Granny-Porn

She was standing behind one of those tables used at church potlucks. One of dozens of authors participating in an annual book event at the mall. The perfect chance for children and their parents to visit face-to-face with the magician-makers and beast-makers otherwise known as writers.

I took a moment before the scheduled signings to introduce myself to the authors I did not know — the bulk of them. I’d met the gal who wrote the book about her mom being abandoned as a baby. And a gal who wrote fantasy fiction for young adults but so far hadn’t spoken at any schools because that part of book writing- the part where you have to put yourself out in public wasn’t nearly as appealing.

Then I walked up to the gal at the end of the long table. A tall, slim woman, she wore a denim dress embellished with tiny flowers. Her hair was cut short, cropped for ease as much as for style. Her smile was pleasant, welcoming, like that of a favorite Bible school teacher. She, in fact, looked like she probably taught at a conservative private school of some sort. Or maybe she just taught piano or violin lessons. She looked exactly like the kind of woman you’d want to be your neighbor. A female Mr. Rogers. 

Noticing the book in front of her, I introduced myself and then said, “So you write YA?” That’s writer vernacular for Young Adult fiction.

“Yes,” she said. “I do but I also write this.”

And with that she reached under the table and pulled out another book. I don’t know if my face registered gob-smacked, but it sure should have. 

In bright red print was the word Erotica.

There was more to the title but suffice it to say that the entire marketing pitch for the book revolves around old people having hot sex.

“You wrote this?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“But you keep it under the table?”

“The store manager didn’t think it would be a good idea to put it out here with the children’s books,” she replied.

God bless that store manager and anyone else with a shred of common sense.

“So you wrote that?” I asked again. Still disbelieving it.

“Under another name,” she said. Or I think that’s what she said. I was still reeling, trying to put together my obvious misconception of the church lady with the very real porn lady standing in front of me.

Okay. I’ll confess in the here and now. I am being judgmental. There is part of me that longs for a return to legalism. Or at least a well-defined sense of right and wrong, where porn, especially granny-porn, is always wrong.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

And I don’t care if you think me a prude. I don’t care if you spew out your morning coffee as you curse me. Go right ahead.

I think aging people have  a right to hot sex. I do. In fact, most of the aged people I know do have hot sex. I’m wiling to wager that most people have their hottest sex after age 50, if you take into consideration the affects of menopause and aging, sex is the best workout most people over 50 get. I’m going to go so far and say it may be, in fact, the only time all day the aging work up a sweat.

Here’s what I truly believe — if you are sitting around reading books about erotica, chances are the only person you get erotic with is yourself.

I’ve been married 35-years next week. (Yes. Thank you.) And I’m not bragging or anything like that, but I can assure you that of all the books on our bedsides, not a one is a how-to-guide to erotica. Mark it up to my sense of adventure or even reckless daring if you like, but it seems to me that if a person has their nose in a map (or in this case a book) the entire time they’re exploring Paris, they might miss something wonderful along the way. I think the exploration is often the best part of the journey. 

The last thing I want is my granny – or your granny for that matter – handing over a recipe card file containing pornographic images.

I miss the days when the Bible was Granny’s go-to-book on erotica and all things of life and death.

Listen, if as an author you are compelled to hide the books that you write, something is very, very wrong about what you are writing. (Disclaimer: I am not referring to those social justice writers living in Syria or North Korea, who write at the risk of their own lives).

It makes me want to go all Bob Newhart on the grannies who waste the precious gift of creativity by writing to the under-the-table-and-covers crowd: