The word 'teach' suddenly conveys a sense of menace that is foreign to me.

I just want mind-boggling sex tonight, but I don’t think you can beat my vibrator.

If a guy can't even handle my words, I don't think he can handle me as a person.

No, I do not need an outrageous quest to prove my worth. I deserve happiness -- happiness on my own terms.

I know logically that I can live without him, but loving him has become such an integral, necessary part of my life; I am not sure I could stop, even if we parted.

This new thought has turned into a mantra repeating itself in my head: I am a daring, fun, sexy woman.

Being a writer brings out a sassy woman inside me, and I love her so.

People who label erotica writers as sluts/men-whores remind me of the mob that once condemned smart women as witches. Mankind has not evolved much.