If you're going through hell, keep going ~ Winston Churchill 

Scratch it...

I have a simple philosophy: Fill what's empty. Empty what's full. Scratch where it itches ~ Alice Roosevelt Longworth 

Never, ever...

Never be bullied into silence. Never allow yourself to be made a victim. Accept no one's definition of your life; define yourself ~Harvey Fierstein

Super-dooper-troopers…

So, I have a doppelganger at work – well, sorta, kinda, okay, probably not. She’s this chick down south in the very, very, snotty corporate world of pretentious Sydney who is beyond perfect and wonderful and never a bad word is spoken to her or about her because, well, she’s perfect. I’ve never met her. I doubt if I would be deemed good enough because I am not worthy of such magnificence but I’m told by all that she is wondrous, amazing, selfless, probably will find a cure for cancer while balancing a ball on her nose, dialing the phone with one toe while bluebirds fly joyously around her head as she sings in a sweet, harmonious, trilling voice that soothes all men….apparently. She does everything and beyond the call of duty of normal people and has started to take on my job which was hardly a surprise to me. Frankly, the sooner she does and I’m handed a redundancy the better. 

But back to the paragon. She’s perky and positive and everything is beautiful and wonderful and la-la-la-la-frigging la-la. The only flaw I can pick at is she sounds like a butch bloke eating a tough horse from the hoofs in and I’m thinking, despite being so wondrous, that’s why she is such a doyen (you could also insert 'suck up') to all the anal, gold bracelet wearing stuffed shirts in their insulated corporate world. They think she’s a bloke.

“Sylvia can do this.”
“Let Sylvia do that.”
"Sylvia has already done that.”
“Sylvia is wonderful.”

I say we need people like Sylvia the world – the suck ups and wondrous, the politically correct and super-duper-troopers. Good old Sylvia. I say let her do stuff. What the hell. Call me when you’re ready to pay me out. I need to delete vital files and 'acquire' stationery… 

Stereotypical bullshit …

So, I was looking for an image for a book cover. I wanted a larger, curvaceous, real woman. When I put the word ‘curvaceous’ through one royalty free data base, I got a bunch of thin women with large boobs. Hmmm. I then put ‘voluptuous’ in and everyone had large asses but no one was actually a larger sized woman. They were all very pretty, thin with either boobs or arses sticking out. I put in ‘fat’. I got frumpy looking women who were pulling faces – for whatever reason – making them all look demented and less than attractive and a vast percentage of them were stuffing food into their mouths. Total, stereotypical bullshit of course and no wonder women feel the pressure to conform to what society thinks is normal when it fact there is no normal.

Truth in advertising? There is none. Real women = real bodies. Don’t try and force feed us non-reality for mass conformance. Piss off.  We're over it.  

Tattoo...out now...

https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-tattoo-1213509-356.html

Sian Rossiter carries the mark of her lover. A Celtic tattoo that has been given to the soul mates of Seamus McDonagher’s clan for centuries. Their bond is sexy, enduring and unbreakable.

But there is another who carries the same tattoo. As far as the dark woman is concerned, Seamus is hers. She will stop at no lengths to get him back. The other woman? Collateral damage.

And then there is the hand of fate and the power of an ancient sword. The one who wields it in the land of Twilight will win the man. Does true love have a hope of beating pure evil this time?

Excerpt

Seamus stood for a moment and watched Sian sleep. He caught his breath, as he always did, when he looked at her. They could have been parted for days, hours or even seconds yet it wouldn’t matter. Each time it was like the first time of attraction and hope. No other woman called out to his soul as she did. He was in love with her. It was simple, true, real. It was a love requiring nothing more than being close to each other and reveling in the sanctuary each provided the other. He was very tempted to go back to bed, to take her in his arms once more and drive Sian crazy with what she needed. He’d never met a woman who enjoyed being made to submit as much as Sian. It drove him on to do crazy things to please her.

“But not yet.” He had to deal with someone he had always known, one day, would become a problem. He turned from the woman he loved and walked naked to the window and looked out. That it was cool, he barely noticed. He had other things on his mind. It had been hard pretending the simple conversation Sian had with him about the woman she saw with the same tattoo as hers could have been just anyone. He knew who she was.

Seamus saw a shape move in the darkness. He knew it was her. The dark woman. Meredith. He blew out a breath. “This is so bloody complicated,” he muttered softly, hearing Sian murmur in response. He smiled quickly. That was the way with them. They were attuned to react instantly to each other. “Hush, baby. All is well.” She sighed and drifted off once more. Seamus rubbed at the pain in the back of his neck where a tattoo exactly like Sian’s was scored into his flesh. His had been done as a ritual. It was to do with family. Tradition. Honor. It always burned when there was trouble.

The tattoo was a simple design. It was his family crest dating back centuries. It was Celtic in origin and a knot made up of two individual strands that could not be broken nor could a break or a join be seen in each carefully inked line. It symbolized entwined souls destined to be forever. It was what the McDonagher house was built on. Strong partnerships with people who knew no fear. He looked over at Sian. She was fearless. She was also the one he wanted. Meredith? She was so long ago and he felt nothing for her.

“But she won’t let go.” And she had to. They both knew it. Lust and infatuation was not the material the bound souls together. Meredith was wild and exciting. Once she had fired his blood to the point of frenzy. He hadn’t been able to get enough of her. Like a great hunger he craved her to the point of madness. His great Aunt Cassiopeia had seen that and warned him.

“She’s not the one for you.”

“But I feel so alive with her.”

“Death and life are very much alike, nephew. They’re opposite signs of the same coin yet one cancels out the other and neither can sustain the other.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Oh but I do. Passion can drive you mad. It makes your body wild with desire, your heart pounds and you want to believe the one who drives you on is your soul mate because only she could make you feel that way. But she isn’t. Soul mates are more than just sex—and yes, nephew, I remember very well what sex is like.”

“Aunt—”

“True love comes only once to a man. And oh yes, I’m sure you’ve thought yourself to be in love with many but has one left you breathless?”

“What?”

“Has a woman stopped your breath and made you look at her like she was something you’d never seen before and scared if you let her out of your sight she’ll be gone forever and you’d perish because of it?”

“’Sounds overly dramatic to me.”

“That’s because you haven’t met her yet so you don’t understand.”

Please...release me...

Last night I barely slept a wink. I was moaning, twisting restlessly in the sheets totally out of control, begging for release, needing so much and yet knowing I had no say in what was happening to me. I wasn’t in charge. I just had to submit and ride the crazy crest I was on until I could let go and find release. For a moment, I considered what the neighbours must be thinking. The bedroom window was open, a light breeze coming in through the sheer curtains, only party cooling the heat of the moment as I panted and moaned, twisting and promising anything and everything to my tormentor to let me calm down and drift off, sated, at peace. But it was not to be. Some are relentless. Some never let go until you’re a crying, whining wreck screaming at the universe in a moment of complete physical breakdown swearing on all that is holy that never again will I do 200 sit ups and be in this much pain.

Six pack stomach? Nah, just give me a bottle of champagne like any real woman.