State of The Artist and Their uh..things.

Hello friends.

A lil bit of news.

First of all, pardon my little hiatus. I had a family emergency, my partner got very ill. Two ER visits, he’s been incapacitated, I got sick. Then I got really fucking sick as in, face down ass up missed a fuckton of dayjob hours type sick.

Basically so far Sept has me like:

stares
[image description: a still from the film Pulp Fiction. Samuel L. Jackson staring. Text reads: STARES MUTHA FUCKER’LY]
Due to the illness in the household, we had to spend pretty much every dime we had saved for transportation, medications for both of us, pricier food than we usually get because I had to shop by myself. That laid us out financially and it’s going to be at least a month before we recover.

Unfortunately, I panicked and cut my entertainment budget out entirely (a whopping 15$) and put off reserving the laptop/tablet thing I want. I also sold an essay so it was kind of good and bad?

Can I be real with y’all?

As rough as things have been in the last few years, these last few weeks have wrecked me. Life for real pushed EVERY one of my fucking trauma buttons.

That said.

I’m working out some things.

My priorities right now are:

  • Keeping self and partner fed and with proper medications.
  • Saving a fuckton of money to move.

That is all my life is right now.

I’m thinking of going ahead and opening up for some sensitivity reading. Nothing long. Articles, essays. Come back to get full info next week.

I’m grinding at that freelance shit. Y’all. Let me tell you a quick story.

After a shitty day, I had a long FB chain where my witchy friends and I laid some curses like hell and it was so satisfying I wrote an essay that day and sold it to a new to me venue the day after. Y’all. Sometimes, just fling your stuff out into the universe. I’ll be talking more about that in my Loveletter later today.

I mention the grind because my fundraiser continues to go badly and it is demoralizing. Not only is it failing but, every time I post it places people get on their Y DON’T U WORK HARDER LAZY POOR ASSHOLE.

Rationally, I know that it is bullshit that I feel like I have to justify asking for help but I can’t really deal with trying to answer that shit individually so, here we are.

At this point y’all, it is so imperative that we be able to move I can only focus on that. If we don’t move, our health, mental and physical is going to deteriorate further and we cannot do that.

So I’m on the grind.

I currently have more pitches/subs out than I have in a couple of years. I’m pretty excited about it. I have done some big swing submissions and I ain’t stopping.

If you wanna help this post is still super accurate and as always, when I put out my rates for sensitivity readings etc share em. Know somebody with cash and a burning need to do something tangible? Help a living artist live. Except for Etsy the shop is closed.

SO there we go.

More later.

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Influences- How the Cowboy Was Born

First open this here in a new tab. My latest fiction published at Rigorous.

This is gonna be a long ass writing/craft lesson so get some coffee.

Let’s start with the opening paragraph which incidentally is pretty much the one thing that didn’t change through several iterations of this story:

The Cowboy walked into the juke joint at the outside edge of a half-dead town in the deep in the drylands expecting nothing more than a watery beer and perhaps someone to warm his bed that night. The barroom was clean and smelled of the bunches of flowers on most available surfaces. He paused to look down at a bunch of light purple flowers that exuded a scent like nothing he’d ever experienced.

To start out with, I wanted to create an origin myth. If you’ve read me for a while you know that’s kinda my jam. I love creating and reimagining mythos through various lenses. For this particular story I was inspired by the following: *book links are amazon affiliate links

In the Gunslinger Mythos we have all of these fantastical elements that King has so masterfully integrated with the classic Western. For me, I kept wondering what would a Black cowboy in the desert be like? I started out with a Roland Deschain archetype. I wanted to explore the anonymity of my Cowboy and kept him as a nameless man who as you get further into the story has a presence.

In my notes from when I started this story I had a mission to tell the reader that there is magic in this world, that this loner Cowboy is capable of and full of wonder and when I started, this wasn’t actually a love story. It was going to be a gunslinger story. I’d had this want to re-imagine Roland Deschain as this other and this story was originally supposed to be world building practice.

Sometimes, shit does not go as planned.

