GEMINI: Hiya! We’ve actually “met” about 100 kajillion times before–most recently this weekend–but who are you today? We know you like variety, Gemini, but could you please, for the love of Cheez Nips, pick a face and stick with it for more than one day? You’re making those batty Aquarian nutbars look stable by comparison. 

CANCER: Just because you secretly love being spanked and called a dirty little fucktoy doesn’t make you a bad feminist … worshipping 24/7 at the Altar of the Wondrous Wiener does. Your judgment is clouded, possibly by an excess of spunk this month. Claws in! Back to your shell, Cancerian! Wall-up!

LEO: You know that one night stand you had on Thursday night? One word: herpes. Luckily, Leos thrive on drama. And what could be more dramatic than sores on your hoo-hoo-dilly? Oh, I KNOW! Finding sores on your hoo-hoo-dilly while naked skydiving. Soooooo… book a skydive before you peek at yer schlong, K? You. Are. Welcome.

VIRGO: Probably you should take that prickly stick out of your tight little sphincter and beat yourself in the squash with it, and save me the trouble.You’ve been a total twat lately. To everyone. A Taurus in your life is contemplating clobbering you (but he always kinda does, because you dare to disagree with his opinions). Aries is filing a restraining order (but you earned that).

LIBRA: Venus is your butt-buddy this quarter; yes, that’s right, you’re going to continue to be this delightful for months. You are effortlessly charming and eminently graceful, and all things Venusian are granted in excess. Now, if you’ll kindly excuse the rest of us–suddenly, inexplicably, we feel the need to puke. 

SCORPIO: Before you read this, take your hands off your junk. Yes, you’re a sexy ass-monkey, but we need a break from all your heavy breathing (pls note: the digital pictures are still–as always –much appreciated). Avoid Cancerians this month: your casual hot self usually has little effect on hard-shelled Cancer the Crab, but the stars have aligned for a brief, torrid romp. Steer clear! Though the sex will melt your face, moody Cancer can easily douse the fire you stir. 

SAGITTARIUS: This time you’re not right. No, you’re not. No. Not. No, really. Seriously, you’re not. Hey, even the  Magic 8 Ball at work said so, and that thing’s been dropped by 8 thousand kids. Also: stop texting me. All your “I AM SO” s are costing me money. (Note: for who’s actually right this month, see Taurus)

CAPRICORN: Having people take advantage of you is not always a bad thing. For instance, a certain Cancerian is eyeballing your crotchal region, and fancies herself your future Sex Kitten. Caution: if you stop petting Sex Kitten, Sex Kitten scratches, and will purr the entire time she’s shredding your face. (For more warnings about Sex Kitten, please see Editor’s Note)

AQUARIUS:As it often does for Aquarians, adventure abounds! OMG! Excitement is right around the corner, now. OMFG! It’s a giant yellow M!! HOLY SHIT! Whatever could it mean? Hasten to the quest and solve the Mystery of the Golden Arches. Bring $1.25 (pro-tip: Hello Kitty is the toy of the month) Take a Sagittarian with you–stuffing their mouth with “beef” might shut them up for a while.

PISCES:Ah, quit yer bubberin’!! For fuck’s sake, it’s just make-believe! How many times do I have to say it? YOU CAN’T WATCH NICHOLAS SPARKS MOVIES. Oh, this was–wait, you’re crying at the end of Willow? *sigh* Grasp reality with both hands, firmly, Pisces. The rest of the world needs Kleenex too. In fact, Scorpio could use a box or four about now.

ARIES: “You know who” is a “you know what” … and you know what to do about it. And you will … soon … or your sister will “facilitate”. And you don’t want that. Because your sister is a Cancerian with temporarily poor judgment due to orgasm overload (more commonly known as “OO”, such a terrible affliction–should hold a telethon, really) and will turn the situation into a ginormous clusterfuck. Then Sagittarius will say “told you so” and Pisces will cry and Scorpio will wander off to do a pro-wankn’flex in the bathroom mirror and I just can’t stand by and let this all go down! I can’t!

TAURUS: “Blah blah blah blah blah <insert your opinion here> blabbity-blah <your opinion rephrased> blah blah blah blah <shocking slur> blah blah <your opinion stubbornly repeated here> blabbity-blah” is what we hear. Allow me to speak for the rest of the zodiac when I say: by all means, continue to run that mouth of yours. I hope for your sake that you’re immune to pepper spray. And baseball bats.

