Category Archives: Pornography

Shag Story Interview with Gabi Levi

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We’re very excited to bring you this Special Report!

Most of you surely already know the wonderful Kayla Lords of erotic blogging and podcast fame, a.k.a. The Smutlancer.  If you don’t, check her out. She has done amazing work and she continues to do something that all of us need to do more – build kink community!

She has teamed up with Gabi Levi – an artist and writer and, if you ask me, probably a great shag – to create a retro themed, art infused corner of the internet for erotic stories and images called Shag Story.

Gabi reached out to us to get our impression of the new site and we LOVED it! I (Lola) started chatting with her and soon enough, we just put together an interview.  So, without further introduction, my interview with Gabi Levi:

Gabi Levi, self portrait

What is your background in art? 

I went to the Gallatin School of Individualized Study at NYU and essentially developed my own major titled Art and Ethics. It was based on an amazing course I took that took a look at the ethical implications of art that maybe was a little bit risqué in a number of ways. It questions its value to society and I always took the stance that provocative art was incredibly valuable, so I started to make some of it.

Who has influenced you?

So many artists, but Magritte is a big one along with various pop artists, comic book creators, and pulp artists. I also love Playboy.

Rene Magritte – Nude Standing

 

 

 

Lola – Nude Standing

What attracts you about erotica or erotic art in particular?

I appreciate the beauty of sex, the human form, and pop culture. As someone who is both an artist and a writer, combining the art with erotica felt natural to me.

Tell us about this new venture, Shag Story (or shagstory.com), that you and Kayla Lords have started. How did you two come up with the idea? Who is your ideal audience?  What sorts of stories do you hope to publish and why?

I wanted to start an erotica site that felt fun and incorporated art. I loved the 70s Playboy aesthetic, so decided to call it Shag Story as a way to allow for some retro art. In terms of audience, it’s anyone who enjoys erotica. Shag Story is a fun place to hang out, embrace eroticism, and enjoy erotic art and writing. I wanted to create a feel-good space.

Why the 70’s theme?

The ’60s-’70s were a time of sexual liberation and revolution. It feels fun, exciting, and like a party.

Who is writing for Shag Story?

Various writers! We always have an open call for submissions that are published upon Kayla’s review.

What is your role at Shag Story?

Along with being one of the founders, I am in charge of the art direction.

What are some of your favorite books and why?

I love Lolita and anything by Elizabeth Wurtzel. Lolita is another great example of a piece of art that is ‘morally corrupt’ but so beautifully written and flawlessly executed. It stirs up mixed emotions, which I think makes something great.

Lola’s Playboy Cover

What are some of your favorite movies and why?

I love Natural Born Killers from an aesthetic and artistic perspective. It’s so jarring, interesting, and beautiful in a sense that isn’t traditional. The acting is also incredible. Watching it is a cathartic experience for me.

If you could meet one person, past or present, who would it be and why?

This answer might be silly, but I’ve always said Eminem. He’s such a genius, so uninhibited, and so talented.

Tell us your most recent or most frequent sexual fap fantasy.

It depends on the day, but most recently it was a fantasy/memory of a time with an ex in the back of his car during summer. Very hot and sticky ;).

I’m allowed one vanity question.  One thing that attracts you about mysexlifewithlola.com?

It’s smart, candid, and sexy!! Who wouldn’t love it?

Lola & Shag Story created by Gabi Levi

 

Age Gap

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[We interrupt our regularly scheduled story (from the “Mount Bliss” mini-series) to bring you this tale of epistles and dildos.]

 

“Guess who got fan mail?” sung Lola teasingly.

“Oh, what a mystery,” I said flatly, “let me see. . . could it be Lola?”

“Well, uh, yeah.  Duh.  But in addition to me, guess who else.”

“I?”

“Yes you, Shakespeare!”

“And am I allowed to read this love letter?”

“Who said it was a love letter?”

“I just assumed.”

“Here,” she said, abruptly shoving the computer over to me at the breakfast table.

I looked at the email.  It read:

Dear Lola,

Eric asked me to write you something about his special experience with you.

You and my boyfriend Eric have had chats, I know.  He`s always busy with drawing ladies from the internet.  I don’t mind, as long as the women are total strangers and from the other side of the world and I don’t have to be his model.  And we promised each other that real sex is exclusively between us.  He can ‘use’ me anytime he likes. Luckily for him I also like sex very much, so he’s a happy camper.

He tells me everything and shows me all his work.  I must say, he has got some talent but he’s no Rembrandt yet.  It turns me on sometimes when he’s busy drawing.  He sure knows his female anatomy.  At least he knows mine real well.

He told me that you would like Eric to ejaculate all over the pictures you send.  I asked him if he would do that.  He said: If you are ok with it?

I said, I don’t mind as long it’s a pic and not for real.

The thought of him jerking off over your pic was actually exciting me!  So I suggested to help him a little. . . .  That he didn’t expect.  LOL.

We agreed to do it that night.  That night I got him naked.  I kept my shirt and panties on.  I watched him stroking his cock.  It was rock-hard from the start.

I whispered some dirty words in his ears, reading from your blog, and brushed my big soft tits on his back and arms and everywhere.

I got excited a little too.  Seeing him stroking his cock for another girl and me working him up, I was soaking my panties.  I saw some precum on his cock.  I licked it away, pulled my shirt up and let him suck my breasts.  I grabbed his cock as he looked at your photos and I read to him as best I could – one eye on the words and one on his rod.

It wasn’t long before he came all over you.  I mean, all over your pic.  I must confess I swallowed a lot of it.

After that we made this photo for you. Hope you like it.

I got so horny that I wanted him to lick me and he made me come.  I was really dripping wet. After that he penetrated me real tenderly.  Only after half an hour did he eject another load in my pussy.  He obviously had to reload.  LOL.  He even ate my cream-pie!  It was great!

So Lola, thanks for the question you asked.  You are looking very young and lovely.  How old are you?  And have you ever had experience with women?  I don’t mind that.  And how is your boyfriend looking?  And do you have sex often?  Maybe we can exchange some nice pictures?

We hope to hear from you!

Bye now and kisses,

Eric and Charlotte

From Eric and Charlotte

“Lo,” I said after reading it.

She looked up at me, anticipating my reaction.

“It’s all about you.  She wants you.  This isn’t fan mail for me.  It’s adoration of the goddess for you!”

“She said she was reading your writing.”

“One line of the entire letter indirectly alludes to me and you call it my fan mail?!  Good grief!  A bigger egomaniac I never met!”

“Egomaniac or nymphomaniac?  Which is it?”

“Both!!!”

“Fine,” she said.  “I was just teasing with that.  Here’s the real fan mail,” she said, clicking on a different message from her in-box.

I read:

Dear H.H.,

Your power with words penetrates me deeply.  It’s so potent that I lose myself and end up in a place where I am with both of you.  You’re that good!  You’re the type of good that I can begin to feel you.  All I want is to reach through my screen and kiss you.  Taste you.  I’m very selfish, so I may just have to have you all to myself while Lola watches us. Be forewarned.

xoxoxo,

Jen X

Jen X

She also sent a few sexy photos of her as attachments.

“Why are you showing me this?” I asked because she usually keeps me at a “healthy” distance from temptation.  Except her temptation, of course.

“I thought it was sweet.”

“It was sexy and direct.”

“Just like me.”

“Exactly, which is why I’m suspicious of your motives.  You despise anyone who attempts to seduce me.  Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“No no no,” she laughed as she got up from the table and moved very close to me.  “Show me you love me.”

“I show you with my words.”

“I want you to show me with your cock.”

“Lo, it’s eight in the morning on a Sunday!”

“Exactly.  This could be our fun day.”

“I get it now,” I said.  “You showed me that to arouse me.  You are only interested in getting your needs met.”

“On Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, sex is the top tier.”

“No it isn’t.”

“Well, it’s up there.”

“No it’s not.  Self-Actualization is top.”

“Well, I’m just going to have to go self-actualize myself, if you’re not going to do it for me.”

She sauntered to the bedroom, removing an article of clothing with each couple of steps down the hall.

As you well know, dear reader, Lo is half my age and at least double my libido.  As much as I try to satisfy her cravings, putting logs in the fire so to speak, it only makes a bigger fire of desire that burns through the logs twice as fast.  Buddha was well aware of this maddening math.  I’ve tried to steer clear of becoming consumed by coitus and I’ve finally reached an age where I can transfigure the intensity of my love from physical acts to intellectual creations.

“Your writing is just mental masturbation,” Lo called down the hallway.

“And your masturbation is just. . .physical. . . masturbation,” I responded with a repartee that fell flat as the pancake I was eating.

I turned the computer back toward me and scrolled through Lo’s other fan mail.  Something caught my eye.  It was an exchange between her and a man named Nero Black.  Nero is another middle-aged married man.  Like me, his wife spends much of her sex-drive on self-pleasure, getting off to all manner of taboo literotica.  Unlike me, she doesn’t first try to use him as a sex toy.  In their exchange, Lola had encouraged Nero to sneak mysexlifewithlola.com into his wife’s reading list somehow, or to buy one of the books or the audiobook for his wife to read.  Lo was convinced that if the two of them were to enter into the dregs of desire together, they would find each other there in the darkness of their depravity.

But for whatever reason, Mr. Black was hesitant to take Lo up on this suggestion.  He was in a sexual rut.  His wife was busy getting herself off in the bedroom while Mr. Black was jacking off in the bathroom.  But rarely did the two sex drives cross paths.  Unable to convince Mr. Black to break this pattern, perhaps because he was secretly fond of it, Lo did the next best thing – try to get Mr. Black to get off to her.

Mr. Black had written about how his wife caught him stroking himself to some porn in the bathroom and she just ignored it, with the exception of a snide remark, as if that kettle wasn’t blacker than Mr. Black.  Lo then clamored to Mr. Black to please please please use her photo next time he has a hankering for a wankering.  She even sent him a variety of choice shots to shoot his load to.  She was also hoping he would get caught by the Mrs. while looking at Lo’s image.

There is a certain pattern that emerged from the correspondences I found in Lo’s naughty letter box.  The women who wrote to me were all younger.  I guess I’m so old that statistically speaking, almost all of them will be younger.  And the men Lo wished to worship her were all older – around my age, and mostly married.

It’s true that, like Charlotte, there were a number of women around Lo’s age who also took a fancy to Lo.  But there most decidedly was an age gap between our respective fans.

A dug a little further and saw that dear Mr. Black had indeed used one of Lo’s pornographic images to find his sweet release and he even paid Lo the highest compliment of writing about it!

I walked into the bedroom to find Lo making sweet love to the greatest fuck of her life – herself.

“What is this?!” I demanded, not waiting for her to complete the self-impalement that she was engaged in with her glass dildo.

She didn’t stop.  She looked up, her right hand still rapidly thrusting in-and-out between her legs.

“Get behind me,” she commanded, evading the question and turning on all fours at the same time.

I thought she wanted me to replace the dildo with my own tool.  I was wrong.

“Grab it,” she said, indicating the handle of the dildo.  “Fuck it,” she said, indicating her pussy.  “Faster,” she said.  “Harder,” she said.  “Deeper,” she said.

As she gave me instructions, she scrolled through her photos until she came to one that tickled her fancy.

Her pussy exploded, rocketing out the glass dildo like a missile propelled by a water cannon!  She’s lucky that her discharge was aimed back at me and down at the bed or else her computer would be beyond repair.

When the waterworks were over and I had dried off, Lo was in the bathroom doing who-knows-what.  I looked at the image and accompanying story that had set her off.

“Wait!  What?!” I exclaimed.

“Don’t look!” she called to me from behind the bathroom door.

But there’s some things you just can’t unsee.

It was an illustration, thank goodness, and not an actual photo.  With it was a confession from an older woman who reported to Lola that she found her son looking at Lo’s photos and the blog.

