Erotic Fun for All Ages

Talk about a weird title. Well, bear with me here, I have a point to make.

Saturday night I was privileged to be among the 123,000 people who will be seeing the “So You Think You Can Dance” Tour across the U.S. What an incredible experience it was, too. The top ten finalists from the Fox hit show performed for about two hours, including the various video retrospectives that gave them time for costume changes and breath-catching.

The audience was enthusiastic, to put it mildly. Deafening applause, screams, and standing ovations (I’ll bet we gave them 15 at least) were the order of the night. It was the kind of show that brought that out in a person. The neat thing about this audience was that it included all ages, from senior citizens down to lots of little kids. From the preponderance of 8 to 12 year old girls, I suspect there were a lot of dance students present.

So it was definitely a family crowd, and obviously a family-style program. Nevertheless, the show had a powerful erotic element, at least according to my definition. Regular readers of this blog know that in my view, the erotic does not necessarily include graphic sex; sometimes it’s more about the creative life force--that stuff that makes the world go round, if you will. To me, the erotic doesn’t always arouse sexually; sometimes it makes you feel romantic, joyful, creative, or energized. And while there was absolutely nothing in the show not suitable for the kids in the room, nevertheless in a totally wholesome kind of way it was erotic.

I’ll give you three examples, drawn from what seemed to be the audience’s favorite numbers, all three being reprisals of routines done during the TV series.

The renowned “bench” routine (to “Calling You” by Celine Dion):

This dance was so popular on the TV show that when the lights came up on our stage to reveal the presence of a bench, we got to our feet before the dance even started! In this contemporary routine, Travis and Heidi act out a classic mating sequence, with the twist that the female is the one trying to woo the male. The guy is just on the edge of giving in, and sometimes you think he will, but in the end he sadly walks off the stage.

This dance depicted the wooing process not as a seduction, but as taming, an attempt to convince the loved one that it is safe to submit to intimacy. The tension humans feel between their longing for intimacy and their fear of it is universal, and is a key element of erotica. While we may or may not be yearning for literal intercourse, humans of all ages seek closeness with each other, and when we manage to achieve it, the result can be wonderful. The fact that Heidi and Travis could not come together at the end of their dance was painfully poignant.

The “runway” routine (to Justin Timberlake’s “Sexy Back”):

This is definitely the most overly sexual of my examples. In this dance, which features the entire ensemble, the dancers portray models on a runway. A lot of pouting, vogueing, and strutting takes place, “Zoolander” style. It gives the dancers a chance to focus unabashedly on looking sexy.

It’s really impossible to take runway models completely seriously, so this routine was definitely tongue-in-cheek. Nevertheless, the poise, grace, and self-confidence of the dancers functioned to make them all come across as damn hot. This is a lesson I don’t mind having the kids in the audience learn: It’s not how good-looking you are, or how you dress, but whether you believe in yourself that determines how attractive you are to others. The ultimate love charm is attitude.

The “geek” dance, aka the Tranji dance (to “Gyrate” by Da Muzicianz):

In this number, top two finalists Benji and Travis come on stage dressed as nerds, but the irresistible rhythm of the hip-hop song transforms them to cool guys with street cred. When the beat sets their pelvises thrusting (and this in turn sets the audience screaming), they do a quick half-striptease, losing their backpacks and glasses and flipping their caps around.

First of all, Benji and Travis are just as endearing as dorks as they are as their hip-hop alter egos. It’s a ton of fun for the chicks in the audience to enjoy them in both modes in the same dance. But the message here is that music and dance bring you to life. You lose your introverted geeky meekness and get aggressive, wild, and ready for fun. That’s a kind of arousal, and while only a certain part of it is sexual, it works just as well with pre-pubescent kids who don’t understand sex yet but sure do appreciate fun.

There were all kinds of other erotic moments I could relate from the show (from the romance of the Viennese waltz, to the sexy drama of the tango, to Ryan using Heidi’s trim butt cheeks as bongo drums), but you get the idea. This show vividly made the point that erotic and wholesome are not opposite ends of the spectrum. Wholesome erotic elements can energize and inspire people of all ages--in fact, that’s part of their true nature.

I’d be interested to know what impact being at the show had on our audience. I have a feeling just about everyone had a little more upbeat and productive Sunday than usual. I know I’m going to be running on that energy for quite a long time….

No Hips and Other Delights

I realize men are attracted to women because we have some things they don’t. Specifically, breasts. Sometimes I sit back in amusement that men are so fascinated by body parts simply because they don’t have them. I think most men don’t even have particular standards as far as breasts--they like them all, which is good seeing as my own are not really boast-worthy.

This fixation seems very silly to me until I consider my attitudes about the male body. I mean, how amusing is it to be entranced by the lack of something? I speak here of hips. Yesterday I came upon a couple photos of one of my celebrity-obsession-guys wearing jeans and a tank top. These were very well fitting jeans. This guy is one of those nice, lean types, and from waist to thigh there is not the slightest bulge on him front or sides, and not much in back either.

It’s embarrassing (and yet I’m telling you) how long I can stare at these pictures without tiring of them. They are the equivalent of a nice shot of Jack Daniels, and the buzz is completely natural.

I know how men check out women’s breasts and it gives them itchy palms. Well, that’s how I feel about no hips. I would just love to take hold of the hip bones on this guy and feel their narrowness and that incredible lack of fat. Seriously, hip bones! I amaze myself really, but there it is.

