Let’s talk about sex baby. Let’s talk about you and me…Let’s talk about all the good things and the bad things that may be. Let’s talk about sex…Salt ‘N Peppa knew what was up. As a romance writer, talking about sex is an integral part of what I do. Last week as I stared at my author copy of Game, Set, Match and reflected on my debut release, a thought suddenly occurred to me….People are going to read my book...Sex scenes in my book. People I know. People like my mother and mother in law.
I still remember my ten year old first foray into the romance aisle at the bookstore. Curious about the bright glossy covers with half naked men on them, I picked one up. Let’s just say my mother was not amused. The tongue lashing I received was enough to make me stay away from that aisle for a good long time. You’d think I was looking at a Hustler magazine or something and not some corset clad historical heroine. In that moment, I was old enough to understand that romances were something to be hidden, because, gasp, they contained “the sex” as my mother called it. Granted ten is a little young for purple prose, but the moment I was old enough to make my own reading choices, I devoured romances. But not because of my raging teen hormones (well, not entirely), but because of the love stories. I’ve always gravitated to the happily-ever-afters in life. And now I write them.
Picture it. The dewy morning after a raucous night of drinking and dancing. Those crazy health nuts are out running and the sleepy dog owners are standing about wondering why they don’t have cats. Then you see him or her. You know, the perhaps still-a-little-drunk stagger or hobble. Dressed in what so clearly is last night’s attire. Head down, casting furtive glances about as they attempt to taxi or walk home.
Will I be the walk of shamer like January Jones? Will I hang my head as soon as I encounter a reader who’s seen into my very….erm….active imagination? Will I wonder if they’re judging me? Will I wither and wish for a sinkhole to swallow me up once I discover my mother in law has read one of my sex scenes?
Heck no! (Well, maybe a little in the case of my mother in law.) But, I’m not ashamed to say it. I write romance. That means that if my characters call for it, they will be getting it on. What can I say? They’re slaves to their hormones. But, if the seventy-five year old grandmother in my local chapter can announce that she’s just sold an erotic novella, I can look my readers in the eye and ask “Was it good for you?”
It’s not porn. It’s not dirty. It’s not evil. It’s just sex. And like romance, there’s something for everyone from sweet to skin scorcher. We should all be so lucky to be getting some.Photos courtesy of www.wwtdd.com and google images.