It's probably become crystal clear over the last two weeks that I write a variety of book boyfriends. Anything you want, I've probably written it - aside from maybe a true Dom in terms of the D/s lifestyle. That's not really my cuppa tea. What gets me off isn't so much a kink itself as much as it is the complications that inherently pop up whenever you give your heart or body away to another person. That's why the emotional connection is my main focus, rather than how Tab A inserts into Slot B. Or C. Or F. Or G. (Think about it...)
I write nice guys and I write douche bags. I have stable, one-women men and gallivanting, unapologetic manwhores. I have dominant men ready to take command, and easy-going men who provide unconditional love, support and encouragement. There's room for all, and I find all equally compelling for different reasons.
Since it's Walking Dead Day, I'll put it like this: If I can fall in love with both Rick AND Glenn, why limit myself to either? When in doubt, choose both! (Sometimes even at the same time... but I'm ahead of myself. You're just going to have to check out Book Boyfriend #13.)
Some are rich, some are poor. Some are best friends that fit just like a missing piece of a puzzle. Others are frustrating thorns in our side as we try to mold them into something worthy of a HEA. The best thing about my job is that I get to fall in love over and over again and it never gets old or stale, because I have virtually any guy I can dream of at the tips of my fingers.
It. Is. Awesome.
Well, last year I decided I was ready for a professional.
Devlin Masters is a male escort. A gigolo, if you prefer.
So when my best friend asked the rhetorical question of if I would ever pay for sex, my brain started spinning on all the complications and benefits that could entail. What if you could get whatever fantasy you wanted, no strings attached, provided by a super hot guy whose only focus in life is making you feel good? You didn't have to worry about rejection, or spend half the date dissecting whether or not he REALLY wants you, afraid to be yourself, afraid to drive him away, when all you want to do is jump his bones.
You go into the date with full permission that you can, in whatever way you want. It's literally his job to provide that to you.
How delicious.
So I created Devlin Masters. Like his name may hint, he's a commanding kind of guy. He's also a pretty big mystery from the start. That's what happens when a man has taken it upon himself to be a clean slate for every client. He can do anything, be anyone. Being honest about himself would actually prove counterproductive to the fantasy. Instead he becomes an expert in reading what his clients want or need and bringing it to life. A guy like this needs repeat business, after all. When you're charging $400 an hour, four hours is better than two, and a weekend is better than a date.
The only way to build his empire is to learn how to adapt himself, like a chameleon, to whoever is writing the check. After three years, he's pretty darned good at it.
“So tell me about this party.”
“It’s a fundraising benefit,” I started. “We’re raising money for children affected by neurological disorders, to help their families pay for the cost of care, and provide therapy and support. Friends of the family are hosting at my family home in Bel Air.”
“Sounds wonderful,” he said. “I assume it’s black tie.”
“Yes,” I confirmed.
“Do you have a dress already?”
I blinked in confusion. It seemed such an odd question. “I… well… I’m torn between two,” I finally admitted. And it was true. I really was. As much as I liked the one that Lucy found for me, I didn’t know if I could show up at the party in a dress that didn’t come from Cabot’s. It was a big deal.
“I can make that choice a little easier for you. What’s your size?”
I nearly choked on my saliva. Was this an insidious way to figure out what kind of heavy lifting he’d have to do on the date? “Depends on the store,” I finally replied.
“What are your measurements, then?” he persisted. It immediately set off warning bells. All this time I had pretended that his desire for me was a given, simply because he was getting paid to bring my fantasy to life. It never occurred to me that he would actually have to pretend to be interested. That took a little wind out of my sails.
I cleared my throat, suddenly very self-conscious. “It’s, um, 46/34/44,” I finally managed, feeling, for the first time in my life, embarrassed to answer the question.
That he hesitated didn’t help matters at all. “So, size 14, then?”
I cleared my throat again. “Like I said, it depends on the store and the designer. Thanks to…,” I swallowed hard, “thanks to my bust size, it can fluctuate between a 14 and a 16, possibly an 18 if they even keep the size in stock.”
I hadn't meant for it to sound as bitter as it did. Fortunately Devlin didn't miss a beat. “Did you have a particular color scheme in mind? Did you want classic or modern?”
“Whatever makes me look beautiful,” I answered in a near squeak. I almost—almost—wanted to add, “If such a magic dress exists,” but I stopped myself. Why I felt I had to throw myself on the grenade of his rejection was a mystery to me, as if making fun of myself first would make it hurt less if he did it. I hadn’t pulled such a juvenile stunt since I was in high school, when I tried to be the quirky, funny sidekick to Lucy’s pretty Queen Bee.
