Real Sex Lives: Kat, "Let the horrible erotica begin."

(You have arrived in the midst of a grand celebration in which we're running IBWMW's all-time favorite Real Sex Lives.)

Kat wrote this for no other reason than to illustrate what bad smut is. Or perhaps to purge herself of the sentence, "He proceeded to kiss her with the fury of a toddler throwing a temper tantrum." Writes Kat, "Let the horrible erotica begin."

The couple walked along the edge of the water. They had only just met but knew that they were soul mates because that is how soul mates meet: on the beach at night.

They sat down on the blanket that the man, a massive Adonis with flowing gold locks, tanned skin and arms like a coal miner, had brought with him, knowing that he would meet the one who would complete him and would want to immediately to ravage her body as the ocean high tide ravaged the beach. He didn’t bring a condom though because he didn’t want any latex barrier between the woman’s love cave and the purple headed womb ferret that he was going to burrow into her.

He grasped her face and proceeded to kiss her with the fury of a toddler throwing a temper tantrum, and then laid her back. Their lips smelt together like two pieces of metal and they knew their bodies had been created to come together and create a single beast with two backs.

Her lips tasted better than his favourite bottle of beer and he was thirsty. He started to strip her clothing like removing old paint from a priceless antique desk. He kissed and munched on her neck as if he were a vampire and going to suck the blood out of her, except that she would like it. His hands wandered over her corporeal form like they wanted to touch her everywhere.

The woman hadn’t worn panties because she, too, had known that she was going to meet her soul mate on the beach and would spread her ivory appendages for his man-stick to enter her love-socket and create a piston of passion. The man looked up at her making sure she was ready for his tongue to do a Charleston on her pleasure button. She looked at him with eyes that would devour him if they were mouths. His hands spread her legs wider so that he could look at the entrance to her tunnel of love. His mouth moved closer and he blew lightly on her slices of salami displayed before him as if in the window of a fine deli. She shuddered at the sensation as if she were having a seizure. He gazed up her and whispered that he had skipped dinner and was starving, and would she mind if he sated his hunger with her womanly sauce. She replied that her highway to heaven was starving too: for his mouth and his tallywhacker.

Like a convict escaping from prison, his tongue darted from his mouth and attacked her love-bump like it was the getaway car. He sucked on her man in the boat and held it with his teeth and rasped it with his tongue. Up and down, back and forth, up and down, back and forth. And up and down, back and forth a lot more times.

He pressed his mouth into her center burrowing his tongue past the toll booth and up the highway. It was like having a threesome with his tongue being his wingman who got the first round. Her power of speech failed her when the pleasure came as scattering bunnies taking off for Wonderland.

He slid back up her body, the grit from the beach sticking to their skin like sandpaper. His bayonet stabbed her strawberry short cake and they began to rock back and forth as if traumatized by the ecstasy of each other. Her legs clamped around his hips like the jaws of a great beast and they lovingly bruised each others nether regions until he erupted into her like a tube of vanilla icing.

"I'm so glad we made love instead of fucking like people in other erotic pieces, my shining unicorn," the woman said.

"I would never degrade our spiritual connection by fucking you. Or asking your name," the man replied.

Fini

She hasn't posted in a few months but you can read more from Kat at Kat O'Nine Tales.

(The Th'ayes Have It, image courtesy the dear and generous Chaffyn. No implication of badness by its proximity to the bad smut, for the record.)

Bad Erotica, that is, Erotica Other People Like

Somebody mentioned erotica for folks over 60, which reminded me of this post. Pretend like you haven't met before.  

As part of my affiliate deal with Good Vibrations, I get to pick from an assortment of free stuff each month which I can offer to you as a prize or keep for myself*. (My motto: if you're going to sell out to a corporate overlord, do it for a sex-positive, girl-power one that showers you and your loved ones with free sex toys.)

Usually I pass the free sex toy love on to one of y'all, but a couple months ago, Good Vibes was offering a book called Lust: Erotic Fantasies for Women. Oh yes, I decided selfishly--giving not a whit of thought to you and your needs--this one's for mama.

When it arrived in its discreet brown wrapper, I snuck away to be alone with my new smut and started reading. There was a story about an anonymous encounter on a subway which was kinda good. Something about a lady working at a fruit stand and a TV star who comes and whisks her away, eh... Next. I kept reading and reading, hoping to get to "the good part," as it were, but it started to become apparent that, for me at least, there wasn't gonna be a good part.

By the time I got to a story about retiree sex, I stopped looking to be aroused by the book and started reading as sort of a sociological study. (Yes, I am this nerdy. Reading porn as an intellectual exercise. I would appreciate it if you'd not bring it up again.)

