Happy Endings

I've written a lot of stories about sex...a lot...and up until recently I stuck to the HEA (happily ever after) formula that many romance publishing houses require. This was no great hardship--I'm pretty much a "half full" person. And I also feel that for the most part a positive attitude about sex is a healthy one. I'm not oblivious to the dark side of sexuality, far from it: I've had plenty of "secondhand experience" with that (meaning firsthand experience with people whose sexuality is pretty damn dark). It's crucial to be mindful and well-informed on that subject. But to dwell on it, well, that's not so helpful or healthy.

Nevertheless, for my next collection of erotic romance stories, I decided to liberate myself from the HEA requirement and see what happens. For one thing, I thought it would widen my creative options. For another, as a Jungian I feel it really is important to be cognizant of one's shadow self. For a third, I'll admit to being under the influence of the often extremely dark fantasy author Neil Gaiman...I'm sure I can blame him for bringing out my negative side. LOL

But I'm finding this new approach is not so simple. You can't, as a responsible author, simply say to yourself, "Screw the happy ending, let's just let everything get as f'ed up as possible and let the chips fall where they may!" I learned this lesson this past weekend while watching a movie--let me share.

The movie was "The Mist," and I'll not spoil the ending for you except to say it wasn't happy. It was really UNhappy. It was unhappy on the level of the totally nihilistic and super-depressing endings that were prevalent in 70's movies and fell out of vogue with the release of "Star Wars," thank heavens. To call it a downer is a major understatement.

I realize a person shouldn't expect a cheerful ending from a horror movie. I'm also not the kind of person who dislikes horror movies or downer endings. I'm a huge fan of the "Hostel" movies. I loved "The Descent" and thought it had a perfectly acceptable downer ending. Stephen King is one of my favorite authors and few of his stories have HEA endings.

I would have been cool with the original ending to "The Mist," the one Stephen wrote. It's one of those classic ambiguous horror movie endings, like the end of "The Birds," where the family escapes the house and drives off among the crowds of resting birds, and you never find out for sure what happens to them or the world. The movie script of "The Mist" did not have an ambiguous ending...it was just one of those really, really horrific and depressing endings.

David and I were so distressed by this movie that we talked about it for an hour afterwards and looked up all the reviews and then then next day talked about it some more. These conversations were not the productive kind where you end up discovering something interesting about life or yourself. They were the critical kind where you just come up with more reasons why the film failed.

My point: If you choose to have an unhappy ending, you have to be willing to be responsible for it. Because people go to the movies and read fiction books primarily to be entertained. Unhappy endings can be informative, or enlightening, or eye-opening, but they are by nature not entertaining. So if you're going to not entertain with your ending, it had better have some sort of meaningful point, or your audience is going to be dissatisfied.

Applying this lesson to my particular case: People read about sex primarily to be entertained, too. If your erotic romance story is going to have an unhappy ending, you better have a good reason for it.

Meanwhile, I'm having a really rough time writing my latest story for this "dark erotic" anthology of mine. It's about Piero and Gilia, original characters in the Romeo-and-Juliet-verse, to use modern parlance. They are cousins, respectively, of R and J, who are having their own romantic problems as the events of Shakespeare's play unfold. "Romeo and Juliet" is one of the saddest tragedies of English literature, so it's difficult for any retelling of those events to be anything but tragic, at least in part. And to have a HEA ending befall a couple of side characters also seems rather pat and offensive to me.

However, I also shy away from taking the route of Piero and Gilia simply experiencing their own parallel tragedy. Why? Because the R&J story is enough of a bummer without dumping more unhappiness on the reader of this tale. I don't want (if you will) to "pull a Mist."

How I will resolve this quandary remains to be seen. (And you thought writers knew what they were doing when they start writing a story...ha!) But I'm determined to be careful and to be mindful that happy endings are not simply a literary device. The human psyche always functions better in a positive environment. Sure, negativity can seem "cooler," more realistic, and even more intellectual, but bringing people down requires them to pay a price they may not have signed on to pay.

We certainly didn't sign on for the ending of "The Mist."

Speaking of "good vibes"--please shoot some my way as I figure out what to do with poor Piero and Gilia. Right now they're dealing with the double suicide of their cousins, which is actually worse than dealing with having just seen "The Mist."

Male Décor

Okay, check out this list and tell me, what do these 15 gentlemen have in common?

Jake Gylenhaal
Paul Newman
Mark DeRosa
Matthew Fox
Daniel Radcliffe
Daniel Craig
Adrien Brody
Bobby Flay
Terrence Howard
Casey Affleck
James McAvoy
Josh Brolin
Kosuke Fukudome
Heath Ledger
Frank Sinatra

Stumped? Okay, their pictures all appear on the walls of my 25-year-old daughter’s cubicle at Kohl’s, where she works in the ecommerce department. Clearly age is not a factor in her mind, nor is race, creed or color. Young and old, chefs and second basemen, noses big or small, these guys all serve together as Manzi’s décor of choice.

She is quite new at Kohl’s and enjoys when other employees are brought to her cube to be introduced to her, especially the females. They try to keep their eyes on hers politely, but invariably the “art” is too distracting and they are forced to check out who they might spot on her walls. “You have the Daniels!” exclaimed one visitor. Nice.

Not all workplaces are suitable for this sort of hobby, but it hasn’t been that long since I kept an array of male faces under the plastic mat on my desktop. I had a job once where I had a lot of cabinets, and I stuck dozens of photos of Sting on the inside of the cabinet doors. Nowadays, being a mature 51-year-old Marketing Communications Specialist, I tastefully limit my face displays to computer wallpaper (I’ve made some dandy ones of Kerry Wood, Neil Gaiman, and Les Stroud recently).

Years ago at our last house, I kept a “Mini Sports Hall of Fame” on the inside of the pantry door. I recall it included Wayne Gretzky, hockey goalie Ed Belfour, Eric Kramer of the Chicago Bears, the Brewers’ Paul Molitor, triathlete Mark Allen, and even sports announcer Bob Costas. Of course the ultimate expression of this sort of thing in the sports genre is card collecting, and I used to pour for hours over my collection of hockey cards, trying not to drool on the more valuable ones.

In my opinion, the best male décor is, like Manzi’s, eclectic in nature. Variety is the spice of life and all that. One room can really make a statement if you combine, say, a bit of Josh Holloway here, some Anthony Hopkins there, and over there, a nice Chow Yun-Fat. Of course, keeping to a single theme can be fun too: I can see designing a space that includes all “Love Actually” men: Rodrigo Santoro, Liam Neeson, Colin Firth, Alan Rickman, etc.

Well, if I have any point today it’s that I don’t think a woman of any age should feel embarrassed or shy about male décor. Beauty is to be celebrated, savored, and treasured in all its forms, and that goes for Elijah Wood’s eyes, Hugh Jackman’s smile, and yes, Manzi, Adrian Brody’s nose.

Seduced by Humor

Well, it’s been awhile since I updated you on the status of my crush on author Neil Gaiman. About a month ago our “relationship” hit the skids when I read his short story collection Fragile Things. Was the book that bad? Actually, it was excellent, and helped me realize I wanted to get back to writing short fiction. However, several of the stories truly freaked me out and I found myself more perplexed by and scared of Mr. Gaiman than attracted to him. What can you expect, really, from a horror fantasy collection? But I was emotionally unprepared to deal with the man’s monstrous side, even having read his admittedly dark American Gods.

I put the whole thing out of my mind and carried on. 2008 is the year in which I am alternating between reading Gaiman and C.S. Lewis, so I turned to A Grief Observed (marvelous!) and otherwise did a lot of writing and playing Peggle. I had brief “love affairs” with Benjamin Linus, cucumber margaritas, and Cubs pitcher Ryan Dempster (don’t worry, Kerry Wood, you’re still my main man baseball-wise). I also had a longer and more intimate dalliance with Nate Jonas, the bestselling sci-fi author who wrote The Vicious Views of Eyes, and who is completely fictitious and the male lead in my new short story “Nate and Erica Write a Sex Scene.”

You may suspect from that last sentence that all this while I was in denial, seeing as I chose to pen a tale about a romance author and a sci-fi author collaborating. My protestation that Neil writes fantasy and that the four-letter-names-beginning-with-N is pure coincidence will probably sound like I doth protest too much. But seriously, Nate is more a much nicer version of Harlan Ellison, and younger of course. When you read the story sometime in 2009, you’ll see he’s nothing like Gaiman.

So I was totally on a break, until I had to take a book to the oil change place last Saturday and picked up Anansi Boys. Ah, Neil, what a multi-dimensional creature you are! This spin-off of American Gods is, as the author frequently points out in interviews, totally different in spirit from its predecessor. And worlds apart from the often horrific Fragile Things.

For one thing—and perhaps the most important thing—it’s hilarious.

I’ve watched interviews with Neil and the man really can be, and frequently is, funny. It’s that polite, smart, quirky, articulate kind of British humor, perfectly employing absurdity and hyperbole. “Shaun of the Dead” type humor. It’s disarming, it’s charming—it makes you smile while you’re laughing if you know what I mean.

Another author would say, “Mrs. Dunwiddy was amazingly old.” Neil Gaiman says, “There were geological ages that were probably younger than Mrs. Dunwiddy. As a boy, Fat Charlie imagined Mrs. Dunwiddy in Equatorial Africa, peering disapprovingly through her thick spectacles at the newly erect hominids.”

And Anansi Boys is not simply seasoned with this humor like Neil’s other books I’ve read. It’s jelly-rolled with it. I’m telling you, reading this book is like enjoying one of those 12-layer tortes, and the frosting is humorous-Neil-Gaiman flavored.

