My name’s Aden Kains. Okay, that’s my pen name. The one I’ve decided to use for writing erotic short fiction…or hmm, maybe a novella, too. And I guess I’m one of the newest fresh published erotic short fiction authors on the scene here at eXcessica.com—I’ve just made my first sale!

The Last Death of Ron and Melanie, a short, is listed under “coming soon.” I’m not going to tell you what it’s about, at least not here. Instead, I’ll do a little shameless self promotion and say, read the blurb and excerpt.

And hopefully, you’ll also get something out of my Sunday blogs, starting with this one. I’ll be contributing every second Sunday.

I don’t know whether you write under a pen name, but I’ve decided it’s the best option for me, because I don’t know whether my friends, colleagues and family would think less of me if I wrote under my real name and they read my stories. Let’s face it, erotic fiction is the hot market today, but it’s not for everyone. I’m quite capable of writing a good non-erotic short story, too, but I like writing erotica. It’s fun, challenging, and…um…stimulating. And if my writing stimulates a reader’s emotions, senses and body, then I’ve done my job well. Crafting a good erotic story isn’t easy because it all starts with a believable situation, characters and dialogue. Sex for the sake of sex in writing just doesn’t work. You make it work by closing your eyes and putting yourself into the character for a few minutes. What would he or she do now? What does it feel like? At least, that’s how I do it.

Who’s your biggest fan? I wish it was my wife, because I’d love to share my stories with her. There was a time when we’d go away for a weekend together and buy a steamy magazine and curl up in bed with it and read it together, or watch a good erotic film together. But I think she changed with motherhood (we’re now parents of a teen), and over the last thirteen years, she’s become very conventional. I have to say, it actually hurt a bit when I shared the news with her that The Last Death of Ron and Melanie was going to be published as an eBook, and all she said was, “That’s not something I’d brag about.”

We erotic fiction authors need someone to vet our words. Fortunately, I do have a biggest fan who’s insisting on reading everything I write, first. I’ve written several, actually, and recently my friend Lorie has read most of them. She’s open minded, fun and a cougar. She said she liked all the stories and they made her really hot over a weekend that she read them. Well, if they had that effect, then I know I’m pretty good at this kind of fiction.

I’m the kind of person to whom developing lasting friendships and relationships with people, is important. Consequently, most of my stories are about the relationships—on various levels—between my characters. If The Last Death of Ron and Melanie strikes an emotional chord with a reader, then I know the story’s accomplished what I wanted it to do.

The Last Death of Ron and Melanie was the first piece of erotic short fiction I’ve written in about six years. I’m not sure why I got away from it. Life, work, and raising a child and trying to maintain a balance, I suppose. The story was actually two years in the crafting. I started writing it on a train, and I finished it on a train—albeit two years later. I couldn’t figure out where to take it from the middle…and then in one day on a two-hour train trip home from a day at head office, it all um…came together. Largely thanks to an adrenalin rush from anxiety disorder—the little mental health thing that I live with every day now in a new state of normal. Some days, it’s actually quite good for the creativity. After not knowing where to take the story, I saw the ending clearly, and banged it out.

How did you get into writing erotica? For me, it was a bit of an experiment back in 2001. I was starting—yes, in mid-life, I admit—to explore my own sexuality more, and look for a way to make a non-erotic story that I’d originally written for a creative writing class in university over 20 years ago, work better. Adding an erotic dimension helped me develop the characters and the storyline more, and turned it into a great story. Fresh on the heels of my first sale, I’ve finally just submitted that one for publication…

As a follow on from my last blog I thought I’d discuss Internet Dating again. Okay - I know I slated it last time. And with good reason!! It’s imperfect at the best of times, and downright crap at the worst. But for once I’m having fun with it  - mainly because I’ve had a change of approach.

No, despite what I suggested last time, I didn’t change my profile to:

Sexy, blonde: loves cooking, cleaning, and is a very easy lay.

Whilst it would have secured me enough dates to keep me busy into the next millennia, it’s not really what I’m about. Of course I love cooking and cleaning – I mean, what woman doesn’t? But I prefer it when a man shows an interest in me beyond what I can do with a pair of rubber gloves and a sink plunger…

This time, I rewrote my profile to reflect me, the real me, and I refrained from saying I was ‘bubbly, cute, and an all round nice person who enjoys nights out with somebody special.’ If you read a random sample of profiles on any site, you can guarantee that these characteristics will crop up with boring regularity.

Well that’s not me!

So I made damn sure that my profile said differently. Perhaps I came across as slightly opinionated, but hey, I can be that in real life. I also quoted a line of poetry I like, just to emphasise that I’m no dumb blonde. Actually, I’m a brunette, but you get the idea. Well whatever. It seems to have done the trick. I’m currently talking to three very interesting guys who enjoy books, sports, art house films, and are keen to meet me.

