Makeovers and Transformations

My fifth Konigsburg book, Brand New Me, (released this week by Samhain) contains my very first makeover scene. My heroine, Deirdre Brandenburg, comes to Konigsburg hoping to open a coffee roaster, but her billionaire daddy has cut off her bank accounts and charge cards in a fit of pique over her quitting her job in his company. To pay the rent, Deirdre takes a job as a barmaid at the Faro tavern (which happens to be next door to her coffee roaster location and also happens to be owned by my hero, Tom Ames). But Deirdre still dresses like the corporate executive she used to be, and her khakis and polo shirts don’t exactly work at the Faro. Her new BFF, Clem Rodriguez, the Faro’s chef, takes her shopping at the local consignment store for a new wardrobe on the cheap.

I’m not sure what it is about makeover scenes, but I usually love them. Maybe it’s the idea of transformation—all you need is the right set of clothes, and bingo, you’re somebody new. I know the automatic response here: that it’s pretty shallow to think you can become a new and better person just by buying a new outfit, and (sigh) I know that’s true. Still, I think the whole makeover mystique plays into an almost universal experience—the longing for the perfect outfit.

You know what that is. The dress or pair of jeans or T-shirt that makes you feel like you really do look okay. More than okay. You really look pretty special. We’ve all had that experience, and we all know what that feels like. I think that’s what makeover scenes pick up on, the feeling that clothes may not make the man, but they sure as hell can make the man feel better.

I remember once walking down Bourbon Street in New Orleans with the DH, wearing a certain black pants suit (now long gone to Goodwill) and gold jewelry and feeling absolutely top of the trees. A passerby actually grinned at us and said “Y’all sure look nice together.” Bliss!

So okay, you can’t buy character, and the state of your clothes doesn’t necessarily indicate the state of your soul. Still, that feeling you get when you know you look your best is hard to beat. If that makes me shallow, so be it.

So what outfit does it for you? What’s your favorite wardrobe memory? And by the way, anyone who comments today is entered in a drawing for three copies of Brand New Me (please include your email address so I can reach you).

Brand New Me blurb:

If any man wants more than a dance with her, they’ll have to get past him…

Konigsberg, Texas, Book 5

Deirdre Brandenburg has an MBA and a dream to become the coffee supplier for Konigsburg’s growing restaurant industry. What she doesn’t have is money, courtesy of her billionaire father’s scheme to make her come home. All she needs is three months until her trust fund kicks in. Until then, she needs a job.

Hiring the new girl next door is a no-brainer for ex-gambler Tom Ames. He’s already succeeded in making his bar, The Faro, a growing tourist draw. Deirdre’s beauty will pull in the locals—particularly every red-blooded male in the Hill Country. As he watches her transform from tentative business wonk to confident, sassy barmaid, he realizes he wants first crack at her heart.

When Big John Brandenburg sends Deirdre’s ex-boyfriend to drag her home, the plan backfires, leaving Tom’s bar in shambles and Deirdre kidnapped by a band of loony Texas secessionists.

Things are looking pretty bleak—except the good people of Konigsburg have no intention of giving Deirdre up, either. Even if it takes every Faro employee, every last Toleffson, and one cranky iguana to give the honky-tonk lovebirds a chance at forever.

Warning: Contains dirty dancing, hot summer sex, a honky-tonk makeover, and one nippy iguana.

A brief excerpt from my makeover scene, or rather the results of the makeover as seen in Tom Ames’s reaction:

Considering that it was a weeknight, business was surprisingly brisk that evening. Tom did a quick head count—two or three empty tables, and a couple of groups of six. He checked his watch. Deirdre was a few minutes late, which didn’t seem like her. But Tom figured she was entitled to the occasional messed-up day, as long as she didn’t make a habit of it. Besides, she’d stayed late with the lunch shift today.

Fortunately, Sylvia was on time for once. And making sure everybody knew it. “Where is that Deirdre, anyway? I can’t take care of all these tables by myself.”

“She’ll be here. Have Chico carry the drinks over for you.”

Sylvia pouted in his general direction before flouncing back to her tables, giving her hips an extra flip in his direction. Tom made a show of not noticing. He hadn’t taken Sylvia up on any of her earlier implied offers, and he wasn’t interested in starting now. He mixed a couple of whiskey sours and checked his watch again.

