Not Always the Clown
I love writing erotic romantic comedy but it comes at a price. At my local writers’ group I have a reputation for being the one to say what other people are thinking. Sexual innuendo and double entendres fall from my mouth without me even thinking about it. However, Lillian Grant is my alter ego. She’s funny, sassy, not afraid to be the woman I would love to be. Everyone likes her and thinks she’s a blast.
However, she’s not the only me. Sometimes I wish I could leave her at home. Like most comedians I’m not funny all the time. I can’t be the clown for everyone. The real me has a day job in a very uptight profession where the likes of male strippers, three way sexual relationships and books full of sexy humor would freak people out.
The real me is happily married with kids and even when I am being the real me, sometimes I find myself having to hold Lillian back. A comment is made and she really wants to respond, to say something that would make my work colleagues suck in a lungful of air. Fortunately, Lillian is usually happy to only be the clown in the pages of my books where her imagination has free reign to invent crazy old ladies, sexually repressed mothers, sexual disasters and ultimately a happy ever after. Or in the company of other writers who know about my crazy other side. Maybe one day I will retire from the uptight profession and let Lillian lead the way. Until then I’ll gladly let her control my laptop and giggle at the crazy she creates, especially if her hero is a sultry, sexy, Irish Male Stripper.
One man. One sensual dance. One night only to prove his love.
Michael wants Maggie. Maggie has Sam. Two’s company, three’s a crowd.
Years ago, Maggie tried to seduce Michael Monaghan, only to have her efforts rebuffed. Now she’s older, wiser, happily in love with Sam Stephens, and determined to keep her distance from Michael.
Michael Monaghan, hot male stripper, has all manner of women falling at his feet, except Maggie. All he can do is watch from afar as Sam Stephens wins the heart of the one woman he really wants.
Sam Stephens is just tired of Michael watching Maggie’s every move.
Now there’s trouble with a capital T! Maggie’s Great-Aunt Maud has run off to
with Michael’s Uncle Declan. Maggie needs to get to Aunt Maud and talk some sense into her before Declan’s gun-totting wife catches up with them. With Michael and Maggie off to Ireland together, Sam isn’t about to be left behind. Ireland
Tracking down the runaway lovers is complicated by the coldest winter in
in years. With Michael, Maggie and Sam stuck in a house with only one bedroom, simmering sexual tension starts to boil over. Dublin
Michael wants Maggie. Maggie isn’t sure what she wants. Sam just wants to punch Michael in the nose.
Two’s company; three could be something else altogether.
Pete put the last drink down. “Table eight.”
“It won’t work.”
He leaned on the bar and leered at her boobs before running a finger along the edge of her
skimpy bikini top, teasing the edge of a barely covered nipple. “We’ll see.”
She shifted out of reach. Pete disgusted her, and the more she resisted the more he seemed to want her. Not that it stopped him trying to whore her out to customers. She didn’t do sex for money, and she didn’t do sex with Pete, period. Fortunately, she pulled a big enough crowd that he wouldn’t dare get rid of her for refusing his gross seduction techniques.
“Women won’t pay to see men take off their clothes.”
Pete glanced over her shoulder. “You want to tell them that?”
“You let them in for fucking free.”
“They’re paying for drinks, aren’t they? Or they would be if you’d fucking deliver them. Chop, chop. The show’s about to start.”
“I bet you’ve got some ugly old bloke with shriveled bollocks who won’t even flop his sad dick out.”
Pete laughed. “You’ll see. Now move it.”
Lisa shook her head. “Nope, Pete’s had him under wraps. Rumor I heard was that he’s foreign and he’s never taken his clothes off in front of an audience before.”
Pete came to stand behind them, and Shannon edged away as his fingers brushed her arse. The lights dimmed and the room was plunged into darkness. A hush fell over the crowd and then a deep guitar wail filled the air. A single spotlight hit the stage.
Shannon’s stripper pole had been transformed into a lamppost. As the strains of Gary Moore’s Parisienne Walkways mesmerized the crowd a barefoot male stepped into the light, resplendent in top hat and tails, with a cane and gloves completing his ensemble. He lifted his head to reveal shoulder-length dark hair, chiseled features and full lips. He gave off an air of sexy disinterest at being the center of attention. His dark eyes scanned the crowd as he tossed the cane to someone offstage and then grabbed the lamppost with one hand and spun around in a twirl so low his hair almost brushed the timber floor.
Women yelled and whistled as he danced in front of the pole and began to remove his clothes. His hips moved in time with the music and the lamppost all but became his lover as his gloves, jacket, shirt and pants were tossed aside. He slid his hands over his body.
Standing in only a top hat and G-string, he moved to the music with a grace that made
Shannon catch her breath. He was six-feet tall, studly and bad boy fucking awesome. When the guitar wailed on a single note the stripper stopped, dropped his head, and held his hat in front of his crotch. The air rippled with tension and Shannon licked her lips as she wondered if he would really go the full monty. As the note ended he tugged his G-string off, and Shannon held her breath. The song and the room fell completely silent for a heartbeat, and when the guitar riff echoed around the room he flipped the hat into his right hand and rolled it up his arm to land perfectly on his head. He spread his arms wide and tipped his head back to give all the ladies an eyeful of his junk. Shannon wasn’t the only one to wolf whistle.
Lisa coughed on her drink. “Fuck. He’s hung like a fucking horse.” She fumbled with her cigarette packet, trying to pull out another smoke, and
Shannon could hardly blame her.
The song continued and he dropped his hands and lifted his head. From the low moans in the room,
Shannon was sure she wasn’t the only one who felt thoroughly shagged by the stranger on stage. His dark eyes locked with Shannon’s. He smiled, and she swallowed as a shiver rippled up her spine and her panties dampened. “He’s fucking magnificent. Who is he?”
Pete’s breath warmed the back of her neck. “His name’s Michael Monaghan.”