I'm working this afternoon instead of this morning, which is a bit of a drag, but right now I'm sitting in bed with a clutch of books around me, courtesy of Cleis Press and some review copies. I've a beautiful book on veggie growing, and two feel the fear and do it anyway type books that might encourage me to ... get out of bed, or at least do something more productive therein. And I've Alison Tyler's Twisted, which I failed to submit to, which makes me sad, as there's a lovely ToC of accomplished writers, and the first story by Jax Baynard is just ... it's excellent. The voice, the detail, the writing style... it makes me very happy, as it's just completely opposite to the lazier style of story I might sometimes indulge in... sex scenes without much behind them, no writery balls. I don't really know how to describe what I mean, but I know this story has both delighted me and put me to shame, and stalled my current up-against-a-deadline plan in its tracks, because I don't want to write something nothingy, or twee. I want to write grown-up, like this story. It's called Foundation Stone. I don't know if the rest of the book could possibly measure up, if it does, I may have to quit altogether. Reviews to come...
Thursday, March 27, 2014
Monday, March 17, 2014
Helena Hunting and a love story of tattoos and healing and hotness
I'm weeks late with this post, but I still want to do it! Why? Because some years ago, I read this Twific story called Clipped Wings and Inked Armour and it utterly blew me away. It was intense and beautiful and funny and totally evocative. Its author ramped up tension until contact was finally, finally made, and the description of his tongue ring travelling up her neck made me shiver with a completely physical reaction to its contact on my own very sensitive neck. Ahhh, fabulous.
I was chatting to the author and one point, and hesitantly mentioned a breastfeeding network group I was involved in - you never know if breastfeeding mentions will upset people, and online, it's hard to know who you're talking to. I quickly found out, though: 'Oh, I have a breastfeeding group too! It's called TITS OUT IN BRAMPTON!' Canadians... you do gotta love them, they're so way more evolved than Irish people :)
So, Helena Hunting is queen of breastfeeding, cupcakes, tats and piercings and sweepingly transcendent sex scenes. I haven't read the edited, published versions of these books yet (Christ, just wrote 'these boobs' and earlier, 'Clipped Wongs') but I will, I will, because I've been waiting for them for years now, through all the 50 Shades success, and thinking why has that woman not got incredibly famous and successful yet? I hope you'll help her to, because her tale telling is just fabulous.
She's taking over Sub Club Books facebook page at some point today, not exactly sure what the time translates as. And here are a big long lot of deets for you to peruse:
I was chatting to the author and one point, and hesitantly mentioned a breastfeeding network group I was involved in - you never know if breastfeeding mentions will upset people, and online, it's hard to know who you're talking to. I quickly found out, though: 'Oh, I have a breastfeeding group too! It's called TITS OUT IN BRAMPTON!' Canadians... you do gotta love them, they're so way more evolved than Irish people :)
So, Helena Hunting is queen of breastfeeding, cupcakes, tats and piercings and sweepingly transcendent sex scenes. I haven't read the edited, published versions of these books yet (Christ, just wrote 'these boobs' and earlier, 'Clipped Wongs') but I will, I will, because I've been waiting for them for years now, through all the 50 Shades success, and thinking why has that woman not got incredibly famous and successful yet? I hope you'll help her to, because her tale telling is just fabulous.
She's taking over Sub Club Books facebook page at some point today, not exactly sure what the time translates as. And here are a big long lot of deets for you to peruse:
Summary
Their body art is hot. Their chemistry is even hotter.
From her dark hair sweeping below her waist to her soft, sexy curves, Tenley Page intrigues tattoo artist Hayden Stryker in a way no one else ever has…especially when she asks him to ink a gorgeous, intricate design on her back. Yet for all her beauty, there is something darkly tragic and damaged about Tenley that Hayden is everything.
Covered in ink and steel, Hayden is everything Tenley has never dared to want, awakening a desire to explore more than the art adorning his stunning body. Trapped by a past that leaves her screaming from nightmares, Tenley sees Hayden as the perfect escape. Although he has secrets too, if they both keep themselves guarded perhaps their intense physical connection will remain only that.
But nothing, not even passion, can keep them safe from their pasts…
Their body art is hot. Their chemistry is even hotter.
