Riley Murphy's Blog, page 37

A FORWARD RETREAT WITH AN ALPHA MALE IN MIND…

This occurred to me yesterday when my honey and I had a difference of opinion. I asked him to hang a mirror in our hallway. Now, I don’t know about anyone else, but when I want a mirror hung it’s usually because I want to be able to see myself it in. *shrug* I could be wrong about this, yet no matter how many times I stood in front of the darn thing when he’d launched it so high on the wall I could only stare at the top two inches of my head, it was hard to get excited. Conclusion? Well, my hair part was straight and I may have to look into Botox if those forehead creases get any deeper and for a certainty, if I wanted to look myself in the eye I’d have to get a ladder out.
Sheesh! Seriously? I pulled him next to me so we’re facing the mirror. Think American Gothic picture without the pitchfork and a woman that’s a foot shorter than the guy. Hence, the only things reflected in the mirror are Honey’s frowning features and my perfectly parted hair. So the problem should be obvious, right?
Wrong.
Honey grumbles, “Any lower and the mirror won’t be centered between the floor and ceiling.”
Hmm… the ceiling is higher than average, so I’m wondering how many giants he’s expecting to the house that are going to want to groom themselves. “Who told you to center it? I thought we marked where you were going to hang it?”
“We did, but when I held it up to double check I couldn’t see myself in it.”
Huh. He had me there. “I see. Well, it needs to be lowered.”
“I can’t lower it. I hung it with anchors.”
Um, at this point, I couldn’t have given a rat’s ass what he hung it with. “So, change them.”
“It’s not that easy. The drywall is compromised. It won’t be strong enough to hold the weight if I move it.”
I’m thinking, Really? Because I can always tell when he’s trying to dazzle me with installation mumb-jumbo. He once tried to tell me that fifty-eight degrees was too chilly an outside temperature to use exterior paint. I’m blonde, but I get it from a bottle, you know? Anyway, I know where this is going so I do the forward retreat. Instead of arguing about what came before because an alpha will never admit they made a mistake, I appeal to his need to be right and go forward. I simply nod and walk off. Which kills him. He hates it when he doesn’t know what I’m thinking. As planned he follows.
“Hey, where are you going? Why are you putting on your shoes?”
“I’m going to the hardware store. I’m going to explain to one of the guys there about these anchors that compromised the drywall and maybe they’ll have some suggestions about how to fix this.”
Okay, imagine his jaw clenching and his teeth gnashing and him letting out a really, REALLY big sigh. “I didn’t say it couldn’t be fixed. I SAID, it couldn’t be lowered because it was on anchors.”
“Oh,” I kick off my shoes, shrug, and saunter past him. “Okay, then.”
“Okay then, what?”
“Don’t lower it. Fix it.”
Ah, you gotta love the forward retreat! It works every time.
Riley

A LITTLE BDSM BONDAGE IS GOOD FOR THE SOUL

‘It is always by way of pain one arrives at pleasure.’ Marquis de Sade
I believe this to be true, but I don’t believe the main attraction is the pain or bondage. Those things are the catalyst that will propel the individual to their ultimate pleasure which I’d define as knowing someone has complete control over you, deciding what you’ll do, hear, touch, taste, smell and feel. It’s this kind of catharsis that brings the coveted euphoria.
Meh, don’t worry. I’m not going to go all Freud on the topic, I just think it’s interesting that some people literally have to be tied up to be truly free.  Anyway, *shakes self* where was I? Oh yeah…
I want to talk about bondage as it’s a simple and tangible action that draws out a very emotional or intrinsic response. By being restrained, held captive and corralled an individual’s choice and reason is removed from the equation. Intellect is powerless to war against long repressed desires. Quite simply, the individual is free from the self that has held them back.
This aspect of BDSM is what I love to explore with my characters. Bondage that actually opens the mental prison cell of an individual, freeing this person, which ironically leads them to the most poignant sexual epiphany they’ll ever experience if it’s done right. It’s the how to do it right that I focus on because there is a lot that can go wrong if you’re not paying attention. Communication is the key. Honest communication no matter how embarrassing.
This is why I say bondage is good for the soul. It allows you to bare that soul to your captor/dominant/lover and when that trusted person embraces this most precious part of you there’s no feeling more empowering in the world.
Just my .02.
Riley 

