Friday, November 28, 2008

Neve Black Friday

After baking two pies on Wednesday night as my contribution to the Thanksgiving dinner, I later met friends at our local neighborhood watering hole for a few libations. As a true lover of the reverse cow girl position, I straddled an available bar stool appropriately, and sat back and drank a few beers; had some laughs and sing-along sessions. Yeah, it's just just that kind of place. Before too long, this erotica-story telling Cinderella was late getting home and she slept right through her usual Thursday morning excercise class.

Bad, bad kitty....

The sun was shining yesterday morning and I could see the blue skies above, so I decided to bundle up and brave running outside. Not too terribly long ago, I was an avid runner. I trained and ran a 1/2 marathon. I would have gone for the full monty and ran the 26.2 marathon, but 13.2 was more than enough for my screaming left knee.

The fresh air, the sound of the river as it sloshed with pieces of ice and rock, and the winding trails through the metro park(Cleveland's little jewel) reminded me of a story I'd written awhile ago now, about a woman that just happened to be training for a marathon.

It's been awhile since I posted this story, so if you happen to stop by this weekend, or you're considering taking up running, maybe my story will inspire and motivate you to finally pull those running shoes out from your closet at home:

- A Break from the Rain -

Long, black running pants hugged her curvaceous, tight ass. She had a strong, athletic build; standing about 5’ 6”. She was short-waisted with powerfully-built legs and succulent C-cup breasts; complimenting shapely hips. Her bright orange raincoat touched the tops of her muscular, rounded thighs and she tossed her gym bag, now filled with work clothes, into the trunk and started her car. Instantly, windshield wipers sprang to life; ready for ‘water-to-windshield’ combat.

She found a parking spot close to the park’s North/East entrance. She pulled her blonde, gloriously thick, straight, hair into a ponytail. She wore very little makeup; she didn’t have to. She was blessed with an oval face, naturally flushed, high cheekbones, a small button nose, genuine red-stained pouty lips and luminous, bluish-green eyes.

Running along the black-top jogging path as it meandered its way into the park, she could see the river to her left; violently gushing and spilling over the banks. Her heartbeat thumped in time with her cadence. Running past the picnic area, a metal roof provided shelter for an old, paint-chipped, wooden picnic table and the concrete patio below it. Looking closer, she saw a man sitting underneath the metal roof, wearing head-to-toe running accoutrements; legs outstretched before him. “He could be hurt,” she thought and slowed her pace; walking toward him and ducking under the covered awning.

The rain immediately stopped pummeling her head, but above, against the metal roof, it reverberated. She noticed his expressive, crystal, blue eyes and rugged good looks. His sandy-blond hair was shorter on the sides than the two inches at the top of his head and rain drops gathered at the tips; dripping into creases around his eyes; cascading onto his weather-chapped cheeks and chiseled jaw line. His nose was long, almost beak-like, but it suited him well.

“Is everything okay?” She asked.

“I think I may have pulled something in my leg,” his deep, husky voice responded. His black running pants clung to well-defined muscles.

They had both jogged the same path many times before, but never before had they been still long enough to meet. Amanda had admired Ken’s butt and nothing else – until now.

“How far were you going today?” He asked.

“My goal was not to freeze to death.” She replied, wiping the rain from her face.

“I’ve been training for the marathon,” he said.

“Oh yeah? Me too.” She replied.

“Maybe we could run together sometime…er..of course, after I’m walking again,” he said chuckling.

“Is he flirting with me?” Her thoughts raced. “I could run back and get my car and come back for you.” She offered.

“I appreciate that. I called my brother just before you found me and left him a message.” Lifting his cellular phone.

“Oh, well you’re all set then,” she replied, getting up. His hand touched the top of her knee, gently pushing her back down; she felt the cold cement seeping through her pants and shivered. “He is flirting!” She thought.

“Ken.” He said introducing himself. His thoughts raced: “I’m recently divorced; feeling lonely and really horny. God…you’ve got a great ass and nice tits....”

