When people find out that I’m a writer, they often recommend that I read this book or that book and suggest that I write something like it. One of the recent suggestions had been for an erotic-mystery-thriller. I wasn’t sure exactly what an erotic-mystery-thriller was, so I decided to pick it up and give it a go.
Since erotic was the first word in the description, I had anticipated that the book might read like a porn movie, which are very similar to Rodgers and Hammerstein musical, except instead of having a character erupt into song at the drop of a hat, the actors have sex every five minutes.
I started the book at home and got about 100 pages into without any sexy time; however, I liked the protagonist’s voice, the crime was intriguing, and there seemed to be twist at the end of every chapter that kept me turning pages. But all the action seemed to be from the waist up.
The next morning, I boarded the train for work and stumbled into the first sex scene. I peered over the top of the book to check to see if anybody was watching me, like the other people suddenly knew that I tip-toed into the dirty part of the book. I returned to reading and after a few paragraphs I felt–how do I put this?–one of those “periscope up” moments coming on.
I immediately lowered the book to crotch level and started thinking about baseball, Mother Teresa, roadkill, and anything remotely unsexy, while I sucked in deep breaths. The last thing I wanted to happen was for another passenger to point at me and scream, “Hey, let that Boy Scout out of that pup tent in your pants!” In a nutshell, I was mortified.
Obviously, I just needed to put the book down until I returned home that evening; however, I wanted to know what happened to the characters and who the killer was. I couldn’t wait, though. I had to find out what happened next. Naturally, I thought I’d just thumb past the sex scene, but when I got there, I realized something important happened because they were no longer speaking to each other. I had to read the sex scene to find out what happened.
If I had been seated, it wouldn’t have been a problem, but there were too many women, elderly folks, and disabled people on the train for me to sit down. I tried turning my back to the rest of the car, but then I looked suspicious and the MARTA policeman started watching me. Finally, I slid my backpack off my shoulder and held it ad an odd angle to cover myself while I finished the sex scene. Just as I finished, the train pulled into my station and I disembarked.
I thought I was safe for the ride home that evening, but no–the couple had such a good time that they immediately had to get it on again. What’s up with that? Who does that in real life? And why did it take these characters so long? It’s not like that in real life. If one person manages achieve orgasm before the other starts snoring, it’s considered a success. Again, I reached for my backpack.
I read more of the book that night at home, but the characters seemed to still be angry with each other–or at least taking cold showers. The following morning, as soon as I boarded the train, they were pawing at each other again. And it was the same thing on my trip home, and the next day. By the time I got to work, I was craving a cigarette–and I don’t smoke.
So, gentlemen, I do not recommend reading reading anything sexy on public transportation, unless you’re seated or you’re wearing extremely baggy pants. And if you see me wearing a trench coat on the train in August, I’m going to tell you that I’m reading the bible.