Category Archives: Literature

Live, Learn, & Listen

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When we published our first book together, Match, Cinder & Spark, Volume I: Nymphomania and the Single Girl, it was quite literally a novel experience.  We had never done anything like that before and we both delighted in the editorial process – rereading the stories, selectively choosing sexy photos to accompany the tales, deciding on the font size and type.  The entire experience was a sensual exploration on so many levels.

After Marxism, “materialism” became a bad word.  But now that the world has gone digital, I find that I indulge in the material universe: Books made of paper with pages that you can turn with your thumb and index finger; Magazines that are glossy and clearly have had thought put into the layout design; Oil paintings and marble statues.  All these mediums of reproduction that are tangible delight me, perhaps because, in the age of the internet, they are becoming endangered.  There is the possibility of pixels putting print out of business.

Lola Down in digital and print media

However, during that maiden voyage into publishing, there was something we did not consider nor realize until the long and arduous work was over: price.  After compiling twenty-nine chapters and an introduction, organizing the 221 pages and including numerous full-color, glossy photos, when we finally hit the “publish” button, the entire project weighed in at a whopping $74.95!  That was far more expensive than we ever contemplated.

Oh well, there was no going back now.  We figured we’d put it out there and maybe it wouldn’t sell like other pulp, but it would become a collector’s item.

Someone Enjoys the Glossy Photos of Lola Down

Luckily for our readers, but completely defeating my materialistic motivation, the entire book could be digitalized and easily downloaded as an e-book at the very affordable price of $1.99.  To date, this has been our top seller, with thousands of copies being read on devices around the world.  Unfortunately, at the time the technology was not available to include all the spicy photography that accompanied the hard-copy text.  But at least our dedicated fans were able to get this collection of stories all in one place.

Enjoying the digital image of Lola Down while on a date with his gf.

But now, we are very pleased to announce that a different form of material immersion is possible for Match, Cinder & Spark.  Thanks to the magic of technology and the talent, dedication, endurance, and sonorous sexiness of Ms. Jupiter Grant, the entire first volume is soon to be released as an audiobook.  That’s right, all 6.1 hours of steamy stories will be yours to hear.  Though the immersion into the senses that is provided by the hard-copy is, in my humble opinion, a wonderful medium through which to experience Lola in all her glory, I have to say, after listening and re-listening to Jupiter Grant’s marvelous performance of the spoken word, I feel as I have suddenly discovered new and relatively unexplored dimensions of sound and sex.

I hope you will give it a listen. (Stay tuned for the release!)

The Sexy Jupiter Grant!

Here’s what people are saying about the e-book:

 

 

Reviews of Match, Cinder & Spark, Volume I: Nymphomania and the Single Girl

 

 

About the book: The story of Lola Down, your average nymphomaniac next door. This roman-a-clef tells the story of how she and the author, H.H., survive the trials and tribulations of life with her libido.

Rodin: Lola looks at this absorbing topic with such sexy passion. A great read. 5 stars!

Kathy K: HOT! HOT! HOT!
Calling all Nymphomaniacs
All wannabe Nymphomaniacs
All fantasy Nymphomaniacs
Any type of Nymphomaniacs.
This is THE book for you.
An extremely explicit detailed account of Lo’s sexcapades told in blog post form from her beginning preteen sexual awakening through the years to her current Nympho state.
Erotically told by the author, her lover, her Daddy.
Sexual experiences you couldn’t even imagine told, in truthful, frank detail.
A must read!

And the perhaps biased review from Ms. Jupiter Grant herself:

Intelligent and thoughtful erotica.

I have had the recent pleasure of reading Match, Cinder & Spark, Volume I for the upcoming audiobook version, and I can honestly say that it has been a very sexy, delightful read. H.H. tells us about his beautiful muse, Lola, and her insatiable desire for sex and pleasure. As well as recounting plenty of hot scenes, the book discusses nymphomania, stigma, non-monogamy, sexual exploitation, and numerous other issues.

If you want your brain to be enticed as well as your body, grab a copy of Match, Cinder & Spark.

Always come prepared and prepared to cum.

