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FIFTY FILTHY-DIRTY SEX POEMS YOU MUST READ BEFORE I DIE. BY SANDRA HARRIS.

Originally posted on sandrafirstruleoffilmclubharris:

FIFTY FILTHY COVER

A collection of short, rude funny sex-poems. No stone left unturned in this hilariously bitchy and wickedly honest look at sex today. No, that’s it, nothing else. Just sex. Well, maybe a few bizarre fetishes, but that’s still just sex, isn’t it…? We’ll go with sex. Let’s just say sex. This book is about sex. It’s a sex-book…!

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dark water

DARK WATER. 2002. DIRECTED BY HIDEO NAKATA. STARRING HITOMI KUROKI, RIO KANNO, MIREO OGUCHI AND ASAMI MIZUKAWA. REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

dark water

DARK WATER. 2002. DIRECTED BY HIDEO NAKATA. STARRING HITOMI KUROKI, RIO KANNO, MIREI OGUCHI AND ASAMI MIZUKAWA. REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

Yoshimi Matsubara has big problems. Her estranged husband is determined to wrest custody of their six-year-old daughter Ikuko from her, and he’s a dirty fighter to boot. With her little girl, she’s just moved into a leaky apartment in a creepy old building staffed by an indifferent concièrge. Now she’s a single mum, she’s got to work for her bread and butter and she’s finding it hard to fit her job as a proofreader around her responsibilities as a mammy.

As the title might suggest, this is a very wet movie. Yoshimi is alarmed to observe that there are wet, dripping patches on the ceiling of their apartment that the building personnel don’t seem overly concerned about. When Yoshimi goes upstairs in the lift to talk to their overhead neighbour about the leak, there’s no-one there, though she does see the door open just as she’s heading back downstairs in the lift. Who’s there? That apartment’s been empty for months, ever since the parents of a missing schoolgirl of about Ikuko’s age decided to vacate it.

A child’s little red schoolbag keeps turning up around the place no matter how many times Yoshimi crams it in the dustbin. Ikuko collapses in her kindergarten after we see her being approached by a small, soaking wet figure in a raincoat and rubber boots. When Ikuko goes missing in the building, her frantic mother tracks her down to the apartment upstairs which is flooded, positively flooded, with water.

Even the janitors have to admit this time that there’s a problem with the plumbing. Yoshimi, who’s seen the silhouette of a little girl in the flooded apartment, knows that the problem goes deeper than that. She’s now convinced that the building is haunted by the ghost of the missing girl, and she’s scared to death for the safety of her own child.

She’s right to be scared. When Ikuko is in her bath, the ghost tries to pull her under the water and drown her. Long strands of black hair turn up in the water when they run the taps. The water in the building is pretty filthy overall, in fact. That shouldn’t be, should it? Of course it shouldn’t.

Yoshimi goes up onto the roof of the building and gingerly approaches the water-tower, where she’s previously seen a shadowy figure lurking. It’s obvious she thinks that the body of the missing schoolgirl is in the tower, which even the janitor admits hasn’t been cleaned in ages. Yoshimi gets scared, however, by terrifying shapes pushing their way out of the tower, and hurries back into the building.

Going back downstairs in the lift with a terrified Ikuko clutched in her arms, Yoshimi sees the door to the haunted apartment slowly open. A small arm appears, then out comes… Ikoku…? But if that’s Ikoku coming out of the empty flat, then who- or what?- is Yoshimi cradling so tightly in her arms…? Yoshimi slowly looks down and sees…

Well, I’m not not going to tell you what she sees, because that would spoil an ending that is both shocking and tear-jerkingly sad. The tension and suspense that have been simmering away nicely since the start of the film boil up and bubble over, leaving the viewer suitably breathless and blown away by the climax. This is an excellent film. Based on a short story by Koji Suzuki, the writer of RING, it’s only my third or fourth foray into the world of Japanese horror. I’ll be watching more of these little beauties, though. You can depend on it.

AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY OF SANDRA HARRIS.

Sandra Harris is a Dublin-based performance poet, novelist, film blogger, sex blogger and short story writer. She has given more than 200 performances of her comedy sex-and-relationship poems in different venues around Dublin, including The Irish Writers’ Centre, The International Bar, Toners’ Pub (Ireland’s Most Literary Pub), the Ha’penny Inn and The Strokestown Poetry Festival.

