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

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

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

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

Huh?

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

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

This really scares me.

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

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

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

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

The Best Non Sexy-Guy Show on TV: Scrubs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Women I Would Do/Be

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now isn’t that interesting?

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

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

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

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

Heroes: The Mind-Blowing Peter Petrelli

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Polymer Clay and Erotica with Soul

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Told ya I could do it.

Make My Body Move

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

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

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

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

Here’s your answer: he led.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Man, he’s good.

Flamenco Guitar = Audio Sex

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All this and he probably likes hockey too.

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

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

5,363rd Day

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

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

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

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

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

Hence, 5,363rd Day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Variety is the spice of life.

Looking for Mr. Perfect

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After all, it’s spring.

Don’t Talk, Just Sing

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

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

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

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

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

All because he can sing.

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

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

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

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

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

What Did I See in You?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like Fine Wine

[I don't want to come off as smug in this post, so I’ll start by saying there are a lot better people in the world than me, both older and younger. I’m not making any claims of perfection here, but rather, I’m talking about improvement.]

So...I’m very fortunate to have genes from my dad’s side that have always caused me to look young. It used to make me really angry that I could get into drive-in movies for being under 12 when I was actually 16; now I am of course thrilled that I look ten years younger than I am. 50 will do that to you.

A few years back I was really struggling with the whole middle-age thing. Rather than be thankful for looking 35, I wished I were 30. I really got pretty obsessive about it. There was some upside to that, in that I kept up exercising, watching my diet, and taking good care of my skin. But at the same time, that attitude really hurt my self-esteem. Because no matter what I did, I wasn’t going to make myself 30, nor stop the process that daily took me further from that age.

You may think part of my problem was that I write about sex for living, and in our culture, females aren’t usually considered to be sexy past the age of 40. Actually, my “I’m not young and sexy” phase preceded my taking up writing erotic romance fiction. In point of fact, my success with my writing was a large part of the cure.

I was doing something I enjoyed and had a talent for. I began to see myself in a new light. And in the years that have transpired, I’ve noticed more and more that there are things I give to the world that mean more than mere physical attractiveness ever could. You know what? That kinda makes a person feel sexy.

Last week my dear mom passed away after a long illness. For the memorial service my daughters and I prepared a little booklet that contained a written tribute and photos from Mom’s life. In reflecting upon what my mother gave to those around her over the years, I was reminded again of some of the lessons I’ve learned personally in the past three years. There is so much value to a woman’s being that is only enhanced by age.

When I compare myself now to the Diana at 30, I am amazed at the change. I’m so much stronger, so much wiser, so much more content, so much more capable. I would never in a million years trade all that for smoother skin. And I hope to continue to grow as a person so that someday when I pass to the next life, my family can be proud and grateful for who I was.

So, sex remains my specialty, but you see now why I look at it in so much deeper and broader terms than the physical. Physical beauty is a wonderful thing to be enjoyed and celebrated, but spiritual, mental, emotional beauty matter even more. And while physical beauty fades over time, these other sorts of beauty grow richer every day, every year. I’m sure as the years pass, rather than leaving the erotic behind as I age, I will understand it better and better.

And will certainly continue to blab about all I learn to you!

Egotism is Not Sexy

I usually don’t hop on the “American Idol” viewers’ bandwagon until later in the season, but this week I checked out the show and saw most of the female Top 12 perform. I haven’t seen the men yet, but I hope they have their egos more in check than their female counterparts.

Several of the contestants, when critiqued by Simon, Randy and Paula, obviously bristled under the criticism. A couple of them expressed a sort of “this is me, don’t tell me to change” attitude. They seemed to think it more important to have rock-steady self-assurance than to be able to apply the advice of wiser, more experienced people.

Obviously it takes great self-confidence to be an American Idol contestant, but to my mind that’s no excuse. Especially when two of the best performers, Melinda and LaKisha, both exhibited great humility and even a bit of shyness when talking to the judges and Ryan. They proved it’s possible to be humble and self-effacing and still turn in a barn-burning performance.

