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Sunday, November 20, 2011

Welcome Author G.G. Royale

Fetish. I love that word. One of my favorites. Such a spectrum exists, and there are so many wonderful -- and awesome -- things on that spectrum.
When I started writing the Kittengirls stories, I decided I wanted to explore a few variations on the theme of fetish: furries (toned down a bit), codomination and a little ponyplay, and, finally, genderbending. In the stories, I also always include a little -- or a lot! -- of BDSM, because it ratchets up the heat level. Spanking, bound wrists, swings… Everything is more exciting with the little spice of pain, the crack of the whip, or the creak of leather.
I love research about as much as I love fetish, so each of these stories gave me different opportunities to explore sexual dynamic and power exchange. Of course I couldn’t become personally involved in all these lifestyles, so I had to find other ways to learn. The Lovely Kittengirls of Mew Orleans had me buying dyed fox tails and collars. My Two Doms led me to some deep soul-searching about polyamorous relationships and what is the best kind of treatment to keep leather supple.
Finally came Queen’s for a Day. I wanted to write a femdomme story, but I needed to play with the idea, to make it my own and a little more unexpected. That’s when I came up with the concept of a drag queen who was also a domme, and making this the male/male story I needed to sort of balance out my trilogy. I’ve written -- and edited -- plenty of homoerotic romance, so I didn’t have a problem tackling that. What I decided to spend my time researching was the dynamic between the two personas of a serious drag queen. I watched Paris is Burning and other documentaries about the role of the drag queen in the social realm. I read blog after blog and site after site on the process and the performance. Out of that came Fanny Ferula, the Caning Queen of Cleveland.
The other side of the relationship -- Gel -- sort of reflects the ideas I had personally developed about being a third in a relationship. It doesn’t work for him, but he knows he needs a balance of the male and female to make him happy. The challenge is finding that in one person. When he meets Fanny, he thinks he’s found that balance, but life may just get in the way…
Here is an excerpt from chapter two of Queen’s for a Day:
A dangling, jet bead curtain hung between Mistress Fanny Ferula, the Caning Queen of Cleveland, and her adoring fans who’d arrived from many corners of the world to watch her. Sweat trickled down her neck, and she hadn’t even stepped onstage yet, but she didn’t worry. Her makeup could stand up to the worst. She’d let it cook enough, blended it, sealed it, and she spent plenty of money on the best. She deserved it after all, putting in nights like this all over the country at pride fests, burlesque conventions, fetish balls, and any other event that demanded the presence of the certified fiercest queen in the states.
Fanny took a deep breath. Nerves always hit her right before a show. And of course, playing midnight on the first big night of Decadence deserved an even bigger dose of butterflies. The metal boning of her leather corset bit into the tops of her hips, and she welcomed the little pain. She adjusted the chains wrapped around her wrists, and still she waited.
Beyond the curtain, two pretty boys in silver banana hammocks danced beneath flashing lights. The party revved into a higher gear as a flood of people came in from the street. The hour approacheth.
The lights turned off, dropping the club into darkness except for the glow sticks, necklaces, bracelets, and all the blinking LCD jewelry worn by the men in the audience. She even saw one scrolling belt buckle that read, in bright red lights Bottom. Likes handcuffs. HIV Neg. Fuck Me. Then it would start all over again. Fanny felt confident they were all men -- or, at least, born that way. The two dancers pushed past her, smelling of baby oil and the vodka they’d sweated out through their pores. Fanny wrinkled her nose, but couldn't help slapping one on the ass as he passed, and shouted, “Atta, boy!”
The deep tone of a bell began to resound through the room, tolling out midnight. The place grew progressively quieter.
Then Fanny’s opening song, “Yes, Sir, I Can Boogie,” began to play. The crowd cheered. As the first lyrics came drifting out, Fannie pushed through the beads and stalked onstage. She could hear the sharp ringing of her metal-tipped heels even above everything else. Or maybe she just imagined it.
Her lips moved to the words of the song as she danced across the stage. Beads hit the floor around her as men threw them, trying to get her attention. She picked up a strand of plastic pearls, glowing in the black lights, and ran them between her teeth, biting hard and pulling. Then she wrapped them around the reaching hand of an audience member and then around another, binding them together as she crossed the stage and lip-synched to the song. She danced and spun, feeling the energy of the crowd wash over her. She’d need to harness all of that later, when the time came to MC the big competition. She always loved tapping into the audience’s enthusiasm at these events. It seemed never-ending. She just wished she could ride it forever, like some eternal speed trip.
There was a time that she could, but lately… The years crept up on her. She knew she couldn’t do this forever, and she didn't want to end up a sad old fag in fake eyelashes.
She pulled herself out of her thoughts as the song came to an end. Someone in the audience thrust a wireless microphone up toward her. She took it, mouthed a thank-you, and then straightened. She ran her empty hand down the length of her body, feeling the leather of the corset beneath her fingers, then the lace and tulle of her full tutu. She inhaled, taking a moment to center herself before going forward. The crowd cheered again. She could make them out only by the occasional flash of the LED jewelry that could overpower the spotlight in her face. She smiled big.
“Hello, boys,” she said, pitching her voice at the proper timbre, making it sound sultry and womanly rather than her usual gruffer man’s voice.
“Hello, Mistress,” they all responded as if they’d done this before. Many of them probably had.
“Are you ready to have some fun?” Trite, yes, but it usually got them even more pumped. They certainly wanted to prove to her that they were.
“Yes, Mistress,” they said in unison. In the silence that followed, someone shouted out, “Beat me! Please!”
Fanny chuckled. Sotto voce, into the mike, she said, “Only if you’ve been a really” -- she paused for effect -- “really bad boy.”

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