Oklahoma, Where Divorce Comes Sweeping Down the Plains

by Michael A. Jones

categories: Gay Marriage, Marriage Equality, State LGBT News

Published September 28, 2009 @ 06:58PM PT

When it comes to looking at the issue of marriage equality, it's pretty interesting to look at Oklahoma and Massachusetts. Massachusetts legalized same-sex marriage five years ago, and has been out in the forefront of LGBT rights more than almost any other state. It has the lowest divorce rate in the country.

Oklahoma, meanwhile, has passed a statewide constitutional amendment banning gay marriage. In 2008, every single county in Oklahoma voted against President Barack Obama. Both of Oklahoma's U.S. Senators are as anti-LGBT as politicians come. And the state is home to one of the most offensive politicians in the country, Rep. Sally Kern, who has said that gay marriage was as threatening as terrorism. Funny, then, that Oklahoma has one of the highest divorce rates in the entire country.

New statistics from the U.S. Census Bureau show that Oklahoma has the highest rate of residents who have been married three times or more. Oddly enough, Newt Gingrich and Rush Limbaugh -- both members of the family values crowd who are thrice married -- aren't from Oklahoma. But still...it's a bit illustrative, to say the least, that the more a state goes ballistic over the idea of same-sex marriage, the more likely they are to have behemoth divorce rates.

And this isn't a new phenomenon, either. Ten years ago studies were out that suggested states in the "Bible Belt" couldn't keep a handle on their divorce rates. Looks like the more things have changed over the past decade, the more things have stayed the same in some regions of the country.

Or perhaps better put, states that legalize marriage equality are just better at fostering loving relationships that last.

(Photo courtesy of Cosmic Kitty's photostream on Flickr.)

Courtesy of my sweet friend Anthony. Thanks Darling!

LET'S HEAR IT FOR KELLY OSBOURNE!

A huge round of applause for the wonderfully, delicious Kelly Osbourne! She’s not the only one who’s fed up with emaciated girls, being held up as icons we should all aspire to.

I’ve nothing against girls who are naturally skinny -- in fact at the age of 17, I weighed all of 98 pounds! I just couldn’t put on weight. I could eat and eat, and didn’t put a pound on. I remember when I was around 14, my mum fed me a concoction of malt and cod liver oil. It was supposed to make me gain weight. It was revolting. It stuck in the back of my throat and make me retch. And still I never put on a pound. To this day I can’t stand the taste of malt and as for cod liver oil -- well…

It’s all changed now, of course. The pounds have gone on. I weigh in at 140 pounds. I wouldn’t mind losing a bit, but I’m not going to make myself miserable about it.

So, yes, lets hear it for Kelly. Here’s what she says.

“I just get depressed in Los Angeles. Because I’m not a size zero and tanned and blonde I get scrutinised. But I wouldn’t want to be so skinny. I feel sorry for the girls who aspire to be size zero. It’s okay to be different. I don’t understand why everyone is so obsessed with making themselves a clone. Everyone has become a sheep. These girls don’t eat, stick their fingers down their throats and do loads of speed - they’re killing themselves and for what? Their own vanity! It’s sad. I don’t think there’s anything trendy about looking like you’ve just come out of Auschwitz.”

Bloody well said, girl!

And then there are those who should know better. At age 35, Victoria Beckham, with her skinny little body, looks ridiculous. What looks fey and ethereal, at 17, looks so very wrong in your mid-thirties. Victoria’s body looks out of proportion -- nothing short of silly. Her tiny body has the effect of making her head look enormous. I can’t see anything attractive about Victoria’s look. To me she looks grotesque -- like a mutant insect, with a bad dose of radiation sickness.

All around me I see women of my age, in our middle years, frantically dieting and frankly, looking ill. It’s a look to shun, not to embrace.

dita von teese strip

CONGRATULATIONS!

CONGRATULATIONS, STEPHEN AND GEORGE!


Congratulations, my dears, on the occasion of your civil partnership. (Not a wedding!)


Thank you for a wonderful luncheon party on Saturday. So many old friends to catch up with, and so many new ones. Sorry I didn’t stay for the evening party -- but someone would have thrown me in the swimming pool!


Have a fantastic life together -- be happy and healthy always.


The illustration is; BIBLICAL DAVID AND JONATHAN EMBRACE. Manuscript illustration. La Somme le Roy. Circa 1300 A.D.

