On the Rose Again
By Rose Maru
()
About this ebook
A lack of TMI (Too Much Information), HSDD/HSDS (Hypoactive Sexual Desire Disorder / Syndrome), and a menopausal woman walk into a bar...
Thus, with a mild concussion, I freely ask you: what does learning how to masturbate after the age of 50, having sex with a gang of young men on a public picnic table, and a horse penis have in common? (Well, other than they make an entire noisy waiting room full of people suddenly get really freaking quiet.)
They are all topics I discuss in a few of the dozen-and-a-half short stories in this latest compendium of my misfortune, both real and imagined. And really wish I imagined more of it instead of actually doing it. (But don't take my word for it. Like all of my books, I include the sordid truth behind each and every illustrious face-plant in the "Truth and Consequences" section in the back of the book.)
Only it appears I wasn't smart enough to stop there glancing down the table of contents after trying to mercifully forget what I wrote about (so I can feign ignorance when people ask, "Holy cripes! You freaking describe your little lady bit down there!" (Then, oddly enough, an inordinate number of people nervously glance all about before continuing in a hushed voice, "... is that, you know, what I look like, too? I mean, I've never actually seen my own..." It's so nice when people realize they've been a little harsh to me, so they then discretely ask for more information so I won't feel self-conscious. Then we talk about all sorts of things. And on a good day, I even remember to just tell them about it and not add, "... you wanna see?" - Which is a _very_ scary sentence-ender for someone that doesn't wear a bra (and fears black panties showing through pretty, white skirts more than going commando on occasion); because way too many things are easily accessible.)
Sorry - that's not at all where this description was supposed to go. I'm supposed to tell you this book is jam-packed with my complete recovery after whatever the hell happened to me to bring about Morning Rose (even if some of these stories, tales, and unfortunately real-life occurrences happened while writing said book.)
Which means, like it or not, the Rose that previously bloomed way-too-often with far-too-much-information in the not-so-distant past, is back on her game... and often times on her back... and splayed out on a picnic table... and...
It's time to get back On the Rose Again.
Rose Maru
Born a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away... no, wait, that wasn't me, but sometimes it certainly seems like it.Before getting into all the fun details, I want to clear the air of a rather large aspect of my writing because it has a huge impact on my work: I have HSDS (Hypoactive Sexual Desire Syndrome). In fact, if it weren't for my HSDS, I wouldn't be here and you wouldn't be there reading this - my previously unpublished writings were explorations into kick-starting my, ahem, 'motor.' I tried to explore anything that might cause a little tingle below, even ideas and concepts my thinking brain refused to hear. Creating an alter-ego in my stories allowed me to safely penetrate the veil of non-existence - I was forced to think about sexy thoughts and situations.I wrote for years covering a wide range of topics, my husband providing a large number of seedlings from which to grow my stories (HSDS... what do you expect? Much to my dismay, what I learned to expect was very raunchy pillow-talk. Much to his dismay, he learned to expect me to leap from bed saying, "Oh! That is so good, I've got to write it down!"). It turns out, writing romantic erotica usually wasn't doing it for me. I gave up on it for a period of time - in essence, I gave up trying to help myself, as well.Then my significant's bright idea: if it didn't help me, maybe it would help someone else. I was back to writing again, or more correctly, preparing my work for release unto an unsuspecting public (I have now officially absolved myself from any evil that befalls you after reading my books - it's all his fault). So I dredged up my folder of rough and unpolished stories - damn, I wrote this much? No wonder I wasn't having sex, I was busy writing about it. (Fib alert: so not true it's not funny. Not the 'not having sex' part, but the lack of bedroom action wasn't really due to my writing.)An odd thing happened, though, as I was rereading my material and editing it. I felt a little something that I hadn't experienced in a long time. I actually felt a little tingle from down below. That soft little call, while editing some stories, started to get a little louder - still very quiet, but it was most certainly there where it hadn't been for decades. I gave in to the siren call almost immediately - surprised the hell out of my husband (thank goodness it wasn't the UPS guy at the door during those moments). Complete, spontaneous, due-to-my-doing rumpy-bumpy. Holy humper, Batman, I'm fixed!I wish. It disappeared again, just as easily slipping back into my 'normal abnormal' routine of never thinking about it within hours. Back to editing. Being the patient sort, I allowed myself to edit a whole three paragraphs before anguish sets in, "It's not working! Ah! I'm broken forever!" Luckily, I have a never say die attitude (Fib alert: ... no, wait, this isn't my stories where I have to include a 'truth' section - let me have my freaking moment), and said, "Piss on it, I'm still going to release my work. I've come this far."And so it went - although much to my joy (and my hubby's) - every so often, I'd find myself showing such obvious responses to passages, it was apparent to even an HSDS girl - and we'd make joy (sometimes several times) to the situation. I wasn't fixed, but at least I had a crutch.Which leaves me editing my old material, exploring new, and tormenting you with it - where I hope it does you some good, too. If it can't make you happy that way, I hope it'll at least provide you a little laugh the other way - especially since I do provide a 'Truth and Consequences' side to all my stories at the end of each book where I detail the nitty-gritty and harsh reality of every piece. This allows everyone's inner voyeur to be released because my HSDS does a great job of preventing me from grasping 'TMI,' so I tend to spill my guts back there in my books.As for my bio (side note: doesn't that make it an 'auto-bio?'), I'm a cute, twenty-one year-old (Fib Alert! Oh my Lord! If you're writing fantasy-fiction, at least make it believable!) - crap, okay, fine, I'm old enough to probably be your sister - from a second marriage - so we're not blood related, which means you don't have to get all weirded out about reading sex stuff about me) - and I live in the Pacific Northwest where I am still happily married to my first husband (very funny - he edits my other fibs so I have to tell the truth, but leaves the happily married one)... at least until he reads the final published product where I changed the truth section in every book back to being brutally honest contrary to his corrections.And, yes, that is me on the cover of all my books, but I'm not spilling the beans here, you have to read the book.
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