Why I Write Erotica, Part II

Haven’t you heard? “Three months” is the new “next week.” I meant to write this post back in March, some time. But life happened, as it is wont to do. I wanted to a tribute piece for Bertrice Small, who had recently passed. She and her whole Skye O’Malley saga were most educational to me as a high school girl. But then I saw that the quirky and often hilarious Jenny Trout had already done a tribute, likely in a far more eloquent fashion than yours truly would have pulled off. So I pulled out, so to speak. And now the immediacy is lost. But definitely check out the O’Malley family, if only to get a kick out of the elephant tusk dildo and pony-play orgy. (Sorry, Fifty Shades was shocking? Skye was getting her spank on when Edward Cullen was just a sparkle in Stephenie Meyer’s eye. Oh, wait, not Edward…CHRISTIAN GREY was a sparkle…never mind. There was no resemblance between those books, as Chedward never sparkled .) Here is the cover of All the Sweet Tomorrows –think it’s book two, but it’s the best– and hopefully they haven’t modernized it over the years:

All the Sweet Tomorrows, starring the

All the Sweet Tomorrows, starring the “clever and intelligent” Skye O’Malley

So. Binge-watched Season 3 of “Orange is the New Black” this weekend, and realized I needed to edit my blog post on Why I Write Erotica, Part II. To those of you who share my addiction –I’m guessing there are many– you’ll know by now that ****SPOILER ALERT**** Suzanne, a.k.a. “Crazy Eyes” (advance notice to the PC police: don’t crucify me, that’s the name of the character, I am not a writer for OITNB) writes an erotic-bizarro-science fiction story in installments, which her fellow inmates clamor for. They hound her to write more pages, as there is a waiting list, and people can’t get enough of Captain Rodcocker. Then it all gets shut down by Healy, and yet another woman’s voice is silenced.

I flashed back again to high school, when I started writing hot scenarios based on the “bodice rippers” I was reading, starring my friends and their crushes in erotic throes of passion. They were about three pages apiece, and girls were clamoring for me to “do one for them,” which they’d take home to “enjoy.” In retrospect, I should have charged $1 a page, like Anais Nin. Ah, well. Anyway, in addition to keeping me writing, it got me started on a novel called No Strings Attached, about some poor sixteen-year-old girl who unwittingly loses her virginity to a very sexy (in an 80’s way; black jeans and long, blonde hair with a silver BMW) male prostitute. I read it out loud, a chapter at a time, to my gaggle of girlfriends, who would sit in a little circle and push me to write more during study hall. It was a blast.

Did anyone take high school drama? And have a teacher who would occasionally do improv exercises for the first part of the semester, then just turn the class into a study hall or turn on the VCR? Mr. Murphy* was one of those. He’d spend the 45 minutes ducked behind a wall of books at his desk (which was adorned with a poster of the Serenity Prayer) and read or something, while students would quietly goof off and flirt. I was starting to scribble a new naughty tidbit –which was actually for myself– and left for the bathroom before I made it through the first paragraph. The boy who sat behind me (whom I would later date) stole the composition paper, which at that point only said, “I gasped as ______ lowered me down to the hay.” When I returned, Murphy pointed at me, and gestured to come with him. He was fuming, and would not answer me when I kept asking “Where are we going? Am I in trouble?”

Mr. Murphy brought me to the guidance office, and slammed down not just the would-be sex scene, but a collection of my interpretative essays from his poetry class, which he’d apparently been hoarding. As I was very into Freud at the time, pretty much everything was a penis, natch. We had two counselors, one of whom was CJ, which stood for “Creeping Jesus,” and the other was Ms. Merrill, one of those sweet women who still wanted to change the world. Luckily, CJ was busy, and sent us to second-in-command. Murphy told said counselor that  I was “sick” and “needed help”…then stormed off. Humiliated, I burst into tears. She looked over my stuff, told me it was fantastic, and said, “He has a problem. Not you.”

I will never forget that. Rest in peace, Dee Merrill. You were awesome to me. You changed my world.

