To erote or not to erote by J.P. Bowie

When I started writing actual books I was ostensibly a mystery writer - a sort of gay Agatha Christie. There was a bit of sex in there, more or less glossed over in an effort to get on with the story - as one critic stated sourly.

Recently a review site (name on request) said I was the Ann Rice of m/m vampire fiction. I kinda liked that, as I was a huge fan of Ms. Rice ever since Interview With A Vampire. I just wish this accolade was reflected in my sales! But it made me think, Ann Rice really didn't write erotica - wait a minute, that's not true. She did write a series, Sleeping Beauty under the pseudonym A. N. Roquelaure, but they were a far cry from the sexual relationships in her vampire series.

I'm not sure if I write erotica or not. Yes, there is sex in my books nowadays, a lot of it, but I wonder what the difference is between erotica and graphic sex. To me eroticism is more of a mood, a sultry ambience, a hint of lust, a trailing of fingers over fevered skin, a brushing of lips, a breathy whispered plea. I'm pretty sure I don't write that into my sex scenes. They tend to be more... well... graphic.

Here's an example from Ride 'em Hard Cowboy :

Warning: m/m explicit sexual intercourse for those faint of heart.

Jason pulled back slightly, eliciting a groan of protest from Joel. He dropped to his knees and flung his arms around Joel, showering his face and lips with kisses.

“You are so incredible,” he whispered. “Let me do the same for you.” He  fumbled with the fly buttons of Joel’s jeans, almost pulling them off in his haste to get at Joel’s cock. Joel lay on his back and raised his hips helping Jason to pull his jeans down. Jason’s eyes widened at the sight of the massive bulge straining at the fabric of the jockstrap Joel was wearing.

“Wow,” he murmured on a breath. Like a kid in a candy shop, his eyes gleamed with anticipation as he peeled the jock away. Joel’s cock was more than just impressive. Almost ten inches of hard throbbing flesh met Jason’s admiring gaze. Gripping it at the base, he wondered if  he could get all of it his mouth. He shivered as he imagined it all the way inside him, reaming his ass, fucking him like he’d never been fucked before. Why hadn’t he thought of bringing a condom and lube to the office? Well, because he’d thought they really were going on a lunch date. But this was so much better...

He leaned down to take the head of Joel’s cock into his mouth. Oh, so sweet, the creamy precum that pooled on his tongue, the musky masculine scent that drifted into his nostrils, the feel of hot steel under silken skin in his hand.

The low groan of pleasure that rumbled from Joel’s chest urged Jason on, his lips sliding up and down Joel’s erection, his throat opening wide to take the prodigious length and thickness all the way in. Joel’s hips bucked, another groan escaped him, his hands caressing the sides of Jason’s face.

“Oh yeah, Jason, that’s beautiful... You’re beautiful...”

Jason’s tongue swirled around the underside of Joel’s cock, sliding again and again over the thick vein that ran from the base to just under the head. Every smooth and sensual slide brought Joel closer and closer to the edge. Jason could hear the hitch in his breathing, the heavy rasping sound that told him Joel was ready. He gripped the base of Joel’s cock  and sucked harder, longer, until he was rewarded by the first spurt of cum hitting his palette. He gulped at it, swallowing it down as another followed, then yet another. Joel’s body spasmed under him, the hands that had caressed him now clutched at his hair as the bigger man lost himself in the ecstasy of his orgasm.

 
Jason slowly released Joel, pausing to lick at the last vestiges of semen from the slit.

***

See, that's graphic rather than erotic as far as I'm concerned. Okay, I have one more where I think I may have touched on the more erotic - a dialogue only - implying what was to follow:

Christmas Wishes set in England 1922

“Professor Fielding, correct?” Smiling, Professor Macpherson walked swiftly over to stand in the crook of the piano, one hand touching the polished mahogany, a gentle smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

“Correct. But please call me Christopher.”

“I prefer it to Fielding, as your friend calls you.”

“Percy calls everyone by their surname. His is a bit of a mouthful.”

“Sommers-Smythe. Yes it is. You must call me William, or Mac, if you prefer.”

“I prefer William. It’s a nice name. Strong, evocative of a man who—” Christopher stopped, uncomfortably aware that William’s eyes were twinkling with amusement. “I’m sorry, I babble too much at times.”

“Not babble... I would very much like to hear what I evoke within you.”

