Friday, November 22, 2013

Goody Two Shoes

Bolstered by images of her husband with the bartendress at the local golf club, Tara Townsend is forced into the unimaginable.  Above all else is her love for the man, ridiculous as he is.  Even after thirty years of marriage, three grown kids and a Grand-daughter who hung the moon, she’s embarrassingly still in love with him. 

But he’s a writer, a writer of the mundane and frivolous.  And when he’s in the middle of one of his monotonous books, telling of the desperate plights of alligators, snakes and seagulls, he forgets she exists at all.  Currently he’s in the middle of some diatribe about…well, she doesn’t really know, because she’d long ago given up feigning interest in his work.  As a matter of fact, she’s nearly spiteful of his fascination with nature and wildlife.  It’s not the single issue that’s separated them for the past year, no, the bartendress, the lack of intimacy; the total discount of her presence whatsoever has brought to her to point of desperation.

So when her best friend shows up by her pool on a Tuesday wearing a bikini the likes of which she couldn’t knit a coaster out of, Tara decides that it may be time to take matters into her own hands.  And BFF Patty has a plan, a plan that changed her own marriage, which not too long ago was even past the point of desperation.  It’d gone to the Divorce attorney’s.  But when Patty explains the intricacies of how she saved her marriage, Tara finds herself on a path straight to hell in a hand-basket.  At least that’s the way she considers it.  Because you see, Tara is a woman of religion.  Morality has been physically and emotionally forced into her being by years of Catholic rulers and paddles.  It’s just the way she is, guilt rides her like an unruly cowboy and is the only constant voice in her head.

That is until her long lost friend Vagina begins speaking to her again.  And Vagina is fascinated by Patty’s proposal to join The Tramp Stamp Club.  She adores Patty’s new tattoo and is green, gooey, and sticky with envy.  Fueled by Vagina, and her mute twin Clitoris, Tara is forced into action.  Her first meeting with the billionaire shipping company owner, Jonathon Galloway, is enough to drive all pure thoughts from her head.  At least for the short time she’s with him in his upstairs office.  For that small amount of time, she feels free, without guilt and without thoughts of her husband Simmons.  But Jonathon has made her a promise, a guarantee, that if she goes through her ‘training’ at the hands of the Club, that Simmons will be at her beck and call.

It’s a path that’s already worked for BFF Patty.  It’s proven and it’s her only viable plan to win back the love of her life.  Already consumed by guilt for the hour spent with the mystical Jonathon, she heads to Church.  After all, where else would she go?  But something happens on her drive home that presents a more reasonable answer to her confusing thoughts and needs.  After being convinced that this is nothing more than a mid-life crisis she heads to her husband’s computer to search for plastic surgeons.  It’s the change she needs.  But stacks of manuscripts tumble from his desk and one of them is titled, The Tramp Stamp Club.

As she reads the words, she’s transported to another era, one that sends her straight into the arms of their Club.  As each of their ‘lessons’ progress, Tara finds herself more and more enlightened.  Who says you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?  But the guilt melts slower than the Titanic’s glacier and Tara finds herself battling good and evil within her own body.  It’s only after meeting the other ladies of the Tramp Stamp Club that she begins to get the picture.  She can bake for the Church Bazaar and have a sensual and happy life to boot.  It’s a novel concept of course, and Goody Two Shoes and her Guilt Wagon stay close by to issue their opinions.  But Vagina and her twin aren’t innocent bystanders either; they want what they want and can’t hear Goody’s nagging.  Not that they’d be swayed by it anyway.

So Tara consents to Tramp Training and through each lesson Goody becomes less and less of a factor in her everyday life.  What’s more is that Tara realizes, somewhere in the middle of a blindfold and an antique four poster bed, that Goody has to go.  The transformation of her soul is in the hands of Jonathon Galloway and his promise to reunite her with her husband.  The question is, will she still want the illustrious naturalist when all is said and done?


