Featured Author

March/April 2025 Newsletter

Best Selling Author I.J. Miller

SURVIVING THE STORM was published this past fall by Amphorae Publishing Group. Miller’s novels have been on bestseller and book club lists. The audio version of WUTHERING NIGHTS, the erotic retelling of Bronte’s Wuthering Heights, was nominated for an Audie award. Miller has appeared in Volumes 12 and 13 of the Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica. Miller has also been a featured reader at the Erotic Literary Salon.

Visit ijmiller.com.

ROB-O AND KATE

by I.J. Miller

It had been almost six months since Kate had the one and only orgasm of her life, out on the beach, under the bluff, as she watched Alvin and him make out.  Rob-O was disappointed they did not have another breakthrough.  He ran out of special things to do on Wednesdays, especially after Kate had axed the threesome with Sherry.  Sometimes Kate sensed his frustration and asked him to please forget about it, that it had nothing to do with him, or the size of his penis, it was just how she was built, and she enjoyed everything they did.

Their relationship was mostly good.  It was mostly great.  It was good even when he had thoughts in the back of his mind about something lacking in him, her, both.  It was great when he could forget completely about her inability to orgasm.

He remembered those months after college, some fifteen years ago, when he was the first mate on his buddy’s sailboat, the pair of them island hopping, docking in some bay, taking the motorized dinghy to shore, finding a night spot, having yet another practically anonymous encounter with a local or visiting hottie.  Practically anonymous because he always shared his real first name.  Practically anonymous because he shared little else aside from his body.  There were no conversations about what he planned to do with his life, what did he study, what were his ambitions?  Sailing the Caribbean on a boat with your best bud was the easiest place, the simplest way to be completely without ambition.

But then on yet another deep blue, Caribbean sunny day—he and his pal spread out on their backs atop lounge cushions splayed along the deck, without clothes, the wind in the sails and his shaggy blond hair, while they nursed one beer after another—Rob-O’s friend asked, “What makes the perfect relationship for you?”

Rob-O thought seriously for a moment.  If it was back in the haze of college, he would probably answer having great sex with a babe and then afterwards she turned into a pizza.  It would be a stupid thing to say now.  It was a stupid thing to think back then.  He had been stupid.  He was still stupid.  Because all he could answer was, “I never really thought about it, bro’.”

“I have,” his friend said, his entire body tanned without lines, black hair also long and shaggy, heavy black beard thick and scruffy.

They took extra long sips of their beers.  More silence.  Rob-O closed his eyes.  It was as if the question had never been asked.

But then his buddy spoke up again, confidently, prepared to maximize the execution of his words.

“The perfect relationship is one you can’t find until you’re older, because even in college, even after college, we’re all dumb shits who think with our dicks.”

Rob-O grunted agreement.  That was probably why he had such small thoughts.

“So there has to be a point,” the captain of the ship continued, “when you grow old enough, or become smart enough to understand that getting drunk, getting high, having great sex, rotating partners, partying all night to just the right music is not enough.”

“Sounds good to me,” Rob-O mumbled, already drunk in the midday heat.  Both of them already drunk.

“That’s because you’re not there yet.  Neither am I.  But I’m getting closer.  I needed this trip for perspective, to indulge in my hardiest appetites before settling down to a real job and embarking upon the sincere search for someone to share my life with, someone who has the potential to be a primo wife and mother.”

“So you formulated this theory of the perfect relationship while on this jaunt?”

“Jaunt.  Excellent choice of words,” slurred his buddy.  “Yes.  I’m having a fantastic time.  I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.  I wouldn’t want to be with anyone else.  But I also have time and space to think about the future.”

“You mean like tomorrow?” 

“I mean like what happens when this trip is done and I have to return the boat to my dad.”

“Wow.  I wasn’t sure there was going to be an end to this trip.”

“You actually inspired my hypothesis.”

“That’s a word I haven’t heard since tenth grade geometry.”

“You may be thinking hypotenuse.”

