I also wrote about 3,500 more words for the novel on Sunday. It took forever. I don't know if I'm going to be able to do the 50,000 in a month. I'll post the excerpt at the end of this entry, but let me warn you it's something I wouldn't usually let out in the public eye. There's a LOT of stuff in there I would've gone back and fixed, or cut altogether, if I hadn't been going for speed and volume.

And speaking of writing and stuff, you'll notice that I'm clamping a �Badsnake on the top of these posts. There's more to copyrighting than just slapping a � in front of it. If you want to know more, go to the Library of Congress copyright section and look at the section on non-dramatic literary works. You have to have a PDF viewer enabled in your browser.

It costs $30 to copyright a manuscript, but it's not too hard to do. Just go get the Text Form with Instructions, or the Short Text Form, which I'd guess every NaNoWriMo novelist would qualify to fill out, and follow the directions. Don't miss the directions on how you have to print the bastard forms out on the Forms page. That's the hardest part. And, if you do photography, you can photograph a humongous collection of photography (as long as the copyright is to be registered to just one person) and it's still only $30. You do have to provide a copy or copies of the work you're copyrighting.

Because I'm posting bits (but not all) of this as I go along, I'll copyright the completed work when I'm done in case I want to use portions of it for a "real" novel. Oh, and you can copyright under an alias as long as the real name is revealed in the formal documentation.

That's your lesson in copyrights for today, boys and girls.

Angel got a metal crate this weekend, and she doesn't seem to mind it a bit. We haven't had one accident in the house since we got it. And that Nature's Miracle shit that has enzymes that eat away the poop and piss in your carpet is da bomb. Good stuff.

Okay, here's Chapter 2, which I'm only posting because it's the easiest way for me to let Sara read it before she goes to work.

Eleanor sat at the bar in a goth club on the south side of Baltimore thinking that at 27 she was already too old for this scene. She wasn't sure what had possessed her to come out at all. She'd put a black rinse in her red hair, which she would have to wash out sixteen times over the weekend so that it would be somewhat back to normal before she went to work on Monday. She left the eyebrows alone, creating a certain disturbing incongruity in the look. And she'd applied a heavy coat of maroon lipstick that looked ridiculous in any kind of light, which fortunately this club did not have. Her face was naturally pale. No need for that pancake white shit; she was born looking that way. Mild mannered special archives librarian by day; loose goth girl by night? It didn't really fit. But that hadn't stopped her before.

She couldn't deny that she had a thing for taking chances. Going home with guys she'd just met. Hoping for some extraordinary sex and occasionally getting it. But she always seemed to be searching for some elusive "more" that she hadn't found yet. She didn't even know what she was looking for. She just knew she would know it when she found it. So she lurked in a lot of different sexually charged environments. Goth clubs were just one. She'd been to swingers clubs, S/M bars, pansexual play parties. She kept her options open and had made some casual friends who she'd call for a good fuck. Guys who would go away when she was done with them and not beg to stay around and become an extension of her sofa.

With her back to the bar, she surveyed the crowd. Goths weren't big on dancing here. She guessed it would look too much like they were having fun, and we couldn't have that. They stood in clusters on the edges or huddled around tables that billowed plumes of cigarette smoke. On occasion a couple would face off on the gray dance floor and intently stare at each other to the music.

It was a vampire theme night, so a lot of the men and some women sported fangs. It was easy to identify the hunters from the hopeful victims. The great majority of patrons were drinking red wine from thick goblets, dainty cordial glasses of framboise, or some thick red syrupy shooter served only on vamp night. Eleanor had tried one and it was nasty, if potent, stuff.

Some of the crowd was quite sexy. They looked good in black. Eleanor's intention was not to blend in with the rest of the crowd, so she wore a dark green velvet dress with a tight lace-up bodice and good cleavage, just an inch or two of white lace spilling over the neckline and out of the cuffs of the long sleeves. It looked like something you'd see the serving wenches wearing in a production of "Oliver Twist." The hem stretched down to mid-shin, and she wore a sturdy pair of black buckled and laced engineer boots that had been nearly impossible to find in a size to fit her tiny size-5 feet. In fact, she'd found them in the boy's department at Sears inbetween sets of sneakers with reflectors and cartoon characters on them.

