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Tuesday, August 31, 2010

How Crazy Is Melodee?



OK, just how crazy am I?

Apparently, pretty damned crazy.

If you doubt that, just go to Boyer's Stain-O-Meter on the DSC Show area of San Diego Jack FM page.

Yeah, that's me.

And be sure to listen on Wednesday morning (October 1st) between 6 and 10 to see how I "measure up" to Emily, Elaina, Ruthie, and Carina. You can listen on the air in the San Diego area at 100.7 on your FM dial, or you can stream live from the San Diego Jack FM pages. There is also a podcast available if you can't listen live.

Keep Loving!

Melodee Aaron, Erotica Romance Author
Home Page
Melodee's Books at BookStrand
Inquisitor Betrayer


The Evil Mole Empire



When I was a kid, I spent most summers on a medium-sized farm that my aunt Lucille and uncle Mike owned. It was near the Black River in Missouri not far from a town called Annapolis.

Lucille was my Dad's sister and was, in many ways, like my Dad. Usually quiet and soft spoken with a bend for dry wit and sarcasm, Lucille rarely got mad, but she could make you feel about an inch tall with just a look.

Mike on the other hand, was a bit loud and blustery. And he was funny. He had all sorts of funny names for things. Like when I didn't feel good, he would say I had the mully-grubs. Sometimes I had conkus of the bonkus. And he always told funny stories.

Mike spent World War II in the Army. He was involved in the island hopping from Australia all the way into Japan. Even his stories about the war were funny. He told one about the trip from Hawaii to Australia with all the soldiers seasick and the sailors eating pickles and sausages to make sure the soldiers stayed that way.

It wasn't until much later that I learned that Mike spent some time in the Philippines and was among the first US forces into Japan after the use of the atomic bombs. He was in Hiroshima for eight months. He clearly had stories that weren't at all funny, but he chose to remember, and relate, the good times he had.

He did have a serious side, too. Many of you may not know that I'm deaf. As a kid, I learned to sign, and that allowed me to communicate before I learned to read lips and speak. My parents, of course, learned to sign, but so did Mike. In fact, he was better than my folks at it. He had a knack for signing and for communicating with me in general. He just knew, somehow, that by placing my hand on his lips when he spoke, I could get the new word he tried to teach me must faster. And he would draw pictures for me to get an idea across.

That was just Mike. He was a funny and happy man.

He also had some rather strange habits.

Mike was a firm believer in the idea that if a little of something is good, then more is better. Like the time he almost killed a young calf by giving it too much medicine when it had a respiratory infection. The package said to give a certain amount per pound, and when that helped, Mike decided to double the dose.

The vet managed to save the calf. Barely.

Or the time he decided that the big Black Angus bull he owned was breaking the fence down too often to get to the cows. You know how men are. Mike bought an electric fence charger that was big enough to handle 200 miles of fence. The bull lived in a 40-acre field. In case you don't know, a 40-acre field is 1/4-mile on a side: a total of one mile.

The shock almost killed the bull.

And then there were the moles.

The farmhouse sat on perhaps an acre of land as the yard. Lucille liked plants and flowers, just like my Dad did. She had flowerbeds with pansies, petunias, black-eyed Susans, hollyhocks, snapdragons, and others I didn't know the names of. She had rose bushes all over. Other plants were scattered around the yard as well. I remember in the spring and summer when the flowers bloomed, the yard was an explosion of color, more than I thought there were, and the fragrance would fill the air. I guess it was only my imagination, but it seemed I could smell the flowers all the way back in town, more than seven miles away.

And Mike had to mow the yard, too. Lucille had to watch him closely, though. Mike would mow down her flowers if something distracted him. That was when Lucille would show that, like my Dad, she could get mad.

The problems started the summer after my eleventh birthday.

Lucille and I were in the house. She was trying to teach me to crochet. I never did get the hang of that. Mike was mowing the yard, and Lucille heard him yell a few choice expletives and the mower stopped. Figuring he had either run over some flowers or his foot, we ran outside.

A huge cloud of dust was still settling, and we saw chunks of the Kentucky Blue Grass tossed carelessly around the yard by the now quiet mower. Mike sat on the ground rubbing his ankle.

Once Lucille and I saw he wasn't dead or missing any body parts, we stifled our laughter and got the story of what had happened.

Mike said that as he pushed the mower along, the right rear wheel had suddenly dipped causing the whirling blade to hit the ground. This propelled the chucks of grass and dirt at a high rate of speed in all directions. A small rock had come out the back and hit his ankle.

Mike once decided to get a goat to keep the grass down in the yard. The goat missed places, and he ended up mowing anyway. The goat went away after Mike hit a fresh pile of goat droppings with the mower. The little pellets came out from under the mower at something just less than the speed of sound in every direction. Mike had on shorts that day, and his legs looked like some drug-crazed artist had at him in an experiment to find a new medium to work with.

Lucille, being ever practical, looked at the mower. She commented that the wheels appeared intact.

Stumbling a little and groaning a lot, Mike regained his feet. A careful examination found that the mower didn't malfunction. The right rear wheel had fallen into a collapsed mole run.

For those city-folk reading, a mole run is the tunnel left behind by a mole as they move through the dirt. For those serious city-folk reading, a mole is sort of like a cross between a mouse and mining machine. They have tiny eyes, no ears, and can tunnel through the dirt like mad.

Lucille nodded her head. She'd been fussing for a week about something digging around her plants. Mike had told her she was seeing things.

Now, moles are insectivores. They eat bugs. I'm sure if one was hungry enough, it would eat a plant, but they prefer bugs. Most gardeners like moles. They eat the bugs that will eat the plants and actually help to keep the soil loose.

But Mike wasn't just any old gardener. And his ankle must have still hurt. Right then and there he declared war on the Evil Mole Empire.

Over the next week or so, Mike tried a number of approaches to eradicating moles from his territory. Most involved poisons that are illegal now. There were two results: First, the number of mole runs increased exponentially; second, there were a good number of dead birds in the yard.

This clearly wasn't working.

Mike next resorted to more conventional warfare. Traps. I'm not talking about the nice "live traps" you see today. Most of these traps involved wicked looking spikes and daggers mounted on heavy springs and were designed to trigger when the mole passed. The mechanism then either shoved the spikes into the mole or the mole into the spikes. And the things weren't cheap, either.

Each morning, Mike would check the traps to find every single one tripped and no moles skewered like some demented rodent luau with individual serving kabobs.

The oddest thing he tried was a mole thumper. When I learned about this, my eleven-year-old mind conjured an image of a garden gnome with a hammer waiting to play whack-a-mole...with real moles.

It turns out that a mole thumper is an electric drum. Sort of. It has a thing inside that makes a thumping noise. You push it in the ground like a tent stake, turn it on, and the noise is supposed to drive the moles crazy. It wasn't clear if they would leave or commit suicide.

The moles in Mike's yard did neither. As far as we could tell, the thumper actually attracted the moles.

Mike was despondent. Lucille and I would often find him in the evenings sitting on the porch mumbling about moles being dug in deeper than the Japanese someplace we could only assume to be a south Pacific island. His eyes held a faraway look that I later learned is common among soldiers in heavy fighting. Something like what's commonly called battle fatigue.

All his weapons had failed to subdue, or even divert, his sworn enemy. Remember that the bad taste of Vietnam was still fresh in most people's minds then. Mike wasn't ready to admit another defeat of America, most especially not at the hands, or paws, of a pint-sized Mickey Mouse wannabe.

He began to talk to everyone he could find about mole control. What worked, what didn't work. Maybe a dog was the answer.

Mike and Lucille's big collie-shepard, Danny, wasn't in to catching and eating moles. Neither was the farm cat, Sarge.

And then the answer seemed to come as divine intervention. One Sunday after church, we were all standing around outside the church talking. A guest minister from over at Van Buren had come to speak that day. As I recall, he preached about how the meek would inherit the Earth.

Mike mentioned his mole-induced misery and the preacher laughed a little. He related how he and his late wife (God rest her soul) had a mole problem several years before she passed on (God rest her soul). The way his loving wife (God rest her soul) dealt with it was to use calcium carbide. Just a few grains, maybe a teaspoon, in four or five of the runs, and then his wife (God rest her soul) watered the grass. The gasses ran the moles right off and his late wife (God rest her soul) was free of moles.

The idea of abandoning poisons, traps, and electric dirt drums and moving into the realm of nerve gas seemed to both excite and encourage Mike. Today, that would probably disturb me. Then, I was just happy to see that he wasn't getting his old M-1 out of the gun case.

Oh, that's right. You may not know what calcium carbide is. For the purists out there, it's a dark gray crystalline substance made up of one calcium atom and two carbon atoms. Usually, most people just call it carbide.

It has one main use: The generation of acetylene gas for welding or lighting.

The old miner's lamps ran on carbide. Until the 1970s, a lot of factories made their own acetylene gas to weld with.

All you do is add water to carbide, and you get acetylene gas. You get highly flammable acetylene gas.

The idea was that the gas wouldn't so much kill the moles as that the smell would drive them away. Then again, if they stayed around, I'm sure the gas would kill them.

The yard was bigger than most. It was maybe three or four times bigger. It made sense that Mike would need more than four or five teaspoons of carbide to do the job. If we go with the larger estimate, he would need maybe twenty teaspoons of carbide.

I don't know if you can even buy carbide today. Personally, I think it would be a good thing if not. Then, you could get it at almost any hardware or feed store. Monday morning, I went with Mike to Funk's Feed and Grain.

They sold carbide in cans that looked like paint cans. There were pint, quart, and gallon cans all in a pretty blue color with the Union Carbide logo on the front and a zillion warnings on the back.

I'll admit it. I'm guessing about the amounts in the cans here. I would guess that a pint can holds maybe eight tablespoons of carbide. That's about twenty-four teaspoons. Using my estimate, a quart can would contain around forty-eight or so teaspoons.

Mike bought the gallon can.

The preacher from Van Buren had said his late wife (God rest her soul) had waited until dusk to put the carbide in the runs and water the area. The poor woman (God rest her soul) said that would make sure the moles were active since they tend to be nocturnal.

An hour or so before sundown, Mike went to work on his mission of destruction. I noticed he didn't take a spoon.

Using his old Army knife, he poked a hole in a mole run, and then scooped a handful of carbide into the hole. He then moved on. He did this all over the yard, maybe every six feet or so. Soon, the can was empty.

The year before, Dad and Mike had put an electric pump in the old hand-dug well, so they had running water now. Mike grabbed the hose and began to saturate the yard.

He worked slowly toward the porch. He shut the water off and climbed the five steps up to the porch itself where Lucille and I sat, me trying to get that whole crochet thing down.

Mike smoked cigarettes. Not just any cigarettes, but unfiltered Camels. I remember staring at the pack for hours, liking the old looking pictures of the desert with the camel and Egyptian imagery. I remember finding it somehow soothing.

Mike pulled a Camel from the pack, tamped it three times, and stuck it in his mouth. Striking a kitchen match against the head of a nail in the porch railing, he lit the cigarette and tossed the match out into the damp grass.

Do you know the difference between burning and exploding? When something burns, it gives off gasses that expand. In burning, this expansion is unchecked, so it's a nice, slow process. If the expansion of the gas is somehow contained, the pressure builds up and eventually breaks free. Then you have an explosion.

Sometimes, under the right conditions, you get explosive acetylene gas when you add water to carbide.

The yard seemed to explode all at once and nothing first.

I've been close to lightening strikes. The shockwave was close to that. Maybe it wasn't quite as loud as a lightening strike only fifty feet away. I've also been close to running jet engines. The explosion was much stronger than that.

The flash surprised me. I should say the absence of a flash. It's the mix of acetylene and oxygen that makes that pretty blue flame you see when welding. Apparently, there was enough oxygen to prevent the yellow flame of free-burning gas, but not enough to give the bright blue of the welding flame.

That or it just went too fast to have any color at all.

Dirt rained from the sky like hail. Mixed in with the dirt were small rocks and clumps of grass. The occasional pansy or petunia could be seen fluttering slowly to the exploding ground.

When the rain of debris stopped, I looked out at the yard. Instead of the bluish-green of the Kentucky Blue Grass, the yard was the brown of dry clay. A few small craters could be seen, still smoldering. One rose bush still stood upright, its roots clinging for dear life to the scrabbled dirt. Every bloom and every leaf had been stripped from its now bare branches.

And there stood Mike. He was outlined against the battle zone, cigarette hanging limply from his lips. His hand and arm were frozen in the position they had assumed when he casually flicked the burning match into the grass as he had done countless times before this.

His eyes had a different look now. I suspect it was the same look that soldiers get when their enemy just demonstrated some awesome, newfound weapon for which there is no defense. I think they call it "Shock and Awe".

As Lucille and I walked to the edge of the porch to stand on either side of Mike, we saw that the damage appeared restricted to the yard. We could see no broken windows. No siding was missing from the house. Even the old tire swing in the front swayed gently in the breeze.

Mike seemed to remember the burning cigarette hanging from his lower lip. He lifted it fully into his mouth and took a long drag. As he slowly exhaled the smoke, a small mole ran across the yard and found some bug. We stood silently watching as the rodent enjoyed his evening meal.

And just like when your enemy has a newfound weapon of staggering power, the only option was total, unconditional surrender.

Keep Loving!

Melodee Aaron, Erotica Romance Author
Home Page
Melodee's Books at BookStrand
Inquisitor Betrayer


Monday, August 30, 2010

Boys Will Be Boys




Melodee's Home Page


I can't seem to leave some news stories alone...


Boys Will Be Boys


Yes, they will. They can't help it.

I know right now that I'm going to piss off a lot of folks in several groups, so if you're leaning is in the following list, you may want to stop reading now.

(1) Educators

(2) Feminists

(3) Social Liberals

(4) Creationists

I think that covers it, at least mostly.

So...

Humans evolved as hunter/gatherers, and we still are to a large degree. In the past, men hunted and women gathered. The proof of this is still with us...

Men have thicker, stronger bones so they don't break as easily when a [fill in the name of your favorite ancient or modern large game animal] tosses them against a cliff wall. Men have larger and stronger muscles to better overpower a [fill in the name of your favorite ancient or modern large game animal]. Men are better at concrete problem solving than women so they can figure out how to keep a [fill in the name of your favorite ancient or modern large game animal] from doing any of the above to them.

On the other hand, women have more stamina so they can walk all day to find fruit, nuts, and berries and carry them back to the village. Women tend to be better at abstract problem solving so they can figure out how to feed the village when there really isn't enough food. BTW, we call that "intuition".

So, like it or not, women and men are very, VERY different. So different in fact that it's not out of the question for scientists from an alien world to see men and women as two different species.

And those differences extend to children as well.

Girls will play at house and other more "domestic" games. This is to better prepare them for raising and managing the family. In other words, these games will fulfill the gathering part of the human equation. The games tend to be more tranquil and far less violent than the play displayed by boys because the girls, in the hardwired parts of their brains, see the aggressive games of boys as being something that will kill off the tribe.

Boys, on the other hand, play in more aggressive ways. They make "guns" and "knives" and "clubs" to wage "war" against each other. As a side note, keep in mind that a "gun" is simply a "club" on steroids, and a thermonuclear bomb is just a really big gun. Anyway...boys will play at dominance games to sort out the social hierarchy. These games prepare the boys for their role as hunters in the same human equation used by the girls. However, since the roles are different, so are the means to reach the end results needed.

And this is where the facts come to light...

We are still hunter/gathers, and we need both hunters and gatherers. Without both factors in the equation, we will fail to find the answer. Evolution has provided this for us, but there is a problem...

We want to suppress things to fit our flawed concept of how things should be. There are two main places where we have gone astray in this balance of power:

(A) Make Boys Into Gatherers: We want boys to be calm and peaceful like girls. We want to suppress the aggression that is key to their development. When we do this, the behavior doesn't go away...it is simply shoved down inside of the boys until it boils over, usually not until adulthood. Ever wonder why we are seeing more serial killers than in the past? Ever wonder why most serial killers are male? Well, here's the reason.

(B) Make Girls Into Hunters: Today, we want women and girls to be "equals" to men and boys. I'm not sure what "equal" means, though. Does that mean that we cut off a woman's breasts and use them to build her a penis? No...it seems that for many people, we cut off the man's penis and graft it onto the woman. See (A) above. In practice, girls are forced into a career, and as women, they neglect their family. They leave their mate alone and they dump off their children at daycare. The woman can have a six-figure income and many still wonder why they feel alone and unfulfilled. The reason is both simple and clear...the hardwired parts of their brain know that they are failing to do the job they were designed to do.

Any species has just exactly one main function: To perpetuate the species. To do that, we must raise children into functional adults. To do that takes a team approach. And that team should contain both male and female role models.

Can such a team be formed from same-sex couples? I see no reason why not. The why of this is because we're not talking about a couple here...we are talking about a community. Yes, a community has the responsibility of raising the children living in it. How big that community is depends on a lot of factors. It might be a family unit. It could also be a neighborhood. It might be an entire city. A country would also fill the bill. Or even the whole world.

Yes, I said "balance of power" above...

Girls need the influence of a male. It is a male role model who will teach her how good men treat women. It is a man who will teach her when she needs to stand up for what she believes instead of rolling over. It is the male in her life who will protect her.

Boys need the influence of a female. It is a female role model who will teach him how to control his aggression. The woman in his life will tell him how to treat other women. And it is his female support group that will help him learn to be a good man.

Conversely, girls need a woman's input to learn to do the gathering part of the equation, and boys need a male around to teach them to hunt.

Children need both sexes around to teach them how to be human. The perfect balance comes when the child, now an adult, knows when to be compassionate and understanding and when to stand firm and fight.

Neither extreme is good...too much gatherer in the mix, and the first "bully" that comes along rules the world. Too much hunter in the blend, and we all go out in a bright flash of white light.

The results of our failures to realize these basic design features of humanity are many and almost all negative...

We have men who can't control their aggressive nature preying on society. There is, sadly, little hope for "fixing" these men. Such deeply engrained personality disorders are rarely treatable. They will continue to behave in the same ways forever.

We have women who are unfulfilled and feel somehow empty despite their professional success. Sadly, these women have little hope of being freed from this situation because we have built a society that values financial prowess and position more than humanity itself.

The solution is actually pretty simple...

We let boys be boys and girls be girls. We allow the gatherers and hunters to do the things evolution designed them to do.

We have to stop the extremists on both sides from destroying humanity. There are those on the left extreme of the social scale who would allow us all to become sheep. At the same time, the far right of the social scale will likely kill us all.

Either way, humanity ends.

The answers are never at the far ends of the bell curve of probability.

They are always someplace in the middle.

Where the unique powers and skills of the hunter and the gatherer come together to form a perfect humanity.



Keep Loving!
Melodee Aaron, Erotica Romance Author

Home Page
Melodee's Books at BookStrand
Inquisitor Betrayer


Sunday, August 29, 2010

This Week at Melodee's Place


This Week at Melodee's Home Page

There are a ton of new things at my Home Page this week, so let's get right to it...

First, in my Spotlight this week is the talented Angelika Devlyn. Pop over to my Home Page and click on the SPOTLIGHT to read more about her and her HOT works. Angelika will also host a chat in my Yahoo Group, so be sure to drop by to talk with her!

Next, and this is a biggy, my LINKS page has been completely redesigned and enhanced to make it easier to find the links you are looking for. There are a number of new categories for links, and we are accepting requests for inclusion on the pages. The current categories include: Authors, Publishers, Agents, Reviewers, Promotional Organizations, and Charitable Organizations. Not all of the links we have on file have been put on the pages yet, so check back often. Also, if you or your organization would like a link on my pages, just click the link near the top of the main LINKS page for all the details.

Third, new horoscopes by Ms. Mir will be up on Tuesday, and you do not want to miss those!

Keep Loving!

Melodee Aaron, Erotica Romance Author

Home Page

Melodee's Books at BookStrand

Inquisitor Betrayer

Radio Daze



Many people today aren't old enough to remember the CB radio craze of the late 1960s through the early 1980s. I suspect a few people just don't want to remember it, maybe even making a conscious effort to forget the fact they were deeply involved.

While I wasn't involved, I remember Dad was. And so was Uncle Mike. Deeply involved. Obsessed probably isn't too strong a word.

They had it all, too. All the latest gear, most of it very illegal. I remember when Dad finally saved up enough money in 1976, when I was five, to buy his dream radios. He went to the local radio store, owned and operated by a man I knew only as Red Horse, and bought a Lafayette Comstat 25B base radio and a 525F mobile radio. Only Dad and Red Horse didn't call them Lafayette radios. They were "Laffin-Idiot" radios.

Dad got the works, too. This was in the days when CB was limited to just 23 channels, so he paid extra and Red Horse installed some little switches on the radios that gave Dad "uppers", "lowers", and "RC" channels. I gathered that the FCC, or Uncle Charlie as Dad called them, would be very upset if they caught him with the modified transceivers.

And he bought two linear amplifiers. Dad called them "boots" and Red Horse called them "lean-e-ars".

Dad said he could talk all over the world with these radios. I wondered who he would talk to. Dad's English wasn't the best, and other than cussing I never heard him speak any other language.

Then again, CB-ers spoke their own language back then. As mentioned, Lafayette radios were Laffin-Idiots. A single woman was a YL. A married woman was an XYL. At five years old, I was a yard ape. I graduated to that from being a rug rat.

And they used a secret code, too. Well, maybe not secret, but cryptic. The aptly named "10-code".

For example, 10-4 meant something like I understand, but it could mean a lot of other things, too. 10-20 meant location. One that got quite a workout from Dad and Mike was 10-9. That meant something like "repeat what you said because I didn't understand a word of it."

And there were other linguistic oddities, too. Like "catch you on the flip side", and "we gone" were commonly heard around the channels, especially the uppers.

You could hear a lot of these things without ever turning on a radio. All you needed to do was go to a jamboree. One of the biggest was the Fudpucker Jamboree.

Not long after Dad got his Laffin-Idiots, the Fudpuckers had a jamboree in St. Louis. We, of course, just had to go.

So, I piled into the old Dodge van, now bristling with Shakespeare Big Stick antennas (co-phased, of course), with Dad, AKA Chicken Charlie, and Mom, AKA Little Fat Hen, and away we went. Mike, AKA The Oleo Kid, and Lucille—she had no handle as she never really caught the bug—would meet us there.

As we neared the St. Louis Arena where the jamboree was being held, the traffic on the radio became more intense. Only rarely could Dad understand anything people were saying because 3 and 4 folks at a time would try to talk.

And they kept speaking in code.

One thing I remember that struck as me as odd was that people into CB radio spoke in the plural a lot. For example, when Dad told Mike that he found a parking place in the big lot at the Arena, he said, "10-4 Oleo Kid, we done found us a place to keep the greasy side down, go 'head."

I have no clue what the rest meant.

And the place was thick with Fudpuckers. They all wore the same outfits; navy blue polyester double-knit pants, light blue short-sleeved dress shirts, and red vests. Even at five-years-old, I knew there was some inherent problem with wearing double-knit polyester.

Then there were the shoes. All Fudpuckers wore white, patent leather shoes. Funky looking boots were in style then—don't ask me why—and most of the Fudpuckers wore some sort of boot affair.

The vests were interesting. On the back, every Fudpucker in the place had their CB handle embroidered in shiny white thread. On the left side of the chest was the handle again along with the wearer's Fudpucker unit number. And then every square inch of the vest was covered in patches, pins, buttons, and other assorted decorations.

One commonly seen patch had a picture of turtle talking on a radio and the letters "R-U-A" just above the picture. I wondered about that. I liked turtles. I still do. When I asked Dad what it meant, he said it was another club, The Turtles, and the patch asked the question, "Are You A Turtle?"

About then, Mike and Lucille joined us. Mike looked resplendent in his Fudpucker outfit, and I noticed he wore a turtle patch on his vest. So, I asked the obvious question: "Uncle Mike, are you a turtle?"

All of the blood drained from Mike's face. I glanced at Dad, and he was similarly pale. Mom looked like maybe she had actually swallowed a turtle, and it was working its way out again. Lucille was nearly as red as Mike's vest and her burning glare flickered between Mike and Dad.

Dad seemed to recover first, and he nudged Mike playfully. "Well, tell her, good buddy."

Lucille's eyes flared like small nuclear weapons. "Don't you dare!"

Without knowing it, I had stumbled into one the hidden meanings of CB radio. Like other secret societies such as the Masons and the Water Buffalo, CB radio operators of the time had secret words, and pass-phrases. I suspect there were secret handshakes and the likes as well. Just like Fred and Barney did with the lodge secrets in Bedrock, Dad and Mike had not only to protect the secrets, but also remain true to the fraternity.

Mike's eyes darted around a few times, and he mumbled something. Reading his lips, all I saw was, "Um, you bet..."

I felt puzzled by his actions. Normally Mike was a loud and boisterous man. I tugged on his vest. "Are you a turtle?"

Lucille punched his arm. "I said, don't you dare!"

Mike seemed to gird himself up to his full six and half feet. "I have to." He swallowed once, and then again. "You bet your sweet ass I am."

Mom and Dad nearly collapsed to the floor in hiccupping fits of giggles. Mike looked like he wanted to hide someplace. Lucille looked like she was ready to kill someone. Probably Mike.

Mike pointed to a smaller patch beside his RUA Turtle patch. It had another turtle, smiling hugely, and the letters, "Y-B-Y-S-A-I-A" below it.

I suppose it's a good thing that little children have short attention spans because it probably averted a homicide that day. A vendor with a tray full of pink cotton candy walked by, and I pointed. Mike quickly bought me a huge cone, still warm from the kitchen, and all thoughts of asses, sweet or otherwise, and turtles left my mind.

As we wondered around the Jamboree, Dad and Mike put eyeballs on many people they had previously only talked to on the radio. People like Big Jim and his XYL Frenchie. There was Mountain Boy who said he was "climbing hills and popping pills, smoking hash and talking trash". We also met Gigger, Atex, and Big Shoe. And then there was Lolita...

Looking back, Lolita was probably out of high school, but not by much. Then again, she may have been 22 and still in high school. It was clear that snappy conversation and witty turn of phrase weren't her strong suits.

Lolita wore a kind of modified Fudpucker suit. The navy slacks were replaced with a short navy blue skirt. A very short navy blue skirt. I mean REALLY short. The powder blue shirt was completely unbuttoned except for one fastener at the level of her rather ample breasts, and the tail of the shirt was tied tightly around her chest leaving a good deal of pink skin showing around her waist. She must have lost her vest someplace. Her hair was bleached to the point of being white, and her makeup must have come from the local Sherwin-Williams store and be purchased by the gallon. Oh, and 4" spiked heel knee boots. In white patent leather.

To be fair, more than a few women at the Jamboree fit that general description. Some were clearly with someone else, but most just wondered around loose. Like cannons.

These loose cannons all seemed to have an entourage with them. Mostly men, mostly middle-aged or older, the followers seemed to spend a lot of time staring at the woman's chest. Imagine that.

Lucille was pleased to learn that Mike had never talked to Lolita on the radio. Since Mike was already in trouble just for being a turtle, this was a good thing.

Dad wasn't so lucky.

We were in front of the Antenna Specialist's corporate booth when Lolita walked passed us, her gathering of four or five middle-aged men following along with glazed faces. Her beady brown eyes fell to the embroidered front of my Dad's Fudpucker vest.

She smiled, and I noticed her teeth had wide gaps between them and a couple of molars were just plain missing. "Why, Chicken Charlie! You old fool!" She threw her arms around Dad's neck and hugged him.

Dad managed to extract himself from the embrace and pushed her back a little. He glanced down to her chest to read the embroidered name there. There wasn't any embroidery. He stared at her chest anyway.

At the time, I had no idea why, but Mom didn't find this at all amusing. Looking back, and knowing what I know now, I think Mom took it rather well. Neither Dad nor Lolita died that day.

I think it was a close thing, though.

I can only recall Mom swearing a few times. This was one of them. Drawing herself up to her full height of just under five feet, Mom huffed. "Who the hell are you?"

Lolita laughed. "And you must be the Little Fat Hen!" She moved to hug Mom. I don't think Mom wanted a hug, but she was so taken aback by all this that she just stood there and let the young woman hug her briefly.

To this day, I don't know if Lolita just wasn't interested in Dad and Mike, or if her dance card was already full with the groupies following her around like lost puppies, but she made some excuse and moved off, tossing a quick, "Catch you come later!"

We wandered around the exhibition for hours, and we went to a couple of seminars. One was about how to shoot skip. Another, far more interesting, was about a new line of beam antennas from Cushcraft. Still another was put on by the E. F. Johnson company about how to properly align and adjust a CB transmitter. We saw Red Horse there.

It was pretty late when we decided to leave, and being in early March, it was cold outside. Dad slipped off his red vest and wrapped it around my shoulders, and then picked me up. As we moved out the door and into the chilly night air, we passed a man dressed in the now familiar Fudpucker fashion. The embroidery on his chest read simply, "Doc".

He smiled and glanced at Dad's vest around me as he tussled my hair. "Say, Little Girl, are you a turtle?"

I smiled despite how tired I was. After all, nine o'clock is pretty late for a five-year-old. "You bet your sweet ass I am!"

3s and 8s, we gone.

Keep Loving!

Melodee Aaron, Erotica Romance Author
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Saturday, August 28, 2010

Smoke Gets In Your Eyes




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Smoke Gets In Your Eyes


I don't smoke. I have smoked in the past sort of on-again, off-again, mostly because I thought it "looked cool" when I was younger. Frankly, smoking—and the nicotine addiction—just couldn't hold a candle to the other drugs I was doing at the time.

My husband smoked a pipe for many years, but when I was pregnant, he quit. It wasn't easy for him, but he did it for his family.

Neither of us are the militant anti-smoking people you see so often in the recovering smoker crowds.

Personally, if someone wants to smoke, that is their business.

In a closed environment, I don't want to breathe in second-hand smoke. In an outdoor setting, I have no problem with them smoking so long as there are places where: (1) I can get out of the smoke, and (2) They can enjoy the place as much as I can.

Now that we have all of the PC crap out of the way...

There are a few things about the governmental and insurance industry views that puzzle me about smoking cessation...

(A) Why Are Smokers Treated Differently From Other Addicts? Yes, they are addicts. Nicotine is an addictive substance, just like heroine, cocaine, and so on. But we treat smokers differently. The PC thing today comes down to, "Billie-Bob is a crack-head, and it's not his fault, so we should help him." To a point, I agree with that. Billie-Bob needs help, and we should not punish him for his addiction. BUT, Billie-Bob has to work at this, too. I'll help him as long as he helps himself, too. On the other hand, we treat smokers as if their addiction is a crime. Why is that? Especially when you consider how much income the taxes on tobacco products generates. We should thank them.

(B) Why Don't We Make It Easier To Quit Smoking? The various nicotine patches, gums, and so on that used to be prescription are now over-the-counter. Why? No, not to make them easier to get. So the various insurance programs—including Medicare—don't have to pay for them. Most insurance programs either limit or exclude prescription drugs like Chantix and others that are clinically proven to help. I know the answer to this one...

Why Does The Government Support Smoking Instead Of Cessation? In a word, money. Yeah, money is the motivator here. Increased taxes on tobacco are in no way aimed at getting people to quit smoking. They exist as a revenue stream. Look closely at the taxes...they are high enough to generate significant incomes, but low enough that people won't actually stop smoking to avoid paying them. And that means that the government has a vested interest in getting people to KEEP smoking. If folks actually quit, the Goose That Laid The Golden Egg goes belly-up like a $0.25 Wal-Mart goldfish. The scary part here is that if people actually quit smoking, the government will not cut spending to cover the lost revenue...they will just do more deficit spending.

So, how do we help smokers help themselves and quit? That part's easy...

We make drugs readily available to them at little or no cost.

We make support systems available to them at little or no cost.

We stop treating them as second-class citizens.

We get off our high horse and realize that they need our help.

We stop browbeating them about things they already know.

And we get the government spending under control so smokers aren't seen as the answer to the deficit.

In short, we see smoking the same way we see other addictions and give them the same help we do other addicts.



Keep Loving!
Melodee Aaron, Erotica Romance Author

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In His Arm - Back To The Future



Well, here we are on the final day of our special pre-release week to celebrate Tina Donahue's coming book In His Arms from Ellora's Cave.

Over the last few days, we've talked about a lot of things...some were closely related to In His Arms, and some a little more distant from the actual book itself. If you missed anything, you can go back to my Yahoo Group and Blog to catch up.

Today, I want to ask a single question that I think is on the minds of many readers...

What does the future hold for RJ and Summer? Can we expect to see more of them in future stories?

Finally, I want to thank Tina for sharing her time and talent with us. It's been great fun!

Keep Loving!

Melodee Aaron, Erotica Romance Author
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Friday, August 27, 2010

In His Arms - Who's That Girl?



Wow! It's already day five of our special pre-release week to celebrate Tina Donahue's coming book In His Arms from Ellora's Cave.

Over the last few days, we've talked about the fascinating cover, the relationship between the main characters of In His Arms, what RJ looks like and what inspired him, and most recently about how straight men are starting to read erotica romance and what that means for us. If you missed any of those, you can go back to my Yahoo Group and Blog to catch up.

Today, I want to take a jump to the left...as opposed to a step to the right. Yeah, bonus points for knowing that reference without looking it up!

We talked the other day about what RJ looks like, and he's nothing short of delicious, but I can't help wondering what Summer looks like.

I make little secret about the fact that I have lived most of my life bisexual. I always did lean to men, but I have had female partners as well.

The top local radio morning show is The DSC Show (Dave, Shelly, and Chainsaw) on Jack 100.7 FM (6-10 M-F), and they have a running bit that all women want to make love to another woman, even if just once. Their callers seem to support that idea.

I get a good deal of mail from readers asking about my heroines, and I think I know why they are interested. It ain't to get fashion tips, either.

But, without going off on a big tangent on that concept, I would like to know what Summer looks like from two different points of view...

First, Tina, how would you, as the "impartial" author, describe Summer?

Second, I would love to know what RJ sees when he looks at Summer. If I were to ask RJ to describe Summer to me, what would be his response?

Special Note: Friday's are a wild day for me...I have a ton of teleconferences (not an easy task for a deaf girl!) and other contacts to make with staff, publishers, editors, producers, and other assorted wheels both big and small. I reserve Fridays for just that purpose, so I will be VERY scarce today. I WILL be here not later than 6pm Pacific to chat live in my Yahoo Group with everyone who cares to show up to visit with Tina.

Keep Loving!

Melodee Aaron, Erotica Romance Author
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Thursday, August 26, 2010

In His Arms - It's Raining Men



Now it's day four of our special pre-release week to celebrate Tina Donahue's coming book In His Arms from Ellora's Cave.

Over the last few days, we've talked about the fascinating cover, the relationship between the main characters of In His Arms, and just what RJ looks like and what inspired him. If you missed those, you can go back to my Yahoo Group and Blog to catch up.

Today, I want to move away from focusing in on particulars in the story and look at things from a more general point of view...

Erotica romance is written primarily for women. My own market research has found that the "target demographics" are married women, 24-41 years old, with two or more kids, and employed more than twenty hours a week. Hell, I have five PhDs, two MS, and a couple of BS degrees (don't ask...it will give you a headache!), and I barely know what "target demographics" are, let alone how you define and use them.

They tell me that this group buys about 70% of the erotica romance books. Of the remaining 30%, about half are bought by women outside of that main group. What about the other 15%?

The studies find that men buy the rest. The largest single group of men that buy erotica romance are 30-45, single/divorced, heterosexual, and white-collar employed fulltime. They account for nearly 10% of total sales.

Now, here's the funny part, at least to me...

These men say that they do like the sex scenes, but that's not the main reason they read the books. They claim that they, like our women readers, like the romance and love the stories convey.

So, Tina, how do you feel about the fact that as many as 10% or so of your readers are straight men? Do you write stories aimed at men in any way, or do you target women only and the men fend for themselves?

Keep Loving!

Melodee Aaron, Erotica Romance Author
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Wednesday, August 25, 2010

In His Arms - Look At That Cadillac



Now it's day three of our special pre-release week to celebrate Tina Donahue's coming book In His Arms from Ellora's Cave.

Over the last couple of days, we've talked about the fascinating cover and the relationship between the main characters of In His Arms, and if you missed those, you can go back to my Yahoo Group and Blog to catch up.

Today, I thought we might all tease each other a little...

Tina, in the excerpt from In His Arms, you give a bit of description of RJ...

He did not, instead retreating several steps to one of the gold satin sitting chairs, a dainty design made more ineffective by his masculine bulk. Slowly, as though he enjoyed having her anticipate their coming pleasure, he removed his leather boots. His black socks followed, revealing his large feet and long toes.

Before the night ended, she’d lick and suckle them before moving to his cock.

Standing, he unbuckled his belt, lowered his fly and pushed his pants to his knees, letting them drop with a faint whoosh to his ankles.

The sound matched her quick exhale of air.

Navy boxer briefs hugged his narrow hips and powerful thighs. Behind the stretchy placket, she saw the promise of his meaty cock and balls. She spread her legs even more, summoning him to fill her, wordlessly begging him to do so.

With a smile curling his beautiful mouth, RJ pushed down his briefs and stepped out of them.

The room seesawed, along with Summer’s thoughts. Naked, RJ faced her, confident in his masculinity and ability to bring her pleasure.

A thin sheen of perspiration coated her throat, intensifying her perfume, enhancing her female scent. Never had she been as ready for another man, not in all the years since Anthony had owned her, changing her life forever. Her pulse points throbbed, marking each beat of her sprinting heart. She feasted on RJ’s tall, perfectly formed body, the thatch of thick, dark hair covering his groin, his rigid penis, ruddy with arousal, his balls plump and tight against his groin.


This is, of course, beyond the wonderful tattoos he has!

First of all, is RJ based on someone real? If so, what can you tell us about him? Like maybe his address??

Second, what else can you tell us about how RJ looks? What other delightful things are there about his appearance?

Keep Loving!

Melodee Aaron, Erotica Romance Author
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Tuesday, August 24, 2010

In His Arms - Forcing The Matter



Here we are at day two of our special pre-release week to celebrate Tina Donahue's coming book In His Arms from Ellora's Cave.

Yesterday, we talked a lot about the amazing cover for In His Arms, and if you missed that, you can go back to my Yahoo Group and Blog to catch up.

Today, I'd like to move on to the actual meat of the story and talk a bit about what wonders await you between the covers.

