Well, that was unexpected
It’s funny, the things that writing can dredge out of your subconscious. I was sitting there yesterday afternoon working on character outlines for Behind the Iron Cross and listening to The Best of Sade to block out the sound of Ramón chewing on a scone in the kitchen (I love him dearly but my, that man can wake the dead when he eats).
About Sade: I’ve loved their music since I first heard “Smooth Operator” in 1984, and I’ve always associated the song with an individual I met when I was a young and innocent flower (you have my apologies for my vagueness, but I’ve since learned that this individual is somewhat litigious and I don’t wish to poke the bear). Not only did he pretty much crystallize my physical preferences in men, he also carbonated my hormones so badly that I don’t think I shared more than 20 words with him in my lifetime. I literally couldn’t talk to him; the speech center of my brain would go into vapor lock and I’d just stand there blinking at him even as the rest of my brain was screaming at me to do something, you idiot! I’m quite sure he wondered what the hell was wrong with me, but that’s neither here nor there.
So there I was, working on Kat’s backstory and trying to figure out where and how a nice society girl in the late 1910s would get Dominatrix training (a friendly madam-cum-Dominatrix in Paris, as it turns out), listening with half an ear to Sade croon, “Coast to coast, LA to Chicago, Western male,” and suddenly this individual popped into mind while I was thinking of my baby Domme.
And I had the most astounding epiphany about why I had such a hard time talking to him — my young, innocent flower of a self had no idea that she really, really, REALLY wanted to do delightfully debauched things to this smooth operator. Which was somewhat disconcerting to figure out *mumble mumble* years later, but damn, it gave me the key to Kat’s backstory. I swear, writing is way better than having a therapist!