Interracial Erotica

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Opps! Sorry Folks!

Hey guys,

Daniel and I were playing around with the site templates this morning and didn't realize we hadn't taken the system offline.


So if you were navigating through the site at that time, you may have noticed the layout/color/font changing from time to time. That was us - the system hasn't been hacked.

Sorry about that and thanks for your emails. Damn, you guys are on the ball! :)












    "House Calls" is now available

    Hey folks,

    "House Calls", my author challenge tale, is now available. It's a two-pager so tuck in. :)

    I hope you enjoy.

    I owe a big fat thank you to Lydia for editing the piece. Thanks Chica!









      Hiya Folks!

      Tomorrow I'm posting a new short story entitled "House Calls". What began as a friendly challenge between scribblers has morphed into something entirely different.

      Let me explain....

      According to the folks over at mediabistro.com  who, after analyzing 15,000 Harlequin books, came up with the most popular professions for heroes in romance novels.


      1. Doctor
      2. Cowboy
      3. Boss
      4. Prince
      5. Rancher
      6. Knight
      7. Surgeon
      8. King
      9. Bodyguard
      10. Sheriff


      No shocker there! Every scribe has picked from the standard issue list at least once in their career....big deal.

      The artistry is in steering clear of clichés. This is why the Sherlock Holmes series and TV shows such as House are smash hits. Professionally speaking, they’re cookie-cut characters (medical, law enforcement of sorts) thrown into extraordinary situations. However, it’s their complex, often contradictory personalities we find riveting. It’s the human element.


      Personally, I love it when characters go off the rails! Flip the script - let the heroine do the chasing.  If Prince Charming is too boring, give him a foot fetish. Cookie-cut professions are fine as long as there's depth. No one remembers stock, paint by numbers characters, period!


      Anyway, my challenge was to write a medical tale devoid of the typical “Susie, your cheeks are quite rosy, young lady. Come here. Doctor Bob has just what you need. Take off that shirt and show me those boobs!” sorta bollocks.

      No problem! I turned on Helicopter Girl's Satan’s Seventh Bride and finished the rough draft overnight. The next morning, I gave it to Daniel to check for plot gaps (it’s a process). He returned it hours later marked with a big happy face and a few notes in the margin.  Two drafts and a fight with my fellow scribes later, I have decided to post the story for all to see.

      Gotta run and ask (beg) Lydia to edit it for me. Lydia, I know you're reading this. :)










      **UPDATE**
      Waiting to get the edits from lovely Lydia...she's been an absolute gem. I made a few changes (as usual) so the draft was a late send. :)


        A Day in the Life of BC

        BC: Tracy, what's a slag?



        My external reaction:


        ...internal reaction:


        ...Momma Ames...


        ...Zora...



        ...The Guys...




        Me: It's a bad word, Sweetie.

        BC: *shrugs*: That man on TV said a bad word. He's bad, huh?

        Momma Ames: He's very bad. *looks at Daniel* Block BBC now!


        BC: I lost my Wellies.


        Don't know where that last bit came from.





          Acceptance: Part Two

          “What do you see when you look in the mirror?”

          That question, without exception, is always a bear trap. It springs, and panic spears us between the eyes – we’re caught between the razor sharp teeth of modesty and the crippling urge to fake a seizure. You see, although we may recognize our good qualities, there is still the burning desire to point out our ‘flaws’ and flee the scene before the bloodletting kicks off.

          What is this self-effacement? Why do we do this to ourselves? Because heaven forbid we think too highly of ourselves, and this means displaying any signs that we have in any minute way accepted ourselves.

          No, no, no! This is intolerable! We must remain modest at all times even if it means stooping to self-flagellation.

          In a perfect world, we would all accept our bodies as they are. Sadly, we live in a world where being peppered with flashy advertisements telling us how shit we look compared to the model with the body of a prepubescent school boy is the norm.

          Jokingly or not, we have all committed an act of self-deprecation. For instance, physical compliments make me extremely uncomfortable. Years ago if someone complimented my smile, I would make a hasty retreat, or deflect/neutralize the comment by making a stinging remark about myself.

          What was I supposed to do, say thank you? Isn’t that taking credit for my familial genes? I had nothing to do with it! One dodgy chromosome stood between me and the life of a clubbed foot hunchback. I'm simply playing the cards providence dealt.
           


