Monthly Archives: April 2013

Fox Gets Erotic with Fellow Writers

Anais Nin always plays an important role in "Go Deeper, Baby."

Anais Nin always plays an important role in “Go Deeper, Baby.”

Hello, dear readers!  And what’s that you say?  You love the erotic?  Well, aha, so do we!  So much so, in fact, that Go Deeper Press Co-Founder and Senior Editor, Lana Fox, and Go Deeper Press author Zoe More, will be running an erotic poetry workshop at the Massachusetts Poetry Festival in Salem this Saturday, May 4th.  We’re going to have lots of fun with erotic language and sex-positivity, and you’ll hear me reading hot words with a British accent.  (I’m a Brit, you see, yes.)

Do come, do come!  It’s always such a pleasure to meet Go Deeper supporters, readers and friends.

Also, if you’re a writer, why not come along to my May workshop on writing erotica?  Go Deeper, Baby: Writing Meaningful Erotica always proves to be an amazing night of supportive, fun, creative erotica.  We read lovely sex writing and pen some ourselves.  And the atmosphere is always delightful.  In fact, I have been informed by fellow instructors that the warm laughter emerging from the erotic writing classroom is always contageous.  Oh, and there’s even chocolate…

Here:

Go Deeper, Baby: Writing Meaningful Erotica

Thursday, May 30th, 6:30-9:30pm at Grub Street headquarters.  You can sign up here.

In this one-night seminar, we’ll celebrate erotic fiction, looking at why it’s both emotionally valuable and increasingly popular. Drawing on well-respected authors such as Anais Nin and Steve Almond, we’ll explore what makes a sexy story sexy, while also tapping the transformational qualities of the genre. Come along with a willingness to be open about feelings and sensations, and you’ll leave with a short, sexy story of your own. All sexual and gender identities warmly welcomed. Led by an instructor who regularly publishes erotica and views it as some of her most meaningful work.  You can sign up here.
If you’re coming along, feel free to shoot me an email, or comment below, and say hello ahead of time.  Always lovely to hear from you.  And if you’d like to read Lana’s erotic writing absolutely free of charge, here’s the first chapter of Confessions of a Kinky Divorcee.

Thanks for supporting Go Deeper Press. If you’d like to browse our erotic, sex-positive e-books for brain and brawn, you can find our website here

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Go Deeper Press’ Links of the Week

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Christina Amphlett courtesy of dangerousminds.net

Another sizzling review of Those Girls, courtesy of rebelnotes.com

Let it…! Shine Louise Houston on Shine Louise Houston, BEHIND THE PORN: “Shiny Jewels,” Feminist Porn Awards 2013

So what do you do, Angela, when your high school crush shuffles off this mortal coil? Divinyls Singer Christina Amphlett Dies at Age 53

And let’s not forget that Ms. Amphlett is one of the originators of the “kinderwhore” phenomenon, thus leading to a fetish for one GDP editor that still exists today, and always.

Theater can do no wrong! ‘Showgirls! The Musical!’: Stage Parody Of 1995 Flop Movie Hits New York’s Kraine Theater

Mmm…arty Stoya. STOYA BY SEAN & SENG

Good stuff from friend of GDP, I.J. Miller: An Erotic History

Since we love artichokes, and since we love porn, we’re getting ready and suggest you do, too: Blue Artichoke’s Silver Shoes

Thanks for supporting Go Deeper Press. If you’d like to browse our erotic, sex-positive e-books for brain and brawn, you can find our website here

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The Shameless Behavior Contest: Two Covers, You Choose

Hi, folks. It’s Angela. How are you? I need your help. You’ll see below two potential covers for Go Deeper Press’ upcoming anthology, Shameless Behavior. I want to know which one you think is best, the one that simply must be the final cover, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. What you can do is leave a comment right here on our blog.

Here’s the best part yet: The Commenter (that’s you, in respectful caps) that (1) chooses the cover he or she thinks is a go and (2) provides the best critical feedback (I’ll take both positive or negative, and if it’s negative, I’m thinking constructively negative, since I’m a sensitive soul, a Cancer and all) gets a free e-book of his or her choice from Go Deeper Press and a copy of Shameless Behavior once it’s available. Oh, and of course the book will have the cover you’ve chosen, without the Shutterstock watermark, and you can tell all your friends and family, “I did that.”

