I told him I was down in central booking. Again? he wanted to know. What now?

I need you to come down. Please.

This isn’t us anymore, Cookie. You can’t keep calling me every time you lose your shit.

So he left me there. Like everyone else had left me, so did he, and I didn’t think he ever would. I remembered the feeling in my chest the first time he put me behind the wheel. Him and his block headed brother ejected through the artificially lit glass door and were yelling at me to go before they touched the car. The adrenaline smelled like flop sweat and Jim Beam and burned the tiny hairs in my nose like gunpowder. Maybe it was powder.

We never got caught when I drove. You’re like a filly out of the gate, he’d tell me, and his breath was sour as his kisses were sweet.

After every take he’d push my face down on the hood of the Charger. My cheek grinding against the gritty prime, banging my hip bones into the grill, and he’d go till I screamed. Those were the best fucks. They became the only fucks I wanted.

I slept in holding that night. It wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t be the last.

An Art of Connection

This was one of my very first posts on this blog. Am reposting today because, well, it’s been almost two years, and these words ring as true for me now as they did then. I am happy to say I’ve made some wonderful connections. Here’s to many more, folks. 

I spend a lot of time thinking about how people relate to one another. While I write about sex, for me, sex is a metaphor for life. The closeness and intimacy that two or more people share, while in its context may be sexual, at the root of it is simply a need for connection. It’s a need the most aloof among us has.

It’s a difficult thing, that connection. It requires time. Trust. A willingness to give oneself over to another.

Blogging is like that, as well. We reach out in the dark to one another, and hope to spark a connection with a perfect stranger. I hope my words goad you into feeling. I hope that, whether you’re reading something sweet and romantic, or something dark and forbidden, you are feeling a connection with the character I’ve created. And I hope you can slip into their skin for a moment. Live what they live. Relate to your world in a slightly different, more open way.

I hope to get to know you all through this project. Please feel free to comment and converse, and even criticize, as I am here not only to connect with you, but to improve my craft.


A Note to my fellow WordPressers…

Let me start by saying we’ve gained a lot of new followers over the past week; it seems ‘Hope’ is a big hit. I’m so grateful to each of you for taking the time to read and follow, and I welcome you to my corner of the web.

I want to tell you all that I don’t do a ‘follow for a follow’ when it comes to choosing those blogs I read. That said, when I see I have a new follower I will follow back. The purpose of that is to put you in my reader so I am sure to not miss your content the next time I have a chance to catch up. If I’m engaged by your content, the follow stays; I will usually leave a like, explore a little more, though I rarely comment. Please don’t take that personally. It’s all a matter of time management with me. Though if something hits me really hard, I will most certainly leave a comment and let you know.

However, not everything appeals to everyone, so if I’m not moved by your content, I’ll remove my follow. Again, this is nothing personal. It doesn’t mean that I don’t appreciate your presence, and the effort you put into your blog. I appreciate all my readers, and keep up as best I can. It’s tough though, with over 2300 followers and only one me!

Thanks to each of you for your continued support.

Coming Soon – The Author


She squirmed, tried to ignore the pain between her legs. She knew he was watching. Watching while this man, this stranger, paid for the right to hurt her. It wasn’t the first time.

But it was the first time she had the Thought.

When he was finished the stranger left her there. Left her to clean up, to wait for the next time. Maybe it wouldn’t be tonight. Maybe it wouldn’t be for weeks. It was the not knowing that killed. Mama wouldn’t approve. Mama would say this isn’t right behavior for a little girl. This is what grownups do. And Mama would hit her while daddy drank in the barn.

Thomas? Thomas, help me…

This is a sneak peek at a longer work that I’m trying to get edited and posted here, hopefully through this upcoming holiday weekend. I know I’ve been scarce, and probably been hinting around at it for quite sometime, but I feel like my work is pulling me in a different direction.

