Posts Tagged ‘Shanna Germain’

Interview with Do Not Disturb: Hotel Sex Stories contributor Shanna Germain

March 7, 2009

How did you come up with the idea for your story, “Talking Dirty,” in Do Not Disturb?

I travel a lot, so I’ve stayed in a ton of hotels, all over the board as far as quality and options. I think people have sex in hotels differently than they have sex at home, and I wanted to explore that. So, for this book, I do what I often do when I’m trying to come up with a story–I start with a person, and I say does this person act differently in a hotel from every other person in the world? That question, combined with all the perfectly wrapped bars of soaps and the “never-used” look of items, made me think of a woman with obsessive-compulsive disorder and how a hotel might benefit her.

Were you inspired by any particular hotels?

I’ve been inspired by many hotels over the years, including an ancient crumbling building in Rome, the slightly cheesy W in Chicago, a beautiful open air space in Costa Rica that didn’t have any doors, and more than a handful of hotels where the same group of us have tried to break into the pool at ungodly hours of the morning (to no avail, I might add).

Is there a part of a hotel that you think is the sexiest?

It depends on the hotel. I like lobbies a great deal–all of the things that are about to happen, the secret meetings, the potential for discovery, the people who pass each other like they haven’t just spent the night together but whose lust is evident in their every movement.

What’s been your favorite hotel experience (x-rated or not)?

Susie Bright came to read in Portland, and after her event, a few of us headed back to her room for drinks and homemade ice creams. We talked for hours, all of us in our bare feet.

What do you think a hotel needs to make it a “sexy hotel?”

The right person.

After that, those little details. Most hotels have some kind of fault, but they also have that one great thing. An awesome shower head. Good-smelling lotion. A really high, squishy mattress. A chair that’s perfect to be bent over. Also, I love the fact that someone else makes my bed and I get back after a busy day to find a perfectly fluffed pillow just waiting for me. I find that incredibly sexy.

Is there a specific hotel you’ve stayed in which you recommend, and/or a hotel you want to stay in, and why?

If I had to choose one particular hotel, it would be the Sylvia Beach Hotel on the Oregon Coast. Each room is decorated for an author, so you can stay in the Mark Twain room, visit the ravens in the Edgar Allan Poe room, or try on hats in the Dr. Seuss room. The library, as you might imagine, is to die for, and every meal features a rousing game of Two Truths and a Lie.

What’s next for you?

Oh, a million things. Namely moving to Scotland where I’ll be staying in a tiny flat that is probably going to be a lot like a hotel room only without the maid service. After that, writing, reading, editing, playing, hiking and staying at more castles than hotels, at least for the next six months.

Below is an excerpt from “Talking Dirty” by Shanna Germain. Read the whole story in Do Not Disturb: Hotel Sex Stories.

Cate’s nearly finished washing. It’s in the sound of the water hitting her when she bends down to wash her calves, her ankles, the bottoms of her feet.

“Your turn,” she calls. I step into the shower behind her, stunned as I always am by her body. I see it so rarely anymore. She’s so pale and pink, so pure. Turned away from me, she’s all hips and ass and the small muscles that grace her upper back. She scoots over to let me under the water, and her pink nipples are pointed. Water runs down her skin in rivers, big and small.

She doesn’t touch me, but she watches while I wash. I go the same order—head, chest, belly. Carefully. The order is important. So is the way I hold the soap, the length of time that I rinse. The soap shouldn’t touch any part of the body but my hands.

I lather my hand and run along the length of my hard cock. My teeth ache with how much I want her to touch me. But she just watches this too, her real smile, the one where she doesn’t show any teeth, but instead just the laugh lines of her lips. I wash the rest of me and stack my soap on top of hers.

“All clean,” I say.

She stands a minute, appraising. I stand under the spray and wait. This is the final checkpoint. If we can make it here, we’re good. We’re golden. I hold my breath.
Cate reaches out one finger, wipes it on my arm as though giving me the white glove test.

“Clean,” she says. And she kisses me, uses her lips and tongue. Soapy taste and I wonder if she’s taken to washing her mouth out again. I hope not.

I pull her toward me, not breaking the kiss. I know she hopes that if we do this enough, that if she touches me and I touch her and nothing bad happens, no one dies, then her mind will deem me—me and sex—safe. Clean.

Read the rest of Shanna’s story in Do Not Disturb: Hotel Sex Stories. Find out more about her on her website and blog.


An excerpt from Do Not Disturb: “Talking Dirty”

November 24, 2008

Shanna Germain posted an excerpt from her OCD-themed erotica story (yes, you read that right, and yes, it’s hot, and heartbreaking, all at once) “Talking Dirty” that will appear in Do Not Disturb: Hotel Sex Stories, so I’m going to post that here too:

In the bathroom, I straighten the edges of the bath mat and make sure the toilet paper is still covered in its protective sleeve. I put both bars of mini-soap, safe inside their paper wrapping, on the sill of the tub. The shower is almost all glass, clear and perfect. I turn it on full blast, making sure that the water is just warmer than body temperature. The spray turns the skin of my wrist bright pink.

I dry my hands on the very back of the towel, where she won’t be able to see and make sure the terry cloth hangs perfectly straight. Then I slip back out to where she stands in the hall, shifting from foot to foot, elbows in her palms.

“It’s perfect,” I say. Even if it wasn’t, I would say this. She’s willing to believe for me, to try, as long as I believe. If I show doubts, if I ask if it’s okay, if she’s okay, it starts the mechanism in her head. I think of it as a bomb—once it starts, you can’t stop it until it explodes—but Cate says it’s more like a clock, winding its unstoppable way up until she can’t hear anything but the alarm, the way it screams “cuckoo, cuckoo!” I wish it was a clock, that easy. I’d hire someone to go in there and rework the wires, give that cuckoo bird a little shut-up surgery. But, of course, it doesn’t work like that. The brain, as Cate’s therapist says, is not a simple machine.

Cate smiles, but it’s her nervous smile, the one where she pinches her bottom lip between her teeth. “Okay then,” she says. “Let’s do this. Boom-boom-boom.”

I want to kiss her for trying to make a joke, but it’s too early. I haven’t even washed yet. “Come in to my room,” I say as I pick her up and push the door open with my elbow. She closes her eyes as I carry her through the main room into the bathroom.

“It’s up,” she says. “Come up to my room.” Eyelids squeezed shut, her hands still holding her elbows. This is a tic in the ritual. I hold her there in the bathroom, her balled-up weight against my chest, waiting to see if this will throw us off course. My breath stays tight in my chest; it’s been three weeks since we’ve made love. Last week, one of the mini soaps wasn’t wrapped. Before that, it was something she couldn’t explain, the feeling that something was off. Once, we never even made it to the room—a man touched Cate’s elbow in the elevator on the way up—and I just pushed the L button and we rode back down to the lobby without a word.

Cate inhales—a big sound that pushes her belly out. She pops her cheeks out like a chipmunk and wiggles her lips over her teeth. Holding her breath and counting down from ten. This is something her therapist’s taught her, I think. A way to stop the wind-up. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it just makes her dizzy.

She opens those pale eyes.

“Okay, I’m good,” she says. “Let’s do this.” Oh God. Have I heard more beautiful words? No.

“You’re fucking beautiful,” I say.

“Okay, okay,” she says. “Just get my beautiful ass in the fucking shower.”

I want to laugh, to kiss her again. The therapist says she’d never heard of swearing as a way to cope, but that we are free to use it if it works. Sometimes it works. This time, Cate only shakes a little as I lift her, still clothed, into the shower.