She Wasn’t Like All Those Other Women





Because she was different. Like, this girl wasn’t like all the rest. Not the same, you see.

The ballroom was twinkling with candelabra light and sparkling with music that she didn’t dance to. He stared at her, as she stood half in shadow. She was staring at the dancers, a small ghost of a smile on her flawless skin. She had a doll’s face, beautiful and symmetrical, but there was something else there. Something not quite proper. He could see it, though he doubted she thought anyone could detect it. But he knew that quality; he’d seen in hundreds of women before.

Taking another glass of champagne, he studied her. Sipping, he exhaustively catalogued her appearance so that in several paragraphs, readers would easily be able to picture her garments coming off, her face writhing in new-found ecstasy.

Her tiny hands folded across the billows of her rich sapphire blue skirts, positioned above her sex, prim. But he could see her toe tapping from under her dress, sense her wanton desire to move her body with abandon. Her curls were a riot of rioting bouncing tendrils arrayed in saucy splendor around her creamy throat and bodice.

And her bodice. Whooo, baby. The details involved in that. We’re talking pages of ink spilled. His trousers tightened. He was going to spill himself like a schoolboy if he thought about it too much.

He imagined there was probably a freckle atop her left breast that he would end up fixating upon for at least three more chapters before he managed to use his rake’s wiles to divest her of her chemise and shift and smallclothes or whatever the fuck the author of this regency novel is using for lingerie or underpants. Because, who gave a good goddamn, really, what you called them. Certainly a world-weary rogue like himself didn’t care. Certainly not a roue like him who fantasized, slowly and deliberately, about ripping her dress off her luscious curves and not caring when she protested and claimed it had been her favorite dress.

He would shower her will a million favorite dresses, he would. Once he’d gotten inside her, though. Money meant nothing if he couldn’t have her.

Dammit, he had to have her. In every way. Because she wasn’t like any of the other full-breasted, tiny-waisted, supernaturally beautiful ladies he’d known and bedded and tossed aside. Not like any other ethereal creature who would let her hair down where he could rub his beard-shadowed face into it and delight in how it smelled of violets or peaches or cinnamon. Something old-timey, but something he’d never encountered before. Or something that reminded him of his Dear Old Nan or the fields around his family’s lost estate or the sprigs of mint that grew wild on his dead brother’s grave.

Slowly, his eyes luxuriously scouring every detail of flesh, he walked toward her.



This Kiss Was Totally Different



Figure 1. Reedus kissing this very fortunate dame in the movie Tough Luck. This has nothing to do with this post, which is due to reading way too many romance novels of late.


She began to realize that this was no ordinary kiss.

Because this kiss? This one, currently happening inside and around her mouth? Well. Let’s just say that this kiss, from this man, was beyond anything she’d ever experienced before, in her life, or in her mouth, or anywhere else where she could suddenly feel her body’s heat rise and respond to his punishingly sweet tongue and his bruisingly enjoyable muscles clenching her to him.

And this kiss wasn’t just full of passion and desire and beautiful turmoil and his hot lips devouring her sweet plush pink ones. Pressing forward, licking, sucking, taking what he wanted. Oh, no. This kiss meant something. Something that mattered. That she mattered. That his feeling for her was something unique. Otherworldly. Something deep and intense and severe and brutal and crushing with its yearning yet still somehow splendid and perfectly okay in terms of consent.

His arms gripped her with determined lust and uncontained strength that she hadn’t even know she had wanted so desperately to uncontain. She pressed herself shamelessly against him until her bones shuddered and his hands trembled down her spine and wrapped around her lush body like a waterfall or a flowering vine or something, like, unyielding and enthusiastic for the sunshine of erotic promise. You know. Something earthly and instinctual. That might know better but can’t help itself. Or maybe it can help itself. But it just wouldn’t because it was unable to hold back any longer. 106 pages of witty banter had broken him and now his lips were telling her that he would no longer be punished by her distance. That he would never let her go.

Because that’s how he was holding her. Like he would only let go because of death. He was holding her like there was nothing and no one else, now or ever, as important.

