Happiness is…six of the best

We were chatting over the weekend. Of course everyone is different (thanks goodness) and we wondered, having watched a hackneyed movie quoting what happiness is…what is it in Sexual or BDSM terms? Here are my six of the best.

Happiness is…anticipation of a play session
Happiness is…fire and ice. First candles, then ice cubes. Whilste spreadeagled to the bed, of course.
Happiness is…the nipple clamps coming off!
Happiness is…three forced orgasms in a row
Happiness is…curling up in my dom’s arms when he releases me from my bonds
Happiness is…falling asleep with the rope marks and feelings still on my body.

Don’t be shy. what are your six of the best. We’d love to know…..comments please

Xcite – change of URL from 1st March

[Edited to note: the erotica-romance-ebooks site has since been dismantled. For Xcite books, go to www.xcitebooks.com or their newer site with knobs, bells and whistles, xcitesexystories.com.]

If you’ve already bought stuff from Xcite Books you’ve probably had an email about this anyway – but from 1st March, Xcite is migrating its web activity to its new website, http://www.erotica-romance-ebooks.com.

Presumably the old links will be redirected to the new URL but we hope to have all the links on DeliciouslyDeviant updated by Tuesday when the new site goes live.

The new Xcite site is significant because it will be a one-stop shop for romantic and erotic ebooks and audio formats not just from Xcite, but from publishers and authors around the globe. Their press release says: ‘It offers a unique, genre specific, shopping experience for romance and erotica readers because they can discover new authors and publishing companies alongside their established favourites.’

In other words it will be a sales point not just for Xcite’s own publications (including of course many of our own stories!) but for other erotic/romance publishers as well. In addition individual authors will be able to upload their works to it and set their own sales price provided they have a valid ISBN.

New on Jane’s Guide!

We’ve just noticed two of our friends have also now appeared in the Jane’s Guide new listings.

Sharazade, Jane’s Guide says, is ‘a professional writer, editor, and consultant that has a real love for writing smoldering erotica that takes its time with the reader.’ Absolutely. Oh, and she has a collection of stories out, ‘Transported’, that are broadly about sex and travel. Well worth reading, and available direct from the publisher, on Smashwords and from several other places – the full list of links is on Sharazade’s blog.

It was Sharazade who first suggested to us that we should submit DeliciouslyDeviant to Jane’s Guide, so it’s hugely gratifying to see her blog listed there as well.

Erotic Review is a ‘London-based literary magazine that publishes original fiction, editorials, reviews, art, and much more … to get a feel for the publication, they allow you to look over three free issues! Other free areas of the site include a blog and a reviews section. Subscribers to the site gain access to all of the back issues (which as of this review included 18 full issues) and 3 entire books from the Erotic Prints Collection. If you enjoy literate smut, this is a great treat to give yourself!’

We have a great fondness for Erotic Review because it was the place that published Fulani’s very first erotic story. It’s had a chequered history and runs on a shoestring. It has a deliberately retro feel in parts – for example in the illustrations and line drawings, though not the photography. Some of the contributors are people like high profile journalists in areas such as political reporting, and who are prepared to go on record with sex-positive and pro-erotica views. Oh, and some of the fiction is pretty deviant.

Founded in 1995 by Jamie Maclean, it went through a number of incarnations and owners until Jamie bought it back and relaunched it in 2007. One amusing personal detail, well-known in London circles and on Wikipedia – Jamie is the son of Sir Fitzroy Maclean, a British secret agent in World War II and reputed to be one of several inspirations for Ian Fleming’s James Bond.

Jamie is on record as saying “I wanted to bring something out that made people think of sex in a more responsible way. Or even an irresponsible way, as long as it made them think.”

While Jamie remains editor, ER is currently owned by his long-term associate and frequent ER contributor Kate Copstick, whose background includes a degree in law and work as an actress, stand-up comedian, journalist, children’s TV presenter, motor racing TV presenter, TV producer, judge at the Perrier comedy awards and patron of an HIV charity. Apart from all that she’s also very out about being bisexual. Perhaps her best-known quote, from the days when she was a presenter of a children’s TV show: “You should see what went on, off-camera, on Playschool: very educational”.

The Independent newspaper has published a couple of articles about ER’s struggles to survive, including the one the Copstick quote comes from and a report that the experiences of one of ER’s former editors, Rowan Pelling, are to be the basis for a Hollywood film. (Incidentally the article describes ER as ‘defunct’, which it clearly isn’t – a mistake the newspaper has made on a couple of occasions now!)

It’s about time Erotic Review did well – so much effort has gone into it over the years, and almost uniquely it has both a mainstream respectability and a transgressive edge, with a combination of both serious and humorous material. So it’s really pleasing to see it now listed at Jane’s Guide.

Photos at an exhibition – free erotic/strange flash fiction by Fulani

The following comprises a page of a catalog from a photographic exhibition. The page – it would have been a right-hand page – had been cut from the catalog. The running head on the page identifies the photographer as ‘Felix M’.
Each entry comprises a title for the image and the photographer’s commentary. The pictures themselves would probably have been on the facing (left hand) page and are therefore not available to us. We may speulate, given some of the incidental details described, that they would have been taken with a large-format film camera of the kind often used in the 1960s – a Rolleiflex, say. The name of the gallery would probably have been contained in the running head on the left-hand page and so is also lost.

#18 – The Appliance of Sex
I wanted to capture a collision of multiple worlds. There is the ordinary domestic world in which vacuum cleaners are typical domestic appliances. At the same time, they can have ‘scientific’ and ‘engineering’ connotations through the design choices – angles, colors and so forth. And at the same time again, the domestic sphere might be considered one of both sexuality and patriarchy in which the hard lines of a vacuum cleaner might at the same time stand as some kind of technical sex toy, something a woman might desire. Something that might fulfill her sexuality better than a man would be able to.
A woman’s body is soft but her desires have hard edges. Perhaps in the future men will need to become more like domestic appliances.
Black and white print.

#19 – Fellatio in light and shade
This photo explores the idea of the abstract vernacular. I mean this in the same sense that one talks about the vernacular in architecture, to mean something built using locally available resources, cultures and so on, and intended to address similarly local and specific functions and meanings.
We all have a native appreciation of the abstract – it’s what we might see in the morning as our eyes refuse to focus after a heavy night of drinking, or when one’s brain, in processing the sensations of an orgasm, ceases to interpret objects in our field of vision.
In this case the reverse is true. I pointed the camera at a sexual act but a combination of technical factors – focus, aperture, shutter speed, movement – meant that the result was abstract. Does knowledge of the subject matter influence the way you interpret it? Would it be possible to treat it as an expressionist, rather than abstract, study – an orgasm in light and shade, for example?
Black and white print.

#20 – Crucifix sur l’herbe
I wanted to do an hommage to two very different paintings, one somewhat risque in its subject matter and the other in its style. The idea of the Crucifixion – in practice, a fairly standard form of execution for non-Romans in Roman times – has been a central icon of Western religious culture for around two millennia. The question I asked myself, and which motivates this picture, is: has the amount of energy expended on representations of the Crucifixion resulted in it being eroticized?
Black and white print.

#21 – The imaginative leap
Take the photograph at face value: it was of a ‘found object’, a crumpled piece of paper blowing along a street, the factory wall behind offering a simple and slightly out-of-focus blank background.
Look, though, at the curve in the edge of the paper. And remember that product designers, whether of cars, bottles, or even household items such as lemon squeezers, have a vocabulary, a taxonomy, of curves. Curve has purpose and meaning, even if it appears as a random feature of a discarded item. Curve can be dissociated from the object itself.
It is my contention that this ball of paper, a leaflet possibly for a political movement, in fact offers the promise of sex with a stranger while on a train journey to a possibly dangerous location.
Sepia print.


Yes, I have a collection of stories coming out shortly. Yes, these pictures are mentioned in a couple of the stories… More details soon…

Random quotes about sex

Found in the course of doing some research for a story… most of them aren’t even about fetish! Culled from about 14 pages of stuff on brainyquote.com. They don’t represent a consistent view or theme or set of values but they’re all interesting, one way or another (your mileage may vary!). I have some favourites but it would be invidious to identify them…

Sex without love is a meaningless experience, but as far as meaningless experiences go it’s pretty damn good. (Woody Allen)

Money, it turned out, was exactly like sex, you thought of nothing else if you didn’t have it and thought of other things if you did. (James A. Baldwin)

For flavour, instant sex will never supersede the stuff you have to peel and cook. (Quentin Crisp)

In America, sex is an obsession. In other parts of the world it’s a fact. (Marlene Dietrich)

What will happen to sex after liberation? Frankly, I don’t know. It is a great mystery to all of us. (Nora Ephron)

Some things are better than sex, and some are worse, but there’s nothing exactly like it. (W.C. Fields)

When the authorities warn you of the dangers of having sex, there is an important lesson to be learned. Do not have sex with the authorities. (Matt Groening)

An intellectual is a person who’s found one thing that’s more interesting than sex. (Aldous Huxley)

A geometry implies the heterogeneity of locus, namely that there is a locus of the Other. Regarding this locus of the Other, of one sex as Other, as absolute Other, what does the most recent development in topology allow us to posit? (Jacques Lacan)

Sex is hardly ever just about sex. (Shirley MacLaine)

There is nothing safe about sex. There never will be. (Norman Mailer)

There’s a subterranean impetus towards pornography so powerful that half the business world is juiced by the sort of half sex that one finds in advertisements. (Norman Mailer)

When I have sex with someone I forget who I am. For a minute I even forget I’m human. It’s the same thing when I’m behind a camera. I forget I exist. (Robert Mapplethorpe)

I remember the first time I had sex – I kept the receipt. (Groucho Marx)

If sex is such a natural phenomenon, how come there are so many books on how to do it? (Bette Midler)

Like sex in Victorian England, the reality of Big Business today is our big dirty secret. (Ralph Nader)

I have an idea that the phrase ‘weaker sex’ was coined by some woman to disarm the man she was preparing to overwhelm. (Ogden Nash)

You have to accept the fact that part of the sizzle of sex comes from the danger of sex. You can be overpowered. (Camille Paglia)

It’s so long since I’ve had sex I’ve forgotten who ties up who. (Joan Rivers)

What pornography is really about, ultimately, isn’t sex but death. (Susan Sontag)

Literature – creative literature – unconcerned with sex, is inconceivable. (Gertrude Stein)

I wouldn’t recommend sex, drugs or insanity for everyone, but they’ve always worked for me. (Hunter S. Thompson)

Sex is like money; only too much is enough. (John Updike)

Sex is more exciting on the screen and between the pages than between the sheets. (Andy Warhol)

There is one universal sex law: ‘Sex shall not be unregulated’. (Robert Anton Wilson)

Not every religion has to have St. Augustine’s attitude to sex. Why, even in our culture marriages are celebrated in a church; everyone present knows what is going to happen that night, but that doesn’t prevent it being a religious ceremony. (Ludwig Wittgenstein)

If you insist upon fighting to protect me, or ‘our’ country, let it be understood soberly and rationally between us that you are fighting to gratify a sex instinct which I cannot share; to procure benefits where I have not shared and probably will not share. (Virginia Woolf)

I am still of opinion that only two topics can be of the least interest to a serious and studious mood – sex and the dead. (William Butler Yeats)

Cover brief – new free erotic story from Fulani

(Not that new, it’s been hanging around for a while!)
Summary: publishers often make impossible demands. But Jake and Yvette are highly resourceful.


