Centaur’s Toy, Lia Avanna

The set-up for this story is that protagonist Karina is kidnapped (from a brothel? what?) by a group of centaurs. They drug her and, on orders of the boss centaur, do lots of sexy things with her. But we only get that from flashbacks from the day after, when she awakes in a clearing in a forest too dense to escape. It turns out that the centaurs are keeping her as a spoil of war (another what?).

I don’t usually read or write non-consensual sex, but this story walks the fine line between consent and non-consent. Karina, strangely, loves the rough treatment she gets from the centaurs. She wonders if the drug she was given somehow reprogrammed her to like fucking centaurs. But not for very long, because more centaurs.

The foreplay consists primarily of a marathon of blowjobs. This was a disappointment to me. I guess I’m not that into blowjobs. I could be, though, I’m not against them. One of the elements of monster erotica that I love is the potential to, shall we say, broaden the horizons of the reader. As a writer, I challenge myself to write erotica so compelling that it makes people hot for things they never would have thought to get hot for. But the key is the writing. If it’s written well, it works. If the writing is mediocre, I just might fall asleep repeatedly in the middle of the action (which I did—I had to finish reading the story the next day). So, this series of huge centaur cocks flooding Karina’s mouth with come just doesn’t do it for me. For someone who fantasizes about giving endless fellatio, it might well.

Eventually the boss centaur comes back to finish things up, and the action gets a little more interesting.

One thing that puzzled me was that the centaurs, all of them with cocks, are often referred to with a feminine pronoun. I’m guessing Avanna isn’t trying to make a statement about gender fluidity, so I have no idea why, for example, she says of the boss centaur, “She grinned wickedly, showing her straight white teeth, oddly dashing in her proud princely face.”

Conclusion, not my favorite monster erotica, but it has its moments. Definitely not the worst I’ve read.

Taste the Watery World

It’s been half a year since NaNoWriMo, and it’s past time to get back to my romance novel. So I’ve reread it this past week, and I have some ideas for what I want to do next. But I was talking to a friend recently and she wanted to know if all my erotica is hetero. I told her I’d had an idea for a F/F mermaid story, and she loved that, so I promised her I’d dedicate it to her when I write it.

Whenever I think I’m going to take a break from monster erotica, I get an idea for another story.

Maybe I can work on both at the same time . . .

Well, here’s a beginning. It’s not done yet but it’s a taste of the watery world of my upcoming story, which doesn’t even have a name yet.

Falling into the water like a cool embrace, like coming back into the womb. The womb of the earth. It’s where I always come when the sharpness of sound through air becomes unbearable, when taking air into my lungs feels like a violation. When my tender feet are no match for the ubiquitous, unyielding concrete of the city. I need to be in the water.

I sail my little boat far enough from the shore that I won’t be bothered by any unwanted company, and drop an anchor. I drop my clothes on the deck and slip, quiet as an eel, into the ocean. The waves rise and fall relentlessly, and I let myself be a plaything of the water. A school of little fishes rives around me, some brushing my skin as they pass. The fish aren’t afraid of me.

Then I see her. But at the moment I don’t know she’s a her. I don’t know anything, just that there’s a glimmer of light reflected off pearlescent scales, a tail tip disappearing into the water. I duck down to see below the surface, but she’s too fast for my eyes, just a shadow shifting among the waves by the time I’m able to focus. It’s not any kind of fish I’ve ever seen.

Bigfoot Bangs the Militia, excerpt

It must be getting pretty boring for the militia at that wildlife refuge. But Bigfoot can spice things up. Here’s a sample of my story in progress. Our narrator is a woman, who has followed her husband to the refuge, to care for him during the occupation. Bigfoot is a gentle creature, but she has made it known to him that she likes to be manhandled, and we’ll find out if he obliges her . . .

He let go of one of my arms and grabbed me by the hair. Next thing I knew I was laying on a big tree, one of those ones that kinda half fall, but are still rooted. It was as wide as my shoulders, but swayed just a bit with my weight. Then he ripped my flannel shirt open, buttons flying into the snow. That’d be something to explain to the guys back at headquarters, but I didn’t ruminate on it, because then Bigfoot was on me, laying over my torso, his weight pressing me into the rough bark behind my back. He yanked my bra up over my tits and laid a hand over one, giving a friendly squeeze to the plump flesh, then grabbing the scrunched-up nipple between a finger and a thumb and holding on tight.

