A glorious #giveaway: Of Angels, Mice And Men

I found a pile of Playboys under my dad's bed. This wasn't yesterday, by the way; it was way back. After fully - and I mean fully in its every sense - exploring my bi-sexuality (which has faded somewhat with the years) with the aid of the undeniably beautiful graphic photographic images, I began to read. The letters page (What everyday people get up to! What sexually-charged events they stumble into!). Fiona Richmond (What a fucking dirty slag she was and how I fucking envied her). The problem page (The problems people have! My dick is too big. My pussy is too tight. There was even a guy who could fuck his own ass and wondered if he could give himself AIDS, for fuck's sake!) And the stories. The brilliantly penned pithy tales by the world's top erotic writers. Fuck, they were clever! Fuck, they were hot! Fuck, how they made me cum, and harder than all the porny pics put together! Fuck, how they haunted me. Some still do to this day. I was only young, inexperienced too, but those writers inspired me to write torrid tales of my own. With pen. On paper. Remember that? On completion, I hid the well-fingered pages amid a pile of girly mags of an entirely different genre: they don't make magazines for girly teens quite like they did back then. The problem page. The letters page. The story page. The centre-spread boy band photos. Those were the days...

Before I left for uni, I sorted through all my old stuff and sent the said mags (plus my secreted first naughty shorties) to a local charity shop. Only later did the penny drop. I called in to buy them back, but alas, they had gone to some collector, who had snapped up the whole pile for a couple of quid. Were they in for a surprise! All my wildest fantasies laid bare. And me, myself and I laid bare in a sordid collection of Polaroid selfies, most of which were (hopefully, probably) too blurry to identify as the brace-wearing geeky virgin from number fifty-seven.

All that is in the past and has not (yet) come back to haunt me. Perhaps if I ever get famous enough, someone will take out the (hopefully) cum spattered pics and similarly soiled A4 pages and say, 'Hang on a minute! Isn't this that bird on the telly? You know? That porn writer woman? That slag that's even dirtier than Fiona Richmond?' If I'm totally honest, the thought still hangs over me, though these days it's less a Sword of Damocles and more a Spoon of Damocles, and a teaspoon at that. I have, over the years, stopped giving no more than the slightest fuck.

'Of angels, mice and men' contains tales inspired by those Playboy writers. They wrote stories, proper stories, with a message beyond the masturbation, a purpose beyond the porn. I have tried to do that here. Sometimes the sex is tame, somewhat vanilla, when compared to my more graphic tales, but it is in keeping with the setting and characters and so, to my mind at least, it is perfectly apt and equally erotic. Remember when a glimpse of stocking was something shocking? No, neither do I... though I can perfectly imagine such a time, when the merest hint of sensuality set hormones pumping and organs inflating; as Hugh Hefner knew only too well, it's not only tits, cunts and cocks that arouse us. Indeed, they can be quite a turn off in the wrong circumstances (ever been flashed at? I have and it was the least arousing episode of my entire brief existence).

Nip over to Amazon (yes, I hate the capitalist bastards as much as anyone, but who does it better?) and grab yourself a free handful of my sordid psyche, and my more sensitive sordid psyche at that. Then wank yourself daft/set the vibrator to eleven, and take a personal moment away from your busy day. And, while you're at it, arouse your mind too. The book is here:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00GZZ9IF2

Take care and have a glorious weekend,

Alexandra xxxx