Monday, March 31, 2014

I Am the Biggest Nerd

I’ve just downloaded far too many articles from Porn Studies, a new journal published by Routledge. I should not be so excited about this.

Saturday, March 29, 2014

I Dare You to Disobey - Part Two

Short Story – 
Part Two
Read Part One Here

The Kid grumbles as I drag him through the alley and toward the office buildings behind Donovan’s. I dig out my keys, passing my keycard against the scanner. The door unlocks with a tonal beep. I use the Kid to shove open the door, pressing him hard against the glass as he grunts. 

“Fucking cop,” the Kid growls as he hocks a loogie at my feet. 

It hits the carpet and I smack him upside his head. “Hey, this is a nice building; don’t fuck it up,” I scold as I march him down the corridor. 

“Where the fuck are we?” he asks as he looks around the shadowed, abandoned hallways. 

“I got friends in real estate,” I tell him. “Got me this building for cheap.” When my aunt died a while back, she left me some cash. Always figured there were worse ways to blow it than renting out the building to small businesses—ones friendly to Donovan’s. Growing ones that maybe need a leg up and who are willing to take business from a more—shall we say—unique clientèle. 

It pays decent—a nice little extra lining my pockets—but mostly I do it to help out the club. Donovan’s been my home for years since before it became big. When it was just a few folks in a bar basement. 

In the years I’ve been dabbling in real estate, I’ve learned that it’s true; it’s all about location, location, location. And the more friendlies I can surround Donovan’s with, the better my home thrives. 

We reach the door I want. I unlock it and shove the Kid in, letting him land hard on the hardwood floors. The squeal of skin on waxed shellac and the sound of his muffled grunt is satisfying.   

I close the door, letting it click menacingly behind me as it locks. Squatting down, I grin at him again. 

But he surprises me by coming up swinging, his head lurching up to try to clip me in the face. With quicker reflexes obtained on the job, I grab him by the shoulders and throw him against the office couch, listening to him slide against the plastic sheet covering the cushions. 

The Kid looks around. “What the hell, man?” he whines. “Are we in someone’s office? What the hell kind of landlord are you?” 

“It’s vacated,” I say as I flip on the lights, revealing the barren space—just that couch and a couple of desks littering the abandoned office. “Used to be rented by an advertising agency. Real good work.” Not exactly my thing, but trendy. Did well. Or at least well enough to pay rent on time.

In addition to all that, they used to do gratis work for Donovan’s. Flyers and posters, party plans and online campaigns. It was a shame to see them go. Real loss to the community. 

“So why’d they leave?” the Kid asks. 

I say nothing. Just smack my lips. Like I said, I rent to folks friendly to Donovan’s. Those that’ll turn a blind eye to what we do, maybe even those who enjoy it.  

But it often gets folks in trouble. Lot of businesses don’t like the noise Donovan’s been dealing with lately. The protesters—who I can hear as I open some of the windows to air out the stuffy office. The news stories. The reporters. The cameras and threats. 

The noise. 

“Neighborhood’s gotten crowded,” I say as I turn back to the Kid still lounging as comfortably as he can handcuffed on the plastic-covered couch. I nod to the window, where the protesters shouts are clear in the night air. “Couldn’t deal with the new tenants.” 

“Sorry.” The Kid sounds sympathetic—almost repentant—a strange twist from his previous sass. 

I shrug. “Happens.”  

“Yeah,” the Kid sighs wistfully, “but it shouldn’t have to. Change changes everything and rarely ever in the way you want.”  

I catch the Kid’s serious face, regretting having even brought it up. I swallow before forcing a scoff. “What would you know of what should and shouldn’t be?” I ask. “You’re, like, two. A baby.”  

Studying him shrewdly, I smirk. “How old are you anyway, Kid?”  

He cocks a cheeky eyebrow at me, his smart mouth curving. “Old enough.”  

I snort. “Which means, I’m guessing, that you don’t have ID, huh?” I eye him right back—my gaze honed and sharpened by years of experience that this boy just don’t have—making him squirm on the abandoned, plastic-covered couch. “Suppose I could find out for myself.” 

I flip the Kid over so his face is smashed against the couch, held there by my hand. I frisk the Kid, finding little more than lint and loose change. 

He bucks beneath me. “Get the fuck off me, pig!” he shouts as he writhes around, wriggling against me. 

I feel his body, strong and small, beneath my bigger one. He’s feisty—a frisky fucker—a spitfire. I straddle him on the couch, my thighs like a vice around his legs as I hook my ankles around his calves, immobilizing him. I lean in close and growl in his ear, “Call me pig one more time, Kid—” 

The Kid lurches forward before bashing back, the back of his head colliding with the bridge of my nose. 

“Fuck!” I curse as I back up, getting off the couch. Little shit, I think as I turn back to him, my eyes watering. He’s gonna pay for that. 

I see him, his arms still cuffed behind him, as he lurches off the couch to sprint toward the door. I tear after him, more pissed than worried. 

Kid isn’t going anywhere. Even if the door wasn’t locked, he’d have a hell of time trying to turn the knob without hands. 