Review: A Horny Halloween by Jupiter Grant

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A Horny Halloween by Jupiter Grant

Everything old is new again.  I’m old.  Maybe I too am new again.  I’m old enough to remember being too young to have lived through the age of the radio play, but eagerly wanting more whenever, on those rare occasions, I had the chance to hear a rebroadcast of one of the classics from the ’30s or ’40s back in the ’70s and ’80s.  But now, through the magic of the internet and the exciting new era of low-budget production reaching mass audiences and those in the audience getting to directly and immediately communicate to content creators what they want and putting their money where their demand is, we now have a whole new Golden Age of audio.  Audio books, podcasts, even old-timey radio dramas.  It’s all making a comeback and I couldn’t be more thrilled!

Because of this resurgence of the spoken word, and, perhaps even more recently, the proliferation of it among kinky sex-bloggers, Lo and I have become acutely aware of the power of sound to leap off the page and excite, every bit as much as the visual image accompanying sexy stories is able to do, if not more so.

In addition to this exciting new dimension of sexy sound, coincidentally, one of our fans has recently been corresponding with Lola earnestly requesting us to put our stories to sound because this avid “reader” is blind.  He is able to hear our stories through the generic computer-generated voice software that he has or that some websites, such as Medium.com, offer.  But he wanted to hear the stories told in a voice that was equal to their imagery.

Eager to please all of our enthusiasts, we actively sought someone with the right sound, sensibility, and savoir-faire, to narrate our naughty roman à clef.  After much searching, we finally found someone who was truly magnificent.  A sex-blogger herself, she wouldn’t blanch at the profane passages.  Highly educated and well-versed in eclectic religious lore, history, and philosophy, she followed where the story took to cerebral flights of fancy.  A lover of literature and, we think, a natural thespian, she made the dramatic dialogue of Match, Cinder & Spark, Volume I: Nymphomania and the Single Girl come to life.  And, as a woman of deep feelings, she made the climactic crescendos cum to life as well.

Match, Cinder & Spark

All of this praise is prologue in order to say that the following review is somewhat biased, but biased by previous knowledge of the author and narrator’s talents.

I speak here of the incomparable Jupiter Grant, whose A Horny Halloween (e-book $4.99), is, as the title suggests, at turns scary and sexy.  The six chapters clock in at two hours and eleven minutes on the audio version, as read by the author herself.  The tales are chock full of nearly equal parts sex, spunk, blood, and more blood.  But most of all, the stories all display a very vivid imagination that begins with the common light of day and gradually grows darker and more mysterious until we find ourselves caught between two worlds – light and dark, familiar and mysterious, mundane and magical.  There is a distinct echo of Edgar Allan Poe, but, unlike Poe’s magical realism,  these tales touch on religious rites, cults of initiation, and, in the last (and by far the best) chapter, a very incarnate experience with the narrators personal God and Savior.

Ms. Grant’s narration, as always, is a very pleasant British accent that leaps off the page with dramatic flurries as well as undulating deep tones where the text necessitates a baritone pitch.  Be sure to listen to these spooky stories with someone you can squeeze tightly because you won’t want to be alone for either the scary or the sexy bits!  But, whatever you do, make sure you give this collection from Jupiter Grant a listen.

Ms. Jupiter Grant of Jupiter’s Lair

When Writing, You Gotta Have a Point

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“You should do it,” said Lo.

“I don’t think so,” I replied.

“No, you definitely should do it.”

“It’s not really my thing,” I said.

Now, dear reader, before your imagination gets the best of you, we were not talking about any of the things you may have thought we were talking about.

I had been invited to give a talk at a Moth reading.  As many of you probably already know, a Moth reading is a storytelling event where each speaker is given about five minutes to tell a tale without a script.  No notes.  Just ad lib, though the performance can be prepared and rehearsed like an actor’s monologue.

“I’m a writer.  I’m not a performer, a thespian.  And I’m awful at memorization.  It becomes stale to me.”

With a “Peshaw,” she dismissed my objections.  “You can tell a story!  You’re made of stories.  You ooze stories.”