Now I can understand the female fascination with washboard abs, great pecs, rippling biceps/triceps, runners’ legs, and wide shoulders. I understand what these things represent to the female psyche: physical power, virility and all that. But what about the lack of things...hiplessness and my other personal fascination, the small posterior? There’s little explanation for the appeal of those except I don’t have them. Lacking the Y chromosome, I can’t lose my hips, not that I really want to. So I guess the narrow-hipped, small-assed male attracts me simply because he’s different from me.

I suppose if I stretch my imagination, I also appreciate that lack of hips suggests mobility, motion, even a sort of aggression. While women seem more domestic, fertile, nurturant in shape, men such as my lean friend are the opposite. Think of the classic Elvis archetype, whose narrow-hipped pelvic thrusts drove several generations of women to swoon. Perhaps that leanness also hints at efficiency: as in, “I’ve got nothing superfluous here, nothing to distract you from the penis...and after all, what else matters?”

Just as women don’t get the big appeal of breasts, I’m sure men utterly take for granted their lack of hips. I suppose they can see why their muscles and shoulders could impress, but it must evade them why a woman should be driven to a frenzy by that 1-to-1 waist/hip ratio. I wish I could better explain, gentlemen, but trust me: when you wear those well-fitting jeans the virility just pours off you in waves.

The no hips/small posterior phenomenon is a factor in a lot of classic female fantasies, including:

• Guys playing guitar in leather pants
• Slow dancing with hip pressure (my hands will drift down, sorry)
• Guys leaning against a bar, a juke box, a car, or anything else that results in the pelvis thrusting forward (are you brandishing that weapon at me?)
• Shirtless attire (you thought we just wanted to see your torso; actually, it’s just nice not having any shirttails hanging down over your pelvic bones)

I’d happily picture my fellow in any of those scenarios--okay, I already have while composing this. And goodness, this hip thing is really addictive. It occurs to me what would be really embarrassing: You know those tests they can do on people to see where their eyes travel to on a page? I can just imagine the incriminating results they’d get analyzing my eyes and these photos.

I’m sure my little brain will move on to a new obsession soon enough. But it has been fun the last 24 hours being in my small hip rut. Not to worry, it hasn’t done anything to reduce this romance author’s productivity...much the opposite, happily. The last dozen pages I’ve written aren’t bad at all. Do I mention hips? Well, okay, yeah…once or twice.

Those Little Addictions

I can hear the voice of Robert Palmer in my head, "Might as well face it, you're addicted..."

I'm hoping my readers can relate to what I'll be talking about here; surely I'm not the only one who suffers from such an affliction occasionally. You know how it is: Every now and then you have a pretty intense erotic/romantic "encounter" with a person, or a character, or a celebrity figure, so intense that you can't help but focus for awhile on that person. Inordinately much. It's not to the stalker level of course, just to the level that you feel a bit weird about it.

The internet is a blessing and a curse when it comes to these little addictions. Back in the old days, when I fixated on somebody I could only slake my thirst to know more about them by making a trip to the library and digging into old magazines and microfilm. That was just too darn inconvenient to do every day. But now you can treasure-hunt for tidbits on the web in the comfort of your home, making it possible to feed (and therefore encourage) your mini-obsession so much more easily.

You know what I mean, right? You start with Google, or maybe Google Images comes first. You might uncover a fan site about the person--jackpot! Otherwise you'll undoubtedly unearth some photos, articles, interviews, etc. After exhausting those resources you may try using Limewire or some similar source to look for audio or video materials. Or you'll check Amazon for related books you could buy, or eBay for deals on autographed photos or packets of old clippings. You may even try out some of the blog search engines, hoping to find other people fixated on the same person/character. Or maybe you'll check fan fiction sites to see if anyone is writing stories about your idol.

Depending upon how famous this individual is, you could be finding treasures for weeks, or run out of material in less than a day. But even if it's the latter, if you've got it bad enough you'll keep thinking perhaps something new has cropped up, or a different search engine will be able to find something you missed, or something very cool related to the person will be up on eBay for purchase.

The more you keep looking, the weirder you feel about doing it. But here's what keeps you motivated to try: Every now and then you will find something that's just really awesome. Maybe a particularly excellent photo. Or an interview that includes a really meaningful quote. Or some commentary from another fan that just nails exactly how you feel.

Or a new song.

So, here's my particular problem. Regular Erotica with Soul readers know about my recent bout of regard for Les Stroud, also known as "Survivorman" on the Discovery Channel show of that name. I love the show and have all kinds of admiration for what Les is able to do, combining his survival skills with some excellent filmmaking ability. To top that off, I found out Les is also a musician.

So hang on, this gets even worse. I corresponded with Les's office to order a copy of his music CD and sent them a link to my blog tribute to the man. His extremely kind assistant Wendy shared the tribute with Les and in response, he said he'd be sending me a surprise. Now I've found it never pays to count on promises from celebrities, as they are very busy people. So when my package arrived from Canada, I tried to keep my hopes from getting up. I opened the envelope and found that Les had sent me the new Survivorman Season 1 on DVD, as well as his documentary "Snowshoes and Solitude" on VHS. Not to be materialistic about this, but the retail value of these gifts with shipping was $72 U.S. My point is, these were very nice presents, and just about the nicest things he could have sent a person obsessed with Survivorman.

So now I'm dealing with a guy who really sends me, is a musician, and is incredibly nice and generous. He's not making it easy for me. And to top it all off, I listened to the CD and it instantly became one of my favorites ever. Just so happens I really like Les's voice, how he plays acoustic guitar and harmonica, and his style of folksy/bluesy music writing. His expertise is supposed to be wilderness survival and filmmaking. Then he goes and sings like an angel on top of it. Blorg.

