Male Attractiveness in the 21st Century

David and I just watched Mel Gibson’s amazing film “Apocalypto,” which takes a peek at the lives of Mayans in the Yucatan in the 16th Century. As amazing as this civilization was (and you’d think we’d learn more in school about the peoples of our own continent), it was still pre-industrial, and therefore primitive by today’s standards.

It made me think about the differences between the past hundred years and all of human history in the time that preceded it. Among those differences, of course, is the relationship between males and females of the species. Interestingly, things haven’t changed all that much for men in all these millennia; in “Flintstones” days they chose their mates based on physical attraction, and that’s just as true in 2007. I’m not saying today’s men are Neanderthals; I’m just saying they are turned on by pretty women and always have been. When it comes to marriage, they will seek other traits as well, but when it comes to mating (and sex is mating), looks are generally enough.

Women, on the other hand, are in a whole new boat. Just as genetically men are hard-wired to seek beautiful mates, women are hard-wired to pursue men who are competitively successful, skillful, and good providers. In days of yore, that meant men who were strong, smart, and/or talented...men who could protect you from enemies, hunt well, and perform the skills to keep a comfortable home.

But over the past century, industrialized society has meant big changes. Women don’t need men to provide safety, food, or shelter. Competition, which at one time literally determined who lived or died, and who won the quality females, has now been relegated to the arena of play. Successful athletes still attract women, but the majority of men don’t compete for mates in this manner. Their natural competitive urges are typically channeled into things like fantasy football, PlayStation, and flaming each other on Internet bulletin boards.

These things don’t really turn women on. And because they still yearn for the strong, smart, and talented, they will often find it in celebrities: movie actors, TV stars, singers and dancers, athletes. I’m starting to understand why nowadays we have so many reality shows like “Survivorman,” “Top Chef,” and “Design Star” and women love them. It’s just great to see men demonstrating any kind of prowess. The problem in this is that it can be very frustrating; not only are these men unattainable, in real life they aren’t necessarily particularly good catches.

We’ve come a long way, baby, and I’m not complaining about either the “emancipation” of women or the technological advances of society. But let’s face it: women have had to adjust their male-seeking radar. Even since the late 60s when I went through puberty, the accepted idea of the ideal man has changed dramatically.

I grew up learning to lust after the swashbuckling space lothario Captain James T. Kirk. He was later replaced by the charming, dignified Jean-Luc Picard, who nevertheless at least was a strong, handsome figure (weren’t we all turned on when he said “Engage!”?) DS9’s Captain Sisko was a step forward in terms of empowering blacks, but he was at times so conflicted as to be almost an anti-hero. And then came “Voyager” and the inevitable female captain.

Well, political correctness dictates that we all should have been happy, and I guess we liked Captain Janeway well enough, but it left us women with no commanding male figure, and the male viewers all complained that she wasn’t young and pretty enough. Naturally. Well, as you might expect, they got the incredibly hot Seven-of-Nine to make up for it. Meanwhile out of the male cast, I found the most engaging character was the balding, gentle, slightly goofy holographic Doctor. Interesting, nice, but not sexy.

Forgive me, non-Trekkies, for that illustration, but it perfectly demonstrates the sort of thing that has been going on over the past 40 years. Men have, in a sense, been castrated, and meanwhile women’s basic natural tendencies have been lost in the shuffle. It’s true that our more enlightened culture has made great improvements in many ways (and didn’t I just blog about how dreadful the 60s attitudes were towards women?!?). But if women are finding it hard to be motivated to choose mates, or to be aroused by men outside the entertainment field, or to be satisfied in their sex lives, I really have to think this is a factor.

The hero of “Apocalypto” knew how to hunt, and how to make weapons from plants and rocks. He could build deadly traps and out-think/out-maneuver his enemies. He could run and climb and leap with a couple bad arrow wounds. He could rescue his loved ones. This kind of man will impress today’s woman with all her sophistication, despite the fact that he can’t speak English, pay for an expensive car, or win the football pool.

So, do I have a conclusion here? A recommendation, an eye-opening revelation? Not really. But ladies, if some night you are lying in bed and can’t think of a single male to fantasize about, this just might be part of the reason.

At least they’re still making James Bond movies.

Real Life Renaissance Men

My regular readers know I do tend to focus on fictional heroes. I’ve blogged endlessly about fantasy men like Admiral Adama, Jack Sparrow, and Rhett Butler. Even when I turn my attention to real men, it is usually some celebrity who by that token is somewhat larger than life. I mean, if you’re talking about someone who got his own show, it’s not so surprising that he be able to survive in the wild, write beautifully about the wilderness, film his own escapades, and compose and play the soundtrack. Okay, I’m still impressed, Les. But you get my point: it’s easy to find men to admire and lust after in the fantasy world of books, film and TV.

But can’t a girl find one of these guys in “real life”? Aren’t there any “Renaissance men”--guys who can excel with right brain and left--in our homes, shopping malls and offices? I don’t need to sleep with these guys (happily married, remember!), but it does the soul good to find them anyway.

As a matter of fact, I do know a real life Renaissance man. He’s a great friend of mine and my husband’s, also happily married, and if there were more people like this guy in the world, I think we’d all be happier. John (yeah, that’s his real name) has managed to excel in such a variety of ways, it truly boggles the mind.

John studied music in college and to this day plays wonderful classical guitar. He can do rock too (always a plus in my book). I could listen to him play all day; if only I could keep him in my closet to pull out whenever I’m in the mood for live music. But on the other side of the brain, John is a total computer whiz. He can build ’em, network ’em, troubleshoot ’em. Hardware, software, he’s your man. This is an even better reason to store him in a handy closet, hey?

John’s a voracious reader--for example, I believe he read all the Tolkien books before puberty. He’s quite a good pop culture guy as well--TV and movies and music. Meanwhile he can also talk sports--even hockey--intelligently. He can put together a grill and choose nice décor pieces. And dare I mention it...he’s also a fabulous cook.

If you’re starting to think I’m making this guy up, read on.

So, clearly John’s brain is pretty impressive, but wait, there’s more. He’s also damn amazing in the brawn department. He’s run marathons and recently moved on to triathlons, seeing as he’s also a good swimmer as well as cyclist. Yeah, the cycling: he does 100-mile rides on a regular basis. Meanwhile, he’s studying yoga and planning a trip to India for intense training. And he also took up mountain climbing and negotiated Mount Rainier the same week a couple climbers were lost up there.

Yep, he can do the outdoor thang, not quite as well as Les Stroud, but with similar enthusiasm. He loves to hike, camp, backpack, and takes excellent photos of his adventures as well.

It might have been easier thinking of things John can’t do. Okay, not much in the way of arts and crafts, and I haven’t seen him shoot pool.

The cherry on top is that John is a really thoughtful, generous friend. The whipped cream is that he’s also really cute.

Sigh.

You have to be wondering what kind of woman snags a husband like this. Well, John’s wife is also thoughtful, generous and cute. She has a doctorate, also cycles and is the true yoga expert in the family, and has extensive training in martial arts. She’s just as smart as John (have to be to be a scientist) and keeps up with him in all his adventures, which is certainly more than I could ever do.

Am I jealous? Not unless I become a widow, LOL. My own David, although he doesn’t have quite John’s repertoire, is an accomplished runner, can build a computer too, and has many irreplaceable qualities like his ability to do ventriloquism with our cats. He has nothing to worry about, there is only one David.

I’m just thrilled to be friends with a guy like John, a real, true, living Renaissance man. (And by the way, he looks great in Renaissance clothes, too.)

Know any real life Renaissance men? If so, do post and tell!

When Geeks and Jocks Collide

As you know, I’m a fan of the Discovery Channel show “Mythbusters,” where special effects gurus Adam Savage and Jamie Hyneman use science to confirm or bust interesting concepts about the world in which we live. I’m especially enamored of Grant Imahara, mechanical engineer extraordinaire, who with Tory Belleci and Kari Byron comprise the Mythbusters Build Team. Grant personifies all the qualities I’ve loved about science geeks since I was barely nubile: he’s ingenious, creative, quirky, funny...and cute, too.

Okay, so in the latest episode that we watched, the Mythbusters tackled (sorry, wrong sport) baseball myths. They recruited famed pitcher Roger Clemens to assist. In the course of the show, all my fave engineering geniuses put on baseball jerseys and stepped up to the plate in the cause of science.

Let me tell you, 4 geeks + 1 jock = serious conflict in Diana’s brain.

So, Adam can construct an air cannon, but he cannot swing a bat. And when he, Jamie, Grant and Tory took lessons in sliding into second base, it was easy to see they were not the first guys picked for the team except at the Science Olympics. The highlight of this episode was when Grant exclaimed, “But I can build a robot that can slide!” That, my friends, is it in a nutshell. These are guys who have spent a lifetime substituting brain for brawn.

Well, I get turned on by science geeks, and have ever since this guy in my high school physics class diagrammed for me his concept of the self-harvesting potato. But I also get turned on by baseball players. Imagine my quandary watching this show. Grant indeed gets sexiness points for having designed and built a killer batting machine that hits harder than Roger Clemens ever could (or Barry Bonds, for that matter). But Grant loses major sexiness points for sliding in such a ridiculous fashion. I am trying to forget I ever saw this slide.

Adam, who is pretty goofy-looking, gains major sexiness points for being really smart and funny...so many sexiness points that he doesn’t even look goofy to me anymore. But his batting swing pretty much erases the smart points AND the funny points. Blorg, it’s ugly. My company softball team has prettier swings--even the women.

Now, I keep telling myself Roger Clemens would look as goofy as Mr. Bean if presented with welding equipment, a galvanometer, some ballistics gel, or even drafting paper and a sharpie, all of which the Mythbusters gang can wield with mastery. Take away his glove and ball, stick him in a lab, and watch him drive the girls away screaming as he fumbles with the electronics and some black powder and sets himself on fire. I can picture Adam laughing maniacally and shouting, “Your split-finger fastball can’t help you now, Rocket! Bwahaha!”

But still, I shudder when remembering my science heroes trying to catch Roger’s pitches. Not good, boys, not good.

