So, if you can read the title of this post you’ve already checked off my first requirement of being able to read.
As my cat claws at my door, I’m sitting in a pitch black bedroom, sporting nothing but a beaded bracelet from an old forgotten boyfriend around my left ankle. The moon is just barely peeking through the clouds and shining some silvery light on my decency… but it is the *only* light I’m accepting tonight, with my husband downstairs and may as well be on another planet.
The drink of choice tonight as it sits idly on my nighstand in a tall glass is a Delamotte Blanc, it’s practically calling my name but too much wine spoils the chef, and I’m *cooking* tonight.
The truth is, I’m a writer, especially the erotic kind that mixes well-threaded plots with intirguing characters, dabbled about with sex scenes that mean more than two people finding themselves in the same room. I want to *know* these people before they remove their clothes, I want to get a vivid picture of the setting they’re enjoying their drinks in, as if I were a a blind woman able to see again or recounting a crime scene to a sketch artist in detail about these people and the place it all went down. Only by inserting myself in the scene can I feel *any* goosebumps at all, to say nothing of the rich vocabulary that must be used to even make me brush my hair back behind my ears.