Here at Lady Smut, we’re not just writers of romance, we’re fans of it too. Many of us started writing stories and novels out of love for what we’d already read in the genre and a desire to contribute our own yarns. Writing, like many creative expressions. is a passion – it has to be because it sucks more times than not and if you’re not passionate about it, if you’re not compelled by some indefinable crazy to put words down on a page, or characters on a stage, or paint on a canvas, you’ll never stick with it.

I suspect it must be quite rewarding when people find your creation worthy of their own fan enthusiasm. But when does fandom reach a level of mania that strips out all the fun?

The most recent dust up about fandom surrounds the YA book Allegiant, the third and final installment in author Veronica Roth’s dystopian trilogy. While I haven’t read any of Roth’s work, I’m fascinated by the fan meltdown over her controversial ending. Roth has endured bodily threats among other objections to her killing the main character at the end of the series, much as Charlaine Harris endured over Sookie Stackhouse’s choice of lover when she ended that series. There have been similar reactions to the Harry Potter and The Hunger Games series in their day as well as other hotly loved books.

Mind you, fans are essential to the commercial success of any creative endeavor. But lately, fandom, in general, has become its own ouroboros, eating its tail with an overblown sense of entitlement and demand. These days, fans seem as likely to turn on a show or author for not fulfilling their ideas of how the narrative should go as they are to celebrate the objects of their devotion. Full disclosure: I am again the argument of my own scorn as I’m just as likely as the next fan to write a few thousand heated words in my upset about a show or book’s direction, but to date, I’m pretty sure I’ve never threatened anyone’s life.

Over at bookriot.com, Kit Steinkellner has an excellent post about fandom called Hell Hath No Fury Like a Superfan Scorned tied to the over-the-top reactions to Allegiant that I thought could easily apply to all modern fandom in general.

“The fans that made the book the success know they are responsible for this success. So many stop seeing themselves as mere fans and begin to see themselves almost like a board of directors, shareholders in a company, people whose demands must be met. The problem is, their demands do not have to be met. They feel like partial owners, but they are really just readers. This discrepancy between perceived power and real power is jarring.”

A Flavorwire.com post on the same stated it this way with an eye on the youthfulness of Roth’s main audience:

“This is one of the costs of commercial fiction, of course; if you view your books as “serving” an audience (read: customer base) it is hardly strange that they in turn feel entitled to all the usual treatment from a proper returns and complaints department. “

I’m a fan of many things and I regularly geek out hard over books and movies and television shows. I can be (and have repeatedly been) disappointed for having invested in a book or TV show that didn’t turn out the way I wanted it to and can (and often do) express that dislike.  I can (and do) express ways I wish a show or series will continue, but that doesn’t give me the right to demand the creators do it my way or threaten them with bodily harm when they don’t. For example, I’m less than pleased with the fact that Helen Fielding has reportedly killed off Mark Darcy in her latest Bridget Jones installment, but I don’t deny her right to do as she will with her own characters. I’m not going to buy the book, but that’s the risk she ran in choosing a move that was bound to be controversial. People are now harassing the writers of the show Castle on Twitter over a perceived slight about a cut romantic scene (that’s what the DVD extras are for, guys!). My love for The Twitter is no secret, but the false intimacy created by social media is, I think, a direct contributor to this sense of potentially fatal fan entitlement.

My first and to date only experience being in a fandom is my association with the television show Lost Girl that’s come out of the extensive recaps I write on the show for heroesandheartbreakers.com. It’s been an education, I can promise you, and I’ve definitely seen threats made in one way or another against the producers and even the actors by virulent factions of the fan base. But it’s a television show, not a blood sport, and some reactions to which I’ve been privy have made my head spin with their depths of WTFery. There’s been many a time when I’ve wondered if it’s all just gone too far to be any fun any more.

What do you think? Is there a responsibility by an author or showrunner to give fans what they clamor for in the narrative or with the characters’ journeys and relationships? Or has fandom run amok in its increasing demands for a voice in how beloved series should continue and/or conclude? Where should the line be drawn?

Be sure to follow LadySmut for more such scintillating scenarios.

by Kiersten Hallie Krum
All Hallows has past. The Great Pumpkin never arrived (poor Linus), and many of us are now swimming through vats of leftover candy (Hallelujah). But the obsession with the dark and deadly of the night never truly ends, does it? A happy happenstance for those who write in the paranormal genre.

There was a television special Friday night called Why We (Heart) Vampires. Ostensibly a retrospective on vampire movies and television shows with a focus on the men (and a few women) who’ve played the main fanger, it was not-at-all subtle, full-on promotional hour for the new NBC drama Dracula. I’m kinda watching Dracula, because, hel-lo Jonathan Rhys Meyers in Victorian England! But it feels as if they took Colleen Gleason’s Victorian vamps and vamp hunters from her Gardella Vampire Chronicles, folded it into the Dracula back story, and slapped it onto Friday night TV. Frankly, I’d rather read the books.

As for the television special, despite my avowed (evil) Spike affection (which is deep and devoted), I couldn’t get passed the title. I do not (heart) vampires.

Give me the wolf.

Strong. Wild. Fierce. Passionate. Uninhibited. Raw. Alive. Let’s take the gloves off here; no matter how pretty they may be, you bed down with a vamp, you’re banging a corpse. Werewolves can shag go out in the bright sunlight and roam through the dark. Why anyone wouldn’t prefer werewolves/ wolf-shifters to the vamp camp escapes me.

Let’s take a look at some, shall we?

Alcide:

Joe Manganiello immediately springs to the forefront of any discussion of the modern day werewolf. As reluctant (and now former) pack leader Alcide in True Blood, he is torn by the desire to indulge his lone wolf tendencies and the compulsion to exploit his innate need to protect and serve. (I have not read the Sookie Stackhouse books, so all discussion of Alcide is based on the television show.) Both options seem to require him to be frequently naked. For which we give profound thanks.

I’ve stuck with True Blood long past any interest in it solely for Alcide and the wolf pack story line, holding out hope that repeated promises of exploring that dynamic would go beyond crazy pack members acting crazy and/or having tons of sex as a plot point. Despite his bad taste in women (Suckie? Really?) not to mention a penchant for the lethally crazy women in his pack, Alcide is at heart a good man and a better wolf than he believes. Manganiello himself is a work of art in physical form, admirable and impressive. He takes playing Alcide quite seriously and is as committed to making Alcide’s emotional and character journey as tight and cut as his physique. I am only too pleased to enjoy both.

Richard:

Long before I dumped the Anita Blake series for its epic ton of WTFery, I devoured every book like it was covered in caramel and whipped cream. Before Anita turned into the sexual Mary Sue porn-star of paranormal novels, she had the original vampire-human-werewolf triangle with Master Vamp of the City Jean Claude, Anita herself, and reluctant alpha werewolf Richard, and holy hell was it hot.

Okay, Richard whines. I’ll give you that freely. And the hemming and hawing he does between desiring a white-picket human life while increasingly forced to take a power position in the pack gets old fast. But I lay that blame at his creator’s feet as author Laurel K. Hamilton seemed so keen to keep her heroine from making a choice and thus alienate half her readers, she kept Richard from ever following through on his character development. But those few times he embraced his true werewolf nature? Boy. Howdy.

What most draws me into the were lore of these novels is the Nordic mythology Hamilton applies to the pack structure.  This is most on display in my favorite of her wolf-focused books, Blue Moon. Blue Moon steps out of the usual (dare I say procedural) locale of an alternative St. Louis and takes Anita Blake and her vamp posse out into the woods where Richard is romancing a scientist and making nice with another pack. (Jean-Claude can’t go along because of some vampire politics nonsense, which helps ups the wolf factor big time.) The series and pack mythology is deep and rich and even Anita gets to explore how her metaphysical connection to Richard and his pack is enhanced by her necromancer powers and vice versa. In Blue Moon, Richard gets to be strong and alpha with a serious reduction of the whine factor and Anita (and readers) delight in him. I also love this book for the climatic scene of faith enacted against the (seriously evil) Big Bad of the book. It continues to be one of the best paranormal climaxes I’ve ever read. Damn. Now I’m gonna have to dig that out and re-read it…again. (Update: I did.)

Elena:

Kelley Armstrong took the werewolf jones and twisted it just slightly cock-eyed by making the heroine of Bitten, the first book in her Otherworld series, the only female werewolf in the world. Holding a unique position in the pack, she struggles to rectify her human and wolf-related lives as someone begins to turn criminals into werewolves…and starts picking off members of Elena’s estranged pack.

I love the fact that it’s the woman who is crucial to the pack here (despite it having a more-than-capable alpha) and am intrigued by the proposed conflict Elena goes through as she increasingly realizes how much more at home she feels in the wolf world than with humans. This is another case where I’ve yet to read the books—don’t judge; I’m visually oriented so I do better when I see the movie/show first—but I’m intrigued by the changes Armstrong makes to the lore. First with the “only one female werewolf” plot point and then by making her werewolves much more vulnerable than is typical. No silver bullets required.

Bitten has been made into a new television series, which is scheduled to debut in the U.S. in early 2014. I’ve been following the production of its first season as stars Laura Vandervoort, Greg Byrk, Greyston Holt and other cast members tweeted their way through production with lovely behind-the-scenes images that suitably whet the appetite. Their delight in the show they’ve made is palpable and goes a long way to making me excited for the project. Personally, I hope the Syfy channel has the wherewithal to pair Bitten back to back with Lost Girl come January 2014 so I can get my wolf on and on again.

Dyson:

Lost Girl is an urban fantasy show on the Syfy channel about a succubus, Bo, who was raised by humans and what happens when she discovers the supernatural world of the Fae from whence she truly comes. Dyson is a wolf-shifter, as opposed to werewolf, who is in love with Bo. Not controlled by the phases of the moon and completely in control when in wolf form, Dyson comes from a family of shifters who choose their animal form when they hit Fae puberty.

This is a key difference from werewolves who are typically either transformed humans who have been bitten or born a lycanthrope. Dyson chose the wolf. In this, his choice of animal form aligns with the qualities that already defined him as a man. Protector. Fierce. Loyal to a fault. Frisky. Passionate. Noble. Sly sense of humor. Occasionally goofy. Leader. Brother. Lover. Dyson can manifest physical attributes of the wolf—glowing gold eyes, razor-sharped teeth, elongated claws—without going full on wolf. But when he does wolf out…

Where Hamilton mines the Nordic myths for her pack structure in the Anita Blake novels, Dyson’s ancestry is in the Celtic pantheon. Though his back story has yet to be given an in-depth treatment in the show, Dyson’s ties to and history with a brotherhood of Celtic wolf-shifter warriors explored his pack mentality and how he became a lone wolf…until he found a new pack with the other characters who populate Lost Girl.

