Tag: erotic fiction

Book Review: Nervous by Zane

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The key to being a great writer is to be an avid reader, which is why I’ve been trying to consume more books, particularly romance books, throughout the month. My schedule doesn’t allow me the sit-down-and-turn-a-page time, so even though I absolutely love to hold a great book, I’ve had to invest in Audible to help me reach monthly literary desires. And I can honestly say, I have no buyer’s remorse!

Since I’m getting back to old habits–reading one book a month–I’ve decided to start a weekly #WednesdayWords post that’ll be dedicated to the words, albums, songs or even shows that I’m digging. It’s all about introducing you all to what I like, love and lust (see what I did there–Go check out my LLL book) for.

For today’s #WednesdayWords, I’m reminiscing over the steamy and intense storyline from a book I finished earlier this month, title Nervous by Zane.

Yes I know, I’m a Zane fanatic. She’s the author that showed me it was okay to write how I feel sexually, truly teaching me how to let my imagination fly to new heights. And this book did not disappoint, so let’s get into it.

Medium of Choice

I took in this novel through audible, which ran about 7 hours and 30 minutes, and with the audio version comes some great sound effects. It was like taking in a serial scripted podcast and me likie it a lot! I do plan to order a paperback copy though so I can reread it at my leisure. I lust to put my eyes on dope words as much as in my ears.

Quick Synopsis

A docile and virgin woman, Jonquinette, is haunted and ravaged by a being she knows of but doesn’t want to accept; her split personality Jude. Jude is a “hoe” in her own terms who will do anything to protect Jonquinette, even if it means beating people to a pulp and breaking up Jonquinette family. This is the first book I’ve read that dissects the complexities of Multiple Personality Disorder (MPD), which is now called Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID), and places it front and center in the word of sex addiction. Not to give too many spoilers away, but Jude isn’t the only person protecting Jonquinette. As we learn about the vast differences between the two personalities, at some point, I began to wonder who was the “main” character and if she would or could overcome the others. It’s definitely hits the girl finds guy and trys to figure out how they can make this last forever trope but of course the twist is how can they do so if her “Hyde” was sleeping with and fucking up everything else in her life (sorry, I had a little Jude fall out there).

This book is actually apart of a series that based around the psychiatrist Dr. Marcella Spencer and I can’t wait to read the next one.

Hot Spot

There were SO many hot ass scenes in this book but there is one in particular that stands out to me based on how she wrote through this media. It was midway through the book when Jude is still holding tight to her virginity but engages in a raw online sex chat with a man. No lie, when the scene first started I was mad because she’s just a teenager talking like that, but then after a while I was like, well at least she’s not out there doing what she’s typing at this age. The way Zane moves between their online chat names and their raunchy exchange will make you want to see if conversations really go like that in chat rooms. Ironically, I grew up during a time when online sex chatting was shifting in popularity to free porn sites so this perspective was a bit nostalgic for me.

Steam Index

I give this one a five-alarm flame index. Even though this may have been published in 2003, and some of the terms may have been more trendy then rather than now, the passion and pleasure behind the words in this book are damn near perfection. It really takes you through Jonquinette/Jude’s inner battles and external glories. It really makes me wonder if we all have a little Jude in us.

I would recommend this book to anyone who has read erotica before and is looking for a new character arc to get into. I will warn those who do not read erotica at all or on a regular basis: this type of introduction may be like getting shock treatment into the genre. You’ll either enjoy it or run away.

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Short Story: Flying BAV

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Photo by Sacha Verheij on Unsplash

Flying BAV

Hi. My name is Angela Simón and I’m a born again virgin. Now, before you go and judge my sanctify-ness you should know that this wasn’t a faith-based decision. Sure, I’m a child of God and I want to do my best to walk down the righteous path but that’s not why I’m a BAV.

I’ve joined the select group of BAVs who have decided to take control of their relationships by limiting physical interactions. Plus it just helps to keep things simple. And I’m not a BAV that waits until he’s all up on me, breathing down my neck, reaching up my thigh expecting for a fun time. No. I let every man who decides to look my way know what’s up immediately.

He’s either going to get the point or get away and I’m totally ok with either choice.

But when I met Raheem on a red eye to L.A., I damn near turned a corner and went down hoe-dom lane. Shit!

Raheem wore black and red glasses, a “You can call me King” shirt with a black, green and red book bag. He stood about 5 feet 10 inches or maybe even 6 feet tall, with Mahogany skin, you know the kind with a little hint of Red Cherokee in it.

It had been a while since I saw someone that made me stare, but this brother, made me want to climb over seats, stepping on bitches head just to say hello. But I contained myself and just prayed that he would sit next to me.

The only problem with that was the plane was damn near empty and we all could have a seat to ourselves. I look out the window to question God on why he would test my instincts like this.

I shake off the desire and look back up the aisle. Now only three rows from me, I wait for him to plop in the row in front of me, which was completely empty.

I catch a glance from him and see his beautiful hazel eyes shining back at me. Shit! I love men with all eye colors but there is just something so damn alluring when a man, especially a black man, has those exotic hazel and green eyes. It’s like being mesmerized by an 18-carat diamond—just fucking beautiful.

He smiles. I smile. He looks at the row in front of me then lifts his carry-on in the ben above. I grimace from the lost opportunity but then he shocks me.

He sits in the aisle seat in my row.

Word!?

I smile at him. He smiles back. Then another smile grows between my legs. I cross them tight, hoping to make her chill out.

Hey, bitch we are BAVs now. Stop it.

I must have suffocated her enough because she calmed down enough for me to be able to reach under the seat in front of me to grab my water and Starburst. I really should’ve gone to sleep, but my imagination was ready to play.

I watched him out of my peripheral, hoping to catch a few more glimpses of his personality. He definitely wasn’t scared to show his pro-blackness because if you weren’t paying attention to his shirt or bookbag, you could have gauged it from his Africa medallion and in-flight reading, The Crisis of the Negro Intellectual by Harold Cruise.

I love an aware black man. Fuck woke. I like them soaked in black pride.

Reminds me of my love for a good protest at my alma mater. It was a PWC (predominately white college) that like to have blacks on their team but not teaching in their classrooms or sitting in the administration. It took us four dedicated years, but we got the first black dean placed. Damn, I miss those days.

“Are you okay?” He asks. I don’t know what face I was making but I couldn’t imagine it being anything but of pride and power.

“Yeah, why?”

“You look like you were about to be sick?”

Word, I make the gage face when I’m prideful. I’ve got to do better.

“No, I’m good. Thanks for asking.” I wonder if it is my turn to ask a question or two but he beats me.

“My name is Raheem.” He reaches out his hand and I gladly shake it.

“I’m Carmen.”

“Nice to meet you, Carmen.”

“Nice to meet you to Raheem.” We turn back to look for the stewardess, but I had other questions I wanted to ask.

“Hey,” I yell, trying to grab his attention again. He turns back to me and I enjoy the stubble growing on his chin. “That’s a good book. I read it in college.”

“Oh yay. It’s my second time reading it.” Yas, to his continuous dedication to re-education. “I just wanted to scan it one more time. You know, keep my head in the right space.”

“No, I get it. Because ‘Either all groups image speak for themselves,’” he joins in “’ and for the nation, or American nationality will never be determined.’” We laugh and smile once more.

“I love that quote.”

“I love it too,” He responds.

The stewardess finally announces that the doors are closing, and we are preparing to take off. Now it’s time for their educational but dull showing of safety around the plan.

I hear the engine on my side rev up and the plan jolt back from the terminal. Somehow the exhausts creep through my window and I want to move to the middle seat. At least I’ll be closer to him.

But we’re all supposed to be seated, except he stands up and then takes the seat next to me.

Like minds, I see.

Once he has repositioned his things under the seat he leans into me.

“They are too loud and I would love to continue our conversation.”

I’d be lying if I said that he wasn’t making me glow, but he was. He was also making me question if I was going to still be a BAV by the end of this flight.

One then two hours pass and we were still talking about blackness. We’ve touched on college, now we’re talking about discrepancies plaguing the corporate arena. Soon the conversation shifts again, and this time to relationships. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to but I could feel that it was time for me to drop the “coochie is on lock” bomb.

“So, do you have a man?”

Right before I can respond, he stops me. “Wait, I’m not sure I want to know. I don’t want to be disappointed.”

“Well,” I continue anyway, “no I don’t have a man.”

“But?”

“But I am a BAV and that’s probably why.”

He sits back in his seat for a second, looking toward the front.

See I knew it. Well, it was nice talking with him while it lasted.

Then without looking at me, he leans in close and whispers, “No disrespect, but what’s a BAV?”

A high-pitch squeal slips out of me but his confused looked reminded me that I had some explaining to do.

“I’m a born again virgin.”

