Sylvia Lowry: Erotica Writer

Smart Sex: How to Screw in a Sub-Sub-Compact Car

Smart and Sexy...

Are smart cars sexy? These blunt, compact 2-seaters are a boon to the environment, and are too squat to resemble anything remotely phallic. Yet, when I purchased mine in 2008, I capriciously licked the hood. Something inexplicable inspired me—perhaps it resembled the deliciously swollen glans of the penis after all.

I have never been much for backseat rutting. It is a mythology borne of the 1950s, I imagine, when the rear space of a DeSoto was equal to a suite in a Red Lion Inn. Contemporary vehicles allow little room for full-on freaking. But, dear reader, I’m always tempted to experiment.

My bon ami and I drove the new Smart car to lunch in Minneapolis’ warehouse district. The day was clear, and my brain and loins were aglow from a vodka martini at the Monte  Carlo. We were parked on a deserted backstreet in the shadow of a looming warehouse. As we entered the cab, and I turned to my companion with great gravitas: “Dear? I’m in the mood to [insert activity] your [insert organ].” I blushed, but that only increased my ardor, and my honey pot (and panties) became sodden from my impulsive grubby talk.

He nodded as I tossed the offending undergarment, now uncomfortable, out the window. There is ample vertical space in the cab, and I straddled my bon ami’s lap, extracting his fleshy implement, now as rigid as the crankshaft of a Maserati Biturbo. Sadly, the cramped space did not allow me to bend down to fellate the stick shift of desire, but I gleefully played with the dear implement. It trembled sweetly, pulsing like a V12.

I looked into his eyes and bravely inserted the valiant pink torpedo. Mmmm. It fit perfectly; the piston slid deliciously into my dripping cylinder as a checkered flag whipped across my horny brain: We were off to the races, and I delivered on my promise to frick the poor bastard into oblivion. 

If the Smart Car’s a rockin’, don’t bother knockin’. Or perhaps do…the show is sublime.

making love in smart

XO

Syl

Spring Has Sprung

Lap it up, tiger!

When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,
  And merry larks are ploughmen’s clocks,
When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,
  And maidens bleach their summer smocks,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men, for thus sings he:
      “Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo!” O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear.

Song, from Act V, Scene 2 of Love’s Labors Lost by William Shakespeare (1598)

Publication Update: Getting "Orgasmic" with Cleis Press

My latest sex bomb on the print world...

I freaking love and respect Rachel Kramer Bussel, erotica editrix supreme. I feel honored that my sodden, sinful tale of retro-rutting, “Old Faithful” will appear in RKB’s Cleis Press anthology “Orgasmic.” It’s an honor, grrrl!

A brief excerpt:

"I reclined on the couch and felt a hard object beneath me. It was a toy robot, abandoned by my nephew John the previous week, and I idly turned its key and watched it sputter across the floor, whirring and shaking wildly, eyes sparkling capriciously. There is something about contemplating the objects of childhood when you’re in a less-than-innocent mood; there is first a maudlin craving for the ease and purity of early days, a cheerful simplicity that leads to more wicked adult impulses with distressing ease. I picked up the toy, which continued to vibrate in my hand, stroking its round metal head as “The Happy Organ” shuddered through the radio in an anxious discharge of sound. I lay back on the couch, turning the key as I thrust my panties downwards, first leaving them stranded at my thighs, then casting them towards to the Hi-fi, nearly striking the jacket of a Chet Baker album. The jazzman stared back at me, fragile and melancholic, the sole witness to my upcoming act of subversion..."

The rest? Alas, feel free to pre-order or proudly bring it to the counter of your local Barnes and Noble this fall; startle the crap out of the poor dude at the cash register.

XO,

Syl