Here’s an excerpt:

Garrison works for a government agency, monitoring cameras that can see through the clothes of people using various forms of public transportation. He’s arranged to meet some of his coworkers at a club downtown…

By the time he arrived at the club, the sun was well behind the buildings, leaving the streets in shadow while the upper reaches glowed. The entrance to the club was a riot of swirling neon. A large bald man smiled as he approached. “Welcome to the Panopticon.”

“Thanks.”
Not entirely sure of himself, Garrison walked past him and pulled open the wide black door of the establishment. The space beyond was dark, and even after the shade of the street outside, he had to take a moment for his eyes to adjust.
A pretty woman in a bikini top stood behind a small counter to one side. “Twenty dollar cover charge,” she said. Jazzy, upbeat music pulsed behind the walls.
He pulled out his debit card and touched it to the green payspot. A beep registered the transaction, with the amount showing on a nearby display. “I’m looking for a group? My friends from work said they were coming down here.”
She shrugged. “I just take the money, sir.”
“Okay, I’ll just…mm. Look around, I guess?”
“Have fun!” She gave him a wide grin, and then turned her attention to the customer coming in behind him.
Garrison turned a corner into the club itself. Everything was dark except for the stage, a circular platform in the middle of the room raised to about table height, connected to the back wall by a narrow catwalk. A woman writhed and contorted herself on the pole, her body shimmering under the diffuse pink lights that came at her from every angle.
Stepping inside further, past a very large bald-headed man whose fists appeared to be superglued to the insides of his elbows, he spotted a bar running along the wall to his right. There were no stools there. It looked like it was just a place to pick up drinks.
“Can I get you anything?” said the bartender.
“Uh, yeah. Scotch please. Neat.”
“Coming right up.” A payspot on the bar lit up, and Garrison touched his card to it.
He sipped his drink as he wandered around the room, listening for the voices of his coworkers, trying to see a familiar face in the shadows and silhouettes that surrounded him. It was almost impossible to see anything but the stage. He was about to give up when the music changed, and a deejay’s voice came over the speeakers. “Big round of applause for the lovely Jayelle Kaye!” The woman on the stage scooped up her clothes and strutted down the catwalk towards a set of curtains along the back wall.
“And now,” said the voice, “For your ecdysiastic enjoyment, the wonderful, the talented, miss Wyenne Ess!”
Another woman stepped out onto the catwalk. She looked vaguely familiar, but Garrison couldn’t figure how anyone he knew would be dancing here. He walked closer.
She had dark black hair and pale skin, and wore a red sequined outfit consisting of a halter top and a skirt, both held together with long ribbons. He felt sure he had seen her face before, but couldn’t place it. He found himself bumping into an empty stool at the edge of the stage.
“Hi there,” she said, giving him a wink and a flash of a smile.
That took him back a step. Nobody had ever addressed him from a stage before.
“Sit down. I won’t bite.” She pulled out the knot in her skirt and held the ribbons out, making the skirt slide around her as she moved. The long slit between the two ends revealed brief glimpses of thigh.
In something of a daze, he sat. There was a payspot on the stage in front of him. He stared at it. It was labeled “Please tip generously” along the top and “One dollar per scan” along the bottom.
She was swaying to the music, strutting around the pole, making eye contact with the men around the stage one by one, but her attention lingered on Garrison. “First time?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
She giggled. “Oh, I do love a virgin.”
Garrison blushed. The guy next to him elbowed him in the ribs. “Go on.”
He pulled out his debit card and waved it over the payspot. It flashed twice.
She smiled broader. “Thank you, sugar!” She dropped the skirt a bit, showing off the round globes of her ass, and the thin red g-string running between them.
“You’re welcome.” That was what you said when someone said ‘thank you.’ That was only polite. Right? Garrison felt uncomfortably out of his element. Ordinarily that feeling would have been more than enough reason to leave, but he knew this woman from somewhere, and he wanted to figure out where that was.
The woman wasn’t really dancing, not in any way Garrison had ever heard of. She was just moving, with the pole as a prop and the music as a context. Even so, there was something hypnotic about her, and Garrison felt his gaze drawn to her hands as she reached behind her neck to pull out the knot. She held the ribbons out and above her head, playing with them, making her full breasts move like puppets on single strings.