I am not at all against retirees having sex. I'm all for it, I swear! But seriously, listen to this supposed "erotica" in "Moving" by Susan St. Aubin.

We trade medical notes: he sometimes takes Viagra in the afternoon. Mornings he can do without. I tell him about the hormone cream I've started using in my cunt to bring back its raw silk texture.

What. The. Fuck???

My point here is not that it is unsexy**, but that yes, though it is unsexy to me, it's completely fucking off-the-charts sexy to someone else. For all I know, writing it was so fucking hot to Susan St. Aubin that she had to slip away several times while writing it to push her hand between her legs to relieve the growing pressure in her hormone cream-covered raw silkiness.

I find it fascinating how different people are turned on by different things. Your particular biological predilection, plus snippets from your experiences--people you knew growing up, a sexy movie scene you saw in 2003, an early lover, an idea you saw in a book--all converge in your brain to form an idea of what is erotic to you.

A friend of mine lent me a book called The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica, Vol. 5. I turned to something called "I Want to Watch you Do It" because I liked the title. In it, the girl makes the guy jack off in front of her while she watches, then he takes charge and bosses her around. She, overcome with lust, can do nothing but obey his sexual commands. "Just do what I ask and don't say a word until you come at least twice. Nod your head if you agree," demands the guy, as her puts her through a series of moves. Oh, darling, I loved that #$##! But that's because it happens to fire up whatever particular erotica neurons I have set up in my brain. You, by contrast, might be left completely cold. Perhaps you need a vampire involved, or a fetching Scotsman, or a fierce dominatrix wearing a specific brand of blue boots.

I can imagine that Mammoth contributor Joshua Hoobler would be among those unaroused by my beloved story of sexual instructions. His story, "Not at Risk," lavishly shares the details of some dude giving himself enemas (5 of them!) and having sex with a series of three dildos. (Each oh so very very special.)

On Sunday morning I wake up early, have my regular bowel movement, wipe thoroughly, take the enema bag out from the bathroom cabinet, fill it with warm water, hang it on the towel rack, grab the Astroglide, slip on some latex gloves, lube up my asshole and commence upon a series of two quart enemas...It takes me at least three and sometimes up to five to get to where the toilet water is as clear when I'm done as it is when I sat down. 

Again, the point is not that this is unsexy***, but that this guy and I have a vast chasm--oh so very, very vast--between what we each consider sexy. When he was describing the particular quality of his friggin' poo, I not only wasn't turned on, I was whatever the complete opposite of turned on is. In truth, I really kind of wanted to retch.

However, if me retching turns you on, I would direct you to Puke Planet, a site for those with a vomiting fetish.

Which, I think, kind of makes my point...

xoxox
jill

*I also get a 20% commission on anything you order from Good Vibes through In Bed With Married Women. Might I suggest the We-Vibe couples vibrator thing? The woman wears it during penetration, while it hums along outside and inside at the same time. Haven't tried it but, damn, sure sounds good.
**Though, c'mon it totally is!
***But, holy fuck, it is so so so unsexy!!!

New Contest: Win some smutty reading!

A few months back I asked the good citizens of the In Bed With Married Women Facebook page* what they'd like to see as a contest prize. The resounding answer was, surprisingly not what I usually offer, that is, "giant blue vibrators with vaguely frightening prongs," but "sexy books."

Oh, I won't judge because I too am a fan of the smut (See also: In Praise of Smut, if you don't believe me.). I think a little smutty reading puts you in a more sexual/sensual frame of mind which makes life a hell of a lot better.

Thus, as part of my unceasing efforts to make life a hell of a lot better for you, gentle reader, this week's prize is Playing With Fire, a book of sexy stories from cool, SF-based sex shop, Good Vibrations.  I haven't actually read it, but here's the blurb, complete with its embarrassingly excessive scorching! fire! heat! imagery.

This scorching collection of torrid tales will leave you burning with desire. Incendiary short stories tackle taboos and set boundaries ablaze, allowing couples to act out their most fiery fantasies. Alyson Tyler gets burned in “Some Like It Hot,” while Thomas Roche’s “Hot Off the Presses” follows a reporter infected with rock ‘n’ roll fever. Playing With Fire will ignite your imagination, fuel your fervor, and inspire you to have some smokin’ hot sex!

To enter, list your favorite sexy book in the comments below. I'll choose a winner by random drawing on Tuesday. And if you don't feel like waiting around 'til damn Tuesday to left "burning with desire," you are more than welcome to order the book yourself.**

* For more on my love/hate relationship with the IBWMW Facebook page, plus some truly awesome (deliberately) bad smut written by the lovely Katsidhe see The Language of Seduction, Plus Guest Smut from Tapetum Lucidum.)

