It’s ironic that this week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt is Mirrors. Monday I posted a snippet of For Love of Snow White, which included a mirror scene. Today I’m going to talk about photos, both sexy and not.
I hate having my photo taken. I never like what I see. I hide behind the camera more often than not, preferring to take photos of others. So it was one of the most difficult experiences of my life to decide to do a boudoir photo shoot—it wouldn’t be just photos of me, but increasingly nude photos of me. Would I like some of them, or would my self esteem be shattered by photos that reflect the negatives and imperfections I see in the mirror after nearly 40 years of being subjected to a media barrage that my value lies in how fuckable I am (and at times in my late teens/early twenties I based my self-worth on whether people found me fuckable).
About a month ago, I posted about doing a boudoir photo shoot. I purposefully wrote that before I’d seen my photos because I was worried that my own insecurities in looking at photos of myself might taint my memory of the shoot.
Well, I’ve seen the photos and we selected 16 to keep. Here are two examples of photos I’m really happy with…
I can honestly say that the experience is very high on my list of things I was terrified of, but am so glad I tried. I have been very self conscious about my body for decades and to see photos where I actually feel like I look sexy is new and a little scary. It calls what I see in the mirror most days, and gives me a hint of what my husband sees that I can’t.
I’d definitely do this again, and not just because it gives me a glimpse of what’s on the other side of the looking glass.
From the loss of Bowie, Prince, Alan Rickman, and Carrie Fisher (among so many others) to the political disasters of Brexit and Trump, I think we can all admit that 2016 kind of sucked on a macro level. I had two procedures (one major) on my spine and continue to have chronic pain, but at least I’m (mostly) out of a wheelchair now.
However, it’s wasn’t all bad.
Recommended Reads
I wanted to read more than I did in 2016, but I still have some year end recommended reads that I’ve reviewed this year. I’ve joined the Goodreads 2017 Reading Challenge. Follow my progress and add me as a friend here.
Forbidden by Beverly Jenkins was so amazing, I ran out and read a ton more of her books. There aren’t a ton of authors of color in mainstream romance, and she’s possibly the best of the best. Not only are her stories well plotted, she does her homework on the history as well. My review here.
Basically anything by Kait Gamble (I reviewed five of her books here, but I read even more) but if I had to pick a favorite, it would be Sins in the Sand. By the way, she just published a new book, Faking It, which I’ve bought and am looking forward to reading.
Basically anything by Alisha Rai (I three of reviewed of her books here, although I’ve read even more) but my favorite is Glutton for Pleasure.
Finally, one of my favorite reads of 2016 was Tamsin Flower’s serial novel, Alchemy XII. It opens on New Year’s Eve and continues month by month through December. (I was a beta reader for this series, and I loved every minute I spent with Harry and Olivia.)
Big Publication News
(Check out my Published Works page for a complete list of purchase links if Amazon Kindle isn’t available in your country)
Intrepid Horizons, edited by Jessica Augustsson, included my story, Dumped. Blurb–A Unicorn’s (former) Virgin is left out as bait for a dragon, but things don’t go exactly as planned.
Rogues, edited by Delilah Devlin, included my story, Plunder. Blurb–Sparks fly when the Caribbean’s most fearsome pirate falls under the spell of a sexy spitfire who’d rather send him to Davy Jones’s locker.I am working on a full-length novel version of this story, which will hopefully be published in 2018.
This week Marie’s Wicked Wednesday promp is In the (erotic) blogging community people frequently hide their real identities. This week we want to hear your thoughts on this…
When I first began writing erotica, I was a public school teacher. Teachers are a profession where a career as an erotica author has the potential to create a lot of moral panic and outrage. I was literally scared of losing my job because someone discovered I’d written smut about wanting to fuck Wesley Crusher. I needed plausible deniability.
Today, the truth is that it’s not that hard to ferret out my real identity. I write an expat blog where I have promoted Capturing the Moment. Can you figure out my irl name? Yes, with minimal effort. I’m not a teacher anymore, so I’m not worried about getting fired. However, I find it useful to write non-fiction under my legal name while using Delilah Night for fiction.
