Happy New Year's Eve!

I don't know if I've used either of these pictures on a blog before, but I was looking through my collection for another photo and just thought I'd post them. No reason, just a whim.

I probably need to listen to my whims more. Perhaps that should be my New Year's resolution for 2009. Listen to your inner voice, your conscience, your gut instincts. The funny thing is, if I do listen to them, they're hardly ever wrong. I'm sure I do it when I write, because when something pops into my head, it goes straight to my typing fingers. Sometimes it's only good for me, but sometimes others like it, too. I wonder if Van Gogh painted this scene on a whim. I liked it well enough to buy a print of it to go on the wall in my bathroom when it was remodeled. I was going with an Italian theme, and it turned out well. It's also one of the first times I ever put that many components together in one room. I'm not a decorator normally, but this time, I actually looked for specific things, and it worked. There again, it was a gut instinct.

I think my other resolution should be to get more exercise. I went to my riding lesson on Tuesday morning, came home exhausted and slept in the afternoon because I was supposed to go to work. I was standing in the shower thinking about how bad I felt when the phone rang. It was Rita, wanting to know if I'd like to be on call. My body screamed "YES!!!" But I know that going to work is probably better for me than going to bed, just like riding was better than sitting at my desk. It takes me hitting rock bottom to get me started, and you'd think I would learn eventually, but I don't. I'm like most people that way; I have good intentions, but suddenly, the day is over and somehow that walk or exercise session never happened.

I guess this guy is here to remind me that if I ever want the female version of a body like his, I need to get off my ass more. Or get a body transplant. The funny thing is, I seem to get more hits on this blog when I post a recipe. Don't think I'd get very many for posting an exercise routine, but you never know, do you?

I should probably write more about my books on this blog since I'm doing this primarily to promote them, and I will from time to time, but I also like to talk about nothing, which is probably the category this post would fall under. Sometimes nothing is good. Clears the mind and frees the spirit--at least, I think it does. Men have a "Nothing Box" according to some guy on YouTube. If you've never watched it, you should. It's called "A Tale of Two Brains." Anyway, basically it says that women's brains are all connected, which is why we're always thinking about something and are better at multi-tasking, but men's brains are like a series of boxes; highly specific and exclusive, which is why men can focus on tasks or concepts for more prolonged periods--you know, rockets to the moon and gravity, that sort of thing. However, whenever men get the chance, their nothing box is where they want to be.
Wish I had one.

P.S. Robin, if this guy isn't hot enough for you, I recommend adding a little of this--also a great diet tip. 0% fat, calories, and protein, not as hot as regular Tabasco sauce, and it makes anything taste good!

Happy New Year's Eve Eve!

You know, with Christmas, my birthday, and New Year's Eve all coming together inside a week, it's no wonder I feel (and probably look) like Porky the Pig by the time the new year finally gets here. This year is even worse because sitting at a computer day in and day out leaves me feeling stiff, sore, tired, and in no mood to exercise, which is, of course, exactly what I need to do. My friend and fellow writer, Robin Kaye, is getting an exercise desk, which is something else I need, but unfortunately, she has also contributed to my delinquency by giving me her family recipe for Italian Ricotta pie, which I plan to make on New Year's Eve.




















My other New Year's dish is going to be a recipe I cut out of a magazine years ago (Midwest Living, I believe) for Mrs. C's Sausage and Spinach Pie. Not only does it taste good, but it looks, well, like something out of a magazine. And all you spinach haters can trust me on this one: you'll never know it's there. This is a big, thick pie, so use the biggest pie dish you've got. It's like quiche; best served warm, not hot, but it's even good cold. Enjoy!

Mrs. C's Sausage and Spinach Pie

• 1 pound bulk Italian sausage
• 6 eggs
• 2 (10 ounce) packages frozen chopped spinach, thawed and squeezed dry
• 2 cups shredded mozzarella cheese (can use up to 4 cups if desired)
  
• 2/3 cup ricotta (or cottage) cheese
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1/4 teaspoon garlic powder
• 1/8 teaspoon pepper
• 1 (10 inch) pastry for a double crust pie (I use the roll out and bake kind)
  
• 1 tablespoon water

1. In a skillet, cook sausage over medium heat until no longer pink; drain. Separate one egg and set the yolk aside. In a large mixing bowl, combine the egg white and remaining eggs, spinach, mozzarella cheese, ricotta cheese, salt, garlic powder, pepper and sausage and mix well.
2. Line a 10-in. pie plate with bottom pastry. Add filling. Roll out remaining pastry to fit top of pie; place over filling. Fold the top crust over the bottom at the outer edge and crimp by pushing your fingertip through two other fingers. Beat water and remaining egg yolk; brush over top. Cut slits in the top crust dividing the pie into eighths in a star pattern.
3. Bake at 375 degrees F for 1 1/4 hours until crust is golden brown and filling is set. Let stand for 10 minutes before cutting.
   

Only 20,000 words to go!

I wrote quite a bit on Fugitive last night, finally getting over that 70,000 word mark. Yay!! Only 20,000 more to go! *sigh* I'm writing this one differently than the others, and I think it has to do more with writing in third person than anything. With a first person story, you might start off with a little jump to some sort of teaser that actually occurs later in the book, or you might stop and tell a little backstory, but once you begin the meat of it, it pretty much falls chronologically after that. In third person, however, you have several points of view going at the same time, and it's sometimes difficult to know where to place them. For example: whose version of time span A-B do you write first? Can you jump ahead and write a later chapter if you aren't sure where you're going next? Or should you take one point of view and follow it through to the end, then write another and splice them together? I'm not sure how most other writers do that, and it isn't something I felt the need to know until now. I'm not an English major by any means, and creative writing was a sideline until recently. Writing nurse's notes is chronological, but factual, and there's very little call for writing dialog, which is what I prefer to write. I drift into narrative from time to time, but probably less than I did in first person. I may be a published author, I still don't really consider myself a seasoned professional. I just do it the way it feels right to me, and then my editor makes suggestions. It's all a learning process. I'm better than I was, but not as good as I could be. I don't think anyone ever is.

In other blog news, I have a hard time thinking in Pacific time since I don't live there, so I reset the time zone to Eastern Time, which means that posts will go up earlier than they have in the past.

Happy Birthday!

Today is my birthday, so I'm taking off! Enjoy the hunk!


























P.S. I really prefer hunks with faces, but this was the best I could do.
But maybe I'll make up for it and just post TWO!

Excerpt from The Cat Star Chronicles: Slave

Yesterday I got pretty technical when describing the anatomy and physiology of the Zetithian male , but today you'll learn what happens when a Zetithian actually gets to use all of that special equipment on a human female for the first time.

To set up this scene, Jacinth (aka Jack) and Cat are traveling through the jungle to try to find Jack's sister. The day began with a tantalizing bath in a stream, but went downhill from there, and Jack is in no mood for nooky--at least, that's what she thinks. . . .

We decided to leave most of the cleaning up until morning, and, having doused our campfire, got inside the tent together. I hadn’t said anything to Cat about feeling so out of sorts, but he might have guessed it. Of course, that didn’t stop him from trying to change my mind, chiefly by nuzzling me and rumbling like a mountain lion on the prowl. But I was tired and dirty and sticky with sweat, having spent a fair amount of the day groveling in the dirt underneath the pack-droid in my underwear. Aside from that, my back and my feet were killing me, and that roast beast wasn’t setting so well on my stomach. I didn’t feel the least bit sexy or pretty or alluring or any of those things I wanted to be feeling the first time I made love with Cat; it simply was not the right time!

The trouble was, despite what I was telling myself, Cat could smell my pheromones or whatever it was that he called my “desire”—and it had him hard as a rock and he would not leave me alone!

“Cat, I swear, if you don’t get away from me, I’m going to get Tex out and shoot you!” I warned him. I was sweating like a horse at the end of a mile and a quarter and the damn bugs were dive-bombing the tent to the point that I didn’t think I could take much more before exploding.

“But you want me,” he began. “How can I not—?”

“I said, back off!” I growled at him. “Don’t touch me!”

Cat retreated to the other side of the tent, but I could still hear him purring, even over all the buzzing against the tent from the insects. Curling up on my pallet with my back to him, I tried to shut out the incessant noise and Cat’s purring the best I could, but then he tried again, spooning up against me from behind and licking my ear.

“Please, Cat, I don’t want you to think I don’t want you, because I do. But right now, I’m tired and hot and dirty and I just can’t do it.”

“I do not mind that you are dirty,” he said, “and I like it when you are overheated with desire.” He paused then, tracing a fingertip down my side and over my hip. “I believe you have been thinking too much, Jacinth, and now you are afraid.”

“Hell, yes, I’m afraid!” I exclaimed. “We’re out here in the middle of the jungle, it’s been one life and death ordeal after another today, and you, well, you’re the one who wouldn’t do it this morning, who insisted that I think about it all day to increase my desire. Well, Cat, it backfired on you! I was ready and willing this morning, but right now, I just want some sleep!”

“And do you believe that you will be able to sleep with large insects hitting the tent all night?”

I sighed, stretching my shoulders as I felt my spine popping in several places. “Probably not,” I conceded. “And I need to sleep! I feel like I’ve been rode hard and put up wet, as the saying goes.”

“Jacinth, do you love me?” he asked.

I rolled over to face him, and though the tent was so dark I couldn’t see a hand in front of my face, I could see his glowing eyes. “Yes, I do, Kittycat,” I said gently. “I love you dearly. You’re my big, strong, brave hero, and even if you weren’t, I’d still love you with all my heart.”

“Then if you will be awake, and if you love me as I love you. . . ” His voice trailed off in the darkness, and suddenly, I felt his breath on my face as he moved closer. “Kiss me, then, my lovely master, and we will spend this night, and every night hereafter, together. Forever.”

“You won’t fall in love with my sister and run away on me, will you?” I blurted out. Having actually said that aloud, thus exposing my worst fear, was evidence that I was pretty well near the breaking point.

“No,” he replied. “I will not fall in love with your sister and run away. I will be with you, and only you, until you are old and your life has reached its end.”

“Oh, Cat . . . ” I sighed.

It was very dark, and his eyes must have been closed, shutting out their light, so I don’t know who moved first, but a moment later, his lips were melting into mine and suddenly I didn’t give a damn that I was tired or dirty or scared or irritated. I didn’t even have to remind myself that I’d called myself every kind of fool that very morning for resisting him so long, because I wasn’t going to resist anymore. I was going to shut down the thinking part of my brain and simply feel.

And when I put my hands on him, he felt so good it made me want to cry, but no more so than when he put his own upon me. He was kissing and caressing me, but he was also massaging me deeply, pushing away the pain, the exhaustion, and replacing it with the soft glow of desire, paving the way for the heat of passion. I did the same to him, kneading the muscles of his back, his shoulders, his chest. I couldn’t get enough of him. Reaching lower, I took his backside in my hands and pulled him closer.

The chorus outside the tent fell silent as the wind increased and a cooling, soothing rain began to fall, pattering lightly on the roof of our tent, sending a wave of soft air swirling over us. I relaxed completely then, and as I did so, I could feel the need for Cat building up inside me. He’d been right, of course. My desire for him had been there all along; it had simply been buried under all the baggage I had been carrying with me throughout my life. But now, I laid it aside for a time. I would pick it up again, perhaps—but not tonight. Tonight I would think about nothing but my love, my Cat.

I focused solely on my feelings, how it felt to take Cat in my arms, how it felt to kiss him, how it felt to caress his body until he groaned with pleasure. I even knew the precise moment when the warmth of desire gave way to the heat of passion, and soon, every cell in my body was on fire, clamoring for him to help me find my release. Every erogenous zone I possessed, from lips to nipples to clitoris, was aching with need.

“Please, Cat,” I whispered.

I didn’t have to ask him twice. Purring even more loudly than before, he rolled me onto my back, nudged my legs apart and nailed me with that big, ruffled cock. The sensation of relief was as instantaneous as it was overwhelming; I felt as though my overheated flesh had been plunged into a lake full of cool, crystal-clear water.

Then he began to move and the pleasure began to build. Where there had previously been frustration and even pain, there was now pure, mind-numbing ecstasy. The scalloped edge of his cockhead seemed to fold back on the shaft as he thrust in, but the out-stroke fanned it out again, raking the sensitive membranes of my G-spot as I gasped in awe. He filled me up completely, stretching me to the limit, but I was so wet and slick from all the lubrication that poured out of both of us that his cock moved with a smooth, nearly frictionless glide which brought me quickly to climax.

And another, and another, and another. Oh, sure, I’d had a few orgasms in my time, but this just went on and on and on! Cat had been denied relief for some time, but it certainly didn’t make him come any quicker. I wasn’t counting, but I think it must have taken a full hundred strokes for him to finally release with a loud roar, reminiscent of the sound he’d made when he’d attacked his former master.

Cat collapsed on my chest, his hair fanned out over my body and his cock still lodged deep within me. He wasn’t moving, but I could still feel something. Something that teased me inside like nothing else ever had: it was as though that ruffle around his cock was moving back and forth, sweeping against the most sensitive parts of my body and making my orgasm continue on for an unbelievable length of time. I was forced to admit that this was one man who hadn’t been pulling my leg when he’d said he’d bring me joy unlike any I had ever known before. I should have listened to him, should have surrendered long ago. . . .

What makes a Zetithian so hot?

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, and if that's the case, it's too bad this cover doesn't extend just a little lower, because then I wouldn't have to explain the package. But since it doesn't, I'm going to let you in on my inspiration for the stuff due south of the belly button.

When I set out to create the ultimate alien lover, I had Mr. Spock in mind, along with certain animals. I've always admired Spock's ears, and the eyebrows add to his exotic appearance, but you never saw him without his pants, so nobody knows what kind of lover a Vulcan would make.

Vulcans are also adept at concealing their emotions, but I wanted men who didn't hide behind a stoic expression all the time. I wanted seductive smiles, mischievous grins, and an aura of mystery. For this, I added a touch of the feline influence. Cats have a very sensuous nature, and the idea of a feline lover, one who can purr and then stretch out and totally relax, appeals to me. Cats have fabulous eyes, too. I love to look deeply into those fathomless orbs--eyes that seem to glow back at you, and that slow, thoughtful blink when they feel contented.

To develop the Zetithian genitalia, I went to that time-honored animal for comparison, the horse. The ruffled edge I put on the head of the Zetithian cock comes right straight from the horse's dick, and if you've never seen an aroused stallion, let me tell you, it's pretty impressive. The fact that they have muscular control of its movement is another attribute I gave the Zetithians, who have even more control than a stallion does. Stallions tend to drool quite a bit, too, though not from the scalloped edge of the corona, which is purely a Zetithian trait.

I've been accused of being overly preoccupied with male body fluids, but the truth is, they drive me absolutely wild. The orgasmic effect of the Zetithian's lubricating fluid isn't just a figment of my imagination, it's how the real stuff it affects me, personally. Therefore, it wasn't much of a stretch to have the Zetithian fluid contain a hormone that chemically induces orgasms in the female. It only has to be absorbed by a mucus membrane to trigger those orgasms, and the only limit on the frequency is the absolute refractory period after each orgasm, during which time the female cannot climax. If intercourse continues for long periods of time, a temporary tolerance level is reached and the orgasmic effect is diminished. On a more realistic note, it's been determined that human semen contains prostaglandins that leave women with a sense of overall well-being after intercourse. I just took it a step further to euphoria.

I, for one, hate for sex to end, and I liked the idea of an after-effect in the male that prolongs the pleasure for both male and female. For that reason, I gave the ruffled Zetithian corona an undulating motion after ejaculation which stimulates the female G-spot. Couple that with the euphoric effect of their semen--snard as it is called in the Zetithian language--and the aftershocks can continue for some time.

Years ago I heard a talk show where Dr. Ruth Westheimer was telling a woman who was reluctant to perform oral sex that she should think of her man's penis as an ice cream cone. This suggestion stuck with me for some reason, and when it came to getting Jacinth interested in doing the same thing to Cat, I decided to give him some flavor. The fact that Zetithian genitals taste sort of nutty is a remnant of the original version of the book where Cat's semen tasted like whipped cream, his balls like hazelnuts, and his penis like chocolate ice cream. Going down on Cat was akin to having a truly orgasmic chocolate sundae. This was probably a bit over the top for most people, and in the final version, I kept the nutty flavor, but had the entire package taste that way except for the semen, which was very sweet. The lubricating fluid has no flavor other than being slightly salty, which is true of humans. I left it that way because I felt that the orgasms it caused wwere enough to entice any woman once she got that first taste.

All of these things contributed to the development of Zetithian male sexuality and each one of my heroes has his own slant on how he uses it. I'll be exploring the female side in a later blog which will explain just why all this enticement is necessary!

Merry Christmas!

Here's hoping that you find exactly what you wish for under the tree. . . or on the couch. . . or on the bed . . . you get the idea.

Merry Christmas Eve!

Well, I went out in the ice anyway. All I really needed was a lemon, but I came home with another $100 worth of groceries, which, as you might guess, only filled up three bags!

My mother always made potato soup on Christmas Eve, so, of course, I do it too. My variation on the menu is to make this bread recipe, which is one of my son Mike's favorite things in the whole world. Years ago, I came across a recipe for a quick bread made with Kalamata olives, and it sounded good, but I wanted a yeast bread, so I made some modifications. I like to make this a round loaf, but you can make it any shape you like. I prefer to use the olives that are packed in olive oil and then use the oil from the jar where the recipe calls for it, otherwise, I use extra virgin olive oil.

Kalamata Olive Bread
1 cup warm water
1 tsp sugar
2 pkgs dry yeast
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 medium onion, chopped fine
1 cup flour
1 tsp salt
1/4 cup olive oil
1 tsp thyme
one 8oz jar Kalamata olives, preferably packed in oil, pitted and chopped. (about 1 cup)
3 cups flour

Combine first three ingredients in large mixing bowl and let stand until foamy.
Saute onions in 2 tbsp olive oil until lightly browned and set aside to cool. Add the next five ingredients to the yeast mixture, then add the onions and knead in the remaining 3 cups of flour, adding one cup at a time, using enough flour to make a non-sticky dough. Cover and let rise in the bowl until doubled in bulk. Punch down and shape into a ball. Place in a greased pie dish--preferably a deep, ceramic dish--and grease the top with oil. Cover (I use a great big metal mixing bowl for this) and let rise until doubled in bulk. Bake at 350 for 50 minutes, then brush the top of the loaf with milk and bake for another ten minutes.

Serve with a mixture of olive oil, balsamic vinegar, and pepper in small amounts on a plate for dipping.

Have a Cozy Christmas!

Monday, Dec 22 8:20 PM
After a long night in the ICU, I just wanted to go home and not leave again until after Christmas, but this morning it was so cold that the tire pressure indicators on my car went haywire and had me putting air in tires that didn't need it, bringing me closer to frostbitten fingers than ever before. After that, I went to the grocery and bought all kinds of stuff to see us through until the 26th. From now until then, I just want to sit by the fire and keep warm!

This year we've already celebrated the season with family and friends, so it's just me and the guys, who have gone Christmas shopping this evening. My husband is fixing up my writing nook as my gift this year. Right at the moment, I'm sitting in a chair on top of a piece of some kind of particle board stuff that is disintegrating and is full of holes. My computer sits in the drawer of a desk so cluttered that I can't even put my laptop on it. Of course, my husband's desk looks worse, but it is his intention to give me better working conditions. Right now, I'd settle for a built-in foot warmer. My son wanted to get me a new chair, but I'm funny about chairs; they have to be made a certain way or I can't sit in them--at least not as long as I need to as a writer. Bad hip, you know, compliments of one of the horses out there in the barn.

Speaking of cold fingers and toes, Here's a little something to warm up your holiday.



















If anyone figures out how to actually turn him over, would you please enlighten me?

I've tried, BELIEVE me, I've tried!

Whips, Chains, and Frozen Feet

Sunday, 12:35 PM.

It's so cold here today that I've had to work in short periods back in my bedroom writing nook. I can hear the wind whipping around the house and my feet feel like they've been in the freezer. I ate some hot soup that warmed up the rest of me, but did absolutely nothing for my toes! This room is too far from the woodstove to ever get very warm and the little heater I've got in here is totally inadequate.

I just sent off the copyedits for Outcast. That's one less thing to worry about over the holidays. I ran through it again real quick and made a few changes to the changes and then sent it off before I felt compelled to look at it one more time. Like George Lucas once said about films he'd made, they're never so much finished as they are abandoned, and writing a book is no different. If you wait even a couple of days, your perspective changes slightly, and you find that what you thought was perfect the day before is crap--or at least, you think it is. At some point you just have to say ENOUGH!!!!!

In other news, it seems that Slave has been nominated for a writing award from the NLA--that's the National Leather Association. I'll let you guess what they're in to. Must have been the result of Cat being in chains at the beginning of the story. Amazing.

Sunday fun!

It's almost midnight, and I'm back home from Louisville. Had a great time, the weather cooperated and all the little great nieces and nephews were running around screaming and having a blast when we left. I even sold two books to my nephew's wife's mother. Got a little tequila on board right now, so anything could happen!


Whoops! I think it just did! That Cody's got a helluva smile, doesn't he? Great veins, too. I could pop an 18 gauge IV in him with no trouble at all. WOW! If I could just photoshop a Santa hat on him, he'd be perfect!














Ya'll have a really nice day, now, ya' hear?

Christmas Goodies!

When this post goes up, I'll be on my way to Lousiville to celebrate Christmas with family and friends. It'll be a long day, of course, but much easier than yesterday! As it turned out, my "quick post" wasn't necessary because, with only two patients, I got to be on call, which was a good thing because I spent all day Friday writing Christmas cards, baking cookies, and wrapping gifts.

I posted the following recipe on Wickedly Romantic, but thought I'd put it here, too since it was invented by a lady who works in a bookstore. Each month her reading group meets to discuss a book, and Slave was the book of the month for November. She makes up a new cookie recipe for each one, and this is the the kind she made for Cat!

CAT'S M&M CANDY BARS

-2 cups unbleached Flour
-1 tsp. Baking Powder
-pinch of salt
-1/4 tsp. Baking Soda
-2/3 cup unsalted Butter, softened
-2 cups firmly packed Brown Sugar
-2 lg. Eggs
-2 tsp. Vanilla Extract
-1 cup M&M Candies

Preheat oven to 350 (325 if using a glass baking pan). Lightly grease a 13"x9" baking pan.
In a small bowl, combine the flour, baking powder, salt and baking soda. Set aside.
In a large bowl cream the butter and brown sugar. Mix in eggs, one at a time, mixing well. Mix in the vanilla. Gently mix in the dry ingredients, until well combined. Stir in the M&M's.
Spread evenly into prepared pan. Bake 25 minutes, until lightly golden. Remove from oven and cool completely before cutting into bars.
Yield: 3-4 dozen, depending on size of bar. Can be frozen.

While I'm at it, I might as well give away all my secrets. This next recipe is one I got from my grandmother. Heaven knows where she found it, but it's one of those things that everyone seems to like. I've tasted several different variations and have tried substituting other ingredients, but, trust me, the original is best!

POTATO CASSEROLE
1 pkg Ore-Ida hash brown patties (27 oz) thawed and crumbled up
1 tsp salt
¼ tsp pepper
½ cup chopped onion
1 can Campbell's cream of chicken soup
1 cup sour cream
2 cups grated sharp cheddar cheese

Mix all together and spread in greased 9 X 13 pan
Mix one stick melted butter with 1 ½ cups of crushed cornflakes and spread over the top.
Bake @ 350 for 45 minutes to 1 hour.

Merry Christmas!

Quick post

Not much time to post. It's 4pm, and I've still got to feed the horses, fix dinner, take a shower and drive 30 miles to work by 6:45. It's supposed to start freezing rain or some such crap this afternoon and then warm up and just rain. At least, that's the last report I heard on the way home this morning.

Things really slacked off in the ICU while I was off. We went from full capacity down to 2 in one day. That's the way it is in our unit: you just never know how it will be from day to day, which is why staffing is such a bitch. We had 4 nurses and a monitor tech scheduled last night, and three of them stayed home. Wish I had been one of them because I could certainly use the time!