So, here's me last night, frustrated as heck that the man has only one CD out (there's another coming soon, thank God). And like the obsessed weirdo that Les Stroud has made me--okay, it's not really his fault--I'm convinced the Internet has not yet coughed up all its material on the subject. I am haunted by this thought as I work on writing my latest story, till finally I can't stand it anymore and start Googling.

And I found a new song! A new song, in its entirety in high quality streaming audio! And in the process, find out Les also plays fabulous electric guitar (saints preserve us) and can write incredible rock music. The Lord be praised! This song is just as good as my favorites on the CD. What a happy night.

But woe for me, I have now been encouraged in my maniacal cyber-treasure-hunting. This cannot bode well for my hopes of behaving more sanely.

What are you gonna do though? This guy just brings me so much joy, it's hard to corral your mind into playing the latest Top 40 hits in your head when you also have the option of letting Les Stroud's "Clouds" run in there in all its inspiring glory. I think it's making me a nicer, more positive person. I feel like kissing my husband more, cuddling my cat, donating to charity, forgiving co-workers for screwing up, etc. Is this a bad thing?

Call me crazy, call me obsessed, but a girl could do worse than a little addiction to a nice celebrity, I guess.

Alan Rickman’s je ne sais quoi

It really bugs me when I can’t figure out why a guy is really attractive. This is my problem with Alan Rickman. The man is 60 years old, has an extremely unconventional face, and is hardly known for landing romantic lead roles. Nevertheless, his allure transcends logic and is so potent that I doubt he could play any part without seeming sexy.

Over the past weekend I saw him in “Blow Dry,” a 2001 British comedy about a quirky national British hairdressing competition held in a small town in Yorkshire. Alan plays an aging barber in business with his son, who has turned from his celebrated competitive success of the past due to his wife’s running off with another woman. His son is played by the young and always heart-throbby Josh Hartnett, who is the film’s romantic interest. However, as always, Alan Rickman steals the show.

His portrayal of Phil, the hairdresser, is understated. His bitterness over his failed marriage seethes quietly, and when he decides to intervene against an old rival’s cheating in the competition, he is stealthy and low key. Against the flamboyant backdrop of the other hairdressers (you can imagine), he seems as solid and humble as they come. But when ultimately he brings all the films plot lines to rights by competing in the final round, Phil suddenly unveils a passionate and creative streak buried for years, symbolized by the stylized scissors tattoo he bears on the sole of one foot.

I’m not a big tattoo fan, but I found that revelation an extreme turn-on. It was like a private secret unveiled. Of course a guy like this would only have a tattoo in a spot no one would ever see except on the most rare, significant occasions. (Only a guy like this could endure the pain of a tattoo on the sole of the foot!)

And somehow the tattoo was a metaphor for the charm of Alan Rickman himself. There’s something rare and special about this guy that you can’t put your finger on, but I suspect he knows where and what it is.

That je ne sais quoi succeeds whether he’s the sinister Professor Snape in the “Harry Potter” movies, the downright evil Sheriff of Nottingham, the eccentrically powerful being Metatron in “Dogma,” or the romantic hero Colonel Brandon in “Sense and Sensibility.” It even works when he’s Harry in “Love Actually,” a guy who cheats on his wife with a rather sleazy co-worker. Alan is a marvelous actor, and indeed becomes someone new in each of his roles (particularly as the voice of Marvin the depressed robot in “Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy”). Nevertheless, whomever he’s being, that certain something always shines through.

Sometimes I think it’s Alan’s unusually sensuous features, but then I was likewise as drawn to him as Marvin. Perhaps then it’s his unique voice, so refined and so often deliciously haughty. But would I rather look at him or listen to him? Maybe it’s the dry, detached manner that is the one common thread in his performances--that cool and unflappable, slightly disdainful demeanor.

Oh, I give up, I can’t even guess what it is about Alan Rickman that makes me so crazy. But I do know, whatever “it” is, no one else has it.

Any theories out there? I know I’m not the only one nuts about this guy....

Canuckophilia

Yes, today I'm here to blog about the sexiness of Canadian men.

Back in the day when I published my weekly ezine "Hockey Snacks," I coined the term "canuckophilia" to mean the love of Canadians and the Great White North. I got a ton of reader mail on the subject, and there were an awful lot of American women with "eh?"-fetishes. (Meanwhile, my male Canadian readers were astonished to learn this and many planned trips south to find out for themselves if they could get chicks by saying "aboot.")

I retired from the Hockey Snacks gig in 2002 but remained a fan of Canada. Lately, embroiled as I am in my most serious celebrity crush in a long time, I am rediscovering my old tendency toward canuckophilia. I used to be fascinated by Canadian hockey players, and now that it is a Canadian survivalist instead ("Survivorman" Les Stroud), I see some recurring themes.

According to the fantasy at least, Canadian men are tough, resourceful, real guys. In hockey, it seemed the Canadian players were the ones who could augment their skills with sheer determination, and hang in there when other men wussed out...qualities one certainly finds in my hero Les. There was also an unsullied, unsophisticated, genuine niceness about most Canadian players. It was almost as if life in the simpler, closer-to-nature environment of the north made for men of character.

In my day job I sometimes deal with Canadians on the phone; they are typically warm and friendly and completely oblivious to my romantic enjoyment of their Canadian accents. Part of the charm of these guys is that they have no idea that some Americans are canuckophiles and actually find them sexy. They don't realize some of their southern neighbors fantasize about Canadian men who can play great hockey, subdue the wilderness, and curl. I've blogged before about the sex appeal of curling, that other great Canadian sport, and I likewise doubt that Brad Gushue has a clue. (Pete Fenson may be the closest thing to a hot Canadian man that the U.S. has to offer. LOL) So not only do Canadian guys have all this going for them, they are humble and self-effacing to boot.

