Tag: writing erotica

Reminder-Next Tuesday-Nov 19-The Erotic Literary Salon-Live, Beyond Fifty Shades of Grey: The Pleasure of Writing Erotica with Olivia Glass

Newsletter sent out with dates for new events in Philadelphia. If you would like to subscribe for bi-monthly newsletter email pcsalons@gmail.com and place ‘subscribe’ in the subject area.

Writing Erotica workshop this Sunday at Sexploratorium.

Sunday, November 17 at 7:00 PM

Beyond Fifty Shades of Grey: The Pleasure of Writing Erotica with Olivia Glass

Passion 101 Classes @ Sexploratorium

Sunday, November 17, 2013 from 7:00 PM to 9:00 PM (EST)

Philadelphia, PA

If you’ve read erotica—or even a sexy scene in a novel—you know the charge that can come from the written word. But how do you find the inspiration for erotic writing—and what can you do to set it apart from everything else that’s already out there? You’ll learn how to write orgasms and pen dirty talk while avoiding common pitfalls. Whether you want a naughty story to share with your partner, or you have goals of publication, this class will jump-start your juices, creative and otherwise.

Olivia Glass is the author of Five Stages of Grief (Fleshbot Fiction, 2013). Her work has also appeared in Filament Magazine, Bend Over Magazine, The Paris Review Daily, and Best Women’s Erotica 2012, from Cleis Press. 


FREE – S.E.C.R.E.T. – L. Marie Adeline

First 5 chapters of S.E.C.R.E.T. an erotic novel, along with review of novel and interview with author.


Waitresses are adept at reading body language. So are wives who’ve lived under the same roof as angry drunks. And I had been both, a wife for fourteen years and a waitress for almost four. Part of my job was to know, sometimes even before customers did, what they wanted. I could do that with my ex, too, anticipate exactly what he wanted the second he came through the door. And yet whenever I tried to turn that skill on myself, to anticipate my own needs, I couldn’t.I hadn’t planned to become a waitress. Does anyone? I got the job at Café Rose after my ex died. And in the following four years, as I moved from grief to anger to a kind of numb limbo, I waited. I waited on people, I waited on time, I waited on life. Still, I actually kind of liked my job. Working in a place like Café Rose, in a city like New Orleans, you get your regulars, your favorites and a few you try to pawn off on your co-workers. Dell couldn’t stand serving the local eccentrics because they were bad tippers.But I overheard the best stories. So we had a trade-off. I would take the eccentrics and the musicians if she waited on the students, or anyone with babies and strollers.

My absolute favorites were the couples, this one couple in particular. Strange maybe to say this, but I’d get butterflies whenever they walked in. The woman was in her late thirties, beautiful in the way some French women are—glowing skin, short hair, and yet she had an undeniably feminine air. Her man, the guy she always came in with, had an open face, with brown hair shaved close to his head. He was tall with a lean, lithe body, and a little younger than her, I think. Neither the man nor the woman wore wedding rings, so I wasn’t sure about the exact nature of their relationship.

But whatever it was, it was intimate. They always looked like they’d just come from having sex or were heading to do just that after a quick lunch.

Every time they sat down, they did this thing where the guy would place his elbows on the table, opening up his hands to face her. She’d wait a beat, then gently place her elbows on the table in front of his, and they’d suspend their hands, palms open, an inch from each other’s, as though there was a gentle force preventing them from touching—just for a second, before it got cheesy or was noticeable to anyone but me. Then their fingers would interlock. He would kiss the tips of her fingers, now framed by the backs of his hands, one after the other. Always left to right. She would smile. All this happened quickly, so quickly, before they’d separate their hands and scan the menu. Watching them, or trying to watch without seeming to watch, triggered a deep, familiar longing in me. I could feel what she felt, as though it was his hand caressing mine, or my forearm, my wrist.

