What do you get when you cross a tanker of jet fuel with a truckload of industrial lubricant?

I asked myself the very same question as I drove past the lube truck. I was tempted to ask my mother, who was sitting in the passenger seat. She's fairly used to me by now, and she's learned to take certain things in stride. I could feel the metaphoric fangs of the newly born plot bunny sinking into my ankle, thankfully my left ankle, since I was still driving.

It's in the outline stage now, and I've invested in a pair of thick leather motorcycle boots, which don't do much for plot bunnies but make me feel seriously formidable. At my age, you want to be formidable. It sounds strong, and impressive, and not at all like a middle aged suburban mom. The alternatives to being formidable are either matronly or involve the color pink, which is not my color.

So how did I arrive at the decision to take up writing erotica at this stage of life?

The best answer for that is that I have nothing left to prove, so I can feel free to explore what I like. I had a career for a time, and then I settled down to have children, and decided I didn't want to parent from behind a desk. I've known too many people who got to hear about first words and first steps from the au pair. I've done the PTA thing, and made cupcakes, and gone to karate classes to watch my daughter kick boards, and to school to see my son in plays. And now, at long last, I can be myself.

Charmingly depraved.

It has a nice ring, doesn't it?