Americans do some things Very Well - lots of things, I’ve discovered. Making a decent cup of tea isn’t one of them, but plumbing is. America gets the Gold Medal in the Restroom Olympics, as far as I’m concerned. Because I have a bladder the size of a pea, I have already made an extensive study, on both continents.

The only problem is, American plumbing is so incredibly sophisticated, I’m totally bemused by it - also confused, and occasionally, seriously startled.

I have never - ever- seen such a bewildering array of levers, knobs and dials. And that includes taps (faucets), showers and toilets. What’s worse is that no two of them are alike.

It requires a degree in engineering to take a shower. Which bit do you pull, or twist or press - and in which direction? Clockwise or anti? Ouch! One night, I decided I deserved a hot bath, but I couldn’t work out how to keep the plug in, so there I was, trying to relax with one heel jammed on top of the recalcitrant plug. Humpf! Not conducive.

Faucet-wise, my most inglorious moment was having a ten year old explain to me that you wave your hands under the tap to start the water flowing. Duh! Dumb Aussie! Oh, and the water is warm! I can’t get over it.

As for the toilets! OMG! The first time one of them flushed all by itself when it detected daylight past my rising derrière, I just about ricocheted off the ceiling. Just as well I’d already done what I went there for. Even the compost loos in Yosemite weren’t too bad. And there’s always paper. I was so impressed.

So in scatological conclusion, here’s some highly significant bear poop, recorded on location in Yosemite. Note that the bear had a real blow-out on wild raspberries. Looks like happy bear poop to me. We did see a mama bear and cub, BTW, in the distance. Very exciting!

To improve the tone a trifle, here are a couple more Yosemite pics - a better one of Mirror Lake and one of me about to die partway up the almost-vertical stone staircase to the top of Vernal Falls, the Mist Trail. A “once in a lifetime experience” - as in, NEVER, EVER AGAIN! I swear it. A gradient of 1 in 8. (Note charm bracelet, BTW)

Back to San Francisco tomorrow, to see if I can find another romance writer to squeal hello to. Think I might get lucky? More later about Monterey, Hearst Castle, crappy Mustangs and elephant seals.

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I’ve seen the Eyrie of the Aetherii, the high place that is the centre of their civilization.

Strangely enough, it looks a lot like Yosemite National Park where the mountain ramparts rear so high and sheer into the blue they made me feel like an ant - and a particularly insignificant one at that.

We had three days at Yosemite and it’s been wonderful, memories to last for a lifetime. You see, for someone from such an ancient , worn-down country as Australia, the Sierra Nevada mountains are a revelation. The sheer bulk of all that stone and the way it’s been scoured and polished by glaciation is almost beyond belief.

On our first day there, we took an easy walk out to Mirror Lake. I just stood there like a stunned mullet (an Aussie-ism) staring and staring. In the end, I was so moved, I cried. (You will recall our discussion about being a watering pot.) Photos can’t d it justice, especially my amateur efforts, but I tried.

What gave me the biggest rush though, was that I could see my Aetherii, up there in the sky, so strong and graceful, wheeling against the blue, their wings spread to catch the updrafts. So many colours, so much beauty. Their dwellings are almost impossible to detect from the ground, of course, because the rock is hollowed like honeycomb with their wide tunnels and gracious chambers.

People often ask writers where they get their ideas from. Well, here’s one answer - from physical places. The moment I saw the cliffs looming over exquisite Mirror Lake, I could “see” Liseriel the Gray brooding up there on a high crag, while Michael (her master thief lover) fumes far below, refusing to give her up, to let her run and hide from him in the high reaches. I wonder what he’ll do?

In the meantime, while I was thinking romantically angsty thoughts, a mule deer walked daintily out of the brush, and into the middle of the stream. There it proceeded to do the most enormous poop into the crystal clear water, all with perfect serenity and grace. Nauture, gotta love her!

Well, we’re here - on the other side of the world. “blinks*

I’m sitting in a hotel in San Francisco with one anxious eye on the clock for when my access runs out. And I’ve just been talking to DD via Skype, complete with video. Arthur C. Clarke said, “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.” How true. There she was, my darling, and I even got to talk to the cat! (Being a feline, he wasn’t particularly impressed!)

SF is great! I’m totally charmed by the architecture and the different neighbourhoods and by how out there and sort of laid back everyone is. I don’t know if it’s a West Coast thing or possibly American, but people here are NOT backward in coming forward. They’re kinda loud. But in such a nice way you couldn’t possibly take offence. I’ve never been to such a multicultural town, the range of faces and accents is remarkable, but they’re all Californian.

Not only that, but the courtesy and charm of sales staff is simply extraordinary. They’re so polite, so enthusiastic, so helpful. Honestly, they’ve got it down to a fine art. I bought a pair of expensive jeans this morning and a top, but as the lady said, they do look good on me.

We’ve driven over the Golden Gate Bridge, been to Muir Woods and seen redwoods, checked out Sausilito. I’ve never seen anywhere so damn foggy. It just rolls in off the bay and lies there like a blanket. Not my idea of California at all.

I realize this isn’t the most brilliant picture, but I borrowed DD’s camera and still haven’t read the instruction book. But I did take it with my own fair hands! Aren’t these houses gorgeous, they call them “Painted Ladies.” Must cost a small fortune - in every way!

There’s so much else, but don’t have room because I’m going to run out time.

But I wanted to thank you all. Why? you may well ask. As the plane lifted off I had what I can only call A Moment. I got all teary with pride and gratitude. Because this Great Adventure is something I gave to My Beloved and myself, I made possible with the stuff I made up out of my own imagination and wrote down. But then - you guys buy it and read it. You spend your hard-earned cash. I owe you a debt of gratitude. (And My Beloved kisses your hands and feet. Don’t giggle out loud now, he has whiskers.)

Thanks heaps.

I thought the time would never come - but here I am, struggling to keep my eyes open, but so excited I can’t settle down to sleep. Tomorrow, My Beloved and I board a plane for a Great Adventure. We haven’t had one of those since we lived in London in the years BC - Before Children.

We’re going to the USA, a first for both of us. Starting in California, where I’ll be attending the Romance Writers of America National Conference. That will be fun enough - I love consorting with fellow writers and I’m going to parties and events and dinners and awards. (Like the Passionate Plume Awards, for which TAILSPIN is a finalist. Ahem!) I have half a dozen packets of Tim Tams in my suitcase. I’m sure I’ll be welcome.

We’re going to Yosemite and the Big Sur coast. Then we’re flying to Vancouver and doing one of those Rocky Mountains train trips and a short Alaskan cruise.

So what does this mean for Under and Over? I’ll try to post every couple of days, as usual, but I’m not certain of my Internet access, so it may be spotty. Or it may not.

Bye, bye. See you soon!

Congratulations to Lyn Taylor!!

Lyn wins a signed copy of A RED HOT NEW YEAR, four sizzling stories, including my own effort, Coming on Strong. Lyn, send me your snail mail asap, so I can pop the book in the post before I leave for San Francisco - this Saturday!

To celebrate, here’s an excerpt. Coming on Strong is the second of my Kaminski Family stories, the first, Come Howling (do you discern a theme here?) is in the Ellora’s Cavemen: Seasons of Seduction 1 anthology. It was so much fun to write about the Kaminskis, who are a little…um…unusual.

There’s even a podcast and a trailer for A RED HOT NEW YEAR! So if you’re curious about what I sound like… At your own risk, okay? The hero, Sam, is a gorgeous rugged Aussie, which is why I did it, accent and all.

“I’m back!” she called, opening the door. “Do you like Chinese?”

Silence.

“Sam? Where are-”

The bathroom room door opened and Sam Jones appeared out of a billow of steam, wearing a towel knotted about his hips and nothing else. The take out hit the floor with a soggy thud, followed closely by the beer.

The view from the bedroom door had been stunning enough, but this was even more so, because now Gina received the full brunt of his personality, the intensity of the blue eyes, the flashing grin-along with a chest a mile wide, decorated with a silky mat of hair that dived happily beneath the towel.

“Nngh,” she said eloquently.

“Bugger!” Sam’s brow creased as his gaze dropped. “That’s no way to treat beer. Lucky they didn’t break. Here, let me-”

He bent to scoop up the bottles and the bag, giving her the best view possible of the fluid play of muscle and sinew, the strong knobs of his spine. Gina swallowed.

