Roxy Katt's Blog, page 5

The NSFW Files: An Appreciation of the Erotic in Literature and Comics

by Karl Wolff

Printed and distributed by the Chicago Center for Literature and Photography

First electronic edition, January 2015

Available in numerous electronic formats at: cclapcenter.com/nsfwfiles

Review by Roxy Katt

The world needs more works of intelligence when it comes to the discussion of erotica. This book is one of them.

The NSFW Files is a collection of related essays, most of which appeared originally on the Chicago Center for Literature and Photography (CCLaP) website. In the ���Introduction to the Web Series��� part of the book Karl Wolff says, ���In popular criticism, timing is everything. In light of the wild success and popularity of Fifty Shades of Grey by E.L. James, the time is ripe to examine the genre known as erotica.���

Fifty Shades of Grey has certainly stirred up the pot in the erotica writing world. For the most part, actual erotica writers are contemptuous of it. Wolff himself has no interest in the book. Let���s face it: E.L James has sold 100 million copies while most of the rest of us erotica writers must scramble for a few peanuts. I have not read 50 Shades, Wolff hasn���t either, by his own admission, and neither of us wants to. But Wolff���s book is not about the latest privilegiado of the literary 1%.

The NSFW Files is not a systematic history of erotica, but it is clearly not intended as such. Instead, it is a collection of essays on some 20 works of erotic literature, including some graphic novels, wherein the author ponders, ���What is erotica? What is pornography? What makes a work obscene or indecent? How are these related to its possible literary value?��� There is no systematic attempt to answer these questions definitively so much as an analysis of these particular works with these questions constantly in mind.

Wolff���s perspective is ��� aesthetic, intellectual, and hedonistic,��� and this is exactly the work���s strength. The NSFW Files runs ���the gamut from allusive highbrow literature to notorious smut.��� As the author says towards the end of the book in ���On the Erotic: Concluding Remarks,��� ���when approaching erotica, don���t think like a Supreme Court Justice���.Think like a sommelier or a dandy.���

And that is how this book thinks. To read The NSFW Files is to be in the presence of an engaging intelligence. Wolff is an intellectual without trendy baggage. He has a refreshing style. He sounds like the sort of person you could have a very good conversation with in a bar or a coffee shop. I found myself especially interested in reading Our Lady of the Flowers, by Jean Genet, after reading Wolff���s essay on same, and in reading Susan Sontag���s ���The Pornographic Imagination��� (this is not one of the works he focuses on in any particular essay, but Wolff makes frequent mention of it in his analyses).

Most of the essays are each divided into the following sections: ���Personal history,��� ���History,��� ���The Book,��� and ���The Verdict.���

���Personal History��� is not present in each case, but deals with, for example, (sometimes nostalgically) the author���s first encounter with the book and how it affected him, where he bought it, etc. ���History��� is more the actual cultural context of the book���s writing. Keep in mind that Wolff starts with the Bible���s ���Song of Songs��� and then proceeds to the 1st century Satyricon, moving on to the 18th century with de Sade, briefly into the 19th century, and then a generous selection of 20th century works, including some graphic novels.

���The Book��� is a closer analysis of the text in question, of course, and ���The Verdict��� something of an evaluation, and the place the text might be said to have (or deserve) in the history of erotic literature.

Check this book out, and even if you are a frequent reader of erotica, you will likely discover something weird and wonderful you didn���t know existed.

Maybe you are thinking girdle fetishism is strictly a guy thing? Or a transvestic, forced feminization fetish? Think again. It’s not only the men who spent their boyhood lusting after the models in the Sears catalogue. Did the publishers of these thick volumes ever have any idea they were encouraging whole generations of perverts?

In my latest story, The Ungirdling�� Lesbian girdle fetishist Cheryl is so distracted by the fact that her heterosexual female boss is wearing a super tight girdle that she applies for a transfer to another department to avoid further sexual frustration. What else can she do? Office romance is so risky. But her secret comes out during a performance evaluation. The boss, however, does not want to lose this excellent employee. Be careful, boss, think before you act. A lesbian is not a toy.

