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Slippery When Wet or Too #Sexy for my Blog or The Art of Writing Male/Male Anal

Did you sing that horrible song when you read the title?  A small, malicious part of me hopes so. >:-) Oh! I didn’t mean anything Bon Jovi, although this is a musical entry, I must say. Anyway, allow me to serenade you while we go at it, here.

The Slippery When Wet Blog Hop begins today, and I am ill-prepared. Or maybe too prepared. Anyway, I have a blog post I penned a while back, which seemed too risqué to send to other places as a guest blog, but is just right tonight after realizing I have two hours to get this sweetheart posted. Enter: The Art of Writing Male/Male Anal.

The Art of Writing M/M Anal

This won’t be comprehensive, but how about the basics for virgin author’s everywhere who want to delve into the great “Do Not Enter?” Sometimes it’s not just an exit, ladies and gentleman, but there are a couple of things we’re going to need in order to get this bird off the ground. So wave your magic pen and produce these magical items:

1.         Condom.  This baby gets top billing for most smut peddlers the world over. Publishing houses, generally speaking, are pretty firm on the “No Creampie” rule. That’s not to say you can’t sneak them in once in a while, especially in short stories which are more likely to fall into the erotica without romance or stupid people having risky sex categories (read: one seat closer to the almighty porn throne).  I wrote a short for Shane Allison’s Bad Boy anthology with Cleis Press (which should be out soon, actually) and had a bank robber getting it on with a hostage right after the hold up. Needless to say, there were no condoms available at the hideout in the woods. Obviously plot factors into your safe sex decision.

Also, if your MCs are in a serious, committed relationship, and you’ve laid that on the line—maybe even with a side note on VD testing (archaic term that is so Pretty in Pink it makes me smile–no, wait, I think that was Sixteen Candles)—you can go ahead and get really nasty. But—general rule of thumb—have a rubber in someone’s pocket/drawer/under the seat of their car/in the little booze container around their faithful St. Barnard’s neck.  Whatever. Non-human exceptions exist as well.  Aliens don’t carry AIDS and all you need is a rabies shot to get it on with a wolf shifter.

2.         Lube. This runs alongside the condom. For one, rubbers—even if they say lubricated—are going to make things, shall we say, rougher, than skin on skin. Also, chicks have the built-in lube. That’s right, we can make our own, so in vaginal sex no one gets bent out of shape if a bottle of K-Y isn’t sitting on your fictional dresser. But M/M? The human ass needs a helping hand (full of spit or jelly).  Spit isn’t the best, but it’s always available unless they are trapped in the Sahara, in which case, I doubt they’re feeling too amorous.

3.         A little foreplay. Even if you’ve got the rubber on your big burly top, he’s squirted an entire bottle of love-lotion on his long-stocking, and his pretty boyfriend is face-down-ass-up, it isn’t nice to just stick it in without a little preamble.  Rimming works, but if your guys aren’t so inclined, a gradual finger work-up is really the kinder, gentler thing to do than insta-penetration.

4.         Mention of the prostate.  No, it isn’t a prostrate like your mother-in-law calls it.  That means lying down with your face smashed into a pillow, which may well be the case with your sexy little bottom who happens to be getting his prostate hammered by his bear.  Not necessarily something you MUST mention, but seems to be a huge factor in the pleasure experience for the guy getting fucked.  I don’t know.  I don’t have one myself, and frankly I feel robbed. I’m going to go write my congressman right now.

5.         The grand finale!  I don’t need to tell you how to do this, really. The world is your orgasm oyster.  Have a fire hose showdown if you like.  One thing to remember is that if the guy on bottom gets off first, I hear tell having a big dick in his ass for an extended time after can be uncomfortable.  Again, I can’t verify this personally and I can’t ask my husband.  I also can’t take part in a fire hose showdown.  Robbed again.  Why else do you think I write this stuff?  It’s the closest I can cum, er come, I’m afraid. 😥

—————

There you have it! Now go out there and write some hot manlove. Who knows? You could be a natural! If you don’t feel comfortable doing it yourself, feel free to comment below for a chance to win my e-book “Forever is Now” and I’ll be happy to provide it for you.