He still had me by the hair with his other hand, and he pulled my head back, angling me so my eyes were looking right into his. It was a beautiful moment, our eyes gazing into one another’s, across the divide of civilized and free, of hairy and smooth. His coat with its aroma of woodsmoke, musk, and dry leaves, my smooth skin with the rosy fragrance of my homemade goat milk soap. Could we cross this divide, to unite our breeds in wild ecstasy? You betcha!

Mounted By A Monster: Under Her Bed, Mina Shay

I like the premise of this story: that the monster that has lived under Janey’s bed since she was a little girl is actually real! And he has feelings, and becomes an essential friend and confidant to heroine Janey as she grows up, so much so that she is pleased when he follows her as she moves out of her parents’ house.

Rick (as Janey calls him) is still a monster, however, so he doesn’t manage his feelings well. He becomes very protective of Janey and tends to go into violent rages whenever anyone mistreats her. Over the years, Janey has learned to “soothe” him by, at first, stroking his arm; then eventually giving him hand jobs. (We can assume that she was of age before things got sexy.) What will they do next?

The premise is original (as far as I know), and the writing is pretty good, though it does fall into standard porn cliches at the moment of truth. I’m guessing Shay’s readers don’t mind that.

I wasn’t entirely comfortable with the theme of a woman preventing male violence by sexually servicing the male. While Janey is presented in this story as a willing participant, I think this is an idea that often underlies sexual violence and coercion in the “real world.” I wouldn’t want to dictate how a story should be told; but I do think it’s worth pointing out the implications of ideas when they lead in a different direction than the author probably intended.

There is another way to read this story, however. I can see Rick as an embodiment of the childlike id. He hides under the bed; he’s uncontrollable and powerful and therefore terrifying. Janey gains strength by befriending him, but struggles to control his rages, particularly when faced with male violence. If the monster represents a part of Janey, then it’s of particular interest that she manages his emotions through sex. I’m not sure where that leads us, though I imagine a psychologist or psychoanalyst would have lots to say about it.

But, I don’t suppose most readers of monster erotica care to examine such literature through a Freudian, or feminist, lens. To each her own. If you just like a story that turns a childhood fear into a fun monster romp, you won’t be disappointed.

Mina Shay’s Pinterest page.

Anais Nin, 1903-1977


“I gathered poets around me and we all wrote beautiful erotica. As we were condemned to focus only on sensuality, we had violent explosions of poetry. Writing erotica became a road to sainthood rather than to debauchery.” -Anais Nin, Delta of Venus

Somebody on facebook posted a quote from Anais Nin. It was in a context completely unrelated to anything having to do with her or her life. It was posted by a person whom I do not know, though I do know the church he attends, and I’m going to guess that if he or his friends had any idea who she was or how she lived, they would run and hide at the sight of her name on their screens.

So today we’re having a little Anais Nin lesson on Crea DelRand. For those who don’t know, Nin is the Aphra Behn of modern erotica by women. She is most famous for her diaries, in which she wrote of her affairs with prominent literary and cultural figures such as Henry Miller and psychoanalyst Otto Rank. She plumbed the depths of her subconscious through psychoanalysis and writing, and may have seduced her father in her twenties, on the advice of a psychoanalyst. Anais Nin wrote what she wanted, the way she wanted to. She flaunted the mores and expectations of society. (Which is more socially unacceptable: incest, erotica, or surrealism?)

Nin was much more than an erotica writer; though it is the erotica which draws me to feel a special kinship with her. Let all of us honor her, we women who write about sensuality and sexuality, with beauty and passion.

“I will die a poet killed by the nonpoets, will renounce no dream, resign myself to no ugliness, accept nothing of the world but the one I made myself. I wrote, lived, loved like Don Quixote, and on the day of my death I will say: ‘Excuse me, it was all a dream,’ and by that time I may have found one who will say: ‘Not at all, it was true, absolutely true.’”