The Best Queer Sex Blogs

A friend of mine emailed me this week asking for recommendations for other queer erotica online. I emailed her back with some links off the top of my head, but I’ve been pondering this question since then … where ARE all the queer sex bloggers? The ones who write erotica, I mean, not the ones who are writing sex commentary (because there are certainly some of those) or about butch/femme culture (ditto some of those) or who are reviewing toys (also some good ones) or are actual video/photographic porn (yay, but not erotica) or who aren’t writing anymore (there are a few who haven’t updated in years).

Kinkly has a top sex bloggers ranked list, but they don’t specify if they’re queer or not, or what kind of sex blog it is—and most of the ones at the top are sex toy blogs.

So here’s some recommendations of my personal favorite places to go read smutty erotica words written by and about queers. Am I missing anyone? Leave comments with recommendations, please!

1. BD Swain, www.bdswain.com

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From the micro-stories on her Instagram to the longer works on her blog, BD Swain has written some of my favorite smut ever. Mostly butch/femme, but switchy, and includes some other pairings occasionally.

Excerpt from Stare Hard:

My fingers on her panties, pushing between her lips, feeling the wet lace between her legs. My own wet fingers on my belt buckle. Feeling like there’s no time. Not enough time. For hours, all night, not enough. Her skin is so soft. I stare down at her as I trace the outlines of her body with my fingertips. Sliding my fingers down each leg and back again to her pussy. “Spread your legs wider,” I say, bending over, “Let me smell you.”

Also, if you like BD’s dirty photos, pick up her custom deck of poker cards. So hot.

2. Xan West, xanwest.wordpress.com

ShowYourselftoMe

Mostly they write about writing erotica, and there are not as many actual erotic stories on their site, but there are excerpts from their upcoming novel “Shocking Violet.” Definitely check out his new book Show Yourself To Me (there’s one story from that book on Sugarbutch, called “The Tender Sweet Young Thing”).

Excerpt from A Tease from Shocking Violet:

She laughed. “So you want a free show, hmm? Well let me do it right, then.” And she slowly peeled off her high-necked black cat sweater. Jax stilled, stopped breathing. A couple of thick straps held up a gorgeous neckline. He could see her bare throat, and her arms. All that skin and ink. And her cleavage…damn. Fuck if she didn’t shimmy again for him, all tease and arched back, a wicked grin on her face.

“Don’t forget to breathe, honey,” she drawled.

She was right. He wasn’t fucking breathing. He licked dry lips and tipped his glass to her before taking a swallow of cool water.

3. Words Can Be Sexy, wordscanbesexy.com

queer quickies

Written by non-monogamous, trans, queer femme Olivia Dromen, hir work is incredibly sexy and detailed and well-written and full of genderqueerness. This is a new link for me, so I’m excited to dive into the archives and devour it all.

Excerpt from [Short] Overwhelmed:

“Take off your panties and lay down across my knee.” Zir voice is very calm, as if this is something we do every day.

It isn’t.

Ze pats zir knees with both hands.

4. Kyle, www.butchtastic.net

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Butch/femme, butch/butch, writings about gender … Kyle has been one of my favorite bloggers since he started Butchtastic.

Excerpt from I Know What You Been Doing:

“I found your magazines, girl. Found your nasty magazines with their sticky pages. I know what you do with those magazines.” My hips are pressing a little harder against your ass. The hand around your waist has dropped a bit lower, my hand now resting on your thigh. My other hand is tightening slightly across your throat. You squirm against me with a groan. ”You like lookin’ at those men with their cocks hangin’ out, don’t you? You look at those dirty pictures and rub your naughty cunt, don’t you?”

“Daddy… I’m sorry… what… what are you going to do to me?” The mixture of anticipation and fear in your voice makes my clit pulse.

5. CW Toklas, cwtoklas.wordpress.com

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CW’s blog is new, starting fall 2015, but there are already excellent pieces up and waiting for readers. I’ll be watching this as it grows.

Excerpt from Moist Denim:

“Good girl,” she whispered into her ear and continued to ravish her mouth.

