S.A. Harper hails from somewhere south of the Mason-Dixon line and currently lives in a place sadly too far north for a decent oyster po’ boy. Harper’s first erotic story was written in ninth grade and involved an inattentive male graduate student, several maraschino cherries missing from their jar, and a telltale trail of sticky pink running down his girlfriend’s pale white thigh.
There is a slight possibility that Harper isn’t so much an erotica writer as a writer in need of a hearty snack.