I did get some reading done on Outcast. I hope all you third person people like it, because if you don't, it's going to be really hard to go back to first. Plots become much more involved in third and I will admit that it's fun to hop from one part of the galaxy to another with the turn of a page.

I'm still letting the sixth book in the CSC series rattle around in my head, trying out different characters and situations. I haven't completely settled on the personality for my heroine in this one,either. She's one of the very few female Zetithians left alive and was orphaned during the war as a child. As a result, she's younger than her hero, Trag. Not sure how I'll deal with that. He might see her as a cute kid or a hot babe; it's hard to say. Will she see him as a seductive sweetie or someone she can't stand? Don't know. Most of the time, these things come out when I'm writing and then the story takes a twist even I don't expect.

I'll keep you posted on my progress, but I gotta go right now, the ponies are waiting for me. But before I rush off, here's a little something to warm you up on a cold, dark night.

Good thing I have a ready supply of these, huh?

Deck the Halls

Well, the tree is up, the house is clean, the rotten weather hasn't materialized, so I'm blogging a bit before getting back to work on the copyedits for Outcast. Oh, and I found the advance check for that same novel on the kitchen table underneath a few newspapers when I was paying bills this afternoon. I guess it came yesterday. The way things have been going lately, it wouldn't surprise me to find that more than one of my bills was overdue, and not owing to a lack of funds, but to lack of time and organization.

My friend Marie Force posted a link to a rather horrifying blog post by Richard Curtis about the publishing business on her blog today, and I'm also posting the link so those of you out there who think writers are being too pissy about not getting paid for their work have a better understanding of what's going on. The scary thing is that it was originally written fifteen years ago.

It's exciting to have a book published and I'm sure every writer imagines that theirs will be the one to rival Harry Potter. The truth is that romance writers don't earn very much for their work. A published book will get you a modest advance, but not much else. Romance novels account for a large part of the market, but there are a lot of them out there and tastes and subgenres abound, making it very unlikely that anyone will write the romance novel that everyone is talking about and is dying to read.

I'm still not sure where my books fit in the greater scheme of things, but I did what I set out to do, which was to write something unlike anything I'd ever read before. I wanted this blog to be different, too, but I'm probably rattling on about nothing just like everyone else does when they blog every day. That's why there are pictures. ;-)

I found this guy out in the barn and decided to decorate him, too. Do you think I used too much hay?

Baby it's cold outside!

Well, the Christmas decorating I had planned for tonight may have to wait a while. My tree is frozen in a block of ice in the garage and the only thing to do is bring it in the house and wait for it to thaw. I can't even get it out of the container because my husband didn't use a bucket to set it in; he used a water cooler that's shaped like a barrel; no way is it just gonna slip out of there.
Ah, but at least it's warm inside. Nice fire in the stove, the aroma of curry lentil soup cooking and my feet aren't too cold at the moment.

Turns out I missed a little fun at the unit Christmas party because I had to leave early to go to work. After I left, my friend who gave me the flavored Cock Sauce got a vibrating butterfly and a beginner's bondage kit from another coworker. I knew she was going to Priscilla's to shop because I told her where it was, but I had no idea what she bought. Missed some fun there because those same people who didn't know what was so funny about my gift didn't know what those things were for, either. Later on, the hostess got out her laptop and the remaining party animals had some fun checking out the pictures here on my blog. The way I see it, I'm just here to spread a little joy in any way I can. I mean, there are things posted here that a lot of women never see in pictures, let alone in person.

I just got back from my neighbor the massage therapist's house. She got me to feeling all warm and relaxed and then blew it by having me taste some of her echinacea extract right out of the bottle. It smelled like vodka and tasted as bitter as alfalfa, but put a tingle on my tongue that only a bit of dark chocolate could cut through. Nasty stuff! I see why it helps fight infectious disease; no self-respecting microbe would want to live off a host that tasted that bad. I prefer the capsules or the honey-lemon echinacea cough drops, myself.

Well, my husband just got home and is willing to sacrifice the water cooler for the tree, so I guess I'd better get going. Ho! Ho! Ho!

Ice storms and freezing rain

Brrrr! It's cold here today. A bit icy, too. I hate freezing rain. When I was a kid, we had an ice storm that put our power out for three days, but we still had to go to school. We lived on a hill that resembled a small mountain and I remember nearly breaking my neck walking down it to catch the bus. We didn't have a woodstove in those days; my father didn't put one in until all us kids had left home and my mother died, so the house was heated with the fireplace. My sisters and I slept on the floor in front of the fire, and my mother ruined her iron skillet making the best barbecued chicken we'd ever had, cooking it over the open flames. Our water came from a cistern under the house, but the pump didn't work, so my father pulled it up in buckets and heated it in a big metal tub on the porch. Bath time was real interesting.

The house I live in now has a woodstove and a well, which doesn't work when the power goes out, either, and power failures are common. We have a generator now, but there was a time when I melted snow in pans on the stove--a very labor-intensive way of getting water to flush the toilet. You learn how to do all kinds of things during power outages, but one thing you can't do is blog. So, in light of the coming nastiness from Mother Nature, I'm going to post several blogs. I may not get back to respond to comments for a while, but there will be a little something to keep everyone warm in the meantime.

He doesn't look a bit cold, does he?

Don't they know it's almost Christmas?

I sure do wish our hospital computers didn't block blogs. I could write this stuff on the nights I have to work and not have to come home in the morning and stagger to my computer to write something insightful or witty or sexy or . . . something.

Long night, as usual. Our unit has been filled to capacity for weeks now, and we're not only not staffed for it, we aren't mentally prepared for it. Don't they know it's almost Christmas? Of course, being busy, we haven't had time to decorate. The Christmas cards are in a stack rather than taped up on the wall and our decorations are still in boxes in the break room. We've got tons of goodies--the nurses will succumb to diabetic ketoacidosis long before our patients will. We don't let them eat that stuff, but when you're hungry, it's way too easy to grab a cookie on the run.

Our maintenance department lost the trunk to our artificial tree, so all we've got is a big box of ornaments and some branches to decorate the unit with. I had a little time early on when my patient was sleeping and my new one hadn't arrived yet, so I wrapped some lights around a little tree I found in our box and ran the other end of the light strand down the desk with some beads and bows. It looks a bit like Charlie Brown's Christmas in the ICU, but at least it's festive.

I don't know how many shopping days are left until Christmas, but it's one less than yesterday. *yawn* I'm going to bed.

Diversions

I just wrote a rather depressing blog for Wickedly Romantic, so I'm ready to cut loose over here!

This is for all you ladies who would probably like to surf the porn sites, but haven't got the nerve. That's okay. I enjoy doing it for you. This is Cody Cummings. He's one of those guys who can fuck anybody (M or F) and look good doing it. Got some nice stuff there, doesn't he? You don't see it in this shot, but he's got a drop-dead gorgeous grin, too. I'll post some more erotic pics of him in the future, but this one is good for a start. I think I might have to make Cody a regular Sunday feature. :-)



Tell Santa that this is what you want to find under your tree this Christmas. Not jewelry, not sweets, not socks, but a hard, hot cock. It doesn't have to be Cody, of course--your current lover or husband in this state would be perfectly acceptable--but *sigh* wouldn't you just love to play with his toys?

Slave named 2008's Best Paranormal Romance by Romance B(u)y the Book!

I noticed the hit counters on my website and blog both took a big jump over the past couple of days, and I can only assume that this is due to Slave being chosen by Michelle Buonfiglio's Romance B(u)y the Book site as Best Paranormal Romance for 2008. This is an amazing honor, and I am overwhelmed with gratitude to Michelle for her continued support. Slave is one of those books that you either love or you hate; very little middle ground there. But, as you might have guessed, I wrote that one to please myself. That other people can enjoy it is wonderful, but I never expected it to have the world-wide appeal that many bestsellers have, and this blog is very much the same. This stuff is all from my head. Some will like it, and some won't.

Hopefully, those of you who drop by this blogspot will continue to visit now and then. It won't always be erotic pictures--though I am fond of them. There will be posts such as this on occasion, and while I'm going to try to put up a new post every day, I may take weekends off since Sunday is my regular blog day on Wickedly Romantic.

