Welcome to the Site of Writerotica

"You see, Paul, if they weren't crazy before they started writing, that kind of isolation will make them nuts," he said. "Besides, just because so many writers are crazy doesn't mean that I can't take advantage of them and make money with what they write."

"What did you just say?" I looked at him in shock.

"Sorry, did I just say that out loud? Just kidding. Don't mind me. It's been a long day at the nuthouse, I mean, sanatorium. What I meant to say was that I respect their need to write by showing my compassion for them and by allowing them to continue to express their feelings in their time of emotional need."

"I don't understand."

"Another words, I encourage them to write. Writing is what they know, after all, and it's what calms them and makes them their happiest. Trust me; if they abruptly stopped writing, they'd be a lot nuttier than they are when writing their little erotically psychotic stories."

"I see. So, they write for you...as therapy?"

"Yes, of course, as therapy, you can say that. I like how you phrased that, Paul. May I use that in my brochure?" he said looking at me with that psychoanalytical kind of stare that made me ill at ease before he pulled out his notepad and pen and made another note.

"Yeah, sure, you have my permission to quote me." I mean, I didn't think that I said anything enlightening.

"Just sign here," he said pulling out a piece of paper from his side coat pocket, "and here and here...and initial there."

I thought it a bit weird that he'd have an agreement form so handily that gave my permission for him to quote me. I started reading it before signing it.

"Oh, it's just a standard permission form. There's no reason to waste your valuable time reading it."

"What's this part about me voluntarily giving you permission to keep me here after—"

"Oh, don't mind that. That's just legal mumbo jumbo that the lawyers put in there to protect me should you suddenly lose your mind," he said with a laugh.

I mean, he was a doctor, I think, I hope, and if you can't trust a doctor, then who can you trust? So, I signed it.

"There you go, Doc," I said giving him the signed document and returning the loan of his pen.

"You don't know what this place is, do you?" He looked at me and smiled. "You have no idea, do you?"

"It's a mental hospital," I said with a shrug and looking at him while waiting for him to affirm me correct. "Right?"

"Yes, in a way. More appropriately, this is the site of Writerotica." He gave me a big smile, "Welcome to the site of Writerotica."

"Writerotica? Are you serious? This is Writerotica? No way!" I took a step back and looked at the walls, ceilings, and the floors that needed a good scrubbing before receiving a new paint job. This place was falling apart.

"You seem surprised, Paul."

"I never thought the entire operation of Writerotica would be confined to a mental facility for crazy, old writers."

I never expected Writerotica to look like this. I always expected it to be in a modern building with modern offices and a large staff of young people. I had no idea. Now, that explains some things, if you know what I mean.

"Mentally taxed is a much better way to refer to our senior patients than crazy writers," he said correcting me.

"Sorry."

"Follow me. I'd like you to meet some of the gang," he said with a smile escorting me to an elevator and pushing the 4th floor button.

As soon as the doors opened it was bedlam. A giant Valentine's banner was nearly torn from the ceiling and the remnants of dozens of burst balloons were strewn everywhere. Red and white heart confetti littered the entire floor. There were people running up and down the halls yelling and screaming. Some of the patients, both women and men, were semi-naked and naked. Some were chasing one another and others were acting out, as if they were using what they were doing for inspiration to what they would write later for certain categories of Writerotica. There were people actually having consensual and non-consensual sex in the corridors. If it wasn't so exciting, it'd be shocking.

When he turned to the left, I looked to the right.

"What's down there," I said pointing to my right.

"We don't go down there unless we are wearing protective SWAT gear," he said with a cringe.

"Why? Tell me. What's down there?"

"Those are the Loving Wives writers and the Interracial Love writers. There is just no hope for those writers. They are all mad. We must even keep them apart from one another. We keep them locked in their rubber rooms, 24/7. There is no hope of sanity for any of them."

Suddenly, I heard laughing, rolling on the floor type of belly laughing, hysterical laughing. There was so much laughing that I started laughing.

"What room is that," I said pointing to a room with an elderly, naked man sitting on his bed laughing out loud.

"That's WhatSayYou. He does our comedy thread in the humor category. He doesn't write everything himself, but he collects stories and jokes from others, some of which makes it to his Funny Bone thread and others make it into his stories. He's a funny guy, so funny, too funny, that he's gone mad with laughter, which is why he's here."

"Wow, that's horrible," I said laughing. I couldn't help myself. Seeing him sitting on his bed naked laughing made me laugh.

Dr. Chartreuse walked to a secured rubber room and peered through a little window in the door.

"Shh," he whispered with a finger to his lips. "Remain calm, otherwise you'll scare her."

"Meow. Meow. Meow," said the woman behind the door loud enough for me to hear from where I was standing. Either she thought she was a cat or she really, really liked cats. "Meow. Meow. Meow."

