I will call him Raoul. He, this, is what every woman wants.
And here’s how you spell it:
P is for pecs. Raoul has them. He also has abs, delts, biceps, triceps, traps, glutes, and even muscles that other men don’t have at all, like claps and flutes. Every muscle in his body is exquisitely chiseled. He is breathtaking from every angle. He is a paragon of strength, yet sensitivity. He can benchpress a woman with one hand and turn her on while doing it.
Raoul is an unparalleled living sculpture of male beauty. When women see him, they stop in their tracks, their mouths fall open, they get wet in their most personal areas.
In short, guys, he’s not you.
E is for expert. In bed that is. The romantic hero has made love to 1, 242 women in 267 different sexual positions. He has personally caused 3, 746,291 orgasms.
And that was all last week.
He knows what a woman is feeling down to the depths of her very core. He can sense exactly where she is at every second, knows just how to bring her to the brink of ecstasy, then keep her there for hours, mewling and squealing, begging “Please, master, let me come!” (Oh, wait, that last part’s just in the BDSM books, but then, they’re 42% of the market.)
That’s right, guys. Once again, this man is not you.
R is for rod. Yep. His manly parts get their own letter. In fact, they’re so big, they get their own zip code. Think a baseball bat and two bowling balls. Think a rocket missile and two nuclear-generated geodesic domes. His equipment is velvet over steel, silky smoothness over pulsing, rock-hard manhood. It fills a woman, feels soooo good, stays erect for days.
Because this is a family column, I won’t describe the parts of his parts, the exciting differences between the mid-field versus the end zone, for example. I won’t describe how his parts function, e.g. the fountain of fireworks at the climactic end. I’ll leave that to the novels to do, in glowing detail.
But sorry guys. Those parts aren’t yours.
F is for first. Despite his wordliness and oodles of sexual experience, he is flabbergasted to find himself doing things with his heroine (I’ll call her Clarissa) for the first time in his life. He’s never brought a woman to his home… before Clarissa. Or, he’s never brought a woman into his bedroom… before Clarissa. He has always reserved sex for special chambers filled with straps and floggers, or for impersonal hotel rooms . Clarissa is the first to enter his private spaces.
He has always just f***ed women. With Clarissa, he makes love for the first time. She is the first woman to meet his family, to take care of his dog when he leaves town. She is the first woman he spends the night with; all the others he left after the sex was over. Clarissa is the first for everything that matters because, to him, she is… special.
E is for excellent. Raoul is excellent at everything he does. This means not just love making. First and foremost, he is a superb cook. This is a strict requirement. Every romantic hero can cook, and does so for his Clarissa at drop of a spatula. (Note: she is the first woman he has ever cooked for.) He loves to do this, particularly after ten hours at the office followed by four hours of hot sex. That’s just the time to bound up from bed and announce, “Let me make pasta alfredo! With chocolate covered strawberries for dessert!” He then proceeds to do so wrapped in nothing but a towel.
In addition to cooking, Raoul is expert at whatever else is required by that minimal slice of plot not occupied by sex and romance. He can fly planes and helicopters, ski steep mountain faces, charm a girl’s family, negotiate a billion dollar deal, navigate the Amazon in a canoe, and take down any man standing in a fist fight. And he does it all while remaining faithful to Clarissa, the only woman who has ever captured his heart. Because she is… special.
Ask yourself, boys. Is that you?
C is for cocky. Raoul is arrogant, but in an adorable way. He knows how hot he is and teases Clarissa with his hotness. He takes off his shirt a lot. He stands one inch away from her, making her squirm with desire, but refusing to satisfy her. Not yet.
“I will not kiss you tonight,” he announces. Clarissa—and the reader—must wait thirty agonizing pages before he finally gets around to it. But the wait is worth it, because he’s THAT GOOD. And Raoul knows it.
Not you. Sorry.
T is for thumbs. In the same way that thumbs distinguish man from the animals, thumbs distinguish the romantic hero from other men. The word “graze” comes up a lot. Raoul like to graze his thumb along Clarissa’s lower lip, the edge of her jaw, the side of her breast. In countless books, Raoul can stimulate a woman to orgasm with his thumb, while two or three of his fingers explore in the neighborhood. This is all on one hand, mind you, while his other hand plays love songs on the guitar.
So what ‘s that spell? P-E-R-F-E-C-T. That, my friends, is the woman’s romantic hero.
And, sorry, men. It’s not you.