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
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 littlepower 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]
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.
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.
There's an English Thesaurus, one ancient English-Greek/ Greek-English dictionary and one English grammar book carelessly thrown on various surfaces near me. My fingers run the keyboard. I am flushed. I feel private parts of mine clench and unclench. A customer comes. I sell a pack of cigarettes. The customer leaves. I stretch my back. I continue writing. My villain is fucking an innocent young man blind. I try to keep my sentences small, which is always a struggle for me. The words need to be precise and convey what both heroes feel. I am trying to decide whether to use the word 'rod'. It seems ridiculous and decide against it. Generally speaking, I am in favour of more simple language. Nothing wrong with 'cock', 'asshole', 'fuck'. But I don't like repetition and I don't like vulgarity. It makes the whole procedure more interesting and more difficult.
I read what I've written.
I swallow a couple of times.
I wonder what the average man will think of it. He will probably screech in terror and run away. Casual bisexuality has never been the average man's strong point. Masculine characters that offer oral pleasure to other masculine characters can't possibly be protagonists if you aim at a male audience.
Fuck the male audience. I am writing this for me. I am writing because I want to read it and get horny. If my writing makes me horny, then perhaps more readers will get horny. If I am writing this to aim at an audience, I am like a blind man shooting arrows to the moon. I'll get shit.
I wonder what kind of publisher would want to publish my book.
A gay man, most likely. Or an open-minded woman with cojones the size of watermelons.
I read what the villain says to his young hostage. The image of myself hiding in a cave while all the media worldwide crucify me flashes before my eyes. I see my mother's stunned expression as journalists ask her what she thinks of her daughter's preoccupation with what can fit inside a human anus. I can even hear her outraged questions, demanding more information from the journalists.
I can see you all wondering what the hell, doesn't your mom know what you're writing about?
Are you crazy? Of course my mother doesn't know what I am writing about. She knows that I write about vampires and does not even like that.
Writing is not about safe ground, or making your mom happy.
Writing is about as easy as walking butt naked in public display. While masturbating. And screaming obscenities. With a loudspeaker. In a stadium. Full of Mormons.
With a wry smile, I consider that the customer probably wouldn't have wanted that pack of cigarettes if he
knew the places my mental fingers had been seconds before.
I make a mental note to find a cave with internet signal.
I make a second mental note not to tell my mom where the cave is and go back to writing.
I have been practicing selective reading. I
finished two books in two days in my usual manner of skipping the boring bits. One
of them was ‘Knowledge of Angels’ by Jill Paton
Walsh. The second was ‘Northern
Lights’ by Philip
Pullman. Both good books. Both
made me sad for different reasons. Then again, all good books make me sad.
There
are days I am so busy I forget. And there are days the darkness is real enough
to touch it. I am surrounded by it from all sides and I try to stop its
advance by lighting candles around me. It’s a tide of darkness, lapping at my fragile
light circle. Ebbing and swelling around the limit of light. Threatening to
engulf everything.
It’s not evil. It’s not even caring,
or uncaring. It’s just darkness. Human soul is as full of it as any other
place. So I am lighting candles one by one. I light them when I hope for a
better future. When I do something for someone I’ve never seen before and will
never see again. When I write one more page of my novel. When I feed the small
army of cats I’ve acquired under my building.
There are so few things that are
really important. None of them is something you can hold in your
hands or own.
The smell of your beloved on the
sheets when you wake in the morning. The kindness in the eyes of a
stranger. A place in your heart to call home. The patience to let go when people refuse to
understand. The patience to hold one’s tongue when the other knows no better. Everything is fragile and fleeting. Like a circle made of candles against a tower
of darkness. Keep walking. Move on. Don’t look back. Don’t
think, lest you lose heart. Breathe and put one foot in front of the other. That’s my girl.
Please visit if you're interested in reading reviews on male/ male erotica books.
I am a re-reading a collection of male/male erotica I have, Flesh and The Word 2. The one who compiled it as well as commented on various parts of it is a man, John D. Preston. The same goes for almost every writer in there, save for three or four women. It gave me a bunch of thoughts to deal with and try to unravel.
Now, I myself write male/ male erotica, and I've read some, including yaoi, which is Japanese comics focusing on male/ male relationships written and drawn by women. To be honest I have not read that much of this genre. The vast majority of m/m erotica I come across is written by girls to be read by other girls. Most of it is godawful. It's not about men having sex but about a female fantasy, and to be more precise, a teenage female fantasy, of men having sex. I am not sure why so many teenage girls find the idea of a male/ male erotica piece more appealing that the idea of a male/ female or a female/ female. Perhaps the disassociation from their own bodies and gender restrictions allows them to experience greater freedom in expressing themselves. There is only one catch. Not having the necessary equipment (penis and testicles) nor the hormone responsible for the function of the aforesaid equipment (testosterone) effectively deprives a woman of knowing what it feels like to have sex like a man does. And I am obviously not referring to receiving sex anally since both sexes have an anus. Even from that aspect, men happen to have the prostate at very close proximity, something again a woman cannot know what it feels like. But even more than that, how can a woman possibly know what it feels to have an erection, or to ejaculate?