Garrison had completely forgotten about his coworkers, and he didn’t care. His world had narrowed to the woman in front of him, lowering the shiny triangular fabric in front of her breasts. Soon there was only the wide ribbon covering her nipples, revealing curves and shades he had never noticed before.
With a snap of her wrists, the dancer’s halter seemed to disappear, suddenly transformed into a shower of red confetti, and she was dancing in nothing but the glittering red g-string. The music changed to an uptempo song with lots of synthesized rhythm. She moved energetically, swinging around the pole and doing splits and stretches that showed off her flexible physique. Garrison found his pants getting more than a bit tighter and shifted around to try to find a bit more room.
There were several flashes from around the stage as the other spectators swiped their debit cards over their payspots. The dancer smiled at each one, and Garrison found himself succumbing to the temptation to earn his own smile as well.
Now he knew what Lance had been talking about. This was fun.
The music changed again, a new song with a slower beat, with an energy that felt more intense than frenetic. The dancer sank to the stage practically right in front of him and slowly undid the knots on her g-string. She had almost no pubic hair at all, and Garrison found himself close enough to count the few strands that made up the narrow strip running from just above her slit.
Her inner lips poked out just the slightest bit, but as she swung one leg in a big circle, her labia parted and for a second or so he could see absolutely everything. No longer using the pole, the dancer prowled around the edge of the stage, gracefully and acrobatically giving each of the close-in audience members a good view of the most intimate parts of her body.
The tips came quickly, flashing from each station. Garrison found himself competing to tip her more than anyone else, and she gave him the lion’s share of the attention in return. He thought he could almost smell the distinct musk of female arousal, as she arched her back on hands and knees, thighs spread out before him. Was this actually turning her on? Was there more than money going on here? Garrison couldn’t imagine flattering himself that it was true, but he could see wetness glistening on her otherwise clean pussy, and what else was he to think?
When the music ended, she rose, gathered her things and disappeared backstage. Garrison finished his drink and decided he needed another. He made his way back to the bar, keeping his gaze turned away from the stage in hopes that his rather painful erection would subside.
Just as it arrived in front of him, he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Buy a girl a drink?”
He started, almost spilling his drink, and turned.
“Oh, sorry,” she said. She was wearing a loose-fitting white blouse with a plunging neckline that showed off her magnificent cleavage, and a matching knee-length skirt.
“No, no…it’s fine, sure, what would you like?”
The dancer nodded to the bartender. “The usual, Hank?” She moved in next to him, elbow on the bar, standing a little too close.
He took a gulp of his drink. “That was some performance…uh…I didn’t catch your name, I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay, you’ve got something else on your mind, I bet.”
“Uh…yeah.” He smiled sheepishly.
Her drink arrived, something pink and fizzy, and she took a long sip looking over the rim of the glass, staring into his eyes. “My name’s Wyenne. I’m glad you enjoyed it. Nice to meet you…?”
“Garrison. Garrison…um.” He wasn’t sure whether he should use his last name. He wasn’t sure he should use his first name, either, but it was too late to take it back. “I was supposed to meet some friends. This isn’t the kind of place I usually go to. I didn’t think it would be something I’d like.” He was talking too fast, he realized, sounding like a nervous kid. He coughed to hide his embarrassment.
“Well, Garrison…maybe you’d like to take it a little further?”
Garrison stammered. “W-w-what?”
“A private dance, in the VIP room.” She glanced in the direction of a door on the far side of the room. “I promise a very intense experience.”
Garrison’s imagination flared. What was she offering? What could be more intense than what he had already seen? Was she a prostitute? What would happen if he were caught? Would he lose his clearance? Lose his job? He took another draw on his scotch and found the ice bumping his nose.
Wyenne put her hand on his elbow. “Come on. It’ll be fun. I promise.” She led him to the door, and pointed to the payspot next to the handle. “Fifty dollars gets you a tour of paradise.”

