I See Spots...

Three times I was lucky enough
to see to term, the life I carried within my womb...

Sex, procreation and bringing forth life from ones own body is... simply, extraordinary.

The Miracle of Birth is a marvelous documentary hosted by Dr Robert Winston, a most unassuming 'nerdy' type professor, who will always remain memorable to me, especially after showing a sample of his own semen under magnification, his sperm swimming madly about, with words that went something like, "..and there's approximately sixty million of them... and I'm nothing special..."

This brilliant episode is from a series of documentaries, made by the BBC entitled, Intimate Universe. It's a fascinating, up close and personal depiction of life, via the human body from conception through to old age and death. The Miracle of Birth follows a British couple Jeff and Pippa, their nine month pregnancy through to the birth of their child. It also includes the amazing use of time lapse photography to show that nine months in mere minutes and the extraordinary changes to her nude body. It talks about the marvel of conception, how the human body becomes sexually aroused and how it prepares for pregnancy. How and why pregnancy can be a 'hit and miss' and actually quite difficult for some couples to achieve. It shows in vivid color the growth of a baby from mere cells to a living, breathing, independent life outside it's mother's womb, and it really is nothing short of a... miracle.

I was so impressed with it, that I bought the documentaries in New Zealand, after following the series on TV, but unfortunately they don't work here in the States. They remain my favorite series for the beauty and honest captivating portrayal of life, death and the human body.

I was pleased to notice, after we'd moved to America, that it was coming on TV and made a point of staying up to watch it... Imagine my bewilderment when 'spots' kept appearing over everything. I truly thought there was something wrong with my television set and was most indignant about missing the show, so went in search of husband to 'fix it!...

He came in and stood there for a few moments, watched, then snorted a laugh...

"What's so funny?" I grumbled..."please do something, I'm missing it..."

Now he really laughed... but promptly stopped when he got a load of the storm cloud brewing over my head...

"Welcome to America my love, where you'll never have to deal with anything as nasty and natural as a baby sucking from it's Mother's breast, or have to look at someones genitals in an educational documentary about childbirth..."

He stopped when I still looked back at him blankly...

"I beg your pardon!?!" 

What was immediately as clear as glass to him, was about as clear as mud to me. Completely unfathomable...

He finally took pity on me...

"There's nothing wrong with the TV. The spots are there to protect people from viewing something as unsightly as childbirth..."

And knowing me rather well, as I am a rather passionate woman, about everything it seems... He prepared for the unleashing of my storm...

"Excuse me!?! Are you really telling me that when people sit down in the privacy of their own homes to watch an informative documentary about childbirth....that what??? They have to guess which part of her it's actually coming out of??? Because all her...bits...are covered with spots???"

He grinned, but didn't reply, merely settled himself comfortably, after switching off the telly to watch me 'entertain him' with my indignant wrath... He knew I was barely getting warmed up after all... He reached for my wine...

And away I went...

"I can just imagine some poor idiot who's knocked up his girlfriend, watching this poppycock and trying to figure out if the babe is coming out the intake or the exhaust!"

He roared, choked and sprayed wine... served him right for pinching my glass!

I glared at him, daring him to make a comment... He pretended to take great interest in mopping up the mess he'd made, while peering surreptitiously at me over his reading glasses... 

"How ridiculous!" I continued, "I was watching an episode of those plastic surgeon Doctors...ohhh, you know the one! And the good looking one, the big one who goes around dipping his wick in anything that moves, -I mean seriously... you SEE e-ver-y-thing!"

"Yes dear...ahh, but that's cab..."

But I was getting into my groove now...

"Would it be too much of a shock to ones, American sensibilities do you think?? Makes you wonder how the hell anyone gets pregnant in the first place!?!"

"You're an American now" he reminded me, "Married to an American and you've given birth to an American..."

I ignored him... 

He was leaning back in his chair now, eyes sparkling with mirth, that smirk of a smile still playing on his face... Hidden slightly by his cupped hand over his chin and lips...

"And don't even get me started about women and breast feeding in this country. Good God man! You'd never know that half the population has tits! Except when they're on show as... as man candy! Remember when we were out the other day when it was over 100F and we saw that woman cover her babes head with a blanket...a blanket!! While she breast fed... unbelievable! How the poor kid didn't die of heat exhaustion is beyond me!"

He's a very smart man my husband... he let me rant and rave until I started to run down... then said, "Come here..." just quiet like...

I tried to glare at him... "Why?"

"You know why..."



"So... have you finished your little tirade against Americans or was it just idiots in general?"

I sighed dramatically...

"Don't even get me started on all the poor kids fighting and dying overseas for this country that aren't even acknowledged in the news or on TV" I said

"So... should we go back and live in New Zealand then?"

But that wasn't the answer either. I understood that. Nowhere was perfect...

"No... but I want our son to learn more tolerance..."

He laughed at me! Again! Bloody cheek of it!

Eventually he managed to drawl...

"Hmmmmm.... Good idea" as I finally began to notice that he'd all but undressed me on his lap...

"What are you doing? We can't...do that here??"

He laughed again.... He certainly was in good humor!

"Why not?" he said...

"You'd be surprised what people do in the privacy of their own homes..."

Midnight Oil - Blue Sky Mine

Just A Little Ghost Story.....

 It was a week or two 
before my fifth birthday the night my beloved Nani (Grandmother) died. Yet she has remained with me for every important event in my life since...