This work (I’m not sure how to categorize it; it is significantly longer and more detailed and story driven than most of what I’ve posted here) is a return to my roots. To my beginning. It was one of the first structured, plotted stories I wrote, with the date on the working draft 1997. I was 22.

It’s heavily influenced by the old gumshoe detective novels, with a touch of mystery, some romance, and my signature dip into the darker corners of the human psyche, something of a taste of what was to come for me. And I think also there is a sensuality running beneath it all, a hint of sex and lust and other forces that drive people to do the things they do.

It is rough, but I am posting it mostly as it was written back then. I feel it’s time to share it, and time for me to branch out. I would enjoy any feedback you have to offer.

Wishing all of you a safe and happy July fourth weekend.

A writer’s thoughts

I am still thinking about Stella. It’s been months since I worked on that project, but I’ve gone back and read some of the excerpts I posted. In my own heart, I believe it’s some of the strongest writing I’ve done.

But my own thoughts have carried me in a different direction, different from the one I thought Stella was headed. At the same time, even those months back, I see hints in her of where I am now, of the Dominant fighting the submissive. I stop to wonder, can we hold both in the same shell? Can the two live in the same ‘house’ and co-exist? Or perhaps do different people bring out different sides to play? Is it about finding what fits most comfortably in any given moment?

Perhaps Stella should come with me. I think about her a lot. I don’t know if she is me, or a composite of me; I don’t know if she’s an ideal I carry in my mind, a creation through which I can live vicariously. Perhaps she’s the parts of me I like. Or the ones I don’t like. All I know is, she’s here. She doesn’t appear to be leaving.

I still bow up at the thought of writing a ‘novel.’ It’s almost a dirty word in the reaction it gets from me. Part of Stella is trying to figure out how and where she fits. How many words is she? How many words am I? Sometimes I feel like the Encyclopedia Brittanica. Most often these days I feel like a status update. What am I? I’m fine.

She’s not leaving though. Not dying out or growing weaker. Even while I can’t seem to find the words right now, she’s hovering there, tapping me on the shoulder.

I also wonder if I’m up to publishing again. If I pull her out here where all can see, do I have what it takes to take it all the way? And does it matter whether the world knows her or not?

I think these thoughts while I go through my days, while I work in the garden, care for the animals, walk the dog, prepare dinner, or watch TV at night. I get flashes of inspiration while I’m doing laundry or cleaning the toilet. They’re like mists right now. I can’t catch them. That’s not important; what is important is that they’re there.

She’s there.

Defining Success

It is a year, almost to the day, since Erotic Passages went live. I’m not really much for sentiment… good lord, nearly forgot my wedding anniversary this past year! Holidays and occasions slip up and pass by, and with every year it seems they get closer together. I just bah humbug them and move on, for the most part.

EP is no longer for sale, but it is available for your free reading pleasure on pressbooks. Find and follow the links I’ll add to the end of this post. One day, I’ll get the site organized and put them in the sidebar. One days become some days become yeah rights…

I think about all I put into its release. I would say creation, but all I put into that is still there for anyone to enjoy. I had a lot of fun with it, with interviews, a radio spot, twitter campaigns and making new friends. I can’t view it as anything but a success in that regard. Without it, I wouldn’t have met Kat, who has turned out to be one of the most important and pivotal people in my life. For that alone it is a raging success!

Looking back, I wonder if that was its main purpose. Before we met, I was floundering. I make acquaintances easily, but I don’t make friends easily. Although something I’ve learned of myself in the past year or so is that, if a person will meet me halfway, I will be 100% present for them. Kat doesn’t do anything halfway. She’s picked me up and dusted me off this year more times than I can count. She’s been there to listen to my sorrow, my rants and raves, watched me fall, helped me struggle. She’s got a wisdom that goes beyond her years, and a bravery I envy and admire. And she fucking kicks my ass at Scrabble! I figure she’s just trying to keep me humble.

I am redefining success. Success is not in how much I netted in annual sales. Success is being surrounded by people who love you. It is being open to new experiences. It’s allowing people in, whether or not it ends well, because sometimes the most painful experiences teach us the most about ourselves.