I also love the quiet moments Dyson’s alter ego, actor Kris Holden-Ried, works into his portrayal that make Dyson more than just a checked box next to “alpha male” on a casting director’s clipboard. At more than a thousand years old, Dyson’s seen and done a lot more than nearly all the other main characters on the show. The gravitas that experience and longevity has bred in him is as key to his character as his chiseled form. Over three seasons of the show, Holden-Ried has built a layered portrayal of a complex man who occasionally finds himself in wolf’s clothing.

Yeah, I got the wolf jones, baby. How ’bout you?

Follow LadySmut where we really like to howl…

By Kiersten Hallie Krum

When I was thirteen or so, the first guy I kinda sorta “dated”, the way you do when you’re thirteen or so, had dark hair, was two years older than me, wore a leather jacket, and I have absolutely no doubt eventually rode a motorcycle. Decades later, my mother revealed she took one look at this guy, turned to my father, and said, “we are in serious trouble.”

Yeah. It’s like that.

Turns out, I have a type.

We all have types, that indefinable attribute that draws us to a man. The physical mishmash that makes that intangible want surge in our chests. Blonde hair or brown. Blue eyes or brown or green. Beard. Goatee. Moustache. Clean shaven. Skinny. Cut. Lean but muscular. Tall. Short. Soccer bodies vs American football bodies. Nerd cute or Varsity quarterback cute. Personally, a man’s attractive quotient goes up with the addition of scruff or a goatee (done right), almost like a hint of an inner bad boy waiting to be set free. And I’ve recently found my beard and tattoo appreciation has increased substantially. Not sure if that’s due to my advancing age and maturing tastes or…someone else.

I’ve got my own rendition of the bad boy jones. It’s a bit of a stereotype, but it’s mine and I’ll own it. Gladly.

Somewhere along the line, some configuration of physical qualities sets as a type. And it sticks. I freely admit to being immediately drawn to the dark hair/light eyes combination in a man. I don’t find an overbuilt musculature attractive like say those of professional bodybuilders, offensive linemen, or WWF wrestlers  (though I greatly appreciate the work and discipline that goes into it) but I do really like a well-defined Adonis belt. Boy. Howdy.

But then there’s the moment where someone completely not your typical type blows you off stride. That rare, unexpected glitch when a man crosses your path who bears few, if any, of the physical attributes that usually draw you like a lodestone but still makes you think  I want to climb him like a tree. That quickly, type gets tossed out the window and all you can do is enjoy the fall down the rabbit hole.

Damned inconvenient if you ask me.

Reveal all your secrets to me.

A few days ago, some friends and I were discussing how different actors were or were not attractive to us depending on what role they played at a given time. An outstanding actor who has all the right parts in all the right places, Viggo Mortensen is physically not my type, but I am ridiculously drawn to Aragon in the Lord of the Rings series. Ditto Benedict Cumberbatch whose outrageously interesting facial structure (those cheekbones!) alters his physical attractiveness for me depending on how he’s packaged. I find Sherlock fascinating on several levels, yet not a sexual draw. But the ginger debonair Cumberbatch plays in Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy is worth trading a few secrets over.

Oh yes, they f*cking do!

Character kicks type to the curb. Outward packaging is merely the bait on the hook. It’s the inner qualities that keep us locked in. Sometimes the wrapping matches the gift; sometimes its brown paper wrapped around a diamond. I love the line at the end of the movie Bridget Jones’ Diary when Bridget tells Darcy that nice boys don’t kiss “like that”. Darcy: “Oh yes we f*cking do.” Outwardly, Darcy is a staid, solid, conservative guy. But inside he’s got more than a little bad boy waiting for just the right woman to enjoy him. My bad boy jones is strong, but I value certain character qualities in a man considerably more than whether or not he owns a leather jacket or has scruff. It’s the character of the man (or woman) that will last long after the packaging succumbs to off-screen reality.

When we write characters, when we’re creating an occasionally outsized relationship between hero and heroine, we look for those moments when type gets subjugated beneath emotion and eventually love. Chemistry is great and absolutely necessary to sustain or at least kick-start a relationship, both on the page and in real life. But things get really interesting when the wrong man or wrong woman turns out to be just what the heroine/hero really needs even if she/he goes absolutely, 100% against type.

Now we’ve got a story.

What’s your type? Have you ever come across someone, either in real life or fantasy crush, who was totally not your type but totally sucked you under anyways?

Follow LadySmut. We appeal to all types.

By Kiersten Hallie Krum

Sleepy Hollow is the water cooler conversation of the fall TV schedule. Forget Scandal (Fitz is a douche) forget The X Factor (everyone else has) and pay no attention to Grimm (they forgot how to run a good show about the time Juliet lost her memory). Sleepy Hollow has the horror, it has the pretty, it has the deep metaphysical mythos, and it even has the funny.

Oh look! A list!

Five reasons why you should be watching Sleepy Hollow.

Ax you

5. Call of Duty: Headless Horseman

He may have lost his head over Ichabod Crane (at this point, who hasn’t?), but this demonic Big Bad doesn’t rely only on his saber to get the job done. Sporting a hack ax with a blade that glows with hell fire, this headless horseman comes complete with assault rifle and a bandolier of shell cartridges for the equally lethal shotgun. Cue Bad Boy theme song. Whatcha gonna do?

In Sleepy Hollow, the Headless Horseman is a member of a secret sect of Hessian soldiers who fought for the British in The War of Independence. Not content to be deeply frightening in life, the now immortal Horseman continues to wreck havock in modern day New York. Add to that the fact that he’s literally one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse and this is one scary mofo. And he’s not the only creepy crawly populating the idyllic northeastern village. Sleepy Hollow is populated with all sorts of demonic horrors ready to keep you up and wide awake for hours.

4. Orlando Jones on Tumblr and Twitter

“Class is now in session #WillThisBeOnTheFinal #SleepyHollowCommonCore #Fandom3930 pic.twitter.com/ITYVazROog

— Orlando Jones (@TheOrlandoJones) November 17, 2013“

He plays Captain Irving on the show, but Orlando Jones’ real role in the Sleepy Hollow family is as Captain of All ‘Ships. He gets fandom like damn and wow and giddily delights in every single drop of it. He live tweets new episodes with such hilarity it’s a retweet extravaganza. I love when actors love the work they do and still don’t take it so seriously they can’t enjoy the occasional WTFery of it, especially on a show as wild and high-concept as Sleepy Hollow.

3. Abbie and Ichabod aka “the pretty”

Yes, he *can* be taught!

Bet you’re thinking “Ah, here’s the romance.”  Alas, while many fans do ship these two lead characters romantically, I am vehemently not one of them. Instead, I’m enjoying their marvelous sex-free partnership. The woman who is a tough, conflicted cop. The man not only out of place but out of time. Each linked to the other by fantastical means.

Ichabod’s relationship with Abbie (Nicole Beharie) is fascinating as it’s something Revolutionary War Ichabod (Tom Mison) could never have experienced without marriage due to social restrictions of the time (and not just the slavery issue). Thus, he delights in her for exactly who she is and what they have to do together. Abbie’s lost her father-like mentor and had her world turned upside down and yet she still greets every new mind-boggling, supernatural experience with feet firmly planted in the solid world. She balances Ichabod’s frequent eloquent infodumps with just the right dash of deadpan summary and interpretation.

Here’s the key – Abbie not only inhabits the traditional man role of the partnership, she owns it. Ichabod does not rescue her and would never think he has to. They are partners; they back one another up. There’s never a moment when Ichabod acts as though his manhood is threatened by it either. In episode two, Blood Moon, Abbie chides him for throwing his gun away (he didn’t know it had more than one shot) and two episodes later in The Lesser Key of Solomon, when her militant-trained sister tosses Ichabod a 9 MM pistol, he silently looks to Abbie for instruction. Immediately in accord, she demonstrates what he must do to chamber the round. When Ichabod is kidnapped by the Freemason’s in episode seven’s Sin Eaters, Abbie goes into full out rescue mode. “That’s not how this is gonna work. I’m a police officer. Let us in, or we call in the damn cavalry.” No apology. No sop to his male pride. She is a bad ass in her own right and they both know it. Hell, Ichabod regularly counts on it.

2. The script

Alas, poor Headless. I knew him

Dear Lawd, but I love the words the writers for Sleepy Hollow put in Tom Mison’s mouth. It’s not enough that “tall, dark, and British” makes “donut hole” sound like a soliloquy, Ichabod’s back story has him Oxford educated (word) and the writers make his sentences long and flowing with a rich vocabulary worthy of his origins, experience, and education. Not to mention, his British pronunciation of “lieutenant,” i.e. “lefttennant,” pleases me greatly.

But Ichabod is also a man from a time when nobility and honor were more than words on a page or ethereal ideas to be subjugated under expediency. These are tangible values in service of which he and others of his time readily offered their lives. It adds a patina of risk and romance to the words he speaks because, even when he’s being pissy or snarky, he subconsciously knows he may have to stand by every one. Not to mention, it is often deeply funny.

The writers clearly enjoy playing with Ichabod’s snobbery with regard to colonial history and some of the more senseless luxuries of the modern world. For instance, he’s quick to point out that Abbie’s knowledge of history relies on recorded history. “It appears little of what actually transpired found its way into your textbooks.” Even as Ichabod adapts to his changed circumstance, his outrage over modern day taxes on baked goods, the apocryphal history of Paul Revere’s ride, and the utterly foreign idea of his words being “eternally recorded” in a voice mail message offer endless fish-out-of-water fun. Abbie and Captain Irving winding him up about Thomas Jefferson’s slave ownership and secret second family of mixed-race children was pure script gold.

For your listening pleasure, here are two Soundcloud clips of the Ichabod’s best riffs to date. In the first (and personal favorite), he gives poetic romantic advice to the automobile assistance agent and in the second leaves Abbie that first, irritated voice mail message.

The script is complex, witty, emotional, and often quite funny. That’s a high bar to aim for and one it achieves every week. I also dig the overall snarky sense of humor hard. In the pilot episode, no one less that Clancy Brown, aka The Kurgan from Highlander, played Abbie’s boss and mentor who, in the cold open of the show, got his head chopped off! Those are my kind of people.

On a logistic note, the story is unbelievably complex and yet ruthlessly well-plotted and controlled no doubt due to the fact that Sleepy Hollow only has 13 episodes in season one. This leaves  no room for the dreaded “filler” episodes that drag a show through the sagging middle of its traditionally 22-episode run. Items mentioned in throwaway comments in one episode pay off two, three, sometimes four episodes later. Sure there are some purists whose heads are imploding with the loosey goosey way the show plays with American history.  As revolutionary as it was, I’m not a fan of colonial history; I’ve never been able to make it past the wigs and fashion. Yes, I am that shallow. But add a little metaphysical behind-the-scenes hocus pocus to the events and I’m game.

1. The story

Ready? Here we go:

Ichabod’s opening voice over:

ARGH! Why can’t I see?

“In 1781, I died on the battlefield, but I was saved by a mysterious spell cast upon me by my beloved wife, Katrina. Now I’ve been awakened 250 years later in a land I no longer recognize and fate led me to Miss Abigail Mills, a young police lieutenant investigating baffling mysteries. We are now bearing witness to strange events and dark forces that I would not believe had I not seen with my own eyes. They foretell that our realm is in danger and the apocalypse may be upon us. Our destinies are entwined. We’re on the battleground where the armies of good and evil will wage war for the fate of mankind…Sleepy Hollow.”

When Ichabod Crane, British nobleman turned revolutionary warrior, cut the head off of a ruthless Hessian mercenary on the battlefield right after said mercenary dealt him a killing blow, their blood mingled as they died, linking them in an eternal bond. Katrina’s spell ensured that should the Horseman ever be revived, Ichabod too would awaken from death to again defeat him. Cue 21st century Sleepy Hollow, NY where the Headless Horseman just woke up.

Abbie and Ichabod are the two witnesses prophesized about in the Book of Revelations who will see and combat the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse of which our Headless is the Horseman of Death. The return of the horseman was instigated by a demon named Morloch who has also released other nightmarish things into Sleepy Hollow in advance of The Four Horsemen’s inevitable return. Meanwhile, Abbie is dealing with her own past interaction with Morloch as a young  teenager, an experience that irrevocably colored and influenced her life and coincidentally prepared her to be Ichabod’s perfect partner in the battle against evil.

How could you not love a show like that?! There are even secret passages! In New York! It’s National Treasure meets The Da Vinci Code with demons and witches and sin eaters. Oh my!

Sleepy Hollow airs on Mondays at 9 PM EST on the Fox Channel.

Follow Lady Smut where we like to lose our heads over all kinds of things.

by C. Margery Kempe

I could not resist watching American Horror Story: Coven even though I usually have to laugh at portrayals of witches in popular culture. I don’t think doctors would find much to relate to in the way medical dramas show their lives and professions, so I can’t really take it personally (if you want some thoughtful yet fun pagan analysis, I’d suggest you check out the discussions by my pal Peg Aloi and her colleague Lilith Dorsey over at Patheos).

There’s no doubt that the witch has been (and continues to be) a scapegoat for fear. But she has also long been an icon of sexual strength and power, and that is one of the tropes that actually has some power in the series. As silly as the plot threads have been and as random as the actions of the characters are (and oh, they are random and senseless — committee writing at its best) this is a show about powerful women and for that alone it is wonderful.

There’s no doubt that the real draw of series is the fine cast: Jessica Lange, Angela Bassett and Kathy Bates are all legends and they bring so much to the series. Bates is under used since her introduction, but Lange and Bassett show just how sexy a powerful woman can be. The two of them facing off is always a pleasure and despite the goofiness of some of the story it is such a joy to watch a show that features a mostly female cast who don’t spend all their time bitching about the men in their lives!

I hated the first episode because it made Lange’s character seem all about “staying young” at any price. Now her search for youth turns out not to have been about being “pretty” but about retaining power as the “Supreme” of the witches, even though she has mostly squandered her power to date. Now that she’s stirred up the fractions between her witches and Bassett’s voudoun folk, war seems inevitable. Meanwhile the two of them get to look good and lay waste to the people who stand in their path. It’s fun to watch even as you’re cringing at the mishmash of history, race and culture of the great city of New Orleans.

But there are generic conventions to consider: this is horror after all. It can be sexy but somebody’s got to die, so things are bound to go badly.

What if they didn’t have to?

What sexy witch stories would you like to see? What if it were romance or erotic romance instead? What witch stories do you like? Sweeping historicals like Mists of Avalon? Or something contemporary like The Craft dealing with the here and now? What’s your idea of a good sexy witch? I’ve got an idea on the back burner, but I haven’t had time to get anywhere near it on my to-do list.

Hocus pocus –

And don’t forget to follow the Lady Smut crew so you don’t miss a thing!

By Kiersten Hallie Krum

I come from a family dominated by women, (my grandmother had two girls who each had two girls) so I’m endlessly entertained by the interactions of men. It’s a little like watching a species at play in the wild. Which is why it should surprise no one that I love me a good bromance.

While a well-used trope in pop culture today, the idea of “bromance” has been around long before it got labeled. Any good “buddy cop” movie from the 80s and on is essentially a bromance with guns. Look at the Lethal Weapon series. Buddy cops, my generous bottom. That’s a bromance. With guns.

According to the Urban Dictionary, a bromance is “the complicated love and affection between two straight men.” Basically, it’s brotherly love between two men who are not brothers, bonding and intimacy without sexual congress. Anyone whose shared a foxhole (or the equivalent thereof) knows all about it. These men often know their bros as well as if not better than their wives/lovers as acknowledging emotion has become less verboten and more de rigueur aspects of male friendships. Men in a bromance are not afraid to express affection for one another nor do they find their masculinity infringed by doing so. The hands-clasped-one-armed-hug-with-pat-on-back demonstrates genuine feelings with the added aggressive move to prove such an embrace is as manly as it can get. Mutual fondness is often shown by taking the piss out of one another to varying degrees, arguably the modern day interpretation of banging their chests. Though they do that too.

Bless.

Top 5 Favorite Bromances:

5 .Raylan Givens and Boyd Crowder: Justified

A love/hate bromance of the best kind. Though on opposite sides of the law, the line that keeps U.S. Marshal Raylan from turning into a version of criminal Boyd with a badge grows ever thinner each season. It doesn’t help that they keep saving and sparing each other’s lives despite some fairly nasty business along the way. The history between them is rich and complex and the repartee vastly entertaining. They are at the same time each other’s best friend and worst enemy and though some day one of them will likely kill the other without hesitating, neither is going to be happy about it. 

4. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson: BBC’s Sherlock, Guy Richie’s Sherlock Holmes/Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows

Whether you’re a Cumberbitch or rolling with Robert Downey Jr, the bromance between modern-day Sherlock and Watson cannot be denied (though it can be ‘shipped beyond reason). Sherlock almost literally brings John back to life, giving him a purpose and reason he lacked after his return from the Iraq War. He recognizes Watson’s need for challenge and danger, for the high of adrenaline, and quickly feeds it with adventure. Watson gives Sherlock his first true friend who doesn’t stick with him in spite of his obnoxious quirks, but because of them, and subsequently humanizes the complex, driven, brilliant man who needs to be reminded he has emotions he can’t always interpret. There’s no judgement (though frequently rebuke) from either of them, merely an understanding and acceptance of who each other truly are.

RDJ’s Holmes’ bromance with Jude Law’s Watson has perhaps the most brotherly overtones up to and including actual physical care when Sherlock’s mania takes over his basic grooming and health needs. They bicker like an old married couple, but it’s the patter and affection of people who have known one another a long time and in the worst and best of ways. It’s the rare role-reversal that brings their core bond to best light when Sherlock brings a drunk Watson to the chapel for his wedding in A Game of Shadows. For once, it is Sherlock who is the caretaker when Watson displays a rare moment of doubt as he silently cleans up and bolsters his friend forward to his next life step: You’re doing the right thing. Then, as Watson emerges with his bride full of joy, Holmes slips away, content to allow his bro Watson to continue on in this part of his journey without him. Or at least for the moment.

3. Crighton and D’Argo: Farscape

“I love hanging with you, man.”  ’Nuff said.

2. Scott and Stonebridge: Strike Back

Big guys. Big guns. Big missions. Big explosions. Big stakes. Big chests.  Big mouths. Big…other things.

Scott the manwhore spy. Stonebridge the stalwart soldier. Sexy, smart assed, and really good as their jobs. They take the piss outta each other as much as they save one another’s fine asses. Theirs is the ultimate alpha bromance.  And holy hell, is it fun to watch.

1. Thor and Loki: Thor, The Avengers

Thor and Loki, as played by Chris Hemswowrth and Tom Hiddleston in the current Marvel movie franchise, is the ultimate bromance, if a broken one. Sure there’s betrayal and hate, but Loki is essentially a younger brother who believes he’s been denied his rightful place, who feels, at his core, that his family has abandoned him. His despair turned to rage and that to a deep-seated need to destroy that he once loved. The loss of his brother ripped a hole in Thor that changed him irrevocably. Knowing Loki is alive doesn’t alleviate this pain as the brother he once knew and loved is gone and left a raging maniac in his place. Thor could deal with that if not for the moment when his lost brother shines through again, moments that feed a cautious hope in his mighty heart.

What are your favorite bromances? Sound off in the comments below.

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By Alexa Day

More than money, more than power, more than almost anything else a man has – an accent has the power to draw women like a magnet. The only thing hotter than the sound of accented English might be the magic of foreign language itself. But why does it work so well? I’ve got a couple of theories.

It forces you to focus on his mouth. Tight Teutonic sibilance, the languid flow of French, lush, lip-curling Jamaican ease, they each make a man’s mouth work a little differently. More proof that diversity is sexy, right?

It takes a smart man to speak your language. If he doesn’t share your mother tongue, he had to have learned it somewhere.  If he hasn’t conquered it yet, he’s bringing it to heel. Maybe he fought the crazy ins and outs of the English language (especially American English, which is not terribly logical). In any case, it takes a smart cookie to who know your language well enough to be understood, even with his accent.

Ichabod and his “leftenant,” no doubt puzzling over street directions.

It’s a doorway to another world. The man with an accent has something to teach us – if we stick with him, we might get a language lesson or two. Sure, if we apply ourselves, we can learn the traditional way, with instructors and memorization and all that, but my guess is that our multilingual man can teach us the words that don’t show up on the exam.

I’m just not convinced our affable host here is Dracula.