          Maybe I over analyzed the situation but still. Nowadays I say thank you and move on. This isn’t to say I’m at ease with flattering remarks. On the contrary, I am still very uncomfortable but I no longer take the piss out of myself. I didn't/don't hate myself. I have never enjoyed the spotlight...which made life with my stage mom dreadful. Oh goodness..the memories are flooding back!

          Moving on... 

          A fellow scribe and I were discussing this post when she remarked that while being appreciated for her literary talent is fine, physical admiration makes her nauseous. I believe this is a common vein. Let me explain. We stomach praise of our deeds, or the external because it’s a reflection of our exertion – it’s tangible. Example:

          Person: I love your shirt!
          You: Thanks! I’ve been searching high and low for this color.


          On the other hand, since we have no control over our genes, we process physical compliments quite differently. We are born the way we are without any exertion on our part. This is why insults cut to the bone – the reason insecurities are so difficult to overcome – why perceived abnormalities eat away at our self-esteem – and why we find comfort in conformance. The idea is that by looking like everyone else, we won’t be ‘weird’…we’re just like everyone else. This is also why some people meet compliments with as much dread as others do verbal abuse. Being different is simply unbearable. Example:

          Person: I love your shirt! The color really brings out your eye. I wish I had your eyes.
          You: Um, thanks. My eyes make my nose look big. I hate my nose. I like yours, though.

          Note the deflection…



          Regrettably, increasing amounts of our children are buying into this rubbish. There are teenage girls getting breast and butt implants and having their vaginas reconstructed.

          Let me repeat that last bit just in case its gravity was lost: Teenage girls are having their vaginas reconstructed!!

          Aside from a medical condition, it’s disconcerting to think a woman would find this procedure necessary. But for a minor it’s maddening. My friend Rhett, a man notorious for making up words, once said that he has 'embraced his weaknesses and calls them uniquenesses'. Even in his corny, Rhett way, he had a point: we should accept who we are, and rid ourselves of the belief that “If I just change this, I’ll be happy”.

          Bollocks! That endless cycle of nonsense will ultimately lead to self-loathing because you will never be comfortable in your own skin. There will always be something feeding the anxiety, nagging in the back of your head. When you feel yourself faltering, remember the example of Eva’s new suite mate who chants a variation of ‘You’re beautiful’ in the bathroom mirror every morning. When asked why she does this, she replied without a trace of false modesty, “Because no one thinks I am.”

          I applaud her.

          Bottom line, accepting yourself when no one else does is probably the most difficult feat one can accomplish; but it is also one of the most rewarding.
           

          Enjoy the documentary…No, it's NOT x-rated

            Scenes of a Sexual Nature

            Okay, I had to pass this flick on to you guys just in case you missed it. It's entitled "Scenes of a Sexual Nature" - released in 2006.

            Cheesy romantic comedies don’t hold my interest. But this one, thanks to proper writers and a stellar cast, is genuinely funny. Although the reviews were mixed, it's worth watching for Tom Hardy and Sophie Okonedo alone. Their scene had us on the floor!

            Seriously, calling someone a nutter within fifteen seconds of meeting them isn’t advised but makes for damn good comedy.

            Just watch the clip. I’ll have Daniel upload it to my You Tube channel.



            A short list of new additions to R&R
            The Hour (2011 BBC series, must watch!)
            Any Human Heart (A roller coaster)
            Murder Rooms (Sherlock Holmes series)
            Hawking (Stephen Hawking story, really good!)
            Hex (Supernatural with Fassy)
            Hearts & Bones (Both series)
            Poirot: After the Funeral (The eppy with Fassy)
            Autistic/Asperger Docs (Excellent docs)

            …and much, much more!














              Acceptance

              Last February, I began a three part blog series entitled “Failure and Inspiration" which caught fire and has since been featured (with permission) on other sites, blogs, and in newsletters.

              My rambling paid off!

              This year’s series is entitled “Acceptance”. I came up with the idea after being quite moved by the Thandie Newton’s address on Ted Talks.

              There is a clear and invaluable divide between who you are and what other people project on to you – who they want you to be and who you accept you are. Panic arises when the lines between the two blur and you can no longer tell one from the other.

              Sometimes the change goes unnoticed; you wake up, go to the bathroom and stare blankly at the dead-eyed alien in the mirror. You don’t recognize yourself because you have ceased to exist.

