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

cwtoklas

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

giselle
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!

Careful. Guest Post by Kiki DeLovely

I was distracted. Attempting to finalize a dinner menu while simultaneously shopping for the six course meal on four hours of sleep was making me dizzy. Throw into the mix her flustering flurry of taunting words that kept popping up on the screen of my cell phone, continually drowning out my mile-long grocery list. It was enough to draw my focus away from the task at hand. Yet somehow I was managing, not missing a single ingredient while receiving her praise at my last minute addition of a baked brie. And then this: a simple photo. I wouldn’t have thought that one little pic could stop me dead in my tracks. But it had been quite some time since I had been the recipient of one so compelling. And so I just stood there in the middle of the aisle, mouth agape.

I clicked on the photo to examine its details. Sunlight tickling at the edge of the notebook, her hand-crafted leather flogger draped dramatically across the page, and braided falls spilling just under the solitary inscribed word: Careful. A vintage Eversharp Skyline fountain pen angled just so as to place appropriate emphasis upon the command. The meticulous composition of the photo elevated it to a true art form.

Careful.

A warning and a demand wrapped up in this seemingly unassuming, simplest of sentences. It echoed in my mind.

Careful.

Precisely the type of caution I was recklessly scattering to the wind with each passing second.

Careful.

The decree that brought me to my knees.

Mouthy little quips had flowed freely from my fingertips up until that moment. And with one little photo, one little word, my hands were silenced into submission. Trust me when I say I behaved myself for the remainder of the day. My ceaseless tasks kept me so busy in the kitchen that when it came time for the dinner party, I hadn’t had time to grow nervous. Sans prompting, she made herself useful, helping clear between courses, chivalrously following me into the kitchen every time I rose.

One of the times we had a few seconds to spare and smiling at the din of laughter coming from the other room, I took advantage of momentary bravery, confessing, “I have a thing for strong hands….” I glanced up ever so briefly to meet her gaze before returning mine to my peep toe pumps. “When you were massaging me last night, your fingers tangled in my hair, your fists punching my shoulders … I couldn’t help but imagine them exploring a couple other places as well.”

“A couple other? Aren’t we a bit … ambitious?” A spark in her eyes.

I was too close to saying something smart. Or even just cheekily placing my palm up against hers in order to make an accurate assessment of my ambitions, knowing full well just how much my body is capable of taking, given the right circumstances. Instead I bit back my grin, remained silent, and twirled around on my heel, letting her come to her own conclusions. Allowing her to do with that information what she would.

After all, she had spent the better part of three days with me gathering information. It seemed as though nothing about me was lost on her watchful eye. She wasn’t exactly the typical butch I usually go for, but energy trumps type every time, and after the second day the energy was dazzling. Her academic researcher skills proved quite useful in other fields as well, having gleaned everything she needed to know to have her way with me. By the third night, I was hers.

* * *

The very tip of her blade kissed the surface my skin, threatening to pierce flesh if I chose to move too quickly or suffered an involuntary spasm. My flesh gave generously under the steel’s unwavering affections until met with the muscle’s resistance.

A catch in my breath.

An almost indistinguishable shift sparked at the air as she dragged its point downward, scraping away at the epidermis.

Before she even brought the blade back up to its point of origin, I knew where this was headed. Breathing into my anticipation, a trickle of cum forged a path down my left lip. My mind finally began to quiet and submit to the impossibility of intellectualizing such primal cravings. At the curved completion of that very first “D” a moan betrayed me. I kept my eyes on her the entire time—when I could manage to keep them open, that is. No need to look down at my thigh to know precisely what was coming—my nerve endings piqued, keenly aware of the shape of each letter that would follow. An all too predictable read, given that the word loitered on my tongue when in her presence, patiently awaiting its next opportunity to form the disyllabic honorific.

She carved her possession into what we both knew was already hers. The visual effect giving rise to a shared desire that threatened to ignite the air between us; the haptic sensation of her staking her claim penetrating me much deeper. When I finally did look down, “DADDY’S” was etched into my inner thigh—a spell had been cast, an alchemical equation set into motion. This changed everything. An erotic act beyond titillating had established the tone for the evening. Her marking me in this way had dropped me down into an abyssal submissive headspace unlike anything I’d experienced in years. Utterly unexpected, I had not readied myself for these emotional depths, had not warmed to the vulnerability about to surface. But there was no turning back.

I needed it too badly and was willing to risk the emotional aftermath that was to flood over me in the days to come. Our interactions were gritty, a little bit wrong. The honorific of Daddy didn’t really belong. It wasn’t exactly hers. It was mine. Not mine to embody but, rather, my fetish, my desire, my greatest weakness. She took on the role, however, with an ease that convinced me otherwise. She was a natural, vacillating between nice Daddy and mean Daddy with a finesse that takes others years to master.

