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“Did you manage to read my book?” I asked him between bites. “I’m dying to hear your feedback.”
He hummed, mouth full again so he didn’t answer.
“But if you hated it, then don’t tell me.”
Owen laughed at me.
“It was good,” he said, then paused while he took his last bite. “But I did have some criticisms to bring up, if you want to hear them.”
“So you liked it?” I begged, abandoning the last half of my sandwich since my stomach started flipping and turning nervous somersaults in my belly.
“It was good,” he agreed, crinkling up his sandwich paper before tossing it back into the bag it came in. “But I have a gripe with the sex scenes.”
My cheeks bloomed pink.
“I told you to skip those parts,” I squeaked.
He turned to me and gave me a deadpan expression that basically told me I was stupid to believe he actually would have skipped them.
“I told you the fucking is the best part. Besides, there can be great artistry in intimate scenes like that.”
“But not mine?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t say they were lacking artistry. And, I mean, there’s four men and one woman, so sure, there will be some suspension of disbelief while reading. That’s fine. My biggest gripe is the realism of the sex itself. It lacked description and color. Also, a man doesn’t experience orgasms the same as a woman. Nipple pinching doesn’t do a whole lot for most guys, and there’s no throbbing happening in a man’s cock until he's ejaculating. More like a tightening and pulse than anything. Like when you can feel your blood pumping hard through your arm after it fell asleep? Something more similar to that.”
My mouth went dry as he spoke, the dirty words from my books clinging to his lips, but they were good there. They weren’t dirty at all when he spoke them.
“I assume you’ve never been with four men at once. I mean, most women haven’t, but have you at least tried some of the things you’ve written about?”
“Uh…” I mumbled, not wanting to sound like a know-nothing, which I really was when it came to sex.
“Did you ever get that kiss like I told you to?” he asked hopefully.
I shook my head.
Owen frowned and tapped his finger against his lips in thought.
“Do you know what Thoreau said?”
I shook my head again.
“He said, ‘How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live’.”
Turning my eyes over to him, I found him leaning toward me, his elbows on his knees.
“Can you imagine what he meant by those words?”
“I guess he meant, don’t write about things you know nothing about.”
Owen tapped the tip of his nose.
“To be fair, we artists take license to maneuver around reality a little, which is one of those things that makes books so brilliant and enthralling. You don’t have to fuck four men at the same time to know how to write it, but damn, it’d help if you fucked one in all the same ways she does in the book. How colorful would the scenes be then?”
I swallowed hard, unable to take my eyes off of him.
Owen tucked his lips between his teeth and shut his eyes, as if trying to rid himself of whatever images were cycling through his imagination.
“Live, then make up the difference with some creative writing,” he said eventually, though the smile he gave me was strained.
