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Pique: There’s something intriguing about the bipartisan nature of your characters relationship. What inspired you to write these two?

R.M. Campbell: Labels. Every election year, I think of labels—and freedom. No matter how much we wish or think otherwise, labels often govern us. How we vote and act, who we interact and have relationships with—romantically, in my character Maura’s case. Gender, age, marital status, rank—anything and everything—people compartmentalize and are compartmentalized by such labels, creating expectations and stereotypes that can constrain. Even what we read is labeled by a genre, and we stick with what we know and like.

Authors learn to avoid character stereotypes. For once, I wanted to have fun with them instead of prickle or balk. I wanted to embrace certain conventions while stepping out and running with them, to show that party—I mean, labels—don’t matter.

Pique: Ever trust a politician?

R.M.C.: Nope, not even with my purse.

Pique: What’s your favorite part of the creative process? What do you find the most difficult?

R.M.C.: My favorite part is fleshing out the characters. Every character is a mystery to unravel, a secret to uncover, like a Matryoshka doll needing to be cracked open multiple times to reach the small, solid center. Even when I think I know the characters, I glean new bits of each as I write and have to decide how a reader does, as well. It’s either love or hate at first read and only builds from there. Revealing who the characters are, what makes them tick, what they believe and why—all without “telling”—are as important as first impressions, and the discovery is as exciting as falling in love.

Then that moment of doubt comes. Insecurity hits. Too fat in the middle of the narrative? Too frilly a dress for the description? Am I bumping, grinding, flailing in the action sequence like a virgin? What will he/she, the readers, think? No longer are your beloved characters speaking to you; it’s the devil on your shoulder whispering in your ear, disrupting the emotional high and creative momentum. And the angel … the angel on your other shoulder becomes a page-perfectionist.

Eventually, I come to terms that I’m not perfect, that no scene of mine ever will be because of expectations—whether my own or someone else’s. And that’s okay. I’ll push through, steel my shoulders and flick off whoever standing over them so I can finish to the best of my ability and not have the ending, a big “What if,” haunt me. There’s always the next time. There’s always a next time, and I’ll appreciate what and where I’ve gotten so far.

Pique: Were you a reader of erotica before you started writing it?

R.M.C.: Definitely, secretly, and without the intention of trying my hand at it … on paper.

Pique: So, why and how did you start writing erotica?

R.M.C.: By diving in headfirst—writing a few smutty scenes and then joining an online writing group/class. The phrase “Write what you know” … yeah, that isn’t me. I write what I want to know, whether it’s an ending to a kernel of a story (imagined or otherwise) or if it’s a subject I want to learn inside and out and get right. Writing Erotica was one of those things. The prospect terrified me, made me sweat for a whole other reason other than excitement and exertion. But I knew that if I wanted to grow as a writer, I needed to push my boundaries and step out of my comfort zone. So I did, and though I still sweat with every smutty scene I write, I like to think I’m better for it.

Pique: What turns you on?

R.M.C.: Foreign languages, the crackle and warm smoky smell of burning firewood, muscular forearms and watch-covered wrists, vanilla spanks, kilts, a wide vocabulary, quiet confidence.

Pique: Your most shameless moment?

R.M.C.: Showering under a waterfall in the Philippines under the gazes of strangers. My family and I were roughing it on a beach for a week. I had been hiking through the nearby mountains and didn’t trust the dirty, public shower stalls or the surf the locals treated like a sewer. I needed a bath, badly.

Pique: What writers or artists inspire you?

R.M.C.: Is it a cop-out to say all writers of any genre and artists of any media inspire me? Yes, but it’s true. Sharing a passion with others to applaud or criticize take guts and is admirable, but also every author and artist offers something even if I’m not a fan of them.

Ayn Rand inspired me to write about something I care about, with unrestrained fervor. J.R.R. Tolkien and G.R.R. Martin showed me epic world-building. Emily Brontë showed me how to weave words to create a mood. Charles Dickens taught me how to intertwine subtle foreshadowing into plot, dialogue, and action. The book of Genesis taught me not only the strength of a word and the Word but also why I don’t use the words “loins” and “begot”; there is imagery and memory, a weight, in a single word. Stephenie Meyer opened me up to start reading YA Paranormal (sad, but true).  Music artists remind me beat and flow matters, how fast and shorter prose can make the heart race with action scenes versus slow and lyrical for dream-like love scenes. Painters remind me which color can evoke which emotion and to use hues often as a device. Artisans or craftsmen remind me every craft, especially writing and storytelling, is a process that can’t be rushed or taken for granted lest I miss a practical, purposeful step.

And I’m also inspired by authors’ mistakes—how not to create a character or characterize, when to start wrapping up the plot instead of dragging it out or forcing it, to self-edit so I’m not butchering a story with the very tool I’m using to tell it—language. Everyone offers something, good or bad, both in many cases and depending how one looks at it.

Pique: What do you like to read for fun?

R.M.C.: I once read “Basic Economics” by Thomas Sowell for “fun.” I’ll read anything and usually enjoy it as long as it’s decently written. If I had to choose a genre for a best-ever boyfriend, it’s a toss-up between Fantasy and Highlander Romances, which is basically Fantasy. I also have a penchant for National Geographic and Architectural Digest; I cannot not pick up an issue when I see one. The most fun I’ve had reading, though, is with my kids—anything Dr. Suess, and whoever-the-morbid-author’s Goodnight Moon as a close second.

Pique: What are you thankful for?

R.M.C.: All the wonderful women I’ve met in the writing community. For their time, guidance, hand-holding, finger-pointing. For being the best mates to a woman and writer’s soul.

And my family. Always. They encourage me, drive and inspire me, ground me. While they support me writing, I would only live through a page, a character, or my computer if it wasn’t for them.

The post Q&A: R.M. Campbell, Author of Target Audience appeared first on Pique.

EroticScribe wins a copy of Anais Nin’s Little Birds, a book that should be in every erotica readers library.

Here is her winning entry:

EroticScribe
She screamed again. There was no stopping the moans of pleasure that escaped her lips. Her hands begged to tangle in his long thick hair but the restraints at her wrists stopped her. His tongue was like a whip. Lashing and thrusting into her pussy. His hand held her down firmly, grasping at her hips. There were sure to be marks and small smile crossed her lips.

“Oh, god. Kaleb!” Her voice was raspy as she moaned again. This time his fingers entered her. Hard and fast. There was no slow loving for her tonight. Kaleb was in a mood and he was taking her to places she had never been before. He was getting impatient, she could sense and he growled against her humming clit.

“Cum for me Cait. Do it now or you won’t be allowed to again tonight” His dark lushes voice wrapped around her like a warm blanket and she was helpless to stop the release that was breaking through her body. His fingers thrusting in and out while his tongue lapped at her sweet nectar. She was tied down but she had never felt more free. Kaleb sucked on her clit and that was her undoing. Her back arched and she was free falling over the edge. Her eyes rolling back in her head she tried to catch her break as she came back down. She was so high and lost that she didn’t think she would come to. Slowly her lips opened, fluttering so hard and fast to get her bearings, they were like little bird about to take flight.

She smiled slowly when she saw his face. He leaned down and kissed her lips. Her sticky sweet juices still on his mouth. She had never tasted so good then when he made her come undone.

Whew! We’re fanning ourselves over here.

Congratulations to EroticScribe! You can find her on Tumblr (18+) and Twitter.

Many, many thanks to Lady Cheeky for serving as guest judge this week. Now, go check her out at www.ladycheeky.com, www.smutforsmarties.com, Twitter and Facebook.

We’d also like to thank Nicole Wolverton for giving us the chance to host. We really had no idea what she really meant when she said “adrenaline-filled.” We will, however, be happy to do it again—just let us know.

Follow us on Twitter and Facebook to keep up with our plans to launch our own micro/flash fiction contest in December. We’re still nailing down the details.

Finally, come back next week for another chance to think fast, pump up the adrenaline, and win! Next week’s guest judge is scheduled to be Michael Hansen (@buzzynutkins) on his blog The Strife Scrolls.

Happy Turkey Day, everybody!

The post #5minutefiction: Week 126 Winner! appeared first on Pique.

The #5MinuteFiction finalists that this evening’s guest judge, Lady Cheeky, has chosen … Everyone! To be frank, we had five entries and they were all so good that Lady Cheeky felt it was best to leave it to you to make the final decision.

