My Sexy Saturday: Something About Sexy

Sorry we're late today. Work got out of hand last night. Just as Rick's job is about to get out of hand...

Blurb:
19 Tales of Love and Darkness
Into Dark Waters ebook from Inkstained Succcubus


Your Seven Sexy Paragraphs:

Michael pulled away a little and ran a hand over him about an inch from his skin. “Your aura. You’re dead, but there are no hougan marks or loup-garous in it. What sort of revenant are you?”

Rick shrugged. “The Rick kind. I woke up on a morgue slab after I cracked up my bike back in 1981. I just sort of kept waking up after being shot or killed. Lost my last job when a scene in a kink club I was working went really bad. I wound up getting hanged. Boy, did the police freak out when I stopped them from zipping the body bag. I can’t stand those things.”

“You talk too much." Michael bit at his neck, hard enough to leave a bruise. “I’m not killing you tonight." He settled back onto the couch. “Suck me off.” Rick followed him and knelt between his feet, still naked. One large hand slid over his hair and down to trace his lips. "Your mouth was made for this." Michael's dark eyes burned and Rick felt his own cock jerk against his belly.

“Anything you want,” Rick said and swallowed his cock.

Afterward, Michael had him stay kneeling. He adjusted Rick’s posture and position with taps from his belt until he was satisfied. Rick stayed there a long time while Michael just looked. He was looking at the floor, as Michael had insisted. Then he heard a ruffle, like a pack of playing cards released into the air, and several bills fluttered to the floor around him.

“Undead whore with dead presidents." Michael walked to the door. “Pick them up, in your teeth. And crawl."


Rick went to hands and knees and picked up the first bill.


The Other Sexy People:

Let's talk about depression

Depression runs in my family. Not virulently, just a low-grade background for the women of the Tanner line.

Melvina Tanner my great-great-great grandmother died in the state asylum. She was a psychopath.

Grandma Jones, her daughter, spent a year in bed after losing two children in the same year.

Grandma O'Neill had low grade depression all her life. She coped, supported herself after being widowed and even enjoyed a late second marriage.

Grandma Wymer would have denied she was depressed, She carried on with frantic energy, cleaning, cooking, working, always busy, always on the run from silence and being alone.

My mother fought it. She didn't always win. The baseline memory of my childhood is coming home and mom was in bed. She did not work outside the home after she got pregnant with my sister in 73, until 1983, when she went back to nursing.

I fight it.
Some days I cope. I adult. I go to work, I handle the house. Some days I accomplish much, above and beyond the basics. Some days, I sit in the recliner with kittens atop me and crochet my way through too many episodes of the TV show du jour. Some days I lie in bed and stare at the walls. Sometimes I can harness the depression and write books.

But always, the depression lies to me. Always, it tells me I can't. Always, it and chronic pain steal my energy, my enthusiasm. The only question is, how hard am I fighting today? How loud is it? Sometimes the lies are whispers and the pain is low. On these days I accomplish much. Sometimes it shouts and the pain is high. On these days, we eat too many hot pockets.

I make things.

 

 

Beautiful things come off my hooks and needles, and yet, all I hear in my head is jokes about the ugly homemade sweaters and mental words about how old-fashioned and tacky crochet is. Because I can make the afghan, but I can't do the painting. (My grandmother did the painting in the photo) I can't draw. I can't sing. How can I consider myself artistic?

The depression lies. I know it lies. And yet, it is so pervasive, such a mental background noise, that I have to be alert to it every minute or it gets me.



My daughters fight it.
Oli wears a semi-colon tattoo to remind her that she needs to keep going. She battles chronic pain and sometimes it all gets the better of her.
I got her this for the bad days:

Yeah, it's a celebrity based t-shirt (the guys from Supernatural).
Knowing that other people have this--even famous people-- and that she isn't alone seems to help more than anything.



Remember, if you have it, if you love someone who has it, we're listening to a voice that lies to us constantly. A voice that tells us we're second rate, useless, worthless. And some days, we can't hear you loving us over it. And we don't love ourselves. How can we? If you knew what we were, you wouldn't love us either, the depression tells us.

So we fight. And the volume changes day by day, minute by minute. Sometimes, we can change this ourselves. Sometimes we find our Guide who helps us learn to dial it down. (Yes, "Sentinel" reference) But we keep going, minute by minute sometime.

I don't know if it ever ends. I don't know if I'll ever get better, But I do know, I want to see if it does.