“Maybe.”

“Anyway, of course one’s significant other should have the looks, the smarts, and the sense of humor, but what I think we all really need to make it last in the long term, is to find someone who isn’t just one more person to deal with when you get home from work.”

“Work?”

“Whatever job we do…or whatever time we waste—”

“That sounds more like me,” Rob-O said.

“We’ll get to you in a minute.  Just let me get this theory out.  Ah, another geometry word.”

“Go for it.”

“Think about it.  We’re all doomed on some level, some more, some less, to dealing with shit at our jobs.  Lousy boss, moody co-workers, hectic commute, fucked up clients.”

“I’m fucked up right now.”

“Me too.  But I’m going to see this through.”  He took a long swig of beer, finished the bottle, tossed it into a pile below their feet, and reached for another in an ice-filled cooler of Budweiser.  “There’s no escaping the bullshit of the world.”

“Unless you’re on a sailboat somewhere in the Caribbean without a fucking care.”

“Exactly.  The person you settle down with.  Your significant other.  Has to be like this trip.  This person can’t be another anchor in the daily doldrums of life.  This person must be so cool she untethers you and allows you to sail free.”

Rob-O propped up, leaned on his elbows behind him, feet straight out in front.  “And I somehow inspired this theory or hypothesis?”

“Yes.  Because having you here makes this trip perfect.  You’re never moody.”

“At least out at sea.”

“We only have fun.  You don’t say stupid shit.  Or if you do, it’s funny.  You don’t hassle me about anything, like why don’t I trim my beard, comb my hair, cut my nails, stop drinking so much, do more of the work when we come about in the heavy winds.”

“You could actually do more work.”

“See, you never complained.  You’re hassle free.  You’re making this post-college time an awesome experience. The perfect relationship is all of this with the right honey.”

They thought for a while, quiet, as each pondered the essence of this equation, until Rob-O piped in with, “I think you’re absolutely 100% correct.  Having a significant other who makes a trip like this even better and is not just one more narrow-minded, narcissistic bimbo is absolutely perfect.  You’re a mathematical genius.”

“Thank you.  Compliments at just the right time makes it that much better.”

And now, all this time later in Antigua, behind the wheel of his beat up Datsun, as he drove on the wrong side of the road—if he were back in the States—Rob-O realized that, according to the hypothesis formulated and perfected that day on the boat, Kate was absolutely not someone else he had to deal with.  Not like John when he was in a hurry.  Not like Ned every minute of the day.  Not like Yankee when you disturbed his nap.  Not like Alvin who only thought of himself.  Not like Becca who sometimes walked by without saying hello (was it him or was it her?).  And not like Twiggy who was super sweet, but too often sad.  Kate was almost always in a good mood.  If she wasn’t, he couldn’t tell.  She didn’t put up with his shit, but approached any criticism of him without a trace of vindictiveness.  He must get on her nerves sometimes.  But he couldn’t tell.  The worst was probably her teasing humor.  And that always made him laugh.  Her worst thing made him laugh!  He truly believed she loved him.  He knew he loved her.  He was thrilled to work so closely with her every day.  He was ecstatic to share a bed with her at night.  They both loved kids.  Kate, very simply, was the ideal woman for the perfect relationship, his free-flowing, sun on his face, wind in his hair, sail.

With just one, no he couldn’t call it an imperfection, just one slight bump in the road.

Which was why he used his spare time—on this Wednesday afternoon lunch break—to drive into St. John’s to the video store.

He parked around the corner from Moody’s Grocery Store.  No sense raising anyone’s suspicions by taking a spot on the same street.  The store had a big front window full of home products like dishes, pots, pans, detergent.  He entered, silently cursing the jingle of the bells above the door that caused the few local shoppers, who strolled the vegetable and cereal aisles, to glance his way.  He told himself not to be nervous.  No one could possibly know why he was here, except Moody, but he wouldn’t know exactly why this time was different.  Nevertheless, when he eased past Moody—who was at the register—a short, dark-skinned Indian man with a pencil thin moustache—and slipped through the curtain next to the banana bin that led to the video rental section, he fought off feeling like a sleazebag.