Her articles, short stories and poems have appeared in The Metro-Herald newspaper, Ireland’s Big Issues magazine, The Irish Daily Star, The Irish Daily Sun and The Boyne Berries literary journal.

She is addicted to buying books and will swap you anything you like for Hammer Horror or JAWS memorabilia, and would be a great person to chat to about the differences between the Director’s Cut and the Theatrical Cut of The Wicker Man. You can contact her at:

sandrasandraharris@gmail.com

https://www.facebook.com/SandraHarrisPureFilthPoetry

http://sandrafirstruleoffilmclubharris.wordpress.com

http://sexysandieblog.wordpress.com

http://serenaharker.wordpress.com

https://twitter.com/SandraAuthor

escapes2

ESCAPES. DIRECTED AND WRITTEN BY DAVID STEENSLAND. STARRING VINCENT PRICE. REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

escapes2

ESCAPES. 1986. DIRECTED AND WRITTEN BY DAVID STEENSLAND. STARRING VINCENT PRICE. REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

I came across this film by accident when I was looking for something else. I find that you uncover a load of priceless little gems that way, and this movie was no exception. It’s an anthology of fantasy, science fiction and horror tales presented by the master of horror himself, Vincent Price.

The way it goes is as follows. A young American man answers the door to the postman. As you do, right? Except that most people don’t have the honour and privilege of having their mail delivered to them by Vincent Price, which is what happens here.

Vincent Price, as the mailman, has a package for the young man. It’s a video-tape. The young man sticks it in the machine. Well, what else is he meant to do with it…? Up pops Vincent Price to present the six little tales of the weird, the wonderful, and the frankly macabre. The young man is intrigued. He settles back to watch the tape and becomes quickly absorbed, as you will too…

The first tale is called A LITTLE FISHY. A fisherman discovers, somewhat to his unease, I would imagine, exactly what it feels like to take the bait and be the prey instead of the predator. In COFFEE BREAK, a young man in a tearing hurry learns what it means to slow down, really slow down and smell the… um, coffee…

WHO’S THERE? scared the bejeesus out of me. A jogger on a lonely country path is pursued by hideous creatures whose agenda is oddly out of step with their terrifying appearance. In JONAH’S DREAM, an elderly woman living alone on a mountain finds that it takes a spaceship crashing into her barn to finally bring about the realisation of her late husband’s long-held dream.

THINK TWICE tells the story of a mugger who disregards a warning to leave well alone and learns the hard way that warnings are usually issued for a reason. The last tale doesn’t have a name. The young man watching the video-tape is gobsmacked, as we say here in Ireland, when Vincent Price informs him that he is to be the star of the final vignette…

The film ends with the young man screaming as he is swamped by the drowned fisherman, the coffee-toting inhabitants of the laid-back, sleepy little town known as Harmony, and all the rest of the protagonists. Vincent Price as the sinister mailman sits comfortably in an armchair and sniggers evilly, as indeed we all know he does supremely well. I really enjoyed this little prize of a film. Go and watch it. You won’t regret it. Have I ever steered you wrong yet? Of course I haven’t. I wouldn’t do that. Would I…?

AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY OF SANDRA HARRIS.

Sandra Harris is a Dublin-based performance poet, novelist, film blogger, sex blogger and short story writer. She has given more than 200 performances of her comedy sex-and-relationship poems in different venues around Dublin, including The Irish Writers’ Centre, The International Bar, Toners’ Pub (Ireland’s Most Literary Pub), the Ha’penny Inn and The Strokestown Poetry Festival.

Her articles, short stories and poems have appeared in The Metro-Herald newspaper, Ireland’s Big Issues magazine, The Irish Daily Star, The Irish Daily Sun and The Boyne Berries literary journal.

She is addicted to buying books and will swap you anything you like for Hammer Horror or JAWS memorabilia, and would be a great person to chat to about the differences between the Director’s Cut and the Theatrical Cut of The Wicker Man. You can contact her at:

sandrasandraharris@gmail.com

https://www.facebook.com/SandraHarrisPureFilthPoetry

http://sandrafirstruleoffilmclubharris.wordpress.com

http://sexysandieblog.wordpress.com

http://serenaharker.wordpress.com

https://twitter.com/SandraAuthor

RemakeDamien

THE OMEN… THE REMAKE. 2006. DIRECTED BY JOHN MOORE. STARRING LIEV SCHREIBER, JULIA STILES, MIA FARROW, PETE POSTLETHWAITE, DAVID THEWLIS, MICHAEL GAMBON AND SEAMUS DAVEY-FITZPATRICK. REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS.©