SIX SENTENCE SUNDAY

Ethan White

 

 Colin Reneaux

***SIX SENTENCE SUNDAY***SIX SENTENCE SUNDAY***

To set this up, Colin Reneaux has just asked Ethan White how he makes the D/s concept of BDSM seem acceptable -normal even, and he puts a question to her. He asks her who gets to define normal? When she’s stuck for an answer, because it was a darn good question, this is what he tells her: 

     “My normal is as follows. I like to spank, suck, fuck, cherish, challenge, discipline, correct, entice and control my woman. You may think that seems demeaning. I know you like that word, but I’m smart enough to know there’s no honor in degrading a girl who thinks she’s worthless. I make sure my woman knows her value because I don’t do all these things to her, I do them for her. There’s a vast difference between the two.”


For more Six Sunday Fun click here

 

IF YOU WANT TO CHECK OUT BDSM ROMANCE OF A DIFFERENT KIND… CLICK HERE

 

 

 

 

 THANKS FOR STOPPING BY!

WHEN TO CHOOSE THE HIGHER GROUND AND LET A FELLOW AUTHOR LIVE…

With her opinion, that is.
Crapatola! You got to know, that when a funny person has a choice between anger or defusing the situation with laughter, they will always choose the latter. In this scenario you may assume I’m the funny person and my writer friend isn’t. So here goes…
A self-proclaimed, unfunny writer friend and I got into a heated debated over what’s humorous and why. Hm. Shall I say that the idea that she should be the expert on this was a sticking-point with me? I mean, let’s face it, she’s not funny and we both know it. And yet for some reason she decided to school me in the art of being funnier when I write. 
*Shakes head*
Hey, I’m all for learning and growing. I’ll even take advice when I deem it useful or sage but, her thoughts on the subject? Well, they were so far afield I was speechless.

Here’s her list of taboo subjects a writer must stay away from if they hope to make a reader laugh.
Sex

Embarrassment

Swear words

Death

Or a weakness of any kind
And, here’s my list of subjects to explore and make a reader laugh.
Sex

Embarrassment

Swear words

Death

And a weakness of any kind
Hm. How could we be so far apart in our thinking? I love her to pieces but, she’s wrong and to prove it here’s my tossed gauntlet example…
Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod! “Jethro! JETHRO! You can’t be dead.” Trudy frantically examined his ghostly complexion and wanted to die too. “Holy fucking shit!” She jumped off his stiffer than usual pleasure stick and cried, “This is just great and so not fair. How was I supposed to know you meant it, when you said the only way I’d get off before you did, was over your dead body?”
Anyone else care to give it a whirl?
Riley 

BDSM TAPAS ANYONE?

Here's and excerpt OF RELUCTANT SURRENDER. To set this up, Ethan's explaining to Colin the rules of the BDSM Tapas scenes he's planned for her. Here's the two of them going into the first scene...




