When Lana Del Rey croons “I’m a ride or die” I always heard “Ima write or die”.
Me too Lana me too.
Write or die.
Never did quite get ride or die, do we get snacks, can I get out and swim?
Why do we have to die again?
I would much rather live.
It is a fucking book.
All about sex. Lots of sex with lots of people.
I am scared to publish it lest people think I am a turbo slut, but I am. Just not in the way the main character in the book is.
I am not putting my name on it, not my real one anyways.
My author’s note is hilarious if I do say so myself.
This is a work of pure fiction.
Any resemblance to any person, living or dead (to me, or otherwise) is coincidental.
Except Nelson, but he knows about this, so it’s okay.
Also, the sexual practices outlined in this book are not even remotely safe.
Like, not at all. STI’s exist in real life, they’ll kill ya.
Even I wouldn’t do most of this.
This is fantasy only.
Do not attempt any of it.
Don’t try dating a writer you meet on the internet, the unprotected sex, the random hook ups, none of it.
Seriously, just don’t.
Really, do as I say not as I write about. Some of this shit is downright dangerous.
I was trying to reconcile with someone that didn’t exist. These were his fantasies, not mine.
I took it to the extreme, because, have we met? This is what I do. Or what I did.
I am feeling remarkably more centered lately.
I am mine before I am anyone else’s Nayyirah Waheed
There’s also that whole thing where I found the other half of my soul in human form, but we will get to that at another time, when I can find the words for it. Or maybe I will keep that for myself. I haven’t rightly decided.
I am so fucking glad it’s done.
I started the godforsaken thing 2 years ago, my best day writing I got down 10, 000 words and then it would sit for months on end.
I got it back from my editor in October but I kept telling myself, I will get to it tomorrow. Tomorrow never came.
Bring in the New Year.
I decided I was not walking into another year and a new life with this thing sitting on my shoulders.
I don’t even know if it’s that good.
And I honestly don’t care anymore.
It’s done, its porn, sex sells, time to let it go and see what it does.
Best case it goes half of 50 shades and I can use that money to write better things about better character. Worst case, it’s over and that is enough. I am anticipating something in the grey area between those two things.
I am no longer attached to it in any way. Which is a really good feeling for the record.
I feel like Elsa, all frozen and letting shit go.
I am however excited about the next things coming. Think I might write that cougar handbook after all and maybe some version of the little mermaid where she gets to go home to the ocean.
I will be posting links like mad, I have found some comfort in selling myself.
I did a thing!
It’s a dirty filthy thing but it’s mine.
And for my faithful readers, a random excerpt. One of the more tame things that occur in the 375 pages of smut.
Thank you for being with me this long. Letting me talk and listening to what I have been saying.
5 years ago I started a new life. No idea where I was going, but I like where I ended up and where I am heading to.
“Can I open it?” I ask. Still confused.
I wiggle the lid off the box and peel back the layers of tissue paper.
“Is this what I think it is?”
In my hand I am holding a rather sizable clear glass dildo. The mushroom shaped tip takes up most of my palm. It is almost as long and thick as my forearm. There are perfect glass circles spiralling up the shaft, sticking out in smooth, pronounced ridges. It is huge and beautiful, I can only guess at the weight…a pound of solid glass, maybe two?
“Look through it.” You say.
I am not sure what you mean. But I hold it up to my eye like a telescope. I can very clearly see my fingers wrapped around it even in the dim patio light. My imagination starts spinning with the idea of this new thing.
“This is perfect. Can we play with it?” I ask, just now thinking to keep an eye out and my voice down for neighbors.
You laugh, take another drag and stub your cigarette out. Your hand reaches back and snags a handful of my dress, a makeshift leash, but I don’t need much coaxing, if any. I allow myself to be led to the bedroom. You have tilted the lamp on the bedside table to create a perfect spotlight. I lift my dress up over my head, getting caught in the straps…I am rushing and excited. You untangle me. You have slipped out of your clothes while I was snagged in mine.
I lay diagonally across the bed, grab a pillow and put it under the small of my back, tilting my hips up. I wiggle into position, letting you adjust me so the light hits me just right. You ask me if I want to watch too, I nod, too worked up to make words. You prop me up on more pillows so I can see what is happening between my legs.