"Jof walked away, content to return to his Master as an idea began to form around the strange encounter. He might not understand it, but he was beginning to think he knew what to do about it."
That would be the last line that I wrote on my WIP this morning before I gave up in frustration and decided shopping with a twelve-yr-old girl would be less torturous.
And yes, in fact, that line is exactly what it appears to be: a desperate, last ditch hope that by telling the character, in writing, that he knew what to do next, even if I have no idea, when I come back, he will actually be able to tell me the answer. It is what you think: me practically begging the character to find the solution to my plot dilemma. I think it's only fair, though, if they are going to continue to do stuff I hadn't anticipated when I started out, they should also be prepared to fix the mess they made of my plot. I don't think I'm being unreasonable.
With this one, in fact, I sort of feel like I'm doing and endless rubik's cube.
(why yes, I am a child of the eighties, why do you ask?) or better yet, some cruel plot god has forced one of those knot puzzles into my hands and told me I have to solve it before I get the next piece of my story. You know the kind, where you have to untie the knot that will free the ring to uncross the sticks so you can lift the lid and release the marble to weight the strings so you can untie the knot.....
You see where I'm going with this?
Yeah. I was always complete crap at those. Who thinks plot god will smite me if I get out my scissors?
I am curious, though. Does anyone else do this sort of thing, where they totally ditch all reason and fully expect that the characters will find the answer when they're not looking? or is that just me?
My
friends, I am here to warn you of a scourge that is overtaking this grand
internet of ours. It slides insidiously into our lives, insinuating itself in
our daily interactions until it's impossible to imagine life without it.
Maybe
you have heard this cautionary tale. You start with a mild curiosity. You've
heard people talking about this pinboard website thing, where you can tack
pictures and crafty idea type things to virtual pinboards. You can put up
anything you desire, from wedding ideas to pics of sexy man-like people (or
girl-like people, or both-like people). You hear it's the bestest ever, but
people tell you not to sign up. Seriously, don't sign up. YOU WILL BECOME
ADDICTED.
Pshaw, you think. I'll just check
it out.
Fourteen
days later, a stack of used frozen dinner containers fall over and you come to
yourself to find you have been hunched over a computer for all of that time.
Unopened mail clogs your letter box. You haven't interacted your family.
Sunlight is a distant memory. But. BUT! YOU MUST PIN ALL THE THINGS!
And
turning again to your computer, you succumb to its irresistible lure.
I
speak with authority, my friends. I am addicted to Pintrest. Hours, hours,
I spend bathed in the glow of my computer, hunting for elusive pictures to pin
to my boards. I must have that picture of a corset for my "Research- Corsets" board. I must pin that movie poster to "Movies/TV".
My, that's a might fine picture of Jon Hamm, I shall pin to "PrettyBoys".
It's
a sickness, and I am ashamed.
However,
there is hope. A band of revolutionaries seek to destroy Pintrest's
stranglehold on us all. I believe they were last seen pinning weapon and
strategy ideas to their board entitled "How to Take Down Pintrest".
...
I
don't think the revolution is going so well.
In
any event, heed my tale of addiction and woe, friends.
Ever curious, Elizabeth, Viscountess Rocksley, has turned her curiosity to
erotic pleasure. Three years a widow, she boldly employs the madame of a
brothel for guidance but never had she expected her education to be conducted
by a coldly handsome peer of the realm.
To
the Earl of Malvern, the erotic tutelage of a skittish widow is little more
than sport, however the woman he teaches is far from the mouse he expects. With
her sly humor and insistent joy, Elizabeth obliterates all his expectations and
he, unwillingly fascinated, can’t prevent his fall.
Each
more intrigued than they are willing to admit, Elizabeth and Malvern embark
upon a tutelage that will challenge them, change them, come to mean everything
to them…until a heartbreaking betrayal threatens to tear them apart forever.
About Cassandra Dean
Cassandra grew up daydreaming, inventing
fantastical worlds and marvelous adventures. Once she learned to read (First
phrase – To the Beach. True story), she was never without a book, reading of
other people’s fantastical worlds and marvelous adventures.
Fairy tales, Famous Fives, fantasies and fancies;
horror stories, gumshoe detectives, science fiction; Cassandra read it all.
Then she discovered Romance and a true passion was born.
So, once upon a time, after making a slight detour
into the world of finance, Cassandra tried her hand at writing. After a brief
foray into horror, she couldn’t discount her true passion. She started to write
Romance and fell deep.
continued from The Virgin Sheikh's Billionaire Baby Part 2. Read it HERE!
**content alert - heavy sex and improbable plot**
“Oh,
boy, this feels so good!” he yelped to himself.
“I
can’t believe this is happening!” himself agreed.
Hands
grasping his balls, he moaned when the girl kneeling on her knees, squeezed the dangling orbs between his legs. “Oh, Markie-Linda,” he moaned.
“How
did you know my name?” she asked, her mouth full of the huge, hard, thrusting
rod of delicious manhood touching the back of her throat.
He swelled even bigger. He got even harder.
Imogene
tapped his shoulder. “Dude, you’re gonna bust if you get any harder or bigger.
Just sayin’.”
Himself
agreed. Dude, she is so right. That would
ruin the mood. And if that happens, you can’t have a ménage and tell Markie-Linda
how rich you are. Right now she has no clue you're loaded, she only wants to have hella sex
with you because she hopes you’ll impregnate her. But don’t worry because she
won’t tell you she’s pregnant. She’ll hide it from you, maybe even tell you it’s
not yours. Then you’ll have to go back to your stormy homeland and be super sad
for awhile before you finally say,’to hell with it!’ and you just have to be
honest with her, tell her you’re really a billionaire typhoon sheikh, and force
her to marry you. She’ll think you’re only doing her a favor and she’ll fight
you and hurt you by telling you she doesn’t love you, even though she already
does, but in reality you’ll be so in love with her, you won’t be able to see
straight for the rest of your entire life!
