UnCommon Bodies - welcome to the freakshow

I know, I know - I have been conspicuously absent. In all honesty, I have no good excuse, just the usual demands of keeping up with my cross-country commute and juggling the schedules of four adults (well...three, I have no schedule apart from theirs). On the up side, I did finish a short, and rewriting is underway on two novels so I haven't been totally lazy.

Today, however, I want to talk about the short I finished for an upcoming anthology called UnCommon Bodies. Just take a look at this awesome cover!!

 

Step right up to the modern freakshow — We have mermaids, monsters, and more. You won't be disappointed, but you may not get out alive.

UnCommon Bodies presents a collection of 21 beautifully irreverent stories which blend the surreal and the mundane. Together, the authors explore the lives of the odd, the unbelievable, and the impossible. Imagine a world where magic exists, where the physical form has the power to heal or repulse, where a deal with the devil means losing so much more than your soul.

Includes
Phantom Pain by Philip Harris
The Zealot by Chris Godsoe
Undead Cyborg Girl by Kim Wells
Made for This by Sessha Batto
Rudy and Deidre by Robb Grindstaff
Skin by Brent Meske
The Well-Rounded Head by Sally Basmajian
Mermaids by Robert Pope
All the Devils by Keira Michelle Telford
Scars: The First Session by Jordanne Fuller
We is We by Michael Harris Cohen
Poetry by Deanne Charlton
Reserved by SM Johnson
Ruby by Bob Williams
Daedalus' Daughter by PK Tyler
Don't Touch Me by Bey Deckard
In Her Image by Vasil Tuchkov
UnTamed by Laxmi Hariharan
Untitled by Daniel Smith
Saltwater Assassin by Samantha Warren
Unbreakable Heart by Rebecca Poole 

And here is a peek at the promo image for my piece - Made for This 

This anthology is scheduled to be released 11/24 - but for you, my lovely readers, I am offering a special chance to get the first peek at what is inside. I am looking for ten lucky people to receive arc copies for review. If you are interested, email me or leave me a comment. If you aren't up to reading and reviewing the entire thing...I can send you just my story (which is very short, you know me).

Update

I have been more absent than present on social media lately...for a good reason - I have finally dug in and started writing (well, rewriting). So, a short update on what has been happening...

Ripples, the last book in the Shinobi Saga, is getting back on track. I lost steam on this when my alpha reader and dear friend Anzia passed away last year. I had a hard time focusing on a project that she had been such an enthusiastic cheerleader for. But, finally, the pressure to finish Yoshi's story burst to the forefront. The rewrite is about 50% complete, and I am hoping to get it to my editor sometime in early September.

Another project which has been languishing is The Shamisen Player (formerly The Trick). Every time I sat down to work on rewrites I found myself stalled...and then it came to me. I flipped the focus from one main character to the other (hence the title and cover change). It made all the difference. I am now powering along, and have just passed the 25% mark. This, too, should make it to the editor near the end of September. And then I will finally have a couple of new releases and, hopefully, the impetus I need to dig into the the works in progress cluttering my hard drive.

And, just an FYI - I will be at the Baltimore Book Festival Saturday and Sunday, the 26th and 27th of September. If you are in the area stop by and say hi, I would love to meet any and all of you live and in person.

To write erotica . . .or not to write, that is the question

This has been an up and down week for me. I have spent a great deal of time thinking about writing (I know, writers write, they don't think about writing) and, more pointedly, thinking about what I write. It was triggered by a series of marvelous, thoughtful, posts by erotic writers I admire - Remittance Girl delved into the history of erotica and what it has evolved into, Tamsin Flowers wondered if E.L. James has broken the genre irrevocably, and finally Malin James delved into her reasons for writing about sex. If you haven't read these articles, take some time to do so as all the authors are far more eloquent than I shall ever be. 

The bottom line, though, is I have been rethinking whether or not I should continue writing . . .well, publishing. Writing will always happen, if only to get the voices out of my head. The question, of course, is whether there is any point to writing erotica that is more than a series of strung together sex scenes. Erotica divorced from romance (although not necessarily love - romance is a very specific subset of tropes and requirements that I, for one, cannot fit my stories into). Erotica that frequently strays to the dark side - non-consent, dubious consent, conflicted choices, and the results of those acts. For me, it comes down to two questions - is the sexual content in my work relevant or sandwiched in merely to titillate without advancing the characters or the plot, and would I be better off writing more mainstream fiction with a chance of reaching a wider audience?

Only one person can decide whether or not sex is relevant in a piece of literature, and that is the author. You may like or dislike a piece, but only the author knows the story they are trying to tell. Whether it succeeds or fails is always a matter of debate. Art is, after all, subjective. I definitely don't believe anyone has the right to censor an author's choices, no matter how offensive they may find them. Yes, there are things I find offensive (seriously, there are . . . just not much), and I exercise my right to choose not to read those topics. Once you allow censorship it opens a dangerous door, who knows what will next be considered inappropriate? I certainly don't want my writing constrained by any limits other than my own.

Since relevance is in the eye of the author, all I can really consider is why I think sex is an essential aspect of my own writing. Now, before you start screaming about 'the children, the children' – nothing I'm going to say is intended for anyone under eighteen, although, frankly, I don't have any problem with children reading about sex. I live in a city full of pregnant teenagers and, believe me, they did not have sex because of something they read. That honor goes to the media that bombards them daily - television, music, advertising, video games, those are the most powerful influences on today's youth.

I should come clean – I write erotica, explicit gay erotica. Before I go any further, let me clarify. I'm talking about sex in all its permutations, from barely consensual sexual torture to tender lovemaking and the entire gamut in between. My only real boundaries are no children and no women. I write about men exclusively because of the wonderful shifts of power and control possible in a same sex relationship . . . and because I love men. No offense to the ladies, but I don't think I could explore the same boundaries of pleasure and pain without seeming overly abusive, and that is at the core of everything I write. Beyond that, there is something wonderfully vulnerable and revealing about a man's decision to relinquish power that doesn't exist for women as they are already powerless in so many situations.

Remember the old ads in the back of comic books for x-ray specs? For me, sex is my x-ray specs. It strips a character down to his core truth and spotlights who they are with far more accuracy than pages of exposition ever could. Sex is the ultimate act of trust. Who we trust, why, and to what extent reveals much of our psyche that we would normally keep hidden. Sex is the catalyst for revealing hidden baggage, all the events and experiences we think are safely buried but which bubble to the surface under pressure. Our kinks highlight our transgressive natures, throwing into clear definition the whys and hows of our alienation from society in general. In short, it's the knife I wield to cut to the truth. 

So, can I write anything meaningful without that knife? This is where I flounder, because my way of looking at and shaping characters, my tools for revealing internal conflict, for shaping change, have always been rooted in sex. Would I be able to touch such highs and lows, and would the rewards for such a trade off be worth it? For now, at least, the answer is no. Not that I cannot write non-erotic stories, but, rather, I don't want to. They don't sing to me, and the loss of satisfaction with the work isn't worth the trade off of more readers . . .not to me. I think a lot of writers are struggling with these questions right now. Some will go on to mainstream genre, some will find success. Some will pander to the current erotica trends and will also find their audience. Me . . .I will continue to flounder in no-man's land for the time being, and when floundering becomes too painful, I will stop altogether, because I can't conceive of doing it any other way.

I'm feeling generous . . .

I am in a rare, open, mood. So, to celebrate, this weekend (Saturday and Sunday) I am giving away books. That's right - I will give anyone who asks a copy of one of my books of their choice. Just drop me a line at sessha@sesshabattousai.com and let me know which book and what format (mobi, epub or pdf) and I will send it your way asap.

Please bear in mind that these books are all dark, transgressive and homoerotic, and for adults only. If any of this bothers you, please feel free to move on to another writer!

The choices are:

This first book in the Shinobi Saga tells the story of the modern day ninja Yoshi, shadow wolf of the Takahashi clan. In a nation where conformity is prized he is an anomaly. A beautiful and deadly albino, prized for his exotic looks as much as his skills in the shinobi arts. From a young age he finds himself shackled by the bonds of duty, forced into play as a sexual bargaining chip for the welfare of his shuudan. 

An enslaved scribe whose worst nightmare is becoming a pleasure slave, a warlord who can command men, but not his own desires. When they come together both of their expectations are overturned. Will their budding relationship threaten everything they have managed to accomplish?   

A collection of short fiction, which includes the prequel to the Shinobi Saga, Geisha. Sex Ray Specs are a way of looking at the world. People are their most open and vulnerable during sex, and it is then that their inner secrets are revealed. This anthology runs the gamut, from sweet and tender to darkly transgressive, all with one common thread, the search for love.