Why should he feel this way?  He could be here just to rent a regular video.  No one could read his mind.  Unfortunately, a mother and son were already inside, as they scanned the children’s shelf, which was mostly cartoons.  Rob-O strolled immediately to NEW RELEASES, pretended to study the titles.

After the pair made their selection, left, and he was alone, he made his way over to the ADULT section, like only mature people hung out there.  He didn’t kid himself.  He was a sleazebag…for being there, for renting something that only made him more self-conscious about his small penis, for being turned on by women giving it up for money.  Whoever invented modestly priced VCRs and the concept of video rentals, the sub-concept of X rentals was also a sleazebag.  Big time.  He hoped to make his selection quickly, pay for it at the front cash register when no one was around.  He grabbed a tape with a hand-scribbled title pasted on the front: GIRL ON GIRL SAFARI.  Then he stood frozen in the porn section of Moody’s video rental department, undecided.  Was he really going to go through with this?

Finally, first tape in hand, he inched his way towards the farthest corner of the ADULT section, a place he had never visited, thankfully dark from bare lighting.  But then a young local in his twenties entered the room.  Rob-O hustled back to NEW RELEASES.  He didn’t recognize the man, so that was a plus.  The guy had on an Adidas track suit and a white floppy bucket hat, and without inhibition made his way over to the dark corner ADULT section Rob-O had just vacated.  Perhaps he sensed Rob-O was conscious of his presence—or had seen Rob-O in the very same spot—because he casually glanced back towards Rob-O.  Then the young man reached into his jacket pocket, took out a red bandana, and stuffed it into the right back pocket of the track pants, most of it hanging out.

Rob-O knew he should leave, be happy he had GIRL ON GIRL SAFARI, a tape he held in front of his chest, the title pressed snugly against his tee shirt.

The man took one more look back at Rob-O, whose feet remained glued to the same spot—was that a smile?—then picked out a video and exited.

Rob-O executed a deep exhale.  He needed to get this shit over with.  He waited a few moments.  No one else came in.  Rob-O rushed to the dark corner, grabbed the first video within reach, scurried straight to the cash register.

A bag was not offered for video rentals.  Most of the VHS ADULT tapes were unmarked copies of either an entire X movie or snippets of many.  As a veteran video renter, he had brought along his own plain brown bag, pulled from the lower right side pocket of his cargo shorts.  Rob-O couldn’t look Moody in the eye when he paid him, so he didn’t know for sure if the titles registered with the store owner.  But Rob-O knew Moody usually noted what was rented, and probably judged him badly, so he snatched the videos from Moody’s hand, stuffed them in the brown bag, hightailed out without his change.  Outside, he power-walked to the corner and made the turn towards his car.  If someone he knew had seen him come out of Moody’s with his personal, full brown bag, they would know for sure that old sleazebag Rob-O had not been there to buy a mango.

The thing he probably missed most about college was that it was when he didn’t give a fuck.  Now, knocking on the door of thirty-seven, he seemed to care about everything.  And he mostly cared about what Kate thought.  And he mostly dwelled on what would make her happy.

He drove back to the resort, hoped to have enough time to hide the tapes somewhere in the bedroom.  If he left them in the car, they would probably melt in the Caribbean heat.  He hadn’t rented a video in a long time.  Didn’t need to.  He had the very real thing.  He also lived with someone else now so there was hardly private space or time or need to rub an extra one out.

He drove his Datsun through the gate, waved at Yankee, motored up the entrance road, halfway around the roundabout, up the bluff road, parked in the driveway of his house.  Kate was below prepping for Yoga in the Shade. Rob-O hid the tapes under the bed, drove back down, and parked near the waterfront.  He would need the car to bring up the VCR and monitor.  Sweat poured out of his body, soaked his Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts, compounded his stress.

