One day, you will say it to me again. You will be sober. And you will mean it.” I was actually terrified that I already meant it. A guy might just be a keeper who hears your cry for help in his head. And comes into a den of thieves to get you out. And then holds your hair while you throw up for ten minutes. Then again, I was in no condition to judge. But that old saying kept rattling around in my head. “ In vino veritas ,” I whispered, faintly appalled. “What?” “Nothing.” I looked up at him as he pulled me back to my feet. “Let’s go home.
paused. What was I saying? Was I actually thinking about this? Was I actually doing this? Because out of a lifetime of crazy things, this had to take the prize. Dhampirs didn’t have relationships—not long-term ones, at least. And certainly not with the creatures we were supposed to be hunting. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing, and this was probably going to end in disaster. Everyone knew, there was no such thing as happy endings, and princes didn’t end up with the family pariah. But now it seems that I am a pariah, too, drifted through my head. “Stop it,” I said, leaning back against him. His arms were tight around me, but his hands were gentle. I could hear a heartbeat in my ear, and it sounded natural, soothing. “What are you saying? That I can’t corrupt you?”
“I think I’m going to be—” Fritz, the doggen butler, presented him with a barf bag at exactly the right moment. A barf bag. A hospital-grade, bright-green barf bag. As Trez bent double and held the circular opening to his mouth, he thought a couple of things: 1) who the fuck went around with barf bags on the ready; 2) what the hell else was the male carrying in that penguin suit of his; and 3) why did it have to be bilious green? If you were going to make something for people to throw up in, why did you have to make the damn thing the color of pea soup? A cheery yellow, perhaps. A nice, tidy white. Although considering the shape his pants were in … When Trez finally straightened, that telltale anvil-sitting-on-one-half-of-his-head had started to kick in, and his thought patterns had begun to take on the convoluted weirdness that came along with his migraines. “Help me upstairs?” he mumbled to no one in particular.
The Chosen, JR Ward
And Fritz comes in with the win…Gotta love a butler who knows his charges needs so well it’s like totally magic…BTW the only place that has real life Fritz’s is maybe at the royal homes in Britain-but I wouldn’t swear by that because Fritz is in a class all his own!
Or maybe the squires in the Dark Hunter Series by Sherrilyn Kenyon
When I first encountered the literary classic Lolita, I was the same age as the infamous female character. I was 15 and had heard about a book in which a grown man carries on a sexual relationship with a much younger girl. Naturally, I quickly sought out the book and devoured the entire contents on my bedroom floor, parsing through Humbert Humbert‘s French and his erotic fascination for his stepdaughter, the light of his life, the fire of his loins — Dolores Haze. I remember being in the ninth grade and turning over the cover that presented a coy pair of saddle shoes as I hurried through the final pages in homeroom.
Although I remember admiring the book for all its literary prowess, what I don’t recall is how much of the truth of that story resonated with me given that I was a kid myself. Because it wasn’t until I reread the book as an adult that I realized Lolita had been raped. She had been raped repeatedly, from the time she was 12 to when she was 15 years old.
As a young woman now, it’s startling to see how that fundamental crux of the novel has been obscured in contemporary culture with even the suggestion of what it means to be “a Lolita” these days. Tossed about now, a “Lolita” archetype has come to suggest a sexually precocious, flirtatious underage girl who invites the attention of older men despite her young age. A Lolita now implies a young girl who is sexy, despite her pigtails and lollipops, and who teases men even though she is supposed to be off-limits.
In describing his now banned perfume ad, Marc Jacobs was very frank about the intentions of his sexy child ad and why he chose young Dakota Fanning to be featured in it. The designer described the actress as a “contemporary Lolita,” adding that she was “seductive, yet sweet.” Propping her up in a child’s dress that was spread about her thighs, and with a flower bottle placed right between her legs, the styling was sufficient to make the 17-year-old look even younger. The text below read “Oh Lola!,” cementing the Lolita reference completely. The teenager looks about 12 years old in the sexualizing advertisement, which is the same age Lolita is when the book begins.
And yet Marc Jacobs’ interpretation of Lolita as “seductive” is completely false, as are all other usages of Lolita to imply a “seductive, yet sweet” little girl who desires sex with older men.
