Morning! Oh, it's so nearly the weekend! I now have three out of my four teenagers playing Fortnite. Send help?
Brooding Farts
Guess what? I've actually read a couple of good books this week! But there are still things that are nagging at me a little with them—I'm sure that surprises you by now. I'll fill you in on them more next week, but for now, I want to talk about walls.
Why, in nearly every book, at some point (unless it's some snobbish period drama) do the characters have to do it up against a wall?
It is because the man wants to test out his strength?
And all those poor doors . . . Are they heavy duty fire ones? With all the thrusting, banging, and sheer weight of two people going at it at full force (because he's obviously fucking so hard!), it's surprising that the doors are still attached to their hinges!
And not a single splinter in the ass . . . congratulations.
There are other places in the world to have sex, apart from against walls and doors. Expand your mind and think outside the box. Look what's around you right this minute. Coffee table or even a bookcase. Hell, if you have a window ledge, think about what you could do with that!
Just remember that in real life, unless the couch is up against a wall, it moves.
~Princess~
You made me come with your fingers . . . You made me come with your fingers . . . You made me come with your fingers . . .
Those drugged-out words have been haunting me since I mumbled them to him a few weeks ago. It is the one time in my life that I wished we all came with remotes. I just wanted to rewind time.
What the hell did he think of me? Okay, so it wasn't like I needed his approval for anything or that I wanted him to like me. Christ, I sounded like a schoolgirl. I'd said it, and we were both adults. We would both just have to deal with it.
Talking about dealing, I have a huge list of things I have to deal with today. I was making a start on decorating the kitchen. Though still in agony, I know how far I can push my body, and it's fine so far. The family helped by clearing out the kitchen and covering the cupboards, et cetera. So today it is just me, Mac, and my paint roller.
Dad had already done the prep work for me, painting the ceiling last night and so on, so I was good to go. The main wall where my huge ass AGA cooker sat was going to be a dark red, blood red, and the other walls were going to be a nice tone of Coffee Caramel Crème.
Where do people get these paint names from, anyway?
My thoughts were interrupted by my phone chirping, yet again, and I had to smile, I really did. Since my second post on the page Bossman had set up for me, my phone had been chirping non-stop with notifications. I kinda liked that people followed my web page onto Facebook but am still a little uncomfortable with it all. Last time I looked, I had just over 1500 'likes'. That is pretty cool in my book.
I have some people bitching at me, but I'd expected that. Not everyone thinks the same as me; some even give good arguments. Others just want to bitch for attention. I'm cool with that, too. I don't know them, and they don't know me. On the whole, though, I was getting really good feedback. Some people gave me links to look at their own books, and while that was sweet, I didn't want to read them. What if I hated them? They want an honest review from me . . . it would cripple them. At least when I post on the website, I'm keeping things anonymous.
"Mac, will ya quit whining like a girl outside the locker room?" Damn dog. He is still adamant he wants to have a go with the neighbor's dog. I think he also misses the Bossman, which is ridiculous because Edward hasn't spent that much time here. Plus, it hadn't looked like the man was too keen on my pooch.
"Right, time to get moving!" I said to myself, getting up from the couch and making my way into the now-empty kitchen. It seemed huge without all my pots and pans hanging from the ceiling and the table and chairs missing from the corner. My Grandmother certainly knew how to make a room look small by painting it all dark green. I loved dark colors, but Grandmother took it a little too far. Once I put on the first coat, I hoped it wouldn't look too bad once everything was back in the room.
.
I don't know how to let him out of his misery. I don't know if I even want to, to be honest. He's been sat outside in the car for at least twenty minutes, and by the look on his face, he doesn't know what to do with himself.
I'd managed to put on the first coat of the red and cream on the walls before I took a break. This break included looking out my window to see the Bossman sitting in his car outside the house. It looked like he was at war with himself and I had no idea why.
In the end, I decided to put him out of his misery and sent him a text to get into the house. I need food and have nothing to cook on. We'll have to go out, but I can't drive on these pain meds. It was bad enough that I am going up stepladders.
Bossman, get your ass inside, I need sustenance ;)
Why did I put a wink on the end? Dammit. I watched with a slight cringe when I saw him read his phone then whip his head in the direction of my house. Poor sod looked resigned.
I walked to the front door and opened it before turning back to the kitchen. Hell, we'd shared a bed together, him walking in without me waiting was fine. Plus, I had to keep an eye on Mac. After he'd tried to eat his way through the rope, I changed it to a length of chain. It still didn't stop him from trying to get out anytime a door or window was opened, though.
"I brought us some lunch," Bossman called out through the house.
Damn. That meant we weren't leaving, and I'd have to trust myself not to do or say anything inappropriate with him inside my own four walls. At least if we'd gone out, I would have to act like a somewhat responsible adult.
"Why are your eyebrows pinched together? Are you in pain?" he asked.
When I looked up to him, he was propped up against the doorframe with a bag in one hand and his phone in the other. He looked a little brooding again. Casually dressed in jeans and a tee, he looked . . . jumpable. Now, that's a new word for my vocabulary.
