Have a Sexy Cinco de Mayo!

Beautiful Agony

Meg Ryan in every woman's favorite, When Harry Met Sally

I found this very erotic, very cool website called Beautiful Agony.com. It is a site dedicated to the most erotic aspect of sex, the orgasm. Now if you are looking for bare asses, bountiful breasts, or pussy shots you might be disappointed. But if you are turned on by what happens to us when we come, then this is the site for you.

You know, that face. That expression of pain and wonder as you are tossed over the edge into a few seconds of paradise. The little death, it has been called.

Normal people, like you and me (okay, so I'm not so normal), have posted videos on the site shot from the neck up. That's it, just the face. Every horny smile, satisfying grimace, lip biting, tongue wetting moment caught on tape. Just the human face and it's expressions, just the sound of your body as you come closer and closer to orgasm, just the moans that come unbidden, just the natural orgasm how ever the postee chooses to get off. Just...well, Just...hot! Very real, and oh so sexy.

There is something that defines us when we allow ourselves to lose control.

On a personal note. It took me a long time to let go. I was well into my twenties before I had my first orgasm. Sad, I know. And I was a masturbating fiend my friends. I send a shout out to Jessica who bought me my first vibrator. A glow in the dark number that I broke from my masturbating gymnastics. Every day, every night, with dildo's, with vibrators, with fingers. A friend introduced me to erotica, and you all know what a huge influence that has had on me.

But as much fun as I had trying to get myself off, I just couldn't quite let go. Frustrating. Why, I wondered. What was it in me that wouldn't allow me that pleasure? I recently read that 43% of American women are either non-orgasmic or will be for a significant part of their lives. That's a hell of a high number. And 83% of women have faked it. And if you think you have never been with a women who has, just remember, When Harry Met Sally.

I had lovers, men and women. Some put a lot of effort into finding my pleasure, some didn't, but until I met my husband, I guess I never trusted anyone enough to let go. I've heard people say you shouldn't marry someone for sex, but it is definitely one of the reasons I love him. I come every time, multiple times in most cases, and he will not stop until I do. His generosity as a lover is part of why I love him.

I have to say, now that I have found my friend the big "O" I can't imagine life without it. I truly don't know what I look like when I come, but I imagine it isn't pretty. From the look on my husband's face, it sure is hot.

Be Afraid, Be Very Afraid

I was reading something scary in "Writer's Digest" today. Chills ran up and down my spine!

Some publishers are saying they can't publish stories that have been posted on blogs. Blogs are becoming too recognized (Fuck, you wouldn't know that from the lack of comments on mine.) But, but...I want to publish here. I want to feel like someone out there is getting off from my dirty stories.

Personally, I think this sucks ass. I post my stories to get feedback and although I know I hear crickets when I go to my blogger, I still want to be able to post.

This leads me to tell you about my new find, gather.com. This is an awesome sight folks, where I have created my own erotic writing group. You should all join up and share you dirty thoughts with me at erotikryter.gather.com. You know you wanna...come on, everyone's doing it! ;-)

The article in WD said that private writing group sites, where one has to be a member to read, would not disclude the author like a "normal" blog. So sights like gather where you can make a private group or The Fish Tank where we can critique each other's work are still cool. So join me at gather or take a dip in the tank!

All is not lost.

Help!

I am doing research on Persian culture in the Golden Age of Islam, specifically on the culutre of the women and am coming up blank. I had heard somewhere or read somewhere that the women during this time period were much more liberal than they are today.

One of the characters in my novel is a women from the Middle Ages that I want to be strong and independant. She is also foreign, and at the moment from Persia. I set her from this country because of this thing I read or heard, but can't verify. My lead character is facinated with all knowledge of other places and it is one of the reasons she is attracted to the Persian character. I know I am writing fiction, but I also want some sort of fact behind my fiction. Does anyone out there know a good book or a good website on the history of women in the middle ages, specifcally in Persia and Islam?

I was also inpired today to reach beyond my current outline. Perhaps a second novel? or maybe the story I have to tell is longer than what I have down.

Sexy Sage Airwaves!

Just a quick note to those of you in listening range of radio station WFMPin Minneapolis/St. Paul --

Sage Vivant will be interviewed on the Lori and Julia Show at approximately 5:15 pm on Monday, April 16. They'll be talking about her book, YOUR EROTIC PERSONALITY, and of course, about her crazy job: writing customized erotic fiction! Hope you can tune in if the broadcast is in your area.

:-)

No good Mother-fuckers!

A hacker broke into our computer and destroyed all of my writing. AGAIN! ASSHOLES!

Two years ago I was infected with a virus, this time they found a way to break into the computer and alter all the files.

What the fuck!? is up with people? What are they just bored?

Well we fixed you mother-fuckers! This time I had back-up! I just really hate that we live in a world where some yahoo geek, who can't get it on with a living human being feels like he has to get off by fucking with my personal shit!

GRRRRRR!

Be a Good Egg!

Sage Vivant's New Book Now Available

At last! I'm so happy to announce that YOUR EROTIC PERSONALITY:IDENTIFYING AND UNDERSTANDING YOUR SEXUAL SELF is officially available inbookstores everywhere!

ABOUT THE BOOK
If you want more out of s*x, crave insight into what you like and why, andeven learn about the person you're involved with, this book will help youdo that. Self-knowledge is power, and once you know what makes you tickand how to indulge it, your love life will naturally become morefulfilling. It can't help but do anything else.

The book begins with a quiz to help you identify which of twelve eroticpersonality types you are. The rest of the book dedicates a chapter todescribing each type and offering suggestions that will make that typeenjoy s*x to the greatest extent possible.Best of all, however, it delivers one consistent message. Whatever youlike is natural and healthy. It isn't any less sophisticated orenlightened than what anybody else needs for arousal. And that's a notionthat our bigger/better/faster/more culture frequently forgets -- much toeveryone's detriment.

Follow this link to buy the book from Amazon.com:http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0425214346/customeroticasou

FIND OUT MORE -- AND TAKE THE QUIZ ONLINE!

I've created a site to give you a great introduction to the book: http://www.sagevivant.com

Tits Down, Ass Up

Here's my latest bit of sizzling sex writing for your reading pleasure. Entered this in a contest at Desdmona.com with a theme of body art. Let me know what you think...:-)

Tits Down, Ass Up (FF, oral)
Copyright © 2007 by Crystal Barela

“Where the fuck have you been, Cali?” Tony’s deep voice was muffled by how close he was bent over the chick in front of him. He needed glasses and I swear he didn’t get them so he could smell the smooth skin of his female clients as he applied ink to skin.

