Contrary Fantasies - #opposites #tropes #chemistry

By Lisabet Sarai

Opposites attract.

We’ve all heard the saying, dozens of times. But is it true?

In real life, I have my doubts. However, the trope has abiding popularity, especially in the romance genre. The impoverished but virtuous serving wench wins the heart of the wealthy, titled rake. The mousy office temp catches the eye of the billionaire CEO. The virgin librarian finds herself swept up in the hedonistic world of the rock idol. The sophisticated city gal moves out west, only to end up with the gruff, unpolished (but rugged and handsome) cowboy.

Hey, I plead guilty to using the device myself. In Challenge to Him, set in the first decade of the twenty century, my heroine Olivia is a liberated, intellectual labor activist. Somehow she finds love with a robber baron whose riches depend on the oppressed masses. Theo, in The Gazillionaire and the Virgin, is a surly, sexually-inexperienced recluse who grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. Yet he manages to snag the affection of extroverted, media-savvy Silicon Valley hotshot Rachel, who’s had dozens of lovers.

The attraction of opposites shows up in a lot of erotica, too. In these stories, “opposite” often means unfamiliar, forbidden, even dangerous. A buttoned up career woman ends up with her back against the brick wall of an alley, being fucked without mercy by a luridly tatooed biker. A hen-pecked husband takes a risk and hires a glamorous, seductive high class hooker for a night. A petite, Caucasian woman gives in to her craving for a huge, well-hung Black man. In my erotic story “Muse”, a popular author of erotic romance discovers she’s being stalked by the scruffy janitor of her apartment building – and that he’s exactly the sort of stern and demanding Master she has secretly craved all her life.

Why does the “opposites attract” trope work so well in erotic fiction? To be honest, I think we’re trading on everyone’s contrary fantasies. The sexual grass is always greener over on the neighbor’s lawn. We imagine how exciting love and lust could be, if it were somehow different from what we actually experience. Nothing seems hotter than sex with a stranger — a real stranger, someone from a totally different world, with a different background, different expectations, different tastes. (Perhaps this explains the popularity of alien abduction!)

For the romantically-inclined, there’s another angle to consider. In the most satisfying romance, love conquers all. It bridges gaps, heals divisions, harmonizes even the most extreme differences. The greater the disparity between the protagonists, the more impressive and affecting we find love’s ultimate triumph.

Fiction is designed to entertain, to enlighten, to provide cathartic identification with the characters. It’s exciting, fascinating and novel to fantasize about loving (or fucking) the Other.

In the real world, though — well, at least in my personal experience — I’m not likely to be attracted to someone who is truly opposite to me. I’m never going to be drawn to a rap musician who sings about beating up his bitches. I can’t imagine connecting with a rabid sports fan, or someone who spends six hours a day in the gym, or, to be honest, with a millionaire. I just couldn’t communicate with people whose priorities were so different from mine — and great sex, even for one night, depends on communication as much as on chemistry.

All of my serious relationships and most of my casual encounters have involved people with whom I had quite a lot in common: educational level, intellect, values, and interests. Most of my lovers have cared more about books than money, more about world peace than basketball, more about new experiences than new things.

I do believe in biologically-based attraction. There have been a few times in my life when I’ve been inexplicably drawn to someone who seemed all wrong, a panoply of opposites. Usually it turned out that he or she was wrong for me, the chemistry spoiled by a persistent lack of comfort.

Hence, I tend to be skeptical when people claim that opposites attract. Except, of course, in books.

Sex without bodies? #SexInSpace #SciFi #Menage

By Lisabet Sarai

I’ve been away for the past three days, without Internet, so I’m really late putting up this post. Furthermore, I’m going to cheat a bit, handling our new topic “Sex in Space” by posting an excerpt from my scifi ménage Bodies of Light.

I wrote this tale about the sole survivor of a starship crashing into two alien energy beings in order to explore the idea that one could enjoy sex without having any body at all. Personally, I’ve always felt that my arousal and pleasure began in my mind and flowed outward. In this story, I push that notion as far as I can.

Bodies of Light Blurb

Physicist Dr. Christine Monroe has devoted her lonely life to research on hyper-space travel. Her continued failure leads her to sign on to the Archimedes, a sub-light-speed mission aimed at establishing a colony in the Sirius B system. Waking from suspended animation, she discovers that the ship is wildly off course and the rest of the crew are dead due to equipment failure. At first she thinks the two handsome strangers who show up on the ship are figments of her imagination - erotic hallucinations created by isolation and stress. However, Alyn and Zed are solid, real, and ready to sacrifice their lives for the strong woman they’ve found stranded in deep space. As her ship begins to disintegrate, Christine must choose between the planet she was sent to save and the two alien beings she’s come to cherish.

