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!”
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.”
Lo
came home from work late that night. I
had already eaten dinner and was lying on the couch engaging in my favorite
illicit pastime while Lo’s away, watching “SMILF.” She walked in just as Frankie Shaw was
engaging in a self-pleasure solo session, which isn’t all that coincidental,
given how often she does that in the show.
(Since Frankie Shaw writes and directs the series, I think that she
secretly wishes to be a porn star.)
Lo Likes Little Penis Porn
Lo
stood next to the couch looking down at me, judging hard.
“What?”
“You
know what,” she said, accusatorily.
“I
was just. . .”
“I
don’t care what you were just. Turn it
off. If you want to see a sexy woman
engaged in sex-for-one, then get in the bedroom. I’ll be there filling my snatch full of fun.”
I
shut off the episode and met Lo in the bedroom where she was on the bed, legs spread,
dildos laid out next to her like a surgeon’s tray of scalpels, forceps, and clamps. She had her phone in her left hand.
“What’s
that?” I asked.
“I call it my ‘in box.’ It likes to be filled.”
I
didn’t know if she meant what she was looking at on her phone or her beautiful
mons pubis, which at the moment she was about to penetrate with her long, red, double-ended
dildo.
Self-Care
I
removed my clothes and sat in the bed next to her, vying for her
attention. She was busy reading something. I inquired.
“I’m reading about my friend and blogger, Nero Black. His wife caught him about to masturbate.”
“Oh
really?”
“Yeah,”
she said, easing the dildo into her tight taco.
“His wife loves to read erotica and masturbate, but she never lets him
get in on the goods.”
“How
does he know her reading habits?”
“He
has access to her Kindle subscription and sees what she downloads.”
“Oh.”
“And
he’s hard-up as a result.”
“I
bet you find that an open invitation to flirt.”
“Who wouldn’t? Anyhow, the other night he was sitting on the edge of the bed, his pants and boxers around his ankles, his phone in one hand and his cock in the other, when she unexpectedly walked into the bedroom.”
“Uh-oh. And?”
“And
she ignored him! She acted like she didn’t
even see it.”
“And
that gets you off?”
“No,
what gets me off is imagining that the porn she reads is our blog and that the
porn he was about to wank to was my photos.”
She
dropped the phone and lay on her back to continue the fantasy.
“Did you ever get
caught?” I asked her.
“Caught? Doing what?”
“You know, jillin’
it.”
“No.”
“Never?”
“No.”
“Not by any of
your previous boyfriends?”
“Look, it’s not
something I hide. If they found me
jillin’ off, then I kept on going. So
it’s not like ‘getting caught.’ It’s
more like putting on a show.”
And put on a show
she did, without ever offering to provide me with any sweet relief. Punishment for my “infidelity” watching
Frankie Shaw.
“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.”
Lo
got me up from my slumber. Well, part of
me was already up since she wouldn’t let me climax earlier in the night. She had been switching off watching episodes
of “Gilmore Girls” and MILF porn since I had nodded off. Now she was ready for a second helping and
she had been coaxing my cock to an upright and locked position prior to my
regaining consciousness.
“Daddy,”
she whispered sweetly, leaning over so take my meat in her mouth.
“Yes
Lo?”
“Can
I tell you what I was thinking about?”
“What’s
that, Lo?”
She
took a few more licks and then she lay down next to me, her fingers stroking
between her legs. That’s when she told
me what she had been viewing.
“I
imagine,” she began, “Jess and Dean arrive at Lorelai’s house at the same time,
each thinking that he’s going on a date with Rory. When they meet on the porch, each carrying a
bouquet of flowers, they stare each other down and then exchange some snide
words. Rory hears the voices and comes
to the door.” At this point, Lo began
acting out the scene. A little known
talent of Lo’s is that she’s a great actor, just not in front of an
audience.
Rory
– What is going on?!
Jess
– Why don’t you tell us? I thought we had a date.
Rory
– You and Dean?
Dean
– This is no time for jokes, Rory. You
and I had a date tonight.
Rory
– Wait here.
Rory
runs upstairs to Lorelai.
Rory
– I’ve got a problem that makes Elizabeth Bennet look positively quaint.
Lorelai
– Really Rory? I can’t find my coffee
maker. And you think you got troubles.
Rory
– You’re looking in your bedroom. Did
you try the kitchen?
Lorelai
– Of course I tried the kitchen. That’s
why I’m in the bedroom.
Rory
– Did you bring coffee to bed?
Lorelai
– Maaaaaybeeee.
Rory
– Why don’t you just go to Luke’s and get his coffee?
Lorelai
– And bring him to bed?
Rory – No! Anyway, can you help me or not?
Lorelai
– Not until I have my coffee.
Rory
– (Sitting down on a pile of laundry.
She picks up dirty panties and a bra and discovers a coffee maker.) Here!
Lorelai
– You are destined for Harvard!
They
walk downstairs.
Rori
– . . . and so I guess I told both of them I’d go out with them tonight.
Lorelai
– Nothing wrong with a ménage à
trois.
Rori
– Mom!
Lorelai
– What? I’m just saying, if it’s good
enough for Lou Salomé, it’s good enough
for you.
Rori
– Her name was Lou Salomé, but you know
everyone called her Loose.
Lorelai – Rory! You know I’ve taught you not to slut-shame!
Rori – Can we get back to the. . .
Suddenly they hear thuds from the porch. They run to the front door. Jess and Dean are throwing punches and
wrestling. Lorelai separates them by
getting between them.
Lorelai – Hey! Hey!
Hey! Calm down!
Both of the boys are roughed up and Jess is bleeding
from the nose and Dean has a black eye.
Rori runs to get a towel and ice.
She returns and gives the ice to Dean and applies to the towel to Jess’
nose.
Dean – Oh, so you take care of him and just give me
a cold sack of ice?!
Rori – He’s bleeding!
Dean – And I have a black eye!
Jess – And I’ll give you another.
Dean – Oh yeah?
Lorelai holds down Dean while Rory holds down
Jess.
Rory – I’ve had enough of both of you!
Rory runs off into the night.
Lorelai and the boys go inside the house and they
sit in the kitchen while Lorelai brews coffee.
Lorelai – I can’t believe you two. You act like cavemen. Don’t you know how to treat a woman?
Jess – [Ashamed.]
No. My mom was never around.
Lorelai – Oh yeah.
I forgot sweetheart. [She puts
her hands through his hair.]
Dean – I was just. . . well, I guess I just am so
damn jealous.
Lorelai – It’s not jealousy, Dean, it’s
hormones. You’re all backed up with
testosterone. When’s the last time you
jacked it?
Dean – Wwwwwwhat?
Lorelai – You know: chocked the chicken, spanked the
monkey, beat the meat.
Dean – I, I, I. . .
Lorelai – You see, you’re just too uptight. You have to learn to relax a little bit. [She runs her hand down his chest to his
crotch.] Look, I think I know how we can
find a way for the two of you to work together.
Follow me.
The three of them go up to the bedroom. Lorelai strips naked and pulls down their
jeans. She positions Jess in front of
her and Dean behind her and bends over.
The two of them are going at it with her and she’s about to cum when in
walks Luke.
Luke – What the hell is going on here?!
Lorelai – [With a mouth full of Jess’ cock.] I can explain.
Luke – Explain?!
Rory said you’d probably need me to break up a fight and make some
coffee.
At that point Lorelai positions Jess below her so
his cock is in her puss with Dean’s.
Lorelai – Come here, Luke. If you’re hung anything like Jess, then – I
never thought I’d say this – the coffee can wait.
When Lo was done acting all this
out, she pulled out her two dildos, putting both in her puss and taking me in
her mouth, going at me like never before.
I finally came deep in her throat and she came in convulsions that shot
out the two dildos followed by a cascade of girly juice.
“Holy shit!” she said.
“Holy shit is right,” I said. “You deserve an Academy Award for best
writing, direction, acting, and best picture.”
It was one of
those strange April nights when the temperature drops twenty degrees from the daytime
high of 68, the wind rustles up the new buds on the trees outside, and from out
of the darkness, lighting, thunder, and downpours fill the sky. Lola couldn’t sleep. When I got to bed she said, “I’ve tried
everything. I’ve tried meditation,
masturbation, guided meditation, guided masturbation. . .”
“Wait. What is ‘guided masturbation’?”