“Traffic,” I said. The back door shut behind me and I threw my gear in the corner. I ran my hands through my straight black hair to rid myself of helmet head.

“Shit, kid,” he said. “Why don’t you take the subway like the rest of the East Village?”

My wheels were pulled up in the alley behind the shop. The Softail with shiny chrome rims was the perfect reason for braving the streets of Manhattan. “Reputation.”

Tony snorted and said, “That one’s been waiting on you for more than an hour.” He gestured with his head to the front of the shop.

There were half a dozen girls sitting on the red vinyl in front of our shop window. Their tattooed backs and shoulders were the perfect draw for the curious window shoppers cruising by on the sidewalk out front.

“Lucy, who’s my first victim?” Our receptionist—I nearly laughed out loud at the formality of the title given to our single employee. She had taken the position for the free tats and the flow of ladies visiting the shop for my artistic attention.

“Tantra!” Lucy called out, as if our customers weren’t mere feet from her desk.

Was that name for real? I scanned the ladies, clicking the bar in my tongue against the back of my teeth. A nasty habit which I found to be a turn off when other women did it, but I somehow derived great pleasure in doing myself.

“Tantra?”

No answer. Not everyone believes in fashionably late.

***
The shop was silent when I opened the door the next morning. Truth was, I hadn’t gone to sleep the night before. Some might say that I shouldn’t be poking people with sharp objects then, but personally I thought a little overtime in the waking world made me more attuned.

Besides, Tony was in DC. His old lady’s kid was graduating from college. Marco was flying in from El Paso this afternoon to keep the empty chair filled for the next two weeks.

I flipped on the lights. The mirrored wall that ran the length of the shop was framed by thick red velvet drapes. The other walls were black and decorated with photos of all of our celebrity clients.

I paused in front of the picture of me and Jolie. Now those were some mother fucking hot lips. If I do recall, I thought, rocking back on the heels of my black leather boots, we’d held more than each other’s hands. Shit! Don’t believe me? This was before Brad, and truth be told, before Billy Bob. I’d only been eighteen at the time. Barely legal. I was Tony’s apprentice then and only able to touch her skin with my fingers. No matter how I had pleaded, Tony had not let me hold a needle.

I sat into the overstuffed chair, set my feet on the desk, and crossed my feet at the ankles. Lucy would try to kick my ass if she knew. She hadn’t come to the realization that this wasn’t her shop.

The first client under my name on Lucy’s clipboard: Tantra. There couldn’t be another woman with that name, even in Manhattan. Mid-week was usually slow and the mysterious Tantra was due—

The bells on the door chimed and I let the clipboard rest against my forehead, hiding in a few more seconds of silence. She was early.

“Cali! Baby!” Marco tilted back on the heels of his cowboy boots and held out his arms.

I hopped over the desk, and flew into his chest nearly knocking him off his feet. He pounded my back.

“You smell awesome,” I said. A musky cologne.

“Cigarettes,” he said with a sniff, not loosening his hold. “No time to go home and shower?”

“Fuck,” I said. “No time to be a gentleman?”
“Remember who you’re talking to.” Marco leaned back and peered down at me with the devil’s eyes. “Is she done?”

“Thirty-nine hours.” I undid the button fly of my Levis and tugged the hem of my fishnet tee to my braless breasts.

Koi. The Japanese consider them a symbol of energy and power. Chris O’Donnell, a genius with the needle, had tattooed the one swimming from between my legs. The length of the fish’s body wrapped around my hip, circled my waist and reappeared under my arm, the lips stopping to feed at my right breast. This masterpiece of color and grace had taken more than a year to complete and Marco had seen the design before he left for home last year.

“Brilliant.”

“I know,” I said, running a hand down my ribcage. “I wish I could work naked.”

Marco laughed. “Me too.”

***

“Are you Cali?” Her voice was lush. Wet. My imagination sent my pussy swimming.

“Shop closes at midnight,” I called out from the back of the shop, regret in my voice. My back was to the door as I stuffed my face with a hotdog Marco had brought back from the street vendor. It was cold from earlier this evening, but there is nothing like a New York City frank.

“That’s not what the sign says,” she called back.

That voice. I wiped my mouth with a napkin. “Look, honey, Marco is gonna be here in the morning.”

“No, I want you to do it.”

The way she said it made my insides burn.

I turned.

Where I was lanky and all limbs, she was hips and thighs. I topped her by a good five inches. Her ass was in abundance and painted into her jeans. Her eyes were that somewhere between blue and green only found in nature, fringed with reddish blonde lashes, and looking at me like she could eat me up.

She took my hand, her sleeveless arm pale and bare of color. Her fingers were decorated in large chunky rings of jewel-colored cut glass.

“Maybe I could make an exception for…?” Was there a discreet way to check my breath for lingering hot dog odors?

“Tantra.”

“It’s you.”

She laughed. “It’s me.”

I took her hand. “I’ve been expecting you for about two weeks now.”

“Nerves.”

“A virgin?”

She raised and eyebrow and her lips twitched.

“Your skin, it’s bare? A virgin to the needle?” Although it would have been nice to have been present for the deflowering.

“Yes, no tattoos.”

“Well then, you’ve come to the right place,” I said, leading her over to my chair.

At the back of the shop I had the sketch she’d left last week on one of her many no-shows. I had thought twice about working on the transfer, considering Tantra’s track record of making appointments and breaking them, but it was an inspiring drawing. It had honestly been a turn-on to spend some time with the sketch.

I had done a tree of life before, but not of this size. The roots twisted into a Celtic circle pattern at the base and the trunk of the tree rose in a knotty line, its branches curling out to the sides about six inches up. Leaves clung to the branches. It was really quite beautiful. Expensive and time consuming too. It had been designed for a woman’s back.

“Turn around, baby.”

As she turned, Tantra lifted her shirt up over hear head. God, I love my job! I got a quick peek at her full, round breasts, tucked into black lace bra cups. This was one ripe woman. Hot.

“You know the lower back is one of the most painful places for a woman to get a tattoo?”

“Yes.” There was a thrill in her voice.

“And that this is gonna take at least three sittings?”

“You can’t do it all tonight?”

“It’s an eight hour job.”

“I’d pay extra.”

“You want color too?”

Tantra nodded. I walked toward the back of the shop, sketch in hand. The leaves on the branches were so delicate, gold and green. They seemed to move as if a breeze were blowing in the background.

Was I actually considering this? I hadn’t slept in more than twenty-four hours, and this wasn’t an easy job. I rubbed the back of my neck and looked down at Tantra, clutching her shirt beneath her beautiful breasts, the bits of lace not hiding the shadows of her nipples. She was worrying her lower lip with her teeth. One tooth was crooked. Sexy.

I patted the black vinyl of my chair and she hopped on board, her feet dangling in cute espadrille wedge sandals.

“Why is this tattoo important to you, honey?” Tantra’s back was to me. I unhooked her bra. She sucked in her breath as I lifted her thick red curls from her shoulders and secured them with a hair clip on top her head.

“My sister, she drew this,” she whispered in that sultry voice. “We’re twins.”

If that didn’t put a wet spot in my jeans.

“In a couple of months I’m going to see her in Ireland.”

“Unsnap your jeans.” The drag of the zipper and a shimmy of hips revealed the white of her skin to the crack of her ass. Was she wearing panties?

I covered my palms with shave oil and spread it over Tantra’s shoulder blades. Her skin was pale and smooth, except for where her bra had left red lines. I lingered a bit too long, massaging the marks away. She sighed, and I found I was in danger of losing my professionalism.

The crinkle of the plastic being torn from the razor and then the smooth swipe of blade across her opalescent skin made my lips ache. Gently, I lay the transfer on her back, and then wet it with a sponge, dabbing at the smooth canvas of her back. I lifted a corner of the paper and drew it across her back.

A sigh tinged with sex filled my shop as I pulled the paper free.

Looked good. Too good. I handed the mirror over her shoulder and pointed her in the direction of the wall. “Check the placement, sugar.” Get a grip, Cali. Work before pleasure.
Tantra went over to the mirrored wall and held up the hand mirror to look over her shoulder.

“Perfect!” she squealed, with a little hop. She turned to the right, then left, and all my eyes saw were her breasts, now bare and free. Nipples puckered from the night air coming through the back door teasing my eyes.

I rubbed my eyes. Tired and horny, that’s what I was.

“Tantra, baby, I think we should reschedule.” Sleep would help me to concentrate on my art and not her ass.

“No!” She bounced over to me and took my hands in hers.

“I haven’t slept in days and—”
She put my hands on her tits and the thought of putting her off was gone.

“Another night won’t hurt.”

“You have a point,” I said, massaging her breasts. I leaned down, her face nearing mine.

A kiss, two nips.

Shook my head, took a step back. “Okay beautiful,” I said. “Tits down, ass up.”

***

Silent tears were running down Tantra’s face, which belayed the soft sighs and moans that escaped each pass of my tattoo gun. She was one of those that liked the pain and although I was known to have a gentle hand, she didn’t want it. I was surprised she wasn’t covered in tats and piercings.

With every gasp I had to force myself not to throw my tattoo gun aside and fuck her. The scent of her arousal was driving me mad.

“Nearly done, baby,” I said. A lie to myself. I had finished the Celtic knot and still had the entire tree to do. The goal was to finish the outline tonight. We were only a half hour in. I wiped my brow, bent and adjusted the knob on my tattoo machine. I was a professional.

Tantra gave her ass a wiggle pressing her pussy into the vinyl. “More Cali,” she pleaded.
Not gonna make it. “Be still, sugar.” My voice was harsh, my throat dry.

I sprayed the inky skin with water and wiped it with the towel, now discolored with black ink. I spread Vaseline across the tat. Looked good.

“Why’d you want me to do you?” I asked.

Wipe, spray, tat.

“Charlotte Scott.”

My hand wavered. Charlotte? Charlotte had a thing for pain too. More than the little the buzz my gun had.

Wipe, spray, tat.

Her ass had been in the exact same spot as Tantra’s pussy. Three in the morning. Clothing optional. I’d worn nothing but a strap-on. Nearly fucked Charlott’s pussy raw, right after piercing her clit. Now that’s pain.

“You trying to tell me something, sugar?” I drew my hand along the small of her back, the trunk of the tree taking shape.

“Breath deep,” Tantra said.

Wipe, spray, tat. Breathe.

“Smell that?” she said. “My pussy’s been hot for you since Charlotte told me how she got her piercing.”

I placed a hand on the small of her back. “Suck it up darlin’,” I said.

Tantra looked over her shoulder and caught my eyes.

“No.”

Oh shit.

“I am so wet.”

Oh fuck. I closed my eyes trying to find my strength of will. “What do you want more, sugar?” I whispered. “This tattoo or my face in your pussy?”

Tantra stood and turned around, hooking her thumbs in the waistband of her jeans. The jeans shimmied down her thighs and I holstered my gun. She kicked the jeans aside.

My smooth moves were out the door. All I could think of was tasting every inch of her body. Her lips were plump and sweet. Her neck soap scented. I buried my face between her breasts, nosing around like an animal. The sweat where the soft mounds met her body was salty and bold.

My synthetic gloved fingers slipped through her sopping slit. One, two fingers found a home in her hot hole. I forced her back onto the table, sure to press her tat into the table. She cried out, but her pussy squeezed my fingers.

Tantra clutched my head to her breasts and I devoured her hard nipples. Biting, bruising suction. Her hips bucked and she urged me lower.

I nibbled my way over her soft round stomach, past her belly button, and into the thick curly hair covering her snatch. Her swollen pussy lips glistened.

My hand pinned her to the tattooing chair. My fingers dove in and out, piercing her hungry hole. Her lips became redder and the skin around her thighs flushed.

My tongue circled her clit. A third finger wedged its way into her hungry cunt.

She panted, pushing her hips against me.

The muscles in her thighs squeezed my cheeks.

My tongue bar gave her a kiss.

Fingers yanked my hair.

Tantra screamed.

Tears wet her cheeks as her pussy bathed my face.

Jesus. I pulled my bruised fingers free and sat back on my heels. I undid my fly. Just a couple of strokes and I’d be with her.

“No,” she gasped.

I froze. Not sure I was ready to take orders yet. I just wanted to get off.

“Stand.”

I did, and my jeans fell to my ankles. My cunt pulsed.

“Take off your shirt.”

I lifted the hem of my tee and watched her come to me on wobbly legs.

