Email: rachelkramerbussel at


Lusty Lady

Watch my first and favorite book trailer for Spanked: Red-Cheeked Erotica. Get Spanked in print and ebook

Saturday, June 29, 2013

I believe in the law of attraction and I'm asking to the universe to send me to Edinburgh Fringe Festival

I had a writing date the other day with my friend Kim Brittingham and she asked me if I believe in the law of attraction. I think I said yes, but I may have qualified it a little. I definitely said something along the lines of, "Well, I do believe that if you think negatively you attract negativity." I realized that in fact I do believe in the law of attraction, yet I'm also a little afraid of it, because sometimes I'm afraid of what I want, or that I won't be able to handle it if I get it, or that I don't deserve it, or myriad other reasons why I tell myself not to ask for things, not to dream too big in case I fail.

Maybe my issue is not so much the law of attraction so much as my need to cultivate a single-minded to devotion to...whatever it is I should right now be devoting myself to. As it is, I do this thing where I spread my energy very thin because I'm afraid to pin it all on one big thing, lest that thing disappear, whether through my fault or someone else's. But I decided today that even though this is my general m.o., I want to change. I want to be a go-getter. I want to push myself to work toward the hard things. I want to be more like the writers I admire every time I read them like Glennon Doyle Melton and Justine Musk. I don't necessarily know what that one big thing is for my entire life, but today, in a split second, I figured out what my big thing is for this summer of 2013. I want to go to the Edinburgh Film Festival for the first time to write about The Surrender, based on the memoir by Toni Bentley. Here's the official description:
Direct from a sold-out run at the National Theatre of Spain comes Toni Bentley's notorious, hilarious, erotic memoir and international bestseller. ‘An extraordinary book by a woman with an ax, and an ass, to grind’ (Barry Humphries), adapted in English and performed by Isabelle Stoffel, ‘a stunning actress’ (El Mundo). Directed by award-winning Spanish film director Sigfrid Monleón, the play tells of a ballerina initiated by a stranger into ultimate sexual submission and the joy she finds on the other side of convention. The Surrender is the witty, profound, true story of one woman's sexual obsession.
The second I saw this existed, via Toni Bentley's Twitter stream (the play has its own Twitter account), I wanted to go, but "wanted" is too weak a word. I had this click moment, where I felt like this was what I was supposed to be doing this summer, which is looming before me with a bit of aimlessness and randomness. I love my new apartment, and spend approximately 90% of my time in it, but I miss traveling. I can't afford nor do I want to do as much of it as I once did, but I want to travel more meaningfully and purposefully, to events and places where I can explore things I couldn't anywhere else. And I'm going to do my damnedest to make that happen by scouring all my go-to travel sites like Johnny Jet and Nomadic Matt and Airfare Watchdog, and pitch this story. Some of it will depend on my quarterly royalties, aka my salary, but I think the bulk of it will be on my figuring out a way to make it happen. I'll keep you posted, and if there are other must-see plays at Edinburgh, let me know (rachelkb at The run is from July 31st to August 26th, and I'd probably be going toward the end of it.


I was led to look Bentley up because of her recent article "The Vagina Fallacy" at The Daily Beast, about why we use the word "vagina" instead of "vulva." Here's part of what she had to say:
Why in this time of such relentless sexualization in the media, and ever-more detailed discussion and research on female sexuality, do women themselves persist using the wrong term for their own sexual arena? From sassy in-the-know Lena Dunham to Oprah Winfrey, mother to us all, to Naomi Wolf, feminist extraordinaire (she dedicated an entire book to the wrong place), to that smart lady Eve Ensler, they are all calling her their “vagina.” As a woman I am embarrassed by our ignorance.

Now, of course, one can indeed refer correctly to the vagina, meaning the relatively short, but expandable, passage of a woman’s sexual anatomy that connects the outside world to the inside one, its main purpose being impregnation through intercourse and, then in return, as the birth canal. But the vagina is only one of our many parts—it really is Grand Central down there —and while vital for reproduction it is somewhat secondary for female pleasure. How on earth did the poor little vagina, a single cog in the great female wheel, become the catchall for the whole shebang?

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Friday, June 21, 2013

The erotica and queer communities say Fuck Cancer

Writing, by its very nature, is a lonely, usually solitary experience. I'm living in a town where aside from my boyfriend, I don't know anyone who lives here, and only have a handful of friends nearby. Yet I like the solitude, had been craving it amidst the overly busy seemingly must-attend functions in New York. I'm not the type who's easily able to say "sorry, I can't hang out, I have to write." It always sounds rude and narcissistic and untrue. And maybe it is rude and narcissistic but it actually is true. My point is, I like that I have all day to myself, even though I am working to find ways to force myself to actually write. And no, I didn't get paid for that piece, from Medium or Salon, which reprinted it. Not that it's anyone's business, but after reading Noah Davis's great piece at The Awl, I felt the need to (over)share. Some would consider that a mortal writing sin, and if you do, stop reading now because, news flash, I am not getting paid to write this blog. For me, it was selfish, as all writing is. A way to say something and also to make myself feel better about the last few weeks and most of this year's malaise, by getting something out there. I don't plan to make a habit of writing for free, though I may do it on occasion. I make no bones about being selfish, though I also do my best to give back by supporting books and authors I like in every way I can. Hopefully it balances out, but without indulging that selfishness and pushing myself and trying to say what feels unsayable on the page, I wouldn't have anything to give. Or maybe I would for a while, but then I'd feel hollowed out. Writing fills me back up in a way nothing else does.

So writing is lonely, but my job as an erotica editor, my former role as a reading series host, and just my inherent nature are social. Pretty much everything I do is based on relationships I've formed over a long time, since I started writing erotica in 1999. I never found those mentor-like or peer relationships in law school. Maybe I felt outclassed and alienated so didn't look for them. But I have found them in the erotica community, in New York, and in cities where I've done readings, and online, on Twitter and Facebook. I've found it through publishing authors from around the world and reading submissions from even more of them. I'm proud to be part of that community, and all the more so because recently the erotica and queer/LGBT community have come together to combat cancer. Not in an abstract save-the-world science-based way, but in a this-person-is-dealing-with-cancer-and-needs-our-help-immediately kind of way.

Alison Tyler is editing a summer erotica themed anthology, with the proceeds going to writer Sommer Marsden, whose husband was recently diagnosed with cancer, to help offset the costs of cancer. The deadline is August 1st. I submitted a story I wrote this morning, which was also a great exercise in brevity and again, got me writing, which is sometimes the hardest thing for me--getting started. When I speak of the "erotica community," please know that I don't think there's any criteria for joining that community, except wanting to, being interested. You don't need to "be a writer" (whatever the hell that means!) to write erotica or anything else, and you don't need to write anything to help show your support (see the "diagnosed with cancer" link above to donate directly).

Writer Kate Bornstein, author of the clasic and newly revised My Gender Workbook, the amazing Scientology memoir A Queer and Pleasant Danger, the life-affirming Hello, Cruel World and many other books, has been battling cancer and it looks like she's winning. The latest news: "1) There are no new cancer cells in my body and 2) The places where there was cancer have shrunk a LOT already." This was made possible by the medical community and, that supposedly dirty but also necessary to live word, money. Namely, $111,518 raised by 2,913 people, as of this post. You could add to that number, and any donation is not only greatly appreciated but put to good use. Right here, right now. You can read more at the link.

And I know not everyone has money to donate; certainly, the last few weeks and months, I haven't. But you can write something, which can be both a selfish and giving act, you can spread the word, you can say a prayer or let other people know or simply follow the work of these writers (@sommer_marsden and @katebornstein on Twitter).

So yes, writing is lonely, but it is also filled with amazing people, who I wouldn't know without writing.

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Wednesday, June 19, 2013

My lesbian hookup apps article in The Village Voice, plus a hoarder turns a new leaf

I wrote about lesbian hookup apps for the Queer Issue of The Village Voice. Yes, it's an odd time to be writing for them, though this piece was assigned before the Michael Musto etc. firings, and was my first for them since my Lusty Lady column ended in 2007.

Comes on the heels of purging so many copies I'd been saving, who knows what for aside from vanity, that were part of the purging in my move. New me will not be getting a hard copy of this issue. See? People can change! I believe I will always be a hoarder, or at least, have a hoarding mentality, but I am trying to be a better person and less attached to possessions. It's a long slog, but if the reward is a home I love rather than one that makes me quake in fear that it might someday have to be shown to another human soul, then it's worth it. That being said, my goal for the rest of this year is to crack some print magazines, where the pay is higher. I don't want my hoarding mania to reach such heights that I only want to write for print publications so there's no more paper in the house! That would be some crazypants version of cutting off my nose to spite my byline. One day, one article, one short story, at a time. I'm trying to tame my ADD mind on my own, through much trial and error. Today that involves physically separating myself from my laptop and phone for extended periods of time so I can read a book I'm writing about and edit short story submission printouts. The lure is there, bigtime, every time I so much as walk by either of them. But I want to prove myself worthy of this new home, this new life. So far I haven't, but I don't plan on going anywhere, so I want to dig down deep into my mental reserves and figure out how to make the most of my time. I certainly know what doing the opposite feels like. Back to that, hopefully with good things to report sooner rather than later.

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Link love: author couple stave off losing home with bestselling romances

On the flight to Kansas City for RT Convention, I met librarian Fred LeBaron. We were seated next to each other and he guessed correctly where I was headed. He recommended several books, including those of author Jasinda Wilder, the pen name of a couple who've sold close to a million ebooks. There are several available for free download. I'm way behind in my reading so haven't read them yet, but plan to, along with the latest, Falling Into You. No, not every self-publisher will be a giant success story, but these are heartwarming and, to me, are what the ebook revolution is all about. I can't find it right now but New Adult author Colleen Hoover had a similar post last year; I recommend her blog for that shot of writing inspiration (and, of course, books) too. And with that, back to work for me! Tomorrow is the deadline for my 1,200-word-or-less BDSM erotica anthology, which I'm excited to wrap up.

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Monday, June 17, 2013

Link love: Baratunde Thurston's unplugging Fast Company cover story

Lately, despite living in a clean, well-lit comfortable home for the first time in far longer than I can remember, I'm still having trouble focusing. I make to do lists and then sortof watch them from afar, convinced they seem so arduous and challenging I can't quite get there. So I don't want to make any more promises to myself or anyone else I can't keep. But what I'd like/hope to do on this neglected little blog is offer up at least a link a day. Yes, I link out from my Tumblr, where it takes a fraction less time, but I'd like to do it here too. I'm learning: baby steps, sometimes so small they seem utterly worthless, but are always better than nothing. I'm hoping from a link a day I can maybe get myself to actually get back to writing a post a day, along with other goals, but right now, am catching up on anthologies and assignments and digging myself out of various toxic holes.

That seems an appropriate setup for the Fast Company cover story on unplugging by Baratunde Thurston. It's smart and powerful and made me, who often holds my iPhone in my hand when watching TV or going to sleep, jealous. I know that part of my inability to turn off my brain isn't just the lack of Vyvanse but my allowing myself to be permanently distracted. I'm trying to turn off more, to realize that especially in a crisis time, I have to be selfish, and care first and foremost about my work. That's great that you're writinganarticlemakingadocumentarywantablurbneedhelp, but part of turning off has to include tuning out what's unnecessary. I suck at that, but part of why I moved and put my faith in that move is to try to get better. It feels as ephemeral as faith, this belief that I can both turn off and increase my productivity and cease my horrific habits. Sometimes I don't see an end in sight, so I got a lot out of Baratunde's piece. You can also follow the #unplug hashtag on Twitter to see what people are saying about it.

And because time is of the essence, I will put a little plug in that I will not be unplugging this week because I'm reading your submissions for my 69-story BDSM submission erotica anthology, whose deadline is this Thursday, June 20th there will be no further extensions). I'm excited about what's turning out to be a wonderful book!

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Friday, June 14, 2013

BOGO Audible audiobook sale through June 30th and special hot new cover for Only You: Erotic Romance for Women

To celebrate the release of the audiobook edition of Only You: Erotic Romance for Women, which, for some reason, unlike all my other audiobooks, got a sexy new cover, and because the Audible Author Services program ends at the end of June, I'm going to do something special for you audiobook listeners: from today, June 15th, through midnight EST June 30th, buy any of my Audible audiobooks and I will send you any of my Audible audiobooks absolutely free as a gift. Forward your or receipt dated any time from June 15-30, 2013 to rachelkb at with "Audible" in the subject line and tell me which title, of the options below, you'd like. I must receive your receipt by 9 a.m. EST July 1st. The titles below link to Amazon; to buy directly from, click here. Both sites have free audio samples; for even more audio samples by the amazing Rose Caraway, narrator of Gotta Have It: 69 Stories of Sudden Sex, click here. Thank you for supporting my audiobooks!

Only You: Erotic Romance for Women

Suite Encounters: Hotel Sex Stories

Serving Him: Sexy Stories of Submission

Women in Lust

Cheeky Spanking Stories

Anything for You: Erotica for Kinky Couples

Surrender: Erotic Tales of Female Pleasure and Submission

Gotta Have It: 69 Stories of Sudden Sex

Please, Sir: Erotic Stories of Female Submission

Yes, Ma'am: Erotic Stories of Male Submission

Going Down: Oral Sex Stories

Crossdressing: Erotic Stories

Tasting Him: Oral Sex Stories

Dirty Girls

Curvy Girls

Do Not Disturb: Hotel Sex Stories

The Mile High Club: Plane Sex Stories

Orgasmic: Erotica for Women

Fast Girls

Smooth: Erotic Stories for Women
(stories about nudity)

Passion: Erotic Romance for Women

Obsessed: Erotic Romance for Women

Best Bondage Erotica 2011

Spanked: Red-Cheeked Erotica

Bottoms Up: Spanking Good Stories

He's on Top: Erotic Stories of Male Dominance and Female Submission

She's on Top: Erotic Stories of Female Dominance and Male Submission

Peep Show: Tales of Voyeurs and Exhibitionists

Caught Looking: Erotic Tales of Voyeurs and Exhibitionists

Best Sex Writing 2009

Best Sex Writing 2010

Best Sex Writing 2012: The State of Today's Sexual Culture

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Tuesday, June 11, 2013

Slate interviewed me about editing the sex diaries

Amanda Hess at Slate interviewed me about editing the sex diaries! I read Slate every day and they are in my Top 5 Publications I'd Like To Write For so this was very exciting. Plus since the end of the diaries was announced two weeks ago I hadn't realized there was so much interest in it.

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If you're going to buy my audiobooks, I get paid more in June

If you have thought about buying my audiobooks, or if you are just now thinking about it, I wanted to let you know that any purchases made on (or purchases of Audible audiobooks), I get $1 per book if you buy by June 30th. After June 30th, the program that gives authors an extra $1/book is ending. You can find all my audiobooks along with free samples at and while I haven't seen the latest sales figures, based on reviews and general excitement, I'm pretty sure the Rose Caraway-narrated Gotta Have It: 69 Stories of Sudden Sex (watch the book trailer and see the table of contents at is by far the most popular. So to further entice you, here are samples from 5 of the stories, all thanks to the amazing Rose, who is editing her first erotica anthology for Cleis Press!

Laugh by Sommer Marsden

Click here to listen to the free mp3

Police Dogging by Elizabeth Coldwell

Click here to listen to the free mp3

Remembering the Wrinkles by Penelope Friday

Click here to listen to the free mp3

Not Just a Myth by Heidi Champa

Click here to listen to the free mp3

The Dirty Things She Says by Sinclair Sexsmith

Click here to listen to the free mp3

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I'm on Sex City tonight live at 11 pm EST talking Best Sex Writing 2013

I'll even be reading a little bit of my essay "Baby Talk." And Jon Pressick wrote about Tim Tebow in "Holy Fuck" - sports are not my forte but one thing I'm very proud of with this edition of Best Sex Writing is its timeliness. We've got sex toy company JimmyJane, porn in condoms, Tebow, along with male bisexuality, masochism and a host of other topics. Click on the title below to read more about the book, or visit the virtual book tour which just wrapped up, and this interview with me at Clitical about sex culture and erotica. You can also win a copy of Best Sex Writing 2013 from Clitical!

Tonight on Sex City, Louise reaches Rachel Kramer Bussel, the editor of Best Sex Writing 2013. (Cleis Press). In this latest annual nonfiction anthology, Rachel has collected a range of the year's most challenging, detailed non-ficton essays, examining many aspects of sexuality. While autobiographical in many cases, her commentators bring in historical, political, economic considerations, with the carnal. Topics include dynamics of s/m culture, polyamoury, orientations, while striking to find Sex City's own Jon Pressick's article, exploring virginity in a sports figure.

Tune in and turn on at our late night time slot!
Tuesday April 11, 2013, 11pm to Midnight, 89.5 FM (Toronto) Host: Louise Bak

Program Info –
Facebook Group –
Twitter Handle – @sexcityradio
Podcasts –
Email –
Studio Phone – 416-946-7000
Stream Live @

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Monday, June 10, 2013

20 Women in Lust

Below are excerpts from all 20 stories in Women in Lust. AND I have 1 print copy to send out to someone in the U.S. who's willing to review it on (you must have an Amazon account you've made a purchase from, and I ask that reviews be posted within 6 weeks of receipt). Email me at rachelkb at with "Women in Lust" in the subject line and your mailing address and the first person to request it will get it. I'm 3 reviews away from the magical 30 reviews (at which point, Amazon supposedly starts paying more attention to your book). Thank you! Also, "Queen of Sheba" by Jen Cross is one of my favorite stories of the hundreds I have published. I love the voice and the plot and everything about it.

Order Women in Lust from:


Kindle edition (ebook)

Barnes & Noble

Nook (ebook)


IndieBound (search for your local indie bookstore)

Audible audiobook edition (click for free sample)

Cleis Press

Introduction: Ladies Who Lust

Naughty Thoughts Portia Da Costa
“Are you having those naughty thoughts again, you bad girl? I can always tell, because your eyes start to cross.”

Terrence accompanies his accusation with a swirl of his hips, a move that nearly blows the top of my head off. It also nearly dislodges said naughty thoughts he’s accusing me of,. bBut not quite. They’re so naughty that I can’t seem to shake them, despite another virtuoso hip-swirl that makes me groan and claw his back.

“Back with us again, are we?” he gasps, laughing as he shags. He really is the most fabulous, fabulous fuck.
Guess Charlotte Stein
I know he’s there, because I can smell him. It’s that cherry lip gloss he knows I like, though god knows where he’s put it. On his lips? Too conventional. On his nipples? They’re small and perky and would look delicious coated in something slippery, but I doubt it.

I’m betting on his cock; undoubtedly on his cock. And while I’m lying here blindfolded and largely helpless, he’s going to make me taste it⎯that cherry-scented, cherry-flavored curve of flesh.

I can just picture him now, getting closer, with it bobbing between his thighs. His breath is unsteady, though his resolve seems to be holding, and every now and then I can hear him, moving in close. There’s just that hint of too close, like maybe he can’t quite help himself.

I think that sets me off more than the blindfold⎯that sense of his bucking arousal, trying to lunge at me.
Her, Him and Them Aimee Pearl

On our first date, she says, “I already told you, I’m not into that S-and-M stuff.” She says it hard, with an edge of determined anger rather than annoyance or exasperation. My panties get wet from the tone in her voice, and that’s how I know she is lying.

We leave the restaurant and go back to her place. Soon, we are all over each other, fingers and hands dancing with buttons and hems. When her fingers are inside me, she instructs, “Don’t come yet.” Later she says, “Okay, now,” and I come for her on command, without hesitation.

Later still, with her inside me, she says, “If you’re gonna come, ask me first.”
Bayou Clancy Nacht
The heavy scent of river and sweet smell of flowers wafts into the open window, circling my silk robe around my body. I love this moment in the night; love the breeze from the fans, buffeting my skin with its soft caress.