RemakeDamien

THE OMEN… THE REMAKE. 2006. DIRECTED BY JOHN MOORE. STARRING LIEV SCHREIBER, JULIA STILES, MIA FARROW, DAVID THEWLIS, PETE POSTLETHWAITE, MICHAEL GAMBON AND SEAMUS DAVEY FITZPATRICK. REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

I was fully expecting to hate this film. Remakes, not naming any names, often stink to high heaven, right? I was pleasantly surprised, however, to find that it’s actually a damned good effort as far as remakes go. Nothing will ever top the original for sheer terrifying evilness, naturally, but this flick is by no means a waste of two hours of your time.

The plot remains pretty much the same as before. Robert Thorn is an American diplomat stationed first in Italy and then in London, after he’s been promoted to a high-ranking ambassadorial position. That’s a word, right, ambassadorial…? Anyway, the point is, when his wife gives birth to a son, the son dies and Daddy Thorn is persuaded by a sinister priest called Father Spiletto to ‘replace’ him with another baby boy who’s just been born. I suppose you can’t blame Mr. Thorn for agreeing to such a dodgy arrangement. This way, he gets to keep his son and he doesn’t have to tell the missus the devastating news about her baby boy. He totally did the right thing here, huh? Huh…?

The boy, Damien, grows up to be a little strange, however. His nanny commits suicide publicly at his birthday party. Don’tcha just hate it when that happens…? Damien savagely attacks his mother on the way to church. The animals in the Zoo react violently to his presence. His new nanny Mrs. Baylock, creepily played by Mia Farrow, has brought a Rottweiler into the house to keep Damien company. To top it all, Mrs. Thorn has been having nightmares with distinctly satanic overtones.

Mr. Thorn is approached by another priest, this one called Father Brennan, who claims that Damien’s mother was a jackal and that Mrs. Thorn and her unborn baby are in mortal danger from Damien, the little dickens. A jackal? Okaaaaay… Poor old Father Brennan dies horribly in what is one of my favourite scenes from the original film. He is impaled by a giant piece of metal in a churchyard during a lightning storm. Cool…!

When Mrs. Thorn is knocked off a balcony by sweet, angelic-looking Damien and loses her baby, Mr. Thorn high-tails it back to Europe to track down Father Spiletto, the man who brought Damien into their lives in the first place. Robert is accompanied by Keith Jennings, a photographer whose snaps of the Ambassador and his household contain chilling visual omens. Father Spiletto directs the two lads to a graveyard, where they uncover the skeletal remains of Damien’s jackal-mother and the Thorns’ murdered biological son… That scene is so sad, I admit I sniffled at it a bit.

Next, Robert hears that his missus is no more, having been bumped off by the evil-as-all-get-out Mrs. Baylock. He goes to a place called Megiddo to meet a chap called Bugenhagen whom he heard of through the late Father Brennan. Bugenhagen tells him that he must kill the Antichrist, better known as Damien, with seven sacrificial daggers. When Keith Jennings is decapitated in a manner foretold by one of his own photographs, Mr. Thorn sets his scepticism aside and hurries home to kill Damien, who incidentally bears ‘the number of the beast’- that’s 666 to you- on his scalp under his hair.

Robert has the devil’s own job- pun definitely intended- wrestling the nipper away from the demented Mrs. Baylock and her toothsome familiar, the Rottweiler. When he eventually gets Damien to a church and is just about to kill him and save mankind, Robert is shot dead by one of the cops assigned to protect him and his family. Aw, rats. Ain’t that a kick in the head…? The film then ends with Robert’s funeral, which is watched by a smug, smirky little Damien… Well. The little bollix, as we say here in Ireland.

This is a more than passable remake of an unforgettable horror classic. Sure, it’s not the original, but it’s well worth a look for all that. Don’t take my word for it, though. Watch it for yourself and you’ll see what I mean. I’d keep the lights on though, just in case. I mean, they never did manage to kill that little devil, did they…?

AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY OF SANDRA HARRIS.

Sandra Harris is a Dublin-based performance poet, novelist, film blogger, sex blogger and short story writer. She has given more than 200 performances of her comedy sex-and-relationship poems in different venues around Dublin, including The Irish Writers’ Centre, The International Bar, Toners’ Pub (Ireland’s Most Literary Pub), the Ha’penny Inn and The Strokestown Poetry Festival.

