October 5 2017

STRINGS: Rebooted

Yesterday I shared the blurb and cover for my upcoming lesbian erotica novel BANG, book 5 in the Hard Rock Harlots series. Today, I’m sharing the new, updated, BOOTIFUL cover for STRINGS, book 1 in that series. The inside is the same (Throwback Thursday!), but the outside got a facelift, thanks to the talented Amy from QDesign. I loved the original covers for this series, but the new ones rock pretty hard too!

Stay tuned over the next few days to see the new covers for the other books in this series. And if you haven’t picked up STRINGS yet, it’s only $2.99 or FREE for Kindle Unlimited subscribers. Links are below the blurb. Enjoy!

STRINGS 2nd ED - 200 X 300WARNING: STRINGS is not suitable for slut shamers, uptight stone throwers, Holier-Than-Thou prudes, humorless virgins, persons with chronic neck or back pain, pearl-clutching bitties, those who disparage crude humor or vulgarity in their many forms, closed-minded people with sticks up their asses, or anyone under the age of 18. The vile, base language and shocking, unholy sexual acts contained herein are not condoned by anyone with a lick of sense and should certainly not be reproduced without proper training and protection. The potty-mouthed and perpetually horny “heroine” (the term is used loosely) of this book does not resemble a normal, well-adjusted, or remotely believable person in any way, shape, or form. The author acknowledges that the characters in this book are shallow and two-dimensional; the plot is both ridiculous and insipid. She makes no apologies for any of it.

* Readers are strongly advised to wear latex gloves whilst reading to minimize contamination risks.

Free-spirited musician Letty Dillinger adheres to a strict, “no strings attached” policy when it comes to men. After a wild night of unabashed sex in a fancy hotel room, she never expects to see the adventurous stud she dubs “Shades” again. When her all-girl rock trio books a tour at the last minute as the opening act for their archenemies, Letty’s shocked to discover she knows the competition’s new lead singer. Intimately. Shades is no longer a one-night stand. Now he’s the guy she has to one-up on stage every night for the sake of her career.

Sharing close quarters on a bus with her sexy nemesis and his bad-boy buddies puts Letty’s Golden Rule to the test. On this tour, guitar strings aren’t the only things being played. And when heartstrings are pulled too hard, they’re bound to snap sooner or later.

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October 4 2017

Hard Rock Harlots #5 is coming!

Killer Buzz Float manager Jillian Frost has survived the band’s social media woes, baby drama, insecurities, and various forms of incarcerations and come out looking like the bad-ass mom-bitch who rules the bus and the hearts of the rock stars inside it. Though she seems cool as a cucumber on the outside (like that old deodorant commercial says, “Never let ’em see you sweat!”), Jillian is hot and sticky on the inside.

We’re four books in to the Hard Rock Harlots series. It’s time for the world to hear Jillian’s side of the Hard Rock Harlots saga thus far.

Ladies and gents, I give you … BANG.

BANG 2nd ED 200 X 300Book 5 in the Hard Rock Harlots Series

Some people think touring with a bunch of hardcore rockers would be a dream come true.

It isn’t.

Most days, life on the bus is more like a nightmare made flesh. Stressful, tense, and claustrophobic as crap.

Keeping the band members from suffocating each other with pillows has been a full-time job since we first hit the road. One day I’m playing referee between longtime friends fighting over the drummer girl. The next I’m Mean Mommy Jillian hiding liquor bottles from the guitarist who splits his time between impromptu stomach pumps at the local emergency room and unscheduled overnight accommodations in the local police station’s drunk tank.

And don’t even get me started on the one whose name starts with “Letty Dillinger.” A hypersexual, walking special effect, she can be the best or the worst of them all, depending on which side of the bed the wet spot is on and whether she woke up on it.

I’m tired. I miss my best friend, the ex-husband who left me for a man. (It’s okay. Turns out I’m a lesbian and didn’t know it. Go figure.) I long for the touch of a woman who can take me away from the chaos whipping my life like an egg beater, if only for a little while. If the horny beast trapped inside this cage doesn’t get out soon, my job, my band, my reputation might not survive.

I don’t need love. I just need an orgasm. A really long, hard, knuckle-whitening, teeth-clenching, window-rattling, thigh-splitting climax.

Unfortunately, my employers–Letty especially–aren’t going to like where I’m going to get it.

* * * *

Formerly published in draft form on Wattpad, BANG has been professionally edited and updated for retail sale. BANG is LGBTQ erotica that includes FF, MMF, FFF, BDSM, and may trigger sensitive readers. It is not a romance.


You can pre-order BANG, book five in the Hard Rock Harlots series today. It’s only $2.99 or FREE for Kindle Unlimited subscribers on October 17. What are you waiting for?

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May 26 2017

What the Fuckery Friday: Cows

Driving along the streets of Backwoods, Georgia one day, I noticed a herd of cows in a field. Not unusual by any stretch. However, this particular group looked like they were up to no-good. They all faced the same direction, as cows, who are quite follower-y, are wont to do, but something about their cloven stances struck me as diabolical. Or maybe it was the glowing embers in their normally dull eyes.

The head cow in charge lifted his beefy muzzle as I made my approach. Chewing his cud, he said to his mates, “It’s just a fucking minivan. We need a truck. Keep watching for a truck.”

The other cows nodded. “Got it, boss. Truck. Minivans can go to hell where they belong. With serial killers and war criminals and fuckers who don’t wear deodorant.”

Shocked, I looked at my son sitting beside me. “What do you think those cows are up to?” I asked.

“They definitely want to steal a truck,” said he.

“Should we call the authorities?” My fingers tensed around the steering wheel.

“I don’t know. I got a bad feeling about this.”

Me fucking too.

The beta cow, a sassy-looking black and white heifer, watched me with a deeply disturbing stare. Hungry. Like she hadn’t eaten in days and had suddenly developed a hankering for human flesh. Or maybe she was born with it.

She chew-whispered so the others couldn’t hear, “I want that minivan, missus. And the Demonling too. He looks mighty tasty.” Then that cow licked her meaty lips.

I rolled down the window. “Bitch, you better stay away from my Demonling with those smackery-doos. Don’t think I won’t take an umbrella to your hide!”

She sat back on her haunches and lifted a front leg like a giant bird finger. “Child, please. I got a good 1500 pounds on your skinny ass. Beat me. I triple-dog dare you.”

“Shows how little you know,” I shouted back. “I sure as shit ain’t skinny. I’m as thick as thieves around these here parts. Keep your wanderin’ gaze fixed on your own kind, or I’ll call the cow cops.”

She straightened right up after that threat, and so did the others. “We ain’t done nothin’ wrong,” the alpha said. “No need to bring the law.”

Just then, a truck appeared in my rearview. I played it cool, tracking it through the looking-glass. When the truck got close, a rumbling bullish voice hollered, “We’ll be takin’ that there truck, mister. Get the fuck outta the vehicle.”

And sure enough, the driver exited. Them goddamn cows surrounded the pick-up, standing on their hind legs, wielding weapons and prods like they was some kind of bovine militia. The alpha gestured with his shotgun for the driver to get out of their way. Then he slung the shotgun across his back like a samurai sword and climbed into the driver’s seat. The sassy heifer got in the passenger side, and four others leapt into the bed.

A pair of dark sunglasses slid over the bull’s eyes. “The giant Ferris wheel soon will be ours!”

The other cows mooed their excitement as the tires squealed, leaving behind a cloud of red clay dust.

I shook my head and turned on the windshield wipers. Just another day in Backwoods, Georgia.

May 12 2017

What the Fuckery Friday: Coffee

Kona-D got her eyes on you, mahfuckah.
Kona-D got her eyes on you, mahfuckah.

“What puts the cream in your coffee?” you ask.

Who might be the better question,” says I.

If it weren’t for cream and lashings of sugar (or sugar substitute in the event of emergency, which is every single day), I wouldn’t roll out of bed, fresh as a paisley with stars in my eyes and fire in my heart. Those valves sometimes stall and lurch, but pay no mind to the magician behind the aorta. It’s all electric pulses and beams from foreign governments, not the whimsical fancy of a feckless god playing pool and using you as the cue ball. The blue chalk can choke your pulmonary vesicles if you’re not careful, so don’t inhale. Never inhale. We saw where that got Bill Clinton.

Another of those Bills (there are ever so many) was the one who went after Beatrix Kiddo. A damn shame, too, because that Beatrix made a lovely bride, reptilian codename and all. You can bet your sweet ass she had plenty of coffee on hand when she went after the Crazy 88s. A quintuple shot. It was the music that moved her. You could tell Tomoyasu Hotei got off on some major feelings when they wrote the tune.

