Part of Toby's Poem

Today I’m Going to Share a Sad Story

Twenty-one years ago today, I lost my virginity.

That experience itself is not a sad one, but it’s important; I was 14-years-old, and having already had my first sexual awakening a few months before, I’d known when I started dating Toby that he would be the one. He was three years older, an incredibly tall and thin brunet with long hair, graceful fingers, and the most prominent, lovely nose. We’d started phoning one another after he stopped me on the sidewalk outside my Taekwondo studio, where he’d told me he loved my smile and eyes.

What he didn’t know then was that I already had a crush on him. We’d both auditioned for Tevye and His Daughters a couple months before, and while I’d had to drop out of my miniscule role because I had too much homework that I took very seriously, he’d gone on to perform as Tevye in a manner that didn’t fit his 17-year-old frame. It was on that stage Toby struck me as different from all the other boys, as if hosting wisdom beyond his years, but also a presence that couldn’t be explained in any terms I understood then. It wasn’t that he was confident, or dominant, or anything we might imagine when we think of onstage presence; instead it was an aura of listlessness, of discomfort. He was a young man who struck like the gentle beat of the carotid through translucent skin—rich with life blood, and yet so faint you might miss the ghostly tick of who he was.

I discovered I was right about this feeling when Toby and I started dating. There was something about the way he gazed wistfully out the window, and the unusual things he chose to discuss and dwell on. Then there was poetry; long before we’d ever kissed, I’d read him one of my early poems when we sat together in the park. I’d stopped mid-line, suddenly embarrassed and thinking there was no way anyone would really want to hear this blubber I was writing in which I poured out my soul, my ache, and all my love—but Toby did. After, he begged me to write more, to read to him over the phone so he could savor the words and ask me all about what I was thinking when I wrote them. Occasionally—after much encouragement from me—he shared one of his own, and in time, this became our habit. Poems and letters formed our connection, the secret we’d found to express ourselves beyond the physical moments we spent cuddled in the dark, talking of dreams and the futures we imagined for ourselves. Mine were tangible and real, fantasies I could make happen if I set my mind to them. But in Toby’s written words I learned something with which I’d never been familiar: the idea that someone could truly find himself not fitting in this world, that his very existence, for him, was in question at every moment of every day.

By the time we decided to have sex, Toby had shown me more of him. There was a youthful playfulness that distorted his face when he tried to fit in, as if underneath something lingered, a quiet unease that only spilled out on paper when he spoke serious fantasies of living in different eras and places. He made it sound romantic, this obsession with running away from here and now—and this was part of the reason I asked him to be my first. It happened in the middle of the night after he snuck his long, lanky body through my window, kissed me while he slowly peeled off my clothes, and then laid me down on the carpet of my bedroom floor as the moonlight streamed in through the open window and over our skin. Toby kept his lips on mine the entire time, as we both tried, desperately, to stay silent lest we get caught.

In truth, the experience was not what I’d expected. I wondered why people made such a big deal out of this thing. All the other physical acts we’d shared had struck me as more pleasurable, more intimate—and what I wanted in that moment was something more meaningful, to light a candle by which we could whisper our poetry aloud, like we did all the other times we’d been together. I’d been trying to make sense of Toby for so long, and now, this close, this forcibly connected, I needed to understand him, to peer into his soul and see why—despite all his love, his caresses, and the way he claimed he felt happier with me—he still struck me as so lost inside his head.

Part of a poem once written for Toby

Toby’s Poem

Our lovemaking continued for only a month after that, each time better and attempting to draw us closer. It was a physical act to meet my ache for understanding, and perhaps one that represented his need for a world he couldn’t find in his family, friends, or the comings and goings of high school life. And when we broke up, it wasn’t because he was acting as the lost young man I’d come to know and treasure, but instead the laughing, joking boy he thought he was supposed to be.

*

It was almost four years later we ran into one another, and everything, while different, had stayed the same. Toby complimented my eyes; I told him I still loved his nose. He was thinner, lankier, and his eyes had grown darker somehow, like he’d taken on more of the world’s weight and it had sunk the skin around them as a mark of all he had to carry. But when he asked if I still wrote poetry and I flashed a reminiscent grin, he brightened up. He told me he missed my smile and that we should catch up over poetry and wine.

I honestly can’t remember much of the dinner we shared when we met a week later. The trials that had happened in our lives—rumors that had spread around town about me, and the rumblings I’d heard about him through friends of friends—were all irrelevant as we sat across from each other. We both pulled out the notebooks we’d written in over the years, eager to share everything we’d thought and felt about life, other lovers, and what the future would bring. After our meal, Toby bought a bottle of red while I stood outside the liquor store in the cold night air, wondering if the love we’d make would feel the same to an experienced 18-year-old as it did to the virgin he’d soothed and welcomed into his mystery all those years before.

