"Tempted"
By Lisabet Sarai
Some of us write for love. Some of us write for money. Either way, we authors
are hungry for reader approval. Perhaps there are some out there who toil away
for the pure sake of their art and who honestly don't care whether anyone reads
their books or not, but nobody I know personally falls into that category.
As for me, I want to be loved far more than I want to be
rich. I want the people who pick up my books to be swept away into the worlds I
create – to live, breathe, suffer
and lust right along with my characters and to feel satisfaction, even joy,
when my story winds to its close. Positive reviews send me to the stars, not
because they'll increase my sales (they probably won't), but because they
suggest that I've succeeded in seducing at least one reader.
If you worry about your readers' opinions, though, then you
can't help but think about market sentiment, which after all aggregates their
views. Then you find yourself making choices based not on what you want to
write, not on instinct or on passion, but on your perceptions of what is likely
to sell. And that truly is a slippery slope. There's a thin line between
adapting to the market and self-censorship.
Much of what I write these days gets
labeled as erotic romance. I constantly have to sit on my characters so that
they'll behave according the expectations of this genre. In particular, no
matter how tempted I am to introduce F/F interaction into my stories, I have to
resist. I frequently find my heroines wanting each other, but I don't dare let
them consummate their desire because it will alienate my audience. Both my
readers and my publishers have told me in no uncertain terms: the majority of
people who buy and read romance actively dislike any depiction of Sapphic
sexuality.
For example, I just finished the first
draft of a novel which includes some fairly wild BDSM ménage scenes (M/F/M).
Halfway through the book I came up with a kick-ass secondary character, a
female police detective named Toni. It soon became clear that Toni had her eyes
on my heroine Emily. In love with
Toni myself, I desperately wanted to see what would happen if I allowed her to
express her interest in a physical way. Emily could easily have been open-minded
enough to go along. Instead, I ended up including only the faintest hints of
mutual attraction – and I wouldn't be surprised if my publisher suggests
scrubbing those as well. (They objected to some of the other extracurricular
sex.)
Why is there such a bias against F/F
relationships in the erotic romance world? Especially when the majority of
readers are female? I took a poll once, in the guise of a contest, to find out
how my small coterie of fans felt about F/F fiction. The responses ranged from “It
just doesn't interest me” to “It's icky.” (I'll admit that one or two replies
indicated an enthusiasm for lesbian stories that equals mine. The population
for this impromptu survey was after all a self-selected set of people who
already like my work!)
I can live with the “doesn't interest me”.
After all, my husband has zero inclination toward BDSM, even in fiction, in
vivid contrast to my own fascination with power exchange. The “ickiness” factor
really bugs me, though.
This isn't sexual conservatism or general
homophobia. A big slice of my readership adores gay male erotic romance,
especially when the heroes are tall, handsome and intensely masculine. These
readers fantasize about such men themselves. It seems only natural they'd
expect such men to be drawn to one another.
In contrast, I have the creepy feeling that
many women don't find their own bodies attractive enough to be erotically
appealing.
That's an ugly, scary thought. I hope it's
not true. Given how mercilessly the media beat us over the head with images of
impossible beauty, though, I can't rule it out. Most of us don't measure up to
the artificial ideal, no matter how much money we spend on cosmetics, clothing
and gym memberships. Meanwhile, we're told that anything outside that ideal is unacceptable.
Our hairy pussies are disgusting; we'd better go get them waxed. A tummy that's
not flat as a board, breasts that are too big or too small, flat feet like mine
that can't handle the high heels required to be truly gorgeous – we're
conditioned to dislike our physical selves.
How many women do you know who truly love
their bodies? And how can you love another, naturally imperfect woman, when
your perceptions are colored by these constant messages of female inadequacy?
Of course, there is a market – possibly
growing – for F/F erotica and erotic romance among lesbians and bisexuals. In
those books, though, market wisdom suggests you should avoid any straight
sexual interaction. This literary segregation really annoys me. My characters
tend to reflect my own omnisexuality. I want to write about women with men,
women with women, men with men, multiples and chains, in the same book (as I
did in my first novel fourteen years ago, when I was still a marketing
innocent).
Anyway, there's nothing I can do about
market pressures, except to resist the urge to self-censor and try to remain
honest. When I'm tempted to let my female characters explore one another, I
should yield. I'll never be a best seller, so what have I got to lose?
Just for the fun of it, I thought I'd
include an excerpt from the very first F/F scene I ever published, in my debut
novel Raw Silk. My heroine Kate is in the process of learning
about submission from Gregory, who owns a sex bar in the Bangkok red light
district. He brings her to the bar, disguises her as Asian, and “forces” her to
participate in a live sex show.
****
Gregory handed her a silk kimono. ‘Put this on, and wait
behind the curtains until you hear the music. After that - you'll know what to
do.’
‘I know that you won't disappoint me, Kate,’ he added. Then
he was gone.
Standing in the dim hallway, Kate fought the urge to run.
She fantasized about sex in public places, she acknowledged; she had enjoyed
the risk of discovery in her recent, outrageous experiences with Somtow. This
was different. How could she fuck a stranger, surrounded by strangers, who were
watching purely for their own entertainment? Being discovered in the midst of
passion was one thing; deliberately exposing the most private of acts to public
view was something else altogether.
She had no choice, she told herself. Marshall had required
this of her, and she was bound to obey him. She knew she was lying to herself,
though. Mixed with her trepidation was a secret, shameful excitement.
The first wails of the saxophone reached her from beyond the
curtain. She recognised the tune. Kate pulled the kimono tight around her,
swallowed hard, and stepped into the spotlight.
In the brightness, Kate could see nothing. She moved toward
the stage, feeling light-headed. It seemed that she floated up the stairs.
Her partner awaited her.
It was the sweet little vamp who had been Uthai's companion
in the previous performance. A woman! Gregory was diabolical.
The Thai woman caught her eye. Kate saw kindness in her
face, and amusement. Slowly, she began to untie her robe; Kate did the same.
The silken fabric slid from their bodies at the same moment. A low murmur
rippled through the audience.
The woman held out her hands to Kate, beckoning, inviting.
Kate glided across the stage, the music reaching her despite her fear. They
clasped hands, standing face to face. We could be sisters, thought Kate.
They were exactly matched in height, and like her, the young woman was more
generously endowed than was typical for a Thai
Still holding Kate's hands, her partner encircled her and
kissed her, open-mouthed. Kate felt a shock at the woman's soft lips and
probing tongue. For a moment, she struggled against the invasion. However, her
arms were pinned at the small of her back; though seemingly gentle, her partner
was remarkably strong.
Perhaps Gregory has instructed her, thought Kate,
surrendering to the strange and delicious sensations of the woman's kiss. There
was a faint taste of peppermint. The woman drew back and smiled at Kate.
‘Please,’ Kate whispered. ‘You'll have to help me, tell me
what to do. This is all new for me.’
‘Mai khaojai,’ the Thai returned in a whisper.
‘Pood pasa Angkrit mai dai kha.’
Kate knew little Thai, but she understood the gist. Her
lovely companion spoke no English. They could communicate only with their
bodies.
The woman's hands were on Kate's breasts now, stroking and
fondling. Her touch was unlike anything Kate had known, delicate yet focused,
savoring both the smooth skin and the swelling flesh beneath. Kate's hands hung at her sides,
awkward. Her partner's nipples, pert and upturned, seemed to wink at her. Come,
don't be shy, they seemed to say, we long for your touch. Hesitant, Kate cupped
the twin mounds in her palms, felt the silkiness under her fingers. So strange
it was, like caressing herself, but with an extra spark. After a moment, she
brushed her thumbs ever so lightly across the woman's nipples. Electricity ran
up Kate's spine, as the Thai stiffened and then relaxed, throwing her head back
and thrusting her breasts forward.
The music changed, moved into a bridge, and the Thai woman
regained control. She half-danced with Kate over to one of the poles, so that
Kate was leaning back against it. Then she sank to one knee in front of Kate
and used both hands to part the hair hiding Kate's sex.
Panic rose again in Kate's throat. With the spotlight in her
eyes, she could not see the audience, but she heard their hot breathing. This
passionate dance was too private for their gaze. Yes, she wanted this woman,
but she would not, could not, allow herself to be so taken under their crude
inspection.
Then thought was erased by sensation,
as her partner's tongue swept through her sex in one long, hard stroke that
ended with a flick to her clit.
****
About Lisabet
Lisabet Sarai became addicted to words at an early age. She
began reading when she was four. She wrote her first story at five years old
and her first poem at seven. Since then, she has written plays, tutorials,
scholarly articles, marketing brochures, software specifications, self-help
books, press releases, a five-hundred page dissertation, and lots
of erotica and erotic romance – more than fifty single author titles, plus
dozens of short stories in various erotic anthologies, including the Lambda
winner Where the Girls Are and the IPPIE Best Erotic Book of 2011, Carnal
Machines. Her gay scifi erotic romance Quarantine won a Rainbow
Awards 2012 Honorable Mention.
Lisabet has more degrees than anyone would ever need, from
prestigious educational institutions who would no doubt be deeply embarrassed
by her chosen genre. She has
traveled widely and currently lives in Southeast Asia with her indulgent
husband and two exceptional felines, where she pursues an alternative career
that is completely unrelated to her creative writing.