The mother tried to use the opportunity as a “teaching moment.”

She said to her son, “It’s ok, son, Dad also gets off to Lola Down.”

“I know,” he said, ashamed, his face in his hands, “This is his computer.”

“You see,” she said, consoling him, “It’s normal.”

“But,” he began haltingly, embarrassed to say the next few words, “I’m logged on to your account.”

The mother tried not to flinch or to show any sign of embarrassment herself.  Teach by example.  It was true, she had found the blog through her husband’s search history and she had secretly fapped her snatch to it.  But now the family secrets were revealed and they revolved around Lola.

Sorry to see her son’s erection had not dissipated even through this difficult conversation, the mother offered, “Let me help you.  You’ll feel better, I promise.”

Wow!  I can’t even go into the details of what this housewife and mom shared with Lola about what happened next, but I think you get the idea.

Now, I thought, I bet that’s a story that Mrs. Black would really enjoy.

Flawless

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The Artist, Manu3l Beauty, Drawing Lo, as Drawn by Manu3l Beauty

 

In the first volume of Parerga und Paralipomena I read again that everything which can happen to a man, from the instant of his birth until his death, has been preordained by him.  Thus, every negligence is deliberate, every chance encounter an appointment, every humiliation a penitence, every failure a mysterious victory, every death a suicide.

 

Jorge Luis Borges

Labyrinths, from the story, “Deutsches Requiem” p. 143

Ever since I first read Henry James’ The Portrait of a Lady, I knew what I wanted to write: the antithetical portrait.  I wanted to write a response to the ever upright, ever virtuous, ever socially acceptable Isabel Archer.  I was young when I read Portrait, still, it had a profound effect on me.  I found it a struggle to read each and every painstaking page.  The rectitude of the protagonist grated on me.  Her compliance to social norms caused the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end.  Her pathetic powerlessness at the hands of the pervasive patriarchy outraged me.

By the time I had read Portrait, I had already loved and left my lusty slut to whom I had lost my virginity.  Her nymphomaniacal ways were beyond my limited abilities to assimilate into my concept of the world at that tender age.  But, as I read Portrait, I knew, with every fiber of my being, that I wanted to strip Isabel of her honor and her clothes.

The idea remained and germinated in my mind over many years.  When, at a more advanced age, I had read the collected works of the Marquis de Sade, I thought at first that I was too late.  Someone had written the great work I envisioned since reading Henry James.  However, the more I read of Sade, the more I realized that no, this is not the work I envisioned.  Sade is brilliant, imaginative, subversive, and powerful.  He was an important voice for his time and, despite many detractors, he actually offers a harsh critique of religious institutions, monarchy, marriage, and all the other permutations of patriarchy.  He spares none in his scathing evaluation of oppression in all its forms.  But his protest is essentially a resounding No!  That was important for his era, but what he lacks, probably because it was unimaginable at the time, was a heroine who could proclaim a resounding Yes!

All of Sade’s fictional female figures are victims.  They may also be villains, but they are so only because they were first victims.  Hurt people hurt people, as the saying goes.  They were formed by the social, political, religious, judicial, and educational systems, hierarchies, and prejudices of their culture.  What Sade was really up to is open to debate, but a charitable reading could be that he was shining a light on the gender injustices of his day and, even if his medium of doing so was “sadistic” (a term that was invented because of him), it also was sympathetic to the plight of women.

But I longed to write The Great American Novel that told a different story.  Not the story of Justine, not the story of Juliette, and certainly not the story of Isabel Archer!  I wanted to write the story of a sex-positive woman who claimed her own sexuality, her female form, her feminine facticity, her healthy desires, her sexual conquests, her orgasms, her self-pleasure, and her liberal lending of her labia as her own in a way that was not the result of victimhood and was not wielded as vindictiveness.  In other words, I wanted a sexual heroine, not an anti-heroine, despite how some retrograde segments of our modern society might still view such a character.