From her dark hair sweeping below her waist to her soft, sexy curves, Tenley Page intrigues tattoo artist Hayden Stryker in a way no one else ever has…especially when she asks him to ink a gorgeous, intricate design on her back. Yet for all her beauty, there is something darkly tragic and damaged about Tenley that Hayden is everything.
Covered in ink and steel, Hayden is everything Tenley has never dared to want, awakening a desire to explore more than the art adorning his stunning body. Trapped by a past that leaves her screaming from nightmares, Tenley sees Hayden as the perfect escape. Although he has secrets too, if they both keep themselves guarded perhaps their intense physical connection will remain only that.
But nothing, not even passion, can keep them safe from their pasts…
Sunday, March 16, 2014
The Suitcase
@EA-Unadorned has a story competition running, which is very mighty of him, and I thought I'd enter to practice forcing myself to write something - much obliged for the opportunity!
It flowed in one perfect, inconceivable swoop, I got out of the plane first, walked to the conveyer belt and there was my red suitcase trundling towards me. I reached out as it passed, both of us in motion, and swiped it and carried on out the green door, through arrivals and on out into the fresh day, congratulating myself on such a smooth exit.
Twenty minutes later I was ensconced in my very comfortable hotel room, unzipping my case to get my wash bag, and lay out my merchandise for tomorrow's sales meeting. I tugged open the lid and was greeted by jewel coloured, lacy lingerie. My thoughts stuttered still for a second, confusion reigning. Who put ladies' underwear in my bag? It's not my bag. I took the wrong bag! I rummaged as gently as I could, looking for contact info. My hand came into contact with something cool, and hard and I pulled out what could only be described as a small urn. Good Jesus. A squeamish peep inside confirmed the worst. Ashes. I felt myself pale. I'd stolen the bag of a grieving mother, had kidnapped the cremated loved one she was presumably carrying home to bury. And in turn, she would have picked up my suitcase, which she would find full of... buttplugs. Dildos and buttplugs and all the rest of the sex toys I was bringing to showcase to a company here in the city.
I started to feel sweaty prickles of horror making their way down the back of my neck. I'd really excelled myself here. The phone rang and I snatched it up. A call for me from a Ms Linderson. I accepted it and a young woman's clipped tones filled my ear. She had my bag, did I possibly have hers? She sounded amused rather than offended. Perhaps it was the shock. Could we meet and exchange? She'd come to me. Thirty minutes. I gave her my room number and she rang off without another word.
I paced 'til the knock at the door came, then answered it all but ringing my hands. The woman who entered was not the broken, be-headscarfed mother I'd conjured in my head, but very much the owner of the beautiful lingerie. Her brunette hair was twisted into a glossy chignon, and she was wearing a business suit, pencil skirt and tailored jacket over the crispest of white shirts. Several buttons were open to reveal a corset like top beneath. Her shining heels were breathtaking. I started to stutter an apology, and proffered her bag. She stared at me cooly, one eyebrow raised.
'So, Mr. Davis, you've caused me a lot of trouble. Had me chasing round town. And I opened what I thought was my case to find such... naughty things...' She propped a hand on one hip, looking at me with what could only be described as a stern twinkle. 'How are you going to make it up to me?'
The world slid. I was on more familiar, if unexpected ground.
'Any way I can, Ms Linderson.'
And so I found myself making reparation on my knees on the bed, face in the pillow and hands taped behind my back. Ms Linderson and stripped me without hesitation and snatched a roll of bondage tape from the collection in my bag, securing my hands with deft skill. It seemed she was a woman of experience. Her snapped out commands spoke directly to my hind-brain, bypassing any rational argument about us being strangers, and dropping me deep into an automatic submission I couldn't have struggled out of if I'd wanted to. I was utterly exposed, legs spread on the bed, cock rock-hard already and cheeks growing a happy pink as she spanked them with stinging slaps. Ms Linderson paused her punishment to run long nails up the the underside of my cock, the seam of my sack and tickle over my perineum. I squirmed on the bed, my anus twitching at the proximity of her touch, cheeks throbbing gently from her ministrations. I was desperate to rub against something.
