We’re at it again! We’re looking for short (1200 words or less) erotic fiction, nonfiction and poetry for the next anthology in the Hot Flashes series, to be published in 2012.  Submission deadline: March 31, 2012.

We are not interested in gratuitous sex. We want the erotic framed in a way that is fascinating, entertaining, enlightening, surprising. We want fine writing.

Think: appetite, humor, action, romance, food, travel, nature, personality, nostalgia, culture and counter-culture, mind, body and so on, and add your erotic spin.

Please mail hard copy of your submission, along with a short bio, to:
Hot Flashes 3
Left Coast Writers
484 Lake Park Avenue, #29
Oakland, CA 94610

If your work is selected for publication, we will request a Word RTF (rich text format) document via e-mail or on disk.

Thanks so much!

The eds.

Hot Flashes: more sexy little stories and poems

We love couplings, and in the spirit of pairs we are offering this deal:

From January 2^nd to February 14^th, we are having a “buy one, get one free” Hot Flashes: more sexy little stories and poems pre-Valentine’s Day Promotion at Book Passage (415-927-0960). Just let them know that you want a free copy when you purchase!

So buy the book for yourself, give the free copy to friend or lover, and join us for a lovely in-store party on 2/12/12 with a reading, entertainment, a sexy raffle and more!

We guarantee wine and chocolate and … who knows? … you might win a super special prize.

Eugène Manet closed his book and gazed around his wife’s well appointed boudoir. The clock on the mantle struck eleven, a late hour for him. Outside the winter rain, lashed by northern winds, slammed against the tightly secured shutters. In front of them, next to the fireplace a cheval mirror reflected Berthe’s intimate sphere, the two of them languishing on a cream-colored sofa, bathed in the amber light from a crackling fire in the grate. Lace curtains filtered the Parisian light during the day. On nights like this one, though, they shielded her from the frigid black window glass. Rosy flowered wallpaper covered the walls. His wife’s lavender perfume momentarily tantalized him, but disappeared when the ashy aroma of burning logs settled in.

Berthe lay with her head in his lap, reading from the book of poetry Édouard had given her. She still had on the black satin evening dress she wore to his brother’s soirée, but her shoes with the rosettes sat drying near the hearth. Berthe’s feet, now clad only in almost transparent black stockings, rested seductively on the arm of the sofa. Eugene loved her fashionable sleeveless evening dress with its revealing neckline. A row of small jet buttons ran in a sparkling line down the front from the top of her bodice to her cinched waist. On her bed lay the lace-edged petticoat and bustle she had stepped out of as soon as their bedroom door closed. Next to it lay his casually tossed tuxedo jacket. Eugène preferred this room to his own bedroom and wished he could share his wife’s bed every night, but that would be too déclassé.

Looking at their reflected images in the mirror, he watched Berthe put her book down then tilt her head to watch him. Turning, he shifted his vision from the mirror to her face. Her eyes, very calm, presented an impenetrable green-black veil that shielded her inner self from him. Sometimes they sparkled like pinpricks of brilliant sunlight dancing across a breeze-caressed pond. Other times they could be chill and motionless as ice solidifying during a glacial night. On occasion fierce storms coated their surface like a hurricane. Most often, looking into her eyes reminded him of trying to see the bottom of a mountain lake—the surface of the water could only be penetrated a short distance before a dark world blocked further intrusion. But that night, he saw deeper than he ever had before.

“Thank you, Eugène,” she whispered.

“W-w-what f-f-for?” he asked, his stammer unleashed, a look of surprise crossing his face.

Berthe smiled, reaching up to stroke his eyelids. He reminded her so much of his brother that it was easy to forget sometimes. The golden firelight heightened the red of his hair and beard. In the evening darkness, his eyes deepened into the same gray-blue as Édouard’s. She thought about her afternoon in Édouard’s studio. His current painting revealed a lot about his own marital arrangement. In that portrait of a fashionable couple, he had parted a curtain that exposed the sad alienation and hollowness of his own loveless marriage. That painting jolted her. Remembering her wedding, she cringed at how defeated she had felt that day. She had mourned for remorse sealed by her father’s death, for her lost dreams, for her lost freedom and for how wrong she had been.

