So I was talking - well, typing (blush) - to another author I know under my, um, 'other hat'. And we were talking about a new idea she's got, but she was hiving some problems hearing the book's Voice and the characters' Voices. So we were just kicking some things round, the way you do. Well, not, like, you do necessarily. Though you can if you like :-).
Damn. I had a point here somewhere. Where did I put it? Oh. There it is :-).
So we were kicking some stuff around, and my fingers got itchy. Not, directly, for the Voice she was looking for for her new idea - but itchy. And what do you do when you have an itch?
No, Jones Minor. Not that. Yes, put it away. Yes, the usual detention hall.
No. When I've got an itch, I scratch a keyboard. Or, like, thump it. So I did. And somewhere near the end, it turned out it wasn't even me talking. It was... but we'll get to that :-).
So. Is it erotic? Buggered if I know. That's a reader opinion. But here it is. CHOCOLATE. Over to y'all...
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CHOCOLATE
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Remember that movie? The 'life is like a box of chocolates' thing? Well, life might be like a box of chocolates - but men aren't. Oh, don't get me wrong. Men are entirely edible. Or some bits of them are. But you don't get a box, like you do with chocolates. It's one chocolate, and then you have to go on time-out before you can have another out of the same box. And who eats just one chocolate? And then afterwards they're all 'you've eaten my amazing chocolate, so you'd better feel honoured'. And, to be honest, it's not even great chocolate. Too salty, and not enough sweet. So you try another brand, and the first guy has, like, a fucking fit! But it's different if they decide they need a second opinion on their chocolate. That's just market research, right?
So men aren't so much like a box of chocolates. They're more like one chocolate, and it's the one buried at the bottom of your purse. The one that's been there for weeks, and it's covered in lint and torn bits of silver paper, which looks all shiny and makes you want to unwrap it again, even though you know it isn't even real silver. But it's, like, chocolate! So you have to try it, and you put it in your mouth - and you remember why you left it in the bottom of your purse. You remember telling yourself you were never going to eat one ever again. And you're on your knees, with a mouthful that's all soft centre, and nothing worth swallowing. So you put it back in your purse, right at the bottom. But you never stop thinking how there must be some real chocolate out there, and you go looking for another one.
So no. Men aren't like a box of chocolates. They're not even like one chocolate. They're like that 'Guilt free! No sugar, zero fat!' chocolate substitute shit your last diet class tried to tell you would solve all your problems. And you tried it, and the only thing it did was make you want to call out for some vanilla-Belgian chocolate swirl. So you do, and you thank the chocolate gods for whoever invented The Pill.
So if men aren't like a box of chocolates, because they're more like just a chocolate, what else aren't men like? Well, they're not like that book. You know the one? The Men are from Mars thing? Well, I gotta tell you. Wherever guys think they're from, take it from me (and yes, I know you'd love to). Girls aren't from penis. I know. It's a shock, right? Because you're a guy, and you know, like, you know, how that thing you've got is just what every girl's been dreaming of, right? Well, I hate to break it to you - actually, I don't - it probably isn't. But, just like the chocolate thing, don't get me wrong. I've got nothing against a penis. Well, not right now, anyway. So, like, call me. Because if you give most girls a chance, there’s a few things any of them would be more than happy to hold against one. But here's the thing, and maybe you'd better hope it's not yours. Your thing, I mean. Because depending on the Dick behind the dick, that thing they want to hold against your thing? It could be anything from their tongue to a fucking cattle prod.
See, like, news flash? It ain't the dick, Dick. And whatever the song said, it ain't what you do or the way that you do it either. What it is, it's the you. Like, it’s the 'who' that makes their clit flip. Because when they did that class at school, the one about erogenous zones, the one you didn't hear a word of because you were lying through your teeth to your crew about what you did with Becky Spencer behind the mall? Well, don't sweat it. Because they missed the most important erogenous zone there is. Like, personality. And no, that doesn't mean a cheap pick up line and a Lamborghini. Though in your case, a Lamborghini might help. So let's try it again. Like, person-ality. Like person. Because if you ain't real, boy, you ain't getting no feel. In fact, let's try that again-again. Like, person-all-ity. Because if you're not all here, you're not worth having at all. Here or anywhere else. I mean, if a girl wanted just your cock she'd do a Bobbit, and not even have to teach you about, like, regular showers.
Oh – and while we’re on the subject? Erogenous zones. See that second word there? That’s, like, zone. It’s not, like, two square millimeters on the end of a girl’s nipples. So grabbing hold, and saying, like, ‘hi honey, I’m home’? That’s a great idea. Great as in not. Idea as in, like, fuck, no. So let me put it to you gently, while you think about putting it to me hard. You know that thing about ‘having skin in the game’? Well, you should underline that. Actually, under, over – who gives a fuck. Well, I guess we girls do, if a guy, like, get its right. So if you get it right? Boy, you’re gonna get it good. But that’s the thing. Like, skin in the game. Because if your skin ain’t in, we ain’t gonna sin! I mean, you ever taste your own sweat off someone else’s tongue? Like, licked it off and sucked it? Because if you haven’t, then turn it up some. And I mean the thermostat, and fuck the heating bill. Like, imagine you did, and I’m - well, let’s park that a moment and say, like, some girl – imagine some girl’s leaning over you, and she’s dripping sweat, and you’re dripping sweat, and her nipples are just touching your chest, and she leans down, and she puts the nip into nipple. Like, your nipple. Then she lets go, but her tongue’s out, and it’s stiff, like something else is, and she’s dragging her tongue down over your chest, and my nipples are… I mean, like, her nipples, this girl’s, are hard, and they’re sliding down that sweat on your body. And she gets all the way down to your cock, and her tongue’s sliding up along the length of you, and you think she’s gonna suck, but believe me, boy, I don’t suck – well, I mean, like, this girl you’re imagining don’t suck. Well, I do, like, suck, but in a good way. Not…
Oh, fuck it honey. Like, I slide my tongue all the way up your cock, and I get to the tip, and I look up at you, and I kiss it. Then I slide all the way back up you, and my tongue’s sliding up through all that sweat, and my nipples are dragging up your chest, and I kiss you, and I’m over you, and my tongue slides into your mouth, and it’s covered in your sweat, and I lick your tongue, and you taste - well, you taste you – and you slide into me. And you’re into me because I’m, like, into you, right? And not just your dick. Because if you think about it, a girl getting into your dick? That’s gonna hurt, right? So don’t try to get her into your dick, Dick. Like, get me – I mean, like, this imaginary girl – get her into you, right? All of you. Get your skin under her, so you can get under hers. Like, under her skin.
Skin. Like, you gotta love it. Well, I know I do.
Oh fuck. I'm late for a deal. I gotta fly. Hey! No screaming! So yeah, I’ve got great big fucking wings, and they’re all bones and black feathers. I’m a fucking Succubus from Hell, so sue me! Actually, you can’t. My boss, he’s got all the good lawyers. But remember what I said. Like, the chocolate thing. And the book thing. And you ever want to talk about it some more – well, and maybe not just talk – you just make up one of those pentacles I showed you. But for fuck’s sake, get the Sigil of Baphomet the right way up. Oh – and no fucking goat blood. The boss gets kinda sensitive about that. And if you don’t have time for the whole Sigil thing – you got my number. You wrote it down, right? 666-fuck-me-now. Call me!