In your comment, you may tell me your favorite 80’s song/movie or must-have male/male gettin’-it-on accouterments I missed. Fire at will, contest open all over the universe, and don’t forget to check out all the other blogs and comment like a mother-fucker.  Every comment on every stop gets you one step closer to the $50 gift card giveaway. I don’t make the rules, I just play by them (yeah, right).

-Kimber

This is a Blog Hop!



Who Here has Screwed the Pooch?

I’m wondering about weird phrases today.

It’s raining cats and dogs. Or maybe it’s colder than a witch’s titty. Oh, how the worm has turned, probably because it was a piece of cake.

What got me thinking of these dumb sayings, you ask? Well, for some reason, “screwed the pooch” came up in conversation and I got stuck analyzing it:

How is the term “screwed the pooch” at all socially acceptable?  Who started it and why didn’t the first person to use it get slammed by everyone within hearing distance?  It just doesn’t make sense. Why? For the love of Pete, WHY?!

As an author, I know that basically all publishers forbid animal love. While the erotica industry  is largely accepting of most forms of snoo-snoo, bestiality is pretty much a standard no-go everywhere you look. People getting kinky with pets? Hard stop. With good reason, I might add.

I do love to pet my pussy, don’t get me wrong, but I’ve never “screwed the pooch.”  I won’t even allow a dog to lick me, to be honest.  Grosses me out. I know damn well where that tongue’s been and I don’t want any part of it.

And they say the human mouth is the dirtiest.  My personal jury is still out on that. I’ll let you know the final verdict once the zombocalypse hits.

So, what other asinine phrases can you think of?  I revel in imagining “great balls of fire,” and “for the love of Pete,” especially since I know a very conservative Pete.  How about “holy shit?”  I can’t help but picture a priest in an outhouse for some reason.  These are all well-known, oft-used expressions.  But why?

What if we change it up the next time we’re in pleasant company?  Will the revised versions have the same effect?  Are my new phrases better or worse?

My best buddy just messed up royally, but I say, “Oh, man! You just made sweet love with a dog!”

“Huge flaming testicles!  That kid is driving me insane!”

“Oh, for the sake of being largely enamored with my husband’s unattractive coworker.”

“Well, priest in an outhouse, this is a garbage poker hand.”

Actually, I could get on board with the flaming testicles.  But really, where the hell do we come up with this excrement?  The English language is walnuts. Someone pass me the flippin’ raisins ’cause I’m gonna start mixing it up in everyday speech just to see if I can start some new idiotic idioms.


Where the Hell Have You Been?

I’d like to say that I was travelling, backpacking across Europe and didn’t have one of those plug converter thingies.  Or that I was abducted by aliens and just returned from the probing of a lifetime.  Or even that I was called to the bedside of a rich and ailing great-aunt to be told that if I nurse her for her last two weeks of life, I would receive her entire inheritance.  And now I’m rich and trying to drown the horror of the last fortnight in a vat of gin.

Alas, I’ve still only ever been to Germany and that was thirteen years ago, my ass feels just fine, and all of my middle-class relatives are alive and kicking.  Sadly, I also don’t have a “vat” of gin.

So, what the fuck have I been doing lately that I’ve shirked my blogging duties so tremendously?  Ehhhh…

Well, lets start with the writing.  I found out recently that my novelette-sized M/M erotica called ‘Bound by Ink’ was accepted by Storm Moon Press for their “Written in Flesh” anthology.  I am so stoked about this as it’s a double milestone for me.  It’s my first gay erotica that will be published and my first longer story that, after it spends a year wedged in what is sure to be a delightfully steamy book about tattooed men getting busy, it will be released solo as an e-book.  So, only my name on the cover.  Did you get that?  Only my name on the cover.  I actually just repeated that for myself because those words are almost better than sex.  Almost.  Yippee ki-yay motherfather.

