Happy Thanksgiving, You Turkey!

I hope everybody is having a great Thanksgiving.  By definition, we keep this day in acknowledgement that we cannot do it all by ourselves and sometimes we need some help.  Or in cases such as myself, a whole mess of help. 

So thank you, dear reader. 

In a couple of hours I'll be heading down the road to see my family in Illinois.  I enjoy the trip so much more now since I discovered a way to completely avoid Freeport. 

For those who are not from my neck of the woods, Freeport is the wormy, festering bunghole of Illinois.  It's a place for drunks, addicts, thieves, whores, grifters, cons, winos, and the insane.  Avoiding this town is always preferred. 

But now that I have a better way home, I'm much happier, and safer. 

Thanksgiving always reminds me of a slew of good memories.  Sure, there are some bad ones, too.  My family always did enjoy drinking.  But I'm reminded of some of my favorites. 

There are moments we cling to and wish we could translate them for others.  For me, it was always about the food, sure.  But also seeing family I hadn't seen in years.  I come from a family of people who weren't always rich or flush with cash, but would save their money all year just so they could afford to come home on Thanksgiving or Christmas.  It was important. 

This was my mom's side of the family.  The Irish Catholics.  

I remember playing a lot of pinochle--the official card game of my family.  Deer Grove Rules, so there was a double deck and sometimes a triple deck.  Just to shuffle you had to use a bushel basket and a stick. 

And then there was my cousin and I playing Nintendo.  Or watching the MST3K marathons on Comedy Central.  He was always like a little brother to me so we had some great times. 

Once my sister got bored and started a game of Dragon Warrior.  

That game lasted for months.  Every holiday, we played some more.  She was pissed because it was her game, but seriously, it was a lot of fun.  We all played a whole bunch of that game.  One game lasted well into the Spring.  The adults loved it because we were out of their hair. 

I remember my Uncle Chuck getting some great Hungarian sausage in a suburb of Chicago and using that to stuff the turkey.  He was Hungarian himself and knew some of the best places to find that sort of thing. 

There were some amazing meals cooked on those holidays.  My family was great at this. 

But there was one bad turkey that needs to be addressed.  It was horrible.  Disgusting, really. 

My dad's mom decided to come visit us for Thanksgiving one year.  According to my dad, she used to be a good cook, but by the time I had gotten old enough to know the difference those days were long past. 

She was obsessed with dry food.  She would make her toast and leave it out for a few minutes to dry up.  She cooked the shit out of everything. 

And she had a problem with my mom.  So, my grandmother interfered in the kitchen as much as possible.  The worst was how she kept fucking with the temperature of the oven while the turkey was cooking.  My mom would turn her back and my grandmother would sneak up and change it.  She was a sneaky woman, my grandmother.  I was constantly catching her sneaking up on me, or trying to spy on me from around a corner.  And when I'd catch her, she'd laugh and go back to whatever she was doing. 

So yeah, the turkey that year was horrid.  My mom was furious and the rest of the family wasn't too happy either.  Everybody complained loudly about how dry the turkey was and my grandmother would say, "I know!  Isn't it wonderful?" 

Thanksgiving is sort of the time of year when we acknowledge our family is weird.  We have some really weird people in our family.  And while I'm certain they say the same thing about me, or worse, we still agree to sit in the same house, at the same table, and pretend not to let it bother us. 

If I had to work with somebody from my family, without me knowing their were related, I'd kill them.  And they would call the cops on me. 

Family doesn't press charges.  Isn't that a nice sentiment? 

So yes, I hope everybody has a great Thanksgiving.  I plan on eating too much, saying crazy things, and stealing leftovers.  I hope you do, too.  

Manly Fiction for Manly Men, by a Manly Man.

I realize now my fiction doesn't have enough testosterone.  It's just not manly enough.

Sure, sometimes my characters kill people.  And yes, a few kill them and do stuff with the bodies.  One does stuff with the bodies but he doesn't kill them.  But these men just aren't manly enough.

They usually think themselves into situations that don't require a fight.  Instead, they kill the person before anything is suspected.

Piece of Meat Victim #1 walked to his car, cautiously looking around the dark parking lot, when suddenly he felt a hot, searing pain across his throat.  As he turned around, his legs gave out, and he fell to the asphalt.  He looked up to see a man smiling broadly and holding a razor blade.  

Piece of Meat Victim #1 tried to ask the man who he was and why he slit his throat.  And most importantly, how did he creep up on him like a ninja.  But all that come out was, "arrghgle-gargle, thpht, blargh!"  

Piece of Meat Victim #1 then broke wind for the last time and died a confused man sprawled on cold asphalt. 

That's not very manly.  I should point out that from now on, whenever I describe somebody dying, they fart.  And shit themselves.  Just today I spent a whole paragraph describing the various fluids, sounds and smells associated with those last few seconds of life, and the first few minutes of death.  It wasn't manly, but I sure had fun writing it.

And that's the whole point, right?  Editors can see you smiled as you wrote the story you submitted to them.

When I was in grade school, I read spy novels and a series of books I'm not proud of.  Mack Bolan.  The Executioner. 

I buried my nose in a ton of these.  By the time I was in 7th grade, I had graduated to a whole slew of Vietnam memoirs.  Because of how I had been growing up, they made sense to me, and I learned a whole lot of the wrong lessons. 

My personal favorite was Once a Warrior King by David Donovan.  I love it.  I remember in 7th grade, I used to sit in study hall and read that, ignoring my other homework. 

It was a different time back then.  We were dealing with getting our balls back after Vietnam.  John Wayne was dead and all we had left was Stallone and a whole bunch of pissed off veterans who didn't want to talk about it. 





So now I'm trying to make manly fiction and it just isn't going so well.  Joe R. Lansdale pulls it off perfectly with his Hap n' Leonard Series.   They're manly men solving crimes in manly ways.   Of course, Mr. Lansdale is a walkin' boss himself.  I'm pretty sure he would whoop my ass rather quickly.

Hemingway was known for beating the crap out of people.  Every professor I ever had despised the man and his fiction. 

After recently reading Strega by Andrew Vachss, I decided I should use that as a template to make my own fiction more manly.

The Token Bad Guy sneered at Willie and called him a "midget."  Willie smiled because that allowed him to do what he needed to.  

Willie--the only little person to ever play the in NBA.  After that, a short tenure in the porn industry, then he moved on to starting up a series of safe houses for battered women.  Only his close friends knew his real name.  Willie was just his porn name.  

Willie unleashed a series of punishing testicular-based attacks while his girl Vera watched and smiled.  She still worked as a call girl but only for twenty grand a night.  She used that to fund her research into a cure for pediatric cancer.  But after living on the mean streets of Scum City, she was hard as drunk's liver.  

I kept a lookout for cops while Willie did his customary stomp on the Token Bad Guy.  Once he was on the ground, Willie unleashed his 14-inch meat hammer and began smacking it against the Token Bad Guy's head.  

"I guess he took offense at that term, asshole."  

"Make him stop!  Make him stop!"  

But it was too late.  The Token Bad Guy lost consciousness from the severe beating.  

  

Once again, that didn't seem to work, either.  I mean, why would a dwarfish NBA player/porn star and his hooker/cancer researcher girlfriend hang around a genius necrophiliac private investigator? 


Maybe my fiction needs more grease?  And guns!  Can't forget guns... 

Dirk lifted the Chrysler transmission on his shoulders and began to wedge it under the woman's van on the hoist.  She was stunning in her black evening dress and pearls.  

"So," he began.  "Big night tonight?  You seem pretty dressed up."  

"Oh this?"  She sounded bored.  "I always wear Prada."  

An old Elvis song played on the radio and Dirk absently moved his hips from side to side as he threaded the bolts to the tranny. 

Suddenly, a Random Rapist Thug ran into the shop and headed right towards the hot woman.  She screamed.  

Dirk threw a wrench at the Random Rapist Thug and hit him square in the face, dropping him to the concrete floor.  And that's when his friends followed up behind him.  

Dirk reached into his toolbox and pulled out his Dan Wesson .500 Mag Revolver with the chrome plating and custom leather grips.  Three quick shots and the Random Rapist Thugs were on the ground with holes the size of basketballs in their chests.  

"You save me!"  The hot woman looked at Dirk with lust in her eyes and began to strip off her dress.  

"Wait, baby."  Dirk held out a hand.  "Let me finish this tranny first.  A man's gotta do his job, after all."  

That's right!  A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.  And right now, I gotta stop being a pansy and write some manly fiction!  Fiction with grease, and guns, and cartoonishly large members.  And stupid women with no souls and so many mutually exclusive characters traits they couldn't possibly exist in real life.

Yup!  That's what I'm gonna start writing.  Just as soon as I'm done with my short story about the pastry chef too terrified of the lady he buys eggs from to tell her he's madly in love with her.  

Back in the Saddle Again....

When I was a kid, the family dog was a mutt half a dog tall and two dogs long, and her name was Midget.  She was a great family dog.  She hated men, barked only when there was a problem, never licked and loved to chase the tennis ball. 

In fact, playing fetch was her most favorite thing in the world, and we all played it with her daily.  My mom would play fetch in the mornings, I played fetch in the afternoon when I came home from school, and my sister would play fetch later on in the evening. 

The dog was in great shape and loved every bit of it. 

So one day, I had a great idea--I got Midget excited and riled up about chasing a tennis ball, and then I threw about a dozen of them at once.  For a split second, life was suddenly the best it could ever possibly be, and every great dream she ever had suddenly came true.

She darted around, picking up and putting down each tennis ball, never bringing anything back.  Then she looked over at me, cocked her head to the side and trotted over to me wagging her tail awkwardly.

"Get the ball," I told her.  She looked back and then just trotted off.  She was done.

