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I just published my first novel: Love Doctor. There’s one small problem—besides the fact it isn’t selling—my boss from Hell, Dr. Declan Sincock, Sex Therapist, was my muse. Let’s just say, I took some creative liberties with him…
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“You don’t start out writing good stuff. You start out writing crap and thinking it’s good stuff, and then gradually you get better at it. That’s why I say one of the most valuable traits is persistence.”
― Octavia E. Butler
Maybe I shouldn’t be a writer. Well, technically, I’m not—yet—but becoming an author is in my ten year plan. Get a Husky, name her Thumbelina, and become an author by the time I’m thirty, those are my lofty goals. I’m running short on time. However, since joining this erotic writers group, I’m not so sure about aspiring to publish a novel. Maybe it should remain a secret hobby, because I’ll tell you, writing is hard. Writing sex is even harder. Having it picked apart and dissected is excruciating. I’d rather shove the tiny black stirrers peeking out of everyone’s coffee cups under my fingernails than continue to have the four people sitting with me in Carl’s Coffee analyze my technique. Or lack thereof.
“I’m telling you, member is just not a sexy word for a man’s penis,” Pru Palmer, published author, scoffs with undisguised disgust in her brown eyes. “Is it in a club? No, it’s a dick.”
Uncomfortable with her criticism, and maybe a bit envious at the way she effortlessly says dick, I shift in my black leather chair while three sets of eyes study me like a specimen under a microscope at our early morning meetup for today. “Yes, well, I was trying to change things up,” I defend myself. I mean, I didn’t have a lot to work with in five hundred words.
“Change it to dick,” she advises, arrogance lacing every word as she lifts her caramel latte for a sip. Her smoke shadowed eye winks at me. “Maybe then your sex scenes won’t be so tame.”
Ouch. Once a week, for three months, I’ve gathered with these people for creative writing exercises, and I’m still not used to the non-sugar coated critique from Pru and her overarched eyebrows. Obviously, I know member isn’t sexy, neither is shaft, but I can’t write dick a million times. She pumps out bestselling books faster than the hero in my book can pump his ‘member’ into the heroine, so maybe I should heed her advice and stop agonizing over word choice.
“You’ve got immense natural talent,” Christian, our organizer, tells me, shrugging off Pru’s judgement and pushing his glasses further up his nose. I don’t miss Pru’s minuscule eyebrow rise at his praise. “How is your manuscript progressing?”
“Good,” I answer as vague as possible. “I’m almost done.”
At some point, I’ll have to share with them, but other than sex scene snippets, I’m not ready to divulge what my novel is about just yet.
Thankfully, he moves on to Rebecca, a wisp of a girl with pink streaks in her blonde hair and a tongue as sharp as a razor blade. “Don’t even try to tell me rod isn’t ok,” she directs at Pru. “Your ghost writer needs to learn to use a thesaurus.”
“Rebecca,” Christian chastises, futilely trying to stop the storm brewing. He’d have more luck stopping the earth from turning. Rebecca lapses into the same tirade I’ve heard since I joined—there’s no way Pru can publish as often as she does without outside help. I’m beginning to wonder if she isn’t right. Pru’s readers don’t seem to question the plausibility of whether or not producing a novel every few weeks is actually possible, but I do.
“Well, it’s true,” Rebecca continues, not backing down. “She has everyone fooled, but people can’t stay blind forever. Why are you even here?”
Her words ricochet off Pru, leaving no dents. “I like to give back.”
Christian wrangles control of the conversation and the critique of Rebecca’s story about bear shifters becomes the focus. In the midst of debating whether supplying condoms in a forest is indeed necessary, my phone vibrates. I glance down at a text from my boss, Dr. Declan Sincock. Yes, that’s really his name. And how fitting it is for all six feet plus, hotter than magma inches of him.
I need you to bring me a blueberry muffin top, his message reads.
Just the top, Rose.
I like the top. No bottom.
Dr. Sincock and I are still in the getting to know you phase, and somehow, in the two months I’ve worked for him, he has managed to burrow so far under my skin, he lives there. I can’t shed him. Of all the days to request a beheaded muffin, he’d pick today. Normally, on Thursday’s, Dr. Sincock always arrives late, or I wouldn’t have agreed to Christian’s schedule change.
Just so I understand correctly, I type back: You would like an unattached muffin top?
“Yes,” is his swift reply. “Top is always best. It’s my favorite.”
Immediately, my imagination conjures up a new scene for my novel with my hero, Eclan, on top of Annette: vicious red welts, from where she marked him, stretch down his corded back while his hips thrust, driving into her. It’s so clear in my mind’s eye, I can even see the tightening of his rounded ass cheeks as his ferocity intensifies. I jot down ‘angry sex’ on a sticky note and slide it in the pocket of my slacks before waiting for a lull in bear shifter orgies to excuse myself.