Tuesday, October 1, 2013

WRATH Part 6 of the Seven Deadly Sins Available NOW!

With the return of Carlton imminent, her misplaced trust in Missy may cost her more than just her curiosity.  It appears that Kinsley's plan has come to fruition, and Liz is in the most vulnerable position possible.

If all that wasn't bad enough, it seems Kinsley and Missy have a new ally in one Benton Frazier.  Why is he in England?  What is he doing with Kinsley and Missy?  Will her loyalty to the relationship with Carlton survive?

Once released from her situation, Liz bolts for the more familiar confines of her New York Apartment.  It is only when she's away from Carlton and his crazy family can she sort out all her feelings and find her true desire.

NOTE:  Guy on Cover is my idea of BENTON!!!!  Yummy!

Wrath is NOW on sale at the following sites!!!

Amazon UK:
Barnes and Noble:

Tuesday, August 13, 2013

Writing through the blocks!

Friday, August 9th.   I'm sitting at my computer wondering what should happen next.  I know a lot of people think I already know, but I don't.  Each morning I draw a little inspiration from something, but this morning I sit staring at a blank page.  It's not looking good...

I may have painted myself into a corner with the last installment of the Deadly Sins Series.  I never intended for Missy to turn into who she has, but sometimes these characters take a life of their own and drive me in a particular direction.

So let's get started.  I like to try and put myself into one of the character's position.  Now I just have to choose which one.  I'm pretty sure everyone can relate to Liz, and that's probably the easiest character for me to assume.  But no, not this morning.  I am bound and determined to think outside the box.

Maybe Kinsley... well, even I don't like her, so that one's pretty difficult.  I sit, assuming the identity of someone I feel is calloused, cold, unfeeling.  But is that really who Kinsley is?  Maybe she's just completely misunderstood.  Maybe there's another driving force that motivates her.  Maybe, just maybe, she's tries to act so tough that having a real emotion is impossible to share with anyone.  Not sure yet...  or am I?

Maybe Patricia...  Now there's a character I really like, even though her persuasion or passion is intriguing and at times uncomfortable, there's something about this exotic beauty that draws me to her.  Is it her skin, her hair, her ample bosom, or maybe the firm grasp she has when she grabs your ankle; a grasp that tells a broader story about her than mere words.   

What about Carlton?  Okay, I purposely wrote him out of Sloth to give the other characters a chance to develop.  What exactly is he doing in London?  And who is Mary?  Why was she at the funeral?  Who else was at the funeral?  Did I miss something?  Did you?

Chayton?  Does anybody like him?  I'm on the fence.  I'm not certain I could handle someone who's job was to wait on me, hand and foot.  I think I'd like to try that, once.  Okay, maybe more than once.  But his demeanor is pretty weird, at least for a Southern woman like myself.  I can see he holds loyalty in high regard, but I cannot figure out exactly who he's loyal to.  I'm positive it's not Liz.

Alright peeps....  here's your chance.  I'd like to know what you guys think.  Comment and share please.

Wednesday, August 7, 2013

Don't Touch that Button!

Dear Mt. Pleasant, 

I’m using you to stretch my fingers this morning; you know get them agile and exercised prior to doing actual work.  But here’s what got me all riled up in the first place.

Now if I’m to understand this completely, as I’m driving across the bridge, about halfway through I need to turn off my GPS, cell phone and unplug my iPod from the auxiliary port built into my car.  I’m sorry but with all that action I didn’t see the eighteen wheeler at a dead stop in front of me.  Thus your late afternoon drive from downtown is delayed and you don’t make it home in time for your son’s pee-wee football game.  But by the time the police arrive you can bet your bottom dollar that my attorney is already on his way.  I wouldn’t have gotten into this accident if it weren’t for Mount Pleasant City Council after all and I want my free government cheese.