Holding her not like a piece of mere ass wrapped in 14 yards of muslin and petticoat cotton but like, you know, she was the sole meaning in a universe bereft of truth. Like she was the soil and he was the seed that ached to sink into it, all the way, rooting deep and tight, growing big and strong. Like she was the last opalescent drop of water in the desert of years he’d waited for love to come to him, far from the mindless pleasures of brothels he’d plowed through all his life, searching for a woman who deserved to know his heart and his mind and his secrets, not just receive with juicy abandon the expert level of bedplay skills he’d amassed in all those years toiling in the fleshpots of the Continent, waiting for the salvation that was her touch.

That’s what this kiss meant. So. Yeah. Take that to the bank, you guys. It was kind of a big deal.






Figure 1. The Cookie Monster of yesteryear.

Figure 1. The Cookie Monster of yesteryear, prior to the Great Carrot Conversion of 2006.


Because it’s SO FUCKING COLD I had to break my habit of not cooking and use the oven to heat my house a bit.

So I made a ton of Oatmeal Craisin cookies. And yall, they are so good!

Here’s my recipe, which I amended a bit from one I found online:


1 cup unsalted butter, softened

1 cup brown sugar, packed

1/2 cup white sugar

2 eggs

1 teaspoon vanilla

1 & 1/2 cups flour

1 teaspoon baking soda

1 teaspoon cinnamon

1 teaspoon salt

3 cups oatmeal (quick oats)

1 cup dried cranberries

1/2 cup chopped walnuts

Mix butter, sugars, eggs and vanilla together. In a separate bowl, mix flour, baking soda, cinnamon and salt together. Combine the dry ingredients with the wet ingredients. Mix until just blended. Add oats about 1 cup at a time and mix until blended. Fold in dried cranberries and walnuts. On an ungreased cookie sheet, drop spoonfuls of batter and bake at 350 degrees on ungreased cookie sheet for between 7-10 minutes, until tawny brown. Let sit rest on cookie sheet for 3-5 minutes before removing and cooling on newspaper.

Figure 2. Actual Cookies I Made With My Own Hands/Will

Figure 2. Actual Cookies I Made With My Own Hands/Will








Because I am an animal, here is a list of all the THINGS I WANT (OR WANT TO DO):

1) Soap & Glory’s BUTTER YOURSELF body cream. A giant tub of it, please.

2) This for dinner.

3) To go see Lone Survivor, American Hustle & Dallas Buyers Club.

4) For everyone to leave my house so I can watch Moscow Chill in peace without people giving me shit about The Reedus.

5) A pallet of Bourbon Nib Brittle from Olive & Sinclair.

6) For it to stop being so fucking cold already. We get the goddamn point, Weather. You’re a badass. Message received.

7) To make these cookies with Matilda.

8) A day in bed with Pablo spent reading. Got lots of juicy stuff on deck to read, yall.

9) To get the mister alone for one damn minute so we can talk shop. And maybe make out. He’s been surfing my last nerve all week. The only remedy for that is to get easy, I feel. Sorry if that’s gross. But we’re married. We’ve been married for 14 years. What the hell do you get married for if not for access to The Sex? I mean, really.

10) For someone else to return my corduroys that didn’t fit to The Gap.

11) Some magical fairy godmother to arrive and put away all my clean clothes, even though they won’t fit into the closet and dresser I have at the moment. While the fairy godmother’s at it, she can finish remodeling my goddamn house, too. THIS SHIT IS GETTING SO OLD I’M TELLING YOU WHAT.

12) Twenty-five, maybe thirty solid minutes alone with Jonny Lee Miller, in which we’d discuss all of my running hang-ups and pitfalls while I admire his shoulder blades.





Friday Night Yall

Figure 1. The Pablo, when he was a tiny baby puppy

Figure 1. The Pablo, when he was a tiny baby puppy


So, NBD but I finished another round of edits of book #2 AKA Perfectly Good White Boy.

Which means I get to do fuckall for a little while before The Karre grabs me by the collar and yanks me back into the Fake People jobs.

Anyway, I’m getting my Friday night on, which means I’m not drinking or smoking; only the latter is sad. About to go get my Handsome Husband from the airport. Then I’ll probably go watch a ton of television. Or a movie. Cos I roll fat, yall.

Pablo is sitting by me, harrumphing on the couch. My brother-in-law is making me laugh about weird shit until I’m crying. I might be hungry but I’m too lazy to fix anything.

I have a super boring life, you guys. At least when I have to describe it in text. But I think it’s pretty sweet, so who cares, anyhow.

I nominate this for Boringest Blog Post EVER.