True to her word, Murphy brought "me" up during a flirtatious dinner conversation between her protagonists. "Shawn Alff" is referenced as an authority on the volatile field of 'magical vaginas' and their mythic grip over leading men in romance novels.
As much as I was pleased to fulfill the lifelong fantasy of appearing in a book, I couldn't help but instantly be jealous of Murphy and her writing abilities. Rest assured that if I ever get a fictional book published, Murphy's character will be the first to have her skin turned inside out by a jealous blogger for making the rest of us aspiring writers look like hacks.
The following passage is an excerpt from Stare Me Down by Riley Murphy. Because I am starting this scene in medias res, I've added the names of the two protagonists, Ramsey (Aries) Taylor & Dr. Jaxx Gavin, so you will not be completely lost. Also, check out the book trailer at the bottom of the page, for which Murphy's daughter provided the soundtrack.
* * *
"...Are you going to tell me about the magical vagina?" Jaxx asked.
With the check paid, Aries' ice on the way and forty-five minutes to spare before he had to be at Q's, he’d be cutting it a little close taking her to heaven, but what the hell.
"All right. Do you read romance novels?"
The waiter arrived and handed him the glass. While he waited for her to answer, he wrapped his hand around the tumbler to gauge the temperature, because the colder, the better. He was fully expecting her to deny it. That’s what most women did, but then, she wasn’t most women.
"Of course."
He grinned. "Then you should know the prevailing fantasy theme. Invariably the hero is usually tamed by the heroine's 'magical vagina,' which makes him want to give up his bachelorhood and dedicate himself to paying homage to that special vessel for the rest of his life as it completes him."
There was that laugh again. Genuine and totally seductive, because he could tell she didn’t know how great it sounded and that, more than anything, piqued his interest. Not that his interest needed piquing. He was on a mission. Hence the ice, but after spending these few hours with her, the little goodnight interlude he’d had planned was expanding. Rapidly.
"Ha, that's a good one."
He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back to study her. The candlelight did awesome things to her skin and made the lavender color in her eyes stand out. "You don't agree?"
She tossed her head in a shake. "No. But I do give you credit for coming up with an eloquent definition of a guy being pussy-whipped."
"Oh, that wasn't me. The credit goes to my buddy, Shawn Alff. He’s an up-and-coming writer out of Tampa Bay and whenever he’s in town we shoot the breeze over world changing shit like this. The conversations are riveting. Shocking. Mind-blowing even."
"Oh, I bet."
He eyed her and decided. Since she said the 'P' word first, to his mind, she was now fair game. Time to see how deep her river ran. He leaned forward and held her gaze. "Do you like pussy-whipped guys, Jaxx?"
"I'm not going to answer that."
He waited for her to cross her arms and settle back to glare at him before he asked, "Why not? It's a simple question. Do you like a soft man? Or would you prefer a man like me?"
"You're not so hard."
"I can be, and we both know it. Answer the question."
"I don't think I want to."
"Sure you do." He was relentless. He knew she wanted to look away but he wouldn't let her. Instead, he challenged her. "Do you like a man who knows where he's going? A man who commands his space? A man who cares for the things he loves?"
She uncrossed her arms and leaned forward. "Put like that, I'd be crazy not to say yes."
Now he had her. "Yeah, but that kind of man comes with a price. I'm that kind of man."
The only thing I love more than writing about myself is having others do it for me.
I met Riley Murphy in 2012 when I interviewed her about the nature of romance novels. The BDSM author was so impressed by my questions, or possibly by the flamboyantly awesome photos of me she Googled after our conversation, that she emailed me days later asking if she could insert part of our conversation into the book she was writing: Stare Me Down.
I gave Murphy permission to use my name like it was her proverbial slave boy. She could have my character's skin get turned inside out by a psycho killer, make me a multi-talented cross-dresser, or turn me into a serial-masturbator/lama herdsman with a philosopher's heart. Obviously I secretly hoped Murphy would rewrite her entire book, making her protagonist fall for the acclaimed sex writer and all around love-muffin of masculinity, Shawn Alff. (I have high hopes for myself, or at least the fictional version of myself.)
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