Interestingly, Melinda and LaKisha are also not the most physically attractive of the bunch. This suggests to me (1) they had more talent to offer and didn’t need to be drop-dead gorgeous, and (2) some of the others may have made the cut partly due to looks. Simon made more than one disparaging comment about how contestants were attempting to ride on good looks alone. It was refreshing to hear commentary that emphasized the value of talent over physical appearance, especially applied to women.

And frankly, LaKisha and Melinda’s attitude and demeanor made them more attractive. There were a couple of girls that I found very cute until they opened their mouths to disparage the judges. Their physical appeal suddenly paled in the light of their arrogance. These women need to realize, egotism is not sexy.

One performance I found particularly telling. Alaina performed The Pretenders’ “Brass in Pocket.” As soon as the song started up, I wondered, why would anyone choose a song like this, that gives so little opportunity to demonstrate your vocal skills? It’s more about rhythm than melody. But in the post-performance exchange, I began to suspect the reason: Alaina was attracted to the “I’m special” theme of the song, and wanted to exhibit the exuberant cockiness it expresses.

That, in microcosm, was the problem demonstrated by some of the women that night. Great performances are not achieved by attitude, but by talent. It seemed too many of them were more proud of their attitudes than their singing abilities. When you feel that way, the problem is that you are putting your own opinion above that of others: you’re saying, “I don’t care what you think of me, I think I’m fabulous!” And if you don’t care if you please other people, you are going to fail as a performer—unless the only audience you want is yourself.

Here’s an idea: Attractiveness—and sexiness, if you will—comes from thinking about and caring about others. You can take pride in your abilities, but you should also recognize that it is the value your abilities bring to others that give them worth. The joy of listening to Melinda’s and LaKisha’s performances was a true gift these women gave to their audience. And to my mind, that makes them both very beautiful and truly sexy.

Why Women Don't Feel Sexy

Sorry to have another sort of negative post so soon, but I have a feeling there are quite a few women out there who will relate to my point today.

A sure-fire way to get a man to not even try competing in a certain field is to demonstrate to him he doesn’t stand a chance. For example, what guy who knows he can’t run for more than two minutes is going to sign up for the Chicago Marathon? What guy who knows he’s all thumbs is going to try to build a curio cabinet from scratch? What guy who isn’t very good at math would aspire to a career as a CPA?

Unfortunately, there is a lesson similar to this built into much of our culture, a lesson which women must deal with on a daily basis. The lesson we learn from TV, movies, magazines, and of course advertising everywhere, is that to be attractive to men sexually you must be gorgeous, thin, appealingly dressed, and able to flirt. Now this message is only true to a degree, I’ll admit, but the problem is, men being the way they are (primarily aroused by the visual), there is a certain degree of biological truth operating here.

One would like to think that over time, and with the influences of women’s liberation and such like, this situation would be improving. I’m not sure how much it has. Over the past week I’ve seen a couple films from the past two years, and one from the 50s, and it’s remarkable how some things never change.

In 2006’s “The Last Kiss,” a romantic drama starring Zack Braff, a young man is tempted away from a committed relationship by a sexy co-ed. Throughout the film we are exposed to very few female characters: the co-ed, who uses her body to acquire affection; a young mother who is driving her husband away by her constant whining about the baby; and Zack’s girlfriend, who we are told is “a wonderful woman” but doesn’t demonstrate any particular interests, abilities, or character traits. The men in the film are all interested basically in finding and sleeping with women they find sexy (secondary characters who are all, of course, gorgeous).

In 2005’s “Lord of War,” Nicolas Cage plays an arms dealer with a trophy wife. In this film, apart from the protagonist’s mother, all the women are there for sex and beauty as well. Nicolas’s wife serves no purpose but to fulfill his fantasy of a gorgeous mate, and she herself admits it at one point. The other females in the film are prostitutes (and much too pretty to be prostitutes, if you ask me).

Meanwhile, I watched 1956’s “Forbidden Planet,” the classic Disney-produced sci fi adventure with Leslie Nielsen and Anne Francis. To a viewer of today, the blatant sexual-objectification of Anne Francis’s character is jarring. The sex-starved team of astronauts leer at her, and innuendo flies as only could happen in the 50’s and early 60’s.

But as uncomfortable as it is to watch a film like “Forbidden Planet” today, it’s really just another era’s treatment of the same phenomenon that thrives in 2007. We see again and again, men interested in women simply for sex, and therefore only interested in those women that are beautiful, thin, and sexily-clad.

How discouraging.

I remember a few months back reading a support group bulletin board where women who had found porn on their husbands’ computers had posted about their feelings. A couple of ladies talked about looking at these photos and concluding “I just can’t compete with that.” Indeed, any non-self-deluded woman in today’s culture is going to draw that conclusion on an almost daily basis.

So, with so much telling us that we can’t compete in the arena of sex, it can get hard sometimes to be motivated to try, like the guy who can’t run for two minutes contemplating doing a marathon. It certainly does nothing to inspire the libido! And it’s a shame, too, because for the most part, our “role models” as sexy women are sheer fantasies, rare in number, air-brushed, and unhealthy. We couldn’t be like them even if we should, which we shouldn’t.

But in the meantime, we have no genuine role models when it comes to healthy sexiness. While men can achieve sexiness by emulating the courageous, interesting, successful, smart, funny, not-necessarily-good-looking guys portrayed in popular media, what are women supposed to do?

I think the best thing we can do is try to ignore the whole mess and simply be ourselves. Genuine female sexiness comes from the heart and soul, not from the cosmetic counter, the Victoria’s Secret catalog, or the bottle of diet pills. I can think of one example from pop culture that I think exemplifies this, and that’s Tina Fey’s character Liz Lemon on “30 Rock.” Liz isn’t trying to do anything but be herself and run a comedy show, and she manages to be quite sexy anyway, thank you very much.

My dear husband assures me that however moronic men act sometimes about attractive women, they aren’t all as shallow as that. He says the average guy doesn’t really possess such impossible standards, and can be turned on by love and respect as well as by beauty. That’s good news.

Now if we could only get the media to send that message occasionally, it would be a lot easier for us ordinary women to get sexy.

Soulful Sex: The Fantasy Collection Released!

I just wanted to let readers of Erotica with Soul know, my new book Soulful Sex: The Fantasy Collection was just published and is available in pdf, lit and Mobipocket ebook formats. The book contains three spicy novellas with fantasy 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 month LBR Press will be publishing the paperback version of my three anthologies combined: Soulful Sex: The Paranormal, Science Fiction and Fantasy Collections.

When Sex Comes Last

“To everything there is a season,” it says in the Old Testament book of Ecclesiastes, and in every life there are periods when a lot goes wrong and the human spirit goes into survival mode. By necessity, those aspects of life that aren’t key to simply getting through the day, may get short shrift. People under stress neglect certain things, and one of those, classically, is sex.

It certainly seems that this winter has been a rough one for many people I know. One of my dear friends was struck by the triple threat of ill health, a car accident, and harassment from extended family. Another close friend had has much terrible turmoil in her family due to disease and loss of life. Meanwhile, I myself have been in a long struggle these past months with the failing health of both my parents.

Even the news around here seems to mirror these troubles: from the bizarre stories of the astronaut love triangle to the death of Anna Nicole Smith. Meanwhile, Wisconsin has been plunged into a vicious cold snap, and we are happy if the temps get up into two digits.

To top it all off, it’s almost tax time!

These are the times when a person simply tries to cope, and sex takes a back seat. Not a good thing if you are an erotic romance author…not even so good if you’re not! But that’s the way life goes, and it’s no use beating yourself up over it when you have other fish to fry.

I suspect, however, that even in times like these, the libido is not hibernating, but merely contributing its energy to more urgent causes. I believe that the same spirit that compels us to mate, to procreate, and to pursue sexual pleasure, also inspires us to fight to sustain the life and happiness of ourselves and others. For humans possess more than the drive to stay alive. We also want quality of life, we want to pursue joy and to help others do likewise.

While at times like these we take things “one day at a time,” just trying to get from one crisis to the next in one piece, deep down inside there still dwells that spirit that clings to the hope of far more. It’s not your common conception of “sex drive,” but in my opinion it springs from the same source.