Perhaps that deep-seated vision of a new dawn was responsible for drawing me into Lo’s orbit and then, ultimately, for my “drawing” her in my writings as the woman of my dreams.  I cannot deny that Lo, when I met her, was not already without scars from the injustices of society, family, and past sexual partners.  But she was not a victim.  She was, even then, well on her way to inhabiting her own power.  She was healing.  Through obstacles, with love and support, encouragement and empathy, she (re)claimed her puss and her prowess.

Lo might not have escaped the perils of being born a woman, but she has transformed her trauma into a personal triumph.  I endeavor to portray Lo not as a perfect portrait of feminine form, but as a realistic rendition of a flawed, fallible figure; made all the more beautiful by her unique imperfections.

I love Lola not because she is flawless, but because of her wabi-sabi character.  I love her the way Woody Allen loved New York City of the ’70’s.  Back then, the city was far from perfect.  She had her many ugly sides.  But he was in love with her and wanted to tell her stories to the world, to get the world to see her the way he saw her.  To get the world to fall in love with her just as he had.

Writing about Lo is not only my love letter to her, but, as so many who have read about her have told us, her story is also a vehicle to help others become as daring, confident, and self-actualizing as Lo, because perfect people don’t perfect people, but healed people can heal people.

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.

Body of Work

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A while ago I wrote that even in today’s topsy-turvy world, Lo and I attempt to avoid politics and political positions in the things we publish.  Yes, we’re political in our everyday lives.  I mean, who isn’t?  To be a-political is to say, “I don’t care if other people make decisions for me or what decisions they make.”

Deborah de Robertis

But here, in our little nook of the erotic blogosphere, we do our best just to tell a good, sexy story and keep you all out there engaged.  It’s a safe space for us and hopefully for you from all the noise, hatred, and vitriol that surrounds us.

But then, one morning while listening to an interview with the creator of “The L Word,” Ilene Chaiken, I heard her say of the show that, “I think it’s revolutionary in America because we’re such a sex-averse culture. And to talk about sex, not just lesbian sex or LGBTQ sex, just to talk about sex is revolutionary.”  That gave me pause and totally reframed this little endeavor of ours.

Mia Kirshner

Maybe she’s right.  Maybe, just writing these lewd, crude, prurient, perverted, sexual, salacious, suggestive, and explicit stories is a political act.

I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of this before since, during the course of our career as sex enthusiasts, we’ve been banned from: PayPal, WordPress, Tumblr, MeWe, and most recently, Pinterest.  After that last one, Lola turned to me and said, “Since when did being sexy become a crime?”

The L Word

I said, “Darling, you have looks that could kill.  Your body is a dangerous weapon if in the wrong hands.”

We were kidding around, but really, she’s right and so is Chaiken.  In our society, sex – consensual, adult, legal sex! – is treated as a contagion that must be contained.  Beauty, especially the beauty of the unadorned human body, is hypocritically exalted in museums but excluded from life.  It is sequestered away as if the halls of high culture were but a peepshow parade for the few, but not for the many.

Deborah de Robertis

 

Deborah de Robertis

Deborah de Robertis

A keen example of this is the performance art of Deborah de Robertis.  In 2014 she entered the Musée d’Orsay, sat down in front of Gustave Courbet’s painting, “The Origin of the World,” hiked up her golden dress to her hips, spread her legs, and displayed her genitalia.  This may seem like the bizarre behavior of an exhibitionist unless one is aware that Courbet’s painting is a beautiful oil painting of a woman’s naked torso, prominently displaying her cunt – the origin of the world.  Like any great piece, her performance art could be interpreted in a variety of ways.  The way I understand her work is as a statement about society.  “Look here!  You, you artists, aesthetes, philanthropists, critics, connoisseurs, cultural gate-keepers, and curious members of the museum-going public – look!  Courbet says that this is the origin of the world.  He’s right.  This, the window of women through which you came and into which you cum; this is the origin and center of the world.  Yet, here I am, proudly displaying mine right next to the framed work, and the latter imitation you prize and protect while the former flesh and blood you censor and persecute.  You hypocrites!  You despisers of the female form, the body, the earth.  You cower in fear before the frothing flaps from which you emerged.”

