#5. I’m pretty sure–nope, scratch that, I’m positive–that the apocalypse has begun. I haven’t heard what form the apocalypse has taken (meteors, aliens, Satan, zombies, pandemic flu, robots, clowns, Satanic flu-ridden robot zombie clowns from outer space) but the fact remains that if I go outside, there’s a real possibility that I’ll be swarmed by Something. Also: it’s possible The Something will be sneezing. Today, I just can’t take that chance.

<according to Marvel, the apocalypse will involve heavily armoured men, and fireproof women in tiny scraps of clothing.>

4. The sun. It burns! It burns! It–what? *squints, blinks rapidly* Oh, hey, look. I’m not so much on fire as I am, uh, un-burning. But I’m out of sunblock, and even though it’s winter now, you know …UV rays and such … still there! Still beaming down on me. I’m a pasty-faced Nordic girl, I’ve got almost no ability to withstand the sun’s abuse. I better stay in.

<Wouldja get a load of that? That’s called “filament eruption”. “Eruption” is never good–*rethinks* okay, only ever good in one situation>

#3. My dog told me not to. I’m sorry, did you hear my dog say something different? Is my dog giving you advice to the contrary? If my dog is telling you to go outside, maybe you ought to be concerned that you’re accepting guidance from someone else’s pet and not from your own, hunh? Yeah, something to think about, there.

2. My wedding vows.  Now, I can’t remember the whole ceremony, but there is a slim possibility I might’ve made those vows with a straight face (though I distinctly remember crossing my fingers under my bouquet). I think there may have been something tricksy in there about, I dunno, not treating mankind like an all-nude, all-you-can-eat buffet? Well, hey, if I go outside, there’s NO WAY I can be certain I’m not gonna hump somethin’: men, women, particularly attractive lawn furniture… I mean, how am I supposed to foretell whether or not I’ll be sexed-up at any given moment? Am I PSYCHIC? Am I wearing magic Sex-Be-Gone pants? Are far as I know, those aren’t even a thing, and if they are, they’re probably not flattering at all.

<What bullshittery is Steven Tyler rockin’? I do believe it’s Sex-Be-Gone pants!>

But the top of the Top 5 list, the most important, very best reason as to why I simply cannot go outside today is:

#1. The caffeine is on the INSIDE. Until I install an out-of-doors Caffeine Machine (if that isn’t already a brand of tea/coffee/espresso brewer, it should be), my beloved beverage is inside, a grand total of *pauses typing, places laptop on the coffee table, paces to kettle, counting* nine (9) steps away from me. “But, AJ,” you say, perhaps lamenting my blockheadedness, “you can carry said beverages out into the winter wonderland with you.” …To that, I say poo. Yes, that’ s my grand argument: poo. Because I never promised to be right, logical, or mature. Life’s too short to drink cold tea. You can quote me on that, loves.

(editor’s note: Today, AJ Aalto is super-lazy, which is like regular-lazy only she’s wearing a cape made from a terrycloth towel and a clothespin.)

(AJ’s note: Brrr! It’s mid-December and cold-ish here in Southern Ontario, soooo I’m gonna get cozy & warm with this blankey, continue madly scribbling the grand adventures of our favourite spaz detective, Marnie Baranuik, and drink copious amounts of Earl Grey tea. However, I’ve brought in a sexy, sassy, smokin’ guest blogger to amuse you and keep things hot-hot-HOT for us. It’s my pleasure to introduce you to author Cara Michaels, discussing threesomes & moresomes, and her new book, Their First Noelle.) 

Three’s Company… In Our Minds, Anyway

Oh, how I love fiction and fantasy. We bipedal types are reasonably creative, occasionally clever, and pretty much always horny. At least, that’s what I take away from the popularity of a certain trilogy of books which shall not be named, and the prevalence of skin-filled, just-this-side-of-porn TV and books everywhere I turn. In these dreamy, wondrous realms a threesome looks something like this:

 And let’s be honest – Okay, I’ll be honest – if these fellas wanted to, I wouldn’t kick them out of bed.

