Christian Werewolf Erotica! Yeah!

It was bound to happen, just a matter of time before I sold out. I'm selling out so bad it makes my cavities hurt. What's the best-selling fiction out there? Religious novels. Sex, natch. Werewolves, gotta' love those werewolves. So, I thought, "Hey, Stuart, why not make a gazillion bucks and put 'em all together?" I answered, "Cool idea! Now get out of my head!"

So, you are all witness to my opening salvos into erotic, Christian, werewolf fiction. Put the kiddies to bed and draw the lampshades! Things are about to get holy, steamy and wolfy.

"My thighs quivered like it was the Rapture. The leather-clad werewolf on top of me nipped my ear and whispered, "have you found Jesus?" I moaned, welcoming his wolfy Christian appendage into my holier than thou folds. His tongue bit deep like a devil (but not really 'cause he's  Christian). Licking me like so many lashes from the chosen ones who beat Jesus. My hands stretched across the bed, splayed like I'd been crucified, until I moaned, "You're sexier than Pat Robertson!"

There you have it. Whaddaya' think?

(Pretty sure I've offended tons of folks. Yay!)

 

The Secrets of Men (soon to be a Lifetime network movie)

Gather 'round, ladies, I'm going to tell you some manly secrets that're sure to make you understand your significant other better. I might be breaking the "bro code" but since all of my male friends are illiterate and most of my blog followers are female, I think I can get away with it. For my very few male and gay female followers, shine it on and move onto the next post.

*"Whatever you like, dear." It's a common catchphrase you've probably heard time and again. When you ask a man, "what color shall we paint the walls? Almond White or Pearly Alabaster?" The answer's invariably gonna' be "whatever you like, dear." It's not because we're being cavalier. We just think there's one shade of white. Paint the room the color of the "Scooby-Doo" van, toss us a beer, and we're happy.

*Fights! Men love to watch a good fight on TV or down the block. But we don't particularly care to be in one. Especially with our significant other. When we fight, we want a good, clean end to the affair, no extra rounds. Everything should end on a pleasant note, put a ribbon on it, call it pretty. We just want the damn bell to ring and start a fresh round the next morning.

*Movies! If your guy sits down next to you and says, "hey, let's watch 'Sex And The City' tonight," warning bells should go off. Guys like movies full of explosions and cop "bromances" (the male equivalent to "chick flicks"). Sure, there's tons of homoerotic subtext going on, always a street-wise cop and a wild, young haywire. But you know what makes cop bromance movies muy macho? The bromantic cops always go home to Super Models after a hard day of explosions."

*Romance! We haven't a clue. Our idea of romance is equivalent to sex. Which leads me into...

*Cuddling! It makes us itchy and fidgety. Not that we don't love you. But there're lawns to be mowed and "bromances" to be watched. I know, right? It's ugly. But I'm not going to lie to you.

*Sunglasses! Men don't care about avoiding sun damage and the inevitable "crow's feet" at the corner of their eyes. We wear them to covertly eyeball the sexy jogger along the street without getting chastised about it (not that we'd ever act on it, mind you! We're just wired to look.). Now, if a guy wears them into Costco, that's taking it a little too far. He's looking at "sexy soccer mom." Plus, wearing sunglasses indoors is so...eighties. Uncouth!

*Dirt! We can't see it. When we clean house, it's finished. Um, not according to you ladies. I believe we grow accustomed to it, used to living in filth. It's comfy. And invisible. Don't even get me going on cleaning toilets.

*Love! Finally, the sexes unite! For all of our stupidity and caveman ways, if we say "I love you," well, hell, we mean it. It doesn't come easy for us. Love you Cydney!

Am I An Old Guy?

Well, crap. It hit me the other day. Am I getting old?

Yesterday, I saw a kid on the sidewalk, hair hanging in his face. I was tempted to yell, "Get a haircut!" Gah! Pure instinct, I couldn't help it. I'm turning into that cranky old neighbor I used to make fun of.

Strange things are happening to my body. My scalp is follicularly-challenged, but the hair seems to be migrating toward other peculiar areas. Never have I seen such growth in my ears and my nostrils. Dang bushy, even. Get out the weed-whacker and call it not pretty.

Bumps, aches, creaks and cracks are making their presence known. I'm turning into a walking David Cronenberg biological horror film. The need for embarrassing over-the-counter medicine is upon me. Is it wrong of me (and too prideful) to pay off my daughter to go buy "Preparation H?"

Knees crack when I walk upstairs. My eyebrows are looking like Andy Rooney's backyard. I have wrinkles on my elbows, for God's sake, the least wrinkly of the wrinkliest place in the world! And I'm getting crabbier. Being crabby is the first sign of aging, I think. Bah. You kids get offa' my lawn!

Here's the problem, though. I'm still a juvenile twelve-year-old at heart. Body gas (no matter from what orifice) is still funny. I like alternative rock. Much to my daughter's embarrassment, I fist-bump her pals.

Not too long ago, I had a Hallelujah moment. Buying a six-pack of beer at Quik-Trip, I was carded. The clerk actually asked for my I.D. I grabbed her hand, shook it, smiled, damn near jumped over the counter and kissed her. Her response upon seeing my driver's license? She laughed. Not a laugh with me, mind you. A laugh AT me. Whatever. I had my brief, shining moment of youth, as brief as it was.

In my mind, I'm still twelve; a hard-living rock star. The body doesn't agree, but what does it know? Dang whipper-snapper.