The goal, as an author, is not to offer someone “something to read.” If you want people to pay for it, then you have to offer a book that is unique. It needs to serve your readers better than anything else that has ever been written.You are in competition with Lord Dunsany, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Jane Austen, Lewis Carroll, and Bram Stoker.

That thought has to make you sit back and take a pause.

Me? I know I offer something unique. Nobody writes anything like what I write, and nobody ever has. My challenge is not to compete with all those other authors, but rather to somehow find the readers who would find my uniqueness attractive, and worth spending a little money on.

People, as long as they are people, have holidays. As long as they measure time at all, then there will be a time when the meter clicks over and a new one of whatever begins. Even if they’ve gone all metric and instead of “years” they have “kilodays” they will still sit up and take notice when all the digits across the display are zeroes. And since it’s in the nature of humanity to reminisce about the past and make plans for the future, they will likely do it on that day when the time function ticks particularly loudly.

And for that reason, “New Year’s Eve” and “New Year’s Day” (by whatever name your people know it) will be present in any society that measures time with numbers. They may not celebrate it in ways we would recognize, but the fundamental commonality is there. People need to pay attention to time on that day, just to remember to change the number they’re putting on their business, and that naturally gets people thinking about time. New Years are always holidays, in every culture.

Creating a holiday for a fictional culture is an important way to highlight aspects of the culture. Think of how Christmas in mainstream american culture, with things like lavish light displays and expensive gifts, highlights the consumerism that’s so much a part of modern America. A fictional holiday should have similarly deep roots in the culture in which it is celebrated.

In my novel trilogy the Orgone Chronicles, there’s a culture known simply as “The Pirates” with a celebrity class known as “Worthies.” They are the crews of the raiding ships that form the economic backbone of the culture, but they are also players in what amounts to a twenty-four hour reality show. Essentially, they get paid for having high-drama lives full of passion and betrayal. Take everything you might see on “Big Brother” or “Survivor,” add in duelling, sex, and space combat, and you’ve got some idea of what their culture is like.

The Pirate version of the New Year’s holiday is ‘Election Week,’ which is held at the beginning of each new year. It recognizes the accomplishments of those who have done the most to support the community over the previous year. All the raiding ships from across the galaxy come together at the mothership, “Port.” The pirate crews engage in a week-long celebration of feasts, games, duels, and debauchery. It all culminates in a public vote to elect one of their number to recieve the title of “First Worthy”. Since the office has some real political power, the competition gets heated. This event figures strongly in the third book of the series, “Hunters,” which is planned to come out in May 2012.

Three women guard one of the world’s most precious resources–a man. He is one of only a few that remain after the mysterious gender plague turned the vast majority of humanity female. Sasha, Andie and Lena are about to discover the purpose of the gender plague, and will feel all of the terror–and the ecstasy–that those responsible can bring.

“Incursion at Gene Bunker Four” is an erotic vignette in the style of the “naughty tentacles” genre. Don’t expect a complex plot or deep characters; this is a bit of fun.

This short story is intended for adults with a firm grasp of the difference between fantasy and reality. It contains material of questionable consent, at best. If this would offend you, I recommend my short story, “Healing” as a much gentler (but no less erotic) alternative.

PS: I just added “Three Boons,” a fantasy story of gender transformation and sexual power dynamics to my Smashwords page.

Wow.  This is the second anthology I have edited (the first being Tentacle Dreams) but this is the first I’ve carried through mostly on my own; I created the call, I managed the submissions, then picked all the stories and assembled the package for publication. (The marvelous Alessia Brio created the cover and runs Coming Together as an imprint–great thanks to her for all her help!) It has been a tremendous journey, one I hope I can revisit in the future. For now, however, I am quite glad to be done.  There is still work to do, certainly; I need to get the word out!  But for now at least, I am pleased and proud to stand here at this particular milestone on the path.

(I’m not resting, of course, in spite of the hiatus–too much else to do!)

You may not have heard of the Woodhull Sexual Freedom Alliance.  I don’t recall where I first heard of them, but I’ve been subscribed to their email newsletter for years–I just checked my gmail account and the “welcome” email dates from February 2006!  That’s about the time when I started my podcast, when I first started speaking out (in a way) about my own sexuality, in the form of fiction.  That has been my primary contact with them; daily emails with news stories collected from around the world. They are full of trials and triumphs, global, national, and personal. Reading about these events has shaped my fiction. Scouts in particular, draws on images and themes I have found in those newsletters.

