An homage to Brit Chick Lit as written by Ann Davie:
Damn! I hate it when I wake up and my bra is on upside down. My attempts at recalling the tangled mess of the night before was almost as frustrating as unhooking myself from the two underfilled slingshots that passed for lingerie. What possessed me to shell out over fifty quid for a bra that purported to give me what Mother Nature so offensively forgot to provide me? The freakin' thing never stayed in place.
I basked in the shaft of light streaming through my flat windows. Stretching, I sat up and realised that I was on the floor next to my bed, my feet underneath, probably being stripped of flesh by dust bunnies. I tried to stand up, but the pounding in my head forbade it. That and I realised that my stockings were twisted around one of the legs of the bed. The fact that I was still wearing them made it impossible to move.
The last thing I remembered from the night before was a table full of empty shot glasses and a stud with a pair of lecherous eyes. Mmmm...he was gorgeous. I wonder if we exchanged numbers. Oh yeah. That was my boss. Erk!
I was half an hour late already. I thought that I might be able to skip the shower and just take a bath in eau de cologne. I looked in the mirror. It could have been worse, but not much. Cigarette ash was scattered through my hair, my lipstick was smudged to my nostrils. My mascara...oh wait, I hadn't been wearing any. How did I get that black eye? That's right. My best friend, Celia, was slagging Robert, my boss, for about the millionth time. And I recalled that I was sufficiently pissed off to put a stop to it once and for all.
From the depths of my tequila-soaked memory came flashes of chairs and crashing glasses. I was sure Celia's parents would never invite me for a roast dinner again. There went any hopes of vegetables in my diet for the near future.
Maybe I could just call in and take a sickie. I mean, I wasn't in the best of shape; certainly I was in no fit form to undertake anything that required more than brain stem activity.
I punched the numbers on the penis shaped telephone that Celia had given me for my last birthday. What was it that she'd said...something like, "You're thirty now, you might as well know what one of these looks like." I mentally noted that Celia probably wasn't best friend material after all. Not that it mattered anymore.
The phone line crackled...no wait, that was my teeth grinding. My finger poised on the receiver button under the testicles ready to disconnect if I panicked at the last minute. I pondered the prospect of meeting Robert face to face. No doubt he'd be showered and shaved, those dark blue eyes of his sparkling. What did he see in me? More importantly, if he did see anything, it was likely to be unrecognisable this morning. I made up my mind. Lying is always reliable in situations like this.
"Manchester Airport, Control Tower, Elaine speaking."
"Hi, Elaine. Fi, here." Wait...I had to get the croaky, pathetically sick sounding voice happening.
"Fiona, you sound horrible."
I must be a natural.
"Yeah. I think it's that bug going around. Is Robert in?"
"Hold on, I'll get him."
OK. I had to decide on what story to use. What kind of flu - stomach or sniffily variety? When did I get it? I mean, he must have been the reason my bra was on upside down, so he must have been around last night. Stomach flu it was.
"'Lo, Fi. What's up?"
He didn't sound hung over, the bastard. Some of those shots must have ended up in him.
"Don't think I'll be able to come in today. Have some sort of tummy bug. Fever, chills...the whole thing." From the depths of my tar-congealed lungs came a cough that would have done any miner in the north proud.
"My god. Are you contagious? Maybe you should see a doctor about that."
"You're sweet to worry." I purred with delight at Robert's concern. No wait...that was my lungs rattling.
"You sound awful."
"I'll be fine. Umm...Robert, about last night."
"What about it?"
How could he be so cavalier? Didn't he know that moments of intimacy like last night don't happen every day? He must have felt something. I saw it in his eyes, blue hot flames of desire, and dare I admit it, the wakening embers of love. OK, so I might not be able to remember some of the details. But the heat, the passion...it was all there. His touch had left me burning. And if I had to admit it, a bit itchy, too. Hmm...
"You mean you don't remember either?" A mixture of relief and anguish washed over me.
"What are you talking about? I left you and Louis at the bar at 9. What's there to remember?"
Louis. Oh yeah. I was feeling horny, so sue me.
