Mistress Ginger Monroe was a blond beauty with an hourglass figure. She stretched across her sofa with the languor of a cat. A woman in her mid-40’s, she has never doubted her own desirability and she has a job she loves. Men pay her $250.00 an hour to spank them, berate them, tie them up and scare them.  Mistress Ginger explained her profession,  “I’m like Mother Theresa with a fucking whip. This is therapy for the men.”

On her table sat a full bowl of ripe pomodoro roma tomatoes, almost like a prop.

The tomato is both simple and complex, innocent and seductive. It is part of the nightshade family and until the 1830’s, it was thought to be poisonous and grown only for ornamental purposes. Technically, it’s a fruit, but was categorized as a vegetable by the U.S. Supreme Court in 1893 so that the import of it could be taxed. It was also believed to be an aphrodisiac, and shunned by the Victorian crowd for this reason. In the book, The Historical Tomato by Andrew Smith, he writes “It (the tomato) had been mentioned in the Bible. The Hebrew term for it was dudim, which translated into English “love apples” or “love plants.” The author then goes on to tell that it was painted by naturalist Konrad Gerner in 1553 and he labeled it with the Latin term “poma amoris” or love apple.

They are sitting on her table because she really doesn’t know what to do with them—she doesn’t even make coffee, let alone cook. But these pomodoro roma tomatoes grew profusely in the small patch of dirt that stretched the length of this corner house in Staten Island.

It was a sixplex, purchased by a Brooklyn artist, Susan, for no money down. Professional dominatrix rented three of the units.  They even set up a dungeon, complete with whips, chains and a medical station for a little mean-nurse play in the basement. In return for her understanding, the doms, particularly Mistress Ginger Monroe, made sure that nobody took advantage of Susan.

Susan collected rents throughout the month since, though dominatrix always paid on time, a few tenants—those struggling, or with young children or ill—paid rent in segments over the month. Susan understood—they were trying. But then the pipes burst, and the expense was something Susan hadn’t counted on and couldn’t afford. Her boyfriend couldn’t loan her the money as he had hit a hard time. She discussed the options with Mistress Ginger Monroe, who came up with a solution. One of her clients was a plumber. If the two of them, Mistress Ginger and Susan, spanked him in the bathroom, then perhaps he would fix the pipes as payment.

Susan had worked for one day as a dominatrix. She thought it would be easy money, but she found otherwise. “You had to learn how to tie a lot of knots,” She explained. “And there was a lot of play acting. You have to really understand what the client wants and needs psychologically. I’m just not an actor. It wasn’t right for me.”

She was fired after one day, as the Dungeon Mistress informed her, regrettably, she just wasn’t … well … dominant enough.

But under the guidance of Mistress Ginger Monroe, the fledgling landlord/failed dominatrix herded the plumber into the bathroom and spanked him hard. He loved it and not only fixed the pipes, but offered to come back and repair the boiler. Everyone was happy, except Susan’s boyfriend, despite the many times they explained to him that dominatrix don’t have sex with their clients, and while it might be sexual in nature, it’s absolutely not the act. This didn’t matter; his male pride was wounded and he never went back to Staten Island.

He had been the one who planted the tomatoes. Before the spanking, he had come by once a week to tend them. He pinched off the shoots that sprouted between the main stem and bigger leaves, so energy would go to the fruit. He added mixtures of compost and tucked a little mulch around the base of the plants. But since the plumber incident, the tomatoes were left alone on the vines. They grew heavy with fruit with no one to cut away the lower leaves, stake them up or make sure they got plenty of water in the hot months.

While the group met, divying up the ripening tomatoes and discussing what to do with the plants, and the harvest, the phone rang. Mistress Ginger answered. She had a side business, and she charged $3.00 a minute for mean, nasty talk.

“Get on your knees, you little bitch,” she started. “Have you been bad?”

While she collected for the role playing and spanking and whipping and naughty nurse games, she let some of the slaves come by and clean or do her shopping or make repairs on her car—and she didn’t usually charge them for this.

“Slaves clean our bathrooms, wash the dishes naked,” Mistress Monroe said. “When I’m hungry, I make them go get me food and deliver it.”

A little later, after the phone rang again, she commanded the next client to get on his knees, and it became clear who should tend the tomato plants. The ones who like to get on their knees would be natural gardeners.

“One of my slaves once made sauce out of the tomatoes,” Mistress Ginger said. “I could demand them to make fresh sauce all the time.”

The pomodoro tomatoes would not go to waste.