The power of the accent might be why Sleepy Hollow is working while Dracula circles the drain. I know I’m not the only one tuning in just to hear Tom Mison’s Ichabod Crane say “leftenant.” Poor Ichabod is a classic fish out of water, 250 years away from everything he knows, but that smooth, British sound makes him even more vulnerable because it makes home seem even farther away. Dracula lost me as soon as he started speaking. He might have had all the power of the undead on his side, along with the long, ruthless history of an ancient warrior prince. He moved like the legendary lover and predator he was supposed to be. But Jonathan Rhys Myers sounded like he played beach volleyball for a living. Beach volleyball doesn’t scare me. Much.

Am I just a sucker for that exotic sound? (I will admit that I’ve set the voice on my GPS so that it sounds like an Australian man.) And does my American accent set foreign hearts aflutter? Would it help if I said I was from the South? Share your thoughts on international intrigue in the comments.

And follow Lady Smut. We deal with a couple of international languages here.

As sure as Christmas trees and Christmas movies in the holiday season are the Christmas adverts. We love ‘em; we hate ‘em. We share ‘em; we deride them. We laugh. We cry. Let’s face it, we usually buy.

The “WestJet Holiday Miracle” is the talk of the holiday advertising buzz on the Interwebs. I guess 25 million youtube views can’t be wrong. Well, they can be, but this time, they’re worthy. Clever and sweet, it personifies the spirit of giving as WestJet employees race to fulfill the unfettered wish list of two planes of passengers.

Sniff. I am not teary. Not one bit. I’m catching a cold,  I swear.

Our culture is saturated with the pressures to buy and sell and have and never more so than around the Christmas holiday season. Yet the right gift can, for a moment, make someone’s rough world a little smoother. Sure, WestJet gets great exposure from their “stunt”, not to mention repeat customers, but they also made this a very special Christmas for several hundred people, some of whom may not have had much expectation of anything at all. Look at those faces in the baggage claim, both of the giftees and the gifters. That’s joy and for many people this time of year, joy is very hard to find. For a few moments, WestJet instilled a little more joy in their passengers’ lives and with this video, allows the rest of the world to feel that joy too.

Which makes such blatantly crass ads, like J.C. Penny’s Black Friday advert that replaced the “Fa La La La La” lyrics in the re-purposed Deck the Halls so that carollers could exhort a soccer mom to “Go Go Go Go Go. Shop Shop Shop Shop.” Stay classy, Pennys.

http://www.ispot.tv/ad/76VM/jc-penney-black-friday-jingle-more-bells

You can’t go wrong with the eternal twee that is Hershey Kisses “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” advert, which is probably why they use it every year.

There’s something to be said for staying with what works, and Folgers does that every time it trots out “Peter Comes Home.” Look, I love “coming home” stories. Do not get me started on those videos of military fathers surprising their kids by coming home for Christmas. So this big brother/little sister advert from 1988 always makes my throat close up even if it does date back to the days before Keurig cups.

My favorite fun advert this year is Kmart’s cheeky (heh) Jingle Bells.

It rang up some controversy of course, because God forbid we have a sexy holiday advert about men. In a youtube search for “sexy holiday commercials,” Kmart’s “Jingle Bells” advert rang is as 18th in the list…following 17 versions of Victoria sharing her secret with the whole world. She’s a giver, that one.

But my favorite advert overall in 2013 is the wonderfully lush series from British department store Marks & Spencer featuring model David Gandy (hmmm, Gandy Candy),  eclectic actress Helena Bonham Carter, and model Rosie Huntington-Whiteley in an opulent Alice in Wonderland, Red Riding Hood, Aladdin, Wizard of Oz mash-up homage.

Before long though, all the buy buy buy mania requires a palate cleanser else we lose sight of our purpose.  Enter the holiday flash mobs, all hung by the mall courts with care. This year’s the U.S. Air Force Band and Honor Guard took center stage at the National Air and Space Museum to spontaneously serenade patrons first with Bach’s Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring before seguing into Joy to the World...complete with celestial choir.

But my personal go-to will always be this one from 2010 when a choir slowly and seamlessly enraptured the harried patrons of this mall food court with The Hallelujah Chorus.

Wary, overstressed, uncertain shoppers who are just trying to catch a crowded bite to eat in the hell that is a mall at Christmastime glance around at the weird people standing up to spontaneously sing. Slowly, as other choir members join in, understanding and awe sweep through the room. The woman who begins it at :33 remains so committed to the performance, even at the 2:07 mark she still has the cell phone prop at her ear and sings the entire song with it lodged there. The man who hoists his “WET FLOOR” stand prop like an announcement banner, arms outstretched in triumph as he boisterously joins in with the tenor and soprano standing on chairs next to him to introduce the third line at :59 . The stunned expression on the transfixed young boy at 1:21 as the full choir erupts in glorious song and the moment his mother, originally suspicious at :37, now moved and filled with joy at 3:06, takes his hand in hers as she sings along - and he holds on. The father at 1:50 resettling his excited toddler into his seat with a loving scratch on his son’s head. The grandmother at 3:03 who wipes tears from her eyes as she records the event on her phone. The joy on the young soprano in the back of the crowd and on the faces of the tenor and alto standing on chairs from 2:34 to 2:42 and again when that young woman from the back is featured at 2:48. The smile on her face as she sings, knowing that in this mix of crazed commercialism, she’s gifting these people with this moment of unfettered joy. And finally, the choirs’ raised arms of triumph as they sing the victorious finale. 

They. Get. It. 

May all the joy be yours and with those you love this blessed holiday season.

Follow LadySmut for an erotic New Year.

By Alexa Day

I take a dim view of most New Year’s resolutions. Every year, I see lots of hoopla about what people are resolving to do, and then, about three weeks later, there’s a wave of shaming about how many people have already returned to their pre-resolution lives. But who can blame them? The average resolution sounds like a lot of work! Think of all the deprivation involved in losing weight, going on a budget, abandoning alcohol, smoking, fatty foods. No thanks! This year, I’ve decided I want more. More of everything, really.

That’s a tall order, I know. Let’s start with these three things.

M/M Romance. If you’ve been hanging out here for a while, you know that I am new to male-male romances. I confessed a little while ago that I had never read one and worse, that I had no real reason for not having read one. Well, C. Margery Kempe popped my m/m cherry (and if you can think of a less appropriate turn of phrase, please do let me know what it is) with MAN CITY: MARTIN, which I gobbled down just before the holidays. I usually shy away from the holiday stories because they tend to lean toward the home-and-hearth-and-2.5-kids themes, but Martin is a man after my own heart. He’s single during the Most Couples-y Time of the Year, and he does indulge in some sweet longing for a relationship like the one his friends Scott and James share. He’s also got some sexy thoughts about the two of them, and that’s where the real fun begins. Martin’s story is hot and playful and laugh-out-loud funny (I’ve been looking at nativity sets differently ever since). As I read, I felt the familiar inclination to choose between the two of them. Then I realized that not only could I have both Scott and James, but that Martin himself was in the sweet-spicy mix as well. A sexy story featuring not one … not two … but three tempting men — that’s the kind of abundance I demand from my 2014! I can’t wait to see what else the world of m/m (and m/m/m, of course) romance has to offer me.

You know, I’m not altogether sure it’s even possible for pleasure to be guilty.

Swirl TV. Last year was definitely a hot one for the black woman/white man interracial action on TV. Olivia and Fitz have been smoldering away for three seasons now on Scandal, and now there’s an even less appropriate relationship between Candace Young and Jim Cryer on The Haves and the Have Nots. On top of that, I’m enjoying a healthy measure of sexual tension between Abbie and Ichabod on Sleepy Hollow. But deep in my rational mind, I’ve had to face that all three of these pairings come with a tiny little complication – the men are married. Sure, Olivia’s working around that, and Candace doesn’t seem to care, but I find I like Ichabod’s wife, Katrina, so much that I have mixed feelings about his getting together with Abbie. What to do? How about even more interracial hotness without quite so much of the adultery? I mean, I like the emotional workout generated by the moral situations we already have here. But in the spirit of more, I’d also like to just sit down and enjoy a more guilt-free sexy. Now, I admit that there may already be something out there that fits the bill precisely; I missed an entire season of Scandal before I found out about Olivia and Fitz. I’m counting on you, friends of Lady Smut, to clue me in if I’m clueless. I’m also quietly thinking about possible romances for Michonne on The Walking Dead, but that might deserve its own post.

Woman-friendly porn. Porn for women has been around for a pretty long time, I know. I know that it’s intended to fill the gaps (ha ha, heyo!) left vacant by “traditional” porn, so it’s got more storyline, more emotional content … which means more for some female viewers (okay, for me) to fast forward through. I’m not really coming to porn for a storyline, although, with apologies to Evelyn Beatrice Hall, I will defend to the death the rights of those women who do. I just think that porn is the fast food of sexual content. If I’m looking for an exquisitely sensual experience, 360 degrees of stimulation, I’m probably going to turn to a nice, hot book. If I just want the fries, I’m going for porn. I’m encouraged to hear about Dusk! TV, a Dutch television network dedicated to woman-oriented porn, or “porna.” (You don’t need me to say that all the Dusk! links are NSFW, right?) Dusk! relies on a panel of women dedicated to exploring and defining porna; the panel’s ratings determine what goes on the air. Alas, Dusk! isn’t available outside the Netherlands just yet, but I’m content to check out the Duskpanel’s research results (which indicate that I’m not the only girl fast-forwarding through all that storyline) until the network arrives here in the U.S. later this year. I imagine I could also pass the time with some gay porn; I’ve become convinced that it has more of what I like from porn and less of what irritates me. I’m not sure how long I’ll have to wait for Dusk!, and delayed gratification is, I think, at odds with this year’s quest for abundance.

What do you need more of this year? Let me know in the comments. And be sure to follow Lady Smut. We’ve got more of what you’re looking for.

by Kiersten Hallie Krum

In Los Angeles this week and next, the Television Critics Association (TCA) is having the winter edition of it’s two-week conference wherein television shows present their shiny trailers and shinier cast for panels and interviews of the season ahead. For a TV junkie like me, this is two-weeks of delayed gratification as I suck up each tidbit on favorites such as Orphan Black and Game of Thrones.

Outlander.

For those of you living in a romance-deprived cave (poor dears), Ronald Moore, who brilliantly rebooted Battlestar Galactica some years ago,  is now bringing to life Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander opus as a television series for the Starz premiere cable channel. Over the years since the first, original Outlander novel was published, many have toyed with interpreting it for the screen, mostly as a feature film. This has always scared the pattrach outta me.