In other news, I just downloaded the copyedited version of Lover, which has lately been retitled as "Outcast." The titling process is as much a mystery to me as cover art, but I think I can trust my editor on this one, because thus far, the new title has met with approval from those I've bounced it off of. I glanced at it briefly, and it doesn't look like there are too many changes overall. This same guy has edited most of my other books and has a "light touch." Maybe I can get through it without screaming too much.

I was going to put up the Christmas tree this evening, but I'm still tired from last night. It always seems that the full moon effect hits in the wee hours of the morning on the date of that giant moon, rather than the night of. Things go wrong, more people flock to the ER--and subsequently our ICU--and patients go off the deep end. We began the evening early with our unit Christmas party where a playful friend gave me an assortment of Good Head oral delight gel, which got a good laugh; particularly when one of the crew didn't know what it was. You know me, I blurted out "It's cock syrup!" before stopping to think that our Unit Manager and the Chief Clinical Officer of the hospital were right there to hear me. Of course, I think they know me well enough by now to expect something of that nature from me. Besides, Ms CCO is the one who gave me the erotic romance that got my mind going in the direction of Slave to begin with!

Hopefully the gang will have a better night tonight. Me, I'm home eating crab, drinking beer, blogging, and trying to keep my feet warm.

Only twelve shopping days left until Christmas!

Baggy Pants and Nice Buns

If men insist on wearing baggy pants, this is how they should be worn! And they should expect to get pinched and fondled--and like it!
I was in Las Vegas recently, and went to the Thunder from Down Under show. Those guys certainly had buns worth pinching, and they didn't care what you touched as long as you didn't squeeze their balls. Too bad it's not like that everywhere.
Not that I'm advocating a touchy-feely society, but I think we've taken the "hands off" thing just a little too far.
I've been told I should go to Italy if I want my ass pinched. Seems a long way to go for that, but who knows, it might be worth it. I would dearly love to have my ass grabbed now and then, but everyone is so afraid to do things like that nowadays. Men don't even whistle at pretty girls anymore, at least not when I'm around to hear it. Kids in school may not get paddled, but they don't get a hug when they need it, either. I think this is rather sad.
What I'm trying to say is that we need to relax a little, and not get so bent out of shape when someone pats you on the shoulder, or on the ass. We are social animals; we need touch as much as we need conversation. It's unnatural to be so cut off from physical contact, and leads to frustrations that can lead to other problems. We could all use a good hug now and then. Or a nice pat on the buns!

What's in a cover?

I just got word from my editor that she will soon be sending me the new cover for Rogue. I never liked this one; I think the colors are rather dull and the man in question has too much pectoral muscle and no face, head or neck at all! Plus, as I pointed out to my editor, my Zetithians are like cats, not gorillas. Not that a big, beefy man is a bad thing, it's just that my guys aren't like that.

Book covers are such odd things. I'm told that they are intended to sell the genre, not necessarily the book. That makes no sense to me at all. When I read a book, I like for the cover to at least suggest what the main characters might look like. It burns me up to get into the story only to realize that whoever designed the cover never read the book, or even a description of the main characters. As a reader, I wouldn't think it would be too much to ask for the dark, brooding hero of the story to not be depicted as a blond on the cover!

This trend seems to be changing because recently I was asked for a rundown of hair and eye color along with body build for my heroes, and also a description of the setting. They did quite well with the setting on the Rogue cover, but I haven't seen anything for Lover yet. Maybe I should check my email just to be sure. . . just a moment. . . OH, MY GOD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
He is freakin' perfect!!!!!! Check out that incredible neck!!!! They even used my favorite shade of blue. *sigh* I feel SO much better now!

More of Out of Bounds!

By popular demand, here's another excerpt from Out of Bounds!

Enjoy!

*************************************************
"Studmuffin?” I repeated. “Doesn't this sort of thing make me something else?”

“Naw, you're still a studmuffin, no matter who you fuck,” he assured me. He paused a moment to blow out a long, ragged breath. “I can't wait until you fuck me, either. Think you can?”

“Well, yeah . . . I guess. I mean, I sure as hell don't want to hurt you, but—”

“What's the matter, Kyle?” he teased. “Got a king-sized cock hidden in those pants?” He reached down to run his hand over my crotch. “If it's anything like the rest of you, it's bound to be huge.”

“Well, yeah . . . I guess.” I seemed to be saying that quite a bit. I didn't want to sound repetitive and bore him, but, like I said, being witty around him was hard for me to do. Hell, I wasn't what you'd call witty with anyone! Wish I was, but I'm not. I've been called a big, dumb jock lots of times, and it's probably well deserved.

“Kyle,” he prompted me, “you might start by taking off your clothes—and your shoes! Or do you always wear them to bed?”

“No,” I said sheepishly. “I don't. I'm just . . . a little—”

“Freaked out? Overwhelmed? Fucked?”

“Well, yeah . . . I guess.”

“Eloquent, too, I see,” he said with a nod. “A man of few words. You know, I like that about you, Kyle. It's part of your charm.”

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, go ahead and say it: I'm a big, dumb jock who can't string six words together, and who's trying to make a living doing something he's not cut out for.”

“I wasn't gonna say that,” he protested. “But you have to know you look a little silly sitting at a desk in front of a computer.”

“Well, hell! What was I supposed to do? I tore up my knee and couldn't play football anymore, so—”

“I'm not saying you aren't any good at it!” he chided me. “I'm just saying you seem a bit out of place.” He regarded me solemnly with those big, soft eyes of his. “Man, I wish I'd seen you play! I bet you were really something.”

I shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe a long time ago, but not anymore.”

“I disagree,” he said. “I think you're very special, and terribly sexy, too—especially with my cum all over your face.”

Taking a self-conscious swipe at the semen which still clung to my chin, I have to admit that I was feeling kind of embarrassed, and it was making my dick soft—which was a bit unsettling, because if I truly couldn't fuck him, then I'd really be screwed. Of course, my middle finger was every bit as big as some men's dicks; I figured I could always fuck him with that. At least that way I knew I wouldn't hurt him.

“C'mere,” he said grabbing me around the middle. “I want to see this body of yours. It's been making me crazy for months, now, and I want to see all of it.”

I let him undress me—God knows I was too embarrassed at that point to do it, myself—and David made me feel like a frickin' Christmas present.

“Oh, and what have we got here?” he asked, gleefully pushing up my jersey. “Fabulous pecs and abs!” Then he moved around to pull off my sweats. “Wonder what's under here . . . oh, my God!”

I winced and turned away, not wanting to know what he thought of my dick.

“Holy shit!” he exclaimed. Then he slapped me on the thigh. “Hey, Studmuffin! Look at me when I'm talking to you!”

I opened one eye. “Go ahead and say it,” I said morosely. “You hate it. Don't you?”

“I do not!” he replied adamantly. “As a matter of fact, I think it's the most beautiful cock I've ever seen—and certainly the biggest—well, that I've seen in person, anyway. Porn stars are bigger, of course, but, yeah, I think I'll like it just fine.”

“You're sure I won't hurt you with it? I've, um, injured a few women—and I wasn't always trying to stick it in their ass at the time.”

“Well, this is no virgin ass you'll be fucking, so I wouldn't worry about it,” he said soothingly. “Ever done an ass before?”

The way he said it, he might have been asking if I'd ever driven a stick-shift, but I knew it wasn't quite the same. “Only once.” I closed my eyes remembering that awful, terrible scream. . . . “She accused me of trying to kill her.”

“Poor baby!” he said. “Well, if you just follow instructions, you won't hurt me. Honestly, Kyle, I've got toys bigger than you are.”

“Really?” I said, perking up considerably. My dick did, too. It had never been considered to be smaller than much of anything, and seemed to appreciate the novelty.

“Um-hm,” he said. “And I'll lube it up real good, too, but first, I'm sucking that puppy!”

And with that, he went down on me, and I just closed my eyes, having surely died and gone to heaven. David was chuckling around my dick, and it felt so good. . . .

“Hey,” he said, coming up for air, “you know, this is one delicious cock! And I love the fluffy blond hair on your balls, too.” He took a deep breath before adding, “Just thought you should know that.”

