We were blades, were a knife that could cut through myth, were two knives thrown by a magician, were arrows fired by a god, we hit heart, we hit home, we were the tail of a fish were the reek of a cat were the beak of a bird were the feather that mastered gravity were high above every landscape then down deep in the purple haze of the heather were roamin in a gloamin in a brash unending Scottish piece of perfect jigging reeling reel can we really keep this up?
I read those excerpts last night and was so squicked that I was physically turning my face away from the computer, while still attempting to read. The Boy noticed this, read a little over my shoulder and squawked, "Where do you come up with these things?!" Then he went to raid the beer fridge. He's very sensible, my Boy is.
I wonder if the people who wrote those scenes don't enjoy sex, have never had good sex or maybe have had good sex but feel guilty about it. . .? I don't know. You know how I hate writing explicit sex scenes (though my vampire novel still seems to be the exception), but at least I don't let my repressed Puritan tendencies turn the whole thing gross. Argh.
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Someone got sold really bad crack.
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'Yes. I used up three silicon-lined vaginas.' ...
WHAT. THE FUCK?!
Dude, I'm like...wow.
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I wonder if the people who wrote those scenes don't enjoy sex, have never had good sex or maybe have had good sex but feel guilty about it. . .? I don't know. You know how I hate writing explicit sex scenes (though my vampire novel still seems to be the exception), but at least I don't let my repressed Puritan tendencies turn the whole thing gross. Argh.
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