A memo.

Aug. 23rd, 2010 08:13 pm
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Cain)
Aaand we're back to the "dreaming about sex with James Purefoy" channel. Set your TiVo, because tonight is the two hour Doggy Style special!

Yeah. That's what I get for watching the good parts of Solomon Kane before bed.

I've had it way worse for other hot guys, I truly have, and I have been hot for James for years, but for some reason my brain has suddenly decided that this is Really Really Important, and needs to be dealt with RIGHT THIS VERY INSTANT.

I'm not complaining, I just find it confusing is all. Why him? Why now?

A memo.

Aug. 23rd, 2010 08:13 pm
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Cain)
Aaand we're back to the "dreaming about sex with James Purefoy" channel. Set your TiVo, because tonight is the two hour Doggy Style special!

Yeah. That's what I get for watching the good parts of Solomon Kane before bed.

I've had it way worse for other hot guys, I truly have, and I have been hot for James for years, but for some reason my brain has suddenly decided that this is Really Really Important, and needs to be dealt with RIGHT THIS VERY INSTANT.

I'm not complaining, I just find it confusing is all. Why him? Why now?
naamah_darling: Intentionally hilarious cutesy illustration of a super-adorable anime girl with blood pouring from her crotch. (Menstrual)
This. Hurts.

It's not that the pain is that bad. It's like a stubbed toe in my groin - achy, sometimes sharp. It's that it does not go away no matter what I do to it.

Even after a heating pad, four ibuprofen, two cats, and one application of Dracula 2000, I still feel like kicking in puppy skulls and biting through whole babies.

The menstrual fairy made her debut today unexpectedly, prompting a torrent of wolverine-like noises and piratical swearing that sent the cats into hiding. It also interrupted some well-laid plans. I am now somewhat less than well-laid.

I am tired and cranky and behind on everything and, just to make things interesting, randier than a fucking polecat. I can't concentrate on anything but Tom Welling's ass.

I beg you lot to throw pictures of pretty boys at me until I feel better. Bonus points for introducing me to hotness of which I was formerly unaware.
naamah_darling: Intentionally hilarious cutesy illustration of a super-adorable anime girl with blood pouring from her crotch. (Menstrual)
This. Hurts.

It's not that the pain is that bad. It's like a stubbed toe in my groin - achy, sometimes sharp. It's that it does not go away no matter what I do to it.

Even after a heating pad, four ibuprofen, two cats, and one application of Dracula 2000, I still feel like kicking in puppy skulls and biting through whole babies.

The menstrual fairy made her debut today unexpectedly, prompting a torrent of wolverine-like noises and piratical swearing that sent the cats into hiding. It also interrupted some well-laid plans. I am now somewhat less than well-laid.

I am tired and cranky and behind on everything and, just to make things interesting, randier than a fucking polecat. I can't concentrate on anything but Tom Welling's ass.

I beg you lot to throw pictures of pretty boys at me until I feel better. Bonus points for introducing me to hotness of which I was formerly unaware.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (A Little Naughty)
Well, [livejournal.com profile] greenjeanz threatened to cry on me if I didn't post this -- and she would have, too, because she is evil like that -- so here you go.

I warn you in advance that there's sex in this dream too, though it does not remotely approach the levels of wrong I inflicted on you with the werewolf sex dream.* So, consider yourself warned.

Anyway, I'm at the renfair. Faire. However you want to spell it. Anyway, it's hot and I'm tired and thirsty and overheated, so I decide that ice cream sounds swell, only I don't have any money. I wander helplessly for a while looking for anyone I know, but there's nobody.

This is when Tom Jane shows up.

Now, it's no secret that every time I watch the Punisher I have to go spend some time alone recovering from the sheer testosterone-infused awesomeness. It's also no secret that I would like nothing more than to have him grab me by the scruff of the neck and force me to do lewd things in front of a crowd of onlookers -- which is why I am particularly pleased with my subconscious.

So here he is, looking bad-ass as usual, and I'm sort of speechless because I'm drooling. He offers to buy me ice cream, which is nice of him, but he will only do it if I agree to provide him with oral sex -- right then and there.

This strikes me as win/win (I mean, I get ice cream AND I get to do something I've wanted to do for, like, way too long), so I agree. And with the whole renfaire looking on, I get right to it . . . while he stands there, eating my ice cream. And when I say the whole renfaire, I mean there were bellydancers and guys in costumes and jousters looking on, and the camel ride guy, and the old man from the pirate shack, little kids with those damn juggling sticks . . . it was a crowd scene. Evidently I have a shamelessly exhibitionistic streak.

The dream was incredibly vivid. I had taste, texture, everything. It was just great. This made me happier than I've been since I dreamed about washing Jessica Alba's legs with a sponge held in my teeth, and man, that was an awesome dream.

By the time I've reached the grand finale (thank you, just throw money), the ice cream is gone. He offers to buy me another ice cream cone, because he's apparently a sport like that, but I wake up before he can make good. That's all right, because I think the tastes might have clashed in a lamentable way. (I did get my ice cream eventually, I just had to buy it for myself at Braum's. Mmmm. Gingerbread.)

The part I find most amusing is his presence at the renfaire in the first place. The guy looks like he dismantles babies with paper-cutters and punches kittens into marmalade. I have no idea why he was there. It's not like most renfaires have punch-your-own kitten marmalade booths or a baby-dismantling game. Did he go just to visit the face-painting lady and buy a pair of those cute little fairy wings?