My latest story features at least two elements I like to play with in my work: the lesbian who takes on the erotic challenge of the straight (or supposedly straight) woman, and the whole scenario of younger versus older women. And as far as I am concerned, office environment porn is so hot. All those snug, respectable clothes and what they hide underneath! Clothing is so much more sexy when its “real” purpose is to make one simply powerful and respectable, I think.

I swear, that though I was not around in the fifties, it’s really as if no small amount of my own erotic interests were formed by that period. What other sexual subcultures have been overlooked? Anyone turned on by Emma Peel’s car?

I Love Erotica is a new website opening today.�� This site features so far 10 erotica writers of various tastes, and will eventually be featuring more.�� I Love Erotica is a website that embraces diversity in sexuality, orientation, and kinks.

And yes, I am one of the authors.�� You will find other splendid writers there such as Anthony Quill, Bella Swann, Candi Kay, Connie Cliff, David J. Jones, Felicity Brandon, Moctezuma Johnson, Shelby Kent-Stewart, and Tonya Kinzer.

I will be doing a series of interviews later this month at this blog with various erotica writers.�� I am looking specifically for people who write transgender, comedy, or latex/rubber fetish books or stories.�� Do you have something on your mind about what it’s like to write and publish such stories?�� If you are interested in being interviewed, just email me at [email protected].�� I am especially interested in those who write in the neglected genre of comedy erotica, and those who write in the up and coming genre of trans erotica.

I’ve often thought about what it is that so turns me on so about rubber or latex.

It has to do with power and vulnerability.

Now vulnerability can be sexy, and power can be sexy, but from my point of view, for someone to be purely powerful or purely vulnerable is not necessarily sexy at all.�� For me, and in my writing, the sexiest stuff has to do with a subtle and stirring combination of power and vulnerability in the same person.

You might say, what I am thinking of is power with an Achilles’ heel.

And this is where rubber comes in.�� Think about it: on the one hand, rubber is the clothing material par excellence of power.�� It gives excellent figure control, it’s air tight and doesn’t let in water and chemicals, it looks and feels like a kind of armour.���� It holds things in and keeps everything out.�� The wearer is hermetically sealed and in control.

On the other hand, rubber is vulnerability (usually unexpected!) for the wearer.�� It can show off every ounce of fat, it seems always threatening to burst open, and can be so difficult to get into and out of that the process of doing so makes one as helpless as a turtle on its back.�� Rubber always seems to call attention to the very zippers you want to have control over, giving potential invaders ideas.�� Not least, rubber can be inflated, turning its proud and haughty wearer into a cartoon-like balloon.

And this brings me to my last point about rubber’s vulnerability.�� You know the old saying: “pride goeth before a fall.”�� The haughtiness rubber inspires in its seemingly invincible wearers … well, I will let you fill in with your own imagination about what comes next (you can get some help there with my stories).

And what about the accoutrements that so often go with rubber?�� Corsets, high heeled boots, etc.�� These things definitely convey a sense of power in the wearer and bring the beholder to her knees in awe, but in practical terms, they make one more vulnerable.�� Would you want to be wearing a catsuit, corset, and high heeled boots while fighting a girl in a T-shirt, running shoes, and yoga pants?�� The fact is, if she is not intimidated into submission by your appearance and actually fights you, you might be doomed.�� Your armour is your trap.

This story is a bit different from what I usually do, although not more unusual than most of my work. It was published at forthegirls.com quite a while back and is still in their archives I believe, but since their exclusive rights to the story have expired I thought I’d post it here. Enjoy.