COLIN RENEAUX
 



ETHAN WHITE

“Colin?”
She hated that his tone was calm and reasonable.
“Look at me.”
How could she refuse? Tilting her chin up, she stared right at him. “Yes?”
“Are you saying no because you’ve tried it and didn’t like it?”
She wasn’t going to lie to him. Even though every fiber in her being wanted to because a lie in this instance would be so much easier than the truth, she couldn’t. “I have never tried it, nor do I care to.”
“Let’s see about that, shall we? Second rule, are you ready?”
She knew what he was doing. Pushing ahead. This was probably a good thing, given that she was ready to run, so she wasn’t going to complain.
“You have to share information with me. Give me feedback and speak truthfully about the experience afterward.”
That didn’t sound too hard. She let go of her grip on the chair and was just settling back when he added, “No matter what.”
If he was trying to freak her out it was working. “Are you purposely trying to scare me?”
“No. Just the opposite. I want you informed, capable and ready to explore. Are there any things you’ve tried before and you don’t like? Anything that’s been done to you that instantly turned you off?”
She didn’t realize she was drumming her index finger on the chair arm until she noticed him staring at it. Meh, he could have been staring at her leg that was crossed over her other one, because that was bopping up and down too.
“Colin?”
She stilled and a spurt of nervous adrenaline made her confess. “I’m not going to spank you, even if you have a blindfold on. And I don’t like pretending to be a parent. I’m not anyone’s mother, okay?”
“I’m relieved to hear that.”
“What? That I don’t have any children?”
“No, that you don’t want to spank or blindfold me. That would be a deal breaker.” He gave her a pointed look. “You do realize that.”
Searching his face, she let out a breath. “So you never want a woman to do those things to you?” He shook his head. “Never?” He continued shaking his head. “Ever? Wow.”
“That surprises you?”
“Yeah, because John said all guys liked these kinds of things so I just assumed.”
“Are you disappointed?”
Hardly, it was more like impressed. Just the thought that there were guys out there who didn’t ever want a woman to baby them was encouraging.
“No I’m relieved.”
“I’m glad.” He stood and offered her his hand. “Let’s begin.” Walking her to the door, he explained, “You’re going to go out into the hall and stand there. I want you to slowly count to a hundred. When you reach a hundred take three deep breaths and then knock on the door. I’ll say ‘you may come in’ and once back inside here I want you to listen to what I’m saying and I want you to put yourself in a place—a believable place—where you can react to the situation I create. You need to relax and let your imagination take over. Okay?”
“I’ve done this before.”
“What did I say about rolling your eyes?”
Realizing her attempt to be cute was a bust, she swallowed. “Sorry.”
“I won’t tolerate that kind of behavior here. It ruins it for me.”
Hearing that, she wanted to crawl under a rock. Her stomach somersaulted and she nodded. She’d try. For him. So when he left her standing in the hallway counting out a hundred, she concentrated on keeping her nerves in check. She’d almost lost her count twice because all she could think about was how boring and stupid those playacting scenes were with John. Would this scenario Ethan called a scene wreck how she felt around him? She really liked the sexual hum she’d been experiencing since meeting him and she didn’t want to lose it. Not yet.
A hundred.
Three deep breaths later she knocked.
“Come in.”
She fully expected him to be sitting behind his desk, ready to be the bossy-boss to her meek little secretary. She should have known better.
“Sit down, Ms. Reneaux.”
He hadn’t turned around. He stood with his back to her, staring up at the twin Irish setters in the painting over the fireplace. Boy he had a nice butt. She wasn’t going to examine those broad shoulders. They always made her sigh.
Figuring this was her move, she seated herself and asked, “You wanted to see me?”
“Yes I did.” He spun around to face her. “I know what you’ve done.” He started to come toward her and then veered off. Twisting to look over her shoulder, she saw him go to the door and lock it.
“I haven’t done anything.”
“Security tapes don’t lie, Ms. Reneaux. I saw you take that portable scanner. I know how hard times are getting, but that was company property.” He stood close, just behind her and made a tsk, tsk sound.
“I didn’t steal it.” She scooted forward in her seat to get some distance between them. “I borrowed it. Just for the night. I brought it back the next day, you can check.”
Suddenly this game was looking up. If she paid attention, maybe she could outsmart him. “A lot of things have gone missing in my company lately.” He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “Computers, scanners, security tapes…possibly even the one that proves you returned the item. Not that the return cleans the slate by any means.”
Darn, he was good. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have taken the machine home if I had enough time to finish scanning all those copies for you during regular work hours. If you’d given me the extension like I asked for I wouldn’t have—”
