I created these quite some time ago when I was messing around with a comic strip creator. I can’t draw but I’d dearly love to write comics (hit me up sometime, eh Marvel?). They are languishing on my hard drive but I think that they are stupid and cute, so I thought I’d post them onto my bisexual blog since the subject matter seemed relevant.
A quick shout out to the world that I’ve anthologised the short works that I have written over the last year and made them available on Kindle for anyone who’d like to enjoy them that way. Usually priced $2.99 they are currently free so grab them and enjoy them (and by that, I mean masturbate to them) while you can.
All but one of these stories have been freely available on this blog for a year but sadly it’s time to take them all – except for Clara’s Dream – down. If you’ve enjoyed them at all then I’d be incredibly grateful to anyone for leaving me an Amazon review which is the recognition that new authors need. Also, of course, the more people who visibly like my work the more I’ll write in the future!
Clara Oswald: Into the Vortex (An Erotic Doctor Who Fantasia – Part One)
The central unit of the TARDIS’ slowly rose and fell with a dynamic, rhythmic whirr, propelling the mysterious craft forever onward, to continue its fantastic journey through space and time, while Clara lay dreaming,naked, in bed. A strange hand lovingly caressed the console, clicking buttons, pulling levers and twisting dials until the soft whir became a deafening roar and the motions of the main pillar increased in fury and vigour until the control room was awash with movement and noise; a deafening alarm, then a crash followed by an uncanny silence. And through it Clara slept on; and Clara dreamed on.
Clara dreamed of many things that terrified her; she dreamed of the terrible monsters she’d unluckily encountered, the single-minded Cybermen, the mechanical killers, the Daleks and the chillingly fearsome Ice Warriors. As the dial turned on the console and the temperature soared dangerously in the control room, Clara’s dreams slowly shifted from fear into an altogether different realm; Clara was experiencing strange dreams that terrified her and then aroused her; Clara dreamed of the Doctor, and of sex. The mysterious figure operating the dials chuckled to itself and exited, satisfied that a job had been well done. The TARDIS went spinning back through time. Or was it forward? Or perhaps a combination of the two. Either way, a cryptic alien message on the display screen flashed with urgency. Roughly translated to English, it read “next stop,
“Next stop, oblivion,” came a sweet but worried snarl from Clara’s chapped, sleeping lips. The TARDIS had jerked from side to side and the jolt appeared to startle her into action. Her eyes flashed open and she sat bolt upright in bed, throwing a blanket aside as she did so. Any observer could tell that she wasn’t actually awake since her face clearly had the vacant, morbid expression of a somnambulist. The next time she spoke was markedly different; soft, gentle and enticingly sexual. The voice of quiet seduction. ‘Oh Doctor, you saved me.’ As she spoke a silk sheet that clung tightly to her skin slid gently away exposing her astonishing figure to the electric illuminations of her private chamber. “Doctor, you saved me,” she breathed. “You’re a wonderful, wonderful man. I want you. Take me Doctor, let me reward you, Let me give you what I know you
Inner heat and tension rising fast, the TARDIS froze in time, span around quickly, and then abruptly exploded. It then lurched forwards in time, stopped and disintegrated once again before being propelled backwards in time only to be rend asunder for a third time, then a forth, a fifth, a sixth and so on, over and over caught in an infinite and devastating time loop. Clara, oblivious to the apparent mathematically impossible events taking place around her, continued to dream an unabashedly erotic dream. The electric light flickered once again, illuminating her soft skin, the tight curve of her breast, and every desirable inch of her unworried nudity. The illumination picked out the sweat of the heat on her skin, the goose-bumps covering her flesh, the gentle tremors of her aroused and shaking form. The illuminations looked dispassionately on as Clara’s uncontrolled, unawake hands, uncertainly explored the subtle contours of her body, slowly touching, caressing and enjoying every inch of her unaware, but vulnerable form. As the ship exploded again and again Clara’s hands slid excitedly across her breasts and dainty, firming nipples; they slid down her stomach, stroking and playing as they went lower still until eventually resting on her wet cunt, and a finger entered into that playful private vortex. As it gently slipped deeper and deeper inside Clara managed to moaned again out loud, “Doctor, you shouldn’t put that in there… oh! Yes Doctor, that’s one hell of a sonic … OH! OH!”
