Tuesday, December 20, 2011
But more than all of those things, it's also a time for giving. So for the two people who are still reading this blog, here are my gifts to you. Complete with badly drawn MS paint stockings:
Yeah, I don't know why his head's like that, either. He's perfectly acceptable in the flesh, I swear! Please don't try to exchange him at Marks and Spencers for a better model, with a non-pointy hairdo.
You know why he's smiling like that? Because he's popping out of a stocking, hooray! It's absolutely not because he's diddling himself just below the edge of that weirdly misshapen sock. I mean, seriously? Where would you put your toes in a sock like that? You'd have to have fookin' Barbie feet to manage those things. Yet oddly, you'd also need ankles the size of two Christmas hams.
Also: I have no idea why these men's legs are so small in general. Hopefully it's just because those socks are really sweaty, and their lower bits shrivelled up like fingers in a bathtub.
They'll pop right back into shape no problems, I swear.
I don't know why Fassbender looks so pensive while inside his sock, here. He's the one I thought I'd do a rude joke with - you know, like, having a penis peep over the edge of the stocking top or summat. I dunno. Maybe he's just disappointed that his is the most normal sock. He wanted to shove his Barbie feet into that one of Ryan Gosling's, then get an Oscar nom next year for his work in the masterpiece "My Feet Are Really Little".
It's his knee, all right? His knee. Don't look at me like that. I'd never give away peeping penises for Christmas!
Except I totally would, of course.
Merry Christmas, everybody!
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Yeah. You heard that right. Apparently I turned into a maniac for about a month. I turned into so much of a maniac that I actually did things like wonder why I was so drained and miserable so much of the time, and couldn't understand how I spent days and days wearing only a big orange dress and not washing my hair. One time I woke up half-naked on the couch, covered in cardigans, because I had mysteriously passed out and in an effort to shield my nudity from passer-bys, Husband had buried me beneath Marks and Spencers' winter collection.
But now I realise why all of these things happened, because I counted how much I wrote. And then wondered how I even managed to put on the big orange dress and not expose myself to the general public on a daily basis. I'm not even sure how I didn't faint from exhaustion, because here are the things wot I did:
1. 20k novella for Xcite. Written, edited, submitted and copy-edited.
2. 50k of novel for super sekrit speshul thing.
3. 20k of novel cut and rewritten.
4. 2 shorts written and edited and subbed. 10k.
5. 2k of novellas for Ellora's Cave.
6. Revisions on Ellora's Cave novella
7. Oh, and about 10k of blog posts written for places that aren't here. Please don't beat me up, blog. I'm already pretty battered. I think I'm on the edge of a nervous breakdown because yesterday I cried over an episode of Friends. I cried because my work email wouldn't let me in, even though no one ever sends me emails cos I only work there one night a week. I cried because I found Spogs at a sweetie shop, and I cried when my novel wouldn't go right. I'm probably going to cry right after I've finished writing this, because I've got about 10k left of my novel and I know it's not going to go right either.
I'm so scared, blog, hold me!
Though in better news, I did get two beautiful new covers for my upcoming EC books. They're on the sidebar, if you want to have a look!
And I also got some pretty amazing reviews:
Yep, you read that right. Three top picks from Night Owl, an absolutely beautiful and intelligent and lovely review from the brilliant Amber Skye, an actual review from Book Binge - my first ever! - and a review from the mighty Jan Oda which made me feel all nervous and fluttery cos it's kind of like someone that important and ace at reviews sort of...I dunno. Knows about me and pays attention to my books. The review isn't completely positive, but those comments about my books being her erotica indulgence...
That kind of thing blows me away.
So there you have it. That was November. I've still got a deadline on December 15th coming up, and after that I have to start this merry-go-round all over again. New deadline for January 31st...
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Just for the record, they're not. Nowhere in any of them is there an Aleph. But you can find out a bit about two of them - Sheltered and Doubled - over at Oh Get A Grip. I posted actually snippets from them, which is a big scary thing for me. Behold:
The third one on there, Love Letters, isn't quite done yet. The third sub I sent my editor was actually Singing Electricity, my werewolf thingie that I've had on my uhm and ah burner for a while now.
Because that's the thing, you see. I uhm and ah about a WIP, and then it never gets done. I second guess it - will readers like this bit, will they like that, am I just a giant idiot - and nothing moves forward.
Even now I'm second guessing myself over a whole host of things like:
1. What if the disaster I had with awful synopses means the stink of terribleness is now all over my stories?
2. What if my sales at EC are so bad for my latest book, that it can't possibly be a yes on any of my subs anyway?
3. What if the stories are just plain terrible?
4. What if it's all of the above, plus even more awful things I haven't thought of? Maybe I accidentally subbed that fanfic I wrote about Armie Hammer and Brandon Routh having sex all over me, even though I've never actually written anything like that I swear to God. I mean, the heroes in Love Letters kind of look like Armie Hammer and Brandon Routh, but I promise I've changed their names and given them personalities I thought up.
Now they're called Artie Bammer and Brendon South, and they're...uh...singers. Yeah. Singers.*
But I digress. Where was I? Oh yeah, back in boring old neurosis-land. Because it is boring. I know I'm boring people with it. But once you're stuck in it, it's so hard to get out of.
Though I did momentarily get out of it long enough to write about Sci-fi hunks. Hooray!
And also, All Other Things is now available on the Kindle and over at All Romance Ebooks:
*For those of you who may now be worried about my writing career, the characters are not really called Artie Bammer and Brendon South, and they're not singers, either. It's a passing resemblance, and nothing else, honest guv'nor.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Monday, October 3, 2011
The first name out of the hat to win a copy of All Other Things was...
And the second name...
Just email me at firstname.lastname@example.org guys, and I'll get those sent to you. Thanks once again to everyone who stopped by my little blog and entered. It really does me feel all warm and gooey inside.
P.S. All Other Things is now available on the Kindle! Look, here it is: http://www.amazon.com/All-Other-Things-ebook/dp/B005OYI2O8/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1317688139&sr=1-1
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Plus it's also got a married couple, an absolutely filthy Irishman, sex acts that are illegal in many, many places around the world and a good dollop of emotion thrown into the mix. Want to hear more?
Here's the blurb:
Bea’s husband Tommy is the sweetest, most gorgeous guy she’s ever met. There’s just one problem—he doesn’t seem to want to have sex with her. Or at least, he shows no interest in the kind of sex she’s craving. Kinky, torrid, passion-filled sex, of the sort a too-handsome and too-fascinating colleague at her workplace is offering.
Kieran is everything that Tommy’s not—dark to his light, triple caramel swirl to Tommy’s vanilla. But Bea will not be tempted. Or at least, she thinks she won’t. Until she discovers Tommy and Kieran have been IMing each other for some time—and they haven’t been talking about innocent things.
They’ve been talking about her, and more importantly, they’ve been talking about what they’d like to do to her. Together. And once Tommy’s buttons have been pushed and Kieran’s been let off his leash, anything seems possible…
Sounds hot, right? Well, I think it sounds hot. And I kind of had to lay down in a darkened room for a little bit after writing several of its scenes, which says a lot, I feel.
And if you want to feel it too, well, here's the buy link:
Or you know - if you're feeling lucky you could just enter my competition! All you have to do is comment, leave your name, and I'll stick it in the hat. I'm going to give away two copies, too, so there's an absolutely excellent chance you'll win!
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Rapunzel is trapped by the harsh, inescapable reality of her prison, so she builds vivid sexual fantasies where she has full control and no one can take it away. If nothing else, at least she has command over her thoughts.
When Prince Samuel climbs into her tower it’s a small, satisfying excuse to break the rules—until his gentle touch coaxes out her trust. But it’s not enough. No longer can she keep her dark, sexual secrets inside. Rapunzel yearns for rough, passionate sex—a way to unlock her sensual freedom for good.
Vulnerable but unable to turn back, Rapunzel leads Prince Samuel on an intimate journey to define their sexual limits while twisting their definitions of control forever.
“What in Christ’s name…”
I must be hearing echoes from the town nearby, where Mother sells her herbs and braided goods. No one ventures this far toward my tower because Mother’s gone to great lengths to see that they don’t—bear traps are her new favorite method of discouragement. Once one life is claimed, I imagine word spreads fairly quickly to stay away from the area. Why then are there hoof beats that make my head pulse with a slight pain?
There’s no understandable excuse I can delude myself with any longer. Before I can focus on the consequences, I swing my head out the window into the oppressive, humid summer air. Just the very top of his head is visible, his hair brushing past his cheekbones, glowing from the sunshine and shot through with gold. Never have I seen a color so close to my own before—not that I see many people.
For a few moments I can’t quite come to terms with his presence and it’s not for a lack of staring that my pulse inevitably echoes inside my head like an overbeaten drum. This is my chance. Mother won’t be back for quite some time with her wares. He’s circling the tower, slouched over a horse who looks a bit like a nag. Certainly not a proper horse for a man with such fine clothes in gorgeous colors and sumptuous fabrics.
There’s no going back from this moment. It’s a certainty that makes my teeth chatter in a wash of cold fear, despite the heat, and my hands clasp around my middle as I try to hold myself together. He hasn’t looked up yet, more intent on studying the free-standing structure than noticing my shadow plastered across the grass. My mind is desperately working out what I’ll cry out to him. Even as my throat closes with an infusion of happiness that makes me rock on my feet.
“Excuse me?” A tentative question I’m not sure he will hear because it can’t be any louder than a frightened whisper. “Sir, you’re really not supposed to be here.”
Somehow, I’ve managed to make this part louder because he glances up—and his slack-jawed expression is a blow to my chest. He possesses the most gorgeous cobalt blue eyes. Underneath my ribs, the pain grows until taking a full breath is hard. Mother is right, he hasn’t even overcome his shock as my heavy plait of hair rests down the stone side of my prison. He’s not to be trusted.
What am I thinking? He won’t even come near me to aid my escape and his eyes are swamped in confusion—and there’s a flash of unreadable emotion that I refuse to question. He must leave here now and I must somehow convince him to bring no one back with him. I won’t be paraded around for anyone’s amusement. This man has made a mistake coming here.
Yet, there’s still a part of me that grips the windowsill until my palms are numb and that clings to the hope that he will at least acknowledge me. So long since I’ve had any kind of normal conversation. One that didn’t revolve around my hair, my rules or my mother’s day. Won’t he say anything? I’m as trapped by his thick silence as I am by the beauty of his face.
“Please, you must go and tell no one about what you’ve seen. You shouldn’t have ignored the traps. They are there for a reason.”
I don’t know how I’ve gotten that all out because my main focus lies on the foreign stirrings of heat in my cheeks as the pulsing sensation twists lower in my abdomen. What is happening to me? With a certainty that surprises me, I find myself clenching my thighs together, only to have the subtle touch of flesh-on-flesh be more than I can bear. He has yet to take his gaze from mine and a shudder slips up my spine.
“How long have you been here?” His voice carries the strain I hold back and I’m slightly put at ease that at least we are on similar ground. “Who did this to you?”
“For a man who is about to leave, I don’t believe it matters.”
The words barely tumble out of my mouth before I clamp my hand over my lips. I hadn’t meant to be so harsh and instantly regret it. He is so handsome—and these sudden urges, they are overwhelming and confusing to the point where I wish to completely remove the problem. My lips part in an apology and I watch a jovial grin span from ear to ear as he laughs at me until I can’t hear anything but the frantic beat of my heart.
Who is this man? Now he stares at me with a playfulness that washes a wave of goose bumps across my flesh. He doesn’t seem offended, merely amused at my suggestion that he leave. To further that fact, he quickly dismounts and ties his horse to a nearby tree branch. While I can only stare at the way his tight riding boots and breeches hug his muscular body from his calves all the way up to his perfectly rounded buttocks.
Though I’d learned of desire from my mother—and all its wicked principles—I never expected it to rear its head in my lonely, simple world.
However, now my life spirals out of control quickly enough that I tilt back against the wall to my left and watch with trembling hands. This mysterious man climbs the wall of my tower as if it had been built to be climbed so easily—without any aid from my hair. One strong, sun-kissed hand and booted foot at a time. When he offers up his hand to me to pull him over the side, what choice do I have? Even a man that strong would eventually grow tired and plummet to his death—and I want him tucked close to my body, not on the ground.
“I was beginning to wonder what it took to get some assistance.”
He softly grunts and clasps my hand hard enough that I gasp as I shift my weight to pull him over the side. Muscles I didn’t know existed inside me burn with sharp pain from disuse because of my isolation. His touch radiates heat all along my arm. If it wasn’t for his precarious situation, I would fight to pull away on instinct—but as it is, he manages to throw himself into my home with as much grace as a charging boar—and he trips, falling on top of me and sending us to the hard, stone floor.
His surprisingly soft hand brushes the hair out of my face and lingers, gently stroking, down my cheek. Should I be frightened? Probably. At the moment I can’t bear the thought that my first sincerely gentle touch from a man would be anything but special. His sharp leather scent surrounds my tingling skin.
“Isn’t this a day for surprises?” His gaze cuts through all the fear inside me and his mouth holds the subtle curve of a half smile. “I should move myself off you, this isn’t proper at all when we’ve barely been introduced.”
Yet he doesn’t move an inch.
A realization whips through my mind and would have left me on the floor if I wasn’t already pinned there by a gorgeous man who touches me with such reverence I might weep. When will this happen again? After this twisted, meandering path of fate, there is no doubt I will be alone again—and I want a loving memory to cling to at night when my old fears tighten my chest until I can’t breathe. This is a choice I can make for myself. And I won’t live the rest of my ordinary, sheltered life not knowing true passion when it burns across my skin.
“They call me Rapunzel.”
His inviting smile lights up my whole world.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
So, before I embarrass myself further with anymore gushing, here are the names I drew out of the hat:
Barednakedlady (aka Jill)
Hooray! Just decide which book you'd like, ladies (either Telling Tales or Guarded, take your pick!), then email me at email@example.com and I'll get it sent to you.
Also, I decided to do an extra prize. Mainly because "eyebrow-singing" is perhaps the greatest way I've ever heard my work described, but also because I just feel like it. So Astahil - if you'd like a copy of either Telling Tales or Guarded, just email me at firstname.lastname@example.org and I'll send you one. For being orsum and having burnt eyebrows.
Monday, September 12, 2011
I swear to God, I once wet the bed at the age of three because of an image like that. I had a doll that looked like that thing, and it came alive and ate my baby brother. That exact creature lived in the basement of my primary school, and feasted on the bones of children who didn't eat their mashed potato. I think that I once -
Okay, yeah. You get the picture. That's a creepy looking Loki.
But the Loki I am interested looks much more like this:
And suddenly I'm kind of wanting him to be a doll that comes alive and tries to eat me. But when I say that, I obviously mean the good kind of eat. You know, the sort that features much less gnawing on bones and a lot more face-planting between my legs.
I mean, he's just amazeballs in Thor. The movie itself is kind of boring and Thor looks like someone squeezed his face too hard and then sneezed Cheeto dust all over him, but Tom Hiddleston as Loki is divine. He anguishes. Which isn't even the right word, but it just fits better than angsts because angsts sounds plebian and Tom Hiddleston is all refined and he went to Cambridge and studied old dead people and he probably rows a boat on a sunlit river while reading the Telegraph I dunno.
He plays Loki with all the commitment of a first year student at RADA, only really good. His eyes are haunted, he cries, he does it all while looking like Lt Cmdr Data only even more impossibly handsome and also normal coloured.
Plus, he wears a lot of leather and knee high boots and big helmets, and you all know how much I adore big helmets. I adore them almost as much as all the crying he does, about Daddy never loving him as much as Thor. I just wanted to go to him and hold him close to my vagi- my breast and tell him everything was going to be all right.
He's just flawless and perfectly my type. In fact, he's so perfectly my type that before we even watched the movie I saw a picture of him next to Thor looking all big-eyed and dark-haired and Husband said: you're going to come out of the cinema fancying that guy's pants off.
And I did. I fancied his pants off so hard that he spent an entire scene opposite Anthony Hopkins with his cock flapping in the Asgardian breeze.
But wait. Wait. There is one problem with this crush. Because although Loki is absolutely gorgeous and sensitive and viscious and all of the things I love, in real life Tom Hiddleston is...well. How can I put this delicately?
Not as orsum. I mean, don't get me wrong. He's still achingly attractive. His eyes are beautiful, his cheekbones are exquisite. He's lovely and funny in interviews and polite in a way that makes my vagina sit up and bark like a dog.
But the thing is...he has a massive, massive forehead. I mean - it's immense. Druids could pray to this thing. I don't even know how I failed to notice while watching Loki rend his breast in Thor, because seriously man. It is gargantuan.
Oh - oh what's that? You don't believe me? You think I'm exaggerating? Oh well CHECK IT:
Yeah. What are you saying now? That's right. Nothing.