Joseph
ignored himself’s annoying inner thoughts. Gripping the lovely Markie-Jane by the ears,
he pushed, in and out, in and out, and so on. That was when he felt it. It felt
so good. It felt like, oh hell, why should he even bother to describe it, it
just felt so gooooood! Like when you’re riding in a rollercoaster, up that
first steep hill, up and up, and you know it’s going to be scary and thrilling
when you go over the edge.
“Unh!
Unh!” he hissed.
“That’s
what I’m talkin’ about,” his getting-bigger-and-harder-by-the-minute erection
bobbed against her palate as Markie-Jane agreed lovingly.
Throwing
his head back with a triumphant roar, his rod jerked and hot spurts of liquid shot
up his shaft, up and up, and exploded from the tip. His knees sagging,
Markie-Linda sat back, releasing him with an audible *pop*.
Joseph’s
eyes sought out his remarkable length with reverence. “So that’s what you’re
for.” He petted it with affection.
“Hey, what about me?” Imogene whined cattily. “You’re
supposed to get her pregnant, then marry her so she never has to worry about
money again after her parents died in that fiery car crash when she was in her
freshman year of college and left her broke and unable to support herself or
her siblings!”
Markie-Linda’s
eyes narrowed at the other woman and wailed, “You said you were a baby broker.
I thought he was supposed to impregnate me so you could buy my baby when I had
a bad accident and hit my head and had amnesia and then sell it back to him,
but then tell him I had no memory of either him or the baby, so he could woo me
and make us one big happy family!?”
Joseph
giggled. “Don’t forget rich! You’ll be so rich, you won’t care what I look like, how sexually inexperienced I am, or that I am dragging you back to my stormy homeland, where you’ll be
surrounded by my family who will never accept you as anything but a foreigner
because you aren’t accustomed to our ways!”
Imogene’s
hands clapped with glee. “Someone should write a book about your love story! It
is so unusual, everyone will buy it!”
THE END
Tune in tomorrow for when the Evil Editors sacrifice The Virgin Shiekh's Billionaire Baby on their evil Altar of Reviews!
Markie-Linda
batted her brown-eyed gaze at the man who she wanted to gobble up his whole
body especially the sexy scruff under his chin which she wanted to rub across
her giant, red tipped, sexy breasts which were even now hardening to diamond tips
that could cut glass under her own expensive dress she had shopped for all week
at her favorite store where they always offered her champagne when she shopped
there.
Who
would have guessed she’d meet her future husband tonight and he’d be a virgin.
She wanted him now. Her pointed breasts and shaved folds yearned and ached for his
thrusting penis to take control and dominate her.
“Does
this mean you won’t know how to find my cavern of moist love?” She wanted him
to know how many it meant to her to find her future husband and virgin lover
tonight here in this place.
“Let’s
dance,” she invited throatily. She grabbed his hand with her hand and handed
him over to her handy friend Imogene. “Then we can have a ménage. If you aren’t
afraid, that is.” She fixed him with a demon stare, daring him to back away, to
use his inexperience to fight their overweening desire for his giant cock which
even now wriggled in his pants in an attempt to find its way free from
confinement and bob happily against his belly in the cool air.
He
wrenched his hand away from Imogene who he found terrifying in her thigh high
stockings and thigh high stiletto boots and thigh high skirt and indented
corset. His future wife would never dream of sharing him with the woman with
the bullwhip clutched in her hand…would she?
For
a moment he imagined the dark and sultry Imogene was his future wife, but the
prophesy insisted his wife have blue eyes and her eyes were green. Plus the
bullwhip would leave welts on his thick cock or possibly his tender ass and he
didn’t like that idea one single solitary bit.
“No,
I wouldn’t,” claimed Markie-Linda, snatching him back and cupping his erection
through his tight pants. “She is,” she hissed painfully, “A baby broker and I
owe her a debt.” She was afraid he wouldn’t marry her when he knew what that
debt was, but they had kept their secrets long enough. She rushed back to the
still rotating stool and sat down on it, her parted legs baring her commando
femininity to the soft, cushioned, brown, round upholstered surface. Her pussy
wept with joy. Maybe if she had her stool she didn’t need him. NO. She dropped
her carefully made up face to the bar.
She
knew Imogene waited for her answer impatiently and angrily, her urge to tie
them both up and make them perform overwhelming her good sense. She fought
vainly and with valor, but decided she wanted it all and more. “Hurry up and do
it!” she chirped, enraged. “I can’t wait all week.” The stilettos made her legs
look hella sexy, but they pinched.
“What
is this all about,” Joseph demanded commandingly. “Are we or are we not going
to dance some more?”
“We
haven’t danced at all,” Markie-Lynn pointed out helpfully. “But now we need to
go to my apartment upstairs and get started.” She started for the door, her rounded
fanny twitching to and fro with her happy gait. He followed her closely, his
eyes on her ass, and she grinned proudly at his heated attention. The elevator
doors admitted the three of them and she waited for Joseph, with his swarthy
good looks, to comment on the other woman’s presence in the elevator with them.
The
doors closed on them and they were whisked away to her penthouse suite by the
elevator.
She waited for the elevator door to open,
walked out into the hallway, turned to the right, walked down the corridor,
stopped at her door, fished in her purse for her key, pulled it out carefully,
slipped the key into the lock, unlocked the door, turned the handle, pushed the
door open, and walked inside her home, admiring the décor while the others
followed, exchanging looks, their eyes boring holes in her back.
The
luxury apartment she earned by providing favors for Imogene and their ilk.
Until now, her luscious body had been enough, but now they made a scary demand
that could only be met by tapping the erotic potential of her future husband.
