I’ve decided that in addition to my usual rants and rambles, I’m going to use this blog as a place to share the adventure of writing The Man-Whore Chronicles. These posts will be more mind-dumping and a lot less refinement than some of the others. Ummm … not that my others are exactly refined.
So for starters, a character sketch of Man-Whore as he’s coming to life in my brain.
Note: Man-Whore is as of yet nameless. I’m calling him “Jay” as I write the first chapter, but I’m about as committed to that name as he is to the women he’s screwed. I mainly use it so I don’t have to type the word Man-Whore every five minutes. Feel free to throw any suggestions my way! Actually, the story itself is still untitled, too. I don’t see it being called “The Naked Man-Whore Chronicles” when I’m done, but you never know.
When he’s alive, he’s tall, and blonde, and tattooed. He’s not your garden variety Ken-Doll Man-Whore. He’s lived a rough life and it shows in his face. He’s craggy, in a 30-something Sean Bean with tattoos and a bit more trendiness kind of way. He’s funny and charming, but crude and offbeat. This Man-Whore is no Rico Suave, and he doesn’t bathe in cologne.
He sleeps with everything female and reasonably attractive. At the time the novel begins, he’s boinking:
– his live-in girlfriend, a former bikini model
– his tattoo artist
– the travel agent he met when he went to book a cruise a few months back, in hopes of surprising the live-in girlfriend.
– a volunteer at the animal shelter where he went to get a kitten, again as an I’m-sorry when his live-in girl got fed up and threatened to leave. Because in his mind, something cute, fluffy and meowing will totally make up for all the cheating, even if he won’t take a turn at litter box duty.
I haven’t yet decided on his career. I’m thinking I want it to be something totally unexpected. When you think of Man-Whores, you think of performers and bartenders and the like. Not my Man-Whore. But I don’t want him to work in an office, either. That’s not his style. Maybe he works in a warehouse, or something along those lines. I also don’t want him to make a lot of money, since a part of what he loves most about himself is that he can be a man-whore without dropping a dime.
He has a ton of acquaintances, but very few friends. Women tend to hate him after they’ve come out on the other side of his man-whoring. And guys tend to get irritated with how easy he makes the whole scoring thing seem. The one exception is Kevin, his wingman and sidekick since high school. Kevin has the self-esteem of a peanut, and figures if he didn’t hang out with Man-Whore he’d just be home playing computer games.
When he’s not whoring, Man-Whore loves fishing and playing air guitar and XBox. He loves fruit and salad, but doesn’t admit that to anyone because it doesn’t seem manly. He wanted to be a rock star, but he can’t play a real guitar or sing, and he had way too much pride to go the Milli Vanilli route.
For the most part, if you’re a female reader and I’ve done my job, you’ll want to kick him in the nuts. Repeatedly. But even so, your annoyance will be just shy of hatred. There’s something about him …
Most Man-Whores see women as toys to be used and thrown aside. Even though that’s what he does, that’s not how he sees it. He actually LIKES women as fellow human beings, and can’t understand why they don’t like him back after a while.
His problem isn’t how little he thinks of women, but how much he thinks of himself. He’s a legend in his own mind, and some time with him is a gift worth any aggravation.
He is fascinated by women of all shapes and sizes, although he does prefer the ones he ranks at least an 8. He wants to know their minds as well as what’s hiding under their bras. And he’s truly befuddled when his “friends” tell him to piss off and won’t talk to him anymore. Unless they get clingy – then he’s the one to run.
That’s Man-Whore alive. Dead, not much has changed in terms of how he thinks and feels. He just can’t do much about it anymore. Because the only woman who can see him now – Jill – thinks he’s a jackass. This being dead thing is extremely hard on him (no pun intended) because:
– he can’t get laid
– he can’t even TRY to get laid. Well, he can, but trying and getting NO response is the worst thing he’s ever encountered. He’s pitying every late-night unlucky loser he ever poked fun at when he was breathing.
– he can’t play XBox
– he CAN still play air guitar, but only Jill can see him. And her taste in music sucks.
– he can’t eat, and Jill likes making a big salad with his favorite ranch dressing and munching it in front of him
– he is determined to find out who killed him, but doesn’t know what to do with them once he does, since he can’t exactly beat the crap out of them anymore.
– he REALLY wants another tattoo. But tattoo artists don’t ink skin they can’t see, and even if they did, what’s the point?
For Jay AKA Man-Whore, being dead is hell. To think, he’d been sure he’d kick the bucket at 90, in bed with some 20-something and a bottle of scotch, then float up with a boner to a heaven full of cheerleaders and Hooters waitresses. Instead, he’s barely 30 and walking around bonerless and naked, and no one but Jill can even see that he’s there.
An eternity of no one noticing his biceps, perfect smile, and naked butt, not to mention his … um … Man-Whore weapon? That’s just wrong.