Faithful readers know I need a dose of realism in a book. Never mind that I’m reading fiction. It’s a failing of mine. When the hero wallops a woman he’s just met, I’d like to be easy- going enough to enjoy myself.
I want to know why she doesn’t clobber him, knock him to the ground and stomp the heck out of him. Before making a beeline to the police station.
Here’s another couple of problems I have:
The hero has an immense penis.
In fact, his penis is so big, the dude must take great care not to hurt our heroine as he maneuvers his way to the locus of her femininity. She, by the way, is initially thrilled by the size when she first catches sight of the member (Bobbing free of the underwear of choice). As he inserts himself, however, she has a moment of discomfort. Then she is swept away by passion and urges him to get on with it—
It being the insertion of his penis into her extremely tight pussy. You see, she has spent hours, daily, on her Kegel exercises. Also, (and this is important) her feminine folds are tight because she hasn’t had sex in a very long time. (Apparently she also hasn’t given birth) (It’s fine the hero sets out to redden her bottom the second he sets eyes on her, but don’t think for a minute the woman is a wench, enjoying sex on a regular basis). It’s been a long time, a very long time, so it hurts. A bit. Driving our hero to the edge of orgasm.
Which brings us to the next thing jolting me from my reader trance: Our heroine has the best orgasm she’s ever had. Usually several. With a man who has never touched her before. Because, of course, he is a master of orgasm having spent years studying with Geishas in Tibet. (I know. The Geishas aren’t really in Tibet. Focus on the important, will ya?)
Many readers dislike “Purple Prose”. In case you aren’t familiar with the term, here’s an example:
Duke’s eyes roamed, starved lions, over the swollen lips of her heaving, molten core.
That’s not a very good example. Apparently, not only do I fail to appreciate purple prose, I’m can’t write it. My husband, bless his heart, occasionally spouts it into my ear. To make me laugh hysterically. NOT in an effort to seduce me. (Seducing me is very easy. All he has to do is flash that look.)
Are other readers annoyed by these things? When I read them I’m aware of niggling irritation, just enough to jostle me out of Complete Reader Nirvana.
It’s not size, people. It’s what you do with what you have. We know this.
I suspect my pussy isn’t tight as a–a what ? Drum? Glove? ( See? Not good at purple prose.) I’ve delivered children, people. VAGINALLY. And yes. When traffic comes to a complete stop on a highway I do kegels. After I’ve checked my messages. And e-mail. Facebook.
Played DOGE 2048 until my brain is bleeding.
Cleaned out my purse.
The glove compartment.
Anything within reach of my hand.
I like to hold the belief I still give Him a lot of sexual pleasure. When the heroines all have teeny tiny pussys that cause Duke to wince, my eyes roll.
Truth: I become insecure. I calculate the last time I did vagina tightening exercises.
I know. My problem. Still…..I don’t want any woman to think about kegels in the middle of a hot sex scene.
I have always enjoyed sex. Even BEFORE I had sex with anyone other than myself.
Listen: I’ve had orgasms.
Sometimes I’ve enjoyed myself considerably.
Occasionally I THOUGHT I’d had an orgasm.
Every now and then I had an orgasm that came close to being better than the ones I give myself.
Once HE really hit his stride, I’ve enjoyed regular orgasms, definitely better than any I can produce.
I’ve never had an orgasm with a man I just met. My informal, totally unscientific poll, revealed I am not alone in this tragic circumstance.
What about you?