Erotica

Last week in one of my writing groups, I created a piece that fell into the erotica category. It's not my usual genre.

We meet every Wednesday in a local bookstore. It's a women-only group and since it meets at 10:00AM most of us are not employed. Thankfully our group is somewhat eclectic across race, ethnicity, and socioeconomic status. The diversity enriches every one's experience. We span the generations, from gals who come on canes or walkers, to teenagers who hope to gain wisdom, and perhaps accolades, from our seasoned audience. We have a few preschool children each week too, quietly tagging along with their moms. It's a great lesson for them, I think, to know that their mothers are multi-faceted. No one comes every single week. Though some of us are more consistent than others, we all have lives that take precedence over writing.

Our styles vary as widely as our backgrounds, though you cannot tell what or how we write by looking at each of us. In fact, our looks can totally mislead. One gal in the group is a traditional Greek grandma, 5'2" and fully coiffed, who dresses as conservatively as her station implies. It's been over a month since I saw her at our meeting, though she may have been there on a week when I missed. It never fails to shock us all that she is the most consistently erotic writer of the group, delving onto subject matter that makes us younger gals blush. After we write, we always read our pieces aloud. Sitting in our comfy lounge, which is located adjacent to the children's book area, her writing can make us squirm deep into our chairs as we hope that little ears will not take note.

She wasn't there this past week, but she was with me in spirit. I was writing about a lover I'd had: an eight-month affair that took me, sexually, to places I'd never been. It was easy enough to write, but a little less easy to read aloud. I found myself curled over my notebook, attempting to simultaneously project my voice while also keeping it within the confines of our gathering. I could feel the other women leaning forward in their chairs, as much to hear me as to enclose my voice in our circle. In all the right places, they giggled, gasped, and guffawed. We shared a lovely moment. It felt good to have done so.

Afterward several gals pulled me aside to sheepishly congratulate me on my writing. Three of them asked for a copy of the piece. No one in this group has ever asked me for my writing before. After all, we're writing into our notebooks, not onto a laptop. To share a piece requires either transcription or photocopying. It just doesn't seem to make much sense.

But they asked... and I said I would make them a copy... and afterwards I felt so proud - so pleased with myself - so complimented.

Later as I thought about it, I realized that these women had all experienced the lover that I had described. Not the exact same man of course, but a man who had deeply satisfied their sexual desires. Like me, they looked back on the experience with great appreciation bordering on reverence. My writing had rekindled a memory, and they wanted a copy of my piece to help them keep that flame burning. How lovely is that?

Maybe I should post the piece here, so it is accessible to them online?

No, that's not what this blog is about. It's about the process. If you want to read the piece, I guess you'll have to ask me for a copy.