“I’ve never told you how grateful to you I am,” she said to Eugène. “I know I’m not the easiest person to live with, yet you still manage. You even lift me up when the terrible bête-noire of my melancholia, drags me down. You encourage me to keep going. I know sometimes I sound churlish when all you are doing is trying to help. And you support my work. I can’t tell you how important that is to me. I owe you a great deal.” In that moment, she meant it.

Eugène nodded. Berthe felt him push a loose tress of her hair back in its place then run his finger along her eyebrow and down her cheek. She looked up at his face and saw her husband, Eugène Manet, the awkward and self conscious man who gave her everything. She did not close her eyes to conjure the vision of another. She watched the gentle face marked by creases from the struggle to make stubborn words flow. A childlike, shy smile flitted tenuously across his lips and Berthe felt the luscious stirrings that only came when she was alone in her bed.

Eugène drew his fingers along the flesh that separated her smooth cheeks from the plumpness of her lips. The rosebud tip of her tongue spread a sweet wetness on his fingertip.  The feeling was excruciating and he leaned in to kiss her, experiencing the incomparable dewiness of her mouth, reveling in its slipperiness. Sliding from that warm haven his tongue traced a moist trail down her neck to deep within the fold between her breasts, revealed by the daring neckline. Berthe gazed up at him as his hand moved into the cleavage exposed by her dress. The watery veil in her eyes parted even further as his hands found their way into her bodice. Eugène unfastened a few of the shiny buttons on her dress only as far as the top of her corset, revealing the lacy chemise underneath that covered her breasts.

Berthe began to unbutton the rest, but he gently pushed her hands away. Without a word, he slipped her shoulder straps down to free her arms. Her chemise and bodice fell over the top of her confining corset and released their contents.

Eugène breathlessly absorbed the image of Berthe, stretched out along the sofa, fully clothed except for her bosom—naked, perfect and glowing opalescent in the firelight.

Then Berthe smiled. It was a slow smile with mischief tweaking the corners of her mouth. She watched with eyes wide open, seeing only the face of her husband filling her private fantasies. It had always been the image of his brother Édouard who swam with her on a moonlit night in the silvery blackness of the Lac Inférieur. It was a dream she must now share with Eugène. She motioned for him to sit on a side chair pushed up against the wall. Upholstered in creamy silk, it was a Louis XV antique, a cherished inheritance. She would change her dreams, replace one brother with another and slide blissfully into the dark green waters of her fantasy.

Puzzled, Eugène sat where Berthe indicated then inhaled deeply in surprise as she gathered her skirts and sat straddling him, brushing her breasts tantalizingly close to his lips. As she squirmed against him, he relished—even through the fabric of his trousers—the delightful negative and positive construction of their forms. Her thighs tightened around his hips and he groaned at the delightful discomfort of his damnably tight tuxedo trousers. A soft sensation brushed his lips and the aroma of her lavender perfume blending with salty perspiration reminded him of making love to her on sticky summer nights with the bedroom windows letting in country-scented breezes. Opening his eyes, he saw Berthe, her head bent back, her pale white throat stretching and enticing. The silk fabric of her skirts rustled as she moved her body closer to his. With each thrust of tantalizing promise, her thighs squeezed harder and she nestled more firmly against him.

“Mon Dieu, B-b-berthe!” Eugène yelped hoarsely. “You’re k-k-killing me!”  He stared at his own Olympia who gazed down on him and he beheld the cavernous depths of her eyes, unveiled fully for the first time, beckoning him in.

