I miss men. I miss the rich baritone of their voices, the sturdy brace of their chest and shoulders, the subtle salt of their skin. Men with their sardonic grins and cocked eyebrows, men with their wide smiles and bristled cheeks, their amused expressions. Their innocence in need they can’t quite acknowledge and yet it is there, written on their faces like the eager gleam in a boy’s eyes as he surveys a display of candy.
I miss the strength of men, their physical power to lift heavy slabs of firewood or slam a splitting maul into a length of oak. Men have an energy that warms me as they stride across the ground, as they wrestle an unruly tire onto the axle. Men can do things with their bodies that I cannot, and the difference thrills me.
I miss the force of their sexuality, their straightforward desire to sink into the wet depths of a woman’s body, their unbridled pleasure in fucking. I miss the heat of their soft skin, the roughness of their hands, the smoothness of muscle bunched at their shoulders and across their chests.
At my age and state of mind, I don’t expect ever again to luxuriate in a man’s bed. I am bereft of the joy of lovemaking, grief-stricken that the wondrous beauty of his private anatomy will no longer be mine to admire or touch or lick. I miss the lovely sight of male buttocks, tight and round, flexing as he walks.
I miss those extended moments of mindless bliss that only a man can give me.
Men in general exert a calming influence on me, steady and solid, a familiar and reliable part of my life. Only lately have I noticed how many of those men are no longer here for me – two husbands, the plumber and electrician I counted on for years, the repairman. Even in cultivating working relationships with a new electrician, a new repairman, I miss the foundational presence of those who came before.
Much as I have sought independence and self-reliance through the years of my life, I have always recognized that men can do things I can’t. I treasure the skill and experience of men who know their trades, how to cut in a straight line with a paintbrush, how to change a light fixture, how to replace a broken pipe. I appreciate men seated in their heavy equipment, a backhoe leveling ground at my barn door, a bulldozer carving a new pond, a bucket truck where, lifted high above the ground, he cuts through massive trees limbs like butter and safely lowers them to the ground.
I miss the other half of my existence.
After sharing those personal thoughts with you, I will explain that this is why I read and write romance. For a time, immersed in a story, I am with a man. This is also why I conceived of a place and future time when women can go to a place and be with a man. That’s what the House of Rae series is all about.
Set in the mid-21st century when climate change has pushed world societies to unexpected extremes, the Houses of Rae stand as island of refuge, peaceful centers of women’s pleasure. Now franchised around the world, the House becomes a staging ground for the fight between overweening patriarchy and women’s freedom, but also between progressive and reactionary forces amid food shortages, endless fire, and the joy and enlightenment gained through sexual adventuring. These four novels reveal the intimate stories of people willing to break the rules and put them back together in a style more suitable for a new age.
Come meet the men at the House of Rae. At Amazon