“A little too graphic,” I muttered.

“You want to ooze some stories into me?” she asked suggestively.

“Lo, that’s the problem!  All my stories are about you!  About sex!  This has to be PG.  And also, I notice that good stories, like the one’s that win at Moth competitions and get the most applause on Medium, have a point, a sentimental little piece of wisdom, a surprising ah-ha! culminating conclusion.  My stories don’t have that.  They’re just stuff we do, things we say, everyday life.  There’s no point to them at all.”

“Well. . . ,” she cooed, “I wouldn’t go that far.  You have a nice little point.”  She reached down and grabbed at my crotch.

“Little?”

“Why don’t you point me in the right direction and maybe a story will come to you.”

She got on the bed and slid out of her panties, leaned back and spread her legs.

I positioned myself above her.  She reached down between her legs and rubbed her pussy. “Mmmmm, that feels good,” she said.

I hadn’t even touched her yet.

She raised her hand from her crotch to her mouth and licked her fingers.  She didn’t do this in order to lubricate, but to taste her own lubrication.

“Fuck me, Daddy.”

Before I entered her, she was back to caressing her pussy – pulling her labia and slapping her hole, making popping sounds with her hand.

She came.

“That felt good,” she said.

“Lo, you know that I. . .”

“I know, Daddy.  The point wasn’t to make you cum.”

“Then what was the point?”

“You figure it out.  You’re the writer.”

One sexy reader

 

For All and None

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Recently it was the 200th anniversary of Herman Melville’s birth and just about every report of the event included the phrase, “died in near obscurity.”  This phrase, “near obscurity” has been bouncing around in my head.  What is meant by “near” exactly?  I understand obscurity.  By far, the vast majority of authors die in obscurity, that is why, other than those whom I have personally known, I cannot name any of them.  But what constitutes near obscurity for an author?  Nietzsche, too, died in near obscurity.  One might even say that Thoreau died in almost complete obscurity.  Same with Zora Neale Hurston, Emily Dickinson, and Sylvia Plath.  For each of these luminaries of literature, at the time of their deaths, either the light of their past glory had faded or, like Kafka, they never had any fame during their brief tenures above ground but, due to unforeseen assistance from the universe, their stars began to rise only after their mortal flames had expired.

Like you, I have frequently seen the bumper sticker advice of: Dance like no one is watching.  Recently, though, I came across someone whose blog bio read: Write like no one is reading.  (Unfortunately, that author’s name has escaped me, and so she must remain, to me at least, obscure.)  That quip really stuck with me, just like the phrase “near obscurity.”  These two adages knocked around in my brain like billiard balls.

Writing as if no one is reading is a liberating thought.  It is permission.  It is license.  It is dangerous and risky.  And so, perhaps, living, writing, and even dying “in near obscurity” isn’t so bad after all.

(It’s also important to recall that “obscurity” has a second meaning as well: unclear, difficult to understand, complex.  Maybe that characterization doesn’t apply so much to this blog, but much of my writing would be aptly described as “almost totally obscure” in both senses of the word.)

When I look at our blog stats and I see that there are over one million views and over a thousand comments on the blog, not to mention all the other eyeballs watching Lola and me in our most intimate prose in other platforms around the blogosphere, and leaving out all the books we have sold over the years, I suddenly realize that there certainly are readers of what I’m writing.  Yet, when you compare the numbers, it is easy to feel as if no one is reading.  Various sources state that in there are approximately 500 million blogs in existence as I write this.  That means that even if we round up all the various platforms upon which we appear to five million views, then that doesn’t even comprise 1% of just the writers out there, let alone the readers!  Yes, multiple blogs may be owned by one person and writers are also readers, but you get my mathematical point, right? – Though people are reading the blog, it is “nearly obscure,” given the vastness of the virtual universe.

But the injunction to write like no one is reading is not saying that I shouldn’t have any audience at all.  It’s saying to write as if the audience didn’t exist, just as I might dance as if all of you beautiful people on the dance floor with me weren’t judging my awkward movements.  If the music so moves me and it gives me joy to dance, however I might express that joy, then, by all means, I dance as if no is watching.  Same with writing.

Yet you million or so people out there, and especially you lovely likeminded literary leches out there who write to us – you do read us and thereby keep us from the cold uninhabited reaches of the blogosphere where we would be in complete obscurity.  For that we thank you.

Compersion

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Richard Prince – Girlfriend

            My good friend, Dr. Robert Smith, thought I was unaware of the time Lo sucked his cock, but there he was wrong.  Lo may cheat, but she doesn’t lie.  In fact, she brags.  Furthermore, I find her regaling me with tales of her infidelity arousing.  And Lo found Robert’s erectile dysfunction not only endearing, but a personal challenge. 

            The next time we saw him, at a fundraiser reception in an art museum, Lo affixed herself to him.  Arm-in-arm they strolled the corridors, pausing in dimly lit corners.  It was a nighttime event and the university spared no expense and was eager to show off its faculty to the wealthy alumni and other donors.  Because of the book I published long ago on art, I was one of the featured speakers.  After a brief hello exchanged with Robert, I was left to review my notes and consult with the university president about the order of the program.  However, every once in a while, I’d catch a glimpse of Lo leading Robert about, taking delight in the whispers and scandal that she was causing among our petty and gossipy colleagues.  I’d be lying if I said it didn’t irk me a little bit.  It would have been a totally different story if I could have been with them, observing, commenting, and teased by Lola’s cuckolding up close. 

            As it was, they disappeared out of my sight.  I only heard later, while horizontal with Lo in the darkness of our bedroom, impaling her with my rock-hard rod, between her gasps and groans, what happened. 

            “I walked with him as he politely escorted me through the various galleries: Impressionists, Expressionists, Cubists, and so on.  At each one he attempted to explain to me what I already knew, but I flattered him with my oos and ahs and reallys? – as if he were telling me something new.”

            “You’re bad,” I said.  “I bet you do that with me too.”

            “No, Daddy, never.”

            Her lies are transparent.

            She continued, “I knew the museum very well, of course, and I eventually led him to the contemporary art gallery.  I asked him if he liked contemporary art and he admitted he didn’t really understand it.”

            This was a rather intellectual conversation for pillow talk.  But I was willing to follow her lead. 

            She said in her sultry, seduction voice:

            When we got to the contemporary, I brought him to see Richard Prince and his ‘Girlfriend’ series.  He looked very confused and asked, ‘How can this possibly be art?’

Richard Prince, “Girlfriend” closeup

            I asked, ‘Don’t you find it beautiful?  The artist was so in love with his girlfriend that he chose to photograph her nude and put her up in an art gallery for all to see.’

            ‘That’s exploitation,’ he said.

            ‘Not if she likes it,’ I said.

            ‘A good feminist like you? –  How could you like it?’

            ‘How could I like being photographed naked and put on display for all to see?’ I asked to clarify his meaning.

            ‘I mean, how could you think that she likes it or that a woman likes it or. . .’ he stammered uncomfortably, ‘how could you like this,’ he said, indicating the large photograph.

‘You know,’ I said, ‘HH does the same for me.’

            ‘What are you talking about?’

            ‘He likes to photograph me nude and then share it with the world.’

            ‘What?!’ he asked, shocked. 

I looked down at his crotch to see if he was getting hard.  I think he was.

            ‘It’s called candaulism.  It’s a kink.  I’m surprised you don’t know of it – an educated man like you,’ I said, gripping his bicep.  ‘It comes from an ancient Greek story about Candaules, the king of Lydia, who was so proud of his beautiful wife, he arranged to allow his minister, Gyges, to see her naked.’

            ‘Is that so?’ he said, as if he were only academically interested.

