What’s It Take to Get an NC-17 Rating Anyway?

I really do try to write dirty books, honestly I do. I just seem to have trouble getting enough filth in there.

Okay, I’m putting in nudity, naked body parts described in detail, clear and copious references to genitalia. People are engaging in the sex act, in various poses, sometimes even with a whip involved, or two people of the same sex, or the use of amazing mechanical devices. I have sex scenes that go on for a dozen pages, intercourse narrative for a dozen paragraphs, climaxes for a dozen sentences. I describe the minutia of the arousal and orgasmic processes in every possible way I can think of. You get lust, domination, seduction, submission, sex under the open sky, on an office desk, in another dimension, am I making my point?

But when push comes to penetration, it seems I always get the same reaction from reviewers: “Not sure this is erotica”...“more emotionally sexy than erotic”...“around the vicinity of an R rating rather than an NC-17 rating.” Oh don’t worry, I’m not upset, I’m just amused. Because it’s clear to me that the term “erotic fiction” has come to indicate something other than writing about sex in an arousing manner, because reviewers also seem agreed that I write stuff about sex that turns them on.

My inspiration for this blog entry is the review my book Soulful Sex Volumes I & II just received from the infamously stringent and strident media reviewer Mrs. Giggles. Mrs. G’s reputation is as an opinionated and outspoken woman who doesn’t hesitate to “rip new ones” for even bestselling authors. I respect that, especially in a case where she truly does seem quite intelligent and thoughtful and isn’t just ranting for ranting’s sake.

I was infinitely relieved to find out that Mrs. Giggles gave my book an 88 (remarkably high) and a truly excellent review. She really got what I was trying to do and appreciated it, and her only complaint (one I’ve heard before and never mind a bit) was that she wished some of the stories were longer because she liked them.

So, Mrs. Giggles was the source of that “around the vicinity of an R rating rather than an NC-17 rating” remark above. She also called the stories sensual and sexy, but since the sex was not “kinky,” she couldn’t consider them in the NC-17 category.

Rating sex in books by the standards used in the film industry is interesting. In film, the rating is partly subject matter but mostly based on what visuals are depicted, but that is not nowadays the case in written fiction. I guarantee if any of my stories were filmed in a way that depicted everything I described, there would be NC-17 ratings slapped on that footage. But since they are merely written down, to get myself in that category I’d have to do one or more of a few things. I’d need to work in the “required” terms for genitalia, for sure. It would also help if there was less plot development and a higher percentage of sex scenes. And I’m sure I’d get a boost for some kinkiness: more frequent three ways, anal sex, bondage, etc.

But alas, I don’t seem to be motivated to write about sex that way. I have this weird approach of setting up a couple characters and making them as appealing and sympathetic as I can, and very desperate to mate for some interesting reason. I build up the tension for as long as I can stand (no doubt much longer than some readers can stand, LOL) and then the sex happens, by which time it is more often than not, pretty intense and cosmic.

Mrs. Giggles put it this way: “All the stories are actually entertaining in their own right...What stands out in these stories is how Ms. Laurence emphasizes the process of falling in love between her characters...these love scenes can be very sexy because they happen to two characters clearly meant to be together. Their devotion to each other is as moving as their love story is fun to read.”

Before this entry turns into one big toot-my-own-horn fest, let me say I have arrived at the point: I really do feel the key to writing deeply affecting erotic fiction is to integrate the “falling in love” with the sex. But if you do that, the modern reader typically shifts your work from the “erotic” category to the “romance” category, no matter how hot the sex. The characters are passionately in love, so it’s not NC-17, it’s R, no matter how graphic the descriptions of their lovemaking.

I didn’t know this going in. I’m undoubtedly the biggest goodie-two-shoes in the erotica industry. I thought if I wrote about sex, that would be erotica! And pretty much all I do is write about sex: why we want it, how we want it, what it means if we want it that way, how it feels, what it does to us, how it can change our lives in ways large and small. But alas, I always go and put love in there, like a dork.

So why don’t I just give up on trying to convince people I write about sex? Good question! I could just call my stuff “spicy” or “sensual” and stop confusing people. And I truly don’t mean to be difficult. I just can’t seem to let go of this dream that people who want to better understand what sex means in life can find some sort of answer to their questions in my fiction.

So couldn’t someone just cut me a break and say, “Wowzers, this is NC-17 stuff, baby!”

Seduction vs. Copulation

I’m clearly not the first one to notice, but I was reflecting today on the relative joys of seduction and the objective of same, that is, the sex act itself. I’m certainly not going to knock the latter. But the interesting thing is that as far as cultural expression goes, the truly powerful stuff is related to seduction rather than copulation.

The event that sparked this line of thinking was my playing Rick Springfield’s Greatest Hits in my car this morning. You should be aware that Rick saved my sanity back when I was a pastor’s wife with two preschoolers living in the middle of Iowa farm country, with no job, friends, or even a satellite dish. City girl that I was, I would throw Rick on the turntable and stare out the windows at the grain elevators on the horizon, wishing they were skyscrapers of some neighboring urban paradise. My boredom and loneliness were greatly eased by Rick Springfield’s overtly seductive music. Few musicians have so unapologetically sung seduction as Rick, and I love him for comforting me with the balm produced by my own stimulated hormones.

Consider, if you will, the bridge from the song “Love is Alright Tonight”:

Don’t worry Daddy, I’ll have her home at a respectable hour
Go to sleep Daddy, you won't think about tonight
With the night comes the feeling that I’ve got this incredible power
Gonna love her, Daddy, she’ll be feeling it tonight
Alright, it’s gonna be alright…

I too felt that Rick had “this incredible power,” derived largely from his having an awesome body, a gorgeous face, an extremely hot singing voice, and the ability to play rock ‘n’ roll guitar. The object of his lust (in fantasyland, me) was in big danger all right. She (if only it were me) would be feeling it and powerless to fight it.

Before I completely drift off my topic and into some Rick fantasy, here’s my point: in cultural expression, seduction often seems to make the world go round even more than love does, and certainly more than depictions of sex do. If the FCC allowed Victoria’s Secret to show copulation in its commercials, I suspect Madison Avenue would leave them as they are today. Temptation, teasing, hints and suggestions are so much more effective than handing over the cake.

In my erotic reading, the same principle holds true. When I read a story that plunges right into the orgy on page one, I derive very little from the experience. But I can get crazy hot and bothered when the seduction goes on for twenty pages. Is desire really that much more fun than satisfaction? That doesn’t really make sense! But sensible or no, it often proves true. I could handle hours of watching Rick Springfield playing guitar in leather pants, just hinting at the sex with his eyes and the placement of his instrument right over the groin. Meanwhile, although I haven’t actually seen such footage, watching him have sex would probably not be nearly so powerful. (Not that it would suck, but you know what I’m saying.)

It’s an interesting phenomenon. Desire without satisfaction is not usually particularly fun. I have no urge to spend time looking at pictures of food and never eating any of the tasty dishes. I’m not crazy about shopping unless I get to take something home with me. Reading the liner notes of CDs does absolutely nothing for me--the listening is everything. But with sex, we are interesting creatures. Men are willing to go to strip clubs knowing they are in for nothing but unfulfilled titillation. Women generally prefer looking at guys in jeans or even suits than guys engaged in sex acts. Heck, I’ll get off on listening to Rick Springfield singing without any visuals at all.

So do I have a theory to explain all this? Hey, it’s me...I always have a theory. And seeing as my theories usually involve the wonders of the imagination, why not go there right away and save time?

The imagination is the source of all things spiritually powerful, even the carnal things, if you’ll forgive that paradox. If you want power, give the imagination something to work with and let it fill in the gaps with whatever it most wishes to. Sure you could have a video of Rick Springfield having sex with some young girl. But how much more effective it is just to set some interesting lyrics to the right beat and have Rick put them out there in delicious voice, letting you create your own story.

I picture Rick luring the girl away from her home, barely concealing his lascivious propensities under the polite promise, “Don’t worry, Daddy, I’ll have her home at a respectable hour.” He doesn’t seem safe--you sense the fire underneath his reassuring demeanor. Then he admits to you to his conviction that he holds “incredible power”--the very sort of sexual power you’ve been sensing in his voice, and the voice of his guitar. His motives are not honorable, in fact he laughs at you for ever thinking that, he laughs at authority in his cocky certainty of his own sexual prowess: “Gonna love her, Daddy, she’ll be feeling it tonight.” Yeah, I bet she will.

See, my imagination filled in the gaps in the storyline with fodder from my own unique imagination, the fodder that is arousing to me in particular. Arousal is unique to each individual, whereas orgasm is a physical response that is always more or less the same. It’s somewhat analogous to the fact that after a meal the feeling of contented fullness is pretty much the same; it’s the route you took to get there than differs based on your personal taste and choice.

It’s in the course of arousal that a person’s particular needs are provoked and their satisfaction promised. Your attraction to men in beards, your yearning to be treated with a firm hand, your longing to surrender your inhibitions, whatever your individual psyche needs for balance and fulfillment--these things are addressed during the seduction. The final act, the copulation itself, is more of a “Yes!...thank you,” from a psychological perspective.

In my erotic romance writing I do make sure to write about the actual sex acts, but that’s always the toughest part. It’s important to weave in some material that will spark the imagination and inspire the reader, or there just won’t be much oomph there.

But writing seduction is a lot easier. I find material for that all over the place...even in the bridge to some 20 year old Rick Springfield song.

The “How’d-I-Not-Notice-Your-Hotness?” Syndrome

My younger daughter is going through a J.D. Fortune phase. The interesting thing is, back when the show “Rockstar: INXS” was on last year, she didn’t find J.D. particularly attractive and was deeply into his rival, Marty Casey. But with the release of INXS’s new album with J.D. as frontman, Amanda has suddenly discovered the charms of the guy.

