A Unique New York Experience

by Lisbeth Eng

“Isn’t everything in New York unique?” you ask. Perhaps a valid question, but in my forty some-odd years in this city, this was a new experience for me. The setting was Yankee Stadium. What could be more iconically “New York” than that?

But then reality shifted and I entered what I will call the “Alternate Baseball Universe.” Three friends had persuaded me to join them at a Yankee game. (My arm still aches from the twisting.) Now it’s not that I don’t like baseball, but being a life-long, die-hard Mets fan, this was not easy. That, and the one hundred dollar ticket price. But I later found out that the regular price for these tickets was $150 and it included food and soft drinks, so it was really quite a bargain.

I was told before I arrived at the stadium that this was a luxury suite. I had been in one once at Shea and it was quite lovely. A private room for about 25 people with your own bathroom and covered open seating facing the action. It was a playoff game in 2000 and I had gotten the ticket through my job. (Not the romance writing job, but the rent-paying job.) My co-worker and I seemed to be the only ones interested in the game and I got the feeling that the other “fans” were out-of-town business people just there for the free food. When the score became lopsided – I think the Mets were losing by seven runs – the others retired to the comfortable living-room-style suite and watched a football game (!) on the television screen provided. My friend and I remained outside in the now-empty covered seating section, leaning out of the opening, cheering on our team and trying to capture the feeling that we were actually attending a baseball game – a playoff game, at that!

Though the Mets lost that game (they went on to become the National League Champs that year – we won’t talk about the 2000 World Series) it was a pleasant experience. I enjoyed all the hot dogs, hamburgers, French fries and chicken fingers I wanted and even got a free Mets cap to take home.

But back to the Alternate Baseball Universe. Riding the D train to The Bronx, I pictured a similar setting for our Yankee game – a covered luxury suite with an endless supply of typical baseball-stadium fare and all the bottled water or soda I wanted. We had already been told beer was extra. Bummer. When we got to the stadium we had no idea how to find our seats. A lovely young woman with a pin-stripe-adorned “May I Help You?” sign pointed us toward a guarded glass door. That led to an elevator and we got off at the level for “Audi Yankees Club” – that’s what it said on our tickets.

This was not a luxury suite – it was a restaurant seating some three hundred guests! Instead of French fries and hamburgers we feasted on lobster fritters, pan-fried soft-shell crabs, shrimp cocktail as big as your hand, sautéed asparagus and very rare filet mignon with béarnaise sauce. No kidding. Oh, and there were fries – sweet potato fries. The miniature pastries on the dessert bar were as tempting as any delicacy from the finest bakery. But lest anyone feel deprived (or forget that he was inside a Major League ballpark), hot dogs were provided, along with potato chips and popcorn. The food was wonderful and gracefully dished out buffet-style by servers wearing chef hats inscribed with the famed “NY” logo.

Yet that wasn’t the weirdest part. Our seats were arranged dinner-theater style before long tables all facing the field. But between the “regular” fans and us was a huge glass picture window. Here we were, watching a baseball game from inside a hermetically-sealed, soundproof, climate-controlled restaurant. We couldn’t even hear the National Anthem (we stood anyway since they piped in the soundtrack) or the roar of the crowd. It was like watching the game on a humongous TV screen, and to underscore the TV-like ambiance, the play-by-play telecast of the entire game was piped in, too.

We were attending a baseball game…but it didn’t feel like it to me. During particularly exhilarating moments – the scoring of a “go ahead” run or a breathtaking defensive play – excited fans are often moved to high-five the complete strangers seated near them. Yet this would have felt unseemly within the sophisticated milieu of the Audi Yankees Club. We were there at a ballpark, but not really there. All the action unfolded before us but we were removed from it. Part of the experience and much of the fun of attending a baseball game is to be among the other fans, not separated from them by glass. Fans are collectively referred to as the “tenth man”. We are part of the game and our “root, root, rooting” for the home team helps spur them to action. Sequestered within our opulent isolation booth, we became observers, not participants.