Dear God, does this man know what his eyes, his mouth, his smile do to me? I couldn’t stand up now for all of the tea in China...

“I... I...” For the life of him he couldn’t find words with which to form a reply.

William leaned forward resting both his arms on top of the piano and gazed into Christopher’s eyes.  “Professor Fielding, you are blushing.”

“No, no, I’m not! It’s just that it’s suddenly  damnably warm in here, and...”

“The piece you were playing when I came in...” William interrupted Christopher’s mumbling. “Would you play it again, for me?”

“What? Why, yes, of course.” Glad of something to do that would stop him from making an even bigger fool of himself, he placed his trembling hands on the keys and began to play. “It’s not quite finished. Some of the chords towards the end are still eluding me.”

William said nothing, but closed his eyes as Christopher played the piece he was composing for the end of term concert. Under his fingers, the notes rippled, the melody clear and rich, the harmonies deep and resonant. Towards the end of the piece, near the part that had been bothering him, Christopher lifted his gaze in apology and found William staring at him intently, his green eyes glistening pools of emotion. Christopher’s breath caught in his chest, his hands swept over the keys finding those elusive chords, bringing the piece to a close on a diminuendo so subtle that those last notes seemed to hang in the air for several seconds after he had lifted his hands from the keys.

The silence that followed made Christopher’s stomach roil. He hated it...

“I-I’m sorry,” he whispered, looking away from William’s impassive expression. “I said it was unfinished, that it was—”

“It is beautiful.”

“Wh-what?”

“The piece you have just played. I have never heard anything more beautiful.”

 “Oh, surely...”

“Hush.” William moved slowly nearer to Christopher, then dropped down onto the bench, sitting so close that their thighs were pressed together. He took Christopher’s hand in his and raised it to his lips.  “Almost as beautiful as the composer. Almost.”

“William... I...”

Somewhere in the building, a bell sounded, marking the end of a class, breaking the spell that had been cast over both men. William stood quickly, but remained looking down on Christopher’s upturned face.

"My apologies if I have overstepped the mark.” His voice was deep, the gentle burr lending it a subtle allure that Christopher found irresistible. “Your music sparked something inside me I found hard to ignore.” His smile, though solemn, was nonetheless beguiling. “See what you have evoked within me?”

Christopher's eyes widened as he stared at the tell tale bulge behind William's fly. 

***

It is what it is

Check out the contest at the end.

We’ve been talking about Happy Ever After, Happy For Now and maybe not even Happy At All (my personal NoNo.) Call me a sap, but when I read or write a book, I’m only truly satisfied if the ending is “happy,” whatever that turns out to be. I’ve read books that left me hanging and hated the author. I’ve read books that depressed me with the ending and hated the author even more. I love a good cry at the end of a book but only if the tears are happy ones.

So call me a sap. It’s who and what I am.

Somehow in the past year the great “out there” has decided that erotic romance doesn’t necessarily mean a happy ending, and I can’t for the life of me figure out why. What can be happier than truly wonderful sex? If the author develops the characters well and invests the reader in them, if the emotion comes across as real, then the sex—detailed and graphic—is just a natural progression of that.

I like to create characters who have challenges to relationships, who have boundaries that are difficult to cross. I want the reader to cheer them on and celebrate with them when they achieve their “Happy Ever After.” A really good example of this is Grace Delaney. The heroine of Rodeo Heat. Do you remember Rodeo Heat? It’s the book I read a passage from to Bill Geist on CBS Sunday Morning. I think I made his eyeballs roll back in his head.

Grace was widowed young with two small children and lived a very contained, restricted life. She’s an excellent accountant but tries to keep the pieces of her life in ruled columns just like numbers in an account. Enter Ben Lowell, ten years young, decades more experienced, and nearly at the end of his rodeo career. When you meet them you think there can’t possibly be any way for them to get together. He’s too jaded and she’s too inexperienced and afraid.

But something not only clicks between them it snaps and sizzles. In small stages Ben takes Grace on a journey of sexual awakening that had me crying while I wrote it. And by the time you get to the final chapter, won’t you be upset if Grace and Ben, after having fulfilling erotic sex, don’t end up together?

Here’s a taste for you:

He moved his mouth over her body as if drawing a map with it, tasting every nook and crevice, seeking her pleasure spots and dwelling a long time on them. His open-mouthed kisses on her heated skin sent shafts of electricity through her, igniting nerves already snapping and firing.

His cock pressed against the soft skin of her inner thigh and her hands suddenly itched to touch it and hold it. Pulling Ben’s head up from its drifting path down to her pussy, she smiled at him. “Stop.”

His eyebrows raised. “Stop? Am I doing something wrong? Something you don’t like? Just tell me—”

“No. You’re doing everything just right. But I want to play too.” She pushed at his shoulders.

“And just what is it you want to do?” he asked, his eyes bright with curiosity as he rolled onto his back.

“This.”

Wondering where this spurt of boldness had come from, she shifted onto her knees next to him, her gaze riveted to his erection which pointed directly at her. Tentatively she reached out a finger to touch the bead of fluid sitting like a viscous marble atop the slit. Rubbing it back and forth along the velvet surface, she watched the thick stalk bob under her touch and saw Ben’s thigh muscles tighten.

She hadn’t done this since Joe’s death. The few men she’d had sex with hadn’t appealed to her this way at all. Sometimes she wondered if they really appealed to her in any way. Worried that maybe she just wasn’t a sexual person.

No. Wait. Then she wouldn’t be where she was doing what she was. Right?

Inquisitively, she bent her head and licked the surface of the purple head with the tip of her tongue, swiping it back and forth two or three times, loving the slightly salty taste of the fluid and the sensation of the soft skin against her tongue. Her fingers barely wrapped around the thick length of him but she felt the steel beneath the supple covering. She unclasped him and ran one finger the length of the heavy vein, feeling the blood pulsing through it.

“Am I doing this right?” she asked, her voice tremulous, unable to look at him as she waited for his answer.

“Are you kidding?” Ben asked in a strangled voice, one large hand coming up to squeeze her buttocks. “I think you’re trying to torture me.”

Grace’s laugh held just a hint of uncertainty. “Just finding out what you feel like. How you feel.”

His hand moved in slow strokes on the cheek of her ass. “Surely this isn’t the first one you’ve ever seen or felt,” he joked.

“Believe it or not, the first in bright light. At least for longer than I want to remember.”

Because the others didn’t bear looking at. Except for Ben.

Contest:

To celebrate the rerunning of my segment on CBS, I am giving away a $50 GC for either Amazon or B&N. Here’s all you do. Post a review of the book, send me the link at desireeholt@desireeholt.com and you’ll be entered in the drawing.

Ready? Set? Go!

Ride 'Em, Pardner

By Lisabet Sarai



"Get out of my room, you filthy varmint!" Mirabelle Hawkins stood her ground, hands on her hips, facing the stranger who had just crawled in the window of the Black Bluffs Hotel and Saloon. The fire in her voice matched her coppery hair.

"Sorry to disturb you, ma'am. But I'm runnin' for my life." The man was long, tall, and dark, with a rugged, handsome face and twinkling blue eyes. Aside from a distinct horsy odor and a masculine five-o'clock shadow, he wasn't nearly as disreputable as Mirabelle's ephithet implied. His dusty clothing belonged to a gentleman rather than a ruffian, although Mirabelle couldn't help notice the distinct bulge distorting his waistcoat. He was carrying a gun. That made him dangerous.

"That doesn't concern me. Find some other defenseless young thing to impose upon. Just because my pa died and I've got to travel on my own all the way from Fort Wayne to Deadwood to fight the crooks trying to snatch his land doesn't mean you can take advantage of me."

"Darlin', I never considered such a thing." The stranger scanned her from head to toe, his crystal eyes brazen. "Though now that you mention it..." He took a step towards her. His nearness, his power, his scent (or that of his mount) nearly over-powered her.

Mirabelle stepped back, narrowly missing the chamber pot. Her cheeks burned as bright as her curly locks. She remembered all at once that she was wearing only her chemise and petticoat. In any case, this man's gaze made her feel completely naked.

Her nipples tightened into sensitive peaks that rasped against the linen covering them. She felt hot and damp and flustered. Damn it, she hadn't put off all those suitors back in Indiana just to fall prey to some feckless gambler. She made her voice hard, though inside her everything seemed to melt.

"Back off. I've a knife, and I won't hesitate to use it to defend my honor."

