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.”