Okay, I’ve said before how sexy humor can be. Let me tell you, I should have listened to myself. I read a chapter of this book, I sit there letting Neil spin his yarns to me, with that voice so British you can hear it from the printed page. His words make me grin, fill my belly with that warm, happy, delighted feeling. Every page brings new pleasure, and it’s actually physical, not just cerebral. Then I reluctantly put down the book and there’s that great picture of Gaiman on the back cover.

All right, I surrender!

I’m still in love with this guy and I suppose the fact that he can also scare the crap out of me only makes it all more interesting. As Alan Tudyk (Wash from “Firefly”) can tell you, when I fall for funny men it’s hard to get over it, and as Eddie Izzard can tell you, when they’re Brits it’s even worse. (Oh yeah, and Nate Jonas is American, so there.) If Neil could sing and survive in the wild, I’d simply have to let my reason go and become a stalker…but fortunately, he and Les Stroud are separate people.

[Sidebar: Ryan Dempster, if you google your name and find this, I’m aware that you are one of the funniest men in pro baseball. I am trying not to read your interviews lest you attempt to lure me away from my devotion to Kerry with your hilarious Harry Caray impressions and what-not.]

Okay, so Neil and I are back on. I bought Smoke and Mirrors and Neverwhere last weekend. I figure I’ll need to go back to some more serious Gaiman to prevent myself from driving to Minneapolis and staking out the comics shops where he reportedly hangs out. But first I have to get through Anansi Boys with my heart and sanity intact.

Pray for me.

Guys, Go Ahead and Fake It

When it comes to sexy, what guys don’t realize is how effective faking it can be. I mean faking being sexy. When guys lampoon sexy moves, eight times out of ten it works as well as if they were seriously trying. Well, at least it does for me, and every woman I’ve had the occasion to ask said the same thing.

Let me illustrate from one of my favorite TV shows, “How I Met Your Mother.” (But please don’t comment with any spoilers…I’m a jenny-come-lately here and am only on Season 1, Episode 4). Womanizing Barney occasionally gives nice guys Ted and Marshall tips on pick up lines. For example, he teaches Ted the proper way to intone “I’m Ted Mosby, Architect” when introducing himself to a girl. It’s supposed to be comedy, but Ted’s fake sultriness totally works. Marshall (played by the always irresistible Jason Segel) is a big goof from Minnesota, but when he fake-entices women, feigning self-confidence and swagger, it’s likewise completely effective.

Yes, Barney, I know you use every un-original, worn out trick in the book, but sadly, I’m still a sucker for winks, the hand-as-pistol gesture, and the come-hither look.

Another terrific example of faking-it-works principle is my favorite guilty-pleasure movie, “Zoolander.” In this film Ben Stiller and Owen Wilson play rival male supermodels, and have multiple occasions to strut on the runway and pout for photoshoots. I’m not saying they aren’t just as funny as intended…it’s just that they’re also really hot, in a bizarre sort of way. Ben and Owen were not trying to be seductive, they were going for laughs. But the stuff is sexy anyway.

Ironic how the sexiest scenes in the media so often occur in comedies, hey? And you’ll be hard pressed to find stuff like this in your daily life.

You know, guys can be their own worst enemies. For one thing, most of them have an aversion to dancing. The ironic truth is, any guy who isn’t grossly overweight, has a decent sense of rhythm, and is willing to fake that he’s sexy on the dance floor is going to have the chicks eating out of his hand. It doesn’t take Brad Pitt good looks, lots of practice, or some inborn mystique. Honestly, guys, we women are remarkably easy to fool.

For examples, see the afore-mentioned Jason Segel as “freak” Nick on “Freaks and Geeks,” disco dancing. Hot. Or, for that matter, Jon Heder as Napoleon Dynamite in his dancing scene. The crotch thrusting works, even when you look like a total dork when you stand still. Have you seen the school spirit dance Vince Vaughn leads in “Old School”? That move where he beckons with his finger has been replayed countless times by my daughters and I. It’s the little things, gentlemen.

If you absolutely can’t dance, there are other options. Try out this little exercise. Go to a mirror and (1) lower your chin, (2) look out the tops of your eyes at yourself, and (3) affect a serious look. Now tweak that until it becomes as seductive-looking as possible, and practice a few times. Try this look out on women at parties, shopping malls, or church festivals and see if you don’t make a few ladies squirm and giggle. If more men did this, we’d be riled up all the time. (It would also help if eyeliner came into general fashion for men.) A friend of mine managed a look like this for a shot at a wedding he was in, and while he totally did it as a joke, I would have paid cash money for a copy of that photo.

I suppose I should put in here some sort of disclaimer: indeed, I can’t guarantee you 100% that any guy who fakes being sexy will pull it off. I’m just saying that most of the time the difference between hot guys and guys you don’t notice is that the former are good at pretending to be hot. I’ve told you countless times, face and physique matter less to women than self-confidence. Don’t have any particular self-confidence in this regard? You can even be joking, you can even feel ridiculous, but pretend to be serious and we’ll buy it. After you’ve made the gesture and shrugged it off as funny, we’ll laugh along with you…but inside we’ll be filing the scene away as fantasy fodder, and making a mental note that you’re more attractive than we thought you were.

Do a girl a favor today, and pretend you think you’re sexy.

Let’s Hear It for the J’s

Even if you’re unfamiliar with Myers-Briggs personality testing (I’m an INTJ), you will be able to follow my discussion topic for today. One of the scales that Myers-Briggs examines is J (Judging) vs. P (Perceiving). You can tell by the J in INTJ that I’m J. I’m, in fact, very J. My husband is also J, and truly a joy to live with. My first husband was P. That was a challenge.

Okay, so what’s the difference?

J’s plan ahead, P’s figure things out as they go along.
J’s like order and structure, P’s like flexibility.
J’s are goal oriented, P’s are more into the process of things.
J’s act according to principles and plan, P’s are spontaneous.
J’s appreciate and apply standards, P’s are more easy-going.
J’s are organized and orderly, P’s not so much.

When it comes to sex appeal, for a lot of people P’s are a bigger turn-on. Think Captain Jack Sparrow from “Pirates of the Caribbean,” Christian in “Moulin Rouge,” Rhett Butler in “Gone with the Wind,” or Jim on “The Office.” That free-spirit, devil-may-care type just seems like he’d be fun, right?

Well, today I’m here to sing the praises of J-men.

A couple of things set me off on this topic this week: First, I’ve just been annoyed in both my work and personal life by people who are disorganized and purposeless. Second, I just watched this episode of “Dirty Jobs” in which Mike Rowe and a bunch of volunteers cleaned litter and junk out of a cave/sink hole. Mike, like me, was really irked by the people who dumped all this stuff, ruining a lovely natural area, when it was just as easy to discard it properly.

This little incident with Mike seemed to crystallize for me the J vs. P battle. I’m not saying all P’s are litterbugs—lazy and shiftless slobs. But Mike and his band of brave volunteers, some of whom had to put life and limb at risk rappelling into this hole, seemed to symbolize the half of society that wants the rules followed and cares about keeping things orderly. And the dorks who dumped their old washers into this cave represent the half of society that simply doesn’t give a crap about that sort of thing.

Before I digress any further off the subject of sex…. Okay, so there’s a lot about Mike Rowe that is hot, but one thing about him that I really like is that he really does care about keeping the world clean, orderly, safe, and functioning properly. That’s a turn-on to me. So let’s take a look at a few other guys whose J-qualities get me excited.

Jamie Hyneman – “Mythbusters” – Okay, I usually sing the praises of Jamie’s P partner, Adam Savage. But I want to go on record that I realize having to work with Adam would make me crazy, his charms notwithstanding. I love that Jamie is methodical and painstaking, and also that for this reason he nearly always beats Adam in head-to-head challenges. Being capable is a very hot trait in men, and it’s a lot easier to be capable if you are a J: the sort who can make a plan and execute it. Jamie isn’t as cute and funny as Adam, and sometimes he’s kind of gruff and scary, but his J-ness has always made me feel he was pretty attractive anyway. Honorable mention goes to Grant Imahara who I’d say is also a J.

Obi-Wan Kenobi – “Star Wars” – To get a better sense of Obi-Wan’s P-ness, just compare him to his padawan, Anakin Skywalker. While Anakin is freaking out over one thing or another, flying recklessly around Coruscant and losing all focus on the goal of becoming a Jedi, Master Kenobi stays rational and in control. There are a lot of sexy P-men in this category, the cool, controlled type who make a woman feel safe and in good hands. It also helps that Obi-Wan is single-mindedly dedicated to serving the Force and doesn’t interpret rules of conduct based on his current emotions. That trait can be seen frequently in military heroes of real life and fiction and to me is always attractive.

Admiral Adama – “Battlestar Galactica” – Speaking of military men, and being me, I have to mention the Admiral. Interestingly, I think perhaps his J-ness has gotten him into trouble this season. (I didn’t like the show as much in 2008, for a variety of reasons, including that Bill hasn’t been at his best.) The chaotic shifting in goals, the lack of certainty as to who is the true enemy, and so on, have taken their toll. I know that I, as a J, would be hard-pressed to keep from cracking. The discovery of the identities of the Final Four of Five Cylons reduced the stoic, strong, grim man I’ve adored into a blubbering guy in a bathrobe. Okay, so I’ll admit it’s not always easy to be sexy when you’re a J.

