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That Jacko’s Quite the Man

“In Jacko’s arms there cannot be fear, there can only be pleasure…”

This line is from the blurb for a book released not even two months ago.
When I first came across it, it was the one line they were using as the main sell.
But I don’t want you to do anything at the moment, except revel in the gloriousness of that sentence.

Take a deep breath. Clear your mind of all the day’s stresses and inconveniences. Let go of the sounds that would intrude upon your consciousness. Wipe clean the slate, of everything; even the nasally, grating sound of my own voice. Relax…

“In Jacko’s arms there cannot be fear, there can only be pleasure…”

Ah, the sweet, sweet nectar of those words, put together in just that precise arrangement.
I’m not so much concerned with the intent of the words, as the actual meaning of the sentence.
Read it to yourself once more, that you might not lose the exquisite flavor, whilst negotiating all that next follows…

“In Jacko’s arms there cannot be fear, there can only be pleasure…”

I love this sentence, for what it is. Not what the author meant it to say, but what it actually says. I’d diagram it for you, but I never was very good with the whole ASCII thingy; and I don’t know that it’d help. You either see it, or you don’t.

One more time, for those who might have stepped away, or blinked…

“In Jacko’s arms there cannot be fear, there can only be pleasure…”

And unlike almost anything else you could put into your mouth, this sentence utterly fails to grow stale with repeated consumption. It’s flavor continually opens up, like the petals of a superb rose at the first sign of Spring.

Now, you might ask, just what is the flavor of this sentence I’m so enamored of. Is it chocolate, or perhaps wintergreen? Might it have the nose of a fine wine, or perhaps the robust aroma of a hearty stew? Maybe it has the zest, the piquancy of a seasonal smell you might associate with a major holiday; such as Christmas. You know – the smell of cinnamon and nutmeg, of eggnog and Christmas dinner, of candles and evergreen trees…

Actually, it’s not any of those. When I read that sentence, the flavor that spreads over my tongue, like a fine film of milk whose freshness date passed about three weeks ago, is the taste of confusion…

Let’s break it down, shall we?

In Jacko’s arms, there cannot be ‘A’, there can only be ‘Q’.
Okay, so you’re saying there can’t be any ‘A’. I get it. So what can there be?
Oh, there it is, I see; there can only be ‘Q’. But then why even bring up ‘A’ in the first place?
(And remember, I’m not concerned with what the author meant, only what the author said.)
Wouldn’t it have been more concise to simply say: “In Jacko’s arms, there can only be pleasure.”

“Then how is the author going to imply the fear, mister smarty-pants sentence critic type dude person?”

But fear can’t exist. It’s already been categorically denied. Why even mention something that can’t exist?

“The fear exists outside of his arms… jerk…”

Ah, but we’re not outside his arms. We’re currently residing within those massive sinews of spun steel, rippling as they are with the memories of a thousand nights of carnage… and carnality…

Excuse me, while I pant on your behalf…

‘A tempest in a teapot,’ you say?
Perhaps.
‘Making a mountain out of a mole hill,’ you accuse?
Probably.
‘Get over yourself, you big baby,’ you order?

Why I oughta…

Let’s open it up a bit, in order to more absurdly illustrate the point.

In Jacko’s arms there cannot be groceries, there can only be pleasure. Then how does he get the groceries from the car to the kitchen? And we haven’t even begun to address the issue of whose pleasure is being referenced here, you selfish, egotistical hunk of luscious manhood you, oh, take me now, right here on the counter…

In Jacko’s arms there cannot be laundry, there can only be pleasure. Harrumph! Typical male. Leaving dirty clothes everywhere; like some Laundry Leprechaun is gonna come along and do the washing. And I bet a Folding Fairy just puts it all away, doesn’t it? Harrumph!
And let’s not even get into the whole ‘only pleasure’ thing – which is fine, I suppose, if you’re heading for an emotional/sexual collision in a book. But what if you just want to show a little affection to an elderly Aunt; or maybe celebrate winning the World Series? Wouldn’t that get all creepy, if the only thing you could communicate was ‘pleasure’?

In Jacko’s arms there cannot be cardboard, there can only be turtle wax – which is… strange… but okay, I’ll go with it. And now you’ve got a situation where you want to be in Jacko’s arms, but you keep on scooching right out – kinda like a Slip-N-Slide from hell. And then the sexual tension just keeps on building, and building, with every encounter; until it practically explodes throughout the book – like a baking contest at the debutante’s ball.

Perhaps you consider this entire exercise to be a bit of an unfair poke at someone’s work. You are, of course, entitled to your opinion. But as far as I’m concerned, I’m just having a goof. I don’t for one second think of this author as anything other than a skilled craftsperson. Mainly because they’ve sold something like twenty-six books, so far. And I’ve sold – let’s see… there’s that one, and those over there… oh, and those over there… carry the three… oh, yeah, that’s right, none.

I wouldn’t want any of you to think I wished ill of anyone, anywhere.
I just like the idea of a baking contest at a debutante’s ball, exploding throughout the room.
But I needed a way to get there; and that’s not necessarily something you’d lead a blog post off with…

Or is it…?

The chocolate-chip cookies were the first to attack; ripping through the expensive crepe-paper decorations and the crystal chandelier like the latest in advanced weaponry from the Betty Crocker Munitions factory. Blueberry stains mixed with the pigments of shattered punch bowls and horderves plates… and with hues of a more personal nature.

Studdly McMuffintops watched the carnage from his seat at the Judges Table, casually flicking aside a soufflé intent upon inflicting grievous bodily harm with a baking sheet he caught up from in front of him.

It’d take more than these terroristic tarts to sway him from his sworn mission; to protect the ravishing contestant Becky Bundt-Cake with his very life – and his mother’s biscuit recipe, if necessary.

Coming this summer, to a bookstore near you – Pastries of Passion, a lusty tale of baking – and baking (if you get my drift), a story of spatulas, and spanking, and of the most forbidden passion of all… Pastries of Passion, the latest installment in the international best-selling Finger-foods of Fantasy series, by the author of Strudels of Sensuousness and Baklavas of Bondage.

And no, I’m not going to reveal the most forbidden passion of all.

You’ll just have to buy the book.

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