I have an extensive listing of things that are bad for me that I continue to do. I drink, I have promiscuous sex, I refuse to get a real job and I drive a car that’s brake system is the equivalent of Fred Flintstone stopping a car with his feet. I take great pride in living a high-risk lifestyle.
But above all, I smoke. I’m not one of those pussy, “social smokers’. You know, those hipster assholes who steal all your cigarettes when you’re out drinking together? I am a hardcore, fully addicted smoker. To give you an example, one time, I was involved in a fire. My old roommate had accidentally lit her bed on fire (sexy, right?) with a candle while she was sleeping.
As we raced out the doors, sprinklers coming on and the hallways filling with acrid smoke, I could only think of one thing.
“Shit, I forgot my cigarettes in my room.”
I was able to bum one from a fireman, but my point here is, that even engulfed in a full wall of smoke, all I could think about was inhaling more.
So yeah, I’m an addict.
So why do all you anti-smoking assholes out there think you’re the ones who are going to get through to me? If I can smoke in a three-alarm fire, chances are your little speech about the dangers of emphysema are going in one ear and out the other.
The other day, I was at Gas Station, my favorite place on earth. I was buying my standard pack of 305 menthols from my friendly Indian cashier, who I refer to as Mr. Indian John Travolta (because he looks like an Indian John Travolta), when some overweight, redneck asshole comes popping out of the bathroom, dragging an 18 pack of beer with him.
He sees the cigarettes in my hand. “You know those things are bad for you?”
This time, instead of just rolling my eyes, I responded.
“Holy shit, you’re fucking kidding me! I had no idea. See my doctor told me they were ideal for curing ‘the vapors’ and ‘female hysteria’. Why would he lie to me? They should put a warning on these things or something! <flips over pack in my hands with wide-eyed idiot look> Oh, wait, here’s one, right from the Surgeon General. Funny I’ve never noticed it before. <eyes man suspiciously> Are you the surgeon general? If so, thank you., so much. You really changed my life.”
This is not a stupid man. He clearly knew I was making fun of him. So he responded. “Ok, I’m sorry. You’re just too pretty to smoke.”
Guys, I know you think you’re flirting when you say stuff like this, but honestly, it‘s statements like this that make me want to dip my goddamn face in battery acid. Because when you say this, you’re saying one of two things.
One, being pretty makes me stupider than normal people and I need to be told how to make my life decisions. Or two, being pretty makes me a more valuable breeding commodity that needs to be extended as long as possible despite its self-destructive tendencies.
Neither of those opinions are valid. First off, I’m pretty fucking smart. I might not be Steven Hawking, but I can personally guarantee you that the phrase ‘too pretty to smoke’ doesn’t come off as flirtation to smart girls. It comes off as condescending.
Second, in case you’re eyeing me up for an egg candidate, being pretty doesn’t make me a good breeder. I’m thirty-four and I like to drink while occasionally dabbling in recreational drug use. There’s a very good chance that any eggs coming out of this uterus will be filled with all kinds of brain damage.
But hey, at least they’ll be pretty.
So after the dude told me I was too ‘pretty to smoke’ I took the kid gloves off.
“Well, you’re too fat to pee standing up, but you don’t see me kicking in the bathroom stall and warning you of the dangers of lumbar herniation while you’re draining the lizard, now do you?”
With that, the bathroom man gave Mr. Indian John Travolta one of those ‘this bitch is crazy’ looks and walked out of the store.
Look, people, stop this. Stop getting into other people’s faces about the personal decisions they make with their bodies. You don’t see me wandering around restaurants, telling fat people to lay off the red meat and get a chicken salad, do you? No, because what you do with yourself is up to you.
You don’t know me and you don’t know my life. For all you know, I might not be that interested in living that long anyway. My grandfather smoked every day of his adult life before he died of cancer at 69.
To me, that’s just about perfect. Long enough to live a full life, and not so long that I become this needy, dependent thing, just waiting to die. I have no desire to live to 100. I’d rather cut this all off at the peak and move on to the next life.