Dwight Schrute – “The Office” – Now dweeby Dwight is not your classic sexy guy. But in my opinion, when his J qualities come to the fore, he can be almost alluring as well as hilarious. There is no gray in Dwight’s world, and sometimes that’s very refreshing. He is never afraid to leap into a heroic role, take charge, enforce the rules, and act upon on his principles. A lot of people might consider that the definition of a fun-sucker, but some of us J’s find Dwight’s act a turn-on. Right, Angela?

Sawyer – “Lost” – Okay, I threw Sawyer in here because at first blush, a lot of you might think he’s actually a P. Doesn’t he seem like the wild, fly-by-night type? Well, hold on, think about it. It takes planning and organization to be a con artist. Even having given up that trade, Sawyer’s the one who bartered to collect what he needed to enhance island life, from drugs to paperbacks and reading glasses. He has a strong and stable personal code and sticks to it. He’s not the one who cheated on Kate, remember! And Sawyer never blusters off into the jungle without a plan. He’s the perfect illustration of how a J-guy can still be exotic and interesting and hot.

And speaking of Lost, let’s not forget the ultimate in hot J-ness: Benjamin Linus. Need I say more?

Sex Scenes from the 60's

I tend to get nostalgic in the summer, so today I'm going to take you back some forty years to my childhood...

Needless to say, the 60's was a very interesting time to come of age. My enlightened parents, as you read in a previous blog, were conscientious about my sex education. But of course, part of any child's induction into sexuality includes events influenced by culture and society, and mine certainly was.

One of my earliest sex-related memories is of the dawning of Beatlemania. Among the first 45's I owned was "I Want to Hold Your Hand"/"I Saw Her Standing There," a gift from my dad. I was seven years old. I saw the Ed Sullivan broadcast and reports on the news showing teen girls screaming and literally swooning over Paul, John, George and Ringo. That sort of thing probably started with Elvis, but it was the first I had seen such behavior. I found it fascinating. I could understand it on a certain level, but clearly one needed to be "an older girl" to react to rock 'n' roll that way. Of course this didn't stop my neighborhood friends and I from playing Beatles in the yard, screaming and keeling over in the grass. (Screaming and keeling over in the grass had its own charm for grade schoolers.)

I learned a lot about sex from watching "Star Trek." Interestingly, I was pre-pubescent when the show first aired, and watched the reruns after the Big Change. So as time passed I understood more about sex as it was portrayed on the show. It was, being sci-fi, always exotic. And it seemed like the ongoing theme was that lust never failed to turn your reason upside down and make you do terrible, dangerous, improper things. When Captain Kirk was under the influence of some tribal medicine woman's charms, or the magical tears of an alien woman, he would forget duty and become oblivious to everything but getting some. When the emotionless Vulcan Mr. Spock fell under his biological mating urge, or was hit by aphrodisiacal plant spores, he lost his self-control and became violent and animalistic. It was an interesting lesson to teach an impressionable young thing such as myself. From "Star Trek" I gathered that sex was mystical and dangerous and, yes, quite exciting.

Meanwhile, during my junior high and high school years, the hippie movement kicked into full swing. The most profound way hippies touched my personal life was via the rock musical "Hair," which charmed my dad when he took clients to see the show in Chicago. He thought the music was fantastic, but the lyrics, which focused largely on sex and drugs, might not be the best influence on his 13-year-old daughter. Fortunately, at this time the Moog synthesizer, the first electronic instrument, was invented, and among the first LPs recorded in the Moog was a collection of songs from "Hair." I loved it. This lyric-free record satisfied my dad for only so long though; it wasn't too many months before he bought the soundtrack anyway, with a careful introduction to me and encouragement to ask questions.

I remember sitting with our big Webster's dictionary looking up the words in the song "Sodomy." The book did not include very many of them. I could only guess what "fellatio," "cunnilingus," and "pederasty" might mean. And no, I didn't ask. :-)

I had such mixed emotions about this sort of thing when I was thirteen. I thought the two guys who wrote and starred in the show were "really cute," or as I'd put it today, "hot." I was beginning to understand sexual desire. But the hippie movement scared the crap out of me. While it did seem more in touch with reality and human nature than American society had been i the 50's, I didn't like that "free love" also meant being short-sighted and irresponsible. And the link between sex and drugs also seemed pretty counter-productive to me.

Face it, I was born in the 50's and could identify a lot better with the Cleavers and their good manners, Gidget's wholesomeness, and the happily-ever-after, true-love-wins-the-day themes of the Broadway musicals other than "Hair." Sex in the 60's was to me a fascinating combination of scary, thrilling, mysterious and dangerous.

And I guess, from what I write today, it still is.

My Cubs Crush: Kerry Wood

Yes, if you are not into baseball or are a Brewers, Cardinals, or White Sox fan, feel free to bail on reading this post right now. For I am about to indulge myself and rhapsodize about my favorite Chicago Cub, current closing pitcher Kerry Wood.

I was first drawn to Kerry a few years back for several reasons of varying silliness. In the pretty silly category: I am a sucker for blond guys with beards. Also, I loved the look in his eye when he’d watch the catcher for the signs.

In the not-so-silly category--and see also my post on my awe fetish--Kerry is a talented guy. In May of 1998, when I was obsessed with hockey and two months into my total fixation on Guy Carbonneau, Kerry Wood made the sports headlines in a big way. So big that this hockey fan actually read about him--a baseball player! Kerry struck out 20 batters in a game at Wrigley Field against the Houston Astros. It was only his sixth outing in the majors and he was 20 years old. The 20K performance tied the all-time major league record. I never forgot who Kerry was. When I became a Cubs fan in 2003, I fell for this illustrious starter with his mean fastball and ability to occasionally hit home runs.

The road since then has been a rocky one. Kerry has been plagued by injuries and it’s seemed to me he spent more time on the disabled list than pitching. Many a time I have asked myself why having recovered from crushing on a sports guy about to retire (M. Carbonneau) I chose a sports guy who was always hurt. I did, however, have the good fortune to go to a game at Wrigley in 2006 after which a bunch of players greeted fans in the parking lot. I got within a couple yards of my hero. Nevertheless, it hasn’t been easy for me to get to see him pitch over the years.

Kerry won a spot in the bullpen in 2007 and enamored himself all the more to me by signing a one year contract that (by MLB standards) was astonishingly cheap. He felt he owed this to the Chicago Cubs for having been injured for so much of his career. He missed two-thirds of the season (argh!) but returned to pitch in relief really well the final months. He signed a new contract with the Cubs for 2008, turning down more lucrative deals from other teams, enamoring me even more! Kerry is now the longest-standing active player for the Cubs, as loyal to the team as are its crazy fans.

In spring training 2008, Kerry earned the closer role. This job is plenty sexy and plenty scary. I hate it when the win depends on Kerry getting three guys out...because sometimes he doesn’t. Fortunately, hardly ever: he currently has 14 saves in 18 chances. We joke that if Kerry hits the first batter, we’re doomed, but if he doesn’t, he’ll get the save. As for plenty sexy: There’s nothing like watching him destroy three guys with his 96 mph fastball and then step down from the mound to the shouts of “Cubs win!” with the faintest smile on his face, as if he doesn’t want to look too conceited.

Kerry Wood is not a superhero though, really. Some days he is on, some days off, like any professional player. That said, he is still one of the best in the game and does plenty of things to make me proud. And fortunately, in terms of character he is “on his game” every single day. He’s charitable, a team player, loyal, and good-hearted.

That look he gets before letting loose with an unhittable pitch doesn’t hurt either, nor does the blond beard. Kerry Wood is my Cubs Crush, and if no goats or Steve Bartman’s get in the way, maybe this fall he’ll be part of a World Series team.

Champagne in the blond beard wouldn’t hurt either.

How Many Times We Did It

Okay, by “it,” I really do mean “it.”

This weekend the family was discussing a unique party we had about 13 years ago, a type of party I can’t help but wonder may be the only one of its kind in human history. If you have ever attended a similar one, by all means let me know—I’d love to hear about it.

It was my and Davie’s 500 Party, celebrating our 500 times.

Whenever we tell people about this festive gathering (and no, we don’t tell everyone), the spoken or unspoken question is always, “You keep count?” My ready answer is, “Please keep in mind that I was married for 15 years to a gay guy before my marriage to David.” Yes, I keep count to this day. Kinda funny, but when you’ve been counting up to 500, you really feel like you might as well keep track.

So, how does one hold a 500 Party? Well, you don’t want to be tacky about it. Although…I will admit it was a little tacky for me to sing “We’ve had sex 500 times and we’ll have sex 500 more” to the tune of that 1988 hit by The Proclaimers. But mostly we simply sported our simple “500” buttons and put “500” signs on the lawn.

The only possible controversy arises concerning the involvement of my daughters, then ages 15 and 12, in the party prep. As they were piping 500’s in frosting onto a couple dozen brownies, they were not ignorant of the meaning of the party theme. They were also aware of how crazy (in a completely healthy way, of course) our particular gang of friends would get at said party. But our crew was a bunch of fun-loving, perfectly functional, responsible adults and they were all really fond of the girls. Which is not to say we didn’t consider it best that they spent the night elsewhere.

So, to that mix add food, plenty of beer, and some great 80s music, and that’s a 500 Party.

My older daughter likes to joke that things like this “scarred her for life.” But she was actually no more embarrassed about it than any of the other things that embarrassed her about me when she was 15. As in, “Mom, PLEASE don’t dance.” Her sister said the other day, “I’ve always been really glad that you guys were so open about it, like there was nothing to be ashamed of. It made me feel comfortable talking about that stuff with you.”

And that, really, was the general idea. As much as Davie and I are private about this stuff, and very monogamous and trusting, and as much as we take sex very seriously, we are also big believers that it is nothing to be ashamed of. If a married couple can’t have a couple dozen friends over to celebrate a great occasion like 500, then what is the world coming to?