“So beautiful,” she said. Tantra traced a finger from the mouth of the koi sucking my breast. She followed the orange and gold scales around my torso. Her lips repainted the bold lines of the graceful fins on my shoulder blades with soft kisses and wet licks. They followed the curling trail of ink between my legs and set me free.

Tantra tapped my clit then plunged her tongue into my folds, releasing my koi. The fish burst from my skin and into the air, swimming in circles around my head as I came in dizzying waves.
Tantra stood and lay, tits down, on the chair, her beautiful ass bare.

I buttoned my fly and picked up a fresh white rag. The work I had done earlier was bleeding and the skin red.

“I’m sorry, sugar,” I said.

“Didn’t feel a thing.”

I placed a tender kiss on the abused flesh at the base of her spine and promised myself I would stop thinking about pussy.

Tantra sucked in her breath and I squeezed my thighs together.

I sprayed her skin with water and washed the smooth flesh carefully before turning on my tattoo machine.

“Ready for a rough ride, baby?”

“You promise to kiss it all better?”

The ache she had just eased began to spread through my lower body. “And then some.”

I have a fan!

...who isn't my mom or best friend. My first fan letter arrived today in my inbox. Felt kinda great to know someone is out there reading what I'm writing and liking my words. They had read my story "From the Sea" published in Call of the Dark.

This is definately one of my favorite stories, especially for the story-telling quality. If you want a re-read its in the archives.

"Sipping..." Update

Heard back from S. today. She swam with me when I was in the fishtank (I am sad to say it has been a while since I did the backstroke). One of her current projects is an anthology whose theme is party drinks. My story "Sipping Margarita" is very lucky to be involved in this venture. So the edit is back and I have to take a look and see what advice she has for me.

I really admire her writing. She is awesome at desciption and getting to the heart of her stories.

What is your Erotic Personality?

My friend Sage is working on a fun movie book. Click the link below to find out more!

http://sagevivant.com/your_erotic_personality_movie.php

Who has the time?

Okay, I am always saying I don't have time to write. It's true. An hour a day. That's nothing. Nothing.

But another activity I neglect is reading. Ten minutes on the toilet with "Real Simple" just isn't cutting it. I miss those days in New York, when I had a guaranteed hour and a half a day commuting on the train. For sure time with my books.

A book a month now. Shit. I think it hurts my writing. I write better when I read more. It's a fact.

Good writing also inspires me to write. When I read a chapter from one of my favorite authors, I think, "I want to do that. I want to send someone to another place. A real place, as real as thier living room." Diana Gabaldon has written six books in a series about the same two people, each over 800 pages long! I have yet to finish my first novel. Short stories. Good short stories, but that novel is coming along a page a month.

I am babbling, probably because I am tired. But one of my goals is to read a book every two weeks instead of once a month. Doesn't seem like much, but thats double the inspiration.

A people's sexual revolution in China

SHANGHAI: When Sports Illustrated's swimsuit issue hit the newsstands last week in mainland China for the first time, with the sexy singer Beyoncé on the cover, the competition was fierce.
Readers here had already seen the February issue of For Him Magazine, which features a Chinese singer, A Duo, on its cover wearing a white V-neck leotard that reveals every other inch of her rather substantial figure.

Inside, A Duo poses like a dominatrix, clutching her breasts, wrapping her naked body in celluloid and bending, sweat-drenched, over a submissive man.

The racy For Him Magazine also offers tips on "how to do it in five minutes" (because a "sex break is the same as a coffee break") and features stories with titles like "The Dangerous Sex Journey of QiQi."

Read more of this articale by David Barboza

Quote of the Day

"Of all the delights of this world, man cares most for sexual intercourse. Yet he has left it out of his heaven." - Mark Twain

Psychopathia Sexualis

"Writer-director Bret Wood brings to the screen titillating vignettes that portray the deviant sexual behaviors catalogued in Richard von Krafft-Ebing's infamous medical text that shocked Victorian sensibilities. Dramatizing cases such as those of a masochist seeking carnal fulfillment from being dominated and a lesbian tutor who seduces her female pupil, this provocative film is a study in steamy soft-core fetishism and sexual exploitation."

This movie was strange, but also very interesting. This doctor was attempting to categorizing sexual behavior. Everyone should be put in their neat little box.

Sex can’t be defined this way. Well, at least I don’t think it can.

For example, I love for my partner to be in charge, a little rough, but on occasion I want to whip him into shape. We all know my sexual history. Well we ALL want to know my sexual history…;-) What we can deduce by my published writing is that I think girls are hot. And looky here on my ring finger, a wedding band. Yes, my husband was voted an honorary lesbian in college by the National Lesbian Society at his university, but let me assure you he has all the appropriate parts and knows how to use them amazing well.

My point is, sex isn’t cut and dry. Some days fresh from the shower, the scent of soap and fresh deodorant tickling my nose hairs; and others a sweaty ball sack can get me going. It’s not gross! Try it, try it, you will see…;-)

Anyhow, back to this movie. Interesting and strange vignettes dealing with this doctor’s thoughts on sex. Definitely worth a watch. I found the lesbian sex scene to be, shall we say, arousing. Although I did find a big part of the ridiculous in it.

Who's the Bomb?

Who's a nasty bitch? Why yours truely. I am so psyched to tell my devoted fans that I am the newest staff writer at Custom Erotica Source.com. Thank you! Thank you!

Now lets see if I can do this thing. As I have said earlier it wasn't easy writing that greenhouse number, but it was fun.

Anyhow, I am stoked...truely and for sure.

Have a Sexy Valentine's Day!

Kissing Record

MANILA, Philippines - More than 6,000 couples kissed simultaneously at midnight Saturday in the Philippines with organizers of the event claiming to have set a new world record.
Organizers of the annual pre- Valentine's Day celebration said they broke the record held by

Hungary, where 5,875 couples kissed simultaneously in Budapest in 2005.
"We broke the record, it's great," said Howard Belton, a Briton who spearheaded the event.

With fireworks, confetti, a giant TV screen, and red balloons as the backdrop, couples locked lips and hugged for 10 seconds following a countdown outside a Manila mall.

An unofficial tally showed 6,124 couples kissed simultaneously, organizers said, but the number needs to be verified by an independent auditor and approved by Guinness World Record officials before it becomes a world record.

"It was our first time to join the celebration and we participated to be able to beat the record of Hungary," said Katherine Hermosa, who was with her boyfriend.

Quote of the Day

Anybody who believes that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach flunked geography. ~Robert Byrne, quoted in 1,911 Best Things Anybody Ever Said, 1988

Give Your Knitting a Little Discipline!

