Welcome to Kinky Cocktails and Digital Drinking! This is an all-day party to launch my Sexy September blog tour for Undone which starts on Monday. I’ve strongarmed a bunch of wonderful writers into helping me on the tour and today, we celebrate! Because Lana, the protagonist in Undone, owns a cocktail bar, we’re offering some lustful libations. Check out our spectacular cocktail menu below, and sample some of these delicious drinks! How much can you handle? Will you need to lie down after a couple or can you keep on necking them?
If you’re still standing, stagger over to join us on Facebook and Twitter (#kinkydrinks) where we’ll be chatting, running comps and giveaways, drinking cocktails, and generally having a fine ol’ time! Next month, I’ll be popping up on these authors’ blogs, talking erotica and telling you all about my new dark, erotic thriller, out September 11th. Until then, chin chin! Bottoms up!
Kinky Cocktails and Digital Drinking
Heaven on Earth
The Jelly Bean
Sex on the Beach
Staten Island Ferry
I can’t recall my first thought that morning: that I was in a strange bedroom; that an unfamiliar man was naked beside me; or that a woman was screaming somewhere in the distance.
The scream filtered into a hung-over dream so I couldn’t be sure if it was real or imagined.
‘You hear that?’ I asked him. My mouth was bone dry.
He said nothing, his slow, sleepy breath rattling in his throat. ‘Hey.’ I nudged him and he rolled on his side, the muscles in his back slipping and shifting as if his body were liquefying, man becoming river. He grunted as he turned, dragging the sheet so it twisted like a toga, flashing that distinctive tattoo.
His breath grew quiet. I tried to piece him together. Broad, bronzed shoulders. Scruffy dark hair. I looked at his back, as big and silent as a continent, his spine a groove swooping down to the furred cleft of his buttocks. What was his name? Hell, what had we done together? A solid thrum between my thighs responded before cognitive memory could answer.
I flopped away from him, squinting. The room was cream and gold, its walls slanted, the curtains glowing with light as pale as honeydew melons. I licked my teeth. Outside birds trilled and chattered, and I couldn’t hear even a murmur of cars. I must have imagined the scream, the noise an echo escaping from a dream I couldn’t recall. Dravendene Hall was too tranquil for drama. Even a bad dream seemed out of place.
Pleasure bubbled as snatches of the night before returned to me. Forty one years old and my first threesome. Go, Lana Greenwood, go! Work that bucket list! I smiled and stretched, feeling fucked, messy, glorious and alive. I tried to ignore the dull sense of disquiet threatening to upset my happiness. A forgotten nightmare, that was all. Beneath the bed sheet, I rubbed my foot against his, just making contact and saying ‘Hi there, relative stranger’. His foot edged away, avoiding mine. Ah, I thought. One of those. Shuns affection. Well, I could handle that for a one-night stand.
That’s when I realised a third person should have been in bed with us, Misha, the Russian guy. Oh boy, the things we’d done together. The things they had done. Images rushed in of bodies slamming, of sweat-damp hair, limbs entangling and mouths gaping. I’d watched them as if in a fog, my perception misted by thwarted desire. What was he called, this guy lying next to me? He had a freshly bust-up lip when I’d first met him. Damn. Embarrassing if I couldn’t recall his name. Should I rummage through his wallet?
Sol, that was it. Sol Something-or-other. Dangerously attractive and charmingly cocky. An ex-New Yorker with a dirty smile and an introductory handshake that had turned my knees to mush. It wasn’t one of those concerted, hefty handshakes taught in business schools to suggest sincerity. It was a grip from a man who liked to tease but didn’t know his own strength. There’s not a lot I wouldn’t do to bed someone like that. As I later demonstrated.
And Misha was a customer from The Blue Bar. Ack, I should not have fucked a customer and crossed that professional boundary. Jeez, but the guy was hung. How awkward was that going to be when he next stopped in for a drink? All I’d be able to think about was his ginormous schlong. Already I was itching to tell Katrina. I could picture her laughing as I relayed the highlights. ‘I swear, Kat, his cock was so huge he nearly passed out when he got hard! You could practically see the colour draining from his face! Couldn’t even form a sentence. No blood supply to his brain!’
I glanced around the room in search of water. I’d packed coconut water, good for rehydrating. Sensible me. The smooth beige carpet was littered with bondage gear, condoms, beer bottles and tissues. Well, maybe not so sensible. But oh, what a night.
