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Elemental Fire: Family Photos

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IMG00491-20130308-1227Friday morning there was a knock on the door, and a rain-drenched postman delivered a familiar-shaped box. My heart skipped a beat and my feet did a happy-dance. I knew what that box meant. It meant that volume 3 of the Lakeland Heatwave Trilogy, Elemental Fire, was now officially out in print and these were my lovely author copies!

I couldn’t resist. The response is always the same. Right after I take them out and fondle them and look through them and admire them, I get all the kids together for some family photos, and here are the end results!

By the way, we’ll be celebrating the launch of Elemental Fire on 20 April at Sh! Women’s Store. Where else would we be celebrating? And it’s going to be quite a celebration, as Kay Jaybee is going to be giving a sneak preview of The Retreat, book two of her BDSM Trilogy. Also, I’m beside myself for this launch party – literally. In addition to being there as K D, I’ll be there as Grace Marshall too, reading from the second book of my Executive Decisions Trilogy, Identity Crisis. It’ll be an evening of fun, filth, fizz, and maybe some really exciting extra surprises as well. I’ll keep you informed as plans unfold. Be sure to mark April 20 on your calendar and come join the fun.

In the meantime, since you’re already here, would you like to take a look at my family album??? Shameless promotion? You betcha!

IMG00494-20130308-1230Blurb:

Obsessed with revenge, KENNET LUCIAN makes a deal with a demon, a deal he comes to regret when he meets TARA STONE, head of the Elemental Coven, and a powerful witch with a desire for revenge at least as great as his. Even though the attraction between the two is magnetic and the lust combustive, Kennet must betray her to accomplish his goal, which is ultimately her goal as well; to put a final end to the demon, Deacon’s, reign of terror. But can Tara trust the man who has wormed his way into her heart and the heart of the Elemental Coven? Can she trust LUCIA, the demon with whom Kennet is allied, a demon with her own agenda. The path to Deacon’s destruction is far from clear, and the price that must be paid to be free of him forever may be too high, even for Tara Stone.

Excerpt:

It was then Tara noticed the exquisite woman with long golden hair sitting so close that her knees practically touched Tara’s ribs. It came as no surprise to her, though surely it should have, but then this was a dream, wasn’t it? The woman’s robe pooled around her and ebbed and flowed like fire.

IMG00497-20130308-1233‘You feel better now, don’t you my darling, Tara?’ She asked. Her voice made Tara feel like she was melting into warm, delicious nothingness and seeping into the cave floor.

Tara nodded and moaned softly, for some reason unable to speak, for some reason just wanting to remain in the presence of this woman, whoever she was. It brushed her consciousness fleetingly that maybe she should be concerned about the strange woman in her dreams, but the thought passed quickly, and she lay quietly next to her.

‘Good,’ the woman said, stroking Tara’s hair away from her forehead. ‘I need you to feel better. All of us need you to feel better. We have work to do, and we cannot do it when you’re mourning your losses.’ She nodded. ‘Yes, of course I know about your Anderson. And I know that you do not fuck the living. Such a foolish girl you are to deny yourself the very pleasure you so willingly offer the dead. Elemental Cottage is not a nunnery, my darling.’ She leaned down low and kissed Tara on the mouth. Her breath smelled like the fells in high summer. Then she tisk-tisked and gently stroked Tara’s pubic curls. ‘You need more than you can manage with your hand, my sweet girl, no matter how gifted you are in the arts of pleasure. You practice sex magic, surely you know this.’ She brushed slender fingers up Tara’s belly and over the mounds of her breasts. Tara arched up into her heated caresses. ‘Shall I bring you just what you need to make you feel better? Would you like that, my dear?’

Tara could only whimper and nod.

Once again she brushed Tara’s lips with hers adding the slightest flick of her tongue, and for an instant, the kiss felt predatory, devouring. Or had Tara only imagined it? ‘Do not worry, my love,’ the woman said as she pulled away. ‘I shall send you just what you need. Wait here, and rest a little.’ Then she disappeared leaving Tara to writhe and moan on the floor of the cave.

From far away someone shook her arm, someone called to her in distressed tones, trying to bring her back to the Waking World. But she didn’t want to go back. It was safe and warm and happy here. There was nothing but sadness in the Waking World. She just wanted to sleep here in the cave and wait for whoever the beautiful woman would bring to her.

IMG00495-20130308-1231But the shaking and jostling continued. She slapped the hand away but it kept coming back to shake her. She was just ready to tell whoever it was to bugger off, when she opened her eyes and looked up to see the outline of a man leaning over her. Even in the darkness, the energy emanating from him was magnetic. Everything inside her tightened with anticipation, and Goddess, she wanted him. Surely she was still dreaming.

‘Are you alright?’ His voice vibrated through her chest and his touch felt electric, full of magic. ‘I thought you were dead, then I heard you moaning. I guess you were dreaming. I was worried and then …’

They both realized at the same time that her shirt was open and so were her trousers, and one hand still rested on her mons. She could feel the man’s gaze taking in the situation, and he twigged. ‘Oh shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. I thought you were — ’

‘I was! Dreaming, I mean.’ She quickly jerked her hand out of her trousers and tugged her open blouse across her bare breasts. ‘I was dreaming, and she said she’d send someone and …’ She blinked hard and looked around at the night sky. She couldn’t have been asleep long, but everything felt unreal, different. Was she still dreaming? Dreams could be so powerful at times, so confusing. She reached up to touch his face and felt a surge of magic — some new, some old. Some very old. Had she enfleshed a ghost because of her horny dream? When she walked at night, ghosts did sometimes follow her onto the fells in hopes that she would enflesh them and allow them to experience for a little while the pleasures afforded the living. And any other time she would happily oblige. But when she walked at night, she always sent them away. This was her place, her alone time. No one was welcome to disturb her here, and most ghosts knew that. Had she been that out of it? Was she that desperate for a fuck that her unconscious had broken her own rules?’

The man sat back on his haunches and looked down at her. In the darkness she could only make out his silhouette dominated by broad shoulders, but it was enough to make her  own arousal spike. Certainly if she had enfleshed him, she couldn’t leave him in the state he was now, no doubt, in because of her.

He gave a little gasp of surprise when she off-balanced him, pulled him down to her and kissed him. ‘You shouldn’t have come here,’ she managed before she drew him into another kiss.

‘I might say the same about you,’ he replied.

Cheeky ghost, she thought, but she kissed him again. This time he returned the favour. And the power surge she felt went clear from her mouth down to the base of her spine and back again. His eyes fluttered, he gasped against her mouth, clearly feeling what she felt, and there was no disguising the press of his heavy erection against the fly of his walking trousers.

‘What the hell was that?’ She gasped, not entirely sure she wasn’t going to come just from their last kiss.

He pulled back from her with a start, one hand against his lips and the other resting low on his belly. ‘If you do that again, I can’t guarantee what will… If you do that again.’

IMG00503-20130310-1516For a tightly stretched second, they froze in each other’s gaze. Then she forced words up through her throat, struggling to breathe through her arousal. ‘I can’t … I need …’

‘Me too,’ He whispered. She couldn’t see the colour of his eyes in the darkness, but his gaze was baking hot against her.

Focus. Damn it, she needed to be able to focus, to think. She forced a deep breath and then they were both speaking at the same time.

‘I’m sorry … I didn’t … I wouldn’t …’

‘I don’t know what just happened,’ he gasped.

‘Me neither,’ she managed.

Then they were on each other. He yanked the clasp from her hair and clawed it free from the ponytail. She curled her fingers in the front of his shirt and pulled him on top of her, down between her open legs, lifting her hips, wrapping her ankles around his waist and thrusting up to meet him. The sounds coming from his throat were deep-chested, wild, and she wasn’t sure where his grunts and growls left off and hers began as he thrust and ground against her, shoving her arse into the soft moss with his efforts.

