The Lisabet Sarai Interview: "Is there something wrong with me, that I want to be spanked, whipped, or drizzled with hot wax?"

"I don’t necessarily believe that BDSM can ever be completely safe. Excitement comes from walking the edge, so some physical danger is always present."

Lisabet Sarai has published 15 novels, 16 novellas, and over 28 short stories, which take place in places like Bangkok, Thailand; Las Vegas, Nevada; Paris, France; the Rajasthan Empire; and Victorian England. She’s had works published in compilations like Slave Girls and She’s on Top.

In addition to erotica and erotic romances, Lisabet has also published plays, a dissertation, marketing copy, and technical writing. I have yet to read her software specifications, but I can say for certain that her erotica is sexy as sin.

I discovered Lisabet when I read her book Bangkok Noir, a riveting murder mystery featuring femdom and maledom that plays out in the sweaty bars of Patpong, private hotel rooms, and exclusive SM clubs of Thailand’s capital. Next, Lisabet recommended her debut novel, Raw Silk, which weaves a woman’s intense romantic and sexual relationships with three very different men together in front of vivid descriptions of Thai culture and nature.

In March, she published her latest novel, The Slut Does Vegas, in which sexually emancipated MILF Lauren Gordon meets Annie O’Reilly and other wanton denizens of Vegas delivers heat, humor and a surprisingly happy ending. It can be purchased on Amazon and Smashwords.

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As I understand it, you were doing a wide variety of writing before you got into writing romance and erotica. Is that correct? What made you want to get started writing steamy stories?

My career as an erotic author has something in common with the infamous Pauline Réage. Long before I published my first novel, I was penning private erotic fantasies to explore my own desires and to entertain my Master. In some sense Raw Silk, like The Story of O, was meant as an offering to a lover. However, the book also includes sexual scenarios not related to BDSM, derived from my other real-world experiences but transformed and elaborated through imagination.

My move into publishing was almost accidental. In an Istanbul hotel I picked up a used copy of Portia da Costa’s Black Lace classic Gemini Heat. Its sexual diversity, originality and erotic intensity inspired me to create my own submission to the imprint. I sent Black Lace three chapters and my synopsis of Raw Silk on a whim; I never really expected the book to be accepted. Their offer of a contract was a bit terrifying, as I’d never produced anything as long as a novel before. Once I sat down and started writing, however, the passion just poured out of me onto the page.

Have you always been a lover of reading and writing?

As my bio claims, I really have been writing since I learned how to hold a pencil. My parents taught me to read when I was four years old; I’ve never stopped. In addition, they read poetry to my siblings and me, so I acquired an ear for rhythm and rhyme very early. I think I wrote my first poem when I was seven.

During my primary, high school and university years, I produced many angst-ridden poems about my crushes and lovers. I also penned short stories and a couple of plays. I started several novels, but let them languish.

Unlike many writers, I never fantasized about being a published author. I had another career in the world of science and technology that absorbed much of my time and effort. Writing for me has always been something of a luxury—even a guilty pleasure—an outlet for fantasy and creativity and a counterpoint to my real job.

You published your first erotic romance, Raw Silk, in 1999. You’ve been writing romance and erotica for two and a half decades, since before the Kindle was released. You’ve been writing romance and erotica for longer than most of the writers I have interviewed. What have you learned in that time? What changes have you seen?

I could write pages in answer to those questions. Indeed I have, over the years, on my blog Beyond Romance (which has been running uninterrupted since January 2011).

Here is a summary of what I see as the biggest changes:

- The rise of e-books, which gave a boost to erotica because they supported improved privacy for readers;

- The advent of self-publishing, which freed authors from the tyranny of the publishing establishment;

- The explosion of social media and mobile platforms, which suck up readers’ time and compete for their attention. This in turn has fostered a trope-heavy predictability in the erotica and romance genres, as authors try to hook readers before the swipe to the next page.

The years from 1999 through about 2010 were a golden age for erotica. Some exceptional novels and anthologies were published during that era. Literary erotica thrived.

Self-publishing, while liberating for many authors, also sadly diluted the quality. The gate-keepers were gone, which was a boon for those of us who already knew how to write, but basic craft – grammar, structure, continuity – was no longer required to put out a book.

The past five years or so have seen a glut of absolutely terrible books. Indeed, given the availability of AI you do not need even the most basic literary skills to publish. Meanwhile, even highly skilled writers are forced to choose explicit titles and label everything with well-known tropes in order to get readers’ attention. In these days of attention-scarcity, readers apparently need to know right away what they can expect from a book. I find this terribly sad. In my own reading, I value originality and unpredictability very highly. Where’s the fun if you’re not surprised?

This slice-and-dice, everything-up-front trend also hurts authors whose work does not fall neatly into a specific genre. (I’d say this applies to me.) It has always been difficult to publish books that can’t be easily categorized. Well, it’s easy to publish them now, but horribly difficult to sell them.

As for what I’ve learned as an author: well, I write with far more skill now than I did twenty five years ago. I’ve also learned to step outside myself in order to create more diverse characters and situations. Like most first novels, Raw Silk was very personal and contained autobiographical elements. Over the years I’ve branched out to explore other genres, settings, sexual orientations and erotic dynamics.

I find some of the novels of yours that I have read--such as Raw Silk and Bangkok Noir--straddle the genres of romance and erotica? How do you define the distinction between romance and erotica? Have the genres and subgenres become more distinct since the rise of Kindle Direct Publishing?

When the first edition of Raw Silk came out, both the publisher and I labeled it as erotica. Even though the book has romantic elements including a happily ever after ending (you can’t get much more committed than a sub to her master!), it doesn’t fit the mold of traditional romance. Indeed, when I wrote it, I’d never read any popular romance titles. My idea of romance was Wuthering Heights, whose tragic ending actually excludes it from the modern definition.

E-publishing supported the growth of the “formal” romance genre, with its firm rules: committed relationship, happily-ever-after, no “cheating” or other sexual activity outside the relationship. I worked with a romance publisher from 2016 to roughly 2022, and wrote quite a few books sold as romance, but I always struggled with these rules.

The surging popularity of romance, especially erotic romance, made erotica into something of a red-headed step-child. Sex was fine as long as the participants ended up together, but outside exploration most certainly was not. Anyone who has read my work will notice that I’m interested in almost every sort of erotic scenario, including gay, lesbian and ménage. I find it hard to keep a tight rein on my characters, as they are frequently engaged in exploring their desires – desires that may not fit into the neat box of romance.

However, romance has won the day, and erotica has been pushed back into the shadows. Even Black Lace, originally billed as “Erotica for women, written by women”, rebranded itself as a romance publisher. Meanwhile, censorship of anything explicitly erotic has surged. Quite a few of my books have been dropped from platforms like Barnes and Noble and Kobo. The 25^th Anniversary Edition of Raw Silk, which I released last year, is available only through Amazon and Smashwords.

Is it important to establish BDSM scenes as safe and consensual when writing scenes? Does the need to establish consensuality in the writing of a scene ever conflict with the need to build up the excitement?

In the BDSM that I write, and in my personal experience, consent heightens rather than diminishes the erotic impact of a scene. This is because consent establishes the sub’s complicity. You’re a part of the perversion. You cannot pretend that you’re being forced.

Admitting that you actually want to bound or beaten, taken and used, is scary but thrilling. Finally you have found a partner who understands and appreciates your secret, shameful desires, someone who does not judge you for your deviance, but rather, celebrates it. I find that incredibly arousing.

In addition, consent establishes the reality of the dominant’s power and provides evidence of the submissive’s devotion. I might find some of what my Master does to me difficult to endure, but knowing that I please him makes it sweet. Without consent, there is no surrender, which to me is the essence of power exchange.

I don’t necessarily believe that BDSM can ever be completely safe, though. Excitement comes from walking the edge, so some physical danger is always present. The greater risk is emotional, however. In a serious scene, we bare ourselves more completely than in almost any other situation. A careless action, a lack of attention, a misreading of the cues, can cause hurt that will be difficult to heal.

My view of kink and consent doesn’t necessarily align with BDSM fantasies. Sometimes we like to imagine extremes that we’d never enjoy in real life. This includes non-consensual situations, such as being violated and abused. Yes, there’s a thrill to those notions, too. Mostly, though, that’s not what I write or what I enjoy.

When a couple experiences the same kinds of roleplay and BDSM play many times, does it, too, begin to lose its novelty? How can couples keep BDSM play exciting?

This is a question I’ve explored in many of my short stories. I’ve tried to imagine how a long-term, committed BDSM relationship might evolve. Boredom is certainly one direction, but I’m more interested in the other possibility: continually upping the ante and pushing limits. Where would such a relationship end? Would it tip over the edge of sanity and consensuality into the realm of real danger?

I think the answer lies in my conviction that fundamentally kink is not about specific roles, fantasies, toys or techniques, but rather, about the trust and connection between dominant and submissive. As long as this bond is intact, the couple can continue to grow and explore together.

Single-tail whip or cat of nine tails? Which is more fun to have used on yourself?

That’s the wrong question! Or rather, it doesn’t matter—at least not to me. The right mood, the right dominant, can make any activity erotic and any toy exciting and fun.

In any case, if I were to choose, that would be a blatant case of topping from below. What my Master wants is what I want.

There are some scenes in Raw Silk where Kate expresses shame around her desires. Does the culture of shame around women's sexuality make it difficult for women to come to terms with their attraction to kinks and BDSM?

I wouldn’t exactly label Kate’s emotions as shame. It’s more like shock, as she discovers what she’s willing to do, indeed what she wants to do. Sexually, she’s quite a liberated woman. She owns her lust. Still, society tends to condemn BDSM as psychologically unhealthy, so it’s natural that she should feel uncomfortable in recognizing her submissive desires.

I think we kinksters have all asked ourselves: is there something wrong with me, that I want to be spanked or whipped or drizzled with hot candle wax? My answer, after some soul-searching is, not in the least. A BDSM relationship can be nurturing or destructive, like any relationship. I feel that my own experiences with kink have made me more peaceful, more empathic and more creative.

Many submissive men also experience shame related to their desires for submission. Is male shame similar or different from female shame?

One of my convictions, which comes through in much of my fiction, is that there’s a continuum between masculine and feminine, and the most people are not in fact at the extremes. This is one reason, I think, that I can write believable stories with male protagonists. I have some masculine elements in my psyche and can tap into them when needed.

However, femdom does include some additional dynamics that don’t come into play in M/f BDSM. Traditionally, men are supposed to be more powerful than women: stronger, more assertive, more violent. Thus for a man to relinquish his power to a Mistress can feel like an undermining of his masculine identity. This concern gets exaggerated in the “sissy” trope; not only does the man obey, worship and submit to the Mistress, but he actually allows himself to be transformed into a female.

So this aspect can produce a special kind of shame in a submissive man - but also a special level of arousal.

BDSM is sometimes considered a “perversion”. I can’t help noting that it is indeed perverse, but not in the sense that moralists mean. It’s perverse in that the things that most strongly violate the norms are often the most exciting.

Finally, I think that shame itself can add to arousal. It’s all a complicated mix of emotions. The critical aspect, I think, is not to judge oneself, or others.

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