But that isn’t the point. 

The point is respect. And the Kid's going to learn some before the night's through. 

I smile as I stalk the Kid, a wolfish glee in the grin. Diving toward the door, I grab the Kid by the waist, tumbling us both down onto the hard floor, the wood knocking the air out of his lungs as we land. 

We wrestle on the floor. His long legs, stringy but strong, kick like a mother, his knees and heels and toes and shins hitting every part of my body. His shoulders twist, jamming into my chest and neck and face. 

I was right. Kid’s a fighter. A good one, but untrained. 

He’s no real match for me. With a hard hand on each shoulder, I press him hard into the wood. The rest of my body large and menacing pushes into his, covering him completely. 

My smile widens as I feel the press of his cock, hard and long, against my stomach. I rub against it, letting my hard abdomen slide against its length. 

His voice is breathy, hot and weak, as he says, “Get off me.” 

I move again over his dick, feeling him press up into the stroke. “Is that really what you want, Kid?” Then I push down hard against the Kid’s thighs, letting their crease cup and cradle my own cock, hard and insistent. 

“Fuck yourself,” he spits at me. 

“When you’re right here, so conveniently?” I say as I let my hands coast down the length of his forearms, the taut line of his torso, to rest at his waist. I reach between us, slipping my hand between us to grip—grab—his cock, making him jerk into my palm. “Tell me again you want to get up.” 

The Kid just moans as I start to stroke him. His eyes close as his back arches, his hips grinding against my hand.  

“Tell me what you want, Kid,” I say as my grip tightens and my rhythm speeds. 

“Fuck you,” he spits at me as he tries to twist away. 

I laugh as I rip open the front of his pants. “Fuck me?” I chuckle as I nod. “Yeah, that was what I had in mind.” I tug down his jeans—tight motherfuckers—tearing them down his kicking legs. Peeling his Banana Republic pants from him. 

I get them to his knees, where they get stuck, not budging no matter how I pull. 

I shrug; even better as the jeans serve to bind his legs together.  

Sitting back on my haunches, I sniff down at him and the perfect picture he makes. His cheeks flushed and his eyes spitting. His thighs and cock bare. The hard length of his penis juts up toward me, an angry, needy red. 

I can smell him, hot and musky, as I wrap my fist around his throbbing shaft. Leaning down, I taste him, salty and smooth on my tongue. His groan is thick in my ears. I let my hand wander lower between his thighs to toy with his soft sack. 

“Fuck,” he hisses. 

I take him into my mouth, let his cock slide inside. I suck as I blow him, my spit making a sloppy, slippery mess of us both.  

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” A mantra from his mouth. A sweet, desperate plea as he writhes, trying to press closer—deeper—into me. 

I give one more good suck before I let him slip out of my mouth. 

He sputters a protest stinging on his tongue. 

I grab his shirt, jerking him toward me as I seal his mouth with mine, jamming my tongue in against his. He moans again, his ire turning hotter as he tries to eat at my lips, to suck deep my tongue. He bites my lip—nips with sharp teeth. “Fuck me,” he growls when I back away laughing. “Fuck me or fuck off, you fucking pig.” 

I shake my head. I did warn him. 

“You’re in trouble now, smart ass,” I smirk as I grab him about the waist, hauling him up as he squeals. He squirms on my shoulder, testing my hold. I smack his ass hard, making him jump and then still. 

I throw him against the couch, his stomach hitting the sofa’s edge as his backside hangs off the end. 

I stare at him, ass-up and helpless. I grin as I take the condom and lube out of my pocket and lay it on the back of the couch. Tugging at my own pants, I shove them down, freeing my own hard dick. I reach around him as I kneel, stroking his penis again as I pull his belt free from his jeans. 

Even as he thrusts into my hand, he tries to stare over the couch edge to see me. “What are you doing?” he asks as I squeeze his cock before letting him go again to stand, legs braced behind him. “What are you going to—” 

His cry is loud as the hard, folded-over leather strikes his flesh with a vicious crack. “Call me a pig,” I grunt out as I rear my hand back again. 

“You fucking asshole pig!” the kid shouts as he tries to shimmy off the couch before I shove him hard against the cushioned back again. 

I hit him again, his ass jerking as the belt leaves a severe-looking slash across the cheeks. “Call me a pig,” I taunt as I hear his breath hitch, catching—choking—in his throat as he gasps. “Do it.” 

He says nothing, just breathes in and out in loud, audible pants. 

“Do it,” I order through clenched teeth.  

Still nothing.  

I lean down, grab a handful of his hair—the gel or whatever crisp and crunchy in my hand. I pull his head back as I say in his ear, my breath hot as it hits his cheek, “Do it.” 

I can feel his pulse fluttering, see him struggle to swallow. I can practically taste the adrenaline pumping through him. I smell lust—an intoxicating mix of fear and heat—and sweat on his skin. I lick his neck and nip at his earlobe. “Say it.” 

His face is held tight—he can feel the moment, unavoidable and looming, ahead. He swallowed again, his Adam’s apple bobbing desperately. “Pig,” he says, his voice a small, almost silent thing. 

“Oink for me,” I tell him as I grind my cock into the soft, inviting crack of his ass. 

His jaw clenches hard, stalling as the tension builds. I reach beneath him, grab his balls and pull, giving just a quick yank, careful not to twist. He yelps, jumping back against me as I snort a laugh.  

“Oink,” I order as my hand tightens with threat on his still rock-hard dick. 

He does, humiliation hot as his cheeks and neck and chest flush. 

Good boy. I stroke him. “Again.” 

He does, this time the sound sweet and wanting. 

“Again,” I say as I stroke him harder, churning my hips against him.  “Don’t stop until I tell you to.” He does, his hips thrusting as the animalistic sounds tumble from his lips.  

He’s about to come; I can tell. Can feel it like a pot about to boil or a fire about to flare. I pull back as he screams in frustration. I laugh. 

I grip the belt still in my hand. “Now, squeal for me, piglet,” I tell him as I pull back my arm and strike him again. 

The high-pitched sound he makes pinches my ear, the indignity of it ringing in my head.  

I strike again. And again. And again and again. I lay into him until his ass is crisscrossed with sharp, red lines and his voice is harsh and raw. 

Then I drop the belt and cup his burning ass in my hands, feeling him jump at the touch as my fingers press deep into the hot flesh. 

Fuck, yeah. 

I reach for the condom on the couch, slipping it over my hard cock as I listen to him breathe heavily in expectation. 

I grab the lube and drench one finger before I hold his cheeks apart. I watch his ass relax—Kid’s got experience—as I slide the thick digit knuckle-deep inside him. He ruts as I slip my finger in and out of his tight hole. My cock hardens while I watch him take my finger. And then another. Over and over. 


His squeal turns into throaty moans as I pour on the lube, spreading it slippery over the head of my covered cock. Positioning myself behind him, I take my fingers from him as his ass instinctively tenses. I smooth my hand over his ass as I soothe him, urging him to relax again. 

He does as I work my cock slowly—inch by inch—inside him. His face clenches even as his body eases. Good, Kid, I think as my own jaw squares. So fucking good. 

“You okay?” I push the words through gritted teeth. 

“Mmm,” the Kid answers as he pushes against me, taking me in that very last inch. 

“Damn,” I hiss, finally seated to the hilt. I look down at his bent back, feeling the roaring heat emanating off of him. I start to thrust, just small, gentle movements, careful to take it easy. To take him easy. 

He groans beneath me. “Fuck me,” he mutters mindlessly, almost incoherently, “fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.” 

So I do. Hard, like I want to. Like I’ve wanted to since I first saw him. I fuck his ass, pressing his cuffed wrists into his back, until I come—groaning and shuddering—inside him. I grab his hip, feeling the slippery slide of his come, wet as it seeps down the plastic. 

Exhausted and spent, we both lay on the couch for a moment, still and silent as the protesters yell below us. They’re louder now as the club closes and the patrons pour out of the doors and into the night. 

Perverts. Sinners. Monsters. Sluts. The cries float up through the window, ruining the moment a bit. 

I slide, flaccid and sensitive, out of him. I slip the condom off, tying the end and tossing it out the window—hoping, rather than expecting, it’ll hit one of the pretentious, judgmental pricks. 

“I am sorry, Rand,” he says as he triggers the release on the handcuffs, freeing his hands. He shakes his tense arms a bit before I reach for his wrists, rubbing them softly in my hands.  

I cluck my tongue and study the Kid. Harlan St. James, the twenty-something prodigal genius of Saint’s Marketing. 

I grab him and flip him as I lay us both down on the couch, sweeping his mussed hair out of his cherubic face. “Don’t worry about it, Kid,” I tell him as we both listen to the rhythmic chanting of the mob outside, the sweet sound of laughter and freedom inside, and the strange, uncomfortable silence as the two mix. “You’re young,” I say, holding him close, “so’s your company; you’re not big enough to afford the fallout. Gotta look out for you and yours, I get it. So does Donovan’s.”  

The Kid’s eyes widen as wetness glosses away the redness the pot and booze had left, his gaze sober, somber. He sighs as he looks around his former office—his former home. “Damn, I’m going to miss this place.”  

“Yeah,” I agree as I look at the barren remains in the room. I can safely say it’s going to miss him too.

See more from Rand in my novel Show Me, Sir from Sinful Press that celebrates feminist kink!
Catch Rand in my stories in Coming Together's defiant, charity anthology that celebrates diversity and equality in the face of our uncertain future! Erotica is an expression of rebellion. 
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I Dare You to Disobey - Part One

Short Story – 
Part One

It’s a good night. In terms of atmosphere, at least. Dark and warm, the air just a little heavy with a heady humidity that held a man like a lover.  

I peel off my coat as I enter the shadowed alley in the back of the club where I parked my car. Leather may make the look, but it’s damned hot. 

Still, a good night in the city, weather-wise. Not so great on all the other fronts. I was supposed to meet someone tonight but, after waiting away a good chunk of my evening for someone who never came, figure it's past time to head home.

