Sunday, September 25, 2016

Silent Sunday




*Treat from a Neighbor*



Thursday, September 22, 2016

Let's Talk About Sex, Bay-Bee



(Before we begin, there is a gay sex scene included in this post. If that offends now is the time to move to another blog. I won’t be hurt, trust me. )

 Nothing like some Salt-N-Pepa to kick off a blog post! They’d be great artists for a sexy soundtrack. Actually, one of their songs is playing in Open Net, when the Cougars visit a gay dance club on 80’s night. Love me some good bump and grind.

 Speaking of bumping and grinding (I is the queen of slick segues) let’s talk a little about sex and writing it. Now I don’t plan to go into great detail here, I’ll save that for my books *wink nudge* but instead I thought I’d chat about the struggle some authors have penning sexual encounters.

 I read a comment the other day in one of my author groups where a delightful and talented romance writer friend was saying how hard it was for her to write “the perfect sex scene” and that got me to pondering. Is there such a thing as the perfect sex scene? What makes it perfect? Is the perfect sex scene impossible to write because each reader has their own ideal of perfect sex?

 In my humble, there is no such thing as a “perfect” sex scene. When I sit down to write sexy times, I flick my Perfectionist Muse off my shoulder. I’d much rather have Raunchy Muse sitting on my shoulder for sensual matters because sex is rarely ever perfect or masterfully orchestrated. Sex is slippery, guttural, sweaty, sticky, funny, sometimes spontaneous, and always sloppy.  Or it should be if you’re doing it right.

Perhaps my take on sex scenes is different because I write erotic romance. Or maybe it’s because I mainly pen gay sex nowadays. There is a certain rough, gritty side to man-on-man sex in my books, I admit that. There’s also romance, but for the most part when my men are together for the boot bumping, flowery talk isn’t front and center. Take this scene from Full Strength as an example:





The inside of our second floor apartment was stuffy. Dan went around opening the windows. I carried our bags into our bedroom and made a stop in the bathroom to take a piss and ensure the look of abject horror from Dan's driving was gone from my face. I kicked my shoes off in the living room then padded into the kitchen to find Dan standing in front of the open fridge.

            "There's nothing in here but an empty jar of olives and some margarine," he said in what sounded to be surprise. I walked up behind him, slid my arms around his waist, and then lowered my mouth to his neck. He shivered when my teeth nibbled along his jugular.

            "Let me take your mind off the olives," I murmured against his tan flesh while my hands slid downward. My fingers dove under the band of his jeans, eager to touch his dick. Dan rocked forward. I stepped up slightly, my hands now inside his briefs and in possession of his cock and balls. One hand stroked, the other squeezed. Dan rested his head on the freezer, the fridge door hanging open and the light bathing us. My cock was rigid and ready. I gyrated against his ass. He pushed back.

            "Fuck yeah," I growled at his response. I pulled my hands out of his pants and tugged on his jeans and underwear until they slid over his hips. Then I freed my cock and grabbed the container of margarine. Dan watched me over his shoulder, his long dark hair stuck to his brow, cheeks, and neck.

            "Yeah, that is so hot," he breathlessly said as I slathered oleo over my dick. I kicked his legs apart. He reached back, forehead to freezer, and spread his ass cheeks for me. "Show me who you love, Vic."

            "Only you, Dan," I ground out as I pushed the head of my cock into his tight ass. I moaned, he hissed, cold air blew over our bared legs. Fingers coated with margarine, I slid them into his hair anyway. He urged me on, begging for more. I began moving inside him, rolling my hips in a circle. "Only you, sweets."

            "Fucking hell," he cried out when the round-and-round became the in-and-out. "Yeah, hard. Fuck me so hard you don't never think of anyone else."

            I tugged on his hair. His head snapped back. I pounded the man just as hard as I could. The fridge rocked back and forth, the olive jar on the door tipping over.





Before anyone says anything, Victor and Dan are a committed, seronegative couple in a long-term monogamous (Now legally wed) relationship, which is why no condom was used. Always play it safe guys and dolls, wrap it up!

 Now, as you can see, there’s not lots of gushy goo-goo talk going on in that scene, yet there are romantic overtures. Most of my emotional moments come after the sex, when the guys are winded and their defenses are down. That scene is all about slaking an overwhelming need. Will some readers dislike it? For sure. Would that kind of scene play well in a M/F romance? Darn Skippy. Is it perfect? In the eyes of some readers it’s pretty darn close (or I hope so) but in the eyes of some readers, definitely not.

 Which brings me back around to the notion that there is no such thing as a “perfect sex scene” because every reader is bringing their tastes and desires with them when they read your sassy, sexy times. Just like humor is subjective, so is sex. What floats one person’s boat will sink another’s craft. Maybe striving for perfection for sex scenes is futile.

 So for those authors who are tussling with writing perfect sex try allowing the characters to just have fun, get messy, and enjoy the naughty bits as much as the people in that big, rumpled, fictional bed. It’s worth a try! Maybe letting go of the reins a wee bit will make those dreaded scenes a little less stressful.




What do you look for in a sex scene? I’d love to hear your thoughts. Tell me what you think in the comments below!

Monday, September 19, 2016

Tuesday Tales - Call





Hello! It`s time for Tuesday Tales.

 




 Welcome back! It’s time for another snippet from my new book! I'm now working on an M/M hockey romance titled Open Net. This is the second novella in the Cayuga Cougars duology featuring LGBT players. This story centers on a young goalie, August Miles, a newcomer to the Cougars that we met in Mario and Lila's novella.

 Today’s snippet has some steamy stuff between August and Sal. If gay sexual situations or mature language offends, now would be the time to move onto another Tuesday Tales offering.  Our word prompt for the week is "Call”.

 











We sat there for a long time, my head on his shoulder, his fingers interwoven with mine, until he yawned widely. I lifted my head to look at him questioningly.

“Getting the call from Tino to ask me to work over made for one long ass day,” he said as he rubbed at his eyes with his free hand. “You think you maybe want to go to bed, papi chulo?” He slowly got to his feet, my fingers slipping out of his.

“I’m not feeling like such a pretty boy anymore,” I admitted. He stepped behind the couch then bent over it, his hands sliding down my chest, his head next to mine. I sucked in a sharp breath when his fingers flittered over my abdomen, and then again when his lips moved with sinful slowness over my temple. His hands splayed over my trembling stomach. I let my head fall back, eager to give myself to him. Having him want me, and me wanting him back, was critical to my ongoing existence at the moment.

“You’ll always be the prettiest boy in New York state in my eyes,” Sal murmured while he dropped hot little kisses down the side of my face, at the corner of my mouth, and then along my jaw. My arms rose. My hands dove into his hair. His fingers kneaded my flesh, digging into the skin and muscles of my stomach. My balls felt heavy. He whispered soft, sinful, sensual things to me in Spanish.


“Don’t stop,” I huffed, arching my back away from the sofa. Sal nibbled on my ear, beautiful words in a musical language I didn’t understand flowing over me. His weight grew as he leaned over me further. He pushed a hand down over the front of my pants, brushing against my erection. The sensation was so good I nearly cried out.





Copyright 2016 ©by V.L. Locey



*~*~*



Click on the link below to return to the Tuesday Tales main blog for more great reads from the Tuesday Tales authors.


 See you next week!


Sunday, September 18, 2016

Silent Sunday





*Fairy Door*


(Credit to my sister-in-law Roxanna who has this beautiful door in her garden)

Wednesday, September 14, 2016

The 'Cats Are Now in KU!




That's right Kindle Unlimited fans, you can now find the To Love a Wildcat boxed set in KU! Which means if you're a member you can read all six of the Wildcat M/F erotic romance books for free. If you're not a KU member, no worries, you can still purchase the set on Amazon only for $4.99!

To Love a Wildcat Boxed Set


Monday, September 12, 2016

Tuesday Tales - Paper




Hello! It`s time for Tuesday Tales.

 




 Welcome back! It’s time for another snippet from my new book! I'm now working on an M/M hockey romance titled Open Net. This is the second novella in the Cayuga Cougars duology featuring LGBT players. This story centers on a young goalie, August Miles, a newcomer to the Cougars that we met in Mario and Lila's novella.

Today we have a little friendly shinny game with Mario and August. This story contains crude language and gay sexual situations. We are telling tales about hockey players so if that offends now would be the time to move onto another Tuesday Tales offering.  Our word prompt for the week is "Paper”.

 



“You about done with your goalie voodoo hoodoo ritual?”

 I glanced to the right to find McGarrity wearing a half-baked smile.
“Yeah, I’m done.” I tossed my bottle on top of the net, slid my mask on, and dropped down into a crouch to stretch a little. “You planning on trying to shoot a puck at me or just standing around thinking about your AARP benefits?”

Mario threw back his head and laughed hard and long. That made me smile widely inside my mask.

“And to think you used to be this shy little kid who wouldn’t say shit if he had a mouthful.” He skated behind my net and out to the blue line, where a mound of pucks had been dumped. Mario picked out a puck, flung it into the air with his stick, and then swung like he was Mickey Mantle. The puck flew at me. I jumped up and caught it in my catcher’s mitt.

Another puck came in low, rolling across the ice. I managed to kick that one aside then dive to the left to slap another one away.  Then the shots began coming at me faster and faster. It was like facing a tennis ball machine, only this machine was rocketing slap shots at me while wearing a maniacal smile. Puck after puck flew at me, bouncing off my chest, shoulders, and stick.

There wasn’t time for banter or chirps. Mario kept shooting and moving, slowly getting his accuracy honed in. For an old man he was wicked hot with upper left hand shots just like the sports section in the local paper always said. What he lacked in diminishing speed he more than made up for with grit and brutal snap shots. At first tracking all those pucks was hard, but the longer we were out there, the easier it became. My instincts overrode the quagmire inside my head, and I could focus and lock-in on him.

He picked up a puck at center ice, the black tape on his stick placed there to obscure the chunk of vulcanized rubber. His skates turned sharply, suggesting he was going to head to the left. Instead he rolled around the net, making me dance from one side to the other to shove my skate tight against the pipe. He jabbed and shoved the puck at my leg, making sounds like a pit bull, while I stabbed at the puck with my stick.

“Tough little pup, ain’t you?” Mario growled as we went shoulder-to-shoulder, the puck slipping and sliding around my feet.

 “Got to be to play with the old dogs,” I grunted, sweat burning my eyes. I dove at the puck as it slithered forward and slapped my catching mitt to the ice. Mario rocked me to the side, his hip finding purchase and his stick slipping under my glove.

The Italian-Scot then fell on me, bowing my back until I was flopping around on the ice with him on top of me. He hooked my glove up off the ice. By this time, if it had been a real game, he’d have been sitting on the bench for goaltender interference, but since it was only him and me, he scrabbled and clawed for possession of that puck.

Copyright 2016 ©by V.L. Locey


*~*~*



Click on the link below to return to the Tuesday Tales main blog for more great reads from the Tuesday Tales authors.


See you next week!

Sunday, September 11, 2016