Guest Post with author Sylvia Ryan-Friday Afternoon

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What’s the difference?

I’m a published author of…hmm erotica? Romance? I’m not sure. The lines have blurred and it’s confusing even to me. My initial foray into this murky grey area was as a reader. a Lora Leigh book I’d checked out of my local library almost a decade ago. I have to admit, the first time I ran across the “crude” words for anatomy and the detailed use of toys, I was both shocked…and hooked.

No, this was not the typical romance novel a la Danielle Steel of my mother’s generation. I couldn’t put it down, and I’ve never wanted to go back to the purple prose and the suggestion of hot sex instead of the blow by blow of the encounter. As long as there’s a good plot and character development, which isn’t hard to find anymore, I’ll choose erotica every time. To me, it’s more realistic and raw.

So here’s the rub. These days, many of the so called mainstream, big name published ‘romance’ authors are just as erotic as many who’ve been labeled strictly as erotic authors. So, I have to ask. Is there really that much difference anymore? And where is the line between mainstream romance and erotica? Because I’m having trouble finding it.

I’d love to hear your opinions on the topic.

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fridayafternoonBlurb:

Before kids and the responsibility of life, Levi and I shared a spontaneous, erotic, and deliciously deviant marriage. Years transformed what we had into something comfortable and worn. It hurts me to think his desire for me has cooled. I miss that look of his. Slightly evil and totally hot, like he wanted to devour me. Haven’t seen it in ages.

When I first married Mia, she submitted to every one of my erotic needs. Then came the children. With little complaint, I abandoned my pursuit of kink, content to be married to a beautiful, intelligent woman who’s a great mother to our twins. Out of the blue, Mia confesses she misses the intimacy in our marriage, misses the sex. After this enticing revelation, my plan to reconnect with her unfolds.

In our secret, kinky, Friday afternoon meetings I’m going to give her everything she wants and take everything I need. Will this be the answer to fixing our marriage?

CONTENT WARNING: This book contains explicit sex, graphic language, and strong elements of BDSM including the use of toys, bondage, and pain(less)

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0164c-6excerpt

I slip out of bed quietly and enter the large walk-through closet and dressing anteroom to the master bathroom space, locking the door behind me. An anguished huff of air rushes out as I sit on the tiny stool in front of my vanity and twirl a half circle, facing myself in the mirror.

The overhead lighting is stark and unforgiving. I’m not the young woman I was a year, or five, ago. I’ve tried as hard as I can to forget I’m closer to forty than I am to thirty.

When I linger long enough to take inventory of myself, like now, I discern more of the slight lines making their home on my skin. I never notice them when I float through mornings, functioning on nothing but my first sips of caffeine. But now, at this moment, I see them as clear as day. I’m older, not sexy anymore, I suppose.

I swallow down the hurt. Levi used to look at me with hungry eyes, even when I was pregnant with twins and fat as a cow. Now the sight of me naked, whether it be coming out of the shower or spreading my legs beneath him, no longer draws interest from his cock. Tonight brought any speculation, any hope he’s still attracted to me, to an end.

I’m angry first and then sad as I realize I’ll never experience the twirl of excitement and shiver of anticipation from the expression of hunger on my husband’s face. That hasn’t happened for quite a while, and now I know for sure nobody will look at me with similar hunger again. I’m stunned, aware those intense desires go hand in hand with youth, new possibilities and new passions, and I’m faced with a blatant fact. That part of my relationship with Levi is long past.

Yet to my mind, there’s a lot of middle ground between being hungry with young love and being so indifferent you don’t get off anymore. It’s taken us exactly fifteen years to span from one end of the you-turn-me-on spectrum to the other. During the last decade, the progression of our sex life from brilliant to bland has been so infinitesimally small, it went mostly unnoticed until now.

I’m shaken. The sudden realization I’m not sexually exciting to my husband anymore and probably never will be again knocks me off my rails. I feel ill and wrap my arms around my waist and duck my head between my knees. I breathe deep and swallow repeatedly trying to allay the bile creeping up my esophagus. The repeated gulps also push the hurt away, staying the tears, leaving me whole enough to wonder how–when–this happened.

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1 Comment

  1. Thank you Sylvia for stopping by today. Friday afternoon sounds really good.

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    Reply

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