What
does it mean to be an “underground” author in the age of the internet?
Lately
I’ve been reading a lot of and about Charles Bukowski. Largely ignored for most of his life, he
submitted his rough, distinctly “low-brow” poetry to independent and small
press journals. Through these he gained an
“underground” following that slowly grew by word of mouth until other independent
and small press publishing houses printed his works in book form for that
“underground” fan base. Bukowski’s work
caught the eye of other writers and musicians, mostly in the L.A. and San
Francisco areas, until eventually he caught on nationally and even
internationally.
But
in today’s media world, what does it mean to be an “indie” author or to have an
“underground” following?
fan pic
This indie author, whom you are now
reading, dear valued patron, has a substantial following, or, shall I say, a
much larger following than I ever imagined would sprout from my initial blog
posts about Lola. As I have explained in
various interviews elsewhere, this compulsion, which borders on graphomania,
came into being because, after a few months with Lo, I discovered that there
was almost no literature out there about being in a relationship with a
nymphomaniac. Since no one else was
writing about it, I figured I’d toss my hat in the ring and give a first-person
account of what it’s like – the proverbial trials and tribulations as well as
the orgasms and titillations.
Before
I knew it, I was suddenly gaining a following and garnering the praise and
accolades of other fellow sex-bloggers.
Women were sending me fan mail and nudes of themselves, much to the
consternation of Lo. Men and women were
writing to Lo and sending her all sorts of salacious selfies, much to her lurid
enthusiasm.
The Beautiful Faye Daniels getting off to Lola Down
Our
subscriptions and unique visits to our blog went up and soon we were being
featured on sites like Bustle and Top Sex Blogger lists.
I
compiled various stories into books and those sold swiftly. And now, today, we have over 20,000 followers
on our various media outlets.
However
much those numbers might dwarf the reach and following of a Bukowski back in
the day, with the potential of today’s technology, that seems far less
impressive than it would have been when the only way to get your writing in
front of a reader was through the mimeograph machine.
Are
you, dear confessional confidant, part of an underground audience? Does it even make sense to speak of such in
today’s complex and multilevel media ecosystem?
Or is “underground” just a term that is used retrospectively to describe a core following of people that read a
certain author before he or she hit the mainstream? Is it something that can only be applied with
hindsight?
I
don’t know the answers to these questions and I suppose, on some level, it
doesn’t matter since I write about what I love and I love what I write about –
Lo. As long as the love is good, I feel
the writing will be good as well. And
though the letters and gifts from the readers are flattering and the money
(what little there is) earned from the writing is appreciated, what matters
most is that I really enjoy doing what I’m doing.
“Our vices always lie in the direction of our virtues.” – Thoreau, A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers
It
was a beautiful Saturday afternoon and Lo and I were about to go for a brisk
walk through the neighborhood when, as we exited the front door, we found a
package addressed to Lo.
“Were
you expecting a special delivery?” I asked.
“Not
that I recall,” she said.
She
picked up the brown box and we brought it inside, unwrapped it, and we found
two beautiful paintings of Lo somehow done on thick panes of glass. One was of her puss.
On seeing the
striking resemblance up close, Lo remarked, “The illustration really captures
my essence.”
Painting by Blackbook Artist
By now, it’s no secret that Lo has a
lot of admirers, both in person and virtually.
Her fans love to send her gifts and those gifts range from the common,
run-of-the-mill dick pic to beautiful original paintings and artworks that
arrive by mail at our doorstep. I have
no issues with any of her accolades. I
am more than satisfied to bask in the glory of her brilliance, like the moon illuminated
by the sun. I will also admit that many
of those admirers pay at least lip service to the writing. And, given that Lo’s lip service is something
I get on a regular basis, I have no reason to complain. But it is nice, every once in a while, when
an enthusiastic and attractive woman writes to me to express her appreciation for all the hard work I do.
This has happened on a few occasions
and, despite the disproportionate attention that Lo gets compared with yours
truly, it never ceases to amaze me that she still gets jealous.
Recently, I received an email from
an admiring female fan that read: “Hi there, HH, I recently came by your blog
through another site.” Interesting turn
of phrase – “came by your blog,”
rather than “came across your blog.” Do
you think she was intentionally ambiguous?
And our fans always say, “through another site,” but never say through
which site – perhaps embarrassed by the seedy sites and searches they use. I digress.
The letter continued, “Someone in my network was going crazy about how
they’re jacking off to LOLA and your stories about 50 times a day and how she’s
probably the most intense woman alive in our times. Of course, when I checked your website out, I was
blown away after reading the explicit as well as brilliantly written episodes.”
My darling correspondent was kind enough to purchase
our books and also take some photos with them and send some sexy pics to
me. I hardly have to add that Lo was
flattered by the letter as well (which is probably the only reason why it
slipped passed her watchful eye and was brought to my attention by her).
I will say, dear reader, that
missives such as this have dwindled in number since we began this little
sexcapade of a blog. I attribute this
diminished return to the rapid advances in technology. Not only can one watch porn on their phones,
but other porn progress, such as 3D porn and realistic porn video games, have
made the market for pure erotic writing with occasional still photographs a
quaint relic of our pornographic past, like Playboy Magazine and the pin-up
calendar.