Don’t get me wrong, I have two teenagers.  I can bitch about texting or talking while driving till the cows come home and never tire.  But us grown up’s have long switched over to hand’s free cars.  Those of us who haven’t should think about dredging ourselves over to Verizon for one of those Road Runners ($100 and worth every penny.)  We bought one for our son’s car and they act fully as hand’s free phones.  Oh wait…no they don’t.  You have to reach up to your visor and push a button to answer and according to Mount Pleasant’s new law that will be illegal. 

Here’s what I think, you folks on the Mount Pleasant City Council need to re-think this new proposed law and re-work it somewhat.  At least let’s consider re-wording it.  I’m not going to bash you here, after all some of you are old friends.  Hell the Mayor bought the house I grew up in on the island and assumed custody of my black lab when he moved in.  But I do think this ‘proposed’ ban needs some further consideration.  I’m afraid we’re going overboard, much like my beloved island has.  It still costs me $35 to walk my dog on the beach, yet I’ve researched that law and discovered that nothing stands between me and my fifteen dogs moving back to the island.  As long as I pay $35 a year for each of them and can afford a $2 million price tag for a house.  Trust me, I’ve actually thought of doing just that…to prove a point.  You foreigner’s who’ve taken up residence on my island should be glad you’ve out priced me over there or I would definitely be your worst nightmare.  It would be your own fault too, because you didn’t think your laws through.

I simply think that we, East of the Cooperites, need to slow down before we accidentally transform ourselves into Hilton Head.  Let’s see a few photos, (borrowed from Facebook group East of the Cooper 70’s and 80’s) and get a warm fuzzy of our beloved home town here.  To remember what we had.

Okay, now that you are all cozy remembering what we had let’s consider what we want for the future.  Keep in mind these are only MY thoughts.  If you are one of Mount Pleasant’s Finest and you see my son or daughter driving down Houston Northcutt with their cell phone plastered to their ear I want you to put on your blue lights, get out of your car and slap handcuffs on them.  I’ll bail them out before they need to move into their dorm rooms.  Expect me late August sometime.  However, if you see me riding down Highway 17 seemingly talking to no one in my car and you pull me over then we have a problem.  You may KNOW by the simple reality that I’m talking on the phone (handsfree) that at some point I’ve had to push a button to engage said call but you can’t prove it.

So you (Mount Pleasant’s Finest) buck up and say that the City Council has banned me from talking to my Mother but I’m going to call bullshit and hire a lawyer.  If I live on Sullivan’s Island or Isle of Palms then I can afford South of Broad baby.  It’s going to cost you a fortune to argue with me about whether I actually pushed a button or not.  But what if I tell you that Siri made the call?  Are you prepared to battle Microsoft?  This could get out of hand pretty fast.

Stupid, frivolous, lawsuits that will nearly instantly drain Mount Pleasant of all funds they are using to construct all of those silly traffic circles on Ben Sawyer.  (In retrospect this ban may not be a bad idea afterall.)

While I LOVE Hilton Head, and who doesn’t?  I don’t want to live there, a few weeks in the summer of not being able to find Walmart because of laws concerning signage and I’m ready for home.  I’m not quite ready to hand over Mount Pleasant to frivolity without a full battle.  We need to be adults here.  Let’s consider re-working this new ban, perhaps gain some support from Charleston County as a whole.  Something that makes actual sense to us grownups out there who are smart enough to resist that phone call while we’re in traffic and certainly know not to text.

What we NEED to do is educate our kids; this is yet another matter of letting the government teach our children.  Perhaps instead of this new law we could spend those funds creating a class that new drivers MUST take in order to operate a vehicle on our streets?  Hang on isn’t that called “Driver’s Training?”  You can’t get a driver’s license in South Carolina without taking that class.  Well if they aren’t teaching cell phone/vehicle lessons in those classes what exactly are they teaching?  Are our high school classrooms so politically correct that we can’t go there?  Or could it be that talking about ‘death by cell phone’ would lead to discussions about God which would offend our frilly students?  The word here is EDUCATE folks.  Teach your own kids, (since the government apparently won’t) not to text or make calls while driving.

