|Ooooooooh VERY PRETTY...|
I make tea to calm my head down.
There's an English Thesaurus, one ancient English-Greek/ Greek-English dictionary and one English grammar book carelessly thrown on various surfaces near me. My fingers run the keyboard. I am flushed. I feel private parts of mine clench and unclench. A customer comes. I sell a pack of cigarettes. The customer leaves. I stretch my back. I continue writing. My villain is fucking an innocent young man blind. I try to keep my sentences small, which is always a struggle for me. The words need to be precise and convey what both heroes feel. I am trying to decide whether to use the word 'rod'. It seems ridiculous and decide against it. Generally speaking, I am in favour of more simple language. Nothing wrong with 'cock', 'asshole', 'fuck'. But I don't like repetition and I don't like vulgarity. It makes the whole procedure more interesting and more difficult.
I read what I've written.
I swallow a couple of times.
I wonder what the average man will think of it. He will probably screech in terror and run away. Casual bisexuality has never been the average man's strong point. Masculine characters that offer oral pleasure to other masculine characters can't possibly be protagonists if you aim at a male audience.
Fuck the male audience. I am writing this for me. I am writing because I want to read it and get horny. If my writing makes me horny, then perhaps more readers will get horny. If I am writing this to aim at an audience, I am like a blind man shooting arrows to the moon. I'll get shit.
I wonder what kind of publisher would want to publish my book.
A gay man, most likely. Or an open-minded woman with cojones the size of watermelons.
I read what the villain says to his young hostage. The image of myself hiding in a cave while all the media worldwide crucify me flashes before my eyes. I see my mother's stunned expression as journalists ask her what she thinks of her daughter's preoccupation with what can fit inside a human anus. I can even hear her outraged questions, demanding more information from the journalists.
I can see you all wondering what the hell, doesn't your mom know what you're writing about?
Are you crazy? Of course my mother doesn't know what I am writing about. She knows that I write about vampires and does not even like that.
Writing is not about safe ground, or making your mom happy.
Writing is about as easy as walking butt naked in public display. While masturbating. And screaming obscenities. With a loudspeaker. In a stadium. Full of Mormons.
With a wry smile, I consider that the customer probably wouldn't have wanted that pack of cigarettes if he knew the places my mental fingers had been seconds before.
I make a mental note to find a cave with internet signal.
I make a second mental note not to tell my mom where the cave is and go back to writing.