              Or perhaps, in an effort to fit in, you’ve modified your behavior to such an extent you’re little more than a husk fortified by the opinions, beliefs, needs, and insecurities of others.

              Either way, you’re a caricature. And caricatures crumble – self-acceptance doesn’t.

              Enjoy the series…

               “I grew up on the coast of England in the 70s. My dad is white, from Cornwall, and my mom is black, from Zimbabwe. Even the idea of us as a family was challenging to most people. But nature had it’s wicked way and brown babies were born. But from about the age of 5, I was aware that I didn’t fit. I was the black, atheist kid in the all-white Catholic school run by nuns.

              I was an anomaly.


              And myself was rooting around for definition trying to plug-in. Because the self likes to fit. To see itself replicated. To belong. That confirms its existence and its importance. And it is important, it has an extremely important function. Without it we literally can’t interface with others, we can’t hatch plans, and climb that stairway of popularity, of success. But my skin color wasn’t right. My hair wasn’t right. My history wasn’t right. Myself, became defined by Otherness, which meant that in that social world I didn’t really exist. And I was Other before being anything else, even before being a girl. I was a noticeable nobody.” ~Thandie Newton

              Entire Video Found Here





                While shopping and gabbing with Lydia, the dreadful incident where Greg literally snapped on a friendly passerby came up in conversation. For all his Buddha hugging, Midwest charm he is still a WASP with a short fuse.

                Some may remember this tale. For those who don’t, here goes:

                We visited Tennessee a few years ago. It normally takes him three days to adjust to the wellspring that is Southern hospitality. This trip, however, was different in that everyone we encountered seemed to spray warm fuzzies from a hose pointed directly at him.

                Waiters, clerks, random passersby, and the effin’ car wash guy were all smiles and ‘Good morning’, ‘How are you?’, ‘Nice day’, ‘Have a good one, buddy!’

                Sadly, the guy who took the force of his rage, a random hiker descending the mountain as we were heading up, had no clue he’d tripped a landmine. One final “Have a good day, buddy!” was all it took.

                *Cue psycho freak out*

                “Shut the fuck up! You don’t care if I have a good day!! You don’t even know me! I’m minding my business, fucking going up the trail. Why are you talking to me?!?!”

                I saw it coming so I stood back and watched the mayhem unfold. A few seconds into the rant, the hiker scampered on his merry way somewhat worse for having crossed our path.

                Many of you are thinking “Wow, what a jerk.” and yeah, you may have a point. I think it’s about hitting your limit. We all have them, and they have all been tripped at least once in our lives by innocent victims. To say you have NEVER snapped (though not as theatrical or public as 50) is dishonest.

                I can suffer slow checkout clerks if I’m not in a hurry. If I am in a rush, I’ll tell the clerk just that. Problem solved, right? Well, not this occasion. Here goes:

                Lydia is talking, the clerk is taking her sweet time, and I’m beginning to boil. I politely tell the clerk that my car is waiting and offer to bag my goods. Alas, she moves at a snail's pace. Finally, I see my driver standing against the car having a smoke. That’s it!

                “Give me the bags. Hurry your ass up!” I shout.

                Lydia, bless her, says, “Oooh! I’m gonna let you go.” *laughs*

                What happened to the calm voice of reason?, you ask. Well, I've bleedin' had it. I've turned into my husband!! Your girl is stressed!












                  Our Deafening Silence

                  "Let me discuss chronic illness for a moment. As a society we don’t tolerate it very well. Our collective attention span for someone who is ill lasts about two weeks. After that they’re on their own.

                  From my own experience and talking to others with bad cancer or chronic illness, I’ve noticed a terrible trend. After a while, and only a relatively short while, people grow bored with you not getting any better and just drift off.

                  Phone calls stop. Visits stop. Emails stop. People drop you off their Facebook news feed. Eyes glaze when you say you are still not feeling well.

                  Who needs perpetual bad news?

                  This is an all too often common experience. I described once it to a psychologist, thinking myself very witty, as having all the lights in the house turned off one by one until you were in one dark room all alone; she said everyone described it like that. People withdraw, emotionally and physically.

                  You suddenly find a great and cold space about you where once there was support. For me there has been a single person who has made the effort to keep in daily contact with me, to see how I am, how I am feeling, and listen uncomplainingly to my whining. She has been my lifeline. She also suffers from terrible cancer and its aftermath, and has endured the same distancing of her friends.