He cupped his hands in front of his chest, about six inches apart, as though he were holding a ball the size of a grapefruit. “Relax. Take deep, slow breaths,” he told her. “Focus on the space between my palms.”

Christine struggled to let go of the arousal that was raising her pulse rate and making her pant. She closed her eyes for a moment to centre herself, then followed Zed’s instructions. Initially she saw nothing but Zed’s burnished muscles through the gap between his hands. Before long, though, she noticed that the empty space was occupied by a faint glow. The light brightened gradually and congealed into three luminous strands that twined together, rotating at a stately pace in an ascending spiral. The filaments were born near his wrists, coiled upward and disappeared at his fingertips, in a smooth, endless flow.

“Concentrate on the light,” Zed murmured. “Follow the light.”

The slow-moving helix fascinated her. Her eyes traced its path as it emerged out of nowhere, rose and vanished. At first the streaks of brightness appeared pure white, but as she focused she noticed tiny flecks of colour: amethyst in one, gold in another, ruby in the third. Like jewel dust the motes danced in the beams until they reached the upper limit and winked out of existence.

She could feel Alyn’s presence, off to her left, and could sense his concern. She knew Zed was watching her with those piercing jet eyes. Willing herself not to look at them, she trained her full attention on the hypnotic pillar of light. She dove into it, circling endlessly upward, spiralling into non-existence at the apex then regenerating at the base.

Christine forgot the two men. There was only the light, swirling, pulsing, drawing her ever deeper. The light rippled through her like pure water. The strands curled around her like laughter. Golden flames licked at her flesh without burning. Fingers of brightness soothed and teased her, kindling shimmers of delight.

“Christine!” Her name was a bolt of radiance, arrowing through the glow. “We are here with you.” It was true—their auras mingled with hers. Sparkling ribbons of silver and copper wreathed her presence, a crimson crystal beating in the velvet darkness. She knew them—Zed and Alyn, her attentive, untiring lovers—but now she saw how their gorgeous man-shapes were mere shells. Their full glory would have blinded her, if she had eyes. In her present state, unfettered by the limitations of her poor human senses, she saw them as they truly were: perfect, ageless, unutterably beautiful.

“I did it,” she said, or thought, or sang. Pride twined purple through the rainbow emotions that swirled around them. “Now I understand.” In their shared universe of flickering luminescence, she reached out to draw them closer.

“Lover,” came a bell-like song she recognised as Alyn. “Now we can truly be together.” His caress woke fireworks. Without a body, she felt the pleasure everywhere. It was searing heat, aching fullness, marvellous tension, buoyant joy.

“Darling.” Zed was a rich chord arcing through her, a rain of sparks that made her tingle and glow. He brought wetness, tightness, electric twinges that burned through her. The sensations recalled physical responses despite her disembodiment, except for their overwhelming intensity. She swelled and throbbed with need, wanting her lovers closer, inside her somehow, though she didn’t know how this could be possible. Before she could voice her desire, she felt their energy encircle and penetrate hers. Multi-hued pleasure exploded in her consciousness.

“Touch us,” Alyn sang, winding through her, drilling into her core.

“Open us,” Zed hummed, flowering incandescent at her centre. “Your mind is limitless.”

She reached into the luminous emptiness and allowed her thoughts to mesh with theirs. Now she thrilled with their sensations and emotions as well as her own. The connection should have been shocking, but somehow it felt completely natural. Alyn’s shy hunger and Zed’s raw lust seasoned her own arousal. The pleasure that shivered through them as she danced in their minds rocked her senses as well. Delight reflected back and forth. Each of them mirrored and amplified the others’ ecstasy.

Below these present-focused elements, Christine caught echoes of the aliens’ age-old pain and loneliness. She gathered Alyn and Zed into her self, singing liquid songs of comfort. Love wove its way into their shared tapestry of feeling, gleaming pure white among the lustrous strands of scarlet, emerald, turquoise and amber.

Jesus was an Alien & my Minister was an Atheist

by Giselle Renarde

My girlfriend believes that Jesus was an alien.

If you say to her, "Hey, Sweet, do you believe that Jesus was an alien?" she'll say no, no, no, not really. But you'll notice a glint in her eye, and if you know her as well as I do, you'll realize she's not being entirely honest with you.

