Really, It's all in her Head

I have come to the conclusion that most men view sex as the cure all for whatever ails you. If you are depressed, have sex. It gets your endorphins going, and it will make you feel better. If you are sick, have sex. It gets the blood pumping, and it will make you feel better. If you've broken your leg, have sex. All of the blood will rush somewhere other than your broken leg, and, for that moment in time, you will feel better. If you are angry, have angry sex. It will make you feel better.

Hm... I think this may work better for men than women. Why? Well, while the blood does rush somewhere else, making it difficult for men to concentrate, women can multitask. It's a blessing...and a curse.

While a man might be able to "forget" most everything when he's having sex, for a woman, it's not so easy. Here's a little scene to illustrate the point (Ladies, correct me if I'm wrong and insert whatever your lover, significant other, husband says to convince you otherwise.):

Man: I'm horny.

Woman: It's not a good night, honey. (What she's really thinking: Touch me, and I might incinerate you.)

Man: What's the matter?

Woman: It's been a bad day. I've got a lot on my mind. (You haven't noticed? I've been in a rotten mood all evening. Yeah, so, um, incineration is looking more likely with each passing breath you take.)

Man: I know what will make you feel better.

He makes some lewd movement that at any other time would make the woman laugh. Not that night. She's in a bad mood. It just irritates her more.

Woman: Tonight it won't.

Man: So why are you so upset?

Woman: Work, school stuff for the kids. You wouldn't believe what the school did today.

Man: Isn't that typical, though? Work and kids school? Both are irritating. Just let it slide. Let's enjoy the evening.

Woman looks at man and sighs: It isn't that easy.

It is to him. He reaches out and rubs her arm, a twinkle in his eye. She sighs again and wonders if he is right, if sex would help...just this once. Well, she knows it probably won't, but decides to try it anyway.

Man is getting all excited. All of his sex buttons are being pushed. Woman is trying, but her mind is whirling with all of the crap that's happened that day. She still has to email her co-worker (the one who's been talking smack behind her back) and get him to cooperate; she has to schedule an appointment with the teacher to see if she can resolve the issue with the kid who's been picking on her kid and somehow stay calm while doing it.

In the meantime, the man is saying, "Oh, baby, yes, that's how you do it."

The woman is silent, but thinking, "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck them all! And if that John (her co-worker) ruins this project to make me look bad, I'll toast him." The anger is building, but not the excitement. She realizes she needs to focus if she's to get any pleasure, but it's hard. She brings her mind to the matter at hand, so to speak, and attempts to silence the voices in her head. They keep popping in and pointing out something else that damn co-worker did, or what she'll say to the teacher when they finally do meet, or how her jeans don't fit like they use to because, you know, if she's going to be in a bad mood, she might as well fuel it some more. She decides again that if she's going to go through the motions, she might as well get something from it.

However, it's not that easy. If the woman manages to quiet the screaming gremlins in her head about all the stupidity that went on that day and actually have an orgasm, she's lucky. It doesn't always happen. And it doesn't usually relieve her angry mood.

So, while sex may seem like the cure all to men, to women, not so much. We are contrary and complex creatures at times. It's just our make up.

I wonder what would happen if women actually said what was on their mind during sex when they weren't into it. Do you think it would kill the mood? (grin) Would the man think twice about asking the woman if he knew what was really going on in her head? (Men, you don't want to know. ;) )

More importantly, whether a woman wants sex with her lover, husband, or significant other when she's depressed, angry, or sick or not rarely has anything to do with how she feels him/her or if she finds him/her sexy. Really, it's all in her head because, sex, to her, is not the cure all. It's enjoyable, it makes her toes curl at times, it can be an expression of her love, but it doesn't cure what ails her. It just doesn't. You'd need to perform a lobotomy to do that, and even then, I don't think it would work. (grin)

These Girls Are Connected

Please welcome Bri Clark.

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Call me vain, conceded, stuck in the Middle Ages whatever but I love my breasts. We go way back to the fourth grade where I'd daily fight with my poor mother about wearing a bra. I'm not talking about a training bra either. I woke up one morning to a B. A B-cup at 10! Shortly after Aunt Flow began her monthly visits. I hate her she can leave anytime.

