, , , ,


Is there anything yummier than girls with fangs? I mean, don’t get me wrong: I know thousands upon thousands (okay, probably more like billions on billions) of teenage girls will argue with me (while petting their pretty little Edward and Cullen Twilight action figures, natch) and say that boys vamps are the way to go. But, me personally? I much prefer strong-willed, wiley, slide through the dark women who look sweet as pie and have a bite like a steel trap.

Which is why I’m so delighted to be included in the upcoming collection, Vamps, edited by Lorna Hinson (Torquere Press). The collection features nine lesbian pieces of vampire erotica from great authors like Teresa Noelle Roberts, Penelope Friday, JT Langdon, Erin O’Riordan, Mercy Loomis, Kate Cotoner, and Elizabeth Black.

Plus, of course, your truly! Here’s a bit from my lyrical summer tale, “Heatsong.”

Stachi steps into the dim shimmer of light with no sound, slip and step, sky-ed eyes skipping across my face like a flattened stone to water, touching here and here and here, bringing bruises, blackened blue, from just her gaze. My finger on one, skin tendered in that way I like, raising my gaze along her form, moon-pale skin, sky eyes, curled hair darkened to nothing more than moving shadow. Moment hangs in the air, long enough for the moon to stop moving in the sky, sonar blood beating on wings ‘tween us, flittering at my dark spaces with torn edges and falling dust, filling my mouth with a rusted, metalled lust.

Broken when the other two follow her to the platform, boyish grins, hands in pockets, hips a’lean inside pale jeans. “Hi,” they say, “hi.” The boys are good ones—Stachi’s always are. Boys coming to explore, boys without families, no one coming after them. Sometimes just one. Sometimes, like tonight, just right. If I talked, I would say, “Stachi does us right,” but I know that ain’t the true. The true is she does me right, and takes care of Geena and Kyle ‘cause of me. Even thinking the true of that to myself makes me want, rumbled hunger low beneath my belly.

One of the boys smiles at Geena—thinks he knows why Stachi’s brought him here, good lay, jungle lay, and Geena’s all that, dark curves in the white hammock, sweat slicked. No pause, she echoes his smile back at him, settles him to home, soft sigh slipping from the heat of her mouth. Swing-swing o’ the hammock, speed up until she’s rising to him, smooth ‘cross the stone, his wrist hers with a fingered grip, pulling him to follow down the pebbled path, only the moon’s arced shine to guide their flight.

Kiss kiss (with teeth), s.