Friday, December 30, 2016

Oh, 2016, What an F-ing Trip!

2016 has definitely been a crazy, up-and-down journey, bringing some of the most unbelievably sad and infuriating things. But also some pretty amazing things too.

Personally, I began the year with one novel published and two stories in anthologies. After resolutely promising myself to take more risks and put myself out there more, I now have another novel, a standalone story, and three more stories in anthologies published to date and more slated to come.

I think that's definitely one well-met resolution!

I definitely want to keep that momentum going, but I've also got some other fun plans for 2017, involving some storytelling styles that I really want to try!

In so many ways, this year has been trying and, in many ways, next year makes me wary. But there's also a lot that I'm grateful for in 2016 and even more that makes me hopeful for 2017.

So, to everyone that made that possible, as always, thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!

Tuesday, December 27, 2016

You Need to Do What I Say - Part One

    * Press Play Here to Listen to an Audio Reading    

Enough - 
A Short Story - 
Part One

Never say “I love you” when you really mean “I’m sorry.”

I don’t stare at you. I deliberately don’t look at you, while you stomp around the apartment in dress-socked feet. As if you’re the one who’s been wronged. I scoff and shake my head. 

Not only will you not have apologized when you know you’ve fucked up, but you’ll have tried to make me feel guilty for being too pissed off to say it back.

You yelled at me—took your awful, stressful week out on me—but I’m the heartless bitch who can’t say I love you back. I’m just one more thing in your life that won’t go right. Won’t cooperate. Won’t do and be and act the way you want me to.

My eye twitches when I hear you and your temper slam doors as you move through our home. 

I love you. 

You know I do.

But right now, I can’t stand to be in the same room as you.

I hear a loud crash, followed by a stream of swears.

Sighing, I shut my book and set it on the coffee table.

Enough is enough.

I stand up and walk toward the kitchen and your grumpy muttering. With each step, I take a calming breath, trying to let go of my own work stress as well as the added irritation that’s been building since you came home. It won’t help if both of us lose our cool.

I stand in the doorway.

You’re on the floor, still in your work clothes on your hands and knees, an assortment of kitchen utensils strewn on the tile around you. 

What a mess. 

I frown and adjust my t-shirt and sleep shorts before bending down to help.

“I’ve got this.”

My spine snaps straight at your tone. “I was just trying to help.”

You grunt. “It’s my mess; I can clean it up myself.” You reach for a wooden spoon close to you. “I’m not completely incompetent.”

I raise my eyebrow. “I never said you were.”

“Sure.” The word sounds more like a scoff, a bark of sarcasm.

I shake my head and turn around. Whatever.

“I’ll just do it all by myself.” I can hear your heated grumble behind my back. “I’ll just do everything by myself.”

I whirl back around. “I try to help, you don’t want it. I let you handle it and you’re still not happy.” I throw up my arms. “What do you want?”

Gripping the spoon in your hand tight, your knuckles bulge as your fingers tense. I stiffen, thinking you’re going to yell again. 

Instead, you sigh and hang your head, your shoulders hunched and your back bent. “I don’t know.” Scowling in frustration, you throw the spoon in the corner. “I just…” You look up at me, your gaze tired and overwhelmed. “I just want it all to stop.”

Your boss’s lack of appreciation.

Your coworkers’ counterproductive competition.

Your clients’ unreasonable demands.

Your nagging, know-it-all wife’s annoyingly articulate silences.

I wince. Yeah, I can understand that.

You want it all to stop?

I raise my eyebrow. I can do that.

I put my hands on my hips and square my feet, feeling my attitude—my persona and aura—change, a new one slipping over my body like a coat. 

I feel my posture, my expression, my mindset shift. Very aware of my lips as they curl almost cruelly, I say, “You can do this?” I bend down, my lithe body feeling sly, and pick up the smooth ceramic utensil crock, feeling it heavy and purposeful in my hand.  “Then do it.”