 

My Friend Barbara

Blog, Inspiration

183I’d like to dedicate this post to my dear, dear friend, Barbara Steel, who died last night at the age of 93. If ever I loved a woman, I loved this woman. She was the first friend I made when we moved to England the first time. I remember her working in the flowerbeds in the grounds of the flats we were considering moving in to. I asked her if the garden got lots of birds visiting it, and she rattled off in quick succession about a half a dozen different species. I as wasn’t familiar with British birds as I am now. She told me much later than when she found out we loved birds, she hoped we’d take the flat because she knew right then and there we’d be friends. I knew it too. I just had no idea how good a friend she would be.

We saw each other for coffee a couple of times a week. She lived in the flat below mine. Which meant our views out the window were similar. We’d quick, ring each other up when we’d see interesting birds outside our window so we could share them. I remember her calling me breathlessly one day to look out the window, and there was a sparrow hawk who had just that second taken a starling. We talked in hushed tones on the phone about how disturbing and how beautiful what’d we’d just seen was, and how life so often turns in a second in ways we could have never imagined.

When we moved away to Moscow for four years, the highlight of our trips back to the UK was time spent with Barbara over one of her famous snack lunches – always homemade soup and maybe quiche or cold ham and sandwich stuff, always lingered over, always delighted in, always finished off with coffee far late in the afternoon after time had flown by with discussions of far away places and past adventures and her life with her husband, John, long dead by then, and my adventures in Russia and my struggles to get published. Then there was the gossip from the flats – who was new and what everyone was up to.

One day I came to see her just before catching a night flight back to Moscow, and she loaded me down with a cheese sandwich an apple and some chocolate just to tide me over. She knew I adored good British cheddar and Cox apples.

Sometimes I called her from Russia just to talk. I missed her. I needed her level-headedness. She never treated me like I was inferior because of our age difference. I never felt mothered or condescended to by her, but I always felt like she was a friend whose opinions mattered to me and who celebrated my successes and my adventures as though they were her own.

Barbara was in her early 80s when I met her. She wasn’t in good health. She had heart problems and bad arthritis, and yet she never complained. She always found something to laugh about, something to celebrate.

corn and stuffWhen we returned to England and we moved into our home, Barbara taught me to garden. Wow, how she taught me to garden! She wasn’t able to do much herself, but a lifetime of experiences were there in her mind, and all I ever had to do was ask, while I sat with her over coffee and biscuits and we watched the birds flit and flutter at the feeder in front of her window.

The first time I grew tomatoes, I didn’t know how to prune them, and they’d grown into a bit of a jungle. Then Barbara came over. She insisted on showing me what to do. I remember her out in my back garden, holding on to my arm with on hand and point and telling me which shoots to pull and which ones to leave and why. That year we had a bumper crop, some of which Barbara made into her yummy tomato soup.

One of the things I treasure most about Barbara was that she read my work – not just the non-erotic stuff, but she insisted upon struggling through the erotica too, even though she laughed and said it wasn’t really her type of reading, but her friend wrote it, so she read it, delighted in my success. And when her legs became ulcered and the nurses were coming several times a week to change the dressings, she passed all my naughty novels around among the nurses and bragged about her friend, the writer.

I have very few pictures of us together. I wish desperately now there were more. What I do have, though, is a million memories of a woman who faced her health problems with courage and grace, more grace than any person I’ve ever known; a woman who loved nature, loved getting her hands in the earth; a woman who could take the most sickly houseplant and nurse it back to health; a woman who did exquisite needlework; a woman who took up watercolour painting at the young age of 84; a woman who periodically took me out to her flowerbeds with a garden fork and let me dig up plants and starts to take home for my own burgeoning beds. I have a million memories of the woman who listened to me moan about not being able to get my writing published, a woman who celebrated with me when I finally did. A woman who laughed and schemed with me about the Italian villa I would buy with my millions from my royalties, the villa that would have a suite especially for her and a very handsome servant to attend her.

