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Blithely flinging aside the Victorian
Blithely flinging aside the Victorian manners that kept her disapproving mother corseted, the New Woman of the 1920s puffed cigarettes, snuck gin, hiked her hemlines, danced the Charleston, and necked in roadsters. More important, she earned her own keep, controlled her own destiny, and secured liberties that modern women take for granted. Her newfound freedom heralded a radical change in American culture.
Whisking us from the Alabama country club where Zelda Sayre first caught the eye of F. Scott Fitzgerald to Muncie, Indiana, where would-be flappers begged their mothers for silk stockings, to the Manhattan speakeasies where patrons partied till daybreak, historian Joshua Zeitz brings the era to exhilarating life. This is the story of America’s first sexual revolution, its first merchants of cool, its first celebrities, and its most sparkling advertisement for the right to pursue happiness.
The men and women who made the flapper were a diverse lot.
There was Coco Chanel, the French orphan who redefined the feminine form and silhouette, helping to free women from the torturous corsets and crinolines that had served as tools of social control.
Three thousand miles away, Lois Long, the daughter of a Connecticut clergyman, christened herself “Lipstick” and gave New Yorker readers a thrilling entrée into Manhattan’s extravagant Jazz Age nightlife.
In California, where orange groves gave way to studio lots and fairytale mansions, three of America’s first celebrities—Clara Bow, Colleen Moore, and Louise Brooks, Hollywood’s great flapper triumvirate—fired the imaginations of millions of filmgoers.
Dallas-born fashion artist Gordon Conway and Utah-born cartoonist John Held crafted magazine covers that captured the electricity of the social revolution sweeping the United States.
Bruce Barton and Edward Bernays, pioneers of advertising and public relations, taught big business how to harness the dreams and anxieties of a newly industrial America—and a nation of consumers was born.
Towering above all were Zelda and Scott Fitzgerald, whose swift ascent and spectacular fall embodied the glamour and excess of the era that would come to an abrupt end on Black Tuesday, when the stock market collapsed and rendered the age of abundance and frivolity instantly obsolete.
With its heady cocktail of storytelling and big ideas, Flapper is a dazzling look at the women who launched the first truly modern decade.
Only a few years before becoming a famous silent-film star and an icon of her generation, a fifteen-year-old Louise Brooks leaves Wichita, Kansas, to study with the prestigious Denishawn School of Dancing in New York. Much to her annoyance, she is accompanied by a thirty-six-year-old chaperone, who is neither mother nor friend. Cora Carlisle, a complicated but traditional woman with her own reasons for making the trip, has no idea what she’s in for. Young Louise, already stunningly beautiful and sporting her famous black bob with blunt bangs, is known for her arrogance and her lack of respect for convention. Ultimately, the five weeks they spend together will transform their lives forever.
For Cora, the city holds the promise of discovery that might answer the question at the core of her being, and even as she does her best to watch over Louise in this strange and bustling place she embarks on a mission of her own. And while what she finds isn’t what she anticipated, she is liberated in a way she could not have imagined. Over the course of Cora’s relationship with Louise, her eyes are opened to the promise of the twentieth century and a new understanding of the possibilities for being fully alive.
Drawing on the rich history of the 1920s,’30s, and beyond—from the orphan trains to Prohibition, flappers, and the onset of the Great Depression to the burgeoning movement for equal rights and new opportunities for women—Laura Moriarty’s The Chaperone illustrates how rapidly everything, from fashion and hemlines to values and attitudes, was changing at this time and what a vast difference it all made for Louise Brooks, Cora Carlisle, and others like them.
Vera Abramowitz is determined to leave her gritty childhood behind and live a more exciting life, one that her mother never dreamed of. Bobbing her hair and showing her knees, the lipsticked beauty dazzles, doing the Charleston in nightclubs and earning the nickname “Dollface.”