I don’t regret my expedition into the Alternate Baseball Universe of the Audi Yankees Club. (Yes, there were brochures hawking the luxury autos on a discreet rack near the exit.) The food was wonderful and the company agreeable. It just wasn’t an authentic baseball experience.

Now, this is where I usually make some obscure connection from my blog post to my upcoming World War II romance novel. Hmm…. World War II… war…. Well baseball is a little like war…. Ok, that’s a stretch. So I’ll just refer you to my website at www.lisbetheng.com for more info about In the Arms of the Enemy, coming October 1 from The Wild Rose Press. See, I can write a blog post without gratuitous, blatant self-promotion!

Oh, and in case you’re interested, the Yankees lost.

BIO: Lisbeth Eng is a native New Yorker who works in the finance industry by day and plugs her soon-to-be-released World War II romance novel In the Arms of the Enemy every chance she gets. Visit her at www.lisbetheng.com.

FAST GIRLS

   
by Maria C. Ferrer

“Fast is a (Sexy) State of Mind” ---Rachel Kramer Bussel

Fast Girls.

You know who I mean. Those women who are always dressed to the nines: their skirts a little too short, their blouses a little too tight, their cleavage a little too exposed. Their eyeliner is black and sharp, their lipstick bright and confident, and they walk with the greatest of ease on towering heels. Men flock to them, take them home and call them the next day.

You see them at work, on the trains. You remember them from high school, college where they seemed to know something you did not. They still do.

If you haven’t guessed, I was not a “fast girl” growing up. I wasn’t a wallflower either, as I preferred the label, G.D.I. -- God Damn Independent. But, I dreamed. I wanted to send up a signal and have Billy Joel throw me a line but Catholic guilt was better at stamping out hot-blooded passion than a cold shower.

Now as a grown woman, I AM a Fast Girl in that I am in control of myself, my body, my desires and, especially my reading material.  I just read FAST GIRLS: EROTICA FOR WOMEN, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel (Cleis Press). It’s an excellent collection of short stories about strong, confident women in control of their sexuality and their fun.

Like Tracy, in Kayla Perrin’s “Temptation,” who at 37 isn’t afraid of getting it on with a 20-year old stud with the hots for her. Like Kirstie, who makes room in her dorm shower for three extra guests in “Communal” by Saskia Walker. (Talk about conserving water!) Like “That Girl” by Cherry Bomb, who offers no apologies for being promiscuous because she enjoys being “hot and spent, tangled between sheets, skin on skin….”

Even in their submission, Fast Girls are in control for nothing will happen without their consent. Take Claire in Rachel Kramer Bussel’s “Whore Complex.” Her lover Adrian treats her like his private whore, and she allows it. She even allows him to offer her services to others. Why? Because Claire enjoys the rewards just as much as he does.

And, finally, how about a good-girl Fast Girl like the heroine in Charlotte Stein’s “Married Life”? This wife is horny and frustrated by her missionary-position-once-a-month husband. She wants sex and she wants it now, but no one will do but her hubby. So when she discovers her husband is a closet hedonist, there is really only one thing to do -- punish him, wickedly!

Yes, Yes, Yes!!!

As Rachel Kramer Bussel states in her introduction to FAST GIRLS: EROTICA FOR WOMEN, “Fast is a (Sexy) State of Mind.”

Fast Girls are bold, free, confident and in full control of their lives and their beds. Fast Girls doesn’t mean naughty or slutty…unless they want it to.  Are you a Fast Girl?♥

LINKS:

For more info on the book and its editor, click here.

To order from Amazon.com, click here.

Maria C. Ferrer enjoys reading all about fast girls, daring men and deep, dark, mouth-watering desires. If only her life were full of the same. There’s a New Year’s Resolution waiting to happen!

I Need A Hero!

Why I Write & Read Romance
Lise Horton

In recent days the gossip-ravenous media has latched on to the latest Mel Gibson saga. There’s been his long-reported history of over imbibing, fisticuffs and DUIs. A while back there was his anti-Semitic rant. More recently the revelation that this member of an extreme Catholic sect, husband to Robyn and father of seven children with her was being divorced. Fast upon the heels of this was the exposure of his extra-marital affair with the beautiful, much younger, Oksana Grigorieva and the ensuing love child (kid # 8).

Now the latest. Lurid, downright ugly tapes have been released and are being listened to and reported on in every news outlet available. Racist, sexist, violent, threatening and lewd screaming at the mother of his child who alleges that Gibson also hit her and threatened her with a gun, in the first case while she was holding the baby in her arms. A restraining order is in place and the entertainment trades reported that his agency, William Morris Endeavor has removed him from their roster. Which, I assume, means they fired him.

Add this to the cacophony of other news of men behaving badly. John Edwards, Al Gore, Tiger Woods, Charlie Sheen, Chris Brown, Mark Sanford, Elliot Spitzer, and those are just the guys who’ve been leaving broken hearts hither and yon. How about the truly abhorrent cases of mad love like Scott Peterson, Brian David Mitchell, Josef Fritzl, Bruno Fernandes? Every day’s headlines bring more horror, betrayal, disappointment (and don’t get me started on the likes of Bernie Madoff, Ken Starr, Jack Abramoff, Scooter Libby – it isn’t just in the arena of love where guys are doing their darndest to disappoint!) It begs one to ask the burning question:

Where have all the heroes gone?

It is this tawdry state of public affairs, my readers, that is the reason I write and read romance. When this gal’s faced with a tsunami of infidelity, disloyalty, dishonor, rage, hatred, and homicidal acts, not to mention back room business double dealings and greedy shenanigans, I need to escape. Where I turn for solace from the daily grind of reality is to a good fantasy. As in a romance novel. Where a man may have a stock portfolio or a race car, fur or fangs, but he treats his woman right, he’s brave, loyal and true, and, after some good loving, a girl’s guaranteed a happily ever after.

But it’s a fairy tale, you say! My response? Darn right it is! The kind that helps me escape to a world where good triumphs over evil, where the bad guy always gets his just desserts and men don’t cheat with the babysitter, beat the crap out of their lover, or kill them and feed the body to their dog. It’s where heroes and their women battle the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune side by side and hand in hand and share smooches and a glorious, happy ending.

I’m sure that there a oodles of good guys out there, and women lucky enough to have them. For the ladies who enjoy both a good romance and a good man, congratulations on your good fortune! (Would that the press saw fit to cover everyday heroes and honorable men doing good deeds. But NOOOO! What fun would THAT be? So the bilious deluge continues.)

For me, however, I create the heroes I’d love to encounter in my own romances, and I voraciously read others’ novels about their ideal men. And there are great romances to enjoy. Entertaining stories filled with wonderful characters and terrific tales of love. There’s a genre for every taste and heroes and heroines for every sensibility, from virtuous Regency misses to kick-ass urban fantasy heroines who never let their dudes forget they are men, to the Scottish rogues and starship troopers who can make a girl’s bosom heave with a single sardonic glance.

So when I cannot stomach another exposé of a man who done his woman wrong, I indulge in romance. Rather than ponder the broken marriages, destroyed lives, damaged children and families, instead, like Dr. Frankenstein-builds-a-romance-hero, I create my own perfect men. I compile the characteristics of the sort of fella I’d like to get up close and personal with. The kind of dude who’d do my heroines justice and though they may be high maintenance, they’re never low down dirty dogs. When not penning my own, I enjoying the romantic literary fruits of other creative minds. It is how I keep from despairing over the sad state of affairs that is in my face at every turn.

Say what you will - that I’m being unrealistic, that I am turning a blind eye to the harsh truths of life. True and true. But I am certainly less angst ridden, less depressed, and more hopeful for it.

In these trying times, that’s my reason for loving romance novels.

What’s yours?

Encounters

I believe that everything happens for a reason. Such as why my yoga class was canceled and I decided to indulge myself in its place by buying Apple gadgets and essential oils. It was in the store with said oils that I met a model--an alternative model who does fetish. I was fascinated. Recently I began a short story about a model who almost suffocated in a corset. I had read as Diane Kruger described in Allure magazine that feeling and it inspired me. I wrote the first few lines organically, after combining it with a piece I was working on that I had gotten stuck on. Meeting this model who told me that yes it can happen, that you can suffocate while wearing a corset if a photographer does not know what s/he is doing. She also described the beauty in what she does and how her background made her to want to make people think about expressions of their sensuality in different ways. She believes that people are creative in every other part of their lives but when it comes to sex and intimacy they are one-sighted. I read, write and watch erotica. I think a lot is learned about people in how they express themselves in that way.

I had the pleasure of spending time recently with Thea Devine about whom I am going to be doing a Bits and Pieces on, my regular column at the RWA-NYC blog. She changed the way that I think about everything with my craft. I identified with the way she described love and sex and I found my eyes wider because of her. I even got a tiny black Moleskine to write down observations that I make and--surprise, surprise--there are only sensual bits so far! Maybe they will make it into a story but they definitely show me how I see the world and what inspires me...

I am taking an art course focusing on Francis Bacon and for the most part I do not think anyone would describe Bacon as "lovely" or "sexy." When I saw my first Bacon I thought, why would anyone like that?! But I changed my mind about him. I love the rawness of his work--there is a lot lovely and sexy about him. Not even considering that a lot of his work focuses on his lover who was his muse, or that his paintings are featured in the opening credits of the Last Tango in Paris. In my art course, we were shown a Diane Arbus photograph, which I commented on that the two people depicted could not have been a couple because they did not look happy. The instructor said to me that all couples do not have to be happy. I think my mindset was that an unhappy couple would not pose for a picture. But the idea that everything romantic does not have to be happy...When people call me a romantic the last thing they are saying about me is that I am unhappy! I am typing this post on my MacBook with the screen for Before Sunrise minimized, happy for a change that I am able to listen to it and not need to glance at the subtitles. I am fond of the ironically darker love themes in love movies from other countries. Hearing the instructor voice aloud that romance does not have to be happy, it was not that I did not know that, not that I have not explored the themes in fiction and maybe in real life...but to hear something makes it less indelible in my mind. When the fetish model told me you can suffocate in a corset, I had to reread fashion guru Polly Guerin's post about corsets!

I have been writing a lot more since then; the fairly dark love story that I have been working on is developing...which I am going to work on as soon as I finish this post. Every encounter should lead to something that can be transferred to the page or the computer screen.

TO ALL THE VAMPYRES I’VE LOVED BEFORE

By Maria Ferrer



In honor of the movie release of “Eclipse,” the latest installment of the TWILIGHT series, I am releasing a list of my favorite Hollywood vampyres, including those that frighten me and those that I’d gladly stick my neck out for – pun intended.

We’ll start with Mr. Evil Incarnate – Nosferatu. That is a face no one could love and makes one run, not walk, to the nearest church.

Bela Lugosi gave vampyres class and sophistication, and the man could certainly work a cape.

But the man who can suck my blood ANYtime, ANYwhere, is none other than Dracula, aka Frank Langella. He made vampyres sexy.

It’s the eyes. The eyes – the windows to the soul – and this Dracula’s eyes say, “Come here. Don’t be afraid. I want to share love’s last kiss with you.” And because of those eyes, not only did Lucy and Mina succumb, but so did I and millions of women around the world.

In case you didn’t know, Frank Langella played Dracula on Broadway and on the big screen. To this day, his is “the” reigning vampyre on Broadway. And, not even Phantom’s award-winning Michael Crawford could knock him off his throne. Crawford’s “Dracula: The Musical” closed weeks after its debut.

Back to my list of sexy vampyres.

Jason Patric and Keifer Sutherland were two “Lost Boys” who definitely found trouble in sunny California.

Wesley Snipes brought color and martial arts to the world of vampyres. The fight between good and evil vampyres is on, and Wesley cuts right through to the heart of the matter.

The triple threat of Tom Cruise, Brad Pitt and Antonio Banderas in Anne Rice’s “An Interview with a Vampire” rocked the vampyre community. These vamps don’t hide. Hell, they have a stage show and flaunt their vampirism for all and sundry.

