DO MEN WHO WEAR GLASSES...?

 

When you look at Clark Kent when he's working at the Daily Planet, he's a reporter. He doesn't fly through the air in his glasses and his suit. ---Gene Simmons

 

What’s the old adage? Do girls make passes at—? No, that’s not it. It’s Do guys make passes at girls who wear glasses? Ah, that age-old question.

 When Dorothy Parker’s famous quote hit print in 1937, Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses, it cemented the concern from spectacle-wearing dames from that day forward. Doomed them to a life void of passes from gents. The poor Janes! Cursed for having four eyes!

 Why didn’t Parker wonder if girls make passes at guys who wear glasses? Why did she single out girls to be the heiresses of that blight? I suppose we’ll never know.

 But what about men who wear glasses?

 Speaking for myself, I can tell you in a heartbeat: I find spectacle-wearing men sexy as hell, very much so. What is the allure?

 I’ll tell you what attracts me to them, but first let tell you this…

 Anyone who knows me knows I’m a big fan of silent films. And right up there with my beloved Rudolph Valentino is Harold Lloyd, the comedic genius of the silent era. His comedic talent is unparalleled. He didn’t need sound to be funny. He didn’t need a voice to jangle my bells, to trip my little ol’ arousal switch. All he needed was that goofy grin, that nice athletic shape and…his spectacles.

 Yes! His glasses! The horn-rimmed spectacles that stand between me and that hidden tiger. The optical paraphernalia that promises mystery just the other side of those two circles of glass.  A terribly handsome, sexy man lurks behind those frames!

 If you don’t count Timothy from my second grade classroom—or a boss from days long past who used to ignite my then-twenty-year-old libido when he’d look at me over the rims of his reading glasses—then Harold Lloyd is the object of my first imaginary love affair with a spectacle-wearing fellow. I fell in love with the silent hunk with the manly charisma and boyish good looks the second I laid eyes on him.

 I know what you’re going to say. It’s the Clark Kent syndrome.  You’re going to tell me that I think there’s a Superman behind those specs. Nah. It’s not that.

Or is it? 

You just might be right.

I stumbled across an interesting piece about my silent film hero, and this information would not only interest Superman lovers, but Harold Lloyd fans as well. Seems that the character, Clark Kent, was based partly on Harold Lloyd. Who knew? And I found it even more interesting that Kent’s name was derived from combining the names of two actors, Clark Gable and Kent Taylor. Go figure. Did you know that? I didn’t!

 So my darling Harold is a super man after all! Well, sort of.

But still.

I couldn’t have known that in second grade, when I daydreamed about Timothy, when I had the most agonizing crush on him. Later, in high school, there was Michael. And Alex. Ricky. And then later, Billy.  Bill. Tom, my husband.

To me, there is something so very sensual about a man stopping to take off his glasses when it’s time to make love. There. Oh, geez, I said it. Yes. I admit it. What an exquisite, wonderfully sexy experience. You’re already excited, he’s done his preliminary work by teasing you, driving you crazy with anticipation. You’re ready for the hungry panther to make the kill—with you as the target.

 But wait.

 He pauses to remove his glasses and, with that careful deliberation (partly not to break them, of course), folds them shut and sets them on the table. He’s ready for business. The aroused panther is ready to consume his prey, and he’s not letting that Pearl Vision Center prescription get in his way.

Come on, can you sit there and tell me that is not intensely sexy?  He’s undressing without undressing. Getting naked without even unfastening his belt. One silent gesture to signal the attack is coming.

 Oh,of course I never entertained sexual thoughts with Timothy in school. It was second grade, for crying out loud! But maybe, just maybe, I sensed—even at that delicate age—the future allure those pieces of metal or plastic and glass would have on me.

 So, yes, in this girl’s book, guys with glasses do get passes. Always have. Always will.

 I can hardly cross paths with a man, any man—tall, short, dark hair, light hair, no hair—wearing glasses and not wonder who is behind them. Is he shy, retiring, like so many mistakenly assume just because he sports spectacles? Is he a Clark Kent, the classic powerhouse-in-frames? Or just a regular Joe with less-than-perfect vision? It’s that luscious mystery that optics-wearing men offer, a teasing door one must look beyond to find out.

To me, glasses lend a man this touch of something...what is it?...that softens without compromising masculinity. Something so touchable, so warm and comfortable which does not forfeit sex appeal, but heightens it.

