#as someone who lives somewhere hot and is neurotic about not being covered with a blanket at night. its adequate by itself sometimes

[ambassadorquark]

as i understand it “doesn’t use a top sheet” is a surprisingly common character trait bc being a very mobile sleeper is way more common than i assumed it was. do i just go freakishly still when i sleep or something bc i don’t believe i’ve ever kicked my covers off at night

[oddcoupler222]

Do you have any book recs like yours and w. epic love scenes like yours?

I appreciate anything I’ve written being called epic in any way :) 

I don’t really know if I could accurately compare any books I’ve read to my own but I do have some book recs that I adore! I’ll give you my top ten lesfics for some variety

- Behind the Green Curtain by Riley LaShea (my ultimate fave romance)

When Caton’s sleazy boss offers her a position as his wife’s personal assistant, she accepts the job with reservations, certain Jack Halston has ulterior motives. After meeting Jack’s wife Amelia, though, it’s Caton’s motivations that begin to unravel. As vicious as she is beautiful, Amelia threatens Caton’s position and her sense of decorum. As the attraction between the two women spirals into a torrid affair, Caton is drawn deeper into Jack and Amelia’s world of privilege and prestige, where everything is at stake and nothing is what it seems. 

- All That Matters by Susan X  Meagher

Life is going damned well for Blair Spencer. She's a very successful real estate agent, happily married to a man who encourages her to live the independent life she loves; and they're actively working to have a baby. The wrench in the works is that Blair favors adoption, while her husband David desperately wants to have a biological child. The fates are against them, and they finally seek the help of a group of reproductive specialists. One of the doctors, a surgeon named Kylie Mackenzie, eventually becomes a good friend to Blair. And she needs all of the friends she can get when things start to go horribly wrong at home. As her marriage teeters on the brink of collapse, she relies more and more on Kylie's friendship. Kylie's happily gay; Blair's happily straight. But the way they structure their relationship leads friends and family to privately question whether the pair is setting themselves up for heartache. They eventually come to a crossroads, which could either destroy their friendship or turn it into what each of them has been seeking. The question is whether each woman can change her view of herself and her needs. The answer is all that matters.

- Alone by EJ Noyes 

Half a million dollars will be Celeste Thorne’s reward for spending four years of her life in total isolation. No faces. No voices. No way to leave.

Since Celeste has never really worried about being alone, the generous paycheck she’ll receive for her participation in the solitary psychological experiment seems like easy money.

When she finds an injured hiker in the woods bordering her living compound, her strictly governed world is thrown into disarray. But even as she struggles with the morality of breaking the rules of the experiment, Celeste can’t deny her growing attraction to the kind and enigmatic Olivia Soldano. Still, how much can you really trust a stranger? And how much can you trust yourself when you know all the faces you’ve seen and voices you’ve heard for the past three years have only been your imagination?

But what’s real? Celeste’s reality may lie somewhere between the absolute truth and a carefully constructed deception. (the concept of this is just INcredible. and the execution as well - perfect)

- The Goodmans by Clare Ashton

The lovely doctor Abby Hart lives in her dream cottage in the quintessential English border town of Ludbury, home to the Goodmans. Maggie Goodman, all fire and passion, is like another mother to her, amiable Richard a rock and 60s-child Celia is the grandmother she never had. But Abby has a secret. Best friend Jude Goodman is the love of her life, and very, very straight. Even if Jude had ever given a woman a second glance, there’d also be the small problem of Maggie – she would definitely not approve. But secrets have a habit of sneaking out, and Abby’s not the only one with something to hide. Life is just about to get very interesting for the Goodmans. Things are not what they used to be, but could they be even better? (there are not one but TWO perfectly written romances intertwined in this *chef kiss*)

- Pretending in Paradise by M Ullrich

When travelwisdom.com assigns PR specialist Caroline Beckett and travel blogger Emma Morgan to cover a hot new couples retreat, they're forced to fake a relationship to secure a reservation. Ten days in paradise would be a dream assignment, if only they'd stop arguing long enough to enjoy it. Reputations are Caroline's business. Too bad she was forced out of her previous job when an ex smeared hers all over the office grapevine. She's never getting involved with a coworker again, especially not one as careless and unprofessional as Emma. Emma knows that life is too short to play by the rules. But when she goes too far and a defamation lawsuit puts her job in jeopardy, she has to make nice with Caroline, the image police, and deliver the best story of her career.

Only pretending to be in love sure feels a whole lot like falling in love. When their story goes public, ambition and privacy collide, and their chance at making a fake relationship real might just be collateral damage. (there’s just SOMETHING about this that is super freaking cute)

- The Brutal Truth by Lee Winter

Australian crime reporter Maddie Grey is out of her depth in New York, miserable, and secretly drawn to her powerful, twice-married, media mogul boss, Elena Bartell, who eats failing newspapers for breakfast. As work takes them to Australia, Maddie is goaded into a brief, seemingly harmless bet with her enigmatic boss—where they have to tell the complete truth to each other. It backfires catastrophically.

A lesbian romance about the lies we tell ourselves.

- The Red Files by Lee Winter (kudos to her for being the only author that makes it to this list with two separate books)

Ambitious Daily Sentinel journalist Lauren King is chafing on LA’s vapid social circuit, reporting on glamorous A-list parties while sparring with her rival—the formidable, icy Catherine Ayers. Ayers is an ex-Washington political correspondent who suffered a humiliating fall from grace, and her acerbic, vicious tongue keeps everyone at bay. Everyone, that is, except knockabout Iowa girl King, who is undaunted, unimpressed and gives as good as she gets. One night a curious story unfolds before their eyes: One business launch, 34 prostitutes and a pallet of missing pink champagne. Can the warring pair work together to unravel an incredible story? This is a lesbian fiction with more than a few mysterious twists. (as someone who is usually pretty bored by any plot other than the romance, I actually enjoyed this mystery)

- Tricky Wisdom/Tricky Chances by Camryn Eyde

(for tricky wisdom)  Darcy Wright is a closeted lesbian who has been infatuated with her best friend, Taylor, since junior high. Leaving her small northeast Minnesota town for Harvard in a quest to become a doctor, she moves in with med-student Olivia Boyd, a neurotic, anal, gigantic pain in the backside. The first year of juggling medical school is grueling, but it’s nothing compared to living with Olivia.

Coming out to her friends and family with an anti-climactic flop, Darcy uses her newly publicized sexuality to try and win Taylor’s affections through an ill-hatched scheme that crosses uncomfortable lines. The result is as unexpected to Darcy as Darcy’s affinity for medicine is to Olivia.

The first year of medical school is a nerve-wracking encounter in medicine, learning lessons the hard way, and finding what her heart desires.

Tricky Chances is the sequel to Wisdom, but it’s the only lesfic sequel that i truly felt added to the first one and was just as gripping! Plus, the first book is only 48k words so the followup is perfect to come right after

- Who’d Have Thought by G Benson

Top neurosurgeon Samantha Thomson needs to get married fast and is tightlipped as to why. And with over $200,000 on offer to tie the knot, no questions asked, cash-strapped ER nurse Hayden Pérez isn’t about to demand answers.

