I’ve known for years that Ilsa was a great writer because as a teacher she’d written plays and skits for different events and classes at the high school. She put her heart into making literature come alive for her students—and they adored her. In a nutshell, for eleven years she wrote slightly tame, although hilarious snippets about Romeo and Juliet, The Canterbury Tales, Pride and Prejudice, etc.
Then everything changed.
Picture me (Director of Product Development at a famous medical technology firm) headed out on a business trip, and she hands me a few pages to look over. “Here, honey. I wrote the beginning of a romance book. Will you read it?”
Of course, she’s a romance fan, but I personally had never read much (ahem … any) of the genre. Like a true guy nerd, I’m into books like Game of Thrones and Wool. I kissed my sweet, wholesome wife good-bye and headed out to the airport.
Somewhere at 30,000 feet I pulled out the pages to read. The story wasn’t a true excerpt from any of her released novels and only about 5000 words. The snippet began spectacularly, right in the middle of an action scene with the “colossal behemoth” hero fighting off nasty demons (paranormal/romance book). Cool. I was pulled into the story immediately (good writing). By the end of that chapter, the hero had “kicked ass” and began talking about his latest victory and where he should head next. Typical boasting male. I could relate. I eagerly plowed ahead…
The next chapter focused on the heroine who worked at a hotel—mind you, this has been ten years ago, but I still remember the details vividly. Innocent to what lay ahead, I figured this scene was where the story would slow down to introduce the other characters. No. No. No. Suddenly the heroine describes a premonition dream of her and the hero. Things start to get a little steamy—okay a lot—and the heroine notices the hero’s “bulging cock” (Did my wife just write the word COCK?). Next thing I know the hero is ripping clothes, all kinds of things are pulsating, and suddenly—BAM—penetration! (Did my wife really just write that?!)
Not only did I realize that my wife is a very talented writer who could make readers feel the same emotions and feelings that the characters were feeling, but I realized my own cock had started to bulge. About that time I felt a hand on my shoulder and a flight attendant asked me if I wanted a drink. The blood drained from my face. “Diet Coke,” I sputtered out. Fumbling around, the pages promptly went back into the brief case, and I started to think about college football. Go Vols.
I’ve since made a rule, no reading the wife’s writing on public transportation—only at home.