Just came across a really interesting blog entry. Check out Indida’s blog…

Kate Rothwell and Jordan Summers have been talking about being invisible and what effect it has had on their lives.

Kate seems to think that it’s something that happens as you grow older, and Jordan seems to think it has to do with what you look like, and your size.

I’m 30 years old, and obviously not an author, but I do admit to not really understanding the whole visibility issue.

I can’t recall ever feeling invisible, or ever wanting to be. My parents brought me up believing that I was as good as any other person on this planet, so I guess that helped (g). I’m quite opinionated, too, on my blog, and in my real life. Having said that, I don’t have a public life, so it’s pretty easy for me to say mostly what I want.

My parents had five children in total, there are just the four of us left now, but growing up, if you wanted something, you had to fight for it, you had to be the one who jumped the highest, shouted the most, and just plain, played the attention seeking game the best.

I recall going to a an Aston Martin DB9 launch party with my sister last summer (I was invited by the marketing manager of the club where it was held, who wanted me to do business with them, so this was an effort to schmooze me) and of course there were quite a lot of English TV stars there etc, and wannabe footballers wives, (who no doubt had blown their month’s wage on their Louis Vuitton and Gucci handbags, and diamond encrusted bling with 0.60 carat baguettes, in an effort to snare themselves a rich guy.)

I recall telling my sister to dress down, because I knew the type of grasping women who would be there, and I didn’t want to be associated with them in any way shape or form. Yes I can be a little snobbish, and?

So in an effort to be less visible, I donned a Marks and Spencers suit with some Kookai shoes that only cost £40 ($72), a Morgan top that cost just £29.99 ($54), and a pair of ear-rings from Warehouse that only cost £10 (approx $18).

Now my sister is absolutely stunning and outgoing, so to be honest, making her seem invisible was always going to be a hard task. She did well though, she wore a white gypsy skirt that she had made herself (so talented) and a white gypsy-type top that she’d bought from some modest girly shop in town. She still looked fantastic though. (g)

When we got to the party, we went into the queue with everybody else. I was so glad I’d worn a suit, I couldn’t possibly be mistaken for someone who was trying to snare a man, I was covered from head to toe for God’s sake, and the only bling I was sporting was my cheap ear-rings.

My sister and I giggled and bitched over the number of girls and women who looked as if their sole purpose for being there was to catch a rich man, and get lots of attention, and perhaps be spotted by a modelling scout.

I still recall this one girl who had a ball dress on. She looked very uncomfortable, she must have realised that she’d over-dressed for the occasion. She was accompanied by a tall beautiful looking girl (I think she was a model) who had the most exquisite top on… oops sorry I digress.

As we were standing in the line, marvelling at the masses of exposed skin, we were plucked out of the queue by one of the photographers who were there, and asked to pose for a photo. I can’t pretend to be camera shy, so me and sis posed like we were professionals (I didn’t say we weren’t vain) (g)

That was pretty much how the rest of the night went. There was a charity raffle, of which I won the top prize; one years gym membership, a day at a health spa, a VIP membership of the club, and a bottle of Moet. As you can imagine, I appreciated the Moet the most, because I was able to give it away to some friends who got married later that year. (g)

To this day, I still think the marketing manager fixed it so I won. (I had a PWC booking that she wanted to land)

We were accosted by that same photographer throughout the evening. It got so bad that even my sister (who’s more vain than I am) got fed up. I think the photographer was hot for her, which brought out all my sisterly protective feelings.

Sis and I spent most of the night giggling over the fact that in our effort to dress down, we were garnering more attention than if we’d made a huge effort.

It certainly proves that old adage of less being more sometimes.

I guess the point here wasn’t to be invisible, but to not portray what I saw as a negative image. If I’d truly wanted to be invisible, I believe I’d have achieved this no problem.

Invisibility isn’t an issue that I’ve had in my life so far, this may change as I get older, but to be honest as far as I’m concerned, it has less to do with your age or how you look, and more to do with how you carry yourself, and your enthusiasm for life, and whether or not you want to be invisible.

I used to have a colleague who was in her mid-fifties, she was so funny and witty, that she could talk about anything, and people would automatically listen. She was always the centre of attention, but that was just the way she was. Some people prefer to stay in the shadows.

I happen to think that people sub-consciously choose their own levels of visibility. People don’t just become invisible, they choose to shy away from the limelight, they choose to act in ways that ensure their low-key profile.

