Writing erotic romance is certainly a sexual liaison with my muse. Anticipation starts the juices flowing, and then imagination takes over. What is hotter than the expectation of tingles and whispers, caresses and sighs, and finally, skin against skin. The mind, after all, is the most potent erogenous zone. Much like spending a hot night with a lover, foreplay begins while walking up the stairs, or in this case, turning on the computer!
Before computers, writers stared at a blank page in a typewriter. Now, it is a white screen on a monitor waiting to be filled. My muse helps me find the sensual space in my imagination, from which sexy stories appear. Sometimes when I need him, my muse has to be enticed to come out and play. I tease him, pursuing him until he can no longer resist.
My muse is certainly masculine, a commanding presence when he emerges. To coax him out of the private sanctum where he lives, I bait him. He loves music, especially the blues. Oh baby, yes, the blues will lure him out every time. He absolutely cannot resist Etta James.
Once I have his attention, I take a hot bath and soak. That is when we commune. He whispers to me as I drift, telling me what he wants to do. Often, he shows me what he wants, the erotic pictures vivid in my mind. When finally I sit down at the keyboard, the words and images flow from my mind into my fingers.
Holding onto the space of erotic thought can be a challenge. It is a delicate altered state of consciousness, a meditative zone where nothing exists except the story. The characters are on stage, and I have to be a rapt audience. There is no room for laundry waiting in the basket, the grocery list sitting on the table or vacuuming the cat litter tracked onto the rug. Everything, and I do mean everything, has to take a back seat to the presence of the muse. When his virility fills my heart and soul, I have to pay attention.
To sustain my concentration and encourage my muse to continue his flirtatious whispers, I often look at pictures of beautiful men. I trace the curves of their muscles with my eyes, allowing their potency to wash though me. The impressions translate easily into scenes, where I play voyeur to a gorgeous hunk of man making love. Watching him in my mind's eye, my own fire burns brighter. The tactile sense of him, how he smells, the sweat on his skin, the hard line of his body, the softness of his hair--he overwhelms my senses.
Making love on the written page is as intimate and personal as loving on a bed (or any other surface to your liking). The endorphins kick in and identification with the characters is spontaneous. Whatever is happening on the page is also happening in my mind, an alternate reality for the duration of the session. My muse strokes me until I am sated. Then, he allows me to rest until our next liaison. With a tender kiss, he promises the next time will be even better. |
