Nyte Flyte
In the words of the immortal Meatloaf Aday: I would do anything for love, but I won't do that....
Gen
It doesn't interest me. Never has and never will. I write m/m fiction, period. Consider me a straight female who is very much in touch with the gay male within. This is hardwired behavior in me that predates learning my ABCs, and it's not going to change anytime soon.
Partner Betrayal
Okay, so I'm an idealist. I believe in the possibility of a love that is both unconditional and unshakably faithful. And that's what I write about.
Kidfic
I'm the mother of two and the grandmother of one. I love my children and granddaughter with all my heart, but I can't say I'm particularly found of/interested in kids as a breed. (Cats I love, though. And wolves and bunnies and hedgehogs and cougars and bats and horses and snakes and....) I do follow a couple of fandoms where kidfic happens, but unless it's handled with a feather-light touch, I either grudgingly slog through it or skip over it in order to get to the good stuff that focuses on the guys' relationship. You definitely won't be seeing any kidfic here. You may see an occasional piece of cat/wolf/bunny/hedgehog/cougar/bat/horse/snake fic, however....
J/O Material
I don't write sex that's an end unto itself. For me, lovemaking is more about head and heart than about genitalia. That doesn't mean you won't read NC-17 stuff here, because you will. But it will appear as a componant of the story, not as the story's focus.
Non-Con
I'm all about tender, balanced, mutually consensual relationships, so non-con between the principals in a fandom isn't something I care to read or write. Rape fic may (and probably will) occur, but the act wil be portrayed as a horrific act of violence, not as kink.
Goopy Shmoopy Syrupy Mush
Both as a reader and a writer, I love drama and angst, and I'm an absolute H/C whore. From time to time, a certain amount of fluff happens in my fic as well. I do draw the line at stuff that's so sickeningly sweet it makes your teeth hurt, however. Donald gives Timmy flowers and takes him out for a romantic evening of dinner and dancing (after all, he did that in canon) but he doesn't drown him in lacy pink valentine hearts or spout declarations so overblown and flowery they sound like they're coming from a badly written Victorian romance novel. These are men we're talking about, fer chrissake! And while we're on the subject....
Feminization of Male Characters
The biggest flaw in most of the fanfic I see out there is that so many writers present one or both of the characters in their pairing as either women (circa 1957 variety, no less) or children. Come on, you're into the concept of male-on-male romance, or you wouldn't be writing this stuff, right? So why turn your guys into penis-packing girls? Especially guys who are portrayed as hyper-masculine, iconic types in canon. I'm sorry, but Batman isn't going to sob on Robin's shoulder because he found a chip in their wedding china, and you're not going to convince me that he would. Starsky wouldn't tear up because Hutch gave him a frilly, lace-covered, powder-puff-pink, heart-shaped box of candy on Valentine's day. And Spock sure as hell isn't going to cry himself to sleep in Kirk's arms, sniffling and hiccuphing like an over-tired toddler, because Sarek didn't let him have a puppy when he was three. Men really do have a softer side. They love. They hurt. They need. They like to snuggle. They can be incredibly tender and sensitive and loving and supportive and giving. They sometimes cry. But they do it all in a uniquely male way. If you want your fiction to be believable, learn the difference.
Mpreg
Need I say more? :::shudders delicately:::
Ordinarily speaking...
Yesterday afternoon, a friend of mine married his longtime partner in a small MCC church way out here in BFE Kentucky, and what struck me most was how ordinary the whole thing was. Aside from fact that two of the ushers were a middle-aged, tuxedo-clad lesbian couple, that there were two grooms and not a white dress in sight, and that through a reprehensible travesty of justice, the union was not recognized by Kentucky law, it was a wedding just like any other wedding. The mothers of the grooms wore festively dowdy mother-of-the-groom dresses. Both grooms looked appropriately terrified. Members of the wedding party made small mistakes and everyone laughed. Most of the guests and attendants -- not to mention both grooms -- cried as the two guys, both in their upper 30s, exchanged the tender and heartfelt vows they'd written for one another. Guests -- mostly middle-aged or older relatives of the couple -- milled around awkwardly after the ceremony, waiting for the reception to start. Pictures were taken, a buffet was served, toasts were made, cake was eaten. The newlyweds danced, one groom quietly singing to the other as they held each other close and gently swayed to the music. A garter was thrown....
