Books and Sex

A romance author walks into a bookstore.

For real. I walked into a bookstore to look at the shelves. I had a book published in Spain two or three years ago. The chances that it would still be in stock were slim, but I have friends with books translated into Spanish, so I went to browse the novelas románticas. Really, I was looking for VERONICA WOLFF novels—I totally wanted to buy one here. Sadly, I didn't find any in stock, but I did find a whole lot of other familiar names.

So I got this brilliant idea that I'd write a blog about romance novels in Spain. I know! Totally excellent idea, right? But as I started to think about it, I realized I had nothing to say about it. I mean, except that they're all published in a larger size than mass market: like young adult books or trade paperbacks. I guess women in Europe like 'em bigger.

So then I came home and laid down on the couch, thinking about the blog, when I noticed one of the books on the shelf next to me. Kama Sutra: The Perfect Bedside Companion. 

Of course I opened it—wouldn't you? Professional curiosity. And research. Maybe I could get ideas for the next book. Or perhaps there'd at least be enough fodder for a blog.

There was fodder. Plenty of fodder. Like a footnote that says: 

"There are certainly materialists who seemed to thing that a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush."

Seriously—a bird in the hand and two in the bush? Snicker. Snicker again. And please don't tell me your mind didn't go there too.

Only then I remembered that my gentleman caller's* mom** reads my blog, and I haven't met her yet. What kind of impression will I be making if I write about, for example, "the fighting of the tongue"? And I was totally going to write about how a man should prepare for the day and his woman. There's a list, including:

"He should bathe daily, anoint his body with oil every other day, apply a lathering substance to his body every three days, get his head (including face) shaved every four days, and the other parts of his body every five or ten days. Ten days are allowed when the hair is taken out with a pairs of pincers." 

Forget his face—other parts of his body? We're not talking about his toes, I'm sure.

For the record, I don't know any man who'd let someone with pincers get near his private red light area. Just saying.

But I can't talk about any of that. Mentioning men's dangling bits in front of my beau's mother? That's got to be against the law in some states.

So where does that leave us? Yeah—I have no idea either.

* To You-Know-Who-You-Are: as you can see, I settled on calling you my "gentleman caller" for the moment. Sorry I didn't use "Captain Loves-Real-Good" like you requested.

** To You-Know-Who-You-Are's mom: please don't stop reading my blog. Your presence will not inhibit me in any way. Obviously.