The villa never happened. We both knew that it wouldn’t. I never got to give her that, but oh, what the woman gave me! I heard her stories, her wonderful stories about being phone operator during the war and directing the ambulances to the places in London that had been bombed, about her trips to Italy and Greece with her husband, the love of her life, John, about gardens and birds and flowers and insects, about the proper way to make shortbread, about the way we both adored the colour blue.

Barbara Steel was a woman no one could resist. She was kind and generous and always interested, and people were drawn to her because of it. I 181seldom came to her house for coffee without two or three people stopping by just to check in and say hi. Everyone loved Barbara. And me, I adored her. She was the best example I’ve ever known of a life well-lived and well celebrated even when her hands became too sore to paint or do needlework any longer, even when she could no longer walk in the garden or even get out to fill her bird feeders, she still found something to smile about, something to celebrate.

I’ll miss her terribly, but she left no empty space. She filled that space with the friendship and love and laughter and wisdom and sometimes just blunt honesty that only she could give me. She left no empty space. She left me so full of what’s best about being human. I’m a far better person because Barbara Steel was my friend. And I’m so very glad that she was a part of my life.

The Vampire, The Witch & The Werewolf: Mirabella’s Mardi Gras Ménage by Louisa Bacio

Guest Blogger, , , ,

Mardi Gras Menage

Constantly under the watchful eye of her Voodoo priestess aunt, Mirabella longs to break free during the events of Mardi Gras. Escapades draw her into the arms of Marguerite, a fiery redhead with a passion for life, and Nick, a familiar vampire who’s haunted by his transformation and past.

What starts as a new experience – a Mardi Gras Ménage – soon turns deadly, and none of their lives will ever be the same.

Available from:
Ravenous Romance
Amazon UK
Amazon US
Barnes & Noble

And all other good eBook retailers.

*****

Excerpt:

“What are you doing living here?” she asked.

He’d asked himself that question many times over in the past few months. Nick had been used to living with others for all of his life. Being alone was quite different.

“After Silver and I broke up, it didn’t feel right to keep living with Lawrence, Trevor, and Lily,” he explained.

She nodded, her eyes clearing as more time passed. “I can understand that, but I’m surprised Lawrence let you go.”

“As my sire, he can pretty much watch me wherever I’m living. I’m sure if I were to go off the deep end, he’d get some type of psychic notice,” Nick explained. “It’s strange. It feels like I don’t have privacy at times, and at others I’m totally alone.”

She cocked her head to the side, studying him. Over the past two years of knowing Mirabella, Nick didn’t quite know what to think of her. She’d always been in the presence of her aunt, who was quite overpowering. Mentally, it was hard to separate memories of the two of them. The one time he had rescued her with Trevor, Mirabella had been totally passed out—under the influence of some other type of drug, or spell, or supernatural creature. In other words, she’d definitely not been herself.

“So how come we keep meeting this way?” Nick teased. “You always seem to be running into trouble.”

“Let’s just say I’m not very street smart,” she said. “Tante Teresa has kept me isolated a bit too much. Don’t know how to make it on my own in such large crowds, but I’m starting to feel like I need to escape the prison of her watchful eye.”

“Well, you picked a hell of a way to experience it,” Nick said. “It’s not full Mardi Gras yet, but these crowds building up to those events are almost as bad. You have to be careful on the streets.”

“I’m learning that. It’s a much different world to be out there than in the store.”

“I can’t believe Teresa let you out either. She’s gotta know what it’s like out there.”

A flush brightened Mirabella’s cheeks, and Nick thought about how gorgeous she looked in his bed, the contrast of her darker skin tone to the pale blue sheets. With all the mixed-breed genetics in New Orleans, both of them looked to be of Creole heritage. True, his coloring was a bit more pale now that he was dead and all. Mirabella’s skin shimmered in the moonlight.

