To All the Wives I've Wronged Before

Image by PhotosCopyright from Pixabay 

A post by Giselle Renarde

I sometimes wonder when my misdeeds will catch up with me.

You know how I love all these true ghost story shows on TV? (Sure you do.) Well, sometimes you'll come across an episode involving demonic infestation. You don't just have a ghost in your house. You've got a full-on demon. It's a dangerous situation.

Sometimes the paranormal investigators will be able to pinpoint the moment the homeowner might have opened the door to this demon, and often that event occurred YEARS prior. The homeowner will be baffled by this. How come so many years--decades, even--went by before this demon ever showed its face?

The paranormal experts usually say that a demon will lie in wait until you're happy. Married to the perfect person? Great job? Cute kids and/or pets climbing all over you? That's the time a demon will choose to attack. Because they seek to destroy happiness.

If you know that I like ghost shows, you also know that I've been involved in my share of adulterous relationships. Seeing that life is irony, it wouldn't at all surprise me if someone's wife came at me after all this time.

A few years ago, an ex told me he was pretty sure his wife had stumbled upon the emails we'd sent each other when we were involved in an adulterous relationship. He said, "If I know her, she didn't just read one--she read them all." But these people do not talk to each other, so if she did read that series of emails (a string that started twenty years ago and ended almost a decade later), she never confronted her husband about it.

And she never confronted me.

So it's possible there's a wife out there who knows every nitty gritty detail of my affair with her husband (at least, all the details captured by email) and she's just sitting on that information. What would need to happen--in her life or in mine--for her to come after me? Would she lash out? How?

The wives of the married people I've slept with have always been kind, good-natured individuals. I can't imagine any of them coming at me with a rifle--except that I can imagine that scenario, and I've imagined it many times--but you never know what might happen. The fantasy, and one I've written about more than once, is that she comes at me and I'm like, "Well, I can sleep with you, too. It's only fair!" and great sex ensues.

It's possible that only happens in erotica. But it's a preferable fantasy to being slaughtered by wives.

Too Close for Comfort #TrueStory #Adultery #Erotica

 

A post by Giselle Renarde.

Lately, I've been devoting a lot of my time to creating audio versions of my books.

Until this fall, when I bought myself a tablet (which I refer to as my "tip calculator" because I have no idea how to use it), I would record audio by reading from hard copies of my works.

But there's one book, in particular, that kept getting pushed aside.

I'd pick it up. I'd look at the table of contents. I'd flip to a story of particular interest and I'd read a paragraph or two. My words--words I wrote more than a decade ago--hit me in the heart. Like a punch.

They're too real. They're too true. I can't say these words out loud.

The book I'm talking about is Audrey and Lawrence, my collection of short stories inspired by the relationship I had with a married man. The stories aren't true--not strictly speaking. Well, some come pretty close, but most are completely made up.

The emotions expressed in those stories? The emotions are true. They're probably truer than anything else I've written. That book is my heart on the page. I can't get away from that. How can I tell those stories out loud? How can I say the words all these years later?

Audrey is not the most flattering depiction of me, but it is an honest portrayal. I hope I'm not so much like her now. I hope I'm a little less needy and a lot less jealous. I'd like to think that's the case. But reading those stories reminds me of my faults--of my character flaws and my missteps.

A lot of people from the romance world hate me because I write about adultery. And not just readers--authors too! I understand that they're not fond of cheating, but I'm not a romantic. Nothing I write is really romance. You aren't safe with my work. It's not safe. I'm not safe.

My reputation precedes me, and not just online. One time I was hired for a job only to discover that my boss went to school with my ex. I guess he did a little digging, asked around a bit, and discovered my true colours. After that, he started warning all the married men in his employ to steer clear of me.

I was a bad girl. I couldn't be trusted.

It was really such a shame, you know. I loved that job.

Anyway, here I am, many years later, wondering if this post is starting to sound like a cautionary tale. It's not. At least, it wasn't intended that way.

