Sunday, November 23, 2008


And I'm not talking that skimpy brass bikinis stuff. I'm talking plate, head to foot, cap-a-pe, as I think they say somewhere in Shakespeare. Give me a woman who's been locked, bolted, strapped, and screwed into a full suit of armour.

Sunday, November 16, 2008


"The City Pony," a new story of mine never published before, has just been accepted for Cleis Press's upcoming anthology, WHERE THE GIRLS ARE: URBAN LESBIAN EROTICA (editor, D.L. King). I'm thrilled about it. This means that so far, I have two stories lined up for hardcopy publication in 2009. The other story, of course, as announced earlier, will be a phallogyne story to appear in the MAMMOTH BOOK OF EROTIC CONFESSIONS (editor, Barbara Cardy) some time in the middle of 2009.

Keeping my fingers crossed for some more submissions under consideration.

Friday, November 14, 2008


This story is a bit different from what I usually do, although not more unusual than most of my work. It was published at a few months ago and is still in their archives I believe, but since their exclusive rights to the story have expired I thought I'd post it here. Enjoy.


by Roxy Katt

He has asked her to meet him here, where they first met: the Eighteenth Century Room at the Metropolitan Museum of Bizarre Curiosities. This Other Woman, at the moment alone in the room, stands tall and cool and self-possessed in her professional looking black leather suit: high heeled boots, knee length pencil skirt, fitted jacket, matching bag over her shoulder. Her hair is short and black. She wears dark sunglasses. She looks with a wry smile at the exhibit that inspired their favourite game: a delightfully filthy adventure wherein she calls him "Mickey" and he eats a fat wad of cheese out of her steaming pussy.

The glass display case before her contains a small, dead, stuffed creature, which looks like nothing more than a little ball of fuzzy orange fur. There is a plaque:

CATALONIAN CHEESE MOUSE: Known for its phenomenal sense of smell, the Catalonian Cheese Mouse is thought to have been bred secretly for purposes not entirely clear. One theory is that it was used by aristocratic ladies as a means of personal gratification.

Beneath her straining skirt, beneath the high-waisted, longline, white open bottomed girdle that secures her expensive stockings, her unpantied cunt is stuffed with cheese.

She has decided to serve him Gouda this time. Actually, she thinks, she may have cut too large a piece. It’s wedged in pretty tight and she’s getting excited already. When will he get here?
When he does, she wants to tell him to skip the restaurant they had planned. They’ll go straight to her apartment and they will pretend that she was going to give some nice cheese to her pet "Mickey" but seems to have misplaced it. She and "Mickey" will look high and low for it, until he will sniff the air and say, "Wait! I smell it."

"Where, Mickey? Tell me where?"

"The smell seems to be coming from under your skirt, mistress."

"Oh no. That’s not possible."

Sniffing about her as she tries to dodge him: "I believe it’s in your cooter, mistress."

"What? How stupid do you think I am? How could I possibly be stupid enough to lose a huge whack of cheese up my thing and not even know it? Oh you dirty minded little mouse. No cheese for you!"

"Yes! I wants it! I must have it!"

"NO! You’re a very bad little mousie. Back to your cage this instant!"

Then of course, mousie loses all control, and, dreadful little creature that he is, strips, binds, and orally ravishes his unfortunate mistress while berating her for her culinary stupidity, all the while enjoying two kinds of delectable repast at once.

If "Mickey" doesn’t get here soon, she thinks, sweating into her girdle and her leather outfit, I’m going to have to find the ladies room here and . . .

* * * * * * * *

This last one was the last straw. My husband has cheated on me for the last time and I am leaving him. But when I found the bitch’s picture I was conflicted: damn, she’s hot. Do I want to kill her, or do her? I’ve suppressed my desires for both sexes for years to be loyal to my husband. Not any more. It would serve him right too if I took his latest popsie away from him.

And why not?

So here I am, unnoticed by her at the opposite end of the Eighteenth Century Room at the Metropolitan Museum of Bizarre Curiosities. Tasteful, tight black leather. Very hot. She looks terrific. Very well put together.

But you can’t just walk up to a woman and say, "Hi! I’m the wife of the bastard whose been boinking you! Let’s have dinner!"