David and Jonathan are the Gay lovers in the Bible. Hotly denied by Christians everywhere. But really…


And thanks to the Viscount, and Cousin James, for getting me safely to London and home again. Sorry I got us lost in the West End!

Love Always.

billierosie

JANINE ASHBLESS. DARK ENCHANTMENT

I thought that Janine Ashbless had pushed the boundaries as far as she could go, in her collection of erotic stories, CRUEL ENCHANTMENT. I was wrong. In DARK ENCHANTMENT, this wonderful writer goes further. In CRUEL ENCHANTMENT, Janine unashamedly confronted the taboos of bestiality and necrophilia. In DARK ENCHANTMENT, she moves the goal post, easily tackling on incest, degradation, humiliation and the cruellest and sexiest bondage scene I’ve ever read. BDSM at its most extreme. The stories in this collection are no less dark and compelling than in CRUEL ENCHANTMENT; they are exotically erotic, pornographic if you prefer, and wildly, wildly sexy.

In “Scratch,” Nicholas Scratch comes calling. He’s not a welcome visitor, at least not welcome by Maarten, the owner of the prosperous farm. His wife, Mercy, has told him; “I have a past…” She has made Maarten promise he will not question her about it. He complies, but is bewildered by his wife’s submissive behaviour to their handsome visitor. She kneels at Scratch’s feet; her humility is confusing and Maarten is angered. He is humiliated when Scratch takes Mercy to the marital bedroom, telling Maarten he is going to have sex with her. This is a tale of degradation, buggery and adultery, as Maarten is ordered into Scratch’s game of violation and depravity. Despite himself, Maarten experiences; “a wild sickening arousal…” He succumbs to the Master’s demands. There is never a question of not obeying.

I think that “The Red Thread,” is the best story that Janine has written. It’s a story of love, sex, lust, betrayal and death. It is also wildly erotic. Asterion, is condemned to live for ever in the labyrinth. He is a monster, half man, half bull. His conception is the result of his mother’s depraved copulation with a bull. He is the Minotaur. He is secretly visited in the dark labyrinth, by his wilful young sister, Ariadne. She seduces him into an incestuous relationship with her. Finally she betrays him, and Asterion is killed. This is the first Minotaur story I have read, that shows Asterion in a sympathetic light. In the myth, which has been told, and retold so many times, the Minotaur is a creature to be feared and despised. Janine sent me a link to a story by the Spanish writer, Jorge Luis Borges. Borges too, tells the Minotaur story, from Asterion’s point of view. Both he and Janine, show a depth of compassion to Asterion, which is quite overwhelming.

I must stress though, that it is not necessary to be familiar with, or have read, the ancient Greek myths to appreciate and understand this story. Janine’s story stands on its own. Similarly with another story in the collection; “Ruby Seeds.” It’s an old myth cleverly retold. Alluring, at times scary, and very sexy. This is another story which stood out for me.

In “Darkling I listen,” Janine talks to us about the idea of stories. Stories within stories. A young woman tells a story to a ghoul. Her rhythmic language draws us in to a tale of love and death. Sex and death. A choice of whether to abide in the city of the dead, or the city of the living.

“The Scent of Hawthorn,” tells a story of Knights of Olde. Laying down your life for a cause. Herrick is a big man, a knight, tired and war weary. His final quest is to restore a village, shattered by a rebellious dryad; a tree woman. Herrick tells the broken villagers tales of war and glory. He convinces them, and convinces himself that he will be successful and the village will prosper once more. He leaves for the forest on foot, but he has underestimated his adversary. The dryad has him spread and bound. She tortures him and despite his shame, the knight realises his cock is erect and he suffers the ecstasy, and the final humiliation, of her fucking him. She forbids him to come; he does, and that seals his fate.

From an ancient Minoan civilisation, Janine moves to the paranormal present day. From a past, rich with dryads, knights and deep woodlands, to a prosperous homestead, Janine’s stories are brimming with lust, sex, betrayal, and death, as she skilfully draws out our darkest fears and desires. Janine goes beyond mere fetish, exposing our fatal flaws and secrets. She takes our hidden fantasies, holds up the mirror, and reflects them back to us. We thought we were safe with our little depravities. The stories whisper the unspoken things; the obscenities we nurture, yet deny. Janine’s stories are cathartic and we are compelled to listen.