The stranger smiled and held up his hands in mock surrender. "Sweetheart, I'd never threaten your honor. All I want is a place to hide out for an hour or so, until Dirty Jim Jenks and his boys give up their search."

"Dirty Jim!" Maribelle had been in town only twenty four hours, but she'd already heard about the Jenks gang. Apparently they galloped into Black Bluffs every couple of weeks, drank up every bottle in the hamlet's two saloons, shot up a few stores, kidnapped a child or raped someone's sister, then thundered back to their camp up in the hills. Everyone was terrified of them, including the sheriff. Hiding did seem to be the only option when they set out on one of their sprees.

"Yessiree, Jim really wants my balls this time." The stranger sank into the chair by the window, his long, muscular legs splayed out in front of him. Mirabelle realized that he was exhausted, even as she admired the other bulge revealed by his position. A twinge of sympathy wove its way among the tendrils of her growing lust.

"What did you do to him?" Mirabelle seated herself opposite him, on the stool by the dressing table, and tried to look demure, even as the hot bead at the apex of her sex throbbed and her taut nipples screamed for attention.

"Well, beat him at five card stud, to start. Polished off his twelve-year old bottle of whiskey. And stole his gal." The interloper grinned at her, and her anger flared. The cocky bastard thinks he's the good Lord's gift to womanhood, she thought. The only trouble was that he was attractive--devilishly so. And he knew it.

"And what happened to her?" she asked, though she didn't really care. Maintaining some sort of conversation seemed to be the only way stop herself from throwing herself into his arms.

"Oh, I sold her to the Sioux." His voice was casual. When he saw the shock on Mirabelle's face, though, he laughed. "I'm kidding, darlin'. She got tired of me after a week or so. They all do."

Behind his blustering humor, Maribelle caught a hint of the man's inner pain. She leaned toward him. "I'm sorry," she murmured. He sat up in his chair and inclined his lean, rugged body in her direction. Their lips were inches apart.

"Never mind about that, sweetheart." His breath warmed her cheek. "I think I may have found myself a new gal."

His mouth claimed hers as though he owned her. He tasted like beer and beans. He rose, pulling her up with him, clasping her to his chest with powerful arms. She trembled in that embrace. The strength that had brought her half way across the continent alone vanished like morning mist. His tongue snaked between her lips, exploring her, urging her to surrender completely.

A hand slid up Maribelle's thigh, under her petticoat. His palm was hot against her bare skin, moving higher by the moment toward the seething cauldron of desire at her center. She knew she should stop him. Yet she couldn't move, didn't want to move. She was paralyzed by his raw confidence, by his taste and his scent and his heat. This is wrong, she told herself. This is what you've been fighting against all these years. Yet it felt so right. She wanted to stop fighting.

"Darlin'," he whispered in her ear as his fingertips brushed the curly thatch protecting her sex. "I've been waiting for someone like you a long time..."

Crash! A boot slammed against the flimsy door of the two-bit room. "Dillon! Curse you, Jack Dillon! I got you now!" someone roared. The crack of a pistol and the squeal of splintering wood drove Maribelle and her companion apart. "Under the bed!" Jack Dillon whispered. "Quick now! I'll handle this."

Maribelle wormed her way under the iron bedstead, but not before she'd grabbed her pa's bowie knife from where she kept it, under her pillow. Despite the danger, she felt as though she was in a dream. Jack. His name was Jack.

---

This week, Devon asked us all to talk about the genre we'd least like to write. In fact, she challenged us to try penning a snippet in that genre. It didn't take me even five minutes to realize that Western romance is my Waterloo (assuming that we rule out slasher novels).

I know that this genre is popular, but I just don't get it--not as a reader or as a writer. I don't find mud and horse manure, a bath every few months and a head-full of lice, at all appealing. Cowboys just don't do it for me. I like feisty heroines (who proliferate in Western sagas) but I get annoyed when they fall apart and depend on the heroes to save them.

Meanwhile, from the writing side, I'm hopeless at dialect. Furthermore, if you worry about historical accuracy (which as a writer you really should), you start to realize that the period of the Wild West stretched for some hundred years and lots of things changed during that time. You've got to fix your narrative in time (especially, before or after the Civil War) in order to get the details right. You can't depend on stereotypes or your vague memories of watching "Rawhide".

However, dutiful blogger that I am, I made an effort and came up with the piece above.

Now you can see why I don't write Western romance.

Enough said.