By not contributing to conversations, not offering up opinions, not reacting, you are saying to people, “take no notice of me, I’m happy where I am” so invariably, that’s exactly what happens. People stop taking notice of you.

So what do you think? Is being invisible something that happens to you, or do you think we choose our own levels of visibility?

I see JW Mckenna has a new book out with EC. (Sorry, I refuse to link here, if you want to look, go to EC)

Why doesn’t he ever show his versatility as a writer and write something other than heavy BDSM with the female being the dom rather than the pathetic sub who apparently gets off when she’s beaten, and humiliated, oops, that’s another of his books, shit, I just get too confused. (g)

Needless to say, after sampling a couple of his books, I shan’t be going there again. Yech.

Maili has some cool advise on what makes a cool author website, listen up Suzanne Brockman! (g)

JaynieR tells us why wolfie sex does not count as bestiality…

Jordan Summers has some interesting thoughts on being invisible, quite thought-provoking..

Smart Bitch Candy provides some commentary on the plight of women in Pakistan. A woman was publicly raped by four men because her 11 year old brother had walked home with a girl from another tribe. She was also paraded round the town naked… The men’s convictions were over-turned…

Laurie Gold has quit as columnist for Romancing The Blog, not sure whether that’s a good thing or not…

Rosario has an interesting column on RTB, about reading slumps… I think I may be experiencing this at the moment…

Lee Goldberg of Diagnosis Murder fame, whinges that writers aren’t getting a big enough cut of DVD sales.

Meljean Brook, talks about Big, Big Wangs and Cooters (g)

If you have any other interesting titbits to share, please feel free…

I’ve noticed the growing trend of trashing films which are big budget and have huge stars in them. Unless it’s French with subtitles film critics usually gleefully take apart such Hollywood projects.

I still recall watching the much acclaimed ‘Amelié’ with my husband, and honestly? WTF? That had to be the most boring film I’ve ever watched.

It strikes me that if a film doesn’t have sub-titles, and is not made in some obscure French principality, critics will pan it as “lacklustre”, or “lacking soul”, or some other bullshit way of saying it’s crap.

The fact is, I rarely agree with professional film critics, I feel they have too much of an agenda for me to take them seriously.

I watched Troy, after hearing all the bad reviews it had, knowing full well that in all honesty, I would probably love it, and yep, you guessed it, I did love it. There were some glaring innacuracies, and Helen pissed me off, but overall it was a film worth watching.

I have listed a bunch of critically acclaimed films that I have watched at one time or another, and thought was utter bollocks at the time:

A Room with a view (what an absolutely wank film)
The Aviator (Paul and I gave in and watched it, there are no words for how rubbish this film was)
Monster (WTF?)
The English Patient (Jesus!)
Amadeus (Oh. My. God)
Out of Africa (What was that dodgy South African Accent about?)
The Bridge on The River Kwai (the original version)
Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (great fighting scenes and very little else)
Scarface
Braveheart (I did like the kilt wearing Gibson, but not much else)
Raging Bull (seriously, rose tinted spectacles)
The Piano
Lost In Translation (what was the fuss about?)
A Beautiful Mind (yeah, yeah, another tortured eccentric genius, and so what?)
Master and Commander
Gosford Park (what an absolute waste of money)

I’m sure there will be people out there who think that I’m some kind of heathen for not enjoying these films, but quite frankly, I go to the pictures purely for enjoyment purposes, and none of the above films, float my boat.

So what about you?

During our long and arduous car journeys this weekend, a scene that I read in a book, got me thinking about stuff that I sometimes find a little irritating in romance books… Here’s what I came up with:

Heroes who kiss the heroine on the mouth after just having gone down on her. What’s that about?
This is a totally personal predjudice, but I have to say, when this happens in a romance, it always takes me out of the book. There’s too high an ewwww factor for me. The Tall Guy knows that if he’s been down there with his mouth, he better not come back up to suck my face. I don’t really want to know what my ‘down there’ tastes like. Yech.

Morning Breath. How come the heroes and heroines are able to constantly indulge in morning mouth marathons without brushing their teeth? Surely they can smell each other’s sewage-type morning breath?
Now I love the Tall Guy to bits, but after twelve years of sleeping with him, I still can’t bring myself to kiss him before the benefit of both of us having brushed our teeth. I guess I’m a little anal that way.

