Not Tonight Dear...

Not Tonight Dear, I Have Writer’s Block

Bob Locke was a writer, or so he told himself. In his spare time he taught English to a bunch of kids who weren’t in the least bit offended by double negatives, dropping ‘g’s, or splitting their infinitives. He couldn’t believe the kids he was teaching were going to be running his planet in a few years.

He lay in bed, pen and paper at the ready. His wife lay next to him, halfway through a Michael Crichton novel. Bob scratched his head, wondering why he had poured the cream and marshmallows of his life into writing the perfect literary nightcap, when here was a guy who had made a fortune with a handful of dinosaurs and a few stupid tourists who just couldn’t wait to be eaten. It was a crazy world for sure.

So he did the only thing any writer worth his ideas could do.

He turned to porn.

But as Bob was beginning to discover, sex was not at all like riding a bicycle. Sometimes you just forgot how to do it…

*

Bob chewed the end of his pen until his tongue began to taste bitter and the room started to swim in and out of focus. It was like the funny cigarettes without the fire hazard.

“I think I should change my name, dear,” he said randomly. “I think that’s the reason I have been rejected for twenty-seven years.”

His wife smiled reassuringly. “Of course honey, I think you may have nailed it there.”

“What about Tony Marconi?”

“The man who runs the kebab shop?”

“As my new name, I mean.”

“Too Italian.”

“I have Italian blood.”

“Just because your mum screwed the pizza delivery boy once doesn’t make you Italian.”

“I mean that my ancestors are from Rome.”

“That will be where your brooding, Mediterranean looks come from then.”

Bob looked at his wife, trying to decide if what she had said was sarcasm or honesty. She peered back at him from above the rim of her glasses. “I don’t think so, darling.”

“What about B.J Locke?”

“B.J?”

“Well, James is my middle name.”

“Yes, I know,” his wife agreed, “and Robert is your first one.”

“R.J Locke?” Bob tasted the new idea but quickly spat it out. “It’s just not the same.”

“I’m quite sure.” His wife left his innocence intact and carried on reading. “Just concentrate on your writing, darling.”

Bob looked critically down at his notebook and glanced over at his wife of almost twenty years; as attractive that night as she was the day he married her. He smiled reflectively: she had always been an ugly bitch. It was difficult to gather inspiration for hot ‘n’ sweaty when you shared your matrimonial bed with a horse’s ass.

“Listen to this, honey,” Bob said, clearing his throat. “‘He squeezed her big, juicy watermelons, as she removed his hot, glowing staff – ’”

“Glowing?” she interrupted.

“Yes, why not?”

His wife looked confused. “Well, it doesn’t exactly glow, does it?”

“No, I guess not.” Bob scored a line through the offending word. “But I need an adjective, dear.”

“What about ‘his hot, throbbing love rod’?”

“Love rod?” Bob asked. “I thought you were objecting to ‘glowing’?”

“Yes, that too.”

Bob shook his head like a kid tasting broccoli for the first time. “Love rod?”

“Yes. It’s very descriptive.”

“Of course, but it’s also very tacky.”

“Darling, you’re writing pornography, not War & Peace.” His wife continued reading as she spoke. “I’m sure a few throbbing love rods are perfectly acceptable.” One over here wouldn’t be out of place either, she thought.

“OK,” Bob said reluctantly. “‘He squeezed her big, juicy watermelons, as she removed his throbbing love rod – ’”

“You know,” his wife interrupted again, “I’m not too keen on her big, juicy watermelons either.”

“Why not?” Bob argued. “They are big and juicy!”

“Be that as it may,” she told him, “but why do they have to be watermelons?”

Bob stared at his notebook. “Because it wouldn’t sound right if they were galia melons.”

“I mean, why do they have to be melons at all?”

“Well, I like melons,” Bob said matter-of-factly.

“What about ‘her big, soft funbags’?”

Bob pouted. “I don’t know. Its not very erotic.”

“Sure it is.”

“It sounds like a sideshow attraction at the travelling circus. ‘Roll up, roll up! Come see Helga and her big, soft funbags!’” Bob tasted broccoli again. “Doesn’t work.”

His wife lowered the straps of her nightdress, revealing her breasts. “Darling, look at me.”

Bob reluctantly turned to face her – light of his life, woman of his dreams, chain of his balls. Love was a powerful thing.

“OK, now just write what you see.”

“Thanks honey. That was really helpful.” Bob laughed and scribbled something onto the paper. “Now put them away please.”

His wife frowned as she lifted the straps back onto her shoulders. “What did you write?”

“It’s not important, dear.”

“It’s important to me.”

“OK.” Bob smiled. “‘She dropped her silky black teddy and Thorn marvelled at her small, seedless grapes.’”

“Grapes?”

“Yeah, grapes are good.”

Bob’s wife slapped his shoulder. “Sure grapes are good, if you’re lying in a hospital bed!”

“Gee honey, you told me to write what I saw.”

“So you see me as a couple of shrivelled up grapes?”

“No, of course not,” Bob amended, “just your breasts.”

His wife sat up straight in bed, her face red with anger.

“And I didn’t say they were shrivelled at all.” Bob added again to his notes. “That was your word.”

“Seedless!”

“Seedless is good honey. Nobody likes the seeded ones.” Bob screwed up his face as if to prove it. “Notice my use of the word ‘marvelled’, which I think you will agree is highly complimentary.”

His wife pouted. “Anyway, I’m not wearing a silky black teddy.”

“I know, but I couldn’t have my siren wearing her grandmother’s purple nightdress. That just wouldn’t be sexy.”

“This is not my grandmother’s!”

“I know that honey, but you bought them in a twin-pack, remember? Close enough.”

“And who is Thorn?” his wife asked, changing direction.

Bob shifted his position in bed. “He’s the plumber that Amber calls out to – ” he coughed “ – clear her pipes.”

“Amber?”

“She’s the siren.”

His wife shook her head. No. “Nobody with a real name ever gets laid in those stories. What about Joanne and Barry?”

“Our neighbours?”

“Not the neighbours! I just mean, why can’t the characters be real people? If it’s not Thorn, it’s Brock or Stone.” She turned another page. “It sounds like these guys are rolling off a production line at General Motors.”

“Well, you know, women don’t want to get it on with Keith or Rodney.”

“I had sex with a Keith once.”

Bob choked. Damn broccoli again. “Sorry?”

“Keith Farlow. He was in my Physics class.”

“Oh.” Bob remembered the name but couldn’t attach it to a face. “I didn’t know you went out with him.”

“I didn’t.”

Bob shifted in bed. Suddenly the mattress was lumpy. “You never mentioned him before.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“So was the birth of Christ, dear, but people still discuss it.”

“Really darling, you are prone to exaggeration.”

“As you seem to be prone to understatement, dear,” Bob countered. “Anyway, my point is each genre works on a series of stereotypes. You don’t mess with tradition.”

His wife mumbled. “Just because something has been there for a long time doesn’t make it right. If that were true I’d be living my life by your mother’s crazy ideas.”

“Hey! Let’s not get personal here.”

“I’m just saying, it’s always a plumber or an electrician or a milkman who gets the girl. That’s so 1970s. Why does nobody ever get screwed by a lawyer?”

They both smiled.

“What I mean is, maybe he should have a different job.”

“Like what? A writer?”

His wife sighed. If only. “No darling. There’s nothing remotely sexy about a writer.”

“You don’t find me sexy?”

“I said there’s nothing sexy about a writer, dear.” She smiled coyly. “You, I find positively sizzling.”

Bob glared at his wife and thought about all his unpublished manuscripts tucked away in the attic. After twenty years together, it sometimes seemed sarcasm was the only thing they had left in common.

“I could make Thorn a fireman I guess,” he said.

“So he can whip out his hose I guess, huh?”

“A dentist?”

“Because he makes her open wide, right?”

“What about a chartered accountant for God’s sake?”

“Let me guess; he’s good with figures?”

Bob huffed. “Honey, I didn’t choose pornography because of its penchant for detailed character development and subtle plot nuances. Girl meets boy; they fuck; girl meets another boy; they fuck; repeat to fade; the end. It ain’t rocket science.”

“I’m aware of the mechanics, darling,” his wife admitted, “but why does he have to be anything?”

“Because there has to be the pretence of plausibility, honey. Amber can’t just randomly have sex with anybody. It’s unrealistic.”

His wife laughed. “And of course, porn always passes the lie detector test, huh?”

“There may be a little embellishment of the truth sometimes, I admit. It’s called dramatic licence.”

“Of course dear.”

“What does that mean?”

“What?”

“‘Of course dear’.”

