Posts Tagged ‘sex’

How To Spice Up Your Love Life

Posted on: September 27th, 2016 by Madison Lake No Comments


Okay, I admit I’ve been single for a while, so how can I know anything about spicing up anyone’s love life? Hopefully we learn things in times of absence or loss. Being single is a really great way to get to know yourself and others, especially before getting involved with one person again. Here’s what I think I’ve learned about how to spice up your love life:

  1. Communicate
  2. Keep your female or male friends. Don’t give it all up for one person. You will be your most confident, happy self that way and that is sexy and appealing
  3. Listen to your partner. Avoid getting trapped into the day-to-day stuff.
  4. If you have kids, get a babysitter often enough to allow yourselves adult time. You’ll love it and your kids will love it too.
  5. Have a positive outlook. If you are happy your partner will be happy too.
  6. Enjoy sex. If this is a problem area, don’t give up. Talk through it. Work through it. Experiment and be open to changing things up. Besides the loving factor, sex should be fun and adventurous.
  7. Love. A lot


Special is good. Here are some ideas for date nights or having quality times with your partner.

  1. Create a romantic evening at home – candlelit dinner, soft music so you can still talk (ramp it up if you want to dance!). Enjoy good food and wine that should all most definitely lead to what’s to come.
  2. Dinner and a movie out. Sometimes simple is best and coming home is better.
  3. Have a massage night for both of you. Set the stage with candles, massage oils, alluring music, heating pads, feathers, ice…
  4. Leave messages around the house. Depending on your situation, these messages can be as romantic or seductive as you want.
  5. Buy or make your partner something just for them once in a while. Surprises are a wonderful thing.
  6. Love. A lot.

That’s all for this week, but this is definitely a conversation to continue. We welcome your comments and additions – your spicy pointers to add to this list. Feedback and new ideas are always a good thing.




For some reason this topic has come up a lot in conversation lately. I’m not sure why. It might be because I write erotic romance so people are interested in what that means, what it is. Where the line is drawn or more specifically, where I draw the line.

That’s easy, but let’s explore the issue first.

Definition of erotica:

1 : literary or artistic works having an erotic theme or quality.

2 : depictions of things erotic.

3 : literature or art intended to arouse sexual desire

Definition of pornography:

1 : sexually explicit videos, photographs, writings, or the like, whose purpose is to elicit sexual arousal.

2 : printed or visual material containing the explicit description or display of sexual organs or activity, intended to stimulate erotic rather than aesthetic or emotional feelings.

3 :  the depiction of acts in a sensational manner so as to arouse a quick intense emotional reaction <the pornography of violence>

So in short, pornography is a show all and tell all. Erotica is a tease.

Personally, I’d rather be teased. I get no pleasure in seeing body parts in their raw and open form, seeing the act of intercourse or fellatio or anal sex at close range. It doesn’t mean it’s vulgar because our bodies are not vulgar nor is sex vulgar. I personally just don’t enjoy seeing it depicted in that form, however, I’m also not interested in banning or prohibiting porn.

Lately, I’ve been more aware of how television is becoming pornography in its own way. Nothing is left to the imagination anymore. There are so many shows I like. They have all the formulaic ingredients: action, adventure, who done its, love, sex, violence. But each of those categories is getting more and more explicit. When the ‘bad guy’ is killed, rather than shooting the scene right up to the moment of murder, the murder is shown in its entirety – being bludgeoned with an axe or stabbed multiple times. You can hear the skull crack, you see blood spurt, you see the violence in the killers eyes. It is so real and so explicit it’s frightening. Does it have to be so graphic?

Nothing is left to imagine, to fantasize, to wonder about. They have shown us everything. Our limits have been pushed to the max and we as audiences now expect this type of visual entertainment. Just think how this is shifting our consciousness into some extreme level of what could be considered ‘normal’. But I digress…

Why do we (as audiences) want to see more, see it all? It seems once you go down that road, you seek more and more. You are never satiated. Perhaps that’s human nature?

Reading a good book (erotic or not) leads you along a page turning journey, pulls you through the story by what is ultimately going to happen, intrigued all along the way. Even when all is revealed, there is still so much left to imagine because somehow all has not been revealed. 

Good erotica doesn’t give it all away. It can be explicit but (in my opinion) if written or filmed or photographed well, it has the nuance of sex, the ‘just the right amount’ to make you squirm.

I write romance with an edge. I write titillating. I enjoy writing the stories most of all, and if the stories are sassy and sexy and provocative, that’s okay. My line is easily drawn.



Pure Pleasure

In the dark, she reached for his hair, soft and short in her fingers. His face was hidden, lit from the street by dimly illuminated curtains, his shoulders loomed broadly over her, supported by lean arms that gripped the sheets beneath her. Sometimes he moved to her head, or her back, or her hips, to pull her fiercely against him.

She didn’t need to see his face. She knew that he gazed intently at her, as he moved his hips into her, then out and back again. She moaned and threw her pillow in one swooping motion, from behind her head, onto the floor.

