Walking, Talking, and Leather: The Chicagoland Shenanigans

(cross-posted from my professional blog)

My blogs have both been on the quiet side recently, mostly owing to the fact that I've either been traveling like a madwoman or writing like a madwoman to make up for all the time I've been traveling. Now that I'm back in the land of corn and flatness, it's time for a recap of my most recent trip, which was to Chicago.

The trip began in a benign, stress-free manner. My trusty Ford Exploder whisked me across Iowa and part of Illinois without incident, which is extra surprising when you consider that a) I drive like a bat out of hell and b) I'm reasonably certain every Iowa state trooper was on I-80 that day. I even had change handy for the copious amounts of toll booths when I crossed into Illinois, and managed to eat my lunch without getting crumbs all over myself or the interstate. So everything was off to a good start.

Not long after I made it into Chicago, my GPS advised me to get off the freeway and begin a series of turns. This is normal, of course. The turns were turned and the directions were followed, and lo and behold I found myself...

...not where I wanted to be. What the hell? I pulled over at the exact address where my hotel allegedly stood, except there wasn't a hotel in sight. And even if there was, I sure as hell wasn't staying in this particular neighborhood. And I've lived in a bad neighborhood in Norfolk, VA, so that says something.

Anyway, after a few moments of confusion, I looked up the address again and discovered, to my horror, where I went wrong. You see, I had put the address in the Notepad app on my iPhone. Turns out, if you tap an address in the Notepad app, it'll take you straight into the GPS app, and tell you how to get there. Wonderful...except when autocorrect changes "Monroe" to "Madison" and lands you about 15 miles away from your destination. 15 miles isn't too bad, but let me tell you, when you've been driving for almost 7 hours, the prospect of getting back on the road and straight into afternoon traffic in downtown Chicago is...less than thrilling.

Especially when there's an Occupy rally going on...

 Some additional shenanigans ensued before I finally checked into my hotel, but I made it at last. Shortly after that, I was joined by my roommates: Sarah Frantz  (formerly of Dear Author) and Annabel Joseph (click on Annabel's name for her recap of the trip).  Annabel is a very sweet and funny author, and Sarah is not nearly as terrifying in person as I thought she'd be. Kind of makes me feel silly for packing the garlic and crucifixes, but one can never be too careful.


Now, you're probably asking yourself, "Okay, but why the hell were you in Chicago to begin with? Especially with such shady individuals?"  I asked myself the same thing at the time, but then my long term memory kicked in and I remembered there was actually a reason for me to be there. Funny how that works.

That reason? The CARAS research conference at the Adler School of Psychology.  This was a conference for therapists, social workers, psychologists, etc., to educate them to be kink-aware and kink-friendly. Sarah invited Annabel and me, as well as authors Heidi Cullinan, James Buchanan, and Edmond Manning, to speak on a panel about positive and realistic portrayals of BDSM in romantic fiction. The panel went swimmingly, and hopefully there will be a link to the original webcast that I can post in the future, but for now you'll just have to take my word for it that the six of us worked fabulously together, the audience had some great questions, and I managed to keep my swearing to a minimum.


From there we went to lunch. For the life of me I can't remember the name of the place, but it was one of those pizza/sandwich/pasta/soup/kitchen sink places, and the food was great. "The food was great" seems to be a theme in Chicago, so I'll refrain from repeating it at every mention of dining establishments. Just assume unless otherwise noted that the food was awesome. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes. So you take six people who've just given a panel on all things good and kinky, and stick them at a table in a public place. What do you get? Strange looks from other restaurant patrons.


As it turned out, this was the very same day that another Lambda finalist reading was occurring, this time in Chicago. My fellow panelists were fabulously supportive and came to the reading, which was awesome. Of course we had to kill some time between the panel and the reading. Naturally, we (and in this case I mean James, Edmond, and I, since we were driving together) killed time by hunkering down at a Panera to do some writing. Duh. It should be noted here that when the cashier tried to hand me my sugar-laden pastry of choice, Edmond valiantly attempted to intervene and thus save the city from me turning into a cracked out squirrel for the afternoon. He was unsuccessful, but his attempt was noteworthy nonetheless.