“Oh,
well, I called up a friend and asked him to tell me how he wants me to
masturbate,” she said as if it were no big deal.
“You
did?”
She
nodded her head in affirmation and pouted saying, “But it didn’t help.”
“I
bet it helped him. Why didn’t you call
me?”
“You
were working hard, Daddy.”
“So?”
I asked, frustrated by the thought that she’d rather hear inappropriate
instructions from one of her suitors than from me.
“Are
you still hard at work?” she asked seductively, rubbing my crotch to gauge my
state of arousal.
“Work
hard, play hard,” I said, as I pulled out my manhood for her to see.
She grabbed it while licking her
lips.
“You
know I’m not just a sex organ,” I said.
“I
think your brain is a sex organ,” she replied as she went down on me.
“In
that case, I have a very large sex organ.”
She
interrupted her activity to look up at me and say, “And growing larger.”
“I’m
not that big,” I said.
“I
meant your ego.”
“I’ll
have you know, I’m very humble.”
“Looks
to me, you have a lot to be humble about,” she said caustically.
“What
do you mean?”
She
pulled down the sheets to reveal her huge horse-cock dildo on the bed next to
her, still glistening.
“I’m
so big, wide, and wet that I wouldn’t feel any bit of you.”
“Care
to test that hypothesis?”
“I’m stretched to my
limit.”
“You have a limit? That’s news to me!”
“‘Limit’ is a flexible term. Like ‘full’ or ‘fucked.’”
“Oh, so it’s elastic?”
“Yeah, it can be used in many
different ways.”
“Depends on who’s using it.”
“Right. It takes a lot of abuse, but it is never
exhausted.”
“Never wears out.”
“Right.”
“Like this terrible pun.”
“What pun?”
“Are we still talking about ‘limit’?”
“I wasn’t, were you?”
“Darling, you certainly do push the
limits.”
“What limits?”
“All of them. But the real question is, why did you call on
some other guy for your ‘guided masturbation’ when you could have called upon
me?”
“So many married men turn to me for
sweet release. I’m a goddess of pussy. I answer to the call of depravity.”
“But you called him!”
“Well, I saw that he had posted a
pic of a cumtribution he had made for another girl and he wrote, ‘For my
beautiful cum slut.’ I called him to
remind him that I am his beautiful
cum slut.”
“You think you’re everyone’s
beautiful cum slut.”
“Well, aren’t I?”
“Everyone but mine, I guess.”
“Oh,
Daddy,” she said, still holding my cock firmly in her hand, “would you make a
cumtribution for me? Would you jack it
to my photos and cum all over them?”
“Lo,
why would I do that when I have you right here, in the flesh?”
“To
show me your unfailing love.”
“Lo,
I write thousands upon thousands of pages of poetry for you, but you’d rather I
grab my masculine member and stroke it until I ejaculate a hot mess over your
image?”
“I
call it giving tribute to my icon.”
“Because
you’re a goddess of pussy.”
“Now
you’re turning me on!”
“Those
are your words.”
“Well,
you feel that way, don’t you?”
“How
could I not, darling. It is the truth.”
“So
you’ll make an offering at my virtual alter?”
“If
you want me to, I will.”
“Now?”
“Whenever
you say.”
“No,
not now. I want you to do it when I’m
away. Now you can enter my holy temple.”
“But
I thought I wouldn’t even feel you.”
“You
won’t and I won’t feel you, but why should that stop us from fucking?”
I
got between her legs and entered her. She
was right – it was like a mere mortal entering the pearly gates. However, that only made it more alluring for
me. She could tell I was getting turned
on.
“Cum inside me,” she said.
“Put your fingers inside you, right where you want me
to cum.”
She inserted almost her whole fist along over my cock
and I could feel her fingering her G-spot.
“There,” she said, “right there.”
I came and came with force all over her fingers. She gripped my cock with her hand inside her
and milked it for every drop.
When I pulled out, she said she was going to clean up. I drifted off on the bed until I heard her
calling out for God from the shower. It
startled me. I navigated the thick cloud
of steam to find her squatting on the shapely bottle of Dove shampoo, rubbing
her clit, and cumming uncontrollably.
(Do they make the bottles that shape for that purpose or did she buy that
brand because of its ergonomic contours?
The questions Lo causes me to ask.)