 So, to my darling Harold. To Timothy, Michael, Alex, Bill, Billy, and Tom—to spectacle-wearing men wherever you are, I salute you! May those who cross your path see your hidden Clark Kent!

A Hard Man is Good to Find....

 

A hard man is good to find. ----Mae West

 

It had come to this.

The squeaky bogus leather cushions of the psychiatrist’s couch. Me, hugging myself—partly in defiance at finding myself here, partly against the arctic blast from the air conditioner.

Antonio was stoic as always, arms stiff at his sides, no expression on his face. Nothing ever seemed to penetrate his solid emotional veneer. But, then, that's one of the things I love so about him.

Dr. Craggly sank into the loud cushions of his own fake leather chair and twisted the dented blue cap of his Bic pen between his teeth, biting on it intermittently. He scanned Antonio and me over the rims of his thick, black-rimmed glasses.

I recognized the doctor’s well-camouflaged mix of puzzlement and humor. Not the kind of humor when one finds something delightful, but the brand induced by bizarre things—you know, a naked man stepping onto a subway or a woman parading through Macy’s wearing only a bra and panties.

Finally, yanking the pen from his mouth, Craggly glanced from the chart on his lap to me and Antonio and pointed the Bic in our general direction. His voice, obviously concealing an attempt not to laugh, was strained and quiet. “And who is your friend?” Tossing another quick look at the chart, he shook his head. “I don’t believe you’ve....introduced…him.”

 “This is Antonio.”

Craggly cocked a eyebrow and nodded. The wheels in his brain turned, I could hear them, as though he charted to build a bridge across the Grand Canyon with nothing but a hammer and a ball of twine. He cleared his throat. “It’s nice to…meet you…Antonio.”

 Antonio didn’t return the greeting.

 The doctor settled his thin frame deeper into the chair, poised the pen over the tablet resting on his crossed legs, and opened the Pandora’s Box so clearly looming in his mind. “And what has brought you and….” After clearing his throat, he continued, “Antonio here to see me?”

 Drawing a deep, resigned breath, I proceeded to explain.

First of all, Antonio must NOT to be confused with his cheap competitors who are mere imitations of who...rather what…he actually is. They are ridiculous blow-up dolls. Antonio is body guard doll, popularly known as Safe-T-Man. Big difference. Huge difference.

So there.

 I know you think I'm crazy. 

Let me tell you what I told Dr. Craggly. Let me list for you the reasons my darling Antonio is a much more suitable companion than a—close your ears, Tony dear—real man.

How many men would actually let you NAME them? You know love Italian men, right? Fine. Safe-T-Man is now Antonio. Why, tomorrow, if I'm in the mood for a Greek fellow, his name can quickly be changed to--let me think--Zorba. Next week he might be Sven.

How many men would let you write, uninterrupted, every evening, and still sit placidly while you did? The freedom to work work and yet the welcome companionship. A seemingly impossible scenario made very possible with Antonio.

How many men can be deflated and discreetly transported about in the trunk of your car, or simply stored away in your closet in their own personal custom-crafted carrying case? To be at your side when you crave companionship, but easily stashed away when you don't?

How many men do YOU know who can double as a life raft? I, for one, am not a good swimmer, and I find this handy feature valuable for trips to the beach. Certainly beats the old boring floats, don’t you think? Ah, the exquisite luxury of being able to ride the waves on my faithful Antonio. Oh, and in case you’re concerned—Antonio is equipped with a repair kit. Punctures (no, I would never intentionally puncture Antonio) are never a problem. A quick patch-up and he’s good as new. And that alone is another priceless feature! Real men squawk and whine when they stub their toes. Not Antonio. The boy can take a run-in with a cat or dog without making noise and never complains when he's being repaired. Oh, talk about your Alpha man!

 Antonio does not snore. Well, unless you count the occasional leak of air. But, as mentioned above, even those rare occasions are a cinch with his repair kit.

Antonio watches chick flicks and soppy historical romances with me, and never, never, never says a word. Never interrupts the film, never makes smart comments while I’m trying to concentrate.

Antonio doesn’t cost much in the way of groceries. He doesn't even eat. 

On that note, he IS the perfect dinner companion. He does not slurp, does not burp or belch and--since he doesn't even eat--does not spill food or drinks on the carpet.

Jealousy is never an issue with Antonio. He never looks at other women. When in public, women may give Antonio curious glances, but never returns the attention. A faithful sort, he is.

Antonio, thanks to his handy size and cushioned comfort, can not only be a companion in bed, but he can also BE the bed when needed. Especially when camping.