Thought this site was cool. Jennifer Stafford is the creator of a popular websiste called www.domiknitrix.com. There you can find goth influenced, sexy patterns with no-nonsense instructions. Break away from the ho-hum with projects like the Winged Heart Bralet, the Devil Hat, the Big Bad Wolf Pullover and the Biteme/Spank Me Valentine Candy Pillows, and infuse your knitting with some renegade spirit.

US Funds Abstinence Training for Adults

by Janice Erlbaum
Would you horndogs stop having sex already?

The US government is expected to spend close to $50 million in 2007 on state-run abstinence-only "birth-control programs" aimed at people as old as 29. These programs, which are supposed to reduce the number of unwanted pregnancies by preaching abstinence, make no mention of birth-control devices or methods or how they work; instead, they teach participants that no sex is safe sex and that people should not have sex before marriage. Previously, states were given grants to fund abstinence-only programs (which do little to reduce unwanted pregnancies, compared to comprehensive programs featuring real information about birth control) for kids age 12 though 19, but the Department of Health and Human Resources has now revised its guidlines to include adults in their 20s. Advocates of women's health are appalled at our government's intrusive, moralistic approach to adult sexuality: when 90 percent of adults aged 20-29 are having sex, you're not going to decrease the number of unwanted pregnancies by telling them to stop. And the other 10 percent are doing just fine not getting laid all on their own, without the government's help.

Naughty Words

Dr. Johnson silenced two spinsters who complimented him for the omision of
"naughty words" in his dictionary with the comment: "What! my dears! then you have been looking for them." - Taken from The Literary Life and other Curiosities

New "Source" of Inpiration

So, I am trying something new. There was a posting at the Erotic Readers & Writers Association website for writers for a customized erotica website called Custom Erotica Source. Shawn and I have often talked putting something together like this, but of course never have. I think it is an awesome idea.

I e-mailed them and was given a sample assignment to show them what I can put together in a week. I love the setting and hope that I am able to give them something they want. This could be a fun way to earn some extra cash. Wish me luck!

Quote of the Day

"Fifty percent of women in this country are not having orgasms. If that were true for the male population, it would be declared a national emergency." - Margo St. James

"Lipstick..." Update

Guess what came in the mail today? Payment for my contribution to the Lipstick on Her Collar anthology. Maybe this means my story, "Reap What you Sew," will be going into print soon. My story was chosen the summer before last, before I created my writing blog.

When writing this little number I was pictureing the showroom I used to work at in NY. Having designed bathing suits there it wasn't a long stretch to picture lingerie being created. We also had an amazing seamstress named Magdalina, but she was a very sweet older lady. She would probably be shocked by this...lol...

Let me know what you think!

Reap What You Sew [1986 words] (FF, oral)
Copyright © 2005 by Crystal Barela

This story contains sexually explicit scenes.

I looked down at the sewing machine in front of me, adjusted the silk and lace under the needle and hit the presser foot. The whiz of the sewing machine echoed in the near empty room. Machines sat to my sides, in front and behind. A rainbow of delicate fabrics and ribbons were tucked in the drawers beneath my sewing table. Loose colorful threads dangled form their holders.

The delicate scent of roses preceded Sharon, along with the click-clack of her heels.

I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear and glimpsed her walking past me from the corner of my eye. Her heels were high, too high to walk the paved streets of Manhattan, but she wore them everyday. No shorter than three inches in height, seamed stockings a favorite of hers.

Sharon looked the designer. One day the clean lines of Klein skimmed her curves, the next day the sumptuous fabrics of Gautier. A little flash and a lot of style could have been her motto.

It was after hours and Sharon had asked me to finish this bit of lace in front of me. A personal project. Not a difficult job, I turned out three dozen of these a day. When I was done it would be a delicate black lace demi-bra. The matching low-riding thong and garter belt were finished, also black, with contrasting cherry red stitching.

“Mags?”

I looked up from my needle. My name was Magdalina. She was the only one who called me Mags.

Sharon stood in her office doorway, white silk blouse unbuttoned and pulled from her black pencil skirt. I swallowed hard. She wasn’t wearing a bra and the gentle shadow of her cleavage winked at me when she put her hands on her hips.

“Yes, Ms. Sharon?”

She shook her head at me, smiling.

“Always so formal, Mags,” she walked toward me a natural sway to her hips. Her blonde hair skimmed her collar bones. “How long have we known each other? Four years?”

Four years, five months, two days, eight hours and a handful of minutes. But who’s counting? It had been winter and she had been late. Sharon had walked into the office unbelting an amazing white lamb’s wool trench, her calves encased in red leg-hugging leather that had looked as soft as butter; the heels topped four inches.

Underneath had been more winter white; a cashmere dress with a loosely clasped rhinestone belt floating on her hips. The hem just skimmed her knees. The only skin visible was her face, set on a pedestal of white.

“Nearly done?”

I focused on the project in front of me.

Sharon came up behind me and leaned over my shoulder, fingering the delicate material between her manicured fingers, the bright red polish setting off the lace.

The heat of her body pressed against my back. Her soft hair kissed my bare arm.

“Beautiful work.” She whispered her breath wetting my ear. I shivered, shifting the chair away from her, the screech of the legs against the floor echoed in the room.

“Thank you, Ms. Sharon.”

She stood, placing her hands on my shoulders.

“You really are the best seamstress we have, Mags.” She massaged my shoulders, thumbs brushing my neck. “Every stitch perfect.”

I trembled. “Thank you.”

“Are you a perfectionist in all that you do?”

I ignored her question and pressed my foot against the pedal. Sharon squeezed my shoulders lightly and then took the garter and panties and returned to her office. She looked over her shoulder in the doorway, letting her shirt fall down her back to her elbows.

“Bring the bra in when you finish.”

I nodded, trying to keep my eyes on my work.

Three more minutes and I would be done. Away from Sharon’s heels. Free of her perfume. Not near the lace that would be cupping her breasts and pussy as my hands ached to.

I would take the subway home to my little apartment in Brooklyn and sit in front of my air conditioner. I’d get out my Rabbit and take care of the heat Sharon created. A little time with the intense buzz of those little ears would banish this need.

I pulled the bra from under the foot of the machine. I snipped the loose threads with my scissors and held it in front of me. Sharon was right. Perfect.

I turned off my machine, straightened my sewing table and returned the thread to the shelves before heading to her office.