Virgin heroines who somehow manage to enjoy their first foray into the world of sexual penetration, even when their heroes have a huge schlong. They are just so damn lucky.
I can still remember losing mine. (No it wasn’t to my hubby, does that make me a slut?) I still recall screaming bloody murder when I was penetrated for the first time, it wasn’t a particularlyy enjoyable experience, and I nearly fainted when I saw the blood on the sheets.
Needless to say, I tried to disguise my screams as endless enjoyment of the act. I think I fooled my partner, he had no clue the agony he’d just caused me. Dickhead.

The hero going down on the heroine in the morning, after filling her with his love juice the night before. Surely the coochie is a little smelly after this? I sure wouldn’t want anybody to go down on me if I had a smelly p*ussy. Maybe it’s just me…

So what are some of your “there’s no way I would do that” moments in romance stories? Also do you think writers forget to take these things into consideration when crafting scenes for their stories?

Just as I’d always suspected, we do lose a few brain cells during sex… (g)

The Tall Guy and I have been busy this weekend, hence the lack of blog entries. We’ve been visiting friends and family, and enjoying the sun.

This weekend we’ve been to Dartford and Northampton. All I can say is that I’m so glad I didn’t have to drive…

I did have time to start reading a book or two (mostly during the car journeys) but unfortunately, I just don’t think I’m going to be able to finish them any time soon. Yeah, basically the books were rubbish! If I manage to finish them, I might review them on here, if not, they’ll probably be forever relegated to my ‘Unfinished’ Books shelf.

Apparently Princess Diana had a fling with JFK Junior? How are we gonna know whether that’s true or not? You’d think they’d let her rest in peace huh…

41 Years After Three Murders, A Nation Puts To Rest Unfinished Business

The FBI distributed this poster in June 1964 announcing the disappearance of Andrew Goodman, James Earl Chaney and Michael Henry Schwerner. Their murders galvanized the civil rights movement.

I still recall my shock and horror at the film version of events, I’m sure glad I didn’t live in the American Deep South during those turbulent times full of hatred and anger.

These three men were shot to death, their station wagon was then torched, and their bodies bulldozed 17 feet under an earthen dam. Wow.

I’m happy that Edgar Ray Killen has been found guilty at last after never serving more than six years for his crimes, but why manslaughter and not murder?

Details of the timeline regarding this case can be found here

Maybe Mississippi can at last bury it’s shameful past…

Can somebody explain to me what this is all about? Why the password?

Trawling through blogland, I keep coming across the same authors names over and over, authors whom I regret to say, I’ve never experienced their work before. Whilst I’ve read several books by Emma Holly, I’m ashamed to say, I’ve never read a single Suzanne Brockmann book. Why? Mostly because of the hype. I live in fear of picking up an over-hyped book and hating it with a passion. Mind you, check out the RUBBISH website, you’d think such an esteemed author would have the good sense to make sure her website was fabulous. Sheesh! Some people have no clue.

Jenny Crusie is another author whose books I haven’t read. Her website is a definite improvement on Brockmann’s, I might just try her books first. I hear ‘Bet Me’, is a fab book?

Here’s a list of other romance writer’s whose work I’ve never experienced.

I can imagine the number of horrified faces out there who probably think I’m some kind of heathen for never having read any of the above authors, oh well, I can rectify that, if any of you would be so kind as to point me in the right direction…

So, which books from the above list of authors, or indeed any other trendy author you can think of, would you recommend I read? Bare in mind, that I hate stupid heroines and assholic (loving that word, it’s so mine) heroes. Oh yeah, no stupid secret baby plots either, no sirree!!

Well, didn’t do much this weekend, apart from the usual visit to the leisure club, where as per usual, I swam, and the Tall Guy sat in the Hydrotherapy pool, I can’t help but wonder if the exorbitant price we pay for being members there is worth the actual use we make of the facilities…

Paul played gardener, which meant a trip to B&Q. I hate B&Q, I’ve never understood why people get so excited about going there, so what, you can get everything under the sun there, but then everybody in my town always decides to go there at the same time as we do, and God knows I hate crowds.

In and amongst my generally activity-free weekend, there was one thing that happened, which once again left me examining my relationship with The Tall Guy to make sure that we were still ok as a couple.

One of my best friends rang me on Saturday afternoon. I wasn’t sure who it was at first, all I could hear was sobbing. Of course my heart started racing, and panic set in. A hundred different scenarios flashed through my mind. At first I thought something bad may have happened to my baby sister. She’s only nineteen, and I live in constant fear that something horrid will happen to her. Some people call it paranoia, I call it knowing the world we live in too well.

Of course it wasn’t my sister, it was my friend (for the purpose of this entry I’ll call her Tamara).

