I can often be found sitting on this wall, a half a block up the street from my apartment. It’s the perfect height for me, so I just lean on it, and soon I’m sitting. I like to watch people walk by, to say hello, to gossip. There are those that say that if something’s going down on my street, I’m the one to ask. I see it all: Mrs Jones running out of her house with a bloody lip and skulking back a half hour later, Janine Harper with her two boyfriends, and what they get to up in her bedroom. She couldn’t have hung that mirror in more useful position. It helps that I’m a little far-sighted. She knows I can see them, and I sometimes wonder if she is performing just for me, or maybe she’s just gloating. She’s got two and I have none. I wouldn’t want either of them anyway.
Dan Jenkin’s Buick has a bad oil leak. He always parks it in front of my perch overnight, and I can see its rainbow stream of black gold oozing towards the curb in the morning. I love the aroma of a warm engine and the reflection of fresh motor oil and water in the warm sunshine. He must fill it up almost every day.
Twice I have been questioned by the police about soliciting, but they have never caught me at it, probably because that’s not what I’m doing. It has been years since my last … Sorry, but saying four-letter words makes me blush. Dan and I stopped when we got caught by his wife, Cindy. He was my first, back in High School, and occasionally we got together when I got sick of abstinence, and he got sick of Cindy. It was a purely physical arrangement, bourne of mutual need. Cindy was prone to use the withholding of sex as a weapon to get back at him, and he decided early on that using me was better than taking the matter into his own hands. Aside from releasing my pent up energy, Dan was never my true love. I just never really liked Cindy. After Dan popped my cherry, she moved in for the kill, and bingo … offspring, and a teen marriage. Dan and I never could have married, but I would have appreciated a second go before anyone else claimed him. Cindy’s a barracuda, and I don’t envy him.
Many wonder if I’m just a layabout, sitting on the wall all day long, but I’ve taken to sleeping in the evening and working from home after midnight. Nobody realizes that I’m a famous author. Everyone has read James T. Lincoln’s vampire novels. Nobody knows that he is me. My publisher hired a 40-something model for the book-jackets. I love writing at night, letting my fantasies run free. The reviewers get on my case about the amount of sex in my books, but that’s what brings the readers back time after time. Granted, every time has to be different and it has developed itself as a form of lycanthropy, a supernatural disease that even my main character has succumbed to – Det. Elmira P. Wrozniak, a specialist in paranormal crime by day and Meera, Queen of the succubusses at night. It’s the perfect cover and it helps her get rid of the competition. My readers think I’ve sold out, as Elmira’s sex gets more and more kinky. I don’t care, since my last novel sold the most ever. The diehards still prefer Elmira when she was still fully human, so I’ve started a new series just for them. Riccardo Malipiero, paranormal investigator and vampire killer. The first book was almost as big a seller as Fire in the Undergrowth, the first Elmira book.
Writing does strange things to me. It’s almost like having sex myself, especially when I’m in the midst of writing a juicy sex scene for Elmira. That’s why I can’t go to sleep in the morning. After a night of vampires and werewolves, I need the sunlight to reaffirm my humanity and cool the fire in my loins. If my neighbors knew how much I was worth, I would never get any peace. My visitors just think that I’m a big Lincoln fan, but nobody has even noticed that none of the other books in my library are vampire books. Not a single one! I prefer real literature, the classics, modern fiction. I’d read Jane Austen long before I read … what’e her name … I can’t remember. Her followers don’t like my books – the say Elmira is a slut – but what makes her any different from whatshername’s heroine?
If anyone is a slut, it’s me in real life, watching every handsome fella that walks by and orchestrating a fantasy that they star in. The good ones make it into my books, the rest keep me a deep breath away from an orgasm. I confess that I have come that close, sitting anonymously innocent in the sun, but the fella is usually long gone anyway.
