Flappers, Jazz and Valentino
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Grab your copy of this fabulous take on twenties erotica
Flappers, Jazz and Valentino - Roaring Twenties Erotica
Is it not enough to lead my son into wild ways without teaching my daughter the tango? - Dona Luisa, The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse
Step back in time to a decade full of glamour, glitz and decadent sin with this collection of erotica set in the Roaring Twenties. With twelve stories, in all shades from romantic and sensual to burning hot, this collection is the perfect appetizer for a night out at the speakeasy. A journalist gets a sexy introduction to the sinful syncopation of jazz music. A three-way tango performance becomes the steamiest ticket in town. The owners of a speakeasy set up a very special audition for their new trumpet boy. All this jazz and more in Flappers, Jazz and Valentino, edited by Jillian Boyd.
A Gals' Gotta Make A Living Somehow by T.G. Haynes
The club itself had got a great reputation. The only trouble was I hadn’t. Given this, my boyfriend had recommended I try a place called The Blue Lagoon; he was sure they’d take me on. Ideally, I wanted to aim a little higher than that, so, first of all, I decided to try the best place in town – the aforementioned Three Hundred Club. Worried that they might have heard of me, I dyed my hair satin blonde and wore a pair of glasses that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a southern school ma’am.
I glanced at my watch. It told me I was running a couple of minutes late and, as it didn’t pay to keep Texas Guinan waiting, I took a deep breath and knocked at the door. No one answered immediately. I was just about to knock again when the door was eased open by a fifteen-stone gorilla who had the look of a cut-price Al Capone about him. Bearing in mind it was only a little after ten in the morning, that was no mean feat. Glancing me up and down he clearly liked what he saw because the semblance of a smile spread across his face.
“You come to see Texas?” he asked.
I nodded.
He closed the door behind me then, with a jerk of his head, said, “Follow me.”
I did so down a long dark corridor that led into the heart of the club. I expected to find the place empty that early in the morning; it wasn’t. A suave, sophisticated gentleman was playing some kind of rhapsody on the piano, which seemed to serve as a wakeup call to a number of patrons who were draped across chairs and tables, clearly having spent the night there. The gorilla led me over to a table where one of the guests was sitting upright, facing away from me. The dinner jacket he was wearing looked like it cost my than my apartment and the trilby resting on his head sure didn’t look like it was an off-the-peg number from Sears and Roebuck. The gorilla grunted something I didn’t quite catch, then ambled off. I figured that the owner of the trilby was the front of house manager. I figured wrong.
The trilby wearer called across to the pianist, “Hey, Georgie, knock it off a minute, will you?”
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