I began to reply, but he went down on my dick again, and I honestly couldn't speak for quite some time after that. Raising up on my elbows, I watched him sucking my cock, and, honest to Pete, just the sight of him nearly had me shooting him in the mouth. David was on his hands and knees, and positioned so that I was treated to a side view of him, with his cock and balls swinging back and forth between his open thighs as he pumped up and down on my dick. I reached down and gave his stiffening rod a squeeze before moving on to fondle his nuts.

He let me play with him for a while, and then moved around until his rear end was facing me. Breaking the suction, he said, “Play with my ass.”

I slid my hand over his cute little butt and kneaded his cheeks while he sucked me. He was good at it, too, and I knew I was pouring out buckets of syrup, because his mouth felt really slick on my cock. He seemed to like pulling the hair on my bag, and my nuts tightened uncontrollably when he did it. I was going to come in his mouth if he didn't stop soon. Maybe that's what he wants, I thought. He wants a mouthful of my man juice to enjoy, and— “Ah-h-h-h!” I couldn't hold back any longer, and shot my wad onto his tongue.

David held my dick in his mouth until it began to get soft, before backing off slowly, sucking every last drop of cum from my cock. Giving me a wink, he spit my juice into his hand, and then slathered his erect penis with it.

“Roll over, Studmuffin!” he said cheerfully. “Your new boyfriend is gonna fuck your ass.”

Excerpt from Out of Bounds

To set this one up, Kyle is a big, blond ex-quarterback with a bad knee, and David is the cute little devil who has got Kyle's mind delving into places he never thought he would go. David has invited himself over to Kyle's house for Labor Day weekend, and Kyle is terrified that he won't be able to keep his hands to himself. But David has similar ideas. . . . He has warned Kyle that something interesting happens after he drinks even one beer, and Kyle is about to discover what that means.

Have fun!

*************************************************************************************

I felt a bit like I'd been dropped into an episode of The Twilight Zone. I knew David, I'd worked side by side with him for a good while now, but this was an aspect of him I'd never known existed, and I liked it—a lot! If he'd been actively trying to make me fall for him, he couldn't have done better. He was . . . well . . . adorable!

Then a terrifying thought occurred to me. He wouldn't get nasty the more he drank, he would simply become more and more adorable! I didn't know if I'd be able to stand it. I was just about to blurt out something—I have no idea what—when he started giggling.

“Oh, here it comes!” he announced. “The hot flash!”

And with that, as I stood there watching him with my eyes practically popping out of their sockets, he pulled off his sweatshirt, laid it across the back of a kitchen chair, kicked off his thongs, and had his pants around his feet in less time than it takes to tell it. I thought for a moment there that I'd gone completely insane, and that my daydreams were beginning to take on a life of their own. I considered pinching myself, just to be sure.

“Hope you don't mind,” he said, “but after one beer, I get hot and have to take off all my clothes.” I couldn't imagine what else he might need to add to that, but, unbelievably, he went on, “Now, after two beers, I'll be sucking your cock, and after three—” He stopped there and gave me a huge grin. “—I'll be down on my hands and knees begging you to fuck me in the ass.”

I blinked and glanced down to examine the bottle in my hand. I couldn't possibly have had more than a couple of swallows of it, so I knew I wasn't intoxicated enough to be hallucinating. It would take a helluva lot more beer than that! I had to be insane! I stole another peek at him, and David, my adorable little David, was standing before me with the most stunningly beautiful hard-on this world has ever seen, and he'd just said. . . “What?”

He went on grinning at me delightfully, while at the same time repeating his words slowly and distinctly, “One beer: naked. Two beers: sucking your cock. Three beers: begging you to fuck my ass.” He paused for a second or two before adding with a sweeping gesture which encompassed his entire, beautiful little self, “You get all of this, and HIV negative. Guaranteed.”

Without another thought, or even a moment's hesitation, I gave him the bottle I had in my hand. “Here,” I said. “Drink up.”

His cock twitched and began to drool slippery syrup onto the floor. “Ha! I knew you liked me!” he said coyly. “In fact, I was sure you did!” David reached out and took my beer, taking a long swig from it before setting it down in the sink. “So, all loosened up now?”

I nodded. I might be loosened up, but I was still having a hard time believing what I was hearing and seeing. Then another thought occurred to me. “Do you really have to be drunk to do all of that?”

He shook his head. “Nope, I just use it as an excuse, mostly. A way of breaking the ice without getting into too much trouble. I mean, if you didn't like the idea, I could always say it was the beer talking.”

As though he'd needed to break the ice with me! Somehow, I should have guessed, though, should have known. . . .

*****************

I pulled him hard up against me and kissed him. I'd kissed plenty of women, but none that had ever affected me quite the way David did. It was odd—it wasn't even sexual—my dick wasn't even giving me fits, at least, not much—but I just couldn't stop kissing him! Didn't want to. I loved him. I would make love with him, eventually, but just then, all I wanted to do was hold him and kiss him.

But not in the kitchen. I picked him up and carried him to my bed, and never stopped kissing him—and I kissed him all over. From the nest of dark curls in the center of his chest, I followed the dark line down his abdomen to the other nest of curls surrounding his penis. I kissed the side of his neck, the back of his knees—I don't believe I missed a single spot. He was beautiful—he was warm, he was strong, he was sensuous—and I felt an affinity for him which was unrivaled in my experience. And then it got sexual. . . .

My cock turned to stone as I teased his nipples with my tongue while stroking his stiff rod. I felt it dripping on my fingers, and shuddered in anticipation of what lay ahead. Finally, giving in to the desire which guided me to the head of his cock, I kissed it: gently, lovingly, and then I took him in—and nearly died from the earth-shattering sensation of David's cock in my mouth. It was hot, slick, and salty, and my own cock felt like it was splitting apart as I went down on him. My eyes drifted shut as I gave in to the delirious sensations overtaking me. A deep sigh made me take a peek at him out of the corner of my eye; his expression was dreamy and blissful; his eyes half-closed and his lips parted. Shuddering with desire, I gulped as his balls pulsed and pumped more slippery fluid onto my tongue. I was so close then; if he'd touched my cock, I know it would have fired off a round into the air.

I waited, steadying my breathing, carefully wrapping my lips around his dick and then pulling back to savor his cock syrup again before going down on him once more. I'd never had any idea how it would be to suck another man's dick, but it was so good I could hardly stand it. I'd watched women suck me before—some had seemed to enjoy it, and some hadn't—but I'd been too busy focusing on the feeling of their mouths on my dick to think about how my penis might feel in a woman's mouth. But I knew now.

Moving around between his legs, I sucked up and down on his shaft and massaged his scrotum. I licked up the side to the head, then went back down to the base to lick his balls. I sucked one of them into my mouth, and I thought David was going to lose his load right then, but he held on, waiting for me to suck the cum out of him.

I took his ass in my hands, urging him to fuck my mouth, and he didn't disappoint me, pumping his cock past my lips and across my tongue. I felt him tighten, heard him exhale sharply, and then he came, spurting his semen into my waiting mouth. I let go of him to savor it, and got shot in the face with another blast.

“Suck me, Kyle!” David groaned, raising up to take my head in his hands and plead with me. “Put it back in your mouth and suck until it's soft. I want it all in your mouth. No, wait! Don't swallow the cream! I want to see,” he gasped, raising my face to his. “I want to see my cum in your mouth, watch you taste it, see you swallow it. I've . . . dreamed. . . . Oh, shit!” he hissed as his balls tried to come again. Letting go of my head, he fell back on the bed and waited for what else I would do to him.

I did the best I could, sliding him as far into my mouth as possible and trying not to swallow, but I had to—it was either that or choke to death. And when I swallowed, his softening cock went down along with his semen.

“Oh, God!” he shouted. “Fuck! That feels so . . .” And then he let out a scream as his nuts exploded again. “Oh, Kyle! Stop! It's too good! Oh, . . shit. . . . ” His voice trailed off, and I gradually felt his cock become completely soft in my mouth and his body go limp in my hands. “Too good,” he murmured. “Too fuckin' good. . . .” He let out a long sigh and reached down to ruffle my hair. “Whoa! Sucked off by a big, blond, Norwegian studmuffin! I may never be the same!”