I got to the Cowboy finding this oasis and now enter my mermaid. I spent some time reading various mermaid myths and settled on an idea. What if in this other world, this dry dirty world of the Cowboy mermaids have had to evolve? If I was that mermaid, where would I post up to hunt?

At a saloon. And because I was intent on giving context clues to the Blackness of this story, I used the worlds Juke Joint rather than saloon. I wanted to evoke both the wild west and the dirty south. Late nights, hard liquor, brown women, dirty dancing.

When I got to this part in the writing of the story I had very definitive ideas about how I wanted this story to continue. Some sensuality, some sensuality from our male protagonist, I wanted to portray him in a way that is often only for female characters. I wanted the Cowboy to have the kind of moment where, you feel so sexy and you forget the good stuff that usually bothers you, see here:

For long minutes he forgot his knobby knees, scars and grizzled body hair. He forgot his big flat feet and narrow buttocks. Her gaze gave him beauty and grace. Her soft eyes pulled him out of his role as Cowboy and into the role of sweet pure lover. “Come, let me bathe you.”

In terms of erotics and sensuality, this male character is feeling a feminine gaze and feels beautiful. So here we have some of my gender role fuckery afoot. This doesn’t show our Cowboy to be emasculated or submissive, rather he’s put into a position to be feelin’ himself.

Because our Cowboy is if not a learned man, an experienced one he knows on some level that he’s in danger and has to fight through his erotic haze to work it out. I didn’t want to bring the eroticism down too much while he was figuring it out. I wasn’t going for boner killer necessarily.

Inside of the realization that he’s in danger the Cowboy let’s his desire lead the way.

I really wanted to give him this moment to understand and accept things.

“Saw these. I know these.” When she put her mouth against his and her soft chubby body squished into his long starved body, The Cowboy wanted to die.

It was a perfect moment. The apotheosis of his most secret desire to be felt and loved. He felt seen for true, the way his Nan had looked at his Nana. It was enough for him to happily go into the next place.

And we also see that this world has Queers.

And an Easter Egg. I first heard the word apotheosis in the Gunslinger and I remember looking it up in a dictionary when I saw it. It is really one of my favorite words. The idea of divine perfection summed up in such a pleasing word tickles me. It is one of my favorites.

Moving along, we’re getting towards the end. I wanted to give the Cowboy some more opportunity for sensualism and to be around women. In this world, women move things as the Cowboy was taught:

“Because they women, and women drive the changes.” Nan took special care to explain the intricacies of womanhood to the Cowboy because he feared women. Men–well, the men he knew–had little in the way of that level of sankofa knowledge.

Often in romance, we see women as being those who have to get ready. I wanted to give the Cowboy another chance to feel pretty. Also, I wanted to give a nod to Black folks going to the salon or barber shop for company and community.

The Cowboy blushed with pleasure and the Aunties chucked him under the chin and whirled into action. One oiled his hair, combed and washed it, another gooped something sweet into it and wrapped it in what he thought might have been some sort of hat. “Excuse me, Auntie? I brought no coin for pretty hats.” The Auntie filing his fingernails snorted and slapped his knee.

“You hush. You too pretty to be such a worry. You are courting the Pisces, we know what she likes.” The Cowboy settled and let the Aunties do as they pleased. They did things to his eyebrows and rubbed his face with unguents, they shaved him. When they were finished, he stood in front of their mirror with tears in his eyes. “I’m pretty.”

In the context of writing this piece, originally I spent a lot of words at this part. This was one of those stories where I had too many ideas and really wanted to jam ALL the things into it. Rather than stopping myself out of hand, I let it happen. One of the drafts of this story topped out at a chunky 7K and wasn’t what I wanted.

In the past, when I’ve put the brakes on my nerdiness, I often didn’t finish the stories. I would kind of flounder deep in nerdland and never slog through it. For this story I took my time and let it all out. This resulted in a couple of super long drafts that didn’t look at all like the published piece. I was able to really see what I wanted to carve out of the bigger mass of nerd.

For this final draft, I felt very purposeful.