And all these years I’ve thought myself to be a sound supporter of Anthony Michael Halls of the world. I love stories where the pretty girl rebuffs the quarterback and rides off into the sunset with the president of the Science Club. It all works well until Anthony Michael Hall steps out of the lab and tries to throw a football or make a free throw. It’s just so hard to feel attracted to a guy when you’re cringing. (Les Stroud, until you tell me you have a mean slapshot, I refuse to watch you on skates...hiking boots only, buddy.)

So, all this is a good lesson in how sexiness works. If a guy is good at something, he can totally compensate for his shortcomings. However, it’s important not to lose all the ground you’ve gained by demonstrating how truly bad you are at something else. Unless, of course, sexiness is not what you’re going for.

And of course, Grant & Co. are more interested in busting myths than looking sexy. Which, come to think of it, is kinda sexy....

Okay, now my brain IS going to explode.

Thoughts on “the Junk”

I’ve been keeping this blog for awhile now, and really haven’t given a lot of attention to male genitalia. That’s probably because the subject is a lot less important to us women than it is to men. As was mentioned in my household during a recent screening of the film “300,” referring to the loincloth-sporting Spartans, “That’s okay, we don’t need to see their junk.” Chests, obviously, are another matter. (Good lord, have you ever seen so many pectorals in one place as at this re-imagined Battle of Thermopylae? It was like a fire sale at the Harlequin factory.) Even posteriors (or if you’re me, especially posteriors) are always a welcome treat as well. But the junk is usually better left to the imagination.

Why? Because what the organ represents is a lot prettier than the organ itself. Face it, a penis is a funny looking critter. Not bad, but not gorgeous either. But what it stands for (no pun intended) is a whole nother matter. It stands for a whole passel full of wonderfully erotic things: power, virility, dominance, strength, superiority, aggression, lust, force of will, and the list goes on and on like the resume of a romantic hero. That’s why you find women not so interested in pulling down men’s pants (except for a rear view, especially if you’re me) as they are in seeing men’s jeans bulge. It’s the suggestion that gives rise (what’s with these word choices?) to exciting fantasies about male sexuality.

And the suggestion can pack a wallop.

Case in point: After the aforementioned viewing of “300,” my family took in the wildly anticipated premiere of Season 2 of “Survivorman,” in which Les Stroud (my hero! swoon) takes on the hellishly inhospitable Kalahari Desert. In this episode, Les shares a number of survival tips that will help you immensely the next time you are lost in an arid clime. Among them is the handy “urine still,” a technique for turning your own pee into potable water.

Having crafted his still in the sand with a piece of heavy plastic wrap, Les, as he so eloquently puts it, “does the deed.” Of course this is the Discovery Channel, and this is All-Canadian Boy Les Stroud, who doesn’t even say bleepable words when slicing his finger to the bone while lost in the jungle. So no, you see no stream of fluid and you certainly don’t see any junk.

However, the man does turn from the camera and unzip and without a doubt extricates himself from his sandy khakis.

Is anyone besides me losing it over this mental picture? Judging by the things people search on to find my blog posts about Survivorman, I’m guessing yes.

All right, enough of the goofy schoolgirl crush stuff, I’m trying to make a point here. The female viewer with an affinity for Survivorman doesn’t need to see length and girth to get all giddy over this scene. The exciting part is the gesture. It’s our hero doing something essentially masculine, acknowledging he has that wondrous equipment. And even though peeing is not an erotic act (at least not in my world!!), there are other situations in which men unzip that definitely fall into that category.

So I admit, after this eclectic double-bill of home theater viewing, I did not spend the next day daydreaming about the rippling abs of the 300 Spartans. Not even those of David Wenham, whom I fell in love with as Faramir in the Lord of the Rings movies. Nor those of Rodrigo Santoro, possibly the handsomest man on the planet, who was substantially less attractive in his Xerxes piercings than he was in glasses as Karl in “Love Actually.”

No, my dreams were haunted by the sound of pants unzipping in the Kalahari.

Men, take note of the subtleties of the female mind. You can be as ripped as the computer-enhanced army of Leonidas, only to lose out to a guy from Ontario, simply because the latter knows how to make drinking water from pee. Obviously if you want to lure us, having “the junk” is key, but we don’t care a whiz...I mean whit...about the specifics of said junk.

Pig on a Pedestal

I really appreciate the recent TV/radio campaign for the show “Dirty Jobs.” I’ve blogged before about Mike Rowe and this excellent Discovery Channel show about the people who do disgusting tasks for a living. In the commercial, Mike explains that he has literally put a pig on a pedestal, to make an important point about our worship of celebrities.

Just as that pig spends his life in the mud just so we can have pork, the people “Dirty Jobs” features are folks who put up with a lot so that jobs that are essential to society get done. They clean up water treatment plants and sort recyclables out of the garbage and pick up road kill. Watching Mike try out these jobs is truly cringe-worthy TV. It makes you appreciate how horrific some jobs really are.

And as the commercial is trying to point out, Mike’s show gives the pig--metaphorically--a well-deserved moment in the sun. Our society’s cult of celebrities is always giving its attention to people who do relatively amusing, comfortable jobs like act and sing and play sports. While we deify a bunch of people who already enjoy wealth and glamour, we blow their admirable qualities way out of proportion. The nice thing about “Dirty Jobs” is it shows some admiration for people who truly deserve it.

So what is my point here, erotica-with-soul-wise? Simply that I concur with Mike’s observations: there are plenty of oft-overlooked but worthy human qualities we should idolize and love and even get turned on by. Fittingly, Mike himself has become quite the heartthrob among women who appreciate his courage and willingness to rub grimy elbows with tanners, roughnecks, and llama shearers. Does a guy look hotter in a tux on the red carpet, or smeared with poo in a treatment plant? Have you seen Mike Rowe smeared with poo? It’s pretty enticing (at least when you can’t smell him). He’s a real man, you see. Any dork can put on a tux, but it takes a guy with guts to, well, deal with things like rotting guts.

You know I can’t leave this topic without mentioning my own personal hero, Les Stroud (and Season 2 of “Survivorman” has just begun!). Covered in swamp mud, or dripping with sweat, in clothes he’s worn for seven straight days, there is not a damn thing wrong with what this guy looks like. That’s because what he looks like is a man willing to sleep with scorpions and eat grasshoppers, and to hike through jungle, across glaciers, and over blazing desert, all the while braving hunger, thirst, exposure and constant danger.

I really love that television is starting to celebrate more and more the people who have determination, smarts, stamina, and courage. It’s not just the dirty guys that turn me on; I also love people like David Bromstad, the interior designer, and Tom Collichio, the chef, and all the guys competing on “So You Think You Can Dance,” and Grant Imahara, the “Mythbusters” engineering genius. They are all people with special skills, and they all work very, very hard.

Even harder than the pig on Mike Rowe’s pedestal. So let’s salute them, and let them inspire our fantasies and our daily lives as well!

AMC’s “Mad Men” and Gender Bias

AMC’s new series, “Mad Men,” concerns a Madison Avenue advertising agency in 1960. That year my own father was early in his career as a copywriter for a humbler but equally cutthroat agency in Milwaukee. I grew up overhearing my parents’ conversations about Life in the Old Ad Game, at least from a man’s point of view.

I’m sure my dad never pulled any of the sexual harassment that is daily fare at the agency on the show, and meanwhile my mom had a part-time but still respectable career as a medical technologist and was no mousy little housewife. As enlightened as my family was, I still grew up in a world with those 50’s-style sensibilities: the man was head of the house, the woman served him dinner whatever time he got home from the office and did all the other housework too. My Ken doll had a doctor outfit and my Barbie played nurse. Although I did work hard to become the first female president in history of Mr. Havlinek’s sixth grade class, I still felt my ultimate goal in life was to be a wife and mother.

But in the interim, four decades have gone by, and things have changed more than you know. It’s amazing to look back on all the stages of society’s transformation, particularly in terms of the workplace.

Eighteen years after 1960, I was out of college and starting my career. I got a job as a legal secretary to one of the most successful trial lawyers in Indiana. He was a mover-and-shaker and richer than God; I was pretty much nothing. When I asked to be moved out of the office I shared with a chain-smoking fellow secretary, my request was denied--even though I was pregnant! And I didn’t dare turn down my boss’s request that I administer eardrops to him. I shudder at the thought to this day...he had really hairy ears. While I was living on food pantry donations (putting my husband through seminary), my boss left stacks of gold Krugerrands on his desk and thought nothing of it. Still, things were better than in 1960; at least no lawyers hit on me as do the ad men in “Mad Men.”

A decade later, in 1990, I was still working as a legal secretary; it’s remarkable how slowly the advancement of women’s issues occurred in that world. The gulf in importance between inner and outer offices remained as broad as the River Styx. We secretaries were treated as little more than office equipment...we still had to call our bosses “Mr.” Though we slaved on closing big investment deals as hard as they did, when the deal was complete, they went out to drink champagne on the company dime and we took the bus home.

I decided I couldn’t take the world of law firms anymore and found a job in finance instead. Sadly, lot of the same problems happened there. Not a one of the vice presidents was female. All the men had offices with windows and doors and the women worked in an area quite like the steno pools of old. But at least we were all on a first name basis, and slowly I worked my way up till I was in charge of both marketing and the office’s computer network. Unfortunately, finance is another of the last bastions of gender bias. I just got tired of working my butt off to help a bunch of white guys get richer.

My current job is at a small, family-owned company in the suburbs that is made up of a lot more down-to-earth, blue collar types. I finally found a place where I could thrive and where my employer would reward me fairly with opportunity, pay, and perks. I have a big office with a window. Everyone respects me. And in 2007, you can’t get a guy to sexually harass you even if you offer to pay him! Only one little detail spoils the idyllic picture of gender equality: our company has only one female manager (it’s not me) and I haven’t been promoted after nine years. But hey, at least they make up for it in other ways.

So that’s my experience over the past four decades, and it’s had quite an impact on how I write romance and erotica.