There are never disagreements over what Antonio will wear. He wears whatever I want him to. In fact, Antonio and I never have any disagreements at all. He never argues with me.

Antonio listens to me, always giving me his undivided attention. Actually, he never says much at all. He is the strong, silent type. Another one of his Alpha male features.

Antonio has no problems aiming for the toilet. He never leaves the toilet seat up.

Some might complain that Antonio makes his companion do all the cooking. Oh, that doesn’t bother me. Sure, I love a man who cooks, but it’s a small sacrifice for such perfect company.

Antonio’s ONLY disadvantage is that he is highly flammable. No, I don’t mean his temper. He never loses his temper. He is, however, susceptible to go up in flames if too near a fireplace, heater or bar-b-que pit. I must always be careful, but that’s okay.

I could go on and on about Antonio. His benefits are countless. Sure, there are the obvious things that Antonio cannot do, and I forgive him for those, as he makes up for them in many other ways.

But can’t you see? I’m not crazy at all! Antonio and his type really can be quite a sensible solution for companionship while addressing concerns such as space and convenience. And taking into account the fact that Antonio has a life-time warranty, he's actually quite a bargain.

And, of course, you can see why Antonio, aka Safe-T-Man, is not to be confused with his inferior competitors, the standard, overrated blow-up doll.

Dr. Craggly isn't convinced that Antonio isn't a sign that I’m a wing short of an airplane. 

But I think Antonio is beginning to grow on him.

 

 

 

 

 

WHO'S CHARACTER IS THIS, ANYWAY?

 

He’s fleshed out in my head. Perfect. A Gene Krupa look-a-like. Check. A big guy, a thug. Check. Dark hair. Check. Sleepy eyes. Yes. Full lips. Oh, yes. Age? Forty. Good. That’s him. That’s the hero of my story. Ready, set, go.

 Wait.

What’s that? Betty says he needs to be younger. He should be in his thirties. His thirties, she says? Okay, okay. That’s doable. Thirties it is. Once again, hands poised over the keys, I’m ready to begin.

Stop.

What now, Betty? Oh, he should be more refined, not quite so thuggish. A step up from a thug, perhaps just a gentlemanly mobster. Yes, I can see it. Of course. Drop the street talk, let him be more educated. Own a joint, not just work it. Back to work I go.

 Well, hell.

Excuse me? What difference does it make if he has a hairy chest or not? Betty, you are joking, right? What’s wrong with a smooth chest? Ah. Betty thinks hairy chests are sexy. She would never be attracted to a smooth-chested man.

Not being a selfish author, I would never dish up a character to Betty who she wouldn’t be attracted to. After all, Betty is my female eye, my pulse on the sex appeal of my book.

By now, my character has been transformed—only slightly, just minor tweaks here and there—but he’s still recognizable, still looks like Gene Krupa. Hell, though, with Betty’s alterations, he is Gene Krupa. I can pull it off, produce a gangster-type hero who still fits into my original vision. Who knows? The changes may make him even better.

 Hold your horses!

Now Betty disapproves of my character’s girlfriend, says she’s too young for my Gene Krupa look-a-like. I must take Betty’s opinion into serious consideration. Betty is a mature woman, after all, whose age group will encompass a good deal of my reading audience. So now my character’s girlfriend has been changed to be a woman closer to his age.

 But who knew?

 Now Mary, another reader, weighs in. Mary is younger than Betty, and feels passionately that the character should be with a younger woman. Not only that, but she insists that the heroine be a virgin. The hero, Mary is convinced, would never marry a woman who is not virginal. Mary feels so strongly about this that she says she will not read the book if the heroine is not a young virgin, and, furthermore, she will not speak to me anymore it this demand isn’t met.

 Literary blackmail.

Betty and Mary are now mortal enemies. Who wins? Does a coin toss now decide my hero’s fate? Eenie meenie miney mo?

You think I’m joking. I’m not. This scenario actually happened to me during my first book.

What did I decide to do? Who won…Mary or Betty? Neither. The hero won. I decided to rely on the old tried-and-true decision maker: my gut. It took some cleansing, but I managed to sterilize my brain of all suggestions and start from scratch, just let my man evolve from his origin in my imagination. I put him in the driver’s seat, told him, you steer, buster.

A writer has to be careful. Sometimes you feel the need to mold the character to someone else's vision, not your own. Sometimes others have characters in their own heads and want you to bring them to life for them. And that’s when their contributions can be deadly for your writing. You might, like I did, find yourself torn—even to the point of damaging your friendship—if you can’t accommodate their ideas.

