HIM: “It’s The Story of O meets Jane Austen for the sexting and blogging generation.”
ME: “I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”
HIM: “It is. Completely. Although you should have warned me what it was about. Flying coach with an erection is so declassé.”
ME: “I did tell you. I said it was one-third erotica, one-third chick lit, one-third existential angst.”
HIM: “Well. I didn’t expect it to have quite this much of an impact. It’s impressive. Tight. It flows. So very easy to read, and keep reading. The sex reads true. Don’t call it chick lit. It’s something different, new.”
It’s not a bad review, I think. Except… I didn’t write it for him. I wrote it for you.
Are you going to love it?
“So shocking! So awesome! Tell me—what does Matt look like? I need to know.”
“Your book. I can’t stop reading. I was late for work today. Again.”
“God. I WANT HIM. How did you do this?”
“Your book. I am having trouble working. I just want to take my phone into the bathroom and keep reading. I can’t wait until lunch time so I can continue. Just finished chapter 24 on my way to work. Yes, I read at every red light!”
“It’s 4:30 in the morning. I’m done. Holy fuck, that’s hot.”
“No! It’s over and I don’t want it to be! Tell me there’s more!”
In brief: Jane’s a wife, mother, daughter, friend. A couple years shy of 40 but not stressing about it… yet. Mostly content. Mildly bored. Suddenly, a text from an old lover pulls her into an online sexual vortex. As she “mindfucks” her lover and attempts to figure out how this aspect of herself fits into the obligations of marriage and motherhood, other relationships around her strain, fracture, collapse. Her best friend is recklessly pursuing a series of cyber-affairs, while another friend’s attempt at an open marriage leads to an ugly divorce. Her next-door neighbour is planning a wedding with her forever on-again/off-again lover—but will it really happen? Her parents, on the eve of their forty-third wedding anniversary, announce they’re getting a divorce, while her father-in-law’s third marriage ends. Meanwhile her lawyer-husband is exchanging a lot of texts with an adoring young associate. Does Jane care? Or is she too engulfed in her own sanity-straining mindfuck to really notice?
It’s uber-sexy. Well-written. Highly consumable. The erotica is undiluted and un-euphemistic; the characters are engaging; and the life plot lines as real as if they were happening to you, your neighbours, your colleagues.
Do you want to read the book?
“God, yes! Where, how?”
PS Get a free copy of TASTE ME: the thinking woman’s erotica by M. Jane Colette when you ask me to send you love letters: