Author Archives: Jack Stratton
She walked into the diner just as I was finishing my dinner. She dragged her feet and popped her gum and wore a frown perfectly.
The place was 50s chic, the counters lined with chrome and the booths with well stuffed red pleather cushions. A Lower East Side remake of a Brooklyn version of a Happy Days or David Lynch ideal of a greasy spoon.
She wore a huge puffy pink parka, pink pajama pants, rain boots, and big movie star sunglasses. She looked both miserable and determined. She was my age, but with a decidedly more youthful fashion sense, to put it mildly.
She stomped up to the counter, pushing past a family of tourists who were looking over the menu, unsure of their order. She didn’t need a menu, she knew exactly what she wanted.
“Sweet potato fries and a peanut butter cup milkshake, to go,” she dead panned to the man behind the counter. He pushed back his little paper hat and nodded.
I swooned at her order and her bratty delivery.
I tried not to stare at her as she waited for her order, but as she unzipped the ridiculously large coat I glimpsed something skin tight, low cut and pink, underneath. I looked away, but she caught my eye and glared.
I went back to my Kindle. The digital revolution making it easier to hide the fact that I mostly read smut. She eyed me and my food and swiveled her head to look at my book, which I agilely moved out of her view.
There seemed to be a bit of an internal debate going on behind her sunglasses. Deciding if I was a creep or not. Frankly I didn’t know the answer to that one myself. Looking me up and down once more I guess she thought I was at least tolerable. She moved my way to make room for the tourists.
“What did you order?” she interrogated.
I looked down at the little nub of what was left of my dinner.
“It was hotdog wrapped in cheese, wrapped in bacon, with avocado and spicy mayonnaise on top.”
She bit her lip and groaned.
“I want that,” she said, seemingly to herself.
I laughed and smiled, but she cut her eyes at me.
“No, I mean I want one now. You should get me one.”
David didn’t remember turning his alarm clock off, but as he yawned and stretched that Saturday morning he decided it was probably a good idea he hadn’t set it. After the week he had, he needed a little extra rest. Plus, it was the weekend – weren’t you supposed to sleep in?
He turned in his instinctual morning movement to check his phone and found a crisp sheet of white paper folded over it.
He opened the note and saw the neat script of his girlfriend Emily.
I hope this doesn’t come as a shock – and it shouldn’t if you have any awareness at all about our relationship over the last few months – but, I’m leaving you.
I just can’t do this anymore. I love you, but we both have grown and grown apart. Everything has gone sour and I don’t see that changing. You will always be in my heart in some way, but I am getting out before I start hating you.
I took the liberty of getting you a replacement. I know you don’t like to sleep alone and, frankly, I worry about you. You have an important job and I don’t want you to fuck it up because you are depressed about our divorce.
The replacement’s name is Claire.
I’m staying with my parents in Decatur for a while. Don’t call.
I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again, Sinclair Sexsmith is one of the few people I know of who can both write succinct political and educational essays and with the same aplomb write raw hot erotica that makes you both think and pull your pants down at your screen or bookshelf.
The first few stories in Sinclair’s newest release, Sweet & Rough: Sixteen Stories of Queer Smut, were familiar. I’ve read them on Sinclair’s website SugarButch, but I indulged and read them again. They were just as hot and complicated as I remembered. Sinclair, as narrator or character, is hot, sensitive, thoughtful, forceful, passionate, and sexy. As a top and a service top and many other more ambitious power positions, I read so many thought processes that were so familiar it was scary.
Sitting next to a sexy woman and realizing that although I thought I picked her up, she had been setting up the situation for the start and I had happily fallen into her web. Negotiating on the fly something dirty and just a little bad, like sex in the bathroom of a club or a hook up with someone I’ve known for years but never got a chance to be with. The complexities and intimacies of sex parts, sex toys, sex complications, and kink.
Every situation in this collection of stories is packed with vivid details, sometimes shockingly realistic sex, and beautiful turns of phrases and poetic lasciviousness.
As the book goes on I found lots of new tales, many of which I had never read. They had me squirming as I held my Kindle close on the subway and blushing as I paged through them at lunch at work.