I just started re-reading Tristan Taormino's Opening Up and, as much as I now strive to live my life with honesty and integrity, I understand why people lie. I understand why people cheat. I've lived that life. Honesty is easier and even less hurtful, in the long run, but we cheat out of fear. Fear of loss. Fear of hurting those we love. Fear of admitting what it means when we love more than one person. Fear of opening up.

What fear is holding me back? Why can't I bring myself to create the audio version of Audrey and Lawrence? After all this time, why can't I say the words out loud?

Am I too scared to tap in to my inner Audrey? Am I too scared that she's still me?

No Rest, No Mercy

by Jean Roberta

Please excuse this very late post. On Friday the 13th, I was struggling with the second incarnation of a bad cold that has been circulating through the university where I teach. I caught the first version in March (before Eroticon), never completely recovered, and it seems that made me vulnerable to the second round.

Its probably not a coincidence that winter has dragged on and on here, bringing snow and more snow.

April 12 and 13 were the last days of my three classes, so I forced myself to go, even though I would rather have stayed in bed.

Appropriation has appeared in my life in various forms, and the concept is roughly as complicated as the concept of “obscenity.” In the 1980s, a major Canadian feminist press divided in two over the issue of “cultural appropriation” or “appropriation of voice.” Three white women writers (but if their DNA hadn’t been analyzed, how could anyone be sure how “white” they were?) had written stories in the “voices” of “people of colour,” these stories had been accepted for publication, but then the collectively-run press reneged on their contracts. The Writers Union of Canada defended the three writers. There were headlines, lawsuits, and a lockout. It was ugly.

As a young writer who had recently had a collection of lesbian stories published by a very small, one-woman press, I was terrified. I’ve always been interested in cultures that aren’t strictly my own, and several of my stories could be found guilty of “appropriation.” I could only hope I was too far below the radar of the feminist writing community in general that I wouldn’t be ostracized for life.

At the same time, “anti-porn feminism” was on the rise, but I was also interested in writing about sex. Like all writers, I hoped to find an audience of readers who would enjoy my words, but I could never lose my fear of being “called out” very publicly, and excluded from every community I could possibly hope to belong to.

My fear has subsided somewhat as the zeitgeist has shifted, but I can never forget how easy it would be for one self-righteous person to score points by confronting me in person or in print. As every woman knows, a reputation can be lost overnight.

In the last thirty years, I’ve seen a lot of another kind of appropriation: plagiarized student essays. There are various ways I can check out the originality of the essays my students hand in, and the easiest method is to run lines through Google.

On Friday, an international student (i.e. English is not his first language) handed in a last-minute essay on a contemporary novel that showed an impressive knowledge of ancient Greek literature. I smelled a rat. I had already marked his earlier essay, which was less competently written. To be the safe side, I decided to check them both out.

I should have been much more suspicious of this student all semester. The essay on the novel turned out to have been written by a professional critic. No surprise there.

The other essay, which was definitely written by a student, had been copied from a student-help site. The mistakes I had commented on weren’t even those of my student, and my advice wouldn’t have helped him.

These discoveries didn’t help me to feel healthier. Still feeling achy, I printed out the evidence of plagiarism, attached it to the essays, and sent this material to the Associate Dean to deal with, which is the standard protocol. Since the essay on the novel was worth 20%of the grade for the course, I suspect this student has no chance of passing. Even still, I will probably have to grade his exam.

Maybe the reason this type of appropriation makes me so livid is because it’s not ambiguous. Cultural borrowing in various forms has occurred throughout history, so I’m willing to show as much forgiveness to other writers as I hope to get from them. Cheating on an assignment is a different thing, and I don’t buy the excuses from some students that 1) they had no idea they were doing anything wrong, and 2) my claim that they “cheated” is really just a misunderstanding of their way of doing “research.” (I’m reminded of the traditional claim that sexual assault and harassment are really just misunderstandings.)

Some days, I would like to be the Red Queen from Lewis Carroll's Through the Looking-Glass, and stride about yelling "Off with their heads!" For better or worse, I don’t have the energy for that today.

Maybe next week.