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For a writer, this was a slow death. Writer’s block was more painful than constipation after eating spicy Mexican food.
His small, lonely, microcosmic world had shrunk around him and now he needed to get out and have an experience to inspire and awaken the inner being and set loose his alter egos. The walls needed to be knocked down so he could spread his wings. Basically, he needed a good fucking and a drunken binge—not necessarily in that order.
He had written thirty books filled with romance and sex. Two were made into low budget movies for cable, with terrible acting and fake breasts. He had a nice apartment and a kick ass computer set up for writing. California was a hotbed but his bed had run cold.
Lately, though, he had lost his urge to write. If he had to name a place for his inspiration, it was the Arctic, blank and barren. He needed a change of mind, a change of scenery. In the most basic of terms he needed to run away and find his muse.
He wrote under the name Angela Jollie. People told him there was a stigma problem with men writing romance and erotica. He was asked to think up something different than Eugene S. Finkter. His middle name was Scott. He liked his name but knew his parents had cursed him to a life of constant teasing.
Something had to be done. A drastic transformation in his hum-drum life to make him think differently. To get out of the rut which currently trapped him.
So he pondered his possibilities. A vacation to someplace different.
Las Vegas? No, just gambling and hookers there. Hmmm. Florida?
Hmmm, no, it’s set up for retirement and other than spring break; I’d end up in bed with a grandma with no teeth. That actually has advantages though…
He needed exotic, he needed the Caribbean. Eugene needed Aruba.
- - -
The phone call to his editor Jenna didn’t go as well as expected. A few harsh words about commitments and having his cock nailed to his chair if he didn’t meet his deadline were spoken.
So he bought his ticket to Aruba and packed only the essentials. His laptop, battery packs, some disposable razors, a multi-pack supply of glow in the dark condoms, various mini portion bottles of hair and skin products (he liked his hair silky smooth), a bright yellow swimsuit, his Kama Sutra manual, four pairs of beach pants, his furry leopard-skin underwear, an assortment of T-shirts, his phone—loaded with music—and three cans of sardines packed in tomato sauce for use as writing fuel.
r /> His mind raced with all the thoughts of a beachfront hotel. He pictured sunny days and starry nights of complete relaxation and the hope he would meet someone special to make him remember why he wrote in the first place. Or at least someone to mess up the bed with. She could lay in the wet spot.
If he didn’t meet Ms. Right, Ms. Right-Now would work just fine.
Eugene needed to get laid. His hands were getting carpal tunnel syndrome from constant masturbation.
The first part of the plane flight was a connection of tension-filled disasters. From being booked in coach next to an extremely large, smelly man who thought of himself as a standup comedian with horrible jokes profuse sweat, to almost spilling his diet soda over his laptop computer, everything pointed to a dismal getaway. The flight to Florida started in the afternoon and with the time difference he landed after three a.m.
The layover in Florida was nice. Eugene got out of the plane and had an hour and a half to stretch his legs and walk around the airport. He was also in dire need of some caffeine. Where’s a coffee shop when you need one?
While in the airport, Eugene browsed through the little store. A smile crossed his face as he saw a copy of his latest book on the small shelf in the store. He picked it up, admiring the art on the cover, a couple embracing in front of a beautiful sunrise. His smile turned to a sneer when he saw the price tag covered with a “50% OFF” sticker.
Eugene wasn’t a nerd or anything, he just lacked all the social skills of the modern man. He hadn’t been out on the prowl in a while. His last relationship was a disaster looking for a place to happen. The Titanic of bad relationships, and as he began to sink into the cold abyss of breaking up, it landed squarely onto his lap, as well as his wallet. He was successful, had dark, wavy hair, was about six foot, a hundred and ninety pounds, in good physical shape from hours on the treadmill and healthy eating…but he was a lonely, miserable fucking mess.
Before boarding, Eugene looked around at the other people getting onto the plane. They appeared to be mostly older couples on vacation. At this time of morning he felt as old and weary as they did. With a sigh he moved forward and bumped into a head full of brown hair.
“Watch it, asshole,” the woman barked. She turned around, yanking on her wheeled bag and glared at Eugene.
“S…um…sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.” He looked at the woman.
She had dark brown hair and was slender but not so skinny that a stiff breeze would blow her away. Her clothing was attractive and looked professional. She also had the look that if you crossed her she would rip your heart out of your chest and show it to you as it beat in her palm.
Her demeanor calmed and she spoke, “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. You just startled me. I am so frickin’ tired and just want to relax on the plane and get some sleep.”
“Me too. These connecting flights are a bitch but at least we’re going to Aruba. Vacation, sun and no worries.” Eugene longed for the escape.
Of course if this woman wanted to escape with him, he wouldn’t mind.
Boarding was similar to a ride at a theme park where you slowly go through long intertwining lines to get on the ride. The good part was Eugene had the woman to look at as she read a book while waiting. Eugene couldn’t help but talk about books. Hey, he was a writer.
“So you read a lot?” he asked.
Smiling, she held up the paperback in her hand. “Yes, I read a lot of these trashy novels. I’m a sucker for a romance. Makes me feel good. What about you?”
