I maintain that we each get the sex demon we want.
I’ve written a lot of sex demons. Mine are rather sweet…a lot like the kind of guy Julie Brown meant when she sang, “I like ‘em big and stupid.” Some of course have a weaselly cunning, but no more than the guys who schemed to get me into bed in college. Sex demons know what they want and they have all the time in the world to get it. A girl has to respect that.
I’ve done reluctant sex demons and demons who couldn’t imagine doing anything else with their time. I’ve written of sex-demons-in-training, sex demons who pretended to be straight, sex demons who pretended not to care. Lot of those. Sex demons with painful pasts. Sex demons who just want to get back to huntin’, shootin’, and fishin’. Sex demons with identity crises, and sex demons who leave that shit alone, it’ll blow up in your face, bro.
Lately I’ve come to appreciate the Administration that allows them to function—at least in my Slacker Demons series—by pretending sex doesn’t matter (the Home Office) and by pretending sex is really, really bad (the Regional Office). This leaves the sex demons a pretty free hand.
It also leaves me, the author, in a position to watch as my stealth power (Aphrodite) infiltrates the whole thing from top to bottom and mess up all that corporate tidiness with everybody’s favorite drug. You know. The stuff that makes the world go ’round.
Because the real boss is love. Sex, as some wiseass said, is the urge that vanishes the moment you satisfy it, but love is a drug you never stop craving, even while you’re wallowing in it, sloshing around up to the eyeballs in happy braindeath. You don’t care about anything else. I’m in love, a shark is eating me, I wonder if I can convince it to spit up my heart at her feet on the beach. You lose your sense of self. But that’s okay, because that person over there owns you anyway, or at least the important part. They exist more than you do. Tell me that’s not the behavior of a strung-out personality.
And God forbid the source should dry up. Then you really lose yourself. The person you gave your heart to? Gone. The sense of happy anaesthesia, gone. The drug, gone. There’s a great big hole in your heart, and in every cell in your body, as you shrivel up around the place where the drug used to be. You stop eating, you binge-eat, you quit your job and become a beachcomber, you go workaholic and corner wheat, you commit strange acts of random kindness and public self-humiliation. It sucks. And everyone goes through it.
This is why romance fiction is ever-popular. That drug does not go out of style. Either a person is blissed out, or they’re jonesing for a fix.
This makes a writer very happy. As you know, all we do all day long is create people and then make them suffer. Yeah, we’re mean. But what does that make you, the reader? Because you know you love to watch.
So if you are destined for the heaven or hell of your imagining, governed exactly the way you want it to be, then consider your love life. Picture the perfect sex demon who can make that happen.
Because what you put into your head is what comes out. Choose wisely.