Wednesday, June 28, 2017

Men Like Bill (#erotica #paranormal #lilith @MoniqueRoffey13)

The Tryst cover
By Monique Roffey (Guest Blogger)

In my new novel, The Tryst, the hero, Bill is a Lover, not a Fucker. That’s why he manages not only to survive an imp like Lilah, but turn the tables on her too. He gives as good as he gets. Bill, I must confess, is also a little bit modeled on a man like Robert Bly, the American poet and leader of the men’s movement in the USA. Bly, for me, is a hero. So is Bill, in his own way. Bill, in many respects, is trapped, in his second cycle of marriage, almost on track or another failure, a second divorce. But then the couple meet Lilah, both real, half-human and a figment of Jane’s unspoken erotic desires. Bill, while creative and manly, easy with himself, is also homme vanille, castrated by his mother and his wife and now by Jane. He is a natural Lover. However, once bitten, he’s twice shy, especially with this second wife Jane.

Then he meets The Original First Wife in the form of Lilah, a descendant of Adam’s first wife Lilith. Only then, does he seem to click into action. Like Bly, he is at home in the realm of is creativity and his masculinity. Like Bly, he is a mature man; he is lover and a gentle man and he cares deeply for his home, his wife and the things that matter. Like Bly, he was married and divorced. In The Tryst he is conscious of his failures and wants to live differently. He gets better with age. He wears his sadness and his past well. He wants to love again and takes the plunge with Jane, and yet he encounters similar difficulties, with loving with and sexually pleasing a woman.

Meanwhile, Lilah is a storm, a whirlwind and devastation on their marriage. She is contemptuous of Jane and at first pitying of Bill. But she underestimates Bill as a lover and what human love is. While caught and suppressed, Bill is a quietly confident man with his love skills. He is a patient man, a husband, and a father and he loves Jane. He is in some way waiting for his wife, even while he is in agony over their unfucked bed. When he meets Lilah he is tempted, and re-activated as a sexual creature. He comes into his full capacity as a sexual lover. And yet, he falls a little too, in love with the dark creature from the woodland.

Towards the end, he loses his wife and Lilah; he is abandoned and lost to himself. And in those dark moments, Bill becomes his own shaman, he reaches for his own wisdom and his own power as a magician. He dismantles the curse and utters his own charms to the universe. He also calls on Aphrodite to re-instate his claim on his home. The Tryst is a novel which blends magic with the everyday to create a story about monogamy, marriage and that tricksy subject of sexual desire.

Blurb for The Tryst

London, midsummer night. Jane and Bill meet the mysterious Lilah in a bar. She entrances the couple with half-true, mixed up tales about her life. At closing time, Jane makes an impulsive decision to invite Lilah back to their home. But Jane has made a catastrophic error of judgment, for Lilah is a skilled and ruthless predator, the likes of which few encounter in a lifetime. Isolated and cursed, Jane and Bill are forced to fight for each other, and, in doing so, discover their covert desires.

Part psychological thriller, part contemporary magical realism, The Tryst revisits the tale of Adam’s first wife, Lilith, to examine the secrets of an everyday marriage.



Bored. I could see she was bored the moment I entered the bar. Withdrawn, watching but not seeing much. Bored and unfucked. I could tell that every time, could see it in every fibre: the way the flesh was dead and the eyes were unglowing and the face looked a little doomed. I could read the prig like a book. Always could. The unfucked always watch, looking out for someone else, for they know they’ve made a fundamental error. Wrong, wrong, wrong. I have chosen wrong. I used to see married human females like this all the time, who’d chosen a man who loved them, who was right in all the other ways, a man who didn’t rock the boat, which was why the relationship floated, worked.

The English never knew what to make of me, my forwardness, my daring ways. It was like taking candy from babies. It was always so easy to get laid. I took what I needed from whom I wanted. Easy. But mostly from those couples like Jane and Bill, who had nothing going on down below, no desire between them. It’s not a crime or a sin, to fuck a man till he faints, to release some dumb stupid bitch from her own constraints. They never saw me coming, couples like Jane and Bill; they never believe predators like me exist even though plenty of tales of me, and my like, can be found in the ancient books. Modern humans have forgotten them, the impure woman, the insubordinate. I’m the one who ran away. I am there, in their history, those books the moderns no longer read. I often went to bars alone, hunted alone. The English are such hypocrites. Fuck them and fuck their tight-ass Queen. I saw Bill and Bill saw me. Immediately. He already had the memory of me, all men do. But she didn’t notice him noticing me. Didn’t see him glance at me several times over by the bar, didn’t hear him cough, blush, try to cover himself. Amazing how much a so-called second wife can miss. When the wife-pussy isn’t happy, there’s nothing to safeguard, nothing to lose. I could never infiltrate a fuck-happy couple. But so few of these exist.