I hear my lover behind me. The ice clinks in his glass. Scotch: I can smell it from here, but it never smells as good on the air as it does on his lips, from his breath. I let my white robe drift down from my shoulders, like a slow-floating cloud. It slips from my arms and down to show him the cleavage of my ass, the dark shadow meant to allure him.

His clothes shift, the chair creaks. His footfalls draw him nearer. I feel the heat of his body, the smell of his cologne. The stubble is hard on my shoulder as he looks out onto the Mississippi, his cheek against mine.

My building is so dilapidated, it’s crumbling from the inside. Bricks wake me in the night, loosening and falling down to the dusty floor.

But he is not crumbling, nor will he. He presses his highball glass to the lower part of my spine, and I whimper.
Smoke Elizabeth Coldwell
I really, really need a smoke.

I’m in the middle of yet another attempt at cutting down⎯not giving up. I’ve tried that and failed so many times, I know it’s never going to happen. Instead, I try to go as long as I can without giving in to my cravings. And I’d been doing so well, until now.

Two things are always guaranteed to make me want a cigarette. One is sex. My first instinct, once the last sweet waves of orgasm die away, is to roll over and light up. Not that I’m inconsiderate in these matters. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve wrapped a sheet around myself and padded out onto the balcony of the flat to smoke in satisfied postcoital solitude.
Bite Me Lucy Hughes
“So you’re a masochist,” she said.

He winced, squeezing his eyes shut tighter for a moment. “Technically, but I hate the word. The guy it’s named after was an asshole to his wife and wrote a really bad book.”

“I didn’t know.” She let her hand slide down from his hair to his chest, and finally hooked a finger through one of his belt loops. He might ask for odd things, but that didn’t interfere with her desire to tear the rest of his clothes off and run her hands and her tongue all over his beautiful mocha skin. “So give me some idea of the scale here. Do you want a little nibble here and there or…”
Ride a Cowboy Del Carmen
“I want to fuck you.”

Rita didn’t know who was more surprised. She at the words that came out of her mouth or Nate, who looked at her like a steer caught in headlights.

“What?” he asked.

Rita pretended the last minute hadn’t happened. She waved her pad at him. “What would you like to order?”

Nate lifted an eyebrow, a knowing look in his eyes.

She steeled herself. Hopefully whatever cut he gave her would not be loud enough for the other diners to hear. The last thing she needed or wanted was the town gossip mill looking in her direction. “I’ll take the blue-plate special,” he said, “the steak medium well, heavy on the gravy, four biscuits. Coffee. Black.”

Rita wrote furiously and reached for his menu.
Queen of Sheba Jen Cross
You really wanna know about the best time? Well, there was this one guy, back when I was in school. But you have to promise you won’t tell Max. Okay?

At first, I thought Jimmy was just really into foreplay. He’d say, “Can I touch you?” And before I was done nodding, he’d have reached out a calloused hand to my body, maybe resting it on one of my thighs or against my belly for a second, but he was always only interested in my pussy. His eyes would glaze a little, he’d moisten his lips and get focused like a cat.

When Jimmy really got going, my pussy would feel like it was molten, you know? All melty and hot, like—well, I’m getting ahead of myself here.
Hot for Teacher Rachel Kramer Bussel
The sad truth was that she couldn’t remember being as raw, as wet, as wanton as when she’d been with Clay. Until now. Her professor was far from a Clay-like bad boy, but still, he did something to her that made her want to either be the best student he’d ever seen, or the worst, if it meant detention and the chance to get properly punished. She bit her lip as a highly irrelevant, not to mention irreverent, giggle threatened to burst from her lips as she pictured herself in a schoolgirl skirt, white cotton panties, white kneesocks and pigtails with red ribbons. It was not an outfit she’d ever come close to wearing, and that’s why it appealed to her. She’d never had a chance to play at being a bad girl, to try on that persona or any other besides young mom, really, followed by older and now middle-aged mom.

She was the oldest student in the class, and as such, was supposed to be some kind of role model. She could tell by the way the others gave her a wide berth, smiling politely at her but otherwise treating her as if age itself were contagious, or like she was going to tattle on them for misbehaving when the last thing she cared about was their grades or potential offenses. The others could spend all of class texting and flirting and passing notes, but Meredith, even if she didn’t understand every concept, wanted points for paying attention, for disrupting her previously boring but safe life to perk up her mind. She hadn’t known her pussy was going to follow along as easily.
Unbidden Brandy Fox
When she hit forty, a raging libido blindsided Brooke. One day she was juggling a family life, giving in to the bloating of age and the exhaustion that hit the minute the kids were in bed. The next, she was sizing up every man between the ages of twenty and sixty, looking them over as meticulously as she did the fruit and vegetables at the market: men in cars waiting at stoplights, grocery store clerks, fellow PTA parents, the carpet cleaner and plumber. Sure, she’d always admired a handsome man. But now it wasn’t just looking; it was sweaty, heart-pounding visions of his naked body thrusting away at hers.

Sometimes it didn’t even take the sight of a man to turn her on. She could be washing a carrot, hurrying to finish a casserole before meeting the school bus, and her hand would linger along the length of its unusually wide girth. Suddenly she’d be on the kitchen floor, thrusting that carrot into her G-spot. Fantasies whipped through her mind unbidden, sending her to the bedroom at all hours of the day⎯sometimes when her children were in the next room—overwhelmed with the urge to fondle and fuck herself into oblivion.

“Wow,” her doctor friend said, when Brooke confessed the change. “That’s your testosterone talking. Now you know how men feel.”

“Not men,” Brooke corrected. “Boys. Fifteen-year-old boys who haven’t yet learned how to tame their hormones. A middle-aged mother is not supposed to be acting that way!” Especially with carrots, she thought.

“Consider yourself lucky,” her friend said. “Most women who come to my office complain about their lack of libido. Embrace it while you can!”
Something to Ruin Amelia Thornton
I could feel the soft scratchiness of the grass tickling my cheek as my face pressed closer to the ground, my eyes adjusting to focus on the depth of green and the pair of tiny ladybugs delicately crawling along in front of me. I had never quite noticed before just how vividly red they could be, like little droplets of blood against towers of emerald, and I wondered why it took having my face crushed into the earth to really appreciate nature like this.

I couldn’t see him, but I knew he was still there, calmly positioned on the comforting softness of the picnic blanket, surveying the sight of my bottom presented to him, my knees tucked neatly beneath my torso, arms stretched out in front of me. I had done as he’d asked and worn “something to ruin,” meaning a plain white sundress with a cornflower-blue print I’d picked up from the secondhand shop. “Something to ruin” always meant trouble.