This led to a conversation with [livejournal.com profile] greenjeanz in which we decided that the world needed a visual aid featuring Tom in glittery face paint and fairy wings. So, bless her heart, she made one.

Here you go. )

Yeah, my subconscious needs a spanking. Probably along with the rest of me.

In other news, I have decided that Tom is going to be the lucky recipient of a fan letter in the near future -- a fan letter in which I will not mention this dream at all, but will merely tell him that if he ever comes to town, we can totally go have ice cream at the renfaire. My treat.

* I'm still sorry.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (A Little Naughty)
Well, [livejournal.com profile] greenjeanz threatened to cry on me if I didn't post this -- and she would have, too, because she is evil like that -- so here you go.

I warn you in advance that there's sex in this dream too, though it does not remotely approach the levels of wrong I inflicted on you with the werewolf sex dream.* So, consider yourself warned.

Anyway, I'm at the renfair. Faire. However you want to spell it. Anyway, it's hot and I'm tired and thirsty and overheated, so I decide that ice cream sounds swell, only I don't have any money. I wander helplessly for a while looking for anyone I know, but there's nobody.

This is when Tom Jane shows up.

Now, it's no secret that every time I watch the Punisher I have to go spend some time alone recovering from the sheer testosterone-infused awesomeness. It's also no secret that I would like nothing more than to have him grab me by the scruff of the neck and force me to do lewd things in front of a crowd of onlookers -- which is why I am particularly pleased with my subconscious.

So here he is, looking bad-ass as usual, and I'm sort of speechless because I'm drooling. He offers to buy me ice cream, which is nice of him, but he will only do it if I agree to provide him with oral sex -- right then and there.

This strikes me as win/win (I mean, I get ice cream AND I get to do something I've wanted to do for, like, way too long), so I agree. And with the whole renfaire looking on, I get right to it . . . while he stands there, eating my ice cream. And when I say the whole renfaire, I mean there were bellydancers and guys in costumes and jousters looking on, and the camel ride guy, and the old man from the pirate shack, little kids with those damn juggling sticks . . . it was a crowd scene. Evidently I have a shamelessly exhibitionistic streak.

The dream was incredibly vivid. I had taste, texture, everything. It was just great. This made me happier than I've been since I dreamed about washing Jessica Alba's legs with a sponge held in my teeth, and man, that was an awesome dream.

By the time I've reached the grand finale (thank you, just throw money), the ice cream is gone. He offers to buy me another ice cream cone, because he's apparently a sport like that, but I wake up before he can make good. That's all right, because I think the tastes might have clashed in a lamentable way. (I did get my ice cream eventually, I just had to buy it for myself at Braum's. Mmmm. Gingerbread.)

The part I find most amusing is his presence at the renfaire in the first place. The guy looks like he dismantles babies with paper-cutters and punches kittens into marmalade. I have no idea why he was there. It's not like most renfaires have punch-your-own kitten marmalade booths or a baby-dismantling game. Did he go just to visit the face-painting lady and buy a pair of those cute little fairy wings?

This led to a conversation with [livejournal.com profile] greenjeanz in which we decided that the world needed a visual aid featuring Tom in glittery face paint and fairy wings. So, bless her heart, she made one.

Here you go. )

Yeah, my subconscious needs a spanking. Probably along with the rest of me.

In other news, I have decided that Tom is going to be the lucky recipient of a fan letter in the near future -- a fan letter in which I will not mention this dream at all, but will merely tell him that if he ever comes to town, we can totally go have ice cream at the renfaire. My treat.

* I'm still sorry.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Objectification)
I've found another hot guy. This time, I was surfing for new pics of Travis Fimmel and stumbled across pictures of another model, pretty much his opposite in every way.

And I promptly downloaded every picture of him I could find.

About halfway through the frantic orgy of right-clicking, I quite literally shook myself because I was certain I was dreaming. That I would wake up. That no human could be that appallingly handsome. I've never before doubted my wakefulness, not once, but I was positive he was a figment of my overactive imagination.

He looks like someone I would make up; there's a little bit of a lot of other guys in there, and it's all my favorite bits. He's a little bit man, a little bit boy, pretty and handsome. Cleans up beautifully, but looks wonderful disheveled. Stunning green eyes. Cheekbones like a cat's, a great mouth, even has a nice nose: it's not too delicate, which is where so many male models fall flat.

Even if he's not your type, you have to admit that he's pretty much flawless. I literally cannot find anything wrong with him.

Nothing.

He's actually more good-looking than I prefer. He's so ruthlessly handsome it's difficult for me to look at him for long. It's like staring at the sun.

At one point, I was making noises that I have never before made while alone. Heart pounding, dizzy, couldn't feel my fingers . . . wow. Wow.

Seriously, the last time I had that reaction was when I found the motherlode of Travis pics and spent four hours assailing myself with all the hotness I could handle.

So I slept on it. I thought to myself, "Surely it was one of those late-night things. I was fuzzy and not firing on all cylinders. I'll wake up, and he'll still be pretty, but he'll have a weasely face or a rat nose, or he'll look like a fratboy or a mafioso or something. Or he'll be gorgeous but bland, no character. Or, worst of all, he'll look pretty but dumb.

No, I'm afraid not. Woke up, had breakfast, checked again, and he's still mercilessly hot.

So I inflict him on you: Jon Kortajarena.

I will start with small pictures.


There you go. See? He's perfect.


Painfully pretty, even. This is the girliest picture I could find.


You know you want more.

Photo-heavy. Dial-uppers beware! )

Now that I have rendered many of you incapable of coherent thought, I will mention that he has a website, from whence I looted all these pics.

I really need to post more pictures of hot guys. Remind me to keep doing that. You know, when you can talk again.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Objectification)
I've found another hot guy. This time, I was surfing for new pics of Travis Fimmel and stumbled across pictures of another model, pretty much his opposite in every way.

And I promptly downloaded every picture of him I could find.

About halfway through the frantic orgy of right-clicking, I quite literally shook myself because I was certain I was dreaming. That I would wake up. That no human could be that appallingly handsome. I've never before doubted my wakefulness, not once, but I was positive he was a figment of my overactive imagination.

He looks like someone I would make up; there's a little bit of a lot of other guys in there, and it's all my favorite bits. He's a little bit man, a little bit boy, pretty and handsome. Cleans up beautifully, but looks wonderful disheveled. Stunning green eyes. Cheekbones like a cat's, a great mouth, even has a nice nose: it's not too delicate, which is where so many male models fall flat.

Even if he's not your type, you have to admit that he's pretty much flawless. I literally cannot find anything wrong with him.

Nothing.

He's actually more good-looking than I prefer. He's so ruthlessly handsome it's difficult for me to look at him for long. It's like staring at the sun.

At one point, I was making noises that I have never before made while alone. Heart pounding, dizzy, couldn't feel my fingers . . . wow. Wow.

Seriously, the last time I had that reaction was when I found the motherlode of Travis pics and spent four hours assailing myself with all the hotness I could handle.

So I slept on it. I thought to myself, "Surely it was one of those late-night things. I was fuzzy and not firing on all cylinders. I'll wake up, and he'll still be pretty, but he'll have a weasely face or a rat nose, or he'll look like a fratboy or a mafioso or something. Or he'll be gorgeous but bland, no character. Or, worst of all, he'll look pretty but dumb.

No, I'm afraid not. Woke up, had breakfast, checked again, and he's still mercilessly hot.

So I inflict him on you: Jon Kortajarena.

I will start with small pictures.


There you go. See? He's perfect.


Painfully pretty, even. This is the girliest picture I could find.


You know you want more.

Photo-heavy. Dial-uppers beware! )

Now that I have rendered many of you incapable of coherent thought, I will mention that he has a website, from whence I looted all these pics.

I really need to post more pictures of hot guys. Remind me to keep doing that. You know, when you can talk again.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Men Kissing)
You are all doubtless aware by now that as part of my job, I get to review lots of adult sites. Which means watching lots and lots of adult clips.

I'm working my way through a slew of gay porn sites right now, in fact.

Let me just take a moment to emphasize the fact that I love gay porn. For one thing, the guys in gay porn tend to be better looking than guys in straight porn. And hell, occasionally, they're really fucking hot. I even get the occasional cutie who looks just a little like someone I have a crush on. Say, Steven Strait. This is entirely okay with me (except that he's a fucking amateur, and we will probably never see him again).

(Those two links don't show peen, but unless your workplace is cool with censored porn pics, I'd suggest waiting a bit.)

But a scene featuring one guy who looks like Tommy Lee Jones, and another who, in a certain light, looks just a little like Jeremy Irons?

Holy shit, dude. We are talking serious "I CLAIM THIS LAND FOR WRONG."

(I'm not having any luck finding pictures of the above two guys that show what I mean, so you get general links, and they are OH SO NOT WORK SAFE.)

I love Tommy because he makes me laugh, and my squirming, terrified adoration for Jeremy really shouldn't be spoken of in polite company. But on my list of "people who should be in porn . . . together" . . . well, they ain't on it.

At least the porn guys don't sound the same. The LAST thing I need to hear is Tommy Lee Jones saying "I want you to fuck my ass." Or, God save us, Jeremy Irons saying "Yeah, take it! Do you like it?!"

. . .

Well, actually, I admit it. The latter might be okay.

If y'all will excuse me, I have to go do something else for a while. I am laughing so fucking hard I gave myself the hiccups. And part of my brain? Part of my brain just curled up and died.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Men Kissing)
You are all doubtless aware by now that as part of my job, I get to review lots of adult sites. Which means watching lots and lots of adult clips.

I'm working my way through a slew of gay porn sites right now, in fact.

Let me just take a moment to emphasize the fact that I love gay porn. For one thing, the guys in gay porn tend to be better looking than guys in straight porn. And hell, occasionally, they're really fucking hot. I even get the occasional cutie who looks just a little like someone I have a crush on. Say, Steven Strait. This is entirely okay with me (except that he's a fucking amateur, and we will probably never see him again).

(Those two links don't show peen, but unless your workplace is cool with censored porn pics, I'd suggest waiting a bit.)

But a scene featuring one guy who looks like Tommy Lee Jones, and another who, in a certain light, looks just a little like Jeremy Irons?

Holy shit, dude. We are talking serious "I CLAIM THIS LAND FOR WRONG."

(I'm not having any luck finding pictures of the above two guys that show what I mean, so you get general links, and they are OH SO NOT WORK SAFE.)