He was an enthusiastic lover, and in fact, the term lover was more appropriate than she ever could have dreamed. He loved. He loved everything about her, and this was something that she was coming to realize, slowly. Sloooowly. Concealed within the dark room, within her enveloping bed, her thoughts occasionally strayed from his body and what he was doing to her, or with her, to a wonderment, an amazement. ‘So this is what making love is’, she thought. Quite different from having sex, even great sex.

He was enthusiastic, yes, and came equipped with the endurance of an athlete trained to paddle for many miles, to race bikes, to swim. He had mind-over-body stamina, older, more experienced, not the wam-bam of youth followed by the deepest of sleeps.

Not this man.

And they laughed. She laughed as hard as she’d ever laughed. As hard as the top five memorable laughs of her life.

One sunny afternoon, they’d stretched out in a room full of books, on a bed next to windows that looked out over sky and trees. Squirrels, butterflies and wind, the sun danced in warm air.

She suggested a game. She wasn’t sure, she said, that she knew where her g-spot was, if she had one in fact. They looked online for information as to where this mysterious spot might be, and he laughed when they found the best information on Men’s Health, in an article titled, “How to Find your Girl’s G-spot.” He noted the use of the term “girl.”

Two inches in and on the top side closer to the belly button, palm up, curious fingers curled, exploring. That’s the spot, the article said, that sometimes makes a woman feel like peeing. Or wait, maybe not there. Maybe farther in, just about where that rough patch is. He patiently, she thoughtfully. Until she was so filled with mirth at the humor of it all that laughter exploded in great gales. Swells of laughter that wouldn’t stop, and he with her, laughing.

Perhaps a man’s partner might not have one at all. It wasn’t something that had been defined and documented. It was too ethereal. Perhaps it was all something like an urban myth. A rumor that certainly demanded some serious (since he was a scientist) scientific and methodical investigation. A taking of notes.

Finally she admitted, breathless between laughter, that she’d known all along where it was. Well, at least she thought she knew where it was but wasn’t quite sure and maybe could use some more exploring. He, looking directly into her eyes, she gazing back, gasping, unabashed at the frank and honest pleasure that passed between them.

And with that, they watched the sun set gently behind trees until nothing was left of the day, nothing left but the night stretching before them.

‘Is this what it feels like to be in love?’ she asked herself. She rolled the word around on her tongue. She’d asked a friend, “How do you know when you’re in love?” The friend answered, “If you ask the question, then you probably are.”

She thought about how she’d felt when he’d returned from a five-day trip to the east coast, how something had changed when he walked into her kitchen. She’d always been more of a pragmatist, a little cynical, more than a little short on romance.

Now she wrapped her arms around this very sweet man, a man who missed her, who couldn’t wait to see her, had rushed over as soon as he could, had pressed he mouth to hers and held her like he never wanted to let go. With more than a little disbelief, she relented. Yes, this was a possibility.

About the author: Daphne Devina is an essayist and artist with an irrepressible curiosity about life, adventure, and especially men. Join her as she explores a new world of irresponsibility after many years of juggling career, kids and marriage. Can she finally “have it all?” Can she reawaken passion in a body long dormant?

  • This is the third and last installment in a series written for Madison Lake Pages. Read here Part 1 and Part 2.


Communing with the Moon: first weekend away

From an evening sky just turned dark, the moon rises. Bare branches reach, striving – for what? The moon seems to ask, “What time is it?” And replying silently, she said, “Time stops, there is no time, it stops here.”

Salt spray drifted on breezes straight from the tops of high-surf-warning waves. At 2 pm on a sunny (for now) afternoon, foggy mist and clouds promised arrival along with a very high tide.

She looked north along the desolate and brutal beach to where the man had disappeared. She saw his barefoot tracks in wet sand. “This is a never-turn-you-back-on-the-sea kind of day,” she thought. Tide brought one wave closer, too close.

Out of the mist from the north the man came. She wrapped her scarf tighter, like she’d wrapped him the night before, in the field with the moon, under the moon, the moon rising above branches, softness underfoot releasing its earthy smells, his pleasing and slightly sweaty fragrance rising with his heat.

She watched him run past her on the empty beach, as he’d planned, now heading south into the wind. A growing wind, obscured landscape, air heavy with salt and moisture. The cadence of bare feet falling on sand, rhythmic like a metronome as he shrank smaller and smaller into the the distance. She didn’t care that temperatures were falling, that the sun had disappeared. She’d come all this way to feel cold, to listen to crashing waves. She’d come all this way to feel.

Again, the man came north, running through waves shallow upon the shore. He was a man built to move; move on a bike, up hills, move through water, down rivers, and move into her.

Her mind wandered again to the night before, to the field behind his house where a tractor stood waiting for morning workers. She’d leaned up again a solid tire, felt the immense treads beneath her ass, leaned back and breathed in the moon, the night, the soils and sounds. Threw her head back to look at the vastness of stars.