“I’m here,” Deirdre panted behind him. “I’m sorry. I got held up.”

Tom turned toward her and froze, staring.

Her jeans were like a second skin that fit better than most people’s first one did. Her bright red T-shirt looked to be maybe a half-size too small—it hugged the curves of her breasts lovingly. She’d pulled her long black hair up in a topknot, but a few strands lapped against her neck and the golden hoops at her ears. And her lips were pinker than usual, as if she’d been chewing on them.

She was, without doubt, the hottest woman he’d seen within the last month. Possibly year. Possibly decade.

Tom squinted at the black printing across her chest. “Liddy Brenner Festival 2007?” Somehow he managed to keep his voice from shaking.

“It was one of the ones in the back room at the shop. I hope you don’t mind.” Deirdre chewed her lip for a moment and Tom felt all the blood leave his brain, heading south.

“That’s okay,” he croaked. “Use them any way you want.”

“All right. Could I get some change?”

Tom went on staring at her, trying to get his brain back in gear again. “Change?”

“My ten dollars in singles?” Deirdre’s brow furrowed. “Are you feeling okay?”

He closed his eyes for a moment. “Never better. Ten dollars, coming up.” He turned hurriedly toward the cash register. Anything to get away from staring at the honky-tonk vision in front of the bar. She’d probably have to slug him in another minute or so.

When he turned back again, Deirdre gave him a dazzling smile that had his groin throbbing. “Thanks.”

She started to tuck the money into her jeans pocket, then paused, sliding her fingers in slowly so that she could work the dollar bills under the skin-tight fabric.

Amazing. He hadn’t thought it was still possible for him to get this hard this fast.

Deirdre gave him another bright smile then and headed for her first table.

Tom blew out a breath as he watched her. Something told him it was going to be a very interesting night.

Guest Blogger Natasha Moore -The Exhibitionist

Titles are so important, not just to draw readers’ interest in a story, but the title for me is often a jumping off point. Several years ago I noticed there were a lot of book titles like The Alchemist, The Reincarnationist, and The Alienist. As an erotic romance author, I couldn’t help but wonder what a story titled The Exhibitionist would be like.

So I set out to write it.

Now I’m in no way an exhibitionist. I’m one of those people who stay out of the spotlight, shy and quiet. A lot, in fact, like my heroine, Lydia, at the beginning of the story. She feels invisible and fights back in the only way she knows how. By daring someone to see her.

I have a lot of fun writing heroines who are not like me. Or at least heroines who dare to do things I could never do myself. Dance naked on the balcony of an apartment building? No way! But there must be enough of an exhibitionist in me that I can imagine what would drive someone to do something like that. And I can imagine what my heroine would feel when she realizes someone is watching her.

And I can envy her just a little bit. I could never be that brave.

My story didn’t end up with the title The Exhibitionist, in the end the story was too emotional for that. The title is See Me, and it is available now from Samhain. This is the blurb:

Through the eyes of desire…

These days, Lydia is feeling increasingly restless, and tired of being invisible. No one at work notices the nose-to-the-grindstone colleague dressed in business drab. Her neighbors don’t even know her name.

No one knows she burns off her frustration by dancing to her favorite music, alone in her apartment. No one knows her closet is a wardrobe divided: monochrome and flats by day, silk and stilettos by night. No one knows her secret ritual has slowly evolved into private stripping…then dancing naked on her tiny balcony, daring someone—anyone—to notice.

Then, at the apartment across the way, the curtains move.

Wes can’t believe what he’s been missing by working the night shift. He is drawn to the amazing woman whose every sensual move makes his body ache. And when she catches him watching, the evening explodes into an erotic fantasy. Afterward, though, she confesses she’s not all she seems. No way is this fiery siren as boring and unlovable as she claims.

And no way is he going to let her go without convincing her she is brave, beautiful…and the face he wants to see every morning.

Warning: Contains erotic dancing, stripping for a stranger, hot sex on the balcony, and lots of sexy shoes.

Thanks to the Nine Naughty Novelist for having me here today. Do you like to read or write stories about characters like you? Or would you rather live vicariously through a heroine who dares to do what you never could?