It was they day after the panel and the reading that things got really interesting. I had planned to hole up in the room for the day and write, but you see, I very much live my life in the spirit of carpe diem. For me, that means I don't pass up potentially awesome and interesting experiences unless there is absolutely no way I can do it. So when Sarah and James say, "We're invited to a leather bar to watch a bondage demonstration, wanna go?", there is only one correct answer, and that answer is, "I'll get my shoes."


On the way out, we stopped by James's hotel room to pick something up, and I feel compelled to say this: While I can appreciate the decorating tastes of The Rainforest Cafe, and I understand the need to draw customers in, etc., I am inclined to think that when one is building a place of business across the street from a hotel, perhaps this is not the best thing to have said hotel's guests see when they look out their windows:

Just a thought.

Moving right along, there's no sense going to a bondage demonstration at a leather bar on an empty stomach, though, so we first went to dinner, this time at a Brazilian steakhouse. The food was amazing, blah blah blah, but the main reason I felt that meal worth mentioning is my undying amusement about the waiter who thought ice cream was an ideal dessert solution for a lactose intolerant diner.


After dining lavishly on meat, more meat, alcohol, additional meat, and some fabulous flan (for those of us who are tolerant of lactose), we hopped aboard ye olde L train and went...I guess north. My sense of direction isn't so great, and I spent most of the weekend having absolutely zero clue where I was and even less of a clue where I was going. So I just followed James and Sarah.

Obviously, they knew where they were going, because before long, we were darkening the doorway of the leather bar. And here, my friends, is where the dirty-minded, pervy, kink-writing author of this blog had one hell of a Dorothy moment, because oh my Lord, we were not in Kansas anymore. And that's all I'll say about that.


But the leather bar was only the beginning! A warm-up, if you will. Why? Because this was the weekend of International Mr. Leather. (I'm sure I don't have to mention it, but just in case: that link is NSFW) So, on Saturday, Sarah, James, and I went to the IML vendor fair.

It was certainly an experience, I assure you. I have never seen more leather, shoulders, asses, and general eyecandy than I did while walking the crowded halls between vendor booths. The smells of leather, rubber, and a hint of sweat weren't overpowering, but they were definitely there. I remember musing at one point that if ever there was a poorly-ventilated store between a saddle shop and a motorcycle shop, this is probably what it would smell like. Not unpleasant, mind you, just an observation.


I saw all manner of devices ranging from the "wait, how does that work?" to the "oh my God, I am so using that in a book." I even got to try out a few.

The Lightsaber, a zappy shocky electro-stim device, which was interesting.

Others, I elected not to try myself. Diamond plate paddles, for example.

And floggers with chains instead of leather tails.

I discovered a thing called "evil sticks":

One welt later, I discovered why they're called "evil sticks."



And there were some devices that I lacked the necessary equipment to try even if I wanted to:

I also ended up buying some books, T-shirts, and artwork, including this gorgeous piece that will be shipped to me very soon:

So that was IML, which was a fascinating and memorable experience. Especially in light of our panel about positive and realistic portrayals of BDSM in fiction, it was interesting to see positive and real BDSM firsthand.  It's difficult to describe what it was like being in a place that was as sexually charged as it was comfortable. It's hard to imagine being in a room with 1,000 people who are absolutely comfortable in their own skin, never mind 1,000 people who are absolutely comfortable in a skin that the rest of society can't quite comprehend. There's no judgment in a place like that. There was something for everyone, and even if something wasn't for you, there was a distinct sense of "your kink isn't my kink, but it's still cool" in every interaction.


It wasn't unusual for people to stop and watch other people. What they were trying on, what they were trying out, what they were wearing, what they weren't wearing. Being a people-watcher, I found myself watching both whoever had caught their eye as well as the onlookers themselves. And most of what I saw was people watching others out of curiosity or fascination. No nose-wrinkling, no judgment. Maybe some "Oh my God, WHAT is that???", which was invariably followed by "Oh. Interesting." Whether it was someone demonstrating a particular type of bondage, someone trying on a cock ring (I'm not kidding), or a pair of furries walking by, the thing that struck me the most was the lack of judging. Not that it was surprising -- if you're coming to a kink convention to be judgmental, you need to get a life -- just that it's so unusual to see so many people at ease with themselves, their own kinks, and other people's kinks.


And then, after being immersed in this for hours, we returned to the real world, had some lunch, and went our separate ways to return to our own worlds.

Speaking of returning to our own worlds, I would like to offer a small piece of advice before I sign off. If you, like me, live in an uber-conservative part of the midwest, and you've recently attended an event such as IML, and during your attendance spent money on themed apparel, be aware of what you're wearing before you decide to go out for an impulsive trip to Cold Stone.


Because I assure you, there are few ways to gather a more rapid succession of dirty looks in Omaha, Nebraska, than wandering out in public with this on your shirt:

COVER ART: Where Nerves End

Hooray! I now have cover art for Where Nerves End! This is the first book in the Tucker Spring series, which I'm writing with Marie Sexton and Heidi Cullinan.  Keep an eye on my site, the official Tucker Springs website, and Heidi and Marie's sites for information about book #2, Second Hand.

Welcome to Tucker Springs, Colorado: Population, 70-something-thousand. Home to beautiful mountain views, two respected universities, and a ridiculously high cost of living.

Jason Davis can handle a breakup. And an overwhelming mortgage. And a struggling business. And the excruciating pain that keeps him up at night thanks to a shoulder injury. Handling all of it at once? Not so much. When his shoulder finally pushes him to a breaking point, he takes a friend’s advice and gives acupuncture a try.

 Michael Whitman is a single dad struggling to make ends meet. When a mutual friend refers a patient, and that patient suggests a roommate arrangement to alleviate their respective financial strains, Michael jumps at the opportunity.

 Living together would be easy if Jason wasn’t so damned attracted to Michael. Good thing Michael’s straight, or the temptation might just be too much.

 Well, their mutual friend says Michael is straight…

Where Nerves End will be available from Amber Allure on June 3.

New body graffiti!

Yes, another tattoo. Eddie and I decided to get some ink while we were on Maui.

Eddie opted for a gecko on the back of his arm:

 

I decided to get a hibiscus, since they remind me of Okinawa, along with some Polynesian tribal designs:

And as further proof I should not be allowed in public without adult supervision:

A woman asked me about the bandage on my arm. I casually told her I'd just had a conjoined twin removed, then went back to my conversation with Eddie. Hardest poker face I've ever had to maintain, but totally worth it. She's probably still wondering if I was bullshitting her.

Searching for the Elusive Lava Bunny.

My parents left Maui on Monday, which means Eddie and I are now loose on the island with a rental car and no adult supervision. Naturally, we took off and went exploring.

Since everyone had been raving about the lava fields toward the south end of the island, we decided that was a good place to start. After all, this is where the elusive lava bunny lurks. A shy creature by nature, this rarely photographed rabbit comes in colors ranging from lightly dusted gray to nearly black. I guess you could say they come in fifty shades of gray, minus the thinly-veiled plagiarism and bad BDSM.

They're ridiculously hard to find, owing mostly to that evolutionary imperative called "survival."  With numerous natural and unnatural predators, it's a miracle the lava bunny hasn't gone extinct. It's bad enough they have to deal with the creatures nature saw fit to plant in the lava bunny's habitat: the basalt lizard, the obsidian weasel, and the pumice lion. Then they have non-native dangers such as car tires and sugar cane bats, the latter of which were introduced to the island some years ago to eat rats. 

So basically, the lava bunny is screwed, and will probably die out before long. Naturally, this means we need to find them and photograph them to prove we've seen them. Pics or it didn't happen, after all.

So, in the glorious Minivan O' Destiny that the rental agency saw fit to give us, we drove south to the lava fields.

 

 BEHOLD! The fields:

 The search began in earnest.

Well, when we weren't distracted by trying to take pictures of waves:

 

 Some say you can find the lava bunnies in the water. After all, it's a safe refuge from the water-fearing pumice lions and the persnickety obsidian weasels.

