Capes, Tights and Bondage Gear

I’m a bad geek. It took me until last week to finally watch Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog. Catchy music, uncomfortable ending, and Nathan Fillion looking a lot buffer than I remember him looking,* it was a pretty good time.

I’m not really into the superhero genre. Today, I realized that everything I like related to it is actually satirizing the genre or commenting on it, rather than being an example of the genre itself. Watchman, Soon I Will Be Invincible, Promethea, they all have a lot more to do with taking the genre apart than not.

I’ve read some Batman that I rather like, but for the most part, the closest thing I get to superhero comics is reading Hellblazer.**

Anyway, the point of this post is that I’m still irritated with myself for missing out on getting a submission in to that gay male superhero erotica anthology a while back. In light of that, have today’s tiny bit of fiction.

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I stuffed the leotard into the duffel bag and I just managed to zip up my pants when Drew woke up.

“Viperish- oh, Vish.” He blinked, rubbing his eyes hard, and I saw the pair of hickeys I had left on the inside of his wrist.

“Morning,” I said nervously, “How was…”

He leaned back in bed and grinned lazily at me. “Great, really great… Did you know that Viperish is hung like a goddamn horse?”

Choking on your own spit leaves a bad taste in your mouth.

“I…what?”

“Yup.” Drew stretched out, smirking. “Knows how to use it, too. You know, that utility belt’s got a lot more in it than laughing gas and grappling hooks …”

I caught myself staring and ran out of the room, muttering something about not wanting to hear about his cape fetish. I barely remembered to grab my duffel bag, and through my locked bedroom door, I could still hear my roommate laughing at me.

Secret identities sound great, especially when you’re in the closet about more than just the costume stuff, but you really do expect a city reporter to crack them eventually…right?
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My money’s on Drew knowing exactly who his roommate is.
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Coming Soon:
Dr. Horrible/Captain Hammer Slash
Learning to Live With Insomnia and Loving It
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*Weird Nathan Fillion moment: I saw a poster of him in a romantic comedy a few years ago. At first I thought there was something wrong with his face, and then I realized that I just didn’t recognize him when he was smiling.
**John Constantine’s trench coat is a lot like a cape, I guess?

Put Your Clothes in the Fire, You Won’t Need Them Anymore.

I think one reason why Little Red Riding Hood gets so much play in erotica is that there are so many ways to do it. I’ve done one Little Red Riding Hood story, and you know? I think I’m about done with the worldly wolf despoiling the innocent young girl trope.

Have five alternate versions of the Little Red Riding Hood story.

I.
Sometimes she dreamed and her husband, sweet and kind man that he was, had teeth that were far too sharp for any human. She could hear a harsh panting in her ear and her seeking fingers found prickly fur instead of honest wool.

There are some things we never get over. There are some things that we never want to get over.

II.
They took everything that Red’s grandmother had and left the old woman tied up in the closet.

Wolfe didn’t stop driving until they hit Texas and then it was nothing but open sky and the girl he had always wanted in the seat beside him, knocking back can after can of beer.

“You think we’ll ever go back?” he asked her, and she cut him down with a scornful glance.

“Never,” she said. “That’s the wrong story for us, puppy-boy.”

III.
They sent me into the forest because they didn’t know what else to do with me. Won’t stop picking flowers, won’t stop wearing red, won’t stop looking after the boys, what else were they going to do? I suppose I was lucky they didn’t give me a golden ball or a pair of red shoes.

I waited underneath the trees as it grew dark, digging my toes into the loose black soil, and when two green eyes peered at me from shadows, I smiled.

I was smart enough to be afraid, but I wasn’t so stupid that I’d go running back to the people who sent me out here in the first place.

IV
We’ve always lived in the forest, but our pack takes husbands from the valley. When my own time came, I trotted towards the smell of baking bred and cows. Before so very long, I came across a human boy heading down the path. He smelled like summer and fun, sweat and pleasure, and besides that, he had a scrap of red silk tied around his throat like a slash of blood.