Natasha

SEE ME – Available now

FLAUNT IT – Coming soon

BOUND BY DESIGN – Still available

www.natashamoore.com

Natasha Moore fell in love with the written word as soon as she could read. As she grew up, she discovered romance and now enjoys the chance to add some extra sizzle to her stories. She writes sexy contemporary and erotic romance for Samhain, Ellora’s Cave and Red Sage. She lives in New York State with her real life hero who is happy to tell everyone that he’s her inspiration. They travel in their RV whenever possible. The great thing about writing is she can take it anywhere.

When Do You Feel Your Age?

Scott Adams (Dilbert’s creator) did a great post a few years back about the difference between your chronological age and your permanent age. Your permanent age is the age you feel inside, no matter how young you are or how old you get. Adams says he’s always been 42, even as a kid. I’ve been 30 ever since I was in my early 20s. I’ll be 30, in my head, for the rest of my life.

But chronologically, in about two weeks I’ll be 47. And that’s just weird. I don't feel mature enough, grown up enough to be 47.

Shouldn't I be more financially secure at 47? Not depend so much on my mother's advice? Have better furniture? Shouldn't my house be decorated in some kind of coherent fashion? I probably shouldn't be drinking so much wine, either. Are you supposed to have hangovers at 47?

How are you supposed to dress at 47? I'm still buying graphic t-shirts at Target.

My sister has much better fashion instincts than me, and I always get her advice before wearing something if I feel like it might be too young--but then again, she shops at Forever 21. She says nowadays, just because you’re pushing 50 (which, according to a friend’s husband, is a hell of a lot easier than dragging 50) is no reason to start dressing like an old lady. I heartily agree.

But you know what? There’s some really cute stuff at Chico’s and Coldwater Creek.

I’m not trying to imply that I’m too hip and young at heart to be 47 – I’m not. I’m appalled at the sexual habits of the younger generation, Lady Gaga annoys me and I can't stand hip hop, I prefer emailing or calling to texting, and I’m starting to think we need to switch the drinking age to 18 and the voting age to 25. Or 30.

I'm physically showing the years, too. There's the gray hair, of course (I'm dying it as fast as it comes in). There there's the partially torn rotator cuff, deteriorating knee cartilage, aching feet (head and shoulders knees and toes, knees and toes.....). Oh, and I have to starve myself to lose one pound.

So it's not that I feel so young. It’s just that I don’t feel serious enough to be 47. Back in the old days, by the age of 47 women were Serious. They were Grown Ups. Elizabeth Taylor was 34 and on her fifth husband when she made Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolfe? Jackie Kennedy Onassis was 34 when JFK died.

Did you know that at one time, haute couture was considered appropriate only for older women? It was assumed that you needed to have a few years on you, some life experience, before you could develop the taste and personal style to let you appreciate Schiaparelli and Mainboucher.

The French always had a reverence for femmes d'une certaine age, but there’s no equivalent for that in America. Here, women are celebrated for reaching their 40s and 50s only if they still look like they’re in their 30s. Which is why 45-year-olds shop at Forever 21 and apparently, that’s okay.

I blame the Boomers for this (actually, I blame the Boomers for a lot of stuff, but that’s the subject of another post). It’s the Boomers who initiated American society into the cult of youth.

Think about it – it was in the ‘60s that men stopped wearing hats (hats are for grown ups) and people in their 40s and 50s started dressing like teenagers. Pretty soon, nobody knew how to act their age anymore. Which is how we got to the point where Joan Baez, at the age of 69, fell out of her tree house and hurt herself.

All the newspaper stories were like, “Isn’t it so awesome that she’s climbing up in a tree house at her age?” (A tree house, by the way, that she purposely built without walls, because she wanted to sleep among the birds, and that right there is why Boomers bug me.) No one said, “WTF is a 69 year old woman doing in a damn tree house?”

Wait a minute. What was my point? It’s like my memory is failing or something…

Oh, yeah. 47. Apparently, it feels just like 30.

To Count or Not to Count

For someone who hates math, I do a lot of counting these days. At least I’m counting something I love.

Words.

