I believe that a writer must love their story in order for it to be any good.  I write stories about women who save themselves, women who choose their own happiness, and women who are brave enough to honor their own desires.  
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This is not a trope we see enough of, especially in historical romance.  Surely there were some women who struggled with their sensual desires?  Could not one lady brazenly feel up a hot neighbor without being branded an unconscionable harlot?  Must we all be so very reluctant?  In youth (or any age, really), love and sex are jumbled together, and we make mistakes.  What better drama than the shame that comes from enjoying a good-yet-forbidden ravishing? 

Yet, the reality of the priggish worldview during the Regency era in England was genuinely sobering.  Promiscuity, homosexuality, and generally deviant sexual pleasures were legitimately dangerous propositions.  Did that stop them from happening?  Of course not.

The challenge of writing historical erotic fiction is toeing that line between social expectations (and the dire consequences of expulsion) and the indomitable sexual desires inherent to humanity.  That said, it is an extremely satisfying exercise.

I wanted to like Bridgerton.  I liked every other Shonda Rhimes show I'd seen.  It had everything I should like:  a Regency era setting, pretty costumes, the marriage market, nobility, gossip and scandal.

I am glad that Bridgerton exists as a show.  I am happy to see more diversity in casting, and I will always support women writers and show runners duking it out among the hordes of men in entertainment.

Unfortunately, I cannot enjoy Bridgerton.  I cannot watch Bridgerton without thinking of how British colonialism destroyed millions of lives in that period of time.  To portray white aristocrats as merely amiable fellow countrymen to people of color is far too forgiving of the truth of British (and white) history.

By contrast, I loved Hamilton (of course I did), because they fully and very intentionally inverted the racial balance, and even though they were silent on many unpleasant truths (Hercules Mulligan was not so much the spy but the owner of the slave spy who delivered messages to General Washington), they did not pretend that racism did not exist. Likewise, the fantasy world of Schitt's Creek that is entirely devoid of homophobia, I can enjoy as refreshing escapism because it acknowledges itself (if not explicitly) as fantasy.  

If Bridgerton were cast with all people of color, or if it were set in a less historically-specific time and place, I might be able to enjoy it without the sense that the injustices had been forgotten or erased. I am sure they were not forgotten by the show runners, but as viewers, particularly descendants of plantation owners, it is desirable to forget where we come from.

I know it's Shonda Rhimes.  I know it's her motif, and I love her for it.  But, to that point, the show is not made for me.  It was made for people who want to see what it could have been like if we lived in a kinder world.  I can see the appeal, but I think we have a hard enough time owning our collective sins already without period pieces indulging our sensibilities.

​It was a kiss overdue, and he felt a need to make up for so much time.  Her lips, her breath, her skin, soft giggles and softer moans-- it was completely intoxicating.

He let her free for a moment, stared into her eyes, and just as she was formulating a wisecrack, he kissed her again, making it clear that now was not the time for banter.  He gently pulled her hat off in one hand, slipped her coat from her shoulder with the other, and she let it fall to the floor where they stood.  He popped open the button of his jacket, and she easily peeled it from his shoulders and pulled loose his tie.  

She bit his lip gently, then began to slowly kiss his neck, taking a breath from the urgency of their kiss, biting his ear gently, as her fingers opened his shirt and pulled it from his body.  She pressed him against his desk, running her fingers in his hair, softly kissing his mouth, his eyelids, his cheek, his neck.  She seemed to be taking him in, one kiss at a time, giving herself the time to connect with each detail.

Jack watched her do this, breathing deeply, his heart pounding, slipping his hands along her body, grasping her arms, her back, her ass.  He gently, firmly pressed her against him, revealing how much he wanted her.  God, he was desperate for her.

Her fingers worked a slip knot in her dress, allowing it to fall open to him-- her skin, perfect and creamy as ever, in striking contrast with the deep emerald of her silken lingerie.  He scooped her up and nuzzled her breasts, kissing and breathing in the perfume he had kept in his memory since the day she flew away from him.  She laughed breathlessly as he wrapped her legs around his waist, took her ass in both hands and carried her to the fainting couch.  As he sat down, keeping her on his lap, he pulled her face to his, biting her lip, kissing her passionately, hungrily.  She returned in kind, breathless and passionate, scratching his shoulders and grasping his hair.
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During the years that my marriage was slowly falling apart, I felt an urge to express my sexual desire without complicating my life.  I set up an intensely racy profile on an internet dating site with the caveat that, due to complications in my own life, I would never meet in person.

What followed were a handful of online love affairs with strangers on the internet, where I could be as uninhibited as I wanted, and I could invite others to share their fantasies with me.  It was a beautiful period in my life, writing what I referred to as "collaborative erotica" with these very special people.  My online partners urged me to consider publishing some of my writing, and I decided to give it a try.  

I thought about Jane Austen's work, and the story of Pride and Prejudice.  I wondered what would have happened if Mr. Wickham had become a vicar and had taken the living in Kympton instead of the pay off from Mr. Darcy.  That was the inspiration of Shame in Somerset, my first regency erotica novel.

So that's me...