Thank you for taking a look at my stop on S.L. Jennings' Taint Virtual Book Tour & Giveaway presented by Tasty Book Tours.
Title: Taint: A Sexual Education Novel
Author: S.L. Jennings
Genre: Erotic Contemporary Romance
Publication Date: February 24, 2015
Publisher: Avon/William Morrow Books
Right now, you’re probably asking yourself two things:
Who am I?
And, what the hell are you doing here?
Let’s start with the most obvious question, shall we?
You’re here, ladies, because you can’t f*ck.
Oh, stop it. Don’t cringe. No one under the age of 80 clutches their pearls.
You might as well get used to it, because for the next six weeks, you’re going to hear that word a lot. And you’re going to say it a lot.
Go ahead, try it out on your tongue.
Ok, good. Now where were we?
If you enrolled yourself in this program then you are wholly aware that you’re a lousy lay. Good for you. Admitting it is half the battle.
For those of you that have been sent here by your husband or significant other, dry your tears and get over it. You’ve been given a gift, ladies. The gift of mind-blowing, wall-climbing, multiple-orgasm-inducing sex. You have the opportunity to f*ck like a porn star. And I guarantee, you will when I’m done with you.
And who am I?
Well, for the next six weeks, I will be your lover, your teacher, your best friend, and your worst enemy. Your every-f*cking-thing. I’m the one who is going to save your relationship and your sex life.
I am Justice Drake.
And I turn housewives into whores.
Barnes & Noble
After a day of stroking fragile egos and another awkward dinner during which I painfully watch most of the diners push food around their plates pretending to eat, I nearly sprint to the main kitchen for a cold beer and to check in with my staff.
“What’s up, J.D.? How’re the Erotic Eleven treating ya?” greets the Oasis sous chef, Riku. The kid is an anomaly. Half Japanese and half Brazilian, he’s used to getting mauled by horny housewives enamored of his jet-black hair, broad build, copper-colored skin, and fine, Asian features. When I asked him how his parents managed to merge their cultures, he replied, “Everyone’s fluent in the language of love.”
Still, he’s a good guy, if not slightly green when it comes to matters of the heart. If someone like me had friends, Riku would be one. But, alas, I am someone like me.
I grab two cold ones out of the fridge and pop them open before handing one to Riku, which he gladly accepts.
Everyone here knows that, while I may sign their paychecks, I am as far from a boss as possible. There is no “Mr. Drake” here. No formal reprimands or hoops to jump through. The rules are simple: if you want to work with me, great. Do your job. If not, fine by me—everyone is replaceable. With the pay, benefits, and mutual respect among all employees, whether you’re a dishwasher or head chef, I am rarely dealt the task of hiring or firing.
“Erotic Eleven? Hmm … not much different from the last group. What’d you call them? The Sizzling Seven?”
Riku laughs before tipping back his beer, then looks down at the label. “Krombacher, eh? Where’d you get this one?”
“That where you spend your summers? Corrupting a bevy of beauties in Berlin?”
“One of the places.” I shrug. “Kinda just wandered through Europe. Stopped in Amsterdam, Brussels, Prague—even made it down to Spain.”
Riku shakes his head, his mouth curled into a smirk. “You make it sound like you were backpacking and sleeping in hostels or some shit. Be real, man. You did it up playboy style like you always do. Probably found your very own Heidi Klum out there.”
“Nah. Never that.”
Riku is half right. I did roam Europe in style, driving up the coast to Monaco, staying at luxurious resorts and indulging in the most amazing cuisine. I also indulged in my fair share of hot, European pussy. But, hey, I was on vacation.
“Sure, sure,” he remarks, not the least bit fazed by my aloofness. He already knows that privacy is a big deal to me and that I rarely disclose any personal information. “Just toss one my way if you ever find your hands too full to juggle all those Vicky Secret angels you like to keep stashed away.”
One swimsuit model. One. And suddenly I’m Hugh Hefner with a fresh Viagra refill.
I finish my beer in silence, listening to him ramble on about the insanely frustrating demands of our guests.
“No butter. No gluten. No dairy. No fat, no calories, no flavor. What the hell do these chicks want to eat? Air?”
“If you could put it on a plate and garnish it with parsley, it’d be a hit.”
“Fuck that,” Riku remarks with a shake of his head. “I want a woman that eats. Someone I can cook for and feed while she’s curled up next to me in bed. Ain’t shit I can do with a bag of bones. I mean, have you seen most of them? Shit, if they turn to the side, they fucking disappear. I’ll take tits and ass over Skeletor any damn day.”
I nod, feeling the double-edged sword of his words. Of course, these women want to eat. They crave rich foods and sugary desserts just like anyone else. They detest having to spend every waking moment obsessing over every pound and calorie. But when you live in a society that praises skinny and shames anything that doesn’t fit that extra-extra-small mold, you make sacrifices. And that’s exactly what they’ve done. They’ve sacrificed their happiness, their peace of mind, and in many cases, their health. And in the end, it’s not even about food or body image. It’s just another notch in the good ol’ fucked-up, modern America belt.
S.L. Jennings is a New York Times & USA Today bestselling author of contemporary and paranormal romance, reality TV junkie, obsessive coffee drinker and collector of crazy.
10 paperback copies of Taint
Follow the rest of the tour here.