tagFirst TimeWriter's Block

Writer's Block

byBuckyDuckman©

The white page of a new Word document stared back at Karen in defiance, daring her to write something, anything. Glancing away from her laptop, she stared at the candle burning to its right, just above her mousepad. Karen hated using touchpads. She was a mouse and mousepad kind of girl. Even if she was setting up her laptop in a Starbucks, she need space for a mouse and its pad. She moved the slightly askewed pointer across the screen, drawing circles and diagonals while waiting for inspiration.

A short glass and a half empty bottle of Tennessee whiskey sat to the left of her computer. She tipped the bottle, added a finger's depth of liquid amber to her glass, and took a small sip. The familiar burn inside her throat warmed her without loosening her muted muse. The candle and the square bottle of sour mash whiskey were new additions to her writer desk. Sooner or later, something would break through. She wiggled the mouse, up and down, in a circle, and across the bottom of the page and thought about how many historic authors were alcoholics.

Fuck, she typed and when that felt good, she wrote it again and again. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK! That felt better. She wouldn't save a word of it, of course. None of the words mattered, only the sensation of fingertips tapping on keys. The cadence and rhythm of moving her fingers mattered more than the words she wrote.

fuckfuckfuck... fuckfuckfuckfuck

Karen giggled, emptied her glass of its whiskey and kept going. She wrote words she would never keep for the exercise of writing words.

I like to fuck. Fucking is good. Fucking fucking feels good. I fucking love to fuck big hard cocks and tiny hard cocks because I like to feel a fucking hard cock fucking my fucking pussy. I like fucking more than I like fingerfucking myself. I even liked fucking the first time I ever fucking fucked.


"Fucking-A!" Karen announced, leaning back and laughing at the words on her screen. She tipped the square bottle, added another finger's width depth of Jack Daniels to her glass and toasted the words written in the default Calibri font. She read through the short paragraph, scanning for spelling and grammar errors. There were none. Nor had she written a word worth keeping. She didn't care. She was tired of not writing, tired of staring at a blank page, and fucking tired of wiggling her mouse around the screen.

Fingers back on her keyboard, she remembered Dick Number One penetrating her nether regions. I thought Tommy Thompson had a big cock, she wrote. Back when she had been messing around with Tommy, that's precisely how she had felt though Tommy's dick had been neither impressive nor disappointing in its girth or length. Tommy's dick had been as statistically average as possible. Karen's inexperienced eyes, hands, mouth, and pussy hadn't learned the difference. And I was proud that his big dick fit inside my tiny, tight pussy.

Karen kept writing about her deflowering, desperately needing to keep her fingers moving. She rotely sipped whiskey as fuel and wrote about Tommy's average sized prick. She tried describing the squiggly roadmap of swollen blue veins beneath the shiny smooth, helmet-like cap of his cockhead. Karen didn't write porn. She didn't write erotica. Like that night in a cheap motel room when she became a woman, she didn't care if she was doing it right. Doing it was more important than doing it right.

She didn't bother describing the cheap motel room near the airport. She ignored how nervous she had felt pulling up to the row of rooms with sedans and pickup trucks and two motorcycles sharing a space. She had forgotten how Red Roof Inns always had second floors, too. Those tiny details, along with the drizzling rain and the stolen bottle of Boone's Farm Apple Wine were lost on her memory.

She remembered pulling up to the motel room with Tommy and feeling out of place. Rented bedrooms were a foreign concept to her eighteen-year-old self. She couldn't imagine the tired sales rep in the room next door exhausted after driving ten hours. She couldn't guess the world of the excited couple staying near the airport for an early morning flight to Cancun. She only knew why she was there. She was there to lose her virginity in a bed instead of the backseat of a car. She was there to say "yes."

Sitting back, Karen stared at the words on her computer screen. She skimmed over her description of Tommy's cock and smiled every time she had written "cock" or "prick." Her fingers weren't accustomed to writing such strong language. She saw typos. Viens instead of Veins and she had referred to his ball sac as a "sack." She sipped her whiskey, left the errors and went back to writing about sex. She forced herself to write all the "bad" words.

Tommy liked pussy. Tommy loved my pussy. Tommy wanted to eat my pussy. I didn't want Tommy to go down on me. I didn't want him to eat my pussy. It felt funny whenever he ate my pussy. I couldn't appreciate his effort and I didn't want to waste our time together with his mouth against my pussy. Pussy. Pussy. Pussy. I like pussy. I've eaten pussy, too.


Karen's fingers stopped after that last line. She re-read it, giggled, and kept writing.

No one knows I eat pussy. No one knows I like to eat pussy. I started eating pussy in college. I ate my roommate's pussy so many times that I thought I had turned lesbian. Except I like cock. I like dicks. I like feeling big, hard pricks inside my pussy, as long as he doesn't have a dick that's too big because that hurts.


Her writing sucked. She knew it and didn't care. She was writing! She was making words appear on her screen! She never wrote in a stream-of-consciousness style. She blamed the whiskey from the square bottle. Giving herself permission to suck felt liberating.

Karen wrote about her nerves and her case of the giggles. Oh, her constant giggling had been so bad that night! She couldn't help it. She always giggled when she was nervous. One giggle begat two more. She didn't mean to giggle. It was difficult to kiss when she was giggling. Tommy kept asking if he was tickling her. She swore he wasn't. He looked frustrated. She tried to kiss away his frustration. "I want this," she promised, naked with him and eager to finish the act.

She giggled again when he struggled opening the condom's foil package. She giggled watching him roll the latex sleeve around his hard cock. He looked really really. He looked ready to burst before they ever did it. She knew the difference. She was an everything-but virgin. She had touched his prick. She had sucked his prick. She was very familiar with his dick. When he smiled, she knew it was because her giggles were getting to him, too.

I told him I want to fuck. I told him, "Fuck me!" and laughed after I said it because I had never said those words and meant it. That night, I meant it, for reals. I wanted him to fuck me. I wanted to be fucked. I wanted to live the verb.


Karen giggled at the words she had written. She giggled at the memory of giggling so much until he crawled on top of her. No, that's not quite right; she had giggled again because he could find her pussy. He poked around her pussy, trying to find her opening, trying to find her waiting vagina and not being able to do it.

Other men wouldn't have that problem. Other men would gracefully slip inside her, filling and thrilling her.

I don't think he meant to jab me so fast and hard on that first try. Maybe he did. Maybe he was concerned about the strength of a hymen. He didn't. I never bled or felt the snap of that useless little barrier. Who knows when or where it had gone? I didn't know and I didn't care because I wanted to fuck. I wanted to be a woman and Tommy made me one in a single stroke.


Karen considered her words. She considered the importance of that single moment, a single stroke. The secrets of the night were opened to her. There were so many other firsts waiting for her to experience. Tommy's prick penetrating her for the first time was the opening of a chapter that would last the rest of her life. Karen tossed back the rest of amber in her glass. She didn't pour any more. She saved her sloppy, inelegant writing and didn't miss the analogy. The writer insider her was back.

*****

Short stories, like this one, seldom seem to score very well. Oh well. I hope you were entertained enough to be kind. Feedback and comments are always welcomed.

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