Again, I reiterate to Mount Pleasant’s Finest, if you see my kids talking or texting while driving do not hesitate to lock their unruly behinds in jail.  Pop them with a fine so high that they won’t be able to afford to pitch in for that keg party.  (You get that irony right?  They aren’t old enough to drink either, but they’re going to try it anyway.)  But because I was raised East of the Cooper, I will not, under any circumstances, tolerate such behavior and I WILL leave them overnight in your jail and will happily slip you cost of their room and board.  You know why?  Because I, me, myself, (and husband) were taught to raise our OWN children.  This proposed ban is nothing but another attempt to teach our children after the fact.  This matter needs to be addressed much earlier, BEFORE they drive on our streets at all.  I resent being lumped into ‘humanity’ when I’m a responsible adult who can push a button in my car without hitting someone in front of me.

East of the Cooperite

Sunday, August 4, 2013

Just Call Me the Jane Goodall of the Hipster Habitat

I suppose I'm in need of laughter today.  And when I'm in the mood to laugh I head over to The Charleston Grit. These young writers have such a distinctly charming talent that I can't help but be drawn into their worlds.  This particular post was their Blog of the Week.  I promise you that I just had to go change my shorts because I laughed so hard.  However, since most of MY readers are over 30 I'll explain that their (under 30) term, "hipster" is identical to what we over 30'ers used to call, "tree huggers."  We've all got these friends.   Cudo's to the young writer who posted this, you have a gift!  And thanks for the laugh...I needed it.  Click on the link below to read!

Just Call Me the Jane Goodall of the Hipster Habitat | | Bold. Smart. Local. Now. | Charleston, SC

Slightly to the Left (or Downhill)

GUEST BLOGGER! -Christopher Cooper

“Come here!” she exclaimed.  “Read this now!”

That’s how it always starts.  Not “hey, would you…” or “Baby, I need…”  No, no.  It’s right here, RIGHT now.

So that’s my mindset as I sat in front of Laura’s computer.  The great thing about that is where I find all the little things I was so convinced the Gremlins had taken off my desk.  Look, there’s my pen (which coincidentally may be the only actual ink pen in my house since we have kids) and my ear buds, my ipod.  The list goes on and on.

So I sat there reading, carefully guarding my pen which I held in my lap and began to go through her post.  Yes, most of the stuff she writes is pretty spot on.  But this article (BDSM) was probably more than accurate.  But as I read, not for content, but for a single word.  Can anyone guess?  I suppose every author has a particular word they are in love with, and more often than not that word is overused or flat out wrongly used.  And Laura’s word:  strode.  The word alone just doesn’t sound right.  But you watch…  Every damn thing she’s ever written has had that word in it, and I’ve made it my life’s mission to seek it out and shoot it down.

But back to the the real reason I wrote this post.  How does she come up with ideas?  What is her particular slant?  SLANT!  That’s the word.  And now, my dear followers, I’ll pass on to you what I’ve only just discovered….

READY?  Her desk is … (wait for it)… slanted. 

I just realized that her desk leans slightly to the left.  Okay, actually more than slightly.  My favorite pen won’t stay on it if you lay it down perpendicular to the screen.  And now, my dear readers, mystery solved.

The BDSM Meeting

Let’s start by commenting on our apparel for the evening.  I wore a pair of white Bermuda shorts with a semi-sleeved blue and white striped button down, my usual array of tiny diamonds on my ears, neck and arms.  Chris donned his sexy jeans, a blue button down and saddle oxfords in brushed tan.  The only thing I can think of that would’ve made us look more like co-ed’s from another era would be if I’d wrapped a sweater around his shoulders and wore a hat with a spinner on top.  But here we were, at the monthly meeting of the local BDSM Chapter donned in preppiness.