**Disclaimer: a portion of your Good Vibes purchases made through this blog goes to my Lexapro paying-the-electric-bill fund. (A note to the shy: Don't worry, I don't see who is ordering or what people order or anything like that. So stock up on anal plugs, dungeon master DVDs and sexy nurse costumes--I'll be none the wiser. Unless you want to tell me. Which is also fine. I think. Unless it is too weird. Then it would probably creep me out.)

P.S. A few people have told me that the comments are acting weird. You can also enter by emailing me.

In Praise of Smut

I was at my corner library staring forlornly at the budget cut-ravaged New Non-Fiction section. "I can't find anything," I complained randomly to a mother I recognized from school. She glanced over The National Inquirer that she was reading. (Yes, The National Inquirer--at the friggin' library. She didn't even go hide at a back table somewhere.) "The good stuff's over there," she said, gesturing to a wall. It was the romance section. I hesitated. Shouldn't I make sure there wasn't a new book on urban farming or something? Ah, fuck it, I was long overdue for some smut.

I found a small section of Harlequin Blaze books. If you are not familiar with the Blaze line, described as "red hot reads," it is basically porn for women. Now, Blaze books are as silly as any other romance novel--true love is pledged, the touch of a hand causes sparks to leap through the body and such--but Blaze books don't fade to black on a promising kiss. They take you right into the bedroom with the characters, and describe the goings-on with the keen attention to detail of an eager sports commentator. I scooped up the entire Blaze section, including this, Hold on to the Nights. (Please know that if it had dawned on me that it shared its name with a Richard Marx song, it would have most certainly remained, punished and pariah-like, on the shelves.)

Here's a short passage for you:

"Omigod," she gasped, dragging her mouth to stare up at him with something like amazement. Her lips were parted and swollen from his kisses, her eyes-heavy-lidded and dazed with arousal. "I'm going to come." Graeme's body responded to her words, his cock so heavy and aching that it took all his restraint not to push her legs apart and sink into her slick heat.

Yes, it's poorly written crap ("slick heat"? really?), but, god help me, that stuff worked, at least for me. After spending a couple hours reading of body parts swollen with desire, jutting erections and "delicious torment," well, let's just say it benefited things at home. And I would argue that reading the smut benefits more than just the marital bed, I think it's good for your whole damn life. After reading my little smut, I felt more aware of the fact that I was a sexual being living among other sexual beings. The whole seemed brighter somehow and full of promise. I felt more attuned to the sexuality inherent in everyone, and this knowledge gave every encounter a little extra frisson of electricity. Of course, I wasn't going to do the coffee guy or the crossing guard or whoever, but I could, we could, and that awareness was exciting. 

So, yes, it is the cheesy Harlequin porn that does it for me. I am not proud of it. I'd be happier to admit I read esoteric erotica in Swedish or something, but I don't. I read my stinkin' girl porn. Other people I know swear by the vampire stuff. (Actual back cover blurb which sounded hot to my friend, but funny/creepyish to me: "He was her perfect man--except he was dead!") And others love Highlander romances, with their frequent mentions of lifted kilts and "cockstands," which I think is Scottish for "jutting erection."

There are a bazillion subsets of romance/erotic fiction. When I returned to the library, I discovered a whole section of Inspirational Romance, which means lots of talk about God, perhaps a chaste kiss or two. These books, according to romance writer guidelines, are about two people and their relationship to God. (And no, I will not be so crass as to make a threesome joke.) I checked out one of these Inspirational Romances to understand this genre because its appeal is beyond unfathomable to me. (And, let me tell you, that was THE most embarrassing book I have ever checked out. It took every one of my meager social filtering skills not to explain to the librarian way I needed a Christian romance.)

Here's a sample passage from that book, The Family Next Door:

"I would love to marry you. And be a mother to Jenny."

"Amen to that. We'll have the life the Lord laid out for us, together, making a family, making memories to sustain us all our lives." 

"I've been praying you might see me in just such a light."

"Oh you have, have you?" He kissed her lightly. "Jenny will be thrilled."

What? This is the big climatic end part? "Amen to that"? "Kissed her lightly"?!  Okay, but did he have a jutting erection? Was slick heat involved? Bah! So while some Christian chick is flushing and breathing heavily over the chaste kiss, my wiener (as my friend charmingly likes to call it) is curling up into a ball and scuttling to hide under the table at the excessive Lord mentions. My point? People like their own damn smut and all the other stuff is just tame tripe or gross porn.

Thus we come to your questions for the day:

Do you read any smutty trash?

What?

Does it improve your sex life?

Or am I just rationalizing my smut habit?

What, besides "cockstand," is the best romance novel word?