But not my girls.

Why this post on losing my cleavage? Well once in my life I seriously considered breast reduction surgery. At 5'10 and curvy I'm very well endowed. At that point in my life, I was too heavy up top among other places. After my fourth child, my back really took a beating and the weight that pulled on my shoulders from my chest left indentions in my skin from the straps. My grandmother actually has scarring.

So I researched what breast reduction meant at 23 years old. After a documentary, some before and after pictures and a scheduled then canceled consultation I decided to never have that surgery performed willingly. My mother did eventually get it and was very happy. However, she was herself in her 40's at the time. I won't go into details but I figure spending the first few years hating my chest then finally find a love for it I'm not going to choose to change 'em unless it's a life and death situation. Luckily, I haven't faced that and hope I don't. Instead I endeavored to lose weight by working out and strengthening my back and core.

Now I'll discuss the unforeseen culprit. All my life I've struggled with weight. I'm not thin--a size 10 is my goal. Actually, I feel that my goal to look like a blonde Jessica Rabbit is perfectly reasonable. In fact at the moment my 3 work out buddies are considered boot camp whores 'cause we bounce to each new trial or discounted membership. Thus, we come to the problem.

For 2 years, I have risen with these friends at odarkthirty and walked for one hour 5xs a week roughly, 20 miles a week. Then we started boot camps. Sigh. After pushups, running, core training, blah, blah, blah I have lost 20lbs and 4 inches across my chest. Yep you read correctly 4 inches across my freaking chest!

I'll pause for a moment so you too can mourn those four beautiful inches forever lost.

Pause

OK back to the problem...this wouldn't be so bad if I'd lost it in my middle too. NO! I've only lost an inch (since I've been counting) in my hips and waist. Alas, what to do? Eat the Costco Halloween candy I bought early; gorge on a gallon of ice cream? Which brings me to the ultimate question--I know one of you knows what the answer is--what can I eat that will go straight to my chest?

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If you want to continue to see my battle with my body or to check out the writing and industry, related topics I rant and sass about check me out here. Or you can find me on Facebook or Twitter. Thanks to all you ladies at 4SW for the rant. I love the blog. It is so nice to not be the only sassy mouth in the world.

BIO

Bri Clark is a real example of redemption and renewal. Growing penniless in the South, Bri learned street smarts while caring for her brother in a broken home. She watched her mother work several jobs to care for their small family. Once her brother could fend for himself, Bri moved on to a series of bad choices including leaving school and living on her own. Rebelliousness was a strong understatement to describe those formative years. As a teenager, her wakeup call came from a fight with brass knuckles and a judge that gave her a choice of shaping up or spending time in jail. She took that opportunity and found a way to moved up from the streets. She ended up co-owning an extremely successful construction business. She lived the high life until the real estate crash when she lost everything. She moved west and found herself living with her husband and 4 kids in a 900 square foot apartment. She now fills her time, writing, blogging, leading a group of frugal shoppers and sharing her southern culture. Her unique background gives her writing a raw sensibility. She understands what it takes to overcome life's obstacles. She often tells friends, "I can do poor. I'm good at poor. It's prosperity that I'm not used to." Bri and her husband Chris live in Boise. Bri is known as the Belle of Boise for her true southern accent, bold demeanor and hospitable nature.

Bri boasts several positions in the publishing industry. An author, professional reviewer, blogger, and author platform consultant she enjoys all aspects of her career from the creation of story to the branding and marketing needed to make her books successful.

Her latest book is Glazier, a romantic fantasy adventure novel with espionage, genetic powers, underground bases and a ginger beauty with memory issues that take you on a ride that begins in Vermont and comes to a head in Egypt.

Chocolate Mice

Please help us welcome Larion Wills today.

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Yes, mice can be addicted to chocolate too. How do I know? That's my rant. This week I discovered, to my complete dismay, new tenants, uninvited, had moved in when I decided our guests deserved more than a trundle day bed to sleep in and took advantage of my hunking 200 pound grandson to do the furniture moving for me. Another one of my great ideas; it only cost me an antique kerosene lamp, but that's a separate rant. Our guest room is like I'm sure many of yours are, a general catch all. Whenever I have guests it takes a major cleaning and rearranging. You know the room, if you can't think where else to put it or you want it out of sight in a hurry, put it in there. We haven't had a guest since last Nov making it nearly a year since I'd opened the door to do more than add a box to rapidly growing stacks making the room look like a second hand stores back room. My plan did, however, take me into the nether regions to discover we'd been invaded. First alert: mouse ran across the floor when I opened the door. I'm not a screaming eeker type person, but I did groan. Second: we started moving all those boxes that had stacked up. I'm sure I had a reason for saving all those empty ones, really, and oh, that's where that went. Mouse tu--ummm--can I say that here? Well, their leavings were scattered all over the floor in the corners. Then we took the bed apart and found wrappers from the individual candies, empty, of course, that I'd put out for guests along with more 'leavings' on the under mattress. Yuck. A quick search confirmed, the dishes of chocolate that I hadn't paid too much attention to--not being my favorite brand and held for emergencies only when I run out of ding dongs, (such as a severe snow or rain storm that grounds me when the urge to imbibe hits) were empty. Not only that, the covered dish of M & Ms, the real emergency stash, had the lid off to the side and it was empty. They were stealing my chocolate! This means war.

Out go the poison baits and then the discovery that when you remove a mouse nest, sweep away all the M & Ms they moved to their stash, the little beasts get upset and start running around where they hadn't been running before, like across the living room when you're watching TV. They didn't need to come out before. They had all my chocolate to eat. I also discovered there are some finicky mice that won't eat certain types of bait even when you cover it with chocolate syrup. Yes, I was desperate. Well what else would I use for bait? As well as the poison not seeming to work, I was greatly disappointed in my two dogs, six year old Maltese. They never seemed to notice the new activities, not even when one of the brazen little devils perched on the edge of their water dish for a drink.

Off to the store for a new bait, but there's hope. The same day I put out the new bait, Guy, the larger of the two dogs, saw one. He didn't catch it, but it did put him on the hunt. I watched him for an hour sniffing and scratching at the door the mouse ran under, back to the spare room haven. He gave up, laid down, and out came the mouse. The race is on; he nails it. I'm so proud and then frustrated. He does not kill. Maybe kill isn't in a house dog's forte, but really, throwing it around, pouncing, throwing, and by now Nekko, the smaller dog figured out something is going on. Guy tosses, the mouse runs, they get it trapped behind the water dish. This is a good time to mention that Nekko is nearly blind. Still when the mouse ran out his side, he caught it--and tossed. He couldn't see where it landed and because he tossed, neither could Guy. The mouse ran back under the door. By the time I could get the door open for them to continue the chase, the mouse was, of course, nowhere in sight.

Is that the end of the story? Of course not. Grandson had left, husband wasn't home, and there's only me and the two dogs to deal with a mouse that has a death wish. After an hour of both of them sniffing and pawing at the door--I can't let them in there for the poison out--they lay down, and I swear not two minutes later, out comes the mouse. Do you suppose it needed a chocolate fit? Just stupid? Or maybe the first poison is slow acting and the thing has lost its mind. Whatever, I have to tell you I'm a bit on the squeamish side when it comes to exterminating any living creature, but when Guy nailed it again and Nekko joined him for the let's toss it around party, I couldn't take it anymore. I looked for the nearest easy to wield item that would serve as a weapon before they lost track of it and it dove under the door again. Snatching up a heavy handled screwdriver hubby hadn't put away, I thumped it in the head. Shudder. Shudder. Cringe. Okay, I tell myself, it had to be done. There was no sense torturing the prey. Hopefully the rest will eat the poison and save me the trauma of a quick dispatch, although the dogs did seem to have fun. Mice are cute little things, and I wouldn't mind sharing space with them if they weren't so messy, carried who knows what diseases, and DIDN'T steal my chocolate!