The deal is only for a year of marriage, but Hayden’s going into it knowing it will be a nightmare. Sam is complicated, rude, kind of cold, and someone Hayden barely tolerates at work, let alone wants to marry. The hardest part is that Hayden has to convince everyone around them that they’re madly in love and that racing down the aisle together is all they’ve ever wanted. What could possibly go wrong? (this book comes in 9th because i don’t love it QUITE as much as i do all the others, but it was the one that got me into lesfic so! it’s good stuff)

And in a guest pick from the only other voracious lesfic reader i know, @debbie-eagan - 

Beautiful Dreamer by Melissa Brayden - 

Philadelphia real estate broker Devyn Winters is at the peak of her career, closing multimillion-dollar deals and relishing it. She’s pretty much blocked out her formative years in Dreamer’s Bay, where the most exciting thing to happen was the twice a year bake sale. Unfortunately, a distress call hauls her back home and away from the life she’s constructed. Now the question is just how long until she can leave again? And when did boring Elizabeth Draper get so beautiful?

Elizabeth Draper loves people, free time, and a good cup of coffee in the warm sunlight. In the quaint town of Dreamer’s Bay, she’s the only employee of On the Spot, an odd jobs company. She remembers Devyn Winters as shallow in high school, but now everything about Devyn makes her lose focus. Though her brain knows Devyn is only home temporarily, her heart didn’t seem to get the memo (I’m personally not a huge Brayden fan but a lot of other lesfic readers are so I reached out for a second opinion on this matter)

I hope you enjoy!

[becquerelcaps]

Love is Over, part 2

read the first part here: https://becquerelcaps.tumblr.com/post/178973389704/fiction-love-is-over-pt-1

-

Even when I go for interviews for 'normal' jobs, I inevitably end up feeling like a child playing dress-up in his parent's clothes. My sleeves are the wrong length. Ties have never worked on me. And why didn't I shave properly this morning? Perhaps porn was the wrong career for someone so neurotic. But I was already standing outside the girl's house, and the rain wasn't letting up, so I thought I might as well wait for the bus home somewhere dry. I knocked and soon found myself in her living room.

Or perhaps it would be more appropriate to call it an office, since every available surface was covered in loose sheets of paper, consumer electronics and mangled notepads. The curtains were drawn. A sofa, clearly never sat on, was crammed in a corner beneath a large landscape painting of a burning tree at night in a field of wheat. And gliding through this mess was the girl from the café, leaving me standing awkwardly in the doorway to lean against the far wall. We exchanged formalities in a way that I think amused her. This was when I first learned her name. But while it'd make my prose flow better, I can't bring myself to use it online, so I'm just going to refer to her as Love. If nothing else, I think she wouldn't hate that.

"So your hours are flexible," she said. We had been talking for only a few minutes, about experience, confidentiality, logistics and other topics that wouldn't be out of place at an office job. Her attitude was businesslike and uninterested, while I was just trying not to let on how much I wanted this.

"I don't have much of a social life. Give me half an hour to get the bus here and I can go whenever you like."

"I shoot through the week, process and upload on the weekend – that schedule doesn't change for you. Now, about payment. I believe in fair wages, but I'm taking more risk here than you, so you'll get a forty percent cut. That's $150 for an hour of content, give or take."

She must have seen me literally double-take. I could make more in an hour here than in a week of working minimum wage back at the laundromat. No more bulk unseasoned ramen. Shit, maybe I could actually start paying off some of my debts.

"Don't get so excited," she said. "You're cute. But I don't know if I can trust you, let alone use you. We'll shoot a scene, see how you do, then sign you off. Let's get you downstairs to the studio to see how you handle things."

-

The studio turned out to be a compact, oblong cellar with a low ceiling. At one end, a laptop sat in a nest of plugs, wires and video equipment on a desk surrounded by bare concrete walls. The other end had a few modest gestures towards decoration: heavy, dark red fur linings hung over the walls, complemented by ambient purple light radiating from small mood lamps subtly cached in the corners. A startling omission was the lack of a bed of any kind. In its place stood a chair sat in the dead centre of the room, upholstered with black leather. I would later learn that she had bought it from a dentist's office and refurbished it herself, liking the flexibility it gave her, and there was still a system of trays and little medicinal-looking boxes attached to one of the arms.

"Phones off in the studio," said Love, gesturing to the table. Evidently she didn't have hers on her.

"I'll leave it on," I said as I put it down. "I have some stuff on there to look at if I need to get back in the mood."

She responded with an honest-to-God roll of the eyes. "Oh, no. No, no, no. I think you really don't understand what kind of porn this is. My viewers, they don't care if the guy is hard or not."

"...what kind of porn is that, then? Softcore?"

"Sit down," she said, fiddling with a camera, "and I'll show you. If you're a real newcomer to this then I want to catch your first reaction. Virgins get the most buys." A dim green light indicated that I was now on tape.

With a slight jolt of discomfort, I settled into the recliner. It leant back farther than I expected, and when I saw Love coming towards me she towered tall, like an Amazonian giant. But rather than crush me beneath her heel, she reached into a box on one of the trays besides me and pulled out some kind of long metal rod, about half as thick as my little finger.

"You're luckier than you know," she murmured. "I sterilised this for you just this morning." Then, a little louder, for the camera: "In case you haven't figured it out yet, today we're going to... play doctor."

"Is that... something for taking my pulse?" I wasn't sure if she wanted me to speak, but the curiosity was genuine. The rod seemed too formless, too devoid of any notches or insignias or apparent function to look anything other than alien. It wasn't even sharp.

Her lips curled into a smile. Black lipstick, I noticed. Dressing up for the shoot. I felt like a slob. "Not quite," she said. "I've acquired my fanbase for indulging a few very select and particular kinds of content." Held between a finger and a thumb, she angled the rod towards me. "And it so happens that most of them include doing things to people like you." The tip, cold through my T-shirt, pushed against my chest. "Things like inserting a long, smooth piece of stainless steel..." It trailed down my body, coming to rest on a bulge in my jeans. "...into a particular part of the male anatomy."

Every nerve and fibre in my body recoiled at once. This was wrong. This was seriously wrong. I was trapped in a basement with a mad woman who wanted to hurt me, not make porn. "I, I need to really fucking go, like uh, right NOW, so --"

But just before I was about to bolt out of the chair and far away from this strange place, her hand snapped to my wrist. With the tiniest bit of pressure she kept me glued in place as she leant in close, and calmly spoke: "Calm down. I am not going to hurt you."

"Y-yeah that's nice and all," I sputtered, my voice quiet, "but I seriously, seriously cannot do this."

"I understand," she said. "But think about it. You didn't really come here thinking you were going to have sex with me, did you? We met on a kink forum. You can handle this." Her breath was hot against my face. Her voice dark, seductive. "And besides, think of the money. Video like this... you could pull in half a grand, when all's said and done."

Some deep psychological machinery in my brain whirred and forced me to take a gasp of air. I took a long, deep breath, and then another. "Money..."

"Of course, I would never force you to do something you really didn't want to." Her hand, still grasping the rod, was gently gripping my leg as she leaned over me. "But..." She pulled in even closer and whispered directly into my ear. "I know you're hard right now."

Call it adrenaline, if you like. I know I did that night. But the truth was feeling that metal rod tap against my groin sent a shiver through me that felt like a cudgel to the spine. The primal, gasping fear made my blood flow hot and my muscles tense into a raging erection that bulged and sagged inside my boxers. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't pull my eyes from her fingernails, black as night, tapping against the cool, strong steel.

"Show me," she said, loud and clear. "Show the camera how excited you are, and I'll put that thing of yours to use."

My hands trembling, I pulled at my belt until it slid to the floor with a heavy clunk. My boxers soon followed, and as they came down my cock sprang up, glistening at the tip. I had shaved before heading to Love's house, thinking it would matter, and I distinctly remember how the lack of hair made my penis seem so small next to the sheer length of the rod.

"Good boy," she said with a little chuckle. "You can follow instructions." When I wasn't looking, she had slathered the tip of the rod in some kind of sticky, colourless lube. "Now hold it steady it for me."

All I can remember of the sounding rod actually entering my cock is how dry my mouth was - full of cotton, it felt like. But that's a cop-out for a description, so I went back and looked at my copy of the video Love sent me after the fact. As the tip of the rod pushed up against the slit of my glans, my eyes visibly dilated, and when she firmly slid it an inch into my urethra, every part of my body trembled and I fell back against the chair like a doll with cut strings. It was as if I had been killed stone dead. But to Love's credit, she didn't miss a beat. Using one hand to keep the sounding rod stable, she grabbed the cuff of my shirt and gave me a brusque tug that pulled me back into the realm of the living. My head felt fuzzy and waterlogged, like I'd been dredged up from the bottom of the sea. "Guh..."

"Don't you make me call an ambulance just because you can't handle a girl using your dick better than you can," she said with a bemused air. "The paramedics always wreck the place." With that, she slid the rod another inch deeper into my dick. The sensation still felt utterly alien and wrong, but the sight of it disappearing into me was almost hypnotic. A pulse of precum surged up from somewhere deep inside me, welling up around the metal and flowing over my glans as I whimpered something meaningless. There was nothing else. The world had shrunk down to this basement, to me in this chair and Love standing over it. I wanted to squirm, but I was pinned down, staked through the heart. Hot tears were flowing over my cheeks.

"Shh, it's alright. What you're feeling... it's your masculinity leaving you." Love smiled at me like a caring mother. "It's like being castrated. It feels like I'm breaking your cock, and that's all you think you are. But I'm not breaking it. Just your mind." With that, she planted a gentle kiss on my forehead. "You're cute when you're fucked."

As my vision began to fade once more, I dimly felt the bulge of the rod pull up and slide out of my dick, which fell limp against my stomach without its support. My glans felt like it was burning. My entire cock was burning, actually. Or was it just where she had kissed me? No matter, now. I was broken. My mind was broken. Everything was nice and gentle and hot and calm and broken and my cock and her hand and the wet towel of the feeling and heavying gentle hot tired, ohhhh...

-

Everything was soft and only my cock hurt. A dull aching burn, an itch I couldn't scratch. Mmf. Where was my phone? I groped around my bedside table looking for it, only to realise that the table wasn't there and I wasn't in my own bed. Gargling and smacking my lips like I'd woken up from a night of binge-drinking, I realised Love must've moved me up into what looked like a guest room. I was naked under the covers - had she...? - but my clothes were in a neat pile on a chair besides the bed. Ah, and my phone was in one of my jeans' pockets. Considerate. But before I could check it there was a tap at the door and Love entered, bearing a tall glass of water and a bar of chocolate in her hands.

"You're awake, that's good. How are you feeling?"

"I... I have no idea how I'm feeling. Weird."

"That's normal; you're crashing. Eat this, it'll help." She pressed the chocolate into my hands. "You did pretty good for your first scene."

I opened the wrapper as she moved my clothes to the floor and sat down, perching the water on a windowsill. "Thanks, I guess. It all happened so quickly."

"You think? I got a good half hour of footage from that."

Jesus. The experience was already fluttering out of my mind like a dream. If it wasn't for the ache between my legs, I would have almost thought it didn't happen. "Will my... you know, my cock, will it be alright? It's hurting."

"Like I said, you're a virgin. It always hurts the first time. C'mon, let's get you downstairs if you're feeling alright."

A few minutes later I was fully dressed and standing in Love's living room once more. Though only a few hours had passed, everything looked and felt different. The room seemed less chaotic and more freeform, unrestrained. Or maybe it was something within me. The two of us chatted for a little while about business technicalities that are boring to recount - I had to sign a form permitting her to use the video of me - but the upshot was that I was now a formal employee of Love's media company. The only one, as it happened. It seemed that most applicants didn't get this far. I opted to have my portion of the revenue go directly to my bank account via standing order, and thinking that was everything, headed for the door. But something stopped me at the last moment.

"You mentioned something, just before I passed out. That putting that thing inside me was like getting castrated."

"Was I wrong?"

"No, it described it perfectly. How many guys have you done this to before?"

"None. ...well, that's not the full story." For the first time she actually looked somewhat bashful. "I don't usually tell people this so quickly, but you seem pretty trustworthy. I've done it to myself. I'm trans."

"Oh! Like..."

"Transgender. I've got a dick, in other words. Not a problem, I hope."

I paused for a moment, a little surprised, then grinned. "Shit, it makes me feel better about you putting that thing in me. You know how it feels too."

Love just rolled her eyes, smiled sardonically and wished me a pleasant night. "Go on, get. I've got editing to do."

As I stepped out from her house, I was bathed in the deep red light of a glorious evening. I'd spent more time with her than I'd expected to, and I could tell that my thoughts would be swimming with images of what'd happened here for the rest of the night. As I made my way to the busstop, I found myself wondering how long it might be till she called me back for another shoot. The thought of going through it all again still made me a little weak at the knees, but something about her presence brought it back down to reality, made it manageable. I just hoped that in the meantime, it wouldn't burn too much when I went to piss.

[thebibliomancer]

Essential Avengers: Avengers #114: Night of the Swordsman

August, 1973

When Swordsman and his new ally Mantis get hold of a cache of Pym particles, they shrink the Avengers down to finally enact vengeance upon the team-

Wait. I think this is one of those covers that isn’t actually literal. Whoops.

Well just allow me one joke. THIS IS MANTIS’ BIG DAY!

So we start the comic with Scarlet Witch brooding. Because this is an Avengers comic and someone has to brood. But also because a bunch of jerks that strapped bombs to themselves and took off their pants almost killed the Vision. So she’s in a bad place, emotionally.

Not helped by someone making symbolic shadow puppets right outside her window.

In her moody wanderings, she also contemplates passing privilege and how since she could pass as human she never fully saw herself as different from humanity.

Unlike Pietro with his prematurely white hair and handlebar cowlicks.

Meanwhile, Captain America and Iron Man try to beat up Vision in mock combat in the Not-Danger Room to see how he’s recovered from his injuries.

To summarize:

He is fit.

Captain America agrees. Good thing Vision is an android! If a human had someone explode in their face, they’d still be bedridden, probably.

This sets off Scarlet Witch who was watching the little mock fight. Even their friends keep reminding them that they’re not the same.

She decides to go for a walk. If she hoped to calm down she’s out of luck because she instantly runs into the worst cat-caller.