Been there, done that. More than once, in fact, but the best example is from back in 1990 when I suddenly discovered Sting. Not that he had exactly gone unnoticed by me, of course; it was hard to live through the 80s without being aware of the guy, and I certainly always thought he was attractive. I had bought the album “Synchronicity” in the mid-80s through one of those “10 records for a penny” Columbia House deals, but for some reason only listened to it once or twice.

But this particular evening I was hanging out by myself and decided to chill out by listening to some music with the headphones (the big kind that plugged into your stereo). On a whim I pulled out “Synchronicity” and threw it on the turntable. I lay myself down on the couch and closed my eyes, and “Every Breath You Take” came on.

Now anyone over the age of 30 knows “Every Breath You Take” was easily the most overplayed song of the 80s. It was even in heavy rotation on the TV show “All My Children,” where it was the theme song of a guy who was stalking Brooke English. Don’t ask me why it should have hit me any differently on this particular occasion.

But it turned out to be the closest thing to an out-of-body experience I ever had. I gave myself over to the music and somehow became it, I became the sound emanating from Sting’s throat. The rest of me, along with everything in my environment, seemed to disappear. I felt that throbbing bass line sustaining my life force, and the chord progressions were my emotions. It was so intense that when it was over I knew I’d been changed forever.

That seems like an overly dramatic statement, but it proved true. My Sting phase ended up ranking in my top three celebrity obsessions of all time, and led me to learn all I could about the man. This quest was also an effort to figure out what exactly had happened to me during that headphones incident. Before too long I learned of Sting’s fascination with the works of psychoanalytic theorist Carl Jung, and so I started reading Jung voraciously. I basically ended up conducting a do-it-yourself Masters program in Jung, even writing a book (Living Beyond Reality: A Jungian Primer for Enhancing Your Life) that could serve nicely as a fake Master’s thesis.

What I learned in the course of this little personal journey did irrevocably change my beliefs about a lot of very important things in life. My erotic romance writing is certainly strongly influenced by Jung, and therefore indirectly by Sting. It’s hard to believe that someone who impacted me this greatly could have gone unnoticed by me for years.

But that’s the “How’d-I-Not-Notice-Your-Hotness?” Syndrome for you. Sometimes there are people or characters that hit you like a ton of bricks at the very first glance (for me, my hockey idol Guy Carbonneau). Meanwhile there are other people you can see fifty times, and then suddenly one day something clicks, completely out of the blue.

I suppose this is because there are a lot of complex things going on in the psyche, developments that occur constantly without our awareness. Sometimes we arrive spiritually at some point where a certain archetype has a new, intense appeal it never did before. Certainly it’s true that at the time of the headphones incident, I was going through some significant personal difficulties and questioning some long-held beliefs. The mysterious, wise, sexy shaman archetype that was Sting fit my needs perfectly. As for the fact that he led me to some real answers to my questions…well, that’s pretty uncanny, and Carl Jung would undoubtedly call it synchronicity.

At any rate, I think a person ought to pay particular attention to those instances when the “How’d-I-Not-Notice-Your-Hotness?” Syndrome occurs. If someone you normally would have overlooked is suddenly a powerful figure to you, it has to mean something fairly significant.

And if you find yourself moving on eventually, as I did from Sting after a couple of years, it doesn’t mean you’re fickle. You’re just growing.

Welcome Back, Libido

Don’t you just love the end of a dry spell?

I admit that I am a “woman of a certain age” and despite being blessed to receive my dad’s “look young for my age” genes, I am dealing with a new stage of life these days. As much as the health articles assure you that older people can have fine, lively sex lives, there have been days recently when I wondered.

Well, I suppose I should have placed more blame on the fact that I’ve been sick most of the time for the past six weeks, as well as that my mother has been in and out of the hospital and my dad struggling with the crises. But as a writer of erotic romance fiction, I suppose I panicked, wondering if my vocation was going to become a struggle, or even impossible. I thought maybe this was it, libido-wise: the end of the sex drive as we know it. I reminisced wistfully of my youth, when so often my thoughts turned to the erotic. Meanwhile, I went days without even giving sex a thought, and wondered if I was done with it all for good. Me, the keeper of the “Erotica with Soul” blog!

Well, yesterday I wrote perhaps the hottest sex scene I’ve written in a couple of years, so I guess I needn’t have worried after all. Seems it was just one of those times when ill health and stress preoccupy the body (and for good reason). Apparently it’s not the end of the line yet for this writer.

The Bible says, “To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven.” Sometimes one just has to go with that. Moods come and go, creativity swells and falls, and energy waxes and wanes. It’s just another interesting aspect of living.

But I wonder, after watching that sex scene pour out of me, if during the doldrums my psyche wasn’t storing up stuff for a future time. It certainly felt like some sort of dam broke. This will be a comfort to me when next I experience a lull. My subconscious will probably be busy hoarding up erotic material like nuts for winter. I’ll try to trust that and wait for the next breakthrough with more patience, particularly if there are plenty of obvious reasons why I’m in that lull. And certainly if every time I come out of a dry spell, I get ten pages of prose like that, I won’t complain!

Still, I wish there were some reliable treatment, some magic incantation one could use to snap out of the lows. But that just doesn’t seem to be the case. The thing that wakes you up is always something totally unpredictable: the discovery of a new face, a fascinating character in a book, a powerful scene in a movie that you never would have expected to have such an effect. If I could pinpoint a single trigger this time (and it certainly can’t be given full credit), it would be the scene I wrote about in my previous blog on aphrodisiacs. But that isn’t a subject I’d given much thought to before, and I had forgotten utterly about Steven Weber for the past five years and more.

So alas, when becalmed on the seas of desire, it would seem all we can do is wait for the wind to rise again at their whim.

But I do like to keep a few nice erotic romance books handy--can’t hurt, might help.

The Aphrodisiac

Being a Stephen King buff, I had to indulge myself in the recent broadcast of the made-for-TV movie “Desperation,” written and produced by the master of horror. It was one of those “oops, we’ve unleashed the long-buried evil spirits and we’re in trouble now” stories, decently enough done. The presence of the ever-attractive Steven Weber as lead character Steve Ames did not hurt.

One of the highlights of this movie was a superb scene between Steven and co-star Kelly Overton as one Cynthia Smith. Steve picks up hitchhiker Cynthia on the open road near Desperation, Nevada and the two hit it off before the creepy stuff kicks in; they are quirky but good people. There’s a little flirting between them in the guise of teasing, nothing overt. The fun is over quickly once they start investigating the disappearance of Steve’s boss and end up in Desperation, surrounded by all kinds of evil manifestations.

One of these is an ancient stone sculpture of a sinister creature, which Steve finds on a table and touches. Why he doesn’t back off from the thing immediately is not clear at first. Then Cynthia puts her hand upon it as well, and the problem becomes instantly apparent. This weird object is radiating sexual power, and both of them are in the grip of an overwhelming aphrodisiac.

Cynthia gives Steve a look that would buckle the knees of the most disinterested man. They are on each other at once, groping, kissing, frantic with lust. Thanks, evil ancient talisman! There’s not much sex in Stephen King and it was sure bonus to get a scene like this with Steven Weber!

Alas, the typical horror movie interruption ensues before any clothes are ripped off (this is network TV after all). But this was one of those scenes that can stay with you more than most pornographic scenes manage to do. Why? Well, me being me, I’m going to address that!

There’s something very powerful about the concept of the aphrodisiac, and I’m not talking about prescription drugs taken for impotence here. I mean the magical stuff that works its way over people who had no such intention, are completely taken by surprise, and find themselves helpless. This scene in “Desperation” was a perfect example. Steve and Cynthia are two attractive people obviously attracted to one another, but doing anything about that is the farthest thing from their minds, particularly once they are embroiled in the crisis of finding a town populated by dead bodies.

But in an eye blink, all that changes. Thanks to demonic forces, they find themselves so overwhelmed with lust that nothing matters but sex. Had they been with someone less desirable, that wouldn’t have mattered either. Their wills are at once turned to only one concern: physical gratification.

How liberating is this? In real life, there are always a dozen distractions from sexual desire. If you are just dating the guy, you may be full of doubts as to how safe it is to yield to lust. You struggle with insecurity, shame, pride, etc. Even if you are in an established relationship, you have so many other concerns: your energy level, the kids, your job, the bills, your weight or his, etc. Even during a perfectly satisfying lovemaking session you’ll find yourself thinking about what to make for dinner tomorrow.

How thrilling it is then to imagine being under the influence of an aphrodisiac, to be absolutely single-minded of purpose concerning sex. Steve didn’t have to think about whether Cynthia would accuse him of date rape. Cynthia didn’t have to wonder if this was going to be just a one night stand. Neither of them was distracted by the creepiness of the town or the danger they were in, not even by the fact that an evil force had just seized control of their minds and bodies. There was nothing to think or feel but lust. Just “I feel so good I want to feel better and you make me feel better so let’s touch and kiss and copulate and eat each other alive till we feel total ecstasy.”

Nor was there any problem with either one of them not being the perfect partner. (Not that Steven Weber wouldn’t be, of course.) When your bloodstream is surging with Love Potion No. 9, that warm body next to you is the answer to your prayers, period. You don’t care that you’d prefer someone taller, richer, or less interested in football. He looks as feels as good to you as any man on the planet could.

And even best of all is the fact that morally you are off the hook! No hard feelings or misgivings when you were in the thrall of an evil aphrodisiac, now are there? Such a deal: not only do you get to give in to raw, amoral lust...it comes completely guilt-free.