Purple Prose as written by Alicia Myers, who loves Suzanne Brockmann's SEALS and Lindsay McKenna's Mercenaries:
Absalom "Wolfman" Johnson threw his AK-47 and its ammunition into the corner of the room. He followed that quickly with his sweaty black sleeveless t-shirt,standard issue black combat boots, dusty black jeans, 3 boot knives, 7 throwing knives, 4 pistols, the belt knife, 5 hand grenades, 58 boxes of ammunition, 15 listening devices,2 bazookas, a grenade launcher, the sunday edition of the local paper, 10 packs of chewing gum, 37 condoms and finally his grimy, hole laden socks. He threw a quick glance at his companion before grabbing a condom and falling quickly onto the waiting hotel bed.
Muffy Von Trampen quickly threw off her $1500 De La Renta pink silk micro-mini dress along with her pink silk thong panties with matching bra and garter belt. She kicked off her 6 inch spike heels before rolling down here pure silk stockings. She walked slowly to the bed, not wanting him to know how eager she was for his touch. She had never experienced the sheer volume of orgasms that this man could give her.
"Well, are you getting in bed, or do I have to force you?" Wolfman asked huskily, all the while looking her up and down.
" Oh, please don't hurt me. I'll do anything you ask. I owe you so much after all that you've done for me. I don't know what I'd do without your help. If it wasn't for you, the terrorists would surely have killed my grandmother's uncle's cousin's sister's brother's twice removed nephew. " Muffy said as she crawled onto the bed.
"You'll do anything I ask, huh? Well, this could get real interesting. Why don't you start by having wild sex on the bed here, then we'll move into the bathroom where we will christen the shower, toilet and sink. Just for good measure, we better do it on the balcony, that small table over there and how about the desk too." Wolfman said, deep in thought. "After that, we could probably hop onto a renegade helicopter and do it like wild bunnies as I try to fly us deep into the jungle where we will crash. Once we've crashed, we'll have sex again just to affirm that we are both still alive. We will then hear the terrorists firing at us, so we will run deeper into the jungle, stopping every so often to have sex again. We'll hide in the bushes, and we'll have sex with you on my lap so I can see the enemy as they walk by. At that moment, you will have the biggest orgasm of your life and I'll have to cover your mouth with my hand. Later, we'll meet up with some friends who will smuggle us out of the jungle, and we
"Okay, sounds good." Muffy replied. "When do we start?"
Purple Prose Parody as written by Rachel Lowder :
By Formulania Wrytyer, So-So-Wet Intimate Momentum, 2002
Grade: A+ +++++!
Wow. I have to say this book has Everything. And I do mean everything! When I buy books, I don’t like to actually have to think about which authors I’ve enjoyed in the past, or even read an honest review. Nope - I find it much simpler to just pick something out of So-So-Wet’s New “Favorite Cliches” line, each with it’s own unique logo on the front! And they’re so cute, too! A stork for a baby plot, a crown for royalty, a cute little badge for a cop, the Village People for Navy SEALS, a stetson for a cowboy, a leaking condom for the one-night-lost-virginity-and-brats-on-the way, a brain-in-a-jar for amnesia, a chastity belt for virgins, and a tiny burka for their sheikh line! It’s so clever, I don’t know how they come up with them!
But sometimes, deep in my heart of hearts, I wished I could just have it all. But it’s kind of like Santa - it can never be….
But yes! It can! Miss Furmulania Wrytyr, So-So-Wet’s newest writer, has broken new ground in the pulpmills of romance production with her wonder book “She Ran Calling Wildfire”. It’s just the greatest book ever people, and believe me - I’m not just saying that because she’s promised me 10% of her profits too.
This wonderful story is set in the fairytale land of Plano, Texas - a God’s country of endless money, unselfishness, and perfect taste. Ashlay Meandra (known to her debutante friends as “Lay Me”) is my favorite kind of heroine - feisty and impulsive. Her spontaneity leads her into all kinds of exciting adventures, the most important one being when she accidently calls a bunch of swarthy gentleman discussing murder, extortion, kidnapping, and L.A. contracting - “a bunch of ugly thugs.”