Lets call him Harry Terribleguy. Harry Terribleguy stands in her way, snidely comments on her getting her jollies from kissing a plastic man (but not Plastic Man), tells her he finds her sexually attractive, and then says that its a shame that Vision didn’t die because then she’d be on the open market.

So Wanda blasts him through a hot dog cart and calls him a stinking human pig.

Which, y’know. They say violence doesn’t solve everything but violence is about to solve this particular situation.

Harry Terribleguy springs right back up from getting blasted through the air with the greatest of ease. He is downright peeved that she called him human like its a dirty word. Can you believe the nerve? So he decides to teach her a slap lesson with slaps.

[Then suddenly, from behind--] a new challenger.

Mantis joins the fray.

Already we see that Mantis is mighty impressive. With one glancing hit to the shoulder, she knocks Harry away from Wanda even though she was clearly punching him toward her. Her punches don’t just break bones, they make a mockery of physics.

Wanda tries to stop Mantis, saying random Harry is too strong. And Harry says that standing up to him is suicide.

And then Mantis punches him in the face... one, two, three... a lot. A lot times.

Mantis is apparently a master of preying mantis style kung fu. I assume. I don’t know enough to know whether the artist knows enough to portray it correctly. Also, Mantis is not a codename. Its her only name. I wonder if she was called Mantis before she mastered preying mantis style or what.

Also, she has antenna. She must have been hiding them in her six previous panels in the last two issues.

Did she learn preying mantis style because she figured ‘well I got the antenna already’? Or does mastering preying mantis style kung fu cause you to grow antenna?

Truly, Mantis is a mysterious character.

Anyway, Harry Terribleguy is gonna want some aspirin and probably ice to put on his face when he wakes up because he is WHOMP!’d. Mantis offers to escort Wanda home.

When they arrive at Avengers Mansion, the Avengers have all been worried about Wanda. She went somewhere without even leaving a note! They were about to go looking for her.

Geez, the Avengers are so clingy.

Anyway, Wanda insists that she can take care of herself (despite these comics going out of their way to spitefully disprove that whenever they can) and besides she made a new friend.

She invites Mantis inside but Cap objects. Unauthorized people in the clubhouse headquarters? THATS AGAINST THE RULES.

Wanda thinks Cap is being ridiculous. What harm could Mantis possibly do to the Avengers Assembled?

Swordsman pipes in to agree with Cap. If, for example, he were planning a sneak attack, their shitty, shitty security would have been no problem for him.

But he claims he’s not here to fight. Despite how reluctantly they accepted his help against Ares in issue #100, when he heard that Hawkeye had ragequit the team, he decided it was time for him to rejoin.

Cap is not quite thrilled. Swordsman is the worst security risk he has ever met. And in case anyone forgot, he runs through a little history of the Swordsman. The first time he conned his way onto the team, he was working to undermine them for the Mandarin.

And even if he claimed Mandarin had duped him into treachery, he then attacked the Avengers several more times for good measure. Remember how he joined Natasha’s Angels? 

But Swordsman gives his side of the story. Yeah, no. Everything Cap has said is true. Swordsman has been a shitty person. And guess what he has learned from that? It is a lonely, nasty life. You make zero friends. He is persona non grata across most of the world.

Eventually he stopped caring and let himself sink into the depths of degradation. It was only meeting Mantis that helped him turn his life around. It was her interest in him that made him want to be a better person. It was her that convinced him to rejoin the Avengers and live the right life for once.

Cap doesn’t buy it.

Wanda on the other hand is the only other Avenger on the team from that time. And in her opinion, there’s been too much prejudice involved with them lately.

And the Avengers side with Wanda. Iron Man points out that Wanda and Hawkeye all had criminal records before joining. And they both proved themselves. 

Thor argues that at the least, they can offer Swordsman a period of probation. With Thor taking the responsibility of keeping close watch on him.

And Black Panther just says that the name of the team is “Avengers” not “Revengers.” Which sure is an argument.

Cap loves democracy so he bows to the will of the majority. But he’ll also keep a close eye on Swordsman. Distrust but verify, y’know?

With that settled, Iron Man asks if Mantis is also asking to join.

Being an Avenger doesn’t really mean anything to her. She only wants to stay at Swordsman’s side. But screw it, I’m considering her an Avenger anyway. Try and stop me.

Wanda tells Mantis that of course she can stay in the Mansion and come on missions and spend girl time with her! Wanda really, really wants a girl friend to hang out with. Avengers Mansion is such a boys club.

In gratitude Mantis gives Wanda a big ol’ hug and gives the Guyvengers big ol’ kisses. I’ll talk a little about that later.

So, we get some compressed time. Several days and several missions go by with Swordsman on the team in his probationary status. Hmm. I’m reminded that his first time on the team was time skipped through as well.

At least this time we get to see some of it.

They fight sea monsters and robots and presumably other things and all throughout Swordsman acquits himself well. At no point does Thor detect any sign of treachery. Just bravery and skills.

So at the end of the vague number of probation days, Thor recommends Swordsman for full membership into the Avengers. The guy is really good with a sword, you guys. He even rivals any e’er seen in Asgard.

And its not that Vision and Black Panther don’t believe Thor. They just kinda want to see it for themselves. So how about a little friendly suspicious sparring match in the gymnasium?

So Swordsman and Vision shit talk each other a bit. Swordsman is the best blade artist in the world, Vision rarely offers a good target and also shoots solar beams from his forehead, I’ll see your solar beam and match you a sword beam that Mandarin put in my sword.

Black Panther jumps in. Did you mean that Mandarin who is a supervillain maybe?

Swordsman is a bit offended that Black Panther still thinks he’s trying to infiltrate and destroy the team. Black Panther offers a good point that in the middle of mock combat, he could “accidentally” kill of the Avengers with nobody the wiser so no way in hell is Black Panther going to give him the chance.

Plus, mock or no, the point of battle is to win so that’s what Black Panther is going to do.

And then he runs headfirst into Swordsman’s pommel with a TUNK!

Swordsman stands over the prone Black Panther with his sword pointed at Black Panther’s throat.

“You underestimated me, Panther! A lot of dead men made that same mistake, as their final act in life--”

But that’s not him anymore. All-New All-Different Superior Swordsman doesn’t kill anyone anymore. Especially not his teammates.

And apparently this puts to rest most of the suspicion the team has about Swordsman.

Another unknown amount of time passes until one day, Hawkeye is on the evening news. Because, remember, the Avengers get most of their information from television news.

Hawkeye is back in New York, making a name for himself as a solo act in Hulk #166. Swordsman dismisses Hawkeye as a grandstander. Swordsman taught him everything he knows so with him on the team, the Avengers don’t need Hawkeye.

And then he walks out of the fancy television news room with inadequate chairs.

Cap wonders if he should follow him... but decides that would just be neurotic.

Upstairs, Swordsman meets with Mantis. It is time, the hour has arrived. See, studying martial arts gives you limited knowledge of mysticism, obviously.

Which Mantis uses to summon...

THE LION GOD!

I told you he’d be back.

THE LION GOD promises the two traitors will feel the warm glow of his gratitude for preparing a path to victory and then he OH YEAHS through a WALL to attack Black Panther.

The Lion God is very big now. Also just as mean. He mocks the Avengers for believing in wolves wearing lambskins and also for thinking they could destroy a god.

Thor throws Mjolnir at the big Lion God but in the split-second he’s distracted catching it, Mantis punches Thor in a pressure point in the neck, knocking him out.

Meanwhile, Swordsman blasts Vision with an electronic ray that hits him even intangible. 

And Mantis puts a death-grip on Captain America to knock him out. So not quite a death grip.

And Lion God finally joins his own murder party and blasts Iron Man with his backup divine weapon, the Lion God Hunting Spear, sold separately.

And then with the rest of the Avengers knocked out, the Lion God just scoops up Black Panther in his big hand.

How tall are the roofs in this place anyway?

Except this time, Lion God doesn’t want Black Panther’s tribal secrets. I think he’s still a little pissed over last time. Instead, he’s going to burn Black Panther at the stake as a sacrifice to the Lion God glory.

Its always human sacrifice with this dude.

Swordsman thinks this sounds A-Okay.

But do you know what goes great with human sacrifice?

Live performances!

Swordsman performs a sword salute traditionally performed to pay homage to a liege. It looks like he’s just spinning the sword around by part of the crossguard but what do I know?

This is evidently a very sparkly salute. The sword catches the light and creates a compelling pattern of spinning flashes.

Not to be left out, Mantis dances a special sensuous dance just for the occasion! It just so happens that she’s dancing in the middle of Swordsman’s sword strobe show.

The Lion God is completely hypnotized by this. I dunnae. Maybe this performance should have come with an epilepsy warning.

My description does not do this justice. Check it out:

But so taken in by the psychedelic sparkle dance that the Lion God doesn’t notice Iron Man coming to. The armored Avenger blasts a button that drops an impenetrable adamantium cylinder right over the Lion God.

Since the Lion God was in his mortal form (begging the question of who he body jacked this time), he should be well and trapped. And Thor can just blast the Lion God into another dimension and keep him off T’Challa’s back for good.

Because that’s what Thor learned from his dad. Just dump your problems into other dimensions where they’ll be someone else’s problem.

Sure was lucky though that the Lion God was standing on the one spot where an inescapable cylinder would drop.

So about that...

IT WAS MANTIS’ PLAN. Her study of martial arts give her empathy with the natural world. After she and Swordsman arrived, she sensed a malignant force hovering over the Mansion.

So she came up with a plan to lure it into a trap by pretending to side with the Lion God. Then they’d use their distraction moves to steal his will to destroy and trap him.

So why didn’t they just tell the Avengers? Well. I mean. They were already suspicious of the Swordsman. What do you think they’d say if he told them he wanted to let the Lion God into Avengers Mansion and pretend to help him destroy the Avengers?

How do you think that would have gone over?

Thor thinks this is rad. Swordsman "played a dangerous game with great daring!” Thor does strike me as a guy with appreciation for doing things in the most awesome way.

Cap still finds himself suspicious. Faking being traitors to help capture the Lion God would be the perfect smokescreen to get away with worse treachery later down the line.

Cap is possibly paranoid. Possibly justly so. Who knooooows!

So! Mantis’ real first appearance for more than three mysterious panels!

Obviously, there are problems. Mantis being an Asian woman (specifically Vietnamese-German) with the power of martial arts. Also vague mysticism. Kind of leaning on stereotypes there.

I said I’d talk about the kissing and here I go. Its not a problem as presented where its just kind of charming. Its a problem as originally envisioned. According to Steve Englehart, "Basically Mantis was supposed to be a hooker who would join the Avengers and cause dissension amongst all the male members by coming onto each of them in turn."

That plan, thankfully, was largely abandoned.

More of a neutral than a problem but this is a densely packed issue. This is the kind of story that modern comics would stretch out to a multi-parter. Chris Claremont would probably unfurl a plot like this over a year of stories.

But despite all that, I love this issue.

There is so much good here! Using a similar-ish plot structure to sow suspicion about the Swordsman’s motives, making it plausible that he really did join the team to betray them to the Lion God. If you discount the mysterious panel appearances leading up to this issue.

That the Avengers still believe in second-chances even with everything that’s been happening in their lives.

Also, Mantis!

Mantis gets a strong introduction, at least in the sense that she gets to show off what she can do quite a bit. At this point she’s a bit of a satellite character to Swordsman, although the narration hints at mysterious dimensions to her.

Also, Mantis instantly becoming Wanda’s best friend because a best friend will break someone’s septum for you. Alas, this will inevitably devolve into love triangles and cattiness but dangit, it could have been one of the great superhero friendships.

(Imagine a Scarlet Witch/Mantis team-up book, for example. ‘She’s magic, she punches people in the throat. Together, they fight crime.’)

And lets never forget that Swordsman and Mantis defeat a god with some flashing lights and a distracting dance.

It was pretty glorious.

So now Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2 is out and I’m going to go see it. Because I’ve long hoped that my inexplicable fave Avenguardian would someday be in the MCU. She probably won’t save the day with a distraction dance but I hope she gets a cool, charming portrayal. Because that’s how she’ll be in the comics from then on.

Hey, if you like this cool Avengers liveblog, consider following @essential-avengers. One day, the liveblog will live there.

[asbestosmouth]

Are you still doing that prompt list thingy? Because if you are I have a request: Jaime/Brienne, number 38 :)

Prompt: “You fainted…straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”

Brienne. That wench.

She pretends she doesn’t see him. There she is, being all sensible, and staring straight ahead, listening to the tour guide and definitely ignoring his amused asides, or smirk, or rolled eyes. Every so often he nudges her with an elbow to the ribs, and she merely takes the blow like the man she is.

Far manlier than the rest of them, it has to be said. Even manlier than Sandor Clegane, because he might be enormous, but he’s definitely a crier.

A hot summer’s day, and they’re in Dorne. The Water Gardens are, according to Oberyn, beautiful at this time of year. He invited a small group of his friends to visit, and they ended up traipsing across half a continent to make appreciative noises at fountains, or various Martell daughters, or the magnificent architecture of the second greatest of the Dornish palaces. Sunspear blows the Water Gardens out of the water, and Jaime snorted when he thought of that little comparison, but the capital is the seat of the prince, and Doran has an expensive-minded wife who remodels every two years. Of course it’s more impressive than Oberyn’s loving neglect.

Beric, wearing shorts and hiking sandals, and practically going native despite his neck getting more and more pink as they wander around, asks pertinent questions. He’s the sort of man who spent the flight from King’s Landing - in LannisterCorp Air Force 1 of course, because Tyrion hates commercial airlines as a strung out air steward once offered to fetch a booster seat for him - reading out ‘interesting’ facts from his Rough Guide to Dorne, and yammering on about Nymeria.

“How does he remember all of that?” Tyrion, hand in hand with Dany who looks ethereal in layers of chiffon that match her hair, frowns. “I can’t remember any of it.”“Because you’re drunk, my Hand.” The Dragon Princess squeezes his fingers. She’s given Tyrion a ‘Hand of the Queen’ brooch, but knowing her it’s probably an actual artifact from the hoard of Targaryen gold that lives in the Iron Bank of Braavos. Jaime doesn’t want to know what the Hand does with his hands or other parts of his anatomy when it comes to Dany.

Daenerys Targaryen is a weird weird girl. She suits Tyrion utterly, as she’s the only woman, apart from Brienne, he’s ever respected.