She
spun on all her heels, completely around three times and dropped to her knees
in front of him. Yanking down his zipper she tugged his satiny penis from the
confines of his oh-so-sexy plaid pants and wrapped her lips around it, being
sure to nuzzle his balls on the way. The enticing scent of his sweaty musk
filled her lungs and she sighed in excstasy and orgasmed. Things were looking
up…or going down.
If…he
could be convinced or coerced to put his back into the job. A shame he was
poor…if only… he were a secret sheik. Or a typhoon. Or a billionaire…or maybe
all three!!!!!?
Look!
There’s a disco ball in this room too! The cascading sparkles circled
artistically over the mushroom head of his giant penis, and she bobbed her head
down, taking him all the way down her throat, the delicious salty taste just
like the ocean in spring when she was on vacation with her friend Suzie.
Those Evil Editors are at it again (that's us). We've noticed the books that sell the very best have something in common: or should we say a limited and select list of vocabulary words to choose from in the title:
...you know exactly what we're talking about. Throw those bad boys in a box, give a good shake, pick out a handful, add a nekkid chest and a six-pack cover (the cover heroine is optional, we don't buy books to read about the chick anyway, right?) and voila! Instant bestseller. Don't worry about what's between the front and back cover. You've found the keys to the royalties kingdom. It's all in the name!
On that note, here's Part I of our bestselling super short story, complete with evil writing mistakes that we love to giggle over. Disclaimer: if you don't see the problems, we'll be happy to point them out to you when The Virgin Sheikh's Billionaire Baby gets an evil review on Thursday. We're just as mean to ourselves.
The Virgin Sheikh's Billionaire Baby
Joseph
wrinkled his nose, his eyes widening at the beautiful woman across the bar as
he sat down on the barstool, ordered a drink and took a sip. It was a delicious
concoction, he told himself. He watched her over the rim of the succulent
fluid.
“She’s
so lovely,” he muttered with a low groan of desire. Lust filled his blood to
boiling, creating a storm like the sandstorms in the desert of his stormy
homeland. Now those are storms, he thought to himself. His self agreed
heartily. Nobody knew storms like he and himself.
She
twisted on the rotating stool, swiveling. Her blue eyes wandered around as they caught the light from the round silver disco ball as it hung from the
ceiling and twirled. Her green gaze found his coal black one. His dark stare
penetrated her back.
She
slid down as she stood up. Sauntering over, her elbows rested on top of the bar.
He gulped as her bounteous cleavage emanated from the top of her low-cut,
revealing, leaving-nothing-to-his-or-himself’s-imagination. His thick cock
strained against his designer pants, the plaid pattern changing shape
immensely.
She
grinned, revealing pearly white, shiny, straight teeth. Another storm brewed in
his gut, lashing relentlessly at his whole body, from his head to his toes and everywhere in between. “Hello,
handsome. Buy me a drink?”
Gulping,
his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and lodged in his throat. She made him so hot. He felt so warm. He
thought he was going to pass out from the storm. He sensed turmoil releasing
its mighty force within his entire body, not just part of it. Every part!
Stuttering,
his tongue peeled from the roof so he could speak to this beautiful creature
standing here, tonight, in front of him. “Uh…”
“What’s
the matter, handsome? Cat got your tongue?” She laughed a trilling giggle,
snorting.
Oh, I need to
be honest with her. She needs the truth. I need to just say it! “I’d love to buy you a drink. But I
can’t,” he muttered angrily, it was so disheartening and sad that she needed to
know. But he thought it was the right thing to do! Everyone knows that you have
to be honest when you’re meeting your future wife!
Her
eyes widened prettily and blue. “Why not?” His eyes dropped to that chest. Her huge boobs strained like a baby
filling its diaper, so ripe and plump.
He
wanted to cry. He and himself were so embarrassed and humiliated, his whole entire body quivered now, warring with the desire filling his soul and shooting desire
right here to his huge, plaid manhood all at the same time.
Loudly, he wailed, “I’m a virgin!”
***
Visit us tomorrow to find out what happens to Joseph, himself and the girl with the emanating boobs.
It's that time of life when Lily has begun the eternal (and infernal) question, "Why?" It's enough to drive this parent to duck taping said child's mouth at times. Truly, some of her "whys" seem almost reflexive because at times she asks it when the reason for me telling her to do something is so obvious you'd have to be dead not to know "why." And did I mention that I've answered that same "why" at least twenty million times before. (Yes, that many times. And, no, this is not hyperbole. Grin)
I will give you an example.
It's relatively nice out, but there's still a nip in the air, so I tell her: "Please bring a coat with you."
Lily: "Why?"
Me: "Well, it's a bit chilly out, and you might want it. You don't have to wear it at all, but it's best to be safe."
Lily sticks her arm out the door for three seconds and shrugs. "It's not cold to me. I don't need a coat."
Me: O.o "I didn't ask you if you needed one. I told you to bring one, just in case."
Lily: "Oh. Okay, but I'm not wearing it."
Me: "Fine."
Less than fifteen minutes later, she's wearing the jacket and complaining that it's too cold.
Then there are the other "why" questions that are great, but challenging to answer. Like the one she asked the other night while showering.
Lily: Mommy, why don't lightning and water mix?
Me (trying to figure out how to explain this to her): Well, water is a great conductor of electricity.
She blinks.
Me: Do you know what conductor means?
Lily: Like a train conductor?
Me (You have to love the English language.): No.
And I proceed to try to explain what "to conduct" means in this context and why you don't want to be in a swimming pool during a thunderstorm. Yes, those "why" questions are fun, but, in their own right, they can drive a person batty too.