Fan Submission
The digital age has afforded great benefits to authors
such as myself – a vast, almost instant platform to reach across the world, the
ability to communicate directly with one’s readers, and a streamlined mechanism
for typing. (Recall that Jack Kerouac
had to feed industrial spools of paper into his typewriter while he drank his
whiskey in order to not interrupt his flow by having to replace the sheets of
paper.) For all those boons, it’s hard
to compete in the age of digital diversion.
The smartphone has all the bells and whistles. All I have is my story. And yet, every time I go see some block-buster
action film in which the stunts and special effects are on steroids, I often
leave feeling let down. Sure, the visual
CGI was on a galactic scale, but the story!
The story! Without a good story,
all of the other stuff falls flat. It’s
like a cake composed entirely of icing, or a tricked-out car with no
engine.
Fan Pic
I digress again.
Maybe I should stick to my story.
I was telling you about my lovely letter from a fan. Though I write out of sheer delight, on
occasion (many occasions actually), it feels as if it is an obsessive
compulsion. But when I receive a
compliment from a reader, it seems to justify the excess.
“See that, Lo,” I said, “Maybe
it’s not just the scribblings of a madman.”
“Oh,
darling,” she said, “They’re lucky that you have something good, worthy, and
important to contribute, unlike most of the drivel that people write.”
I love a careful reader!
“You just
think that because I write about you.”
You see, dear reader, it is difficult to get an objective
opinion from Lo. But she is self-aware,
to a degree. Once, when I returned from
a business trip to New York City and was telling her of the nude women at Times
Square trying to turn a buck by selling a selfie with them, she said, “You’re just telling
me this to get in my pants.” She knows
that I know that her reaction to jealousy is to seduce me.
“How
did this become about you and sex?” I asked.
“Everything
is about me and sex. I’m a
nymphomaniacal megalomaniac.”
She
then undressed and reclined on the sofa.
I just looked at her.
“What are you doing?”
she asked, impatiently.
“I’m an author of erotica and a philosopher – I’m contemplating your navel.”
After
reading the letter from my admirer, I suppose I was grinning from
ear-to-ear. My delight triggered Lo’s
jealousy and I warned her that I would expose her bad side if she kept it
up.
“Bad
side?”
“Yes,” I said, “Everyone has a bad side.”
Lola turned around and showed me her ass and pussy
from behind and asked over her shoulder, “Is this my good side or my bad side?”
After reading this blog entry to Lo, she said to me,
“You know, we should have another tagline.
Instead of “The nymphomaniac next door,” we should say,
“Mysexlifewithlola – come for the pics, stay for the story.”
“That’s good,” I said.
“Or maybe,” she mused out loud, “Cum to the pics, stay
for the story.”
“Or,” I said, “you could cum for the camera, they stay
for the story.”
“No,” she said, “I like mine better.”
“You always do,” I responded.
She then fiddled out of her bra and cuddled up to me,
her nipples hard and erect under her blouse.
“Don’t you like mine better, Daddy?” she asked.
“I do think you persuaded me.”
“You never
can argue with me when I wear this. I
must have a couple of great points.”
Yes, you do make a couple of good points, I must admit.
To which I said, “I’ve got it! The tag should be: Lola Down – clever
lines, sexy curves.”
“You are beautiful.
Your eyes are beautiful. Your
mouth is beautiful. Your breasts are
beautiful. Your cunt is beautiful.”
Lola Down, spread wide
I was reading a message Lo received on her phone from
an admirer of the blog.
“A regular Shakespeare, that one,” I said.
“I think it’s sweet,” she responded, as her left hand
began to fondle her pussy lips under the covers.
“Sweet?! He
left out your hair, your nose, your neck, your shoulders, your tum, your ass,
your legs, your feet, and your toes!”
“I’m sure he was going to get there,” she said
matter-of-factly.
“Can I get there?” I asked, sounding a bit desperate
for affection, or her attention.
“Get where?” she asked, playing with me.
“Anywhere.
Between your legs, ideally.”
“Let’s see where this goes,” she said about her
internet friend, unfortunately, and not about my bid for her caress.
“I know where this
goes,” I said, putting her hand on my hard rod.
I was hard because her internet friend had sent a slew of photos of
himself jacking off to her pics and cumming all over them. She looked good in the sexy photos.
“Daddy,” she said, protesting, “I’m busy trying to
please my loyal fans.”
“I don’t mind, as long as you do it while spreading
your legs.”
“I’m spreading the love.”
“Can you spread the love wide enough for me to get in
on it?”
“Your pussy looks pretty and gorgeous,” wrote another
fan.
“It is pretty, gorgeous, wet and waiting to be
filled,” she wrote back.
“Me, me!” I said, “Pick me.”
“Calm down, Daddio,” she said, full of vanity fed by
her fans’ flattery.
“Tell me more about you,” wrote another internet
correspondent.
“Read the books,” typed Lo, “There’s
too much to tell and too many people to tell it to.”
“You’re hard, girl,” responded the inquirer.
“Funny, everyone tells me I’m easy,” quipped Lo, “and
that makes them hard.”
“I love your stories,” wrote one female fan.
“H.H. writes. I
inspire,” wrote Lo to her.
“Do you inspire with your body?”
“And my wit.”
“I’m inspired right now!” I said to Lo as I grabbed my
cock firmly. “They all are cumming to
you. Can I cum to you?”
