The butch’s face hardened to a stony glare. “This is Ms. Valery Preston, the executive president of Femlove Ink, the foremost publisher of lesbian fiction, and I’m her assistant, Cary Marino.” Her posture resembled that of a mafia godfather’s bodyguard. Femlove Ink was one of the many publishing companies that had turned down my first book, the one that took the Debut Author Laurel Award. Meeting her made me happy to have been rejected.
Valery raised a hand to stifle any further comment from the muscle. “I am intimately acquainted with the Literary Laurels Society, as I was a foundation member and served on the board for over a decade. I was practically running this affair while you were still in diapers. The Laurels organization was established to supportlesbianauthors and books in a world dominated bystraight men who wished nothing more than for us to cease to exist.”
Her expression darkened as she pointed a glossy fingernail at me. “We fought hard, sometimes at great personal and financial peril, for the right to tell our stories. Now every new fangled queer designation people can conceive of wants to ride our coattails and profit off our sacrifices. And I suppose you think that’s fair?”
Valery aimed the lecture at me, ignoring Winter altogether, as if she didn’t matter or wasn’t worth acknowledging. That angered me most of all. But I bit my tongue and tamped down the tirade I ached to release.
Instead, I nodded and spoke calmly. “Ms. Preston, I truly appreciate all that you and your associates did to pave the way so people like me can pursue a career we love, writing stories about women like us. The hundreds of fans who have turned out for this event and hundreds of thousands more around the world owe you a tremendous debt of thanks. All that you have accomplished, championed, and struggled to achieve is indeed praiseworthy. But our tent is bigger now. Don’t you think bisexuals, transgender women, and nonbinary people deserve the right to tell their stories too?”
“Certainly,” snapped Cary. “I’m all for them telling their stories, just not at our expense. Let them establish their own support groups and let us have our space. We didn’t invite them in; they invited themselves. Now everything has to be ‘sapphic’ to be more ‘inclusive,’” she said sarcastically with air quotes.
I heard Winter suck in a breath and saw her step forward in my peripheral vision, and I held up a hand. Then, with a meek countenance and calm tone, I replied, “The current board of Literary Laurels voted to be more inclusive and adopt the term sapphic for that purpose. You indeed provided a foundation for my generation to build on, and authors like Winter Bliss andQ.L. Shade, and, frankly, all the others represented here owe you a debt of thanks we can never repay. That still doesn’t excuse you for acting like an obnoxious bitch.”
A look of outrage passed over both their faces, but, before either could rebuff my remark, Ms. Catherine Beech, the current reigning president of the society, stepped up to join us with an endearing smile.
“Valery, Cary, how nice of you to come!” she greeted in welcome.
In an instant, Valery slapped on a cheery façade and turned to hug and air kiss the elegant and enlightened leader who did not allow age to devolve her into a dinosaur. “Why, Catherine, so marvelous to see you! I was hoping to run into you this morning.”
She looped her arm through Catherine’s, pivoted on her heel, and walked her in the opposite direction from our tables. Cary rolled her eyes behind their backs with a grimace then fell in behind the two pillars of the lesbian fiction world.
“Well done!” exclaimed Marty Sanderson, the buxom Black author of butch/femme romances whose table was wedged between mine and Winter’s. “If you hadn’t told that arrogant horse’s ass off, I was fixin’ to.”
I smiled, more than a little proud of myself for standing up. Winter beamed at me with admiring eyes, twisting her fingers in front of her until she had to reach to push up her glasses. “Thanks for rushing to my rescue, faithful space knight,” I smirked at her with flirtatious eyes.
Stop it, Mary! We aren’t flirting with her!
Winter grinned and bounced on her toes. Then I pinned her with a serious look. “You better get back to your table before someone steals all your stuff.”
She stopped bouncing and stared at me in disbelief. “You mean someone here would steal something?”
Poor, sweet, trusting Winter. She was like a puppy that I just wanted to take home and snuggle. “Yes, here. I’ve had it happen before. Now, shoo. We’ll talk later.”
At that, the twinkle returned to her eyes, and she sprinted away to count her books.
Chapter 7
Writing Sizzling Sex Scenes
As I gazed out over the crowd packing Chinoiserie A, a nervous sweat formed in the palms of my hands. Almost every seat had been filled and we weren’t due to start for five more minutes. It figures both R.B. Taylor and Selina Fowlerton were there, looking fabulous. It’s not like either of them needed to learn an iota about writing sensational sex. I tried to keep my eyes on my cadre of friends, who all beamed at me like overeager Cheshire cats.
We had taken turns grabbing lunch while Beth watched over our booths. I was astounded by the turnout and thrilled with my sales, bringing in a bigger haul than I ever had at a live event before (not that there had been many of those). If I got nothing else out of this weekend, next month’s rent would get paid.
After packing up our remaining inventory, we all returned to our rooms for a little breather, and I made a quick change into the outfit Alice had picked for me. The sleek fabric, subduedhues, and bold cut cried, “Come find me after the seminar.” I hoped it wouldn’t be too provocative. But itwastasteful—not hookerish at all.
I met back up with Tammy, Beth, Elaine, and Winter in the twenty-third-floor foyer to hang out at three-thirty. The space between event rooms was bursting with people chattering softly. By the stairs resided the Literary Laurels booth, selling conference swag like T-shirts, towels, book bags, and coffee mugs, all with the logo of a ruffled rainbow flag emblazoned with a golden laurel in its center. Along another wall, the industry professionals—editors, artists, proofreaders, publicists, and publishers—had displays advertising their services and touting their credentials.
The opening gathering in the two presentation rooms had started at three—an official meeting of the Literary Laurels Society Board Members in this room and a live author reading for fans in the larger room. Authors who had written in wishing to take part but weren’t picked for a panel or to give a presentation were invited to perform live, ten-minute readings from the book of their choice in reading hours on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday afternoons in Chin B. I appreciated Catherine and the organizers’ dedication to involving as many authors as they could in the events. Despite a few critical voices roaming the halls, I was proud to be a part of it.
It’s just like teaching a class of students, only they’re older. No biggie,I coached myself.Aspen Wolfe does everything with confidence and ease. She would never be rattled by …
It was one minute till four and none other than the elite society president Catherine Beech walked in with Valery Preston and Cary whatshername, taking the only empty seats which remained—on the front row.
Does Catherine know that fossil was badmouthing her decisions?I couldn’t think about that. Here I was, barely fiveyears into the writing business, an indie author of erotica romances at that, and two lesbian literature legends sat on my front row. I swallowed and glanced anxiously at my friends. Winter must have been watching me because she met my gaze with a tremendous grin and gave me two thumbs up. Her comical expression was just what I needed to relieve the tension I felt at that moment. I returned a much more subtle smile, rose, and walked to the podium.
“Good afternoon.”Stand up straight, put your shoulders back, speak with authority.Passing a glance over the audience, I intentionally made eye contact with as many individuals as possible. I had developed presenting skills; I just needed to be calm enough to implement them.
Lifting a small leaflet of stapled papers, I asked, “Did everyone get a copy of the handout at the door?” I had prepared an outline similar to what I used to give my students. It consisted of presentation notes with blanks left in key places for the students to write in the most important points. I hoped these professionals didn’t find it too elementary.