            ‘Yes.  It turned out that the queen, Nyssia, was aware of the spying eyes and, according to legend, in order to teach her husband a lesson, summoned her husband to come to the bed and pleasure her.  Of course she knew that the figure in the shadows was not her husband, but, unable to escape, Gyges obeyed the command of the queen and, in the dim light, approached the bed.  All the while Candaules was secretly watching with a curious mixture of arousal and jealously.  Gyges entered the bed and then entered the queen.  She said all sorts of salacious things as they made love in order to drive the point of her lesson home, and that she did, wounding the suffering king with her cries of passion.  Finally, at the climactic moment, the king could hold back no longer and he made himself known to both Nyssia and Gyges.  Drawing his royal sword, the king made to slay the dutiful minister, but Gyges narrowly avoided the steel blade and, removing it from the king’s hands, impaled the king with his own sword.  A tragic tale, don’t you think?’

            ‘Yes, yes indeed.  And it should serve as a cautionary tale for HH.’

            ‘Oh, but that is all ancient history,’ I said, waving my hand.  ‘What HH and I do together is very fun.  Its proper term is ‘compersion.’  That is, the delight of seeing one you love pleasured by another.  Would you like to see?’ I asked, pulling out my phone. 

            ‘Perhaps later,’ he said just as we approached the Koons’ sculpture.  ‘Dear Lord!’ he exclaimed as he saw the porcelain rendering of Woman in Tub, ‘What is this gallery?!  The Museum of Pornography?!’

Not Koons’ “Woman in a Tub,” but Lola in a Tub – the inspiration

            ‘Oh, don’t be so rigid, and hardened in your ideas of beauty,’ I said to him as I patted him on the chest.  ‘This is a classic.’

Jeff Koons “Lady in a Tub”

            ‘Oh yeah, right up there with the Mona Lisa,’ he said sarcastically. 

            Having my phone out, I snapped a shot.  ‘It should be,’ I said.  ‘You’re just priggish in your stodgy ole professor way.  Don’t be such a prude.’

Art Appreciation

            “I bet you weren’t a prude, were you,” I said to Lo as I continued my steady rhythmic forays in and out of her puss with my cock. 

            “I got 99 problems, but being a slut ain’t one.” she said. 

            They returned to the courtyard of the museum where I was to give my talk and I watched them sitting in the audience next to each other.  Lo’s legs were crossed and she was proudly displaying her beautifully shod foot.  At one point I saw them passing notes. 

            “What did you write to him?” I asked her.

            “I just wrote that I found it incredibly sexy to see you up there at the podium in the museum giving your talk.”

            “Really?”

            “True, Daddy,” she said.  “Do you like that?”

            “I do.”

            “And then I wrote that I was getting too wet to sit still.”

            “You didn’t!”

            “I did, Daddy.  That’s when I got up.”

            I remembered seeing her walk out on my speech.  The thought of the reason why was too much for the erogenous zone of my brain to handle and I unleashed a torrent of my pent-up desire inside her. 

            “Oh Daddy,” she said, surprised, “Stay in me while I tell you the next little part.”

            “OK,” was all I could mutter as I caught my breath.

I went to the Ladies Room and quickly took care of my craving.  When I returned, I sat next to Robert and asked if I missed anything.

He said, ‘No, but I feel like I missed something.’

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘What’s that?’

‘You,’ he said.

‘Me?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ he said.  ‘I missed you when you were gone and I’m supremely curious as to where you went and what you went to do.’

‘Come with me,’ I said, ‘and I’ll show you.’

We got up and I took him to the Medieval room of the museum, and there, in the dim light, surrounded by the muted reds and blues of the stained glass windows, I sat with him at a pew and took out my phone to show him all the photos of me from the blog, most of them of me masturbating. 

‘Robert,’ I said, ‘Here we are in a place of devotional art and you see all these beautiful images and the illuminated manuscripts over there?’

Lola Down – 21st Century Devotional

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Well, this,’ I said, indicating the images on my phone, ‘is HH’s devotional literature for me.  This is the illuminated manuscript of the 21st century.  Sex is no longer sinful.  Sex is spiritual. And I am a sex goddess.’

            “How extraordinarily pompous of you!” I said. 

“You would have said the same,” she retorted.

“You know me too well.  But I think I’m rubbing off on you.”

“Rub off on me, Daddy!  Rub off on me!” she pleaded as I was still firmly sheathed in her dripping cunt. 