“Come here, Susie.”
Guitar Hero Kin Fallon
He picked up his guitar and strummed it, idly at first, casually. She watched his thick, heavy hands moving across the board in wide strokes. It was hypnotic, restful, and she began to relax. He changed to a beautiful melody, picking each note with a finger or thumb. Anoushka watched his fingers, marveling at how fast they could work, at how delicate and precise the tips of thick fingers of rough hands could be. She felt herself sinking in the rhythm and wondered how her boyfriend didn’t get lost himself, how he could think fast enough to move from string to string so seamlessly, so accurately.

Looking to Mark’s face, she saw his half-open gray-green eyes, as distant as the stars, as close as her pulse. Lost in his own way, she thought. It wasn’t concentration keeping him in tune but a flow, a deep sensual memory that called the right fingertip to the right string at the right time. He was truly in tune with his guitar, one with it inside the strings’ music, their vibrations, their changes and movements, rises and falls.

Mark was most beautiful when he was like this. He picked up the speed to a desperate rhythm, fingers flickering back and forth, seeming sometimes to bring out two separate sounds that quickly dissolved into a single one, rising and falling again. The tempo increased another step change and furiously reached a peak of high-pitched, longer-waving wails.
Ode to a Masturbator Aimee Herman
I am leaving in three weeks and I don’t even know your name. I am going to miss the sounds I have created in my mind for the music your palm makes when it mashes against your erect dick. You are tall, even when tilted against your wall, which I believe is painted white or some pale color. Your hair is dark like soil and long, always pulled back in a ponytail. If I had courage or confidence, I might talk to you. I know where you live, where you work, what you drive.

I am thirty-one years old and currently work as a server at an all-you-can eat Brazilian steakhouse. Most of my shift is spent watching various-sized humans devouring as much protein as they can, in the form of meat brought to them on skewers, which is then sliced thinly and placed into salivating mouths, chewed enough times to get through the gristle and blood and then swallowed. The competing scents of meat from various animals and limbs has caused me to become vegetarian. It is just too much to take sometimes. However, the pay is good and I met my boyfriend here. We don’t have to mention him, though; it doesn’t seem fair to either of us.

I know you have a wife. She is blonde with enough curves to appear like a cursive lowercase q. Her tits are swollen like flesh-covered marshmallows swelling out of her tops. My tits are small and unclaimed by bras or cleavage. But maybe you need change. I have less to hold and play with, but my nipples are hard like thimbles. They are expressive and overdramatic. One boyfriend even called them challenging. I don’t know your wife’s name or what she does for a living, but I know that she holds your ears when you eat away at her cunt and scratches at your head when she is just about to come.
Orchid Jacqueline Applebee
“I think I have the hots for Viktor.” I adjusted my stockings and stepped out of the toilet stall. My best friend and fuck-buddy, Peggy, gawped at me. “The new guy? Viktor from Accounts?” I nodded. “Viktor with the long brown hair?”

I sighed. Viktor had glossy hair and bright green eyes. He was a beautiful man.

“Hang on.” Peggy dried her hands. “You cannot have a crush on Viktor. He’s, you know…”

“He’s Russian?”

“Not that.” She poked me. “He’s vanilla!” she finally blurted. “Wendy in Personnel dated him when he first started here. She told me all about him. Face it, Katie. He’s vanilla, and you’re a slutty submissive bottom.”

“I know,” I said with a sigh. “But vanilla folks need sexing-up, too.”

“You can’t date a vanilla guy, Katie. It’s not natural.”
Cherry Blossom Kayar Silkenvoice
I bumped into her in my ryokan in Kyoto. I smelled her exotic scent just milliseconds before my sleep-fogged brain registered the ledge I was supposed to step over in order to leave my suite⎯too late, of course. I tripped and fell to my knees like a penitent worshipper, one hand clutching the belt of her kimono, the other pressing down onto her foot. She staggered slightly, from surprise or the impact. I couldn’t tell which, but I feared the latter.

“Gomen nasai. Daijoubu desu ka?” I stammered. I’m sorry. Are you all right?

My partner had taught me that phrase early on in the trip, after he tired of apologizing on my behalf to all the people I bumped into. And I bumped into a lot of people as I was constantly staring upward in astonishment at the cherry blossoms that seemed to adorn all of Japan.

Cool hands cupped my cheeks and tilted my head backward. Dark eyes peered into mine, eyes so dark I could not distinguish the pupils from the iris.
Rain Olivia Archer
My husband is too lost in a rant about the upcoming election to notice the rigid set of my body as I watch my best friend kick off her shoes and place her legs in the lap of her latest boyfriend, Rain. She waggles her red manicured toes and asks for a foot massage. As Rain obliges, I imagine that I can hear the rasp of his rough fingers rubbing her skin. Or maybe I can feel them touching me⎯the way he did last Tuesday, the first time we fucked.

The four of us are finishing liqueurs in our living room; my lover is directly in front of me. His dark, curly hair and the curve of his ass in those jeans tempt me, but I stare through him, into the empty fireplace.

When I get up and clear some of the leftover dessert carnage from the side tables, this gesture brings an end to the evening. Marcy gathers her exquisite belongings, casually thrown on the counter. I watch them go while standing in the foyer of our so-called perfect little house. It took twelve years of our lives to achieve this level of mind-numbing comfort. Normally summer is my favorite season, but the warm night air wafting in doesn’t provide its usual comfort. Instead, I’m reminded that the hillside surrounding our house, once verdant, is now parched and highly combustible, ready for a stray spark to set it ablaze.
The Hard Way Justine Elyot
“I’m offering you a choice,” he says, and I know exactly what comes next. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”

The script is so familiar. In my three years as duty solicitor at the Maiden Street police station, I’ve heard Detective Sergeant Blake utter this phrase countless times. Sometimes whichever random villain I’m representing will choose the easy way⎯he or she will spill the beans, confess all, finger the Mr. Big behind the operation, and then Blake will smile his earnest smile, reassure them that it will be okay, pat them on the shoulder while they gibber about witness protection. Far more often, they plump for the latter option, in which case Blake has to bring out the big guns. Of course, I don’t mean that literally. Blake’s arsenal is wholly psychological, but it is no less deadly for that. An implication here, a tut and a shake of the head, a casual mention of a family member or acquaintance⎯I have seen all of these reduce a strong man to a crumpled, tear-stained wreck. He has mastered the art of being both good and bad cop simultaneously, and I cannot help admiring him for it. More than admiring. Desiring.