Beth couldn’t help it. The kiss was all consuming and she began to rock, leaning forward in order to open herself fully and rub her engorged clit on her mistress’s jeans.

6. Trans Fag Sex Journals, transfagssexjournals.blogspot.com

From the description: “two transfags of color living in a big city, exploring safe anonymous play with bio-boys.” This is new to me, and doesn’t have updates since 2014, but the archives are rich and interesting.

Excerpt from the threesome:

we move to my bedroom. i lie back and my regular begins sucking me off. bottom boy drops his cock into my mouth and i blow him. then they switch places i suck my regular’s cock while bottom boy blows me. i grab condoms. my regular moves between my legs and pushes into me. i sit up so i can suck his boy’s cock while he fucks me. this goes on for a while then my regular asks bottom boy if he wants to fuck me. he nods.

7. Rebekah Weatherspoon, www.rebekahweatherspoon.com/blog

Rebekah doesn’t have a lot of stories online, but she has tons of ebooks and they’re fantastic. Her book “At Her Feet” is a Mommy/girl story, and it’s fantastic. She’s also an avid erotica reader and has tons of recommendations of other titles, and also runs WOC in Romance, highlighting romance written by women of color (not queer, but important!).

8. Kiki Delovely, kikidelovely.wordpress.com

Kiki’s work is mostly in erotica anthologies, but she does have some excerpts on her blog.

Excerpt from Yes, Daddy:

“I’m going to have to shove my big, hard cock inside of you and fuck you until you’re screaming out in pain, our guests watching and waiting. After that, I’ll leave you to them, allowing them to do with you as they please.”

“NO, Daddi!” I cry out before I can catch myself. Your free hand lands severely on my ass, harder this time, my body uncontrollably releasing a violent jerk as I swallow the pain.

“You will take your punishment like a good grrl.”

9. Jen Cross, writingourselveswhole.org

Jen has run Writing Ourselves Whole, writing workshops “at the intersection of sex and trauma,” for a decade, and her work is phenomenal. She doesn’t have a lot of her erotic writing online, but she did undertake a masturbation May project, We Can Come Home, a few years back and that is fascinating to read. Her work explores the very complicated intersection of desire and healing, and much of it is explicit.

Excerpt from Opening the Throat:

Today I did it the new way, me in my shower, back bent against the porcelain, shower head switched to massage and held between my legs, the water hot as I can stand it. I say, Good morning, body. This is for us today. I say, thank you. I float into the conversation with my mother, then pull myself back. That was last night, that was another moment, that is not what I’m here for now. Now I’m in the bliss of your mouth (the water is so much easier to make into a mouth than the vibrator — a new development for my fantasy life), maybe we’re at a fancy bathroom at a fancy party and you shift aside my long skirt to find stockings, garter belt — and nothing else. Then you are asking me to sing, and I moan into the white quiet of my bathroom. I get loud, breathe hard, cry out, oh my god oh my god oh my god. This is a new way, too.

10. Jack Stratton, www.writingdirty.com

Jack writes mostly m/f erotica—and some of my very favorite smut of all time—but he also has a variety of gay erotic pieces, which I find complex and interesting. Not exactly a queer erotica writer, but he’s pretty queer, and you might find things you like in his extensive archives.

Excerpt from The Shaving Lesson:

“You just keep watching her finger fuck herself. You keep your eyes on her and then it doesn’t make it gay that I’m jerking you off,” Adam teased with a cruel laugh.

Henry felt the fear mix with a little anger. It felt like Adam was reading his mind and laughing at him.

“I’ll let you know when I think of an excuse that will keep you straight while you suck my cock.”

Two more!

The exciting thing about publishing lists like this on the internet is that they are totally changeable! Just because I didn’t include these two the first time around doesn’t mean they can’t be added. Since I published this list, I’ve been asking around and trying to find even more amazing queer erotica writers who publish their work online. Here’s two more that you gotta check out.

11. Benji Bright, Underwear Tales

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Benji Bright’s work was recommended to me by Xan West, and I’m very glad to have discovered it. He has many stories in anthologies and, recently, his own short story collection Boy Stories.