“I might have slipped out while she slept,” she admitted. “The lure of the music drew me out, and I wanted to see what it was like.”

Nick was experiencing a lure all of his own. Her luscious lips drew him in. She caught him watching her, and she licked a droplet of water off her bottom lip. He sat on the edge of the bed, and she leaned toward him, her eyes half-mast.

Her breath smelled sweet, like fresh almonds mixed with vanilla. He shouldn’t kiss her. She was too young and too naïve. But while his head told him to step away, his desire took over, craving the physical connection.

At this moment, though, with her ensconced within his bed, the physical possibilities loomed endless. No one knew she was here. They could do whatever they desired.

Softly, his lips brushed against hers. He slipped his hand around the back of her neck, drawing her in closer and holding her steady. He probed her mouth with his tongue, requesting entrance, and she more than willingly opened beneath him.

She sighed against his mouth. Warmth. Vitality. Life.

All the traits a beautiful young woman possessed and a vampire like him lacked.

“I’d better take you home,” he said, giving one last effort to be a gentleman.

“What if I don’t want to go?”

“I’m trying to do what’s best here,” he said. He made a move to get off the bed, and she followed him, her body curling into his. Her warmth enveloping him.

“Best for whom? Not you or me,” she said. “I want more of your kisses.”

*****

roadkilldress_webBio:

Louisa Bacio is the author of six erotic novels, including the paranormal series The Vampire, The Witch & The Werewolf, the 1Night Stand A Date with Death and numerous steamy short stories.

Bacio enjoys soaking up the sun in Southern California, and spending time with her family. In addition to writing and editing, Bacio teaches college courses in English, journalism, film studies and popular culture.

Drop in for a visit:

http://louisabacio.blogspot.com
http://www.louisabacio.com
http://www.facebook.com/louisabacio
http://www.twitter.com/louisabacio

Finessing Sex Notes: Post Your Exercise on Irregular Voice

Blog, Inspiration, , , , ,

I’ve been asked for the notes from my Eroticon writing workshop, Finessing Sex and the In Media Res exercise I used at the end, so here they are. Sadly, the forty-five minute time allotted to us meant that most of the people in the workshop didn’t get the chance to share their work. The lovely Mia Moor has kindly taken it upon herself to solve that problem by allowing anyone who participated or anyone who wasn’t able to attend the workshop but wants to do the exercise to post their creative efforts on her wonderful website, Irregular Voice Thank you SO much, Mia, for sharing your site! You’re the best.

Below are the notes from the hand-out I used, which I’ll also pass on to Ruby for the Eroticon site. I’ve added just enough to clarify where needed. Enjoy!

*****

FINESSING SEX

Notes

Part 1: Creating Characters                           

Create at least two characters, and give yourself five minutes to create a very rough character sketch of each. Feel free to use characters from a story you’re working on and use the scene for your story or simply use the exercise for raw material. Do whatever you want with your characters as long as by the end of your scene at least one character has sex

Number one rule: Write! Keep on writing! Don’t stop!

Setting yourself a limited amount of time in which to brainstorm a topic or a character is a fantastic way to get beyond the internal editor to the good stuff! Allow yourself to play with the words and have fun.

Part 2: Cause some chaos. Ask yourself:

1. How can the sex scene you’re about to create have the most impact in your plot?writing-image-2-225x300

2. What are the consequences of this sex scene?

3. Who is affected by this sex act?

4. What revelation does this sex scene bring about?

5. How can this sex scene be used most affectively to drive your story?

Remember! Sex should NEVER be gratuitous. Sex always serves a purpose.

6. When the sex is over, how will the landscape of the story be changed?

Part 3: Choosing a POV. Ask yourself:

1. From whose POV is the sex in this scene most interesting. Why?

(If you choose to write your scene from the third person objective POV, why is that the best POV?)