Well, either that or you're pointing out that I obviously doctored this image with MS Paint. Badly, as usual. But I swear, his forehead is really big. And not only that but he has curly blonde hair, like he just fell out of painting done by some member of the Pre-Raphaelite brotherhood who didn't realise he was gay yet.
I just can't with that. I could cope with the big forehead - it's probably like one of those rules about comparing feet and hands and nose to cock size, anyway. Only you know, about breadth instead of length. His is three feet wide, probably.
But the curls, the curls. No. No. They agitate me. They make me think of giving his head a Brazilian. I just don't know what to do with this crush. I want to see him in a million things basically being Loki, and instead I get him in bike shorts looking like a cherub in Suburban Shootout.
Come on, Tom. Get it together. You and Michael Fassbender in a film where you both have the exact same haircut and then have weird incesty clone sex - make it happen.
Make it happen and I'll love you forever, I swear.
Well. I'll love you until next Monday, at least.
Monday, September 5, 2011
The first is Guarded, my Bollywood themed, Arabian Nights stylee type bonk-fest, featuring two hunky bodyguards and one lucky Princess. Here's the blurb for it:
Their duty is to protect and guard, but their desires want more…
When Amina is captured by the Maharaja of Hadad and forced to read his prophetic scrolls, all she can think of is escape. But then Ashan and Orin are assigned to guard her, and they’re giving her some thoughts she’s sure she shouldn’t be having.
They’re both big, they’re both handsome, and they’re both sworn to protect, guard and be by her side at all times – something which proves increasingly difficult as the steamy nights get longer and their desire for each other reaches boiling point. When she next runs, they’re right on her tail, and this time they have more for her than bound hands and stern words. They’ve got their own needs, and they mean to satisfy them…
And the link, if it takes your fancy:
You can also read a sizzling excerpt, there, and find other novellas under the Bollywood theme from such amazeballs writers as Justine Elyot and Victoria Blisse!
And then there's also my new erotic novel, Telling Tales. It's not the official release date for this book, so you're getting it massively early - if only so far on the Kindle, or over at ARE. But at ARE, you can get it for the absolute bargain price of $4.99. I have no idea how long for, so don't hesitate!
This one's really balls to the wall. And by that I mean there are literally balls flinging about the place. And willies, and fannies, and all of that red hot stuff. It's got MMF, MFM, MFFM, MFMF, MMMMM - hell, it's got so many acronyms you can almost make whole new words out of the initials. I mean, you can totally pronounce MFFM, right? It's muffum. And MMMMM makes a definite and real sound, one that I think sums up the scene nicely:
But anyhoo, here's the blurb:
Allie has held a brightly burning torch for Wade since college. They were part of a writing group together, and everything about those days with him, Cameron and Kitty fills her with longing. All of her old and most decadent fantasies are coming back to her as though they never left, and when their former Professor leaves them his rambling mansion in his will, it’s a chance for them all to reunite.
But there’s more than friendship bubbling beneath the surface. As secrets are revealed and relationships rekindled, the stories get dirtier and the stakes get higher. And now Allie’s realized that she isn’t quite sure who she wants…fun-loving Wade, or quiet, restrained Cameron.
Neither of them have been honest with her about their feelings. And now all four have the chance to act on the tales that ignite their most primal desires.
And the links:
Where you can also find excerpts that barely touch on the kinds of shenanigans that go on in this book. Seriously. I'm mortified that I wrote it. My Gran doesn't speak to me anymore. Even though that's a total lie and she's my biggest fan because now I write the kinds of books she grew up reading, only with the sex left in.
And on that over-sharing note about my elderly Grandmother, I shall take my leave. Though not before doing what I always do on release day:
If you'd like to win a copy of the above books, just comment on this post. I'll stick your name in the hat, shake it around, and the first to emerge will win Telling Tales. The second to emerge will win Guarded. Hell, I might even give you a choice, or have the first prize be both, or who knows? Enter and find out!
Monday, August 22, 2011
1. He has a haircut that roughly resembles a penis. And that's not even my obvious and by now quite out of control penis obsession talking! Behold!
And just in case my utterly scientific diagram isn't clear enough, I've created a double of his haircut using the same penis and super-imposed it flawlessly on his head:
2. He has no discernable neck. I'm not even going to attempt an incredible manipulation of a picture using MS Paint, here. You can see it for yourself without me making a fool of myself with a computer, too much time on my hands, and an unhealthy hunger for penises.
Check it out:
There's no neck there, right? It's just all head, then straight on down into body. Makes me wonder where his neck went. Is his penis so huge that the weight of it has actually dragged his head down into his torso?
Or is that just my mentulomania talking?
3. His clothes. Of course, on the face of it, there isn't anything wrong with his clothes. His belts are fantastic. I love his shoes. He wears a variety of tight pants in some splendid colours.
But the problem is, he wears them all together.
And yet...and yet...I want him. He is a Mancandy. He's practically the very definition of Mancandy, because he's small and sweet and he comes in primary coloured wrappers.
I don't even care that his head looks like a penis or that he has no neck. I don't care that he says the following to a woman on the show:
"How is doable anything but a compliment?"
I just want to rip those candy wrapper clothes off his small but weirdly angular body. I want him to hop nimbly around in front of me, like he does on the show all the time. I want him to yell at his Mother to leave him alone while he has a play date with me on his ridiculous bed.
I love his Jewishness, I love his cheeky smile, I love his pathetic attempts at wooing women. I love that he dresses up as a Goth to try and get a girl.
Oh Howard Wolowitz, I'd be that girl. And then after I'd been that girl all over you and under you and back to front with you, we could play Mario Kart all night long together.
Sounds like bliss, to me.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
But I swear to God I am, and I thought I should maybe talk a little bit about this thing I do in between watching The Big Bang Theory and wondering why it has to be Howard Wolowitz I man fancy.
So, on the upside:
I'm writing proposals for a super sekrit thing! And I had a dream about super sekrit thing - namely that I was only asked to maybe take part in it because someone wanted Charlotte Stevens and mistakenly asked me instead, but lets put that aside before it makes me evaluate my psych too intently. Basically, I'm hovering between massive excitement and certainty that it will all never come off, at the moment, so please wish me luck. Or failing that, please wish for me to get over my sudden, inexplicable love for a man replete with sleazy come-ons.
My novella, Carnal Craving, is out now in the anthology Mammoth Book of Hot Romance. Or at least, it is in the UK. And it's a totally exciting and wonderful antho to be in, so even if you hate me and wish you were reading Charlotte Stevens instead, go buy it because everyone else in it is orsum. See:
My other novella, Guarded, comes out soon! Hurrah! Here's the link, if you want to learn some stuff about it:
I am in the middle of editing a novel (Telling Tales) and a novella (All Other Things). The fact that I'm editing them in and of itself isn't exactly good news (though I suppose it might count as such when you know that I'm also currently addicted to Sims 3 and The Big Bang Theory, and both things are making me not go to the toilet and not bathe and not eat until I turn into a sightless mole person who thinks she has to keep an eye on her energy bar in order to determine when to sleep), but the fact that I don't hate either of them with a passion of a thousand burning suns shining out of Michael York's butthole is. Somehow I always think I'm going to hate the books I've written when I haven't read them for a while, as though evol goblins came in and rewrote the whole things when I wasn't looking. But no, I think I'm safe.
I got a lovely review of my short story in Obsessed, from none other than the illustrious Super Librarian herself:
Of course, I then did a big excitement wee. She liked it! Even tho the story's weird as fook! And she wants to read more stuff of mine! *shorts out*
And on the downside:
I don't care about the downside anymore. It's there, but I'm not even going to give it the time of day. Look: Maru!
Monday, August 1, 2011
But enough about Hershey's mint Bliss things copyright God 2011. Onto why it's so unbelievable that I've done so many Mancandies that I now can no longer remember if I've done one about him, or not.
Because seriously, he's like the most perfect man ever. I think God made him while he was eating one of the mint Hershey's Bliss thingies. He put it in his mouth, and then he had an instant orgasm, and then he made Brandon Routh.
Don't believe me? Check out this arm:
I mean seriously. How is his arm like that? It looks like it has a sexy alien growing inside of it. And I don't mind admitting that I want to hump that sexy alien. I want to hump it until it hatches out of his face.
Which probably explains why he's staring in such trepidation at the whole area. I'd be staring too, if my arm was a) that sexy and b) likely to turn into a seven foot xenomorph that eats the crew of my spaceship and leaves me crying in my underwear with a cat.
Though I've got to say, I think I cry harder when I look upon Brandon Routh's glorious visage. Or at least, my vagina cries harder. My vagina cries so much that I have to hook myself up to an IV to combat vagina dehydration. Most of the fluids in my body are halfway down my legs, because of this thing:
I can't even call it a face. It's not a face. It's a mint Hershey's Bliss thing on top of someone's neck. It's my every sexual fantasy made flesh, in so many, many perfect ways that I can't even really talk about it. I mean - he's literally like Zachary Quinto's more attractive younger brother.
Can you even wrap your mind around that? I can't. I can't even think about it without being consumed by my own groin. All I have to do is picture myself going round to Mrs Quinto-Routh's house for tea, ready to wet myself over her gorgeous son Zachary, and then THIS creature walks out of his sweaty boy bedroom and is all like:
HAI WATS GOIN ON GUYZ??
Because come on. You know the Brandon Routh in my head talks like that. He's not only vagina dehydratingly handsome, he's also somehow the most adorbs thing ever. He made an orsum Clark Kent precisely because he's so good at tripping over his own feet and being all awkward, and you know how stupid things like that turn my crank.
I want him to trip over his feet and fall face first into my fanny. Which is not half as gross as it sounds, because by this point he's spent half an hour being all vulnerable and cute and prudish, and my vagina's as dry as the Sahara because it just created a miniature Nile around my ankles.
Brandon Routh makes me have geographical locations between my legs. Tomorrow the Discovery Channel are coming around to make a documentary about this mysterious confluence of a giant river and a barren desert. Bear Grylls is going to climb my left thigh and survive on the Ruffles crumbs that I somehow let drop into the crevice behind my kneecap.
But I don't care, because Brandon Routh exists. And not only does he exist, but he also brings more visitors to my blog than any other thing does, purely by virtue of the search term "Brandon Routh bulge". And I can't even feel bad about that, because his bulge looks like this:
And also because recently the search term "Charlotte Stein" overtook it, which just makes me want to kiss the world. Stay still, world. I'm going in.
If you'd like to hear more about my obsession with Brandon Routh, you can visit these posts what I did over at Geek and Kink about him, Superman and Clark Kent:
I have no idea if I've ever said this on my blog because apparently I have all the "my blog" knowledge of someone who's the opposite of me - like, say Cameron Diaz - but I blog every Friday there, and other orsum people blog there on other days about all things sexy and geeky. It's fun! Check it out!
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Because nothing makes me happier than spreading the Sommer love. Especially after she went and wrote the most amazing review of Control:
I swear to God, I didn't pay her. I didn't even ask her. She just did it, because she is made of all that is orsum and amazeballs in the world. Seriously, one of my writing heroines saying that. I can't even.
Instead, I will just leave you with living proof of how talented she is:
Excerpt from NO GUILT (Zombie Exterminators book #2)
Buy Link: http://www.resplendencepublishing.com/m8/323-201-107-489-2--no-guilt-zombie-exterminators-series-book-two-by-sommer-marsden.html
Also on Kindle, at ARe, Bookstrand etc.
“Don’t spook her,” Garrity said.
Noah was turning his big white van onto Topaz Lane, and I was trying really, really hard not to stare at Cahill. This was our first big job since moving from Maryland to Connecticut. Our first mission handed down and paid for by the county we lived in. Once we left our hometown after taking care of the Evoluminaries and their rabid leader William Tell (who had wanted to use me as a zombie baby mamma, thank you very much) we’d treated ourselves to a few weeks off.
Now the cupboard was bare, and we were itching to do something that did not involve loud music, alcohol and trading creeper war stories like old men at a veterans’ lunch.
“I won’t spook her. Why the hell would I spook her?” I snapped. Being fixated on Cahill’s offer wasn’t helping my mood. An offer of a threesome with him and Garrity—something that, yes, boys and girls, I have fantasized about more than once. It had come out of the blue after a drunken bucket-list conversation the four of us had had. Bam! In a moment of privacy, the offered was slammed down on the figurative table, and I couldn’t seem to stop poking at it. It was something I wanted, but it scared me.
I caught Cahill looking at me from the front seat where he rode shotgun to his lover Noah. I felt my face flush when I saw his cocky grin. Jeesh.
“Because you seem a bit on edge, Poppy,” Garrity said and leaned in. “Why are you so on edge, babe?”
It had taken forever and ever for me and Garrity to get together despite attraction and all that jazz. But my mother’s death and our last mission had sealed a bond that was a long time coming. So how would he feel about bringing handsome, tall Cahill in on the sex part of stuff? My brain wouldn’t let it go, but I swallowed hard and said “Don’t know. Maybe I’m rusty.”
“Nah. You’re good, girly. There’s nothing rusty about you,” he said and kissed me.
I turned my face fast—before I could analyze it—and kissed him on the lips. Part of me wanted to say those dreaded three words. I love you…part of me wanted to scream at even allowing myself to think it.
The van jumped and jittered on non-existent shocks and ripped me out of my reverie. “We’re here,” Noah said.
“Ready?” Cahill asked.
“No,” I said.
“Good.” Garrity patted my legs. “So let’s do this thing.”
We got out of the van and went to knock on Marylou Peterson’s front door.
I watched that instant—the instant that all couples seem to have—unfold. As Garrity was touching the small of my back, Cahill was touching Noah’s arm. That we-have-a-connection touch. Would Noah hate me forever if I took Cahill up on his offer? Would it ruin our friendship? Would it ruin the four of us and how we worked together? It was something I had to push out of my head as the front door swung inward. I had to focus on the complaints by the neighborhood and the county about a creeper that was loose that no one could seem to pinpoint. The last place it had been seen was Marylou’s house. I needed to focus on her.
“Hi, Marylou Peterson?” I spoke. The boys felt it better that I introduce us since I was relatively calm and a girl and there was a zombie apocalypse under way—or so the general population thought. “My name is Poppy Cooper, and we need to talk to you about a recent cree—” Garrity nudged me. Creeper was our own personal nickname for the undead. “Um…undead sighting on your property.”
“Who are you?”
“We’re county licensed freelance exterminators,” I said. Which was a fancy way of saying we kill dead things. We’re killers for hire.
“Oh,” she said in a small voice.
“May we come inside and speak with you?” Garrity asked, flipping a piece of nearly black hair out of his blue-blue eyes. He smiled. His boy next door shtick. Niiiiice.
“Sure. Come on,” she said and took a step back.
Funny. She seemed more scared of us than the idea of rogue zombies in her neck of the woods.
People were strange.
“It was on my property?” she asked. Her eyes were wide and frightened but off. Something wasn’t right, and I couldn’t figure out what. Maybe we’d interrupted her and her boyfriend or something.
I looked at the county’s paperwork. Connecticut was way more of a stickler for paperwork than Maryland had ever been. Go figure. “Two complaints of a lone male undead subject on your property,” I said. “But when someone is sent out to take care of the call, he’s gone. There is a note that the second complaint called was only partially sure it was a male subject. Have you seen anything?”
She shook her head. Her big brown eyes wide, her fingers twirling a piece of dyed-red hair so tight I feared the whole lock would pop right out of her scalp. “No. It’s just me and my brother here. I haven’t seen anything. My dad’s long gone—has been for years, my mom…” She shook her head and looked away.
Christ, I hated this part. I always felt like a heel. Like I was pouring salt in a wound, because I was. I had lost my mother to a creeper, I knew the pain of it. I also knew I’d been slightly luckier than most simply because my mother had been immune to the virus that was infecting all these undead. She didn’t rise. Most people had to deal with the loss and unwanted resurrection.
“I’m sorry,” I said. A few stupid words that could not possibly stem the flow of pain.
She nodded, cleared her throat. “My mother succumbed to the virus.”
“And your brother? Has he seen anything?”
“I’d have to ask him. Chuck’s not here right now, though,” she said, waving her hand around the kitchen. “But I’ll ask when I see him.”
“Can we look around your property? Maybe there’s something attracting this subject,” I said. When did I start talking like a zombie cop? I didn’t know.
“Sure,” she said and gave me another shrug. “You’re not going to find much. An overgrown yard, a shed, honeysuckle bushes and an old dog house. But go for it.”
“Thanks.” I nodded to her back kitchen door. “May we?”
Marylou stood and unlocked a series of locks on the door. Finally, she was able to pull it open. “I’ll be here when you’re done,” she said.
I eyed Garrity and his gaze flicked to the locks. Five of them by count and an old fashioned cheap battery operated alarm. It simply hung on the door knob, and if jostled it would sound an ear piercing alarm to let the occupants know someone had opened the door.
