Last night I had a dream about the man who is my heart’s desire. That he is unattainable, out-of-reach and so far out of my league he might as well inhabit another planet doesn’t matter. He’s the author of a book that changed my life. For someone who grew up constantly having to fight for the right to read. . . books are what matter most to me.
In my dream, I was tilting backward in a wooden chair, front legs dangerously far from the ground. Heart’s Desire appears out of nowhere to grab the chair and swing it down to its rightful position. The way I see it, there are two ways to interpret that dream. Maybe HD has caught on to the fact I live in a fantasy world that revolves around him. Perhaps he aimed only to bring me back to Planet Earth. Or maybe (and this is the dreamy, more upbeat interpretation I prefer) HD was just feeling protective of his most passionate fan and wanted to make sure I wouldn’t fall out of said chair and crack my skull.
Everyone is writing erotic fiction these days but I don’t just do it for the money. In fact, even if I knew I’d never earn another dime I would still write Hibernian Hunk stories. I’d keep them in a scrapbook and visit them at every opportunity. I’ve created my own web of erotic intrigue: the more I long for my inspiration the more erotic stories I pen and the more fiction I write the more I long for my inspiration.
Why Hibernian Hunk stories? Well, if my heart belonged to a Russian fellow I suppose the men who populate my stories would slightly resemble Dr. Zhivago. As it happens, if you’re a black-haired male of Irish American descent and don’t get a hard-on when reading one of my stories. . . you might want to check your pulse.
The men I’ve dated–or even attempted to date–in real life have never inspired a paragraph of prose or even a warm, literary embrace. The last man who asked me out was a co-worker at a corporate hell job who got me fired when our one coffee date was a disaster and I refused him a second chance. While I cannot prove it I’d bet my top bookshelf the irate suitor had something to do with my dismissal. Dating hell hath no fury like a co-worker scorned.
If I ever run into that man I’ll be sure to thank him. I write erotic fiction full-time and not a day goes by when I don’t stop and think: I love this job!
It’s not easy, though. Writers need inspiration and I have no wellspring to draw from. I have no husband or boyfriend I can turn to and say, “Honey, I have a deadline looming. Could you do something sexy, please?”
Instead, I’ve got HD. . . the only man who excites me enough to write erotica.
If a man places a picture of Marilyn Monroe on his desk and proceeds to write stories about voluptuous blond secretaries, he’s not writing about the famous actress. It’s just that looking at Marilyn’s picture puts him in the mood to write a steamy story. That’s what happens when I look at a photo of the man I consider to be the most handsome person in the world. I think about my East Coast heartthrob the way generations of men have drooled over Sophia Loren and Ava Gardner.
I’m sure scores of women fantasize about my heart’s desire. I’m just the only one making a career out of it.
If, in my next dream HD goes so far as to reprove me for veering so far away from reality I forget to even check my mail sometimes, I have my dream rejoinder ready: “Sorry, Mr. – . The fantasy of you is preferable to the reality of anyone else.”
How do you balance your real love life with your fantasies? Are you a “I’ll take what I can get” kinda gal, or do you wait for your heart’s desire? Let us know in the comments!