There is also a kind of exoticism about Canadian men which I'm sure they would never understand or acknowledge, but which some American women perceive. While we all live in North America, and speak the same language (and there's a whole nother sexiness going on with the francophones up north), Canada is still different from the U.S. We may make jokes about the McKenzie Brothers, Molson-swilling lumberjacks, and hockey players missing teeth and "puttin' on the foil," but there is still a romantic mystique about those who in a country that contains vast wilderness and extends far above the arctic circle. Okay, so maybe only 10% of Canadian men live more than a hundred miles from the border...still, there are guys up there who are tough enough to deal with cold temperatures, outsmart bears and moose, and hit 75-mile-an-hour slapshots.

The archetype of the Canadian man doesn't appeal to everyone; he's no James Bond, no Vampire Lestat, no erudite, sophisticated, or overtly sexy hero. But for those of us attracted to ideals like self-reliance, humility, strength of character, kindness, determination, and competence, that guy in flannel with the fishing gear or hockey equipment can be mighty alluring.

It's nice to be crushing on a Canadian again....

From 13 to 50

Today I'm turning 50. Pretty exciting stuff! Makes me glad that I have found some success with my fiction writing in recent years, seeing as career-wise, that was my life's goal from the time I could hold a pen. But until three years ago I would never have guessed it would be romantic erotic fiction that would be my ultimate claim to fame. I guess you can't always anticipate what ability will eventually surface as significant to your life.

It's crazy to think I've been writing about sex for 37 years. Even crazier that I can remember the first time I did it. I went through puberty at age 13, and it was almost as if one day the stuff we'd learned in that "special class for girls only" sounded gross, and the next it started to be intriguing. But one particular day I was thinking about this boy in my junior high class that I had a crush on, and it seemed to me that such intimacies with him might not be disgusting after all.

I think my pubescent feelings were something of a precursor to the view of sex I would eventually hold for a lifetime. I hadn't yet discovered what orgasm felt like, nor had I seen what a naked man looked like, so the nitty-gritty of sex was still to be discovered. (Let me interject that shortly after this my parents did a terrific job of educating me; I read a couple excellent books they provided me and learned all about everything.) The actual act of intercourse seemed scary, but the concept of conjugation was very compelling. So you see, from the very beginning, the physical act of sex was not my primary focus when it came to the erotic. It was much more spiritual and emotional.

Chris, my junior high crush, was a very shy boy who barely spoke to anyone much less me. Perhaps it was because he seemed mysterious that I was drawn to him; at any rate I didn't really know him personally at all. Nevertheless, I was suddenly acutely aware of a fellow human being in terms of his maleness. I sat behind him in algebra and studied the flesh on the back of his neck, the shape of his limbs, the line of his jaw. I put my hands on the desktop close enough to his back to feel his warmth. I was full of yearning that seemed wonderful but terrible. I thought about touching him, kissing him, and found myself reacting to these thoughts in a whole new way.

I felt surrender: the primordial female response to masculinity. I wanted to give over to him, to let him be aggressive to me. And these feelings made sex, for the first time, seem potentially a desirable thing. The abstract thought of Chris entering me, of our bodies melding, was very sweet. Intercourse I still wasn't sure of, but that deep closeness, that physical connection, had great appeal.

So I wrote about it in my diary. I didn't write about the sex act, but about the abstract concept of being joined to this boy. And to this day, although I do write about the sex act now, it's these same feelings and concepts that to me are true erotica.

I must have reread that diary entry a hundred times, for years afterward, along with the other passages I occasionally penned. Into adulthood and over the decades to follow, I often wrote erotic scenes and stories about men to whom I was attracted. These were all for my own private consumption, but having the sort of approach to erotica that I did, I worked hard to make them vivid and well written and emotionally as well as sensually compelling.

It turned out these efforts were not in vain. In the late 90s I began to share some of my stories with a couple of close friends, who begged me to write more. In 2002 I wrote a piece of Star Wars erotic fiction and posted it online. That was the turning point, for I began to get real fan mail for this story and for the first time to consider writing erotic romance for publication. I had been freelancing with minor success for three decades and written four novels, one self-published, but I had never thought of selling work in this genre.

It took me 33 years to get to the point of deciding to do so, but then only about a month to find a publisher--actually two publishers. And here I am, finally having found my writing niche, and turning 50 years old. I think it never occurred to me that my strangely abstract, spiritual/emotional approach to sex would appeal to others, but apparently there are quite a few people for whom it strikes a deep chord.


I feel a lot younger than 50, and can still pass for 40 to strangers (throwing in a recent picture I like, out of sheer vanity--LOL), which I guess is a fortunate thing for a woman who writes erotic fiction. And although I'm not as obsessed about sex as I was in my mid-30s (when my second husband met me, lucky guy), I make up for it in the wisdom that life experience brings, much of which does touch upon the erotic.

In other words, I'm very happy to be 50 years old and specializing in writing erotic fiction. That 13-year-old is still in here somewhere, still in awe of sex, still trying to figure it all out.

Les is More

I recently blogged about several attractive fellows from the Discovery Channel, one of whom was Les Stroud, aka "Survivorman." Well, you know how it is: you can never predict what particular person is going to capture your imagination, and in the intervening days, Les has trapped mine. I've also learned there's more to Survivorman than I originally realized.

I have a strong theory why I find so much appeal in a man who specializes in survival. If you'll pardon the arrogance of this statement, I'm a pretty capable person myself--intellectually and emotionally, anyway. Meanwhile, however, I was raised in the early 60s with the romantic ideal that men are strong and protective. In spite of my independence, deep down I have always craved a hero to rely on, someone almost supernaturally able to deal with challenge.

