On Chick-Porn and Being a Man in the Romance Business

By Jonathan Wright

I don?t write Romance. Or even romance. I don?t read it, either.
I?m a guy if you hadn?t noticed. I write for Margaret Riley at Changeling Press. So what am I doing in the romance business if I don?t write Romance?
In my admittedly limited experience a Romance generally follows the fairly rigid structure of a beautiful, feisty (always feisty) woman with Issues finding the Perfect Mate, resolving her Issues, and living happily ever after. I call this the Harlequin Universal Romance Storyline (HURS). Just for the record, reading about Issues ? as opposed to say, car chases and explosions ? isn?t something I really like unless it?s the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue.
But Erotic Romance (ER) generally has an adventure element, something involving action, which is consistent with speculative fiction genres. In fact the whole ER industry tends to avoid anything that can be labeled mainstream. We have Westerns, Regency, straight fantasy (werewolves and vampires abound), futuristic science fiction, and so on.
I write about manly men doing manly things, like killing monsters and enjoying hot sex with luscious babes. Doesn?t sound like romance, does it? But a lot of the basic elements are there. Studly hero, built babe, they meet and feel a great attraction, they have issues and adventures. The hero saves the heroine form the slavering monster and they get together at the end. Isn?t that romance?
Add enough sex and it becomes erotic romance. Partly because I am irreverent I call this chick-porn. I just love the debate that Erotic Romance is NOT porn, by God, because it has Plot, and Characters. Okay, I get the point, and overall I am in agreement, but I also stand by Justice Potter Stewart: ?I can?t define it but I know it when I see it?. He really meant (in my not at all humble opinion) that porn was anything sexual he didn?t like or that made him uncomfortable. In other words, he wanted to repress it because he didn?t like it, not because it met any absolute definition of good or bad. By that measure he was a hypocrite and a fool. But if you must have a definition, that?s pretty much it. As proof I offer anything written by anyone in the ER business now; when I was a kid in the 60s all of it would have been unquestionably labeled porn. So can it, okay? It?s just a convenient label.
Anyway, read anything I have written (Please, read it all. I don?t mind. Take your time) and you will see that the core of all my stories is really the relationship of two people who desperately need each other.
I have not had to fight for acceptance, per se, although one female reviewer totally trashed my first story (?Shadow Man?, http://www.changelingpress.com/product.php?&upt=book&ubid=51) essentially calling it a male sex fantasy populated with brainless bimbos. I think she missed several salient plot points that would contradict that assessment, but a rule of writing is that you can?t answer criticism; the reader either likes it or she doesn?t. But her tone was distinctly patronizing: He?s a man, what do you expect?
On the other hand another female reviewer said ?Shadow Man? was ??absolutely brilliant with a caveat that it has the potential to offend almost everyone.? I?ll go with door number two.
I depart from the typical ER mold in another respect. Although the usual ER plot seems to resemble an adventure novel more and more, a lot of them do seem to go for some permutation of the Hunky Prince of Werewolves who goes after the Beautiful, Feisty Princess of Vampires. There is always more action than in the HURS, like him saving her from something, or her saving him, and both of them persevering against the prejudices of their respective races. That may be the new romance paradigm.
My stories aren?t like that. For example, instead of being the Prince of (Enter Exotic Lifestyle Here), or the greatest art thief in the galaxy, in the first story of the Horn Collection (?In the Belly of the Night?, http://www.changelingpress.com/product.php?&upt=book&ubid=1159), Joe Horn is a homeless Vietnam vet who tries to save other homeless people from the Lovecraft-inspired monsters that hide in the shadowed alleys and seamy back streets of a modern city. Here?s an excerpt:

She had a third floor studio walk-up in a genteel old place. Wood floors and eighteen-inch masonry walls, the stucco texturing of which had aged like old ivory. She had a couch, a table and a bed that occupied one corner. She stood in the center of the room, hugging herself, with her back to him.

He stood behind her, waiting. Thinking of all the reasons he ought to just slip out the door.

