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firepoleI’d been pole dancing at S Factor for six months for fun, fitness and to feel sexy. My favorite part of class was dancing to a song that I chose while being witnessed by classmates. After months of choreography, we’d recently been set free to improvise our entire dance. I adored this even more.

One day in February as I sat at my desk in my home office, prepping for teaching my Public Health class, music playing in the background captivated me. The song pulled me up out of my chair; my hips couldn’t resist the galloping beat. They circled right, then left. My feet strutted through my home office, around the corner, through the dining room and stopped to do hip circles in my dance spot in the living room. When the song ended I skipped back to my desk, hit replay and continued swirling my hips.

“Ooh La La” by Goldfrapp (was a gift from the Universe or at least Apple as a free iTunes download). Goldfrapp set hips in motion in dance clubs throughout Europe the prior summer. They hadn’t hit big in the US yet. But Apple knew.

A few weeks later I chose the song when Ana, my teacher, asked us to dance in a sensual piece of clothing. I was drawn to silk and had already danced in a little red silk chemise I’d bought for class to Madonna’s “Erotica.” My hands loved the slippery, cool texture of the silk. And my body loved the smooth feel of the silk and my own healing touch through it.

I chose “Ooh La La” for dancing in the chemise again because Alison Goldfrapp’s voice felt like silk skimming across Continue Reading »

VIRGIN FIRE PLAY by Morris Taylor

Fire PhotoDew drops cling to white pine trees. The five needles of each bundle hug one another to ward off the evening chill. The sap that drips freely during autumn light now congeals in darkness. In the whispering wind, my nostrils pick up the resinous scent of evergreens on the Pennsylvania hillside.

Half scared and half curious, I people-watch. Hot guys schelpp duffle bags, roller cases and equipment boxes down the rutted dirt road. Old-timers embrace. Even in this safe space, newcomers cower. I muse about how different these men are from the adolescents who inhabit this teen camp in summer. Playful adult males have taken over indoor gyms and outdoor pool.

“There’s a first time for everything,” I mutter to myself.

Taxing my social skills in the registration line, I manage, “Hi, I’m Morris.” If there is a smile of recognition, I add, “Buddy, where are you from?”

One friendly person helps me find the group cabin to which I am assigned. I forget his name, but not his kindness. The spartan dorm looks like the army barracks I had experienced at Fort Hood, Texas, many years before: the splintered and creaky floor, torn mosquito mesh on open windows, showers with unreliable hot water and little-to-no privacy.

After staking out a claim consisting of one towel hook, a clutch of coat hangers and an unpainted wooden shelf, I decide to reconnoiter. The smell of greasy food wafts from the dining room, yet no one waits in line. I wander into one of the free-standing cabins that houses a temporary commissary.

Aside from the clerk, I am alone. A few snacks are for sale, but it is the array of hemp rope, adult toys and leather gear that turns me on. I hope that my feigned nonchalance will mask my lack of experience. I enjoy fondling some of the merchandise, imagining how this flogger or that clamp will torment my body.

Sensing a dominating presence, I glance up. There stands a bearded man. My eyes take in his tight jeans, heavy boots and Master’s cover—a costume favored by dominant men into leather. His black leather vest is festooned with flame-shaped appliqués in brilliant reds and yellows.

“Does your vest mean that you are into fire play?” I blurt out. My eyes fixate on the floor. I experience hot flashes. Sweat oozes from my pores.

“Yeah,” the leatherman replies in a confident voice.

“I have no experience in this kind of sadomasochistic ritual. Can I try it out?” I ask. Whatever possesses me? I am stupid as an ass and dumb as a donkey. Continue Reading »



One of the Kensington Ladies, my English friend, who, like her partners is known for her lusty works of literature, invited herself for tea one afternoon. As we drank Darjeeling tea  and nibbled plum tartlets sprinkled with almonds, we talked briefly about books or movies. Suddenly she  exclaimed, “You’ll do it! Problem solved.”

Do what?” I asked.

You love cooking; we love what you prepare. There you are! Our anthology is being published by Ten Speed Press. The Ladies Home Erotica, is right now coming off the press. Everything is ready. We’ve sent the invitations. We need a wonderful party at my house in ten days.”

My friend’s home up in the Oakland hills is lovely. It offers fabulous views from its elegant rooms, but I’m sure I frowned. 

No, I said, “Impossible. I’ve never cooked for more than ten people; I wouldn’t know where to start .”

There’ll be between eighty and a hundred guests,” she replied airily. “Just multiply by six or seven, whatever works. It’ll be perfect. I must run! See you in ten days.”

I don’t even know what you want!” I wailed.

Do what you like,” she said. “Here, that should cover it.” She pushed a wad of banknotes into my hand before vanishing down the stairs. I stood, paralyzed, my fists full of dollars. What if there wasn’t enough food? What if, because of my catering, the masked  Kensington Ladies didn’t like the food? What if the party to celebrate the Kensington Ladies’ book turned out to be a fiasco?

My mind spun. I was between jobs, and the idea of “doing what I liked” was exciting, but what on earth did  one serve at an erotic buffet? Which foods were aphrodisiacs? Which were not? I’d never considered the question.

I ran to the library and gravely consulted several books, hoping to look professorial with my glasses low on my nose as I took notes. I discovered that during the Middle Ages garden peas were considered highly aphrodisiacal, and were therefore reserved for the aristocracy.  Because tomatoes were believed to be so poisonous, they were to be used strictly for decoration. 

Eggs, from geese’s to caviar, as well as snails, were aphrodisiacs because of their resemblance to semen. I learned that avocado trees are called testicle trees in Spanish, that banana flowers have a phallic shape, and that fennel contains a natural estrogen; that raspberries, in erotic literature, are called “fruit nipples.” Then there is the pineapple, used in homeopathic medicine to treat impotence; so are pine nuts, since their zinc content helps maintain male potency. And there is quince; saffron and cinnamon, whose excess causes hallucinations; sage, pistachio nuts, turnips, nutmeg. I don’t want to bore you with more. Continue Reading »


I lay in bed staring up at the white mesh canopy of the mosquito net, thinking about the night before and … Dennis.

Dennis with brown eyes that melted like chocolate in the firelight.

Dennis with the deep Afrikaans accent that rolled off his tongue into the crisp winter night.

Dennis with the inquisitive nature about the USA .

Dennis with a sure-footedness that spun me around the fire pit in a sokie sokie, an Afrikaans waltz of sorts.

Dennis with the quick smile, chatting with my friends about his country of Namibia.

Dennis with the shy, hesitant steps dancing to American hip-hop.

Dennis with the musky smell that remains in my hair and on my neck.

Dennis with the plump lips that softly found their way from my lips to my ear.

With the gentle tongue that slid in and out of my mouth. Continue Reading »

with Linda Watanabe McFerrin
Saturday, May 31st, 2014, 10:00 AM – 4:00 PM
Location: Book Passage, 51 Tamal Vista Boulevard, Corte Madera, CA 94925

Register here

If you have trouble steaming up the page, this is the workshop for you.

Spend a day with poet, travel writer and novelist Linda Watanabe McFerrin loosening up and learning the techniques for adding spicy, sensual, and sometimes hilarious sizzle to your work. The class is full of quick free-writes and entertaining exercises that will have you moving from comfort zones to erogenous zones in no time.

Linda’s workshops have ushered may a writer into the award circle and bestseller spotlight. She’s the founder of Left Coast Writers® and co-editor of the Hot Flashes: Sexy Little Stories and Poems series.

The workshop fee includes, champagne, chocolate, and copious creativity.

Linda is the perfect teacher for this class and topic. She treated us with enormous dignity while maintaining her brilliant sense of irreverence.
– A.B.

Great to get the juices flowing.  Safe, fun, sassy.  I would like to take this class again.
—L.K. Continue Reading »

THE PERFECT GUY (excerpt) by Debbie Goelz

Jule Vandamme knows she’s in big trouble before her boss utters a word. The walls in Vesta Harper’s office vibrate in the grey-green of a storm-tossed sea. At Pinnacles Center for Sexual Rehabilitation, it is difficult for employees to hide their emotions as the building echoes them quite publicly ….

Jule nervously fumbles with the doorknob to the suite. Ridiculous, she chides herself. I am a trained therapist. Whatever’s in there is part of me and must logically be, well, logical. Just get this over with. Give them a show and get out as quickly as possible. She straightens her posture and throws the door open hoping there isn’t a half-starved lion waiting for her on the other side.

Jule wishes it were only a lion. This is infinitely worse—a fairy tale-worthy glass castle. Her heart speeds as she searches for the monitoring cameras. A quixotic tableau is all she needs. Everyone will think she is some kind of starry-eyed romantic like her mother—earth’s most famous romance author. How many times growing up had Jule been teased about her mother’s, um, work?

The air smells like roses and freshly cut grass, with a hint of garlic. The edifice, perched at the far end of a formal garden, beneath an enormous, swollen moon, is swathed in trails of rose vines. Dozens of classical marble statues of naked men guard a walkway to the castle entrance brimming with faceted rubies, emeralds and sapphires. Even though the statues’ eyes are blank, Jule shudders as if they are staring at her. Jule knows better than anyone about the truth of fairy tales. They are dark, filled with witches baking children and women slicing off parts of their feet to get a goddamned prince. She pivots. Time to cut her losses and let Just Becquee win. Naturally, the door she had come through disappears as soon as she makes this decision.

