Wednesday, June 13, 2012

WIP Wednesday with Sonja Diane Bandolik

Stopping by from the Shameless Summer Giveaway Hop? Please visit Friday's post HERE for a chance to win free books! 


Erin O'Riordan: Good news! If you've ever wanted to listen to my A Midsummer Night's Dream-inspired erotic short story "Pucked" in audiobook, it's now available on Amazon! You can get Erotica Volume 3: Four Hot New Tales of Desire as an Audible.com download.

I wrote this last night, just for fun. I've decided that I'm going to put my money where my mouth is and read James Jones' trilogy all the way through. I have a copy of From Here to Eternity coming from Better World Books (not only a bookstore, but also a literacy project founded by University of Notre Dame grads). I can get The Thin Red Line and Whistle from the library (oddly enough, they don't have Jones' more well-known first novel). 'Cause me and Mr. James Jones - we got an American literature thing going on.



(I just wanted an excuse to listen to Amy Winehouse, ok?) For a little more background on this free-write, see the Memorial Day pin-up post:


“Private Witt.” I hated to wake him; sleeping, he looked calm and boyish. I needed the bed, so I held him by the shoulder and shook him. The slow way he opened his eyes told me he was still half drunk. “Private Witt, you’re being discharged.”

He jerked out of the grasp I had on his upper arm. “Is it morning yet?” After he spoke, he winced slightly, no doubt remembering the stitches beneath his left eye.

“No,” I whispered. He’d been so drunk when we stitched him up, we hadn’t bothered to undress him. I handed him his boots; he sat up and pulled them on. “Follow me.” I wasn’t sure if he followed me as I walked to the rear of the tent; I turned and caught a glimpse of him in the low light.

When we were outside, I looked him over in the moonlight. “You won’t be able to shave for a few days. I don’t want you undoing my handiwork.”

“So you’re the one who stitched me up.”

“Yeah. I’ll have the head nurse write you a no-shave chit. Before you go back to your company, I could give you something for the pain.” I touched his cheek below the wound. “Does this hurt?”

He clapped his big hand over mine, took my hand from his face and repositioned it on the zipper of his trousers. “My face don’t hurt, nurse, but I got another ache you could take care of for me.”
I drew my hand back. “What kind of a girl do you think I am?” I turned to go inside.

He caught the sleeve of my uniform. “I just think you’re kind, that’s all. Kind, and pretty. I thought maybe I could make you happy for a little while.”

I took his fingers from my sleeve. “I’m one of – what? Maybe twelve American women on this island. If we count the Australians, there are maybe thirty of us – compared to how many G.I.s?” He narrowed his eyes, lost. “My point is, if we nurses did it with every joe who gave us the eye, we’d all have fallen dead from V.D. weeks ago.”

He smiled; his smile was distractingly nice. “You married, Nurse…” He looked at my tag. “...McLaren?”

“Not anymore.”

“He get himself killed?”

“Nothing like that. I divorced him.” I looked Witt straight in the eyes. “He got drunk and hit me. I told him first off, I didn’t care how drunk he got as long as he didn’t hit me. The bastard must have forgot, because he busted my lip. I didn’t give him a chance to do it again.”

I hadn’t said anything funny, but Witt laughed. “I ain’t never hit a woman.”




I turned again to go back inside. The head nurse would wonder where I’d gone. Something stopped me, and I turned back around to see the G.I. standing in the moonlight, a half-drunk smile still plastered to his face. “What would you do?” I asked him.

“Beg pardon?”

I smiled then, at his Southern way of speaking. I didn’t know anybody who talked like him back in Boston. “What would you do, then, if you were drunk and I made you so mad you couldn’t stand me anymore?”

He moved in, closing the space between us, and put his hand in my hair, under my hat. “I’d take you by the ponytail,” he said. His face was so close to mine, our noses almost touched. Starlight sparkled in his pale blue eyes. “I’d take you by the hair and drag you into the bedroom. I’d throw you on the bed, lift up your skirt and rip off your little pink panties. Then I’d fuck you good and hard and I wouldn’t stop until you squealed like a little puppy dog with her tail caught in the car door.”

We were so close now, the moonlight couldn’t shine between us, and I could feel his hardness through our uniforms. I wanted it. I wanted it all so badly, and that smirk on his face told me he knew it, too. “Five minutes,” I heard myself whisper. He cocked his head to the side. I brushed the back of my hand against the front of his trousers. “Five minutes –no more- and just my hand. I don’t want to go home with a bastard baby.”

All at once, he pulled him into him with one hand, kissed me and undid his zipper with the other hand. I broke away from our kiss long enough to spit in my hand. I wrapped my fingers around his shaft, long and hard and ready for my attention. “It’s beautiful,” I whispered. He moaned as I ran my thumb over the tip, and I caught his lips with mine. He tasted like sour whiskey, but I didn’t mind. I kissed him until I felt him shudder and fill my hand with his seed. I pulled my lips away and our eyes met.

“I’m gonna find you again, Nurse McLaren,” he said.

“I’ll be right here. Try not to fall down and cut your face open on a rock again, though.” I stepped back inside, wiping my sticky hand against my hip. The head nurse was really going to have my head on a platter.

“After the war,” he said through the tent flap. “What’s your first name?”

“Mariellen.”

“Mariellen McLaren, after the war – if I’m still alive – I’m gonna find you and marry you.”

“Who said I wanted to get married again?”

“I love you, Mariellen McLaren, and I’m gonna marry you.” Smiling like a fool, he ran off toward his company. He was still half drunk, I told myself, and still under the influence of my fingers; he’d get over it. I doubted he’d remember my name by the time the sun came up.

But I was wrong. 


Sonja Diane BandolikSex Warrior is a journey story that goes behind the scenes, delving into sexual subcultures that are readily available but mostly misunderstood by the mainstream.  The quest began as a serious exploration to find the path to sexual self-actualization for women.  It was in that spirit that Sonja struck out into the sexual arena ready to fight the good fight.  "I learned so much about my world, relationships, & sexuality it made me impatient to discover what else was out there to enrich my experience."  Fear & trepidation gave way to confidant joy; a most pleasant surprise!  The bigger picture that presented itself ultimately made this story a revelation in human sexuality, bridging gender and culture in a celebration of connections.  "I can't wait to share all the details with you!" 


While it may surprise many who know Sonja as a teacher and healer, Sex Warrior is a natural sequel to her first novel.  Surviving is simply a prerequisite for living - it's not the journey - and the best journeys answer questions you didn't think to ask when you first embarked.  The end of Twisted Passage begged the question, "What next?'  The answer turned out to be one wild and surprising ride into foreign territory.

Sex Warrior will be available through PersonalAsItGets.com.

Sonja's first book, Twisted Passage, on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Twisted-Passage-By-Sonja-Bandolik/497108970304


Sonja at Model Mayhem: http://www.modelmayhem.com/2468698



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1 comment:

Erin O'Riordan said...

Hey, I just met you, and I know this is crazy, but I just stitched your face up, so call me, maybe?