“Cum to, on, in, with, over, under, around, beside – I
provide the pussy. You pick the
preposition,” she said, dismissively.
I got up on my knees and stood over her, jacking my
cock.
“Just don’t cum on my phone,” she said as she
continued to scroll through her contacts.
She continued to fondle herself beneath me for a while
before she said, “Daddio, lie down next to me.
I’ll help you.”
I lay down and she grabbed me by my shaft. “I’m your righthand man,” I said as she jacked
me off with her right and scrolled with her left.
“My wife is nothing like you,” wrote one desperate,
sad husband.
“You two should
read our blog together. It would open up
her mind. . . and pussy.”
“I could never
suggest it,” he wrote, “she’d freak!”
“But you like it?”
asked Lo.
“God yes,” he
sighed through the medium of type.
“Tell me what a young, sexy, slutty person such as
myself does for you.”
“I’d love to eat your yummy, sloppy, used, cum-filled
holes,” he wrote.
“Another bard!” I opined sarcastically.
“Shut up and cum,” commanded Lo as she tugged more
aggressively.
“Are you in a rush?” I asked.
“Both hands are full,” she said, “leaving nothing for
my snatch.”
“I’ll happily fill that gap.”
“You stay right where you are,” she ordered.
“Has she ever caught you jacking off?” wrote Lo to her
married man.
“No. It would
be a big deal if she did. It would be an
even bigger deal if she caught me jacking off to you and not to porn.”
“I am porn,” protested Lo.
“I mean, it’s one thing to get off to anonymous,
vacuous, impersonal, professionally produced porn and it’s quite another thing
to get off to you.”
“That’s more like it,” responded Lo.
“That’s it, I’m getting up and out of bed,” I said.
“But nooooo.”
“Yes. You’re
just treating my cock like it a joystick to your favorite video game.”
“A game I always win.”
She continued stroking.
“Are you into length or girth?” asked her internet
interloper.
“I’m into cock.
And cock gets into me.”
“Once again, I must protest!” I said. “You’ve got a very capable, compatible, and
coveted cock right here, but you’re not letting it into you!”
“What, ole man, my right hand isn’t enough for you?”
“Not when you’re teasing those guys about how fast and
loose you like to play.”
A new fan chimed in, “I
have to stop sinning. I’m religious,
that’s why I can’t go on doing this.”
“Sex is
spiritual. And I’m a sex goddess. Worship at my alter,” replied Lo.
“Now you’re
offering theology lessons?” I chided.
“No. Just encouraging them to be good
semenarians.”
“That was
terrible. Low hanging fruit,” I replied.
She cupped
my testicles and said, “Very low hanging.”
“Oh, does your wit never cease?!”
Now
she squeezed my balls to show me that I had better be careful about mocking
her.
Another
woman asked Lo if she liked taboo tales.
To which Lo responded, “How
taboo are we talking here?”
The woman said she was into watersports and bestiality.
Lo wrote back, “Let’s knot.”
“Don’t you mean. . . oooooh, I get it,” I said.
“Woof!” she said to me.
The woman, whose name was Mila Beijne., went on to tell a little story.
I was a model a
few years back and after doing a shoot I was talking a bit with the
photographer, the lighting guy and his assistant. They invited me to their home. I trusted them and liked them. We were all horny and I was willing, I admit. At the photographer’s home we had some drinks
and then they slowly undressed me. They
got naked too. They were all good looking men and one was really hung. They
kissed me everywhere and started fucking me in my mouth, pussy, and ass. I was very horny. After quite a long time,
they changed positions, each taking a different hole. Then they rotated again and fucked me a long
time again till I was exhausted. They
filled me up in every place they could. But
the fun was not over yet. One put me on
the floor and the other started urinating over me. Then the other two joined in.
It was a lot and all over my body and in
my long hair. There was no shower, so it
was a special experience driving home.
It was my first time doing that and I liked how the act showed their dominance
over me.
Mila asked to be included.Mila B. through the years
I could see Lo getting increasingly more excited as she read the short little story from Mila. She quickly wrote back, “Yeah, HH does that to me. I love it. Being below him, feeling his warm stream flow over my back and butt.”
“We haven’t done that in a while,” I
reminded her.
She ignored me because another fan
had written to her. This guy was
old. I mean, like twenty years older
than I and I’m in my 50’s! His name was
Bob and he wrote:
Hi Lola, and thank you!
You are an inspiration to me. I
hope you can give me some advice.
I’m in my 70’s and I’ve been in a relationship for over 25 years. No passion or sex for the last 20 years. I’m at a loss as it has become impossible to
talk about it with her. I’ve made the
mistake of combining our lives and living situations this whole time. It has become all about her for the last
several years. I feel I’m too old to
begin another relationship with a woman, yet I still admire all women and all
that I see on your blog. I’ve even
become curious about men as I feel that may be the only way to explore my
unresolved sexual fantasies. Yet I’m
still conflicted as I long for an intimate relationship that I’ve missed in my
life.
Do you have any suggestions??
Lola wrote back, “To tell you the truth, Bob, I’m just good wanking material, but I’m not a sex coach or a sex therapist. You might want to check out one of these trained professionals to get some expert advice on having more sex with spirit.” She provided a link. Then she added, “But if you’re looking for a real hotwife, cum to me.”
“What?!” I said to her, shocked that
she’d even offer that to him.