God knew how far her tongue was hanging out, but when Sam straightened, his cheekbones were stained with pink. “I’ll put these in the kitchen, shall I?”

Wordlessly, she nodded, and he edged past her, smelling of soap and shaving cream and masculinity. His bare chest grazed her arm and she had to suppress the startled twitch. Unable to help herself, she swiveled to watch his ass flex under the towel as he padded down the passageway, so that she was standing in the same place when he returned.

His composure regained, he paused when he reached her, looking down into her face, his blue eyes dark as dusk on the water. He tapped her nose with a long forefinger and Gina gurgled. “Guess I’d better dress for dinner?” She nodded. That slow smile broke over his face. “Don’t start without me, okay?” She nodded again.

Sam took two steps toward the spare room. Something near the back door made a sizzling noise and the lights went out.

“Shit!” They spoke simultaneously.

The darkness was as thick as a blanket, the cabin so isolated there were no street lights.

“It’s probably a fuse.” Sam’s voice came deep and reassuring. “Find me a torch and I’ll fix it.”

“Yes.” Gina licked her lips. “I think. Maybe there’s one in the kitchen.”

“Good-oh.”

She sensed his body heat as he took a step closer. “Sorry,” she muttered, moving to the right.

Sam grunted an acknowledgment and took a step to his left, just as she attempted to shift out of his way. In the same direction. Abruptly, they were standing breast to breast, thigh to thigh. Nudged off balance, Gina reached out in a panic, clutching at skin and chest hair.

“Ow.” Sam picked up her hand in his big one and transferred it to the smooth hard swell of his biceps. “Hang on here if you’re scared, darl. Doesn’t hurt as much.”

Oh God, she was going to die! Self-combust, right here in the dark! “I’m not scared,” she husked. But you should be. Each scale of the pattern burned individually beneath her skin and the fire flowered deep in her empty, weeping core, all the flesh there throbbing like a jungle drum in tune with the hammering of her heart.

“Don’t give me that. Gina, you’re shaking.” A big warm hand rubbed soothingly between her shoulder blades, clasped the nape of her neck. It paused. “Crikey, you’re hot! You’re not sick? Do you have a thermometer?”

“No, but I remember.” Gina had to stop and clear her throat, relax her death grip on hard biceps. “When I was ill, my Mom used to bend down and put her cheek against my forehead. Did yours do that?”

“Yeah, when I was a little fella.” His voice came softly out of the gloom. “Hold still.”

His hands slid up her arms to rest on her shoulders, pressing her into a wall of warm, hard muscle. Soft, silky hair still damp from the shower brushed her cheek and she tilted her chin. Slowly, oh so slowly, Sam bent his head until his clean-shaven cheek rested against her forehead. His skin was cool and smooth, with a hint of the underlying heat of his blood. Gina closed her eyes, luxuriating, sensing the soft whisper of his breath, blessing the complete absence of light. All she had to do was rise on tiptoes and turn her head the slightest bit to bury her nose in his neck.

“Gina, you’re burning!” She felt his throat vibrate as he spoke.

“I know,” she said. “Don’t worry about it.” Almost gladly, she stopped fighting, let the fire roar right over her, incinerating every particle of common sense she’d ever possessed. He was so wonderful, Sam Jones, so perfect. The fates had conspired to give her this man, and the concealing dark. She’d be mad to pass the opportunity by, regardless of the consequences on the morrow. There’d never be another chance like it.

“Yes, but shouldn’t we-”

She nipped the smooth skin below his ear, soothed the spot with her tongue.

Sam’s whole body went rigid against her. “Christ!”

“You can say no,” she breathed into his neck, trailing small, stinging nibbles along his jaw. God, he tasted fabulous, like salty, honeyed sin.

“No?” he croaked. One hand slid up under her hair, cradled her skull. “You think I’m crazy?”

The other palm cupped her cheek, holding her steady. Firm, cool lips traced her eyebrow, whispered over her eyelid. A thumb stroked across her lower lip, pressed gently. She scraped it with her teeth, bit. Sam made an unintelligible noise, deep in his throat, as if something had snapped inside him. His fingers tightened against her cheek and his mouth came down hard on hers.

