Tessa's Temptations

After all, we fantasize about them, idolize them and “follow” them. (I’m only referring to internet stalking, of course). We would still have posters of them shellacking our bedroom walls if dignity didn’t demand otherwise. I mean, what would the house guests say? Screw dignity and the houseguests.  Some of us, (at present), have slipped a glossy picture here or pinned a torn-magazine photo there. Our favorite fantasy guy may be a model, movie star, rock star or sports star. My 50 plus friend has a life-size cardboard cutout of ultimate bad boy Jax Teller from Sons of Anarchy . He started out in the bedroom, where he belongs. Sadly, her husband made her put him in the garage. These pinups keep our blood hot in our veins and make us remember how fun it was to be a silly girl. I for one have my fridge plastered with portraits of Spanish tennis megastar and real-life gladiator, Rafael Nadal. Did I mention he’s wearing only his undies in these shots? His chiseled, sunbaked f...

It is a curious phenomenon that a sometimes jaded woman (yours truly), who relishes the grittiest HBO crime shows, would shed a tear each and every time she watches Disney’s Cinderella, Snow White or Sleeping Beauty. I appreciate any live-action spin-off, no matter how cheesy, but something about those animated images get me. Every time. Now how can that be? I am a slick modern being, well-versed in the new tech world of CGI and flashy effects. Still, those iconic frames I remember from my childhood resonate—especially the kiss in Sleeping Beauty. Prince Phillip was always my favorite Disney crush. He had a badass black horse and a red cape. He took charge. The prince in Cinderella had some good moves but he was too much of a pretty boy. Those epaulettes gave me the creeps. Leave Sargent Pepper to Sargent Pepper. I digress. I am supposed to be addressing the ambiguity of my psyche. There is no great mystery here. Why is it that I can watch violence on TV while maintaining my...

It seems only fitting that in honor of Mother’s Day I tease my own mother without mercy. Here goes. I find it quite hilarious that my 74-year-old mom has “first crack” at my manuscripts. I call them “manuscripts” and they are, but come on, seriously, they are steamy romance novels and sometimes that steam turns into straight up smut. The idea of the most dignified lady I know burning her tender eyes out on phrases like “throbbing need” and “pulsating male hunger” not to mention “dampening cleft” or “slippery bud of desire” sends me straight into a fit of spasmodic giggles. Especially when she uses her schoolmarm Eraser Mate pen on said salacious phrases. My mother is a lady from another time. She was born in 1812. I’ve never even seen her legs. She is prim and strict, always buttoned up. She is continually scandalized by my brashness, my rude and raucous humor, my bright red lipstick (I could go on and on) and wonders how she ever sprouted such a rotten seed. When she edits my ...

My best friend James, who happens to be a straight male, called me yesterday and said “I bought you a vibrator.” I supplied him with a very long pause and then responded, “You mean like a special massager for my wrists?” (I’m still battling the RSS). “No, it’s a vibrator,” James continued very seriously. “Like a lady’s vibrator for your lady’s parts.” WTF? Yes, my straight male friend bought me a masturbating device for my lady’s parts. No, people, this isn’t the start of my new romantic comedy. This is my life. James went on to explain that he’d just had an appointment with a specialist for his own RSS and she prescribed the use of a vibrator to massage the stressed tendons in his hands and wrists. Yes, a vibrator—a small one, the type that could be carried in a purse, the very same kind that could be used to stimulate one’s clitoris. Or I suppose one’s achy wrists. Huh? The idea of my dear friend James purchasing this device from the drugstore was enough to sen...

Does anyone else have Repetitive Stress Syndrome from too much finger-to-electronic-device action? No, I am not referring to masturbation here. Although I’d put good money on that one. Somewhere in the world there exists a cramped up self-pleasurer who is forced to wear a supportive brace that is a hideous shade of beige and has Velcro tabs that pick up lint balls, crumbs and other gross miscellaneous items. I’m talking about RSS from too much typing on computers (mostly) but also too much texting and general tech-fidgeting. I’ve got it bad. It’s painful and totally sucks. I am a romance novelist. My collection of smut totals 430,000 words and change. Each one of those words was carefully crafted, sculpted and molded by my ten digits. And now I’m the idiot who has to wear the lame braces. At least mine are navy blue. Dare I even call the shade “French Marine”? They may be “Indian Indigo” or “Andalusian Azure”, but let me tell you, I am not thrilled to be adding them to my nightl...