This whole scenario is so sexually ideal that it turns a person on just to watch it or think about it. Or write about it, for that matter. (My lucky husband tonight.) But as with most really great sexual scenarios, keeping it in the realm of fiction is best I guess. Because the one downside to the aphrodisiac is that it is not consequence-free. As fun as it might be while it’s happening, after the fact one might find oneself in some serious trouble.

But as a person who deals in fiction, I’m thinking just of the upside. And of how I’m going to work this concept into my next story...hmm, yeah, I think I know just the thing...

An Oval Peg

Well, I’m back from Florida, where I served on three erotica panels at the Romantic Times Book Lovers National Convention. I was very humbled to share the dais with the likes of Jade Lee, Angela Knight, Emma Holly and Cheyenne McCray, all big names in the industry. RT BookClub invited me to appear on their panels and to this day I’m really not sure why they invited such a novice! I’ve only been writing in this field for two years and am still at the stage where I can’t believe anyone has heard of me. It was a great honor.

Let me start by saying that from the two conventions at which I have appeared in this time, I’ve found romance fans to be the nicest, most enthusiastic and cheerful bunch you would ever want to meet. But at the same time, it’s always a challenge for me to be with this crowd. With my background and life’s history, I’m a much better fit with the Star Wars and D&D bunch that attend GenCon in my hometown of Milwaukee every summer. I can talk Star Trek or X Files with the best of ‘em, but I know nothing about Harlequin or Nora Roberts or any other subject that romance readers eat, sleep and breathe.

Worse even than that, I’ve tried reading a couple of the free books that I’ve received at conventions and I can’t really get past the fourth page of them. But before you conclude that I just don’t like romance, I must interject that my top ten favorite books include Pride and Prejudice, Jane Eyre, and Gone with the Wind. Likewise, I grew up immersed in the great Broadway shows of Rodgers & Hammerstein, Lerner & Loewe, which are pretty dang romantic. I’m also a big believer in happily-ever-after (or HEA as it is termed in the romance biz). So it’s not like I don’t like the whole boy-meets-girl thing.

Nevertheless, there’s no denying I am a square peg in a round hole. Or maybe an oval peg would be more accurate. I’m a similar shape but I really don’t fit.

I lamented about this once to my publisher and editor, and they assured me there is no “classic romance fan” and that readers of my books were all kinds of people and that was just fine with them. But whenever you write genre fiction, you can’t help but feel the pressure to be like the others who write in that genre. Most of your readers have expectations, including that you have read plenty of other books in the field, that you keep up on the various imprints and series, that you find cover models (like Fabio) attractive and exciting, etc.

I’m afraid I don’t have it in me to be like that. But at the same time, I take solace in the fact that a lot of people, both self-avowed romance fans and readers outside that fold, like what I write. I guess that’s the important thing. And “writing what I write” is me. I write stories about love and sex, about men and women and their most intimate, passionate interactions, and it’s something I love to do.

So I probably won’t be spending a lot of time doing the convention scene, but happily, that will just give this oval peg more time to write.

Three Ordinary Guys with Sex Appeal

Every once in awhile you suddenly find yourself turned on by the most ordinary sorts of guys, men who wouldn’t never stand out in a crowd. Three in particular come to mind to illustrate what I mean—one real, one fictional, and one a hybrid of both.

The Smart Guy – Journalist Carl Cameron

FoxNews viewers know Carl and the boyishly goofy-looking Washington correspondent who typically covers the presidential campaigns, etc. I’ve had a crush on Carl for some years now even though he lacks anchorman good looks. The guy is just so damn smart. When he speaks you can tell he could eloquently discuss any political topic under the sun and back his comments up with countless facts and figures. He has that rare combination of the command of detailed information and the ability to analyze.

Nothing ruffles Carl; he has a ready articulate answer for any question. His face suggests what Mayberry’s Opie would have looked like if he grew up to be a journalist, but there is nothing boy-howdy about this reporter. He is hard as nails, uncompromising, and confident. And it doesn’t hurt that every now and then he exhibits a dry sense of humor punctuated by an amazingly endearing smile.

The Capable Guy – Anthony Hopkins in “The Edge”

In this wonderful 1997 film, Anthony plays Charles Morse, an aging billionaire married to a supermodel (Elle Macpherson), who travels to the Alaskan wilderness for a photo shoot with his wife and a photographer, Bob Green (Alec Baldwin). Bob is young, cocky, good-looking, and apparently having an affair with Charles’s wife. Charles is balding, quiet, unassuming, and brilliant. It also turns out he has a brain full of facts, many of which are eminently useful in survival situations, which comes in handy when he and Bob end up crash landing in man-eating bear territory.

It is the juxtaposition of Charles and Bob that truly calls attention to the older man’s quiet sex appeal. Bob has the looks, the self-confidence, and the macho youthfulness that typically qualify as sexy. But Charles, who has obviously come by his money by wisdom, effort and patience, truly has the qualities that make a man desirable. Bob looks like a buffoon next to him. More fairly, he is pretty much an ordinary guy, whereas Charles is a sort of entrepreneurial shaman who epitomizes masculine ingenuity and resourcefulness. That he does this in such a quiet, self-effacing way only makes him more appealing.

The Dutiful Guy – Peter Sarsgaard as Chuck Lane in “Shattered Glass”

I’m not going to claim Peter Sarsgaard is ordinary-looking, seeing as I find him one of the hottest actors around. But in this 2003 film he does a brilliant job portraying regular guy Chuck Lane, the New Republic editor who ended up exposing the journalistic crimes of Stephen Glass (Hayden Christensen). Again, it is the juxtaposition of two characters that brings out the heroism of a guy who could easily be overlooked. In the news room it is Stephen who comes across as exciting and brilliant. He has a way of appearing talented but vulnerable, and this charm wins the hearts of all his co-workers. Only Chuck, a quiet family man dedicated to his principles, stays objective about Stephen.

Chuck is the sort of guy who is so introverted he could potentially be walked all over, and occasionally is. But underneath his passive exterior, Chuck has a basic sense of right and wrong that is unshakable. When faced with injustice, he rises to the occasion with a fervor that would make Braveheart’s William Wallace proud. Peter Sarsgaard plays the role in an understated but heroic manner that makes his character ultimately even more attractive than the flashy and charismatic Stephen. The story is true; it makes a woman wish she could meet the real Chuck Lane.

What do these three men have in common? Their outward appearance and manner belie the fact that they embody key masculine traits that are extremely sexy. At first blush they don’t look like anything special, but in reality, they are uncommonly gifted in ways that make them particularly capable of handling challenge. In other words, they are unassuming heroes. Now I like a self-sure, obviously extraordinary hero as much as the next woman, but there’s something special about finding heroism in hidden places. These three men, and others like them, are buried sexual treasure.

My Latest Book: "Do-It-YourSelf-Publishing"

It occurred to me I really ought to mention on the blog that I published a new book last week, even though it has nothing to do with “erotica with soul.”

Do-It-YourSelf-Publishing is my little how-to book that sets forth the entire process I used when I decided to become my own publisher back in February. So many people asked me about how it’s done, I finally gave in and wrote it all down. Here’s the official promo stuff for those who care:

If you are frustrated with your lack of success finding a publisher…if you’ve looked into companies that will publish your book for you and been appalled at what they charge…if you wish you better understood what the new printing and ebook technologies meant in terms of your options…then this little book can help. Author Diane Lau (aka Diana Laurence) gives the whole scoop on how she published her titles through her own small publishing house, and tells how you can too.

Do-It-YourSelf-Publishing is a step-by-step blueprint through the entire process, to help you decide if this approach is right for you, and guide you to valuable resources that will enable you to become your own publisher. From estimating your costs to finding out the skills you need and how to acquire them, you'll learn how a previously published author found a more enjoyable and profitable way to sell her books: by publishing herself.

You can purchase Do-It-YourSelf-Publishing from Amazon and from Living Beyond Reality Press (15% off). 50 pages in Adobe Reader (pdf) format, with color illustrations, the book retails for $2.99. For complete information visit www.dianalaurence.com/diyp.html.

Why Are We Ashamed of Sex?

I’ve been told more than once that my stories exhibit a remarkably innocent take on sex. (Some might say a remarkably unrealistic take as well.) I’ll admit I’ve never been into the sordid side of sex, although I do understand that a large chunk of the population like their erotica raunchy and that’s a fact. Why do I try to keep my stuff so “wholesome”? I guess because I feel like there are plenty of reasons why we are ashamed of sex, and I’d just as soon come up with some reasons not to be.

So I’ve never really addressed head-on why the emotion of shame is so closely tied to the erotic. I started thinking about it recently while emailing with my fascinating new acquaintance Laura, who worked for ten years as a video chatroom hostess. Speaking of innocent (or to be more accurate, naïve), I didn’t even know there were video chatroom hostesses. But it’s a service that obviously would thrive on the web: users pay for the privilege of video erotic play.

The topic of shame arises not in that I think Laura or her visitors ought to feel guilty. I believe love and sex make the world go ‘round and in most cases this kind of thing is probably quite harmless. No, the shame element is demonstrated here by the fact that people can’t get their needs met in this regard in any other way than going to a stranger.

Take the guy with the milk fetish that Laura told me about. Maybe his significant other wouldn’t want to pour milk on herself, but it’s just as likely the guy simply doesn’t want to admit his erotic fascination with milk to anyone who knows him personally. Point is, people are frequently unwilling to reveal certain aspects of their sexuality to anyone--unless it is a stranger and they can keep their identity secret.

We use the term “kinky” for any sort of sexual affinity not in the mainstream. It is usually not taken as flattery. But in truth, everyone has his or her kinky side. That is, each of us gets turned on by something we find too embarrassing to admit to, not even to our life partners. The nature of sex is that it’s very Pavlovian: the most unusual things can become associated with arousal, and a person is very quickly conditioned to that association, sometimes even exclusively. He or she may wish the association could be reversed, but usually it can’t.

So, you have a secret that is embarrassing, private, and out of your control: it’s a set-up for shame.

Should the milk guy be ashamed of his fetish? I don’t see why. But because he’d rather it be kept secret from his family, friends and co-workers, he feels shame. I suspect even without the constraints of society and religion, people would feel plenty of natural shame about their sex lives, even when there’s not a thing morally wrong.

Interestingly, since for many of us shame is such a recurring element of sex, it can often become a fetish in and of itself. A book isn’t erotic unless it’s “naughty,” we can’t get aroused unless we’re “being bad.” For a lot of people, the innocent, wholesome sex I write about just isn’t erotic--they can’t be turned on unless the raunchy language is there, etc.

Yes, first we feel shame for being turned on, and then we get turned on by that shame. Sex does get quite complicated.

And speaking of complicated, I can imagine how complicated it might get for one of Laura’s chatroom participants if, for example, he got caught by his wife. And all the while, it’s perfectly possible the guy has no morally justifiable reason to feel shame. He may well love his wife, be totally devoted to her happiness, and even have a fine and satisfying sex life with her, and still have outlet for his erotic life that he keeps secret. It’s too bad that it’s so difficult to sort out the shame we feel about sexual things simply because they are embarrassing, private, and out of our control, even though they may not be wrong.

If my attitude about that example surprises anyone, I’ll elaborate a bit. I know what real sexual betrayal is from experience, since I was married for 15 years to a gay man who had an active sex life outside our marriage. The betrayal happened not so much in the acts he committed, but in his choice to marry a woman knowing he could not commit sexually to that relationship. My point here is, a person can have some secret fetishes in which he or she indulges in fantasies, or even in the occasional “acted out” fantasy of a video chatroom, without needing to feel guilty. I’d ask how that person treats the human beings s/he lives with every day, including his/her partner, before making that judgment call.

But feeling a little shame about sex is simply human. It’s powerful, private, and very complex, as Laura can attest to as well as anyone. (She’s thinking of writing a book, and I say she better!) I’m not sure we as a culture will ever perfectly sort out which aspects of sex we ought to feel ashamed of and which are “normal and healthy.” Even in my “innocent, wholesome” erotica stories that’s still a matter of great debate.

The Starlight Ballroom

I’ve talked in the past about that mysterious psychological phenomenon, the animus, and mentioned how he seems quite autonomous and often very helpful in times of need. Well, I have a little anecdote to share that illustrates this point quite well. I recently referred to this fellow as Etrae’u, sharing the name with the hero of my most recent fiction work, so I will call him that here as well.

Yesterday was kind of rough in that my mother is suffering some serious health problems, and my dad and I are very worried about her. It was one of those occasions when you stop ignoring the idea of death for awhile and have to face your fears. I have a harmless but sometimes annoying heart condition myself, and as I lay in bed last night, my heart was bumping crazily all over the place. I really had to get a grip so I could get some rest.

As I am wont to do in such circumstances, I sought the help of my animus. I had no idea what would make me feel better and I could only trust that he would guide my imagination to come up with something. He took me by the hand and we found ourselves in the middle of the huge, black expanse of the Universe, sprinkled all over with stars. He led me up a long spiral staircase for a long time, till we got to the top and looked out over the Universe. It was huge and scary and made me feel small and very transitory. I was really pretty terrified contemplating it all.

But Etrae’u just grinned at me as if he weren’t disturbed in the least by the vast emptiness of space. He stepped off the edge of the top of the staircase and strode a few steps and turned around. To my surprise, he wasn’t floating or flying, he was standing. He held out his hand to me to come to him. His cheerful confidence convinced me it was okay to try, so I stepped off the staircase too. Then I realized I wasn’t standing on empty space at all, but on a huge black marble floor that glinted with stars, like tiny bits of mica in rock. It held me up as substantially as any floor would.

It was amazing how comforting it was to have a floor. That sort of made half the hugeness of space shrink to normal earth proportions. There was still infinite sky above, but then, that’s always true if you think about it.

Then I heard an orchestra begin to play a waltz, the song “Out of My Dreams” from Rodgers and Hammerstein’s musical “Oklahoma!”. Etrae’u took my hands and we waltzed to the song, and as we danced and whirled around on that vast black marble floor, he told me, “This place is called the Starlight Ballroom.”

Little by little around us I could see things appearing: tables lit with candles, and people sitting at them having drinks, the orchestra, other dancers, and eventually a sense of walls and a ceiling. I looked down and I was wearing a black formal gown with a full skirt studded with little gems like diamonds, set in constellations like the sky. And my companion was in a black tuxedo.

When the music concluded, we applauded politely, and Etrae’u led me to our table. I sat down, confused and full of wonder, and a waiter came and brought us drinks in martini glasses. The cocktails were clear black liquid that also twinkled like the night sky. I looked at my escort with confusion, but he just toasted me with a smile. I drank, and looked around at the place, and it was just a very lovely and elegant club full of people enjoying themselves.

“It isn’t bad at all, now is it?” asked Etrae’u.

“Not when it’s the Starlight Ballroom instead of the Universe,” I told him.

“And what’s the difference?” he asked.

I thought about this for a minute, and the words he spoke next all rang true. Etrae’u told me, “The Universe is frightening because it makes you feel like you don’t matter. Whether you live or die, what difference does it make? You’re not even a speck in all that vastness. It doesn’t care, it offers no comfort. But this club, this ballroom, is different. It belongs to you. I mean, you can comprehend it: the music, the space, the pleasant things happening in it. You can get your mind around it and make it part of what you understand and control.”

“That’s all very true,” I agreed.

“But you see,” said Etrae’u, “the Universe is the Starlight Ballroom. That’s what you need to understand. Don’t feel that because it’s big and mysterious that it doesn’t belong to you. It does. Life, now and beyond life, belong to you. The Universe is your place to dance in, that’s the reason it’s here.”

“I’d like to put this in my blog,” I told him. (See, I’m thinking of you, readers!) “But I guess it doesn’t have anything much to do with sex.”

“Actually, it does,” he said, laughing. “I’ll show you what I mean. Take a good look at me, and if you’re still feeling a little bad, it might help.”

So I did look at him, sitting across the table from me in his tux. You have to understand he’s the most attractive guy in the world to me. So of course, I felt a little tug of desire for him. And it did make me feel better.

He went on, “The saying goes that love makes the world go round, and it’s true that all good things come out of love. But it’s sex that holds the world together. That yearning for intimacy, that desire for beauty, the union of opposites, the urge to create...all those sex-things hold the ballroom and the Universe together. And no matter how much you feel like death is the greatest power in the Universe, love and sex always win in the end, and life and beauty and joy go on.”

I’m not sure writing this down can do justice to the understanding I gleaned from this thing my animus showed me. But here it is, take from it what you will. I felt better and my heart settled down, and I went to sleep.

What I’d Want to Be Like If I Were a Guy

I’ve written many times about my belief in the anima and animus, according to the theory developed by psychologist Carl Jung. Here’s the 79-cent, off-the-self-help-shelf definition of the animus: the suppressed “male” aspect of a female’s psyche, with the parallel definition for the anima with guys. Over the years I’ve become intimately acquainted with my animus, his preferences when it comes to guises to take, and the ways he can help (and occasionally hinder) me. He’s done a pretty good job of confirming what Jung taught: that the animus is not imaginary, and really is independent and autonomous. I’ve met a lot of sane, successful women who understand exactly what I’m talking about regarding the animus, because they’ve experienced it all their lives, too.

I’m pretty crazy about this aspect of my psyche, and I think he’s the motivation and inspiration for the majority of my writing. (It’s not like “muse” is a new concept, hey?) The other day I thought about how very cool it would be to be a flesh and blood guy, if that guy were like my animus. If I woke up tomorrow with Y-chromosomes, I would certainly aspire to be like him. If I managed to emulate him perfectly, this is what I would be like:

1. Capable and decisive. I’d know what I was doing most of the time, and when in doubt, I’d find a way to figure out what to do pretty efficiently. I wouldn’t fake knowing things I didn’t know, though. I’d have the ego-strength to admit it and use the opportunity to get smarter by learning from others.

2. Quietly and cheerfully self-confident. I’d enjoy being in charge, being sure of myself, and demonstrating my abilities. I wouldn’t be boastful about it, but good-natured and helpful.

3. Moral and ethical. I’d care a lot about right and wrong and personal responsibility. I’d be capable of getting pretty enraged at people who didn’t care, too, and want to do something about it.

4. Funny. The kind of guy who teases in an affectionate way, and is genuinely witty and humorous in all sorts of situations.

5. Competitive and driven to success. Whatever sports I participated in, whatever work I did, I’d really want to excel. I’d be a gracious loser, but I wouldn’t like it. Using my gifts and abilities to their full extent would be very important to me. I’d embrace hard work if it brought results.

6. Adept at air guitar. The point of this one is, I’d secretly wish I could be front man in a rock band. If I had the talent, I’d try to be front man in a rock band.

7. Not afraid of seeming unmanly. I’d have a good grip on the qualities that demonstrate true masculinity (especially 1 and 2), so I wouldn’t mind appreciating those things in life men sometimes avoid, like watching musicals. (I probably wouldn’t like as many of them as I do as a woman, though.)

