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“You are not burning that around me,” Daysha says. “Besides, I really don’t think that’s going to help Poppy at this point.”
“Not only that . . . the shit don’t work,” Jasmine mutters under her breath.
“Excuse me?” Aleria asks, losing her calm center in favor of a bit of neck swirling.
Daysha snaps her fingers, cutting off the debate-slash-sermon in its tracks. “Focus, people.”
Aleria mutters, “That’s what I’m trying to help Poppy do.”
Daysha ignores her and focuses on me. “Pops, you said you need to have sex. So do it. Pick up someone hot, give him a fake name, and do the dirty in all sorts of ridiculous positions, with toys and props and whatever else you think your heroine or hero might like. Test it out. Consider it research.”
“Ooh, fun!” Becca says, nodding. “You know, I heard of a great new app for that, and—”
“Just pick up some rando?” Aleria asks, horrified and shaking her head. “No way. It would desecrate Poppy’s female magic! You can’t let just anybody into the glorious hole of your center being.”
“Did you just say glory hole?” Becca asks, grinning. “That does not mean what you think it means. But I should put one of those in my next book. Eye Level with Mr. Mystery.”
“Uh, no. I’d like to constructively say that’s a horrible idea,” Daysha says, taking Becca seriously, “and does anyone have other ideas?”
My friends offer up plenty of advice, most of it conflicting. Make the guy more alpha. Make him a ‘simp’. Tie her up. Peg him. Talk dirty, be totally clean . . . and the list goes on. Some of their advice is real life and some strictly for the pages of books.
But it’s all in fun, which does help, surprisingly. We all write in different subgenres, so while some of the ideas are downright laughable, we have fun with it. I feel like I haven’t done that in a long time.
“You know,” Daysha says, “you could have her hold a gun to his head and tell him that if she doesn’t get off before he does, she’s going to set him off another way. Ooh, if he’s handcuffed and she’s the bad girl, that could totally work.”
“Fuck, girl. There’s dark and then there’s dark. It’s Trouble in Great Falls, not Game of Sopranos,” I reply.
Jasmine adds, “She’s right, but I do like the forced hardness angle. What about a little something-something slipped into his bloodstream? I’d go with nanites, but that’s me.”
“Microscopic robots do not a good orgasm make,” Aleria says primly, making us all crack up. But it’s all good. We all know the struggle and the game of getting noticed in the crowded romance market. Besides, half of what they’re saying isn’t real advice but a valiant effort to help me relax. They’re hoping that maybe that’ll unknot the block in my head and alleviate my stress at having to reach a publishing deadline.
Not that it’s particularly helpful. I do get a few good laughs, but every time I glance at the page, I go back to blankness. Still, the emotional support and encouragement lift my spirits enough that as I walk out of the library, I feel slightly better and think maybe I’ll finally get something done tonight.
Honestly, the best advice probably came from Aleria in the end. We were packing up our stuff, and she looked at me, patting my shoulder. “Sometimes, the energy takes us in different paths than what we expect,” she said. “So for now, skip the scene and move on. If your energy isn’t sensual right now, then write the other parts and come back when you’re feeling it. After all, they invented Control-X and Control-C for a reason.”
She’s right, and I should have done it earlier, but I’m stubborn. Writing dick to vag shouldn’t be the thing holding me up. I need to work out the character’s emotional build-up and then what the a-ha moments are to progress Amber and Ryker’s relationship to the next level, and then the sex part will come naturally.
“Hah . . . come . . . naturally!” I giggle to myself. “Come sooooo good!”
A guy walking his dog looks over at my outburst, and I stare back a little too hard, daring him to say one word to me. What? Can’t a woman talk to herself without people looking at her like she’s bananas? B-A-N-A . . . dammit. Now I’m spelling out bananas like I’m a Gwen Stefani impersonator.
I’m a riot. Okay, probably not, but in my overloaded, overstimulated, coffee-laden brain, I’m a genius with a stellar sense of humor. I just hope the fans agree.
Chapter 3
Connor
In my Ford King Ranch pick-up truck, I turn the corner in a remote section of Maplewood as I make my way to meet up with my connection, Juan Pablo.
