So, one of the most common criticisms I hear from readers is that my female characters are a bit on the slutty side. Meaning they get down to some dirty shenanigans with their alpha males much too quickly. (See Lost & Found.) Frankly, I agree with this analysis to some degree. In real life I have never been pawed by a gorgeous detective within five minutes of meeting them. Unfortunately.

The truth is that romance novels aren’t realistic at all. And that’s exactly why I write (and read) this particular genre. It’s fantasy. Maybe not science fiction or paranormal level-type fantasy but it’s supposed to be outside the bounds of reality. If I wrote about my real life the written account of it would read quite a bit more like a sit-com than a romance novel. (See previous blog, “Is a cat tree worth an international Incident?”) For instance, last night I didn’t jet off to Paris with a dominant billionaire. Instead a friend and I put together a bed after a few cocktails. Probably not the best time to handle power tools but we got the job done without a single trip to the emergency room. That’s my reality. And if I wrote about my reality last year it would have been more like a depressing medical drama. And not the sexy McSteamy-type either.

Why am I pondering this now? Well, because the heroine in the erotic novella I’m currently writing is also in the middle of a quandary. You see, she’s an over-the-hill virgin and she’s arranged to meet a gigolo in a tropical location to finally get some sexual experience. However, she meets a man on the way to her devirginization location and is tempted by him instead. Realistic? Uh no. Fun and sexy? You bet your vibrator.

So imagine yourself on a plane. You’re single and alone. Now, look across the aisle. Sitting there is a man. Not some pot-bellied, sweat-pant wearing, mouth-breather, but a god in a dark suit. We’re talking Brad Pitt’s face (twenty years ago) combined with Hugh Jackman’s body (ten years ago) and he’s looking at you (Jared Leto’s eyes) with interest. And then he smiles at you. And it’s not an arrogant smile or even a seductive smile. He’s just being friendly. So you return his smile with one of your own. You have five hours to kill, and you’re both traveling solo, so why not pass the time talking to a gorgeous stranger?

You spend the next hour in conversation with this breath-taking creature. You discover that not only is he so beautiful it`s hard to look at him directly, he`s also intelligent, funny and best of all, nice. Yes, really. He’s very nice: likes animals and children, volunteers at the local soup kitchen and best of all, he has no idea how incredibly attractive he is.

You have a glass of wine and talk some more. Your conversation inevitably turns to sex and now he’s looking at you with some real heat. It’s obvious that he’s interested in doing more than talking. And you want him. Badly. In fact, you can barely concentrate on your verbal responses because you find yourself staring at his lips and wondering what it would be like to feel them on your skin. You stare at his hands and imagine them sliding down your body, cupping your breasts and then lower, much lower. And then your attention shifts to his lap and it’s all you can do to remain in your seat…

Now, be honest. Would you ever consider joining the Mile-high Club under these circumstances? I know I would and I’m pretty conservative in real life. Is this scenario likely to happen? Nope. But who really cares? I don’t know about you, but reality stares me in the face every day and it’s kind of unattractive. There’s no escaping it. What I need when I read a romance novel is that pure escapism from ugly reality. And that’s what I hope to give to my readers too.