1 Chapter 1

1

When you don’t know many gay people in real life, the lesbian groups on Facebook are a good place to find some. I lay in bed on a cold December night, and posted a question on my phone about the lesbian erotica book I was writing. I wasn’t sure if the book was any good. I’d had three books published before that were no longer in print for reasons I didn’t like to tell, but had self-published two more. Still, erotica was new to me, and I wasn’t sure I was doing it right, so I liked to ask for advice. Surprisingly, I got a private message from a woman named Sofia Price not long after, and was intrigued because Sofia is my middle name.

Sofia: Hi, I’m Sof. Can you help me with the book I’m writing? Well, actually I have this idea but I don’t know where to start.

I squinted and considered. Lots of people have talked to me about working on writing projects over the years, but exactly zero percent of them have ever actually followed through. I decided to look at Sof’s profile pic. She seemed to be a few years older than me, and she was absolutely beautiful. She was black, as were most of the women on the lesbian pages I’d found. I didn’t know where all the other white lesbians went, but they were missing out. Sof’s braid-like twisted hair fell to her shoulders; her brown eyes looked full of both mischief and wonder. Her smile was amazing, highlighting prominent cheekbones. Even if I hadn’t already had a girlfriend I would have still considered her too pretty to ever consider dating me.

She wanted me to work on a writing project with her?

What the hell. In my experience, most people usually gave up after a few pages.

Rave: Sure. Sometimes the trick is to just get started. You can keep an idea in your head forever, but writers write. You can always go back and make changes later.

Just then, I got a text from Tiffany saying she was at my house.

I went back to my messaging

Rave: I’ve got to go right now, but we can talk about it later. Tell me more about what you want to write and we’ll go from there.

I shrugged and walked from my room to the kitchen.

My sister Roni was busy doing her thirteen-year-old daughter Liv’s hair. Roni was taller than me, with short blonde hair, and three years younger than me. Liv was biracial, taller than me already, and her thick, curly hair was being straightened.

“I’m leaving,” I announced.

“See ya,” Roni said, uninterested in where I was going, not looking up from Liv’s hair.

Her boyfriend Ray walked in the room next, followed by their youngest daughter, eight-year-old Nadia. Ray was a tall, stocky black guy, mid-forties, with a goatee flecked with gray. I’d been living with them for about three years, ever since I’d left my wife. Nadia ran up to Liv and tried to tickle her, laughing mischievously. Nadia was small and always smiling. Liv smirked and rolled her eyes. “Your hair’s going to be done next, so don’t think you’re getting out of it.”

As I watched Liv and Nadia bicker back and forth I smiled and thought of my eight-year-old son, Luke. Roni and I had gotten pregnant at the same time, but with me it was with a sperm donor. My ex-wife had custody of Luke at the moment, and being around my nieces often made me wistful, wishing I were around my own child. Luke was a boy-version of me, with my auburn hair, brown eyes, and smile. But his freckles definitely came from the sperm donor, a man who was known to both my ex-wife and I, a really great guy.

I remembered Tiffany was waiting for me outside, and I was glad no one was asking where I was going. Roni knew about my past with her. At first I said I’d never date again, but the chance to be with Tiffany when she was actually single had been too much of a temptation even though she had lost a lot in her life due to too much partying over the years.

I walked outside and got into Tiffany’s borrowed four-door truck.

“We’ve only got two hours,” she said, backing out of the driveway. She was about as short as I was, with shoulder-length, brown hair, and hazel eyes. She had her own kind of charisma, despite looking older than her years because of too much drug use. I’d been with her off and on, mostly off, for the past eighteen years. I was thirty-seven, and she was about to turn forty-nine.