Some updates

I feel like I'm back in the swing!

There will be more Kimmy and Devlin tomorrow; I've been able to write ahead a little, now I just have to edit.

Speaking of editing. I'm releasing a new book tonight/tomorrow. This book was written during the darkest early days of the pandemic and has been sitting unfinished this whole time. Even the cover was done in June and that was when it was supposed to come out. I've been chipping away a little at a time on the editing and it's finally done. It's called 'Confess Your Sins To Hannah.'

The Blurb:  

Hannah Monroe has a theory on why some women cheat.

She cut her teeth writing saucy articles for girls’ magazines and her own racy blog but now she’s a grownup, getting her Master’s in Psychology. Despite the maturity one would expect from a young female writer who turned the male-gaze on its ear, she’s still got her lusty streak. Even though her approach is more academic, she’s got one thing on her mind: size.

Yup, that’s her theory. She crossed the country meeting with women who were willing to confess their sins to her, and each tale has size in common. In this book she offers up three separate stories of women who risked it all for one fling, one night of passion with a man who had something she’d never experienced before.

There’s Jacqueline in Montana who saved a horse by riding a cowboy; Kristy who became obsessed after seeing a young man’s accidental hose reveal; and Cindy who one time at band camp . . . 

Hannah lays it all out there, blemishes and all. What these women did might have been terrible but was it worth it? . . . Hannah intends to find out, crossing the country to meet with these women and talk to them face-to-face, ready to hear their confessions . . . 

And here's Chapter One:

I’d like to think that I need no introduction, but my vainer days are behind me. I am Hannah Monroe, that young upstart founder of the blog wickedsexbook, and award-winning writer for Teen Vixen magazine. You may know me for some of my more widely shared and gregarious articles such as “When is it too long?” or “Hey, ladies, how do we feel about VPL’s?” I’m pretty outspoken. (For the uninitiated, VPL’s are visible penis lines). In that article, which I wrote for Teen Vixen, I surmised, given the current revealing trends in women’s fashion, that men’s should also follow suit. Why shouldn’t we girls also be privy to what attributes a man might be able to present to us? I surmised a time where the fashion of tight pantaloons returned. Harkening back to the painting of Jean-Baptiste Belley, and the incredible bulge down one of his pant legs. Why shouldn’t we girls also know what a man had to offer? Why was it only us wearing tube tops and yoga pants? I tempered with this argument: Were VPL’s just good personal marketing or should we worry they were tools of the patriarchy?

Not exactly my most serious article, but then again, I was nineteen and just getting used to my newfound fame. I was in the first year at college when my homemade blog journaling my adventures as a young woman on campus seeking her sexual identity blew up. The blog went crazy. I wrote a book. I published a picture book with Sparrow House. I went on Jimmy Fallon. Teen Vixen hired me. I was going into my third year at Brown, and I was making six figures a year writing sexy junk for young girls. I did sex toy reviews. Pornographic film reviews. Talked about male porn stars in a mainstream straightforwardness. But my mainstay was always my favorite topic: the penis.

I wasn’t ashamed to talk about penises. Wasn’t ashamed to say how much I enjoyed them. Was curious about them. I divulged what other girls would sensibly keep secret. How I used to fantasize about them. How I would draw pictures of them. How I would peep on unsuspecting boys if I knew they might be changing. And then, more blatantly, when I was older, just straight up asking: “Hey, stud, why don’t you whip it out?” I always thought that was a pretty direct question. It got the result quick. If the guy had something I liked, he would show it to me. If he didn’t, he’d slink away. It was like weeding the garden.

But as time goes by, things often change. Not unsurprising. Slowly, the marketplace morphed. My fanbase grew up, as did I. And Teen Vixen went in a more serious route, looking for journalists writing things that mattered. Like penises don’t matter. I stayed on at TV doing Op Ed, but my weekly column went monthly. Then I resigned. The blog closed up. I was ending my fourth year and looking toward a different future myself. I’d said just about everything I thought to say about men as sexual beings. Turning the male gaze on its ear, looking out through a horny woman’s eyes. What turns a gal on?—click to find out.

But the inspiring feelings, those hormonal urges I had as a young burgeoning woman, didn’t go away. My brain matured. I took the concept more seriously. I did a graduate program. Master’s in psychology. And it was there that I lingered on my topic, becoming quite serious about it. Yes, still talking about penises. What was it that was so alluring? Was it biological? It seemed evolutionary, didn’t it? And then, also, it didn’t. What was so alluring about a man with a large penis? Was he more likely to impregnate me? Was that my human female animal brain talking? Guys with little dicks were getting girls pregnant everywhere. So it wouldn’t be that. Was it the pleasure? I definitely did like the pleasure a large penis brought. But . . . there were some guys with some regular size ones who lit me up pretty good. Was it a symbol of masculinity? A man with a big penis inspired recognition of male dominance, made us want to be more submissive and taken care of. A man with a big penis was a man who could provide. But weren’t men with smaller penises providing every day? What was it in us that made us want them?

Now, look, I know: not all of us. Some of us. That’s what my thesis stated. I won’t divulge my paper, because it’ll blow this book I’m trying to write. Maybe it’s a book, maybe it’s a bunch of articles. Maybe it’s nothing. I don’t know. For now, it’s conjecture and research. I interviewed many women for my thesis and was thrilled to find that I wasn’t alone in my lust for a certain kind of penis. I already knew that, given the comments on my blog and on my TV articles. But what I hadn’t expected was that as a master’s student, and in an educational atmosphere, the women I talked to were forthcoming and candid, and most importantly: offered a level of sincerity to which I was unaccustomed. And it opened my eyes. Opened my eyes, but I still didn’t see. I wanted to know more. So I started my new blog. This one with less campy repartee, no pictures of my teen crush celebrities with their crotches circled. No sports athletes with accidental bulge revelations. This was time for serious talk. Some of my old fan base returned. They were older now, too, and in a different place. Young girls still came, though not in the droves they use to. Times do change.

But what I asked for, I got.

If you’ve ever risked it all, cheated, almost got fired, did something death-defying, all for the sake of a sexual encounter with a man who had a large penis I want to talk to you.

If you check my site, you’ll see that I worded it far more carefully and with much more dignity—but you get the gist.

Over the last year, I’ve emailed and corresponded with women of all ages willing to tell me about that one time with that one guy. You know the one. I think we all have one. I met with some of these women. I met with some of them, and they were amazing women who inspired me, broke my heart, made me angry, made me laugh. We’re all different, but we’re all the same. I still don’t know what I’m going to do with all these stories, but for now I’m collecting them here. I hope you enjoy them.