So it was only a matter of time until I found myself attracted to Les, particularly considering the format of his show. He's all alone in these beautiful but dangerous locales...just the man and the camera that connects him to you. When he looks into your eyes (via the lens) and shares with you his most intimate reactions to his plights of survival, you feel yourself bonding with the guy. You suffer with him when he shivers with hypothermia, you pray with him that he won't be attacked by bears, you hunger and thirst with him as days pass and his body pines for nourishment. That kind of shared experience has its effect.

Nevertheless, I confess the allure of Les Stroud crept up on me slowly. He is capable but not dashing, pleasant-looking but not gorgeous, manly but not macho. He can seem almost ordinary at times (if you ignore what he's doing), as he goes about his business quietly with moments of humor and occasional annoyance. After I had spent enough time with him to notice a friendship forming (if familiarity with a TV personality can be called "friendship"), I suddenly realized I felt more than that. One day I kinda liked him; the next I was holding pretend conversations with him in the imaginary wilderness of western Ontario.

Yesterday, however, things took an even more intense turn.

I was killing time and decided to see if I could come up with a nice Les wallpaper with some spectacular natural backdrop behind my new hero. In the course of this, Google turned up someone's personal blog page that featured the line: "Les Stroud--I want to have his babies!!" I figured I'd found another "Survivorman" fan. But when I clicked from Google to the page, I found the reference was in this girl's "favorites" column, listing him as her favorite musician.

I knew Les was a musician, as I reported here before. But it isn't his primary claim to fame. My curiosity piqued, I dug a little deeper and found a page of Les's on which he spoke more about his musical career. It included three free MP3's of songs he had composed and performed. I chose one entitled "Clouds."

It was an interesting folk fusion sort of song, with acoustic guitar (Les) and fiddle taking the lead roles. I liked it a lot, and it was certainly out of the ordinary. Then over the music rose the narrative voice of Les, the one I knew well from watching his show, speaking softly and slowly of his childhood daydreams. And abruptly, without warning, he began to sing.

I am not exaggerating when I say, I had an intense physiological reaction to this. A flush of heat flashed in the core of me. It was a kind of shock, a gasp of delight but more awe-full than happy. Why shock? Well, it wasn't that it didn't sound like Les: it did. And yet, I had truly never guessed his singing voice would be that beautiful. I stopped breathing, ceased moving, experienced nothing but that weird flush and the sound of Les Stroud's music in my ears.

I haven't had a reaction like that to music since when I heard Ewan McGregor open his mouth and sing "The hills are alive with the sound of music" at the beginning of "Moulin Rouge." As on that occasion, I found it hard to believe what was happening--that this person possessed that voice--even though the proof was in my very ears.

I listened to the other two songs. All three were wonderful. Les's guitar playing was wonderful, and the fact he wrote these songs was just one more fact at which to marvel.

It's hard to find men who excel in the esthetic realm and the physical one. Sometimes the survival master's comments on "Survivorman" do verge on poetry, and clearly his love of the natural world and his camera work also mark him as having artistic sensibilities. But there is something about music that, at least for me, transcends all. So this discovery proved to me Les Stroud's soul is a match for that mind and body that I've seen endure and conquer the physical realm's toughest challenges.

What is it about hearing a man sing that just makes you want to lay your heart at his feet?

Over the years I've gotten quite good at mastering celebrity attractions. I know they are 90% fantasy and 10% fact, and I stay conscious of that. That said, Les Stroud is almost too much for me. None of this is acting, it's all the real Les. I fear the fantasy/fact ratio with him is more 40/60. I find myself actually aching a little if I think about it too hard. I'm sure his wife could tell me plenty about his faults and the downside of living with him (as if I could, as she did, live with him without electricity, plumbing, or even metal tools!). But this time the wonders of this man are rather irrefutable.

As much as that pains me, seeing as I won't ever even meet him, it's also really marvelous.

The Man of My Dreams

Doncha love it when I indulge in Personal Confessions? Well, it's been awhile.

There’s this one guy I know who crops up in my dreams with remarkable frequency. I can understand when it happens at times when I've been actually interacting with him or thinking about him, but I really don’t get it when he shows up for no particular reason. This has been going on for some time now and I find it very curious.

These dreams have a recurring theme. They pretty much always boil down to the guy revealing by his actions that he cares for me. There's never anything overtly sexual, rarely anything even so intense as a kiss, but he'll embrace me or hold hands with me or otherwise demonstrate his desire to be physically close and affectionate. This revelation always fills me with joy (and often relief).

This morning's dream was really amazing, because in it I had a dream about this guy (a dream within the dream!) and then told him about it against my better judgment. At first he rolled his eyes and seemed to think it ridiculous, but as the scene went on, we talked and he became more and more warm towards me. Finally he took me in his arms and we held each other, and talked about how good it felt to be so close. Anyway, it was the first time I dreamed about dreaming about him! I guess it's become such a weird phenomenon to me that even my subconscious has taken note.

Well, I have to infer from the frequency of these dreams that my psyche is really curious as to how much this guy actually likes me. It's a question I sometime ask myself consciously, I will admit, but even during periods when I’m not concerned about it at all, the dreams recur. I must ask myself, therefore, what is the big deal here?

On the one hand, there's the obvious theory that it really matters to me how much he cares. I may put the question out of my mind, but my subconscious won't let it go. On the other hand, my psyche may be struggling with subtle hints that he cares more than he'll admit, and the puzzle of this preoccupies my mind like any unsolved mystery, regardless of how much it matters to me.