“And why do you think I didn’t give you enough time to do your work, Ms. Reneaux?” He let go of her shoulder and came around, leaning his hip against the desk. “No ideas? Can’t you guess?” He stared right at her. Heating her up until she shivered.
“No.”
“Undo your blouse.”
“What? I will not.” Automatically her hand went to her collar and she shot back in the chair.
“Undo it.” His voice was steady. His eyes penetrating.
The game had taken a turn and she had a choice to make. Either she relaxed and went with it or—
“Ms. Reneaux?”
She never took her eyes off him. Undoing the buttons, she shook her hair behind her shoulders and let the blouse slide off to pool around her bottom. “Happy?”
“I will be.” He crossed his arms over his chest and ordered, “Now the bra.”
She made as if she were going to comply and then stopped. “You know that I returned that scanner.”
He didn’t blink. “Yes, but no one else does. So, if you want to keep your job with the company you’ll take off that bra. Now. Without complaining.”
She blushed, averted her gaze and reached for the clasp at her back.
“Look at me, Ms. Reneaux.”
“I—”
“Shhh, keep your eyes on me. That’s right. Take off the bra and starting tomorrow I want you to wear only ones that do up at the front. I prefer cream color over white. It will go better with your skin tone.” His eyes roamed over her, appraising her. “I think a lace push-up would suit you. Eyes on me and take it off.”
The clasp undid with a snap and her arms locked against her rib cage, catching the sides of it before it fell forward.
“Come on. Don’t get shy on me now,” he whispered. Coming away from the desk he towered over her. “Do you like what you see, Ms. Reneaux?”
Ugh. Caught eyeing the growing bulge in his pants, what could she say? She was just ready to tell him her gaze had been locked on the floor when he smiled. A real sinful smile that melted her fears and stroked her from the inside out, causing her to boldly change her planned answer. “Yes.”
“Give me the bra.”
She hunched her shoulders and let it slip down her arms. Carefully she folded it before she handed it over.
“Now the shirt.”
The second she gave it to him she was utterly conscious of her partial nudity. Totally aware that her breasts were tight and heavy. That her nipples had hardened to stony peaks while the sexual hum played a fine tune, zinging in her belly and lower, making the muscles between her legs clench and squeeze in anticipation.
He went around the desk and sat. “Gather your hair in a ponytail with both hands and twist it up.”
She was halfway through doing as he asked and realized how vulnerable and open this position made her. There was no way to accomplish the task and maintain any modesty.
“You have beautiful breasts, Ms. Reneaux. Round and full. No, keep your arms up. I want to look at your tits.”
She was sure she was blushing right down to her navel.
“Even your nipples are gorgeous. Small and tight.” His chair creaked and she shivered. “They’re a delectable peach color. I’m going to enjoy them.”
She closed her eyes and when she opened them, he was right in front of her. “You can put your arms down now.” He helped her and took his time tucking her springy curls behind her ears. “So soft,” he murmured, dragging the backs of his knuckles across one breast, down into the valley and up over the other one. “So pretty.”
He paid close attention to one breast. Rubbing, plucking and pulling at her nipple until her insides turned to jelly and she wished he’d kiss her or touch her more. “I think you like this, Ms. Reneaux.” He gently tugged once, twice, on her nipple and her toes curled inside her shoes. “Too bad I don’t have more time today to see just how much you like it. Here.” He handed her the blouse. “You can put this back on, but I’m keeping the bra.”
She wasn’t going to question him. She was hot, flustered and ashamed of herself because somewhere along the line she crossed it and this wasn’t a game to her anymore. Nope, she truly wished in her heart of hearts, that she was the Ms. Reneaux who stole the scanner with a hunky boss ready to blackmail her for sex because of it.
“I better go.” Her voice sounded husky. Low. Unsure. “Please.”
He leaned down. His mouth was at her ear as he said, “I want you to buy a new bra. One that does up at the front. Just as I told you. Cream. Lace. Push-up. I also want you to buy a new lipstick. A red one. Bright red, Ms. Reneaux.” He rubbed his cheek against the side of her head and she almost fainted. Her heart skittered and raced. “I want you to wear that lipstick every day. For me. As a reminder that your lips no longer belong to you. I own that mouth now. And soon, very soon, I’ll show you how I intend to put it to good use. Frequent use. I can’t wait.” He expelled a sigh that rocketed though her so fast she was glad she was seated.
“Go on, little girl. Go back to work.”
The moment he moved, giving her room, she shot up. She was nearly to the door when he called, “It might be prudent to buy the cream lace panties that go with the bra. You don’t want to disappoint me tomorrow, do you?”