There’s Mrs Jones back, right on cue, and Janine is busy pumping boyfriend no 2 dry. She waves discreetly, thinking that I envy her, but I’m sitting in an oil slick of my own making with Mr Bearded-Blond-Runner wrapped between my legs, his clothes in tatters on the sidewalk, and I’m about to scream in ecstasy. He’ll probably make his second sweaty loop around the block in about 10 minutes. Maybe I’ll stop him when he passes, burying my tongue in his mouth and perhaps more. He’s hot for me, I know, I can see it in his eyes. No, not today, the real thing is never as good as the fantasy.
If people only knew what I was really thinking…
Ive got to leave for a rehearsal in a quarter of an hour but Im bursting right now and Ive got to let it out so no punctuation today youve got to work for me this time hun because Im uppercase and if you have read my other streams you would know what that means it means Im gagging for it and if you would come into my study right now I would eat you alive and probably spit you out Im hungry and it isnt for food if I didnt have to go out soon it would be a naked day and Id have the heat turned up and I would strip down to nothing and write a steamy story hot hot hot but not porn Id rather discuss large ripe bananas and nice juicy cherries hanging from the tree Id douse them in syrup and lick it off then whipped cream I love whipped cream with a little sugar I would love to swim in it some day in my jacuzzi with an uppercase friend who I would get lowercase for dont you just love that metaphor uh oh only three minutes until I have to leave Im going out to blow on my mouthpiece finger the valves and stick my hand up my bell Id better not forget my lubrication bye bye damn Im so uppercase
I’ve been rabid the last couple of days, obsessed with sex even more than usual, sex in dreams, wet dreams, I dream a lot, even when I’m awake, just sitting here working, now writing, tap, tap, tap, on my keyboard, doing one thing while thinking about the other,
today it’s dreams, dreams and aspirations, but mostly dreams, I’ve been thinking about publishing, that’s an aspiration obviously, and although I’m an editor, I don’t really have the right connections in publishing, and I don’t have anything substantial to submit, a nice long serious short story or novel, Hahn has stalled, while I re-consider where it is going, I’ve got a general plan, but I started the next chapter and it just felt so stale, what to do with Alleyn’s cousin, and Hahn’s three other consorts, bringing them in, but I feel like Liz needs to get back to the real world, to get her back in touch with her real feelings, to become mortal again – I know how it is going to happen, but it seems so far away in the story, so much to write between now and then, and what I’ve written doesn’t connect with my dreams, the topic of this rant, and I feel that my best writing comes when it exists in my dreams (waking or sleeping) first, before I try to commit it to paper (or hard disk),
now that was a Freudian slip (that I’ve fixed), a hard dick, see, I’m still thinking of sex way too much, too much for my own sanity, and of him, always of him, I blame him, too, and myself for letting it happen this way, of course, I still love him, and without him I’d be writing nothing at all, not about Alleyn, not about Hora, not fantasy, not my fantasies, nothing, so I guess I have him to thank as well as blame – you may blame him for what I inflict on you, for what you dream, because that’s what I do to you, help you (make you?) dream, to help you fly, to let go of the ground to fly into that land of dreams where we become immortal
powerful, and every story has a happy ending, if we want it to, do you want a happy ending or an ending at all, just the promise of a future, like sex, not a one-nighter, the kind that you know you will have again with your lover, who is always the best, the best for you, that gives you the most complete satisfaction, who completes you, not incomplete like me, except that I need you, my reader, to give me the semblance of completion, that’s the next best thing, dear reader, love me, love my work, and we’ll get along just fine (doesn’t this sound so depressing and shallow?), but we keep going, keep dreaming – do you want to know what I’m dreaming now, he’s at my door, waiting for me to finish this, stepping behind me, hands on my shoulders, massaging my neck, he knows what I want and how to give it to me, kisses the top of my head … excuse me, but my muse wants to inspire me now, so I’ll just slip into something more comfortable, or maybe nothing at all, my rentboy is here, yes, my muse is a … okay, I’ve got to stop writing now, he’s (stop that!) … I’ve got to go …