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I worked for a call center that serviced a direct-mail program for mass market romance novels. You know the kind that you usually see near supermarket checkouts. The publisher would take out ads in magazines for a free month with 3 to 6 books depending on the series, with a gift (most often trinket boxes or cheap glassware you might find at a dollar store.) Most callers were paying invoices in those days before e-commerce was the thing it is now; very often we’d get complaints about service or content.
A little old lady called one day asking to talk to someone about her free month of books within a certain series that included graphic sexual scenes. Nothing illegal or kinky, just sex within the typical romance formula. I braced myself for the onslaught; I fully expected an uptight old church lady to ream me out for peddling porn. So I was pleasantly surprised when she said she would like to continue her subscription.
“I’m 78 years old,” she said, “and every month I go to the seniors dance at the VFW hall. I like to take home a nice gentleman and we read the books together and act it out.” And she proceeded to give me, in excruciating detail, an account of her last night out where she picked up a retired fireman and what she did to his “little helmet.” And because I knew my boss would hand my tuchas to me if I laughed or showed any emotion, I was a captive audience for live granny porn.
I went home and got smashed. Granny had a better sex life than I did.
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