Her articles, short stories and poems have appeared in The Metro-Herald newspaper, Ireland’s Big Issues magazine, The Irish Daily Star, The Irish Daily Sun and The Boyne Berries literary journal.

She is addicted to buying books and will swap you anything you like for Hammer Horror or JAWS memorabilia, and would be a great person to chat to about the differences between the Director’s Cut and the Theatrical Cut of The Wicker Man. You can contact her at:

sandrasandraharris@gmail.com

https://www.facebook.com/SandraHarrisPureFilthPoetry

http://sandrafirstruleoffilmclubharris.wordpress.com

http://sexysandieblog.wordpress.com

http://serenaharker.wordpress.com

https://twitter.com/SandraAuthor

lee 9

ANNA MEETS COUNT DRACULA… PART 36. AN EROTIC HORROR TALE BY SANDRA HARRIS. © STRICTLY FOR OVER-EIGHTEENS ONLY.

lee 9

ANNA MEETS COUNT DRACULA… PART 36. AN EROTIC HORROR TALE BY SANDRA HARRIS. © STRICTLY FOR OVER-EIGHTEENS ONLY.

“You didn’t have to wait up for me, Harker,” said Sir Blaise Carfax as he handed his hat, his cloak and his gold-topped cane to his manservant. They were standing in the huge ornate hall of Richmond House.

“It weren’t no trouble at all, sir,” replied John Harker respectfully. He was tall and well-built, thirty years old and with thick dark hair that he wore brushed neatly back. Good-looking chap, Sir Blaise often thought. By rights, he should have had every little housemaid in the place clamouring round him like flies at an open pot of jam, but he kept them all effortlessly at a distance.

“Well, you can get yourself off to bed now if you wish. I shan’t be needing you again tonight.” Sir Blaise said as he turned towards the room he used as his own private sitting-room. He needed a place of his own to go to where he could retreat occasionally from the constant wittering of women.

The house seemed full of women now that his cousins, Lady Athena and Lady Abigail Carfax, had come to stay at Richmond House with their mother, Lady Eleanor Carfax. They had come up from their magnificent old mansion in Cornwall to keep his mother company in the continuing absence of his abducted sister, Anna.

Not that the two beautiful blonde sisters seemed to spend much time actually in the company of either his mother or their own. All they ever seemed to do was gad about in their carriage seeing the sights of London and giggle like schoolgirls with an exceptionally juicy secret whenever he passed anywhere near them.

“If you’re sure, sir,” said John Harker.

“Yes, yes, off you go,” said Sir Blaise absent-mindedly as he turned to the sideboard and decanted a large whiskey into a cut-glass crystal tumbler.

“Very good, sir, thank you, sir,” replied John Harker, bowing his way backwards out of the room. Sir Blaise sat down in his favourite comfortable armchair and took a grateful swig of his drink. It had been a long, tiring day. Until the hour of six-fifteen in the pm, he’d been in the office of his largest furniture factory, going over the accounts. Things were going well, thank God, but they could always be better. One could never have enough money.

He’d had a visit then, just as he’d been leaving for the day, from that bumbling incompetent and- quite possibly- mental defective, Inspector Jonathan Waterstone. This was the so-called detective in charge of the investigation into Anna’s abduction by person or persons unknown.

The man had dropped in to inform him that there was still no news. No news! Anna had been missing for weeks and the police were still no nearer to finding out what had happened to her than they’d been at the start of the investigation.

Blaise had been left so aggrieved by the man’s visit that, once he’d finally managed to get rid of him, he’d sent a note round to the home of his fianceé, Lady Caroline Cotter, informing her that important business sadly prevented him from having dinner with her and her parents that evening. He just felt too tense and irritable to be sociable and Caroline was demanding and hard to please at the best of times.

He’d gone instead by carriage to Madame Corinne’s. There, twenty-year-old twins Barbara and Shelley had kissed and licked and caressed every inch of each others’ bodies for his edification before submitting to his lovemaking.

They each had waist-length brown hair, large breasts and full, round bottoms. They were beautiful and skilled in the art of pleasing a man. He’d energetically inserted his manhood between the pretty pink sex-lips of one and deep inside the tight backside of the other. As they were identical twins, Blaise frequently had trouble telling them apart.