Sharon’s back was to me, her weight on one leg as she examined the design illustrations on the wall in front of her. She had removed her blouse and skirt. The thong and garter I had sewn licked her curves.

My mouth watered.

Her stockings were neatly in place, exposing a stretch of creamy thigh and ass.

I cleared my throat. Her shoulder blades shifted, muscles moving delicately beneath her skin.

Sharon smiled over her shoulder, adjusting the glasses perched on the end of her nose.

“Mags,” her smile grew wider. She came toward me, removing her specs. “That was quick.”

My eyes focused on her breasts. No bra necessary. Round, full, succulent. Nipples, pale blushing shadows, hardening at my stare. Or from the air-conditioning. I shook my head, fighting my desire.

“Thank you,” Sharon said. She stood closer than I would have liked. My skin flushed by her nearness. She took the bra from my hand and leaned into me, her lips grazing my cheek. “You’re an artist.”

I turned my head, my lips brushing hers.

My coverall’s met her breasts and a blush traveled up her chest to her cheeks.

She hesitated.

I didn’t.

My tongue traced her glossy pout.

Sharon’s tongue answered tentatively.

That was all the permission I needed.

I pressed her back against her desk, design markers rolling onto the floor as my tongue plundered her mouth. She moaned, her arms circling my neck and pulling the rubber band from my hair. My pony-tail slipped free and my black hair fell around our shoulders.

My fingers glided beneath the flimsy bit of silk covering her pussy and slid through her smooth folds. Wetness clung to my fingers, spreading the ache in my cunt. She gasped my name. I massaged her mound, my thumb circling her clit.

Sharon’s neck tasted like talcum. I kissed my way down to her breasts. Under my tongue, her nipples were hard little buttons. I sucked her into my mouth, her moans milking my pussy.

My panties were soaked.

Sharon’s hands fumbled with the hooks on my overalls, and the denim bunched up between us. My finger inched inside, then two, pushing along her silky walls. She bucked against my calloused hands.

Papers flew from her desk.

I kicked off my sneakers and climbed up with her in nothing but my white wife beater.

“Mags?” she gasped. I took a seat on her knee, rubbing my cunt against the smooth silk stocking.

“Ms. Sharon?”

“What are you doing?” Her thigh moved under me and I began to ride, keeping time with my hand in her cunt.

“Fucking you.”

Sharon laughed and I leaned in close to her wet box. I blew against her clit. Her wet pearl grew bold, peaking out from behind its curtain. I licked and it danced, taking hold of my tongue in an unfamiliar beat. My taste buds popped.

Sweet, bitter, tart, salty.

Her fingers slid through my hair, her pretty nails skimming my scalp in a tingling caress.

I found her spot. Sharon’s fingers yanked my tresses, knotting in my hair.

My thumb met my fingers. I serviced her hot cunt, sliding deeper with each flick of my tongue. Her moans were crazy love sounds, begging me to stop, pleading with me to take her. Her pussy grabbed the widest part of my hand protesting for a moment, before sighing around my palm.

Embracing my wrist.

I froze, my lips holding her clit between them.

Our eyes met.

Sharon’s hips moved.

My fingers separated.

Her eyes closed.

I began to work, the job I had wanted since I had first seen Sharon in her Prada suit and Jimmy Choo pumps. My tongue nipped and tucked between her folds, smoothing the goose bumps that rose beneath my taste buds. Stroking, lapping. I measured the length of her slit with my hand, draping the curves and angles of her pussy. Her cunt squeezed my fingers, tested my fit, pulled me deeper, bruising my knuckles.

Wet my panties.

Sharon’s voice rang off the ceiling of the office, nearly setting me off. I pulled my hand from her and slid her wet juices through the hairs of my sex, my eyes squeezing shut.

“No!” she sat up, wrapping an arms around me. Her lips captured mine as her hand interlaced with my fingers between our bodies.

“Show me,” she whispered.

I put her hand under mine and played her fingers like I did a needle and thread, pushing and flowing together. Slipping and sliding in our juices. My abs clenched and I began to rock on our hands, our thumbs circling my clit one way then the next.

Dark red kisses were falling on my cheeks and eyelids, nibbling my chin and neck. Her tongue flicked my ear and told me how hot I was.

I was her Mags.

Sexy.

Talented.

Sharon’s artist, her little perfectionist.

My come flooded my pussy, our hands, her desk.

Sharon groaned, locking lips.

We wrapped our legs around each other, cunt meeting bush. Tongue sucking tongue.
Her hands slid up my tank, palms circling my hard knotted nipples; aching for her teeth. Sharon pushed the white cotton up around my armpits and her head dropped to my breasts. She pinched my nubbins between her pearly white teeth. My hips ground into hers, heat building again. Her hand cradled my pussy, rubbing in slow smooth circles; nails catching on the curly hairs sending pings of desire to my center.

Her blue eyes caught my brown. With a gentle hand, she pushed me back onto the desk and nibbled down my body. She nuzzled my ribs and sampled my navel. My giggles filled the office as she played, kissing her way over my belly and rubbing her cheeks against my bush.
Laughter was replaced by moans when her tongue slipped from between her lips and began to lap at my clit like a kitty at her saucer. She kept her tongue wide and flat, hitting every knit in my fabric. I could hardly breathe.

“Is this right?” she whispered, picking up tempo. “Or how about this?” Her fingers sank into me, twisting so that her hand could hit my g-spot. My eyes crossed.

The phone rang.

Like a pro, she replaced her tongue with her thumb and picked up the receiver with her free hand. She never lost the beat.

“Hello?”

My eyes focused on her face. Sharon’s lipstick was smeared across her cheeks, her lips and nose glossy with my juices.

“I’m so sorry.”

Her voice was rusty with desire.

“I won’t be able to come.”

Sex hair. A fuzzy ball at the back of her head.

“No, I’ll call you.”

She thrummed my clit.

I bit my lip.

The heat overwhelmed me.

Thighs clenched.

I cried out her name.

Sharon dropped the phone and crawled up my body, breasts meeting breasts. Our lips melded as my body arched off the desk, lifting her as I came. We collapsed against the teak, polished with our sweat.

We lay, catching our breath, her head in the crook of my arm; Sharon’s stocking clad thigh across my bare ones.

“Ms. Sharon?”

Our temples met.

“Mags?”

I reached for her hand and brought it to my lips.

“Ever take the subway to Brooklyn?”