• Geri Bressler
• EroticScribe
• sadtomato
• Rob Brunet
• SDSRyan

Huge, massive, amazing thanks go out to Lady Cheeky for judging tonight! Be sure to check her out at www.ladycheeky.com, www.smutforsmarties.com, Twitter and Facebook.

And now … for our finalists’ entries … Scroll all the way to the bottom to vote.

Geri Bressler
The fluttering in her stomach felt like little birds, frantically flapping against a too-small cage.

She stood in front of Mark and tried to smile through her anxiety, while her hands fluttered along with the birds in her stomach with the need to cover…well…everything.

Sarah had never felt particularly attractive. Throughout her teenage years, her mother “helped” by suggesting diet after diet, convinced that if her daughter could just lose a few pounds she’d feel better about herself.

Dating had been a joke in high school and college. She’d learned quickly that guys who expressed an interest in her were typically looking for a shallow, temporary relationship centered around sex.

Then she’d met Mark.

He’d come into her bookstore to find a title that had been out of print for years. They’d talked for almost two hours, and Sarah had felt an immediate connection with him. She’d let herself hope that he’d come back, and when he did, she immediately cautioned herself against assuming too much.

He invited her out to dinner. She convinced herself that he was just looking for an adventurous eating partner to try out a new restaurant.

He invited her to the movies. She convinced herself that he was simply uninterested in going to a movie by himself.

Then he invited her to his apartment for what turned out to be an intimate, carefully prepared, and completely delightful dinner.

Now, three months later, she found herself standing in front of one of the sweetest, sexiest men she’d ever known. Wearing a negligee that the salesperson–a size zero, Sarah was sure–assured her was both flattering and sexy.

Her eyes lifted to meet his.

And the heat there burned all the little birds to a crisp, stilled her hands, and lit a matching fire that made her smile and meet him in the middle of the wide bed.

EroticScribe
She screamed again. There was no stopping the moans of pleasure that escaped her lips. Her hands begged to tangle in his long thick hair but the restraints at her wrists stopped her. His tongue was like a whip. Lashing and thrusting into her pussy. His hand held her down firmly, grasping at her hips. There were sure to be marks and small smile crossed her lips.

“Oh, god. Kaleb!” Her voice was raspy as she moaned again. This time his fingers entered her. Hard and fast. There was no slow loving for her tonight. Kaleb was in a mood and he was taking her to places she had never been before. He was getting impatient, she could sense and he growled against her humming clit.

“Cum for me Cait. Do it now or you won’t be allowed to again tonight” His dark lushes voice wrapped around her like a warm blanket and she was helpless to stop the release that was breaking through her body. His fingers thrusting in and out while his tongue lapped at her sweet nectar. She was tied down but she had never felt more free. Kaleb sucked on her clit and that was her undoing. Her back arched and she was free falling over the edge. Her eyes rolling back in her head she tried to catch her break as she came back down. She was so high and lost that she didn’t think she would come to. Slowly her lips opened, fluttering so hard and fast to get her bearings, they were like little bird about to take flight.

She smiled slowly when she saw his face. He leaned down and kissed her lips. Her sticky sweet juices still on his mouth. She had never tasted so good then when he made her come undone.

sadtomato
Both sides are criss-crossed with scars, like little birds had danced up her forearms and scratched thin white lines into her skin.

She was afraid to show me, insisting on “shirt on” or “lights off” for months. “I’m damaged,” she said.

The first time I saw, I didn’t ask why.

“Can you still feel this?” I asked, dragging a fingertip from her palm to her elbow.

She nodded. “Yeah.”

“This?” I nipped at the base of her thumb before kissing up to her shoulder.

She shuddered. “Yeah.”

“Seems like you work just fine,” I whispered, lips brushing her ear. I hold her by her shoulders, keeping her still while I bite and suck at the base of her neck. My hands slide down to hers, thumbs lingering over the pulse points at her wrists.

Her lips twitched into a smile. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

Rob Brunet
The beach had never looked more grey. The water, hard as steel, slapped the sand flat. The clouds hung heavy with snow and the wind which was anything but a breeze whistled through the poplars long stripped of their leaves.

I sat there, clutching the beer until my fingers ached from the cold, switching it from hand to hand, alternately warming the other up under my sweater, the only part of me with any warmth left in it.