From He Doesn’t Want to Call It What It Is:

He doesn’t want to call it what it is. The words nag at him, but it is easy to shake them off when there’s someone else’s tongue pressed hard against him, slavering, and using the mouth to which it’s attached in order to shape filthy words: ‘I’m going to use your hole,’ ‘I’m going to fill you up with my spit and cum,’ ‘I’m going to fuck you like the beast you are.’

12.

Giselle Renarde, Donuts and Desires

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I adore Giselle Renarde’s work. She is in dozens of anthologies, and has an elaborate page of free smut online at her blog.

From Prude’s Failsafe Advice for Eating Ass:

With a giggle and a growl, Gloria went at my hole like crazy. She licked it up and down, then swirled around in circles. She was forceful about it, too. When she thrust her tongue into my ass, my soul just about jumped from my body. I watched her do it, and still I was in disbelief. If it wasn’t for that slip of latex separating her from me, I’d never have let her do this. I didn’t mind so much, though, knowing she was tasting raspberry and not me.

Gloria made happy noises as she lunged at my ass, fucking me with her tongue. It felt fat inside me, with far more girth than her finger. As she went at me, I reached for my clit and found it engorged, my pussy dripping with juice.

Bonus

  • Also check out the guest post section here on Sugarbutch – mostly the guest posts include the authors I’ve mentioned above, but you still might find something exciting.
  • Someone suggested Archive of Our Own, which is primarily fan fiction but includes quite a bit of queer erotica if you’re willing to dig through the archives.
  • There are a few internet archive sites of erotica that include queer work, like Nifty, which is exclusively LGBT, Literotica, and Lust Stories, but the quality is very hit-and-miss.

There MUST be other gay boy erotica blogs out there, but I don’t know them. I mean there must be other queer erotica blogs in general—please tell me this list is incomplete! Honestly, I have been looking and asking on Twitter & Facebook and this is the best of the best that I can come up with. Who have I missed? Do you write erotica & share it online?

Please let me/us all know in the comments!

Calibrate, Guest Post by Jen Cross

This is how it was between them: leaded with need, full throttle, every night.

It didn’t matter who they were outside of the apartment. It didn’t matter how the world saw them. It didn’t matter: the misconstruals, the misreadings, the misunderstandings, the harassment, the rage. It didn’t matter that it often seemed as though no one could see them but one another.

They saw one another, and that was what really mattered.

Daphne placed the call, every afternoon at three, right when her boss stepped out for his afternoon constitutional – which actually amounted to making a rounds of the department and harassing the rest of the secretaries for awhile, giving Daphne a break.

At ten to three, Gage knew to step away from whatever machine she’d been underneath, wipe as much grease from her hands as she could, and stand nearish the phone. Every one of her coworkers at the shop knew what she was waiting for, and they didn’t quite understand why she pretended not to be waiting for her girlfriend’s call. The guys raised eyebrows at one another, but no one talked any shit. Gage had been at the shop longer than anyone, was the first woman the boss had ever hired back almost twenty years before; she had slowly but surely trained the boys how to deal when she was around: “No sexist bullshit,” she’d explain to a new hire, clapping him or her on the shoulder while showing them around the place. “I don’t wanna hear about any gash or pussy or tail or ass you got last night, got it? None of the other guys do, either. You talk about your women with respect, or don’t talk about ’em at all, got it?”

It didn’t matter to Gage that plenty of the guys wanted to hear about the pussy and the gash. She was all right with them resenting her for that. Fuck them. If she had to walk through the walls of hostility just to get to work every day, they could fucking well hold their tongues to avoid the shop getting sued for creating a hostile work environment.

Exactly at three, the oil-stained phone rang. Gage wiped damp palms on her coveralls and picked up the line.

“Stoney’s Auto.”

“Gage?” Daphne’s voice sounded like warm honey that’d been poured over shards of broken glass in the back alley behind some biker bar.

“Yeah.”

“You there?”

“Always, baby.”

