Welcome to the Lascivious Zone

D is for Determination

determinationLately things have been standing in my way of my goals, objectives and dreams. I’ve felt like curling up in ball, crying and drowning myself in a pool of chocolate. Fortunately, I haven’t  been able to find a vat of chocolate big enough in which to submerge myself.  Also, my mama taught me that the only real thing standing between me and a dream is me.  In order to achieve what you set out to do, you have to take steps toward that goal.

A friend asked me the other day how I was able to get the things done I say I’m going to do.  It’s been a long road of discovery.  The first and hardest lesson was not to over commit myself.  When I was a kid, my brother dated a girl who always told me she was going to do things with me, take me to lunch, go see a movie, cut my hair, etc. She NEVER followed through.  It hurt me to the core. I remember talking to Mama about it and I told her that I would never promise someone that I would do something and not do it.  That’s been a hard oath to fulfill, but I try.  One thing is for certain, if I tell a kid I’m going to do something, I do it.

When I was teaching high school, I would promise my class that if everyone passed the test, I’d make them cookies. I can’t tell you how many times I was up at 3 AM baking. I’d made a bargain. The students studied (or cheated, who knows?) and everyone passed the test. I  had to hold up my end of the bargain.

Over the years, I’ve come to understand my limitations. I learned not to give all the classes tests on the same day, or the same week for that matter. I learned to make cookie dough on the weekend when I had free time. I’d freeze the dough and bake the cookies when I needed them.

I’ve also learned to set realistic goals. For example, the likelihood of me climbing Mount Everest, or the hill to my upper field, is nonexistent. The likelihood of me cooking a four-course, gourmet dinner for my mother’s birthday is very high. I know my skills. I know my abilities and I know my willingness to do certain things. There’s no way in the world I’m going to read the owner’s manual of my new camera. Just not going to happen.  I will take the camera out, play with it and learn how to use it.  Will I know everything it is capable of doing? Nope. Do I care? Nope. I’m not going to be taking action shots at a football game anytime soon. I’ll use it for things I want to use it for. If the need arises for those action shots, then I’ll read up on how to use the camera for them.

cat determiniationWhat is a realistic goal for me, isn’t realistic for others. When I told my parents that I wanted to write a book, my dad smiled and my mother gasped in horror.  I had no idea how to write a novel, but I knew how to write. I’d taught English for years and written scores of grant applications (great works of fiction.) This was a realistic goal for me. For my mother? No way. She can’t even write a sentiment on a birthday card. If she’s feeling particularly effusive, she’ll write: happy, happy birthday.

My current goal is to finish the urban fantasy I’m writing, Loch Lonnie.  My 14 year old cat got cancer and required a great deal of care. Then, he died. (Yes, I’m still in mourning.) My computer crashed and I lost 2 weeks of work. (No lectures of backing up documents, please. I’m an idiot and didn’t do it as often as i should have.) I broke my kneecap, which is now probably going to result in the need for surgery. Livestock has gotten ill and required a great deal of care.  Other farm issues have required attention. Organizations I belong to have had a great deal of infighting and drama.  I haven’t written in weeks. But you know what? Even though all those things have happened, the only reason that book isn’t finished is because I haven’t written. It’s me standing in my own way, nothing else.

Sure, those are legitimate excuses, but the bottom line is the only way Loch Lonnie is going to be finished is if I sit down and write. Mama was right. I’m determined to get the first draft of the book finished by the end of this year.  And you know what? I will.

If it is to be, it is up to me.

Simple as that.

 

C is for Cowboys

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAWhat is it about a cowboy that makes my knees melt? You’d think that I would’ve gotten over the lure of the mysterious cowboy after marrying and divorcing a bull rider, but nope. I still dissolve into a puddle at the sight of a strapping man in a Stetson.

There’s more to a cowboy than the hat and boots. It’s a philosophy, a oneness with nature and the land, an appreciation for the beauty of God’s creation.  It’s hard to describe the cowboy mystique. Rode hard and put up wet? Diamond in the rough? The fact that they stay in the saddle a little bit longer?

I have no idea what the allure is, but it’s strong, almost primeval. I’m not the only one with such an attraction. Check out the scores of erotica written about cowboys.

