Happy WetsDay!!!!!

Well, welcome to WetsDay, your winsome window to the wide wonderful world of wet — NOT women, though I guess it seemed like that was where I was going, huh? Oh, you know the Sizzlers better than that!!!!

One thing about southern girls, we love our men. We love the real ones, who happen to be snoring in the next room, oblivious to the heaving bosoms in our latest WIP, and we love the fantasy ones, whether in our own books or the stories of our favorite authors.

But there is another dimension, a dimension of men who are the stuff of fantasy, while we know that they are, in fact, alive and very much in the flesh.  These are the celebrities. Strange creatures from another world, sent here to remind us that, yes, pectorals really can look like that,  and not just on the cover of a historical from Avon.

I digress.  The point is, there are some celebrities that get us extremely hot, and when you are hot, what is the solution???? You put out the fire!!!! That takes water. Lots of water. You pour it on the heat, roll around in it. Wet, slippery bodies moving against each other, finding each other, need meeting  need . . .

And damn it, then you are hot again!  What’s a girl to do?

Enough. The pressure was intense for the inaugural WetsDay. Early leader Colin Firth was expected to make a good showing based on his white shirt performance in Pride and Prejudice, though he had surprising a late entry when he fought Hugh Grant in the rain for dear Bridget Jones. The Rock is always something when he is sweaty. Sean Bean lying in a river. Daniel Radcliffe (jailbait!) looking forlorn in the rain. Lance Armstrong naked cycling in a downpour. Naveen Andrews dripping sweat on the island in Lost.

Girls, I tell you, I suffered through this, making sure I brought you only the finest WetsDay offering.  I had to look at these pictures over and over again. Why, sfcatty and I had to use a magnifying glass to settle an argument over Daniel Craig (and don’t listen to her,  it is a shadow!!!!)

But in the interest of womanhood everywhere, I present to you . . .

Mr. Christian Bale:




For those of you who are not women of a (ahem) certain age, this may be meaningless. But there are those amongst you who know what I mean. You know what it means to crave the sweet oblivion of sleep, to be so exhausted that even your toenails are punch drunk, but YOU. . .CAN. . .NOT. . .SLEEP.

It is 106 am Sunday. I have been up and running since 615 Saturday morning. I have shopped at Walmart (ick), cooked for 14, wrote 1500+ words, gone to the garden center, done 4 loads of laundry,  brought home the bacon, fried it up in the pan, never let him forget he’s a man. (old commercial, for you youngsters.) I am more tired than anyone should be. But here I sit, unable to sleep.

Now all this would be great, if I could accomplish something on the Great American Romance Novel. But I have learned the hard way that the path to heartache is writing or editing while I am sleep deprived. So I can go watch Billy Mayes reruns (Nooooo, don’t go into the light, Billy!!!!) or I can blog. Lucky y’all, guess which I picked.

But I do have the luxury of unlimited time to shop the eye candy store. Since my finished ms ends with the Duke and Duchess all goo-goo over their new-born baby, and I am just a sucker for men who love kids, not to mention my well-known predilection for Brits, what could be better than this:

Romance Mama, I want to have your baby . . .

Romance Mama, I want to have your baby . . .

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