Why on earth had she thought his lips were cool? They were furnace hot, his tongue a searing brand that slid into her mouth like a marauder, a conquering king. Her head spinning, Gina strained upward, her breasts mashed against his unyielding chest, accepting the invader, loving it, letting it do as it willed. Oh God, yes, yes! The pattern writhed, turning her universe into a soft dark space of wet and warmth in which nothing existed except the urgent dance of lips and tongues and hard desire.

It took her long, drugged moments to realize Sam was withdrawing, very slowly and gently, but nonetheless. His arms were still banded about her, one big hand splayed over her ass, pressing what felt like a long, thick bar of molten metal into her belly. From neck to knee, there wasn’t room to slip a piece of paper between their bodies, but now his lips were feather light on hers, no more than the merest brush. Instinctively, she slid her arms around his neck and raised her head, seeking, chasing more of that addictive taste, feeling the towel begin to slip. She wiggled her hips against it, delighted.

“Gina.” It was no more than a rasp in the blackness. “Love, stop.” His chest rose and fell against hers, the breath sawing out of him. He sank his fingers into her hair, tugging gently. “Stop, I said!”

He might as well have dunked her in cold, greasy washing-up water. Ah shit! Tears of humiliation welled in her eyes. Abruptly, she jerked back, very nearly succeeding in tearing herself out of his arms. Reflexively, they tightened around her. “No,” he said. “No, that’s not what I meant. Strewth, I can’t see a fucking thing!”

“I said you could say no.” Gina braced herself on the hard slabs of his pectorals and shoved backward, feeling the silky hair tickle her palms. “Let me go!”

“Nu-uh.” He stepped forward, one thigh coming up firmly between her legs, so that she rode him, the thick seam of her jeans catching her quivering clit fair and square. As he backed her into the wall, the towel slid off completely, flopping softly over her feet, and her core released a slick gush of fluid. Oh God, she could smell her own arousal! What must Sam be thinking? She moaned her distress.

“Gina, listen.” He lowered his head, his nose brushing hers and she caught the gleam of his eyes. “Don’t push me.” His voice dropped an octave, the Aussie drawl very pronounced. “I’m within a hairs-breadth of shoving you against the wall and fucking your brains out.”

She froze, allowing herself to feel the bulky throb of his cock pressing into her stomach, the way he was crowding her, looming above her, so she felt small and helpless and oh-so-female. Surging up from the depths, her spirits rose so high, so quickly, the rollercoaster of emotions made her dizzy. Digging her fingers into Sam’s shoulders, she flicked out her tongue, licking his upper lip.

He groaned, the sexiest sound she’d ever heard. “Darl, it’s darker than the devil’s armpit in here. Tell me I haven’t got it wrong.” She sensed him run a hand through his hair. “Shit, Gina, you don’t know me from a bar of soap.” He swiveled his hips against her and she whimpered. “Jesus, I reckon I’ve got two seconds left- Talk quick.”

“Suppose I…” She couldn’t catch her breath, couldn’t hear herself think over the pounding of her blood. Something about the dark interfered with her inhibitions, made it an erotic dream, a fantasy in which all things were possible. In which she was bold and beautiful and impossibly sexy. “Suppose I tell you what I want. Explicitly.”

My baby’s gone and got herself a tattoo. Don’t get me wrong - it’s actually quite tasteful, a spray of snowflakes over her hip. On anyone else’s daughter I’d say it was quite nice, but on my little girl??

Oh. Oh…

This picture isn’t her, BTW.

And she’s not the only one. My son has an interlaced Celtic design up one bicep and he’s going to have it extended over his shoulder as soon as he can afford it. On any other man, I’d say it looks sexy. He has lovely golden skin and excellent muscle tone. (I’m a good breeder, okay?) But on my baby boy? Oh dear.

I’d be the first to say tattoos can enhance the body. Some of them are true works of art, really classy. After all, Brin in GIFT OF THE GODDESS has the most gorgeous dragon tattoo on his most gorgeous self. And the hero of my current WIP (Book 2 of the Four-Sided Pentacle series) is probably going to finish up with a small tattoo - to remind him of something.

