Tuesday, December 27, 2011

Review: Dark Citadel


Dark Citadel
Dark Citadel by Cherise Sinclair

My rating: 5 of 5 stars



This book was as great as the first...It's a strong series that I would recommend to everyone even if BDSM isn't your cup of tea. The female lead is awesome. She’s a woman you can relate to and the male lead is a man you can drool after. READ THIS SERIES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!



View all my reviews

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

Punk Rox Warrior contest winners!

Congratulations to the winners of the Beth Wylde's yahoo group contest have been picked! Yes I said winners...2 to be exact...originally the contest was only for one book...BUT I love giving free crap to the crowd! So the winners are below. Just email me at rachelcron@rocketmail.com to recieve your copy of my latest release 'Punk Rox Warrior' winners will have the choice of efile or paperback. The paperback will be autographed and will be recieved in 4-6 weeks.

Patricia Wheeler
Peggy Adams

Sunday, December 11, 2011

Join me and a gaggle of amazing authors for chats, giveaways and some general mayhem
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/bethwylde/

I'm giving away a copy of my book 'Punk Rox Warrior' efile or paperback your choice

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

OK...CONTEST!!!!!
I need a name for a biker gang! I haven't figured out the prise yet...BUT! If you send me one that I use in an upcoming book I will make sure it's worth your imagination!

Saturday, November 26, 2011

Review: The Mating


The Mating
The Mating by Nicky Charles

My rating: 5 of 5 stars



I loved this book. An arangged marriage was never this intriging! The twists and turns will keep you guessing and the steamy sex will keep you drooling!



View all my reviews

Friday, November 25, 2011

WHEN YOU LOOK INTO YOUR EYES, WHAT DO YOU SEE?


The log line for my latest release, Her Eyes is “When you look into her eyes, who do you see?” It comes from the old adage that the eyes are the windows to the soul and it is a piece of the essence of Her Eyes.
Her Eyes came about after a friend and I heard about the original face transplant surgery done several years ago in France. I’ve long been interested in reincarnation and past lives, walk-ins fascinate me as does some of the stories around transplants. I think most people know what reincarnation is and we hold our own beliefs about it. The idea of coming back and resolving issues from this life is interesting.
Walk-ins are an interesting metaphysical concept that first came to my attention through Doreen Virtue. A walk-in occurs when someone is working on their life lesson and finds that it is more than they can handle in this lifetime. They make an agreement on a soul level with another spirit to, in essence, trade places. The other soul finishes out the life issues of the first one.
Organ donation is, to me, one of the most powerful gifts we can give. Sadly it is usually one we give when we’ve passed on yet it is, a gift that will keep on giving. There is anecdotal material on the metaphysical aspects of organ donation—that a part of the donor, bits of characteristics, are passed on to the donee. I don’t know if it is true or not but when I had a ligament replaced in my hand this summer I didn’t want to know where it came from. I later found out that we have a tendon in our wrist we really don’t need and that it’s often used to replace the damaged one—I was my own donor. In light of the premise of Her Eyes all I can say is “whew”.
I also believe in soul mates and that sometimes we have a second chance at love. A few years ago I reconnected with my high school boyfriend and he recently asked me did I ever think about what would happen if we had been married—or if we did now. Would we take that second chance if we had it?
When I heard of the face transplant my mind was off and running with what ifs? The concepts of reincarnation, walk-ins and cell memory of organ donation ran through my mind. Added to that was my high school boyfriend asking about giving ourselves a second chance at love. It seemed to me there were almost endless possibilities and Her Eyes evolved.
Would you take a second chance at love?
What if that one great love, your soul mate, died—and returned to you in some other form. Could you believe it? Would you believe it?
When you look into the one you love’s eyes, who do you see?

Friday, November 11, 2011

Review: Edie Earns Her Saddle


Edie Earns Her Saddle
Edie Earns Her Saddle by Ava Mitchell

My rating: 5 of 5 stars



I LOVE this book! Anyone who wants a hot menage fantasy should read it! The story of a good, hard working free spirit Edie meeting two hard working even harder playing hot as hell ranchers! Let the games begin!



View all my reviews

Sunday, November 6, 2011

Natalie Acres Blog Tour Stop/Contests, Prizes

Thanks to Natalie for stopping in on her first ever blog tour. Stop by, comment and at the end of the blog tour on November 7th, you could win some nifty prizes.




Cowboy Boots and Unsettled Debt
Cowboy Boots Series, Book 3
Natalie Acres
Siren Publishing
Contemporary, Western,. Menage and more (M/F/M/M/M/M)

Seduction turns deadly when Abby Rose, an agent with the Underground Unit, decides to put a provocative spin on revenge. Her plan to sleep with a cartel leader backfires when fellow operatives refuse to let Abby face her enemy alone.

Abby’s fellow agents begin the fight of their lives. After discovering Abby will use her body to lure in the man who killed her father and their command leader, seven highly trained special operatives cope with high tensions as each man comes to terms with feelings they never acknowledged.
This team isn’t fighting for another cause or plotting the best way to take out their mark. The stakes are much higher. These men will take up arms and meet their greatest challenge as they work together to protect the woman they admire and love.



ADULTS ONLY EXCERPT:
Abby looked freshly fucked. That’s the only way Ace knew how to describe her. She had a soft glow to her cheeks when she stepped away from the car. Her round nipples were hard, pressing through her thin light blue shirt, and those plaid shorts looked crumpled. Some heavy petting must’ve occurred in the backseat of that SUV.
“Hey you,” Ace said, forcing a smile. “I’m glad to see you’re in one piece.”
“I’m fine, Ace,” she assured him, glancing over her shoulder.
Judson slid out of the vehicle. Ace took a ragged breath. He wasn’t worried about Judson. He wasn’t the competition. He’d held Abby’s heart in the palm of his hand for a very short time.
Ace had been with her for the last five years.
Judson stuck out his hand, “Nice to see you, Ace.”
The others politely greeted Judson as well. By the time Kit stepped away from the automobile, everyone stood on the driver’s side of the Suburban. Kit and Brantley exchanged words, and everyone was introduced. Ace and Brantley were the only two operatives who’d worked with Kit in the past. Their time together was brief.
Thank God.
“Ace,” Kit said, narrowing his gaze. “You look stressed. How’s it going?”
“I’m super, you?” He stuck out his hand and shook. Damn, that hurt. He immediately wondered where the guy’s hands had been.
“Never better,” he replied, winking at Abby.
Ace stalked across the garage and stormed inside. Behind him, Brantley said, “We’ll discuss our plans once everyone gets settled in. Stop off at the refrigerator and grab you something to drink. We have plenty of snacks in the pantry. Meet upstairs in the control room in fifteen.”
Ace entered the kitchen. Abby was right behind him. No time like the present to get a few things out of the way.
She hit the last step. He grabbed her arm. Casey saw everything.
Right as Ace dragged her into the utility room, Casey said, “I got this, Ace. You can owe me later.”
There was a brass latch at the top of the door, Ace used it. He slid the lever in place, turned around, and faced his fears. Time to play, and way past time to sate the need and satisfy the longing. Although he feared after he fucked her, things would only get worse.
“I’m in love with you.”
“What?” she asked, acting surprised.
“Don’t pretend you didn’t see this coming,” Ace said, stalking her. “Don’t act as if you don’t know there’s something between us.” He loosened his belt, snapped it as he pulled the leather away from the denim. Shirtless after working in the hayfields all afternoon, he noticed how her gaze worked across his dusty, hay-coated abs.
“I’m hot. I’m sweaty. I’ve been farming all day.” He reached behind her and turned on the shower nozzle. A matter of convenience more than anything else, the mudroom housed a washer, dryer, toilet, sink, and small shower stall. “And I need to clean up.”
She placed her hand over her mouth and hid a smile.
“Considering I don’t know where you’ve been or who you’ve let touch you, I think a bath is in order for you, too.”
“Ace this is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard of,” Abby said. “You’re what? Jealous of Kit and now you’re ready to fuck me?”
“You’re half right,” he replied, grabbing her by the hand and pulling her against him. “I’m not jealous, but I am gonna fuck you. Right here. Right now. I don’t care if someone interrupts us or not.”
“Ace, no,” she said, shaking her head.
“Why? Because you don’t want to hurt him?”
She thinned her lips.
“Do you love him?”
Her eyes watered.
“You do,” he said, processing.
“I always will,” she informed him.
Ace felt his jaw tighten. He felt like a blasted fool now. Maybe he should’ve asked her about her feelings for Kit before he dragged her off to the shower.
“And I’ve known for a long time I’m in love with you, too.”
He felt his jaw relax. “Of course you are.” He hoped like hell he didn’t sound pussy whipped. “Yeah, you are.” The second time sounded more confident.
“You should believe that,” she whispered as she stood on her tiptoes and took their first kiss. Her wicked tongue jabbed through his sealed lips. They parted and welcomed the invasion, the overdue moment that would prove they somehow weathered the storm.