Yep, I’m one of those writers who lives and dies by word count goals. When I’m working on a first draft, I write 3,000 words a day, by hook or by crook. It doesn’t matter when, it doesn’t matter how. It doesn’t even matter how good the words are. But I won’t go to sleep until I make my word count.

But sometimes I wonder…is this really the best method? Does it value quantity over quality? Would I be better off not worrying about how many words I write in a day, and instead make them fantastic, stellar words? Edit as I write, in other words. Some people work that way, very successfully.

Susan Elizabeth Phillips, for instance. She’s one of my idols, and her method is to make each sentence perfect before she moves to the next. By the time she’s done with a book, it’s already edited. I’m eaten up by jealousy over this, I admit. Wouldn’t it be lovely to craft a book perfectly the first time around?

When I finish my first draft, I know it’s just step one. Next come multiple revisions and polishes, and that’s before an editor ever sees it. My process is messy. My motto--get the words out, fix it later.
For me, that’s where the real magic happens, when I get in there and make all those “vomit draft” words work.

Not to compare myself with another iconic romance writer, but I write more like Jayne Ann Krentz (at least in terms of process!) She says her first draft is a matter of figuring out what the book is really about. Then she writes several more drafts before she’s satisfied. Which goes to show you that everyone’s different and should find what works for them.

But what if my word count goals are actually holding me back? What if I could write 7,000 words a day, and I don’t even know it? What if my need for structure is hampering my inspiration? What is the point of generating words if they’re no good and you have to rewrite them later?

I don’t have any tried or true answers. All I know is that to make forward progress on a book, I need those numbers. I need math! I need 1,000 words, then a break for more tea. 500 more, and I can check my email. After 2,000, I can consider a snack. 2,500, hello, Twitter. At that point, I’m only 500 from a good day’s work. I need my words to pile up like clay on a pottery wheel. I’ll shape them up later. Maybe that sounds mundane and unglamorous, but that’s what works for me.

So what about other writers out there? How do you feel about word count goals? Thumbs up or down?

The Zillionaire Vampire Cowboy's Secret Werewolf Babies - Chapter 13

Rock awoke to the buzz saw snoring of the werewolf in his arms. At some point during the night, Buffi had shifted into her golden-pelted lupine form. Damn, she was even sexy as a dog.

She recovered more energy and healed faster as a wolf, Rock kinda remembered, so it figured she'd need the extra rest. He smirked. They'd been wild last night. He looked to the trash can by her bed, pride sweeping over him at the two—count em, TWO—condom wrappers at the top. He'd Rocked her world, alright.

They'd not used condoms before, but for some reason, Buffi had insisted even though he thought he knew it wasn't the right time in her lunar cycle. But when a human she-wolf is naked as a sexy jaybird in front of you, you don't ask too many questions.

As he stroked her silky blonde fur, his senses started tingling. Sunrise would come soon, but he didn't want to go home. Chastity might be there, and he really had no idea what to say to her. Maybe some diamonds would soothe her hurt feelings; sparkly things usually did. Explained her obsession with that vampire from that movie. But as sweet little Chastity wasn't the vengeful type, Rock didn't have too much to worry about. His secretary could deal with it Monday; she always chose the best gifts for him to send.

The only thing he wanted to think about was Buffi, and how good she felt in his arms. Although she was quite heavy in her wolf form, and her fur smelled more like wet dog than the delicate floral scent she exuded in her human form, he still made her heart race hotter than the engines at a NASCAR race.

He pulled his hand from under her over-sized head, working carefully past her open muzzle with its sharp flesh-rending teeth. One even had a little stain of...

Gulp. That looked like blood. He squeezed his eyes shut and yanked his arm free, tumbling off the bed in the process.

He popped his head above the mattress to see if he'd woken her, but Buffi continued to snuffle through her little rabbit-chasing dreams. Maybe if she needed to stay in wolf form—he preened again at his insatiable sexual prowess—he could brush her pelt. He bet she still had that Furminator lying around somewhere, especially because of the puppies.

Oh! The puppies! He would need to tiptoe around so he didn't wake up the runts. Ok, they were kind of cute, in a mutt-y way, but children weren't his thing. And their dental hygiene left too little to the imagination, not that he wanted to imagine the bloody meat they ate.

