Christmas Caterpillars

Christmas Eve at Patty's house. It should have been mild, we were just going to grill steaks and have wine. And...play with false eyelashes. The latest rage. I drape one across Patty's left eye.
And stare in shock.
It looks pretty damn good on her. No trimming necessary, it transforms her face into instant glamor queen. Who knew?
“Wow,” I tell her. You need to go look in the mirror.”
She eyes my wine glass suspiciously, as if it's the reason why she looks good. But the wine is only half gone. I smile condescendingly. How dare she even think I may be a lightweight?
While she's in the bathroom, I slap a couple of the lashes on me, using the wineglass for my reflection.
“You're right,” Patty says, coming back out. “It does look pretty good. Damn, I'm a hottie.”
I blink rapidly at her, fluttering the lace on my eyelid so she'll notice.
Just then Corky walks in.
Patty and I eye each other, panic-stricken. Because Corky's the bartender from hell. Oh, not that his drinks are bad. Just the opposite. They're deliciously dangerous. Irresistibly innocent. But you have to pay for them.
With your soul.
“Distract him,” Patty whispers.
“Cork, uhhh, wanna dance?”
The country song that's playing is old...and slow. He looks at me like I'm crazy. Patty's looking at me like I'm crazy. I shrug. It was the best I could do on such short notice.
“Nah,” Corky says, ignoring our elegant eyelashes and looking into our wineglasses instead. “I think I'm gonna try a new drink recipe I heard about. It's called an Orgasm.”
Patty's eyes narrow so far, I think her lids have swallowed her lashes. “What's in it?”
“Well, I don't know exactly...”
There's the kicker. The “exactly” part is where Corky whips the rug out from under us. Exactly could mean seven different liquors. And seven different experiments to get the recipe perfected.
“I know there's milk. And Triple Sec. Maybe a drop or two of Amaretto. Chocolate vodka.”
Patty whispers. “Sounds harmless, dearie.”
By now, Corky brings our first round of shots. They're smooth, tasty. I lick the shot glass clean.
“Not quite right,” he announces. “I'm gonna try it over again.”
Patty and I shrug, and then she flutters her lashes at me. “Let's dance.”
First clue of Drunkland should be two women country dancing together and neither one knowing who should lead. “This is the three-step,” she says. There's a two-step, I know. But sure enough, she's counting out three steps.
“Here, have some Tuaca to chase down the last recipe. I don't want you to mar the tastes between the old recipe and the new,” Corky says, like the purpose of Tuaca is a sliver of ginger between sushi rounds.
The rest of the night is a blur. Except for the part where I was teaching Patty how to bellydance...to the country music. I vaguely remember that one.
“I got... four sons,” Patty announces, her voice so slurred I think she was mentally counting them.
“I know,” I say, surprised that my voice is slurred too. “Dusty and Dirky, Sleepy and Doc. Oh, wait. That can't be right, one is named after a beer. But anyway, think of the danger! It might work out with one of them and then I'd have to call you mom.”
The next thing I remember is waking up in bed. Sunlight is streaming in the windows. I haven't yet opened my eyes, I can just see the color of the sun's rays through closed lids.
I remember putting on her pajamas. I remember hanging one foot out of the bed to touch the floor to stop the bedspins from taunting me.
But being a paranormal author, I remember snaking my foot back under the covers, in case something grabbed my ankle from under the bed.
Was there anything I might have forgotten in my drunken state? My clothes should be in my purse. I always have a strange habit of finding clothes in there...once even two pair of shoes. That one still boggles me.
Slowly I open one eye. Panic grips my gut, curling its fingers around my intestines. My heart thunders, nearly splitting my ribcage apart. I lay perfectly still, afraid to scream, afraid to move.
For a giant, hairy, poisonous caterpillar lays across my eyelid.
No, wait a minute. There are two fat ones on each eye. Some of the panic starts to ebb away.
But then I hear a blood-curdling scream from down the hallway. I race down, just in time to see Patty sitting up in bed, spiky hair jutting straight up.
A thick caterpillar across her cheek.

The Erotica Writer's Conference

Really? I'm just blogging about RomantiCon? It was in October...the beginning. It's now November...the end.
Better late than never. But back to Romanticon:
As always, a huge smashing success. For authors, the bar is where we always seem to congregate. Helen Hardt and I sat right up front, since the tables were taken by the usual erotica tramps. I feel I have the right to call them that; while they may be friends, they took the tables first.
I snapped at the bartender. “I'd like a Tight Snatch, please.”
Helen fluttered her lashes. “Flirtini for me.”
We giggled, but neither was going to admit to the other we just like to say the names. This year there were three young men sitting up there, though not from our conference. Very young, you could tell by the way they nudged each other at our drinks, looking all excited and flushed. One had his ID sitting on the bar, waiting to proudly show he was legal.
Mari Freeman, red-headed vixen, went over to whisper in the youngest child's ear about all she could teach him in Cougar-ville. His eyes looked ready to bug out.
Sigh.
Tonight I'll buy her a drink. Scratch that, cause she's really interesting, especially when she drinks. A shot. I'll spare no expense to rile her up.
But then the oldest of the group of three boys, all twenty-nine tender years of lickable age, (I know, he told me so) passed me a note. HUH? I haven't been passed a note since twelfth grade.
“Your cute.”
Helen leaned over my shoulder. “He spelled 'your' wrong.”
“Quit editing my love note,” I snapped. Jealous bitch. I would have shared my lovebug.
She shrugged, looking disgusted. “He should at least learn to spell if he's going to hit on an author.”
The kid was busy rambling through all this. Busy leaving enticing little comments about how interesting his life was. Never noticing Helen and I carried on a conversation at the same time he babbled. He was a stuntman. Big pause. Apparently I wasn't quick enough to ask more. He let another tidbit out. Dirt bikes.
I stifled a yawn.
In big demand.
My mind wandered. An innocent-looking author walked up. Her long blond hair was smooth and straight like...a virgin. A schoolgirl. Like Darla on Buffy.
“Hello, again, Heather,” said Hel. “Do you know my friend Rena?”
I said hi. I had seen her around in a couple classes. She sat in the barstool next to us, blessedly blocking the view of the stuntkid. “So what kind of stuff do you write?” I asked.
Of course, there are several different genres. Even if we are all erotic.
She blushed. “Oh, I write really mild stuff.”
Of course. She looked like my teenage daughter. I smiled condescendingly. “Like what, sugar?”
“Light stuff. A little menage. Some ginger figging.”
I blink, then smooth over my features in case confusion crept across when I was unaware...
“Oooh, interesting! I haven't written that yet.” Helen coos. Damn, Hel knows what it is? There's no way I'm asking now. So I smile too. If they want to assume I'm in...so be it.
“Love gingersnapping,” I say.
Helen clears her throat. The blond looks confused. I grunt. She is blond, even if she is all sweet and innocent. Probably had a space out moment. Then a beatific smile crosses her sweet, pretty face and she wanders down the bar to visit others.
Hel leans in. “So by the way, what is it?”
Surprise slams into me. Helen is the most up-to-date woman I know. “You don't know? I thought for sure you knew.”
“Not a clue. But I wasn't about to admit it. She's so sweet and innocent looking and maybe she does it.”
Oooh. I didn't think about that.
“Okay, I don't know either.”
Now it's Hel's turn to look surprised. “You don't? I thought for sure you would.”
For a second I'm flattered. Then I frown when it sinks in. “Huh?”
“Well, now I'm curious. I'll have to google,” she announces.
“Yeah," I agree.
She pulls out her laptop and fires up.
Another author, Lena Matthews, wanders up. “What are you two doing?”
“Googling gingersnapping.”
“Figging,” Hel says dryly.
“That's what I meant to say,” I said, like I knew the term all along. Cause for sure, wicked, come-hither-and-spank-me Lena knows.
“Hmmm,” Lena says. “What's that?”
“You don't know either?” Helen asks. “Well, what the hell is wrong with us? The innocent blond knows enough to write about it...and the naughty-looking ones don't...here it comes...oh...ok. You peel a ginger root, take a few slivers and insert...ouch...anally. It's a pleasure-pain kind of burn during sex...”
Lena sat a few inches taller, like we're not gonna notice she just clenched her butt cheeks tightly.
“Ow. See, you gotta watch the innocent-looking ones,” she says. “The ones who drink the fruity drinks. They're just baaad.”
“Yeah,” we agree in unison. “Floozies.”
All three of us lean in to slurp out of our lovely drinks, moving aside the fruit twisted onto the dangerous-looking toothpicks.

I Plan to Move...

I'd done so well at avoiding old Lou. My lawn looked terrible, it had been two whole weeks. But the old man has been sitting on his porch every night, so my poor grass has suffered while I avoid him.

This morning I woke up at five to mow it before anyone else was out. Success! I mowed the front quickly, knowing I could take my time in the back without him bothering.

For lunch I made a trip to my neighborhood Safeway. I felt the edge of someone's shopping cart nudging my butt. Lou was peering at it, his thick glasses making his eyes magnified to a peculiar owlish look.

“Sweetheart! I been calling you! Something's wrong with your phone.”

Thank the heavens for small favors. I set my phone to the fax the other day and completely forgot about it.

“It's broke,” I agreed.

Because he's deaf, he then shouted, “Well, I want to ask you out. Take you to dinner.”

The entire store got so quiet you could hear a pin drop. The only person who didn't get quiet was Lou.

I tried to whisper, my face beet red. “Lou, you know I'm really busy.”

“You gotta have some free time, babe. And I'm so lonely, I can't get used to this single life. It's bad on the weekends.” He motioned his TV dinner filled cart. “That's why I decided I'm gonna take a trip to visit my sister in Kansas, so I'm buying all this food for Ronald. The kid can't cook.”

The kid is also fifty-four and still lives at home.

“No wonder he's single,” I murmured, like he was a prize.

Old Lou laughed heartily. “The kid needs a stepmother,” he agreed, blatantly looking at my J-Lo butt again.

The checkers were still silent, waiting to see what'd happen next.

“Good luck with your trip,” I called, grabbing my bag from the slow-ass woman who was holding onto it tightly. I jerked it from her grasp with a glare.

“Need him to help you out with that?” she asked, jerking her head over her shoulder in Lou's direction.

Bitch.

“No. I got it.” I said succinctly.

“You think about dinner,” Old Lou called. “I'll look you up when I get back. I've seen some of your dates picking you up, but they never come back for a second one, do they? That's cause you don't know how to treat a man, babe.”

I had walked halfway out the silent store by now. So I turned back.

I flipped him the bird.

He turned toward our checker. “See what I mean?” he asked her.

She nodded sympathetically.

Tarot Thursday (I know, I know, it's Monday)

Virgo and Taurus

Taurus and Virgo. Earth and Earth: an excellent combination. If you have found a Virgo, don't ever let him/her go! In brief, Taurus is made to be the Virgo's partner. So Virgo, keep her; Taurus, treasure him.
Taurus and Virgo are both Earth signs, consequently you both want the same things: much money and free time for cultural activities. The Virgins are the highly cautious ones (What if...?), and Taurus is the "soul curer" of the zodiac, so you are a perfect match.

Virgo has so many fears and worries because he has a keen sense of responsibility, of duty. Virgo is afraid he'll disappoint the people around him, friends, bosses, neighbors... You, dear Taurus, are as perseverant as Virgo is, but you don't worry that much and, besides that, you like giving advice and comforting people, so you've found your other half in a Virgo...

Taurus' purpose in life is peace and harmony. And Virgo will offer you both. But, of all his qualities, Virgo's faithfulness and devotion will be the most attractive to you: he's an upright person, a man of the right sort of timber.

Virgo's sharp mind will fascinate you (for he's governed by Mercury, that is good at communicating). Virgo is also well organized and that will help you two set some habits that you like so much.
Fortunately, Virgo is a mutable sign, that is more flexible, which is once again excellent, because Taurus would do anything except changing...

Patience is characteristic of both Taurus and Virgo, pragmatism too, so what do you think will happen when lights are off? Virgo will agree on fulfilling your fantasies if you are patient enough with this native who releases from daily worries harder than you do and if you convince him not to think about his next task at work, but focus on what he is doing at that moment.

Virgo has the gift (or non-gift) of being a little reserved at the beginning. Use your famous patience, dear Taurus, and everything will turn out very well. The only risk is that things might become predictable at one point... But Virgo communicates so well, has so many ideas and reads so much that he'll surely come up with new ideas from time to time!

Because Virgo and Taurus have almost the same ideals and passions. Practical, realistic, without longing for strange adventures and funny experiences, you both want a safe future and you are both "domestic". Oh, you also have the passion of making - saving money. So, if you decide to stay with a Taurus, there will never be problems with communication between you two.
But Taurus is also rather impulsive and she often sees red with anger... Although she gets over it very quickly, the sensitive Virgo could feel hurt at these outbursts.

You, a sun sign governed by Mercury, cannot fall in love with somebody unless you fall in love with her mind and have the feeling of stability. Taurus will offer you, indeed, stability, equilibrium and ardent passion, because Taurus is governed by the planet of love, Venus. Taurus is very faithful, but attention, she always pays her debts - and not only when it comes to money.
Sexually, Taurus is a master of making love with passion and ardour and she gets very involved in a relationship. Taurus is also very possessive, but you will like it because Virgo enjoys feeling spoiled and belonging to someone.

Briefly, if you were looking for your great love, you have found it!

Sweet Innocence

The power went out today, with the three girls all on our laptops, K and Paige sharing hers.

“Hope it's out for only 90 minutes,” one daughter said, staring at her low battery.

“Ugh, forgot the modem would go out,” I said. “Internet kicked me off.”

“Well I am reading a book online,” my oldest daughter announced. “and it's really weird to have the author here to answer my questions. How do you pronounce Anjelia?”

“An-gel-leah. They call her Leah later in the book.”

Things got quiet again as she continued to read. In the background, I could hear Paige and K playing the Sims. “Ewww, it's a boy!” hollered K. “I'm gonna make 'em do it again so we can pop out a girl.”

“Yeah, we don't like the boy babies,” Paige agreed. Then she slyly looks out from beneath her lashes at me. “Unless your mom gets knocked up by my dad, and it's a boy baby. We'd love a boy baby then.”

K looks up innocently. “Uh, huh, we would. We would love him to pieces. Won't even mind when he's a little stinky-smelling, like boys are.”

I roll my eyes at Silver, ignoring them. Silver is looking at them with disgust written across her face. She opens her mouth.

“Don't,” I advise. “It just encourages them.”

Both little girls start writing down a list of boy names.

The rest of us turn back to our laptops.

Soon Silvery laughed. “I can totally hear your voice in your books,” she said. “You're such a smart-ass. It takes a minute before you realize it.”
The three of us laughed, and while I would like to say it sounded like three bells tinkling...

“Ever notice we kind of cackle?” My youngest said to Silver and I.

The laughter stopped abruptly.

Paige muttered. “Witches.”

I closed my laptop. “Come on,” I announced. “No sense sitting around while the power's out and our batteries run dry. Let's go to Target.”

“Yeah,” Silver jumped up. “Just like old times. We'd always run to Target when the power went. Not that stupid new one, either. The Super one. The good old one, where they don't sell food and all that other crap.”

Outside all the neighbors were gathering, setting their cases of beer into a community cooler to keep on ice until the power returned. We waved, driving down the street. “Bunch of alkies,” I muttered to Silver.

“Yup,” she agreed. “Wanna stop by the liquor store and get a bottle of wine so we can join them when we get back?”

“Okay.”

Halfway to Target my phone rang. It was my best friend Liz, who I hadn't heard from in a while and lives down the street. “Girlfriend!” I answered.

“What are you girls doing?” she asked. “I saw you go down the street. Come have a beer.”

“Target,” I said.

“Ahhh, should have known,” she laughed. She'd always gone with us shopping in the past. “We haven't had the power go out in such a long time, but I was thinking about that one time,” she starts laughing harder here, making me laugh too. “Remember when you'd gone to that sex toy party and won that big giant candle that looked like a dick?” She roars.

“Yeah,” I giggled back.

Silver rolled her eyes too, her head pressed against mine so she can to hear Liz's voice through my turned-up volume.