Review of AFTER THE BEEP Simon Sheppard

I asked the Viscount Andrew to write something for my blog, and he sent me this great review of Simon Sheppard’s erotic short story, 'After the Beep.' Thank you -- your Royal Highness!

After the Beep

I am quite sure that most of us at some point in our lives have fallen in love with a voice at the end of a phone. Many of us in the pre internet dating days may have tried phone dating and conjured up all kinds of fantasy images in our heads and had hoped the voice on the end of the receiver (even the word receiver has connotations in this story) matches the ideal we conjure up for ourselves in our minds.

‘After The Beep’ takes this idea a stage further and in this ‘erotic’ short story by Simon Sheppard, the protagonist is really turned on by a mystery, deeply masculine voice on his answer machine that instructs him in all kinds of oneism that becomes more and more developed and complex as the story progresses. Initially our hero sees the whole thing as a bit of joke, enjoying the moment and then popping a lean cuisine in the microwave. As the days go by he becomes increasingly and madly aroused to the point of wild anticipation. He looks forward to getting home and receiving further instructions from his mystery male caller. Like Pavlov and his doggies our chap begins to get hard when the answer phone message light flashes so imagine how disappointed he is when it’s his mum!

I found this story amusing, it made me titter rather than laugh but I can’t say it turned me on. Men we are told are basically visual creatures needing to see touch and smell the object of their sexual desire whilst women are more cerebral or so they say. I guess this short story challenges that idea a bit as our hero is turned on by a voice and it is indeed the fantasy realm he enters that does the business for him. Our protagonist never meets the caller, he almost does but of course to do so would destroy the fantasy and how dreadful it would be if the caller was old, buck toothed or god forbid disabled! Could this story be hinting at an alternative sexuality where there is never any physical contact with another human being? Is that the way forward in today’s busy, worrisome world, where meeting new people for anything can be tricky?

I remember arranging a date with a guy years ago and we decided to meet in Northampton town centre, his voice on the phone was perfection so I had very high hopes. In my head, the stranger on the phone was dark, manly and natural. Needless to say when I saw him I carried on walking and never spoke to him again. ‘After The Beep’ could illustrate the perfect fantasy where there is no risk, no danger of disappointment and no need ever to cook breakfast!

Viscount Andrew

Uniform Dating TV Advert

At last, I've found a fetish I can relate to. Guys in uniform -- wow!

LA PETITE DANSEUSE

Last night she’d had the dream again. The one where the statue had come to life. The little dancer, no longer barely nine inches tall, but as tall as a real woman. The dancer had embraced her, wrapped her warm, naked arms around her and kissed her cheek. A gentle, cool, fleeting kiss. The dancer had taken her into her arms and they had danced together.

Surely the dancer was granting her permission?
Surely it was time?
She’d spent the day preparing herself. Contemplating the dream.

She knelt on the rug, gazing with rapt attention at the small statue. Her juices surged and gushed, dribbling between her thighs. She parted her thighs, wriggling her fingers beneath her panties, dipping her fingers between her labia lips. She scooped up the sticky fluid and brought it to her mouth. She lapped at her fingers, like a cat, relishing the savoury taste.

Her lips moved in wordless obeisance. Her clitoris throbbed, a small beating heart. She murmured a prayer, pleading for the statue’s acquiescence, fearing a small voice in her head, would tell her.
“Not yet…”
Or worse still, would whisper.
“No…never…”
Perhaps she had known it would always come to this. That one day the primal need would be irresistible and she would consume the little dancer.

Soft, flickering candles, lit the tranquil expression on the little dancer’s face. She’d placed a posy of primroses at her feet. Oblations for the goddess. She could stare at the little dancer for hours, drinking in her lines of harmony. She was perfection. One long, slender foot placed firmly forward, the other, balancing her body in the ballet position four. Her arms behind her, her small hands linked, her head and neck thrust forward. The dancer was alert and tense, but relaxed too. She looked as if she could hold the pose for hours, or raise herself into a graceful pirouette at any moment. Monsieur Degas had sculpted her tenderly, with loving care. His clever fingers, carving the first dancer, from a lump of ugly wax. Later, after his death, the bronze casts were made.

