Last Edit July 1998 (orig June 1993)
Quoted in the LA Times, November 1993
I am going to San Antonio.I am going to get to see Fabio again. In his case, once is definitely not enough. For those who are uninitiated, he is the 6-foot 3-inch tall romance cover model (500 covers) with the 44 inch chest, 32 inch waist, and bulging biceps, the hunk with the streaming blond hair who bench presses 400 pounds. He can bench press me anytime he likes. My children are not happy about this. They think I am crazy. Mostly, they are jealous. They have to stay home and go to school. I get to run away and party. All mothers should try this. Especially single mothers. I never have abandoned them before this year. My career has been controlled and limited by the need to be with my offspring. My life has revolved around them and their every wish for nearly eighteen years. That came to a halt last May, when I took my computer and my unfinished romance novel, and ran away from home (at their suggestion) and went to the 1993 Romance Writer's Convention. I have not yet published a novel, a dream I have cherished for decades. I am persistent. My kids had become tired of hearing about it. They ordered me out of the house. Four days of no kids and me and my computer. Heavenly. Well, I did call home every day. And I was only a 20 minute drive down the road. And the older one is seventeen. And the twelve year old took very good care of him. They only set fire to the stove once. It was worth it. I experienced the delightful discovery that there were women who loved to read and write and I was not as unusual as I have been made to feel. And I met authors whose books I love. And I listened to lectures and speeches. And I attended fancy banquets and partied. But the very best event was the hunk pageant. The first one ever held. And, since I was in costume, and carrying on with friends of Kathryn Falk who runs the conference, I had a seat in the very front row. I had a clear shot and four cameras. I was ready. The models were babies. Young men who were not that much older than my son. Who had, for the most part, no idea of what they were doing on a stage in their underwear. (They claim those are posing briefs. Right.) I have pictures their mothers should never be allowed to see. (One or two of these guys deserved a spanking.) They strutted in suits. They strutted in romance cover costumes. They told us all why they wanted to become romance cover models. They flexed and pranced. We screamed and laughed. If you can imagine hundreds of sober women screaming their heads off in hilarious laughter and cheers, the more outrageous the model the louder the cheers, you might have a idea. (A big night at Chippendale's would be nothing compared to this party.) Women do seem to enjoy men with their clothes off. It always makes us laugh. What fun. It was a veritable riot. And then, out comes Fabio. Right in front of my seat. Dressed in black. With a western shirt. Open at the throat. (I love western shirts.) Long blond hair. Boots. (I love boots.) I took pictures. Dozens. He dwarfed everyone on stage. He dominated the room. He made it very obvious that he knew what he was doing on stage. We made it very obvious where we all wanted him. You should see those photos. He smiled. He spoke. I fell in love. To say we were crazy for the rest of the evening would be a mild understatement. We roved with cameras. We hunted in packs. We were nice. We posed with the youngsters. And the older models. We spared no one. But the best part was stalking Fabio. Poor man.  He stood on one spot of grass for three hours. He had hundreds of flashbulbs aimed at those beautiful blue eyes. He posed with hundreds of swooning, clutching, giggling women. Never have I seen so many dignified older mature elegant females become gibbering adolescents at the flash of a smile. I speak from experience. I was one of them. I got hugged. Twice. I didn't sleep for two days. I wrote twenty thousand words of my novel. As I said, I am going to San Antonio. |
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