It was a safe bet that I never would be, either.

Impotence

And this does not refer to the kind you think I mean. No, what I'm talking about now is the other kind: that feeling of helplessness as you watch someone go down the tubes and there isn't a damn thing you can do about it.
In my other career as a critical care nurse, I've watched many triumphs and failures in the past thirty years or so. People who should have died that lived, people who should have lived who died, and everything in between.
Last night, I took care of a patient who, not many days before, had been reasonably healthy, but a virus of some kind had severely damaged her heart muscle, and I spent the wee hours of the morning hours watching it fail. That is impotence; the knowing that it was happening, and not being able to intervene.
I was on edge, watching her every breath, every movement, looking for a sign to prove that my sense of foreboding was incorrect.
Sometimes I really hate being right.
Not long after that, we admitted an overdose; the screaming, combative kind that makes you wonder why they couldn't have traded places with some others who really wanted to live, but didn't.
I have to remind myself that we only see a very small percentage of the population come through our unit, but sometimes it's hard not to come away with the attitude that this whole world is just plain fucked up.
Is it any wonder, then, that I write fiction? The happily ever after kind of fiction? Actually, viewing the world through a nurse's glasses is probably why my heroes are such sweeties--not arrogant, belligerent assholes--and my heroines are strong, just like nurses have to be. I avoid brutality in my writing as much as I can, but unfortunately, that threat of danger keeps pages turning even better than the anticipation of a hot love scene. I wish it wasn't so, but, unfortunately, it is.
Why are we so fascinated with the horrors of this world? Don Henley put it best in his song "Dirty Laundry", a satirical view of news broadcasting, when he observed that "It's interesting when people die." Well, let me tell you, it's not interesting when people die. It's a waste.
If all the the resources in this world were spent on promoting life and health rather than death and destruction, we would have reached so much further as a civilization.
But what do I know?

In Search of Eye Candy

Ever wonder why you never see men like this in Walmart?

Who are these guys and where do they come from? Where do they live? Where do they buy their groceries? Are they all in New York or LA? I was in Las Vegas not long ago, but except for the guys in the all-male reviews, there weren't many cute ones there, either.

Occasionally I'll see a moderately cute one out and about, but sometimes, I have to lower my standards on what I consider cute to make that assessment. Let's face it ladies, most guys just don't give a shit. At least I think that's the reason. I could be wrong.

It's sad, really, when you can walk down a street and see all manner of lovely women, but handsome men seem to be an endangered species. And, I'm sorry, wearing ripped jeans with the crotch hanging at knee level does not inspire any feelings of lust within my soul. I like looking at nice buns, but these days, I must confess, I don't even know where to look to find them. I earned excellent grades in anatomy, so, at least theoretically, I have a general idea of where they should be, but the camouflage is virtually impenetrable.

Now I realize that at my age I probably shouldn't be looking. I've been happily married for almost thirty years, and I should have outgrown my roving eye by now. But boy-watching has always been a favorite pastime of mine, dating well back into my pre-teen years. I explained to my husband long ago that it had nothing to do with him. Just because you have a perfectly good Ford in the garage doesn't mean you don't gawk when a Maserati drives past. I wouldn't blame him if he did some ogling now and then, but he tends not to, or is at least quiet about it.

Not that I'm blatant myself. Sitting on a bench in the mall or walking down the street, my expression is neutral to the point of appearing surly. I rarely get caught. I even grabbed an ass or two in the mosh pit at a Nickelback concert a couple of years ago, but was never accused—or even suspected.

I know that somewhere among the skinny butts and shapeless clothing are men capable of driving us wild, but often it takes a great deal of imagination to see them. I just wish I didn't have to use my imagination quite so much. I prefer to save it for when I'm writing.

Excerpt from The Boy at the Bar

Been wanting to get this one published for a long time, but so far, it hasn't happened. Guess there's no market for a contemporary erotic romance about a fifty-year-old woman and a twentysomething guy. I loved writing this one, and it blasted right through any inhibition I ever had. To set up this scene, our heroine has been out celebrating her birthday with friends and anonymously bought a drink for a cute guy sitting at the bar, just to keep him there so she could enjoy a little eye candy. It's the night of the big game between IU and Purdue, and, clearly an IU fan, he's wearing a T-shirt that has Puck Furdue on it, so she thinks of him as Puck, and enjoys a lovely little fantasy about him. After dinner, she and her friends go to the bookstore, and she is about to head home when she discovers that "Puck" has figured out who bought him the drink. . . .
So, enjoy!

Having said goodnight to my buddies, I stepped off the curb on my way out to my cold little Honda. It had certainly been an interesting evening, I mused—one of my more memorable birthdays, in fact, and also one of the colder ones. Shivering as I pulled my coat more closely around me against the biting wind, I shoved my hands deeply into my pockets and walked, head down, out to my car, doing my best to avoid the icy patches on the pavement. Having reached my car, I was in the process of unlocking the door when I heard the driver's side door open on the vehicle parked next to mine. I didn't think anything about it until I saw the baseball cap and then my heart slowed to a dull thud, feeling like a hammer-stroke in my chest, as Puck got out of his car.

Any thoughts which I might have had about this merely being a coincidence were dispelled when our eyes met and I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he'd been sitting out there waiting for me—a circumstance which made it patently obvious that he knew I'd been the one to buy his drink. Though just how he'd figured that out remained to be seen—surely Tami, our waitress, hadn't told him!—but somehow he knew, nonetheless. The knowledge was there, in his eyes.

Feeling a sudden urge to run, I realized I had nowhere to go, and though I probably could have gotten into my car and then locked the door before he would have had time to reach me if I'd been quick about it, his eyes held mine in a gaze so strong, so full of purpose and intent, that I simply couldn't do it. My keys dropped from my nerveless fingers onto the pavement and Puck swooped down to retrieve them for me. When he straightened up to his full height, his face was mere inches from mine, and his eyes on the same level.

“Thanks for the drink,” he said evenly. When I didn't reply, he went on, “It was you, wasn't it?”

I swallowed with some difficulty as a hard shudder gripped my chest. In my wildest dreams I hadn't expected this. “How did you know?” I whispered. What I had done had all been in fun; done on the merest whim and therefore shouldn't have seemed quite so dramatic, but the compelling look in his eyes made it seem that way. Oh, sure, he was cute, he was friendly, but just then, he was as serious as a heart attack.

“You were the only woman who spoke to me all evening,” he replied. “And the waitress told me it was your birthday.” He gestured toward the box lying on the front seat of my car. “I saw the cake.” He was still holding my keys, toying with them as they clinked together in his hand. “She said you just wanted to look at me—which was fine with me—but, be honest, now; is that really all you wanted to do?”

I nodded slowly. “Eye candy,” I replied, surprised that my voice sounded comparatively normal. “Just something nice to look at during dinner. You know, a sort of birthday present to myself.”

“Are you sure that's all it was?” he asked again. “Absolutely sure?”

I hesitated a long moment before answering him, and when I did, it was with another question. “What is it you want me to say?”

A ghost of a smile teased the corner of his mouth. “That you'd like to do a whole lot more than just look,” he replied.

“And what if I do?” I asked cautiously. “Then what?”

His smile was slow and seductive. “I give you back your keys and you follow me home.”

My already dry mouth turned to dust in the space of a heartbeat. “And if I don't?”

“Then I give you back your keys and you go home alone.” He smiled disarmingly, but all the same, melting me down with the heat of it. “And no, I won't follow you,” he said. “I'm not that pushy! Just promise me one thing, though: take my phone number and if you ever change your mind, call me. Anytime, day or night.”

Somewhere in the back of my mind, two voices were duking it out: one screaming at me that this was a total stranger and that I shouldn't trust him for a split second, and the other one reminding me just how much I would regret it if I said no. “Oh, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of your life. . . .” I could hear Humphrey Bogart saying those words to a tearful Ingrid Bergman on the tarmac at the airport in Casablanca. I sighed deeply as I realized that this kid had probably never even heard of that movie, let alone actually seen it. . . .