Here's a excerpt of my next "Surrender" story, REQUIRED SURRENDER
 

 

 

ALL GOOD NEWS!

Very excited! Aside from the great reviews which I appreciate SO much! There’s other stuff that’s happening. Reader clubs are putting my “Surrender” stories on their lists to read. (I love that) I’ve gotten emails from enthusiastic readers about both Reclaimed and Reluctant Surrender. More than ninety percent of the readers who emailed want to see Jo and Ted’s story and that’s coming. (It’s with my editor now) and it’s this story I’ve been given an extra special opportunity to do something creative with to share with my readers. I’m so excited!!!! I can’t tell you all of it yet because that would spoil the surprise, but I can tell you it’ s WAY better than just a book video! I’m super happy over all of this.
If you haven’t checked out my Goodreads page here’s the link. There’s reviews on my published stories and quotes from my next Surrender book (Jo and Ted’s story) on there too. Oh and here’s my next Dom hero, Ted Basel…

 

 

 

 Here’s an excerpt:
Ted may not have wanted to talk about this but Jo did.
“You’re not going to walk away from me again.” Jo hastily skipped to catch up behind him while simultaneously tucking in her blouse. She nearly slipped on the marble floor twice in her haste keeping up.
“I’m not walking away from you. I’m heading to my office. You’re free to follow. Obviously, because you are.”
She skidded to a halt in front of his desk. Slapping the hair away from her forehead, she glared at him. With him seated in his big office chair he looked like a king on a throne. “I want you to fix me.”
He leaned back. “Fix you? The only person that can fix you is you. If someone told you differently they lied.”
She kicked off her high-heels as her feet were numb beyond the point of pain. “I’m broken. You broke me.” He stared up at her and even now that busted part of her thrilled at the sight of him. She had to fight every urge she had to drop her gaze and behave for him.
“We’re all broken. We all have cracks. It’s not about making it through life in one piece it’s about narrowing the gap between the fissures so we don’t shatter.”
She stabbed a finger in his direction. “You see? It’s precisely this kind of talk that wears me down. You’re too…”
His firm look as he eyed her finger distracted her and she lost her train of thought.
“Hasn’t anyone told you before that it’s rude to point? Lower that finger.”
“All right!” He quirked an annoying brow and she knew why. “All right,” she said more reasonably. Scooping up her shoes, she hugged them to her chest. “I just want to be the way I was before. I need to be that way. I have to be strong. With no crying. I don’t want to cry. I never cry.”
His lip twitched. “I noticed.”
“That’s not the least bit funny you know.” She wasn’t going to let him off the hook until he made things better. She couldn’t face Anjay like this and now that Anjay was back and getting awards for being an upstanding guy she was going to have to. “I want you to change me back.”
He huffed out a sigh and crossed his arms over his chest. “You think you’re not the same person and I had something to do with that?”
“I know I’m not the same person and you have everything to do with it.”
His arrogant gaze swept her from top to bottom. “You look the same to me.”
She almost dropped her shoes. “I look the…I look the same? That’s all you have to say to me?” His casual shrug made her gasp. “Jo Nehr of two months ago wouldn’t have shed a tear. Not one, you spell-casting mother fucker.”
Tsk, tsk. “Guttersnipe language, princess.”
“Ugh.” She grasped a shoe in each hand and plunked them down on his desk leaning over them. “I can’t be this blubbering mass of hormonal crapiness right now.”
“I thought the session went well today.”
“Session? This isn’t therapy.”
“For you it is.”
Her eyes narrowed and it was the first time in her whole life she abused a pair of Monola’s when she strangled the patent leather. “If you or the other dickwad did what I requested you to do, it might have been good. I wanted to be hurt not – not – not swept off my fucking feet with pleasure, asshole.”
One minute she was holding her own, killing her shoes and speaking so succinctly that spittle was spraying his desk and the next her whole body was wiping it up as he dragged her across the surface. She shot over the width like a hockey puck on newly polished ice.
“Let me go.” She struggled but it was no use. In two seconds flat she was slung over his lap. Head toward the floor and ass in the air. “Don’t.”
Too late, he spanked her with three hard smacks. She squirmed and tried to use the one shoe she still had hold of as a weapon, but he wrestled it from her grip and gave her another smack.
“Stop.”
She didn’t halt because he sounded mad, it was more because he sounded amused. She hated to think he was getting a kick out of this when she was close to dying inside.
“That’s better. Now, do I need to remind you about your hell?”
Blood rushed to her head while she admired the make of his shoes. The last thing she thought of before he spanked her again was the bastard had great taste in footwear. That stung her more than the smack did.