He’d passed a pleasant evening at Madame Corinne’s. The twins had certainly taken his mind off his troubles, if only temporarily. Now, he heaved himself out of his chair and stood up, stretching widely. Damned armchair was so comfortable, he could have slept in it without any difficulty at all. He stubbed out the remains of his third cigar and finished up his second large whiskey.

Tiredly, he made his way up the stairs to his bedroom. It had been a long day, he was more than a little drunk and he had an important business meeting at ten in the am tomorrow morning. The chap was filthy rich and could put a hell of a lot of business Blaise’s way. Blaise planned on getting into the office extra-early to go over what he intended to say to the fellow. Better to get a few hour’s shut-eye first, though.

Up in his darkened bedroom, Blaise turned up the wick on the oil lamp beside his bed, yawning hugely. When the room was illuminated, he turned to the bed and started when he saw the fully nude young woman stretched out provocatively on her belly across his eiderdown, propped up on her elbows as she laughed up at him mischievously. It was his twenty-one-year-old cousin, Lady Athena Carfax.

This story is a work of fiction and comes (almost!) entirely from the imagination of Sandra Harris. Any resemblance to any persons living or un-dead is purely coincidental.

This story is copyrighted material and any reproduction without prior permission is illegal. Sandra Harris reserves the right to be identified as the author of this story.

Sandra Harris. ©

AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY OF SANDRA HARRIS.

Sandra Harris is a Dublin-based performance poet, novelist, film blogger, sex blogger and short story writer. She has given more than 200 performances of her comedy sex-and-relationship poems in different venues around Dublin, including The Irish Writers’ Centre, The International Bar, Toners’ Pub (Ireland’s Most Literary Pub), the Ha’penny Inn and The Strokestown Poetry Festival.

Her articles, short stories and poems have appeared in The Metro-Herald newspaper, Ireland’s Big Issues magazine, The Irish Daily Star, The Irish Daily Sun and The Boyne Berries literary journal.

She is addicted to buying books and will swap you anything you like for Hammer Horror or JAWS memorabilia, and would be a great person to chat to about the differences between the Director’s Cut and the Theatrical Cut of The Wicker Man. You can contact her at:

sandrasandraharris@gmail.com

https://www.facebook.com/SandraHarrisPureFilthPoetry

http://sandrafirstruleoffilmclubharris.wordpress.com

http://sexysandieblog.wordpress.com

http://serenaharker.wordpress.com

https://twitter.com/SandraAuthor

Hammer-Horror

ANNA MEETS COUNT DRACULA… PART 35. AN EROTIC HORROR TALE BY SANDRA HARRIS. © STRICTLY FOR OVER-EIGHTEENS ONLY.

Hammer-Horror

ANNA MEETS COUNT DRACULA… PART 35. AN EROTIC HORROR TALE BY SANDRA HARRIS. © STRICTLY FOR OVER-EIGHTEENS ONLY.

The noise of the door slamming reverberated throughout the castle. Valeria paused in the act of brushing Anna’s long, golden-blonde hair and looked at Anna, who trembled with fear.

“Where is he going?” Anna said, her eyes wide. “And why has he been so… well, so ill-tempered and angry these last few days? He frightens me when he is like this.”

“I do not know where Count Dracula is going,” Valeria said honestly. “As to his mood the last few days, the Count has had a lot on his mind lately. His younger brother Nikolai has left the family home in Romania against his brother’s wishes and is here in England. He has always been a source of great worry to Count Dracula. The Count is worried that Nikolai’s presence in London will bring the family name into disrepute.” Anna’s blue eyes widened still further.

“Count Dracula has a brother…?” she said incredulously. “He never said anything to me about him.”

Valeria shrugged her elegant shoulders, bare in the Grecian-style white gown she wore. Anna sighed heavily. She had been living with Dracula as his mistress for weeks now. She shared his bed. She was naked and sexually accessible to him at all times. She had surrendered her virginity to him readily and craved the kiss of his whip on her bare skin, and yet sometimes she felt as if she barely knew him at all.

He had told her virtually nothing about his past life. He rarely expressed emotions of any kind to her, beyond anger when she displeased him or questioned his wishes. She had no idea where he went or what he did when he was absent from the castle. He kept his private life a closely-guarded secret from her and his emotions, if he possessed them, locked carefully away where she was unable to reach them.