I wanted to accomplish a happy ending and I wanted to give a glimpse as to what the story might be if you heard it in another place. One of the ideas I had for this while I was writing it was that it is the origin story of something you might hear in a juke joint in this world or sitting around a campfire. It could have been a more bawdy, more violent, but in this case you (the reader) get the sweetest ending.

During the writing of this piece, I discovered I am actually able to get what I want in a story without it being weird. Normally, I write in a totally different way with fiction. Usually, I write from hearing a voice and having a what if question. For this one, I started with that and the desire to create something to go with a Black cowboy myth as inspired by the Gunslinger.

In this experiment, I really had to stretch to mix Western and fantasy. And I really worked very hard on putting Blackness in there and not making it scream OMG BLACK PPL because that always feels weird to me. I worked very hard to keep my references the way I wanted them and not change them to be more open. I worked the Blackness from the inside out rather from the outside in.

For those writing the other this is something I suggest thinking about and practicing. Rather than, OMG LOOK AT THIS VERY NICE MAGICAL NEGRO OMG LOOK NEGROES LOOK, do some reading. Look at cultural markers and ways to use language that goes beyond misappropriating AAVE.

Overall, for the months put in on this story I am very pleased with it. The process of writing, rewriting, cutting and sculpting this piece was really great if long. I think the most important thing I’ve learned is that, while my individual story output for fiction is way down, spending so much time with work is enabling me to really get at some stuff I want to play with and I’m grateful for that.

To end, I’ll show y’all a few more of the inspirations/things that helped me write this piece:

Last lesson, before I wrap this up.

Always tuck away bits of information. You never know when they’ll come in handy.

Doing the Work

The greatest and best method for me to do the work and show my love for my community is to write.

In the last few years, every word I’ve written. Every. Single. One of thousands comes from my deep need to express my love for my community.

The essays, the stories, the rants the everything.

It is how I say I love you when I’m too overwhelmed to talk.

It is how I do the work.

That said, I need y’all to do me a favor.

Go to this piece on Medium and share the fuck out of it.

From the piece:

Right now in our political climate in the US, folks like me are not only dealing with our usual shit but also the added terror of worrying about being attacked, watching our White “allies” forget how to say White Supremacy, being called on for extra emotional/intellectual labor, having to (for my fellow writers this one is especially terrible right now) watch our White lady ‘allies’ do the most in order to get our help/labor for their own work and they offer nothing in return.

My community is in need.

This is the work.

Please help us.

Thank you.

A Confession from your Problematic Fave

Y’all.

I have a terrible confession to make.

Most of my Yeah, Write entries have been not just funsies flash, but, I’ve been experimenting on your readers.

This has been a little bit of a long long con.

I’ve long held the theory that a lot of what makes us not read particular genres isn’t necessarily subject matter or levels of say gore or terror but, in how it is presented. I’ve known people who refuse REFUSE to read anything that looks even pulpy or horrory or romancey because EW I don’t read those genres.

My experiment has involved presenting the reader, you- a thing that is either snugly or loosely genre fiction.

I have given you noir, fabulism, horror, quiet horror, slipstream, Non Western style literary fiction etc.

This week for yeah, Write I presented Lovecrafty fiction. Specifically, it was the quietest of Nyalathotep stories. Folks liked it. A friend of mine asked if it was from my archive of ideas for short scripts.

I was trying to satisfy both the literary reader, the quiet horror and on another level the Lovecraft nerd.

Here is what I did.

One of the hallmarks of Lovecraft (racism and fuckery aside) is the language he used and the names of things. Working from both memory and some resources like this website, I took some of his favorite words and used them in modern contexts:

The Gibbering Loon.

Somewhere deep inside his antediluvian self,

ululations

The next Lovecrafty clue was in how I referred to the mysterious Vivian.

When he lifts his face to look into her eyes, he sees, he sees the secrets of the Sleeping, Dreaming Gods and the black notice of the Outer Gods.

References Lovecraft fans know well.

I also decided to make her unmistakably Black. I have had an ambition to use Blackness in these Lovecrafty stories in a way that heals that particular wound for my inner baby nerd.