“No.” She slid her hand along my cheek, turning my face to hers. “But I’ll take a taxi.”

Quote of the Day

"Good girls go to heaven; bad girls go everywhere." - Helen Gurley Brown

www.rotten.com

I love this site and I stole the information and photos below on the topic of the penis cake from rotten.com. There are more pics on the site that are very intersting.

I'm Bill Kurtis. For centuries, men and women have searched for innovative ways to stuff their mouths with enormous dicks. Whether single or looking, straight or gay, happily married or fading quietly into the background of an interminable bachelorette party, never forget that Valentine's Day looms somewhere in your immediate future. This year, instead of disposable diamonds, sappy love poems or a forgettable second honeymoon, take a cue from the Rotten Library and lovingly craft for your significant other something they can really choke down good and proper.

"Erotic" cakes have an uncertain history, since a cake can only be defined abstractly: an amalgam of doughy, tactile ingredients smooshed together and solidified to some degree -- without necessarily being placed against fire or inside a wood burning stove. In ancient times, cakes were rolled or hand-pressed into patties which more closely resembled bread, optionally sweetened with raisins, nuts, or honey. Whether or not turn-of-the-century pattycakes will ever qualify as "erotic" is a source of endless rivalry among today's leading anthropologists. One point of scholarly agreement is that based on cave paintings and crude etchings, boobs and boners sure looked weird back then.

Even the English word "cake" is an unfortunate generational deritvative of the Norse word kaka, making a scholarly review of penis cakes all the more childish. The ancient Greeks called their cakes plakous, meaning flat -- but the word later evolved to evoke images of the placenta, introducing concepts which could not be any less erotic and therefore beyond the scope of this tutorial. Soap cakes and urinal cakes certainly fit the Oxford English dictionary's limited description. They're typically flat, and they have been glimpsed in or around the company of penises -- although their level of eroticism remains steadfastly relative to personal preference.

The earliest cakely prototypes -- erotic or otherwise -- first popped up in 17th century Europe, after technological advancements in ovens and tin tray molds caught up to the availability of flour and refined sugar. The erotic titty cakes and big-balled popovers we've come to know and love emerged over time from flattened cookies and shortbreads.

Eventually, sweeter icings evolved from simple fruit garnishes and glazes: sticky, boiled compositions of sugar and egg whites. Several generations of erotic chefs would live and die before refined white flour and baking powder replaced yeast, making cakes ten times more delicious and paving the way for more edible pastries truly worth knob-gobbling.

"You Design It, We'll Bake It" is the company motto of the world-famous Kopps Bakery, where all the cakes are hand-carved and never made from a mold. Kopps has been in business since 1961, and now boasts over 350 stores around the globe. Their press release claims they can create "any design you can imagine, from a couple making love to a hand-carved male organ or a female torso with edible panties and bra". The names of individual pastries in their bachelorette catalogue reads like a laundry list of rejected Hustler magazine copy: Dick Laying on Her Breasts, Ride 'Em Cowgirl on a Big Dick, Male Organ in Butt, Long Thin Johnson in Big Black Ass (made to order) -- and the enigmatic Busted-Up Dick Cake That Had Cum for the Last Time. Take at look at the artful, precision handiwork Kopps can deliver in just under an hour:
Christ on the cross, maybe they do need a mold. Somebody get these folks a muffin tin. Their online order form is similarly cluttered: just millimeters away from the link to order a Big Daddy Dick Cum Cake, one can accidentally click the Sesame Street Elmo cake. Watch those butterfingers, mom.

And watch those copyrights: a triple-tiered vanilla angel food cake fashioned after your ex-boyfriend's cock sock will be easier to market and sell than anything you've constructed with a Mickey Mouse mold or Spongecake Squarepan. Respected baking supply companies like Sugarcraft of Hamilton, Ohio specialize in the art of food decoration. They go out of their way to distance themselves from clients who sell unauthorized cakes made from molds of copyrighted characters like Winnie the Pooh, Barney, Dora the Explorer and others. In dessert factories, the mantra is still "don't mess with the mouse". Copyright police who show up to harass your small-scale bakery are happy to set you up with a $10,000 fine.

Because of zoning regulations, chef Paul Condra's Erotic Bakery in Seattle, Washington is the only full-time penis cake manufacturer in the Pacific Northwest. Working with a two-man crew, Conda serves close to 150 customers each day. "We're very streamlined and efficient. The gummy boobs and gummy penises are very popular," Condra told the University of Washington Daily. Since 1986, Condra's penis cakes have remained the Erotic Bakery's best-selling items -- so popular, in fact, that the Erotic Bakery has branched out into a line of paper goods: plates and napkins covered with penises, penis-shaped straws and dry pasta fashioned after big bent boners.

Other hazards you might encounter as a baker of erotic cakes are nuisances constructed by cranky, uptight citizenry. In 2005, a Belgian woman sued the owner of a private pastry boutique who dared to peddle erotic marzipan figures for Valentine's Day. The woman claimed the cakes depicted sexual positions, and argued that they shouldn't be publicly displayed in the baker's shop window. The chef, identified by the Het Laatste news service only as Baker Van Buggenhout (say it out loud if you wish) insisted that it was all in fun -- and that the figures didn't even show sexual organs.

"People laugh when they see them," the baker stated calmly, neither bugged out nor on the verge of bugging out. "They buy them to give to their wives or girlfriends." The elderly complainant who lived near the bakery shop window insisted that by putting the erotic morsels on display, the baker was effectively exposing children to pornography.

Meanwhile, have you seen what passes for window displays in Amsterdam? Hint: big floppy half-naked prostitutes underneath red light bulbs, none of which are made of fresh marzipan. And as for you footloose and fancy-free gay dads, Kopps Bakery more or less has you covered with treats like the Gay Bed Cake and the infamous Marzipan Men To Lick Cake. This treat features two cuddly Ken doll look-a-likes, determined dongs pointing north, cavorting in the yin-yang position. In addition to misshapen lumps of frosting, Kopps' Erotic Bakery created the world's largest chocolate cream pie for the Rosie O'Donnell show: over six feet in diameter and 800 pounds. Then in 1998, they created the world's largest Pop Tart, showcased in Madison Square Garden -- 25 feet by 35 feet, weight over 1500 pounds.



If your modeling skills are less than stellar -- or the idea of squeezing dough into crude shapes which only vaguely resemble testicles, penis cake pans might be the way to go. Suitable for shaping cookies, brownies, or Jell-O, the majority of consumer peckerware and booby molding cups are dishwasher safe and non-tarnishing. Naturally, they're available in a variety of "big boy" shapes, sizes and circumcisions -- and quite perfect for raucous bachelorette parties or nudging that long-awaited sexual harassment suit up into second gear. For those even less talented in the cooking department, curiously-shaped cake toppers are an elegant afterthought. These are miniature, edible accoutrements, typically made of marzipan or a gelatinous gummy bear substance, widely available in novelty shops. Cake toppers can be squiggled and bent to represent numerical shapes (Congrats On Your 40th) or fashioned from fine beeswax into proper candles, affectionately referred to as dicks with wicks.

The inscriptions which traditionally accompany personalized erotic cakes -- penis and otherwise -- range from lukewarm and uninspired to dull-as-an-office-party. According to Masturbakers, a custom cake and pastry manufacturer in New York, there are eight particularly popular pieces of copy which never go out of style. In no particular order, consider communicating your appreciation with clever quippery like Tits Your Birthday, Breast Wishes, Make A Wish And Blow, This Butt's For You, To Have And To Hold, The Breast Is Yet To Cum, and of course the old chestnuts A Hard Man Is Good To Find and Have Your Cake And Eat It Too.

Masturbakers' cakes are reasonably priced: an extra large John Holmes cake will run you about $100. A large Pussy cake, meanwhile, goes for $65. The Tommy Lee, with optional tuxedo, will feed anywhere from ten to twelve children for a modest $45. All the way across the country -- for $1,800 -- costume and prop supplier Tim Vittetoe Originals in Washington state can manufacture a pop-out stripper cake four feet in diameter, perfect for stage shows or special events, and capable of supporting overweight strippers weighing up to and including three hundred pounds! Gross.

When Adam Roberts of Amateur Gourmet chose to immortalize floppy, disgusting boobs in dessert form, he took a cue from the Janet Jackson Super Bowl incident. Roberts found the perfect recipe for cappuccino cupcakes with cocoa-tinted white chocolate and sour cream frosting. The hard part was making the boobs just the right shade of brown, to match Ms. Jackson's skin tone. After several experiments, he ended up sifting together powdered sugar with "a cautious amount" of cocoa. A single Hershey's Kiss served as the nipple, piping white icing in a spider web lattice to simulate the nipple jewelry. "The likeness was uncanny," Roberts reported. So delighted was Adam with his erotic accomplishment that he now sells T-shirts celebrating his Jackson cupcakes.

And let's never forget the dutiful service record of Patrick Stewart (a.k.a. Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Starship Enterprise) who served as a guest host on Saturday Night Live in February of 1993. One of the characters he chose to portray was a baker of erotic cakes, fixated on one subject in particular. Let's ripple-dissolve to the fading sound of angels strumming on flashback harps and remember that classic sketch together.

Young Man: Yeah, my friend's having a bachelor party, and I thought it might be kind of fun if I got him an erotic cake.

Picard: Well, you've come to the right place. I have the perfect sexy cake for a bachelor party. [opens box]

Young Man: Looks like a woman going to the bathroom.

Picard: Yeah! It's very sexy.

Young Man: What else do you have?

Picard: Well, why don't we take a look at our catalogue? Here's a woman squatting behind some bushes. The leaves are made of spun sugar. And here's a lady using a little marzipan port-o-potty.

Young Man: So, all your cakes are women going to the bathroom?

Picard: Yeah. What's your point?

Young Man: Well, don't you have anything else?

Picard: Maybe you don't understand - this is an erotic bakery.

Young Man: I'm sorry, I just don't find this very erotic.

Picard: A woman going to the bathroom, you don't find it erotic?

Young Man: Not really.

Picard: Well then, what pray tell would you suggest we do put on our erotic cakes?

Young Man: I don't know. People having sex. Female and male genitalia. You know, something like that.

Picard: Well, if that's what you're after, I suggest you try Hostess or Sara Lee!

Young Man: Can't you just make a cake with a couple on it having sex?

Picard: All right, look. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll make a cake with a woman and a man going to the bathroom. And that way you'll be happy and your friends will be happy.

Young Man: I don't think my friends would like that either.

Picard: Well, I would certainly like to meet these friends of yours sometime.

Young Man: Look, could we just have a cake with sex and no going to the bathroom?

Picard: May I remind you that you're going to have to eat this cake?

Today of course, dirty pictures from your computer -- even in GIF or JPEG format -- can easily be transferred photo realistically to a cake right in your own home, without the hassle of nosy third-party erotic vendors or copyright enforcement police. Feel free to do it yourself: the CopyKake company in Torrence, California sells edible inks offering outstanding color reproduction with a minimum of "head clogging," a common printing problem which sounds conspicuously like the inspiration for an erotic cake in and of itself.

Intentional or otherwise, CopyKake's groundbreaking line of computerized cake decorating products have helped bring erotic pastries into the twenty-first century. Sadly, the majority of customers who purchase edible inks have yet to adequately exploit the technology for the purposes of erotica.

Printers compatible with the Canon brand of bubble jets can be loaded with edible ink cartridges -- cyan, magenta, yellow and black. The unused inks have a shelf life of six months, if properly refrigerated. Thermal reversibility allows for an optimum ratio of colored inks to bond with the icing. Pornography can be printed with these edible inks onto frosting sheets: light, edible papers made of corn starch and sugar. The sheets, freshly inked, are peeled from their backings and laid atop a refrigerated cake flat-frosted with butter cream or non-dairy topping. In fifteen minutes, your hand-made erotic cake will be more than ready to sproing on a loved one -- just in time for Valentine's Day.

The Law and the Lady

In the past editors often arbitrarily cut "erotic" passages from novel manuscripts, even if the aurthor's contract specified that his book was to be published verbatim from his manuscript. This happened to Wilkie Collins, whose The Law and the Lady (1875) was so bowdlerized. The edited version of the passage in question read: "He caught my hand in his and covered it with kisses. In the indignition of the moment I cried out for help." The "objectionable" original version read: "He caught my hand in his and covered it with kisses. He twisted himself suddenly in the chair, and wound his arm around my waist. In the terror and indignation of the moment, seriously struggling with him, I cried out for help."

- Taken from The Literary Life and Other Curiosities by Robert Hendrickson

Quote of the Day

"I was really into bestiality, sadomasochism, and necrophilia, but then I realized I was just beating a dead horse."
- unkown