Erotic fiction is a bit like Marmite. Either loved or scoffed at, the world has an opinion and more often than not it’s derisory. But I think that many are missing the point.

Thank goodness for Bridgerton and the proof that we love a bit of raunch! And didn’t watching it make us crave for a bit of the action ourselves?

But how?

As a woman sometimes sex is the last thing we think we want.  After a day exhausted from the demands of family, or battling public transport after a tough day at work. Having to get naked and intimate with a loved one can be low on the wish list.  Many of us have been there. On top of that, as we get older, gone are the old seduction mechanisms; hot dates, meals out, meaningful eye contact over a glass of wine. Where focus is solely on each other and not hampered by a demanding child, bone deep exhaustion or even the boredom of same company day in day out, thanks to Covid.

Reading erotic love stories (aka Cliterature) is a good way to switch off from the daily demands  and just feel. For our bodies to react physically from the words of a book alone. There are many worries in life to be bogged down with, so many issues in the world that have the power to sadden, frighted, worry or infuriate us.  Withdrawing from all of that for a few minutes in the day or week, to enjoy a delicious escapism, indulging in an adult ideal. One which, however unbelievable, has the power to transports us and make our bodies react viscerally has got to be a benefit to our mental health too.

It shouldn’t be shameful to broaden our reading habits beyond what looks impressive on the train or at a book club.  The thought of racing through some pacey prose is easy to ‘sniff at’ for the more discerning reader, however repeat the formula of the book, toe curling or cheesy the idea may be. If the writing has the power to make you swoon a little, your cheeks flush and heart race then it is also an excellent way to trigger neurotransmitters, namely nerves, hormones and other chemicals the brain broadcasts, to start the cascade of reactions which lead to arousal.

Arousal leads to sex…

A conundrum that is as old as the human race, in the context of a heterosexual relationship, men need sex to experience intimacy but women need intimacy to have sex.

Sex is good for us, we get told this by doctors and health advisers.

But how?

Here’s the theory bit…Science tells us sex gives us a massive endorphins release (more than exercise or the gym). Which in turn, by activating natural ‘killer cells’ (cells which kill defective cells including cancer), boosts the immune system like nothing else. Endorphins, according to neuroscientists, serve as the body’s natural reward system. They reverse the body’s ageing processes by keeping brain cells young and healthy. Helping us to think creatively, have more endurance and maintain a harmonious relationship with those around us.  They are great for skin tone because skin cells have endorphin receptors which are beneficial and can make you look younger. Whilst endorphins are known for their ability to reduce physical pain, sometimes as effective as a dose of morphine, they play a key role in preventing anxiety and depression too.

Sounds easy, most men just need a women to turn them on, but sometimes women need a bit more. The path to a perfect later sex life is fantasy, it is the answer to so many things.  For us, being in the mood has a lot to do with whether we feel like having sex. Unlike men who just thinking about sex can lead to erection, arousal for women requires more factors in play. Feeling ‘horny’ is much more of a mind-body reaction and sometimes needs more than just a passing thought or brush of a hand.  If we feel unloved or unappreciated or have been fighting with our partner even more so.

So how do we bridge that gap which widens with each passing year? 

So much goes on in a woman’s head. Our brains being our most important sexual organ. We are a thoughtful gender. Kickstarting sexual desire with a little help from a perfect, fictional alpha-male has got to be a good thing.  Women don’t need to tell their partner everything that is going on in their head, we need to keep some things to ourselves.  “Women have secrets.” I remember my Grandmother saying, has stuck with me and now I understand her wise words.

Getting immersed in fictional foreplay, the thrill of a chase, hate to love, expert hands knowing just the right sweet spots from a twinkly-eyed devil.  Women need the fantasy of a perfect specimen.  For our minds to be seduced by imagining the contoured torso, sculpted forearms, and a dimpled induced megawatt smile, to name a few, could be the best way to get our thighs clenching and our thoughts on track for a steamy night between the sheets. If sex is as good for our health as research indicates, then powering up your kindle or turning a page is a great first step in helping our bodies to follow suit.  It doesn’t have be to be all about sex though.  We may just want to feel romantic, it will be a while to wait for the next Bridgerton so in the meantime escaping with a good dose of cliterature could be the next best thing.

Emma Perle

Author

Much Ado About Benedict

https://pegasuspublishers.com/books/all/much-ado-about-benedict

Coffee

My hands reach round and clasp both sides of my cup.  I am not cold but there is something about the restorative heat which transmits deeper than skin.  A feeling of well-being filters through my body as the first sip of my americano sooths its way down.  I exhale a comforting sigh and take a look at the transient world around me.

The atmosphere is productive. Coffee machines hiss and their steam rises, the bustle of baristas adds to the hive of activity.  Customers line up in the queue or sit at tables in differing numbers of one or two or more.  An archipelago of different people’s lives, excerpts of their day coming together under one roof.

I see a young woman sat on her own, casually dressed with a laptop, she’s possibly a student.   A mother sits on another table, with one small child next to her on one side and a toddler strapped in a highchair on the other.  Both children are halfway through eating shaped gingerbread, fingers and faces sticky but their pleasure is affording their mother a moment of quiet. There are two men in suits, like myself, hunched over expressos and in deep discussion. In another corner, two elderly women with frothy cappuccinos and cake, talk at each other with mouths full. Closer to me an older man sits on his own, walking stick leant against his thigh and broadsheet open.

I sigh contentedly enjoying my moment of peace but simultaneously experiencing a sense of detachment. Casting my eyes around it occurs to me, I’m being a voyeur of other people’s lives. 

My job, in this foreign city, at times makes me feel lonely for simply being the outsider. I have to remind myself  that millions of people are sitting, drinking coffee at this hour and the thought reignites my feeling of being connected, just by the simple act; the one thing I have in common with the world.

It is my daily ritual, a place to feel anchored when so much of my life feels unfamiliar and sometimes solitary. The lustre of being seconded abroad is fading after my initial honeymoon period of new work colleagues, being the novelty on the night out or, ‘Oh you must meet…he’s new in town.’

I miss my friends, their easy banter or comfortable silence, those closest who know my history, know me and not the façade I show to my new world.

It’s getting busy in here. Tables fill up, people brush pass the back of me, another chair’s leg tangles momentarily with mine. I think about leaving soon, I’m near the end of my drink but I am not ready quite yet. The sky outside has darkened and a soft autumnal drizzle has started to fall. I berate myself for forgetting to take an umbrella earlier.

The student with the laptop, whose cup must be long ago empty, looks up and nods as a couple of women ask if the spare two chairs at her table are free. A table to myself is a luxury on a time limit.

A whoosh of air as the door to outside opens again and a young woman walks in.  She hovers momentarily and casts her eyes around the room before taking off her hat and putting it under her arm.  Long dark curls drop around her shoulders which she runs a hand through before looking towards the coffee queue. She is stunning and the energy she creates from her confident entrance has people looking up from their cups.  Aware of eyes on her, she becomes self-conscious and I see her cheeks blush a little. 

I realise I am staring and look hurriedly down at my phone.  Swiping up the screen while I wait for my page to load I take a swig of the last of my coffee.  It has started to become a little tepid and I wince at the disappointing temperature. Immersing myself in social media, I flick through the lives of my friends back at home and what they have been busy with.

‘Is this seat taken?’ A female voice with a southern accent asks, and I look up.

It’s her.

For a moment my eyes fix on her hazel ones and for some reason my stomach flips. She has a smattering of freckles over her nose and her lips are smiling in friendly inquisition. There is a pregnant pause as she is waiting for an answer.  I inwardly berate myself for being affected by her allure and momentarily mute.

‘Sorry yes of course,’ I reply hastily. ‘I mean it’s not taken.  Err…you are welcome to sit here is what I mean.’ I’m a little flustered.

She smiles again. ‘Thanks,’ she says before putting down her cup and unfastening her coat.  I notice a uniform before looking away.

I focus back to my cup, phone, trying to look occupied but becoming hyper aware of her every movement, it’s difficult not to in our close proximity.  She lifts her coffee to take a sip. I hear the barely audible sound of her soft slurp and then a satisfied sigh.  A brief glance tells me the uniform is medical but I don’t allow myself any more detail, as I don’t want to appear inappropriately interested.

I look at my watch, I need to leave soon as I have a meeting in twenty minutes and it will take me a few to walk back to my office and prepare.  But I don’t want to leave, there is something about her which compels me to stay. It may be a mad impulse and I am blinded by her beauty or is fate playing a part?

She looks around the room and back to the table.  I know her eyes are on me, I can feel them. I down the dregs of my coffee and as my cup lowers our gaze locks.

‘You’re accent is not local is it?’ she asks me.

Emma Perle