The Traffic Stop
Unlike Sam, I am mildly familiar with law enforcement and have been pulled over a few (at least a dozen) times. So this encounter is a jumble of all of those incidents. The idea of the smutty audiobook came from an online smutty book club where we all shared our audiobook/smutty book horror stories: getting caught in public reading smutty scenes, having our children reading over our shoulders and sounding out naughty words, and one unfortunate incident involving headphones disconnecting in the grocery store so the smut was broadcast for everyone to hear.
What’s Up With Smitty?
Confession time: Smitty is an older male version of one of my best friends. She knows. Even if I hadn’t told her she would have guessed. She has a t-shirt her daughter made her that has a cat sewn in the pocket like he’s peeking out. He’s giving the middle finger and it says, “I do what I want,” below it. It sums up my friend perfectly. For Smitty, I just pictured her as an older man. We both feel it’s pretty spot on. The flat tires? My friend hasn’t resorted to that yet, but I wouldn’t put it past her if someone pissed her off enough and she was beyond the age of caring what others thought of her. What age is that? I give it a few more years, tops.
Why Was Sam Hooking?
Unfortunately, this is another example of writing what I know. I had a six-pack of beer and I was walking down the road (a nice road in a nice development full of families with small children) to meet up with a friend. We were on our way to a Bunco game in the neighborhood and she was driving. I’m the most impatient person in the world so I started walking towards her house figuring she’d pick me up on the way or I’d leave with her from her house. When I saw her car coming towards me and slowing down I thought it would be hysterical if I hiked up my shorts, cocked a hip out towards the street, and held out my six-pack for her to see along with a thumb like I was trying to catch a ride. The car did not stop to pick me up. It turned and parked in the driveway right behind me (that was why they’d slowed down). It was not my friend; it was a neighbor I didn’t know well enough to even begin to explain myself to. I looked like a slutty, boozy hitchhiker at best. A sex worker at worst. There’s nothing wrong with sex work – I’m a part of it with my novels – but even I can admit it wasn’t a good look at five in the afternoon in a family neighborhood, outside a neighbor’s house. Luckily, unlike Sam, it was laughed off (at least by me and my friend) and mostly forgotten.