It wasn’t a bad scream, it was a good scream. It was, in fact, a scream of ecstasy, like when I find out Gucci is having a shoe sale. Sinclair’s “ladyfriends”? Try harem.
She finds Tina staring into a three-inch thick one-way mirror–well, they’re on the side that can see in. She’s watching Sinclair fuck “two–whoops, there was another set of tits–three women. They were writhing and groaning and purring in the middle of a bed that was, if possible, bigger than king-sized. I mean, that bed looked like a satin-covered acre.” You know us women, always purring while getting nailed. I mean, maybe if you’re Anita Blake in the middle of an identity crisis…anyway, Sinclair looks happy, almost smiling, even!
“And he ought to be, in the middle of a brunette nest like he was. The three women all had elbow-length dark hair and sturdy limbs…no anorexic models for this guy. One of them even had a gently rounded belly. Two of them were fair-skinned, and the third was the color of milk chocolate, with the high cheekbones of Egyptian royalty.”
Actually, high cheekbones of Egyptian royalty is also frequently used to describe Jessica, but no, thankfully there is no established relation there. I wouldn’t put it past her. Betsy is surprised to note that they are all obviously human, although I’m not sure why since it’s not like every vampire story ever has human love interests or anything, and clearly the genre still exists in this world.
Tina explains the thickness of the glass as to why they cannot hear her and Betsy converse, and the speaker on the wall as to why Betsy and her can hear them. She says the room almost always has a watcher. Betsy thinks that’s sick, but Tina thinks it is common sense; “Do you know how many men of power have been killed between the sheets?” And, no. No, I don’t. Neither does Betsy, and seemingly neither does Tina (unless “well, it’s a lot” is a number I’ve never heard). So I can’t comment on the historical accuracy therein, as Googling “how many men of power have been killed between the sheets?” doesn’t say shit about it!
Betsy feels bad that Sinclair can’t relax, “Not even during a Penthouse-inspired fantasy like this,” and whines at Tina, “Why can’t he stop? I mean, I don’t mind being kept waiting if it’s–you know–business you can conduct while fully clothed. But why do we have to hang around while he gets his undead jollies?”
“This is,” Tina said seriously. “We’re not like you, Betsy. We have to feed. We can’t put it off for a day or two. Sometimes not even an hour or two. For Sinclair, this is vital. It’s…it’s as close to life-affirming as we can ever get. Nothing else takes precedence.” Y’know, not even the long-fabled vampire queen who was a real pain in the ass to get here. Naw, having a foursome at the same time you figured she would be arriving is definitely more important.
One of the women squealed. “Life affirming?” I asked dryly. I glanced away before I saw something unfit for Christian eyes. Then, like Lot’s wife, I turned back just in time to see Sinclair position himself behind one of the women. Though it pained me on several levels to admit it, the man had the best ass I had ever seen. Taut, muscular, and sweetly rounded in exactly the right places. Yum.
“Sweetly rounded in all the right places.” That is a thing, that she says. Sweetly rounded in all the right places. I’m sure Sinclair’s masculinity loves that one, especially since he’s a chauvinist moron. Whoops, spoiler alert! Eh, it was probably obvious by now.
They continue standing there watching, when Tina softly whispers, “They’re so beautiful,” she rested her hand on the glass, palm down. “So alive and fresh and young.”
Young? Tina was right, not a single woman in that room was hard on the eyes, but they were in their late thirties, early forties, at the least. They were beautiful, but they looked like real women: soft bellies, heavy thighs, laugh lines. No nineteen-year-olds for Sinclair (note: that will be really funny after the ninth book).
I sort of liked him for that.
And again, she continues watching them have sex while thinking to herself how uncomfortable (well, uncomfortably-hot, anyway) she finds watching them have sex. And while I don’t want to use excessive quotations, I’m gonna take the risk to keep on quotin’ on, and:
But it was hard to look away. For one thing, it was hot. Unbelievably hot. Part of it was Sinclair’s stamina, but another was his three companions. There was no jealousy, no cattiness; they were happy just to be there, to take turns, It was unlike anything I’d ever imagined. I’d figured in a ménage a–shit, what was the French word for four? Well, anyway, I’d figured in any sort of ménage there were bound to be hurt feelings. Not here.
“You’ve got the best ass I’ve seen in fifty years (says the guy who may or may not be 65 years total)…at least fifty.”