My cunt yielded to her fingers and cock, eventually capitulating to her fist as well with the simplest lines of encouragement. “Daddy needs you to take this for him,” she would coo. “Don’t make me hurt you again.”

Kissing my back with a tenderness that brought tears to my eyes—a particular combination of sweetness and cruelty that is the end of me. “That’s my good girl.” Devastating in the most heart-crushing way, I struggled to stay in my body. It was too soon. Far too soon. I didn’t even know her. I didn’t want to get swept away.

Gathering me up in her arms, she whispered into my hair, “Tell Daddy how you’re feeling.”

I couldn’t. Couldn’t go there. Couldn’t give her access. She was to be my Daddy for that one night only and in that short time I learned a new, startling fact about myself. I could no longer do pick-up play with this particular archetype. It left the little girl in me feeling too exposed, too raw. So I used the opportunity to teach that girl a harsh lesson. Employing every last trick in the book, I drew out this Daddy’s most ruthless sadist. Made her beat the lesson down past the hematoma, penetrating every last haematid, so that I’d never forget. So that I’d never fail my babygirl self in this way again.

“I’m going to need you to take ten more of these on each side. Think you can do that for Daddy?”

Glancing over my shoulder, I caught a glimpse of her stance in my peripheral vision just for a split second before my eyes watered, unfocusing, drifting off to a place where only the sensation of her spankings existed. “Yes, Daddy.”

Her martial arts training was evident not only in her stance and the blows she landed but, perhaps most impressively, in her follow-through. That is where I could truly taste the skill level of her black belt. I could’ve sworn she was striking me with a closed fist, her hands possessed that much power. She bruised her wrist all the way up through her palm with my ass, leaving us both delectably empurpled.

Flipping me over deftly, she began slapping my inner thighs. My body automatically shifted to give her greater access, legs spreading of their own volition. “Such a little harlot. Is that all it takes for you to spread your legs?” I blushed hard, knowing she was right. My mouth could invent some excuse but my body would always relay the truth.

Daddy grew impatient with my arms getting in her way, demanding full access to all parts of me at any given moment. As soon as I thought I had figured out her plan of attack, she’d switch directions to forge a completely different path. My lack of grace combined with her erratic movements meant my appendages were constantly in her direct line of fire.

“Quit fidgeting. Arms behind your back. And stop licking your lips. You’re just trying to be provocative. No one’s lips are that dry.”

That last line really challenged me in stifling a giggle, but I somehow managed to keep it together, delighted to be under her direction. The new position forced my tits to stand even more prominently on display as I gave her the uninterrupted access to my flesh she required. She beat me with only her bare hands that night—punishing enough in their brute force—but the next morning, she brought out her toys. Only the crop with an inflexible leather tab was store-bought. The other six she had made herself.

She began with a simple nylon flogger—the likes of which could be almost soft and sweet enough to take without end. But not with the brand of exertion she put behind it. “I’m going to take out all my hatred for Emily Dickinson on your back,” she quipped, the white falls raining down on the tattoo between my shoulder blades featuring a stanza from the poetess. Then quickly moving onto a dragon tail when it became clear the Belle of Amherst hadn’t been disciplined severely enough for her untold crimes against literature.

“How many is that?”

Silence as I tried to figure out how to wrap my tongue around words … and then numbers. “Seven?”

“That sounded like a question.”

“Seven.” Only slightly more confident, I managed to avoid the higher pitch tell that signaled doubt.

She was looking for an (unnecessary) excuse to extend my punishment—which I won’t deny I longed for but the good girl in me wanted so badly to please her Daddy—and in the end, my answer was correct so she simply carried on with the original twenty she had promised. Whipping me so brutally, so evenly on each side, I could feel myself slipping into boundless subspace.

In my tranced out state, I caught a flash of myself a couple days from then, tears in my eyes as I acknowledged aloud for the first time that my emotions had gotten all tangled up with my abandonment issues. My new Daddy was never meant to have any staying power, but the lingering repercussions of our scene were tangible in my body. They had more of an effect on my soul than I would’ve liked to admit and I was only then coming to terms with the consequences. Shaking my head free of this vision, I re-grounded myself in the present, accepting my fate and taking responsibility into my own hands. I was a big girl. So what if this Daddy couldn’t provide me with the aftercare I needed? I could take care of myself. And to prove it to myself, my brattiest side surfaced, inciting her to beat me harder. I refused to regard myself as an innocent in this scene.