I love Tommy because he makes me laugh, and my squirming, terrified adoration for Jeremy really shouldn't be spoken of in polite company. But on my list of "people who should be in porn . . . together" . . . well, they ain't on it.

At least the porn guys don't sound the same. The LAST thing I need to hear is Tommy Lee Jones saying "I want you to fuck my ass." Or, God save us, Jeremy Irons saying "Yeah, take it! Do you like it?!"

. . .

Well, actually, I admit it. The latter might be okay.

If y'all will excuse me, I have to go do something else for a while. I am laughing so fucking hard I gave myself the hiccups. And part of my brain? Part of my brain just curled up and died.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Travis Chest)
I should probably cut this for boy-bondage. Pic, SFW if your coworkers don't wonder why on earth you'd be looking at a chained-up Tom Welling. )

I love Smallville.

Been meaning to say this for a while now, but thank you, D, for the big pic. I'm . . . very distracted today thinking about the horrible horrible things I would like to do to Tom Welling, with or without his permission. He's got the kind of big, pretty eyes and expressive features that make me want to hurt him just so he'll cry, and then I can comfort him. You can all pretty much imagine that it would end in tears. And doesn't he look just delicious with a little blood on him?

The whole spoilery season 5 arc where he's crying a lot and looking hurt pretty much continuously just has me salivating. And I know how very wrong, cruel, and stupid that is. But I can't help it. I don't think he's ever looked as good as he looked at the end of episode 100 (which was horribly depressing, by the way and thank you), or as sad as he looked in one of the following episodes, where he actually cried on Ma Kent. And I really find that appealing.

See. I'm a twisted little chippy.

Now, I have to make a brief point. If I were a guy saying the sort of things about, say, Michelle Trachtenberg that I say about Ioan Gruffudd or Steven Strait or Tom Welling or god help me, Orlando Bloom, I'd be considered a borderline stalker. It would definitely be creepy. And there would be no doubt that I was probably a fat sexist pig. But because I'm a chick, it's seen as cute. Or like I'm reclaiming my sexuality (whatever -- I never lost it). I'm feisty, like a little kitty cat.

I can't decide if that's funny or condescending. I really can't. That's a hell of a stupid double-standard. But it's in my favor since I haven't been arrested yet, so I'm sort of going to shut up about it now.

(What, you were expecting content? Pffft!)
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Travis Chest)
I should probably cut this for boy-bondage. Pic, SFW if your coworkers don't wonder why on earth you'd be looking at a chained-up Tom Welling. )

I love Smallville.

Been meaning to say this for a while now, but thank you, D, for the big pic. I'm . . . very distracted today thinking about the horrible horrible things I would like to do to Tom Welling, with or without his permission. He's got the kind of big, pretty eyes and expressive features that make me want to hurt him just so he'll cry, and then I can comfort him. You can all pretty much imagine that it would end in tears. And doesn't he look just delicious with a little blood on him?

The whole spoilery season 5 arc where he's crying a lot and looking hurt pretty much continuously just has me salivating. And I know how very wrong, cruel, and stupid that is. But I can't help it. I don't think he's ever looked as good as he looked at the end of episode 100 (which was horribly depressing, by the way and thank you), or as sad as he looked in one of the following episodes, where he actually cried on Ma Kent. And I really find that appealing.

See. I'm a twisted little chippy.

Now, I have to make a brief point. If I were a guy saying the sort of things about, say, Michelle Trachtenberg that I say about Ioan Gruffudd or Steven Strait or Tom Welling or god help me, Orlando Bloom, I'd be considered a borderline stalker. It would definitely be creepy. And there would be no doubt that I was probably a fat sexist pig. But because I'm a chick, it's seen as cute. Or like I'm reclaiming my sexuality (whatever -- I never lost it). I'm feisty, like a little kitty cat.

I can't decide if that's funny or condescending. I really can't. That's a hell of a stupid double-standard. But it's in my favor since I haven't been arrested yet, so I'm sort of going to shut up about it now.

(What, you were expecting content? Pffft!)
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Travis Chest)
Oh, yeah.

Yeah. Yeah, yeah, hells yeah. Oooooh. Do that.

No, no, don't do tha--aah! That's it, that's i--aaaaah!!!

Oh, fuck. Jesus. FUCK.

FUCK!

Ah! God in heaven fuck a monkey Christ Jesus FUCK!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!

. . .

That was me watching this movie.

That sniffling you hear is me trying to snort my liquefying brains back into my skull. The Egyptian mummificators used little hooky things to extract brains, and later, naphtha. Thankfully, in this day and age, we have Steven Strait naked and sweaty in bed. It at least saves us from having holes poked in our heads.

No, it's not a good movie. Please remember that I said it was not a good movie.

But it has Steve extremely shirtless and extremely cut, looking like he's put on about 15 pounds from Sky High. Oh, fine, they cut his hair so now he looks like a fuzzy little 10th grader with overdeveloped deltoids, but I can't complain when the movie features a scene tailor-made just for me. He appears in dark pants and a tight white shirt, and then he gets into a fight. Furthering the journey to Wrongsville, he then appears in tight lowrider swim-trunks, exposing most of his trim and manly flanks.

Thank god the only other person in the theater left halfway through and I was able to moan throatily, pull at my hair and clothing, and twitch to my heart's content without disturbing anyone else's moviegoing experience.