Later, Kate cooked dinner while he unloaded the monitor and deck and set it up in their bedroom.  She looked at him quizzically when he brushed by her in the kitchen with the monitor.

“A surprise,” he murmured, sheepishly.

“Oh, shit!” Kate blurted as she stirred her meat sauce.  “Wednesday.”

He had always admired her intuitiveness.

She said nothing during dinner.  She knew he liked to surprise her.

Done, she cleared the table, he washed the dishes.  They retired to the upstairs master bathroom, threw off their clothes, stepped into the shower stall.  This evening ritual of showering together was one of his favorite times.  They kissed deeply.  Washed each other.  Shampooed the other’s hair.  The warm water that sprayed onto their shoulders and shimmied down their bodies added an extra spark to their kissing.

He was soon erect.  She touched him there.  More like held him.

“Let’s do it here,” Kate said.

“The surprise.”

He could sense her disappointment, but she simply kissed him again.  There it was, just like he and his buddy had postulated on the sailboat.  He knew part of her would like him to give up his quest to please her completely, and would prefer no special Wednesdays.  (He really had backed off for a while.)  But she said nothing.  Just kissed him.  No problem.  Not suddenly something or someone he had to deal with.  

They dried each other with beach towels, then he led her to the bedroom.  He had already set up the monitor on a chair at the end of the bed, the wire from the back running down to the VCR on the floor.  She got into bed.  He popped in GIRL ON GIRL SAFARI.  They laid on their stomachs, propped up on their elbows, faced the TV, feet pressed against the headboard, and watched.

Four women in their twenties wore skimpy animal outfits: leopard spots, zebra stripes, lion mane, tiger stripes.  The only other actual safari elements were additional (feeble) attempts at plot: two hid in the bushes while the other two stalked their prey; shot outside in a dry, hilly area that looked more like Southern California than Africa.  The two stalkers finally captured the ones who hid.  And that was when the party (safari?) started.  They deserved a blanket to work on, but somehow the director must have thought if all the action took place on grass it would be more realistic.

Kate said, in a perfectly serious tone, “This is a total objectification of some obviously well-intentioned actors.”

Rob-O looked at her.  She held onto her solemness.  He had fucked up.

Then she burst into laughter.

He laughed, too, whined, “You got me.  I thought for a second our relationship was over.”

She kissed him deeply, said, “They are hot.”

He turned towards the screen.  The zebra and tiger, all stripes, grinded and made out.

Kate watched.

“You can touch yourself,” Rob-O said.

“It’s more wacky than a turn on.”

But Rob-O was soon erect.  Kate hadn’t quite been able to get there when she had watched Alvin and Twiggy going at it.  He hoped two women might do the trick.  

When the lion fingered the leopard, it took much willpower for Rob-O not to prop Kate up on all fours, enter her from behind so they both could go at it while they faced the action on the monitor, which was now accompanied by intense—TOTALLY FAKE—orgasmic moans.  But despite his arousal (two hotties going at it, are you kidding?), he held back.  She hadn’t put her diaphragm in yet, knowing that special Wednesdays, more often than not, did not involve intercourse.

Nevertheless, he couldn’t help but make his way behind her, as he gently slid his hands under her belly, and propped her up.  They watched together.  He began playing with her nipples, used the two-finger caress technique she enjoyed so much.  He heard a moan.  Or was that the zebra?  Again he was tempted to enter her.  The lion had the leopard on all fours, too!  But Wednesdays were about her pleasure.

He would really like to know if he wasted his time, or there was something about the movie she liked.  Watching.  Four others.  While your lover tried to make you feel good.

He slid his right hand down between her legs.  There was a moistness, but not as much as Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday.  He used his index finger to rotate small circles against her clitoris.

They continued to watch, like the dirtiest of voyeurs.  Two nearly naked women kissed on the TV screen.  The hunter and the hunted explored, grinded, humped with bodies, tongues, fingers, and hands.  Rob-O picked up his pace.  Kate moaned, but did not seem anywhere near the orgasm path he was on, as he took care not to let his penis touch her buttocks or it would all be over for him.