With that in mind, let me touch on what bothers me even more than lack of a penis.
Men are not women. I am not going to analyse why that is and whether it is social conditioning that creates differences in our behaviour, or whatever. I am not a biologist or a sociologist. I just take it as a given fact. Men are not women. They don't function in the same way. They are not attracted by the same things, and more than anything else, they don't behave like women. Here is the key to understanding why most m/m erotica written by women is about as related to men having sex with other men as the Muppet Show is related to porn.
Men don't speak like women. They don't engage in long winding descriptions of how they feel. They don't use pretty words when they fuck. In fact, as soon as a good rock-hard erection steps in the game, you can safely presume that the vocabulary drops down to perhaps one hundred words, a large portion of which are swearwords. The blood goes somewhere else. Brain switches off. Fact.
Gay men don't walk hand in hand and murmur sweet nothings to each other's ear in public view. When they have a relationship, neither of the two is the 'wife'. They don't give vows of everlasting love under candlelight, in beds with rose petals. They are not cute.They tend to fart, burp and curse as much as any man does when in the company of other men. They don't comb each other's hair or put flowers in it. And they most certainly don't have cocks of eight, nine and ten inches each. Pretty please. Have mercy. If you think that gay erotica is about substituting Snow White with a second Prince Charming, then you need to learn the ropes. And while you're at it try taking a wrist thick, eight inches dick up the ass and then we'll discuss about how easy it is.
I have gay men in my circle of friends and acquaintances. Sometimes I had had to ask them some very awkward questions concerning how they practice and experience sex. And I love to read gay erotica written by men. There is a multitude of feelings and sensations I cannot describe or convey. There's something purely hormonal, animalistic and raw about the way they experience sex and attraction. Something urgent, straightforward, bordering on the violent. They are not attracted to the same things a woman would be attracted when she ogles a man. I personally don't know any woman that would find tufts of armpit hairs sticking out an exciting sight. I also don't know of any women who would enjoy licking them. Most women would not blatantly admit to enjoy rimming. (Licking and probing with your tongue your partner's anus). Probably some do, but how many chances are there to come across a scene of a woman rimming her male partner in mainstream erotica? Slim to none, methinks. And this is why most m/m erotica written by women just doesn't work. Perhaps it will get another woman horny, but not a gay man. Which is neither good or bad. It just is.
With that said and done, let's see how I'll fare in that particular field. Hehe. I am really curious... But all in due time.
After spending a whole month struggling with two chapters, I wrote two more in the last week/ ten days.
The very last one is death and despair. Which is good. It reminds me of what writing should be about. A good kick in the behind. Reading can be pleasant, informative, a way to kill time and all that. But sometimes, just sometimes, reading should be about as pleasant as a hand gripping your heart and squeezing it, then throwing the remaining meat to the crows. To hell with pleasant reading and my pleasant ass. There are vampires in there, not smurfs or care bears. And there is death, madness, despair, and the knowledge that no matter how long you may live, some things will not leave you, or be forgotten. They'll stay.
"If you ask me why bad things happen to people who don't deserve them, I'll tell you I don't know. I never figured that one out. Perhaps there is no why. Am I sorry about everything I did to you? Of course I am. But if I met you tomorrow, I'd do the same all over again. I can't help it. I just can't."
I can also refer to the fact there are two new erotica pieces in my arsenal. One finished two days ago, one finished about half a month ago. Both male/ male. I don't know what I am supposed to do with them except read them and feel horny, which is why they were written in the first place. But other than that... The gay couple I know can't read my English to give those pieces to them. :( I think they'd enjoy them. I think after everything is said and done, gay people will give me a medal of honour. Or something. But nothing is said or done yet.
Well, there is always my homophobic friend who's really eager to read the next chapters of my story, and he has a surprise in store for him in chapters 24 and 25. That should teach him to make strange comments whenever I upload feminine men in my facebook photos.
For me, there is nothing more beautiful than the human body and its movement.
I love to watch it. It's exhilarating. Male or female, it's the same to me. I see sheer beauty in its fluidity, in the lines, in the curves of the muscles, the ripples of movement under the skin of a dancer or an acrobat.
The moments those people fly in the air and mock gravity.
The moments those people mock death himself.
So many hours, days, months, years into perfecting your movement, into making your body the statement.
Into letting your body speak, sing and scream its defiance to any and all boundaries.
So many refusals in order to make your body a living work of art. So much pain.
And although they know death waits for them at the end of the road like it waits for each of us, they choose the path of pain and perfection. Even though they know that their body will eventually fail them.
And yet, when those people fly in the air and forget to land on the ground,
when those people move their body in ways that remind to the rest of us too that
the impossible is nothing but a leap of faith and miracles demand only a lifetime of dedication.
I think the least we all owe them is those moments of stupefied wonder and gratitude for allowing us again a glimpse in paradise.