I remembered my mother, gathering my sisters and I around the fire.

“Now mind, you girls,” she said, half-closing her yellow eyes. “Red is good. Red is lucky…”

V.
You expect wolves in the country, hiding behind the hedgerows and making off with your chickens and your children. I was beyond shocked when I recognized so many of them on a single street in Paris. They wore the skins of men, but you can always recognize them by their long loping walk, their toothy grins that have not a hint of humor and the way they pause to smell the air.

I watched the city wolves in fascination for a long moment, and then I realized that they recognized me too.
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Coming Soon
Kannan Feng Gets More Than Five Hours of Sleep
Taking Rejection With Grace (Or At Least Without Setting Something on Fire)
It Came From the Sex Toy Store!
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*Yes, I’m cheating on easy posts today because I’m tired.**
**So, so tired.

Doll Sex

For anyone reading, I’m taking leaving town next week, so I won’t be posting. Wish me luck, and let’s hope I don’t inadvertently set the East Coast on fire.*

This week’s piece of fiction involves agalmatophilia, or the sexual attraction to statues, dolls or mannequins. There are a lot of things to like about this kink,

By the way, future-Kannan? Looking up “sexy dolls,” “sexual interest in dolls,” and “doll sex” will not find the term that you are looking for.**

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She’s the statue of a goddess, though no one can decide which one.

One cold hand beckons and I take it, climbing up on her pedestal with her, and her marble lips smile, so I kiss them with fear.

Her hard, round breasts push against my chest, and I can feel myself get hard as I press myself against her. I’m aroused, but that’s less important than the calcifying chill that that starts to spread through me.

One morning, they will find me crouched at her feet, marble and insensible, and from her still mouth, I hear the word soon.

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Coming Soon:
The East Coast
Kannan Feng Ponders Her Addiction to Echo Bazaar
Goddamnit, Am I Hungry AGAIN?
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*No promises. I dropped a mattress on myself and nearly gassed myself with my oven not once but twice last night.
**It will however, teach you how to make a sex doll of your very own.***
***I’ve just invited all sorts of unrelated searches here again, haven’t I?

Five Things Make a Post, or So I’ve Been Told

1. I got a piece of flash fiction accepted over at Circlet Press. It involves inappropriate body structures, people who are not doctors, and as you might have guessed, people not doing so well with themselves.

2. I am currently between erotica projects. I blame the heat, but it probably has to a lot more to do with a little bit of current mental drain. I hate it when my brain doesn’t do as its told. I mean, its okay when its presenting me with interesting pictures of cute people in compromising positions, its just less okay when it wakes me up in the middle of the night reminding me that I suck.

3. I’m having a quandary where a certain plot and couple of characters could be erotica or it could be fantasy. I’m having trouble figuring out which. I’ll probably write up a few pages of each and see how that goes.*

4. Thinking about doing fiction every Thursday. It’s actually much easier than writing a post.

5. Man, if I want to actually write that Killian and Imyrr story, there’s a lot I need to know about Egyptologists at the turn of the century. Another research binge is actually sounding pretty good right now.
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Coming Soon:
Inflatable Erotica
Cooking Something That Is Not a Sandwich
And Then She Hooked Out His Eyes**
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*This might translate to flipping a coin and going with that. I’m all about easy right now.
**Just making sure you’re reading.

Tentacle Sex!

I live in Milwaukee, where a breeze off of the lake keeps things nice and cool most of the time. While the temperatures haven’t hit the nineties yet this year, and while I am grateful, this doesn’t keep me from lying flat on the floor and aerating as much of my body as I can.

Heat kind of takes my will to live, and it makes writing, if not difficult, then terribly distracted. Suddenly I find that all I want to do is write about icy winters, playing in rivers and sexy, sexy limeade.

With that in mind, have a drabble based off of Hokusai’s Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife.

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The summer heat rolled down from the mountain like a wheel, pressing everything flat before it, and Oyake’s dreams turned towards cool water.