His success in not passing out from his bloody, meaty thoughts gave Rock an idea. He could bring Buffi breakfast in bed! Way to send the message that he wanted to do this again, and soon. Women liked that kind of thing, their men doting on them.

She better not get used to it, but Rock figured he could do it just this once. If she wanted him to spoil her, well his secretary could take care of that.

Easy as pie. Or cake. He liked cake better, or at least the thought of it. Pie filling had a texture too close to—gulp—blood.

Moving stealthily from the room, Rock scampered down the hall, moving even more quietly when he noticed the nursery door was open. He wondered if the boys were sneaky enough to figure their way out of the crib yet.

He'd been able to do it by the age of two. Giving himself a mental pat on the back, he continued down the long hall of the ranch-style house to the kitchen.

Hoping that Buffi hadn't thrown away his stash, he dug through the back shelf of her pantry. Success! He opened the box and pulled out thick rubber gloves and a gas mask. Donning both, he grabbed a plate and a few spices from the rack before opening the fridge.

Bloody meat glared from almost every shelf, but Rock had mostly steeled himself against it. Though he was almost swept under the tide of nausea, he powered through it for his woman. “You're Rock solid,” he repeated over and over until a steak was on the plate.

He threw some salt, pepper, and other spices, though he wasn't sure what they were, on the meat, trying to ignore the blood pooling beneath it on the white ceramic plate.

The sunrise tingles were getting stronger, so Rock scampered back down the hallway, closing their bedroom door softly behind him.

Buffi's bluer-than-a-Texas-sky eyes popped open and her long tongue lolled out of her mouth.

“Baby, I brought you breakfast in bed. Sun's about to rise, so I gotta go. Can I camp out in your wine cellar for the day?” His words were muted by the gas mask but Buffi's hearing was excellent in this form.

She gave a wolfish smile and nodded her wolfish head. He set the meat down on the dark sheets of the bed, and she nuzzled against his hand.

Rock scratched her behind the ears and down her side. Her back leg started twitching uncontrollably—he'd found a sweet spot. A few more scratches and a pat on the belly, then he was gone.

He was growing awfully fond of that she-beast.

Daylight hadn't yet broken as he dashed from the house to The Best Little Winery in Texas and into the cellar's blessed darkness. He could smell a human sleeping upstairs, but recognized the scent of Buffi's enol...anal...whatever, wine scientist guy.

But that wasn't the only thing he could smell. Something teased his nose, something delicious. He flipped on a light, discovering that he was in a little room attached to the wine cellar. Through the wall of windows, he could see rows of casks and bottles stretching on down the long cellar.

In this room, however, one wall was filled by a refrigerator and wine rack, while the other side had a little table and chairs in one corner and a large dog bed in the other. It looked big enough for him and Buffi to curl up on together after they knocked boots another time.

Maybe he'd lure her down here under false pretenses and then seduce her like the rogue he was!

He sat down to think about this plan, because thinking was hard work, but the three label-less green wine bottles that sat on that little table distracted him. The intoxicating scent was emanating from their glassy depths!

Without thinking that he hated wine, or that red wine looked like blood, or that that Alice girl got herself into a lot of trouble drinking things without permission, he pulled out the rubber stopper and took a deep inhale.

It looked like wine. It was in a winery. But it didn't smell like wine. It smelled...like he was hungry.

He drew the bottle to his lips like an expert wino when, suddenly, the bottle was snatched from him.

“What in the Sam Hill do ya think you're doin'?” a little man twanged from his right elbow. He recorked the bottle, leaving Rock bereft like the time the cheerleaders had to leave for their football game and it was just him in the backyard hot tub. Though they'd kept him company but good up to that point.

But they weren't Buffi. The odd thought would've made his heart stutter if the dang thing still beat.

“Exsqueeze me, buddy, but how'd ya get in here? And what are ya doin' sniffin' them bottles?”

How had he not heard this itty bitty human sneak up on him? Was the liquid in that bottle so entrancing? “I'm a friend of Buffi's and she gave me the pass code so I could, uh, come check on her wine guy.”

He did kind of remember hearing Buffi growl about the man drinking too much and not finishing his work. This had to be the wine guy. He smelled like he'd bathed in a vat of sour grapes.