 

 

Sometimes You Just Have to Laugh…

Okay, first off you need to know that there’s been a perpetual tug-of-war going on between my honey and my mom (Madge). Madge likes to feed the Blue Jays who live around our property, raw peanuts. Unfortunately, this draws the squirrels that create havoc which makes Honey’s life miserable. *shrug* Madge doesn’t care (hey, who do you think I take after?) she just patiently waits for him to leave everyday and once he’s gone, she heads out to her garden and showers raw peanuts with flagrant abandon all over the place.
Honey? Well, he’s been known to grumble and threaten, but you know? What can he do? Madge is a tricky little woman with an attitude who’s not afraid to pull the senior card when she has to. So Basically? He’s screwed. Thus, the creation of the tenuous cycle  by which we live culminated. When Honey’s complaints get loud enough Madge resorts to smuggling the nuts out to the yard  for a time until she gets more brazen, or forgets, and he sees and then he complains all again and she’s back to smuggling… and so it goes.
Well, yesterday morning her car wouldn’t start. We had it towed to the service station and later in the day when it was fixed, Honey and I went to pick it up. There we are standing in front of that multi-million-dollar hunk of junk (don’t ask) and Honey scratches his head.
“Was the problem in the electric?”
“No.” The service guy pops open the hood and stares down at the engine. “Some critter climbed up into here,” he points to the battery, “and chewed through the cable connections.”
“Son-of-a-bitch!” Honey swears. “I’m going to kill my mother-in-law!”
Without missing a beat the service guy turns on him and frowns. “Why? Ya think she’s the varmint that did it?”
I laughed my butt off! Poor Honey wasn’t amused, but then, neither was Madge when Honey confiscated all her raw peanuts.
Riley LMAO!!!