Her divinely thuddy leather flogger, plump with innumerable falls, afforded me an opportunity too tempting to pass up. The instrument composed the most seductive symphony on my shoulders, but despite its impressive soundings it didn’t inflict enough pain to suppress my smart mouth. “I thought you detested Dickinson. Didn’t you want to punish her? This feels more like a reward, a massage of sorts.” I could feel her indignation bubbling up as the thwacks rang increasingly louder with each bit of sass until finally I had to shout to be heard. “…Almost as if you’re making sweet, sweet lesbian love to her … like only her sister-in-law could do.”

That last line sealed the deal and she flung one flogger to the side, taking up a much nastier one in its place. The one with the braided tails from the photo. I had been waiting for this and we had moved far beyond anything even remotely resembling warm-up. She laid into me, holding nothing back, thoroughly delivering the warning she had conveyed in the photo that had interrupted my grocery shopping days prior.

As delicious as it was to finally earn what I had coming to me, getting beat with the strop that came next was, hands down, my favorite. Its sensation was biting and delicious but there was something special about being all too aware of its primary function. Mindful that buried in its leather grain was the energy her knives. Cognizant that while it licked and prickled at my flesh, it had also served to sharpen the same blades that had marked me the previous night.

Sufficiently satisfied by the painstaking beating she had administered but not quite yet done with me, Daddy ordered me to my feet. Holding me the entire way to steady me against vertigo, she lead me into the bathroom in order to make me look in the mirror at what I forced her do to me. I was entranced by the marks just beginning to surface across my flesh. They would bloom and blossom in the days to come—shades of pink, red, and purple, then blues, greens and yellows that eventually faded altogether. But the deeper effects would take longer to wear off. I knew I would carry that scene with me long after my scarring healed over. Until the day I was ready to release it on my own.

Admiring her handiwork, she ordered me to bend over farther still such that the view was then hers alone. A lecherously voyeuristic indulgence, she kept me bent over like that, staring long enough to ensure proper embarrassment on my part. An act of contrition. She was to send me home feeling objectified, as though she had used my body for her pleasures alone. Though we both knew better.

As I righted myself, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror, taken aback by my babygirl self blinking wide-eyed back at me—tender, laid bare, and the most contented I had seen her in years. “The coming down is going to hurt,” I warned her with a look. “But don’t worry, I’ve got this. I’ll be the one to take care of you.”

Mindful of my promise to her from that day forward, I remained steadfast in her protection, always watchful, ever careful.

Best Lesbian Erotica 2012 is Here! My Introduction & the NYC Release Party

BLE is here! Kristen’s copy from Amazon arrived last week and we had a toast, read the first and last story out loud, and of course found a few typos. (Can’t have everything!)

As usual, series editor and reading series host Kathleen Warnock is hosting the New York City release party on December 15th at her Drunken! Careening! Writers! series at KGB Bar in the East Village. (When I have the Facebook invite and such I’ll let you know.)

Meanwhile, though, here’s my introduction to this year’s Best Lesbian Erotica. I’m really pleased with how it turned out, there are a lot of great (dirty!) stories included by many of my favorite writers. Pick it up if you get a chance. I really hope you like it, and I’d love to hear what you think after you get a chance to read it.

Introduction
Sinclair Sexsmith

I know what I want.

I knew exactly what I was looking for when I read the submitted stories for this anthology: dirty, smutty, smart about gender, smart about power, packed full of sex with the bare necessary descriptions of setting and context, and, oh yeah, good writing. It doesn’t have to be dirty in my personal favorite ways—with sultry accoutrements and costuming like stockings and strappy sandals, or with strap-ons and lots of fucking, or with blow jobs and dirty talk. I like stories where the characters are so turned on and lusty that I feel it too, even if it is not my particular kink or pleasure. I like stories with unique descriptions and rolling prose and insatiable narrators and rising and falling action. I like stories where I want to recreate the action for myself, when I am inspired by the delicious positions and settings and words.

Yes, and the words, let’s not forget the words. That’s what these kinds of books are all about, really. If you wanted a quick, easy turn on, you could load up any of dozens of queer porn sites—there is no shortage of real, good queer porn out there these days. But for some of us that is too crass, and a well-done turn of phrase gets us swooning and biting our lips and rubbing our thighs together even more than a dirty video.

