Thursday, February 24, 2011

Here Is Me Writing At The Moment


"...and then they did some stuff that that that was was was was sexy."


"Prupt pern turg gargle whosa whatsin."

Shit fuck forgotten what words are HHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRNNNN:


Great. Shoved the words out of my head. Now there are only a random bunch of symbols and what looks like a large underline.


"My penis has vaginas."

Wrong order brain. Squeeze harder, come on. I'll give you orange Aero and midget gems and Twitter and men going herp-derp-herp look how big I am!


"My vagina would like your penis."

Yeeeeeeeeeesssss! Hooray! Victory is mine etc etc now give me the goddamn midget gems.

*Brain noises may not be accurate.

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

My New Top Five

So there has been a lot of upheaval in my life, over the last few years. A lot of changes, many things going on. Bad things happening, good things happening, etc. But amongst these changes, none is more important that the complete re-ordering of my top five men I'm allowed to sleep with if I magically dared to actually meet any of them (which I wouldn't) and they magically went insane.

Yes, I'm talking about my laminated top five. Hubby has argued that I should not be allowed to create a new laminate and throw away the old one, but as I pointed out to him the old one had Vin Diesel on it so shut up.

So here is my new one. No take backs. No swapsie-changies. My top five hot dudes:

1. Sharlto Copley

This one is fairly obvious, I feel. I crushed on him for so long that the hubster started calling him "Husband Number Two". As you may now be aware, my hubby is extremely understanding and also, Sharlto Copley is very, very, very hot. And I find him so for various reasons, chief amongst them being that he has played one of my favourite TV characters of all time - Murdock - he's handsome without being overbearing about it, he's wiry and interesting and always has this insane light in his eyes, and his real accent is sexy in a way I can't even fathom. I long to write my sci-fi epic starring him, but fear that no-one will ever want it ever. Sara Megibow expressed an interest in my query for it, but then saw it and quite possibly ran away screaming. I do not blame her for this; she was very kind. It is just that mad.
2. Zachary Quinto

Again, pretty obvious. Like all my enduring man-crushes, Mr Quinto just has that flexibility in my head. He can be steely and dark, ala Sylar. But more importantly, he can be submissive with a core of steel, ala Gabriel Gray. Plus, he seems as horny as fuck, which is always welcome. Of all my top five, Quinto gives the best head-sex.
3. Ryan Reynolds

I debated whether or not to keep Ryan in, but ya know, he's been around a long time, now- ever since Two Guys and a Girl. He's my glory of the eighties. My good go-to friends to lovers guy. I can't leave him now, just as he's all superhero mega star. That would just seem like being shallow in reverse. Which is probably a good thing when I really think about it but I don't care. Still love ya, Ryan!
4. Nick Lea

And the longest holder of the esteemed title of "On Charlotte Stein's Fuck List"? Mr Nick Lea ladies and gentlemen, give him a round of applause. Yep, Nick Lea has been on my list ever since I first fell for Alex Krycek a hundred years ago, and he's held on by virtue of never aging and continuing to be in stuff that makes him sexy, like that ridonkulous made for TV movie Deadly Isolation. I swear to God, I built a new obsession around him just based on that dumbass movie. But seriously, check out the plot:

Grieving over the death of her "perfect" husband Ron, Susan Mandaway (Sherilyn Fenn) exiles herself to the couple's summer home in Maine. Her self-imposed solitude is interrupted by the arrival of an affable (editor's note: this is a euphemism for "so hot he chokes my vagina") fellow who introduces himself as Jeff Watkins (Nicholas Lea), and who claims to be an old college chum of Ron. Only too late does Susan discover that "Jeff" is an escaped convict, who in concert with his partner is after the $10 million in diamonds that he helped Ron steal.

