Sex ed by romance novel

B was standing in the romance section of the library, running her fingers along the cracked spines of heavily read novels. I started to back away before she saw me. I was embarrassed to be caught looking at "dirty" sex books by another member of my conservative community, but she turned before I could skulk away.

"Hi, @honeyscribe," B whispered.

I edged closer to her and whispered hi back.

"Do you like romance novels?"

The truth was I'd never read one. I was in the aisle out of curiosity. Sex was scary for me. I thought reading erotica might make it less frightening and maybe jump-start the libido that was on emotional lockdown. I was looking for a particular author, but I can't remember who now. She grabbed from the selection she'd been reviewing and said, "This author is good. I mean, it's all sort of the same, but I think it's good for us to read it."

I took the book and looked at the strapping, bare-chested man on the cover. "Thank you."

The library offered a self-checkout. Even though I hid the book in a stack of literary novels, my cheeks still burned. I slid the book into my bag, hiding it until I got to the car. The whole time B's voice was repeating in my head, "It's good for us to read it."

I knew what she meant. It was an escape, permission to broaden experience in a safe way. It was the ability to step outside our skin and into someone else's, to learn ways to make the body tick and moan and come without the humiliation of making requests or the timidity of not knowing what we were talking about. Often, unlike our husbands, we were married off young and virginal. We weren't taught sex ed. We didn't know the difference between our vaginas and urethras, yet we had children and were always ready to receive, sexually. Always ready to be the vessel.

It was frustrating beyond sexually. We were given to recourse, no way to self-educate. So there we found ourselves in the library, plucking forbidden fruit from the shelves, deep in understanding of Eve and her choice to eat the apple.

B hadn't been embarrassed. The book was a tool, an emotional stimulant. "It's good for us to read it." But to be honest, I wasn't sure I could read it. I'd been trained to think badly of myself for even showing curiosity. It took many repeat efforts to quiet those voices enough to engage sexually explicit text, and even longer to find the enjoyment in it. To benefit from it.

It did get easier, reading romance novels. Part of it was niche. I found I was a fan of medieval and/or vampire settings best, but sex is sex and reading about it did do me good. I might have walked away from the library that day with no erotic fantasy in my hands, keeping the doors firmly shut on my sexual desire. I can't imagine where I would be now. Certainly not writing erotica where people can read it. Most definitely not as happy as I am in bed.

If you haven't read erotica, I recommend it. You can find plenty here on Steemit. Consider @techslut's original novel Mistress of Magic or my ongoing story The Yearning.