I write dirty books.
I love smut. I love men. Hell, I even love women. I LOVE sex. There! I said it. And it feels damn good! Throw the book at me, I’m guilty as hell.
I yell these truths as I hide behind “Jane Anthony”, giggling with crimson cheeks. My sexy as sin alter ego allows me to be, well, me. In life, I’m quiet. Sure, I’m good for the occasional dirty joke, but that’s not the face I show to people outside my close-knit inner circle. I’m a mom. A wife. A nondescript member of the HSA, donning my yoga pants while chauffeuring my kids around town, a latte in one hand and a Kate Spade handbag swinging off my forearm. Gag me. (PLEASE, I’m not kidding … gag me, I love it).
I am the demure housewife with a very dirty mind.
When I began writing, I kept it a well-hidden secret. I didn’t even tell my husband until my first book was finished. Part of it was just proving to myself that I can do it before alerting my loved ones. A sort of, if a tree falls in the woods sort of analogy. If I failed at that first book and no one knew, would it really make me a failure?
But I didn’t fail. I finished that book and proceeded to write many more over the subsequent three years that followed. I’m damn proud of myself. I have readers. I have friends. A whole entire life outside of my real one. Like-minded people who read behind closed doors and keep their sordid fantasies a secret. And you know what? There’s a LOT of us.
Stay with me. I have a point, I promise.
My cousin “liked” my page today. I sat for a beat and looked at her name taunting me on the screen, my head screaming inside my skull. She knows! Now everyone’s gonna know – and worse – they’re gonna want to read it! They’re going to ask what my books are about and I’m going to have to stand there, shuffling from foot to foot trying to answer their questions without cringing in their faces. Damn my mother and big fucking mouth. Why? Why? Why?
Why, indeed.
I am a damn good writer. I should be thrilled with what I’ve accomplished. Sex is part of the human condition. We all do it. Most of us even like it. Why am I so ashamed to admit that I write about it?
My books are sexy, but they’re pretty damned vanilla compared to some. I've shaped fictional worlds rich with detail and in-depth drama. I've created lives, souls. I've broken hearts and put them back together again lopsided and bruised. My work is explicit and salacious, and oh so emotional, but nothing so taboo that should make me want to hide the minute someone starts asking about it. I mean, what’s a butt-plug between friends, really?
Yet, the idea of these two worlds colliding makes me want to hide. It’s been three years and I’m still not comfortable enough to admit my dirty little secret. Maybe someday when Pretty Reckless the movie releases at a theater near you (HAHA wishful thinking!) but until that day, I’ll remain tight-lipped – until my daddy tells me to open wide ;)