“It means, of course, every woman just loves the taste of semen and having it splashed all over her face.”

“That would be the dramatic licence bit.”

“There’s nothing dramatic about ejaculate darling.”

“I read an article that said it was good for the skin,” Bob said. He nodded, suggesting to his wife he was in agreement. “It has moisturising properties in it.”

“Yes, I think Oil Of Ulay has it lined up for their new summer product range.”

“I’m serious,” Bob scolded.

His wife lowered her eyes. “Darling, men have been using that line for generations. You know, it has Vitamin B in it as well? Why else do you think women would want to suck that thing?”

“Really?”

His wife sighed. It was wrong of her to tease him like that.

“And another thing, women don’t just decide to have sex with other women for the hell of it.”

“They don’t.”

“Pure male fantasy.”

“What if they are both really good friends?”

His wife laughed and put down Michael Crichton. “Have you ever had sex with your friend John?”

“John? Of course not!”

“What about Pete?”

“Not with any of my friends!”

“Because it’s different for men, right?”

“Right.”

“Because the thought of two men doing it is disgusting, right?”

“Right.”

“And if two women so much as look at each other, you’re reaching for a beer and a box of Kleenex.”

“Well, that’s not exactly how I would have put it, but yeah.” Bob grimaced, as if he only just realised that the entire male gene pool was sex, good booze, and fast cars. Well, Bob owned a five-door estate, drank watered down local beer, and was on the once a week plan in the bedroom – the week had not arrived yet.

“You know, I think if you lay naked on the floor and I had a guy come in and rub baby oil all over your body, we would soon see Pisa.”

“Pisa?”

“The Leaning Tower.”

Bob grimaced. “Which guy?”

“Does it matter?” his wife asked.

“No.”

“Is there a man in particular who you would like to rub baby oil on you?”

“No, of course not. I’m just curious as to who you had in mind.”

“Barry from next door.”

“I would rather have his wife doing it,” Bob admitted, “but I guess it’s your fantasy.”

“OK, you choose the man.”

“I don’t want to choose the man.”

“Well take someone famous,” his wife prompted. “What about Tom Cruise?”

“I don’t even like his movies.”

“George Michael then? You have all his albums.”

“Hmmm. I think he would enjoy it too much.”

His wife sighed at her husband’s stubbornness.

“Anyway it doesn’t matter because I would not get an erection, regardless of which man rubbed baby oil on me!”

“It’s not your choice, darling. It’s a simple matter of biology.”

Bob laughed and scribbled something down in his notebook. “Biology my ass.”

“It’s true. The penis was designed to respond to stimulation. It’s a reactionary tool.”

“Please don’t refer to my penis as a ‘tool’,” Bob said, “it’s not very complimentary.”

“If Bubbles the Wonder Chimp started jerking you off, you would be hard as a rock in two minutes flat.”

“I don’t believe I am having this conversation,” Bob mumbled out loud. “I’m not having this conversation. Anyway, you said a man; you didn’t say anything about monkeys. That’s a whole different story.”

His wife didn’t laugh.

“As I was saying,” Bob did, as if his wife’s constant interruptions were the reason he never cashed in any royalty cheques, “Thorn needs to be employed. It’s the number two rule of any self respecting porn story.”

“What’s the first rule?”

Bob flicked to the last page of his notebook and read, “There must be scenes of a graphic sexual nature.”

His wife nodded. “You actually have a list of rules?”

“Sure.”

“How many rules?”

“Sixty-five in total.”

“Wow. Sixty-five?”

“Ten are optional, and the final ten are specific to location and demographic.”

“They really take cum shots and gang bangs seriously, huh?” his wife said sarcastically.

“Every genre has its cornerstones, dear. Action stories get off on guns and explosions; fantasy gets off on wizards and dragons; and porn, well, porn just gets off, I guess.”

His wife shifted closer to him. “Read me the rules.”

“I can’t honey. They’re far too complex and involved.”

“Please.”

“Honestly. They’re very boring and long winded, with lots of technical terminology. It doesn’t even sound much like sex at all. It reads more like an instruction manual. Very bland. Really.”

“OK, just tell me one of them,” his wife relented. “Rule forty-one.”

Bob shook his head and dragged his finger down the page. “Aah. Rule forty-one: If possible he should fuck her asshole. Ahem. That would be one of the more direct stipulations.”

