole, with a short-story originally crafted for one of the inimitable Alison Tyler's writing exercises/contests. I thought this 517-word offering, Fucking Green, would be particularly appropriate for Suite 69 as it has to do with sex, food...and hotel sheets.

Thank you so much, Donna, for letting me trample your corridors and peek into the other rooms. There's so much to see! Please let me know when you want the skeleton key back. I hope it's not anytime soon. I'm kind of busy...looking...and trying out all the beds like Goldilocks.

Speaking of green and sheets, a theme seems to be emerging: Alison Tyler just inaugurated a new online hot spot, The Boudoir Blog, where the bed is always the main character. Here's mine.

Enjoy your rolls in my hay!

PS: Don't sit in this postcard's foreground chair. It's reserved for Charlie Brown.

A Garden of Frenzied Delight

Illustration: New York Public Library Digital Gallery

Being in a short story anthology is like being a flower in a botanical garden. In this case, with the delicious and wild Frenzy: 60 Stories of Sudden Sex, edited by the incomparable Alison Tyler, there are 59 other specimens to consider and enjoy, all of them rare and exotic -- just waiting to be smelled, fondled, licked by the sun, feel a little special.

So it has been recently with "Faceless Filly Seeks Rider," my contribution to this beautiful arrangement of literary flora. Its first shout-out arrived February 13th from an Amazon customer reviewer, Amy Stapleford, who called it "hot, clever, and oh-so-smart." As if that wasn't enough of a Vitamin D tickle, on February 28th, in a full-page book review on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association website, reviewer Kathleen Bradean, a fine author herself, chose six stories to highlight and had this to say about mine:

And while I may have a soft spot for established couples, EllaRegina's "Faceless Filly Seeks Rider," is a sex with a stranger fantasy that got me going. In the form of a Craigslist ad, it is cheeky, smart, funny, and deliciously dirty. Here's a story that can quote French pornographic literature and make it seem earthy instead of pretentious.

Thank you Amy and Kathleen, for smelling my flower, so to speak, speaking of earth.

One thousand fragrant rose petals shall rain on my brilliant writer friend Jeremy Edwards for alerting me to both of these instances. (I was too busy with my nose in the other flowers). Jeremy's wonderful "You in Your Apricot Panties" -- which I like to call "a character study of a delicate underthing" -- about 100 pages away from me in this particular collection, was also given a tip of the solar hat in both venues.

My wish here -- and with every anthology I've been in and will be a part of hence -- is for each lovely flower to ultimately be given its moment of attention and recognition under glowing rays of sunlight. This would make the gardener and all the botanical specimens she has carefully and lovingly assembled very smiley and happy, indeed.