Desperately trying to regain my mojo

Yes, I am desperate. Days pass where I do nothing more than stare at my manuscript waiting for . . .something. I wish I knew what! So, back to excerpts, in hopes that it will kickstart me into writing something, anything. I cannot afford to be picky at this point!

So, from Onna Bugeisha (the book that stubbornly resists being written) . . .

Afternoons in the pleasure district are lazy, leisurely affairs. In this closed world of women the highlight of the day is gossiping the long hours away in the baths. From the outside the willow world appears to slumber behind its walls, recovering from the revelries of the night before. In reality, this is the most cherished part of the day, when hopes and dreams are laid bare and all eventualities are possible. The arrival of a curtained palanquin during these hours was unexpected enough to set all tongues wagging. When that palanquin stopped outside a teahouse known for unconventional sexual practices, curiosity overcame all rivalries. Women who normally passed without so much as a nod of acknowledgment put their heads together and whispered ever more outlandish theories. The only thing the pillow girls could agree on was no one recognized the heavily veiled woman who slipped from its curtained privacy into the teahouse. Her wealth was obvious, hair impeccably coifed and clad in a kimono worth more than all of them combined. Why such a person would visit that particular house was debated in ever rising voices. The most obvious answer, a husband with habits no decent woman could stomach, was almost immediately discarded. Such a refined creature would no more discuss such things than she would run naked through the streets. Most wives negotiated their husband's liasons through scrolls and servants, even the most mundane. The lack of subterfuge had all the women on edge. Something darker was obviously at work.

Inside the shadowed confines of the teahouse Jun proceeded to plead his case. Using all the skill he had acquired in his time onstage, he struck just the right balance between misery and vengeance, hoping to sway the proprietor to his side.

“He swore we were eternal lovers. And then he abandoned me.” A delicate handkerchief disappeared behind the veils to dab at watery eyes. “Now I am spoiled for any other.”

“Why come to me? There are many houses that would love to have a lady of your refinement. My customers have perverse tastes. Your delicate sensibilities will enflame them to greater outrages just to see your reaction.”

“I have no choice,” Jun explained in a breathy whisper. “I cannot allow another inside, and I have no wish to become enamored of any man. I am willing to be used as men use each other. Would you have customers interested in such things?”

My City is Burning . . .

Those of you who know me also know I make Baltimore my home, and have for many decades. It is a wonderful city, vibrant, stimulating, welcoming . . .and absolutely nothing like the image most people have in their heads. I am a pasty Irish girl living in a city where almost 70% of the population is black, almost half of the remainder is Hispanic - and I have never once felt unwelcome. I have long despaired of the image Baltimore has on the national and world stage, an image formed by the media and centered around the worst portrayal possible. The Wire may have been critically acclaimed, but it set the standard for convincing everyone that Baltimore was a dangerous dangerous place. It is no playground, true . . .but neither is any other major city in America, especially these days. Homicide: Life on the Streets cemented that perception in the minds of the world. And now the unrest following the murder of Freddie Grey. Not one news outlet bothered to cover the peaceful protests, or the heroic and selfless acts of those trying to calm the outrage or clean up after the inevitable destruction, but as soon as violence broke out it was wall to wall on every channel and every newspaper. 

If you know me, you also know I am a Buddhist. I do NOT condone violence in any way, shape or form. I don't think violence solves anything. I have seen the downside, on the streets of Belfast, in Detroit in the 60s, and now in my current home. No place I have lived has become a better place as a result of violence . . .and yet, as much as I deplore it, I also understand the frustration that spawns such a reaction. There is a fundamental problem when more money is spent trying to pay off victims of brutality than in preventing it in the first place. There is a problem when, in a country as rich as ours, so many people have no hope, no future, and no way out of grinding poverty other than sports and drugs. 

I drive my son to culinary school from my blue collar neighborhood, increasingly populated with for sale and auction signs as the jobs once held have slowly trickled away to be replaced with a smattering of low paid service positions. I pass through neighborhoods that look as if they have been bombed . . .blocks away from the jewel of the Inner Harbor with its sports fields and glitzy shopping centers. Blocks from Johns Hopkins, the hospital known around the world for excellence, sitting in the midst of third world devastation.

