“I want you to write me a stroker.”
“And then read it to me.”
“What?” I said and blinked rapidly. “What, what?”
I’d never heard the term stroker, but I immediately knew what he meant, sort of.
I’m pretty sure my mouth was hanging open. Jordan and I were sitting in The Greasy Spoon diner. He was the only one who knew I wrote erotica. He hadn’t read anything I’d written (at least that we know of) because I write and post under a pen name. I’d only been writing erotica for six months, but it seemed like it took up all my focus lately. Still, even though he was the only one who knew, we never mentioned it.
“Magaaah,” I said.
He leaned forward over the table, his voice getting sexy. “Come on,” he licked his lips. “Do it.”
I shook my head.
“Then you can write about it the experience of writing about it. Think about what an explosive story that would be.”
A story immediately popped to mind, of a sex club, and handcuffs, and a boy’s first time.
I shook my head again. “I’m really quite shy, you know,” I said.
“Yeah, I know, but Maryanne, you can do this.”
“The question is, why would I?”
“I could pay you,” he said.
I shook my head. I needed money badly, but not that badly.
“It’s a paying job. You’re a writer. Consider it a commission.”
I pursed my lips at him.
He leaned over the table and made his voice sexy again. “Do it because I want you to. Do it to please me.”
I closed my eyes. Oh God.
He laughed triumphantly.
We’d come to this diner twice a week for five months to work on writing exercises. He was trying to write the great American Novel. I was trying to write a screenplay. Usually the time at the diner was the only time I worked on it. And I valued his advice. And his company. And truth be told, I had a little crush on him.
“You realize, this would… ah, sort of bring us to a whole different level,” I said.
“Not if we don’t let it,” he said.
I pursed my lips at him again. Bullshit.
“Well, I’ll write you one if you write one. Just three pages, super short.”
He seemed to consider.
I wanted to make my push on him harder. “And the one you write for me has to be a threesome.”
“A gay threesome. Three guys. Totally doing every possible thing they can do, all the way.”
“I’m not even sure I would know what that is,” he said.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Then you’ll have to do research.”
Jordan stuck his hand out. “Deal.”
I shook his hand, “Okay. Deal.”
“By next Monday.”
“And it has to be the hottest one you’ve ever written,” he said.
“Oh, come on.”
“Smoking. Absolutely the hottest.”
“God, sometimes I hate you,” I mumbled under my breath.
“I heard that,” he said.
I paced when I got home. Hottest I’ve ever written. Stroker. What exactly did that mean? And read it to him? No way.
My house is small and I think I paced a worn path in the carpeting in my hallway. I’d need characters. And snapping sexual tension, yeah, what would make it good would be the tension. And a scenario. Some sort of set-up that put them in a situation. A time compression.
Nothing. More pacing. Still nada.
I was drawing a blank.
Then something came to me.
Think like a guy.
I had an idea. Not a great one, but what the heck.
Here goes nothing, I thought, and sat down at my computer.