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Larriane AKA Larion Wills, two names one author, thousands of stories.

Blurb

Eighteen and in deep trouble, Chase is given a choice, keep his mouth shut about the beating they gave him and leave town or go to prison for rape. Twelve years later he can’t leave the doubt alone. Was Tiffany pregnant? Discovering Tiffany didn’t lie, at least that time, he returned. Suffering the lengths they went to be rid of him, he knows what they’d do if they saw him. Only wanting to see the boy, from a distance, not cause trouble, he never expected to be allowed anywhere near the child. He gets a startling invitation to stay with disturbing results. Tiffany disappeared years before, both her parents are dead, all three under suspicious circumstances. The lone family survivor, Tiffany’s younger sister, inherited the family fortune and his son. Grateful to Sydney for the care she gives Ryan, fascinated by her, he can’t help seeing something is not right even before he’s told were there enough evidence, she’d be on trial for murder.

Buy

Books by Larion Wills:

• Available at Amazon

Her two latest releases:

• Chase

Links:

• Web site
• Facebook page

Shopping Cart Hit and Run

Where have all the nice people gone? Seriously, what the heck happened to the courteous, polite folks who say ‘excuse me’, ‘pardon moi’, ‘oh, I’m sorry’, and ‘let me get out of your way’?

Saturday I had to go to our local Walmart Super Center for groceries.

{whimper} Already having horrible flashbacks!

Anyway, it was packed in that store! I’m guessing many of the elderly received their SS checks because seniors were half of the crowd. People were racing through the parking lot, looking for someone to run over to get the nearest handicapped spots or next-to-the-door spaces. And don't even get me started on the twits who park wonky, taking up two parking places!

I took my 13-yr-old dau with me. She’s super about helping me gather all the things on the list, scratching them off, and reminding me about items I may’ve forgotten to write on said list. She took the cart from me and followed me throughout the store. We dodged people in the soup aisle, avoided collisions in the coffee-and-spices aisle, and managed to get through the front of the store where all the registers were packed. Why, after all that food shopping, was I going from one side of that huge store to the other? Simple really. Although I was finished with my grocery list, Walmart finds it necessary to put the freaking pet food on the opposite side of the darn building—a building, I might add, that’s the size of a warehouse!

People milled about like ants in an anthill kicked apart by a mean kid. I hate going out in public when it’s crowded like that because A) people are just plain rude, and B) my patience and temper are reeaalllyyy short. If someone is deliberately rude or mean my scathing sarcasm button gets pushed.

So with the dau pushing the buggy behind me, we started our trek across to the opposite side of the store. Dodge. Dodge. Scramble to the left. Jump to the right. Mutter ‘excuse me’ a hundred times only to be blatantly ignored—ignored by people who think it’s perfectly okay to stand in the middle of the aisles blocking traffic because they’re so important.

So once again I encounter another group in the middle of the walkway, people describing someone’s labor and delivery—in detail, I might add!—and I say, “Ahem, excuse us, please." They ignored us. [must not let them push button...must not let them push--damn.] "Ahem. EXCUSE ME!” [startled looks are thrown my way] Oh, lookie there. They moved!

The dau and I pop a wheelie to miss the kid throwing a fit next to a candy display. Ride the cart’s wheels to the left in an attempt to miss the chick who is incapable of walking and texting at the same time (heaven help her if someone gives her some bubble gum, too). Slam on the breaks for the dude who steps out in front of us from a big dolly of items to shelve. Squeal wheels to zigzag around the harried mother who has no idea how to discipline the four screaming brats who resemble ticked off Chimpanzees (look out! They're flinging poo!), and then...then...there’s a break in the crowd! We can get through! The sea of Walmart has parted!

Grab the cart and run like hell!