I'm serious. He's utterly beautiful. I've been a woman for almost 30 years, and I don't have an upper lip that kissable. No, I'm dead serious. Do not even try to argue with me. His mouth gives Scarlett Johansson's blowjob pout a run for its money.

Now that I'm done fangirling, I can tell you that the movie had a very cool premise, it looked great, and it just didn't quite hang together. It couldn't decide what kind of movie it wanted to be, and didn't quite kick enough ass to create its own thing in spite of that. The dialogue was uninspired and in places bad enough to distract me from naked boyflesh. The plot was predictable. Everything was dampish and wet, to the point that I started to feel really chilly.

That said, the effects were really neat, the music kicked ass (yay Collide!), there was copious gratuitous male nudity and assorted eye candy, and it was generally a fun ride. The big final dustup lacked subtlety, originality, and decent snappy patter, but it was still entertaining.

It wasn't a waste of $4.50, and I'll damn sure buy it on DVD for the white shirt scene alone, but it wasn't a watershed movie and I doubt it'll make anyone's career. Which is too bad, as I want to see a lot more of Steve. As in porn-movie "more."

Hey. You guys are allowed to have your bubbleheaded actresses you lust after even though they cannot freaking act. I can have my salty goodness. Guilty pleasure is the best kind.

Ah, I've missed having a new crush.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Travis Chest)
Oh, yeah.

Yeah. Yeah, yeah, hells yeah. Oooooh. Do that.

No, no, don't do tha--aah! That's it, that's i--aaaaah!!!

Oh, fuck. Jesus. FUCK.

FUCK!

Ah! God in heaven fuck a monkey Christ Jesus FUCK!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!

. . .

That was me watching this movie.

That sniffling you hear is me trying to snort my liquefying brains back into my skull. The Egyptian mummificators used little hooky things to extract brains, and later, naphtha. Thankfully, in this day and age, we have Steven Strait naked and sweaty in bed. It at least saves us from having holes poked in our heads.

No, it's not a good movie. Please remember that I said it was not a good movie.

But it has Steve extremely shirtless and extremely cut, looking like he's put on about 15 pounds from Sky High. Oh, fine, they cut his hair so now he looks like a fuzzy little 10th grader with overdeveloped deltoids, but I can't complain when the movie features a scene tailor-made just for me. He appears in dark pants and a tight white shirt, and then he gets into a fight. Furthering the journey to Wrongsville, he then appears in tight lowrider swim-trunks, exposing most of his trim and manly flanks.

Thank god the only other person in the theater left halfway through and I was able to moan throatily, pull at my hair and clothing, and twitch to my heart's content without disturbing anyone else's moviegoing experience.

I'm serious. He's utterly beautiful. I've been a woman for almost 30 years, and I don't have an upper lip that kissable. No, I'm dead serious. Do not even try to argue with me. His mouth gives Scarlett Johansson's blowjob pout a run for its money.

Now that I'm done fangirling, I can tell you that the movie had a very cool premise, it looked great, and it just didn't quite hang together. It couldn't decide what kind of movie it wanted to be, and didn't quite kick enough ass to create its own thing in spite of that. The dialogue was uninspired and in places bad enough to distract me from naked boyflesh. The plot was predictable. Everything was dampish and wet, to the point that I started to feel really chilly.

That said, the effects were really neat, the music kicked ass (yay Collide!), there was copious gratuitous male nudity and assorted eye candy, and it was generally a fun ride. The big final dustup lacked subtlety, originality, and decent snappy patter, but it was still entertaining.

It wasn't a waste of $4.50, and I'll damn sure buy it on DVD for the white shirt scene alone, but it wasn't a watershed movie and I doubt it'll make anyone's career. Which is too bad, as I want to see a lot more of Steve. As in porn-movie "more."

Hey. You guys are allowed to have your bubbleheaded actresses you lust after even though they cannot freaking act. I can have my salty goodness. Guilty pleasure is the best kind.

Ah, I've missed having a new crush.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Lucian No Pants)
Yay! I'm free for a few minutes!

Things have been really really busy here, a mixture of good things and annoying things in pretty much equal parts.

Bad was crunching my next-to-littlest toe last Thursday and watching it swell up and turn alarmingly purple, and having to walk three miles on it anyway, because I am a basket case like that. (It's fine now. It wasn't broken; I knew that, and I refused to be slowed down by something as stupid as a stubbed toe.) It still hurts today, but it's not making me limp or anything.

Also bad was coming back from that walk and dropping my glasses, fracturing one lens. Worse is trying to paint with no glasses, or do hours and hours of computer work without them. Tomorrow, I'll have been without them for a week. They need to come back to me soon. I lose valuable geek points for not being all sexy with the glasses.

Good is small birthday-party fun with friends, and making silly presents. [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva, are you going to post pictures of My Little Manhunter, or shall I do it?

Good is lots of new pending commissions.

Bad is discovering that Michael's is either just really low on the boxes I use to paint on, or they're not going to restock them at all, which means I may be forced to find a different source for raw materials. I have other avenues open to me, but I don't relish the thought of losing my favorite brand of boxes. It'll force me to reevaluate my pricing, for one thing, and that sucks the root. I hate setting prices more than any other part of the process, including mailing the things away and never seeing them again. Also including painting them upside down and having to start over.

Good is working on what you are pretty sure is the coolest thing you've done yet.