“Oh, shit. Word. Cool. I thought that was some new African religion I hadn’t learned about yet. I was about to Google that shit without you seeing.”

“Sorry, I forget that not everyone is verse in BAVism.”

“So, that’s why you think you’re single?”

“Yeah, you know guys, especially black men, just don’t understand it.”

“I hate to fall into that category myself but what does it really mean.”

“Well,” I take a sip before releasing the next missile. “It means that I won’t have sex before I’m married. I’ve had sex before and it has only complicated my relationships, then left me yearning for love. I mean I don’t blame myself, but I want to know that someone loves me for me and not because of the tricks I can do in the bedroom.”

“Oh, so you do tricks?”

See what happens with Carmen and Raheem on Pateron. Subscribe the Passionate Addict tier to read this full story, other short stories and view exclusive video.

 

Hard Facts about Being an African American Romance Writer

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I read an article today that resonates so well with my writing journey that I have to share it, vlog it, and just sit on it for a moment.

It’s a #Longread from the Guardian title “Fifty Shade of White: the long fight against racism in romance novels“. The writer of this piece, Lois Beckett, dives right into the past and current issues with romance writers of color; it’s hard to break through when the industry is slow to see that change it needs.

As it stands, when it comes to the Rita Award, one of the most prestigious awards in the romance industry given by RWA (Romance Writers of America), there has never been a black winner, like ever. The first official RWA meeting occurred Dec. 1980 – yep not one winner for the past 40 years. But to be honest, as a black woman, I’m not shocked. I grew up watching black romance books being separated from all the others to fall into an Urban Romance category. Segregation comes in many forms, and that my friend, is one of them. I remember never being able to find them, they were always tucked somewhere in the back, as if a white woman with a flowing dress falling off of her shoulders with a guy raising her leg was so much more sophisticated than a black woman’s eyes or lips.

It was then that I picked up my first Zane book and got lost between the pages. Her words reminded me that the black POV of love and lust were different but still viable for all that read it. Zane inspired me to write my own romance stories, using imagery and words that resonated with my generation and my friends. She gave me the courage to go about this writing journey in my own way.

Fast forward to now, as I continue to push my own voice through my writing and pitch an African American romance, women’s fiction, upmarket/commercial erotic fiction book (it may fall into to some other categories but I didn’t want to go overboard), I’m wondering if there will be a delay in understanding the worth and message behind my words. My romance looks and reads differently, but it feels as good as other romance stories. Can a predominately white industry recognize its value? It’s in Beckett’s article that I find some hope that it will. I just pray that it’s sooner than later…I’m so ready to take this passion on full-time.

Here’s an excerpt from Beckett’s article:

For all this diversity of genre, the romance industry itself has remained overwhelming white, as have the industry’s most prestigious awards ceremony, the Ritas, which are presented each year by the RWA. Just like the Oscars in film, a Rita award is the highest honour a romance author can receive, and winning can mean not only higher sales, but also lasting recognition from peers. And just like the Oscars, the Ritas have become the centre of controversy over unacknowledged racism and bias in the judging process.

Last year, however, many observers felt that this was sure to change. One of the standout novels of 2017 had been Alyssa Cole’s An Extraordinary Union, an interracial romance set during the civil war. The book had already won a number of awards and made multiple best-of-the-year lists.

When the Rita awards finalists were announced in March 2018, An Extraordinary Union was nowhere to be seen. A novel rated exceptional by critics had been not even been deemed as noteworthy by an anonymous judging panel of Cole’s fellow romance writers. The books that had beat Cole as finalists in the best short historical romance category were all by white women, all but one set in 19th-century Britain, featuring white women who fall in love with aristocrats. The heroes were, respectively, one “rogue”, two dukes, two lords and an earl.

What followed, on Twitter, was an outpouring of grief and frustration from black authors and other authors of colour, describing the racism they had faced again and again in the romance industry. They talked about white editors assuming black writers were aspiring authors, even after they had published dozens of books; about white authors getting up from a table at the annual conference when a black author came to sit down; about constant questions from editors and agents about whether black or Asian or Spanish-speaking characters could really be “relatable” enough.

Then, of course, there were the readers. “People say: ‘Well, I can’t relate,’” Jenkins told NPR a few years ago, after watching white readers simply walk past her table at a book signing. “You can relate to shapeshifters, you can relate to vampires, you can relate to werewolves, but you can’t relate to a story written by and about black Americans?”

Read the full article.