Apparently she’d just walked out of her house leaving her baby with her significant other. Her first words to me were “He doesn’t love me.”

I’m a huge believer that you can’t deal with those kind of statements over the phone, so I asked her where she was, and if I needed to come and fetch her.

No. She was in her car, high up on the moors. She was trying to decide what to do with the rest of her life.

I told her to come round to our house. She was a little reluctant because she didn’t want to be around men (The Tall Guy) so I told her to stop being silly, and to get her ass over to our house now.

She agreed and I put the phone down. I told the Tall Guy to go and make himself useful somewhere else cuz Tamara was coming round, so of course being a typical man, he went to the pub with a friend.

I watched Tamara pull into our drive, and saw that she was blotchy faced, and she had huge bags underneath her eyes. She didn’t look good.

I went out to meet her, and escorted her into the house.

I sat her down, made her a cup of tea, and told her to start from the beginning.

Before I tell you her version of the story, let me give you some background info.

Three years ago, I got a call at about 3am in the morning. It was Tamara sobbing hysterically. She had caught Aidan (not his real name) engaging in explicit phone sex with another woman.

That night, I spent over two hours listening to my friend tell me that the perfect relationship that I thought they had was a myth.

She had confronted Aidan, who of course denied that he had been sleeping with this woman. To be honest at this point, I had to wonder what difference it made whether or not he slept with her, but I didn’t say this to her. I’m aware of the old adage of shooting the messenger, so I was quiet on this issue.

Tamara was devastated, so I invited her to come and stay with us, while she thought about what to do about her life.

She stayed with us for the weekend, while she contemplated her relationship with Aidan. She was hoping that Aidan would call and beg for her forgiveness, but he didn’t do that, and to me, that spoke volumes.

Tamara of course went back to Aidan, after he promised that he’d only been speaking to this woman for a couple of weeks (in my mind, you can probably multiply that by at least three weeks) and that she meant nothing to him. I was disgusted that she didn’t leave him then and there, I know that I would have. But of course, we’re all different, so it stands to reason that we react differently to different situations.

Fast forward two years. Tamara gets pregnant. At the time I recall thinking that she was making a mistake. I just didn’t believe that Aidan was the person that she was meant to be with.
As far as I was concerned after having watched their interactions since ‘that night’, I had come to the conclusion that whatever reason they were still together, it certainly wasn’t because Aidan loved her. She loved him to distraction, but I knew that he didn’t feel the same way. It was glaringly obvious to anybody watching, from the outside.

When she was seven months pregnant, I received a phone call at about 6pm one evening. It was Tamara. She wanted me to ring a certain hotel to check what type of room Aidan had booked. (He’d gone out with colleagues for their Christmas works event).

I of course told her not to be so silly, and that he wouldn’t be so stupid as to take a woman to a hotel where he knew, Tamara could have driven to at any point.

I told her to come round to the house, and once again told The Tall Guy to make himself scarce. He went to play in his office.
Apparently, Aidan had been acting funny, and now he wasn’t even picking up her calls (bear in mind that she’s seven months pregnant), she’d been trying to reach him for several hours.

She tried to call him again from my house, and this time, she got through. Apparently, he’d left his cell phone on silent, so he didn’t realise that she’d been calling (she was seven months pregnant for Christ sake.). She accepted this explanation, and felt a little better.

The next day, the Tall Guy and I were at PC World, checking out some new laptops, when my cell phone rang. It was Tamara. Hysterical. Again. I knew this was another Aidan-induced angst.

To cut a long story short, she’d called the hotel at about 2am in the morning because he wasn‘t picking up her calls to his cell, and she discovered that he wasn’t there, and had never checked in.
When he came home the next day, she confronted him about this and he lied several times about his whereabouts, before admitting that he had spent the night at a female colleague’s house, (who Tamara had met, and had immediately taken an instant dislike to) he told Tamara that he’d been too drunk to go back to the hotel, and that he had slept on her couch (yeah, I know).

Tamara of course didn’t believe him, and was absolutely devastated.

When she got to my house, and told me the tale, I decided to check something out. I rang up this particular hotel, and asked if Aidan had ever been booked in to stay there. I asked the receptionist which reservation system they used, and it was one that I was familiar with, (from my Marriott and Park Plaza manager days) and knew that if he had ever been booked in to stay, there would have been some kind of record.

The receptionist came back to me and told me that there had never been a reservation made under his name. In my mind, this meant that whatever his story was, his actions were definitely premeditated.