The life I’d lived held no such longings. Tenderness wasn’t familiar to me. Nor urgency. My ex-husband, Scott, could be kind and generous when he was sober, but towards the end, when his drinking had him by the throat, he was anything but. After he died, I cried for all the pain he had been in and all the pain he had caused, but I didn’t miss him. Not even a little. Something atrophied in me, then died, and soon five years had passed since I’d had sex. Five Years. I often thought of this accidental celibacy like it was a skinny old dog, left with no choice but to follow me. Five Years came with me everywhere, tongue lolling, trotting on its toes. When I tried on clothes, Five Years lay panting on the floor of the change room, its gleaming eyes ridiculing my attempt to look prettier in a new dress. Five Years also parked itself beneath every table of every tepid date I went on, slumped at my feet.

None of the dates I’d been on had led me to a relationship of any value. At thirty-five, I’d begun to believe “it” would never happen again. To be wanted, to be craved, the way this man craved this woman, was like something out of a foreign movie in a language I’d never learn, with subtitles that were becoming increasingly blurry.

“Third date,” my boss mumbled, startling me. I was standing next to Will behind the pastry counter, where he was wiping dishwasher spots off the glasses. He had noticed me noticing the couple. And I noticed his arms as I always did. He was wearing a plaid shirt, rolled to the elbows, his forearms muscular and covered with soft sun-bleached hair.

Though we were just friends, every once in a while I was a little shaken by his sexiness, enhanced by the fact that he was completely oblivious to it.

“Maybe fifth date, don’t you think? Is that how long women wait before they sleep with a guy they’re dating?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

Will rolled his dark blue eyes at me. He no longer tolerated my whining about my lack of dates.

“Those two were like that from day one,” I said, glancing back at my couple. “They’re totally into each other.”

“I give them six months,” Will said.

“Cynic,” I replied, shaking my head.

We often did this, speculated on the imaginary relationship between two customers. It was our little thing, a way to pass the time.

“Okay, look over there. See that old guy splitting a plate of mussels with that young woman?” he said, pointing out a different couple, discreetly, with his chin. I craned my neck, trying not to stare too obviously at an older man with a much younger woman.

“I bet that’s his best friend’s daughter,” Will said, lowering his voice. “She’s finally graduated and wants to apprentice at his law office. But now that she’s twenty-one, he’s going to put the moves on her.”

“Ew. What if she’s just his daughter?”

Will shrugged.

I scanned the room, surprisingly busy for a Tuesday afternoon. I pointed out yet another couple, in the corner just finishing their meal. “Now, see those two?”


“I think they’re just about to break up,” I said. Will gave me a look like I was going too far into fantasyland. “There’s almost no eye contact at all between them, and he was the only one to order a dessert. I brought him two spoons, but he didn’t even offer her a bite. Bad sign.”

“Always a bad sign. A man should always share his dessert,” he said, winking. I had to smile. “Hey, can you finish polishing the glasses? I have to pick up Tracina. Her car broke down again.”

Tracina was the night waitress Will had been dating for a little over a year, after asking me out didn’t get him anywhere.

I was initially flattered by his interest in me, but I was in no position to act on it. I needed a friend more than I needed to be dating my boss. Plus, we eventually crossed so deep into the friend zone that despite my attraction, it was less of a struggle to keep things platonic . . . except for the odd time that I’d catch him working late in the back office, the top button of his shirt undone, his sleeves rolled up, running his fingers through his thick, salt-and-pepper hair. But I could shake the feeling off.

Then he started dating Tracina. I once accused him of hiring her just so he could take her out.

“So what if I did? It’s one of the few perks of being the boss,” he said.

After I finished polishing the glasses, I printed up my couple’s bill and made my way slowly to their table. That’s when I noticed the woman’s bracelet for the first time, a thick gold chain festooned with small gold charms.

It was so unusual, a pale yellow with a matte finish. The charms had Roman numerals on them on one side and words, which I couldn’t quite read, on the other. There were about a dozen charms on the chain. The man seemed captivated by this piece of jewelry, too. He ran his fingers through the charms as he caressed her wrist and forearm with both hands. His touch was firm, possessive in a way that caught me in the throat and caused the area behind my belly button to warm up. Five Years.

