M is for Men
Well, as the vixens at Erotica Cover Watch have eloquently pointed out, there are not a lot of men on the covers of heterosexual erotic novels or anthologies. For an example, head over to my website, and click SMUT, where you can see the covers of my books. (Not all, but most.) Now, my first ten or so novels were girl-girl, so we'll cut the publisher some slack there. And my Pretty Things Press books don't all have people on them. (But I will admit, the ones that do feature chicas rather than hombres.)
There's a guy on Three-Way (and doesn't he look excited!), and another one on With or Without You—same cover as one of Portia's, I think, except the artist flipped the image and gave the boy a shave. Red Hot Erotica features a couple—although I think this one looks like two men embracing. Anyway, you get the picture. Either girls—or parts of girls—or couples. Out of my 50 anthologies and 25 novels, I don't have a single book with just a man on the cover.
Honestly, I never really thought about this before ECW. And also honestly, I prefer books with no people on the covers! I'd like a roller coaster, a ferris wheel, a pair of beat-in boots. For my first book, I begged for a Klimt image. (I didn't really understand how rights worked.) My favorite book cover is probably Blue Valentine. I think a lot of the pictures on Shanna Germain's travel blog would make ideal covers. Like this one.And while I do love my pin-up girls, I have to admit that I cannot run a similar contest to the one I did last week. I can't say, "Go look at my covers and choose your favorite hunky guy to write about."
Because those covers don't exist.
So this is what I'm going to do... I'm going to ask that you write about a specific man this time—and you can choose where you get your image. There are quite a few on ECW. And I showed you all this new (to me) website yesterday. Bastard Life often has a parade of hot men. Let us know the link when you post your story, and if I can grab the image, I will.
All the rest of the rules apply: 250-words. Give your piece a title. Post anonymously. Put a * at the end if you want a shot at being interviewed by me. (I'm a little behind on these. Mea culpa.) Steer clear of things that make me go hmmmm. (Underage. Incest. Bestiality. These are a few of my not-favorite things.) You must be 18 years to play, but I have no height requirement. Slap your story in the comments on this post by next Saturday morning. Early. Any questions, drop me a note at msalisontyler at yahoo dot com.
And may the best man win. (I had to say it!)
XXX,
Alison
posted by Alison Tyler at 6:46 AM
8 Comments:
hm..i lately wrote about that subject over at nikkis blog..about the fact that there are more women then men on the book covers..as a man i of course say "hey..we are equaly sexy as you girls"..the problem is..i guess at least it is..its a lot harder and more work to make a man look sexy in a natural and "unwanted" way..girls who want to apear sexy are still totally sexy because girls are beautiful creatures..but a man who tries to be sexy looks most of the time all but hot...we men look only sexy when we dont want to..when we just are...whatb do you ladies mean?
I'm not going to write a story, I'm just going to sit here and look at that picture. He's nice.
Aw, A, thanks! That rocks! You're welcome to any of my pictures any time you want to use them. For book cover, t-shirt, you name it, it's yours.
:) s.
John Lennon's Thighs
It was the way they moved—legs spread apart, pulsing steadily, strongly—bouncing with the beat. She could imagine them through his narrow black pants, musculature toned and tense, well-shaped—almost girlishly-curved but manly without a question—Paul and George undeveloped by comparison. And John seemed to know what he was singing about—And when I touch you I feel happy inside... She wanted him to touch her. She wanted to make him happy inside—those thighs gripping her like a nutcracker as she leaned her mouth towards the microphone pointed at her from his groin. He could make her sing—and she would make his heart go boom.
On an index card she noted the exact timings where John's thighs appeared throughout the YouTube clip—including a solid twenty-one seconds during I Saw Her Standing There, coming in strong and steady from 1:13; and twenty-four seconds at the final strums, from 2:36. In motion again beginning I Want to Hold Your Hand—especially nice between 4:56 and 5:11.
She played those bits repeatedly, the other Beatles non-existent—Ringo atop his circular platform, Paul, George—extraneous. John Lennon's thighs, over and again, just for her. And, if she concentrated hard enough, she thought, she could find the secret YouTube button to click: after shaking Ed Sullivan's hand, John would emerge from the screen—alive once more—and lie down with her on the living room couch, his thighs enveloping, pulsating. He would still be in out-of-focus black-and-white but she would not care—and she would let him be her man.
*
*Because those covers don't exist.*
Thank you for drawing attention to ECW's campaign! And thanks for a hot contest which balances out your other. Looking forward to this one.
And, um, Danielle, methinks you might have a slightly biased, male perspective on the superior beauty of women!
Danielle, I'd say that men and women are equally sexy, just in different ways. One can't say that curves are sexier than angles, or that smooth is sexier than furry -- it's all just geometry and topography. Though I'm a gay man, I adore feminine beauty, too. True gorgeousness knows no gender. The fact that there are so few men on the covers of erotic literature is a sexist shame.
about to be devoured...
I feel him stalking as I enter from my shower, his eyes feasting upon my flesh, and I start to tease and taunt him. My torment was to entice him, I need to feel his hunger and I know my prancing will push him. What we share is something that is not for the faint of heart, he and I share an undeniable animalistic attraction similar to the lion and its prey.
This time he waited silently by the window watching me, until I eventually I lowered myself onto the edge of the bed. I deliberately soaked my skin slowly with lotion, smirking mentally, knowing my actions were the same as if I was basting a freshly roasted lamb. I was about to be devoured, and I was going to enjoy my last few seconds of self.
His approach was quick and calculated; his smell hit me first strong and sweet at the same time, then his hand around my throat leaving me no ability to make a noise. I drew my legs up quickly to my chest still slick from the freshly applied moisturizer. He used his other hand to pry my knees apart and force his torso between them. It was an inescapable position. My pussy was starting to drip as he violently caressed it. His excitement was pressing into my squirming thighs, and I shoved back him feverishly, fighting for just a few inches of space. He enjoys my fight, considers it an appetizer.
*
My image of inspiration can be found here:
http://imthesurge.deviantart.com/art/Roman-sculpture-79767064
From this picture.
Oral Fixation
Never mind the screaming girls, he's doing it just to get a rise out of me, I know he is. He's the kind of boy who likes to push buttons, and he knows this is one of my biggest. He wants to make me think about him doing this in an alley instead, the grayed, worn-through knees of his jeans getting gritty on the pavement, blowing some dumb punk kid who thinks his 'hawk and shiny new Docs make him tough shit like it's a favor.
If he can take control he will, but he doesn't want it. Doesn't want to do a favor, doesn't want to have a choice. He's the kind of boy who likes to push, because he wants to find someone who won't take it. He wants the same rush he gets from slamming into fifty other guys in a pit, the heat and sweat and ache of it.
He's the kind of boy who likes to hurt. It's why he's up there treating his mic like it's God's gift to oral fixation, the little cocktease. He wants to act like he's tough shit, too, and he wants to get shoved to his knees and told he's dead fucking wrong. That dirty jeans in a dirtier alley is all he and that pretty mouth of his are good for. Not that he'll ever say it, not a boy like him.
He'll just push, and wait for me to push back.
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