“So you decide to light it, 'cause it's dark and none of the kids will see it until it's burned down to a shapeless blob the next day,” she says, mimicking my voice and then snorts here, unable to control the laughing from bursting from her nostrils, “except, that was the one time the power came back early, and you had just lit it,”

Now I'm laughing really hard, and Silver says loud enough for Liz to hear, “And remember how pissy--”

“--Dickhead was?” Liz finishes. “That's the best part, how he sucks up his chest, covers K's eyes, and snaps, 'Reee-naaa!' You'd think he was a minister, instead of a two-timing, fat-ass, donut-sucking liar.”

Silver's still laughing, “Ohmigod, he was such a prude!”

From the backseat, we can hear the little ones' chattering as they point out chubby little prairie dogs. (While they're cute to traveling tourists, they're extremely annoying and abundant here) However, one was roadkill. A mere lump on the road. A bird swooped down and picked at the meat on the carcass, flying off between cars to avoid being slaughtered itself.

My child says, “Oh look. That little birdie (are you kidding? It looked like a huge, disgusting vulture) doesn't know the prairie dog's dead. He's trying to help his little buddy up.”

“They're so precious,” Paige agrees.

Tarot Thursday

Today we have to pretend it's Thursday, because on the real Thursday, I'll be out of town and I'm not sure if I'm taking my laptop or not. And it has to be Thursday, cause my next blog is the beginnings of the horoscope.
I got the idea from fellow writer Koko Brown, who blogs about these cute little ways to break up with a certain sign of the zodiac. So my idea? Horoscopes on Tarot Thursday will be about the compatibility of zodiac signs together.
We'll start with Leo and Taurus. Taurus because I am, and Leo? Simply because I have a book character named Leo and I can't say that about any other sign in the zodiac!


Leo and Taurus.
Taurus and Leo, sensual Earth and theatrical Fire...

There are many qualities that bring you together... Both Taurus and Leo are possessive and faithful, interested in cultural activities and a neat home. Each are materialistic, even if for different reasons: Taurus because she craves beauty, Leo as a show of self-worth. Both are ardent, honest, and willing to forge new paths together.

But there are so many things that keep you apart!

Don't forget that Leo is governed by the Sun, and Taurus by Venus, the planet of love and beauty. Even small children know that the Sun is the centre of the solar system. Therefore, Leo has to be in the centre, too, his merits have to be recognized... To a big extent, the future of the relationship depends on how much you, dear Taurus, are willing to give in and how well you can handle and accept Leo's egotism (remember that his intentions are good).

In a few words? Conflicts and conflicts again.

Taurus is as stubborn as a bull and moreover, Taurus is a fixed sign, just like you, isn't she? Oh, yes, she can also resist stubbornly, what did you, dear Leo, think? You had the monopoly on stubborn? Plus, the king Leo likes to shine wherever he goes!

Nothing in this world irritates a Leo more than being ignored or not being paid attention to! It will take some well-placed planets in Water signs to make this relationship work. Of course you can do it with a little effort. You just have to want to make it work! But you need much effort for this one, for a Taurus needs much, much love, affection, strong emotions... You have love and emotions, but constant affection, daily sentimentalism, let's be serious...you're a busy man, who has time for something like that?

Taurus cannot be softened by your Fire. But... if you know how to adjust the intensity of the flame and if the Earth is not very hard and has some Water in it (or maybe even Air), it is possible, of course. However, it will take a very long time, because Taurus is very slow and hard to get started. Do you have the patience? Is it worth it? This is the question you have to ask yourself, once you see the next section on Sexuality.

Sexuality... ahhh, yes, this is what I should have probably started with!

Sexually, there is enormous passion between the signs. Incredible passion. Indeed, all the barriers fall and the ego disperses: the physical attraction between Leo and Taurus is very strong, unusually carnal, uncontrollably magnetic, completely irresistible. And you both like making love as much as the other. Taurus is very sensual and she is a master of making love (well, Taurus is governed by Mars, it's understandable!). You both like making love slowly and artfully, and Leo's desire of being adored will find fulfillment in your loving skills.

Sinful loving, aching hunger, unending desire, are the smallest bits of pleasure between the two.

Leo is very generous and indeed he has a kind heart, a detail that pleases you. Hot and hard or slow and steady, Leo will love you dramatically, theatrically, ardently: that's how the Sun loves. Well, it's the perfect reason for you two to be together... Is it enough? These two are the only ones who know!

One thing to keep in mind: Taurus won't pay attention to everything you tell her: she is very sensible and she doesn't trust what people say too much. But if you take her slowly, you'll see everything seems to get better. In fact, things will just drop into place. This is the secret about Taurus: take her very, very slowly.

Entrapment

My friend Patti.

