I have survived my first day at the Romantic Times convention, and learned many things. Which, strangely, did not translate to Twitter last night, when I was furiously text messaging them.
For starters, I have found something that frightens me almost as bad as clowns: waxed, oiled shirtless cover models.
The first one I saw, yesterday afternoon, was selling raffle tickets for “Breakfast in Bed.” Except, he would be bringing it, instead of waiting to be served.
I cannot imagine anything more horrifying than being seen by a stranger, first thing in the morning. Especially not this stranger, who was dark, handsome, and probably tall (he was sitting down), and bulging out of a skin tight black tank top. And to pay good money for the chance? Even if that money is going to charity?
And the poor man was sitting at the registration desk, smiling and intimidating the hell out of me. But the people who were not sitting at the registration desk were the ones who could actually register me. They were all on lunch break, until 2:30. So for a while there, I just wandered in and out of rooms, confident in the knowledge that if someone tried to throw me out, I could probably force them to give me a badge.
More waxed men last night, at the Ellora’s Cave party. And most of these were shirtless, except for one who appeared to be wearing red latex and chains. And no, I do not have pictures. Except for a blurry one of the decorations on the stage, which appeared to be ET’s hand, and maybe a claw hammer (I don’t know) made out of big paper flowers.
Apparently, the big difference between Ellora’s Cave authors and Harlequin/Mills & Boon historical authors, is that they get lap dances from EC Cavemen, and we get tea. But if I am any indication, we can’t handle anything stronger than tea.