Lotus wild over sakura

Sex is everywhere, except in sexuality.( R. Barthes).Eroticism seduces sex into a passionate euphoria ; the games of seduction upstages the terminating biological process. Sex is limited; seduction is limitless performing aesthetic gestural plays of sensual rituals challenging moralistic foundations. Seduction is always more singular and sublime than sex, and it commands the higher price (Baudrillard). Liberation of passion from its didactic shackles, love being embraced with a poetic mirage; the beauty of love in its immoralist exhibit- a virtuous revolt of unattainable love being the ultimate allure. Not that this game is perverse. What is perverse is what perverts the order of the terms; but here there are no longer any terms to pervert, only signs to seduce. (Baudrillard;Seduction). Theophile Gautier’s elaboration of his self-coined phrase,"Art for art’s sake", is a celebration of identifying the splendor of love in it pure form; a bohemian expression of devoted possession that nurture the radicalism in a poet’s despair. Poetry is aesthetically alluring; prose is insipid, clean as water. Dream of love, weep in its agony, clinch its vices and contemplate in its ruins for nothing corrupts like not being loved.Madelaine de Maupin was far from being a virginal bashful maiden. In a self-revolt to the ritualistic regulations of finding an appropriate suitor, she is determined to find more about men and their world by disguising as a man. Her tomboyish persona and an acute swordsmanship help Theodore(Mlle.Maupin) to explore the chivalrous masquerade of men. The impeccable cover up bequeaths Theodore with his first tryst with potential love as Rosette succumbs to his coquettish charm and passionately falls in love with Theodore. Theo, himself (herself) is romantically inclined to Rosette far enough as to take care not to hurt Rosette’s feelings when the love becomes distant. The love exhibited between the two (also later with D’Albert) is truly in its aesthetic form devoid of any sexual encounters. Chastity was the main element among the three characters when they define their respected love. When Maupin (Theodore) can no longer control the events with Rosette in their bedroom, flees leaving Rosette heartbroken with an unfulfilled love. As the novel progresses into a mesh of passions flying all over the corresponding letters, Theodore finds himself being the object of affection of D’Albert. D’Albert is stunned by the fact that his “true” love is man and desires Theodore to be a woman as he cannot fathom his quandary of deciding the legitimacy of his love. How can he love Theodore so fervently and not Rosette who has been his mistress for months? Maupin does not reveal the true identity of Theodore in favor of genuine love not being tarnished by debauchery.Gautier was free thinker who looked up to Victor Hugo and Charles Fourier among other iconoclasts emphasizing that justifying an artistic pursuit unvalued the core of its aesthetics. He flirts with the aspects of bisexuality and gender restriction in this proposal of love delineated through letters written by the characters is par above gender restriction, societal prejudices; purely love in its crude form. Gautier did not corrupt the seductive atmosphere of the plot with sexual tryst or any sort of its elaboration and feted the inspiration of wild pleasures that go beyond physical normalization. The offset of bisexuality in Maupin’s life with her unbridled passion for Rosette was marred with the thought of revealing the uncouth reality. I wonder if Rosette would indulge in Maupin’s sensuality if she knew who the real identity.Although my skepticism take a plunge in the concluding chapter when Rosette and Theodore indulge in their last of wild passion with the maid discovering pearls which Maupin was wearing while clearing out the bed clothes. Or for that matter, D’Albert who insisted on calling Theodore by his theatre name- Rosalind in a bid to save himself from accepting the idea of falling in love with a man. Love captures all, is not what people preach and yet we as a society fail to accept the very aspect of enlightened love by negotiating unwanted gender bias laws. We live in a free world with shackled outlook. Gautier based his heroine (Maupin) in a world where lovers were clandestine in their actions and marriages were more of a formal engagement. Similar to Victor Margueritte’s sketch ofMonique Lerbier; Maupin gives me goose bumps. The very idea of a woman revolting against the societal norm is still very appeasing to me. In a culture where the sacredness of arranged marriages is still preserved and casteism many a times becomes a debating factor in conjugal associations, sexually liberation is veiled under sanctimonious hypocrisy; it’s an elation to interpret such an ardent work of sheer romanticism.Is love virtuous? Fair enough, I believe so. When human emotions integrate within the trance of love, its illusionary beauty penetrates deeper into moralizing vortex of genuine emotions. The heart upstages the eyes; I reckon that must be the sole reason of Theodore vanishing from the lives of Rosette and D’Albert desiring that they share the passion of their love. The life of a lover or a poet may seem rousing to those whose naivety to the melancholic fatigue is reminiscent to a child on a realism threshold. Even though the society has lost of its right to be artless and bashful with its marriage to civilization, there are times when a poem cannot be read solely as a poem for there is a possibility of its artistic consciousness being ruined by the colorless prose of sincere love.