She gets me into more trouble than I can get myself into, that's for sure.
We'd decided to paint our offices at work. We needed to do it together, it was matching paint. But we were both tired afterward, and couldn't finish. “Let's come back tomorrow,” she said, a sneaky look in her eye.
I gasped. We had strict instructions not to paint on a Sunday. Sunday's were double-time.
But I was hot and sweaty. And starved. We could go home early today and tomorrow, well tomorrow we could pretend it was Saturday all over again.
Not a bad idea.
“Hmm,” I said. “If we don't punch in our time card, the clerk will never know what day it is. We can just write our time on the back.”
“Exactly,” she said.
So the next day, we had a repeat of the Saturday before. But this time, Patti called me from her office.
“I think there's someone in the building.”
My office is located near the front of the building, overlooking the parking lot. I could see the cars. There were none familiar.
But an idea took root.
“Yep, it's Kevin,” I told her.
She gasped.
Her favorite director, because he was directly in charge of her. Very proper, he made you stand straighter whenever he walked by.
“Not to worry,” I said casually, trying not to laugh. “He'll never walk down the hall to see who's here.”
“Easy for you to say,” she said. His office was just down the hall from hers, but two key-code locked doors from mine. “I'm turning down my radio just in case.”
I refrained from mentioning it was off hours and we could blast as loud as we wanted to.
Instead, I picked up the intercom system and paged her.
“Ms. Patti Greer, please come to the waiting area. Mr. Dick Tator would like to see you.”
My phone immediately rang. I could hardly understand her, she stuttered so bad. “You mentioned my name!” she yelled. “Now he knows who all's in the building.”
“Not exactly,” I said. “He never heard my name.”
The intercom system sounded again. “Ms. Rena Marks, your friend Wanda Wunderlich is on line one.”
But she ruined the page by laughing so hard over the intercom, I could hear when she sprayed the receiver.
“Patti Greer. Mike Hunt is holding.”
I heard her scream down the hall, and then footsteps running down the long path, avoiding Kevin's office, to my office. She burst in, wet paint dripping down her legs and barefoot.
“Okay, okay,” I laughed. “I was joking. Kevin's not in, I swear. Look out my window, there's no cars here.”
She didn't take my word for it, she looked out the window. “Yeah,” she grudgingly replied. “I'm exhausted. Are we about done?”
“Yes,” I laughed, “Let's clean up.”
Cleanup took longer than the painting did. Once again, we were hot and sweaty. And four flights of stairs up. We met in front of the stairwell, turned to look at it, and instead took the elevator.
We knew better. The elevator in the old building isn't the most reliable. At the last minute, I decided to grab my time card to write my hours down for Monday morning.
I inserted my key into the elevator lock and unlocked the third floor.
“Hold the elevator,” I mentioned, leaving my keys dangling. The third floor hallway was pitch black. I hate to admit it, but it was creepy down there. Images of walking corpses entered my head.
“Okey, dokey,” said my happy but weary, Kansas-accented friend.
I raced down the hallway, and punched in the code to the door in the dark. The door opened easily, though I'd never before noticed the creaking.
Gulping, I grabbed my card and raced back down the dark hallway.
The elevator door was closed.
“Patti!” I snapped as I punched the button on the outside.
“Yes, dearie?” she called from inside the elevator.
I blinked. Right there, in the dark. “Why didn't you hold the door?”
“It kinda closed by itself,” she called out again. “I think it might be stuck. All the buttons are lit inside.”
I glanced around the creepy third floor. What was she whining about? At least she had light.
“Ok,” I said calmly. Patti can get a little emotional and she's stuck in an airtight elevator. She's also a smoker, who must be needing one right now.
Sure enough. “I need a light,” she called out. “You think I can smoke a couple of ciggies and no one'll notice?”
“No!” I snapped. It's a non-smoking building. Let's not break the law on purpose. Again. Technically, we weren't supposed to be in on a Sunday. Do we need to break the smoke-law too?
“We can't call anyone,” she was saying from behind the closed doors. “We can't both pretend we thought it was a Saturday,”
I took a deep breath. Think clearly. “Okay,” I said. “My keys are still there in the elevator lock. Turn them, take them out, and then put them back in.”
I waited a few minutes.
Impatiently, I screeched through the doors. “Anything?”
“Nope,” she said. “But I still need to smoke.”
“Is there an emergency button there?”
Maybe it would open the doors enough that she could crawl out between floors.
“Nope. But there's an emergency phone.”
“Well, call out!” I said, exasperated. I listened through the doors as she explained to the emergency person on the other end that she was stuck in an elevator. I heard her politely thank the person and hang up.
“Now what?” I said.
“I don't know. They didn't say. I guess we wait for the fire-hunks,” she said. “But I really need a smoke.”
“No,” I said patiently. “We can't have the firemen show up and open the doors to get blasted in the face with a puff of smoke-cloud.”
“Why don't you run downstairs and see if they're here yet?”
I sighed. Run? Three flights down. “Okay, I'll be back.”
I went down all three flights. Walked to the glass front doors. Nothing. Ran back up the three flights of stairs. Panted to the elevator, “No, not yet.”
“Well, how bout now?”
If she was out of the elevator, I'd choke her. But because she was helplessly locked inside, I reminded myself to be patient.
So I ran back down the stairs, and hobbled over to the front door. Nothing.
Back up the stairs, over to the elevator.
“Nope,” I panted.
“I'm sure they're here now, dearie. I'm starting to panic. I don't think there's any air in here.”
“They're not here yet,” I snapped, still breathing heavy.
“I think they are.”
“They're not!”
“Shhh,” she said. “I hear sirens.”
Sirens? The last thing we needed was sirens screaming through the quiet neighborhood on Sunday morning.
“No,” I assured her. “They wouldn't do that. Not sirens.”
“I hear them.”
“I'll head downstairs to be sure.”
I heard the wails as soon as I entered the stairwell. Sure enough, they had sent screaming sirens.
But Holy Jesus, the sight that beheld me when I turned the corner and peered out the glass doors. Eight uniforms clinging to young, sexy muscles; they bounced off the bright red truck and ran up to the building. Some brought out axes, some used their bare hands to pry apart the doors.
I stepped on the trigger that opened the automatic doors from the inside. The boys raced right to my side.
Wow. I felt like Jezebel at a dance hall.
But alas, I was hot and sweaty, which makes my hair frizz and curl in its ponytail. Hell, I hadn't even washed my hair from the Saturday before. It still had sea-foam colored paint dripped in it. No makeup. And Daisy Duke cutoff shorts that had torn clear up the crotch. So technically, it was now a mini-skirt.
Just to make sure, I looked down. Ugh, I was a month overdue for a pedicure. Paint spattered my legs. My arms were covered too.
Along with one left boob, which was painted green. And the color looked so much better on the wall.
One of the firemen was staring right at it. And he was cute as hell, which surprised me.
Now, I know I'll take a lot of heat for this...but it's been so long that I even glanced once at a man in uniform, I couldn't believe I'd noticed one was attractive. Married to a donut-eater for twenty years, all I ever heard was a clucking of the tongue and a muttered, derogatory term “Hose-dragger. Who wouldn't be buff? All they ever do while at work is work out. It's not like us,” he muttered, pieces of potato chip flying from his mouth, “Cops are the law. We're the ones who earn our pay.”
It was that attitude I divorced. And the reason why I refuse to look at another uniform, no matter what the occupation.
As far as poor Patti, I didn't mind if she stayed stuck a bit longer. I mean, come on, it's not like she could get into any trouble on a stationary elevator, right? And it's not often that an erotica author is sandwiched between two yummy, muscled men.
“Ma'am?” the cute one asked. “Does your friend have any medical conditions?”
A devil sat on my shoulder. Patti couldn't hear my answer. If I said yes, would we get more individualized attention? If I said yes, would she be upset?
“Please...help...me...” she called from two floors up, her voice fainter than ever.
Three men raced up the stairs, and two men raced into the electrical room, turning off the power and waiting a few minutes for it to reset.
I stood between the two firemen, looking up and blinking innocently. “Does she have enough oxygen?”
Both men smiled at my caring attitude. I turned it on a bit more thick, wringing my hands. “The poor...dear...she must be worried sick...she's fragile, you know.”
The elevator doors opened slowly.
“Hallelujah, thank the Lord!” I praised, impressing the hunks with me.
Both firemen and I peered inside anxiously, awaiting the condition of my poor Patti.
She stumbled drunkenly, looking a little frazzled. Spiky, sea-foam painted hair standing on end.
She'd interrupted my damned caring mood. Now what? Should I throw my arms around her? Sob out my thanks that she's okay? If only to take the guilt away that I wished she'd have stayed in a little longer?
Patti was awestruck, staring at one of the buff, handsome hose-draggers. Unconsciously, she posed. Hand on one hip, other hand twirling her sticky hair.
Then she said, “My. What a big... ax you have.”
Tramp.

What Women Want

At some point, your siblings grow up. Right?
Not if they're male.

One of my little brothers (I still say little but he's 38) calls me in the middle of the night. (All my brothers think this is humorous, because of a tendency I have to have complete conversations when woken from a dead slumber, babbling about every secret I have, with no remembrance the next day.)

“'ello?” Thees ees your Latin Lover...Raoul,” he says in a disguised voice.

I hear giggling in the background, and the voice of my other brother, who's now 35, says, “Tell her you're with J-J-Javier.”

I hang up on them. The last time they called, they were Julio and Eduardo. Mostly, they've been a pain in my ass since the day they were born.
But a hangup doesn't stop the texts from coming.
“You go, girl. You're a cougar. You're a stealthy hunter. Now go get your prey!”

So I took their bass-ackwards advice, in the way my darling brothers would expect. Cougar AND Latin lover... at once.
And learned one other thing in the process. I tried something else I detested.

Coffee.

It wasn't so bad. Of course, part of the reason was: it was from the lips of the lover.

So while I didn't mind the coffee, I thought back to the other list of likes and dislikes that I have. The lover was curious. What is the line of distinction between confident and cocky listed on my website?

It's hard to explain.

Partly, it's mental. The confident man has to have intelligence and honesty. Honesty has two flavors, good and bad. You can't have one without the other.

“I'm not perfect,” the lover says. “I enjoy life.”

That's the distinction right there. The honesty in the verbiage. The look in his eyes. The directness; the connection.

Unlike the last guy I dated (only once, mind you) who began a conversation with telling me he's has so much confidence he can get any woman he chooses, even though he wasn't much of a prize. Um, well actually--technically, that part was honesty – but it doesn't count if he doesn't know it.

Further honesty went south. The last girl he'd chosen was seven months pregnant and he was on the prowl for someone new. Because he'd simply gotten “bored” with her. And apparently their new child. Pompously, he explained, “Genetically, it's impossible for men to stay with one woman. We get tired of sex with the same person.”

Sigh. He's telling the woman he's interested in that he's going to get tired of her? Err, me?

That was cocky, not confident. No, past cocky. That was an A-hole.

Confident means you don't care what you look like. So, please, don't constantly glance in the mirrors of restaurants or windows you walk by. If you like someone, you ask them out. You don't worry that they may not find you attractive. Chemistry isn't really about looks, is it? And looks depend upon personality. If the good shines from the inside out, you're attractive. If you're rotted inside, it exudes. Whoever thought confident versus cocky would be so hard to explain? Let's try a more simplified list:

Men who leer at you – cocky.
Men who look at other women while with one – cocky.
Men who hold you too close when you dance – cocky.
Men with too much cologne – cocky.
Men who call you with what they “want” - cocky.
Men who remind you of their self-worth – cocky.

Men who are professional – confident.
Men who smell good only when your lips are against his throat – confident.
Men who call you because they want nothing other than a conversation - confident.
Men who let you decide if they're worth your time – confident.

Yes, we think you're attractive or we wouldn't be with you. It's actually a huge turn-off when a man tries for another female's attention so you'll think he's irresistible. I only care that you're irresistible to me.

Who Remembers Crazy Old Lou?