You see we’re writers, writers who know nothing about hard core sex.  Chris, who has something to say to every single person he meets, has only one thing to say during sex.  “Am I hurting you?”  I think that paranoia has something to do with his size, (ooh you nasty minded girls!) I mean his overall physical size.  Obviously, we needed to get out and discover what all this BDSM fuss was about.  During one of his late night internet porn sessions he’d come across this group and had requested to join.  We assumed they got together and spanked one another with whips or something.  At least that’s how I envisioned it.  But the ‘Meeting’ was being held at a very popular downtown restaurant.  Hence I dressed us according to the style and respect I had for the establishment rather than what I suspected members of the group to be wearing.  I seriously imagined them all showing up in black leather complete with chains hanging from their belt loops, and you’d have a better chance of seeing the Pope at a strip club than finding me downtown in slutwear.

Picture this-above-NOT THIS-below.

We were greeted by a girl of around twenty two with frazzled, blond hair currently streaked with neon red and purple highlights.  Countless piercings in her nose, eyebrows and lips looked painful to me but we followed her to a collection of round bar tables they’d pushed together for ‘Orientation.’  Our partners for said orientation were a couple who appeared as though they must live in a cardboard box on the corner of Nowhere and Huger Street and a very young woman, around the age of our daughter, who was seemingly confused to the fact that she was a female.  She’d gone so far as to change her name to something like Ben.  Chris and I looked at each other fumingly as this girl professed that she was a slave and that her Master would be along shortly.  Noticing her deep accent I asked her where she was from.  “Norway,” she told me with a pale smile.   

My motherly instincts kicked into overload as she proceeded to explain her confusion as a freshman in college, in a new country, no friends and to top it all off she was currently confused about her own sexuality.  I couldn’t wait to get my hands on her Master; already I was ripping this boy apart in my mind.  I was seeing blue lights and handcuffs in my immediate future.

But we signed all of their ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ documents, no doubt written by a seriously twisted mind and made it through orientation.  We were now versed in the terminology used by BDSM’ers.  I admit we were a tad startled at the mention of candle and wax play.  Somewhat perplexed by the concept of scenes versus slaves, but I thought Chris was coming off of his barstool when they talked about fire cupping.  What the hell had we gotten ourselves into?  Oh come on, I reassured myself, what could happen in this restaurant at five o’clock on a Friday night?  Not a damn thing.  So we graduated from orientation without a hiccup from Chris, although at any minute I’d fully expected for him to stand up and tell them just how screwed up they were.  He’s not a man who keeps his thoughts to himself well.  Keep in mind, we’d told them who we were and why we were there from the get go so they had no real misconceptions that we were their newest fire bearing members.  It's long been our opinion that as part of the over 40 crowd we have quite enough aches and pains as it is.  We certainly don't need to add burns from fire cupping to the daily arsenal of pain we have to medicate.

Chris bought drinks and we settled into iron chairs on the side patio to await the other members.  Ben sat with us still regaling us with her mental instability.  I couldn’t wait to get my hands on the jackass who was taking advantage of this immature eighteen year old freshman.  Finally couples started making their way onto the patio.  Another man, close to our age, joined our table.  He was the biker type.  You know what I mean, scruffy, bearded, red bandana so his balding head, complete with gray ponytail, wouldn’t get bugs stuck to it while he rides his Harley down the interstate?  I think he was wearing a black leather vest with the name of his motorcycle group on the back and actually did have a chain hanging from his belt loop.  Well, see there, at least someone dressed as expected.  I leaned back in my chair and sipped my drink watching an elderly man with a cane slowly walk towards us.  Damn, I guess it takes all kinds…I thought curiously as he neared.  This guy really needs to be in a retirement home somewhere having his food pureed.  Certainly he wasn’t into all this?  Forgive me here but I swear I was picturing wrinkled balls and a penis pump beneath his pants.  The image kind of turned my stomach but then again I’d forgotten to take my ranitidine this morning so who am I to talk about being old.

