Guy New York is a bestselling erotica author and publisher with more than 25 titles to his name. With two full length novels, numerous short works, and a thousand free stories on his blog Quickies in New York, his books have been widely read and occasionally burned.
You can find all of his books here, as well as on Amazon and Barnes and Noble.
(and excerpt from Disgusting Beautiful Immoral. Read the whole thing in print or e-book here.)
“You were distracted last night, Babygirl. You know I can’t allow that, don’t you? If you’re going to suck Daddy’s cock you’re going to need to concentrate much harder.” I don’t know where it came from, but I was instantly in control in a way that still felt new. I adored her and loved her, and I wanted so many contradictory things at the same time that it hardly made sense. I wanted to punish her, comfort her, fuck her, and watch her get fucked. I wanted to take her over my knee and spank her until she cried, and then I wanted to hold her and wipe away her tears. I wanted to slide inside her and slap her face as we fucked. I wanted everything at once.
“I promise I’ll do better,” she whispered. “I promise, Daddy.”
“Did you like having your little friend lick you?” I asked her, my mind moving quickly in one direction.
“It felt funny,” she said.
“Have you ever done that before, baby? Have you ever had a friend do that to you?”
She nodded – looking down – and I pushed her off me and rolled her onto her back. With more force than I intended to I opened her legs and covered her cunt with one hand. She was breathing quickly, and she was so hot I could feel it against my skin.
“How many times, Little One?” I asked. “How many girls have done that to you?”
“Three or four,” she whispered. I slipped my fingers inside her and she moaned even as she tried to cover her mouth with the back of her hand. I pushed deep inside her, my thumb moving to her clit as she wiggled next to me, little cries of pleasure leaking out of her mouth.
“And how many boys?” I finally asked, unsure if this was a game or not. Had she really hooked up with four girls? And did I want to know the answer to this question too?
“What do you mean, Daddy?” she asked, biting her lip.
“How many boys have you been with? How many cocks have you sucked and how many boys have fucked you?” My voice was louder and more demanding, but my fingers never left her and she pushed down onto them even as she tried to look the other way. “Don’t lie to me, Babygirl. Don’t you dare lie to me.”
“Please, don’t make me say,” she moaned…
Finishing a pint of Guinness at Dempsey’s last night
A few Fridays ago I was out with a group of friends at a bar, laughing, drinking, talking, and presumably having a good time, when I suddenly realized I wasn’t really there. I was surrounded by people I love, but I was so exhausted, so burned out, and so overwhelmed, that what I needed most was to be by myself.
In the weeks since then I’ve decided to actively build alone time into my schedule in a way that is actually fun. It’s not a new idea, but aside from the time I need to clean my apartment, shop for groceries, and drop off my laundry, I need to treat myself like a partner. I need to take myself out, do exactly what I want to do, and find good ways to be on my own that don’t feel like a chore.
I’ve had a few self-dates since then, and while none of them have been incredibly exciting or innovative, they have already made a huge difference. Last night I went home after work, did a little writing, picked up my laundry, and then took myself out. With my laptop in tow, I walked the few blocks over to Dempsey’s on Second Ave and plopped myself down in the back room where the musicians were just setting up for a session. I ordered a beer, something to eat, and opened up the laptop to do some writing.
Sitting alone in a bar is a strange thing. As a man it’s fairly easy to do without getting bothered, and having a laptop makes it even easier, but it’s still not a familiar feeling. The waitresses were friendly, the band was good, and as they dimmed the lights I sat and wrote a new story just the way I wanted it. I drank a few beers, listened to the music and posted a few photos to Instagram.
It was nothing to write home about as far as dates go, but it was exactly what I wanted to do. I moved from being excited to feeling lonely half way through, but all of those emotions passed during the evening. And being by myself I was able to let them come and go, noticing them as much as anything else. By the time I got home I was tired, but I put on some Netflix as I crawled beneath the air conditioned covers.