2. Whose POV will best move your story forward? Why?

3. Whose POV will result in the most chaos?

4. Whose POV will give the most emotional charge?

5. Who has the most baggage?

Hint: Baggage is one of the best tools for helping choose POV. Baggage is what every person carries from childhood, from traumas, from past sexual experiences or lack thereof, from anything within the emotional place where your character is when you write her/him having sex.

Note: Not all of these questions may be satisfied by one character’s POV. You’ll have to choose which POV will best serve the story. Sometimes the most important thing about the POV character is the insights he/she offers the reader into another character!

Part 4: The ‘Photo Shoot’

Think of the scene you’re writing in terms of a series of snap shots. You, the writer, are now the photographer, and you get to choose the snapshots you believe will give your reader the most vivid experience of the story you’re telling. Remember, the ultimate voyeur in the story will be your reader, so make the scene worth looking at. Think in terms of:

1. The physical attribute of your characters.

2. Using all of the senses.

3. What does the person who’s POV you’re writing from actually think about her/his experience of sex. The running internal commentary can sometimes be the sexiest part of a sex scene, or the most revealing. Remember, this is why you’ve chosen this person’s POV.

4. The language used in the sex scene is also a powerful tool for eliciting emotion, arousal, a sense of who these people shagging are, what matters to them, and how they experience sex.

5. Location can raise the risk factor, raise the discomfort level, raise the heat level and affect the pacing of the scene.

Step 5: Write it!

1. In Media Res. Minimise the setup and start in the middle of the action. Tell the story from the inside out.

2. Remember! Editors are busy folks. They may give you as few as three paragraphs. If you hold their interest for three, then you get a fourth. If you enthral them for four, then you get a fifth …

Your job is to start at the point that grips and make the reader unable to leave until they find out what has happened to put your characters in such a position.

The Exercise: Using the above tools, write for ten minutes. Write without stopping; write without slowing down. Start in the middle of the action and create some chaos as quickly as possible.

Now write like the wind!

And when you’re finished, don’t forget to head on over to Mia’s site, Irregular Voice, and add your results and check out what everyone else came up with.

Helpful Sites:

Erotica Readers and Writers Association: http://www.erotica-readers.com/

Erotica for All: http://eroticaforall.co.uk/

How to Write Erotic Fiction: http://howtowriteeroticfiction.blogspot.co.uk/

The Erotic Literary Salon: http://theeroticsalon.com/

My Websites: https://kdgrace.co.uk/ , http://gracemarshallromance.co.uk/

Helpful Books:                  

Writing Erotica:

How To Write Erotic Fiction and Sex Scenes — Ashley Lister

How to Write a Dirty Story –Susie Bright

Writing Erotic Fiction – Pamela Rochford

Love Writing: How to Make Money Writing Romantic or Erotic Fiction – Sue Moorcroft

Writing Craft and Inspiration:

Writing Down the Bones – Natalie Goldberg

Best book ever on giving yourself permission to write badly in order to get to the good stuff.

Self-Editing for Fiction Writers – Renni Brown and Dave King

Best book on self-editing and honing craft I’ve found.

 

Eroticon 2013: Community, Creativity and Fun

Blog, Inspiration, News, , , ,

75526_10151629778475561_1361237413_nWriters write in solitude. That’s one of the pleasures as well as one of the hazards of the job. We need other people. We need interaction, but because writers tend to be introverts, extroverted events can be both tremendously exhilarating and totally exhausting. I’m writing this post somewhere in between the two. I’ve been basking in the afterglow of Eroticon 2013 all day, looking at all the lovely tweets and posts, reading the blogs and remembering, and reflecting, and analysing. I’ve nabbed photos from Lucy Felthouse and Victoria Blisse, and I’ve now downloaded my own, which gave me another chance to relive the amazing event. It gave me another opportunity to marvel at the organisational skills of Ruby Kiddell, which absolutely border on genius. It gave me another opportunity to be astounded by Harper Eliot’s ability to hold up under stress with finesse and grace and still pull off a stunning evening of aural sex when things didn’t quite go to plan for the readings! Hats off to both of you! You rock!