PINK CHAMPANGE, SEXY LINGERIE AND SOFT CANDLELIGHT…

Oh, my! Yes! This is definitely what I drink, what I wear and what I type by when writing my romances. *Excuse me whilst I dodge the lightning bolts* Seriously?
Here’s the deal. My mom had surgery recently and the freaky snucker better known as anesthesia got the best of her. It seems while she was in the recovery room she blabbed to some of the nurses at the hospital who then blabbed to some more and well…the reader’s digest version? I was grilled about my budding career. Here’s one conversation that left me speechless.
We’re gonna call this nurse Florence for the nightingale.
Florence, “Do you have a special place you write?”
Me, “Nope.” I flash the laptop. “I was writing here.” (I didn’t add before all you guys came in here to interrogate me.)
“Don’t you wear special things?”
Me, “Of course. Black lace lingerie and supermodel makeup. My hair is always perfect and the candles are forever lit.”
Her eyes widen, “Really?”
“Um, no. Truth is I’m usually in sweats or still in my PJ’s while I write. Makeup is kind of a moot point as it would probably melt with the amount of time I spend basking in front of the LCD monitor. Don’t get me started on my hair. This is the best it’s looked in a month. Yeah, I know pathetic, huh? And candles? Aside from being hot, which, you know, is counterproductive to the AC I’ve got blasting, the flickering light would likely give me a headache.”
“What about champagne?”
“Champagne? Hm. All I can say about that is, if I were swilling back the bubbly all day I’d likely never get a word down right. But tell me. Do you wear a white nurse’s uniform with that stylish cap, white stockings and white orthopedic shoes when you defer to all the male doctors around here?”
She snorted. “That’s ridiculous.”
Me, staring right at her. “Why?”
“Because nurses don’t dress like that. They dress like this.” She pointed to her colorful smock blue pants and decidedly brown shoes. “And don’t tell any of them, but we certainly don’t idolize most of the doctors around here.”
Meh, that may have been a little TMI for my liking. After all, if mom’s doctor was one of the ones they didn’t idolize?  >.<  Just saying…
“Right. So, why would you think a romance writer lives and writes like that?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’d like to think that’s how my favorite authors write.”
I thought about that for a second. Then I recalled my post, A Wizard Revealed, and why I was in the hospital in the first place. Eek. “I tell you what,” I said to her. “Let’s forget what I just said. I do write dressed in lingerie. I only use candlelight when I write the sex scenes and when I finish a story I toast myself with pink champagne.”
She frowns and tilts her head waiting for me to explain.
“Now,” I clasped my hands over my laptop and smiled. “Why don’t you tell me how all you nurses idolize every doctor in this joint. Especially my mom’s.”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “How about I tell you I’m going to buy your books. You’re funny.”
Erm…truthfully, I would have rather heard her lie about the doctors. I spent the next twenty-four hours sweating bullets.
Riley  

HOW IS CREAM OF TARTAR GOOD FOR ROMANCE WRITING?

First, what is cream of Tartar?
Well, according to my honey, it’s a powder he found in the spice cabinet that I use and mix with secret ingredients to create tartar sauce for fish.  Um…WHAT?  Honest to god, that’s what I heard him tell our son one afternoon when he came across it.  Was I surprised?  Nope, because he also told my daughter when she tried her hand at making scrambled eggs for the first time that he thought I put sugar in them.  Sugar?  That makes all kind of sense, doesn’t it?


I bring this up because I’ve just recently realized that his lack of culinary knowledge bleeds into my stories in a big way. I mean, the poor guy loves his food he just doesn’t know how to prepare it.  Actually, he doesn’t care to know how to prepare it.  That’s what gets me.  Oh he’ll do the grilling, but for everything else?  I’m on my own.


The way I see it?  For the most part this works for us, the only real glitch is him imparting his limited knowledge to people who ask.  Example: he had my sister convinced that I put Kahlua in my BBQ sauce.  Kahlua?  That was interesting.  The day she made it she called me to say it tasted like something was missing.  I asked her what she’d put in it so far and when I heard the ecclectic list of ingredients and who she’d gotten said list from I agreed with her – there was something missing.  Like maybe one of her brain cells for listening to my honey in the first place.


When I asked him why he thought I put a liquor into the mix, he said, “Well, I know it was a dark brown liquid and from what I recall it was sweet.”  He was right about that, unfortunately, it was molasses I’d used – not Kahlua.  *shakes head*


Truthfully, I don’t know why I torture myself, but I had to press him on this.  I wanted to know why he explains cooking things, items, or recipes when he knows absolutely nothing about them?  His answer? 
“People ask me.”


*Crickets.* I got nothing to say to that because he’s right.