(This post is super short because I’m still newly out of the hospital and high on painkillers–I find it really hard to focus.)
Greetings from a hospital in Singapore. This is my sixth or seventh time here in three years. With one exception, every hospitalization has been because of my bad-and-getting-worse-low-back.
Without getting into medical terminology, I first hurt my back when I was sixteen and because it wasn’t really properly cared for then (we didn’t have health insurance) it didn’t heal properly. Over the years it became progressively worse.
Ten years ago this October I had surgery on a herniated disc that was compressing the sciatic nerve root (which runs from your back down your leg into your toes) to the point where the nerve hurt so much I literally could not walk.
Three years ago this past March, I was putting my second daughter (who was just over a year old at the time) into her stroller from the car seat and the disc above the one from ’06 tore.
In the past three years I’ve gotten so many MRI’s I’ve lost count. I was excited that on my last two visits the hospital I go to can pipe music into the headphones they have you wear while getting the MRI from Spotify, so you can request your music. I can sleep during an MRI, but this last time I quietly sang along to Hamilton in my head for the hour or so it took to do my full spine.
We know that my back is a disaster as is my sciatic nerve, but we don’t know the full story. Scar tissue isn’t visible on any imaging system, and can compress nerves and create persistent pain with no easily diagnosed cause.
Six days ago I had eight injections at various levels of my spine to deal with four disc herniations (two in my back, two in my neck) and three surgeries (two for my low back discs and one to deaden the sciatic nerve).
Were any of these the right call? I have no idea.
I’ve been living in chronic pain for the past three years, but the past six months have been the worst. A “good day” became one where I had enough energy to drive to my daughter’s schools and pick them up. My daughters even know to avoid the right side of my body as even a casual hug at the wrong moment can lead to severe pain.
In doing one of the surgeries, my doctor confirmed that there is a lot of scar tissue, because he could barely force the needle into the disc to perform the nucleoplasty. (In layman’s terms, they burn out the center of the disc and the idea is that the disc will shrink back down).
I carry a lot of guilt that I’m not the mom I wish my kids had. I can’t get on the floor and play with them. I can’t run around outside. If I’m lucky I’ll be able to swim with them again (which given that we live near the equator is a year-round activity). My days of roller coasters and waterslides are behind me.
Six days into my hospital stay I’m asking myself if I made the right choice, but honestly–sometimes there is no such thing as a good choice.
Becoming a published author has been a life-long aspiration of mine, and I have several stories that prove it.
For example, here is my story “Bee Queen” from my third grade book, Animal Fairy Tales.
Bee Queen
by Delilah (age 8)
The bee queen was very upset. She cried ever since the bears had found their honey tree. My children are dying. They’ve nothing to eat for weeks. I’m going to go sting those bear good and proper and so will all the bumblebees, hornets, honeybees and yellow jackets.
We still teach them a lesson. As soon as Captain Stinger is ready, we’ll take care of those bears. And they did just that!
But my third grade magnum opus was “The Last Unicorn,” which I previously published. Read parts 1 and 2 if you want a good laugh.
Does that mean all my aspirations have been fulfilled? Nope. Next up is a full length novel, and seeing my book in a bookstore, and not just on Amazon. Dreams and aspirations are what keep us moving forward.
Here was a seedy bar in get-me-the-fuck-out-of-here Maine. I’d hated all four years, but the advent of my tenth high school reunion had me returning to my small town like a swallow to Capistrano. There wasn’t enough Facebook stalking on the planet to feed my schadenfreude-fueled fantasies about how much better my life was than the hicks I’d left behind.
I certainly hadn’t come back to spend time with my mother. They say that the mother-daughter bond improves once the daughter ages out of being a difficult teenager, but we’d certainly done our best to disprove that theory.
Why am I here?
Right, because after another round of accusations thrown back and forth, I’d left the house and begun to drive aimlessly. Nothing else was open. And the allure of a glass of wine, even a piss-poor one, had been overpowering
Was avoiding my mother worth bleeding from my eardrums? Either way, more alcohol was going to be necessary.