We’ll pick our best critical Commenter on Monday, May 6, so be sure to get your critical comment in no later than Sunday, May 5, at midnight.

Lana and I, we can’t thank you enough, really, so let me do it again: Thank you, thank you to YOU, awesome member of our extended GDP family. Now get criticizin’!

COVER NO. 1 (Click on the image for a larger version!)

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COVER NO. 2 (Click on the image for a larger version!)

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Thanks for supporting Go Deeper Press. If you’d like to browse our erotic, sex-positive e-books for brain and brawn, you can find our website here. You can also contact Angela about designing covers for your e-books and other projects at angela at godeeperpress dot com.

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Read the Opening of “Confessions of a Kinky Divorcee” by Lana Fox (Sex Scene included)

Courtesy of Mischief Books

Courtesy of Mischief Books

This free sample contains explicit detail and is for adults only. 

Chapter One

Pussyfooting

Dear Kitten,

I know your new name sounds silly, Kitten, especially considering you’re only a notebook, but how can I begin every sex-crazed confession with the words ‘Dear Diary’? Even Anais Nin didn’t do that. Anyway, once you’ve heard what I’ve been up to recently, you’ll probably be pushing me to quit the shoe biz and commit to my calling as a writer of smut. But let’s start with the basics. Why ‘Kitten’? you ask. Well, as soon as I saw your tiger-fur cover, I was smitten, Kitten. You reminded me of those tiger-print stilettos I’ve been saving up for – even with my staff discount it’ll be weeks before I can buy them. But if anything would make me feel like a goddess, it’s those.

Anyway, ‘Tiger’ seemed like a bad name for a sex-confession diary – after all, I don’t want to share my secrets with some savage animal. So yes, you will be my kittenly confidante, because I may not be able to share my kinky secrets with anyone else. But you – with your furry cover? I’m up to the task.

So. Secret number one.

Just one year ago, when I first found those pale-blue lacy knickers in Henry’s suit pocket, my heart didn’t break even slightly. That’s the real tragedy.

See, it felt like I should have been broken by this, him being my husband, but nope, his having a ‘bit on the side’ didn’t even surprise me. Instead, I stretched those flimsy things out and gazed at them, imagining the curvy body of the woman they belonged to. Skimpy little things that cup the bum cheeks. And between you and me, Kitten, I just had to bury my face in them – to find out how a woman smells. And this one smelled so musky, so deliciously off-bounds, that I felt myself getting damp. Wet. That’s right. Burning between the thighs too, like the times when Henry actually bothered to screw me. In fact, I was so turned on that I wanted to meet this lay of Henry’s, this bit on the side, and touch her and taste her, push my tongue inside her, like a tabby with a tub of cream. I wanted to make her simper and tremble and beg me to, well . . . fuck her! Is that obscene? Gotta get used to saying the word. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Why the heck not? I don’t think I care anymore.

Anyhoo, after that came some crying, and a few friends who said, ‘Debs, he’s eight years younger than you, what did you expect?’

I expect faithfulness, for starters, I’d say! It isn’t like he’d asked me for an open relationship where I could get bouncy with muscular boys for a hundred pounds a pop.

Truth was; the end had come.

So why not go out with a bang?

Well, it was easy enough to park outside his workplace on Friday night and follow him as he pulled away from his so-called ‘Friday drinks with the crew’. I tracked him in my Mini. A right little secret agent, I was. And when we arrived at a tiny cottage, with ivy trailing down the walls and porcelain dogs in the window, he parked the car, strode up to the front door and – get this, Kitten! – let himself in with a key.

I was out of that car lickety-split, nose against the front window. But they weren’t in the front room and, when I looked through the letterbox, they weren’t in the hallway either. Only when I scooted round the back of the house and crouched in front of one of the back windows, my court heels sinking down into a flowerbed, did I see them together. Henry sat calmly on the white leather sofa, his arm along the back, while she stood in front of him dressed in a short beige mackintosh, with a bowler hat and a pair of black stilettos. Her legs and thighs were bare – and, dear God, so tanned and slender! – and beneath her hat she was a stunning bleach-blonde.