And Vivian herself tells us who she is:

“See inside me, I am the Crawling Chaos. I am reborn. Be mine, Detective St. Pierre.”

We Lovecraft dorks know what the Crawling Chaos is without having to invoke the name Nyarlathotep.

What interests me more, is that folks who I know aren’t necessarily Lovecraft dorks, got the terror.

Folks from Yeah, Write and some others I’ve spoken to have not totally understood, but y’all understand without the need for the genre restrictions that might make your eye as a reader skip it because, horror.

I have always believed that how we’re presented with things matters deeply, perhaps more deeply than a lot of folks like to think of themselves, as to how we take in and appreciate a thing.

As a reader, this is just human nature. I don’t think it is good or bad, it just is. And we can recognize it and make the decision to do something else. Read POC, do the year of no cis hetero White male authors.

As a creator, I’ve found that because this is where I live. In these inbetween places. In a place where I just write the shit. Trying to squirm around the constraints of genre work, has played a huge role in my development as a writer.

On one hand it does make it harder to get published sometimes.

On the other, I get to engage in Quiet Horror and sneak into your brain or your bed and live there for a bit.

Ultimately, as an artist the latter is far more satisfying to me personally.

It feels better for longer when someone says, I was thinking about this thing you made for three days.

I also get the satisfaction of representing what I’d like to read.

I get to fully plumb the depths of my own brain without worry or feeling like because I am writing X genre, I must do X thing.

I’m considering my experiment to be successful.

I am writing what the fuck I want to write.

Sometimes I have readers who feel it.

Sometimes I have readers who are like, I don’t know what the fuck is happening, but I’me with it.

I’m into it.

So now that you know what I’ve been doing, I hope you come back to see where else I go.

Thanks y’all.

Thank you for helping me get to this place, I’m eternally changed and grateful.

I was going to do a shout out list, but it got too long. Y’all know who you are.

 

 

 

Worldbuilding In my Head

So.

I’ve mentioned a few times here and there that because of folks like Daniel Jose Older, Nk JemisinJemisin, and having an amazing editing thing with Court Merrigan (I’ll be able to tell y’all more later) and what I’ve been doing with my Yeah, Write stuff I have been figuring out how I do word-building.

One of the things that has been a constant in my writing life since I was a kid is my habit of seeing a literary thing, reading the fuck out of the thing to study it (and now I have mother fucking YOUTUBE for that, more on that later) and teaching myself how to do the thing.

I have experimented with huge grand world building as in creating an entire other, uh, version of history on earth. That is too much for my little nerd brain and I have a habit of getting bogged down. For instance. For an RPG character I wrote an entire religion starting in Sumeria up through modern life. I rewrote historical events from Egypt to Rome to the US to hide the existence of an ancient seer/sorceress/vampire.

When I tried the first time to write a vampire novel, I wrote in an entire alternate history for the 23rd dynasty in Egypt and fell out. So huge scope is not my thing yet.

I’ve been doing something else.

My skill leans more towards the intimate.

What I mean by that is for me and how I think, I find it more intriguing to write on the body closely, use sensation as a means of giving the reader something concrete to hold on to even if it is alien in presentation.

For instance from one of my Yeah Write pieces. This bit:

His Black body doubled and the darkness came out of his mouth and nose. It trickled from his eyes and rectum, he felt it ooze from the tip of his penis and he fainted.

Bolding for emphasis.

Now I will be very presumptuous and say that if you’re human you’ve probably had an OH NO moment in regard to something happening in your butthole region. Now I used the very concrete and relatable to ease the reader into a moment of body horror. The fear of something alien and wrong mingling with the terribly familiar.

This is what I mean by intimacy.

I took this approach from how I write erotica.

Skin is skin is skin and every ready knows skin.

One of the things I’m learning to love about worldbuilding in horror is that my love of creating a multiverse, multi layered reality means I can play with sensation and perceptions. There are so many small clues and ways to let the other peek out into the world we walk around in.

That is the type of worldbuilding I’m very into right now.