'Such a pity you don't have a paddle in your collection, Gareth. Happily, I tend to come prepared. She bent to her bag, and a swishing noise echoed in the room. 'Hmm?' I craned around to see her holding a short, whippy stick. I whimpered, and she ran the implement along my face in what she might have assumed to be a soothing gesture. Or maybe menace was the effect she was after. 'Ah, now, Gareth,' she cooed into my ear. 'You've told me what you wanted, no?' It was true, I had. Within minutes of walking in the door, she'd stripped me of my clothes and extracted my stammered, blushing desires from me. 'So just a little warm up,' she said, 'I do like a boy to be sensitive, before I get to know him better.'
The little hand held cane tapped and flicked against my thighs, not quite hurting as it fell but building into a sting. She whipped it up and down my thighs, stroking and slapping, tenderising the sensitive skin inside my legs. I writhed and pulled my legs closed and was rewarded with a proper stroke that made me yelp and shuffle back into position. She pulled my thighs wider, her nails scraping against my reddened legs. She moved her attentions to my buttocks, holding one me open with one hand between my legs, knuckles brushing my balls as her stick smacked down, too fast to keep count. I groaned as she switched between them, spreading the heat and the sting. She stopped and I took a deep breath, only to feel the cane sliding between my cheeks, stroking, the tip tickling my hole. 'Ready, Gareth?'
I moaned, but I nodded, and she started slapping the delicate skin around my asshole, the tapping vibrated into my prostate and made my cock throb. The slaps increased in pressure and it was hard to stay still. I so wanted to be good for her. Finally she started to land the strokes right between my cheeks, slapping and rubbing the cane right on my hole. My breath started to come in open-mouthed sobs, and my ass was opening for her in response. The whipping stopped. I could hear her tearing a lube packet open with her teeth, as the cane kept stroling over my reddened, swollen hole. 'Reach down and spread those cheeks for me, little slut.' I moved my hands to my heated cheeks as best I could, and shuddered as the cool lube hit my burning skin. Her fingers rubbed it in, circling my ass, pushing deeper. She pushed against the tightness and her finger slid inside, pumping into me firmly. She quickly added another, and fucked me with two slick fingers while I held myself open for her.
I was starting to groan and push against her when she snapped her fingers in front of my closed eyes. I opened them to see one of our own plugs in front of me. She pushed it into my mouth, getting it spitty, then pulled it out. She pulled her fingers from me, and replaced them with the tip of the fairly sizeable plug. She hadn't gone for one of the smaller ones. 'This is what happens when you present a woman with a suitcase full of sex toys, my dear.' I would have laughed, but everything I had was focused on the heat and pressure in my ass as the plug twisted in. 'Knees, on the floor.' Ms Linderson snapped her fingers again. I slid of the bed, onto my knees, facing her. She had taken off her jacket, and her shirt was open to reveal the corset she had on underneath, her breasts pushing out of it, creamy and firm. She rolled her sleeves up and began to hitch her skirt up to waist height. She was bare underneath her skirt, resplendent in her patent black pumps and stockings. She walked towards me, stopping in front of my face. She turned and bent at the waist, looking back at me. Her pussy, shaved bare and slick, was plump and delicious. Her ass was rounded and framed by black suspenders. She was gorgeous. 'Now, Gareth, pet, you have some work to do before that plug comes out.'
'Ms Linderson,' I gasped out, 'I'm so sorry, for your loss.' It was completely the wrong time to say anything. I had no idea what I was doing, but I needed to acknowledge the awfulness of what she'd gone through before I put my face in her ass.
'My loss? Oh, the urn! Don't worry about that, darling, it's just my mother's favourite Pom and I couldn't be happier, he was a horrible yappy little bastard. Now, sweet as you are, let's get that tongue to a better use.'
It flowed in one perfect, inconceivable swoop, I got out of the plane first, walked to the conveyer belt and there was my red suitcase trundling towards me. I reached out as it passed, both of us in motion, and swiped it and carried on out the green door, through arrivals and on out into the fresh day, congratulating myself on such a smooth exit.