During the past couple of weeks, which have been particularly challenging for me, I have been rereading Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre. It has been a long time since I read this marvelous novel, a lifelong favorite of mine. I find it the perfect accompaniment to the events happening lately: a truly gothic novel that, while dark, sometimes sinister, sometimes tragic, still has at its center the passionate love of two vibrant characters who are in the determined pursuit of happiness. Jane Eyre is far from an erotic romance, as far as my life seems from that at the moment. But at the same time, the heart of the novel beats with yearning, passion, and sexual love surpassed by few fictional works.

Just so, I know that heart still beats inside of me, and when better days come, will revive itself again. If it happened for Jane and Mr. Rochester, it will most certainly happen for me and for you.

Whatever Turns You On

Never a week goes by that I’m not reminded of the challenge of writing fiction with any kind of erotic element. Unfortunately, sex is an arena that is more individually personalized than any other aspect of psychology. What turns one person on can not only do nothing for another, it may actually turn that person off.

We are aroused by different circumstances, different environments. We all have particular “types,” and may or may not share them. Finding common ground can be very difficult, and forget about finding someone exactly like you. Is there anyone other than me out there who is attracted to the same set of men I have blogged about here (say, Admiral Adama, Mr. Tumnus, Survivorman Les Stroud AND Jim Halpert from “The Office”)? Anyone who worships (chastely of course) John Williams while also lusting after an assortment of hockey players? Anyone who loves sex scenes but is no fan of C-words? How about anyone who enjoys the occasional “movie for mommies and daddies who love each other,” but finds the usual erotic book cover—naked torso of ripped guy—completely unappealing?

Anybody out there scoring 100% with me? Didn’t think so!

Okay, here’s a good example of how very particular we can be about our arousal triggers. A number of years ago I read Anne Rice’s Sleeping Beauty Trilogy, because I was a big fan of her vampire books and also liked reading erotica. For those unfamiliar, these three books are intensely S&M in character. I’m not saying they aren’t well written, and I’m sure hold great appeal for many in the D/s community, but they were not especially erotic to me…more icky, actually.

However, I’ve always been very intrigued by dominance and submission. Taken to a certain degree, it’s one of my biggest turn-ons. I’ve read a couple of the current popular authors in the D/s genre, and while the sex scenes were too extreme to me, I did find the elements at play very interesting. Meanwhile the D/s movie “Secretary,” with James Spader and Maggie Gyllenhaal, was one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen. And I had a wonderful time writing my novella “The Scarlet Shackle,” although the content was not acceptable to my publisher at that time (it’s now offered by the Living Beyond Reality Press READ FREE Project, if you are interested). It is very mild D/s, but has appealed to many over the past couple years and even been endorsed by a popular D/s website. See? Some hate it, some love it.

My point is, even on this one issue—dominance and submission—there is a spectrum, and a person falls into a very narrow band upon that spectrum. The D/s fiction I enjoy may be horrifying to you, or far too tame. Ditto every other approach to sex.

It’s for this reason that I’ve hesitated to leave behind the short story/novella fiction length. I’m always hopeful that by including three to twelve tales in a book, so that even if the reader isn’t crazy about one, hopefully they will enjoy another. I know this from experience, from buying erotic anthologies over the years: there’s one or two stories in the book that are really arousing, and the rest will probably just be interesting, with one or two clunkers in there that just do nothing for me at all.

But a person can make herself crazy trying to write original, interesting fiction that includes sex. Is there enough, or too much? Will it be hot enough for people who demand “dirty words,” while not turning off the more sensitive? If I make the hero the computer geek sort of guy I’m attracted to, will I lose 95% of my audience immediately? If he’s nice will the bad boy lovers hate him; if he’s bad will he lose the reader’s sympathy?

And you wouldn’t believe what an issue it becomes even deciding if the label “erotic” is appropriate!

Long story short, fiction is no substitute for individual imagination. When a person invents a sexual fantasy for herself, it is custom-made. But when that person opens a romance book, unless it’s very formulaic and that reader is way into that formula, it becomes a total crap shoot. Naturally I write what arouses me. Whenever I get into an argument with myself about how much a particular passage or story is going to arouse someone else, I’m lost in the quicksand in no time. You just can’t even shoot for that goal.

Although I’m getting the impression if I wrote about some office guy who looked just like Jim Halpert, an awful lot of you would like it!