She looks very proud. Proud bitch! How I’d love to break that pride and turn her into a quivering puddle of jello. I wonder what would happen if this proud bitch encountered a situation she simply couldn’t handle? What if something bizarre and terrible happened to her in this museum of the bizarre and she got into trouble and ended up pleading for rescue? Rescued people can be very grateful.

Yes, I know all about hubby’s habits. He and I used to do the cheese thing long ago when he still cared. If my hunch is right and she’s got her muff wrapped around a fat stick of Edam or Gouda she’s about to have a surprise.

Yes, enter my new little friend, Mickey. Hello, my little furry friend. Tired of being inside my stuffy little purse? How about if I set you down on the floor here. What’s that? You smell something tasty? Off you go then. See what you can find. Yes, look at him run, the little devil, look how he scampers right towards her, her with her cheese laden and unsuspecting Achilles cunt. My dear Mickey does love a bit of cheese so.


Thursday, November 13, 2008


give a fuck.

I am very tired.

Tired of failing every single fucking day of my life to life up to any sort of standard I set for myself. Whether that's because the standards are too high or not, I just can't meet them.

So I've gradually stopped setting them.

I can't live a single fucking day that I don't feel was wasted. My labours seem always inadequate, and even when I can acquit myself of the charge of laziness, my labours seem to achieve much too little.

So I wander through my days in a kind of stupid autopilot, unable to get off it. Inspiration, ideas, enthusiasm frighten me because I know I will be on autopilot again before I can ever make anything of them.

Some people are plagued by bad health all their lives, poverty, drugs, some miserable family situation, some terrible character flaw, whatever.

With me, it's just pissing everything away. I can't figure out how much of this is my fault and how much of it is just the inevitable imperfection we are all saddled with one way or the other.

The wealth of my mind and my soul is buried in junk.

Tuesday, November 11, 2008


Since when, I wonder, in a supposedly democratic country, is a town allowed to block purchase of a home because it doesn't like what the prospective owner publishes, however legal?

Check out Brenna Lyons' Blog for details.

Citizens of Greene: what is your fucking problem?


ulations, America, on liberating yourself from the Republican nightmare. There is still lots to do, of course, but this is a great step. Well done!

And putting that in today's context, Remembrance Day, maybe now in future there will be fewer whose deaths we will need to grieve.

Canada, take note. You are still asleep when it comes to Afghanistan. You are kept there by the same kind of sometimes mindless, sometimes politically motivated rhetoric which, for example, sent so many to their needless deaths in the imperialist war of 1914-1918. Today is a day to learn from those deaths, not to use the honouring of the dead as a tool to make more of them.

Saturday, November 1, 2008


Blargh! I wrote this wee 250 word story to post at Alison Tyler's blog for her key contest, but I made a mistake about the date and now it's too late. Well, let's just post it here, shall we?


by Roxy Katt

Her shiny, form-fitting suit of armour makes her look like a steel mannequin or a robot. You can't even see her eyes beneath the narrow slits of her sealed anatomical helmet. She has a huge raygun on each metal hip.

But there is a real woman locked inside. Tall, proud, an alien with designs on my planet. She gave me her key, for the lock she can't quite reach.

Her need was unbearable, she said.

"Hurry woman," she says, bent way over, metal ass in the air. She grasps a slender tree for support. "We must not be discovered by my troops."

The lock is placed like an asshole deep between her metal cheeks. I stick the key in: turn.

*BOING!* The hinged bumhatch flips up. Her skin is so soft, so white . . .

Slowly, slowly, I push it up her bum: the huge, well oiled plug she gave me. She gasps, trembles.

Then it's all in . I pause. I throw the switch at the base and it begins to hum.

"Oh . . . oh . . . that's . . . so good," she groans faintly.

I watch. I forget what she offered me in return but it's unimportant. I push the hatch down firmly and it clicks shut.

"Huh?" she says, standing upright, feeling her locked bum. I drop the key down a ventilation slit in her back. "What the . . .?"

"Your troops have spares. Enjoy your humiliation before them, stupid bitch!" I walk away laughing. But I know her type: she'll come back for more.