Sexy Saturday Round-Up

25 Apr

AnthBy Liz Everly and the Lady Smut Bloggers

Hello, Sexy! How’s your Saturday going so far? Well, it’s about to get a wee bit more interesting. Check out the fabulous blog posts we found for you this week!

From Liz:

Mismatched libidos. It happens.

Latex. Fetish. And Cosplay. Hmmm.

Lizard brain: for the writers among us in the crowd.

From Madeline:

From The Atlantic: Why do people hate Lily Pulitzer?

How To Watch Porn Responsibly–Advice From Feminist Porn Stars

The European Power Statement — for women.

R.I.P. Dr. McDreamy. :(

What’s it like to go out with someone who bought your date online? 

From Elizabeth:

Fashion blogger whose body is not society’s definition of perfect snaps a photo of herself in a bathing suit, posts it on Instagram, and emphatically states that she’s not brave. Maybe not, but she’s awesome.

Someone’s finally paying attention to the desires of disabled people.

Artsy nudes and the naked cellist: an exhibition.

Jockey loses pants, keeps on going.

From CMK:

The Chocolate Tasting Tour of London

A medievalist schools Savage Love on what’s NOT medieval

Cheeky 19th C calling cards for flirting

Stay Hungry,


I Heart iZombie Hotties!

23 Apr

by Madeline Iva

The new zombie look is goth--Brilliant!

The new zombie look is goth–Brilliant!

When I saw the ad for izombie, I was curious, because it looked playful and comedic-grotesque. Then I found out it was by Rob Thomas –who created Veronica Mars, so how can you go wrong there? So I started watching it on hulu and I have to say, I didn’t take a shine to the leading actress at first. She plays Liv, an uptight perfectionist goodie goodie. Blerg! But then, you see, she becomes a zombie half way through the first episode and suddenly I was liking her a lot more.


Liv experiences major fiance angst post-zombie.

Of course, even though her hair bleaches white on its own and her skin turned pale and she started wearing heavy eye liner, no one guesses anything is wrong. Why did you quit medical school Liv? Why are you eating brains? And she’s like all apathetic, “I dunno.” See, being a zombie made her terribly depressed—she had to break up with her fiancé and everything. Good riddance, I say. Didn’t like him at all. Okay, he’s very goodlooking in a towel. Other than that, he’s just another Ken doll if you ask me.

However, Liv ends up working at the morgue and suddenly – ba-bam! In walks hotness on a sensitivity stick in the form of Mr. Rahul Kohli. He plays Ravi, her fellow medical examiner.  He’s also smart–he figures out her dirty little secret. But then—it just gets better and better. Only in a sly way. First the guy who zombied her turns up – he’s David Anders, aka Sark from Alias and he is having fun, people. Therefore, he is tres fun to watch—and he’s got layers just like a magnificent onion.

What finally got me on board with the show is that a side effect of eating the brains is that Liv becomes like the people she ate. When this happens, I like watching Liv 100% more. The first time caught my by surprise—it sort of creeped in. That Rob Thomas is sly, as I said. Now I can’t wait for her to eat brains—the results are always a little random and fun.

Okay, but what really keeps me watching is the casting of hot hot HOT men. And what’s even better—it’s a multi-cultural smorgasborg of man-flesh. Let me break it down for you:

The good: Former fiancé Major (blah), Clive a detective who Liv helps to solve crimes (double blah), and Ravi (Yay!)

Why isn't Liv hopping on your bones Ravi? Is she BLIND?

Why isn’t Liv hopping on your bones Ravi? Is she BLIND?

The Bad: AJ (hot!), Ryan Hansen (ditto!)

Tim Chiou was a bad guy on an episode -- a hot, mouth-watering bad guy.

Tim Chiou was a bad guy on an episode — a hot, mouth-watering bad guy.

And my fav—

The Undead:

Blain–the zombie who seems to understand how it all works (fun, so much fun),


Blaine, you’re a bad, bad boy.


Lowell Tracey (don’t let the die job and spray tan below fool ya, he’s a zombie too!),

His name is Bradley James.  And he is...awesome!

His name is Bradley James. And he is…awesome!

and….wait for it…Hiro Kanagawa. I noticed the police chief on the show was unusually hot – and then with just one little quick detail—we suddenly know Something Is Up with Mr. Kanagawa.

Suspiciously hot for a police chief.

Suspiciously hot for a police chief.