For some reason, the ugly thugs pursue Lay Me and try to hurt her, but not before the next impulsive (my sister said “stupid” was a better word - the nerve of that Phillistine!) adventure. Lay Me realizes that she’s almost 22 and still has not children (that pesky biological clock, ya know!), yet can’t bear to leave her father to marry, and is saving her virginity for a Harvard Man. So it’s off to the Fertility Clinic. But as she exits Breeders, Inc. - the ugly thugs descend, capture her, and dump the frightened (but only lightly bruised) princess off on a ranch outside Plano.
And that’s where the real fun begins! Our hero, Dumas A. Boxarox owns the ranch that Lay Me has landed upon! What a surprising plot twist, and one that I only grasped an inkling of, due to the ten logos on the front cover (listed in order below)
Dumas is actually the son of the youngest princess of the realm of Chlamydia and Sheikh Udai of Babylon of Unusual Evilness. But that’s not all! He’s also has his own ranch, The Boxaroxosa, which he inherited from his adoptive cowboy father, and is the sheriff of the quaint little town, since he retired from his Secret Agent SEAL job when he was wounded by a stray memorandum. I just can’t recommend this book enough!
When Dumas finds her lying in a field, her long golden locks being munched on by the cows, he instantly realizes that she is the woman for him. Manfully refraining from taking her right there, though - he first brings her to the local hospital, where a small bandage is applied to her forehead, her amnesia is quickly (and magically, in less than a day!) determined to be induced by shock, rather than any nasty wounds or blood or anything yucky requiring shaving or anything. Plus they find out she is a pregnant virgin - which, naturally makes Dumas even hotter!
“Nothing a little TLC won’t cure”, the kindly, white-haired Dr. Kevarkian said. “Eat healthy, get plenty of rest. Some hot sex wouldn’t hurt either - it’s been known to cure near everything as far as I’m concerned. You young folks run along now - I’ve got to look into a couple of my more recent lawsuits.”
Lay Me is, of course, concerned that she has no identity or charge cards, but Dumas kindly takes her home. His house is a beautiful and really, really big, and really, really fancy, reflecting the great Plano taste I just adore - but somehow they both end up in his bedroom and spend most of the book there. They do it pretty much every way there is, and 245 pages later, my husband is still gasping in exhaustion after the attack I launched upon him. I’d say it was definitely $4.50 well spent. And, well, that’s about it for the plot. The plot devices, er, ugly thugs - they never come back. And after plenty of hot sex - well, Lay Me’s memory comes back too!
But the best thing about this book is that there is a sequel on the way by Miss Wrytyr! She will be writing the love story of Dumas’s half-sister and half-brother. Evidently she’s got some college loans to pay off, plus the other son of the “Sheikh Udai of Babylon of Unusual Evilness” just “begs to be told.” And I guess the youngest princess of Chlamydia has a feisty daughter that just happens to end up kidnapped by him! I just can’t wait to read their story, and I know you’ll want to too! The logos for the sequel will be:
He was an alpha male, one whose ancestors were the champions of the medieval age, cosseted by kings and loved (i could use another word but my editor says no "f" word allowed) by ALL the ladies of the realm. In regency England, his had been the bluest of bloodlines, harkening back to the earliest days when dukedoms had been created for England's mightiest sword. Now he was the sole survivor, of that illustrious line, a captain of industry, the richest man in America. He was the owner of MicroLimp, the giant of the computer software industry, and he was damned if he was going to waste any time marrying anyone and exposing his fortune to risk. That was why he had an appointment today with Dr. Wilhelmina Teasetop, who owned Babies On Demand, a business he was thinking of acquiring if it worked as well as he thought it might. It was a sperm bank-egg depository where he could make an heir without even needing to meet an actual woman.
