Honestly, I have never read much romance or erotica. Not much romance, because I'm a cynic and simply cannot suspend the necessary disbelief to swallow most of it. Not much erotica, because I'd rather have great sex than read about it.
You wanna get me all hot and bothered, give me a good story. It can be romantic, it can be erotic, it can be about unicorns playing soccer on Mars -- but it has to have a GOOD STORY.
And a good story, for me, is not one that follows a predictable formula, or strains credulity to the point of doing permanent damage to the psyche.
When I started writing "Red," I felt I should read some of the books out there already.
Now, I may not have written a lot of erotica, but I have a lifetime of experience with sex. A lot of sex. I've had more than my fair share of men, and probably your share, too. I was ruled off limits by an entire fraternity house at Georgia Tech, for Christ's sake, because I was started a fight between a brother and a pledge over who was gonna take me home one night.
So, take my word for it — I know about sex.
And I know that no one is a natural at blow jobs.
I'm sorry, there's no amount of water-boarding in the world that can make me believe than an inexperienced virgin can immediately start deep-throating the massive penis of the hero (because Lord knows, the hero's meat rocket is ALWAYS massive) until his brain explodes in the most fabulous orgasm of his life.
Yet I've read three books in the last month where the shy young girl steps out of a convent and falls (in an adorably klutzy manner) at the feet of an obscenely gorgeous and sexy millionaire. He smiles at her with those dazzling blue/dark/green/grey eyes and suddenly, she's on her knees swallowing his sword like Belladonna on speed.
This really pisses me off because, honestly, it's insulting to those of us who have spent a lifetime honing our oral skills.
It takes a least twenty or thirty blow jobs just to get comfortable with the one-eyed trouser snake in the first place. At least, this is true for the ladies; I'm sure gay men have a headstart because they have their own equipment to play with. They don't have to get past that urge to giggle just because it looks so funny in its flaccid state.
It takes a woman a little time just to learn to handle the darned thing with confidence. Not having one of our own, we aren't sure how firmly to grasp it. How much pressure is enough, or too little? Is handling the balls okay? Is the skin supposed to slide back and forth like that? Is there actually a bone in there? What if you accidentally break it?
And all that is before you even put it in your mouth. Cause be honest, in the beginning, you kept thinking, "He pees with this thing, and I'm putting it in my mouth." Ewww. You also have to get past the tastes and smells of sweaty balls and sometimes even -- brace yourself -- the faintest whiffs of doo-doo from the neighboring anus.
Those sounds he's making -- do they mean he's enjoying himself or is he wincing in pain because you accidentally scraped him with your teeth?
(Never mind the fact that you only scraped him with your teeth because the idiot got excited and started pushing your head down on it like he was trying to unblock your sinuses with his penis.)
Then there's the whole issue of saliva and drool. You have to get past the idea that drooling is unattractive and accept that the more drooling and slurping you do, the better it feels to the recipient.
An early learning experience of mine: drinking too much beer = cotton mouth = BAD BLOW JOB.
There is a fine art to the rhythm of sucking and breathing at the same time, kinda like juggling. It takes some practice, as does not vomiting all over your date when the head of his cock hits your epiglottis.
To swallow, or not to swallow? And why does it taste that way?
Then there are the random elaborations. Like cum getting in your eye. It stings like a mother.
The finger up the poop chute. Learning to file your nails and use some lube before trying that bright idea again.
The true mark of a dedicated cocksucker? Being able to swallow your own vomit without missing a beat, even when snot is dripping from your nose and your eyes are runny and your knees are killing you, and you have cramp in your neck, and you're dizzy from lack of oxygen and you just want to scream, OH FOR GOD'S SAKE CUM ALREADY!!!!
But you can't, of course, because your momma told you never talk with your mouth full.
See? This is why I can't write romantic erotica. I've done too much of the real thing, in all it's sweaty, smelly, realistic glory.
You wanna get me all hot and bothered, give me a good story. It can be romantic, it can be erotic, it can be about unicorns playing soccer on Mars -- but it has to have a GOOD STORY.
And a good story, for me, is not one that follows a predictable formula, or strains credulity to the point of doing permanent damage to the psyche.
When I started writing "Red," I felt I should read some of the books out there already.
Now, I may not have written a lot of erotica, but I have a lifetime of experience with sex. A lot of sex. I've had more than my fair share of men, and probably your share, too. I was ruled off limits by an entire fraternity house at Georgia Tech, for Christ's sake, because I was started a fight between a brother and a pledge over who was gonna take me home one night.
So, take my word for it — I know about sex.
And I know that no one is a natural at blow jobs.
I'm sorry, there's no amount of water-boarding in the world that can make me believe than an inexperienced virgin can immediately start deep-throating the massive penis of the hero (because Lord knows, the hero's meat rocket is ALWAYS massive) until his brain explodes in the most fabulous orgasm of his life.
Yet I've read three books in the last month where the shy young girl steps out of a convent and falls (in an adorably klutzy manner) at the feet of an obscenely gorgeous and sexy millionaire. He smiles at her with those dazzling blue/dark/green/grey eyes and suddenly, she's on her knees swallowing his sword like Belladonna on speed.
This really pisses me off because, honestly, it's insulting to those of us who have spent a lifetime honing our oral skills.
It takes a least twenty or thirty blow jobs just to get comfortable with the one-eyed trouser snake in the first place. At least, this is true for the ladies; I'm sure gay men have a headstart because they have their own equipment to play with. They don't have to get past that urge to giggle just because it looks so funny in its flaccid state.
It takes a woman a little time just to learn to handle the darned thing with confidence. Not having one of our own, we aren't sure how firmly to grasp it. How much pressure is enough, or too little? Is handling the balls okay? Is the skin supposed to slide back and forth like that? Is there actually a bone in there? What if you accidentally break it?
And all that is before you even put it in your mouth. Cause be honest, in the beginning, you kept thinking, "He pees with this thing, and I'm putting it in my mouth." Ewww. You also have to get past the tastes and smells of sweaty balls and sometimes even -- brace yourself -- the faintest whiffs of doo-doo from the neighboring anus.
Those sounds he's making -- do they mean he's enjoying himself or is he wincing in pain because you accidentally scraped him with your teeth?
(Never mind the fact that you only scraped him with your teeth because the idiot got excited and started pushing your head down on it like he was trying to unblock your sinuses with his penis.)
Then there's the whole issue of saliva and drool. You have to get past the idea that drooling is unattractive and accept that the more drooling and slurping you do, the better it feels to the recipient.
An early learning experience of mine: drinking too much beer = cotton mouth = BAD BLOW JOB.
There is a fine art to the rhythm of sucking and breathing at the same time, kinda like juggling. It takes some practice, as does not vomiting all over your date when the head of his cock hits your epiglottis.
To swallow, or not to swallow? And why does it taste that way?
Then there are the random elaborations. Like cum getting in your eye. It stings like a mother.
The finger up the poop chute. Learning to file your nails and use some lube before trying that bright idea again.
The true mark of a dedicated cocksucker? Being able to swallow your own vomit without missing a beat, even when snot is dripping from your nose and your eyes are runny and your knees are killing you, and you have cramp in your neck, and you're dizzy from lack of oxygen and you just want to scream, OH FOR GOD'S SAKE CUM ALREADY!!!!
But you can't, of course, because your momma told you never talk with your mouth full.
See? This is why I can't write romantic erotica. I've done too much of the real thing, in all it's sweaty, smelly, realistic glory.
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