For me, especially, it was a wonderful and happy thing. I imagine most old married couples take for granted that they make love regularly, but if you are like me, you don’t. There was a time when my acceptance of being married to a gay man (and why I accepted that is a long story) had me convinced I would never have male physical affection, much less sex, in my life again. So I treasure greatly both the number we are at now (wouldn’t you like to know?) as well as the approximately 5,000 cuddle cabs (as we call snuggling at night).

And OMG, as I type this the PC radio is playing that old 500 Miles Proclaimers song. What are the odds of that? I guess I was supposed to tell you this story today.

I Need You to Help Me Figure Out My Brain

Seriously. I’d like to know if the events of my last 24 hours of reading are as weird as I think they are, and you can help me figure it out.

There are two snippets I encountered in the text that I would like to run by you. I’d just like to know if anyone else’s brain works like mine does.

Test #1:

The story begins with the line:

“—sentences.”

Just like that, and carries on from there with a new paragraph. Does that one line, “—sentences.” suggest anything at all to you? Anything come to mind?


Test #2:

The story is entitled:

“The Problem of Susan”

Any guesses what the story might be about? Remind you of anything at all?


You don’t have to give these tests a lot of time. If nothing comes to you right away, that’s fine. Now please scroll down aways and find out what happened with my brain.


















The book I’m reading, of course, is Neil Gaiman…specifically his collection Fragile Things.

Test #1: In the story called “Strange Girls,” I read the line “—sentences.” and without a moment’s hesitation I thought “finish each other’s sentences.” I found that idea very curious at first, but then I thought, “Well, there’s some amusing irony in finishing someone else’s sentence when it actually ends in the words ‘sentences.’” The passage in question, it so happens, ends like this:

“Sometimes they even finish each other’s—”

I kid you not. And do not fail to notice the double irony (or are we on triple now?) that I am finishing Neil Gaiman’s not sentence, but story. Spooky.

[And I hope Neil will forgive me for spoiling any surprise. Please buy this book and make it up to him, it’s awesome. LOL]

Okay, I can let one spookiness go by unreported, but on to Test #2.

Test #2: From the moment I scanned the Table of Contents of Fragile Things and saw the title “The Problem of Susan,” only one thought came to my mind—Susan Pevensie. The older sister among the four Pevensies of The Chronicles of Narnia fame. It wasn’t weird to me that I thought of it, for to my mind there is indeed a problem of Susan…it’s the eventual fate of Susan that is pretty much the only problem with the Narnia books. I did not for a moment though seriously think Neil Gaiman was going to write a story about Susan Pevensie in order to work out his discomfort over her fictional fate. Then I read this in the story’s introduction: “There is so much in the [Narnia] books that I love, but each time I found the disposal of Susan to be intensely problematic and deeply irritating.” And that was exactly what the story was about.

Cue the Twilight Zone theme.

So this is why I wanted to find out if anyone else out there scored 100% or even 50% on my tests. Just how weird is it that I’m tracking like this with Neil Gaiman’s thought patterns? Now before you call the men in the white coats, let me reassure you. I do not think I’m psychically linked with the man or that we share a brain. Speaking to that issue, I must mention that I found “The Problem of Susan” probably the most horrific (not badly written, but horrifying) story I’ve ever read. That was fully Neil’s intent but he went way overboard in my opinion—I almost couldn’t read it. So sometimes he is, if anything, like me turned inside out.

It does, however, make me wonder. Are we perhaps products of the same sort of imagination (although clearly we imagine quite different things)? Did we just read a lot of the same books? (He did dedicate Fragile Things to my two favorite science fiction authors, Harlan Ellison and Ray Bradbury.) Or will a good 50% of the population that happen to be fans of Narnia give the same answers on Tests #1 and 2 as I did?

I can’t tell you what it does to a person’s psyche to feel on the one hand like they have connected so well to an author’s imagination—disturbingly well—only to be slapped in the face by that author’s ability to go places you’d never dare and say things you shudder to hear. I am running back into the arms of C.S. Lewis for comfort.

And yet, I just know the next time Neil sets out down some shadowy, thorn-bound path, beckoning me along, I will traipse after him again, hanging on his every word. And occasionally guessing in advance what those words are going to be.

My Awe Fetish

My, I have become picky in my old age. There was a time, not so long ago, that I could get turned on by a pretty face alone. Okay, a pretty face and a good story. Take for example the character of Sayid on “Lost”: The swarthy good looks drew me in, and the concept of a former torturer from the Iraq Republican Army sealed the deal. (Don’t tell me I’m the only one who has had fantasies of being captured by the flashback version of Sayid.)

A couple years later, I find it just isn’t enough for me anymore. I don’t know if it’s the physical changes happening to me at 51, or the result of my life experiences, or both...but it’s getting so I just can’t get excited without awe. (Davie, don’t worry—husbands are exempt! Not that you aren’t replete with awe, of course.)

This awe fetish isn’t exactly something new. I’ve been into awe ever since I was a teen and in love with Mr. Spock because he was all other-worldly and super smart. I’ve always been a sucker for authority figures, even when it was really a bad idea: like one of the professors at my first husband’s seminary, my boss at the law firm, and my confessor. (Yeah, and he was an archbishop too, not to mention married.) Trust me, not a one of these guys was handsome, much less sexy. But they were, to one degree or another, awe-inspiring.

The guy just has to have something really impressive going for him. It doesn’t matter a whole lot what it is, just that it sparks a little awe.

When I first got interested in hockey, I fell for the goalie on my husband’s favorite team. He was one of the better goalies, don’t get me wrong, but I think I was simply so impressed by the skill it takes to play goal in the NHL that I just glommed on to him. The reflexes, concentration and stamina required by that job just fascinated me. When I met this guy in person I could barely speak, as if I were in the presence of deity. Sometime later he got in trouble with the law and turned out to not really be your most “character” guy, and thus lost all appeal for me. (When the awe goes, so does the desire.)

You are all well aware of my devotion to Les Stroud. Talk about awe-inspiring; well, I’ve done just that enough on this blog in the past. Point is, find a guy who is courageous, a talented filmmaker, and a superb musician, and I’m not sure how ugly you’d have to make him for that fellow not to get me excited. Les is not one bit ugly, and his character hasn’t failed me yet, so he’s one of the few guys currently able to pique my “interest.”

More recently, as you know, I got on my Neil Gaiman kick. (By the way, I finished American Gods and Stardust and just started Fragile Things. I saw “Beowulf,” too—best thing about it was Neil’s screenplay.) Now there are a lot of authors I very much admire, whose work I love to read. I would call Stephen King, John Updike, and William Goldman all genius contemporary authors. But for reasons I can’t explain, they do not provoke from me the awe that Neil Gaiman’s writing does. It may be that he so often has the voice of some charming and brilliant 19th Century Briton, I don’t know. But there is so much richness and profundity in his work, it just blows my mind.

And with me, blown-mind is the ultimate turn-on.

You get the picture: professor, priest, athlete, daredevil, musician, artist...whatever it is in a person or character that makes me feel amazed and humble, that’s what gets to me. I don’t care if he’s drop-dead gorgeous, has six-pack abs, or is an alpha male oozing sexuality. If he has some startling talent, if he has accomplished some remarkable achievement, or if he is simply unique and special and somehow out-of-this-world, he’s my guy.

Now there’s one serious downside to having an awe fetish, my friends, and here it is: People are (oh curse the dreadful truth!) only human. Just as those gorgeous centerfold chicks in Playboy are air-brushed and otherwise enhanced, my awe-inspiring men have plenty of faults as well. I have learned for the sake of my fantasy life not to inquire too deeply into their real lives. Better still, I look for fictional characters whenever I can; Faramir (“Lord of the Rings”) is not going to lose his glamour by turning out to have bet on dog fights or something.

Please post if you too have an awe fetish. I fear I may be the only one. Perhaps we can form a support group. I think creating a clearinghouse for guys who inspire awe would be very helpful.

In the meanwhile, I’m going to keep reading Fragile Things and having Neil Gaiman haunt my dreams.

The Author's Space...Upgraded

I'm so happy about my new workspace I just had to share.

After saving up for five years we finally replaced the depressing light blue-gray carpet that was in our condo when we bought it (having fallen in love with the place in spite of said carpet). Since my desk, one of those ready-to-assembly jobbers like they sell at Target, barely stayed in one piece during that move, we knew replacing the carpeting also meant a new desk. Well, I saved up for that too! And a new chair! Woo hoo! So take a gander at the before picture (and my pal Cody in the chair)...

And the after picture...

Of course now this means I have to rededicate myself to working at this desk. I'll get busy on that!

Old Flames

This week I made arrangements with The Romance Studio website for an interview that will appear next month, and agreed to focus on my first published novel. The Resurrection of Captain Eternity is a very obscure contemporary romance read by few, but it has a handful of die-hard fans so I like to think it’s decent. Well, since I was going to have to talk about this book, I thought I better reread it quick since it’s been a long time.

Captain Eternity was revised and released in 1998 but in fact I originally wrote it in the early 90s, and it takes place in 1990. That means the title character, whose real name is Fritz, is a guy I fell in love with almost two decades ago. The whole book is a real nostalgia trip, as there is much reminiscing in it about the 70s and of course a real 80s sensibility to it. Maria, the heroine is slightly younger than myself birth-year-wise but her personal history is in many ways a peek into mine.