I’ve had enough cowboy-themed fantasies to fill volumes of erotica novels and yet I’ve never written one. I’m not sure why. I think I want to keep my cowboy to myself. He’s strong, sturdy, deeply scarred and full of compassion. He’s a gentleman–the type of guy you’d introduce to your mother.  He understands me and comforts me in times of need. He pleasures me like no other. In the dark secrecy of a moonlit field, he shares his thoughts and dreams with me, and only me. I don’t want to ruin the fantasy by describing his lovemaking skills in a book for all to read.

He’s my cowboy. One day, I’ll create an erotic cowboy for the masses, but I’m keeping this one for myself.

 

B is for Brain

sapiosexualTo me there is nothing sexier than a smart, articulate, witty man.  Sure, I find certain physical attributes attractive: beefy forearms: great smile, thick thighs and broad shoulders; however, no matter how attractive I find a man physically, if he can’t carry on a conversation, it doesn’t work for me. The term for this is sapiosexual–someone who is aroused by intelligence.

I’ve often wondered what determines a person’s level of intelligence. Degrees don’t work. Some of the stupidest people I’ve met have doctorates. Some of the smartest people I’ve met are uneducated rednecks. So, I think the beauty of the brain is in the eye of the beholder. An intellectual connection is just as individualized as a physical connection. What sparks flames in my brain, might not spark flames in the brains of my friends. Although, I can assure you my friends and I are more likely to sit around an marvel at a man’s brain than we are his looks.

It’s hard for me to figure out what I find attractive about a man’s brain. Philosophy on life? Sense of humor? Well read? Mechanically inclined? It’s easy for me to point out the physical traits I find desirable, but the mind is a tricky thing. Dr. Sheldon Cooper from The Big Bang Theory is brilliant, but I don’t think I’d ever drool over the guy.  DSI John Luther from the BBC series Luther, now that’s my kind of intelligent. Why? I have no idea. Just like I can’t tell you why I find cowboys more attractive than men in Armani suits or why I find Latinos more attractive than wholesome, blond Mormons. All I know is that if the man connects with me intellectually, it doesn’t matter if he’s a blond Mormon in an Armani suit, I’m aroused.

The brain really is the biggest sex organ.

 

 

 

A is for Aphrodisiacs

In an attempt to kick my butt and start blogging again, I’m taking the A-Z Blog Challenge.  As an erotica writer, of course the first thing that came to mind was A Is for Aphrodisiacs.  Then came all the kinky things I could conjure up for the other letters of the alphabet. It was kind of scary, to be honest. I had no idea I was that demented.  I’ll try to keep the blog posts to a PG-13 level, but I might not be able to resist some of the topics that popped into my head.

I’ve always found this concept of aphrodisiacs quite fascinating. Personally, I’ve yet to find anything that makes me randy other than a hot man who wants me. Well, that and someone who makes me laugh. Oh goodness, if he laughs at something I say, I lose my panties.  So, for me intelligence and a sense of humor is all it takes. That being said, I gladly tried green M&Ms and Spanish Fly to see what effects they had on me.  Only problem was, I was trying them with a hot guy who made me laugh, so I think the test results were somewhat skewed.

oystersI did a little research a couple of years ago for a romantic, aphrodisiac-filled dinner. Since I have a seafood allergy, I had to pass on the raw oyster served in a glass of champagne. Oysters have a high zinc content and are said to increase sperm count and libido. I wanted to offer the oysters to my lover, but kissing him would’ve caused anaphylactic shock.  Nothing sexy about an epi pen. Apparently though, they are the go-to  aphrodisiac. If you’ve tried them for this purpose, let me know how it’s worked out for you.

Since I had to pass on the go-to choice, I had to find other fun items to serve at the meal.  Honey, almonds, avocados, chocolate, figs, and basil all have been used by various cultures as libido-enhancing foods.  Honey…thick, warm, and sweet. It is rich in vitamin B and increases testosterone levels in both males and females. Drizzle a little over some almonds….and your lover and see how that works for you.

avocado treeI love avocados and enjoyed reading about their history. The Aztecs called the tree: ahuacuatl, or “testicle tree.” They thought a pair of avocados hanging from branches resembled…well…testicles. Sexually oppressed Catholic priest found the tree so offensive they forbade the planting of the tree. Wow. Now, that’s some powerful fruit right there. Bring on the guacamole!