“Hmmm. So I gathered.” His wife turned to her husband. “You know, I have never been a fan of anal penetration.”

“How do you know. We’ve never done it.”

“You’re right. We haven’t.” She smiled smugly.

“You mean you did it with someone else?”

“Well I didn’t use a cucumber, darling.”

“Who did you do it with?”

“It was long before I met you.” She waved away his suggestion of infidelity.

Bob shouted. “I’ve known you since you were seventeen!”

“Yes, well, it felt like a long time.”

“Who was it?”

“You don’t know them.”

“Them?”

His wife turned another page. “Yes, it was a couple of boys.”

“A couple?”

“Yes. Three of them.”

“Three is a few,” Bob argued, “three is not a couple.”

His wife shot him a glare.

“So who were they?”

“I told you, you don’t know them.”

“So tell me their names then.”

His wife sighed heavily and put her book down.

“OK, First it was Steven Forrest.”

“Big guy. Footballer.”

“That’s the one.” She nodded. “Then it was Derek Baker.”

“The computer geek. Star Wars fan.”

“Star Trek actually.”

“Whatever,” Bob said dismissively, “he was a geek.”

“Then it was Per Johansson.”

“I don’t know him.”

“Swedish exchange student. He was only at school with us for six weeks.”

Bob was mortified. “You had sex with someone you only knew for six weeks?”

“No.” His wife picked up Michael Crichton again. “It only took me five days.”

Bob was silent and looked at his wife as if he was seeing her for the first time.

“Close your mouth, darling. If it’s any consolation it wasn’t the greatest experience. That’s why I went back to Steve. He really knew how to get the job done, you know?” She smiled nostalgically. “Oh my God, I came so hard that day!”

“I don’t believe it!”

“What?”

“You’re thinking about him right now.”

“No I’m not.”

“Yes you are. You’re playing with your necklace. You’re imagining his hands on you right now, aren’t you?”

His wife was quiet for a moment. “Well, I am now, yes.”

Bob covered his ears and closed his eyes.

“Oh, stop being so melodramatic,” his wife scolded him.

“Well it’s not every day a man learns his wife enjoyed anal sex with three other guys.”

“Really darling, I only enjoyed it with Steve and Derek, and even then I had to fake it with Derek. With Per it was over before I even knew he was in.”

Bob could feel his face flushing red. He thought back to his sexual experiences before his wife – a quick fumble on the sofa when he was sixteen, a lap dance on his stag night, and the dog humping his leg all the way through his childhood. Memorable occasions, all.

“I wasn’t your wife then anyway,” she reminded him. “I was a free agent.”

“Free to any guy with a boner it seems!”

His wife smiled. “What else do you have?”

“Huh?”

“Read me some more stuff.”

“Oh. That’s it.”

“The melons and the glowing love-rod? That’s all you have so far?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“What’s the problem?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe it just isn’t in me to write porn.”

“Sure it is. You can do anything you put your mind to.”

“I appreciate the ego boost, dear, but I think I’m a bit out of my depth here.”

His wife closed the book and laid it on her lap. “You can use me as research.”

“You?”

“Sure. I have lots of stories.”

“I am not going to read your trashy Mills & Boon novels.” Bob smirked, wondering what his mates would think if they caught him with a paperback called ‘The Secretary’, or some other suitably pulpy title.

“Oh God, no. I don’t mean them. They’re fluff.” His wife laughed. “I mean, I have lots of experience. You can write about the things I’ve done.”

Her smile, and the flighty tone of her voice told Bob that she thought this was one of the greatest suggestions she had ever made. Bob however, did not share her enthusiasm. There were at least a couple of problems with it…

“Like the time with Andy, this was about a week before I met you, and I had my first sixty-nine. Oh my God, he had his tongue so far inside me I thought he was gonna lose it at one point – ”

“Yeah, that’s great, honey.”

“ – or that time after the senior prom when Carl and Jamie took me to a hotel room and I had both of them at once. Carl was downstairs and Jamie took me by the mouth, or was it the other way around? Of course they swapped later on anyway. God, that was good – ”

“You know, dear, I think I get the picture.”

“ – and how could I forget my hen night? My stripper had the biggest cock I’ve ever seen. When I turned up at the church a week later I still couldn’t walk properly. Didn’t you ever notice that on the wedding video, darling?”

Bob had quite a few problems with it, as it turned out.

He flipped to a blank page in his notebook and started a list.