A further explosion occurred, and Clara awoke and fell, unsatisfied, to the floor. A further explosion and it all ended as the TARDIS flew itself out of the deadly infinite time loop and into a dimensional vortex of unknown worlds and desires; into a vortex where literally anything might happen; where Clara might encounter the whole of space and time … and memory. Clara – the impossible girl – was about to experience the impossible.
… and Clara Dances, Like a Feather in the Wind.
La donna è mobile
Qual piuma al vento,
e di pensiero.
Clara span round and around. Naked men sucked one another to satisfaction as they watched Clara spin around and around on her point. They watched as she span but she could not watch them, for she was locked tightly alone in a world of darkness, a cover on her eyes forbidding access to the dazzling colour; forbidding access to the succulent pleasures of the male sex she so greedily desired to feast her eyes upon. She couldn’t have them, she could only spin around on her axis and dance.
And so Clara danced, and as she did, although denied vision, her sense of enveloping sound and music increased. She heard the rough whine of an old needle scratching a record as the light tenor voice of Pavarotti singing an aria from Verdi drifted pleasantly across the room. She heard the slow incessant drip-drip-drip of water from a tap, picking out every painful note of its ceaseless rhythmic torture. She heard the pop of a bottle uncorking and the slow dank pouring of wine in a glass, and she smelt the spiced cherry grape of the delicious vintage Cabernet she’d been expressly forbidden to taste. She heard the light, gentle tap-tappety-tap of her own bare feet upon the ground as she danced around graciously in time to the music, her feet picking out and accentuating the beat, as light as a feather in the wind. She heard the soft sounds of sex from every corner of the room, from far away and close beside her, and she could feel fucking warmly embrace her. She heard the sound of bodies pressed tightly against one another, the slow salivating suck of cock slipping deep down into a hot willing mouth. She heard moans of pleasure sing out, drowning out the melodic cries of Pavarotti. She heard the shrill shriek of male orgasmic lust and she heard the light slap of balls, and the swishing jet-spray of cum as thick members thrust hard in and then emerged softly from their adoring pleasures.
And as she heard all of this, Clara danced ever on like the wind.
Clara did not dance voluntarily. She span around and around because they wanted her, desired her, made her. She danced for them and they watched keenly, lusting her feverishly, aroused by the music she sang as she span. The wild music of her silken hair as it flung exuberantly about her shoulders, the tiny music of her breasts as they thrust firmly forwards in time to the drip of the water. The swaying music of her hips as they jiggled sensually from side to side, and the supple music of her legs as she span them faster and faster so that she might be free. But she could not dance free while the hands grabbed her body and held her, and twisted her, and forced her down. She could not be free as they came upon her, big, hard and filled with intent. Could not be free as they gave her themselves to their grip, to tease, to fondle and jerk. Could not be free as she was surrounded, overwhelmed, dizzy and confused. They desired her and they had her, and she wanted them back. She could not see as they slipped down her throat, first hard, then sticky, then soft. She could not count as they came at her insatiably and left her satisfied. She could not see her desire, just hear it, feel it and taste it.
Clara danced on her point until she stumbled and fell. She danced until they grabbed her and took her and held her down. They grabbed her arms and they bound them, took her legs and then tied them, they took her clothes and they ripped them. The Versace dress she wore was violently stripped away, leaving her naked and exposed.