Copyright © 2011

Saturday, November 5, 2011

Review: All I Want for Christmas Is a Vampire


All I Want for Christmas Is a Vampire
All I Want for Christmas Is a Vampire by Kerrelyn Sparks

My rating: 5 of 5 stars



True to her form Kerrelyn Sparks does it again. You cannot miss this book!



View all my reviews

Review: How to Marry a Millionaire Vampire


How to Marry a Millionaire Vampire
How to Marry a Millionaire Vampire by Kerrelyn Sparks

My rating: 5 of 5 stars



This book was awesome! Kerrelyn Sparks creates the most perfect of worlds within our modern day relm. Funny, sexy, charming...You will laugh out loud and root for the hero and heroin in this story of modern day love. Even if your 'not into vampires' I recommend this book it's a great read you will not soon forget.



View all my reviews

Thursday, October 27, 2011

Book signing: Meet and greet with author Rachel Cron




I'm so excited to be at Barnes and Noble here in Fort Myers for the local authors meet and greet on October 29th. Come on out and meet some great writers and check out their amazing books

Barnes & Noble
13751 S. Tamiami Trail
Fort Myers, Florida 33912

Saturday, October 29 · 1:00pm - 3:00pm

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

Blogging live with four strong women Oct. 19th


Come on over and join me and four strong women. I will be live all day with these awesome ladies promoting my book 'Punk Rox Warrior' and talking about upcoming goodies.
http://fourstrongwomen.blogspot.com/

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

My interview with http://blrawiyaerotica.blogspot.com/2011/09/welcome-rachael-kron.html?zx=9db5bbb725a37da3


Tuesday, September 27, 2011Welcome Rachel Cron
Good morning!

Please welcome Rachel Cron with today's interview!



How long have you been writing?
A: All my life. I have always written poems and songs. I started writing novels about three years ago.
When did you decide that writing erotic fiction was for you?
A: When I finished writing my first erotic novel. I have never even read a romance genre book, but now I’m hooked on both counts.
Are you comfortable with writing the sex scenes?
A: Comfortable, yes, although I do have a lot of anxiety in writing sex scenes because I want to get them just right.
Is there anything that inspires you to do these? Other books, porn…*laughs*
A: I love to read all kinds of books and to be honest, I have been with my husband for well over a decade and adult entertainment keeps the spice in our marriage. Every once in a while I will come across something and think, Hey that could be cool. I think my characters would do something like that, except without the trampoline. LOL! But my story ideas come from my very cluttered mind. My mind is always spinning and churning over scenarios and characters and situations. If I didn’t write them don’t I may hurt myself.
Who is your biggest supporter of your career?
A: My biggest supporter is definitely my husband and oldest daughter. We are a close nit family. They have always had my back, no matter what I decided to do.
What do you feel about erotica suddenly becoming more mainstream? Harlequin has a line and now, Avon will have a line of erotica romance books as well.
A: I think it’s about time. We all have fantasies and a sexual side. I never understood why society deems it so taboo. We are very open about things like that in our home. No subject is off limits, we make it clear that our children can ask us any question they like. My husband and I have open communication; we feel it keeps our family so close.
As an author, do you feel it’s important to be part of the national writer organizations like RWA?
A: Most definitely. I think it’s important for writers to stick together.
What frustrates you most about being a published author?
A: Nothing, it comes in third as the coolest thing I have ever been, right behind being a mother and wife.
What genre would you like to do that you haven’t tackled yet?
A: Vampires. I have some anxiety about writing about vampires. It seems everything has already been done and I would die if I stepped on anyone’s toes.
Recently, an author went after a blogger for a two star review. How would you have handled that and what is your stance on authors answering their critiques.
A: I would not have replied. People have their own opinions and they are entitled to them. There are a plethora of books that I don’t like…that’s not going to change. It’s not anything against the author’s; I just didn’t like the book. I would have read the review and learned from the criticism. Would it be hard? Oh, yeah. You need a tough skin in this business. People are not shy on either side of the fence. If they love it, you will know. If they hate it, you will know sooner. You have to take it with a grain of salt. I belong to a book club and we debate books all the time. I’ll love one and another will hate it. So goes the world of books. You just have to move on and keep on, keepin’ on.
Tell us a little about your latest projects and what books you have coming out next.
A: I’m working on the second and third books in my Warrior series. As many people know I am new to the writing world and am still building my fan base. The stories I’m working on are Riley’s and Able. Hopefully I will do them justice in the end. I love them so much; I’d hate to let them down…LOL!
What advice do you have for writers to be or those new to the industry?
A: don’t get discouraged and believe in yourself. Someone will want to read your stories.
Where can we find you?
http://www.facebook.com/rachel.cron1
http://rachelcronauthor.blogspot.com/
rachelcron@rocketmail.com


Fun Questions
Boxers or Briefs?
A: Boxer-briefs…so sexy!
What celebrity man do you wish you could have but can’t?
A: Oh, so many. It is definitely a three way tie between Nicholas Cage, John Cusack and Greg Graffin.
A perfect date with Karaoke and tacos on the hood of a car. ;) (That was my husband and mine first date.)
Give me an erotic scene off the top of your head in 5 sentences or less.
A: Slowly, she relaxed as a warm heat slowly waved over her body. Her thighs fell open, and her pussy slowly relaxed as he stretched her ass with his thumb. Unconsciously, her hips rocked back and forth as she fucked him back. She could feel her juices drip down to where he penetrated her nether hole as his tongue pushed her higher.


The character in one of your books that you identify with?
A: Rainne Stanton: She is me

Saturday, October 8, 2011

Guest blogger for four strong women on October 19th

On October 19th I will have the honor of guest blogging

http://fourstrongwomen.blogspot.com/

Come on over and take a peek into my mind...C u there

Sunday, October 2, 2011

Where has all the tolerance gone?


I’m not a television watcher, my family enjoys it, I prefer to read, write or cruise the internet. On my internet perusal’s I have found that as much as society screams about tolerance, it’s getting harder to find. I understand that people have opinions and certain ways that they would like to live and raise their children, but they seem to forget that theirs is not the only opinion out there. They can’t seem to understand that if everyone felt the same way we would live in a very boring world.
If I’m offended by something than it is my problem. What happened to just not buying wares from a company that went against your morals or turning the television channel is you didn’t like the show? I’d vote for turning the television off all together.
We have total transparency in our household. We do not lie to our children. Sure they think Santa brings those presents at Christmas and that the Easter bunny decorates our yard for a fun filled hunt on Easter morning. We consider those ‘things that make childhood fun’. When it comes to more important issues such as sex and drugs, we have total transparency. Explaining it in ways that are age appropriate and promote open discussions, I feel it’s important for my children to be educated about the facts and not afraid or judgmental of people or lifestyles that are different, or god forbid believe what their friends or other kids tell them. Our children are bombarded with things every day; I’m just thrilled that they come to my husband and me for clarity.
Our society is so diverse that we have to think for ourselves and there are always going to be people out there that are different than you. As long as they are not hurting anyone I don’t feel that’s it’s any of my business. I just remember the golden rule: Judging a person doesn’t define who they are, but it does define who you are.

Sunday, September 11, 2011

There are two types of crazy people in the world,


People ask me all the time, “How did you start writing books?” I tell them because I became crazy. I believe that many people never ask what they truly want to know. Those that ask me, I think what they really want to know is, why do I write.
Well, the reasons people write are as different as the individuals themselves. Some write for fame, some for money. Others write because they had an experience of some sort and they want to share it with the world, either because they think it’s important or fun to share.
Me? I write because my brain never turns off. It’s constantly turning and churning. I’m always imagining weird or wonderful things and then how I would react to said thing. Being that my favorite topic to write about romance, you can only imagine the interesting things that float through my head. I have noticed that this is a common trait with romance authors. As people grow into adulthood and mature they lose the imagination that sustained them as children. We’re taught in school that daydreaming is fruitless and it’s frowned upon. Not us romance writers, we’re keeping the imagination business alive and well.
I watch today’s children play with toys and video games and it saddens me to see the lack of imagination needed to play with those toys. Creativity seems to be falling to the waist side in some cases and I have to say that I’m not a fan. I am often caught daydreaming or scratching a little story on a napkin and people seem to not understand what or why I’m doing it. I always get the standard, “Are you ok? You seem distant?” Why? Daydreamers are incredibly patient people, never in a hurry. So take a little time today to just sit and let your mind wander into a world you create for yourself. If your imagination is a little rusty, than grab a book. We don’t mind at all if you want to come in and sit awhile, enjoy the worlds that we created, after all we created them to share with everyone.

Sunday, August 14, 2011

To Be Read Piles and insanity truly do go hand in hand!




So I'm staring at my TBR pile yesterday as I place 3 more books upon it. As I do this I realize I truly am insane! My TBR pile is already tipping the scales at 200+ books...yet I buy more?! YES! I DO! I never know when I'm going to find something that peeks my interest. It changes from day to day. One day I will crave a vampire story, the next cowboys...The next a mixture of both.
I have noticed that many do not understand. I realize that humans are creatures of habit...NOT I! I love to flit from one thing to the next without any disconcerning pattern to my madness and that's ok. Here are just a few pictures of my TBR shelves...What r ya'll reading?

Tuesday, August 9, 2011

Devon Falls 1: Sticky Magic by Raine Delight


Secret Cravings Publishing
Released Aug. 1st, 2011
Paranormal Contemporary/3 Flames
Buy at: http://secretcravingspublishing.mybigcommerce.com/sticky-magic-devon-falls-1/

*Please note that this was a previously released story & has been extensively rewritten and expanded for Secret Cravings Publishing along with a new cover.*

A chance meeting at a sweet shop...Can it be love?
Jenna Stevens wasn’t looking for love nor did she believe it would walk into her life one holiday season. Marc du Bree needs to find his destined mate so he can take over the family duties from his father. Meeting Jenna, Marc finds the connection he has been searching for. Can he convince this gun shy woman that his love is indeed true?

Adult Excerpt:

Groaning, Marc couldn‟t believe the erotic picture he saw with Jenna sliding her hands up around his cock. Closing his eyes in the ecstasy of her touch and talented tongue had him almost coming right then and there if not for sheer will power on his behalf.
“Please, sweetheart, enough, or I am going to come all over myself.” Marc huskily said as he pulled her up along himself.
Jenna leaned down and kissed him sweetly as she sat up and positioned herself over his straining cock. She tenderly slid down inch by inch, and his hardness was welcomed in the velvet wetness of her pussy, gripping him in anticipation only he could deliver. Groaning, Marc restrained himself from slamming into her as his eyes started to light up again.
Soon, he was encased in Jenna‟s pussy and as she began to get her rhythm, Marc teased her nipples with light tugging and teasing, forcing a husky, desire-laden groan from her. “Let it go, mia cara. Let me feel you come over my cock.” Marc said as he heard, then felt, her orgasm scream through her. Feeling her pussy walls tighten and grip his cock had Marc thrusting faster
until he moaned with desire as his orgasm literally overflowed Jenna‟s pussy.
Panting softly, Jenna slumped over his body, exhausted and still trembling from the effects of their joining. She turned her head and kissed Marc‟s shoulder as she tumbled into sleep.
“Ahhh, cara mia, you delight me.” Marc said as he ran a hand from the nape of her neck to her hip. Making sure she was comfortable, he tumbled off to sleep as well, content in knowing she was right there beside him forever.

Her Links:
http://authorrainedelight.com
Raine’s Blog: http://authorrainedelight.wordpress.com
Author/Reader Loop: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Author_Raine_Delight
Email me: rainedelight@yahoo.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/AuthorRaine-Delight
Secret Cravings Publishing: www.secretcravingspublishing.com


Monday, August 8, 2011

Born to Sing 2: Scheming and Dreaming in Los Angeles


Born to Sing 2: Scheming and Dreaming in Los Angeles
Donna Del Oro
Devine Destinies
Contemporary Romance
By at: http://www.extasybooks.com/index.php?route=product/product&product_id=3286

The second book in the series about professional singers.

Tess MacIntosh is 29, a professional R&B singer in a nightclub in Los Angeles, owned by her fifty-something fiance, Porter Hunt. She's as cynical and as hardnosed as Porter, due to her own difficult childhood, and is marrying Porter for his money and connections. Porter, in turn, is one of those middle-aged men whose wealth and power in his little world make him feel invincible and entitled to any beautiful woman he wants. Tess's good friend and once teenage crush, Aaron Peterson, a musician and composer with dreams of seeing one of his musical plays on Broadway, needs her to join him for a cruise gig. He's loved Tess since he was nineteen and she was sixteen. He sees this cruise gig as his last chance to win her over before she takes a path in life that he's convinced will lead to misery. So which path will Tess choose? Millions of dollars if she marries Porter? Or Aaron's love and Broadway dreams?