But what is it with this passion for ink? You’d be hard put to find anyone under the age of thirty without a tatt somewhere on their person. Obviously, I need to catch up with shows like Miami Ink.

In fifty years, we’ll have a generation of wrinkled, tattooed bods creaking about with their walking frames. I fixed DD with my beady gaze and said darkly, “I hope you still like it when you’re eighty.” She just tossed her hair and smiled, being totally incapable of believing she might actually be that old - ever. They’ve both pointed out it could have been worse - like a skull with flaming eyeballs and a snake coming out of its mouth. Guess so. *sigh*

As for me, I’m pretty well ambivalent. If I was younger, I’d think about it seriously. Something small and sexy in a private place. Where I wouldn’t sag. But geez, I’d have to love that design! And it would need to be deeply meaningful if I was going to carry it on my skin for the rest of my life.

What do you think of tattoos? Slutty? Decorative? Important? Do you have one? If so, why did you get it? People’s reasons are always so interesting. Is there a difference to your appreciation if the tatt is on a man or a woman? Does it make a man sexier?

I loved writing STRONGMAN and I absolutely, flat-out adored writing the Epilogue for it. It was…um…very satisfying.

Don’t ask me what it is about two gorgeous alpha men loving each other. I dunno. More bang for your buck? *wicked chuckle*

If you didn’t know, the film, Brokeback Mountain, was the original inspiration for STRONGMAN. By the time the credits rolled up, I was in tears. I was also furious - what an appalling waste of true love! Fort is essentially Ennis, the character played by Heath Ledger. Griff turned out to be - well, Griff. He’s unique.

Elaine talked about the movie in a comment a little while ago -

Of course I couldn’t find another solution for them. In that time and in that society, they would have butted up against the brick wall of bigotry at every turn. The only solution would have been to take them to a totally different world. And that’s exactly what Strongman does. That story was responsible for helping me pull myself out of the funk caused by Brokeback Mountain. At least Fort and Griff made it. They’re happy. *sigh* There’s hope for every other couple after reading about them. Thank you Denise.

The link for the complete epilogue (two whole chapters’ worth) will be in my next newsletter - second week of July. http://groups.yahoo.com/subscribe/deniserossetti It’s my exclusive gift for the members of my newsgroup. Why? Because I love ‘em all to death for sticking with me, that’s why.

Also because I’ll be away from mid July to September, travelling in the US and Canada. And I feel bad, because my Internet access will be intermittent.

Here you go ~ BTW, the drawing is by John Singer Sargent. It encapsulates so much of what I’m trying to convey about masculinity and aggression and eroticism. And it’s beautiful.

Epilogue

The click of metal on metal sounded very loud over the sound of their panting breath, the breeze whispering in the trees. Six fucking months it had taken Griff to win a wrestling match with Fort - but now, Twister be praised, he had. First fall.

Carefully, Griff rose, backed away. Any second… One, two -

“What the fuck-?” Fort’s roar of fury shook the hidden valley. He lurched to his feet, awkward because of the wrists cuffed behind him. “You little shit, you cheated!”

Griff staggered over to a handy boulder and collapsed, his heart singing even as the breath rasped in his lungs. “No more than you did, that first time.” He shot the big man a feral grin, full of evil promise. “I wasn’t going to lose, not again.” Twisting around, he rubbed the back of his thigh. “Shit, I think I pulled something.”

“Serves you right,” said Fort sourly. “But cuffs, Griff?” They rattled as he tested them, the muscles writhing beautifully under olive skin. “Was that necessary?”

Griff straightened, brushing off the bits of grass, the crushed daisies, checking for bruises. He took his time, trying to still the internal trembling. He was naked, they both were, the daylight illuminating every muscle, every tendon and sinew, the scars on Fort’s huge body. “I didn’t think anything as flimsy as leather would hold you,” he said.

Exclusive to members of my newsletter group.

If you enjoy male/male romance, especially that written by female authors, what is it that draws you? Do you have authors to recommend? Josh Lanyon’s good, and I like Jet Mykles and Morgan Hawke when they do Yaoi.

I’m still astonished at how it pushes my buttons. Do you think that’s weird? (It’s okay if you do!)

If you don’t like it, what is it that turns you off?