She stood, and took off her clothes. She didn’t rush. She had all night. What she was about to do was both sacred and profane.
When she was naked, she stood in front of her long cheval mirror and looked down critically, at her body. How different she was from the dancer. How large her breasts were, compared to the gamine shape of the statue. Her sensitive, aching nipples were hard peaks. She twisted them with her fingers, and moaned as a volt of electricity surged down to her clitoris. She turned, sideways on to the mirror, observing her figure in profile. Her belly was full and rounded, her buttocks wobbled when she moved. She struck up the same pose as the dancer. She was a poor comparison. She turned back to the statue. She licked her dry lips.

The odour of her sex juices filled the room. She was in a high state of arousal, her heart was beating fast. Her womb contracted violently in a spasm, her whole labia was swollen and pulsating. Her clitoris was poking out between her labia lips. She lowered her arm and touched it with her index finger. She let out a low moan, quivering, and her knees almost buckled. It took all of her self control not to ram her fingers into her slippery cunt. It would take a bit of time to get her whole hand in, but why not? She’d fisted herself before.

It seemed a long time ago, that she’d first seen La Petite Danseuse. She remembered the day well. She and Mark had wandered the bustling streets of Paris for hours, before finding themselves on the left bank of the River Seine, and stumbling into the grandeur of the Musee d’Orsay.
It was there that she had seen her. A lonely, yet serene, bronze cast figure. She’d felt as if she were gazing on something holy. She remembered how she’d shaken off Mark’s arm, and walked slowly, blushing and trembling, towards the glass cabinet, as if obeying a sacred command. She knew that the small statue was demanding her presence. She’d felt a profundity, and wanted to babble and fall to her knees, but some semblance of sanity held her and she stood still, quiet and reverential. There was a dull ache in her womb; her nipples were erect and tingling.
She could sense Mark standing behind her. She prayed he wouldn’t touch her and break the spell. She had no idea how long she’d stood there. But at some point she’d realised she was cold. She’d turned to face Mark and looked into his worried face. He’d told her she was pale. He’d taken her icy hands, into the warmth of his and she’d fallen into his arms, glad of his comforting strength. She’d felt frail and Mark had taken her to a street café, where he’d made her drink scalding, bitter, black coffee and insisted that she eat. He’d fed her sticky apricot pastries. The men on the table next to them talked in French, the language sounding exotic and lyrical. The men had smoked Gauloises; the heady fragrance perfuming the air.
They’d gone back to the tiny flat they’d rented for the weekend and she’d tried to explain to Mark what had happened to her, when she’d gazed upon the statue. How she’d felt mesmerized, as if she’d fallen into a mystical trance. As if a holy, numinous spirit had consumed her. But her words were as inadequate as if she were to try to explain a colour no one had ever seen, or a explain the lilt of a sonata to a deaf man.
They’d made love later, shivering in the chilly flat, laughing at the sagging mattress on the creaking bed. She hadn’t come. She never did, but she’d pretended she had, and Mark had seemed happy and fulfilled afterwards. He hadn’t realised. They never realised.

She’d lost touch with Mark after that weekend. His job had been transferred to another country and she supposed it was too much trouble for both of them to keep up the contact. But they’d parted as friends and a package had arrived in the mail for her, some weeks after he’d left. He’d sent her a resin replica of La Petite Danseuse.
“Not quite the real thing,” he’d written, in his graceful handwriting. “But I know you’ll cherish her.”


She stood and lifted the statue from the shelf. She stroked the dancer’s small face, taking in the sweetness and depth. How could the critics have ridiculed her? Saying she looked as if she had a vicious character? That she was a monster of appalling ugliness?

She pressed the dancer’s face to one nipple, then the other. She sighed, the statue was warm against her skin, like a living being.

She’d never orgasmed. She’d read enough about it to know what she was aiming for. She had all the appliances. Even with a powerful vibrator, she would almost get there. The rush that should happen was less than a heartbeat away. And then she’d lose it and be left, gasping for breath, sweating and frustrated. Wanting to try again, but knowing it would be hopeless.

She kissed the top of the dancer’s head, pausing for a moment, before parting her lips and taking her into her mouth. She shuddered, swirling her tongue around her; she took her farther in, but gagged, when she hit the back of her throat. The statue was too rigid. It would be dangerous to try further.