“What happened next?” I asked as I leaned into her, pressing my now tumescent cock deeper.  She came and she came in massive orgasmic waves.  Clearly the memory of being the object of worship was pleasing to her. 

            “Then he took the phone and looked at it as he leaned toward me.  Our lips touched and he held me tightly in his arms as our tongues entwined.  I saw that, as he was kissing me, he was looking over my shoulder at the phone he held in his hand, staring at my sexy photos.  I reached down and grabbed his cock and it was rock hard.  His other hand reached down and felt my soft leg all the way up to my panties.  I wanted so much more, but the event had just let out and we had to look presentable.”

            “That’s when I found you with him walking over to me with that devilish grin on your face.”

            “I thought I looked angelic.”

            “A devil is a fallen angel,” I reminded her. 

“MORE!” Reviewed

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Naked Review

Just found out that the good people at tenben.com reviewed Match, Cinder & Spark, Volume II: MORE!

They said, “Lo is the sort of woman that always gets what she wants.”

“What will probably sell this book from a particular standpoint is that it is chock FULL of photos of the pair serving as story illustrations. There’s a lot of care being put into this.”

“Match, Cinder & Spark Volume II: More! by H.H. is an earnest expression of a couple’s sexual energy…and that energy contains the white hot passion of one thousand suns. Each individual story along with its accompanying pictures is equal parts fun and sexy, but to attempt to mentally splice the smut with the real life antics of this power couple would be a fool’s errand. If you and/or your partner have a wild sexual side you’d like to explore on paper, to explore your wildest fantasies in the comfort of your own bedroom, you’d be doing yourself a favor by starting with this dynamic duo.”

You can see the full review here:

Match, Cinder & Spark | Matt’s Smut Vault

Lovelorn, Loveporn

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            Finally a moment to relax.  Some time to myself.  A quiet interval to read for enjoyment before sweet sleep.  I was deep into the Bukowski’s Notes of a Dirty Old Man, appropriately enough.  As I tried to enjoy one of the short stories about a dissolute life, Lo lay next to me, naked, her legs spread, diddling her bean, clearly looking for attention.  She spread her legs wider, putting her left leg up and over my legs.  She inserted her finger and moaned.  No response from me.  She spread her legs even further until her left knee hit the cover of my book, knocking it out of my hands.  She dipped all five fingers into her gaping pleasure patch. 

Lo’s Bed Spread

            “Hey,” I said, “watch it!”

            “Clearly you’re not interested in watching,” she retorted.

            “Is there something I can do for you?”

            “Probably not,” she replied, cursorily, as she continued to fap with her five fingers.

            “Then may I read in peace?”

            “Why do you want to read now?” she asked.

            “Well,” I said with some snark, “right now, I feel like it gives me a leg up, if you know what I mean.”

            She raised her leg even further, across my chest. 

            “Watch out, dear,” I said, “you’re spreading yourself a bit thin there.”

            “Thin?!  Thin?!  I’m a proudly thick woman,” she said.

“Look,” I said, “if you want me, then just use your words and ask for me to fuck you.”

“I shouldn’t need my words,” she said as she pulled out her fingers from her puss, “I’m using sign language.”

“And I’m using my ability to read lips.”

“See, we don’t even need words,” she said, “we can communicate perfectly well with body language.”

I got on my knees, pulled down my boxers, pulled out my hard cock and asked, “What does this body language express to you?”

Reading Notes of a Dirty Old Man

“Everything I want to know,” she said, “now dip your pen in my wet well and write your poetry all over me, you dirty old man.”

Class Pet

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            A stroll down Memory Lane:

            I was a little rusty.  It had been a while since I was in the classroom in front of a packed lecture hall of undergrads.  To compound matters, I wasn’t even lecturing on my specialty, art, but on literature.  You see, a friend and colleague of mine had taken ill and needed someone to fill the gap as a long-term substitute for the second half of the semester.  The course was “Post-Modernism.”  I had jumped in just as the syllabus was up to Donald Barthelme’s The Dead Father.  Looking out across the room full of bright, enthusiastic, eager, young faces, I was feeling like the dead father myself.  Were colleges admitting younger students, or was I just growing old?  I know what Lo would say. 