“Too pretty to smoke’ is not a flirtation. It’s condescending, rude and makes me want to stab you in the eye.
I smoke because I’m addicted and I don’t need you reminding me that ‘smoking is bad for you’. I’m not fucking stupid. I’m addicted and every time I try to quit, some idiot comes up and reminds me of why it would be better to die young anyway.
We all make bad choices. Chances are, if you’re reading this now, you’re addicted to some drug or another; you’re in a relationship that just isn’t right for you, or a job you hate. Maybe you weigh a little too much or maybe you focus on your weight too much. We all have our vices. It’s up to us to decide how much we allow those vices to control our lives.
Right now, me and smoking, we’re at a happy medium. So stop with the convenience store sermons, because cigarettes have been part of my life for far longer than you, and neither of us gives a shit about your opinions.
The title kind of says it all. To explain where this is coming from, today, I got an 1100 word message responding to a post that I wrote two and a half years ago. As I close down the comments section after around 30 days, this poster couldn’t put their long winded argument into my comments section.
So they emailed me.
Apparently, this person thought that their genius position was so groundbreaking, so incredible, so amazing, that I absolutely must read it, even if they were showing up to the conversation two years and five months too late.
So I deleted their email without reading it.
Look people, I know many of you disagree with the stances I take on various issues. I have to admit, I’m kind of all over the place. I’m all for the death penalty, but am also against the pro-life movement. I tout a drug legalized society for the financial benefits, and then say that illegal immigration is cool in my book.
Let me explain the evolution of an Essa blog. See, it initially started as a place to pimp my books. But I’m not super great at marketing, like to drink, and eventually, this turned into a page where I rant about everything that pisses me off.
It went from being an online marketing platform, to an online diary, and I regret nothing.
So every once in a while, I vent in my diary and you read it. You might like it, you might not like it. You might disagree with it. But you’re not changing my mind. Not now, not ever.
This page isn’t here for marketing, anymore. I haven’t written an Essa Alroc book in 3 years and I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever even finish my first series. This page isn’t here for page views. While I make a nice residual income from marketing, it’s hardly keeping me in leather pants and candy apples every month.
This page is a journal. It’s where I get over the stuff that really pisses me off. And what you think about those thoughts? Yeah, that doesn’t mean shit to me. You’re not changing my mind.
If you can write an 1100 word response to something I wrote, you should probably start your own fucking blog.
So yeah, I play fast and loose with the comments. I’ll let a few through, and decide not to let a few through. I’ll ignore your emails and not care that you spent all night looking up ‘facts’ on Wikipedia. You piss me off enough, I might even change your comment, just for fun. This is not CNN. No one gives a fuck about your opinion; especially seeing your opinion always includes ‘It’s Obama’s fault’ when no one is fucking talking about politics. People don’t come here to read your opinion.
People come here to read mine.
This is my online diary. It’s not a news blog. It’s not a forum where you can get into random fights with commenters. Hell, it’s not even a shitty Buzz Feed article. It’s my innermost thoughts.
And I really don’t give a fuck what you think about them. If you want to comment, comment. If you can get your comment in under the thirty-day timeslot, and not make me go cross-eyed reading 1100 words of block text, I’ll let you through. But don’t bother emailing your stupid comment nearly two years after the original post and expecting me to give a shit about it.
Because I really, really don’t. That’s why this page is called “Essa on Everything” and not “Random Asshole on Everything”.
Deal with it.
I don’t have a lot to lose. That’s why I feel free to say everything I say. You can’t change my mind about the things I say. I wouldn’t have written an article if my position wasn’t solid. You can’t email this shit to my boss and embarrass me because I am my own boss and my boss thinks I’m awesome. The page doesn’t threaten my book sales because the people that read it never actually buy my books.
This is not a democracy. I am not looking for feedback on my management style. This is an aristocracy on the same line as Thunderdome. So in this little universe, the only opinions that matter are Tina Turners’ and mine. Welcome to Thunderdome, bitches.
Consider me Aunty Entity.
If only my real life was as exciting as my literary one.
I recently picked up a job writing sex blurbs for a hot new dating site. This is to supplement my income while my porn sales kick up. With any luck, by the end of this year, I will no longer be Essa Alroc, freelance writer and novelist.
I’ll just be Essa Alroc, writer of kicky spank porn.
But it occurs to me that my entire life is fueled by sex right now. My books sell because people are horny. The guys at the dating site need me to write for them because people are horny. You’d think with all of this horniness, I’d be getting more ass than a toilet seat, right?
As you all know, I am a fan of the one night stand. This is because I suffer from a magic disorder where I lose all interest in a person once I’ve slept with them. Apparently, the antibodies in my immune system view oxytocin cells on the same level as Ebola.
Meaning they terminate those motherfuckers with extreme prejudice.
Now, in the past, this has worked for me. I’m like a sex camel. I can get laid once and then live off the glow for an entire season. This saves me the trouble of having to talk to anyone, change out of sweatpants or leave the house regularly. I don’t like complications and other people in my life are complications. I might have some form of sexual aspergers. Regardless, it was working out pretty nicely in the sexual universe of Essa Alroc
But then some motherfucker killed my mojo. We’re going to call him “the sleep strangler.”
I met the sleep strangler at a Cuban club, because I have a thing for guys who have a thing for big asses. He was a sizzling hot Latin, a good foot taller than me, and he had giant hands. All pluses.
Then I got him back to his hotel room, and everything went to minus-ville. First off, he was a passive guy, the kind of guy who needs your permission to do everything and expects the chick to do all the work in bed. That would be all well and good if I was fat, or ugly, or looking for a relationship, but I’m not.
I’m a chick who knows what I want and what I want is for you to tell me what to do. Slap my ass, pull my hair, all of that fun stuff. Treat me like I’m the chick. Because when you put me in charge, it makes me feel like the dude. I don’t want to be the dude. It’s why I grew this lovely vagina all those 34 years ago.
So already, I was disappointed by the sleep strangler. That would have been all well and good if we’d just left it at bad sex. God knows I’ve had plenty of bad sex…
But it didn’t end there, because the sleep strangler was a cuddler.
Look, I know I don’t sound like it, but I can be cuddly. A few minutes of snuggling, laying together on the couch, even spooning, I’ve been known to tolerate, and even enjoy these activities.
What I don’t enjoy is when you cling onto me like a sweaty Irishman clinging onto the last life preserver on the god damn Titanic.
No joke, this dude was wrapped around me like the string on a Christmas ham, his face pressed right into my neck, as he snored like he had a case of terminal sleep apnea.
No matter where I rolled, he followed. No matter how many times I jiggled him, he just kept snoring. I even got up and went to the other bed (yeah, he had a double bed room. I’m so classy) and he fucking followed me!
And I was like “where was all this aggressive energy when we were actually screwing?”
By 5 am, I felt like my old bear, Vanilla. Yeah, assholes, I have a teddy bear. I’ve had him (he’s clearly a boy. A girl just knows these things) since I was eight. At night, I would squeeze that bear like my life depended on it. I’d squish him with all my might and when I woke up in the morning, he was right there next to me, wrapped in my kung fu grip, unable to escape.
That is exactly how the sleep strangler made me feel, hence the name ‘sleep strangler.”
The next morning, it was even worse. We were in one of those fancy resorts in the middle of nowhere, and there was no way for me to get home without him driving me. All I really wanted to do was leave a fake name and disappear, before taking a 9000 degree shower.
But the sleep strangler had other ideas.
He wanted to talk. He wanted to putter around his room, put his hair gel in, shave, shower, tell me about his family, go out for coffee. The whole time I was thinking “why the fuck didn’t I get picked up by a serial killer instead? At least that dude would have been done already.”
Note to serial killers: you want to torture me, no need to shove needles under my fingernails or chop off my limbs…just make me listen to a long, confusing drawn out story about why your boss at work is an idiot. You won’t even have to kill me. I’ll kill myself just to avoid that again.
