You could call it the When Angsty Renaissance FairsTurn Into Obscure Orgies Blog, or something. Though I'm sure that's kind of a niche market.

Someone left this comment on a really old post of mine, and I've been snickering over it for a few days. I mean, it's even odder than the spam comments I get linking to blue cheese. Is this how budding romance authors spread the word about their writing now?


Grateful, he wrapped his arms around his friend and buried his face in his neck. His throat worked to swallow, and a fine sheen of sweat shimmered on his skin. He nodded, slid an arm about Irins shoulders, and led his truemate from the room. But she knew firsthand that knowing and seeing it happen were two very different things. Someones strong arms surrounded her, and a broad chest met her cheek. She glanced away before her visual admiration sparked lust. She had neither seen nor asked after Tykir, Lanthan, nor Brevin. Gala sat back, hands on Eyrhaens shoulders. Blue eyes stared at her from an expressionless face. Anything but admit she was wrong, even if she now knew she had been. He smiled at her glare, the red simmering behind the hazel of his eyes. Stubbornly, she refused to cower into the wall behind her. A gasp puffed past her lips as Lanthan pressed a kiss just underneath her ear. She writhed, prodding the tip of him with her drenched folds. he growled into her ear. Behind her, Tykir nestled close, his cheek resting on the back of her shoulder. He tilted his face back up toward her. He shared in her laughter, and she gloried at how easy it was. But she needed to know one more thing. She met his gaze seriously.

If that's the case, you might want to consider leaving your name, Anonymous.

(Or just get your own damn blog!)

(Seriously, "drenched folds"?)