And why is that?  Why do they ask him this stuff instead of asking me?  That got me to thinking.  Sure, he is one of those guys who’d you want around if there was a major catastrophe, but asking him to prepare your Chicken Marsala?  I don’t think so.  No, seriously, I don’t.


So, right about now, you may be asking yourself how this relates to writing and alpha male and here’s the deal.   Even the most capable, alpha-type guy around still has faults and doesn’t know everything.  Usually?  His biggest fault is that he doesn’t know he can’t do things. In fact, most times he believes that he can do everything.  Making BBQ sauce for instance.


Now, when writing this type of guy in a romance the heroine will always gracefully point out where he’s erred.  Yeah, I know, gracefully?  Hey, it’s fiction, because in reality this would drive any sane woman crazy – need I say anymore?  But the point here is that these faults don’t have to be earthshaking or world shattering to make an impression on your reader.  Sometimes, just the regular old run-of-the-mill stuff tweaked a little, can soften a tough guy’s rough edges and endear him to your readers.
Riley

Wait, I’M NOT GOD????

I’d like to be.  Not because of the all powerful thing, although, that would be cool. I’d like to be God simply because I think she should be a woman.  She isn’t though.  You want to know how I know this to be true?  Only a man could screw things up this good.
Okay, I’m going on a little bit of a fun rant here and who inspired this mini-tirade?  Honey, of course.  He prefers to think of himself as my muse. Hm. Muse versus object of a much needed smack-down?
“I’ll take smack-down for 200.00, please, Alex.”
There I was designing a centerpiece.  It was going very smoothly, so once I needed to let things set and dry I moved on to a lighted iron arbor type thing. (don’t ask. I’m ambitiously creative no matter how hard the darn thing is to design and put together) There I am winding small lights through the metal using floral tape to make the wires disappear.  Can you say, T. D. OUS?  When Honey parks his butt on the couch and proceeds to watch me.
Here’s the visual: I’m standing on a small step ladder teetering, winding and taping…and, oh, all right, swearing because you know the project is hard to do, when he starts in.
“Gee, that looks like a lot of work.  How many of those do you have to do?”
“Five.”
“Wow.  Hey, I think you missed a spot.  When I squint my eyes there’s a hole.”
I come out of my awkward stretch and turn to glare at him.  “Really?”
“Yeah, right by your elbow.  No, your other elbow.  Uh, wait, I was wrong.  The bulb was just turned a little.”
I close my eyes, take a deep breath and start again.
Him being annoying. “I thought you were going to do trees?”
Me, still stretching and threading, “I was, but then I found these pieces of iron and decided they’d work better.”
“I could have helped with the trees.”
Me thinking as my back is breaking.  ‘You could get up off your sorry ass now and help.’ He is 6′ 3 after all, so he wouldn’t need a step ladder. 
I grumble.  “Yeah, I know.  But seeing as how there’s no power tools involved I guess you’re not interested.”
Him laughing.  “Are you mad at me for something?  Careful, that bulb needs to go a little to the left.”
Me: “@#$#@!  *&%$#,   &^%$#@ !!!  If you’re not going to help go into the family room!  Don’t sit there and tell me what I’m doing wrong.  I managed quite fine all day without you directing me.”
With a sigh, he stood and came over to me.  It’s one of the rare times we’re actually at eye level.  He reaches out and plucks a bit of fluff off my shoulder to casually inquire: “So, tell me? When my mother gets to the gates of hell are you going to let her in?”
Me: Blink. Blink.
He grins and pops his brows.


Well, suck me dry and call me dusty. According to Honey I’m not God.  I am in fact, the gate keeper of hell.  Which, when I thought about how this day is going? Meh, it kinda of made sense.  So I shrugged and pushed through the rest of my work, happy in the knowledge that one day I will have some kind of power to wield over my mother-in-law and of course, Honey, because if I get my way he’s definitely joining us at the eternal BBQ pit of purgatory for not helping me with these damn lights!
Riley