And in closing, Ask the Bitchy Psychic!

Dear Bitchy Psychic: I’m so confused right now. Could you please give me some guidance? What’s the meaning of life? I can’t seem to work out my path. I’m feeling so lost and alone and I just want to cry. Seriously, what’s it all about? Sincerely, Confused.

Dear Confused: The Hokey Pokey. That’s what it’s all about. Do I have to spell it out? START WITH THE RIGHT LEG! DON’T FORGET THE SHAKING. You should have learned all this shit in Grade One, but noooooo, you weren’t paying attention. You were busy mining boogers with your grimy little fingernails, and now you’re how old, and still wasting people’s precious time with your stupid questions.  You might as well just sell your organs on Ebay now and get it over with. Start with your brain–you ain’t usin’ it.

Yours, with what little enthusiasm I can afford to waste on you, The Bitchy Psychic.

Did the Angry Astrologer or the Bitchy Psychic get close? Did either hit a nerve? No? Dammit, their aim must be off again. SEE? This is what happens when I’m–er, when the Angry Astrologer is denied her regular supply of pickled beets and Fig Newtons! Nobody wants to see me sans Newtons! Without carbs, I can’t prognosticate worth a shit (truthfully, I can’t prognosticate anyway, under any circumstances, by any possible stretch of the imagination, but why are you interupting my friggin’ rant, butt out!) get all frustrated and become a bad parody of Yosemite Sam! Yes, I said “become”. Because I’m not always a ranting, steaming, stomping–oh shut the fuck up.

(Editor’s Note: AJ Aalto is the bitter wind bringing rage and ruin to that trail of slime you call a soul. She was born on July 22nd, and is a proud Cancerian. A fan of saprophytic harmony, blatant carnivoracity, skin slippage and the lovely bloat of putrefaction, she can usually be found lurking in underwater caverns, waiting for unsuspecting divers. I heard a rumour once that AJ Aalto is the secret cause of Rapture of the Deep–but I think she started that rumour herself.)

(Public Apology/Safety Notice: Local authorities have reported sightings of Sex Kitten in the Niagara region. This highly unpredictable creature has been known to claw, scratch and bite with little or no provocation. For instance, when faced with soft rock/easy-listening music, Sex Kitten has been known to gnaw the knobs right off car stereos. Sex Kitten once gave Kenny G the flying elbow (no she didn’t) and body-slammed Rod Stewart (no she didn’t) … she doesn’t want Stewart’s body, nor does she think he’s sexy, and she doesn’t like being called “shugah” (yes she does), so she didn’t let him know.  And she’s sorry for being batshit crazy.)

Remember all those times you thought something was missing from a story, and you realized that something was sex, then the author surprised you and threw some in, but it turned out to be really really bad? Like “I want to plant my baby-seeds in your hose-soaked lady garden” bad? No? Apparently, you and I are not reading the same books. *checks the title* Sorry … Landscaping For Dummies.

Don’t get me wrong, I love a good sex scene in a novel—if it makes sense for the characters to be doin’ it, and if it’s very well written. I’m gonna say that again. Listen for it closely:

 If it makes sense for the characters to be doin’ it.

And if it’s very well written.

 And. Not or.

Very. Not sorta. Not kinda.

Sex is a funny thing. Not  funny ha-ha, but funny strange … unless you’re unfortunate enough to be doin’ it with me; sex with yours truly could pass for an episode of the Stooges, complete with head-bonking and eye-poking.

<Ah, I see you’ve chosen to bed AJ. Good luck with alllll that>

 I will admit, arousal can crop up at odd times. Like when you’re waiting for an oil change, for example, and the guy in the waiting area beside you smells wholly fantastic, and you sneak a peek at his hands—those big, strong, powerful hands that could probably reduce a woman to a quivering pile of helplessness in under ten seconds—and you wonder what they’d feel like if you just inched your fingers over and … *ahem* For example. That never happened. I never get my oil changed. Though it’s sounding like maybe I should, cuz while that may not be the most ideal situation in which to become aroused, at least it makes  sense.                                                                                                    

On the other hand, if you’re on a runaway barge going 89 mph down some white water rapids, ducking behind a battered suitcase, which is your only protection against the bullets zinging past your head, almost certainly getting laid is not your primary focus. If it is, relax: you’re probably a guy. No woman in this situation would even remember she has a vagina, save to fleetingly wonder if she could hide in it (No? Just me, then? Righty-O). Which is why a straight sex scene in the midst of battle/attack or the inevitable “everyone’s dyin’ all around us, but let’s pause for some bowchickawowow” in the horror novel/movie is, in my opinion, not realistic . The exception to that is: if you’re under attack and you’re holed-up safely in a bunker. Then, bring it on! Oh hell yes, bunker sex is a go!

