Something About A Woman... By J.S. Wayne

If you haven't figured it out by now, I'm a BIG fan of the female species. Yes, you ladies have your things that drive me just a little bit (more) insane: your ability to cry over anything, everything, or absolutely nothing; the silent treatment, otherwise known as "if you don't know why I'm mad, I'm not telling you"; and Glee and just about every show on Bravo.

Confounding as I sometimes find women, and the broad-stroke portrait I just painted notwithstanding, I do have a great deal of admiration for them. The fact is, most women of my acquaintance are strong-willed, dauntingly intelligent, and perfectly capable of taking what they want from life. I don't know many fifties housewives or demure, retiring women. The women I hang out with can match their men drink for drink, argue philosophy and football play calls with equal facility, and have no qualms whatsoever about dropping the occasional F-bomb to emphasize a point.

Now, this doesn't mean I don't admire a woman who behaves like a "lady," whatever that means in modern society. What it does mean is I don't think the less of a woman who doesn't keep her legs demurely crossed and never speaks unless spoken to. The fact is, I've always preferred women who said what they had to say, even if I don't always appreciate what they're saying.
We've all heard the old Victorian saw about what a man wants: A lady in the parlor and a whore in the bedchamber. Personally, I disagree. This, I believe, is the crux of my love affair with erotic romance. Nearly without exception, the women I create in my writing are women I would like to meet (and bed) in real life. They bring the elements I most admire in womankind to life in all their chaotic, confusing, contradictory glory. They're women who know which fork goes with what course and the proper way to place a napkin in their lap at an elegant restaurant, but will, with vindictive fervor, scream "Shit!" if they happen to drop cocktail sauce on their white linen sheath. They don't really care what society thinks of them or their choices. They see what they want, and they go for it.

This also extends to my female characters' choices in lovers. To hell with Emily Post and Dear Abby: These are real women with real desires and real emotions. If they decide they want the man or woman I've paired them with on the first date (and they almost always do, heh heh heh), then the rules be damned, they'll spend the night.
Frankly, I love writing about women. I enjoy digging deep into my memory and conjuring the peculiar scent of an old lover's perfume, the curve of her hip as she rolls over in the morning, or her drooping eyelids after a particularly energetic interlude. Writing about women is a very sensual experience for me, in the fuller sense of the word, not merely the erotic one. When I do so, I find myself smelling the perfume I wish to evoke, feeling the warm silken firmness of her skin yielding beneath my fingertips, tasting the slight salt tang at the curve of her neck, and hearing the tiny sounds of pleasure she makes.
I've said before on this blog that for me to find the stories I create arousing to the reader, they first have to arouse me. And nothing stirs my creativity or my libido like that mysterious and elusive creature I try to fix on paper with words, like a butterfly pinned to a entomologist's collection card.
It all comes back to that mysterious something about a woman.

Until next time,

Best,

J.S. Wayne