Mine are works of fiction. They are flights of fancy. I require that my readers suspend their disbelief just as any many other audiences are asked to do. When a reader decides she is interested in the paranormal, shapeshifters, vampires, time-travel or any other fantasy, she allows herself to believe in the unbelievable. When theatergoers take in a Broadway play, they become the invisible 'fourth wall' in the action going on on stage. With rare exceptions (“Cats” is one and Shakespeare was fond of the device) actors and playwrights do not breach that wall. I am here to make the case that erotic romance writers deserve the same license.
I know what real life is like. I know how babies are made and how disease is spread. But in a world where a hero never has a beer-gut and his lady's boobs don't sag I reserve the right to go commando when it comes to sex. In romance novels no one wakes up with dragon-breath or farts under the covers. Likewise, I don't think the “crackle of the condom-wrapper” (I actually read this in some erotic tome!) is music to make love to. Personally, I find the rubber-clad penis to be always a little sad. I want my readers to focus on the passion and sensuality of the moment—permission not prevention. I prefer my sex raw, natural and the stuff of dreams.
If you, dear reader, cannot bear the thought of our handsome hero and our lovely heroine going at it Trojan-less, feel free to add the following at the appropriate point in any of my sex scenes:
“He opened the Magnum wrapper with his teeth and sheathed himself with one hand, never missing a beat in pleasuring her. She shivered in anticipation as she realized the moment of completion was upon her."
Now that's what I call suspension of disbelief.