Last night’s reading at Powell’s was my first public reading of any sort, barring the Bad Poetry Contests I used to help organize back at the University of Portland, and it couldn’t have gone any better—not even if a horde of My Little Ponies had descended from the heavens and pooped rainbows all over the crowd. The introduction included a warning about blue language and a recommendation that anybody within hearing distance who might be offended to go to the Christian supply store across the street. Many friends and website regulars showed up, including Lilith Saintcrow, Meljean Brook and fiveandfour. There was heckling, and hilarity, and many silly hand-gestures and facial expressions on my part. To see the last in action, please enjoy this video of me attempting to explain what man-titty means to the uninitiated-to-romance (turn the volume up—my digital camera’s microphone isn’t the biggest or best):
I read aloud from Choose Your Own Man-Titty, and the crowd decided to go with Historical Option Number 1: The Feisty Heiress at the House Party, so I got to say things like “insolent chit” and “mon enfant” (complete with atrocious French accent, whee!). However, the best part, by far, was the Q&A; at one point, while talking about gender roles and heteronormativity in romance, how ménage romances are starting the change the landscape in that regard, and how some authors are struggling with the notions that gay = effeminacy and emasculation but hero = manly man man, I said “It’s not gay unless the teabags touch.” I was making a good-faith effort not to say “balls,” except teabags ended up sounding so much dirtier. (Also, it was my STAB AT RELEVANCE, what with the hot hot teabagging shenanigans going on that day.) Then I talked about how some authors fully embrace the teabags touching while others scramble frantically to keep the teabags away from each other. Teabag forcefields, if you will. Which I illustrated with hand-gestures and sound effects.
The high point of the book signing came when my good friend T. asked me to autograph her rack, and then plant a lipsticked kiss right above my signature. Photographic evidence of these SCANDALOUS SHENANIGANS below:
Check out that pucker! Hotttt!
T., me, and my buddy J. acting like the hilarious spaz that he is in the background. I also feel the need to brag about the fact that I was wearing a T-shirt that said “Cogito Ergo Nom.”
T. showing y’all how this book needs to be read. UNF.
Anyway, last night was riotous, wicked fun, and I can only hope that the other book readings will provide similar levels of hilarity and intelligent discussion. Thanks to everyone who was there, therefore saving me from the ignominy of talking to an empty room. Thanks also to Powell’s. I mean, holy shit, motherfucking Powell’s. I popped my author appearance cherry at Powell’s, and I can’t think of a bookstore I would’ve rather given that particular tender bud of femininity to.