No question. I’d waited too long. The girls had walked back and forth in front of the lot we were clearing no fewer than six times. The first one had been strange enough. They had to be year-rounders. My dad and I were the only two cottagers crazy enough to be working outside this late in November.

Like little birds, they passed back and forth, giggling, pretending to ignore me while I stole glances between swings of the axe. Was it the lumberjack thing? Was it how I fitted my T-shirt? I’d never been looked at like that before but I figured it out quickly enough.

By the time my dad told me I could take a break, check it out, it had been twenty minutes since the last walk by. I snuck a beer from the cooler, thinking it would make me look hip, hustled to the beach and froze my gonads off. My mind filled with hottest of dreams.

SDRyan
It goes like this…

Carve our names in the earth. Watch the dust swoop and swirl like little birds. Wait.

Will he come?

Will he leave me here, wanting … burning?

Sun streams across my bare arms while jetliners roar overhead. Tarmac waiving in the sunfire, chain links announcing someone else’s escape. Our favorite spot. On the other side of adventure. So close to living a real life. We dream other people’s dreams. We find joy in the possibility that one day it’ll be us thousands of feet in the sky, like Icarus touching the sun.

My fingers are dry and cracked with red desert clay. Sweat beads at my neck. Birds fly. Planes fly. In my mind, I soar.

An engine roars and settles. Door slams. Engine click-clacking as it cools.

Cowboy boots and a shadow across my face. He’s here. To fly to my arms. To dream another dream.

Thanks to everyone for their enthusiasm and participation! And especially to Lady Cheeky for wading into this with us! Now … RUN! VOTE!

The post #5minutefiction: Week 126 Finalists! appeared first on Pique.

Your entry must contain “like little birds.”

NOTE: the photo (source) is not part of the prompt–it’s decorative/inspirational only.

This week’s judge is Lady Cheeky. (You can learn more about her by clicking that link, but we suggest you wait until 8:45pm. Time is short!)

The overall winner of this week’s 5 Minute Fiction wins an copy of Anais Nin’s Little Birds!

“[It is] so distinct an advance in the depiction of female sensuality that I felt, on reading it, enormous gratitude.” —Alice Walker

A Few Notes:

• In the interest of time and formatting, it’s best to type straight into the comment box or notepad. It’s also smart to do a quick highlight and copy before you hit “post” just in case the internets decide to eat your entry. If your entry doesn’t appear right away, email us.
• We’re a little more strict on what we will allow. We reserve the right to remove entries:
  • involving sexual activity with animals or minors (under 18);
  • involving non-consensual sexual acts;
  • involving substantial verbal abuse or deliberate and extreme humiliation;
  • involving hate speech or racism;
  • involving cutting, incest, necrophilia, snuff, or weapons;
  • or similar, but other than than that we’re not too picky.
• This is all for fun and self-promotion. So be sure to put your twitter handle or similar at the end of your post and a link to your blog, if you have one.

Go, go, go! You have until 8:45pm ET (On the dot. Yes, we’re serious) to submit your entry in the comments section of THIS POST.

We’ll see you back here at 10pm EST with the finalists.

The post #5minutefiction: Week 126 appeared first on Pique.

Writer, blogger and sex-positive activist, Lady Cheeky started her curated, sensual images blog LadyCheeky.com in 2010, where she focuses on photos depicting desire and passion with a strong emphasis toward positive body image and depicting true passion in sex.  On her sister site, Smut For Smarties, Lady Cheeky created a blog where readers can enjoy a wide breadth of articles and original erotica with a feminist, sex and body positive perspective.  The Lady Cheeky website has been listed in Get Lusty’s Top 10 Sex Blogs and Smut For Smarties has been awarded a Jane’s Guide Quality and Original listing.

As a writer, Lady Cheeky has been featured on Fleshbot, Love Boudoir, is a regular contributor to the online magazine EvolvedWorld.com and has also won the Domi Dollz True Tales of Erotica competition. Podcast appearances include guesting on the sex and body image podcast of the Ask Me Anything Love and Sex Show and an interview for the Get Lusty website about feminist porn.

As a sex-positive activist, Lady Cheeky is committed to empowering women, especially women with body image issues, to seek and un-tether their natural sensual desire within, without shame. She hopes to empower women to have confidence that owning your own passion can free us to be the powerful and whole women were meant to be.