My mother had taken my two younger brothers and I to stay with her parents. Dad was still in the army then I think and my mother, with her belly swollen and round with my sister, due in three weeks, was crying on the phone as she told him the news.

I'd woken in fright. The dark so thick it smothered me, my bladder urging me up and out of the huge bed, eyes riveted to the thin strip of light coming through underneath the door. I managed to reach up and twist the knob, eventually pulling the door open and coming up short as I took in my mother sobbing on the phone. I tried to get her attention as her tears scared me more, but she ignored me, lost in her sorrow.

Still needing to go, but feeling even more alarmed, I made my way through the house where every light seemed to be blazing, to the back door and outside. The laundry and the toilet were straight opposite from the back door, but it was always daunting at night because the first few steps were also open to the outside and the darkness beyond.

I pushed open the slightly ajar door to the laundry and froze as I saw my Koro(Grandfather). He was down on his knees, hugging his dead wife in his arms, his grief so palpable, so raw that even I, so young could feel it. She'd had a heart attack, probably brought on by the epilepsy she suffered, and lay where she had keeled over, half way between both rooms.

I was crying too by then, more from fright and shock than for understanding. I turned away when he took no notice of me and moved hesitantly down the back steps, clutching to the steel rail and crouched over the grass to pee, before tearing back to bed. I'd left the bedroom door open, but there were other voices now, then more wails and crying as others arrived, the sound of car doors slamming shut making me flinch. Someone closed the door to the room and I was once more plunged into the pitch black. Terrified by all the strange happenings, I was sitting up in the bed howling in misery and wanting my Nani.

When suddenly she was there...

A blue-white ball of light stopped my tears as I watched it move from somewhere near the door and grow as it came toward me. I could feel her then and let out a peel of happy laughter as I felt her bury her face in the side of my neck and blow a soft raspberry, the way she always did...

"There, there moko,(a shortened version of mokopuna which means grandchild) Nani's here. You should be fast asleep my baby... Sleep now little one, I'm here. Nani will always be here" bathed in the warmth of the light, safe in her loving arms, I did.

I know now as an adult, that it was her, always her as she took me gently in her arms and away somewhere else when the bad things happened. When I was still too young to deal with them.

She was there the night I walked home from the pool when I was thirteen, maybe fourteen and made what could have been a deadly mistake, when I came upon a group of youths, who were smoking and drinking near the college. They cat-called loudly to me, urging me to join them, taunting and jeering with their crude remarks and blatant innuendos. Not wanting to pass near them I chose instead... to go around them. To cut through the field behind the school and on to where I lived beyond...

It was really dark now. No street lights here to illuminate the field, just a vast sea of blackness and shadows that loomed with as much menace as the danger closing swiftly behind me. I barely had time to consider that I might have once again, made the wrong choice when suddenly she was there. She filled my mind, her eye boring into mine the one word she said, loud, urgent and clear.

"RUN"

Without pause, adrenalin instantly flooding into my bloodstream, I took off running as fast as I could. Heading straight for the long grass beyond the rugby fields, eyes wide, ears hyper-sensitive and alert to every sound. The sounds of nature deafening in the abrupt silence.

And then they were coming. Yelling and whooping as they spread out and called out to one another. And then to me...

"What's your hurry baby? Come back over here and see what I've got for you, you know you'll like it!" he was close, somewhere on my right...

Another coming up from the left... "We're gonnna geeeettt you! We're gonna fuck you sooooooo good, you'll be begging for more!"  Terror and panic threatening to overwhelm, my breath was whooshing in and out of chest. My God! Were they surrounding me? I couldn't think straight. Couldn't still the thundering staccato beat of my heart. I'd even stopped and just stood there like a dummy, head hanging unable not to listen to their baiting, the thrashing onward rush of their bodies as they tore through the long grass, coming closer towards me....

And then she was there again. 
"Down moko, make yourself small"
I didn't think about it. I didn't question it. I just listened. Paid attention and did what she told me to, moving when she said move, stopping and waiting and once, moving back and waiting until she urged me forward again, until eventually...

I sat hidden in the long grass opposite my back fence with safety beyond barely a hop, skip and a jump away. I wanted to run to it, leap over the wire and sprint onward to the back door, through it and into my Father's arms. But leaving the long grass meant crossing an open mowed area, where I might be visible. I'd already made to rise, leg muscles taunt and ready to propel me forward...

"Wait... Be still and small moko. Wait." I sunk back slowly and heard a harsh whisper that seemed almost on top me.

"Where did she go? Can anyone see her?"
And another to my left... "Awwwwwww I don't know man, who the fuck gives a shit, she's long gone, I'm outa here"
I could hear him as he moved back and away from where I crouched, curled tight around myself.

Other voices called out as back and forth they bantered, the noises they made pushing through the tall grass, fading away as surely as their voices. Giving me a false sense of security as again the fence tempted me. So close and yet so far...

Minutes passing like years, I waited. Alone and in the dark, the urge to flee so powerful and strong that it was all I could do not to give in to it... Then the strike of a match, so loud and close that I barely suppressed the scream I could taste in my throat. The sudden flare in the darkness mere feet away from where I sat.The briefest glimpse of a face before it glowed unnaturally behind cupped hands and then the acrid stench of a cigarette... The red glow was a beacon that I watched in amazement as it rose seemingly of it's own volition upward, passing so close I was certain he'd step right down on top of me. Again, the overwhelming urge to panic, to scream, to break cover and run... Before I realized he was leaving too, moving off into the distance, no longer in my line of sight. And yet still I waited.

Only when the crickets had once again resumed their chorus did I move. But I stayed low and crept gradually closer to the fence line, easing myself carefully over it and moving with a quick sureness through my own yard to the backdoor. I nearly sobbed with relief at seeing my Father framed in the light of the kitchen window. I could see him shaking his head and muttering to himself, peering out into the darkness. He couldn't see me of course but I knew I was in for it when I'd barely turned the door handle before he was yanking it backward out of my hand, reaching for me and dragging me inward. Angry eyes met mine, but there was fear there too. Fear that something bad could have happened. Yet still his hand went to his leather belt...

So when he roared in my face and let fly with his belt, the sharp cracks catching me across the thighs and calves, I stood there and took it. He was yelling something about what time did I call this and how I knew Goddammit! That I was supposed to be in before the streetlights came on... That I was irresponsible and a selfish... And all the other stuff I did that drove him nuts and came out when he got mad. I kept my head down and my mouth shut and took my licking, shaking from head to toe. I was exhausted beyond belief but went to bed after cooling the welts on my legs with cold water, grateful that the only pain I'd suffered this night was from them.

There were other times she came to, too many to count over the years. Or perhaps I should say discount... Then there were others that came in the night to warn of loved ones passing, some who didn't know what had happened to them and sought help, scaring the daylights out of me in the process, when someone solid disappeared before my eyes. I eventually learnt how to deal with it and the manifestations, for want of a better word, are few and far between now.

One time in my early twenties, I took my eldest son, who was still a baby and traveled from Auckland to Mount Maunganui, near Tauranga to visit my Mother in-law overnight. She was a 'bigwig' with boy scouts and was there for the annual scouting jamboree, camped with hundreds of others in huge barrack-like tents, altogether in paddocks not far from the shore. In the early hours of the morning, I was woken by the cold. I rose half asleep to check my young son, tucked up snug and toasty warm and sleeping peacefully in a cane crib beside me. Seeing he was fine, I threaded my way down the rows of sleeping bodies intending to hit the head, but was distracted by the sounds of bare feet running past the tent. Instantly alert, I quickly headed outside to investigate when movement to my left caught my eye...

I have no idea of warfare or battle strategies and merely relate what I saw and remember from that night. I therefore apologize if it makes little sense...

Without even being aware of how I'd gotten there, I found myself facing the mountain and watched in skin crawling numbness as Maori warriors rose up from the ground before me. Wearing nothing but their short puipui (grass skirts) most carrying taiaha (long clubs), some with shortened muskets and others with what appeared to be deadly pounamu (greenstone) mere. The flattened fighting clubs, the stone sharpened on one side and capable of shearing the top of a mans skull off, with one blow.

The high pitched eerie wail of a Maori war chant echoed around the valley between the land and the sea. The peruperu or haka, meant as physiological intimidation reverberated through my body.  I could feel the mounting tension, smell the terror from those unseasoned amongst the British soldiers, who outnumbered the oncoming threat as they took up defensive positions in front of the mountain and flanking either side of the line, with the mountain at their back. The first line of soldiers were kneeling on one leg, the other a brace for an elbow with arms outstretched and a cradle for the long barreled musket, stiletto-like bayonet screwed firmly in place...


But I regress for a moment in the heat of battle... When I was a small child, we went for occasional visits and stays on the family marae,(communal enclosed area of land with a main meeting house of the iwi, tribe for gathering and sleeping with several smaller buildings) usually for funerals and weddings. My iwi is Ngati Raukawa and our marae is named Aotearoa(land of the long white cloud) and is close to Kihikihi, the town I born in, in the heart of the Waikato district. It is one of the more affluent tribes today with large land holdings and money for further education.


My favorite time was of an evening crouched on the porch near where the old kuia's sat, (old women) listening to ghost stories, legends of our iwi and remember tales that were past on in typical age old fashion, by the telling a story... One old kuia was scarier than the others, with moko, (tattoo) on her chin and lips, the blue green ink a constant source of fascination. Her aged face intrigued me with the deep wrinkles that were carved like furrows in her skin. She was the oldest woman I ever saw and as such a respected member of the tribe. She would sit it seemed, on the porch of the meeting house smoking her pipe, with her worn cloak around her withered shoulders and her eyes rheumy with age, all day, every day. She refused to speak English and picked on anyone who came near. She was avoided by the younger ones, but for some reason I crawled into her lap one night and huddled against her. I was hidden and snug within the folds of her cloak, my small hand darting up now and then to play with the whiskers on her chin. To touch and trace her wrinkles. She seemed to enjoy me being there and was where, more often than not I could be found when not up to mischief somewhere else. The little history that follows, before getting back to the battle, was learnt by listening to her, to those stories...


To the Maori, who saw themselves as defenders of the land, the pakeha(pale skin Gods with eyes in the back of their heads) were rapists of the natural resources. Felling the once mighty Kauri and Totara forests for the sake of their unquenchable avarice for more timber and to clear the land for settlement. More and more settlers arrived from across the sea, who fenced the land and used deadly force to protect their properties. The land was Papa-tua-nuku, mother earth, the heart of the Maori people and provided for all her children...