Of course, there are the awkward "why" questions like: "Why can't I take a shower with Daddy, but I can with you?" That one I usually refer to him. (grin) Or "Why do boys have an outie and girls have an innie?" (Note to self: pick up a good sex ed book from the library. Grin)
So, now, I am bogged down with "why." Seriously? Why me? (grin)
The other day at the pool (yes, I do spend a lot of time
there), I was talking to a couple of women that I swim with. We were talking
about our aches and pains. (grin) One will be going to nationals in the summer
and was considering competing in a swim meet next Sunday. (I would, but, alas,
my daughter has some birthday parties to go to.) The last time she swam in this
meet, she hurt her back. She doesn’t know how, but it happened. (When you hit a
certain age, which, apparently, is fairly young, these things start to happen. grin)
I, on the other hand, hurt my shoulder swimming on
Wednesday. Well, really, it’s accumulative. I’ve been out enough that I am out
of shape, compared to what I usually am anyway. Yet, everyone in my lane still
sees me as being faster than they are. So, every time I move to the back, they push me to
the front. At which point, I feel that I have to swim faster so I push harder.
Except my body isn’t ready to swim faster. And to make this happen, I adjust my
stroke and hurt my shoulder. I am swimming in the slow lane for the next couple of weeks, but I digress.
As I listened to us discuss our injuries, my mind
churned with ideas of how to make our lives seem more… exciting. When someone
asks, “Why can’t you stand up straight?” Instead of saying, “I hurt it picking
up my screaming child who threw a tantrum in the middle of the store,” you look
around as if making sure no one else is listening and whisper, “Well, my
husband and I were having some fun the other night, and the bed broke.” (Giggle
here.) “It’s the most fun we’ve had in a long time.”
Or instead of “I hurt my shoulder swimming,” I could tell
them, “Charlie and I like BDSM (we don’t, but, hey, it would probably shock
them… or not. I do live in LA, after all. g), and he left me hanging in
handcuffs from the ceiling a little longer than usual.”
HAHAHAHAHA
If someone asks you why you are limping, rather than telling
them that one of your darn kids left their $#*&^* wooden blocks/Matchbox cars in the
hallway and you stepped on them on your way to the bathroom in the middle of
the night, tripped, and proceeded to stub your toe on the doorjamb, you can say,
“I just returned from a trip to South America. I was walking through the jungle
when a jaguar padded out onto the path in front of me. I turned and ran (yes, I
know you’re not supposed to do that, but instincts do take over in these
situations). As I raced through the jungle, I tripped on a root and fell into
the arms of a native who looked, and sounded, an awful like Indiana Jones. ‘Hang
on,’ he said. I wrapped my arms around him, and he quickly pulled us up a vine
and out of the reach of the jaguar.”
Not believable? Ah, well, I got a little carried away, but
writers do that sometimes. (g)
Your legs are sore from working out for the first time in… well,
we won’t go there. You’re gimping a little bit. Rather than tell your friends
about your workout woes, you say, “It’s the wildest thing. I was driving home
from the store the other day. This car swerved across the road, rolled, and
pinned a man under it. Without thinking, I stopped my car and… well,” you
pause, “things are a little fuzzy after this, but apparently, I picked the car
up, and they were able to pull the person free. As I said, I don’t really
remember that part. As I haven’t done anything else that would cause my legs to
ache, I have to assume this is the reason.”
HAHAHAHAHAHA
Okay. I’ve gotten a little over the top, but it is fun to imagine,
if just for a little bit, a life with a bit more adventure like what I write, and read, about in books. Perhaps you can add some scenarios to aid in making your/my life seem more exciting. The wilder, the better, I say. :)
Finding your inner
strength only happens in the face of adversity. And time. When I was younger,
like most people I blew off some of life's let-downs and heartaches with a
flick of my wrist. I had so many thrills early in my career I became jaded. And
now, I find the hourglass of life less than half-full and I don't take much for
granted any more. Don't get me wrong. I still eagerly await 3-day weekends, and
the end to laundry every Monday. But I know some things only happen once, even
if life is moving at high-speed.
Lately, it
seems I've had to let go of a lot of things. Father Time arrived and gave the
nod. The choice was made for me. I learned long ago, I cannot be happy in the
present, or enjoy the future when my sites are always set on the past.
Over the
winter and spring, I've been getting our eldest ready to graduate. I never
dreamed it could consume so much time and energy (and we won't talk about the
cash part). I've put my writing projects on simmer so I can give him the
attention I feel this transition deserves. Graduation has become so much more
than a cap and gown. It's included getting him enrolled in college, filing his
taxes for the first time, renting a tux for his first (and last) prom, final
musical performances and first-time appearances, registering for the draft,
celebrating his 18th birthday. It's like we boxed up his childhood. He
treats all this with the indifference of youth, just like his mom did. Some is
a rite of passage; some is just a PITA he can't wait to put behind him. In a
few weeks, the skids will be fully greased to set him free. He literally is
marching into his adulthood.
Our other
child's voice is changing. He's already planning his Eagle Scout project and
high adventure camping trip for next year. He's taller than me. He used to play
in the kennel with Jewel, but now she's gone, too. Wow.
Or do I say,
"Ow?" Change comes whether we're ready or not.
I'm not a
masochist, but I am a fan of goodbyes and endings. Those are my rites of
passage. Endings set the stage for wonderful beginnings. I can think of a few
pivotal times in my life when someone needed to say goodbye to me. And they
didn't. And I felt like I didn't matter. It made me determined to break that
cycle in my life no matter how sad it is. For me, tears say, "I love
you."
Life is rich,
isn't it? We all walk these kinds of paths in our own way. Some of us become
bitter, others fearful or discouraged. I hope I never become any of those
things. In my work, I've always said pain is my most useful emotion. It comes
in many forms and dimensions. I'm taking in all these new moments like a
thirsty sponge, cataloging the experiences, the sensations and thoughts. You
can bet the raw emotions will end up in my books disguised as something else,
but still be compelling and memorable. I hope you'll enjoy them.
Krewe Daddy is
the love story of Drew and Luis. It's a book about redemption. People make
mistakes when they misread the situation and emotions get in the way. Or maybe
they're bullheaded. Krewe Daddy is an action-packed, sizzling drama. I hope
you'll enjoy it.
Krewe Daddy by Margie Church
Luis is the
Daddy, a sought-after lover, with an ego to match the mammoth-sized Mardi Gras
floats he designs. His lifestyle and reputation are wearing him out, but Luis
can't find a satisfying way to break the cycle and be happy, too.
Drew's
insecurities pushed him to have a foolish affair six years ago. It destroyed
his relationship with Luis, and he's never been able to commit to anyone since.
Now, he's taken control of his life and changed his submissive personality by
becoming a model for Kevin Marks, and a wildlife enforcement agent in New
Orleans.
These men
haven't forgotten each other, or settled their differences. When they accidentally
meet in a French Quarter gay bar, the years of regret, anger, and pent-up
emotions erupt. Their passion is as hot as ever, their mistrust just as potent.
When Drew's future is in Luis' hands, will he choose his lifestyle or love?
Featuring
Kevin, Teak, and Drew from Hard as Teak.
You know the saying ‘the white elephant in the room,’ but do you know what it means? Albino elephants were considered sacred entities to be treasured and worshipped in ancient Asia. Despite that, their care and upkeep was a tremendous burden, so much so that if a subordinate fell out of favor with a ruler, the poor underling was given a white elephant. The equation spelled financial ruin to the animal’s overseer. Hence, the expression came to describe a mixed blessing—a wonderful possession, of which the trouble of maintaining no one wanted to discuss, let alone ameliorate.
So, anyone want a cougar? Their appeal is admitted through strained comments, yet they are our newest cultural feminine fascination. That makes them the new white elephant. They’re the older woman/younger man dynamic that could actually cast an empowering sexual light on women if media would stop spinning them as Slutsville (pun, Cougar Town).
When I first heard the word ‘cougar’ in this use, I thought, "Older women who date younger men are cougars. Older men who date younger women are men. WTF?" In my writing I like to explore the traits that we consider ‘mature,’ and how they have less to do with chronological age than with life experiences and what we take from them. In other words, in relationship dynamics, maturity relies solely on perception, specifically on the narrator’s view point. Thus, a more appropriate word for ‘mature’ becomes ‘powerful,’ and interpersonally, power is determined not by age, ethnicity, orientation, or even gender, but by perception.
If you can manipulate (that is, write) the perception of who has power in any given dynamic, the audience will always support that dynamic no matter how much it flies in the face of conventional morality. Specifically it begs the question: Who has power and who doesn't?
Culturally speaking, our narrator on teh hawt in relationships is still patriarchal. Thus, our collective perception of people who engage in cougar/May-December relationships is shaped by patriarchal ideals, such as, the male is the authority, the female is the inferior, female sexuality is not relevant, gratification of the male is at the fore, etc.
A lot of people are squicked by older men dating younger women, yet it’s culturally accepted. Why? Because it doesn’t threaten our perception of males holding the power in the dynamic. Inversely, many aren’t at all personally bothered by an older women dating a younger man, yet it’s under constant public scrutiny. Why? Well, for one, because over the last decade it’s been equated to school teachers (female) dating their students (mostly male), which is a wholly inaccurate comparison. The perception of power in this example falls not to older woman/younger man, but to teacher/student, a scenario which never garners conventional support regardless of gender. Nonetheless, this example is the public comparison constantly makes to cougars, but not to older men dating younger women. Again, they’re just men.
Why else are we personally cheering for cougars? Because there are few cultural places where a woman holds the power in any dynamic let alone a core relationship structure, and it’s refreshing for half the population (and a lot of that other half) to have a model that they can on some level relate to. Beyond those reasons, we always have a greater comfort zone in fantastic possibility over a bleak What Is, and frankly, a woman being in power, especially over a man—however removed from real, day-to-day society it may be—still holds allure to a fuck load of men and women.
Why the symbolism of a cougar? Why is an empowered older women symbolized as a predatory animal? My guess is to heap disdain on top of disempowerment. Women have historically been considered wild, irrational creatures in need of taming, subjugation. If we don’t get them under control, why they can derail a man! Consider the accepted model of the aging woman: Maiden (uncultured simpleton, not exactly flattering), Mother (baby-maker—patriarchal stereotype), and Crone. What do you think of when you hear the word “Crone?” An old androgynous being with little use or influence? A wise resource on Nature, Life, and Beyond? While one’s at least a little more flattering than the other, neither contains a shred of sexuality, which for our modern narrative means neither contains power.
From a totemistic standpoint cougars are about streamlining one’s power into one’s desires. They are masters at culling out where their true power lies and not settling for a lesser path. I’m thinking the coiners of modern lingo didn’t have that in mind at the point of word choice, though.
In that light, I guess ‘cougars’ are a challenge to The Man. They are a potentially wonderful thing that the overculture doesn’t want to discuss or nurture. Because if it did, it would have to actually acknowledge a positive component to feminine sexuality, something heretofore seen as threatening and collectively unsanctioned.
If it is only in fantasy that we can suspend such rote ideologies and create one where age difference doesn't carry a disparity in power, I say let it be. And just maybe that’s a reality we can through fiction eventually create.
Because gods forbid a foxy young maid could hold power over an older man…
What do you think of my take on the perception of power in Gigolo Seduction?
~*~*~*~
As Fierce Dolan is a pen name, I prefer to remain gender-neutral and orientation-free in all open correspondence. Thank you for helping me accomplish this transparency.
Bio
Mezzofiction author, Fierce is imagination shapeshifted as a scribe taunting blank pages and carpal tunnel, neither of which are much use for deadlines. Close allies are impeccable timing and a trusty masseuse. Being a switch I/ENFP doesn't hurt. For kicks Fierce has other personas across several genres, tends to fill in “Other” on surveys without explaining, and chooses the finality of the Japanese Tamagotchi.
In summary: Fierce writes all kind of dirty things that you probably shouldn’t ever read…
About Gigolo Seduction
On Gigolo Seduction…
Long in passion’s service, confident Asif enjoys his life as a thirty-something escort, bringing romance into the lives of metropolitan socialite cougars. Gifted at seducing wealthy white MILFs and bringing them endless pleasure, the arrogant Persian eschews investing in a personal life. A chance meeting with young artist, Cass, while on the job at a gala event, changes his perspective on women forever, and unleashes desires Asif never knew he had.
From Gigolo Seduction…
“Are your works always so intricate?”
She shakes her head, again scanning the tower, though my eyes stay on her. “Frescoes are always detailed and hard work, but this is way above and beyond. Layering in kinetic elements to give moving light and dimensional depth is my dream project come true. Most of my projects are just frescoes.”
“Just frescoes.” I laugh. “They’re noble and valiant relics in the art world.”
“They’re actually in high demand.” Her tone is matter-of-fact. “Though few people can afford them.”
“Well, you’ve outdone yourself here,” I affirm. Her smile is sincere, her pride evident, elegant, enchanting.
“It’s taken quite a long time to come together, and I’ve left the plasterer more than a little frustrated on several occasions.”
“I can’t imagine him staying angry for long….”
“They’ve given me deep creative license over the project, so that’s saved my ass a couple of times. It’s kind of mind-blowing to work on something so limitlessly funded.”
Our eyes lock for mere seconds and the silence is disturbing. “I was just going for a bite to eat. Would you care to join me?”
Cass nods. “I’d like to, but I need to finish this section. This medium doesn’t wait well.”
She’s genuinely interested and I want her to be. I want her to be as affected as I am. Before I can prod further she asks, “Maybe another time?”
Reluctantly, I follow her to the elevator. She opens it with a pass card attached to a cord coiled on the drawstring of her pants. My eyes linger on the brilliant green gem in her navel.
“What’s your name?”
“Asif,” I reply without hesitating. The sound is bare, like a secret revealed, though I don’t understand why. I always use my real name.
“Another time, Asif.”
The doors slide closed, and I agree.
~*~*~*~
Enjoy Gigolo Seduction along with the Reader’s Guide.
~*~*~*~
Trailer
Website(s)
Experiments in Mezzofiction http://www.fiercedolan.com
Blog
Writing Utopia, One Word at a Time http://www.fiercedolan.com/blog
Social Media Links Facebook@FierceDolanGoogle+GoodreadsAmazon
SEO keywords: Fierce Dolan, Decadent Publishing, Gigolo Seduction, erotica, BDSM, interracial romance, Reader’s Guide, cougar romance, totemism, white elephant
META summary: If you can manipulate (that is, write) the perception of who has power in any given dynamic, the audience will always support that dynamic no matter how much it flies in the face of conventional morality.
I’ll never forget when I was about eighteen and I swam out
into the area of the lake where the li’l kids couldn’t reach. I passed a couple
in their early twenties who were doing the deed. It disgusted me and disturbed
me. Eew! It’s bad enough when people whiz in the water but sex?
I’ve heard about people doing the dirty dance in hallways,
the backseats of cars and the bed of pickups. There’s countless stories about
the bathroom of jets for those who joined the Mile-High Club. I’ve heard about
couples shagging in the surf or in their parents’ bed–another EEW!—and there
are many tales about boinking on the hood of a car or in haylofts.
Call me old fashioned but I prefer a soft bed. Here’s why…
Hayloft – poked in the ass with hay, allergies go rampant,
and there are rodents and bees/wasps in the barn. If you have ample booty, the last thing you want is to be stung and have more swelling.
Hood of car – that car better be parked in the shade because
I’m not frying my buns for anyone. And digging a spatula out of your purse is not very romantic.
Parents’ bed – Seriously? Again, eew!
The bathroom in a jet – no discussion there because it would
take a fifth of Jack and a Valium to get me on board anything that flies higher
than a piñata.
In a lake – not gonna happen because I’m more concerned
about what’s in the water that I can’t see. Seriously, vagina dentata is nothing in comparison to finding a snapping turtle on the end of his pecker.
In the ocean surf – honestly, what woman wants sand stuck in
her hoo haw? It's bad enough when you spend the day on the beach to relax let along having it stuffed up there. Finding sand in your panties three weeks later is mortifying. And with my luck, I’d roll over on a jellyfish or stare eye to eye
with a very hungry Orca or shark.
Din-din anyone?
Consider Olivia of Making Love in the Rain. She can't help herself when she meets Ben. Love can make us do some crazy things we wouldn't ordinarily do, but when she gets caught scratching an itch in the elevator with Ben, the repercussions are surprising.
Nope, safe sex takes on a whole new meaning when you consider what’s out there beyond the bedroom.
Want to know more about this H.O.T. 10K novelette? Here are some links:
Do you ever wonder why a super-high percentage of all sex
scenes in erotic romance always seem perfect? The mood is perfect, the man's and woman's physiques are perfect, the candles are perfect, the dinner before...you guessed it...perfect... Seriously, how many sex scenes
have you read where the heroine hollers at the hero to get off her hair or that he's pinching her boob too hard?
Well, if you’ve never read any of my books you’re in for a
surprise. I write those mishap scenes, making fictional sex as real as I can (and yes I've written the super romantic perfect ones, too).
When I talk about sex mishaps I’m not speaking of faulty
raincoats (great code word when kids are around), although that’s definitely
something that will make you scream, “*&%^#@!” when the evidence is
discovered.
I’m talking about those things that take you by surprise
during sex.
One time a metal flash light came down off the headboard and
cracked me on the eyebrow. The next day my entire eye was black and blue.
