The Erotica Writer's Conference

Really? I'm just blogging about RomantiCon? It was in October...the beginning. It's now November...the end.
Better late than never. But back to Romanticon:
As always, a huge smashing success. For authors, the bar is where we always seem to congregate. Helen Hardt and I sat right up front, since the tables were taken by the usual erotica tramps. I feel I have the right to call them that; while they may be friends, they took the tables first.
I snapped at the bartender. “I'd like a Tight Snatch, please.”
Helen fluttered her lashes. “Flirtini for me.”
We giggled, but neither was going to admit to the other we just like to say the names. This year there were three young men sitting up there, though not from our conference. Very young, you could tell by the way they nudged each other at our drinks, looking all excited and flushed. One had his ID sitting on the bar, waiting to proudly show he was legal.
Mari Freeman, red-headed vixen, went over to whisper in the youngest child's ear about all she could teach him in Cougar-ville. His eyes looked ready to bug out.
Sigh.
Tonight I'll buy her a drink. Scratch that, cause she's really interesting, especially when she drinks. A shot. I'll spare no expense to rile her up.
But then the oldest of the group of three boys, all twenty-nine tender years of lickable age, (I know, he told me so) passed me a note. HUH? I haven't been passed a note since twelfth grade.
“Your cute.”
Helen leaned over my shoulder. “He spelled 'your' wrong.”
“Quit editing my love note,” I snapped. Jealous bitch. I would have shared my lovebug.
She shrugged, looking disgusted. “He should at least learn to spell if he's going to hit on an author.”
The kid was busy rambling through all this. Busy leaving enticing little comments about how interesting his life was. Never noticing Helen and I carried on a conversation at the same time he babbled. He was a stuntman. Big pause. Apparently I wasn't quick enough to ask more. He let another tidbit out. Dirt bikes.
I stifled a yawn.
In big demand.
My mind wandered. An innocent-looking author walked up. Her long blond hair was smooth and straight like...a virgin. A schoolgirl. Like Darla on Buffy.
“Hello, again, Heather,” said Hel. “Do you know my friend Rena?”
I said hi. I had seen her around in a couple classes. She sat in the barstool next to us, blessedly blocking the view of the stuntkid. “So what kind of stuff do you write?” I asked.
Of course, there are several different genres. Even if we are all erotic.
She blushed. “Oh, I write really mild stuff.”
Of course. She looked like my teenage daughter. I smiled condescendingly. “Like what, sugar?”
“Light stuff. A little menage. Some ginger figging.”
I blink, then smooth over my features in case confusion crept across when I was unaware...
“Oooh, interesting! I haven't written that yet.” Helen coos. Damn, Hel knows what it is? There's no way I'm asking now. So I smile too. If they want to assume I'm in...so be it.
“Love gingersnapping,” I say.
Helen clears her throat. The blond looks confused. I grunt. She is blond, even if she is all sweet and innocent. Probably had a space out moment. Then a beatific smile crosses her sweet, pretty face and she wanders down the bar to visit others.
Hel leans in. “So by the way, what is it?”
Surprise slams into me. Helen is the most up-to-date woman I know. “You don't know? I thought for sure you knew.”
“Not a clue. But I wasn't about to admit it. She's so sweet and innocent looking and maybe she does it.”
Oooh. I didn't think about that.
“Okay, I don't know either.”
Now it's Hel's turn to look surprised. “You don't? I thought for sure you would.”
For a second I'm flattered. Then I frown when it sinks in. “Huh?”
“Well, now I'm curious. I'll have to google,” she announces.
“Yeah," I agree.
She pulls out her laptop and fires up.
Another author, Lena Matthews, wanders up. “What are you two doing?”
“Googling gingersnapping.”
“Figging,” Hel says dryly.
“That's what I meant to say,” I said, like I knew the term all along. Cause for sure, wicked, come-hither-and-spank-me Lena knows.
“Hmmm,” Lena says. “What's that?”
“You don't know either?” Helen asks. “Well, what the hell is wrong with us? The innocent blond knows enough to write about it...and the naughty-looking ones don't...here it comes...oh...ok. You peel a ginger root, take a few slivers and insert...ouch...anally. It's a pleasure-pain kind of burn during sex...”
Lena sat a few inches taller, like we're not gonna notice she just clenched her butt cheeks tightly.
“Ow. See, you gotta watch the innocent-looking ones,” she says. “The ones who drink the fruity drinks. They're just baaad.”
“Yeah,” we agree in unison. “Floozies.”
All three of us lean in to slurp out of our lovely drinks, moving aside the fruit twisted onto the dangerous-looking toothpicks.