To the English Army who fought for Queen Victoria with conscripts from Australia, America, Canada, Scotland, Ireland and Wales. The Maori were viewed as little more than ignorant savages, worthy of nothing short of extermination. They stood in the way of progress, didn't value personal items and had little understanding of the need for proper governance by the Crown and the vital, necessary acquisition and distribution of land to non-Maori. Who simply had no concept of proper fighting etiquette, choosing instead cunning, the peruperu, stealth and attacking without forewarning or provocation.


Yet on 6 February 1840 the Treaty of Waitangi (Weeping waters) would be signed. Nine original documents were made and signed by nearly five hundred Maori chieftains and representatives of the great Queen of England, Victoria. Essentially, it recognized Maori ownership of their lands and property. It offered them the same rights and protection as those enjoyed by British subjects and in turn, the Maori of the North Island of Aotearoa, gave the sovereignty of the country and the governing of the same to the British Crown.


The Treaty largely ignored became a bone of contention with the land and the acquisition of more leading to rebellion and the Maori Land Wars that pitted eighteen thousand soldiers at peak deployment against five thousand hostile natives at peak deployment and lasted from 1845 to 1872. Both sides would suffer extensive causalities...

Mount Maunganui had been a Pa, a fortified barricade of defense, with trenches cut around the mountain that I believe are still visible there today. While the troops faced outward and away from the mountain at their backs, the warriors scrambled upward about the sides, before pouring in, overwhelming their enemy with their ferocity and attacking them from the rear... the bloodcurdling screams, the confusion, the explosive roar of musket fire echoing and seeming to come from everywhere all at once... and the blood shed that ran a river of red to soak into the earth from both sides... finally dying away to barely an echo as the scene dissolved back into the shadows before me...
The last thing I remembered was being on my knees and vomiting the remains of my supper, before wearily returning to camp.

Another time was on the night before my Father died. He was in a hospice hospital in Kaukapakapa and I'd been going to see him alone in the middle of the night, driving the thirty miles or so from where we lived, to sit with him. He'd been a big man in life, before the accumulated ravages of emphysema and cancer, had reduced him to the flesh covered skeleton on the bed before me. He was past talking, trapped within until his body like a clock, finally wound down and stopped altogether.

Barely recognizable, it broke my heart to see him as he was. Especially when my head was filled to overflowing with the laughter and love, the time he'd given to us as children, the fierceness of his protection, his pride... I remembered the travels he'd taken us on, four kids and a dog crammed into a mini clubman van, stopping where we wanted, fishing from the beach, or prying oysters from the rocks, his smiling Irish hazel eyes telling us how we were the light of his life... So very many, wonderful memories. Too many to count...

So I visited when no one else did. Just sat in a chair beside his bed, holding his hand gently in mine and giving comfort in the dark. I leaned forward and laid my head near his shoulder, closed my eyes and told him of all the wonderful things I could remember from childhood.

I told him how very much I loved him and that I would miss him. I thanked him for giving me life, for being my Daddy, for all the times he stood firm at my back, for any and everything I could think of. Finally I told him I forgave the darkness in him and then... I told him it was time for him to go. That he didn't need to worry about any of us anymore, that it was okay to let go and fly free... His breathing changed as I spoke, the wheezing gasps to a rattle, the pauses between each labored inhalation, widening.

And then he suddenly began to sit up...

I sat up too and watched in astonishment as he opened his eyes and looked with a fearful grimace around the room. His hand was clutching tight to mine now, like the claws of a bird. He didn't see me at first, but stared wildly around in confusion, before locking on the figures that crowded close. I looked at them too but if I stared directly, they were simply bright spots of light. Only when I looked away and out of the corner of my eyes did I see them all. Too many souls to count... All with a connection to share. Then one by one, they slowly began to appear and just to add to the extraordinary, only their top halves, so they seemed to be floating in a most startling way above themselves. Only one or two spared a glance for me and smiled softly. There was a strange buzzing in my ears, like static over the airways... like too many voices all trying to speak at once.

I spoke then, telling him it was okay, that they'd come to show him the way and how it would all be alright now. He looked at me and in a voice strangely hollow and threadbare from lack of use, he said,

"Louise? Is that you honey?"

I tried to smile, scarcely able to see him through my tears but managed a quick nod and wanted to say something more, something meaningful to him. But I could feel the strain of the moment as we locked eyes and then, it was just too late. He'd slumped back against the pillows, once more catatonic.

I had said my goodbyes and left as the sun came up, knowing it would be my brothers and sister who were there for his last breath...But it was the shell of our Father nothing more...all that lingered of the man who had made such an impact in my life. His spirit, his soul whatever you want to call it...to me it's just energy...the same energy that connects us all, burst free from what earthly ties still bound him. It poured through me in a moment of bliss that filled my mind with such love, such joy and serenity that I was elated...a strange thing to say as he left me for good...but there was peace too... 

I don't know why I have sometimes seen, felt or heard things differently from what others perceive at times, but I have learnt to pay attention.

It was never something I wanted or actively encouraged, but I've learnt to respect it.

The few times that I tried to learn more about it, led to things even more bizarre. So I learnt to accept it for what it was and is...

It's lessened over the years and for that I am truly grateful.

The SEX Game...

I must be,
the living epitome, of the word putzing...
As surely, no one I know, could possibly, engage, in as many inconsequential activities as I do!