“Here you go,” I said, my voice rising an octave. I slid the bill on the part of the table not covered by their limbs.

They seemed astonished by my presence.

“Oh. Thanks!” the woman said, straightening.

“Was everything okay?” I asked. Why was I feeling shy towards them?

“Perfect as always,” she said.

“It was great, thanks,” the man added, digging for his wallet.

“Let me get this one. You always pay.” The woman leaned sideways and pulled her wallet from her purse and gave me a credit card. Her bracelet tinkled as she moved. “Here you go, sweetheart.” She was my age and calling me “sweetheart”?

Her confidence let her get away with it. When I took the credit card, I thought I saw concern flash across her eyes. Was she noticing my stained brown work shirt? The one I always wore because it matched the color of the food that ended up on it? I felt suddenly aware of my appearance. I also realized I wasn’t wearing any makeup. Oh God, and my shoes—brown and flat. No stockings—ankle socks, if you can believe it. What had happened to me? When had I turned prematurely into a middle-aged frump?

My face burned as I walked away, shoving the credit card in my apron. I headed straight for the washroom to splash cold water on my face. I smoothed down my apron and looked in the mirror. I wore brown clothing because it was practical. I can’t wear a dress. I am a waitress. As for my messy ponytail, hair has to be tied back. It’s regulation. I supposed I could comb it back more smoothly, instead of
sloppily wrapping it up in an elastic like a clutch of asparagus.

My shoes were the shoes of a woman who hadn’t given a lot of thought to her feet, despite how nice I’ve been told mine are. And it’s true that I hadn’t had a professional manicure since the night before my wedding. But those things are a waste of money. Still, how had I let it come to this? I had officially let myself go. Five Years lay slumped against the bathroom door, exhausted. I returned to the table with the credit card slip, avoiding eye contact with either of them.

“Have you worked here long?” the man asked, while the woman scribbled her signature.

“About four years.”

“You’re very good at your job.”

“Thank you.” I felt heat rise in my face.

“We’ll see you next week,” the woman said. “I just love this old place.”

“It’s seen better days.”

“It’s perfect for us,” she added, handing me the bill and winking at her man.

I looked at her signature, expecting something florid and interesting. Pauline Davis seemed plain and small, which was kind of reassuring to me in that moment.

My eyes followed the couple as they left, walking past the tables and outside, where they kissed and parted ways.

As she passed the front window, the woman glanced in at me and waved. I must have looked like such a dork, standing there staring at them. I waved meekly back at her through the dusty glass.

My trance was broken by an elderly woman sitting at the next table. “That lady dropped something,” she said, pointing under the table.

I bent to retrieve a small, burgundy notebook. It looked well worn and was soft to the touch, like skin. The cover had the initials PD embossed in gold, the same gold edging the pages. I gingerly opened it to the first page, looking for Pauline’s address or number, and accidentally caught a glimpse of the contents: “. . . his mouth on me . . .never felt so alive . . . it shot through me like a white-hot . . . coming over me in waves, swirling . . . bent me over the . . .

I slapped the diary shut.

http://www.secretnovels.com/read-a-sample/step-i/ at bottom of page follow directions for further reading.

Fantasies Revealed: Review on YMC YummyMummyClub.ca

By Wanda Lynne Young


No Judgements. No Limits. No Shame. 

S.E.C.R.E.T is set in steamy, spicy New Orleans which acts as a character all on its own. Readers are introduced to Cassie, a waitress at the Rose Café. Cassie is a young widow who lives with the memories of her bad marriage to her alcoholic husband Scott. She lives in an apartment nicknamed “The Spinster Hotel.” Every day is humdrum for Cassie, that is until she comes across a Rose Café patron’s notebook. The notebook is a diary that describes scenes of sexual exploits.

Oh my!