“Ah, well thatta be me, and you're interrupting my work.” He snagged the other two bottles and left. Rock gazed longingly at the mystery drink as it left the room in the arms of another man.

He would have mourned, but a fang-ache-worthy scream tore through the air. He knew that voice! “Buffi!” he cried, knowing he was trapped by the blasted sun.

Whatever trouble she was in, he couldn't help her!

Just when he was working up the courage to make a plan to brave the elements, Buffy burst through the door.

“Rock,” she cried, tears streaming down her red and puffy face. Tears were not a good look on her. “Rock, someone's kidnapped my babies! They say they want a million dollars to get them back—but I don't have a million dollars! The note said they'd call back in an hour with more information, and if I wasn't willing to pay they'd throw the boys to the wolves!”

He went to comfort her but stopped partway when he smelled the blood. “Uh, baby, did you brush your teeth after eating that steak?”

Her growl rumbled through the little room. “My dear sweet puppies have been stolen, and you're asking about my dental hygiene?”

“Well, baby,” he soothed, thinking that his breakfast in bed was not his brightest idea, “I...” He didn't think it would be manly to demand a grieving mother swig some Listerine, but what choice did he have?

Tears in her eyes, she growled again, pulled open the fridge, and swigged from a bottle of water. “Better?”

Well, it would have to do; it was time to be the protector man. He pulled her into his arms, trying not to think about the tear stains forming on sleeveless silk Armani tank top.

She looked up at him, sniffled, then asked, “What are we going to do? Where am I going to get a million dollars?” She howled in agony.

The sound shouldn't have been a turn-on, but it was. And he knew exactly how to make her feel better. “Baby, there's nothing we can do until the kidnappers call back about the money, which you will borrow from me. We'll find some way for you to pay me back.” He winked at her.

“Rock, do you have something stuck in your eye?”

Damn, so much for his sultry come-hither wink-stare-wink combo. “I'm fine baby. But right now, I think you just need to get your mind off the situation, and I have the perfect solution for you.”

To be continued...Chapter Fourteen

If you enjoyed this chapter of The Zillionaire Vampire Cowboy's Secret Werewolf Babies, please be sure and join us again next Thursday for the next exciting installment.

You can read more about the serial HERE. And be sure to enter our contest! Rules and information can be found HERE.

Strange and Amazing

So, a week and a half ago, I got a phone call.

Not just any phone call. No, when the phone rang, I had four recording devices and a friend to run them sitting on the couch next to me. Taking a deep breath, I answered.

"Hi Kate," he said. "This is Eric."

"Eric" would be Eric Sheffer Stevens, who played Dr. Reid Oliver on As The World Turns, and my current favorite actor. And through a bizarre and can't-wrap-my-head-around-it series of events, I landed an interview with him for my blog.

Now, I'm not a reporter. I don't exactly have the platform for an interview with one of the hottest discoveries in daytime television in 2010. And it certainly isn't a logical choice for an interview venue. But with some nudging from a friend, I wrote up an interview request and sent it in anyway, figuring what did I have to lose? The worst he could do was say no, or just ignore it.

Instead, I got a yes, which pretty much blew my mind. Because now I had to COME UP WITH QUESTIONS. And actually HAVE A CONVERSATION WITH HIM. And, of course, keep it under wraps just in case it fell through.

But it didn't. Several weeks passed as schedules were compared and he finished up a project he'd been working on, but I finally got an email saying, how about tomorrow?

It was a great conversation, the results of which have been going up this week on my personal blog. We chatted about the creative process, why he'd say no to a part, what's next on the horizon for him. He even answered questions my kids had begged me to ask.

All in all, he's a great, down-to-earth, really nice guy. And I got a great series of posts for my blog. And I've learned the benefit of going ahead and asking anyway, even if it's the most ridiculously improbable idea around.

Because you know what? Sometimes, the answer is yes.

Guest Blogger Shelley Munro - One Size Fits All

Thanks to Nine Naughty Novelists for inviting me to visit today. My name is Shelley Munro and I write spicy hot romances. Since I write so many love scenes, I come into contact…so to speak…with quite a few of the male of the species and their appendages. Yep, I’m gonna talk about dangly bits today.