I am fortunate to have people who put themselves on the line for me. And just as fortunate that they allow me to return the favor.

I love you guys; and each of you know who you are.

Illicit Thoughts – Check out Kat’s corner of the blogosphere.

Erotic Passages

Echoes on the Stairs


I realize I’ve not said a whole hell of a lot since returning. I’m still struggling with whether or not I have anything of value to share.

My upbringing was strict. I’m of the ‘seen and not heard,’ ‘do not speak unless spoken to,’ ‘if you can’t say something nice,’ generation. I’m forty years old and still struggle with being the one to begin the conversation. That said, if you get me going, prepare to stay awhile, because it is like opening the flood gates.

I firmly believe it’s why I write. As a teen, I began writing in journals, privately, because it was the only way for me to purge those things I wasn’t permitted to express. Those volumes were dark. Filled with thoughts and feelings that shamed me because they couldn’t be stated to the world. Each time I filled one, I would burn it. It was an exorcism, and a way to protect the truth. The truth of me. It’s how I hid my true self.

My best friend asked me to do some self-love challenges with her at the start of the year. I tried. But I found I had the same reaction she did, in that the exploration only started exhuming things I don’t want to look at. Does this make me weak? There is a reason we bury. I don’t think it’s cowardly so much as the only way to lay it to rest and move forward.

I’m back. I am trying to be back. I’m trying to write, and it’s coming, slowly but surely. Life is interfering, and the things I’m having to recall, examine, forgive regarding my childhood, and in fact my life up to this point as my father’s health continues to decline, on some days those things push me back.

That I’m here means I’m fighting. Fighting to be in the present, for the present; fighting to not dread the future.

I thank each of you, my lovely readers, supporters, friends, for remaining supportive, for being patient, for offering kind words. I find joy in interacting here. And if I owe you an apology for my absence, you certainly have it.

Now, on with the filth!




I’d apologize for my absence, but sometimes life happens. It’s been a busy spring around here. On top of which, I simply seem to have not much to say! I’ve been taking my emotions in a more visual direction the last couple of weeks. And have been sporadically without a computer while attempting to get a new machine set up.

I have bits of stories floating around in my head, but they seem to have no beginning, end, or physical form. Just words and phrases, and ghosts of ideas that slip in and out, usually when I’m on the cusp of sleep. They’re so diaphanous, it’s as though I take a deep breath and they’re gone. They almost take the form of mists.

Echoes on the Stairs, the new volume of poetry I’ve assembled, missed the June 1st pub. date I’d set. It’s still awaiting finishing touches. I will be working on getting it out by July, hopefully. And I will also return here, and see if I can catch a few of those mists for you guys.



It’s been quiet around here this week. And by ‘around here,’ I mean within the confines of my own skull. Not much going on. My creativity has taken a more visual path, as I play around with a photomanipulation program, and take some pictures. I’ve toyed with the idea of setting up a sister blog for that work, but haven’t taken the leap yet.

Also, it’s spring. Spring on a hobby farm, while small, is still all about maintenance. And sometimes the smaller the acreage, the more work there is, as you try to sustain stock on limited space. For instance, what grass was here was over-grazed this winter, as I went through some movement (or lack of) related health issues with the equine this past winter. So I’ve let the grasses come back, and am mowing and drying the clippings to feed back to said equine. I don’t have ‘mowing’ or ‘haying’ equipment. I have a pushmower and a hand rake. Needless to say, this has taken a major chunk of my time this week. There is also a vegetable garden to put in. And flowers to plant. And all this outdoor work puts me behind in my indoor work.

However, with all this going on, the wheels still turn. And when the rainy day happens, hopefully I’ll be ready for it. I have to say, I’m loving the sun. It wasn’t an easy winter, emotionally. And while good writing comes out of emotional pain, eventually that pain wears you down to a nub. You have to rebuild, even if that means the words are a little slower in coming.