“Ssssh,” she murmered kissing him and silencing his stammer. Then, she stood up, allowing Eugène enough space to free himself from the confines of his tuxedo fly. Berthe hovered over him as he worked through the meters of her satin evening dress and lace trimmed petticoats.

“Aaah,” he sighed when he finished fumbling with his own clothes and felt for that delight of women’s pantaloons—the strategically located slit.

He thought of the prostitutes who pretended passion. They knew how to play with men’s desire and only acted as if he held the control. This was different. Now he really did have the power and for the first time he could please a woman in ways that had only been dreams. Shudders shook through her, joy filled him.

“Mon Dieu!” she breathed heavily. “Now you’re killing me!”

He drew her in deeper, pulling and caressing. Electricity seemed to flow through her and filled her with enthralling abandon.

Eugène watched Berthe bathed in amber firelight and passion. He smiled, closed his eyes and lost himself in her.

“Dear God!” they said in unison, then laughed and breathed deeply. Eugène kissed her and tasted the salty musk of her sweating skin. She moaned, but when he looked in her eyes, the dark green waters had returned and closed over her depths. Still she stayed for a long time on his lap, her arms around his neck.

############

Unity Barry escaped the brown smog of southern California to attend art school in the San Francisco Bay Area. After working for way too long in the corporate world she escaped to write about her favorite subjects, the Impressionist painters and Paris during the Gilded Age. She still lives in the Bay Area.

LEFT COAST WRITERS PRE-VALENTINE’S DAY EVENT: Party for the day of the heart, with a few heart-felt readings as well!

Saturday, February 11th|| 7pm
Book Passage-Corte Madera || 51 Tamal Vista Dr.
Corte Madera ||www.bookpassage.com

Join us for the ultimate pre-Valentine’s Day party. Hot Flashes editors Linda Watanabe McFerrin and Laurie McAndish King and a host of past contributors will serve up wine, chocolate, romance-inducing gifts and some super-sultry works of literature just in time for the special day. Single or paired or in a big group, we want you to come and enjoy the love-ly vibe!

Linda Watanabe McFerrin has been traveling since she was two and writing about it since she was six. She is a contributor to numerous literary journals, newspapers, magazines, anthologies, and online publications including the New York Times, theWashington Post, the San Francisco Chronicle, the San Francisco Chronicle Magazine, Modern Bride, San Francisco Bride, Bay Nature, various Travelers’ Tales anthologies, and Salon.com. A popular speaker and panelist and an award-winning writer, she has authored two poetry collections, a novel and a short story collection, and has edited four books, including a northern California guidebook and a travel anthology. Linda has served as an NEA panelist and past judge for the San Francisco Literary Awards, the Josephine Miles Award for Literary Excellence and the Kiriyama Prize, and is founder and President of Left Coast Writers®, LLC.

Laurie McAndish King is a travel writer whose essays have been published in anthologies such as 30 Days in Italy, The Thong Also Rises, and the award-winningThe Kindness of Strangers. Her work has also been published in the San Francisco Chronicle Magazine and aired on KUSF radio. Laurie’s adventurous spirit has led her to chase lemurs through the mountains of Madagascar, study medicinal plants in the jungles of Brazil, track lions on foot-without a gun-in Botswana, study with an urban shaman in San Francisco, and trap and band raptors in the Marin Headlands. Laurie earned her master’s degree in Internet-based education and publishes an online newsletter for travel writers. She is an officer and board member of Bay Area Travel Writers, and indulges her passions for travel and natural history as often as she possibly can.

Having trouble steaming up the page? Have a blast loosening up and learning the techniques for adding spicy, sensual, and sometimes funny sizzle to your work. The class is full of quick free-writes and entertaining exercises that will have you moving excitedly into erogenous zones in no time.

Linda is the founder of Left Coast Writers®. Her latest novel, Dead Love(www.deadlovebook.com), a global supernatural thriller and Finalist for a Bram Stoker Award for Superior Achievement in a Novel, was published by Stone Bridge Press in 2010.

