Holiday Smut

One of my book clubs determined, through a great conversation of great fun that shall not be repeated here (what happens in Book Club stays in Book Club), to read “holiday smut” over the break. I was intrigued. I have never read smut. I swore to never, ever read That Smutty Book Everyone Talked About a Couple Years Ago because I heard right off the bat that it was chock-full of really poor writing. (In fact, I’ve heard it’s so terribly written that I won’t even sully the wall of my blog with its title.) There are too many good books to waste time on sloppy writing, no matter how steamy it is. So when one of my friends offered to recommend a smut book for our December read, I jumped at it. The only smut book I really knew about was the best seller that was made into a movie. Which I also didn’t see because I don’t want to throw good money at poor writing in any form. So to have a smut book recommended for reading over Christmas? Perfect. A whole new genre to explore. I’ve studied the Russian masters, the English classics, the new Americans. Dostoyevske to Shakespeare to Capote to Kerouac. Spent a whole term on Chaucer freshman year of high school. Read Lolita in college because Sting sang Don’t Stand So Close To Me. Fell in love with Dorothy Parker’s wit. But through sheer subconscious purposeful intent luck, I have managed to avoid smut. It’s time to expand my horizons.

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Things I Will Never Do

  1. Jump out of an airplane. I’ve spent years trying to figure out why anyone would jump out of a perfectly good airplane and I’ve yet to find a good answer.
  2. Pierce anything else. I have one hole in each ear for earrings and that’s it. I hardly ever change my earrings, preferring to stick with the small diamonds that M gave me years ago. This is more of a laziness thing than any personal preference. I don’t need anything else that requires maintenance.
  3. Play football. I mean the real kind. I’d try flag football, but actual football…yeah, no. I watch NFL and NCAA games every week and I see these super athletic guys get tackled and go flying and wind up crushed, and they bounce back up, slap each other in the helmet (a celebration I do not understand in the slightest – “Great job!” BAM) and keep playing, and I think to myself, “That had to hurt.” I know that I would not be moving for a long time if I took even one of those falls. No way. No how.
  4. Climb El Cap. Or any giant rock face, really. Those people are crazy. Bat. Shit. Crazy.
  5. Love coconut. This is distressing to me. I really, really want to like coconut. So many people love coconut, and it’s fun to say “coconut,” and hello…pina coladas. Nope. Not meant to be for me, even though every once in a while I try again. Alas.
  6. Enjoy the Aliens movies. As much as M wants me to, there’s just no way in hell I will ever watch more than 2.3 nanoseconds of one of those movies. I have such a visceral reaction to them that it’s pretty much guaranteed I will bolt from any room that has Sigourney Weaver on the screen. I don’t even wait to see what movie it is. Not taking that chance.
  7. Own a motorcycle. I’ve ridden on them before. That was more than enough. Not enough between me and the road. Or other vehicles. Or trees. No, thanks.
  8. Run a marathon. I can’t think of worse torture than to train for, and then run, 26.2 miles at a time. What in the hell are people thinking? I mean, good on ya, but I don’t get it. I’ve seen what those people look like when they cross the finish line. They do not look happy. They do not look like they are having a good time. In fact, they look like the most miserable people on the planet. Why would I want to feel that way? I do not, as a matter of fact, want to feel that way. Ever.
  9. Hunt. This is one of those things that I absolutely do not judge others for (unlike the runners…I totally judge them). I grew up in a hunting family and I respect both the sport and the need for controlling overpopulation. It’s just something I could never personally do. If I’m shooting anything, it’s with a good camera and an expensive lens. Far less bloody, although no deer steaks after which is a bummer.
  10. Enjoy wearing high heels. Those things are like expensive, colorful torture devices for my feet. I either never learned how to walk in them properly or am missing the gene altogether (I suspect the latter), which means any time I do try to wear them I am in imminent danger of seriously injuring myself in addition to looking like a clown on her first day of stilt-walking class.

Editor’s Note: I retain the right to add to this list in the future, should I think of more things I will never, ever do.

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