He was the villain in my first book, Victoria's Secret to a Happy Divorce.

But in my own kooky neighborhood, there exists an obnoxious Lou. He's in his eighties, his house is the exact same model as mine, right across the street. Often, he's tried to set me up with his 50 year old son...who has never lived away from home.

My car had been in the shop and was ready this morning so I looked around outside to see what neighbors were available to give me a ride over to the dealership. They were all either gone or working.

But there was crazy old Lou.

I thought to myself, yeah, he smells. Big deal, you can put up with it for five minutes while he takes you down Federal.

My other self argued. But he's crazy.

So? Just let him ramble for five minutes, someone the old geezer can visit with. Be the better person. It'll do you good.

I walk across the street and ask him to take me. He reaches out and massages my arm. (Remember, old Lou is a self-proclaimed "massage therapist" and always wanting to teach me how because he's sure I have the healing touch)

I would like to state for the record I HAVE NEVER TOUCHED THE MAN.

Ick. I pull my arm away and he murmurs, "Such soft skin. When are you going to learn to massage?"

"Not interested, I have enough occupations going on. Thank you."

So we get into his car. He locks the doors, turns to me and says, "Sweetheart, I'm horny. It's been two years."

Okay, my critique partners know I don't do well on the spot.

"Ugh. That grosses me out." I literally gagged, then thought I might retch. It was the old-people smell in the closed up car. Lou doesn't believe in soap, he showers with plain water so he doesn't strip the natural oils from his skin. Latin pride, and all that.

He looked surprised. "What? You don't think I get horny? It's been two years."

"I just don't want to ever think of you and all that saggy skin naked." Then I realized he was doing me a favor and could drop me off at the cross section to walk. So I added, "Sorry." Tried to make it sound believable.

He waggles his white, long haired eyebrows. "You should come over and massage me. You gotta be horny too. How long's it been since the divorce?"

"Not horny. I'm getting some. Take a good long look at you, and then me. I have a waiting list. It'll be a cold day in hell before I ever get horny enough to think of you naked."

So he sulks. "Well at least bring me over one of your books so I can read."

"Buy one. That's why I write."

All I can say is - His wife is a saint. Saint Helen. No wonder she's in no hurry to get home from the hospital. Two years? She considers it a vacation, I'm sure.

In fact, the last time Lou get out of hand, I complained to Helen. She ripped him up one side and down the other. He stayed out of my way for TWO whole summers. It was great.

Saint Helen.

Saturday Night Salsa

I called my friend Jason to make sure we were still on. “Yep,” he answered. “And my friend Savannah is coming along, if that's okay.”

“Savannah? The ex-girlfriend?”

“Well, yeah. But we're just friends now.”

“Ok, but it's not going to be weird is it? Because I'm along?”

“No, no, she's okay with it. We're just friends.”

From the second I stepped into the car, it was odd. She babbled incessantly. I chalked it up to nerves, here she was with her ex-boyfriend and another woman she didn't know. For all I knew, she could want him back. Plus, she had to be wondering. After all, it's unusual for a male and female to just be friends...was there something more there? Something starting? Something about to start? In the midst of the babbling, I realized she was telling us all about the process of teaching her seven year-old son to shoot a gun. Seven? She rationalized that she wants him to learn respect for guns. That's fine and dandy in theory, but at seven, you're a child. Respect has a modicum of fear. Curiosity has no fear. And children are curious.

Her next subject was sex. She's quite proud to say she's taught him all about sex. No sense in him learning it from other loser children at school. She'd rather it came from her. Wow. It never occurred to her that perhaps her son is one of those loser kids teaching it to the other children. And maybe some parents aren't okay with their child learning it from others.

Then she began to zing on Jason. “He's totally boring,” she assured me.

Jason, good-natured soul that he is, agreed with her. “I'm sure some people do think I'm boring,” he said.

“You're not boring,” I snapped. “You're comfortable. Trustworthy. Predictable. Nothing wrong with that.”

“No,” Savannah drawled in her pretentious way. “Trust me. He's boring.”

That started another string of barbs aimed at her ex. It reminded me of the movie, The Hangover, in which the dentist's girlfriend is the cruel, abusive bitch who beats him. And the poor boyfriend tells his friends it was his fault, he should have known better than to anger her. He knows she has a temper.

Other than that, everything was fine, even when we got to the club. It was a little early, so we grabbed a drink and sat down. Immediately, Savannah began chatting it up to a man sitting next to her. She went out to dance with him.

I felt bad for judging her. Maybe Jason was right. Maybe they were just friends, and she wasn't interested in hooking her claws back in. Maybe I'd misread things and she was just an incessant babbler, but harmless.

But like most women, I need to trust my first instincts. It's the female intuition thing.

So Jason and I danced, since Savannah was tied up with her new squeeze. A couple of times, I went off and danced with a few other people, while Jason did too. At one point, I met up with him again and we went back to the bar for more drinks.

“Savannah okay?” I asked.

“She seems fine. Still dancing with that one guy.”

“You know, Jase,” I said, in my delicate way which I know several of my friends are snorting at right now, “Do you think she knows it's over? Because I think she might be trying to make you jealous if not.”

“Oh, it's definitely over. But I guess I should probably tell you, Savannah's bipolar.”

I slapped my forehead to keep myself from slapping his. “Jason! You didn't think to share that earlier?” Because it certainly would have explained a lot. And halfway through the night, Jason came to find me. “Hey, I'm going to run Savannah home. You stay and have fun, I'll be back.”

“What? Are you kidding? What's wrong with her? Do you just want me to leave, or find my own ride home?”

He rolled his eyes. “She's just having an episode. I guess you were right earlier. But right now it's easier to go along with it than to rile her further.”

“Okay,” I said. It was an okay time of night for him to leave, all the dancing had warmed up, and people had gotten to know each other. I didn't have a lack of partners, so there were no boring moments like when you first get to a club. So I danced. And danced. When I realized quite a bit of time had passed, I texted him. “Where are you?”

“On the dance floor.”

HUH? He came to find me, a smiling and now-bursting-with-happiness Savannah in tow. “Wow,” she leaned in, eyes bright and voice bubbling,“You've been having some fun,” she said pointedly, looking at my wild hair which had been spun round and round the dance floor. “ I'm going to run to the little girl's room,” she said, skipping away.

I turned to Jason, eyes huge. “What the hell was that?”

He sighed. “I never did take her home. We just needed a talk. She felt I wasn't paying enough attention to her, so I had to devote this past hour all to her to keep her happy.”

“Jason, you are broken up with this woman, right?”

“Yeah,” he nodded miserably. “I just didn't want some big scene. But I'll definitely never bring her along again. Especially when she says she just wants to come out dancing. I'm going to just straight up tell her, I'm going dancing and you're NOT invited.”

She kept up the bubbly fake laughter as we headed out to the parking lot. Then, she all but mowed me over to get to the front seat of the car.

Wow. Really? Were we ten again?

During the drive home, she kept the conversation going on and on about the old times between her and Jason. But she was so happy, not at all jealous.

Until, with her entire body facing forward, her head spun around Exorcist-style. Her beady eyes stared right into mine, unblinking.

Creepy.

“So, Reeeeeena,” she drawled. “You're single.”

She didn't phrase it as a question. She didn't make it a statement. It was...a threat.

“Why, yesssss,” I drawled back. “Yes I am.” There was no apology in my voice, I like it like that. I've had boyfriends, I've had flings, I've had plain friends.

The head spun back around.

I called Jason the next day. “No more,” I said. “If you're going salsa dancing and she goes along, I'll just meet you there. Take my own car.”

“No worries,” he said. “I won't be taking her again.”

Last night Jason and I decided to have a mellow night. I've been in a mood, dealing with some emotional demons and some bad choices I've made.

“I can't go salsa dancing,” he said. “Savannah said she was going tonight. I think she's going because she knows it's become my handout.”

The choice was easy. The local karaoke bar that Moe and Trish and Helen and I hang out at, maybe the country bar afterward for some people watching. Something low key. It was fun, afterward we headed to Village Inn for empty calories to fill our stomachs before bedtime.

“You know how Chris always texts you last minute when he knows you're with someone else?” Jason asks. “You should text him now and invite him.”

“Okay,” I agree. Like vindictive teenagers, we text. “Hey,” my message said. “Jason and I are out. Wish you were here.”