I cut my teeth on Rodgers and Hammerstein musicals and will never shake the idea that “boy meets girl / boy loses girl / boy gets girl back again” is at the heart of all great stories. Part of me will always be that old fashioned girl who goes all mushy when a guy pulls out my chair for me. I definitely go for all the classic heroes: soldiers, pirates, cowboys, astronauts (just like the Ken doll outfits of my childhood). So my heroes are always pretty traditional guys, and my heroines feel about them in a pretty traditional way.

But at the same time, I’ve made the same journey as all my sisters since the sexual revolution of the late 60s. So my heroes are sensitive, respectful guys, and my heroines are spunky, daring, and capable.

Are these two aspects of me at odds? Sometimes. But one thing is sure, and watching “Mad Men” has really brought the point home to me: I’m mighty glad we’re no longer living in 1960.

What Happened to Erotica with Soul?

Here’s an interesting development: last night I went through my website and took down the “Erotica with Soul” logo and many of the references.

Have I repudiated my past three years writing erotic romance? Is this blog next on the firing line?

Not to worry; I made my name with my “Soulful Sex” anthologies and their covers will continue to emblazon the header of this blog. I’m still committed to the cause of erotica with soul, and will press on trumpeting the wholesome and healthy exploration of the erotic in life.

So why the changes? Well, I’m anticipating the release of my new novel, Bloodchained, in September, and it’s not erotic romance. There’s some intense sex in it, don’t get me wrong, but not enough that I would want anyone to have the wrong expectation. And if the book is well received, I’ll write a sequel, meaning my next book won’t be erotic romance either. It was time to make an adjustment to my “brand,” so that in future no one is confused.

I must admit to other advantages of these tweaks to the website. The other day I was talking to one of my day-job-coworkers about my polymer clay gallery. His young daughter also works with clay and he wanted to show her pictures of some of my animal sculptures and such. I brought up the gallery on my site, completely forgetting (and not even noticing) the portion that mentions I write erotic romance. And the cover of Soulful Sex Volume I. My friend said he’d have to simply download the pages to show her.

I often completely forget that I’m NC-17 rated! As I’ve said before, I’m the most wholesome goody two-shoes in the erotic romance community. But at first blush (pardon the pun), site visitors will not guess that, even though there’s nothing scandalous on the site except for a few well-marked excerpts and some classic and tasteful nude paintings on the book covers. But seeing as now I get as many site visitors googling “polymer clay” as “erotic romance,” it was time for a change. I need to include the polymer clay crowd, the non-erotic-romance crowd, and their ilk under the umbrella of Diana Laurence fans, readers and friends.

I’m thinking this development was inevitable. As much as I love to read and write about sex, I’ve never been a real good fit with traditional erotic romance. So hopefully this will help me be more comfortable about how I present myself. Still, I’m always going to be this freaky hybrid: Erotic romance author, heavy metal fan, lover of Rodgers & Hammerstein musicals, science fiction geek, survivalist wannabe, former Lutheran pastor’s wife, devotee of Carl Jung.

When you consider all that baffling complexity, it’s probably best I stick with no more specific label than this: Diana Laurence.

Me and Diana Laurence

"Diana Laurence" is my pen name. After three and a half years it still isn't my real name, but it's more than an alias. I could honestly say that Diana Laurence is one of my personae, a character with whom I share many personality traits...almost, but not quite, me.

For one thing, Diana is nicer than I am. A few people out there may scoff at that statement-- those who remember that semi-famous diatribe under her byline back in May 2004 about the state of erotica--but it's true. That's because Diana only deals with readers, fans, romance lovers, staffs of fiction-loving websites, and reviewers (who over the years have universally been kind). These people have been so encouraging and supportive, it's impossible not to be nice in their presence. They have truly brought out the best in my nature by being such generous, enthusiastic, kind people themselves.

Diana is also more humble than me. For while I have in my nearly 51 years become pretty good at being a wife, a mother, and a marketing babe (my day job which provides the bigger bucks and benefits), I still feel I have a lot of improving to do in the field of writing. In fact, that's what's great about being a writer: you can keep getting better and better at it right up to senility! You won't peak in your thirties like athletes. When you lose your good looks no one will know or care. Younger people won't arise who can do your job as good or better. No, you have nowhere to go but up, and if you give it your all, you see that improvement with each new book. You are never as good as you could be, and that keeps you humble. So does every great book you read along the way: those talented authors never fail to challenge and inspire.

Meanwhile, Diana is also the repository of all the lovely, romantic, erotic things I encounter in life. She's the guardian of that stuff, the priestess who maintains the temple. I'm a lot more cynical myself, since I'm the one who goes out in the real world every day to deal with things like the next presidential election, the cable company, and the screw-ups at the pharmacy. I do that so Diana can focus on ideals and higher concepts, on humanity's better nature, on love and the soul. I run the publishing company, she writes the books. That kind of illustrates the division of labor.

Is it hard to manage these alter egos? Only when I make public appearances, which is rare. While it's perfectly natural for me to speak in Diana's voice when I write emails to readers, post blog entries, and write my monthly columns, I feel really weird putting on a name tag that says "Diana Laurence." I want to tell the people who talk to me, "Hey, I know Diana, but I really can't claim to be her--I'd be an imposter." But as long as I'm communicating with others by writing, well then, that IS Diana Laurence they're talking to!

Weird, isn't it?

And so who exactly is speaking to you right now? Well, I can't think about that question too hard or my brain hemispheres may collide or something. Just call me Di and either way I'll answer to that!

Crab Boat Captains and Other Rare Heroes

Back in 2004 I had an essay published by The Romance Studio entitled “The Romance Hero vs. the 21st Century.” I wrote about the dearth of old fashioned alpha-male type heroes in real life. Here’s an excerpt:

It may be 2004, but we are still women, are we not? And regardless of what we think we want from the males in our lives, regardless of what society tells us to want, on some deep level we want males who exhibit the traits we look for in our romance heroes. Women have psychological and spiritual needs that transcend society and culture, which only the masculine can fulfill.

Today’s women have been well taught to want men who are sensitive, nurturant, and cooperative. There are practical reasons for this: in society today men and women share in each other’s traditional roles both at home and in the workplace. These demands have caused us more and more to consider males and females to be peers in every respect. We gain in mutual self-respect and other positives, but we lose in that neither gender is permitted to bring its strongest traits to the table, or allowed to appreciate those traits.

And consequently, both sides feel something is missing. Men will compensate by watching “The Man Show,” playing violent computer games, and hanging out with the guys, so that they might unfetter some of the inborn traits our culture forces them to stifle. Women will fantasize about Mafia hitmen, go to vampire movies, and read romances that feature the very sort of men we don’t tolerate in real life.

At the time I wondered if eventually there might be some sort of backlash in popular culture, and I’m starting to think it’s already underway. At the leading edge of the phenomenon are the new reality shows that showcase “real men,” including (of course) “Survivorman,” “Deadliest Catch,” and “Dirty Jobs.” More recently added to the mix have been “Man vs. Wild” and “Ice Road Truckers.” All of these shows have a common theme of showing a lot of guys employing their courage, physical strength, and daring in surviving danger and—how very masculine—making money.

TV has finally discovered a genre that can be enjoyed equally by males and females, for entirely different reasons of course. My husband is a huge fan of those first three shows, because he gets off on watching men be men, strong and uncompromising and for once unapologetic about being male. I get off on the shows because the guys flaunt their testosterone. They aren’t all hot, but even the unattractive ones have my respect.

And it’s just so dang refreshing.

Our world has truly gone crazy lately. How about that case of a grade schooler being made to remove a toy soldier from a mortarboard he made because of the school’s no-tolerance weapon policy? Or that judge suing for millions because a dry cleaners misplaced his pants? Be a man, dude, buy yourself some new pants. Soon playgrounds will require kids to wear helmets when playing hopscotch, I swear. Society is hell-bent on forcing or rewarding wussy, wimpish behavior at every turn, and making it a criminal offense to have balls.

But we’re fighting back! Men and women alike are saying, “I will pay $25 for a Cornelia Marie tee shirt so I can pretend (I am)(I am with) Captain Phil on his crab boat!” Chicks are mailing their underwear to Deckhand Edgar! Romance writers are penning tribute stories to Les Stroud featuring intergalactic survival guys! (Oh hey, that’s me!)

I’m backing this trend in every way I can. I’m even watching “Ice Road Truckers.”

Miracle Music

This topic is not strictly regarding the erotic, but whenever I encounter real life magic, I think it’s worth reporting.

I posted recently about Les Stroud’s new CD “Long Walk Home” which he sent to me as a gift. The title song on the CD, composed by Les and members of the Northern Pikes, happens to be (for me) one of those songs you encounter once a decade. The kind that you want to replay as soon as the last note sounds. The kind that uses your mind as modeling clay. The kind that tweaks and piques your soul.

I’m not saying anyone who listens to this song will experience what I do (life’s not like that), only that it’s the music and not me that’s working the magic. I always love Les’s voice. I’m a big fan of the Pikes--“Dream Away” is nearly in this same category, but not quite. But it’s this particular song that transcends. It’s the combination of all the elements in it: the shushing percussion, the haunting electronics, the heart-tugging chord progressions, Les’s plaintive voice (his “come with me now” is irresistible), the classic-Pikes-sound bridge, the relief of the lilting bluegrass at the end that ultimately yields again to the melancholy of the song.

You can combine such elements and be assured the resulting song will be a great one. But “Long Walk Home” goes beyond being simply good to listen to. It has an effect beyond auditory for me. Every time I listen to it, it seems to probe at my brain like water stirs up sand, dislodging feelings and memories I’d lost for years. One minute I’m remembering how it felt to be wandering the vacant lots near my childhood home, picking wildflowers. The next it’s the memory of looking forward to seeing some guy I’m crushing on at a high school football game. I’m transported to other times and places, in my own life and sometimes even scenes I’ve never actually lived.

Far away, beyond the crest of hill or around a street corner, Les and the Pikes are playing this song, leading me on like the Pied Piper through the village of my own soul. It’s amazing.

That’s the miracle of music. Now, I love to write more than anything in the world, but I’m not sure writing prose or even poetry can achieve what music can. I’ve drawn and painted and worked in clay, and although I’m sometimes thrilled to be able to create beauty that didn’t exist before, the visual arts can’t quite do it either. But music can be magic, and is, remarkably often. I can’t imagine what it would be like to be able to do what musicians can do.

