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So, you think you want to finally read Fifty Shades of Grey?

9/23/2012

I beg you.... don't. You're young and you have a whole lifetime of great reading ahead of you!

I know you like a little pain but this is pushing the limits too far, too fast. Bad grammar, stupid plots and cardboard characters are NEVER safe, sane or consensual!

At the very least, the experience could scar you so deeply and profoundly that you'll need intensive therapy before you can allow another book into your life.

Worst of all, this could make the very idea of sex cause you to YAWN uncontrollably.

But if you feel you must, then be safe. Take a few precautions:

DO NOT read FSoG alone! Have someone you trust nearby to dial 911 when your brain starts bleeding.

Make sure the kids are safely away at a friend's house, because you don't want them to see you this way — whimpering and curled into a fetal position.

Have a ball gag in place to prevent uncontrollable rants, rife with profanity. Early warning sign: when you find yourself muttering: "How in the hell did this piece of garbage get published, let alone sell more copies than Harry Potter?" get help immediately!

Make sure a plastic trash can (empty, with a bag liner) is handy in case of sudden vomiting.

Wrap your head in several layers of bubble wrap to protect your skull when you start flopping violently around on the floor, screaming for someone to just "MAKE THAT BITCH STOP BITING HER LIP!"

And most of all, don't buy it. Borrow it from the last sucker who bought it, to prevent massive guilt attacks that will arise from having further lined the pockets of a very bad writer.

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The Truth about Cocksucking

9/15/2012

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Honestly, I have never read much romance or erotica. Not much romance, because I'm a cynic and simply cannot suspend the necessary disbelief to swallow most of it. Not much erotica, because I'd rather have great sex than read about it.

You wanna get me all hot and bothered, give me a good story. It can be romantic, it can be erotic, it can be about unicorns playing soccer on Mars -- but it has to have a GOOD STORY.

And a good story, for me, is not one that follows a predictable formula, or strains credulity to the point of doing permanent damage to the psyche.

When I started writing "Red," I felt I should read some of the books out there already.

Now, I may not have written a lot of erotica, but I have a lifetime of experience with sex. A lot of sex. I've had more than my fair share of men, and probably your share, too. I was ruled off limits by an entire fraternity house at Georgia Tech, for Christ's sake, because I was started a fight between a brother and a pledge over who was gonna take me home one night.

So, take my word for it — I know about sex.

And I know that no one is a natural at blow jobs.

I'm sorry, there's no amount of water-boarding in the world that can make me believe than an inexperienced virgin can immediately start deep-throating the massive penis of the hero (because Lord knows, the hero's meat rocket is ALWAYS massive) until his brain explodes in the most fabulous orgasm of his life.

Yet I've read three books in the last month where the shy young girl steps out of a convent and falls (in an adorably klutzy manner) at the feet of an obscenely gorgeous and sexy millionaire. He smiles at her with those dazzling blue/dark/green/grey eyes and suddenly, she's on her knees swallowing his sword like Belladonna on speed.

This really pisses me off because, honestly, it's insulting to those of us who have spent a lifetime honing our oral skills.

It takes a least twenty or thirty blow jobs just to get comfortable with the one-eyed trouser snake in the first place. At least, this is true for the ladies; I'm sure gay men have a headstart because they have their own equipment to play with. They don't have to get past that urge to giggle just because it looks so funny in its flaccid state.

It takes a woman a little time just to learn to handle the darned thing with confidence. Not having one of our own, we aren't sure how firmly to grasp it. How much pressure is enough, or too little? Is handling the balls okay? Is the skin supposed to slide back and forth like that? Is there actually a bone in there? What if you accidentally break it?

And all that is before you even put it in your mouth. Cause be honest, in the beginning, you kept thinking, "He pees with this thing, and I'm putting it in my mouth." Ewww. You also have to get past the tastes and smells of sweaty balls and sometimes even -- brace yourself -- the faintest whiffs of doo-doo from the neighboring anus.

Those sounds he's making -- do they mean he's enjoying himself or is he wincing in pain because you accidentally scraped him with your teeth?

(Never mind the fact that you only scraped him with your teeth because the idiot got excited and started pushing your head down on it like he was trying to unblock your sinuses with his penis.)

Then there's the whole issue of saliva and drool. You have to get past the idea that drooling is unattractive and accept that the more drooling and slurping you do, the better it feels to the recipient.

An early learning experience of mine: drinking too much beer = cotton mouth = BAD BLOW JOB.

There is a fine art to the rhythm of sucking and breathing at the same time, kinda like juggling. It takes some practice, as does not vomiting all over your date when the head of his cock hits your epiglottis.

To swallow, or not to swallow? And why does it taste that way?

Then there are the random elaborations. Like cum getting in your eye. It stings like a mother.

The finger up the poop chute. Learning to file your nails and use some lube before trying that bright idea again.

The true mark of a dedicated cocksucker? Being able to swallow your own vomit without missing a beat, even when snot is dripping from your nose and your eyes are runny and your knees are killing you, and you have cramp in your neck, and you're dizzy from lack of oxygen and you just want to scream, OH FOR GOD'S SAKE CUM ALREADY!!!!

But you can't, of course, because your momma told you never talk with your mouth full.

See? This is why I can't write romantic erotica. I've done too much of the real thing, in all it's sweaty, smelly, realistic glory.

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