 

I digress.  All I am trying to say here is that we are proud of our body of work and proud of our fellow sex bloggers, sex workers, sex enthusiasts, and all of our readers and fans.  People say the Sexual Revolution took place in the ’60’s.  Well, by the looks of things, the Revolution is far from over.  Pick up your penises, your dildos, your vibrators, your anal plugs, your strap-ons, and whatever other toys and tools you use and jack it, jill it, fuck it, fill it!  Long live the Revolution!!!  Kinksters of the world unite.  You have nothing to lose but your clothes!

Deborah de Robertis in front of Lola Down as “Origin of the World”

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.

Performance Art

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Lola at Eroticon

I get in bed.  I think Lo’s asleep, but she isn’t.  She unbuttons my pj bottoms and pulls out my cock and grips it tightly with one hand.  Her other hand is between her legs.  She begins stroking my rod up and down.  She spreads her legs and moans.  I begin to maneuver myself over her body in order to penetrate her, but she says, “No, Daddy.”

            “No?”

            “No.  Just lie on your back.”

            “But, don’t you want me?”

            “I want dick.  I want to hold it.  Just stay just like that,” she says.  I give in to her request to lie on my back as she grasps my member with her left hand while stroking herself with her right.  Her eyes remain closed.  Her breathing accelerates.  Her breasts heave.  After ten minutes or so, she begins convulsing.  She lets go of my phallus and grabs the sheets beneath her with her left hand as her right hand is plunging in-and-out of her gushing pussy.  She moans, screams, and cums in waves. 

            After she has a moment to catch her breath, I ask her, “What were you imagining?”

            “It’s bad, Daddy.”

            “I like bad.”

            “I was envisioning us,” she says enigmatically.

            “Us how?”

            “I imagined that we were going to the Erotica convention and that we were headlining for a reading of Match, Cinder & Spark.  It was at a dingy theater in a foreign town.  Up on the marquee it read, in big red letters, ‘LOLA DOWN READS XXX.’  We were backstage.  I had you peek out from the wings at the audience.  It was slowly growing in number – men and women.  Finally, about five minutes after the show was supposed to start, the host or MC for the evening took the stage and announced the rules, ‘No photography!  No recording!  Yes, masturbating, as long as you don’t make a mess of the seats.  Please turn off your cell phones and give a warm, wet welcome for Lola Down and H.H.!’  The place erupted with applause.  You and I walked out onto the stage.  There was only a rectangular table and two chairs.  On the rectangular table was a microphone and a tall glass of water and a pitcher of water.  We bowed and sat in the chairs.  I opened Match to one of my favorite passages and began reading.  I was wearing only a sexy red dress with strappy heels.  No panties.  No bra.  I began with my legs crossed.  I continued reading and I uncrossed my legs.  I gave the audience a quick flash of my puss.  I continued reading.  I spread my legs again.  I dropped one hand down to my crotch and began masturbating.  With the other hand, I held yours.  I paused for a moment.  I took a sip of water and looked out into the audience and said in a breathy voice, ‘It’s getting hot in here.’  You lovingly pulled the shoulder straps of my dress off of my shoulders and I pulled my arms through them.  I continued reading.  You slowly pulled down my red dress to reveal my breasts.  I continued touching my puss as I wiggled and wriggled out of the dress until it lay on the floor at my feet.  Finally I was naked and I continued reading the passage but, at a certain part I stopped.  I was beginning to climax.  You took over.  At the sound of your voice I came and I came hard – screaming and squirting.  You finally finished the passage.  You invited people up to the stage to have their copies of Match signed by the two of us.  As each person came up, they stopped before me with the book open to the page they wanted signed.  Usually it’s opened to a full color picture of me doing something naughty.  Some of the men asked if they can masturbate to me.  ‘Now?’ I asked.  ‘Yes,’ they said, politely.  I agreed.  They pulled out their cocks and they began jackin’ it over me as I sat naked in the chair.  You sat and watched.  They came.  They came on my body, on my face, in my mouth, in my hair, everywhere until I was cum-covered.  After everyone got what they wanted, you took me backstage.  There, some women who were part of the convention were waiting and they got clothes and a bucket of warm water and they cleaned me off.  ‘Was I good, Daddy?’ I asked you as they were tending to me.  ‘You were wonderful,’ you said.”

