Yep.  Muses.  Most authors have them, or at least acknowledge their existence, though who and what they are is different for everyone.  A muse can be anything from an attractive person in real life, to an idea or expression, or even viewed as an actual spiritual entity.  However an author looks at their muse, one thing is certain, we praise them when we write well and fault them when the words won’t come.  They’re the eternal scapegoat when we struggle with writing.

Leonardo Corredor

For me, with how my story ideas pop out of nowhere with seemingly no rhyme or reason, it seems perfectly logical that these ideas are coming from a source outside myself.  Or maybe it’s more mental than logical.  One or the other.  I’ll let you decided.  With my muse, he has a name, and yeah, by me saying “he” I do think of him as a male.  I know other authors who have named their muses, who think of them as male or female, some even have more than one.  But you know, the thing with muses is you have to take care of them, and some can be very high maintenance.  How do you take care of a muse?  Well, I can’t speak for all of them, but I mine has a very specific diet; music and….well, please see the visual examples ;-)

While music is always one of my favorite topics to talk about, today my muse is more interested in discussing the other part of his diet.  And really, he can’t be blamed for that.  It’s hard not to be inspired by sensual, steamy, or loving images.  Love, passion, and romance are the themes my muse wants to work in, and I’m more than happy to oblige him. 

Really though, when I first started writing eons ago, long before any ambitions to be published came, I wrote fantasy.  I had a trilogy I was working on, and I felt that’s where my passion would lie.  The strange thing was, even though I enjoyed fantasy writing, there was still something lacking for me.  It was missing, and forgive the pun, that certain magic.  But I wasn’t sure what to do, what to write, so I continued on with it.  My muse was with me, but he wasn’t very outspoken at the time, or it’s more accurate to say I wasn’t ready to listen to him.  I wasn’t ready for what he wanted me to do.  Yet with every draft of the fantasy story, it changed.  It became more erotic, and the male characters grew stronger and stronger.  Slowly but surely, my muse was preparing me for the kind of author he wanted me to be.

When the main character for my novels Conquest and No Fear, Jesse Alexander, came to me, I was admittedly surprised.  Not only by the story he was telling me, a contemporary m/m erotic romance, but by how clearly he told it.  He spoke of things I believed in, love and equality, and I knew then the path I wanted to take as a writer.  I could almost see my muse glowing with the realization, but since that day when I fully opened my mind to him, he’s never let me down when I need to tell a story. 

Sure, there are things my muse doesn’t always enjoy working on.  When I first started writing blogs and I’d call for him, he’d come grudgingly and would be cranky.  I won’t ever complain, though, because what he’s gifted me with has brought me more happiness than what I ever thought to achieve with my writing. 

So it’s true, sometimes the path your muse takes you on is an unexpected one, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned about muses, it’s they should always be listened to with an open mind.  If you follow them, whether your work is published or not, gets good reviews or bad, at least you know you were honest to your writing and what you wanted to do.  No author, or muse, can ask for more than that.  Well, except for a little food once in a while

S.J. Frost

Secrets of the Solstice Sacrifice

By: Giselle Renarde

Published By: loveyoudivine

ISBN # 9781600544927

http://tiny.cc/cypm4

Professor Selyf is a fay magical, a solitary academic who lives near the mythical village of Gwyllion on a Welsh hillside. When a knock at the door interrupts him from his manuscript, he curses the intruders—until he gets a look at them! The ginger boy, Bedwyn, he doesn’t much care for, but Trysta, his beautiful cara, awakens Selyf’s heart and the sleeping serpent within.

Trysta has a “female problem,” as Bedwyn puts it, and needs the professor’s audience. She and Bedwyn are mixed-bloods–half human, half fay. When Trysta’s mother conceived her, she wished for a little girl. The fae have a unique ability to select their children’s genders with simple wishes, but since Trysta’s system contained “stagnant” human blood, the wish only half succeeded. Trysta was born a girl with one particular boy part.

Bedwyn doesn’t know the true nature of Trysta’s “female problem,” and she asks Selyf to help her resolve it so she can finally share her body with her caru. As a guest in Selyf’s home, Trysta grows as attracted to the professor’s magical intellect as he is to her beauty. The desire to give in to temptation mounts, particularly when Selyf realizes the only way to resolve Trysta’s problem involves a sexual sacrifice on the solstice.