When we arrived at my house, we uncorked the wine and sat facing each other, poetry in hand as we read, back and forth, for the next couple hours. There were many toasts, many utterances of encouragement, many awed shakes of heads at what each of us had expressed over these few years that felt like a lifetime of change. He stopped me, at one point, telling me he was so glad I’d never stopped writing. I’d dropped my notebook to my lap, beaming and blushing—no one but Toby had read so many of my words, and certainly no one but him had encouraged me to keep writing them. In the same way, I loved what he’d done with his own, and I told him so.

It was somewhere after our second glass we started to kiss.

The memory is ancient and tainted with the fuzzy haze of wine, but what I do recall is this: two naked bodies curling under the sheets, fingertips grazing each other’s sides, tracing memories and yet learning something new, something changed. There was more wine, then more poetry. We whispered it as we made love again, this time a little older, more sure, knowing it was the magic of the lines we read that fueled our fire, that maybe seemed to others strange—two people reading as they arched and bowed, breaths wavering between the words—but that for us remained the secret to our true selves, and what we sought to understand in one another. Our rapture was in poetry, and when we woke in the morning and he kissed me goodbye, I remember thinking it was the real way we were supposed to end: the writers who’d loved, not just the lovers who’d written.

I lost Toby after that night. I heard he moved away, somewhere strange, some other country he’d always wanted to visit. As close as we’d been that night, I’d read in him that comfort in his skin remained a diaphanous, tenuous thing—that despite his beautiful words and loving touch, he still wasn’t all that sure of the world or his place in it.

Wherever he was, I hoped he’d soon find the solace he’d been looking for.

*

It was over four years later I got the news.

My life was a vastly different one then. I was nearing the end of a five-year relationship that lasted five years too long, one that, without saying too much, broke me in ways women should never be broken. And it was while this boyfriend visited my apartment that my best friend called to tell me what she’d heard about Toby through some mutual friends. She’d dated him too, for a short while before I’d ever met her—but through the years, she knew who and what he was to me.

She spilled it all in a moment, her low tone signaling the gravity of what she had to say: Toby had been living in Europe with a pregnant girlfriend. No one had seen him in a while, but everyone thought he might finally be happy.

And then he killed himself.

My reaction had been stifled by the look I got from my boyfriend. I didn’t know how to act, how to feel. I’d never lost anyone before, but I found myself remembering Toby in that instant as I’d first known him—a lost young man, living in the wrong world, the wrong time, searching for something that fit and never quite finding it, writing letters and poetry that forever tried to make sense of it all.

“So he killed himself and he was your first. Big fucking deal,” was what my boyfriend said to me. “You dated that guy? He was your first? What a loser.”

And because my reaction would determine what came next between us, I didn’t say anything more.

*

They say you always remember your first, and I believe, for many, this is true. There is something to be learned in your first time—awakening, desire, love, pain, change. And yet, when I think back to my “first,” I hardly remember that moment with Toby on my bedroom floor. What I remember instead are those moments sharing ourselves in the poetic way only we understood, and, deeper than that, the lost man I tried so hard to understand but never fully could. With it all usually comes a sense of grief and loss, a feeling that rose and fell so fast then, never expressed in a way that suited the connection we shared every time we read our words.

Most of all, there comes the acceptance that sometimes, you can never truly understand what’s going on inside a person’s soul. You can encourage them, and you can empathize, but there’s always so much more beyond what they will let you see.

And the only thing you can do is treasure them anyway.

XX,
Jade

For Toby.

Interviewed on Molly’s KissCast!

When I was nine years old, my mother took me to a modern art show. I don’t remember much about it other than a giant piece in the center of the room with bicycle wheels perched haphazardly all over what looked like a mound of clutter, but somewhere during my bewildered eyeing of the thing, a newscaster came over with a camera and mic and asked if I’d like to be interviewed about my thoughts on the display.

“You want to hear what I have to say?” I whispered.

I’d looked at my mom with huge eyes and a gaping mouth as she encouraged me to turn back and answer the gentleman’s questions, and while that interview was a short-lived, silly little thing, the honor of being asked what I thought about anything struck me as really damn special.

So, cut to many, many years later, when I was on Skype with the lovely Molly Moore of Molly’s Daily Kiss. I’ve been delighted to get to call Molly a friend for a little while now, because she’s as fantastic in her conversational charm as she is thoughtful and talented while writing or photographing for her many websites. Somewhere in our friendly conversation she asked if I might like to be on her new podcast, Molly’s KissCast.

KissCastLips

As we were on Skype, I got to see my own face in the corner of the monitor as I dropped my jaw in the very same way 9-year-old me did at that distant art show. Because Molly—sweet darling dear I adore—wanted to hear not only what I thought about certain aspects of the business, but also just about me, my history, and what and why I like to write.

Needless to say, I was completely honored—and I still am. I was quite nervous at first, but in her easy, sweet manner, Molly ended up getting me giggling so hard through most of the conversation I should probably listen one more time to make sure I didn’t snort or something in public. 🙂 Heck, she even got me talking about my recent book, my circus past and how much of my real life makes its way into my fiction (dun dun dun), plus a few other reveals I hope you’ll join us to hear. Molly previously interviewed Jane Gilbert of Behind the Chintz Curtain, and I suspect she will have many more fabulous guests—she is such a charismatic, intelligent, and warm woman, being on the interviewee end of any of her podcasts is a treat no one will want to miss!

For now, I am so grateful to have been a part of Molly’s KissCast. Please click here to give the episode a listen.

XX,
Jade

Cover of Rose Caraway's Dirty 30

Crazy Smokin’ Hot Cover Reveal: Rose Caraway’s Dirty 30!

Guys, guys, guys—roll out the red carpet. Pull back the curtains. I have a cover to show you…

In a second.

Look, before we do this, I have to be honest—while I often find many covers sexy in some fashion, I really don’t judge books by covers these days. There’s so much that goes into the cover that has absolutely nothing to do with the true beauty inside (metaphor much?), so I tend not to get too fired up over what a cover looks like. For a moment, I’ll ooh. Occasionally, I’ll ahh. And then I’ll open the damn thing and read, completely blocking out what I saw on the cover.

But this…holy fucking torpedo, Batman! This cover is, hands down, the sexiest cover I’ve ever seen.

Behold:

Cover of Rose Caraway's Dirty 30

It appears Rose and Big Daddy Caraway just took my “I don’t care about covers” spiel and tore it all up to shreds. I mean, just LOOK at this thing! I’m not sure if it’s that this gal’s attire reminds me of my clubbing days (*gazes out window in moment of naughty nostalgia*) or if it’s just that it’s so perfectly suggestive and provocative without in-your-face nudity or the nondescript tie plus heel combo that keeps appearing, like, everywhere—but this is superb!

So, suffice it to say (as if I wasn’t already excited enough), I am now crazy giddy to be part of Rose Caraway’s Dirty Thirty audiobook anthology. I’ll have more to share on “The Doll” and “The Bells”—my two stories in this one—in the near future, as well as a release date.

Until then, please scroll back up and look again. I mean it. And I encourage you to judge away, too, because this cover is clearly indicative of one seriously hot anthology!

I can’t wait!

XX,
Jade

Picture of rain streaking down window

When It Rains

Many years ago, I had a friend with early arthritis who mentioned that whenever it rained, everything changed for him—his body slowed, his joints ached, and he remembered how old he was (his words).

While I’ve no definitive physical reaction to rainy weather, I have noticed my own unique response to it. It’s beyond the casual gaze out the streaked, foggy window, or the perfunctory lean toward the scent of nature drenched in rainfall. Instead it’s a deep-rooted thing—a snapshot in time of an incident that shaped and changed me.

And so sometimes, when it rains, I remember.

Usually, the memory comes fleeting and fast—and always, I push it aside to write about another day. But during a rainstorm a few weeks ago, I went combing through my files. I’ve been a recorder since I was a little girl, and I’ve saved most everything—I have the diary I kept from ages seven to eleven, the bounty of journals I locked in a drawer as a teen, and those I have on my nightstanPicture of journalsd as an adult. So when I found the story that’s popped into my head here and there over the last two decades, I felt inspired to finally commit the experience to words—this time as the vivid imprint that occasionally flares, something I recognize as the start of a transformation far deeper than raw, young me saw when she wrote it in calculated detail back then.

At 14, I was gangly and awkward. I had thick, bushy eyebrows hidden behind gigantic blue-framed glasses, and I wore baggy shirts and loose jeans to hide developing breasts and hips that had grown far wider than my mother’s. I’d already had braces for the first of two times, so I’d endured much of the teasing that came with them for years prior…but while my teeth were straight, I felt crooked. I felt small. I had a mind bursting with curiosity, but I, like many young teens, was just coming to understand this strange body of mine. I’d heard and read of what it could do, but I was timid, observing all the goings-on around me with a pair of huge, inquisitive eyes. Still, my body ached, somehow, for more—and at school, in my art class, I found it.

His name was Rob.

Rob was a boy three years older than me. He was tall and lean, with long, wild hair and deep, dark brown eyes. He wore a leather jacket, rings, and earrings, and rarely smiled—unless, I soon discovered, he was looking at me. I could feel him watching me from the table a few feet away, no matter who he was talking to, what he was drawing, or what the teacher had to say.

And one day—quietly, leaning close in his chair—Rob told me I was beautiful.

These words were foreign to me. I already had a boyfriend—he was a goofy boy a year older who had supposedly already had sex, but who refused to do anything with me for the six months we’d dated. He’d explained to me that “sex was trouble” and “smart, good girls didn’t want those things.” But occasionally, if I begged, he’d kiss me close-mouthed. Or, he’d push on one of my breasts and joke that my body would be more fun if the other breast would then pop up like a head in a Whack-a-Mole game. He was my very first boyfriend, and from him, I learned I was a weird nerd, an “okay but not great” trait, and that the reason he really liked me was because I wasn’t “too pretty” like the other girls he’d dated.

I suppose it’s not a big surprise Rob got my attention.

For two weeks after Rob complimented me, I remained quiet. I noticed him in class though, always watching me, making something buzz deep inside in a way I’d never felt before. The day he slipped his phone number my way, I fondled the paper for hours, wondering if I should follow the longing pulsing along my skin, and the desire filling my head. It distracted me when my boyfriend spoke of video games and burping, then reminded me I was needy when I asked him to kiss, and that if we did, we’d get caught, and the trouble we’d get into would all be my fault.

So I called Rob, and for two more weeks, we talked about our lives and mature things. He shared the trouble he got into with his friends, the potential risk of getting thrown out by his parents, his record with the law. I was a good girl through and through, and I couldn’t comprehend these sorts of tales. It seemed he was the very trouble my boyfriend told me I was for him—but Rob didn’t push me away or tell me I was weird, or only sort of pretty, or anything else I’d learned in last six months about myself. Most importantly, he didn’t tell me I was strange when I told him I had feelings for him, or that I wanted more than anything to kiss him.

This is why, when he asked me to meet him on a murky, drizzling Saturday, I knew it was what I needed to do.

Heart racing, limbs numb, face pink—I marched as fast as I could through the fog and sporadic tear drops of rain to meet him. With the amount of time I was allowed and the time it took to get there, we’d have a mere twenty minutes alone. But when I arrived at Rob’s side, this didn’t matter. He curved his hands around my back, affectionately, confidently, then dipped his lips near mine.

I was panting.

Rob kissed me hard and deep, pulling me up against his body as the rain sprinkled faintly on my forehead, nose, and cheeks. I had a flash of guilt when his tongue slipped into my mouth—this was new. This was close. This wasn’t anything my boyfriend would do.

“That’s gross,” he’d say.

But that clearly wasn’t what Rob thought. He kissed me there in the drizzle for a few minutes, then took my hand and led me to shelter under an enormous tree. When he pulled me into his lap, he cradled me and stared into my eyes.

I remember him asking permission every step of the way, the words a melody to the backdrop of rain pattering on the tree foliage above us. His questions came as teasing pauses paired with the most tantalizing of smiles. “Can I touch you here?” he’d said, creeping his fingertips up my thigh. “How about here?” he’d asked, catching the button of my pants. “And here?” he’d whispered, kissing me as I eagerly nodded and he slipped his fingers beneath my panties.

Picture of rain streaking down window

Grzegorz Gust ©123RF.com

What came next felt like magic. I was caught up with the pattern of his fingers in time with his mouth. There were tingles shooting through me in ways I’d never dreamed of, ways I felt like I’d been waiting for without even realizing it. When I opened my eyes, Rob was as lost in the kiss as I was—but he didn’t stop to tell me the things I usually heard after a kiss. Instead he kissed me harder, fogging up my glasses in our closeness. And as the sprinkling quickened beyond the shelter of tree we sat under, I—loving every second of this thing I’d longed to do—tried to hold my breath so he wouldn’t hear me. I wasn’t sure if it was good or bad that I took the tiniest inhalations and wheezed them out in little bursts of sound.

In a few minutes, reality interrupted—the steps of someone passing nearby, the threat of time ticking by too fast. Rob withdrew his fingers before I could come to my senses, my lips parted, my eyes wild. “We should go,” he said. “Your parents will kill you if you’re late.”

So, hot and shaky, I straightened myself up and stood. Rob held my hand and stared ahead, pensive until we came back to the sidewalk. But my mind was on fire, my body screaming with some new awareness I didn’t have before. He kissed me goodbye and sent me on my way, and I remember the way his gaze felt on my back—heavy, heated, full of the wanting and longing that rivaled my own, but so much more experienced. Once I made it around the block, I breathed normally again—and that’s when the rain began to pour down faster over me, a cascade washing away the naïve, timid girl I’d been before.

When I got home, I called my boyfriend to tell him we were done. I’d like to say things with Rob continued in a normal fashion, but our relationship over the next year and a half would end up being one of the most complicated and painful of my life, fodder for stories not meant for this rainy day memory.

Still, a few weeks later, when I got contact lenses, plucked my huge eyebrows, and started feeling more comfortable in my skin—enough not to hide under layers and layers of fabric anymore—Rob was the first to acknowledge me when I got to class. Our conversations had dulled to occasional glances, a flickered memory of our secret rendezvous in the rain—but now he cast a smile in my direction and leaned close like he had on that first day, so only I could hear him.

“You were already beautiful,” he said, whistling under his breath. “But look at you now.”

I’d smiled and set to work on my art project, just as he’d gone back to talking to his friends. I didn’t know it then, but our moment had been tattooed on my memory, a catalyst of something he was the only one to see waiting inside me to break free.

Which is why sometimes, when it rains, I remember.

XX,
Jade

Picture of firework spark

At the Year’s End

Picture of firework spark

Happy New Year’s!

I wasn’t going to write this post.

I’d settled in my head last week that I would not do the end-of-year recap, especially since my lovely Pillow Talk cohorts and I have a New Year’s edition coming to you in just a couple days (and we do so hope you enjoy it).

But here’s the thing—writing is not optional. It’s not an act we choose; more often than not, it’s a thing we must do. It’s in our heads, in our hearts, and in our veins. It fuels us, guides us, makes us. Sometimes, it takes us in a sweet embrace, stroking the sides of our faces as it whispers, “It’s time to write, love.”

So here I am.

A year ago, I had only recently launched this site with the release of The Big Book of Orgasms and the reading that followed. I had no idea what the year would bring, but I was excited to find out. And you know what? It’s been a seriously fantastic year. Sure, there were some major real-life hurdles for me—I went through a break-up, threatened to quit my job, experienced the worst bout of insomnia in my life, had a couple car breakdowns and multiple rounds of very sick kitties. I also got so overworked I had to force myself to learn to relax (still working on that).

Despite all this, one thing held true: I was thrilled to be writing erotica and thriving in the world that comes with it. The list of experiences that brought smiles to my face goes on forever, but there were some definite highlights. I finished writing a book. I wrote a bounty of short stories. I signed with an agent. I furthered my love of live readings while helping out on an awesome book tour. I swapped my site over to a self-hosted one and started a poetry page, then tried some audio, too. I almost finished writing another book. I met and got to know amazing people, through Twitter, Facebook, real-life readings, events, and experiences. I discovered tons of new writers that blew my mind, and cherished old ones that kept me reading well past my bed time (and others, before I crawled out of bed in the morning). I found brilliant and wonderful sisters and colleagues in my Pillow Talk pals. And—over and over again—I found myself incredibly content when I was writing.

So I guess I’d say I’m in the same place as last year, but now it’s better. I’m still excited, but this time around I’m even more certain—yes, this thing is in me. It’s the very thump of a beating heart that keeps me happy, dreaming, and continuing on.

As for 2015 goals? I’m keeping it simple: WRITE. (Okay, and maybe take a day off here and there.) 🙂

Wherever you are now, and whatever your goals, I wish you all the best in 2015.

Thanks for joining me!

XX,
Jade

Cover for Among the Stars

Coming Together: Among the Stars—”The Joy Ride” Excerpt

Hurray! Coming Together: Among the Stars is officially out today!

I’m so thrilled “The Joy Ride” is a part of this anthology, both because I love a good venture into spec fic AND because this hot little collection is for a good cause—all proceeds benefit the International Still’s Disease Foundation. Fantastic!

Cover for Among the Stars

In honor of release day, I thought I’d share some backstory as well as an excerpt. Let’s start with the backstory—“The Joy Ride” is a particularly special piece for me. The original version was actually one I wrote while I was in the process of deciding to do this erotica thing for real. Sure, I’d penned a piece here and there, but it wasn’t clear to me—yet—that erotica was what really spoke to me.

So there it was 2012, and I’d ended up at a Fantasy and Sci-Fi writing conference where, during the course of the weekend, we were supposed to write a flash story inspired by the line, “On Thursday, she pressed the button.” I opted to write a story about a woman fed up with her ex-husband and job, who then spotted a button in her hotel room labeled Press for a good time. And when the woman pressed the button, two hot alien creatures arrived and took her away on their space ship. The story was sassy and silly, but somewhere in the course of it all, one of the aliens mentioned that usually only men press the button.

My critique group got a big kick out of this line, since I’d already written a rather titillating piece about a stripper werewolf. Someone asked about the lives of the aliens, and the next thing I knew, I was on the airplane flying home, drafting an early version of “The Joy Ride”—this time told from the alien captain’s point of view and, unbeknownst to me, lighting the first spark in my head toward taking my erotica writing more seriously.

Two years later, the wonderful Lynn Townsend had a call for Coming Together: Among the Stars. I dusted off the old story, changed a few [major] things, and poof! There it was: the little story that first kicked my naughty brain into full gear, revised and ready to jump aboard this fabulous charity anthology!

So, enough of the behind-the-scenes stuff. I’d say it’s time for an excerpt, wouldn’t you? “The Joy Ride” follows Captain Ronat and Co-Captain Loul, two alien creatures who have been orbiting the Earth as part of a 30-year penalty for galaxy back taxes, until one day they pick up an Earthling couple.

Excerpt:

The man cowered as Ronat walked to him. Ronat didn’t touch him, but he did lay his hand on the grey surface behind Bill’s head. The solid panel evaporated into one huge window, giving the man a close-up view of the Galaxy.

“What the fuck?”

“It’s exactly what you think it is.”

“But…we were just…how is this…?” Bill put his hands on the window and stuck his forehead so close against it his breath fogged the glass. The light of distant planets twinkled and blinked, brightening his face until his sharp frown began to dissolve. “Is it really…?”

Ronat nodded. “It is, my friend. Welcome to the Galaxy.”

Bill kept his palms on the window, mesmerized by the view. When Ronat placed his hand on Bill’s shoulder, he didn’t pull away. Instead, he met Ronat’s eyes with a flash of longing in his own. It didn’t hurt that the chemistry between humans and his kind created a state of heightened arousal for both parties, which is why the Earth leaders had allowed them to occupy the Galaxy in exchange for hotel service so long ago.

“I feel like I should tell you to take your hand off me, but it’s strange…I don’t want to,” Bill said.

“It’s okay. It’s natural between our kinds.”

He gulped. “What is your kind?”

“We’re from Tetro, part of an ancient race in the Galaxy.”

Bill drew his hand from the window. “Why are you here?”

“Long story,” Ronat said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to. All you need to know is that you’re here, in flight, and anything you want can be yours.”

Bill stared.

“Anything,” he repeated.

Bill raked his gaze over Ronat’s scaly flesh and crisscrossing straps, then down his silver pants. He seemed most captivated by his moon boots, and while he focused on them, Ronat moved closer. He could smell Bill’s sweat under his button-up shirt, a residual pungency of long hours at the office mixed with the essence of Earthling arousal.

“I don’t know that I’m into that,” Bill said. “I’m married.”

As if on cue, Andrea let out a moan that lasted for a solid minute.

Bill whispered, “Can I see her?”

“Sure. But you have to know that she’s in the middle of—”

“I want to see her. I want to see it.”

Well, well, well.

Ronat ran his pinky on the wall in the shape of a hexagon, then tapped three times. The eye scan appeared and he lined his retina up with the infrared beam, blinking fast so that his third lid retracted before the scan ray hit. A click sounded and the wall vanished, opening the hull of the ship to the room where Loul and Andrea fucked like Earth dogs.

Bill exhaled heavily. His wife was oblivious to his presence, but Loul glanced over. Naked and glistening, he pummeled Andrea from behind, bringing groans of pleasure from her throat as she clawed backward to reach his dark, scaled ass.

“Oh my gawd!” she cried. “Oh…my…gawwwwddddd.”

“Oh my,” Bill muttered. His eyes widened as he watched her, her tits bouncing all over the place. The smell of Andrea’s juices permeated the air and wafted into Ronat’s nose, sending a tingle through his body.

He crept behind Bill. “What do you think?”

Andrea answered for him “Yes, yes! Give it to me!”

Loul weaved his hands in Andrea’s tousled red hair, then angled back enough so both Ronat and Bill could see the flexing of his abs as he glided repeatedly inside her.

Bill gasped.

“It’s hot, isn’t it?” Ronat grasped Bill’s shoulders, massaging them while the man’s breath grew more ragged. His own cock lurched at the sight, making his silver pants incredibly uncomfortable. “Do you want to join?”

“I can’t. She’s obviously—”

“Oh, she wants it, Bill. Look at her.” Ronat leaned into his ear, his lips lightly grazing the man’s lobe. “Your wife is an animal.” When Bill didn’t speak, he shouted across the room. “Hey Loul! Can we join?”

Loul paused mid-thrust and Andrea tossed up her head, her face glistening with the sweat of wild sex. She registered the view of her husband for a second, her eyes spreading in surprise.

“Bill! Oh no, I didn’t know that you… I’m so sor—”

Loul drove himself all the way into her and she belted another cry. “Don’t you dare be sorry,” he said, pumping her a few times into incoherence. “You both came here for a good time!”

Bill’s face softened. There really was no way for this to go poorly. The only question was how Bill would insert himself into the scene.

With his next words, he made Ronat a proud accomplice.

“Don’t be sorry, sweetheart,” Bill said. “You are so hot right now. Can we join in?”

Loul threw back his head, gripping the sides of Andrea’s waist for one final shove inside her. “Fuck, yes!”

When Andrea wailed in pleasure, Bill stripped off his clothes in less than thirty seconds, piling his slacks, tie, button-up shirt, boxers and undershirt on the floor. Then, wearing nothing but his socks and a cock at full mast, he peered between Ronat and his spasming wife.

“Are you coming, too?” he said.

*

I hope you enjoyed the excerpt!

“The Joy Ride” is part of Coming Together: Among the Stars, edited by Lynn Townsend, and with so many other fabulous erotic sci-fi authors included in this one, I’m sure it’s going to be a treat.

Please pick up your copy on Amazon—every book purchased helps support the International Still’s Disease Foundation!

Thank you for reading and supporting the cause!

XX,
Jade

Cover for Among the Stars

Interviewed by Lynn Townsend!

Hi everyone!

I’ve hopped over to Lynn Townsend’s blog today! Ms. Townsend is the editor of the exciting and forthcoming Coming Together: Among the Stars, which is a charity anthology to benefit Still’s Disease. I’m so thrilled to be a part of this book, and I have more info plus an excerpt coming closer to its release in mid-December. But for now, the lovely Ms. Townsend was kind enough to invite me over to her place. Hurray!

Cover for Among the Stars

Ms. Townsend asked me all sorts of fun questions about my stories, my process, how I came to writing, and a few other details about me. Plus, she even got a picture of my desk…and a small confession about the origins of some of my stories. Hmmm… 😉

So, please join us over at her site. I had a fabulous time answering her questions, and I hope you enjoy finding out a little more about me!

Thanks for reading, and please pre-order your copy of this fabulous anthology to support a great cause. You can find it on Amazon or Smashwords!

XX,
Jade

Malin and Jade with BBOO

One Year Ago Today…

Today is a very special day. It’s an anniversary of sorts, one I can’t let pass by without a mention of its significance.

See, a year ago today, Rachel Kramer Bussel gathered nine writers together to read The Big Book of Orgasms: 69 Sexy Stories at a Good Vibrations store in San Francisco.

I was ecstatic. It was my first ever reading of my first ever published story, a little flash piece called “The Flogger” that I practiced over and over again in my living room (in yoga pants and heels, no less). I have a theatre background, so while I was slightly nervous, I wasn’t too terrified. I just wanted to put on a good show and make sure not to turn beet red should I make eyes with a cute stranger while I said the word “cock” out loud. And more importantly, I really wanted to meet all these other cool authors reading from the book with me.

One of them was a lovely lady named Malin James. She wore really sexy boots and seemed to stand eight miles taller than me, despite my five-inch heels. She was ever so nice, and when she read her story “Hard Knocks”—one of my favorite from the collection—I could tell she had a theatre background, too. She was so damn good, I had to talk to her more. We ended up exchanging email addresses, and within a week we started spilling our guts to one another. A few weeks after that, we discovered we’d lived nearly parallel lives. We had so much in common it was less like we were sisters than we’d actually been conjoined twins separated at birth, and we both recognized immediately that we might well have found that one friend that gets everything about you, and who will support you no matter what, flaws and all, and love you till the end. It was, quite frankly, one of the coolest friendships I’d ever formed in my entire life.

Malin and Jade with BBOO

With our book while out for one of our monthly lunches! March 2014

Since that first reading, so many wonderful things have happened. I’ve met and worked with more amazing authors and editors. I’ve written bunches more stories. I’ve signed on with an agent for my books. I’ve also read more in public (watch out if you’re in my eye-line when I say “cock” now). And then of course, there’s the other dear erotica writer Malin and I know, the talented Tamsin Flowers—the three of us talk all the time, sharing insight, opinions, trials, and laughter, whether it be via Skype, email, or in one of our Pillow Talk Secrets sessions. Sure, the writing aspects are fantastic, but it’s the connections and friendships I’ve formed in this last year that really ice the cake. It may have taken a third-of-a-life crisis to figure out that erotica was what I wanted to write for real, but it was the reading on November 6th that made the true magic happen for me.

Cover of The Big Book of Orgasms

“The Flogger”

So today, I just want to pay homage to the juggernaut that was The Big Book of Orgasms and the amazing Rachel Kramer Bussel for taking my writing into the world of publishing. Without that, none of this would have happened. I also want to say I adore all the connections I’ve made throughout this year—in particular, the mighty friendship I share with Tamsin Flowers, and the bond I’ve formed with someone I openly refer to as the platonic love of my life, Malin James.

In short? Best anniversary ever! 🙂

XX,
Jade

 

Black and white image bio of Jade between the sheets

Sign Your Name

I love contracts. Like truly, positively, super duper love them. They delight me to no end because I’m eternally grateful to have the opportunity to sign them. I hear that eventually, some authors lose their enthusiasm over contracts. I can’t quite wrap my brain around this concept, especially since I tend to operate anywhere between excited and seriously overly excited! when it comes to the Jade-Excitement-o-Meter (particularly with contracts). That’s just how I roll—a bit squealy and over-enthusiastic, most the time.

But here’s the deal—I’ve been waiting to share some thrilling news that involved a very important contract. It’s the kind of news that made the Jade-Excitement-o-Meter shoot into the high heavens before resulting in a fair amount of celebratory shenanigans. It’s something I’d been working on for a couple months, but now that it’s happened and I’m all signed and sealed…

I am delighted to share that my work is now represented by the lovely Jessica Alvarez of BookEnds Literary Agency.

Jade's signature

I’ve been working with Jessica for about a month, and even this early, I’m wowed. Currently we’re working on the book I finished writing earlier this year. It’s the first of a series, and I’m excited (again, excited!) to tell you more about it when we get further along in the process.

For now, I will just say I’m really damn enthralled (read: squealy and seriously wow kind of enthralled) to have Jessica represent my longer works!

Thank you for sharing the news with me.

Time for me to get back to work! 🙂

XX,
Jade

Pillow Talk Secrets: It’s All About the Details!

Hi everyone!

Welcome to the next round of Pillow Talk Secrets! Today, Malin James, Tamsin Flowers and I—your host for the day, Jade A. Waters—have some major details to discuss…physical details, that is. The question is, how much physical description is “ideal” in erotica, and is it the same for readers as it is for writers?

We are so delighted you’ve joined us—so without further ado, let’s talk about those dirty details…

Pillow Talk Secrets

Jade: Hello, ladies! So nice to be back together again! How are the both of you?

Malin: Hiya! I’m doing good—got my first cup of tea right here, so I’m feeling fine (though I’ll feel better after the third!).

Tamsin: Hello girls—hope you’re both well!

J: Good to see you both. I’m very excited for today’s session! Shall we dive right in?

T: Absolutely!

J: All right—today is all about the dirty deets. As in, how much specific physical detail do we like to read and write in our erotica? It’s a pretty broad topic. Any initial thoughts?

T: Just to explain how this topic came up—I was having a chat with Malin as she’d been beta reading something for me, and I pointed out that I’d never mentioned what colour hair the protagonist had. So I asked her if that mattered.

Eye Color Detail

Her eyes were the most amazing shade of…

M: And my response was that, for me, it definitely didn’t. I actually preferred it. I’m a “less-is-more” kind of girl whether I’m writing or reading. I like selective amounts of specific detail, and then I like to let my brain, (or the reader’s), fill in the rest.

J: I get the sense this is a common feeling for the three of us—and maybe a lot of other erotica authors as well. Sometimes, too much detail can throw things off. For example, if a character is described as having enormous breasts, or a certain color hair, or a freckle on the forearm… that paints a very specific image.

T: I find there’s nothing worse when I’m reading a story if the action breaks off for a whole paragraph of physical description, like the writer’s going down a checklist of hair, eyes, height and so on…

M: Absolutely. It feels manufactured. You basically want your reader to identify with the characters—if you lay in a ton of generic detail (large breasts, curly hair, etc), it can make it more challenging for the reader to put herself or himself in the story.

J: I don’t want to discount some detail—I think some detail orients the reader. The key is just enough, without becoming overkill.

T: Drip feeding it is the preferred way, I think. A small, specific detail here, another there, to build up a gradual picture—not all at once.

M: It’s also important to drip feed those details (I love that, by the way) in as they become relevant. Don’t give us a dossier the moment the character walks into the room…

Click here to read more!