Good is also the close-up of Clark unzipping his pants to reveal blue boxers in Season 3's "Slumber." Sargon actually burst out laughing at my reaction, which was apparently both intense and hilarious.

Bad is screwing up on said coolest thing ever because you were tring to claw your way out of the chair and through the TV screen due to an uncontrollable Pavlovian response. (I fixed the damage, it wasn't serious, but I clearly need to install some kind of restraints on the chair for when I watch this show.)

Good is freelancing several hundred dollars' worth of porn, meaning I can actually afford to do things like turn on the lights and take showers when I need them and buy critical things like secondhand Smallville season sets and new underwear.

Bad is having the two things I needed to finish for a deadline today eaten by my word processing program. Bad, bad, very bad is when I finished one again, and my word processing program ate it again. I fixed the program, but I still had to redo all that work. Grr.

Mostly I'm just relieved that things have taken a lighter turn and the megawatt drama-bulb that's been baking my ass for the past year and more seems to be at a lower setting, if not turned off completely. Things are okay, and after months of crap, okay feels really, really good. I'm feeling better, have caught myself being gratuitously weird and funny again, so I know I'll be all right.

I do have a ton of work to do, still, so I'm off to take a stab at it. But I'll be around more in the next few weeks, I promise.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Lucian No Pants)
Yay! I'm free for a few minutes!

Things have been really really busy here, a mixture of good things and annoying things in pretty much equal parts.

Bad was crunching my next-to-littlest toe last Thursday and watching it swell up and turn alarmingly purple, and having to walk three miles on it anyway, because I am a basket case like that. (It's fine now. It wasn't broken; I knew that, and I refused to be slowed down by something as stupid as a stubbed toe.) It still hurts today, but it's not making me limp or anything.

Also bad was coming back from that walk and dropping my glasses, fracturing one lens. Worse is trying to paint with no glasses, or do hours and hours of computer work without them. Tomorrow, I'll have been without them for a week. They need to come back to me soon. I lose valuable geek points for not being all sexy with the glasses.

Good is small birthday-party fun with friends, and making silly presents. [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva, are you going to post pictures of My Little Manhunter, or shall I do it?

Good is lots of new pending commissions.

Bad is discovering that Michael's is either just really low on the boxes I use to paint on, or they're not going to restock them at all, which means I may be forced to find a different source for raw materials. I have other avenues open to me, but I don't relish the thought of losing my favorite brand of boxes. It'll force me to reevaluate my pricing, for one thing, and that sucks the root. I hate setting prices more than any other part of the process, including mailing the things away and never seeing them again. Also including painting them upside down and having to start over.

Good is working on what you are pretty sure is the coolest thing you've done yet.

Good is also the close-up of Clark unzipping his pants to reveal blue boxers in Season 3's "Slumber." Sargon actually burst out laughing at my reaction, which was apparently both intense and hilarious.

Bad is screwing up on said coolest thing ever because you were tring to claw your way out of the chair and through the TV screen due to an uncontrollable Pavlovian response. (I fixed the damage, it wasn't serious, but I clearly need to install some kind of restraints on the chair for when I watch this show.)

Good is freelancing several hundred dollars' worth of porn, meaning I can actually afford to do things like turn on the lights and take showers when I need them and buy critical things like secondhand Smallville season sets and new underwear.

Bad is having the two things I needed to finish for a deadline today eaten by my word processing program. Bad, bad, very bad is when I finished one again, and my word processing program ate it again. I fixed the program, but I still had to redo all that work. Grr.

Mostly I'm just relieved that things have taken a lighter turn and the megawatt drama-bulb that's been baking my ass for the past year and more seems to be at a lower setting, if not turned off completely. Things are okay, and after months of crap, okay feels really, really good. I'm feeling better, have caught myself being gratuitously weird and funny again, so I know I'll be all right.

I do have a ton of work to do, still, so I'm off to take a stab at it. But I'll be around more in the next few weeks, I promise.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (A Taste For Danger)
Hay!

Who sent me ze bunny movie? Convess!

Got a (wet, and thank God it was shrink wrapped) copy of Watership Down in the post late today. It's been one of my favorite movies since I was wee, though looking back on it I can't think why on earth my parents allowed me to watch it when it gave me recurring nightmares. I still love it, and find that as I grow older, I identify with different characters, get different lessons from it. It's a good movie that way. Like the Last Unicorn. Movies and books that need to be revisited, because as your point of view shifts you get different things out of them. Stories like that are important, they can teach us throughout our lives if we let them. We don't have myths any more; we need to take these things where we can get them.

Big Trouble in Little China is like that too, but for totally different reasons. I just find something new to laugh about every time I see that movie, and I will probably never stop loving it as long as I live. Jack Burton throwing away his boot knife while trying to draw it is one of those blink-and-you-miss-it movie moments that only really great comedy flicks can afford not to telegraph. That movie is full of them. Actually, I think Kurt Russell is full of them.

Anyway, whoever sent me the movie, I thank you. I theeeenk I know who the culprit was, though.

In other news, got a little woozy and actually swooned in the kitchen this evening because I was dumb and stood with my knees locked for too long. I had to stagger to the bedroom and lay down with my feet up. I always forget that on days I give blood I tend to get faint if I stand after sitting for a long time.

I'm okay now, and besides, swooning is sexy. Or is that just me being Southern again?

