WARNING—This isn’t a G-rated post. Please refrain from continuing if you are easily offended. And if you’re offended at the conclusion—you were warned so shut up.
It’s February: The season of love and romance. Or as some may think of it: the Oh-shit-what-am-I-gonna-get-my-girl month. No matter the position—top or bottom—hopefully everyone gets what they want/need this month. Which brings me to an intriguing point in terms of why I read what I read and what I seek out in a novel: Sweet or Spicy? Now, keep in mind that—as always—I make no judgments. Some like it hot. Some like it sweet. And however you like your meat, baby, I just hope you get it.
As for me? I not only read hot, I write hot. For me, the success of a love scene depends on whether or not I wanna throw down and go get me some at the conclusion of it. I like it explicit. Not clinical—I save that for the gynecologist. And not flowery—that’s for love poetry. I want the author to make me feel what that character is going through. I need to experience—transcend my own existence at the moment, if you will—what the character feels. I want that shivery sensation tracking from the base of my brain all the way down my spine until it wraps around my tailbone, arrows through my tenders and sends me straight through the stratosphere. I need the scent of spiced whiskey in my lungs, the hot sweep of a tongue along the side of my neck. Strong white teeth nibbling a trail to my breasts until they close around the aching peak of my nipple and bite—that—much—harder—until I beg for more. A firm callused hand kneading the flesh of my ghetto booty, priming it before giving it a swift and sure smack that rips my attention away from the glory happening above and focuses my attention on the quivering slice of…
But I forget myself. As I usually do. And that’s the whole fucking point, dear reader. No matter how you like it, the writer’s sole purpose is to transport you into another realm, a separate world, a completely different reference of being. And if that doesn’t happen, you either haven’t found your niche as a reader or you’re not delving deep enough as an author.
Go forth. Make some magic happen. In my opinion, as long as everyone wins, it’s golden.
Now that I’ve had my metaphorical cigarette, how do you like yours?