When it comes to romance novels, I want love scenes that sizzle. Not for me the ones that build sexual tension, then leave me panting at a bedroom door that’s just been slammed in my face. The image of the hero laying the heroine down in a bed of roses and making all her dreams come true is lovely, but exactly how is he going to accomplish it? I want details! Where are those big, firm hands going to slide, and how will they feel when they get there? What does he smell like, taste like and kiss like? Is his chest covered with hair that might rasp deliciously against delicate skin, or just smooth muscles as hard as sculpted marble? As for what’s down below, I prefer the image of a ‘rampant, throbbing manhood’ to a polite ‘swelling of arousal’ anytime.
But am I in the majority, or the minority? Is it a generational thing, or can I blame my desire for erotic details on today’s salacious media? Fashions are more and more revealing, television shows more and more focused on sex. And why not? Sex sells, and both Hollywood and the publishing world know it. After all, is there really such a thing as a romantic relationship that doesn’t involve sex at some point? Haven’t we all felt the heat of desire in one way or another? I certainly hope so – even if it’s vicariously experienced through a torrid scene in a book or a movie.
After searching in vain for statistics on what level of sexuality is preferred among readers of romance, I’m forced to conclude that opinions on ‘how much is too much’ are, like art, subjective. What’s sexy and what’s not is in the eye of the beholder – or in this instance, the reader.
My wonderful mother-in-law, despite my sometimes blushing protests, reads everything I’ve written. She had no problem with more explicit scenes until I had my hero do something particularly naughty to himself while he knew the heroine was secretly watching. The poor woman has since, on more than one occasion, tactfully (and unsuccessfully) suggested rewriting that particular scene. I don’t want to. Perhaps it’s over the top, perhaps not. Maybe it doesn’t belong in a romance novel, even one that’s purposely written to be a bit steamier than most. But I, for one, am tired of ‘formula’ romances where kisses and trembling fumbles are all I get. I want to read the ones that raise my eyebrows and my temperature.
So give me open-mouthed kisses, fingernail-raking moments, naked limbs entwined, and volcanic eruptions that go on forever. Leave me spent and gasping amid rumpled sheets, wind-swept moors, or sun-warmed haylofts. I want to be shivering with sensation and sighing with satisfaction.
Is it getting hot in here, or is it just me?
Copyright © 2007 Terri Garey, All Rights Reserved