I have never seen anyone in all my days that made me burn like she did, and I longed to keep watching, so I sank to my knees, ducking down low to keep myself hidden. And there was Henry, appraising her slowly, his gaze all gleaming and wicked while he beckoned her to come closer. The bastard had never looked at me that way! He’d been lying to me, all that time, while I was longing for a sex life! All those silky nighties I’d bought! And all for nothing!

But once she was right in front of him, one foot raised and planted on the couch next to him, all I could do was gape at her slender legs, and the way the mac fell apart at the join, revealing her inner thigh. And when Henry leaned forward and slid a hand up and down her shin, watching the path of his fingers, while he murmured some quiet command, I wished I was in his place. Then, slowly, she undid the buttons on her mac, holding his gaze until it slid to the floor and her bare body stood before me, all supple skin, high breasts and oh-so-hard nipples.

Then, in an instant, Henry was unzipping his flies and pulling her hips towards him so she fell into his lap, her knees either side of his. I heard her little cry of pleasure – like a girl at Christmas – and for just a moment I saw his cock in his hand before she sank down onto it, so the tip disappeared into her neatly trimmed . . . you know . . . (yes, all right, I can do this) . . . into the trimmed hair of her pussy.

There. See? Bring on the smut.

Anyway, soon she was riding him and his hands were on her hips, pulling her down over and over, his stare big and dark as it glossed that beautiful body, resting for a while on those lovely, leaping breasts. He’d never looked at me with such gargantuan lust! But it didn’t bother me really – it was the woman I wanted to watch. Dear heaven, I’d never seen another woman’s bosoms during sex and I could see what all the fuss was about. They were so voluptuously full, and their bouncing was so keen, so pretty, so utterly obscene, especially when accompanied by her sweet little cries – cries that grew breathier as she rode him. She had a wonderful bottom too. So shapely and firm. So mesmerised was I that I hardly noticed Henry’s grunting – I was imagining I was Henry and that she was riding me, slicking it up with every thrust. I’d cup a breast, if it were me, pressing a nipple in my palm, while with my other hand I pawed a single buttock . . . or maybe even slapped it. And as I thought this, I found my fingers creeping beneath my skirt, so I burrowed deeper, shamelessly slipping inside my briefs. But it wasn’t just my fingers that made me come. It was her glazing gaze, the way she threw back her head, her curls dancing down her back. And the thread of moisture that had crawled across her thigh and was creeping towards her stiletto shoes – because she was too wet to hold it in, while her hips pumped up and down, faster and faster still . . .

See? Pure Penthouse. Actually, Kitten, I wonder how well they pay . . .

But that was before I told him to leave. That was before the end. His end, not my end, mind. I wasn’t the one that screwed it up. Then again, Kitten, since I’m meant to be confessing, I felt like I’d strayed too. Just watching that girl sliding up and down on him…wasn’t that infidelity, in its way?

Anyway, Henry moved out and we were divorced within a couple of months – that’s ten months ago now. I gave him everything he wanted, just to end our marriage tout de suite. And once he’d gone, things were fine for a while. Except that I grew lonely, just me with my shoe collection and not enough cash to restock it.

I was promoted to shop manager at Pussyfoot’s Chipham branch, but my salary still wasn’t enough to live on happily, so I had to sell the Mini. Broke my heart, it did. And you know; it’s hard managing a shoe store when you lust after shoes but can’t afford to buy them. That’s why my friend Gladys persuaded me to get myself a tenant. Of course, Gladys, whose current project is to show me that turning forty will make me sexier than ever, thought I’d find myself a young student of the male variety – a boy half my age who goes to the local uni and studies motor mechanics or some other suitably macho profession.

Then along came Janey Prince in her ripped jeans and pageboy cap, sitting quietly at my kitchen table. And with her intense blue eyes and cropped blonde hair she was more of a stud than any man I’d known. I gave her the Jessica Rabbit mug and she raised her eyebrows at it, before bringing it to her lips and taking a sip.

