I was reading Pearl's post this morning about garage sales, and it reminded me of something that happened last year. I bought a few paperbacks from the thrift store. One of them was written by an unfamiliar author, but the cover looked promising. I like thrillers, and the picture on the front led me to believe that this was going to be a good one. (When they are ten for a dollar, you don't spend a great deal of time being picky about such things.) I tossed it in the basket and took it home.
Later, I discovered that it was not a thriller, but it was, indeed, a thrilling novel.
I've never read erotica before.
A couple of times, when I had a live-in boyfriend, I found his "magazines" under the mattress and read a few lines of articles, but this thrift store treasure was nothing like that.
It was intriguing. It was interesting. It was sexy.
I've been single for a long time, folks. This kind of thing was the highlight of my day, maybe even my whole week.
I curled up on my bed that afternoon and began to read. Once I got over the initial shock of what I was reading, I convinced myself that I had a duty to finish it. After all, I had spent my hard-earned dime on the damned thing. I might as well get my money's worth out of it, right? It's not like I could march back up to the thrift store and demand my money back because I had inadvertently purchased a book of smut.
All Sales Are Final! They have a sign that says so.
So, I would simply have to finish reading it. I was bound by my sense of duty and my inability to let a dime go to waste. What kind of single mother just throws her money away?
So I read the first chapter, and the second chapter, and the third chapter...
I didn't get up to do laundry or vacuum or cook supper. I kept reading...
And when the boys crowded my bedroom doorway to ask me why I hadn't yet cooked anything to eat, I shoved the book under my pillow and growled, "I AM READING! GO AWAY!"