I am familiar enough with the creative process to suspect that such miracles are not deliberate. It’s probably not as if Les decided one particular day, “Okay, enough of this regular stuff...today I’m going to write the mind-blowing song.” I’m guessing he and the band put all they had into this one and hoped it would be special, but probably even they didn’t know what this piece of music would be capable of once it was done.

I wonder if Les and the Pikes listened to this track after it was mixed and looked at each other and said, “wow.” Did they not even guess what the song was able to do? Or did they know instantly that it had that power?

Guys, please Google yourselves and find this post and email me. I’d sure love to know what it’s like to be able to work real magic.

Clothes, Self-Esteem and Sex Appeal

My husband and I are big fans of the show “What Not to Wear,” in which fashion experts Clinton and Stacey help poorly-attired women (and sometimes men) revise their wardrobes. The ulterior motive of the pair is always to demonstrate to these women that each is beautiful in her own right, and by making the most of those assets, can come to believe in herself. It’s really quite heartwarming at times.

Now I’m not the worst-dressed person I know, but I’m no fashion plate either. I probably dress as nicely as anyone at my office, but meanwhile, I have my daughters to compare myself to. In particular my younger daughter, Amanda, is quite the stylish dresser. Yes, I have the chronic problem of so many mothers of young women: my daughters are eye-catching. :-)

Well, Friday night David and I watched WNTW, and I suddenly began to get the itch to clothes shop. I haven’t spent much on clothes in a long time and I had coupons and a gift card to use at the mall. Yesterday off I went, and returned with two pairs of capris, three skirts, a dress and camisole, and four tops. (And spent only $100 out of pocket, too!)

A number of these pieces feature the empire waistline. It’s funny how through the years I’ve had many favorite clothes that were high-waisted. I had a green print mini dress with bell sleeves in the 60’s (can’t you picture it? could have used go-go boots to go with), and in the 70’s I had a pink babydoll top that I must have worn to a dozen basketball games. Well, the empire waistline is back, and I’m happy to see it.

In spite of doing sit-ups all my life—one of my doctors once remarked on my rock hard abs—I have also always had a pot belly. I’m afraid sometimes these things are just genetic. High waisted clothing lets a woman show off her trim and shapely parts (waist up and knees down I’m good), while keeping the rest a secret.

The empire waistline also has always suggested to me romantic and feminine things. It’s the style Juliet wore, for example. And it’s also the style for maternity clothes. When you’re wearing a high-waisted dress, you can cradle that little belly of yours and be reminded that women are not built like men for a reason. You can actually appreciate the “heap of wheat” as it is called in the Bible, instead of loathing it.

I got home from the mall and immediately changed into one of my new outfits, a sleeveless empire waist top and full skirt made of 100% cotton in a fun print—sort of a cross between ethnic and funky, in brown, turquoise, lime, orange and yellow. This put me into the mood to make some jewelry, so I whipped up a batch of mojitos and took my beads out onto the patio for cocktails with David and Amanda. I felt young and fresh and attractive, and better about my body than I had in years. The necklace turned out great. We had a lovely evening, especially after the lights were off.

All because of some clothes.

Now I’m not one to be superficial, but if $100 can give a woman this much of a boost concerning her sex appeal, I say, spend it. And to the inventor of the empire waist and those designers who regularly revive it, I say, thanks to you from us petite, bulgy-bellied women everywhere.

What Makes Our Marriage So Good?

This was the question my husband Davie asked me over beers at the Carleton Grange Pub Saturday afternoon. We chatted about the subject for awhile and came to some very meaningful conclusions. Maybe some of these points will speak to you, too.

1. Basic compatibility. One big aspect of marriage is sharing the same living space. Davie and I happen to have a lot of living habits in common: we are morning people, we are clean and neat, we like having a plan, we are careful with money. We have very similar taste in TV shows and movies, we both like cats and not so much dogs. We both love to talk at bars, and to shop, and to hang out with our daughters. All this just means we get along on a day to day basis without chafing. That’s actually kinda huge.

2. Independence. Opposite side of the coin: We each have separate interests that drive us to spend time apart. I obviously have books to write, and also polyclay art, and cooking, and so on. Davie is a big fantasy reader, PC gamer, poli sci/current events guy and is working on building his first computer. We often spend the entire night in separate pursuits but then get back together and talk about it all, seeing as we find each other’s pursuits perfectly interesting to hear about.

3. Comfort and ease. When Davie and I first dated, he had trouble believing he was in love with me because our relationship didn’t stress him out. His prior love affairs had always been fraught with anxiety—he was always convinced the girl didn’t care for him or would throw him over at any minute. Never had that problem with me. And seeing as he’s the most forthright, honest, faithful guy in the world, I never have a care either.

4. Not too much “in love.” Now, coming from a romance author, this one might give you pause. But truly, there are some problems that come with being head-over-heels obsessed with a mate. First of all, you get addicted to that feeling and if it fails, you may not have another bond to fall back on. Secondly, your obsession may cause you to neglect yourself and your own interests. Thirdly, you may experience the opposite sentiments of those in #3: anxiety, jealousy, fear of abandonment, etc. I’m a very firm believer in being in love with your fantasy men—guys in your imagination—and having a more stable sort of bond with your real life mate.

5. Appreciation. Maybe it’s our past failed relationships, but both Davie and I never take for granted the devotion of the other. We are very aware of all the things we bring into each other’s lives and all the benefits we reap from being together. We think about it and talk about it on a regular basis.

I won’t lie to you that there is quite a gulf of difference between the romances I write about and the one I live. Don’t get me wrong, I truly believe that romance makes the world go round, but I also feel the best way to tap into that joy and excitement is the imagination. Meanwhile, though, there’s no replacement for loving someone and being loved by them.

I’m pretty lucky that way.

Another Gift from Les!

As my regular readers know, I am crazy about Survivorman. Well, not only Les Stroud when he wears his survival-TV-show hat, but just as much when he’s singing. I’ve been counting the days till the release of Les’s new CD recorded with that awesome Canadian band, the Northern Pikes. I listen to his self-titled first CD at least once a month after playing the thing daily for the first couple weeks. If you think this guy is good at building a shelter out of crashed plane scraps, you should hear him play guitar.

Yeah, I really dig the man. So imagine me Friday night when I got home from work and my husband said, “You got a package from Les!” And it was true! There was a package from that Huntsville, Ontario address and inside was the new CD.

Did I ask for this? No. It came to me out of the blue! I mean, think of it: Survivorman himself deciding, “Hey, I’ve got to send a copy of my CD to my writer fan in Wisconsin!” Please understand, he doesn’t know me personally--he just did this to be nice. It all started when I blogged about him and ordered a couple of things from his online store, and he sent me gifts on top of my order. For a blog post! Gosh. So I sent a copy of Soulful Sex: Volumes I & II to him as a return gesture. His assistant Wendy and I have exchanged a few emails too--what a nice person she is! Anyway, over the past year so I have definitely gotten into all things Les Stroud.

So, when I released Soulful Sex: The Paranormal, Science Fiction and Fantasy Collections a couple months ago, I had to send a copy up to Ontario to Les. You see, one of the stories, “Spacewrecked with Joel Fennimore” is basically Survivorman in Space, and Joel is a sort of futuristic Les Stroud. My little tribute to this inspirational guy.

I don’t know if Les actually got a chance to read it and liked it, or if he was just being a sweetheart on general principles when he sent me the new CD. Either way, a person just doesn’t get an unrequested gift from a celebrity every day. I really can’t believe it, actually!

And the CD? Well, it’s awesome! It’s just my luck that my favorite musician in the world does his music as a sideline (although it used to be his primary vocation back in the day). Don’t get me wrong, I adore the show, I get pretty swoony over Les’s wilderness adventures, and his film work is amazing. But it’s the music that sends me most of all. The title track on the CD, “Long Walk Home,” is (at least to me) like something from another plane of reality. It transports me to this weird place where I want to cry but also never want the feeling to stop. With most songs I like, I can tell what it is that makes the song good: nice chord progression, zippy beat, excellent melody, whatever. But with some of Les’s songs (same could be said of “After Neil Young Dies,” “Clouds,” and “All Restless Souls”) I can’t even get my mind around what he’s done to make them work like they do. The magic is transferred from the performance directly to my emotions with no comprehensible link in between.

Regular readers of this blog will recall my lament for a really good crush back in March. I was wishing I could believe in the goodness and heroism of some guy again, if only on a fantasy level, the way I used to be able to in my younger days (like my early 40s, LOL!). I’ve been noticing lately that over a year out from the last new episode of “Survivorman,” even upon listening to his first CD for the thirtieth time, I’m still able to get as excited about Les as ever.

With this gesture, I think he’s put himself over the top. What a swell guy.

Great Guys of INKYTNMO

What’s INKYTNMO? The 1,598-mile road trip I just completed with my family, with that name being derived from the states we visited. We journeyed from Milwaukee to a brief stop in Indianapolis, then on to Louisville, Mammoth Cave, Nashville, Memphis and St. Louis before looping back home. We had the time of our lives for nine glorious days!

Part of the fun of traveling is the people you meet and/or see on the way. This trip had no shortage of interesting sightings. In the Most Amazing Coincidence category: We picked out a fellow on the Belle of Louisville steamboat on Saturday who bore a slight resemblance to a certain star of home makeover shows. Our pal “Ty Pennington” turned up again at our hotel in Nashville and AGAIN at our hotel in Memphis! What are the odds? Meanwhile, a J.D. Fortune lookalike my daughter Manzi fell for at a Beale Street bar showed up at our hotel breakfast along with Ty.

Our St. Louis hotel turned out to be a hotbed of hotties. There was a big extreme sports event in town, and we discovered none other than Tony Hawk hanging out at the hotel bar. The next morning we saw a couple other famous skaters interviewed on local TV, only to see them live at the hotel restaurant for breakfast! Manzi forgot about “J.D.” and even Tony Hawk, once she laid eyes on Jesse Fritsch two tables over in the Union Grill.

But this column is not about men my kids find attractive, it’s about the ones I like! LOL So meet my favorite three guys from the journey....

Glenn Taylor, Louisville--Our first night of the trip we wandered over to Louisville’s Fourth Street Live. It’s a collection of restaurants, shops and clubs joined by an immense canopy-structure that covers the entire street. I can’t begin to describe it, but it’s way cool. There was a special “Beach Bash” on, complete with a pool and sand beach in the middle of the street. Music was provided by a most excellent cover band called “This, That and the Other.” Everyone in the family immediately pegged the lead guitarist, Glenn Taylor, for me. It’s always fun when you spot someone who is exactly your type, especially when he plays guitar. Glenn bore a nice resemblance to a certain other person previously mentioned as my type on this blog, Cody Willard. Add vacation, beer, and a belly full of tasty appetizers and bourbon from Maker’s Mark Lounge and you have the picture of my happiness that night in Louisville.

Ranger Steve, Mammoth Cave--Sunday afternoon was our long-anticipated visit to Mammoth Cave. We were fortunate to be led on our tour by the wonderful Ranger Steve, a fellow who was a younger, more slender version of another heart-throb I’ve mentioned on this blog, composer John Williams. I’m not sure if Ranger Steve is a musician or not, but his charm lay in his fabulous story-telling abilities. As we descended ever downward into the cavernous abyss, he regaled us with tale after tale of 150 years of Mammoth Cave history. What could be more romantic than standing with 120 other people in a cave, by the light of two antique oil lamps, listening to Ranger Steve talk about subterranean discovery and disaster? Sigh.

Danny Umfress, Memphis--But the dream-man capper for me on this fabulous vacation came into our lives Tuesday night. We had discovered ahead of time that a band called Gary Hardy and the Memphis 2 was going to be doing a tribute to Johnny Cash that night at the Blues City Café. After gorging ourselves on barbecue, we headed over to the bar side of the Café, and on the way in we met Danny, who introduced himself and invited us to the show. We settled in with Jack & Cokes, and were treated to the most fantastic live sampling of old Memphis music you can imagine. Not only did Gary Hardy do a fabulous Johnny Cash, he knew everyone in the business and was owner for awhile of the famous Sun Studio. He was quite the storyteller too--funny and fascinating and a great musician. Meanwhile, Danny himself had played with Johnny Cash, and he proved to be a dazzling guitarist, the best I’ve ever seen with my own eyes. He also bore a resemblance to a certain person I have mentioned repeatedly on this blog, my main man, Les Stroud. Danny talked with us several times and seemed a sweet, gentle southern man. And believe me, I’ll never forget the way he looked at me during the opening riff of “Ring of Fire.” Danny, in my mind that will always be our song.

Ah INKYTNMO...how I miss thee! Who knows when I may again find my way down south in Kentucky and Tennessee, but I’ll remember forever Glenn, Steve and especially Danny, my dear southern boys.

The “M” is for “Machiavellian”: The MPAA Rating System

A couple nights ago my husband and I watched the fascinating Kirby Dick documentary “This Film is Not Yet Rated.” Let me just say, the MPAA has established a completely un-American, unconstitutional form of policing the film industry that just blew our minds. Rent the DVD and find out the whole crazy story. (But not from Blockbuster: their MPAA policy means they won’t carry it...yet another reason to sign up for Netflix!)

For the purposes of this post, I’ll just discuss one aspect of the documentary, its revelation of the interesting standards of the MPAA’s raters when it comes to sex. (Insofar as one can determine any standards, for this bunch is as whimsical as it comes.) First of all, it’s amazing the extent of violence a film can get away with and still merit an R rather than an NC-17, compared to the level of sex. Anyone who’s seen “Saw 3” has to wonder why the raters thought that movie was acceptable for teen viewing. On the other hand, the 2003 film “The Cooler” was given an NC-17 for the mere reason that one love scene permitted a glimpse of Maria Bello’s pubic hair (and it was a tender scene between two people in love, not anything purely gratuitous like that infamous Sharon Stone shot). Maria Bello won a Satellite and was nominated for a Golden Globe for her performance, by the way.

The documentary also demonstrates pretty convincingly that the same scene performed by heterosexuals will pass for R, whereas if performed by gays or lesbians it gets an NC-17. I suppose in view of popular public mores, I’m not surprised by that (although I’m not pleased either). But what irked me the most was that in more than one instance, the raters slapped an NC-17 on a film because the women simply had too long of orgasms.

Huh?

Truly, they appear to have a beef with women having too much fun. Mind you, the camera is on the woman’s face here. Nudity or explicitness or penetration are not the issue. The problem is the obviousness of the woman’s pleasure.

Now I just had to wonder what kind of society judges the age-appropriateness of its entertainment on these sorts of standards. Women can be beaten, raped, and murdered by psycho-slashers, and we’ll let our teens see that, but if the ladies enjoy themselves in bed, that’s right out.

This really scares me.

Kirby Dick asked director Kevin Smith (one of my personal heroes) if he were in charge of the firm rating system, what sort of standards he would use. Kevin said he would most harshly judge those films that showed the violent humiliation of women. The documentary showed a quick montage of scenes from R-rated films guilty of this charge, and it was a slice of cinematic horror.

Meanwhile, interestingly, I most of the scenes the MPAA objected to which were shown in the documentary to be examples of thoughtful, artistic cinema. I truly felt for the directors interviewed, as they struggled with the absurdity of the MPAA requirements that nevertheless they were forced to address, lest their films suffer certain box office death. (Under today’s film distribution and marketing systems, NC-17 is indeed the kiss of death.) And monetary considerations aside, these filmmakers simply did not want huge portions of their potential audience led to believe the message and/or content of their films was prurient.

As a writer of fiction with erotic content, I thank my lucky stars I’m free to create, release and promote my work without a watchdog like the MPAA breathing down my neck. And the fact that the members of the ratings and appeals boards are kept secret, not monitored by any body outside themselves, and accountable to no one is downright Machiavellian.

And lastly, how sex got such a bad rap with these people is simply beyond my comprehension.

The Best Non Sexy-Guy Show on TV: Scrubs

Television programming is usually sensitive to providing some male hotness in every show; it’s certainly true of dramas and often of comedies as well. The remarkable thing about my second-favorite sit com, NBC’s “Scrubs,” is that there are a few damn good-looking men on the show, but not a one is exactly sexy.

Both J.D. (Zack Braff) and Turk (Donald Faison) are hot guys in their own right, but they are so adorable and silly you can’t really concoct a credible sex fantasy about either one. J.D. drinks appletini’s, and Turk lets his best friend call him choco-bear and likes it. I’m not saying I wouldn’t happily cuddle with either one (or even both at once, which would probably work for them too, as secure as they are in their manhood). But I can’t get hot and bothered about them, I’m afraid.

The closest I can come to that is Dr. Cox (John McGinley) and that’s just me. I’m madly in love with his sardonic wit and bizarre intonation. But the guy has sported a half dozen different versions of head hair, none of which work really well, and he’s, well, off-putting. The Janitor (Neil Flynn) occasionally sends me as well, but again, he’s determined to be off-putting too, except to Blond Doctor.

The Todd is handsome enough and has a great body, but he’s the Todd! Ugh! He’s his own worst enemy when it comes to sex-appeal, since 24/7 he’s working on having it. Doug down in the morgue is also a real cutie, but he works in the morgue and it seems a good fit for the guy. I like Lloyd the UPS Guy when he plays death speed metal air guitar, and Ted the Lawyer when he sings barbershop, but it stops there.

Dr. Kelso? Shudder. I know way more than I want to about that guy’s sex life.

The show hit the nail on the head a couple episodes ago when Dr. Cox demonstrated to Elliott why she ended up engaged to Keith: take away all the unappealing men at Sacred Heart and you’re left with Keith! Who, unfortunately, isn’t my type.

Ironically, there’s only one Dr. McDreamy here: the OB/GYN that occasionally makes appearances. That guy is off the chart. Unfortunately, it’s a little weird for a woman to fantasize about an OB/GYN. Makes me wonder, are the writers deliberately trying to torture us?

Meanwhile, however, there are gorgeous women all over the place, both regulars and guest stars, and they occasionally manage to be sexy as well as funny. And it’s remarkable how much of this show is about sex; I sometimes wonder if it’s on TV a little too early in the evening! In spite of these erotic elements, “Scrubs” excels in keeping its male characters not sexy.

That said, the fascinating thing is that I would just LOVE to spend time with absolutely any male character on this show. Yes, even Dr. Kelso! They are all fascinating, hilarious, adorable characters. Sign me up for playing hide and seek with J.D., watching movies with Turk, pulling pranks with Janitor, and especially just shooting the shit with Dr. Cox. For all it’s ups and downs, I’d love to work at Sacred Heart and hang out with this crowd.

Which just goes to show you, sex isn’t everything. My other favorite aspect of life is imagination, and “Scrubs” and its characters have that in spades. Not since “Ally McBeal” has their been a show that indulged the imagination of its characters so much. (How I miss those dancing scenes in the unisex bathroom!) Every single guy on this show has wild and crazy fantasies, and that’s a quality I find mighty endearing.

Wait...we haven’t seen any fantasies from the head of the hot OB/GYN. I knew there was something about that guy that needed improvement....

Women I Would Do/Be

My husband (like all men) wonders how many women would be willing to have lesbian sex, even if only once. I personally find it hard to believe that the figure wouldn’t be nearly universal. My daughters and I are all three firmly in the hetero camp (two of us life-long boy crazy goofballs), but we all admit to girl-girl crushes from time to time.

I’m not too shy to fess up to my total availability to certain members of my gender, and you can bet I’d have David’s blessing on it too! To back that up, I’m providing here for you my current Top Ten List of Women I Would Do, in no particular order (or all at once! just kidding):

• Natalie Portman
• Keira Knightly
• Halle Berry
• Heather Locklear
• Evangeline Lilly
• Morena Baccarin (Inara Serra from “Firefly”)
• Elizabeth Mitchell (Juliet Burke from “Lost”)
• Mary McDonnell (Laura Roslin from “Battlestar Galactica”)
• Neve Campbell
• Alyson Hannigan
• Tilda Swinton (The White Witch from “Chronicles of Narnia”)

Now, while coming up with this list, I thought of a number of women who I also find very attractive but for some reason wouldn’t feel quite right putting on the other list. I would just love to be any of these ladies. Here are ten of them for your perusal too:

• Kirsten Dunst
• Meg Ryan
• Sarah Michelle Gellar
• Reese Witherspoon
• Julie Bowen
• Renee Zellweger
• Kate Winslet
• Gwyneth Paltrow
• Emma Thompson
• Kathleen Turner

Go figure. If any of the first ten propositioned me, I would be all over her like white on rice. But if any of the second ten raised the suggestion, I would go, “Eek, uh, no! But could I borrow your face and body for a few days and use then to flirt with men?”

Now isn’t that interesting?

I’ll be danged if I can find any explanation for why a woman falls into one category or the other. First I thought maybe it was a case of if I can identify too much with the woman, I feel weird thinking about sex with her. But I’ve certainly identified with Juliet on “Lost,” and with Willow on “Buffy.” Then I thought it was just the sexiness factor, like maybe the women on the “Be” list were more beautiful rather than sexy. Problem is, nearly all of them have seemed very sexy to me on many occasions (Kathleen Turner, when is she not?). Hair color? Well, the “Do” list is 70% brunette and the “Be” list is 70% blonde. Humph.

Okay, how about the idea that I’m turned on more by the type who is overly seductive? That makes sense since I would certainly be more the submissive one in such a situation. Except half the “Do” List are actresses who nearly always play sweet, innocent types. Or maybe it’s strictly physical appeal? Except Mary McDonnell is mature and hardly supermodel material, and she’s a “Do,” while Julie Bowen is one of the most gorgeous women ever born, and she’s a “Be.”

I guess this just proves some aspects of the erotic in life remain inexplicable even to me, who usually claims to have it all figured out.

Hey ladies, please post your “Do’s” and “Be’s,” I’m so curious to see how other women feel on this issue!

Heroes: The Mind-Blowing Peter Petrelli

Every now and then I just have to post some recognition for a character or celebrity who manages to achieve nearly universal sex appeal. So here’s my latest “Sexy to Practically Every Female” Award: to Peter Petrelli on “Heroes,” portrayed by Milo Ventimiglia.

Even more interesting, Peter didn’t achieve this status until this week’s episode, “Five Years Gone.” Up until now, he was a good-hearted but irresolute hospice nurse, a guy only beginning to realize the extent of his “special gifts” and not at all sure what to make of them. You could like him for being a nice guy, but he was too confused and unsure to live up to his sexy-superhero potential. The closest he came was when he narrowly managed to Save the Cheerleader from the all-powerful and purely-evil Sylar.

Well, in this week’s episode we were rocketed five years into the future, and apparently in the interim, Peter came into his own. He had already begun to realize he was different from the other “Heroes” in that he had every single superpower in the book, but it seems in the intervening years he learned to use all of them. Meanwhile, his guilt over not stopping (and apparently actually committing) the destruction of half of New York City has left him grim and cynical.

Therefore, we get to see an instant and astonishing transformation. Peter, who used to be a sort of naïve, bewildered hero like Peter Parker aka Spiderman, is a whole nother animal now. Now he has all the brooding emotional complexity of Batman, combined with the nearly godlike power of Neo from “The Matrix.” He flips in and out of invisibility with more carelessness than casting off a cape. He blasts people across rooms with the flick of a finger. And coolest of all, he’s the equal of Sylar.

My husband tolerated cheerfully my squeals of awe over Peter, recognizing him as an uberman who impresses people regardless of gender. Across town, my daughters were flipping out exactly as I was; Peter soared to Katie’s-favorite-Heroes-character status, while even more amazingly, he won equal approval from Manzi, who up until now had eyes for no one but Sylar (yeah, it’s interesting).

This whole little escapade provided clear evidence of what we already know: Nothing in a man appeals more to women than his being capable. Peter’s abrupt revelation as utterly, nonchalantly masterful simply takes a female’s breath away, literally. Forget that he’s good-looking (he’s always been that), forget that he’s nice, the thing is…there’s absolutely nothing he can’t do. He doesn’t need charming words or kisses to seduce you; it doesn’t matter what he wears or how he looks (although the scar across his face is pretty cool). You just want to watch him materialize at lightning speed, throw people around effortlessly, and shoot fire from his hands.

What man wouldn’t want to be this guy, and what woman wouldn’t want to date him?

Sidebar: I can’t write about “Heroes” without discussing the fellow who is the true heart of the show, Hiro Nakamura. The childlike, funny, pure-of-heart comics geek is still my true favorite. And meanwhile, his future incarnation deserves honorable mention in the sexiness category, for he too is a radical revision: the serious, angst-ridden samurai version of today’s Hiro, dignified and awe-inspiring in his own right.

Well, next week it’s back to the present for “Heroes” fans, and back to Regular Peter and Hiro. As much as we’re hoping the Heroes can do what’s necessary to save New York, I think we’re all wishing too that we haven’t seen the last of these guys as they were five years into the harrowing future. Their trials and tribulations were our gain, erotically speaking.

Polymer Clay and Erotica with Soul

Polymer clay is my new hobby, and in this entry I’m going to amaze you by actually finding a connection between this craft and my other fascination, erotica with soul. I mean it, just see if I don’t.

What is polymer clay? Here’s the short course: it’s a modeling clay of similar chemical makeup to PVC. It is a dream to work with and cures at low temps in a regular oven. You can make everything with it from jewelry to household items to art pieces. It can be made to look like, well, clay, or semi-precious stones, or fabric, or food, or, well virtually anything. Check out some samples in my humble little project gallery.

Okay, the sex connection? (No, I’m not going to tell you how to make sex toys out of polymer clay, but I do know you could.) Remember my very broad definition of the erotic in life. To me, creativity is inherently erotic, because you exercise your imagination to explore beauty and the life force. Whether you compose music, write fiction, or paint watercolors, your creative endeavor expresses your sexual energy.

When I first discovered polymer clay, I began by reading voraciously, both print books and websites. Again and again I encountered a caveat that this hobby was addictive, that it would end up making me obsessed and changing the way I looked at things. I find this to be completely true. This medium is so easy to work with and so endless in possible uses, it is a veritable short cut for creative expression. So many things I always wished I could do artistically, I suddenly find I can, and this had changed my outlook on the exercise of my own creativity.

Many years ago, I tried my hand at whittling. This skill requires strength as well as dexterity, and wood is not a forgiving medium. But I adore wood--the grain and colors are so beautiful. Wood is one of those things that demonstrates God’s talent in a big way. Well, guess what? With polyclay I can make my own faux wood, and I can carve it too.

All my life I have just been obsessed with rocks. From childhood on I have collected them, from lapidary stores, souvenir shops, beachcombing, etc. Well, I have now made my own Lake Michigan beach-style rocks with polymer clay, and my own faux semi-precious stones too (so far, malachite). This is something I thought only nature could do, given a few thousand years.

Using clay I can invent my own species of bird, contriving my own style of fabulous plumage. I can devise color schemes precisely to suit a particular décor design or clothing outfit (mixing clay colors is a joy in and of itself).

In short, I find I can create nearly anything I can imagine, so consequently, my imagination is now constantly at work trying to come up with expressions of beauty of all kinds. How could I decorate (or replace) my office paperclip dispenser in a more gorgeous or whimsical form? How about our living room coasters? The perfect clock we’ve been searching for in vain for our studio wall? I suddenly feel so empowered to make over my world in a much more beautiful way. And that’s, well, a feeling I’d definitely throw in the “erotica with soul” category.

Pretty stuff that feels good isn’t always Hugh Jackman; sometimes it’s your latest polymer clay project.

Told ya I could do it.

Make My Body Move

It’s hard for me to listen to my new flamenco guitar music without fantasizing about dancing. I’m doing the tango with Edward James Olmos. Or the rhumba with Sawyer. (To his Phil Collins mix tape? Okay, that doesn’t work too well.) I’m resurrecting past fantasies with John O’Hurley. You get the general drift.

In the collage of my thoughts is material from recent viewings of the Discovery Channel’s fantastic “Planet Earth” series. We’ve seen a lot of “mating dances.” Apparently countless creatures on our planet do not mate without the male first proving his sex-worthiness through some exotic show.

So I ask myself, how do these fantasy dances of mine work as “mating shows”? If doing the mambo with Sawyer is a turn-on, and you bet your sweet bippy it is, why is that? Why is any romantic book or movie, from “Dirty Dancing” to “Beauty and the Beast,” enhanced by including some dancing? Why does a guy’s ability to dance so greatly increase his sex appeal?

I fell back on my recollections of real dancing experiences and how they made me feel. One in particular came to mind, so I will focus on that one. I wish I could say the guy in question was my husband, but alas, for all David’s fine qualities, grace is not one of them! It was actually a friend of mine. So I recalled this occasion, and tried to remember what was the reason it felt so good and this fellow seemed so attractive on the dance floor.

Here’s your answer: he led.

That’s the thrill of dancing, to a female. The guy moves you, literally. The key to slow dancing from the female point of view is surrender, letting the man lead. You turn your body and its motion over to him and let him rock you and spin you and propel you, in pleasant accord to the melody and rhythm at hand. Your motions and his coordinate in a lovely way, all because you have let yourself go and given him control over you.

And as I’ve often said before, nothing is so sexual to a woman than surrender.

I hadn’t slow danced with a guy in a long time when I went out on the floor with this friend of mine, with the exception of my beloved husband, who alas cannot lead. (Well, he can, but the consequences are disastrous.) Therefore I was somewhat stunned to feel the sense that I could put myself in the hands of this man and he would control my body in this gently graceful act. It was all particularly potent as there are few social or vocational activities left in which a woman figuratively says to a man, “control me.” But dancing remains one, and even in a chaste slow dance where there is no breast-to-chest contact, if the man leads it is most definitely sexual.