‘You’ll need a sense of humour if you’re going to live with me,’ I said.

She watched me, owl-like, head tipped to the side. ‘I’m more the quiet type,’ she said, in a voice that could melt butter.

I asked her what she did, and she told me she was a gender studies student at the local university. ‘Don’t you want a student house?’ I asked.

‘I’m not really into people my age,’ she said, simply.

‘Why not?’ I said. ‘Kids should be kids.’

She gave me a glare. ‘I’m twenty-three.’

I could hardly look at her, I was so embarrassed. ‘It’s a turn of phrase,’ I told her, ‘that’s all.’ But inside I was thinking, Like hell am I going to live with a humourless student who probably smokes too much grass and judges my every word! But there was something about her. She gave off this glow. That’s the only way to put it. So I said, ‘I was only thinking you’d probably pay less rent in a student house.’

She shrugged one shoulder. ‘My parents are both dead. They left me money. I can do what I like with it. And like I say, I’m not usually into people my age.’

Oh, God, Kitten, the poor kid! She flushed and stared fixedly at Jessica Rabbit, turning the mug a little as if she wanted a better view.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, gently. ‘Blah, blah, blah, that’s me. I shouldn’t pry, should learn to engage my brain.’

She gives a small smile.

‘Anyway,’ I say, ‘What do you do in gender studies?’

And then she cheered up a little. ‘For my dissertation,’ she said, looking up from

beneath her lashes, ‘I’m writing about the history of the stiletto heel.’ Holy smoke! I could have shot through the ceiling!

‘Well, there you go! I work in a shoe shop.’

‘Yeah?’ Her eyes brightened. ‘Which one?’

‘Pussyfoot,’ I told her.

And, dear God, she gave me a dazzling smile! Her eyes shone as if someone had lit a candle inside her. ‘I love that shop!’ she said, clapping her hands together. ‘My girlfriend Lil shops there. She loves shoes – we both do.’

Girlfriend? So Janey was a lesbian, then. I’d never met a lesbian before.

Suddenly, in my head, I was back with my knees in the soil, gazing in at the woman who was riding my naked husband. And just for a moment – you won’t believe this, Kitten – I replaced Henry with Janey, so that she was the one with the big long cock, except it was one of those strap-ons, I suppose. And in this daydream, as the lithe woman bounced away, Janey turned and glared at me – but it was a sexy glare, an ‘I want you’ glare. Dear God. The thought of it made me flood.

Janey took a sip from the Jessica Rabbit mug, and I sat back, glancing down at her feet, and asked her to show me her shoes. She raised a leg, revealing a light-blue baseball boot. What a letdown! I raised an eyebrow. ‘D’you wear those when you’re studying the history of the stiletto?’

‘When I’m studying the stiletto,’ she said, ‘it’s my girlfriend’s shoes I watch.’ Then she looked right at me, as if she was saying, Picture it.

And just like that, I was wet.

‘Show me yours,’ she said, at last.

It took me a moment to work out what she meant – and when I did, I couldn’t resist standing up and giving a little walk to show my beauties off. Classy black peep-toe heels with supersoft leather – perfect for any kind of business transaction – and she stared at them, her eyes darkening, before letting her stare gloss my legs, my thighs, my blouse, then finally returning to the shoes. ‘They’re hot,’ she said, in a husky voice that made my insides give a little. ‘You wear them well.’ And just like that, I was imagining her kissing my feet.

‘The rent’s four hundred a month,’ I said.

She nodded, ‘The room’s perfect. Lil would stay over a couple of nights a week, but you’ll hardly know she’s there.’

‘Any girl who loves shoes is a friend of mine,’ I told Janey.

So that was that. Janey moved in yesterday.

Well, why am I writing this diary, you ask? Why confess my erotic thoughts about a twenty-something to a blank page? Because I’m worried about myself, Kitten. I mean, I still dream about men, don’t get me wrong. But now I also dream about Janey in a strap-on, sitting on the bed, watching as I parade about in skimpy knickers and high- heeled shoes, that serious stare of hers soldered on mine. And, just like Henry, I’ve always been . . . you know, sceptical . . . about girls dating girls. I always wondered what they’d do together. Henry said that too. ‘What does anyone do without a cock, my dear?’