“Amanda.” She responded shaking his hand, thinking: “I’m recovering from a break-up; feeling lonely. You’re hot.”

With sudden boldness he kissed her. Their cold lips touched; pulled back and touched again; grazing and seeking the warmth from the other. Amanda could feel the iciness in her body dissipate. A fiery, hot ember ignited inside her; lighting her body’s pilot light.

Ken pulled the zipper to her jacket down and reached his hands inside. His hands were cold and under her jog bra; clasping her breasts; skimming her erect nipples. She moaned; felt her crotch become juicy, wet. Ambitiously, she moved her hands under his clothes and pushed past the elastic band of his jogging pants. She looked down at his groin; his cock bulged against the confines of his pants. He moved his fingers into the front of her jogging pants; under her panties, caressing the softness of her hair and the cleft leading to her clit; sliding his fingers up and down.

“That feels good.” She sighed.

Her hand pushed deeper inside his pants; fingers stroked the mushroom-head and shaft. He bucked his hips. His fingers inched toward the opening of her pussy; dipped them inside, removed them and then sucked her nectar from his finger-tips. “Hmmm…sweet, just how I thought you’d taste.”

She wriggled his pants down until the elastic waist-top was around his sinewy, muscular thighs. His exposed hard cock curved, like a banana; bending toward him. Amanda ran her tongue down every inch of his cock; moving her lips upward, circling each curve, like the road she had been running on. Ken thrusted his hips toward the warm, wet friction of her mouth. She pulled her pants down and struggled to get them over her running shoes.

She straddled him; pressing her back against his heaving chest. She was slathering wet; he was slab-hard and she hissed as the first few inches of his swollen cock speared her warm pussy; he fit snugly, like a missing piece to a puzzle. He grabbed her hips and guided her. Up. Down. Up. Down. Pussy muscles clenched his cock; contracting and releasing; fucking him hard.

“Oh God, I’m cumming,” he yelled and his hands gripped her hips; pulling her down onto him.

“Ooooh,” she moaned and their bodies exploded and quivered; furiously pulsating.

She heard his cellular phone ringing. “Bet the brother’s on his way,” She thought, lifting herself off of his cock; reaching for her pants. In the distance, headlights flickered against the wetly paved road just ahead.

“Can we give you a ride?” Ken asked.

“I think I just got off one,” she said grinning.

“How about your number then?” He pleaded.

She pulled the hood from her coat over her head as Ken punched her digits into his phone and she stepped back into the rain, moving a little slower than before; reflecting on what just happened; smiling and making her way back to her car.

Cowgirl at heart,
p.s. Cowgirl pussy-cat mat above can be purchased via Etsy.

Monday, November 24, 2008

I'm thankful for...

Red and black licorice - whips. Paddles. Riding crops. Fur-lined handcuffs. Nipple clamps. Role play. BDSM. Long, wet meaningful kisses that never end. An unexpected hot and sexy phone call or text message in the middle of the night, early morning, or late afternoon. Sleeping till noon after drinkng too much...champagne. The lime, the salt and the tequila shot. The first taste of cold beer when the foam tickles your lips. Hot bubble baths with a really good friend (s). Candles and candle - wax drippings onto delicate places.

Multiple vibrations when riding on a train. Multiple anything. Deep, depth, dark. Film noir and spine-tingling murder mysteries. Writing a story and hearing the rain. Dark, rich chocolate covered body parts. Nasty, naughty, dirty...things. Crumpled, tangled pillows and sheets; stained from sweat and cum. Chipped, red nail polish.

A lonely black bra strap that slips off your arm. The touch of pussy willows and the name of forget-me-knots. Tall red, ankle-length boots and black stilettos pressed up against a bedroom wall. Garter belts that snap and fishnets in every color that seductively roll down an exposed thigh. Three days of unshaven places: bristle, prickly, tickly, rough and raw when it meets pink, soft and tender - Oooh la la! Dimples on chins, cheeks and knees. Looking in between the cracks and scratching under-neath....

Just be... thankful -
p.s. The image of the Mata Hari above can be purchased here via Etsy.

Friday, November 21, 2008


Last night, my friend Steve and I made plans to meet, so we could continue working on the creation of and (both still currently under construction). I'd been using my laptop; researching the internet (m/m porn) and creating a story for most of the day, so I turned off the glowing, blue screen; packed it up and headed out the door. We were meeting at a local haunt that conveniently provided WIFI, food and beverages, of course.

He brought his laptop, and I of course was bringing mine, so we could both efficiently and systematically (he's an engineer) work on this project simultaneously. We grabbed a four-top table and stretched all our technical gear out. I ordered hot tea (It's. Cold. Here. Now) and I pulled my Daniel Boone-looking hat, cheetah-print car coat, scarf and gloves off, before firing up my computer.


"What the hell is wrong with my computer?" I asked looking at the black screen with sqiggily lines, but really directing the horrific question to the computer genius, Steve seated across from me.

"Hmmm...what do you mean?" Steve answered tenebrously (not the computer) while getting up from his seat; leaving his already working like a champ laptop and scooting around the table to my laptop rescue.

"Crash and burn." He muttered quietly.

"Hold on there Maverick, but did you just say, crash and burn?" My thoughts bubbled in my head. Then my heart started racing. My skin was hot and the room was spinning. It felt like I was going to faint, and this had nothing to do with sex or alcohol. "Holy crap, my stories! All my thoughts. The blood, the time, the sweat, the emotions. Fuck, fuck, fuck!" My eyes widened; mouth gaping open - no words were said, because my gasping for air face said it all.

Steve must have realized my silence was a call for help and stemmed from intense emotional anxiety. He must have feared a Neve break-down was looming just over the horizon, because he quickly stated, "Don't worry, we can save everything."


Then a tiny breath of air was released from my lips. "Whew." Eye's smiling in happiness and I felt my heart beat shudder as it moved into a lower gear.

This morning I called another IT genius and scheduled to have a complete body check up done for my laptop. I drove the ailing laptop patient through the snow covered roads; eager to find a cure for its illness. Fortunately, IT was able to give it mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and we're both back home how, stabilized for the time being.

I'm a big believer in signs. For me, the universe continues to send me messages, or lessons that I'm suppose to learn, until I fucking get it. I've been tossing around the idea of ordering a petite, and sexy, second laptop; a mistress if you will, for months now. After last night's melt-down, I finally stopped making excuses and ordered the perfect second laptop. She's arriving in the mail sometime next week, my little, sloppy second sensation. Sshhh...don't tell computer number one though, because she's still in recovery. I don't want her to get jealous and then crash again on me.

Laptop and user are recovering in room #69 -

p.s. I may have to order the uber-cool business card holder above via Etsy.

Thursday, November 20, 2008

Feeling the love, baby...

I'm not really sure why the ugly topics of jealousy and cut-throat competition have crossed my path more than once this week, but for some reason they have. I try and rise above that shit as much as possible. Sometimes however, when I hear about it touching others, I take it as a sign to spend a couple minutes and marinate in the subject, so I can then express my thoughts about it here with you.

As stomach churning, buzz killing and non-orgasmic as it is, it would be utter insanity to think that we live in a world that doesn't exhibit forms of hatred. We do, boys and girls. Just like Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz though, we each wear those same ruby slippers that empower us to think smarter and fight back against things like jealousy and cut-throat competition, which stems from hate and those evil green witches of the world. We're each faced with choices everday day. What choice you make really does make a difference in making the world a kinder, loving place. You have a choice: spread love, spread hate, or hell, just spread your legs and the love will come (I'm sorry, I couldn't resist).

If you think what I'm saying is bullshit, then I challenge you to stop fighting against the rage around you. Stop looking for the bad, but instead look for the kindess and lovingness in those that are offering you their guidance, their love and their support and then give that back to someone else. Do it for 30 days and then come tell me if the world doesn't somehow feel a whole lot nicer - And guess what? You had something to do with it.