Seeing no alternative, she stomps down the walkway, trying to ignore the jeweled pebbles that accumulate in her horrid spa shoes. She arrives at the front door with extremely sore feet. Through the transparent walls, Jule sees a cavernous entry hall lit by a thousand white tapered candles flickering and illuminating hundreds of crystal vases bursting with long-stemmed red roses. She rings the doorbell while shaking out the pebbles. Of its own accord, the glass door opens to a high-pitched creak as if it is made of ancient wood with iron hinges. “Thanks,” she automatically mutters even though no one is there.

The entry smells like roses, candle wax, chocolate and garlic. Something purrs. Not the purr of an ordinary house cat, this purr is deep and dark and raises the hairs on the back of her neck. She follows the sound to an adjacent drawing room where she finds a lion lounging on a massive red leather sofa. The lion catches her in its gaze. It lets out an unfriendly roar and its wings, yes wings, unfurl and flap violently, upending a bottle of champagne in a silver ice bucket and a bowl of strawberries. Jule screams.

“What is it, bella?” rumbles an Italian-accented male voice. “Are you alright?” Rivulets of acid curl in Jule’s stomach. Why does the Italian accent scare her more than the roar of a winged lion? Jule loves most things Italian—the coffee, the linguine, the footwear. Okay, so the bloody religious art she could do without, but otherwise …

“Magellan, I told you to stay off the furniture,” admonishes a male figure wearing only a starched white apron over his muscled physique. The guy looked like the cover art for one of her mom’s books. “Outside. Now.” Several panes of glass disappear, and the lion stalks out, his erect tail twitching. The window re-forms. “Please sit, bella. Do not worry about him.” He lifts his chin toward the lion. “He is harmless. Your dinner is almost ready. I shall clean up this untidiness and replenish the Prosecco.”

Dinner? A cooking, cleaning Erotibot? Continue Reading »

Join us on the air tomorrow on Lilycat on Stuff.

On Sunday, January 19, Linda Watanabe McFerrin and Laurie McAndish King, editors of the Hot Flashes: sexy little stories and poems series will be on San Francisco’s alternative radio station FCCFREERADIO, along with other writers they love to talk about what they want in a sexy story, and why.

Jonathan Arnowitz will join in as they read from our work and chat about “undercover love” and its influence on culture and fashion.

What we really want to know, though, is what writers, readers and listeners have to say on the topic. So please tune in and call in to participate in the conversation on UndercoverLove: Lust, Literature and Lingerie by calling in during Lilycat’s show hours: 12 noon to 2:00 (Pacific Time), January 19th, Studio 1A:

pleeease call in: (415) 829-2980

We’ll also be giving away books on love and lust—which make excellent Valentine’s Day gifts—to a few lucky callers.


Join us again for more fun with readings, discussion and a look—up close and personal—at gorgeous undercover fashion from Blackbird Underpinnings on Monday, February 10th from 6 to 7:30 p.m. at Book Passage at the San Francisco Ferry Plaza.

with Linda Watanabe McFerrin
Sat, September 7th, 2013, 10:00 AM – 4:00 PM
Location: Book Passage, 51 Tamal Vista Boulevard, Corte Madera, CA 94925
Register here:

If you have trouble steaming up the page, this is the workshop for you.

Spend a day with poet, travel writer and novelist Linda Watanabe McFerrin loosening up and learning the techniques for adding spicy, sensual, and sometimes funny sizzle to your work. The class is full of quick free-writes and entertaining exercises that will have you moving from comfort zones to erogenous zones in no time.

Linda’s workshops are a starting point for many successful writers. She’s the founder of Left Coast Writers® and co-editor of the Hot Flashes: Sexy Little Stories and Poems series.

The workshop fee includes, champagne, chocolate, and copious creativity. Continue Reading »

TOO LATE by Nancy A. Reuscher

Photo courtesy of Nancy Reuscher

You should have seen me
on the couch-shaped rocks
at Vouliagmeni,
or further down the Cape
beneath the cliffs at Sunion.

You should have smelled the sea
and seen the moonlight on the
limestone cliffs,
and the pearl white cresting of the waves,
and picked olive branches with me
when I was beautiful.

—Nancy A. Reuscher Continue Reading »

Left Coast Writers® Love Stories

Saturday,January 12, 2013 || 7pm
Book Passage-Corte Madera|| 51 Tamal Vista Dr. Corte Madera ||

Join Linda Watanabe McFerrin and the Left Coast Writers® for an evening of love stories to help set the mood for Valentine’s Day. You can count on the talented writers from LCW to provide an entertaining evening full of love, lust and other appropriate emotions.

There’ll be wine an chocolate, of course, AND all who attend are invited to bring a love or lust story of 1000 words or less. Their stories will be considered for publication on the website and a $100 award. You must be present to enter. Continue Reading »

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