Lady Cheeky is presenting Does This Panel Make Me Look Fat?: Body Image and Sexuality at the 2013 CatalystCon in Washington, DC. Find Lady Cheeky on Twitter and Facebook.

The post Lady Cheeky Guest Judges #5minutefiction for Pique November 20! appeared first on Pique.

“What is #5minutefiction,” you ask.

It’s an adrenaline-fueled, instant-gratification writing contest which pits your writing skills against the clock. History: 5 Minute Fiction was hatched by writer Leah Petersen in 2010. After almost two years of managing the contest, she passed the torch to Nicole Wolverton in February 2012. Nicole is graciously sharing the fun with other bloggers and writers for the month of November.

The challenge: Check out the prompt (which will appear on our main blog page on Tuesday, November 20, at 8:30 pm ET. Then spend five minutes writing the most brilliant thing ever. You will have an additional ten minutes to accommodate the vagaries of relative time, technology, and the fickle internets. Or, as I like to say when I’ve participated in this on Nicole Wolverton’s site: Five minutes to think, five minutes to write, five minutes to edit.

NOTE: This is not the page where the contest prompt will appear, nor where you will submit your entry. Look on the our main blog page at EXACTLY 8:30 pm ET for the prompt. The rules:

• Your entry must contain the prompt.
• You can write anything: any style, any genre, poetry or prose. (We are an erotica ‘zine, though, so we’re hoping that whatever you choose to write is smouldering.)
• Post your entry in the comments of the PROMPT post no later than 8:45 pm EST. Entries received after 8:45pm are not eligible.

What happens then?
Our judge, Lady Cheeky, will sweat over all the entries and choose her five favorites. (Learn more about Lady Cheeky.) They will be announced in a second blog post around 10pm ET. Then it’s up to you: vote in the finalists’ poll, lobby your friends, family, twitter followers. The winner, announced at 9:00 pm ET on Wednesday (the next day), takes all! In this case, all means intense pride, the adulation of all the participants and a copy of Anias Nin’s Little Birds.

A Few Notes:

• In the interest of time and formatting, it’s best to type straight into the comment box or notepad. It’s also smart to do a quick highlight and copy before you hit “post” just in case the internets decide to eat your entry. If your entry doesn’t appear right away, email us.
• We’re a little more strict on what we will allow. We reserve the right to remove entries that include:
  • involving sexual activity with animals or minors (under 18);
  • involving non-consensual sexual acts;
  • involving substantial verbal abuse or deliberate and extreme humiliation;
  • involving hate speech or racism;
  • involving cutting, incest, necrophilia, snuff, or weapons;
  • or similar, but other than than that we’re not too picky.
• This is all for fun and self-promotion. So be sure to put your twitter handle at the end of your post and a link to your blog if you have one.

Looking forward to seeing what you all come up with! More info to come, so follow us on Twitter and Facebook to stay in the know.

The post Pique Hosts #5minutefiction November 20th! appeared first on Pique.

S.D. Ryan is the author of Burn Like a Phoenix, which appeared first in Pique‘s inaugural issue (November 2012). You can also find her on Twitter and Facebook.

Pique: So you’re not a guy. As a woman, how do you approach writing guy/guy sex?

S.D. Ryan: I approach it the same way I approach fiction writing in general: with a focus on character. Aside from the obvious mechanical considerations, I don’t attack a guy/guy sex scene any differently than a hetero one (insert bawdy joke here). I think about what each character wants, where they’re coming from, and how they’re affected by the experience. In general, I find the emotional state of my characters a lot more interesting than what’s happening with the nitty gritty physical stuff.

However, you can’t ignore the details. With any sex scene, everything that happens needs to have a firm grounding in reality, and for that, it’s important I get the specifics right (even if only for my own edification). I draw from personal experience where I can, do research where I can’t, and use my imagination to fill in the gaps. I’m an avid reader—fiction and non, literary and porn, hetero and slash. And of course, you can find the answer to just about any question online, as long as you’re careful to find a respectable source.

Mostly, I try to be accurate in my descriptions without getting so technical that it draws the reader out of the moment.

Pique: You had us all going. We were pulling for Benny and Harrison. What made you decide to end the story the way you did?