John Lennon said it best in his famous Imagine lyrics, which by the way, I saw the original version he chicken-scratched at the Rock n' Roll Hall of Fame a few years ago. Goose-pimples. I still pick up my guitar and play this tune from time to time. I'm spreading the love with my bad guitar playing ways:
Imagine there's no Heaven
It's easy if you try
No hell below us - Above us, only sky
Imagine all the people, living for today
Imagine there's no countries - It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for, and no religion too
Imagine all the people, living life in peace
You may say that I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us, and the world will be as one
Imagine no possessions - I wonder if you can
No need for greed or hunger -A brotherhood of man
Imagine all the people sharing all the world
You may say that I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will live as one

One last thought - Baby, it's a lot colder outside than it is in here with us that love and care...won't you please come over and stay awhile...?


Wednesday, November 19, 2008

It's Summertime Somewhere

I'm pretty focused about most things. However, when it comes to those items on the list that I don't like to do, I can find at least six ways to Sunday not to get them done. Take paying bills for example. It doesn't take me very long to actually do the task, because I'm a writer and I have no money, so consequently there's really not many bills that need to be paid. Do I get some kind of thrill knowing my creditors are smiling to themselves while placing gold stars at the top left corner of my account, just because I paid them on time? Uh? No. Do I get off watching my checking account go into the negative integers? Hmm...let me think about this one...No.

Here's something to ponder: Do you think procrastination is somehow linked to denial? I'm convinced they're one in the same. Maybe I should write the folks at Wikipedia and let them know of my theory.

A few weeks ago, still within the fine Scorpio month of November, the temperature reached an all time high of about 60 heavenly degrees. The sun was shining and the sky was blue-blue. Now for some people this meant, "Hey, great, I don't have to wear a coat today." For me, it was bathing suit weather, baby. Stupidly, I put on my multi-colored halter top bikini and matching bottoms and sat outside on my patio in the cadillac chair. My neighbors already think I'm a bit odd, for various reasons. So sun bathing in the midwest in November only further solidifies their thoughts of me (koo-koo). I lasted for just about 30 minutes, tops. Why? Because it was too fucking cold and I had bills to pay, of course.

I know in the scheme of world events, lamenting about weather is really rather shallow and pointless on my part, but damnit, I'm going to bitch about it anyway! It's fucking cold here. It already started to snow and much to my protest, I reluctantly put the last pair of black, .99 flip-flops in their storage container in the basement this week. "Buh-buh guys, sorry. I have to make room for no-skid boots, slippers and Uggs (the pulse quickens). No worries though, I'll see you in about hmm...six months. I'll miss you! I love you!"

I can pull the denial/procrastination card all I want, but I knew what was coming. I knew the weather was getting colder. I could feel that cold snap in the air. I saw the leaves changing colors and then absentmindedly began depositing themselves everywhere. Deep down inside, I knew I needed to make room for loooong pants, sweaters, coats, hats, scarves, gloves and other necessary cold weather accoutrements. Deny, deny, deny - I just kept reaching for shorts and tank-tops; hoping and praying the earth would retrograde and send us back into summertime or send me to Barcelona, Spain (insert more denial/procrastination).

So, each day before setting the alarm (I live in the hood) and leaving my house for the day, I'm no longer slipping "take me to bed" red painted toe nails into flip-flops, or effortlessly pulling on comfortable, shorts and easy, breazy tanks... but instead, I cover my feet in socks and then boots, pulling on a coat, hat and gloves, as I schlepp my way to and from my final destination.

Isn't denial/procrastination a whole lot easier than cold weather gear?