To register for this workshop, go to: http://www.bookpassage.com/event/linda-watanabe-mcferrin-writing-sexy-stuff

“Il ya des mains pareilles a des feuille capturees. Et d’autres qui parle sans arret dan leur collerette de rires.”

—Jaime Mais, Au crible de la nuit, 1948

Finland is Western Europe’s northernmost country.  Further north than much of Siberia, it hangs, with Sweden, from the horn of the cold Arctic circle, one of a pair of saddlebags straddling the Gulf of Bosnia.  All winter days are locked in darkness.  In summer, the nights are white, the watery light leaking into dreams and slumbers.

It was June.  I was traveling in Scandanavia with Lawrence.  Night after night I wrestled with the flickering glare.  Sleep-starved, I stumbled from smoldering midnights to shimmering noons, a somnambulist trapped in the endless river that flowed between those twin cauldrons.  Lawrence moved through the marathon days with an animal zeal, feasting on big bowls of herring and sour cream, guzzling down strong aqua vitae as if it were water, as if the bleak memory of winter—of hibernation and silence—were locked within him, an unspoken warning and inescapable goad.

Paris was our next destination. I longed for it.  In Paris, my friend Nanos was in the midst of his plans for an exhibit of Les Surrealists Grec (the Greek Surrealists) at the Center George Pompidou.  I could feel him pacing the cluttered rooms of his Montmarte flat, worrying over texts and designs.  The works of Elytis, Egonopoulis, Tsarouchi and Mayo would be on display.  I could already see, in my mind’s eye, minotaurs and maidens, the fantastic hybrid creatures of Egonopoulis, the contorted, teeming and endlessly metamorphosizing shapes that cover the canvasses of Mayo.

Traveling by train, the trip to Paris from Orebro, Sweden would take 34 hours.  I sleep well on trains.  The dark rattle of a rail car has always been soothing to me.  But we had a problem with bookings, and at the Orebro station, instead of the comfortable bunks of a first class compartment, we were faced with a cramped glass-doored cabinet.  Four seats upholstered in dirty brocade crowded two of the facing walls.  The green floor was marbled in grime. When we slid open the door, an explosion of sulfurous, sweet-heavy heat engulfed us.

“Lawrence,” I hissed, “this is not a couchette-lit.”

“I see that,” Lawrence replied, his blue eyes darting beneath the gold flutter of lashes taking in the whole picture.  The determined set of his jaw made it clear that he had no intention of struggling for another moment in Swedish and that any attempt to extricate us from the horns of the dilemma would, at this point, be ill-advised.

“It’s not so bad,” he added swinging bags and briefcase onto one of the seats in the foetid chamber.  “We’ll shut the door.”  Perhaps we’ll be the only ones in here.”

“July in Europe – not one chance in hell,” I thought.  I was too tired to put up a fight.  We opened the window to let the absence of a breeze blow in.  The seats, I found, could be forced to recline two to three inches.  I sat in the one nearest the window, reluctantly perched upon the rim of the first ring of our Inferno, praying that it would not get hotter, that there would be no other squatters in Hades.

The first man to enter was handsome, young and quite tall, with long, dark hair and eyes like a Siberian husky.  He sat next to me.  The second, also tall and angular, had curly, blond hair and skin as pitted as a lunar sea.  He took the seat next to Lawrence.  They appeared to be companions, or at least countrymen, for they spoke to one another in Finnish, a kind of stacatto clucking.  One of them had a deck of cards.  It was quickly opened, and they began to play a strange game reminiscent of liar’s dice.

The corridor outside the compartment was beginning to fill up.  Faces peered in, assessed the occupants, and moved on.  The river of students eddied and swelled, parting finally to reveal two girls.  One was a plump redhead, her cherub-shape squeezed into a pair of black jeans and a black t-shirt.  The other was a frail blonde with a face like a Boticelli Venus, except that there was a carnal glint in her eyes when she spotted the dark-haired Fin and pushed open the door.  They greeted each of the men in Finnish, and casting only a quick glance at me, a somewhat longer one at Lawrence, settled into the seats nearest the door and chatted, girlishly, among themselves.