Nothing to take my interest factor higher than discovering underneath the spray tan anyone could be zomb-i-licious. Talk about keeping us guessing!

Alexa Day’s head is probably spinning –she wrote something here deciding—okay, zombie-sex is not 100% totally gross.  So I wonder what she’ll think about this show. M’self, I’d do Lowell and not think twice about it.

He's got angsty broody sad down, mixed with a little of the wry self-deprecating good stuff.

He’s got angsty broody sad down, mixed with a little of the wry self-deprecating good stuff.

Me? I like the albino zombie-goth look, I’m a big fan. But when they hide in plain sight that’s fun too. Also in izombie they experience a tragic fate that if they go for too long without brains—they become zombie nasty. Like WALKING DEAD zombie-nasty. This gives them a ticking clock—I’m surprised they haven’t used it so far. And it gives the bad guys something to hold over them.

I also like the way they used hot pepper juice. Just flashing a bottle of super spicy stuff hiding in a drawer reveals to us that someone’s got a big secret.

Whomever cast this show deserves major props for the multicultural aspect— Elizabeth Shore asked some time ago: Where Are All The Asians? Here they are, Elizabeth!

But one woman surrounded by tons of hot men does bring up this curious rock and a hard place. I mean, is this wrong? I like a female lead. I like hot men. Put them together and I’m happy—but what about reports that Hollywood is so skewed when it comes to percentages of men and women on TV and in movies?

Take THE MINDY PROJECT. That show lost the wonderful Betsy—I mean, no explanation, she was just gone. Mindy lost her female best friend—again, no explanation, and now it’s all men men men who are her peers, with one token Lesbian woman admin over at the Hospital. I noticed it because their sub-plots tend to be male story lines involving fraternities, etc. It’s almost as if they’re scared that not appealing to men enough would doom the show OR they’re mostly male writers on the show—so this is what they know.

Hope izombie does not make the same mistake.  However whatever they do is fine by me if they just keep deepening the characters, keep layering on the complexity, and keep the surprises coming.  Just like us at Lady Smut–(please follow us to get more of the goodness 24/7.) Meanwhile, if Liv needs a zombie female bestie, then I vote for Jenny/Taylor Momsen from Gossip Girl. Can you spot the izombie in this photo?

Taylor Momsen aka Jenny on Gossip Girl -- a proto-Liv.

Taylor Momsen aka Jenny on Gossip Girl — a proto-Liv.

Do Sluts and Whores Matter Anymore?

22 Apr

Dainty. Two Provocative Women in Veils with Cherry Berries. Temptation

By Elizabeth Shore

I was at a weekend writers’ retreat recently and overheard a conversation two women were having about a third woman they both knew who, apparently, is a book collector. I say “apparently” because neither of the women actually used the word “collector” to describe the woman they were talking about. What they actually called her was a book whore.

A book whore. Hmmm. As in, one who acquires lots of books, similar to the old-fashioned kind of whore who just used to “acquire” lots of men. The word “whore” is nowadays thrown around as easily as whores of yesteryear used to throw around their favors. Food whore, work whore, travel whore – we’ve heard it all and more. If you do something in excess or extreme you’re a something-or-other whore. But is that OK?

We’re all familiar with the term “slut shaming.” Yet on the flipside, I don’t see accusations of “whore shaming.” On the contrary, whores are to be celebrated! Being a whore is nothing but a good thing. Food whore, for example. “One who lusts after food,” is a definition I saw. Nothing wrong with that, cause who doesn’t like to eat? There are food whore blogs, food whore Pinterest boards, even a food whore website selling aprons and chefs coats. The word “whore” is used with such proliferation that it’s lost its punch. It’s no longer shocking to attach the word “whore” to ourselves to describe something we do to excess. “I’m an exercise whore!” someone could smugly chirp. Yet if that’s the case, then using the word “whore” on its own, with its original meaning, loses its shock as well, thereby making it easier – even acceptable – to ascribe it to anyone you want.

Some might argue that’s a good thing. If overuse of a word makes us numb to it, then the word no longer has the power to hurt. Right? It’s a kind of lingual immunotherapy. Use a word over and over and we build up a tolerance toward it, like getting allergy shots for ragweed. Take swear words, for example. Once upon a time “dang” used to be banned from use in polite company. But tell that to an African American whose had the N word flung at them over and over. I don’t think they’ve become numb to it.

