If you were sufficiently moved by chapter 7 of Trixy Chestity goes to England, you might enjoy the genrecological transformation of Russel Blake:
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Years ago, way before I wrote “Kick”, I went through a period where I published in the little known “horror/romance” genre (a.k.a, hormance). I know what you’re thinking: why’s the surprisingly tough and rugged Monkmeister General writing spooky romance stories? You’re gonna laugh, but the truth is, I have a sensitive side. Not a day goes by I don’t see a woman at my job and think, “Now that’s a nice blouse on that one.” Or maybe I’m out gardening, with my shirt off, and a bunch of ladies walk by and I’m all like, “How you ladies doing?”
Recently, I was going through some old boxes when I found a scrap from one of my hormance novels. Sadly, the book is no longer in print. But it got me wondering: has the time come for me to, again, unleash my hormance talents on the literary world?
As always, I leave these weighty decisions to you, my adoring fans…
Trixy Chestity goes to England (chapter 7):
Oh how I ran that night from my athletic lover Kent, high-tailing it down the darkened, foggy streets of that nameless, tiny English town the locals called Peppergrove Hampshireton. My footsteps pounded softly on the ancient cobbles that had once been trod by Napoleon himself during his bloodthirsty conquest of the British Isles so many years before… Oh how my bosoms bounced as I bounded down that ancient, bloody thoroughfare of English sorrow, weeping tears of unfettered despair into the unforgiving night.
“Damn you Kent, you bastard!” I simpered longingly, with my bosoms still heaving rancorously. “Damn you to hell!”
It was when I was shouting these profundities that a strangeness tainted the English air. Verily I slowed down and looked about in wonder, because the English fog had somehow gotten foggier than ever, and soon I couldn’t see the street nor even my bosoms.