She glanced to her left and her eyes lit on the man sitting next to her who was doing the same sort of crowd watching. He was thin. Gaunt almost. Heroin addict or just heroin chic, she wondered. His black button-down shirt hung from broad shoulders like it was on a coat hanger. The hair was good. Just past shoulder length, blondish brown, wavy but not frizzy like so many guys'. And his features were big. Big, strong nose, big eyes, lips that were full, but not ridiculous like a Baldwin's, a chin that stood up to the nose but didn't overpower the face. He looked slightly Russian, she thought.

He glanced to his right and caught her staring at him. She looked down at her wine.

"You're not like the others here," he said.

Line, she thought. She looked up to meet his eyes. They were reddish brown, like a red bay horse.

"You have a beautiful throat," he said.

Weird goth line, she thought and smiled.

"I bet you say that to all the prey." She smiled broadly at him, waiting to see if his next words would be more original or if he would lob her something easy to slam.

A deep, robust feminine laugh rang out across the bar, almost unsettling in its genuineness in such a den of pretension. It distracted the man from whatever he might've said next, and his eyes sought out the source of the merriment.

It was a woman Eleanor had seen before. A big girl, short and generously rounded with whitish blond dyed hair and a winestain birthmark on her face which she emphasized by leaving it exposed when she applied her pale face. The purple of the birthmark cascaded from her right temple, across her eye, and down her cheek as if she'd been slapped by Jackson Pollack. Her costumes were always elaborate, and tonight's was no different. Her dress was gauzy black and dusted the floor with the hem. She wore a black lace shawl over her bare, powdered shoulders and a cameo choker.

Without looking at her, the man said "Excuse me, please," and walked toward the woman. If he was gaunt, he was also graceful. No drunken or druggy sway there, she noted, and felt a little miffed at his swing in attention. She watched as he introduced himself, kissed her hand and simultaneously bowed without looking idiotic like most of the men who tried that move.

The woman let him know clearly, at least with her body language, which was all Eleanor could evaluate from that distance, that she was flattered but not a pushover. Then he withdrew to the shadows by the wall where she and her friends stood, and it was as if they immediately forgot he was there. Eleanor watched him listening to the conversation, observing the others, but they never really looked at him again. Wine woman's friends paired off and strolled to the dance floor for some moody swaying, but just as she moved to follow them, the Thin Man reached out from behind her and trailed a hand up her bare arm. The woman threw her head back slowly and drew in a deep breath as if she'd just come standing right there. Thin Man stepped closer, making full body contact, his front to her back, took both her upper arms into his hands and bent to whisper in her ear.

Wine woman put down her goblet and strode off to the back of the club where there were restrooms and a warren of hallways dimly lit with red track lights. Thin Man followed closely behind. Eleanor didn't doubt that it wasn't a bladder emergency that had inspired the hasty exit. Well, good for him, she thought, trying to block of a pang of why-not-me.

She returned to her crowd watching, easily deflected a couple more hitters who didn't interest her at all, and sipped at her wine with a lazy reserve that seemed to annoy the bartender. She'd leave a big tip; he'd get over it.

Forty minutes later, Wine Woman returned starry-eyed. She sprawled on one of the sitting area divans and languidly reached for a glass of wine that may or may not have been hers. Eleanor grinned with dismay. Well, damn. Eleanor felt more than saw him sit down beside her.

"She looks happy. Who is she?" she asked.

"I don't know. She just looked like she'd enjoy a little appreciation."

"Really?" asked Eleanor with a sardonic tone. "And you dole that out to the helpless and needy on a regular basis, do you?"

"She neither of those things," he replied, staring at her with eyes that caught at her like grappling hooks. She noticed he looked better somehow. The dark rings under his eyes were gone and his cheekbones didn't stand out so much anymore. Must've been makeup, she thought. But it had looked so real. The improvement irritated her somehow. It couldn't be jealousy. The woman had obviously done something for him.