The card game continued, only now our phone-booth-sized residence was charged with the subtle perfume of these two girls.  The girls got up often, leaving the room in slipstreams of their scents and returning to catch the attention and, occasionally, a remark from one or another of the two Finnish men.  They were invited to join the card game and participated in a half-hearted way.  In this limbo, the train sweated its way into Copenhagen, disgorged some of its passengers, clattered through a few more dreary suburban miles, and was loaded, in Gottburg, onto a cross-channel carrier.  It was a cumbersome process, complicated by the presence on this ferry of a Duty Free Shop.  The Fins evaporated like phantoms at dawn.

“They’re gone,” I barely breathed.

“They’re at Duty Free Shop.” Lawrence replied sagely.  His smile was broad, his head cocked as if listening to some inscrutable sound.

“Lawrence,” I warned, “I have to sleep.”

“It will get easier,” he replied.  It will get darker.  We’re moving toward the sunset.”

The thought of darkness poured over me — a shadowy syrup, soothing the blister of too much daylight.  I relaxed, actually dozing amid the clank and creak of the train’s carriage resting on its hammock of metal, as we crossed the channel to France.

I awoke to a nether world of waning light.  The Finns had returned with their Duty Free purchases.  Now sweating heavily, they replenished their body fluids with the dubious aid of a fifth of strong whiskey, taking long camel-like pulls from the bottle’s too-small neck, letting the fiery liquid roll down their throats, and chasing it down with great gulps of beer.  The compartment reeked with the thick yeasty smell of this enterprise.  Lawrence, to my horror, had turned-coat completely.  Finding his niche in the excesses of Dante’s third ring of hell, he had become one with our cohabitants.  He, too, was engaged in their card game.  His eyes, too, were rimmed in blood-red oblivion.

The chubby redhead had fallen asleep, her legs in a small “y” that straddled her backpack.  a diamond-shaped wet stain had formed a small mouth of darkness against the less black crotch of her jeans.  The male Finns were intent on the pitchy aces and spades, the flame-red hearts and diamonds that smoked and flared from the white surfaces of their cards.  The young blonde girl feigned sleep through slitted eyes, one delicate hand seemingly resting, in innocence, on the thigh of the dark-haired Finn.

Lawrence, hardly the guide I would have wished for, looked up from his cards and winked as if to indicate that his complicity were all a pretence.  I squirmed in my seat and looked out at the countryside that flashed past.  The sky, purpling, had taken on the hue of a tired ventricle.  Field flowers flared like matches, luminous under the sunset.  The blonde girl had slipped further into the semblance of sleep, her hand fallen, incidentally, into the crevasse between the legs of the handsome Finn.

“Jail bait,” Lawrence whispered, leaning toward me with a nod in the girl’s direction.

I smiled tiredly, thinking of the drawn look of my sleep-deprived face, the lines etched into the corners of my mouth.  Behind Lawrence the sun was setting in a bright scarlet gash.

“You look like a nefarious poppy,” Lawrence continued, his hands resting on my knees, his eyes fixed me in a blue-grey gaze as riveting as two metal spikes.  I could smell the beer and whisky on his breath.  “I can see the sunset reflected on your face.  I like seeing it this way — indirectly.”  His hands moved over my thighs.

Behind him the sun bled red onto the black eyebrow of earth.  The dark Finn leaned over the arm of my chair.

“It is really a remarkable sunset,” he said in a clipped British-English.  His lapse into English scared me.  It had an eery effect—like a ventriloquist’s puppet, echoing Lawrence.

“She’s tired,” Lawrence said, addressing the Finn.  “She needs to sleep.”

“Yes,” came the Finn’s voice, so close to my ear that I felt it was in my own head.  “Yes, I can see that.”

