2. Chapter 2
“I love his penis” and other brilliant prose I’ve written.
I glance over the surface of my desk, assuring I have everything so I won’t have to get up for a while. Laptop, check. Glass of Dr Pepper with the little pellet ice, check. Bowl of Starburst candies… the cherry ones only, check. Notebook and pen, checkity check.
Yep, that oughta do it.
Wiggling my butt in my desk chair, I link my fingers and stretch them out in front of me. I’m ready. I’m ready.
“Okay,” I say to myself, blowing out a whistling breath through my pursed lips. “I’ve got this.”
Twiddling my fingers like a concert pianist, I place them on the keyboard and stare at the empty screen. The cursor blinks mockingly at me, as if to say, loser… loser… loser.
I fucking hate that cursor. She’s a shady bitch.
For Pete’s sake, Juli. Just type some words. Any words. You can go back and refine them later. Gnawing on my bottom lip, I begin to work on the spicy scene that’s had me stumped for a week.
His cock is thick and big, and I look down at it. I love his penis so much.
I pause and stare at the words on my screen. “Fuck, that’s horrible,” I say aloud, deleting the stupidest sentence I’d ever written. “Penis… penis… what can I say about this character’s penis?”
Hell, it’s been so long since I’ve seen one in person, I’m not even sure if I could accurately describe a dick if one smacked me in the face.
Pulling up a folder labeled Inspirational Cocks on my computer, I’m suddenly concerned that when I die, my father will find a folder full of penis pictures. Then he’ll keel over from cardiac arrest. Sorry, Dad .
I slide my phone toward me and tap out a text to my author friend, AK Landow.
Juliette: Hey, if I die, I’m designating you to erase all the sketchy shit from my computer.
I receive an immediate response.
AK: Gotcha, babe. Any particular documents?
Juliette: The folder titled Inspirational Cocks.
AK: Will do.
AK: Also, forward me the entire cock folder. Please and thank you.
I click over to my email tab and attach the folder before hitting send. Then I flip through a couple photos and make some notes of things I could describe about the male member.
Length, girth, color, veins. Okay, this is good. The veins are always a nice touch. Every woman loves a nice, veiny cock with all that yummy friction, right? I click through the next few pics and let out a shriek when I get to photo number seven.
“Holy hell, what is that?” I rear my neck back to put some distance between me and the monstrosity on the screen. This particular peen bends to the left at a sharp angle. And the hair. Dear god, the hair. I tilt my head to try and get some perspective.
“Oh, honey, who broke your dick?” I ask the owner of the virtual penis on my screen. “Bless your heart.”
My phone pings, distracting me from the mutant wiener.
AK: What the actual fuck is number seven?
Juliette: I was just trying to figure that out. It’s quite unfortunate looking.
AK: Maybe this is from the seventies before manscaping was a thing.
Juliette: Probably. Why does it flop to the left like that?
AK: No clue. My husband always tells me I’m going to break his cock, but I think whoever was with this poor fucker actually accomplished it. I feel inadequate.
Juliette: LOL. Keep trying. *Sends GIF of Rob Scheider saying “You can do it!”
AK: Doing Kegels now. Rob better prepare himself tonight.
Juliette: Just thought of something else on my computer that definitely needs to be erased so my family doesn’t find it. It’s a spreadsheet called Sex Toys.
Juliette: Oh, and the entire BDSM folder.
AK: Why don’t I just delete your entire hard drive?
Juliette: That would probably be best.
Setting my phone aside, I take a fortifying sip of my soda before starting again, determined to get some words on paper, metaphorically speaking .
For the next fifteen minutes, I write. And it’s… not bad. Not good either, but at least it’s something. I reward myself with a cherry Starburst, sucking on the sweet and tart candy as an idea comes to me. Oooh, he could—
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.
With closed eyes, I do my best to ignore the door and concentrate. It’s right there on the tip of my brain. Something to do with the way he uses his tongue to—
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.
“Ugggh, fiiiiine,” I whine, stomping my feet in a mini hissy fit before answering my front door to find my elderly neighbor standing there.
“Ms. Mijares, how are you?” I ask, suddenly remembering what I was going to write before I’d been interrupted. Please hurry, Ms. Mijares, before I forget again.
“Juliette dear, do you think you could run me to the market? I need to pick up a few things. I haven’t gotten my new glasses since my cataract surgery, and I’m not supposed to drive yet.”
I hesitate for only a second. Ms. Mijares is an absolute sweetheart, and none of her grown children live nearby, so I really can’t say no, right?
