All of this was before I had a computer...much of my first writing began with pencil and lined yellow notebooks. The text was then typed into a now ancient Brother electric typewriter. (It had a little 3 inch window where I could do small corrections...this was a pretty big advance in the late 1980's.) I must have filled hundreds of yellow notebooks before I finally switched to a computer for my first drafts. But even now, when a story starts to germinate inside my head, I go to pen and paper to jot down notes and flesh out a plot. There's a very practical reason for this...when the stories start to germinate I'm NEVER sitting at my computer (you can extrapolate from there).
The fact that Alex's story sold so quickly to Red Stripe Books was the compelling force behind my second title, The Applicant. (not to be confused with The Applicant II: The Mistress of Sparrowhawk, a later sequel, still in print) While I'm rather fond of story within the The Applicant, I honestly can't stomach reading it. All the early flaws in my writing, from grammar to punctuation to sentence structure leap out at me from the pages and I want to throw the book across the room and never open it again. It must be ten years since I've made any attempt, which makes me wonder if I should take another peek now. Perhaps give the story the same treatment I just recently gave to Alexandra. In this case, it would probably be best to remind myself of the plot then start fresh. There is NO computer copy of the work, likely a good thing, since I wouldn't even attempt to simply "re-edit" the original book. It's the very thought of typing it from the paperback that leaves me squeamish and ready to toss it into the back of my closet, again.
What really bothers me about The Applicant is that the work was my best-selling title in those days, while clearly not the best example of my writing. It was published by Masquerade Books. For those who weren't reading erotica that long ago, Masquerade Books was THE erotica publisher in the US in the late 90s and early 2000's. They folded many years ago, going the way of most traditional erotica book publishers around before the Internet. The novel's publication was quite a coup. I'm still amazed that it was actually accepted for publication and put into print.
The good news is, I learned about writing from writing and reading and writing some more, and reading still more and writing and editing, whew! until the rules for grammar, punctuation and sentence structure finally stuck. (previous sentence aside) Most of my titles I still read with a editing pen in hand, just because I can't help but find something I'd like to tweak, but for the most part I can read and enjoy my stories without first wincing and then racing to the computer to begin editing all over again.
Because I don't have an excerpt to post from The Applicant, here's one from my third published novel, Member of the Club.
Excerpt from Member of the Club
In my fantasies I’m an exhibitionist in revealing clothes; in public places my behavior is indecent. I loved the thought of secret rendezvous and nasty lingerie underneath my proper clothes. Beyond the prim exterior, I have the most submissive thoughts. I imagine myself under the spell of mystery, under the grip of men I hardly know. Were there a club to join like the one my friend Joanna and I whispered about that evening, it would take my deepest dreams and make them real. The only question was how far I’d really go. Did I have the nerve to do the things I imagined? Or was I only kidding myself?
By the time I reached home at dinner with Joanna, my body was alive. I had thoughts so decadent that I was ashamed of myself for thinking such scandalous things.
I undressed before a full-length mirror so I could see myself from head to toe. My long brown hair wildly framed my face, descending past my shoulders in kinky curls. This was my one statement of nastiness to the rather stuffy business world where I worked.
I removed my blouse and gazed at myself, liking the way the darkness of my hair accented my pale creamy skin. Full hips, generous bust, firm belly and small waist—I recalled one lover telling me I was his voluptuous wet-dream. He liked women with flesh he could fondle and maul, whose bodies are ripe for squeezing.
I felt my breasts, cupping them in my hands, watching the way they looked when I pushed them together. They were large enough to consider a curse at one time in my life, but I was beginning to find them a real treasure the way they made such a charming cleavage, and spilled out of my bras when I set them free—the way they moved with a sexy jiggle when I didn’t wear any bra at all. As I massaged them, I practiced seductive looks, my eyes turning smoky and obscure.
My nipples had grown hard, protruding from the softer flesh and turning a deeper shade of purple the more I pinched the little things between my fingers. I pushed one breast to my face, leaned in and kissed it, licked the surface and ran my tongue along the skin seeking the hard nipple so I could caress it with my wet mouth.
My body burned hot as I stripped my clothes away, and viewed the firm flesh beneath—my long legs, and the sweet sex mound underneath a pair of tiny pink bikinis.
My right hand found its way inside my panties where it roamed along my belly to the wetness of my cunt. As a finger slipped inside the delicate folds of flesh, the other hand pushed my panties down so I could see clearly what I was doing. Kicking the clothes away, I stood naked in front of the mirror. My head was spinning from the liquor, my body insisting on its release, while my mind engaged in a drama inside itself. Some delicious sex-charged man would be standing in front of me, pleasured by every move I made. Perhaps there would be two or three or a whole audience of men to perform for.
Fully naked now, my hands wandered over my hips and down to the creamy softness of my belly; I was an ardent lover. I could almost feel body heat reflecting back on me. Grazing a palm over my pubic mound, I twirled a finger through the fine dark curls and aimed for the sweet pink bud at the tip of my clitoris. Rubbing it gently, I pressed two fingers to the side of the engorged sliver of skin and began rubbing vigorously, sending sudden shock waves of intense, desirous heat though every part of me.
The waves of pleasure rose and fell, so I could hardly stay on my feet. But I was forced to remain where I was, believing that my cum was a theater for the imaginary guests who used my satiation for their own. They demanded I perform, so I rubbed the hot bud harder, pausing occasionally to let the sensations free. I played the sensuous places, feeling a peak of satisfaction begin to build, and then a wonderful rush of energy as I exploded against my fingers, washing my hand in the nectar.
The orgasm swept me silly, my body jerking, clenching, cumming hard and wild. A moaning cry escaped my lips, and then receded as I slowly stroked the spent bud and the sensations gently died away. With each new breath I felt the pleasure, a perfect pleasure, remade every time I masturbated—even though those private moments were the same.
Collapsing to the bed, I let the covers caress my skin and the languid moment last as long as the little fires inside still burst their tiny bursts of erotic fire. It didn’t surprise me that it was not my last orgasm of the evening.
Copyright ©2000 by Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved