The Autumn Diaries (12 page)

The cops repeat that Autumn did nothing wrong. Autumn says she’s naked in public. The cops tell her that local ordinances make that permissible. Eventually they decide she’s crazy but hot and take her back to a very small local police station, where they lock her in a holding cell like Otis the drunk. They lock her up naked. They try to give her clothes, but she’s like a toddler and just keeps ripping them off.

Once in the cell, Autumn, who is totally fucking shithoused from drinking absinthe or something with the dorks, starts complaining about police brutality. The police at first respond rationally and tell her that she’s not being brutalized, and she’s like, “What about my PUSSY, which doesn’t have any COCKS in it yet?” And then she sticks her ass against the bars with her back furburger sticking out at the officers. One announces the very obvious fact that she’s drunk and goes outside for a cigarette because he’s a total douchebag.
 

The guy who remains is like twenty — clearly the rookie. But the joke is on the other motherfuckers, because the prisoner is down to fuck. So Autumn gets all prison movie on him and keeps pushing her pussy up between the bars and grabbing her tits and fingering herself. Eventually she gets the cop to stick his dick between the bars and sucks it for a while, then turns around to take his meat in her snatch. The cop doesn’t give a tiny shit about how drunk or disorderly she is and starts to open the door, but Autumn is like FUCK THAT I WANT JAIL ASS and tells him to fuck her like six different ways, all of which are totally awkward. Then he blows a giant load on her face and in her hair.
 

The cop then lets her go. She came, so she’s quieter and more satisfied. She declines a ride and runs right back out into the woods, where the LARP dorks are still playing. She’s still got a face and hairdo full of jizz, so they declare her an “elf whore” and pretend to bludgeon her to death, thus ending her character’s life in the game. The story ends when Autumn recovers a dropped wizard’s staff and fucks it until she cums again, then wakes up sticky with some hobo watching her while eating beans from a can.
 

Of course the real story is nowhere near this ridiculous, but it’s also not especially funny. Maybe even sad.
 

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25

I GOT CAUGHT UP OVER the last few days and — horror! — failed to listen to the Self Publishing Podcast until two days after it was released. I felt like such a commoner. And of all weeks, too, since it was an episode that got me really excited. No, not like that.

The bulk of the episode was all about how to go from self-publication to getting an agent. It was interesting, but I don’t really want an agent for my stuff. But it did sort of redefine how the game has changed. Specifically, authors are now the ones in charge, and good authors who can build their own audiences and their own success hold a lot of power. Agents and publishers can now come to US.
 

But that’s not why I got excited. At the very end, their guest made a joke about maybe going into erotica, and the three hosts kind of jumped all over that, agreeing that, yeah, erotica was an interesting market, and that they should have an erotica author on. They were pro smut, not at all looking down on it. On the heels of the success of
50 Shades of Grey
, the world has sorta started to open up about sex and even S&M, and the erotica market is now hard to ignore.
 

It made me proud — and, I’ll be honest, a little wet — to realize these guys I’ve been stalking are so open-minded about the smut market and even maybe interested in it. Johnny sounded like he almost wanted to write it, LOL.
 

Their talk about all of the “50 Shades” spinoffs (specifically
50 Shades of Alice in Wonderland
) also seemed serendipitous since I decided to release
50 Shades of Lexi Maxxwell
.
 

I should write my thoughts on my
50 Shades
before I forget the thoughts behind it, but I’m way too horny. Sam’s out tonight. Might be time to fire up my sex toy collection.
 

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26

OKAY, FOR THE RECORD, HERE’S the basics behind my own
50 Shades
collection. First, I wrote 50 absolutely filthy stories (holy crap, how did I write 50 already? That’s insane!) and then I bundled them all together into this one massive collection that sells for $9.99. Everyone wins. I win because with Amazon’s 70% commission structure, I make $7 for each one I sell. (And damn well I should; I wrote it and 50 stories is a fuckload of writing time!) My awesome readers win because it’s a crazy amount of content and costs a lot less than the stories, which sell for 99 cents each, would cost if purchased individually.
 

Which means that I can put this really great call to action at the end of each story: “Did you like this story? Get 50 more like it for only 20 cents each!”
 

Sort of irresistible for someone who likes reading my stuff.
 

I feel that this may be a breakthrough move for me in this business, because if the sell, well that really elevates my game. The single stories only get me a 35 cent commission, so although they sell, they’re a drop in the bucket.
 

What if I could reliably sell ten of these a day? It’ll happen in time. When it does, maybe I’ll celebrate by bringing a few extra girls to bed for Sam.
 

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I WANT TO WRITE A real book. The writers on the podcast write full books, and I’ve mostly written these little short stories, which I think of as “single-serving fantasies.” I do love them, and they’re fun to write, and they’re kind of a release for me because I finally get to tell my own tales. But they’re limited because there’s only so much story that can happen in a few thousand words, especially considering they all end up in sex.
 

And yeah, I know that’s the point for an erotica writer… to have stuff end up in sex. But there’s a lot of stuff that happens that has nothing to do with sex in real life, and wouldn’t it be kind of fun to build some of that like other writers… to build some anticipation? Think of one of my faves in
50 Shades of Gre
y (not
50 Shades of Lexi Maxxwell)
— there’s a ton of story in those books where there’s no sex. Not that I want to start NOT writing sex, of course. But it’d be nice to spread out into the scope of a novel… and still keep that novel hot and wet and gooey and sticky.