481675_10151629778870561_42965464_nAs always, I didn’t get nearly to all of the courses I’d wanted to. That wasn’t just because there were too many delicious offerings happening at once. It was also because there were times when I was torn between attending the courses and continuing with a conversation in the meeting room with someone I knew full well I wouldn’t see again for another year, if not longer. The courses were fabulous. For every one I attended, there were two more I’d like to have attended. Though I have to admit for me, who quake at the very thought of writing a poem, Ashley Lister’s poetry workshop was the highlight. Remittance Girl’s fascinating talk on eroticism and romanticism was also amazing and has given me food for thought for a long time to come.

Teaching a writing workshop for the first time ever, and on the afternoon of the last day, meant that I spent a good part of my weekend trying not to angst too much about how I’d manage to convey what I live with and love passionately to a roomful of people I knew  all had their own passionate love for writing. I needn’t have worried. I was in good company, company that completely understood where I was coming from and were eager to participate. I came away feeling like I’d gained far more than I’d given.

I had the chance to spend a quiet hour talking to, Hazel Cushion, the MD of Xcite Press. I had the chance to finally meet the amazing Suzanne Noble in person. I had a chance to spend time with Janine Ashbless, Kristina Lloyd, and Rachel Kramer Bussel. I chatted with Maxim Jakubowski. I had a chance to finally meet Anonymous Lily. I had my picture taken by the fabulous Mario Cacciottolo for his ‘Someone Once Told Me’ project, while I shared my adventures in Lapovo with him. I know for every person I’ve mentioned I’ve left out six. And every one of them made me feel richer and deeper.

I won’t lie. I came to Eroticon 2013 for the community. That’s what I came for last year and that’s what I’ll come back for next year. And I SO wasn’t disappointed! On Friday night for the ‘pre-game show,’ I had the pleasure of a fabulous ladies night out filled with burlesque at Volupte. I was in the company of Kay Jaybee, Lucy Felthouse, Victoria Blisse, Lily Harlem, Lexie Bay and Tabitha Rayne. At Volupte, we caught up with Delores Deluxe, the fabulous Kittens of the Kitten Club, along with the totally yummy Dave, the Bear. There 481188_10151629777860561_1576819210_nwas dinner and laughing and cocktails and planning and scheming and catching up.

Last year at Eroticon, Lucy Felthouse, Lily Harlem, Victoria Blisse and I spent a late night after Eroticon at the hotel bar dreaming and scheming what became The Seven Deadly Sins anthology, published in December. This year as we all sat in the hotel bar with the welcome addition of Lexie Bay and Tabitha Rayne, Lily surprised us all by producing a scrap of paper from her notebook. It was the same scrap of paper on which we had schemed The Seven Deadly Sins a year ago! I don’t mind saying my heart did a little flutter dance at the thought of the rich well-textured, beautifully vulnerable, outrageously funny moments that had led to those scribbles on that piece of paper.

The depth of the creativity and the sense of community I feel with my old friends in erotica, whom I can never get enough of, and with those that I’ve just met that I feel like I’ve known all of my life still astounds me. There’s a sense of celebration of what the last year has brought about linked to anticipation of what the future holds. It’s all about community for me, about who we all are together and separately, about what we all can offer up to each other and what we all receive in abundance by being a part of something so vibrant and so hope-filled. There’s also a wonderful sense of permission granted, a sense of encouragement offered, a sense of ‘well, go on then. Just go do it. You know you want to, and we all know you can.’

I came away feeling more than myself on the one hand and more deeply myself on the other. I came away anticipating what I’ll create between now and Eroticon 2014 and what we all will create, because looking back at this weekend, how could what comes from it be anything less than stunning?