I thought I was dreaming.  I felt a great vault open beneath me, felt myself falling, again, into an abyss under the spell of language.  Darkness closed over me.

When I awoke it was to a world of shadows.  Lawrence was awake, his face alight with jack-o-lantern laughter as he surveyed a diabolical sense.  A full moon, or nearly, washed the compartment in ghostly light.  Next to Lawrence the blonde man was beginning his descent, a long slow slide toward the faux-malachite of the floor.  He was aided in this by the powerful legs of the redhead.  The soles of her feet, now angled against his hip, exerted a purposeful pressure as she unconsciously claimed the entire banquette for her own.  Obliterated by whisky and beer, he colluded with her intentions, in unknowing self-sabotage.

We watched as he slid from his seat, folding over himself like a jack-knife, falling to the floor, unconscious.  Once crumpled onto the larger space, he began to unfurl like one of those small paper flowers that, placed in a bath of water, blossom and open.  He uncurled slowly, his recumbent from carpeting the floor like an exotic animal skin, his head resting lightly on the toe of Lawrence’s shoe.  If Lawrence were to move his foot slightly, the curly blond head would hit forcefully against the sharp metal rim of an adjacent wastebasket.  I notice that Lawrence was laughing soundlessly, tears rolling down his cheeks.

“Look,” he managed to rasp, indicating the compartment’s far corner.

I turned reluctantly from the Finn so delicately balanced upon Lawrence’s foot, to observe that the tender blonde Aphrodite had grasped the hand of the other sleeping man and was moving it slowly and rather thoughtfully over her small breasts.  He twitched slightly, like a large dog, dreaming.

Then murmuring something, he slowly rolled towards her, covering her body with his.  His hands, in the darkness, looked like white foraging rodents.  She slithered beneath him, finding the fork in his body, and lodged herself there, arching into him in the timeless maneuver that undoubtedly fostered Rome’s greatest engineering accomplishment.

His response was predictable.  They had formed an inseparable sandwich, fused into a coupling of delicate pressure and delectable glissades.  Then we watched as a pair of hands so fair that they appeared to be gloved, pulled the man’s jeans down over his hips and loins and the marble-white mirror-image of the near-full moon glistened in the compartment’s dim corner, rising and falling in an ancient and irresistible rhythm.

It was shocking.  It was exhilarating.  It was as if the night had become effervescent, the compartment filled with fairies.  Outside, moonlight, like a dreamy lichen, furred the furrowed fields in silver.  Lawrence’s sleepless visage was Mithras-like.  Mirth mantled him in glittering light.  A profound hilarity seemed to well up inside me, the way as children, laughter gathers and threatens in the dark bole of a church.

In a rush of soft groans, purring and pleasant animal sounds, the movement in the chamber’s corner stopped, the participants parted, rearranged themselves and exited, trysting again in the corridor for a slow cigarette.  Lawrence, cradling the head of the man at our feet, eased it past the metal rim of the wastebasket and onto the floor.  A breeze rolled in through the windows, thinning the civet-thick scent of sex that now blanketed the compartment.  I fell asleep again in the darkness.

Morning, sour and bright, awakened me.  Lawrence was sleeping, finally surrendered to the dark wave that had gathered on the other side of the leaves of his energies.  At our feet, the blonde Finn slept, curled into a fetal position, his sallow cheeks still pressed into the dirty floor.  Next to me the other man slept also, dark brow furrowless, forehead smooth as an infant’s.  The redhead, like a silky, was combing her long siren hair.  The blonde nymph’s seat was empty.

The countryside had filled-in during our slumbers.  It was full of farms, large pleasant cows and baby-pink pigs – the smug landscape of France, environs de Paris.  We rolled past a farm where four men had a pig spread out on a table preparing to slaughter it.  It’s squeals did not fill the air.  The men had wound a tight wire around its mouth.

One by one the others awakened.  Activity swelled again in the corridor.  Sleepy heads lifted.  Students rose from bed rolls hastily thrown here and there in the halls.  The blonde girl returned.  A babel of languages surged in through the door behind her.  Her return awakened the man asleep on the floor.  He rose and looked about sheepishly, his face coloring with crimson as he climbed into his seat.  The dark-haired Finn watched him in amusement and offered a few encouraging words in their language.  Lawrence, yawning and stretching his legs at last, said a cheerful good morning to all in English.

The dark-haired Finn looked over at me.  “You are feeling better?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said warmly, raising an eyebrow.  “And you?”

“Oh, yes,” he said smiling.  “Much better.”

Lawrence cleared his throat and looked at his watch.  “9:45,” he said.  “Nearly 34 hours.  We have witnessed the sunset.  We have lived through the night.”

We lurched forward and stopped in a fitful progress.  The trains were backed-up and delayed.  In this manner, we rolled slowly toward the Gare de l’Est.  Around us graffiti rose in monstrous swirls on the concrete lips of the platforms.  We slid toward the rude din of the station, sucked into the terminal darkness.

____________

©Linda Watanabe McFerrin
“Libidinous Finns” was first published in I Should Have Stayed Home (Book Passage Press)

Stone Bridge Press is giving away two tantalizing books for all you lovers of love (or more accurately, SEX) out there. Go to their website to find out how easy it is to win.

The books up for grabs are: The Japanese Art of Sex How to Tease, Seduce, and Pleasure the Samurai in Your Bedroom (Memoirs of a Geisha meets Sex in the City) by Jina Bacarr and Tantra of the Tachikawa Ryu: Secret Sex Teachings of the Buddha by John Stevens.

And, for a darker kind of love, “Friend” Erin Orison (the saucy blogger and protagonist of Linda Watanabe McFerrin’s zombie romance novel, Dead Love) on Facebook for your chance to win a signed limited edition hardcover copy of Dead Love!

http://www.deadlovebook.com/dead-love-my-zombie-valentine/

Winners will be notified on Monday, Feb 21st.

In a world where everything is sexualized instead of humanized, I worry that we’ve lost touch with the sweet eroticism in life. To me, being human, life itself is erotic. It’s a being alive to the magical, pulsating, ecstatic body and universe we live and experience through. It’s a way of being in the world in a sensory and tactile way, leading and relating to others with your energy awareness and senses.

But you may not notice. Because you are not home much. In your body. In your flesh. In your senses. And you may be a little afraid of the sexual, creative fire that lives at the core of your being and what it might do, should you fan the flames. Will you explode? Kick your lover out? Binge on sex? Follow your dream?

The inclination of (our) nature is to (pro)create. The bees and blooms kind of thing is literally taking place all around you, all the time. It’s taking place within, continuously creating and destroying our bodies and being. Sexual communion with another human being is simply an expression of this entirely creative process. You attract, build up heat, enter one another, explode, and die. A life and death dance. The inclination to co-create is so strong and it is not for nothing that condoms were invented.

Life is fecund and sex is merely a facet of life’s eroticism.

Perfunctory or performance oriented sex with release as goal, no longer seems so interesting to me.

I know my sexuality is the central life force within me. It fuels everything from how I show up in the world, to my creativity, to play, love making and communing with the divine.

_____

Award-winning writer, fine art photographer and coach, Lone doesn’t like to put herself in a box. A visionary soul, she’s also a rebel priestess, muse, word teaser, sacred space keeper, fire-footed dancer, fierce seer and mystical being. She’s a lover, sensualist and queen of all things delicious. She’s tender-hearted freedom fighter and get-things-done diva. Above all she’s a hopeful romantic relishing life’s magic and mystery. To her, life is about exploring inner and outer worlds, expressing herself fully, freely, and she hopes to inspire YOU to discover and express yourself with depth and delight. Check out her blog: Divinely Furious.