Showing posts with label bad boys. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bad boys. Show all posts

Monday, September 29, 2008

Fun Loving Criminals: Mad, Bad and Delicious to Know!



Bad Boys, Bad Boys, what you gonna do? What you gonna do when they come for you?

(Well, if you don’t know by now, I’m sure there’s a few good books on this site with suggestions..)

In coming up with the characters for Southern Spirits, specifically the two bad guys – the charismatic con man Jack Wheeler and the laconic, possessive gangster Mickey Whisper – I started looking for inspiration in the bad guys I’d read and watched, the ones that got me and others hot, and why it was so.

I mean, we all know that in just about every good story, the villain is more interesting than the hero, more interesting to watch, to read about, and certainly to write about (and any attempt to make the hero more interesting usually involved imbuing his background or character with dark elements). After all, to look clever and paraphrase Tolstoy, good guys are all alike; every bad guy is bad in his own way (which sounds much better than anything Chekov ever came up with, except in those episodes with the Klingons).

But of course for Lust Biters, being an interesting villain isn’t enough. I mean, Darth Vader may top every fanboy’s Villains List, but in terms of sex appeal, a wheezy guy who takes longer to undress than you, and ends up looking like a skinless chicken constantly distracted by disturbances in the Force, can stay a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away.


No, we want sexy villains, clit-throbbingly sexy bastards whom we’d bed as much as the heroes, if not more so! The guys you’d root for over the bland heroes - and whom you’d want to get a good rooting from. The guys with the black hats, the minions, the schemes and soliloquies about their ambitions, not like those good guys who were so squeaky clean they’d slip on sandpaper.

Let’s face it, the best men are often the worst ones!


But why is it so? In Olivia Knight’s excellent Crush Wednesday post a few weeks back, she put it best when she wrote, “It’s [explaining the appeal of wet men] like explaining the appeal of breasts to.. who doesn’t get breasts?” Well, I feel the same way about Sexy Bad Guys. But, just as Olivia valiantly strove to give us examples and possible reasons, I will endeavour to do the same.

As my list of Sexy Bad Guys, the Best in Show as well as in the sack, grew, I began putting them together in groups, until it became a sort of Villains Periodic Table, with common characteristics running through all of them.


One primary element they had was Charm, with a Capital Ch. Suave, debonair, classy, these are men whose idea of a night out with a lady doesn’t include lagers at the pub, a kebab and a fumble in the taxi. No, these men prefer Paris, a bottle of Dom Perignon ’53 (or the ’71, if one must slum it), and a Tiffany’s necklace to keep you warm as he slips you out of your gown and takes you from behind on the balcony of the penthouse suite.

These are the gentlemen Rogues: Raffles the thief (as played by the likes of Ronald Coleman and David Niven), James Mason’s highwayman in The Wicked Lady, Stewart Granger’s smuggler in Moonfleet, Steve McQueen’s (and Pierce Brosnan’s) millionaire crook in the Thomas Crown Affair, and Cary Grant’s retired cat burglar in To Catch a Thief.

These are men who keep one foot in polite society (who turn a blind eye to their activities) and the other on the ledge outside your bedroom window, men who would wine you, dine you and sixty-nine you – and leaving you not caring when you later find out they’d made off with your furs and jewellery.


Though most of these men seem consigned to the classic films, one modern example who made my mouth water was Rene Belloq, the amoral French archaeologist from Raiders of the Lost Ark, willing to work with the Nazis to achieve his goals (boo hiss!) but still a gentleman, saving Indy’s girlfriend Marion – for himself. Of course, that didn’t stop him from watching via a mirror as she undressed, or leaving her tied up as he plied her with food and wine. Just thinking about an imaginary deleted scene to that, where things went further between them, warms the cockles of my, er, heart.


Another property that popped up was Authority, men who commanded men, leaders so confident that they didn’t have to look twice to see if orders were being followed, who operated as if concepts of good and evil were for lesser men – and you believed them. From Yul Brynner’s roles as Ramses and The King of Siam (oh, those moody glowers and that rich, moistening baritone voice of his!), to Arnold Vosloo's powerful, charismatic priest in the first two Mummy movies, to Max Von Sydow’s strutting his cosmic stuff as Ming the Merciless, all intergalactic decadence and ermine finery. Hmm, all bald characters. Something in there?


Apparently not, because my all-time favourite in this category is Alan Rickman’s Sheriff of Nottingham in Robin Hood Prince of Thieves. More cunning than a serpent, more ruthless than a dog with a pork chop, he looked hot, sounded hot, and did more for me than the fabulously average Kevin Costner could in this or any other of his movies. I wasn’t the only one in the cinema cheering him on as he forcibly married Maid Marian and tried to consummate the union before the hero broke through the door. He burned out the villagers, cancelled Christmas and tortured the stunningly annoying Christian Slater. Gorgeous, amoral – what’s not to lust after?


Another quality that came to light was Ruthlessness. These were not small-time crooks selling bootleg DVDs down your local, but big men with bigger ambitions, larger than life bad boys. Notable examples included Rickman’s breakout role as Hans Gruber in Die Hard, effortlessly masterful and cool, with a sharp sense of humour and sharper clothes; James Mason as Captain Nemo, dapper and lethal, who’ll take you places (whether you want to go or not) in style under the sea; Doctor Who’s nemesis The Master, one of many Nehru jacket-clad villains in this article, with a barely-concealed love of tying up the Doctor’s female companions; Schizoid Batman villain Two-Face (especially played as he was by the deeply delicious Tommy Lee Jones), if you kept on the right side of him. Literally. And if you didn’t mind threesomes, even if there was just the two of you in bed.

Oh, and pretty much any of the earlier Bond villains, so long as they come with a secret lair. They’ll shower you with gifts (these bad guys are always generous, albeit on their own terms), have his outlandish henchmen crush that asshole who cut you off in traffic that morning, and make sure you have the best suite in his volcano lair. Just don’t get caught swapping bodily fluids with any British secret agents, or you’ll end up feeding his exotic pets in a way you’d rather not.


But the Mack Daddy of this class of villain is Lex Luthor (another baldie!), a man of humble origins, whose self-styled reputation as the greatest criminal mastermind since Moriarty appeared well-justified, and lacking superpowers of his own, he nevertheless manages to repeatedly put the bitch slap on the Boy Scout from Krypton and nearly taking over the world. And Lois keeps getting captured by him, again and again. Don’t tell me she didn’t do it on purpose; she may not have been able to tell that Clark Kent was Superman, but she was no dummy. Sure, inevitably she went home with the deeply caring, deeply vanilla Superman – but later, while he was out rescuing kittens from trees, she had some Personal Time in bed recalling what Luthor had done to her while she was tied up in his hideout, waiting to be “rescued”.


At the extreme end of the spectrum are the Beasts, more hands-on characters like Hannibal Lector, Christian Bale’s American Psycho, and TV’s sardonic serial killing hero Dexter. Absolute madmen who have married high intelligence and charisma with a lethal ferocity and a twisted code of honour and chivalry. They could kill without batting an eyelash, and literally have you for dinner if you crossed them. But you wouldn’t, because you’d be the Beauty to these Beasts, possessed and possessor. Preferring the quiet life, they tend to lack the immense wealth and ambition of the others on this list – but they're like your own human Roittweiler. And they do tend to clean up after themselves…

So why do we pant after them? The thrills? The fear? The free goodies?

Maybe it’s because all these men who walk on the dark side can have anyone they desired – so, if they desire you, you can’t help but get an ego boost. So long as you don’t do the stupid thing and blurt out that you want them just as much as they want you. Attainability is the kiss of death for these guys – in some cases, quite literally. So by all means, resist all the way, so they can chain you up to have their wicked way with you – and free you from any responsibility.

So 'fess up girls, which bad guy do you want to tie you down and ravish you? Who do you want to be hanging at the side of while he threatens the hero? Whose lair do you want to mark as your own?

Hurry, before the hero shows up and spoils your good time!

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

Crush Wednesday: Little Beards

by Janine Ashbless


Today I want to talk about one of my favourite kinks, as illustrated above. Magnificent, isn’t it? Not too big, not too weedy…

I mean the beard of course. YOU ARE LOOKING AT HIS FACE, AREN’T YOU? Honestly, some people just can’t concentrate…

Anyone who knows me knows I have a Thing for beards. Not big bushy beards. Less is more. Something like this, say.

That scratchy, unshaven look says "I just rolled into my clothes and I haven’t time to shave because I’m off to Defeat the Powers of Evil/Paint the Sistine Chapel/Save the Whales. Something really important anyway, and definitely not data entry for an accountancy firm. When I get back I’ll be exhausted and traumatised and will make desperate semi-conscious love to you before passing out in your arms."

I mean, cocks are good, don’t get me wrong. I love them. But a cock is a cock is a cock – while a good beard ‘n’ hair combo will have me falling on the floor clawing the carpet.
Of course it doesn’t work for everyone. And it can’t work miracles. It won’t make an ugly face handsome. But it will give definition to a bland one, shape to a slightly plump one. And it’ll make a good looking man so hot I won’t be able to take my eyes off him. I’m really fixated on the goatee (or anchor) - that little beard that just frames the mouth. The Evil Beard, as worn by pretentious poets, intergalactic villains and pantomime baddies since time began. You could embarrass me by pointing out how Freudian this is. I mean, a little beard really mimics the shape of neatly-trimmed pubic hair…

But I’m afraid it’s worse than that. Much darker.

Evil Beard Man is my Shadow. Evil Beard Man is the leather-clad fascist in my right-on liberal heart. He is the Bad Boy that offers what I really want in my darkest dreams – not the shaven-headed thuggish dimwit badboy of so many people’s fantasies, but the Evil Genius. The one who takes the responsibility for doing very bad things indeed.