As she turned and twisted on her pallet, her dreams curved and curled, wrapping a slick tendril around her knee before gliding slyly upwards. Oyake laughed with pleasure and her merriment escaped not as sound but as bubbles, floating pearl-like to a surface she couldn’t see. Breathing under water, she fell back into a soft tangle of muscular, writhing limbs.

In her dreams, Oyake closed her eyes as the tentacles slipped and wound around her sleek body.

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Tentacle sex* is not really my thing, but man, now I want sushi.
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Coming Soon:
Milwaukee Cools Down (Please?)
Some Household Chores
More Writing! More Smut!

*I’ve watched plenty of anime and hentai, but the only tentacle sex scene that stands out is one from Gintama. The tentacle monster is made out of sentient alien snot, the tentacle zips up the victim’s pants rather than unzipping them, and the everyone felt sort of cheapened.**
**That’s what happens when you watch Gintama.

No One Needs Reality

As might be evident from the list of things I am working on and the things that I’ve actually published, I don’t have much use for realism. I do like things to be of realistic sizes and weights,* but wings, improbable governments, tentacles in places where tentacles ought not be, all of those things are fine. Most of the jobs that I’ve had are all about fantasy** so why should my fiction be any different?

I’ve written what feels like a metric ton of erotica, and the erotica that I’m the most proud of has always been the stuff that was set in a world two doors down. The stuff that I’ve written where it’s two random people meet and have sex always feels like a chore, but man, the minute you throw in a manticore, or a chip in your brain that is set to explode if you don’t follow the Directive’s commands, it becomes much more interesting for me.

The first piece of erotica I ever wrote was about piercing, and I followed it up with a story about a lesbian couple in the 1920s. Then there was the general array of jilted lovers, horny college students, and cheating spouses. Honestly, I should have thrown in a pizza boy.

After I got good and bored with that, I started in the weird stuff. Suddenly we have witches in rural Wisconsin, the well-hung monster under the bed, and selling someone’s soul to the devil.*** Suddenly I was interested again. I do think that these stories sound more interesting and they definitely get more time and attention from me.

It makes sense. I’ve always been a fantasy reader, and the settings I’m used to reading about have very little to do with the modern United States or the modern United States as they actually are. They have a lot more to do with worlds that are out of focus, off kilter, or fell off the back the truck sometime again and rolled somewhere fun.

About the time when I got tired of writing erotica set in our world, I found out about publishers like Circlet, Dreamspinner and Loose Id, and the rest is history. I might never need to write about people having sex in a realistic setting again.

Of course, I’m not discounting the chance of writing about an elfin pizza boy.
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Coming Soon:
Kannan Feng Keels Over From the Heat (91 degrees? Really, Milwaukee?)
Fiction Thursdays
Writing as a (Bad) Habit
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*Breasts, penises, ponies, bulldozers
**Phone sex operator, tech support, multi-level marketing promotion
***The trick is to make it not your own.

A Day Late, But Not a Drabble Short

Between one thing and another, I looked up and realized that it’s Thursday. Or rather, I looked up and realized that it’s not Thursday any more, and I’d somehow forgotten to post.

This is going to be very short, because I need to stagger off to bed, but here, have a drabble. A drabble is a work of fiction that is precisely 100 words long, and for a while I was doing a ton of them. Happily enough, writing about 300 of them makes me pretty fast, and 100 words of smut is way easier to write than a real blog entry.

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Her smile twisted like a corkscrew, and as she leaned closer, I couldn’t help but look down her shirt. In response, she slapped my face hard and tugged on my hair, making me yowl.

“I don’t think you’ve learned a goddamned thing,” she said, fingering the scar that ran from my ear to my chin.

“So teach me.”

“Lesson one,” she said slowly, sliding a finger in my mouth. “You will use that mouth precisely when, and where, I tell you to…”

I knelt on the floor, and spreading her legs, she showed me the where.

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Coming Soon:
More Pornographic Novels
The 3 Kinkiest Things I Own
Bed