Something was wrong here. He wasn't acting reasonably—no man his age could possibly care one way or the other whether I found him attractive or not, and certainly wouldn't be giving me his phone number! It was surreal, like something out of the Twilight Zone—which was another reference that he probably wouldn't understand.

“I don't suppose Tami told you which birthday I was celebrating, did she?” I asked him, knowing full well that, thanks to modern cosmetic science, I didn't appear to be quite as ancient as my actual age would suggest.

He nodded. “The big five-o.”

So, he did know—which made it seem even less likely for him to be here, talking with me and obviously bent on seduction. He couldn't have been more than twenty-five, I guessed. Certainly not as old as thirty. . . . “And you're all of, what, twenty—?”

“Seven,” he replied. “Almost twenty-eight—in two weeks, as a matter of fact.”

I almost laughed out loud. As if that made a difference! No matter how you added it up, he was still more than twenty years my junior. My only consolation was that he was at least a few years older than my son.

Obviously having no clue as to the nature of my thoughts, he leaned a little closer. “Want to help me celebrate?”

Ignoring that question, I went on, “Tell me something, why is it that a cute little Puck like you would want someone old enough to be your mother to follow you home?”

He smiled at me with a slow blink of those deep brown eyes, reminding me of the way a cat will do when it is very content. “I've always liked older women,” he replied. “From the time I was a kid, I always liked my friend's mothers better than their sisters. The younger ones don't interest me very much, I'm afraid, whereas you . . . well . . . you intrigue the hell out of me.”

Intriguing? This was surprising, for while I'd been called a many different things in my time, I'd never been called that! My skepticism must have shown in my face, for he added, “You don't believe me, do you?”

I shook my head. “No, I don't,” I replied with a grimace. I could feel my heart skipping beats and took a deep breath to calm it—which helped only slightly. “Tell me something,” I said, adopting as even a tone as I could accomplish under the circumstances, “does that line ever actually work for you? What I mean is, how many older women have you managed to pick up with it?”

“Counting you?” he asked. “None so far. Actually, I've never even thought of it until now.” His head tipped to one side as he bestowed a thoughtful gaze upon me. “I've just been sitting out here in my car wondering why a woman like you would find me attractive, and I couldn't come up with a reason that made any sense.”

Must not be too bright if he couldn't figure that one out! I mean, all he had to do was look in the mirror! “Cute,” I said firmly. “C-U-T-E, cute! That's all!”

He sighed in a rather dejected fashion, somehow managing to appear even more adorable than he had the moment before.

“Oh, of course I'm sure there's more to you than just being cute,” I hastened to add. “But how you could expect me to know that from across the room, I simply can't imagine! You seem to be very nice and friendly—I mean, everyone you were talking to seemed to like you—you drink Jack Daniels and Coke, and it's fairly obvious that you're an IU fan, but other than that what could I possibly know?”

“Well,” he said reasonably, “you know when my birthday is, which is more than I can say for a lot of people.”

I had to laugh. “Yeah, like nearly a hundred percent of the world's population! Geeze, I can count on one hand the number of people who can rattle off my birthday!” Then it dawned on me that he just happened to be one of them. “Which also includes you,” I admitted, though somewhat reluctantly.

“You see!” he said eagerly, pouncing on the idea like a cat on a mouse. “We know that much about each other, and we're still talking! There's got to be a relationship in there somewhere!”

There were two things wrong with his last statement. Number one, it's been my experience that men don't voluntarily use the word “relationship” in a complete sentence, and two, that if he thought what we had was a relationship, then he hadn't been in any good ones lately—or perhaps ever. “So, you're looking for a relationship, huh?” I inquired skeptically. “That's funny, I thought you were just looking to get laid.”

He seemed sort of hurt by that, but what he said next had me howling with laughter. “Well, having sex is a relationship, isn't it?” he said, a tad bit defensively.

I might have been laughing my head off, but I was forced to admit he was right. It might not be lasting, and it might not be terribly meaningful, but it was, indeed, a relationship of sorts.

“And I meant what I said about you being intriguing,” he insisted. “I'd be willing to bet that what you read is fascinating, too.”

In all the excitement, I'd completely forgotten about my books, but they were right there in the bag dangling from my wrist. Four totally steamy erotic romance novels, when no doubt he was expecting something along the lines of Hemingway or Steinbeck. I hated to disappoint him, but I knew I was going to because he was reaching for the bag and I didn't seem to be able to make any moves to stop him. He pulled the books out and studied the covers carefully.

“Damn!” he swore softly, before closing his eyes and letting his head fall back as though beseeching the heavens for assistance. “Puh-leese, follow me home! I can do better than this stuff. I promise!”

“I don't know,” I said dryly. “Some of those are pretty hot.”

“I mean I can do it for real,” he explained, handing me back both my books and my keys. “Come on, Pretty Mama,” he pleaded in a deep, throaty whisper, “follow me.” Smiling at me in a very disturbing fashion, he leaned even closer. I could almost feel the heat emanating from him, could almost imagine what it would be like to be in his arms, kissing him. Oh, yeah, he was getting to me. “Give me a chance to show you what a good boy I can be.”

This time, I dropped not only my keys, but all of the books as well. Ignoring my clumsiness, he leaned in further and took the kiss before I had the chance to move away from him. Not that I was in any hurry to move, mind you. Not that I wanted any space between us, either. Not that I didn't long to kiss him—hadn't been thinking about it all evening, wondering what it would feel like, how he would taste. . . .

The kiss deepened as he stepped around me, pinning me against the side of my car, pressing the entire length of his body against mine, sliding his arms around me in the most sensual embrace I'd ever been a party to—with or without a coat. My head was swimming and despite the weather, my body was melting like a Hershey bar on a sidewalk in July. Oh, yes, he was a very good boy, and if this was any indication of how he could make me feel, I knew I should definitely consider following him home.

His tongue teased my lips, asking politely for admittance, and, oh, God, he not only made me feel like hot chocolate, but he tasted like it, too. He must have gone to the café in the bookstore for something to keep him warm while he waited for me. Not coffee, not tea, but hot, creamy, sensuous, delicious chocolate. Oh-h-h. . . . I felt his fingers threading their way through the hair on the back of my head, holding me firmly, kissing me even more deeply. I was losing it. . . . He backed off a bit and sucked my lower lip, tasting it with his tongue. I felt a low moan start to grow somewhere deep inside me, I knew there had to be people around to see us, but I didn't care, didn't care, didn't . . . care. . . .

“Come on, Pretty Mama,” he said again, spearing his fingers through the graying hair at my temples, as he held my head in his hands. “I want you. Please . . . say you will . . . say yes . . . say it . . . please. . . .” he murmured, filling in the pauses with hot kisses scattered all over my face.

I realized then that I was nodding my head—I might have been doing it myself, or perhaps he was doing it for me, but either way, he took it as a yes. He planted another searing, wet kiss squarely on my lips before bending down to retrieve my books and keys. Pulling a pen out of the breast pocket of his jacket, he scribbled something on the inside cover of one of the novels before putting them back in the bag and handing them to me.

“Follow me,” he said again, but this time he said it much more compellingly than before—more like a command than a request, and one which I knew I would find nearly impossible to ignore. “It's not far, and it's warm inside. You won't be sorry.” With that, he took my hand and, moving me aside, he unlocked my car and held the door open for me. I got in my car without a word and he handed me the keys. “If you get lost, call me.”

I sat there for a moment, breathing deeply with my eyes closed. I shouldn't do this, I told myself. Shouldn't, shouldn't, shouldn't! But my lips were still tingling from his last kiss and I could still taste him, still smell him—his scent, his leather jacket and whatever it was about him which made him unique; his own essence, as it were. I heard him get in his car and start the engine as I opened the book to see what he'd written.

Robin Thatcher, it read, and there were two phone numbers beneath the name. Robin. Yes, it suited him very well. There was a bit of the perky little bird about him, as well as a touch of the dashing and mischievous Robin Hood—charming rich damsels out of their money to give to the poor, no doubt. I wondered if I was one of the rich or one of the poor in this case; I could have made an argument for both.

I glanced over at him as I started my car and put it in gear. With an encouraging smile and a wave he pulled away. And, God help me, I followed him.