                  The end result is, of course, that the sick simply stop telling people how bad they feel. They repress all their physical and emotional pain, because they’ve got the message loud and clear. People also don’t know how to help the sick and dying... "

                                                                           *****

                  The above is a snippet from an article entitled “The Silence of the Dying” written by bestselling author Sara Douglass before cancer took her life on September 27, 2011. PLEASE read the entire article.

                  I followed Sara for a number of years, however this particular post sprang most readily to mind when one of my longtime readers asked why I haven’t chronicled my struggle with coming to grips with my Grandmother’s illness. Sara summed it up quite well: our collective attention span for someone who is ill lasts about two weeks. After that they’re on their own…people grow bored with you not getting any better and just drift off.

                  This is also true for people dealing with those who are dying. We need support, too. However, all too often, after we’ve allowed others to see us stripped of our polished armor and the initial sighs of concern taper off, people grow bored and go about their merry way leaving us feeling exposed, vulnerable, and asking ourselves why we even tried. But mostly we feel alone.

                  “The end result is, of course, that the sick simply stop telling people how bad they feel. They repress all their physical and emotional pain, because they’ve got the message loud and clear.”

                  I agree. When asked how I’m ‘holding up’, it’s easier to say I’m fine rather than I’m afraid; I feel my world crumbling under my feet; there are days I can’t get out of bed.

                  No one wants to hear that – nor would they know how to respond. What do you say to that? “Oh…um…yeah….Wow! Look at the time...take care…um…may the force be with you…er...I gotta go.”

                  What’s the point, right? People want fluffy bunnies hopping around fields of lavender, not the grizzly shit. I don’t believe everyone scatters because they’re bored or wish the person would just die already so we can get back to the fun stuff.

                  The awkwardness of not knowing what to say, and the subsequent feelings of quilt and ineptness keep some at bay.

                  Trust me, I know the helplessness associated with comforting those who are watching their loved one die. It sucks! It’s like watching them amble down the road of death holding their loved one’s hand knowing eventually they will reach a fork in the road, and they’ll have to pluck up their last fragments of strength to let their loved one go and continue their journey alone.

                  So we, the ones waiting to lose someone, say nothing of our heartache. We say we’re exhausted rather than depressed. We grow quiet—we get on with the business of getting on. I share A LOT with you guys. But this is why I don't chronicle this part of my life publicly. And I sincerely appreciate those of you who have emailed me offline. Thank you.



                  .....And now that I've bored you...







                    TMI: Top 5 signs you are anal-retentive

                    Those who have been hanging around IRE,net are painfully aware of my phobias and OCD tendencies.

                    For example:
                    ~I shower at least three times a day.
                     
                    ~I don’t like words containing “wurst” and “urd” such as bratwurst and curd.
                     
                    ~I’m afraid of giraffes.
                     
                    ~My pantry is arranged by height, color, and country.
                     
                    ~I use paper towels to touch surfaces in public restrooms.

                    ~I’d lick a tramp’s balls before I’d stop reading a story on an odd numbered page.


                    A little odd, yes. But I’m not alone. My hubby and Daniel have their neurosis as well. Birds of a feather, right?

                    Daniel alleges my repugnance of “wurst” words boils down to anal-retentiveness.

                    Okay fine! His summation is marginally accurate - but it's still pretty rich coming from a man who won't eat turkey ala king given its close visual and textural affinity to cat vomit.
                     
                    I digress.

                    While searching for evidence to debunk his claims, I stumbled across this article written by Matt Cutts which consequently further cemented them. I don’t reset our clocks but everything else is spot on. Enjoy!

                    Top 5 signs you are anal-retentive:

                    1. You keep large redundant amounts of all your sundries such as laundry detergent so that you never risk running out.

                    2. You don’t just sort the money in your wallet by $1, $5, $10, or $20, but also sort the bills by wear-and-tear so that you get rid of the bills in the worst shape first.

                    3. You look up anal-retentive to see whether it needs a hyphen.

                    4. You don’t just keep a grocery list, you micro-optimize order of the items on the grocery list so that you only make one pass through the grocery store.

                    5. After a power outage or when Daylight Savings Time starts or ends, you feel the need to set all your clocks to the same minute and second.

                    6. It really irritates you when someone says a list has 5 items and you count six.



                    Turns out I’m anal-retentive. Who knew?!

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