Each time my eyelids bowed down to the devil of grave drowsiness, the concave depths displayed a lean, modest shadowy figure standing on the Bridge of Hesitation; the wrinkles on his forehead becoming deeper , trembling with culpability, wishing for Noriko’s miai to be an incessant success. Jerome K Jerome was accurate with his analysis of the solitude of an idle mind bringing generous thoughts. There I was, nursing an acute bronchial cough cursing the fateful knitting needles for hampering my purling flair even as Masuji diffidently questioned Mr.Kuroda’s whereabouts to his surly assistant. How could a man be punished for something he believed in? How can skepticism prevail on man’s patriotic ideals when his loved ones too perished in the dreadful horror? Is the idea of patriotism merely seductive when one does not have to stand on the edge of its justification? “Ordinary men with no special gifts of insight, it was simply our misfortune to have been ordinary men during such times.”, that is what Mr. Mastuda asserted rubbishing Masuji’s contemplation of a culpable survival. The close knit life of ordinary men is anything but ordinary. The narrow area of existence magnifies the aspects of circumstantial actions. The wrongs do not get washed by the flow of vast oceanic waves but float amid the marshes of a pond. Isn’t ‘the lives of ordinary men’ restricted as the stagnant pond waters? The tight-knit communities in which he daily moves, the by-lanes, the alleys which witness his daily travels and those numerous heads that pop up at the windows every time he closes his door; absolutely nothing is inescapable in the life of an ordinary men. With such unusual vigilance how could his troubles then be marginal? Dignity and self-respect brings a sense of calmly happiness to the life of an ordinary man. With no monetary affluence or supremacy, ‘dignity’ seems the only path of his civil acceptance. In a world so constricted with flimsy lifelines of obstinate relationships, exile is a nightmarish death.‘The validation of a war’; I dread debating this subject as my nerves tremble with utmost anger. A part of me appreciates the use of military powers in virulent situation of civil conundrum. And, then there is the other half that contests the legitimacy of the power usage in case of political egotistical fulfillment. Comprehension of any war literature is a chaotic process hindered by my faint heart. I have always nattily stayed away from any war related prose, especially the ordeal of soldiers or the aftermath of human lives. I may not know the tribulation of braving a war front or structuring a war graph, nevertheless I certainly know that is shameful to doubt the worthiness of valiant sacrifices. The anger that seethed when Suichi called the deaths of young Japanese soldiers wasteful appeased when he validated his disdain by questioning the prevailing injustice of seeing the ‘real culprits’ still alive and enjoying luxurious perks amid the brazenness of righteousness. “To my mind, that’s the greatest cowardice of all”. How true! Isn’t’ that a bitch! Ishiguro speaks the language of restless youths of many generations questioning the inequitable penalty of the war. The politicians, spiritual leaders, capitalist cliques waving their chameleonic flags of patriotism shy away from battling on their once beloved home ground. Why those clandestine escapes to safe havens when their own vile concoctions amalgamate in their own drinks? Why not brave the salient turmoil themselves, that these ‘benevolent guardians’ stir? Suichi admitting flaws of the nationalistic chimera, the misplaced self-respect and prevailing shamelessness veiled under a patriotic farce is a tale told by every life of a torn nation. Japan was a torn nation after the WWII, feelings ranging from compassions to abhorrence raced among the minds of those alive and trying to weave a better future in their displaced living. Those who once were applauded for their patriotic songs were now mercilessly beaten and whispers about selected betrayers flooded the atmospheric desolation. Masuji was among those who lived with ignominy finding getaways from his past leeched onto him like a hungry parasite. Masuji Ono may have once been the most revered artist of his time, but to me he is now a worried father of Noriko fearing the consequences of his past action being detrimental on his daughter’s future. Having lost his wife and son in the war, the only family Masuji had was his two daughters, how in the devil could he allow his condemnation of his war efforts hamper the bright prospects of his unmarried daughter. Masuji was no longer the influential artists of the Pre-war era; he was now an old feeble man who relied on old memories and occasion outing in the Midi-Hidari neighborhood for a pleasurable day; comprehending the wisdom behind the western influence in his grandson’s rearingKazuo Ishiguro highlights the apprehension of a man in admitting his mistake in the fear of his denunciation; chronicled three years after the war. An Artist of the Floating world, the name Ishiguro chose for his novel, travels through magical serenades of flamboyantly lit streets of Midi-Hidari district, the hypnotic sways of delicate fingers playing amongst the elegant kimonos captured through beautiful brush strokes ,where an local artist reveled in his honorable dignity only to lose it and then gain it back again with grit and determination as there is certainly no shame in admitting one’s mistake made in the best faith because in a ‘changing world’ one is bound to stumble and falter because no one is perfect or a virtuous ‘sensei’.

Hey, You're Just Too Funky For MeAnd i'll show you heaven if you let meHey you just too funky for meI gotta get inside, (i gotta get inside)I gotta get inside of you (so when will that be)I watch your fingers working overtime (overtime)I got to thinking that they should be mine. Oh!I'd love to see you naked babyI'd like to think that sometime maybeTonight, if that's all right, yeah!Words from a certain George Michael buzzed in my head throughout this "I saw my roommate masturbate and got horny" vaginal fest.

Holy fuck! Holy damn fuck!! That’s new!! It took a book for me to blurt these words, a rare utterance nowadays. My mind is anesthetized from the intermediate shivers and my mouth is uttering words which I gave up on during my nightly expeditions. Julianna , a 20-something stylist being tricked into hardcore slave trade ; enforced into a sinister bondage sex play at a secluded island left me on tenterhooks for a happy ending. I get it, the title screams ‘sex slave’ and I am certainly no buffoon to buy an erotica and assume it to be a Danielle Steele. Ms. Thompson, pens a pulsating scenario of coercive sex layering the darkest side of BDSM indulgence. The residing Domme in me dreadfully wanted Julianna to undergo a bit more of the sexual disciplinary anguish but the untimely civilized bitch had a soft spot for Julianna and I was left desiring the poor woman’s freedom. So much for my alpha persona! Egoistical 'Dommes' becoming overtly sexual bullies are a huge turn off and at times criminal. I reckon that was the turning point for me yearning for a blissful conclusion. Did I take pleasure in this book? Hell yeah! Every fucking bit! I’m neither a prude nor faint-hearted. Cheers to that and to Ms. Thompson, of course.

Irrespective to what the doctor says, my recurrent mood swings are neither due to viewing Lindsay Lohan’s nude Playboy spread nor my mild acetone addiction. I feel it is the restricted performance of my guttermouth. I am exhausted from all the verbose graciousness of my reviews especially when the need cease to exist. Why can’t I express truly what I feel about a certain book without fearing my review being flagged by the censoring Goodreads elite? To hell with it all! Claire Thompson, I fucking love your books. Rarely do your novels dissatisfy me in all manners. Dare to Dominate is a natural winner. Laurel Jordan desired Jonathan's sexual prowess from the moment she saw him at a BDSM club in Munich. As she followed him to his room at the pretense of a lost scarf, she hoped for an invitation to his room where he would eventually fuck her silly for hours and savor her perfect nakedness. Laurel a natural submissive runs a BDSM members-only club in Greenwich Village. Jonathan, mesmerized by Laurel’s ability to liberate his prevailing sexual fantasies, seeks out the club on past temptation. Club Roissy is a stimulating place that rents playrooms for the sexually adventurous clique on hourly basis. The dungeons equipped with world class fine leather whips (courtesy Tom Saunders) and other toys, brings out the commanding Domme that resides in Jonathan. Jonathan unaware of this(him being a natural Dom) aspect plays out skillfully the rules of a captivating disciplinarian as Laurel abides his every erotic pleasure. Thankfully there are no pussy boys and no angelic SUBS. I despise the very prospect of those characters in any damn sexual plot. I would like a little more enhancement on Mistress Catherine’s roleplay in the dungeons. Being the only formidable Dominatrix in club it would have been amusing to see her indulge in more sexual obedience.Mistress Catherine was a formidable woman, large-boned and tall with huge breasts and long, shiny red hair. She dressed the part of Dominatrix, wearing a close-fitting black leather vest that barely contained her ample bosom, a leather miniskirt that left little to the imagination and stiletto heels over her fishnet stockings. She enjoyed cracking her riding crop against her thigh as she lectured her chosen sub boy on his shortcomings before ordering him to lower his pants and take his due. She was hugely popular with straight and gay men alike because she administered a blistering paddling along with a scathing running commentary that had most of the men ejaculating on their feet as they endured her delicious wrath. She would chain them or bind them as it pleased her, and use them until she used them up. A man who spent an hour with Mistress Catherine really felt he received his money’s worth.I was tad cheerless of Laurel being an all out SUB. She had the personality of being a SWITCH, which would have been quite thrilling to see her as a FemDom to Saunders or any other house-subs. However, I am not crabby, simply desiring more, so I could have said, “Motherfucking Awesome!!”

In a small, quaint fishing town of Imabari, nestled in the midst of Mt. Myozin and adorned with elegant Buddhists temples, there lived a humble Japanese boy who prayed to Tenjinsan (the god of penmanship) for blessing him with a dexterous hand at Japanese calligraphy. He sat separating his quiet sister from his jovial younger brother across his parents during family dinners of rice and a pickled vegetable dish; exclusively served by the eldest daughter-in-law. He knew the intricacies of boiling rice to perfection (a crucial skill seen while selecting a young bride), pickling vegetables and knew how to identify a man freshly exited from a public bath-house. He wondered as to why women take an hour more to ready themselves for an evening of theatre outing and was enthusiastic about the bundled medley of snacks carried by his mother at the theatre. He immensely enjoyed his fishing trips with his father, the kite flying ritual during three-day New Year’s celebrations, Tanabata and Inoko and never used a soap for old folks believed that its(soap) usage would turn their hair red like foreigners. When his school introduced a Western pattern, for the very first time he saw how textbooks looked and found himself studying arithmetic, geography and history. His mother used to throw elaborate parties where neighbors and friends used to chat over a card game and dance. He despised Yaito (the conventional cure for illness), adored the lovely Madame Chrysanthemum and fretted over the possibility whether of his father would take a liking to his beloved dog-Gem. He yearned to write about his journey to Manhattan, but he feared that it would rob him of his juvenile memories of Imabari and would spin into a bombastic biographical version. Imabari was a lowly ditch where people went clam digging and shrewd merchants supervised weekly goods carriers shipped to the port by examining rice by rubbing on their palms. It was a homely abode undergoing a slow transition into a westernized dome. Samurais were commoners and would attack an innocent passer-by in sheer frustrations as their life had no importance now. Old traditions and cultures were diminishing beneath contemporary mores and soon age-old customs would be paragraphs in moralistic tales. But, that did not matter anymore, for the humble Japanese boy was set for a voyage to America, a place where pillows were not made of small wooden blocks and people had to look out for their safety from getting hit by horse-carts. As he sailed to the land of horse buggies and waltz, Japanese landscaped revolutionized through the constitution of the Meiji Restoration Era.I tried not to adulterate the review of this spectacularly unpretentious book with towering vocabulary and flurry of redundant emotions, as it a story of a Japanese boy’s life told by a Japanese boy himself. I dare not spoil it for him and his sweeping fountain of memory.