I mean, what? What? Was that plot made for an erotic romance, or am I crazy? I just wanted Sherilyn Fenn to go to town on his ass all the way through, and whenever I watch it to the end I'm like noooooo don't kill him! You're supposed to have a HEA! Just take out that bit where he snaps someone's neck and this romance is GOLD.

5. Alternate

Look, right. My hubby is not that hard done by. He fancies Kesha, for God's sake, and she looks so much like John Travolta that it actually frightens me that he fancies her. See:

Lord knows I've tried to steer him towards Mila Kunis or Kelly Brook, but oh no no. He has to fancy a person who seems to have no soul, literally. All she sings about is getting drunk! Doesn't she care about anything else?

But I digress. About Kesha. When what I really wanted to say was: yes, I'm allowed an alternate. I know it breaks the rules and clearly means that I'm just allowed to sleep with anyone, but as I'd never actually really sleep with anyone else because hubby is orsum even tho he fancies John Travolta's uglier brother, I think I'm allowed.

So my alternate at the moment is, of course, Armie Hammer. Which is really just an excuse for me to put up various pictures of different parts of him, most of them rude.

Look, a nipple!

His giant hand!

It's not rude, but I know you're imagining it doing rude things right now don't lie. I mean, he's about three inches away from titty, there. And even if you had mega titty, you know that hand could just swallow it right up like the shark eating Quint at the end of Jaws.

His face!

My God, how I want to have sex with it!

And here endeth this completely weird and uninteresting to anyone but me and Bertha post.

Mancandy Wednesday: Armie Hammer

First of all, check out that name. I mean, seriously. Who has a name like that? Outside gay porn? It sounds like he wants to hammer you with his armie. His armie is probably ten feet long and three feet wide, and he has to loop it like a length of elastic to fit it into his pants.

And you can tell this because of my magical theory of penis ratios. Don't laugh. The theory is completely solid. It has algebra and things like that, see:

ld + om - a = gsc

Where "ld" is laidback dude and "om" is overall massiveness and "a" is aggression, then gsc is obviously "giant swinging cock". It's a proven scientific fact. The angrier a guy is and the more out to prove himself he seems, the less likely it is that he has a big one.

And Armie Hammer seems so calm and still he's practically a statue. He's like James Spader - all melting molten metal voice and those eyes, full of some kind of strange unguessable inner life - only absolutely massive and blonde and massive and oh Jesus. Jesus. How have I not noticed this person before? How can it be that I've missed a more attractive version of James Spader??

Because he totally is. His mouth is both plumper and meaner, all at the same time. His eyes are like great glassy worlds, assessing you with their planetary-ness. He has huge broad shoulders and hands that could probably crush James Spader's head, and when he talks my loins freeze and crack like that bit at the end of Alien 3 when the burning liquid steel gets poured on the xenomorph. My loins are a cracking, boiling xenomorph. Armie's voice is liquid steel.

So how have I not known of this incredible creature before right now?

Oh yeah. Because he's TWENTY-FOUR.

And yes, I know he doesn't exactly look twenty-four. He's got a hairy chest and he's six foot five and he's got those ancient universe James Spader eyes that age him by at least five years. Or so I tell myself. In the dead of night while hugging myself and crying.

But even so he's younger than any guy I've ever crushed on. He's younger than guys I crushed on when I was twenty-four. When I was that age I crushed on guys in their thirties, guys in their fifties, guys in their seventies, for fuck's sake. I never crushed on guys who couldn't legally rent a car. I never liked boyband dudes or non-threatening boys called Corey.

I liked men, and have always liked men, and am very disturbed by this development. It probably means I'm turning into a cougar or something like that, but Jesus Christ can you blame me?

Look at him:

No really, look:

Lord I want to climb inside his pants with my face. I want to re-enact every James Spader film with him a million times, but most especially Wolf and White Palace and yeah okay probably Crash, too. We can get mangled together in a car and then do weird things to each other's leg braces. We can look all haughty and indifferent and desensitised by the modern age, before having weird anal sex in a melted airplane. Or something.

