Voodoo and stainless steel panties.

I was reading about Voodoo, Hoodoo, African indigenous religions and Santeria for two or three hours yesterday. It was research for the novel. It paid off, but if someone was to see the history of my computer they'd rub their eyes at first and pack their stuff immediately afterwards.

I realised that the super handsome guy with the long black hair who has been a regular at a penpal's  Facebook is one of the four members of Apocalyptica. In fact the one I consider the funniest and handsomest of all four. That's why he looked familiar. *facepalm* I had not realised, partly because my penpal/ friend never told me and partly because remembering long Finnish names is not my forte. Then again she never said anything about composing or contributing to a lot of their songs either. That calls for some serious ass whacking as soon as I get her ass in my hands.  Not for any other reason, but because I suspect this is merely the tip of the iceberg of what she has not told me. I know she is reading my blog, so buying herself a stainless steel pair of panties for our first meeting sounds like advice she should take. After I cuddle her to her near death, a spanking is in order. Of course, with her being in Japan and everything it seems highly unlikely I'll ever do meet her. Don't ask me what she's doing in Japan. I don't know. She hasn't told me. *sigh and aaarghhh*

I think I am about to finish the first book(?) of my trilogy (???). It came sooner than I expected, after using a tool called 'word count' (bwahaha :D) and the realisation it's actually a good point to stop. But even as I start tying loose ends, I can't help wondering. Wondering about a lot of things. Phoooey. My friend H. says he will read it although in his case the meter for homophobia would show a solid eleven in a climax of ten. In fact he said some very sweet things to me yesterday and helped me snap out of my depression. :) We may disagree on a lot but in his case there is one thing I can count on. He loves me, just as I love him. If he sees me happy, he'll be happy. And he's a person who has always had absolute faith in my writing. I cannot thank him enough for that.

I want ice cream. :P Served on the smooth skin of a teenage elven boy. :P :P :P

I'll say something that is perhaps self-explanatory, or has been said far too often.

Thank God/dess for music, for without music I wouldn't have those last negligible bits of sanity left in me.

Thank the entire Universe for art and the kindness of strangers.

I need to write a blog entry on Jesus Christ. Maybe next time.

Like trying to teach cats synchronised swimming.

That’s what it feels like. Three heroes, three storylines, important events happening to all three of them, then two of them finally meeting. The writer needs to make sure the appropriate events have happened in the previous ‘days’ of the novel to all three before the two meet. Like being handed an open origami and instructed to fold it back in shape. I fold here, fold there, nothing falls in place at first. I think I finally got it right. Then I started writing here. I am not so sure I did get it right. If I discover yet another discontinuity, I’ll start cursing and re-arranging again. It won’t be nice.

The lower back is okay. Not so sure of my brain after three eclipses in a row.

There is a lot of sex in my book(s). Not so sure if this is good or not. There is no sex in the writer’s life, so it all has to balance out, I guess. And some of the sex in my book is not the kind of sex I’d like to have, thank you very much. My idea of sex has me still alive after finishing. Some of my heroes aren’t that wise.

A penpal told me to read the books of a writer specialising in vampires. Read an online excerpt. I found it mind-blowingly inane. It was like discussions between women happening at the hairdresser’s, but with vampires wearing kilts and getting married as their subject matter. I mean seriously WTF. 

http://www.kerrelynsparks.com/bk11_engagement.html

Afterwards, I was suggested the books of another vampire writer by another penpal. Turns out I had read a longish story by her just a few weeks ago and it was something between a mediocre video game and the average ‘Vampire: the Masquerade’ session I used to play. Which in turn means, nothing I’d like to read more of any time soon. 

Then I was told to take a look to the site of another writer. It was like reading a teenager with a 500 word vocabulary describing having sex. It was all ‘wonderful’ and ‘tickling’. With boredom for me and orgasms for the heroine. Now go figure. 

http://www.erotica-laurastamps.blogspot.gr/2013/03/boinking-vampires-boinking-feyoh-my.html 

It’s been a while since someone in the novel has been beaten black and blue. I think I am going to go and do just that. Since I can’t beat black and blue some people I have in mind, someone else will pay. :D

Lower back not functioning = hours of fun

Which is exactly what's happening right now. My lower back gave up on me. Funny thing being, I did nothing to provoke it. But since I have a medical history of damage and pain there I just shrugged and accepted my fate. It's not like I can get hold of the pain and scribble on the envelope 'Unknown receiver. Return to sender', then put it back in the post box and get rid of it. 

Unless this has happened to you personally, you cannot imagine what it's  like to have it. From a functioning human you are transformed to a person with special needs. You cannot move your legs normally. You cannot use the bathroom because lowering yourself on the toilet is a very long and delicate process. You can't even get up from bed. You have to try and find a combination of using your arms, legs and body in a way that doesn't hurt.

