There’s an axiom accepted among erotica writers that says that if you want to have great, exciting sex, you must be a virgin, or at least, have very little experience. What these books are telling us, is that if you want to be excited about men, about sex, then you have to be clueless. And you’re only clueless when you’re in your early twenties. Early twenties. After that, that’s what we’re told, it’s all gone. The excitement, the thrill, the OH-MY-GOSH sex.
Well, I hate that axiom. And resent it. And most of all, I think it’s bullshit.
I looked and looked, and looked and looked, and couldn’t find one, ONE, female protagonist in an erotic story who was older than 27. Seriously. They were college students (BA, not Doctoral), or rookie cops, or budding something or other. And they ALL lacked any meaningful sexual experience.
The male counterparts, needless to say, were ALWAYS older. And more importantly – they were much more experienced in the art of screwing-till-smoke-comes-out-of-your-ears.
This single fact, the young age, ergo, lack of experience, talks louder and clearer than ANY story that builds around that character. Hell, it dictates the story, the rest of the characters, the setting.
What are all of these writers telling us? That sex after 30 is a boring, been-there-done-that experience? Or is it immoral because at 30 these women are supposed to be married? Are they telling us that sex is exciting only when you don’t know shit about shit? Or that it’s only going to be good for the first few years and then it will never be as exciting?
And what does that tell us about who we are, if we have to go back to when we were twenty in order to fantasize? Fuck that. Seriously.
Attorney Jordan Cohen, the protagonist of ASH’S FIRE, who’s having mind blowing sex – is forty-five year old!
So you ask, and rightly so, how come there are no decent erotic novels about hot women in their thirties and forties and fifties?
I can see two reasons for that:
Many writers are lazy or not that imaginative. It’s easier to describe your protagonist as having hot, exciting sex, if she’s never had a guy go down on her. He knows how to find a clitoris, whoop-de-do. Like that’s a big challenge.
The second reason, that they are brainwashed. This world of ours is misogynistic, and age-obsessed. We suffer, as a society, from this malignant illness called youth-ism. It’s a horrible disease. It’s symptom is that we don’t want to look at, or even imagine, naked women having sex, if they are over thirty. Somehow, we’ve all been taught – both men and women, that if she doesn’t have a tight ass and perky boobs she’s not fuckable, not hot. Not photogenic. Not deserving of being iconic. A sex goddess.
And here we see it again: the porn point of view, rearing its ugly head.
Well fuck you, world! (and I ain’t apologizing for my language, gals, this is important!)
Most of us do not look like our movie stars. We have cellulite. And our bellies stretched because we gave them kids. And yet, we are force-fed this poisonous diet of bright-eyed virgins even when we read erotica. Our erotica!
Shame on us. Shame, shame, for accepting that. For internalizing the porn point of view. And then we’re stuck with that shit, with that boring heroine who cannot tell her clit from her ear. Who’s deliberating whether to move out of the dorms. Is that who we are in our fantasies?
Tell the truth now: when you fantasize about the gorgeous guy telling you you’re the hottest thing since fire, right before he fucks you senseless, do you look like a twenty year old movie star? No, of course not. You look like you. Okay, a slightly improved you, ten pounds lighter and no cellulite. Not your twenty year old niece. And Hunky tells you that he loves you just the way you are. Am I right? Of course I’m right!
So if you were given a book where the protagonist is a female who is not young and not a size two and has plenty of sexual experience and she’s still having steam-coming-out-of-her-ears-sex, wouldn’t you love her? Root for her? See yourself in her? Abso-fucking-lutely!
So listen to me, and listen to me good: young women have nothing on us. We’re better at EVERYTHING, and we’re certainly better in the sack. We have more confidence, we know how to blow a guy, we know what we like and we’re not afraid to show it, hell, we are a MUCH better fuck. There are a lot of smart young guys who figured this out, by the way. And we MOST CERTAINLY get excited. It just takes imagination, is all.