No pun intended. Maybe.

I have never been much of one for the "forced sex" found in many erotica romance stories. To me, it's just one step too close to rape. But, that's just my opinion and me. Since it is my opinion, I don't write stories with that sort of thing.

However, I do write some scenes that come close, and in the excerpt for In His Arms, you'll find that Tina has done the same thing. One passage reads...

He paid no heed to her willfulness. Hand on her belly, he directed her body to return to the mattress. Once she complied, he held her there, his fingers still inside, pressing into her much softer flesh, his tongue continuing to ignore her nub.

A protest gurgled in the back of her throat.

Immune, RJ lapped her juices, as though testing her reaction to him as a man and as a lover, one she’d chosen. Never had she known anyone like him and she responded without artifice, mewing for more, for every—

Her thoughts halted at his teeth bearing down carefully around her nub, his tongue negotiating its contours. Something indescribable and thrilling coiled between her legs, tensing her muscles, snatching her breath. Crudely and loudly, she cried out at the orgasm sluicing through her, the contractions of her inner muscles sucking RJ’s fingers deeper.

There they remained as Summer fought for air. She’d barely managed a full breath when his thumb replaced his tongue on her clit.

No. Even the slightest stroke became more than she could endure, the pleasure too deep, unbearable. The points of her high heels gouged the comforter. She heard the fabric rip. Her hips thrashed trying to escape him.

He wouldn’t allow it, keeping his fingers deeply inside, his thumb poised on her nub. She whimpered.


Some might call this forced sex, but it's not. Not even close.

RJ is reading Summer like a book, and his goal is to please her despite herself. By the same token, Summer is so into RJ that she is losing sight of the fact that she, after all is said and done, his property and slave.

The difference is important, too.

In their mutual attraction, both of the lovers have abandoned the real world and moved into the fantasyland of pure attraction, if not actual love.

Tell us, Tina, was this transformation one that you set out to create for Summer and RJ, or did it just happen? And along that same line, when you first conceived In His Arms, was that the plan, or did your characters take the story in a direction all on their own?

Keep Loving!

Melodee Aaron, Erotica Romance Author
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Monday, August 23, 2010

Speed Kills



On several occasions in the past, I've blogged about my frustration at budget woes and failures to fix them when easy solutions are readily available, particularly at the state level.

Most particularly here in California.

This blog is the result of a study I commissioned to look at traffic violations. More on that a little later...

It is well known that here in California, traffic laws, especially speed limits, are enforced in a rather lackadaisical manner. Take a drive on any freeway in the state and you'll see this happening. You may even see such speeders passing CHP cars with impunity and no reaction from the officer. This happens all of the time.

I needed data on how fast cars are going on the state's freeways, so...

I went to the CHP to get information about the speeds of cars on the state's freeways, but I was told that data the CHP has relates to particular cars and drivers—that is, those caught speeding—and therefore the information was not available to the public since it involved private personal data. The CHP referred me to CalTrans...

That seemed reasonable, at least at the time.

I spoke to CalTrans and was told that they do not keep such records. They record the speed of traffic for specific areas for a specific time period in order to evaluate the need for road repairs and improvements. Once that is done, the data is tossed. CalTrans referred me to the CHP.

After a few more trips back and forth circling the runaround tree, I decided to commission my own study. This is where things got really interesting...

I called CalTrans to find out the names and such for some of the contractors that do traffic surveys and studies for the state, and I was told I needed to get the info from the State Treasury people. I contacted the State Treasury and was told I couldn't have that information because it "...is not something the public needs to know about...". Yeah, this was getting to be a lot of fun.

After a few calls to some politicians who owe me favors, I finally got a list of the contractors I was interested in. I had to promise the politicians that I would not mention their name or other things that might identify them. So don't ask.

What I wanted to do was to monitor a section of one or more freeways, recording the speed of the vehicles and the type of vehicles (car or truck) that went through the section over a period of time. That's all. No license plate data not even the color of the car...just the speed and type.

Next, I started to contact some of the contractors, and that got interesting in a hurry, too. I was told by the companies, unanimously, that such studies by private citizens are illegal. Only CalTrans can do such studies. Not even the CHP can do them unless they are writing tickets at the same time.

I talked to a bunch of folks, and the only excuse I could get was that "...the citizens of California have a right to expect privacy as they are traveling the state's freeways..." I won't even abbreviate this. What the fuck does that mean?

It soon became clear that the real reason is that the State of California does not want the public to know just how inept they actually are.

So, never being one to care too much about breaking nonsensical laws, I pressed on...

I contacted one the contractors and made a deal. No one will know who the company is. I claim protection under freedom of the press. Besides, all records have been destroyed and the money to pay them—not a trivial amount, by the way—went through more front companies and offshore banks than most drug cartels use. So, don't ask.

What the firm did for me was to set up three radar and traffic camera systems around the state. All were set up on private properties, off of the freeway right-of-way, and along sections of Interstate highways. One was in northern California, another in the central part of the state, and the third not far from where I live in southern California. The systems ran for sixty days, seven days a week, and twenty-four hours a day using night-vision systems. All of the sites were on fairly level, straight sections of road.

What I got from them were a bunch of pictures of vehicles with the license plates fuzzed out and the date, time, and speed superimposed on the photos. Honestly, the photos were very low quality, and that's just fine. What I wanted to know was what type of vehicle it was and how fast it was going. They were good enough for that.

Notice that I am speaking of the pictures in the past tense. That's deliberate. They too have been destroyed. They were provided to me on a series of memory cards and after statistical analysis, the cards were erased, crushed, and finally burned. No chance of recovering that data.

Anyway...

For the analysis, I threw out any vehicles that looked like some kind of an emergency vehicle. That included police cars, fire equipment, ambulances, and vehicles that looked like one of those. Yes, I probably tossed out some tow trucks and the like, but I would rather error on the side of missing a few than including a CHP officer on a call doing 90 MPH.

I used the definition of "truck" as used by the State of California for traffic laws. In a nutshell, a "truck" is any vehicle with three or more axles. Notice that includes cars pulling a trailer. In California, vehicles with only two axles can drive 70 MPH on the sections of freeway we monitored. Those vehicles with three or more axles have a maximum speed limit of 55 MPH.

Here are the numbers for the three areas...


Area          Cars         Under       Over        Trucks    Under    Over
1                 67,592    39,490     28,102     25,008   11,439   13,569
2               155,167    80,478     74,689     64,391   26,779   37,612
3                 89,731    43,441     46,290     35,433   14,381   21,052

TOTALS  312,490   163,409  149,081   124,832    52,599   72,233



You can study the numbers all day if you like, but the fact is that nearly 48% of the cars were exceeding the posted speed limits and almost 58% of the trucks were doing the same.

Is there anyone who thinks this is safe? I sure don't, but there is another, perhaps more important, facet to the deal...

We're losing money.

Traffic fines in California, as in other states, vary wildly based on a number of factors. The biggest one of concern here is that there are not only state fines but county and local fines as well. For the purpose of this example, I'm going to use the general idea that a speeding ticket will cost the driver about $400. That is about the accepted average for the state.

Now, let's do the math...using the numbers from the study, there were 221,314 vehicles speeding over the sixty days we looked at. That comes to an income to the state for that period of $88,525,600. And remember that this is for only three small areas for two months.

If we extrapolate the data to cover the entire state, we come up with about 15-million vehicles and around $5.9-billion in fines. Yes, that's BILLIONS of dollars.

The argument for not enforcing the speed limit always takes one of two forms...

(1) We Can't Afford To Enforce The Law: Sorry, but we can't afford not to enforce it. If we use the actual numbers—as opposed to the extrapolated figures—we find that we could hire at least 7,500 CHP officers at the top of the pay scale in the three locations we looked at. What? We don't need that many CHP officers in those three counties? How about we hire another 3,000 officers (1,000 in each county) and a bunch of court people to deal with the new caseload? Oh...still too many people? OK, try this on for size...we hire 150 more officers, a bunch of court and DMV people, and put the rest of the money into the general revenue fund? I figure that these three locations could put better than $50-million into the state's coffers each year, after we hire the extra people.

(2) It's Not Fair To Enforce Speeding Laws: What the fuck does that mean? Yeah, I skipped the abbreviation again. Is it fair to enforce, say, shoplifting laws? What about child abuse laws? How about domestic violence? What about murder? See my point here? The law is the law. It must be enforced. Speeding laws are there to protect everyone. As the old saying goes, speed kills. Some nutcase doing 90 on the freeway, weaving back and forth to pass cars driving the speed limit, is endangering us all. I can promise you that a few tickets will slow his ass WAY down.

Oh, by the way...

None of the above even addresses how many other violations the increased enforcement of speed limits would turn up. Things like DUI (anyone doubt that's dangerous?), suspended licenses, non-registered vehicles, uninsured cars, and many more would all be brought to the attention of officers who could then take appropriate actions to protect everyone, even the violators.

Right now, California has a hole in the state budget that gives us better than $25-billion in deficits. Statewide enforcement of the speed limits alone could pay off that deficit in less than five years, even after expanding law enforcement agencies and courts to deal with the increased load.

This is a win-win-win deal, folks...

The law-abiding public wins because we are safer on the roads and our state has the income needed to survive.

The state wins because the deficit can be paid off quickly.

The violators even win because their risky behaviors are intercepted and they are forced to live a little longer.

Keep Loving!

Melodee Aaron, Erotica Romance Author
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In His Arms - Covering Up



Welcome one and all to this very special week in my Spotlight to help Tina Donahue release In His Arms on September 3.

Especially welcome to Tina and thanks for this chance to be a part of your new book coming from Ellora's Cave.

Contrary to what some readers might think, I have no special treatment...I've read the excerpts, I've seen the blurbs, but I haven't read the entire book. Well, at least not yet! That means I have a ton of questions going through my mind, and I'm going to try to narrow those down to the most important ones this week.

Like most people, the very first thing that grabbed me about In His Arms was the cover. I'm a tattoo freak. Maybe I should reword that to say that I have enough tattoos that I could be in a freak show! Right this moment, I have sixteen individual tattoos. That means that the tattoo on RJ's arm caught my attention.

On myself, I like more "artistic" works...I have hummingbirds, butterflies, and flowers on my own body. But on men, I like the more geometric, tribal designs. The cover image really grabbed me. Then, in the excerpt, we have the passage...

Her lips parted on a wanton sigh at his unusual tattoo. The geometric design, a series of thick black swirls that ended in sharp points, covered his right pectoral muscle and flowed over his shoulder to his back. Several of the points curved from behind to reach just below his right nipple. Another set curled around his muscular biceps. The effect proved startling, savage, the kind of marking men would have used in ancient times to declare their strength to an enemy or a woman they held captive.

OK, I'm hooked!!

So, my first question is all about the cover...

Tell me, Tina, who did the artwork for the cover? Do the characters as portrayed there make a good match for how you envisioned Summer and RJ as you were writing the book?

Keep Loving!

Melodee Aaron, Erotica Romance Author
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Sunday, August 22, 2010

Special Spotlight Appearance by Tina Donahue!



I am SO excited!

This week (starting Monday August 23), author Tina Donahue will be my guest for a very special week in my Spotlight.

What makes this week so special is that Tina and I will be discussing her coming release of In His Arms by Ellora's Cave on September 3, 2010.

Drop by my Home Page at http://www.melodeeaaron.com and click on the SPOTLIGHT button to learn more about all of the special things that will be happening this week and how you can take part.

To get the "full experience" of this very special week, be sure to join my Yahoo! Group at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/melodee_aaron/ and to follow my New Blog at http://melodee-aaron.blogspot.com/ for all the news about In His Arms.

More news will also be available from me at my Twitter Page, my FaceBook Page, and on MySpace Page.

Let the games begin!

Keep Loving!

Melodee Aaron, Erotica Romance Author
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Friday, August 20, 2010

97-Pound Weaklings




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97-Pound Weaklings


I've blogged about the need for advanced spacecraft drives in the past. Most of those postings focused on solar sails and ion drives.

In a nutshell, both of these drive systems are low-thrust systems, generating well under 1G of thrust. For those who aren't familiar with the concept of "1G", that is the same "thrust" that we are under standing on Earth. It's not really thrust, but rather the acceleration due to gravity, about 9.8 meters/second. But, if we were on a spacecraft accelerating at 1G, it would feel exactly the same as standing on Earth.

And that's where the above mentioned drives come in...

Getting a full G out of an ion or solar sail drive is a bit extreme. I haven't done the math, but I'm pretty sure a solar sail can't do it at all, and an ion drive would have to be pretty damned efficient to do the trick. But, either of them could do 0.5G rather handily.

The problem facing astronauts on a long voyage is one of muscle atrophy. From disuse, the muscles weaken. The fact is that without the everyday effort of working against gravity, the muscles are not used and so they get weak. The solution is clear...

We need to have the astronauts under gravity.

Or something like gravity.

Like, say, 0.5G of thrust from an ion or solar sail drive.

Yeah, that's not a full Earth gravity, but it's better than nothing at all as on the ISS.

For a, let's say, mission to Mars, you thrust towards Mars at 0.5G for half of the trip, then the ship turns around and thrusts away from Mars at 0.5G for the last half of the trip. The rear of the ship would be "down" to the crew. They are only weightless during turnover at the halfway mark. If everything is done right, the ship comes to a stop at Mars. And the astronauts are able to actually move about once they get there.

No muss, no fuss.



Keep Loving!
Melodee Aaron, Erotica Romance Author

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Wednesday, August 18, 2010

The Day The Well Blew Up



I was twelve the day the well blew up. Just barely.

It was late in March, just a few weeks after my twelfth birthday, when mom and dad loaded me into the old Dodge van and we went to see my aunt and uncle on the farm for the weekend. I remember playing with the new toys I got as presents in the back of the van as we made the three-hour trip. There weren't any seats back there, so we didn't need seatbelts. No one wore them back then, anyway.

It was dark when we got there, and Lucile fixed us all a snack of bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches. The lettuce was store-bought, but the tomatoes were canned that Lucile and mom put up in Mason jars last summer, and the bacon came from a hog we butchered in the fall. No, this one couldn't fly. The bread was homemade and still warm, fresh from the oven. The smells in the kitchen as she cooked were delicious and should have served to satiate our hunger, but we ate the sandwiches anyway.

My cousin Darla and I played for a bit, and around 10 PM, dad and uncle Mike went outside to, as they euphemistically put it, "check the weather" before going to bed. There was some yelling and no small amount of cursing that came from the front yard, then a horrible growling and barking noise. When we all ran outside, we found Mike and his big Collie-Shepard mix, Danny by name, rolling around on the ground at the foot of the steps from the porch to the yard.

Mike was cussing like a sailor, despite the fact that he was in the Army for a while. Most of it was just a string of words that Darla and I probably weren't meant to hear. I did pick out the word "ice" a few times as I read Mike's lips.

Danny was rolling around, too. He didn't say much, but he growled and snapped and snarled a lot. Danny was huge, at least to a 12-year-old. Sort of an orange color, he had the long hair of a Collie and the size of Shepard. I saw him take down a fox once when it tried to raid the chicken coop. And he ran off a wolf one time that strayed into the yard. And he stood his ground against a panther that stalked Darla and I in the woods. He was tough, no doubt, and for all I could tell, fearless.

Now, Danny and Mike were twisted together and rolling on the icy ground at the foot of the steps. Danny would bite Mike. Mike would punch Danny. Danny would growl. Mike would cuss.

With dad's help, Danny managed to get away.

Through the cussing and much rubbing of his ass, Mike said that when he reached the ice at the foot of the stairs, he slipped. He landed on top of Danny, whose favorite place to sleep was at the foot of those same stairs.

Put yourself in Danny's place. You're curled up and asleep. You're a farm dog, so none of that sleeping in the house nonsense. It's cold, maybe 10 degrees. You just got warm and asleep. Now, some big guy jumps on you. I'd bite, too.

After the melee, the "weather check" found that the sky was clear. It hadn't rained or snowed for a week. Lucile, calm as always, wondered why the ground was icy.

A quick check found that a pipe on the well that fed water to the cattle and hogs had burst. The assumption was that it froze. The pump had been running for who-knows how long, and the water formed a sheet of ice all the way to the house. Mike switched off the power to the pump and closed a valve, and we all went to bed. He and dad would fix it in the morning.

It got cold that night. I know because Mike and Lucile had a neat thermometer. It was U-shaped and had blue fluid in it. One side recorded the high temperature while the other side recorded the low, and there were little red things in the glass tube. The fluid pushed those and they stayed at the extremes of the temperature readings. A button on the top let both of the red indicators return to the current temperature. I have no idea how it worked.

What I do know is that it said the low that night reached 8 below zero, and the wind was blowing pretty good, too. I can't tell you how fast because the wind speed gauge blew away in the tornado the previous spring.

Darla and I huddled in the bed, the electric blanket on high and the feather comforters pulled tight around us. We stayed warm. Until about 1 AM.

When the fire went out in the big wood burning stove, it got cold in the house. Cold enough to freeze water in the gallon buckets on the kitchen sink. Solid.

Darla had a goldfish for a while that she won at the county fair in the ring-toss game. She kept it in a traditional goldfish bowl in her room. Except at night in the winter; then she put it in the refrigerator. In there, it wouldn't freeze. Yes, the goldfish got a little sluggish, but he didn't freeze into a gold-fish-stick sans breading.

The next morning, dad and Mike went to look at the broken water pipe. Darla and I went to help. They quickly replaced the pipe elbow that ruptured, and fired up the pump again. Everything looked good, but no water flowed.

After a few hours and a little more swearing, they decided that the pump had pumped the well dry the night before. Since it hadn't refilled some twelve hours later, Mike said it probably wouldn't. At least not without help.

They decided to shoot the well.

Ever see the old John Wayne movie Hellfighters? They use dynamite to "blow out" oilrig fires. I understand that Red Adair and his boys did the same thing in real life. What do I know? I was twelve then and I'm an author now, not a demolition expert.

Anyway, shooting a well is, Darla and I gathered, a lot like that. The difference is that you lower some dynamite into a well and set it off. The underground explosion is supposed to fracture the rock to make a bigger chamber for the water and, in this case, allow new paths for the water to fill the chamber.

That sounded reasonable to Darla and I. But what did we know? We were kids.

I need to tell you that Mike was a farmer. He did some time as a machinist. And he did a little work for the forestry department as a fire tower lookout person. He also did 6 years in the Army. But he was mostly a farmer.

Dad was a machinist. As far as I know, he never did anything else.

So, with these outstanding qualifications, they got the dynamite. At that time, any farmer could buy small quantities of dynamite and the related caps, wire, and detonator at just about any feed store. The clerk showed them how to hook up everything. They were now experts.

The obvious question the alert reader will catch is just how much dynamite does it take to shoot a well? I'm sure there is some equation. What did I know? I was twelve.

They decided, somehow, that one stick would be plenty.

After fitting the dynamite with a cap and the wires, they wrapped about three rolls of black tape around the mess. They used a string to lower the assembly down the well pipe. I don't know how far down it was, but a lot of string and wire went down that 8-inch hole with the dynamite leading the way.

If you've never seen a well up close, you haven't missed much. It's a hole in the ground. The exact size varies, but this one was about 8-inches. The tops of most wells have a casing pipe. This is fairly thin steel pipe and serves to keep dirt and such from falling from the wall of the well hole into the shaft. It usually just goes down to bedrock, however far that is. What did I know? I was twelve.

Otherwise, it's just a hole.

Dad and Mike backed off a fair distance from the well, maybe a hundred feet. They made Darla and I get behind the tractor. Danny came with us.

As I watched, dad connected the wires to the detonator using big wing nuts. The red wire went to the red nut, and the black wire to black nut. I told you they were experts.

The two men laughed a little, nervously I thought. That made me nervous. But they were experts, and what did I know? I was twelve.

I saw dad give the little T-handle on the detonator a sharp twist.

The only thing I saw happening was the two wires ripping from the detonator and shooting down the 8-inch hole like red and black bolts of lightening. Mike's cigarette dropped from his lips, and he mumbled something about, "What?" From my vantage point some twenty feet away and behind the tractor, I didn't like the looks on the men's faces.

It seemed like a long time, but it couldn't have been more than a second or two. Soon after the wires did their vanishing act down the man-made rabbit hole of the well, the ground started to shake.

Dad and Mike ran for the tractor and shoved Darla and I underneath. Then it happened.

About a billion gallons of water came out that 8-inch hole, along with about a billion tons of gravel and bigger rocks. It all went way up in the air, much higher than the pig of a few years before. Dynamite obviously makes for better altitude than steam. Or water and rock just goes higher than a hog.

It began to rain. The skies were clear and cloudless, and the blue of the country air was unmarred by even a single cloud. It rained anyway. The rain had an odd, muddy quality, and it was filled with small rocks. It had a few big rocks, and there were a few really big rocks, as big as a man's fist.

As the rain of water, mud, and rocks came down, the mix hit the watering tubs. Being poor, Mike couldn't afford real watering troughs, so he made do with what he could get. The ideal solution was old bath tubs. Not the newer fiberglass units. Not even the slightly older steel tubs. These were old cast iron tubs, complete with eagle claws that gripped round balls as the feet.

When a rock the size of a baseball falls from a good height and hits a large hunk of cast iron, I gather that it sounds a little like a bell. OK, the bell is out of tune, but it sounds like a bell. When a billion tons of rocks ranging in size from sand to softballs fall from a good height and hit that same hunk of cast iron, it sounds like the world is ending.

Being deaf as the proverbial post, I couldn't hear the sounds, but they were more than loud and close enough that I felt them. I could actually feel the compressions in the air as the rocks made landfall.

The clanging and banging went on for a long time. Long enough that Darla complained of her ears hurting despite having her hands clamped tightly to her head. As for me, I'm deaf, so I didn't hear a thing.

Then, it apparently got really loud.

Remember that casing pipe?

About 6 feet of 8-inch diameter steel pipe fell from the heavens. It landed squarely in the nearest bathtub. It must have sounded like the gong from The King and I. Off-key.

This symphony continued for many seconds as the four of us cowered under the tractor to get out of the rain and rocks. I remember Lucile coming to the door of the house and looking up the hill towards us. When she saw Old Faithful East erupting, she had enough sense to go back in the house.

Even in my naive youthfulness, I somehow knew that one stick of dynamite was too much. Probably a lot too much. But what did I know? I was only twelve. I wondered if I would make it to thirteen.

It finally quit raining and the rocky hail faded. We crawled from under the tractor to survey the carnage.

Water ran across the frozen ground like small rivers in Iceland. New rocks forced from the very bowels of the Earth by Alfred Nobel's little toy lay scattered about like children's blocks. They lay several inches deep in places. Darla commented that it was deathly quiet. Or maybe they were all just temporarily deafened by the onslaught. Welcome to my world.

The length of casing pipe looked perfectly intact except for one end that was torn, as if by an angry troll down deep in the cavern of the well. The other end was smooth and machine cut. The tub had a neat 8-inch hole through the bottom.

Upon closer examination, it was found by dad and Mike that the casing pipe at the top of the well was intact and in place. The 6-foot length blown out of the hole had, somehow, came from somewhere deeper down. Don't ask me how that worked. I'm just an author.

Mike and dad reassembled the pump and, sure enough, no water was pumped from the well. Another fifteen minutes of checking found that the pump had a little valve on it. The same valve Mike had closed the night before to stop the flow of water.

When opened, the water flowed as advertised.

Sometime during all of this, Danny had left. We found him later under the porch steps. He wouldn't come out, even to eat, for two days.

Mom, Lucile, Darla, and I all agreed that men shouldn't be allowed access to explosives except during wartime.

Even that seems like a bad idea when I think about it.

Keep Loving!

Melodee Aaron, Erotica Romance Author
Home Page
Melodee's Books at BookStrand
Inquisitor Betrayer


Monday, August 16, 2010

Taking A Nap With Melodee - Retro...



I've had a few requests to repost this, so here you are...

This was originally posted on my MySpace Blog on March 8, 2010. Any time references are to that date, so keep that in mind. Two of the kids have also had birthdays since then.

Here you go...

*****

OK, that was embarrassing!

Jack and I decided to, um...take a nap, yeah. A nap! That's the ticket!

We have running around the house, in addition to ourselves, of course, the following:

Maria: Our 65-ish Hispanic housekeeper and chef. No way could I live without Maria! She's been with me for more than ten years and knows me better than anyone else around. And she's a great cook! She has her own small house here on my property, but she hangs out here most of the time in case I need anything.

Amanda: Jack's almost ten-year-old daughter who I have adopted. Jack claims that Amanda is rapidly turning into a small me. God help us all. She's pretty, precocious, and is getting a little flirtatious. She is also far older than her tender years. A few weeks ago, she wanted to get her tongue pierced. Didn't happen.

Debbie: Jack's seven-year-old daughter who I have also adopted. Debbie is the levelheaded one in the house. She keeps the rest of us—or at least Amanda and I—out of trouble as much as a little girl can. She' also very bright and wants to be a doctor.

JJ: Jack, Jr. is almost two. He's not adopted, but he may wish that he was at some point in the future.

Tripper: Our three-legged Airedale terrier. Truth be told, he's the smartest one in the place.

Assorted Cats: About six. I think. We do fostering work for a couple of agencies, so the number varies a bit. Four of them are mine.

Security Guards: There are at least three on the grounds at any time. They are often in the house checking things.

Now, if you do the math, that's at least six people, a dog, and half dozen cats. Yeah, it's a big house, but that's a lot of critters!

Anyway...

Jack and I "took a nap", and I needed a towel. Guess what? The linen closet in our bedroom was empty. We just today got back from a trip, and Maria hadn't put any in our room yet. No problem, I think. I'll just run down the hall and grab a towel from the guest room closet. So I tell Jack that I'll be right back and head off in search of clean linen.

Things went pretty well until I was about halfway back to our bedroom...I saw one of the guards coming around the corner at the far end of the hall. Luckily he was looking the other way. I just darted into the nearest door and closed it quickly. It was Amanda's room.

As I'm standing there leaning on the door trying to decide if I should laugh or cry, someone tugs at my skirt...

It was then that I realized that I was still wearing my red plaid skirt, white men's shirt tied around my chest, black patent leather five-inch stilettos, and white knee socks. Oh, and my hair was pulled back into a ponytail. And I seemed to have misplaced the panties that go with the outfit.

Amanda and Debbie stood staring at me. Amanda just grinned and looked me up and down a time or two. Then she gave me a little wink! Just where did she learn to understand any of this?

Debbie leaned her head to one side and asked, "Mom, why are you dressed like you're going to a Catholic school?"

Amanda snickered and added, "Yeah, Mom, why is that? And what's with the shoes?"

All of a sudden, with no basis in fact, I got that same feeling a deer in the headlights gets...I was being set up and there was probably nothing I could do about it. So I locked the door and signed something like, "Oh, just shut up!" at them. I put my hands back on the door just in time to feel the vibrations from the knock.

Through the door, it was hard to get the vibrations from the guard's voice, but I think he said something like, "Are you girls OK in there?"

I was looking right at Amanda, and I actually saw it happen...two small horns grew right out of her forehead and an evil smile crept slowly to her lips.

Ever seen a deer in the headlights? They can't move. They know that something really bad is about to happen, but they are completely paralyzed.

Amanda slowly opened her mouth and spoke. "Yeah, we're fine, but Mom's in here and she needs some help."

All I could do was to stand there staring at the little angel. The Angel of Darkness! I couldn't react when I felt the master key sliding home in the door lock. The simultaneous flick of the deadbolt from its home and the rapid twisting of the doorknob went unchecked by me. And I offered no resistance as the 6' 3", 195 pound guard shoved the door open and came into the room like the Marines taking Iwo Jima.

I tried to stay behind the door, but I saw that he had one hand on his gun and his radio in the other hand. He was talking, but I was way too flustered to read his lips. I don't know if he was talking to the girls, me, or someone on the radio.

It really didn't matter all that much, at least not at the moment.

He must have asked Amanda where I was because she pointed at me. He snatched the door away from me, and then stood there staring for a moment. Then the fun really began.

He was talking on the radio. I know this because in rapid succession came the other two guards—they had their guns drawn—followed soon by Jack wrapped in his robe. He had a gun, too. Tripper was in hot pursuit, and the cats all were tagging along with him to see if they might get to share in some treat he was due. And then came Maria with JJ in her arms.

By now the girls were literally rolling on the floor in fits of laughter. Amanda's horns kept snagging the carpet. Jack stood there for a minute, looking first at me and then at the girls. He finally turned to me and asked, "Are you OK, Baby?"

I must have been quite the sight. Standing there in my Catholic Schoolgirl outfit, trying to cover myself with my hands, and looking daggers at Amanda. I signed to him that I was fine.

A little grin tried to sneak onto Jack's face, but he must have thought better of it. He told the guards to stand down, and they all left. He looked at the girls and said, "You two stay in your room. We need to talk." He then took my hand and led me back to our room.