Chocolate? Need I say more. Oy! Chocolate. *Sigh*

horny goatThere are some other items used to enhance libido that aren’t food related. There are herbs such as Horny Goat Weed. I would like to speak from personal experience. I bow to Horny Goat Weed. It’s been used for thousands of years in China. Shepherds noticed that the billy goats in a field were constantly erect. They went out to see what was going on, and realized the goats were eating a particular weed. Like any right-minded shepherd, they gave it a try and lo and behold…erections sprang forth and the world was a happier place.

This is a bit odd and one I doubt I’ll ever try, but for those of you with lactating friends you might give it a go. According to a 2004 study done by the University of Chicago, a big aphrodisiac for women is the smell of a woman and a new baby.  How did they come about this bit of information?  The gave women pads to smell that had been used by women while  breastfeeding. When smelling the pads used by lactating women, women who already had partners reported a dramatic increase in sexual desire, while single women experienced an increase in sexual fantasies. Smelling a fresh pad, untouched by mom or baby, did nothing for the women’s sex drives. http://science.discovery.com/life-earth-science/10-aphrodisiacs.htm.

Have you tried any sort of libido enhancer that has worked for you? Let us know.

 

 

Inteviewed by Rachel Leigh

???????????????????????????????The lovely and talented Rachel Leigh has interviewed yours truly for her blog. Find out more about me and my latest release Tokyo Tease.

Passion in the Orient…

All-American girl next door, Natalie, jumped at the chance to see the world when offered a job in exotic Japan. Reality, however, proves much harsher than her many dreams…until her co-worker–and the star of her every fantasy–turns up the heat. Kentaro steps behind her on their morning commute, turning the crowded train ride into a journey of sensuality. With every sway and turn, the sexy Asian god’s touch tortures and teases, arousing her with the speed of the bullet train. But this is only the beginning. Kentaro unlocks a world of exotic pleasures surpassing Natalie’s dreams.

Rachel is a fellow The Wild Rose Press author and writes, steamy erotica.  Her latest release is Teach Me to Ride. 

Blurb:

Rachel LeighCaroline James wants to be the best investigative journalist London has ever seen. But until she has the money to leave the small town of Fayre Mead, she’s stuck and her resentment is building. So when she’s assigned to cover the Lakeland Horse Trials and meets sexy, dark-haired, and astoundingly fit horse trainer, Michael Canton, she is happy to vent some sexual and emotional frustration…and write the story of her career. But after getting personal with Michael, can she remain impersonal with the article?

Michael Canton will do anything in his power to silence his tyrannical father once and for all. Under extreme pressure to compete in the country’s show jumper trials and prove his worth, Michael’s fiery emotions are running high. Caroline’s beauty and sexual confidence stokes an inner strength and determination he never knew he had. But can he trust her to know the difference between fact and fiction? Together, they are a formidable team…but will their burning ambitions ultimately blow them apart?

Sounds good, right? So drop by Rachel’s blog and you’ll get two, hot seductive erotic romances!

Best Advice Ever

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. It’s an erotica blog and you see pictures of pigs and get somewhat squeamish. I promise it’s nothing that disgusting, but it is “the rest of the story” the bit that couldn’t be shared on my other blog.  So, just go with me and enjoy my attempt at assisting a sow farrow.

Last fall, my mother very innocently said she’d like to “buy a few animals for the farm.”  Who am I to deny my mama, right?

We did some research and decided we wanted to purchase heritage breed animals–animals that were used a hundred years ago, but due to commercial farming were nearly bred out of existence.  Farmers bred animals for their specific features and ended up with different breeds that would have larger litters, grow faster, be weaned earlier, etc.  in order to make bigger profits. It makes sense, but we wanted to concentrate on those original animals, the animals that were deemed threatened or critical by the American Livestock Conservancy.

We got some books, did some reading and visited a friend’s farm. That’s all it takes, right? Shoot, we have 120 acres of prime Ozark clay and rock. We read how it was done, what else could a person possibly need to do!

Back in October, my other brother Darryl and I drove to Missouri to purchase a breeding quad of Ozark Mulefoot hogs. They are the sweetest things you’ll ever   sm14 sm16 sm28  meet.  Jed, Ava, Clementine and Ellen May.  Clementine gave birth in April with no mishaps or problems at all. She had five, fat, adorable babies. Oh goodness. So very, very cute!  Things were going great. We anxiously awaited the arrival of Ellen May’s litter.

Ellen May decided to be difficult. Well, I’m sure she decided she was going to go up into the woods and have her babies in peace, but we decided she needed our help.  Yeah, right. Help. The scene from Gone with the Wind about “I don’t know nothing about birthing no babies” kept running through my mind. As if I knew how to assist a sow give birth.

I knew the signs that she was about to go into labor. She was hanging out by herself, and after becoming getting increasingly intimate with her, I determined that she was lactating.  Sows give birth approximately twelve hours after they start to lactate. Of course, I had no idea when she actually started lactating. It could have been that very second, four hours previously, or as I’d hoped eleven and a half hours previously.

Like a good Mulefoot, she had made a nice nest in the woods. We didn’t want her to give birth on top of the ridge because a HUGE rainstorm was heading our way. The piglets getting wet and chilled would mean their deaths, not to mention the fact that the hillside where she was residing always ends up in the creek at the bottom of the holler. Didn’t want piglets in the creek.

So, Ma and I go to work. We try every way possible to get Ellen May to the shed. Food, prodding, Oreos, nada, nothing would lure her from her nesting area. So, I go to the shed, load my Subaru with a ton of hay and head back up the hill to give her some bedding. By the time I got to the top of the hill, Ellen May had decided to go to the shed. I go back to the shed, unload the hay and get her settled. She ate a nice dinner and all was well. Until, she headed straight back to her nest. After at least three hours of running up and down that damn hillside, we decided she was going to stay there and we’d check on her first thing in the morning.

I do NOT do mornings. Arising before 7 a.m. goes against every fiber of my being, unless I’m going fishing or there’s an amorous man lying next to me. Well, I was up by 6 and headed to the hog pen. Of course, Ellen May wasn’t in the shed. I unplugged the fence and drove to the upper ridge where she’d been the night before. I spotted her, called Ma on the two-way radio and climbed through the fence.

There was a weak, squirmy little piglet lying in the middle of the woods.  I picked him up, cleaned him off and took him to Ellen May. When Ma arrived, I scoured the woods looking for more babies. Nothing.  I plopped next to Ellen May wondering what was going on. Was she still in labor?  As I sat there, a squealing piglet emerged from a pile of leaves. I quickly grabbed it and took him to his mama. Then, I scoured the woods one more time. Then, another. It’s an acre and a half lot, but it’s all uphill. I figure if it were flat, it would be the equivalent to 90 acres. I covered the hillside twenty times as Mama sat with Ellen May.  Surely she wasn’t finished giving birth. There were only two piglets.

I ran to the house and grabbed those books. Ma and I sat in the rain and read everything we could find. I went to every website known to pigdom, trying to figure out what we should do.  Yes, I know now, we should’ve stayed up with her all night. So, please don’t lecture me on that. Lesson learned!!

As we sat there, watching Ellen May, we saw no signs of labor. I ran to the house and called the vet. The earliest anyone could get out here was 3 p.m. We had to do something. We reread all the books and the information I printed out from various websites. Finally, it came the time that we knew what we had to do. One of us had to go in.

Another read of Kelly Klober’s Dirt Hog yielded the best advice I’ve ever heard. “Never put your hand in to a pig’s dry vagina.”  Another trip to my house. I grabbed latex gloves. Then, I had to figure out what lube should be used. Astroglide has sugar in it and can lead to yeast infections. I quickly discarded it because I had no idea how I could tackle Ellen May and administer a dose of plain yoghurt into her privates. That left some Kama Sutra stuff, but it was scented and I didn’t think that would work either. Then, I saw the bottle of Wet Platinum and I wasn’t about to use a $40 bottle of lube on a hog. I was somewhat disconcerted by the fact that I had so many bottles of lubricant.

