I mean it. Right damn now.

Shoo!

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.*

Whew!

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.”

Busted.

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.

“I will be your rock.”

But when things got tough, you couldn’t wait to go.

“You can write about me, it doesn’t bother me.”

It bothered you when things got bad. So cavalier with your permission, can’t take it back now.

“Each time you do this, you push me father away.”

You mean you get closer to her? The woman you took up for and defended to death, the woman you left me for? I didn’t push. You pulled away. Please look up the definitions, they are fundamentally different.

“I won’t ever write with anyone else.”

Except you are.

“I promise.”

Except you didn’t, did you? Not really.

Words are important to me. If you really knew me, you would know how much. To me they are a form of intimacy, something shared between two people. You are the second person in two years who has left me for someone else. And I get it, the whole “the heart wants what it wants” bullshit. But I want honesty. I deserved it.

Watch what you say. Your words were important to me.

Let me repeat that.

DO WHAT YOU FUCKING SAY.

People depend on you. Too bad if you made a deal you regret later on, put on your big girl (or boy) panties and you deal.

Like this month. I have two weeks of training coming up this month. I haven’t gone to training in a while, but I need some certifications to move forward so I have GOT to go. Unfortunately, the weeks aren’t consecutive, but…eh, it happens. Now, I do the reasonable thing and call up the kids father and say, “Hey, you have the kids only a couple of weeks out of the year, surely it won’t be a problem for you to come up for one or both of these weeks and, you know, be an ACTUAL fucking father to your kids.”

I should have known better.

He couldn’t come up because he new wife was upset that he was spending time ‘with his ex.’ Apparently, Einstein missed the part where I was going to be gone to training.

Now, I have to take both the kids out of school for two weeks and send them to my best friend so she can watch them.

Life is awesome.

Then my newly ex-boyfriend lied to me like twice in a row.

Y’all I am tired of having my chain yanked. And I am just tired. I feel I have lost the ability to write, to be funny, to laugh, to be myself.

Assholes need to be tattooed. Those fuckers need to be easily identifiable. But that is another post. Excuse me while I go and buy train tickets for my children.

Stage 1- Denial; “You are breaking up with me? No, see, that is NOT how it works. I dump you, not the other way around.”

(Stage 1.5 as defined by @BmoreSex – Two Bottles of wine. This is mandatory, do not skip this step.)

Stage 2- Anger; “How dare you think I even wanted to go out with you?”

Stage 3- Bargaining; “Look, return my shit in good condition and I won’t tell your friends about that thing you like to do in bed.”

Stage 4- Depression; “I am so mad at myself for going out with you, and then allowing myself to get dumped.”

Stage 5- Acceptance; “Fine, we’re broken up. I am not even upset. No, we cannot be friends. Asshole.”

Stage 6- Being all Preachy; “I cannot believe that I went through all that. Let me make sure to tell EVERYONE, because I just KNOW they care and need to hear what pearls of wisdom I learned. Here is sermon numero uno; Don’t date assholes.”

Stage 7- Body Piercings; “Nose piercing, try number three, please.” (For the record, this time the nose piercing is doing fine and I haven’t had any the complications of the past two. pfft.)

Stage 8- Country Music; “Yes, I am listening to Dolly Parton, and then I am putting on Rascal Flatts – touch that shuffle button and I will cut off your fingers.”

Stage 9- Posting lyrics to songs on Social Networks; Anything by Adele works here. But don’t be too emo, you don’t want to embarrass yourself. Look, I’m just saying.

Stage 10- Beyonce that bitch; “You were the best thing I never had.”

Now THAT is how it is done, dude. Woman of the world, follow this 5+5 plan, and you will be over that break-up in no time flat. And if you’re not, then you can do what I do – be all angsty over twitter. Bitches love some angsty shit.

My favorite tweet of this whole time period: “Someone told me today the “I burned that bridge.” Yeah, it was called Bridge Getting Shit Upon, on the road to Getting Screwed Over.”