short sketch.......
Apr. 22nd, 2008 09:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thoreauThis part of a short story I'm developing - - this is the third pass at the opening of something about twice this in length. I am thinking the next book will be a series of short stories - perhaps all from the same character....
I'd worked on that manuscript for months - my masterpiece - my serious opus. I'd told the brave story of a cancer survivor and his road back to health - and finding love in the lovely Michael. I wept rereading segments of it. I was so in love with the story.
I had mailed it to my editor in Chicago and waited patiently - okay - not so patiently for her feedback. I was waiting for that 'Oh Robert - you've written the next genre of gay romance novel - that scene at the end where Michael comes back on the sailboat to pick Larry up on his birthday is so touching.'
I walked home from the train- got home- said hello to the dog and pressed play on my blinking message machine.
*beeeeeeeeep* Robert - it's your neighbor - enough with the loud sex okay? yeah you've got a new boyfriend, we get it - try stuffing a sock in his mouth before 9am okay. he's cute - but he's loud. bye. hugs *beeeeeeep*
*beeeeeeeep* Bawb! It's Drew. Call Mom - it's been two weeks. So what if your life is boring? call her. Mwah! *beeeeeeep*
*beeeeeeep* snoring sounds. Robert it's Heidi in Chicago. I don't remember hiring Danielle fucking Steele. Where did my smart esoteric spiritual writer go? This manuscript reads like a bad Romancing the Stone sequel. honey. baby. we need to talk. *beeeeeeeep*
"Danielle Steele lives in a big mansion on Nob Hill - doesn't she Heidi? I could do worse! fuck you!" I said to the answering machine.
"I deserved a little romance, damnit," I thought to myself.
I'd written the novel in the year after breaking up with HIM - the boyfriend that shall not be named. I'd thrown myself up on the cross over that one.
I mean lets face it - would I have answered his personals ad if it read "Sociopathic sex addict seeks man to act as bandaid from a breakup until he can find another sex addict to run off to Canada and get married with." Sure - that sooooooounds hot. but what if I want more drama? Can I have codependency and some narcissism thrown in for good measure. oh? I can!?
well - sign me up for THAT cruise! Of course, as you know - it was the Titanic. Sunk right off the friggin' pier.
It wasn't about HIM anymore. finally. Doesn't make him any less a bastard. At least the relationship wasn't all bad - I did get fucked. Goddamn he could fuck. I mean what does a powerbottom grasp to in the death throws of a relationship, but "come on baby lets fuck."
At least the sex was hot, before he met someone else. And he was good at it too - albeit distracted. He was probably re-reading his new boyfriend's online profile while fucking me.
Stroke. 5'11'. Stroke. My Age. Stroke. Not the man I'm fucking. Stroke. Doesn't. Stroke. Like. Stroke. Football. And of course, remember my love of college football - he'd lose his hard on - and well my vicarious fuck because he was turned on by an online profile he'd read was over. and eventually - he left me for an online toy named Marcel.
Marcel - sounds like a fucking barbie name. I hate barbie.
and now that my opus to a life that didn't include HIM was in front of my editor - I'm being called a drama queen by my editor. I have two words for her.
"Well, duh!"
I'd worked on that manuscript for months - my masterpiece - my serious opus. I'd told the brave story of a cancer survivor and his road back to health - and finding love in the lovely Michael. I wept rereading segments of it. I was so in love with the story.
I had mailed it to my editor in Chicago and waited patiently - okay - not so patiently for her feedback. I was waiting for that 'Oh Robert - you've written the next genre of gay romance novel - that scene at the end where Michael comes back on the sailboat to pick Larry up on his birthday is so touching.'
I walked home from the train- got home- said hello to the dog and pressed play on my blinking message machine.
*beeeeeeeeep* Robert - it's your neighbor - enough with the loud sex okay? yeah you've got a new boyfriend, we get it - try stuffing a sock in his mouth before 9am okay. he's cute - but he's loud. bye. hugs *beeeeeeep*
*beeeeeeeep* Bawb! It's Drew. Call Mom - it's been two weeks. So what if your life is boring? call her. Mwah! *beeeeeeep*
*beeeeeeep* snoring sounds. Robert it's Heidi in Chicago. I don't remember hiring Danielle fucking Steele. Where did my smart esoteric spiritual writer go? This manuscript reads like a bad Romancing the Stone sequel. honey. baby. we need to talk. *beeeeeeeep*
"Danielle Steele lives in a big mansion on Nob Hill - doesn't she Heidi? I could do worse! fuck you!" I said to the answering machine.
"I deserved a little romance, damnit," I thought to myself.
I'd written the novel in the year after breaking up with HIM - the boyfriend that shall not be named. I'd thrown myself up on the cross over that one.
I mean lets face it - would I have answered his personals ad if it read "Sociopathic sex addict seeks man to act as bandaid from a breakup until he can find another sex addict to run off to Canada and get married with." Sure - that sooooooounds hot. but what if I want more drama? Can I have codependency and some narcissism thrown in for good measure. oh? I can!?
well - sign me up for THAT cruise! Of course, as you know - it was the Titanic. Sunk right off the friggin' pier.
It wasn't about HIM anymore. finally. Doesn't make him any less a bastard. At least the relationship wasn't all bad - I did get fucked. Goddamn he could fuck. I mean what does a powerbottom grasp to in the death throws of a relationship, but "come on baby lets fuck."
At least the sex was hot, before he met someone else. And he was good at it too - albeit distracted. He was probably re-reading his new boyfriend's online profile while fucking me.
Stroke. 5'11'. Stroke. My Age. Stroke. Not the man I'm fucking. Stroke. Doesn't. Stroke. Like. Stroke. Football. And of course, remember my love of college football - he'd lose his hard on - and well my vicarious fuck because he was turned on by an online profile he'd read was over. and eventually - he left me for an online toy named Marcel.
Marcel - sounds like a fucking barbie name. I hate barbie.
and now that my opus to a life that didn't include HIM was in front of my editor - I'm being called a drama queen by my editor. I have two words for her.
"Well, duh!"