I walked to the window and peered inside. The room was bare except for a mattress on the floor. The walls were padded and secured to the wall was a keyboard and a monitor. Mindless of my presence, an elderly woman, obviously by her long, gray hair sat naked on the padded floor typing while meowing.

"Who is that?"

"I'm surprised you don't recognize her from her avatar."

"Well, I'm only seeing the back of her."

"Meow," he said mimicking her. "Meow, meow."

"I don't know who that is," I shrugged. "I'm fairly new to the Writerotica and I'm not familiar with everyone, yet."

"She's KittyCatKitten."

"That's KittyCatKitten? No way! Are you serious? I can't believe it. She writes all those wonderful romantic stories. Everyone on the site loves her. Only, I thought she was younger. She's so old."

"She's also FelineKitten and PussyKitten."

"No way! I always thought they were three different people because they are always arguing with one another. They constantly deny that one is the other."

"Those who don't like themselves very much pretend to be someone else, Paul," he said draping a heavy arm across my shoulder. "That's why they are here, I'm afraid." He looked at me and smiled. "That's why you are here, I'm afraid," he said giving me a long look. "Think about it. Who are you really?"

"I don't know what you mean, Doctor. I'm Paul Thomas, Positive Thinker."

"Yes, of course you are. Just keep telling yourself that and even you will believe it."

Just then a statuesque naked woman walked out of one of the rubber rooms and blocked my path. She had a scowl on her face and as if she was trying to pick a fight, she purposely bumped my shoulder, as I passed by her.

"Wow," I mumbled under my breath by the site of her. She was so tall and so gorgeous. Her body was incredible and she had this beautiful, silky long, black hair.

"What did you just say? Did you just say...how?"

"I'm sorry," I said making eye contact with her. She was really quite beautiful. "Pardon me?"

"I said," she said taking another intimidating step closer. "Did you just say...how?"

"How? No, sorry, I said...wow. I meant no offense. I'm sorry. Please forgive me. It's just I was startled by your beauty and your amazing body and—"

"Watch yourself paleface," she said pointing an index finger at me.

"Who was that tall, Indian woman," I asked the doctor, once we were out of earshot.

"That's Moody."

"Oh, yeah, I recognize her now that you mention her name. She looks better in person. She looks even better than her avatar." I turned to watch her walk away. "She has an amazing ass."

We continued walking the long corridor passing by rooms that were empty with doors that were wide open. Then, when we came near the end of the hall, he pulled me away from a room with a locked door.

"What about this room? Whose room is this with all the people in it?"

"Oh, that's OshKoshB'Gosh's room. He runs the theme contests."

"Why are they all yelling?"

"They all take turns winning the contest and they are trying to decide whose turn it is to win the Valentine's contest. The winner gets to spend the night in that room," he said pointing across the hall.

"Whose room is that?

"YouBet."

"I'm sorry, but whose room is that?"

"YouBet."

"Oh, is that his name?"

"Her name. He's a she. Actually, she's lesbian. That's her there, the tall, thin voluptuous blonde with the great tits."

"Damn, why do all the good ones go to the other side?" I looked at the doctor. "I don't understand. So, why is it such a big deal for a testosterone filled man to sleep overnight in YouBet's room when she's lesbian? I don't get it."

"Because...he gets to watch her with her friends," said Dr. Chartreuse making room for YouBet and two of her strikingly beautiful girlfriends, a redhead and a brunette, to pass.

"Who is that in there," I said leaning to peek in the window. There was a man, a handsome man, a manly, muscular, macho man, sitting on his bed wearing a straightjacket. "Who is he?" He looked a bit like Brad Pitt, only much better looking. "Except for the fact that he's talking to himself, yelling actually, he looks quite normal, albeit a bit angry," I said to the doctor.

"Yes, the really crazy ones do look normal, but I assure you he's mad, raving mad. He lost his mind after writing more than 600 stories in a two year period and still losing the Writerotica's Great Divider Contest twice. Two consecutive years in a row he finished in second place. He blamed others for his loss and picked fights with everyone on the site. It's sad. For a man who is so prolific and so talented to be so afflicted with lunacy, it is a shame."

"Is that Fictionwriterbeantown?"

"The one and only, I'm afraid. We're hoping by giving him electric shock therapy to at least get him back writing again. He was our biggest earner until he just lost it. His stories earned more than 10 million hits."

Just then a loud noise, much like a farting sound, until I realized it was more like a big balloon losing its air erupted throughout the corridor. Three people, one of which was holding a pin, ran by us laughing.

"Hold up there," said Dr. Chartreuse. "You know the rules about having sharp objects. Give that to me please," he said taking the pin away from them and handing it to me.

"Fuck! Duct tape! I need some duct tape! God damn it! Does anyone have a band-aid? Tabby lost air again and I can't write without my Tabitha watching me while I talk to her. Hello? Somebody? Anyone? Help! I need a band-aid. I can't create my best selling incestuous stories without Tabitha. Every second I stand here, I'm losing sales," he said. "I'm losing sales," he said jumping up and down and yelling. "Sales! Sales! Sales! I'm losing sales!"

"Relax Tim. Calm down. Here is a band-aid for your rubber girlfriend," said Dr. Chartreuse pulling a band-aid from his breast pocket. Now, please return to your room and—"

"Who are you," asked Tim of me and staring at me before spotting the pin. "And what are you doing with that pin?"

"Hi, I'm Paul, Positive Thinker, but you can call me PT." I put the pin behind my back. "Dr. Chartreuse took it away from someone running from your room and handed it to me for safekeeping."

"You're the new writer," he said suddenly making me feel ill at ease that I was one of them, old and crazy and about to be locked up for the rest of my life while writing stories for Writerotica.

"Well, no, not really, I mean, I'm not a patient here. I mean, yeah, I guess, I am a new writer, but I've only written a few—"

"Don't be nervous. Don't you know who I am?"

"No, sorry, I just—"

"I'm Writerotica's number one writer. I'm the greatest. I'm the best. I'm the one and the only. No one receives more votes than me. No one receives more comments. No one has the highest average scores and no one receives as many sales as I do. Do you hear me? No one! No one in the history of Writerotica has earned more royalty payments than me. No one is better than me. No one! Do you hear? I am the best. I am Cory."

"Calm down, Cory," said Dr. Chartreuse. "Calm down. I don't want to have to give you another sedative."

Now, by his animated antics, I understood why this man was a permanent resident here. Dr. Chartreuse winked at me. It was then that I noticed the sign in colorful crayon over his rubber room that read, Cory's World.

"Oh, wow. You're Cory. Pleased to meet you," I said pumping his hand. "Pardon me for saying, but I thought you'd be younger. Do you mind if I asked you how old you are?"

"Eighty. I'm eighty-years-old."

"That's amazing."

"What's amazing, that I lived this long?"

"No, that you still have an appetite for writing incest."

"Incest is best. Haven't you ever had sex with your sister?"

"Eww! No! Gross."

"C'mon, tell me about it and I'll write a story about your experiences with her."

"Eww! No way! Gross!

"Surely, you must have always wanted to bang your mother."

"Eww! No! Gross."

"Do you have a daughter?"

"Eww! No! Gross."

"Have you ever fantasized over your cousin, aunt, grandmother, mother-in-law, and/or sister-in-law blowing you? Although, in-laws aren't really incest, but it is taboo." He gave me a good long look. "Surely, you can't tell me that you never wondered what your female relatives looked like naked while you were home alone in your room masturbating five times a day, every day, for most of the eighty years of your life. Sorry, did I reveal too much about my personal life?"

"I'm sorry, but the thought of having sex with my relatives just doesn't appeal to me."

The doctor took me by the arm.

"Attend to Tabby with the band-aid I gave you, Cory. I need to show Positive Thinker one more room."

The doctor led me to another room that appeared empty. It was across from Fictionwriterbeantown's room.

"Whose room is this?"

"This is your room. You'll be right across from your buddy, Fictionwriterbeantown."

"Buddy? He's not my buddy. I don't even know him. He's from Boston. I'm from New York. He likes the Red Sox and I'm a Yankees fan. Go Yankees," I said giving my best Bronx cheer. "I've never even read his stories. He's crazy and I'm normal. He's negative and I'm positive."

With a big shove, Dr. Chartreuse pushed me in the room and closed and locked the door.

"Wait! What are you doing? You can't lock me up in here. I'm not crazy. I'm not even old."

He held up the paper I signed to the glass allowing him to voluntarily admit me.

"Just as you were crazy enough to sign this paper, you are crazy enough to continue to write for Writerotica."

"But I only write good stories. Most of my stories are positive thinking stories with happy endings."

"Ah, that's the rub," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"Just as you're crazy to think that this story will have a happy ending, you're crazy to think that you're a writer. Besides, for you to write this story, you're definitely crazy. Happy Valentine's Day."

"Wait! Don't go! Don't leave me here! Help! Help!"

"On a dark deserted highway...I saw a shimmering light...I had to stop for the night...this could be Heaven and this could be Hell...there were voices in the corridor, I thought I heard them say...Welcome to the Hotel to California ...such a lovely place...and still those voices are calling from far away, wake you up in the middle of the night, just to hear them say...Welcome to the site of Writerotica...Happy Valentine's Day. Last thing I remember, I was running for the door. I had to find the passage back to the place I was before. Relax, said the night man, we are programmed to receive. You can checkout any time you like, but you can never leave!"