When we hit the wide planted, screened-in back porch, I whispered to him “Safety first.”
“Jesus, I’ll say.”
Cahill and Noah had already hit the property, walking the perimeter like two jungle hunters. I turned to face the house once I hit mid-yard. I stared up at the farmhouse windows that reminded me creepily of the eyes of the undead. They were there, they were open, but no one was home. The windows were uncovered, the sun bouncing off the upper panes of glass. I thought I saw something in the upper right, but then a crow flew overhead and it was gone. Probably a reflection.
The house to the right was for sale. The house to the left was buttoned up like a storm was coming. “We need to check next door,” I said to Garrity.
He grunted and checked out the shed. “Nothing but lawn stuff. Mower, hoes,” he laughed.
“Are you five?”
“Hoes,” he laughed again.
“Hey, flirt later!” Cahill called, and when I looked up, surprised, he winked at me.
It went right to my pussy, that wink. I shook my head, ashamed of myself. We were on a job. I could worry about my sex life later.
“Anyway, just some gas and lawn care stuff. Normal shed crap,” Garrity said and put an arm around me as he passed to show we’d just been teasing.
I kissed him on the cheek, and he looked surprised. It was my penance for dirty thoughts about Cahill. Now how did I make amends with Noah? I had no idea.
Not that Noah was even paying attention. Or seemed to care. Maybe he didn’t know about…
“Hello?” Garrity rapped softly on my forehead with his knuckles.
“Sorry. Spacey. What did you say?”
“I said we need to talk to that brother. But first we’ll go next door.” He cocked his thumb at the battened-down house. “My guess is at least one of the complaint calls came from there.”
“Well, someone call fucking Guinness. Or the church. Because that’s a miracle.” Noah brushed his surfer boy hair out of the way and holstered his gun. We were all armed to the teeth but trying to appear like we were just checking to see what was what.
It was nice to keep everything tucked away and hidden until we had an actual creeper spotting. On the other hand, we had to have it all so we weren’t caught off guard and didn’t become lunch for some dead things.
“Seriously,” Cahill said and put a possessive hand on Noah.
It made me hot all over to see those two touch, and it instantly brought to mind the times I’d accidentally seen them together. It was easy to imagine Noah sucking off Cahill. And it was never hard for me to call up the image of Cahill plunging into pretty Noah. Holding his slim hips and pushing his cock deep inside. But it had totally been accidental, me seeing them. Okay, the first time had been an accident.
The other times had been luck.
“We’ll cut through the bushes to speak to the neighbor. When we come back here we can use the back door and talk to Marylou.”
“She’s edgy with a capital fidgety,” Noah said.
“I know. But imagine that you’re a young woman living with just your brother, and he’s not here. Maybe she’s alone a lot. Her mom died.” I felt a twinge in my gut when they all looked sad for me, and I shook my head. “Don’t do that. Don’t pity me,” I snapped, and they all fixed their faces into masks of indifference.
I cleared my throat, coughing away the ball of emotion that had lodged there.
“And she doesn’t have dad to speak of. That’s gotta be hard. And then we show up—our ragtag team of killers…I gotta say, boys, I’d be a little edgy too, I think.”
Garrity sighed. “You have a point. Lucky you, you have us.” He smacked my ass hard, and I gaped at him.
“Come on,” Noah said to Cahill, and led the way. “Let’s go talk to the neighbor before they do something like fuck in the bushes.”
It was Cahill who turned and waggled his eyebrows at me. Jesus. This was getting sticky fast.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Because the person was the fabulous Sommer Marsden, and lo, I had my very own zime (see Sommer's comments below for clarification)! Hooray! And if you like zombie apocalypses, and you like hot smexing, you will love her book. Seriously, it's amazeballs. I'm hoping some of her brilliance will rub off on me, but so far all I'm getting is huh, so this idiot wrote a zombie book too, did she?
Alas, alas. I leave you with the true master, Sommer Marsden!
My name is Sommer and I like dead things. On paper, mind you. I also like dirty things, but I like those in real life as well. Somewhere along the line I got the idea to mix the two. At first I thought, Sh’yeah. Right. Naw. But then…Hmm…Maybe. Possibly. Hell yes!
So I wrote them together—sex and dead things, dead things and sex, exterminating and the horizontal mambo. Poppy is the girl I’ve always wanted to be. She wears shit kicker boots, kills things with a machete, wants Garrity but has the balls to still lust after—and admit to it—Cahill. She is a voyeur (Hello m/m action), a bad ass, a soft hearted ass buster who loves family, country and killing things that should be dead.
And she has blue hair!
I thought I’d do one—just the one. I did one. Then I thought maybe one more. So I did a second (where there is even MORE sex) and then today while out running I came across a very live (I’m almost positive) but very creepy woman who was out walking and…bam! Book three is fully formed in my head. And I have to say, the zombie exterminators are in for a sticky situation. But also…more sex!
That is the very short, very condensed, very non-earth-moving story of me and Poppy, the boys and yeah, a bunch of dead things.
Thank you, Charlotte, dead thing loving partner in zime (that is zombie crime) for having me.
Excerpt from WE KILL DEAD THINGS (Zombie Exterminators Book #1)
Buy Link: http://www.resplendencepublishing.com/m8/315-200-107-489-1--we-kill-dead-things-by-sommer-marsden.html
Also on Kindle, at ARe, Bookstrand etc.
Honestly, the whole thing is Noah’s fault. We were all doing our normal closing-time bitchfest in the food square at Parktowne Mall and not really paying attention, when the first creeper showed up. That’s what we call them—the zombies—creepers.
Anyway, the first one showed up, and I assumed it was just another stoner looking for a slushie. Nope. It took all of my college logic skills to finally realize the creeper was up to no good when it lunged over the counter at me.
Garrity—Chris to his enemies—the object of my not-so-secret lust, let out a yell and rushed out with the bat we keep behind the counter at Smash It, the slushy and juice shop we run. He hit the guy on the shoulder—intending to do no real damage—but the bat sort of sank in and then made a squishy noise.
“He reeks,” I’d yelled, or something equally brilliant.
Then Noah was running out of Mamma’s Pies pizza stand with a meat cleaver of all things. Which he promptly buried in the guy’s skull. Thank God he was carving up Italian beef at the time.
The creeper gave me a stunned look that almost made me feel bad for him and Noah gave the cleaver another little shove and something cracked deep in the dead guy’s skull.
The dead guy fell on me.
That had been the first creeper, and Noah had taken it out (being the only one smart enough to have the news on in his food court stall so he actually had news about the suddenly mobile undead). Garrity had to take out six more before we got the main doors locked. Nick Cahill—main man at The Beef Barn—found one making the moves on a side of beef in the walk-in. He took it out with an electric knife.
The night was pretty much what bizarre is made of, and when we found ourselves clustered on the merry-go-round drinking a good bottle of wine pilfered from the gourmet place, Noah made a joke.
“We should start a new business,” he laughed. He was a business major, after all. “Our slogan could be We Kill Dead Things.”
Like I said, it’s all Noah’s fault. Because that is what we do now. A year later, and we’re pretty damn good at it. We kill dead things.
“Little help over here,” Noah yelled. I tossed him a small axe from my pack, and he caught it with one hand. Noah’s the one with surfer boy hair, pale skin, freckles and an ass any girl would want to bite.
I watched him take the axe and with three economical blows behead our zombie friend.
“Nice.” Garrity laughed—sometimes I think he enjoys his work too much—and did his
own damage with a claw hammer he kept tucked in the back of his jeans. How he sat on that damn thing all day is beyond me. Garrity is the one with the dark, dark hair and the blue, blue eyes. He makes you want to—well, if you’re a girl—he makes you want to take your pants off for him. Hey, he might even make you want to take your pants off if you’re a guy, too. “Head’s up, Poppy,” he called out.
I turned—and lucky I did—because a big, bad and ugly was shuffling toward me like I was his last supper. “Not today, buddy.” My weapon of choice is a gun. I find it cleaner to just put a bullet in their brains. Or what’s left of them. Since my dad was a cop for thirty years, I know my way around a firearm. One shot and the creeper was down.
The boys still think one day I’m going to shoot them. I’ve told them that won’t happen as long as they behave.
“Where’s Cahill?” I called. Noah was sweeping the perimeter and Garrity was checking on his latest kill.
“He’s out back. The owners said the creepers come in through the back bushes.”
“Great. Nothing like sneaking off away from the pack,” I growled. I waited for the boys then we went around the side of the big farmhouse as a unit.