I didn’t always know what I wanted. When I was coming out in the late 1990s, though there was a serious lack of queer porn in the video stores, there were plenty of people paving the landscape for what would become the blossoming queer porn of the 2000s. Diana Cage, On Our Backs magazine, Good Vibrations, (Toys in) Babeland, Annie Sprinkle, Susie Bright—and, of course, Tristan Taormino. It was Tristan’s 1998 Best Lesbian Erotica anthology that for me clicked something into place, something I could no longer pretend wasn’t there. I would hide the book in the back of the shelves at the bookstore where I worked so it wouldn’t get purchased, and I’d sandwich it between two others and sneak it into the stock room to read when it was slow. I wore creases into the spine with Toni Amato’s story “Ridin’ Bitch” and Karlyn Lotney’s story “Clash of the Titans.” I was genuinely confused as to why I liked these stories so much. What was this affect they had on me? Why did I love them so much? What did it all mean?

I began to find other books, short stories, and essays that helped move my budding baby dykery along: Nothing But the Girl—oh, swoon. That essay by Anastasia Higgenbotham in Listen Up: Voices From the Next Feminist Generation. Cunt by Inga Muscio. Breathless by Kitty Tsui. And the Herotica series, which was erotica for women before Rachel Kramer Bussel’s prolific erotica editing career.

I bought one of the Herotica books at a little indy bookstore—now gone—on Capitol Hill in Seattle when I visited one summer, before moving there. But it proved to be too threatening to my boyfriend who, enraged some night after yet another argument about my sexuality, stabbed that book and two other lesbian erotica books with the wide-handled screwdriver which I’d used to masturbate since I was a teenager.

These books are filled with three powerful things: 1. women, who are 2. empowered, 3. about their sexuality (which, by the way, does not involve men). Even the books themselves are threatening.

These books of lesbian erotica are not fluff. They are not nothing. They are not frivolous or useless.

For queers coming out and into our own, they are a path.

Fast forward a few years and I’ve managed to snag myself a lesbian bed death relationship, going out of my mind with desire and disconnection. I stopped writing, because the only thing that I was writing was how miserable I felt, how much I wanted out of that relationship—a reality I wasn’t ready to face. I decided that to work off my sexual energy, I would either go to the gym or I would write erotica. Well, I ended up writing a lot of erotica, rediscovering this tool of self-awareness and self-creation that had led me to smut in the first place, and I began writing myself back into my own life, back into the things that I hold most important: connection, touch, release, holding, witness, play.

My first published smut story was in Best Lesbian Erotica 2006. Between the time I wrote it and the time the book came out, I was beginning to end the bed death relationship, in no small part because I’d reminded myself of the value of the erotic, of my own inner erotic world, of erotic words. Between the time I wrote it and the time it came out, I started Sugarbutch Chronicles, which has carried me through these last five plus years, often being my sanctuary, support circle, best friend, and confidant.

Writing these stories, for me, has not been frivolous. They have not been nothing. They are not fluff or useless.

For me, they were a path back to myself when I got lost.

When I was lost, I had no idea what I wanted, aside from the basic daily survivals: work. Eat. Pay bills. Sleep. Shower. But when I wrote, when I connected with my own desire, I felt a little piece of me bloom and become in a bigger way. I felt more like myself.

I turned again to the great books of smut to help me find myself, to help me find a way back to a partner, a lover, a one night stand—hell, even an hour with a Hitachi was sometimes enough. The Leather Daddy and the Femme. Mr. Benson. Switch Hitters: Gay Men Write Lesbian Erotica and Lesbians Write Gay Male Erotica. Back to Basics: Butch/Femme Erotica. Doing It For Daddy. And Best Lesbian Erotica, always Best Lesbian Erotica. I still eagerly buy it every year to see what the guest editor’s tastes are, to see what the new trends are, to read the emerging new writers, to get my rocks off.

I rediscovered what I wanted through reading smut and writing it. Through carving myself a path in connection with a lineage of sex positive dykes and sex radicals and queer kinksters and feminist perverts.

After six years of writing and publishing erotica, I am thrilled to be a guest editor for the series which sparked me into queerness in 1998, thrilled to be choosing stories for the same series that published my very first piece, “The Plow Pose,” in 2006, which helped spark me back to myself. It is so exciting to be contributing to this queer smut hotbed that Cleis Press has helped nurture all these years, and I’m so glad to continue to be part of it in new ways.

I know what I want, now. And lesbian erotica, or as I prefer to call it, queer smut, has helped me not only visualize what is possible, but create a path toward getting what I want.

The stories in this book reflect my taste, my favorites, my personal hot spots, certainly, but also the best-written stories from a large pile of well-written stories by some of my favorite authors, like Kiki DeLovely and Xan West. There are some less-well known writers in here whose work you may not be familiar with, yet, but who will leave an impression on you, writers like Anne Grip and Amy Butcher. I found dozens of moments of signposts, signals directing me toward myself, words illuminating my own meridians of ache. With each story, with each act of lust, with each dirty command or submissive plea, I rediscovered my own want.

I hope you find some of what you want within these pages, too.