She thought it was all her idea! That she set up the entire thing, that it was all her doing. Silly little prig. She had been a looker once and some of that was still there. I could see she once turned heads. Great tits. Nice ass. Good legs. She had a kind of grace she did, Miss Repressed, a kind of – ha ha, impenetrable-ness, little Miss Unfucked, an unused sexiness in her polo neck, her hair tied back. But she was beginning to lose what she’d had and never used, beginning to regret this, I could tell, beginning to fantasise she could have it all back, do it all again. I had it over older women: my pearly taut skin, my edible flesh, my curves and humpable bumps. I had all this forever and ever amen. God I turned myself on looking in the mirror!

I liked the look of Bill, a big-boned voluptuous tree of a man, a mature and bearded oak. All generous with himself, I could tell by his loose and supple boughs, the curve of his stomach, the girth of his thighs, his broad arms. His skin was sun-browned, the colour of heartwood. Our eyes clashed in that bar and he was ashamed and then he was uncertain and tried to look away. But I was taken and determined and knew I’d snare him with all my tricks. Another man sat with them, a different type who saw me too, a fellow predator who appraised me quickly and knowingly. He leered. I smirked with disdain.

I watched and waited.

Yes, Bill. We’ve met. I’m the First. I exist in the loins of all men, including yours.

When Little Miss Polo Neck got up to go to the bar I didn’t have to make a move. Both men looked over and smiled at me. Different smiles. Bill’s was tentative, a despite-himself smile, curious, intense, unsure of himself. The other man gave me a well-known-to-me, broad and welcoming grin. ‘Hello, there, Miss Lady Pussy.’

This with an open-armed gesture.

I slid off my barstool and appeared before them, all radiant four foot ten inches of me. Both men were shocked, impressed. My shortness never fails to make men want to fuck me. My girl-womanliness is a fateful mixture. A fantasy. A child with a whore’s smile. The girl-next-door with a cleavage of rare and captivating beauty. Both men gazed at me. I smiled and sat down on the stool the dark-haired man drew up for me. I wriggled, thrusting my tits upward, twiddling my hair. Bill was uncomfortable, I could tell. He squirmed. I loved it all, loved the attention, wanted to take them both to bed, take off my clothes there and then. I opened my legs, just a crack, spreading my scent.

Greetings, my friends. This is a kind invitation.”

I’m Sebastian.” The dark-haired man glowed. “This is Bill.”

Am I at Elysian Fields?”


Blanche DuBois, of course, a tragic Southern belle of American literature, so pathetic, always made me laugh. I would make these men nervous.

Oh nothing, just a little joke with myself.” I batted my eyelids. The man called Sebastian openly ogled my chest; the alpha human males are so easy to capture.

I mean I feel fortunate,” I gushed. “To make your acquaintance, I’m always so happy to receive the kindness of strangers.”

The men stared. My cunt scent had already intoxicated them.

Praise for The Tryst

What makes The Tryst an unexploded virus isn’t just the quality and brightness of Roffey’s writing on sex, even as it uncovers inner glades between flesh and fantasy where sex resides – but the taunting clarity of why those glades stay covered. A throbbing homewrecker of a tale, too late to call Fifty Shades of Red.”

DBC Pierre, Booker Prize winner

About the Author

Monique Roffey is an award-winning Trinidadian-born writer. Her novels have been translated into five languages and short-listed for major awards including
the Orange Prize, Costa Fiction Award, Encore Award, Orion Award and the OCM Bocas Award for Caribbean Literature. In 2013, Archipelago won the OCM BOCAS Award for Caribbean Literature. Her memoir, With the Kisses of his Mouth, was published in 2011. She is a Lecturer on the MFA in the Novel at Manchester Metropolitan University. She divides her time between the East end of London and Port of Spain, Trinidad.

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Instagram: @MoniqueRoffey

1 comment:

Lisabet Sarai said...

This sounds amazing, Monique. I hope I'll get a chance to read it.

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