‘Humanity crushed once again’. ‘50 dead, 120 injured’. ‘Grave face of terror strikes again’. Familiar headlines scream through the pages of the newspapers each time a bomb goes off annihilating blameless lives. Through teeth gritting resilience, public outcry resonates through the deafened ears of failed intelligence and faith in the state’s law and order hangs by a thin string. As the weeks pass by rapid sketches of the alleged bombers, email links, forensic reports, collected evidence from the attacked ground and pictures of rehabilitating victims are splashed across the dailies. If by any chance the investigation comes through, anonymous visages covered with black rags are photographed outside the courtroom, readied for trial procedures, which may go on for months, maybe even years. As the days go by, life returns to normalcy (yes! It is a tricky word); everything is forgotten and the news fade until once again “humanity is crushed” by another dastardly attack. The analytical carnival starts once again. This is the time I dearly wish we had ‘philosophical policemen’ just like Chesterton describes in his book. Policemen- (officers of law), who would discover the book of sonnets and verses from where the crimes will be committed; those that recognize the intricate web of intellectual crimes. The derivation of dreadful thoughts- the human mind, so malicious and calculating camouflaged within an affluent, composed and erudite exterior. It is that very egocentric brainpower which churns out sadistic alterations from harmless verses and then picks vulnerable actors to craft that design into realism.“Evil philosopher is not trying to alter things but to annihilate them”. This book is more than a mere plot of undercover detectives and their clandestine exploration of the Secret anarchist Councilmen. Chesterton pens that a small time criminal is more of a good person. His aim is to eradicated only a certain obstacle and not annihilate the edifice. What caught my eye in one of the chapters was the elucidation of stereotyping poverty to rebellious festering. “You’ve got that eternal idiotic ides that if anarchy came it would come from the poor. Why should it? The poor been rebels, but they have never been anarchists; they have more interest than anyone else in there being some decent government. The poor man really has a stake in the country. The rich man hasn’t; he can go away to New Guinea in a yacht. The poor have sometimes objected to being governed badly; the rich have always objected to being governed at all. Aristocrats are always anarchists; as you can see from the baron’s wars”.When a bomber or an active terrorist is caught, he mostly turns out to be from an impoverished background, where his ravenous mind and mislaid faith is manipulated to find refuge in an illusionary godly abode. These are mere actors for crying out loud, chosen by the scheming selfish elements who are coward enough to remain behind the backstage curtains. The affluent as elucidated in this narration are the ones to be feared. They have an abundance of monetary resources, have sheltering capacity in far away lands, if need be and have a mind that concocts the unexpected. Where do you think the enormous funds come for fertilizing terror? I do not want elucidate detailed reports of various pathways of monetary funds wired to definite cults or “charitable” institutions that ultimately fund the immoral actions. But, the currency sure is not a bequest from the poor or some excise complements from our paychecks. The respective courtesy comes from those societal fundamentals that remain unscathed or unfazed by decree. Who do you suppose manages the advanced scientific technologies in various bombing devices? The knowledgeable elite, isn’t it? The erudite or should I say the crème de la crème of religious preachers who instead of spreading peace and equality manipulates vulnerable populace digging their raw wounds every time through words that revolt in their bleeding wounds? I could go on and on, as it angers me to see such naivety among the elements of law and order or purposefully turning a blind eye on the so-called modernists who may be responsible in concocting the ongoing mayhem of lawlessness. Why couldn’t there be some ‘philosophical policemen’ here in India or any place that incessantly plays the role of a powerless victim?Chapter 4- The Tale of the Detective is the deciding chapter that outlines infinitesimal details of who Gabriel Syme really is. Syme sneaks his way into a clandestine council of seven men, each named after a day of the week. Syme becomes the inevitable Thursday though a pact he made with Lucian Gregory ,a poet and a true anarchist. Fear catches with Syme as his path deepens into the sinister world of the other six council men; the President being the most feared of all. Chesterton throws a light on various aspects of fear that thrives within and outside us. We rebel against the only side that corrupts us. What makes a mutineer and destroy the very notion of survival? We try and run from fear and pain, until one eventually catches up and makes us susceptible to uncouth rudiments that shelter our mental nakedness. It is the most treacherous survival, if every time we need proof of familiarity to feel safe. When fear caught up with Syme suffocating his senses, he would feel protected only if a blue card ( a source of identification given to every policemen in England) was shown to him. How vulnerable was Syme to live in a world of treachery and deceit? Makes me think of all the trepidation we feel every time we walk outside our homes or travel; the security checks, the sense of familiarity that we seek in bloodcurdling situations, the proof of safety that we search or reveal; spins a web of utter vulnerability that looms within the safest corners of our thoughts. The Man Who Was Thursday is a treasure that needs to be dug up by reading between the lines of a puzzling narrative to know what Chesterton is really saying.“Revolt in its abstract can be revolting. It is like vomiting.”Lastly, if everything leads to God and when nature if dissected reveals the face of God, then should I assume that evil is illusionary? Is malevolence the creation of couple menacing minds? If God means endurance then why is such mutinous extermination carried in God’s name after all?

Last week, as I was lazily browsing through an oddly arranged pile of Maeve Binchy books at the nearby library, a hesitant voice streamed through the corner speakers, “If you are Daniel Fucking Cross whose sucking action may put a Bangkok lady boy to shame and would not mind engaging in a tepid ménage a trois with Georgia Lawrence, please meet Mr. Reese Hutton in aisle three on the second floor”. The faint trail of those words resonated in my ears like morning bells and I curiously found myself sneaking to the third aisle. There was that man in question- Daniel Cross, clad in a shiny black leather jacket that squeaked with every movement and eyes embellished in darkest of kohl. There was an another bloke somewhat wispy, trembling in Daniel’s sheer hotness, murmuring the words ‘Angel of Death’. Yeah sure! 'Angel of Death-by Orgasm', I snickered at the thought. Suddenly I could see a sinister smirk propelling in my direction and eyes that could make me take day long cold showers. As I stood there parched and frozen with beads of sweat dribbling down my neck. I saw a hand approach me. I took a step back and then he uttered the trickiest words, “Read this book, but swear you will not touch yourself while reading it”. I grabbed the book and ran, wondering how I could read an erotica without manipulating southward maneuvers. I apprehensively flipped the pages, words blurring with each page, feeling the sinister smile ever increasing on my neck. No! I can’t take this shit anymore; I just can’t bear this agony. As I open my eyes, I see an aggravated pair of eyes overwhelmed with crimson makeup peering through bifocal spectacles, “You are week late on 'Circle of Friends'. Do you want to pay your fine now?” It was all a dream, darlings! And so did the act of my southward exploitation, a reverie that never came true with this book.

