Erotic Romance has predominately been written and read by women, but today men want to read it, write it, and experience the benefits of erotica too. For The Men And The Women Who Love Them is an anthology that both acknowledges and embraces male and female authors. It’s a collection that highlights unique desires and points of view. We want men included in this creative, erotic space because they’ve been too long told that they shouldn’t. We want/need men writing and reading, thinking about and expressing their erotic selves. It’s how we, as couples and individuals can better understand and support one another. Erotica, and certainly Erotic Romance is for men and women both. In this week’s #WriterlyWisdom, here is For The Men’s contributing author, Spencer Dryden to offer a few words on his writing Erotic Romance from the male point of view.
The Importance of Being Earnest
Why the Male POV is Relevant in Erotic Romance
Hello. I’m Spencer Dryden one of the authors featured in the anthology, For the Men, edited by Rose Caraway. My story, MILF and Cookies, is a holiday M/F vanilla romance story suitable for the Hallmark Channel; if Hallmark did erotic romance. (Wouldn’t that be cool?)
My story, however, is a little different from the standard romance trope. Sure the protagonists eventually connect, but my story is completely from the point of view of the male character. The reader only learns about the woman though her dialogue and action. That’s how life is for us, guys. We aren’t party to the inner dialogue of the female character. As a result, we often miss or misinterpret their desires and intentions. Perhaps even more unconventional, my main character isn’t an alpha male, billionaire bad boy or self-destructive egomaniac. He’s just an ordinary guy, a handyman who is a little clueless about the romantic notions of his client—a woman he has strong feelings for, but thinks her beyond his reach. (In the Hallmark trope, it’s usually reversed.) It’s light hearted fun.
Beyond entertainment, which is all my story is intended to be, a male point of view offers the reader an opportunity to experience romance from a different perspective. The statistics tell us that women are the predominant consumers of romance, so understandably the vast majority of it is about female fantasies and desires. I wouldn’t want to imply that women can’t write from a male point of view, what I’d like to suggest is that a man’s experience of romance or a romantic encounter, told through authentic characters, is deserving of better labeling than “stroke.” We think differently, process differently, especially sexual triggers. An earnest portrayal of a straight man seen through a male lens might just open some doors of understanding, in the same way that M/M, F/F, BDSM—the whole alphabet soup of sub-genres—opens our understanding of others.
I hope the For the Men anthology will open the door to half of the adult population. As best I can tell, the most successful sub-genre of erotica is M/M. Much of it is written by women, but it is read by men and women, most likely because the male readers can identify with the characters and the stories. By and large, men don’t read M/F erotic romance. Maybe if they identified more with the characters and the story we’d all get a few more sales.
“MILF And Cookies”
by Spencer Dryden
From my dungeon beneath the kitchen sink, I could hear the water cascading down the pipes from the master bath above. The thought of the warm, gentle stream caressing Judy’s firm breasts and trickling between her thighs sent so much blood gushing to my cock; I thought I might get stuck under the cabinet. Thankfully, the work distracted me from my fantasies of barging into the shower, hoisting her onto my cock, pinning her against the wall and banging her hard.
I had just finished when she breezed into the kitchen, scrubbing her hair dry with a towel. Still in the loose fitting bathrobe, raising her arms for the task all but exposed her breasts. She caught me looking and gave me a knowing grin as I turned away, red-faced again, to flip the switch to the disposal and use the sprayer to demonstrate the repairs.
“Nice,” she said after the noise of the test run had faded. “Do the curtain rods next. I’m tired of living in a fish bowl.”
She walked over toward the large window on the west wall of the living room and sat at the edge of the couch. To hide my erection, I pulled my shirt tails over my belt. At the window, I scaled my three step, utility ladder. Once again, work cooled the savage lust. I turned toward her. I swear she was staring at my ass. “Hand me that little black box thing there, would you?” I pointed to the crowded tool box near her feet.
“This?” she asked, clutching the top of her robe as she bent to pick up the small device.
“What is it?”
“It’s a stud finder.”
“Really?” she asked in a teasing voice. “How does it work?” She started to hand the tool to me then pulled it back when she squeezed the sides, causing the indicator lights to fire. She held it to my leg and moved it around. “I think it’s working.”
She seemed delighted to see me blush. I shook my head as she handed the tool to me. I found the stud and had the curtain rod anchors solidly in place in a matter of minutes. I admit I was more than a little unnerved by her attentive gaze. I kept telling myself she was just curious about the work. The curtains in place, I stepped down from the ladder and directed her to the pull chord.
“Some privacy at last,” she said, smiling as the curtains closed out the afternoon sun. “Now, I want to loop some garland over the curtain rod.”
She scurried across the room and returned with a coil of neatly wound garland. She fed it to me while I weaved it along. As I stepped down to admire my work, she shook her head.
“I want more loop,” she said.
I gave her a puzzled look.
“I’ll do it,” she said turning the ladder sideways to the window.
She ascended the ladder, its broad bottom steps provided stability, but it was not tall enough for her to reach the top of the curtain rod. She stepped up onto the narrow top step. The ladder wobbled in protest.
“Hold on to me, okay?” She looked nervous, but determined, as she stood to her full height, still, just barely able to reach the top of the rod.
I think I moaned when I took hold of her, my hands on her firm middle, my nose almost against the knot of her red robe. My memory is a little fuzzy as something like a Christmas miracle happened. She adjusted the first of the loops then turned more toward me, while taking more of the garland, her hand brushed against the knot on the robe’s belt. The knot slipped, and the soft fabric opened like curtains to the Promised Land. There I was, my nose right in front of the most beautifully trimmed pussy I had seen in a long time. Her scent robbed me of any words, quickly boring its way into an ancient part of my sex-starved brain where there are no words, only savage urges.
I could feel her breath quicken as she gently stroked my hair. A tiny droplet of her nectar trickled down the inside of her thigh. There was an awkward silence. I don’t know which of us was trembling more as I ran my nose along the taut skin of her lower tummy and on through to the soft landing patch of reddish blonde hair.
That’s when I lost it. I lapped the succulent drop like a man dying of thirst. Instead of a slap or a scream, Judy moaned in delight.
“Oh yes,” she whispered as she pulled me closer.
I licked along the length of her shimmering pussy with a broad swipe of my tongue as if licking frosting from a spatula. She gasped. Her knees buckled, and I immediately clutched her butt and hips—she was as light as a feather and I guided her down to the floor with ease. She slipped from the robe and spread her legs wide, then tilted her hips to greet my craven tongue. Her milky smooth inner labia offered the sweetness of her juices, its aroma overtaking the fresh pine scent from the tree. Beneath the twinkling lights, her growing song of ecstasy was the sweetest Christmas music my ears had ever heard. Her groans were deep, and her breathing ragged as I pushed my tongue into her opening, lapping as a beggar at a trough of rare wine. Her scent enveloped me in a cloud of mental fog, my thoughts replaced by urges of thrusting and ramming.
It had been so long since I’d eaten pussy I’d all but forgotten the intoxicating power of it as I probed with my tongue, deeper between her smooth folds. I’d never seen an angel come before until I surrounded her swollen clit with my mouth. Her purrs grew louder, hard gasps flew from her circled lips. Her undulating hips stilled as her body tensed in an orgasm. Her soulful moan, like nothing I’d ever heard before, triggered a surge of pride in my mind while making my groin ache with lust.
She guided me up to her face with a gentle tug on my hair and said, “I want you inside of me.”
#ICYMI: Last week’s #SexySnippet was of Terrance Aldon Shaw’s, Making Hay and his #WriterlyWisdom – On Dialogue.
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