That’s what my lovely and talented spouse (hereinafter Spouse) and I say to one another whenever we see a plot point in a television series or movie which could easily be solved if only the characters would embrace the power of AND. The hero is torn between two attractive women, but must choose only one. Or the heroine is involved with one attractive man but encounters another, equally-if-not-more attractive man… Oh–decisions, decisions! It’s amazing how many stories fold like a cheap mattress when the (usually unspoken) rule that one can only have one serious relationship at a time is discarded.

Oh, it’s okay to date (and even sleep with) more than one person, but  as soon as things look to be getting serious, our virtuous hero or heroine must pick one to cling to–and hand the other his/her walking papers. Or be considered a cad, a slut, a very bad person. Of course, if you tire of one lover and dump him or her for someone new in serial monogamy, that’s okay. You’re allowed to work your way through the field, as long as you have the decency to do it one person at a time.

I’ve never bought into that mindset. From the time I discovered orgasms and sex (and in that order), I knew I wanted lots of both. And I saw no good reason why I should limit myself to only one playmate. Alas, wanting and having are two different things. As Spock said to Stonn, his Vulcan rival in Amok Time after winning T’Pring’s hand–and other body parts–in the arena, “After a time, you may find that having is not so pleasing a thing, after all, as wanting. It is not logical. But it is often so.” Well, that’s probably true of someone like T’Pring, who was only interested in either man a means to an end. But it’s not universally true, and it sure as hell isn’t true about sex. Wanting sex is nowhere near as much fun as having sex.

I wanted sex for years before I managed to scratch that itch. I’d like to say “and not for want of trying” but I’d be lying. Shy, introverted, and hindered by a religious upbringing (more out of fear of the consequences if I acted on my desire and got caught, rather than because I believed in the virtue of chastity), I often failed to act on my desires. I also see, in retrospect, a number of missed opportunities; missed, of course, because in my shyness and discomfort, I missed cues that nowadays I’d actually notice. But eventually I succeeded in relieving myself of my unwanted virginity, and spent a year of college having what, at the time, I thought was gloriously exciting sex. Looking back on it, it was pretty bland, unimaginative sex with someone not much more experienced and possibly more inhibited than I was. But at least I was getting laid.

We broke up eventually, since we had nothing in common but sex. And it was much, much too long before I scored again. With someone who introduced me to the concept of polyamory. Multiple sex partners? Sign me up! There’s more to poly than that, of course, but that’s what I heard–and what I liked. We dabbled a little. I had two other partners for a time, though we didn’t see one another often–not nearly as often as I’d have liked. Eventually that primary relationship exploded messily, and I was single again.

Fast-forward a few years, and a couple of other relationships, and I find myself married to Spouse. We have a number of interests in common, including casual sex. So after some discussion, we decide to explore a local sex club. It was scary and exciting beyond belief; we spent over a year visiting regularly, never having sex with anyone else, just watching others having sex in public, and eventually doing so ourselves. Eventually, though, we took the plunge. We swapped with another couple. And then another. We were invited to a sex party, and then another. We fell in with a small group of dedicated swingers. Many others have come and gone (no pun intended), but the core group remains–and it was glorious. It’s still glorious fun, more than a decade later.

They say “write what you know.” So when I began writing with the intent to be published, my experiences informed my fiction. I write erotic romance, with the emphasis on erotic. The requisite “Happily Ever After” ending of traditional romance leaves no room for poly or swinging, but that’s what I enjoy writing most. So I mostly write erotica. The characters, the settings, the events…none of them are taken from real people or places, but I know what it’s like to be in a club or a hotel room, surrounded by naked men and women. I know what it is to see and hear and smell sex happening all around me, or to be the center of attention when I’m part of the couple or group everyone is watching. I couldn’t imagine giving that up, and fortunately, I don’t have to. My spouse enjoys it as much as I do.

It’s not for everyone.

But neither is monogamy.

Do you remember the first piece of erotic fiction you ever read?

I do.

At University, I took a course in sexual diversity studies. Censorship was on the syllabus. We studied the case of the Little Sister’s Bookstore in Vancouver. As part of our studies, we were assigned to read a short work of erotica that appeared in one of the books stopped at the border.

The book was “Macho Sluts.” The story was “The Surprise Party” by Pat Califia. It’s about a lesbian who’s picked up by three gay cops, and taken to a dirty hotel room to be subjected to an enema before they take her in every orifice.

To this day, Califia’s story is one of the most intense works of erotic fiction I’ve ever had the sexual pleasure of reading. But that’s not the only reason I remember it so specifically. It just so happens that when I read this story from my unassuming Printing House collection of essays and articles, I was sitting squished between two complete strangers on a city bus.

I remember glancing side to side, praying neither would look down and see the words on the page. Cunt. Cock. Blowjob. Leather. Yes, I was reading a school assignment, but Califia’s work is no statistics textbook. This was hard-core stuff. Far beyond anything I’ve ever read since, and beyond anything I’ve written myself as a writer of LGBT erotica.

