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No, this has nothing to do with “Fifty Shades of Gray,” a book I couldn’t bring myself to read because so many people I know and respect complained about the writing. I was tempted to name this post something more reminiscent of that title, though, because I did notice that the one post that contained “Sex” in the title got more reads than pretty much anything else I’d written. And as it turns out, views get me off, figuratively speaking.

I am not against books about sex, it should be said. I have read many of them, some of which were terribly – really terribly – written. Seriously, finding well-written erotica is something of a challenge. Anne Rice’s “Sleeping Beauty” trilogy was both hot and decently written, although by book three there seemed to be a certain amount of redundancy. I read “Nine and a Half Weeks” so long ago I can’t remember anything about the writing. I was also young enough at the time that an exciting subject matter was enough. In retrospect it seems to have been as much a story about codependency and unhealthy relationships. But wow, I digress.

This was intended to be a post celebrating the fact that I now have fifty followers, which to me is a big deal. I only began blogging about a month ago, but I have written fifty posts, well, fifty-one now. So, fifty in fifty. That seems like a decent, fair number. One follower for each post I have made. It’s all relative, I guess. I read an article in a magazine that referenced a fashion blogger who gets – wait for it – three million hits a month. Holy crap. I can’t even wrap my brain around that. I’m quite sure I’m not nearly that fascinating. (Is anyone really that fascinating?) But still, unreasonable comparisons aside, I am really very happy to have fifty followers. It’s more than I would have expected a month ago, without question. And it’s a really cool feeling. People are actually reading this! Do I hope the number goes up? Sure. I hope I am interesting enough – and that my writing is good enough – to merit having a thousand followers someday. Or more, even. A girl’s gotta have dreams, right?

In the meantime, though, I stick to the plan. I write about what matters to me, or what happens to be on my mind at any given moment. I don’t make gratuitous posts to garner more views, or anything along those lines. Honestly, my posts are too long to pull that off, anyway. I do look at the number of views, and they do matter to me. The most views I ever had in a single day was 122, and that was a day on which I think I posted four separate times. The other day I had 90 views with only two posts, but one was the post with “Sex” in the title. I find that kind of funny.

It hasn’t occured to me to go looking for erotica on here. Again, lack of time, or maybe simply lack of imagination. It hadn’t crossed my mind. I’m picky, though. When I was younger, anything involving sex would do the trick. I am not ashamed to admit I read Harlequin Romances by the hundreds in high school. Now, though, it’s a trickier proposition. I desire something that most books of that sort lack… plot, primarily. And a little character development doesn’t hurt either. I think it must be hard to write sex well. We all have read the nearly comical scenes involving “throbbing members.” At least I assume we all have. It’s hard to get turned on while snickering. Another thing I prefer in these kinds of books that’s difficult to find is a certain level of realism. When things are too perfect, my brain actually rejects them. For me, it’s not easy to get worked up if I’m thinking, “That could never happen.” I need it to be believable. Even my fantasies are like that. I mean, they have to be somewhat convoluted on the surface, because Hugh Jackman is never going to fall into my bed. And if he did, I’d be a nervous wreck… and that’s kind of the point. In my fantasies, there are typically nerves involved. Something to convince my brain the implausible might just be plausible. Books should be more like that, I think. A balance. Yes, they are fantasy by definition and we all want a little magic in our lives. But… maybe I’m weird, but I like a dose of realism thrown in. Awkwardness, nerves, a demand that the lights be turned out, thank you very much. Bring the fantasy a tiny bit closer to earth and make it more accessible. Or maybe I’m just weird. That seems entirely plausible.

This seriously was supposed to be focused on the whole fifty in fifty thing. Co-sleeping… clearly it’s killing me. Sorry. Now you know way more than you ever wanted to about the contents of my head.