Lolita is narrated by a self-admitted pedophile whose penchant for extremely young girls dates all the way back to his youth. Twelve-year-old Dolores Haze was not the first of Humbert Humbert’s victims; she was just the last. His recounting of events is unreliable given that he is serially attracted to girl children or “nymphets” as he affectionately calls them. And his endless rationalizing of his”love” for Lolita, their “affair,” their “romance” glosses over his consistent sexual attacks on her beginning in the notorious hotel room shortly after her mother dies.
This man who marries Lolita’s mother, in a sole effort to get access to the child, fantasizes about drugging her in the hopes of raping her — a hypothetical scenario which eventually does come to fruition. Later on as he realizes that Lolita is aging out of his preferred age bracket, he entertains the thought of impregnating her with a daughter so that he can in turn rape that child when Lolita gets too old
Lolita does make repeated attempts to get away from her rapist and stepfather by trying to alert others as to how she is being abused. According to Humbert, she invites the company of anyone which annoys him given that the pervert doesn’t want to be discovered. And yet, he manipulates her from truly notifying the authorities by telling her that without him — her only living relative — she’ll become a ward of the state. By spoiling her with dresses and comic books and soda pop, he reminds her that going into the system will deny her such luxuries and so she is better off being raped by him whenever he pleases than living without new presents.
Given that Humbert is a pedophile, his first-person account is far from trustworthy when deciphering what actually happened to Lolita. But, Vladimir Nabokov does give us some clues despite our unreliable narrator. For their entire first year together on the road as they wade from town to town, Humbert recalls her bouts of crying and “moodiness” — perfectly understandable emotions considering that she is being raped day and night. A woman in town even inquires to Humbert what cat has been scratching him given the the marks on his arms — vigilant attempts by Lolita to get away from her attacker and guardian. He controls every aspect of her young life, consumed with the thought that she will leave him with the aid of too much allowance money or perhaps a boyfriend. He interrogates her constantly about her friends and eventually ransacks her bedroom revoking all her money. Lolita is often taunted with things she desires in exchange for sexual favors as Nabokov writes in one scene:
“How sweet it was to bring that coffee to her, and then deny it until she had done her morning duty.”
Lolita eventually does get away from her abusive stepfather by age 15, but the fact that she has been immortalized as this illicit literary vixen is not only deeply troublesome, it’s also a completely inaccurate reading of the book. And Marc Jacobs is not alone in his highly problematic misinterpretation of child rape and abuse as “sexy.” Some publications and publishing houses actually recognize the years of abuse as love.
On the 50th anniversary edition of Lolita, which I purchased for the sake of writing this piece, there sits on the back cover a quote from Vanity Fair which reads:
“The only convincing love story of our century.”
The edition, which was published by Vintage International, recounts the story as “Vladimir Nabokov’s most famous and controversial novel” but also as having something to say about love. The back cover concludes in its summary:
“Most of all, it is a meditation on love — love as outrage and hallucinations, madness and transformation.”
“Love” holds no space in this novel, which details the repeated sexual violation of a child. Although Humbert desperately tries to convince the reader that he is in love with his stepdaughter, the scratches on his arms imply something else entirely. Because the lecherous Humbert has couched his pedophilia in romantic language, the young girl he repeatedly violated seems to have passed through into pop culture as a tween temptress rather than a rape victim.
Conflating love or sexiness with the rape of literature’s most misunderstood child is dangerous in that it perpetuates the mythology that young girls are some how participating in their own violation. That they are instigating these attacks by encouraging and inciting the lust of men with their flirty demeanor and child-like innocence.
Let it be known that even Lolita, pop culture’s first “sexy little girl” was not looking to seduce her stepfather. Lolita, like a lot of young girls, was raped.
Source: http://www.mommyish.com/2011/11/16/lolita-novel-sex-rape-pedophilia-541/2/#ixzz3N4PFEyex
I was going through this at age 11 when i got my hands on the book, and i never read it as sexual. I cried and related to her on such a deep level. Anyone who thinks lolita is a love story is gross.
Too real. Lolita means so much to me, because I was raped by an older adult man when I was 15 and years later when I came forward about it people said it was my fault because I flirted with him. A friend of his even teased me with the comment “weren’t you his little Lolita?” Lolita. Is Not. A love story. The continuous sexual abuse of a teenage girl is not love.