She'll go on to say "for argument's sake" that it's entirely possible Jesus was an alien. "I mean, if someone from 200 years in the past were to see you using modern technology, they would think it was some kind of magic, right? Jesus is reputed to have performed all these miracles. Isn't it possible he just came from a more advanced civilization--whether that be from Earth's future, from another planet, or, more likely, from another dimension? From a race of beings that could adapt their physical forms to look human?"

Clearly, she's contemplated this topic quite a lot.

I haven't spent a great deal of my adult life thinking about Jesus, or religion in general. But when I was thirteen, religion was my bag, man! I loved reading about religion. Religions. I never read the Bible, but the Ramayana? Yup. The Bhagavad Gita? Check. I would peruse the shelf of sacred texts at the public library and read everything I could possibly understand.

And what did I understand as a thirteen-year-old? Excellent question. Probably more than I'd understand now. I feel like I've spent my entire adult life in an ever-quickening process of stupidification. I swear I used to be smarter than this.

But I digress.

There was a rule in my family, which came from a rule in my mom's family: kids go to the local United Church until they turn 14, at which point they can decide whether or not they want to continue attending.

That's why 13 was such a big year for me, religion-wise. This was a huge decision, something I took very seriously. Did I want to continue attending a Christian church? There were so many other religions in the world. Should I choose a different one?

My family wasn't churchy in the least. My father was too hung over to do much of anything on Sunday mornings. My mom "has always been a follower" (direct quote from my grandmother, there) so you could tell her pretty much anything and she'd buy into it. She only started taking me and my siblings to church in the first place because, when I was 6, I asked, "What is God?" and neither of my parents knew how to answer that question.

I don't remember my father's parents ever going to church, but I spent lots of time having deep philosophical conversations with my maternal grandparents: an atheist and an agnostic.

The only people in my family who really talked about God either questioned the existence of a divine entity, or staunchly disbelieved. (It was my grandfather's participation in WWII that convinced him God could not possibly exist, because a divine being would never allow the atrocities he witnessed to occur.)

As a kid, I was magnetically drawn to mysticism, and I really appreciate all the time my grandparents spent talking with me about this topic that seemed of vital and immediate importance. I didn't understand how all the other adults in my life could be so disinterested. If I asked my mom questions about God and spirituality and world religions, her eyes would glaze over and she'd tell me she never thought about those things. She wasn't interested in thinking about those things.

Now that I'm the age my mom would have been when I was asking all those questions, I get it. I experience spiritual joys, mostly interacting with the natural world, but spirituality is not something I actively think about or even attempt to process.

As a 13-year-old researching which religion was right for me, I ultimately decided... none. I felt that I was a spiritual entity, but I was just so put off by the massive corruption that seemed to accompany every organized religion I researched.

When I attended my childhood church later in my teens (I guess to keep an eye on the little ones or as a favour to my mother? I don't remember) there was a new minister, someone who has since become infamous as an author and atheist.

I remember her saying that Christianity wasn't the "right" religion. The United Church wasn't the "right" church. Different religions were right for different people, and any religion could be the right religion. It was up to the individual to use their religious beliefs to do good in the world, and not to use dogma as a tool of oppression.

Now I'm thinking: Right on! Sing it, sister!

But at the time, I thought... if my own minister doesn't believe this is the "right" religion, why should I?

When I turned fourteen, I decided to go it alone. One day I came across a word, "freethinker", and that sounded good to me. I wanted to be free to think and analyze and process the world against an internal sounding board, not a book or a building.

These days, if I'm asked to fill out demographic information, I check the box that says "No religious affiliations."

And that's fine. Authors are supposed to be all introspective and stuff, but I guess I've grown away from 13-year-old me. I just don't think about these things anymore.


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On another topic, can you believe I've written a novel's worth of blog posts here at The Grip over the past four years? That's a lot of words! So I've decided to package them up into themed ebooks for your reading pleasure (and the reading pleasure of people who don't tune in here). 

The first in the series is available now. It's free, but not forever, so if you've got friends who are committed to failure, tell them to grab a copy of How to Fail Miserably at Writing!

Disbelief

 

 

Spencer Dryden

 

Once again I was stuck on first sight. Disbelief. It's not a word I use regularly. I had to play around with it for a while before remembering suspension of disbelief. Oh yeah, that's a really important thing. They (that great mass of experts) say that suspension of disbelief is essential in writing science fiction. I think it is present in all fiction to some degree, and essential for daily living.

They (there they are again), they say that we are defined by our beliefs. Fanatics of all stripes like to recite beliefs boldly, loudly. Pledging allegiance is a good thing, most of the time, but I didn't know what 'pledge' or 'allegiance' was when I first learned to recite the bit.

For any of you who are old enough to remember, back in the fifties, when nuclear war seem inevitable, there was a movement to put permanent ID bracelets on all children. I can still see the bracelet.  The front had identifying information. The Pledge of Allegiance was on the back. I'm doing this from memory and not research, but as I recall, the Catholic Church had a fit, claiming it was the the feared mark of the beast from the Revelations (13:16). (No doubt there were other groups with similar reservations.) Secondly, a Roman Catholic in good standing could not embrace any organization that claimed affiliation with the almighty. We could not, for instance, belong to the YMCA or the Masons, because both secular organizations had ties to the deity. They (once again, that disembodied group) capitulated and made a special bracelet for Catholic kids that omitted the Pledge of Allegiance. The bracelets were also made removable, which defeated the whole purpose. Can you believe it? A little disbelief would have been in order.

Disbeliefs put order in our lives just like beliefs. I don't believe in zombies or vampires. I do believe in UFO's, alien encounters, and time travel.(As well as the Oxford comma, which I just demonstrated in the last sentence.) I don't believe in reincarnation, but I do believe there is a spiritual realm beyond, or just out of reach of this one. I do believe I have a muse. I try earnestly to disbelieve in critics-even when they are right. I embrace conspiracy theories for the sheer thrill of it. Unfortunately I don't believe the Masons rule the world, even though I want to. They let my brother in. He's a shrine clown who rides around on a go-cart, invading children's peaceful dreams. Maybe in that one sense Masons do rule the world, the world of our childhood fears. Who really likes clowns anyway-besides other clowns? (Sorry if offended any of you clowns, but stop scaring people will ya.)

I believe in the power of marketing. I only wish I was better at it. Talk about suspension of disbelief; the idea that long legged, narrow hipped, large busted women will love me for the beer I drink is a billion dollar delusion fostered by the NFL. Roger Goodell (NFL Comissioner) does rule the world, attended by a host of clowns. It's really frightening. I wish that enjoying football could be detached from the tawdry elements of the game behind the game. But they (damn, will "they" ever go away?) they say that by writing pornography we are feeding the chain of sexual enslavement. Our disbeliefs help us make sense of our paradoxical choices. Here in Minnesota we gave a billion dollars of public funds to a couple of clowns who own our football team so they could build a new stadium where we can pay ten dollars for a beer. The pitch was economic development. Mercy. I'm only asking for a buck for one of my books. I wish I could get that kind of suspension of disbelief going for my stuff.

It was big trouble for the Church on the day it was announced that the earth revolved around the sun and not the other way around. I'm quite certain it didn't happen in a day. I think at the 700 Club they still believe it. They are looking for Noah's Ark and trying to explain away dinosaurs. They are also one of the voices that condemns our craft.

It's going to be a big day of rethinking when we finally admit that we have been visited by aliens and worse, that the seeds of life didn't spontaneously arise here, they blew in with cosmic dust. Carl Sagan used to say we were made from 'star stuff' but that means organic as well as inorganic. I can't recall which Kurt Vonnegut story gave the perfect explanation, that an alien craft dumped their holding tanks here and life arose from that primordial compost. They don't want us to believe it. Roger Goodell will have the NFL rights in an instant, if he doesn't already. Send in the clowns. Suppose the aliens are really here for the beer and big breasted, long legged women? They could do worse.

When auditioning for a spot on an inventors TV show I signed a contract that gave the producers rights to the universe, for eternity, to languages and media not yet in existence. Maybe they'll want my grill on the planet Mongo. Or worse yet, some alien group is going to sue me for patent violation. Maybe my grill is a meme like the Clovis point ,racing though the space time continuum and it just landed in my head.   If it ever gets written, my third installment of the Gueschtunkina Ray Gun series uses this concept to explain how the weapon gets across space and time. I'm still working on the suspension of disbelief for that notion. But why not? Really, when you keep breaking it down, everything is just vibrations. Why couldn't vibrations migrate across all kinds of barriers we only think exist but in fact don't. Check out the Multiverse Theory sometime.

Well, I see its time for Thursday Night Football. Nice visiting with you all, but there are some large breasted women and cold bottles of Coors that need my attention.