Either way, I'm damned grateful for Armie Hammer. When God closes a door, he opens a giant, James Spader shaped window.

Friday, February 11, 2011

Indigo Skye

Have you seen this? Check this out:

Yeah. That's what I like to see. In all honesty, I'd buy this just based on the cover alone. The fact that it's called Her Captive Muse and is written by the fabulous Indigo Skye is just the icing on the cake, really.

But oh no wait there's more. That's right: she's running a fab competition and the details are all here:

To celebrate the release of Her Captive Muse, Indigo Skye is running a contest for her readers! Enter for a chance to win a $25 gift card from Eden Fantasys and a copy of Her Captive Muse. Visit her blog for details...

Hooray! Though by this point, I know you want to know more about her. So I've got a bio of her fabulousness right here:

Indigo Skye is a writer, photographer and visionary living in the American Southwest. When she's not writing steamy stories, you'll find her on the trail- hiking in the mountains and visiting ancient ruins. Her first novel, Her Captive Muse, was just released by Noble Romance Publishing. She is currently penning a sequel, and is hard at work on a collection of short erotic fiction and poetry. Her short story, "True Confession," was published in the erotica anthology, Uniform Behavior, edited by Lucy Felthouse. Her fiction has been widely published online. She blogs at and tweets @indigoinkandart.

And even better, a delicious free read of hers! I've got a little teaser for you here, and then if you pop on over to Erotica For All (most brilliant of all sites) you'll find the rest:

The Man Downstairs, by Indigo Skye

My first night in my new apartment, I decide to throw a huge housewarming party for all of my old friends- and my new neighbors. It’s a great bash, and being newly single, I’m eager to get some action and christen my new bedroom.

On my own after a nasty breakup, I’m ready for some single-girl fun. My best friends, Mandy and Chris, are here to cheer me on, get me drunk, and introduce me to all the available guys in the vicinity.

“What about the guy with the ponytail?” Chris asks, yelling to be heard over the blaring house music.

“Ew, no! You must be drunk,” I tell her. “He’s ancient. And, FYI, Chris, that’s a comb-over, not a ponytail.”

“You’re cut off,” Mandy teases her, taking away Chris’s beer and swilling half of it herself. “Beer goggles, beer goggles, beer goggles,” she chants, downing the rest at a go. I laugh as they continue to fight. They fight like sisters- with much humor, and great love for each other.

“You two work it out. I’m going outside for a smoke,” I tell Mandy.

“I thought you quit,” she says, narrowing her green eyes at me in an evil glare. “Is this a drunk cigarette, or are you starting again?” she asks, hands on her hips.

“It’s definitely a drunk cigarette.” They both give me suspicious looks, which makes them seem more like sisters than ever. “It is. I’ve got two left in my emergency pack and when they’re gone, I’m quitting again.” I give them both big hugs and say, “Find someone cute for me to flirt with.”

I slip outside on a warm wave of party-laughter. The porch is crowded, so I edge past them and down the stairs to the little courtyard below. It’s beautiful in the moonlight, with pepper-trees and rose-vines bordering a small labyrinth of white stones.

A chill breeze blows over me as I open the gate and enter the deserted little courtyard. There’s a little gazebo under the boughs of an ancient pepper tree near to hand, and I venture inside for shelter from the wind. I’m hoping to get out of the wind long enough to light my cigarette. It’s dark in there, all overgrown with rose-vines, and I take a seat in one of the wrought iron chairs. I dig through my purse, finally locating my emergency cigarettes. But I can’t seem to to find my lighter. Not even a cheap pack of matches from a bar. Nothing.

“Damn it,” I mutter, cigarette bobbing between my expectant lips.

“Need a light?” I look up, startled, and see a dark figure emerge from the shadows beneath the pepper tree...

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Mancandy Tuesday: Alexei Kruschniev

Now if you know me well enough, you'll probably have an idea of who I'm talking about here. But since not even Bertha cares to know me well (she's always screaming urgh! It's dank and sticky in there! I don't want to stay in your mind Charlotte no don't make me!) I think I'm going to have to explain.

I don't want to, though. Mainly cos it's embarrassing. But at this point my whole life is just one huge embarrassing mess so what the hell, here goes. Alexei Kruschniev is actually Alex Krycek from the X-Files, who I loved so much that I actually invented a fake Russian name for him, in my head.

That's right. I had whole great worlds going on in the alternate X-Files that lurks within the dank recesses of my mind (Bertha: see. I told you it was dank!), and I did things like invent a massive Russian past for him complete with mountains and a stupid name and things that are probably sooooo not Russian that it's embarrassing not just for me, but for Russia. I mean, I know that the name Alexei Kruschniev is about as Russian as an idiotic moron from West Yorkshire. I know it. It sounds like chicken kiev, for a start.

I named the Alex Krycek in my head after an ill-made item of food that no-one wants to eat. What was wrong with you, fifteen year old self?

But God, how I loved him. I remember vividly starting out in love with Mulder, and buying the video boxsets with the express purpose of ogling him forever and ever. But then somewhere around the episode Apocrypha, I knew things were starting to shift in Krycek's favour. I mean, just look:

You can understand, can't you, Bertha? He was deadly and dangerous and a Russkie double agent. He had eyes that were too wide set and an upper lip that seemed to rise steeply over his teeth and for a long while, I thought he was the most perfect looking man to ever exist. In fact, I kind of still do think that. There's just something about the combination of his different features that still gets me every time, even though objectively, he's a bit hamster-like. Also, he's never done a shirtless scene and I sorta suspect that he's a little chunky or at least has a weird tattoo just above his navel.

Not that things like that bother me. Nothing about Alex Krycek bothers me. He's my Russkie double agent super spy, who has lived a whole other X-Files in my head- so much so that sometimes, it's almost as though I have a set of memories for things I never actually lived or watched. I can remember all the stuff I shoved into my ridiculous 300 page fanfiction just as clearly as I can remember real life events, which seems at best, ridiculous.

At worst, completely mental. No-one should ever have memories of apartments that don't exist and events that didn't really happen, especially when the events are so totally ludicrous. Aliens! Sex under heating vents! More aliens! Doppelgangers! Being punched on trains! Someone as handsome as Alex Krycek crossing oceans of time for what was, essentially, my Mary-Sue!

And yet I do think about it, often. I think about being that fifteen year old girl, who somehow so believed that her life would turn out to be something exciting and wonderful. I mean, she wasn't daft or mental enough to believe that Alex Krycek was really going to turn up one day and tell her that actually, aliens had wiped her brain and replaced it with another one and then mysteriously decided to make her a boring nobody with nothing going for her until one day the Goblin Ki- he comes along and whisks her away to Made-Up Russia.

But I am crazy enough to know that the reason I think about those fake memories so often is because I know I let her down. I didn't even finish writing the Fake X-Files. I kind of want to write them today - names changed of course and less about people who bleed fizzy green pop - but something in me puts a halt to that all the time, now. Those days of writing that clumsy, silly, but ultimately bristling and electric fanfiction are long, long gone.

I reread it, and could hardly believe it was me. All those punchy sentences. God, what a glorious bitch the heroine was! A glorious, bloodthirsty, inescapable bitch, like something I wrote while on the top of Mount Doom, typewriter clenched between my teeth, all the fury in the world in me like that howling chaos whirlwind thing from the Red Dwarf books.

And now there's just this. That me is gone and I'm just this...this wet, cowardly milquetoast who could never be the equal of Alexei Kruschniev. I could never write the character as I wrote him then, because he wanted someone angry and all I can give him is simpering, silent, afraid.

God I want to rage, rage, rage against the dying of this light.