Wow!! Absolutely fantastic! My nerves energized in a euphoric bliss like a girl who found her favourite licorice in a candy store. A peek At 5:15 a.m., her eyes snapped open.She slipped from her soft bed, blinking away sleep and with the practiced ease of three years’ routine, she padded from her room to the master bathroom. Turning on the taps, she felt for the right mix of hot and cold water, then began the ritual of adding the specific mixture of salts that were his favorite. Everything had to be just right. Today was special. His birthday. By 5:30, she had laid out all the tools for his shave along the edge of the marble vanity top. His bathroom reflected his organized, meticulous nature. She loved the warmth of the Italian marble and its soft shades of brown and red. Even the fixtures, simple chrome with graceful lines, mirrored his simple, elegant tastes. She plugged in the electric shaving foam warmer, then checked the tub again. Just this side of scalding. Perfect. She made her way down the stairs in silence, careful to avoid the fifth riser, which made a horrible squeak. She smiled, shaking her head. He always said he would have it fixed, but he never had. He preferred the clean, uncluttered look of hardwood and tile flooring. His master suite had the only carpeting in the house. His sense of style made wandering through the house with bare feet a sensual experience. In the kitchen, she prepared his breakfast tray—orange juice that she squeezed fresh every morning, strong tea, no milk and three sugars, organic almonds and two slices of raisin bread. At 5:45, she stood outside the bedroom door. Balancing the tray with one hand, she raised the other to tap lightly. “Good morning,” he called, still sleepy-voiced but alert. “Come in, little one.” She grinned and pushed open the door. She was almost thirty, perhaps a bit too old to be called little one, but he was so endearing when he said it. He was seated against the mahogany headboard of the king-sized bed that dominated the room. He was surrounded by pillows, the bold pattern of the comforter complementing his smooth, pale skin. She dropped her gaze, before he could see her reaction. He was a gorgeous man—muscled and toned as a marble statue, but the warmth of his gray-blue eyes softened his austere beauty. Nestling the breakfast tray over his lap, she waited for his motion before sitting near his feet. “Do you know what today is?” he asked in between bites. “Your birthday.” He smiled. “And what will you give me for my birthday, apart from this breakfast which is so delicious?” “Anything you desire,” she replied, without hesitation. “Hmmm…” He seemed to consider that statement as he sipped his tea and finished his toast. When he was done, he put the tray on the side table then threw back the covers. She couldn’t help staring from beneath her lashes. After three years together, just looking at him could still make her pulse race. Naked, as he was always in the morning, he made a handsome picture. “Then come here, Isis,” he commanded. “And bring me to life.” She stood and slipped her dressing gown from her shoulders, as comfortable in her nakedness as he. She always thought it sweet and strange that he would call her by a goddess’s name, but what he desired today was all she desired ever, and if there was ever a day to please him—then shouldn’t it be today?She crawled toward him, on hands and knees, over the bed. His cock was already stirring before she drew herself between his legs and slowly dropped her head to taste him. Her tongue darted out from between parted lips to flick over the purpling head, then she slid her mouth over the tip and down the length of his shaft. “That’s right,” he growled. “Suck my cock, get me ready.” His whispers intensified as she worked her mouth up and down his ever-hardening, soon impressive erection. As he lifted his hips against her, she dropped a hand to circle the base of his cock and pumped in rhythm to her mouth’s motions. He moaned, fisted his hands in her hair and pushed his hips hard, fucking her mouth. She pressed her lips tight around his cock, reveling in the sensation of pleasure she felt. His responses always urged her further. She wanted to do more for him, give him more, show him more, to take herself beyond what she’d done before. She felt limitless when she gave pleasure like this. “No,” he groaned. “I don’t want to…not…not yet…too soon.” He pulled her off his cock, then dragged her across his body, lifting her at first by the shoulders, then dropping his hands to cup her ass. “Ride me.” His demand was like a symphony to her ears, but instead of sheathing him inside her already wet cunt, she took her time—prolonging the moment until he squirmed beneath her. “Oh, you slut,” he breathed, his tone taking the sting out of the words. “Get on my cock, now. It’s my birthday and I want to fuck you.” “Like this?” she asked, teasing, as she took him inside, inch by inch, until he squirmed beneath her. “Oh God, yes,” he moaned. She squeezed her inner muscles tight, gripping his cock and milking it with her pussy as though it were her hand. Closing her eyes, she ground her pelvis into his. “No,” he said, breath ragged. “Look at me.” Their gazes locked. “Do you love me?” he asked. “Oh, yes,” she sighed, feeling her orgasm starting to build. “Will you do anything I want?” “Ask, and it’s yours,” she whimpered, urging him to writhe beneath her. “Then fuck me now,” he nearly shouted. “Like it’s the last time, my Isis…like you’ll never have my cock inside your pussy again!” He sounded almost desperate, and it drove her to a place she’d never been with him. All she wanted, all she ever wanted was to make him happy, and she was determined to give him everything he desired. He groaned, forming incoherent words, his movements beneath her jerky and awkward. She threw herself over him, slamming her hips against his, bringing her own release crashing down, just before he shouted her name and thrust up into her one last time. She felt his orgasm like a shot and it exploded throughout her entire body. Long moments passed before either of them moved. He recovered first, shaking himself, and nudging her until she lifted herself off his lap. Staring, she wondered if she looked as dazed as she felt. “That was beautiful, baby,” he said. “You know, it’s times like that when I almost believe you really love me.” “But I do,” she said, protesting the implication. She felt guilt well up in her chest. How could he think she didn’t love him? She hadn’t been perfect, but surely she’d never given him reason to doubt her affection. He stroked her cheek with his knuckles. “I know you do.” He shook himself again and motioned. She got off the bed entirely and slipped into her robe. for the feral minds out there, who speculate my licorice devouring amusement. For disobeying her Master , Sage was sent packing back to Collingwood , a rarity in case of triumphant graduates. She knew she would be punished for being a rebellious submissive, but Gervais who had a soft spot for Sage, decided to use her as a training specimen in his classes. Sage was an idyllic subservient with lustrous skin, curves that surprisingly softened with her ballerina-esque sways and eyes that would pierce through the strictest confrontation. It was not surprising after all, when Derek Riddle picked her as his subject when he enrolled for his Domme “Master” courses. Riddle did not attain the crucial authoritarian behavior of a Domme as he was soft( as per Domme principles) and could be easily manipulated, nevertheless was surely possessive about Sage , a common trait seen in a Master and his subservient. Through various disciplinary training sessions and several sexual maneuvers of astounding orgasms which Sage described as ‘ la petite mort’( a little death) ; Riddle wanted to extend his contract( binding Sage) beyond the aesthetically gothic walls of Collingwood School; only if Master Evan would have made things a bit easier. Evan , another practicing Domme , shared a deep dark secret with Sage unknown to the school authorities. Evan came across as an immoral sadistic face of sexual supremacy which delineated an adverse face of sexual psychosis. Jessica Brandt pens one of the most seductive and spellbinding scripts I have read in the current batch of erotica. The romantic part of the narrations, appreciatively, does not fade the prevailing aura of the BDSM theme which is exploited with utter finesse. I’m quite proud to notify that some of the bondage sessions illustrated, nearly anesthetized my senses and shook me a little. Curling of toes clenching on my skin for their dear life, parched throat and uneasiness in my sitting position were some symptoms, I heroically endured during this particular reading. I believe that if you resist all the sensory signals of your brain while reading this book and carry the mounting anticipation to bed you could make a certain someone extremely happy and alcohol does not even become mandatory. Although this theory is not tested yet, I can knowingly say that through couple caffenine doses and several bottles of chilled water, I endured the reading patiently while resisting my own ‘une petite mort’.