She ignored me and
typed, “I have a very soft spot for old married men whose wives no longer have
sex with them. Would you like to see
it?”
Of course he said
yes. Lo sent him a naughty pic of the
place between her legs that she was denying to me.
“Lo, that’s just
cruel!” I said.
“What? Soon you’re going to be that old and you’d
want the same from me. Wouldn’t you?”
“What’s cruel is
that I’m that old man who is being denied right now!”
“If what I’m
giving you isn’t good enough, then take matters into your own hands,” she
said.
As
she said it, another married man was singing her praises in a message that
read, “I’ve come to worship your holy holes.”
“See,”
she said, “I’ve got fans who know how to woo me.”
“Woo
you? They worship you!”
“What’s
the difference?”
After
some flirtatious back-and-forth, Lo asked to see a pic of the man’s wife.
He
asked why she wanted to see that and Lo responded, “I like to see who I’m
beating out when guys are beating off to me.”
The
guy sent a photo. His wife was
beautiful. But apparently she lacked the
‘personality’ of Lo. He wanted to know
more about Lo and he asked her questions.
“I’m
like an open book, there for anyone to read,” she responded, “You just have to
know where to find me. Are you familiar
with the Dewey Decimal system?”
“Like, in the library?”
“Yeah.”
“So, I can find you in my local
library?”
“If only,” wrote Lo, “I’m indexed
under XXX.”
“As in 30?” he wrote with a winkface
emoji. “Still pretty young.”
“Pretty, young, and slutty. I’ll tell you what, you can virtually finger
my folios at: mysexlifewithlola.com,” she said, “and you can also buy the books
there. I suggest you get a few copies of
each and donate the extras to your local library so everyone can spread my
centerfold for free.”
As Lo was typing, she guided my cock
to her mouth and wrapped her lips around the tip. She looked up at me as her hand continued to glide
back and forth from the base to her mouth.
I began to cum and she hungrily held me in place so as not to spill a
drop. I was so worked up that I couldn’t
control my convulsions. I began
breathing deep, heavy breaths. Lo looked
up at me and said, “What?! Are you having
a stroke?”
When I finally managed to catch my breath, I looked
down at her and said, “Yeah, I’m having a stroke. A really good stroke.”
Lo
wrote a final line to her fans: “Good night all you kinky sexy rogues. Dream of me in your debauched nocturnal
thoughts.”
She put her phone down, grabbed her Hitachi, lay back,
shut her eyes, and began vibrating until she was the one violently convulsing,
squirting, and gasping for air.
When she was done and had removed the Magic Wand from
between her legs, she grabbed my hand and placed it on her bare pussy for me to
feel how wet she was. She’s proud that
she can turn on the tap almost at will.
“Pull my pussy lips, Daddy,” she said. I stretched them. “Harder.”
I pulled more. “Harder Daddy,”
she complained.
“Lo, if I pull them any further they’ll be down to
your knees.”
“Try it,” she said.
She likes the pain or pleasure.
As I pulled I asked her, “What were you thinking about when you came?”
“I think about you.”
This line from her was as false as Marlow telling Kurtz’s
betrothed that Kurtz’s last words were her name.
“OK, that’s enough of that,” I said, calling
bullshit. “What did you really think about?”
“I think about you,” she said. “And I think about cock. I think about a lot of cock.”
“That’s it?”
“And pussy.”
I gave up there knowing that the
litany of licentious thoughts could go on endlessly. I sat silently and she mistook my silence for
judgment.
“You don’t know
what it’s like to be me!” she blurted out defensively.
“Oh yeah, you’ve
got it so hard,” I said sarcastically.
“I wish,” she said
even more sarcastically as she lifted up my flaccid member in her hand.
“You know,” I said, “your porn persona and your
personality are not consistent.”
“What are you talking about?”
“All those people out there thinking you’re a
nymphomaniac, thinking that I am so inundated with your pussy that I barely can
find a moment’s peace, yet the reality is that you denied me just now.”
“There’s no inconsistency.”
“How not?”
“Because I know you’re going to write about this and
so it will be part of my porn persona.”
The following interview was just published on the very elite blog: AuthorsInterviews by the wonderful Fiona Mcvie!
Hello and welcome to my blog, Author Interviews. My name is Fiona Mcvie.
Let’s
get you introduced to everyone, shall we? Tell us your name. What is your age?
LOLA:
Hi, my name is Lola Down. I’m in my
mid-twenties. My man, H.H., the author,
is in his mid-fifties.
Fiona:
Where are you from?
LOLA:
We’re both from the U.S. The North East
to be more specific. But that’s about as
specific as we get.
Fiona:
A little about your self (ie, your education, family life, etc.).
LOLA:
We’re both well educated with graduate degrees.
My family background is rather tattered and filled with pain. His is all American Apple Pie, so far as I
can tell, but I’m sure that there’s lots beneath the surface. He doesn’t talk much about it, so it’s a bit
of a mystery to me. We met when he was
my art history professor. I was a
freshman and 18. He was in his late
forties.
Fiona:
Tell us your latest news.
LOLA:
Latest news is that soon we will be publishing the third book in our series of Match, Cinder & Spark. The first volume, subtitled “Nymphomania and
the Single Girl,” included a lot of stories about me when I was single. The
second volume, subtitled “MORE!” included more stories. The third volume, subtitled “Writing Under
Cover,” included a story about living a double life: of normal folks by day,
and sexplorers by night. The next volume
is subtitled “Sexy Shorts” and will only be two-three page stories.