“You got something for me when we get home?”

It never failed. Gage had to swallow hard just to be able to answer. All these years, and still she went immediately rigid at the sound of a woman—her woman—asking for what she wanted. Gage dropped her voice a shade, deepening it the way she knew Daphne liked, and trying to keep a little something private from the guys trying not to look like they’re listening in. “You want something when we get home?”

“Yeah.” A little whimper at the end.

“You gonna tell me about it.”

“Yeah.” A little sharper whimper.

“How’m I gonna calibrate?”

“Bring it all.”

Gage’s heart ached. She knew from this that Daphne had had a particularly hard day; maybe the boss had tried to feel her up again during the staff meeting, or maybe he’d offered up his only-very-thinly-veiled reminder that if she’d only go home with him, he would happily promote her up to management.

“I got it ready.”

“Ok.”

They hung up. One of the guys across the floor, Samuel, Gage’s oldest buddy at the shop, made eye contact with Gage as she hung up. Gage nodded a little slowly. Samuel gave a small smile and a shrug. Gage shrugged back. “Yeah,” she said. Then she went home, mind spinning with what was to come.

Daphne got home before Gage nearly every evening. Most nights she tore off her office drag—button-down shirt and pencil skirt, “nude” nylon stockings, low black pumps—off as soon as she walked into the bedroom she’d shared with Gage since their four-month anniversary. She’d let her long auburn hair down from its tight bun and wrap herself in one of the many peignoirs she’d collected over the years. Most nights she’d have a bath drawn and dinner started by the time Gage walked in the back door.

“Go clean up,” she’d say to her love, eyeing with hunger Gage’s thick shoulders and broad, filthy hands. “Dinner will be ready soon.” She’d let the satin robe fall, accidentally, from one smooth shoulder as Gage walked past her, which she’d trained Gage never to leave unsuckled, and so, most nights, she had to boil a pot of water to reheat the tub by the time Gage made it from the kitchen into to the bathroom. Most nights, Daphne was the one who’d sit down to their shared dinner oilstained.

It didn’t matter how anyone else saw them, what anyone else read into the roles each played. What mattered was how each of them ached, specifically, for what and who and how the other was.

On this night, Daphne did not take off her clothes. She did not start dinner. She didn’t even remove her red plaid trench coat. She didn’t get past the kitchen. She fell into one of the chairs at the kitchen table, the ones with the metal frame backs and the plastic covered seats that came with the ’50s-era linoleum kitchen set they’d found at an estate sale not long after moving in together. She didn’t cry, not again. Everything in her was numb.

Gage found Daphne this way when she arrived home a half-hour later. The evening sun had already given way to shadow, so Daphne was just a silhouette when Gage walked in their back door. There were no lights, none of the music Daphne always had going, no aromas of arroz con pollo or fried plantain or feijoada. Just the stinging scent of lemon cleanser and Daphne’s sorrow.

Gage didn’t speak. After kicking off her work boots, she knelt in front of Daphne. Gently, she removed Daphne’s coat, then let down her hair. She listened to Daphne’s body, the shallow intake of breath. She listened to what needed to happen first.

Gage took both of Daphne’s hands in her own then stood, pulling Daphne to standing with her. She slung a dirty arm around Daphne’s somehow still pristine white work shirt, and led her into the bedroom. Slowly, slowly, Gage began to unbutton Daphne’s shirt.

“No.” Daphne still had not met Gage’s eyes. “Leave them on.”

Gage hardened. It was going to be like this, then. She took a box from next to the bed, and as she went into the bathroom, she said over her shoulder, “Take your nylons off. Leave them on the floor.”

When Gage returned to the bedroom, Daphne had done as she’d been asked. She was still sitting on the edge of the bed, far away. Gage collected her woman up in her arms, eased them both back onto the bed, then lifted herself up, reached down, and inched Daphne’s skirt up over those thick hips. She unbuttoned her fly, took out her cock, lubed it up and slipped into Daphne’s cunt.

It was then that Daphne started to cry. She fitted herself to Gage’s body—legs wrapped hard around thighs, arms clenched to Gage’s well-muscled back, fingernails digging in hard. She wept in big, fat sobs, burying her face in Gage’s chest as Gage buried herself in Daphne. Gage knew what to do. She found her rhythm, their rhythm, and kept steady as Daphne’s sorrow brewed and boiled over. It took awhile. She never knew how long it would take on nights like these. Give it to me, she thought. Give me what no one else can see.

The shift was immediate, when it came. Her gasping sobs shifted to gasps raw and thick with hunger. “Yes,” Daphne whimpered. “Yes. Like that, baby.” And Gage knew she could let go. She dropped her hands from where they’d been cradling Daphne’s head and shoulders, grabbed her woman’s hips, and drove herself home. “Yes,” she answered, panting. “Like this.” Daphne’s face wet, her body sore, her heartache subsiding. Yes, she thought, as she had every night for seventeen years. Yes, girl, please. Like this.

The Girl in the Red Dress (Excerpt from Sex Still Spoken Here)

This story is included in the forthcoming collection Sex Still Spoken Here, the Erotic Reading Circle anthology.

At first I’m trying to ignore her. I have my latest review book, Best Lesbian Bondage Erotica; I have my iPod on to some soothing lofi mix Muse made for me; I have lube in my pocket for a quick jerk-off session before we arrive in New York. I need all the sanctuary and release I can get before returning to that hyper-stimulating city.

But she’s making a big show of her many bags, heavy, designer luggage, and she – being tiny petite thing – seems unable to slip them all into the overhead luggage rack.

The only other person in this car is a man in the back who has been snoring since I got on. I think about telling her to just leave her suitcases on the seat next to her, but her jaw is set, her sensuous mouth twisted in a sneer, and as she begins to climb onto the train seat to reach the rack better, I sigh and, reluctantly, get up to help her.

“Please. Let me,” I say, sliding behind her and putting my hand on her waist to guide her out of the way, then taking the heavy suitcase out of her struggling grip and nudge it onto the metal rack easily. She’s got a great ass in those tight jeans. Her eyes are wide, then she drags her gaze along my arm to my face. I watch her watch me. She looks like Penelope Cruz, all dark hair and big pools of dark liquid eyes.

“Um,” she says. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” I answer, a bit dismissively, now offering my hand so she can get down. The train doors buzz and are about to close, we’ll be in motion shortly. I pick up her other bags and one by one put them up into the rack above her seat. She takes off her thin white sweater and sets it with her handbag next to her, and watches me.

I groan a little with the weight of the last one. She notices. “Thanks again,” she says, and I detect a slight accent, French maybe, though she looks Spanish. Her words are a little airy, already pulling Vogue Milan out of her purse and turning her attention to it, a tiny sideways glance at me to see if I’m still standing next to her, waiting for my good-dog biscuit.

I retreat back to my aisle seat. We are facing each other, opposite sides of the train. She is absorbed in her magazine. I put my feet up and crack open my book, start reading through the bondage stories. She takes out a compact and lipstick and fusses with her mouth, repainting, touching her fingertips to the edges of her lips, then wipes microscopic flecks with a tissue. I don’t watch her, but she periodically sweeps her eyes over to me. I rest my hand on my neat little package as I read through the story by Toni Amato, “A Girl Like That:”

She’s the kind of girl who brings out the worst in me. Coming on all hip and cool and all into sex, rubbing some part of herself all up against me every chance she gets. I’m not saying all the things my people taught me about women are so great, but I’ll tell you what, where I come from, that kind of girl is called a cock teaser.

It’s like there’s this small thing, like those stars they talk about, those White Dwarves, sitting deep and low in my belly, and this girl comes along, doing her number, and that son of a bitch just goes nova.

She makes the worst part of me want to do the best it knows how to teach her a thing or two about fucking.

I’m stroking my cock unconsciously through my jeans when I notice someone looming next to me, and it’s her, she’s returning from the bathroom with a clutch in her hand, I didn’t even notice her get up. The girl smiles, almost, and pushes past as though I am taking up the entire aisle, or maybe to show off her gorgeous ass in those tight, tight jeans.