WAITING FOR MICKEY
by Roxy KattHe has asked her to meet him here, where they first met: the Eighteenth Century Room at the Metropolitan Museum of Bizarre Curiosities. This Other Woman, at the moment alone in the room, stands tall and cool and self-possessed in her professional looking black leather suit: high heeled boots, knee length pencil skirt, fitted jacket, matching bag over her shoulder. Her hair is short and black. She wears dark sunglasses. She looks with a wry smile at the exhibit that inspired their favourite game: a delightfully filthy adventure wherein she calls him “Mickey” and he eats a fat wad of cheese out of her steaming pussy.The glass display case before her contains a small, dead, stuffed creature, which looks like nothing more than a little ball of fuzzy orange fur. There is a plaque:

CATALONIAN CHEESE MOUSE: Known for its phenomenal sense of smell, the Catalonian Cheese Mouse is thought to have been bred secretly for purposes not entirely clear. One theory is that it was used by aristocratic ladies as a means of personal gratification.

Beneath her straining skirt, beneath the high-waisted, longline, white open bottomed girdle that secures her expensive stockings, her unpantied cunt is stuffed with cheese.

She has decided to serve him Gouda this time. Actually, she thinks, she may have cut too large a piece. It’s wedged in pretty tight and she’s getting excited already. When will he get here?

When he does, she wants to tell him to skip the restaurant they had planned. They’ll go straight to her apartment and they will pretend that she was going to give some nice cheese to her pet “Mickey” but seems to have misplaced it. She and “Mickey” will look high and low for it, until he will sniff the air and say, “Wait! I smell it.”

“Where, Mickey? Tell me where?”

“The smell seems to be coming from under your skirt, mistress.”

“Oh no. That’s not possible.”

Sniffing about her as she tries to dodge him: “I believe it’s in your cooter, mistress.”

“What? How stupid do you think I am? How could I possibly be stupid enough to lose a huge whack of cheese up my thing and not even know it? Oh you dirty minded little mouse. No cheese for you!”

“Yes! I wants it! I must have it!”

“NO! You’re a very bad little mousie. Back to your cage this instant!”

Then of course, mousie loses all control, and, dreadful little creature that he is, strips, binds, and orally ravishes his unfortunate mistress while berating her for her culinary stupidity, all the while enjoying two kinds of delectable repast at once.

If “Mickey” doesn’t get here soon, she thinks, sweating into her girdle and her leather outfit, I’m going to have to find the ladies room here and . . .

* * * * * * * *

This last one was the last straw. My husband has cheated on me for the last time and I am leaving him. But when I found the bitch’s picture I was conflicted: damn, she’s hot. Do I want to kill her, or do her? I’ve suppressed my desires for both sexes for years to be loyal to my husband. Not any more. It would serve him right too if I took his latest popsie away from him.

And why not?

So here I am, unnoticed by her at the opposite end of the Eighteenth Century Room at the Metropolitan Museum of Bizarre Curiosities. Tasteful, tight black leather. Very hot. She looks terrific. Very well put together.

But you can’t just walk up to a woman and say, “Hi! I’m the wife of the bastard whose been boinking you! Let’s have dinner!”

She looks very proud. Proud bitch! How I’d love to break that pride and turn her into a quivering puddle of jello. I wonder what would happen if this proud bitch encountered a situation she simply couldn’t handle? What if something bizarre and terrible happened to her in this museum of the bizarre and she got into trouble and ended up pleading for rescue? Rescued people can be very grateful.

Yes, I know all about hubby’s habits. He and I used to do the cheese thing long ago when he still cared. If my hunch is right and she’s got her muff wrapped around a fat stick of Edam or Gouda she’s about to have a surprise.

Yes, enter my new little friend, Mickey. Hello, my little furry friend. Tired of being inside my stuffy little purse? How about if I set you down on the floor here. What’s that? You smell something tasty? Off you go then. See what you can find. Yes, look at him run, the little devil, look how he scampers right towards her, her with her cheese laden and unsuspecting Achilles cunt. My dear Mickey does love a bit of cheese so.