When the time is right for two characters, the decision comes down to: how much do I show? How far do I take this?

Do I begin it, and do the tasteful fade to black? Do I shut the door? Sure, that’s a perfectly fair option, and a lot of the time, the story doesn’t require further detail. Sometimes, knowing they bonded in an intimate fashion was the point, and having been implied, that’s enough. It can be done classy. Yeah, that’s right … I’m a classy, classy bitch, I could do sophisticated if I wanted to (probably?).

The alternative to the fade-to-black is an interesting menu of options. Do I go full-out? Wellll, maybe … if you’re careful not to sound like a crack whore slapping her fanny at a slow-trollin’ car at the corner of Geneva St. and Welland Ave at 4 o’clock in the morning (Johns and/or arresting officers in the St. Catharines area looking for action: you. are. welcome). I prefer reading a little sex, as opposed to a hint and then the classic literary door-slam. But that’s just me. I’m nosy: I like to know everything about a character. I happen to be of the opinion that sex is a fascinating window into people’s personalities; you can learn an enormous amount from how a person reacts under the duress of an unexpected seduction, or in the pursuit of their desires, or in mutual mad monkey-lust. And I have said this before: you’re putting a fully-rounded person on the page when you write a character, and every person–from sex addict to coldest fish–has some sort of sexual personality traits. Even the complete lack of sexuality is, in itself, a sexuality trait.

Say you’re like me (caution: one should never say that). Say you think it’s important to include an actual sex scene in your novel, during which you will actually show something. Writing sex is not for the faint of heart: it’s for the brave, and the foolhardy perhaps, or for those with little or no shame (guess which one I am? Wrong–I’m all three). So, how do you write good sex?

First of all, you have some. Honey, you ain’t writing no convincing sex if all you’ve got on a Friday night is aFleshlight and a tube of Super Lube (side note: I’m not making that up, there’s a fake vagina in a can called a Fleshlight. It’s hilarious–but I’m not linking it). Grab a partner and do some hands-on research.  If you don’t have a partner, go to your local Starbucks, order the most pretentious beverage on the menu, add random uber-specific boosts and shots and powders, then ask the irritated barista if you can make it up to him/her by practicing tantric sex moves with them … no, it willwork: just ask that blond barista with the goatee at the mall–ooooh, I’ve said too much. OK, maybe propositioning strange coffee shop employees isn’t your thing, for whatever reason *rolls her eyes grandly at your prudishness* though I can’t for the life of me imagine why not. What are some alternatives?

Well, you read some. Other writers have mastered the art of writing sex. Better yet, some write it poorly; it’s out there to read, and you should, if only to get a feeling for what not to do. You want to read a whole lot of it, to see what sounds right to you and what makes you laugh so hard that tears pour down your cheeks (for example, you don’t ever wanna write that he “filled every crevice” because that makes the average reader go, “EVERY crevice? REALLY? Wait, d’ya mean …*scratching forehead* between her toes, too? Behind her ears? Is a nose a “crevice”? Dude, that’s a lot of man-spackle”). Go ahead, pull up yer superhero Underoos, sally forth and infiltrate your local book store, and buy some erotica. Research, my valiant friend, is not going to kill you. The politely-controlled “I’m pretending not to notice you’re buying paper porn, nor am I looking you in the face” stare of the book store cashier isn’t going to kill you either, though depending upon your personality, it may feel like a part of you is dying.

Some of you are saying, “but AJ, I can get erotica online. Easily. And for free.” Yes, I reply tersely, but then you will have denied me the opportunity of causing you personal discomfort. Hello? Have we met?

“Also,” you tell me, rather cheekily, “I don’t need to read. My sex life is research enough. It’s spice-ay.”  That’s wonderful, I congratulate. But it can always be improved-upon, no matter how spice-ay it may be (and btw you sound like a lying dillhole when you say it like that, cuz if it were truly spicy, you’d be too exhausted from multiple orgasms to stretch the word to spice-ay… in point of fact, you’d clip the word. It’d be spi–zzzzzzzzz.)