“Slut” hasn’t quite gotten there, either. It’s still, for the most part, a derogatory term, and folks can get outraged by its use. A recent example comes via Bloomsburg University where one of their baseball players called 13-year-old pitching phenom Mo’ne Davis a slut on Twitter and was promptly ejected from the team. For the most part “slut” is used with its original meaning intact, i.e., a woman (never a man, of course) with numerous sexual partners. So why the Bloomsburg U player would say Mo’Ne is a slut defies comprehension except that he obviously wanted to trash her and latched on to a word that still has the ability to insult and hurt.

So it goes with the power of words. As writers, it’s why we love ’em. Words have the ability to transform the reader, taking her to places of unimaginable joy or unbearable pain simply by properly stringing words together in a way that evokes an emotional response. I find myself troubled when people lightly use these potent weapons without any thought about the pain they can cause. Everyone past age six knows the sticks and stones saying is utter nonsense. Words can hurt far deeper and last far longer than any physical discomfort. But they can also make us feel happy or confident or on top of the world, like when a guy calls us pretty. Or smart. Or whatever word you like.

Follow us at Lady Smut, where we’ll always give you the good word.





My Writer-Girl Crush on Susanna Kearsely

21 Apr

By Liz Everly

Have you ever just fallen so hard for a writer’s work that all you want to do is read ONLY their books? I admit it’s a rarity for me. There have been a few series that I follow, but eventually, I get bored and move on, or I can see a pattern developing in the writer’s work and it’s the same story, but just a retelling of it. Sometimes, it can be very disappointing as a reader when that happens.

So I’ve been reading a lot of Susanna Kearsley. First, I read THE WINTER SEA, an extraordinary book on all counts.


But the romance? Beautifully written. Yet, I’m not sure I’d even call it a romance book. I’d say it’s a novel with strong romantic elements. Her books don’t have graphic sex in them. But yet, one line can be as sexy and romantic as any line in any erotic romance novel I’ve ever read.

This is how she describes herself on twitter “NYTimes bestselling writer who can’t choose between Historical, Contemporary, Paranormal, Romance & Suspense … so I just blend it all together in my novels.”

Does she ever.

And I really have kind of, um, fallen for her.

In THE WINTER SEA, she weaves history, romance, suspense, and a very interesting paranormal  (for the lack of a better word here) thread into this story. Plus, here was a romance arc so skillfully done that it took my breath away. The “paranormal” element was about the way the main character-writer in the story appeared to be channeling memories of an ancestor. I eat up this kind of thing. I can ponder where writers get idea for hours. Sometimes I wonder where I get mine. (But then I ask myself: do I really want to go there? It may be best to NOT look too deeply at it.)

Kearsley’s writing has been compared to both Mary Stewart and Diane Gabaldon. Her obvious love of history, archeology, landscape, romance, with interesting paranormal elements leads me straight to Gabaldon. I just finished another one of Kearsley’s books, which is a time-travel adventure romance—THE ROSE GARDEN, very much in the same vein at Gabaldon’s OUTLANDER series.


But I can also see so much of Mary Stewart in her writing—the atmospheric language, the love of suspense, the sweeping landscapes, and moody skies.

One thing all three writers have in common, no matter where they take their heroines, is that their lead characters are all independent, strong women, not likely to fall in love with the first handsome bloke who looks her way. And they are also not likely to be women who will believe easily that they have fallen through a time-warp, are channeling long-lost ancestors, or in ghosts and psychics. But they are all faced with unexplainable happenings, nonetheless.

I think this is the key to making this kind of fiction work. These women characters are formidable—it they did not have it together, they would not be up for the adventure. These are not the swooning types. (That is not to say, however, that they don’t have wounds.)

In THE SHADOWY HORSES, for example, the main female character is an archeologist, very driven by science and not looking for romance, at all. Of course, she finds it, along with a psychic boy and a ghost haunting the ground she is digging in. This is the kind of material that just sucks me in. It’s when a grounded, normal, every-day, maybe smarter-than-average woman who thinks she’d got parts of life figured out (and she does), confronts things she never imagined existed. Ghosts? Time travel? Channeling an ancestor through your writing? Pshaw.


You know this is part of why OUTLANDER works so well. Claire is nobody’s fool, right? She’s a nurse, very practical, earthy, and outspoken. Gabaldon has written these characters so well and wrapped the story in such detailed history and descriptions that she pulls whatever skeptics there are among us right into the story. We think, “Okay, maybe, Yeah. This COULD happen.” Okay so even if we don’t quite get that far in our thinking, the story is so good that we don’t care. Fall through a standing stone and landing in Jacobite Scotland? Okay. Slip into a trance-like state and channel your ancestor’s story into your book? Yes, because the characters, the setting, everything else is so believable.