She paged my father (he taught English and was very proud of his writer-daughter), who came to the office, hugged me, and helped me chill out. After school, some kid named Mike came running up to me, very excited, and said, “Your dad’s got Murphy pinned to a wall….I think he’s going to punch him!”

This post is getting long, so I’ll end the story there, and just say that the entire experience only reinforced my desire to write whatever I wanted, trust my voice, and believe in my peeps. Incidentally, when Angels’ Prey first was published by the now-defunct Noble Romance, I dedicated my book to Mr. Murphy.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go crank out some pages. Dorian and Lily are waiting, and they aren’t up for my excuses.

All Yours,


*some names have been changed

.99 Sale! Paranormal MMF Megasexy Beast of a Book: Angels’ Prey

Yes, I know that I was supposed to post Part Deux of “Why Do You Write Erotica,” but have been a busy writergrrl, these days. For now, how about this awesome deal for THIS WEEKEND ONLY on Amazon?



Lord Frothingham awaited me in his chambers, as promised. He was stretched out on the bed, resting on his side, head propped up on a palm. While he still wore his jerkin, breeches, and riding boots, he had taken off his overcoat and frills. My master looked not unlike the pictures I had seen of scandalous poet Lord Byron, and I flushed.

My own Lord’s eyes flashed as I stood before him.

“Set down your bucket, Clarice.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now close the door. And lock it, if you would.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Of course, sir.”

As the lock loudly clicked beneath my fingers, I felt a strange heat in my nether-regions. I had experienced this before, of course, but never with a man close by. Only when left to my own fancies would I contend with the embarrassing tingling, occasionally followed with a trickle dampening my undergarments.

I never asked a soul about this trick of the flesh, as I was certain something was the matter with me, or, at least, it was the mark of a darkness which I wished none to know. Now I know it to have been my sinful hungers, begging for satiation. Still, each and every day, no matter how hard I pray for deliverance, I am tormented by this same pain of desire.

“Look at me, child.”

Our eyes met.

“Your eyes are so like your mother’s.” He paused, as though remembering. “Such a lovely blue.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

He had noticed my mother’s eyes. Knowing what I do, now, there are suddenly unanswered questions.

“You’re most welcome, Clarice. Now, please kneel down.”

I dropped to my knees.

“Remove your dress.”


“You may keep on your petticoat. But take off that ridiculous hat, if you would.”

Wordlessly, I took off my cap, shook out my locks, and unlaced my corset.

“Lord Frothingham?”

“Why have you stopped?”

“Sir, there are fifty buttons on my dress.” Which I had just finished putting on not ten minutes before.

“Oh, forgive me. Is there someplace you need to be, Clarice?”

His sarcasm stung.

“No, my lord.”

“Stay on your knees, and remove your clothing. Do I make myself quite clear?”

“Of course, sir.” My fingers trembled as I unbuttoned my dress, a task which felt as though it lasted an eternity.

One, two, three, four….Fifty.

At last, I pulled the offending garment over my head, now wearing nothing but my shift. My nipples hardened in the cold air, pressing insistently against the white muslin.

“Give the frocks to me. I will return them to you when you have completed your tasks.”

I began to rise.

Lord Frothingham clicked his tongue and wagged a finger at me. “Did I tell you to stand up, Miss Clarice?”

I shook my head vehemently.

“You are quite correct. Stay on your knees, and bring me your dress.”

Awkwardly, I walked forward on my kneecaps, and tried not to wince at the discomfort. What is this game? I wondered, while reaching up and handing him my clothing.

“That’s a good girl.” Lord Frothingham ran a hand through his curls, which, upon closer appearance, were shot with a bit of silver. He was truly a most attractive man. “Now, on your hands and knees.”

Perhaps I looked confused, because he added, “Like a dog.”

I got on all fours, and looked up at him, waiting for further instruction.

He tossed my dress to the foot of the bed, and leaned back to observe me. “Wash the stones, Miss Clarice.”

“My lord?”

“Do as I say.” His voice was stern, but his eyes were twinkling. “Did I not request you come to my bedchambers and wash my floor?”

“Yes, Lord Frothingham,” I said, and went about the task of scrubbing the cold stones.