As for which of these theories is the correct one, I have no idea! He and I have been good friends over the years, but at this point in my life it's not that big a concern to me. I think. And although I admit his behavior often suggests some concealed affection, the mystery of that doesn't seem to be one that tortures me by day. I think. But maybe I'm fooling myself on one or both counts. Who knows?

Or maybe the figure of this guy in my dreams represents something that really has nothing to do with him personally; maybe the figure is only wearing his appearance as a costume. He could merely be the masculine ideal I pursue in my fantasies and in my writing, the animus figure if you will. That's just as possible as the other two theories.

I'm just not sure. Do any of you out there dream about the same fellow over and over? Is the content of the dreams variations on a theme, like mine?

Ah, the mysteries of the subconscious mind....

My Newest Book is Out!

Just wanted to let readers of Erotica with Soul know, my new book Soulful Sex: The Paranormal Collection was just published and is available in pdf and lit ebook formats. The book contains three spicy novellas with paranormal themes; visit my website here for all the details including an excerpt. You can purchase the ebook direct from Living Beyond Reality Press for $3.39 (thats 15% off the $3.99 cover price).

Next up from my keyboard, Soulful Sex: The Science Fiction Collection, to be released late fall of 2006. Then in early 2007 LBR Press will publish The Fantasy Collection, along with the paperback version of all three anthologies.

Hot Guys on the Discovery Channel: Mike, Grant and Les

In my endless dedication to report on any attractive males I discover in the media, I must inform you of three classic examples I’ve found on the Discovery Channel (giving a whole new meaning to the term “discovery”). Read on and relish....

Mike Rowe: “Dirty Jobs”

As I expressed to my husband, find a guy who is ruggedly handsome, has a great sense of humor, and possesses a voice that would melt butter, and I’m his. This is Mike Rowe. Until last week I was unaware of (a) and (b), knowing Mike only as the narrator of the Discovery Channel show “Deadliest Catch.” One of the best things about that program was listening to Mike narrate about lobster pots, Alaskan storms, and the joys of enduring one of the world’s most dangerous jobs.

Well, then we discovered Mike now hosts the show “Dirty Jobs,” which affords him the chance to look ruggedly handsome while pouring foul water off the decayed corpse of a capybara and the like. This guy is hilarious, especially in the latest commercials for Discovery’s “Shark Week,” in which he dons fake sideburns and mimics the eccentric fisherman Quint from “Jaws.”

Well, it seems in addition to narrating over a thousand hours of TV and appearing on Discovery, QVC, TBS, The History Channel, Fox, PBS, CBS and a Sunday morning real estate show on WJZ in Baltimore, Mike has also sung with the Baltimore Opera and been in dozens of theatrical productions. So he can sing too...sigh. Who can resist a man who can both sing opera and joke while cleaning congealed fat off a chitlin maker?

Grant Imahara: “MythBusters”

For starters, Grant is a real cutie; but what enhances his appeal is that he is one of those brilliant “gadget guys.” Personally, I love gadget guys. In the past I’ve been a fan of both the show “Battlebots,” in which competitors created remote control robots that fought each other like gladiators, and “Junk Yard Wars,” in which teams of gadget guys and gals tried to build working machines from scrap.

Well, Grant has been on both those shows, being the designer and operator of the popular and successful battlebot “Deadblow,” as well as captain of the triumphant Industrial Light and Magic Junk Yard Wars team. What better qualifies you as a Gadget Guy than having ILM on your resume? Grant worked on animatronics and model making for The Matrix sequels, the three Star Wars prequels, “A.I. Artificial Intelligence,” “Jurassic Park The Lost World” and “Terminator 3.” And attention, fellow geeky women out there: Grant is the official operator of R2D2.

But to be truthful, I discovered him on Discovery, in his role as a member of the Build Team on “MythBusters.” He helps the team construct whatever crazy contraptions and structures the show needs to apply the laws of science to test pop culture myths, such as whether you can escape a bullet by diving under water. Grant likewise serves as a hilariously good natured guinea pig. I could totally relate when he was unwilling to swing all the way over the top of a swingset. Nerdy but cute, self-effacing, funny, and smarter than heck, Grant is the quintessential hot Gadget Guy. And his bio says he performs in a rock band, too. Kill me now.

Les Stroud: “Survivorman”

Les is known as “Survivorman” on the Discovery Channel show of the same name. He trumps the chutzpah of the previous two gentlemen, along with 99% of the male gender, in that his specialty is week-long solo survival expeditions during which he not only must try to stay alive, but handle all the documentary filming himself.

He does both things well. A Canadian who grew up watching “Wild Kingdom” and Jacques Cousteau, Les developed a passion for outdoor adventure. Meanwhile, his initial career was making rock videos. At age 25 he turned back to nature and began studying survival, learned to live in the wild, and served as a wilderness guide. “Survivorman,” along with the several other similar documentaries Les has done, are the perfect vehicle for a filmmaker who knows how to keep warm on an arctic ice shelf.

Guys who can deal with challenge are always captivating, and Les takes this principle to the nth degree. He is smart, ingenious, and skillful. He also possesses mind-boggling endurance, putting up with extreme temperatures, water and food deprivation, and dangerous flora and fauna, all the while managing to lug video equipment around, film breathtakingly, and narrate his plight with patience and good humor. It simply boggles the mind.

How could a guy be more sexy? Well, Les is also a musician. He composed the “Survivorman” theme, has scored his films, and recently released a music CD of his compositions.

They always work music in there somehow, these mercilessly hot men of the Discovery Channel.

