No Diversions to report. In fact, I had a little mini-breakdown on the job yesterday. There I was, minding my own business between the salad and the entree courses, and I burst into tears. The waiter, already tired from a weekend of holiday revelers, didn’t know quite what to make of me. So much for keeping a low profile, Miss Food Critic!
Naturally, I’m completely humiliated, but as I’d spent the last six hours trying without success to wrestle my characters into bed, I felt justified at the time.
What’s wrong with me? I used to write sex all the time. (It’s one of those pesky erotica requirements, you know). Twenty page sex scenes? No problem. Just point me to the keyboard. Yet it was like pulling teeth to get them to do so much as take each other’s clothes off. Arrrrrrgggghhh. I tried reading my old stuff. I tried reading my favorite authors sexiest novellas. I participated in a brainstorming session. Okay… what if she goes down on him and then…. [Note to self: Never brainstorm sex.] Nothing worked. I was so depressed, and depressed, of course, is not the mood in which you wish to write sex.
Thus the restaurant crying jag. Really, I should try to keep my careers separate. No point in scaring waiters by disccusing sexual pacts.
The meal was ruined (fortunately, I don’t think it colored my review, though it certainly wrecked Sailor Boy’s evening). On the way out to the car, I paused. Now, this restaurant was located in a very twee neighborhood. Yuppie townhouses, “Main St. America” brick walkways and streetlights, upscale bistros — you know the type. And there, next to my parked car, in a well lit section of street, not out of the sightlines of all the folks dining alfresco at the restaurant, was a very shiny, very upscale Honda sedan with two naked people humping in the backseat.
And they were really going at it, too. Not the beep of my car’s locking system, nor my stifled giggles nor Sailor Boy’s obvious rubbernecking would stop them in their pursuit of orgasm.
We laughed the whole way home. That’s what I was missing from my sex scene, I decided. The gotta-have-it-now, don’t-care-who-sees sort of urgency.
Come on, folks, I know you two have it in you! Screw already.
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