He was shown into the doctor's inner sanctum and his heart stood still as she stood to greet him. He, a man who had dated movie stars and super models, was moved as he'd never been moved before. Standing before him was a woman who looked as he would look if he were a woman. Madonna, as she'd looked when he'd dated in her pre Guy Ritchie post Sean Penn days, ceased to exist in his memory. He expelled her as if she were a scratched CD. (He had a scratch proof CD in development.)
It was love at first sight. No matter that her breasts were as flat as a floppy disc or a CD. No matter that her body was shaped like an Epson commercial printer. No matter that her blonde hair had a green cast to it like his default screen saver. It was himself in the full flower of womanhood, right down to the identical set of eyeglasses on someone else who probably had been called "four eyes" on the playground. He, William "the Conqueror" Bates, was finally in love.
Bill had never been one to pussyfoot around when he was prime for an acquisition and now was no exception.
"Merge with me, Doctor Teasetop," he said, swinging her into his arms instead of taking her outstretched hand.
His mouth crashed down onto hers at the same moment that their glasses collided. Both sets of glasses went flying in the awkwardness of his advance and her equally clumsy parry.
"She's perfect," Bill thought triumphantly.
"Unhand me, Mr. Bates!" she cried indignantly.
Anachronistic too! Better and better!
"You are the ideal woman to rule at my side and produce my heirs," Bill said fervently into her backside as she bent down to retrieve their glasses.
He had to help her up cause she got stuck down there owing to her great girth but that only added to her charms. (No one knew that he'd been called "lardass" as a kid too. The world at large had only seen him in his lean and mean mode.)
"Mr. Bates, I am a scientist. I do not merge. I do not romance. I am a serious businesswoman and research scientist."
She delivered this with all the pomposity that he was famous for utilizing when defending his latest act of high seas piracy in running MicroLimp. He'd had a privateer in the family tree too, someone he revered more than the old duke.
"Ten million," he said instantly.
She didn't pretend not to understand; god, he loved that in a woman.
"Babies On Demand is not for sale," she countered.
"That was for you, what I'll give you upfront in the prenup. Toss in the company and I'll make it twenty mil."
"One hundred million," she said, "and upfront in cash, not refundable if we split up."
She drove a hard bargain. He gave her another notch on his scale of women.
"Who gets the kids if we split?" he said, thinking quickly, not wasting time on arguing over his spare change.
"We're going to clone our kids. They won't need anyone. They'll be us from day one."
"You mean I'll have myself to hand over the business to?"
"And myself from my clone."
"My God, Wilhelmina, they could marry one another too. This could go on forever!"
She frowned and ventured tentatively, "That could be illegal."
Bill laughed uproariously, "What are they going to do, send the Justice Department or the FBI after me? Again?"
Wilhelmina studied him quietly for a moment, "Bill, are you planning on being faithful to me? You have a reputation as the rake hound from hell along with every male in your family tree."
"Haven't you heard that rakes make the best husbands?"
"I have read that. Do you mean its true?"
"No, it means I own 75% of the romance publishing imprints and that old chestnut goes into all of my books."
"I don't read romance novels," Wilhemina sniffed.
"Yeah, I can tell," Bill said, "with your using words like rakehell and phrases like 'unhand me'."
"Well, maybe I've read one or two..."
"You'll get free ARCs* for every romance novel on the market as my wife
Wilhelmina punched her intercom, "Traci, get my sister in here to run
this place. I need to free up some time to mer---er, get married."
"A sister?" Bill asked from
behind her, his brain spinning anew with feverish erotic possibilities.
"My identical twin...we're the same
in every way."
"A twin! Yes! Thank you, God!" Bill exulted.
Two for the price of one. Bloody hell, as his noble ancestors would
say, how he loved a bargain.
*ARC=Advance Reviewer Copy
Wilhelmina punched her intercom, "Traci, get my sister in here to run this place. I need to free up some time to mer---er, get married."
"A sister?" Bill asked from behind her, his brain spinning anew with feverish erotic possibilities.
"My identical twin...we're the same in every way."
"A twin! Yes! Thank you, God!" Bill exulted.
Two for the price of one. Bloody hell, as his noble ancestors would say, how he loved a bargain.
*ARC=Advance Reviewer Copy