The muscles of her womb contracted powerfully, and she fell to her knees, clutching the statue to her breasts. Her womb ached as if it was bruised. Now was the time. Her heart raced. She knelt, positioning herself in front of the mirror, so she could watch. Her cunt was open wide, like a mouth, a hole, screaming for penetration. She raised herself on her knees and placed the dancer’s head on her clitoris. She let out a cry and pressed down hard. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her face was white and ghostly pale. High spots of colour lit her cheekbones. Her eyes were wide, her pupils dilated. Her mouth was full and swollen with desire and with a sigh she slid the dancer’s head into her cunt. The statue squelched inside her wetness, as she rolled the head around pressing hard against the walls of her cunt, slurping her in and out.

She withdrew the statue from her. Sticky strands of juice drooled from the head, connecting the dancer to her cunt. She took the head into her mouth again, tasting her cunt juices, gobbling furiously.
She raised herself on her knees and pushed the statue into her cunt again, slipping her in up to her shoulders. She could feel her cunt stretching to accommodate her. Deeper still and she could feel the dancer’s hands, pressing against the delicate membrane that separated her cunt from her rectum. She wondered if she might pierce herself, make her rectum and cunt into one roomy chamber. She didn’t care.

Her cunt, her body weight and the floor, fixed the dancer like a vice, like a rigid dildo. She raised and lowered herself, watching in the mirror as the figurine appeared, then disappeared inside her cunt.
The build up of the orgasm took her by surprise. Her lips drew back in a snarl. This time, yes, this time, it was going to happen. It was too powerful to lose. Her pelvis pumped and jerked in a series of spasms. She looked like a dog humping. She started to make bestial, snuffling, grunting sounds as her hips jerked backwards and forwards, in and out. A sheen of sweat glistened on her body. She could feel it trickling in her hair and between her breasts. Her cunt opened voraciously to swallow and she sank herself down jamming the statue completely inside her. The tear of pain wasn’t enough to stop her, as the head of the statue bounced, again and again on her cervix. All that she could see of her now in the mirror, was the plinth that the dancer stood on. It was acting as a plug, a stopper, preventing her cunt from swallowing the statue completely.

A primitive roar came from deep inside her, as the warmth and rush of the come exploded, from her cunt and clit to her anus. She shook her head, like an angry beast as the tingling come surged up her spine, over her face, even into the roots of her hair. She no longer had control over her body as the come rushed over her breasts and into her nipples. She snarled again, as the rush tingled down the backs of her thighs, even into her clenched toes. She screamed and felt powerful, triumphant. She continued to grind herself down on the statue. Her breasts bounced and another surge of come started. She screamed again as she touched her clit with her finger and the rush began again. She thought she was going to die of pleasure. No wonder they call it ‘the little death.’

Finally, she tumbled forwards. Exhausted she let the dancer slide from her cunt and she brought her to her mouth, licking up the mess of blood and fuck juice, cleaning her.

Little comes echoed through the night, from her clit. Her cunt still spasmed open and closed. She fell asleep on the floor that night, curled on the rug like a satisfied cat. When she woke, the statue, still sticky with the remainder of her juices, was cradled between her breasts.

WHY CAN’T WE TALK ABOUT BESTIALITY?

I want to have a discussion about bestiality -- but no one’s talking. People are avoiding me. Why is that? Why is everyone so damn touchy? Well, perhaps because bestiality is illegal; also it’s one of our oldest taboos. There’s also issues around consent and cruelty.

I’m not talking about the physical act, in real life. The taking of a creature and abusing it. I’m talking about stories; erotic stories. So hell, we can speak about it, can’t we? We’re all grown ups. Do we feel uncomfortable, because we think that by talking about bestiality we’re going to be tainted with the debauchery? That the depravity will hang over us, like a witches curse? We’ve even given it a new name; zoophilia. Maybe it sanitises it, makes it acceptable. But we’re still talking about the same thing; sex with animals.

Yes, it’s taboo, but it’s part of our cultural, literary history. Right up to the present day, Erotica writers are telling us ‘changeling’ stories. Lycanthrope stories; stories that are getting as close as you can to bestiality, without it actually being bestiality. I think it’s the publishers who are running scared, not the writers. On the Lust Bites site, Janine Ashbless tells us that the Black Lace editor wails;

“It’s got to have a human head!”

