Gustav and Serena get down to it high above Central Park

I twist round to face him. He's grinning at me. Interrogation over. He really does look like king of the heap. I know that he was seriously worried just then, and I've managed to soothe him. I grin back at him, put one finger on his chest and push him down on the sofa. My power is growing.

'Nothing's going to stop me now.'

He sighs deeply and falls back against the arm of the sofa, pulling me down with him. 'You know? Despite all their wealth and power I feel sorry for those Weinmeyers. I feel sorry for anyone who can't have you like I can.'

He's beneath me. We haven't turned the lights on inside the apartment, but enough light floods in from the city sky to outline his beautiful carved features, calm and relieved again. Life with him really is like battling over a stormy ocean. Raging surf, becalmed seas, whirlpools, some gentle snorkelling. And my Gustav and me, one at each end of a boat, sometimes a battle ship, sometimes a life raft, but always tipping, one up, one down.

No. No-one else is going to have me.

I see the silver chain hanging out of his pocket, and I snatch it up. Something heats up inside me like a filament. The desire to take over for once. The desire to work off this toxic steam. My lover's dark, chiselled face is in repose. The black hair, falling across his eyes as he lies back, his hands resting on my bare legs now, the fight gone out of him.

'So cock-sure, aren't you Levi? Shall I rock your world for a moment and tell you what might have happened if I hadn't been such a good girl this morning?'

He pushes his hair out of his eyes and gives me one of his straight, arrowing stares. 'Go on. Talk dirty to me. I dare you.'

'If they'd both had me at the same time.'

I crawl over him like a lizard. He lifts his hands to take my breasts as they dangle above him, but quick as a flash I wrap the silver chain tightly round his wrists, pull his arms up over his head and attach the end of the silver chain to the log-like legs of the coffee table.

'Silly girl. Think you're stronger than me?' But he makes no effort to struggle. Just watches me, in that way that makes me want to dance for him.

'I'm showing you what Mrs Weinmeyer did to her big strong tycoon of a husband. She handcuffed him, and then she mounted him.'

'Can a female mount a male?'

His black eyes are glinting but he's biting down hard on his lower lip to hide the grin. He tugs at the silver chain, but the heavy table doesn't budge and he's still attached.

'Oh, yes, she can. Just like this.'

My voice is soft, mesmeric, as I unbutton the rest of his shirt and yank it down his arms so that his elbows are trapped against his sides. I tickle the ends of my hair over his chest, over his stomach, see him shiver in response. Then I undo his trousers, as slowly as I can bear, letting all the anxiety drain out of me, replacing it with impatient supremacy. They rip down along with his boxers and I shudder with glee, my body warming in response as he springs free beneath me.

Again I tickle him with my hair, brushing it through his hair, around the shaft, run the circle of hair up and down until I see his Adam's apple jumping frantically in his throat. When he's rock hard, I brush over the balls already shrinking as his desire increases, and then it's time.

I straddle him, hold myself up on my knees above him as if praying. 'I wonder how it would have worked, technically? What do you think, Gustav?'

'Am I not enough for you, you little slut? You bored with me already? Maybe it was a mistake bringing you across the Pond. Too many new experiences. Too many new people.'

'Don't answer back, boy.' I slap at his buttock. I catch his chin in my hand, just like he does to me, and grip it tight.

I don't want to think about anyone else.

'You're a man of the world. Which bit goes where? One man. Two women. Where does the man fit into the ménage, do you suppose? I mean, I've never been with a woman, let alone a trois.'

'If I told you I know exactly how it works, it would be your turn to be jealous.' Gustav nips my finger, worrying at it in his mouth, still tugging at the silver chain. I see it biting into the crease of his wrist. I slap his buttock again, a satisfying sound. 'But two men, one woman? Much more fun.'

'Mr Weinmeyer didn't struggle like this. Oh, I forgot. She blindfolded him, too.'

I sit back on his thighs and fold my green silk dress into a strip. I hesitate before I tie it over his eyes. I love his eyes. Despite his best efforts to be unreadable, I am learning to translate each and every one of his expressions. Tonight's expression is ferocious, surprised lust.