The sexualitometer reading goes up when the music/dance is something particularly dramatic and/or rhythmic, like so many Latin dances are. Throw in some elements that mimic the sex act--maybe dipping, or movements where the private parts are in proximity--and you’re dealing with something a lot more potent than the crazy mating dances those birds of paradise do on the Discovery Channel. (Although I suppose a b.o.p. would beg to differ.) I guess we should have had more respect for John Lithgow’s character in “Footloose”...this dancing stuff really IS dangerous!

A corollary to this dancing phenomenon is the effect a guy can work on a woman by making music. It’s possible of course to listen to music without surrendering your body to it, but if you do, there is a similar thing happening. The musician is controlling your body, you are turning yourself over to him. The movement is one step removed, I’ll grant you: he is touching his instrument, not you. Nevertheless it can have a similar sexual effect. And this is why I get kind of crazy watching videos of my flamenco guitarist Jesse Cook perform. Would that I were those guitar strings.

But in lieu of that, I am content to imagine myself at Kate and Sawyer’s wedding (sorry, you Kate and Jack fans). For the occasion a truce has been declared and the Others invited as well. A few of those extras who rarely talk have worked up a little tropical band (there’s a coconut mandolin, cool!), and they’re playing Santana’s “Smooth.” And wow, can you believe it? The evil but strangely compelling Ben has asked me to dance!

Man, he’s good.

Flamenco Guitar = Audio Sex

Yes, you read that right. And I’ll stand by that statement.

I recently blogged about the sex appeal of music, and quoted from John Mellencamp’s song “Play Guitar”...well, I’d like to amend that post and suggest to you men who really want to attract women: learn how to play flamenco guitar. I find it hard to imagine a guy ugly enough not to seem sexy if he were playing this lovely Latin stuff.

Okay, so here’s the back story: A week ago I was driving home from work, listening to the local jazz station, and had one of those experiences when you hear a song for the first time and all the while its playing, you’re praying the DJ will tell you the name and performer afterwards.

He did. It was “Mario Takes a Walk” by Jesse Cook. And I am officially in love with Jesse Cook.

The guy is a Paris-born Canadian (he’s Canadian! Another plus, if you’re a canuckophile like me) and has been recording for many years. Happily, he has a most excellent website with lots of audio and video clips on it, all of which I listened to last Friday at least ten times apiece until I was convinced I need to get every CD he’s ever done.

Is Jesse Cook good-looking? I’ll be danged if I can tell you. He looks hotter than hell to me, but then, how am I to distinguish the real truth when he’s playing that...that...that music. Ye gods.

The rhythms and melodies that come from Jesse’s fingers just assault a person like someone kissing you and touching you in the most expert manner. Sometimes it might as well be that he’s touching you there. And when the music isn’t all sexual and arousing, it’s tender, or teasing, or pining, or something you’ve felt in the most acute throes of romantic love.

Up until I found Jesse, I had been giving thought to trying to blog about the tango, both the dance and the style of music. To me the tango is pretty much sexier than sex itself. Actually, a number of Latin styles of dancing are, and if you haven’t seen “Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights,” then I recommend you make a beeline for Netflix and put it on your queue. Andrew Blake can eat his heart out, he’s never made a porno movie as hot as those dancing sequences with Diego Luna. Swoon.

But flamenco guitar is like distilled tango to me, the pure and uncut stuff, because there’s nothing to distract you from the music. Nope, it’s not the moves of the dancers, it’s not how hot the guy tangoing looks in those tight pants. It’s just the melody, rhythm, harmony making you feel this way.

I suppose I can’t speak universally on the subject of flamenco guitar. But to my credit, I used to watch the video of Sting’s song “Fragile” at least once a week. (Did I mention Jesse Cook covered that song?) Anyhoo, all I know for sure is Jesse Cook makes it happen for me: He “rhumbafies” a lot of pre-existing tunes and imparts them with sexual fervor. He utilizes a sort of African tribal percussion a lot (another wonderfully sexy technique). And he just seems to imbue every song with so much raw emotion you can hardly bear it. I give him all kinds of credit, but then, some of this must simply be inherent in flamenco guitar. I suspect Jesse might say it’s the nature of the beast, and if you play this stuff properly, women will melt for you. (Jesse, if you google yourself and find this, I hope you’ll comment!)

All this and he probably likes hockey too.

Do I feel I’m cheating on my other beloved Canadian guitar player, Les Stroud, by carrying on so about Jesse Cook? Nah, I think Les would understand: it’s not the man, it’s the music.

And what’s a girl to do anyway? It’s flamenco guitar!

5,363rd Day

This Saturday Davie and I are celebrating our own rather unique romantic holiday. It’s 5,363rd Day, and no, there is not a Hoops and Yoyo ecard available for it.

Saturday is the day I will have lived with David longer than I did with my first husband. I’ll try to explain the romantic significance of the occasion, and I imagine anyone who flubbed up on their first relationship but succeeded in their second may understand.

My first husband was gay, and a Lutheran pastor, and while I’ll spare you the details, you can imagine there were problems. (For more details you can always read my book Living Beyond Reality.) Needless to say, I came out of that two decade relationship a little bit messed up, especially since the last ten years of our marriage, I was actually aware of the infidelity. But we finally split. I met David and a couple of years later, remarried.

My first marriage seemed like a lifetime, and I wondered how long it would take till I felt David had more of an impact on my life and my children’s than my first husband had. Then I happened to find out about my great-aunt Isabel’s first marriage. All my life my Aunt Isabel and Uncle Louie had been like grandparents to me. I knew Louie was Isabel’s second husband, but then I learned that her previous marriage had been 15 years long, just like mine! She started over and made a “life long” romance with someone new, so clearly it was possible.

And I knew one day would come when my relationship with David would pass up my first one in duration. I vowed I would take note of that day and be thankful.

Hence, 5,363rd Day.

I guess I’m a little wacky to value something like this, but with my past, it makes sense. (Heck, I also keep a tally of how many times David and I have made love, but remember: gay ex-husband, okay?) Marriage or a long term sexual relationship necessarily involves a deep degree of intimacy, and each partner leaves an indelible mark on the other. If for some reason, like infidelity or abuse, a person hopes to rid him- or herself of that mark, doing so will not be easy.

But in fact, making a home with David and raising my daughters with him restored my heart and soul a long time ago. I guess 5,363rd Day just drives home to me that the restoration really has been accomplished.

Now, imagine this: I’ll be only 64 when I’ve lived with Davie twice as long! That will merit another romantic holiday for sure.

Z’s Perfect Day with the Men of “Lost,” Mine on “BSG”

My daughter Amanda, also known as Manzi, also known as Z (and BTW, she does wear boots a lot), recently composed her fantasy dream day hanging out on the Island with the cast of “Lost.” Specifically, the males in the cast of “Lost.” It reads thusly:

It starts with Benry at his breakfast nook where we’d have coffee and he’d tell me all about A Brief History of Time. Then I’d take a long walk on the beach with Jack and we’d fly kites. Then Charlie would interrupt and escort me to a secluded area to show me a picnic he’d made for us. Then Desmond would come by and notice that Charlie hadn’t brought any McCutcheon whiskey so he’d bring me back to his tent to drink whiskey and play drinking games with Hurley and Jin who just happen to be hanging out there. Then Sawyer spots the shenanigans and yells “hey...Nancy Sinatra!” (his nickname for me since I walk around wearing knee high boots...even on the beach) and invites me to play ping pong. Finally…when I think I can’t take any more hot island man love…who should emerge from the jungle to sweep me off my feet?? MIKHAIL!!!!! HE’S ALIVE!!! He picks me up and we walk into the sunset while everyone claps and cheers!!!

Personally, I can’t imagine anything more thrilling than having Sawyer give you a nickname. LOL

Inspired by Manzi’s ingenuity, I decided to compose my own dream day with the men of “Battlestar Galactica.”

I’d begin my day with a workout in the Galactica gym with Helo as my personal trainer; and come to think of it, I’d happily spend the whole day there if I could watch him work out. But moving on, after a shower I’d join Lt. Gaeta for a comprehensive tour of the computer system, during which he’d have to say “Action stations! Prepare for FTL jump!” at some point. I’d meet Lee Adama for lunch at the ship’s bar and we’d have a lively discussion of his opinions concerning the precepts of Colonial Law, after which he’d take me for a very gentle ride on a Viper. Then, sadly, I’d have to excuse myself from his charming presence to meet with Chief Tyrol for a tour of the systems on a Raptor, which would be fascinating as well as let him demonstrate his sense of humor. As cocktail hour arrived, I’d hook up with Gaius Baltar, and of course I’d have to take the opportunity to run my fingers through his famous hair. I would happily listen to him talk about anything at all in that great British accent of his. Lastly, of course, I’d join Admiral Adama for a quiet private dinner in his quarters, where we’d stay up late drinking and talking about his adventures through the years, and that would just be the capper. Sigh.

Well, from the paradisiacal locale of the Island, to the rather grim environs of the Galactica, a girl can sure have a good time with hot fictional men. And isn’t it fascinating the array of activities that pass for romantic with the right companion? An intellectual discussion of metaphysics, ping-pong, a spacecraft ride, military reminiscences, it doesn’t matter if you’re in the company of someone with an interesting personality. And he can be mysterious, playful, complex, or just have a cool Russian accent--it all works.

Ah, the joys of being with the opposite sex (if the opposite sex is your bag)! Now you understand why daily life isn’t enough for me, I have to create men all the time and enjoy a vast variety of romantic, erotic experiences on a fictional plain. And, likewise, why women like watching shows like “Lost” and “Battlestar Galactica.”

Variety is the spice of life.

Looking for Mr. Perfect

Man, it has been quite awhile since I’ve had a truly thrilling crush. With spring coming on, I’m sure in the mood for some of those heart-fluttering feelings.

Of course I’m not in the market for an actual love affair; I am, after all, happily married and perfectly content with the real-life love going on in my life right now. No, I’m referring to a good solid celebrity crush or even a small obsession with some fictitious character.

And right now I’m actually jealous of Scarlett O’Hara. I just started reading Gone with the Wind again and read the initial passages about her feelings for Ashley Wilkes. Ah, the joys of yearning for a man who makes you feel like that! Even though I know that relationship is doomed and will only bring Scarlett pain, I wish I were watching a Georgia sunset and dreaming of my own version of Ashley.