Am I having fun?

Damn right I am!

I fully intend to serial-date lots of men until I find one who’s worth seeing on a more permanent footing. If that takes a long time, then so be it. I’m in no rush to meet Mr Right. I’m quite happy playing with lots of Mr Right Nows.

Ps. Posting a nude picture of myself wielding a huge dildo did no harm either…

Why is internet dating such a trial?

It should be easy. After all, how difficult can it be to scroll through dozens of online profiles and decide which ones sound the least dysfunctional?

Maybe I was naïve when I first started playing the game. I (stupidly) thought that people (men) were being honest when they filled out their little profiles and described themselves as, ‘honest’, ‘genuine’ and ‘single’.

Ha! Okay, so maybe some of them are all that and more. But a whole heap of them are ‘dishonest’, ‘scheming’, and ‘very attached’. Or is it that I’m just way too cynical these days?

But I do have the odd (and odd is sometimes more than apt) date that actually could be described as a success. If a guy isn’t too scary to look at, can hold a conversation, and makes me laugh, then I class the evening as a success. More often than not, however, we don’t get that far. I must send out the wrong vibes or something because I seem to be having zero success at finding a mate.

Just in case you’re wondering, no I’m not hideous, nor stupid. I’m just me. I think I’m great (thankfully), so why do all the internet profile men not agree with me? Maybe as one male friend suggested, it’s because I’m intimidating and too opinionated. Well that’s RUBBISH!

So I think its time for Plan B.

New profile blurb:

Attractive, busty blonde: loves cooking, cleaning, and is a very easy lay.

It would probably take me weeks to reply to all the messages I would receive in response…

My latest novella, Rose’s Garden, was written about a friend of mine. It isn’t a blow-by-blow account of her divorce by any means, and nor would she want anyone to think she had a hot and steamy affair with a younger man in the midst of the nuclear fallout that followed! But I did take many aspects of her life and use them for Rose’s story. Not least of them, the character of Rose’s despicable ex husband. Somehow I doubt that ‘Phil’ would appreciate reading about himself in the pages of an erotic novella… 

[IMG]http://i259.photobucket.com/albums/hh316/rlemonnier/rosesgarden-1.jpg[/IMG]

In real life, my friend went through a horrific divorce and only now, two years later, has she finally begun to see the light again. It has been a long, difficult road for her and many times I felt like I was living it with her. She is with another man now – one who appreciates her – but she is still having hassle from her ex. I don’t think he’ll ever leave her alone until he’s six feet under.  

At least in my story, Rose finds happiness and peace by the final chapter. 

If only real life was as easy as fiction…

My ex and I sold our house this month. He lives there so I shouldn’t have much to do, right? Wrong. Neither of us like clutter but we have a lot to go through. He preferred we do this together so we both have a chance at taking what we wanted. It sounded easy enough until I remembered all the containers in storage downstairs.

That’s when I started to question why a person saves what they do. I can understand the six large totes of die cast cars. The blankets our kids used as babies and toddlers brought back many memories. All the Christmas decorations were acceptable as were the few of his seasonal clothing. After that, the items became a bit questionable.

Our son is thirty-four and I found the cards we received from friends and family when he was born. I had to ask myself why I kept them all these years and for what use. With them was also a stack from our wedding. Now really, what did I plan on doing with them anyway?

In another container, I came across old card games I had as a child. The next two were full of quilts that we never used. One was from my mom and the other from his mom. Neither of us is the old-fashioned quilt kind of person. Digging into one more I found a set of fifteen books that my parents bought for me when I was eight.

The ex reminded me that I still had the table and chairs that I received when I was four. My intent was for that set to go to one of my kids for their children. Neither has any and it looks dim on that front. Don’t get me wrong here, though. Not everything I found was mine. There was the little wooden box the ex made in shop class that had old knives in it. They were either broken or so rusty as to be useless. I lifted the lid on one tote and found pictures, letters, drawings and military awards from his brother that died before the ex was born.

Ceramic pieces from my mom, trinkets the kids bought for us, souvenirs from trips and more all needed a home. I think I have it handled after a few trips to the local charity and several bags of garbage. It wasn’t easy, though.

Selling the house isn’t like just packing up and going to another one. This is a complete split of four people. No longer can I have just one container with our kids’ baby blankets. Our son moved away years ago but is coming back to take some items we didn’t need. The ex will live in a small apartment for now. Then there’s our daughter. She was living with her dad but will move in with her aunt. Each person will take their own things as they go.

There are memories in every single one of those containers. Do I need the items to retain them? No. Each one is stored in my head. It sure makes me wonder why we kept some of the things we did, though.

