Blurb for my Nanobook....

Well...I can only define this one as ultra sensual chick lit meets mythology. But how fun it was to write:

STONER

~

Fate is so unfair.

Medusa's two Gorgon sisters got to be immortals. But not Medusa. Turned out she was quite mortal. And her life? Totally unfair. Every time she almost got lucky, the man of her desires didn't just get a hard on. He turned completely to stone. Then Medusa completely lost her head over Perseus. That little faux pas landed her in Hades for all Eternity. And as a virgin, too. Well, almost.

Hades cannot face the idea of spending an eternity listening to Medusa whine about her ill-conceived fate. So he makes a deal with Medusa that she can't refuse. She can go back to earth and seek true love. She will get three chances to win a man's heart. If she can manage to do this without turning him to stone, she will not only get laid, she'll earn immortality. But if she fails, she'll spend her eternity as a mannequin in the Peoria Saks Fifth Avenue Factory Outlet, decked out in last season's seventy-five percent off designer seconds.

Either way, Hades wins.

Next thing Medusa knows she's standing buck naked in a dark alley where a group of down on their luck addicts make their homes. At the urging the troubled, but once infamous top-model/crack addict Athena Sebastian, Medusa finds herself spilling her troubles at a narc-anon meeting. "Hi. I'm Medusa. I'm a s-stoner. And I've hit rock bottom...."

Under the tutelage her new support group, Medusa turns her destiny over to a higher power (A Tantric Yoga Master) and embarks full throttle on her twelve step program in hopes of curing herself of her stoner lifestyle once and for all. But Medusa's friend Athena has her own past life ax to grind, and Medusa is the ticket for revenge she's waited an eternity for.

Quote for the...well...year, I guess!

I don't usually throw quotes up, but I love Jack London, and I love this quote. And I'm completely uninspired as far as blogging goes today.

So here it is....

"You can't wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club." ~Jack London

OMG, Barbie and Ken go Political

OK, Barbie, do NOT make me like you.

This video makes an obvious political statement, but it's so well done that I had to tip my hat to the Plastic Princess for taking a stand for something beyond Pink Power.

Check out Fierce Romance!

Fierce Romance has a great entry today. If you've ever been insulted or felt the need to defend your genre, you'll want to give them a shout out!

I Object!

Main Entry: ob·jec·ti·fy
Function: transitive verb
Pronunciation: ob-'jek-tuh-fī
Inflected Form(s): -fied ; -fy·ing
1 : to treat as an object or cause to have objective reality

Recently, I was told by another writer who saw some of the cover images on my Writer's Gone Wild group that my writing (and my genre) sexually objectify men.

Excuse me?

I have a problem with the presumption that romance writers--and the cover models employed by their publishers--manage to objectify anyone. Even within our genre, publishers have certain taboos, and work that condones sexual victimization of any kind is one of the universal ones.

"Objectify" is a verb. To objectify another person requires an action, performed by a perpetrator. Objectification also requires a victim. In order to be sexually objectified, a victim must have been denied their right to say "no".

A minor who is forced to perform in a peep show in exchange for food and shelter is a *victim* of objectification. The young men who were coerced into sexual acts under the mantle of presumed power within the Catholic Church were both victimized, and objectified. A young boy I know, autistic and at the time nonverbal, was molested at the age of ten by a documented, same sex, sexual predator.

Nobody cared much when it happened, save the people who loved him.

This child was victimized. He was also traumatized. He was, indeed, objectified, both by his perpetrator, and by the caregivers who chose to diminish his plight in order to remove themselves from the finger of accusation. They knew this child couldn't effectively testify. Their actions told him that it's ok to suffer molestation if you're not intellectually perfect. They turned him into an object.

None of these scenarios allowed their victims the luxury of choice.

Romance writers and the amazing cover models who depict romantic heroes are not victims. Nor have they been objectified. They have trained for, auditioned for, and prepared for their careers empowered by personal choice. In return, they have been well compensated for the delightful work that they do.

To presume that they are victims of objectification demeans the very real horrors faced by real victims of sexual objectification.

End of rant.

Fire away! :D

Red Sage Publishing, excerpts, etc.

Red Sage Publishing has a new blog, Red Sage Revealed. Hop on over and give it a looksee. If the blog is half as successful as Red Sage itself, then my guess is this will become a must read for both readers and writers of romantic fiction.

With that said, I do believe it's excerpt time.

Let's do one from Kiss of the Cerberus. But first, a disclaimer....

By reading further, you certify that you are over the age of eighteen, and that you are not offended by sexually suggestive scenarios.

Whew. If you got past that, then dig in and have fun. Hope you enjoy.:D

~

Dana already knew that Half-Captain Ryder Alpha waited on the other side of this door. She knew because she could smell him—his earthy musk, the lingering tang of their sex.

The memory of his touch dragged a rebellious moan across her lips.

He is Fang, she cautioned herself. Hadn’t Steph warned her that sex with Fangs left the senses heightened for hours? Blinking back a rush of tears, she raised a trembling hand, knuckles tapping tentatively on Ryder’s office door.

"Come in." Ryder’s clipped command incited a shiver. It prickled at the small of her back, snaking up her spine to tingle at the nape of her neck. Last night, that baritone voice had run thick with passion, rasping her name.

Erotic images burst into her consciousness in stop-motion frames. Broad fingers dancing over her breasts. Velvety lips trailing kisses over her belly. Hot tongue laving her mons.

I am a fang banger. Her cheeks heated with shame even as her pussy creamed with desire.

"I said, come in." Today, that voice snapped, brittle with impatience.

Dana's nipples, still raw from his attentions, throbbed in time to her thudding heart. Crushing the file containing her orders to her breasts, she forced her wayward nipples to retreat.

Pushing the door open, she thanked her lucky stars that she’d chosen to wear a costume last night. Even pinned beneath Ryder, she’d concealed her identity behind that scarlet half mask.

Angling her cap lower, she stepped through the door, offering the chin-high, half salute reserved for officers of his kind. Fang kind.

Bracing his hands on the desk that loomed between them, Ryder stood.
God, he was huge. In more ways that one. Every nerve in her body crawled as her gaze followed him upward.

Circling to the front of his desk, a half-grin played about the corners of his lips. Closing the distance between them, his pupils coiled to points, sizing her up.
"Have we met, Lieutenant?" he asked, extending his hand.

She dared not touch him. Not if she expected to maintain control. "My orders, sir." Offering the folder in place of her hand, she knew the insult her actions implied.

Snapping the file from her hand, his lip curled. "At ease, Lieutenant."
Retreating to his desk, he settled one lean leg onto its edge to peruse her orders.

Dana’s gaze skidded away from his eyes, lingering on his mouth before resting on the safer terrain of his chest.

Well developed pecs strained against the Fang trident that blazed from his black t-shirt. The three-pronged staff of Triton came clasped in the jaws of Cerberus. Unlike the trident worn by the mortal SEAL’s, Dana knew this mark wasn’t any insignia of glory.

It was a brand. She’d seen it tattooed above the taut crevice of his ass as she’d undressed him last night.

"You're a...behaviorist?" Ryder’s iced gaze rose from the folder, peering through the chestnut shields of his eyebrows.

Beads of sweat pearled on her neckline.

"Yes, sir," she murmured, pinning her eyes to the ground.

"Look at me when you speak, Lieutenant."

Rolling her irises up, she glanced at him through the protective fringe of her lashes. The sweat beads gathered, travelling in hot rivulets between her breasts.

"What does a…behavior analyst…do?"

"Were you not briefed, sir?"

"I am Fang, Lieutenant."

"I assumed…"

"You assumed considerations seldom granted this unit." He slapped the folder closed, tossing it on the desk with such vengeance that the papers fanned out, fluttering toward the floor.

She stooped, collecting what bits of her file fell closest to her feet. "If you’ll only bother to finish reading..."

"I’ve read enough."

"Then you know my mission is to identify and manipulate certain field stimuli, eliciting a predictable response."

"You’re a fucking dog trainer."

"My techniques have human applications…"

"I’m no human, Lieutenant."

Snapping her head up, she skewered him with her glare. "I gathered as much."
He stepped closer. Before Dana could counter, his hand shot out, capturing her jaw, lifting up. She had little choice than to rise, gaze riveted to his.

"You were sent here to analyze me. To train me. Like an animal."

She nodded.

"Tell me," he grated. "Did you elicit a predictable response last night?"

She couldn’t restrain the gasp that tore from her throat. "You speak out of line."

"You want something to analyze?" Clamping his hand around the thick ridge straining against the seam of his shorts, Dana’s stare dropped to his enormous erection.

"Analyze this, Lieutenant."

If you've ever been rejected....you'll love this. :D