In my last blog post, I mentioned my first public erotica reading at the Seattle Erotic Arts Festival.
I dressed for the occasion (obsessed about it all week, of course) and ended up wearing a little black dress with some knee-high black leather boots that I scored at a thrift store in Aspen. The boots have always been a tad bit big, but nothing a pair of thick socks wouldn’t cure.
I made the mistake of pulling them on over a pair of sheer black stockings as we rushed out of our hotel to catch a cab to the event. We arrived at the festival just in time for the literary arts readings.
When my name was called to read, my nervousness suddenly manifested as sweaty feet, making the inside of my too-big boots feel like they were covered in olive oil. So there I was, coming out as an erotica writer, trying to be all sexy and I could hardly walk because my feet were slipping around so much inside my high-heeled boots.
I made it to the stage but as soon as I planted myself in front of the microphone, my legs started trembling like they do when I get really nervous. I’m a yoga teacher, so I took a deep breath and tried to ground my energy as if I was standing in Mountain Pose. But there was no stopping the earthquake as my feet kept shifting like tetonic plates inside my boots.
I scoured the audience for my husband for support.
Being super connected energetically to my man is amazing when we are on the dance floor or in bed. It wasn’t so great when I was on stage and he was unknowingly clutching my faux-fur trimmed suede cape to his chest, mirroring my anxiety.
I shifted my gaze to a cute tattooed woman in the second row and silently thanked the literary arts judges for choosing my grilled cheese erotica story, one of my shorter essays that is only three pages long.
You may be wondering what could possibly be sexy about a grilled cheese sandwich. You’ll find out in detail someday soon when I publish my memoir, but in a nutshell, the story is an exploration of desire and, bless her, the tattooed woman laughed in all the right places. The pages stuck together from my sweaty palms and I ended up tossing them on the stage as I read which garnished a few more laughs.
I got a round of applause and practically collapsed in my man’s arms when I got off stage without falling on my face. The elation was the equivalent of running a much-anticipated Class IV rapid at the end of a long day of paddling. But instead of being rewarded with a beach camp and a cold beer, we had the rest of the night to explore the festival.
Now that was an adventure. A fabulously erotic urban one.
Sexy Link:
Check out the Seattle Erotic Arts Festival.
I dressed for the occasion (obsessed about it all week, of course) and ended up wearing a little black dress with some knee-high black leather boots that I scored at a thrift store in Aspen. The boots have always been a tad bit big, but nothing a pair of thick socks wouldn’t cure.
I made the mistake of pulling them on over a pair of sheer black stockings as we rushed out of our hotel to catch a cab to the event. We arrived at the festival just in time for the literary arts readings.
When my name was called to read, my nervousness suddenly manifested as sweaty feet, making the inside of my too-big boots feel like they were covered in olive oil. So there I was, coming out as an erotica writer, trying to be all sexy and I could hardly walk because my feet were slipping around so much inside my high-heeled boots.
I made it to the stage but as soon as I planted myself in front of the microphone, my legs started trembling like they do when I get really nervous. I’m a yoga teacher, so I took a deep breath and tried to ground my energy as if I was standing in Mountain Pose. But there was no stopping the earthquake as my feet kept shifting like tetonic plates inside my boots.
I scoured the audience for my husband for support.
Being super connected energetically to my man is amazing when we are on the dance floor or in bed. It wasn’t so great when I was on stage and he was unknowingly clutching my faux-fur trimmed suede cape to his chest, mirroring my anxiety.
I shifted my gaze to a cute tattooed woman in the second row and silently thanked the literary arts judges for choosing my grilled cheese erotica story, one of my shorter essays that is only three pages long.
You may be wondering what could possibly be sexy about a grilled cheese sandwich. You’ll find out in detail someday soon when I publish my memoir, but in a nutshell, the story is an exploration of desire and, bless her, the tattooed woman laughed in all the right places. The pages stuck together from my sweaty palms and I ended up tossing them on the stage as I read which garnished a few more laughs.
I got a round of applause and practically collapsed in my man’s arms when I got off stage without falling on my face. The elation was the equivalent of running a much-anticipated Class IV rapid at the end of a long day of paddling. But instead of being rewarded with a beach camp and a cold beer, we had the rest of the night to explore the festival.
Now that was an adventure. A fabulously erotic urban one.
Sexy Link:
Check out the Seattle Erotic Arts Festival.
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