This book has been out for a while, but I stumbled across it for the first time today while visiting
the blog Rubis Bleu. Who knew writing romance was so easy? I’m starting mine today. (Speaking of which, am I the only one for whom the phrase "her heaving breasts" conjures images of breasts vomiting or throwing themselves overboard?)
Speaking of Rubis Blue, she posts an example of the kind of email an attentive man ought to leave his lover "the morning after." To start with, just the notion of sending your lover a morning after email made me feel old. Email didn’t exist when I was dating. And if it did, it would have struck me as an awfully impersonal way of saying how special the previous night had been. Even so…on to her example:
"…and you make those incredibly arousing
whimpering sounds as your body shakes. Then you kiss me hard with this
overflowing passion pressing yourself against me. Especially if I start
out by teasing your lips first, just barely grazing them, flicking them
with my tongue, watching your arms straining against my hand as I hold
you down. Your eyes with that hungry, burning look in them. I felt how
hard your nipples were and how your body trembled. I just wanted to see
you. To slowly pull all of your clothes off. Watch your chest rise and
fall. To feel your thighs, your smooth skin, all the way up. Bite the
insides of your legs while feeling your hips rising under my hand. You
are beautiful. You taste so soft, warm, and sweet. You have no idea how
much I wanted to take you."
I think if I left that note on my wife’s pillow, back in prehistoric times before she was my wife and email didn’t exist, I don’t think it would have aroused her or touched her. I think it would have made her laugh her ass off.
Then again, maybe I will leave her a note like that. She loves it when I make her laugh.
UPDATE (3/23/05) Sarah Weinman unearthed this wonderful post on the blog "The Sum of Me" about how over-heated sex scenes in romance novels did little to prepare one avid reader for the pleasures, and disappointments, of "real" sex.
In romance novels, it’s not uncommon for the heroine – or hero,
even – to actually faint with pleasure. Like, without the aid of drugs.
Passed out cold because the orgasm was that good.
And then they IMMEDIATELY HAVE SEX AGAIN.
This, apparently, is how you can tell if it’s true love.
is also called "fiction" — and reality was a bit of a let-down for a
girl who gobbled up this stuff for years. I think my (rather hilarious)
reaction to the real deal can best be summed up as: "Holy SHIT is that
good stuff, hooo boy." And then a dawning realization and an overall
feeling of – "It IS great. . . but it’s only great? I mean –
plate tectonics never came into play. I’m still conscious. The
bedsheets are not reduced to ashes and no suns have gone supernova,
from what I can tell… are you sure we did it right?"