By Lisabet Sarai
Let me start out by wishing our lovely host Emily a super-happy birthday! I think the actual date has already past, but she's an expert in stretching out the celebration! (It's actually in 2 days, :) but I do love a good celebration)
I thought I'd devote my post to discussing birthday traditions. It's pretty common for people to have specific activities in which they indulge on their birthdays. For example, you might go out to dinner at a particular restaurant. For the last five or six years (with the exception of 2013, when I turned sixty and we had a huge party!), my DH and I have celebrated my birthday by dining at our favorite French restaurant, a little hole in the wall in the most unlikely location imaginable, which nevertheless consistently serves up amazing food and fabulous wine.
We usually follow that with a stop at a bar nearby, also undistinguished except for the fact that it features a great DJ and a massive collection of classic rock music. For me, celebration means dancing, and this bar is one of the only places I know where I let my hair down and shake my booty.
I should mention that my husband's birthday is the day after mine. This means that we get double the celebration every year. I suppose you might argue that it would be better if our natal days were six months apart, so we could have two special nights on the town. On the other hand, if we did it more often, it wouldn't be so special!
There's one weird tradition I follow that dates back to my childhood. When I was a kid, my parents would make me take a bath on the night before my birthday. They told me I had to wash off my (for example) “eight year old skin”, to reveal my “nine year old skin” in all its glory. I don't do baths much anymore, but I still view my pre-birthday-evening shower as an opportunity to slough off the remnants of my past year and prepare for the new one.
My siblings do the same thing. When we call one another to offer birthday greetings, we're bound to ask, “did you wash off your sixty year old skin last night”?
Since we're talking about bathing – or showering at least – I thought I'd throw in a hot, wet excerpt for those of you who, like Emily, are ardent fans of erotic romance. This is from my historical M/M/F ménage tale, Monsoon Fever.
The bathroom was simple, Asian-style, a tiled area with a drain rather than a tub. Lalida had left an ample supply of hot water, filling every bucket and ewer in the house. Cold water came directly from the rain-fed cistern on the roof.
Quickly, before she could think too much about what she was doing, Priscilla stripped off her clothes and kicked them into a corner. She grabbed one of the pitchers of hot water and poured it over her head. Dirt sluiced out of her hair in muddy rivulets and swirled down the drain. The warmth soothed her aching muscles but made her scratches and blisters sting. She picked up a bar of her precious English lavender soap and began smoothing the suds over her breasts and belly. She lingered over the task, savouring the silkiness of her own skin under her fingertips.
The two men watched her, transfixed. Jon’s mouth hung open as if he didn’t believe what he was seeing, but at the same time his trousers were distended by a huge erection. Anil’s lips were parted, his tongue-tip playing unconsciously at the corners. She could see that he was hungry to taste her. For long moments, though, neither man moved.
Her soapy hands slipped easily into the cleft between her thighs. It seemed so natural, to slide her slippery fingers along her folds and stroke the juicy bud of flesh that set her trembling. She had done this so many times; she knew instinctively the path to her own pleasure. No one had ever watched her, of course. Instead of inhibiting her, though, her audience stirred her to new peaks of excitement.
No longer was her self-pleasuring lonely and sterile. Now she was sharing it with the man—the men—that she loved and desired. As she climbed higher, she could see her own arousal reflected in their faces. Neither moved to expose his cock, not yet, but she knew that would come soon.
She rubbed harder, plunging three fingers into her depths while vigorously thumbing her clit. With her other hand, she pinched her soapy nipples, sending sharp bolts of sensation straight to her sex. She moaned, closer every instant to her final release. With her eyes closed, she could still feel their lustful gaze, hear their harsh breathing.
That gives me an idea. Maybe next year I should ask my husband to help me wash off my sixty one year old skin!
Happy Birthday, Emily!
(Thanks a bunch Lisabet!)
(Thanks a bunch Lisabet!)
Lisabet Sarai became addicted to words at an early age. She began reading when she was four. She wrote her first story at five years old and her first poem at seven. Since then, she has written plays, tutorials, scholarly articles, marketing brochures, software specifications, self-help books, press releases, a five-hundred page dissertation, and lots of erotica and erotic romance – more than fifty single author titles, plus dozens of short stories in various erotic anthologies, including the Lambda winner Where the Girls Are and the IPPIE Best Erotic Book of 2011, Carnal Machines. Her gay scifi erotic romance Quarantine won a Rainbow Awards 2012 Honorable Mention.
Lisabet has more degrees than anyone would ever need, from prestigious educational institutions who would no doubt be deeply embarrassed by her chosen genre. She has traveled widely and currently lives in Southeast Asia with her indulgent husband and two exceptional felines, where she pursues an alternative career that is completely unrelated to her creative writing.