I can see it as my tone and stance register in your brain—in your blood—recognition surging quick through you. The corners of your frown lift and a small laugh touches your voice. “Now?”

I nod. Now. I tap my toe. “Do I need to repeat myself?”

Your back straightens even as your gaze drops. “No.”

Good.

I see you reach out your arm toward a spatula.

“Ah ah.”

You freeze, your body tense and eager to please.

I grin. “No hands,” I say and tap my lips thoughtfully. “And no feet.”

You pout, poor baby. I know you’ve had a hard day—a hard week—but I know what you need. You need a challenge you can accomplish and someone who believes, who knows, you can. You need to know that, whatever I ask you to do—whatever I do to you—not only can you handle it, but it’ll pay off in the end.

It’s an enticing promise that most people—most things—in this world can’t keep.

But I can.

I always do.

You bow your head and begin to crawl toward the spatula. I can’t quite see, but I imagine your cock lengthening behind the fly of your slacks. Leaning down, you open your mouth wide and bite the kitchen tool’s handle with your teeth. 

I suppress a giggle as you turn your head this way and that, trying to get a good grip, your lips brushing against the tile. 

Your hands fist behind your back in a tight twist of fingers to show how determined you are to follow my direction. To prove—to me, and to yourself—that you can.

You lift your head, a look of pride on your face. You smile around the spatula, a bit of a swagger in the swivel of your hips as you crawl on your knees toward me.

It should have been humiliating. Would have been, if it wasn’t you, wasn’t me. But this is what you need.

I know.

I need it too.

Even now, I know—in the mundane, everyday part of my brain—that I should feel bad, awful and guilty, listening to your knees squeak across the floor. But the clank of the spatula as you put it into the crock I hold out to you sounds melodic to my ear.

You look at me, your head tilted, almost like a puppy looking for attention. Or approval. I feel myself melt. For a moment I see the weight of all your effort—to be everything for everyone, to push yourself further than you want to and possibly further than you should, to prove yourself to people, to a world, that can never completely accept you. Can never give you what they expect from you.

I want to be different.

I want to be worthy. Worth all that effort.

So I lean down and kiss your lips before I push you back down and nod to the rest of your mess.

Read Part Two Here

You Need to Do What I Say - Part Two


 * Go to 7:16 to Continue Listening to an Audio Reading 
Enough - 
Short Story - 
Part Two
Read Part One Here

Losing myself in the back and forth of your movement around the kitchen, I watch you turn from me only to inevitably come back as you—as we, together—bring the broken bits of your life back to order.

You’ve left the wooden spoon you tossed for last. I wonder if you did it on purpose. A subtle symbol or a hidden hint. The straw that broke you. The last challenge.

You bring it to me, held tight in your teeth.

I hold out the almost full crock.

But you simply sit there. On your knees. And look at me.

I can read your need in your eyes, a silent wish that screams.

I set the other utensils on the counter and hold my hand out to you. Bowing your head forward, you place the spoon in my palm. The spoon feel smooth, hard, and a little wet from your mouth. I curl my fingers around it.

You start to stand, but I stop you with a hand on your shoulder. 


Not yet. 

Turning you around, I grab the collar of your shirt in my fist. The cloth is crisp against my palm and I can feel the heat of your body under my grip. 

As I lead you to the dining room table, even though the room’s carpet must feel nice on your battered knees after the harsh tile, I miss the audible slide of your slacks. 

But, this close, I can see the strain of your erection against your zipper. I breathe deep, imagining I can smell your arousal, hot and male. “Pull out the chair for me,” I order, moving my hand between your shoulder blades and giving you a subtle push.  

You do. Such a gentlemen. I sit and pat my lap. 

This is always the hardest part for you. The part that makes it real. The ultimate act of submission. Before it, it all just feels like fantasy, like it’s not quite yet real.

After it…

You told me once that you don’t understand why, even after all this time, you still feel a flicker of fear right before a scene. Because, while you’re in it, you never feel safer than when you’re in my hands.

I watch those two truths war in your eyes while you kneel before me. Your chest rises and falls with deep breaths. Your skin is flushed and slightly slick with sweat at your temples and neck. I want to lick you there, smell and taste and touch your nerves, raw and ready. 

I see it in your eyes, in the flex of your muscles and the lift of your spine, when your hunger wins. You swallow hard and come close. I sit impossibly still as you unbuckle your belt, undo your fly, and lay across my lap.

I smile. Good boy.

You know that this is my favorite part. 

I grab the waistband of your pants, grabbing the elastic of your boxers as well, and pull them down, revealing the smooth, pale aspen skin of your ass. I scrunch up the tails of your shirt, eager to see more. I lick my lips at the strong surface of your arched back. You writhe a bit, trying to get comfortable on my thighs. Your cheeks tense and shake and I want to lean down and bite them.

Instead, I grip the spoon in my hand and trail it from your neck, along your spine, and down that delicious ass. “Are you ready?” I ask.

You nod, just a tiny shake of your head against my leg. But your voice is clear and excited when you say, “I’m ready.” You plant your hands and feet.

I can feel how ready you are, your cock hard against my lap. Stroking your ass, I feel the firm muscles under a soft layer of sweet flesh. You settle into my hold, relaxing into my attention.

I pull my hand back and slap it across your ass. Not hard. My fingers just a stinging snap against your skin. Just to wake up your nerves. 

You jump, shock more than pain making the movement sharp. I fight the urge to giggle, knowing that—vulnerable as you are—you won’t hear it as the sound of affection, not mocking, that I mean it as.

Instead, I smack your ass again, appreciating the bloom of color my palm leaves behind. I hit you again. And again. And again. Until your flesh warms under mine. I strain to hear the hitch of your breath just before each strike. I imagine I can feel your heartbeat speed as your body stiffens and squirms against mine.

“More?” I ask, touching the spoon to your reddened skin.

“Yes.” You push your ass higher, pressing into the wood. “Please.”

Well, you did say, please.

The spoon thwacks when it connects with your flesh, leaving a perfect, red semi-circular oval beside your hip. You grunt and flex against me while I stare. The sight of it causes gleeful delight to swell up within me. My mark. On you. Tonight and tomorrow, you’ll feel that spot keenly, memories flooding at every tender touch. You’ll likely wear that mark for the next few days. Maybe even a week. 

My grip on the spoon tightens before I strike again. On your left cheek. Then the right. By the crack of your ass. Under the swell before butt becomes thigh. Each time, you writhe with me, moving into and away from the spoon's harsh attention in a perfectly untimed rhythm. You groan and grunt, the sound sweet accompaniment. And I can’t get enough of it. Each blush of your skin, each furious flush, makes me want more. Wants to paint the canvas of your flesh  with my touch.

My mind floods with the idea that, for days, every time I see you—naked, clothed, it doesn’t matter—I’ll know they’re there. Those marks—my marks—warm beneath my fingers. Hidden beneath slacks. They’ll be there when you lie beside me at night and when you go to work in the morning. I’ll have left something of me on you.

If before I wanted to bite you, now I want to consume you. And be consumed by you. I want our touch to tattoo onto each other. To sear us together with our heat and sweat. To brand and bind us. 

I reach down and lift your chin. I want to taste you. I need to. I feel you slide off my lap, your hands gripping my thighs as you stretch up to meet my mouth. Our lips meet and your taste and scent overwhelm me. I slip my hand from your chin to your neck, twisting the strands at the nape in my fist. I pull you close, nipping at your lips, sucking your tongue, and making you take my own. 

Your hands grab my knees, pushing them apart and making a space for you between them. I feel you hot against me. 

Your hands, made clumsy by need, paw at the hem of my shorts, trying to shove them down. 

I lift my hips with a laugh to help. You pull the shorts down off my legs while I tug you by your hair. Down. Down. You go willingly, eagerly, but there is something thrilling about the movement, the rough, wordless command, before your mouth closes over my cunt. 

You lap at the lips, tickling the sensitive skin with your clever tongue. I moan when that tongue probes deeper to find me already wet. I imagine my taste, thick and heady, flooding your senses. You lick up, reveling in the liquid heat. Your hands grip my thighs, spreading them, as you push yourself closer to lavish attention on my hungry clit.

I throw my head back and bite my lip, a groan growling in the back of my throat. My hips thrust up, undulating into you. I can feel my orgasm climb, but not quite peak. “Fingers,” I say, my voice clipped with desire, “now.” Please.

I hear—feel—you chuckle against me, enjoying how tense and taut my body has become at your touch. Enjoying the table’s turn. I’d be annoyed, except the slide of your fingers deep within me, filling me, feels so good. “Fast,” I tell you, tightening my hold on your hair as if it were a leash or reins, “and hard.” I need it. I need you.

Your fingers fuck me—there is no other word for it—driving into me with a speed and intensity that rocks me. My leg lifts a bit, my left foot arching against the sensation so pleasurable it’s almost pain. Almost. Almost.

Then you suck my clit—hard, your tongue and teeth relentless—and my world bursts into light before plunging my brain into a climactic blank. My sightless eyes open wide and my throat chokes on a gasp. I feel my body shake stiffly, the seismic spasms that seem to seize my senses showing only as tremoring shivers along my spine. I lean back, my back arching against the feeling, spreading it along each vertebra before it tingles electric along every nerve.

It should tire me out, wear on and drain me.

Instead, I feel fueled. Invigorated. 

Voracious.

I slink off the chair to join you on the floor. Pulling you close, I seal my lips to yours. My taste buzzes between us. Shoving against your shoulder, I push you down onto the carpet, before lowering my body onto yours. I deftly unbutton your shirt, needing to have more of you revealed—exposed—for me. Stroking your chest, I feel your nipples hard against my fingers and palms. I trail my hand down until I grasp your sex, laying hard and long on your belly. I squeeze. You gasp.

With a grin, I sidle over your hips, my thighs straddling you. My hot, wet flesh brushes against your dick still cradled in my fist. “What do you want?” I ask. I want the words. I want to feel the power, the base and raw pull, of them pouring out of your mouth and filling the room. Filling me.

“I want to come inside you.”

I shiver at the words. You’re my first fluid-bonded partner. It shouldn’t matter. It never did before.

But it does.

The trust of it. The aching vulnerability. Of literally letting someone inside of you. No barriers. No safety net. And leaving, in a flow of heat and lust, a bit of you inside of them. Inside of me.

I swallow hard and lower myself onto you.

You lift up on your elbows to watch as I do, as each inch sinks deep.

I watch you, the flush of your cheeks and the puff of your heaving chest. Your eyes darken, taking everything in. Your tongue slips out and slicks your lips, making you look ravenous. 

I lean down and begin to ride you, my chest hovering over your face. With a growl, you grab my shirt and thrust it up, freeing my breasts to your mouth. Every time I surge over you, your lips draw me in, only to pull when I buck back. I feel caught, captive between the rioting sensations of your mouth and your cock.

Even through it, I can see your body writhe. Your nails dig into the shag, trying to hold on, to find some sense of control. Heavy breaths and tiny whimpers escape your lips. I watch you fight off your climax.

It makes me want it more.

Even though my thighs burn and waves of my own orgasm threaten to break, I push you further. Faster. Harder. I clench the muscles deep within, my pussy hugging your long, hard dick. I lean down and suck your bottom lip hard between my teeth.

You come, filling my body while you moan into my mouth. I want to roar. To cheer. But the force of your orgasm rocks your body, pulsing along—pulsing inside—my own, triggering my own climax. Not the same mind-blowing pleasure as before. But something sweeter. Deeper. Because it’s something shared. 

I shiver before I let my weight settle over yours. I close my eyes and feel your arms wrap around my waist, holding me close. I feel your lips feather kisses over my temple, my cheek, my chin. Lazily, I turn my head to smack my lips over yours.

“Thank you,” you tell me. You let out a deep sigh. “I needed that.”

Yes, you needed a break. A space where time—the world, life—stops. A scene where you get to step out of yourself and away from the baggage that normally weighs down. Don’t we all sometimes? “You’re very welcome.” I stretch a bit, feeling you slip flaccid and slick out of me. “I know things have been hard for you lately.”

“That’s not an excuse,” you say, shaking your head. “I shouldn’t take it out on you.” You hold your breath and squeeze me tight. You sigh. “I’m sorry.”

I let out my own breath. I didn’t even know I’d been holding it in. I feel something sharp settle within me, only really noticing the pain now that it’s gone. “I know.” I press my lips to yours, lingering as our sweat-slicked bodies stick together. “I love you.”


LET'S GET INTENSE FOR THE MEN!
Please check out my story in The Sexy Librarian's anthology that gives us a bold peek into lust and love from the male perspective!
At Audible

REBEL WITH US!
Erotica is an expression of rebellion. Please check out my stories in Coming Together's defiant, charity anthology that celebrates diversity and equality in the face of our uncertain future!

BREAKING THE RULES!
Please check out my story in this hand-held library of erotica & explore to your libido's content!






SEXT ME SWEETLY
Check out my story to dive deep into all the awkward excitement of sexual exploration.

Find even more great reads and Put Your Money Where Your Orgasm Is!




Also, find out how you can support me and collaborate with me on my Patreon Page!

Thursday, December 22, 2016

Make-up Sex Makes Everything Better!

How do you end a long, cold fight? By heating things up!

Check out my story "Give to You" with Deep Desires Press!

Brides are supposed to be excited about their wedding days, right? But Peter Richards hasn’t been able to get his wife-to-be’s attention at all. He knows that Kat’s been swept up by the excitement of getting her first book published, but this is their wedding! When he tries to talk to her about it, they just end up fighting, leaving him wondering whether she cares about him at all.

Kat Valdez knows that she should be helping Peter with all the plans and preparations but, with time and pressure bearing down, it feels like being forced to choose between marrying the man of her dreams and achieving her lifelong aspiration. Upset over all this arguing, Kat packs up and leaves their sunny, coastal home to stay with her parents, hoping to find peace and answers in her snowy, hometown haven. She just needs a break. To think about their lives. About their future. And how—and if—they fit together in it.

Peter, while he understands her need for space, doesn’t need time to know that he wants Kat in his life. She might need a break, but his life won’t feel right until they’re back together again. So, with his toy bag in hand and a kinky plan in his head, he treks north, determined to convince her how cold and lonely life is apart by reminding her how hot they can get together.


Now Available On:


LEARNING A NEW WORLD
Find out how Kat & Peter met in my novel The Taming School from Sizzler Editions that explores discovering kink!
At Barnes & Noble
LOVE EROTICA? LOVE CONSENT?
Please check out what happens next with Kat & Peter in my story in The New Smut Project's anthology!
At iTunes Books

REBEL WITH US!
See how Kat & Peter will face our uncertain future in Coming Together's defiant, charity anthology that celebrates diversity and equality!
At Amazon

THINK YOU OWN ME?
Check out more from Kat, Peter, & Pip in my novel Show Me, Sir from Sinful Press that celebrates feminist kink!
HAVE YOURSELF A KINKY, LITTLE XMAS!
Please check out from Pip my story in Coming Together's charity anthology that lets your feel-good do some real good!

PRIDE & PUNISHMENT!
Please check out my story and get ready for some fit-on-the-streets-but-fun-in-the-sheets, pervertable play this PRIDE!




BREAKING THE RULES!
Watch Pip play in my story in this hand-held library of erotica & explore to your libido's content!






Find even more great reads and Put Your Money Where Your Orgasm Is!




Also, find out how you can support me and collaborate with me on my Patreon Page!

Wednesday, December 7, 2016

Have Yourself a Kinky, Little Christmas!