One of my current beta readers? We agree, we disagree. Most of the time, I fight his suggestions tooth and nail, just to let him know I’m in charge. More often than not, I incorporate his suggestions into the work. I trust his judgment and, more importantly, his instinct. So far, I've been lucky, because my own instinct has coincided with his. When it doesn’t, it just doesn’t, and we agree those indecisive issues will be an editor’s call.

So far, he hasn’t threatened beta reader blackmail over any of our differences. And, remembering my ordeal with Betty and Mary, I suppose I must be really, really grateful.

Who reads your work while you’re writing? Close friends? Strictly other writers? Actual critique partners?

How far do you allow them to go with their input? How seriously do you take that input? How do they respond when you disagree? When you stand fast to your own idea and have to say no?

 Have you ever had a Betty/Mary situation? And if you did, how did you resolve it?

I’d love to know.

RED ROVER, RED ROVER, LET VASTINE COME OVER....

 

I'm sick of not having the courage to be an absolute nobody.

-- J. D. Salinger, "Franny and Zooey"

Red Rover, Red Rover, send that kid—any kid but Vastine—right over! Oh, the memories. Do you remember that game from school? Even then, as young as we were, we were being conditioned to try to fit in or be counted out, even if it was just a silly sport.

I wasn't athletic. I was emotionally torn—half of me praying that I wouldn't get chosen on a team because I knew I was lousy at games and the other half of me was sad because I didn't—and I mean never—got picked for the teams. Well, I take that back. I did get picked. Eventually. By whichever poor team got stuck with me. My only hope was to be outed before the game was even under way.

Not much has changed since those days of being afraid of not being picked and scared of being picked because I knew I was going to suck at any game.

But why did I still pitifully have that deep yearning to be picked me for a team? Why, even when I knew I couldn’t perform, when I knew I'd end up running off the playground feeling all this kid-like failure, did I still long to hear my name? Red Rover, Red Rover, send Vastine right over. 

Same reason any kid did and does. They want to be acknowledged. They want to be accepted. As much as many of us—yes, even me—snort that we don't care if we fit in, we don't care if we're popular, I think many of us really, deep down, do want to fit in. We want validation from any sector of life we've chosen.

And acknowledging that to myself is why I cherish the Salinger quote. Because it takes courage to not want or need to fit in. To not want to be somebody is not in most natures. It's not in mine.

 I've been writing for as long as I can remember. I've been seriously writing since 2009. I became a published author in 2011. When I made up my mind to write with a goal of being published, I had big dreams. I had silly, unrealistic dreams. Dreams that my writing would be the ticket. Nothing else would really matter. My pen would be my strength. My writing would be so good it would sell itself.

I can hear you laughing from here!

No, no, no. I’m not saying my writing stinks. I do at least have enough confidence in my craft to think I've some talent.

I've had a hard knock comeuppance in this game. And, like those old days, I've found myself on the playing field, realizing that fitting in just might be crucial.

I once heard some writers being referred to as 'royalty' because of their  popularity status. My heart sank clean down to my feet to find myself back on the field where being 'able’—not as in just decent writing, but strong in personality—was going to make a difference in anything.

 I've yet to put my finger on how this all works.

The bottom line? I see that to pitch me is a necessary part of this writer success thing. And it’s so terrifying that I'm tempted to rush back to the early days when I just wrote and I didn't give a hoot if I sold a book or not. I simply wrote because I adored writing and because I had something to say and I wanted someone—even if it was only one damn person—to read it.

I see something pitiful about myself, something that makes that urge to do a J. D. Salinger and disappear. And that is this: I'm lying if I tell you I do not want to fit in. Come on. Even in the book, Salinger’s character only said he wished he didn't want to fit in. But he did. He did want to be somebody.

So do I. I really do.

And let me tell you. It’s hard to admit that I wish I could be part of the 'in' crowd. Many may not admit it, but more of us than will admit wish we could be “royalty”, too.

No, I’ll never be that author who’s a household name. But I'll keep writing. Because I do love it, I can't live without it. No matter where it takes me.

I will know, with everything in me, that the 'not fitting in' will not have anything to do with my writing. It will not be because my writing isn't good enough. Sometimes writing reminds me of this piano....

It just sits out in this foggy field, not being played. Because it's alone out there and not seen by many, doesn't mean it has no beautiful song inside it to play. And it doesn't mean it doesn't long for someone to hear it. It does.