On Mystic Lake Kristin Hannah. Portia Da Costa Tough question… I think I just try to do little bits of writing, rather than longer works, until I feel the enthusiasm return. Feedback If you need help or have a question for Customer Service, contact us. We choose, read and discuss a pastiche and a canon adventure every month. So result now I have 2 copies of this book.

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Start your review of In Too Deep Write a review Shelves: fifty-shades-of-shite , waste-of-hours , who-published-this-dross , i-could-do-better , mary-sue , shameless-cash-in Is an allegedly erotic novel written by a local government worker from the North of England who goes by the pornoriffic name Portia da Costa. I read this when someone sent me a piece in the Daily Mail having seen my derision of "Fifty Shades of Grey" on Everything2 about other so-called "mommy porn" of note.

Next on the list was this number. Which I found laying around somewhere and commenced to reading. Executive Summary How to pull librarians with sexual harassment. Well now. Why do they have to be Gwendolynnes and Anastasias and Zenobias and Myfanwys? Her initial reaction is to sneer at his sobriquet as being a sweaty-palmed teenage online gamer - Nemesis and all that.

Her second reaction, in the immediately next paragraph is to get all hot under the collar about it and then sneak off for a crafty wank. Well quite. On to chapter two, where she meets up with a Professor Daniel Brewster, or Professor Hottie as she refers to him. This time under her desk. If this is normal practice for librarians no wonder they all wear glasses.

And at the rate that Gwendolynne is going, I see dogs and white canes in her future. Now then. You may be under the impression that this is all sexy. After all, Gwendolynne, the allegedly repressed librarian, turns out to be a total sex rocket as we all suspected and has fantasies about "kissing his boots, then his cock. To be perfectly frank with you, the whole opening of the novel is not exactly erotic so much as really rather creepy.

Think about it. Who thought this was a good idea. You just want to grab her, slap her, and explain this to her in words of one syllable. Bloody hell. Metaphorically of course, but when I read this I thought, of all things, of the s artillery game "Worms" and how if you took too long to make your move, the worm in question would look out at you and go, "Hello! Thanks, Portia. You monster. Sorry, but no. Suppose I was to receive e-mails like the above from a mystery admirer who knows a bit too much about my personal circumstances and habits.

Oh no! I went to meet my stalker for sex and something unpleasant happened to me herp derp! Enough of trashing the premise and onto the reason why you might want to read it. The sex. Needless to say, both of them are preternaturally handsome, sophisticated, and good looking. The language used is, quite frankly, laughable. I send up a silent prayer of thanks when he adjusts his position, widening his stance for stability, and presents me an even better view of his erection and his hand upon it.

Oh come on Portia. I think I could make an erotic novel work where the fairly tasty but unfulfilled female protagonist gets the best ploughing of her life off a chap who she initially describes as rather unprepossessing.

And in terms of knob size, is distinctly average. Also completely unbelievable is the idea that a professor of history is some sort of sex god. Me neither. When I was at university my professors were, in no particular order, a Scottish old-school socialist who wishes it was still the s, a greasy-haired Belgian with a boring voice, a Australian rugby player type with no neck, an old French guy who got way too excited about administrative law, and a chain-smoking woman who resembled her pet an Alsatian.

Come on. I think I blocked it out. It was just too painful and every single page made me increasingly enraged with its hilarity and fail. Nor could I get out my head the fact that at the end of the day, a supposedly practical and sensible woman gets involved with a stalker. For me, the most erotic stuff imaginable is that which is believable and in which you can understand why the characters have such a bone-on for each other. This I could not.

Gwendolynne came over as little more than a vehicle for the stringing together of sloppily written sex scenes rather than a person in her own right. For this at least we can be thankful.





In Too Deep




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