 Like plenty of people out there, I’ve had my moments of curiosity regarding multiple partners. I’ve even had a moment or two of reality, which is not nearly as sexy.

There were no furries or wizards, but… yeah. Awkward sums it up well.

 But lusting after multiple amours is hardly new. In known history, Queen Elizabeth I is suspected to have engaged in sexually charged play with Catherine Parr (her stepmother!) and Parr’s fourth husband, Thomas Seymour.

 Remember that whole ‘awkward’  thing?

Yep. The threesome (or more) can get just plain awkward. Whether you’re outted for fantasizing (like so), embarrassed (or proud) to cross it off your bucket list…

Or still wondering where all those hands and feet go when you all come together…

 The situation can get pretty hairy. And I don’t mean in the ‘somebody forgot to shave’ sort of way. Fortunately, we still have fiction and fantasy to make it oh-so-good:

 Blurb: Elf Noelle Duncan thought life among the humans would be a nice change of pace after two hundred years in Santa’s workshop. Instead, retirement is lonely and the prospect of spending her remaining centuries among humans doesn’t hold much appeal. With Christmas approaching, she wants just one night to feel alive and loved.

Kristian Winters and Nicholas Haversham are partners in business and love. They’d like nothing more than to find a woman to share their love, but they’ve yet to find one open not only to two lovers, but a pair with unusual appetites. Noelle is the only woman they want, and Nick isn’t about to let Christmas go by without making their wishes known.

Excerpt:

“This is your last chance to walk out the door, Noelle,” Kris said, his voice rough. “Now you have an idea what we want.”

“Stay the night,” Nick said, “and we’ll give you all the pleasure you can take.”

“On our terms,” Kris added.

“You’ll…hold me down?” Her entire body tingled at the thought.

“Tie you down,” Nick said.

“Tie me down?” Her breath caught. She’d never imagined being bound for her lover. Being bound for two? Heat flooded her breasts, arrowed down to her thighs and the moist heat between them.

“And up. Over. Around. How flexible are you?”

She laughed, clamping a hand over her mouth. A look back at Nick showed his hazel eyes dancing with mischief and hope. Kristian’s dark chocolate gaze gave nothing away now. He’d played his cards, as the human saying went, and let Nick tease her.

“There’s more,” Nick promised. “So much more.”

Nick trapped her hands once again, this time in just one of his own. He spun her against him. She sucked in a breath as her breasts collided with his harder chest. He scooped her hair into one hand, tugging until her head dropped back for his kiss. Struggling against his hold provoked a devilish grin from him and his grip tightened just to the edge of pain. He took her open mouth like a conqueror.

(About Cara: Cara Michaels is a dreamer of legendary proportions (just ask her about the alien pirate spaceship invasion). Her imagination is her playground and nothing is quite so much fun for her as building new characters and new worlds with at least an edge of the fantastic. She’s writing whenever the opportunity presents itself and can typically be found tinkering with half a dozen projects. Occasionally all at once.

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Their-First-Noelle-Romance-ebook/dp/B00ANFO3XM

Evernight: http://www.evernightpublishing.com/their-first-noelle-by-cara-michaels/

Connect with Cara: Website | Facebook | Twitter | Tumblr | G+)

So, tonight I was chatting with my wife over a lovely dinner of t-bone steaks and red wine, and I mentioned to her in an affectedly offhand way that I’d been asked to guest post on a blog.

“What about?” she asked.

“Well, the idea was to look at how a complete skeptic can write fiction about the paranormal,” I responded.

She looked at me with one eyebrow raised.  “And what are you going to say?” she asked.  “How does a skeptic write paranormal fiction?”

“Well,” I said, and I slipped into the supercilious tone that I sometimes use when answering questions in my biology classes, and which undoubtedly annoys the absolute hell out of my students, “I think that the main reason is that I am aware that my books are sorted into the ‘Fiction’ section on Amazon.”

“Are they?” she said, in a “You wanna watch that attitude, bub?” sort of way.   Then she frowned thoughtfully.  “But, you know, that doesn’t really explain anything.  Because let’s face it.  For a guy who doesn’t believe in all that stuff, you give every evidence of being obsessed by it.”