I watch as a couple, a little tipsy and a lot horny, stumble out of the club door, helped out by Gabe, his massive hands hard as he shows them the door. The tall man tips his head at me. “Rand,” he greets, as he takes a drag on his cigarette. “Nice night.” 

“Could always be better.” I nod back, thinking it a shame the man’s on duty. Gabe’s a good time, if I remember right. Real shame he’s working. 

But he is. And, for the first time in three weeks, I’m not. And I’m in the mood for a good time now. Just got off a big sting, a drug ring—little sex thrown in. Vice. I work vice. 

Or it works me; six years in and I’m still trying to figure that one out. 

I head to my car alone. Again. 

My job’s not real conducive to a relationship, you know? Takes me away for long stretches; never letting go till the job’s done. Then there’s always the danger. Got me shot twice. Made me do more bad in the name of good than I’d like to recall. Sometimes the stress of it gets to you too, you know? Gives me a temper sometimes—not proud of it. Not exactly easy to find somebody willing to put up with that for long stretches. 

But that’s all right. I like my job and I’m good at it; it’s a good fit. Even without it, I’m not too conducive for relationships either. 

It’s why I do thirds. Be the second guy to someone else’s half. Be the less-significant other. It’s easier. On everybody. See each other when you can. Enjoy the hell out of each other. Then walk away. No expectations. No demands. No disappointments. 

Except on hot, humid nights like tonight when I’m still fucking alone. 

I pause by my car, digging for my keys in my pockets. 

“Nice night,” I hear a voice say from the shadows. It’s light, kinda high, like a teenager. Slurred too. 

My lips twitch. Just what I need. A drunk minor. 

I sniff the heavy, moist air. It smells rank, like a cheap bar. Or really good pot. 

I see a spark in the shadows and I have my answer. 

“I said,” the Kid says as he steps out into the spot lit by the streetlight, “nice night.” 

“Sure, Kid,” I say as I lean against my car when he saunters toward me. He’s lanky. One of those artsy, hipster boys with spiked hair and glossy lips. He’s got soft skin, like he uses moisturizer. His clothes are out of one of those trendy mags.  

And the beer in his hand is imported and the joint between his fingers is good. 

“Little late for you, i’nnit?” I ask him, still staring him up and down suspiciously. “Shouldn’t you be home right now?” I imagine textbooks and truancy slips. Curfews and classrooms. 

“Sure, sure,” the Kid says with a nod, “just gotta find me a home to go to.” He slides me a glance, studying and smooth. “Is yours free?” 

I scoff dismissively and turn back to my car. “No. Go home, Kid.” 

He shrugs, his thin shoulders lifting carelessly. “Whatever. I’ll find more like you inside.” He turns to walk away. 

Inside? “You mean Donovan’s?” I ask. 

The kid doesn’t answer. 

“It’s a private club, you know?” I tell him, my keys hanging useless in my hand. “Don’t let just anybody in.” 

The Kid turns back to me, the streetlight catching a gamin glint in his eyes as his gaze smolders over his shoulder. “Look at me;” he says, “I’m not just anybody.” 

I chuckle. Yeah. Even under three layers of Abercrombie and Whatever, the Kid's got a body. Thin, yes, but he has wide shoulders and a broad chest for his frame—wiry but still toned, top-heavy like a swimmer maybe—that tapers down into a trim, packed waist. With his back turned like that, I can see his ass cupped adoringly in jeans that fit like skin.  

“How old are you, Kid?” I ask, thinking, while he may be the exact type for a lot of people—men and women—I know who frequent Donovan’s, he doesn’t look old enough to get in the club, much less to be drinking. 

“What’s it to you?” the Kid scoffs as he takes another swig of beer. “You a cop?” 

I just smile and say nothing. 

The Kid looks me up and down, taking in the black leather pants and black silk shirt, smirks, and says, “You’re no cop.”  

I grin, reaching into my pants pocket to flash my badge, the pair of handcuffs—my own, not department—glinting bright off my wide, stiff leather belt. The Kid leans in as if to peer at the badge held tight to my leather-clad thigh.  

Indulging his curiosity and idly enjoying those sweet, full lips’ proximity to my body’s hard reaction, I let him, watching with fascination as his mouth moves into a puckered moue. My cock twitches as I imagine those pursed lips wrapped around my thick dick while he sucks hard, the way he’s puffing on that overpriced, weak-ass joint.  


I suck in a harsh breath as the boy pulls the joint close. He turns his head slightly to inhale deeply through the corner of his young mouth, his focused, glassy eyes never leaving the gleaming metal hanging hard next to the pressing bulge in my black pants.  

There’s a tense, silent, immobile moment, while the boy just blinks at my badge before blowing a slow steady stream of smoke at it through those pouty, little boy lips as his black eyes roll up to meet mine with disdain and challenge.  

I grin. And it ain’t a nice grin. “Got a respect problem, don’t you, Kid?” 

“Only to those who see it as a problem,” he answers flippantly as he straightens before snuffing out the joint and tucking it in his pocket. He waved a flaired hand and said, “Personally, I like to think of it as part of my char—” 

He didn’t even see it coming as I rush the Kid, slamming him against the side of my car, my hand reaching for the cuffs at my belt. 