Get all of the books, hard-copy for best results.
Fiona: When and why did you begin
writing?
H.H.:
I began writing in high school. Short
stories, mostly of a sci-fi genre. In
college I tried a bit more, but it wasn’t very good. It wasn’t until I was in my late twenties,
early thirties and going through some very tough times in my personal and
professional life that I turned to writing as a form of escape, release, or
therapy. That’s when it began to go much
better.
Fiona: When did you first consider
yourself a writer?
H.H.: I never really felt like a writer and certainly never
introduced my self as such because it seemed so pretentious and false. But at a certain point I just had written so
damn much that it was undeniable that that was what I was. A tiny fraction of it had been published, but
it wasn’t until starting the blog, mysexlifewithlola.com, that I really felt
like a writer. That’s when our
readership just went up and up and people from all over the world began writing
to us saying how much the writing (and Lola) inspired them. That felt great!
Fiona: What inspired you to write your
first book?
H.H.:
After a few years of regularly writing and publishing for the blog, the
manuscript of stories was into the hundreds of thousands of words. Currently, as of today, the word count of
only the published stories is 476,472.
That doesn’t include the words in the hopper ready for publishing on the
blog, or the notes that have incomplete stories and fragments. So, even though the stores didn’t have a
narrative arc, and they were mostly a collection of stories with two main
characters in each story, I thought, this is a good way to make access to the
stories easier for people. The blog
navigation can be as confusing as it is easy, if that makes sense. I didn’t spent time shopping the manuscript
around since we already had a built-in fan base of over many thousands. Unfortunately, the first volume, Match, Cinder & Spark: Nymphomania and
the Single Girl, was rather lengthy and, in the hard-copy, we included a
lot of high-quality, glossy photos. That
shot the price really high. I didn’t
realize how expensive it would be until the project was finished. By that time, after all that work, I decided
that I was just going to publish it as is, let the buyer pay for the book. It
is a collector’s item, after all. And,
with some more work, I could publish an e-book version and sell it for
literally 1/70 the price. Unfortunately,
at the time, the technology was not available for the photos to be included in
the e-book, but that also meant that people all over the world could safely
read it in public places, like the subway or on a plane or the airport, without
fear that Lola’s pussy would suddenly pop up on the screen. And if they wanted to see Lola’s va-jay-jay,
they could always just do a Google search of mysexlifewithlola.com.
Fiona:
How did you come up with the title?
Lola: Match, Cinder & Spark – He’s the
“cinder,” that is, the fire that has passed its prime. I’m the “spark”; the catalyst that sets things
aflame. Together, we’re a match. I won’t say a perfect match, but one that is
highly combustible. . . and hot!
Fiona: Do you have a specific writing
style? Is there anything about your style or genre that you find particularly
challenging?
H.H.:
The writing usually comes very easy. It’s mostly quasi-autobiographical. Lo provides the inspiration and a lot of the
raw material for the stories and then I just take artistic liberties to craft
it into a story that has some form. But
every once in a while I try to switch it up by trying out a new narrative
style. I once wrote a story called “Fuck
Noir” and I tried, not too successfully, to adopt a detective novel narrative
voice. I was particularly fond of the
last line, but that was all Lola’s doing.
Fiona:
How much of the book is realistic and are experiences
based on someone you know, or events in your own life?
H.H.:
Like I said, almost all of the book is based upon something in our lives,
either individually or together. We take
pains to protect the innocent as well as the guilty, and I use poetic license
to intersperse scenes out of sequence in order to tell a better story, but
there’s very little there that didn’t actually happen.
Fiona: To craft your works, do you have
to travel? Before or during the process?
H.H.:
Travel provides great material. There has never been a trip that we have gone
on, either separately or together, that hasn’t produced at least one fun
story.
Fiona: Who designed the covers?
H.H.:
I once wrote a story called “How My Girlfriend Became an Amateur Internet Porn
Star” which is all about the design of the cover of our first book, Match, Cinder & Spark: Nymphomania and
the Single Girl. I had chosen some
stock photo for the cover and when Lo saw it, she freaked. “I go
on the cover. No one else. Me.” Well, from then on, I knew that any promo for
the book or the blog had to be of Lo. It
meant a lot of photo taking by me (and some sexy selfies), but it’s truly a
labor of love.
Fiona:
Is there a message in your novel that you want readers to grasp?
H.H.:
Love yourself. Love the one you’re
with. Love each other. And if you’re single: Love yourself and love
our blog and books.
Fiona: Are there any new authors that
have grasped your interest? Who is your
favorite writer, and what is it about their work that really strikes you?
H.H.:
There are a lot of bloggers in our blogging community whose work I really
love. Too many to name them all, but a
small sample includes: Cara Thereon of CaraThereon.com, Hyacinth of
adissolutelifemeans.com, Nilla of Vanilla Mom’s Blog, just to name a few.
Lola:
Also, lately I’ve really enjoyed TJ of The Lustful Empress, Nero Black and his
eponymous blog, and lots of writers on Medium.com, most especially MyErotica
run by Rose, and the columns by Madelaine Hanson.
