Aphrodisia Authors :: Blog

Before Hurricane Gustav made landfall a carload of relatives from Cajun country arrived at the Devlin home. Last name, Benoit. Not Be-know-it, but Ben-wah, like the balls, ya know? My father’s family is huge—19 children (from two wives, bless them both), so it isn’t any wonder that I’d never met this batch. They’re a loud, boisterous family with dark hair and skin and lovely Cajun accents.

Still, they arrived night before last and I had a book to wrap up. The draft of Texas Men was complete, but I wasn’t satisfied with the end. And with company tromping through the house and 3 rambunctious boys screaming through the rooms as they fought over game machines and who was going to sleep where, I was praying for someone to just shoot me.

I finished the book this morning and shipped it to my editor. An hour later the power went out and stayed out. Eight people filling up a space where three could comfortably ignore each other and remain sane became a bit crowded. Add the no AC factor, THREE musky boys (ages 8-11), and I didn’t care that it was raining cats and dogs because Gustav had followed them here, they had to go outside.

I donned my swimsuit and led them to the pool in the lashing rain, promising it was going to be great fun and that the pool water would be so much warmer than the temperature outside. I ignored their chattering teeth and pushed them all in.

And you know what? It was fun. We dove for colored rings at the bottom of the pool. Waved at cars driving by with their windshielf wipers flashing as they slowed down to see what kind of nutjobs were swimming in this weather. We cannonballed into the water to build choppy waves and pretended that we had fallen overboard at sea.

Now, I’m sure when they all head home to start the cleanup (they lost siding, fences, trees, but TG that was all!), they will have tales to tell about their crazy aunt who writes porn and swims in the middle of a monsoon, but I have an open invitation to spend time in bayou country. I wonder what kind of craziness they will show me.

You are Hera

You are closest in personality to Hera, the queen of the goddesses. Hera was lovely, elegant, regal and grand – in short, she was a true lady. Hera was also the protector of married women and Hera types tend to be somewhat traditional in love and value marriage, family, children and fidelity very highly. You are also practical and show good common sense.

Okay, so it’s Sunday and I’m bored. I’m at page 75 of a 100-page novella, and oh my god, surprise!–the hero and heroine are about to have sex again. Actually, I love writing sex, but not today. Yesterday, I got to write about a lusty kidnapping with some really rough sex, so this sweet-after-the-big-battle lovemaking is a little tame.

So, what am I doing instead of writing? Looking for quizilla games to play. Maybe you saw this one, “Which goddess are you?” Have to say, I tried it and it’s absolutely spot-on (*snort*–I am sooooo not HERA)! How’d it work for you?  Anybody who knows me, knows the “traditional, practical and good sense” parts don’t match. If I had my choice, I’d jump into Persephone’s shoes for six months a year of hot lovin’ from Hades!

Delilah Devlin
Down in Texas — coming November 2008
www.DelilahDevlin.com 

 

What’s the appeal of the cowboy?

I wonder about that. As a reader, I love a variety of the archetypal heroes. I love the vampire–who wouldn’t love a man who needs you for more than company. So, he’s got to take a little blood and offers a trade of sensual pleasure while he fills both his appetites. Sexy, right?

There’s the wealthy business man who can provide a woman all the luxuries she’d ever want, who can be selective of a mate, but chooses you over all the women fawning over his wealth and handsome face. I could dig living in the lap of luxury with a man willing to shower me with gifts.

What does the cowboy offer in exchange for the pleasure he provides? As a woman, I like the idea that’s he’s self-sufficient, that he really doesn’t need me to survive. Then his interest, his needs become all about what that one particular woman gives him to fill a void in his life that he didn’t know was there until he met her.

A cowboy leads a very physical life. Fixing fences, delivering hay to the herd, wrestling a calf to the ground to brand it–you know that takes some muscle. Am I being shallow if I admit I love me some muscle?

I love the idea he’s prepared to risk his own neck to protect his interests–his cattle, his woman, his homestead. He’s worked damn hard to build his life, so he’s not letting snakes, or weather, or rustlers take it from him. And he knows how to fight, knows how to use a gun–he can protect what’s his, and if I’m his (at least, I’m the heroine in all my stories!), I appreciate that he makes me feel safe and cherished because his constant watch over all the things he owns (and don’t let a cowboy tell you he doesn’t feel possessive of a woman!) fills a void in me that loves the thought of a man who’s willing to put himself at risk to protect me.

I lived in south Texas for nine years, surrounded by ranches and men in Wranglers, and they don’t act like city boys. They’re respectful of a woman’s strength and polite (I melted into a gooey puddle whenever they tipped their hats in passing). Most of them aren’t big talkers. They don’t waste words and prefer to show you rather than tell you what they feel. I’m okay with that.

And I’ll admit to being shallow when I say I love a cowboy’s body–all wiry muscles, filling a pair of jeans with chaps emphasizing the size of their thick thighs, the mystery of their glances hidden in the shadow of their cowboy hats–all those external qualities give me a thrill.

What do cowboys do for you?

Get in bed with Delilah… Everyone else has!
www.DelilahDevlin.com