Book cover brief: Atmospheric fiction for major publisher. A romance, set in the world of S&M where love is measured by the ability to give and receive pain while sexual fulfilment always involves suffering. Much of the imagery used in horror and crime is relevant. Think shadowy spaces and interesting light sources. Sinister and mysterious, hardcore but tasteful. Colour or B&W. Deadline – as soon as possible.
“Atmospheric, romantic horror? Hardcore but tasteful? I love the way they write these. What’s your plan?” Yvette was a regular co-conspirator and model, usually up for anything. She’d said yes as soon he’d got to the “world of S&M” part, and then said “Ow”. He didn’t ask, but she explained anyway: “I was just stroking my nipple as you said that, and it’s still sensitive from last time.”
She leaned over Jake, ensuring that his field of vision was entirely filled with cleavage. Yvette was an attention-seeker: the fact that Jake was squatting on the floor, sorting through a selection of filters and lenses, was not a good excuse for ignoring her. She’d dressed specially for the occasion, spending two hours in front of a mirror before deciding on a matching purple leather bodice and miniskirt, the bodice being one of those garments where from most angles, very little of it was visible. This was teamed with five-inch heels, whose wide ankle straps carried chunky D-rings for the purposes of being chained to a bed, and a very functional leather collar. She was there to be noticed.
At slightly under five feet tall, Yvette had long since decided that she didn’t want to be overlooked. Her solution was an eye-popping dress sense.
“I did just ask, what’s your plan?”
Jake grasped the ring on Yvette’s collar, pulling her down so his green eyes bored into her grey ones. “I think it’s better you don’t know. Your reaction will be more authentic, and the pics will be better.”
A short gasp through slightly parted lips was a dead giveaway. She liked this idea.
Jake grasped the ring on Yvette’s collar and pulled downwards. As she sank to the floor, he selected items from the other pile of items he’d been packing; leather wrist cuffs and a short leash for the collar. He applied the cuffs: Yvette’s instinctive reaction to being bound and kneeling was to open her mouth wide. There was only one type of activity she associated with this position.
There were many things about Yvette that Jake appreciated. She was smart, funny and talented. She could have been a professional, but preferred to work a day job, posing in front of the lens at night. Jake admired her commitment to his art, especially given the nature of some of their photoshoots.
Plus, Yvette’s capacity for provocative sexual response was amazing. Jake considered her open invitation. He reflected that given the nature of the brief, the later they hit the location, the better.
“If you don’t give me something to suck I’ll change my mind and demand a tea with two… glup!” Attitude. Good sense of humour. Two more things Jake admired.
Yvette hummed as she worked her lips and tongue. She knew he liked the vibration.
How come she stayed so slim if she always had two sugars in tea? Answer: burning off the calories with enthusiastic sex.
At the end, Yvette licked her lips.
She squeaked in surprise when he withdrew and her mouth was occupied instead by a chunky ballgag. Jake smiled. “Suffering, horror and crime, the brief says. And we both like pictures to be realistic, don’t we?” She rolled her eyes in a parody of exasperation.
Within minutes, the camera, lenses, filters, flash and various props were packed and ready to go. Using the leash, Jake signalled that Yvette should stand and follow him.
Ere oo tk kg ee?” Gags don’t stop speech, they just turn it into muffled and sexy mumbling.
“You’ll see.” It was around midnight, and no one saw her being led to the car and strapped in with the seatbelt. But Jake had lied: with a blindfold securely in place, Yvette wasn’t going to see where he was taking her.
Alfresco sex and fetish is risky these days. Too much CCTV. Derelict industrial sites are often guarded by cameras linked to private security, and even the local woods had infrared detectors and a camera system set up by a badger-watching group. Not owning five acres of woodland or a country estate, Jake had invested a lot of time in finding hidden, unwatched locations suitable for the kind of photography he – and his model – enjoyed.
It was a forty-five minute drive to the place Jake had chosen. It would have been quicker, but after ten minutes of Yvette mumbling through the gag, he’d had enough. He pulled into a lay-by and inserted a small vibrator under her thong, between her legs. For the rest of the journey, he had the satisfaction of driving to the rhythm of her grinding thighs and ragged breathing.
Their destination was some way down a country lane: a dilapidated brick built shed set back from the road, once the gatehouse to a long-abandoned quarry. It was flanked on one side by woods, on the others by earthworks that might have been quarry spoil. One wall bore traces of old graffiti. Jake pulled onto broken tarmac and parked behind the shed, out of sight of the road. The windows were boarded over and the door padlocked, but it didn’t matter. The aerosol-sprayed wall and the trees were perfect for the vision he wanted to capture.