I want to create a world that is huge but small enough to peek out from behind the shadow of a child because the idea that this place is that close and doesn’t give a shit about our general sense of who and what is innocent, scares the fuck out of me.

I think that a lot of my horror and SF and urban fantasy is less about a BIG sense of another world and more about that intimate thing. I want to bring the reader inside and make them comfortable for five minutes then let them squirm.

I’m still figuring it out.

My ambitions revolve very heavily around balancing my epic dorkness in making alternate realities huge and beautiful and sweeping and my desire for that intimacy with the reader.

I’ve been really enjoying doing this.

And the fact that my ideas about this and methodology feel right cutting across genres is very pleasing to me as well. I used a bit of this for the project I worked with Court on, I’m using it in my Daiyu Saga, I’m using it in my latest Yeah, Write series.

Even though I know that a lot of the stuff I do is weird and sometimes doesn’t work well (see this Yeah, Write entry) I am extremely satisfied with what I’m doing.

Most of it is not publishable in the varying genres and that’s okay.

I find a huge amount of joy in this type of play. I fully believe that this type of play is how I’ve been able to find my voice and figure out how to use it. It’s how I learn and expand my art.

So there you have it.

AND okay, confession time.

This is also a bit of an experiment.

This is the sort of thing I want to put together (with more specific lessons rather than just me yammering about what I do) for the writing/craft lessons I have mentioned here and there.

This is not necessarily for folks who already are writing and publishing. It is for anybody who wants to give something a shot.

If you don’t write say flash fiction or erotica, would you pay for that type of lesson?

Let me know.

OR I might do a poll.

So yeah.

Okay I have a terrible migraine and I’m going to retreat to my corner of the internet and try not to head butt the wall.

 

The Writer In Distress.

writerface
The face I’ve been making for a week.

So I am a writer in distress.

Don’t worry finances or sort of okay and it’s mostly emotional.

I wound myself up so hard I gave myself the anxiety shits for days last week.

I am deep in rewrites for SCLAB and a noir story I was commissioned for.

I hate most words that I produce.

My current level of both metaphysical and physical agita is pretty huge.

So here I am about to make a list of my personal grievances, or I”m going to vomit feelings in list for to make myself feel better because I have fucking work to do. Please I’m actually okay. This is just how I process so I can work.

  • My writing is trash panda level.
  • Patreon continues to work my nerves.
  • I am finding it difficult to settle down and write things that are not trash.
  • Pretty sure everyone hates me.
  • Kind of hate myself.
  • Not enough hours that are not dayjob hours for me to write what I wanna write.

Let me stop with that last thing.

I am hugely ambitious. Having a computer at home again, hasn’t totally helped me fight the urge to write myself into the ground.

Here’s what happens.

Shannon the Fancy Pants Writer Man has goals. Said Fancy Pants Writer, Writes like the proverbial Mother Fucker, comes up with more things to write, is not able to keep up with self imposed production schedule, Fancy Pants Writer Man gets VERY FUCKING ANGRY AT FANCY PANTS WRITER MAN SHANNON who then gets the anxiety shits, feels terribly depressed and like the fakingest ass faker ever.

Add in that I am ass deep in SCLAB rewrites and I’m tussling with that hard. I have such high expectations for what I believe I can do with the material to make it Bigger, Better and More Fucking Awesome…I wind up really hating what I’ve done.

This is an area where I have always had a problem.

I have always put this huge amount of pressure on myself because I always believe I can do better. I am supposed to be able to write like a mother fucker and have it not be 105% garbage.

However, what I lack is the ability to cut myself slack on a regular basis.

Even as a wee baby I had this problem. I expect a lot out of myself in terms of what I believe I am capable of and I’m not always great about letting myself suck a little bit, or think I suck without turning punitive with myself.

This is a part of my writing process that I thought I had a firmer grasp on and as it turns out I don’t.

I’m in a place where I’m deeply frustrated with my inability to do for myself what I’m really good at doing for other people.

When it comes to other folks writing, I am encouraging, nurturing, cheerleading, supportive type. I might do this for other folks for monies someday, but for the few people I do it for, they always say it is the business.