Another time a spring broke in the bed and jabbed me in the ass. It gave “yee
haw!” a whole new meaning. And one other time the entire bed frame collapsed.
The resulting scream could have cleared a football stadium. The hubby thought
it was hilarious, though.
And if you’re one of those unfortunate women who have
sensitive bodies, a lubricant which heats up may not be the best idea. If it
turns out you’re allergic to such a product, the words “Fire in the hole!” will
echo in your mind forever.
Those are times I look back on with my husband and laugh.
Here is a shortie-short excerpt of a sex mishap for a
Tuesday giggle. This is one of those real-life scenes where a person later looks
back and thinks, “Holy sh**, please tell me I didn’t really do that!”
When I stepped out of the bathroom carrying
all my toiletries, Maureen struggled with putting the television back where it
belonged. Heat flooded my face as I remembered Solomon and me falling
recklessly upon the dresser, his hips thrusting against mine. Luckily, a chain
attached to the back of the TV set had kept it from hitting the floor.
Evidence of our later sessions of wild
lovemaking littered the room. The bedspread and pillows lay on the floor. The
lamp rested on its side on the nightstand, its shade askew. The chair holding
Solomon’s suitcase lay on its side, spilling the case’s contents across the
carpet. My gaze came to rest on the motel room door. A forensics unit would
have a field day analyzing the imprint of my ass on its shiny paint and the
vague outline of the biker’s handprints melted into it.
Maureen glanced at me as she stooped to pick
up the chair and suitcase. She grinned from ear to ear.
“I knew there was sexual tension between you
two, but I had no idea how much!” She laughed.
“What are you talking about?” I asked,
horrified she would say such a thing.
“And you think that I’m a bad girl!” She
stuffed a shirt and a pair of trousers into the suitcase and zipped it shut. “I
sure wish I could find someone who would make me holler like you did.”
Have you ever tried to be sexy and it turned into a
disaster? Maybe you put on platform heels to dance for your significant other,
fell off of them, and crash-landed in front of your partner (no, I haven’t done
that. Don’t need to. I trip on flat ground let alone putting on heels). Once, I
did put on sexy boy briefs, walked past the door, and got them hooked on the
knob nearly ripping them off myself. Not only was it embarrassing, but it hurt,
lol, and yes, the hubby thinks I'm hilarious. I’d like to see Janet Jackson fix a wardrobe malfunction like that!
Here’s one such mishap from my new release, Blood and Lust.
She hated taking
cold baths, but at least the night was warm. Pulling off her boots, she
stripped off her soiled clothing. Snatching up the bundle of ruined clothes,
she strode outside and tossed her breeches and tunic into the sentry fire
burning in the center of the stable yard. Naked, she hurried back to the barn.
Devorah grasped her weapon and dragged it behind her as she ambled to a large
swath of deer hide curtaining off a small area with a large wooden tub. She
propped the blade in the corner and stepped into the round basin, grimacing at
the cold bathwater. Slowly, she settled in it up to her breasts, her nipples
hardening, pussy clenching at the intrusion of frigid liquid. She gasped. If
possible, this would be a short bath. A jar sat on a shelf anchored to the
stable wall. She scooped out a handful of flower-petal soap and worked it into
her long tresses, then slapped more of the scented concoction on a ball of boar
skin stuffed full of coarse moss. Scrubbing her body, she sniffed and wrinkled
her nose at the faint odor of ogre shit still clinging stubbornly to her.
Shuffling in the
barn reached her.
"Mychel,"
she called. "Will you bring me the hard, white soap from the house?"
"'Tis I,
lass," the Dwarf replied. "I told the boy I would tend to the horses.
Your eldest brother sent Mychel to the tavern for a skin of ale."
She sighed. Valhalla
forbid if one of her brothers actually aided her for once. "I shall have
to get it myself, then. Obar will not know where I store the soap."
Water sluiced from
her body as she stood and reached for a heavy bath wrap hanging on a nearby nail.
She wound the material around her form, took one step out of the tub, and
caught her foot in the edge of the bath blanket. Her balance abandoned her. Devorah
pitched forward and fell against the deer-hide curtain. It pulled free of its
nails with loud, startling pops. She landed on her belly, and the air whooshed
out of her lungs. Her wet hair flopped over her face, preventing her from
assessing her predicament. Cool night air kissed her bare ass, which pointed to
the rafters.
"By Thor's
hammer," she hissed as pain from the impact with the hard stable floor seared
her shoulders and knees.
"Lass? Are
you—?"
She pushed herself
up on her hands and shook her hair out of her face.
Sir Hestbone's
dark, mirth-filled gaze swept over her nude body. A huge smile parted his
mustache, and deep laughter rumbled out of him. Quickly, he turned his broad
back to her, shoulders quaking with mirth.
Face afire,
Devorah struggled to her feet. She re-wrapped the blanket around herself and
stomped past the captain of war, who still wrestled to contain his guffaws.
"Are you
well?" he asked between chuckles.
"Well enough,"
she snapped and hurried toward the door.
"Forgive me,
lass, but I have not seen such a grand display—or such a fine backside—in a
long time."
Heat flaming in
her cheeks, she rushed out into the barnyard.
And let’s not forget the broken beds, busted easy chairs, and
rug burn on the ass. However, if you’re lucky, one of these predicaments could
turn into something that heightens the sexiness. Yes, sometimes a mishap can turn into a really sexy moment.
Forever Across the Stars, my Elatia launch book, has such an
episode. Think beautiful spider-silk curtains on light, flexible support poles
and a soft, pillow-covered mattress under it. Then think about two rambunctious
lovers who knock it down on top of themselves, lol. Caught beneath the silky, sparkling curtains as they're entwined... I’d post an excerpt, but it’s
a bit scorching for a blog, lmao.
So, do you have a sex mishap you’re willing to share with us?
Hmm? LOL!
Oh, one more thing! Visit me over at Decadent Publishing's Elatia blog. If you love sci-fi and sci-fi romance, add this blog to your regular love-to-read sites. While you're there, remember to leave a comment on my "Consider This" blog for a chance to win a pretty bracelet! Here's the LINK.
Welcome guest author S.A Garcia to Four Strong Women!
A series of commercials for a fancy phone featuring a
certain familiar fruit icon clog the TV waves. The commercials show people
asking silly questions of the device or, and this is scary, asking the device
to remind them to do things.
Why do so many tech commercials portray the consumer who
purchases the gadget / service / technology as either a tech addict or an
irritating doofus? I don’t understand the context.
Advertising used to promote a message that “this product
makes you cooler and sexier than those sad plebeians swarming around you.” I
don’t know, maybe my cranky old brain doesn’t understand hipster irony. Does
the word hipster still apply? Wait, it did as of 5.6 seconds ago. Sorry, sounds
I am already out of the loop.
No matter, this is my ragged soapbox. A “Hey, kids, get off
my sidewalk!” spirit fills me. I love this moment because I do not have a front
yard and, face it, I can’t tell kids not to walk on the sidewalk. I just smile
and nod at them.
The opposite advertising trend started back, erm, gee, I’m
too old to remember the exact commercial that made me sit and think, “Wait,
they just showed that if I purchase their tech product, I will act moronic. Why
does that make me want to purchase said product?”
Trust me, I can act moronic on my own. I don’t need to
purchase products to help me increase my moron potential.
Let me sort through my mental files for examples. Ah, there,
remember a certain mail-order video game company’s commercials? They showed
people who played bad video games slamming their fists through walls, throwing
TVs off balconies and performing destructive stunts because their video games
sucked. Really? At least the message was more of a “purchase games through us
and you will stop acting violent.” Still, it made me think that people who play
video games need to seek psychiatric attention or at least not live in
apartments with balconies. I feared for everyone below the throw zone.
And yeah, back to those fancy phone commercials. In the
latest one, a young woman asks her phone if she hears rain. Then she asks about
ordering tomato soup for delivery. Tomato soup? What? Next she asks the phone
to reminder her to clean up tomorrow because today she wants to dance.
Say what? This commercial tells me a) she’s too clueless to
realize that rain falls outside her window; b) she can’t open a can or
container of tomato soup or, wait, perhaps navigating around a grocery store is
too challenging; c) her memory is shot; d) she has nothing better to do than dance.
Don’t get me started on the other phone commercial which
portrays a young couple merrily driving across the US
sans a map or a clue. “Yeah, we ran out of gas in the middle of nowhere because
oh gee, we forgot to tell our fancy phone to remind us when we needed gas.
Tee-hee, we’re too hipster cute and in big old luuuuv to look at the nasty old
gas gauge.”
Yeah, what the hell, guess I have watched 2001: A
Space Odyssey too many times. The idea of relying on a phone to run a
person’s life is spooky.
Yet if one of the phone commercials shows phone owner Dave
naming the phone Hal, I will feel tickled. Better yet, the commercial needs to
show the phone whispering this to Dave: “Dave, you want me to remind you that
today you will strip naked, paint yourself red and run in circles out in the
park while screaming ‘I am an apple!’ Have a nice day, Dave.”
Now that is a commercial I can appreciate.
Shameless Promo Moment: My next m/m romantic comedy, An Elf for All Centuries, is available for pre-sale at
Silver Publishing.
Elven model Fabion’s day is perfect until wizard Matradorian
kidnaps him. Surprise, Fabion is a spiritual match for elf king Henda’s dead
lover. Only he can save the dying Henda. Fabion controls himself from punching
Matradorian, saves Henda and falls in instant lust with his romantic fantasy.
Fabion realizes his polluted, on the verge of ruin
thirty-ninth century is gone. The Prince pitches the temper tantrum of any
century until he realizes sexy Henda accepts him as his true lover. Being the
virile, handsome Henda’s lover fills Fabion’s emotional gap. The former super
model decides to accept life in the backwards century.
Soon Fabion learns the nineteenth century is more dangerous
than his vanished thirty-ninth century. Who wants to kill him now? And why?
S.A.G’s Bio: I can never decide between red or white wine. The
same goes for my art: creating visual art and word art occupied my professional
life until word art triumphed.
Reading Gordon Merrick at age nineteen sounded a wake-up
call about gay fiction but didn’t encourage me to test the publishing waters. My
stories did not deserve any notice. Running B-Side,
an indie music magazine, helped to develop my dialogue and description skills. While
traveling to interview bands, writing gay romantic fiction percolated in the
background. Thirty years of gay romance lurks in notebooks and the computer. I
just started tapping into my ideas and do not plan to stop.
When not obsessing over unique ways to describe erotic
encounters, I enjoy reading, gardening or more like trying not to kill
everything, traveling, arguing politics and teaching my house bunnies tricks.
Unfortunately, the furry furies refuse to answer e-mails or blog posts. They
also refuse to clean their own litter boxes. Brats. I also enjoy cooking for my
beloved partner because she endures the endless experiments
with grace.
I hope my manic devotion to words and romance connects with
my readers. Is that a sincere enough ending? Drat, the sentiment needs work.
Blame my sloppy muse.
Now for my bio’s promo section:
In 2011 Dreamspinner Press released the romantic fantasy Canes and Scales, the dark comedy To Save A Shining
Soul, sad short Baron’s Last Hunt and the sci-fi
dramedy Divine Devine’s Love Song, although I don’t think
readers know about Divine. My next short novella, “Love in
Focus,” is due in June as part of DPS’s Time is Eternity, anthology.
Silver Publishing unleashed sexy incubus Amando and his
story Temptation of the Incubus in October 2011. Amando
fights with brat Prince Fabion over their sexual ranking in my writing
pantheon. Ah, the boys need their exercise.