Still turned away from him, in a low voice she said, ?I used to be afraid of the dark. Growing up, I wouldn?t go down in the basement, ever. So one night our cat got locked in down there. He wandered around, crying, and I was so scared, but I hated hearing him in so much — anxiety. The basement had one little naked light bulb, and there were dark corners and shadows and it was scary, but I went down there and found him and brought him out, because I loved him and didn?t want him to be afraid.?

She paused.

?I?m still afraid of the dark, but I?d go down into the basement again, if I had to.? She turned to face him. ?I?m — sorry — about your friend.?

He didn?t say anything, but he wanted to dive into her big eyes that were like portals to another world, a world he used to know, but had been away from for a long time. A place where life was a little simpler, and sanity had some meaning.

?I guess I?ll understand if you say no,? she said in a small voice, ?but I?d really like it if you?d fuck me.?

She didn?t seem vulnerable or afraid, just lonely and in need of physical affirmation.

He gave her a sexually charged response. ?I need a shower.?

?Is it safe?? she asked, probably thinking of the storm grate in the alley.

?Nothing is safe.?? Great erotic conversation, Horn.

But her lips parted in response.

He sensed her immediate, impulsive arousal at the prospect of not being safe. It provoked a similar response in him. Maybe that?s what turns her on. The danger. But there?s a difference between danger and terror.

We could be very bad for each other.

Without preamble, she peeled off the sweater, revealing nothing but firm, smooth skin, swelling breasts and prominent nipples. She stripped with an economy of motion that nonetheless failed to disguise her abundant sensuality. When she stood nude before him, she waited a moment as he appraised her.

?Do I pass?? Tremulous words, with a hard edge underneath.

?You?re not meat,? he said softly, shrugging out of his jacket. ?You?re a beautiful, sexy woman, and right now you?re doing what beautiful, sexy women do best.?

?What?s that??

?Getting me hard.?

She licked her lips. ?I — don?t — think I can — wait –?

His clothes fell to the floor, revealing a tall, lean body. Scars crisscrossed his chest.

Her lips, lush and full, parted again. ?You?ve — been hurt –?

?Mistakes.? His cock throbbed.

She stared at it. ?Now I know I can?t wait.??She knelt in a quick motion, right in front of him. ?Can I –?

He said nothing, but his eyes narrowed, and she read him correctly. She grasped his cock and guided it to her mouth. Her lips closed over it and he almost closed his eyes as she enveloped him in her wet heat.

He thrust his cock deeper into her mouth. She grasped his buttocks, pulling him deeper still.

As she rode him with her lips, her hands went between her legs. He held her head and slid his cock in and out of her face. She made muffled sounds of pleasure as she masturbated. Her teeth scraped his cock, making him hiss in suppressed pleasure. He fought mightily to not come, to not lose control.

To lose control meant death.

She rocked her body harder and faster, and her muffled moans became little squeals, and then she stiffened, trembling except for her hips, which gyrated in little circles as she came.

He pulled out of her. She fell back, gasping, bracing herself on her arms. The position made her thrust her breasts out at him. He wanted to grab them and suck them into his mouth. Her eyes were fogged and heavy lidded. ?You — you — didn?t come??

?The shower,? he said.

Good hygiene is important in a hero?
So I am not only a man in what is generally perceived as a woman?s business, but also I write in a genre that is considered distinctly icky by readers of swooning Romance: Urban Horror.? It tends to be somber, nourish, and gritty. No glitz. But like the excerpt above, it highlights the connection between fear and sex, which is a lot more significant than most people seem to think.
This excerpt from ?Shadows in the City? (http://www.changelingpress.com/product.php?&upt=book&ubid=1173) is very much in that vein:

In the shadow of a thick tree under which sat a picnic table she turned to Joe. Her body swayed sensually. ?Watch me strip. Watch me expose my body for your pleasure.?

She untied the tails of her blouse and let it fall to the ground. Her full, round tits heaved seductively. Her slacks dropped in a pool at her feet, revealing a next-to-nothing thong. She slipped the thong down over her shapely hips and stepped out of it.