Falling in love with a writer can be frustrating. I’ve picked up several other books while I’m waiting to get Kearsley’s next one. I am stopped dead in my tracks. I can’t do it. Nope. I give up. It’s simply a wave I must ride, enjoying every minute of it, of course. I’m embracing my writer-girl crush. Why fight it, right?

Has this ever happened to you?


Have We Lost the Art of Love Letters?

20 Apr

by Kiersten Hallie Krum

hard time

Click on image to order!

Love letters were top of my mind this week after reading Cara McKenna’s Hard Time, winner of the Reviewers Choice Best Book Award for erotic digital romance from RT Book Reviews. In Hard Time, inmate Eric Collier writes letters to prison librarian Anne Goodhouse. Mind you, this is not some twisty episode of Oz. These letters are deeply intimate and not in a sex-crazed way–OK not entirely in a sex-crazed way. Mad vulnerability is on the line here, partly because Eric has nothing to lose, but also, I think, because it’s liberating to write down how you feel, alone in a room with no one to judge you, no one to reject you, only the raw intimacy of the exposed yearnings of your heart.

And Eric, well, Eric does not hold back:


I missed you since our last visit. A few minutes a week with you is almost more cruel than it’s worth. I miss you every minute we’re apart, and watch the clock every morning when I think I might be seeing you again. I miss how you smell, like spring and grass. There’s not much grass here. I miss your face, and the way you smile sometimes. I want to make you smile like that. I miss your voice. The way you talk. I wish I could see you, away from here. I wish we could be together, in ways I haven’t been with a woman in five years. Sometimes, when I see you. . .sometimes I can’t even listen to what you’re saying. All I can do is watch your mouth. I watch your lips and I think about kissing you when I’m alone at night. Though I’m never really alone, here. But I imagine I am. Alone with just you. I think about your mouth, and about kissing you. And other things. Sometimes I watch your hands. I watch your hands and imagine them on me.

Yours, Eric

(McKenna, Cara. Hard Time. Penguin Group US. Kindle Edition. 2014.)


The first time Anne writes a reply to Eric, she spirals into a pit of fear after sending it, freaking out for days over a variety of negative fall outs from her acknowledgement not only of his ardor but her own equally strong emotions: What if they got caught? What if he’s playing her? What if he’s a horrible person? Too right, I thought reading it.

I took a straw poll on Facebook and Twitter asking who, if anyone, had received or sent a love letter. An overwhelming amount of those who responded said “Yes” often to both, but definitely to sending one. Author Beth Yarnall even shared her high-school yearbook inscribed love letter in which her earnest beau promised to find her even in the midst of a nuclear holocaust.

Now that’s love.

Such a large positive response surprised me (though it can be argued that those who might have said “No” didn’t bother to answer.) I’ve sent one love letter in my life and I’m pretty sure I was about 14 years-old when I did it. Possibly younger. I received only one too that I remember, but that was in first-grade, so I’m not sure it counts.

Fear. Fear is what I think of when I think of love letters. The fear of exposing oneself to another’s derision by confessing outright to such powerful emotions. Committing things to paper limits what you can take back. The simple truth is that words have power and writing thoughts and emotions down makes them–and us–vulnerable. And yet, it is within the pages of love letters that the most divine declarations can be made.

During my last year as an undergraduate, I interned at the Gloucester Stage Company in Gloucester, MA. For the theatre’s landmark anniversary that year, the management threw a gala event, which included a one-time performance of Love Letters, a play written in the late 80s that was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize for Drama. In it, a man and woman sit side-by-side and read the letters and notes they’ve written to one another over the 50 years of their relationship. “The play’s means may be economical,” wrote The New York Times last year about the Love Letters revival on Broadway, “but it etches a deep portrait of life’s painful vicissitudes.” Love Letters is, perhaps obviously, the first thing that comes to mind whenever I think of love letters.

love letters

The second is inevitably 84 Charing Cross Road. My mother made us watch it when we were kids–under protest, I assure you–but we quickly fell for it. 84 Charing Cross Road is  a movie (based on a book, naturally) about a writer in New York who stuck up a deep friendship with a British bookseller in London. They never met, but instead spent just short of twenty years writing letters back and forth, beginning in 1949 and lasting till the death of the bookseller in 1968. While not lovers, a deep non-romantic love is evident between the two. The movie, with Anne Bancroft and Anthony Hopkins, is a delight, no small amount thanks to the very letters that form the original book, which are read as the script and dramatized. To this day, 84 Charing Cross Road is a beloved favorite in my film collection.84 Charing Cross Road Quad

The epistolary nature of these two products fascinates me. Words are my profession, which means I likely place a higher value on word choice, on the page and off, than most lay people, a dedication to semantics that has been known to occasionally aggravate my family.