Jason and I giggled like morons. “You attract drama,” he said.

Then his phone rang. “Savannah,” he mouthed, like she could hear through the rings. He let her leave a message, then played it for us.

“Hey,” she began in her sing-song voice. “It's mee-eeee. You know. The one you didn't invite tonight. The one your refused to invite. Not that it matters, I'm just saying. I can't believe you refused to invite me.”

“You attract psychos,” I returned.

Excerpt And Interview

For the month of April, I'm the guest author in fellow writer Kate Hill's newsletter. Please visit her site at: www.kate-hill.com

GUEST AUTHOR: RENA MARKS

KH: What are you favorite genres to read and write?

RM: My favorite genre is always paranormal. It's just the way my mind twists. I've tried to write contemporary stories, and somehow a witch gets weaved in. Or a vampire. A werewolf. Demon. You get the picture.

KH: Do you have any particular writing habits? (Listening to music, best time of day to write, etc.)

RM: I've found I work best first thing in the morning, before even getting out of bed! It's like my brain is still in dream mode. If I wait too late in the day, forget it. The sun goes down and takes my imagination with it.

KH: Please tell us about your latest release?

RM: Kiss Me Before I Die was originally slated for another publisher, strictly urban fantasy. But during the first RomantiCon Convention, I had the opportunity to pose for two covers for my next two books. Needless to say, Kiss Me was re-vamped for Ellora's!The blurb is as follows: When an experiment goes wrong, Afton is sent to release the rage built up in her system by a desire-enhancing drug. Once she finds Ethan, head of the vampires, the drug kicks in. A love affair between a vampire and an Extinguisher is doomed from the beginning, but Afton can't resist the lure of the predator.

KH: What is upcoming for you?

RM: My third book in the Demonic series, tentatively titled Demonic Kisses, is nearly complete. Holly Dewan is the product of demon eggs hidden on Earth, and since bred with humans. But now her demon side demands her return to Luciefyiore, the Hell dimension, where she discovers her own demonic power. A kiss, which sparks a powerful wave of breeding lust over all in her general vicinity.

KH: To you what makes a great hero?

RM: A great hero is a man...coming from a woman's mind. Imagine the concept: if any man willingly read romance novels for five years, he could do some real damage to the hearts of women. We pour every secret we've ever wanted from a man into our novels, he would know exactly what women want.

KH: If you could meet one of your characters, which one would it be?

RM: Hmm. I have. The three old bats from Demonic Kisses are from the future, fifty years or so. Talk to my gal-pals, Tricia and Monica. Read about their real life antics in my blogs. You'll see why this prologue begins the book:

Three little old ladies and their dogs were sitting on a park bench having a quiet conversation when a flasher approached from across the park. The flasher came up to the old ladies, stood right before them, and opened his trench coat.

Trisha immediately had a stroke.

Monika also had a stroke.

But Rena, being older and more feeble, couldn't reach that far. Author Unknown

KH: Do you have a website, newsgroup or blog where readers can learn more about you and your books?

RM: My website is www.RenaMarks.com. From that link, you can find myspace page, my blog, or facebook.

KH: Thank you, Rena!





GUEST AUTHOR EXCERPT: KISS ME BEFORE I DIE BY RENA MARKS

Excerpt: Kiss Me Before I Die
by Rena Marks
From Ellora's Cave

I should have been startled at the rush of cool air behind me. At the very least, surprised, for it had been a year. Somehow I wasn't. Time melted away, as though it had just been yesterday.

A whisper of sweet breath curled near my ear. "You cannot get away from me, bella. You'll always be mine."

"I own myself," I whispered back. "I've refused you already."

"It's not that easy. For even now, you can't deny me."

His finger trailed down my shoulder, along my bare skin, danced down my arm. Lightly skimming, reminding me of the touch I craved. I breathed deeply as the blaze kindled deep inside.

He was right. Denial was impossible, avoidance was easier. Was it his power or was it something indescribable between us? For now it didn't matter.

Heat licked against sensitive nerve endings. His palm, open and warm, pressed flat to my abdomen, pulled me back into him. I could feel the fire between us, coiled tightly inside and knew I'd soon beg for his hand to inch its way lower.

His voice, deeper than ever, taunted me with known pleasure. "I could make you come here and now. No one would ever know."

Temptation was sinful and it was what I fought hard against. The lure of the vampire. My best weapons were fight and flight.

He was right but I wouldn't acknowledge it. For the burning edge of desire struck me tenfold. It was a drug, an addiction I still fought.

Sometimes it was one I didn't want to fight.

I turned my face slightly, to look into his eyes. Deliberately, I pulled away.

His smile was sardonic but he let me go. I wouldn't be able to suppress the urge for long, the awaited anticipation would make my failure sweeter.

He knew this.

"You run, Afton. But you unknowingly head for my own jurisdictions. There's a reason. You are mine."

"No, I'm not," I said clearly. The bastard was way too cocky. And why shouldn't he be? Dark hair contrasted with lighter brown eyes against creamy skin. The distinction of his lighter eyes stood out even more when he wore carefree stubble darkening the line of his jaw. He was tall, broad-shouldered and exuded sex appeal like nobody's business.

But I belonged to no one and never would.

Instead, I sighed. "How did you find me, Ethan?"

"It doesn't matter," he whispered and wrapped strong arms around me. For the briefest moment, I leaned into his strength. Felt it envelop me like a cloud of comfort on a cold day.

The need struck even harder now. It was so easy to close my eyes and go with it. Stop fighting. Give up my independence, my humanity. Everything that made me. . .me.

I stepped away. "Stop it," I chided. "Keep your tricks to yourself."

"Tricks?" he murmured unconvincingly.

"I mean it."

He knew what I was talking about. He had been imposing his will upon me, mockery to make me believe I was willing to surrender. I would have fallen for it, if I had not given myself the conscious reminder of fight or flight.

"Play nice or I'll run again," I warned. But was his need as great as mine? I allowed him to step close to me, close enough that I smelled the aftershave wafting from his skin. He leaned his lips toward mine, silently begging, yet also daring me to take the chance. It was the tiniest opportunity and I couldn't resist, for it had been way too long.

I tilted my head back and parted my moistened lips. He touched.

And all hell broke loose.

Wants, needs, feelings. Emotions ran rampant throughout my soul, yearnings and cravings of a body that had been too long without. I gasped for sweetened air and his tongue touched mine. It stroked lovingly and yet demanded my full surrender. Only one person could be this loving and challenging all at once.

Ethan.

I felt his hunger, always carefully monitored but now ready to break uncontrollably through. It bubbled to the surface before it was tamped back down when he broke the kiss.

He strung heated kisses along my jaw before returning to my lips. I was too eager to kiss him back. I'd missed this desperately. My reservations were flung to the back burner.

The music blared and the bodies around us quickened, movements becoming jerky, like mindless zombies with limbs partially stuck in the frozen throes of rigor mortis. But only their brains were dead.

Lights flickered off and on.

Our tongues entwined, smoothly touching and dancing, sensuously sliding together, making promises that neither of us could keep.

Tables crashed, noises growing louder as chairs overturned.

Our lips meshed thoroughly, hands roaming each other's bodies. He gripped my hips, pulling me into him. A shiver of need shot through me.

Yelling ensued all around us, angrily raised voices screaming with frustrated rage.

We broke apart, breathing heavily. Hearts racing. He lowered his forehead to press against mine as he kissed the tip of my nose.

Chaos encircled us. Shattering glass, liquid spilling.

"You've upset the balance," he murmured. "Come with me."

"Never," I said gently.

Glass tinkled as a bottle crashed over a person's skull in the scuffle just a few feet away. The victim collapsed like a tree, leaving the scent of blood behind.

"Foolish," he murmured and was gone. As usual, he left me to clean up the mess we'd made.

Cleanup wasn't easy. Normally easygoing patrons of the club were stunned as to what might have happened to cause such unheard of behavior. An uproar they were involved in. How did one explain they felt the bloodlust of my lover?

The vampire who couldn't have me.

Bellydance

I was excited when I didn't flunk out - and moved up to class two. But Trish is laid up from her surgeries, which rules out Amber, and Phylandra decided to take another class on Monday nights.

Now, bellydancing isn't as much fun without my girls. The girls used to giggle when we goofed, and made it fun.