“A thousand years!” the one with the great ass declared, and the three women giggled in unison.
Sinclair snorted and pulled out. I gasped. I don’t know why I was surprised. Sinclair was huge–big, broad shoulders, powerful arms and legs–well over six feet, easily two hundred pounds, and not a scrap of flab on him. I should have expected–err–other parts of him to be–uhh–larger than average. All the same, I couldn’t help being shocked.
“Jesus Christ! No wonder he doesn’t go for the ninteen-year-olds!” If some little club bunny saw that coming at her, she’d go for the whip and chair.
As if only thirty-plus-somethings are interested and unintimidated by huge dicks, rather than…y’know, everyone. Even straight dudes talk about ‘em!
But Tina backs up Betsy’s thought with, “Sinclair prefers older bed partners. If they’re not…experienced…he could hurt them,” as if the average nineteen-year-old is even a virgin anymore, “He wouldn’t mean to, and he’d be sorry later, but they’d be hurt, just the same,” and I also wish to point out that vagina muscles contract, and unless something truly heinous is going on you don’t really lose elasticity or whatever you wanna call it; it loosens during arousal and then tightens back up afterwards, no matter how big you think your dick is. Okay, maybe if he was banging a literal virgin she would find it unpleasant, but like I said before…you can find plenty of nineteen year olds who are already well-versed in sex. And even 30+ year olds who aren’t! Hell, Betsy told us earlier that she’s only had sex like 3 times, so by apparent Sinclair logic she should probably be an unsuitable partner, and yet…
I’m not trying to say Sinclair, by whose description seems to be in at least his mid-thirties himself (heh), should go around seducing the “barely legal” women men typically seem to lust after, and it is kind of refreshing that he doesn’t, but science outweighs whatever dumbass point you wanna make and I will not further the rumor that a sexually active woman becomes “loose”! So there!
Meanwhile, back in Sodom…yes, she did write that. Sinclair is banging away at those three oddly specific haired brunettes. Drinking and fucking, fucking and drinking. And then…ugh:
“I-I have to go,” I said this with a complete lack of conviction. “I mean, they’ll finish up soon.”
“And then we can tell Sinclair what happened tonight.”
“And figure out where to go from there.”
“All right,” Tina said this with all the animation of a store mannequin.
“It’s just that I have to kiss you now.” She turned and pulled me toward her. Her pupils were huge. I looked down at her pretty, pretty face and tried to feel a little more shocked. I’d never kissed a woman in my life. Never even been curious. My stance on homosexuality was exactly the same as my stance on heterosexuality: If you were having sex with a consenting adult, it was none of my business. Just keep it out of my face, thus sayeth Queen of the Hypocrites, and–oh no! The review is coming from inside the house!
“I must beg your indulgence,” Tina was saying. She went up–up, up!–on her tiptoes. Her mouth was dark red, with matching lip liner (I approved; clashing lip liners were so twentieth century), and her top lip looked like a little bow. The mouth of an enchantress…hopefully a good one. “Just…one…kiss.”
Betsy snaps out of it and tells Tina, “Forget it!” I said loudly, breaking the spell. She had–it was like I’d been hypnotized for a few seconds. First a voyeur, now a lesbian? Don’t think so! “My God, you people are sick, sick! Does he do this every night? Don’t answer that! And you! You keep your hands to yourself, missy!” She says she thought Tina said she gave up “that stuff” years ago, and Tina elaborates with, “Men. I gave up men. I’m very sorry. I couldn’t help it. I haven’t even fed tonight and you’re so beautiful. But I’m very sorry.” and Betsy literally has to tell herself to stop basking in yet more undue praise and keep her focus:
“Being dead is one thing, but having to watch Finklair romp in his bed o’ babes…and then you decide to bring my latent lesbian tendencies to the surface–real latent, by the way, because when I was alive the thought of lip locking another woman never crossed my mind, although there was that one time at summer camp when Cheryl Cooper dared me to French kiss her because we were playing Truth or Dare and like a moron I picked Dare and I-I–where was I going with this?”
Tina hasn’t a clue much like the rest of us, but she does sink to her knees and kiss the toes of Betsy’s shoes! Even Betsy is dumbfounded and outraged about this turn of events, but she puts the emphasis on rage and starts up a tantrum, throwing out Jesus this, God that–even, at one point, simply screaming, “God! God! God!” into Tina’s ear, as she’s cowering and pleading at Betsy, who is stomping down the stairs. Dennis comes out too, asking her to stay. Tina is crying, “Please don’t! Please stay! We need you!” to which Betsy sasses, “Well, I don’t need you,” as she is crossing the marble hallway and opening the door, but then suddenly Sinclair is standing in front of her, naked as the day is long save for the modesty sheet he wrapped around his waist.
He slams the door shut and says, “How good of you to drop by,” because, y’know, MJD is so anti-cliché and whatever. Betsy, of course, freaks the fuck out, calling him a perv and a disgusting slut and I am totally serious, she actually says “I want out of this–this house of sin!” and just…oh my god.
Wait! You may be thinking, well how does Sinclair respond? Well, I am happy to inform you that he actually totally seriously says, “Now, Elizabeth. I don’t come to your house and criticize your lifestyle, do I?” (also, she says that he “had the nerve to sound reproachful.”)
Anyway, our rough and tough Not Your Average Vampire Cliché whines how she can still smell the sex all over him, while he chastises her for greatly upsetting Tina. They’re getting nowhere fast, when suddenly Sinclair grabs her and gives her a dramatic Hollywood kiss:
I opened my mouth to yell–or bite–which proved to be a tactical error, as he used it as an excuse to shove his tongue into my mouth. I made fists and hammered at his chest as hard as I could, and I actually heard something snap. He shrugged off the blows and deepened the kiss. My knees went weak, which was annoying beyond belief. I’d never been so attracted to someone I absolutely despised, and it was infuriating.
I could feel his hand on the small of my back, pressing me close to him, could feel his hard length against my stomach–how could he want anyone after what just went on upstairs? Didn’t he need a nap? Or a shower?
Definitely a shower! I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty sure there ought to be a stench or two perfuming around Mr. Fourway. And it’s not just gross to kiss someone you barely know immediately after fucking 3 women at once (a woman wrote this? Seriously? Ooookaaaay…) but it is also just…tacky! Gross and tacky, thy name is Eric Sinclair. What the fuck kind of machismo bullshit is this, that he goes out of his way to get Betsy into his home amidst a fucking (heh) foursome! WHO DOES THAT?!
This dude is finally getting his pathetic, stupid wish to meet Queene Betsye. He believes in this prophecy. He believes her to be his queen. And he wants to be her king! So the first time she shows up at his house, he has a fucking foursome? What an asshole! Who even has time for that shit?
Anyhoo, he swishes all of his foursome sex germs into her mouth, and then…surprise! She is not pleased.
He seriously says to her, after that kiss–that kiss that must have tasted of several women, lest he’s even shitty at that (okay, he probably is, but I’m sure he at least put in a lick or two for the obvious showcase he was enjoying), “There. Now you’ll stay, and we’ll chat.”
And, of fucking course, she finds that so belittling and petty and male-gazing…well, she slaps him real hard, at least. She slaps him so hard he “rocks back on his heels,” and she manages to get out the old “if you ever touch me again I’ll kill you” which always prefaces true love stories where the “true love” is just “we’re equally hot,” and whatever, whatever, Tina is still sobbing and begging her to “Wait!”, Dennis is just staring at her apparently, and who fuckin’ knows what Sinclair is up to, as he’s obviously the worst part of all men who use the term “alpha” unironically.
But after being thrust into the home of someone she’d already declared to despise, told to just wait while he has a goddamned Sinclair Sandwich in a room he knows she’s watching at, and then sexually harassed over and over and over…Betsy feels bad about leaving. Betsy’s internal monologue is thus:
Tina burst into tears, and I slammed the door on her dry sobs. And I didn’t feel bad. Not one bit. Nope. Not at all.
Damn you, Sinclair.
And…what? She feels bad? WHY?! Oh, because obviously this Sinclair fellow is some Big Important Man and Betsy must kowtow to his convenience I guess, nevermind she is the one foretold. For all of her “I’m a modern woman, hear me ROAR!” bullshit we slog through in this series, this remains a constant. Sinclair is the one everyone oohs and ahhs over, even though he’s not the one foretold. There is no foretold Vampyre Kyng, only the Queene, which makes Sinclair her Consorte. But alas, who would want such a ditzy, flighty, superficial, bitchy, antagonizing woman to have such power? Thank goodness we have Sinclair here to immediately put Betsy on a leash!
Fuck you, Sinclair.