“I’m frightened,” she confessed as they held her down, tore her clothes, stripped her naked and bare. She couldn’t see who, she couldn’t tell how and she couldn’t know what manner of pleasure or punishment awaited her. Clara was alone, scared, vulnerable and defenceless. Clara’s cunt dripped wet.
As they strapped her up, her body ached and trembled. Bound tightly as she was, she was no longer free to dance; yet Clara danced inside as the tannic red wine splashed across her naked breasts, hands crawled slowly across her skin and probing fingers buried themselves deep inside of her most private holes. The softness of touch told her that these fingers were feminine, and as a delicate nipple flashed gently across her mouth, begging her to lick, her mind and body flushed hot with new sensations. The world seemed strange and she danced; sensations were soft and she danced; sounds sang pleasant and she flew, soaring upwards and ever higher as the groping fingers of a girl – or two, or three – penetrated her tight, clenched ass; she soared higher still as a full pair of breasts rubbed erotically across hers; she soared up to the sun as the rough tongue of a girl lightly licked up the scented juice that gushed like a torrent from her pussy.
“Let me go, please let me go,” she begged, almost screamed. “I want to be free.” She heard the stern reply of “Never.”
“Take off the blindfold, untie me. PLEASE. I want to see, I want to touch.” She implored her captors and they replied without mercy, “Never.”
Clara moaned aloud in pain and in pleasure. Clara screamed a happy, delirious scream and then she saw the entire world from above as a bright white light streaked across her senses; and then there were rainbow colours. She saw an intense streak of electric light and she felt it shock through her throat, constrict her back, pain her wrists and then sear through her brain, wrenching her entire body rigid. She saw her life in 16.7 million colours and she saw her death cloaked all in black. She saw Clara shrouded in dark blood red floating lightly around the room as a feather flies in the breeze. Looking down from above, Clara could see herself clearly, surrounded by lust and debauchery, smeared all over in nudity and wine, her face flushed tannic red, her mouth silently twisted, grinning with crazed notes of pleasure; her arms and legs pulling furiously on her bonds as her groin and chest thrust desperately upwards again and again; and Clara begged them again and again and again:
And the bonds on her wrists tightened, the straps on her ankles tightened, her constricted chest tightened and blood flowed freely from the stress of her bonds; her tentative grip on life and the world collapsed. She felt faint, overwhelmed with intense swirls of dizziness dancing around her skull. She descended into a world of pain and fear, and as the fear touched her heart she finally came. Her orgasm released her mind as the fingers, the hands, the breasts and the cocks danced across her helpless body, round and around; tongues thirstily licked the sticky wine that dripped from her chest, as two, three, four fingers penetrated her lusting holes, and the exploding cum drenched her body, squirting, smearing, and joyfully shooting its slimy sex across her tiny helpless figure. “Set me free, I must dance.”
She wrenched, contorted and collapsed exhausted. “Yes, I want this,” she managed before tiredly closing her eyes and finally embracing her dark prison. “I really do. This is all I’ll ever want. Thank you.”
And they nodded, satisfied, then released her body and un-strapped her bonds. She lay back and slept silently to the soothing sounds of a quietly dripping tap and the gentle clunking of the needle as the record played out its last operatic melody. And Clara was content. And Clara was free.
(Note. A really light flash fiction I wrote today as a break from the piece I’m working on properly. This was inspired by someone saying to me that male masturbation wasn’t beautiful. I think that is is. Ended up being a little more comic, but that’s OK)
He was so beautiful.
He didn’t see me hiding away in the dark deep of the shadows. He didn’t know that I was there and he never could. He must never know. That I cherished his beauty was my deepest, darkest secret and it cloaked me with shame. My voyeuristic love of watching from a distance as he stroked his cock to climax swallowed me up in self loathing, but I was compelled to do it, and could no more resist the urge to hide myself away and watch his private performance than I could refuse to eat or drink.
He didn’t know that I knew his secret. I could sense the pangs of guilt that stole up on him as he tried so hard not to idly browse to the inevitable dirty websites; they were, afterall the reason he came here alone. If she knew he was sure that his girlfriend would leave him, his parents, he thought, would loathe him, his friends would tease him, his Church ostracise him. He slipped away in secret because he was compelled to, as I was compelled to cloud myself in guilt and watch.
Is it such a sin to bathe in the seas of such a beautiful act?
Guilt faded to resignation, then fired into lust. And as they always did, his eyes and attentions quickly turned away from the illicit pleasures onscreen and fixed themselves firmly onto his own. As I always did, I gaped on in wonder and watched him undress, a patient, deliberate act that allowed him to savour every second of a moment that might not happen again for another week or two. And I savoured it even more for that. His top came off first, revealing such a glorious expanse of chest, muscle and ripple that looked almost out of place beside his delicately formed feminine features. I sighed as I longed to run my fingers across it and down its slender naked glory, imagining that it was I who skilfully unbuttoned the jeans that were now sensually siding over his perfectly round ass and falling to the floor. Like all men – like myself – he couldn’t keep his eyes from the main prize long, and as I marvelled at the huge bulge I could see stretching its way through his Calvin Kleins, he reached a hand inside and slowly started to fiddle and play with it – as all men do; I deeply regretted that I couldn’t step out from the shadow of my hiding place and help relieve the gigantic tension that had firmly mounted itself in full view..
As he slipped off his underpants and lay back on his bed, thick hard cock held tightly in hand, he rubbed himself off to an intensely satisfying conclusion and it was beautiful.The beautiful twinks came for his pleasure and he had to cum too. It didn’t take him long, a tight grip and a few swift strokes. He cupped his balls and thrust his cock repeatedly into his palm; he jerked and moaned and grunted and as he pleasured his penis the rest of his body writhed wildly, naked and sweating on the sheets. It didn’t take long for hot sticky jet to stream pleasantly from him and cover his chest in a lovely ocean spray of cum. It was my favourite part of the show and I couldn’t persuade myself not to reach down and touch myself as well; a terrible mistake, since on slipping a hand into my trousers my already blisteringly hard cock throbbed in accidental pleasure, and it peaked immediately, squirting streams of goo down the head of my cock, into my pants and over my hand. I couldn’t contain my appreciation for the show vocally either and I squeaked loudly as I shuddered; too late I realised that he’d heard and he started, looking across curiously in my direction.
Feeling drained, sticky and pathetic I was struck by a sudden panic. His beauty had led to this, my secret was to be found out.
He stood up, frightened too, fresh cum glistening on his chest, dripping silently down his still erect shaft and gently onto the floor. He looked cautiously in my direction and I froze, trying not to whimper. Suddenly, without warning, a girl’s voice spoke with authority and sexiness. “That was quite a show. I’m glad I had a ringside seat.”
“Oh my God!” He raced to shut off the PC a reflex action but there was really no point. All had been voyeured, secrets had already been stolen.
“This gets you off does it, lover? How very interesting.” His look of fright didn’t diminish, but her dress dropped briskly to the floor and she strode confidently in her lingerie towards him. “Looks like you need some help with this mess you’ve made.” He thought momentarily that he was off the hook for his actions and had missed what in hindsight was the obvious part of her performance. She glanced across mischievously to the dark place in which I hid and beckoned me towards the light.
“I think all three of us have secrets, don’t we? Come on boys, let’s have some fun together.”
We both looked at her. She was beautiful. She sat on the edge of the bed with a playful look and began to touch herself. Our dark dissipated and our cocks grew monstrously hard.
This question has been buzzing like crazy in my brain all day, demanding an answer I was worried that I’d never be able to give it. My inner bisexual knew what I wanted the answer to be. “theyreallylikewomentheyreallylikewomentheyreallylikewomen.” It would be more evidence to me that we are, after all, existing on a sexual scale of preference, rather than fixed to a straight/gay binary.
