I'm working on a novel and I could use some advice. I'm writing from a male perspective and I'm concerned about the sex scenes ringing false. This seemed like a pretty reasonable place to ask for some feedback.

LOVE (A PRELUDE TO)

“Come in,” her voice snapped.

I stopped in the doorway, amused. It occurred to me, and not for the first time, that I liked looking at her. She was coiled in a chair, using its arm for a desk. Her dark wet hair fell over one shoulder, hiding her face. That and her mostly bare body indicated that she was freshly showered, in fact had probably interrupted the shower to put ink to her words. Her hand moved unhesitatingly across the paper, scribbling words like flowing blood. Her toes tapped gently against the other arm of the chair, the garnet nails impossibly alive next to the faded brown upholstery.

She continued her barrage of blackened thoughts upon cold white paper. She had not once looked up. I settled on the couch without a sound. I had never seen her really working. I saw glimpses of it in our professional life, but never like this. This was her genuine love of life, love of words, of logic. This was her soul being spilled.

Something happened then, and the spell was broken. She raised her head, laid down the pen, smiled at me, and unwound from the chair. I lit a cigarette and handed it to her, glancing at her notebook. I could decipher nothing. The violent streaks of crossed Ts and looping Fs and Gs obscured everything else.

She crossed the room gracefully, making sure I noticed the fact that she was wearing nothing but low-cut cotton panties. Drops of water from her hair glittered on her thighs, reflecting colorfully as they slid over the ink buried there. She fixed me a whiskey sour, taking a double shot for herself, and sat at my feet while I relaxed on the couch. I drank lightly and wondered at the change. When had it become her waiting on me? How did she flow so easily from commanding to obeying?

I set my glass down and she tensed to rise. My voice stopped her.

“Don’t. I just wanted to see you looking up at me like that.”

Her light green eyes fixed on mine and I bent down and kissed her on the forehead, letting my fingertips graze her breast. I felt her body shift, pressing that soft flesh into my hand. She rose to her knees, flicking her tongue over my bottom lip as I began to squeeze and rub her nipple. I ran my other hand down her back, feeling the curve of her spine beneath my palm, then up her ribs until I held both nipples, gently twisting the ring in the left and squeezing the right. Her mouth found its way to my neck, kissing and nibbling as her hands unbuckled my belt and fumbled with my zipper. We broke apart long enough for me to stand and pull off my jeans, then we came together again hungrily. I kept one hand tangled in her hair and the other busy torturing her nipples. I watched in erotic agony as she unbuttoned my shirt with her teeth and teased my nipples with her lips, easing her way down my body. She dropped lower and lower, gasping with need when I gave her nipples a particularly vicious pinch. Finally, her tongue grazed the waist of my boxers and at the feel of her fingertips on my sides, I raised my hips and she pulled the boxers off.

...my body and shameless self-promotion. I'm aiming for a spot on the front page, kids. It's not going to happen with today's batch of eyeliner photos, but they were a fun start. Ideas are cooking. Thanks for looking, and thanks even more for reading!

[IMG]http://i7.photobucket.com/albums/y266/bloodywits/obit.jpg[/IMG]

Peter Candytail finally collapsed this morning after a week-long battle with the PMS virus. This virus is typically fatal to chocolate creatures of all kinds, as the only known cure is an expensive and difficult-to-obtain infusion of coconut cream. The tragedy hits the Candytail family doubly hard, as Peter's sister Pansy has been reported missing. Last seen in the company of notorious Trader Joe, hope for her safe return is slim.