Phyllis Schieber Author

Women's Fiction by Phyllis Schieber

Barbara From Sinners’ Guide to Confession by Phyllis Schieber

It was not till after Roger’s death that Barbara began to write erotica. She took a sobriquet. Delilah. Just one name. Like Cher. Delilah. Barbara kept her identity secret; she told no one, absolutely no one. At first she rationalized that secrecy was necessary to protect her career. After all, the women who bought her books would have been mortified to learn that their favorite romance novelist wrote erotica.  The secrecy was never supposed to extend to Barbara’s inner circle, but she kept putting off telling. She worried about how her children would react. The longer she waited to tell, the harder it was to find the right moment. And then she stopped looking. She wanted the stories all for herself. Cock, pussy, clit, dick. Eventually, her hands stopped shaking when she wrote. She sat up straight. My, my, my Delilah, she always thought as she wrote. My, my, my.

***

In the expanse that Roger’s death had left, Barbara found a nagging reminder of all that she had taken for granted. Roger had taken care of her, and she missed that. He made sure that her car was serviced, and that the gutters were cleaned. He stopped for milk on the way home, picked up the pizza in the rain, glued the stone back in her earring and hung the new mirror in the foyer. And the children, their children. It was always Roger’s first question when he called or came home. He always wanted to know if she had spoken to any of the kids.

***

In Roger’s absence, Barbara worried about what would happen if she woke in the middle of the night with a sharp pain in her chest. There was no one on the other side of the bed to rouse, no one who could call an ambulance, no one to offer reassurance that it would all turn out fine. The apartment seemed hollow sometimes as if she could not fill it up fast enough with new memories to soften out its edges.

***

Without any curtains or shades, she was free to gaze and did just that as she sipped her second cup of coffee and pretended she was smoking. An incomplete manuscript was waiting for her, and she had already ignored the last message from her editor about the urgency of getting her next romance, Beneath the Silk Coverlet, done by the month’s end. She was late with the first draft. But Barbara was more interested in working on Delilah’s latest piece, Paradise Found. Aimee, the heroine of Paradise Found, was far more interesting, far more provocative than any of the characters in latest romance set in Victorian England. When Barbara had last left Aimee, she was servicing Victor, the doorman, on her kitchen table.

Aimee’s legs were wrapped around Victor’s trim waist. She was gripping his buttocks, kneading his flesh with just the right amount of pressure when. . .

“Mom?”

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July 22, 2009 Posted by | death of a spouse, motherhood, Sinner's Guide to Confession, women's friendship | Leave a comment