Cassie gives in to her urge to read the contents and finds herself both embarrassed and intrigued. The owner of the diary returns to the Rose Café to claim her notebook and tells Cassie if she liked what she read then she should be part of her secret society. S.E.C.R.E.T is an underground society where women have the opportunity to discover their desires, shed their inhibitions and live out their fantasies. Each new candidate is hand picked by a member of the society and given a sponsor to guide them through the S.E.C.R.E.T Steps. Cassie is introduced to her sponsor Matilda, given a gold charm bracelet and asked to accept the 10 Steps: Surrender, Courage, Trust, Generosity, Fearlessness, Confidence, Curiosity, Bravery, Exuberance, and The Choice. The first 9 steps involve Cassie’s fantasies and this is where things get very interesting! After each Step has been experienced, Cassie earns a charm to add to her bracelet. Step 10 is where she needs to make a choice.

Read More: http://www.yummymummyclub.ca/blogs/wanda-lynne-young-bookalicious/20130317/secret-fantasies-revealed#sthash.SYSQf4pE.dpuf

Writing Erotica & S.E.C.R.E.T. Shared: A Q&A with L. Marie Adeline

Everyday eBook’s interview with L. Marie Adeline.

Excerpt:  One interesting question and equally interesting answer –

EE: What would you say to a reader who has never read an erotic novel?

LMA: I imagine we’re talking about someone who not only hasn’t read erotica but has resisted reading “genres.” I would say to them that whether it’s an erotic novel, fantasy, sci-fi, or whatever, a good novel is a good novel. Don’t get tripped up by the label or category. I can’t believe, for instance, that I resisted George R. R. Martin’s Game of Thrones series for so long because I had a prejudice against “fantasy” books. I never read books with dragons and kings and had no interest, until a particularly persuasive friend suggested I give them a try. I lost months in those books. I just got swept away. For me, a good book is about the plot and character development. I no longer turn down a potentially great book because of the so-called genre into which it gets slotted.

Reader entire interview:


Tomorrow – Tuesday – Oct 15 – The Erotic Literary Salon – The Do’s And Dont’s Of Writing Erotic Fiction

The Do’s And Dont’s Of Writing Erotic Fiction

Excerpts from Elissa Wald’s column in LitReactor.

Sex is at the heart of what it means to be human. It’s vitally important to nearly all of us. It’s a driving force in our daily lives (even when we’re celibate), and its mysteries are infinite. So it bewilders me that — as a rule — erotica is seldom taken seriously, either by writers or readers. Intelligent, well-written erotica is a rare, rare thing (and I’ve been looking for it all of my life).

I believe that in order to write well about sex, we have to resist the version of sexuality that’s brandished at us every day by the advertising and fashion industry: most especially the idea that we can only be aroused by superficiality and perfection. How can we make sex — on the page as well as in life — less a performance and more a source of communion? How can we go deeper?

The following are some of my own tips for writing erotic fiction:

1. Respect The Genre. Respect The Reader

Bring the same attention and regard to writing about sex as you would to anything else you’d write. Assume the reader wants — and is capable of appreciating — something beyond a jerk-off vehicle. There’s nothing wrong with getting off — I always hope my readers are getting off on what I write! — but I want to affect people between the ears as much as between the legs.

There’s nothing wrong with getting off – I always hope my readers are getting off on what I write! – but I want to affect people between the ears as much as between the legs.

2. Spare The Rod

The throbbing rod, that is, and all other coy euphemisms for body parts. Please don’t tell me about our hero’s member, or manhood, or hard hot tool or battering ram. Likewise, don’t refer to our heroine’s mound or tunnel or the center of her womanhood.

3. Dispense With Cliches

Don’t say that he pounded her like a jackhammer, or that she lay back, spent. Tell me something I haven’t heard before. Make me think about something that wouldn’t occur to me otherwise.

4. Less Is More

Stay away from blow-by-blow descriptions of sex acts. The mechanics aren’t what’s intriguing. The emotional dynamics between people are intriguing.

‘All the Sex I’ve Ever Had’ will be presented along with attendee readings and featured presenter. Details and cover story on reality theater piece are in earlier posting.