We commit things to the page when we want to remember them. What writer hasn’t wished she or he wrote down the brilliant thought had just before dropping off to sleep? Committing to the page helps commit it to memory and occasionally absolves us of the need to do the same.

Professor Henry Jones: I found the clues that will safely take us through them in the Chronicles of St. Anselm.

Indiana Jones: Well, what are they? Can’t you remember?

Professor Henry Jones: I wrote them down in my diary so that I wouldn’t *have* to remember.

Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade

Yet I have to wonder, in a world of sexting and texting and emails and IMs and Snapchat and The Twitter, a world where we’ve been trained to condense thoughts and feelings into 140 characters or less, where many intimate details of ours lives are shared in flashes of TMI self-exposure for attention, is there even a place for a love letters, even as a sticky note of affection left between spouses or lovers as the pass by in the midst of their busy lives? The letters in Hard Time generate from the clandestine nature of their existence due to Eric’s circumstance of incarceration–without being allowed access to a computer or a cell phone, old school becomes the new school–but in the regular world , is there yet room for oldf fashion love letters?

Follow Lady Smut. Everything thing we write comes back to love–in one form or another.

The Other Wedding Buffet: Here Come the Groomsmen

19 Apr
Sure, they're nice. But can I see what your groomsmen look like?

Sure, they’re nice. But can I see what your groomsmen look like?

By Alexa Day

This is the first warm Saturday I’ve seen in a pretty long time, and I spent it on the beach with my notebook, in front of my favorite beachside biker bar. At sunset, a wedding took place in the little gazebo not far from my blanket. The bride wore a pale green dress, bedecked with sequins, and she posed with her bridesmaids for photos just as darkness fell.

That’s my kind of wedding. I love nontraditional bridal fashions, and the bridesmaids apparently got to choose dresses for themselves, so long as they all wore the same color. But the best part was that I was far away from the whole thing. I was a bystander and not a guest.

A couple of years ago, I made an agreement with myself that I wasn’t attending any more weddings. Now that I’m a certain age, I don’t have to avoid many such joyous occasions, but I try to steer clear of them anyway. The wedding isn’t really a single girl’s event, truth be told. It’s murder to find someone to bring — like the office party, it is not something to which one invites a man outside a relationship. Then there’s the Singles Quarantine, the one table that is home to all the uncoupled guests … and sometimes unchaperoned children as well.

And of course, there’s all the questioning about why this isn’t your wedding.

Stronger people than I continue to attend weddings in spite of all this. Maybe they honestly enjoy them, and maybe they buy into that shopworn threat that unless they attend and have a delightful time, then no one will come when their magical day finally arrives. I don’t know. I can only say that at this point, the only thing that could convince me to attend even one more wedding is a prime set of groomsmen.

Friends, groomsmen are like the other wedding buffet. While the other guests can only look with their eyes, a single girl gets to enjoy a fine assortment of groomsmen to their very fullest. And there’s a lot to enjoy.

The groomsmen are all generally in a good mood, if a bit hungover. The wedding is the culmination of a days-long party for the gentlemen. They’re able to enjoy their friend’s day a bit differently (for one thing, Western wedding traditions don’t seem to rely on bedeviling single men about their status). They’re relaxed and having a good time in a festive setting, which means they’re amenable to flirting with single guests.

They’re all freshly pressed in fancy dress for the special occasion. They might even be in kilts. Be honest — what chance do we have to see that many dudes in kilts in one place? Sure, changing fashions don’t even demand a tie for weddings anymore, but as long as the chance of kilts is higher than zero, I say that hope springs eternal.

Finally, after the happy couple is off to spend their wedding night together, the groomsmen are left with a bit of time on their hands. Their responsibilities are for the most part taken care of, and they drift over toward the alcohol in search of something to do. Suddenly, not bringing a plus one is a very good idea. After all, if one is with a man, one can’t take another man home. It’s bad form. Don’t ask how I know.

