"The Red Brassiere" by EllaRegina is not only clever but entertainingly vivid and sensual too. It is flirty and light and then serious and passionate [...] [,] a wonderful flight of fancy that carries you along with French abandonment from beginning to end.
By far for me, however, the best story in this anthology is EllaRegina's "The Red Brassiere," an homage to the film, "The Red Balloon," by Lamorrisse made in 1956. This story is a truly outrageous surreal fantasy about a flying red brassiere that magically becomes the seductress of all the men in the multi-national capitol of France. I will not spoil this story with further plot elucidation, but I will say that it is a work of delightfully playful story telling that authentically lifts the heart. And that's what makes it so perfect, because despite the endless struggles of urban life, Paris is a city that truly is available to the open heart when it is supported with élan, a little charm and a sense of humor.
I'm also quite thrilled that Xcite Books selected The Red Brassiere as the free extract to represent the anthology. You can do the extracting here. [Click on the Free Extract format bullet, then Add to Basket and Checkout. (Free) registration is required.]
Sex in the City: Paris is the second in a series of gemlike anthologies inspired by and devoted to the erotic lives of various cities, brought to you by none other than genius editor Maxim Jakubowski and published by Xcite Books.
From Monsieur Jakubowski's introduction:
Cities are not just about monuments and museums and iconic places, they are also about people at love and play in unique surroundings. With this in mind, these anthologies of erotica will imaginatively explore the secret stories of famous cities and bring them to life, by unveiling passion and love, lust and sadness, glittering flesh and sexual temptation, the art of love and a unique sense of place.
My contribution, The Red Brassiere, the book's finale—merci beaucoup, cher Maxim!—pays homage to an early cinematic memory. Spoiler: my celluloid madeleine can be viewed in its entirety here.
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!
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.
The editors of Sliptongue Magazine, with their most discerning and refined palate, have chosen my "culinary" exploration, Blind Tasting, for permanent display within their eternally-revolving virtual dessert showcase.
All courses, a full meal. Bring your utensils and an empty stomach.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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!
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."
"EllaRegina is a very talented writer who knows how to weave a tale and how to make the eroticism sparkle." — (Review) ; Ashley Lister, Erotica Readers & Writers Association
"...delightfully playful story telling." — (Review) ; Steven Hart, Erotica Revealed
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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