David Boreanaz as Angel in the TV series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer is another hottie. Unfortunately, he turns good and there went the sex-appeal. I make no excuses. I like my vampyres hot, sexy and dangerous. The new-and-improved Angel drops from the list.

Kate Beckinsale's Selene makes the list. I’m not into women; I just wish I looked that good in leather. She is not the first female vampyre but she certainly can claim the title of Warrior Queen Vamp.

Hugh Jackman makes my sexy vampyre list. No, he’s not a Vampyre, but he is a Vampyre slayer. He’s just too sexy to leave off.

Now there is a new Prince of Darkness--Edward Cullen.

And though Bella and I are not getting any younger, Edward remains young and vibrant. I get a little frustrated with his “woe is me” spiel, but let’s face it, he’s a teenager. He will always be a teenager. Bella better be converted ASAP before she matures any further and outgrows him.

As for me, I’m waiting for Frank Langella’s Dracula resurrection. It’s the eyes, the window to his soul (Note to Edward: Yes, vampyres have souls; being damned is something else all together.)

Back to Frank’s – to Dracula’s – eyes. It’s the eyes that seduce you, that tell you that you are the one, that only your blood will give him life. Only you. He will starve without you.

And so I give in. I am his slave, his lover. His fangs are sharp against my lips, my neck. I can feel my blood rush towards his kiss. I can feel his arms getting stronger as he tightens his embrace, and all I can think to say is, Bite me, baby, one more time!

Who is your favorite vampyre? Which one would you gladly succumb to? Do tell.♥


Maria Ferrer loves watching vampyre movies.  She likes her vampyres mature, sexy and a lot dangerous. Forget the bad boys; give her a dangerous man any day or night.   Maria also loves to read vampyre books. Some of her favorite vampyre authors are Caridad Pineiro, J.R. Ward, Maggie Shayne and Lara Adair.

Au Courant

I guess I am the one that Lise was referring to when she spoke about the fourth horsewomen who goes for the "au courant erotic literary experience."

I am a romantic; a violent one at that. I see romance everywhere. Every part of my day is a romance in the way I see things. I remember reading a scathing comment about Anais Nin in a review of her biography saying that she was writing the things that she was writing (about her erotic life and erotica) while there was a war going on and I thought to myself who were they to criticize?

There are politicians who leave their office because they want to be with a woman that they love in another country, or who get caught with their pants down, literally, and surely these are not exemplary behaviors, but it goes to show you that love and sex, at the end of the day, are the things that drive us more than anything else, no matter who we are. They are basic, human and it is the truth. I am watching Remember Me, My Love, and what I am viewing is underscoring this point. Earlier this evening I was watching The Apartment while I was moonblogging h

ere, and it as well was even more demonstrative of this point. I love it.

I see love and romance everywhere I am. I was at Nocello drinking Nocello with the other three horsewomen and there was this photograph (all the images here are Horst P.Horst). A bunch of Horst P. Horst photographs and this one (right) struck me. It is a costume from Salvador Dali's Dream of Venus, 1939. Surreal and erotic to me at the same time, apropos of Dali and the Surrealists. This restaurant had the best bread and the scent of Nocello liqueur alone is an experience--walnut and hazelnut combined! But it was the abundance of photographs that remained with me. I like erotic images as well as erotic literature. I resent that men are considered to be the visual ones because I always judge a book by its cover!

The world that we live in is designed by love and sex. It is an inevitable truth; we would not be here without one, the other or both. Women read romances on my train, to and from work every morning, from all walks of life. Erotica-- is what usually can be found in my hands. Friends tease me that I could find the erotic books in a pile--not so much on my train, but it is on the rise and people are taking it more seriously. Still not the most easily accessible genre by any means. It is kind of hard to define. I guess it is clear that I like romantic erotica for the most part, but not all of it is romantic. I like variations--I am constantly intrigued by plots that I have not seen before. I love innovation within the erotica. Right now there is a bloom for innovation with erotica, The Erotic Readers and Writers Association always inspires me because I am always learning something new from their site--there is always some twist and turn on the genre which I love.

Not sure if I am au courant as Lise gave me credit for since my archetype for erotica is Anais Nin--I read from her Little Birds at my RWA-NYC Chapter sister Rachel Kramer Bussel's In The Flesh Reading Series last year. I am as yet unpublished as an erotic writer and in a lot of ways am still honing my craft. Sometimes I write pieces that are erotic, but there is not a bit of sex. Is that possible? I think that half of what makes something erotic is the power that another person has over another person, the surrender. I think that we surrender as a part of every day life and that is why it makes such compelling fiction. The things we do for love and sex...

Sex and THIS City?

by Lisbeth Eng

When I first moved from the hinterlands of Staten Island to the chic isle of Manhattan four years ago, one of my co-workers excitedly remarked, “Lisbeth will be the new Terry Bradshaw!” “Huh? Terry Bradshaw?” I replied, bewildered. What did she possibly think I could have in common with the bald football announcer? “Carrie Bradshaw!” she corrected with a laugh, and went on to explain her prediction that my new life as a Manhattan single woman would be as exhilarating, fashion-forward and sexcapade-filled as that of the fictional heroine I had barely heard of. Yes, that’s right, I have never watched even one episode of Sex and the City, nor either of the two movie versions, nor read Candace Bushnell’s book upon which the TV series was based.

I, a forty-something-year-old widow, am probably as un-Carrie-Bradshaw-like as a native New Yorker can be. I have lived in four of the five boroughs (alas, the Bronx will probably never enjoy the privilege of my residency), having spent the longest period, thirty-five years, in Staten Island, which, in case you were unaware, is part of New York City. It’s amusing that transplanted mid-westerners (among others) seem to think of themselves as more “New York” than those of us born and bred in the outer boroughs, simply because they have lived in Manhattan a few years and know all the “in” places to eat, drink, shop and pick up men. But I digress.

First a disclaimer: since I have never watched the TV show (or seen the movies or read the book) I am in no position to judge the lives of women who seem more interested in their Manolo Blahniks and cosmopolitans than in global warming or human rights abuses in Darfur. But I’ve really no right to make such a self-righteous comment. For all I know, Carrie and her friends may spend their free time volunteering at a local soup kitchen, and I’ll bet they donate last season’s Jimmy Choos to the Salvation Army so that the disadvantaged can get “back on their feet”, properly shod.

All right, perhaps I’m just jealous. I am seldom fashionably attired (for me, comfortable shoes trump high heels and pointy toes every time), and engaging members of opposite sex has always been a challenge for me, especially after I became single again at the age of forty-four. I live in one of the most exciting cities in the world – “the city that never sleeps.” Well, I sleep. Even on weekends I’m usually in bed by midnight. Nightlife? Does watching the eleven o’clock news count?

So how can a single gal living in New York City lead such a boring life? I don’t. There is more to this city than a quest for sex and cocktails. Besides world-famous museums, opera companies, orchestras, Broadway theater (not to mention off- and off-off-Broadway theater), there is a soul to this city that may not be obvious to the casual observer. An army of volunteers delivers meals to the homebound elderly and AIDS patients. Community gardeners beautify hidden corners of this concrete jungle. The socially conscious meet to strategize against pollution, political oppression, poverty and hopelessness. As for me, I enjoy the above mentioned museums, opera and theater, study foreign languages “just for fun”, volunteer for Amnesty International on behalf of prisoners of conscience and write romance fiction for self-fulfillment and for the remote possibility of selling the movie rights to my soon-to-be-published debut novel for a seven-figure sum.

Which brings us back to sex. And self-promotion. For sex and another city, how about Verona, Italy circa 1944 where a woman torn between two lovers, one her compatriot and the other her enemy, battles the Nazis? You can read about her (and her lovers) when my World War II romance novel, In the Arms of the Enemy, is released by The Wild Rose Press on October 1, 2010. In the meantime, please visit my website at www.lisbetheng.com for a preview.

BIO: Lisbeth Eng is a romance author and financial services representative (that’s how the rent gets paid) who inhabits the lovely island of Manhattan where she continues her search for spiritual awakening, inspiration, the meaning of life and yes, well… ahem…sex. Visit her at www.lisbetheng.com.