But what if I want to find out? After all, I’m not his ‘dear’ any more. And you know what it said in my stars last week? ‘Now look here, you roving Archers,’ said Evita Grant, my astrology guru, when I flicked to her page in my copy of Fashion Femme. ‘Don’t you go using your secret shame as an excuse to flee. Whatever you’ve been repressing, now’s the time to heal it. Come out, come out, come out! Commit to being you.’

Well, that’s Evita. Sometimes, I wonder if, when she looks at the night sky, the stars spell out words that I just can’t see.

Shameful secret number two: when I went to bed last night, I left my peep-toe shoes by the front door, like I often do. The last thing I expected was what I saw, next morning. There I was, about to walk down the stairs, when I noticed Janey Prince in the entrance hall below me, kneeling on the carpet, wearing nothing but a black T-shirt. She was totally in profile, so I could see the swell of her bum from beneath the black fabric, and her long, slender legs. In her hands she was holding one of my black peep-toe shoes, turning it, gazing at it, running a fingertip down the stiletto heel. I caught my breath, but she can’t have heard, because she turned the shoe upside down and raised it to eye-level. She stared at the heel for a while before putting her face close and licking the length of it, slowly, giving a rough little growl.

Now, it’s not like me to pussyfoot around watching others, but heavens, it was Janey who was invading my space, right? Oh, but I was mesmerised, Kitten, standing there in my dressing gown, my heart thumping away, wet between my thighs. What if she licked my heel like that while I was wearing the shoes? What if she lay on the floor, and I slid the heel between her lips and made her, you know, suck it? What if she writhed around, enjoying every inch? And what if this turned me on so much that the moisture slid down my thighs, while she stared at me, lustfully, as I slid that heel in and out?

So you know what I did, Kitten? After she put my shoe down and walked towards the kitchen, all pale thighs and bed-ruffled hair, I went to the bathroom and pushed my fingers inside me and thought about wearing that peep-toe shoe and pressing the heel inside her. I thought about fucking her with it, Kitten, over and over again, while she rolled around, naked, gasping with pleasure. She was so wet that the heel slid in easily and was coated with more moisture at every thrust. And I imagined her coming, Kitten, while she watched me fucking her like that. I imagined her long moan and the way she thrust her hips, slamming her arms against the floor as if to brace herself. I imagined her body arching so much that her firm little breasts rose towards me, and she moaned on and on.

But you know what shames me the most, Kitten? When I touched myself in the shower with my fingers deep inside me, I came like I’ve never come before. So hard and deep that I lost my balance, and had to grasp the shower curtain to stop myself from falling. And then I came again and again and again, in a crescendo, Kitten – just nothing but scorching pleasure, over and over, until, once I’d finished, I found I’d been writhing so much that I was caught in the shower curtain. It was wrapped and twisted around me like a badly clingfilmed haddock, because of just how hard I’d come.

I can’t help wondering if Janey Prince heard me, Kitten, even though she was downstairs. I was so loud, that she surely couldn’t have missed it. And is it awful to say that the very idea made me touch myself again, and come again, hard, just to think of it?

That’s why I got to work late, Kitten. Yes, I, the manager, arrived later than the staff! Pearl, my assistant manager, was watching me sideways all afternoon, a suspicious look in her soft brown eyes that seemed to say, ‘I’m on to you.’

And I don’t have to tell you which shoes I wore to work.

Not that I’m a lesbian, Kitten. At least . . . no, I’m just playing with the thought. But I haven’t given Janey a contract, just in case I can’t have her around, in case she spoils my career or puts me off men or makes a cradle-snatcher of me. Anyway, I suppose this is a trial period, really. Rent once a month. And I’ll keep an eye on things. I mean, who knows if I’ll be able to live with a twenty-three-year-old student?

And who knows if she’ll be able to live with me?