Thank you, Woodhull.  I hope this anthology opens eyes to the work you do, and a few wallets too.

You can also find both books on Amazon Kindle and at Barnes and Noble, or if you like, you can pick up the “Make Love, Not War” bundle and get both titles for 20% off, only at Logical Lust.

For excerpts, etc. you can click the book covers:

And if you really want to have an impact on the competition, here a promo for your podcast: NobilisEbookPromo

The first of these projects is Alive, a full-cast audio production for my podcast. It’s a story set in Chris Lester’s Metamor City, one that I have been working on, intermittently, for a long time. The last episode has a great deal of action, and took me most of the weekend to produce. I believe it to be some of my best work, though it’s a bit early at this point to judge as there hasn’t been time for much feedback. In the end, I believe it was worth it, if only for what it taught me about audio production–and about pacing myself.

The other project is the third draft of “Artbodies.” The first draft of this story was published in my podcast, and it’s the last work I’m going to put out in such an unfinished state. The third draft is much superior, and after a final review by my beta reader, it’s going to be submitted for possible publication, which is why it isn’t truly finished yet. There will likely be another round of editing, or perhaps two, before it goes to press.

And let me tell you, it feels _good_. Hitting ‘send’ on the email to put Artbodies in front of my beta reader felt like pulling off the brake on a charged-up steam locomotive. Listening to Alive, all the way through, all four episodes, in spite of being able to hear every flaw, felt like riding that locomotive over a mountain. Whee…

The thing is…

The work is still there.  For one thing, neither of those stories is just disappearing.  ”Artbodies” is going to come back from the beta reader with edits I need to do, and if it gets accepted at my dream publisher, they are going to have edits they want, too.  ”Alive” is going to have a run over on Chris Lester’s feed, and afterwards we’re talking about having a wrap-up chat to talk about the story and the production.

And then there’s two more stories that need finishing before the end of the year.

And then there’s the promo for Ex Fumo Gaudiam and Riskwear that I need to make.

And episodes of the podcast…

Yes.  Being “Done” is great… because it means I can start working on something else.

I resisted. For one thing, a Latin title would catch the eye compared to others, and might inspire a bit of curiosity. “What does this mean?” a potential reader might think. And they might look deeper to find out. And to me, the “Romanness” of the story was of primary importance, and a Latin title expressed that powerfully. I was quite proud of the title I had picked out. It sounded like a motto for a prestigious engineering fraternity, or maybe a school of technical learning. I knew that some people would confuse “fumo” with smoke rather than steam (the word has both meanings) but in a steampunk setting that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

To their credit, Jim and Zetta did not insist. we compromised, adding a subtitle, “Out of Steam, Joy”, to clarify it, and we moved forward with that title.

Personally, I think that the idea of a steampunk story set in Ancient Rome is a good one, and I’m frankly quite surprised that there haven’t been more of them already. The popularity of cable dramas like “Spartacus: Blood and Sand” and “Rome” attest to the continuing interest in this time period. Nothing could mar my enthusiasm.

It turned out that there are a couple of fans of the Latin language among my fans, and it also turned out that I had not been quite thorough enough in my research, and the title could be more accurately translated as “Joy made out of Steam” which wasn’t exactly what I was looking for. “De Fumo Gaudium” would have been more accurate.

Unfortunately, the publishing process had moved on, and it was impractical to go back and change it. All my marketing had been based on that title, it was on the cover, it was, simply, the title. We were stuck.

They say adversity engenders creativity (or something like that), so I added a foreword to the book inviting the reader to imagine that the title was coined in a distant land, an ocean away from the scholarly communities of Mother Rome, in a place peopled mostly with soldiers, merchants, and explorers. I felt that this was appropriate given that the book itself takes place in just this sort of location. It’s a bit of a dodge, but you do what you have to.

Ex Fumo Gaudiam is now available in ebook form, from www.logical-lust.com, and with ebook sellers everywhere.