I’m not the only one who thinks this collection is great though. Rachel Kramer Bussel, editor of The Big Book of Orgasms and a billion other anthologies said, “Sweet and Rough is the perfect title for this collection of raw, queer, kinky and passionate erotica that will appeal to smut connoisseurs as well as new readers looking for something hot and titillating to keep them up at night.”
Dr. Charlie Glickman, of Make Sex Better, said “There are very few erotic writers who consistently capture my attention and admiration. John Preston did. So does Carol Queen. And I’ve added Sinclair Sexsmith to that list.”
I don’t do many (or any!) reviews anymore, but I just had to talk about this collection, since I’ve known Sinclair forever and have been waiting for a big ebook of their work. I can honestly say it was well worth the weight.
Sweet & Rough: Sixteen Stories of Queer Smut by Sinclair Sexsmith. Go get it right now!
To meet the husband of you lover is a strange thing. To realize he was flirting with you was quite another. Henry, poked at his eggs and smiled nervously as Adam and Kay whispered to each other, both pairs of their pretty eyes sparkling at him as they conspired.
Henry squirmed under their eyes and attention. The whole thing wasn’t going the way he had planned at all. He had expected brunch to be something formal, like meeting your girlfriend’s parents, but he should have known any man who would have the balls to marry Kay would have to be an interesting character himself.
When they asked him back to their apartment, Henry choked on his cold brew. Still, it was put so innocently, he had to say yes.
She promised not to smoke if I just came over. When I got there, she stank of mouthwash and she didn’t know what to do with her hands.
You could always tell the state of Amanda’s life by the state of her lips. As she moved in to kiss my cheek, I saw that that those absurdly plump lips were bitten, chapped, and raw.
“I broke up with him,” she said, walking to the window as I sat on the broken futon.
Him being Jimmy, who was an asshole. But was tall and crooked and supposedly some fascinatingly morbid musician. I shrugged and asked if she was okay. She didn’t answer.
Join your favorites, Guy New York, Gibson Grand, and Daisy Danger, along with a fabulous guest emcee, Ms Dorothy Darker! As always we read things both scintillating and shocking. Plus we always have a raucous crowd of dirty devotees to descend into debauchery with. So come join us, it is always an adventure.
I’ve been writing more on my tumblr. If you don’t follow me there, here is what you have missed.
It was a thunder crack when he smacked her, then a still moment as the world went silent, then lightning behind her eyes. Everything vibrating and swimming. Blood rushing in her ears, her face heating and turning red, her vision blurring, and then finally his face coming back into focus.
He was right in front of her, filling her line of sight, his hand closing back around her neck.
I Can’t Wait All Day
A fat ripe plum, with a white sticker on it, sat on the table like an eight ball.
The girl with the curly hair was standing still, looking down at her warped reflection in her shiny black shoes. Her hands were behind her back.
The man with the expensive watch sat at the other end of the table, watching her. One elbow was on the table, his hand on his chin, his fingers tracing the bottom of his lip contemplatively.
I originally wanted to write a rebuttal of Guy New York’s post on polyamory. After re-reading it though, I don’t know how to use his piece as a jumping off point. He made a beautiful mess and there is a rawness that I can’t touch. I see his points and they all make sense, for him. There is also no reason to rebut what he wrote.
Preview: The Revenge of BatCatGirl
I’m super excited about this new short story I’ve been working on! It has the rather ridiculous title of “The Revenge of BatCatGirl.” The first draft is just about done, so it will be a little while until the final edited product is ready for public consumption, but I can’t help but post a tidbit.
It’s silly and pretty real and gets really fucking hot. So here is a bit of the first part. Let me know what you think.
He takes her fingers out of her own mouth when she sucks on her fingers. He will not let her pull on her own hair or bite her own wrist or the dozen other things she does to cope or process the pain and the pleasure.
He puts her in leather mitts when she makes fists so tight she leaves four little crescent moons on each of her palms. He slaps her hard across the face when she drifts too far away into sub space.
The Orgy on 8th Ave
They come in one at a time.
They are well dressed, usually larger gentlemen, portly, all black. Their suits are colorful, Sunday best, just come from church. Vivid purples and blues, sherbet orange, pastel green. Matching hats, everything perfectly pressed.
They have the stance of addicts, milling about with clenched fists and occasional ticks.