I’ve also been working on a full length gay romantica novel.  Currently in the 26K department (with a 40k goal) and a little stalled because I forced myself to do my fourth read-through of my 40K hetero alien erotica and send to beta readers.  I’m sorta stuck on a name for this one, but we’ll call it “The Star Catcher” for now and maybe I’ll run some sort of naming poll or contest.  I love the name “Sextraterrestrial,” but don’t think I can be taken seriously with such a title.  Because, otherwise, I can be taken seriously, of course.

Gee, that contest thing is a swell idea, Beav!  I’d love to do some t-shirt giveaways.  If only I had some t-shirts.

What else?  Well, my horror persona has a recent anthology release and a blog tour (sometimes I feel like a cheating spouse, bouncing between blogs like a horny housewife when her husband’s away).  That little minx has another antho release set for mid June and a couple of deadlines to get some short stories finished and sent.  She is also working on a horror novel…very…very…slowly.  But, whenever she gets it all worked out and written, boy-ola is it gonna kick ass.  Maybe.  And no zombies, this time.

And finally, the kids are wrapping up school and there are final projects and performances and baking and meetings for Sunday School teachers and bible camp helpers (if this makes you laugh, go ahead and join me in the mirth.  I, too, can see the irony).

And I babysat Satan yesterday, but I’ll keep that story in my front pocket and smoke it when the urge strikes me.  Suffice it to say, everyone is alive and well and I plan to never again fall prey to that bit of neighborly niceness.  Asshat.


Good Place, Bad Place: Sex in Public

In mulling over a good place for some public snoo snoo in my current WIP, I find myself at a PDA crossroads.  So, to clarify a bit in my own mind and to help others (curious bystanders or writers, virgins or sluts) I endeavor to create a list of the good, the bad, and the downright ugly.

1. I’ll start off with the ugly.  I’m embarrassed to say that I considered this (not doing it, but writing it).  My locale doesn’t leave me too many options, but despite the lack of available space, I stand firm on my decision not to make my guys have sex in a porta-potty.  Not even a fancy version with antiseptic gel.  Not gonna do it.

Well, maybe I’ll write it just for fun, but no way is it getting into my manuscript.  Maybe a freebie to be posted here at a later date…?  I know, I’m such a porta-potty cock tease.

And I had no idea that Gerard Butler had a recent porta-potty screw until it popped up in my related links.  Freakin’ weird.  Butler, you idea-stealing bastard!  Way to one-up me.

2. Bad.  Bad, bad, bad.  I give you the swimming pool.  I’m sure a large percentage of teenage whores fell for the allure of the deep blue community pool in the dark of night.  Probably intoxicated, but you never know.  Maybe even completely sober, because from the outside looking in, the pool sings a siren’s song.  Slippery when wet, right?  Afraid not, Bon Jovi.  Water is not lube, my friends.  If it were, why would people even buy lube?  In fact, it is the anti-Christ to KY jelly.  Go ahead all you zealous teens, don’t take my word for it.  Let me know how that goes.  Or doesn’t, as the case may be.

3.  We need a good one, here.  Things are looking dismal.  You went to the concert and the porta-potties were just too damn nasty for a little love.  Back at the hotel, the pool keeps winking at you, but you do the smart thing and give it the finger.  Sure a hotel bed is just fine, but we’re looking for a little fun and excitement, right?  Enter the hotel room balcony.  The cool night air kisses the sweat right off you as you get down and dirty standing up.  Or bending over.  Or both.  Just don’t sit on the railing.  No orgasm is worth plummeting to your death.  Voyeurism never felt so good.  Bring your binoculars and when you’re done, check out the competition, or at least the pervs jerking it off to your Bittersweet Symphony.  That’ll throw them for a loop.