The Sexual Allure of the Dark Alter Ego

Here’s the back story on this blog entry: Yesterday I was Googling for pirate photos (seeking a model for a portrait), and I made a fascinating discovery concerning the actor Anthony Stewart Head. Most Americans know Tony Head as the man who played Rupert Giles on “Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” the Sunnydale High librarian who served as Buffy’s “watcher.” I was at least savvy enough to know he has a great singing voice, from the episode of the show that was done as a musical. But I didn’t realize Tony has been very active in theater throughout his career, including many lead parts in musicals.

I was thrilled to find he had played both Captain Hook in “Peter Pan” and the Pirate King in “The Pirates of Penzance.” As the character of Giles, Anthony Stewart Head was such a restrained, steady, academic type; by contrast seeing him in these dashing roles was quite impressive. But the even more interesting discovery I made was that he had also portrayed Frank N. Furter in more than one production of “The Rocky Horror Picture Show.”

For those not familiar with this character, made most famous by Tim Curry, Frank is a mad scientist from outer space. More importantly, he is a hedonistic transvestite who will and does have sex with males, females, humans and aliens alike. Better minds than mine have tried to account for the rampant sex appeal of such an unlikely character. I tend to think it has to do with the combination of his perfect British diction and his overt sensuality. Frank’s costumes and makeup are designed not so much as convincing drag, but as conveyances of transgender sexual allure. Meanwhile his voice never loses that diction that seems to represent all things restrained and civilized. It’s as if he embodies the fall of the Victorian era.

The sudden sight of the refined, mild-mannered Giles of Buffy fame decked out in a corset, fishnet stockings, eyeliner and lipstick was an even more powerful depiction of that concept.

All of which brings you to me last night, staring at that photo of Tony Head in drag, thinking, “Oh God this photo is hot.” Naturally I had to wonder why.

Let’s see now...while I recognized the sex appeal of Tim Curry as Frank, as far as “Rocky Horror” characters I was much more obsessed with Richard O’Brien as Riff Raff. Meanwhile, I never had a crush on Giles either (I was a Spike girl). Nevertheless, when he spoke I had to savor that British accent, and when he sang in the Buffy musical, I was bowled over by his rich baritone. But at any rate, it wasn’t Frank N. Furter nor Anthony Stewart Head that set me off last night, but Tony Head as Frank N. Furter.

Fascinating.

Upon further reflection, I could tell my subconscious was running some little secret scenario in which Giles locked the door of his office in the Sunnydale High School library, slipped out of his tweed jacket with the suede elbow patches and his glasses, and miraculously transformed himself into the Sweet Transvestite from Transsexual Transylvania. Wow.

Let me clarify at this point that I am not normally turned on by men in drag, nor are most of the people who have obsessed over Tim Curry and other Franks over the years. However, I am apparently turned on by the idea of a repressed British college professor transforming into a sex maniac bent on seducing everything in his path.

This alter ego business is no new trick. Jeckle and Hyde are the most famous literary example of a good guy and his dark side battling it out. Something similar happened to Captain Kirk in an episode on the original “Star Trek.” The upcoming “Spider-man 3” movie will feature the perennially nice superhero transformed into evil (you gotta love that black and silver Spidey suit).

As always, my mentor Carl Jung has an explanation for what is going on with this tendency for alter egos to be so alluring. He believed there is nothing so desirable and attractive to the psyche as those parts of it that are lost by being repressed. We hide away our “evil” or socially unacceptable traits, our dark side if you will, and try to deny it exists. For the most part this is a good thing! But in fantasy we can indulge that dark side, and for the sake of mental health it’s beneficial that we do.

Seeing a person, particularly of the opposite sex, transformed into his own dark side, is powerful stuff. If that dark side has a sexual element (which it nearly always does), the transformation can be erotically alluring in the extreme. This change seems fraught with dangerous, mysterious power. It opens up endless possibilities that were previously unimaginable.

Frank N. Furter’s character is not so much about transsexuality as transformation. He is a guy who completely indulges his dark side and urges others to do the same. To have a refined, civilized champion of good, Giles, become this character without warning really blew me away.

Just thinking about it makes me a little crazy. And isn’t it fun when life throws you something like that?

Sexy are the Virtuous: On “Superman Returns”

I’m not the world’s biggest Superman fan, but he is my favorite superhero and I adored the 1978 film by Richard Donner and the Salkinds. (Especially the soundtrack, but I’ve already posted about my worship of John Williams.) So I consider that enough qualification to blog about the new movie, “Superman Returns.” For what it’s worth, I loved it.

I loved it mostly because director Bryan Singer and the scriptwriters were true to the character as interpreted back in 1978 by Christopher Reeve, and newcomer Brandon Routh likewise delivered the same version of the Man of Steel. To me, the unique charm of Superman is that in spite of his near invincibility, he is soft-spoken, gentle, polite, and humble. His physical powers are actually surpassed by his virtuousness. He is flawlessly honest, selfless, and committed to doing right. That is the heart of the character in these films.

A number of comic book heroes have been presented on the screen, especially recently, and they represent a variety of male archetypes. Spider-man is the ordinary kid struggling to master his powers responsibly while sorting out the meaning of his life. Batman is an anti-hero, a sort of bad boy who fights for good, balancing on the line between justice and homicidal mania. Wolverine of the X-Men is a tortured soul whose powers are almost a disease, a tragic figure trying to survive by machismo and a sense of humor.

Each of these characters is very much a flawed human being. Superman, on the other hand, is an alien, offspring of a superior race. He can empathize with humanity, having been raised in the midst of it, but is not truly of it. He is not perfect nor is he a god, but he’s not just a guy with superpowers either. His nature truly transcends this world.