“Where are these bush—” I didn’t need to finish that sentence because Cahill was being tugged by six waving arms into the giant stand of bushes. “Jesuspleezus,” I sighed. “I can’t get a shot. He’s all tangled up with them.”
Garrity moved forward and so did Noah. Together they waded into the overgrown foliage and tugged two of the creepers free. That left Cahill enough room to turn fast and dispatch the creeper with his favorite butchering knife from his shop.
Cahill’s arms are about as big as my thighs and freckled. There’s barely any hair on them but what is there is a ginger-colored down. His eyes are bright green, and they can see right through to your soul. Or, at least, it feels like it. I watched him behead the thing with a fierce grunt and an even fiercer swipe of his knife.
Then I plopped onto the grass trying to catch my breath and get my heart to slow down. It was too damn fast in my chest. I felt like I was floating. Adrenaline cocktail, anyone?
“Come on, Poppy.” Garrity hauled me to my feet, and we all met up around the owner’s gazebo.
“They’ll be home tomorrow. We’ve secured the area. Those are the only creepers we could find. Anything else pops up they can give us a shout.”
I nodded. “Neighbors?”
“All alive and accounted for so far.”
Unlike the movies you see about the undead, they don’t spring up overnight in waves. They spring up one at a time like a flu victim—and like any other disease, there are some naturally immune. My own mother was bitten by the guy who broke in and killed my dad a few months back when this whole thing started. She’s a widow with a wicked scar but beyond that, totally fine.
You just can’t tell if you’ll be one of the immune or one of the infected. Best bet is not to get bitten.
“Good. Now can we go home and sleep? I’m tired.” I was tired, but I felt like a wuss saying it aloud—occupational hazard when you work with all men.
“Yep. Sleep is on the way.”
Garrity ruffled my short blue hair and I felt the touch reach my pussy. Damn him.
He leaned in, pressed his lips to my ear and said “How long is this stuff going to be blue, anyhow?”
“Until I get tired of the blue,” I growled.
He shrugged, that lazy, sexy boy shrug some men have, and said “Just asking. Don’t get all knotted up.”
I rolled my eyes, and when I turned I caught Cahill staring at me. That made my stomach curl in on itself. Those vibrant eyes on me. We were all messy and gross and banged up, but Cahill wore it well. So did Garrity. Poor Noah, he was staring at Cahill as usual. Noah would climb Cahill like a tree if he could get away with it.
Hell, so would I.
“Come on. Let’s get you home. Boys check in when you get to the house. I’ll take Poppy home,” Garrity said.
We split up after one more sweep of the property. Our exterminating service would get paid pretty well for this. Corpse disposal was the job of the owner, plus it helped if they could see the work we’d done. Body count was important. Extra added bonus, the corpses served as a warning to other creepers who might stumble-shuffle-walk into the neighborhood. Garrity pulled me in with an arm to the neck. “Hanging in there?”
“It’s been a long year.”
“No girl should have to kill her dad,” he said softly.
We’d danced around our attraction since day one at the slushy bar. Now it was a steady back beat to every encounter we had. Problem was, as tongue-tied as Garrity made me, Cahill made me the same…just in a slightly different way. Lust is a funny, funny thing.
I figured it best to hang back and do nothing. Plus, we were too busy killing things to fuck. Right?
* * * *
“All’s clear,” Garrity said. We’d given the inside of my house a once over.
The good news with the infection was folks got sick first. High fever, lethargic, sores, coma even. It was pretty easy to spot them if you paid attention. And then if they did die and rise back up, you could take care of business. Problem was that apparently a lot of folks had no one paying attention to them, or they were living with people who couldn’t stomach the taking care of business part. Which I can totally understand, truth be told.
“Thanks for the help. I want a long, hot shower and then a long, deep sleep.”
“Sounds good. Got room for company?”
I opened my mouth but no sound came out. “I—”
“Do you really have to think about it?”
No! But then again, yes…
“Of course,” I joked. “I don’t go jumping into the shower with just any guy.”
“And I’m not just any guy,” he said, tracing the zipper of my black hoodie with his fingertip. Garrity is the kind of guy who takes up space—big, broad, imposing, huge—all of those adjectives worked for him. “I wasn’t just any guy when we were serving up Polar Berry slushies, and I’m not just any guy now.”
“But you lust after the meat whacker, too.” He grinned. Clever description of Cahill. Made him sound both perverse and silly. Honestly, Garrity won hands down. There were feelings there for him, real ones. Cahill was just a hot, hot friend that I wanted to fuck. But I’d never tell Garrity that. He’d probably run around yelling I won! I won!
I rolled my eyes. “I think you’re both…” I trailed off. We were whispering because my mother was apparently asleep already. Her bedroom door had been shut when we came home so I tried to keep my voice down. The whole effect was that of a teenager sneaking in after curfew ended.
“Nifty? Sweet? Groovy? Fun?” He laughed.
“Hey, Poppy Cooper, kiss me,” he said and tugged my hoodie hard enough to make me stutter-step forward.
“Garrity,” I sighed. “Christ.”
He shook his head. “Unh-unh. Something about watching you dispatch creepers gets my blood pumping.”
He pulled me in, and I considered raising my objections. But then his lips touched mine, and I sort of oozed against him in a highly embarrassing way and got lost in that kiss. I kissed him back after a moment. It was our first kiss. All the flirting and sexual tension made it so intense, I felt like I was vibrating. I felt that kiss in my entire body. Scalp to toe and all the naughty, willing places in between.
“Let me in, Poppy. Let me in your room. Let me in your bed,” he muttered, pulling that traitorous zipper south.
“Garrity, I can’t. My mom…she’s sleeping and…”
He laughed outright, and I heard something in the distance. We both stilled, listening. Could be a roaming creeper, if so, our neighborhood watch would notice and call it in. When the noise stopped, I managed to pull free from him.
“And I’m beat,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to take you to bed and make you—”
“I need a shower!” I blurted. “Creeper brains.”
He cocked his head at me. “I’m not going to win this, am I?”
“No,” I sighed, grateful he saw it now.
“But I will win soon,” he said, leveling a finger at me before taking it and sliding it along my lower lip so that I felt the tug of arousal between my legs.
“I don’t doubt it.” It was the honest-to-God truth.
“Be safe. Lock up. I’ll come pick you up in the morning. Not sure what we’re working tomorrow. But someone somewhere is overrun with zombies. Infestation.”
“Wow, that’s so peppy.”
“Sad, but true, Poppy,” he said.
“Sleep well,” I said, guilt staining me on the inside. I wanted to try to explain to him just how much I actually wanted him. But I sucked at that stuff.
“You, too.” He started for the porch steps and hesitated. “Last chance to take advantage of me. Change your mind and lead me upstairs and ravage me like the easy man that I am.”
I snorted and covered my mouth. “Good night, Garrity.”
“Goodnight, Poppy Cooper.”
And he was gone. I watched his big, lumbering, ugly-ass green truck pull away and patted my pockets. I had my cell, I had my gun. I crept inside being as quiet as I could and locked the bathroom door behind me. I would take a long hot shower and then hit the sack.
It was just what the doctor ordered. You know, before reporting for duty tomorrow morning to dispatch a bunch of dead things.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
It's the bit where Melissa McCarthy's character says to Kirsten Wiig's character that she has a best friend right here, in her. And it wasn't a fake, sappy moment, and it wasn't the point where Annie turned all of her life around. It was just this weird, plain-faced girl saying to some other girl - I'm your friend.
And I just found that so...I don't know. Overwhelming. Same thing when the pretty one said she had no female friends. In fact, the whole film had this undercurrent of how hard it is to actually make friends and have them stick by you no matter what and so and so forth, and for some reason that really affected me.
In fact, I'm not even going to say "for some reason" there. I'm just going to flat out state it: I can completely relate to that. It's not because I'm too weird, either, because although there's an element of that, I know it's mainly my fault. I'm annoying, I'm abrasive. I say all the wrong things and then only later am sensible of saying the wrong things but have absolutely no idea how to apologise about them because if I apologise, it will seem as though I knew I was saying something bad in the first place.
I try to give advice, but it just comes out like I'm being a know-it-all. All my life I've been a know-it-all, and the thing about being one is you can't stop yourself. You try, but there's just so much stupid stuff in your head that most of it keeps leaking out and then it's all fuck you, apple polisher.
I am a social dunderhead.
So I guess what I'm saying is: it was really nice to see a movie where someone as wonderful as Melissa McCarthy, someone actually stranger than myself, got to be onscreen in all of her plump, weird, mad clothes wearing no make-upped glory, and was not only held up as something fun and interesting but also as a decent person. Who then just flat out asked someone else to be BFFs with them.