I have a long list of things to do with myself: kayaking on the Hudson, long walks through Soho, writing in the park, movie marathons, and of course more music. I’m sure new things will come to me as time goes by, but I suspect that more important than the activity is the intention and the follow through. Treating myself as Donna and Tom might say, is fucking important. Giving myself enough time alone when I’m not doing chores is important.
If I start to see myself as a partner, worthy of everything I offer my friends and lovers, I suspect some good changes might occur.
Who knows, I might even learn to like myself a whole lot more.
Last week was full of emotional ups and downs rounded out with cocktails, fireworks and good friends. I had a self-date on Thursday, and I spent about four hours reading The Sun Also Rises at a bar near my apartment. Friday I saw Jaws at the Nighthawk, did some cooking and caught up on some shows. We BBQ’d on the fourth on a loading dock in Brooklyn. There were friends, delicious food, fireworks at night, and of course flowing drinks.
I took a long walk with Piper on Sunday and we invented bars for a story I’m working on. We walked down to Battery Park and back and laughed at ourselves for most of the way.
All in all, it was a wonderful weekend.
I get asked about bars a lot, presumably because I write about them and drink too much (give or take). So, I pulled together a few of the places I’ve been going to recently. They tend to change with the seasons, although a few of these places are consistently on my list.
If you’re looking for a good bar, you could do worse than any of these. Okay, you can’t do worse than Docs. But you can’t do better either.
Click the cover to buy on Amazon ^
“You broke my rules twice just now, Alice.”
It wasn’t a question so I remained silent. He reached one hand up and handed me his glass of scotch. I took it and held it as he watched me. He took my other hand and pulled me towards him, directing my body with his arms. He slowly lay me down across his lap with his glass still in my outstretched arm.
“If you spill anything at all I’ll be rather upset with you, do you understand?”
“Yes, Mr. Richards,” I replied, trying to steady myself.
The first slap came as a complete surprise. In fact, I heard it before I felt it, but the sting it left on my ass spread throughout my entire body. Somehow, I managed not to spill his drink.
“You did want to be punished, didn’t you? You wouldn’t have forgotten the rules otherwise. Isn’t that so, Alice?”
“No, Mr. Richards,” I started to say before his hand came down the second time. Before I could say another word he hit me three more times in exactly the same spot and I cried out. I could feel a fire between my legs as I tried to hold still, and yet as soon as the blows stopped I felt alone. I felt empty and strange, and for a second I wondered if maybe I had upset him enough to stop.
“I mean, yes, Mr. Richards. I needed you to punish me. That’s why I made a mistake.”
His hand was soft and gentle on my skin once more and he touched the tender places where he had struck me. Even the lightest touch sent shivers through my body and brought back the pain of his hand. He moved up and down, and without warning he pushed two fingers inside of me.
“Ohhh,” I screamed out, as he easily entered me. I was wetter than I had ever been before, but I still felt empty inside. I felt like there was a part of me missing and I didn’t know what it was. He pushed his fingers deeply inside of me, and I tried not to squirm on his lap. I tried even harder not to come at his touch.
The finger
This is how it started. With five simple words I’ll never forget: I’m not doing that shit! I had simply reached out my hand, asking to follow her, promising to be lead, never falling behind (unless I needed a better camera angle). The rejection bit hard, like a bike chain on acid washed denim, tearing into my pant legs on a short trip to the deli.
And so, with a tear in my eye, I donned my imaginary fedora and went in search of someone who would love me for the man I will never be.
Wild Turkey 101
It didn’t take long for me to fall in love with this one. She was dark, cold, and strong – and she went down easy. I held on as long as I could, but like all good things in life, I swallowed her too quickly.
The Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster
I thought a jaunt in the country might heal my wounded heart (and ego) and so off I went, quickly finding a blue-green beauty to touch my hot lips. She was a breeze on a hot summer afternoon and a rain storm on a dark night. She was sweet and delicious, and she was from outer space. But alas, all things must pass, and so with my head spinning I fell asleep wondering if love would be there in the morning.
