I Dun Been Kilted: Shaglander Returns!

So, what did you do tonight? Me? Glad you asked. I stood by an idyllic stream, throwing stones and–


Character Development! Internal Dialogue! Nature!

I personally love the shift to Jamie’s point of view. It’s interesting to hear his thoughts as we edge into the next step of the journey. It also helps to make such bitter pills like, oh, I don’t know– the existence of Jack Randall– more palatable. Okay, not a lot, but a little. Right away, we get reminded of what a colossal douchecanoe Black Jack really is when his, ah. . . craving for Jamie comes to light. 


Jack, Jack, Jack. You dirty little sadist.

Let me be clear: If I was given a choice between drinking this and being naked with Jack Randall, I’d say “Bottoms Up”. Wait– that sounded wrong. Shut up and pass me the cup.



If you think about it, there seems to be a recurring theme of conflict and resolution in this episode, along with something else. Something I just. . . can’t. . . put my finger on. Whatever could it be? Love? Devotion? 


I couldn’t decide if seeing Claire’s bum was worth the guilt of witnessing someone get strapped. Let me clarify: seeing someone who wasn’t wearing black latex get spanked. That was my conflict.
Who am I kidding, totally worth it.

We got to cozy on up to the oncoming Laoghaire Crazy Train. That chick has Stage Five Clinger written all over her.
And a nice rack. 
But I digress. 
In between our first view of L-Lao- Leerah– Lugh– can we just call her Laura and be done with it, for Chrissakes? Anyway, in between her flashing the sweater kittens at Jamie and the final reveal of some bad juju, there is the slight matter of Jamie and Claire’s redefining the term “Unsafe Sex”. 
If you’re a male, like me, unsafe sex means many things. It means cooties. Babies. Bad mornings and awkward nights, but it has never meant what Claire brought to the table tonight. The message seems to be, “We obey each other, you can’t spank my ass, blah, blah, blah– OH, and if you come before me, your balls will be spit-roasted by morning.” At least that’s what I got.


Shall we shag on the shag?

Three items about the love scene tonight that caused me to think.

1) I would LOVE to have been in the production meeting where they discussed exactly how funky they were going to get with each other.
Cait: “So, are we all agreed? A graze of the nipple with the tongue, yes? But not a true suckle? Can I get that in writing?”
Sam: “Define graze.”
Herself: “Not a lick or a rootle (herself’s fave word), but more of a light tongue bath. . . .like a kitten. Here, Sam, let me show you.”
2) Cait’s booty got moves. That is all.
3) I could never be an actor. Never. I could perform open heart surgery with a spork before I could pretend to be passionate with someone in a room full of people with cameras and union jobs. Plus, I like my sex like my basketball: one on one, with socks on.
4) Does the agreement on physical touching cover the entire world, or just the set?


Finally, we close with the bad juju.

So, in the warm afterglow of epic makeup sex, Claire finds what I like to call the Chicken Bones of Doom. (Stage Five Clinger, toldja!).


That scene foreshadows a shitstorm caused by a petulant teenager, or as we call it, “every day in high school.”

So, next week,right? See you then? Have you shared this blog with a friend? Been to my author page? What about a shoebox full of money? Have you sent that? 

Le sigh. 
By the way: I wrote a little zombie erotica. Just in case you weren’t convinced I’m a weirdo. You’re welcome.
Zombies, Dragons, and Witches, oh my.

We’re cool. See you soon. 

Cheers,
Terry


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