I don't think anyone's ever asked me to be their BFF. I can't even imagine what I would do if Melissa McCarthy asked me to be hers. It would probably make my life, because not only is she an absolutely orsum human being in Bridesmaids - she takes nine puppies! She identifies an air marshal correctly and then sleeps with him! - she's pretty much the most brilliant best friend in everything she's in.
In Gilmore Girls, she put up with Lorelai even though Lorelai is pretty much an insufferable human being ninety percent of the time. I mean I love her, and she's funny and smart and cool to watch, but in reality she would have probably driven someone as sweet as Sookie nuts in about thirty seconds and then Lorelai would have had to go live in her Mother's basement with ninety cats, or summat.
Which is undoubtedly my fate. I mean, once the zombies invade my husband has absolutely no chance - he won't even practice barring all the doors! - and all of the friends I do have are either equally as zombie unsavvy or live miles away. And though I'd like to say that I'd be able to cross the apoclaypse ravaged landscape and get to the three other people who can stand me in all the world, I know the truth.
I'd hide in a basement somewhere, with ninety cats.
But you know, I don't think it was just the friendship thing that so affected me about Bridesmaids. There was something else about it - something like the heralding of a new dawn. There were women on screen, doing things I've never seen women doing before.
And no, I don't mean the shitting in the street thing. I mean stuff like...sleeping with some guy in a self-destructive way but totally knowing it and doing it anyway. I mean like hitting rock bottom and not having some dude drag you out. In reality, there rarely IS some dude. There's usually nothing and you really do end up living with your mum, without a job or a life or any friends.
Not every woman is Jennifer Lopez in the Back Up Plan, whose biggest problem is that ALEX O'LOUGHLIN IS KIND OF UNSURE ABOUT RAISING BABIES THAT ARE NOT HIS.
I mean, really? Really? I'd be happy just to smell Alex O'Loughlin's breath. After he put it in a jar and mailed it to me. That's right: I'd be happy with secondhand O'Loughlin breath, that's really probably just a fart his assistant trapped in there, for a laugh.
I don't like "chick flicks" because for the most part, they're not aimed at any chick I know. They don't represent me. I don't even particularly like them in an escapist, glossy sort of way because in order for me to buy things like "she has to choose between Armie Hammer and Jon Hamm to raise her quintuplets" I need to believe in her.
But I believe in Kristen Wiig. I believe in Melissa McCarthy. Dear God, I hope they do a sequel, quick.
*I accept that you might cry at different, normal things. Like accidentally cutting your finger off, for example.
Friday, June 24, 2011
So I feel they deserve to be thanked, in the form of my copious and almost disgusting levels of drool slopped over them both.
And yes, that is a graphical representation of my saliva all over them. Of course, MS Paint has its limitations, so this saliva sort of looks a little less like spit and a little more like...um...some other sort of bodily secretion. But that's okay, because I do feel that if my mouth could ejaculate, it would definitely do so over both of these two gentlemen.
I mean, just look at them. And now imagine them doing stuff to the heroine. And maybe also to each other. The mind can barely take such hotness, right? I think I went temporarily insane, writing this book.
Note to self: must cast less handsome men as my heroes, in my imagination. Next time I swear to God I'm going to write about Michael York doing Clint Eastwood. Even though just thinking about that pairing makes me do the opposite of a mouth-ejaculation. It makes me mouth-withdraw. Literally, all of my face sucks back into my body, in abject horror.
Sort of like I've sucked on a crusty, weird bum-faced Michael York/Clint Eastwood shaped lemon.
But anyway, I digress. About something so insane I can't even sum it up in a few words.
Back to Kieran and Tommy, who I genuinely believe have brought me back to writing life. No, seriously. I know that a menage novella about discovering your husband's naughty habits might not seem like an earth-shattering, writing-changing sort of event. But it really has been, for me.
I thought I'd lost it. I thought I no longer loved writing. But the inspiration of Armie Hammer and Michael Fassbender, coupled with a lot of watching of nature documentaries, some computer poker playing and a bout of tonsilitis has literally given me back some of my zest for it.
Of course, it might all go away tomorrow. It might. But for right now, I'm happy.
I'm a writer.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Thank you for buying my book on Wednesdays, on Saturdays, on any day you like. Thank you for buying them ten or twenty or even a billion weeks from release, when MindSuck has been replaced by The Brain Devourer and everyone is more than likely a slave on the planet Amazon.Com.
Just thank you.
All my love,
Monday, June 6, 2011
- Cries in anguished horror over his tortured, holocaust surviving, mind-fooked life. In some cases, he commits this crying while hugging another man. Now, I realise that many people do not find a crying man sexy. Many people also do not find a man hugging another man sexy. However, I am not one of those people. I wanted to steal his tears and keep them inside my underpants, like the horrifying witch from some story about children who are stolen from their beds and kept in gingerbread cages.
- Wears a skintight wetsuit. Michael Fassbender is a skilled artiste at the dance form known as Porn Bending. You do the math, here.
- Wears sweatpants. I fully admit that there is no math you could do for this one. Even I'm not sure why a man in sweatpants just does it for me. I think it's about the way something might dangle within the forbidden recesses of such loose fitting and comfortable material. Sweatpants lure men into a false sense of security. They think nothing's showing and then BAM. Giant swinging cock for all to see.
- Hunts Nazis like a Boss. Surely no explanation is needed for this. All I wanted to do after the movie was finished was see it's sequel: "Here Are The Ten Nazis You Didn't See Him Kill, In Even More Inventive Ways Than The Ones Who've Just Been On". Of course I realise this title is completely impractical, but it's just a working one, okay? In reality, Fox can call it something like "Magnetic Vengeance" or "Fookin' Nazis" or "When I'm Mad I Become Irish" or summat.
- Makes googly love eyes at Charles Xavier. Now, if you had told me three years ago that pretty soon, I'd be wetting my panties over the thought of Magneto and Professor X falling madly in love, I'd have wondered if you were subscribed to Old Men Monthly. I mean, Patrick Stewart's pretty sexy. And Ian McKellan's not that bad. But you can't escape the fact that they are elderly. 72 is a little past the place I'm prepared to go to. Where as Michael Fassbender and James McAvoy are both in the prime of life. Even if Fassbender occasionally looks 64.
All of which I think adequately sums up why I'm spending my time trawling the internet for suspect pr0n featuring Erik doing stuff to the various members of the X-Men. Especially that one mutant. You know - that weird one in the corner, whose power is intense chocolate consumption and the ability to watch a load of terrible sitcoms all night long.
And maybe some other power that's going to lure him in, too, like...I dunno. Vagina Eyes? Yeah, my mutant power is Vagina Eyes. Take THAT, Erik Lehnsherr.
Monday, May 30, 2011
But as I'm feeling extra generous, I thought I'd give away another copy. And the tiny bit of post-it told me that the second winner is...
And it seems I'm feeling even more extra generous than that, because if Saskia, Madelynne and David would like to pick another book out of my backlist, I'd be only too happy to send them a copy. I've got print copies of the anthos Fast Girls, Smooth, Orgasmic and Fairytale Lust. I've got ebook copies of Control, The Horizon, Past Pleasures, Tigerlily, Closer and Giving. Oh, and the anthologies Threefold and Master Me!
Just email me, guys, and I'll get those prizes out to you!
In further news, I did a blog on more zombie goodness over at Passionate Reads this week:
And it's got news of an amazing deal you can only get today. All Romance Ebooks are doing a 50% rebate, and Reawakening has already been released there! Buy it now and save loads of cash! Hooray!
And finally, a little bit of info as to where I am on the web this week. Loads of people were kind enough to offer me a space on their blog to promote Reawakening (much to my blubbering happiness), and you can view a few of my little jaunt around the tinternets here:
Justine Elyot: http://justineelyot.com/uncategorized/time-to-reawaken/
Hailey Edwards: http://haileyedwards.net/2011/05/charlotte/
Daisy Harris: http://www.thedaisyharris.com/reawakening-with-muthereffin-zombies-by-charlotte-stein
Erotica For All: http://eroticaforall.co.uk/new-erotica-releases/new-release-reawakening-forever-dead-series-book-one-by-charlotte-stein/
There'll be more coming, too!
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Yep, I put that title in there to make the competition sound more exciting than it probably is. What of it?
Though really, the competition is exciting enough on its own. I swear to God, it is. Enter, and you could win a night with the heroes of my latest zombie novel, Reawakening! They'll soothe away the stresses of the apocalypse, and do dirty things to you all the live long day, and even if all of this will only actually occur in my head, I'm sure you'll have a grand time.
And on top of this totally fictional prize, you could also win a copy of my book! Hurrah!
So what do you have to do to be in with a chance of winning this fabulous prize, I hear you cry? Well, it's more than simple. Just comment on this blog before Monday, and your name will go in a hat. And then I'll pick out a winner and et voila! One person will get fictional threesomes with Jamie and Blake, plus a free copy of my book.
And who knows, I may even throw in a second prize of the other eight million books I don't seem to have sent to any reviewers. I've got print copies of Control, anthologies like Threesomes and Fast Girls and Fairytale Lust. I've got all sorts!
And if you want some extra info about the book I'm talking about, or even if you just want to buy it right now and gain yourself my undying love forever, here is the link:
And a blurb:
June has spent the last two years of her life trying to avoid death at the hands of murderous psychopaths and ravening zombies. So when Jamie turns up on the scene, careless, still whole and promising her safety on a little paradise island, she isn’t quite sure she can trust him. Especially when he tells her that it’s just him, and his equally big, burly, handsome friend Blake.
But Jamie and Blake are even better than her wildest dreams—sweet and funny and charming. And worst of all: sexy as hell. Though they're trying to be gentlemanly with her, all she can think about is how much she wants to get tangled up in them, and forget the nightmare the world has become. She's waiting for her reawakening—back to life and happiness and love.
And they seem like just the right sort of men to wake her—body and soul.
And an excerpt:
All June could think was—Kelsey is dead, Kelsey is dead, Kelsey is dead—while the image of the ravening hordes feasting on Kelsey’s body played behind her eyes. She tried to shut it off, keep it down, keep running before they got to her, but Kelsey’s blood was still wet and all over her right arm.
And if Jamie hadn’t shot Kelsey—right as she was still screaming, and begging for help—she’d be one of them, now. That’s what happened. Once they bit you or bled on you or hell, spat on you, you had maybe thirty seconds.
Before you turned.
She needed to stop, just stop for a second. Lean against something and catch her breath. But Jamie had somehow led them into this building and he just kept running and running—only up instead of out.
June didn’t even know if Jamie was really his name, or if he was leading them right into a dead end. But he kept going, none-the-less.
She could hear the hordes, busting through the door below. He’d barred it, but they were coming in anyway, to this place that was an almost total deathtrap. The staircase was narrow and blanketed in darkness, one winding section after the next. Even if she dared to pause and look over the railing, she wouldn’t be able to see them until they were almost on her.
“Jamie, wait!” she shouted, but not because things would be easier if he had hold of her hand or was there to comfort her in this dire hour of need. She’d made it this far, on her own
Or at least, she’d made it this far, with Kelsey.
No, it was just that—if he kept going, eventually they’d be trapped, on the roof. And she couldn’t have that. That was one of her and Kelsey’s rules—don’t run to someplace with only one exit.
Only it was just her rule, now. This guy, this Jamie…he didn’t seem to have any rules. He’d decided to run to the roof of a twenty story building then potentially wait outside until the hordes pushed through a probably very flimsy fire door.
Kelsey had said to her. She had said—wait. He’s as crazy as they are. A safe island? He’s nuts. We can’t go with him. He’s probably an insane apocalypse rapist.
And she’d been right, God help her. Maybe not about the insane apocalypse rapist part, but even so and besides—there was still time for that. He could be anyone, be into anything. He could have planned this all along…Kelsey’s death, the run to the roof…hell, maybe he had a whole party of insane assholes up there, just waiting to do horrible things to her.
Even if that was as nuts as he now seemed. Why would he trap himself on the roof, just to have a little fun with her? Nothing in her head was functioning in quite the way it should. Connections had been lost. Wiring had come loose.
She still called out to him again, when they got to the level before the last one. Her voice came out hoarse and breathless, burning lungs making everything difficult, Kelsey in her mind making everything worse. But somehow the words emerged.
“Jamie, stop. Take the nineteenth floor exit, okay—we can go back down on the other side of the building—answer me, fuck!”
He did, then. She heard him call out over her own shrieking breaths, the pounding of her sneakers on stone, and the sounds of the once-were-people below, slathering and barking like animals.
There were two cracks, like he’d fired her gun into the stairwell. Though she couldn’t see where he was shooting or at what. Then—
“Just keep following me, June-bug—come on!”
Only it sounded more like come own, because of the Texan twang Kelsey had sworn up and down was fake. And he’d called her June-bug again, because he was crazy, he was crazy, oh dear Lord he was probably leading them to their deaths.
This was all just some final mad hurrah. He was suicidal, and this was how he wanted to go out. Death by stairs or death by zombies—because they were zombies, no matter how much she tried to pretend otherwise—or even worse, death by roof.
Was that what he was going to do? Hurl himself off? Plummet to his untimely end? She didn’t know. All she could really think about was how close the first ravening cannibal was getting, and how unfit she really was. She’d started believing all the cardio was really beginning to pay off, but as it turned out, eighteen flights of stairs and she was out for the count. Her heart clawed at her ribcage. Her thigh muscles screamed and screamed.
While her zombie pals kept coming and coming, as though the stairs were nothing, really. Why, leaping up eighteen flights was like a morning stroll to them! They could have climbed these stairs forever and still had the wherewithal to eat her innards, once they got their claw-like hands on her.
She hit the fire door to the roof just as one of said claw-like hands brushed the back of her shirt.
It made everything inside her leap, including the heart she’d thought had escaped. Whenever they got really close—that was when you realized just how terrible they were. How awful the world had become. How much it wasn’t like a movie at all, but like a constant and unbearable pressure against your sanity, always threatening to make you go over.
She felt like going over, when the door wouldn’t close on them. For a second of pushing and heaving with their hands coming through and all over her, her mind tried to fly away. It told her to start screaming uncontrollably, while clawing at herself—that doing so would really be her best bet. No more running constantly. No more pain over Kelsey—and before Kelsey, Joanne and Pat and the old lady whose name she never learned.
Just peace, finally. One moment of agony, then peace.
Only it wouldn’t be, would it? No, it wouldn’t be. If she stopped pushing at the door and jamming it at them and just God, let the door snap their arms, let it crush them, let it kill them all forever, if she stopped…they’d turn her into one of them. And no matter how much she tried to let it hurt her that Jamie had pointed the gun and shot Kelsey between the eyes, it didn’t. It couldn’t.
Being one of them was worse. After all, it could have been that they’d caught a disease. It might have been that they were infected with something—like in 28 Days Later, rather than Night of the Living Dead. But part of her wondered whenever she stared into their hollow, ink-black eyes, if they’d simply lost their souls.
He looked like it. The one who’d managed to squeeze his mottled face into the crack she was struggling to close in the door. He had no pupils, no irises, no whites to his eyes. It was all just blackness, empty and weirdly unseeing, as though they operated on no more than a bloodlust now. Like upright land sharks roaming the land, blindly searching out prey.
She wrenched the door from him for just an instant then smashed it back into his face. It was a risky move, but oh so worth it. Worth it for the satisfaction, worth it for Kelsey, worth it for everything these things had taken from everyone. People’s souls hadn’t left. These things had stolen them.
And when it slithered away and the door quite abruptly shut, the idea didn’t go with it. It stayed, and festered—so much so that she wanted to open the door for one mad moment, just to smash it back in their faces again, and again, and again.
She wanted to, but Jamie was calling to her. And other sounds were starting to flood through her now, too, other big, big sounds that she should have noticed ages ago.
At first she thought it was some kind of weapon. That he’d found a chainsaw or a pneumatic drill or a wood chipper. Something he’d known was up here all along for them to use against the enemy.
But then the wind whipped up and she turned to see something far more incredible than a zombie eating wood chipper. It was so incredible that she forgot the zombies battering on the fire door, for a second. They’d bust through it soon enough because although they couldn’t figure out handles, the sheer pressure of them would figure out the release bar.
Though it didn’t seem to matter. For the first time in these two years of hell, it didn’t matter. She found herself laughing out loud, high and probably hysterical.
Jamie had only gone and gotten himself a helicopter. And not only that, but he apparently knew how to fly a helicopter. The rotors were going. They were kicking up the fine gravel that lined the roof of whatever building this was, and he was yelling to her—
“Come on, June-bug, get your ass in here!”
She thought of him talking about the island. About his buddy who was waiting for them. How they’d just wanted to find survivors, and populate their safe haven, and how crazy that had sounded when he first started yakking about it.
Then she ran to him.