I disappeared into the fogbank as stealthily as I had
entered it. I went back to the bed. When she climbed in naked next to me, I held
her warm body.
“Just in time,” I said.
“Just in time for what?” she asked.
“Tomorrow is the first of May.”
“Hooray!
Hooray! It’s the first of May!”
she sung, “Outdoor fucking starts today!”
“No, silly,” I said.
“April showers.”
“Oooooh,” she said, “Maybe tomorrow I’ll let you see
my pink flower.”
“Me and the rest of the world.”
“A beautiful flower should not be hidden away to be
seen only by one man.”
You,
dear reader, already know that Lola is an inveterate masturbator. You also know that I am forbidden from any
onanistic activities, unless either explicitly given permission, or told to do
so as a performance for my dear Lola.
The fact that there is a gap in our respective frequencies of
masturbatory manipulation should come as no surprise to you, and writing about
it here would simply be redundant.
However,
what I do intend on explaining, or rather, complaining about, is the
fundamentally unfair masturbation gap that exists between Lola, me, and her
fans. You see, I am not allowed to
engage in solo pleasure, not even to Lola’s sexy photos, unless granted
permission by Lo herself. And she takes
so much delight in my stymied suffering and enjoys my engorged balls so much,
that she rarely gives me the green light.
But with her fans it is another story.
One might think that Lola has no say over what her admirers do in the privacy
of their own homes with her pixilated pussy.
But that is incorrect. One of
Lo’s most enjoyable pastimes is to give specific instructions to her loyal
lovers (both near and far) about exactly how they are to worship her image, pay
tribute to her form, and pleasure themselves.
One of Lo’s Long Admirers
One
adoring admirer writes to her and asks, “What’s up?” to which she replies, “If
you’re looking at my pics, then, your cock.”
She’s not wrong.
Another
writes to her and asks very politely, “Morning, Lola. How are you?” to which she replies, “Horny,
as usual. Now jack it for me.”
They
are more than eager to comply. It
matters not to them if they are at work, home, or, as Lola really likes, lying
in bed next to their sleeping wives.
A Very Happy Fan
She
commands some of them, especially the diminutively endowed guys, to go to a
lingerie store, like Victoria’s Secret, and pick out various silk, satin, and
lace panties for women. Then she
instructs them to put the panties on and jack it to her pics and cum in the
sexy, sheer, tight material – taking pics of it, of course. An even more intense kink of Lo’s is
commanding those same fabric fetish guys to steal the panties from their wives
or girlfriends in order to wear while jacking it to Lo’s photos.
Lo Loves All Her Fans, Big & Little
Those
are the lucky ones. There are some
unfortunate fellas who are stuck in cock-cages and can only enjoy Lo’s photos
without any self-pleasure.
And
then there are the women. It is such a
complement to Lo when lovely ladies from around the globe take photos of
themselves jillin’ off to her. I will
admit that I find it very flattering when the women also make a comment about
“the steamy writing,” or say, “that story made me cum five times.” It is nice to know that every once in a while
the literary seduction I work so very hard to create from the raw material of
Lo’s sexual exploits is appreciated, especially by the lonely women, the
married but unsatisfied wives, and the other sexual insatiables out there like
Lo.
A Lovely Couple – He took the pick of her getting off to Lola
There
was a time, early on, when I actually had a small cadre of female fans who
wrote to me regularly. It was, not
coincidentally, around that time that Lo took over the email and other social
media outlets, telling me, “You do the blog, I’ll spread the word.”
Reading the Blog
Spread
the word. . . yeah right! She meant,
she’ll spread her legs and then disseminate her photos across the
internet.
But I’m not complaining. I am glad that our little corner, or crotch, of the blogosphere makes so many people happy, even if it means that I must deny myself the pleasures that others get from my hotwife Lo. After all, I have to admit that I have nothing to complain about since fans and her lovers alike all tell me how lucky I am. Can’t argue there.
[In honor of all our friends, such as Cara, Hy, Catherine, and of course, Michael & Molly, who are attending Eroticon this weekend, a little fantasy of what we envision our attending it to be like. Hopefully next year.]
Drawing of Lola by nglare
“LOLA”
– her name lit up the marquee. As we
approached the theater from the street, slick from the recent rain, Lo looked
up and said, “Big, bright, beautiful, and inviting. That’s me alright!”
