I love this story. What started out as a fun way to poke fun at romance novels evolved into something so much better. This character just grew throughout the book. In writing this, I bared a lot of my soul. While I’ve never had the pleasure of tripping falling on a man as well-endowed as I made Matt, I have learned to stop the cycle of self-loathing and see the world around me.
I have to thank my friend Julie who was my inspiration not only for the secondary character in this book but to finish it. That it went to print just overjoyed me. I’ve held a book with something I wrote in my hands before but I shared the limelight with others. This glow is all mine. 🙂
Melody licked the dewy drop from the end of his shaft, sending shivers down Armando’s core. She teased and prodded before taking him fully into her moist, hot mouth, driving his senses wild.
“Enough!” he growled as he laid her down on the downy bed.
Wait. What? He stopped her? No man in my life had ever stopped me from performing the fine art of fellatio. Heart’s Desire was supposed to be a romance novel, not epic fantasy.
I checked the cover again. The author, who apparently wrote enough horizontal bop-capades to earn her a spot on the New York Times Bestseller’s list, sure made her male gigolo sound like the cabana boy of my dreams. Too bad I couldn’t have him leap from the pages.
I popped another truffle in my mouth, suckling on the chocolate about as erotic as Melody working the pole in the novel. I groaned more or less in disgust, thankful the tasty chocolate treat dulled the bitter taste in my mouth.
How hard could it be to write one of these things anyways? I mean, if I took everything I wished happened in the bedroom and wrote it down, throw in a little misguided mistrust and a jilted lover, and bam. I’ve got the poster child for a romance novel.
I tossed the book aside, fully realizing the meaning of ‘fiction’. If all the men acted that way in life, I wouldn’t be digging in the ‘magic’ drawer by my bed every night.
My lips pursed.
Perhaps that’s what I get for not being a virgin or not falling for the fumbling hands of a man. I really wanted to dive into the book and slap the shit out of Melody at that point. The girl needed a wake-up call into reality. It wouldn’t be long before she leaned against his chest and Armando prodded her head with gusto toward his raging crotch rocket.
Every novel I read had the same formula. Some stubborn virgin female fell for the village playboy. Sometimes the local royalty were thrown into the mix too. They made hot monkey love and had a little mistrust due to a misunderstanding because they refused to communicate with anything but the voices inside their heads.
Okay, maybe that last part could be part of my world.
Then it’s off to the Chapel for a proper marriage, and the woman popped out a few kids. Cue the happily ever after epilogue. My fingers curled around another truffle, my tongue darting out to lick the tip in an illicit manner. Fellatio was fun so long as a little quid pro quo on the vag happened.
“Oooo … Armando! It’s so big! It will never fit down there!” I swooned back onto the couch and rolled my eyes. I dropped the truffle into my mouth.
I hadn’t found one man I had ever dated who had a penis I even questioned about fitting in my hooha. It doesn’t mean I think my ‘soft velvety petals’ were as big as the Grand Canyon, just romance novels over exaggerated the male anatomy.
My eyes stared at the book lying imperfectly on the coffee table. The picture of Melody half-naked with Armando ravishing her pale skin tickled my nether regions. Go ahead, Patricia, you know you want to finish reading it, my mind taunted me. Masturbation material, remember? I sighed and threw my hands up. Leaving the book, I decided to indulge in a shower to test out a new showerhead I bought.
“Oooo … Armando! It’s so big!” I cooed again in a high-pitched voice. I shrugged out of my clothes.
I seriously needed to get laid by something not made of silicone and that didn’t make my water bill sky high.
I rubbed the towel over my wet hair and scrubbed the toothbrush across my teeth.
Hygiene, I thought.
All these stories I had been reading centered back in the Middle Ages and such. How clean were the nether regions back then? I couldn’t imagine an author selling a book that went along the lines of ‘Oh, Melody. You taste like the fish with which I broke my fast.’ Nom nom nom. I had a better chance of ruining another shirt with a Häagen-Dazs stain than to ever see those lines in print. Trust me, I don’t waste good ice cream by wearing it.
Unless my hips counted.
Yeah, sure, call me bitter because I was single going on thirty-five in a few months. The fact was, I’d played the market and I had yet to find one man who fit the description of any romance novel hunk. I wasn’t talking about the twenty-one-something drunken club scene prowling I did either. Go ahead and test the market—the local Laundromat, super market, coffee house, and library (hey, I was desperate).
He simply doesn’t exist.
Reading those self-defeating novels was the brainchild of my best friend since childhood, Julie. Sort of a book club—with two members, both single. One night after a particularly laughable passage, we shared a couple of bottles of Merlot and pinky swore if we didn’t find ‘the one’ by forty, we’d become full-blown lesbians and move to Boston to have a civil union. The marriage, we giggled, would be open so we would have variety beyond our collection of naughty toys. Considering Julie and I had been through a lot, it was the least we could do for each other.
Julie and I met in our home town of Middleofnowhere, USA. If it wasn’t a church, corn field, or some sort of livestock, it didn’t exist in our realm. Julie and I made our own brand of mischief to rival the boys. They, of course, got blamed for it. Who would believe that two innocent little girls in pigtails could sneak into the square in town and hang the mayor’s boxers on the flagpole?
Collectively, we’d done enough wicked things to make Paris Hilton seem like Mother Theresa. We shared everything. I gave my shoulder to Julie when she went through her divorce. She held my hair when I lost my cookies from binge drinking when the latest boyfriend ran scared.
Heart’s Desire still sat on the coffee table, staring sadly with invisible eyes. I picked it up, thumbing through the pages. One by one, I marked steamy scenes with Post-It notes—my date for tonight if I failed to pick up male company.
We were going out to a local Italian restaurant for dinner. Casa Favolosa was our favorite eatery for more than just the food. Julie had her eyes on the bartender, and I fixated on our usual waiter, Matt. The plan would be for me to find out when he got off work and ‘conveniently’ still be picking at my pasta when his shift ended.
I mentioned I’m desperate, right?
I paused with my make-up bag in hand, the hour-long task of dolling myself up looming, and set it down.
If the girls in the romance novels didn’t smear hoochie make-up on to snare in their catches, neither would I. I decided to go on strike, with maybe a hint of laziness thrown in. Besides, I was pretty sure Matt was a boob man so I spread a little scented lotion into my perfect golden globes.
They’re always milky white in the novels, weren’t they? The village maid happened to avoid the sun so much her skin was perfectly flawless. Another passage I’d never seen sprung to my head.
Melody flashed a smile to Armando, her dull incisors like a portrait of yellow clover flowers. Her skin, roughened and dark, like dirt hanging from the carrots she harvested, scratched along his massively huge man boobs.
Eh. Men have boobs too. Adjusting my own, I nodded to my reflection, stating my mantra of ‘Give me sex or pass the vibrator’. I either seduced Matt into having wild non-committal romp with a thirty-something under-sexed female or I dialed the pink phone myself.