Twenty minutes later I was ensconced in my very comfortable hotel room, unzipping my case to get my wash bag, and lay out my merchandise for tomorrow's sales meeting. I tugged open the lid and was greeted by jewel coloured, lacy lingerie. My thoughts stuttered still for a second, confusion reigning. Who put ladies' underwear in my bag? It's not my bag. I took the wrong bag! I rummaged as gently as I could, looking for contact info. My hand came into contact with something cool, and hard and I pulled out what could only be described as a small urn. Good Jesus. A squeamish peep inside confirmed the worst. Ashes. I felt myself pale. I'd stolen the bag of a grieving mother, had kidnapped the cremated loved one she was presumably carrying home to bury. And in turn, she would have picked up my suitcase, which she would find full of... buttplugs. Dildos and buttplugs and all the rest of the sex toys I was bringing to showcase to a company here in the city.
I started to feel sweaty prickles of horror making their way down the back of my neck. I'd really excelled myself here. The phone rang and I snatched it up. A call for me from a Ms Linderson. I accepted it and a young woman's clipped tones filled my ear. She had my bag, did I possibly have hers? She sounded amused rather than offended. Perhaps it was the shock. Could we meet and exchange? She'd come to me. Thirty minutes. I gave her my room number and she rang off without another word.
I paced 'til the knock at the door came, then answered it all but ringing my hands. The woman who entered was not the broken, be-headscarfed mother I'd conjured in my head, but very much the owner of the beautiful lingerie. Her brunette hair was twisted into a glossy chignon, and she was wearing a business suit, pencil skirt and tailored jacket over the crispest of white shirts. Several buttons were open to reveal a corset like top beneath. Her shining heels were breathtaking. I started to stutter an apology, and proffered her bag. She stared at me cooly, one eyebrow raised.
'So, Mr. Davis, you've caused me a lot of trouble. Had me chasing round town. And I opened what I thought was my case to find such... naughty things...' She propped a hand on one hip, looking at me with what could only be described as a stern twinkle. 'How are you going to make it up to me?'
The world slid. I was on more familiar, if unexpected ground.
'Any way I can, Ms Linderson.'
And so I found myself making reparation on my knees on the bed, face in the pillow and hands taped behind my back. Ms Linderson and stripped me without hesitation and snatched a roll of bondage tape from the collection in my bag, securing my hands with deft skill. It seemed she was a woman of experience. Her snapped out commands spoke directly to my hind-brain, bypassing any rational argument about us being strangers, and dropping me deep into an automatic submission I couldn't have struggled out of if I'd wanted to. I was utterly exposed, legs spread on the bed, cock rock-hard already and cheeks growing a happy pink as she spanked them with stinging slaps. Ms Linderson paused her punishment to run long nails up the the underside of my cock, the seam of my sack and tickle over my perineum. I squirmed on the bed, my anus twitching at the proximity of her touch, cheeks throbbing gently from her ministrations. I was desperate to rub against something.
'Such a pity you don't have a paddle in your collection, Gareth. Happily, I tend to come prepared. She bent to her bag, and a swishing noise echoed in the room. 'Hmm?' I craned around to see her holding a short, whippy stick. I whimpered, and she ran the implement along my face in what she might have assumed to be a soothing gesture. Or maybe menace was the effect she was after. 'Ah, now, Gareth,' she cooed into my ear. 'You've told me what you wanted, no?' It was true, I had. Within minutes of walking in the door, she'd stripped me of my clothes and extracted my stammered, blushing desires from me. 'So just a little warm up,' she said, 'I do like a boy to be sensitive, before I get to know him better.'
The little hand held cane tapped and flicked against my thighs, not quite hurting as it fell but building into a sting. She whipped it up and down my thighs, stroking and slapping, tenderising the sensitive skin inside my legs. I writhed and pulled my legs closed and was rewarded with a proper stroke that made me yelp and shuffle back into position. She pulled my thighs wider, her nails scraping against my reddened legs. She moved her attentions to my buttocks, holding one me open with one hand between my legs, knuckles brushing my balls as her stick smacked down, too fast to keep count. I groaned as she switched between them, spreading the heat and the sting. She stopped and I took a deep breath, only to feel the cane sliding between my cheeks, stroking, the tip tickling my hole. 'Ready, Gareth?'
I moaned, but I nodded, and she started slapping the delicate skin around my asshole, the tapping vibrated into my prostate and made my cock throb. The slaps increased in pressure and it was hard to stay still. I so wanted to be good for her. Finally she started to land the strokes right between my cheeks, slapping and rubbing the cane right on my hole. My breath started to come in open-mouthed sobs, and my ass was opening for her in response. The whipping stopped. I could hear her tearing a lube packet open with her teeth, as the cane kept stroling over my reddened, swollen hole. 'Reach down and spread those cheeks for me, little slut.' I moved my hands to my heated cheeks as best I could, and shuddered as the cool lube hit my burning skin. Her fingers rubbed it in, circling my ass, pushing deeper. She pushed against the tightness and her finger slid inside, pumping into me firmly. She quickly added another, and fucked me with two slick fingers while I held myself open for her.
I was starting to groan and push against her when she snapped her fingers in front of my closed eyes. I opened them to see one of our own plugs in front of me. She pushed it into my mouth, getting it spitty, then pulled it out. She pulled her fingers from me, and replaced them with the tip of the fairly sizeable plug. She hadn't gone for one of the smaller ones. 'This is what happens when you present a woman with a suitcase full of sex toys, my dear.' I would have laughed, but everything I had was focused on the heat and pressure in my ass as the plug twisted in. 'Knees, on the floor.' Ms Linderson snapped her fingers again. I slid of the bed, onto my knees, facing her. She had taken off her jacket, and her shirt was open to reveal the corset she had on underneath, her breasts pushing out of it, creamy and firm. She rolled her sleeves up and began to hitch her skirt up to waist height. She was bare underneath her skirt, resplendent in her patent black pumps and stockings. She walked towards me, stopping in front of my face. She turned and bent at the waist, looking back at me. Her pussy, shaved bare and slick, was plump and delicious. Her ass was rounded and framed by black suspenders. She was gorgeous. 'Now, Gareth, pet, you have some work to do before that plug comes out.'
'Ms Linderson,' I gasped out, 'I'm so sorry, for your loss.' It was completely the wrong time to say anything. I had no idea what I was doing, but I needed to acknowledge the awfulness of what she'd gone through before I put my face in her ass.
'My loss? Oh, the urn! Don't worry about that, darling, it's just my mother's favourite Pom and I couldn't be happier, he was a horrible yappy little bastard. Now, sweet as you are, let's get that tongue to a better use.'
Nathan Fillion's creamy dream-butt
Well, I just woke up from an intense dream about spanking Nathan Fillion's sublime butt and saving him from his cutting habit.
I have no idea why my brain went there. He comes across as quite well adjusted, to me. I think my social media time is confusing me - too much spanking, Nathan Fillion and agonised teens earnest emoting, perhaps. There were no kittens in the dream, though...
So, wanna hear? I went from some anxiety dream about trying to make 16 cups of tea for strangers in my house, and only getting as far as pouring one incredibly satisfying one for myself (even though I don't like it much, in reality) and sort of giving up, before finding myself in a car trying to get somewhere, but driving into a sort of forest park/playground place by accident and then showing up at a hotel/hospital full of famous people and security, with a back pack and an ID card that I think was my social security card? which allowed me to go find a very nervous Alison Hannigan, waiting to interview Nathan Fillion.
He was a young Nathan Fillion, rather than his current mature and wise self, all cocky and flirty and edgy and there was a weird energy between him and AH. All sorts of odd stuff, but we ended up finding razors he refused to relinquish and AH froze because it was dragging her back into her own cutting past... or so it seemed. It somehow got to the point where he was naked and taking up the offer/threat of a spanking with alacrity. His dream butt was so sweet and soft and firm and fine, and when I said something along the lines of, oh you have such a perfect butt, Nathan Fillion, he was all 'mwaha, I know' in smug tones. I kissed it. Sigh... and spanked it a little uncertaintly because I didn't know what he wanted, really. And he wriggled around a lot :)
Then the cutting stuff got worse, and he refused to stop, and we left him a note, and left I think... I'm losing the details now. I ended up in a bar, writing him a sad and poetic note of encouragement, in tea, with a fountain pen, on the floor (yep, it's a dream, remember?). He showed up and stood just in my line of vision, and I kept going til I was finished, then found him all wounded and repentent.