Finally, hung-over Essa got a reprieve. The sleep strangler drove her back to her car. But escape would not come easily. No, the sleep strangler wanted her number.
I was fully prepared to give a fake number but again, the sleep strangler outsmarted me. He snatched my phone and sent himself a message from it, thereby giving himself a verified phone number.
So I went full black out mode when he texted me.
Don’t tell me I should have just let him down gently, because that is what full black out mode is! A one night stand is supposed to be a one night stand. We both know the score. If I don’t feel a connection with you, especially when you gave me sub par sex before trying to absorb me into your god damn body like a boa constrictor, I am fully entitled to pull the ninja breakup and just disappear.
But sleep strangler doesn’t think so, because last week, nearly one and a half years after our horrible, horrible night together, I got yet another text from him, complaining that he ‘felt used.”
So finally I responded, “You couldn’t have been used. That would indicate you actually did some fucking work.”
To this day, every potential hookup I see in a club, as our eyes meet and we both know exactly what we want to do, as we feel the initial glow of attraction, there is a small niggling thought at the back of my mind that keeps me from closing the deal.
Could this be another sleep strangler? Could I be dealing with yet another hot guy who thinks he can give nothing in the bedroom, because ‘all chicks want relationships’ and we’re supposed to do all the work to impress them? Do guys really think this? That chicks are so desperate for a dude that they’ll tolerate really bad sex, for a night of over the top cuddling and regular obnoxious texts filled with really, really annoying emoticons?
That niggling thought has so depressed me that I’ve elected to go from “one night only girl” to “my vibrator keeps me from being lonely girl.”
But this has had an alternate side effect that has made me a lot of money. All that pent up sexual frustration? That goes right back into my books. All the stuff I wish guys would really do? Right back into my books. Why deal with a boring beta male when I can write myself my own hot alpha male?
It’s made to order sex and I never have to deal with a potential sleep strangler because of that. So yeah, my life is a never ending sex romp, because fantasy kicks reality’s ass ever single time.
I arrive back from lunch at my publishing house, Twilight Fan Fiction Whores, Inc. for my meeting with Aaron Frale. Aaron is a young, former indie author (my most hated kind. I hate indies. Don’t they understand that the public needs to be TOLD what they like?).
Aaron is waiting in my office when I arrive, despite the fact that I’m 45 minutes late. That could be because he’s a laid back kind of guy, sort of a handsomer version of Seth Rogan. Or it could be because I’ve just gotten back from a 14 martini lunch and I’m blitzed out of my mind.
Publishing is a rough business.
Which is why I have one goal in mind; turn his book, regardless of what it is, into Twilight Fan Fiction. As I watch him study my posters from 50 Shades of Grey with disdain, I can only assume it’s going to be a very, very hard sell.
I friggen hate indies.
Pitch your book to me like I’m a really stupid, really drunk publisher (as opposed to a really stupid, really drunk author)
My book is a story about a woman who finds a mysterious doorway that didn’t exist the last time she walked by.
(Aaron notices my sudden lady erection)
No, Edward and Jacob are not making out behind the door! (He rolls his eyes disdainfully) They are not even in my book! I’m not going to rewrite my book to include the Twilight cast. I’m pretty sure the rest of the world doesn’t view Bella as that “hoe” that got in between Jacob and Edward.
(I begin to feel queasy at the prospect of publishing something that ISN’T Twilight fan fiction. Aaron immediately grabs his manuscript away and glares at me in alarm.)
Don’t puke on that! Goddamit!
(I swallow back down a 14 martini lunch and continue with my questions)
This book was written from a female POV. Did you have any difficulty with that?
Horror and Science Fiction have very few female characters that go beyond the “fighting fuck toy” and other gender stereotypes. My main character, Caroline, is my part to give women more complex roles in the genre. For me, the writing process was more about actualizing her as a human being with many facets than using tired and over used fallbacks. Caroline is a real person in extraordinary circumstances, anything less would diminish her as a human being. I also have an Iranian guy who isn’t a terrorist, so deal with it Mainstream America!