Misha’s absence didn’t concern me until the scream rang out again.
‘We need help!’ yelled a male voice from far away. A door banged.
My heart speeded up, nausea clutching. Don’t ask why, but a gut instinct told me this was related to Misha. I stood and slipped on my dressing gown, a 1950s wrap in pistachio green silk and sprigged with dusky roses. Does it seem shallow of me to mention details of my clothing when a tragedy was unfolding? It’s an impulse I can’t resist. If I’m to tell my story to these pages, I need to visualise myself and how I acted, otherwise I risk vanishing into the words, disappearing in the slippage between my outsides and insides, between the sound of language and the meaning.
I parted the curtains, fingertips trembling on gold brocade. Far below, beyond the tiny, diamond-paned window, the calm of striped green lawns and orderly flowerbeds rolled towards surrounding woodland. I picture the scene now, and I’m a character in an Elizabeth Bowen novel, albeit without the youthful innocence.
We were high in the West Tower, having opted to use my room because I’d brought Clejuso handcuffs and a bottle of Belvedere Unfiltered to the party. The American had been impressed by the cuffs; the Russian by the vodka. Personally, I’d been impressed by their eagerness for a post-Cold War ménage but then neither guy had turned out to be as straight as I’d imagined.
The silk belt to my dressing gown lay on the cluttered floor. I grabbed it, picking hurriedly at knots as I remembered how Sol had used the silk to tie my legs to the chair. I threaded the smooth length through the loops of my gown, fastening a limp bow as I swished from the room, leaving Sol asleep. I descended the steep spiral staircase to the second floor of the west wing to find doors opening along the corridor. A pyjama-clad woman with bird’s nest hair and grumpy, kohl-smudged eyes glared at me, as if I were to blame for the disturbance. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ she growled.
‘Search me.’ I strode quickly, holding my gown to my groin for decency’s sake, hung a left, then took the stairs down to the next level. I found myself on the balcony floor overlooking the oak-panelled entrance hall with its chequerboard floor, tall Chinese urns and trophy stag heads. Since my arrival the day before, I’d grown better at navigating the higgledy-piggledy gothic monstrosity that was Dravendene Hall.
Below, a guy stood in the centre of the tiled hallway, arms wide, appealing up to the balcony.
‘Swimming pool, anyone?’ he called. ‘Best way to the swimming pool? Didn’t even know there was one.’
I trotted down the staircase like a poor man’s Scarlett O’Hara, thinking the owners were crazy to allow random party-goers free rein in such spectacularly grand manor house. Their insurance must be sky high. Half-dressed people flitted and flowed, some alert to the sense of urgency, others bleary-eyed and reluctant. A lanky guy in droopy blue boxers descended one step at a time while rolling a cigarette. A woman with tears streaking her face ran in the opposite direction, elbowing people aside as she stumbled up the stairs. ‘He’s dead,’ she was sobbing. ‘He’s dead.’
People exchanged glances, some stopping in their tracks, others springing forward. ‘Who’s dead?’ ‘What’s happening?’ ‘Has anyone called an ambulance?’ ‘Oh fuck, keep calm.’
Two guys were having an animated discussion in the entrance hall, one pointing ahead, the other to the right. In the chaos, someone decided it was easiest to reach the pool via the gardens so I followed while others ran deeper into the house. Outside, the grass underfoot was cool and moist, and the morning sunlight hurt my eyes. I’m too pale and blonde for summer, even a British summer.
The pool was at the rear of the pointy, redbrick hall, housed in glass like a Victorian conservatory. Gravel pinched my feet as we hurried along a path flanked with regimented box hedge. Ahead, a huddle of people gathered on the poolside, some crouched low. A palm tree behind the conservatory glass obscured my view and it wasn’t until we were at the sliding patio doors that I saw the splayed bare feet and hairy shins of a figure on the marble floor. Two guys knelt over him, one pumping his chest.
A burly guy with a phone to his ear gazed down at the men, his crimson face filmy with sweat. ‘Anything?’ he asked.