Anna knew now that she loved him more than she’d ever loved anyone in her life before. She felt as if her love for him would consume her entirely, it was so powerful. And yet, what was she to him, when all was said and done? Was she important to him, she wondered now, or merely a pretty face and voluptuous body with which he slaked his unending sexual thirst…? She wished she knew.

Valeria finished brushing Anna’s glorious hair and put down the hairbrush. She was turning to walk away when Anna quickly grabbed hold of her arm.

“I want to leave the castle,” she blurted out. “I don’t mean forever. I would never leave the Count. I mean, just for a little while. To find my own blood to drink. Fresh blood.” Valeria stared at her.

“The blood you are given to drink here every day is fresh,” she said.

“I want to drink it directly from the neck of a human person,” Anna pouted, tossing her golden hair over her shoulders. “I want to do it by myself.”

“The Count would never permit you to leave the castle, even for one night,” said Valeria.

“He has already forbidden it,” Anna replied. “We quarrelled bitterly about it. But you could help me,” she went on, reaching out and stroking Valeria’s bare arm. “Some night when he is absent on his private business, of which he tells me nothing, you could help me to do it. You could show me how it can be done. I could do what I need to do and be back here in the castle before he finds out.”

Valeria bit her lip. Anna eagerly seized on the other woman’s hesitation. She stood up and faced Valeria. She slid down the shoulders of Valeria’s white gown, baring her breasts. Valeria’s breasts were small and alabaster-white and tipped with perfect pink nipples. Anna cupped the bared breasts in her hands and caressed the nipples with the soft pads of her thumbs till they were stiff and elongated. Valeria gasped.

“Come to bed,” whispered Anna.

“The Count…” said Valeria, glancing nervously towards the door.

“Will not be back for hours,” said Anna, taking Valeria’s hand and leading her towards the bed. Soon, Valeria had been stripped of her gown by Anna and her long black hair released from its combs and clasps so that it tumbled over her shoulders and breasts to her slender waist. Her dark eyes were soft and limpid with desire and her breath came quickly between her red parted lips.

Anna, facing away from Valeria, straddled the other woman and stretched out above her until her own lips grazed Valeria’s sex and her own buttocks and sex were mere inches from Valeria’s mouth.

“Will you help me…?” whispered Anna, dropping light, teasing kisses on Valeria’s glistening sex.

“Yes, yeeees…!” cried Valeria. “Only… Please, have mercy… Anna, please…!” Satisfied, Anna lowered her head and bestowed upon Valeria her longed-for release.

This story is a work of fiction and comes (almost!) entirely from the imagination of Sandra Harris. Any resemblance to any persons living or un-dead is purely coincidental.

This story is copyrighted material and any reproduction without prior permission is illegal. Sandra Harris reserves the right to be identified as the author of this story.

Sandra Harris. ©

AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY OF SANDRA HARRIS.

Sandra Harris is a Dublin-based performance poet, novelist, film blogger, sex blogger and short story writer. She has given more than 200 performances of her comedy sex-and-relationship poems in different venues around Dublin, including The Irish Writers’ Centre, The International Bar, Toners’ Pub (Ireland’s Most Literary Pub), the Ha’penny Inn and The Strokestown Poetry Festival.

Her articles, short stories and poems have appeared in The Metro-Herald newspaper, Ireland’s Big Issues magazine, The Irish Daily Star, The Irish Daily Sun and The Boyne Berries literary journal.

She is addicted to buying books and will swap you anything you like for Hammer Horror or JAWS memorabilia, and would be a great person to chat to about the differences between the Director’s Cut and the Theatrical Cut of The Wicker Man. You can contact her at:

sandrasandraharris@gmail.com

https://www.facebook.com/SandraHarrisPureFilthPoetry

http://sandrafirstruleoffilmclubharris.wordpress.com

http://sexysandieblog.wordpress.com

http://serenaharker.wordpress.com

https://twitter.com/SandraAuthor

FIFTY FILTHY COVER

FIFTY FILTHY-DIRTY SEX POEMS YOU MUST READ BEFORE I DIE. BY SANDRA HARRIS.

FIFTY FILTHY COVER

A collection of short, rude funny sex-poems. No stone left unturned in this hilariously bitchy and wickedly honest look at sex today. No, that’s it, nothing else. Just sex. Well, maybe a few bizarre fetishes, but that’s still just sex, isn’t it…? We’ll go with sex. Let’s just say sex. This book is about sex. It’s a sex-book…!

BUY IT WHILE IT’S HOT!!!