"Good morning, welcome to creative writing 101, I'm Professor Donlon. You're here because you have aspirations, you want to be a successful, published author. Many of you believe you have the talent to be an acclaimed novelist. I'm here because I'd like to see you achieve those objectives."
Looking at the professor I could think of many objectives I'd like to achieve with him. My radar never failed me. An older, intelligent man who wanted to teach me things I didn't know, that could be more than just an objective.
"There are a number of basic implements, rules if you will, that can assist you, make your goal attainable, give you the foundation to build on.
Writing is a demanding mistress, a siren singing melodic refrain's, songs of promises filled with passion. This lady delivers orgasmic pleasure in the words that come easy and she leaves you frustrated and discouraged when she becomes silent, when she refuses to sing to you."
As he continued to speak, although I heard him talking, I couldn't tell you what he was saying, I was too busy looking around the room and asking myself "Layla, what are you doing here?"
I realized that if I were to be serious, decent at what I was doing, I needed help. What was I doing? We'll get to that. Sitting here, taking it all in, seeing the latest and greatest college hopefuls, I wasn't so sure. "Seriously Layla, back in school?"
I haven't been in a classroom for what seems like a lifetime ago. When I graduated from college I had a solid plan. My sole objective was using the degree I worked so diligently for to become independent.
I wanted to achieve financial security and pay off my student loans as fast as was humanly possible. I accomplished what I set out to do.
So why was I sitting in a lecture hall, taking a creative writing course at this stage of my life?
My divorce was final; I was certainly independent. I had achieved financial security and didn't owe a dime. What I didn't have was a someone, I didn't want one, not a forever someone.
I began writing to fill a void, an emptiness I suppose. Maybe I had to find a way to satisfy my sexual desire without being bogged down in the inevitable baggage that comes along with a person.
After being held prisoner in a broken, corrupt, extremely painful marriage, escaping with my sense of practicality still in one piece, I came to the realization that I'm a healthy, normal red blooded woman.
Wait, isn't that how we define any male with a healthy sex drive? How do you describe a single woman who has a healthy sex drive and feeds it? Oh yeah, she's a whore.
It still astounds me, that in the twenty-first century, a sexually active woman without a steady partner, is expected to be celibate. How society defines whats acceptable behavior for her is by giving that person a title. If she is sexually active with a someone, that person is commonly referred to as... the politically correct... widely accepted description of a fuck buddy... a friend with benefits...is now referred to as her "significant other", and that's fine. However, this woman would be considered promiscuous if she frequently had one night stands, because she didn't have a significant other. Why can't she just answer and satisfy her very normal hormonal urges?
God, what a ridiculous use of words, even if they are true, just to get to this point. The fact that I happen to be a woman who actually adores the indulgent satiating decadence of sex, not having a partner left me to my own devices. It became incumbent upon no one but me, to decide out how to satisfy no one, but me.
To be quite blunt, I didn't need a someone. What I needed, was a serious "sexual healing" as so aptly espoused by the great, sadly late, Marvin Gaye. His empathetic understanding of what a sexual healing was is pretty much clarified in his intensely provocative song. Yep, Marvin knew from personal experience what the pain felt like and how to ease it.
Now that I had identified my condition, analyzed it in depth, I had to find what I needed to relieve the recurring symptoms.
I found my relief where most everyone pretty much finds anything these days, usually with great success. I took a seat on the cyber space ship express and surfed the internet.
Once on board, after making several stops along the information super highway, I found my healing.
I was able to find that miracle cure. I found inspiration, sexual arousal, and decadent erotic fantasy. It was all there at my fingertips, no pun intended, well, maybe a small one. There was definitely enough stimulation for an over the counter, self-administered treatment, with guaranteed relief of the symptoms until the next flare up.
I found a bottomless, infinite supply of reasonably arousing incentive that I could best describe as low dosage, non-addictive, stimulation.
I'm a visual person, words become scenes for me. I can transport myself into any story and become one of the characters. So I became whoever I wanted to be and made love to me to complete and utter satisfaction. I certainly didn't need a significant other or anyone else for that.
Predictably; I did in fact, came across a website that offered exactly what I was looking for. The ultimate path to the curative inducement that would relieve my aching symptoms, ease my cravings and give me the healing I needed. I found everything I needed in erotic stories.
I stumbled upon a first class inspiration warehouse that advertised, actually guaranteed the consumer an unlimited inventory of encouragement. Their products were sensual, erotic, and chock-full of lust and desire. There were no high pressure salesmen making deals that reduced the cost only to realize later you paid full price anyway. No, their merchandise, strictly self-service shopping, let you cram your basket with exciting, seductive, sexy, orgasmic stories.
I whipped out my reliable credit card and bought a truckload. I quickly started to guzzle down the words and fell into a bottomless boiling cauldron of unrestrained, satiating, delicious, sweet sexual healing.
There was a medley of selections in the inventory, a menu if you will, for every sexual appetite and palate imaginable. Have a fetish, we can feed it, need a late night snack, an appetizer, well go no further, our chefs are first-rate.
Set the table, bring out the finest china, use your best silverware, light the candles. Corkscrew ready, remove the cork from a bottle of elegant aged wine, let it breathe, pour it into a sparkling crystal glass, and sit down to a five-star meal. Satisfy your hunger with quilt free consumption. No need to count calories, gluttony likely. We offer an "all you can eat buffet" of cleverly prepared, juicy and delicious, satisfying words.
Tasty arousal, simmering low and slow, was delightful. Going back for seconds now and then led to the intense pleasure you taste when you've fed a gastronomical craving. Yes, personally prepared, served by me, self-administered satisfaction was the nourishment that my body was starving for. It was a natural, organic preparation, culminating in a cure for what ailed me.
Masturbation is a little pill of self-love when that's all you have. When the need to relieve stress, tension, or just simple loneliness makes growling sounds in your psyche you can always make love to yourself and find satisfaction if even for a brief instant. Granted, once the exhilaration subsides, you find yourself back in your empty world, but just for a moment your stomach is full and you know you couldn't put another bite in your mouth.
This form of self-healing requires no Doctor's prescription. There's no lover to become involved with, no one interfering with treatment. There's nothing standing in the way, nothing to prevent full recovery, except perhaps the perfect fantasy lover that dwells deep in the recesses of my mind. This lover is a miracle pill, has no side effects and I can't overdose.
I read several stories and subsequently realized, that while a majority of the stories were appetizing they weren't giving me an entree I could devour. Knowing what would excite my taste buds, cure my ache, take me where I needed to go, I thought "I could write this stuff" and so it began. We innately know what feeds us, cures us and leaves us satisfied and healthy.
Did I know that my ambiguous thought would begin a story? Absolutely not, there was no story there. Was it this impulsive, sudden decision that would be the beginning of this story? How could it possibly be the beginning of anything?