“I’m not obsessed,” I said, bristling a little.

“Oh?” she said sweetly.  “Would you mind telling me what poster you have on your classroom wall?”

I mumbled something inaudible into my wine glass.

“I am referring, of course,” she said, “to the one with the large picture of the UFO, that is captioned, ‘I Want To Believe.’”

Slam-dunk.  Buzzer sounds.  End of game.

 Dammit.  I hate it when she’s right.  Which, unfortunately, seems to be most of the time.

The problem, of course, is that if my glib one-liner won’t do as an answer, I’m thrown back to the original question: why would a guy who is a 26-year veteran science teacher, who teaches (amongst other things) a Critical Thinking class, who writes daily on a blog that has as its prime purpose poking fun at weird, counterfactual beliefs, write a short story about a guy whose life is in danger because he just had wild sex with a vampiric ghost he met while exploring an abandoned house?

Oh, and that’s just the last thing I wrote.  Here’s a brief sampling of other topics from my fiction:

• A woman who, like most of us, sees things out of the corner of her eyes.  However, unlike most of us, the things she sees are real.  And dangerous.  (“Periphery”)
• A college student who finds that reality changes every time his back is turned.  (“House of Mirrors”)
• A guy who gets possessed by the ghost of his great-great-grandmother.  (“The Conduit”)
• Two high school students who discover that they can read each other’s minds.  (“Shadowboxing”)
• Ten people trapped in an apartment building during a hurricane.  With the monsters.  (“Convection”)
• A skeptical biologist who finds out that local children are being replaced by duplicates.  Oh, yeah, and then he runs into Slender Man.  (“Signal to Noise”)

So, anyway, you get the idea.  My wife’s use of the word “obsession” is actually pretty apt.  But the question is, why?  When the subject of the “I Want To Believe” poster came up, my wife asked me, “Do you really want to believe?”  And I said, “Hell yeah.”  Do you have any idea how cool it’d be if that stuff existed?  Bigfoot?  UFOs?  Psychic stuff?  Ghosts?  Man, it’d be awesome.  Of course, being (not to put too fine a point on it) a great big weenie, the first time I saw Bigfoot I’d probably piss my pants and then have a stroke.  But still.

 There’s the inevitable problem, of course, of the huge revision in my worldview that would have to take place if even one of those things turned out to be real.  For one thing, I can’t even begin to estimate the number of retractions I’d have to write in Skeptophilia.  (“I hereby apologize to all of the psychics and mediums I’ve insulted over the past four years…”)  But still, and in all seriousness:  isn’t that what being a skeptic means?  If you are honestly a skeptic – and not just a professional scoffer – you revise your opinion based upon the facts and evidence at hand, regardless of how uncomfortable that revision might be for your pride.  On some level, honest skeptics are always waiting for evidence, because they are never quite sure they have the complete picture.

Of course, in the meantime, the real reason I write all this stuff is: it’s fun.  How would I react if suddenly confronted with Slender Man?  How would I handle it if every time I turned around, everything had changed – and the only one who realized it was me?  It’s a rush creating a new world, a world whose rules are different from the ones science has uncovered.  It’s a blast to try to come up with a self-consistent scheme by which the universe could work… and then send some characters in to play inside it.

Or scream in terror.  Or get chased by monsters.  Or get eaten.  You know how it goes.  Not all universes result in a happy ending.  Which, now that I think of it, would also make a great caption for a poster.

(editor’s note: Gordon Bonnet is a writer, musician, teacher, and scuba diver, and currently lives in upstate New York. Also: he’s awesome. That’s not opinion, that’s scientifically proven. On the Electro-Badassery Scale, he registers at 35.7K volts of Awesome, which is why his hair sometimes does that thing at the top, and why when his socks land on the laundry pile they make that snap-sizzle noise. Author of Skeptophilia, as well as 15 delightful works of fiction, he blogs at, shockingly enough, Skeptophilia, where you can find his charming wit and big science-licious brains at work…)