Today we are happy to welcome author Rafe Haze with a guestpost about sex…. 😉 also there is the info of his release The Next and Rafe is offering a giveaway 🙂
Best Sex Ever: The Ultimate Manipulation
By Rafe Haze
“Oh, my fucking god!” he panted.
“That was the best sex I’ve ever had.”
That was the dialogue I read after the two romantic leads topped, dropped, and rolled because apparently the earth had moved, towers had toppled, and skies had exploded. Hiroshima and Nagasaki – but a little prettier and less politically motivated. And as I read that perfectly loverly superlative, a polka-dotted, red-nosed clown waddled across the floor in four-foot yellow shoes and smacked my snout with a rubber herring.
Soak in that superlative for a split second more…
A real flesh and hemoglobin male in the year 2014 just snapped off a rubber as he rolled over onto his back, sheened with sweat. The remaining smear of semen starts stiffening like meringue and glomming onto his helmet. His Got2b Glued hair has exploded into an Afro. A hovering odor of questionable appeal has just gassed out of someone’s butthole after the pullout. Lips are smiting red and raw from the scraping of each other’s stubble. And then he utters those words: “That was the best sex I’ve ever had.”
In Romance literature, if there’s any graphic sex at all, you read some facsimile of this flattery as frequently as you read the word “yearn” and as frequently as the word “knew” gets italicized. But every time I read it, I wince. Whether in dialogue, narration, or third-person commentary, the sentiment never rings true. Not in the Manhattan bubble I live in. Not in the San Francisco bubble I lived in. Not in he ten-room Rocky Mountain writer’s lodge over looking endless miles of lush dramatic slopes that I’d like to live in. Not for Mark and Ralph who just celebrated their 25th anniversary together. Not for that long-overdue two-hour hookup on the covered rooftop on 53rd and Broadway with the fucking h.a.w.t. Broadway singer.
Labias and Genitalmen, much as you may argue, guys do not say this phrase with any degree of truthfulness. In real dickdomhood, men only sputter these syllables for two reasons:
First: to guarantee they get a round two at some point.
Second: to trigger the dropping of the net labeled “Don’t leave me!”
They do not dribble these words as a true reflection of ranking.
“Rafe! You snide, cynical son-of-a-bitch, this article is ungrounded and needlessly snarky. True love equals the ultimate sexual experience!”
Well, ôte toi le balai que tu dans le cu, and really think about that equation: True Love = The Ultimate Sexual Experience.
On one side of the equation is this cute little unicorn called True Love. As endorsed by Romance Lit authors, True Love requires a perversely phenomenal alignment of opportunity, availability, idealism, sociological expectations, co-signing of acceptable codependencies, and a doe-in-the-headlights trust that all that love barreling toward you won’t kill you as you traverse the REAL landscape around you. A nauseous landscape of imminent layoffs, hey penny-scrubbing landlords, mysterious premium hikes substantiated by microscopic fine print, peculiar outbreaks of antidote-resistant strains of WhatTheFuckUlitis, Hershey-squirting chicken-curry kale salad, and an unexpected itch from the little fucker who returned from his Hawaiian vacation with the brilliant idea of farming itty-bitty crustaceans in your pubic hair. If the humanoid that emerges from this meat grinder of life turns out not only to be fully formed but also looking like Chris Hemsworth, you lucky worm – you’ve fulfilled half the equation of that uncompromising thingy-thing called True Love. At least by the standards of Romance Literature.
On the other side of the equation is The Ultimate Sexual Experience. You may have lived twenty-five, thirty, or forty years, but the Ultimate Sexual Experience requires this new stranger you’ve known for all of two seconds to be a master – a MASTER – of every one of your particular, ideal, unspoken sexual requirements. In spite of what’s usually written about in those booty-full books centering on two shredded men who earn their way for 70,000 words to Hiroshima-epic earth-shattering hummada-hummada in bed, more often than not in life you get:
Shut up, we’re not filming porn. More suction already! Too forceful, you fucking ape! Woe, that boy barb is way top heavy! Just doing the math and, um, not even fully stretched could I fit that in. Oh, you ate garlic – thanks. It’s a nipple, not an Altoid – bite it in half and you won’t taste peppermint. It doesn’t really taste like he showered. I think he’s whispering sweet tender everythings in my bad ear – I think. His promise not to go all the way in is like Putin promising he’d only invade the Ukraine a little – just the tip. Goddamn it, I told him I have a deposition in the morning and no turtleneck! You can rim me but I’m not returning the favor, what don’t you understand?! Can athlete’s foot spread to the mouth?
If Mr. Howdy Ho tongues, pushes, withdraws, speeds, slows, navigates, and intuits with nearly magical perfection, you’ve lucked out and achieved The Ultimate Sexual Experience – and I hope it didn’t put you out more than $200.
So, if both sides of the equation do miraculously balance, then congratulations! You’ve won the cherry pie! True Love does, in fact, equal The Ultimate Sexual Experience for you! But you’ve still a long way to go before you can legitimately tell that Steaming Bowl of Beef Broth in your bed that he was the best sex you’ve ever had. You still have to battle the final ogre under the bridge:
This morning I sacrificed a pump at the gym for a lively discussion on this topic at the reception desk whose participants included a straight white dude, a straight white dudette, a straightish black man, a Puerto Rican dudette, and me – the homosexidicksicle.
All agreed they would NEVER roll over and tell their partner or hookup that they just had the best sex they’d ever had. They’d never hand over that power to another. As the straight white dude put it: “Admitting out loud that she is the best in bed puts more weight on her side of the seesaw, leaving me dangling and vulnerable, legs flapping helplessly in the air.” Apparently being wrapped around another’s little pinky is not a position straight and straightish guys and gals EVER want to be in.
