Katherine Humphries is a day away from turning twenty-six, and ready for her empty love life to change, so she does what any curvy twenty something living in Los Angeles would do: she goes to the gym.
As a recovering perfectionist who hasn’t been on a date in five years, finding love (especially at the gym) is harder than she thought. Faced with beginning her twenty-sixth year of life insecure and living in the home of Hollywood where men and women either ignore or insult her curvy existence, Katherine decides to make dating her bitch. She’s not changing her curvy body. She won’t put down the dessert. And she isn’t going to apologize for any of it.
Her first night out ends nothing like she’d planned. When a flirty and rugged New Yorker asks for her phone number, Katherine freezes. She’s ready to give up before heartbreak happens. That is, until she meets the polyamorous, fairy-godmother-wanna-be, Hunter. The self proclaimed Queen of Pleasure coaches Katherine on badass dating etiquette. Hunter’s first rule? Don’t fall in love. The second rule? Perfection doesn’t exist.
But when a bet with a sexy and sensitive music teacher changes her perspective on the dating game, Katherine learns that breaking badass rule #1 before loving every inch of herself might spell trouble. On the other hand, breaking rules might be exactly what Katherine needs to discover the true power of a woman’s body, the sugary sweetness of indulgence, and whether saying yes to her dream life against the wishes of advice-slinging friends will lead to heartache or harmony.
A painstakingly honest tale of the struggle of learning how to love yourself in a world that expects the opposite, Sugar & Other Luxuries is a sometimes steamy, sometimes funny story about accepting the things that seem imperfect about ourselves and the people we love.
Targeted Age Group:: 18+
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
My latest book, Sugar & Other Luxuries is a romantic comedy that tells the story of a twenty-something struggling with self-love while looking for true love. It was inspired by the stories of all of the women I know and love who have had a difficult time loving themselves and their bodies in a city (and society) that expects perfection at any cost. I was tired of the rise of the notion that the only way to be a strong female character was to have no flaws, and feel like superwoman every second of the day. I wanted to tell a story about a woman who had struggles similar to the ones I heard when sitting around a dinner table with my best friends. I wanted a story that was reflected the challenges of the social media, selfie stick, photo editing, app-obsessed culture we live in. I wanted to create a character who struggled to live in that world, because let’s be honest: the set up doesn’t work well for everyone. Especially women in their twenties who simply don’t fit into any of the expected molds. I had to give them a voice. Not everything is perfect. We aren’t always going to love everything about ourselves all the time even if we want to. And sometimes that has to be okay.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
Katherine came to me pretty easily. I knew I wanted to talk about certain societal issues through a young woman’s lens, and that’s all it took for Katherine to begin to come alive. The other characters formed around her – as if they were simply the people she needed in her life to help her overcome her body image issues. Hunter was so much fun to write – her unexpected and wild behavior really helped to balance Katherine’s insecurities. They were very much a yin and yang situation in my mind. And the more I wrote the more they began to occupy space in unexpected ways. Jake I always knew needed to be sensitive to women’s needs. He needed to be feminist in every sense of the word. Once I fell in love with all of my characters, I just wanted to spend more time with them. And the rest came organically.
Book Sample
I spent the first half of my twenties accusing myself of being a feminist fraud for wanting a boyfriend who thought I was perfect. I had been a good girl, a maniacal, career-focused, intellectually stimulated woman who leaned-in, took a seat at the table, and made my voice so heard I had become hoarse. But none of that seemed to matter in the Los Angeles dating world.
Looking for love had led me into the defined biceps of guys who thought I might turn into an acceptable companion if, and only if I changed something about myself. If I lost fifteen pounds. If I didn’t say “fuck” so much. If I made more money. Less money. Had a smaller nose. Didn’t always want to eat pasta. If I didn’t have a belly.
At some point between learning how to flirt in high school chemistry class and stumbling furiously toward the eve of my twenty-sixth birthday, I had given up. Stopped dating completely. Packed away the dresses, heels, and the innuendo. Vowed to focus on myself. Sharing a chocolate chip cookie sundae with a guy who wouldn’t be afraid to caress an arm, thigh, or hip bigger than a size two, five, or eight only happened in my imagination.
A male sundae-lover definitely didn’t exist in a Los Angeles gym.
I went to the gym once.
My childhood best frenemy, Jenna, convinced me that the gym helped women burn energy, melt fat, and meet men. The entire experience mirrored meditation, she’d told me. “Don’t complain about being fat. Complain about things you can’t change.”
I went alone, without telling her that I had decided to test out her theory. Bad idea.
With my phone, tiny polka dotted towel, and headphones in hand, I entered the world of adult, organized, physical activity. It smelled like stale water.
I flashed my electronic guest pass at the laser scanner, kept my focus towards the back of the big square room, and moved quickly past the cardio machines, knowing that if I tried to run or elliptical or spin bike myself, I’d be exposing my newbie status. A tsunami of terror hit me, hard. I had no idea what to do in a place like this. I quickly looked for a place to fit in, a place to disguise myself. A group of women crowded around one weight machine like it was a pan of brownies and they had PMS. It seemed like the magic potion. It was the Miss Universe of the gym, and if they had to have it, so did I.
Jenna’s directions echoed in my mind. “Stretch first. You don’t want to pull a muscle. Touch your toes or something.” So I leaned against the wall and touched my toes. Except touching my toes was more like leaning my elbows against my bent, trembling knees. I bent over a little farther, and the back of my thighs burned. A couple of bones crackled, but I had a good view of the magical machine.
“Totally worth it,” I whispered to myself, rubbing my hamstrings. A woman in a full face of makeup, with boob-length blonde hair taught me how to use the contraption without knowing it. I continued touching my knees.
Step 1: adjust the weight on the machine. Step 2: pull the level that makes the thigh pads fly apart. Step 3: sit down. Step 4: clench thighs together. Step 5: Repeat. A lot.
It seemed easy enough. The blonde sitting on the machine made it look like thigh clenching was a way of life. Real women learn to walk, talk, read, and thigh clench. So when she was done, and the crowd of women had busied themselves with other gym work like butt extenders, and arm pumpers, I approached my machine like we had an intimate relationship.
“Looking good,” I said, patting the seat.
I adjusted my weight and assumed my clenching capacity would be 50 pounds. I didn’t want to look like a complete wimp. I pulled the lever, sat down, and tried to squeeze my thighs together. Nothing moved. The more I tried to pull my knees toward each other the more everything stayed in place. At that moment, I understood why the weight lifting men grunted. I closed my eyes and pressed my knees against the pads. A grumble vibrated inside of my stomach.
Roar like you’re a queen. Queen of the fucking jungle, I thought.
My best attempt at roaring resulted in a throat clearing sound, a thankfully silent fart, and yet again, a complete lack of movement.
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