We
were in England for the annual Literotica convention and somehow we were the
headline event for this evening’s performances.
Lo was giddy with excitement.
Entering
the theater from the side door for performers, there was a flurry of activity
backstage. Everyone was primping and
preparing. Lo, herself, had tried on
three different outfits and five different pairs of shoes before settling on
the glittery gold sequin top, the slinky green skirt, and the flashy four-inch
heels. “Green and gold,” I said, “the
colors of money.”
We
were there to do a reading and book signing, but Lo had plans for oh so much
more than that. Her Marina Abramovic
performance-art streak was activated and she had conspired with me to put on a
show. We were to be a Penn & Teller
style duet. She’d be Penn, the showman,
and I’d be Teller, the silent sidekick. She
had her props: a little wooden lectern on which she put the book, some paints,
paint brushes, markers, and a sign. The
sign read:
Match, Vol. I – $35
Match, Vol. II – $20
Match, Vol. III – $20
Complementary with
your purchase:
Squeeze
Tease
Pull
Paint
Draw
Write
Kiss
Suck
Cum
NOT ALLOWED:
Penetration of any
sort
Photos
(Mild BDSM is ok)
All prices USD
After
the opening acts, we were introduced to a loud round of applause. I got butterflies in my stomach and I’m sure
Lo did as well. We took our places on
the otherwise empty wooden stage under the hot spotlights. I stood next to Lo at the lectern with three
stacks of books and my portable credit card swipe device plugged into my phone.
Lo
opened the books to the places she had specially chosen for this event and read
some select passages: The preface to Vol I, penned by her; the encomium to the
color red; a few poems. As she read each
passage in her sweetly seductive voice, she slowly removed first one and then
the other strap of her blouse and let it fall, revealing her breasts. She then wriggled out of both the blouse and
her skirt until she stood stark naked but for her sexy heels. The poems were read in the buff.
When
she was done the music began – selections of songs mentioned in the books. I invited the audience members who had pre-purchased
books to step up and have Lola sign them while they each took a turn participating
in one of the activities mentioned on Lo’s sign.
The
first ones in line were a bit shy and timid.
They ventured a kiss or a gentle tug on Lo’s nipples while she leaned
over to sign one of the gloss nude photographs of her in the book. A few others took up the Sharpie pen and
wrote love notes to Lo on various parts of her body. Some wrote “Slut” or “hotwife” or “cum here” with
an arrow pointing to her puss.
As
the audience saw the performance taking place, those without books were eager
to get in line and I began selling our inventory. Men took out their cocks and began stroking
as they eagerly awaited their turn in line.
Some
of them stroked it next to Lola as she signed the books and wrote cute comments
about the men’s anatomy in the margins.
The
first man to cum did so on Lo’s feet, filling up her shoes with warm jizz.
The
next man to cum had a powerful ejaculation and managed to hit Lo’s tits with remarkable
aim. He even got a bit of applause!
A
woman was in line and she gave Lo a very warm kiss on the lips and then slid
her tongue down Lo’s neck to her glazed breasts and cleaned off the previous
customer’s cumtribution.
This
performance went on for some time, until we sold out of all our books!
Unfortunately
for Lo, all of this fun foreplay was merely a tantalizing orgasm tease. She whispered in my ear and I briefly
disappeared off stage to grab Lo’s favorite toy from one of the event sponsor’s
display: The Hitachi Magic Wand. We
plugged it into an extension cord and I brought the large, white device to Lo
who proceeded to use it on her clit while sitting in a high stool. She spread her legs and, within only a few moments
filled with tension and anticipation, Lo finally gushed with an torrential
outpour of emotion, release, and fluid that covered the stage.
After
her grand finale, some stage hands appeared at Lo’s side with warm, wet towels
and they cleaned her off. One of them
gently removed Lo’s feet, one at a time, from her shoes and wiped them
down. Another person mopped the wooden
floor. Once Lo was cleaned off, she got
dressed again and we walked off the stage.
Before exiting, though, Lo took a long bow, but not to the audience, but
to the wings of the stage, thus giving the audience one last look up her
skirt.
Congratulations
were showered on Lo and me from our fellow literotica friends and authors and
we got ready for the afterparty.
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?
