In just a few days, I’m heading off to California for a visit. San Francisco, and then Los Angeles. A few days of each. The whole trip has an odd purpose, truly: Meeting half a dozen friends that I’ve known for years but that I’ve never met in person. Most of them are editors/writers that I have had the pleasure of working with for the past however long, and we’ve talked on the phone and IMed and emailed, but I’ve never seen them face to face. The others are two girl gamers that I know and adore, but again, we’ve never met IRL. So this will be a whirlwind trip of that game called “getting to know you” even though I already feel like I know them.
This is the first trip I’ve taken in more than a year that’s just for me. No work. No family. No obligations other than … well, not a single obligation other than spending time with friends. I’m excited and delighted. I’ll be hanging with people I adore, exploring new things, eating at new places, writing as I can fit the time in, going to awesome awesome places like this. Mostly I’ll be staying the nights with my incredibly generous friends, but I have a hotel in LA for one night as well. I love hotels–the perfect combination of sexy and dirty. No, not that kind of dirty, but the other, fun kind of dirty.
(As a side note: Do you know me and live in either SF or LA? Want to meet for lunch or coffee? If so, just let me know–I’d love to add you to my list of must-see peeps).
Also, if you want to travel to a hotel with me, but can’t get away, check out Rachel Kramer Bussel’s blog–she’s giving away copies of the very gorgeous collection, Do Not Disturb: Hotel Sex Stories if you’re willing to do an Amazon review of the book. The collection includes my OCD-sex story, “Talking Dirty.”
Here’s a bit of it, cut out of the middle:
I sit on the toilet seat, cool against my ass, and listen to her wash. My cock is growing hard just from the sucka-sucka of the suds against her body, from knowing that she’s washing every part of her, top-down. Right now, it’s the long circles of soap and water. Probably her belly, her perfect inny belly button. Maybe lower.
I think how I’m no saint, how many times I’ve wanted to just fuck her, to fuck her out of this thing. On the couch, leaned over the kitchen table, in the backseat of a car. We used to when we first met, and I didn’t want it then. She was the adventurous one. I was lazy, wanted it in bed, under the covers. Now that I can’t have it, any of it except for shower sex in a room that she can almost pretend is pristine, I dream of dirty fucking, of not washing first, of spitting on my hand and rubbing her raw. Sometimes, I’ll see a woman with a sheen of sweat on her face or a bit of mud on her calf, and I’ll ache in that way that starts in my walls and rides up through my chest.
That’s all for now. I spent the wee hours of the morning proofing Roast magazine, I have a photo shoot this morning, a bit of novel writing this afternoon, and then I’m going to take the rest of the day off.
Kiss kiss bang bang, s.
“The World is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page.” ~St. Augustine
PS – Rachel has started a blog for Do Not Disturb. Check out the gorgeous look and get a early keyhole-peek at the editor’s introduction!