Jamie (Sam Heughan) and Claire (Caitriona Balfe)

I came to the Outlander craze late (and by that, I mean mid-90s late not last year late) because I don’t like time travel stories because the initial conceit doesn’t track for me. If you go back in time and travel forward, you will eventually reach the point in time in which you went back in time and traveled forward to reach the point in time when you went back in time and traveled forward… Time is not cyclical and so this paradox (only one of many) has long kept me from enjoying time-travel romances. As a history buff, particularly for all things Celtic, this aversion to time-travel romance was an anathema as a quick trip to ye olden times would be the best holiday ever in my books, so long as I could take penicillin and soap with me. But with the exception of Jude Devereux’s  A Knight in Shining Armour, which I adored in spite of myself, time-travel romance was not for me.

Jamie takes a beating from Black Jack

Until Outlander.

I picked up a discounted copy in the book shop in Clinton, NJ and haven’t looked back since. Years later, I wound up working for what was then Bantam Dell Publishers at Random House, the publishers of the Outlander series, and was involved in the re-packaging program that accompanied the arrival of the then newest volume, The Fiery Cross. I’ve read every book in the series several times and even spent days uploading the unabridged audiobooks onto my iPod (24 discs was the smallest amount for one book) and have listened to all of them. I am, in short, an uber-fan.

It’s the characters, you see. James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser and Claire Beauchamp Randall. While many, including the author Diana Gabaldon, claim Outlander is not a romance, it  most certainly is romantic historical fiction as the relationship and love between these two characters is the cornerstone of the entire series. It’s not easy, it’s rarely pretty, and they do really terrible things to each other over the course of what is now seven books not counting the spin offs (the eighth book arrives in June). And yet the depth of their love is such that literally crosses the barriers of time. Naturally, to me, no one could possibly manifest these characters on screen, no film could possibly do justice to this epic tale that has captured so many millions of fans over the years. Outlander is bloody, and angsty, and often very hard to read but it’s also emotional and really, really sexy, and beautiful and will break your heart in such a way that you’ll hurry up to have it happen all over again. No way a film could do all that proper justice.

Jamie at Lallybroch

Well, by the look of things from the TCAs this week, I was wrong.

Ron Moore is making a series, not a feature film. Thank you Game of Thrones for paving that way. Instead of a one-shot, two-hour movie and then a long wait over several years for the next one, we get a full season of a show (at least) for each book and the promise of more within the year. He’s filming it in Scotland so no cheating on the ambiance and he took the time to find the right people to inhabit Jamie (Sam Heughan) and Claire (Caitriona Balfe) and not only physically (though he pretty much hit the mark there). Moore embraces the fandom; he knows how important this series is to them (us) and he and the production have made pains to include the fans in the process.

Which is what happened Saturday.

Ron Moore and Diana Gabaldon along with stars Caitriona Balfe and  Sam Heughan first did a panel for the critics and then went on to do a major fan-event that included art work from the production team that made me gasp aloud, the news that the great composer Bear McCreary will be scoring the series (as he did Moore’s Battlestar Galactica) and a full-fledged trailer!!! Caitriona and Sam are ridiculously charming as can be seen in these snippets from the panel. But that trailer…oh my giddy aunt.

I’m hooked. I’m totally in. I cannot wait for the debut of what promises to be a faithful interpretation of a story that has fascinated me for twenty years. I am so ready to fall through the magic in those Standing Stones all over again.

Are you Outlandish? Have you read the books? If so, what are you most excited to see come to life on the screen from the series?

For more Outlander goodness, visit the official Starz Channel Outlander page

For more detailed tidbits from the fan event panel, check out Heroes and Heartbreakers play by play breakdown.

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by Kiersten Hallie Krum

I love the movie Mr. & Mrs. Smith. Beyond the delicious meta trip of wondering exactly what parts of the interactions between John and Jane Smith are characters in a movie and which ones are the on screen courtship of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, it’s a great action adventure movie that is, at heart, a romance about a marriage in trouble.

Sexy south of the border

Spies John and Jane Smith first meet when each spontaneously uses the other as a cover to avoid arrested post-assassination by South American police. Sexual attraction and personal compatibility is immediate and they eventually marry without revealing that they are each expert spies for rival agencies. Midway through the movie, they realize the true identity of the person each has chosen to marry, so, naturally, they try to kill one another. It’s only after their real identities are revealed that they are able to realize they inadvertently fell in love with their perfect mate even while pretending to be other people. Along the way of lying and deceiving each other all these years, they just happened to chose the perfect partner.

By the end of the movie, they realize that, together, they’re a matched set, a truth never more evident than in the climactic shoot out when they move in tandem, silently communicating need and solution, instinctively covering each other’s weak side. 

John never denigrates Jane as less skilled a spy because she’s a woman. He never holds back during their knock-down, drag-out hand to hand combat when they beat the holy hell outta each other. She’s an opponent; that she’s also a woman has no bearing on how he treats her in a combat situation. It’s one warrior battling another equally skilled opponent.

I swear I turned the stove off

Later, when John hands Jane the smaller gun and she objects, “why do I get the girl gun?”, after an initial incredulous “are you serious?!” he switches guns with her. It’s immaterial to him; he handed her the gun because it was the first one he grabbed and he trusted her to defend them, not because it was the smaller, less manly gun. It’s a partnership and one of the rare movies that depicts a warrior woman who not only does not emasculate the man to prove her skill, but also isn’t regulated to diminished status by the man himself. When she does trumped him or him her, it’s because their styles and strengths are different not a result of their genders.

Except when it comes to the sex.

There’s a scene where John and Jane meet at the restaurant where John had proposed to Jane. Jane thinks she’s killed John already but when he shows up to the contrary, they have a barbed tet a tet that’s essentially their idea of instigating foreplay, so naturally they tango. Literally.

Tango done right might kill you

Any scene that involves a good tango has my immediate attention, but this one also crackles with sharp, loaded dialogue and delivery. They don’t know what a lie and what is truth but, for the first time in years, they are fascinated by each other and frankly are having a great time sizing one another up anew.

During the dance, they systematically disarm one another, showing the first signs of a genuine understanding of the other’s true nature. At one point, Jane’s goes down…into a crouch to retrieve the pistol hidden in John’s sock. John looks over at an elderly couple who are watching in shocked horror and grins smugly as he nods. That’s right. That hot piece is going down on me right here in the middle of the dance floor.

Seriously. Hot.

Later, John and Jane beat up on each other—again, literally—as the second stage of their extended foreplay. But at the killer moment, neither can take the shot and they finally knock all pretense aside, and have wild, violent, seriously hot, passionate monkey sex. There’s a moment when John lays Jane back on the table, still in her black halter dress, to go down on her and boy does she enjoy it. It’s seriously hot and a visceral example of John perspective of Jane as an equal, professionally, emotionally, and sexually. It’s also a moment that is cut from the theatrical version of the film (it can be seen in the extended “unrated” cut.)

This bugs me. A lot.

I look for this moment every time the movie comes on. At first, I thought it a cut made for the basic cable showings, even though the blow job insinuation remains for those showings. But no, it’s only found on the director’s cut of the film. Because a hot woman with a gun doing battle needs to pay up even if only by insinuation. But a hot man giving said woman sexual pleasure solely for her own sake without a guaranteed return is a no no. I love a lot about this movie, but that always pulls me out every single time. Heh. Unintentional pun is its own reward.

I guess it shouldn’t surprise me at this point. In 2010, Blue Valentine, starring Ryan Gosling and Michelle Williams was given an NC-17 rating specifically because the filmmakers refused to cut the scene where Ryan’s character lovingly performs oral sex on Michelle Williams’ character and she dares to enjoy it! But it struck a chord this weekend when I absently watched it again, tuning in from my laptop for my favorite parts, like the minivan car chase. I had just finished the movie Hitchcock (well, most of it at least) about Alfred Hitchcock’s journey to make the movie, Psycho. The rampant sexism and pervyness of this depiction of Hitchcock was a reminder of how far we’ve come as far as the depiction and treatment of women in films and in the making of them. The scenes in which the Standards and Practices committee censors the film line by line were borderline ludicrous. Most of their complaints about what they deemed to be lewd and filthy images focused more on how much of the naked Janet Leigh appeared on screen than any objections over the level of blood and violence. Whether or not a naked nip made the cut was far more important than the fact that she was being hacked to bits in the shower by a man dressed as his mother.

I’m not surprised by such conservative, backward thinking among the conservative, backward censors of the 1950s, but I’m continually surprised when it pops up in modern culture. As Mr and Mrs Smith quickly reminded me, we haven’t really come all that long way. Jane Smith is every inch John Smith’s equal and he’d be the first to agree. And yet of the two depictions of oral sex, only the insinuation of the woman performing fellatio on the man (and it being some sort of proof of his masculinity) made the final cut of the film. Apparently, women’s bodies and their blatant, shameless enjoyment of the pleasure that can be enjoyed in those bodies is still verboten or, at the very least, only for the unrated edition.

In Mrs Henderson Presents, a charming film about a wealthy woman of a certain age who galvinates her newly found widowhood by running a bawdy burlesque review in World War II London, Mrs. Henderson is meeting with the cultural minister to get permission for her lady performers to be nude on stage. Stuttering about for the proper words to discuss what to him is a “disagreeable and somewhat sordid” topic, he is shocked and embarrassed by Mrs. Henderon’s blasé use of the word “p*ssy” and begs her to refer to “the disputed area” as “The Midlands”.

Cheeky at every age

“Oh dear,” she coos, deeply amused, “You men do get into such a state about ‘The Midlands’, don’t you?”

Even in today’s rapaciously sexual media, when it comes to The Midlands, we still can’t see the foliage for all of the trees without making disagreeable and somewhat sordid, like, say, the sexposition that has become such a staple in the series Game of Thrones. 

Look, I’m not banging my drum for more depictions of fellatio or cunnilingus in movies or appropriate television shows solely for titillation’s sake. Nor do I think some poor sod of an intern should sit there clocking the seconds of each scene to make sure they each get equal screen time (though I’ve met a few interns who wouldn’t mind the task.) Merely that when a movie designed around the fact that the hero and heroine are matched equals in every realm designates the scene of the woman’s solo sexual pleasure to be “unratable” it only perpetuates the fallacy that such pleasure is somehow still as sordid and disagreeable as it was seventy years ago. She can hit and shoot and blow men up but dear Lawd dont show her coming from oral sex. The heavens themselves will quake.

Give me a break. Surely by now we’ve come a long way from that. Baby.

What say you?

Follow Lady Smut. Our disputed areas are all kinds of sordid in the very best of ways.

By Alexa Day

In the United States, February is Black History Month. (The U.S. government is apparently okay with calling it African-American History Month, too.) I took a little detour in anticipation of Valentine’s Day last week, and my homage to May Day earlier this month was more about Alexa Day history. But today, I’m looking at one of my favorite parts of black history: the interracial kiss.

You don’t have to be a geek to know that the credit for television’s first interracial kiss usually falls to Star Trek. It’s not a bad story, really. In the social turbulence of 1968, Captain Kirk and Lieutenant Uhura share an embrace before an audience of aliens who have compelled them to kiss each other. The story in real life is that the network folks worried that the kiss wouldn’t play so well in the South, so they tried to film an alternate scene, but when William Shatner ruined all the takes by crossing his eyes, they had to use the kiss.

It’s a nice story, and it sure looks good, right?

Is *the* kiss just *a* kiss?

But this is not television’s first interracial kiss. The fact that so many people think it is … well, that’s a marvel of television marketing.

In 1967, Sammy Davis, Jr. kissed Nancy Sinatra on television, the year before Kirk and Uhura kiss on Star Trek. Sammy and Nancy were in a musical number on Nancy’s show. I dare you to watch it without wanting to get your boogie on, but don’t blink or you will miss that kiss.

I’m not counting this as television’s first interracial kiss, either. Let’s be honest. Sammy gives Nancy the sort of kiss a man should give a friend’s daughter. No doubt most of us have received similar little pecks from our parents’ friends. Most of us are not coming away from that experience saying, “He kissed me.” (And if you are, you probably wrote Penthouse about that. Admit it.)

So much of the trouble with identifying television’s first interracial kiss comes from our definition of the word “interracial.” I have a blind spot of my own here; I usually think of interracial in black and white terms. Literally. If we define the term more fairly and inclusively, we need to look at Lucy and Ricky Ricardo. No one’s going to dispute that Lucy and Ricky kissed long before Sammy and Nancy or Kirk and Uhura. Indeed, Lucy’s pregnancy caused quite a censorship stir in the 1950s.

You know what all that smooching leads to? Having to find another way to say “pregnant.”

But if we regard Lucy and Ricky (and at Lucy and Desi) as more of an interethnic couple than an interracial one, we can point to Lisa Lu and Michael Landon in Bonanza. In Day of the Dragon, Lu’s character, Su Ling, gives Little Joe a sweet goodbye kiss. (Instead of a photo, how about a whole post from Brian Camp’s Film and Anime Blog?) That was in 1961, post Lucy and Ricky, but before Nancy and Sammy and before Kirk and Uhura. Lisa Lu was, as I understand it, one of several Asian actresses who shared a kiss with a costar across color lines before 1968.

Still, the question remains: Did Star Trek give us television’s first passionate, black on white interracial kiss?

The answer is still no. In 1964, British television beat the U.S. to it with Emergency – Ward 10. Dr. Louise Mahler

No coercion here on Emergency – Ward 10!

and Dr. Giles Farmer acted on their longstanding feelings four years before Kirk and Uhura had to be forced into each other’s arms. I don’t know anything about Emergency – Ward 10 – I sure hope one of our Lady Smut friends and family does! I’ve got lots of questions, starting with why it’s so hard to find a picture of the Mahler/Farmer kiss.

Today, television features so much interracial smooching that I often get up in arms when the characters aren’t kissing across color lines (hello, Sleepy Hollow folks, looking at you). I cheered for lots of my era’s scripted kisses. What can I say? This is my chosen subgenre, after all, and I’ve got to enjoy this while I can. One day very soon, this won’t even be a thing anymore. We’re already at a place where scripted television and its commercials have moved on to interracial families and parenting issues.

I still think it’s important, though, to remember where all this started. We can take the interracial kiss, couple, relationship and marriage for granted today because others made it a big deal when they had the chance.

This is a really good time to follow Lady Smut. Kisses are just the beginning around here.

If you’re going to make an entrance, make an *entrance.*

By Alexa Day

I started watching The Walking Dead on AMC with the first episode. I didn’t know anything at all about the comics on which the show is based. I think I tuned in expecting to see another show entirely. Now my Sunday nights belong to this story about life in Georgia during the zombie apocalypse, and I recommend it to even the horror-averse.

I first met Michonne when she appeared at the very end of the show’s second season. Because I’ve never read the comics, so I didn’t understand the significance of the cloaked figure holding a katana and a leash attached to two zombies. But on his televised afterparty, Talking Dead, Chris Hardwick seemed very excited to see Michonne, so I decided to be excited, too.

Michonne hasn’t disappointed me yet.

She’s a total BAMF with that sword, mowing down zombies with lethal grace. That would have been enough for me. Then she went toe-to-toe and hand-to-hand with the Governor, and that would have been enough for me, too. (For those of you who don’t know the story, let’s just say that being a sociopath has served the Governor quite well during the apocalypse and leave it at that.) Thankfully, the folks behind the scenes are okay with spoiling me. This season, Michonne’s learning some hard lessons about having it all during the zombie apocalypse, and she’s got a takeaway for the rest of us out here who are kicking ass, taking names, and trying to build a home and family.

Michonne is learning that vulnerability works.

They’re kind of cute together … in a very specific way.

As awesome as she is with her katana, Michonne’s talents as a fighter had forced her into a life where she’d learned to rely only on herself. Hanging out with former friend Andrea started her on that blood feud with the Governor. (How bad was that? Well, the Governor’s out-to-get-Michonne torture kit included a speculum. Yeah.) Hanging out with the apparently reformed troublemaker Merle didn’t work out much better; he was actually going to deliver her to the Governor himself. It seemed that the harder Michonne was, the faster she found herself on the way to her enemy’s doorstep.

But being vulnerable has been good for Michonne. Recovering from an injured ankle (vulnerability in its most basic sense) forces her to stay put and let others take care of her. I think that experience, even after she was back on her feet, opened her eyes to her real role as part of the group led by former lawman Rick Grimes. She’s more than just a bad-ass. She’s a trusted companion and friend. She’s a mother figure. She can call others out on their bullshit, and they return the favor. But to get to this place, to share the entirety of who she is, Michonne had to set aside the sword, albeit temporarily.

When the Governor ultimately forces Rick’s tight-knit group to scatter, Michonne has a choice to make. She can either return to her old life, alone but for her sword and leashed zombies, or she can risk reaching out to join her family on the move. Tormented by a vision of the life she’d lost when civilization collapsed, a life where she held both her sword and her baby with equal ease, Michonne chooses to risk vulnerability. Life as solo swordswoman is familiar, but she seems to realize that her best chance of regaining what she’s lost and discovering what she might become is with Rick.

This week, I’ve got the same question Chris Hardwick posed recently on Talking Dead.

Should we start shipping Rick and Michonne?

Because love means having the other person’s back.

I think it would be good for both of them, honestly. Michonne is comfortable being vulnerable with Rick. She forgave him after he sold her out to the Governor. He knows that loss of a loved one drove her to the edge of sanity, a destination Rick has come to know quite well. Rick knows his son, Carl, needs the freedom to be a kid in a world that’s forced him to kill his own mother. Michonne seems to know when Carl needs a fellow warrior to back him up and when he just needs a stack of comic books. Most importantly, Rick is comfortable with Michonne’s fierce side. I don’t think her last boyfriend was totally okay dating a BAMF, but that fighting spirit is absolutely essential to Rick.

There’s no telling what’s in store for Rick and Michonne, though. Even reading the comics wouldn’t be a guarantee. I certainly hope these two go on to form a more perfect union. But I’d be willing to settle for a stranger asking if they’re together.

And if all else fails, someone is surely already hard at work on the Richonne fanfiction, right?

Follow Lady Smut today. We’ll have your back when it all goes down.

by Kiersten Hallie Krum

I’m watching the telecast of the Academy Awards as I stew over the fact that I have no topic in mind for this week’s post. Despite my well-known love for movies and TV shows, I’m burnt out on awards ceremonies. And yet I can’t help myself from being pulled in every year to the beauty and the glam and puzzling, ever puzzling, at what very unglamorous moments might lurk beneath that shine. Ellen Degeneres just preened about crashing Twitter with the billion retweets of the selfie she took with, among others, Jennifer Lawrence, Meryl Streep, Julia Roberts, Brad Pitt, and Angelina Jolie. She also had a pizza delivery guy passing out slices to hungry A-listers. Meanwhile, Russia is invading the Ukraine, in case perspective felt lacking.

At the moment, I don’t have a lot of sexy on the brain despite the gorgeous people on my screen. There’s been family drama this week surrounding my grandfather who, at 96, is still my youngest living grandparent. My nana, my father’s mother, turned 101 this past January, which basically means good or bad, I’m gonna be around a helluva long time.

Despite his comparative youth, my grandfather had a health crisis last week and that meant surgery and hospitals and the many unpleasant, frightening, practical stuff that comes with life and aging. So the sexy is far from mind right now. But I do have love on the brain.

When my grandmother died six years ago, I had a rare front row seat to the demonstrative love my staid grandfather poured on her in the months leading up to her death. Not hearts and flowers or poetry or dramatic gestures. But the enduring, solid reality of committed love. He never left her side. At one point during a breathing crisis when I was certain I was watching her take her last breaths, he held her hands, stared into her eyes, and I swear he breathed for her until the crisis passed. Eight months after her death, his voice broke with sobs when I called to tell him my mother was near death from a bacteria infection. He sat on the other side of her ICU room from me and together we silently stood guard over my mother throughout that first night from the time my aunt and uncle arrived with him from Philadelphia around 11 until my sister came from Arizona the next morning. Every time I looked up he was there, watching her. Watching me. It was days later when I found out he’d tripped and fallen on his small patio earlier that day, which was how he’d come by the facial bruises and bloody nose he’d dismissed to me as “nothing”. He was 90 years old that year.

Here at Lady Smut, we talk a lot about heroes and heroines. We admire cut bodies and heroic gestures too broad and extreme to be understandable in the common world. We elevate real-life heroes too, those men and women who go to war or police our streets or run into fiery buildings instead of out of them, for example. We claim and celebrate our sexuality and the many joys to be found with it. Many of my fellow contributors write erotic romances novels; I write my own steamy level of romantic suspense. We dig the sexy hard. But our stories are not about the sex—not only about the sex, I should say—because that would be boring. We write about love, perhaps in its most dramatic and heighten sense, but love nonetheless and often in many forms. Because love isn’t only romance and sex; it isn’t so limited. It is endlessly complex and varied and incomprehensible. Love is all this and more.

Love is the best story.

Follow Lady Smut. We’ve got a lotta love to give ya.

By Madeline Iva

It was a revelation — I was in college, and my housemate Claire was about four inches from the TV.  We’d been watching Northern Exposure, which was almost over. I’d just noticed something.  Everyone was paired off at the end of the episode–except the 80 year old woman who owned the grocery store and John Corbett.  Before the commercials roled, John was back in his DJ booth, wisely opining about recent events.  He was alone again, naturally.

I said as much while Claire put her hands on the screen and started kissing John’s face.  Between kisses she said all static-y, “He’s not alone–he’s just saving himself for me.”

Ahhhh.  So true.  Is there any greater catnip for women than a super-attractive guy all alone?

Poor John Corbett couldn’t find the love for years after Northern Exposure–until he met Carrie Bradshaw on Sex & The City.  The perfect boyfriend (See my post about THAT) who did carpentry (see my post about THAT) John listened to Carrie, did his best to understand Carrie and even in the midst of his glorious guy-freedom from the city’s metrosexual vibe, managed to be both a simple yet hot country boy and very successful.  And then what? Well, his time in Alaska had clearly not prepared him for the concrete jungle– he was mistreated and abused by Carrie, that’s what.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, she  musta had her reasons, of course.  But she also must have made a nation of women growl for breaking John Corbett’s heart–not once mind you–but twice.  Grrrrr.

It’s okay, ladies, he was alone after that so you could find him, admire his awesomeness and fall in love.  Well, that’s what Carrie must have thought.  She bumps into him about a second later and he’s married with a kid.  Which just goes to show–not all single women over 30 in NYC are crazy.

Once Claire opened my eyes to this trope–the guy who walks away at the end, a lonely look in his eye, just waiting for you to come along and hug it out of him–I had a head-slap moment.  Of course! This is a classic trope.  Humphrey Bogart — both as Sam Spade, and in Casablanca — was one of the early lonely guys.

And then there are superheroes–they’re almost all single.  Peter Parker aside, they’re not stupid enough to attempt any uber-dangerous kind of relationship, setting up their love interest to be killed—or at least kidnapped and traumatized by the enemy.  Or are they? Ooops! Well, maybe they are.

Damsels in distress aside, the very core of a superhero is a monster- mix of noble idealism gone perverse and utter self-loathing.  That’s why they are cursed to single-hood. They live in is a twisted world of secrets practically demanding they remain alone–except for you of course.  They’re single so you can meet up together in the corners of your imagination and…well, I leave the rest to you.

The beard just emphasizes the lonely.

Ben Affleck in Argo was a lonely guy.

Oh, and in real life — there’s actually George Clooney.  He’s not a serial monogamist, ladies.  He’s not one of those first-love-last-love divorced idealists, with some bro-mance issues involving his married guy buddies–not at all.  He’s just saving himself–for you.

I think this trope is getting to be more popular on TV as the years role by:

There’s House.

There’s Justified –don’t talk to me about Raylan’s ex–obviously he’s just MADE to be one of these lonely guys–I sweep aside all current and past girlfriends as well.  That’s the thing about a lonely guy.  You can just feel that the woman who seems to be involved with him is not destined to stay very long.

Alexa said recently that there’s that Walking Dead guy—what’s his name? Hands off him though–apparently he’s Alexa’s.

Good lonely guy?…

Then there was Lost–oh, those shows creators were brilliant — two single guys for the price of one! Matthew Fox and Josh Holloway–the good guy and the bad guy were both lonely-ish.  Kate was there to bounce between them just to reassure everyone that, you know, they actually liked women.

Romance writers are such a devilishly clever lot, even chained to the HEA ending they sometimes manage to leave you a lonely guy to obsess over.

…Or bad boy lonely guy? Who’d you pick?

In menage there’s often one woman and two guys (and I bet you one of them is a lonely guy). Yet sometimes it’s one woman, two guys and then after a lotta drama, one guy ends up walking away alone.  Saving himself for the sequel I suspect, but in that gap between the first book and the follow-up, he’s all yours.

What is the core appeal of the lonely guy? Other than letting female (or male!) viewers feel all possessive without having to bother identifying for the female heroine? Well, I think many women have that urge to nurture and care.  Guys have it too, they just label it call it protectiveness.  Same difference.

What we women often need is to take some lonely guy, put his head firmly between our breasts and stop that lonely ache with the love of our good selves.

I tried this two for one deal in my first romance novel.  (Which is now out with an editor, I’ll keep you posted about happens there.) I had my hero–a lonely guy if there ever was one–who got together with the heroine of course, but there was the issue of her ex.  Hapless, yes, the ex was pretty lost by the end.  Very damn cute, he walks off single and alone, clearly ready to suffer his Lonely Guy moment.  With any luck (cross your fingers) you’ll get to find out what happens to him.

Meanwhile, you’ll never walk alone with Lady Smut! Follow us and get our ever-lovin’ posts seven days a week straight to your email box.

By Elizabeth Shore

Right around a year ago this time, I wrote a post about the Showtime reality show, Gigolos. Aside from the undeniable titillation factor of watching hot guys having sex, there’s something appealing about how the show depicts the lives of men who work as professional gigolos. You get glimpses into their private lives, their interests outside of work, and the kinds of things one spends time thinking about who works as a gigolo, like the constant need to stay über fit (Captain Obvious news flash: it’s good for business). But as I’m watching Season 5, my curiosity drifts toward the clients and what their stories are. I ask myself: Who, exactly, are these women hiring gigolos? And why?

I first began really thinking about this when one of the episodes depicted a woman with issues of heartbreakingly low self esteem. She’d lived her life never really having much attention from men, never feeling she was very pretty, or desirable, and her self confidence was in the toilet. To finally get some male attention, she decided to hire a gigolo. Or at least, that’s what she said on the show. I’ve read articles alleging that the clients are really paid actresses, which would mean their stories are as real as Paris Hilton’s singing talent. But let’s put that aside and assume the background stories are true. Call me a mush, but I was touched by this woman’s story. Whether it was true or not doesn’t even actually matter, because I sure as heck can identify with her insecurities. Haven’t we all been in situations where we’ve felt we’re not pretty enough, or smart enough, or skinny enough or whatever enough? Who hasn’t been plagued with feelings of inadequacy? It’s a damn sucky place to be. If someone comes along and assures us that those feelings are wrong, that we’re actually pretty special, and the person doing the reassuring also happens to be a guy so hot we go weak in the knees, all the better, right? Yet I have to admit, there’s still a part of me wondering whether a bruised ego really gets a boost from someone who’s only saying all the right things because you’re paying him to.

There’s a wide variety of female clients on the show, ranging in everything from age to body type to racial background to profession, and they all come with their reasons for hiring a gigolo. Several of them do it to see fantasies brought to life. One woman had a thing for vampires, another wanted to pretend she lived during the Renaissance. Then there’s “Jill,” a mother of four daughters, who explained that she and her husband of over 27 years had decided that – although they’re soul mates on an emotional level – they wanted to open up their marriage physically and have sex with other people. Jill decided there’s no better way to accomplish that dream than by hiring four gigolos at once. You go, girl! Hey, I’ll be the first to admit that she seemed to have a screamin’  good time with it. Another segment featured a woman who, by her own admission, had intimacy issues and confessed that guys “freak her out.” Enter, gigolo. She and her friend hired Bradley Lords, whose services the friend had used once before. He helped the woman shed her inhibitions and enjoy being in the company of an attractive man.

One thing is for sure, Cowboys 4 Angels, the escort service the gigolos work for, appears to be doing a bang-up business. Owner Garren James sports locations in Las Vegas, L.A., San Francisco, New York, south Florida, and Chicago, so clearly someone’s hiring them, with each and every client having their personal reasons why. I have to say, the “cowboys” featured on the website are gorgeous so it wouldn’t exactly be a hardship to spend some time in their company. In the end, whatever reasons a woman may have for hiring a gigolo are hers alone. And after all, the show takes place in Las Vegas so whatever happens there . . . well, you know.

What do you think? Would you ever hire a gigolo? Sound off below and don’t forget to follow us at Lady Smut. We’ll give you lots of good reasons to do it.

by Kiersten Hallie Krum

I recently had a conversation with a friend about all the reasons why she would not enjoy watching Game of Thrones. Like much of adult America, I watched the season four debut last night. It’s one of the few shows I do watch live because I’m so keen not to have it spoiled for me by social media. But as I listed the baby killings and the incest and the beheadings and the rapes and the betrayals in an effort to spare my friend a show very much not for her, I found myself wondering—why the hell do I watch this show?

Well, it does have a fantastic, complicated layered story with twists I don’t see coming and it’s the rare show where I don’t see the turns broadcasted ahead of time. It’s helluva sexy too with a gorgeous cast and a nudity factor so infamous, it coined the phrase “sexposition” since so much exposition is shared during graphic sex scenes. The cast is also extremely talented and most of the great character actors from the British Isles have wanderer across the screen along with a host of European ones.

Ayra Stark

The world is rich and complicated with call backs to the Medieval era that are catnip to me. The characters are fully drawn so that overtly evil people can yet inspire sympathy while good characters often make me want to slap them upside the head for sheer stupidity that usually ends up getting them killed.

There’s much that is gruesome and brutal about Game of Thrones, no question. “When you play the game of thrones,” we’re told from the start, “you win or you die.” In depicting the reams and reams of characters and events that make up George R.R. Martin’s books, the show’s producers have spared no punches and gilded no lilies. There are great risks in these stories, great costs to claim and hold on to power, great prices for honor and mercy. The good people die too badly and the bad people remain past endurance…and then some.

Brienne of Tarth

But it bothers me how much overall the women are exploited…and how easily that’s accepted within and without the show. Most of the sexposition involves full frontal nude shots of nameless women extras playing maids or whores or tavern’s daughters. Women are especially victimized in Game of Thrones. Even allowing for the paternalistic parameters of the world, its levels of chauvinism are almost ridiculous. Just about every man on the show not named Stark is a rapist or a man whore. Even the awesome warrior woman Brienne of Tarth was nearly gang raped and wound up tossed into a bear pit for sport and ultimately rescued single-handedly by a weakened, malnourished man. And yet, some of the most powerful characters on the show are women. Cersei Lannister. Ayra Stark. Caitlin Stark. Brienne of Tarth. Khalessi, the Mother of Dragons. Actual dragons.

These women of Westeros are strong and powerful and above all, they endure. They are used, abused, manipulated, traded in marriage, murdered, deceived and deceive. One even gave birth to a mystical, murderous baby made of shadows. Oh yeah. You read that right.

Khalessi, the Mother of Dragons

About the time Daenerys Targaryen stepped from a bonfire with three baby dragons climbing her naked form, it became clear who really holds the power. I don’t know who wins the game, who survives to rule from the throne of swords, but I know who’ll be there to see it. Because it’s the women of Game of Thrones who change the world.

Follow Lady Smut. We change worlds every day.

Hey glorious people–

Here we are to celebrate your Saturday/Sunday with some fun links from the Lady Smut bloggers.  World cup sex, geriatric love affairs, and a discussion of animal sex (literally) await you.  Enjoy!

By Madeline Iva:

What’s the future of safe sex?

For women who like their bad boys authentic–the hottie bad boy thug.

Do animals have sex for fun? 

An instant Men’s Fashion Don’t: the asymmetric thong.

From Alexa:

Beauty is truth, truth beauty. That’s all I know about the World Cup, and all I need to know.

If my job weren’t the best job ever, Sarah Beall’s job might be.

Are we seeing enough different types of strength in female characters?

And are those particular female characters overlooking potentially perfect mates?

From Elizabeth:

In the market for a new home? Buy Leonardo DiCaprio’s!

Just when you thought writing with a pen was dead, we’re learning of a resurgence in having pen pals.

The Brazilian team can have sex as long as it’s not acrobatic, and other world cup sex rules.

Let’s hear it for the (old) girl! 91-year-old granny appears on British TV to talk about her amazing sex life – with her 31-year-old boyfriend.

Lots and lots of naked people on TV!

by Kiersten Hallie Krum

There are a lot of hot things that can be found down south. Hot food. Hot men. Hot weather. And some smokin’ hot sounds.

I spent many years sneering at country music, home of the slide guitar and songs that praise the love of a good dog and a good truck and a not-so-good woman. But that stereotype is like any other–little bit of truth wrapped up in a whole lotta WTFery. Though I’m never going to like the twang of a slide guitar. That’s just not gonna happen.

My attitude toward country music changed back when I was working full-time and finishing my graduate degree. There were many late nights of me on the laptop with the country music radio station as my only company–that and the borderline crazy people who called into the station at that time of night. Those DJs should get hazard pay.

The fact that we had a country station in New Jersey was nothing short of miraculous (and it didn’t last for long). These were the heyday times of Shedaisy and the Dixie Chicks and Faith Hill and the phenomenon that is Shania Twain, Tim McGraw and Toby Keith and Keith Urban and megalith Garth Brooks who helped bring rock and pop into country. I wanted to live in some of those songs, revved up and ready for wild times and hot romance.

Like its antecedents in Celtic and folk music and the songs that came out of the hills, country music is story music, vignettes of loss and love and drinking and good times and triumph and faith and redemption and retribution and victory all wrapped up in a three to five-minute tune. And there’s lots of joy too, whether from a sharp zydeco swing or a fast fiddle on the fly. Country songs resonate with emotion. I’ll never be able to hear Martina McBride’s “Independence Day” and not get choked up on the chorus. The lyrics and harmonies of Mumford & Sons and Alison Krauss and Union Station make my heart happy,

Country music is back on the radio in New Jersey again but it seems the themes have retroed to those stereotypes with a dominance of male performers crooning about that chick in her tight blue jeans climbing in his truck. I love me some Luke Bryan, don’t get me wrong, especially when he’s shakin’ that prime bootie. But country music is arguably the home of female empowerment where women are taking the stage and taking names and I wished they just took the airwaves more often.

Kelly Clarkson and Carrie Underwood blast the way forward for the women of their generation. The Band Perry’s lead singing sister can (and does) rock it hard with the best of them. Joy Williams from The Civil Wars, Hilary Scott from Lady Antebellum, Jennifer Nettles from Sugarland, and Miranda Lambert all power on as queens of country.

These days, most of the regular rotations on my iPod are songs from the show Nashville. Nashville is a show run by and spearheaded by women on screen and behind the scenes. But one of the many reasons why I love the show is the music.

When the show gets more soapy than I’d like, it’s the outstanding music that keeps me hooked, grounding the show in real, raw emotion and relationships with achingly beautiful melodies and harmonies. Nashville has an embarrassment of riches as the best songwriters in the city vie for a chance to be featured on the show.

Whether fun and flirty, deeply loving, or down right sizzling sexy, country songs know how to bring the romance. They tell the story about all kinds of love: New, long-term, young and fresh, experienced and rooted, broken and restored. Luke Bryan’s “I Don’t Want This Night To End” and “Drunk on Love” tell the story of a one-night stand that resonates for months until it becomes something real. Lady Antebellum’s “Need You Now” is a pain-filled admission of loneliness and longing after a breakup. And Faith Hill and Tim McGraw’s “Like We Never Loved At All” weeps with regret and lingering love.

One of the hottest places to be down south is deep in the bayou. More than one scorching love affair has ignited in the dark secrets of that mysterious and dangerous territory. This week, we’re celebrating the release of Lady Smut blogger Elizabeth Shore’s new novel Hot Bayou Nights.

Click on photo to purchase!

When corporate consultant Carla Saunders’ work takes her from the skyscrapers of Manhattan to a research facility in Louisiana filled with king cobra snakes, she sees her dreams of a job in Paris sinking into the swamp. But unexpected desire burns hotter than a sultry bayou night. The snakes terrify her, but lust for the scorching hot research scientist has her dreaming less about the Champs Élysées and more about being coiled in his arms. Obsessed with finding a cure for multiple sclerosis, Jackson Rivard’s got zero time for relationships. But when a lush, efficient business advisor sweeps into his lab, zero spikes to a hundred before he can shut off the engine. In theory, no-strings-attached sex is scientifically feasible, but having an ex whose fangs make a cobra’s seem modest brings new meaning to the phrase “once bitten, twice shy.” How can he protect his heart when Carla’s charming it out of hiding?

Follow Lady Smut. We’re always hot to the touch.

Postscript: If you’re looking for a gorgeous movie about folk music, I highly recommend Songcatcher about a musicologist in the late 1800s who is researching and collecting Appalachian folk music in the mountains of western North Carolina. It also co-stars Aidan Quinn who knows how to make a woman sing…

By Madeline Iva

If he’s not gorgeous and crying, it’s not Korean drama.

Beautiful men who cry perfect tears. People who cut up their food with scissors. A society with seven forms of address—including one for animals. No, I’m not talking about a sci-fi world– I’m talking about Korea.

How is it possible that I’ve never posted about Korean Drama before? I love it—At times I’ve been obsessed by it.  But then again, so is all of Asia.  These one season TV dramas rock my world–not only with their unique cultural differences but with their strong sense of romance.

Because this week we’re celebrating C. Margery Kempe’s publication One Night in Rome (City Nights Series, book 3), I’m going to take you through One Night In Seoul, Korea.   We’ll survey the night—not Gangnam Style, because that’s a whole other Korean thing. Instead we’ll go out on the town Korean Drama style.

At any rate–let’s get our evening started. Our hero is so much better looking than us–he’s probably the most handsome man on the face of the planet, or at least top five.  Accepting that we’re out of our league is a given.  It also builds humility–a must-have trait for all Korean heroines.

A great sense of humility and very pouty lips–the Korean heroine.

We go out to eat – but nothing fancy. Let’s face it, in Korea it’s all about food.  Yes, we can eat at a restaurant where we sit on a mat without shoes and boil our own meat in a pot of oil at our table. Or sit at a table that comes with inset boxes of kim-chi. Every now and then the waitress comes by and cuts up the kim-chi with scissors for us. What are we, five? Now she’s cutting up our seafood omlete.  Well, if it makes her happy.

As the evening progresses, aside from walking around exchanging witty remarks and reveling in the silky evening weather, we’ll eventually get hungry again.  It’s late and the restaurants are closed, but that’s okay, because the best food in Korea is on the street. We through the plastic sheeting of a cheap tent on a city street (it’s a little rainy outside).  Inside we sit on a stool next to homeless people and businessmen, and eat skewers of who-knows-what.  Yum-ola.  Very egalitarian.  No dessert–only more booze.

Because our evening involves drinking—lots and lots of drinking. At some point in the late evening–not sure when–we do a round of raucous karaoke in a private room.  Oh, did I mention our hero happens to be a pop star in real life? Don’t get self-conscious about singing or thrashing around doing demented air-guitar.  Being crazy bad at karaoke is a right in Korea. Besides you’re too drunk to care.

Yup, you’re wasted.  Beer, saki, wine, the hard stuff? I don’t even know what all we drink, but at some point in the evening everything gets blurry and we are so drunk that the hero must needs carry us home on his back.

WHAT??? I can feel you cringing, and as a tall strapping woman, I know. I know. But apparently there is a deep psychological need for this carrying stuff. It brings up all kinds of cultural metaphors—how strong he is, how he will carry you through the hard times (like now, when you’re occasionally spewing kim-chi in the gutters) Meanwhile, it’s a total sensual experience. Being carried, feeling how strong his back is, how sexy it feels pressing your breasts up against that strong back. You feel safe.

Besides, as the average Korean woman, you’re only about four foot nine and probably weigh a hundred pounds dripping wet.

So off we go.  He carries us up hill and down hill and then home. His home, our home–doesn’t really matter.  We spend the night together. Probably on a futon—we each have our own–on a wooden floor so spotless we could lick with the same confidence we’d lick a plate straight from the dishwasher.

A futon for you, a futon for me.

I know what you’re asking. Do we um, you know? Yes. Yes we DO knock boots. But not right now.  We wait. The tension all around it is smoking hot, however.

See, Korean drama is all about romantic hot vs. erotic hot.  The only thing is…it takes a long time to happen. It probably takes on average sixteen episodes for us to kiss. This is because the roots of romance go deep deep deep in Korean Drama. These people take it slow, and by the time we kiss we really know each other—I mean KNOW each other.

It takes on average twenty episodes to do the deed. In Korean Drama you gotta wait for it if it’s going to be everlasting. So no nookie on THIS date—though having been fed well, having been drunk and happy while carried through the hilly streets of Seoul on a gorgeous man’s back–we’re feeling pretty awesome. Looking at his arresting face, we fall asleep and all is right in the world.

Hot-hot-hot! Click on image to buy.

Check out some more about Korean Drama HERE at my website, and check out ONE NIGHT IN ROME by our very own C.Margery Kempe HERE.

Meanwhile, follow our blog. We’ll carry you through a whole year of sexy romance for free.