Nighties, Cars, and Cleavage.

I want to get published. Someday. Before I die. I said that about getting a college degree and I got one at the age of 51. So, these things are possible. And tonight I was told by an almost perfect stranger (actually, I don't know how perfect he was, but he was a stranger before our conversation) that my writing would have to be on the erotic side in order to attract the attention of a publisher. Is that true? Do I have that sort of side? Would I be willing to share that with the world (or you, my very faithful blog readers)? I asked for help in getting this started and he said to use the word "diaphanous" in the third paragraph and to write about a sultry, slutty, 62-year-old woman and mention a white Jaguar S, a train station, being a figment of someone's imagination, and doting. Yes, doting, not dating, but doting. That's what he said. Really.

I usually think of eroticism as something shared between two people who know each other well, kinda like each other alot, and don't mind making messes, so I don't think I'm ready to write that kind of stuff here yet, but it does bring up some interesting subjects. Like does a woman really have to wear something see-through to turn on a guy, like spend money on this itchy garment and show up wearing it and then hear "Oh, that's nice, take it off"? And is it OK to fall for a guy because he's driving a cool car when we pride ourselves on our lack of materialism but we just swoon when we see its curves and hear its motor? (Oh, memories of that guy who spoke Spanish, called me Elena, and drove an E-type Jag.....oh, oh, oh...) And just where is the point where sultry becomes slutty, I ask? Like how much cleavage is Ok before we become sexual objects? (Oh, I forgot, we're always sexual objects. Not that I mind that, of course, but there's a time and a place. Oh, don't start with me that any time and any place is good. Don't go there.) And what the heck is erotic about a train station? It's noisy, busy, and people are coming and going? Oh, there's that word, I get it.

So clearly even thinking about this subject puts me in a silly mood. I do like talking about this stuff, even though I haven't done much of it on this blog. Or in real life, actually, but that's another post. A sad post. Gotta correct that. Oh, really I worry that my readers may expect me to be this upright respectable mother and grandmother and free party-giver and may be alarmed, or even aghast, at hearing this side of me, so for now I will stick to my usual fifty-single-dating stuff until I get the OK from you guys to be risque. Or not.