He’d moved in against her, pressing her hips into the tire. “The moon is watching me,” she thought, pushed up against the massive tire of a yellow Caterpillar backhoe, a machine waiting to plant a new almond orchard in straight rows north to south. “Why is this so exciting?” Up against the tractor, earth caked into treads, his face pressed into her breasts. Her hand dug into dirt behind her – the tire – while the other pulled the hair on the back of his head. A moan escaped her lips, almost as deep and guttural as the tractor’s motor on ignition.

The man ran by again, in the waves, watching the sea. “It’s winter,” she thought. “Who is this crazy man running back and forth because it makes him happy?” Who is this crazy guy coming back to me, now totally wet and shirtless and shivering?

This coast, this part of California, a fragile part that she’d been coming to for 50 years, a coast of exposed cliffs, barren beaches, wind swept highlands of cattle and scrubby land. This coast of high surf. “Is this why I’ve always loved this place, that I knew someday that I’d bring this man here?”

“Loins,” she suddenly thought. It’s not a word that she used often, except recently, when she could barely prevent her attention from drifting to her loins, or his. She couldn’t remember ever having felt like this, an arousal in her loins that seemed to last for hours, to recede and then return. It was a hot, almost burning sensation, the female equivalent of a teenaged boy’s perennial erection perhaps, sometimes welcome, sometimes mortifying. Only she wasn’t embarrassed because no one could see. Even he couldn’t tell how much he aroused her. How could she tell him this? Words wouldn’t come, but she could take him to places with her, to her fantasies, her dreams, and out into the landscape she so far shared with no one. She could wrap her legs around him as snugly as he held her, more closely and passionately than she’d ever been held. She could feel hard thighs, grip the slightly soft padding around a lean waist, run her hands down over his perfectly shaped ass, hard yet soft and so round.

He said, “Roll over onto me,” so she did, lay with her full weight pressing him down, feeling his hardness against her stomach, between her legs, inside her and out. With her hands, she pulled his arms over his head and moved deeply into and onto him, feeling a tiny thrill of power, a tiny bit of momentary domination as if it was fun to trade those feelings so that in the end there was a balance. She asked him if she wasn’t too heavy and he murmured no, and buried his face and mouth between her breasts, breathing deeply as if he might suffocate.

And outside above the surf, birds on wind, lifting and floating on thermals. Not gulls but crows. Immense, healthy very black crows celebrating a sunny day, their poetic dance climbing and diving, playing and sparring, a trio of crows advancing, retreating. Waves, curvy and sensual, twisting, rolling, undulating.

About the author: Daphne Devina is an essayist and artist with an irrepressible curiosity about life, adventure, and especially men. Join her as she explores a new world of irresponsibility after many years of juggling career, kids and marriage. Can she finally “have it all?” Can she reawaken passion in a body long dormant?

  • This is the third and last installment in a series written for Madison Lake Pages. Read here Part 1 and Part 3.

Today I’m going to give you some feedback about aging and dating from a guy friend of mine.

He’s a boomer. He’s old. He’s hetero.

He’s got a belly, is bald and is handsome. He’s also single and has been for seven years, since he and his wife divorced. She left him, but that’s another story. This story is about what it’s been like for him to date as an old guy.

man's face

First of all, when I say old, I refer to anyone fifty-plus. Fifty seems to be the marker for many. Forty is the new thirty and all that, but fifty’s the game changer.

This guy said he usually reads or hears about how tough it is for women. They get dumped or leave their relationship and have a hard time finding another man. Most middle aged and older men are looking for younger women. Same old story that all of us women are used to but he said to me, ’In all fairness, wouldn’t you?’ He has a point. But mostly what he hears from women is that it sucks to be them at their age.

Women seem to claim all the hardships of getting older in the dating scene, how difficult it is to attract a ‘good man’, how embarrassing it would be to take off their clothes in front of a guy now that they are older, thicker, and have saggier boobs. But he says, what about the guys? Do these women think they are the only ones who suffer aging miseries? Do they think men can catch anyone they want or that all men are the same?

He told me about his dating experiences. Things started out fine, and dating again after his divorce was actually a lot of fun once he got into it. Until the horrible happened. He couldn’t perform, not for nothing, for nobody, no-how.

Since then, it’s been hard for him to get back in the saddle. The humiliation ran deep and the performance anxiety is ever present. It’s a man’s worst nightmare and my friend is not alone. But he’s recently met a great woman, so here’s hoping.

I’ve always enjoyed hearing a man’s point of view because they usually approach an issue from a different angle and offer another way of looking at something. And I love when a man shares on a personal level like we women do. Not all men or women can or will do that.

We know and respect that men and women are different, but we need to remember that there are also similarities. We all have feelings, we all have fears and insecurities, we all suffer as well as love. 

We’re all going down this path together.

                                                              Have a story? Send it to me. One hundred percent confidentiality. madlakepages@gmail.comman jumping