So who has a scandalous story featuring a groomsman (or groomsmen, I’m open-minded like that)? Has anyone ever met a married groomsman? Who else has sworn off weddings altogether? Speak now.

And follow Lady Smut. We’ll plight your troth real good.

Sexy Saturday Round-Up

18 Apr

LS Fb square

By Liz Everly and the Lady Smut Bloggers

Hello, Sexy! Welcome to your Saturday! We’ve been scouring the Internets for the best blog posts this week. Sit back, have fun, and read.

From Liz:

The myth of lesbian bed death.

Is this a cool blog, or what?

New female-run sex-toy company focuses on hands-free sex toys.

Great interview with Carly Phillips.

From Elizabeth:

Chocolate a**holes and female viagra ice cream – file them under things we don’t need.

Do you want to see what your vagina looks like when you orgasm? Really? Well, then, there’s a vibrator for that.

Nursing a broken heart from a recent break-up? The BouceBackBox might help you heal faster.

There’s evil hiding behind that supposedly healthy coconut milk. Latte drinkers – beware!

From CMK:

Jason Statham Dances for you (okay, for 90s music videos)

On Squirting

Laverne Cox goes nude in Allure

From Madeline:

Jealous much? Here’s why.

100 horrifying years of Women in advertising.

What if we drop the ‘plus’ in Plus Model?

Ask Men’s Outstanding women of 2015

Stay Hungry,


How I Started Lusting After Silver Foxes

17 Apr

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

I’ve always had a thing for older men, ever since I lost my virginity to a 31-year-old when I was 17, but there’s a difference between older, but in what feels like a reasonable range, and much, much older. At least, there has been for me. Looking back on that dalliance from the summer after I graduated high school, that relationship seems more than a little creepy. It wasn’t the 14 years per se, but the vast span in life experiences. As an adult, I can appreciate that there’s an appeal to an older man who owns his sexiness, who’s as confident as he ever was, possibly more so. Think Roger Sterling on Mad Men (sans this season’s moustache).

Two years ago, I finally figured out in a deeply personal way what the appeal is in silver foxes. A silver fox, for the uninitiated, is defined at Urban Dictionary as “An attractive older man. Generally, one that has gray hair and is often desired by younger women.” For instance: Anderson Cooper (yes, I know he’s gay, but not only is that definition heterosexist, women can be attracted to gay men, obviously).


So in 2013, I was flying to New York from London after attending Eroticon UK, tucked into a window seat, fully prepared to mind my own business and zone out with a book or sleep my way back to the Big Apple. I was grateful for the empty seat between myself and the older gentleman in the aisle. For the most part, even though I’ve edited a book of mile high club erotica, I like my me time during air travel.

But my row-mate, after about an hour, wanted to chat. “Let’s trade books,” he suggested, and, not wanting to be rude, I agreed even though his tome was something like How to Play the Sitar. I handed him my novel, whose title I also can’t recall, but I do remember I was using a postcard for my women’s erotica anthology Fast Girls, with its topless cover model staring right at the viewer, as a bookmark. “What’s this?” he asked, and I went for honesty rather than expediency, and told him, “It’s my book. I edit erotica.”

What ensued was one of the most interesting conversations with a stranger I’ve ever had. He asked if I knew of any erotica about people his age; he was 74, precisely double my age at the time, 37. As it happened, I was reading a galley of Joan Price’s Ageless Erotica, by and about people over 50, on my laptop at the time. I told him about it, while he shared tidbits about his life, including that he had a girlfriend.

We weren’t flirting, but there was an erotic undercurrent to the conversation that shocked me. When I shifted so my skirt accidentally rode up to reveal my knee, he said something about my knee being cute. Neither of us said anything untoward or over-the-top, but the energy passing between us was enough to make me rethink my possible upper age limit when it came to who I might bed. I was in a relationship and not looking to hook up with him or anyone else, but during our casual chat, I sensed that, had we met each other at, say, a bar, and each been single, perhaps we might have wound up in bed together. (We didn’t, but I did take our literary exchange and turn it into the basis of an older woman/younger man story called “Book Swap” in Rose Caraway’s anthology The Sexy Librarian’s Big Book of Erotica.)

Only one other time have I been attracted to someone whose age jarred me in a similar way. I met an older man at a party called Pleasure Salon, and wound up visiting him in London. When I found out he was a grandfather, that fact, more than his chronological age, gave me pause. What did it mean? I kept asking myself.