I had said earlier in one of my former reviews, about how if a certain character is not overwhelmed by the plot-theme of a script and stands out on its own potency becoming more memorable than the story itself, the book is worth applauding and so is the author for its creation. When one reads Things Fall Apart, amongst its vast documentary of Igbo culture of the southeastern part of Nigeria; a man named Okonkwo shines not for his tragic fate but for the man he turned out to be due to his withering circumstances. He was conceited, stubborn, ill-tempered, and ruthless, yet he took pride in the customary and social hierarchies of the powerful clan of Umuofia. He feared failure; a psychological diffidence nurtured through his father’s shortcomings. Okonkwo strived with hardcore determination to be the leader of the clan. He robustly stood tall like a tree , faced every crisis that came his way with obstinate wit, but sadly overlooked his own limitations and never learned to bend or turn like the grass to the changing winds and finally succumbed to the gust of harshness. My heart goes out to men like Okonkwo, whose personality represents numerous other men from various patriarchal societies; like my own for instance. Staunch patriarchs rarely accept changes for they have been rooted in their ancestral cultural mores and dread its disintegration with time. Okonkwo’s father died when he was young burdened with debt and mortification. Hence, he feared his own collapse and saw accomplishment and power as a sign of acceptance and dignity amongst the members of the clan. Okonkwo was the uncrowned prince of masculinity. As a patriarch he believed the molding of a true man was carved through use of brutal force and authoritarian services. Any vulnerability was a sign of effeminate demeanor and a shame to his manhood. It has always been a classic case of "my way or the highway" when dealing with the head of a certain family structure. The father or the grandfather whoever occupied the supreme position tends to be engulfed in his own obsessive hubris failing to show necessary restraint; ripping away the family piece by piece. It was no surprise when Okonkwo’s son Nwoye despised his father’s preaching and turned to Christianity for a serene existence. I have no sympathies for Okonkwo’s tragic ending for I strongly felt he deserved every bit of the death that came his way. I know I got a bit carried away with this character, but I saw shades of his personality that hit closer to home. A man who cannot change with time is a friendless traveler. When my anger receded, after a while, questions arise as to whether it is easy for a human being who is deeply embedded in a certain way of life to accept drastic change at the risk of losing a critical part of his existence- his cultural identification? When I compare myself with past generations I wonder if my children will ever remember or follow the sediments of my ancestral culture that has barely found a way in my lifestyle. Colonization brings westernization; the advent of the “white” man on exotic foreign shores brings a modernists wave that practically wipes out the primary ethnicities of the land. Democratic amendments bring liberation banishing orthodoxy and atrocious superstitions. It is a definite wondrous prospect, I must say; nevertheless, it gradually washes away the crucial hierarchical cultural institutions terming it as a blot of vernacularism. I embraced westernization as a child through my schooling years, but my father still finds some of the libertine values humbug. It is then, I reflect on Okonkwo and his failure to accept the presence of British missionaries in his village and his belief in the calamitous penalties by the spread of Christianity.Achebe brings a complex mix of digression and misfortune that revolves around one man, his fate and the collapse within his tribal ethnicity. The anthropological image of the Igbo people and their civilization in the late 19th century, exhibits a democratic opulence of the Igbo people ingrained in tribal origins of African literature. Themes of religious convictions in the mysterious aura of the village Oracle, the hypocrisy and miscarriage in the justice structure during colonization and the commanding anxiety of free will are well meshed in depicting the Igbo world. Tribes and cultures either disintegrating or amalgamating into Western civilization bring an end to a strong ethnic era that once thrived and later waits patiently for its revival through generations. Languages and customs disappear with colonization making the world a uniformed global dais with treasures of ancient cultures hidden amongst its dark interiors. One man’s treasure is another man’s trash; tribal practices although termed as an archaic form of savagery, were valued institutions of traditions and justice to a few. Although, Chinua Achebe’s book tries to echo the related attitude, somehow it seems depressing and vacant at the closing stages of the book.

