No sooner had she reached home after work when her mother called.
“Hey, Mom,” she answered, toeing off her shoes by the front door. Lena sat up on the couch, a disapproving look on her face, as if the cat had been thinking that today was the day the human would finally not come back, leaving the entire condo for herself.
“I can’t read any more of your book,” Leslie stated. “I just got to the first sex part and, uh-uh, I just can’t.”
Sally groaned inwardly, blushing hotly. With her free hand, she pinched the bridge of her nose.
Fuck!
Jillian Ashley sex scenes were legendary. Sure, people loved the books because of the strong plots and well-developed characters, but what they talked about—on Twitter, Facebook, podcasts…basically anywhere lesbians gathered—were the sex scenes.
Having read The Fordham Road Fling so many times, Sally knew—by heart—the first sex scene in that book. And how graphic it was. Especially the bit about the finger vibe.
And now her mother thought she had written it.
What did I do to deserve this?
Sally sighed.
“Yeah, Mom, it’s probably best if you stop reading,” she said.
“Are all the books like that?” Leslie asked. “Did you have to be so…detailed?”
“Mom, the books aren’t just about sex! Did you not pay attention to how Jilli—I mean, I—did a great job introducing the characters and setting up the story and all that?”
“I will hand it to you,” Leslie said, as if reluctantly conceding a point, “that, yes, the writing is excellent and you did get me interested in the story, but once I got to this sex scene…I guess I’m just not used to that in the books I normally read.”
“Yeah, well, the women who read lesbian romances tend to like graphic sex scenes, Mom. If I stopped writing them, I may have to leave the country. Although, I don’t know where I’d go because I have fans all over the world.”
“Really?” Leslie asked, obviously not believing her daughter.
Sally rolled her eyes. Of course her snobbish surgeon mother would have trouble believing that books like The Fordham Road Fling would be popular the world over because her snobbish surgeon mother only read books shortlisted for the Pulitzer Prize.
So, taking a seat next to Lena on the sofa (the cat, by the way, still looking like she still hadn’t forgiven the human for coming home), Sally put her feet up on the coffee table.
“Yes, Mom, really,” Sally said, letting a little exasperation creep into her voice. “Lesbian romance is a thriving genre of fiction because it gives women like me a chance to read books that feature characters we can relate to and so, yes, the Jillian Ashley books are read all over the planet.”
“Well, fine,” her mother began, “but what am I supposed to do about reading the rest of your book?”
“Just skip the sex scenes, Mom,” Sally said with a sigh. “That means skipping chapters seven, ten, eleven, seventeen, twenty-one, twenty-five, thirty-two, thirty-nine and forty-three.”
She suddenly sat upright.
God, should she be worried that she could rattle off the sex chapters in a single book without stopping for breath? That didn’t seem…healthy.
“Whatever you do, don’t read chapter twenty-five,” she added sternly. “Like, seriously, Mom…When you get to chapter twenty-five, skip it.”
“Why did you bother writing it, then?” Leslie asked.
Putting aside the fact that I actually didn’t write it…
“Because lesbians like things like chapter twenty-five, Mom!”
You have no idea how much lesbians like things like chapter twenty-five!
“Well, I suppose they are your audience…”
Eventually, Sally managed to steer the conversation away from “her” books and onto other topics, including Camille and her family. Finally, Sally was able to get her mother off the phone and then she sat there, trying to figure out what to do with the rest of her night.