The creation of Superman’s alter ego, the “mild-mannered” reporter Clark Kent, was meant to create contrast. As one scene in “Superman Returns” demonstrates, no one can imagine Clark could be Superman no matter what the resemblance: he is just too bumbling and ordinary. However, it’s interesting to note that when Clark transforms into Superman, he does not change from a self-effacing, quiet fellow into a cocky egomaniac. He is just as sweet and humble as ever, nothing but an all-powerful, overgrown Boy Scout.

Spider-man is sexy in a boyish way, Batman and Wolverine both exude sexiness. But what of this other-worldly Boy Scout? Isn’t he just the quintessential Nice Guy, the one the adage says always finishes last?

I don’t know about you, but I find Superman’s virtuousness extremely sexy. This is a guy you can trust with your life, a guy who will never lie, cheat, betray, and will seldom even disappoint even though he has huge obligations. And he can fly. I loved the reprise of Superman and Lois’s flying scene in the new movie, so like the 1978 one, because to me it tells the whole story. Superman will never drop you, or if he does, he’ll catch you every time. His flight isn’t crazy dangerous, it’s gentle, graceful, magical and peaceful.

This is romance personified.

I recently watched an excellent documentary about Superman in which Margot Kidder discussed the scene in “Superman II” in which she, as Lois, had sex with Superman. Ms. Kidder said she wished that scene hadn’t been in the script, that she “sided with the prudes” on that one. Well, being the kind of erotica writer I am, I couldn’t disagree more. Superman is the embodiment of purity and wholesomeness, just the kind of character I want to see engaging in the sex act with his one true love. When Superman makes love to a woman, it is going to be good love, and by that I mean in the moral sense. It’s a model of what lovemaking in its most sanctified state can be. The filmmakers achieved the mood very effectively, too, showing the angelic sweetness and beauty of the naked Man of Steel and his beloved, sleeping together tenderly in the shelter of the Fortress of Solitude.

I’m attracted to a lot of different sorts of men, a lot of male characters spanning a range of personalities. But I think to me personally, the Superman archetype is the most charismatic. He inspires in me gratitude, trust, inspiration, and yes, arousal. He is, after all, a super man, in many ways the ideal of masculinity, and as a woman I naturally respond to that physically.

The goodness of Superman, especially in the context of the unpleasantness of much of the human race, is awe-inspiring. It is comforting and uplifting. And yes, I must insist, it is also very sexy.

Who’s Your Favorite Guy in the Band?

As the eloquent John Mellencamp once said, “Forget all about that macho shit and learn how to play guitar!” It’s true, one key to most women’s hearts is membership in a rock band. I had a blast writing about a rock band in my novel The Resurrection of Captain Eternity, especially Fritz, the lead singer/guitar player. Swoon.

So let’s have some fun and talk about rock band archetypes. Who’s your favorite guy in the band, and what might it mean that you find him to be the sexiest?

The Lead Singer: There are several possibilities here. One is that this guy is the front man, the designated leader. Could be you go for the take-charge type, the most capable, the fellow who is a natural leader of men. It could also be that you are a romantic, and therefore a softie when it comes to singers. You like the guy who pours his heart out in his voice, who touches you with the music of his soul, the apparent “poet.” Lastly, you may be attracted to communicators, guys who are articulate and open--sensitive and expressive guys.

The Guitarist: The man who plays lead guitar is probably the one who is the most overtly sexy. It’s that stance, you know? You may also like him because he is the often the most aggressive musically: he gets those powerful solos where the music tears through you. Due to the connotations of being a rock ‘n’ roll guitar player, you may think of this guy as a dangerous, bad boy type. Of course, the flip side is the acoustic guitar player, the singer/songwriter type who is a modern minstrel. In this case he’s a romantic balladeer, attractive more for sweetness than spice.

The Bass Player: The bassist plays an instrument whose low notes are subtle, almost subliminal. Nevertheless, by focusing a little more intently, you can pick up on the very powerful influence his music has on the overall sound--and especially feel--of the band. You’ll go for the bass player if you like the mysterious sort, the type who works his influence subtly. Or if you are a fan of shy men, or of guys who work hard in the background, this is the band member who will appeal to you.

The Keyboardist: The piano, traditionally, is more a classical instrument than guitar and drums. The man who plays it may strike you as more of a “classical” musician, perhaps more technically talented, more conservative in disposition, or more cerebral. If you’re a little scared of conventional rockers, you may think of the keyboardist as the most trustworthy and responsible guy in the band, the one man who makes you feel safe and secure.

The Drummer: Drumming requires a certain amount of flamboyancy and energy. It is not for the faint of heart. Consequently you’ll go for the drummer if you like guys who are wild, adventurous, eccentric, or powerful. Drums being the most primitive and elemental instruments of sound, the drummer suggests a sort of primordial masculinity. If you like your men rough, driving, and unrefined, this is the guy for you.

To be honest, on different days I will be drawn to any and all of these archetypes. Among my crushes/attractions in the five categories:

Lead singer: Jon Bon Jovi
Guitarist: Rick Springfield
Bass player: Sting
Keyboardist: Bruce Hornsby
Drummer: Mike Portnoy (Dream Theater)

But wouldn’t that make for a really weird band?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seduction vs. Copulation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Welcome Back, Libido

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Aphrodisiac

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An Oval Peg

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three Ordinary Guys with Sex Appeal

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

The Smart Guy – Journalist Carl Cameron

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

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

The Capable Guy – Anthony Hopkins in “The Edge”

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

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

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

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

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

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