This beard says "I am Evil and a cleverclogs. I have seized control of your puny planet and now I will remake it in my image, purging it of the dull, the tawdry, the scum. I shall utterly destroy the thick, the unimaginative, the wilfully undereducated, the religious fundamentalists, the Chavs, the reality TV contestants, the Daily Mail readers, the teenage gangstas, the liars, the fashionistas, the shallow and foolish and worthless of the world. But you, Janine – you will serve me. You will wear a black corset and thigh-length boots and cater to my insatiable sexual urges and help me eliminate those unworthy to live. Place your finger on the trigger, Janine: we will begin with All Those Who Drop Litter and move on to Those Who Only Write in Text Language …"

But enough of my fantasies.


Herewith I enclose a selection of little beards and assorted facial hair. You may find some amusement in spotting which geek sources they come from. As you can see, for me the Platonic Ideal of Masculinity lies somewhere between Jesus and Satan. In, ha ha, oh so many ways…

xxx
Janine Ashbless






























































Monday, September 24, 2007

Bloody men

by Madelynne Ellis


A few weeks ago, Kristina Lloyd teased us all with her love of wet men; well I have a similar fascination for bloody men. I’m not all that hot at analysing my own reasons for liking things, mostly I prefer to accept that something is and not delve to deep, but for the purposes of this collection I’ve done a bit of prodding and poking and made a few discoveries.

Let's get a few things straight: I'm talking cuts and bruises here, nothing more visceral, no gaping wounds and missing body parts, and I don't particularly enjoy watching men knock nine shades of hell out of each other, so it’s nothing to do with them being macho and fired up on testosterone that makes me tremble with delight. Maybe it’s a teeny bit to do with the knowledge that they can handle themselves, should the need arise, maybe not…


So what is it about a black eye or a bust lip that grabs my attention? Generally, I like pretty men, a bit of polish, even a hint of make-up, but add bruises to the mix and you instantly add layers of interest. How did he end up with blood smeared across his shirt? Why? Just one flaw in all that perfection adds a whole history.


"Vaughan’s body was lean but muscular and tapered neatly at the waist. His arms and shoulders were strong from his love of fencing, the same sport that had given him his oft-admired thighs. However, the most striking feature of his near-nakedness was the pale silvery line across his left side that marred the surface of his skin. Lucerne traced its length curiously with his fingertips, and then with his tongue. It appeared to be a duelling scar.

There’s a maternal aspect to my fascination to. “Are you all right?” I long to ask. “Here let me look at it? Let me kiss it better.” As well as a darker, sadistic one. “Does it hurt if I press it?’


And bruises are such pretty colours, all those purples and blues with a hint of green and a splash of yellow. I’m the child that given a present of eye shadow for the first time proceeded to make my sisters look as if they had black eyes. Actually, that same fascination lasted into adulthood, faking injuries is still my favourite bit of Stage Make-up. I’ll quite happily while away an hour or two painting bruises onto my knuckles, or faking taut silvery-white scars.

"A smile of satisfaction spread across his ruined visage. The skin across his left eye was creased into a web of red and silver lines. The eye itself was milky, while the rest of him was undeniable handsome. Once he’d have been painted, admired, celebrated, but the fates had turned a cruel hand. Thea clasped her fist to her chest. Stark turned his head to one side, then the other, showing her his flawless profile, then ruined one. The widest of the scars was the same breadth as her finger. It overwhelmed her with such a terrible urge to touch. He knew he was making an impact.


I love the fact that blood is so red and shiny against the skin, and the way it flows, drips and splashes. The way it runs inside a collar, just like a bead of sweat or a drop of water, but blood is
far more erotically charged than sweat or water, it's very essence tied up in the symbolism of life. It's forbidden imagery too in our post-HIV world, where its presence can mean danger to more than the injured party - although I'm not into blood play myself. Ms Jolie can keep her knives and her vials of her lover's blood to herself, thanks. Mine is a purely voyeuristic pleasure.




"Asha tentatively pressed her tongue to the first of the ten long gashes and licked. The mixture of blood and poison tingled on her tongue. It tasted bitter, although the ripple of pleasure that flowed down her throat was sweet. She licked again, her tongue delving into the wound, and the taste became acrid. She spat it out, then returned to the wound and began to suck. Beneath her, she felt him tremble, and his spine stiffen. ‘Shh!’ she soothed before tending the next gash.

So folks, tell me, am I alone in my obsession or do bloody men do it for you too? If so, have you a favourite image to share? I'm rather taken with Mr Sharpe's smile up top. You can check out a few others who didn't quite make it into the post over on my blog.

Madelynne Ellis

blog : website

Excerpts from i) A Gentleman's Wager ii) Desperate Measures (work in progress) & iii) Broken Angel.