Mancandy Monday: Karen Walker

Yeah, you heard that right. My...uh..."man" candy of the day is about as manly as a pink ladyshave:




Though I hear tell that she has balls and was once a boy. (And yes, that IS Karen Walker aka Megan Mullally, from Will and Grace.)

Oh, Karen Walker! I hate you for making me watch Will and Grace, but I love you for being so damned sexy that I actually stop thinking about Brandon Routh/Lee Pace for ten seconds, just to imagine giving you a little kiss goodnight like Grace does.

And then gnawing on your mighty fine ass, like Jack does.

P.S. I am now hunkered down in the writing bunker, trying to get every single story that was ever in my head down on paper before April 6th, my deadline. So if I seemed to have died, Bertha, please don't call the authorities. You can come around and poke me with a stick after I've lobbed my ball of words at Adam Nevill.

Mancandy Monday: Azazeal

Here's the thing about my Mancandy Mondays - and, indeed, my man fancying in general - I don't actually fancy the actors I ramble about.

I've pondered this for a while, now. Should I put Mancandy Monday: Ned, From Pushing Daisies? Or is it simpler just to say Lee Pace, even if that isn't strictly true?

I fancy the characters, really. Not the actors. And so it goes with Michael Fassbender- or in other words, Azazeal from the godawful short lived Sky TV show Hex.

I mean, just check him out on this throne:



Wouldn't you perform demonic rites for him? He's always dead cruel in anything I cast him in, too, which is unusual for me. He holds a special cruel place in my imagination that's not permitted to other man-crushes. He's allowed to break out the riding crops and the handcuffs. He has a secret Bluebeard's room in my harem, that all the other menz try to break into.

But they never will, because it's only for cruel cruel bastwards like Azazeal. He makes bastwardy look cool and also truly sexy, with his almost accented icy voice drifting over me, and his eyes like glaciers.

Also everyone knows- those kids in Eden Lake? Would have got the pounding of a lifetime. As though you ever antagonise Azazeal! Morons.

No Sick Pay For You, Worker.

So I might have appendicitis. It's looking less and less likely, but still. Really made me think about how much we writers rely on our own good spirits/good health/morale. All I could think was: I've only finished ten stories, and half finished another five! What if I'm now in hospital for the next two weeks up to my deadline?!1!

Of course I realise that other writers have it far worse than me. Other writers have to live on their income, and if they're sick or feeling low they get whipped with chains by the Boss of the plant. The Boss writes reports on them: actually dared not to write 1000 words today! Am going to give them nothing but gruel.

And 1000 words is never enough. No bread if they don't try for a 1000 more every day!

I imagine. In fact, I don't imagine. I kind of know, if only on a small scale. I adore writing, I love it, I could never not do it. Every day I am grateful for my little bit of success. It's worth it to put up with the Boss because of all the lovely writing.

But the Boss still sucks, sometimes. Especially when you might have appendicitis.

Mancandy Monday: Lee Pace

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Mancandy Mon- Tuesday!

Okay, so I missed Mancandy Monday. I forgot, all right? Can't you forgive me, Bertha?

What do you mean, no-one could forgive the absence of Clive? Oh, okay. I see what you mean:

BAM!

Check him out. Just check him. Look at his swirling massive eyeballs of lust, swirling you into doing things you shouldn't. He's the kind of man who persuades you into having it off in a Marks and Sparks changing room, and then runs off with your underwear. He's the kind of man who would have sex with his sister (Close My Eyes) or a lactating hooker (Shoot 'Em Up). He looks like he'd start every filthy story with: so, I was in the middle of a girl sandwich, when...

He's just that bad, and craggy, and horny. Oh, Clive. I didn't love you until Closer, but then I understood. You might not be smooth and perfect and rippling with muscles, but your gun metal voice and your eyes like pale pools that somehow smolder at the same time get me every time.

Updates, With A Hint Of Dread

Yeah, I know I missed Mancandy Monday. I know it was meant to be Clive! But won't it be worth waiting for, Bertha, when I shove him out into the world next Monday?

So anyway, updates. Or: how Charlotte lets tiny things get to her and allows a cloud of dread to then form.