S.D.R.: I’m sorry! I know it was a bummer. When I conceived the story, I imagined Benny and Harrison eventually working through their issues and coming to some sort of compromise. But once I started putting words to page, I realized that story was much longer than the one I had been asked to write. I could have written a novella getting Benny and Harrison to where they needed to be.

So before scrapping the whole idea, I asked myself if it was a story worth telling, even if it ended on a disappointing note … and I decided yes, it was. To me, it’s a story that explores how powerful that kind of instantaneous attraction is, and how disappointing it can be to move past idolatry to deeper understanding.

I was aiming to make the political theme key to the story as well. Though I clearly lean left in my own political thinking, I’m disappointed by the polarization of the current political climate in this country. I wish we could have a real dialogue, one in which we listen to each other and respect opposing viewpoints.

In the story, I wanted to explore an argument in which neither side is wrong and both could benefit from compromising. To Harrison, he’s just doing his job. To Benny, Harrison has sacrificed his values in disastrous ways. To me, they’re both right. In my mind, the boys eventually find that common ground and do get their happily ever after.

Pique: What’s your favorite part of the creative process? What do you find the most difficult?

S.D.R.: I’m always involved in some creative endeavor. Whether it’s writing, acting, or sewing, my happiness is intimately linked to the process of pulling something out of the ether and giving it form.

My favorite part is the moment an idea is born, when everything is anticipation and excitement, and I imagine the thing I’ve conceived is already fully-formed and perfect in its execution.

The next stage is pretty good, too. The honeymoon. When it’s starting to take shape and bursts of inspiration are sparking all the time. What if this character has a crazy sister? What if she studied in London at the same time he was there? I can see how the pieces might fit together, and I’m not yet bogged down by the task of actually making it all work. Momentum is building, the shine isn’t lost.

The hardest part is somewhere around the middle, when I start to realize nothing will ever live up to my expectations. It’s a hard thing to realize my baby isn’t—and never will be—perfect. I see the chinks in the armor; I see how someone else could do it better.

It’s disheartening. But if I push through and finish, I find I can generally get to a place of appreciation again. Less starry-eyed, more realistic appreciation.

Pique: What writers or artists inspire you?

S.D.R.: Wow. How much time do you have?

My inclination is to try to name a bunch of classic authors or writers of contemporary literary fiction in an attempt to convey my intelligence and good taste. And yes, I actually enjoyed the books they forced us to read in high school, and I’m happy to read the stuff making the rounds of book clubs. But I also love the forbidden fruit—the books we hide in our Kindles, the books no respectable teacher will ever assign. I love books, and I read a lot.

But if you’re asking what kind of work makes me want to pick up a pen and write, we’ll have to dive back to earlier days, to what I was reading during my formative years. As a tween and teen, the authors that most fiercely captured my imagination had a gothic temperament: Edgar Allan Poe, Harlan Ellison, Neil Gaiman. I devoured their work. When other kids were making trips to the mall, I’d be in my room feeling moody and intense, raging to the gods that I’d never be able to create something as important as The Whimper of Whipped Dogs or all-around brilliant as The Sandman.

Not a lot has changed since then. I still feel my blood pumping when I come across a really great Sci-Fi story or dystopian novel. Recently, China Miéville’s The City & The City and Justin Cronin’s The Passage have inspired lots of envy.

Outside the literary world, two artists in the film/TV industry I worship are Joss Whedon (Buffy, Firefly, The Avengers) and Steven Moffat (Sherlock, Doctor Who). Their characters are strong, flawed, witty, and wonderful. Their stories are heart-wrenchingly brilliant. I’d watch anything they’re involved with and would love to create something half as memorable.

One day I’ll write a speculative fiction or horror novel, but for now, I’m doing what seems to work for me and tending to the smut.

Pique: What do you like to read for fun?

S.D.R.: For pure fun, I find myself drawn to YA most often these days. I recently read the Harry Potter series to my five year old, and he loved it. I can’t wait until he’s old enough for The Hunger Games. I just discovered John Green, and I’m feeling like I’m late to the party. The Fault in Our Stars killed me.

On a more adult front, I’ll read anything by Stephen King or Dean Koontz. I love zombies and vampires. I’ve read all of the Sookie Stackhouse novels, and yes, I got sucked into Twilight in a big way. (Fifty Shades of Grey aside, if you’re looking for good erotica, there are some truly exceptional Twilight fanfiction authors out there.)