Madelaine Hanson
Fiona: Outside of family members, name
one entity that supported your commitment to become a published author.
Lola:
Actually, none of our family members know about this blog. But I’d say that
Medium.com has done the most in that they pay their member authors for the
content they create based upon some mysterious formula. I’m sure that they
somehow make far more than the authors, but it’s more than other platforms
provide.
Fiona: Do you see writing as a career?
H.H.:
Outside of the erotica that I write, I have a whole host of other works under
my real name. One day, maybe after I’m dead, the truth will out and then it
will become the unenviable task of others to reconcile the “legit” writing with
the “scurrilous” works. That is, of course, if anyone cares.
Fiona: If you had to do it all over
again, would you change anything in your latest book?
H.H.:
Well the latest book is just on the cusp of being published and so I’m trying
to insure that it will be the best yet.
Fiona: Did you learn anything during the
writing of your recent book?
H.H.:
I learned how much I love Lola, not because she’s so incredibly sexy, so dirty
in her thoughts, but because she is so incredibly funny. Writing dialogue with her is so easy because
our day-to-day lives together are full of amusing banter. We like to think of
ourselves as like Nick and Nora Charles from The Thin Man movies.
Fiona:
If your book was made into a film, who would you like to play the lead?
H.H.:
Jeremy Irons. I think he is wonderful in the remake 1997 of Lolita. But he’s probably a bit old for
the part now (though he’s in great shape).
Maybe Jeff Goldblum.
Lola:
Amanda (Donaghey) George. She looks just like me. Or maybe Sasha Grey, because she looks a bit
like me and is willing to do anything.
Amanda GeorgeSasha Grey
Fiona: Any advice for other writers?
H.H.:
Never take advice from a fellow writer.
They’re all full of shit.
Fiona: Anything specific you want to
tell your readers?
How deep, how dark, how degraded, just how far down the rabbit hole of porn do you go?
Lola and I had a wedding to attend. Yes, another wedding. I couldn’t find my nice black leather shoes. They weren’t in the closet. They weren’t under my side of the bed. So I looked under Lo’s side of the bed – yes, that side where she keeps her dildos, vibrators, anal beads, and other pornographic paraphernalia. I knew I was entering dangerous territory, but what choice did I have? So I began methodically opening all the brown shoeboxes, discovering that there were no shoes to be had, but only the mechanical instruments of female pleasure.
But then I came across it – the one box that was heavier than the others. In it was not a pair of men’s shoes, but rather four or five books – all related to sex. Among them, Erica Garza’s Getting Off. There wasn’t much time. I had to pack and be ready to go to the airport in a matter of minutes. I grabbed the small volume and resolved that I’d just have to wear my brown belt and brown shoes to the wedding.
The flight was five hours, coast-to-coast. Lo was exhausted because we flew the redeye after a long day at work. She fell asleep on my shoulder as I used the time to read the book cover-to-cover. There were certain pages marked with dog-ears and certain sentences underlined. Almost all of them had to do with becoming inured to “conventional” porn and seeking every more degrading and debased images and scenarios. One passage read:
My preferences were changing all the time. I loved ‘old and young’ clips. I’d also taken a liking to watching drunken girls get walked around on leashes or fucked by groups of men. . . . I’d discovered the category of ‘bukkake’ and felt simultaneously disgusted and excited every time I watched multiple men come all over a girl’s face. . . .
I wondered about Lo and her late-night phone usage. What depraved, debauched, dissolute, degenerate, dangerous and deviant electronic alleyways had my dear Lo followed that she should be so interested in these passages? I was well aware of her penchant for multiple penises, how pee piqued her curiosity, her prurient interest in punishment, her salacious soliloquies on slut faming (the opposite of “slut shaming”), not to mention her downright dirty devotion to diddling while dreaming of bestial bullocks. But had her fantasies, obsessions, and external stimuli ventured beyond these already extreme bounds? I was in the dark. I looked over at my delectable sleeping nymph by my side and pondered the extent of her perversity. I recalled how years ago on a similar redeye transpacific flight she had utilized a highlighting marker as a dildo and got herself off in the crowded cabin as most of the passengers slept. I would be fooling myself if I didn’t admit that these indiscretions were at least part of why I loved her so.
We suddenly hit some turbulence on our descent and Lo awoke from her slumber suddenly. She saw me reading her book and asked, “What’s that?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
She sat up. Recognizing the book, she asked, “Where’d you find that?”
“I’ll give you a hint, it wasn’t with my black shoes.”
Slowly an expression of cognition appeared on her face. “Oh,” she said, conveying everything.
I flipped through the pages showing her each and every passage that she underlined.
“That’s private!” she said as she pulled the book from my hands.
“Is that so?”
We landed and Lola tucked the book into her bag as we deplaned.
We walked through the busy terminal and I said, “It was quite a read. Did you like it?”
“Some parts,” she said. “What did you like about it?” she asked.
“I liked that it reminded me of you. Why didn’t you tell me you were reading it?”
“Because, you don’t need that book or any book like it,” she said, obviously referencing the other illicit tomes in the shoebox. “You have me,” she said, putting her thumb to her chest, “and I’m all the sex-addicted, porn-watching, nympho you can handle.”
“That’s true,” I said as I dodged people rushing for their departing flights. “But that doesn’t answer my question.”