So which will it be? Easy or hard? The rules are a little different tonight. I do not preside over some sulking youth in a hoodie; there is no set of tattooed knuckles next to mine on the table. Indeed, there is no table. There is Blake and there is me, and we are on a bed. The situation has changed, as has the dynamic, but the question remains.
Strapped K. D. Grace
When I see him eyeing me from across the room, my stomach drops to the floor, and I wonder if he knows. Will he betray me if he does? If so, will he do it quietly, or will he make sure everyone knows what I’m up to? I contemplate leaving quietly by a side door, but before I have a chance, he sidles up to the bar next to me. I stand frozen to the spot, close enough that his arm, hard muscle beneath soft cotton, brushes mine, even though the bar isn’t crowded.

My pulse is a drumroll hammering against my throat. Surely he must see it. In the mirror behind the bar I can see his sideways glances taking me in. I try not to squirm, while I take a mental inventory: jeans, loafers, tits strapped tight beneath my oversized shirt. My best friend, Alex, coached me. He says I’m good. He says my disguise is flawless. But then he never thought I’d actually go through with it, and it certainly never occurred to either of us that I might have to make a run for it wearing a strap-on.
Beneath My Skin Shanna Germain
“I’m afraid.” The words coming from my lips are barely audible. My face is pushed into the sheets. My chest is, too, so that only my ass is in the air before him, raised and blooming with red handprints. Kade’s handprints. No one else touches my ass. This is the deal we have.

“You should be.” His voice is gravelly and deep, but not mean. Never mean. Even as he speaks the words that make my stomach feel cold, the rest of me is hot. My face prickles with a nervous, excited blush, even though it’s mostly hidden by my tangled hair. My palms sweat their heat into the sheets. Even the little folds behind my bent knees are growing slippery. And the space between my thighs⎯which he’s teasing with one finger, soft strokes that belie his eventual plan⎯that space is the hottest of all, opening around his cool fingertip, liquid and lava.

His other hand circles the curves of my still-warm ass. The skin pulses beneath his touch, each passing stroke over the tender skin pulling my breath back into my mouth. I push my face harder into the sheets, biting at the fabric to muffle my gasps.

“No,” he says, and he stops touching. Just like that. I know why⎯he likes to hear me, likes to listen to the groans and moans and the cries that erupt from my mouth when he pleases or teases me.
Comfort Food Donna George Storey
One bite of that butterscotch pudding and suddenly I knew everything was going to be all right.

If one of my more sensible friends had been sitting at the table with me, she would have told me the pudding had nothing to do with it. The new buoyant sensation in my chest was the natural outcome of a relaxed vacation by myself at a charming country inn. The crazy grin on my face, the almost sexual quickening of my breath, were but a long-delayed visceral understanding of all the work I’d done in therapy over the last year. There was no need to wallow in misery any longer. Dylan’s affair and my subsequent decision to divorce him were only symptoms of our buried grief for the real death of our marriage years before. It was time to move on.

However, since I was alone and had no need to be reasonable, I knew the epiphany was all in the pudding. Perhaps it was the creamy smoothness caressing my tongue like satin? Or the bottomless depth of flavor: caramel, tropical vanilla and an almost floral sweet cream, all mixed together with something else mysterious, alluring, even addictive?

Whatever the reason for the magic, at that moment, I was very glad to be alive.
Ladies Who Lust

Lust. It’s one of those four-letter words that trips off the tongue. When I say it out loud, it makes my lips want to curve into a smile. Lust is more than simple arousal; it is the force that makes us not just turned on, but craving a certain person (or people).

I used to write a sex column called “Lusty Lady,” named after the famed strip club, but somehow lusty, rhyming as it does with busty, sounds a bit like a joke, an added bit of humor, which is how our culture often treats sex. Lust, though, is different; it’s intense, overpowering. While in real life we may not always act every time lust calls to us, in fiction, we can abandon the safety of propriety and seek out lust and sex wherever we find them.

The characters in Women in Lust may vary in the objects of their lust, and how they go about acting on their urge, but what connects them is that pure impulse for a lover. Sometimes he is someone she knows well, is married to or dating; in other stories, he is a stranger, and is sexy precisely because he represents the unknown. Women also lust after other women here, as in Kayar Silkenvoice’s Japanese happy ending massage story, “Cherry Blossom,” and while we only hear one side of the story, I’d like to think the working woman is doing more than just her job. In addition to the culture clash, there’s the joy of throwing caution to the wind while on vacation, using travel to broaden one’s sexual horizons. Whether watching a lover playing guitar, using a webcam, going out for a smoke or simply embracing a chance encounter, these women seize the opportunities presented to them, and savor the lovers who teach them about themselves and help them open up to new sensual possibilities. Sometimes that means looking at the man they live with in a new light, and other times that means something much naughtier. Either way, their lust is a valued part of their lives, not a pesky afterthought or to-do list item on “date night.”

The objects of their lust are not always the “right” person. In “Rain,” a woman falls for her best friend’s boyfriend, one of the ultimate dating taboos, but she goes for it. Sometimes the desire itself, the way it can be used to tease and taunt, as in Charlotte Stein’s “Guess,” is maddening, but we embrace our lusts even when they are maddening, even when they make us do things we might otherwise consider reckless.

For every woman here who can locate her lust on the map of her body, who zeros in on her target and goes for it, there is another who is opened up to her lust by a lover, whether it’s Jen Cross’s narrator pondering what it was, exactly, her orally generous long-ago lover got out of being between her legs. The first words of Shanna Germain’s powerfully kinky “Beneath My Skin” are “I’m afraid,” to which her lover, Kade, responds, “You should be.” Fear can be a powerful motivator and, crossed with lust, can lead to explosive results. Whether discovering the joy of a younger man, not to mention some delicious pudding, in “Comfort Food,” by Donna George Storey, or taking sex and bondage into the great outdoors in “Something to Ruin” by Amelia Thornton, these women indulge in new ways of getting off and pushing the limits of their lust. Thornton writes: “Despite my longing, there was still part of me that wanted to protest, to tell him to cut me loose, to run wildly through the forest back to the safety of our picnic blanket, but to me that is the beauty of rope: to desire escape but to willingly be imprisoned, to feel the pressure of something that prevents my movement, yet to know there is no place that I feel safer than when trapped like this.” She captures the excitement of giving in to a dominant lover, even when there is a small part of the narrator that is unsure, for that is precisely the part that fuels her desire. This story captures the true power that lies in submission and the many joys it can bring. In “Her, Him and Them,” by Aimee Pearl, the narrator submits to various lovers who question her and push her not only to be the best sub she can be, but to figure out why, exactly, she likes the thrill of submission and service.

I hope these stories inspire some lusty days and nights for you, as they have for me.

Rachel Kramer Bussel
New York City

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Wednesday, June 05, 2013

Excert from erotica story "Craig's List" in Bending by Greta Christina

This is an excerpt from story "Craig's List," one of the stories in Bending: Dirty Kinky Stories About Pain, Power, Religion, Unicorns, & More by Greta Christina. Available as an eboook on Kindle, Nook, and Smashwords: audiobook and print editions coming soon.