4.  Back to the ugly.  Tall grass.  Sure amber waves of grain will hide you from prying eyes, but then there are snakes, ticks, sharp blades of grass where no man has ever gone (okay, maybe he has, but still, it’s not meant for grass-blade paper cuts).  Again, I could probably get my characters here, but do I want to, really?

5.  We’re at a bad, and so I give you…the floor.  It’s not horrible.  Wouldn’t make the ugly list, but rug burns hurt for a while.  And they are easily identifiable.  Maybe you’ll wear that badge of honor on your lower back with a cut-off shirt and glowing pride.  But if the skanky boy in your English 101 class looked good enough to fuck after you ate that tequilla worm the other night, but now you want to douche with bleach and change schools, chances are, you don’t want the raw patch on your back to corroborate his story while you’re changing for gym.

6.  Well, where the hell can we screw?  I know, I know.  I feel your pain.  I’m not trying to be a negative Nancy.  I’m still looking for the perfect love connection for my literary dudes as well.  Shed?  Storage unit?  Public restroom with a glory hole?  Closet?  Under a band stand?  Colonel Mustard, in the kitchen, with a wrench?  The world may be my oyster, but I’m not finding any pearls.  I’ll keep you posted, and if anyone has any brilliant places for sexual encounters (whether tried and true, or just a fantasy) I want you to lay them on me.  Now.


Girls Who Write Boys Who Dig Boys Who Like Girls

You know the tune to sing to that, right?

If not, here you go.  Thank me later for the incredible ear worm.

Our talk today is about–you guessed it, girls who write boys who dig boys.  Don’t be discombobulated by my sketchy title.

Recently, I wrote a short gay erotica after reading some of the same.  For one, I like to flex my writing muscle, try new things, all that jazz.  My mom asked me, “How would you even know how to write that?”

Yeah, that’s right; I told my mom I was writing gay smut.  She’s my mom.  She has to love me no matter how far off the charts I go.  Besides, it’s just fun to see what she says.  If she wants to spend more time with her bible-thumping daughter, she’s entitled, but so far my writing proclivities haven’t boomeranged her in that direction.

Anyway, I didn’t tell her that I’ve done all the shit I write about; therefore, it’s really not too tough to write about.  Shock her, yes.  Give her a heart attack with confessions about blow jobs and anal sex—no.  Even I have my boundaries.

But, really, is it a huge stretch to imagine what two hot gay guys might get up to with a tube of lube and all the time in the world?  Nope.  In fact, a large percentage of M/M erotica authors are women.  Yes, men write it too, but the chicks are well represented.  And why not?

Is there some rule that non-lawyers can’t write a legal thriller?  Those without a medical background are incapable of producing the next Patricia Cornwell-esque novel?  Non-pet owners shouldn’t write characters who own dogs?As anything, you must do your homework.  The old adage, “write what you know” applies to an extent; in that, if you don’t know, you better find out.  Research–online, real live books, ask friends, whatever.  I wish I had a close gay friend so I could pick his brain.  And ask him for fashion advice.  But I don’t—yet.  So for now, I’ll stick to reading what others have written, trolling forums, and watching porn.

I’ll also keep DVR-ing Dr. G for when I get around to my autopsy mystery masterpiece.  You never know.

&&&&&&&&

Not to deviate too much from my topic, I also wanted to address the believability of females writing male characters and vice versa.  I read a blog post a little while back in which a woman was bashing a male author who had written from a female character’s POV.  Her beef was that he, apparently, did not have the slightest idea how women talk, think, behave, etc.  I did not read the original, so can’t weigh in on it.  I do, however, write horror on occasion, and I wonder if men generally shy away from female horror authors?  Also, do they dislike reading fiction with a female main character and/or dislike when women authors write from a male POV?

Just some thoughts, and if anyone has theories on this, lay it on me.  I am stone-cold curious.

Discuss. 

On a side note, I’m so glad they are letting that big ole lobster go free.  The guy that eats that bad boy would probably die immediatly of mercury poisoning anyway.  Bury ‘im with the plastic bib still on and melted butter running out of his nose.


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