To enter the pool house was to slam into a wall of tropical humidity. An acrid scent of chlorine tainted the heat, and silver reflections shimmered on the rectangle of blue water. Alabaster nymphs gazed impassively from slender plinths, their nipples round enough to pluck. The potted palms were lush and tranquil, and a faint mechanised hum hovered around us. My back was slick with sweat, the dressing gown sticking to my skin. I was panting, the air so dense I felt as if I were trying to inhale fabric. My legs quivered, my head booming, my skull like a vice. This sudden shortage of breath, damn it. I half-feared I might collapse. Too much late-night sex and alcohol.
‘No, nothing, mate. I think we should give up. There’s no pulse.’
A man kneeling by the body sat back on his heels.
A woman’s sob erupted as if from a trapped, primitive place.
People swung around to look at me.
The sound hung, a blood-curdling cry muffled and held by glasshouse echoes.
My hand was clamped to my mouth, my eyes fixed on his grey, bloated, froth-smeared face.
‘Lana.’ The voice was gentle. A woman moved towards me. She seemed to glide on the periphery of my vision then she clasped me in her arms, so strong and solid. ‘Hush babes.’ I let her hold me, hiding in the comfort of her hair, wanting to unsee what I’d just seen. ‘I think he must be a friend of Rose’s,’ she said. ‘Do you know him?’
Far away, coming from another world, the anguished wail of sirens slid over the countryside.
I nodded into the woman’s neck. Her hair smelled cold, like starlight and outer space. For a long time, I couldn’t form the words. Then, croakily, ‘Misha Morozov. A customer at The Blue Bar.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, rubbing my back. ‘Sweetheart, I’m so sorry. But I don’t think we can do anything else for him.’
I’m too raw. My head’s jangling with sex and death. I wish I could turn back the clock.
I can’t write any more today. I need to try and sleep.
Published September 11th, 2014
Pre-order with Amazon
I’m delighted to have not one but two stories in Maxim Jakubowski’s recently released anthology, The Mammoth Book of Erotic Romance and Domination.
Last week I gave you the opening of How to Get Sex When You’re Dead. This week, I’m posting the opening to my second story, Seven Stripes of Colour.
Seven is a story about kinksters who meet via online dating; kinksters who are old enough to have some serious baggage. This is one of those stories that made me moist-eyed as I was writing it. It’s rare that short stories do that to me. Novels, yes. Shorts, not so much.
Seven Stripes of Colour
Under a pale apricot sky, city buses looped in front of the railway station, their slow headlights weaving patterns in the dusk. Louise strode from cab to pub, her heart beating a little too fast. She loved doing this, meeting men in places where no one belonged, in stations, airports and motorway cafes. She imagined her grey, digitalised self on CCTV monitors as she made her way to another date.
The anonymity of these places appealed to the pessimist in her. She expected, at best, a short-lived affair. At worst, the two of them would part in relief after a sour coffee or non-descript wine. Then he and she would merge with the travellers around them, en route to elsewhere, confused and anxious, caught in the limbo of to-ing and fro-ing. Warp and weft. Yes and no.
Jason was different to the others, that much was obvious at once. His kindness and warmth were evident in his greeting: a broad grin and a kiss on the cheek. All too often, the dominants she met after ‘meeting’ online were, if young, guarded and cocky or, if older, charmingly chivalric.
“I’ll get this,” he said when she’d selected her wine at the bar.
“OK, I’ll get the next round,” she replied, indicating that already she liked him enough to stay and wasn’t expecting him to foot the bill. Establishing the importance of equality was, she felt, crucial if powerplay negotiations were to be fair and mutual.
Fifteen minutes into their conversation she wondered what the catch was. Married? Impotent? Deranged? Three hours later she knew, but by then it was too late.
“How’s your hotel?” he asked, quickly filling a silence.
“Five minutes away.”
He laughed but didn’t take the bait. Well, it was still early in the game so fair enough. The photographs he’d emailed didn’t do him justice. You wouldn’t call him handsome but he was definitely striking. His face had a skew-whiff, battered quality and his dark eyes glittered, really glittered. They held the mad energy of a man whose zest for life has resulted in him seeing too much. He wore faded jeans, trainers, T-shirt and a suit jacket which he hung over the back of his chair. His shoulders were wide, his arms muscular and darkly-haired. Rogue strands of silver glinted in his short brown curls and flecked his neat sideburns.
As they talked, buses crawled beyond the long, low window behind him. Occasionally, headlights swept into the dark wooden bar, bathing the two of them in a shuddering glow or framing him in momentary halos.
“I haven’t done this for over four years,” he said after Louise returned from buying the next round. Wine for her, beer for him.