I'm left to ponder how it is, that I manage to fill an entire day...
Yet wonder what on earth I actually did with it, when falling into bed some nights...
Jeez Louise! It's a worry, I tell you...

It is true, that my hobbies are ab-so-lute-ly useless.
They provide no monetary reward or gain, -what so ever, notoriety, or anything else worth mentioning!
Regardless of how much I enjoy doing them...

Yet still I persist. Happy and perfectly content, to lose myself completely, when either making a new doll, writing, singing away to myself on the karaoke machine... or generally just putzing about in my sewing room, either on the computer or doing, God only knows what else!
The time continues to march steadily by, until I'm scratching my head, wondering, yet again, where it went to...

It's not about distraction either. As if anything, I focus too much, on whatever it is I'm making or doing, to the point where I give it too much of a priority, when it isn't one at all.
The opposite is true too. As for some sick reason, when I do have a 'deadline' I like to wait till the very last possible minute to stress myself out, trying to complete whatever task it is... Daft! Absolutely fricken balmy!

GAH!! Bloody hate that!

Except, well lately anyway... I've been trying to maintain, some sort of 'semblance of order' since I started really writing as opposed to writing once in a blue moon... or every other year or two...

And lo and behold....

So far so good.

I gave myself a challenge a couple of months back, by writing book reviews.
The blogsite I found, has two distinctly different, book review sites;

Whipped Cream Reviews; -a blogsite dedicated to reviewing erotic romance fiction, whether novels, novellas, short stories, anthologies, etc, etc.

and The Long and the Short of It; -their sister site, that review non erotic romance fiction.


I decided, that if I were to be given, FREE books to read and then review, - that I wanted the GOOD STUFF!
Seriously!... -A great story, with light 'slap and tickle'...
Or a really great story, with enough heat to scorch your fingers, just by turning the pages...
It was a no-brainer.

Talk about fun! And quite the learning curve too!
Trouble is, I've read soooo many erotic romance novels of late, -that I swear...

...I have elves and fairies, were-panthers, werewolves, demons, demigods, dragons, vampires, angels, super humans, aliens, navy seals, hopeful housewives, cowboys, mermaids, mermen, pirates, strange orgasmic sucking plants and creatures, -and all the rest of them, merrily fornicating in my poor head...

They're also, an inventive lot, -all quite happy to 'go at it' with just themselves, each other, in pairs, and more, same sex, or not, menage, multiple-partner, multi-species, and/or every, other, possible and some highly improbable, combinations, thereof...

And if that's not enough... throw in a little, -or a lot, as the case may be, of kink and maybe a Dom or two and his sub or subs, some bondage, whips, chains, belts, ball gags, corsets, exhibitionism, voyeurism, spanking, fisting, anal play, forced seduction, toys and whatever other various fetishes, get your motor running...

...and no doubt, your head will feel as fit to burst as mine does of late!~

ROFLMAO!

You've got to have a sense of humor right!?!

Believe it or not... I've not actually had SEX on the brain so much, since... I dunno, high school?

Or at least, not since the first five years of both my marriages... These days, it's more about quality than quantity, and planning an 'encounter' rather than a spontaneous occurrence. Not complaining, it's always fabulous, it's just that life (and putzing!) sometimes get in the way.

And the point of all this is... the writing of course!

I discovered after doing some www research, that the 'lion's share' of the literary market in the past few years or so, has gone to... TA-DAH!! Erotic Romance Fiction.
These writers are making an ABSOLUTE killing!
*And so they should!! I'm a firm believer, in using whatever talents you're gifted with, and reaping the benefits accordingly!*

Or the publishing houses are...

Where once cowboy novels and westerns were popular, and stories fantastical of witches, boy wizards and vampires etc, etc, raked in the bucks; things literary, have undergone a subtle but dramatic change...

Nowadays, if they don't have a romantic twist and an equally absorbing plot to them, and the characters are NOT having fabulous, mind-numbing, descriptive explicit sex, with **rules of engagement firmly in place... And there is NOT a HEA (happily ever after, to the non-initiated...)to die for, well then... they are simply sadly lacking and barely worth spending, ones hard earned money or time on...

...At least, that's the view, of a growing corner of the market, dedicated to spending a massive chunk of change on... Erotic Romance Fiction.


** For those interested, the "Rules of Engagement" for writing an erotic romance novel, follows and are taken from 'The Author Information Packet' at Ellora's Cave:

The sexual relationship must be integral to and an important element of the storyline and the character development. Sex scenes should contribute to furthering the plot or affecting the development of the romantic relationship or the growth of the characters.

The story must include abundant and explicit sex and sexual tension, starting early and continuing throughout. Sex scenes must be described in graphic detail and explicit wording, not delicate euphemisms or purple prose.

The story must meet the definition of a romance novel: the primary focus must be on the development of a romantic relationship (the core romance drives the narrative), and there must be an emotionally satisfying committed ending for the main characters.


Forgetting of course, that in the 'real world' there are probably only a handful of extraordinary people to every....

Boat full?...

Football field full...?

City or country full?

-Whatever!

.......to us, the numerous ordinary folks, who can actually tell and write a tall tale, without boring the proverbial socks off everyone, who hears or reads it.

I therefore decided, that I very much wanted to "give it a bash."
To "get in on the action" so to speak, and pen a tale, or two, too...(as well, tutu!)


I have since made a re-acquaintance with the dictionary and thesaurus...