Do you believe in fate?

Or do you think that we are masters (or mistresses) of our own destiny?

I apologise for the waffling I’m about to do. A thread on a forum has prompted my rambling.

Most of my life, I have felt a little like a piece of flotsam: floating along and subject to all the vagaries of life’s currents. I often sit and wonder how different things would have been if I had not found myself in a particular place at a given time. What path would I have followed?

I met my first husband purely by chance. As you do. By rights I shouldn’t have been at the party where we met – I only made the decision to go at the very last second. After that evening, our paths crossed again – purely by chance. Maybe it was meant to be, huh?

Personally I think it was meant to last a year or so before we both parted, but sadly life didn’t work out that way. Instead, fate conspired to keep us together for far longer; A whole lot longer than was good for either of us. But that’s a whole different story.

Fate has thrown me into other situations in the course of my life. Situations that maybe I should have walked away from - but didn’t. I made a choice to see where that path took me, for better or for worse. Mostly I think I have made the right decisions in my life. I have at least made the ones that felt right at the time.

I do wonder if maybe my fate was predetermined and I’m following a path that somebody, or something, has worked out in advance. If that’s the case, then I sure hope it takes me where I want to be. Or more importantly – I end up with the person I want to be with.

I’ll let you know…

Ps. by the time you read this blog, I’ll be lying on a Turkish beach, soaking up the sun and wondering whether Fate will be kind enough to introduce me to a tall, dark and handsome billionaire before the week is out. That would be a most desirable twist of fate!

I’ll sit right here and admit to hating every second of yesterdays almost two-hour test. It started the minute I had to eat a bowl of radioactive sickly sweet oatmeal. Did I mention this was in a cold, tiny trailer closed off from the hospital because of the materials I just swallowed? Let me tell you that I’ve been quite sick for a couple of weeks now. The little amounts of food I did manage to eat often came back up. This wasn’t a great beginning.

I did have a very nice tech who then escorted me to where I would be for the procedure. That meant I stood from the teeny spot where I enjoyed my tasty breakfast and took one step backwards. Did I tell you I had to lay flat on my already aching back on a metal ‘bed’ sized for a ten year old? Was it mentioned that part of this machine would close down right over my chest? He was surprised no one told me I couldn’t move for NINETY MINUTES.

I shivered even with the blanket wrapped over me. This was my lucky day. Every three years they are inspected and one chose today to pop in. I got to listen to all the greek that went along with the questions and answers until he was satisified and left. Then I heard all the bragging phone calls to the boss how they received no citations. I thought time must be moving pretty good by now and asked. The kind technician informed me I was two minutes short of half way done! He did add a towel under each shoulder to stop the metal points from digging into my skin when I complained.

I tried not to puke or move so I didn’t ruin the pictures. Oh yeah, if I did, the test was over. Remember too it’s radioactive. Please don’t make a mess or they would have to clean the trailer and cancel the afternoon appointments. Thus, I was handed my very own garbage bag to hold for the entire test.

Now, I’ve gone through a few tests in my life. Some you don’t want to hear about. I can take pain and discomfort. Most of the time I just imagine myself in another place and soon it’s over. It wasn’t that way in this dinky little trailer. Not after he put part of the machine up to my chest and mentioned something about how he hoped I wasn’t claustrophobic. Not after he told me I couldn’t move for NINETY MINUTES.

I couldn’t stand it and knew time must be over. My leg was numb and my body hurt everywhere. I checked with him again and he told me there were six minutes left. I talked. I rambled. I apologized. I have no clue what all I said. My mind was screaming at me to get up. He knew I had a hard time and walked over to me. So we’re talking about five steps from his desk area to where I was trapped under this monster. I don’t remember what was said but we had a conversation. Then it was thirty seconds.

He told me to listen for the buzzer and that was my signal I’d finished. At that point he would move the machine away. I never heard it but I saw the evil eyed monster pull away and felt the tech remove the blanket. He encouraged me to sit up but I hurt from being in the same position so long. I stretched my leg and it cramped. When I looked at the ceiling the thing laughed back at me from the hooks. My fingers cut into the trash bag still in my hand in case I puked.

The tech helped me sit and when I did stand waited until I had my balance. He made sure I kept the trash bag in case I got sick on the drive home. Nice of him right?

Did I mention that I’m claustrophobic? No one told me how this test was before hand. The trailer closed in on me until I almost ran down the ramp for the exit.

I think the radioactive stuff zapped my brain a bit, too. All the ideas for my blog today were gone. Someone should have warned me about men in funny white suits offering…oatmeal.

My intention was to write something intelligent about…yes, you guessed it – writing!