[insert sound of screeching tires and the aroma of burning rubber]

This very large woman does a burnout to get in front of us with her cart. I never knew anyone that large could move that fast. I halted so abruptly to keep from colliding with her my Sketcher Shape-Ups squealed on the tile. I threw my hand out to stop the dau from running into me with the buggy (still have a sore place on my calf muscle from the son ramming me with the cart in Dollar General). This woman didn’t say excuse me, screw you, or kiss my ass. Oh, no. She nearly creates a ten-buggy pile up to get in front of me so she can walk at a snail’s pace. No, I take that back. She walked so slowly a snail would’ve looked like it had left a trail of slime fire behind it as it blew past her freaking rude rump!

I think I wore the enamel off my teeth as I inched along behind her. I couldn’t get around her either. She went right down the middle of the aisle, an aisle that was jammed with one big display after another of shampoos, perfumes, new makeup displays, etc., so there was very li'l room for anyone to move, let alone if you were pushing a buggy. And it wasn’t just me who was annoyed as heck with her either. Other people waiting to cross the aisle to other corridors couldn’t get through until she passed. It was either step out and have the woman mow them over via steamroller from Slower Than Hell Town or wait fifteen minutes for her pass.

What’s worse is there was nothing wrong with her! She just didn't want to move any faster, period. She's pause and look at this item and that item... I could’ve understood it if she had been handicapped or had a cane, but to rudely rush in front of someone almost mowing over babies and old men with canes just to walk so slowly she almost stood still? It was like that jerk who waits to pull out into traffic, then when you get right up to them, he guns the gas and pulls out in front of you so that you have to stop on a dime. Then the jerk goes 5 mph (and I firmly believe these people are the pioneers of road rage).

I turned around to say something to my dau and she was gone.

Looking farther back, I saw her struggling to get our buggy unhooked from an old woman's electric shopping cart. She had rammed my dau with her cart! I kid you not! She smashed right into my dau, pushed our cart to the side, got our cart hooked on her electric buggy, and then nearly overturned our cart. I couldn't run to help her because Slower Than Hell Town was still in front of me, people choked the alternate routes around her, and there were shoppers behind me, waiting for movement like I was.

When my dau finally caught up to me, she couldn’t believe what happened. I had to laugh a li'l because she was so upset she sounded like a chicken trying to lay an egg. “Mom, she saw me and ran right into me on purpose to get through! She looked right at me and hit me with her cart! And she was an elderly lady! Aren’t elderly people supposed to be nice?”

Apparently, not when it’s SS week.

Cussing the Air Blue

Lately I’ve been having a lot of trouble with my email and Yahoo groups. I also have IE, or Internet Exploder as 4SW Marci calls it. I hate both my email provider and IE. It’s bad enough when IE freezes, but when my email account decides to glitch, refuses to attach files, or just doesn’t connect, I tend to cuss the air blue…and purple, and sometimes I get a lovely rainbow effect when I’m really on a roll.

The other day I couldn’t get into my email account. I figured when I switched to one of my alternate Yahoo emails that I forgot to tick the “stay logged in” button when I returned to my main account. After about twelve attempts to put my password in, the damn thing would NOT let me in. The log-in page kept giving me a message stating I was using the wrong user name and password.

What the hell???

So I thought maybe this was just the company’s way of getting me to change my password. I changed it, wrote it down, and logged in. Worked great. Besides, it’s a good idea to change your passwords once in a while due to hackers out there.

Darn. Forgot to do something in the alternate account. So I logged out and went back into my second most-used email. However, when I returned to my main email, know what happened? You guessed it. The log-in page kept telling me that I was using the wrong user name and password so I had to change my password again!

Later, I remembered I could promo on a particular loop that day, so for the third time, I went back into my alternate account. And for the third time of returning to the main email, it gave me the same damn message.

OMG! Did I ever come unglued! I cussed and ranted. I shouted at the laptop so loudly my cat ran and hid under the kitchen table. I cussed some more, put the laptop on the footstool and glared at the screen until it began to vibrate. Matter of fact, I think I had a coupla rainbows that shot out of my ass, too.

I swear there are times I think my email provider does this to me to piss me off on purpose!

When we were first moving into this house, I had all of my Internet info transferred to this address. My provider, email, everything was switched here and all ready to go, and I was assured nothing would cause any problems.

Wrong.

