The Birds and the Bees

I was lurking on the internet this morning and reading various threads on different websites, including one that was asking the age old question: How do you feel about your parents reading your sex scenes?

And in all honesty, I shudder to think about it.

Let me make myself perfectly clear here.  I’m not embarrassed by the sex scenes I write.  I’m good with anyone and everyone reading them and knowing that I put them out there – except my parents. 

I’m in my late twenties and have a child, yet I still like to sometimes pretend that I have no idea what sex is.  (Q: “What do you mean you’re pregnant?”, A: “Sorry Dad but I have no idea how that happened.  My boyfriend must have just sneezed in my direction.  I should have picked up some more tissues when we were out…”  You get the point.) 

Obviously my parents know I’m full of shit and choose to love me anyway, but maybe I’m not giving them enough credit.  Do I think my dad would brag to the neighborhood gossip about my book, letting them know what awesome sex I write?  Doubtful.  But do I think he would brag to that same person that his amazing, smart and beautiful daughter just published her first novel?  Absolutely.  And do I think he’d care what she thought when she opened up said novel and read those explicit scenes?  Hell no.

And my mom’s response?  She’d probably tell all her girlfriends to go pick up a copy and want to know when I plan on taking her out for a celebratory pedicure.

So maybe my hangups on letting them read those scenes are my own. 

Because when it comes down to it, my parents are my parents and they love me regardless of what I do and sometimes because of it.  If I were lucky enough one day to get published, they’d celebrate it not hide in shame because their only child sells love and sex for a living.  And that’s why I have the best parents in the world.

And to hell with what the old bat down the road thinks.

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