 Not such a great escape from magma sharks, though. I mean, unless they stay in shallow water, but then they're sort of screwed by the basalt lizards. So we looked in the moderately deep water...

Ooh, more waves!

Wait. Um. Where was I? 

Oh yes. Water. Lava bunnies. Searching.

No bunnies here, I'm afraid. Back to the fields so we can--

WAVES!

Er, I mean, fields. Back to the fields.

 We knelt and inspected the ground, hoping to find some clues. Maybe signs of a recent hop-by. Perhaps some nibbled foliage, even some lava droppings.

 Nothing. Not one little lava bunny turd. Dammit.

Interesting bit of trivia, though: When walking on basalt, it sounds like you're walking on Cap'n Crunch.

Traipsing along the Cap'n Crunch-sounding basalt, we discovered the path upon which the basalt lizards migrate. Though it seemed a long shot, since basalt lizards frequent this little thoroughfare, we followed it anyway in hopes of finding some lava bunnies.

Still nothing. *le sigh* We came all this way, endured the hardships of being on this godforsaken island, and not one scrap of evidence of a lava bunny. Such a waste. Such a pity. Such--

WAIT. OMG.

THERE IT IS! ON TOP OF THAT ROCK!

*SNAP*

*checks preview screen*

Man, these things are fast.  I had it, I saw it, it was RIGHT THERE, but once I took the picture...

It was gone.

 The search continues. One day, we will find you, lava bunny.

One day...

Feeding Birdies and Watching Dolphins. Oh, and a Flying Fish.

In between family stuff (like, you know, my cousin's wedding) and just generally relaxing, we've been of course exploring the island. On the second or third day, whatever day it was, I hopped on a boat with Eddie and my mom, and along with 30-some-odd strangers, we embarked on a voyage of whale-watching and general awesomeness.

Now, the humpback migration through this area winds down around early/mid May. And as you've probably gathered, it's...May.  So instead of being knee-deep in whales, the area between Lanai, Maui, and Molokai has about 12 whales left. (The naturalist made sure to rub it in by saying that in February/March-ish, the harbor is often referred to as "whale soup". Bitch.)  Surprise surprise...we didn't see any whales.

But you know, it's kind of hard to be bummed out about anything when your boat encounters a pod of about 80 spinner dolphins.


Especially when those dolphins are cruising along with your boat and playing in the waves right off the bow (which of course we were leaning over).

 We even heard one squeak, and the cuteness overload from that single sound nearly caused me to combust right there on the deck.

And holy hell, look at the size of the remora attached to this guy:

 

 He was, shall we say, a little eager to shake that sucker off:

And as a bonus, we didn't just see dolphins, we saw flying fish. I'd never seen one before, and OMG, these guys could get some distance. Managed to snap one:

 I swear he must have gone like 100 feet. They really do fly.

After our 2-hour voyage, we returned to Lahaina and drove up north to do some snorkeling. As luck would have it, I wasn't feeling all that well by then, and much to my curse-laden frustration, had to bow out of snorkeling. (WTF. Seriously, WTF? Growl.)  While my parents and husband floated facedown in the crystal clear waters (and that jerk I'm married to actually saw a sea turtle *grumbles*), I sat in the shade of a palm tree and kept an eye on our stuff.

Circumstances are what they are, though, and while I would have loved to snorkel, I wasn't about to just sit there feeling sorry for myself.

There were some cute little birds wandering around. I had crackers.

So, I made some friends.

A bunch of friends:

There really are worse ways to spend an afternoon, you know?

Seriously.

 

 And I think this may be one of the coolest pics I've ever taken:

So that's how we spent yet another day in paradise. Coming up, depending on how cooperative my interwebs are:

• In which we hunt the elusive Lava Bunny in its natural habitat.
• Wandering aimlessly around Lahaina and Kihei
• Pics from the awesomest lagoon ever

We're still here for a few more days, and naturally, we've planned those days to the gills. Tomorrow, we're going up in a helicopter to check out the Haleakala Crater. Then we've got a kayak trip out to...um...some bay or another where we will snorkel amongst sea turtles and other sea creatures.  And, one of the things I've been DYING to do since I researched Maui while writing Infinity Pools: snorkeling Molokini. Hellz yeah. Pics to come, of course!

And as I sign off, I leave you with a little nugget of knowledge I picked up this morning:

It is incredibly awesome the first time you see a shark while snorkeling.
It is mildly unnerving the first time you don't see that same shark.

That is all.

The Clampetts in First Class

First off, sorry for the "meh" photo quality. I was using my phone, and it just doesn't quite have the chops for photography. Still, for the purposes of recording things for posterity, it'll do. Onward!

So the vacation continues in earnestly earnest fashion, with beach shenanigans, taking pictures of everything in sight, and returning to our room to find our toilet paper mysteriously folded into a cryptic downward pointing arrow. Our hotel, in spite of its gloriously accommodating façade, has ridiculously horrible wireless internet, so my updates will be a little sparse. Aside from the slow wifi, which is truly a minor issue and a first world problem, all is well and it’s going to take a small army to get me on a plane to leave Maui when the trip is over.

Speaking of planes, I’d like to share with my loyal blog minions a tale of air travel madness so shocking, it’ll…I mean, it’ll shock you. Or something.

The tale begins with Eddie and me in the lovely Denver International Airport. We had driven all day the day before to get there, and arrived after stopping twice to scrape the entire insect population of Nebraska and Colorado off the windshield. Seriously, CO and NE, I was in awe. Truly in awe.

And here is a photo of the Denver Airport, or at least its parking garage, with a giant white caterpillar passing by in the background:

 Anywho, we went inside and checked in for our flight. That was when the fateful words appeared on the screen:

“Would you like to upgrade to first class for $[so stupid cheap it should have been illegal]?”

Bitch, please. Of course I want to upgrade to first class for $stupid. With the click of a button (well, okay, the tap of my finger on a touchscreen), we were launched from the back of the plane with all the peasants and livestock to the elite rows in the front. Clearly this was an error, since if the airline had any idea who we were, they would have instead stuck us in the luggage compartment where we wouldn’t disturb or terrify the other passengers. Since I saw two bound-and-gagged elderly people in nice clothing squirming on their way up the conveyor belt between two duffel bags and a guitar case, it’s entirely possible this was the result of a colossal mix-up. Naturally, I just pulled down my window shade, pretended I never saw the old people, and leaned back in my ill-gotten seat in first class.

Once we were in the air, it became clear this was not a universe to which we were accustomed. I had heard the legends, and thought that was all they were, but no. No, they were not just legends, and now we were privy to secrets of this strange, alien world, secrets which we can’t forget. And probably shouldn’t tell. In fact, they’ll be beating down my door in no time for revealing them to you, so let this blog be my legacy should they find me. 

So what was the first tip-off that we weren’t in Kansas anymore?

Nuts.

Not the foil-wrapped, over-salted peanuts they used to hand out in coach before replacing them with foil-wrapped, over-salted pretzels. No, these were almonds. Almonds presented to us in ceramic cups. Which fit neatly into the cup-holder in the mile-wide armrest between us, along with our drinks.

Our drinks that came in actual, legit glasses.

Made of fucking glass.

No joke, people. I saw it, and I photographed it:

 

But they didn’t stop there. Out came table cloths to cover our tray tables.

 

And on top of those tray tables?

Dinner. Dinner that came in dishes.

Real, honest to God, dishes.

I wouldn’t lie to you, folks:

 

 And you know what else they had?  Forks.

Not plastic forks. Not flimsy, safe forks. Bona fide, no-way-in-hell-would-you-get-them-past-security-in-your-carry-on forks.

 

Oh, but that was just dinner. A simple meal full of revelations and myths come true.  Eddie and I were certain the jig would be up sooner or later and we would be banished back to coach where we belonged. Perhaps the mis-routed old people in the luggage compartment would finally chew through their bindings and make enough noise to be heard, revealing the terrible mistake. Somehow, some way, we would be discovered.

Now, before I go on, I must tell you another story from past air travel. You see, I have spent many a flight shoehorned into coach, and during one particularly cramped, miserable flight, my seatmates and I were commiserating. I mean, when you’re crammed together so tightly you become temporary conjoined triplets, you really have no other choice but to commiserate.