“Not drunk enough. I’m going to the bar. Oberyn promised me wine. I have no wine. His promise remains unfulfilled, and unless it is, I will be sober. I cannot deal with Beric Dondarrion while sober. His earnestness makes me vaguely nauseated.”

The bar. Brilliant idea. “I’ll come, too. Coming Bri?”“Hmm?” She glances over, too involved with the conversation between Beric and the tour woman. “Sorry?”“Coming to the bar? Nice cold tonic water, with ice, and air conditioning?” And him, but Jaime doesn’t give that as the best reason he can think of.“No. I’m fine. This is really interesting.”The dilemma yawns. Go and get pleasantly pissed with Tyrion and the others, who are edging away from Beric - he’s comparing R’hllorish temples and the Rhoynar edifices of the Nymeria-Martells now - or stay with the intellectuals and not leave his wench to possibly be seduced by the many handsome Dornishmen that obvious lurk, biding their time.

Or the Triumvirate, obviously. Since Oberyn landed up with both Ellaria and Willas as his partners, it’s commonly assumed that he’s going Full Harem on everyone.

“I’ll catch you up, Tyr.”

Tyrion stares, disconcerting with his odd eyes and his scars, tilts his head at Brienne who, thankfully, is pitching in with the far too scholarly debate, and smirks as only his little brother can. Tyrion is a colossal shit, and Jaime adores him above the vast majority of people, but, Seven, sometimes he deserves a slapping.

“If you don’t hurry up, I’ll drink the place dry. Have fun, brother. After all, it’s only direct sunlight, one in the afternoon, and approaching one hundred degrees. Why do the Dornish use fahrenheit? Gorgeous people, but idiots when it comes to weather forecasting.”

It ends up as him, Brienne, and Beric, though Oberyn does emerge from somewhere and slide his arm about Jaime’s waist. He’s wearing white silk, and cream linen, and a really good hat. Bloody Martell and his dress sense. Everyone else dies in the heat, and their host remains cool and elegant.

“Ah Jaime. So handsome.”“No. Not joining your harem.”“While such temptation appeals, my hands are most full with my rose and my serpent.”

Considering Ellaria’s dangerous when wet curves, and since she lives at the Water Gardens she’s always soaked, perhaps he does have a point. Add to that an adorable and highly neurotic Tyrell, and yes. It’s a lot for even a man with the appetites of Oberyn Martell to deal with.

“Where are the others?”“Tyrion sobered up, took the rest back to the bar.”

“Yet you remain?”Jaime’s gaze flickers, helplessly, towards the woman at his right. Brienne’s in a blue shirt, the same colour as her glorious eyes, and she’s rolled the damned sleeves up so all he can concentrate on are her firmly muscled and lightly freckled forearms. At least she’s not in shorts. Seeing her in shorts might actually kill him; Brienne’s legs are the most incredible ladder to paradise he’s ever witnessed, and thinking about them warm and golden and slightly sweaty in the Dornish heat might do Things to him.

“Ah.” Oberyn pats his arm, surprisingly not mocking. “Shall I remove Beric from this triangle?” He’s the best wingman ever.

“I’d like to see you try. He’s gone pure architect nerd on us.”

A wink, a smoothness because Oberyn is nothing but oil and slinkiness, and he’s sliding a hand into Beric’s shorts pocket. Cupping. Definitely cupping of an arse cheek is involved.“Oh. Hi, Oberyn. I’m just blown away by how wonderful your home is-” Beric doesn’t respond to the friendly groping. Martells are far too pretty for his singular tastes.

“You are required.” He flirts a faint smile, and Beric sighs.“What’s happened?”

“Nothing much, but I require a man of your bulk to assist.”

The usual scenarios are thus: Ramsay Bolton biting someone; Thoros setting something on fire and invoking Azor Ahai while stoned; Tyrion being drunk and passing out because he’s surprisingly heavy to move; Jorah and Drogo having one of their obviously foreplay physical arguments again; Sandor punching people in the face for trying to nefariously touch Sansa or any of the women that they’re friends with. Since a) Ramsay isn’t here, thank the Seven, b) Jorah and Drogo are, even more thankfully, in their respective home towns and therefore nowhere near each other being wracked by homoerotic hatred, c) Tyrion’s not that lightweight and wouldn’t get pissed so quickly, and d) Sandor’s on honeymoon with Sansa somewhere in Lys, it therefore defaults to Thoros setting things alight. As normal.

“I’ll go and get the fire extinguisher.” Jaime almost feels sorry as those big shoulders slump, but Beric’s getting sunburned, he’s third-wheeling all over the place, and he can pester the tour guide another day.

The temperature rises even more. Jaime, fair-skinned even if he tans easily, feels the heat searing the tips of his ears, his nose, his arms. Unlike Brienne who grew up on balmy Tarth and seems immune to the blazing day apart from an attractive pinkness and a bit of sweatiness which, to Jaime, is seriously good on her, he spent most of his time in Lannisport. Sunny sometimes, sure, but the west coast is far rainier and chillier than the Storm Lands. Something to do with ocean currents. He doesn’t understand. Jaime and his dyslexia were never academic.

A drink. They’ll just do this bit, and go and have a drink. His head thuds with each compression of his heart, headache threatening behind his eyeballs.

This has turned into a war of attrition, of temperature and stubbornness.

Jaime doesn’t like being ignored, especially by the woman he loves. He’s damned sure she loves him back, considering she puts up with him, spends most of her free time with him, and has admitted to being very fond. However, they are also friends. Friends who plague each other, live to poke at bruises, and snark, and snipe.

The more Brienne ignores him, the more Jaime fights for her attention, the more pointedly she refuses to give him the time of day.

“We come,” the tour guide - one of Martell’s daughters, the blonde one with the look of a septa if you discount her debauched blue eyes - “to the Fountain of Spears. It was crafted in the thirteenth century by the brother of the ruling prince. As you can see, there are twelve spears. Each spear represents an hour, with water flowing from certain spear heads at certain times, and therefore this fountain operates as a rudimentary clock. The hydraulics beneath the fountain are a wonder of medieval technology, and represent the golden age of Dornish architecture-”

He nudges her again, and Brienne studiously ignores him.

Wench!

Nothing works as they trail up the Hall of the Almond, which is nothing more than an avenue of interlaced almond trees that, since they’re either side of a series of long broad ponds filled with carp, do nothing to encourage shade.

The drawl of the guide melts into a puddle in his head. It’s too bloody hot to be gallivanting around this obscenely massive complex in this sort of weather. Not that Jaime gets his hypocrisy; his father’s seat at Casterly Rock is as enormous, just upwards rather than outwards. Cold, and regal, just like Tywin himself.

“Bri.”

“Shh!”

The thudding increases in tempo, and he’s aware of a strange urge to pant. For some reason, his lungs don’t seem to be absorbing oxygen. For some reason the very edges of his vision dull, as if cloud covered and tending towards rain on this brilliant bright summer day. For some reason, he feels peculiar.

“Seriously. Brienne?”

“Jaime, please. We’re almost finished.”

The rush comes on all at once. He’s upright, and then he’s not. Slow motion. Sloooow. Knees refusing to straighten, he says something that doesn’t make that much sense, manages to smack his prosthetic into an ornamental orange tree and denude it of fruit, and then keels over sideways.

