By
Spencer Dryden (Guest Blogger)
I
turned sixty-five on Jan 8th. Three years ago, I started a new career
in a field I never imagined I would be in back in my
twenties—writing fiction—erotic romance to be precise.
I
have been enchanted by female allure since the first time I started
feeling that urge from down below at the site of a naked woman—over
a half century ago. I never imagined I'd be writing about it though.
I come from a very sexually repressed background. I grew up believing
that erotica was dirty, sinful, mind and soul destroying trash. Fifty
years and Fifty Shades later I became aware of how many women,
including my mother, were going straight to hell for reading it. Or
were they? I don't believe that any more. One gift of reaching your
sixties is you start throwing off taboos like so much dead skin.
Unlike
many of my fellow authors, I didn't grow up with a life-long love of
words. In fact, I was terrible at reading and writing. Growing up, I
rarely read fiction for entertainment. I started writing fiction at
age sixty-two. The only fiction I wrote before then was the marketing
reports I prepared for my bosses during my tenuous white collar
career.
I
came into writing by accident, during my white-collar years, learning
the craft on the fly through composing business letters, proposals
and reports. A mentor told me one way to stand out in a professional
career is to speak and write. I am a natural at public speaking. I
guess it's like the gift many writers have for writing.
From
a young age I could stand up in front of a group and carry off clear
and entertaining presentations. Thanks to the now nearly obsolete
tool of the dictation machine, I found a writing voice. Having a
secretary to transcribe for me hid my complete inability to spell and
punctuate correctly. (Suzie, where are you now?) I wrote many
articles for business and professional magazines.
As
time passed, the visibility I earned from speaking and writing
fostered aspirations of writing longer non-fiction works. After I
became an at-home dad, I set out to be a male version of Erma
Bombeck. That dream died under a pile of dirty laundry. I didn't have
Erma's constitution. She rose early and wrote while her children
slept. Mine never slept at the same time. I did most of my parenting
under advance stages of sleep deprivation—not a condition
conductive to creativity.
My
forties turned to fifties and then sixties. I passed from a man at
the threshold of middle age to a man on the threshold of oblivion. In
the wake of my mothers passing in April of 2012, I spent a long time
alone at her beach house. While walking the beach every day, my head
started filling with ideas for stories. Eventually, I had one of
those epiphanies, realizing that if I didn't act on some of my
dreams, there wasn't going to be anything for anyone to remember at
my wake.
I
started scribbling little stories of erotic romance. A lot of it was
therapy I guess, with plenty of fantasy thrown in. Fiction is a great
vehicle for seeking revenge without the threat of jail time. Even
better, in erotic romance, I can sleep with any woman I want and my
wife could care less.
I
broke through my taboos about writing erotica, but assumed a pen name
knowing that family, friends and associates would drop dead in horror
if they knew of my interests. I'm not ashamed of my new profession. I
simply don't have the energy to argue with them, but I don't want to
blatantly offend them either. I'm still in the closet and intend to
stay here. My intention is to have poster sized reproductions of the
tawdry covers from my books on display at my wake. That'll give them
something to talk about.
I'm
as messed up as any man by the prevailing image of manhood and what
women seek in men. My knowledge about pleasing a woman sexually was
confined to guy talk and XXX movies. It has caused me serious harm.
I
came into fiction with the advice to write the story I wanted to
hear, the way I wanted to hear it. That's what I'm trying to do. I am
targeting a male audience, who like me, have grown up with distorted
notions of manhood and what it takes to win and please a woman. I am
trying to show, through stories, that you don't have to be rich,
famous, distant, abusive or even sexually polished to make it with
women. My male characters are typically ordinary guys who are
genuine, but often a bit clueless about sex. I have a lot of fun
writing about them because I'm really writing about my own foibles.
(Oh there's a surprise!)
I
dislike the terms we use to describe ourselves as writers of erotica,
primarily the terms, 'smut', 'porn' and 'stroke' . I like to say I
write stories about human sexuality from a male perspective, where an
ordinary guy struggles with the conflict between love and lust, where
lust is stronger. Through my stories, I want men to know that an
ordinary guy can find true love. You just have to be genuine, and if
you'll open your heart, you'll find a woman who will teach you what
you need to know to please her sexually. That's my story, but I had
it wrong for most of my life. My stories are deliberately short. Like
many men, I have the attention span of a fly.
I
led men's spiritual development groups for years and I can tell you
men's hearts ache for the blessing of their fathers and the
appreciation of their wives. Often, they don't get either, and they
don't know how to deal with it. Stories is how we learn about what we
can't articulate. What is the Bible if not stories about how to
navigate the journey though life?
I
believe our brains are hard wired to acquire, retain and transmit
knowledge through the power of story. I am hoping though stories, I
might lead other men on to the path of sexual healing I have found.
Hand
Job by Spencer Dryden
An
erotic writer's fantasies become reality when a palm reading predicts
the promise of great sex ahead for him.
Jack
Reed is
a
thirty-something
handyman
and
aspiring
erotic
fiction
writer with
fantasies
about
Jodie, a
barista at
the coffee
shop where
he writes
every day.
His
dreams
begin to
materialize
when Jodie
offers him
a quick
palm
reading,
hinting at
sex with
her. She
invites
Jack to
her
boutique
for a
more
complete
session.
Her reading
predicts
Jack's
artisan
hands will
be pleasing
to a
woman.
Their
session
interrupted,
she invites
him to
her house
that
evening for
further
revelation.
Uncertain
of Jodie's
intentions,
but drawn
by her
allure,
Jack goes
to her
house
expecting
additional
interpretation
in exchange
for
handyman
work. What
he receives
is far
more than
he
bargained
for.
Excerpt
"You
have such interesting hands," Jodie said, as she wiped my table.
"You should let me do a palm reading sometime."
Her
comment caught me by surprise, but her pale blue eyes drew me in, as
they always did.
"What
would that tell me?" I struggled to hold back the sarcasm.
"A
lot about your future," she said, whisking my doughnut crumbs
away.
"I
could use some good news right now." I turned my palm up toward
her.
"Not
here," she said. "Come to my shop. I do readings on
Saturdays."
"You
have a life outside this coffee shop?"
"I
do. This job earns me money while I build up my practice."
She
reached into the back pocket of her tight fitting, low slung jeans,
and produced a rumpled card.
"I
guess I can relate," I said. "Handyman work supports my
writing jones." I pointed to the tablet holding my latest
scrawling. "But I thought gypsies were supposed to have dark
eyes, black hair and..." I choked on the words.
"And
big breasts," she said, turning her nearly flat chest toward me.
"All that's true, but I've been trained by the best."
"Well,
can you give me a little sample?" I asked, teasing, stretching
my hand further in her direction.
She
put down the dishrag, took my fingers, and traced a line in the
center of my palm with her fingernail. It sent sparks through my
body, directly to my groin. She broke into a lusty grin, her eyes
dilated.
She
leaned down to my ear and melted me with her hot, whispering breath.
"You have a big cock and it's going to make someone happy,
soon."
She
turned abruptly and headed back to the counter area. I could only
imagine how stupid I looked. The heat of my embarrassment turned my
face into a red bulb. It was quickly replaced by the surge of lust I
felt whenever I watched her walking away, her firm ass rippling atop
her long, slender legs. How often I imagined those legs wrapped
around me. I looked at my palm in disbelief.
How
is it that women can say such outrageous things and get away with
them?
In my stories, I felt perfectly comfortable having my male characters
say outrageous things to get a woman's attention. But
I write fantasy
About Spencer Dryden
Spencer
Dryden is a new to writing fiction but an old guy on the threshold of
draining any reserves left in Medicare and Social Security.
In
real life he is a handyman, an at-home dad, inventor, and web
videographer living a quiet life in the frozen tundra of Minnesota
(USA).
He
earned an MBA from a prestigious Midwestern university but is so far
behind on the career earnings scale of his peers that the university
has offered to refund his tuition if he will return his diploma and
disavow his affiliation, lest he continue to denigrate the school's
impeccable brand.
He
has a beautiful trophy wife ready to spend his royalties. Like all
good romance writers he has a cat but prefers to pet his wife.
