where the writers are

Selena Kitt's Writings

Article
Mar.28.2012
What's your life like? Selena: Well, when I'm not pawing away at my keyboard, I worship my devoted husband, corral four kids (with another on the way) and almost a dozen chickens, all while growing an organic garden on about six acres of land. I also enjoy bellydancing, photography and taking long, lazy cat naps in the middle of the afternoon. At what age...
Essay
Mar.28.2012
"How do you write such hot sex scenes?" This is the erotic writer's equivalent to the question, "Where do you get your ideas?" My response? "Hell if I know!" I'm an intuitive writer. I sit down and I write. I'm not entirely sure how I do what I do, and when someone asks me to try to break it down, I'm often at a loss. For me, it's like telling someone how to...
Poem
Mar.28.2012
This flowing torrent is my proclivity. Like the tide, in and out, pulled by the moon’s breath. My disposition changes, lover. I am the weather, and by the time you finish reading this, it will have changed again. Right now there is a storm brewing. I can smell it on the air. Thick and wet, Close to the surface, And gathering strength. Crackling lightning in my...
Poem
Mar.28.2012
Tell me I’m beautiful And I will bare myself Pale flesh Plump, ripe fruit For you to harvest A sustainable feast To indulge your appetite. Tell me I’m beautiful And I will open to you Wet and wild A torrential flooding A raging river To swim in or drown. Tell me I’m beautiful And I will surrender to you Open my limbs To four corners Submit to your eyes Your...
Short Story
Mar.28.2012
I can feel the howl of your harp calling me home, slung low in my belly. I wanna cradle your wail, rock it in my arms, a sweet sung baby, pure angel cry. Tease me, piper, with that call— I respond with honey dripping legs that crumble at your feet, lost in the smoky sound of you. You know I will follow you anywhere.
Short Story
Mar.28.2012
Black fur and white boots, she is all salient swish, whiskers whetted to fine-tuned frequencies. Roguish rising arch, a tail-up display of tender pink flesh as she begs for your attention, her rough, dry tongue scratching every surface as she rubs a haughty dance between your legs.
Poem
Mar.28.2012
Little rabbit, you talk about an open door policy. They're sweet words dancing in and then twitching into fog. Yeah, ok, that's nice, but what about my back door, baby? Yeah, you heard me. I want fuck and cunt and prick. Taste those words in your distant mouth. They're hot, jalapeno, salsa, wasabi. Yeah, that kind of heat-- your tongue goes numb your throat's on...