Reviewing an erotica can sometimes acquire artistic immunity. There are limitations to one’s expressions of orgasmic ordeals. An erotica is layered by veils of seduction through every act that the character reveals in the script, sort of foreplay of words. The sexual intensity develops through the placement of events in the narrations, finally releasing the building nervousness in a steaming sex scene. Sex is the culmination of a magnetic process of seduction. I agree with Jean Buadrillard on this assertion. The amalgamation of seductive plays and sexual execution with apt precision brings immense satisfaction to the already convulsing imagination, making the reading a pleasurable process. Good quality erotica paints a colourful rainbow in your sexual reverie and an awful erotica is as pathetic as trying to reach a climax with an HB pencil. Now, at times one comes across a sexually embellishing script in a disguise of an erotic genre. Here, one can neither comprehend with the ongoing sensuality of the characters nor feel the alluring intensity. In such cases, one would gladly hope to have viewed the narrative through a Steve Hirsch production.Terming Journey to the Pearl as a sensual erotica would be unfair. The line, “Find the perfect pearl and you will find the perfect lover”, loses its luster with the random script and the over enthusiasm of amplifying the sex scenes. Miranda Fox and her sexual tryst could have been captivating if the plot had some mystery element to it. How cheerless!

I should express thanks to Gudrun Burwitz, for if it was not for her ruthless news, I would not have found a brilliant book that stands for every belief which Ms. Burwitz expels from her very survival. Couple weeks ago, a news article describing Burwitz as the new “Nazi grandmother” made me explore further for its validity. Ms. Burwitz who at the ripe age of 81, still strives hard to support and nurture the most modern breed of Nazis ,keeping alive the malicious work and memory of her father Heinrich Himmler, the chief authority behind the Gestapo operations. “The princess of Nazism ", as one of the historian terms Gudrun, is a despicable bitch loathing the essence of humanity through her narrowed National Socialist mindset. I would not identify her as a cultured human being, let alone a decent citizen of a wonderful country. However, she would have been felicitated for her abhorrence during the Third Reich. In 1940’s Gudrun Burwitz would have been a decent German; the ideal daughter of Deutschland. Not, Otto Quangel, though. He was a traitor, a criminal who committed treason against the Fuhrer. Otto Quangel was the ‘Hogoblin’, whose righteous words were feared by anyone who touched or read them.Otto and Anna Quangel was a working class couple. Like many other couples they were decent Germans. They obeyed their Fuhrer, you see. Their only son was serving in the army defending Hitler’s gruesome idea of legality of human race. They helplessly saw their neighbors being caught and shipped to concentration camps, while they silently sipped their watery coffee in sheer silence. They had to be tough in life. That was the common justification of every brutality the Gestapo police committed. Then one fine day, the death news of their only son arrived and Anna in a bursts of sorrow shrieked, “you and your Fuhrer!”. For Otto, a man of few words, Anna’s words weighed more than the misery of losing his child. The agony of guilt swelled up Otto’s moralistic integrity overwhelming his internal ethics. Otto proposed an obscure form of anti-Nazi warfare. He would write postcards with slogans against the ongoing atrocities.“Mother! The Fuhrer has murdered my son! Mother! The Fuhrer will murder your sons too; he will not stop till he has brought sorrow to every home.”Otto’s heroic resistance to the Nazi Regime magnified only through his personal tragedy. Did the death of his son made him courageous as now he had nothing to lose? Would Otto walk the mutinous path had his son arrived safely home?Hans Fallada who suffered through his own personal war as Rudolf Ditzen, brings the laudable efforts of Elise and Otto Hampel (1931), a real life couple who wrote anonymous postcards and leaflets to educate people about the ongoing atrocities ,informing to not buying Nazi papers and resist from participating in the war. The writing is trouble-free and the plot predictable; nevertheless, throughout the fictional portrayals of the Quangels, Fallada beautifully enlightens the misery of ordinary Germans who struggled from their own moral battles. Like, Eva Kungel who curses the fact of her birthing children who would eventually end up becoming monsters. The investigation of the Hobgoblin case and the defenselessness of Inspector Escherich expose the disintegration of humanness in a society where the nobleness of a feeble endeavor to capture terror was misplaced.Otto Quangel was the burning conscience of a guilt –ridden nation. He and Anna were among the few whom were “good corns” sown in the fields of weeds. Fallada signs off the book saying, “But we don’t want to end this book with death; dedicated as it is to life, life always triumphs over humiliation and tears, over misery and death”. Otto and Anna’s death was inevitable and their efforts although ineffectual were not insignificant. The Quangels did the unattainable and unfortunately their voices were lost among timid tones and pigheaded establishment, contrasting Wael Ghonim the cyber hero whose efforts instigated a revolution finally overthrowing Hosni Mubarak from supremacy.