Poem: I Still Want to Kiss You

Sure I still want to kiss you—some things never change.
(Though I don’t really miss you, and we both feel estranged.)
Sure, I still feel the wanting when I look in your eyes…
like a mystical haunting I can’t exorcize.

Time goes by, time heals all, and I don’t miss the pain;
I don’t miss the pall you could cast on my brain.
But I still want to kiss you, I won’t try to deny,
and I still want to hold you, though I can’t say quite why.

It might be only the particular blue
of your eyes, or merely the certain hue
of your hair, so familiar, of which I’m so fond
that make me consider restoring the bond.

Why don’t these remind me of tears that I shed?
I should be resigned, be determined instead
To remember the hurt and to keep you at bay,
Besides, I’m quite certain that you think that way.

So I’ll hide what I’m feeling, and you’ll do the same,
and we’ll keep right on playing our nice little game;
both relieved that the days of anguish are over,
both set in our ways of ignoring each other.

But I still want to kiss you—some emotions won’t die—
and I just can’t quite see you as any old guy.
So I guess I have got to just leave it at this:
you’re the man I forgot, but I still want to kiss.

Blushing as I Write

Needless to say, writing about sex is something not everyone is comfortable doing. I would venture to say that even those of us who do it professionally are not always comfortable doing it. When I spoke at the Romantic Times Booklovers Convention last year, I was amused to hear my fellow erotica panel members discuss how they constantly find themselves using words they would never be able to say out loud. Every now and then I field a proposal from an audio book company, and I turn them down every time...just not sure this is the kind of material anyone wants playing in their car.

Now, as fans of my writing know, I write the “tamest” and most tasteful erotic romance around. A few people over the years have suggested it isn’t even erotic, in fact. I don’t do any classic “dirty talking.” Nevertheless, I do write plainly about sex, and to do so, you really have to get into the characters heads as well as their beds. It’s a little like method acting, I guess. I literally have to get into character and imagine precisely what it would be like being in this situation, with this particular other person. I have to find what it is about the situation that inspires passion and focus on it. I have to feel what the characters would feel, hear what they would say to each other, and literally share in their arousal. Yes, literally—of course. And then I have to find a way to convey it all in words that will speak to the reader’s imagination graphically enough so he or she feels it all too.

You know what sex is like: you’ve experienced attraction, temptation, arousal, embarrassment, bliss, satisfaction, regret, contentment. Well, all those things also happen to an author when that person writes erotic fiction. Sometimes you find yourself quite averse to the idea of writing a sex scene in three pages, but what unfolds in the story literally seduces you. You go from, say, anxious and preoccupied, to completely focused on physical pleasure.

And sometimes, frankly, it’s embarrassing. No, I’m not talking about writing a passage so hot your husband catches you masturbating at the keyboard. (Now that I mention that...I wonder if it’s ever happened to any of my ebook reading fans. Interesting thought...) What I mean is, loss of self-control tends to be embarrassing, and when you write erotic fiction this frequently happens. You have to make sure it happens, or the scene won’t be authentic. I mean, if this guy you created can’t turn you on, he sure as hell isn’t going to do it for the heroine or the reader.

So imagine yourself the last time you were really, dizzyingly aroused. Now imagine having to write down whatever comes into your head while in that condition. NOW imagine having other people read that stuff—your husband, your best friend, your daughter or your mom. (Yes, in my life they have. Yikes.) See? Embarrassing.

And yet, not shameful. I won’t ever write anything that would make me feel ashamed to have people read who actually know me. I have a conviction that while sex is definitely a private thing (and it’s embarrassing sometimes because to the erotica writer it is no longer private), it is definitely NOT a shameful thing. Ideally, it’s healthy, wonderful, and a lot of what makes life worth living. It’s what makes flowers bloom, painters paint, the sun shine, and singers sing. I’m really quite proud that writing about it is a lot of what I do.

But it can still be embarrassing. I mean, for example, anyone who reads my novella Gift of Flesh—the scene when Naissun climaxes over Miakaela and she thinks, “Welcome death, beautiful, beautiful death”—that that was how I sincerely felt about him when I wrote the scene, all hot and panting as I typed. I put this intense stuff out there for total strangers (and worse still, friends and co-workers) to read.

It’s a dirty job, but somebody’s got to do it. :-)