            The lecture hall was designed much like a movie theater, with the students’ seats at an incline, rising about ten feet from the lectern to the last row.  And it just so happened that in the third row was a very sexy and seductive brunette seated directly in front of me, her knees level with my eyes. 

            I must have tickled her fancy because on the third day of classes she strutted in wearing high heels, a short skirt, and a crop-top that prominently displayed her navel.  As I was pontificating about the post-modern condition, she was crossing and re-crossing her legs, allowing ample time for me to see that she was clearly not wearing panties.  I was even able to discern the dainty little ‘V’ shape of her carefully groomed pubic hair. 

            Trying my best to not stare, since a hundred other eyes were on me as I looked out and up into those vessels waiting to be filled from my fount of wisdom, I read from the text:

Class Pet

They stand before the hole in the ground. 

No fleece? Asked the Dead Father.

Thomas looked at Julie

She has it?

Julie lifted her skirt.

Quite golden, said the Dead Father.  Quite ample.  That’s it?

All there is, Julie said.  Unfortunately.  But this much.  This where life lives.  A pretty problem.  As mine as yours.  I’m sorry. 

Quite golden, said the Dead Father.  Quite ample.

He moved to touch it.

No, said Thomas.

No, said Julie.

I’m not even to touch it?

No.

After all this long and arduous and if I may say so rather ill-managed journey?  Not to touch it?  What am I to do?

Fan petting her Golden Fleece to Lo’s images

            A suggestive passage, indeed.  But what was I to do?  The page had been earmarked by the professor in whose stead I stood and the passage highlighted.  After reading aloud, it dawned on me that perhaps this was indicated for his personal pleasure and not for me to discuss in class.  Too late.  The cat was out of the bag now.  Or the puss, as the case may be. 

            My little class flirt raised her hand.  “Why is Julie’s pubic hair depicted as blonde?” she asked, unabashed.  Perhaps even a little sadistically, as her question was intended to make me squirm publicly. 

            “Excellent question!” I said like a fool.  “Maybe because the entire text is harkening to Greek mythology, and the Golden Fleece is, well, golden?”

            Unsatisfied, she followed with, “But isn’t this just perpetuating the myth of white elitism?” 

            “It could be read that way, or it could be read as a commentary or critique of those very origin stories that propounded the European and, by extension, white supremacist beliefs.”  I thought the answer not bad for an extemporaneous analysis.

            “And the centrality of the father,” she said, “isn’t that really patriarchal?”

            “You could view it that way, except for the fact that the children are taking him to be buried.  They are attempting to bury the patriarchy, you might say.” 

            As I answered, she spread her legs, very wide this time, and her right hand moved with grace and effortless flow, down to her crotch and ever-so-briefly pet her labia, causing them to spread.  I knew where I wanted to bury my patriarchy. 

            When the class was finally over, as the students were filing out of the lecture hall, I called the precocious student over to my lectern.

            “Ms. uh. . .”

            “Down,” she said, “Lola Down.”

            “Ms. Down,” I said, looking into her brown eyes.  “I am sorry that you found this week’s text so objectionable.”

            “I didn’t find it objectionable,” she said, batting her eyelashes at me.  “I just don’t understand men’s idealizing and obsessing over blonde pussy.”

            I was shocked, shocked! at her forthrightness. 

            “Well, er, yes, um, I completely understand,” I muttered, unable to compose myself. 

            “Don’t get me wrong,” she said, “I like blonde pussy as much as the next girl, but it’s like ice cream.  Why only taste vanilla when there’s also chocolate and strawberry?” 

            “Well put,” I said like an idiot.  “I look forward to seeing you next class.”

            “I look forward to being seen,” she said, knowing exactly what I meant. 

            “And,” I added, “I hope you won’t be too offended by our assigned reading next week.”

            “Lolita?” she asked, displaying that she was well aware of what was on the syllabus, “Don’t worry, I read it so many times in middle school that the pages fell out.  It’s my favorite!” 

Writing Down Lo

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            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. 

Fan Male (and Female)

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“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.”