I've now written 62000 words for Things. Not a bad tally, and I'm finally starting to be happy with the ideas I'm coming up with and the stories I'm producing. In between I've done an actual chapter by chapter synopsis for the thing I'm hoping to submit to BL, but now I'm not so happy with the thing itself. Needs less humour, and more sex at the start, I feel.

I've had two stories accepted for BL's upcoming anthologies, too, as you may be able to see by the sidebar. Flexible (in Misbehaviour), a story about a man who kind of...teases a woman with his ambiguous sexuality, and Slut (in Sexy Little Numbers), which is about a guy who gets that label, rather than the girl. Really pleased with this, and with Adam's comments on Slut (which made me cry, just about), because I've been so worried about the way I am and the things I like to write about.

I'll probably never be popular. I don't write about the same things Lora Leigh does. But I'm still doing okay and that's so gratifying.

Even though my submission to Xcite books got the smack down. Which I feel okay about, because as the lovely Ella Regina reminded me- I do have my own book! It's so incredible that I have my own anthology, that the idea actually keeps falling out of my head. I'm a div.

Am also a div for letting this feeling of dread surround me. As soon as I get one bit of "bad" news, I always imagine that it's all downhill from here- in every aspect of my life. And sure enough, later on another bit of bad news turned up. So now I'm just waiting for my college to close and my foot to drop off and Black Lace to go bust (oh Jesus, touch that wood) and Clive Owen to be in a hideously disfiguring accident that smoothes out all of his crag and turns him into Brad Pitt.

Note to self: get a hold of self.

But enough about me. How are you?

Men: Part Two

Okay, so if you recall, Bertha (and I know you don't, having spent yesterday filing your nails into points and disregarding everything about everyone systematically), I did a blog on men and stuff I like about them.

And so now we come to specific men, and why they are made of an entirely new rhyme that does not contain puppy dog's tails and snails. Instead, my rhyme goes like this:

Men are made of worms
Not the real kind, though.
Fizzy worms.
And also chocolate.
They must be, because I want to eat them.
And that's what men are made of.

And okay, it's not a rhyme. But it is one hundred percent true, so shut up.

So, anyway. Specific men. Okay, first up, my all time top five hot dudes no take backs who I'm allowed to sleep with by order of my real husband, should I ever meet them and look like Angelina Jolie while doing the meeting.

1. Scott Cohen. He may be deposed as the Glorious Leader of My Pantslandia soon, however. Because coming up the rear (maybe literally) is:

2. Clive Owen. I will be talking more about Le Owen during next week's Mancandy Monday. Suffice to say, if reality suddenly became fantasy and the world turned on its head, he would be hit by a sexual tornado the likes of which no man has ever seen.

3. Nick Lea. You know. Alex Krycek off the X-Files (remember when he used to run around in the dark, whispering and sweating a lot while Mulder chased him? I wish he'd whisper and sweat all over me). Otherwise known as The Prettiest Man Alive Even Now When He's About 800 Years Old. He probably would sleep with me, he's now so old. My husband is so going to be sorry we made this deal like they did in Friends, when all my fake boyfriends are 97 and I totally get to score with them.

4. Sam Rockwell. You know what I like about Sam Rockwell? He rocks a good moustache. Also, he can dance. His dancing actually sets me ablaze. Plus I almost died recently when watching a clip from his upcoming stupid movie, and the girl's team he's coaching tell him off for calling another girl fat. And then the fumbling confused way he makes up for it in that fumbling confused voice of his! It makes me think he'd be fumbling and confused when I had SEX with his FACE.

5. Ryan Reynolds. Shut up. I liked him when he was skinny, all right. Not just because he now looks like he's made of a truck.

So that's my top five. And I feel they fairly represent what I love about men- certain types of men. I love men who are masculine, who can be rough and tough and strong. But I like it even better when they look like they might...bend. You know, into kinky shapes. They're funny and weird and odd and sometimes starkly vulnerable. They make you believe that they'd read self-help books to honestly better themselves and contain the beast within and get the girl of their dreams, they run around war torn areas in flip-flops and deliver millions of babies while bullets fly, they let other dudes constantly hurl them against things even though they're meant to be Russkie double agents, they dance and look confused and do the willy tuck. They're not afraid to play roles that are usually assigned to women.

They are everything I like about men.