I don’t just write erotica. I write across other genres as well.
I wrote a romance once – a sweet one set on a farm. My mother read it. She liked it.
One day she called to ask me what I was doing.
“I’m writing,” I said.
That seemed to make her happy. “What are you writing? A sequel to that romance I liked so much?”
I told her that I was working on my latest erotic novel. My mother had never read my erotica. She knows I write it, but the romance was the first thing she’d read.
“Can I read it?” she asked.
i stopped typing. “What? The erotica book?” I laughed. “I don’t think you want to read this,” I said. “It’s pretty graphic.”
I could hear her snort through the phone. “Oh please,” she said. “Your father and I’ve been married for over fifty years. There’s nothing you can write that I’ve not done.”
I grew quiet. Should I? Surely not. But you only live once. “Fine,” I said. “Challenge accepted.” I sent her the link to “Becoming Lil’ Mandy,” which was hands down the most explicit erotica I’ve ever written. There’s spankings and anal sex and butt plugs and enemas and finger fucking and blow jobs and pussy eating. But hey, at 76 my mom’s a big girl. And she asked for it.
An hour later my phone rang. It was mom again. “You were right,” she said, laughing. “I’ve never done most of this stuff.”
I didn’t ask her what she had done. Some things a daughter doesn’t want to know. I was just glad she wasn’t scandalized. But then again, I didn’t expect her to be. I come by my tawdry mind genetically. My mom is not the type to read something like this and clutch her pearls in outrage. In fact, she decided that she loved my book and wanted to talk about it. A lot.
“I’m worried about Mandy,’ she said. It was lunchtime the next day when she called to talk about the book.
“Oh, really? Why?” I asked.
“Do you think it’s good for her, having so many thing stuck up her butt?”
“Mom, she’s a fictional character,” I said.
“Well, even so I’d think after a while it would hurt to sit or go to the bathroom.”
I didn’t bother explaining the risks of overthinking escapist fantasy.
“Where in the book are you now?” I asked, changing the subject.
“I’m at the part where they just had intercourse,” she said.
“They have intercourse a lot, Mom. You need to be more specific.”
“It’s right after she got that enema,” my mom said. “I didn’t like that part.”
My mom finished the book. She even insisted on leaving a review which was nice. And hilarious. It gives me a giggle to go through my reviews and see my mom’s there. Five stars. This week, when the sequel, “Training Lil Elise” came out, she wanted to read it.
Sure, I thought, why not?
This evening the phone rang while I was cooking dinner.
“Did you hear we had a fire here tonight?” my mom asked when I answered the phone.
I almost dropped my mixing spoon. “A fire? Oh my god. At the house. What happened?”
“Your book caused it. Because it’s so hot.”
LOL. My mom made a joke.
“Very funny, mom,” I said, not knowing whether to laugh or be mad. I’d already pictured my father stumbling around in a smoke filled room trying to collect mom’s cats because she refused to leave a burning house without them. “You scared me, you know.”
“Sorry,” she laughed. “I like the book, though. My favorite part is the remote-control ass plug.”
“Um, OK,” I said. “I’m glad. I think.” I looked up then to see the shocked faces of my husband and 17-year-old daughter. I’d forgotten that I’d left my mobile on the speaker phone setting. My husband started to laugh. My daughter rolled her eyes and walked away, muttering something about grandma being weird.
I couldn’t stop smiling. I’ve decided that I want to be my mother when I grow up.
To order the kind of books Elsa’s mother obviously enjoys reading, please click the links below: