I've always prided myself on my mind. During my traumatic high-school years, when physical beauty hadn't exactly been one of my strongest suits, I'd always comforted myself with the thought that I was smarter than the rest of the kids in my class. I told myself that the body didn't matter, that it was a man's brain, which should count. So it's pretty disconcerting to discover that the only semi-coherent thought running through my head right now is "I need some Hot Sweaty Animal Sex with Michael Novotny". Hmmm... Hot Sweaty Animal Sex...
Damn. My pen's just skidded across the page - Again. I'm completely distracted from my Novel-Currently-NOT-In-Progress because my brain Just. Can't. Function. Not when Michael is within reach. Well... not when he's bending over and showing off that delectable butt of his, at any rate. My poor, innocent boyfriend is utterly ignorant to the shameless line of my lascivious thoughts as he shuffles forward on all fours, trying to sort out the impressive collection of comics that are spread out carefully over the living room carpet in a perfect circle. This happy incident allows my lecherous eyeballs to glue themselves to the temptingly lush curves of that absolutely gorgeous ass, perkily thrust up in the air, filling out the seams of those low-slung, wonderfully worn old sweats.
Fuck. There goes my pen again. I AM NEVER going to finish my second book at this rate. Putting one's thoughts down on paper is never an easy thing, but if I wrote what I'm imagining about right now, my editor's definitely going to have to mark it up to a NC-17 rating at the very least. In any case, I don't think the tiny number of readers that I have somehow amassed are going to be interested in the raunchy details of my erotic Cave-Man fantasies about grabbing Michael, throwing him over my shoulder Neanderthal-style, and running to the bedroom before kissing the shit out of him so that I can get some Sweet Hot Lovin'. Ugh. Did I actually just think that? God, I sound like such a cheesy geek from the seventies. Mental shudder. And although Slow Sweet Lovin' might be fun... I wolfishly ogle Michael's ass for the fiftieth time tonight and decide that some Wild Dirty Sex is definitely in order for tonight's activities instead.
Crap. I think my hand must have a will of its own, because it's just written "Wild Dirty Sex" over my draft. It's a good thing I wasn't grading my students' papers. I might have a hard time explaining to them why I have the words "Ass" and "Butt" and "Cute" scribbled on their essays. I heave a loud sigh, and Michael raises his head from the engrossing comic in his lap to look up at me curiously. Those large, guileless brown eyes are doing absolutely nothing to calm down my overly enthusiastic libido. In fact, I think I'm developing a serious kink for wide-eyed innocence. Especially for brunettes who have no idea that their boyfriends' IQ points drop drastically at the utterly riveting sight of a firm, tight behind... Christ. I'm mentally molesting my innocent boyfriend here, idly peeling away all those clothes...
Me Ben. Ben Like Michael. Ben Want Michael. Me Horny. Ben No Want Write. Ben Want To Do Nasty Things To Michael.
Okay, that's it. So much for my vaunted intelligence, I never expected Michael's pert butt to be enough to render me speechless. Benjamin Brucker's brain has officially declared a shutdown and let the hormones and Tarzan-speak take over. Instead, the handful of functioning synapses that still remain are focusing all its concentration on an Extremely Important Task: blatantly leering over the boyfriend's luscious body, lingering especially on a certain favorite part of his anatomy which makes the roof of my mouth go dry.
"What's the matter, Ben? Writer's block?"
Warm, sympathetic brown eyes gazing into my own. Michael is just so very, very earnest.
"Anything I can do to help?"
Such a generous offer.
"Of course you can, baby."
Just, uhm, get on your back and let your desperately horny professor- boyfriend do aaaaallllll the hard work. Mmmm... Or I could get on my back and let you do all the work. Either way works for me.
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:)
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[An hour of raunchy, mind-blowing sex later]
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Sad to say, it's clearly been proven that Michael is alarmingly not conducive to my writing. It's completely embarrassing how my higher brain functions utterly short out with just the sight of his mesmerizingly voluptuous ass, or the feel of Michael's soft, heated mouth on mine, or... Hhmmm... Michael... Baby, I'm trying to thin -
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[Another hour of Slow Sweet Lovin' later]
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Wait a minute...
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WOOHOO!
Hooray for Writer's Block! (^_^)