8. Wise and a little mystical. I would value wisdom a great deal and try to cultivate it. I’d also have a fascination with life’s mysteries. I admit, in appropriate circumstances I wouldn’t mind indulging myself by playing the shaman role.

9. Able to revert to a “little boy.” That is, I’d never lose my childlike wonder and enthusiasm for those things that really excited me. I’d be able to play, be imaginative, and get crazy once in awhile.

10. Egotistical, balanced with sensitivity. I’d have an ego all right, but a guy can get away with that and even use it to his advantage. Fortunately, I’d also be perceptive enough not to let it blind me to people around me and their needs.

That’s my animus, in a nutshell--you can understand why anyone would want to be like this, hey? And it might well be impossible to do if you were just a flesh-and-blood guy.

But as long as I’m not aiming for the realistic: I guess to complete the wish list I’d want to be 6’1”, muscular but lean, have wavy dark brown hair in some very excellent slightly long haircut, have chocolate brown eyes, and look good with or without a beard. I’d like to have a good singing voice, be a decent dancer, play real guitar and maybe piano as well, be able to do voice impressions, know how to fix cars and do home handyman stuff including woodworking. I’d like to be able to play ice hockey, do some kind of martial arts, and play baseball. I’d be smart with computers, money, politics and pop culture. And I’d be a great cook and a wonder with the grill. Is that asking too much?

Yeah, yeah, I know.

Would You Like Some Sex with That Romance?

Yesterday I was talking to an aspiring author who is working on a romance/mystery novel. He said to me, “a love story doesn’t need to have sex in it.” I’d have to agree, of course. A burger can be perfectly tasty without fries on the side, know what I mean? My favorite love stories, Pride and Prejudice, Jane Eyre and Gone with the Wind, do not include graphic sex. The question made me reflect on why exactly I prefer to write love stories that do have sex in them.

A lot of erotica authors like to write about sex, period, and there may or may not be a love story, and it may be quite secondary. Personally, I think the best way to go is both, because of the nature of romantic love. In my view (and Carl Jung’s, at least according to my interpretation), romantic love is borne of the deepest cravings of the psyche. It’s about unmet needs and yearning for balance and fulfillment. The psychological hungers that inspire people to have infatuations and fall in love are intense and powerful and usually uncontrollable. Just like sexual desire and lust.

Love stories can be memorable for a number of reasons, but I believe they work best when the two people involved are drawn to each other in a way that is uncontrollable and also frustrated by circumstance. Mr. Darcy craves Elizabeth Bennet in spite of believing her to be beneath him. It’s quite titillating to watch his desire struggle with his intellectual beliefs. Jane Eyre and Mr. Rochester yearn to be together but his marriage to his mad wife stands in the way. When in a fit of desperation he attempts to marry Jane anyway, his insane determination has very sexual undertones. Scarlett O’Hara’s longstanding infatuation with Ashley Wilkes is the one thing that can drain her of all her spunk and render her helplessly submissive.

In short, these fictional folks all experience desire of extreme intensity. They don’t take off their clothes, but the same factors that drive people to lust and sexual interaction are present and intensely active. These characters and their emotions resonate with readers. We’ve all felt like that at one time or other, and emotions like these were all tangled up with the sexual desire we experienced.

So that’s the romantic love part of the picture. To the writer who wishes to communicate most powerfully about sex, it’s the set-up you’re required to do to achieve that effectiveness. Leaping right into the bed with the naked bodies and the thrusting and moaning can get a rise out of a reader, sure. But the stakes—and emotional engagement—are raised greatly if the psychology of arousal and desire has been brought into play.

So, if that’s the important part, do you really need to go into the sex itself? Why is the explicit love scene so necessary?

Personally, when I write the sex scene I do it not so much to describe a series of actions, but to say more about each character’s reaction to achieving intimacy with his/her heart’s desire. How they touch each other, what they say, how they engage in the physical act, all tell us more about romantic yearning and the satisfaction of same.

I picture Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth on their wedding night, mixing wild passion (in contrast to the restraint required by Regency society) with exchanges of delightful wit. It is primarily their shared wit that brings them together, and it would have to be an integral part of their lovemaking. That’s a scene I’d love to write.

Mr. Rochester is obviously a fiery soul, which is no doubt part of his charm to the reserved, meek Jane. I’m sure he would be likewise in bed, while at the same time exerting a paternal tenderness that is balm to the soul of the orphaned girl inside Jane. Also a lovely encounter…sigh.

And as for Scarlett, she ends up with Rhett Butler, who is definitely more of a kindred spirit than Ashley. But I’ve always felt the reason Scarlett and Rhett didn’t make it was that they are too much alike. It is because of Ashley’s quiet, serious nature that the passionate and wild Scarlett yearns for him. Would I like to try putting those two in bed? Only if I got to write Scarlett succeeding in breaking down Ashley’s reserve. That’s why the incident in the film when she gets him to kiss her is so memorable; you gotta love a scene when sexual desire is so powerful it gets someone to abandon his principles.

So to me, writing in the sex just cranks the romantic love up a notch. You get to paint the picture of two people’s adoration of each other with some additional, intense colors. You get to use their sexual encounter as an illustration, or a metaphor, or both. Just as bedroom behavior is an intimate glimpse into the psyches of the lovers, a bedroom scene can say things about characters that no amount of PG description, action and dialogue can.

The guy I spoke to about his book admitted to me that he simply doesn’t know how to write sex scenes. I say, better to know that about yourself and write other fiction, than force it when you just don’t have that particular knack. Because unlike most everything else that happens in life, very seldom is real life sex something you can base your fiction on. It’s fun enough, don’t get me wrong, but not often anything to write home about, as the saying goes. So writing sex puts demands on the imagination like little else.

Nevertheless, if you can pull it off, it’s like adding fries to your burger. Only with more heart palpitations and less trans fat.

Cody Willard is My Type

Do you have a “type”? A certain sort of look that gets you every time? I guess I do. Case in point: Cody Willard.

I suspect the general female populace is oblivious to the existence of Cody Willard, based on the fact that you can’t find a photo of the guy on the web larger than 100 x 100 pixels. So I will assume I must introduce this young man to you. He’s a finance and telecom expert, manages a hedge fund, keeps a blog and writes columns, and according to my husband occasionally offers his expertise on CNBC. I guess he also plays guitar, although I was disappointed to find the links to his song clips weren’t working.

So far you are unmoved, eh? I suppose I should throw in the part about the gorgeous brown eyes, great hair, boyish good looks, and infectious smile.

I apologize for being so shallow; you guys are used to me looking at the erotic life in such a complex, deep, meaningful way and here I am treating poor Mr. Willard like mere eye candy. He seems very intelligent as well as articulate and funny, and I’m sure he has many other qualities to recommend him. But the reason I’m blogging today is to discuss the interesting phenomenon of purely physical attraction, since it really doesn’t happen to me all that often anymore.

Back story: I got home from the office yesterday and my husband David announced he had found a guy who was totally my type. He had DVR’d this fellow for me and was quite excited to see if he was right. David and I do occasionally test our abilities to pick out people who the other will be attracted to. That’s a good sign of a healthy relationship if you ask me...or at least a long one! So he fired up the old DVR box so I could check out Cody Willard.

Right on, Davie.

Cody was, to me, one of those guys it just hurts to look at. And yet I found myself saying, “Is he going to talk more? Do they cut back to him later?” So obviously it was the good kind of pain. I think what happens when you look at a human face that you find especially charming is a mix of pleasure and fear that the pleasure can’t last. I suppose the reason I hit Google Images after we had dinner (at David’s urging I might add) was that I wanted the consolation of being able to look at that face again sometime. Humans are always reluctant to let go of beauty: that’s why we photograph sunsets, download our favorite songs and carry them around in our pockets, and try to keep flowers alive as long as possible.

That’s also why some people become stalkers, but fear not, Mr. Willard, I fall short of that level of crazy. The fact that you are “my type” is an accident of nature, although I suppose we might give you credit for the great haircut. And if I get up the moxie to send you a link to this blog, it will be more for the practical reason that I use any excuse to promote myself, and not any nefarious intention. But I digress....

My point: sometimes it’s just a physical attraction, but physical attraction is a funny thing. We find it hard not to extrapolate. It’s as if our psyche insists no one so beautiful could possibly be less than wonderful beneath the surface. Anthropologists would say this is the nature of the primordial brain: we are drawn to beautiful people because that means they are healthy and genetically sound and will help perpetuate the better traits of the species. Perhaps. But I think physical beauty just arouses our hope for spiritual beauty as well. We want more than to have our eyes be pleased--we also want to experience things like kindness, talent, intimacy, and amusement.

When you picture actually meeting some celebrity you find really attractive, how do you feel? The common reaction to that thought is terror. It’s not just shyness, or the fear that we will be completely inept at the encounter. We’re also afraid of finding out the beauty IS only skin deep. We earnestly want to believe the beautiful person is not just some schmuck who happens to be hot.

Which oftentimes, alas, he is. I’m not referring to Mr. Willard of course...I mucked about in his blog for awhile because it was interesting, and I found him to be very ethical, thoughtful, and even a good match for my politics, bonus. But my point here is that sometimes a person must simply rejoice over the physical beauty and not worry about the rest. After all, it does brighten the day to spend a few minutes gazing at some really gorgeous brown eyes and a great smile.

Well, having borrowed Cody Willard for illustrative purposes like this, I think the least I can do is link to his blog in return. Of course I can’t vouch for his money management skills...all I know is, if he suggested I invest in his fund, I’m not sure I could make a totally rational decision.