Excerpt:

He knew she’d return. He sensed it in her look of longing as she left
for dinner with that stupid sod of a caru. “You’re here for my bed, I
presume?” Selyf said as she slipped in the door. Her eyes revealed
everything she longed to say, but he understood her restriction. “Will
you sit with me?” he asked, beckoning her into the chair by his desk.

Gazing into the empty seat, she shook her head. “I should not have
come,” she said with a look of apprehension in her conflicted eyes.
Slipping her bag from her shoulder, she sat in the chair. “You should
know you represent a distinct temptation for me.”

Selyf was not easily scandalized, but her bold admission took his breath
away. “As do you, for me,” he admitted. “But you needn’t fear me, Fay
Trysta. I have spent all my adult life as a solitary magical. I know
denial and self-sacrifice only too well. You are safe here in my home.”

With tears in her eyes, she nodded. For a moment, she looked as though
she might speak, but then said nothing. As she rose from her chair, she
finally blurted, “What if I don’t want to be safe anymore?”

He only stammered, with no response at hand.

“You speak of denial?” she went on. “What do you think my life has
consisted of up until now? At my age, I have yet to experience the
pleasures of the flesh. In the village, I must pretend to be exactly
what I seem, and why? Because only my mother, her mid-wife, and I can
know the truth. You have no idea the trust I’ve put in you, Professor
Selyf. You hold my very life in your hands.”

“I hold your life,” he repeated, rushing around his desk to meet her.
“Why may I not hold your body as well?”

Slipping past him, she hurried to the window, mumbling, “Bedwyn.” Just
as Selyf’s heart began to plummet, she continued, “He mustn’t see.”
Ensuring the curtains were fully closed, she walked to him like a vixen
on the hunt. Her eyes burned like roaring embers as they explored the
lengths of his body. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she ensnared him
in a kiss the likes of which he’d never imagined. He felt her veiled
passion course through his veins as his mouth melded with hers. Their
tongues fluttered and surged one against the other. His whole body was
so rapt with hers he could hardly breathe. As they kissed, he ran
intrepid fingers through her silken hair and down her back. In turn, she
held his cheeks and his neck, his back and his sides. When he grasped
the firm flesh of her buttocks, Trysta wheezed and broke free.

The look in her eyes was indiscernible but for the temptation they
aroused. He almost apologized for being so dreadfully forward before
realizing it was she who’d kissed him. Grabbing her wrists, he pulled
her into his arms and carried forth the sweet embrace she’d abandoned.
After a moment of brave indecision, she gave in to the kiss and melted
in Selyf’s arms. His tongue wrangled hers until she broke away once
more. Pressing her soft lips to his ear, she whispered, “I’ve never felt
like this before.”

“Neither have I,” he admitted. “You’ve aroused in me the sleeping
serpent.”

At that turn of phrase, her body grew limp in his arms. “Yes,” she said.
“I know only too well what you mean.”

Buy Now! http://tiny.cc/cypm4

Hugs,

Giselle Renarde
Canada just got hotter!

http://freewebs.com/gisellerenarde/

http://donutsdesires.blogspot.com

http://twitter.com/GiselleRenarde

http://audreyandlawrence.viviti.com/

This is most forcefully brought to my attention when I sit some place and people watch. Or more accurately, ogle men. I sat at lunch one day with a co-worker, she with her back to the window, in a trendy (and really yummy) new burger place called Habit. Behind her head, a plethora of men passed by. My brain, which still thinks like a 35 year old, had my eyes following the hot bodies of the men in the twenty and thirty something age range.  My libido, which also thinks it’s thirty-ish, created little fantasies in my head.

Hot dude in suit pants and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up, looks up at the window to find me staring at him. A slow smile curves his mouth. His eyes glitter with some emotion I can’t name and don’t care to analyze just yet. He rolls his sleeves higher and my eyes follow the movements of his long-fingered hands, the ripple of muscle in his forearms. He flexes his shoulders and the shirt tightens over biceps that I know my fingers can’t wrap around.

