Wednesday, November 7, 2012

Cheeky Spanking Stories On Tour

Have you seen this cover?

I love it.  It's the kind of cover I think about on the subway and it makes me smile like an idiot.  As you can see, it's the cover for Cheeky Spanking Stories, an erotic anthology edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel.  This Cheeky bum's on a virtual book tour, and today it's found its way to Donuts and Desires.

Normally, I might tell you what inspired me to write my story "Butch Girls Don't Cry," which is featured in Cheeky, but not this time.


Don't be.

Sacchi Green already interviewed me here ( about the inspiration for my butch/femme lesbian spanking story.  So instead of repeating myself, I'll tell you a bit about the story itself.

Are butch girls really so tough?  Are vixens really so heartless?  

In Butch Girls Don't Cry, a self-proclaimed vintage tart encounters a mysterious stranger in her apartment building's sauna room.  Much to her surprise, the hot butch is crying--blubbering like a man--and the reason for this daddy's pain is unmistakable: her heart's been trampled by a pretty little girl in stiletto boots.  Everybody knows a break-up cry, and our femme proves herself a masterful slut/goddess when care gives way to desire.  

Here's an excerpt:

Wringing out my hair, I wrapped the wet towel around my naked middle and figured I might as well cool my jets in the hot sauna.

It wasn’t until I’d swung open the heavy wooden door that I realized there was somebody inside. And who do you think that somebody was? Yes indeed, it was the big bad butch who’d caught my eye by the pool and then rejected me. She was still fully dressed, but her head hung low. Deep moaning sounds fell from her full lips. Between her feet in black flip-flops, tears sizzled against the hot wooden floor slats. My big strong butch was crying! Not whining like a girl, not whimpering like a puppy, but blubbering like a man. Like her father or her dog just died, as Leonard Cohen put it.

This mysterious stranger had suffered a loss, but I was pretty sure it had nothing to do with a father or a dog. It was a loss in love, that much I could tell. I could feel it in my heart—my heart, which expanded with every breath to house her hurt. I knew just the type of dark-haired beauty who’d trampled her spirit with stiletto boots: deep red lips, bright red nails, short bangs and a vintage dress. A vixen. A tart. Oh, how many times had that beauty been me?

Tears streamed down her plump cheeks, barely distinguishable from the sweat gleaming on her skin. She didn’t acknowledge me, except by sitting up a little straighter. Still, her chin swung down close to her chest. As she shook her head left and right, tears soaked the front of her sweat-dampened tank top. She mumbled indistinguishable words, but I got the sense she wasn’t talking to me or even to herself. My guess? She was pleading with the woman now absent from her life, the pretty girl who’d hurt her so badly.

Everybody knows a break-up cry. You know it when you see it. Because we’ve all been there, everybody above the age of sixteen or so. We’ve all been hit by that bolt from the blue, or seen the end slowly creeping up on us like a creature of the night. And it hurts. God, it hurts like nothing else in the world and it leaves us weak as kittens.

Time may heal the wound of this individual experience, but the next time a relationship comes to an end, we’re torn open just as wide. There’s no learning curve for emotion. We are subjected to it and rendered submissive in its hands.

I’m no mother, but I know what it is to care for another human being. My maternal instinct is strong enough to embrace anyone in need, and open enough to realize the desire that care can generate. Open enough not to turn that desire away. Open enough to welcome it.

So I walked across the sauna room. All it took was three small steps.
Cheeky is available now from Amazon and such places.  It's published by Cleis Press.

Giselle Renarde

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