Back when I was in junior high, I was reading an issue of Cosmo while my cousin was getting it on with some guy in the other room.  The article was about the use of Vaseline as a lubricant. I had no idea what that meant, but I can assure you reading the words that the use of Vaseline could result in it turning “rancid in the vagina” left a lasting impression. Vaseline has NEVER been near my lady bits.

The thought of a pig having a rancid vagina wasn’t pleasant either, but my options were either taking a tub of Vaseline to the hillside or showing up with a bag full of various lubes and asking my mother which would would do the trick. I chose to risk Ellen May going rancid.

Back to the hillside. I climbed through the fence and sat next to Ma and Ellen May.  I thought discovering whether or not she was lactating was a bit personal. Trust me, that was nothing.

I’ll spare you the gory details, but Ellen May was done. We had two piglets.

I can’t for the life of me imagine that I would’ve tried to inspect Ellen May without using some sort of lubrication, but reading Kelly Klober’s words not only made me laugh, hysterically, during a very tense moment, they saved me from doing something stupid. Well, something else stupid. Why on earth I didn’t stay with Ellen May in the woods all night is beyond me. My gut told me to, but my butt told me it was time for bed.

Farming isn’t for the faint of heart.

We now have a farrowing house and hope this experience is NEVER repeated.

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Stagnation

quicksandDo you know what it feels like to stand in the middle of quicksand and have no idea how to get out? You can feel yourself being pulled under and have no control over the situation. The more you move, the quicker your sink, but doing nothing is against your nature. You HAVE to do something!  You can’t just stand there and be sucked into the bowels of the earth, right?  You’re overridden with despair, agony, regret. Where’s Mr. Darcy when you need him?

So, I’m not literally sinking in quicksand, but life circumstances have made a head dive straight into a pit of said substance sound appealing. How do things get so out of control? How do I let myself become so overwhelmed by issues that I don’t even care about? I know what I want. I want to make a living as a writer. I know what that entails, writing, promoting, blogging, promoting and definitely more promoting. What am I doing? Herding goats, managing a rabbitry and slopping hogs.

Recently, in the most ironic of situations, I busted my kneecap while doctoring our goat herd sire, Alonzo’s, busted kneecap. Yeah, I know, I should find the humor in it, but sitting on the couch with my leg in a brace is driving me nuts. Guilt overcomes me every evening when my 76 year old mother tends to all the farm critters. Work that I can do in three hours takes her at least six. What do I do? I try to help and end up doing further damage to my knee. alonzo

When I first discovered that the lightning bolt shooting from my knee to my ankle was indeed caused by a real, legitimate cause other than me wanting to avoid farm chores, I thought  woohoo! I can write.

Reality? It’s really difficult to be creative while doped up on pain pills and/or an electrical storm is brewing in your calf.

I’m stagnate and I hate it. Detest it really. I never considered myself an active person, but being planted on my backside for four weeks has taught me a thing or two about myself.

1) If I want to do nothing, which I do on occasion, it has to be under my terms. Then again, that really shouldn’t be that big of a surprise. I’ve never been good at following orders.

2) I have a sick obsession with Criminal Minds. Of all the shows on television, I choose that one to watch while vegging on the couch?  Disturbing right? Does it count if the Criminal Minds marathon has been coupled with BBC mysteries. Probably not, huh? You’d think I’d be spending my time watching sappy romances. I guess I don’t feel like crying on top of all the physical pain. Who knows? I can assure you that I don’t want the Behavior Analysis Unit of the FBI messing around with my brain. Oy! Talk about frightening.

3) My mother can guilt me with one raised eyebrow. I had no idea she had that much power over me. It’s wicked. I need to study her technique.

4) I already knew this, but it has been confirmed. I have some awesome friends. Really amazing ones really who are willing to drive to the middle of the boondocks to keep me company or schlepp me into town. That makes me happy, but I don’t think I really needed a busted knee to discover that truth.

5) Writing erotica when in pain, and sex is the very last thing you’d consider doing at the moment is impossible.

So, three more weeks of leg brace. Will I decide to pull my way out of the quicksand–or in my case drug-infused fugue–and do something productive or will I continue to veg on the couch with a bunch of psychos? Maybe if one of those psychos was super-duper hot my thoughts about sex might change, resulting in the ability to write erotica again.

Hey, a girl can dream!