Kate finally flopped on her belly, let out a frustrated groan.  He slid his hand away, already a bit cramped.

He jumped off the bed, spanked the VCR’s eject button.  The tape spit out like a thick black tongue making fun of him.

She exhaled deeply.  That was all she would do.  She wouldn’t complain.  She knew he meant well.

But he gathered his courage, picked the other tape off the floor, that was next to the VCR.  This one did not have a title taped on it.  It was a beat up, used tape.  Cracks were visible in the clear plastic center.  He had no idea if there would be some fake storyline, bogus costumes, or just random scenes.  It was his last try.  He promised himself there would be no more special Hump Day Wednesdays if this did not work.

He got back on the bed.  She laid down on her back with him, their heads now propped up on pillows by the headboard, as they peered between their bare feet at the new movie in front of them.

It was all men.  All gay.  No pseudo-plot.  No special attire.  Rented from Moody’s ANTIMAN SECTION (though there was no sign labeling it).  A quick scene of two men having intercourse.  Then another with oral sex.  Rob-O and Kate watched, silently.  She didn’t murmur any cute jokes.  He was tempted to cover his shrunk penis with a sheet, but that would be too obvious.  At the moment he was sure that renting this tape was not worth the headache, or worse, the wrath of recognition by Moody, who knew exactly who Rob-O was and where he worked, and now assumed he was an antiman.  

As each cut and spliced scene transformed into the next, the screen would go fuzzy with lines then new man-on-man action would start.  The third transition included two young men, shirtless, one in boxers, the other in briefs, one with a thick moustache, the other clean shaven.  They kissed.  They made out.   As lovingly as any man and woman Rob-O had ever seen.  Rob-O lay perfectly still, avoided a sudden move that could break the abrupt mood change, or a word that would stifle the new flavor in the room started by Kate’s soft sigh.

He glanced sideways at Kate, as he had when Alvin continuously pressed his lips on Rob-O’s, fought his tongue into Rob-O’s mouth against full resistance.

She touched herself.

All the men did was kiss.  The more they did, the more they moaned.  The more Kate moaned.  Their sounds were way more sincere than the safari girls.  Kate rubbed her fingers faster between her legs, moans transitioned to a high-pitched, passionate rumble from her throat.  An unfamiliar sound, except it did harken back to that night on the beach, under the shadow of the bluff.

Rob-O so wanted to kiss her cheek, encourage her, make out with her, massage her breasts, replace her finger with his, even enter her from behind so she could feel him, yet still have an unobstructed view.

But he held back, clear that, at this moment, she was again the solo fly on the wall, isolated, wanting no one else in her space.

Then her eyes slammed shut, perhaps behind them an ongoing vision of two men whose tongues touched, lips mashed, lost in the throes of a simple passion produced only by kissing.  Her body undulated, her head rose with her neck, then back down as the tremble passed through her shoulders, dipped onto her belly, rippled down her torso, onto her legs—as if she wobbled on a giant waterbed—then climaxed with a deep, clenched curl of her toes.  And that scream.  That scream he had only heard one time.  That scream proclaimed that the carnival bell had tolled once again.

Oh how Kate did come.

Neither of them gave a flying fuck that her orgasm could be heard at John’s house above them, the grand house above that, and perhaps all around the resort rooms, down the road and out through the gate, maybe into Old Hill Village and beyond.

It was a glorious release and Rob-O stared, frozen, took it in, absorbed as much passion as he could from his magnificent lover.

“I love you so very much, Rob-O!” Kate belted at the very end, with that night-under-the-bluff intensity.

Then she collapsed within herself, flung her fatigued hand dramatically off to the side, tried desperately to slow down her gasps and whimpers, until he pulled her into his arms to stop the shaking, their bodies entangled as they kissed, everything still except for the graceful embrace of their tongues.

