Three years ago on a sultry night in August, my husband took me out on a date to a wine café we frequented back when we were dating. Out without kids, we could talk about anything we wanted. And that night I had hot confessions. Swarming inside my mind was a story. I’d just finished reading two novels, one erotic, and the other, future/dystopian. These had cross-bred in my mind, and with my own mid-life crisis already in full swing, I had juxtaposed these two styles into a new story. Hubby leaned in close over the table and I whispered my plot to him. At the tables beside us, a frolicsome group from Kentucky dominated the room with their chatter about traveling here for a wedding. I didn’t want anyone to hear what I was saying out loud, because it was too raunchy for polite company. I had the dream…
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