My Sexy Saturday: All About the Sexy

This week, a bit from "Blood Roses" in Hungry Hearts

Hungry Hearts Ebook from Inkstained Succcubus

Your Seven Sexy Paragraphs:

“My mother's roses. My father did the same when he proposed to her, years ago. I started the cuttings when I knew I wanted to marry you. I've planted five of them, for five is a magical number,” he told her. “Solomon's Seal of Truth had five points. It has the five senses. It has the four limbs and the heart, for what is conceived in the heart is done by the hands and feet. It is the five wounds of our Blessed Savior. It means I love you.” He pricked his index finger on the first bush and let five drops of blood fall on the disturbed earth at its base. “I will be true to you.” He pricked his middle finger and let five more fall at the base of the second bush. “I will be chaste for you.” His ring finger bled for the third. “I will remember you.” His smallest finger put its five drops at the base of the fourth. He held up his thumb. “I will return to you.” That bled on the earth of the fifth rosebush.

Lilah watched, her hands pressed to her mouth, feeling faint at the sight of her fiancé’s bloody fingers. She pulled out her kerchief, took his hand, covered in dirt from the planting and blood from the vows, and wiped it clean.

“When they bloom, I am on my way home to you and we shall be wed, dearest,” Michael said.

Lilah smiled. “That will be lovely. I'll carry them in my wedding bouquet.”

Michael held up his unhurt hand, one finger raised. “But, love, if they wither and die, despite the best of your care, the vows I have made are broken. I will be dead or unable to return to you.”

Lilah covered his lips with her own two fingers. “Hush. That's bad luck. Say a prayer quickly that it will pass you by.” She mumbled under her breath, begging God to not have heard Michael's words. Part of her considered the words silly superstition, a relic of the middle ages, in this day of railroads and telegraphs.

His voyage would be dangerous and there was every chance he might not return. She wanted him back. She wanted to hear his voice in the night, telling her all was well, to see his dark eyes look back from the face of her son, or brush out his fair curls on her daughter's head, before tying a ribbon around them


The Other Sexy People:

Let's talk about Post Apocalypse

I got asked, "Can't you envision a post apocalypse that doesn't turn into a rape-ridden hellhole? Are you so limited that you can't believe men and women might work together to survive?"

I looked at my questioner. "Serbia. Rwanda. Pitcairn Island. The Beta Boys. MRAs. And every shooter who did it because 'he didn't have a girlfriend.' I believe some men and women will work together. I believe more men will revert to might makes right and start noticing they have 5 inches of height, 30% more upper body strength and a lot more aggression."

And they thought I was the sad one.

Another week, another campus shooting by a man who was upset that women would not acquiesce sexually as he thought they should. (Shakesville has a good article listing these) More attacks on women's bodily autonomy and health care from terrorists on the street and from our lawmakers.

All I have to do is look and I see a lot of men who don't think women are people, but rather objects for their comfort.

An apocalypse won't change this.

If anything, it will reinforce it.

In Stephen King's The Stand, the character of Fran comes to realize she is not protected by laws and society any more. The only thing standing between her pregnant self and the depredations of the lawless is her own gun and possibly a man of good will. "Women got pregnant and a pregnant woman was a vulnerable human being."

So yes, when I write post-apocalypses, there are going to be horrible people. There are going to be people who set up groups designed to oppress other people. Unless the group has strong female leaders, it will revert right back to male dominance and possibly chattel within a generation or two.

There's a scene in Brian Keene's Dead Sea, where the survivors on a boat are discussing how to negotiate with an oil rig crew. One suggests offering the women as trade goods. A couple agree with him but the captain shuts that down fast.

If one person is thinking like that within less than a month of civilization being gone, more will follow the longer the crisis goes on.

Even in my own post-apoc, the circuit-riding bikers sell women between settlements and get a higher price for pregnant ones.  In my zombie apoc, the lady trucker mentions some places are using women as currency.

And because I follow the news and reality and I see the pushback and hate, THAT'S why I write post-apocs as horrible places. Even without the zombies.

Halloween 2015: Lovers and Other Monsters.

Today's post is LOOOOOOONG

It has the music and pictures, but also an excerpt from "Persephone is bleeding" and the full text of "Alonzo the Brave and Fair Imogene."

So, the video and a link.

Lovers and Other Monsters

Halloween 2015: Kitchen Witch Wednesday

Sounds of the season:


Recipe:


I like to drizzle this with white candy coating.

Creepy Pics of the Day:



Hosted by Midnight Margaritas.