I hadn’t thought about Fritz aka the Captain in a long time. I still find the guy’s intensity, complexity and extreme self-confidence a little intimidating—but very sexy. It’s funny to be falling in love all over again with a man I invented myself, having forgotten in the interim what he was like. The imagination is such a weird place.

As I read Captain Eternity I have to reflect on other loves from my youth and consider whether or not the me of today would be likewise attracted to them. There are some infatuations that die off in the natural course of things, leaving you wondering what on earth you were thinking. But there are others that seem to abide regardless of the passing of years.

My last great crush of high school was on a guy named Mark. And after almost 35 years I am still not quite over this guy. Every couple of years I try Googling him again, but in spite of his not having a real common name, I can’t find out for sure what became of him. Frustrates the crap out of me.

Mark was an enigma. That was what hooked me on him. He was extremely intelligent and firmly ensconced in the “brains” clique, but he had shoulder-length hair. Now in 1974 only “freaks”—the kids who cared more about pot than grades—had long hair. I wanted desperately to get to know a guy who was all National-Honor-Society-and-Key-Club but had hippie hair. He was also cute in a geeky sort of way, and had a great sense of humor.

I was obsessed with this kid all of my senior year. You know how it was when you were seventeen: if the guy you liked spoke to you, it sent you reeling with joy for the next 24 hours. I remember one basketball away game we both attended right before Christmas break, when Mark oddly made a point of seeking me out and wishing me Merry Christmas. It was my best Christmas in years just because of that.

I know it seems odd that I fell so hard for a guy merely because he was “an enigma.” But keep in mind that being enigmatic is very sexy. There’s nothing like an inexplicable mystery to draw you in (just ask Maria). And, for me at least, when that mystery involves the integration of two apparently opposite qualities, it’s all the more sexy. Especially to a teenager raised as I was. I was a classic “good girl” just a handful of years into puberty, trying to make sense of human nature at the tail end of both the Sexual Revolution and the Vietnam War. I’d spent quite a few years trying to avoid the dark and scary things in life, but was just discovering that sometimes those things are very intriguing.

I was at ease with “brains”; but “freaks” frightened me. And here was this guy who embodied both. I couldn’t have possibly analyzed it this way at the time, but Mark was the bridge from my comfort zone into unexplored territory. He had managed somehow to be like me but also embrace the things I feared. Consequently he seemed a source of power and enlightenment and fascinating erotic appeal. Not unlike Captain Eternity, really.

I suppose my ongoing yearning for Mark is due to the fact that the mystery was never solved, the enigma never explained. There’s nothing like lack of closure to sustain an attraction. Still, I’m sure were I to locate the guy and ask him to explain why he wore his hair long in spite of being one of the smart kids, he would look at me strangely and say, “I liked how it looked” or something equally non-monumental. I recognize that my adolescent imagination (which continues to serve me well today as a romance author) greatly embellished the character of Mark beyond realistic expectations.

I can only dream of finally finding him via Google and Google Images, and learning that he became a brilliantly eccentric mathematician who still has shoulder-length hair.

Ah well…at least my Captain Eternity remains the same enigmatically hot guy after all these years, and always will. See, this is why it pays to be a fiction writer.

Panic over Porn

I recently became aware of some controversy concerning the availability of Playboy and Penthouse magazines to U.S. troops overseas. People react in all kinds of ways to the idea of army PXs offering explicit materials like these to soldiers. There are many who are appalled at the idea, saying it encourages perverted behavior. Many others feel that such materials are a comfort to lonely men far from home, and providing access to them is the least we can do for those in harm’s way.

It’s panic over porn, and resolving issues that involve sex is never easy. Is pornography a bad thing? How should we judge it, and how best can we apply those judgments?

Also complicating the issue is the fact that there are grades of pornography; in that category we can lump everything from artistic, museum-worthy photography to kiddie porn. I used to be an avid reader of Playboy, and in fact the articles are interesting and informative, while the photos are quite tame by today’s standards. I understand Penthouse is a bit rougher, but neither one approaches a lot of the stuff anyone on the planet can find on the internet any day of the week. But for the sake of argument, let’s focus on the relatively “normal” raciness of the magazines in question and their ilk.

How you react to this issue concerning the military is obviously going to depend on your opinion of these particular magazines and “pornography” in general. There’s certainly room in the world for different points of view, but this is a case of one group of people deciding for another what choices they may have. Were these soldiers home, the freedom we all enjoy in the U.S. would permit them to decide whether or not to look at these publications. That suggests we should, as much as is in our power, extend those same benefits to them when abroad fighting for that freedom.

But some people consider reading prurient magazines as a shameful activity that ought not to be encouraged among men assigned to honorably represent our country. It’s difficult to argue with them on that point, because they themselves feel shame about the enjoyment of porn. They do not think it a normal or healthy expression of sexuality, so naturally the idea of soldiers “contemplating” the centerfold makes them cringe.

Personally, I came to terms as a young woman with the male propensity to enjoy looking at naked women. It’s so pervasive and commonplace that I don’t need a sociologist to tell me it’s hardwired in males. And truly, I’d rather have men express their love for female variety this way than by indulging in rampant promiscuity. And when they are currently deprived of the option of conjugal relations, it’s hard to expect regular guys to become monks in every way. I personally side with the “let’s do all we can for these guys” camp.

But like I said above, when people are ashamed of a behavior themselves, it’s hard to convince them of the harmlessness of it in others. I’ve run into this a few times before in a completely different context. Sometimes when a woman discovers her partner has been indulging in online porn, she can really freak out. Because most women (not all by any means) aren’t especially turned on by this stuff, they simply can’t relate to what their men are doing. Many women in this situation panic, wondering if their mates are perverts, or if marriage been so totally unsatisfying, or both. A female can react to this situation as violently as if she had caught her husband in bed with a flesh-and-blood woman.

I really feel bad when this happens. Because in the vast majority of cases, the guy is just being a guy. He loves his girlfriend/wife, he would never cheat on her, he’s not any kind of a perv, and his perusings probably simply serve to spice up his monogamous sex life. But here we have a woman feeling undesirable and betrayed, and a man feeling either guilty or terribly misunderstood...and it really doesn’t need to be that way.

It’s then that I really want to step into an area that I would normally not consider my business: someone else’s sex life. Because I hate to see people drawing harmfully incorrect conclusions that will only bring misery to themselves and others. I want to reassure these women that it’s okay, they did not marry monsters, their mates still love them. I want to teach them that male sexuality, while different from their own, is not something to fear or loathe. No normal, healthy male, even if he occasionally downloads a movie or saves a naked photo to his hard drive, is trying to say by this that he doesn’t want to be with and love a real woman. (Although he’d better have virus protection on his computer, or the household will be adversely affected!)

And I do wish a similar attitude could be adopted by those passing judgment on soldiers who want to read Playboy and Penthouse. They’re not cheating on America, people, they’re just being guys. If we appreciate their maleness when it’s applied to using force to protect us, it’s not fair to begrudge them that same maleness in other contexts, now is it?

The Intimacy Factor

After making love with my husband the other night (and if my dad or my girls are reading this, it’s okay, everyone…no details will follow!), an interesting thought crossed my mind. There’s a factor involved when you are sexually engaged with another person that sometimes gets lost in the fireworks.

Everyone recognizes that sex is significant to a relationship because it is physically intense. That special person who is there when you reach the pinnacle of pleasure is bound to mean a lot to you, if only in that moment, no matter how much you try to treat the act as “casual.” But there’s something else that goes on that may create even more of an attachment.

Ever think about why it is that we are naturally shy about sex? Even if a person is raised without any religious guilt or other hindrances, he or she will tend to keep his or her erotic activities on the D.L. I think it’s because passion makes us a little crazy, and certainly different in our behavior than in any other circumstance, and we’re just not comfortable showing that side of ourselves. In order to be willing to let another person see us like that, we need certain assurances, like privacy and trust. [Well, unless we are drunk or simply too turned on to resist, that is. But if intoxication or extreme horniness came into play, the result is typically that “walk of shame” the next morning.]

My point is, we don’t give away our sexual selves easily without paying a price. The happier, more comfortable manner of doing it is in the context of a strong relationship, one where we have become at ease and secure with our partner. If you are intimate in other things, like knowing each other’s personal history, sharing times of illness or extreme emotion, creating a home, etc., you will likewise be intimate in bed. It’s hard to worry about what your mate with think of the sex noises you make when he’s seen you with the stomach flu!

People complain a lot about “losing the magic” as a relationship ages, and that’s a topic I could discuss for pages. But there’s one aspect of a mature relationship that is a real benefit: the accumulated intimacy. Being at ease in bed is a real boon, especially when you are too tired or stressed to worry about being really sexy or performing at your peak. When you’re not at your best, love and intimacy can take up a lot of slack.

The flip side of this is that when you choose to have sex with someone, that person is going to uncover a very private part of you, and vice versa. If that one piece of intimacy is out of balance with the rest of your relationship with him or her, some strange repercussions will develop in spite of both your intentions to be casual and not have the encounter mean anything. Perhaps it isn’t a big deal in the context of the rest of your life (although it’s sad when that’s true of sex!), but it will mean something, assuredly.

The Intimacy Factor does matter, whether in a stable relationship decades long or a one night stand. Those who are wise at love are mindful of that!

Nothing’s Sexier than a Guy Who Wants You

Warning, 4/17/08 “The Office” spoilers to follow!

First a bit of back story: A couple weeks ago my daughter broke up with her boyfriend of two and a half years. It was their second break-up: the other time was a year ago when her boyfriend called it off. It only took him like two weeks to beg her to take him back, to give him another chance, which eventually she did. He made a lot of promises, everything from quitting smoking eventually to marrying her eventually. Well, a year went by of her waiting for that ring, hoping he would change his various ways, and while at first it look promising, time told another story. Finally, when pressed, he admitted he didn’t really want to get married at all.