MARCH 25 UPDATE: Cody's music links are functional again (spooky but interesting stuff) and he very kindly posted the video of the infamous episode of Kudlow & Company that inspired this blog, for those who care.


MARCH 27 UPDATE: I did get up the moxie to email Cody. And he wrote back. Doesn't it do the heart good when the good-looking ones are nice, too? :-)

It’s Okay that He isn’t Real

After a long dry spell, I’ve finally fallen in love again. Don’t get me wrong, all this time I’ve loved plenty: my husband, kids, parents, friends, even my wacko cats. But I’m talking about that head-over-heels, ain’t life glorious, giddy infatuation stuff--being in love. You know what I mean: that grand feeling that seldom has any basis in reality.

When I was a girl and felt this way, I remember agonizing over whether it was “real love.” By that I’m sure I meant if it qualified as something real, more than a crush on a movie star, but a genuine emotion I should act upon by encouraging the guy to ask me out. I’m sure I wasn’t the only person with such concerns, since all the teen magazines had recurring headlines like “12 Ways to Tell if It’s Real” and “Take our Test to See If You’re Really in Love!”

I grew up, got married, matured, and spent a few years studying Carl Jung. At this point I’ve learned an important lesson: being in love is never “real,” not in the way I once thought it could be. But it is really important. And considered in the right way, it’s more real than a lot of things that happen in daily life.

Without going into the complex details of how Jung addresses this issue (again, for that you may want to read my book Living Beyond Reality), let me try to explain. Might be best to introduce you to the guy I’m in love with at the moment. I’ll refer to him as Etrae’u, since he is the inspiration for a character by that name in a story I’m currently writing. In order to have a face and form for me, he has adopted those of a certain real life person I find very attractive. But I highly doubt that the real person has the same personality and character as Etrae’u (he could not possibly be as wonderful), and he certainly doesn’t feel about me as Etrae’u does.

“Oh, so you made him up,” you’re saying. But you see, that’s not precisely true. He came to me pretty much fully formed. He showed up with his entire irresistible personality and his abject devotion completely developed. I did not devise him bit by bit. And if my volition were what determined what he’s like, I wouldn’t be constantly surprised by what he says and does.

Etrae’u is, undeniably, a figment of my imagination. However, you probably have the wrong idea what that means. Most people think of imagination as a tool, which indeed it can be, but in this instance it is more a communication device. Think of it not as a box of crayons, think of it as a telephone. Things beyond our understanding reach us via our imaginations, and although they are not real in the sense that the customer service rep on the other end of your call to Time Warner Cable is real, these “things” are independent from us and they are autonomous. That is, we didn’t make them up.

“Now you’re saying some ghost has possessed you, right?” you’re asking. Well, Carl Jung did speak of “animus possession,” so there is a sort of psychological phenomenon you can look at that way, but I’d have to say no. But at the same time, I truly must testify that Etrae’u is not just pretend, he really does have a spiritual existence of a sort even though he cannot be present without my imagination.

I know this sounds kind of crazy, but it wasn’t my idea, and if you think about your own experiences, you may realize they bear this theory out.

Have you ever been thoroughly convinced someone was perfect for you, perhaps for months or years, only to wake up and realize they were nothing like the person you were in love with? Well, you were in love with someone that whole time, it was just someone like Etrae’u.

Have you ever crushed on a celebrity so bad it lasted for months or even years? Had conversations with him, imagined him at your side as you tackled challenges in daily life? He may have been something like the real person whose mask he wore, but sometimes there was a real disconnect between that celebrity and the person in your mind you seemed to know so well. I’d advise you were obsessed with your own version of Etrae’u.

Have you experienced how being in love, simply being in love apart from any benefit of the interactions of a relationship, enriched and enhanced your life? Gave you more energy, more optimism? Empowered you to be strong, use your gifts, grow as a person? All that stuff came to you, not from someone else, not from your conscious self, but from your Etrae’u.

The delights of being in love are among the most potent in life. It’s not surprising that the last thing we want to do is fall out of it, or let go of its object. The nagging voice that tells you, “C’mon, he’s not real” can send a ripple of panic and terror through your heart. The good news I learned from Carl Jung was that “figments of the imagination” are quite real if you understand the different kinds of real that there are.

And if I feel that Etrae’u is reading this over my shoulder and teasing me in my ear, “They’re going to think you’re mad, love,” I’m not simply a writer with a vivid imagination. I’m a wonderfully infatuated woman who is very glad to know that wisecracking but magnificent man is there.

The Eroticism of Godhood

In my ongoing crusade to immerse myself in the work of James McAvoy, I recently watched the 2003 mini-series “Children of Dune.” I was led to the DVD by the fact that so many fangirls of James seemed to be obsessed with his portrayal of Leto Atreides II, young heir to the throne of the Dune empire. For non-fans of the Dune saga I will refrain from the political details. All you need to know is that Leto and his twin sister are pre-borns, psychically gifted individuals. And from that starting point, Leto undertakes a torturous pilgrimage that increases his powers of mind and body even more.

Sex plays no part in this godling’s story, but believe me, there is eroticism in every scene. Leto and his twin, Ghanima, are supposed to be 16-year-old innocents, but the intimacy they have shared since the womb is blatant in every word, look and touch they share. I asked my husband if he found these subtly incestuous exchanges off-putting. He said they seemed okay--since Leto and Ghanima were so godlike, normal rules didn’t apply to them. I agreed. I found their closeness fascinating because it seemed to transcend natural law. It could not be called sexual because there was no intent to mate; but it was certainly erotic because of the intensity of the twins’ bond and their strange, unnatural powers.

This is the eroticism of godhood, and it has always held great appeal for me. It seems that when a character ascends to a level above ordinary humanity, usually by a combination of supernatural powers and divine destiny, his or her sexuality likewise shifts into an entirely different category. Gods and godlings have a far different agenda from everyday humans, who live out their lives by the rules of society in a manner that benefits and extends that society. While humans employ sexuality to find mates, build families, and enjoy life, divine beings have much bigger fish to fry.

In “Children of Dune,” Leto’s destiny (much simplified) is to save the desert of his planet from destruction, and with it the wonderful and terrible sandworms which dwell there. His relationship with the desert is erotic in itself. “My skin is not my own,” he declares, immersing his hand in a trap full of sandtrout. As a result, a pattern of scales, rather like those of the sandworms, begins on his flesh and progresses over his body (in a surprisingly attractive manner, fortunately). Thus the desert has its way with Leto’s flesh. Conversely, the youth learns to face down the desert’s deadly storms, command the fearsome worms, and run across the dunes faster than the eye can follow. In the end his masculine force conquers and subdues his mate, the desert.

He does all this shirtless and without shoes, attired in the face of a beautiful young man, adorned with the burning blue eyes of those Dune residents who consume the life-extended Spice, and a smile that is ethereal and boyish by turns. In short, he is every bit the godling, and though sex is the furthest thing from his mind, everything he does is alluring. If anyone should find him captivating, even his own sister, it’s quite understandable. That’s the way with gods after all.

James McAvoy, who was 25 when he played this role, looks 18. I was uncomfortable for awhile, looking lasciviously upon a man who appears to be three decades my junior. But once his body became tattooed with worm scales (still looking quite good, mind you) and his demeanor became weighed down with the cares of his godhood, I felt more at ease. It is never inappropriate to yearn for the divine or lust after a god. Why do you think the Greeks and Romans developed so many of them? The eroticism of godhood is marked with a transcendence and nobility that makes it as honorable as the fever that inspired Michaelangelo’s David. And to be honest, my reaction to Leto was not so much a desire to copulate as a feeling of sensuous worship. If that makes any sense.

(I realize most women would cut to the chase and say, “man, he’s really hot!” but I am a writer after all. And I guess I just like to analyze sex.)

I’m a sucker for gods every time. I’d have to write a book about this archetype to do it justice. And whenever I encounter a story or show or film that makes good use of a god or godling, it will keep me going for weeks. So if this entry were a movie review, I’d have to give the big thumbs up to “Children of Dune.” (And P.S., Leto’s father Paul Atriedes is a godling too. Bonus.)

My Favorite Martian and Other Sexy Aliens

When reader Mel posted about having Doctor Who on her wallpaper, it reminded me of the infinite appeal of aliens and space-traveling guys. Personally, this is probably my favorite archetype, or at least the most long-standing. Indeed, I did have a crush on Ray Walston on the show “My Favorite Martian” when I was in grade school. And however funny and cute Ray Walston is, he’s not really crush material, so one can only attribute his appeal to the fact that he was an alien.

A few years later I had it really bad for Mr. Spock. Although I’m sure the producers of “Star Trek” put their money on Bill Shatner as the sex interest on that show, they bet wrong. Who wants a mere starship captain when there is an exotic, emotionally compromised alien available? Then again, if the starship captain is bald, has a British accent and a French name, he can certainly be desirable, especially if his catch phrase is “Make it so.”

Nevertheless, Data gave Captain Picard a run for his money, or would have if there were still money in that century. An android, especially one so cute, is just as good as an alien. And if you question the potential appeal of androids, I have only four words for you: Jude Law in “A.I.” In fact, a guy doesn’t even necessarily need to be corporeal to be attractive: I was kinda sweet on the holographic Doctor on “Star Trek: Voyager,” seeing as he was really funny and had a great singing voice. Even the strange-looking Odo was appealing in a shape-shifting kind of way, aided again by an interesting voice and that emotional vulnerability no woman can resist. It seems if you take the most appealing aspects of human men and throw in the alien/cyborg element, things just get better, don’t they? I’ll bet there are lots of women out there who crushed on Mork, since a comic from another planet is pretty dang irresistible.