When it comes to myself, my attitude is fuck you, fuck what you have to say, fuck that trash you’re trying to get someone to give you money for you fake mother fucker.

Y’all see where the problem is.

This is something I work on constantly. I cannot do the shit I want to do when I’m being an abusive asshole to myself about EVERYTHING under the sun.

Now, in all actuality some really amazing things are coming. I have my very first essay on my genders coming out with folks I love. I have new fiction coming out after the first of the year.

AND THIS IS FUCKING MAJOR.

Milcah and I are guest editing the CNF portion of The Citron Review’s first Queer Issue. 

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

I am so excited and honored to be doing it and…lemme keep it 100% right now I’m fucking terrified. I’ve never done anything like this and..yeah.

So please bear with me in the coming weeks.

I’m trying really hard not to come all the way the fuck undone and not be such a dick to myself.

What I need is to figure out HOW to do ALL of the shit I want to do without giving myself the anxiety shits.

That’s it for now.

 

 

Craft notes- experimentation in Flash fiction

So I want to talk about craft and some things I’ve been experimenting with in terms of flash fiction.

If you’ve read me for a while you know I like to screw around with literary things.

Lately (as in the past six goddamn months) I’ve been really interested in remaking of individual myths and as usual vagina dentata.

Another thing I’m really interested in experimenting with is the idea that plot doesn’t have to be the Western idea of what plot and a story story has to be in order to be good or interesting.

So first a little piece I wrote on my phone-

wait let me digress for a minute.

I am STILL fucking floored that I can write on my phone. Maybe this is my old person vision showing but holy fucking shit. I can stand at the bus stop or be on the bouncing bus and write things that i can have on hand to edit or whatever later. Amazing.

Okay back to the thing.

Untitled per usual but here you go:

Inside the warm night she moves as though swimming. Hands in her pockets, headphones on, dark eyes on the moving shadows. She eases through scattered groups of night people virtually unseen.

Drawn towards the water and deeper edge of night she pauses to listen. In these times the night lives with sirens and the squawking of angry junkies. It is not peace but it is all right.

She cannot stop and weep as her sisters weep.

She does not.

She is part of this orange light washed strange world. She is part of the dark watery world.

Onwards always onwards towards home. Her feet relentlessly eat the blocks until the water is only yards away.

In the dark she sheds her clothes and boots walking headlong into freezing water to sing illusions into the hearts of men who pass.

In the deep, she will feast.

She will feast.

So what do we have?

This is loosely urban fantasy ish, a remaking of the Siren. A modern siren in boots heading for her night job of being a siren. She could also be a mermaid. I like the idea of leaving it up to the interpretation of the reader to decide who and what she is.

One of the early and consistent criticisms of my work is that I expect too much of the reader. That has always been something I only think about now and then. For me it’s not necessarily expectation but respect for the reader as the reader, it is a respect for their part in the creation of my tiny worlds.

I feel an intimacy with readers where as I”m going along I feel like we’re in it together and it is not necessarily performative on my part. I do the part I’m supposed to do- create the world we are in together- the reader does their part, wander around in that world.

Additionally, I do respect the reader enough to know that people who like my work, probably don’t mind having the option to fill in some of that world. I personally like having that option, it moves my suspension of disbelief along.

Now here is how I usually do these sorts of exercises. I find writing with this method a great way to jumpstart myself if I’m feeling blocky or sluggish.

Take an image of something lots of people know about and play with it in different ways. Come at it from a modern perspective, come at it from an oblique angle. Imagine if you will, that this creature or thing you’re writing about is a real person you don’t want to name specically.

Basically, play with the thing. Don’t plot it out, don’t do an outline just go. For as long as you have to. This one came out (posted exactly how it came out of my brain) in about ten minutes. Just go.

Next one I (as read by Milcah) is about misheard words and a fantasy. In case you’re grossed out by vagina dentata skip it.

Untitled as well

I blame my loudmouth roommate for this entire situation.

When JJ got home from her date with Gia.