Excerpt:

“But you asked me to go on this cruise anyway? Knowing how Porter felt—how jealous he was?”

“Stupid, huh? I needed a singer and I wanted you. So sue me.” The silence that fell between them fairly crackled with what was left unspoken.

Then the unspoken spilled over. “I love you, Aaron, and I need you in my life if I’m going to…well, go ahead with this marriage. Y’know, tolerate it.”

His arms around her slackened and he leaned back, away from her. As though physical contact with her was too painful. “You love me, huh? You don’t, Tess, not really. You’re so hung up on money, you can’t see straight. You think it’s going to give you everything you didn’t have as a child. You don’t know what you want or how you feel about anything.”

Her insides ached with anguish, the hollow feeling gnawing at her. Aaron was right. She thought money was going to make up for her deprived childhood. But what about emotional deprivation? How could she live without love? Real love?

“I don’t know… Maybe I need money more than anything else. I don’t know…”

“Now, that’s honesty, Tess. Your offer—us? Friends with benefits thing?” He snorted softly into her hair. “God, I can’t believe I’m saying this but here goes. I’m turning you down. You see, Tess, the great thing about a fantasy is the possibility it might some day come true. You’ve been my fantasy girl for a long, long time. I’m so tempted, you have no idea.” He almost growled those last words. “No, where you’re concerned, sweetheart, it’s all or nothing. All or nothing. Take it or leave it.”

Tess closed her eyes and felt the tears seep out of the corners and trickle down her cheeks. Leave it to Aaron to always dream the impossible. Always uncompromising. He’d have sex with a girl who meant nothing to him but her, Tess, practically begging him? Un-freakin’-compromising.

She sniffed back the tears. “All or nothing? Take it or leave it? You call me hard? You’re the hardhearted one.”

“No, baby-doll. It’s all my soft heart can take. I won’t have you stomping on it. Not again. The last time, it took me years to recover.” He kissed her cheek, then wiped her tears away with his thumb.

“Me, stomping on your heart? You left me and went away to school. I moved on. I had to show you that I could make something of myself, too. I had to prove myself, that I wasn’t like my parents. That I wasn’t some cokehead’s pathetic slut of a daughter. I know your family saw me that way. That’s why Mac broke us up. He knew how your family felt and he didn’t want to lose you or them. He worshipped all of you.”

“No, baby, you’ve got it all wrong. They felt—Mac, too—we were too young. You wouldn’t write to me in college and when I came back, you had a boyfriend and-and this show business crowd of friends. My parents, Mac—we were all proud of you and what you’d accomplished. All on your own, too, which is amazing. But you kept me at arm’s length.”

Her tears flowed and her throat burned raw, but she couldn’t help it. Aaron’s validation of her filled her bank of emotions. What he said was basically true. She’d kept him at bay with a parade of boyfriends. Why? To pay him back for leaving her? Both he and Mac left her alone. She shuddered as his fingers wiped and caressed her cheeks.

“For a long time, I hated you. You and Mac. I loved you both so much and you both left me.“

“We had to, Tess. We had to leave to grow up. C’mon, baby. We’re exhausted, in a damned strange mood,” he said, a catch in his voice, “let’s call it a night.”





Wednesday, August 3, 2011

His Virtual Diva Virtual Seductions Series by Dee Brice



The next tale in the Virtual Seduction Series is here TODAY...come meet the woman who steals the heart of a man....can her deception tear them apart?

Aloof composer-conductor Lamont Johansson (LJ) knows he’s grasping at straws trying to introduce opera to the Andromeda System. He’s certainly taking enormous financial risks. When the brilliant, erratic diva Daphne Basini arrives on Al Sufi—two weeks late—he finds he’s attracted to her and is amazed that her voice is the voice he’s been searching for all his life. Suddenly there is more at stake than a successful opera season. He’s risking his heart as well.

Deanna Basini’s arrival on Al Sufi is not at all what she expected. She’s supposed to hook up with her sister, Daphne, but Daphne has decamped again without notifying the opera company that hired her. And again, Deanna is forced to masquerade as her more famous, impetuous and sexually adventurous sister in order to save Daphne’s flagging career. Deanna’s resentment fades under LJ’s critical demands and encouragement. She finds her desire for him intensifying alongside the guilt she feels for deceiving him.

Daphne hasn’t been delayed by normal circumstances. Venus has taken over her body and is leading her through a whirlwind of sensual pleasures. When Daphne gains the upper hand and finally arrives on Al Sufi, she discovers she might not rescue her career, but with Venus’ help, she might push LJ and Deanna together.

Their passion for music brings Deanna and LJ together. Will deception drive them apart?


Sneak Peek Adult Excerpt

The first gentle brush of his lips sent melodies drifting through Deanna’s mind. Soon words followed. A kiss is just a kiss. But his were so much more. She could float forever in his kinds of kisses. So gentle. So playful. So…so very…
A sigh is just a sigh.
His sigh breathed need into her mouth. Hers soughed agreement as he turned her to face him. Her knees straddled his hips. Her mons pressed to his cock as they rubbed, eliciting sighs that grew more and more ragged. Yet he never changed the tempo. Even his tongue caressing hers maintained a sweetness she cherished. Persuasion…oh, yes. So much nicer than plundering. So much more in tune with his hands gliding under her sweatshirt. His fingertips plucked her furled nipples like a harpist playing slowly, building chords that tightened her entire body. She pulled off her sweatshirt, exposing her topless chest. She’d hoped for this, planned to make it easy to get naked.
“Your breasts…” As if unable to say another word, he cupped them both, then lapped each rigid nub. Flames arced between her nipples and her empty pussy. Her swollen clit throbbed, aching for his touch. Beyond conscious control, her hips rose and fell, settling when he unzipped his shorts and then freed his cock. With wiggles and grunts, they worked his shorts to his knees, sighing into each other’s mouth.
Against her lips he murmured, “Push your breasts together.”
She did, gasping as his tongue flicked each nipple in rapid succession. His clever fingers settled on her hips, but she could feel him toying with the narrow straps on her thong. His simultaneous continuing attention to her nipples made her laugh sound more like a moan. Multitasking was clearly in his lovemaking skill set.
“Do these clasps work?” he asked before sucking one peak into his mouth. Using his tongue, teeth and lips, he drove her speechless.
“Y-yesss,” she managed, arching her back as he transferred his attention to her other breast. She thought he said good, but was too intent on what his hands were doing to care.
She felt the clasps give, the slide of silk between her slick folds as he pulled off her thong, the heat of his body as he laid them both on the blanket. Panting, she wiggled her hips and, finally, had his cock almost where she wanted it.
“Not yet,” he murmured, bracing on his elbows. His silver gaze inched over her face as if memorizing every feature. His fingers followed with feathery touches along her brows, eyelids and nose. They tickled yet made her feel so cherished she sighed. Bypassing her lips, he traced her jaw and chin, the hollow in her throat, the shell of one ear. Every touch aroused her, yet left her boneless.
Sensing his unwillingness to hurry, she duplicated his patterns over his face. His bushy eyebrows felt silkier than they looked. The stubble on his cheeks and chin rasped in her palm, making her imagine whisker burns on her own face. Yet she hadn’t felt any scrapes because his kisses were so gentle. A bump in his nose had her kissing it as if it were a break she could heal with her lips.

Dee welcomes comments from readers. deebrice@sbcglobal.net
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Monday, July 25, 2011

Early Home Studies in Sexuality: My Masturbatory Evolution

When I say “home studies,” I am referring to the (hopefully) vast archive of sexual knowledge, artifacts, and literature that any man has available both in his mind, and at his fingertips, literally, at any given moment.

In my case, I had been working on mine since about the age of eight, after I accidentally gave myself an orgasm in the bathtub. Whatever it was, I thought, the important thing was to figure out how to make more of them, and as regularly as possible. Many great discoveries are accidental, and this one was clearly a find. At almost the same time, I found out that if you took certain books out of the library about, say, Ancient Greece, you could find many interesting illustrations. My core sexual identity was well-formed before anyone else had a chance to influence it, and for that I remain grateful.

As I grew up, I found more things of interest, and in the oddest places. Like many kids, I fancied myself a scientist, and was always engaged in a number of areas of inquiry, and experimentation. I discovered that my parents had a “back massager” able to bear attachments for purposes clearly unrelated to backs, and, after general test runs, this became one of my Great Tools—a tool that would serve me faithfully for a number of years. The first time I hit the power button, a powerful surge shot up my hand, and then through every inch of by body, if not my soul.

For many, many decades preceding, say, the seventies, vibrators were marketed as therapeutic devices, devices used for common ailments like sore muscles, and scalp massage. Surely, there were many who purchased them just for that, unaware of the earth-shattering, Promethean nature of such inventions. Behold, although this is a slightly later model: Vintage Wahl Vibrator

Mind you, I had virtually no knowledge of how intercourse actually worked between people, but now I was now deeply aware of how arousal operated, and that was better, far better, than where I had been before. In the case of the back massager, a sort of madness overcame me ( after all, the thing had a very strong motor, unlike many modern products)—I couldn’t get enough of it! It turned into a mandatory ritual, to be performed as soon as I got home from school.

One dark day, this rite was interrupted by my mother, who opened my bedroom door to see me there, 10 years old, working out with the power tools. This is now even more disturbing to me in retrospect, because I know I was wearing my Cub Scout uniform, pants pulled down, legs all akimbo. I think I had not even bothered to remove the hat. To her credit, she gave me a rather nervous talk about how sex is natural, etc. (I really do not remember the rest of it, being shocked at her presence), but that I should really lay off the vibrator. When my father came home, I witnessed some sort of meeting between them, but dad never said a word to me about it, although from that day and a good while after he gave me some very odd, maybe slightly disgusted looks.

I considered this all a save, until I discovered that my mother thought the encounter a “cute” enough anecdote to share at a great number of dinners and cocktail parties, often in my presence: “Oh, you should have seen his cute little thing, standing straight up!” She continued to plague me socially with this until I was 24—in other words, until her death. My mother was open, natural, and honest, but to my mind also lacking in discretion.

There were few dry spells as far as my research went, as it was relentless. At age ten (thanks to a trip to Barnegat Bay I took with family friends),I found a treasure trove of 1960’s Playboy magazines, including the Jane Mansfield issue—I left for home from that vacation with regret in my heart, thinking of that trunk sitting in the cottage attic.

But there were always sources, if you looked carefully—the backs of detective magazines, lingerie catalogs, whatever you could run into. At one point my mother gave me copies of two books: “Everything You Always Wanted to Know about Sex but Were Afraid to Ask,” and Philip Roth’s “Portnoy’s Complaint.” Mom was always an open-minded reader who gave little thought to age-appropriateness. These books were, to me, the equivalent of getting a college degree, not only answering lingering questions, but bringing important, cutting-edge data to the forefront—my conceptual tool bag was now greatly expanded.

By the summer of 1969 (when we transferred from New Jersey back to Ohio), I soon became a part of a loose cadre’ of freethinkers such as myself, and to my delight, they all stole porn from their fathers. This porn was kept in a sort of underground lending library, which they had craftily constructed in the backwoods of an old cemetery. After a number of years of this, things tapered down but never stopped completely—we were on to stag films, and relentless acquisitions of the mainstreams such as Playboy and Penthouse, whenever and wherever possible. It is bizarre and taboo how such knowledge is acquired, but make no mistake: it has breadth, and depth. One has only to be intelligent, observant, and discriminating.

As to the Wahl vibrator, it remained integral to my activities up until I was fourteen, although I was becoming less enamored of it because I began to find it too desensitizing. This problem solved itself: I got it out of the closet (my parents still thought they were hiding from me), hit the switch, and it was gone. It is fair to assume I drove it to a premature death, but it lived a very long life—a life of immeasurable contribution to human happiness.

Thursday, July 21, 2011

Son Rêve Merveilleux(Her wonderful dream) by By R.D. Engle

The evening had fallen patiently into itself, leaving behind it copious elements to be absorbed. Reminders given, and awaiting, as they always seem to be those who find themselves in moments where they have the eyes to notice such things. Those fragrant traces, subtle sights and muted tones, while being nearly endlessly variant in their nature, were, as always, simply taken in by all those who were present to them: taken in, and maybe retained and converted into memories--part of the perfect day-hours that had preceded this early black. Perhaps this time more would be recollected upon its arrival. The lush tropical plant scents mingled, and then re-released themselves, marrying into divergent, darkly-sweeter forms unknown until that precise, unique moment; holding, as had Mother Earth herself, the many hours of calor intenso sol that had caressed the two of them just prior (the plants and the earth, as well as the man and the woman). With this also came the natural settling-down of all those who lived around this place, this place that he and she had made into their Home; that home that laid so perfectly. It was almost as if the home could know that it had its own right to do so--that it could simply rest, in its own simple, elegant, native luxuriance, there-as-it-was, comfortably-perched on the Seventy-Second parallèle, with the various insects singing their insect songs all around it, making an unplanned, but fully-fitting sonority that somehow worked distinctively, for that moment, in rhythm, tone color, dynamic. Although the night obfuscated most color, it was such that certain hues remained, perceived not now by sight, but by a taste that seemed as if it entered directly into one's skin.

He had prepared their evening meal this time (they tended to take turns): lightly pan-fried chicken, run through a reduction sauce (he was always afraid of running reductions, as the timing was so to-the-second, that, if he were to become distracted, it would congeal into something he did not want). He had experimented with creating a pesto, (because some time earlier, he had planted an herb garden), and based the entire meal around the taste of that harvested pesto, which he had ground with a mortar and pestle he had found at a church sale. His theory was to grow things near to him, things that he could nurture, make fine, native. That idea had been with him for some time, but was rekindled when they had taken this place, because it sat on what once had been an orange and grapefruit grove (which he exhilarated in when he picked from the trees and made his own juice, juice that came from the very trees, the very soil that was about where he lived, telling history, telling tales through sheer taste--he could only imagine who made these plantings, what they had seen in those times, why they had done it, and what the earth then gave them, for instance). One morning, upon her awakening, he had brought her a small, crystal glass of that juice for her to taste, and she enjoyed it greatly, though she did not, despite his jubilant explanations about its making, maybe believe its origin to be as significant as he did, origin meaning literally feet away from her in the form of a grapefruit tree that sat outside in back of their bedroom.