There seems to be a fascination with size and shape in the fictional world. Oh, and color plays a factor too. Some heroes have huge ones even though in real life the average length is 5 – 7 inches. Some are wide. Some are thin. The colors also make me chuckle since they all sound angry, ranging from deep red to purple. They throb and weep a lot and they’re constantly pushing at zippers, like crazed creatures desperate to get out.

Let’s look at contemporary romances first. These quotes are all from my personal e-book collection.

“…he felt his cock grow rock hard and solid, throbbing in the denim prison of his jeans as his partner explored his neck with his warm, sensual lips.” The Assignment by Evangeline Anderson

“He has no style, no class, and I doubt he has a cock over five inches long. He probably only needs a finger or two to jack off with.” He sat back slowly in his chair. His cock, all five inches and several more, pulsed in outrage.” Wicked Intent by Lora Leigh

“His impressive shaft curved ever so slightly, purplish-blue veins running the entire length of it to meet together at the large mushroom cap.” Cougar by Beverly Rae

“But all Eric could do was stare at his own cock, now purplish-red with arousal, waving in the air like an unadorned flagpole.” Triad by Cat Grant

“Justin had never seen such a large cock outside a triple x movie.” Coach by Carol Lynne

See what I mean? These appendages are really creatures with a life of their own. I sometimes wonder why our intrepid heroines let their lovers anywhere near them. Now let’s move right along to paranormal and sci-fi romances. This is where things become interesting because the appendages in this genre have surprises in store for the unwary sexual partner. They sprout extra bits without warning or sometimes they even double up and there are two of them—a sort of a surprise ambush.

Here are a few more snippets from my library to show you what I mean.

“His cock tunneled inside her, then thickened further, then further, until each time his hips jerked, the unusual thickness that seemed to have grown at the point where her channel was narrowest, only lodged him inside her tighter. His cock was spurting repeatedly as he cried out her name, his body jerking against her, triggering flaring, multi-orgasms as the hard ball wedged inside her tighter, hotter than before.” Jacob’s Faith by Lora Leigh

“Then what he said finally registered. "Two cocks? She froze out of sheer surprise. Seht rolled his hips and shoved. Both cocks slid deep." Victorious Star by Morgan Hawk

“Danellan ran her hand between their bodies and cupped his cock, teasing him with her fingers. He had to give in. She wanted Michael to be the first to take her to completion. She wanted to feel his cock locked in her female band.” Second Son by Brenna Lyons

“Callan cleared his throat as a slight grin edged his lips. “Our cocks produced a phenomena resembling the barb that actual felines have. It’s blunt rather than sharp, but locks us into our women for long minutes after ejaculation. It’s possible a similar phenomena occurs in the Wolf Breeds.” Elizabeth’s Wolf by Lora Leigh

Yes, I fear it’s true. If you decide to step into a paranormal world, you must watch for hidden extras. They lurk in unexpected places.

While it’s true I’m poking fun, a little naughtiness makes writing and reading erotic romance fun.

Here’s a snippet from one of my books, Never Send a Dog to do a Woman’s Job

“He stepped behind the kitchen table in the hope it would hide his burgeoning erection. His cock was starting to feel like the sail of a glider-ship being hoisted then hauled in because of fickle winds. Up. And then down. Was it any wonder he felt a little crazed?”

And one more snippet from the same book…

“Lily’s gaze zapped to his cock. “Whoa!” She scrambled away to stare in half horror, half fascination. That was a bit…unexpected!

Alex stilled. “What’s wrong?”

“You…you’ve turned blue!” The sudden need to laugh quivered through her like a glass of tickly champagne. Alex’s…thing… She peered a little harder. Not just his thing… “My God,” she muttered. “It’s the exact color of a baboon’s bum!”

So, what do you think about these appendages in fiction? Do we writers pay entirely too much attention to them? Do you have any examples to add to my collection of examples? Comments?

Shelley Munro lives in New Zealand and writes romance for Carina Press, Ellora’s Cave, Liquid Silver Books and Samhain Publishing. As you can see from the above example, she’s guilty of giving extra life to appendages in some of her stories. Her most recent release is The Spurned Viscountess from Carina Press. You can visit Shelley and learn more about her books at www.shelleymunro.com