"So what? She gives good head?"

He turned and nailed her to her seat with his glare. "That was crass and uncalled for."

Eleanor cut her eyes down to his boots. God, he was right. What a skanky thing to say about a woman she didn't even know. She felt her ears turn red. "Point taken," she said. "I apologize."

She looked up again as he turned his attention back to the room. She didn't want the conversation to end there. She wanted some of that appreciation for herself.

"Where did you take her?"

"Why do you care?" he said, not looking at her.

"Believe me, I don't," Eleanor said, getting ticked again. Who did this guy think he was? She was tossing him a bone here, wasn't she? She knew she wasn't the sexiest woman in the world, but she looked fucking hot in this dress. And what guy didn't want to brag about a tryst when a woman was out-and-out asking him? She turned her gaze back to Wine Woman whose eyes were shining as she regaled her pack with the story of what had happened to her. Her audience kept darting assessing glances at the Thin Man, or not so thin as it turned out.

Eleanor decided to casually walk that way and see if she could eavesdrop, but as soon as she'd set down her wine glass, the man had firmly wrapped his hand around her arm just above the elbow.

"You do care. It bothers you." He looked near angry and she didn't understand why. "You see too much," he said cryptically.

Time to go home and call it a miserable night, she thought. "I don't care. Let go of me. I'm leaving." The man stood in front of her, close enough for her to feel his breath. His eyes caught hers and she couldn't look away this time.

"Come with me, little bitch, if you want to know what makes her smile so."

She ought to slap him. She needed to leave. But something in the tone of his voice had just made her wet in a heartbeat. His daVinci smile was dangerous, irresistible.

He let go of her and walked into the same passages where he'd gone before with Wine Woman. Eleanor followed. He didn't go into the warren of hallways as she'd expected, but into the well-lit foyer of the restrooms and through a third door marked "No Admittance." It wasn't even locked. It opened into a stairway that led to a second floor. Eleanor closed the door behind her and looked up to see his boots disappear to the left at the top of the landing. She lifted her skirts and hurried to the top. She hadn't been aware that this club even had a second story, though now that she thought about it, it didn't surprise her. Were there storerooms up here? Administrative offices? Processing centers for an underground slavery trade? Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

She reached the top of the stairs and looked around. Another hallway stretched in both directions, lined with doors about every ten feet. Her mystery man stood at the end in an open doorway on the left. Eleanor's heart was pounding. Go with it, she thought to herself. This could be fun if you just don't analyze too much and go with it.

The only light was from the stairway and the open door. She walked toward the man, enjoying the way each step forward pushed her skirt in a wave of heavy velvet that fell back to brush the stiff underskirt against her bare legs. His face didn't show anticipation or expectation. He looked as if he knew exactly what would happen now, exactly how she would behave from here on. I throw you a curve when you least expect it and take you down a notch, she thought as she stepped into the pool of gold-hued light and turned on her heel to enter the room.

She was surprised. She'd seen sex rooms like this in a club in San Francisco, though she hadn't had any idea that this Baltimore establishment offered this kind of amenity. Of course, they couldn't advertise this sort of thing. But the ones in San Fran had looked more transitory, like the sex version of an office cube. Bare bones, bare expense, one size fits all. This one looked like it belonged to him, even though there weren't any personal items scattered around.

There was actually tasteful wallpaper, a small print on a muted background. An oddly sized antique bed that looked bigger than a twin but smaller than a full with a short, vertical slat headboard that showed some wear in its dark patina. A small lamp with a glass shade sat on the bedside table, and a shallow armoire was against one wall. The appointments were too good. Nothing was mail order or pre-fab.

She'd just taken in the details when she heard the door latch and lock behind her. In one swift move, he ended her examination of the surroundings by wrapping his hand around her throat and pushing her up against the door. She felt his power and dominance like an electric shock coursing right down to her cunt. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

He wasn't hurting her. He wasn't choking her. His hand wrapped around her throat in a way that made her feel owned, the gentle pressure a reminder of her weaknesses.

He bent to kiss her and she returned it. His lips were soft and strong, matching the movements of her own. She opened her mouth to his and felt the heat of his body's response. He didn't taste like wine or smoke or another woman, but mint toothpaste. His tongue felt cool against the warmth of hers and she wrapped her arms around his neck, delighting in it. Oh, god, he could kiss. He was possessive without being crushing, mastering without trying to swallow her whole. She could feel her clitoris swelling with want.

He took his hand from her throat and she missed the pressure. One hand pushed her back against the door at her waist and the other moved from her neck down to trace a thumb over the exposed flesh of her chest. She moaned as he moved to untie the bow of laces between her breasts.

She drew her hands down his back. He seemed so large now. So weighty. His back was hard with lean muscle. She intended on getting a good feel of his ass, but as her hands dipped to the waist of his slacks, she recognized right away the hilt of a knife tucked into his trousers. So the boy likes to play rough, does he.

As he worked slowly at pulling laces through the eyes of her bodice, she lifted the dagger from its sheath. She ran her finger along a four-inch blade as he kissed her neck beneath her ear. She slid the knife along his back to his side and let the tip lodge at his ribs.

He froze. And his smile curled against her skin.

"What's this?" she asked, keeping her tone light.

"Would you like me to show you what it can do?" he replied as he let the hand at her waist drift down to cup her behind.

"I think I know what it can do," she said. "I'd like to know what you use it for."

"I don't think we know each other well enough for that yet," he said, letting his hands fall and backing away a step. "But we may before the night is out."

"Roll up your sleeves."

"I beg your pardon?" His eyebrows lifted.

"I want to see the insides of your arms," she said as she stood up fully, leaving the comfort of the solid door behind her back, only to find her knees a little weak.

"Oh." He grinned, and with a deft move at each cuff, slid each sleeve in turn above his elbow. Prominent veins over ropy muscles, but no track marks, she noted. "Satisfied?"

She nodded. "Now what, exactly, do you use this knife for?" she asked again. She allowed him to take her free hand and pull her around with her back to the bed. She kept the knife pointed at him, held close to her body. He moved close enough to caress the side of her face. And then he took a handful of her hair. He pulled back and she instinctively moved her arms out and away for balance. He grabbed the wrist of the hand that held the knife and kept pulling her back and down until she found herself lying on the bed with the weight of his body on top of her. He kissed her again. Hard. When he reached between them and clasped one of her nipples between his fingers, pressing and twisting, she gasped from the sensation and relaxed her grip on the knife. He coaxed it from her fist without any difficulty.

"I use it to scare little girls into doing what they're told," he said.

"What if they want you to scare them?"

"Then they should be careful what they wish for."

He put the knife hilt in his mouth and removed his shirt. His skin was pale but not blotchy. His pecs were hard and flat, his whole abdomen hairless except for a thin trail from just above his navel and into his waistband. She could see the rise of his cock through the black fabric. It looked like it might be worth the effort. She scootched further onto the bed. Her loosened bodice gaped, and her left nipple, the one he had twisted so well, emerged above the lace.

He took the knife from between his lips and asked "What is your name?" he asked. The formalities seemed so odd in this room.

"Eleanor."

He flipped the knife through the air and it stuck in the floor near the corner. "I am Vincent."

That was dramatic. She wasn't sure if she'd said that out loud or not.

He reached for one of her boots.

"Don't bother," she told him. "They're hell to get off and a pain to get back on."

He let her foot drop and lowered his body fully across hers. Looking into her eyes, he said, "You don't scare easily, do you?"

"No. Not at all," she replied, grinning at him.

"Maybe you should rethink you instinctual responses," he said, suddenly serious, and he bared his teeth, flashing elegantly pronounced canines before he lowered his head to her breast.

