Eroticon 2016: What do you want to learn from me in my session?

When I thought about attending Eroticon this year I had only one clear goal in mind: talk to people about getting published while I’m there.

It’s long been a dream of mine to transform my blog into a book, but I have no idea how to do it.  Do I self-publish like so many of you?  Do I find a publisher who puts it on paper?  What about an editor?  I’m certain I’d need one of those.  I already have a full time job in addition to the tons of work the blog requires.  When on earth would I find the time to put a book together??

Besides just publishing goals to explore while there, there were also all the people I’d finally get to meet. England, London, all the sexy British people.  It’s not exactly the best time financially for me to go, but fuck it.  When is it ever??

I took the plunge and  purchased the tickets and began to poke around the website and saw that Ruby was calling for panelists.  A panelist you say??  Well, double fuck it.  Go big or go home!

I downloaded the form, thought for a minute about what the fuck I was any good at and then came up with the title for my session:

How to write about [real life] sex and not make it sound like a To Do List.

Too often the recounting of a real life sexual encounter can fall into a list of things that
happened. This session will help you identify ways to make it a literary experience for
your readers.

For example, instead of “We removed our clothes and then we kissed,” you’ll hopefully
learn how to pull from real life, art,and movement and illustrate the scene with more
depth and nuance.

Attendees will learn how to dip into a personal experience – possibly unrelated to sex –
to better illustrate it in a meaningful way.

And for some unknown reason it was accepted.

I still laugh thinking about it.  Do I really sound like I know what I’m talking about?!

So, here’s the deal and what you need to know about me: I am NOT an English teacher. I do NOT make a living off of my writing.  I can’t remember all the names of the grammatical things I’m doing even now as I write.  (Wait, I do know this is a parenthetical thought and that last sentence ended with what’s called a period.)  I cannot help with grammar in a specific way or probably even a “correct” way.  I can’t promise you this won’t be a colossal waste of your time.

What I might do is provide a new perspective, a new leaping off point.  I might give you some new ideas or maybe even some newfound confidence.  I might even not waste your time.  Yay!

What I can do — and what I hope to do — is share with everyone my personal approach.  It seems some of you dig the way that I write and so I’m using that as a springboard for the session.  This will not be a How to Write Like Hy session, but a How Do I Write? session.  I can point out the things I like and dislike about a written scene.  I can do my absolute best to answer all your questions.

I also think there are some things that can elevate a writer’s connection with his or her readers that some people might struggle with and I am going to try to put to words some things I just riff.  There are also lots of things people do that push a reader away or make them skip to the next paragraph.  I’ll touch on those, as well, to the best of my abilities.

The session is relatively short (only 45 minutes), so I’ll have to be succinct and focused, but I’m also willing to be flexible and go where y’all need me to.

I’ve read that other presenters are bringing goodies (I have to bring goodies?!  Fuck.), slides, handouts, and any other number of accoutrements.  Seeing as I’m flying across a large ocean to get there, room in my luggage is scarce, so y’all just might only get me, my smile, and my words.

So, those are my plans, but I am open to what you all want to learn from me.

What were your thoughts when you read about the session?  Did you think, “Yes!  Sounds great!  Everything I want to know!”  Or did you think, “Hmm, I wonder if she’d also cover _____.”?

Let me know where you think you’re weak as a writer or what you’d like to improve upon or just give me suggestions of things you’d like for me to address.   Seeing as I’ve never done this before any insight whatsoever would be greatly appreciated!

Email me at hyacinth.jones@hotmail.com or leave your thoughts in a comment.

Can’t wait to see you all in 10/11ish days at the Friday mixer at the Radisson!

Woohoo!

xx

Hy

 

I’ll show you mine – Eroticon Live 2016

So, I’ll be taking my happy American ass off to England in roughly a week and a half for Eroticon.  HOLY FUCKING SHIT.  Go ahead and ask me if I have my presentation ready for my panel.  I dare you. I’m basically in denial about the trip meaning I have no where to stay Thursday night or Monday-Wednesday.  I’ve had a handful of offers from kind souls, but for whatever reason(s) I haven’t accepted. I sort of want to just be footloose and fancy free, I suppose, so I’m going with it.