Mistress Ginger’s Tomato Gardening Instructions:

(Mistress Ginger is working on putting these instructions in her own voice. I haven’t gotten them back yet.)

1. Get on your knees, Bitch!
2. Add compost—cow shit—to soil.
3. Buy Seedlings. Check the leaves to make sure there are no yellow spots or marks.
4. Harden them– set them outside during the day so they get a little wind and sun, them bring them back inside at night.
5. Wait until it’s warm and nighttime temperatures about 55-60 F and plant them in full sun. This means about 6 hours a day.
6. Space your plants about 2 feet apart in rows when you plant them.
7. Stake your plants. Using wooden stakes that are around 3 feet high and 2 inches thick, pound them into the ground about three inches from a plant on its north side so that the tiny plant will not be shaded.
8. Tie the plants to the stake. Make it coarse and bulky so it won’t cut into the stems.  First tie a square knot around the stake tight enough to prevent downward slippage, then use the free ends twine to tie a square knot loosely around the tomato plant’s stem. As the plant grows, anchor the stem to the stake every foot.
9. Water them evenly. This means the same amount on a consistent basis and water them deeply. So every other day in the summer give them a good soaking, but aim around the plant so the water goes to the root, not onto the leaves.
10. Prune them so that there’s a single stem. But this means to cut the shoots that might become stems, but don’t cut the leaves. Use fingers and snap them off.
11. Pinch when the plant reaches the top of its stake.  Pinch out the growing point of the shoot and continue to remove any new leaves or flowers that form. Pinching directs a plant’s energy into the fruits that have already set, hastening their ripening and increasing their size.

Spaghetti Alla Puttanesca

Makes 4 servings

Mistress Ginger would undoubtedly instruct the puttanesca sauce to be served with strozzapreti “priest strangler” pasta. Troffiette twists or rotini are good substitutes. The sauce is also delicious over grilled or broiled fish, chicken, or pan-seared shrimp.

Olive oil

1 small onion, finely chopped

2 pounds plum tomatoes, halved lengthwise and seeded, then finely chopped

2 anchovy fillets, finely chopped

3 garlic cloves, peeled and very thinly sliced

1 tablespoon finely chopped fresh oregano

1 teaspoon freshly ground pepper

1/2 cup pitted whole dry-cured black olives (they are usually shriveled and packed with a little oil, not brine)

2 tablespoons salt-packed capers, rinsed

1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon kosher salt

1 pound pasta

Good quality extra-virgin olive oil, for serving

Bring a large pot of water to a boil.

Heat 3 tablespoons olive oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add the onions and cook until soft and just starting to brown around the edges, 3 to 4 minutes, stirring often. Mix in the tomatoes, reduce heat to medium, and cook until shapeless and they threaten to stick to the pan, 8 to 10 minutes. Using a wooden spoon, push the tomatoes to the perimeter of the pan. Add the remaining tablespoon of olive oil, the anchovies, garlic, oregano, and black pepper to the center of the pan and let it simmer until the garlic is fragrant, 1 to 2 minutes, then stir into the rest of the ingredients along with the black olives, capers, and 1 teaspoon salt. Turn off the heat, cover, and set aside.

Boil the pasta until al dente, drain, and place back in the pot. Toss with the puttanesca sauce and serve with a drizzle of olive oil.

Maria Finn is the author of Hold Me Tight and Tango Me Home (Algonquin, 2010) and  A Little Piece of Earth, How To Grow Your Own Food in Small Spaces (Rizzoli, 2010). She is an expert on gardens. Nature and plant lovers will enjoy her blog and weekly newsletter, City Dirt: The Bay Area Weekly Garden Newsletter for Foodies, Foragers, Tree-Huggers and Beauty Lovers.

Love hotels are a quirky Japanese institution. Like capsule hotels, which are the size of small coffins and a great place to “sleep it off” after a wild night out, love hotels serve a particular purpose—that purpose is “quickies,” a hot snatch of love midday or mid-marriage. Some of these hotels are outrageous, with facades capped by turrets and spires reminiscent of tacky fairytale castles, ersatz Middle Eastern seraglios, or one of those corny miniature golf courses. The hotels Ryu favored were far more discreet, their tree-shadowed entrances tucked behind stone walls, the parking underground so that patrons can duck in and out without fear of observation. They are no-tell hotels where guests select rooms from a series of illuminated photos on the wall: the harem, perhaps, or maybe the S&M suite. There is no one to judge you as you slide your thousands of yen through a slot in the wall for your one- to two-hour “rest” or kyukei, or your tomari, the overnight stay.