But then I started musing about my love-life instead. It only took a few minutes. Love-life? Ha!

After all, who needs to cough up for expensive pyschoanalysis, when you can re-write the tale of your doomed relationship with the charmer who promised you, “5* all the way, baby!”, but only ever bought you a take-out from MacDonalds…

Looking on the bright side (and lets face it, somebody has to), I suppose my dalliances with dating and relationships have at least proven inspirational in a twisted kind of way. I find it very cathartic to spew my bitter recriminations into a fictional (ahem) story. As a result of several trainwrecks, sorry, relationships, several stories were born from the ensuing nuclear fall-out.

It’s rather satisfying to write about a heroine who eventually gets her man (the right one), after leaving the villain of the piece high and dry. (Yes, what fun it is writing Fred/Harry/Biff as a manipulative, conniving, cheating scumbag – and knowing that there is a very real chance they might read the finished story at some point).

Does the truth hurt, huh? Good!

Most of all I like to write happy endings. It makes me smile to send my characters off into the proverbial sunset loved up, shagged out, and ready to settle down for some happy-ever-after-sex.

So why does real life persistently fail to live up to the ideals of fiction?

Answers on a postcard please…

I don’t know about other authors, but my life is hectic at the best of times. My writing is something that has to be fitted in around two jobs, three kids, assorted pets, not to mention other interests. Some days I truly wish I had multiple personalities and could therefore delegate some of the more boring tasks. Failing that, I wish my kids could be more [bleep] helpful!

Most of my work is written in hurried bursts during quiet interludes at the office, or whilst waiting for a pan of assorted items to cook for the evening meal. At the office, I have devised several methods for hiding the true nature of my writing. Any document I work on whilst there is always re-named as something innocuous. I often use acronyms of the true title so that any passing colleague is blissfully unaware that SMH.doc is in fact erotica, as opposed to an innocent letter.

One particular story was named html.doc for ages as I was supposed to be working my way through a HTML and CSS tutorial. Well I was – but I was also writing pages of steamy sex at the same time.

Working at home is less fraught. Since my laptop is password protected and strictly for my use only, I can work on anything I like without the risk of being caught. The only problem I have there is the constant distraction of domestic chaos.

Have you tried writing a sex scene while WW3 is raging in the adjacent room? No? Then try it sometime and see how far you get!

He slowly unbuttoned her blouse, revealing the curve of her breasts as she held her breath almost to the point of asphyxiation. When she felt the first touch of calloused fingers, Melissa moaned softly. Her traitorous body wanted him, even if every nerve in her body screamed that it was wrong to feel this way about her cousin. . .

“MUM! Issy won’t let me go on her computer. I hate her!”

“GO AWAY!”

Cue the sound of screaming before my bedroom door rudely bangs open. “Mum! Tell him! He’s annoying me!” my younger daughter cries petulantly as her brother throws things at her from the relative safety of the bathroom.

“Oh for [bleep] stop bickering!” I mutter crossly as I minimise my document window. Once the argument has been sorted out in the best tradition of parental diplomacy (both offspring sent to their respective rooms under the threat of extreme violence), I return to my story.

Ryan pushed her down on to the hard mattress and smiled slowly as he raked his gaze across her semi naked body. Melissa watched helplessly as he unzipped his jeans. Even though she was aware that anybody could walk in on them, the fear of reprisal was not enough to make her run away. When the denim finally slid down his taut, muscular thighs, she gasped out loud in shock. . .

The phone rings, jarring my concentration once again. A sullen teen on the end of the line asks in a monosyllabic tone to speak to my eldest daughter.

“Phone for you!” I yell, trying to make myself heard above the thumping dance music emanating from my daughters bedroom. The music momentarily deafens the entire neighbourhood as her bedroom door opens. My Britney Wannbe flounces in and snatches the phone from me with a disdainful toss of her dyed hair before flouncing back out, talking a foreign language of ‘yeah, whatever, he’s so fit…yeah…like well fit!’

I pull a face at her, but she is oblivious – I don’t blip on her radar unless she wants my cash, my clothes, or my make-up. In that order.

By now my characters are in a state of severe coitus interruptus and frankly I know how they feel.

I wistfully dream of a sun kissed patio beside an azure pool, where I wish I was sitting in the shade of a lemon tree, able to write for hours with no distractions. However, knowing my luck, I would probably end up being cursed with writers block in the unlikely event opportunity gave me a winning lotto ticket. Still, I’m certain the pool boy and a nice bottle of Chianti would soften the blow.

In the meantime, I should be able to give my characters a mutually satisfying orgasm before the Bolognese is ready . . .

Dinner’s cummmmmiinnng!

Pasta anyone?

Rachelle LeMonnier