Pretty sure I destroyed any credibility I had with that last paragraph, so I should probably move on now.

Pique: You’re writing Pique’s upcoming 2013 four-part serial. Care to give us a preview?

S.D.R.: Sure! Here’s the opening section from (tentatively titled) Broken Stones:

Rudy’s dick curves to the left.

It doesn’t put me off or anything. I don’t need a flawless lover to turn me on, and anyway, who isn’t warped in some fantastically weird way—inside and out? Chicken legs. Narcissism. Protruding clit. Asperger’s. Boxer’s nose. Debilitating fear of clowns (that’s mine, don’t judge).

No one’s perfect.

My right boob is larger than the left. Not if-you-squint-you-can-kind-of-see-it larger. Seriously larger. Like a whole cup size. Either I wear a tiny bra that crushes Big Thelma, or I buy one big enough to accommodate Thelma and pad the cup supporting Little Louise.

But whatever. It’s me, you know?

I like watching people react to my unveiling of the ladies. You can tell a lot about a person by their response to a shattered fantasy. Taking off my clothes is like an asshole litmus test. Most people are too busy getting off to even care, but every now and then I see that flash of shock, that slow swallow of acceptance, and I know things are going nowhere fast. Oh, well, their eyes say, I guess I can work with this. Like my tits are a consolation prize. Like I’m a fortune cookie minus the fortune.

But would I change it? Fuck no. I like my body—lopsided boobs, boyish face and all. I figure being flawless comes with a price. Barbie dolls have hollow heads to go with their perfect figures.

I just point out Rudy’s curvy banana dick because it’s currently brushing against my right cheek, and I’m trying not to laugh as I chase after it like a rogue straw in a soda glass.

Come here, you! Get in my mouth!

Laughing in this situation would not be good. No guy with his junk in your face wants to be laughed at, but with the way things ended between Rudy and me, an inappropriate snicker is like a triggered landmine. I can kiss these booty calls goodbye if I laugh at him right now.

Rudy’s cute, he’s a demon in the sack, and he was a passable boyfriend … but he’s a shit director. Seriously, how was I supposed to keep a straight face watching his magnum opus, Blood on Parade—a film school Hills Have Eyes rip-off starring his greasy MFA friends? The worst part was how earnest he was, how proud. By the time I realized I wasn’t watching a brilliant horror movie satire a la Christopher Guest, it was too late. I’m snorting Cheetos out of my nose and congratulating him on a thorough skewering of slasher movie tropes, while he’s staring at me like I’m covered in rainbow-colored jizz (or sporting an un-ironic ax through the head).

So, yeah. Laughing: bad.

Mercifully, there’s no screening room in Unbound Books’ storage closet, and the rogue cock doesn’t elude me for long. Once I capture it, my mouth has no room for laughter. My mind has no room, either. As Rudy groans his approval, all thoughts of slasher flicks and curved dicks and asshole customers float away like smoke on the breeze. I don’t feel the concrete floor through my jeans. I don’t think about the pack of Brentwood College freshmen perpetually lounging on the store’s couch, comparing notes on their Intro to Bullshit class. I don’t think about Clarissa and the five-minute smoke break that turned into twenty at the busiest point in the afternoon. I don’t think about books scattered across the floor of the children’s section and how I re-shelve the same fucking Eric Carle and Dr. Seuss every single day. And I don’t think about tomorrow’s date. I don’t think about any of it.

I’m taking in Rudy’s musky, masculine taste and thinking how familiar and comforting it is. I’m feeling slick flesh slide along my palm as my index finger and thumb meet my lips: suck and stroke and twist. I’m listening to Rudy’s murmured curses—“Holy fuck, Cort, your mouth … goddamn!“—and smiling around him before taking him that much deeper.

And honestly, this would be enough. I don’t even care if I get off, you know? I just need to tabula rasa this shit day. But Rudy’s a stand-up guy in the sex department, so he’s not willing to leave it at that. Just as I feel him edge toward the point of no return, he pushes me away, firmly but gently. He leans against a stack of boxes, thighs shaking and curvy dick bobbing left and right, like it’s unimpressed with this change of course.

“Come here.”

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