As the ultimate flapper, Vera captures the attention of two high rollers, a handsome nightclub owner and a sexy gambler. On their arms, she gains entrée into a world filled with bootleg bourbon, wailing jazz, and money to burn. She thinks her biggest problem is choosing between them until the truth comes out. Her two lovers are really mobsters from rival gangs during Chicago’s infamous Beer Wars, a battle Al Capone refuses to lose.
The heady life she’s living is an illusion resting on a bedrock of crime and violence unlike anything the country has ever seen before. When the good times come to an end, Vera becomes entangled in everything from bootlegging to murder. And as men from both gangs fall around her, Vera must put together the pieces of her shattered life, as Chicago hurtles toward one of the most infamous days in its history, the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre.
It Stings So Sweet
They vibrated with incendiary Jazz. They teemed with sexual abandon.The Twenties were roaring and the women—young, open, rebellious, and willing—set the pace and pushed the limits with every man they met…
In the aftermath of a wild, liquor-soaked party, three women from very different social classes are about to live out their forbidden desires.
Society girl, Nora Richardson’s passionate nature has always been a challenge to her ever-patient husband. Now he wants out of the marriage and she has just this one night to win him back. The catch? He wants to punish her for her bad behavior. Nora is offended by her husband’s increasingly depraved demands, but as the night unfolds, she discovers her own true nature and that the line between pain and pleasure is very thin indeed.
Meanwhile, Clara Cartwright, sultry siren of the silent screen, is introduced to a mysterious WWI Flying Ace. If Clara, darling of the scandal sheets, knows anything, it’s men. And she’s known plenty. But none of them push her boundaries like the aviator, who lures her into a ménage with a stranger in a darkened cinema then steals her jaded heart.
Working class girl Sophie O’Brien has more important things on her mind than pleasures of the flesh. But when her playboy boss, the wealthy heir to the Aster family fortune, confronts her with her diary of secret sex fantasies, she could die of shame. To her surprise, he doesn’t fire her; instead, he dares her to re-enact her boldest fantasies and Sophie is utterly seduced.
One party serves as a catalyst of sexual awakening. And in an age when anything goes, three women discover that anything is possible…
The Gin Lovers
Set against the turbulent and glamorous backdrop of Prohibition and the rise of the jazz age, Jamie Brenner’s The Gin Lovers was first published as a six-part e-serial. Now this sensual and romantic story of how one high society woman’s passion and courage lead her to love is available for the first time ever as a complete book.
It’s 1925, and the Victorian era with its confining morals is all but dead. Unfortunately, for New York socialite Charlotte Delacorte, the scandalous flapper revolution is little more than a headline in the tabloids. Living with her rigid and controlling husband William, her Fifth Avenue townhouse is a gilded cage. But when William’s rebellious younger sister, the beautiful and brash Mae, comes to live with them after the death of their mother, Charlotte finds entrée to a world beyond her wildest dreams – and a handsome and mysterious stranger whom she imagines is as confident in the bedroom as he is behind the bar of his forbidden speakeasy.
**To my surprise, the Gin Lovers continues in a series which I can’t wait to get my hands on!
Words flow from that pen now clasped between your teeth. Sweet illicit erotica glides in words of lust. Primal desires,anxiously written.
A starving artist , intoxicated with your craft and your lustful thoughts. The paper is your canvas, painted with all of the explicit cravings in your mind.
Lines are what you write upon , but it’s more than meets the eye. Words actually painting a model in the shape of me. My curves, my peaks, a road map of my body.
Before you , your confessions are etched in your favorite shade of ink . In detail, is what envelops your mind. A river of words, released in blue.
Increasingly , you grow rigid. Your pen drops. The hand once holding it now bound to my head. Tightly tugging a fistful of my flaxen hair. My neck exposed and under your control , your sinful tongue trails as I shiver in need. I receive your tender nibble and succumb to your mouth. Pleasure radiates as a warm breath fills my ear with a ravenous growl.