I kiss him roughly on the mouth. Then I tie the blindfold oh so lightly, he could shake it off if he wanted. Then I ease myself on to him, oh so slowly, run my hands over his body, see his nipples prick up, feel the jump of him nearly inside me. He groans quietly as I lower myself inch by inch. My breasts brush over his mouth and he catches one, licks at it, then bites it, hard. Still fighting me. My body clenches tight with excitement, sucks him in, all the way to the hilt. It's so tempting to rush, but this is me. I'm in charge.

Now we have a sweet rhythm. He's with me, we're rocking together, and all the talk, all the input of today is fizzing through my head. I get an overwhelming vision of him in another life, cavorting with other women, maybe two at once, the jealousy mingling with a contrary lust, an urge to see it, to watch, to try something new, a woman, a threesome, whatever.

I grind myself over him, the flicker of the forbidden there again, another pair of black eyes staring at me, goading me from the sidelines.

I push myself at Gustav's mouth so that the pain will eradicate that other face. The jealousy is good, we can keep that, I can risk imagining those other bodies, because Gustav is mine, I'm the only one riding him, jacking up the rhythm, rocketing up and down. I need to ease these urges because it's too soon, too soon, but it's so intense now, my lover pulling against the silver chain as I grip him tighter inside and he thrusts so hard that I bounce off him.

‘Tell me I’m the best you ever had,’ I suddenly growl, leaning close to him. ‘I want to hear you say it.’

He shakes his head. 'You're a bitch on heat.’

I lift myself right up so that I'm just balancing on the tip.

'You want this or not?'

He lies still. I can't see him under the blindfold. I need his eyes on me, urgently, but I can't stop this, I flick myself so that he slips inside again and the pressure builds inside me, it feels so good to be on top. He draws back, tenses, and pushes hard and he doesn't stop until we can both hear my ragged gasps of pleasure but as soon as I start to shudder and scream he untwists his wrists from the silver chain, shakes off the blindfold, thank God it's him, and still inside me he hurls us both off the sofa.

Now he's hanging over me. 'Not so fast, young lady. And I'm going to do you right down here, my little slattern, because today you deserve an unforgiving surface.'

He pushes me across the cold floor and I relish the strength of him as my skin scrapes and squeaks and then he's coming too and the sound and the fury are over.

I rest my head on his chest, listen to the drumming of his heart. His arms are tight around me, our legs splayed on the rug. I kiss his throat and can't resist one last jibe.

'All we're missing is someone else to join in. What would you say, master? Would you allow me to try it?'

Oh, God. Why did I say that? Who am I talking about?

'Maybe. If I could vet who it was.'

There's one person we could never allow. What is the matter with me? I have to hound Pierre out of my mind before he does any more damage.

'And if I am there to keep an eye. Make sure you don't get too sharp a taste for it.' Gustav brings his hands down with a harsh slap on my bottom. 'But as the Miss Folkes journal of how to live says. Never say never.'

A little tantaliser of The Golden Locket

As I've tweeted, The Golden Locket has gone out to reviewers prior to its ebook launch on 21st November, and it's like waving a child off to school. For some reason it's even more nerve wracking than waiting to hear what reviewers thought of The Silver Chain back in July. I started reading the reviews avidly, but very quickly became despondent when they weren't so hot, even though the great ones were really really GREAT.
    So anyway, The Golden Locket finds Serena and Gustav in New York - or at least, Serena is there. Gustav has failed to arrive at JFK airport from a trip back to the house in Lugano, and instead, she has two visitors in the penthouse apartment on the Upper West Side as they watch the New Year's Even fireworks over Central Park.
   A face from the past appeared at the very end of The Silver Chain. I won't say too much, but here is an excerpt from The Golden Locket to whet your appetite. Enjoy, lovelies, and spread the word!

'Gustav and I are in a cosy, intimate and very select restaurant in the West Village, tucked below street level. It's so discreet it looks like a kind of muted tavern and only has a small sign outside the glowing windows. I feel really special sitting here. I've seen one or two celebrities schmoozing in corners and a group of beautiful people who look like they must be models or the cast of a play carousing genteelly, if that isn't a contradiction in terms, in the glass garden room at the back.

'No need to obsess about the detail. They said it was for their private collection so I don't know if they'll want me to crop the pictures quite so brutally down to her private parts,' I murmur as he stares at the next picture. 'They were asking me to capture the moment. It's just that the moment they were referring to was when the two of them decided to get seriously naked.'