He watched me, hawk-like. When I glanced up at him, he was staring at my breasts. When my back was to him, I could feel his eyes watching my hindquarters. After a few minutes, I looked up at my master again. There was a large bulge between his legs, pressing at his breeches. Something primal in me responded, and I gasped, while fumbling with the boar bristle brush.

Lord Frothingham looked down at his breeches, glanced at me, and raised his eyebrows.

Why Do You Write Erotica? PART I

Because erotica is awesome, that’s why. Especially old-school:

There is always a story. Let’s talk about the term “bodice ripper.” It’s not fair. No more so than “mommy porn.” It’s demeaning. Women’s sexuality can not and should not be reduced to a nose-in-the-air, dismissive…whatever. Those were our randy-girl-books, and some of them got us to write erotica. Here’s a question…why was Fifty Shades so shocking? We’ve had these stories right along, but thanks to Kindle, now we can read them wherever we want, without shame. Which has opened up a vast market, gotten a lot of women to communicate their needs/feelings better, and created a broader community. So I won’t call them bodice-rippers, from here on in. If it weren’t for historical erotic romance, I would not be publishing today.

When I was twelve years old (when I started high school), I had many unanswered questions. Growing up in the household I did, my burgeoning sexuality was not something that would be acknowledged beyond “Nice girls don’t.” I say this not as a criticism of my Catholic family, as we were no exception to the general public perception of the female sexual reality. In 1980’s sex ed, no one discussed the idea that our bodies, our curiosity, and possibility of erotic pleasure was something to acknowledge. . .let alone accept and encourage. While the “boy class” was learning about erections, masturbation, and nocturnal emissions, the girl class learned about “menstruation,” “saying no,” and how to “not get pregnant.” That was it. Fun, fun.

Between the values I was raised with and the general mindset of society, I didn’t even know what my orgasms were. My first was in the fifth grade; a dream about David Bowie. I still thank him to this day. It would not be until my sophomore year that I figured out the “moist bud of desire” I’d been reading so much about was an erect clitoris. Dang, that would have made things so much easier. Also, if sex-lack-of-education instructors had taught boys and girls about Astroglide, that might have saved a lot of trauma on both sides of the beast with two backs. But, still the “most bud” is misleading. We are still desperately trying to figure out the massive amazeballishness that is the clit.


Obviously, 80’s gals didn’t have Wikipedia, and the Brittanica Encyclopedia failed to include the fact that females had somethin’ special specifically created strictly for pleasure, rather than procreation.


Thank goddess for HER. (Historic Erotic Romance.) Oh, if there has finally been a decent name for 70’s-90’s non-Harlequinn soft-core porn for women that doesn’t sound like a put-down to readers/writers of the genre, please include in the comments. Thank goddess, also, for babysitting gigs. If it weren’t for babysitting, I’d have been totally broke from the key ages of 12-16…because I couldn’t get a worker’s permit. Babysitting meant you might get $10 after a night of watching four wild children for seven hours. Also, you would get to eat ice cream (our home was healthy food) home, watch Dynasty on a giant furniture-sized color t.v. (we had no television), talk wicked late on the phone without siblings eavesdropping, stay up after 10:00, and even develop an anti-fashion thriftstore style! Unfortunately, it also meant long, awkward rides home with random dads.

Cough, cough.

But then there were also Those Books. Without babysitting, I never would have purchased Amber Passion at Annie’s Book Stop in Wiscasset, Maine…and had an entire universe of sexual and literary possibility opened up to/for me.

This is Amber Passion:


The worn-out jacket says it all. My life would never be the same. Much, as you can see from the cover, Melanie’s never would be, either.

Also, red haired girls are kind of cool, which people hadn’t figured out yet.

Plus, pirates.

So I read Amber Passion. Then just about every other HER our local used bookstore had to offer for a buck or less. Then I started writing different fiction than I had been, previously. (At some point, I’ll write a post about Lit Fiction, but today we’re talking about PASSION and finding-the-fun.) After bookmarking several of the more important scenes, I was hooked. I wrote soft-core for myself, not even realizing that I was writing anything other than what would some day be called fan-fiction, and putting fantasy to words. Happy to share my newfound inspiration and pay it forward, I passed this book –and many others– around in the high school hall to my friends. The waiting list was longer than the one for Judy Blume’s Forever, which eventually was banned from the high school library.