This part of Maine is littered with dead zones. No scrolling on Twitter, no updating Facebook, no bitching on Whatsapp or Messenger. I tried to brace myself for misguided attempts at country, screaming rock lyrics, and unfortunate attempts at the current pop hits. I imagined they’d make a charming counterpoint to the various sounds made when one’s mouth is so close to a microphone that one might as well be fellating it.
I decided to ignore the impending cacophony and read a thriller I’d downloaded to my phone before beginning the trek north. It was topping the New York Times Bestseller List, not that anyone in this room had likely ever read the Gray Lady.
My head snapped up when I heard the opening notes of “The Impossible Dream,” from Man of LaMancha. Broadway? Here?
To dream the impossible dream/To fight the unbeatable foe/To bear with unbearable sorrow/To run where the brave dare not go…
The room didn’t appreciate the scene that was unfolding in front of them. A baritone with perfect pitch.
To right the unrightable wrong/ To love pure and chaste from afar/ To try when your arms are too weary/ To reach the unreachable star
He wore the same flannel and work boots as the other men. This was no fellow city slicker home for the holidays, or if he were, he was far better at blending than I.
The audience continued to talk amongst themselves. He sang on, unaffected by their disinterest.
This is my quest/ To follow that star/ No matter how hopeless/ No matter how far
Our eyes met, and held.
To fight for the right/ Without question or pause/ To be willing to march into Hell/ For a heavenly cause
I abandoned my drink, drifting closer to the chunk of floor with the masking tape denoting the “stage.”
And I know if I’ll only be true / To this glorious quest/ That my heart will lie peaceful and calm/ When I’m laid to my rest
I mouthed the words along with him.
And the world will be better for this/ That one man, scorned and covered with scars/ Still strove with his last ounce of courage/ To reach the unreachable star
At the key change, a shiver whispered over my skin.
This is my quest/ To follow that star/ No matter how hopeless/ No matter how far
He was singing to me now.
To fight for the right/ Without question or pause/ To be willing to march into Hell/ For a heavenly cause
The world shrank down to the two of us.
And I know if I’ll only be true / To this glorious quest/ That my heart will lie peaceful and calm/ When I’m laid to my rest
I yearned. Every note seared my soul.
And the world will be better for this/ That one man, scorned and covered with scars/ Still strove with his last ounce of courage
Beneath the music, he was propositioning me.
To reach the unreachable star
He belted the final note. I nodded my answer.
The anemic applause barely registered as he took my hand and led me through the bar and out into the chilly night. For once, I didn’t have a snarky comment to make about pick-up trucks.
The door clanked shut. He didn’t bother to turn on the engine.
I heard the zing of a zipper, and he yanked me to straddle his lap. Rough fingers reached under my skirt and tore my panties, the rip echoing in the cabin. With one thrust he entered me and I rode him like the cowgirl my family would’ve probably preferred to an MBA.
Our groans harmonized. My pleasure spiraled up into an operatic soprano note of joy. Several seconds later, his baritone fell into a long bass note as he came.
The seduction spell woven through song shattered when he spoke.
“I can’t believe I just fucked Wendy Adams.”
I never knew a nine-hour drive could double as the longest walk of shame of my life. I still don’t know who he was. I swear upon the holiest of holies–the Louboutin boots upon which I blew my savings rather than therapy–I will never google my high school reunion, because I don’t want to know.
Maybe my mother was right after all. Stick your nose high enough in air and you’ll trip over your feet.
I’ve decided to post four of my stories my blog. These are all stories that have appeared in charity anthologies, and to which I hold the copyright. I also added links to flash fiction I’ve written for the Wicked Wednesday posts.
Curl up with a Deliciously Naughty, Deliciously Free Story
I enter college, terrified of failing. I will not go back to managing a sub shop or working at JC Pennys. I am not the first person in my family to take a college class, but I am determined to succeed. I balance a fulltime job, a fulltime courseload, and manage to pick up a boy by asking him if he’s taken his girlfriend to Titanic yet.
1999
I am shaking as I board the very first plane I’ve ever flown on. I’m leaving Boston for the south of France for a study-abroad. The French professors have a bet as to whether I’ll get on the plane or not. I do. I have my wallet stolen in Arles, and learn how you report an atm credit card stolen. I hope they enjoyed my Tower Records video rental card and the five dollars in cash I had. I fall in love with a terrible boyfriend, and am dumped in favor of his ex-girlfriend right before New Year’s Eve. But we’ll still be friends. Sure. This is my first New Year’s Eve as a twenty-one year old, and I get plastered. I end up making out with a drunk Northeastern hockey player in a porta-potty (I know, I know) and take him home. This is also the year I start to come to terms with my queerness and seek therapy because I’ve bought into all the toxic stereotypes about bisexuals.
2000
I call my “friend” who dumped me to ask how his New Year’s Eve went. He tells me he hung out with a friend, played video games and drank beer. He asks me what I did. I reply “A hockey player.” Mic drop. The porta-porty make-out was worth it.
2001
I am a college senior, writing an honors thesis for the history degree I’ve realized qualifies me for exactly nothing. My boyfriend introduces me to Literotica and I start writing. I write the infamous Wesley Crusher fanfic. I am now hooked on writing erotica. I graduate from college and become the first person to do so in my family. I become a manager of a retail store because I have a degree in History.
2002
I move to New York to pursue an MA/PhD in History. This is a terrible idea, and I flame out. New York is a cruel city and I have never been more alone and unhappy than I was there. But I saw a ton of Broadway, made new friends, and wrote like crazy. I have no regrets when I leave.
2004
After realizing how much I hated the PhD program, I get a Master’s in Teaching and get my first classroom.
2005
I meet my husband and after our first date, I tell him I want to be “just friends.” When I realize I’m an idiot several weeks later, he gives me a second chance.
2006
We get married. I write the ceremony. The West Wing is mentioned. My husband slips a Babylon 5 reference into his vows. I herniate a disc in my back and spend several months high as hell and unable to walk properly until I get surgery. This is not the best start to a marriage, but my husband is awesome. Serious props to him.
2007
I lose a baby in a miscarriage. I was only 10/11 weeks along but I am devastated. I do not move from my bed for almost a month.
2008
My eldest is born, and we almost lose her at a week of age due to an infection. She spends a month in the hospital. When she gets out I suffer from intense post-partum depression. I consider suicide a lot.
2009
My bipolar disorder is finally correctly diagnosed. I have a mild form that is often misdiagnosed as depression. I finally get useful mental health medication. My daughter, while highly medical, much to everyone’s surprise and joy does not have developmental delays or serious complications.
2010
We move to Singapore. All I really knew about Singapore before we moved here was that gum was banned and they caned some American kid named Michael Fay when I was in high school. We visit and it is hot as hell. But what the heck–we always said we wanted to live abroad, so we jump in.
2011
Kid number two is born and I sell my first story.
2014
I go to Cambodia, alone. It is the first time I’ve been outside the US on my own. I am so proud that I have a wonderful vacation all on my own.
2015
I write and sell my first novella. I nearly die from a kidney infection and deal with the medical and emotional fallout from that. Around a third of my hair falls out and I cope by dyeing it bright blue. Because why not.
2016
We are still in Singapore, despite our initial assumptions that we’d be here only a few years. My children study Chinese as a second language. I am getting a baptism by fire as my eldest progresses through local schools. We are going to celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary. I just finished the first draft of my novel.
This Wicked Wednesday’s theme is questions. It’s actually a timely prompt, because my oldest daughter, Ms. 7, has been asking a lot of questions about my writing.
Ms. 7 knows that I’m an author, and that when I say I’m writing the only reason she or her sister, Ms. 4, should bother me is if someone is bleeding. But now that she can read, my writing isn’t just scribbles on a computer screen. I have to be aware of where she is at all times to ensure that she doesn’t walk up behind me and read inappropriate content over my shoulder (which has happened a few times). She is a curious child who is also a bibliophile, and she has begun asking questions about my stories.
