Hello, yes, this is Our Majesty the Queen, and one has just popped in to let you know that one is putting an end to all of these shenanigans and frivolity.

One is shocked that one’s enemies have stooped to such an unsportsmanlike strategy as assisting a known fugitive to escape royal custody.  As all properly bred ladies and gentlemen know, the polite way to conduct warfare is to dress up in bright red jackets and walk towards one’s enemies very slowly.

In any event, one has repossessed one’s lawyer, and one trusts that there shall be no recurrence of this in the future.  One shall put additional corgis on the mine exits just to be sure, and one had better not see you sneaking around nearby.  Surely you have things to do with your time other than gallivanting around talking about ladies’ private bits.  One trusts you shall not spend any more time on this website shall in no way attempt to access, electronically or otherwise, any subversive literature referenced therein which treats of lesbians upon the high seas or in nineteenth-century Austria.

One also wishes to inform you that one has targeted as the subject of one’s most severe royal displeasure the moderators at the so-called “Virtual Living Room” and the authors and readers who participated in this weekend’s “O Canada” spot-on.  One suspects that all of these individuals, despite their so-called “wit” and “charm” and “brilliance” and “extreme attractiveness to all who behold them” are in fact naughty beyond description.  One may have to take them in hand in the future.  One shall not warn you again.

Shoo.  All of you.  Off you go.  One means it.




Goodness gracious, how audacious, whatever have we here?  Why, it is a virtual literature conference!  DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS?  You can talk to authors about books which have lesbians in them and you can get free books from authors and you can ask authors about their most embarrassing experiences involving latex and YOU CAN DO ALL THIS WITHOUT WEARING ANY PANTS AT ALL because it is all on the internet.


Spot-On: "O Canada", Jan 3-5, 2014
Lesbian Fiction by Canadian authors

Many authors of fine lesbian fiction are actually Canadians and two Canadians, author Rebecca Swartz and Kathy Brodland, will co-host with the bookgeek a weekend where we celebrate those authors. And the authors graciously offered ebooks for a give-away!

Authors participating will be:

Anne Azel (Tides)
Liz Bugg (Calli Barnow mysteries)
Sarah Ettritch (Threaded Through Time)
Joan B. Flood (New Girl)
Lois Cloarec Hart (Broken Faith)
Benny Lawrence (Shell Game)
AJ Quinn (Hostage Moon, Show of Force)
Tracey Richardson (Last Salute)
Rebecca Swartz (Everything Pales in Comparison)

Join us at the virtual living room for a weekend full of good books and great authors:


Sign up, minions of darkness!  No real downside, what with the free books and the pantlessness.  I promise to be very tasteless indeed.  



The problem with violence on TV is not, as they tell us, that children are growing from ravening little monsters into ravening big monsters who lack the ability to function in society.  The problem is that it is getting so damn hard to scare children.

Case in point.  Halloween.  I am standing on Julia's porch next to a giant black widow spider we built together, artfully posed in attack position with its fangs raised and chittering.  Projected over the window we have supercloseup video footage of spiders hunting, so detailed that you can see the venom drip.  The porch is swathed in webs.  I am clad in an alligator suit- yes, I know that a certain amount of thematic unity is lost there, alligator hanging out next to a giant spider, but I had already built my costume when Julia came up with the spider theme and I didn't have the time to start over, what with my weekends being annexed by Her Majesty the Queen.  Whatever.  Nuts to thematic unity.  I had many sharp and pointy teeth and I was stalking around roaring for everything I was worth.  

Reaction on the part of the children?  Zip.  And I do not mean the moustachioed youngsters who would probably go straight from trick-or-treating to studying for their MBA.  I mean the tiny downy tykes.  They looked me square in the eye and shoved their treat bags under my nose as though they were terribly embarrassed by the whole situation.  Not one of them fled wailing, abandoning their bag of delicious candy for me to devour.  NOT ONE.

So obviously I will have to go for broke next year.  What concept is fresh enough to get past the defences of today's jaded youth?  Maybe pterodactyls dive-bombing down from overhead.  I will have to get started on some blueprints. 



I may not have mentioned this, but I am a Canadian and also a British citizen, which, as we all know, means that I am sworn irrevocably to the service of Her Majesty the Queen.  I also work a job which required me to take a personal oath of loyalty to HMtQ, her heirs and assigns.  Most of the time HMtQ is a pretty good boss- she does not personally come gorgoning down the halls to give me the business- but she is a stern mistress.  Shirking your work is not an option when you are indentured to HMtQ.  She will not be amused.

All this to say that the past couple of months, HMtQ has been cracking down on her servants.  Thus I have been chained to my desk in the law mines, beavering away at the Real Work, rather than putting out copy about bondage pirates and ninjas.  I am very ashamed of myself and will try to do better- worse?- immediately.  

Let me start by acknowledging the nice people over at the Rainbow Awards who have very sweetly named Shell Game as a finalist in the Lesbian Fantasy category.  Huzzah!  I hope this means that some people have enjoyed their time spent with my gay bondage pirates- which, to be fair, is about the same thing as saying "I hope that somebody enjoyed this bowl of melted cheese and bacon which I prepared"- but enjoyment is enjoyment, people.  The world can be pretty grim; let us draw around the bright spots without shame, and if the bright spots are pirate-related, so much the better.



I may have mentioned at some point my tendency to come up with terrible plans?  I did not think that my two week writing detox was going to be one of said terrible plans.  I thought it was a, dare I say it, sensible idea which would give me a chance to swab out my apartment and interact with persons who are not, like me, reality-challenged.

But it's been ten days and I am going absolutely bats.  Without my preferred avenue for draining off my excess energy, I am forced to expend it in other, arguably less productive ways.  Within the past week, for example, I have:

  • Spent far too much time crayoning specimens of vampyroteuthis infernalis, the vampire squid from Hell;
  • Built a super-elaborate cat fort out of blankets, safety pins, and cardboard;
  • Lost my bra in a burger joint while I, acting in a consultative capacity, offered my wisdom on the subject of Alaskan orgies;
  • Driven myself mad attempting to figure out how a shark would wear a headband if he dressed up as Rambo for Halloween.