The train lurches and opens its sleepy doors, the man in the back of our train car is moving at half-speed and makes his way off the train.

We’re alone.

She notices too. She’s looking out the window but keeps stealing glances at me. The conductor comes through and says nothing to either of us, just takes the small pieces of paper on our seats, the remnants of our tickets.

I go back to my book. I finger the bottle of lube in my pocket and think this would be a good time to go rub one out, then get absorbed in a story about a dyke cop who is passing as male in a straight club, picks up a girl and takes her, handcuffed, out to her truck. I nearly reach my hand into my pants.

“Um, excuse me?”

She’s standing, still in her seat but leaning forward over the seat in front of her, facing me, ass tipped to the side, front of her button down revealing creamy skin, long dark hair swinging. She smiles when I look up, flashes me an intentional smirky pose that she has practiced in the mirror – her seduction look. “Would you help, I have to … I need … something from that bag.” She glances up at it.

I put my book down and tug at my jeans to cover my hard-on. Clear my throat. “Sure.”

I get up and move toward her. She kneels and reaches for it, her back to the aisle as I come up behind her and reach up.

“This one?” My mouth is close to her ear.

“No, not – yes, that one,” she says as I touch the smaller suitcase. She reaches up to help me, bending slightly forward, as we both ease the weight of her bag down onto the seat. And I swear she rubs right against me, pushing back, just a little. Maybe I’m imagining it. Yeah, sure Sinclair; you just happen to have a boner and this girl offers up her ass on a silver platter.

I back off. Return to my seat. Again.

“Um, thanks!” she calls.

I toss a half-smile over my shoulder. “Don’t mention it.” She pulls a bundle of fabric out of her bag and I don’t watch. I don’t pay attention. I can’t see it. I shouldn’t be watching, but I am. It is slinky and red. She finds a few other bits and tucks her hair behind her ear, gathers an armful of clothing, makes her way toward me, down the aisle, to the bathroom at the back of the car.

She’s in there a while. I try to concentrate on my book, to not wonder what she is doing, what she’s slipping into, who she’s meeting when she gets off the train, not to imagine being that somebody so filled with lust and permission that I’d fuck her right on the platform, couldn’t even control myself long enough to wait until we went to dinner, drinks, a show, whatever it is she’s dressing up for. My breath is quickening and my hands are starting to do that aching thing where they are pulsing with grip, wanting to hold push grab press punch slap.

She makes her way back to her seat like the aisle is a runway, like she’s coming in for a landing. Each step deliberately placed. Legs precisely angled and separated and her gait is sharp, strong. Her red dress swings from her hips, past her thighs, to her knees. A few bracelets jangle from one arm, simple and slim. She’s pulled her hair up high on her head, into some sort of ponytail, then twisted around itself in a beautiful knot.

I watch her as she closes the distance to her own seat. I don’t drool. I am not drooling. I try not to drool at the sight of her ankles, her calves, the hints of the backs of her knees as her dress swings. I wipe my mouth. Her ankles cross just slightly, which makes her hips curl and switch like a figure eight. Like a come-hither finger.

I swallow. Breathe in. And quickly open my book, flustered, and turn it to the page I was reading as she slides onto the train seat and I snap out of my spell.

Of course – of course – I am too zealous and the book slides out of my hand, skittering out into the aisle. I take a sharp breath in and some spit goes down the wrong way, I start to choke, cough, loudly, as I jump up to retrieve the book.

Oh good lord. I get ahold of myself. Straighten up, book in hand. Clear my throat. I don’t look at her. I can’t see her. I am sure I am five shades of crimson and I steal a glance her direction, she’s covering her mouth, that perfect smirky smile, eyes dancing, looking away from me. Obviously she saw everything.

Fuck.

I resettle. Book in lap, adequate breath in lungs. I sneer to myself. Re-open the erotica. Do you have to be so obvious? I yell at myself in my head. You dumbass. Real smooth, Sexsmith.