I love holiday stories. From The Grinch Who Stole Christmas to the corny Hallmark made-for-TV movies, nothing feels more like the season than when every story you see comes complete with jingle bells and snow. Every story seems filled to the brim with love and endless miracles. Those stories, sappy or corny or mushy as they are, seem to showcase the best of the world. In a culture obsessed with the grittiness of stories that tell you how it is, they are shining beacons of what could be.

And, I think particularly for kinky people, Christmas just lends itself to really fun encounters. From being obsessed with getting our hands on the latest, greatest toys to, as my story “Tugging Reins” explores, all the fun pervertable toys that can be made out of the many, omnipresent yuletide decorations, there’s just unlimited merriment to be had for a kinkster with a creative mind. From tinsel whips to jingling restraints, Christmas really knows how to dress-up a scene! I defy you read my story and look at an oversized candy cane decoration the same again. Can’t be done.

This time of year makes everything feel wondrous and possible and can’t help but inspire the undeniably seasonal wish to get what you really want. So often, we’re afraid to ask for or go for the things we desire. We worry about what people will think or how it’ll change our lives or even fear that we don’t deserve our own desires. I wanted my characters, Chris and Danielle, to embrace their own personal Christmas miracle of turning what seems like impossible fantasy into a sexy-as-hell reality...

READ THE REST HERE

And Check Out 
Under the Mistletoe
Now Available:





SEXT ME SWEETLY
Dive deep with Danielle & Carey in my story into all the awkward excitement of sexual exploration.
At Kobo

GEEK SEX IS THE KINKIEST SEX!
Find out what happens next with Danielle & Carey my story in Riverdale Avenue Books' anthology that proves no one knows how to play better than nerds!

YOU'RE INTO WHAT?!
If it exists, someone’s kinky for it! Check out my story in Sexy Little Pages' anthology that takes a walk on the weird side: you won’t regret it.

Find even more great reads and Put Your Money Where Your Orgasm Is!




Also, find out how you can support me and collaborate with me on my Patreon Page!

Thursday, December 1, 2016

Check Out "Tugging Reins" in this Charity Anthology!

Check out my story "Tugging Reins" in this charity anthology that lets your feel-good do some real good!

Coming Together: Under the Mistletoe is a celebration of December first through the thirty-first, from the North Pole to the Antarctic. You'll meet couples changing up the meaning of spin the dreidel, deciding the fate of their marriage on Hogmanay, finding new love in a dystopian future, among many more. The poets will make you laugh, and maybe even cry.

Coming Together: Under the Mistletoe is a collection of erotic fiction & poetry edited by Delilah Night. Proceeds benefit Project Linus. Table of Contents: Santa, Kinky (Blacksilk) Kid Comet (Delilah Night) All I Want for Christmas is Sex (Sheryl Collins) Carpe Marine Christmas Package (Muffy Wilson) Silver Bells (M. Marie) Tugging Reins (Sonni de Soto) The Twelve Days of Christmas (DJK) Strip Dreidel (Rob Rosen) Under the Mistletoe (Ramona Thompson) Accosting Santa (Sommer Marsden) A Thaw in Midwinter (Blacksilk) The Green Lady (James Malin) A Christmas Eve in Snow (Marcia Conover) Summer in December (Tamsin Flowers) Patriarchal Winter Night's Dream (Jaylan Salah) Hush (Maria Duendi) Winter's Majesty (Stacy Savage) Christmas in Minneapolis (CeCe Marsh) The Road on a Winter Hike (Sarah Jaylan) Baby, It's Hot Outside (Delilah Night) Frosty (Corbin A. Grace) Adrenaline Rush (Robert Buckley) Goosebumps (Stacy Savage) Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot? (Ashe Barker)


Now Available:





SEXT ME SWEETLY
Dive deep with Danielle & Carey in my story into all the awkward excitement of sexual exploration.
At Kobo

GEEK SEX IS THE KINKIEST SEX!
Find out what happens next with Danielle & Carey my story in Riverdale Avenue Books' anthology that proves no one knows how to play better than nerds!