“What question?” she asked, talking past all the commuters.
“What porn have you been using to get off lately?”
“Define lately?”
We were outside in the sunshine and we found the taxi stand. We hopped in and told the driver our destination. In the backseat we continued our conversation.
“Look,” I said, pulling the book out of her bag and opening to the passage quoted above, “why is this underlined? Have you been seeking out something. . .”
“You know, already. I like bukkake, dirty old men like you fucking young beautiful women like me, facials, BDSM, female humiliation porn.”
I looked up and saw the taxi driver look at me and then at Lo through the rearview mirror.
“And?” I asked.
“And what?”
“Bestiality?” I whispered under my breath.
“Yeah, so what? You already knew that.”
“What else?”
“You know it all already.”
“Do I?”
“Well, I also like seeing big, hung men fucking fat women or big fat men fucking sexy thin women. I like cumming to gangbangs, machines fucking women incessantly, and also sensual massages.”
“So, basically everything you’ve ever done?”
“You could say that.”
We got to our destination and I paid the taxi driver in cash, giving him a generous tip on top of the juicy conversation he got to listen to on the way.
“You enjoyed that,” I said.
“Enjoyed what?” she asked coyly.
“You know what. Saying all those filthy things in front of complete strangers.”
“Did I embarrass you?”
“No, but you are a loose cannon.”
“I’m loose alright. And that reminds me, I also love to watch women with large labia and saggy tits.”
“I bet you do,” I said. “I have an idea.”
“What’s that?”
“Why don’t we go inside and fuck to my favorite porn.”
Her tongue licked her sparkling white teeth in anticipation and she asked, “What would that be?”
“I bet you could think of a few possibilities, but I’m not going to ask you to suggest anything and I’ll just come out with it.”
“I hope so,” she said, grabbing my crotch.
“My favorite porn is fucking you from behind as we both are looking at ourselves in a full-length mirror.”
“Mine too,” she said as we got in the hotel room.
Once we were in the room, we immediately stripped and I bent her over the dresser as we both looked into each other’s eyes reflected in the mirror above it. I pulled out my throbbing rod, what she once called a “Truth Stick,” and slid deep inside her as she moaned with pleasure. Once I had pinned her hips between my crotch and the corner of the dresser, I put her to the test.
“What else?”
“What else what?” she asked.
“What are the kinds of porn you didn’t tell me?”
“Oh, Daddy, please.”
I pulled back as her cunt squeezed my cock right out of her and she squirted on my bare feet. I thrusted forward again, mounting her.
“Tell me.”
“Daddy,” she pleaded.
“If you want this, then you’ll speak,” I threatened, temporarily removing my pleasure pole from her wet snatch.
“NO!” she said.
I was confused at first. No, I’m not telling or. . . .
“No, don’t pull out. Deep. Deep. Please,” she continued. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
“What gets you off?”
She looked up at the mirror and into my eyes that were watching the expression on her face. She couldn’t tell me while our eyes were locked. She dropped her head and her thick mane of hair covered it as her tits flopped forward and back with each thrust of my cock.
“OK,” she said in a tone of defeat. “I like seeing my guy fans send pics of themselves to me wearing sexy women’s panties. I like to see them hard-up for me in those sheer lace panties. I like to see them cum in them. I like them to cum to me, to my pics, to your dirty stories of me.”
Saying this, she came.
“What else?” I knew she wasn’t done. Not by a longshot.
“I like seeing women diddle themselves to me.”
“I knew that.”
“I like to see pregnant women get fucked hard. I like to see women with giant bulging breasts and huge round nipples lactating. I like to see lesbians sucking those huge tits, sucking the milk out of them. I like to see women being milked like cows.”
She came a second time.
“Keep going,” I commanded.
“There’s not a deep, dark, dank corner of the internet I haven’t explored. I’ve searched it all. You name it: sex with aliens; gay men masturbating to my pics; couples having sex while watching me; teacher/student sex.”
I wanted her to continue, but at this point all her limbs went limp and she collapsed in the puddle she had made on the carpeted floor. The orgasm was still causing convulsions and tremors through her flesh.
I let her lay there on the ground like a limp, wet pile of towels as I sat on the bed, my cock in my hands. I watched her as she gradually regained consciousness. She crawled across the floor to the space between my knees. She looked up at me. Her lips quivered as she tried to speak.
“That,” she said in a raspy whisper, “was fucking a-mazing.”
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It’s hot. It’s humid. It’s February and we’re on vacation – an escape from the winter wonderland of our northern home. Lying out by the pool, I admire the scenery, much to Lo’s consternation.
There’s a DJ who’s also doubling as the MC for the spring-break crowd. He has the limbo bar set up and is spinning “Limbo Rock” as the scantily-clad bikini babes and the sculpted bros do their annual mating dance under it.
Every limbo boy and girl
All around the limbo world
Gonna do the limbo rock
All around the limbo clock
“Enjoying the Bimbo Rock?” Lo asks me, her voice dripping with derision. She glances at me as she asks, but I see her taking in the eye-candy as well.
Jack be limbo, Jack be quick
Jack go unda limbo stick
All around the limbo clock
Hey, let’s do the limbo rock
Limbo lower now
Limbo lower now
How low can you go?
“They’re playing your song,” I say to her. “They’re calling your name, ‘Hey Lo – how low can you go?”