She took the bait for just an instant and felt a jolt of adrenaline fear. Then she realized that he was just another one of the fang wearers, like all the others. He just hadn't shown his until now, which was strange in itself. Usually the men who invested in the nice looking fangs like his couldn't keep themselves from showing them off constantly, walking around trying to look menacing.

It wasn't unusual for Eleanor's mind to wander during foreplay. Her thoughts would leave her body and rush back again for the good parts. But what he was doing to her breast with those teeth lit her on fire.

"Oh, god. Yes. Hurt me." She wrapped her legs around his hips and pulled him closer as he dug in. His cock was hard against her thigh. She grabbed the back of his head and pulled it closer to her breast.

"Don't stop." He didn't. He kept working at her, unthreading the last of the long laces and moving to the other breast. His hand pushed up her skirts and brushed lightly at the wet crotch of her panties, making her shiver. He pulled at them and she lifted her hips to help. They ended up in a tangle around one of her ankles.

He dipped his fingers into the wet cleft and she squirmed in pleasure as he stroked the swollen labia. He kissed her again and she tried to devour him back. He slipped two fingers inside her and she threw her head back into the pillows, breaking the seal of their lips with a cry. He worked his fingers up and deep inside her and fell into a forward churning pace that had her digging her fingers into her shoulders and coming loudly in a matter of moments.

Her torso curled off the bed and he pushed her back down, holding her to the mattress with one hand spread across her chest as she convulsed and one orgasm died and another began.

Then he stopped and took his hand away.

"No!" Her eyes flew open. She saw him reach into his back pocket and take out a condom. She tore at this belt, unbuckling it and then pulling at the button of his fly.

"Lie back," he told her.

"Fuck me. Please."

He was so goddam slow. Undoing the button, easing down the zipper.

"Please."

And then reaching down into his briefs, maddeningly slow, fucking teasing her, slowly, slowly, slowly pulling out his cock, thick, thick and hard, arranging it, sheathing it in the condom.

"Fuck me." She couldn't tear her eyes from it until he pushed her down again and his face was in hers. She felt the blunt knob of the head pushing at her.

"Oh, god. Yes." And then the burn as he stretched her cunt wide with the breadth of it. She let out all the breath she'd been holding in a cry and sucked in a new one as he eased in further.

"Fuck me!" she screamed and she threw her knees wide and tried to grasp at his hips to pull him in more. He thrust his hips forward and slammed home.

Pain. Pain, pain, good pain, oh god yes, it hurts. He pounded into her like he was trying to teach her a lesson in brutal fucking and she loved it. And just as she could feel another climax coming on, he lowered his head to her shoulder, baring those fangs again, and he bit down hard.

"Fuck!" His tongue. She could feel his cock and his teeth and his tongue and everything else was gone. God, her shoulder hurt where he was biting her and her cunt hurt where he drove into her like a spike.

He was drinking her. He was pretending to drink her, his mouth so hot it burned, it felt so good, and Jesus Christ here it comes. The first contraction hit like a massive wave and sent her limbs involuntarily inward, and her whole body, inside and out clamped down on the man who was throttling her insides to jelly and tearing at her shoulder with his teeth.

She kept coming and watched as he sat up and wrapped his arms around her thighs, pulling her even closer for deeper penetration, his face strained, his lips so so red, his abdomen rhythmically bucking forward like a pile driver. She felt the heat of the ejaculate through latex inside her. Inside where she was now raw and unbearably sensitive.

She let her eyelids drift closed and lay her head back down as the post-sex sensation of bonelessness filled her like a liquid. She remembered turning onto her side and feeling his body wrap around her before she drifted off to sleep. She remembered that it felt warm and safe. She remembered thinking it odd that she could relax when sex with a stranger usually left her feeling wired and energetic. She never fell asleep like that before.

Moving on - 12:11 p.m. , 2007-08-14

Where the hell have I been? - 12:10 p.m. , 2007-02-19

Holy shit! - 2:24 p.m. , 2006-01-11

Stuffing recipe - 6:17 p.m. , 2005-12-13

Good Life Update - 10:22 a.m. , 2005-11-11