YOU'RE INTO WHAT?!
If it exists, someone’s kinky for it! Check out my story in Sexy Little Pages' anthology that takes a walk on the weird side: you won’t regret it.

Find even more great reads and Put Your Money Where Your Orgasm Is!




Also, find out how you can support me and collaborate with me on my Patreon Page!

Cats Don't Make People Kinky - Thanks, Evo Psych, For Trying to Make Me Love My Cat More

But I really didn’t need you to.

I mean, I REALLY stop.

So a new study in the Journal of Evolutionary Psychology claims that owning cats could make you kinky. 

…Okay, trying to take a deep breath here…

Nope.

Fuck it.

Are you fucking kidding me with this ridiculous, bunked-up study?

Are you REALLY trying to treat being kinky is a disease we caught because we like cute, cuddly things? Stop trying to sell your fake-as-fuck snake oil science seeking to demonize or denigrate us.

Anecdotally, I’ve been into kink since I was a child. I can’t say that it made me kinky—I personally don’t think that sexual orientation works that way—but I found a picture book in my library of “The Seven Swan Princes” that had kinky imagery all over it. We’re talking an extremely sadistic Queen, looking Dominant as fuck while she luxuriates naked in her bath, as the equally naked, submissive princess is tortured in the background, all the while with a transcendently serene look on her face. I went to the library early to read that book for months. I went scouring for other fairytales that had similar themes in them. For years. I don’t think that book made me kinky; I think, because I’m kinky, I gravitated to that book. Even as a na├»ve six-year-old. 

In the same way that I gravitated to liking cats—and dogs and all things adorable—LONG before I owned my first cat, years later, in middle school.

So, please, tell me how cats made me kinky. Or, maybe, I’m just precocious and my cat-loving brain knew it would one day be full of parasites, so it just jumped on the kinky train a little early.


Don’t believe me? I mean, I’m just one person. Okay. Let’s really break this crackpot shit down, shall we?

Stop Using Science Words You Don’t Understand to Scare People

According to this study that looked at 36,564 people in Slovakia and the Czech Republic, they found that “a common brain parasite from cats, Toxoplasma gondii, which causes toxoplasmosis, is linked to sexual arousal by fear, violence and danger in humans” because, supposedly, “infected subjects are more often aroused by their own fear, danger, and sexual submission.”

Golly gee wilikers, that sure does sound scary. 

But does it sound even remotely true?

Toxoplasmosis, oh-so-charmingly referred to as “the Crazy Cat Lady Syndrome,” does not work the way these people think it does. According to the Mayo Clinic, “Toxoplasmosis may cause flu-like symptoms in some people, but most people affected never develop signs and symptoms” and “If you're generally healthy, your immune system keeps the parasites in check. They remain in your body in an inactive state, providing you with lifelong immunity so that you can't become infected with the parasite again.”

So why is pseudo-science trying to freak us out over what they Mayo Clinic calls “one of the world's most common parasites?”

Why don’t we look at that charming moniker they gave it?

The Crazy Cat Lady Syndrome

Not that long ago, there were stories running rampant around the internet about how cats were making women crazy. That toxoplasmosis was the reason why we cat-lovers everywhere adored these stereotypically fickle and assholish creatures. Couldn’t possibly be because they’re cute as fuck, easy to take care of, and a literal cuddly plush toy come to life. No. Of course not. Don’t be crazy, ladies, it’s only because parasites are taking over your ladybrains and making you think those things. 

Seriously, evo psych, you’re going to try to gaslight us like that?


Never mind that there are scores of other, more common ways you can get toxoplasmosis, like not washing your food well enough or not cooking your meat right. 

Never mind that, with the number of cat owners in America, if this were true, one would assume we’d see more cases of this kind of tragic toxoplasmosis that, according to this kind of scare-tactic science “might even kill as many people as malaria, or at least a million people a year.” 

Never mind the alarming number of feral cats that roam the streets, that should account for even MORE cases of this parasite that apparently “contributes to car crashes, suicides, and mental disorders such as schizophrenia.”