She’s going through her open case next to her, I can see her arms moving but can’t see what she’s doing. Then suddenly she’s up, out of the seat and back in the aisle, pads down toward me as if she forgot something.

I catch a whiff of her perfume as she walks by. Dizzying, intoxicating. The swish of her skirt. I watch her little toe-heel trot down the aisle. My body acts without my mind and I reach for her. My hand on her hip. Lightly at first, but then she doesn’t pull away and I grab her harder. Both hands and I stand, pull her toward me, her back to me, and she is still. I can’t see her face but I can feel her breath through my hands, she’s holding it. Surprised. Waiting.

I lift her skirt in the back to reveal her perfect ass. A work of art. A combination of genetics and squats and hundreds of hours at the gym. She knows it. She’s bare under her red dress, no panties, no stockings. Perhaps that’s what she forgot. I can’t resist, I palm the apple of her ass, caress the flesh, spreading her cheeks and opening her slit.

She lets out her breath, finally, and it comes with a breathy moan, just a little.

And I’m gone. The slightest noise from her lips and all I can feel is what it’ll be like to be inside her, to feel her body curl around my arm and buck and thrash and grasp as she comes. I’ve got to feel it. Got to make her.

I press against her back. Her neck is bare, hair up, and my mouth is just at the corner of her jaw, below her ear. I reach around her and pin her arms to her sides, pressing her back to lean against me, and she arches, thrusts her hips up, feels the cock behind my fly. She lets her head lean back against me, lets me take her weight.

“Bend over.” Right next to her ear. Barely audible …

***


This is the beginning of my story, “The Girl in the Red Dress,” that is in Sex Still Spoken Here, the Erotic Reading Circle anthology.

Co-edited by Jen Cross, Carol Queen, and Amy Butcher, this erotica anthology is one of a kind as it is not only a collection of erotica stories, but also a how-to guide, detailing how to begin and run your own erotic reading circle, with stories learned from San Francisco’s own erotic reading circle which meets monthly at the Center for Sex and Culture since 2006.

I’m thrilled to have a piece included! And very excited for the anthology. To get your copy and support the book and the 27 authors who have contributed pieces, donate to the Sex Still Spoken Here Indiegogo campaign.

But wait—that’s not all!

Ever wish I would write you a custom story, maybe about you and your partner, or about someone you fantasize about, or about a particular act?

SSSH is running a referral contest right now, and one of the prizes is a custom story from me. (Jen Cross is also writing a custom story!)

(Sidenote: I am currently the top referral, and while it’s fun to write my own stories, it’d be more fun to write yours. I don’t offer custom smut very often—I hope it goes to someone who wants it!)

Click over to Indiegogo to preorder your copy and support this amazing project!

The Great Reader Mini-Interview, Part Seven: The Journey, Smut, and Black Tee Shirts

What’s your relationship with sugarbutch.net and Sinclair?

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I started reading Sugarbutch.net back in 2008 when I first started journaling online, and later writing. I love Sinclair’s honesty and realness in everything that is written on this site. Sinclair is always willing to dive deep and ask the tough questions, the risky ones, the ones that challenge everything. The questions that could risk it all. In the end, the reflection of their own journey, becomes inspiring.

The smut. I love the way Sinclair writes smut, with all the realness of human connection, desire, imperfections, and wavering thoughts. Connection, Sinclair is brilliant at it. I’d love to see more of it. Even short snippets.

—DeDe Deylnn, http://www.deviantdyke.blogspot.com

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‘m a fairly new reader. I’m trying to remember how I found your blog, but I can’t recall… I’m glad I found it though. You’re a great writer. You make yourself so vulnerable to your readers and I really admire that. Thank you for sharing such intimate detail with us!

—Daniela Amaya, http://witharmsakimbo.tumblr.com/

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I started reading Sugarbutch in 2009, which was the last summer I had a sustained crush on a straight boy. I think what I appreciate the most is the self-reflexivity; the approach to relationships as deeply valuable and also deeply educational, always. I suppose I’m interested in you doing more of whatever you find interesting and challenging right now. That’s usually what I want interesting writers to do!