I’ve been working on a full book called
Anticipation
, appropriately, which will be the first in an alphabet series like Sue Grafton does (the second will be
Bound
), but although I love it,
Anticipation
is fairly domestic and would be a real departure for my readers, who are used to me being so off-the-wall and gonzo. Hell,
Anticipation
doesn’t even have the word “cunt” in it.
 

So I’ve been trying to think of another book idea too. Everyone likes vampires. Maybe I’ll write a vampire book.
 

Brainstorm:

Sucking Blood while Sucking Cock

Bloodsucking Cocksuckers

Sounds a bit too gonzo.
 

Hmm, I’ll figure it out.
 

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3

BITTEN
. THAT’S WHAT I CAN call my vampire novel.
 

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7

THE LATEST EPISODE OF MY favorite writing/publishing podcast couldn’t have come at a better time. These guys really have become my like my mentors, even though they don’t know me other than this crazy chick who constantly emails them.

In the episode where they talked about erotica a bit at the end, they said they needed to find a good erotica writer to have on the show. I’m determined to be that writer if it means I have to do some serious cocksucking. Too bad all three seem to be happily and faithfully married.

Anyway, this week’s show was about building and trimming your tribe, which is something I’ve been struggling with.
 

I write such crazy shit that sometimes I wonder if it’s right for everyone in my audience, or if I’m going to offend people or send them away. I have my mailing list, and people do sometimes unsubscribe and leave it. I see those and they always make me wonder if I should have tried to keep that person. It’s like this tiny failure, but a failure nonetheless. Every once in a while, a tiny part of me wonders if I should tone it down because my audience is a lot of normal people who are, in real life, nothing like me.
 

But now I get it. I can and should only be who I really am. Some people are going to like me and some aren’t, and that’s fine. That’s good, actually, because the more people who aren’t right for me that leave, the better I’ll be aligned with the people who stick around. You build a stronger “tribe” by speaking to and writing for your ideal readers.
 

So I guess I’ll keep being super, super filthy. Keep being me.
 

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I’VE BEEN WORKING ON
BITTEN
— just kind of brainstorming and throwing ideas together — and I was talking to Sam about it. Fun ensued.

Sam likes that I’m writing smut, but he likes it in the way that the parent of a kid with a temper likes it when that kid takes up karate. Like that aggressive kid will now channel his destructiveness and anger into heavy bags and sparring matches and the discipline of karate. Sam seems to think writing erotica is an “acceptable outlet” for my oversexed nature. He keeps steering me toward it when I’m all worked up and he can’t take it. Like last week when his groin was still healing from those bone bruises and his dick was still chafed and I came at him with my lips puckered and he was like, “Please, no, not yet so soon, it hurts” and I called him a big pussy, and then he steered me toward my laptop, and, once I’d settled in, he brought me my pink vibrator in the way most boyfriends would bring their working girlfriend a cup of coffee or a glass of wine. Then he went off and applied more Neosporin while I mind-fucked a rainbow of people because I’m an equal-opportunity kind of girl.
 

But Sam also likes that my writing gives me what his presence prohibits. The one downside of being with Sam is that we’re exclusive (and I want that too; my pussy is the one who sometimes protests), and writing about fucking random people or people who I’ve kind of always wanted to fuck (or fuck again) lets me explore what I will no longer let myself explore in real life. He’s not jealous of stories from my past, and he’s not jealous when I fantasize about doing those things again in the presence. He understands that fantasy is fantasy, and he’s even cool with being a surrogate cock after I’ve just gotten all worked up thinking about some guy who’s not him. In the end, it’s his dick I ride, and
him
I love. So it works.
 

And sometimes, Sam likes that my writing ramps me up and keeps me adventurous. It’s rare that I need more prodding to be adventurous, but there are the occasional times when Sam is feeling super horny and super crazy and I want to rise to meet him.
 

So we were talking about
Bitten
, and he was telling me about how he read some Anne Rice stuff when he was in his teens and how it was pretty good whacking material for a guy who wasn’t getting it for real yet, and so he’d sort of formed this attachment in his head between vampires and sex. (I didn’t point out the fact that everyone attaches vampires and sex. I mean, they’re all about sucking and being sexy and biting necks and whatnot. Who cares if they’re dead and might kill you or damn you forever?)

I then took off my top and started biting Sam’s neck. Seriously, it doesn’t take much to get me going. My slit was already totally lubed and ready for his rainbow roll I started to gnaw on his jugular. So I started rubbing it and then got it out and then pushed my panties aside (why I was wearing them, I don’t remember and can’t imagine) and we kept fucking and biting and I was all, “Come join my army of the undead and stuff.”
 

But it wasn’t quite right. There’s no such thing as being disappointed for a guy in that situation — with a hot girl riding his cock and juicing all over the place, tits in his face, until he fills her with spunk — but I knew I could do better.
 

So the next day, while Sam’s at work, I went to a costume shop and bought a pair of fangs and a slutty black leather one-piece vampiress outfit with no cups in the top and no crotch. Then — and this should be testament to either how much I want to please my man or (more likely) just how much my horniness overrides my logic — I took an ice bath like in those wacko health books just as Sam was supposed to come home. It was insanely, insanely uncomfortable. The only way to distract myself was to rub my pussy, but I couldn’t get off. This, of course, just made me hornier.