But those kind of thoughts just aren’t happening lately. In spite of my recent appreciation for Trey Parker’s musical aptitude, I haven’t been sitting around fantasizing about walking with him on a beach. I can’t seem to muster anything that fervent, try as I might. I’ve reviewed in my mind all the potential hot guys and nobody’s tripping my trigger.

The closest I have to a likely candidate is my personal hero, Les Stroud. I’ve been keeping up on his blogs from the field during the filming of his two African adventures for the new season of “Survivorman,” and he writes wonderfully. Is there anything the man can’t do? His dramatic but humorous accounts are quite thrilling. And I can’t say I haven’t had a torrid thought or two about the man, but I’m not genuinely romantically obsessed. Maybe because it’s because he does reality TV, and I’ve seen footage of his wife and kids and all that, so he seems like a regular guy, flesh and blood just like you and me.

And I guess I’m looking for Mr. Perfect.

In my younger days I was much better at thinking of men as perfect, or close to it. But now that I’m 50 and jaded, it’s harder for me to gloss over the flaws and shortcomings. Unfortunately, while I’ve grown more realistic in perception, my expectations are as unrealistic as they ever were. I can’t fall for a guy who isn’t a hero, and unfortunately heroism is almost impossible to come by.

Now do you see why I have to write romance fiction, and invent these guys myself?

For the present, I find myself making due with feeling a little flutter when ever I discover some quality of heroism in a guy or a character. Thus my attraction to Trey Parker, for being so creatively and musically gifted. The same can be said of all my little crushes, which lately have included M. Night Shymalan (for artistic and creative talent), Mr. Rochester from Jane Eyre (for intelligence and complexity), Admiral Adama (for courage and leadership) and his real life counterpart Edward James Olmos (for humanitarianism and generosity of spirit). And of course, the obviously heroic Les Stroud.

The rare exception can be found in guys who are simply cute, charming and funny, the Jim Halperts and Sawyers of the world. (My husband is in this category, with a little heroism thrown in.) While I enjoy the presence of such types in my life, they rarely send me into a Scarlett-over-Ashley type rapture. Nope, for that it takes a purebred hero.

I used to assume a heroic-appearing guy was truly a hero until proven otherwise, which inevitably they all were, with painful results for me of course. But until I made that sad discovery, I enjoyed myself immensely. Unfortunately, it seems nowadays I no longer have that childlike naivete. Nowadays, alas, I assume the guy has faults, until he can prove me wrong. Of course I’m still looking in vain for that guy. Mr. Perfect.

So, what a fix I find myself in! Am I just too smart and cynical for my own good? Can I never again experience the joys of infatuation? Is romance dead for me? :-)

A few years back, as I wrapped up having a crush on a friend of mine, he wisely said to me, “Do me a big favor and promise you won’t do this again, with me or anyone else--I don’t want you to put yourself through this again.” So I promised him.

Yeah, I guess I’ve been happier since then than before--at least more emotionally stable. But still, I can’t give up hope on finding one more Mr. Perfect to get me all rapturous for a little while. Would that be such a bad idea?

After all, it’s spring.

Don’t Talk, Just Sing

I’ve always loved John Mellencamp’s song “Play Guitar,” in which he advises men who want to have success with the opposite sex that they should “forget all about that macho shit and learn how to play guitar.” In fact, any guy earns bonus sexy points by simply being able to sing.

I was reminded of this recently when I rewatched the movie “Team America.” You know, Trey Parker and Matt Stone’s 2004 hilarious marionette movie about a band of American heroes saving the world from terrorism. I felt my dormant adoration of Trey Parker (see also my June 6, 2005 blog post) reawaken as I watched. Or, more accurately, listened.

“Team America” is, in itself, not a romantic film. In fact, it’s gross, particularly the endless and cringeworthy marionette sex scene. Oh, and the vomiting. Funny? In a twisted way. Sexy? Big NO.

However, what sent my heart once again fluttering over Trey was the amazing fact that he wrote or co-wrote all the vocal numbers in the film, and performs them as well. He does the love ballad, the stirring hard rock theme song, the Broadway spoof song, the lament in a satirical Korean accent, the country-western political anthem--all of them. You would guess at least six people sang lead on these numbers, but it’s Trey.

My point here is that in watching this movie, I didn’t get to see Trey Parker, I didn’t get to experience any romance, no--I was watching these insane puppets. Meanwhile, the stuff Trey sang was all satire, and profanity-laced satire at that. Nevertheless when the film was over, I suffered from that symptom that always tells you that you are smitten: the urge to use Google Images to see if there were any new photos of the guy.

All because he can sing.

It reminds me of the night I first watched “Moulin Rouge!” and incredulously heard the first few notes emit from the throat of Ewan McGregor. Before that I found him fairly cute; after I checked IMDB to be sure it was really him singing the role of Christian, I was madly in love. Or let’s take the example of how Hugh Jackman’s stock rose in my eyes after I saw him play Curly in “Oklahoma!” (Wow, and I think those are the only two Broadway musicals with titles that end in exclamation points. Oops, except for “Carnival!” Of course, I also have higher regard for Jerry Orbach, may he rest in peace, because he sang the lead in that show on Broadway. But I digress.)

It’s amazing to me how you can feel completely neutral about a guy one moment, and experience heart-throbbing desire for him the next, simply because he sings. This sort of thing also happened to me regarding Les “Survivorman” Stroud last year. Sure, it’s attractive that he has the wisdom and courage to survive alone in the hostile wilderness. But it wasn’t till I heard him sing that I lost my heart to the guy and decided to write a whole romance story based on him (Soulful Sex The Science Fiction Collection’s “Spacewrecked with Joel Fennimore,” if you’re curious). I didn’t have Joel Fennimore sing in the story, though--no audio, it’s on paper.

I wish there were a way to convey in words the magic of this phenomenon. I wrote a novel once in which the heroine became completely captivated by the hero because of his singing voice, but it wasn’t easy to even try to make that work on paper. Which is a shame, because it’s obviously been a recurring theme in my life.

And here come the familiar strains again. I’m going to have to bust out my DVD of “Baseketball” in which Trey is particularly cute. Or even better, my DVD of “Cannibal: The Musical,” in which he sings a lot. And, happily, as himself rather than Kim Jong Il or Eric Cartman. Let’s not debate just now if either of these films is as good as the “South Park” movie--that’s not the point. Sure I admire Trey Parker for his wit, intelligence, ingenuity, guts, and sense of humor....

But there are times I simply want to say to him, “Honey, shut up and sing.”

What Did I See in You?

This subject is on my mind lately because my daughter is getting over a longstanding love affair. But what woman over the age of fourteen hasn’t gone through it? One day you’re dreaming of spending your life with the guy, the next he’s suddenly out of the picture. It’s a big mental adjustment that can sometimes take even years to accomplish.

But heartache aside, sometimes this “change of heart” can be remarkably enlightening, especially if circumstances cause it to take place quickly. As your head clears, you may find yourself (metaphorically at least) gaping open-mouthed at this guy you recently adored, baffled as to what you could have possibly seen in him.

On Monday his reticence was alluring--it gave him a sexy air of mystery; on Friday you realize he is just aloof and afraid to open up. On Monday his moods made him interesting; on Friday, just annoying. On Monday his strong opinions made him seem manly; on Friday, stubborn and intractable.

You know what I mean. On Friday, having fallen out of love, you see it all plainly. And you can’t for the life of you fathom what you were thinking before. How could you possibly have seen so much worth in this guy, so many qualities you adored, so much you couldn’t live without in your life?

My dear mentor, the psychoanalyst Carl Jung, has an answer, and I think he’s right on. When another person offers enough emotional coinage to convince you “he’s the one”--someone you could love--then romantic love kicks in. You start looking for, and invariably finding, the qualities you most urgently need.

You’re not exactly lying to yourself, you’re just embellishing the truth. Problem is, the embellishments sometimes get a little too thick. While it’s only natural, and even healthy, to look for the best in your loved ones and overlook their flaws, sometimes the psyche puts too much stock in the perceived assets of the beloved. When that happens you can find yourself crushingly dependent on someone who doesn’t actually exist.

Case in point: well, let’s use me, that’s always fun! I once was infatuated with a guy and got myself caught in a terrible trap. It started because I’ve always had a need to please authority figures, and the bigger the challenge, the better. (It’s no fun pleasing someone who’s easy!) This fellow started the ball rolling by being attracted to me and showing it: he was attentive, excited to be with me, flattering, all that. I was surprised by this, because this guy was not one to act that way toward women. It made me feel special, like teacher’s pet. Our friendship became more and more intimate, which was also awesome to me because he was a very private person.

I won’t go into all the detail, but there were other ways in which this man tickled my fancy. But at the same time, he was a real pain in the arse. He was passive/aggressive, afraid of risk, incommunicative, moody, bad tempered. And yet, his standoffishness only increased the challenge, making my rare breakthroughs absolutely thrilling. The high I got from these occasional successes was enough to keep me addicted.

My pattern of fierce need and periodic exhilarating fulfillment made me feel desperately in love with this guy. He seemed like the center of the universe, the most attractive man in the world, the arbiter of my happiness. Even though I recognized the relationship was putting me through hell, I couldn’t see my way clear no matter what I did. He was--in my eyes--just too sexy, too powerful, too wonderful.

Well, for all that, I knew I needed to get over the guy, and eventually I did, thank God. At that point I no longer needed him to make me feel important and magically able to charm even the uncharmable. Once I didn’t need him for that fix, I no longer had to maintain the delusion of his wonderfulness and importance. I could finally look at him and see what he really was, just an ordinary guy with a few personality problems and a small neurosis or two.

I feel a little sad typing that, even today. On one level I still wish he was all I believed him to be, so that someone that wonderful might truly exist. But you see, no real person will ever be as wonderful as the psyche paints him. The unconscious mind projects a version based on need and desire, and no human could live up to that image.

It truly can be laughable, once the veil is lifted, to see what the object of one’s past affection really is like. “What did I see in him?” we ask, incredulous.

The answer is, your heart’s desire, glancing brightly off an ordinary human being.