What made you pull away (i.e. sellout) from the wonderful world of indie writing and pursue a publishing deal with Amazon?
Who wouldn’t want to sell out? I mean look at Crispin Glover. He made a lot of money doing main stream stuff and can spend the rest of his life being as weird as he wants. Not that I plan to talk with rats or anything, but I spend a lot of my time marketing my books for a very small amount of sales. It would be nice to focus more on writing, and let the publisher do the marketing.
What wine — or illegal narcotic (after all, you are a musician as well) would you pair your book with?
Mushrooms and any other hallucinogen, once you go down the rabbit hole… I’ll let readers discover that for themselves.
You’re given a magic wand with only one power. With one wave, you can you can wipe out an entire genre of books. Do you use it and if so, what genre? If you don’t, why? (And recognize the fact that I will indeed label you a pussy)
Werewolf porn. Aren’t hairy men from seventies porn enough? Do we really need to go to the point of werewolves? I didn’t know it was a genre until I started seeing some of my other stories appear in the Fantasy top 100 list on Amazon with “Back Massages from a Lycan Prince” or something like that. Does “his erection was barely noticeable in the fur” really turn people on?
I heartell that Kindle Scout has replaced the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Competition. How do you feel about that? Did you ever enter the Breakthrough Novel Award before Kindle Scout came around? What was your experience with that?
As a former ABNA participant, I’m thrilled by Kindle Scout. More people will get a chance at a publishing deal than ever whereas ABNA only gave a select few that chance. I’d rather compete against a couple hundred people for an undetermined and flexible amount of slots than ten thousand people for five slots and only one in my genre. For me personally, I know there is an audience for what I write, Kindle Scout gives me a chance to connect with those people and not worry about the rest. Whereas in ABNA if someone wrote a heartbreaking novel about a single mother struggling to connect to her kid with cancer, what chance does my novel have? And when I think about the true prize of Kindle Scout, it’s not the advance, it’s the marketing. If my book doesn’t sell when Amazon markets it to millions of people, that’s on me.
I sigh and put away my checkbook. If this cat isn’t willing to write fan fiction based on vampires, werewolves or the kids from Harry Potter, how can he possibly expect me to sell any of his books?
Ridiculous. It’s as if he thinks the American public wants something different. Like they might want to — think for themselves.
Unfortunately, we at Twilight-Fan Fiction Whores aren’t willing to publish this book for obvious reasons, but if you’d like to see Aaron in print, then be cool and go give him a vote at his Kindle Scout page. If he is published, he will be gifting free kindle editions to voters.
I have a theory. I think at any given moment, at least in the state of Florida, you are surrounded by at least ten idiots. From the idiots who can’t handle the lofty task of flipping on a turn signal, to the idiots who’s retirement plan is nothing more than ‘buy lotto tickets,’ we are all swimming in a veritable pool of idiots.
I want to drain the god damn pool.
Today, I got stuck behind what I like to call a “Mr. Nice Guy” in traffic. Traffic was heavy, and Mr. Nice Guy decided to slam on his brakes so he could let not one, not two, but four people in front of him.
I had to wonder, do the idiots that do this realize that while they’re making four dudes happy, they’re also pissing off the 50 fucking people behind them? No joke, while this dude was thinking he’d done his good dead for the day, he had no idea that I was behind him, fantasying about strangling him with the alternator belt that’s about to snap on my car.
Idiots are the reason that bleach comes with the warning ‘do not drink’. Idiots are the reason kids have to wear helmets for everything from rollerblading, to jerking off. Idiots are the reason Nickelback is still touring.
And us smart people, we’re enabling the idiots. We’re the ones who put the warnings on bleach in the first place. We’re the ones who design the helmets these idiot kids wear. We’re the ones that teach these idiots how to use a computer so they can buy those Nickelback tickets. Half the problem is the fact that idiots don’t understand sarcasm, so they don’t know they’re being idiots. Let me give you an example.