'You're telling me!' he splutters, bringing the camera close to his eyes. 'I knew the Weinmeyers were experimental exhibitionists, but these are practically pornographic, Serena! You're only just starting out in this business. What were they thinking of, dragging you in to their dungeon and making you do this?'

I try to take the camera off him, but he snatches it back and folds it into his fist. His mouth has drawn into a line and a muscle flashes in his cheek. He pushes his black hair back off his face and sits back in the red leather seat, loosening his tie still further. His stretches his arms out in an effort to look nonchalant, but I can tell from the way his fingers are drumming that he's agitated.

I start to shrink back in my own banquette. The leather squeaks under my bare thighs. I dressed up especially tonight. I'm wearing a very flimsy mint green silk dress and some heels, and I'm not wearing any knickers. The leather is hot and sticky beneath me.

Gustav is glaring at me. I'm caught on the hop by his sharp questioning. He's wearing his authoritarian, headmaster face. I know it's the thin veneer he applies to conceal the bubbling pot of passion beneath, but it still unsettles me. Makes me eager to please.

His frown furrows deeper when he sees a smile creeping round the edges of my mouth.

'You going to cane me for my misdemeanor, Gustav?'

He shakes his head slightly. His features are still carved in granite. 'It's not your fault for getting into a dodgy situation, Serena. I'm blaming them. They should have known better than ask you to undertake a task like that.'

I part my legs slightly on the seat while I think how best to reply to him without wrecking the atmosphere. I allow the leather to rub against my tender private flesh until the friction starts to work on me and I have to stop.

'Give me some credit, Gustav. They asked me because I was the right person for the job. As you know they saw my London exhibition and liked it. They've got my Paris lovers series on their wall. I'm a big girl, Gustav. Just like you said this morning. I fulfilled my commission to order. Yes, I was embarrassed at first, and then I admit I was downright shocked when they enticed me down these stairs into this red room and started writhing around on a gigantic bed and all that, but hey! Two consenting adults pleasuring each other under the watchful gaze of Venus in a sexy cosy nest, plying me with delicious punch. As Mrs Weinmeyer herself said, what's not to like?'

His fingers stop tapping. I see his mouth twitching then with a hint of amusement but there's a tinge of sadness in his eyes. 'My country bumpkin. What's happened to her?'

'She's still here. But I was always a voyeur, Gustav. That's the first thing you noticed and liked about me.'

I put my hand on his leg, and when he doesn't move I start to slide it up his thigh, squeezing the muscle which is all the sexier for being hidden under his formal business trousers. He shifts in his seat, his eyes half closing. 'Hey, baby. Let's not fall out,' he murmurs.

I move my hand into the warm fold of his groin, lean closer to whisper. 'I agree. I don't ever want to argue with you. But you've got to get this into your handsome head, Gustav. I want to be a famous photographer. And that means never saying never. To anything.'

Ill Gotten Gains and Faux Pas

Some people are so innocently tactless, aren't they? If that's possible.  Either they let something slip, immediately recognise the mistake, and make it right. Or more often they blithely go on with what they're saying with no inkling that they've made a faux pas and that the more they say the more it hurts.

   The faux pas in question was just a couple of days ago. A very old friend, not seen for nearly 20 years, was repeating how she had tracked me down. She'd been talking at a book group with a group of girls who turned out, by some circuitous route, to know me of old. And when it transpired that I was now writing erotic romances (or bodice rippers, as they preferred to call it), their comments, repeated by her to me, were: 'Primula? She studied English at Oxford. What on EARTH is she doing writing erotica!'

   In other words.  Primula is slumming it. Well, is that not what they meant? I can see the wrinkling of noble noses and the sucking of plums in mouths as we speak. What should I be doing? Writing unreadable Booker Prize winners? Literary tomes on the topic of The Faerie Queene? Speeches for David Cameron?

   Of course I'm not slumming it. I'm proud of what I do, and so are my editors at Harper Collins. They asked me to write this. I like to think it's on the higher planes of intense, sexy romance rather than pure smut, but even if it is smut, who cares? It's harmless, arousing fun for adults, and it's become one of my day jobs.

    Have any of those girls been approached by an editor to write a trilogy?

    But they, unfortunately, aren't the only ones who disapprove. Closer to my home, my parents share that view. Instead of being pleased that I'm doing exactly what I've always dreamed of doing, degree or no degree, they feel I'm peddling porn. Yep. The exact words. Just like 50 Shades, they reckon, it's corrupting, dangerous porn. So what, I said, if I made a load of money from it? What would you think then?

   It would be ill gotten gains, was my mother's quote.

   So, even though they might have walked right past the book in Tesco or Smith, they will keep their eyes averted. Any articles I've written on the subject are an embarrassment and, the crux of the matter, reflects badly on them. Just as becoming a single mother did - but that's another wound too old to open.

   So. Ill gotten gains. If they notice I've got a new lipstick, or bag, or kitchen, or holiday, thanks to sales of The Silver Chain and the Unbreakable Trilogy, they'll say nothing.

   Well, my lips are zipped, too. It's ceased to matter what they think. While they speak about 'never having time to write, but of course I would if I could' I haven't told them about the fantastic Harper Collins summer party. I haven't told them about the two erotica readings I've done in London. Or the hilarious workshop I gave in York at the writing festival. Or the lovely comments from people on Twitter, Facebook and Amazon about The Silver Chain and it's sequel, The Golden Locket, about to come out.

   So thanks to all you lovely people who follow me and read me, and the finger to those who disapprove! And here's a picture of my Oxford college where I learned everything I know!!!

    

Gustav and Serena come back to life

I realised how real my hero and heroine were to me when I sat down in front of a blank computer screen on Monday morning last week. I was dreading it, to be honest. Or at least I was dragging my feet.
    I'd taken the summer off, refusing to think about book 3 of my Unbreakable Trilogy until The Silver Chain was launched onto an unsuspecting world and The Golden Locket was thoroughly edited. Then I had the York Festival of Writing to prepare for and deliver.
    Now it was mid September and there was no excuse. I tried every type of procrastination. Food that needed buying. Shoes that needed ordering online. Morning television to be watched. Nigel Slater recipes to try.  But now the house was empty, the kids were at school. The deadline was approaching, and I had to go back to New York where I left my characters.
    Unlike The Golden Locket, which picks up the action a couple of weeks after the cliffhanger of the first book, I decided to start The Diamond Ring immediately after the cliffhanger of the previous book. So they were already in position, waiting for me, frozen on their marks since July like actors whose director has just shouted 'Cut!' One of them had to move. One of them had to speak. They both had to react. But it was up to me to wind them up. I had to re-draw their physicality, their clothes, their gestures, all while pressing home the subtle signals showing the intensity of their relationship.
    I won't say what the shocking moment was where we had left them. But something happened which meant that they were forced to spring into action. Fast. And I think that's what helped, because once Serena had reacted in a way that made no immediate sense to Gustav - although if I've done my job right it should make sense to my readers - the questions and explanations started to flow, all in the context of an action sequence. So the drama made up of words and gestures, panic and urgency, discoveries and tension leading up to a volcanic confrontation, all started to fall naturally into place.
    By the time I'd finished page 3 I sat back and realised that we were properly re-acquainted. The two of them had come back to me. I always have a cinematic view of my characters and their locations anyway, but Gustav and Serena really were inside my head and, even more of a relief, they were inhabiting my story.      They may be facing their biggest, deadliest threat yet, but they are three dimensional and full of life. Eyes flashing, hair flying, shoes tapping - and of course lips and hands eventually finding their way back to each other, to remind us all of the passion that has burned so fiercely since the Halloween night when they met!
   And now that I've finished chapter 1, I've got all those old writer-in-progress symptoms back again. A conversation that slips into my mind when I'm lying in the bath. A canny description of someone or something as I'm driving along to fetch the kids. Scrabbling for paper and pen when a new character's introductory phrase comes to me.
   So hi, Gustav and Serena. I'll try to be gentle with you! Meanwhile, here's a gratuitous torso on a billboard in Manhattan, near the Meatpacking District where the action of Book 3 opens.

 

Down to Earth - Back from York Festival of Writing

Well, what a weekend of writing, teaching, laughing, drinking, talking, eating, and learning. From Thursday night, when I arrived at what appeared to be a deserted uni campus and was shown to a little single room which made me feel like a 19 year old student again, through to Sunday night, when I staggered back home, it was like being in a creative bubble, or on another planet, far away from loved ones, cooking, housework, even my usual diet of TV! Although the other kind of diet was more than satisfied with fantastic food, copious coffee, tea and biscuits all day long, and a bit too much nice white wine!
   And instead of my husband and sons, I was surrounded by birds of the same feather, all of whom had one thing on their minds. Who spoke the same language.  Who didn't glaze over or pat you patronisingly on the head when you said what you do, or what you dream of doing. That is, writing.
   When up to 300 aspiring and published writers, agents and publishers are gathered together, there will be one topic of conversation. Writing. Sub-divided into characterisation, plotting, dialogue, showing not telling. Genre, sub-divided into romance, historical, sci-fi, fantasy and, yes indeedie, erotica (of which more later!) And dreaming. The dream of sitting across the little table during the one-to-one sessions, facing an agent, and seeing a certain Simon Cowell-esque click in the eyes as they say, 'I like your submission and I'm taking you on.'
   I will never get over the excitement of being paid for my first short story, right through to meeting my latest Harper Collins editor and seeing my novel in Tesco, and I will never fully realise I've achieved my own dream, so seeing the hope and determination, the energy and humour of the people flocking to festivals like these is really humbling as well as inspiring.
   I have to say I haven't been as nervous as I was before giving my first workshop since my first job interview, or my first day at university, or climbing on a plane to take a job in Cairo. Or my wedding day, blissful though it was. Anyway, I had the best part of Friday and Saturday to anticipate it, but there was always such support and advice from fellow authors who quickly felt like friends that it was hard to be anxious for long.
   My erotica workshop had about 15 'customers', and I reiterated my blurb that I wanted everyone to leave their inhibitions firmly at the door before we jotted some naughty words on the blackboard to get us going.

(This image is from a menu board in Amsterdam, actually, but you get the idea!!)

Then I told them my story, how a romantic rejection became my first erotic short story, and then I gave them some technical stuff about setting, character, the use of senses, building a sex scene and so on. I then read some beautiful lines from D H Lawrence to illustrate great sex scenes and some hideous examples of how not to do it from the Bad Sex Awards.
   Then it was their turn to write. 10 minutes to hit me between the eyes. And my goodness, what a fantastic, uninhibited, warm, tender, adventurous clutch of offerings was read back to me. I realised that while my nerves were melting away, my class were trembling with anxiety at the prospect of a)writing and b)reading out loud, but they should have been proud of themselves. The pieces were fantastic.
   I was a little disappointed with one person who refused to write anything 'as 10 minutes wasn't enough' and another who refused to read hers out loud or let me read it for her, but the others not only read theirs out, eyes shining with pleasure when I praised them, but also clustered round me to chat some more at the end of the class.
   Although my abiding memory of the hour was of laughter and enthusiasm, apparently there was talk of my workshop at dinner later, including a couple of people who professed to be shocked by it. What was it that offended them? Seeing the word 'fuck' on the blackboard? Well, they were the ones who evidently firmly dragged their inhibitions into the room with them, know what I'm sayin? To all the others, thanks a million, both for entering the spirit of it and being my first ever guinea pigs!

This is also a sign from Amsterdam, but as I didn't take any pics in York, I couldn't resist it, or this one:

In fact, Writers Workshop, how about a writers' festival in Amsterdam next time!!!?
 

York Writing Festival 13-15 September

Well I signed up for this several months ago and now it's less than a week away.I'm nervous, and excited, too.  The Writers' Workshop is organising the popular writing festival in York, and this is my first time as a participant. Judging by the video of last year's festival on the campus at York University, it's a well attended affair, full of bright eyed, busily scribbling attendees, competent, attractive writers sharing their art, and jolly organisers running around making everything run smooth as silk.
  So what am I doing this year? Well, as well as helping aspiring writers, hopefully, I'll be doing what most of us, if we're honest, like doing best. Talking about ourselves. It's not just that, though. It's talking to people who all want the same thing. To write. And understanding each other's language.
  As well as brief one to one tutorials with eight different writers, all of whom have submitted high quality manuscripts on all genres from erotica through mystery and crime to sci-fi, I am giving two hour-long workshops. One on erotica, which should be a laugh. I've gathered from other workshop-devotees that what people most want to do at these conferences is write, write, and write some more, and then be brave enough to offer up their attempts to the others in the group. So I've had fun thinking up some exercises for everyone to indulge in and I've called my workshop 'Behind Closed Doors.' I've also asked everyone to leave their inhibitions at the door, because we want to write some red hot snippets!
   The other workshop is on short stories, and is entitled 'In a nutshell.' My erotic career began with short stories, and they are therefore my first love. But short stories are overlooked in this country. You won't get a short story published unless you're already a best selling author. I tried to get an agent to take my volume of short stories under my real name called 'Stabbing the Rain' which I had self published on Amazon, but that was what he told me (Watch out, though, mate - I know you're going to be at the festival so I intend to thrust a copy of my stories under your nose!).
  But I don't want to discourage anyone from trying it, even if only as a fantastic exercise before expanding into a novella or novel. So first we will be trying our hand at summing up an entire scenario in a few short words to begin with, then fanning them out into something small, but perfectly formed.
  We will all have our name badges on, and be milling about, endlessly socialising, and in between gulps of coffee we'll be signing our books, too. The Silver Chain will be in evidence, and some other past Primula Bond works, and in my suitcase I will be trundling up through the country carrying copies of my self published short story collection, too.
   Next time I will report back on how it all went! Meanwhile, here is a symbolic lantern of learning!

Passion amongst the Paddles

Well, another steamy evening in London and this time I took R with me as we were seeing No 1 son for his 25th birthday for dinner afterwards, and meeting his new girlfriend. So up town, we drove all the way through Knightsbridge, Piccadilly, Holborn, Clerkenwell which was great fun, the old place looking shiny and new and actually some of it IS shiny and new in the 15 years since I left. What's with this new 'Crossrail' thingy carving up Tottenham Court Road? Anyhoo, Hoxton was our destination, and the Hoxton Hotel our crash pad. An area I've never been before, so it was like a real city break.
   Anyway, to the Sh!Womens Store, pink-painted sex shop extraordinaire in Hoxton Square and down to the basement, adorned with paddles, handcuffs, tutus, creams, lotions, hen party gear, and of course some great books, to listen to some erotica authors I hadn't met before but chatted to a lot on Twitter: Justine Elyot, Kristina Lloyd and Ms Taylor, extremely worthy winner of the recent Daily Mail/Black Lace short story competition. Also K D Grace was there from the last In The Flesh reading I went to, and on her blog kdgrace.co.uk she has written her own great account of the same evening.
   I am still getting used to the friendliness, support and mutual nervousness of a writers' gathering. There's always a great welcome, smiles and enthusiasm. And I think I may have put my finger on why it feels so comfortable. It's because you're suddenly with people who speak the same language, rather than friends and family who listen politely but tend to glaze over when you talk of inspiration, deadlines and royalties... I wonder if it's the same rapport in a room full of accountants, interior designers, or plumbers?
  Anyway, inevitably some writers look more confident than others, but there's a certain fragility placing yourself in the face of a rapt audience and fellow authors as we start to read the work that for months has been created in the silence of our own heads, and our own homes.
   Because Kristine was caught up in traffic, the lovely Joanna who runs the sex shop asked if me or K D would like to read, and because I genuinely happened to have a copy of The Silver Chain with me to give to my son's girlfriend later, and was maybe fuelled a little by the lovely champers, I agreed to read a few pages before Kristine could arrive and hit us with her full-on blow job scene!
   Justine read a piece about some amateur dramaticists which was wonderfully funny, reminding me that erotica doesn't always have to take itself so seriously (note to self: RELAX!), and then Ms Taylor, shaking with nerves, read her stunning debut story about forbidden inter-racial love and lust. What an eye opener, and a great new talent, and bless her she was TOTALLY unfazed by an interruption by a rather mad-eyed pair who came charging down the stairs and who we didn't realise until later were shoplifters - trousering a vibrator, no less - who chose the wrong evening to mess with Renee who saw them off quick-smart while Ms Taylor continued calmly reading downstairs! Let's hope that vibrator gives that shoplifter some seriously unsexy experiences!
  There was champagne and cupcakes and a quietly attentive audience, and then it was time for R and I to slip away, back into the narrow streets full of hipsters, and into the roaring den that is The Tramshed for meat, chicken and my lovely son who was tickled pink to introduce his girlfriend to 'my mother, the eroticist!'
  I took a picture of ten pink paddles, hanging on the wall, but can't seem to upload it, so here is a sexy red rose I took for my photography portfolio instead!