“What the fuck?” his spits at me as he writhes, bucking against my much bigger body like a prized colt. I hold him easily against the window of my car, his face smashed flat against the treated glass. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” 

“Fixing that problem of yours,” I answer as I slap the cuffs on him. 

“You can’t fucking do this,” he protests. “This is abuse of power or wrongful arrest or fucking police brutality. This is bullshit, pig!” 

I slam the Kid against the car again. “Wrong. It’s public intoxication, possession, use, and loitering. And, if you’re underage, a whole slew of other charges.” The Kid’s drunk and wasted, stoned and completely stupid. He’s bound to get nabbed by Gabe, if he’s lucky, or another cop, if he’s not. Whether he wants to believe it or not, this is—I am—his best option right now.  

Besides, with his attitude, Kid’s got it coming. 

“Now,” I tell him as I roughly turn him around, his back arching as I shove him against the curved body of my car, “you’ve got the right to remain silent—so shut the fuck up.” I tug his caught arm. “Come on.” 

Read Part Two Here

Thursday, March 27, 2014

Warning About Trigger Warnings

“Trigger warnings are presented as a gesture of empathy, but the irony is they lead only to more solipsism, an over-preoccupation with one’s own feelings—much to the detriment of society as a whole. Structuring public life around the most fragile personal sensitivities will only restrict all of our horizons. Engaging with ideas involves risk, and slapping warnings on them only undermines the principle of intellectual exploration. We cannot anticipate every potential trigger—the world, like the Internet, is too large and unwieldy. But even if we could, why would we want to? Bending the world to accommodate our personal frailties does not help us overcome them.” (Jenny Jarvi)

So, I’ll admit it, I am not one of the most PC people you’ll ever meet. Not even close. I write smutty, romanticized, BDSM erotica that often plays with power, control, and pain rather unapologetically.

I like to think that I—and I do try my best to—portray racial minorities, women, men, and kinksters of all kinds in a respectful and honest way. I try very hard to only present safe, sane, consensual sex and kink between partners who actually care about each other’s well-being. Who see each other as people first, rather than just a means of sexual gratification.

I don’t preface with this to say I deserve a pat on the back, but simply as a backdrop to this issue. 

I don’t typically start off my stories with trigger warnings. 

And, yes, I’ve received requests saying that I should. 

And, indeed, perhaps I should.

I have stories that feature Littles Daddy/daughter sex, that feature interracial power play, that feature very gendered power play, that feature sensation-heavy kink play, that teeters on the line of dubious consent.

And that’s just my erotic writing. If you read my non-erotic writing, you will encounter scenes with graphic violence and assault. You will find the stories and perspectives of characters whom even I don’t agree with, but whose stories I wanted to tell.

Maybe I ought to preface my stories with trigger warnings.

But I’m not going to.

And it’s not because I’m insensitive to the trauma of those who may read my work. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I love my fans. And I would never want to intentionally trigger or offend them.

And that’s the crux, isn’t it? 

When I write and post I don’t really know what’s going to trigger a reader until it does. And what triggers one reader likely won’t with most. In fact, what often triggers one reader is the very thing that makes the story speak to most.

And, often, I’m asked, well, even if it only affects a few of your readers, does it really harm anyone else by putting a trigger warning at the start of the story to protect the few it does affect? 

Yes. Quite a lot actually.

Particularly as a kinky writer who is trying—very, very, very hard—to portray kinksters as more than their kinks. To give us a public image as people first, rather than the broken, flat fetish freaks we’re so often portrayed as in mainstream media. Poor, two-dimensional stereotypes puppeting the real star of the story: the act. The Kink.

So much of what’s out there and readily available to the mainstream about kinksters isn’t written by kinksters. It’s written by people whose closest brush with kink are the fantasies that float around in their heads. These portrayals approach kink as an act. Flashy and taboo. Dangerous and edgy. Too often, they rob us of our humanity. They forget that, beneath the bonds and blindfolds, beneath the leather and latex, are people. Just trying to live and love.

Placing: “TRIGGER WARNING: Scenes involving simulated force” or “TRIGGER WARNING: Scenes involving simulated age play” at the start of my stories, even with the best of intentions, plays into that practice. It takes scenes and stories about healthy and loving people expressing their healthy sexualities in healthy and loving relationships and reduces them to the worst, most unhealthy, most degrading, and understandably and gut-wrenchingly hateful images.

It’s the basic PR problem with kink whenever we butt heads with the vanilla mainstream. 

What we do, taken completely out of context, is deplorable. Stripped of all context, it is the very worst that humanity inflicts on itself. If you take consensual out of consensual non-consent, all you have is rape. If you take SSC (safe, sane, consensual) rules out of BDSM, all you have is abuse. If you preface us with what we do before who we are, all the world sees us as are monsters.

So, no, as much as I hate the thought of hurting or harming any of my readers—even though I know I’ve lost readers over it—I will not be using trigger warnings to preface most of my stories. Because, even though some of my readers think it infringes on their consent, to be shocked with a trigger mid-way through one of my stories—and, for that, I am very sorry—by using those warnings, I would be participating in the exact practice and culture I got into all this to change.