Thanks for reading!  To buy the rest of the novel at a mere $1.99 (US) or 99 p (UK)…

Buy from Amazon US

Buy from Amazon UK

Buy from Barnes & Noble

Buy from Google Play

Buy from Mischief Books (UK only)

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Modern-Day Mermaid: Love Your Breasts

We thought we’d post my second Modern-Day Mermaid video today.  In it, I encourage you to be you, to love your breasts, your bodies.  Oh!  And don’t forget to listen to our free erotic self-love audio visualization here.

And here’s the vid.  Enjoy!

Thanks for supporting Go Deeper Press. If you’d like to browse our erotic, sex-positive e-books for brain and brawn, you can find our website here.

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Go Deeper Press’ Links of the Week

Boston_Skyline_at_DuskOh, what a week it’s been. Happy it’s over, on almost all fronts. This week, our list is short, since we spent a good portion of this week licking our mental and emotional wounds. But do enjoy the ones we flagged because, of course, they’re worth everyone’s time:

Colbert on Boston, nipple chafing.

Looky look! The French take no shit. ‘Open Letter To Frigide Barjot’: Gay Man Slams French Gay Marriage Opponent In Facebook Post

HERO of the week: High Schooler Protests ‘Slut-Shaming’ Abstinence Assembly Despite Alleged Threats From Her Principal

Highlight of the week: Review of Femme Fatale on A Book Hunter’s Journal.

Sisters and Slaves over at the Vagina Antics.

Photo of Boston courtesy of 2nified on Wikimedia Commons.

Thanks for supporting Go Deeper Press. If you’d like to browse our erotic, sex-positive e-books for brain and brawn, you can find our website here.

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Free Mermaids, Free Pep, Free Superstar Drag Queens

MermaidVoyageLogoDear sex-positive readers, after quite the week in the Boston area, we are sending a little erotic bounty out to you and the rest of the universe.  To listen to the first day’s audio visualization from our erotic self-love course, “The Mermaid Voyage,” visit our website and find somewhere to relax before you press ‘play.’

Also, if you’re a writer, erotic or otherwise, take a peek at my new column at the Grub Street Daily.  It’s written under my other name, if you’re curious, and, inspired by RuPaul and fellow drag wonders.  The column is “Pep Talk” and the post is entitled, “Confidence Tips from Superstar Drag Queens.”

Enjoy.  You so deserve it.

Thanks for supporting Go Deeper Press. If you’d like to browse our erotic, sex-positive e-books for brain and brawn, you can find our website here.

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Boston, You’re Our Home

Boston_downtown_skylineLana and I woke to radio reports of the first bombing suspect having been shot and killed. The morning only got worse: Our city is on lockdown while authorities search for the second suspect. Everyone who lives in the greater Boston area has been told not to leave their houses. Businesses are closed. There is no public transport or taxi service today. It must be the eeriest thing to witness: the Boston Common, Downtown Crossing, and Kenmore Square with hardly a soul to see.

It felt sore as hell to open our eyes to continued violence in the media, to see our friends’ reports on Facebook and Twitter on what they’re witnessing from their homes in the city. It’s been a long while since Boston has been wrapped by such atrocity and fear. That said, as a lifelong resident of Massachusetts, I know we’ll rise from it.

Here’s part of a transcript from an audio clip from Lana’s amazing Mermaid Voyage course, which will be available from Go Deeper Press before you know it and is particularly relevant:

“Remind yourself that it doesn’t matter what you believe in. You might believe in God, or maybe Nature, or maybe Divine Love, or maybe Angels, or Gods and Godesses. You might believe in the spirit world, or the power of animal spirits. Perhaps you simply believe in good. But whatever you believe in, it has the power to dissolve fears and shame.”

These words lifted me so high from this week’s continued tragedies. It’s a perfect reminder to stay centered and connected to what you believe in, especially during times like these.

Peace and love to all.

Thanks for supporting Go Deeper Press. If you’d like to browse our erotic, sex-positive e-books for brain and brawn, you can find our website here.

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Boston skyline photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

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Porn: Medieval Myths and Modern Quests

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Violet Blue of the fabulous TinyNibbles.com

This post first appeared in The Nervous Breakdown in 2011, and was one of Lana Fox’s “Hot Topic” columns.  Enjoy.