And why was I trying to impress him anyway? He was the one who needed the job.
He chuckled then, which took me by surprise, as if he could read my thoughts. “All women are beautiful if you just know where to look.”
It was out of my mouth before I could stop it. “That has to make your job a little easier.”
“Indeed,” he replied. “I tell you what. Send me photos of yourself in the outfits you’ve already purchased.”
“Why?”
“Because I have a few ideas how to make you feel beautiful.”
I couldn’t help but notice he said ‘feel’ instead of ‘look.’ There was probably a very good reason for that. “You don’t even know what I look like,” I pointed out.
“Hence the photos,” he replied, humor lacing his tone.
“You know, I’m not even really convinced that I can go through with this,” I started. He was quick to cut me off.
“Of course you can. Now send me your photos, Coralie.”
As you can see, Coralie Cabot, or CC as she's called, is another Rubenesque heroine. It didn't start out that way. Though I tend to write plus-size heroines, that's not ALL I want to write about. Sure their conflicts hit me right where I live, and I feel a certain responsibility to make sure their voices are heard, but - like my men - I like to shake things up every now and then. This is true of whatever size they are, as well. Whereas Shannon, from LOVE PLUS ONE was insecure about her looks, Andy from GROUPIE didn't give a rat's ass, and she was 4 sizes bigger. I like to write about individuals, and more often than not they reveal themselves to me as I write, often changing the very things I planned with such care.
This was CC.
Initially I was going to make her thin because I didn't want to have size play into it. This was a book about sexual fulfillment and empowerment. I didn't want to write a book that could EVER be mistaken as some overweight sad sack was so desperate for a man that she needed to pay one in order to get laid. We get enough of that bullshit in our culture. I'll be damned I'm going to further propagate it.
The more I got to know her, though, the more I realized that the real issue wasn't that she was fat or thin. She was unfulfilled because she wasn't inherently valued. Her whole life she had been painted into a corner, stuffed into an ill-fitting box because that made other people more comfortable.
The best way to convey this WAS to make her heavier, because there's no place that message is so strongly reinforced as in the media.
The Cabot family runs one of the biggest department stores in the country, leaders in haute couture. Being overweight presents a whole slew of complications when it comes to fashion, most notably when it comes to sizing. There's been a lot of focus these past several years about making more inclusive to a plus-size clientele, by using plus-size models and making sexier, hip clothing to fit those who wore sizes other than small, medium and large.
This made me question why there's even a separation there into such ambiguously named groups at all. If the average size woman is a size 14/16, then why are those numbers pushed as a "plus-size"? If that's the average, isn't that the medium? Why treat being those sizes in particular as if it's an anomaly? If anything, there's size average, petite and large. But to segregate those groups out like that is stupid anyway because what one store sizes at small, medium, large or plus is not universal among all stores in the first place.
Worse, sizes aren't universal. What fits in one store might not fit in another, thanks to the differences in design and production. If you're "plus-size," this problem compounds exponentially.
Once I put CC in fashion, there was no going back from making her a larger woman. The bigger sociopolitical comment here is that it's STUPID to value women based on their size because there's no universal standard there, not really. It's a system rigged to make us all feel bad about ourselves. When you feel bad about yourself, you accept treatment you don't deserve because you've been conned into believing that you do. It's a way to diminish us and we give them permission to do it by agreeing. There's something wrong with me. It's my own fault I feel bad. If someone's a dick to me, then *I* need to change so everyone around me will play nice.
Nothing hurt me worse than seeing reviews come in for this book by those who further disparaged the character for her size. If I remember right, one questioned if I was a woman at all, or even did my research, to make her the size I did. Apparently to this particular reviewer this was HA-YOOOGE and unrealistic, particularly that 46"-size chest. (Which is around her boobs by the way, not just her ribcage. As a size-22/24, MY undercarriage is 44" around, so thanks, I guess, for that all too important reminder that I'm gigantic. I just can't hear that enough.)
It does, however, prove my point. As you can see above, CC's measurements were ample and unbalanced. I made her top-heavy for a reason, to show how sizing is a bullshit standard to judge women, because there IS NO STANDARD in how our many different bodies are shaped. This is why sizing guides change from store to store. Consider Salma Hayek, whose measurements are 39-24-36. According to this chart, her hips put her at a size 4, her waist a size 0 and her bust a size 10. At Lane Bryant, her bust would put her in a size 14. Her official size of record? A 4. Because sure... THAT makes sense.