Hot coffee
In the morning she was gone, but I quickly found a new love, who while less intoxicating was invigorating all the same. At first she was bitter, but a splash of cream changed everything, and by the time we had seconds I was in love. Sadly, she grew tired of my frequent trips to the bathroom, and I was once again left to my own devices.
Water on the High Line
As I made my way back to the city, I decided a long stroll down the High Line was just what I needed to heal. But the sun was hot and with sweat on my neck (and everywhere else) I found the tall glass of water I had been looking for.
Blue Gatorade. Obviously.
This time it was me who left. While satisfying and refreshing, I found him a bit boring after a few refills and decided I need something with a bit more flavor. So I hustled downtown for a game of minigolf with this blue beast, only to find that no one was impressed with my mad skills.
Allagash Tripel at the Blind Tiger
And so, once again, with my head hung down I made my way back to the bar where I knew I could always find a friend. I sat back with a smile, reached out my hand, and let out a sigh, knowing that some things just keep getting better. Like beer. When it’s hot out. And the bar is well air conditioned.
So, that was my weekend of love lost and love found. Of whisky drunk and Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters imbibed. So next time you reach out your hand looking for love, remember it’s not what’s on the outside that counts.
It’s simply about who feels good in your hand.
-Guy New York
June, 1015
Guy New York
June, 2015, New York City
Have you ever thought about writing something real? You know, something important?
It’s not usually asked with real malice, but you can bet your sweet ass that I prickle all the same each time someone puts the question to me. I often nod and smile, saying I write all sorts of things, but I try to stick with what I know best, and sex is at the top of the list. Everyone has sex I’ll tell them, or at least most people do. And for so long we’ve left it out of our books, as if it’s not a giant part of the human experience.
But none of that is enough. That borderline polite conversation doesn’t get to the heart of it, and the heart is important. The blood is important. The breath is important.
Erotica is important, yes because sex is a part of the human experience, but of course so is water. We all eat and we all have to sleep too, so why don’t I write about those things instead? What is it about sex that stands out as something in need of examination through fiction?
And the answer is that we’ve perverted the sexual experience in the most traditional sense of the word. We’ve taken a normal part of human existence and loaded it up with so much baggage that the only way to unpack it is through myth, fiction, and dialog. Sure we can write textbooks, but they only give us part of the solution. Educating our minds as to facts is important, but we tell stories for a different reason.
Stories allow us to experience something without having to do it. There’s a great lie that says if we’re exposed to violence or sex through games, films, or novels that we’ll act them out, but in fact these tales have always allowed us to feel things first and then decide how to act. We know what’s it’s like to be burned by hubris without having to fly close to the sun. A textbook can tell you what an orgams is, but it can’t tell you what it feels like. A how-to-film can show you what sex looks like, but it can’t give you the emotional sensations of experiencing it.
But a great novel or a great film can make your heart race and your palms sweat. A good book can pull tears from your eyes and laughter from your chest, the experiences almost as real as if they were happening to you. So when we write about sex, we let ourselves explore our own fantasies in a way that is safe, sane, and consensual before we test drive them with another person. Knowing what a blowjob is is vastly different than experiencing one, and writing and reading give us the chance to work through everything that surrounds it from emotions, to physical sensations and social repercussions.
Erotica isn’t just about the mechanics and it isn’t just about the morality. It lets us explore one of the largest and most complicated aspects of human experience with depth, compassion, and freedom. Dirty books don’t just tell us what a threesome is, they let us know what it feels like to let go and do something risky. Dirty books can let us know how to physically have anal sex, but can also advise us on what it might feel like emotionally, both during the act and also the next day. Through sex we experience love, pain, loss, elation, jealousy, anger, and fear. And if we don’t write about it (and therefore read it), with honesty and in detail, we are simply left with our cultural messages of guilt and shame.
I write erotica because I’ve been told from a young age that sex is dangerous and dirty. I write it because each one of us has been told that our desires and our wants make us broken, and I want to tear that lie apart as brutally and fully as possible. It’s scary to let ourselves go to places we have been told are dark, but if we’re ever going to unpack the baggage, reverse the damage, and emerge healthy and whole on the other side, we have to do it. I write erotica to turn you on and to turn myself on. I write it to explore desires that confuse and upset me, and I write it to fight back against cultural institutions and messaging that tell me those things are wrong. I write erotica to feel, to experience, and to learn.
Most of all, I write erotica to say one thing: you are okay. You are normal. The things you want and the things you desire make you human. And that is a message that most of us could hear as many times a day as it takes for us to believe it.
So pick up a dirty book and remind yourself. Flip through the pages one handed and know it is true. Close your eyes and let whatever comes to mind come as it will. Sexuality, with all of its complexities, is a part of what makes us human and alive.
And that is just as it should be.
“Come here,” he said turning to me. I didn’t pause before walking to them, my hand still on my cock.
“Look at your wife’s cunt stretched around my fat cock. You like that? Do you like seeing me fuck her? She came the second I was inside her. God, she’s fucking tight.”
“Yes,” I moaned, staring at her body in awe. She was, in fact, stretched around him, and he was moving faster and faster, fucking her harder with each thrust.
“God yes.”
She looked at me for a moment, her eyes nearly closed in ecstasy as they fucked, and then she was back on him, staring at him as he slammed into her. She pulled him down for a kiss, and there were tears in her eyes as she came over and over again, moaning his name in between gasps of pleasure.
“I want to come in this pussy,” he growled, his fingers touching her clit and then grabbing the condom at the base. “Let me take this off.”
“Oh god,” she moaned again as she thrust up to meet him. “I can’t. Not this time.”
“He moved faster and faster, and it was clear that he was close to coming.
“How about this ass then?” he said, pushing a finger inside her tight hole.
“Oh fuck, I’ve never done that,” she said. “Just come for me now, please let me feel you. Maybe next time, next time you can take it off.”
“And your ass?” he said, slowing down. He pulled out for a moment and she looked frantic. She looked back and forth between me and him, and there was nothing but lust and need in her eyes.
“Yes, my ass too,” she finally moaned. “Anything you want, just please don’t stop. I want to feel you come.”
“Promise,” he said, “I want to you hear you promise in front of me and your fucking husband.”
“Oh god, anything,” she cried. “I promise, I promise. Next time you can fuck my ass. My husband has never done it. You can have my virgin ass, and next time you can take off the condom and come inside me. I don’t care, I’ll do anything. You can fill me with your come as many times as you want. Oh god, just please don’t stop.”
“Good girl,” he said…
(From my book The Places They Come. Full thing is up on Amazon)
“Do you want to watch us fuck?”
I nodded my head, but the truth is I wasn’t sure. I like watching sometimes, and I like being there, but I have to be in the right frame of mind to really enjoy it.
“I want to try something different,” she said, taking him by the hand and leading us both to the bedroom. “I’ve never had anyone watch like this.”
My curiosity was definitely piqued, and I sat on the foot of the bed while they undressed each other. Their kissing grew more ferocious as he pulled off her top, and she was biting his neck by the time his cock was hard and in her hand. She knelt for just a few minutes, and while it was perfectly nice to see, it wasn’t anything especially new.
“Get on you back,” she said, pushing him on the bed a few seconds later. He lay down and she straddled him, facing me. She waved me closer with one finger as she sat down, and I leaned in closely as she rubbed the head of his cock against her lips. I had forgotten they were fluid bonded, and as I lay down on my stomach I suddenly realized this was indeed not normally how I watch.
They were inches from me, and I stared with wide eye as she pushed down around him. She leaned back, and the mechanics of their fucking took up my whole frame of vision. They both moaned when he was all the way inside her, and I could see everything. The ridge that ran up the outside of his cock was glistening, and the lips of her cunt opened and closed around him as they moved. On occasion she’d sit up just enough for him to pop out and then slowly she’d lower herself back down around him.
Within minutes my nostrils were filled with their sex, and my hands were on her thighs. She looked down as well, and I couldn’t tell if she was still amazed by her own body or if it was my burning eyes on them that did the trick.