But that felt like an easy answer. It doesn’t seem quite that straightforward. Straight men, for instance, do not watch gay porn. They just don’t. They need some girl-flesh to get off to and watching men do things to men generally makes them squirm, or die inside or something. I’ve been told by men of the world that “guy on guy sex is just “unnatural”, whereas girl on girl is part of the way of the world – because men like to watch it DUH! And so do straight women, apparently. So if the answer is simply that “we’re all a little bit bi, then girls are clearly a little bit more bi than boys; a conclusion that makes very little logical sense.
It’s fairly obvious that men are anxious about their masculinity, and that so much as daring to watch Brokeback Mountain can be perceived as a gay, anti-male threat in many circles. There’s simply no reason for a manly straight man to watch gay porn if he isn’t immediately aroused by it. And if he is, then then the instant conclusion is, of course, that it’s because he’s a repressed gay(not bi). On the other hand, straight porn is a harder sell to women because representationally it’s … pretty horrible mostly. In terms of power dynamics it’s not only all male fantasy, it more often than not features male dominance and displays of power over women. Women in porn are mostly fuck toys. As a woman, it’s not easy to get into a space/frame of mind for being aroused when the person on-screen you identify with is being objectified and shown as dehumanised or subservient.
If we consider lesbian porn, instead, it’s entirely different. Of course, lesbian porn isn’t actually made for either straight or gay women to enjoy, it’s still a male fantasy game, but no matter how tawdry the onscreen dynamic is still entirely different. Instead of watching a male figure dominating and subduing women, two (or more) women are meeting for sex and pleasuring one another on rather more equal power- terms. How much easier to switch off and feel arousal if there’s at least something onscreen that the woman can identify with How much more enjoyable. The male in straight porn is so often a little bit threatening, but in lesbian porn that figure has gone. It may not be that all women are fantasising about fucking the woman onscreen as men are when they watch straight porn. They may be using the sexual scenario as a way to fuel their own, more abstract, fantasies.
If this is close to correct, does that make straight women free from the potential, horrific curse of being labelled bisexual – are they still being honest with themselves if they call themselves straight? Well, I guess this depends on how one views sex/arousal; I doubt that most women who say this are actually lying, but I think that their language of sexuality and our culture of anti bisexuality suggests to them that the straight box is the one they should fit into. Does saying “I like watching women onscreen, but I wouldn’t go out and have sex with one” mean that you are definitely straight? For me, whatever the reason you’re doing it, surely the fact is that if watching two women having sex arouses you, takes you to a place in which you have erotic thoughts and desires, then you’re aroused by the thought of your own sex.(Do you have to actually have sex with a woman to consider yourself a bisexual woman?) In my mind, that’s still a strong indication that sexuality exists on a continuum, and that what we call ourselves, straight, gay, bi, pan or whatever, we still have the possibility to break free from the constrictions of our language and the boxes it tries to put is in and consider that sex and desire is flexible and more than a little unpredictable.
Since she’s now firmly on the road to superstardom, it seems somewhat criminal that the delightful and enigmatic Ms. Clara Brooks has not yet been approached by either Time Magazine, Playboy or Cosmo for that all revealing interview. Yet since her many adoring fans are simply gagging to know the truth behind the mystery that is Clara, I decided to take the mammoth task upon myself and created the equally unusual Mr.X to do the seemingly impossible task and interview the seemingly uninterviewable.
So, dear reader, love of all things erotic and forbidden — read on and see this incredible personality reveal all in this exclusive interview.
Clara Brooks sits before me alluring, impatient, weaving all manner of dizzying, spellbinding, erotic enchantments on this humble interviewer. Dressed in a tight revealing red dress, she crosses and recrosses her legs seductively. She smiles warmly and leans forward, hugging me intimately rather than the usual aloof shake of the hand. I catch a whiff of her Chanel No.5 and a slight touch of her breast against me makes me feel….