I think I'll play it safe tomorrow, though, and stay close to home. I'm pretty wiped, and the only reason I ain't in bed yet is because I had a nap earlier, and I have a couple things to finish.

Speaking of which, I have to hop to. Duty calls, and all that jazz. Due to an unprecedented three days without interruptions, I'm already a third to halfway through another box, and THIS one I am dying to show you all.

Oh. And since I've been watching a crapload of Smallville, I want to inflict upon show you some hot pictures of Tom Welling. How much better does it get than that? (Okay, well, he could be in a wet white tee-shirt.) He's so cute. Is it any wonder he's my crush du jour? (I wonder if this is really him; if so, he needs to grow his hair out again. And get rid of those awful pants. I promise I won't mind the naked.)
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (A Taste For Danger)
Hay!

Who sent me ze bunny movie? Convess!

Got a (wet, and thank God it was shrink wrapped) copy of Watership Down in the post late today. It's been one of my favorite movies since I was wee, though looking back on it I can't think why on earth my parents allowed me to watch it when it gave me recurring nightmares. I still love it, and find that as I grow older, I identify with different characters, get different lessons from it. It's a good movie that way. Like the Last Unicorn. Movies and books that need to be revisited, because as your point of view shifts you get different things out of them. Stories like that are important, they can teach us throughout our lives if we let them. We don't have myths any more; we need to take these things where we can get them.

Big Trouble in Little China is like that too, but for totally different reasons. I just find something new to laugh about every time I see that movie, and I will probably never stop loving it as long as I live. Jack Burton throwing away his boot knife while trying to draw it is one of those blink-and-you-miss-it movie moments that only really great comedy flicks can afford not to telegraph. That movie is full of them. Actually, I think Kurt Russell is full of them.

Anyway, whoever sent me the movie, I thank you. I theeeenk I know who the culprit was, though.

In other news, got a little woozy and actually swooned in the kitchen this evening because I was dumb and stood with my knees locked for too long. I had to stagger to the bedroom and lay down with my feet up. I always forget that on days I give blood I tend to get faint if I stand after sitting for a long time.

I'm okay now, and besides, swooning is sexy. Or is that just me being Southern again?

I think I'll play it safe tomorrow, though, and stay close to home. I'm pretty wiped, and the only reason I ain't in bed yet is because I had a nap earlier, and I have a couple things to finish.

Speaking of which, I have to hop to. Duty calls, and all that jazz. Due to an unprecedented three days without interruptions, I'm already a third to halfway through another box, and THIS one I am dying to show you all.

Oh. And since I've been watching a crapload of Smallville, I want to inflict upon show you some hot pictures of Tom Welling. How much better does it get than that? (Okay, well, he could be in a wet white tee-shirt.) He's so cute. Is it any wonder he's my crush du jour? (I wonder if this is really him; if so, he needs to grow his hair out again. And get rid of those awful pants. I promise I won't mind the naked.)
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Original Sin)
Still alive here. What, you didn't think you'd get rid of me that easily, did you?

Sargon's on the mend, though what with the four days of enforced inactivity, we now have a very cranky Naamah. Oh, sure, everything's in working order, this has been established, but there's been no red meat in the diet, if you get my drift. It's all been chicken. Robot chicken at that.

Making things worse, I managed to go out today and spend a hundred dollars that needed to be spent, but that I didn't exactly want to spend. So I blew part of my afternoon writing porn-for-hire to try to make up for the hole I put in my bank account.

I want you people to understand something, so pay attention. No matter how gleefully fun the porn I write for myself is, nine-tenths of the porn (not the erotica) I write to sell does nothing for me. I do it because I can make ten to twenty dollars an hour if I'm persistent and not screwing around on livejournal (like now; I'm getting paid nothing for this). What I'm saying here is that what I do is not really glamorous in the slightest, no matter what you think.

As evidence, I present this fact, like a sugar-frosted dog turd on a doily:

Today, for ten dollars, I wrote 600 words of balloon fetish porn.

It's part of an ongoing project, the majority of which has been quite fresh and exciting. That does not change the fact that I sold a little piece of my soul today. Nor does it change the fact that very shortly I'll be auctioning off other little pieces of it labeled "granny" and "midgets" unless I tell my boss I just can't touch those fetishes without the clinging stench adhering to my soul for the duration of my karmic halflife.

I'd say something about how it's all very sad I'm having to swallow my pride and write hack work, and blah, blah, blah, but the truth is that it pays well, and that I don't mind doing it. I even enjoy it. And more, I enjoy paying the money I owe to people like the utility companies and the internet providers.

Most people fantasize about sex while they're writing off the bills. I'm fantasizing about paying the bills while I'm writing about sex. The irony of this is staggering.

I've been listening to the Jill Tracy stuff that [livejournal.com profile] bifemmefatale sent me, and I owe her another thank-you. This is sincerely the coolest music I've heard in . . . fuck me, for this kind of music, this is the coolest stuff I have ever heard. Vampire lounge singer, indeed. We have a winner! And the music is dead sexy, too, which I had not fully expected.

In other sexy, sexy news, I got the shipping notice for my Black Phoenix Trading Post order, which should contain one sassy Dragon Moon tee shirt, and on the sexy perfume and sexy boys front, I committed the dual sin today of wearing Casanova while watching the Heath Ledger movie of the same name.

