Jaw Hair Voice

For/from Nina


I don’t want you to kiss my lips, my cheeks. Your lips are too soft; rose petal caresses. I want your teeth, and I don’t want them on the flesh that protects me—I want them on my jaw. Yes. Like this. Chew it, bite it, hold it—release—and now, chew again, drag your canines along the bone until my nerves scream and I pound against you and try to escape and…

You know what? Don’t. No. This isn’t working. No, don’t cry, lover, don’t leave, don’t get mad, let me explain. It doesn’t work when I ask for it. It doesn’t work when I give you instructions. What a fucking bitch that is. I don’t know a work-around, do you? I WANT—god, you have no idea, how much I WANT—you to chew my jaw until it’s bruised, until I’m screaming in pain, until I’m begging you to stop… but you don’t.

But I don’t want to ask for it. And as soon as I ask for it, I don’t want it anymore. Or rather… see, it’s more complex. As soon as I ask for it, and you’re doing it because I asked for it, all it is is pain and discomfort and awkwardness. The pleasure, desire, excitement—gone.


And now you’re crying.



Come here. Come on. I will pull you into an embrace, gentle or rough, whatever you prefer, and I will caress your hair, and in a voice that reminds you of your mother…

Oh, fuck. There we go again.


This should not be so complicated, should it? There should only be… chemistry. Desire. I fold into you, you rub into me. Lips, teeth, tongues, hands, fingers. Arms—oh, god, yes, your forearm. Legs. Feet. You tell me I have beautiful feet—I’ve never thought about it—I love it—I wonder how I can use those beautiful feet to fuck you in a way you’ve never been fucked before, and see, there we go.

Instead: “Tell me what you like,” you say. All the how-to sex blogs say this. We read it together once, do you remember? They say—reading your partner’s mind is a myth. Ask what they like. Tell them what you want.

So I tell you. Don’t kiss me. Bruise me. And you do. And ugh. No. And you’re crying, and I’m your mother, and the mood is shattered.

Come here. Let’s try this again.

No. Actually, like this. Go, stand over there. Fucking go stand over there in the doorway or I will drag you there by your hair. Don’t pucker those lips. I know that’s not what I do, I know that’s not what you think I want. But in this moment, that is my truth—get your ass over to that doorway and… Good.

Now, we begin again. I won’t raise my voice, or drop it into a whisper, either—let’s remove that trigger. In fact—let’s both be silent. No words. No instructions. You are there. I am here.


Desire? Is there desire? Let us wait for the desire to built.

And when we are ready—you or I, preferably both at the same time—we will move.

Maybe you will chew on my jaw and devour me with ferocity. But maybe you will just drop rose petal kisses on my cheeks and ear, get my hair in your mouth, spit it out, and kiss a more naked part of me. Maybe I will chew on you—right now I want to, I think I want to. Let’s see. No rules. No instructions.

You moan. I smile.

We move.


Just. Like. This.




Wednesday, February 1, 2017
7:00pm  8:30pm
Owl’s Nest Book Store
815A 49th Avenue SW Calgary

Romance and erotica as an antidote to cyber-porn. An evening of discussion.

Do you read romance novels apologetically, under the covers—secretly on your e-reader, so no one catches you at your guilty pleasure? Stop. And join M. Jane Colette, author of the steamy erotic romance Tell Me and the non-fiction essay collection on language and writing CUNT versus PUSSY, Alyssa Linn Palmer, author of noir romance and gay and lesbian fiction such as award-winning Midnight at the Orpheus, and members of the Calgary chapter of the Romance Writers of America in a spirited discussion of why reading (and writing ) romance and erotica is important in an age of plentiful porn. We promise, you’ll never look at ‘bodice rippers’ the same way again—and you might be inspired to start writing one of your own.

Midnight At the Orpheus is Alyssa Linn Palmer's award-winning book featuring featuring Chicago gangsters and molls engaged in the sexiest and most complicated passion triangle, with a hot and sensitive MM love affair among the background subplots.

Midnight At the Orpheus is Alyssa Linn Palmer’s award-winning book featuring featuring Chicago gangsters and molls engaged in the sexiest and most complicated passion triangle, with a hot and sensitive MM love affair among the background subplots.

RSVPs are appreciated but not required. Contact@owlsnestbooks.com or (403) 287-9557 to reserve your spot… or show up at the last minute.



For Nicole: Cardamom Knob Wool

For Jenn: Piano River Feather

For Lara: Peasant Cicada Pomegranate

For Paola: Stoked Sunrise Ferocity

For Nina: Crimson Brilliant Moon

For Cathy: Elated Chocolate Tears

For Lisa: Collar Forgiveness Wind 

For Leslie: Train Clouds Mountain

For Grazyna: Anticipation Disappointment Hope

For Tet: Pills Chips Lotion

For Fionna: Crimson Ocean Dance



Connect:  Twitter / GoodReads /  sign up for Rough Draft Confessions

Facebook Profile + Facebook Author Page

About mjanecolette

Writer. Reader. Angster. Reformed Bohemian (not). Author of the erotic romance TELL ME, the erotic tragedy (with a happy ending) CONSEQUENCES (of defensive adultery), the award-winning rom-com (she's versatile) CHERRY PIE CURE, and TEXT ME, CUPID--a (slightly dirty) love story for 21st century adults who don't believe in love... but want it anyway. A sought-after speaker and presenter, Colette is also the author of the Dirty Writing Secrets Series, which includes the non-fiction collection of essays ROUGH DRAFT CONFESSIONS: not a guide to writing and selling erotica and romance but full of inside inside anyway, 101 FLIRTY WRITING PROMPTS TO SEDUCE YOUR MUSE, and ORGANIZED CREATIVE. She's also the curator of the fab YYC Queer Writers anthologies Queer Christmas in Cowtown, Screw Chocolate, and A Queer Summer Night's in Cowtown. Releasing Spring 2020: CUPID IN MONTE CARLO.


  1. I definitely like no instructions better. Instructions ruin the mood!

  2. Cathy

    You definitely capture the paradox of desire

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