I have always had this random thought, that our idea of beauty is absurd. We find something attractive or pleasing to the eyes because we are what we are. Our human body gives us a specific idea of what is beautiful. For example we're bipedal and therefore look at other people's legs and specific shapes seem attractive to us. If as a race we had no legs, or a fishtail, or something entirely different, then the two legs we now admire and feel aroused by would seem as erotic to us as the gills of a fish, or the tail of a horse.
Then again, our eyes instinctively recognise harmony. The closer someone's facial and bodily analogies are to the golden ratio Φ, the more attractive they are to the rest of us. Symmetry is a sign of healthy genes and it is knowledge on a deeper level, even if someone has never heard of that ratio in their lives.
With that in mind please explain to me why I bumped my nose against the screen in a vain attempt to get closer to this:
Normally I put the products of my crafting adventures to my other blog, but this one turned so pretty that I'll put it here, too. Anyone who wants to see more details of it (like the decorated inside and back) please visit my other blog (see below the photo). Thanks!
I would not possibly be still alive if it wasn't for my imagination. Whenever I have been depressed, angry or overwhelmed by reality I run in its arms the same way a scared child runs back to their mother's embrace. In a sense, my imagination has been my mother in a lot more ways than my mother ever has.
However, every gift comes with a an equal price: my imagination runs wild. It's natural for me. I never had younger siblings, so I spent long hours on my own. I tend to project my inner world to the outside just like people do. I literally live in there and consequently get very annoyed that I have to drag around my humble mortal body as well. However my inner world overwhelms, overruns and exceeds other people's worlds the way an ocean outweighs a spoonful. Things are so much more interesting, grotesque, humorous, violent, wonderful and versatile in my own world.
One downside of this is I often imagine what people are like and fill in the gaps with my inner
palette of feelings, colours, ideas. I give them my characteristics and
my intentions. I create them anew in my head, dressing them with characteristics they don't possess or imagining that they can't be that bad.
They can.
And now we come to you.
We don't really know each other.
I have never heard you laugh. Never seen you cry. I have not held you in my arms. Never kissed you or sniffed you (as I am so intent on doing whenever we visit each other in dreams.)
Are you sure you know me?
You see, I often think I know others but it turns out I know my fantasy of them. Not the real people. And then I get hurt. And the one thing I do not want to do is hurt you in any way.
I know things about you.
I feel things about you.
Yet the picture of you I have in my head is my creation.
Let me tell you what I think I know.
You're giving. Giving to a fault sometimes if someone gets past your defenses. You're also giving because you're not interested in material things. You're not stupid or gullible, just indifferent to the concept of possession. You like items for what they give you, not for the item per se.
You're loyal for life. Unless something changes in the relationship, you'll be the last person to leave the boat. Even if it sinks and there are sharks around it, you'll stay. You're in for the long haul.
You're extremely intelligent, both emotionally and mentally. Your mind is restless and always quick to jump from one thing to the next. If you get bored of something or someone, you'll get rid of them, even if you change your mind afterwards. But the way you have grown up has left you very little space for long-lasting regrets.
You're headstrong and volatile. If something annoys you, you won't suffer it for a second longer than you have to. And it takes you a lot of time to admit to yourself that you need to make or embrace changes, because that same characteristic that makes you headstrong is what has kept you alive and sane. Your adamant core refuses to break and also makes you respond more slowly to change. However, once you are certain that it is for good, you're one of the people that will let go immediately and jump to the next phase. From that aspect, you're one of the most kamikaze and rush forward individuals I know. You don't rush because you're foolhardy but because you're certain.
You are one of the most talented people I have come across. You have a unique sense of colour and texture and know how to combine elements in a way that is ingenious, balanced, elegant and beautiful. Your hands make music out of anything they touch, whether it's paper, colour, cloth or a musical instrument. Your 'melodies' are at the same time deep like ancient waters and delicate like lace. And I have seen you creating music with so many different items that most people view as surfaces.
You make reality sing songs of haunting beauty and feelings so intense the majority can't even suspect they exist.
You make others laugh. Your friends me tell how playful you are and I believe them. You're like a little teasing bee. I can see you sometimes, always restless, busy with something or other. You need to drop dead with exhaustion to stop.
You're beautiful. I do not refer to your good looks only. You're beautiful as a bird or an animal is beautiful. Natural and not self apologetic.
Your kindness springs from the well of pain. It is not sugar coated with ignorance but has a coppery taste instead. Like blood and water coming from the deepest core of the earth. Coming out to bless this world, reality, the whole of existence. You make flowers grow in people's hearts and gardens.
You hide under a million guises and half-spoken phrases. You hide behind cautious glances, you hide behind thoughts, silences, words, smoke screens, doubts, and the secret pleasure that it's a game played at your own time. And you're safe. If you choose the timing and the amount of information you'll disclose you're safe.
I wish, I wish, I wish I could have kept us both safe back then. I wish I could have opened a door and guided you the center of my heart, inside my secret garden. You and your brother and your two sisters. But I could not. I cannot. No matter how much I wish, no matter how much I try. Even if I knock my fists against the wall of reality till my knuckles are reduced to bloody shreds I can't. We only have today and tomorrow and the next day.
But we can build a garden together.
I promise you it will be safe. I promise that even the roses in there will have no thorns.