He waited five minutes. No sounds. They were alone.
Removing the vibe from its now well-lubricated nesting-pace, Jake bundled Yvette out of the car. She shivered in the cold air. Well, he thought, he’d had to suffer for this art, and had always expected his models to do the same. Tonight was no different. He didn’t bother to remove the blindfold, though once she was standing he did have her step out of the thong. A little night air on her recently-shaved pubis would grab her attention. He positioned Yvette against the brick wall, using the padlock on the shed door as a convenient place to attach the free end of the leash. And left her, returning to his bag on the back seat of the car to select his equipment.
To give her credit, she waited patiently and whined through the gag only as much as was necessary to remind him she was feeling vulnerable and hot.
First series: he used flash, hard white light and strong shadows. With her still hitched to the door, he took a couple of dozen shots, full body, upper body, and feet (he had a thing for those heels), facing in different directions. Then it was time for some more revealing poses. She stiffened as he undid the buckles that held the bodice and skirt in place – Jake’s fingers were cool – but that frozen stance was what he wanted.
The DSLR mechanism made its distinctive ker-click sounds a couple of dozen times more, and then he was ready for the next scenario. Using the leash again, Jake hauled Yvette away from the building, positioned her thirty feet in front of the car. The boles of spruce and fir trees and the gloom behind them looked custom-made for crime and horror. This time, he pushed the woman roughly to her knees.
Jake used the car headlights for illumination. It would throw the white balance off on the camera’s sensors, but the eventual pictures wouldn’t be using true-to-life colouring anyway. The thought crossed his mind that she looked in the flesh exactly how he’d pictured her in his mind: waiting apprehensively in some wild place, helpless. Caught in the twin beams of the vehicle that had come to collect her for some dreadful, and probably sexual, purpose.
Obligingly Yvette twisted her arms so that the cuffs were partly visible from the front. Now that, Jake thought, was pure professionalism.
For the final scene, he led her to the back of his car. Again she was on her haunches, face level with the car boot. He removed her blindfold. Slightly smudged eyeshadow. Wide-eyed, nostrils flaring. Striations of red across one side of her face from the car’s tail light.
Full-face, half-face, profile. Shots from above, with Yvette looking up at him, the light illuminating her face, one shoulder, one breast. Trying to work her lips around the gag. Taking short, sharp breaths, closing her eyes, grinding one tie on the ground. Beginning to dribble from underneath the gag. Jake had worked with Yvette for long enough to know these were the signs that she found the situation an extreme turn-on.
He lifted her up, leaned her forward over the car boot. One foot on the ground, the other splayed sideways and resting on the car’s rear bumper. Slippery and warm in her hidden aperture.
Jake found it impossible to focus on taking shots while pounding against her. Fortunately the camera could run on fully automatic, motion detection, image stabilisation, advanced shooting mode and probably (though it wasn’t in the product manual) orgasm detection.
The gag couldn’t stop this woman being very vocal when she came.
Afterwards, Jake unlocked the cuffs and put Yvette in the passenger seat, naked and dirty, shivering as much from the adrenalin rush as from cold.
There’s something very satisfying about driving home with a naked and exhausted woman as your passenger.
The display on the camera said he’d taken three hundred and fifty-seven pictures.
Deadline: as soon as possible. That had been the brief, but it took a day of playing with the images to get what he wanted. Sexual fulfilment always involves suffering. How true – the dilated pupils illustrated it. Imagery used in horror and crime is relevant. The gag fitted that particular bill. Shadowy spaces and interesting light sources. The pic Jake had selected for the brief had Yvette’s face partly illuminated by the car tail lights, and graffiti on the brick wall just visible in the background. He’d close-cropped the photo so that only the left side of face, from the ballgag up to the smudged eyeshadow, was in view. A lot of blank space on the right of the picture would be usable for a title. Sinister and mysterious, hardcore but tasteful. Scoring on all points.
He sent the pic. Nothing. Yvette came over to view what they thought of as their private pictures. “I actually liked the fact it was cold,” she said. Jake lovingly stroked her thighs with ice from his gin and tonic.
Long after the shot had become a fond memory consigned to Jake’s backup drive, a hastily-written email confirmed it had been chosen, contract to follow. Yvette’s gagged mouth, flared nostrils and staring eyes would grace the thriller section of most major bookstores.
The fee would just about cover a restaurant meal for two. Photographers and models are greatly undervalued.
Talk inevitably slipped towards what they’d do, and what derelict site they’d do it on, after the meal…

Meeting Fulani (from Mariska’s Journal) – free erotic fiction

Erm… this is an announcement, of a sort. Things will become clearer in a few days. Work out the clues if you want, or just enjoy!


He first saw me at the art exhibition. Would have seen a lot of me, I guess, since I was one of the exhibits. He left his business card with the organizers. Fulani, it said. Just the one name, or nickname.
People said he was genuine, but reclusive. They said he lived in a suburban house with a workshop in the back garden and did most of his business online.
He was older than I’d thought, but puckish. He looked at me as if to say “I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.”
He read my stuff and said he wanted to introduce me to M. M would want to publish it.
Only thing was, I didn’t know who M was, and I’d only just met Fulani.

Fulani was supposed to be straight-up, a good reputation, a well-known figure on the fetish scene, a man of his word.
I told him I wanted to know more about his bona fides. He nodded. “You want to know I am who your friends say I am, that I’m not going to rip you off big time.” Also he noticed I was looking at the earthenware pot in the corner of the room. It contained a selection of canes and crops.
His outhouse had a big, heavy vintage flatbed press.
“I use it to make limited edition prints and books,” he explained as he tied my wrists to the top of the frame. “I could make a photo print of your journal and publish a hundred copies. But whether there’s a market for them in that format – that’s the question.”
I tested the bonds. They were tight. He knew his ropes. I made a sound that came out halfway between a purr and growl.
“My opinion is, as a new author you’re better off selling to a publisher who can move a lot of copies.” He unzipped my skirt and noticed for the first time that I hadn’t bothered with underwear. “Also,” he said, “my opinion is, you have a wonderful ass. I shall enjoy putting marks on it.” Judging by the way he ran his fingers over my ass cheeks, he’d noted that I had a few faded bruises on there. Tomas’s doing, from a couple of days previously.
He left me there while he went back to fetch the canes. It was a warm afternoon. The scent of honeysuckle drifted through an open window, mixed with the richer smell of printer’s ink. I planted my feet wide apart and tried to relax. He was probably five minutes. In my head it was about five hours: I was after all naked in a shed in a suburban garden, visible through the window, about to be marked up by a complete stranger.
It was that familiar, deliciously deviant feeling.
What can I say? He knew his stuff. Started gently and built up the sensation slowly, on the well-known principle that you can always go harder but can’t take back one that’s too hard. He began with a crop, then a longer, stiff riding whip that was moderately stingy. I wriggled. He chuckled. I started to get into the zone. He noticed my breathing changing, I think.
The cane he used was heavy, about as thick as his thumb. Made me present my ass. One stroke. I pulled against the cuffs, the sting of it reverberating through my body. He let me compose myself, slow down my breathing, present my ass again.
Six strokes. I felt all the little jumping, twitching, sizzling connections from ass to pussy to thighs belly spine back of neck and crawling into my brain. I felt fevered. I was ready for him to take me, then and there, in that position.
Instead he made me turn around, face out from the frame.
Through half-closed eyes I saw a wooden tray with pegs on it, and a length of string.
Pegs in two lines, starting at each collarbone and running across my breasts, towards my navel, then to just above my clit and a couple on the inside of each thigh.
“I’m sure you can figure this out,” he said, threading the string from each peg to the next in a long line. I was more interested in the sensations from the pegs on my breasts, my belly, my thighs.
“This process tends to make victims quite vocal,” he murmured. Victims, plural, I noticed. There was a ballgag in his hand. Then it was in my mouth and buckled tighter than was strictly comfortable. I did a lot of mmmph-mmmphing just for effect.
He seemed to enjoy the effect. When he brushed against me I could feel his erection pushing on my hip.
He left the pegs on for a quite a while. Assured me this would add to the effect.
Certainly made me breathe harder, trying to put myself in the right mental space to handle the sensations. Trying to still my body, not squirm, not move my hips the way they really wanted to move.
Fingers moved gently over my tits, belly, clit. No fair. I’m ready, just fuck me.
When he pulled the cord that yanked off the pegs it was a massive headrush. You’d think it should be painful, but the sensation just disconnected my head from my body and cushioned me in endorphins.
I was dazed, limp and hanging in the cuffs, eyes refusing to focus. The ringing in my ears was the echo of me squealing through the gag, I think. And all I could think to say was the one thing I wanted to happen. Uck ee oww. No consonants because the gag prevented them, but he got my meaning and fulfilled my wish. Spread me over the flatbed of the press, opened my legs. And yes, I was juiced up.
This guy was, I’d say, twenty years my senior. Back where I grew up, that could have made him old enough to be my father.
I’d figured that before I came here. Was it, unconsciously, why I’d chosen the over-the-knee socks, the short skirt and cropped top? The deviant schoolgirl look? Had I wanted the age-play aspect of this?
These were thoughts I only had afterwards, because he was long and vigorous, and twenty years older or not, he kept going a hell of a long time.
When I finally came round, got mind and body back together, he was looking though my handwritten journal again.
“Interesting stuff,” he remarked. “It’s like a renaissance of erotica, in the classical sense of the term.”
“Renaissance: a re-awakening of artistic and intellectual inquiry into the world and the human condition. Never mind. Let’s just say it’s good.”


I rewrote a lot. Put entries in date order, changed names and some details to protect the guilty. Rephrased the whole thing in the third person, so I was a character in my own stories.
Here’s what the mysterious M said: “Great news, sweetie – the publisher loves your book. Please sign the attached contract.”
I could have been fucked sideways.
Actually, I was. Fulani did. It became our regular thing. Especially after I threatened to write another book that would be about him.
He knows I’m not joking. Says he’ll have to make sure I have enough material for it.