Why Not Having Sex Is So Sexy

The other day I was kicked back in my redneck recliner and lapping my laptop in total comfort. I was doing more lounging and lapping than actual writing because I was trying to decide what to write for this blog post. I gathered up 2 or 3 ideas and saved them on my hard drive for tonight, when I was slated to write the darned thing, but you know what? None of 'em spoke to me.

Could it be that I wasn't in a redneck recliner kind of mood? Maybe if I sat up then the blog I wanted to write would flow. Nah, that couldn't be it. I do my best writing when I'm reclined and cradling my laptop. And my redneck recliner? It's the bomb. See, I'm blessed with shortness. You know, the quality of being short in the sense that I'm not tall. And the world is not made for the short. At least, furniture isn't. If I sit up on my end of the leather loveseat and try to hold my laptop, my feet don't touch the floor. It's hard to feel like writing romantic stuff when I feel like I should be either sucking my thumb or a giant lollypop. My shortness led to the invention of the redneck recliner. One day my muse was looking around for a way to get me more comfy while I wrote and she spotted one of my seat-cushioned kitchen chairs.

Did I dare? Should I? Yes, I did. I pulled that chair over to the loveseat and found that the seat height of the chair made it just the wee-est bit taller than the loveseat. So, I sat back on the loveseat, propped my feet on the kitchen chair -- and the Redneck Recliner was born. But this time, the recliner wasn't helping. I needed to think about something else so the right blog to write would pop into my fertile little brain. I sat up and put down the laptop and picked up my Sony Reader and hit the "continue reading button."

Then I remembered that I wasn't looking forward to the book as much anymore. I sighed and put the Reader back down. And right then, muse whispered in my ear. Well, she might've screamed at me, but I forgive her. Muse is pretty temperamental and I can be kind of dense. Muse told me to write about why I wasn't looking forward to the rest of the book as much as I looked forward to reading it just last night. You know what made me lose the "I can't wait to get back to it" feeling about this particular book? Last night I got to the part where the hero and the heroine did the down and dirty. Oh, they've still got the big "issue" to work out - there's always a few little ones and at least one big one, right? And I'll finish the book and enjoy it but the rest of it won't be the same. The angst is gone.

Well, that angst is gone. There's bound to be plenty of other angst to go around. None of it comes close to taking the ride towards glory along with the main characters, right inside their skins.

It may build slow or fast. It may simmer to a boil or it may strike like lightning. He may be an old friend or a complete stranger. She may be his best friend's little sister or the one that got away. He may be her guardian or her nemesis. Whatever they were to each other doesn't matter. They may have met a minute ago and not know the other's name or they may have years of history. It doesn't matter. Once it hits, everything will change. They'll never see each other, their family, friends or their world the same way.

The couple won't realize it at first. How could they? Mother Nature is sneaky that way and romance authors, well, they're a wily crew. Writers will take nature's disguise and turn it up and up and up until the couple is so hot and bothered that they can't think straight. They can't do much of anything except feel.

And I really love me some hot and bothered hunks. I love long, vivid descriptions of how much he wants her, how much he needs her. I like to read that he's so turned on that he's hurting with it but the pain is only for her. He can't have her and he can't relieve his torment with anyone else. What's a gorgeously engorged guy to do?

I want him to be struck so silly by desire that he doesn't see the emotion on the other side until long after everyone around him has seen it, named it and told him so. But they're wrong and he's certain of it. He only needs to have her once, just once, and he can get over this. He can get himself back. So all he needs is to figure out a way to have her, all of her - or at least enough to get the job done - without getting his neck trapped in the parson's noose.

If only he could come up with a plan. But that requires thinking. He can't do that well enough anymore to stop making a fool of himself over and over. So he doesn't like other men looking at her, talking to her or, God forbid, dancing with her. He's not jealous. He doesn't do jealousy. All it means is that she's stoked some kind of fire inside him that's burning him alive and he doesn't want another chap getting to her before he does. Yeah, that's all it means.

He'd better get himself tucked between her legs soon because this need, this craving is getting worse. How can it get worse? Impossible, but true. Now the appetite he'd mastered like a maestro was having its vengeance. It had him roasting on a spit, with her twisting and turning him to suit her fancy. He should hate that, would hate it and her but just not yet. Not quite yet. Not until he'd made a meal of her and eaten his way free of the craving that had him so batty that he was starting to believe he wanted much more than just her body.

Once he takes her, she takes him and they take each other, they'll realize that something more is afoot. He'll at least know that once is not enough and they'll both suspect that something's been hiding behind that fire the whole time. And that's fun too - the leap from desire to devotion. I enjoy reading about the hazards and perils of keeping what they've found - after they've figured out that it's going to keep them whether they keep each other or not. If the book has drawn me in this far, then I also want to see the couple vanquish their foe or foes, whether that is another person or an inner enemy. Then, you can darned tootin' bet that I want that happy ending. I better get that happy ending. Not a mysterious ending I have to decipher. Not a hanging thread to lead me into some next book I'll be to peeved to buy. I want an actual happy ending to this story.

I love all of the bits and pieces that make up a romance novel. Every book is different, with as many twists and turns, detours and deviations as there are writers. But within the vast variety of versions I see similarities or conventions that comfort me. The similarities allow me to enjoy the differences. Of all the conventions, the one I enjoy most is the force pulling the hero and heroine together.

That force starts as a curiosity to be explored and grows into magnetism stronger than the will to keep life the same as it's always been. It takes a strong event or occurrence to spur change. In romances, the spur is often the spark that kindles to a flame. It grows until it's a blaze freeing the hero and heroine from what was and making what will be inevitable. I love the heat the way I love a fire on a snowy day. And I hate to see the embers in the fireplace grow cold.

Feeling the blaze grow from inside the hero and heroine is an irresistible lure for me. It's the sexiest part of a romance. Eventually it has to culminate and the characters change and the story marches toward what had better be that happy ending. But I adore stories that draw out the blaze, allowing it to grow until putting down the book and returning to reality feels like a let down. That's a story that I'll definitely read again and again. It's an author whose work will become an auto-buy for me.

What's your favorite part of a romance novel?



Mary Anne Graham
Quacking Alone