I am sick to death of lust! Lust, lust, lust, lust, lust!!
Don't get me wrong, I like a nice round of sex as much as the next gal. It's very good exercise and a great picker upper. I much prefer sex with feelings attached, even if it means the dreaded fated mate bond, but I'm not talking about the actual act.
No, what I'm referring to is lustful thoughts. You know, where everytime the heroine looks at the hero her panties get wet and she goes over all his outstanding attributes (heh) yet again for the umpteenth time. This is how I learned anatomy (deltoid, bicep, pectoral); I have to admit it holds my attention better than a dry A&P text, but still... They can't talk without lusting and if they should happen to touch - even just a pinkie finger touch - they have to exert extremely over-the-top discipline to keep from jumping each other and doing the dirty deed.
How the hell does anything get done, what with all this lusting going on? It takes up so much of the characters' time and the reader gets that anatomy lesson over and over again.
I get it, I do get it. She likes him, he likes her. His hair is marvelous, his eyes even more so. His muscles, right down to his toenails are outstanding. Her hair is marvelous,her eyes even more so. She's toned with smooth skin, her boobs are just the right size, her ass is outstanding. She makes him hard where he's supposed to be hard; he makes her tight where she's supposed to be tight.
I don't need to be hit over the head with it. Go do something you're supposed to be doing, like saving the world or finding a killer, or even getting a life!
This message was brought to you by a sleep deprived Old Fart whose hormones were stolen sometime in 1999.