Well, now that I’ve had a few years to consider these various incidents, I’ve decided that it simply means I recognize that age, while not irrelevant, isn’t a deterrent to my attractions. I’m far more likely to be interested in someone 10 or even 20 years older than me than I am to lust after someone 10 or 20 years my junior.

It’s one thing to give lip service to the sex lives of our elders, and another to recognize that desire, lust and sexuality don’t simply slip away when we hit 60, 70, 80 or beyond. Those hours on the plane helped me appreciate the sex appeal of the silver fox, which I hope has in turn made me a better, and more empathetic, erotica writer. I look forward to incorporating some silver foxes, and foxy silver-haired ladies, into my erotic tales.

Yes Professor: Confessions of a Sophophiliac

16 Apr

Dr-Spencer-Reidby Madeline Iva

Have you ever watched the grim television procedural show CRIMINAL MINDS? For those of you out there who are turned on by learning, Dr. Reid is brain teasing catnip.

On the show he is a walking computer of history.  Not only has he read far and wide in the classics, not only does he know his poets, playwrights, and arcane urban factoids, but he kills it in the cardigan department and when seeking out possible friends, heads for the girls first.

Yes, this boy-man is not the cold analytic machine usually presented on TV.  He is all intellectual probity and vulnerable sensibility wrapped up in a model-skinny tousel-haired package.  I.e. he is sexy.  Well, sexy-ish. The kicker is when he falls in love with a woman through talking to her on the phone.  His version of foreplay is a four hour conversation. He doesn’t care what she looks like, he loves her mind first, last, and foremost.


If you like Dr. Reid–if you obsess a little bit over Dr. Reid–then you my friend are probably a sophophiliac–someone who is sexually turned on by learning.

FBIIs this the fascination that grips students who have affairs with their professors? After all, they say your biggest sexual organ is your brain. (This illicit pairing is second in popularity only to doctors boinking nurses.) We’ve talked about the evolutionary advantage of smart guys on the blog before.  Mating with smart men means having smart babies–right? Well, to a degree.  Smart men presumably have access to plentiful resources and in their geeky-shy social ineptitude perhaps are less likely to stray.

All of these criteria are stereotypes, however.  It’s possible for the smart man to be unemployed, for the genius to be socially savvy, for the man who has studied physics to be a playa and a cad.  I’ve learned the hard way never to make assumptions about guys blessed with brains.

Not to look your typical cranially gifted in the mouth, but it seems to me that the best part of being with a smart guy is he can keep up with your own intellectual powers of conversation. Alas, academics are often only interested in their one small area of research, and only want to talk with others in their field about that topic.  Give me your polymath instead, your intellectually open and curious fellow — give me your Dr. Reid, in fact–any day over a narrow-minded academic.

An original thinker will have interesting things to say about the world around you — and life will never be boring as a result.  Meanwhile, observe the competitive nature of brainiacs.  Academics are often as ruthlessly competitive at sports as they are in their departments.  Compensating much?

Unfortunately, Dr. Reid is often subjected to the competitive ill-will of his team, a kind of mild bullying by the anti-intellectual elements on the show.  The show also indulges in some needless intellectual snobbery–throwing around the idea that someone with endless intellectual curiosity is a freak, that someone precocious is inexperienced in carnal matters, and a genius is often beyond the reach of mere mortals–who are deemed contemptible in return.

spencer-reidsexyOn the internet there are tons of naughty fan fiction stories devoted to Dr. Reid. They love him so much they kinda want to squeeze him to death.

While on the show he is a power lifter when it comes to intellectual reasoning, he is also portrayed as innocent of experience–perhaps even a virgin.  They show him at one point charming a woman with slight-of-hand skills and at other points he is able to spin his own duplicitous web when needed to catch a killer.  Yet his personal pleasures involve foreign language movie festivals–sans sub-titles, or other areas where a substantial geek arcana is required.  Ultimately, one understands he experiences a lonely existence, and a kind of upside down world where normal experiences slightly torture him.

In other words…my kinda guy!

And while many of our friends are very smart–most of them are happy to put away the brains, grab a beer and just hang out.  But I submit that ‘hanging out’ is a horrid conundrum to the pure intellectual. This kind of guy wants to graze upon intense topics, rigorously chew over the details of his latest obsession, tidy his ideas, and conquer theoretical concepts for fun–because he can.  The Dr. Reid type intellectual has a mind that can go the distance 24/7.