I will say, for those who are worried about being triggered, I do and will continue to try to give some key terms in the top titles of all my stories. And, even if you find some of my stories triggering, I hope that you can find and enjoy others that aren’t.

Sunday, March 23, 2014

The Deviant Nerd - It's All a Numbers Game

It’s All a Numbers Game
The Deviant Nerd
Brought to you by, a free, BDSM-friendly, digital, safe space for fetishists.

QuestionHey Pip,

All my friends
even my friends who are girlshave had more sexual partners than me. Im an eighteen-years-old guy and getting ready to graduate and go off to college and I havent been on dates with or even kissed as many girls as my friends have slept with. My friends all think that I should spend this summer beefing up my number, so Im not heading off to college behind everyone else, experience-wise. Is this a good idea? And how should I go about doing that?

Is It Too Small?


PipHey Is It,

For a guy playing a numbers game, you don’t actually give me many. You’re 18 and have had x number of partners. I know that x is less than a, given that a is the average number of partners your friends say they’ve been with. And you have 3 months to increase x to equal a, right?

Now, to be honest, I was an abysmal algebra student—so bear with me on this. I’m pretty sure that, if a, then in order to figure out how to make = a by adding 3 months, I need to know y

As in why do you care if you’ve had more, less, or exactly the same number of sexual partners as anyone else?

It doesn’t actually sound like you do. Looking at your letter, you say that your friends think that your number is too small. Even your moniker asks if your unsaid number is too small.

And the only person who can answer that is you.

You’re eighteen. You haven’t even graduated high school yet. I don’t know what your number is and I don’t know what your friends’ numbers are but there’s a good chance that the measuring system you’re using is a bit off.

I may have been terrible at algebra, but I’m pretty good at my statistics. And current stats tell us that, on average, men typically have 10 partners and women have 7. In their entire lifetimes.

On average, men kiss about 16 people and women kiss about 15. Men will have 8 first dates, 3 blind dates, and 3 online hook-ups. Women will go on 7 first dates, 2 blind dates, and 2 internet-enabled encounters. Men will also have, on average, 6 long-term relationships that last longer than a year, while women will have 5. 

And that’s in their entire lifetime. The average person doesn’t even experience their first kiss until they’re 15. And 17 is the average age that people lose their virginities. 

You’re 18; you’re just starting out on your sexual journey, how big does your number need to be right now? Chances are good that, whatever your number is—even if it were 0—you’d still be pretty on par with your fellow in-coming freshmen.

So, then, if all those stats are true, how is it that your friends’ numbers seem so high?

There are a couple of reasons.

The less likely reason could be that you just know some statistically more sexually active people. National statistical averages, after all, take a wide range of numbers and average them out, so it doesn’t take into account the high highs and the low lows, just the average. So it’s possible that you know a lot of people on the higher end of this kind of survey.

However, more likely, you know a lot of people who fudge and fib about where exactly they lie on this kind of survey. Remember the statistic about average sexual partners a person has in their entire lifetimes? Well, another survey conducted by Norman Brown and Robert Sinclair found that the women they surveyed reported 8 total partners, as opposed to 7. Which isn’t too far off, right? Except when they surveyed men, Brown and Sinclair found that men, on average, self-reported having an average of 32 partners, as opposed to 10.

You just can’t trust anyone, can you?

After their initial questions, Brown and Sinclair asked their subjects if theyd lied about the number of partners they’d been with. And 5% of respondents admitted that they had. And another 10% said that, while they didn’t think they’d lied, per se, they did know that their answers may have been less than accurate.

So, at the end of the day, what does this all mean? What does that number—what do any of these numbers—even tell you? Do they tell you anything useful about a person? Does the number of partners tell you how good or bad a person is at this terribly complicated thing called dating? Does it tell you anything about how good a person is in bed? What kind of skill as a lover they have? Or is more information needed?

If the relationships you’ve been in—be they one-night-stands, long-term relationships, or something in between—added something positive to your life. Left you feeling wiser, happier, more mature, more loved, more experienced. If they helped you grow as a person. That, more than some number—especially someone elses number—is a much better measuring stick, experience-wise.

– Pip, Your Resident Deviant Nerd

* If you have a sex, kink, love, or life question for The Deviant Nerd, email Pip at
And read more about Pips story in Brought to You By.

Thursday, March 20, 2014

Just Tell Your Story

So I love my fans. 

I do. 

Every single one. 

It’s a little mind-boggling to think that I even have fans—as I sit here and type this on my work computer during a slow point in my banal, everyday workday—so I’m ever so grateful to anyone who takes the time to read the bits of myself that I put out there.

And I love it when people write to me about how to write their own stories. How to begin the process of becoming that sometimes mythical creature called “writer.”

But, when it happens, a part of me sits back disbelieving at my screen and asks, “Who me? You’re asking me?”

I’m some smutty-mouthed porn writer who still feels so small in the vast literary world. There has got to be someone better to ask.

But maybe there’s not.