The “fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me” rule went into play, and now my daughter is single again, and surprisingly happy. There are worse things than being single, and one of them is being with a guy who doesn’t truly want you—at least not enough to compromise his other wants.

So, this past Thursday night my husband and I were watching “The Office,” and our favorite TV couple, Jim and Pam, were up to their usual charming hijinx all episode. Finally Jim mentioned, humorously, that he intended to propose to Pam—not right then, but eventually. This was the same line that had been used on my daughter, but somehow coming from Jim, we knew he meant it down to the soles of his feet. Or so we hoped, anyway.

Next scene, Jim is talking to the “fourth wall,” the cameraman, and tells him he really means it. He whips out a small black box, flips it open, and there’s the ring! He says he bought it a week after they started dating and is just waiting for the perfect moment.

Wow. If you’re wondering what my daughter thought of this, she hasn’t yet seen the episode as of this writing. But David and I couldn’t help sighing and wishing it had been Jim who was our hoped-to-be son-in-law.

My daughters’ generation abounds in commitment-phobes, much to the dismay of both my girls (the other one is just looking for a nice guy to go out with once or twice and they even balk at that). Too many of these young men simply don’t want to grow up and be responsible for a wife, a home, and possibly even children. They need their time for playing computer games, hanging out in bars, or watching sports. They need their money for iPhones, trips to Europe, and lots of beer. One figures they will eventually develop different priorities and start to see the value of nurturing a relationship with a long-term companion, building a home, and setting goals for significant personal achievements.

There’s that word again: eventually. Meaning not now, maybe later, maybe.

These same guys don’t have a clue what being a real man means. Masculine virtue—the kind that makes a male attractive to the opposite sex and admirable to his own—lies on the other end of the scale from “eventually.” It encompasses qualities like determination, responsibility, reliability, devotion, maturity and discernment. The virtuous male also recognizes the value in a good woman, a woman who has the qualities to make a happy and secure home with him, and wants her in a proactive way. Not just in a “hey, it’s cool, we’ll just hang out” way, but in a “let’s take the steps to make a real future together” way.

Which brings us back to Jim. He knows Pam well enough to have figured out the two of them can be happy together. His conclusion: Why not get married? Why not promise to spend the rest of their lives together? In fact, his excitement at the idea is obvious and infectious. Who can help but envy Pam, that a good man like this wants her so bad?

Jim Halpert has been pretty damn sexy for the duration of this show’s four seasons. But I think he reached new heights Thursday night.

The Secret to Falling in Love

It’s spring, when hearts turn to thoughts of love, sex, and romance, hey? I know mine will, if it ever stops with the cold rain here in Wisconsin. This will be my life’s 51st spring, but who ever gets tired of falling in love? If the average human had her way, she’d like to do it every day.

I was pondering that thought this week while reading Mere Christianity by C.S. Lewis, during a chapter that discussed married love. My dear departed friend Jack (as Mr. Lewis was known to his friends) talked about the folly of expecting to stay in love with your spouse. And he made an excellent point: considering the insecurity, anxiety and nervous excitement that accompanies romantic love, who would want to experience that forever concerning one’s life mate? It’s fun, but just too stressful. The feelings of security, contentment, and quiet happiness that come from a good marriage are far better.

But didn’t I just say I’d like to fall in love every day? Well, yes...but I’d like to do it in a less serious and stressful capacity. I’d like it to be fun, exciting, arousing, adventurous, abounding in rapturous emotion, invigorating, fresh, sensuous, and glorious. You know, just like that spring day when you were nineteen and met that really cute guy in your Psych 101 class and dreamed about him meeting you for a beer, and you laid awake all night imaging kissing him...well, you know what I’m talking about.

You may be thinking, that kind of thing is possible when you’re young, but the older you get, the less likely it is that you are going to fall in love on any given day. You may feel that at this point in your life it’s impossible. Some days I sure feel that way. But in point of fact, the older you get, the more control you have over your life, and the less desperate you are. If the cute guy in Psych turned out to be not interested, or actually a loser, you were doomed to some very unpleasant disappointment relationship-wise. But an older, happily married woman is already contentedly attached. She doesn’t need to be desperate about falling in love, she can just sit back and enjoy it for the fun of it.

Well, clearly I’m talking about a certain sort of falling in love, and it’s the kind in the realm of fantasy. (And after all, if you’re going to be truly honest about it, all falling in love is in the realm of fantasy!) Whenever you discover someone new that you find attractive, whether it be a character in a book, an actor on TV, an athlete, or your new pool boy (naughty!), you can play at falling in love. You can enjoy the thrill of masculine beauty and charm, you can revel in the particular gifts of this guy, you can rejoice that he exists and that you encountered him...and most of all you can rejoice that you are only playing at being in love so won’t ever have to learn all about his shortcomings by actually having a relationship with him!

While it’s spring, and we’re focusing on falling in love, why not broaden our definition a bit for the fun of it? You can fall in love with a piece of music (try Beethoven’s Ninth), a dish (there’s this amazing orange liqueur cake I make), a piece of art (I felt that way about a statue of David once), a film (how many times have I watched “Love Actually” now?), a pair of shoes, a lilac bush, a pet, a cologne, etc., etc. This kind of romance may not venture into the realm of the erotic (that cake comes damn close), but it still satisfies the soul.

Of course, being a romance writer, I especially love to fall in love with characters. I think romance readers are on to something: they know how to fall in love over and over again throughout their lives, deriving great satisfaction and pleasure therefrom, without any of the unfortunate side effects that come from lusting after “real life” romance experiences.

Jack Lewis is one who highly recommends that rather than trying to force ourselves to feel romance in areas where in fact we might be perfectly content, we be open to the exciting things each day brings our way. Fall a little in love with each good thing you encounter, and you’ll have plenty to be romantic about.

Of course, it’s a lot easier--at least here in Wisconsin--to do it in spring.

Me and My Shadow

“The devil inside, the devil inside, every single one of us the devil inside.” The band INXS was onto something there. The devil inside is a concept explored extensively by my mentor, psychoanalyst Carl Jung. Dr. Jung termed this phenomenon “the shadow,” and defined it as those anti-social, morally negative traits we all possess and bury deep in our unconscious.

I doubt that too many people would argue with this analysis, whether you call it “original sin” or take a more humanistic view. Each of us has a sort of light half and a dark half, angel and devil, but we prefer to see ourselves as the light half. The dark half we deny, suppress, and try to ignore.

Jung saw this dichotomy reflected in mankind’s art and legend and superstition. He wrote, “How else could it have occurred to man to divide the cosmos…into a bright day-world and a dark night-world peopled with fabulous monsters, unless he had the prototype of such a division in himself?” Whether you think of centuries-old scary fairy tales or Stephen King thrillers and Eli Roth horror flicks of today, we see our own shadows in fable and fiction even if we ignore them in ourselves.

Jung would call that a good thing. Ignoring the dark side is the worst you can do, while understanding your shadow can lead to enlightenment, balance, and wholeness. “To confront a person with his shadow is to show him his own light...Anyone who perceives his shadow and his light simultaneously sees himself from two sides and thus gets in the middle,” advised Jung, on the subject of finding healthy psychological wholeness.

So what’s this shadow business got to do with sex? I believe Jung would back me up when I say, sometimes it is the erotic lure of the darkness that invites us to come to terms with our shadow. When a wholesome, cheerful, kindly young woman finds fascination with, say, vampires, she is forced to recognize her own suppressed amoral bloodlust. It beats the heck out of denying your shadow any means of expression and ending up acting out its yearnings in real life.

I have been reflecting this week on my own shadow, which (not surprisingly for those of you who keep up here on my waxing and waning obsessions) has recently taken the form of one renowned fantasy author named Neil. As my reading of American Gods progresses ever closer to the end of the novel, I find myself amazed by two things: (1) Mr. Gaiman’s devotion to making his fiction as bleak, grimy, horrifying, disgusting, and even painful as possible, and (2) my unmitigated joy in reading it.

You readers who have been kind enough to partake of my own fiction know that I write in a very different style than this, even when I’m penning a scene that is unhappy. Case in point, there is a passage in American Gods where a character undergoes a sort of drawn out, dying torture that parallels a similar scene in one of my works. (First of all, Neil’s version put mine to shame—I have never felt so literarily inferior!) His character’s suffering was gritty and ghastly and perfectly like your worst nightmare. Mine, while reasonably moving and engaging enough, was clean and purely psychological, and doubtless left the reader shedding a tear or two but not praying to never have a dream that vaguely resembled the passage.

I’ve said it before: I couldn’t write in Neil’s style if I wanted to. But the interesting thing is, his writing is very much a shadow of my own. It’s harsh, unblinking, uncensored, whereas I create worlds that are pretty and poetic. I write scenes that are transcendent fantasies of delight, he writes of maggots, grimy dishes, roadkill, and dirty snow (hey, it’s April in Wisconsin, there’s nothing so hideous to us as dirty snow right now!).

Okay, it may be this book in particular—I’m sure Stardust will be different—but my point is this: The part of me that operates in day-to-day life, my outward face, is Diana Laurence. The part I don’t want to deal with, deep down inside, is a lot like Neil Gaiman. To be a whole person, to integrate both sides, I need a good dose of American Gods. You might even say I lust after a good dose of American Gods.

I’m sure I won’t go postal having nourished my soul with this book. It’s just what Dr. Jung ordered.