The best part about intellectual guys I’ve known and loved is that at heart they’re turned off by bimbos. They have standards of attractiveness that have nothing to do with make-up, cleavage, or popularity. One can stand before this kind of guy and let one’s naked intellect shine.  In summation, the man who likes smart women–who needs an intelligent woman as his partner in life–is truly sexy.

So what’s your I.Q.? If you’re a smarty-pants in touch with your smexy side, follow us at Lady We’ll whisper inductive reasoning proofs in your ear all night long.


A Champ in the Sack, Perfect Gentleman, and Gazillionaire – Are Your Guy Standards Too High?

15 Apr
Sexy handsome hunk with white jacket

Mr. Perfect

By Elizabeth Shore

A former work colleague of mine once went on a date with a guy whose online profile exactly matched the type she was looking for. He was good looking, shared similar interests, had a decent job. So she went on the date, had a nice time, but nonetheless knew after the first minute that she wouldn’t date him again. Holy cats, why not?! Did he turn out to be an axe murderer or something? Not at all. Nothing quite that petty. It’s just that the sports jacket he wore was ill fitting.

I am, I assure you, not making this up. I thought she was nuts. I told her so. She said that a guy who “doesn’t know how to dress” is not someone she can see spending the rest of her life with. So in her, er, “rational” mind, it was best to cut the ties immediately rather than string along a relationship that was surely doomed to fail.

That seemed like a big ol’ bucket of crazy to me, and as far as I know the woman is still single. But she would surely say that she simply has high standards and he didn’t meet them. End of story. However, according to author and relationship expert Matthew Hussey, before deciding that high standards are the reason some women have trouble meeting a romantic partner, we ought to first ask ourselves three questions to determine whether it’s standards that are too high or whether there’s really something else going on.

Hussey’s career in the love biz actually began as a relationship coach to men. After working with over 10,000 of them, he found himself getting approached more and more frequently by women who wanted to know – from the f**k ton of data he’d amassed over the years – what the secrets were to getting the guy. So Hussey, no dummy – and rather nice eye candy, I might add – quickly founded and began helping the gals better understand men.

When Hussey gets asked by women whether they can’t get a man because their standards are too high, Hussey says he tells them to answer the following three questions:

1. Are you looking for someone who actually exists? Think about what your “requirements” list and whether it goes something like this: fantastic looking, champion in the sack, boatloads of money, body like a gladiator, worships everything about you. Sound familiar? If that’s the case, says Hussey, good luck with all that. You’re on an endless seach for nonexistent perfection. Hussey isn’t saying lower your standards, but rather have standards that exist in the real world.

2. The second thing we women should ask is whether our high standards are just a defense mechanism to prevent ourselves from getting rejected. Many women he meets, says Hussey, take themselves out of the dating game by throwing up their hands in resignation and saying they can’t find anyone who meets their standards. We’re so picky, and this or that is wrong with the guy, so of course we can’t find anyone. Then what happens is that these types of women end up dating from within a “safe” pool of men who will never reject them. Problem is, these guys aren’t really the ones we want, and they don’t meet our standards, so we’re back to saying that our standards are too high. The vicious circle is alive and well. Hussey says if this is the case, then the change that’s needed is not to lower your standards or think they’re too high, but rather to allow ourselves to be vulnerable. Don’t date the safe guys you don’t want; keep your standards but accept that it could mean getting rejected and be OK with that possibility.

3. Last question: Are you enforcing your standards too soon? Remember the colleague complaining about the ill-fitting sports jacket? She falls dead center in this category. By enforcing her requirement from second one, she’s preventing herself from developing a connection with anyone. In this same way, you can also skew your own standards. Let’s say the guy my work colleague met wore a sports jacket that fit him to perfection. Other habits or personality traits he may have that didn’t jive with hers may be mistakenly discarded by convincing herself that he’s gotta be strong relationship potential because at least his jacket fit right. Oy! But the good fitting sports jacket is important to her. Why should she lower that standard? She shouldn’t, says Hussey. But in the beginning of the dating process, give people a chance. Get to know them at least a little bit. Cast a wide net initially, and then get more narrow as you decide with whom you’ll embark on a real relationship.

So there you have it. Three easy tips on snagging your perfect guy – as long as your perfect guy isn’t found only in a, you know, romance novel.








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