M Jane Colette’s Mostly Illegal UFC Photo Album #nsfw

I came. I saw. I conquered.

Actually, they gave the trophy to that writer-in-residence Todd guy, but that’s just cause he was crying like a little baby at the end of the night.

Anyway, you don’t want to know about any of that, right? You just want to see the pictures of my shoes.

We weren’t, btw, supposed to be taking pictures, but nobody told my dad.

Yes, my dad was there. He was my chauffeur. I’ve told you before, my parents are very supportive of my career as pornographer.

Anyway. Pictures!

You: WTF are you talking about?

Jane: The Ultimate Writing Championship, held at the Alexandra Writers’ Centre Society on Friday, March 1, to inaugurate its 2019 writer-in-residence Brad Somer. Background here. I’m writing for the insiders here. Stop interrupting.

Pictures!

First, they introduced us. Here’s me and my fighting face:

While they were doing that, the Naked Girls and I were rehearsing. Mmmm, hold on, you should watch the rest of the photos with a soundtrack. Press play on this, please:

That’s better.

Ok, now imagine all of us walking in, looking super bad-ass… and taking our positions in the cage.

Damn right there was a cage.

(I was going to say damn straight, but there was nothing straight about the night.)

Left to right–Keely Kamikaze, NaJeSa, me, Mistress Shadow, and Melissa Lynne. On leash, the boy.

He didn’t quite know the rules…

I had to remind him props don’t talk:

Then, the referee put on rubber gloves… that was a slightly tense moment, I tell ya…

But as it was, it was just to check my nails… and to give me a pat down. I tried not to take it personally… As if I needed any weapons to take down PJ Vernon. Please.

So, we each had to perform three pieces in seven minutes: a poem, a piece of fiction, and a piece of creative non-ficton.

For my poem, I needed a volunteer… who didn’t mind being touched.

I hadn’t planned on the recitation of the poem to turn into a lap dance, but it did. I blame the Naked Girls and all the estrogen in the air. I think my victim… enjoyed it.

I know you’re dying to hear the poem, but I only write bad poetry, and its only saving grace is the way I deliver it while sitting in your lap, so I’ll just tell you the first line:

You are a tongue
that bruises my flesh
even as it caresses

And then it gets dirty.

For my fiction piece, I chose a very short excerpt from my WIP, Henri and the Bankrupt Billionaire, the second book in the Fat Yoginis in Love series. It was not a sex scene. I write social realist erotica for women, baby, and that means I don’t write seven minute sex scenes. My sex scenes last for hours…

Anyway, this piece is the opening of Henri. I lead with, “It’s because you have a small penis…”

… and it just gets worse from there. It ends with, “I’m 40. I’m perpetually wet.”

A select portion of my audience (i.e. my entire target audience) appreciated that very much.

Then, came the final piece, the creative non-fiction: “Dear Boy on Your First Tinder Date: Here’s How to Ensure It Won’t Be the Last.”

It was the longest of my three pieces, and those shoes are not fun to stand in, so I needed a little bit of help in delivering it.

Fortunately, Mistress Shadow had just the thing.

He really did not need that much coaxing to get into the right position.

I was very pleased with how quickly Mistress Shadow trained the boy. Did I mention, she’s a professional dominatrix? When I get someone to do a job–I always go to the top.

Here, it looks like she approves:

Then there was thunderous applause and much fear-fuelled adoration from the judges. Did I mention, each of my girls was holding a whip?

UFC rules. Anything goes.

Then they called for PJ Vernon to do his bit. Except he wasn’t there… or was he?

Sarah L. Johnson recognized his quaking butt and there was a dramatic unmasking.

Followed by Amazon-to-Amazon negotiation. I lent her the boy for seven minutes so he could perform.

She still owes me. A lot. I’ll collect at a … suitable moment.

I gotta say, he did me proud. He was AMAZING, really.

But I won anyway, because a) when the judges asked for bribes, I had a pocket full of Hershey’s kisses and b) I re-performed my poem just for the poetry judge.

UFC rules. All’s fair.

Then, Sarah L. Johnson and Brad Somers faced off. But at this point, my dad’s camera was confiscated, or he lost interest in documenting the process, because, like, I wouldn’t be in any of the photos.

Here’s an official photo of the two of them tho:

So then Sarah won–chiefly because of her creative non-fiction story which was really, really… what’s the word I’m looking for? Gross and disturbing. Or maybe because of her fan fiction story about Sheila Rogers which was… well, not gross, exactly, but really disturbing. And then Sarah and I faced off… via proxy volunteers from the audience. This part’s a bit fuzzy, and not because I was drinking. But there was a trivia contest, along the lines of:

Who wrote it? M. Jane Colette or Jane Austen?

“A scarf, wound around a wrist or a throat, soaked with the smell of sex, is always important to the story.”

Um, that’s a tough one, let me think about that a little…

Anyway, I totally won, because my volunteer was none other than the current president of the Calgary Association of Romance Writers of America and she knew ALL the answers, but for reasons which have something to do with him having compromising pictures of all the judges, the trophy went to Todd:

Pictured: Fiction Judge Lee Kvern, Todd, Poetry Judge Colin Martin, Creative Non-Fiction Judge Taylor Lambert

Er, Brad?

Brad.

Brad Somers. Call him Todd. He likes that.

And then we posed for some pictures–and if you follow my gaze, you will see that the most important object in that photo is not the trophy but my shoes:

Back row: me, PJ Vernon, Sarah L. Johnson, Brad Somers. Front row: Robin van Eck, Program Director, and Ali Bryan, Program Assistant/Admin, Alexandra Writers’ Centre Society.

Let’s just have a close up of the star of the evening:

Thank you, Mr. Fluevog. (Cliques. Currently on sale. Click here! I am not an affiliate of John Fluevog. Just a fan. A slave. A devotee.)

Back to people. Here’s all of us growling at the camera:

And here’s me with my Poppa:

who not only drove me to a “literary” event at which I performed a lap dance and read porn–er, social realist erotica–but then was my DD to the after party and back.

Also, the hottest girl at the reading was there for me. I just thought you should know that.

Cigarette?

Where was I?

Naked Girls!

I want to close with a big, big thank you to my fabulous entourage of Naked Girls Reading-Calgary, who are smashing the patriarchy one nude reading at a time:

If you would like to see more of them (all of them) (really) (seriously, this is what they do–they read–naked–and it’s this total empowering political spiritual AMAZING experience), you are so lucky! They have a show coming up on Friday, March 8, and it’s a big one:

Friday, March 8, doors open at 6, show at 7
Wild Rose Brewery
4580 Quesnay Wood Dr SW

For more info: FB Event link

100% of proceeds in support of the Calgary Women’s Emergency Shelter.

Silent raffle will include a sexy gift basket from me featuring some LiTerATure. 😉 And bubbly. Also, you can hang with me, cause I’ll be there. Clothed, but in awesome shoes.

In conclusion: Todd may have the trophy, but I totally won because a) Naked Girls b) walked in with my opponent on a leash c) lap dance d) bribed judges with chocolate e) whips.

So there.

UFC rules. No rules.

Veni. Vidi. Vici.

No, I don’t want a cigarette. This calls for a cigar.

😉

mjanecolette
TellMe@mjanecolette.com

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