Then the writing happened. Everyone knew I wrote, because my short stories were something that English teachers would read out loud in class to fill up 45-minute periods.

But what if I could only write for a female audience?

That’s what I decided to do.

Once again, I was hooked.

‘Til Next Week,


Lily Chronicles and Another Thweet Review, Napoleon!

Firstly, hello. How are you?

Official release date for FINDING LILY: November 4, 2015. Official date for me to get ‘er done? June 2015. So my entries may be even more erratic. I’ve been meaning to plug pages/blogs for those who have read/reviewed REACHING LILY, but still need to catch up. Here’s a sweet one that Lisa McD of “Lisa Reading” posted yesterday:

“I was given a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.

We meet the narrator and main character, Lily DeWitt, in the book’s prologue, as she is boarding a Caribbean-bound plane. It is the first flight in her 24 yeas of life. By her own admission, she is not taking an impromptu vacation, but fleeing the scene of a relationship gone wrong. As she recalls her time with former lover, Dorian Holder, it is clear that in spite of her present pain and regret, the man still holds power over her fractured emotions. The aftermath of their relationship leads the reader into the story of Lily and Dorian.

Author Vivacia K. Ahwen blends wry humor, pop culture references, and a Cinderella meets Sex in the City heroine with the classic romance scenario of the dangerously irresistible man. Dorian isn’t merely Lily’s boss. He owns the company, among many other corporate and real estate holdings. He is wealthy, but this is not just another billionaire falls for the sweet, naive girl story. It is gracefully written and offers more depth than any mere variation on a standard theme is likely to provide.
The more I think about Reaching Lily, the more anxious I become to read the following two books in this trilogy in progress. Clearly, what seems to be the end of Lily and Dorian is far from a final parting. I plan to be there when they reunite and more is revealed about both.”

Thanks again, Lisa, both for taking the time for a read…and the excellent review. If you’d like to be in touch with the reviewer, and possibly send some lit-smut her way, check out:


If you’re in New England, please stay warm and safe during tonight’s storm. (How many have there been, this winter?) If you are in a warmer climate, well. You know. We’re jealous.

More soon,


FINDING LILY: Book II of the Lily Chronicles Teaser

Since I have a green light for the sequel to REACHING LILY (though am still *cough* waiting on paperwork *cough*), and since I’m 35 pages in, and if I dump a lot of creative energy into blogging I won’t want to get my word count up there…I’m going to be pretty quiet for awhile. Tomorrow night I’ll be doing some big promo push, because I’ve found –looking at amazon numbers– that most women buy my books after last call on Saturday night. (Huh. ‘Magine that!) So I will post some “Hi, I’m Dorian Holder and want to do dirty things to you” or “Hi, we are two well-hung angels and have come to ravish you, you nun-servant-girl-timetraveler” or what have you about once a week.

Also-also, I made an imaginary cover. I like doing that. It makes me feel all official.


But this will be my last long and chatty post until I have my actual first draft done, which is about 250-300 pages in the future, so I figured, “Hey, why not post the prologue?”

Here it is, from me to you, dear Readers. Since it isn’t totally dirty, I’ll probably post somethin’ nastier in a couple weeks 😉




                                                          Prologue: Weathering the Storm

Ow. My head smacks hard against the cold window, jarring me back to the present. The one in which our plane is wobbling? Yes, that present. My eyes (which are apparently glasz, according to my once-upon-a-not-boyfriend), pop open, and I take it all in. The sky is gray, and Virgin Airline flight 169 is no longer just a big bird soaring above the clouds. We are in the thick of something dreadful. It so makes sense my plane’s going to crash when I finally almost escape from Dorian Holder’s enormous, far-reaching grasp.


Hey, what happened to Mr and Mrs Green, the lovey-dovey newlyweds who were annoying me so much with their joy and fondling when I first boarded? I would appreciate any company, right now. They must’ve gotten bumped up to first class, while I was busy ruminating. How’d I miss that? Hope their complimentary champagne just spilled all over their laps on this last lurch. Holy hell.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” The pilot’s voice is supposed to reassure us, I know, but there’s enough of a quaver in his tone to make me even more concerned, especially now that the plane has started to quake in earnest.