This is the size dysmorphia we all indulge in every time we delegate a woman's value down to a collection of measurements. Really, if you don't count her boobs, which were made to be bigger on purpose, just to further prove we women don't come in cookie-cutter proportions, CC's still on the small end of plus. So please think twice before you berate a character for being HUGE just because of a scary number. If you do research, you'll find most size-14s, with all those scary measurements (particularly in the 40"-range) don't look all that different from everyone else, and certainly not the kind of HUGE that would make someone highlight it for a review as unrealistic.
For the record I see CC as more the model in the middle, Elly Mayday, whose measurements are 37.5-29-43.5. CC is a bit thicker around the middle and has an disproportionate bust, but you kind of see how it fills in to be a little thicker than most the women we see in the media, but not some kind of ginormous freak who wouldn't exist outside of a side show. Let's be a little more generous to our fellow women, so we don't inadvertently make them feel lesser than because they're different. Their life experience/perspective has value, too. The great thing about a book is we can try on someone else's skin and share that perspective. It should teach us all empathy, but sadly that is not often the case, particularly when it comes to how women are viewed in media.
Christina Hendricks, one of the few actresses allowed to be an unapologetic size-14, comes in at 42-30-39.
I personally don't think there's anything undesirable about her.
This is the story that CC informed me we'd tell. In real life terms, CC is fairly "normal" - if there is such a thing. A little heavier, sure; she definitely doesn't fit into many of the clothes her store sells. And it's because of that, father AND her boyfriend - the people who should love her most - expect her to change to fit in.
By the time the story opens, this isn't going so well... hence her need to find someone who can listen to her and meet her needs specifically. Because she's not some desperate sad sack, she decides to take control of it by using her wealth to order exactly what she wants... just like a cheesecake.
“How long have you been an escort?”
Another grin. “Long enough to know better than to answer that question. So you lived with your best friend. What was your social life like beyond that? Did you date?”
It was my turn to chuckle. “I maintained a 4.25 GPA. There was no time to date. Besides, Lucy was always better at that kind of thing than me.”
“And why’s that?”
I shrugged again. “I just had other priorities.” He let a beat pass, so I found myself expounding. “I guess I was kind of like the den mother. I wanted to keep the place clean. I wanted to maintain the bills. I was the one picking up empty bottles and dried vomit, while Lucy was the belle of the ball.”
“Were you bitter about that?”
“God, no,” I said at once. “Some of us are meant to be Queen. The others merely resign themselves to serve. I guess because I had been thrust into the nurturer-caregiver role as a teenager that it was just more natural to me to take care of things, maintain them… keep them running as smoothly as possible. That’s my comfort zone, I think.”
“Comfort zones are pretty restrictive,” he commented. “Didn’t you ever want to just break free and do your own thing, your way?”
I met his gaze directly. “Why do you think I called you?”
His smile broadened. “Good answer.”
Needless to say, I had no illusions going into this how much sex would play into this courtship. This is not an all-ages romance, not by a long shot. My biggest fan, Steven's grandmother, has begged and begged me for new books, but there's NO WAY I can introduce her to this series. This is about fulfillment, starting with her very basic need for intimacy. This is the kind of relationship created to start - and stay - in bed. But a weird thing happens when you get your needs met by someone whose sole focus is to make you feel like a queen...
You can't get enough, and pretty soon "just sex" isn't enough.
After their first date, she calls him again to accompany her in Vegas for a week while her best friend elopes. Devlin has a pretty good idea by this point what our fair CC wants to get out of the week. She wants a fairy tale so much she's willing to pay $25,000 for it. And Devlin is prepared to earn every single penny twice.
His mouth landed on mine for a deep, urgent kiss, as if he didn’t give one damn if anyone else saw. I felt his body respond, and my knees wobbled as I swooned against him.
When the elevator bell dinged, I practically threw him inside. It had been a great night, but it was definitely time to get our special party started.
Devlin must have felt the same way, because we were alone in the car, he pushed me up against the wall, his hand between my legs in an instant. “Devlin!” I protested with an embarrassed giggle as I looked around for security cameras.
“Anytime, anywhere,” he reminded. He then proceeded to make me come hard by floors 3, 15 and 27. I could barely walk by the time the doors finally opened and we walked the remaining distance to our private room. I gazed up at him with dazed eyes as he fit the key in the lock. It made me feel far drunker than I had felt all night despite the river of alcohol I’d consumed. Indeed, it might have been the champagne catching up to me. But it was probably the multiple orgasms. Either way, the night was off to a promising start.
After he opened the door, he turned to me with that heart-stopping look in his eyes. He pulled me to him, taking my breath away before he planted yet another scorching kiss on my mouth. “Are you ready, Coralie?” he murmured against my lips, tugging and toying with them between his teeth.