My Sister's Reaper: Book Launch With Dorothy Dreyer

Today's the day when my good friend, Dorothy Dreyer's young adult paranormal thriller launches. Check it out!

Here's what the book's about (and look at that beaut of a cover):

Sixteen-year-old Zadie’s first mistake was telling the boy she liked she could bring her dead sister back to life. Her second mistake was actually doing it.

When Zadie accidentally messes with the Reaper’s Rite that should have claimed her sister Mara, things go horribly wrong. Mara isn’t the same anymore—Zadie isn’t even sure she’s completely human, and to top it off, a Reaper is determined to collect Mara’s soul no matter what. Now Zadie must figure out how to defeat her sister’s Reaper, or let Mara die … this time for good.

Excerpt:

I opened my eyes to the darkness of my room. I wiped sweat from my brow and reached for my bedside light, but I froze before I could turn it on. In the darkness, Mara’s silhouette looked down on me. I swallowed back dryness as I stared into her face. I blinked, unable to tell if I was still dreaming or not. But when I focused, there she was, standing beside my bed in the dark. She stared at me with eyes that seemed to penetrate me, moonlight falling in white shards across her face.

“Mara?” I whispered.

She didn’t say a word. Why wasn’t she moving?

“Mara?” I slowly pushed down my covers. Mara only stared. Was she even breathing?

My heart pounded as I slid out of bed. Mara was only inches from the frame. God, Mara, why are you doing this? I maneuvered around her, afraid to make contact. I stood, keeping my eyes on her until we were face-to-face. Silence screamed in my ears.

Dorothy Dreyer has always believed in magic. She loves reading, writing, movies, chocolate, and spending time with her family and friends. Half-American and half-Filipino, Dorothy lives in Germany with her husband and two teens.

LINKS
Barnes and Noble http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/my-sisters-reaper-dorothy-dreyer/1109686823?ean=9780985029494

My Brushes With Fame (Kinda')

In one of my last posts, I detailed my (sordid) encounter with Frank "The Riddler" Gorshin. It got me thinking (NEVER a good thing). Who are the other famous (or nearly famous) people I've encountered?

Here's a quick checklist:

*SKIPPY from the 80's TV show Family Ties. (Think his name's Marc Price, but I'm too lazy to IMDB him). During the late '80's, my recently post-collegiate friends and I were having a blow-out party time in Florida during Spring Break. Think "The Hangover." Sure, we were a couple years too old to be there, but it didn't deter us. We ran into Skippy at a bar. My brother gave him a double-take, paused, and asked if he was Skippy. Skippy sheepishly grinned and nodded. We tried to kidnap him, force him to pursue other bars with us, but he declined. We did keep running into him, though, through the wee hours of the morning.

*Blues legend LONNIE BROOKS. We saw him perform at The Grand Emporium in Kansas City, Missouri.  We asked him to join us for a drink. He did (he drank orange juice. But we gladly paid for it). Awesome guy and performer. But things didn't end so well. When I asked him if Johnny and Edgar Winter (Lonnie collaborated with one of the twin brothers; the other was famous for a metal instrumental entitled "Frankenstein") were really albinos, he shot me a look and left in a huff.  I know, right? Really dumb and offensive question. But, hey. I was young, dumb and drunk.

*BENJAMIN BRATT. At my brother's bachelor party in Las Vegas, I gambled at the same blackjack table with him. Didn't know it at the time, but it was verified later by several sources. Although in all fairness, I don't think I even knew who he was at the time.

*JAMES MARSTERS (aka "Spike" from Buffy, The Vampire Slayer). I took my young daughter to meet him at a Kansas City comic convention. He was one of her first TV crushes. No real story to tell. But he was a nice guy and treated my daughter like she was a princess.

*JAMES GARNER! During my senior year in high school, my friend and I had skipped the last couple of hours and were endlessly cruising up and down Shawnee Mission Parkway (because, hey, it beat school). I looked over to the car next to me. Dang if the guy didn't look like James Garner. I nudged my friend and he agreed. I rolled down my window, caught the look-a-like's attention and motioned for him to do the same. He did. We yelled "You look like James Garner!" He took his sunglasses off, laughed, and said, "thanks!" That evening on the news, I saw that James Garner was in town for a Kansas City sporting event. GAH!

*WHIZZO THE CLOWN. Whizzo was a legend in Kansas City. We were practically raised on him (back in the day when we had three channels and on a good day with nice weather, a fourth). I worked at a small public relations firm when I first got out of college. Whizzo was someone we represented. It was up to me to drive him across town (he couldn't drive with those huge, floppy shoes) to a radio interview. It was somewhat disillusioning having Whizzo riding shotgun, chain-smoking, cursing, and hawking loogies out the window. He shattered my childhood memories.

*Finally, the big one. The late DR. JOYCE BROTHERS! Not only did I meet her, I saw her in her underwear! At the same PR firm I mentioned above, Dr. Brothers was one of our clients. A female co-worker and I were dispersed to pick her up. When we knocked on her hotel door, she called out, "who is it?" My co-worker identified herself. Dr. Brothers opened the door in nothing but her underwear, saw me, shrieked, and shut the door. Okay. Sure, she wasn't told there was a male outside. But, still. Who would answer the door in their underwear to an unknown person of the same sex? Someone well-versed in psychology, no doubt.

There you have it. Now, I want you all to tell us about your brushes with super-stardom (or people on the perimeter) in the comments below. Go!