This was the second time I’d been to a love hotel with Ryu. He liked the drama of the surroundings. He liked the privacy, and I liked anything that involved him. This particular room had a black-leather wet-bar stocked with expensive whiskies and a heart-shaped bed with red satin sheets. It also had a very large, well-appointed black- and white-tiled bathroom, and this is where I must have been when Miura snuck into the room.”

From “Be Mine,” between the DEAD LOVE covers. (more in the “Chapters” section of the site)

Dead Love is now available for Pre-Order.

You can read more about the longest reigning British monarch and her lifelong love in the biographies by Lytton Strachey and Christopher Hibbert. We—the royal, HF We—prefer to watch the movie and sigh over the love scenes and wish it all went on and on and on and plunged us ever-deeper into the royal romance.

Jessica Shepherd

Would you like to know the secrets to attracting your soul mate and feeling profound love every day? With this hip and fun guide, you’ll learn to use the rules of attraction, magic, astrology, and your intuition to attract the partner of your dreams and experience true, soulful love.

Join the throng at the Left Coast Writers Book Party for Jessica Shepherd, author of A Love Alchemist’s Notebook, on Saturday, May 8th, at 7pm at Book Passage, 51 Tamal Vista Boulevard, Corte Madera, California.

Left Coast Writers will be serving wine as Jessica Shepherd joyfully reveals the Nine Soul Mate Secrets, offering insight into all aspects of creating and maintaining love, such as how to focus on loving yourself, open up to love from others, and trust your intuition. You’ll engage in fun, hands-on spells, rituals, and meditations to explore your heart and grow spiritually. The Nine Soul Mate Secrets will also reveal how to:

• Break bad karmic patterns
• Move beyond difficult relationships
• Learn from past mistakes
• Overcome your fears
• Tap your magnetism with your Venus sign

From avoiding relationship “potholes” to understanding karmic soul mates-and the invaluable lessons that they teach us-to casting love spells under a waxing moon, this love-focused astrology book holds the key to achieving long-lasting love with your true soul mate.

Called “the Carrie Bradshaw of astrology,” Jessica Shepherd is an astrological counselor and teacher. She publishes “Moonkissd,” a bi-monthly astrology newsletter, has a popular blog at astrology.com, and was the featured astrologer at Cosmopolitan Magazine’s Style Swap in San Francisco.

From “The Wolfman and the Mule,” between the DEAD LOVE covers. (more in from this selection at a later date in “Chapters”)

Sometimes life imitates art. That is what happened when I met Chris Rainier. He was giving a presentation of Ancient Marks. It was as if Alain had come back or stepped right out of DEAD LOVE. How do you tell someone you thought you’d invented them, that you pined over them for what felt like forever, that you’re glad they’re alive. Of course Chris isn’t Alain. But here is another weird thing: His good friend is the man who suggested the recipe for a zombie. They are a pair, those two. Brilliant artists. I’d follow them anywhere … but isn’t that just what zombies do? Oh, I can be so predictable.

If you love tattoos as I do, check out Chris Ranier’s haunting video, Ancient Marks, with music to die for by Anoushka Shankar.

post photo courtesy of Anthony Long Wu; his tattoo—the laughing buddha, a symbol of his belief and culture.

So in honor of Fat Tuesday and the Big Easy, we offer up a tasty bit of Amy Thigpen’s yummy look at Maw Maw and the Treme and the steamy music scene in “the City that Care Forgot.” This is just an excerpt, mind you. For the whole, delectable tale, you need to buy the book!

AMY THIGPEN

SISTAH, TAKE YOUR TIME

The Big Easy, the City that Care Forgot, the Crescent City—she is

named for the crook of the Mississippi River she inhabits and the lazy

debauchery she engenders. I call her home, and I know that what is best

about New Orleans happens mostly during the dark in the neighborhoods

that my Maw Maw warned me about.

Maw Maw was born in the Treme, just the other side of Rampart

Street from the French Quarter. This place and her first husband, Roy,

schooled her early in debauchery and its consequences. It’s where Roy was

shot and killed outside of a bar in broad daylight after a fight involving the

dice or the numbers—she won’t say exactly. When my 17-year-old Maw

Maw went to collect Roy’s things from his friend, he wouldn’t believe she

was Roy’s wife because, “You’re not the blonde I’ve seen Roy with.”

My Maw Maw’s heart was double-broken that day, and I believe that

right then and there she began her retreat from the sensual joys that are

New Orleans.