“For what?” I asked breathlessly, though the question was moot. I would have done just about anything at that point. I needed him so bad it hurt to breathe.
“The best fucking week of your life,” he answered before he swept me into his arms kicked the door shut behind us.
So... yeah. There's a lot of sex in this book. Of all the books I've written, this series most qualifies me for erotic romance. The sex scenes are shameless, getting more graphic than I normally describe in my books. There is language. There are sex scenes that push the boundaries of acceptability. In fact, the way I approach sex at all in this book is unconventional, particularly the idea of fidelity. If you're the kind of person who considers it "cheating" if, after the couple meets, there is sex with other people, I wouldn't think a book about professional escorts and sex for hire probably would be your cup of tea anyway.. If it is, I'll be frank. There weren't a whole lot of boundaries I wasn't willing to push with this one, particularly the cheating stuff, and the sometimes gray areas how sex with others is defined. I made Devlin a Scorpio, because that's sort of the Holy Grail of Zodiac lovers. Though I've never actually been with one myself, I AM one, so I used that mindset accordingly.
We stayed downtown most of the evening, eating $0.99 shrimp cocktails, listening to live music and trying our luck in several of the casinos, including one that still accepted and dispensed coins. Lucy was beside herself.
Now that the stress of the wedding belonged solely to someone else, she was able to let loose and have some fun. She wanted to sample a little bit of everything along Fremont Street. I hopped off her bandwagon when she decided to order a shot of alcohol with an actual scorpion in it.
“Seriously, Lucy? Do you really want to risk your life this close to your perfect day by ingesting a poisonous bug?” I asked, making a face.
Devlin chuckled. “Scorpions aren’t poisonous, they’re venomous. They have to sting you to do real damage, and these bad boys aren’t stinging anyone anymore,” he said as he motioned for two shots.
I shuddered anyway. “Yeah, no thanks.”
“No stomach to try a delicacy?” he teased.
“Not even a little bit,” I assured him. Yet strangely, knowing he was willing to do so only made him more exciting to me.
Clearly I had gone over to the dark side.
“And how do you know so much about scorpions, mister?” Lucy asked him.
He shrugged. “Let’s just say the subject has always fascinated me. People are so scared of them, but really, they’re mostly misunderstood. Plus, I’m a Scorpio,” he added, which suddenly explained why he had a sexy tribal scorpion tattoo trailing across his lower abdomen, heading towards exciting places south of his waistband.
Lucy, who had already gone through her astrology phase, chuckled. “That explains so much. It also gives me an idea.”
“Should I be scared?” he asked her as the bartender placed two scorpion shots in front of them.
“Always,” she grinned. They toasted with their drinks. I had to give Lucy credit. She didn’t even hesitate as she threw back that shot, swallowing the scorpion whole with nothing more than a cough or two to choke it down.
Devlin, on the other hand, drained the shot but kept the scorpion between his teeth, laying it out on his impressive tongue before he chewed it like it was a mouthful of caviar. Our gaze never wavered and that smirk never faltered. He kept me close to him though I squirmed and shook my head when he reached for a kiss.
“Eww, no!” I giggled as I turned away.
“Come on,” he encouraged with that damnable smirk. “A dangerous kiss for a dangerous girl.”
“You’re dangerous,” I corrected.
Those eyes entrapped me once more. “And that’s what you love most about me.”
Here's the thing about Scorpios. They're as aggravating as they are compelling. Devlin has a code he absolutely tries to live by. It just doesn't look like anyone else's the more we peel the layers back.
In fact, there's much about this man that is an enigma, where he continually surprises CC with more than she could have ever imagined when she ordered a hot guy/masterful lover off the Internet.
Lucy plopped herself down in front of the baby grand in her magnificent suite, and proceeded to pound out the most off-key rendition of chopsticks I had ever heard. It made all of us groan, but she didn’t care. Finally Devlin edged me off of his lap.
“I’m sorry, Lucy. I can’t let you do that to that beautiful instrument.” He waved her away before he took his place on the bench.
“You know how to play?” she asked with an arched eyebrow.
“I’ve tickled a few ivories,” he assured as he sent me a naughty little wink. He then cracked his knuckles, tossed back his hair placed his hands over the keys.
I don’t know what any of us were expecting him to play, but I am fairly certain none of us expected him to launch into a classical piece, Pachelbel’s Canon in D. The more surprising part was how well he played it. He started slow, to create the atmosphere, allowing the music to lift us all on this swell of emotion he created with each note. This was more than a rehearsed piece of music. This was a song from his soul. And it was simply beautiful.