I sigh and allow you to write your wishes. I pose no objections to your hungering lust. The pen writes “You are mine” with a sweet hunger in my ear.
Art is coming to life as you smell my fragrant depths. Your thickening cock strains against its pink, satin and silky prey.
Your tongue still at work, vigorously fucks circles around mine.
Your hand now etching tantalizing nipples. Hardening against your skin, they cry for pleasure and pain. You grant my mouth a pardon as yours finds the sensitive curvature of my swollen tits. I urge your eagerness on. Lapping and tugging with primal vigor as you test my scale of tenderness. I wince but lustfully invite more pain with my pleasure.
Your cock , still lengthening as your pen marks a warm offering of pre-cum against my writhing body laid on the paper before you.
Reddened and swollen , my velvet throbbing beneath its folds .Pleading and begging , everything aching as my body arches.
Amazing how you fill the lines with coursing blood and ignited nerves. Both hungering for your pulsing cock to take its plunge . To feel and hear your taut , heavy sac smacking against me.
Pushing forward as you desire to fill me. Deeply ending with an explosion , cum drips onto the paper. Thankfully you’ve avoided smears to your freshly written ink. Looking down with unimaginable confusion , you see there are only nine written words. “I want to fuck the hell out of you”. Could it be that you have writer’s block?
My heart pounds with sweet anticipation.
I kiss his chest and move my lips and tongue in illicit traces to the location of my sweet obsession.
This is my haven of desire I long to visit no matter the day or hour.
As my mouth works its way there, my hand reaches just below my destination.
I squirm as I feel the taut flesh there and hear a hissing echo from his lips.
My hand makes it’s trail towards it’s prey and finds the rigid and erect object of my desire and plants it firmly at its base.
Mouth watering, my tongue reaches for all that my mouth loves to devour.
The slick, soft feeling.
A cross between velvet and silk, I lick my prey up and down.
A bead of wetness awaits me and excites me as I feel my own wetness increase.
I circle around this creature of desire.
with a swirl of my tongue before taking my possession between my lips.
I tease it’s perfect ridge before lowering my hollowed cheeks.
Moans of pleasure humming from not just his mouth, but from mine as well.
My hand explores right below once again to the place where my a sweet concoction builds.
I plunge my mouth further down to the root of my desire and rises quickly. Then I repeat with a satisfying suction.
My hand stays firmly planted at the base of this beautiful creation.
My tongue slides over grooves of thick and pounding veins , aware of every motion inside and out of my obsession.
Coursing desires run rampant through my core. His pleasure is mine.
With tricks of my tongue and mouth and my wickedly lust filled hands I aim for defeat.
Defeat isn’t cruelty or some savage sin. It’s a surrender of two dedicated souls bound in passion to please the other.
I feel its hardness growing within in me as I’m overcome by pleasuring this sweet object.
I taste the sweetness purge into my mouth like biting into a truffle and feeling its warm center flow.
Almost instantly I feel my own sticky flow but my attention is only where my object of intention has been sated.
The powerful release of his sweet inner passion pleases my senses and buds on my tongue.
I reach for that area from which his warm flow come, still taunt even with its release.
I keep my mouth planted until its brim has run its course sweetly down my throat.
The pleasure has been mine just as he has had his own desires met.
I love this sweet object of my affection as I lay my head down beside it and wrap my arms around my husband’s waist.
He rubs my hair in loving contentment and appreciation, while usually calling me dirty girl. I’ll wear the crown.
The part he loves the most is my love of his lovestick that I’ve came to adore and desire more lustful than any act.
I love this living gift of life I’ve snuggled up beside.
Here I feel secure, submissive, needed yet I have power over my obsession.
For now I’ll sleep softly in a slumber as his contented self has drifted off with his hand placed around my neck and shoulder.
Tomorrow I will rise to sticky hair and an exchange of smiles between us both. The flaming desire will burn for this again.
Whether he asks or I provoke this maddening need to consume him, I will gladly partake in my desire.