Contrary to most sage writing advice, I enjoy writing
several books/novellas at the same time. What I find is, one of the stories
will call to me, and by that I mean that a scenario appropriate for a specific
book will pop into my head (even if the topic might be considered
inappropriate) Truth be told, the scenario offered immediately below was
considered for book 2 in the 'Emergency Hotline' series but might end up as a
scene in 'The Idiot Savant of Dating' (a title which Tom Leveen suggested could
be either great or terribly offensive) Due to the nature of the participants,
it might be suited to YA. Although scenarios concerning young men can be
challenging for a female author, my friend (and erotica writer for men)
Xaviera, never fails to provide me with plenty of suggestions for salacious
topics and tips for writing them, as you will soon see.
Please bear in mind that these were first drafts and each
written in about ten minutes.
The priest and widow Smith
(Calvin and Bob were chatting in their shared apartment
after inviting in a couple of unexpected visitors as they prepared lunch)
"I knew I shouldn't have
opened the door," Calvin said to Bob. "I figured it was too early for
Alex."
Bob and Calvin looked over their shoulders. The new village
Priest and the widow Smith were seated opposite each other at our kitchen
table. Apparently they were making impromptu visits to the wayward. Both Calvin
and Bob fitted neatly into that category. Sunday school was the last time
Calvin had visited any kind of church and his funeral would be the next, he was
pretty sure.
"Would you like some white
wine with your soup?" Calvin asked the uninvited duo.
"That would be much
appreciated," replied the priest.
"No point in asking widow
Smith," Bob observed. "She spends more time in bars than Alex."
Calvin glanced over his shoulder again. "I don't
believe that, Bob. She's in charge of bible class, so I'm told."
"Kids will drive you to
drink, mate," he replied.
Bob carried the plates filled with vegetable soup and placed
them in front of the visitors while Calvin followed suit with the wine glasses.
Bob sat down next to the priest but Calvin was in no hurry to perch beside the
priest's companion, so he made it look as if he was busy putting stuff away.
The priest took a sip of wine.
"A little rough around the
edges," the priest remarked, staring into his glass.
"You're getting the good
stuff," Bob said, clearly miffed at the priests comment. "That
vintage is up to five dollars a gallon, now."
Widow Smith tested the soup and gave every indication that
it, at least, passed muster.
"It’s been a while since we
entertained any clergy," Bob said.
"The God squad were here
before?" Calvin asked, clearly not remembering the incident.
Widow Smith tilted her head back and poured half of the wine
into her mouth.
"You remember," Bob
said. "I was in the kitchen beating my meat."
Widow Smith pitched forward. Wine exploded from her mouth.
Any liquid that failed to drench the priest's upper torso peppered both his
soup and the tablecloth either side.
"Tenderizing." Calvin
clarified the situation. "He was tenderizing the steak we had for dinner.
I remember, now."
"Father, I am so sorry."
Widow Smith was mortified.
Bob turned to me. "Did you ever see that scene from the
exorcist, where—"
"Not now, Bob, although it
was one of my favorite clips."
"Not to worry," said
the priest. "I'm sure white wine won't leave a stain."
"Stain?" Bob said.
"That stuff melts plastic."
"Perhaps we should
reschedule this visit," the priest suggested, getting to his feet.
Widow Smith looked daggers at Bob.
"No rush," Calvin
said. "I'm sure there are members of your flock more worthy of your
time."
"Can I expect to see you
both at Mass, sometime this week?"
"This week? Ooh... not sure
about that," Calvin replied.
Bob shook his head. He couldn't squeeze it in either.
"Next week then?"
Calvin emitted a whooshing sound as he mentally searched for
time to fit in such plans in the coming week.
It was Bob who laid the corpse to rest.
"We're not very religious,
Father."
"Don't hold your breath for
our appearance," Calvin agreed. "I attended Catholic school, so as
you might guess, my memories aren't all that wonderful. Those nuns were a bit—"
Bob tried to save the situation. "What he's trying to
say, Father—"
"I think the picture's
pretty clear," widow Smith interrupted, her face a stony mask.
"If you should change your
mind?" the priest said.
"You'll be the first to
know," Calvin offered. "Thanks for stopping by. Sorry about what
happened to you." Calvin looked accusingly at the young priest's companion.
Widow Smith marched to the front door, the priest a step or
two behind. Bob closed it behind them.
"When was the last time you
went to confession?" Bob asked.
Calvin took a slurp of wine. "I was in high school. The
nun I hated the most was called Sister Amelia."
The scene below might find its way into 'The Idiot Savant of Dating' novella.
The Handjob scene
Dave leaned back in the chair, leaving it to balance on the
two back legs.
"Bessie Wright gave me a
handjob behind the village post office when I was in the ninth grade. I was
amazed when the load I blew caught me under the chin. Later that night, the
police asked my parents if they wished to view the closed circuit TV footage
taken by a concealed camera not six feet away from the action. My dad was game,
but my mother declined on their behalf."
Ted asked what punishment was attached to the possibility of
my encounter going viral.
"My dad gave me a five
minute 'dressing down' in front of my mother, before slipping me five bucks for
giving him the best laugh he'd had in ages after my mother headed
upstairs."
"No doubt that curbed your
early foray into teenage masturbation," Ted suggested.
"On the contrary. Spurred
on by the thought that there was probably as yet no entry in the Guinness Book
of Records for the farthest distance ejaculate could cover, I set out to
improve on that effort. For some reason I had become attached to the possibility
that my intake of cauliflower was responsible for the velocity of my
ejaculate," Dave said.
"Broccoli did it for
me," Ted replied. "Eating greens tends to make it thicker, too."
"That's an old wives
tale," Dave stated. "I eat a lot of greens and my cock never got any
thicker."
"I was referring to jizz
consistency."
"Oh! Anyway," Dave
continued, "two weeks after that episode, Suzie Marshall was in my
bedroom, helping me go for the record, when I made an important
discovery."
"You realized that Suzie
wasn't actually jacking you off. She just had an advanced case of
Parkinson's?"
"No, no. That wasn't it.
Getting a fright at the crucial moment can add ten percent to the distance
ejaculate can travel."
"What led to that
discovery?"
"My mom walking in just as
the countdown reached zero."
Ted burst out laughing. "Oh my God. I think I would
have died."
"It might not have been so
bad if some of the evidence hadn't landed on my mother's shoe. I thought her
eyes were going to pop out of her head."
"Go on. I can hardly
wait." Ted was clutching his sides by this time.
"Suzie bolted for the door
and freedom, leaving me with a red face and an erection that refused to go down
as my mother screamed for my father to get-his-ass-in-here and deal with his
son."
"Do tell."
"I was ten bucks richer
that night, although I did have to listen to a lecture on the merits of locking
my bedroom door. Needless to say, I couldn't look my mother in the face for a
few days."
"Do you think she's
forgotten that incident?" Ted asked.
"Would you?"
