That really made me angry.
1. The stories are NOT sexual. They are not porn. They're about friends, family, dating, romance, jobs, travel, the paranormal, and celebrities. They're about strange, funny, and interesting things that happened.
Sex sometimes occurs, but it's not the point of the story, and it's described tastefully, mostly through euphemism: "then I went down on him." You won't find any "throbbing man-meat pounded into his jizz hole."
I really did get a sausage sighting of Christopher Atkins at a picnic in the park
Soak my pants with a root beer float while visiting Fort Wayne with my grandmother.
Spend a summer in Paris while I was in grad school.
Live with Derek in a house a few blocks south of Sunset Boulevard.
Visit Alan and his partner in Washington D.C.
Get jealous of Lane's friendship with a gay cartoonist.
Pick up a teenage hitchhiker on the way to Key West with David.
Move to Omaha with my first boyfriend Fred.
Date Kevin the Vampire.
Get four guys in my bed in Baltimore.
I changed most of the names and personal information to protect the identity of the people mentioned. Lane, David, Kevin, Dustin, Ryan H., Jimmy the Boy Toy -- they all have different names.
And some of their physical attributes. I'm particularly attracted to chubby guys, but I know that most of my readers aren't, so I've dropped some pounds and added a few inches to some of my boyfriends and hookups.
4. I have to invent some details.
I don't remember a lot of specific details, like who precisely was at the party, what restaurant we ate at, or who said what, so I have to improvise.
So maybe when I saw Christopher Atkins urinating against a tree, our conversation didn't involve how much he charged. I don't know what we actually said.
And maybe the root beer float incident didn't happen at Christmastime. I don't actually remember the season or the year.
Incidents are boring. They have to be fleshed out. To turn them into stories, they have to have pacing, narrative flow, suspense. They have to have a crisis, climax, and denouement.
So maybe when I tackled the kid who attacked me with the squirt bottle, I didn't actually kiss him.
And maybe the person who lent me his underwear when I poured root beer on myself was actually a middle-aged man, not a cute high school boy. And I was actually mortified with embarrassment, not turned on.
That's the difference between a memory and a story.