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A few months ago, I was out with some girlfriends, having a much-needed stay-at-home mom reality break. After a mojito or two, why lie?) a few of my friends came up with the idea that I should write erotic stories as a sideline. One, speaking from the depths of her second Cosmo, said she thought I'd be awesome at it, that I could really sink that one in the home, proverbially speaking.

My initial response, of course, was complete disbelief. I mean, don't you need to feel erotic in order to write erotica? I'm sitting pretty here at the moment in my mommy-jeans, it's 3 P.M. and I haven't taken a shower yet today. I put on perfume once in a blue moon and my legs haven't been regularly graced with a razor's attention since Friends still had new episodes to air. To complicate matters more, my language filter is usually in overdrive as my three-year-old daughter tends to repeat everything I say, for days and days and days. For example:

Me, stubbing my toe on the chair the baby has just pulled out: "OUCH, DAGNABIT! GOSH IT ALL TO HECK!"

Her, gleefully: "DAGNABIT! HeckHeckHeckHECK!"

Still, as a writer, I do like a challenge, so I figured I'd give it a (very brief) shot. Here's what I can come up with erotically, but with my mommy-filter still intact. (At this point some extreme sympathy for my long-suffering husband would be appropriate and appreciated).

*

"Stepping over the cast-off, ketchup streaked bibs in the front hall, Francesca opened the door to the delivery man on the front porch.

"Yes?" she whispered softly at him, her voice still raw from the series of colds her toddler had brought home that month.

"I just need your signature right here, ma'am." Holding out a pen and clipboard, his eyes roamed over her figure, briefly taking it all in. Her every so slightly unkempt hair was pulled back in a sensuous ponytail, the high-waisted jeans straining slightly against her skin. Coffee stains on her off-white t-shirt drew his gaze to her full-figured bosom, like a moth to flame. One breast seemed slightly lower then the other. He realized with a rush of excitement that her nursing bra had come unclasped on that side, unleashing the fullness of her flesh.

The door knob was sticky against her skin. Probably more ketchup, she thought. Seductively, she wiped her palm across the back pocket of her jeans and reached for his pen..."

*

So? What do you think? Should I call HarperCollins? Or maybe just self-publish? Tell you what... as soon as I get a shower today and shave my legs, I'll get right on it!

Learn more about this author, Megan Schwartz.
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