“Do you want to taste me?” she asked, her voice thick and slow.
“Yes,” I said, leaning in even closer.
With one hand she pulled him from her and without pause she rubbing him against my lips. I didn’t wait for a bigger invitation before opening my mouth around him and tasting both of them. I gripped the base of his cock as she fucked him once again, and we began an irregular pattern of me taking him into my mouth or sucking her clit while they fucked. Their moans grew louder and faster, but it was almost as if they weren’t there. All that mattered to me was one soaking wet cunt and one ridiculously hard cock.
When she came the whole building heard. She grabbed my hair, pushed down around him, and clenched her thighs and cunt. She swore and she cried, and at the very last minute she pulled my mouth to her clit. I could feel her trembling, him twitching, and suddenly his balls were tightening, and I swear I could watch the come move up the length of his cock until his cries were mixed in with hers.
Each time I touched them at all their skin twitched and their muscles tightened. And when she sat up once more I leaned in and tasted both of their come. First, I licked up the length of his cock as he clenched the sheets in his hands and cried out. Then I opened her swollen cunt with my tongue and taste them there. I licked and sucked, pausing only to stare at their bodies, amazed at how delightfully messy they were.
They were red, purple, and vermillion. Their flesh was engorged with blood, wet with their own fluids, and trembling with the spasms of their coming. All of my senses were filled, and each one said “more” to my nearly useless brain.
“Well, that was different,” he said, as she rolled off him. They kissed for a long while before looking back at me with sheepish grins.
“Thanks for letting me watch,” I said.
“If that’s how you watch, we might have to do it again.”
Thinking about sex is a balancing act, because there is nothing consensual about our biology or upbringing. Walking down the street I listen to the thoughts that go through my head like an old radio picking up foreign sounds. What a great ass, god I’d love to fuck her against that wall I hear myself mutter, instantly followed by, hey, don’t stare too long, you’re going to freak someone out.
For a long time there was a voice that said, what the hell is wrong with you? Why the fuck would you think that? It’s an insidious voice that comes from a place of detachment and a lack of wholeness. We all like to think we’ve tamed our demons, but it’s just not true. Our demons don’t let themselves become domesticated, so instead they feed on our intentions. Trying to exorcise them is just as useless, so while we think they’re changing, in fact we’re simply hiding them deeper within ourselves.
That voice that tells me to fuck everyone I meet is just as much a part of me as the one that wants to tear down rape culture with a machete. The impulse to stare at her tits, to grab his ass when he walks by, and to fantasize about their little sister, is just as much me as the impulse to create safe spaces and institute enthusiastic consent in my personal relationships. And as much as I’d liked to pick and choose, that’s not an option I get. As much as I’d like to hide those demons or ignore them, they are a part of me.
I like to say that I’m more interested in explanations than excuses, and when it comes to sex it’s the damn truth. As a grown man I can control my actions. I won’t follow her two blocks staring at her ass, and I won’t call out to her on the street. I won’t touch her without asking, and I won’t snap pictures of my dick to send to strangers. I won’t push someone to do something they don’t want to do, and I’ll try my hardest not to do things drunk I wouldn’t do sober. But it will be a struggle, because there are parts of me that want to resist it all. Parts that want to yell and scream and parts that want to touch and slap.
Thinking about sex is a balancing act, because we are not made up of politics. We are not stuffed full or reason and we are not pickled in understanding. We are bags of flesh and muscle with more impulses and instincts than we’d like to admit. And we’ve been conditioned to want everything, and to want it now. We’ve been sold a package of instant gratification that includes bodies and sweat as much as it does iPhones and shoes.
I want to wrap my fingers around her neck and kiss those lips until she’s quivering, but I will not ask her name on the street. I can picture her cunt clenching around my cock as I press her against the wall, fucking her from behind, but I will not call out. I will continue to look and continue to want, my demons now old friends instead of pets or enemies, but I will take a deep breath, turn the corner, and I will walk the other way.
And hardest of all, I will not hate the parts of myself that I resist.