From "Craig's List" by Greta Christina:
On her 24th birthday, she decided there were three things she wanted to do before she turned 25. Sexual things. All three involved taking stupid risks, putting her body into the hands of people she knew nothing about and had no reason to trust. All three involved Craig's List.

She knew she had to do them now. The older she got, the less reckless she'd become. She knew that if she waited until she was 30, she wouldn't be brave enough, or stupid enough, to try this. And she knew she'd always regret it if she didn't try.

The first one, she called Craig's List Roulette. She would go to the Casual Encounters ads, the Men Seeking Women section. She would pick an ad at random. No matter what it said, she would answer it. Unless she was literally and physically unable to comply with the ad's request, she would answer it.

She would use a random number generator, so she couldn't cheat.

She knew how stupid this was, how reckless, how dangerous. But she didn't want to be just another boring horny slut playing the personals. She wanted to set a new standard for sluts. She wanted to be the slut by which all other sluts measured themselves. Besides, reckless and dangerous was kind of the point. She wanted a real adventure -- and in a real adventure, you weren't in control.

The ad headline read, "young, horny, need to get sucked." Perfect. Simple. Easy to take care of. She took a picture of herself, naked on her knees, and sent it with her reply.

She was at his dorm in twenty minutes. He wasn't as cute as she'd hoped -- she thought he might have used a fake picture, actually -- but that was okay. Weirdly, it was part of the charm. She closed his dorm room door behind them, and dropped to her knees, thinking with a hard thump in her clit of how she had been manipulated, how she was being used. She dropped her head back and opened her mouth. He unzipped and pushed himself into her, and she opened wide and let him fuck her mouth.

He kicked her out politely when he was done, and she went home and masturbated for an hour and a half. She masturbated on her knees, with a dildo in her mouth and a vibrator between her legs. She kept thinking she couldn't possibly come any more... and then she would remember what she had just done, and her sore, tired clit would throb again, demanding just one more.

She was back on Craig's List the next day.

She hadn't expected that. When she first decided to do her three adventures, she'd assumed that she'd play each of them just once. But she loved Craig's List Roulette. It was like slut boot camp. It was like an accelerated study program in human sexuality. It was like a multi-week intensive course in letting go. Her requirements got a little more restrictive -- the guy had to ask for something specific, he couldn't ask to do drugs together, he couldn't ask to do it more than once -- but she stuck to the spirit of the game with remarkable discipline.

She landed on "Wanna watch me play with myself?" and was in a home-built weight room in a dingy garage, watching an oiled-up bodybuilder straddle his weight bench and stroke his cock, repeatedly murmuring, "You like what you see?", his eyes never leaving her face. She landed on "any one for a car date right now?" and was fumbling in the back of a Camry with a married ad exec, his hands groping at her tits, his cock pushing against her crotch through her panties, his breath pungent with weed. She landed on "Oral from behind" and was on her knees in a cheesy bachelor pad in the suburbs, a noisy tongue slurping at her pussy and occasionally, hesitatingly, perhaps even guiltily, slipping into her asshole. She landed on "Offering $$$ for pussy licking," and thought, "Sure, why not," and was on her back in a hotel bed with a tongue between her legs and three twenties on the bedside table. She thought she'd feel different after, and was surprised when she didn't.

She landed on "just give me a blowjob" and "Can a guy get a blow job please?" and "Looking for a woman in need of a facial" with perverse excitement. She loved how openly selfish they were. She loved how slutty it made her feel, how sordid, to get on her knees and open her mouth to a man who expressed no interest whatsoever in what she might need or want. She loved how it made her feel both purely sexual and purely invisible. And she loved feeling like the only woman in the city who would ever answer their ad. It made her feel extreme. Hard-core. Special.

She landed on "Looking For A Woman to Spank," and thought, "About fucking time." That was the first one -- and the last -- where she laid out her own guidelines. "I've never done this before," she told the guy. "I really want to. I want this to go well." The gentleman was older: in his early sixties, a little soft, a little frail, but patient and careful and grateful. He told her that she was beautiful, that she was bad, that he was going to teach her a lesson, that he was going to take care of her. He spanked her gently, until she wanted more than anything for him to spank her harder; and he spanked her harder, until she had no idea what she wanted anymore. He was the first one -- and the only one -- that she wished she could go back to. But that wasn't how the game was played.

She always felt a little guilty about the ones who just wanted to service her; the ones who ate her pussy or licked her feet or gave her long, drawn-out massages. It seemed like missing the point. But then she'd remember: This was what they'd asked for. When she lay back and let herself be taken care of, she was giving them the service they wanted more than anything.

It was disappointing sometimes. Naturally. There were clumsy men, smelly men, liars. But she kept the game up, a bit longer perhaps than she would have... because she was putting off the second one. She was a little afraid of the second one.

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Another free book offer for Amazon reviewers: Baby Got Back: Anal Erotica

You've all been so wonderful about requesting to review my fall anthology The Big Book of Orgasms: 69 Sexy Stories and the other free book offers that I'm going to extend the review offer for July's Baby Got Back: Anal Erotica. If you've already requested it, I have your name on the list - 30 of you have, so let's go for 50 copies! You can request a Kindle or print copy, details are below, and I will take the next 20 review requests, up to 50. Please get your requests in by Friday, June 14th, as I will be placing my book order soon after. Thanks!

To take part in this promotion, you must have an account you've made a purchase from in order to qualify, and by requesting the book, you are agreeing to post your review on within 6 weeks of receipt. To sign up, email me at analantho at with "Amazon" in the subject line and your name and address in the body. The official release date is August 13th, but I expect to be hitting the post office by the end of July with your copies. The days I receive my finished copies of my books are some of my favorite days, made all the better when I get to mail them off to you. If you're a Kindle user and would prefer to review the Kindle version, that will be available August 13th, but I will take your review request now (until I get to 30 requests total for print and Kindle versions). Email analantho at with "Kindle" in the subject line and the email address you use for Kindle (just cannot be an address). The book is available for pre-order now from Amazon and

If you want to show the book some early love, you can rate it on Goodreads and/or mark it as to read. THANK YOU for helping my books do well, which is what allows me to keep on editing them.

Introduction: Prepared for Pleasure

Brenda’s Booty Tenille Brown
Rectified Tiffany Reisz
Delivery Emerald
My Turn Anya Levin
A Winter’s Tail Veronica Wilde
No Rest for the Sick Medea Mor
Vin Rouge Pour Trois Erobintica
The Support Group Fiona Curtis
Lights Out Angela R. Sargenti
Bar None Mina Murray
Seat Belts Kate Dominic
Better Than a Massage Annabeth Leong
Body Heat Shoshanna Evers
What You Feel Like Talon Rihai and Salome Wilde
Her Kingdom for Her Ass Maggie Morton
A Taste of Jamaica D. Fostalove
Hard Astern Thomas S. Roche
In Training D. L. King
Everybody Knows Giselle Renarde
With Lucy in the Middle Kathleen Tudor
Keeping the British End Up M. Howard
Two-Timing Laura Antoniou
Plugged In Rachel Kramer Bussel

Introduction: Prepared for Pleasure

Anal sex is an activity that doesn’t “just happen.” There needs to be at least some planning involved by one of the parties, preferably both (or all), an acknowledgment that something special is about to occur. The stories collected here feature various types of anal play, but in every case, preparation is a key part, both mentally and physically. For many of the characters you’re about to encounter, the thrill of anticipation kick-starts their anal foreplay, sending them on a journey that often changes the course of their sex life.

Many of these twenty-three stories play with the taboo nature of anal sex, its forbidden quality that even its biggest fans still fixate on. We are often drawn to anal sex precisely because even now, in 2013, there’s still a hint of exoticness to it. In these tales, men and women open themselves up, literally, to their lovers, sometimes for the first time. All parties learn about the specific thrills that make playing with that area so pleasurable. Sometimes a character has had a previous negative experience with anal exploration, like Lela in “Rectified,” by Tiffany Reisz. When Brad tells her, “I know what I’m doing,” she’s not sure if she can trust him, but she takes a chance. You’ll have to read on to find out exactly how she’s rewarded for her risk-taking.

Whether using fingers, tongues, toys like butt plugs (vibrating and not), anal beads or anal dilators, these men and women appreciate the pleasures that can be found when they relax, let go and open themselves up. Furthermore, anal sex doesn’t have to be the only action going on; it can be combined with other kinds of touch. Here’s what happens to Vanessa in “A Winter’s Tail,” by Veronica Wilde: “She sighed with pleasure, then surprise, as the tip of the anal beads eased into her ass. Oh god, yes; he was double-penetrating her with two toys. This was what she lived for. He gently pushed the beads inside her tightness, making her squirm, then slowly withdrew them until she cried from sheer delight.” In “No Rest for the Sick” by Medea Mor, Becky experiences a kinky dual delight when Patrick delivers a firm, powerful spanking to her plugged bottom: “He followed quickly with two more hard slaps on her now-burning flesh. They reverberated through her body, hitting the plug in her ass before echoing off it again, making her squirm in his lap.”

I feel responsible for telling you that if you’re trying anal sex at home, lube is a must; these stories are here to entertain and arouse you, but if you’d like to learn more about how to approach real-life anal sex, read Tristan Taormino’s The Ultimate Guide to Anal Sex for Women, Bill Brent’s The Ultimate Guide to Anal Sex for Men and Karlyn Lotney’s The Ultimate Guide to Strap-On Sex. Anal isn’t about going as fast as you can, but about slowing down, unwinding, indulging in the process as much as the outcome. These characters take their time so they can enjoy every part of the process, from the first meandering touches, exploring a lover’s “back door,” to the more intense acts. I hope you enjoy the journeys these characters take and find plenty in here to turn you on.

Rachel Kramer Bussel
New York City

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Tuesday, June 04, 2013

No longer a New Yorker

I don't know if I quite feel like an official Red Bank resident, though I did get a library card and was thrilled to discover so many amazing books, from new releases like the wonderful graphic memoir One Good Egg by Suzy Becker and Jennifer Finney Boylan's latest Stuck in the Middle with You to mysteries galore, plus the librarian unlocked the children's section for me to get me a copy of Tiger Eyes to read before seeing the movie on Friday. It feels like I'm on a movie set of a small town at times, but I welcome it. As I sit typing this in a Manhattan Starbucks, I'm highly aware of no longer being a New Yorker, despite being back and forth a lot the last few weeks, despite my loyalty to my $7 manicure place on First Avenue, despite all the familiarity I've built up since moving to 240 Mercer Street in August 1996. I didn't realize how much I wanted a home. I have lived in apartments or dorms my whole life (save for the first few months at Columbia Presbyterian), and staying in houses actually unsettles me. They're big and make noises and I always think someone could be sneaking in and I wouldn't notice.

My new place wouldn't be considered grand by many people's standards, but as I stepped out of the shower this morning and realized my bathroom is twice the size of the one in my old place, it confirmed for me that to me, it's grand and luxurious and relaxing and perfect. There's actually room to have a place for everything. And I get to share it with someone who doesn't think I'm a disaster, who actually wants to help me sort out the messes I've made of my life rather than judge me for them. I'm not sure I've ever dated anyone who I could say that about. It's scary, to be sure, to be so raw and bare and open, to be forced to basically lay out all your issues and idiosyncrasies and fears and problems on basically a daily basis. Even if they are ones you know you possess, ones you've spent thousands of dollars in therapy deconstructing. I guess part of why I never got to that point before was I was sure the minute I laid myself bare like that the other person would hightail it out of there, as I probably would in a similar situation. So to have the luxury of space and light and wifi and a bed and bathtub and cleanliness and comfort and homeyness and a park and a generally peaceful, quiet home is a gift, a way of counteracting all the ways it feels like things are in disarray. I'm having to learn enforced patience and trying to change new things because there's umpteen things I can't change. I literally have to learn new ways of breathing (hi, asthma!) and thinking and living. So that's how cohabitation is going so far. I still love New York, but realize how badly I treated myself when I was a New Yorker, the nonstop self-sabotage, the way I never could quite catch up. I hope I can forge new, better, healthier ways of living and working and loving now that I have a place I can do so that's solid and secure and stable in ways that are so foreign to me.

Monday, June 03, 2013

Free books for reviewers

I've got a limited number of print copies of the following books to send to anyone (in the U.S.) willing to review them on (you must have an account you've made a purchase from at some point), and I ask that you post your review within 6 weeks. I'll update this post as they are claimed. I can also send Kindle editions to anyone, same deal. Email me at rachelkb at with "Amazon" in subject and which books you want/where to send them (you can request up to 2). Twice the Pleasure: Bisexual Women's Erotica (1 print), Women in Lust (21 print), Peep Show: Erotic Tales of Voyeurs and Exhibitionists (41 print), Passion: Erotic Romance for Women (4 print), Serving Him: Sexy Stories of Submission (1 print), Please, Sir (2 print), Suite Encounters: Hotel Sex Stories (7 print), Going Down: Oral Sex Stories (4 print), Spanked: Red-Cheeked Erotica (1 print), Irresistible: Erotic Romance for Couples (1 print), Only You: Erotic Romance for Women (32 print). Thanks!

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