First you spread your limbo feet
Then you move to limbo beat
Limbo ankolimboneee
Bend back like a limbo tree
Jack be limbo, Jack be quick
Jack go unda limbo stick
“I’ll tell you what,” she says to me, looking over the rim of her dark sunglasses, “I’ll spread my limbo legs and you give me your limbo stick, and I’ll show you just how low Lo can go.” As she says it, she spreads her legs wide on the reclining chair.
“That’s sounds great,” I reply, “but first, let’s just see who wins, ok?”
“Grrrrrrr,” she says in frustration at my intentional taunt. “Get me a beer, Daddio,” she commands.
“Sure, do you want it in a glass?”
“Yes, please. But pour it right! I don’t want any head.” She paused. “I’ll be giving head later. . . in bed. That’s the only head I want.”
“I can’t wait,” I reply.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she barbs back, “I’ve got my eye on a few likely candidates.”
Later, up in the hotel room, she asks me, “Did you have fun at the pool, dear?”
“Yes – I particularly enjoyed making you jealous.”
“Well, you do a good job of it.”
“It’s not hard at all.”
“It looked pretty hard to me.”
“I’m going to take a shower,” I say.
“Fine,” she says, turning up her nose at me since she apparently took my choice of shower as a snub of her. But there she’s wrong. I just like to be clean and fresh for her.
“You know Lo,” I say before going into the bathroom, “I only have eyes for you.”
Lo ignores this and simply looks at her phone. “Oh, look at that,” she says to me, “A friend of mine just posted that he thinks that his girlfriend looks like Beyoncé.”
“So what? He’s in love?”
“Aren’t you in love? You say I remind you of Lucille Ball!”
“Don’t forget Bugs Bunny!”
“Bugs Bunny?! Really?! Why not at least Jessica Rabbit?”
“You talk like Jessica Rabbit, but you act like Bugs Bunny.”
“Great. That’s love.”
I hop in the shower. When I come out, I find Lo on the bed, naked, her legs spread, one hand holding her phone and one stroking her puss.
“Tell me what you want,” she says to me without even looking at me.
“No, you tell me what you want,” I respond.
This is a familiar game of ours, especially when she’s both mad at me and horny.
“Do you want me?” she asks, seductively.
“Do you want me?” I echo.
“Say it,” she demands.
“No, you,” I say, not willing to give in first.
“Tell me what you want,” she pleads, still stroking herself and pulling at her pussy lips.
“Not till you do first,” I protest.
“I want you to tell me you want me,” she says.
“There you go! You said it!” I declare, victorious.
“Said what?”
“You said, ‘I want you.’”
“Shut up and fuck me.”
“You know, Lo, I love you too much.”
“Why do you say you love me too much?”
“Because I let you off too easily and you get off too easily,” I say as I slowly slide inside her. She’s dripping wet and very loose. She moans as I slip in. Her phone is still in her left hand and she looks at it as I hold her naked body tightly. Her right hand is still over her clit and she rubs it as I thrust.
“Stay deep. Just stay deep,” she orders.
I obey. Her hips slightly gyrate up and down as her fingers quickly pulse on her clit. She cums within seconds. Her thighs clench so tightly she squeezes me out unintentionally.
“Sorry,” she manages to whisper as she climaxes.
“You just used me to get off.” I protest. “You just masturbated with me inside you. I was completely incidental to your orgasm.”
“No, Daddio, you were instrumental to it. Now flip me over and do me from behind.”
I obey. Her phone is still in her hand in front of her now so that I can see what she’s looking at. It’s a lesbian Tumblr page.
“Do you like them?” she asks me about the women I see on her phone over her shoulder.
“It’s like a sea of porn,” I say.
She immediately shuts off her phone. “Not for you!” she says.
“Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink,” I say.
“You can have your fill of this all you want. It’s plenty wet,” she says as her free hand now slaps her ass and then fingers her puss from behind. Her other hand is still busy between her legs from the front.
Without warning, I cum and cum a lot, deep inside her. Her pussy clenches on me, hungrily. But when I’m done, she flips over and complains, “You didn’t wait for me!”
“What?” I ask, perplexed.
“Ladies first,” she reminds me.
“You did cum first.”
“Ladies first and second!”
I go to the bathroom to clean up. When I return, I find Lo looking at the porn on her phone again, jilling to it. I begin to object to this, but she holds up a finger to indicate that I should wait till she finishes. I am polite and wait. She looks up at me with a smile. “Cum often, cum a lot.”
“The Lola Down motto.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” she says.
“I thought the saying was ‘Cum early, cum often.’”
“That too. As well as, ‘Cum one, cum all.’”
“I thought that was the motto of all your blog fans.”
“Really? You think so?” I ask, even more facetiously. “If you haven’t noticed by now – NEWSFLASH! – you are my fetish.”
“Good grief! Freud would have a field day with you.”
“Lo, you’re all the porn I need.”
“All I’ve ever wanted to be was a good amateur.”
I lie down next to her. “You’re the best,” I say as I immediately begin to fall asleep. She complains that I’m uncomfortable to sleep on. “Your big barrel-chested torso is impossible to lie on.”
“It’s a big bed in a big room in a big hotel in a big city. . .”
“With a big jerk right in the middle of it!”
As I fall asleep, I can hear and feel her going at it again for that magic number three.
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