 She's the author of the award-winning memoir, I Was a Teenage Dominatrix. She's the co-author of Impostors and the editor of a new book that she's touring around right now called Booklovers, Sexy Stories from Under the Covers. Please welcome Shauna Kenney. I just edited this anthology of literature-inspired erotica for Seal Press. I didn't actually write any erotica in it, but I wrote an introduction and I'm going to read that to give you an overview of sort of what's in there. My affair with the written word began at age two when I learned to read. My first inkling of love came in the fourth grade when I received an Owls Award, Ones Who Love Stories, for writing the most monthly book reports, something I did almost maniacally for pleasure with no knowledge or thought of external reward. My sex education came from fiction, memoirs, poetry, and self-help. I grew up in a strict Catholic military home run by working-class parents. There was no sit-down talk of the birds and the bees. There were no girly mags lying around. Internet porn was yet to be invented, and health class left a lot to my imagination. What is a wet dream? I asked my mom on the way to school once. I'd been in the midst of reading Judy Blooms, then again, maybe I won't, but still wasn't really sure what was happening with the male main character as he fantasized about his neighbor each night. My mother asked me where I'd heard the term, discomfort creeping across her face as she drove, and I immediately regretted my question. In a book, I said, she never answered. I turned back to my trusted books, which always delivered me to new places, other time periods, different mindsets, and thrilling adventures. While I never went right for the sex books in the library, I didn't know that there were any. My precocious reading habits had me inhaling age in appropriate tomes, my intellectual abilities, perhaps exceeding my emotional comprehension. By middle school, I'd whipped through all of Blooms' young adult paperbacks, devoured V.C. Andrews' Flowers in the Attic series, scared myself silly with a copy of The Amonville Horror, A True Story, which I found in a shed, and fantasized about meeting, being, or kissing every one of Essie Hinton's characters. Like most kids, I lived for the juicy parts, both excited and confused by much of what I read. At age 13, babysitting my younger cousin suddenly became more enticing when I found a copy of Blooms' adult novel, Wifey, on my aunt's shelf. As the kids slept, I read it standing up, my eyes absorbing every word with ears perked for the crunch of my uncle's tires pulling into the driveway, hands ready to cram it back into its space on the shelf. The story of a boardhouse wife cheating on her husband had to be read in weeks apart increments, and I lived for those nights, at least until I discovered something better. A slim paperback tucked behind my aunt's books titled How to Drive Your Man Wild in Bed, by Graham Masterson. I had no man, no intention of going to bed with anyone anytime soon, and in fact had yet to even kiss a boy, but the words and illustrations kicked my hormonal imagination into high gear. Now I knew what a naked guy looked like, had some idea of what my body parts could do, thought about how good sex might feel, and especially wondered about what my aunt and uncle were doing in private. From there, I moved on to Erica Jong's Fanny, being the true history of adventures of Fanny Hackabout Jones, which I conveniently forgot to return to the library about 30 years ago. I know, I've been a bad, bad girl. Later, I explored sex in real life as both the dominatrix paid to fulfill fantasies and as a single then married woman moving through the decades. I owe a debt of gratitude to the written word, both for my sex education and my career path. I'm glad for the many times as a young woman I went to bed with the right book instead of the wrong boy. That said, sometimes the wrong boy was fun too. My shelves today are not divided by genre. The beats, the classics, Kate Chopin, Hunter S. Thompson, Xavier Hollander, Cheryl Strayed, Bell Hooks, and the Sookie Stackhouse series all live there easily together. Between my husband and my signed first editions, I'm duly indulged. I find sensuality in mainstream literature and sometimes what's marketed as erotica really disappoints me, but good writing creates a slow burn into my brain. Curating this collection forced me to examine what I think good writing means as well as answer the impossible question, what is sexy? I'm delighted with the kaleidoscope I've found. This group of stories defies straight, gay, vanilla, and kinky categorization. There are personal essays and fictional fantasies. The styles range from hard-boiled to Victorian, modern, epistolary, and poetic. Some I chose for their poignancy, some for making me laugh out loud, and all for turning me on in some deeply visceral way. Above all, the writers here demonstrate a passion and respect for words. Tis the good reader that makes the good book wrote Ralph Waldo Emerson in Society and Solitude. We writers and readers meet in some imaginary space trying to understand one another, reaching out for a human connection. The magic of books has always been that writers have the power to remotely tickle our fancies from another part of the world, from another era, all through the simple arrangement of words. My hope is that book lovers touches your hearts and heads in all the right ways, and you find its offerings worthy of your affections. Thank you. Thanks, Shauna Kenny. Shauna had books with her, but then she's already done two readings in the Bay Area and she's sold out of them. So now you have to go get admitted at an old-fashioned bookstore.