K. Alex Walker's Blog, page 22

You guys know that I often every once-in-a-while post something others might construe as TMI. But, it’s my life. And as long as I’m not posting a picture of, “What is this on my right a$$ cheek,” I think I’m okay.

Today’s topic, aluminum-free deodorant.

I was strolling through one of my favourite places, Target, and came upon Dove aluminum-free deodorant. I’ve been wanting to go aluminum-free for a while now, and I love Dove, so this seemed like a really good segue into that world.

Now, I know why there is aluminum in deodorant. At least, in the broadest sense. It blocks sweat glands (hence, antiperspirant) and even reduces bacteria on the surface of the skin to control odor.

Odor. Let’s talk about odor.

My day went as follows:

I took my night shower.
I finished up my daily business tasks, did some writing, did some reading.
I went to bed.
I woke up the next morning and did my morning rising ritual–yawn, contemplate life, stretch, and then get out of…

WTF?

I tried again. Yawn. Contemplate life. Stretch…

Then, the Pittsburgh Steelers ran into my bedroom.

And I don’t mean the Steelers before a game. I mean the Steelers after a game…where they lost…and Roethlisberger was sacked five times…and they played the Broncos…and Von Miller had the best game of his career.

I smelled like the outside of Burger King right after you let your window down at the drive-thru.

If I’m going to wake up to liver and onions every morning, I would prefer it have body hair and a full beard (I had to add the full beard part or else we’d still be talking about me). I’d prefer it had testosterone to explain that smell. And a hard body. And a penis. (Ya’ll saw that coming. Don’t lie).

Now, I’m going to still continue using an aluminum-free deodorant because there might be some health benefits to it, inconclusive research or not, but I’ll be testing a few different brands. I’ve also added several exfoliating and detoxifying scrubs to my Amazon cart because bay-bay…this is some grown man sh*t.

I will never give another side hug.

I will never give another high-five.

Forget yoga.

Forget ever stretching again.

Here’s the Target link if y’all want to stink like me. We can start a club: The Limburger Ladies.

On today’s episode of Alex’s TMI Chronicles… *insert Law and Order sound*

Me: (staring at guy)

Him: “Hi.”

Me: “Oh! Hi. Sorry about that. You’re very attractive.”

Him: “Really?”

Me: “Yes, you’re lovely.” (Starts to walk away)

Him: “So…”

Me: (panics)

Him: “What’s your name?”

Me: (sweat) “Alex.”

Him: “You’re cute.”

Me: (hyperventilates) “Oh?”

Him: “Maybe we can get a cup of coff—“

Me: (Beats Usain Bolt’s record running away)

wHy aM i LiKe tHiS???

I can flirt as long as it doesn’t go past flirting. Today, a guy approached me while I was out and about (probably because my hair’s currently not a Bird’s Nest of Doom & I have 2 brows again so…slayage), and instant nausea. I’m still sick. I may end up with ginger tea and Infinity War on Netflix tonight.

Seriously, Waterlily?

(Who got the Golden Girls reference?)

I want men to leave me alone, but then I want one for myself to hug, lick, bite, kiss, ignore, feed copious amounts of macaroni and cheese, and ask for a puppy for Christmas.

I am not this ambivalent with anything else in my life. And I think, even if I do allow myself to even speak to a guy, I have learned the code of what makes guys think girls are crazy…and then I become every single descriptor.

My father was right when he said nobody would ever want me, ever again, after I left my first boyfriend.

(He had a whole baby on the way but…yeah. ‘My’ fault.)

Thing is, at this point, I can’t tell if I’m batting zero or one-thousand.

As an editor, I very often receive questions from authors/writers about always and never. Always and never really don’t have much of a role in creative writing. I mean, there are a few: Never write run-on sentences. Always distinguish which character is speaking.

But when it comes to formatting memories and flashbacks, it isn’t necessary to write an entire flashback in italics. Moreover, it is frowned upon. Think about what that looks like, reading an entire 20pgs of flashback…in italics.

Art should never be limited to strict parameters. (Look! Another one!)

Here’s more from Kristen Stieffel:

The difference between memory and flashback

“The last point of confusion has to do with defining a flashback. What you have is not a flashback. It’s a character memory. The character is thinking about what happened in the past—that information is his interior monologue.

A flashback is a fully formed scene set in an earlier time. So it should be typeset like any other scene. In fact, in the flashback, you would not set the dialogue in italics. You’d put it in quotation marks, just as in any other scene.”

To read more, click here.

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Ever have one of those moments? One of those human moments where you ponder on your own life? And not in a sentient, “where did we come from?” kind of moment. More so a “what’s out there for me?”

I have been told I’m a good writer and I struggle with believing it, mostly because I’m a woman and I believe many of us have been socialized against compliments. It’s like, the line between confidence and arrogance is so thin, even toeing it is implicitly forbidden.

What I can say I’m an expert in is pushing men away. And, when I’m too close to push, I simply just run. I can’t say exactly why. I mean, I write romance novels so I must believe in romance to some degree. But there’s something overwhelming about having someone close. That is why I write my characters, especially my men, with so much devotion. With flaws. As you’ll see in Julien’s book, his love for Ari is surreal and I think we like books like that, not because we want to f*ck a former navy SEAL (…much), but because we can’t see into the minds of men.

Men are socialized not to be emotive. Or, if so, in secret. Many are also socialized into being utter and complete assholes. There is the entire, “Men weren’t made to be with one woman” ideology when the man telling you that would never come close to fitting the alpha role befitting of that status.

At some point, I think we are raised to be polar opposites of each other and then somehow, tasked with coming back together and creating a life. Those of us who dance a little outside the mean, who have slipped one “two” many standard deviations away from center, we dance alone.

Me, I’ve been broken. I am flawed and I’ve been damaged. There is the saying, “I’m not what happens to me,” but awareness is fleeting. One day, you feel like you are stronger than those who stole your innocence and others, you feel like you let it be taken. And it is in those moments, in these moments I ask myself…what’s out there for me?

Do I get to have the hot guy (at least, in my eyes)? Will he be able to look past things about me that won’t change? Will he be able to love me in the way I love myself? Will he have hands large enough to, those moments when I stumble, when I fall, catch me? Take care of things? Let me take care of him? Will he allow me to worry when he has to fly or drive long distances or even if he gets ill because, at the end of the day, I want him in my life? That I’d fight fate to keep him? Will he pull me out of my shame and remind me, in those moments, these moments, that I’m not what happened to me?

Or is that all best served in fiction?

It feels unfair, really, to have a heart that beats in fear, beats in anxiety, and beats searching for love without being able to control the “when.” Or the “why.” And damn sure not the “how.” And it feels unfair for asshole-ry to be a transient thing, leaving you wondering why the “asshole” is married with kid(s) and you’re alone, stepping on the broken pieces that keep chipping away from your heart. If his life is seemingly going well and you have to tie a rope to heaven in order to prevent yourself from slipping too far into depression, wouldn’t the logical answer then be that the problem is you?

So, this is where I am. I’m the girl who sees love through my binoculars, dancing like Rumpelstiltskin in the middle of the woods, but I never approach. And when possible love approaches me, I run…run like hell. I’m the girl who has made pushing men away into an art form. Art that can be sculpted and put on display in a DC museum.

For all the girls like me, the women like me, the men like me, don’t fret. There are tunnels, there are ladders. There is always the possibility that love is simple, that it possesses an inner child that, when you decide to run from it, it’s more like a game of tag.

You’re IT and love will chase your ass until it wraps you up in a world, a feeling…the world, the feeling you knew you needed, but could have never imagined.

Starting April 1st (and no, this is no April Fool’s joke), With A Kiss, I Die by K. Alex Walker will be on sale for $0.99.

This is a limited time offer, so be sure to grab your copy!

XOXO,

Alex

 

Although it’s out of print, it will never be out of my mind. Linden, where are you? Please come back. You can’t just leave the literary world in heat suspense like this! This book was…yeah…::wipes drool::

* * * * *

RYE HEARD THE spray of water from the en suite bath. After placing a handful of condoms from the box onto the bedside table, he stripped and laid his clothes on a side chair near the window. He ran a hand across his jaw and felt the prick of an emerging beard, but no way was he was going to borrow a razor to shave. Right now his main concern was uncovering more of Lacey’s secrets. He chuckled, recalling her saying “fuck” earlier. He’d never heard her break a verb, let alone use street vernacular, which she had several times tonight. For all her proper trappings, there was plenty of fire in Miss Lacey Bishop.

Looking around her bedroom, he realized how familiar he was with the space. In fact, he’d helped her brother haul in many of the hodgepodge pieces of furniture over the years. Never had he imagined he’d be pacing her private lair, dick hard, aching to plunge as deep inside her as he could get.

What in the world was going on with him?

He wasn’t suffering from lack of female attention, so he couldn’t blame his raging need for Lacey on a dry spell. Beyond her being a gorgeous woman, he didn’t know what fueled his urgent hunger, but he couldn’t wait to explore her svelte body, tasting her until she shattered to pieces. At the prospect of riding her, his balls tightened, and his cock rose to point almost accusingly at him, demanding relief.

His patience was wearing thin; how clean was she trying to get? Hell, he was about to make her hot and sweaty again anyway. Determined not to wait a second longer, he moved to retrieve her when she stepped into the bedroom. Naked.

The room seemed to shrink and he struggled to suck in enough air. Her brown palette seemed creamier and more luminous than possible on a human being. He couldn’t help but touch her to make sure she was real.

“You’re breathtaking.”

He pulled her into his arms, before covering her mouth with his. He offered her tongue, and his shaft hardened when she took it. After engaging in a sweet battle, he lowered his mouth to her round breast. He was so hungry he’d suck both of them at the same time if he could. When he pulled on her luscious flesh, her resulting moans were the equivalent of having her hands wrapped around his cock, squeezing. He’d never been so damn needy, so ready to open her legs and shove his hard—

Stop. Keep it together, McKay.

He licked her hard nipple and then blew on the wetness he left. Shit, her tits were perfect. Full but firm, they were just the right shape, and the dark brown areolae provided a perfect backdrop for the chestnut tips. How had he never noticed how fucking sexy was? Everything was exactly where it was supposed to be, and his dick approved.

It didn’t take much effort to pick her up and place her slender frame in the middle of the bed. Her body was pliant, signaling she was almost ready for his cock. He pushed her legs wide until she was on full display. Lean and taut, her thighs curved around a strip of black curls framing her slit. The little nubbin holding the key to her pleasure hid in her folds as if it was shy, daring him to explore her softness, so he did.

“Damn, you’re so wet for me,” he growled.

“I thought you knew.” Her throaty rasp penetrated his sensual fog.

“What?”

“I’ve been wet since the second you touched me.”

He went still and tried to keep his composure as a sudden rush of precum emerged from his cock. He had to have her right damn now, but he needed to make sure she was ready. With one finger, then with two, he parted her nether lips and salivated when her clitoris came into full view. He bent down, and after several light flicks of his tongue along her moist slit, he landed on her clit and sucked it into his mouth. She bucked so hard he had to latch on to her hips to keep her in place, but he loved her reaction. He used his thumbs to keep her open as he suckled her nub in earnest.

“Rye, what are you doing?” Her voice was thick and garbled.

“Tasting Lacey.” Like he was feasting on a juicy nectarine, he sent his tongue over her moist, ripe flesh before applying a strong suction. His reward was her undulating hips and choppy moans. When she tried to push him away, he pinned her hips to the mattress, keeping her still. She was his buffet, and he was going to eat until she lost her damn mind. The task would be easy, because her pussy was the best thing he’d ever tasted. Ever.

“Rye.”

He held his head at an angle, tugging her clit in a firm, milking motion. When her creamy essence spilled from her, he slurped up every drop.

“Ahh,” she screamed and jerked and arched her sex against his face. “Oh God, I’m coming.”

As she shook through her climax, the urge to pound his chest like a primate was strong, but he resisted. Instead, he stood and retrieved a condom from the nightstand. He groaned when he almost shot his load at his own touch. Hell no, not happening; he was determined to be surrounded by her hot walls when he came.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You guys knew this was coming. Reap and Max had me hooked from page 1. It’s why this book has over 700 reviews on Amazon & almost 1200 ratings/reviews on Goodreads. If you haven’t read it yet, you NEED to.

* * * * *

“No,” I said softly and tried to push away from him.

“Look at me.”

I shook my head.

“Look at me, angel,” he said more firmly, but still in that deep penetrating voice that made me wet with need.

I opened my eyes and looked into his. He lightly raked his thumb over my cheek.

“I couldn’t sleep either,” he said softly. “You being this close to me and not being able to touch you is driving me crazy. The feeling of your lips was everything I imagined it would be and more. I want more of you, Maxine. I’m tired of being a gentleman around you, trying to ignore the burning desire to touch you…to kiss you…to fuck you senseless.”

What? Is this really happening?

He touched my lips lightly with his tongue, and I saw him lick his lips hungrily. ‘Holy fuck. I think I just came on myself.’

He searched my eyes for confirmation. I knew I just couldn’t say anything. I was speechless.

Me speechless.

There was only one thing I could do. I grabbed the bottom of the t-shirt I had on and pulled it up and over my head. I saw his eyes grow large, and he drank my nakedness slowly, again licking those beautiful full lips of his. I feel like if he doesn’t touch me soon, I will explode.

I reached up and fisted his hair to bring him close to me as I went on my tippy toes to meet his lips full on. As his hands finally touched my body, I moaned in his mouth. Our tongues expertly devoured each other with want and need we never realized we had for each other. He deepened his kiss and moaned when I pulled his hair tighter, trying to get closer to his body. Damn, I wanted him badly. I couldn’t contain myself.

He reached down and grabbed both butt cheeks, and I wrapped my legs around him tightly. I felt his hardness close to my…Oh God!!! He moved down to my neck, kissing it and biting. I instinctively grinded against him and found myself pushed up against the cold glass behind me.

“Fuck, baby. You feel so good. I bet you taste good too,” he said, while kissing my throat and traveling down my collarbone to my chest.

At that moment, I felt a shift from my ass to my thighs. What was he doing? Oh my.

I started climbing up the window as he took one of my breasts in his mouth and bit, sucked, and licked my nipple. He expertly lapped his tongue around and around, which drove me insane.

I moaned softly and called his name, which seemed to make him attack me more. He switched from one nipple to the other, while driving me out of my mind.

“I want to taste you, baby.”

“Uh-huh,” was all I could get out. I was then hiked up more, and my legs were suddenly on his shoulders as he went right for the prize in between my legs.

“Oh fuck, Mason,” I cried out, panting and trying to control myself. But I was losing miserably as his tongue licked my lips and around my clit. He moved my legs out wider, and he put his hands against the window so he could better get to me.

“Shit, baby. You taste amazing. Sweet as candy.”

Just hearing his voice was undoing me completely. I started to feel the buildup that ran from my toes up between my legs. I started to tense up, and he felt it.

“That’s right baby, come for me. Let me taste you.”

He started moving his tongue faster and faster. Then he sucked me, and I exploded…hard. I have never in my life come that hard. I couldn’t grab anything that would help me get through my climax, and that made another one come right after. I mean, he was eating the hell out of me, and I had no control. I screamed his name over and over again, as I came apart on his face. I was weakening, and he gently brought me back down and met my lips on the way. I tasted myself on his lips.

‘Oh, my God. This man is going to destroy me.’

He kept my legs around his waist, and I felt him move up the stairs without removing his lips from mine. He finally laid me down in a very large king-size bed with posts on all four sides. He walked to his drawer, pulled out a box of condoms, and threw them on the bed next to me.

“I can’t wait to feel you, baby.”

He climbed on the bed, and I frowned.

“Lose the pants, Mace,” I told him.

He smiled at me. “Don’t worry, angel. I intend to.”

He pulled down his pants and unleashed the biggest erection I have ever laid my somewhat-experienced eyes on. I bit my bottom lip as he climbed my body and rested his weight on me. I widened my legs to fit him in between me. I found his lips on me again. He did exactly what he said he would do and ran his lips and tongue all over my body. I was dying with want. I moaned in frustration, which only made him chuckle.

“Damn it, Mason. If you don’t come up here and fuck me.”

He smiled against my stomach and looked up at me. “You think you’re ready for me then?”

“Fuck no. I don’t believe that thing will fit. But you’re driving me crazy.”

He chuckled again, and I really thought I would kill him. “Am I teasing you, baby?”

 

[image error] Image courtesy of opendoor.com

It wasn’t love at first sight but I knew, when I walked in, she was the one for me. I like cute and quaint. For a starter home just for myself and future cat, dog, rabbit (as well as several bookcases), she’s the perfect size. Lovely neighborhood. A garage (I’m fine with one-car as long as the driveway can fit two). Close enough to the stores I’m familiar with. Great bedroom sizes and closets.

[image error] Image courtesy of opendoor.com

I love her imperfect kitchen. The backyard fence I’ll eventually have to replace as time goes on. The huge patio with the black lizards I’m terrified of so my father will have to remove.

[image error] Image courtesy of opendoor.com

I love her because she isn’t perfect. She needs time and work, but even without it, she’s still a damn good home. I saw myself knocking out the kitchen cabinets, getting a quaint IKEA kitchen, scraping the popcorn from the ceilings, replacing the bedroom carpets with wood. Painting.

Molding.

I didn’t know until I went looking that I was searching for a house that reminded me of myself–imperfect. Flawed. Needs work. Not as pretty as the new girls on the block but worth it. Been through some tough, hard, ëvil shît but still smiling. Still standing on a solid foundation. Maybe some ants but no termites lol.

It is my 2019 goal to own a home. It’s never been about “the American Dream” for me, oddly, but about something to call my own growing up 3rd of five.

[image error] Google images/J.Cole-Middle Child

And while I can say I used to be “bad” with money, all that changed when I turned 22.

Today, I still struggle with saying no. I still struggle with what “Yes” left me with when I couldn’t say “No” to the people who didn’t deserve the yes. How much my Yes gave them and ripped away from me.

I still struggle with those who took things even when I never said yes.

But just like Miss Butler says, in order for a Phoenix to rise from the ashes, she must first burn.

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