Anyway, Molly has put together this little Q&A for all of us who are attending in the hopes that we’ll all get a sense of who’s who.  I can’t believe I actually get to fill out one of these things!

NAME (and Twitter name if you have one)

Hyacinth Jones.  @adissolutelife

If you had the opportunity to rename yourself (or your blog) what would you pick?

Nope.  Love the name and my pseudonym!

What are you most looking forward to at Eroticon Live and/or is there anything you are nervous about?

I’m looking forward to being Hy as a real person, not just as a two-dementional person with lots of words to say and tits to flash.  And of course I’m looking forward to meeting everyone in the flesh and sharing a bunch of hugs.  I’m a hugger.

I should be nervous about presenting my session, but I am painfully aware that I’m lacking any fear or nerves.  Perhaps they’ll hit me later, but I guess I’m confident in how open and non-judgmental everyone will be or maybe I’m just really excited about what I’ll be presenting and it’s wiping out any jitters.  Either way, I’m nothing but excited at this point.  Ask me 30 minutes before I go on, though.  The answer might be very different.

Have you planned which sessions you will be attending or are you more of a spur of the moment kind of person?

Not even a little bit.  As my lack of lodging arrangements should tell you, I’m pretty much just winging it.  Naturally I’ll be attending the two I’m on, though.

What essential items to your life will you be bringing with you to Eroticon Live? (you can have a maximum of 5)

My phone, my laptop, an international converter plug thingy, two pairs of contact lenses, and an open mind.

A new cocktail has been made in your honor.  What would be the key ingredient and what would it be called?

Gin, because ever since my grandmother gave me my first G&T when I was 19 I’ve had a love affair with it, and I’d call it the Hey, Barb.

And finally… Complete the sentence; I have yet to…..

…see the faces of so many.

The last time I went to England I fucked Peter the Swedish bartender. I wonder what will happen this time?

I'll definitely pack this for my trip.
I’ll definitely pack this for my trip.
In late spring of 1999 I flew to Heathrow International Airport and took one of those funny, old-fashioned looking taxis to meet up with my family at some flat my father had rented.  It was above a pub (everything seemed to have a pub below it) and within mere hours of close proximity to everyone I found myself downstairs without one cent of UK currency.

The pub looked like the Irish-themed bars in my city: dark wood, brass touches, a long, polished bar from years’ worth of elbow-rubbing.

I sat at a gap at the bar and listened to two ruddy-faced men with caps on.  Their accents lilted, their laughter rumbled.  The tall, curly blond bartender who looked to be about my age loped from one end of the service area to the other as they called out his name, “PEE-tah!  PEE-tah!” and he deftly filled their orders calling them by name with a foreign accent of his own.

His partner behind the bar was a short man with salt and pepper hair and darting eyes.  He missed nothing.  “How can I help you, miss?” he asked me.

I explained to him I’d just arrived and had no British money.  “That’s alright, I’ll give you one on the house.  What do you want?”

“Gin, please,” 24-year-old me answered.

He gave me a drink called the Virgin Mary, a triple gin and tonic in a very tall glass.

By the time I hit the bottom of it I’d tried to talk to the two gentlemen beside me in my best British accent but had failed miserably.  “Where are you from, lassie?” they asked.

“Guess!” I said coyly, worried they’d know I was faking.

They talked quietly amongst themselves for a few seconds before they began guessing out loud to me.  “Denmark?  Finland?  Sweden!!” they blurted all the Nordic counties.  They were convinced my bone structure gave me away.

I don’t remember which of those countries I picked — maybe it was Norway — but they were very impressed with my grammar!  (I still laugh thinking about it.)  I told them I’d spent a summer in Los Angeles recently to work on my English.  They bought it.

Peter, however, didn’t.  

He’d been hanging around our end of the bar and listening surreptitiously as he washed barware.  “Where are you from?” he asked me directly.

I didn’t even try.  “America,” I giggled.

He winked at me and I left.

A few nights later I returned with money in hand and a plan in mind.  I wanted to hang out with Peter.  Several days with my divorced parents, grandmother and judgmental sister had driven me to need time alone to be myself, to be Hy.