We turned our attention to the only normal looking couple on the patio.  Chris had been talking to them and I noted they’d moved their chairs closer to him.  At least they appeared normal, aside from the Gamecock shit on their shirts.  A CPA and a small business owner, I was pleased with their conformation to society (it was rare here) and eager to discover what had brought them here this evening.  This was the kind of couple I needed to hear from.  But the old man kept slowly walking towards us with his cane.  Seriously he needs a walker, I thought as I returned to listening to Chris and CPA discuss how piercings enhance sexual sensation.  They were now explaining how a bull ring attached to your clitoris guarantees multiple orgasms.  Chris kept glancing at me hopefully until I pinched his arm as hard as my rock hard acrylic nails could pinch.  “How’d that feel?” I leaned over and whispered as he flinched and a drop of water appeared in the corner of his eye.  “Imagine me doing that to the head of your cock?” he nodded, he got my point, crystal clear.  “Right, no clit piercing for Laura.  Got it!” he said with a grimace.  (Sorry no clit piercing photos here, I can't even look at that without feeling pain.)

Finished with that conversation I turned back to biker dude.  “So what are you into?” I asked plainly.  Clearly we weren’t muddling our words tonight.  “Nothing much right now, but tomorrow I’m headed to my Mistress in Indiana.  Things’ll be better then.”
“Oh you must miss her if she lives so far away?” I smiled; missing a loved one is something I could wrap my head around.  I was struggling to find anything to relate to.
“I do and she bought me a new dress and shoes to match.  I can’t wait to get there,” he said wistfully.
“Excuse me?” I said not at all sure that he’d said what I thought he had.
“Here, let me show you, it’s gorgeous!” he seemed excited as he flipped open his phone and pulled up a photo.
I took the phone from him and slid my reading glasses down from the top of my head for a closer look.  “It really is gorgeous!” I said with a laugh as I studied the green slinky dress complete with long, tall slit up the side.  “And the shoes are perfect with it, what are you thinking jewelry wise?” I said trying to hold my laughter to a low roar.  I mean what the hell was I supposed to say?  The guy only had hair on the lower part of the back of his head and it was in a ponytail, he was obviously a member of some local biker gang and had a gray beard that hadn’t been shaved since 1979.  Rule number one from ‘orientation’ had been not to judge others so I had no choice than to go along with it.  After all, these people play with fire…literally.  I was intimidated a great deal by that.  But here's a photo I found online of the exact dress.

Alas the old man with the cane made it all the way from the door to our table, a distance of all of fifteen feet.  His spotted wrinkled hand went to Ben’s shoulder and he tapped his dentures together after clearing his throat.  “Ben, come on you need to come with me,” he said with only a few shakes in his voice.  CPA and his wife and even dressy biker dude smiled and said hello to the ancient bent creature with the cane as though he was a normal fixture at these meetings.  “Yes Master,” Ben stood up and kissed his cheek lovingly.  A mosquito fluttering around my lips eventually caused me to close my jaws.  This was Ben’s Master?  Suddenly I felt deflated, his old bones were going to fall apart soon enough as it was, no need for me to speed that process along.  Really?  What could he do to her that would cause her harm?  It’d taken him twenty minutes to walk from the door to our table…he couldn’t even bite her without an ample supply of Fixodent.  The only thing that concerned me now regarding this young eighteen year olds health was what if he tied her up and then forgot where?

The President of the Chapter invited us to come along to their ‘after party’ but Chris was already downing his drink, pulling his keys from his pocket and picking my purse off the patio floor…  Clearly we weren’t where WE belonged.  We had however gathered some rather humorous accounts and a much more defined view of BDSM.  Whips and chains are only a small portion of what turns these folks on.  Which leads me to ponder, if THIS is really what BDSM is all about then how did Christian Grey get away with a room full of leather whips?  What would Anastasia have done if he’d popped into bed wearing a green sparkly dress?  Betcha she wouldn’t have signed that contract so eagerly…

Note: Go back up and click on the word Gamecock! ;)