I wish I knew what the answer was. I wish I had the ability to turn the tide. I wish that, in our rich and amazing nation, one people from all over the world want to live in, no one was homeless, or hungry, or uneducated, or without medical care. It is a sin and a shame because without the basics of life we can never be free or brave. There is no liberty when you are shackled by poverty and circumstance. There is no freedom when you realize you may live and die in the same crumbling housing project. There is no equality when some are treated as less than human for whatever reason.

And so, this is a post without a resolution. I have no amazing insights, I have no words of wisdom apart from this - everything is more complicated and more intertwined than you think, take nothing at face value, strive to do the best you can for everyone you come into contact with. If we don't do better it will never get better. Practice empathy instead of superiority or condemnation. And, hopefully, we will all come out stronger on the other side.

Made for This

The irony of his situation was one of its most pleasing aspects. He was, after all, a creature made for submitting. To be bought by a master who desired domination almost made up for the past. Almost.

The act itself was two decades behind him. He barely recognized the shyly snarky pseudo intellectual who had so earnestly argued gender politics in an attempt to impress some silly coeds. That he had survived the psychosis his words inspired was, truly, miraculous. Or so he had been told. In truth, most days he considered his current life a cruel joke by an angry god, personal vengeance, perhaps, for some grand transgression he had already forgotten.

His transit from cocky teen to genderless thing had been swift, not subtle. He'd walked through that park a thousand times without encountering anyone. It never occurred to him that such seclusion might come at a price. Even the trauma surgeon refused to try and rebuild the shredded lump of flesh, realizing that salvaging a gnarled stump of cock would be pointless. The carelessly wielded chainsaw had merely nicked his scrotum, but there wasn't much point to balls without a cock, and the repair was simpler with a single graft.

He had tried to go on as if nothing had changed, subsuming his anger in pain pills, liquor and futile, chaste dalliances with women. In the end he found himself neither wiser nor calmer. A chance encounter led him to a place he never imagined finding himself.

“Aren't you a pretty thing.” The unfamiliar voice jerked him back to the present, to the role he was expected to play. It was a toss up as to which was more unsettling, the crop in his hand, or the massive phallus studded with shiny balls of stainless steel protruding from the codpiece he now wore. Both were symbols of how far he had fallen, or risen, he was as conflicted about that as everything else in this scene.

Up on the platform his master shivered in his bonds, inked trails oozing out of the tight corset wrapping his midsection, leather pants jerked down to his knees to expose the pale silky flesh of his ass for all to admire.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes.” The husky tremor in his master's voice spurred his resolve. The crop snapped against porcelain flesh, leaving a mark, his mark, and the demon slumbering inside him tore free. When he finally stopped every inch of exposed flesh bore the record of his madness, reddened welts mixing with tribal tattoos in a cacophony of frustrated desire.

Now came the part he dreaded. The beast inside him tamed, for the moment, leaving him without the will to finish this passion play. That his master was willing, prepped and waiting gave him no comfort. The murmur of the watchers spurred him into action, burying the ridiculous faux-cock to the hilt.

His fingernails dug ragged furrows into reddened cheeks as his mind trumpeted the futility of his actions. Pegging was a game for women, not men. His cheeks flamed as he realized all the silent watchers must know of his peculiar lack. In an effort to disprove that knowledge he redoubled his efforts, plowing into the writhing figure with greater abandon.

As with all good things, his frustrated rage couldn't last. Absent sexual satisfaction or the driving force of anger their copulation became just another task to complete. He found himself counting the indentations on the soundproofed wall, picturing towering mammatus clouds in their place. When the figure beneath him began to whimper he breathed a silent sigh of relief. The sticky spray of his master's semen meant he could, at last, put aside this facade.

The transit from top to bottom was mercifully brief. The cruel cock discarded, he was stripped, spread, bound, and his soul absolved. This was the moment he now lived for, his desire released from the cage in which he kept it securely locked up.

As the first cock slipped inside him his breath caught, by the fifth he was panting, by the tenth, at last, transported. He shuddered through what passed as orgasm and fell into darkness. His last thought that, perhaps, he could stay cocooned in the soft richness of this moment.

His eyes snapped open, master slumbered beside him, ointment coated welts glistening in the dim light. And so, it began again, the futile race to oblivion that trapped him in the present. His joy, his terror, his destiny fulfilled.