“Kate, I lo—”

“You don’t have to say it,” she interrupted breathlessly.  “What you must have gone through to rent this video says it all.”

February 2025 Newsletter

Award-Winning Author Jeremy Edwards

We are delighted to feature Jeremy Edwards, an Independent Publisher Book Award winner and longtime friend of The Erotic Literary Salon. Jeremy was a featured reader at our in-person Salon events, where his sharp wit and evocative storytelling captivated our audience. We’re thrilled to bring his work into our new virtual space.

Monoculture

by Jeremy Edwards

Of course, I remind myself, there is a pattern to this. 

Last fall there was Maria, a charismatic intellectual whose conversation always made me wish she might invite me to her bedroom, where I could kneel behind her, bring her panties down, and fondle one round buttock (the left one). That, and only that. 

There was theatrical Erica, invigorating Erica whom I wanted to lick in the pale hollows of the underarms, with long, slow strokes. Simply this. As with all such recipes, it made me ache with arousal to imagine how she’d thrill to it, how turned on she’d be.

And sweet Meg, the elfin folk singer: I fantasized she’d take me home, straddle me, and pee—something I’ve never desired, before or since, from anyone else. And yet it was the one and only physical intimacy I craved, with Meg.

But you can’t propose a relationship with somebody when, sexually speaking, you only want to do the one extraordinarily specific thing with her, over and over. 

Can you? 

What if a woman just wanted to kiss my scrotum—only and always that? We would have dinner every Friday and then go back to my place, or her place, and she’d lower my jeans to midthigh and kiss my scrotum for a while, a long while, and then we’d say goodnight. And eventually, if we decided we were in love and compatible, we’d make a long-term commitment and build a life together, and we’d live that life day in and day out, and a couple of times a week we’d turn the lights low and she’d kiss my scrotum. And she’d be passionate about it, certainly: she’d moan between the scrotum kisses, she’d have her fingers squeezed tight inside her thighs. She’d tell me how delicious I was, how irresistible. She’d whimper and she’d come, and that would make me make myself come. And we’d have a terrific rapport and a happy partnership, and this would be her one way of expressing and fulfilling her lust for me. And she’d long ago have made it clear that it wasn’t anything off-putting about the rest of me—no, nothing like that, this was just what she wanted to do with me, the one thing she wanted to do. With someone else, it would have been some other, equally specific, thing; but that was hypothetical, she’d have explained, because she was with me, and being with me meant always wanting to mouth my ball sack till she orgasmed. Only that.

I find myself getting infatuated with the woman who wants only to kiss my scrotum—this woman I’ve merely conjured up moments ago, to explore a concept—even though having my scrotum kissed has never been more to me than a briefly enjoyed display of appetite and affection, nothing I’ve particularly wanted to linger over, nothing I’ve yearned for or drawn great shivers of pleasure from, just a nice little warm wet garnish of surprise, a purr in my loins. 

I imagine nonexistent her imagining an imaginary me, and her cheeks are burning with excitement because, in her imagination, the imaginary me is of course incredibly turned on by having his scrotum kissed. 

She has long black hair, contemplative eyes, and a hint of a Midwestern accent. 

Absurd. I don’t even know anyone like that.

And I look back across the room toward Annie, lovely, witty Annie, the woman I long to see privately in a low-cut dress with shoulder straps, so I can slide a strap down one shoulder (the right one; that is, the one on my left), and lift her right breast up out of the bodice far enough that the entire nipple becomes visible, underscored by the fabric, and kiss that nipple gently, and probably dampen the fabric a bit because the nipple will be so very, very close to it. 

About the Author:
Jeremy Edwards is the author of over 150 erotic short stories and two erotocomedic novels, including The Pleasure Dial: An Erotocomedic Novel of Old-Time Radio, which won an Independent Publisher Book Award.

Explore more: https://www.salticid.com/jeremyedwardserotica.com/SMM.html —You will not be disappointed!