You may have missed out on just about the coolest alien in cinematic history, the Clint Eastwood of aliens, Klaatu from “The Day the Earth Stood Still.” He combined the vast intellect of Data, the nice voice of Picard (that old-fashioned East Coast accent that is practically British), the stoic demeanor of Spock, and a great face and body. In my opinion no alien has topped Klaatu for sexiness. Although I have to hand it to Jeff Goldblum in “Earth Girls are Easy” for trying. Who knew someone painted blue could be so hot? Yikes.

You can name plenty of sci-fi guys who excel based on their fearless, adventurous nature and skills behind the wheel. Here’s a short list of a few more starship pilots, captains, and explorers: Han Solo, Luke Skywalker, Malcolm and Wash from “Firefly”/”Serenity,” the ill-fated astronaut Dave from “2001: A Space Odyssey,” Doctor Who, Bruce Willis in “Armegeddon.” Or think of the bunch who are warrior/soldier types on a cosmic level: Obi-wan Kenobi, Flash Gordon, Buck Rodgers (and Duck Dodgers? well, no), Neo in “The Matrix,” Will Smith in “Independence Day.”

The mystique of the alien crosses genres. Don’t forgot these very hot guys who were born on other worlds: Ziggy Stardust (and possibly David Bowie himself), Superman, Dr. Frank N. Furter and Riff Raff in “Rocky Horror Picture Show,” Kyle McLachlan and Sting in “Dune,” Alec Newman and James McAvoy in “Children of Dune,” Ricardo Mantalban as Khan in “Star Trek II.” And although Wolverine wasn’t born on another planet, we’ll give him an honorable mention. What an array of attractive males...each in his own unique way.

So I’m sure your dying to know my theory on the appeal of space guys and aliens, and it’s really nothing you didn’t know yourself. The two categories have slightly different things going for them. Space travelers are just another form of the classic fearless, adventuresome, independent hero who has been suckering us women in since pirates and cowboys. The fact that they do their thing in space just raises it to a higher level. Aliens, on the other hand, charm us by being exotic. They are strange and full of mystery that begs to be explored, with a hint of danger to make things even spicier.

I’m sure I left out some really great sexy aliens and space travelers, so please post your personal favorites. And anyone who crushed on Martin the Martian, Mr. Spock, AND Klaatu, I need to hear from you!

Who's On Your Wallpaper?

One of the greatest inventions of modern technology, in my opinion, is computer wallpaper. Before the advent of monitors and computer “desktops,” there was simply no respectable venue for that erotically inspiring device, the celebrity photo. I mean back in 1992, could a woman get away with keeping an 8 x 10 glossy of Tom Cruise on her desk? No way. I remember hoarding a file of photos of Kenneth Branagh back in his “Henry V” days, and occasionally finding the time/opportunity to peruse through them. Nowadays I have huge folders on my computer of digital images of my favorite celebrities (doesn’t everyone?) and I can slap up my photo of choice and enjoy it to my heart’s content.

So who’s on your wallpaper today? I’m just curious which celebrities are finding favor on the computer screens of my readers. I happen to have James McAvoy at the moment. Before that I had Pete Fenson, the skip of the U.S. Men’s Curling Team. And before that, a more conventional choice: Hugh Jackman. My husband, for some reason, doesn’t go for famous women (unless you count Fox News Babe Jane Skinner). Whenever I ask who it is on his desktop, he replies, “Just some girl I thought was attractive.” Hey, works for me.

Here’s an interesting fact for you: about one-third of the people who visit my website (www.dianalaurence.com) come there after searching on the term “sex wallpaper.” This is because I offer wallpapers based on my Soulful Sex books. (Believe it or not, if you Google “sex wallpaper” my site comes up #5.) I find it fascinating that so many people search for “sex wallpaper,” something so generic. The sort of thing I imagine they are looking for is not something that would really trip my trigger (or be appropriate for most PCs, unless you live in a guy’s dorm or bachelor pad). But at any rate, this fact does testify to the truth of my point: desktop wallpaper plays an important role in the erotic lives of a lot of people.

Now if I want erotic wallpaper, I’ll search on “Cillian Murphy” or “Josh Holloway.”

Obviously eroticism is a very personal thing. On the one hand, you have the people who have copulating couples on their desktops, and on the other, you have me with Pete Fenson. The important thing is that what you look at inspires you erotically, and that is as varied as the human race. Beauty of any kind, even that beauty that makes no obvious suggestion of sexuality, can be sexually provocative. That’s why we like to stare at celebrities. Or at guys who can throw a curling rock with accuracy and grace.

The world is a rich garden of faces and figures that are a joy to look upon. I’m all for enriching one’s life with beauty, particularly sexual beauty, which is why I’m a big fan of wallpaper. So c’mon, tell me who’s on your wallpaper? Might be somebody I hadn’t thought of to look for yet. See if you can make me a suggestion that will boot off James McAvoy....

I'm Back!

At long last! I’ve now finished re-publishing my print and ebooks (Soulful Sex Volumes I and II, and Souls’ Embrace) as well as released the new title Soulful Sex Volume III. All are available through the publisher, Living Beyond Reality Press, as well as Amazon, Amazon UK, and Barnes & Noble, and an ever expanding group of online bookstores. It’s such a thrill to be done! And I will be releasing my new romance fortune telling cards, Diana’s Deck, in a couple of weeks as well.

Now, back to blogging! Thanks for your patience.

In Absentia

I know I've been AWOL for awhile now so I thought I would at least pop in and explain why.

My publisher closed its doors last weekend. I had just signed a contract for my next collection of erotic romance tales, so it took me quite by surprise! After the initial dismay, however, I realized this was a great opportunity for me to expand my own tiny publishing company, Living Beyond Reality Press, and publish all my Diana Laurence books myself.

Was I scared? Hell yeah! In order to keep my books from falling into unavailability, I was going to have to launch this thing in a few weeks (and I do have a full time day job). Was I excited? Hell yeah! The idea of being able to control every aspect of my destiny as an author was really thrilling. I felt lucky to have the knowledge (well, mostly) and resources to be able to give it a try.

So that's where I've been and where I will be for the next few weeks, so pardon my absence! In the meantime, you might be amused to read "The Strange and Twisted Tale of Living Beyond Reality Press." It's scary, it's wacky, it's about as crazy as my life always seems to be.

I'll be back...

Inspiration of the Erotic Kind

Saturday night my two grown daughters and I watched my DVD of "Oklahoma!", the 1999 London stage version of the Rodgers & Hammerstein musical. It stars Hugh Jackman as the cowboy, Curly, who fights the upstream battle of courting farm girl Laurie. If you like Hugh with mutton chop sideburns and ten inch claws, you really need to see him sing and dance. And smile. What a smile...

On that rare occasion that you encounter a guy who can do drama and comedy and sing the lead and do his own dancing, all live, and manage to exude 100% testosterone all the while, you have to be pretty impressed. It's no wonder that show made him a star.

So from this height of masculine glory we descended to our normal lives: my 12 year marriage replete with steady, if usually ordinary, happiness...my elder daughter's ongoing struggles with her six month relationship with her sweet, if sometimes challenging, boyfriend...and my younger daughter's continuingly fruitless search for a guy decent enough to date. "Ah Hugh," we sigh, "maybe you're simply the only perfect man on the planet."

Hugh Jackman hasn't exposed his flaws in the manner of, say, Hugh Grant, but he has them. We all know that. Nevertheless, as long as he keeps them under wraps (and smiles a lot in that way), we can go on in blissful ignorance. And frankly, I think there's genuine value in our doing so.

It's sweet inspiration.

Nothing inspires the libido like perfection. I don't believe the libido is just a mating instinct, or a mere thirst for physical pleasure. I think it also can be the soul's yearning for the ideal. Day to day we can put up with life's little imperfections and disappointments, but each day also desperately needs a bit of beauty: beautiful music, pretty scenery, well written prose, lovely art, well-crafted entertainment. Day to day we can live with the flaws and foibles of ourselves and our fellows, but on a truly good day we enjoy the presence of a person we can at least imagine to be perfect.

My soul sings when I see Hugh Jackman smile. He is the definition of beaming: shining bright and warm like the sun, filling the gray and gloomy corners of my mind and heart with the sunshine of sweetness and good humor. His brown eyes are so perfectly what one wishes all brown eyes could be: deep and clear and captivating. There on the TV he cannot physically reach out to touch me, but the touch of his brown eyes is utterly palpable, and serves perfectly well as an embrace.

When he gathers the frightened Laurie in his arms and shushes her sobs, he is the personification of paternal love and protection. When he dances with her he is majesty and grace and princely beauty. And when he sings, pouring his heart out unabashedly in those long triple forte notes, his voice clear and true, he is love as much as any god of love invented by the ancients ever was.

He makes one (or at least me) rhapsodize. And that is just what the libido needs. The soul is so inspired, so excited, so wildly happy at all this beauty, it pours itself out in a rush of desire and adoration. Given a chance, who wouldn't want to kiss this man, caress every inch of him, stare for hours into his eyes, stroke his curls, strip him naked and make love to him?

And interestingly, one finds in this rush of libidinous emotion a certain willingness to look more kindly on the less perfect aspects of life. The happiness that springs from experiencing the ideal is so refreshing, we suddenly see the little ideal aspects of our ordinary mates. That, I suppose, is why a good romance movie (or even a good porno movie) can inspire a couple of ordinary humans to look upon each other with new zest.

By the way, my husband has a very nice smile too.