The other night, I got an email from a webmaster who wanted me to write some articles for him. But he didn’t want to pay me for these articles. As he pointed out, because he was such an impressive webmaster, the exposure alone would make me as a freelance writer.
The subjects he wanted me to write about? Penny stocks and anal bleaching. Not joking, this really happened. Here’s how I responded.
Dear (name redacted)
Thanks for contacting me about your project. It’s super ironic, because I actually don’t do this for a living. It’s a hobby. See, I actually write articles about penny stocks and anal bleaching just for the fun of it. Just recently, I was forced to shut down my website “Full Bank Account/Clean Asshole”, which was a website for enthusiasts of the ‘pump and dump’ on two different levels. I thought I was going to have to get rid of all the articles I wrote on the subject, then I got your message. What luck!
I figured no one could miss the sarcasm in that, but I vastly underestimated the idiocy of others, because all I got back was a two word message.
I ignored it, thinking the dude was fucking with me. Then today, I got a follow up message.
So are you still interested in working with me?
So I sent another response.
Sorry. I recently died of cancer.
I can only assume that in the next few days, I’ll receive another email offering his condolences for my untimely death. Because I am indeed, surrounded by idiots.
Now if you’ll all excuse me, I have to go. Full Bank Account/Clean Asshole needs updating.
I’ve never been a particularly religious person. That’s probably because every major religion I’ve ever looked into (with the exception of Wicca, which I just find strange) tends to treat women more like accessories than people. Those of us without dangly bits are expected to make babies, clean houses and listen to men.
I hate babies. I haven’t cleaned anything since 1996, and judging from my hate mail, most men are far too stupid to be worth listening to. To me, being a religious woman is a lot like being a black Republican. I just don’t get it.
But I feel like I’m missing out. Aside from having an imaginary friend to talk to, free spaghetti suppers, and unlimited bingo nights, I’m also missing out on those sweet, sweet tax incentives.
So I’m creating a new religion. It’s called Agnostic Apathy. Our main creed will be as follows.
“The only people who know what happens after you die are dead people. So we should all worry about what happens after we’re dead when we’re actually dead.”
Of course, a platform of apathy is no platform at all (literally) so here are some guidelines to help you all live a pure and godly Agnostic Apathist lifestyle.
#1 – Every religion needs a book, but I don’t feel like writing one. It’s probably the apathy. So our bible will default to my favorite book “Valley of the Dolls.” There are many valuable life lessons to be learned in “Valley of the Dolls”, including;
- Never mix amphetamines with sedatives. You’ll break even and ruin your buzz.
- If you catch your possibly gay husband sleeping with your assistant in your cabana, make sure to disinfect your pool with plenty of rum
- Suicide attempts are a great way to earn public sympathy and movie roles
- All your friends will eventually turn on you if enough money is involved.
I’m sure that there are a lot more life lessons to be had in “Valley of the Dolls,” but I’m a bit too buzzed to look them up. That’s because I’m following one of “Valley of the Dolls’” best life lessons of all.
There is no problem so big that alcohol can’t fix it.
#2 – Every religion needs a god to pray to. That’s why I’ve decided to cut out the Hollywood middleman and start praying to Morgan Freeman.
Morgan Freeman is a great messiah. He’s friendly, yet stern. He has a delightful speaking voice. And he knows a lot of penguin trivia. As an added benefit, he’s played the role of god like 400 times, so he has experience.
#3 – Door to door recruiting is encouraged. Not a lot of credible ‘non-crazy’ religions go door-to-door trying to recruit new members. Think about it. When was the last time you opened your door to a bunch of Hasidic Jews who wanted to discuss the Torah with you?
That’s because the Hasidic Jews already have a fan following. The newer, wackier religions don’t. But they also don’t have a good marketing policy. It’s my understanding that the Jehovahs and the Mormons both have a standard script and procedure manual for door knocking. So I’ve created my own, and it’s going to be much more effective, using an easy step-by-step method.
- Get loaded. It’s so much easier to talk to people when you’re loaded.
- Bring beer.
- Knock on the door.
- Use a powerful greeting that will get your prospect’s attention. I recommend “What’s up, bitches? Can I interest you in some free beer?”
- Get prospect extremely intoxicated.
- Ask for money
I’m estimating at least a 90% success rate with that method, as opposed to the 0.005% success rate of other door knockers.
Suck it, Mormons.
#4 – We’re going to borrow the stuff I actually like from other religions.
Jews, nice call on the ‘no hell’ thing. Of course, it doesn’t make up for the big thing you got wrong; i.e. killing Jesus. But it’s still a good idea.
Catholics, I love the heavy focus on wine. Of course, I imagine the ratio of kid diddling to priest goes up significantly once everyone is buzzed, so let’s remember to drink responsibly.
Muslims…um…ahhh? No booze, smoking or bacon? And for all that, I get virgins in the afterlife? Why the hell would I want virgins? They have no idea what they’re doing! Sorry bros, you can keep the Quran. It kind of sounds like a downer.
Wiccans, I dig the clothes. They’re very forgiving, which I need after all that Catholic wine drinking. Sure the earth worship thing makes you all look like nutjobs, but at least you look sexy and bohemian when you do it.
Buddhists, your messiah is a giant brown baby. I love it! Note to all, correction on the Morgan Freeman thing. Our messiah will now be played by a giant brown baby, narrated by Morgan Freeman.
If I missed any other major religions, you should know I just didn’t care enough to look you up on Wikipedia. Sorry.
Ok, I’ve put a lot of work into this new religion. By work, I mean I drank four beers and spent an hour insulting as many people as I could. In my world that’s work. So I’m hopeful people will get on board. If you’re interested in becoming a member, there is only one important thing you have to do.
***Note to family – The title should have turned you off, but if it didn’t, don’t say I didn’t warn you. This post features more than you will ever want to know about me. Turn back now before it’s too late.***
Ever since I came clean about writing porn under the name of Charlene McSuede, I’ve been getting a lot of emails from readers telling me “I know it’s porn, but I’m thinking about checking out one of your Charlene McSuede books.” Or even worse, “I’m reading one of your porn books because I like your writing style.”
To which I can only say…
I have a feeling a lot of people are picking these things up, expecting a Harlequin romance or even something like 50 Shade of Grey. Let me make this clear, people. The books under my porn name make 50 Shades of Grey look like the fucking Veggie Tales.
These books are not simply books that feature extensive sex scenes, or even some light bondage. They are hardcore spanking fiction.
Yeah, you read that right. Hardcore spanking fiction. That is what these are. While the books are romance, and might even feature a story with a decent twist, that’s only because I think anything worth writing is worth writing right.
But do not go into them thinking you can just skip the kink. You can’t. The books start out tame because I actually have to build character relationships first, but do not be lulled into a false sense of security. Let me give you a metaphor to explain what is going to happen.
You hear a light knocking at your front door. You can’t tell if it’s a visitor or the wind. The rapping continues, almost eerily calm. Tap. Tap. Tap. The tapping is almost soothing in its gentleness. You approach the peephole, to see if you do indeed have a visitor, or if it is nothing more than a wayward tree branch. Ever so softly, you get up on your tiptoes and put your eye right up to the peephole and…
BAM!!! A FUCKIN BULLET RIPS OFF PART OF YOUR HEAD!
If you like my writing style, then read the books under this pen name and be patient as I work on publishing more. If you want to support me, again, this pen name.
The only time you should be reading my hardcore spanking fiction is if you’re into hardcore spanking fiction.
Also, no need to mention you’re reading it. This in no way benefits me. Think about it. If you hate it, chances are you think I’m a sick perv. If you love it, you’ve pretty much told me that we enjoy masturbating to the same things. That’s way more than I really need to know about my readers.
I’m not ashamed of the porn. That’s why I mention it here. It sells and it’s good…if you enjoy hardcore spanking fiction. If not, then avoid it. But either way, let’s never mention it again, k?