Looking back, I find it difficult to believe I’d never read a work of erotic fiction before University. Certainly, I’d seen pornography before then. Perhaps the intensity and situation surrounding Califia’s story simply made it stick with me. Or, maybe my internal definition of erotica is too narrow. My grandmother, who is the greatest supporter of my career in erotic fiction, considers Gone With the Wind an erotic novel. Perhaps my generation is too over-exposed to view the hardness in anything soft.

But I leave you with my initial question: Do you remember the first piece of erotic fiction you ever read? And were you, like me, between strangers on a city bus at the time? For your sake, I hope not.

Bright Blessings,
Giselle Renarde
Canada just got hotter!

http://www.freewebs.com/gisellerenarde

http://twitter.com/GiselleRenarde

There’s a secret war being waged. It’s been going on for thousands of years while we go through life blissfully unaware that someone—something—is out there jockeying for a place in our quiet existence.

The battle to determine how best to cover our men’s genitalia continues to rage.

I was at a big Valentine’s Day chat on the Midnight Seductions Authors group Saturday- http://groups.yahoo.com/group/midnightseductions -and just happened to post a pic of two truly hot guys in their underwear—one in boxers, one in briefs. The caption read: boxers or briefs?

This little pic generated some hoots and hollers, lots of playful chatter, with women lining up on one side or the other. By the end, however, we’d all decided commando was the true preference. And that should probably end this blog post right here and now. Nope. I’ve got lots to say on the subject of underwear. Stand back, give me room.

Here in the South, a lot of our guys still cling to the traditional whitie tightie—pun intended, and that’s just fine with me. I think I’d be really upset if ol’ Bubba stripped down to a thong. To each his own, of course, but there’s something oddly comforting about those bright white Fruit of the Looms. They’ve been around for quite a while, and it doesn’t look like they’re going to become obsolete any time soon. At least I hope not. Besides, on the right man, they’re not going to stay on him that long anyway. Commando is indeed where it’s at.

People have actually written about the history of underwear. Men’s and women. When I saw that, I kind of figured they’d start out with the old stand by—the fig leaf. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find a reference to it anywhere, although I did see a nice pic in a men’s muscle magazine the other day with a guy standing in front of a waterfall wearing nothing but a leaf. I kept imagining him taking a step back and the force of the water knocking that leaf right off his…

Well, the caption said it was a fig leaf, but unless it’s some variety of fig tree I’m not aware of, that leaf was way too big—which made me wonder about the fig leaf cover up in the Bible where Adam and Eve hid their nakedness behind the leaf as a result of their shame over eating the forbidden fruit. The metaphor being pejorative in nature, of course. It didn’t hide much. In other words, everyone saw their shame.

Leather loin cloths were around seven thousand years ago. Now, I know some men wear leather today, but to me that would be pretty sweaty—and not the good kind of sweaty either.

The ancient Greeks used wool to cover their manhood. Talk about chafing! I’m beginning to wonder about who invented baby powder. But that’s for another blog.

Today’s underwear can be over the top and sexy as hell. In addition to those whitie tighties, boxer briefs, and plain old boxers, men now have a choice in a range of explosive color and style. How about thongs, jockstraps, and slingshots? Mesh, please? The pic up top is a sheer mesh jockstrap. It comes in a variety of colors too.

I love the slingshot. I even used that design in my latest book, Latin Rhythm. Here’s the snippet:

Wet, black hair buffeted his shoulders. His swarthy skin glittered with water droplets in the dazzling sunlight. Ripped muscles moved up and down his torso with fluid grace. And, oh my god, barely-there fluorescent orange-and-black swim briefs left nothing to the imagination. His bulky load packed into a tight slingshot said it all.

Want to see a slingshot and some other sexy male underwear? Take a look at this site: http://cocksox.com I so love the header. Although I do have concerns about what that guy is reaching for—or is he scratching?

For a look at male underwear over the ages visit: http://manstouch.com/mensunderwear/historyofmensunderwear.html I particularly love the slide show on this site. There’s one image/painting of a man looking a bit Sir Walter Raleighesque (not sure how to spell that), and his dog is in the pic. The dog seems to have homed in on what I can only describe as a codpiece. Gives new meaning to the term ‘boner’ and looks a lot more like the dog’s lunch than anything else. I guess this look helped with advertising a man’s size too. But as a woman, I’d have questioned the authenticity of the packaging. Hell, I do that now!

Any way you cut it, men’s underwear has changed over the years. It makes me wonder if men pay attention. Well, I guess they do or there wouldn’t be a need for all the changes. But I suspect a man decides early on which style suits him best, and all the wilder variations are reserved for playtime.

I’ve got a kid who lounges around in silk South Park, X Box, Rolling Stones, and Bugs Bunny boxers. And that’s just for hanging out. He prefers the boxer briefs for actual underwear. The men in my life have mostly worn briefs. Although, a few have enjoyed the freedom of boxers. In the early nineties, there was a trend amongst young women (sixteen to twenty-five, I’d say) to wear a pair of men’s boxers on top of their jeans. Thank God that trend is over!

So what’s your SO’s preference? Is he into the form fitting briefs or those loose-fitting boxers? How about the combination boxer-brief? Have you ever purchased him a pair of naughtier-than-hell thongs? Did he look at you like you’d lost your mind or grin and put them on, following up with a sexy dance just for you?

Ya’ll will have to excuse me now. Bubba is calling.

For a look at my slingshot-wearing hot Latin hunk, pick up a copy of Latin Rhythm at Pink Petal Books. http://pinkpetalbooks.com/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=6&products_id=84

http://tessmackall.com

http://myspace.com/tessmackall

http://twitter.com/tessmackall

Home life of late has totally sucked. The 18 year old is out to prove me wrong when I told the other two he was the good one. They always told me to beware of the quiet one. Turns out they were right. My 26 year old daughter is reveling in the fact that she is now the good one.
Work has been a bear. Everyone seems to be on vacation at the same time, putting extra work on those who are left. Now everyone is stressing that we are going to be open on Sunday. With all the nurses combined it turns out to be about 2-3 Sundays a year each nurse will have to work. Come on now, I may not like it, but I can handle it. I’d rather do that than stand in the unemployment line.
The husband…good Lord where do I start. He works with his father and brother in a family business. To say he’s been stressed is an understatement. I’m waiting for the guy to pop an artery and stroke out. He has a permanent scowl line on his forehead, his face is always red. If the bags under his eyes sag any further, he’s going to have to lift them up to eat.
His shoulders always look so tense and he blows up at the slightest provocation. One morning he’d left before me as he always does and when I went but the small country store in our town 20 minutes later, his truck was there. On our way out of town to drive to Florida that night I mentioned him still being at the store this morning, just as a conversation started, since I don’t ask how his day was anymore.
Well holy shit, you’d think I’d accused him of robbing a bank. He blew up. Yelling at me about all the stops he’d had to make that morning and how he’d stopped to get coffee. WHOA NELLY. Back up the fucking bus. I told him I would turn around, take him back home and go to Florida by myself. The stress level in the house had taken its toll. Frankly, I was seriously considering not coming back from Florida.
Well, he settled down and apologized, and off we went. We drove the 24 hour trip straight through and got to my daughters house 7:30 the next night. We were unpacking the truck when this guy brought my suitcase into my room.
Whooowee. Handsome, strong broad shoulders and the most welcoming smile I’d seen in a long time. No scowl, no frown lines, this guy looked like he could be a lot of fun. And boy was he. The sex was hot and frequent. Quiet walks on the beach. Fun moments at the water park. Damn I like this guy.
Vacation ended. We had gone to Florida to pick up my 4 year old grandson because my daughter is deploying to Afghanistan for 8 months. The drive home was no big deal. We did stop overnight this time because we had Jadin with us, but the kid travels like a seasoned traveler. He’s very used to it; he’s been doing it since he was 9 months old.
Well it appears I brought that strange man home with me. He walks through the door at night with a smile on his face and appears to have left all the stressors of working with family behind at the shop.
Now I think this has a lot to do with Jadin being here. The boy brightens everybody’s day just by smiling. Could be all the flirting and other fun stuff we did on vacation. But whatever the reason, I’m so very glad that the man I met on vacation didn’t disappear when we got back home. Here’s hoping it’ll last.

It’s pretty hot today. One of the photos I’m posting is from the cover of my July release Fire Season. Take a look at what we have here for your drooling pleasure on this Humpday…

Model Anderson Dornelles

Model Katie Green

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I believe I’ve pulled ahead in the category of technique. I have a nice, even stroke, but one that varies, if you know what I mean. Fast to slow, tip only to base only, pauses to keep myself in the come-petition.

And although I am quite adept at spanking the proverbial monkey (9.7 score out of 10 so far),  I’m shooting more for the title of longest wankings between orgasms. I’ve managed to pound out three smoothies with times of 5:43, 7:16 and — yes — 12:56.

Obviously we are on our break or I wouldn’t be typing this, now, would I?  But as on pornographic movie sets, we have what are called fluffies, young women who devote their time to keeping contestants’ cocks cooking. My fluffy’s name is Bubbles, yes, because of the way she blows.

Oh, I see we’re about to head back to the wanking arena, so I will provide a poem as Lex promised you I would. I hope you consider it appropriate and worthwhile (and meant for all the terrific twats out there for whom I yearn). I hope to return later today to complete my turn here.

It’s another addition of Flirty Author Bitches Humpday Extravaganza! Hope you enjoy the offerings!

Click here for the NSFW photos!

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