CB: Can we get on with this, this wasn’t quite what I hand in mind?
Mr.X: It’s an honour, Ms.Brooks, to be given such a great opportunity to interview someone so smart and interesting such as yourself. May I just say that as alluring and provocative as I find your fiction, in person you are ten times more intoxicating. I feel as if I have been graced with the presence of a Goddess.
CB: Really, Mr.X, you do exaggerate, I’m just this cheeky little London girl…
Mr.X: I know, but I have to set the scene correctly for the reader. In truth you’re really rather ordinary, it’s a bit of a disappointment really. And frankly, I find your fiction rather cliché…
CB: OK, OK can we get on with the questions please? This is supposed to be a fucking puff piece.
Mr.X: So, how did you get into writing erotica, Clara? Isn’t that a bit of a filthy and disgusting thing for a lady to be doing. Why don’t you stick to Fantasy, Vampires or YA like a good girl?
CB: I’ve tried writing those things — OK not YA – for many years it was my ambition to write poptastic, exciting genre fiction. But my muse really hated me for it and she ckept screaming rude words in my ear at night, like “cunnilingus” and “cocksucker”. I realised that the world didn’t need any more fucking heroes, or if it did, they needed to be literally fucking heroes. I read a wide range of fiction and it occurredd to me that for one reason or another I’ve always been let down by sex in novels, whether it’s a work of porn/erotica or a single sex scene in genre/literary fiction – it’s always boring, That doesn’t gel with real life. Sex is a fundamental – possible the most fundamental – part of our human experience and yet we’re always so coy, dismissive or just plain terrible at expressing it in fiction. So I decided I wanted to attempt to capture sexual experience in its many and interesting forms; arousing, comic, strange, beguiling, terrifying …
Mr X: So you’re not just trying to cash in on the whole 50 Shades thing then?
CB: Well, that too. No, honestly, romance erotica is not my thing and so marketing my work will be as difficult as if 50 Shades had never existed. I want to push boundaries in terms of idea, form and content. I want my readers to feel like they’ve experienced something.
Mr. X: But don’t erotica readers just want to “get off?”
CB: They have my blessing to do that. I’m willing them on. But there’s more than one way to be aroused, and something can excite you erotically and stimulate you intellectually at the same time. I’ve had people – especially guys, for obvious reasons – tell me that they get off on my stories, and I think that’s awesome. If nobody did I’d feel a little sad because I want my writing to arouse people.
Mr.X: So your work is more than just porn? Do you see a big difference between what you write as “erotica” and pornographic jerk-off material?
CB: Honestly, people make such a big deal over that distinction and I’m not sure that I really care for it. I might think of my own writing as “artistic” but I don’t really need someone to invent a label to categorise it as such. “Pornography” for me is material that’s subversive because it pushes the tastes of decency and acceptability in society, that is, the idea of it heralds from a time when “sex” and representations of sex weren’t considered to be decent. Everything has changed now and “porn” just means hardcore sexual content. My writing has hardcore sexual content.
Mr.X: Now for the question that everyone wants the answer to. Do you base your stories on real life experiences, or do you just make them up.
CB: I’ve had so many people ask me this one already. I think that people want to bridge a gap between the concept of Clara on the page and with the Clara they might meet in real life. But I don’t actually answer it, not because I’m coy or care what people think about my sex life, but because my fiction is about blurring the boundaries between what we are, who we are, what society wants us to be, how it defines us and our fantasy-dream-erotic inner worlds.
It seems enough to me to say that writers can only write fiction if they have experience and understanding of the world and writing is a way of expressing their experiences and understanding.
Mr.X: OK that’s getting too deep for me. Before we end up getting personal again do you want to take a moment to plug your first published short fiction, currently languishing at the bottom of the Amazon Sales Ranks, “Proud and Prejudged?