Experiment, read, think about what’s logical for both the male character and the female character (or if a gay scene, what makes sense for whom), consider the personalities that you’ve already laid-out (ha! I said laid) . Push a few boundaries but cautiously, or you’ll end up making your readers spit their tea–and no, that’s not a coy euphemism. Test things out! When you’re reading erotica and a certain word tickles your hoo-hah unexpectedly–and it will–jot it down.  Make a list of what turned you on, and what didn’t. Think about that list from one of your character’s perspectives. Now, apply a cool damp wash cloth to the back of your neck, breathe deeply, and do it again. And again. Again. More … more! More! Oh God, baby soon ohyespleasepleasePLEASEDON’TSTOP–*gasp* sorry.  What were we talking about? It couldn’t possibly have been … it was? Shit, what was I thinking? Well, I blame you; that’ll work nicely for me.

Mimic reality, then make it one notch better: that’s your job, after all, whether you’re a horror writer or any other kind or writer, and whether or not you write a sex scene. And before you rush out in the name of research and buy a Drilldo (I’m not making that up either, there is a product called the Drilldo, and it’s exactly what you think it is) you should probably note that your sex life does not necessarily suck if it in no way resembles something you’ve read in erotica, seen in porn, or in the Saw movie franchise, or that strange amalgamation: Porn Saw.

I hope I made that up just now.  

I very much hope Porn Saw’s not a thing.

This is me refusing to Google it to find out.

Please, oh please, do not tell me what you find if you do.

(editor’s note: AJ Aalto does write sex scenes in her novels; if she didn’t, there would be NO excuse for the MASSIVELY RIDICULOUS amount of time she spends staring off into space fantasizing various unlikely scenarios, up to and including her post-apocalyptic duty to trade her hoarded SPF900 sunscreen supply for orgasms with the hunky-yet-tragically-shirtless male survivors, and the sci-fi variation: AJ waiting for her transport home from the Farload Quadrant on Space Station Delta V-69, stuck with a platoon of  horny space cowboys with a whoooole lotta time on their hands. Wait–is a group of space cowboys a “platoon” or a “pride” or a “troop” or … WHAT? I might need to know!) 

After reading my last blog, my husband said (casually and quite foolishly) “You should blog about what scares the pants off a horror writer’s spouse. Give the world a picture of what it’s like to be married to a …” He bit his tongue, smiling easily. “Writer. Like you.”

 I can accommodate his wishes, sassy as they may be. It was three weeks ago, the last time I tore asunder my husband’s personal fortifications and brought him in a quivering heap to his knees. I think he’s got some grey hairs from the event. It went a little something like this …

 “Babe,” he said, zipping his laptop case and checking his iPhone messages. “I’m gonna be late tonight.”

“Oh I see …” I put down my tea. “But not late-late, though, right?”

“It’s possible.”

“Like, ABBA-punishment late?”

He groaned. “Not that. Come on, babe, gimme a break.”

I fluttered my lashes, grinning a warning.

“I’ll try to be home before you go to bed …”

“You’ll try?” I clarified, and began to hum softly.

“… but it looks like I’m going to have to rebuild the whole damn server—“

I wound up and belted out: “One of is crying, one of us is lying, in my lonely bed!”

He slumped with a long-suffering sigh and a dying moose sound, a drawn out uuuunnnnnnggggh.

 “Staring at the ceeeeeeeiling!” I raised my voice a full octave. “Wishing she was somewhere else insteeeead!”

“Woman!” he pleaded.

 “One of us is lonely, one of us is only, waiting for a caaaaallllll.”

“Whaddya want, money? Blood? A kidney?”

“Sorry for herself! Feeling stupid! Feeling small! Wishing she had never left at aaaaalllll.”

“That’s it!” He came forward in a rush. “Come here, you.”

I danced away to the opposite side of the breakfast bar, lifting my voice to the rafters, flinging my arms wide. Before I could get another word out, he crushed me face-to-chest in his bear hug.

“NEFFER LEF’ A’ AWWWWWLL!” I wailed, smothered by his abs. He’s that tall.

He tightened his hold until the fight went out of me. “All done?”

I nodded, a lie.

“ABBA-ed out?”