After thirty-some-odd years on this planet I’ve seen a lot of bad things happen to people. I’ve seen the after affects of someone’s body consumed by fire. I’ve seen people die of various deceases. I’ve witnessed at least two people get hit by cars, I’ve seen a stabbing, I’ve seen a lot of fist fights. That’s not even getting into the consensual shit I’ve seen, which would include things like someone getting their tongue sliced open with a scalpel only to have their mouth peed into and some really atrocious things involving a fork.
My own story is hardly that dramatic, but for me, it was at least somewhat traumatic. Mostly because it happened to me and mostly because it happened to my penis.
The next Dirty Boys reading will be bigger, louder, and dirtier!
As much as we love The Magician, last reading we packed the place and scared the neighbors. So please join us on May 4th at our new venue, The Parkside Lounge. We will have a lot more seating and privacy in their performance area, which means… well, which means trouble.
The Dirty Boys Reading
May 4th, 2014 – 7PM
The Parkside Lounge
317 East Houston St (at Attorney St), NYC
$5 Cover – 21 and over
Photos of the Dirty Boys by Walter Wlodarczyk
I’m excited to announce my new ebook, That Sort of Thing, the story of a woman named Valentine who meets a charming writer of risqué stories. As she is seduced by his words she is also confronted by the guilt of playing his taboo games. Will reality live up to the dirty fantasies?
I’m selling one giant ebook with pretty much everything in it. Five novellas and 40+ short stories including some stories I haven’t been able to sell before because of copyright, some old old stories that are a little raw but definitely fun reads, a couple of non-erotica stories that I hope you will find charming, and a few surprises. It’s a little under 200,000 words.
I’m asking 20 bucks for this, but it’s a lot of smut!
tl;dr You can get all my stories and a bunch of stuff not on this site for $20 or more if you want to support me extra.
From the top of the stairs, Tom watched as they were introduced.
He always knew Katherine would meet Diane at some point. Their circles of friends were far too close for them to stay strangers forever. Diane had been in his life for years and had been his lover once. He remembered those days and nights as he watched Diane kiss Katherine’s cheek and laughed at some joke she made. Katherine had that self deprecating charm that he imagined Diane would like.
Tom was in love with Katherine in a way he had never loved anyone. She took care of him. She was his rock as well as his inspiration. She also owned his body in a way no one had before.
Diane was some dark secret he thought of when he was alone. He had told Katherine stories, but then Tom told her all of his secrets. Watching her sip whiskey and stand near Diane, Tom’s heart ached and his cock hardened. He knew both of their bodies. He knew what it was to have Katherine ride him or slap him or fuck him. He knew what it was to push three fingers into Diane and have her beg for more. He knew the taste of them both and there they were, her hand on her arm for a moment as they charmed each other.
Well, Amazon has accepted my re-edited version of the novella that has sold the most for me. It’s about a guy who pays a college girl to fuck him and call him daddy. Apparently I just can’t mention the daddy part, or call a nineteen year old a teenager.
Thus, I give you: Renting a Girl from the Mall.
Mark is a bit obsessed. He keeps running into a cute, if a bit bratty, college girl named Megan in the mall. She certainly wants nothing to do with the thirty-something Mark, but when she gets into some financial trouble she finds herself in his car listening to his very interesting offer.
What is she willing to do for $1000? Can she play her part in his kinky role play scenario? Will she be seduced into being his rent-a-girl?
Part two is going up in a bit. Let us see how long they stay up.
The first page of a story was stapled to the back of a paper on economic reform in post soviet Russia.
Jason wasn’t sure if the story was for him or the professor or simply a mistake. He assumed the students knew that Jason was the one who really marked all the papers. Hell, he gave the lectures for the majority of the semester. Big name professors don’t do very much, teaching assistants do all the real work.
Still, the single page was like nothing Jason had ever seen in the context of Russian history, or more accurately contemporary Russian economic history. This was a snippet of a dirty dream. A little fragment of someone’s fantasy.
Jason carefully opened the staple with his fingernail and pulled the single page from the rest of the paper and then closed the staple back up.
Like most of Sophia’s work, the paper was a solid B. The story on the other hand was far more difficult to quantify.