I have spent the entire day alternatively giggling and crying out. I have a very good relationship with insects and animals, so I feel like a tortoise or a beetle that found itself flat on its back and cannot turn around. I smell that intense odour of ointments and patches, something like camphor and menthol and something else. Unsurprisingly, all that comes to mind concerning my present sexual appeal is a combination of a cupboard and an invalid. I have three patches on my lower back one after the other in parade. I am thinking about arranging them in a triangle next time, to imitate the Bermuda triangle and hopefully make the pain vanish. I wear a special medical belt, walk with a limp and giggle non-stop as I remember Igor from Frankenstein Junior saying "walk this way". I can easily be confused with someone who was fucked to her near death last night. Yes, I could be the poster girl for intense sexual activity at advanced age. Picking up or carrying weight is a joke, like trying to pick up a safe using chopsticks. Weight increases pain without warning and I drop things on the floor. Picking them up is another joke.

Generally speaking, I wait patiently for the pain to subside and go away. I can't do much about it. I wish I could  be in bed right now, but it's impossible. So I cringe my teeth, work and giggle. Don't try this at home kids. Really, don't. I pity all those people who have this as a chronic condition. :(

For a tiny life lost too soon.

I am so sorry.

I tried to keep you alive.

I know that kittens so small rarely make it.

I am aware that there was perhaps a 10% possibility of you surviving.

Yet the distance between knowledge and experience can be whole worlds.

You stayed with me for four days. From Thursday night, till Tuesday morning.

I feel like I have been crying for four years.

Goodbye.

High maintenance boyfriends

You know, I keep wondering about it. Not that it changes anything, no matter how many times I preoccupy my brain cells in wrestling marathons with it. But I can't help but wonder.

Why very beautiful men are the way they are? Which means immature. Or stupid. Or too vain. Or too gay. Or whatever. My purpose isn't to make a list. Why? As soon as I see a truly breathtaking man, I almost immediately realise he's not relationship material, end of story. I have no delusions about changing them, saving them, or discovering a hidden, different self if I dig deep enough. There is nothing different no matter how deep and how long I may search. They are just unsuitable. Period. If he's very beautiful, there is something fundamentally flawed about him in some other part of his being.

But why is that? I don't understand it one bit. 

I do have a life long regret that I'll never find the kind of man I dream about. Because the kind of man I dream about is the high maintenance kind of boyfriend. And that kind of boyfriend never falls for my type. They fall for the equally problematic type of high maintenance woman. Or the kind of woman they can relate to whatever issues they have with their mom or dad. And I am neither. I am too straightforward for such. And a part of mine is very, very disappointed and regretful because I know time passes and I must get my act together and look for the kind of companion that will be suitable for me, and not the kind of man I dream about. 

If that isn't a contradiction in terms I honestly don't know what is. And I don't want that.

This is the basic reason I don't do relationships. I don't want any more half-hearted relationships with 'good guys'. No matter how lonely I feel, I refuse to do that again. Been there too many times in the past. Not again. Never again.

It's also one of the reasons I write. My longing for things I cannot have.

Well FUCK THIS. 

There must be at least ONE person that is attractive enough, smart enough and kind enough to be my match.

Just one. Billions of people on this sorry planet. Just one? Pretty please? 

Two would be even better but let's not get greedy now... :P

Anita Blake

I have read six of the Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter series books by Laurell Hamilton. The main reason I keep reading the series is to see Anita finally. Get. Laid. The plot is not bad, either, although it is not good in every book. Anita is often irritating and the writer repeats the same plot tricks and machinations to make Anita react in her very familiar, annoying, stubborn, inconsiderate way. Which means, whenever there is a new woman around, she is usually taller than Anita and she will inevitably insult and irritate the protagonist until she springs into action and 'proves' herself. Whenever there is a new bad vampire in the series, usually it's a man torturing or wanting to rape some poor helpless woman, or it's a woman torturing someone weaker, so once more Anita has to save the day. And it's the same plot element, recurring in every book. Again, and again, and again. One would have expected word of Anita kicking so much ass going around and making other vampires wary, but no, it never happens. They consider Anita the ideal candidate for their inane little power games and idiotic self-confirmation experiments. And Anita is always happy to rise to the challenge, making you wonder who's the most stupid and childish of the two, the vampire that doesn't know the extend of Anita's powers or Anita who does.