If my mother would have read this book, firstly, she would scoff at Joy for being an ignorant fool and then latched her eyes onto me sternly saying, "See, this is what happens when you do not listen to your mother!" But then, if we do listen to our mothers all the time, how would we craft our own experiences, crash down in our mistakes and strive for success in our own astute ways. Joy was restless, enthusiastic and an erratic teen who like many other adolescent Chinese immigrants romanticized Mao’s ideology as a mere spectator from the other side of the fence. Only if Joy was a little tolerant to her mother’s woes or more educated on Mao’s New China, life could have had been less turbulent and death would not lurk on her doorstep.Shanghai Girls (the prequel to this novel) ends on a somewhat bitter note with Joy finding out the truth about her parental lineage and Pearl’s husband committing suicide with its guilt embedded deep down in Joy’s heart. Life in Los Angeles’ Chinatown was even more confusing and undesirable , when Joy finds out that Pearl is not her biological mother and her father may be residing in China in all its likelihood. A rambunctious Joy eventually flees from her home and ends up in China where she meets Z.G. (her biological father) and with him she travels through the countryside as an apprentice to Z.G’s cultural painting lessons as a part of a system carved by Mao to induce liberal arts to ordinary Chinese folks. During, one such excursion, Joy meets an illiterate village bumpkin Tao and then in a juvenile aggression of love marries him. Still highly oblivious to the discrepancies of governing functions in mainland China and the countryside authorities, Joy finds herself on the centre stage playing a chaotic part in Mao’s economical sputnik –‘The Great Leap Forward’; banishing all the idealistic aspect of communism that Joy once nourished as a college student in Chicago.I have read Frank Dikötter’s commendable book on ‘The Great Leap Forward’ and the curse that followed Mao’s economic revolution. The famine that struck the core of China’s agricultural composition brought in vast number of diseases, unimaginable suffrage through hunger and death loomed in every household. Lisa justly elucidates this tragedy that caused nearly 60 million deaths, highlighting the cannibalistic measures adopted by the famished farmers where infants were swapped by neighboring families for maintaining lack of guilt when the babies would be used as meal options. Excelling on her forte of Chinese women and their battles with the conventional norms ; Lisa See once again precisely highlights the second class treatment bestowed on Chinese women regardless the cultural progress.Joy’s journey through the two parallel worlds illuminates her ferocious personality as she was born in the Year of the Tiger; just like Pearl was meant to be a Dragon of great strength and clemency. Unlike in the earlier volume, the narration is spilt through the words of Pearl and Joy herself; revealing Pearl’s apprehension in seeking happiness while letting go of her traumatic past and Joy’s realization of her true belonging through a harrowing present.Lisa See illustrates the beginning of a liberating end of betrayals, trepidations, nightmarish chaos of self-identification and the hypocrisy that highlights in every edifying phase of survival. Lisa’s books are always a delight to read and have been applauded through my numerous comprehensions. Contrasting many reviews, this is not a “coming of age” story; it’s a passage of a young woman who chases happiness among revulsion realizing the rainbow that she gazed at was just a watery monochromatic painting of horror.Moral of the story:- Listen to your mother, although not frequently. Otherwise you could miss out on some remarkable books.

The depiction pales in comparison to the strongly worded title ‘Black Widow’. Calder Burgess, an investigative reporter is assigned to write a clinical take on the psychological aspect of the functioning of a BDSM club and its members. Kelly, the vicious female Dominatrix and the power behind the nuances of the club becomes the main subject of exploration for Calder. Well, so much for the storyline. Now, let’s move on to the execution of the ongoing plot. Kelly, although portrayed as the obstinate ‘Master’ to all the soft submissives in the club comes forth as vulnerable and uninspiring both as a DOM and a SUB later on when she switches her role-playing acts. Calder seems quite dorky and does not exhibit any attributes of a ruling Master even though it can be taken into consideration that he is still learning the ropes of BDSM techniques. Since, it is a plot based on educational (politely speaking) reporting of an exclusively feral facet of sexual exploration; one can appreciate the basic elucidations of BDSM lifestyle. As to what happens to a SUB during a flogging scene and the subsequent spellbinding subspace - a trance overpowering sexual shock and the three categories of S & M indulgence. Nevertheless, this does not seem quite the reason enough for feeble sex scenes. The sexual encounters of both Kelly and Calder; chiefly Kelly, does not ignite that required spark let alone the fierce chemistry that one wishes to see (or read in this matter) between a master and the submissive. So, yes, I was a little displeased with the sex portion of the script and would have adored the prospect of some untamed exploits. Jeez! A quantifiable report on a BDSM clique along with superior sexual drama, even Freud would have loved it.

Fiercely sexual! Daniel Armstrong desired to possess Bridget for nearly two decades. His wish came true when he won Bridget as a date at a charity auction. The weekend that Daniel longed for came with a little or rather quite charismatic surprise. Bridget was to play a dutiful SUB to Daniel and his twin brother David, both powerfully captivating DOMs. The indulgent BDSM weekend had all the exact essentials to tantalize Bridget’s craving for mind-boggling sex sessions( may be due to the fact that she only derived pleasure through her toys), eventually trickling down to a curious romantic alliance. A pleasurable material for a sinful reading.

Nothing much to look forward to this swift read about John and Kelsie spending a week holed up at a cabin amid a burgeoning romance and sizzling sex. Hmmm..okay! There might be something appealing after all.Ha!