One of the most commonly held misconceptions about erotic romance writers is that they've only got "one thing" on their mind. 24/7/365, sex, sex, sex, is all we think about. While this may be true for a lot of erotic romance authors, I'm not one of them.
Something that people often forget to take into account is the fact that I have a household to keep running, bills to pay, and the ever-present and oft-lamented day job to deal with. I'm a human being, and so am subject to all the frailties of the flesh. That means that I get tired. I get injured.
And sometimes, to my utter disgust, I get sick.
Most times, illness isn't that big a deal; a few days of discomfort, a day in bed, and it's more or less sorted. But what happens when the ailment is more serious? Like, say, a kidney stone?
If you've never had one, I highly recommend, given the chance, you take a pass on the experience. Trust me when I say it's not the kind of thing you'd mind forgetting, if you ever could. If you have had one, and are currently squirming in remembered anguish at your computer right now, I feel your pain.
The trouble is, I can't write an erotic scene if I can't feel it. I have to be able to experience it with all five senses, regardless of whether or not I actually have the real-life experience or capacity to do so. I have to be able to feel it and get turned on by it myself if I'm going to write it; otherwise I'm going to read it and it will feel hollow and unsatisfying. If it feels that way to me, how will it read to my audience? Simple. It'll look exactly the same. Result? That scene will never see daylight.
As evidence, I refer you to "Espiritu Sancti." Although I'm not a lesbian, not being a female, I can and do appreciate the female form to a degree that borders on...well, not obsession, because that would be unhealthy and make me out to be some ooky stalkerish type. Which I'm not. Last I checked, anyway. But you get the idea.
Now, the problem with any illness concerning the male plumbing is that it makes you feel about as unsexy as you can get. That sounds odd, coming from a guy, but bear with me here. A woman has a bad hair day. A PMS day. A just generally "I feel like Hell, look worse, and don't want to be bothered, so don't even think it!" day. And I'm going to let you in on a little secret.
Guys have their own version of this. If you've seen Bill Engvall talking about "bad weiner days," believe me, he's not exaggerating. I have days when I get out of bed and every hair's in place, I'm sporting just the right amount of bad-boy stubble, and all my clothes drape over me like they were tailor-made. Those are the good days.
The next day, I may wake up, look in the mirror, shake my head and say, "Jesus. Does your undertaker know you're up?" Those are the days when it doesn't matter how close the shave is, how much gel I put in my hair, or how much I spent on my threads. I look and feel like shit, at least in my own eyes.
Now, let's take the latter day. Add in the feeling of having been kicked in the testicles. Repeatedly. From the female point of view, you've been kicked in the side. Repeatedly.
How sexy are you going to feel? I'm going to bet the answer is, "NOT!"
I'm no different. When the idea of getting aroused causes me physical pain, I can't write erotica. It's not that I don't want to; I'm a guy. Anything that has to do with sex, I'm good with. When I'm on my game, then I'm the 24/7/365 guy I talked about earlier. But I shy away from anything to do with it when I don't feel sexy. My equivalent of the "so what if my hair's in curlers, I'm not wearing a smudge of makeup, and my sweatpants were last a color I could define when Reagan was in the White House?" day.
But just because I'm not feeling sexy doesn't mean I can't still offer up a little something for your reading pleasure. So, since I did an excerpt from "Angel Of The Morning" not that long ago, I'm going to leave you with this sexy little vignette from Red Roses and Shattered Glass. I hope you enjoy it!
Until next time,
Excerpt from "Espiritu Sancti"
It was a fine night, cool but not unpleasantly so, and the stars and a sickle moon hung in the sky as if placed there specifically for their benefit. It was then, while they stood next to each other, not quite touching, that Lilliana began to speak of her loneliness.
"It has been a long time since I've had a lover. My last love affair ended badly, and ever since, I've kept people at a distance. Have you ever been wounded by love?" Lilliana turned the full force of her eyes on Isabel.
Isabel thought it over. "I . . . think so," she said. Her fingers clenched, belying her apparent hesitancy. "My last boyfriend was a real bastard." She added bitterly. "He was a football player and fucked his way through the entire cheerleading squad while we were together. I thought he was going to marry me." She finished, her tone changing from venomous to pensive as she thought of how foolish she'd been. She dropped her gaze to the floor as a hot flush spread across her sharp cheekbones.
"Bah!" Lilliana waved her hand dismissively. "Men will say whatever will make a woman do what they wish. There is no more truth in men's words than those of a mockingbird. Only a woman can truly speak with complete candor to a woman. May I be candid?" Her eyes bored into Isabel's.
Lilliana's eyes seemed to gather the light of moon and stars and transmute into silver. They were the most striking eyes Isabel had ever seen; Isabel's knees went weak for the second time that night, this time with desire.
Unconsciously arching her back a little, revealing her throat, and pushing her full, firm breasts outward, Isabel let out a quavered, "Y-yes."
"I want you tonight." Lilliana reached out one cool finger to trace it gently down Isabel's cheek. "I want to love you. Will you allow me?"
Isabel's eyes slid closed, and she gasped a little at the sensations stirring deep within her. She made a tiny whimper of a sound; whether it was acceptance or negation, she could not have said. But Lilliana allowed her no chance to consider the matter further. Pressing her lips against Isabel's, she lightly flicked her tongue against the soft gates. As if she had spoken a magic word, Isabel's lips parted to permit Lilliana full access. Her tongue darted and probed. She caught Isabel up in a fierce yet tender embrace, crushing her breasts against Isabel's. Lilliana's arms ratcheted around her, as if the woman feared Isabel would fly away if the grip were loosened.
Isabel was interested in going nowhere except deeper into Lilliana's embrace. She'd experimented, certainly; who hadn't tried it on at least once with a member of their own sex? It was almost a rite of passage. But she had never been kissed like this before. The arms which held her were feminine and shapely but in no way weak. The woman's mouth touched her as light as a breeze but seething with passion the likes of which she had never known.
She moaned against Lilliana and pressed herself more fully into her mysterious lover's arms, her blood singing at the wonderful feel of another female body against her own. Lilliana deepened the kiss, as if trying to inhale Isabel's very soul.