I was talking to a very dear friend yesterday. I met her at a Tori Amos concert seventeen (HOLY CRAP) years ago through a mutual friend. I love this woman – she’s amazing. And hilarious.
Now, it’s a wonder that she even wanted to be friends with me after meeting me because I was nine months pregnant with Killian, it was the middle of a miserable, humid August and let’s face it, I was the bitchiest bitch who’d ever bitched. I hated being pregnant. And I especially hated being pregnant in the middle of August. I was evil incarnate. And yet, this lovely woman liked me anyway. And I’m grateful, because I adore the hell out of her.
So, anyway, I was talking with her today about my hellish deadlines coming up and menages quickly became the topic of discussion. I have several due before the end of the year and we had the following conversation.
Friend: What I want to know, is are they written the way they happen in real life?
Me: I’m thinking no.
Friend: That’s probably for the best. Whenever I was part of one, I felt like that hostess at a dinner party that wasn’t going particularly well. Is everyone having a good time? Can I get you anything? Do you need more potatoes? It was exhausting.
Me: It’s better in fiction. I have to blog this.
Friend: Do it.
And now, whenever I’m in the midst of writing menage scenes, I’m forever going to think about the beleaguered dinner party hostess. And it becomes very clear to me that I would never find myself in a menage for the same reasons I don’t host parties.
Worry, social anxiety and a possible lack of potatoes.