Were it not for smut, I might still be putting up with the lamest husband ever.
What I needed was for someone to shake me awake from the dream that he loved me. Once I started reading trashy books, I realized I wasn’t having even a little fun in bed. Erotic fiction shook me.
Those women and their hung, hungry, perfect lovers reminded me I’d once had sex fantasies. Ones I’d given up on. In the back of my creaky brain, my imaginary lovers were appalled at how bad my beloved was in bed. While I laid back for him, they counted his shortcomings for me. While I cleaned myself up in the bathroom afterwards, those flaws of his would rattle through my head. Then I would sob quietly into a towel so he wouldn’t hear my grief and I wouldn’t have to risk upsetting him how bad he was.
That was the first step: remembering my fantasies. And one more thing: some men would do anything to see their woman fall apart in their arms. But not my husband.