I’m reading smut at lunch. Facing a cement wall in the parking lot, I comb an explicit love scene between bites of cottage cheese. Within the pages, Hades and Persephone are in his sex dungeon doing something I’d usually open an incognito tab for. He flips her this way. He flips her that way. I glance over my shoulder, blushing and decide to sit facing out instead.
“Hey, you out here reading smut?!” one of my coworkers asks. I’m reading Katee Robert’s Neon Gods, a steamy retelling of mythological characters in a modern urban setting.
I’m doing it for research. The first-ever Romancing Portland convention is this weekend, and I have so many questions. Mainly, as an aspiring romance writer, when will I finally get comfortable writing spice?
Organized by Rose City Comic Con’s LeftField Media, Romancing Portland is a three-day festival of book signings and author panels. There’s even a masquerade ball on Saturday.
Friday
The affair kicks off at the Sentinel Hotel with a registration mixer. I splurged for a premier pass, so I receive a tote bag full of goodies, which I unpack at a party of similarly shy romance fans as we commune over our shared love of the sensual written word—or as we often call it “Grandma’s porn.”
In my bag, I find another Katee Robert book, The Tarot Trials. The cover makes it look like an MM romance about the Fool taking advantage of the Hanged Man in his precarious position, but, alas, it is not.
“What is this?” asks a woman sitting next to me. She has a charming, thick Slavic accent. It’s a bottle that says Intimate Wash. I don’t have the heart to tell her.
“I—I think it’s like—hand soap,” I lie.
Later, drunk, I leave my tote of debauchery underneath a chair, and have to beg for a new one. They give me a replacement book, but I can’t bring myself to say: I was really looking forward to the pussy wash.
Saturday
Saturday morning, I take a walk down Author Alley and meet author Chelsey Ann Tompkins, who actually rates the spice levels of her books with little chili pepper signage. I ask her how she got comfortable writing sexy things. Tompkins says at first she was worried about what her mother would think, but eventually Mom became one of her most enthusiastic readers. Her story Straw and Gold has three chili peppers above it. She tells me it’s a Rumplestiltskin retelling.
“I just got goosebumps all down my arm,” I say.
Secretly, I’m picturing a little goblin man seducing Shelley Duvall à la 1982’s Faerie Tale Theater—this is a kink I didn’t realize I had. In reality, Straw and Gold is a much more elegant retelling featuring a rich world of faeries and goddesses. There’s also sex.
Another author Coral Alejandra Moore teaches a class on writing high heat scenes. For smut virgins, she suggests writing sexy fan fiction about two characters that never got together in the original story.
Finally the moment to meet Katee Robert arrives, and I shakily ask my burning question as they patiently sign my book.
“I’m an aspiring romance author…” I start out well enough. Suddenly I realize I’m crying—but I power through! “When did you get comfortable writing the way you write with the….” My hands search the air. What is the appropriate gesture for fuck scenes?
Robert is unbelievably kind. They ignore the tears and snot oozing from my face while explaining that it took a few books for them to get comfortable. They were raised evangelical Christian, so they had some unpacking to do before they could write that way, but eventually they realized it’s just fun.
The epiphany: Oh, yeah. It’s just fun! There are things people find fun that I never will: skydiving, the clarinet, clogging. Likewise, if I want to pen a puppy play story about Robin Hood and Prince John, that’s okay.
This exchange remains the main event of the weekend for me, but for everyone else there’s the Saturday night Amberleaf Masquerade Ball!
The Sentinel’s Governor Ballroom is filled with flickering candles and strewn with leaves punched from the pages of books. Upon entering, I am engulfed in the soft tones of Bridgerton string quartet covers. Attending as the Queen of Hearts, my powdered wig stands erect and throbbing—a beacon for those seeking photo ops for the scavenger hunt.
I’m blown away by the gowns, crowns, and wigs filling the room—one headdress even has glowing lights inside! The attendees are dazzling and their handmade costumes are a testament to Portland’s artist community. As always, with fantasy events, I am impressed by the sheer amount of cleavage and find myself wondering what sort of scaffolding is keeping some of these boobs in place.
Two actors portraying Autumn Prince Caedros (Jonah Scott) and winter Prince Reyvion (Nick Meyer) are playing at having a spat. Earlier, Meyer—an audio erotica creator for Quinn, a first-person pillow-talk app featuring sensory roleplay and storytelling—described himself as a vibrator: a tool to use in the bedroom. Tonight however, he’s portraying a very pissed-off prince who didn’t receive an invitation. Eventually, the characters settle their differences and the festivities continue into waltzing lessons.
Somehow dance instructors Alex Jacobs and Whitney Rowlett teach everyone to waltz within half an hour. I have somehow covered myself in garlic aioli. The Sentinel brought their A-game with the catering, but I’m wearing very puffy sleeves. Dare I dance with someone while smelling like a troll? Druid and fae silhouettes at the dance begin to learn a weaving dance—the type you see in Jane Austen films—and I exit to enact dress damage control.
Sunday
On the last day of the festival, I ask myself if I look cute enough to meet Ben Barnes—who played Prince Caspian in the Chronicles of Narnia movies. Then it occurs to me: Does Ben Barnes look cute enough to meet me?
He does. Even if he were wearing nothing but a barrel with suspender straps, the dude would be a goddamn cutie.
For the past three years, I’ve been writing a romance novel where Barnes plays a central role, so we have a special connection—of which he is unaware! The story is about an evil toy maker, and I’ve brought a wind-up bird for him to his autograph.
Barnes’ signing has with many possible tiers: signed photograph, signed object, selfie. As I wait, he takes several standing selfies, usually while doing something adorable, like sticking out his beautiful tongue. I quietly threaten myself not to cry this time.
When it’s my turn, I hand him the wind-up bird and proudly announce that this is my Ben Barnes bird. I ask him to sign its little blue wings.
He obliges and shouts, “Ben Barnes bird!”
“Bens Bonnes—BENSS BARNES BIRD!” I laugh, botching my own attempt. “Say that six times fast.”
“Ben Barnes bird!” he says less than six times. Reader, I forgive him.
Then there’s a great confusion where I start toward the door, prattling: “It’s a tongue twister! Now you can use that for your acting warm-ups!” But when I turn to look back he’s standing right behind me, looking confused. I momentarily forget he’s been taking photos for the last few rounds and assume he’s in love with me.
Someday, our dog will ask how I met his father, and I will be able to share this story with him. It all started with a silly wind-up bird at the Romancing Portland convention. But then I hear Barnes clarifying with his assistant that I did NOT pay for a photo after all.
The fantasy fizzles. Until next year.