If I were a gangster, my name would be Kona-D. D for “dangerous.” Kona coffee is smooth like butter, but you might get the shits if you drink too much. That’s what my gangster specialty would be. Giving people the shits. Many argue I do that already. I’ve been sent the hospital bills for late-term colonoscopies to prove it. The point is, Kona-D would be a righteous gangster with a red and black pinstripe suit, pimp hat, and Band-Aids on each middle finger.

Fingers are made for probing, which happens a hell of a lot more than one might expect when Kona coffee is involved. Might have something to do with that badass Pele surfing the slopes of Kīlauea in search of Halema’uma’u crater. Big fucking hole that one made. The cleaning crew had a righteous mess on their hands, but nobody said a word about it. They didn’t want Pele bringing any more shit down on them. How much you wanna bet she shows up at the capitol tomorrow wearing a pinstripe suit, toting a mug of Kona coffee as big a blue whale’s heart? I predict shit will go down when she targets her wrath on those asshole Asian palm civet farmers, toting their kopi luwak coffee shit-beans. Anything to make a fucking yuan.

Kona-D wouldn’t have none of that shit. Vegetarian coffee for all, motherfuckers! Rumor has it you can make a vicious vegan chocolate cake with strongly brewed coffee, and I stand by it. Glob some peanut butter cream cheese frosting on it if you like it leaded. The cows probably won’t mind. I imagine their tits hurt if you neglect them too long, though I wouldn’t want to touch those hairy bags. Every time I drive by the pasture, a herd of cud-chomping bitches follows me with their eyes like they’re plotting to steal my car.

I triple-heifer-dare you, vache.

May 5 2017

What the Fuckery Friday: Lady Fingers

Slender and long, tipped with hot pink like a hippie granny’s misplaced lipstick, those lady fingers get me every time. They get me in the lady-nads, in the lady-biscuits, but most often in the lady-homeopathic receptors. You know what that feels like. A thousand eels wriggling through your urethra on a quest for scones but deterred at the last moment by an unexpected tiramisu flare-up that can’t stop the painwheel it’s flying on. Or, to put it another way, the urethra’s connected to the colon bone.

If it weren’t for lady fingers, who would be there to make ticklers? I’ll tell you who. Johnny Depp, most likely, and nobody wants him to show up wearing a pair of those shallow, scathing lady fingers sans polish, unless he’s dragging Hunter S. Thompson behind him by the hair. Or lack thereof. We don’t need another trip to Vegas. Uh-uh. Not after filming that flailing bird episode you tried to push under the cargo hold. Episode six, I believe it was. The one that got us banned from the Bellagio and detoured us to that carnival for deer stains not long for this world but eternal for the next. And with those stamps they gave us came a few coupons for free bobble heads of Shakes the Clown, which was a damn funny movie, but it missed its mark on the shoe front. Nobody wears shoes like that. Not even that hot-ass fucker Tyler Durden from the subway fiasco.

God, I’d love to score a piece of Tyler. Preferably with a dollop of Ricky from Trailer Park Boys. My mouth is watering just thinking about them and a couple of lady fingers, rolling around the hay. If the pollen doesn’t get you, they will. Totally. My spirit animal Ricky moves me in ways only the devil knows about, and I’d like to keep it on the down-low, thanks.

Oh, holy fuck! I just got the title! SHAKES the Clown! HAHAHAHA! Fucking brilliant! He’s got the fucking DTs because he drinks too much. Jesus, it only took me twenty-six years to figure that shit out.

We now return to our regularly scheduled program …

When Ricky waved that fishing line around and said it was his cock, I fell in love. He’s a piece of master, always ho-ing and humming about important things like weed and dope and little lady fingers, Mizz Mary Jane. With a man like him behind the wheel, Jesus would sit in the backseat and giggle the entire trip.

Dip your nuts in these beautiful Kahlua-soaked drippings, my friend, and see where the journey takes you. Up the creek without a saddle, into the wild blue marauder, wielding Jaffa cakes and Triscuits and avoiding the pitfalls of Tim Tam slams and other assorted menaces.

A Tim Tam slam would be fucking heavenly right now. If only I had the lady fingers to employ such a glorious beast. Is it me, or does “poutine” sound incredibly dirty?

To the lady fingers, it does. No lady would ever dip her fingers in that mess.

Ladies are such fucking prudes.