What chaps my ass is that NABOKOV didn’t see it as a love story. He found Humbert repugnant and went out of his way to make him so.
He hated that people saw it as romantic when he’d meant to write a fucking horror novel.
I hate when people call themselves Lolita or that fucking Lana del Rey song.This book is about a little girl being raped constantly and they make it seem like a seduction or tease.Please people read this article or read what the book really is this story makes my gut churn.I was being molested as a kid and had mental games played on me.Please Please Please to save another persons life stop romanticizing this story let people know this isn’t no old century love this is rape
Rape is never ok. Nor is a relationship between an adult and a child. I read a lot but it is imperative that this be a truth of our age. Too many people refuse to stand up to protect that truth. Many of my favorite heroines were abused as children.
[Top]The only good news was that I was wearing enough ammunition to wage a small war. Unfortunately, I’d have to drive my enemies off by throwing it at them, because I didn’t have a gun.
Claimed by Shadow, Karen Chance (via curlicuecal)
Thus is Cassie trouble with being pythia explained…Big Power no respect
Umm…not sure I agree but worth a look
Cassie in book 1: *looks at Pritkin* ugh who is this guy?
Cassie in book 2: *looks at Pritkin* fuck this guy and his ridiculous hair.
Cassie in book 3: *looks at Pritkin* ehhh he smells sort of good I guess and I kinda wanna touch that dumb ass hair, but jeez what a dick amirite, no attraction here, no siree.
Cassie from book 4 onward: *looks at Pritkin* 👌👀👌👀👌👀👌👀👌👀 good shit go౦ԁ SHIT👌 thats ✔ some good👌👌shit right👌👌th 👌 ere👌👌👌 right✔there ✔✔if i do ƽaү so my selｆ 💯 i say so 💯 thats what im talking about right there right there (chorus: ʳᶦᵍʰᵗ ᵗʰᵉʳᵉ) mMMMMᎷМ💯 👌👌 👌НO0ОଠＯOOＯOОଠଠOoooᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒ👌 👌👌 👌 💯 👌 👀 👀 👀 👌👌Good shit
I appreciate the thought, but adornment is not needed. Bare skin will do admirably.” He carelessly let his robe drop and turned in a full circle, hands outspread. He not only hadn’t overdressed; he hadn’t dressed at all. “Many strange things are said about us,” he continued, “but most are quite exaggerated. For instance, the Norse believe all Fey to have a flaw somewhere on their person, a mar to their beauty. Fey women are even said to be hollow, with a beautiful frontal appearance but no backs!” In the dim light, he burned like a pale flame, his hair a flowing nimbus around his head. And if his body had a flaw, I didn’t see it. “ Nici un lucru sã nu crezi, cu ochii pânã nu vezi. ” The liquid syllables fell with ease from his lips. My mind was busy with other things, so it took me a moment to realize what I’d heard. Seeing certainly was believing in his case, but that wasn’t the point. “I thought you didn’t understand Romanian.” Caedmon sat on the side of the bed, naked and gloriously aroused. “In a life as long as mine, one picks up a great deal of esoteric knowledge.” “You read the note.” He looked slightly surprised. “Of course. Wouldn’t you? But obviously I could say nothing around the vampire.” “Louis-Cesare? He’s all right,” I said absently. Caedmon had my expression. “No, I did not think so. I do not trust him, either.” “Why not? You just met him.” “He’s a vampire, and others of his kind have been causing considerable trouble at home of late. It is possible that they are behind the current unrest, encouraging those who should know better to try for honors above their station.” This suddenly didn’t sound like a seduction attempt anymore, despite the hand on my thigh. “Why are you really here, Caedmon?” He tried to lift the coverlet, and I slapped a hand down on it. He grinned, unrepentant. “I told you. I have never before had a dhampir—I quite look forward to it. And afterward we can discuss our mutual problem.
There is no situation so dire that a hot bath cannot improve one’s outlook; so I have always found to be true.
The Scions of Elua are gifted. But I am D’Angeline too, and if the blood that flows in my veins is not nobly gotten, it holds no less of the lineage of Elua and his Companions for it. My mother was an adept of the Night Court, and in Terre d’Ange, it means as much to be a whore’s daughter as a prince’s son.