Author's Note: If you haven't read the story "Bob's Blues" by Stormy Weather, then this isn't going to make any sense at all. So the first thing you need to do is read that story. THEN this will make some sense. Don't lose interest here. It just has to be this way. And, after all, we authors do all the work, right? So it's not too much to ask you to do a little mouse clicking as your part of the bargain.
And, if you don't even know who Stormy is, then don't waste your time reading any further. This is about her, even though it will look like it's about me. But it's about her ... cause she started it!
I like Stormy. Actually I sort of love her in my own twisted way. Get your mind out of the gutter, people. I love pretty near all women, so that's not saying as much as you might think.
And she's got a crush on me but she thinks she's so smart that the Mensa folks have her on speed dial or something. And I'd swear she smuggled one of those teeny weeny little video cameras into my house and hooked it into my computer so she could see the webcast of Bob's life. But don't say mean things about her. She's got a crush on me. She can't help it. I'm a loveable guy.
But her teeny weeny camera must have had a glitch in it that day she wrote to y'all (that's the way she talks), because she got some of it just dead wrong. But only some of it, which is why I know she's got a camera around here somewhere.
So, in my own defense, and to correct the record, I'm writing this story. There'll be some sex in it later, since that's what you signed on for in the first place.
People think that writing smut is all sweetness and light and beating off with one hand while you fill pages with erotic content with the other. I don't know how many of you can type with just one hand, but it ain't that easy, let me tell you. And "Herman", as I have nicknamed my manhood, has gotten to the point where, if he's going to perform, needs all my attention or he just peters out, no pun intended.
You see, writing all this fucking and sucking stuff isn't really as easy as one might think. Oh sure, whenever I see a good looking woman walking confidently down the street, it's easy to come up with a fantasy that somehow includes me in it with her, but if you want to get beyond the shower scene with Sylvester Stallone and Sharon Stone in "The Specialist", you have to actually put some brain power in it. Which is why, on what I call "the bad days", I get a little distracted during the normal day-to-day routine that we all have to somehow get through.
"The bad days" are a conundrum in a way. They aren't bad at all for the readers, because those are the days when the plot thickens, and the characters develop, and intricacies of interpersonal relationships in the stories are formed. On those days the stories are forged on the anvil of my imagination, to put it in literary terms.
On the other hand, things get misplaced around the house, because while we're on the way to put something where it really belongs, I get distracted by a thought and have to run to the computer to get it down, or maybe jot it down on a piece of paper so I don't lose the thread of that thought. This is very important, since it serves you, the reader. And other things happen too. The cat gets stepped on, and the freezer door gets closed firmly with the assistance of my head instead of my hand. That lost rake gets found when, on my way to pick up a piece of trash in the yard my foot steps on the tines and the handle bounds upward to meet my forehead with a THWACK that says "Hi, missed you, been lying here for three months, alone and cold ... you bastard!"
That's another thing. When you write fiction, your imagination runs continuously, sort of like a hard drive that doesn't have a "sleep" feature. And inanimate objects get personified in a way that normal people would report to their shrink.
Of course writers don't go to shrinks. They write instead, and all that garbage inside them pours onto the page, instead of in one of the Doctor's ears and out the other as he wonders what his lovely wife is going to present him with at dinner that night.
I suppose it's therapeutic in a way ... writing, I mean ... because you get to flesh out all those dark thoughts that everybody has at one time or another, but can't admit they have because then your drinking buddy would look at you and say things like "You want to do WHAT with your sister?!"
Then it gets complicated when you try to brush over the error of admitting to your fantasy.
"Well, I don't actually HAVE a sister ... but if I DID have a sister, and she looked like Cindy, the secretary at work, I'd be really interested in doing that with her, you know?"
"No, I don't know. If she wasn't your sister then it's not incest. Why would you want to have incest with your sister when you don't even have a sister? Why not just fuck Cindy?"
"I can't just fuck Cindy." you try to explain. "She's not attractive to me as a secretary. but if she was my sister I'd want to do her in a heartbeat."
"You need to see a shrink. That's what you need to do." says your friend.
And then, after he's gone, you think to yourself that admitting to him that you wanted to fuck your non-existent sister really WAS a crazy thing to do, and maybe you really SHOULD go talk to somebody about it. But you can't.
That's because your car just imploded or something when things went haywire and the airbag deployed while you were minding your own business, sitting stock still in the driveway and smoke suddenly began billowing from the engine compartment. And, if you were me, I'd hazard to say that it was then that you took the very important time to stop thinking about what Stormy looks like in the shower, and remembered that you really should have gotten that damn electric window fixed, because now the window won't go down and you can't see anything because your glasses have been embedded in your face by the airbag. Then, just maybe, you'd begin to reflect on how you were going to die a lonely and ridiculous death in a burning automobile in your own driveway.
By now, writing is the last thing on your mind, with the possible exception of wondering what your obituary will read like, as you scramble over to the other side of the car. Hope springs eternal as that window begins to slowly scrape down until, at halfway, the engine stops as something critical burns through and the window stops too. What's on your mind now, by the way, is remembering how you really intended to lose those twenty ... OK thirty extra pounds that somebody else lost and you somehow found. That's because you don't really believe you're going to fit through half a window. But you have to try, seeing as how nobody could write your obit the way you really think it should be written so it's just better if you survive this particular ordeal. Going out headfirst seems like the best idea, seeing as how it's getting pretty hard to breathe inside the smoke-filled car, but then you end up hanging more or less upside down with nothing to hold onto as the window begins to emasculate you. That leads to what would be described by the casual bystander like this:
"Well, he was sort of wiggling all around, like he had ants in his pants, and flapping a little like a flag in the breeze. It was the damndest thing I ever did see. And somehow he got one leg out, and was hangin' there by the other one, and then, all of a sudden he just sort of dropped. I'm tellin' you that was an ugly sound when his foot touched the ground. Makes me shiver to remember it. So of course I went over and helped him, even though he borrowed my rake last fall and never brought it back. It was just the neighborly thing to do, you know?"
Anyway, not only is the car a blackened hunk of metal sitting in your driveway, but the only shrink you know of is three flights up and negotiating stairs on crutches is a pain in the ass. Well, it's a pain in the armpits actually, but you know what I mean.
So I had a right to be lying in bed, with Stormy's damned hidden cam gleefully sending her pictures of my broken body.
And it wasn't just that the accident was traumatic. The aftermath was too. You see, I had a lady doctor when they got me to the hospital. She treated all the cuts and scrapes first, as I told her the story of what happened, and then she put a cast on my ankle. And then she looked at Herman, since I'd told her he'd been damn near pulled off by that window edge.
"It's my professional opinion," she said, picking the poor limp fellow up with two fingers, "that we're going to have to perform a test or two to make sure the old plumbing is still working Bob." Then she leaned over and kissed it. And it wasn't one of those "I'll kiss it and make it all better" kisses either, let me tell you. Pretty soon she had that thing in her mouth, and was trying to out-perform Mr. Orrick's eight pound vacuum, while I lay there trying to figure out if I should ring for the nurse or just mash the morphine button on the machine right next to me.
"You read my stories, don't you." I accused her.
She stopped long enough to lick her lovely carmine lips. "Check the updates every single day." she grinned.
"My wife would not approve of this treatment." I felt compelled to say. "She's not a doctor. I am." she said sharply, and dove back down to ensure that everything was connected the way it was supposed to be. It was.
I started moaning and she raised up again long enough to say "Don't be such a baby. You're not hurt all THAT bad."
I guess when you hear moans all day long you start making assumptions about what's causing them.
.... There is more of this story ...