Never mind that the rather recent spotlight that 50 Shades and Dragon Age and other media of its kind have shone on kink and BDSM is more likely the cause of why so many of your respondents are suddenly interested in kink than their pet preferences. Otherwise, why don't we see more of a correlation between the societal swings in sex-shaming and sex-positivity and cat ownership?

Funny how all those facts don’t quite fit your little theory there, evo psycho, huh?

Could it be that you just wanted to shame women and continue the oh-so-beloved belief that all women are crazy and can’t be trusted with the care and control of their own bodies and desires?

And, if you think this kind of study is just coming after women, boy, are you wrong.

Look at what this study has to say about men who suffer this so-called affliction: “What’s more, the researchers discovered that people with Toxoplasma have a ‘higher attraction to bondage, violence and, in men, to masochism and raping.’” 

Seriously, are you FUCKING kidding me?

So, not only do you use your fake science to try to discount women taking ownership and power over their own sexual desires, you trot out the two most common fears vanilla people have about kinky men? That BDSM either turns them into crazy, abusive sex-monsters or weak, feminized sissy-boys? Could you at least try to be original in your made-up, offensive bullshit?

I’m sorry, but the term “evolutionary psychology” has become synonymous with shoddy-as-shit science. I’m sure that there are some legit studies done under that umbrella, but they need to find a different name cause most of evo psych is racist, sexist, pompous, self-congratulatory confirmation bias.

Think that Western-based gender roles are natural, evo psych will contort itself trying to explain how hunting and gathering has shit all to do with who should run a board meeting and who should raise children. Want to explain away your racist assumptions, evo psych has got your bigoted back. Think non-traditional, non-straight, non-vanilla sex is icky, oh yeah, evo psych’s got scads of uninteresting, easily debunked theories just for you.

Instead of trying to explain the world by examining it as it is, instead of trying to seek the truth, evo psych too often tries to prove its own ridiculous assumptions through sketchy methodology that produces sketchy results and gets published in sketchy journals. Which, apparently, is easy as hell!

So can we stop pretending like it has anything legitimate to say? That this isn’t just moralistic fear-mongering about sex and people they find yucky?

Trust me, evo psychs, if you’re afraid that our big, bad Dominants are going to rape you or attack you or turn you into our obedient, baby pain-sluts, PLEASE don’t. Believe me, if you believe this kind of blatantly bigoted crap, kinksters aren’t interested in you. We don't want to have our kooky, kinky, crazy cat-lady sex with you. I wouldn't touch your ignorant ass with a ten-foot crop.

And, really, isn’t that your biggest bitch?

That kinky women don’t want to have boring sex with you?

Guess what, kitten, the sex with you isn’t boring because you’re vanilla; it’s because you think it’s a virtue to not know things. You think you should be rewarded for regurgitating the same-old, same-old crap that’s made for unhappy and unsatisfied women for generations. And not just in the bedroom (but, don’t mistake me, also VERY MUCH in the bedroom). That’s why kinky women, who tend to be smarter, more empowered, and psychologically healthier than the average, don’t want to have anything to do with you. 

Not because the sex is boring.

But because you are.

Tediously so.

So, sure, thanks, evo psych bro, for trying to give me one more reason to love my cat.

But I really didn’t need it. I’d choose his furry, little face over yours any day.

And the Inevitable Follow-up:


A new study looked at nearly 5,000 people in the UK who were born between 1991 and 1992, following them until the age of 18. It concluded that, after having controlled for potential confounding factors, "The message for cat owners is clear: there is no evidence that cats pose a risk to children's mental health. [...] In our study, initial unadjusted analyses suggested a small link between cat ownership and psychotic symptoms at age 13, but this turned out to be due to other factors. [...] Once we controlled for factors such as household over-crowding and socioeconomic status, the data showed that cats were not to blame. Previous studies reporting links between cat ownership and psychosis simply failed to adequately control for other possible explanations."