Lucy, Gus and I stared between ourselves in stunned disbelief. Of all the things I expected to learn this week, finding out Devlin Masters was some kind of piano virtuoso was nowhere on the list. It shamed me instantly. I had begun to see him as one-dimensional because that was the nature of his business—but that was not the whole of the man. Not by a long shot.
I studied him as he played, as if watching someone else entirely. He held the proper posture, his back strong and straight, striking a commanding silhouette in front of the grand piano. His dark hair tickled his neck near the collar of his shirt as he subtly tossed his head in an unconscious response to the music. Those incredible eyes closed, losing himself in the piece as his strong fingers confidently struck every key. It was clear with the emotional depth he demonstrated in this impromptu performance that he was more deeply faceted than I had previously thought.
I had to wonder what other things he had to show me.
We were speechless when he was done. It took a full second or two for us to applaud, after which he said, “I really should get around to taking lessons someday.”
With Devlin, you never know what to expect next. I expected him to be down and dirty between the sheets, but I swooned just as hard as she did when I found out he could play the piano.
“So what other songs do you play?”
Another shrug. “This, that and the other. Everything really.” He started to slowly play a popular Beatles tune that was fitting for the occasion. When he began singing “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds,” Gus and I joined Lucy at the piano so we could all sing along. It was a rousing little number that made Lucy clap her hands with joy. “Now you have to sing one for CC!” she announced before she plopped me down on the bench beside him.
He studied me for a moment, pursing his lips as he contemplated what song to sing. Finally his fingers landed lightly on the keys. I recognized the Bruno Mars song immediately as this gorgeous guy proceeded to sing to me how amazing and perfect I was, just the way I was. That he sang it well only ensured I’d never forget being serenaded like this for the rest of my life. I knew that he probably learned that song as a tool of his trade, to make all the ladies weak in the knees when he sang, so they’d feel even more wanted and desired.
That he sang about my eyes and not my boobs was a nice touch. “Always choose the one who notices your eyes,” Lucy had told me, which was good advice for a regular date, but didn’t really apply to a paid one.
It was still nice to hear, though, especially when he sang it right to me. When he punctuated the song with a slow, tantalizing kiss, I almost believed him.
I can't even HEAR that song anymore with crying because of the love story Devlin Masters delivered right to my door. That my husband dedicated it to me a little bit after I wrote it, not knowing the connection because I hadn't told him yet, only makes it that much better.
Some things are just meant to be.
And that is Devlin and CC, even though it's not your typical boy-meets-girl romance. He came into her life to show her something very special about herself. I know a little bit about how the world around you treats you like you don't count, because you're not what they think you should be. I know a bit about working twice as hard to be amazing in every other way, to make up for these "alleged" flaws. And I know a little bit about how it feels to finally have someone tell you, "Hey, I see you. And you're amazing." I know how hard it is to believe them, because you've been conned into thinking that there's something wrong with you and nobody would ever love that part of you that you've been conditioned to hate or find inferior.
By the second time I use that song in the book, I totally believed he meant every single word - so much so I had to stop writing so I could SOB like a NEWBORN BABE.
This is the romance that awaits you with Devlin Masters. In book one, MASTERS FOR HIRE, you get the full fantasy. The saga itself takes some interesting twists and turns, which we'll get to in our next blog, but when it comes to Book 1, it was all about the romance and the wish fulfillment for happily ever after against the odds.
We'll deal with Real Life when our couple gets back to Los Angeles, and a friend of his - who knows Devlin much better than CC does - comes along to jack everything up, including any idea of a HEA between our two blissful lovers.
For now, though... we'll swoon hard and long over Devlin, the truest manwhore I've ever written, since he actually got paid to sleep with a bunch of women.
But somehow... I forgave him.
For just ninety-nine pennies, you can find out if you will too. MASTERS FOR HIRE is on sale RIGHT NOW for a limited time online. The $0.99 price is live at Amazon and iTunes, and coming soon to B&N.
While I didn't have a casting choice for Devlin, I did have a prototype, thanks to one of my idols, Glenn Frey. In the mid-80s, he released an album called The All-Nighter. The title song is about a lover who knows exactly what women need and want, and to find this man would be a heady addiction. It may have taken me nearly 30 years to write him, but suffice it to say, Devlin has been percolating for a VERY long time.
(I plan to write a blog devoted to Glenn, and how devastated I was over his passing, but I'm still piecing my heart together over that one. All I can say is the Grammys better do him right. If they don't, by God I will.)
No comments:
Post a Comment