I’ve been where many of my fans are. Hell, I’m only a few short years and a novel away from that place. I know exactly what it feels like to hold a finished piece of wonder in your hand and marvel at its existence while also wondering “What now?” I know what it’s like to dream big, to think, if I could just get it published, my life will change, while also doubting myself and wondering whether it’s—whether I’m—good enough.

And, if I could give just one piece of advice to anyone who wants to be a published author, it would be: You’ll never know until you try.

I remember thinking that getting published was an unthinkable task that would just have to wait until my book was ready. Was perfect. Until every typo had been eradicated. Until the prose was exactly right. Until I couldn’t think of a single thing to change to make it better. 

And, for years, I whittled away at my novel—shifting commas and adding and subtracting sections. Sure that one day—one day—my book would be perfect and then I’d feel ready to send it off.

But I never did.

If I’m honest, even as I sent it off—even as I sent my publisher the for-realsies, final-edit-before-release copy—I never felt ready. To this day, I’ve yet to re-read my novel in release-copy form, for fear that I’ll see a missed typo or an opportunity for revision. Because a part of me knows that I sent my literary baby off into the world unfinished.

But that’s what you do with children.

You raise them from nothing, fill them with all that you know, prepare them as much as you can, then…you let them go. You let them loose into the world, imperfect as they are, and hope someone will love them as much as you do.

And, if you’re lucky, someone does.

And that’s my super-secret authorial wisdom from someone who feels like anything but an expert in all this: Tell your story. Write it. Love it. Work on it. Finish it. Fix it. Then spread it. Get it out to as many people as you can, however you can.

You may never be the next big novelist—hell, I’ve no illusions that I am or ever will be—but your life will change. You’ll have become a different person through the process.

Successful or not, prolific or not, hell, paid or not, you’ll have become a writer.

And, for those of us who do it because we love it—because we have to, have no other choice but to—you’ll be surprised by how that really is enough.

Tuesday, March 18, 2014

How NOT to Throw an Orgy

I'm all for sexy, fun kink parties, but, yeeeeeah, don't be THAT guy. Consent is what makes kink sexy; that includes the people whose house the party's at. 

Be a good, kinky guest, guys! 

That's how you get an invite back.

Sunday, March 16, 2014

Fantasy First Time - Part Two

Make Me Believe: 
Short Story – 
Part Two
Read Part One Here

So, sorry, I'm a horrible tease.

Part Two used to be here; so sad you missed it. And it'll be back eventually.

But if you're as bad at waiting as I am, you can check out the revised and edited version of this story that I wrote for Riverdale Avenue Books' The First Annual Geeky Kink Anthology

Like I've always said, kink and geeks go hand in hand. Kink is essentially nerd sex. Think about it. We role play. We use code names and special jargon. Our world is built upon inventing, learning, and perfecting specialized skills. It's taking the very basic, simple act of sex and over-thinks the fuck out of it. Who else would do that but the geekiest nerds you can shake a pair of ten-sided dice at? This anthology explores and celebrates this perfect combination; please come check it out!

Available Now On:
At Barnes & Noble

For more from Chris & Danielle, please check out my story in Coming Together's charity anthology that lets your feel-good do some real good!

Dive deep with Danielle & Carey in my story into all the awkward excitement of sexual exploration.

If it exists, someone’s kinky for it! Check out my story in Sexy Little Pages' anthology that takes a walk on the weird side: you won’t regret it.
Please check out my story, "Safeword," in this new anthology from Sexy Little Pages, where women reclaim and recognise their power in myriad ways, and it's not always pretty. 
Available Now On

Find even more great reads and Put Your Money Where Your Orgasm Is!

Also, find out how you can support me and collaborate with me on my Patreon Page!

Fantasy First Time - Part One

Make Me Believe: 
Short Story – 
Part One

Danielle Atali lay on Chris Carey’s bed in just her t-shirt and panties, leaning on one elbow, as she watched him—still fully dressed, shoes and all—shift uncomfortably in his desk chair. She watched him fiddle with his music program on his computer as some kind of metal—some singer who was half-singing, half-screaming about dragons or wizards or something—streamed, slightly muffled, through his speakers.

Her lips quirked up at him as she studied the flush coloring the back and side of his neck. His face too, she’d bet, if he bothered to look at her. He was such an awkward guy. Skinny and slumped over. Shy and kinda quiet. He had the freckled, pale skin of a guy who spent far too much time indoors, cooped up alone.

He was not the kind of guy she thought she’d ever be with.

But he was sweet. And cute. And fun.

And—though she knew, if the genders were reversed, it would be incredibly sexist to say—there was something about being with someone who was experiencing all this for the first time. It didn’t quite make her feel all fresh and virgin-y again. This was not her first time and there wasn’t an amount of innocence Carey could have to make it so.

But it made her feel...honored. Special. That Carey had waited this long. Had chosen her. 

It was a heavy thing, being someone’s first. She hadn’t really thought about it with her own first—the senior who tutored her in high school chemistry, who probably hadn’t really thought much about it at the time either—but it was kinda a crazy thing to ask someone. To entrust to someone.