Uh-oh, she thought. Here’s where it all goes pear-shaped. He’s going to tell me he’s just split up with someone and I’ve got a rebound on my hands. Or his ailing mother’s about to die, or he’s fresh out of jail.
“So how am I doing?” he added.
She laughed. “You’re doing great. Nine out of ten. Clearly a natural.”
“Damn, I dropped a point. How come?”
“Hey, no one gets ten. Ten would be perfection and a perfect person would automatically lose a point for being perfect, ergo insufferable.”
Jason nodded thoughtfully then smiled. “Well, I got top marks. Go me!”
After a pause, she asked, “So tell me, what’s the story? Why’ve you been away from the joys of dating?” Nervous, she ran her thumb and fingers up and down the stem of her wine glass, desisting when she recalled a claim the gesture was indicative of a subconscious gesture to jerk a guy off. So much wishful thinking in pop psychology.
“Ah, this and that,” he said. “Got out of the habit. Found myself continually disappointed. I was in a straight, you know, a vanilla relationship for around 18 months but…” He trailed off with a shrug. “It’s not for me. I tried but the older I get, the more I… Anyway, that ended over a year ago. And since then, before then too, I’ve been trying… No, wondering how to realise my desires without, how shall I phrase it?” He inclined his head at a philosophical angle. “Without causing harm.”
Her heart pumped harder. She found him simultaneously exciting and terrifying. She started to work the stem of her glass again, this time not stopping when she realised what she was doing.
“Should I be worried?” she asked. “I mean, if we decide we want to play together, would I be in danger? Because if so, I’m probably going to pass. Sorry.” She took a large sip of wine as if to support her decisive words.
Jason shook his head. “I’m ninety-nine per cent certain you’d be safe with me.”
He reached across the table, allowing his fingertips to drift over her hand. She returned the gesture, their contact tentative and fumbling like that of long-standing, melancholy lovers. The beam of headlights from outside crept across their table, casting glossy patches on the wood and rippling over their knuckles. When she looked up, his eyes were downcast, his curls briefly backlit. In that instant, she was irrationally afraid; not of him but for the two of them together. She felt as if they’d been caught in the arc of a searchlight and had nowhere left to run.
“And the missing one per cent?” she asked as the bar’s shadows settled around them again.
His smile was strained. Behind him, the buses kept huffing and purring, their passengers silhouetted in halogen-white windows. She thought of Blanch DuBois at the start of her journey trilling, “Why, they told me to take a streetcar named Desire!”
At length, he gave her a stern, serious look. “You,” he said, “are fucking beautiful. And you’re driving my cock insane. What’s our safeword?”
The confident delivery of his sudden, dirty seduction was more than enough to arouse her. She loved knowing this new man was sitting opposite her in a pub, his cock secretly swelling as they talked. Adrenaline made her fingers tremble, and a beat throbbed between her thighs. For a moment, the world burned, the lights outside gleaming in tones of white-gold, dark amber and bright cherry-red. She experienced the slippage, the shift of the mundane into a spectrum of yellow-hued, fiery magic, the start of a rainbow. She recalled the schoolgirl mnemonic for remembering the order of colours in the spectrum. Richard of York gave battle in vain. Red orange yellow, and so on.
“Red,” she replied, amusing herself by thinking, A bus called Lust.
“We should drink up.”
She grinned and touched her glass against his. “We should.”
The Mammoth Book of Erotic Romance and Domination, released a couple of months ago and edited by Maxim Jakubowski, features two, brand new stories of mine, both of which involve sex and death, but in very different ways.
This super-hot anthology offers original fic from a host of new and well-established writers, including bestselling Eighty-Days author, Vina Jackson, and KD Grace, Justine Elyot, Remittance Girl and more!
My two stories are How to Get Sex When You’re Dead and Seven Stripes of Colour. Below is the opening of How to.
I’ll aim to post an excerpt from Seven Stripes soonish.
How to Get Sex When You’re Dead
I never considered myself a voyeur but there’s not much else to do when you’re dead. We hang out at cloud-level, shooting the breeze and watching what’s going on down below. I wish I could talk to Gabe. He might sleep better if he knew I hadn’t cashed in my chips and there was still some residue hanging around, or “soul” if you want to be romantic. Then again, if Gabe knew how frustrating it was to be incorporeal and horny, he’d be desperately sad for me, so it’s probably best I keep schtum.