Janine also tells us;

“A few years back I wrote a story, The Dragon’s Bride, in which a woman has sex with a dragon. (Have you any idea how hard I’d get my ass kicked if I submitted that story these days?) It was a Big Cock Fantasy really. Some people loved it, and some recoiled from it: “Sex with a talking dragon is still bestiality!” they squealed.”


Jude Mason writes;

“Ah, bestiality. I follow guidelines carefully for that. Most pubs won't allow the girl/guy to get it on with an animal. Doesn't matter if both are changelings. They want the couple to be of the same breed. I've had m/m changelings, as beasties screwing. I've probably had other animals too. A pair of cougars, m/f and also m/m/f cougars. I always have them as the same breed. The sex play can start with one as an animal the other human, but before it gets too serious, one changes…I don't think I've ever written what is classically referred to as bestiality. Human/animal sex. It's not saleable to most pubs…”

Is bestiality a fetish? Probably. Is it a perversion? Yes, from where I’m coming from, it is. Is it a fantasy? Most definitely. I think most people, in the broad light of day, would find the act, of a human having sex with an animal, repulsive. But…there’s still those dark, whispered tales. Stories…


So, why are we telling ourselves these stories? Is it a craving for the forbidden? Is the taboo buried deep in our unconscious minds, resurfacing in our stories, fantasies and dreams? The Greek myths tell us real bestiality stories. Humans actually having sex with animals. Those stories are as old as time itself. Those old writers weren’t so timid. Are those guys just telling dirty stories? Or is it something deeper?

In Greek mythology, Zeus, the King of the gods, fell in love with the mortal girl, Leda. He came to her in the form of a swan, and raped her.

You would think that as King of the gods, Zeus could have organised things differently. He could have just made Leda fall in love with him. But the ancient tellers of this story, must have thought it necessary for a human/animal sex scene to take place.

Another Greek myth tells the story of Pasiphae, the wife of King Minos of Crete. King Minos had a beautiful bull, which he was supposed to sacrifice to Poseidon. Instead, the King sacrificed an inferior bull. As punishment, Poseidon made Pasiphae fall in love with the bull. Queen Pasiphae devised a plan so that she could copulate with the bull. She asked the architect, Daedalus, to build her a wooden cow. The cow was hollow, for her to hide in. The bull was brought to her and they mated. From their union, the Minotaur, half man, half bull was conceived.

The myths are beautiful, yet horrible and leave us shuddering; we know that we are being told something forbidden. But the stories will not die, they have been told, over and over again down the generations. The words have been spoken.

In a similar vein, just take a look at European folk tales and fairy stories. Beauty and the Beast. Little Red Ridinghood. The Frog Prince. Are they so innocent? The stories have close, intimate relationships with animals as their theme. We assume that they are stories for children, teaching them ideals such as love, sacrifice and obedience. But I think that the themes are dark and tell us more about our sexuality, our yearning for erotica and our relationship with animals than we care to dwell on.

The stories have been retold many times, perhaps most memorably by Angela Carter. Angela spoke about the story of Cinderella, claiming that the glass slipper, was actually a fur slipper. A mistranslation; fourrure is fur, and verre is glass. She also retold the story of Little Red Ridinghood, as The Company of Wolves.

“All the better to eat you with,” the wolf says to the girl, at the end of the story.

“The girl burst out laughing; she knew she was nobody’s meat. She laughed at him full in the face, she ripped off his shirt…”

The wolf doesn’t have the girl, the girl has the wolf, in an erotic ending that has more than a suggestion of a bestiality story about it. Angela retells the old story without Disney. No saccharine sweetness here.

I suppose the point that I’m getting to with this is that we know that we are being told these stories. Publishers and editors must think that their readers are stupid. A clever writer will get around the censorship, with a few dark hints. And yes, it is censorship. I expect more from publishers and editors. I don’t like being patronised and I don’t like being told what I can and can’t read. Writers are allowed those dark hints; those highly charged metaphors, as long as they don’t say it like it is.
I don’t know about you, but this annoys the hell out of me. I think it irks Janine Ashbless too.

“Does this playing around with taboo smack of hypocrisy? Or is it the hallmark of the erotic always to be dancing on the edge of the Forbidden?”

Well, is it?

Janine continues;

“One look at Furry communities lets you know how important the symbolic power of the animal-human is. Pony-girls are a favourite fantasy of many people. Cowboy erotica obsesses about horses and sex in stables. And what about the HUGE interest in lycanthropes in romantic fiction? The entire point of werewolf erotica is the fetishising of the fact they can turn into animals at any moment, isn’t it?”

In her story collection, Cruel Enchantment, Janine tells a short story about a werewolf initiation orgy. Do you wanna read the bit where the heroine actually has sex with a wolf? Brace yourself; here it comes:


“As soon as she was released this time, Michel rolled her over onto her front. Someone took her from behind, quick and slippery and panting, his balls slapping audibly against her pussy, and after he had finished another mounted her. Her first thought was that this man had an extraordinarily hairy chest and thighs – and then her second thought was a white streak of incredulity., but Michel held her down hard so that she couldn’t wriggle round and look behind her. She buried her face in his leg, half laughing and half sobbing, and pure shock wrenched another orgasm from her.”

Shocking, wasn’t it? You may never recover – though somehow I doubt it.

And finally, here’s an extract from Jude Mason’s story; Cat’s Claw.

“Turning back to the male, she took a couple of tentative steps closer, and sniffed at him. Close to swooning from the heady aroma, she stumbled forward and butted her head against his shoulder. Hard muscles met her, his purring increased in volume.
She felt something touch her ear. An ear that seemed somehow jointed as it twitched at the soft caress. Another caress, and then to her wonder, she felt her chest rattle in an answering purr.
The male rose and stretched beside her, his body touching hers unobtrusively. His head was at her shoulder and he faced her rear. She watched his tail flick.
Suddenly, there came a weird wrenching from deep inside her belly. Her vision blurred as pain tore at her stomach. She grunted, felt herself falling, and then suddenly held as pain wrapped its vicious arms around her. Opening her mouth to scream, she was surprised when all that came out was a mewling whimper.
The pain was gone before it was fully realized, and her body shifted. That was the only way she could describe it, a shifting, stretching sensation that frightened her, yet felt right and familiar. Her skin crawled. Searing agony gripped her thighs and she realized they were actually elongating, reshaping into human form. The fur, soft and gorgeous as it was, drew into her skin, absorbed to feed the change. Her shoulder snapped, and for an instant, pain wracked her full force as her upper body realigned itself. The rest came easily. Her hands and feet shifted, reforming to a more recognizable shape. Her face went numb, and she was glad that she couldn't feel those changes as they took place.
Falling to her side, she lay exhausted and panting, while the last few transformations finished themselves; and saw the male beside her.
He too lay stretched out on the grass—on his belly—gasping from his own change. She watched his back rise and fall with his breathing.
For a moment, she thought to flee. Panic—insidious, half-formed—gnawed at her. Who was he? What had just happened? What would Joshua think when he found her missing? Her dreams, nightmares, were real.
A groan from beside her brought her focus back to the here and now. He moved, not much, just tensing his muscles and stretching his arms ahead of himself. Long sleek muscles, gorgeous ass and powerful legs—again she yearned to reach out and stroke him.
She knew it was insane. How could she be so drawn to him—it—she didn't even know what he was, or what she was.
The man groaned and turned over.
Morgan gasped. Joshua lay facing her.
His eyes were closed. He had a soft smile on his face, as though he were dreaming some sweet dream and was unwilling to awaken. And like her, he was naked. His soft pelt had vanished, or was in the process of doing so as she watched. Fur seemed to melt into him. His face, although close to human, was in the last stages of the change. Chin and cheekbones formed, and then it was him—Joshua.”

Stories are so important to us. We’ve told, and been told stories since our beginnings, way back. We’ll continue to tell them into eternity. We’ve come so far as a species, but we still want more stories. I suppose a sulky publisher would tell me to go and look at the porn on the Web. I don’t want to, it’s crude; there’s no finesse. The stories don’t have to include animals, neither do they have to include the sex act. There’s a great erotic story, by Julia Moore; Bad Doggy, which includes neither. With a bit of imagination and some of those dark hints, the most prudish publisher needn’t be offended.

I don’t want to be ‘allowed’ to read what a publisher thinks I need to read. I’m a grown up. I wish publishers would grow up too. I want stories from great writers like Angela, Janine and Jude. Writers who know their craft and don’t want to be patronised any more than I do.