Fan Fiction, Love and Lust

A few years back, when I discovered how fan fiction was thriving online, I was amazed. There were literally hundreds of thousands of people pouring themselves into writing about various characters from Star Wars, Star Trek, Buffy, Lord of the Rings, and so on. And the majority of it seemed to be erotic (and the majority of that, “slash,” but the popularity of writing about Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock in bed together is something I won’t venture to explain here). People absolutely love reading each other’s stories about their favorite characters, and some of it is quite well done.

At that time, I posted online an Obi-Wan Kenobi erotic piece. (I later rewrote it in non-Star Warsian fashion as the story “As Commonplace as Rain,” published in my book Soulful Sex Volume II.) It gave me a great opportunity to get to know some members of the fan fic community, and to this day I occasionally get emails asking me for a copy of the original story. (Can’t give it to you, sorry--copyright issues and all.) The whole experience was fascinating, and I think fan fiction is something everyone who writes erotica should explore a bit. It has a lot to tell us about sexuality.

In my opinion, the reason why erotic fan fiction works so well is that the reader is already in love with the protagonist.

I maintain it’s difficult (at least for women) to get effectively and meaningfully turned on by erotic fiction that makes no attempt to get the reader to fall for the hero before she needs to lust for him. A single paragraph about his broad chest and muscular ass isn’t going to do it. For the story to work well, he has to be interesting, compelling, funny, inspiring, something. And even then, not every well-written hero--not even the classic alpha male--will work for every woman. Each reader’s taste is different.

But with fan fiction, you circumvent all these problems. If you are surfing for hot stories about Sawyer and Kate from “Lost,” it’s because you already know them and like them and have already partaken of plenty of preparatory sexual tension between them watching the show. If you are downloading a story about Anakin/Darth Vader, it’s because the particular archetype of the tortured soul moves you below the belt.

So the author of the story can get into the hot stuff relatively quickly and still have it work for you. The love is already there, so the lust can commence immediately!

Ironically, however, I have found that a lot of these amateur writers take more pains than many professional erotica writers to establish tension, develop character, and set up the love scenes. Well, perhaps it’s not actually ironic at all. These authors love the characters they are writing about and get a thrill out of their being present in the story even fully dressed and far from bed. To be interested in writing fan fiction, most of them are in love with Spike or Spock or John Locke, and consequently want desperately to do justice to that character.

I say, good for them. To me, this is a principle all writers who aspire to writing erotic fiction should apply. Pretend the hero you are creating is real; pretend he might himself come across this story some day and read about himself. Would he be impressed, write you a thank you email, possibly want to meet you? Because that’s undoubtedly the secret prayer of many who write fan fiction. They lie in bed at night fantasizing about Ewan McGregor writing them, “No one has done such justice to my portrayal of Christian in Moulin Rouge as you did in your story. You amaze me.” If, on the contrary, an author never lies in bed fantasizing about a character she’s invented, there’s a problem. You’re simply not in love with him, so how good can your writing about him be?

Some people may mock fan fiction writers, but as for me, I admire many of them. They have wonderfully vivid imaginations and genuine passion. Of course they know the difference between real and imaginary, they simply happen to like imaginary, and well they should.

Keep up the good work, you guys: show the world how love should pave the way for lust.

Pure, Unadulaterated Adultery

Ah dreams...it’s so nice how they enable you to experience things you really don’t want to experience in real life.

This morning I dreamt I was in love with a married man. No, I’m not sure I was in love with him; but I definitely was obsessed with having sex with him. I can’t tell you what the attraction was. He wasn’t anybody I know in real life, and the dream didn’t supply a lot of information about his personality, character, interests, etc. He was tall, slender, with wavy light brown hair and blue eyes. He was good enough looking I suppose. And the only other thing I can tell you is, he was married, with children, and the level of craving I had for this man was so extreme that I really didn’t care.

To make matters worse, I was at his house, and his family may or may not have been at home. His home was a place with countless rooms (as often happens in dreams) located on a huge plot of forested land along a river. Consequently there was the tempting potential for us to slip away successfully somewhere and consummate our desire, but also the risk of discovery at any time.

This dream had a theme, and one theme only: desperate lust. I have never experienced such single-mindedness in real life. I wanted this man with a fervor that drove out every other ambition, including eating, sleeping, self-respect, and any care for tomorrow. I hadn’t a thought for his marriage or his kids; morality seemed irrelevant in the face of such all-consuming desire. The feeling was akin to starvation...does a starving man weigh the moral consequences of stealing a loaf of bread? In a way I felt entitled to this man’s body by token of my very craving for it, as if that superceded any other law of nature or society.

In his presence I could do nothing other than pursue with him the opportunity for sex. Were the situation different and he a single man, I surely would have given myself to him on the floor of the first room in which we were together. Alas, we were hindered by a need for discretion, and so my dream became an endless, fruitless search for privacy--in the house, on the grounds, in the buildings of the neighborhood.

And all the while I burned for him. Not for any particular aspect of him, or due to any particular merit, but rather almost as if I must mate or perish and he were the only man on the planet. I yearned, I ached, I nearly panicked at times, but it was not so bad as that sounds. For there was a peace and comfort to the fact that I had only one need, one desire, one hope, and it was all very simple and quite near at hand. I knew I had only to make love with this man and my pleasure would be perfect forever.

Unfortunately, in the dream we never found our trysting spot, and I woke up and it was morning and my dear husband was up and about.

I have often dreamt of fantasy men who were wonderful, beautiful, charming and captivating. Upon waking I was dismayed to feel them slip away, and would spend the day thinking of them. There was nothing about this morning’s dream man to recommend him for such reminiscences. However, I did spend more than a moment contemplating what it was like to feel that kind of desire. Something in human nature covets lust like that. But at the same time, it was more a relief than anything to awaken and know I was not in thrall to a married man for whom I didn’t even feel love.

Reflections on this? Not really. It’s just interesting what the psyche can experience through dreams.

Between a Cock and a Hard Place

The other day I was visiting the website of an erotica author to check out her stuff. She had handily posted an excerpt from her latest book right on her home page.

Before I say anything further, I want to avoid getting into trouble again like I did over my column written for the website Novelspot in May 2005. I learned that the fans of erotica, God bless ‘em, are very protective of their genre. I am not picking on this author, whom I shall not name, nor on her readers, nor anyone else whose opinion differs from mine. I am simply speaking of personal taste. Are we clear on that? Good.

The passage in question was the opening of the book, and about six paragraphs in, the cock and balls appeared. Literally. Now to most people, that is erotica. Cock-and-balls is what it’s all about, and without that, it’s not erotica. I will grant you that’s the prevailing opinion. Ironically, however, not only does this kind of story not turn me on, it turns me off. It makes me cringe and click the back button. That’s just me.

So apparently I’m not an erotica reader, and yet I write books called “erotica with soul” and maintain this blog. Believe me, some days I find that as weird as you do. Nevertheless, I will persist, and for one reason alone: I think sex is wonderful.

How can a person who thinks sex is wonderful cringe at a cock-and-balls story? Well, because sex is a very individualized thing. Do we call a man who is not attracted to women a sex-hater? No, usually we just call him gay. I love sex and things sexual, I love desire and lust and sensuality. At the same time, I personally am not into sex without personality, or sex without seduction...and, alas for me, I am not into the words “cock” and “balls,” among others.

This has put me between a cock and a hard place ever since I started in this business. On the one hand, my publisher, New Age Dimensions, turned down one of my stories once for subject matter. Meanwhile, at the other end of the spectrum, some reviewers have downgraded my work because they don’t think it should call itself erotic. I write for readers who like sex with their romance, and it is graphic sex...but many erotica fans feel my books don’t deliver what they expect.

Well, I could never be comfortable writing prose like the author referred to above. Not out of embarrassment or shame, mind you. I am the sort of person who went topless in my neighborhood at age five, have done it at parties, and would do it in public occasionally if it were legal. No, it’s because I love to write beautiful prose, prose that is sensual and lovely and literary and full of all the richness language has to offer, insofar as I am able with my limited gifts. Again, that’s just my style.

So I am forced by quirk of personality to write about sex in a way that doesn’t read like erotica. My apologies to all who attempt to read me and are offended by this. But my hope continues to be that there are others out there like me, who flee in repulsion from the cock-and-balls stories but nevertheless, really, really do like sex. These are readers who like to warm up to the characters, to be seduced by them, so that by the time the clothes come off it is a supreme relief. These are readers who find a scene sexy because they desperately love these two characters and are dying for them to be intimate.

I personally feel it is difficult to write good cock-and-balls, but not impossible. In 2004 I judged the erotic romance category for the Eppie Awards, and although all four books I read and rated were in that style, one was really well done and I ranked it very high (and it won the category eventually). Two of the others were publishable but not great. The fourth book was so poorly written I was appalled that it was in print, but not because of a preponderance of cocks or balls--it was just bad.

And because of the insatiability of the erotica market today, publishers putting out that genre do get lazy sometimes. And few readers or reviewers are willing to express criticism towards erotica lest they be labeled prudish, judgmental erotica-haters (much as in today’s culture if you criticize a person in a minority group, you risk being called racist). Why, I myself have been called a prudish, judgmental erotica-hater.

To which I can only reply, “But how can that be when I really, really love sex?”

So anyway, there are days when I despair of this endeavor I have undertaken to write “erotica with soul.” I think, “why do I kid myself that I’m writing erotic romance?” I read a piece of cock-and-balls and say to myself, “Now THIS is what people expect from YOU, dear.”

But then I’ll get a fan letter from a reader thanking me for my stories, or a glowing review about my “fresh style,” or find out my last quarter’s sales, or simply finish writing a piece I find thoroughly arousing, and I set my worries aside. Regardless of what it is, people are reading it and liking it. And even if they weren’t, I’d write it anyway.

Just because I think sex is wonderful.