Where she retreated I now advance. Maw Maw’s Treme is also home

to the best musicians in the city—past and present. It is separated from the

French Quarter by Rampart Street which rides straight through the middle

of two worlds: the French Quarter with its bohemians, gay men, and

tourists, and the Treme, the place that grew the real roots of New Orleans.

Louis Armstrong and Louis Prima played in the streets of the Treme when

Maw Maw was young. That fertile ground still sprouts today’s brass band

babes, like Trombone Shorty, startin’ out at age seven, like the Rebirth

Brass Band and the Carnival Social Clubs. These people channel

everything they’ve got into that horn or those keys or those vibes: their

sorrows, their ecstasies, all of it. They make New Orleans the soothing

balm she is.

I’ve had my share of narrow escapes at night. The summer I was a

graduate student, I dated a good ole’ boy from Virginia who held my hips

in his hands and told me they were perfect for childbearing. He had his

faults, but the man could dance in a slippery-smooth way that worked with

the funky blues. We were Uptown at Tipitina’s late. He was staying with

friends, and couldn’t invite me in. I drove Maw Maw’s huge Impala, made

for making out with long bench seats you could fit four couples in it, easy.

We parked on Melpomene, a street that sits along the thin line

between the haves and have-nots, and steamed up the windows in the

Impala kissin’ and carryin’ on even though I knew that this was a

dangerous thing to do. But it was summer and the azaleas were blooming

and scenting up the thick air, and we fit so well into each other’s arms. I

managed to stay alert though, looking up at the rearview mirror every few

minutes for signs of people coming out of the dark.

When I saw headlights flash into the rearview mirror I peeled myself

from the embrace, started the car with my right hand, put her into Drive,

rolled up the window with my left and slammed on the gas just as the

bearded man held the sawed-off shotgun up to the pane. My eyes met his

in that moment and saw surprise, then he shrunk into the night, and we

lurched forward. New Orleans is danger.

New Orleans is also eatin’ fried oysters in blue cheese dressing at

Uglesch’s on the outskirts of the projects the oysters that bring me to tears

because they are so light and fresh and the sauce such a tart complement.

New Orleans is being called baby, honey chile, darlin’ by everyone and

knowing these most often are not come-ons but the melodic mothering of

the South. New Orleans is cheese grits with andouiee sausage, and

drinking beer with my new hairdresser, whom I met at a bar the night

before because he introduced himself with “I just have to get my hands in

your hair.” New Orleans is sayin’ yes.

(Excerpt ends.)

“You might imagine, as I would have if it had not happened to me, that a near-zombie girl would just stand there like a big blow-up doll. Not at all. I am a seemingly will-less creature, and let me tell you, it takes a great deal of will to resist sex. All living things are designed for it. It is their singular purpose. There was no doubt about this in my body.  Horny as any bitch in heat, I was down to the basics. I was consumed with a slimy, single-celled reproductive certainty, swamped with a kind of glandular ecstasy. I couldn’t fight it. I wanted to crawl up the wall. The world turned hot and juicy.

Imagine that you are eating a peach and it begins eating you back. That’s how surprised Alain was when the laconic object of his attentions mounted a counter attack. I wanted to devour him, and I don’t mean metaphorically. This is the point at which murder takes place—murder or self-immolation. This is the lust that kills. Remember the praying mantis, the black widow spider, crimes of passion and desire. But, something inside me—some ancient parasitic wisdom—prevented me from devouring him. It did not stop me from trying to swallow his tongue. The drooling thought “deliciousness” popped into my head, and my salivary glands sprang a leak.

Meanwhile, I had become a balloon. All my hormones adjusted their levels and discharged. I was enflamed and unstoppable. My breasts, which I have already explained, were plenty large, seemed to swell. My womb seemed to have opened up like an umbrella, the blood in it beating like a big vodoun drum. I imagined my lips splitting, oozing blood; breasts spilling milk; innards raining spicy mucilage. I was caught in my own monsoon. I wanted more.

More, it seemed, wanted me, too. I could feel it making a case for itself between my legs at the Ark of the Grand Central Orifice. Taking a deep breath, that collapsed our cheeks, I sprang, wrapping my legs around Alain’s waist. Like a prizefighter caught by hard right hook, he staggered and very nearly fell. To his athletic credit, he managed to retain his balance. Then we became a kind of carnival balancing act, a two-torsoed creature waddling into the bedroom where we turned and collapsed onto the bed, which, in turn, collapsed under our weight. Kaboooooom.

