When we own the world. When we’re squashed. Between meetings in the bathroom stalls at work just because Chatty Kathy IM’d she overheard we’re getting a promotion. Under our desks after the hunky FedEx S.O.B. brushed our forefinger with his while scribbling on his sig pad. In the steam room at 24-Hour Fitness just because everyone else is. In the steam room at 24-Hour Fitness just because nobody else is. We give ourselves hand hummers because we’re randy, or just because we stood next to somebody in the elevator who was. Just because we’re bored. Just because we can. Every day. Sometimes twice a day. Sometimes thrice. I’m thinking of yanking it just because I’m writing about it.
If you know a guy who says he doesn’t wank it every day, then trust me – you know a guy who lies. But there is one time we won’t choke that chicken:
When we’re in love.
When we’re head-over-heinie whipped, and we know we’re getting some that night, our noggins’ automatically start chalking on our blackboards the time we’re scheduled that night to get laid minus the hour we last spilled our spunk to determine the volume we’ll be able to shoot that night. The last thing we want – and I mean the very last thing – is to go through the gauntlet of talky-talk-talk, paying for dinner, stealing past the guards at the door and into your bedroom, fumbling through foreplay, the face-sucking, the face-fucking, the sweating, the gasping, and then – bloop – just deliver a single, itty-bitty, droplet.
When we’re really in love, we want to cum buckets. No cute little pooling in the belly button. We want to scream “God…hell…yes…I’m gonna…I’m gonna…” and then stripe the bed white and spackle the wallboard. We want to condition your hair. And that’s more than just proof of virility. Hosing you with spunk is our offering of love, want it or not. It’s the prophet’s severed head on a platter for you, sweet Salome, just because we love you.
Yes, we’ll kiss. Yes, we’ll listen to your day. Yes, we’ll buy you ruby red roses. Yes, we’ll sing country ballads softly in your ear. Yes, we’ll offer you our thumping hearts, raw as skinned kittens. But, trumping all that, we know in the final act only our balls can offer the greatest proof of our love: volume.
So we’ve got to store up.
When cupid’s cocaine is coursing through our veins, we will not grease the pole all day for you, and you better fucking appreciate it. Sometimes after I’ve had a badass workout, my testosterone level is so fucking nucleated I can’t see straight. Every cell in my being wants – correction – NEEDS to let that scrotum phlegm fly. I’m not being hyperbolic; it’s life or death. I’ll leave the gym and my heart’s pounding, my forehead’s throbbing, my mouth’s dry, and my dick’s on the verge of an explosion like the China Syndrome. My body is literally vibrating, and every last person on the street starts looking like a fillable vessel. I’m physiologically unable to give a rat’s ass about “Honey, what do ya want for din din?” And sitting down to write a guest blog? You kidding me? I’m lucky if I can coordinate my fingers enough to turn a doorknob. And so…if I’m in that primal stored up state, and I elect NOT to grease the goose…mother-fucking-Christ-on-a-stick you better believe I must love you, beeyatch!
The absence of this critical act of LUV in Romance Lit riddles me. Romance writers chronicle just about every crack in the path en route to love everlasting, but this particular piquant hurdle is never acknowledged. When romance novels and shorts finalize with that heaven-and-earth-moving atom bomb of cum, suddenly a white torrent unleashes. From out of nowhere Mr. Hunkin Donuts unloads like he axed a hole in giant water tank full of Half & Half. But, weirdly, the major and mandatory hardships leading up to that gush are hop-skipped over: the damming of the waters, the stockpiling in the bunkers, the hibernation of the big hairy beast. This is major shit that romance shrugs its shoulders at. Why? (I’m utterly aware of how ignant a statement this is – as if I’ve actually read the entire cannon of romantic lit. E-whack me if a book has tackled this subject. But since this entire article is masturbatory in content and motive, let me continue with my premise because stroking this rant is feeling kind o’ nice.)
Male writers have no excuse not to counter this negligence in Romance Lit, because we’ve lived it. We’ve been masturbating since we were ten. Or like me, since we were eight when we were sticking our wee lil’ thimbles into the air bubble pipes in hot tubs. But the moment we started licking our lips for that opportunistic quarterback and knew that we’d be hooking up under the bleachers after school for some tea and crumpets was the moment we became aware of what we’d have to NOT do in order to impress that hunky SOB. For female writers…I dunno. Ladies do not like to wax poetic about finger fiddling themselves – in novels, blogs, or conversation. Certainly not in book reviews: “This novel deserves a five-star rating because the mounting sexual tension on page 87 caused my finger to give my labia some lovin’.” So, I’ve no idea if female writers restrain from tickling their fancy on the morning of date night, and I don’t think it’s my fault I’ve no idea. Do they? Do you? And if so, why exactly? Let me know!