Also, the intercom is crackling more than it ought to be.

Like I know, though. This is, after all, my first plane ride.

Why am I so calm, then? Obviously, if we’re going down, I’m not going to heaven. Which would make Dorian right, as usual.

         You can’t get away, Lily.

Also, I wasn’t paying close attention when the flight attendant went over the emergency procedures. Would they go through them again? That interpretive dance with the entrances, exits, et al? What if I couldn’t figure out how to put on my oxygen mask, or if I got the only flotation device that wouldn’t expand?

Que sera, sera.

Perhaps “disappearing” would be a relief, a blessing in disguise. Everything comes to an end.

Oh, well. It was a good run. Things got interesting in my final month of life. That’s what they’ll say at my eulogy. “She was generally a mousy little thing, never known to rock the boat. But things got interesting in Lily Dewitt’s final month of life…”

Our plane bucks in agreement with my grim fantasies. Rather than screams and panic, there is a stillness among us humble passengers as we await our collective fate.

You don’t fuck with the gods, and you sure as hell don’t distract the Virgin flight staff when they try to keep you soothed.

“We’re experiencing some turbulence,” Captain Peterson explains, stating the obvious. “Please do not panic. You’re in good hands, people.”

How comforting.

Never heard that one before.

My stomach drops, and I suck in my breath as we start losing altitude. No, I’m not trained in the comings-and-goings of all things airplane, but I’ve seen enough movies.

Time freezes when you look death in the eye.

Time also froze if you stared into Dorian Holder’s dangerous eyes. Dorian, like the jaws of death—or the gods with whom we should never argue—is also capable of freezing time.

How a night could last for days, how days could last for minutes, how waiting on him could last for years is still a concept I will never grasp. That first night with him lasted forever. Like the spider wrapping a fly, Dorian Holder was all winding circle after winding circle, his grip, his invisible thread wrapping, cocooning, squeezing the very life out of me. I squirmed and buzzed in his web, praying that he would not suck me dry.

How can one pray when one is the prey?

All I wanted was to fly away, I swear.

But I am still trapped.

The plane steadies itself, and once again my stomach drops while our altitude rises.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience,” says Captain Peterson, sounding more relieved than I feel. “We’re back on track. Please lean back and enjoy the rest of your trip. Our attendants are coming around with complimentary beverages and snacks.”

I lean back, awaiting sustenance.

Dorian Holder, You Got Some Kinda Nerve!

Afternoon, Ladies!

It’s SuperBALLing Sunday! Alpha Billionaire Dorian Holder, here: hard, horny, waiting to service, spank, and punish you. Cum get a “little tied up” over the next few hours, eh? Your boyfriend’s busy –watching the game, scarfing chicken wings, drooling over bimbos in beer ads– he has NO clue about our Kindle date nor what I’m gonna do to you, baby.


Touchdown and SCORE!

All Yours,



Sexy Pre-game Show (Subtitle: A Quick One While He’s Away)

Vivacia K. Ahwen’s erotic fantasy escape, ANGELS’ PREY, is now available FREE on Kindle Unlimited. That’s right, FREE. The rest of you can kick down a couple bucks for some hardcore paranormal/historical/time travel/gothic/MMF/Shapeshifter/A Desirable Demon/A Sexy Angel/A Cruel Master/His humble Servant-Girl/A Young Baron, right? Everything but the kitchen sink!

You're welcome, ladies. I caught him JUST for you!

You’re welcome, ladies. I caught him JUST for you!

Soon…why not sneak a little “private entertainment” while your man is preoccupied with the pre-game show? He’s not paying attention to you. I won’t tell. Have yourself a little fantasy this afternoon. It’s a quick read (150 pages) and the first of the Dark Alchemy Series. If you like, please leave a review on Amazon or Goodreads. I gave away almost 1,500 free copies and literally didn’t get ONE review. Help a gal out! Link Below….