Again, my nose wriggled around against his rumbling diaphragm. “I’m sorry you had to experience that,” I coughed as he released his titan grip. “But you brought it on yourself.”

“Maybe if you could fall asleep without a man in your bed, it wouldn’t be an issue?”

“Maybe you should hire a man to sleep beside me when you can’t make it home in time?”

One massive dark eyebrow shot up comically. “Oh, really!”

I just grinned, and dodged from his grasp. “Gimme gimme gimme a man after midnight! Won’t somebody help me chase the shadows awa—ack!!”

 And now, having had a naked, honest taste of the torture and torment my battle-ready husband is subjected to, the hourly peril he faces, the hurdles he so tirelessly vaults, shouldn’t someone knight the poor bastard already?

Greetings to my new readers. Before we begin, I offer you the following pro-tip: Zombies can’t crouch, and they’re piss-poor climbers. How do I know this? I have bad knees. But AJ, what the crap does that have to do with zombies, you ask? Follow my logic: zombies are reanimated dead people. I am alive. Therefore, no matter how bad my knees are, they must be better than dead knees, no? Humour me, or rub this Ben Gay clockwise on my kneecaps. Choose wisely, my friends.

Point of View: First Person

As the author of a deeply-flawed protagonist, I’m compelled to dig pretty deep into the crudpuddle of humanity to get my head around some of her knee-jerk reactions. Many writers will tell you, sometimes a character shocks the hell out of  her author. My main character, Marnie Baranuik, is an ex-pro psychic,cookie addict and the reluctant guardian of a fussypants vampire. She’s more Mr. Magoo than MacGyver, is under no illusions about it and makes no apologies for it. I try to make her more heroic, I really do, but it never feels right. And bihourly (or, on a day when I’ve indulged my vein-shuddering need for 13 X-large Tim Hortons teas and a 6-pack of Apple Fritters, on an every-other-minute basis) she manages to make me choke a little on my tongue. 

(Side-note: wondering for the first time if there’s a measurable relationship between author’s caffeine intake and character’s use of the word “fuckspigot”. Will investigate presently.)

I’ll sit down to write a triumphant scene of her kicking evil in the gonads, and mentally will tell this character: “OK, Marnie, bust that shit open and drop his ass!” But by the time I’m done the scene, she’s managed a brief, screaming trip down a hill on a stolen motorcycle and executed a textbook face-plant into a hedge. The bad guy is dead, but only because she accidentally plowed through him. She did have a fist-fight. It was with a shrub. This does not in any way resemble the mission I sent her on. 

After a nerd-raging author tantrum (which may or may not involve a dutiful slap across my own face), I reread, struck silent in awe: once again, my character has expressly disobeyed my direct orders and power-slid toward self-destruction. How? How did this happen? More troubling, how did this happen without my permission? If someone started a dead pool on the likelihood of my character biting the big one, I’d be able to participate, having no prior information of nor control over her misadventures.

(Side-note: wondering now if there’s a measurable relationship between the degree of free reign Marnie has in these stories and the size of the drooling hole in my brain.)

Friends who have beta-read my first/third/eight hundredth drafts of Touched, Book One of the Marnie Baranuik Chronicles will tell me “uh, that’s so you” (kindly imagine if you will their grand rolling of eyeballs; they are disgusted by my failed attempts at coolness). I’m blown away, because while Marnie is geek-smart and funny, like yours truly *cough*, her personality is often horrible, horrible! This makes me wonder, if I’m as crass and avoidant as Marnie, why are these people my friends? How do they put up with me? Guess I’m not the only fan of jerks.

It also leads me to wonder, if Marnie is some form of me … do I secretly want to go kamikaze on a Kawasaki, get drop-kicked by little old ladies and pelt down a dark road pursued by a zombie dentist with a dick-hole in his chimp suit, punting aside the defiled husk that was my pride?

Actually, who doesn’t? That’s kooky talk.  

(Author’s note: AJ Aalto is currently seeking agent representation for Touched, Book One of the Marnie Baranuik Chronicles, while completing the first draft of her second novel, Death Rejoices, Book Two of the same. She may also be standing in front of her bathroom mirror, snort-giggling at exploratory homemade zombie noises, like all horror writers are wont to do.)

(UPDATE: AJ Aalto is no longer seeking agent representation, as the novel ~Touched~ was launched in eBook format in September of 2011. http://amzn.to/pR0ifw )