“Of course. Just let me grab my shoes and purse.” After seating her on my couch, I jog to my writing nook, which is really just a spare bedroom, but writing nook sounds so much fancier. I quickly jot down a few words in my notebook so I’ll remember the idea I had, and then we’re off to the market.
When Ms. Mijares said she needed to get a few things, what she meant was, I need to buy half the store. We spend an hour and a half in the Mexican market while she lingers over cheeses, chiles, tortilla masa, and vegetables.
I smile and do my best to be helpful, even though I’m as antsy as a chihuahua on crack. My deadline is a dark cloud over my head, raining down huge drops of anxiety .
“Thank you for the help. You’re such a good girl,” my neighbor says when I help her carry the bags of groceries into her house. “You want to help me make tortillas?”
I love making torts with my sweet neighbor, but if I don’t do some work on my book, I’m never going to get it done on time. I’m already way behind.
“I would love to, but I have a lot of work to catch up on. You know, for the summer reading program,” I kind of fib. We do have a reading program for the kids at the library where I work, but I’ve had that planned for months.
I’ve only shared my side career as a romance author with a few people in town, and my seventy-year-old neighbor isn’t one of them.
Not that mature women can’t read romance, but Ms. Mijares definitely isn’t the type.
She once told me she couldn’t finish a John Grisham novel because the language was, and I quote, “just way too foul for me.”
If she read one of my books, she wouldn’t make it ten pages before she’d feel compelled to set it on fire and pray for my eternal soul while sprinkling me with holy water.
“That’s okay,” she says with a kind smile. Her big, brown puppy-dog eyes look up at me as she pats my arm. “I just thought it would be nice to have some company. I’ll bring a fresh batch over to you when I’m done.”
Gahhhh! Why is she so darn nice? And why am I? Because the next thing I know, I hear myself saying, “You know what? I can stay for a few minutes.”
Two hours later, I enter my house with warm tortillas separated by foil, a bowl of freshly made salsa, and a container of Ms. Mijares’s orgasmic queso blanco.
“At least I don’t have to waste time cooking dinner,” I tell myself, slathering some butter on a tort and dipping it into the salsa. I finish two of them and am contemplating a third when my phone rings. I smile at my little sister’s name on the screen.
“Jordie! What’s up?”
“Hey, Juli. I was wondering if you could swing by and pick me up tonight. I don’t have a lot of gas in my car.”
“Pick you up for—” I start to ask when it hits me. Dad’s birthday. I quickly cover with, “Of course I can. Um, what time did we decide?”
“You forgot, didn’t you?” She sounds amused, and I check my reflection in the mirrored surface of the toaster. I have a chunk of strained tomato in my hair.
“Hush your mouth, or I’ll write you as the villain in my next book,” I warn, swiping at the red stain, which only serves to smear it. If I can ever get to work on the damn book.
“That’s cool with me. And we’re supposed to be at the restaurant in an hour, dingbat.”
Her nickname doesn’t bother me because it’s true. I’m the quintessential dingy blonde. Not stupid, mind you. I’ve got a brain; it just tends to go in a million different directions at once, leaving me with stretched deadlines and salsa in my hair.
“Does Xander want to ride with us too?” I ask, referring to our brother who goes to the same college as Jordie.
“Nope, he’s at his girlfriend’s apartment, and it’s only a block from the restaurant.”
“Alrighty, I’ll be there in a bit,” I tell Jordie, dashing to the bathroom. As soon as I take a shower.
****
Driving time combined with the family dinner took another three hours away from the time I’d planned to write, but it was totally worth it. Spending time with them is one of my favorite things to do.
“How’s football going?” I ask my sister as I drive through the streets of Dallas, Texas to drop her off at her dorm.
She scrunches up her shoulders in excitement. “So good. Spring training went well, and I think I’ll be able to keep my starting position for my sophomore year.”
“Of course you will,” I assure, patting her hand. “You were one of the only freshmen to start last season, and you killed it. ”
Jordie bounces up and down, and I stifle a laugh.
My little sister adores football. Women’s collegiate football is kind of a new thing, full contact, not flag or touch.
And don’t even dare to call it powderpuff, or you’ll get an earful from these amazing athletes.
Or they might tackle you to prove their point.
A couple years ago, the women banded together and demanded the respect and attention they deserved as elite athletes. All they wanted was a chance, and they’d fought until they got it. Most major colleges now had a female football team, and lots of high schools did too.