Dreaming of paying bills in Barcelona, Spain (view from Parc Guell above) where the temperature is 70 degrees and perfect -

Monday, November 17, 2008

Frequently Felt

I've been reading M.Christian's blog for a few months now, rather voyeuristically as I digest every word of his thought provoking posts. He's such a well respected writer and I have to thank Alison Tyler for turning me on to him. I recently left a comment on his blog. I felt compelled to do so, and he replied to me via e-mail, so graciously. He thanked me for stopping over; letting me know how much he appreciated the support - inviting me please stop back again. "Really, it was all my pleasure." I sighed to myself.

What I learned from our brief e-mail conversation was that M. Christian has another erotic blog which is filled with what he calls, trivialities, oddities and the miscellenous - Frequently Felt. If you're anything like me, you're always looking for new ways to expose yourself in public, rather exhibitionistically, I mean...uh, ahem...gain more exposure for your work. The Frequently Felt blog is a fun little place to set yourself free; to streak across an open field and show the world what you got! Go check it out.

Voyeuristically and Exhibitionistically yours

p.s. The binocular pendant pictured above can be purchased via Etsy here.

Friday, November 14, 2008

Tequila and Erotic Poetry

The bright neon sign, which is a replica of the bar owner's face glows magically in the window; reflecting onto the quaint neighborhood street. The warmth of the neon is a signal to those of us that are already familiar with its meaning, "Yes, we're open, come inside. Take off your coat, grab a seat at the bar and stay for awhile." The Literary Cafe reminds me of what a speakeasy must have been like during prohibition: surreptitious, opening late and closing much later.

It's a place you can duck into and shed away constraints. Listen closely to the conversations. Listen closely to the words, because they're powerful; often sprinkled with politics, religion, philosophy, music, film, art and literature. Sometimes words shared are irreverent in nature, but that's part of the appeal; the charm; the ambiance. The Literary Cafe's address is the same, but it's never the same place twice and for me, and it feels like home.

She pulled back the single, heavy metal-framed screen and then pushed down on the latch; opening the front door. She was greeted with friendly faces, some wearing winter coats, hats and gloves. She stepped further inside; shaking her head and freeing the tiny rain drops that had been captured in her straight, blond hair, like prisoners from an inclement weather war. She walked straight to the bar, smiled sweetly and if I hadn't already known her tainted spirit, I would have said she spoke with innocence when she asked for a double shot of tequila from the bar owner.

It was one of those crazy nights -the crowd was infused with raw talent, booze, a bad day at work, and the threat of what loomed somewhere just past tomorrow: the cold and menacing, midwest winter. Even still, each person gleamed with the hope that the opiate of good poetry read tonight, would prove to be the solace they each desperately clung onto to lift their sullied moods and nourish their souls. The crowd was noisy and restless for the games to begin.

She was surrounded with some of the best at their craft. She heard her name being called; it was her turn to read and she rifled through her purse; grabbing her notes. Her long tight fitting cheetah-print skirt swished against her fish net stockings as her tall, black, peep-toe pumps clicked across the hardwood floor; stepping around chairs and people sitting on the floor. She stood in front of the podeum.

Nervously, she briefly explained to the crowd in front of her that she wasn't really a poet, per se, but she had lyrical prose to share, and that her written words could be considered poetic by nature.

"Please, indulge me and just listen," She said softly into the microphone.

The crowd wasn't pleased and some hissed in disagreement. They came to listen to poetry, not prose!

"Please, indulge me and just listen," she said again louder; tequila on her breath as she adjusted the microphone over the heated crowd. She felt the heaviness of impatience growing and she thought she might be overthrown, or perhaps thrown out.

"Please, I write EROTICA...indulge me and just listen...." Her voice trembled with anxiety.

The crowd fell silent. It appeared they liked the word, erotica. They would indulge her, and just listen.

Of course I'm embellishing the story ever so slightly, here. Honestly, all fiction aside, I had an amazing time.

Feeling a little hung over today,

p.s. Thanks to Steve Goldberg, Miles Budimir , John Etorre, Melodie/Natalie Grable, Lois Moss and Andy and Linda for being there last night and offering their support. SWAK.