No rainbow flags were flown. There was no parade. No one wore huge strap-on phalluses or danced naked in the aisles. The reception proved to be an orgy-free zone. No straight people where recruited and no children were corrupted.
So even way out here in BFE Kentucky, where gay weddings tend to be the exception rather than the rule, this beautiful, low-key little celebration of love and commitment which was surely the most extraordinary day of two men's lives was simply ordinary. Ordinary and dignified and funny and touching -- in short, everything a straight wedding is, or at least should be.
So once again, I'm asking the question that has bumfuddled me for years: What's everybody so afraid of? Where's the big threat to society? What is it that scares the shit out of the unwashed masses when two people who love each other decide to make a public declaration of that love? And who stands to be harmed if those two people have the same rights and protections under the law that all other committed couples are granted?
During their honeymoon in NYC, my friend and his new husband are planning a side trip to Vermont. In an even more quiet and low-key civil ceremony, they will repeat the vows they recited in front of friends and family one more time, and then those vows will be legal and binding. I'm grateful that they have that option. But wouldn't it be wonderful if they didn't have to travel hundreds of miles from home to do it? Wouldn't it be wonderful if the rest of the country got off its narrow-minded, redneck, ignorant ass and got on board with the smattering of states that live up to the ideal of all men being created equal? And wouldn't it be wonderful if that most extraordinary of events, one man dedicating his heart and his life to another man, became simply...ordinary?
No rainbow flags were flown. There was no parade. No one wore huge strap-on phalluses or danced naked in the aisles. The reception proved to be an orgy-free zone. No straight people where recruited and no children were corrupted.
So even way out here in BFE Kentucky, where gay weddings tend to be the exception rather than the rule, this beautiful, low-key little celebration of love and commitment which was surely the most extraordinary day of two men's lives was simply ordinary. Ordinary and dignified and funny and touching -- in short, everything a straight wedding is, or at least should be.
So once again, I'm asking the question that has bumfuddled me for years: What's everybody so afraid of? Where's the big threat to society? What is it that scares the shit out of the unwashed masses when two people who love each other decide to make a public declaration of that love? And who stands to be harmed if those two people have the same rights and protections under the law that all other committed couples are granted?
During their honeymoon in NYC, my friend and his new husband are planning a side trip to Vermont. In an even more quiet and low-key civil ceremony, they will repeat the vows they recited in front of friends and family one more time, and then those vows will be legal and binding. I'm grateful that they have that option. But wouldn't it be wonderful if they didn't have to travel hundreds of miles from home to do it? Wouldn't it be wonderful if the rest of the country got off its narrow-minded, redneck, ignorant ass and got on board with the smattering of states that live up to the ideal of all men being created equal? And wouldn't it be wonderful if that most extraordinary of events, one man dedicating his heart and his life to another man, became simply...ordinary?
The Best Laid Plans of Barbie and Ken....
When I was 5 (we're talkin' 1966 here, kids) I complained because all my relatives sent me checks for Christmas instead of toys. To "teach me the value of money," my father decreed that I could have $5 of the gift money to spend, and the rest had to go into savings. At the urging of my favorite partner in crime, a 4-yr-old, effeminate neighbor boy named Mike, I spent the money on my first Barbie.
She was just an excuse, of course, a metaphorical foot in the proverbial door. What I really wanted was a Ken -- two Kens, to be exact -- but even at that age I'd learned the value of a good cover story. I was a slasher, you see, obsessed with the idea of boys who loved other boys. I’ve been one since I popped out of the womb, and I’ll be one til the day I die. I didn’t know there was a name for what I was and wouldn’t find out for at least another 25 years, but I did know that I had to keep it a secret. I was a little girl, and little girls were supposed to want -- or to be more specific, identify with -- girl dolls. If I'd asked for a Ken right off the bat, people would have thought I was weird. But once I had the socially acceptable, scrawny plastic strumpet in hand, I was sure I could beg for her more interesting male companion.
For my 6th birthday in May, I received the Ken of my dreams, plus another Barbie. I knew I didn't have a shot at a second Ken until the next Christmas, but that was okay. My buddy from next door, Mike, and I played together every day, and he owned a GI Joe I coveted almost as much as he coveted my Barbies. Without either of us ever saying a word, an agreement was reached. The second the two of us were alone in my bedroom or down in the basement playroom at his house, we repeated the daily clandestine exchange -- his Joe for both of my Barbies. Sounded like a fair deal to me.
We spent a lot of happy afternoons together, Mike dressing and undressing the Barbies and fussing with their hair while GI Joe kissed and cuddled with Ken and whispered sweet nothings into his ear. Occasionally, one of the Barbies would wander over and try to stir up trouble between the boys, but for the most part, the Barbies stuck together and did yucky foo-foo girly things. GI Joe and Ken simply did each other.
I received my second Ken for Christmas along with yet another superfluous Barbie. Finally, I was in business. A good thing, too, since Mike’s mother had decided it wasn’t healthy for him to spend all his time playing with girls and that he should hang out with the other neighborhood boys instead. I sometimes wonder if, in retrospect, she’s recognized the irony in that particular judgment call. By forcing Mike to exclusively seek the company of other males, she was, in fact, enforcing the very preference she was attempting to discourage. Probably not. She wasn’t a particularly bright bulb. Mike has long since moved away, and from what I understand, he and his husband haven’t been back to Kentucky to visit dear old mom in many a year.
With GI Joe MIA, Ken One and Ken Two underwent name changes, becoming the devoted boyfriends, John and Don. They cried and slept and made sweet, sweet man love in each other’s arms, took care of each other when one of them was tired or hurt or sick, and took long rides in that frightfully pink Barbie car, where they made out like crazy in the moonlight.
Over the years, I accumulated a total of seven Barbies, none of which I bothered to name or to instill with an identity beyond that of Meddlesome Bitch. Eventually, I received one more Ken doll -- for Christmas, I think -- who became Danny, John and Don’s best friend. His primary purpose was to keep the evil and jealous hussies, Barbies One - Seven at bay, and to occasionally serve as a stand in if John or Don lost a head or an arm and I had to reattach it and wait for the glue to dry.
When I hit the age of twelve, I knew my friends would torture me senseless if they knew I still played with dolls, so John and Don and Danny were set aside. That year I wrote my first m/m romance novel -- 100+ pages laboriously hand written on college-ruled paper -- and promptly hid it away, terrified that if anyone read it, they would think I was sick and lock me away in a mental institution. The protagonists were a pair of star-crossed lovers named John and Don, whose relationship was endangered time and time again by a Meddlesome Bitch. They got together in the end with the help of their dear friend Danny….
She was just an excuse, of course, a metaphorical foot in the proverbial door. What I really wanted was a Ken -- two Kens, to be exact -- but even at that age I'd learned the value of a good cover story. I was a slasher, you see, obsessed with the idea of boys who loved other boys. I’ve been one since I popped out of the womb, and I’ll be one til the day I die. I didn’t know there was a name for what I was and wouldn’t find out for at least another 25 years, but I did know that I had to keep it a secret. I was a little girl, and little girls were supposed to want -- or to be more specific, identify with -- girl dolls. If I'd asked for a Ken right off the bat, people would have thought I was weird. But once I had the socially acceptable, scrawny plastic strumpet in hand, I was sure I could beg for her more interesting male companion.
For my 6th birthday in May, I received the Ken of my dreams, plus another Barbie. I knew I didn't have a shot at a second Ken until the next Christmas, but that was okay. My buddy from next door, Mike, and I played together every day, and he owned a GI Joe I coveted almost as much as he coveted my Barbies. Without either of us ever saying a word, an agreement was reached. The second the two of us were alone in my bedroom or down in the basement playroom at his house, we repeated the daily clandestine exchange -- his Joe for both of my Barbies. Sounded like a fair deal to me.
We spent a lot of happy afternoons together, Mike dressing and undressing the Barbies and fussing with their hair while GI Joe kissed and cuddled with Ken and whispered sweet nothings into his ear. Occasionally, one of the Barbies would wander over and try to stir up trouble between the boys, but for the most part, the Barbies stuck together and did yucky foo-foo girly things. GI Joe and Ken simply did each other.
I received my second Ken for Christmas along with yet another superfluous Barbie. Finally, I was in business. A good thing, too, since Mike’s mother had decided it wasn’t healthy for him to spend all his time playing with girls and that he should hang out with the other neighborhood boys instead. I sometimes wonder if, in retrospect, she’s recognized the irony in that particular judgment call. By forcing Mike to exclusively seek the company of other males, she was, in fact, enforcing the very preference she was attempting to discourage. Probably not. She wasn’t a particularly bright bulb. Mike has long since moved away, and from what I understand, he and his husband haven’t been back to Kentucky to visit dear old mom in many a year.