My Own Personal Jesus: Victor Garber

I know what you're thinking: Just how do I plan on writing a post about Jesus for Erotica with Soul?

Remember, you can experience erotic influences when sex is the further thing from your mind. This will be my case in point: my personal experience with the 1973 film "Godspell," which I just watched again on Easter night.

I was 16 when I first saw this movie. I fell in love with the spirit of this film: the childlike joy of camaraderie and celebration. The whole cast was wonderful: their antics, their clothes, their love for each other, their happiness at the simple pleasures of friends and fun. The songs were wonderful, of course: I listened to this album more often than any other in my life (including even Les Stroud's CDs!).

And I went head over heels for Victor Garber as Jesus. I think I can articulate better now how that happened than I might have in 1973.

I was raised agnostic and up until that point, had very little experience with churchgoing or Christianity. I became a Christian due more to "Godspell" than anything else, really, and eventually found myself a Lutheran pastor's wife, then an Anglican, and briefly a Roman Catholic, before evolving into what I am today...with which I won't bore you. My point is, this movie had an intense and long-lasting impact on my life, and while you can give credit for that to many things (like the gospel for example), you must give some to Victor.

I see now, particularly in view of the man as he appears today, still handsome, but a grayed, mature figure of some dignity, that Victor played Jesus as about as young as a man can be. He was so fresh-faced, so pure, so innocent, and so beautiful in face and voice, he is truly a paragon of youth. In the context of the rock opera, which in classic 70s style is symbolic and stylized, he plays Jesus not at all as the man he was historically, but as an archetype of one aspect of the Messiah: the child of God.

He is the leader of the ten 20-something children in this sweet, careless playground (which in the film is ironically New York City), and he engages himself with teaching them the simplest, yet deepest, lessons: how to play well with others and how to be good children of God. There is no complex theology here, and no Passion-of-the-Christ-style atonement scene either: even the suffering is a kind of play.

But that is the charm of it all, and the charm of Victor Garber's Jesus. Don't forget, I grew up in the world of Vietnam war footage on the evening news, race riots, campus unrest, LSD and Charles Manson. New York City was no playground in 1973. And yet here was a guy in rainbow pants and a Superman shirt, who was gentle, and funny, and tender, and loving. He had a perfect face, an angelic smile, eyes full of light and warmth. He had a voice that would melt your heart. You just wanted him to find you in some dreary urban setting, and take you to a park, and paint something whimsical on your cheek with his slender fingers.

Are you following me now? Yes, it did work because he was a lovely young man, and I was a 16 year old girl. I never had sex fantasies of him--heaven forefend--but I did think of him in ways I would not have done had he been an old man or a woman. It was an erotic pull that bound me to him, that intensified the delight I felt for his music and the humor I drew from his jokes...and the love I felt from him and for him.

And to this day I think that while this is not the most well-rounded portrait of Jesus on film, it does capture with amazing clarity certain aspects of Him, whether you consider Him a historical figure or an archetype. Grown men, in real life, do not exhibit this kind of innocence, this childlike exuberance, this joyful and potent tenderness...but the Son of God surely would.

Victor Garber brought the role to life in a way that truly touched mine...and he will always be my personal cinematic Jesus.

Notes on the Gaiman Crush, Part 2

So, I’m sure you’re burning with curiosity how I am faring with my temptation to crush on Neil Gaiman. I’d have to say I’ve lost the first week’s battle pretty soundly.

Planning to read more of his books? Yes.
Thinking of doing a tribute site? Still no!
Hoarding a few more wallpapers? Yes.
Marveling at his mind? Yes, yes, yes.

What I really love about Neil boils down to—no, not the smile—his ability to describe exactly what it is like to be a writer. I mean, in the same terms (although much more eloquently) than I would. Before you non-writers tune out, bear with me: Imagine encountering someone who really gets [fill in your particular passion here], in a manner you thought was practically unique to you. Yeah, it’s a heady trip when that happens.

Case in point: I watched the rest of the Google interview video. In response to a question about archetypal hero themes, Neil brought up Joseph Campbell’s The Hero with 10,000 Faces. As a Jungian author I’m all about archetypes, and I’ve read some Campbell, and I followed where Neil was going with this. But personally, I’ve never wanted to read too much Joseph Campbell, for fear that studying the creative process in that way might inhibit my natural ability to tap into the unconscious and draw stories from it.

I was thinking about this, just as Neil said [something like] “I was part way into the book and I thought, ‘I shouldn’t be reading this.’” In that moment I realized he and I had the very same thought on the subject. It was spooky. Even spookier was the fact that as Neil went on, expressing basically what I just did in the paragraph above, the questioner responded in a way that demonstrated he had missed the point. He was a smart guy, he just wasn’t a writer.

Earlier in the video, Neil read another of his poems, this one about Scheherazade inventing the Arabian Nights tales. This poem also hit upon the writing process in a manner that to my mind was spot on. I felt like if Neil had changed some of the words he could have been describing what I’ve been doing lately with the Bloodchained sequel! Of course I’m not under threat of death like Scheherazade, and my book can hardly compare to Aladdin’s adventures, but you get my drift.

Last time I posted, I discussed how scary it can be finding out about the real life of the object of one’s infatuation. I won’t lie that I am terribly intimidated by this man, who has a dozen celebrities on speed dial, sees his work adapted for movies and musical theater, and is adored by millions. I have no wish to throw myself among the rabid crowd of fanboys (and in the case of sexy Neil, there are plenty of fangirls as well) that follow Neil Gaiman from sci fi con to sci fi con.

Nevertheless, I’m beginning to think some good could come of this thing.

As always happens when I read good fiction, I find inspiration in Neil’s work to improve my own. For example, he has a tremendous knack for embellishing a scene with a few marvelously selected details, phrased utterly without cliché, thereby making that scene more colorful and substantial in the mind’s eye. My own personal weakness has always been description—I ought to be a playwright with my love of dialogue—and I can only dream of having such a skill. Nevertheless, I can try to emulate the man a little, and my prose will only be the better for the effort.

I explained this to my husband yesterday, saying “Of course I could never write like Neil Gaiman.” Davie replied, “Well, and he could never write like you, either.” It was a very kind thing to say, and also, I’ll admit, true. I don’t want to write like anyone other than myself, and no doubt Neil would encourage that attitude. I am at last too mature to want to express my worshipful feelings for another person by trying to be him.

That said, however, I cannot help but be moved by the man’s perception of the creative process and the way he describes it. In this one small way (actually in my case, not so small), he and I are soul mates of a sort.

Therefore I am becoming more comfortable with the idea of having my imaginary version of Neil Gaiman—for how could my concept of him be anything but imaginary?—serve as a sort of muse. My imaginary versions of celebrities I’m "in crush with" have often served as inspirations to my life and work, and considering this is the first time I’ve glommed on to an author, the muse thing is definitely in order.

So, doesn’t it sound like I’m being all sensible about this and stuff? Doesn’t it? Acting my age and all that? Well, don’t think that I’ve ruled out the possibility of seeing him in person some day…he lives in Minneapolis and that’s just over the border from Wisconsin, people.

I’ll keep you posted, you know I will, whether you like it or not.

Neil Gaiman: Trembling on the Brink

Today I trembled on the brink of developing a whale of a crush.

Back story: A couple years ago my husband, ever vigilant for guys he thinks I’ll find attractive (see also “Cody Willard is My Type”), pointed out Neil Gaiman on a book cover. Davie’s really good at spotting my type (I’m not bad at returning the favor, either). At the time I looked up Neil on the web and was impressed with his body of work: he’s a fantasy/sci-fi author known for, among other things, authoring the Sandman comics and writing the novel American Gods. Although only four years my junior, he still has the boyish good looks and mop of curly dark hair I find irresistible.

I let the moment pass, and even when Davie asked for American Gods for a Christmas present and read it, I forgot about Neil Gaiman.

Fast forward to a week or two ago when we rented “Stardust.” I loved the script to this movie, as well as the story itself, and noticed in the credits it was based on a novel by Neil Gaiman. By this time the name merely rang a bell—I couldn’t place why my heart skipped a beat when I saw it. I hit Google and remembered my past encounter with the man. I asked Davie what happened to American Gods and he dug it out of the basement.

Today I read the first chapter. The writing style is quite reminiscent of one of my favorite authors, Stephen King. It’s too soon to say how much I’ll like the book, but so far so good. Very good.

And there’s still the problem that I really like what this guy looks like.

Like a fool, I googled him again, and happened upon a 2006 video of him doing a public appearance in relation to his collection of short stories and poetry, Fragile Things. I only had a few minutes to view this hour long video, but I couldn’t resist a peek.

Oh great—he’s British, too.

So I watched and listened to Neil do an absolutely wonderful reading of his absolutely wonderful poem “The Day the Saucers Came.” It was spell-binding really. He’s funny, quirky, and fantastically imaginative, in addition to his looking like that.

I went to his article on Wikipedia and learned he was influenced by, among other people, my beloved C.S. Lewis. And that he wrote the marvelous English screenplay of “Princess Mononoke.” And so on. In short, I uncovered a bunch more reasons to like the guy.

Then I peeked at his blog, and it was at this point that I began to feel true fear.

You see, the biggest threat to a crush is always reality. Infatuations used to be a whole lot easier before the internet. Back then you could find a few reasons to be drawn to someone, then a few reasons why you and he were destined to share some meaningful connection, without having reality thrust upon you. But then technology came along, and even celebrity’s lives can be open books. Neil’s blog, like anyone’s, is full of commentary on what he’s doing, communications with his friends, all sorts of evidence that he is a real and regular human being with a life in progress involving a billion personal details that seem infinitely distant from my own existence.