Sargon challenged me -- rather cruelly -- not to make a single sound of girly longing through the whole movie, and being something of a masochist, I accepted. At one point, where Heath had the little dark glasses on, oh, oh! I actually developed the hiccups in self-defense. I lasted until they locked Casanova up in prison, at which point I am told I grunted suggestively. I don't remember. I would have been lucky to remember my name at that point. All that saved me is that Heath spent nine tenths of the movie in a really cute but very silly wig, and not in his long, off-blonde ponytail. Otherwise I might have died of dehydration.

I loved the movie. Casanova, as utterly ridiculous as it was, was very much like something I would have written. And how can you say no to such a beautiful face? I really want to see him play a scenery-chewing villain sometime, because those occasional little evil looks prove he has the chops to play The Bad Guy.

Needless to say, the movie combined with the incredibly masculine and sexy smelly stuff made for an interesting -- by which I mean explosive -- experience. I apologize for anyone who was caught in the area of effect. They tell me that cleanup is easy with soap and water, though I think you might want to use a hose instead of a spray bottle. And the smell of the perfume oil . . . that may never come out.

You know, Beth should just create a perfume called "Chagrin." It would smell like the guilty pleasure that causes you to ruin your best pair of panties.

And on that note, I am going to go churn out another couple thousand words of the porn equivalent of that gunk they use to coat Chee-tos.

I am not -- I repeat not -- going to go watch Sky High again, just for the . . . err . . . hottie.

. . .

Not all of it, anyway.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Original Sin)
Still alive here. What, you didn't think you'd get rid of me that easily, did you?

Sargon's on the mend, though what with the four days of enforced inactivity, we now have a very cranky Naamah. Oh, sure, everything's in working order, this has been established, but there's been no red meat in the diet, if you get my drift. It's all been chicken. Robot chicken at that.

Making things worse, I managed to go out today and spend a hundred dollars that needed to be spent, but that I didn't exactly want to spend. So I blew part of my afternoon writing porn-for-hire to try to make up for the hole I put in my bank account.

I want you people to understand something, so pay attention. No matter how gleefully fun the porn I write for myself is, nine-tenths of the porn (not the erotica) I write to sell does nothing for me. I do it because I can make ten to twenty dollars an hour if I'm persistent and not screwing around on livejournal (like now; I'm getting paid nothing for this). What I'm saying here is that what I do is not really glamorous in the slightest, no matter what you think.

As evidence, I present this fact, like a sugar-frosted dog turd on a doily:

Today, for ten dollars, I wrote 600 words of balloon fetish porn.

It's part of an ongoing project, the majority of which has been quite fresh and exciting. That does not change the fact that I sold a little piece of my soul today. Nor does it change the fact that very shortly I'll be auctioning off other little pieces of it labeled "granny" and "midgets" unless I tell my boss I just can't touch those fetishes without the clinging stench adhering to my soul for the duration of my karmic halflife.

I'd say something about how it's all very sad I'm having to swallow my pride and write hack work, and blah, blah, blah, but the truth is that it pays well, and that I don't mind doing it. I even enjoy it. And more, I enjoy paying the money I owe to people like the utility companies and the internet providers.

Most people fantasize about sex while they're writing off the bills. I'm fantasizing about paying the bills while I'm writing about sex. The irony of this is staggering.

I've been listening to the Jill Tracy stuff that [livejournal.com profile] bifemmefatale sent me, and I owe her another thank-you. This is sincerely the coolest music I've heard in . . . fuck me, for this kind of music, this is the coolest stuff I have ever heard. Vampire lounge singer, indeed. We have a winner! And the music is dead sexy, too, which I had not fully expected.

In other sexy, sexy news, I got the shipping notice for my Black Phoenix Trading Post order, which should contain one sassy Dragon Moon tee shirt, and on the sexy perfume and sexy boys front, I committed the dual sin today of wearing Casanova while watching the Heath Ledger movie of the same name.

Sargon challenged me -- rather cruelly -- not to make a single sound of girly longing through the whole movie, and being something of a masochist, I accepted. At one point, where Heath had the little dark glasses on, oh, oh! I actually developed the hiccups in self-defense. I lasted until they locked Casanova up in prison, at which point I am told I grunted suggestively. I don't remember. I would have been lucky to remember my name at that point. All that saved me is that Heath spent nine tenths of the movie in a really cute but very silly wig, and not in his long, off-blonde ponytail. Otherwise I might have died of dehydration.

I loved the movie. Casanova, as utterly ridiculous as it was, was very much like something I would have written. And how can you say no to such a beautiful face? I really want to see him play a scenery-chewing villain sometime, because those occasional little evil looks prove he has the chops to play The Bad Guy.

Needless to say, the movie combined with the incredibly masculine and sexy smelly stuff made for an interesting -- by which I mean explosive -- experience. I apologize for anyone who was caught in the area of effect. They tell me that cleanup is easy with soap and water, though I think you might want to use a hose instead of a spray bottle. And the smell of the perfume oil . . . that may never come out.

You know, Beth should just create a perfume called "Chagrin." It would smell like the guilty pleasure that causes you to ruin your best pair of panties.

And on that note, I am going to go churn out another couple thousand words of the porn equivalent of that gunk they use to coat Chee-tos.

I am not -- I repeat not -- going to go watch Sky High again, just for the . . . err . . . hottie.

. . .

Not all of it, anyway.

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