And the reason behind the book reviews of erotic novels, begins to come clear...

Not so much for the 'research' into the sexual act, you understand... nooooooo...

After all, I'm a veritable "know-it-all" with nearly f-i-f-t-y y-e-a-r-s experience alive, to draw upon!!

Well... as it turns out, that's a bit of 'wishful thinking'...
Cause when I added up the years on my fingers, I discovered that much to my chagrin, I've only being "doing IT".... for the past thirty years or so...
Still, you'd have thought I'd have tried, whatever there was to try of it by now right!?!...

Good Grief!...And to think...
... I actually had the audacity, the presumption to think, I already knew all there was to know about sex...

OMG!!! Was I ever in for an education!!!

I've since come to the conclusion (here I go again!) that I'm sadly quite clueless... LOL! Or was...(and again!!)

I thought I was reading and researching erotic romances, to learn; 'how to describe an erotic scene' -without resorting to a dictionary for explanation or waiting for the paint to dry....

Or how about; using a shockingly forbidden word, in a way meant to empower a woman, -when it comes to her feminine genitalia for example, -rather than, the viscous and derogatory use, I'd previously always associated said word with...

And those are just two examples that are actually quite difficult to emulate...

Ohhhhh... but it's such fun trying! And I haven't had this much fun, being so thoroughly naughty... in years!!

So wish me luck, and if you're over eighteen, check out my humble attempts so far...
If you're not, SCRAM!
The address is on my profile, just click My Web Page under Contact...
Pearl, ~ erotic romance extraordinaire wannbe! :) Hah!

Rising To The Bait...

As I sit in my sewing room, 
sipping on luke-warm coffee, listening to the birds and glancing out the window now and then to watch the two squirrels in the oaks...
Who've managed, over the last couple of weeks to strip all the peaches off the two peach trees out front, I'm pondering my new doll...

I have a friend in New Zealand, her name is Chris and from the moment we met, as 'first-timers' outside the home of a woman holding a quilt club meeting, something just 'clicked' between us. We quickly became inseparable after discovering a mutual 'fetish' for fabric and it's manipulation and could be found, more often than not, with heads down and bums up, working on a quilt or two or three... We pursued the hunt for more fabrics to add to our growing stashes with fervent enthusiasm and would relax after the chase, whether fruitful or not, usually by enjoying a nosh up at one of our favorite cafes or restaurants. We both love good food too, especially the exotic flavours of Thai and Indian, although a barbecue and our families along to share the ambiance, always went down a treat. Thankfully our men folk liked each other and discovered they both enjoyed fishing, even better -they were good at it and invariably came home with fresh snapper. So there were many a pleasant afternoon or evening, spent relaxing and sharing a few drinks, good food, time and mellow conversation with Andy and Chris.

I miss that too. It's practically a lost art form these days as people find they have less time and inclination to spend with 'strangers'. To compromise and converse and waste their valuable time and energies, developing friendships past the acquaintance stage. Sad really. A reminder of the speed with which technology is constantly changing the world around us and our place in it. It really is possible to glimpse a future where relationships, friendships and encounters, even sexual ones over the world wide net may become an everyday reality.

Hang on a minute... -that's already a reality...

Chris was born and raised in England, she's a few years older than I, -yet younger in her attitude to life and definitely in music! It's one of the few areas where we have differing opinions. I like old music (although there are exceptions, -I love Lady Gaga and Zero7), she likes new, I also have a penchant for antiques, she's prefers something functional and modern.

She's lived an interesting and diverse life and has four children and lots of grandchildren. She's married to a wonderful man, who adores her and together they've made a life for themselves in New Zealand and we miss them both terribly.

Chris and I shared secrets, our hopes and dreams and our past traumas and achievements. She was one of the first real BFF's I ever had, as my previous experiences and attempted friendships with other women over the years, haven't always been as successful as I would have liked. Blame it on being raised by a man I guess...
But I can count on one hand, the ones I treasure, and my friendship with her is simply unique.
I know it will be a lasting one, whatever the years and distance between.

I'm a lousy friend when it comes to writing or staying in touch. I'm not one for subtleties in relationships and much prefer a shove to a gentle nudge to get my ass moving on some such or other. She is subtle. Able to say with a few words that I 'hear' in her Pomme lilt and tra-la-lahs on Facebook or an email, that it's high time we conversed and shared a little of our daily lives and dreams. She's an 'ethereal sort'. She reminds me of a woodland fairy Fae, with an old soul that has seen a thousand life times, yet still has high hopes that the rest of us will eventually get our shit together and figure it out. She's not perfect. Far from it! Her life and the paths she chose and the choices she made, haven't always panned out as she hoped they would, so as well as the laughter that shines out from within, there's also the sorrows. She's a tiny little thing, an enviable ball of energy when focused, yet as calm and calming as a lazy summer afternoon when the need arises. She could've easily made me feel awkward, clumsy and huge beside her, but such things wouldn't even have registered within her 'hemisphere', as her perceptions of people and their place in her world, are based on so much more than mere physical attributes, or lack of them. She's instinctive, nurturing, pensive, spiritual, wise yet wonderfully 'daft' too and able to laugh at herself. She's easily the most incredibly generous woman I've ever met, -she gives of herself so completely. And she's also bit of an onion. It's been interesting peeling away her 'layers' a little at a time over the years and I doubt I'll get to see them all! But I do so enjoy her stories of times gone by and of engaging moments and interesting people she met along the way.

We've given each other 'challenges' now and then. My last challenge to her was sending her a large box of goodies to make an artistic fabric doll with. Did I mention courage? In no time at all, she turned out a doll, using as a foundation, a Patti Culea pattern and created a Medusa, in all her feminine and wily glory, complete with a head of hissing green snakes! Just incredible!! I was so blown away and proud of her, that when she sent me the photos of the doll, I promptly sent a couple off to Patti!

This time, the challenge is to make a doll of each other. Should be a hoot! But apart from choosing some fabrics in her favorite colors, I've yet to make a firm decision on the rest...

Me and my BIG mouth! -How the hell does one capture the meaning of friendship and convey in my medium of choice; fabric and wire, stuffing and paints, just how much she and her friendship means to me? Could it possibly show the love I feel for this woman? She's more than a sister; it's almost as if we knew each from another time and place, and just 'reconnected' again in this life. It's a funny thing trying to define the love one can feel for a friend. One day on Facebook, we'd been chatting and ended with our usual 'love you forever' and 'miss you' endearments, when someone she and Andy knew, piped in saying that our 'love-in' was turning him on and could he join in. I cracked up laughing when I read it, thought, "what a wally" and dismissed it as a joke. Later though, after receiving multiple messages from Facebook saying that so & so had commented, I realized that he'd continued with the quips until Andy commented, telling him to 'pull his head in'. Andy is 'quietly macho'. He doesn't need to 'throw his weight around' to get a point across and is very clever with words. It's very Hot! Anyway, so & so made it sound dirty somehow and it saddened me that his small-mindedness, whether a joke or not, belittled something pure and wonderful. She is beautiful to me, inside and out and though I love her dearly, the thought of sex with her, just doesn't 'do it' for me. I'd say she has the 'wrong equipment', but as I adore Andy too, I might get accused of wanting to shag him instead!

LMAO!! And now I'm getting off this subject, as I'm liable to have DDGH (my, drop-dead-gorgeous-husband)spill me over his lap for a spanking!

As I said, -love and it's many forms... not easy to define.

Our husbands though, have never felt the least bit threatened by it, -which in my mind, says more about them.

So back to the doll... Do I 'keep it light' and go for flattery and pick a time in her life when her youthful beauty was fresh faced and innocent? But I never knew her then and who's to say we'd have actually liked one another? LOL! So perhaps, better to endeavor to capture the true beauty of the woman in my minds eye; definitely exaggerated, just a little of course!

Contented and curled up in a chair with one of her moggies on her lap, or sewing away at her machine, or with her eyes alight with love and laughter and her arms about her Andy or Spring... hmmmmm.... choices...

Best get at it and see what develops...

M-i-c-k-e-y-m-o-u-s-e......

WEDNESDAY, MAY 25, 2011

M I C…K E Y…M O U S E…

On one of my first visits to mainland USA and sunny California, about twelve years ago now, my new husband took his cousin, Aunt and I to Disneyland. I couldn't believe it, at the ripe old age of thirty-six, I was finally fulfilling a life-long dream of going to D*I*S*N*E*Y*L*A*N*D.

Even strolling along Hollywood Boulevard, visiting Grumman’s Chinese Theater and seeing all the handprints cast in concrete on the pavement from all the many famous stars of yesteryear and today, couldn't compete with Disneyland.

Nowhere he took me on that trip could.

Growing up as a kid in New Zealand, I'd ride the bus home from school, run down the hill to our house and inside, make a 'door-stop' sandwich (two over-thick slices of bread I’d cut from the loaf, smothered with vegemite or golden syrup), then settle in, in front of our black and white telly to watch the Mickey Mouse Club Show.

Like the true mouseketeer I imagined myself to be, I’d sing along and prance around the living room with my fluffy rabbit ears on—that I'd folded over to look like mousie ears—and pretend I was one of the gang. One day I’d go there, and it would be everything I had ever dreamed it would be.

To the child I was then, growing up with just my Dad and siblings, and very little in the way of material things that weren’t necessities, Disneyland was simply magic. It was the place where a real Sleeping Beauty’s castle stood, there were fireworks every night, rides that defied imagination, and especially, a place where all my favorite characters roamed the streets and were happy to see you.

Disneyland inflamed my imagination and the Disney classic movies like Cinderella, The Little Mermaid, Peter Pan, Lady and The Tramp, Fox and Hound, Fantasia and Snow White and the Seven Dwarves and more, were my tentative ideals of romantic love.  

It was an enchanted place of fairies and fairy Godmothers, flying lost boys and crocodiles that ticked, beautiful witches and ghastly stepmothers. Dastardly pirates and a wizard mouse, capable of creating a cacophony of Fantasia. Where talking dogs ran free and unchecked, and mermaids could walk on land. Or where you could ride on a magic carpet up and away, and discover a cave of treasures and it was the place where beautiful Disney Princesses, all got their handsome Princes in the end, and lived happily ever after.

I was convinced it was all real, because Disneyland, was a real place, where dreams really did come true.

Seems so silly now, but I was young and impressionable with an imagination that knew no bounds.

When it finally came to pass that I'd walk along Main Street Disney, that ragamuffin 'little girl' I once was, beamed bright from within me like a spotlight and made sure I left my age at the gate on arrival. Cousin Carole had worked at Disney in her teen years, which was a Godsend, as she knew the best places to eat, and sit, the what/when/where of all the rides and where to get the best souvenirs and everything else Disney. I was in heaven and determined to keep them all there at the parks, from the time it opened, until the final fireworks burst above in all their splendor against the night sky.

Even though I was no longer the little girl with big dreams I’d once been, Disneyland through my thirty-six-year-old eyes was sublime, breathtaking and exceeded every expectation I’d ever held. I rode as many rides as I could that day and evening, sat cross-legged on the pavement with everyone else to watch the parades, and drank in every little thing, sight and sound and catalogued each memory away to relive another day.

I had a sore jaw for a week afterward from grinning ear to ear, the 'funniest' thing happened on the way back to Main St to see one of the parades...

The cast actors in their Disney costumes had passed by us all day long. I'd smile and point like everyone else and watch with pleasure as the kids raced to flock around them in earnest for the chance of a hug, a photo and autographs. I remember marveling how some of them, in full animal costumes, didn't keel over and pass out in the heat! I'd bought two autograph books with me to America ("I'm bound to meet someone famous! Right?" I'd told my sons) and I hoped to fill them on my travels, and thus, kept them with me at all times 'just in case'. I hadn't had the opportunity to get one signature in either book at that stage, when I spotted the small dressed character of Mickey Mouse, trailing a gaggle of children, like the proverbial Pied Piper behind him. I'd been talking animatedly with my family, but stopped mid-sentence when I saw Mickey, 'stepped out of myself' and watched fascinated, as the girl I'd once been darted over to join the children, with my autograph books firmly in hand. It was only when she was nearly there and glanced back with eyes bright and a huge smile that she 'saw' me and the dumbstruck looks on my new cousins' and Aunts faces, that my smile disappeared. I stood forlornly looking at the ground and immediately felt myself slam back into my body as a wave of shame and nausea flowed over me. It felt like everyone was staring at the 'old' lady acting like a kid. My eyes burned and I wanted to flee but stood there rooted to the spot instead, not knowing what to do. Horrified and feeling helpless, I looked up and saw again the faces of my cousin and Aunt, then finally braved a look at my new husband. I could just imagine his face, he'd probably be scowling, maybe I'd even embarrassed him in front of his family and he'd want to leave the park.

The thoughts chased each other through my mind in an instant, convincing me of what I'd see, so it took a moment or two to realize he wore that soft, sweet smile instead. The one that lights up his eyes with laughter or passion and never fails to 'rock my world'. God, I LOVE his eyes! He calmly came over and took my hand and brushed his lips over my fingers, tilted my chin up and kissed me right where I stood, in front of everyone including his Aunt and cousin. I blushed to my toes, just like a silly schoolgirl. Then he calmly slipped my hand in his and patiently waited in line with me.

I got Mickey's autograph in both books and later in bed, just before going to sleep, I thought to tell him what had happened. To try to explain in words, what must have seemed such odd behavior. When I got to the bit about 'stepping outside myself,' he simply said, "I know sweetheart, I saw her. Such a beautiful bright flame of a girl with wild hair in tangles down her back and laughing big brown eyes! Do you think we could make one just like her?"

Funny how the words he spoke came back as clearly as if he'd said them yesterday...
We didn't get the daughter I would have liked to have given him but were blessed with a most precious and bonny son, who brings us so much joy.

Life and dollmaking...

Over the past year or so, I've become rather passionate about making cloth dolls. Everything I've learnt over the past 40+ years has prepared me for it. From the life drawing classes in New Zealand to the clothes I’ve made, the paintings and the drawings, the quilt making, the 'messing about' with jewelry making, even the short stories I wrote and the 'junk' I've collected over the years, -all of it finally has an outlet.

I don’t think I’m particularly good at it yet, but I’ll get better with time and practice, in the meantime, it’s enough to just have fun and ‘enjoy the ride’.

I've met so many talented and generous artists and have been shown nothing but kindness and encouragement. Even by those who didn't necessary 'understand’ or share the ‘vision’ of my chosen art form.

Yet one lady tickled me by asking about one of my dolls. She was disturbed by the depiction and wanted a reason why. She couldn't help but wonder what on earth possessed me to make a pregnant doll, of all things. Especially one with such a full, huge belly.

I remember looking at her and thinking back to one of the three times that I was lucky enough to get to the huge belly stage (as opposed to one of the eight miscarriages when I didn’t) and how for the first time in my life, I felt truly beautiful. I still remember standing in front of a mirror, bared to the waist and thrilled to finally have breasts, instead of just the large nipples, with barely any breast fat beneath, they'd been till then!

I loved everything about being pregnant! The passion and the love that got me pregnant. The wonder of the subtle and not so subtle changes in my body as we ‘grew’ and developed. Those first flutters of movement, felt with awe and such bliss that nothing can compare to it. Even the birthing of my children, the seemingly never-ending labour for inches, the indescribable shock and pain of delivery, falling in love with a brand new wee person. Becoming a family.

I went from an athletic girls willowy body to a woman’s rounded curves in just a few short months and became a Mother.

That’s why I made a pregnant doll. I wish I could have explained all that to her, but alas, we are from different generations and different cultures.

Now you should see Eve; my one breasted cancer survivor doll... She proudly wears a designer outfit, deliberately cut away to reveal the empty side of her chest...