After we moved in—AFTER—I discover there was no DSL available in this area. Wait. I was assured DSL was in this area! We moved 8 miles closer to the provider’s base, but there is no Internet here???

All we had was phone service and that sucked too.

It took me three months to get it through the company’s collective consciousness that I did not want dial up at almost $30 a month, and that I did not want their expensive-as-hell wireless service either. Three months! Finally, I got so pissed dealing with bone-head reps that I had the landline disconnected and went with my current provider. Although it’s expensive too, it’s not as much as the other and the service is a lot better.

So my original provider allowed me to have my email account without having to pay for it yearly because of all the grief their dumbass reps put me through—not to mention bouncing me from one department to another and another and… The thing is, they’re still sticking it to me through all the email glitches and the loop problems. Why don’t I shift everything over to a new email provider? Simple. I have a minimum of 15 years of contacts, etc., in my email account that deals with my work and publishing in general. The idea of trying to switch all that over to a different email system scares the bejeezus out of me. With my luck I’d lose everything.

However, I’m open to suggestions for a new browser. A good friend of mine suggested Opera. I’ve looked at it but know very li’l about it. I use Chrome on my office machine. And I’ve never had any luck with Firefox, so I don’t really care for it.

Ideas?

***Btw writers and readers, visit me over at Savvy Authors and check out my commentary on how it seems porn fiction has slipped into erotic romances. If nothing else, you'll get a good laugh! Here's the link: http://www.savvyauthors.com/vb/content.php?1505-Boom-Chicka-Wow-Wow-Crude-vs.-Classy-by-Faith-Bicknell-Brown And if you're not a member at Savvy Authors, you can still leave a comment; the mods will just have to approve it, but I will reply to you there once they do.

My Life is Chaos

You think I'm exaggerating, of course. Most people do. I'm not. How else can you explain how a conversation that starts with hubs saying: "Honey, I think it's time to get a cell phone.", and ends with my living room torn apart, me without reliable Internet access for a month and the entire family descending on the old couch tearing it apart one slice of fabric and padding at a time. If not chaos, then what?

Bad star alignment?

Poor luck?

An elaborate practical joke?

I know it's not insufficient planning. Hubs plans everything out precisely. It isn't his fault the universe throws eight year olds, in-laws, and Microsoft operating systems at him willy-nilly.

Each step in the progression from ordering a cell phone to the current state of affairs happened so logically. Get the cell phone. Transfer the land line over, use it as the Internet hotspot for the house and shave fifty bucks off the phone/Internet bill. Logical.

Format the computers first. No sense hooking virus-riddled computers up to this new system. Logical. 250 Microsoft patches to download first. Wait....can't do that without the phone since there is no more Internet. Then the computers without a cd drive, the the one without a wifi capability, and the idea to move the big office table out of the corner....

Well. While we are moving furniture anyway, why not get the big screen TV and the Wii out of the bedroom finally. I'm all for that. I don't really need kids bouncing on the bed playing Wii at ungodly hours of the morning anyway. But then, the loom has to move from the living room to the basement, which means the old couch we no longer want has to go to make room for the loom. Logical.

That leaves us without a couch, but we can always take the stained fabric off the frame, cut down the arms and replace the padding with some pillows....you see? This is how it happens. Every time. What the hell?

And I wake up one morning realizing I'm three weeks behind in edits, it's my turn to blog and no one has mowed the lawn in six weeks. And half way through the insanity, I had to find a part time job so we could pay the bills.

I thought at some point, all this was supposed to get easier. Maybe I should just give up, toss my inhibitions to the wind and dance naked in the moonlight; offer all this up to the god of chaos. At least I'd be having fun, and maybe, get in better shape....

Now, some art I drew, because it makes me happy, and happy is better than chaotic.

Where Do You Carry Your Wallet?

**Welcome today's guest, Stephy Smith.**

I had to break down and buy new underwear the other day. I made my choice, walked to the checkout stand and stood in line. I couldn't wait to get home and slip into one of the pretty little tuffs of material. Just something about new panties makes you feel all fresh and clean.

Piling my hair on the top of my head, I jumped in the tub and slathered up with baby oil. What a delight. I dried off and slipped into a pair of new black bikini panties. Soft, expandable little numbers I might add. My droopy ass was now in tight firm rolls instead of knee knockers. So what's a few lumps? I wear jeans anyway that will flatten the hills.

Long spaghetti tits swung just above the waistline as if they were Vanna White pointing out the correct letter. I pranced around the bathroom admiring the view for a few moments then dressed. I couldn't wait for the next need to pee! I drank tons of water, tea and coffee to forward the process... nothing!

Hours later, the need finally hit! Yes, oh yes I thought to myself. I perched on the thrown like a queen. All done and time to pull them up to experience the comfort of these little critters climbing across the hills and sinking into crevices excited me. The feel of the material of my new bloomers sliding up my legs, tantalized and molded cellulite as I tugged upward.

The pliable band clenched in my hands, sent tingles down my spine.

What the hell... my ring caught in the crotch.

Who put a pocket there and why? I re-read the package. It doesn't say anything about a frigging pocket! And it sure doesn't say what you are suppose to put in it. Am I wearing these things wrong side out? Were the panties made for a pole dancer? Is this where the men stuff the money?

Holy shit, are they for a cross dresser to stuff his dangling parts inside the pocket to hide them? Should I roll up the saggy lips and tuck them in to make a camel toe to be envious of? Do you braid the pubic hair before swimming and tuck the braids neatly inside so you don't have to rip that shit out before entering the pool?

Is there some kind of little vibrator you stuff in it to give you an all day orgasm? Do you carry extra Kotex in there? I don't have to worry about that any more, cancer cured that problem over twenty years ago. Is this a new place to hide your wallet for gravity possessed women? What the f***? Oh, hell! Has it been twenty years since I bought new underwear?

Blurb: Shawnee Turner left her home, family and friends to start a new life on a Colorado ranch. When the ranch sold, she was forced to return to her Texas hometown and the job she left behind. Emory Creek owned the sale barn. Anxious for his one true love to return he had to come up with a plan to convince her, he was the man for her.

Short excerpt:

Pool balls clanked together, Alan Jackson bellowed to be propped against the jukebox, while whoops and hollers filtered through the wooden door.

Shawnee and Cheyenne entered the dimness of the Lonely Steer Bar and Grill. They stepped to one side of the door and let their eyes adjust to the darkness then zigzagged through the crowded room to the bar.

“Two cola’s, hot wings, and an order of fries, if you got ‘em,” Shawnee called to the bartender. Shawnee slid a cola in front of Cheyenne.

Food in hand, they wove their way past pool tables, pinball games, and a dartboard to an empty table near the dance floor. A woman escorted her man in their direction, leaning one way and then the other toward them.

“Pick up,” Shawnee reached for her drink and food. Cheyenne followed suit until the intoxicated couple slithered past.

Cheyenne swiveled the straw in the glass. “I’m getting butterflies about tomorrow, Shaw.”

“If it makes things any better, I’m kinda nervous, too. At least we’ll be working together. It’s not like we haven’t been to a sale barn before,” Shawnee tilted her head to the couple shuffling their way to the dance floor.

“I know, just the thought of strange people, good-looking cowboys; you know I’m not comfortable around them anymore.” Cheyenne’s eyes scanned the room. Her last job consisted of working as an unsupervised vet tech.

Shawnee followed her gaze. “You know, most of these guys are wanna-be cowboys and not real ones. They’re gonna be different than the ones you’ll work around.”

“They’re still men. I haven’t been around men in so long they just make me a little jumpy.” Cheyenne glanced as the dance floor filled with couples.

Shawnee twisted to face the bar. A tall, dark-haired man headed in their direction. His slow, easy saunter and broad, muscled chest sent a strange quiver down her spine.

“Yeah, all these guys in here just want to rub belt buckles and have a good time.” She stared as the man’s back pockets tightened across his hips until he took a seat. Leaning across the table, she lowered her voice, “I wouldn’t mind unpacking his saddlebags.”

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