Sunday. My feet up on the couch, football on, my laptop in my lap. The channel changes, and my husband asks if I want to go to Fantasy Fest.
When? I ask, half paying attention, my hands busy on my keyboard.
This week. In Key West.
I paused my typing. Key West isn't exactly close by. Thirteen hours by car, two connections by flight, it would be a pain to get to -- especially since we'd have to be back home by Friday. By then again ... it's FANTASY FEST. The ten-day non-stop party, where clothes are shed, inhibitions discarded, and all forms of debauchery are embraced. Technically, as an erotica author, I sort of NEEDED to go. It was almost a job requirement.