Now Alain was beneath me, his face under mine, his lips pink and tasty. I slipped into the saddle, slid onto that brilliantly designed, perfectly sculpted horn. What a ride we had then, my pony and I. Alain was watching me with a mixture of terror and desire. He could no more stop than a male mantis can shake its amorous mate. I was a pole dancer sliding up and down, a jillaroo bouncing along in the outback, a frigate ship tossed on the Cape of Good Horn. Straddling him, both hands on his chest, I rode him into the sea. I was in some kind of organic nirvana. Mandalas and kaleidoscopes were opening up like flowers deep inside me. Waves of purple and pale chartreuse, plumes of iris and swamp grass scrolled past my upturned eyes. Lust flashed giddy tattoos all over my flesh in a rose-red flush. I couldn’t actually hear it, but I was wailing like a cat in heat, my caterwauling sailing up and out the window, turning heads all along the canal. The big dopamine hit mushroomed up and into my brain. “Oh, oh, oooooh,” I crooned as the dike burst and the waters of the Isslemeer came in, flooding Amsterdam.

I think it was good for him, too. He lay still for a moment, his face in a grimace. “God,” he said gazing up at me in a kind of adulation. “God, that was good. What exactly are you on?” he wondered aloud and put his hand over his eyes.

I sat looking down on him, my body suffused by a delirious glow. A silky endorphin parachute was carrying me back to the bed. I was paralyzed and couldn’t move. Not unusual for me, but I had also found peace and a strange form of union. In Alain, I’d touched some lost part of myself. I was transformed forever. That’s how I became Alain’s slave.”

Monday, February 8, 2010, 5:30pm

@Book Passage in the San Francisco Ferry Plaza

Left Coast Writers® and Book Passage host a reading and pre-Valentines Day treat.

Editors Linda Watanabe McFerrin and Laurie McAndish King introduce the Hot Flashes Sexy Little Stories & Poems writers in this literary love fest in honor of Valentine’s Day and Amour!

• Linda Watanabe McFerrin
• Laurie McAndish King
• Kathryn Abajian
• Pamela Bass
• Marianne Betterly-Kohn
• Anjin Jaymes
• Kathleen McClung
• Claire Savage
• Amy Thigpen
• Colleen McFerrin

MADLY IN LOVE WITH ME DAY

This isn’t just another workshop or conference with break out sessions. This is an experience that participants create together – full of interactive talks, live performances and group interaction. In this one-day you will receive:

• Smarter ways to approach your life so that you can do, be and give everything you want, without exhausting yourself in the process.
• The biggest lies women tell themselves, and how to stop being so hard on yourself.
• Methods to keep your feelings of happiness and success high, no matter what your external circumstances.
• Proven processes that make multi-tasking and working through lunch ways of the past, and that make you more effective and successful.
• Easy daily practices to create rhythm and harmony in your life instantly.
• Guidance on how to stop being the generator to power it all and instead tap into energy sources that fuel you.
• Physical connection to your body in such a profound way that it will take the “work” out of working out.
• Reconnect with yourself and your dreams.  Tap back into what is truly important to you.
• A cadre of feminine super powers at your fingertips. Seriously, you won’t know how you ever lived without them!
• Connection to other fabulous women that leaves you energized, feeling supported and more in love with you than you could ever imagine.

CLICK HERE TO REGISTER and SEE THE EVENT VIDEO (https://expanding.infusionsoft.com/go/MLMSF/Lone/)

It’s going to be a grand day of self-love! There are only 200 tickets available, so get your ticket early. And, consider upgrading yourself to a VIP Package, which among many other benefits includes 1 of 8 seats at my personal table.

And, If you can’t attend the event live in the Bay Area, you can

• Attend one of the smaller events in Chicago or Orlando, or
• Throw a Madly in Love with ME party of your own, for yourself or your friends, by downloading the free Madly in Love with ME Kit from the website.
• Send this to girlfriends who need a dose of self-love wizardry.

https://expanding.infusionsoft.com/go/MLMSF/Lone/

It’s been said that women will change the world, but if we don’t take care of ourselves, we can’t change anything.—Lone Morch

CLICK ON THIS LINK TO REGISTER https://expanding.infusionsoft.com/go/MLMSF/Lone/

Sometimes the slant of sunlight on the hills …

as here

the new light fingering its way

into a darkened chamber

into sleep

crisp morning licking

at the pillowcases and

the sheets to drive

us out

our bodies, calipers,

curled drowsily

toward one another

flame red

twin tulip petals tipped

in scarlet

in that refraction

our kisses multiple and

so inflected that

the sun comes rivening into

our plain souls

suffusing us.

—Linda Watanabe McFerrin

Accepting submissions: Hot Flashes 3: more sexy little stories & poems