I embraced him, and the waitress came along and we ordered a barrel of Pino Grigio and two Superquinn cheese board suppers (??), which is making me giggle, and there was a happy ending. A barrel of wine will do that, I guess.
It was very filmy, with much more beginning and end than my dreams usually have. Why all the tea? And a barrel of wine? Perhaps just because I woke up needing to pee... bless you subconcious, you communicate in such funny ways.
Saturday, January 18, 2014
The Delicious Torment
I just wrote 'The Divine Torment' in the title bar. Can't be a coincidence.
Welcome to the second book of Alison's adventures in kinkland. This one is a treat for me, because I just adored, loved, delighted at the love triangle, as it were, this book hinges on. I waited gleefully, because I know this book would be The Book of Alex.
In fact, it was more so than I imagined, as the story has been distilled down to focus around that particularly complex relationship between Sam, Jack and Jack's personal assistant Alex and their difficult and interesting dynamic. I loved reading about it on the blog, it left me breathless, full of gasp! moments (my favourite kind), from the moment Alex walks into the apartment and commands Sam to bend over so he can plug her.
Sadly, the book leaves out that little moment, as well as others that clarify the challenges of the relationship with Jack - in doing so it glosses over some of the more testing experiences he puts her through - the first caning isn't there - reading that, what, six years ago? made me genuinely react in fear, it seemed such a scary thing. Though at that stage, caning in porn was still something I covered my eyes for... funny how things become less shocking over time.
I want it all back in the story - I wish each moment could still be there, as I said before, but edited as it is, the book becomes a concise description of how the love affair develops as Jack tests Sam and pushes his own emotional fences.
I've seen it suggested that you can read this book as a standalone story, but honestly, I think you'd be doing yourself no favours to do that. Read it as part of how this intense, scary, deeply romantic relationship builds and grows, how every day of it goes unwasted, it seems like, the characters live every moment given to them to the maximum. Ponder that, next time you're choosing Brussels sprouts in the veg aisle, or watching another day just like the last one disappear into yesterday. You read this and you think, god, what did I do today? It's a whirlwind of tension - Sam might come across as a passive heroine, stirred this way and that by the elemental force that is her lover. It is a little like that, there seems no other way it could be, but her reactions and actions are also at the heart of the story, her being who she is that creates a story at all. I think that's why I like this cover more than the glossy UK one. The shiny lipstick-red demon heels and black background, for me, seem to miss the crux of the story, of who the heroine is. I like this one, with its feminine charm, its soft, pretty colours contrasted with steel handcuffs and willingly trapped girlish hands. The other seems to me a movie version, impersonal and titillating. This one feels far more real, to me.
So yes, read it, read it - and petition her publishers to give her more pages for the next one! I want more.
 |
| The Delicious Torment |
Welcome to the second book of Alison's adventures in kinkland. This one is a treat for me, because I just adored, loved, delighted at the love triangle, as it were, this book hinges on. I waited gleefully, because I know this book would be The Book of Alex.
In fact, it was more so than I imagined, as the story has been distilled down to focus around that particularly complex relationship between Sam, Jack and Jack's personal assistant Alex and their difficult and interesting dynamic. I loved reading about it on the blog, it left me breathless, full of gasp! moments (my favourite kind), from the moment Alex walks into the apartment and commands Sam to bend over so he can plug her.
Sadly, the book leaves out that little moment, as well as others that clarify the challenges of the relationship with Jack - in doing so it glosses over some of the more testing experiences he puts her through - the first caning isn't there - reading that, what, six years ago? made me genuinely react in fear, it seemed such a scary thing. Though at that stage, caning in porn was still something I covered my eyes for... funny how things become less shocking over time.
I want it all back in the story - I wish each moment could still be there, as I said before, but edited as it is, the book becomes a concise description of how the love affair develops as Jack tests Sam and pushes his own emotional fences.