He sits down at one of the outside tables and unwraps his burger, his gaze never leaving mine. He bites and chews. I see the strong column of his neck flex with the movement of his jaw. He flicks his tongue at the corner of his lips, capturing a drop of sauce. He swallows and his Adam’s apple bobs with a slow, seductive movement, the skin of his throat rippling slightly. My breath catches in my throat as he leans forward, opening his mouth, white teeth gleaming, the pink of his tongue beckoning…His fingers squeeze the burger as his teeth sink into it. My panties dampen…and my co-worker starts packing up her trash so we can leave. Lunch is over.

No matter how many birthdays my body has, my brain has stopped having them. What I find attractive in a man hasn’t changed from my thirties. My fellow FAB blogger Tess MacKall has a thing for silver foxes. The only silver fox to ring my bells is Anderson Cooper and he’s prematurely gray. When I look at men, I realize that my tastes haven’t changed in lo these many years. I’ve gone from being a cougar to a dirty old woman. Well, not really. I’m not really old enough for that yet, but I can see that my brain is headed in that direction with regard to men.

What I find attractive in a man just has not matured along with me. I’m not sure what that means. I’ve always been a cougar, attracted to men younger than me. Oddly, men my age and older have never shown any attraction to me either. It’s always been the younger guys who’ve hit on me. There’s something very odd about how the universe works with this stuff. If I believed in karma, I’d say it was at work here.

So what happens when your body gets older but your brain doesn’t? For starters, the pickins get mighty slim when it comes to sexual partners. Sure, there are some hot thirty something guys out there who dig women in their forties and there are a lot of guys who will tell you age means nothing. Of course, age truly doesn’t mean anything to their cocks. If you get it hard, you just better be prepared to take care of it whether you’re ten years older than the guy or twenty.  Men are usually practical about a hard on. If they don’t like your gray hair, they’ll fist their hands in it and close their eyes. Dicks do not always see gray hair. Thank God for that. Like I said, if you can get their cock hard, at that point they do not care if you’re as old as their mom. They just want you to deal with the consequences of your actions.

I guess that will be my new thing. Don’t worry about age. Worry about whether you can arouse that hot younger guy. Sometimes, it’s not about looks but about actions. Not all men (or women) care about age or looks so seek out men who are all about attitude and sexuality. And enjoy those lunch hours where you can sit and ogle the manflesh. After all, there’s no law against letting your immature brain strip them naked.

Fifteen years ago I could predict exactly the type of person I would develop a crush on. I knew every last characteristic. That person would be:

• Male
• Healthy & Fit
• Aged 48-60
• Bald
• Highly Intelligent/Academic
• Refined Manners and Tastes

Think Patrick Stewart. Yeppers, that was the man for me. Every time a man like that crossed my path, I’d melt into a gooey puddle of crush-juice.

Ten years ago, I noticed a shift in my crushes. Bald men stopped turning my head. A different type of person started attracting my attention:

• Female
• Artsy/Quirky
• Aged 18-30
• Small in Stature
• Eclectic Tastes
• Dark Hair

My rockabilly babe, pin-up model Bernie Dexter, should give you some idea of the kind of girl I’m talking about.

Now…I just don’t know anymore! I can’t predict when a crush will come along and what she’ll look like or act like. It’s like there are absolutely no commonalities anymore, except that I haven’t had a crush on a boy in a good ten years. What is my “crush type”? I’ve been mulling this over for a couple days now and…I’ve got nothing!

I mean, I think about my girlfriend of two years, and she doesn’t fit into any known category. Sweet’s:

• MTF Transsexual
• Tall
• Redhead
• “Curvy”
• Generous
• Wise Woman
• Geeky/Trekkie
• Tells Really Bad Jokes

Mind you, I don’t remember ever really having a crush on Sweet. I knew there was something special about her, and I fell in love. Or maybe I did have a crush on her…and maybe I still do. I certainly do find myself fantasizing about kissing her while I’m dozing on the subway. I still think about her all the time. Every time I’m in a store, I can’t resist buying her a present, even if it’s just a bottle of iced tea.

But that doesn’t help me in establishing my crush type. When I think about the women I’ve crushed on over the past five years, I see no similarities. Maybe we only see the similarities in retrospect. Maybe five years from now, it’ll all be clear.

What about you? Are there certain physical qualities you know you’ll be attracted to in any given person? Or do the physical qualities have to accompany personality qualities? Can you clearly identify the kind of person you’ll develop a crush on?

What’s your crush type?

Bright Blessings,
Giselle Renarde
Canada just got hotter!
www.gisellerenarde.webs.com

Jemima Rooper

One of my recurring favorites is Jemima Rooper. I saw her first on the BBC series Hex as Thelma Bates, the lesbian ghost. I’ve since seen her in other things, most recently Lost in Austen. I find her fascinating to watch, and I’ll confess to finding her unspeakably hot as well. She has a very expressive face, the kind that lights up when she smiles–or when she gives a salacious little grin or flirts with someone. She’s also not a stick figure, suffering from Hollywood Wasting Disease; she looks like a real (very sexy) woman, which is appealing on its own, just by way of contrast with so many actresses today.

Anyhow, she caught my attention several years ago and I’ve used her as my mental model for a couple of characters. One of whom, Leah Wright (also known as Iron Maiden) has made the leap from a character in a game to fanfic and then to published fiction. Leah is nothing like any of the characters the actress has played–but I have a very clear mental image of Leah, which helps when I’m writing her.

She’s not the only character of mine who has a real world model (though not all of them do).  Victor Kruger (the Black Knight), one of Leah’s favorite playmates, is modeled on actor Clancy Brown. Specifically, Clancy Brown as the Kurgan in the film Highlander. I’ve also modeled characters on Laura Harris (Daisy Adair, Dead Like Me) and Jet Li. In all these cases having a strong visual sense of the character makes it easier to choreograph the action in a story, whether it’s violence…or sex.

It’s not the only way to do it. There are plenty of characters in my fiction who don’t owe their appearance to any particular person, celebrity or otherwise. But it’s one way, and one that can work. So all you other writers out there, tell me: Do you use bodycasts? And if so, who are they?

There’s a secret war being waged. It’s been going on for thousands of years while we go through life blissfully unaware that someone—something—is out there jockeying for a place in our quiet existence.

The battle to determine how best to cover our men’s genitalia continues to rage.

I was at a big Valentine’s Day chat on the Midnight Seductions Authors group Saturday- http://groups.yahoo.com/group/midnightseductions -and just happened to post a pic of two truly hot guys in their underwear—one in boxers, one in briefs. The caption read: boxers or briefs?

This little pic generated some hoots and hollers, lots of playful chatter, with women lining up on one side or the other. By the end, however, we’d all decided commando was the true preference. And that should probably end this blog post right here and now. Nope. I’ve got lots to say on the subject of underwear. Stand back, give me room.

Here in the South, a lot of our guys still cling to the traditional whitie tightie—pun intended, and that’s just fine with me. I think I’d be really upset if ol’ Bubba stripped down to a thong. To each his own, of course, but there’s something oddly comforting about those bright white Fruit of the Looms. They’ve been around for quite a while, and it doesn’t look like they’re going to become obsolete any time soon. At least I hope not. Besides, on the right man, they’re not going to stay on him that long anyway. Commando is indeed where it’s at.

People have actually written about the history of underwear. Men’s and women. When I saw that, I kind of figured they’d start out with the old stand by—the fig leaf. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find a reference to it anywhere, although I did see a nice pic in a men’s muscle magazine the other day with a guy standing in front of a waterfall wearing nothing but a leaf. I kept imagining him taking a step back and the force of the water knocking that leaf right off his…

Well, the caption said it was a fig leaf, but unless it’s some variety of fig tree I’m not aware of, that leaf was way too big—which made me wonder about the fig leaf cover up in the Bible where Adam and Eve hid their nakedness behind the leaf as a result of their shame over eating the forbidden fruit. The metaphor being pejorative in nature, of course. It didn’t hide much. In other words, everyone saw their shame.

Leather loin cloths were around seven thousand years ago. Now, I know some men wear leather today, but to me that would be pretty sweaty—and not the good kind of sweaty either.

The ancient Greeks used wool to cover their manhood. Talk about chafing! I’m beginning to wonder about who invented baby powder. But that’s for another blog.

Today’s underwear can be over the top and sexy as hell. In addition to those whitie tighties, boxer briefs, and plain old boxers, men now have a choice in a range of explosive color and style. How about thongs, jockstraps, and slingshots? Mesh, please? The pic up top is a sheer mesh jockstrap. It comes in a variety of colors too.