CB: Buy it because it’s awesome. Basically it’s my cross between a fan fiction, erotica and comedy and I think that makes it unique. It’s a story about a girl – Clara, my alter ego – who has a hyperactive sexual imagination, and so when reading Pride and Prejudice she ends up fantasising about fucking Darcy ; that’s what good literature appreciation is, of course. The lines between fantasy and reality become blurred, so there’s a little weirdness, strange encounters and hardcore sex. Read it, it’s some good shit.
Mr,X: Sorry, I don’t have time, I’m reading Dostoyevsky.
Mr.X: Any plans for future works you’d like to tell us about?
CB: Yep, loads of stuff.In the short-term I’ll be writing a sexy semi-sequel to Clara’s Dream, which ahs easily been my most popular flash fiction so far. It’s really going to be fucking hot, so watch out for it. I’m also writing another fabulous comic Clara fiction in which Clara meets Sherlock Holmes. I’m not gonna give anything away, including who fucks who, but there’s a lot of drama, comedy and hardcore threesomes.. I’m also planning a magical novel featuring Clara which is going to be insane and a little wonderful.
Mr.X OK, this is kinda boring. My readers are more interested ion dirty facts about you. Namely, do you masturbate while you write your stories. And is that even possible?
CB: Yes, I do. And I can promise you it’s perfectly possible. It’s not the quickest, most productive way of working, though.
Mr.X: You’re bisexual. So, you like girls? If you kissed one, would you like it?
CB: I’m very into girls. Girls smell of roses.
Mr.X: That’s your Chanel perfume actually, Clara.
CB: I’m a girl.
Mr.X: Good point. Can’t we discuss their breasts and the things you’d like to do to them, though?
CB: Try using your imagination huh? But seriously, LGBT issues are very important to me. That’s half of what my blog is about.
Mr.X: You also label yourself as a feminist. Isn’t that a bit PC for this day and age? Do you want people to see you as militant?
CB: I don’t see it as militant or too “PC” at all. I just happen to think that there’s a power imbalance in the world that’s developed over time and that we should all work together – men and women – to redress that imbalance. It’s just a way of saying that I think it’s important to see women as important as men, and that women have the right to express themselves and be the people they want to be.
Mr.X: What are your major literary influences. You claim to love books and movies. Which ones are your favourites?
CB: I’ve had lots of influences over the years and I try not to be a slave to any particular style. I read a lot of classics and am into women’s writing, my favourites are Jane Austen, George Eliot and Virginia Woolf. I love Dickens, of course. I’m also a big sci-fi/fantasy fan and I love Lord of the Rings, Asimov’s Foundation, A Song of Ice and Fire, Robert E Howard’s Conan books, Gene Wolfe … the list goes on. I’m a huge Joss Whedon fan, so Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I love graphic novels too – Alan Moore’s Lost Girls was one of the workd that inspired me into thinking that Erotica could be pretty cool.
I could spend all night listing movie influences. David Lynch is probably my biggest. And Kieslowski’s Three Colours. But really I love anything from Classic to Modern Hollywood, to art house, to Hammer Horror. I love Star Wars, of course.
Mr.X : What’s your ideal fantasy threesome.
CB: I could easily have said Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, but this morning I realised that Kurt Cobain and Courtenay Love would have been damn hot. I fancy most celebrities, this won’t be a problem for me. Natalie Portman, Scarlet Johannson, Johnny Depp, Michael Fassbender… you get the idea, I could do this all day.
Mr.X: Finally, any tips for aspiring writers?
CB: Work harder than I do. Don’t masturbate while you are writing.
Mr.X: Clara, I’d love to say that this has been a pleasure, but honestly, apart from being able to stare at your overly exposed cleavage for extended periods of time, it’s frankly been a really dull interview with a talen less hack.
CB: I really can’t believe I created a fictional interviewer who insults me and my work. I must have a serious psychosis,
Mr.X : Don’t be so hard on yourself, most authors do. Especially the ones destined to fail.