There were two American kids in the pub with me and the three of us chatted with Peter throughout his shift.  When it was over  they invited us to their rented flat across the street to get high.  Sure, why not go somewhere with 3 strange young men and smoke weed?  Sounds like fun!

The room was strewn with backpacks and travel guides and a little bong was on a coffee table.  We sat around and smoked and laughed and if my life depended on it I couldn’t tell you the names of the other two Americans; I only had eyes for Peter.

He was Swedish and well over 6 feet tall.  He’d been in England for several months while he tried to figure out what to do with his life.  His accent reminded me of snow and blonde braids and his smile was large and toothsome.

We decided to leave together and find another place to drink.  His pub had closed at 9 so we walked some distance to an even darker pub below street level.  We drank and made out, sloppy revelers in the bowels of a London neighborhood.

That pub closed at 10 and we staggered on to yet another and when that one closed at 11 — Why do all the pubs close at random times and so early?! I wondered noisily and repeatedly to Peter as we lurched down the street — he suggested we go home to his place.  Above the pub.

“I live there for free and work below and Jimmy my manager also lives there.  I’m not allowed to have anyone over.”

We sneaked through the darkened pub with only the shiny bits reflecting the street lamps outside as our guiding lights.  “Shhh,” he reminded me as I began to laugh.

“Here.  Get on my back.”  We were at the base of the narrowest staircase I’d ever seen, tucked behind the bar.  “He’ll only hear one set of footsteps.”

I jumped up and clung to him as he ascended each creaky, screaming step.  I nibbled his neck and he giggled, told me to stop.  He tripped and we muffled our laughs as he caught himself.  Up three flights of stairs we were at his carved, wooden door.

His room was dark and shadowy and his window was eye-level with the street lamp.  Light poured in and illuminated a window box with a cushion like a block of pale, artificial sun.

We were all over each other.  Drunken, half-strangers.  Our height difference made my neck hurt and he split his stance like a giraffe at a watering hole.  My face in his hands, his mouth on mine.

The window box was long and we moved to it.  I straddled him, the window to my right, and pulled my shirt off.  My little 34B breasts were pierced then, perky.  He moaned and took one in his mouth and I clutched his curls to me.

Our clothes peeled back to reveal our yummy bits and I sucked his deliciously uncut cock.  “They don’t do that in Europe,” he explained in his loopy Swedish sound when I remarked on it.  Literally drunk with lust I asked him if he had a condom.  He shook his head.

I thought for a split second about it and decided to throw caution to the wind.  I peeled off my jeans and pressed his naked body back on the cushion and sat astride him, his cock pressed against me, but not in me.

Above him like this I saw a beauty, a lithe young man heavy with passion — and me — bathed in light on his left side and melting into darkness on his right.  His nose had a bump in it, his mouth a Cupid’s Bow.  I cupped his face and felt his blond scruffy cheek against my palm.

I bent down and kissed him and wrapped my hand around his cock and slowly guided him in.  This was me, this was what I really wanted to be doing in London.

He gasped as I sat back on him, my mouth locked on his, his air mine.  I slowly sat up and wiggled him into me and he said, “Hyacinth, you are so beautiful.  You are like an angel spreading her wings.  I cannot bear it…”

I smiled and felt as though everywhere the light touched my skin and us I shimmered, and where we joined in the dark was cool and quiet.  I felt alive and humming, utterly beautiful.

Sadly, Peter couldn’t go much further than just that.  He was overwhelmed he said.

Instead, he pulled me down onto him and we cuddled in the window box beneath the city lamp.

Eventually, I had to head back upstairs to my family, but I gave Peter my email address before I left and for a number of years — nearly 5 — I would get an email from him saying he wanted to come to America and see me.

But I had moved on from that night and that place, though Peter would forever remain one of my fondest memories.

::

I’m returning to London in roughly a month for Eroticon where I’ll be speaking on a couple of panels.  I’ll be in Bristol for the first few days of my stay for the convention itself and then will flit about after that until it’s time to come back home on the very next Wednesday.  It’s not a very long stay, only a week, but I had less time than that my first time over.

I wonder if I’ll have as much fun this time around.