For awhile there I had been tempted to throw myself into this Neil Gaiman thing: watch the rest of that video, read all his books, get the Sandman comics, etc. But this is happening to me why? Because of that face, that British accent, one movie and one chapter of a book, so WHOA. I know it used to take less than that when I was 20 or even 30, okay, even when I was 40...but I can’t quite do it now.

I’m too scared.

Crushes are always scary things, even for the well-adjusted and non-psycho person who recognizes from the get-go that no real relationship will ever occur. You can’t help fearing the inevitable moment when you either (a) discover something about the person that clashes with your dream of his perfections or (b) start feeling so much that it hurts that you can’t ever meet him. When I was younger I gaily and boldly plunged in, paying no heed to the imminent arrival of such moments. It was worth it for the heady thrill of being infatuated.

But at 51 I am not so energetic. I look back on my crush in 1989 on Kenneth Branagh and marvel at the sheer amount of time I spent researching him, not to mention the money for the library copy machine. Don’t get me started on my Sting phase, which ended up with my not only learning everything about the man, but also studying his hero, Carl Jung, for years. Oh, and then there’s my 300+ page tribute site to Guy Carbonneau. No, I’m just not up for that anymore. For one thing, I have my own career to take care of; these books don’t write themselves you know! LOL

But that said, I also am not of a mind to walk away from Neil Gaiman. Because I am still me, and me is a person who just gets a little excited and fluttery when a guy like this comes along. So I’m sure I’ll read American Gods, and watch the rest of that video, and see what comes of that.

And okay, yeah, I did put him up on my wallpaper. Dang it, he’s just really good looking.

Please Tell Me Why I Love Ben Linus

Even if you don't watch "Lost," I'm sure you've had the experience of being drawn to some character you can clearly see is not supposed to be sexy. Or even likeable. For some reason, when this happens it's more thrilling than when you lust after someone who is supposed to be hot.

Cue Michael Emerson as Benjamin Linus.

Ben is the uber-villain of the show, and believe me, he's not one of those Alan Rickman-Jason Isaacs-Cillian Murphy kinds of villains. He's puny, has bug eyes and weird hair. He gets captured and beat up by the good guys all the time. He has no hot girlfriend at his side at the poker table, no posse of hangers-on, no fast car or ritzy mansion. He does rule the Island, though...mostly by ruthless cunning, remorseless violence, and superior intelligence. And at one time or another he has hurt, deceived, betrayed, or made of fool of every guy (and many women) in this creepy little paradise.

And he lies all the freakin' time.

But something about this man has won me over. His backstory episode helped: He was emotionally abused by his rotten father as a child, in a most pathetic and tear-jerking way. And he does have his vulnerabilities: just this past week our suspicions of his devotion to Juliet were confirmed. It was classic Ben Linus all right: now you like him, now you don't. In the scene where he makes her dinner, all excited like a schoolboy with a crush, he was so endearing...and so doomed, for meanwhile Juliet was having an affair with Goodwin. But wait a half hour (in TV time) and he's just murdered Goodwin and informed Juliet "You're MINE."

Now please tell me why this declaration by the murderous, weasley little Ben Linus sent me off to bed, imagining that I were on the Island trying to comfort him and win his heart away from Juliet? Well, that's what I did! I would have decided I was really insane were it not for the fact that the next morning my daughter Katie, who composes and distributes a weekly "LostCap" newsletter, included in her report a declaration of her own Bensanity.

This encouraged me enough to admit my problem in this blog. I am fascinated by Ben Linus. I love (as he put it this past week) that he always has a plan. I love that he lies, and I always believe this time he might telling the truth; in other words, I love that he can fool me. I love how devious he is, how unfailingly clever, and most of all how he only loses his cool when he loves somebody.

And as much as I've come to like his crazy hair, his buggy eyes, his face trashed by whatever latest round of pissed-off beatings he's received, I can tell you there is one thing about him that is truly beautiful: his voice. Michael Emerson has one of those velvet voices that forces you to listen. There's some fascinating quirk to his accent and/or diction that I can't quite place but could listen to for hours.

I guess in the final analysis, this is just one of those rare characters so intriguing, so strong, and so marvelously brought to life by a brilliant actor, you just can't help reacting to him. My husband just loathes the guy, probably more than any TV character I can recall. Some of my daughters' friends thinks he's horrible and icky. But I bet there are other Bensane women out there wondering why the heck they are lying awake at night picturing themselves washing Benjamin Linus's wounds and eating up his lies like candy.

Yep, here you have the handsome heroic Jack, the hot (former) bad boy Sawyer, the model-perfect Jin, the dreamy Desmond, the geekily gorgeous Daniel, and I'm writing a blog post on Ben. Just goes to show you, there are two words that best describe what turns women on: Go figure.


UPDATE - Dec. 14, 2008

I just had to share this photo, sent to me by Ben Linus fan Jennifer.

She was not wrong when she claimed it was one of the hottest photos of him ever, and I would faint. Brace yourselves...

The key, as Jennifer pointed out to me, is to view the photo in full size. To do so, please click here.

Thanks for giving me goosebumps, Jennifer!

UPDATE - March 14, 2009

Ben Linus fans may also enjoy this post: "Bad Boys, Good Guys, and Ben Linus."

Three Turn-On Moments

Don't you just love those random "Turn-On Moments" that sometimes grace your day? Over the past week or so, I've enjoyed three of these, and I just wanted to share them with you.

The Transformation

I highly recommend the 2007 fantasy movie "Stardust." I had seen the trailer for it and while I was not particularly impressed by the actor who seemed to be the male lead, there was some other really hot guy in the movie that I was on the lookout for. So we rented it from Netflix.

Charlie Cox plays Tristan, an ordinary young fellow whose life takes a turn for the adventurous when he finds a woman (Claire Danes) who is apparently the embodiment of a fallen star. He's a sweet, slightly bumbling guy, kinda cute. Eventually the two hook up with Robert DeNiro's character, Capt. Shakespeare, a fierce and swashbuckling airship pirate who is secretly a gay cross-dresser. Yes, I'm not making that up.

The good captain takes it upon himself to give the two young people makeovers. Not only does Tristan get a very sexy new suit of clothes and fencing lessons, Capt. Shakespeare does his hair. And, this being fantasy, Tristan's hair gets longer. The long and short of it--sorry--is that Charlie Cox IS the hot guy I saw in the trailer, post-makeover. So, all along I'd been watching the very fellow I lusted for in the trailer, without knowing it.

That made him all the more attractive. I guess it's the classic frog-into-prince phenomenon. Not that the pre-makeover Charlie was a frog, exactly...he wasn't bad, don't get me wrong. But the coat, the sword, the hair...well, he really turned into something special. It took my breath away seeing that surprise transformation. And that's a turn-on moment.

Expertise Under Pressure

Many a time I've talked about how nothing's so sexy as talent or expertise. That, of course, is the secret to the sex appeal of 80's TV hero MacGyver, famous for his ingenious ability to devise whatever he needs out of regular stuff he finds laying around.

In a recent episode of "Mythbusters," Jamie Hynemann, Adam Savage, and their Build Team set about to test some of MacGyver's stunts in real life. The concluding segment of the show featured Grant and Tory posing as ultravillains and putting Jamie and Adam into challenging circumstances, to see if they could be as clever as MacGyver.

Our heroes were locked in a small room illuminated by two hanging light bulbs, with nothing else at hand. Would they figure out, as MacGyver did, that you can use a light bulb filament to pick a lock? Well, it took the boys no time at all think of that, and soon they were using Adam's steel-toed boot as a hammer to flatten the filament into a lock pick.

That was amazing enough, but there was still the challenge of picking the lock. Lock-picking is nothing in movies, but who do you know in real life who knows how to pick a real lock in a real doorknob? But wouldn't you know, Adam has some locksmithing in his background. He and Jamie took turns with their makeshift pick as the clock ran down. Adam announced he could feel the tumblers, and after another moment's careful concentration and minute motions, he unlocked the door!



Maybe you had to be there. Okay, maybe you had to be ME and be there. But I was blown away by the fact that Adam pulled off a stunt you normally only see people do on TV and in the movies. You could tell he was a bit amazed himself. I mean wow. I turned to David and said, "If Adam Savage were here right now he could totally do me on the spot." And I meant it too.

That was a big turn-on moment. Seriously, Adam. Sigh.

Erotic Flashback

Over the weekend I was organizing a bunch of old photos and happened to look at the album from when Davie and I were first dating, circa 1992. Backstory: I was recently separated from my gay husband, and hadn't seen any romance in a good decade and more. Imagine my excitement at the prospect of dating. I did marketing/PR at a law firm where Davie was employed in the mailroom. He'd drop off the mail and I'd admire his boyish good looks and cool and quirky fashion sense (like a drink of water in the desert, seeing as this was a law firm).

Davie's a runner and at this time was in his prime, and to put it bluntly, had the best ass in southeastern Wisconsin. Very possibly he still does. I found an old picture I'd forgotten about, of Davie wearing his favorite pants, with the 29" waist and the skin-tight posterior, and a really nice cotton oxford shirt with the cuffs folded up. From behind. It suddenly came back to me how I used to watch him go by when he dropped off my mail. And the time I rode the elevator with him and was all entranced by his brown leather jacket and longish hair and earring.

When you live with someone day in and out, through cleaning up after your cats and having gall bladder surgery and watching countless episodes of "House Hunters," you just get used to him. It's nice now and then to recall so vividly why you were attracted to him when you were practically strangers.

That's a turn-on moment that pays off most of all. :-)