There is a Medieval story in which King Arthur is given one of his stickiest challenges.  He will die unless, in just one year, he can discover what women most desire.  And you know what he finds?  Women want sovereignty over themselves.

Oh, eureka.

Yet look at how long it’s taken for society to accept that gazillions of women freely enjoy porn.  Thank heaven the myth that women aren’t aroused by visual images has now been exploded many times, notably by Sex and Tech expert Violet Blue whose Our Porn Ourselves campaign has taken the internet by storm. Blue incited many women – myself included – to declare that we were turned on by porn and that any generalizations to the contrary were attempts to control our sexuality. Many men also champion Our Porn Ourselves, relieved that we are shattering erroneous notions of porn as “so warped that only guys will watch it” – a belief that contains so much prejudice it’s hard to know where to start. But the sexist lies still run deep. I myself was devastated when a beloved sexpert hero of mine declared porn as “basically male entertainment.” In fact, my very first reaction to her statement was, “What if I love lesbian porn? Where’s the ‘male’ in that?”

But perhaps part of the problem with the term “pornography” is that its meaning shifts with time and usage. What is porn, exactly? Explicit visuals? Well, yeah, if you video-record sex with your lover, hoping to turn yourselves on with the images, that’s surely porn…but what if you record the sex aurally rather than visually, and listen to the noises at another time? Or what if you don’t record the sex, but just carry the memories around in your head, reliving the moment when she licked your breast or pulled your hair just right? That’s a visual used to arouse, right? So doesn’t that count? While we’re at it, can a oil-painted nude in the Musee D’Orsay be porn if it turns you on? And what of BDSM porn, in which, for legal and/or aesthetic reasons, genital contact doesn’t tend to take place?  Is such a dom/sub spanking vid only porn when it actually arouses the viewer? Is porn defined by the creator’s intention or the way the consumer uses it?

Whatever the answers, our attitudes are still shifting. This year, Oprah interviewed Violet Blue about women in porn (woohoo! A win for sex-positivity in the media!), plus mags such as the Atlantic Monthly have featured the topic. Porn itself is changing too, especially in terms of its availability. In fact, consumers of free internet porn are also becoming its performers and directors, especially now that sites like YouPorn are popular. Indeed, as internet porn becomes increasingly “real life” we may well see a rise in self-confidence among its viewers – what a great way of proving that you don’t have to be a big-boobed, California blonde to get your partners and viewers off.

As society changes so do its art forms and stereotypes. Take what women want from porn, for instance. Coyote Days, Purchasing Manager at Good Vibrations says “Women often want to see very raw sexuality and more hardcore content than would be assumed by some.” That said, her female customers also buy porn for educational reasons, seeking answers to questions such as “How would I go down on another woman?” or “Would I really be aroused by a threesome?” But however we choose to use it, we need to keep defining porn for ourselves rather than letting the haters do the job. Lady Porn Day (the creation of Rachel Rabbit White) opened up this discussion by asking women “What’s porn for you?” Answers included erotic movies, pieces of classical art, feature films, and photos. For my part, I think of porn as a sensual trigger that I choose in order to turn myself on. And I want that route to pleasure, be it solo or partnered.

There you are, King Arthur.  Suck on that.

Thanks for supporting Go Deeper Press. If you’d like to browse our erotic, sex-positive e-books for brain and brawn, you can find our website here.

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Source:  http://www.thenervousbreakdown.com/lanafox/2011/08/porn-medieval-myths-and-modern-quests/

“Your Husband Standing Over You With His Lad In His Hand…”

It’s been a sad couple of days in the Boston area, and our thoughts are with those who have been deeply affected by the explosions.  We love Boston and these attacks make us ache.

Well, at the Go Deeper Press offices, we thought we’d try and raise our spirits with a little comedy from Father Ted.  In this excerpt, Mrs. Doyle is off on her Lenten pilgrimage in order to stay away from the “old S.E.X.”  Hilarious stuff!  Enjoy.

Thanks for supporting Go Deeper Press.  If you’d like to browse our erotic, sex-positive e-books for brain and brawn, you can find our website here.

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