And, while she didn’t think that losing her virginity had changed her all that much—not in the grand scheme of things—she remembered it feeling huge and life-altering then. She remembered it’d felt like being held over a precipice. Like she were about to plunge into a deep unknown. And she’d—perhaps a bit unwisely, definitely naively—trusted her tutor to guide her through that moment.

And, sure, her first time hadn’t been the monumental event she’d thought it would be—and she wasn’t quite so vain as to think that she could shake Carey’s world either—but she just wanted to live up to the trust he was putting in her.

So Danielle sat up to sit cross-legged on his bed, grabbing a pillow to hug, as she worried her lip. “Are you sure you’re ready?” she asked, eying his hunched-over back. “It’s cool, if you want to wait.”

He swiveled the chair around, finally facing her, his hazel eyes wide and confused behind his thick lenses. And a little worried too. “Why?” he asked, his words quick and a touch too high. “Have you changed your mind?”

“No,” she assured him, scooting closer to perch on the edge of the bed. “No, of course not,” she told him, reaching out to touch his knee. “I’m just saying that this is up to you.” They’d go his speed. Do what he wanted. Whatever he wanted. And only what he wanted. She didn’t want him to feel pressured into anything. “This is your night.”


God, that was a lot of pressure.

“So,” he said slowly as his brow arched and he pushed up his glasses nervously, “it’s all up to me.” ’Cause that made sense; put the guy who had no on-the-job experience in charge. “Great.” He reached for the hand she’d placed on his knee, his own hand hesitating—almost grabbing and almost chickening out a million times over in that short span of space and time, like his very own mini time paradox where both scenarios were simultaneously happening at once—before just clutching his indecisive hands in his lap. “Great.”

He watched her bare feet as they stepped onto the plush carpet in his attic room, grateful that his parents and his sister were far up north at his uncle’s cabin for the weekend, so no one was here to even regionally witness his humiliation.

Groaning internally as he ran his hands over his close-cropped, red hair, Chris saw Danielle’s slim, tanned feet step and stop between his bent legs. He sat back and looked up her body—her slim ankles, the curve of her calves, the thick length of her thighs, the sweet swell of her hips, the swift sweep of her waist before the subtle rise of her breasts—before finally looking up at her face.

He wanted to roll his eyes. 

Aw, man. 

He frowned at the oh-so understanding pity in her beautiful, black eyes. Sympathy curved her pretty, painted mouth. God damnit.

He sighed as he felt her small, soft, but still so capable hands cup the sides of his head. “You nervous?” she asked as she rubbed his temples.

He snorted. She was kidding, right?

It was just... 

He gave a little laugh. 

He didn’t know what it was.

It was just sex.

Most everyone he knew had already done it.

Why—whenever he thought about it, got close to doing it—did his brain blow it up into this huge thing?

“You want to take a break?” she asked him as she let her soothing hands slide down to rub his shoulders. “Grab some food or a drink or something?”

No. He wanted to have sex.

He wanted to have sex with her.

Why did that seem so fucking impossible?

“Talk to me,” she urged him. “What’s up?”

He rolled his shoulders as he squirmed in the swiveling desk chair. “I,” he began, feeling his face heat, “I just...” He winced, shutting his eyes. He just couldn’t look at her while he said this. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?” she asked. “Don’t know if you want to do this? Don’t know what you want?”

He shrugged again, making a helpless sound. At the moment, he felt like he didn’t know anything. “I’m such an idiot,” he mumbled as he leaned back and threw an arm over his eyes, crushing his glasses to his face.

It was just sex! The most basic thing in the world. How could he not know how to do this? In porn and in movies, the guys always knew exactly what to do. They just knew. 

There weren’t all these questions. 

There was never all this doubt.

They just got naked and everything—all the people and parts—just fell into place.

Why did his life never work like that?

“You’re not an idiot;” she said, rubbing his shoulders in a comforting—but still vaguely patronizing—way, “you’re just...” 

“A virgin,” he said pathetically.


He said it as if it were the worst thing in the world to be. She sighed, wishing he could just have a bit more confidence. Without quite knowing how to give him that.

Danielle bit her lip. Hmmm. “What if,” she mused as she looked about his room, looking for some kind of inspiration. 

Her eyes lit up as she noticed his screensaver had switched to a brightly colored image of some comic heroine. The buff and busty beauty stood tits-out and confident, ready to take on the world. 

“If I had superpowers,” she asked idly, not entirely sure where she was going with this, “what ones would you give me?”

He jerked his head up to look at her, confusion wiping away the sad, sorry look on his face—which actually made the odd question more than worth it. “What?” he asked, bewildered laughter coloring his voice.

She shrugged, feeling a little more awkward—but strangely excited too. “If I were a superhero,” she repeated, gesturing to his screen, “what powers do you see me having?”

He gave a snort as he pushed up his glasses, giving her a strange, assessing look over his lenses. “Really?” he asked, looking her up and down.

“Yeah,” she nodded. “C’mon,” she encouraged, holding her breath, just hoping that he’d play along, “role play with me.”

Read Part Two Here