My story in Obsessed (out next month! party in August! postcards just ordered! please pre-order at the low cost of $9.95 at the moment or request your free review copy) is called "I Want to Hold Your Hand." The title is obviously inspired by the Beatles song. The story is inspired by...me and my kinda sorta "type." I don't really have a type, but it's not a secret that I like "big" guys. I have another story about sexy hand holding percolating, based, actually, on a pretty skinny guy who was very good at holding hands. I think hand holding is underrated as an erotic activity.
But anyway, what I wanted to talk about was music. I wrote a story once called "Fast Girls" inspired by the Sarge song, then edited a book of the same name and used that song in the book trailer. My Irresistible story will be called "That's The Way I Always Heard It Should Be," because I am a Carly Simon fan. I love taking a phrase or a title that has one meaning from its original artist and giving it a spin. Sometimes when I'm stuck, which is often, lately, I try to see what or who might give rise to a story. There is always something. Maybe Vashti Bunyan's "I'd Like to Walk Around in Your Mind."
I love having a reference point, like this one story I wrote, "Bed-In" (I think that's how I spelled it) inspired by John and Yoko's bed in, though this one had a much more commercial twist (set in a bedding store). We'll see...I'm hoping my trips give me time to properly work on some stories; I have to write a hotel erotica one and a bunch of others and just get the creativity flowing again after my mind kindof not going in that direction, or at least, me not finishing stories I should have. I am determined to write a story inspired by the blowtorch at Sweet Iron Waffles which was just one of the sexiest things I've ever seen and I'm not
Here's a snippet of "I Want to Hold Your Hand:"
At least he had two body parts that hadn’t lost their heft: his hands and his cock. She knew that saying about a man’s feet predicting his size below the waist, but with Ron, his hands and his cock were both, well, manly, while his size nine feet were what she considered average. His hands, though, they were big, strong, powerful; there was nothing he could do about his man hands. Ron had always been able to speak to her with his hands, even on their first date, when he’d reached for one of hers and massaged it, his thumb tricking along her palm, his fingers tickling her skin, making her curious about him, about what he could do to her. They were soft, and seemingly tender, but when she dared to try to get to know them, he’d crushed her fingers within his own, letting her know that he would be the one to master their manual dexterity.
She was still curious, as she’d been then, eager to get to know him by running her lips along his skin, by listening to his heartbeat, though truth be told, the parts that everyone else was so eager to talk about and salivate over were not the ones that interested Shelly. His abs, his biceps, all sounded like clichés to her ears. Her Ron wasn’t the macho bodybuilder they were making him out to be, and if he were, she wasn’t sure she would want him anymore. She’d caught a couple of college girls, home on break, whispering about what he might look like underneath, and had huffed her way through their conversation, stalking right in between them and giving them the stink eye. Who were these brats and why didn’t they find someone their own age?
“Honey, I want to go to the movies,” she said, pulling him aside, not caring how petulant she might sound.
“Now?” He looked at her in confusion.
“Well, tonight, yeah.”
“What do you want to see?”
“I don’t care,” she said, then lifted his right hand and brought it to her mouth.