I've seen it suggested that you can read this book as a standalone story, but honestly, I think you'd be doing yourself no favours to do that. Read it as part of how this intense, scary, deeply romantic relationship builds and grows, how every day of it goes unwasted, it seems like, the characters live every moment given to them to the maximum. Ponder that, next time you're choosing Brussels sprouts in the veg aisle, or watching another day just like the last one disappear into yesterday. You read this and you think, god, what did I do today? It's a whirlwind of tension - Sam might come across as a passive heroine, stirred this way and that by the elemental force that is her lover. It is a little like that, there seems no other way it could be, but her reactions and actions are also at the heart of the story, her being who she is that creates a story at all. I think that's why I like this cover more than the glossy UK one. The shiny lipstick-red demon heels and black background, for me, seem to miss the crux of the story, of who the heroine is. I like this one, with its feminine charm, its soft, pretty colours contrasted with steel handcuffs and willingly trapped girlish hands. The other seems to me a movie version, impersonal and titillating. This one feels far more real, to me.
So yes, read it, read it - and petition her publishers to give her more pages for the next one! I want more.
Monday, December 2, 2013
famous people I follow on Twitter
1. Kristen Hirsch. She talks to me!! She says sweet things! I heart her. If she comes to Ireland, I will stalk her with cupcakes.
2. James Deen. I tweet him back and he doesn't answer. Still... I'm clinging to the hope that my attempts at funny/caring (sue me, he's just so endearing) are better than all the other desperate ones going DON'T EAT THE BURRITO EAT MY PUSSY FUCKME AAAAGH. For Christ's sake, porn fans, get a grip. Ahem.
3. Manuel Ferarra. Yeah, I know. Still, selfies and photos of his cute retriever. He can be kinda bitchy though.
4. Assorted erotica writers I knew before Twitter, who still qualify as famous even though I know them through different avenues. If you know what I mean. Shout out to Justine Elyot for indulging me in Hiddlyfantasies and Charlotte Stein for being my sister in Incompetence.
5. Most recently though*pause for minor swoon* FRANK BLACK. Who ignored me til I posted a gushing and poetic thank you for his recent Dublin Pixies gig, and then... didn't RT it but ... followed me. *Hushed awe and more swooning* It's awful pressurising though, I never say anything of interest on Twitter. That tweet may have set me up for a fall. Still... Frank Black. God of alternative rock. *dizzy*
6. Russell Brand. Many causes and much political stuff. Too much to process, really.
7. Sarah Millican. Occasionally funny, often sweet, but too much in the way of cataloguing her god awful diet of pork pies and chocolate bars. Makes me uncomfortable. I have to admit, though my own diet is pants at the moment, and for the last while, the posts on Tumblr of food I see that I reblog and yearn for tend to be of rustic salads and vegetables all artistic and colourful, or of fruit - one really obese woman often posts Southern US style cheese meat grease fests and things like cookie dough covered in custard covered in pudding and fries and waffles and toffee sauce and so on. And these, I'm grateful to say, sicken rather than appeal to me.
I still don't really get Twitter. There is ego, there is marketing, publicity and also reaching out to people - some friends, some fans, this weird crossover. Tumblr makes more sense to me in some ways - I suppose because its purpose is vaguer.. looking at nice pictures - oo, this is nice, look at this. I once thought blogging was awful, I can't remember the dismissive term I used for it, but I was scathing about the airing of one's own opinion and the minutiae of one's daily life in public... ha, funny that.
Anyway, we tweet on. This post is about nothing more than saying KIRSTEN HERSH LIKES ME ON TWITTER AND IT MAKES ME HAPPY, in tweety truth :)
2. James Deen. I tweet him back and he doesn't answer. Still... I'm clinging to the hope that my attempts at funny/caring (sue me, he's just so endearing) are better than all the other desperate ones going DON'T EAT THE BURRITO EAT MY PUSSY FUCKME AAAAGH. For Christ's sake, porn fans, get a grip. Ahem.
3. Manuel Ferarra. Yeah, I know. Still, selfies and photos of his cute retriever. He can be kinda bitchy though.
4. Assorted erotica writers I knew before Twitter, who still qualify as famous even though I know them through different avenues. If you know what I mean. Shout out to Justine Elyot for indulging me in Hiddlyfantasies and Charlotte Stein for being my sister in Incompetence.