And Good Lord above, Bellydance II is hard as hell. It doesn't seem like it would be hard, we're just doing veils and zills.

Who would guess clacking your fingers together would be difficult? But I never realized they're clacked in a pattern, and that each hand has a different pattern. Add to that pattern of 1, (right hand), 3 (left hand), 7 (right hand), 3 (left hand), 5 (right hand). Start over.

In the meantime, walk. Not just any walk, but in time to the music. Swinging your hips, or twisting your hips.

Three things at once? Are you kidding? So I got the bright idea that with all those clackers clacking, no one would be able to tell if I was doing a pattern or not. I started clunking both my hands at the same time, to every clack. Pretty soon, the rest of the class starting “hmmphing” me.

Apparently, the witches could tell I faked it. Not that I fake everything, mind you. Yes, we're talking about the Big O here. I just figured I would practice later...on my own.

Phylandra and Amber would have giggled when I was busted. Trisha would have burst out laughing, and then gotten hushed herself by the crabbies all around us.

But there, by myself, I'm outnumbered. And now, when the teacher says, “Do this move again, and try not to look slutty...” I know she's talking to me.

Because my Trish isn't there to take the blame.

The Most Asked Question

I get so tired of the same question. From the male sex. First the leer, the wink-wink, the opening of their mouths, and then...wham.

“What kind of 'research' do you do for your books?”

Okay, really? Women have NEVER asked that. Do men think that one's original? And do they think they're interesting enough to entice me into naked research when there are so many other offers? I've heard The Question so often, I no longer clench my teeth. Now I just lean in close enough to let him take a good whiff of my perfume, lick my lips, and whisper huskily, “I don't do research. I just, (exhale of breath here) watch a LOT of porn.”

When his eyes glaze over, I walk towards his friend and ask to dance.

Call me bitter. Call me be-yotch. But I think writing romance tends to ruin women for real men. For how can any man live up to the standards of the heroes we write about?

It's impossible. But think of how wonderful it would be to create the perfect man. A man who is willing to listen to what women want.

Because I don't care what your drinking buddies say. It takes a real man to carry off wearing a pink shirt. Try it and see the the swivel of female heads when you walk into a room.

The drinking buddies think it's cool to wear shirts of black. That's nice. You look like everyone else out there. Blendable. Forgettable. But hey, go ahead. They know best. And they like being single.

Ladies, what do you think?

Coming Soon - Tuesday's Toys

All of the romance authors own toys.

It started with one teeny, tiny little Slumber Party. I attended by myself, and arrived late. The hostess sat me next to...her great grandma.

The woman was about a hundred and looked like most little old ladies. Hair tied into a knot. Knee highs on with a dress. But the weird thing was, she shimmied when she spoke, the skin on her face jiggling, the wrinkles twisting and turning like a puzzle.

“We'll start our night off by introducing The Quiver,” the demonstrator said. “Not only does it rotate, it vibrates. It shakes, it shimmies while it rotates. Nothing like it on Earth.”

“Ggget, that ooone, dddearie,” the old mummy said. “I oooown sssseveral.”

I smiled politely, thinking it was the ugliest thing I'd ever seen. It had pokies sticking out all over it, and twisted extensions that made it look like a cactus.

I half expected all, um, gizmos, to resemble amputated penises. Perhaps with a more exciting color and, of course, size. That's a given.

But this thing? Granny was crazy.

Then the demonstrator gave us a little contest. Write as many synonyms in 90 seconds as you could for the word penis.

It was no contest. I had three times the amount of the next highest person. All the women in the room looked at me suspiciously, as if it was possible to cheat.

Hello? I am an erotica writer. I've called the blasted manhood everything under the sun.

And the prize? Fifty percent off...The Quiver.

I gave in to fate. Bought the ugly thing (call it research) and...had my own party. A party filled with other romance writers. And like females do, I passed the advice from the wise old woman to the person sitting next to me.

“The Quiver,” I whispered.

She had the same look of disbelief I once had in my own eyes.

I winked. “Trust me.”

She called me the next day. “Wow. Wow. Wow.” She seemed stuck for words here. I politely waited for the rest of her story. “Obviously invented by a woman for a woman,” she went on.

I laughed. “I have to agree. Who would have guessed?”

One thing led to another. But the problem with every single one of your girlfriends owning the same toy? They were all called The Quiver. She'd talk about hers, I'd mix it up with mine.

“That's it,” I said one day. “I'm naming mine. He's Kyle.” Oh, oops. There's a guy at work named Kyle. Ick. “Scratch that. He's named...” Kevin? No, I dated a Kevin once. That's creepy, to call your dismembered pet after an ex boyfriend. So that also ruled out Shawn. Andy. Brian. Brandon. Randy. Ron.

Geez.

“Ryan.” The name jumped at me out of the blue. I didn't work with any Ryans, I'd never dated any Ryans, I didn't go to school with any Ryans.

“Okay,” my friend said. “But what about mine?”

“You have to pick a name you don't associate it with,” I advised. “Cause if you call him Bobby, and then get mad at the real Bobby, the poor Quiver takes the heat.”

“Suggestions?”

“How about,” I frantically searched through the recesses of my mind. I was in the middle of writing Demonic Kisses. My hero's name was...

“Ace.”

“Ace it is. I'm calling Helen and Monica to see if they've named their boys, too.”

Monica was the last hold out. “I can't believe you two named your vibrators,” she said, as if it was the most appalling thing she'd ever heard. The prude.

Oh. My. God. Suddenly it occurs to me why that little old great-grandma quivered uncontrollably.

Tomorrow I must make a pact with my girlfriends to shorten our sessions before we hit our nineties.

But it's been months now, and today I texted Monica to see if she'd write me a review for my blog, Tuesday's Toys.

She agreed.

So naturally, I pressed my luck. “And,” I continued in the text, “Did you ever name yours?”

“I didn't,” she texted back. “Although OH MY GOD seems appropriate.”

Drag Queen Bingo

We should have done karaoke, like usual. But no. It was a Tuesday. We needed an early night. We needed some competition. So the plan this time was bingo.

Oh, not your usual church bingo.

Drag queen bingo. Where one of the winning games was called the CockNBalls.

After a while, you actually forget you're in a bar full of men. Only in a gay bar can men get away with calling each other beyotch. Whore. Tramp.

But I knew differently. Because each time the hostess waved, there was no underarm jiggle. A small thing, I know. But every female has underarm jiggle. It's the curse of Eve.

There were three of the romance writers this time. Me, Monica and Tricia. Wow, it felt a little like the book I'm finishing up called Demonic Kisses, in which three old fortune tellers named Rena, Monika and Trisha go man-hunting.

It made for good magic that night...just three women. A nice triangle. One single, one divorced, one widowed. Coincidence? I think not.

And it was my lucky night. I won a bingo, but another one also did at the same time, and so I let him have it. Can't have two winners, apparently. Besides, I ended up winning the blackout. Woohoo, two winnings in one night. Of course, the prize was chugging a beer. Sigh. Designated driver night.

So Trish chugged for me.

The one drawback was: she was the only real girl in the bar full of dressed up men. Therefore, she drank girlie. Dainty little sip...oops, wipe the lip...dainty little sip again...oooh, careful, messing up my lip gloss...dainty little sip-sip...gotta check out the other guys out of the corners of my eyes...huh? What do you mean time's up?

Sigh.

Still, Monica and I whooped and hollered. Trish did a graceful little curtsy, then stumbled off the stage. (She sure does like buttery nipples, my little friend. In addition to the free shots being passed around.)

So the three of us sat around and, like authors do, took in details around us.

“The only women who ever wear pantyhose are drag queens,” Trisha noted.
“They also paint on their eyebrows,” I mentioned.
“Damn, look at those calves,” Monica said.

Just then a very attractive male in his thirties walked by. Three erotica writing heads whipped around.

“Oh, come to mama, cutie,” Monica moaned.
“Yep, yep, he's hot,” me and Trish agreed.

“Hey,” Trish said. “I think we're ready for relationships! We finally agree...and don't fight...over a man.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Maybe we are!”

“Uh, huh,” Monica agreed, excited now, the usual sunny smile plastered on her face. “Pass me your lip plumper, Rena. I'm gonna get a man.”

Hurriedly, I dug the plumper out of my purse. We were running low, way low on this main staple. It occurred to me, we'd been this route before, because this was a new bottle. Obviously, we needed to buy it by the gallon.

I passed it over to Moe, pretending not to notice when Trish slyly reached her hand out to sip out of my only drink for the evening. Apparently, she shouldn't have made that “ewww” face when I'd ordered the sour grape martini. Get a few shots in her and she's no longer so picky.

“Ladies,” I said, my voice solemn. “If we're going to get serious about shopping for men,” I paused as Trish's arm reached out and grabbed the plumper from Monica's already swollen mouth. Monica tried to slap her hand away. Only one lip was done. Both had their eyes glued to the rear end of a guy walking past us to the bathroom. I had known the lack of competition wouldn't last long.

I gave them a moment to control themselves.

“Really. If we want boyfriends, we need to stop cruising drag queen bars.”

Trish blinked innocently. “What? I like coming to gay bars. We're the only three females here. No other bitches to trip.”

I sighed, knowing it's best for mankind that we three remain single and free.

Kiss Me Before I Die...Devin

Ahh, Devin makes pretty pictures for covers, doesn't he?

From the moment I saw this one, hot male in the trench and leathers, the sunglasses masking his eyes and making him all sexy-mysterious, the smooth lines enhancing his sharp jaw and calling attention to those luscious, kissable lips...I knew this was the shot I wanted for my urban fantasy, Kiss Me Before I Die.

A little more danger to send the bad boy image home, ladies? See the scar right above his waistband? Sends your imagination south, doesn't it? Is it a...stab wound? And a much better question is...are there any more scars playing hide n seek with our senses? Should we find them? Should we seek him?

This little author had that mark right beneath her lips. Muah! Yep, yours truly actually forgot about those pesky photographers snapping buttons in the background and muttering ooh-la-la...long enough to memorize the scar. Long enough to lick the scar. Yes, that's me in the background, taking advantage of the poor man. No, he wasn't protesting...much. At least not while I stood behind him and had my wicked way. Did I mention he's my favorite cover model?

No, my sexy Devin was really a good sport about it.

So was Bobby, the other model I posed with. In fact, I can't wait to see what that next cover is going to look like.

Sigh. I guess I'd better get busy and finish that book, too, huh?

Karaoke Night with the Romance Writers

Dinner and karaoke night with some Colorado authors is one of my favorite events. Four of us met at dinner first; the last one was going to meet us at the karaoke bar instead.


Being really cool erotica writers, I'd like to say we meet at fancy, classy restaurants. But alas, it was Applebees.


What made up for it was the adorable waiter we had. Now ladies, you can tell when a man's interested. They all have the exact same move: staring deeply into your eyes when they speak to you as if you are the only woman in their world.


I know I'm not crazy, I've never before noticed a female waitress do it.


But he was a cutie. A hottie. Stare-ably, lick-ably awesome.



Four erotica writers, you know what happened. Instant competition was unplanned as we all flirted with him. It's all fair in love and war.



I waved him over to the table for some instant attention.


“Yes?” he asked, staring into my eyes. Wow, he had eyes of dark chocolate. We matched.


Innocently, I bit the tip of my index finger. “Mmm. What's your fresh fish of the day?" My voice was breathy on the word "fissssh."


His eyes glazed over as he thought about it.


Across from me, Monica coughed.


“Oh, are you all right?” he asked her, his attention diverted from me to her.


“I think so,” she whispered delicately. “It's just so...hot in here.” How convenient it was that she used her napkin to fan herself off.


Over her Rocky Mountain cleavage.


Damn her. The waiter's eyes stayed glued to the spot.


The other three of us looked at each other and hurriedly yanked our necklines lower.


“Excuse me,” Trish said loudly.


“Hmm?” he mumbled, distracted. He tore his attention away and then focused on half the Victoria Secret bra that was exposed on Trish.


“I just have to ask...Are you pierced...anywhere? Any tattoos hidden?” she let her gaze wander down the length of his body.


“No, I'm clean,” he said, with the cutest smile at the brazen hussy.


“I love clean,” I cut in, licking my lips. “I'm not pierced or tattooed, either. We'd make a good match.”


From across the table, Helen snorted. “How old are you anyway?” she asked, as if she didn't care to participate. Yet, I saw the four inches of cleavage and her spine sitting a little straighter. Yes, she can argue, but on a normal day she only has three inches of exposed cleavage.


“I'm twenty-four.”


“Hot damn,” she muttered.


Monica interrupted, her voice still breathy as her finger trailed along her the tops of her exposed breasts. “What a coincidence! I'm only twenty-eight.”


The waiter smiled flirtingly. “How you doing?” he said in the Joey Tribbiani way.


I wanted to say something sexy enough to distract him. But instead I choked and Trish had to pound my back. “Did that tramp just say she was twenty-eight?” I asked, eyes wide.


Helen stepped up to the plate. “How's your health been?” she asked Monica. “Ever since the outbreak of the...itchies?”


Trish and I held our breath. Oh, that one was low. Way low. So low I was hoping the cutie didn't think we were all contagious.


Monica never blinked, she kept her attention focused on his face. I couldn't blame her, he was staring into her eyes and I wanted to reach out and feel the dark, sexy shadow lining his jaw too.



“Never take off your clothes and dance naked in the moonlight,” she told him. “Poison ivy lurks everywhere.”



Trish and I let the breath whoosh out. Nice save. That one deserved respect.


Another table flagged the cutie off and away he hurried, looking over his shoulder at us and licking his lips...


“Rats,” Trish mumbled. “They should assign the hot ones only one table. It should be ours. We're the babes of the restaurant.”


“I have to agree. But, we're kind of cougars,” Helen said.


“Yeah,” Trish agreed, her voice all excited.


“Back off. You got the last young'un, hussy. Let someone else have this one,” Monica said, glaring at her.


“Not technically,” Trish said, looking out of the corner of her eye at me with a smirk.

I kicked her under the table. What girlfriend holds your secrets over your head like that?


Both Monica and Helen looked at me, wondering who he was and itching for the excuse to disqualify me from this juicy little prize.


I knew a distraction was in order. “You're married!” I accused Helen, like it was a sin. “You're out of this game anyway.”


She pouted for a minute. Then a glimmer came to her eye. “Not if my husband wants a threesome.”


The rest of us snorted.


“Okay, okay. I'll settle this,” Monica said. “I'll write our phone numbers on the ticket. And a cute little message from each of us. It'll be up to him who he calls.”

She scribbled hurriedly.


“Hey,” I said suspiciously. “Pass it over here.”


Because I knew what I'd do. Make sure the other three numbers were illegible. I inspected her handwriting, and grudgingly admitted it'd pass.

Mon smiled innocently.

We tipped the hottie indecently, each of us wanting to outdo the others like a bidding war on Ebay. The guy was up to a $50 tip.

Philandra was calling, wondering where we were, so we had to leave the restaurant without talking to him or blowing him kisses, or anything.

I did make sure to do my special walk out of the restaurant, head straight, shoulders back, abs tight, ass swishing so hard it bumped the customers sitting at the tables around us. Just in case there were cameras he could watch later.

I looked over my shoulder at the other girls.

Ugh, the copycats were swinging their booties, too.

When we got to the bar, all four of us placed our cell phones up on the table. “What's going on?” Philandra asked suspiciously.

“Nothing,” we all mumbled, looking at each other through the corners of our eyes. No one wanted one more in the line of competition.

Just then my cell vibrated madly, nearly jumping off the table. I looked at the caller ID. Unknown number! Started with 720. Bravo!

“Thank you, Jesus!” I yelled. “Ha! I win!” I gave the other grumblers a ha-ha smirk, grabbing wildly for it. I flipped it open.

“This is REEE-NAA!” I shouted, over the din of the bar. Wanting to make sure he knew he called the correct number.The one he meant to call. The one he'd singled out over all the rest, even against the signatures, and the little smiley faces, and cheap shots, and over-tipping him.

“That's NII-IICE,” said the familiar voice of my friend Sin.

“Sin! You got my hopes up, only to bring them crashing down!” I sobbed, aware that the other girls were staring intently and now knew the bet was still on and open for business.

“Apparently,” she drolled. “You're such a drama queen. Anyway, I was just calling to give you the number to my new cell phone. Cheerio.”