Monday, April 22, 2013

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. :(



Wednesday, April 17, 2013

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.



Monday, April 08, 2013

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

Tuesday, April 02, 2013

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:


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







Friday, March 29, 2013

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.

(If you enjoy my content, please consider supporting what I do. Thank you.)

Monday, March 25, 2013

Cold sweat, or, anus, what a wonderful word.

Ooooooooh VERY PRETTY...
I make tea to calm my head down.

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. 

Thursday, March 14, 2013

The tower

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.

Monday, March 04, 2013

Birth-day

Νίκος Γκάτσος:
Περίλυπος εστίν η ψυχή μου έως θανάτου

Γιατί σ'αυτό το αρχαίο αγγείο αγαπιούνται τόσο όμορφα δύο σώματα
περίλυπος εστίν η ψυχή μου έως θανάτου
Γιατί σε τούτο το μοτέλ ένα ταξί δαγκώνει αυτό το φέρετρο σα να'ναι πούρο 
περίλυπος εστίν η ψυχή μου έως θανάτου
Γιατί τα σκαλοπάτια ετούτα κατεβαίνουν μέσα στον καθρέφτη φτάνοντας εκεί που'ναι θαμμένο το προφίλ του φεγγαριού
περίλυπος εστίν η ψυχή μου έως θανάτου
Γιατί στον κόσμο τούτο όλοι έχουνε το σπίτι τους κι εγώ είμαι ο ξένος που 'χει χάσει τη φυλή του και το δρόμο του
περίλυπος εστίν η ψυχή μου έως θανάτου
Γιατί περιπλανιέμαι έξω από τη μήτρα σου κι έξω απ'τον τάφο μου
περίλυπος εστίν η ψυχή μου έως θανάτου
περίλυπος εστίν η ψυχή μου έως θανάτου.

Nikos Gatsos:
My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death.

Why on this ancient vase two bodies make love to each other so gracefully
 my soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death
 Why at this motel a taxi bites this coffin as if it was a cigar
 my soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death
Why do these steps descend inside the mirror, reaching the place the profile of the moon is buried
 my soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death
Why in this world that everyone has a home, I am the stranger who has lost his people and his way
my soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death
Why do I wander outside your womb and outside my grave
my soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death
my soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death. 

(The translation is mine, and a bit awkward. But it conveys the meaning.) 

Sometimes I know for certain something you perhaps don't know, or don't want to see.
I am more like your father than I am like you.

Sunday, February 24, 2013

Male/ male erotica.



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.

Saturday, February 16, 2013

What to say, how to explain, who cares.

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.

Tuesday, February 12, 2013

Hmmmmmm...



Because people will always mouth off stupidities and tell you what you can do... or cannot do, according to your gender.
Fuck me sideways Mr. Illan.

Friday, February 08, 2013

Human body

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.

Here is an example: