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I blame my ever-suffering mother for everything I have inherited. Mental illness? Yup. Big tits? Oh yeah. Uncomprehending love of stuffed animals? ‘Fraid so. Lesbianism? Damn right.

Since I was a tot, my mother has loved and adored the art of Frank Frazetta and Boris Vallejo. She owns a ton of Vallejo art books and several Frazetta ones as well. If you have ever seen any of their work, both are overrun with pictures of gorgeous women. Frazetta specializes in voluptuous, big hipped women and Vallejo depicts muscled, weapon wielding warrior women. I grew up immersed in a world of scantily clad ladies and I loved every minute of it. More times than I could count I would sneak into her room to pilfer her art books and abscond back to my room to drool. Of course the reverse was also true as she would pillage my room while I was at school in search of her beloved books.

My mother loves to admire beautiful women and there are very few women she does not consider beautiful. She will happily join me in drooling over various actresses and singers. She also happily peruses my collection of art books by Luis Royo. He’ll never be as good as Frazetta, she tells me, but his women are nothing to complain about.

My mother’s love of half naked women in art left a strong impression on me. So did her admiration of strong willed women in her books and she often lent these books to me when I was looking for something to read. And god knows we both loved Sigourney Weaver in the Aliens movie saga. In the end when I whine to her that it’s all her fault that I’m gay and that constant exposure to gorgeous women in art twisted my little mind, she lovingly takes the blame.

Artwork by Frank Frazetta