—Helena Swann, http://www.cuntext.com

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i have been reading since just before Sinclair and K started dating. i’ve read all this time even though i don’t identify with daddy/girl or femme expression from a top or bottom perspective. i’ve been going through a lot of discover and changes around my gender expression and how i identify. i check in on his blog at least every couple of days, i love the way he expresses his journey, and his style of writing. i love his smut and the elements that focus on the D/s Authority exchange side. i’m looking forward to reading more about his dynamic with rife, since i’m now identifying as GQ primal masculine expressive, looking to find a dynamic/understand more about Sir/boy, Trans/butch dynamics. i wish you’d tell us more about what makes you tick, where you want your journey with rife to move forward towards, more smut.

—dylen, https://fetlife.com/users/592071

What advice would you give your younger self about sex, gender, or relationships?

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I’d tell my younger self to write about sex sooner. Eleven years ago I wrote with Jen Cross in her first workshop for Queer survivors writing about sex and it changed everything for me. Writing in this way and later performing changed everything for me. My attitude and experiences of sex and gender and relationships changed. It changed how I parented, how I interacted with my community and lovers. It changed my writing and my views about sexuality and survivorhood and drove me to become a sex educator and writing facillitator.

http://writingourselveswhole.org has had the most impact on me. I would not have become the person that I am without it.

—Renee Garcia, http://queerly.tumblr.com/

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I don’t feel like I’ve grown up enough to give my younger self advice. I kind of admire her for being so bold and kick-ass and take-no-prisoners. When I was younger, though, I figured all women were attracted to other women, and they just repressed all that to be heterosexual. I do still believe a lot of people play that game, but it wasn’t until I was well into my twenties that I realized all those straight women are actually *attracted* to men. Sounds dumb, but it was kind of a revelation.

—Giselle Renarde, http://donutsdesires.blogspot.com

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Relax. Your sexuality is more fluid than you realize. Being queer may or may not be about being sexually assaulted by your boyfriend in high school and either way it’s ok. Being poly will complicate your marriage in good and bad ways. Tread carefully.

—Theresa

What one resource has had the most impact on you, and why?

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This isn’t surprising: The Body Electric School’s introductory workshop Celebrating the Body Erotic has been the single most influential resource in my life. This weekend it has been six years (really??) since my first one, and I still find myself stopping to breathe, asking for what I want, and practicing the basic tantric breathing exercise with my partners (in through heart, out through genitals // in through genitals, out through heart). I can honestly say that I was able to handle some big issues in my life very gracefully because of my experiences with the Body Electric School – and not just sex & relationship issues, but various other life circumstances as well. There are just some experiences that have to be processed physically through body instead of through the mind – my first CBE taught me how to do that.

—Miss Avarice, http://missavarice.wordpress.com

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CBT sessions – I know it’s extended but it was where I learned that you are supposed to talk about feelings not just express them in actions and snark.

—john, http://www.facebook.com/jmwallach

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My Dangerous Desires by Amber L Hollibaugh has had the most impact on me and my identity as a queer femme. In one essay she talks about how living out queer desire is radical and subversive because it disrupts the idea that happiness/fulfillment is linked to heteronormativity. I think one reason it took me so long to accept that I was queer was because I wasn’t sure happiness was possible without a husband, a white picket fence and two kids.

—Erin, http://femmenistthought.tumblr.com/

Anything else to add?

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Sinclair, every time I see a black T-shirt I think of you.

—Giselle Renarde, http://donutsdesires.blogspot.com

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I love your reviews and have found so many things useful for my Mr. because of them.

—john, http://www.facebook.com/jmwallach

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I’m pretty excited to check out your other readers. Something deserthooker wrote in one of your open relationship mini-interviews was one of the first things that prompted me to start actively thinking about how, where, and when mental health and D/s relationships overlap, for example.

—Helena Swann, http://www.cuntext.com

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A huge thank you for continuing to share yourself online, there are SO many of that value this, and are here in spirit with you through the difficult times.

—dylen, https://fetlife.com/users/592071