So go, bang on your erotica writers’ door, and tell them this: No more virgin sex! Give me a real hot mama who gets fucked but good! Is there anything hotter?
Yours as always,
“Are you okay?” she asked, reigning in her instant desire for him, feeling the burden of the empty shelves in the empty apartment.
“Keeping busy,” he texted.
“How was your rehearsal?”
“Better than yesterday,” Ari wrote.
“That’s great,” she wrote back, and added another smiley. “I miss you.”
“Me too,” he wrote. “I think of your hands caressing me.”
“Lots of caressing waiting for you when you come back.” Ari knows how to cheer himself up, she thought, focus on the positive, on what he was doing, on the good things to come. And then she added, “I miss your hands, too.” She imagined his hands, big and strong and sensuous, more knowing than any that had ever touched her. She thought of his long menu of touches, from fluttering butterflies that landed and danced, to hungry lions, that pounced and devoured. From ticklish caterpillars that wriggled slowly, to finicky kittens that bumped exuberantly. His hands told innumerable stories, took her body on imaginary voyages. His hands knew how to fill her with fantasy, with excitement.
“Where exactly do you miss them?” he asked.
“It’s a very long list.” she answered, a smile pulling her cheeks up, her skin tingling. Jordan felt his hands on her face, caressing her gently, reaching into her hair, and then behind her neck, holding her head, nestling it. Ari’s hands knew how to sooth her pain, give her patience to wait for his return. She felt his hands waking her body, exciting it, make her blood heat and run faster in her veins.
“I’m looking at your beautiful face now,” he wrote back, “I want you to do the same.”
“Got it,” she smiled. “You XL piece of sweet caramel candy, you!” she said. “I wish I could be there to help you with the shelves.”
“Me, too. You can hold, while I drill. Give me a hand?”
Smart and successful Attorney Jordan Cohen didn’t expect Sam, her husband and best friend, to invoke their old pact for non-exclusivity. But after twenty-some years together, he did.
A chance meeting with Ari Ash, the tall-dark-and-yummy internationally renowned concert pianist, sends Jordan into his arms. Ari’s mysterious ways and magical lovemaking pull the conflicted Jordan into a whirlwind affair.
When Ari is implicated in an execution-style murder, she wants to believe Ari is innocent, but one troubling fact after another keeps popping up. Jordan turns to the only man she can trust with her lover’s life – her brilliant criminal defense attorney husband.
Is Ari a killer?
When Ari is charged, Jordan fears the worst: a life sentence for her lover, exposure of her affair and the ruin of her law firm and irreparable damage to her husband’s reputation. But she can’t let go of Ari’s love…
With the trial just days ahead, Jordan races to save her lover, her husband and herself.
Desire, suspicion, love and loyalty all clash in the fast-paced Mediterranean city of Tel-Aviv.
AUTHOR Bio and Links:
Callie Gold is an Israeli married to an American. She admits that marrying her husband was the smartest decision she has ever made in her entire life. Together they have raised three beautiful children.
Callie is a lawyer, and a Jew, and what’s worse – an Israeli. That means that she’s an in-your-face kinda gal. There is no Hebrew word for ‘subtle’. Callie’s husband says that she has too many opinions, and he’s right. But she’s also open and friendly and very curious, and is known to start intimate conversations with the Falafel guy.
Since she stopped litigating, Callie’s husband says she’s become a much nicer person (Callie’s husband is almost always right, which makes living with him really good and seriously annoying, all at the same time).
When she’s not writing, Callie does divorce mediation and marriage counseling, which, she believes will save her a good seat in that place up there. She also cooks and bakes and you will always find home-baked bread in her freezer, next to the chocolate gelato that her husband makes.
Callie writes because writing creates another life for her, a life in which she can do whatever she wants. In order to write she has become a time thief.
Above all, Callie is a lover of people and she can never get enough of human interaction. So feel free to start up a conversation with her!
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