I gave the information to Tamara, and waited to see what she would do with it.

She of course stayed with him, it was never going to be an easy solution to leave him, not when she was seven months pregnant. I think she may have even managed to convince herself that nothing had happened between him and this work colleague.

Fast forward to the here and now, and once again, I have a hysterical Tamara in my house in another Aidan-induced state of angst.

The problem this time? He has a work-related social next Friday that he will be going to, Tamara asked him if ‘that’ girl would be there. Of course she would be, it was a works party.

She proceeded to tell Aidan that she didn’t want him to go to the party. Aidan lost his temper, and told her that what she thought didn’t matter (what?).

They had a huge row over it, and apparently, she brought up the events of the Christmas before, when he had spent the night at this female’s house. He of course got all I-thought-we’d-agreed-to-forget-about-that, (idiot) and got very defensive with her. He just didn’t understand why she would have a problem with him going off to this works party just because this woman that he’d spent the night with was going to be there. (WTF?)

In the end she left him holding the baby, and drove off.

For some reason, at this point, I recall Mary Alice’s words in Desperate Housewives, of how some of us live our lives in quiet desperation, and nobody is any the wiser. To the majority of their friends, Tamara and Aidan have the perfect relationship.

When she asked me what I thought, I decided that it was time to take the kid gloves off and tell her how I saw it.

I asked her what it was about him that she loved. All through these problems her constant mantra was that she loved him, and she didn’t want to be without him.

I asked her this question several times, I even gave her examples of what she should love about him, and she still wasn’t able to tell me.

Does he make you feel good about yourself? Does he put you and your relationship first, does he listen to you? Does he lend a hand when you’re feeling down? Does he hug you spontaneously just because he feels like it? Does he make an effort to spend quality time with you and the baby? Does he make you laugh? Is he a good father? Is he a good lover?

She told me that he was a good father, I then did my attorney bit, and asked “In what way is he a good father?”

She couldn’t provide specifics, apart from to say that he loved the baby.

I then went on a long rant about how she deserved to be happy, and that Aidan was not making her happy, and that it was time she took control of her life again.

She was mostly concerned about depriving the baby of a father, and of losing her home. (They’d only just bought the house, and they had a huge mortgage)

I then told her that she had two choices, stay with him and put up with his bullshit or leave him, and start a new life for her and the baby.

I knew she wouldn’t leave him, but I told her that by staying with him, as far as I was concerned, she was giving him carte blanche to walk all over her, and make her life a misery, again and again.

The thing is, if she ends up staying with him, I can totally understand why, after all, as materialistic as this may sound, the financial implications are a huge consideration. If she’d been on her own, fine, but she wasn’t, she had the baby to think of.

By the same token, I can’t help but feel that Tamara and Aidan’s relationship, isn’t healthy for the baby. It’s all very well providing a family unit for the baby, but how exactly does rowing constantly, blatant mistrust of each other, and the constant suspicion, help anything?

I sent Tamara upstairs to sleep (she really was in no state to drive anywhere) and got busy finding telephone numbers for her. I wrote down the telephone number of a solicitor that I knew (he was one of my friend’s father, and specialised in family matters), I also wrote down the number of our financial manager, and the number for the Citizen’s Advice Bureau.

When she woke up, I gave her these numbers, and urged her to call them, and find out what the implications would be, if she were to leave him. As far as I’m concerned, knowledge is power, and the least she could do is to make an informed decision on her and the baby’s future.

I told her not to tell him what she was doing, and then if she decided that it wasn’t in her best interest to leave him, then he’d be none the wiser.

I sure hope she leaves the bastard.

What are your thoughts?

So I was thinking… just why do romance authors insist on creating irritating and horrid characters?

For me, this is one of those questions that is never answered to my satisfaction. We all know what our ideals are in terms of heroines and heroes right?

Personally, I love a heroine who has the capacity to be kick-ass, but isn’t like ‘if you look at me the wrong way, I’ll open a can of whup-ass on y’all head dawg’.

I want her to embrace life, and not be scared to take a chance on love when her Mr Perfect-with-the-twelve-inch-dick comes riding in on his big stallion.

I don’t want her to whinge, bitch and moan about stuff that just doesn’t matter. If I wanted a heroine who did this, shit, I could just stand in the mirror all day long, and get my jollies that way.

If the romance is a contemporary story, I want my heroine to have shagged enough men so that she is able to tell whether the hero is really good at making love or not. I don’t want her to be a virgin (even though she’s stunningly beautiful, and you know that most men would have tried and succeeded to get into her pants by now) waiting for Mr Studly to teach her about the art of the Horizontal Tango.

I want my heroine to have the common sense to know that if there’s a murderer on the loose, it really isn’t a good idea to go jogging by the woods where the murders are taking place. WTF? Also, if that same woman hears a noise in her basement, I really don’t want her to go and investigate. Call the f*cking police for God’s sake!!

If my heroine sees her hero hugging a beautiful voluptuous woman in a crowded restaurant, I want her to go up to him, and ask who the hell she is (in a non-psychotic manner obviously), and not move out of the county with his unborn child that he knows nothing about. Grrrrrrr.

That’s not a lot to ask for is it? Is it…?

The Hero

As for the perfect hero, I want him to not only be well endowed, manly, and buff (this doesn’t mean having man-boobs on the covers by the way) I want him to be gentle with our heroine (out of bed at least), and a monster raving lunatic, with those who threaten her.

I want him to be the kind of man, who respects the fact that she can look after herself, but still wants to protect her without making her feel like a nincompoop (love that word..), he’s willing to get his hands dirty for the love of his woman, and perhaps indulge in a fisty cuff or two with an amorous usurper. (says she who loves love-triangles).

I want him to NOT ‘snarl’ at her every fourth paragraph, or indeed ‘sneer’ knowingly’ when she tells him that she really isn’t sleeping with the laird, who lives the next mountain over. Grrrrrr

I want him to say NO, NO, and NO, if the obligatory Catty Bitch, who the heroine is suspicious of, and hates mightily, asks him up to her apartment to look at her etchings. Fool, don’t you know that she’s a rabid whore trying to get you into the sack? No? Well dammit, you should bloody know! Your heroine’s dropped enough hints! Yech.

I don’t think that the above is a lot to ask for, yet a lot of romance writers insist on creating thoroughly moronic heroines, who have the intelligence of a gnat, and bastard dickless heroes, upon whom, I would quite happily use my chain-saw. Whyyyyyyyyyyyy?

With this in mind, what traits would your perfect H/H have, and why do you think romance writers still create such universally disliked lead characters? Indeed, do you secretly love reading about these type of heroes and heroines?

Awwww, Don’t They Look Happy…?

Now let’s take bets on A: Whether they make it to the alter, and B: How long it takes for them to file for divorce, due to irreconcilable differences…

Hi Guys, I’m in Amsterdam (actually I’m staying at one of the airport hotels, so I wont even get to see Amsterdam) for the night, I’m co-ordinating a symposium on behalf of some clients tomorrow, but it’s only for the day, so I’ll be back in the evening! I’m going to bed now cuz it’s late over here.

Ciao for now

Brenda Coulter had some interesting things to say over at her blog, I of course couldn’t resist sticking my oar in. (grin).

So, I was reading this romance story, and I’d got to the obligatory first sex scene.

The hero and heroine were getting all hot and heavy, sweating like nuns in a whorehouse and all, and you knew that the guy was about to do a Vesuvius any second now, and then lo and behold, he reaches into the pockets of his discarded jeans and grabs some prophylactics.

There was a some crinkling as he ripped the condom wrapper open, and then he very nimbly slid the rubber onto his penis.

This ‘always-use-condoms’ reminder only lasted about two lines, but I gotta say, it took me out of the story at that point, and I ended up skipping the whole sex scene all together. (I know, I know)

This was a completely sub-conscious act on my part and I hadn’t realised I’d done it, until much later on in the book.

I couldn’t figure out if I’d skipped the sex because of the condom adorning, or if the sex scene just muchos sucked. I’d like to think that I’d done it just because the sex scene sucked, after all, I am a woman of the noughties, thus a staunch advocate of safe sex, right?

But here’s the thing, there were other sex scenes in the book that didn’t mention the use of a rubber, and I read them ok. Sigh.

So this got me thinking, do we as readers prefer that our romance characters practice safe sex (for those of you who like secret baby plot devices, you probably don’t need to answer) or is this a little too much of the ‘real’ world being insinuated into what is, for all intents and purposes, a fantasy?

Whatever Happened To Mary Kate Olsen?

Do you remember when Mary Kate Olsen used to be a sweet, cute kid? How does Hollywood manage to change people so drastically? Where were her parents whilst this metamorphosis was occurring?

Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen

Just in case you’re wondering, the ghostly shadow on the right is MK. So sad.