As he’s going down, hah, he’s dimly aware of someone grabbing him around the torso, and then he’s out like a light.

“-he’s an idiot.”

“I should have listened.”“Brienne. He’s an idiot. If he didn’t spend the vast majority of his time irritating you like an eleven year old pulling the pigtails of the girl he’s got a crush on, then you’d have realised. He cries wolf far too often for you to take him seriously when he actually needs something.”

Brothers are supposed to look out for each other, not comfort wenches. Tyrion remains, as always, a little shit.

He’s lying on some sort of couch, with a cushion under his head, and a cold compress across his brow. It’s nice. Cooler. Inside, the acoustics suggest, and without the murderous sun trying to make his brain explode.

“What happened?” His voice, ditchwater muddy, sputters from his mouth.

“Jaime? Are you awake?”“Mmmph. Yes?”

A hand rubs up his arm, all lovely and rough-skinned and massive. Brienne’s hands are a signature of hers, like her eyes, and muscles, and cropped blonde hair, and ridiculous sense of honour.

“How’re you feeling? You passed out with the heat.”“Did you catch me?”

“You fainted…straight into my arms.” She smiles, and the slight worry mark between her eyebrows digs guiltily at Jaime. “You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”

“The sun,” he croaks, and Brienne offers him a sip of water from a condensated glass. “I’m not built for hot weather.” For once this isn’t a ploy to get her to notice him. Everything feels shivery/aching, prickly across his back and shoulders, and the urge to beg for a hug to make him feel less awful tempts like some great hellish thing.“You are if you take precautions.” The acidity of Tyrion’s language suggests he’s been drinking for longer than thought, and Jaime scrubs at his face, winces at the suggestion of sun scorched skin. How long was he out?

“At least you caught me, wench. Faint heart won fair lady?”

Brienne considers him, as lovely and ugly-beautiful as always. The sun has pinked her nose.

“Isn’t it faint heart never won fair lady?” Jaime takes the opportunity to lob another cushion at his brother, missing by at least three feet. His left arm is rubbish at aiming.

“Piss off, Tyrion.”

“He’s obviously feeling better. I’m going back to the bar. If you need me, I’ll be up to my neck in Oberyn’s wine. It’s rather palatable, though rough. Quite like Dornish sex, so I’m told.” Tyrion deigns to pat Jaime patronisingly on the head, sending the thudding scampering through his nasal passages, before sweeping out in his always curiously regal waddle.

“Sorry.”“What for?”

“For ruining the tour.” He fumbles his hand out, touches her wrist. Even now Brienne’s turning the colour of weak tea, and her freckles have bred, like amoeba, covering every perfect inch of her skin.

“You’re more important than the tour. I should have realised that you weren’t feeling well.” She tugs lightly at his shoulder to get him to sit up, Jaime allowing the manhandling because, dammit, if he can’t let the wench throw him around a little, what’s the point of loving her? and Brienne settles on the settee. How she arranges herself allows him to lie back, head comfortable on her wondrous thighs, her fingers lightly stroking through his hair.

“Is this where you feed me grapes and look after me while I’m dying?”

“You’re an idiot.”

“If I was an idiot, which I am not, you’d not love me as much as you do.” Oh. Her touches are bliss, all short neat fingernails across his scalp, and careful caresses.

“Unfortunately, you are an idiot, and I do love you.”

His eyelids flutter open at that, and he catches the expression on her scarred pink-cheeked face. Tenderness, and fondness, and an all-encompassing exasperation that is purely Brienne.

“Love you too, wench.”“I know.”

Jaime stares. He feels so Princess Leia that it makes him wonder about his gender role in this almost relationship.

“Tyrion told me.”

“I’ll murder the little shit.”

All thoughts of slaughtering his hereto favourite brother chase from his mind as Brienne touches her ridiculously plump mouth to his aching forehead. Blessed coolness, and she needs to moisturise, and maybe she can borrow that lipsalve he likes. The one made out of beeswax and peppermint that sends his lips tingly? Kissing Brienne would be tingly enough, without the added frisson of natural oil and slick soft balm.

“We’ll have this conversation when you’ve not got sunstroke, Jaime. Have a nap.”

“Will you stay with me?” He plays up the patheticness only a little, which is an improvement on his usual needy manipulation, but he truly wants her to be there when he comes to.

A sigh, another gentle scrape of nails. Brienne should open a head massage place, but only cater for Jaime. Anyone else being near his wench with her fingers, and body, and Brienne-ness? No. Just him.

“Go to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up, even if your massive head is really heavy.”

It has to be love, doesn’t it? Every little snark, and grumble, and look, and touch. Every little complaint, and tease, and smile, and want. It’s so very much love that it sends his mind spinning again, heavy and wonderful, and making him dizzier than any heatstroke could hope to achieve.

[atypical60]

There!  I said it and in doing so made up a new word. “Fuckeduptedness”.  There’s no need to explain the word either.

It’s a time of reflection for me because in less than three months I’ll reach my 65th birthday.  It’s a weird age, it is—because it signifies the true entryway to Senior Citizenship. When you are between the ages of 60 through 64, it still sounds a bit young.  65 is that magic age. Smack between the early sixties and…seventy!

I may be getting older but I know how to rock!

And other than the usual neurotic thinking such as in 65 years from now I won’t be around—which kills me because I want to be; and the fact I am a failure in my career because I was never able to re-enter the workforce in the type of job I had in NYC, gives me a never-ending pity party. it really ain’t too bad!

…but not yet!  I gotta squeeze a lotta life out first!

We—our generation is a more youthful bunch of old people. We are not our grandmothers or grandfathers either.  We be cool!  We are fun!  We do what we want.

And They hate it!!

Who’s they?  I’ll explain. They are the experts (In their own minds) who pontificate about how we are to dress. How to wear our hair. How we are to live.  They make up the rules we have to follow.

And therein lies the fuckeduptedness of being old.

I’ll give some examples.

When you are old, or if someone younger feels you are old, oftentimes are spoken down to. It’s almost “old people baby talk”.  For some reason people seem to think as you age you no longer hear  nor can you comprehend even the simplest sentence such as “Have a pleasant day.”  We may have aged but we have become smarter and wiser so stop speaking down to us. For God’s sake, I didn’t even speak that idiotic baby-talk to my children when they were babies!  Just stop it!

Ugh. If any adult ever spoke to me in baby talk, he or she would have huge welt across their face!

People also have a tendency to speak LOUDER to you?  Why is this?  I’m the loudest person I know—please do not try to compete with my loudness or I’ll bust your eardrums! You takin’ to me?  I hope not because you don’t sound to bright.

OMG!! There is NO reason to shout at me. I can hear you!!!!!!!!!  Stop it!

The “anti-age” factor.  This is bullshit.  I want to bitch slap the marketing idiot who created that term because he or she needs to be thrown into a jail cell. Age needed to be celebrated!  Many don’t make it to their fifties or older.  My brother was one so don’t even get me started!

Airbrushed, photoshopped and anti-aged.  Ageing is a horrific experience to be ashamed of–isn’t it?

The second you leave mommy’s love canal; you begin to age. Does anti-age mean that we should all stay a few hours old? Because that’s basically what it means?  Why not pro-age?  We’re happy to have those birthdays.  We’ve accomplished great things.  Why anti-it?   Which brings me to….

The Beauty Industry.  This they despise us. This industry views us as cows out to pasture.

 True dat!  The Beauty Industry treats us  lder ladies like cows put to pasture. And these are French cows that I hung out with a few years back while hanging out in the Burgundy countryside.  We got along well–we related to each other!

They will use late-teen to twenty-something models in their “anti-aging” campaigns. And worse yet, will advertise foundations, concealers, primers “made” for us and use those same young models.  There’s plenty of gorgeous mature women with lines, creases and wrinkles on their faces.  How come they aren’t used?

Kendall Jenner featured in Estée Lauder’s 2015 campaigns.

Yes. This is twenty-something Kendall Jenner. Estee Lauder,  a cosmetics company that the “Mature” customer could relate to, now has to look at younger models to figure out just how the hell any makeup will look on their older skin. This is the fuckeduptedness of old!

It drives me nuts too because this is an industry that thinks it’s so “forward” by using gay men wearing make up to prove how diverse they are.  No. You aren’t diverse.  And neither are ads with one obligatory young white girl, one obligatory black girl, one obligatory Asian girl, one obligatory Latina and one said gay guy diverse or inclusive.    Show me the seventy-year old woman of all colors and show me that old gay guy and only then will you be truly diverse.

Where the fuck is the old lady–or old man–or the physically disabled person.  No. You are NOT diverse until everyone is included. Go find a wrinkled person.

They, the Village Green Fashion Policing Society:  How many times?  How many magazine articles?  How many internet postings do we have to be tortured with when it comes to what we should and shouldn’t wear.  I can’t even with this one.

I will wear my skinny jeans, my mini skirts and above-the-knee dresses.  Hoop earrings will continuously remain dangling from my ear lobes.  Over-the-knee boots will continue to be worn.  And nobody will or should dictate how anyone should dress.  Especially the older demographic.

I will continue to wear my leather pants with pointy-toed boots..

I will continue to wear my miniskirts with boots..

As an old, shriveled, wrinkled old prune of the pro-age, I’ll keep my ripped jeans thank you!

And I will wear those glittery heels.

And I’ll continue to wear my hair long. Even if it IS fake!

It saddens me to see that women my age, mid 60’s and in their 50’s and even older fall into that misconception that they need to dress like an unstylish, unattractive wallflower.  Why?  Why can’t a woman who is of the pro-age, boomer generation dress as wonderfully as she feels.  Wait.  Some women don’t feel wonderful. And it’s because many women have given up.  And no wonder.  Fashion magazines are splayed with clothing brands that only advertise young, nubile women in clothing that the older woman can wear and wear well.  It is an absolute disgrace and one of the reasons I haven’t bought a fashion magazine in over a year.  I’ve not renewed any fashion or beauty magazine and have no desire to pick one up.  In fact, I’ve allowed my Allure subscription to expire because they never followed up on their promise to stop using the phrase “anti-age”.

The very last Vogue magazine I read was when Wintour placed Kim and Kanye West on the cover.  If I want to read about celebrities, I’ll buy Star or People.  Fashion magazines have become trash. Bring back the actual models and get rid of the celebrities. Better yet, showcase the magazine’s true demographic of the “over 40” woman!

The Corporate “They”. This is a touchy and personal one.  Perhaps for you too, or someone you know.   Life events happen.  Some are great. Some aren’t.  And somewhere along the line, many of us, regardless of the life situation, have to re-enter the workforce.

Sad but true. Due to corporate closures I’ve lost a couple of jobs and I’ve never recovered the earnings that I’m worth. Think about that one–that’s the story of almost every person over 50 who has reentered the workforce and it is shameful and sad!

Corporate America and Small Businesses do not want to hire anyone over a certain age. It’s bad enough to seek employment over 50 but to seek employment over the age of 60 is a near-impossible feat.

three people over age 50 are holding up signs that tell stories about ageism they faced in the workplace

It’s all true.

And it sucks. It sucks because our generation has such a stellar work ethic. We come from backgrounds where we were taught how important values are.  Granted, many of us aren’t technically gifted the way younger people are, but we are quick learners.   The amount of information and computer skills I’ve learned from each job I’ve had is invaluable.   As a whole, we are open to new ideas. We are excellent workers. We don’t call out sick on a Monday due to excessive partying over the weekends. We won’t need a day or seven off when the kids are off from school or if they are ill.  We are there 100 percent.

It’s incredible because corporations get tax breaks for hiring the disabled but they don’t get anything for hiring the mature demographic. Perhaps they should, then maybe more of us would have the jobs we deserve!

They think we aren’t cool.  Oh yeah.  Ever get the eye-roll, side eye or smirk from someone younger?  I’m sure you have.  Perhaps it’s happened when you listened to the current top 40 music. Or discussing a movie or book or …. basically anything.  It’s because they think we aren’t cool.

Wise words.  No generation will ever be as cool!

Let me tell you something about “cool”. We are of the coolest generation ever.

That boho look?  We started it back in the late 1960’s.  We had the Summer of Love.  Our demographic got politically involved. The Youth Movement protested. We questioned.  We wore clothing that our parents disapproved of.

My favorite Beatle, George Harrison and Patti Boyd, hanging around playing guitar and smoking at the same time. Now THAT’S a feat!

Why—I remember the most beautiful pair of Madras plaid hot pants I purchased with babysitting money.  I wore them to go out and my parents made me go back upstairs to change. Those were the days alright.   We wore miniskirts and tattered and patched jeans. We had “head shops” where those who did not use bongs and roach clips could buy peasant tops and patchouli or ylang ylang oil.

Show me a modern-day fashion designer as cool as Mary Quant. Her iconic Mod look changed everything.  And we had her! And she’s still influencing how women dress!

We had the slick cool of Jimi Hendrix and the raspy cool of Janice Joplin.  I do not think there is anyone currently in the music industry as cool or as talented as they were. I’m biased but it’s true.

NEW YORK – JUNE 1970: Blues singer Janis Joplin on the roof garden of the Chelsea Hotel in June 1970 in New York City, New York. (Photo by David Gahr/Getty Images)

The sad thing is that she never got the chance to pro-age..

….and neither did Jimi.  That’s anti-aging.  They never made it to pro-age.

We danced.

And dance we did!

We partied.

And partied hearty, I might add.  Booge. Oogie. Oogie!

We enjoyed life. And we still do those things. It’s just that we do them at a more measured pace!

And at her age, she can light up whenever she wants!

And therein lies the fuckeduptedness of old.  It’s not how we perceive ourselves it is how they perceive us.  And as pro-agers rather than anti-agers, maybe it’s time to start a new movement!

Others see me as the figure on the left. An old, grumpy, unstylish old woman who should be thrown to pasture.  I see me as I am on the right.  Stylish, pro-aging, and only grumpy when I’m in rush-hour traffic!

What say you?  Do you feel the same way that I do? Do you find yourself being ignored or shoved aside due to aging?  Do you think we aren’t respected the way we should be?  I’m really curious to find out! Do you like my new word??????

The Fuckeduptedness of Being “Old” There!  I said it and in doing so made up a new word. “Fuckeduptedness”.  There’s no need to explain the word either.