Getting Started Writing Sex

I’m tired of boxes, tired of mechanical things not doing their jobs, and tired of having lots of reasons not to write.

On the upside, I found a treasure trove of notebooks I scribbled in about three years ago! Lots of notes on my first writings. Lots of notes to myself. Now I need many uninterrupted hours to work my way through them. Oh well, at least I know where they are now!

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I spent the last couple of hours writing. No, not the reverse harem. Why? Because I’m not alone in my house and I can’t write sex with my kids peering over my shoulder. I write in the living room. Yes, you read that right. Normally, in the summer, I write from about eleven at night to about three in the morning. In previous years the kids have been young enough that I’ve had them well and gone to bed by ten. Not this year.

When anyone in my real life finds out I write a type of romance novel they immediately want to know if there are dirty parts. This is an interesting question for me. Because of where I work, I’m cautious with what I share. Currently, there are two women there that know about my blog. Neither of them has read anything I’ve written except an odd email. Also, I don’t talk about sex nearly as much in real life as I do here. I want to laugh at that, but it kinda bums me out too. I’m depressingly age appropriate in real life.

But I digress, what people want to know is how, how do I sit down and write a sex scene. So, for fun, here is my recipe.

First, find a deserted room. Preferably a whole house, but a single empty room is acceptable. Not to be creepy, but it helps if there’s a nice comfy bed in there.

Second, good earphones that will block all the noise except whatever you’ve plugged in to listen to. I like my son’s big, black Skull Candy headphones. I love the puffy ear covers. I can’t hear a thing once my music is going. I just have to trust someone will come to get me if the fire alarm goes off.

 

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Thirdly, a door that locks. I know, I see the problems. It is what it is.

Fourthly, my laptop.

Once I have my stage set, I like to go to YouTube and watch some of my favorite comedians. Sometimes I’ll queue up Jerry Seinfeld’s Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee, just let it run in the background. Then I’ll open my page and type the girl’s name. The girl comes first, possibly a couple of times. My first rule for writing sex. I’m equally passionate about it in real life. Wink.

This is where my real life and my writing part ways. Once, when I lived in Pittsburgh, I asked a therapist if something was wrong with me because I spent so much time in my own head. He said it’s a fine coping skill. I wondered if I should admit how much time I spent in my head. He said I had a family, a house, a life; I was doing fine. I left it alone.

So, I get comfortable, lay down, stare up at the ceiling, and think about my girl.

How to get the ball rolling? Let’s experiment a bit with my new girl, Charley.

Charley lives on an island in the southeastern United States. She lives in a modern-rustic home with three other men. None are related to her, we discover in the prologue. Here’s what happens in my head….

Three men, that’s exhausting just thinking about it. Let’s assume it’s not every night. Let’s give her a room they can’t bug her in. Okay, that’s good, she has her own space where she is off-limits. The guys are, what did I name them? (grab my notebook) Okay, there’s Rob, the Texas Oilman. Sam, a very big man. Mike, we don’t know a lot about yet. There’s also Nick, a former ATF, gruff, bearded, older. Also, there is a Cowboy up and coming. So she lives with three, soon to be four, possibly five. I might need a bigger house. Rob had his turn in the Prologue, Sam was there so next we take a trip to the hot springs. What do we know about Mike? What do we know about Mike? What was he doing last night when everyone else at the house was screwing around in a bedroom with the door open. No TV, no phones, what else. Cooking, he must have had an iron in the fire. Grilling? possibly. Something he couldn’t leave, brewing? That’s a very good possibility. Ok, he was brewing. (scribble note about how to brew) Ok, Charley, how do we make people believe that you like Mike just as much as you like Rob and Sam? Back to the laptop.

The rough straight from my head to the page.

Charley watched Mike hobble his horse. She’d staked out her usual spot in the river. Scalding water bubbled a few feet away from her its steaming water warming the rocks in the cold river. She leaned her cheek on her knees, her long hair tickling her calves in the current. He straightened, a little stiffly, and glanced over, pulling off his grey North Face beanie. He was 6’5″, heavy shoulders sprinkled liberally with freckles. Long muscled arms, long, long legs, he managed a crew for Nick, spent his days keeping the town running. A jack of all trades, he could fix anything. He kept his crew hopping keeping water pipes, electrical wiring, refrigeration and sewer up and running. At home, he was quiet, loved his vegetable garden and brought water grilling to an unbelievable level. People brought their beef from miles away to have him prepare it. Charley had tasked Nick with finding a Husky puppy for Mike, so convinced it would be love at first sight.

“You’re taking your sweet time.”

He tucked his beanie in his back pocket. “Is there something you need, Mistress?”

Charley’s toes curled in the pebbles. “How do you do that, with that ridiculous title?”