I heard her say-

“Goddamn Gia is a toothy cunt.”

I think that is what she said. I don’t know I was too busy being drunk and low key in love with Gia.

What I heard was-

“goddamn Gia has a toothy cunt.”

Had I not been so drunk I would have understood.

I was drunk because I had just broken up with my girlfriend and upon hearing that my roommate was going on a date with my crush I did the sensible thing. I bought an enormous bottle of cheap wine and took to the couch.

JJ stopped to lean over the couch to look down at me.

“You should call Gia and ask her out on a date. She is way more your type than mine. And you should probably go to bed. You’re really drunk.”

I don’t remember JJ putting me in bed or stripping me. I do remember her taking my bag of chips away and putting a bottle of water on my nightstand.

After she left me I lay there turning over the idea of Gia in my head.

My cunt started to burn, I felt the blood moving, my lips swelling and wanting to be touched. I waited, thinking about JJ’s comment.

“Gia has a toothy cunt.”

Toothy cunt, toothy cunt. I closed my eyes and pictured her fine, lean brown body. I’d seen her naked before. Shit I’ve seen almost all of my friends naked. We have stripped together, tricked together, been photographed together. Yet, I could not remember if I had seen teeth or not.

Gia is sleek where I am not. She is muscled and tight, catlike and androgynous in a classic kind of way. I wonder if she still has that precision trimmed bush, verdant in a tightly controlled way that is beyond sexy. My fingers move between my own thighs as I imagine the topography of her cunt.

Are her lips dark like the ones on her face? Do they have that petulant mean curve, do they fold soft and wrinkly as wilting fern fronds? Could I get them to swell and spread with just one finger? Just one finger dragged slowly just where they protrude, just a tickle. Just enough to promise more but not enough to deliver.

I saw myself with my face between her strong thighs, dipping my tongue into the crenulated secrets of her cunt before peeling her lips open to tickle her sharp secret teeth.

Eyes closed I imagined dipping my tongue just inside her, just enough to feel the slick of teeth on the tip of my tongue.

Unwise as the desire might be I wouldn’t recoil from the slick smoothness, I would smile against her. I could almost taste her, feel her lithe muscular body twisting, warning me of the danger to come.

Against the backdrop of my closed eyes I tried to paint her, lips full and dark, slick and revealing the barest sliver of deepest wet red. Wet as a screaming mouth full of danger.

I’d want her fuck hungry, ready to devour me whole.

I neared orgasm the world greyed out around me, I must have passed out because I woke up with a fuzzy mouth and my hand wedged between my thighs.

I couldn’t remember coming or not but I did remember vivid dreams of a flash of teeth, old ivory buried inside hot wet red.

The beauty of my fixation is that I have a date with Gia tonight and I hope to come home tongueless.

~

For this piece, I went with my general fixation on vagina dentata and made it the focal point of the narrator’s desire. She’s unreliable in that she’s drunk and half dreaming.

The other thing is this is one of the ways I like to explore transgressive writing. If y’all remember I talked about transgression back here. This fits my ideas about transgresssion in that this is obviously not lesbian sex as written for or by men.

This is outside of the White gaze.

It is just with those two things dangerous to the Heteronormative ideas about sex and sexuality.

The focal point of our narrators desire is on those teeth. The stated desire is not rooted in the gross out, it is rooted in this desire.

That is the sneaky kind of layered and nuanced transgression I like.

And of course I leave the reader unfulfilled because I’m kind of an asshole. My optimal result with that would be for the reader to put the story down and live on in that fantasy. Does Gia have a toothy cunt? Can you the reader fill in the vision of her cunt? Puffy? Ruffly labia minora?

So there you have it. Some examples of how I like to work with these things.

Now if you’re still here bravo.

I’m a windy wordbag.

If you want to experiment write something erotic with non traditional or expected things as your jump off point. Vagina Dentata, make some monstrous thing (a tail, claws whatever) the object of your narrators desire for another person.

If you do, come back and link me I wanna see.

Tomorrow look out for my next entry in Yeah Write and some new crackhead love.