"I never get why authors say that their men look brooding," I said and looked at his puzzled face. "Why do all the men have to look like that? What's their reason? Personally, I always imagine the man needs to fart and are being forced to keep it in," I concluded and flicked on the kettle. I wasn't in the mood for coffee, plus Mom had packed it away in a box, and I couldn't find it. Tea would have to do.
"Where did that come from?" he asked, placing the bag and his phone on the kitchen counter and then scratching Mac behind the ear. My body wanted to scream, "Me next! Me next," but I held it in.
"The look on your face."
"Great, so you're saying I look like I need to fart? I'll remember to smile the next time I need to pass wind, so you don't get confused." He huffed.
"Don't most men smile when they fart? I meant that 'brooding men' look like they need to fart or are trying to remember an important date."
"Well, I don't need to worry about a date, and I certainly don't need to fart. I was just looking at the yellow bruise at the bottom of your back, it looks nasty," he commented, reminding me that I was wearing my slutty jogging bottoms. They're extremely low cut, and I wasn't wearing any panties. Hey, women can go commando, too!
"Well, how about you get your eyes off my ass and tell me what food you have. Then you can help me reach the spots I've missed with painting. I need to take some more meds, and I don't trust myself up on a ladder until a bit later."
.
"Do men experiment with hoovers when they're teenagers?" I asked. We'd just finished the second coat on the walls, and I swear he was like a little kid with food. He had more paint on him than the walls. It didn't help that I may or may not have acted like a kid myself and had done a nice stripe of paint up his back with the roller.
"Where the fuck did that come from, Princess?" I didn't miss the shock in his voice. I'd been asking him strange questions all day, but this was the one I really wanted the answer to.
"Well, most authors are female, right? So, when writing from the man's perspective, why do they always describe the women clamping down and milking cocks when she comes. I just want to know if it is true. Do girls really suck so hard on a cock with their pussy that it resembles a hoover? And milking cocks? You know, that gives me visions of countless men all lined up at milking machines in a sperm bank. Not romantic at all."
"Just for one moment, Princess, I would love to be in your mind. Where does all of this come from? Don't get me wrong, you raise very good points, and your readership agrees with you, for the most part, but where does it come from?" he asked then laughed when I put the roller down and just looked at him.
"Most single women and I bet a handful of married women, want the perfect man, right? Authors try and conjure that man up for us. Sometimes they get it right, which is lucky for us. Sadly, the majority of authors get it so wrong that it sets women up for a lifetime of failure when it comes to real-life men. It's not always about the sex scenes, but that's where it pisses me off the most. We can imagine men that actually notice when we get a haircut or are interested in what we're wearing, but when it comes to sex, it has to be believable. Not every man has a monster cock that hits the G-spot every time. Women do not orgasm through penetration every time and why, for the love of God, is there never a little leakage at the end. You know, what goes in must come out, even if you do use a condom. Christ, if the multiple orgasms are that good, she should be 'gushing' like Niagara Falls. It just pisses me off."
"I see your point, but it's like porn. They cater to what people want," he mused.
"I get that, but the majority of people who watch porn are men, and they are visually stimulated. Women need an emotional connection, which is why it's always better to read scenes and not view them. Argh, I just hate it. If you're going to write smut, do it bloody properly!" I grouched and finished off the last of my tea before taking Mac outside to pee.
When I came back in, I was a little calmer while I watched Bossman wash out our supplies.
"Although I think it needs another coat, it's cooling down now, and it's going to take a while to dry, so you're better off doing it tomorrow."
"Thanks. I'm sorry I flipped out on you earlier, but I get so wound up when people think they can make a quick buck by writing shitty books," I said.
"It's fine. I understand why you get pissed off the way you do. You raise some really good points in your posts which have opened people's eyes to what they're buying and reading. I think maybe you should write more, Princess. People want more from you," he said and the look in his eyes . . . well.
Damn, he wasn't brooding, but he was doing something. It was making things . . . twitch.
"And why do women have to be wet, all the damn time? Or worse, men having to tell the women how wet they are? If the author had done a good job with the writing, the female character would know how aroused she was, why do we need the men to tell us?" I started venting again in an attempt to distract myself from the way he was making me feel, trying to fight that look in his eyes. "Damn clichés!" I added and turned my back to him. No, I wouldn't go there. But damn, I so wanted to.
Then I felt him come up right behind me. I could feel his clothes on my back.
"How's the ass?" he asked as his hands came to rest on my hips.
"Erm–I . . . still sore," I stuttered.
"I'll make sure I go gentle then," he whispered in my ear, and I let out a strange noise.
It sounded something like hmpheletmmm.
You know what's coming next, right? Edward and Bella! *snorts* Sorrynotsorry.
Tomorrow's teaser:
"It's not my fault. You laugh, your tits jiggle, and then I'm hard again," he said with a smirk playing on his lips.
"Point proven that men are visual creatures," I joked.