Page 2 of SapphicLover69
But her claim that she’d had boring, disappointing sex with me, so how could I possibly write great love scenes, was the last straw. I rebuked the claim on my page—and in every group I belonged to—then planned my strategic exit.
I slouched in the recliner chair in my living room where I write and stared out the window between the bookshelf and the entertainment center. The sun shone brightly, and a gentle breeze fluttered through the palm branches. I didn’t notice the tears trickling down my face until I tasted their saltiness on my dry lips. It was natural to grieve such a loss, after all.
“But I’m still Aspen Wolfe,” I reminded myself. “I can be whoever I want to be. My career isn’t over; it’s just getting started. I’ll get through this.” It was going to take a lot of pep talks.
Soon I was joined by a fat, fluffy, black cat whose purr was loud enough to hear from space. He hoisted his bulk onto my chest and licked my tears. “Furball.” I sunk my fingers into his thick hair and drew comfort from his affection. While many cats might be aloof and disinterested, Furball was a big love machine who always made me feel better about everything. “You’re still my number one fan,” I praised and allowed love and appreciation to fill my heart. “You don’t care if I’m Aspen or Mary—you just love me because I feed you,” I laughed, thankful I still could.
I was lost in my emotional rollercoaster when the beep of a notification on my laptop jolted me from my self-pity. “An email,” I told him, then frowned. Who could it be from? Had the fallout from deleting my account already started?
With hesitation and no small amount of anxiety, I clicked to bring up my mail.
Chapter 2
The Literary Laurels Society
“Catherine Beech. Who’s that?” Furball wasn’t interested. He climbed on my shoulder to nuzzle my neck like an old woman’s shawl. Curious, I clicked to open the letter.
Relief washed through me when I realized she was with the Literary Laurels Society, and the letter had nothing to do with my controversies or deleting my social media account. “They want me to be a presenter at this summer’s convention!” I cheered enthusiastically. This was fabulous! The formerly looming monster of imposter syndrome shrunk into a scared rabbit and bolted away, leaving me basking in a sense of accomplishment as tangible as the cat on my shoulders.
Joy and pride flushed my cheeks while I read the body of the email. This year’s conference was being held in New Orleans—convenient because I could drive there in under ten hours. Plus, I’d been to New Orleans before, so I knew what I was in for—thehottest, stickiest, most humid city in North America. Oh, but the culture, history, atmosphere, and music! This was wonderful. I was planning to go anyway since Aspen Wolfe was a finalist in three categories: Erotic Romance, Contemporary Romance Novel, and Romantic Thriller.
“The conference planning committee has invited you to present on the topic, ‘How to Write Sizzling Sex Scenes.’” The letter outlined the society’s values, which mirrored my own. Next, it listed reasons I had been selected for this topic—a tremendous boost to my shaky ego—and wrapped with a preliminary schedule for the event. It would start on a Thursday evening with a jazz music mixer, including food and drinks, followed by a comedy night. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday would feature an open fair with author and artist vendor tables, panels, presentations, and masterclasses aimed at both readers and writers. Sunday night’s awards dinner and ceremony would serve as the grand finale.
“As compensation for your contribution, the conference will cover the costs for tickets and accommodations, including a vendor table and the banquet meal.” I grinned, feeling better by the minute. It was high time something went right for me, and this was more than I could have hoped for.
More awards and organizations existed supporting sapphic fiction and LGBTQ+ authors and their work than ever before, and the Literary Laurels Society was one of the foundation groups. What started as a small cluster of writers with a shared vision two decades ago had grown into the foremost advocate for sapphic authors, representing diverse voices and genres.And they want me!
I resisted the urge to reply immediately. That would look too desperate, too needy, not professional enough. Instead, I plonked out a quick note to Tammy, telling her both thebad news regarding Aspen’s farewell to social media and the incredible revelation about the conference.
Next, I texted Tracy, who responded with party-cheer emojis and a‘way to go!’I hadn’t been this excited since winning my first award. Amid my celebration, a thought hit me—I’d have to look, act, and talk like super-sexy, consummately professional Aspen Wolfe for four whole days! Suffering a mini panic attack, I called my sister.
“Alice, what are you doing toward the end of June?”
“And hello to you too,” came her sarcastic reply. My big sister, Alice Jones Severide, was a beautician married to a dermatologist. Together, they battled acne and bad hair days to transform average-looking customers into walking works of art—well, I guess they didn’t address weight or wardrobes, but Alicewasfantastic with a makeover.
“Sorry,” I huffed. “Hello. How’s Wilson and the kids? Worked on any celebrities lately?”
“All right,” Alice laughed. “What d’ya need.”
A dozen witty comebacks flashed through my mind, but I wasn’t calling to banter. Besides, she was right. I usually only phoned when I wanted something. Did that make me a bad sister? I’d called a couple of weeks before just to chat after I saw a positive article about Dr. Wilson Severide’s work with treating and preventing melanoma. Yeah, he cured more than pimples, and skin cancer was one of the foremost concerns of modern beachgoing Floridians. So, I cut to the point.
“I’ve been invited to speak at a conference, and I’ll be gone for four days. Before I go, I need you to give me a makeover and teach me how to do the stuff with my face and hair so I can maintain my professionally-enhanced appearance.”
“Really?” Interest twinkled in her tone. “A teacher’s conference?”
I smirked impatiently. She knew I hadn’t been teaching all year to focus on writing. While I’d never gone into detail with the family about exactly what I wrote, they knew I was self-publishing fiction novels and short stories. And I’d only had to ask for money a couple of times. Mine was a modest lifestyle; it had to be as an underpaid teacher and now as a starving artist. My apartment was a full five-minute drive from the bay, and my car was the same one Mama and Daddy bought me when I left home for college seventeen years ago. Yes, it still ran. It was a Toyota, after all.
I’d enjoyed a few plusher years when Tracy and I lived together and had two incomes to support us, but it’s always a struggle for a single woman to make financial ends meet. Alice, with her doctor husband, never had to worry about running out of funds at the end of a month or resorting to unhealthy ramens because she couldn’t afford to go grocery shopping.
Teaching had been rewarding; it had also been stressful and depressing. Many of the kids endured poverty and miserable home lives, hemmed in by rigid pressures that I was powerless to address. Juggling the demands of parents, the principal, the school board, and, worst of all, the state of Florida proved to be an exhausting and frustrating task. Education had become so politicized with candidates blasting opponents’ policies and promising so much better. Every other year, they required a complete transformation in the way our classrooms operated, and I was in constant fear of somebody waging war against me if they discovered my sexual orientation. Then they passed the insane “Don’t Say Gay” law that infuriated me to no end. Not only could I not tell people I was a lesbian—I couldn’t even act as an advocate for students at school because we were supposed to operate as if no member of the LGBTQ+ community existed. It was just too much.
Maybe I wasn’t making quite as much money writing as I had teaching, but I was happier and healthier, and that counted. Alice just didn’t understand.
“No, Allie, a writer’s conference that’s going to be in New Orleans the last weekend of June.”
“New Orleans?” Her voice rose in incredulity. “You’ll sweat more there than here. Why couldn’t they have had it in February?”
“Mardis Gras,” I reminded her.