I love the slingshot. I even used that design in my latest book, Latin Rhythm. Here’s the snippet:

Wet, black hair buffeted his shoulders. His swarthy skin glittered with water droplets in the dazzling sunlight. Ripped muscles moved up and down his torso with fluid grace. And, oh my god, barely-there fluorescent orange-and-black swim briefs left nothing to the imagination. His bulky load packed into a tight slingshot said it all.

Want to see a slingshot and some other sexy male underwear? Take a look at this site: http://cocksox.com I so love the header. Although I do have concerns about what that guy is reaching for—or is he scratching?

For a look at male underwear over the ages visit: http://manstouch.com/mensunderwear/historyofmensunderwear.html I particularly love the slide show on this site. There’s one image/painting of a man looking a bit Sir Walter Raleighesque (not sure how to spell that), and his dog is in the pic. The dog seems to have homed in on what I can only describe as a codpiece. Gives new meaning to the term ‘boner’ and looks a lot more like the dog’s lunch than anything else. I guess this look helped with advertising a man’s size too. But as a woman, I’d have questioned the authenticity of the packaging. Hell, I do that now!

Any way you cut it, men’s underwear has changed over the years. It makes me wonder if men pay attention. Well, I guess they do or there wouldn’t be a need for all the changes. But I suspect a man decides early on which style suits him best, and all the wilder variations are reserved for playtime.

I’ve got a kid who lounges around in silk South Park, X Box, Rolling Stones, and Bugs Bunny boxers. And that’s just for hanging out. He prefers the boxer briefs for actual underwear. The men in my life have mostly worn briefs. Although, a few have enjoyed the freedom of boxers. In the early nineties, there was a trend amongst young women (sixteen to twenty-five, I’d say) to wear a pair of men’s boxers on top of their jeans. Thank God that trend is over!

So what’s your SO’s preference? Is he into the form fitting briefs or those loose-fitting boxers? How about the combination boxer-brief? Have you ever purchased him a pair of naughtier-than-hell thongs? Did he look at you like you’d lost your mind or grin and put them on, following up with a sexy dance just for you?

Ya’ll will have to excuse me now. Bubba is calling.

For a look at my slingshot-wearing hot Latin hunk, pick up a copy of Latin Rhythm at Pink Petal Books. http://pinkpetalbooks.com/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=6&products_id=84

http://tessmackall.com

http://myspace.com/tessmackall

http://twitter.com/tessmackall

Yep-I’m back to my irreverent self it seems. The pity party got old, the tsk tsk from former friends got irritating and the heavy handed ex got….well…too heavy handed so I bailed. Yep. Jumped ship and did not leave a forwarding address-literally. I’m snug as a horny bug in my little one room apartment with my new queen size bed that has been thoroughly broken in…ahem….. I’ve dipped my toe into the dating pool on the internet and what a difference 20 years makes. I shouldn’t be surprised I suppose. Ipod is on it’s what… seventh generation in ten years of existence so why wouldn’t the dating game have gone thru a few changes as well. And my goodness what wonderful changes. Not only do the posters offer to show you what they have but how they intend to use it-no worries about false advertising. They also have little boxes that you check off in their profile that asks what you are looking for in another person. To my surprise and JOY the one site has a box that says “Fuck Buddy only- no emotional attachment wanted at this time”. My eyes misted over, the clouds parted, the angels sang. I plopped my fat ass down and filled in that profile-heaven was only a few keystrokes away. Accidentally gave myself five inches and aged myself 6 months in my haste to get my profile on line, but what the heck. What’s a few extra inches between two consenting adults.

And, as I was waiting for everything to be approved to be put up on the bulletin board as one of the new fish I had a few random thoughts float thru my lust filled brain. Should I go buy a pair of those false advertising 501 button fly jeans? A little window dressing couldn’t hurt. And maybe I should go get one of those waxes Blake told me about at the convention. Nothing turns a top on more than a smooth bottomed bottom…..uhm….not too sure about that one…might have to revisit it later. We do happen to have an A&F so maybe if I just ran down and took a few notes on what the brainless hotties behind the counter were wearing I might at least look the part of a lonely hottie in need of a pair of strong arms and broad shoulders. Stop shaking your head….I can pout with the best of ‘em! I can look hopelessly lost amongst all the brightly colored boxers. I can shake my head and sigh morosely when confronted with one of those new fangled hangers that won’t hold onto the pants. I can drop something forty times in fifteen minutes so I have to bend over so everyone can get a good look at my ass…..Then again they might mistake me for an A&F sales boy.

Stay tuned for Part Two of Dating in the New Millenium where I’ll go into detail about my first nooner experience.

TTFN

Aeryn

Model Anderson Dornelles

Model Katie Green

Why is my brain dead, you may ask? Well, I did just reach the end of a semester, during which time I juggled four writing-intensive courses, two full-fledged research projects for psychology, and a part time job, plus over 82,500 words of fiction.  (Two short stories, half a novella, and a novel.)  And people wonder why I don’t have time to have a girlfriend.

The semester just ended – in fact, Monday was my last exam, plus the due date on the 16+ page APA-style paper for one of the research projects – and I just wrapped up and submitted the novel today.  The others were already bought and will be out in June.

So yeah, my brain is total mush and dribbling out my ears lately.  This, however, does not stop me from attempting to bring you the dirty dregs of my mind that are still hanging around inside the abandoned cavity in my cranium.

So that novel I just finished… I’ll be sure to chat about it more when I have a release date, etc., but the point is, there’s this contrast.  There are two couples in the book–one in 1957, the other in 2007; two stories for the price of one!–and they both gave me fits.  My 1957 couple couldn’t stay out of bed.  The only way I got through one of their chapters without them ending up taking a tumble together was to separate them for the entire chapter.  If they were in arm’s reach, they were going to find a way to have sex.  My other couple?  I couldn’t pay them to have sex until the last couple of chapters.  *facepalms*

And okay, I just spent the last forty minutes getting distracted while trying to find the picture of the model-slash-artist who was the physical inspiration for one half of the modern-day couple in that novel… So for those of you who get around to reading it ever, this particular shot of Jordan Carlyle was the direct basis for my sweet, oblivious little RN, Liam Brooks.

I wonder if I should actually be giving away secrets like that… haha.  Anyway, yes.  He of the pretty brown eyes and sensitive mouth.

Oh, speaking of pretty!  Funny story from work tonight.  (In case you ever wanted to know, yes, all Starbucks baristas are incurable perverts.  At least those of us who work at my store.)  One of my coworkers – and very good friends – is dating a girl who is, let’s say, significantly on the younger side.  She’s legal.  Barely.  So she has a lot of high school friends.  Now, mind, my running joke is that I didn’t figure out I was gay until I was in college because I can’t stand high school girls.

So the gf’s friends were in the store, and one of them walked right up to my friend and said, “Hey, pretty boy.”

I may have snorted my coffee.  My other friend, an extremely handsome young man with the sort of musculature that makes me want to strip him down and take pictures — I’m lesbian, not blind — starting giggling.  And spent the rest of the evening tacking on “pretty boy” to every sentence just for the fact that it made our friend sort of violent.  The part where I couldn’t stop giggling was when there were dishes being brought back to the sink to be washed…

“Looking for some place to put that? Give it to me, pretty bo…”

And they both went sort of pale, looked at each other, and started making noises of protest while I did my damnedest to catch my breath from laughing so hard.

Ah, boys.  Endless sources of amusement.

In honor of, have a poem I wrote long time ago.  I may not want boysex for myself most of the time, but it doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy reading or writing it.

‘want’

there are corded muscles in your forearms
that i want to feel laid across the small of my back
like a warm iron bar locking me against your stomach.
your hands are broad across the palms, thick through the fingers;
rough and calloused and flexing with muscle:
i want you to thrust them into my hair and force my head back,
open my mouth with your own,
bare your teeth against my neck.

your body is long and lithe;
there would be a beauty of fumblings,
awkward ballet if you moved over me like i want,
tangled in my waking dreams.
your legs are so much longer than mine,
but i could still wrap mine around them.
your hips would still be so easily cradled
by my own,
if you only would.

i’d want you to stay the night, though,
and not leave the next morning.
i’d want you to force your fingers through mine,
hold onto me,
and stay for as long as it took for me
to learn to breathe again,
to be able to close my eyes and not watch you
as if the motion of your body fed me
and kept me alive.

©2005 m.jules