This isn’t just a gay thing. My straight buddy told me a couple nights ago that he would definitely choose shooting two 50% full loads and get laid twice over delivering one 100% load and getting laid once. In a heartbeat. Two fucks trump one fuck, no matter how much juice is jotted. Except, he conceded, when he’s crushing on her. (That’s “in love” in straight guy speak.) If he’s gaga over her, he’ll bank his pennies. You can bet Miss Nora Roberts never touched on THAT definition of love: “I love you so much that I’m gonna fuck only once today! Tonight, Stella, I’m givin’ you ALL my dick-spit!” And the violins soar. My straight buddy confirmed that if he wants her badly, you bet he won’t whack his wand, and I can personally vouch that he won’t let anyone else whack his wand either.
Men won’t touch their twinkies for the one thing that Romance is all about. So – to all you conjurers of love – why not write about it? Why not write about the most challenging, irritating, frustrating, physiological, spiritual, and mental struggle for any main male character in love to endure?
Now for a juicy subject I’ve been dying to segue into.
There is another kind of love men will not beat their bacon for…
One of my closest friends, a very successful writer, won’t juice his juicer when he’s in the heat of writing. It’s a precious notion that interviewers have NEVER asked him. Yet, I suspect, holding back is a significant component of his success, because he’s a highly – highly – sexual kind of dude otherwise. Charlie Rose and Terry Gross never asked him: “Soooo…tell me…did you box the bald champ when you wrote ______?” The energy it takes to restrain from self-gratification is so gigantanormous, it cannot be ignored like closing the window on the pigeons cooing on your air-conditioner. It’s too strident a need. But the energy can be channeled elsewhere. It can be redirected to the luxuriating of words. For my experience penning The Next, by the time I typed “The End” I was backed up like the Three Gorges Dam in late spring. I’ve no doubt there are male writers who are the exceptions – whom I’m sure will send me photos as proof (!) – but for many if not most, when the jism falls to the floor, so does the creative drive. A sad puddle of lost genius at your feet. A spooge of inspiration sponged away. What you ladies may or may not know when you read our books is that the white stuff between the black letters is the excruciating substitution for all the white stuff we’re retaining in our sacks.
It hurts. It hurts.
Another time men will not spank it is when we sink to a very, very low level of depression. The barometer of spunk output is so definitive that when the indicator plummets to zero, all alarms should go off. Something is very wrong. The moment we no longer desire to straddle the paddle is the moment friends, family or fate need to intervene. We need help. We’ve hit rock bottom. If we don’t have an epiphany and start pump-thumping our way to the light again, we’re just waiting to die. And, to plug my book, this crashing to rock bottom is Chapter One of “The Next.”
“I could order a mushroom and black olive pizza. I could open the curtains and watch the neighbors. I could get a broom and bang the ceiling to tell the tweaking twinkie twat in the apartment above me once again to stop playing his fucking thump thump…thump music at two a.m. I could masturbate. It’s all the same to me.
It’s all too much to tackle.
It’s all too little to tackle.”
~ from The Next
All comments, likes, why-the-hell-are-you-ranting-about-this, and let-me-educate your-ignorant-ass are welcome.
THE NEXT BLURB:
Dubbed “the gay Rear Window,” The Next is a raw, snarky, no-holds-barred romantic suspense novel of a man stuck in his Manhattan apartment who thinks he’s identified a gruesome crime across the courtyard. It’s less a whodunit and more of a suspenseful how’s-he-gonna-get-‘em plot, slathered with a large, creamy dollop of romance. Unlike Rear Window, the protagonist in The Next isn’t bound to his apartment by a broken leg in a cast, but rather by a self-induced, torturous psychological handcuffing, and the novel, of course, chronicles his journey to this freedom as much as the capturing of the bogey. The second biggest difference is that The Next doesn’t shy away from the eroticism. At all. Hawt men abound. 😉
Title: The Next
Release date: April 23, 2014
Kindle – Amazon Buy Link: The Next
Nook – Barnes and Noble Buy Link: The Next
All Formats – Wilde City Press: The Next
Rafe Haze was raised in the San Francisco Bay Area and lives on the west side of New York City. Having worked for the legal compliance industry, fashion industry, music industry, art industry, and flesh industry (the most interesting people on earth have), his most life-changing employment was teaching Meisner Technique of Acting. He wrote himself out of one whopping funk with his debut novel The Next, and is ecstatically thankful for the entire, messy, beautiful cadence.
Rafe refuses to be handcuffed to one discipline only: he writes classical music for orchestra and small ensemble, country music songs, musical theater, plays, screenplays, and digs two-stepping, line dancing, and West Coast Swinging.
Be it words, notes, or movement, the emotional origin, schlep, and endpoints are equally compelling and satisfying.