There were occasions when the guys did, in fact, have the best sex ever. More specifically, the guys said they had the best “fucks” ever. But then the guys told me women definitely do NOT want be told that. While guys mean it in a flattering way, girls apparently hate being reminded that tomorrow the guy’s penis will be hunting for the next fuck that outranks tonight.
I pushed the conversation further and asked about the times they did tell the other they’d just had the best sex ever. They all got hot under the collar. The sexes divided. The guys admitted there were times they whispered she was the best – but it was a lie. They just wanted to make sure they’d get some oomp-loompa the next night. Supposedly the tactic works, and rather well. The ladies, on the other hand, admitted the only times they told a guy he was the best was when she started having visions of setting up shop – marriage, kids, Christmases. They wanted to hook and reel. The whole group got bashful. Very cute.
I asked them, “Honestly, what’s the best sex you’ve ever had?”
The consensus was that the best sex was almost always with the kind of person they’d NEVER want to have a relationship with. The crazy freaky pierced tattooed girls who would drop skirt in bathrooms fuck the best, but then they take baseball bats to your wheels. Bad boy narcissists with addiction disorders fuck the best, but then they never have dough and they all need mood stabilizers.
In my experience, the best sex I ever had was with an asshole who told me I was the WORST fuck he ever had. Maybe that’s because we didn’t fuck. Maybe that’s because he was too shit-faced and needed to use my cell to call his happy heroine dealer.
I believe readers of straight Romance slid over to MM Romance because they want the explicitness. They want the illicitness. They want the raunch. And above all else, no matter whether the Fannie Mae Hedge Funder fucks the Farm Boy in the conductor’s booth on the 2-Line,* or King Arthur sweeps the golden goblets off the Round Table to boink Lancelet because Guinevere’s got cramps,** what readers expect in gay lit is a commitment to the lived reality of these relationships in the imaginary circumstances. I also believe that one vestige of straight Romance that was Mayflowered over to MM Romance was this sweet little phrase, “That was the best sex I’ve ever had.” Guys just don’t say it and mean it in lived reality.
My knee-jerk impression when I come across a character moaning these words is that the author simply hasn’t had a lot of sex and is sort of bullshitting his/her way through the cigarette-lit afterglow. That this author retains straight Romance’s history of puritanical abstinence until, once carnal knowledge has been obtained, true love must too. That’s hardly anyone’s real experience, but…
After the knee jerk, I realize readers read Romance for their very virtues of escapism and idealism. HEA, after all, doesn’t stand for He’ll Eventually Abscond. Happily Ever After, to many readers and to many writers, will always be manifested by some likeness of marriage, stability, holding hands during the holidays together, and, of course, the best sex that Turtle and Hare will ever find on earth. And appealing to reader’s desires by having one lover vocalize this particular compliment after unloading is the ultimate manipulation of fantasy.
And as I write this I realize that I owe you an apology. I may have just wasted the last 1651 words, because, in the end…fuck. It’s what I want too.
“I submerged myself in the thickness and solidity of his limbs and torso, like a steamy bath on a cold night. I had no desire to surface. In this moment, we had no score to settle. No justice to enact. No past to reconcile. No future to put into perspective. Just contact, warmth, and breathing.
There was evil, there was hypocrisy, there were secrets, there was heartbreak, and there was death out there in the courtyard, but for these few seconds, they could just drift outside in the cold wind.”
~ From The Next
* I did, back in the 90’s. Not shitting you. A real quickie between 33rd and Canal ‘cause it’s an express train that skips stops and there were no cameras on trains back then. And the moon was full.
** Oh please please please will one of you write that scene for me?
Dubbed “the gay Rear Window,” The Next is a raw, snarky, no-holds-barred romantic suspense novel of a man stuck in his Manhattan apartment who thinks he’s identified a gruesome crime across the courtyard. It’s less a whodunit and more of a suspenseful how’s-he-gonna-get-‘em plot, slathered with a large, creamy dollop of romance. Unlike Rear Window, the protagonist in The Next isn’t bound to his apartment by a broken leg in a cast, but rather by a self-induced, torturous psychological handcuffing, and the novel, of course, chronicles his journey to this freedom as much as the capturing of the bogey. The second biggest difference is that The Next doesn’t shy away from the eroticism. At all. Hawt men abound. 😉
Title: The Next
Release date: April 23, 2014
E-Book ISBN: 978-1-925031-96-6
Kindle – Amazon ASIN: B00JZ7GVO8
Nook – Barnes and Noble BN ID: 2940149377060
Wilde City Press: www.wildecity.com
Sub-Genre: Romance, Romantic Suspense, Contemporary, Erotic, Mystery/Suspense, Thriller/Crime
Length: 83,600 words (novel)
Print (available soon)
Rafe Haze was raised in the San Francisco Bay Area and lives on the west side of New York City. Having worked for the legal compliance industry, fashion industry, music industry, art industry, and flesh industry (the most interesting people on earth have), his most life-changing employment was teaching Meisner Technique of Acting. He wrote himself out of one whopping funk with his debut novel The Next, and is ecstatically thankful for the entire, messy, beautiful cadence.
Rafe refuses to be handcuffed to one discipline only: he writes classical music for orchestra and small ensemble, country music songs, musical theater, plays, screenplays, and digs two-stepping, line dancing, and West Coast Swinging. Be it words, notes, or movement, the emotional origin, schlep, and endpoints are equally compelling and satisfying.
Rafe is grateful to his twin brother (the straight one) who continues to make the slicing through this rambling, thorny life worthwhile.
Rafe is graciously offering a e copy of his release “The Next ” to a commentor on this post
Read Roberta’s 4 star review of “The Next” here :