She continued moving to an inner rhythm, caressing her body with her hands, swaying and writhing in place as though she had no spine. ?Take my body. Use it for your pleasure. Please. I am so hungry for your cock. Please.?

Horn started to speak, but found his mind focused on her hypnotically alluring body. He dropped his jacket and peeled off his shirt.

?Take me like that, Joe. Make me feel your rough clothes and your rough hands. Fuck me like I?m your slave.?

He unzipped and pulled out his hard cock. She stroked it hard with both hands. ?Take me! Show me the darkness!?

He gritted his teeth against the power of her sex, but his hands grasped her muscular ass and he drove her back against the table.

She grinned as he pushed her backward, laying her out on her back. As she spread her legs wide, she guided his cock into her cunt. Her moans made him shiver as he thrust hard into her.

She guided his hands to her tits. ?Ah, your cock is beautiful! Beautiful! Fuck me hard, Joe! Please! I love a big, hard cock thrusting into me! Take me!?? Her voice jumped an octave as he pumped her powerfully. ?Your strength makes me helpless! I?m your slave!?

Her voice hammered his libido. ?You?re mine to use. I own your body. You want to see the darkness? You want the darkness???He felt himself tipping over the edge, toward something or some place he never wanted to be or see.

?Yes!? she cried. ?I want the darkness! Give it to me!?

Fog swirled around them.

Jasmine came hard, letting go a sharp wail of pleasure. ?Yes! Yes!??Her body bounced hard on the table. ?More! Fuck me more!?

Her sensual voice clawed at his soul. He bared his teeth and hissed, ?Then let the darkness take you!??and did something he never understood. He coiled his power within himself and sent it into her like a lance, penetrating her own soul, piercing her libido, the center of all her fears, and in so doing releasing something.

Power. Pleasure. Terror.

She screamed.

The darkness answered. Horn heard something coming.

?They come!? she gasped. ?They come to take me!?

Horn tried to stop but could not. Her power held him, made him continue pumping his cock into her. His pleasure built and built. He groaned. He knew what was coming, and his fear began to equal his pleasure but then his pleasure increased again as she came, shrieking her surrender to him and to the darkness she seemed to crave.

?I am your slave! Take me! Fuck me!?

The fog swirled around them as dense as it had been before. Horn heard things moving just out of sight, moving closer, reaching for him.

His cock felt huge. He pumped harder as the pleasure became insupportable. With a savage snarl he came, pumping and pumping until he knew he had to be empty, and yet he continued to come, pumping harder still.

Shapes reached for him, and Horn strangled a scream of terror, but kept fucking Jasmine because in doing that he remained alive.

She came again, and her shriek of pleasure pierced the fog and rent the monstrous beings in it like wet tissue. She writhed like a snake, lifting herself off the table again and again as spasms took her body, until she finally held herself suspended, legs wrapped around Horn?s waist, thrusting and thrusting.

She collapsed with a hollow bang on the sweat-slick wood. Horn collapsed on top of her. She held him tightly, gasping for breath. His hard hands trembled as they wandered over her body. She moaned and continued to move under him, unable to completely halt her sensual rhythm. ?I want more of you. I want more of you,??she whispered. ?I want to be yours.?

He stood up, fumbling with his clothes like an old man. Gradually he regained control.

So close. So close.

I tend to write from the male viewpoint, of course, and I guess women might find that off-putting or enlightening, take your pick. That has to be the chief difference between my style and most women. I do know how men think, you know?
But for all the differences in my style, my hero is always a strong, honest, honorable, and deeply compassionate hunk, because I like that kind of character. He?s also a bit sinister, especially when it comes to sex, and this is spice in the sauce. My heroines are smart, classy, strong, voluptuous (oh, yes), and know what they want (check out Samantha, the heroine of ?The Thing in the Basement?; she?s almost comical in her assertive submission).
In the end, nothing I write is very much different than what women write, just, well, male. To quote Maurice Chevalier, ?There is basically very little difference between men and women. But, Vive la difference!?

Jonathan Wright is the brooding yet likeable alpha male of the Changeling Press stable of authors and can be reached at jonathanwright@changelingpress.com.

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