As we peeled back cellophane on our molten hot meals made of the carcasses of unidentifiable animals mixed with the sauce of melted plant matter, we mused that in first class, in the nebulous Great Beyond just past the mysterious curtain at the front of our section, they couldn’t possibly be tolerating such treatment.

“I’ll bet they even have desserts,” my seatmate-to-the-left grumbled in between taking long drinks to extinguish the third degree burns his salad had inflicted on his teeth. “Like, real desserts that don’t taste like sand.”

“No doubt,” my seatmate-to-the-right said as he shanked a roll with a plastic knife. “They probably have ice cream.”

“With sprinkles,” I growled, narrowing my eyes at the curtain as if I could suddenly gain X-ray vision to the paradise beyond. “You know they have motherfucking sprinkles.”

“Yeah,” my seatmates both said. “Those bastards totally have sprinkles.”

Skip ahead some years to this moment when I have infiltrated first class, when my back is to the curtain and my ass is parked in the no-longer-so-nebulous Great Beyond.  The flight attendants have removed our dishes, but advised us to keep our table cloths. After all, there’s more coming.

More? I thought. What could possibly be—

No. No, it can’t really be possible. Can it?

Then I heard some clinking. And clattering. And general sounds of food-making.

I leaned out of my seat and looked ahead.

 

What’s this? No way. Is that…

Holy shit.

Ice cream.

Glass bowls of goddamned ice cream.

Moments later, the flight attendants emerged from their little hidey-hole with a cart. A cart covered in those bowls of ice cream, but not just that.  Oh no, they don’t just give you vanilla ice cream in first class and then call it a day. You don’t upgrade to first class and get a pristine, unembellished dessert of plain plainness like a very plain thing.

No. No, my loyal blog minions.

You get…

…toppings.

 

 As much as you want. Any kind you want. Chocolate. Caramel. Strawberries. Cherries. Nuts. Whipped cream. And when you say “Slather that fucker in chocolate”, they don’t just drizzle on a little extra to appease you like they do at Dairy Queen. No, they drown that ice cream until you have, in one single bowl, more liquid than the TSA would ever have let you carry onto the plane by yourself. When you say “Give me some cherries, yo” (though we went with “Some cherries, please” to avoid blowing our cover as the classless twats we are), they don’t just plop a cherry on top and call it good. “Some” means “a few” which means “Is this enough, or would you like some more?”

Damn right I want some more.

 

 And yes, that’s a metal spoon.

But you know what they didn’t have?

They didn’t have any goddamned sprinkles.

Updates, and going to be MIA for a little while.

I've just returned to Omaha after a trip to Seattle to read with some Lambda finalists, and tomorrow, I hit the road again...this time for an actual VACATION! I know...I'm stunned too. And yes, I will likely be working at least part of the time because I just can't help myself. Expect a few tales of shenanigans, along with photos! After that, back to your regularly scheduled posting. And I will actually be posting more; the last couple of months have been a bit hectic, so I've fallen behind on my bloggery. This will be remedied!

Before I go, some updates!

I've made a change to my website to make it easier for people to find books that interest them. You can now browse by genre, by length, by series, and see what's available in paperback.


In other news, I'm pleased to announce The Closer You Get took first place in the New England Reader's Choice Bean Pot Award's Erotica category. The trophies are uber-cute, so I'm looking forward to having that on my desk. 


Also, I now have paperback copies of Search Me, and should have For The Living and the Master of Mine BDSM Anthology soon. Perhaps a giveaway in the near future? ;) Stay tuned.

Speaking of For The Living, it is on Amazon now, but thus far only in paperback. I'm not sure when the Kindle version will be available on Amazon, but I do know those with the technical know-how are working on it. In the meantime, it can be purchased in Kindle formats on AllRomance as well as the Amber Allure website. Thank you all for your patience!

And speaking of paperbacks, Damaged Goods will be available in print soon. Stay tuned for release info!

That's all for now -- expect some radio silence while I'm on vacation, but I'll be back and rarin' to go soon!