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. 

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. 

Accessory to a Masturbator

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Lo’s Nightly Companion – Her Phone

            I was asleep, to begin with.  There is no doubt whatever about that.  It was 4:45 in the a.m. and I was stirred from my slumber by the sonorous buzz of Lo’s vibrator, the rhythmic rattle of the bed, and the blue glow illuminating her face that was so contorted with a look of singular focus and intensity that I thought I was seeing a ghost.  She was lying on her tum, both hands buried under the covers and under her body, the phone propped up on a pillow about six inches in front of her.  From the sound of the Hitachi’s hum and the shaking of the bed, I deduced that she was working her clit with the Magic Wand and her puss with a dildo, leaving no hands free. 

            I opened one eye first and, upon seeing her apparition, I surprised myself with my ability to remain inconspicuous.  I didn’t stir.  I tried to give no hint that I was, in fact, awake – inconsiderately propelled out of my torpor.  I saw her struggle to keep the pleasure points stimulated while simultaneously fumbling through her phone for images. 

            Acutely aware that no mortal would be able to withstand the auto-erotic stimuli that Lo was producing, I announced my awakening by asking Lo, “Can I help you?”

            I was hoping she would be grateful if I would get behind her, replacing her dildo, freeing up one hand so she could scroll through the photos.  But no. 

            “Yeah,” she said, not surprised and unconcerned that I was awake, “swipe left.” 

            I did as she commanded.  I looked at her phone and there were pics of men, women, couples – all getting off to her photos.  As she gazed at each image, she took in the content, and then said, “Swipe.” 

A fan

            She was demanding, insistent, and a tad rude about it.  But she had a goal and nothing was going to get in her way – certainly not good manners. 

            “Swipe,” she said.  I did as told.  Another photo of a guy jacking to her pics.

An Enthusiastic Fan

            “Swipe.”  A photo of a woman jilling to Lo. 

            “Swipe.”  A picture of a couple; the woman gives the guy a blowjob as Lo’s image is on the computer in front of them.

Stella’s Tribute

            “Swipe.”  A man with what looks to be a 12 inch cock.  He holds it with two hands as if wielding it like a weapon.  I hear Lo whisper, “Fuck.”  She scrunched up her legs under her like an inchworm.  The bed rattled.  It’s a big, heavy, solid bed.  It takes a lot for it to rattle. 

Lo said, “Fuck!”  Louder this time.  More angry almost.  I heard the Hitachi click into high gear.  Lo squeezed her eyes closed tightly. 

“FUCK!!!” she called out.  I heard the dildo shoot out of her followed by the sounds of her geyser gushing onto the bed.  She convulsed, clutching the bed sheets, burying her head in the pillow and screaming at the top of her lungs: “FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!!!!!”

Then silence.  Peace.  Stillness. 

She struggled to lift her head.  When she did, she looked at me.  Tears were streaming down her cheeks. 

“You ok?” I asked.

She nodded, a little ashamed. 

“Feel better?”

She nodded again.

“Ready to sleep?”

She nodded a third time. 

I pulled her head to my chest where she rested it comfortably.  One wet leg was lying flat on the bed nest to my leg.  She lifted the other wet leg and placed it over my legs, parallel to her arm which reached around my chest.  She was wrapped around me like a marsupial clinging to a tree.  I felt her puss still slippery and perhaps ejaculating a dribble more like a leaky faucet on my hips. 

I kissed her forehead and said, “Sleep.”  There was no need.  I could tell by her breathing that she was already in dreamland.   

Meanwhile, my cock was rock hard as the first light of dawn began to illuminate the windows.