Petals Under Glass: The Orchid’s Allure

A rare, blood-red Dracula orchid from the cloud forests of Central America.

“Be wary of the man who has mastered the orchid’s secrets because once he masters yours, your body may never again trust one who has not.”

So my new book debuted earlier this week, and with it the usual questions. How do you dream this stuff up? Why orchids, of all things? Hey, when are you going to get a real job?

It probably comes as no surprise that I’m an intensely private person; we who live in our own heads usually are. That being the case, I’ll often find inspiration in nature, where a soul can quiet the noise and focus on the passions of life without distraction. And what better muse for a story of sensual awakening than the intricate seduction of nature’s crown jewel?

When it comes to Order of the Orchidarion, one question I’m asked more than any other is whether I had to do a lot of research into orchids before writing it. My answer, quite honestly, is no. At least not in any conventional sense. I’ve been collecting and cultivating orchids in one form or another for decades. In fact, I can honestly say they’re one of the earliest in a growing list of undying loves. Care to join me for a stroll through the collection and find out why?

My oldest and most reliable specimen. She’s a simple Phalaenopsis hybrid, situated in the very back of the greenhouse where others rarely see her. We all need our refuge.

There’s something so raw, yet elegantly refined about the orchid—as if there’s any meaningful way to generalize so diverse a creation, each as unique in its design as the people who grace our lives.

I think that’s precisely what drew me to them in the first place; not the superficial beauty intrinsic to a few but rather their remarkable complexity as a whole.

I find myself compelled by those traits that bond each inexorably to their environment in ways even science fails to explain, gradually molding one specimen into another without the benefits of sight, mobility, or conscious thought. They’re the traits that betray a survivor’s adaptability to an ever-changing world. The orchid is evolution. Advancement. She is the machination of quest and conquest, played out at a Darwinian pace.

“Struggling to make sense of the blinding overload, I tried in futility to categorize what I felt. Pain? Pleasure? Fear or fascination? He had scolded my orgasm into retreat…a temporary victory, at best. Still, it raged beneath the surface, far surpassing any intensity my vivid imagination had ever conjured.”

Phalaenopsis violacea. Probably my all-time favorite specimen. Why else would it get such a prime spot in the story?

I suppose, in some sense, I respect the humble orchid for carrying humanity’s strengths and frailties with greater grace than the average human ever will. I admire her not only for the sophistication of her allure, but the ruthless cunning of her wiles.

We overlook her unflinching charms at our peril, for she has so much to teach. The orchid won’t be rushed or pressured, treating only the patient hand to her evocative show, and only once she’s ready.

She reminds that sexuality is not the playground of simple-minded fools, but rather a sanctuary to be reclaimed from them. She is elegance. The temptress. A standard to which we hold ourselves accountable.

Maxillaria tenuifolia. One tiny bloom fills the greenhouse with the scent of coconut creme every spring.

And even should your persistence pay off, she won’t surrender lightly. Coaxing takes a gentle touch if you hope to reveal her secrets. Hidden deep inside lies a prize of sticky sweet that more men have mangled than mastered, at the end of a guarded opening beyond the sensitive pearl.

Move too fast and she’ll shy away, denying your one and only chance. The orchid is sex, fleeting and pure. She is fever. Consummation. Everything we hold exotic and lust after accordingly.

“I ran my finger up the length of the lip in search of the clitoral structure nestled away within its core. I could feel his glare burning as I traced gentle circles, closing gradually inward until a flick across the tight cap sent the entire blossom into an electrified convulsion.”

Brassavola cucullata. Enormous colonies grow in the shade of old tree trunks, their fragrance carried for miles on the wet jungle air.

From the citrus-laced perfumes of an angel white Brassavola to the Dendrobium’s shimmering flesh, every aspect of a newly unfurled blossom teases the senses with erotic comparisons.

The road of excess. Imagine where it leads.

She sits impaled atop a rigid spike, droplets of dew glistening down delicately folded lips. The orchid is fantasy. Torment. A siren song carried on the shifting breeze, to take or be taken in that priceless moment before the whisper of vitality fades.

At the end of the day, she will always represent those cravings held just out of reach. In every bud, the prospect of forbidden pleasure. In every bloom, a new world of untapped potential locked in a house of translucent glass.

“In the folds of a rare Phalaenopsis, he could find genesis and perfection, seeing a universe unfurl in slow motion from inception to the recognition of its full potential, all while pushing me from behind toward mine.”

With each specimen a stunning masterpiece forged in the flames of hardship, the orchid is desire. She is the seed of longing that remains when all else falls away. What shape, I wonder, does your desire take? And how long could you hold out before caving to temptation once she blossomed before your eyes?

Poor Christine has resisted for three long years. Can she make it one more night?

Curious to read more? Pluck your copy of Order of the Orchidarion from Amazon or Extasy Books and let me know what you think.