He had accompanied the chicken with some spring greens (topped with a dressing of his own improvised making), and completed it with a fine kind of bread he had found, drizzled with seasoned oil. And, of course, all this had to be accompanied by some sort of good wine, which he had also found, in the form of a rather nice Floridian Rose' (diverting from the use of Whites, as is normal when serving fowl), one that came from the nearby Eden Winery (he had uncorked it and left it to breathe out for a moment, because he took care with such things, such-to-point as pouring it carefully into these fine, fluted glasses that she had carefully purchased, to her own taste). He had, as well, folded the napkins with care, in this case using origami technique--creating the simple form of a Japanese Warrior shroud, which, by so-folding, allows for a fork-and-knife dispensation with a bit of space in between (he had used a very large linen napkin, of a light-beige color, and it had allowed him to fold it over and around the entire plate). He still wondered if he should have chosen a Bird of Paradise fold, but made himself dispense with his fussing.

The raison d'êtrefor him always going to such lengths was that he knew, had nearly always known, the essence of a moment, meaning that a bit of extra care will define it, make it that day's dernier cri. But these days, he was almost always doing so because he loved her so much, and forever wished to honor her in many small ways (and he always found them small, in comparison to how she gave herself to him), whether she merely saw what he had done, or at least just felt it in some light way. To do such things, he thought, was a joy, no matter how received. It was a way of demonstrating his great love, his endless reverence of her.

On the other hand, it was simply supper, albeit a pleasant one, and she seemed to enjoy it from the moment she approached the table. She liked the way he had folded the napkins-- how he had made the preparations for her and only her. It occurred to him that she had not been used to such tender mercies, what he considered simple things, and, upon her compliments (not yet having even tasted the food, but simply speaking in admiration of how the meal was presented to her), he felt a great warmth, content in being able to provide her with this small pleasure.

The pleasure was mutual, then (in his case, having such a lovely dining companion made him feel like he wanted for nothing else). He considered her with his eyes, which always freshened when he cast them upon her: it did not seem to matter how frequently he did so because he saw, each time, aspects both new and familiar. He gazed over her as a jeweler might a fine diamond, knowing that each time, he would uncover another of what seems, in such fine jewels, to be a never-ending source of different prismatic lights that endlessly reveal themselves. Or sometimes it was like how such a stone will uniquely reflect a certain kind of light at one special time--there is no end to it. She could see him in his seeing, loving his blue eyes as she did so.

She was petite, so much so that she often had to choose children's watches for wearing. Her hands, wrists, and as well her feet and ankles were this way, and this led to a certain fine delicacy in the way she held herself, usually without being aware of it. Whether she sat or stood, one of her feet always seemed to have this natural, beautiful arch to it. Maybe she was aware of this, because at the end of the arch were always beautifully-painted toenails. The overall of it created a deeply sensuous effect--the question of whether she knew it or did not know it ceased to exist-one only could see a delicate kind of beauty, the kind some sculptors attempt to capture through rendering such details.

Her body was luxuriously buxom, though, and always emanated to nearly anyone in her presence something unquestionably feral, provocative. There was wolf in this woman, it seemed, clear down to how her eyebrows and nose sometimes appeared to operate independently of the rest of her face--rapidly contracting and relaxing as if they were sensing things of which others were unaware. He had never seen this before, other than in the wild. All of these features combined, often, to invoke tumult in other women when she was among them, even though she never did anything to give them legitimate reason for it. He wondered if this might partly be because she was of only two very old bloodlines (Kanienkehaka, and Celt). He knew any kind of simple purity such as this was rare to encounter in his day and age, much less such a potentially volatile combination as Mohawk and Irish.

And so they sat and dined, savoring the simple but resplendent beauties before them. Their conversation moved to-and-fro, as it will with couples, ranging from the very smallest of things to deep innermost sharing, and back again--that singular blend of seriousness and smiling--mostly the latter, though, as it had been the kind of day where absolutely nothing bringing the slightest reason for concern had crossed their paths.

Also, she brought him fresh news of her friend Angeline--they had spoken on the phone today, and were discussing the possibility of a visit: they had not seen each other for a very long time, since Angeline had moved to Texas. He had not met her yet, but he felt like he knew her quite well, having spoken to her many times on the telephone--he enjoyed her sharp-witted humor, and how it appeared that a slight Texas drawl seemed to have crept into her voice since she had lived there. There was a certain bawdy, playful intelligence within her. And of course he had been told a great deal about her, and even seen one or two pictures. Her features reflected her Latin origin--she was truly beautiful, as was his mate, but in every physical way they differed from one another. He was pleased to hear of this possible visit--it was clear that both women had only one or two true comrades, likely because of their distinctiveness, coupled with their independent natures. While he provided her with great comfort and companionship, he knew from his own experience that such friendships were prized, needed--irreplaceable. He saw the glow of anticipation in her as they discussed this happy new prospect.

After supper, they sat out on the lanai, finishing off the bottle of Rose', and saying very little, preferring, instead, to drink in the evening along with the wine. When it was done, she rose to go inside, pausing to kiss him deeply on the lips, holding his head in her hands--she had come to know that he liked to spend a few solitary moments each day, alone with his thoughts. Her fragrance remained, and he considered which one she had chosen. "Ah, Bora Bora," he concluded--the final, perfect touch to all the luscious scents swirling about him--those of the evening air, the wine's bouquet, and, of course, her own.

Next to him, on a small table, he kept an old, battered transistor radio--the paint-stained kind men keep around for all kinds of outdoor purposes. There was something he found pure about having to carefully move the dial about, and position the antenna just-so in order for it to work properly. He knew that at night the ionosphere drops, making it easier to pull in distant stations--and this he did, just barely capturing what he identified as Miles Davis, and Gil Evans--something from "Sketches of Spain," he guessed. The signal drifted in and out lazily, but remained there well enough. He examined his old Zippo lighter, turning it over in his hand: bronze, once fully covered with ivory bearing a scrimshaw design--almost all worn down now. He lit a cigarette, drew deeply, and gazed at the tropical scene before him, letting it, the moist heat, and the jazz wash over him.

The cool, dry air greeted him when he finally stepped back inside. How long had he been out there? She had left a single lamp burning--the one next to his reading chair, to guide his way in, and in case he wished to sit and read for awhile. "No Hemingway tonight," he thought, smiling at her thoughtfulness, and feeling happily tired. "Sorry, Papa…no can do." He stood there for a moment, looking at Hemingway's picture staring at him from the back of the hardcover. Miserable bastard. How could he be such a miserable bastard? He had it all, in so many ways. How horrible was it to be an expatriate living in Paris? How excruciating could it have been to have that beautiful house in Key West, right on the Southernmost Point? Ninety miles to Cuba. Back then it was Paradise down there, and all he could come up with was, what? More drinking? Machine-gunning sharks? Maybe, he considered, in the end it's a matter of amplitude, or just appetites. He knew his own to be quite fierce, but not when compared to that fellow's. He clicked off the light switch, leaving poor Hemingway there in the dark to contemplate his sadness, wherever it had come from.

Heading into the bathroom, he peeled off his clothes and washed up, still thinking a little bit about Gil Evans' lush string arrangements, how Cuba must have been once upon a time, and the day's events themselves: all of it had woven together into a sort of soft, colorful fabric that seemed to be gently brushing itself back and forth across his mind. He looked at the mirror and threw himself a half-scolding look--"How late you were tonight!" He swung about and headed down the hallway.

