I mean it. Right damn now.
Everyone else? I have a confession. I LOVE printed smut. There I said it. I have been known to in my younger years to delve into a romance novel or two or one hundred. I used to be really embarrassed about it, mainly because my ex-husband considered it some character flaw. Only horrible women read ‘those’ books, and horrible women were horrible mothers – uh, childhood trauma much there, dear?
Needless to say, I didn’t read them as much as I would have liked. But that was okay, because it wasn’t too long before the average run-of-the-mill romance novel seemed tame. Very tame. I dipped my toe into some racier romance novels (read: erotica) and I nearly salivated with delight. Still I didn’t read more than one or two, not the kind of book you break out at lunch time.
I love words and I love words that describe sex, and I ESPECIALLY love words that graphically describe sex in great detail. Think all good writers are chasing after a Pulitzer? Think again. Give me a writer who can keep me enthralled and excited about a relationship, throw in some hot sex scenes, not sound trashy or redundant and I will show you some good reading.
I recently stumbled upon some writers writing really good smut in very odd places. It inspired me to write my own. And ladies and gentlemen, what a breakthrough. I have always wanted to write, always wanted to write a book – who knew the thing stopping me was the inability to put aside my inhibitions and write some good, down and dirty smut? (Mom, I know you are still reading, because you DON’T LISTEN and I assure you the book I am writing is not erotica. Sheesh.)
Sadly, my book won’t have as many sex scenes as smut readers may like, but it will have a great story and, yes, some hot sex. I have an archangel to thank for that.
(Didn’t know there was an archangel of smut did you? Learn something new everyday. It’s Gabriel. Archangel of Wonderfully Written Sex Scenes. Excuse me, the Pope is calling to confirm that.)
ANYWAY. I have a point. What was it?
Yes, erotica. There is this new book out, ‘50 Shades of Grey‘ and apparently it has all the suburban housewives atwitter with…ahem…excitemnt. I planned to read it. How could I not? But a friend on twitter said it was only OK and recommended something she calls ‘filthy’. Sweet heaving breasts of desire, I had to have it. I forgot all about that 50 shades of crap and went out and bought ‘Carrie’s Story.’ From Amazon. Online.
I should mention here that my kids like to open every package that enters this house, no matter the warnings not to do so, on the off-chance it is for them. Since they get home before me, I have little chance to intercept this forbidden activity.
I think we can all see where this is going.
I arrived home a couple of days ago to the two books I ordered (I also ordered ‘Now Let Us Praise Famous Men‘) shrinkwrapped, the smut novel covered with the order form and still in its wrapping.*
Cheyenne only mentioned that there my books had arrived and the kids went on their merry way, their innocence of such filthy books still intact.
Until it was bedtime and I went downstairs to get the books and take them upstairs. My daughter was sitting at the kitchen table, she just looked at me and smiled.
“Oooooh, mom, reading erotica.”
I regret nothing.
*What I didn’t know was that the order form listed the books and their ‘category’; ‘Carrie’s Story (1 each. Erotica) Thanks Amazon.