THE END

THE COCK WHISPERER

by Roxy Katt

We see her from behind: the tall and spidery-thin yuppie in the high-waisted leather jods — light yellow jods ever so tightly zipped up the side. Her slender, firm thighs don’t touch even when her knees do, as she relates some complacent sounding anecdote to her semi-circle of horsey friends.

“Ma’am,” the stable girl calls to her, “your horse is ready. Shall I bring her out of the stable for you?”

The equestrienne’s head turns ever so slightly in the upturned collar of her crisp, white cotton shirt as if the stable girl’s voice were just some nuance in the wind barely heard behind her: “I’ll come and get her, Rhonda.”

“Rhoda,” the stable girl says, hesitantly. The equestrienne drops her cigarette and crushes it under her boot. Her friends all have that same strained look: something always conspires against the plans of us supercompetent people. She mutters something to them, glancing back at Rhoda slyly, and they laugh.

She turns and walks towards Rhoda and Rhoda swallows hard, trying not to stare at the smooth, carefully contoured – but absolutely gigantic – bulge between her slender thighs straining at a triangular flap sealed by four sturdy snaps. Just beneath the jods is the faint outline of a “ball bra” that girdles the rider’s hips and holds that great package of elephant trunk neatly in place.

Rhoda looks a little faint. She loves women with dicks, especially the bitchy ones.

The equestrienne is about to breeze past her unceremoniously when Rhoda reaches out to touch her shoulder.

She stops, abruptly, staring straight ahead as if digesting something unbelievable: she touched me? She detains me?

Rhoda leans into her ear and with slow and laconic sounds otherwise totally unlike her uncertain self, whispers the strange words, reader, which even I do not know.

The rider gasps, and her eyes round as if in amazement. There is a creaking sound as of soft leather violently stretched. “What the . . .” there is a loud and rapid-fire popping as all four snaps over her groin give way and her pants flap bursts open. A flash of white cotton appears before she slams her knees together, bending forward awkwardly at the hips, her gauntleted hands trying to cover herself.

“My . . . how did you . . . I can’t . . .” as she fumbles to re-close her pants. But there is a cartoonish twanging sound as the cup of her ball bra bursts its hooks and her naked dick surges forth between her desperately scrabbling leathered fingers like a carp breaking a through a net, mindlessly, madly swimming upstream . . .

“You’re free,” Rhoda says with sudden relief. “Enjoy yourself. Literally.”

“B-bitch,” she cries, rather stupidly, staring incredulously at her surging dick and grabbing it with both hands like a witch riding an out of control broom. Seminal fluid leaks copiously, lubricating her grip as she begins to jack herself off with ever increasing rapidity, cursing, groaning, helplessly masturbating towards her volcanic climax as her friends gasp, and clap and wonder . . .

copyright 2011 by Roxy Katt

Check it out here at amazon!

I’ve written and published quite a few erotic stories, and even the script for an erotic comic, but this is my first novella.  At 13,000 words, Rubber Space Academy is about four times the typical length of one of my stories.  Here is a short description:

Space cadet Pamela Blamm is in trouble. Unauthorized sex toys have been found in her footlocker at the highly repressed Titus Bysshe Women’s Space Academy, and it looks like she will be disciplined. But Pamela’s encounter with the rubber skirted CO takes a bizarre turn and leads to a series of erotic and comical escapades with latex clad women of the academy. Will Pamela be able to escape?  Along the way she encounters women in rubber skirts, uniforms, girdles, and a space suit.  This book is a great, rubberized romp.

You can purchase this story on Kindle or at any of the Smashwords outlets.

 

I have written a number of stories over the years, but no longer works (if you exclude one about a lesbian private eye and her kinky adventures, which never got finished due to plot problems).  However, I started recently a rubber/latex oriented erotic novella that takes place in a women’s space academy.  Can’t say much more about it yet, but I’m roughly 1/3 of the way through.  Looking at it optimistically, I could be done by the end of September, but with all I have to do these days, it will more likely be October or later.