5. Most recently though*pause for minor swoon* FRANK BLACK. Who ignored me til I posted a gushing and poetic thank you for his recent Dublin Pixies gig, and then... didn't RT it but ... followed me. *Hushed awe and more swooning* It's awful pressurising though, I never say anything of interest on Twitter. That tweet may have set me up for a fall. Still... Frank Black. God of alternative rock. *dizzy*
6. Russell Brand. Many causes and much political stuff. Too much to process, really.
7. Sarah Millican. Occasionally funny, often sweet, but too much in the way of cataloguing her god awful diet of pork pies and chocolate bars. Makes me uncomfortable. I have to admit, though my own diet is pants at the moment, and for the last while, the posts on Tumblr of food I see that I reblog and yearn for tend to be of rustic salads and vegetables all artistic and colourful, or of fruit - one really obese woman often posts Southern US style cheese meat grease fests and things like cookie dough covered in custard covered in pudding and fries and waffles and toffee sauce and so on. And these, I'm grateful to say, sicken rather than appeal to me.
I still don't really get Twitter. There is ego, there is marketing, publicity and also reaching out to people - some friends, some fans, this weird crossover. Tumblr makes more sense to me in some ways - I suppose because its purpose is vaguer.. looking at nice pictures - oo, this is nice, look at this. I once thought blogging was awful, I can't remember the dismissive term I used for it, but I was scathing about the airing of one's own opinion and the minutiae of one's daily life in public... ha, funny that.
Anyway, we tweet on. This post is about nothing more than saying KIRSTEN HERSH LIKES ME ON TWITTER AND IT MAKES ME HAPPY, in tweety truth :)
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
women's porn
Someone on a foodie facebook page I'm on just posted a picture of a beautiful walk-in larder that looks like some sort of ye olde grocerie shoppe. Yes, it's gorgeous, and yes, I'd like it, but a commenter gasped 'OMG it's like women's porn!'
I'm writing this here, instead of commenting there that while I like it a lot, and would love to have it, it's perhaps porn for women who don't like porn, as opposed to 'women's porn' - for example, it really wouldn't help me come much - there's not enough fucking or spanking in it, for starters.
Human beings, we're funny creatures. I was in the social welfare office the other day, eyeing my stuffed-to-bursting folder of temporary sign-ons that run back to 2007. 'Don't worry, it's the same with all seasonal teaching work', the nice girl said, as I gazed at the tangible symbol of my failure in life. While I was waiting, I glanced over the graffitti on my side of the window, toland on a scrawled proclamation,
Mary Moorehouse gave me a blowjob and she swallowed my come
I'm not sure if it's triumphant or denigrating. Both, quite likely. The need to boast is strong, though I'm pretty sure getting sexual favours from a Moorehouse isn't much to brag about. Let's just say they're a well known family with transient roots, infamous rather than famous. I was impressed that he wrote come not cum.
It's happier than the last one I saw, which was a more poignant 'warm in here, cold at home'. I'll leave you to ponder that while I ponder where I fall between pantry-porn and blowjob broadcast.
I'm writing this here, instead of commenting there that while I like it a lot, and would love to have it, it's perhaps porn for women who don't like porn, as opposed to 'women's porn' - for example, it really wouldn't help me come much - there's not enough fucking or spanking in it, for starters.
Human beings, we're funny creatures. I was in the social welfare office the other day, eyeing my stuffed-to-bursting folder of temporary sign-ons that run back to 2007. 'Don't worry, it's the same with all seasonal teaching work', the nice girl said, as I gazed at the tangible symbol of my failure in life. While I was waiting, I glanced over the graffitti on my side of the window, toland on a scrawled proclamation,
Mary Moorehouse gave me a blowjob and she swallowed my come
I'm not sure if it's triumphant or denigrating. Both, quite likely. The need to boast is strong, though I'm pretty sure getting sexual favours from a Moorehouse isn't much to brag about. Let's just say they're a well known family with transient roots, infamous rather than famous. I was impressed that he wrote come not cum.
It's happier than the last one I saw, which was a more poignant 'warm in here, cold at home'. I'll leave you to ponder that while I ponder where I fall between pantry-porn and blowjob broadcast.
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