I want to talk about what I write in an age appropriate way, but also in a way that doesn’t imply shame over my stories.
When I got the email with my cover art for Capturing the Moment, I got really excited and called my husband over to see it. Ms. 7 was around and she came over, too. When she saw the cover, her comment was “Mommy, is that man naked?”
Yes, yes he is. “No, he’s just shirtless,” I responded, steeling myself in case she asked why.
She shrugged and said, “Okay.”
I confess I was relieved.
I was raised in a very sex negative home. As someone who has been a sex educator, and as an erotica author, I believe in having a positive approach to sexuality. That sex between consenting partners is a healthy part of life. That it’s totally normal to have various partners over the years. That sexuality is fluid.
Unfortunately, Singapore is a very conservative and sexist society. I am constantly battling against the heteronormative and traditionally gendered notions she is fed in school. I once said to a therapist that I thought it was irritating that girls have to wear dresses and don’t have the option of wearing shorts. I was told, effectively, that wearing shorts would turn them into lesbians. Friends tell me that girls at their high schools with “too short” hair were considered lesbians and punished accordingly–guilty regardless of identity and regardless of the fact that it’s just wrong. The reductive attitudes toward sexuality and gender roles makes me question my choice to bring up daughters here. (Not that the US is a utopia, but there’s a wider range of “normal” there.)
Ms. 7 and have had a few conversations about sex. She knows the proper names for the male and female body parts, including genitals. She’s learned about the fertilization of an egg, and how it can grow into a fetus (or not–I’ve been open about the fact that I had a miscarriage before my pregnancy with her). Ironically, I think we’ve talked more about abortion than we have sex. But that’s because she’s more interested in the concept of being pregnant or not being pregnant. She isn’t all that interested in what happens before pregnancy (or not getting pregnant).
We’ve talked about masturbation, sort of. That it’s healthy and normal to want to touch yourself, but that your bedroom is the right place to do that, as opposed to the middle of the living room.
I know that Ms. 7’s questions will change, and despite my preparation as a sex ed teacher and my desire to create a sex-positive home, I am nervous that I won’t get it right.
I want to teach her that sex is a good healthy thing. I want her to understand consent, and to feel comfortable saying “no!” when she doesn’t want to do something. I want her to know what a healthy relationship looks like. I want her to have access to birth control of all kinds. I’d rather that she have sex in her room in the house at sixteen than going down on her partner in the bathroom of a subshop because they have nowhere else to go. (True story–both I and my boyfriend worked at the sub shop, and the bathroom didn’t have cameras, so we’d fool around in there. That’s where I learned to cover my teeth when giving a blow job because I’d never given one before. And yes, ew.)
I want to help her advocate for a better tomorrow for women and their sexuality.
On the flip side, I need to teach her about rape culture. That she will get catcalled. As a biracial woman, she will need to fend off idiots who ask “what are you?” like she’s an exotic pet. I need to help her navigate the quicksand that is being a woman. That you will get criticized for being “too ambitious.” (Just look at the criticisms of Hillary Clinton’s campaign for a zillion examples of sexism leveled at ambitious women.)
With regards to my writing, I don’t want her to think that I’m ashamed about writing explicit sex. But she also needs to know that there is a boundary as to what I’m going to share, regardless of how old she gets. If she reads any of the anthologies I’m in when she’s older, I honestly don’t want to know. I was 11/12 ish when I started stealing my mom’s books and feeling tingles when I read the sex bits, although that freaks me out as a parent when I think about Ms. 7 and Ms. 4. I think she should read erotica when she’s old enough, but it squicks me out that she might read mine. If she wants to read anything by me, I have mainstream fiction she can read.
For now, my answer is “Mommy writes books that are meant for grown-ups. I’ve written a few stories that you can read when you’re a few years older. (meaning my mainstream fiction)”
I feel lucky that her response is, “Ok. Can you write a book just for me for my birthday, then?”
That sounds like a story I’d be proud to have her read.
delilahnight.com 