We never did get our second nap.

*****

Keep Loving!

Melodee Aaron, Erotica Romance Author
Home Page
Melodee's Books at BookStrand
Inquisitor Betrayer


Sunday, August 15, 2010

This Week at Melodee's Place





What's New At Melodee's Place This Week


First, author Robin D. Owens join me in my Spotlight. Pop on over and learn all about her fascinating books!


Next, my current contest is still running, so enter now for your chance to win a free book!


Then there are the changes to my blog, but you already know that!


Come on over and sit for a spell!




Keep Loving!


Melodee Aaron, Erotica Romance Author

Home Page

Melodee's Books at BookStrand

Inquisitor Betrayer


Sexual Fantasies





It seems like every month, some magazine or another is publishing an article detailing the sexual fantasies of either men or women. Sometimes both. This is nothing new...Playboy started doing it years ago. Most of the lists take the form of a "Top Ten" list ala David Letterman.



The problem with most of them falls into one of two categories...



Empirical Data Most of the lists are based on very fuzzy empirical information gathered from Internet surveys. Yeah, that's scientific. We are dealing with the personal preferences of a very small, random group and there are no controls. Shoddy science at best.



Lack of Credibility The "researchers"—and I use that term very loosely—have iffy qualifications. Degrees from the proverbial prestigious non-accredited online universities are common. Being a member of a number of 12-step programs is also common. Fact is, these are—by and large—not scientists by any measure.



Technically, I am a scientist since I have a total of five PhDs from real, regionally accredited universities. So, I'd like to take a few minutes of your valuable time to talk about some of these fantasies that are on most of the top ten lists.



One word of information...these lists are really aimed at the opposite sex. That is, men can learn a lot from reading about women's fantasies, and women can learn a lot about men by reading their fantasies. Think of this a mini "How-To" manual.



The following are grouped by sex and are in no particular order. It should be noted that I am talking about people who would call themselves heterosexual here.



Female Fantasies



Receiving Oral Sex Notice I said nothing about giving oral sex. Sorry guys. There are three facts here: First, oral sex is usually the fastest way for a woman to reach climax. Second, it is usually the most effective way for a woman to reach climax. Thirdly, for a fairly good number of woman, it is the only way they can reach climax. Besides, it feels really good. At least when done right. And that leads to my issue with this one...I hold that the vast majority of women who are unable to climax with other forms of sex have a problem with their partner. Guys, I love you to death, but most of you need to learn how to fuck. Sorry.



Men Finding You Irresistible Yeah, guys, we like to have you drooling like idiots when we walk in the room. And your cock so hard that you can't even stand up. And when we are wearing that old orange terrycloth robe that we got back in college. You get the idea. This is all about ego, and we like to have ours stroked now and then beyond you just telling us how gorgeous we are. Use your imagination, guys! Show us that you can't keep yourself under control.



Having Sex With Another Woman Yes, most women fantasize about this one. Happy, guys? There is a very big downside for men in this one, though...the reason we tend to like making it with another woman is because we believe that she will be able to satisfy us better than a man would. This goes right back to my theory that many men have no clue of how to have sex. Women figure that another woman has the same plumbing, and so she knows how to make it work.



Having A Fantasy About You Yeah, guys, we tend to have fantasies about you. A lot. We relive things you've done to—and for—us. We relive things we've done to—and for—you. Why? That's pretty simple. We love you, and we want you. And to be honest, having the fantasy allows us to have all the very best things any time we want them. The fantasies are also easier—and safer—than asking you for them.



Something We've Never Tried Before Obviously, this changes like crazy because every time we try something new, it falls off of the list. Some popular things that many women haven't tried (yet) include: Threesomes, Bondage, Voyeurism, Group Sex, and others. Some women will never actually do some of these things, so we have the fantasies. Most women won't bring these fantasies up to you for fear of being judged.



Being Paid For Sex or Something Like Sex There are two common variations on this fantasy...First, we like to imagine being a prostitute. Sometimes it's a down and dirty whore, others it's a very high-class call girl. The other is imagining being a stripper. In either case, it's an ego trip to have men wanting us so much that they are willing to pay for us. Yeah, yeah...I know. Maybe the guy doesn't want us so much as he just can't get a real date to fuck him. This is a fantasy remember? And it's our fantasy! And guys, this is an easy one for you to make come true for a woman...ask her to do a strip for you and stuff dollar bills in her underwear. Just make sure you get a raging boner while you watch her!



Having Romantic Sex This one is going to kill you guys when you try to fulfill the fantasy. In a nutshell, read a Harlequin romance novel and do all of that stuff. The man needs to be tough and moving from woman to woman. No one can tie him down. Then, all of a sudden and out of nowhere, along we come. He is taken by our stunning good looks. Then he has the best sex ever with us. Then he settles down, has 2.3 kids, gets a house in the suburbs and a job at a brokerage firm, and buys a minivan.



Having Sex With A "Faceless" Man Some of the top ten lists call this one "Sex With A Stranger", but I hate that name. Let me tell you about my fantasy in this class...I'm on a commercial flight and it's night, so the lights are very low. I have my seat reclined and I'm curled up in fetal position facing the window of the plane. I have a blanket over me because like all planes, it's a little cold. Suddenly, someone sits down in the seat next to me, and before I know it, he's under the blanket with me, clawing at my skirt and panties. Then, he's in me, and in a matter of minutes, he climaxes. Then, he's gone, leaving me in the seat with my skirt around my waist and my panties around my knees. When I look, no other passengers are moving about, and the flight attendants are all elsewhere. I have no clue who just took me from behind. But I liked it.



Sex With Another Man Usually, we fantasize about past partners—old boyfriends, ex-husbands, that sort of thing. Don't feel bad, guys. We're not putting you down or saying that we don't want you. We're just reliving something that excited us in the past.



Being Ravaged We women want a man to take us. We want him to be forceful and passionate, to have no control of himself because we are so damned sexy and gorgeous and desirable. BUT we want to be in control. We want to be able to stop this particular train if things get out of hand.



That's my list for women's sexual fantasies, and I hope that the men reading learned something. Now...



Male Fantasies



Watching A Woman Masturbate Yes, girls, men like to watch us play with ourselves. Why? Because they jack off every chance they get, and many feel guilty about having such a high sex drive, so seeing that we like to do it too makes them understand that we like to climax just as much and as often as they do. A slight twist on this is that men like to spy on us while we get ourselves off. They are curious about what we do when they aren't around.



Sex With Two (Or More) Women OK, is anyone surprised by this? Men have a general attitude and belief that if a little of something is good, then more is always better. So, if sex with one woman is good, then two women would be better, and nine women would be terrific. Without even getting into the emotional side, I have never known a man who could really satisfy more than one woman. But hey, it's his fantasy!



Oral Sex Again, is there a woman out there who is surprised that men like it when you give them head? There are three components to why that is...first, it feels good if you suck him right. Second, men see you on your knees in from of them with their cock in your mouth as dominating you. And third, maybe the most important thing, men like that they can trust your love for them enough that they can give you control of their three most prized possessions. But, there's something else that will floor most women...men also fantasize about giving oral sex to you. Yeah, most guys like to taste a woman and to drive her crazy. They know, probably unconsciously, that licking us pops our cork faster and better than almost anything else, and that makes them feel virile. Problem is that many men—maybe most—don't really know just how to do it right.



Fantasies About You Many women are surprised to learn that their guy has fantasies involving them, but it's true. Girls, they love us, and we're right there to make those fantasies happen for them. As the old saying goes, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. No pun intended!



Anal Sex Most men like to have anal sex with a woman, but that's not what I'm talking about here. I'm pointing out that most men like to have things put in their ass. The problem comes in that men are more subject to feeling homophobic than are women. Having something up their butt freaks out many men. In most cases, the man isn't imagining another man entering him. What he imagines is you entering him. Maybe with your finger. Maybe with a vibrator. Maybe with a 14" strap-on dildo. The details vary. And ladies, do some research on prostate massage. Trust me, if you do it right, he's gonna love it!



Having Sex With Another Woman This one is remarkably similar for both men and women. But there is one major difference in that men tend to imagine having sex with someone other than their ex more than women do. Maybe it's some girl from the office, or the waitress at Subway, or even some woman they just happen to see on the street. The key thing to remember is that he is in bed with you, not her. It doesn't matter where he gets his appetite so long as he comes home for dinner!



Bondage Sex Interestingly enough, nature has arranged a good symmetry here...most men like to tie people up, and most women like to be tied up. Funny how that works.



Sex With Another Man Yeah, guys fantasize about this. Most men will admit to imagining him and another guy with a woman, but the men don't touch each other, at least no more than is needed to do good double penetration of the woman. The fact is, many men also imagine full-on same sex sessions or those where the men do not only the woman but each other, too.



Exhibitionism This male fantasy is often coupled with the making it with two women gig. It usually involves him and his woman someplace more or less public, and they begin to have sex. Unknown to them, another woman is watching from the bushes (or the electronics department in the same Wal-Mart store), and gets so turned on by his expert performance that she decides to join the couple. It's an ego thing.



Ravaging This is another that meshes nicely with female fantasies. Men like to play the ravager, and women like being ravaged. On the other side of this coin, many men like for a woman to be the aggressor and to be themselves ravaged. There is one very sad situation where this is especially true...if a woman has neglected her man for a time, turned him down and avoided having sex for some stupid reason, she will need to be the aggressor just to get him to react at all. The same ego trip that makes men want to ravage a woman makes him ignore her when he fears being turned down. Remember, ladies, we have all the power.



So, folks, there you have it. Melodee's list of sexual fantasies for both men and women.



Maybe I'll talk about making fantasies come true next time...







Keep Loving!



Melodee Aaron, Erotica Romance Author


Home Page


Melodee's Books at BookStrand


Inquisitor Betrayer