With GI Joe MIA, Ken One and Ken Two underwent name changes, becoming the devoted boyfriends, John and Don. They cried and slept and made sweet, sweet man love in each other’s arms, took care of each other when one of them was tired or hurt or sick, and took long rides in that frightfully pink Barbie car, where they made out like crazy in the moonlight.
Over the years, I accumulated a total of seven Barbies, none of which I bothered to name or to instill with an identity beyond that of Meddlesome Bitch. Eventually, I received one more Ken doll -- for Christmas, I think -- who became Danny, John and Don’s best friend. His primary purpose was to keep the evil and jealous hussies, Barbies One - Seven at bay, and to occasionally serve as a stand in if John or Don lost a head or an arm and I had to reattach it and wait for the glue to dry.
When I hit the age of twelve, I knew my friends would torture me senseless if they knew I still played with dolls, so John and Don and Danny were set aside. That year I wrote my first m/m romance novel -- 100+ pages laboriously hand written on college-ruled paper -- and promptly hid it away, terrified that if anyone read it, they would think I was sick and lock me away in a mental institution. The protagonists were a pair of star-crossed lovers named John and Don, whose relationship was endangered time and time again by a Meddlesome Bitch. They got together in the end with the help of their dear friend Danny….
Music To My Ears
:::steps up to the podium, adjusts mike, clears throat::: Hello. My name is NyteFlyer, and I'm a testosterone-aholic....
In Extremo
German Medieval folk metal. Honestly, what more could you want? If I had the money, I'd fly to Germany just to see them perform. And while I was there, I'd make every attempt to pounce on Das Letzte Einhorn (Michael Rhein) and eat him with a spoon....
Flogging Molly
Celtic-flavored punk is the musical genre nearest and dearest to my heart, and nobody does it better than Dave King.
Shane MacGowan
Okay, he's not pretty. But he is the grandfather of Irish punk. That snaggle-toothed frontman for The Pogues is perhaps the most brilliant gutter poet of our time, and he sparked the greatest musical love affair of my life. The romance continues.
Th' Legendary Shack Shakers
Call it southern gothic, punk blues, or psychobilly -- real men wear lederhosen! Definitely the most kick-ass concert experience of my life. J.D.Wilkes (a.k.a. The Colonel) has been called the greatest frontman in rock for a reason. If you see them live, the mosh pit is the place to be -- especially if you don't mind being sprayed with mayonaise from a squeezy jar tucked inside his fly, drenched in beer, or occasionally spit and/or snotted upon. Not a band for the faint-hearted!
Real Vampires Don't Sparkle
I love vampires...
...which means I don't love Twilight. Thus:
And finally, my personal favorite:
But some speak with southern accents
Yes, just when I'd become ashamed of my lifelong fascination with those sharp-toothed and oh-so-erotic creatures of the night thanks to the pervasive insipidness that is Twilight, I discovered True Blood and fell in love all over again....
I prefer:
art to science
autumn to spring
bats to birds
books to tv
brains to brawn
bruce wayne to clark kent
borders to barnes & noble
camaros to minivans
carnivores to herbivores
cats to dogs
character to plot
cremation to burial
critical acclaim to commercial success
diplomacy to agression
directors to actors
dragonflies to butterflies
druids to priests
dusk to dawn
faeries to angels
geeks to jocks
goth to prep
halloween to christmas
humility to ego
indie films to blockbuster movies
individualism to conformity
legend to history
lestat to edward
liberals to conservatives
livejournal to facebook
long hair to buzz cuts
love to romance
metal to country
metro to butch
miracle whip to mayo
mountains to plains
mythology to religion
ocean to desert
oscars to superbowl
paganism to monotheism
pepsi to coke
philosophy to theology
punk to pop
questioning to following
rice to meyer
salt to sugar
seafood to steak
sensuality to sexuality
shade to sun
sharp edges to rounded corners
slash to gen
solitude to crowd scenes
stardust to sunshine
standing out to blending in
stark to muted
star trek to star wars
winter to summer
wolves to sheep
writing to breathing....
If my life were a car...
...these would be plastered across its bumper:
One of my favorite places on earth -- Bernheim!
Call of the Wild
He holds my heart in his hands....
Enough of this Huddy crap. There's only OTP on House, and this is it. Since day one, my heart's belonged to Hilson....
Solstice!
"Not all who wander are lost."
~~J.R.R. Tolkien
