Hell's Angels

Mary Alice sauntered slowly to her heavy wood desk, enjoying the sound of her lemon corduroy pants. She dropped into the overstuffed office chair and braced herself, slightly spinning left. She would soon lose her virginity.

Having sex for the first time would be her idea, but she hadn't yet put that idea together. Right now, it was just the beginning of a notion that had been brewing for a while. Sister Mary Alice opened a drawer, and then closed it. She should be working, but there was nothing to do, as it was one of those brief moments when everything in the convent was in absolute order.

Loosening her scarf, Sister Mary Alice shifted in her chair. Today would be the day, and she didn't even know it yet. But she was already prepared. At 68 years of age, she was prepared for anything.

That was an excerpt from my latest piece of erotica, a sweet romance entitled, “Nun Too Soon.”

But once I wrote several erotica stories, I realized it was too easy to get published. After the “50 Shades” phenomenon, where an amateur writer wrote a best-selling erotic novel based on her love of the Twilight series, which was, itself, soft-core adolescent romance pivoting around a mundane, two-dimensional female protagonist and her asshole boyfriend, publishers expanded exponentially to publish any and everything erotica to get a piece of the action.

There were now so many new imprints and small presses publishing electronic forms of erotica online, with absolutely any word count, that there's little assurance any one story would be actually sold. All but gone are the ways of conventional marketing and promotions. Volume is key, and you publish as many stories as you can, hoping someone will make the connection via social media, word-of-digital-mouth.

I needed to do more research to gain a journalistic advantage. Portland, Oregon, was the stripper capitol of the nation, and little has been written about this social phenomenon. This brings to mind Hunter S. Thompson's first book, “Hell's Angels,” the true story written in classic journalistic style about biker gangs. Like the celebrated hunter of Kumaon penning details of his dangerous excursions among the man-eating tigers of India, Hunter Thompson studied biker outlaws. He was never fully accepted as one of them, but he gained enough of their confidence to be able to live among them, interacting on a personal level, and at times getting into dodgy situations with the law.

This is the sort of thing I had in mind. With rare insight into the time-honored career of exotic dancing, my stories would thrive. Hell's Angels, indeed.

The Porne Identity

I'd like to start in Tangier. I'm in a Moroccan bar patio near the central plaza, ancient walls and hotels stacked atop each other like mountainside caverns, a view of the pale blue ocean at the horizon where it meets the blue-gray haze of the afternoon, waiting for a dangerous man to step off a cruise ship.

He will eventually make his way inland, through the maze of shop-lined streets, circling inward into the old city, until he finds me. After our meeting, I'm probably just going to kill him. A serrated butter knife waits within reach.

I would say I'm passing the time by writing, as I don't want to smoke through all my cigarettes. I can get more, and they're cheap here, but they're potent, and I don't really smoke. I don't want to be up all night coughing.

But I can't start here, because all of this is in the future.

We have to start at the beginning, and my story actually starts in Portland, Oregon, at a suburban coffee shop. This is where I meet the Wednesday Afternoon Smut Club

All three members were there at the table. The blonde with green-rimmed glasses, smartly dressed as a librarian who knew she gave off a sexy nerd vibe, was the prolithic Toni Lacquer. She described herself in her blog as an ambivert (squarely between introvert and extrovert), being shy and awkward around strangers, yet having no problem with book signings, public speaking, or playing dress-up for conventions. A bisexual, she had a boyfriend named Rob.

The woman to her left was Daena Redfeather Jackson, a poet and author, as well as an inspirational business coach. A reddish brunette with expertly-applied makeup, she was married to a seller of imported car parts. She was also a Burning Man enthusiast and part-time astrologist.

The third woman at the table, rounding out their impromptu club, was the remarkably beautiful Debris Robusto. She was the youngest of them, dark coco skin and black features with silver lipstick and a ring through her nose, and she dressed in gothic attire, as if to give form to the lesbian vampire protaganists within her erotic stories.

Toni Lacquer caught me looking over, and although I didn't want to disturb their meeting, I didn't want them to think I was some creepy stalker. So I casually walked by their table on my way to the counter and told them I was a fan. And I had just published my first novel. This much was true.

After chatting a few minutes, it dawned on me that there really weren't any male writers of erotica. Not any good ones, anyway. This is simply because of the natural difference between how men and women psychologically process information. Women are hard-wired to prefer a list of components, whereas men naturally prefer processing information through spatial awareness. A woman asking for directions will want a list of directions, like a recipe, but a man will want information to fill the map he carries in his head. Sexual attraction is the same thing, as women want to be verbally led into romance, as opposed to mere physical or visual stimulation.

Erotica is simply a category of romance with explicit sex scenes. And all romances, including erotic stories, are written for women. A very small percentage of erotica stories are marketed at men, but they are largely written by women and read by women. There is gay erotica, including stories written by men for men, but even these stories are crafted according to the parameters of female erotica. Because all erotica is female erotica. It's only male erotica if there are pictures.

It was then, after meeting the Wednesday Afternoon Smut Club in person, that I had the idea of writing erotica, myself. All I had to do was mix the two writing styles, using the parameters of female erotica while adding in my own male insight. This would be good writing, but sexy. As a man, I knew what women wanted, so I didn't even have to guess what my reader would be looking for. It was all too simple.

I started writing that evening, an erotic short story in the tradition of international espionage titled The Porne Identity.

This was going to be easy.

Brewstillery 2 @ Stormbreaker

Steppenwolf's Magic Carpet Ride plays in Stormbreaker's patio. The atmosphere is every bit as eclectic-Portland-hip as anticipated.

 Barley Brown's Twisted Whisker Scotch Ale from Baker City paired with the 5-Year Ram Rye Whiskey of Beaverton's Stein Distillery = the Twisted Rye Whisker. The Mitten Slap = Safety Word IPA from the Breakside Brewery paired with Townshend's Bluebird (76 proof) from Thomas & Sons Distillery. These are the stand-out pairings in a cornucopia of grand tasty combos. I can describe and catalogue all the local offerings in another post, but for now I have to wonder where all the women are at. Every imbiber is a bearded bro in horn-rimmed glasses and a Where's Waldo? hat. Onward to the beer fests of summer.

Oregon Craft Beer Month

The first crat beer festival was the Oregon Brewers' Festival at the Waterfront, downtown Portland, the last weekend of July. Now, there are beer festivals and events, pretty much every week, often several in one weekend, year-around.

But in honor of that first and largest beer festival, now in its 29th year and hosting breweries from all over the US and the world. July has been named Oregon Craft Beer Month. There are events all over Oregon, but in the Portland area in particular, you can't throw a sack of hops without hitting a special tasting, pairing event, or beer celebration pretty much any day of the week. And it's awesome.

This is what I've been doing since my last post, drinking beer, and I'll be writing more here now that my latest novel is off to the publisher.

Breakside Brewing at Tilt

Nice Breakside pilsner at Tilt. All German hops and malt shipped over. Everything is German but the water, to give it that 100% German pils authenticity. Is the shipping costly? Probably. But for a young brewery they're doing wonderfully. Most sales are in Oregon, the Portland area, and then Seattle. They also distribute to a handful of states, plus Hawai'i Germany, and Norway. They ship the beer, brewed and refrigerated, across two oceans, all from Portland.

Their bourbon barrel-aged aztec is insane. "Strong ale brewed in chiles and chocolate aged in bourbon barrels. Yes. Bourbon, chile, and chocolate together apparently tastes like tequila. It has a robust flavor of a spicy red ale, with a tequila nose.

Delicious. 

There's nothing quite like pouring a pint with your own personal beer photographer.