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

The Smell of Sex

In an attempt to steeple-chase over my fear of public speaking (not really actually), I'm going to read a little of my penned porn, oops, I meant to say erotica at the Literary Cafe this Thursday night, November 13, 2008. Poetry night; open mic; tequila; sex and all goes together somehow, doesn't...?

Hope to see you there -

Sex and Chocolate,

Monday, November 10, 2008

Back in Five

I'm taking a writing break today. Pull up a chair and tell me what's been going on with you.

Medium, non-fat, vanilla latte,

Select here to purchase the print above via Etsy.

Sunday, November 9, 2008


is an appropriate title for today's blog, because it's not only my birthday, but this Scorpio girl just finished her Sex Through The Zodiac novel. Yes, as a matter of fact, I am smiling and wiping the sweat from my brow. This was a new personal best for me as far as word content goes. Whew.

I have referenced a number of different songs and artists throughout the story, mostly classic jazz (shocker), but Cake's lyrics heard in the YouTube video above just seemed to work for one of my characters. The lyrics have always resonated with me, "...with fingernails that shine like justice...." It just so happens, Roxanne, the heroine in the story is also a fan of Cake -

Eating and listening to Cake,

Wednesday, November 5, 2008

Sex Through the Zodiac

"Roxanne, you don't have to put on the red light
Those days are over
You don't have to sell your body to the night
Roxanne, you don't have to wear that dress tonight
Walk the streets for money
You don't care if it's wrong or if it's right"
The Police
Outlandos d'Amour

Roxanne is my heroine, literally and figuratively. The year I graduated from High School, I took the summer off. This is highly unusual for me, because I've always had to work. Nearly every day that summer, I headed to 26th Street in Del Mar. I'd set up camp on the sandy beach: Red, plastic, igloo cooler, trashy book, smash ball set, beach towel and because of its multiple reclining options...grrr, I called my beach chair the cadillac chair. Between lounging in the sun, body surfing and flirting with Chip (I'm not making that up) the lifeguard, I'd engage in two-man beach volleyball. Kick your ass kind of work out.

I also brought a radio. In Del Mar, the frequency extended to L.A. and I could hear KROQ; the alternative rock station while the waves lapped at my feet. My ears were fully exposed and boy did I get turned on to bands like, Oingo Boingo, The Violent Fems, and Sting's irreverent voice when he was with The Police, belting out... Roxanne. Goose bumps. I still get goose bumps.

Anyway, the heroine in my 50K word story (today's blog title) is affectionately named Roxanne. It seems apropos that Roxanne is currently sitting on the beach; wiggling her toes in the sand, and listeing to music, much like her creator did a long time ago.

Nearing the finish line,

Tuesday, November 4, 2008

Don't forget to VOTE!

Did the video above leave you wanting more Palin? Then check out Donna George-Storey's , Chasing Sarah Palin currently published on Clean Sheets. It's fabulous.

Now, I'm not asking nicely. Get out and VOTE today! (Crack goes my whip)

Election 2008

Monday, November 3, 2008


It's possible that you already know everything there is about the alternative lifestyle of partner swapping; more commonly known as swinging. But, just in case you don't, the new book Swing, edited by Jolie du Pre' will provide you with 24 dirty and delicious stories about the intriguing world of those that engage in ahem, promiscuous sex. My story, The Party will be one of 24 tantalizing tales in this anthology.

Here's the lineup of contributing writers:

Michael Hemmingson, Ashley Lister, Claudia Moss, M. Christian, Emerald, Beth Wylde, Keeb Knight, Jolene Hui, Donna George Storey, Sage Vivant, Karmen Red, Tre Sart, Neve Black, Alicia Knight Orchard, Jeremy Edwards, Randall Lang, Jacqueline Applebee, Rick.R. Reed, Tawanna Sullivan, Amanda Earl, Michael Swanson, Lara Ziliensky, Rowan Elizabeth, and Jolie du Pre.

I'll keep you updated on the details of the release date.

Swinging high,