Their bedroom was at the far end of the place--the real master bedroom was at the front, but they had chosen this one because it was as far away as could be from, well--everything, and then converted the other into a guest suite. Together, they had chosen all sorts of different fabrics and unusual items for their room--it was a near-perfect balance of the delicately feminine, and the utterly masculine. It was never completely dark, nor flooded with light; instead always bearing some level of soft, inviting glow. Entering this glow, he paused for a moment, as he often did, to take in the sight of her sleeping. The sheets were drawn back to her calves, and she faced away from him. He considered the outline of her body, and how the auburn hair lay back across the side of one shoulder. She was wearing only panties--lacy, pastel-green and high-cut, which accentuated her beautifully-rounded bottom. Both of her arms were drawn over her head and kind of off to one side. He loved her so, and to see her so cool and tranquil brought a soft smile to his face.

But then, even before he could quietly join her and wrap her in his arms as he always did, something began to stir in her. He cocked his head to one side, studying her. He began to hear slow, deep moans escaping from her, and her body seemed to move all over--almost everywhere at once, but ever so slightly, as if a wave was gently moving through her from head to toe, and then back. Not being quite sure what to do, he remained where he was. She turned slightly towards him, the soft sounds building in strength. Her left arm dropped, the hand beginning to move slowly up and down her side, caressing. And almost at the same time her other hand had reached across the front of her and was stroking her breasts--he saw her nipples begin to harden, quickly, as she began to pinch at them from time to time. Then she began to speak! "Oh, my God how I missed you. You're here, at last! I've waited, wanted you so much!" Her left hand plunged down into her sex, touching it in a way that only a woman knows how to touch. She was beginning to writhe now, and he could see a mild, dew like sweat begin to come over her-- she was licking her lips, and beginning to breathe harder and faster.

And he knew now, without any doubt: she was still asleep.

It was as if his body had immobilized itself. Utterly transfixed though he was, his mind began to race. It was a strange place, this--the beginning of a deep arousal, but one interrupted by other thoughts. He felt like a voyeur, watching this, watching it without her knowing--sensing a tinge of embarrassment, and that other, stranger feeling which accompanies all guilty pleasures. Perhaps he should just try forcing himself to turn away and leave? But he knew he would not, could not, move even one inch. He could smell her sex beginning to fill the room, and after more cries and moans, she spoke again: "Angie. My baby, I want you--your touch. Touch me, please! Kiss my lips!"

A jolt ran right through him, top to bottom. Angeline! His eyes remained locked on her, taking it all in, while his mind pushed into overdrive. It was only a few seconds before it all came to him, even though it felt like forever, almost movie-like.

The two of them, he and she, withheld nothing from one another--their respective pasts, old lovers, desires, fantasies: there were literally no boundaries between them. Because of this, he knew some things. She had told him that, while she had never experienced being with a woman, if she were to (and she had entertained the thought along with many others), Angeline would be her preference, by far. She told him that more than once, while in conversation, their eyes had locked, and a moment of silent understanding, of want, had passed between them. But they had averted their eyes from that wanting, carrying on, feeling perhaps a bit awkward for a time. Still, though, it remained, in one form or another, and there was no denying it, not that either of them would do so anyway--they were open, freethinking, highly sensual women. And above all they were the best of friends.

Now, she was having this beautiful dream, a dream that was satisfying an innermost desire. She was absolutely dreaming while she touched herself--dreaming that she was with Angeline. He realized it was one of the most unusually beautiful things he had ever seen, and something that he might never see again in his lifetime. By now, things had progressed so that it all seemed incredibly real. To look at her (them?) he could almost, envision the outline of Angeline's body entwining her--it was as if Angeline's essence inhabited their bed in both form and feeling.

And he still considered: what, if anything, should he do? What if he awakened her? Would it matter? By now, he was feverishly aroused, but in a fashion completely unfamiliar to him--in all his years of erotic experience, he found nothing in his mind for comparing! She was thrumming, and beginning to cry out very loudly now and then--"Oh! Damn!"-- her hand smacking the bed hard as the waves of pleasure pounded at her. Her back was arching hard too, her hips were locked into a slow, rhythmic grind, and her already-stunning breasts were fully engorged. "They" continued to whisper and kiss one another--he could hear her speak, then pause, then answer. Requiring nothing more, he slipped into the bed as noiselessly as possible, and carefully blended his body to hers--an arm around her waist, the other around the back of her neck. It was as if Angeline was to her front, him to her back. As she touched her clitoris, he carefully pulled pushed up her top leg, and thrust himself inside her as far as he could. She cried out "Angeline!" and, first smiling for a moment (did she think Angie was using a toy on her?), he reached around her back with both hands, pushing up both of her breasts, and squeezing the nipples hard. She rode and bucked, shudders running through her every few seconds, but never waking up! He bit at her neck. She tried to pull his hands away from her breasts, but he wouldn't allow it--giving her instead an even harder thrust. She screamed, and he felt her fluids gushing all over him as she came in cascade after cascade. With this, he could take no more, and let go so hard that he saw blinding white lights behind his closed eyelids. He shuddered, holding on to her as hard as he could while it made its way through both of them.

Her breathing relaxed, and he tried to match it. He could not believe it, but even now she was not awake. Instead, he saw tears coming down her eyes, and she was saying "I love you…I love you both. I love you so much." And with that, she drifted back into a peaceful, exhausted slumber. He withdrew himself slowly, moving away little by little, and covered her with a light sheet--he had decided to not wake her. Dazed, he managed the hall, making his way to his office. He clicked on the light and saw Hemingway staring up at him, again, still looking depressed. He stared back, stuck out his tongue at him, fired up the Zippo and lit another cigarette. Tomorrow, when she awakened, he would tell her--that way she could share the story with Angeline, who he knew would enjoy it greatly. Maybe he might tell her. Right now, it belonged to no one else in the world but him, which, he mused, is not something a man can often say about many things, least of all ones of such a nature as this. He looked out a window, and listened to the insects singing their insect songs. Time for bed, and very soon. Perhaps, while he slept, her dream would become his own.

The Sock Guy by Roscoe Erwin Still


OK, I got started back up on this one because I was attempting to joke around with one of my music partners, Lesley--she runs the folk group I play in known as Silver Branch.
I have no idea whatsoever as to why this came out of me; perhaps it was the sheer trauma of the situation. So I will hold forth:

Back around the late seventies, and extending into the early eighties, I was working at two music stores, one of which I started working at when I was 18 years old. I bounced around the two stores, but the primary one was a small, highly-developed boutique guitar store: Oh, you know, we sold Fender Custom Shop guitars, Valley Arts guitars, and so forth. It was a helluva shop.

So, one day I am working said shop and I get this, er, rather disturbing phone call. After I do the greeting, I get a question, with a rather creepy voice behind it:

"What kind of socks are you wearing?"

Now, I don't care who you are, but when you get that kind of call, off-rip, it creates a certain sort of internal confusion. Should I answer him? It is just that disarming.

I looked down, because I actually was not sure what kind of socks I had on. I discerned that I was wearing sneakers, and white athletic socks. So, I answered--"White."

He said "OK, fine," and hung up.

You can imagine what rolls through ones' head at that point. This, in the middle of conducting business.

My boss, owner of the biz showed up to relieve me, and I was clearly remaining in a slightly disturbed state. He asked me what was wrong, and I told him of the phone call. He said "Oh, that's just the Sock Guy--he calls all the time. You just have to tell him what kind of socks you are wearing and then he leaves you alone."

Right.

As the time progressed, six years, this went on. Actually, the more honest you were about describing your socks, the quicker the engagement was. You kind of got used to it after some time. And, he was quite polite; most times he even thanked you--very professional on the phone.

Eventually I discovered that our store was not the only target. There were at least 3 or 4 other unrelated businesses in the area that he was calling. I guess he had a call list, or something.

After awhile, we all kind of got used to the routine.

And then, it just stopped.

I don't know what ever happened to the Sock Guy, but in a certain respect, I admire his artistry.

rde
Never Looked At Socks The Same Way Again

Rich Engle fancies himself a Renaissance Man. In actuality, he is a freelance writer, instructor and performer/composer of music (a guitarist), and a retired martial arts sensei . An occasional chef, and/or restaurant critic, he enjoys all the annoying things Renaissance Men do, such gay-as-hell things like origami, chess, and hardcore audio engineering. He has (counting from when he thinks he might have become an adult, or close to that) 40 years of experience in all of those categories.

He studied and worked with Nathaniel Branden, the founder of the self-esteem movement and longtime collaborator with author Ayn Rand ("Atlas Shrugged," "The Fountainhead," etc.). He gave up his career as a corporate marketing executive because he hated business and wanted to pursue his writing and musical goals--relocating himself permanently, 2 years ago, from Cleveland, Ohio, to Ft. Myers, Florida. This was done after completing an original album with his group "On The Air." He wrote the preface for, and was highly involved in the editing process for the book "Icons and Idols: Pop Goes The Culture," by Victor Pross, Canada's most favored and famous caricature artist (which includes the story "Sal's Diner," edited by Engle and included at the end of the book).

Throughout 2010, he was the principal guitarist at the Unitarian Universalist Church of Fort Myers, Florida, where he worked as part of a praise team supporting not only the existing praise team, but many guest ministers, including Naomi King (Steven King's daughter), and Michael Dowd (the leading exponent of evolutionary Christianity in the world).

Currently, he plays (along with his wife, singer Darlene Passarella) in the folk group "Silver Branch," and in a guitar duo team with 19-year-old music prodigy Manuel Carjavale.

He has been writing on Internet philosophical forums for about twenty years, and is currently seen on www.objectivistliving.com , a site where he has resided for many years.

He is mounting a manufacturing company with his longtime childhood friend James Gates, called G-Custom Designs. Their initial product offering is a groundbreaking, low-cost sustaining device that improves virtually any guitar.

His philosophy: "It took the Universe about 13 billion years to create humans; a way of the Universe contemplating itself. Between that and the fact that you are made of nothing more than burned out stardust, carbon . . .well, you have to at least try and take that shit seriously."

Saturday, July 16, 2011

Past her time by Melissa Jarvis


Agent Alex Raines takes no prisoners—in her job or in her personal life. But all of that changes when the time travel organization The Lineage sends her to 1793 Revolutionary France. Used to a "get in, get out," modus operandi, she finds her heart and will tested by local English nobleman Lord Gabriel Huntington, whose reasons for being there are as deceptive as her own.

In the midst of revolution and betrayal, can these two learn to take off the disguises and trust each other? Or will the fate of the world and time travel rest on Alex's ability to betray the one man she has come to love?

I am also a publicist, and have been doing PR for non-profit and entertainment clients for the past 14 years.

My website is: www.melissajarvis.net. If you're interested, please email me at melissa_jarvis@hotmail.com.

Never Too Late, My Love by K. R. Bailey


When Elisa finds an old letter, she’s driven to uncover the answers to its secret. What she’s not expecting is to fall for the handsome, confirmed bachelor, Henry Tucker.


Henry must learn to overcome the hurt and deceit that drove him to the remote Utah desert where the Goshute people have given him the help he needs to find peace. Once Elisa comes into his life, he realizes his new found peace is about to be shaken.


As Elisa is drawn to the Goshute people, she is pulled in by their myths and the legend of the wolf seems to be entangled in everything she does. With the help of the wolf spirit, will she unravel the secrets of the past? Can she find a way to open Henry’s heart? Together, will they find their destiny?



For more information about K. R. Bailey, check out her website at: http://KRBailey.com or her blog at: http://KRBailey.blogspot.com

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

The Pleasure Girl by Jan Springer


The Pleasure Girl
Jan Springer
Siren Publishing
Now Available
http://www.bookstrand.com/the-pleasure-girl

Siren Publishing
Now Available
http://www.bookstrand.com/the-pleasure-girl

A fiery eruption of solar flares disintegrates most of Earth’s human
population, frying electrical grids around the world and thrusting everyone into a cold harsh land where only the strong survive.

Forced to become a pleasure girl in order to survive, Teyla Sutton reluctantly agrees to service dangerous desperado Logan Leigh and his two friends. White-hot pleasure becomes addictive beneath Logan’s tender touches and his hard muscular body. What Teyla never expected was to fall in love. Logan Leigh knows he shouldn’t allow the Pleasure Girl into his heart. He also knows it’s too late because she’s already there.

Soon three desperadoes are whisking Teyla away on an exquisite journey into her hottest dreams and forbidden desires. When she learns they are members of the notorious Durango Gang, can she allow them into her life or will she send them away forever?

Forced to become a pleasure girl in order to survive, Teyla Sutton reluctantly agrees to service dangerous desperado Logan Leigh and his two friends. White-hot pleasure becomes addictive beneath Logan’s tender touches and his hard muscular body. What Teyla never expected was to fall in love. Logan Leigh knows he shouldn’t allow the Pleasure Girl into his heart. He also knows it’s too late because she’s already there.

Soon three desperadoes are whisking Teyla away on an exquisite journey into her hottest dreams and forbidden desires. When she learns they are members of the notorious Durango Gang, can she allow them into her life or will she send them away forever?

Friday, July 8, 2011

Songs everyone should know...just because

I love music. I go to karaoke often. Growing up and being the youngest sibling I was exposed to lots of different music genre's. I firmly believe that there are songs that, even if you don't like them, you should know the words. I always taught my daughters that you don't wanna be at the ballpark and be the only person not screaming the BA BA BA sequence in Sweet Caroline by Neil Diamond. You just don't wanna be left out and it's more fun to join in. SO...What songs are on your list of must knows. A few of mine are as follows, in no particular order...
1) Sweet Caroline by Neil Diamond
2) Piano man by Billy Joel
3) Family tradition by Hank Williams Jr.
4) Mony Mony by Billy Idol (I know this is a cover but it is the most popular one and it has a sequence of 'Get l@#d, Get f@#$%d' throughout that seems to be popular)
These are just some of the songs that I proudly sing aloud and yell the (sometimes obscene) sequences to when I'm at karaoke...What are some of yours?

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Welcome to Rachel's blog

Pardon the mess...we are remodeling..

Keep track of what is going on with Rachel, her books and other fun stuff.

Hope you can join Rachel for this new endeavor.