Mike grins, he’d shaved today. No more scraggly goatee. A smile teased Charley’s lips, she wondered what else he’d shaved as he grabbed the hem of his t-shirt.

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And that’s how it starts.

 

 

Summertime

I’m completely moved. My sister’s visit is coming to an end. Summer is in full swing.

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They finally got the hang of paddling together. It’s been a great three days with cousins. Days filled with board games, playing in the rain, swinging, swimming, running, museums, dinosaur movies, and reservoirs. Fueled with lots of Dr. Pepper and Little Caesar’s Pizza. Never enough time.

It can be downright idyllic. North Dakota.

Stuff

NOTE- This is the last tirade about my dad and his will and his second wife. I thought about not writing it, but it has to be purged and I want other people to be outraged as well. I hate it when I’m alone in that. So, there is lots of swearing by me. If I can figure out how, I’m going to close comments. I know you all love me and support me and I love you all for it!! I won’t make you say it this time. You’re welcome, da da da dadum……I love The Rock singing.

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I had just tucked myself in to bed last night, adjusted the curtain so I could feel the breeze and an errant raindrop or two when my phone silently flashed my younger sister’s name at me.

Now, I’ve been taken to task twice in the last five years for silencing my phone at night. First when my niece passed away and then when my adopted dad died. So, I answered. The thunderstorm would have to wait.

We all received an email from my brother who is taking care of probate matters for dad that basically said, we can see the finish line, if there’s anything you want out of the house you need to contact the bitch and see if she’ll give it to you. Sooner is better. The b-word is my addition. My brother doesn’t swear. This is what my sister was calling me about.

The weekend of dad’s funeral, when we realized he’d fucked us all one last time, well and truly, we made a list of 20-30 things we wanted out of the house. Stuff that belonged to mom and dad. Stuff we never thought about having to ask for, much of which has already been sold off on FaceBook and other community selling forums. Gleefully, I might add, by the bitch’s blood sucking daughter. Last night my sister asked me if I really still wanted anything from the house.

“Yes! I fucking want what should be mine!”

So, I’ve learned that I am sentimental. Heavy on the MENTAL. It is a hard, grinding ache inside me that the bitch sits in my parent’s house sorting through their things, selling off what she doesn’t care about and what will bring her quick cash.

Grandfather Clock

Janome sewing machines

Mom’s hand-made quilts and quilt tops

artwork purchased in Korea and the Philippines

Book collections

Rock Collections

Mom’s Piano

Indoor Plants that my parents have grown longer than their children

Just a partial list of what they have/have tried to sell.

In the past 6-8 weeks I’ve been busy. I’ve managed to put my dad and his bitch of a second wife, out of my mind. I’ve focused elsewhere. It all came barreling back last night and the homicidal anger, the injustice, the sadness were severe and overwhelming. It was a long and restless night.

I was caught by something my sister said. Originally she had wanted my dad’s collection of slide photographs. There must be six big boxes filled with tray after tray after tray of pictures taken from when mom and dad were in college on until he died last november. Last night as I read her the list all of us had contributed to the weekend of the funeral, she said she no longer wanted anything. Nothing. She just wanted this all to be over. I asked about the pictures, saying I’d take them if she didn’t and she asked me “why?”. What do we get from remembering? He was never a father to any of us, never had time for us, could only express our value to him in terms of how hard we worked for him. We were worth nothing to him, orphans that he put to work on his tree farm. Kids no one else wanted and he had a use for. Why do we want to remember that?

Her words hacked their way through me, leaving me feeling weak and tired. After we disconnected, I lay in bed listening to the thunder, seeing the flashes of lightning. In my head I had this picture of myself, standing in front of a wrecked house, its insides strewn about me. I was muddy and tired, my arms full of things from our home, I couldn’t carry anything else but there was so much still there, all these things that mom and dad had loved. I looked up to see if anyone else could help carry I realized that all of my siblings were walking away. They weren’t even looking back.

 

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An actual photograph of the aftermath of a flood in the town I grew up in. This isn’t my house, we weren’t hit by the water. We lived too far out in the boondocks. This is what I see when I thin of my parent’s home now.

 

They looked so relaxed, happy even. I opened my mouth to yell at them and heard my mom’s voice.

“It’s just stuff.”

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When I woke up this morning it was the first thought in my brain. It’s just stuff.

I have enough stuff. I have an apartment and a storage unit full of stuff. I don’t need more stuff.

I have an inkling why I struggle to let go of familiar stuff.

I’ve decided to make a trade, for my own peace of heart and mind.  She can keep all that stuff and I can walk away. No longer weighed down by a legacy of sadness and anger, but looking forward to times spent with the only people who understand what my life really was. Looking forward to meeting Michael and learning about a woman who probably really hated the 60’s, in retrospect. Looking forward to meeting Jeff and the girls, hearing all about the man they dearly love and miss, in spite of his weaknesses.