Anyway, Anita does get laid, at the end of book six, just as I was about to eat my socks out of sheer frustration. But then another frustration comes along. The sex scene itself, which is description, not erotica. Because erotic writing is so much more than description of what goes in where and the kind of noises people make when they fuck, or about licking foamy water from each other. I check on wiki and see that reviewers comment on how the series becomes boring from book 14th onward. Unfortunately for me, the boredom concerning sex descriptions started in book six. I felt cheated to expect something for so long and not get it in the end. And yes, the books are erotically charged, but that's what they remain; charged. That tension is not released. At least I have not seen it released yet.

*Sigh*

"Few mainstream books delve so deeply into pure, unadulterated erotica"?

Wait for me, motherfuckers. Just you fucking wait.

 

Anita Blake

Reader reaction to the series's shift in tone from crime noir thriller to focus more predominantly on the sexual themes in the series has been mixed, starting with Narcissus in Chains when the main character of Anita Blake becomes infected with the ardeur. The ardeur is a supernatural power inadvertently given to Anita by her vampire Master Jean-Claude that gives her massive amounts of power but also demands that she have sexual intercourse with several different people through the course of a day, sometimes in large groups. Reception to these dynamics and to the usage of sexual abuse, incest, and rape in later books has been mixed,^[3] with some reviewers commenting that the character of Anita spent too much time "obsessing about whether or not she’s a slut" while others remarked that the erotic themes enhanced the series.^[7] In response to these comments, Hamilton issued a blog entitled "Dear Negative Reader" where she addressed a growing number of readers on the Internet that was expressing disappointment in the series's changes.^[3][8] In the blog Hamilton told the readers that "life is too short to read books you don’t like" and that if they found that the current subject matter pushed "you past that comfortable envelope of the mundane" then "stop reading" and speculated that some of the readers were either "closet readers" or comment based on others' opinions.^[3][8] The blog entry was negatively received by some readers.^[3]

Critical reviewers have also commented on the amount of sex in later books, as in a 2006 review in the The Boston Globe of Micah. The review was largely negative, stating "we were not impressed. Hamilton no doubt appeals to romance and erotica lovers, but it does not take long for the clichés and the constant droning about sex to become tiresome."^[9] Other reviewers for The Kansas City Star and Publishers Weekly also commented on the rise in sexual themes in the series.^[10] The reviewer for the Kansas City Star stating that "After 13 erotically charged books, boredom has reared its ugly head for the 14th novel in Laurell K. Hamilton's Anita Blake series, as eroticism becomes mere description..." and Publishers Weekly commenting that Blood Noir had a "growing air of ennui, which longtime readers can't help sharing as sex increasingly takes the place of plot and character development".^[11]

In contrast, a Denver Post review of Danse Macabre took a more positive view of the eroticism in Hamilton's work. Although it noted that "[t]hose looking for mystery and mayhem on this Anita adventure are out of luck" it also stated that "the main attraction of the Anita Blake novels in the past five years has been their erotic novelty", and "[f]ew, if any, mainstream novels delve so deeply into pure, unadulterated erotica".^[12]

  

Taken from here:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Laurell_K._Hamilton#Anita_Blake 

With all that said and done, let me add a few pictures of Jean Claude, Anita's vampire boyfriend just for kicks... Damn, if I had such a character in my books I would write the new Iliad with sex-obsessed, penis-brandishing, humping-you-unexpectedly-in-dark-corners vampires.

The last two pictures are taken from here:  
http://arianne023.deviantart.com/art/Jean-Claude-and-Anita-Blake-322530203

Ass hugger, or, fapping my days away over a keyboard

Once I had said to a friend of mine that I am an ass connoisseur. Well, indeed I am. I regret nothing.

Why try to hide it; if other people’s destinies lie in the stars, mine is located somewhere near the anal cavity. There is no escape from the pull of the ass. The ass holds for me the gravity of its bigger cousin, the black hole. The ass is grandiose, funny and sexy at the same time. It sings. It can kill with a single whiff. You can caress it and kiss it, slap it, fondle it, bite it. Knead it and massage it to your heart’s content. Pour chocolate on it. Draw on it. Dress it, hug it, squeeze it and call it George. You can find it on both sexes, it’s not exclusive equipment like the penis, the vagina. Boobs don’t count. They, too, can be found on both sexes.

But the ass. The ass is beguiling. It holds tight onto its secrets. It can be stubbornly shut to any approach. Demands respect because it does the dirty job and rarely complains. Poor ass. So underestimated in your struggle for freedom and recognition. So divine in your humble guise. Two perfect semicircles with so much heart in them.

By the way, I needn’t worry about finding a writer’s pseudonym. I am sure I’ll be nicknamed the trench coat author. Not because I wear trench coats often (which I do) but because all my readers will be wearing them, in order to be able to read my wonderful books on the tube, or in the bus, and masturbate without attracting too much attention.

I return to my writing.

Yours in ass appreciating bliss,

Elizabeth Fap

Ass connoisseur and writer extraordinaire.

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