Oh, my anti-hero! (#heroes #stereotypes #eroticromance)

 

Stereotypes are seductive – and to some extent, they sell. A fair fraction of the readers of erotica and erotic romance want heroes who are six feet plus in height, ruggedly handsome, well-muscled, well-hung, brave, strong, rough yet tender, and indefatigably virile. And honestly, I can't blame them. There's nothing wrong with a bit of wish fulfillment.

I've written heroes with a capital H myself, especially in my earlier books. I mean, a nice bod and a pretty face are not to be sneezed at. But they're not enough. Call me perverse (many people have), but I find intelligence to be the most essential aspect of a sexy hero. Furthermore, I'm willing to accept less than stellar physical qualities if my hero is a clever, imaginative, horny genius who's smart enough to understand what will truly turn the heroine on.

I admit it. I've got a thing for nerds. When “The Man from UNCLE” was popular, I had the hots for skinny, intense Ilya Kuryakin, not the dashing alpha guy Napoleon Solo. I was hopelessly in love with Mr. Spock. (After all, think about making love while in the throes of a Vulcan mind-meld.) Near the top of my sexy, romantic movie list is "Earth Girls are Easy", featuring gangly, geeky Jeff Goldblum as a

brilliant alien. A more recent example of a sexy nerd is Clive Owen's short, unshaven, and amazingly ingenious character in the bank robbery thriller "Inside Man".

It's fairly easy to understand why I feel this way. Growing up, I was the egghead, the bookworm, the too-smart girl whom everyone made fun of. The only guys who could deal with me were the ones who were at least as smart as I was. They weren't on the football squad; they weren't voted Best Looking or Most Popular. But they had that something that could start my motors. It was intoxicating, yes, arousing, to have a conversation with some of these guys, especially when I got out of high school and into college. We understood each other, and I began to discover that despite their definite nerdish qualities, they were enthusiastic and innovative when it came to sex.

Actually, research has shown that in defiance of their public image as socially challenged losers, nerds are more successful than the general population in finding mates, staying with them, and producing

children. Of course, that is not necessarily going to endear them to readers who are seeking the ultimate sexual fantasy, but it's something to consider!

Anyway, some of my heroes – actually, my favorites – definitely don't fit the classic hero mold. The character of Rick Martell in Nasty Business is perhaps the most anti-heroic protagonist I've ever created. Physically, he's short, wiry, a bit rumpled, with a droopy, disreputable-looking mustache. He's manipulative, sneaky, dishonest, arrogant, and more than a little sexist. At the same time, he's a brilliant engineer and a wily strategist who matches every one of Ruby's maneuvers as they compete for a critical business deal. 

You almost hate Rick, when you see the way he takes advantage of the women around him. And yet, like Ruby, Margaret and Luna, I can't help finding him peculiarly attractive. He's simultaneously insightful, able to discern and use the desires of others for his own purposes, and blind when it comes to understanding his own emotions. He's brash and egotistical, not recognizing his own vulnerability, underestimating his opponents. Ultimately, though, he learns a lesson or two under Ruby's lash.

Want to meet him? Here's a quick snippet, after Rick's first attempt to get the upper hand in his dealings with Ruby.

***

I remember to grin and give poor Margaret a wink as I exit from Ruby’s office, but to be honest, I’m a bit shaken. I’m both amazed and annoyed. Annoyed that Ruby rejected my carefully prepared pitch. Amazed that she was able to. That she could be so icily professional, so scrupulously correct, after last night’s scene in the taxi. Clearly I underestimated her.

Women find it hard to resist me. It’s just a fact, something that’s been true since I was in my teens and my old amah ambushed me in the garden and gave me my first lessons in the fleshly arts. By now, I almost take it for granted.

I’m sure that it’s something primitive, biological. I know that I can’t take the credit. I’m smart, but no genius; rich, but no Bill Gates. As for my looks – well, let’s just say that at best I look innocuous, at worst, disreputable.

Yet I can walk into a crowded room, and every woman there will sense my presence. It’s mutual, too. I can hear the intake of their breath, feel the heat of the blood rising in them. Catch hints of their delicate musk as I sniff the air like the predator I am.

I should mention that I have an unusually acute sense of smell. Maybe that’s the source of it all, some trick of the wiring in my lower brain that gives me this delicious advantage.

Some people might think it’s unethical, that I should try and use this quirk of my personal chemistry to enrich myself. But each of us plays the hand we’re dealt. Why should I handicap myself by renouncing my greatest gift?

Ruby wants me. I know she does. Which makes her chilly reception during our interview all the more incredible. I’ve never met a woman with such self-control.

Now that our interview is over, the nervous tension that I kept at bay in her presence washes through my body. I literally am shaking. Margaret eyes me curiously.

“Are you unwell, Mr. Martell?” she asks. I get the feeling that a part of her wishes that I would expire immediately.

“Not at all, Margaret,” I reply. “Never been better. Ms. Chen and I had a most stimulating meeting.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” she says frostily, and returns her gaze to the document she’s editing. She pretends to ignore me. I can feel her heat, I can smell her arousal, even from across the room.

I watch her for a few moments, admiring the graceful curve of her neck, the creamy skin of her bare forearms. I smile, recalling the way her nipples rose so smartly at my slightest touch. Margaret, at least, is not immune to my charms. But I decide to spare her any further attentions, for now.

“Thank you, Margaret. I’m sure we’ll meet again soon.”

She does not reply. Her lips are pressed together in grim determination, but her flushed cheek tell the true story.

***

Yes, Rick isn't exactly the most admirable guy on the planet. But I'll tell you a secret: I love him. If I met him in the flesh, I'd never be able to resist his anti-heroic charms.

Intelligence is Sexy

What kind of heroes do you like? That's a topic that comes up all the time in romance author interviews. Alphas―tall, tough and taciturn, the kind of guys who take over and practically force you to love them? Betas―sensitive, responsible, best-friend type of guys who turn out to have harbored secret passions for years? Anti-heroes―bad boys who break all the rules and maybe even the law, but who are too sexy to resist?

My answer? I like smart guys. How the hero looks doesn't matter nearly as much as whether he's got something special between his ears. In the real world and in fiction (mine and the work of others), I find intelligence to be a turn on.

I'm a sucker for the brilliant nerd type. One reason is that I've known so many. (In fact, I married one!) I spent the first twenty six years of my life in school, getting more degrees than anyone should ever want. In the process, I met and loved my share of near-genius men―guys who could discourse for hours on the subjective nature of reality and the illusion of time, or create a mathematical model of the solar system, or build a functioning computer from bottle caps, paper clips and picture wire.

Why are intelligent men attractive? Well, for one thing, most are less likely to be threatened by an intelligent woman. Instead, they appreciate a companion who doesn't bore them. Insight or intuition often, though not always, accompanies intelligence―my genius guys sometimes knew what I wanted before I did. In addition, my experiences suggest that, contrary to the nerd stereotype, bright men are more highly sexed. Or just possibly they're more desperate, but the end result is the same―more passion!

I've written some alpha heroes, but many of my favorite characters don't fit the mold. One example is Rick Martell in Ruby's Rules. The whole book is a contest of wits, wills and sexual wiles, pitting Rick, a clever, charismatic (but not particularly handsome) entrepreneur against Ruby, the brilliant, subtle young CEO of an international business empire. Despite their fierce competition for ownership of a strategic semiconductor factory, Rick and Ruby find each other irresistibly attractive. In fact, the intellectual games they play only fan the flames of their mutual passion.

Here's a brief excerpt (R-rated), the scene where Ruby first meets Rick.

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“Bravo.” A soft, melodious male voice, and then the sound of applause. “I’m extremely impressed.”

I pull myself abruptly upright. Did someone dare to watch me and my medieval servitor?

I have just been finger-fucked to exhaustion, yet my first reaction is a wave of total, incomprehensible lust. Incomprehensible because the man who stands between the parted curtains is not at all my type. He is short and wiry. His hair is scraggly and a bit too long around his ears, and he has a dreadful drooping black mustache. He wears nondescript jeans and a khaki shirt.

Somehow, though, he radiates sexuality. His aura is palpable, the air thick and sticky as syrup. He fixes me with his intense, dark eyes and grins. I feel like I am melting. I want to spread my legs wider, desperately offer my swelling sex for him to use as he will.

I struggle with my impulses, close my legs decisively and try to stare him down. “I gather you were spying on me and my admirer.”

“Indeed. A most entertaining and instructive tableau.” He enters the balcony-space, letting the curtains close behind him, and picks up the flogger. The knotted thongs dangle an inch above my cleavage. “You seem to be quite an expert in the arts of discipline.”

“Hardly,” I say, taking the whip from him, trying to take control of the interaction. “I am just beginning to explore the possibilities. But,” I say, my eyes narrowing to watch his reaction, “I do find myself quite sensitive to my partners’ desires to yield to my power.”

“I could see that. You knew what he wanted, and you gave it to him.” He pauses and searches my face. “But, do you know what I want?”

Truly, I have no idea. He seems fascinated by the flogger, but I sense only a hint of submission in him, a playful curiosity totally different from the aching need of my recent conquest.

His eyes play over my body in a leisurely fashion, appreciative, it seems, but not urgent. Surreptitiously, I glance at his fly: an appealing bulk there, but no indication of arousal.

I, on the other hand, am hornier than I have been in weeks. Maybe months. Or ever. My clit throbs like a sore tooth. I lean forward so that my breasts part invitingly, and lick my painted lips.

“Tell me what you want,” I purr. “I’m feeling generous tonight, and just might grant your request.”

He leans toward me in answer, and grasps my chin. Strange electricity flows from his touch. My breasts ache. My cunt is on fire.

“I want you to take me home with you,” he says with a cryptic smile. And then he kisses me.

I am not sentimental. I am not romantic, susceptible, easily mastered. But I swear, I could drown in this kiss.

His lips are smooth and full, his tongue demanding. He tastes of peppermint, and behind that, an aromatic trace of pipe tobacco. I smell his cologne, something clean, woodsy, Scandinavian.

I do not want to give in, and yet I do. I return his kiss, open my mouth wide to his probing. He senses my partial surrender, and presses his advantage. He has slipped his hand inside my vest, now, and is pinching my nipple hard.

I love it. I am awash with lust. I am dying for him to take me. My sex is liquid, spilling over. My scent rises in the velvet-draped space. I know that I cannot hide my desire, but still I try.

“You seem most enthusiastic,” I say, my voice surprisingly steady. “But why should I allow you into my personal space?”

“Because you want to,” he says, deftly extricating my breast from its leather casing and planting a kiss on its tip. “And because you think that you will have more control on your home territory. As an interloper, I will necessarily be at a disadvantage.”

He is right. Many women would feel vulnerable, bringing a stranger into their home, but I am more confident on my own turf than in some unfamiliar locale. I am astonished at his perspicacity. Who is this man? He appears so ordinary and yet there is both physical attraction, and psychological intrigue.

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Of course, Ruby is as intelligent as Rick. That's a major part of the dynamic that propels this novel. I should have mentioned that smart heroines are my favorites, too.