Oh, but I have heaps to tell him, like: Dying really hurts! But trust me, Gabe, the pain’s gone in a flash. Your pain-memory gets wiped and nothing lingers. Losing your body is the weirdest sensation. Oh Gabe, I hope you get to keep yours till you’re old and grey. Look after it, won’t you? Mine’s gone for good and like I say, the transition’s so weird. One moment I’m being ripped apart from the inside, my mouth filling with blood, the next I’m totally spaced out, seeping into the ether and rising on a high no drugs could match.
As I slipped away, I gazed down at the Honda, upright but crushed, and at the mess I’d made of my face. Behind the shattered glass, I was as still as a mannequin, looking so peaceful despite the violence done to my body. Bizarrely, at the moment of impact I had a flashback of standing before the bathroom mirror that morning, choosing a lipstick I didn’t often wear. I’d tipped the tube to check the shade: Fast Ride. Later, I wondered if I’d chosen the lipstick thanks to my sassy mood or if reading the name had subliminally affected me, causing me to keep my foot on the pedal as I rounded the bend. This might sound shallow but, either way, I’m pleased I went toes up with a plum-dark pout.
I didn’t think this at the time, oh no! I wasn’t pleased about anything. My main thought before bliss engulfed me, was: Shit, shit, shit! Why so fast, Emily?
I begged to have those last few seconds back, promising whoever was up there I’d get it right this time. But no fucker was listening. You don’t get it back. Life’s not a rehearsal, as they say.
I also want to tell Gabe I’m sorry about that night in Antigua when I said things I shouldn’t after my seventh caipirinha. Plus, I have — I have? I had? Grammar’s so hard when you’re a ghost — I had a secret bank account with £18, 000 in. The statements go to my sister’s but I’d like Gabe and the kids to have the money. That was my running-away fund. I had no plans to run away, I swear, but my mother used to say every woman should have a running-away fund. Oh, and there’s another thing. I’d like to apologize to my mum for dying before her. That’s not the correct order of events, I know. I fucked up. Fast Ride.
But I can’t do any of this. I’m voiceless and I’m bodiless. I can see them but they can’t see me. I’m not omniscient but it’s close. I can see everyone I ever knew, and by Christ, but there’s a lot of you, too many to keep up with. I follow those who meant the most to me, or (and this is my guilty pleasure) those who are pure entertainment. It’s like Twitter but for dead people. No one follows me.
And that’s the awful part because I’m following a guy I dated in my twenties, Ash Akbari. I doubt he remembers me but I never forgot him. Hey, Ash! I was the annoying brunette who liked to make a drama out of a crisis out of nothing much at all. I was a tad screwy back then, and I’m sorry. Then again, you weren’t exactly Mr Sane, were you? Oh, but wow, haven’t you grown? If I had the ability to be moist, I’d be soaked and swollen, my body opening in readiness for your cock. However, as things stand, I have desire and it swirls most intensely somewhere below my seat of consciousness. Damned if I can relieve the itch though. I have no hands, see?
Oh, let me tell you about Ash. (I’m sorry, Gabe! I love you madly but I don’t think this counts as cheating, and I’m sure you’d understand.) Ash was stunning. He was Anglo-Iranian, and had inky, collar length curls he would tuck behind his ears. His cheekbones hung on a perfect slant, and his intense, Persian eyes were teal-green ringed with black. He looked as if he could read minds with those eyes. Maybe he could. I used to imagine he was someone who could get under my skin. But I was young. I didn’t want him under my skin. Or rather I did, but didn’t want to admit that. I was trying to be cool and invulnerable. Besides, if I’d let him under my skin, he most likely would have stayed awhile and tried to destroy me. Ash liked to cause suffering; that was part of the attraction. I was needy and attention-seeking. I liked to suffer. I liked to blame. I liked to fight.
He ran me a bath. We’d been arguing and fucking all afternoon at his place and in the evening, I said I fancied a soak. The water was too hot. I dipped my toe in and yelped. I reached for the cold tap but he stopped me by grabbing hold of my hair. His fist was by the nape of my neck and he tilted my head back. His voice was by my ear. “I don’t care if it’s too fucking hot,” he said. His words were so close I might have been making them up myself, hearing voices inside my head. “Get in.”
I was knocked by a rush of arousal so acute my legs nearly buckled. The threatening tone in his voice, not to mention the nastiness of his order, got me right where it shouldn’t. My lust confused the hell out of me. I didn’t like that I liked it, and I don’t think Ash liked that he liked it either.
“You serious?” I said.
He released me. “Nah, just messing.” He ran the cold tap then waggled his fingers in the water. “It’s fine now.”
I was disappointed. I’d wanted him to respond to my reticence by continuing with his bossiness. I’d wanted him to force me to take pain for his pleasure. Maybe not a hot bath but you know, a sexy thing. We had another row later that night, something and nothing. I do know it was my fault though. I pushed it, baiting him to get angry because I wanted to be subjected to his aggression again. I was an emotional masochist, re-routing an unexplored taste for pain into a more acceptable outlet, that of being a pain-in-the-butt girlfriend. But as I say, Ash wasn’t comfortable with his dark side either. We were young, too scared of revealing ourselves in case we got rejected.
But hey, not anymore! I’m dead, I’m twisted and I’m horny! What have I got to lose?
How about this for guidelines for authors? Exciting, no?
The erotica-buying public are practically unshockable these days … I’d like [authors] to think about working against convention in terms of women’s erotic fiction. I want to dust off the traces of romantic writing and aim for streamlined, economical prose … Out go masked balls, ripped bodices and pulsing nubbins to make way for more down-to-earth, no-messing stories which take their lead from somewhere other than romance … I would like to see some stories which explore fetishistic practices or where the central female character is driven by desires which are less wholesome than ‘finding a perfect lover’.
The above was sent to Black Lace authors in 1998, sixteen years ago, when the imprint had been going for five years. The guidelines were wonderfully refreshing at the time (and would be now!), and inspired me to write my second novel, Asking for Trouble. The words poured out of me in a way they hadn’t done before and haven’t since. The book has sold more than all of my other books combined, and then some. I was possessed! Asking for Trouble has a sleazy, noirish feel, and a suspense-thriller element to it, something I’ve continued to explore in my writing to this day.
I’d love to write more erotic, psychological thrillers, with a dark sprinkling of the gothic, but that’s a hard sell when the field is dominated by kink-lite erotic romance, and when the pressure to give readers a happy ending is so strong. I’m convinced there’s a market for erotic thrillers, and I’m sure I’m not the only one.
Undone, out in September in the UK, has something in common with the newly popular and dubiously-named ‘chick noir‘, psychological suspense thrillers aimed at women, exploring how well we know the people we’re close to. I wasn’t aware these books were being hailed as the Next Big Thing in publishing until recently but it’s nice to think that I might, for a change, be almost in step with the world! Obviously, Undone has a lot more depraved, kinky sex than ‘chick noir. I’d call it ‘clit noir’ if that tag wasn’t nearly as awful.
Asking for Trouble, my first foray into erotic-not-romance is fifteen years old next week. So I was deliriously thrilled to see this tweet from bestselling crime author, Elizabeth Haynes.
@kristina_lloyd Just finished Asking for Trouble – was AWESOME. Which one next? xx
— Elizabeth Haynes (@Elizjhaynes) July 6, 2014
It’s so rare for someone outside of erotica to comment positively on our books, and getting the thumbs up from someone who’s massively successful in a genre I’m flirting with is wonderfully validating. If you haven’t yet read Elizabeth’s debut, Into the Darkest Corner, go buy it now! Or check out some of the 1,500 reviews on Amazon, and see if you can *not* buy it!
And if you’re in the South East next week, join me on Tuesday for the inaugural Dirty Sexy Words gig in Croydon, South London. It’s on the 15th July, the eve of Asking for Trouble‘s 15th birthday. I’m not yet sure if I’ll be reading from AFT or Undone or something else entirely. But there will be cake!
Sallyanne, the brains behind this new venture, recently began blogging about erotica classics and gave Asking for Trouble a fabulous write up at the start of her series. She says:
“A part of the book’s appeal is the brilliant evocation of Brighton in the late 90s; the town is almost a character in its own right. Kristina Lloyd also captures the irrational, compulsive momentum of unwise lust. I think the most memorable thing about it, finally, is that it depicts a woman who is both sexually submissive – massively sexually submissive – but also a rounded character who is, ultimately, in charge of her own life.”
It looks like a lot of fun, and it would be fab to see some of you there!