The Last (one should hope) Viking

Well, I decided to carry on with the theme of horny time-travelers, and this time lowered the bar of my expectations.

I lie.  I expected this book to be utterly fucking terrible.  Since it was moderately to passably rotten, it pleasantly exceeded my expectations.

Also, it was a mercifully quick read, with little intrigue, few subplots, and once Girolf made it to 1998, his ass stayed there, which was quite frankly a little easier on everyone.

Also..."Girolf."  I expect it's meant to be pronounced something like "Yirolf" with a long "O" as in "rose," but I kept hearing it in my head as something not far off "giraffe."  Though the author shortened it to Rolf, which, of course made me think of this guy.

Anyway, nutshell synopsis  - Viking dude of the 10th century survives a storm which breaks apart his longship.  When day breaks, he floats to shore in...Connecticut, in 1998, 1,000 years later than when he had set sail.  He breaks into a medieval studies professor's house and sets himself up a rabbit roast in her fireplace and threatens her with a knife when she gets home.  Somehow, the relic-containing belt buckle he wears helps him understand modern English and speak it.   The Viking's magical translator belt and a pair of stylish armbands which doubtlessly accentuate his bulging biceps prove to be of great academic interest to Meredith's sister, brother, and colleagues and precipitate a rather far-fetched heist attempt.

The professor has set herself a task of finishing a replica Viking longship that her deceased grandfather had begun.  Girolf, full of bossy, "manly" swagger, tells her the workmanship stinks and begins breaking apart the ship with the intent to rebuild it and try to sail himself back to 10th century Norway.  Professor Meredith protests and Rolf determines to help her finish her ship properly and build himself a secondary boat for his own quest.  In the midst of all sorts of personality clashing and strife, the two fall in lust, then in love.

Meredith's intern, a cocky former Marine called Mike befriends the Viking and teaches him how to drive a pickup truck, love Home Improvement (good lord, does this ever date the book!) and shop for power tools.

A great deal of interference from Meredith's family, especially ambitious, scheming Jillian, and her overbearing Ivory Tower parents helps prevent the horny Norseman and the prissy professor from consummating their lust until a good halfway through the book, though once they start fucking, they pretty much don't stop until the last page.

The novel has two particularly ludicrous scenes that definitely conform to the bodice-ripper stereotype:

 "'Say the words," he demanded.

Her pale face turned pink with embarrasment, but she yielded.

'Touch me,' she whispered. 'Please.'

He needed no more invitation. Looping a finger under the front band between her breasts, he pulled forward, tearing the garment. Her breasts burst free, and they were glorious, perfect globes of creamy skin and dusky auroles."

 ****************************************************************************

She wasn't really frightened, except perhaps of the thudding of her heart.  She surprised herself by doing as he commanded, raising her hands to the top of the refrigerator, where she grasped the edges of a casserole dish. But despite the compliant pose, she tossed her hair over her shoulder in a geature of petulance.

'Ah, a defiant slave,' he cooed.  'Are you wanting to be tamed, wench?'

She shook her head.  Do I?

 Before she realised his intent, he eased the small knife inside the neckline of her sweater, first to the left, then the right, slitting the straps of her bra.  He did the same from under the hem in front, cutting the center band of her undergarment.  With the flick of his fingers, he pulled the wispy lingerie out and dropped it to the floor."

So, basically the take-away message I gathered from this book is that Vikings are hella hard on your brassiere supply. 

Also, in that first scene where he literally rips the bra off her body, I kept thinking that must have been hella unpleasant.  Do you people know how tough your typical brassiere is?  Since most of you are lady types or men who have probably taken off a bra or two in your day, I assume you know.  That shit is structural and generally constructed as such that you could probably skydive by the damn thing with impunity.  If some asshole was yanking so hard on my brassiere that he tore it off my body, he'd probably take out a rib or two along the way.

 Not cool, Girolf. 

Not tender, nor sessy. 

Sorry, man.  Don't try again.