“Bossman, what are my shoes?” I asked and leaned back in my chair to put my feet up on his brand new desk.
“Wrong, for starters, no one calls them that these days. They’re either pumps or heels. Normally, if they’re designer, you just give people that name. What color is my shirt?”
“Red?” he asked, puzzled at where I was taking this.
“No, it’s burgundy. My hair is also in a low twist to the side, but you’d say that it was a ball of mess on the side of my head. My point is, no female author should write her male lead so . . . girlie. He shouldn’t know what cut her dress is or what the exact shade of her nail polish is, because, putting it simply, men don’t know these things. They don’t want to know. The second real men start showing an interest, their girl
will never stop asking for their opinions. All men want to do for an easy life is say ‘Yes, dear’ and scratch their balls while watching a game,” I ranted. All the while his eyes got wider.
“You need to calm down, Princess,” he finally said, but I shook my head.
“But why? As readers, we are basically paying these authors to produce shit work. I don’t want to read that every male character has a monster cock and can give award-winning oral sex. No virgin can deep throat on her first go and the wording, oh my God. Do I really have to read every character announce that they’re coming like a freight train in every sex scene. If the sex is good enough, it should be clear to the reader in the description, not through ‘Incoming orgasm approaching platform three, please stand clear of the gap!’”