Having my computer back is like that.  I have a ton of Works In Progress (WIP) to get done and I was really excited about getting my computer so I could tear into them.  But now that I have my computer, I'm more interested in farting around, playing games and checking out various places.

Plus my monitor is very old and dark, so I can't see images all that well, and the glare kind of hurts my eyes.

But that hasn't stopped these WIPs from trying to get my attention.

"When are you going to sub me, Ted?"

"Wait!  I'm almost ready to get sent out, I just need some final editing."

"Shut up and wait your turn!  He's sub'd me out twice and it's my turn until I'm published!"

"All you guys need to hold on," I said.  "I'll get to you when I'm ready."

"When the hell is that going to be?"  The Performance short story was glaring at me.  He was a special breed and not all too patient anymore.

"Soon," I said.  "I promise."

So that's what I'm doing today.  It's my day off, the Bears are on, F1 is on and I'm cooking bean soup.  In between all of that I'm checking out various things and looking at what needs attention now.

What can I get done today?

All the while, the Big Clock just keeps on ticking.   

The Tragic Death of a Computer (And the Harlot Replacement)

"I can't do this anymore, Ted."  It restarted again. 

"No, you're fine.  We just had you doing too much."  I ran C-Cleaner again.  That usually helps. 

"I'm pretty tired, man."  For a computer, it had done alright for the past 4 years.  And I had gotten it used.

"Yeah, but we have all kinds of shit to do."  I didn't want to game or watch a bunch of porn.  I just wanted to write and surf the web a bit. 

"I'm not gonna make it, Ted.  I'm done."  And that's when half the functions stopped working.  And I couldn't get online to do anything but send e-mail. 

I ran all the software I had to fix the problem, but it wasn't a software issue.  The motherboard was going out and this was the final death throe. 

I will admit I was lost for a while.  I e-mailed people from work when I could. 

And then there was the whole fiasco with HSN and how they fucked me.  I should have known better, but I was grabbing at straws. 

A circus freak let me borrow her broken laptop.  It hurt my eyes and the screen slowly degraded to nothing.  I found a spare old monitor and plugged that in to the laptop.  It was a shitty, shitty way to live.  The laptop was crap and kept clicking on random shit I never selected.  Sometimes it would just close the browser in the middle of doing stuff. 

The circus freak claimed it was because somebody had kneeled on the laptop while it was on her bed.  Figures. 

So I ordered a replacement from TigerDirect.  I love those guys. 

But after all I'd been through, would I be in trouble again?  Would I just be left disappointed? 

So after spending more than a month living the Saga of the Computer, I can say I now have a replacement that will last me for a few years.  It's fast and it runs quite well. 

People have been very understanding and I appreciate that.  This blog is now just short of 3000 views.  That's pretty damned good for being up less than a year. 

I'm currently working on coming up with t-shirt designs.  Once I do, I'll post how to get those shirts.  The trick is to make them so folks can wear them in public without getting too many bad looks. 

Thank you, folks, for all your patience as the guy with the horror-themed blog didn't have a computer for the month of October.  Embarrassing, yes--but unavoidable. 

And now I can get on with NaNo.  November is National Novel Writing Month and I'm 13 days late.  This is terrible but I'll make that time up I'm sure. 

XOXO

Ted

Open Letter to My Boss

Dear Boss,

I know that you have been feeling down with the recent health issues as of late. I feel terrible about it and wanted to help. So, I've taken it upon myself to help you run the company, even though you've put somebody else in charge of it. But let's face it, he can't be there all the time and I work nights, so that leaves me with lots of time to be you.

Not that I wanted to be you, I just wanted to do you a favor and help you out. Plus, I don't want you to return to work too early, so I figured that I would let you see how we don't really need you around that badly. Sure, we miss you, but we can survive while you get better.

Yes, I did pretend to be you a few times.

Now don't worry, Boss--I do a great impression of you on the phones. Just ask anybody. During the conference call with the client last week, I made sure to let them know how badly we need changes and how they weren't paying us enough. He made some threats about the upcoming contract and I told him he's a moron. I figure I'll play hardball for you until he comes back, then you can deal with him.

Oh, and tell him I (you) had no idea his mother was from Guatemala when I (you) made those comments. I'm sure he'll remember them clearly the next time you talk to him.

I've also increased employee happiness and job satisfaction. Remember those ugly support posts in the center of the call floor? I turned one into a brass pole with a little stage. During breaks employees are encourage to use them to relax. This didn't go so well at first but then I (or You, rather) instituited Drinking n' Dialing Sunday and instantly that pole was a huge hit.

We used to have problems getting people to come in on Sunday. Last Sunday about 80 people showed up, which is a record for Veridian Dynamics. Remember that runty little high school girl you hired, the one with short hair? Josey? Well, you'd be amazed at how much tequila that little thing can hold. I'm pretty sure by the end of the day we doubled her weight. Her calls were pretty happy, too. I think she sold a car, a house in Florida, a couple of bunny rabbits and an old dirt bike. I know we're supposed to sell cable bundles, but a sale is a sale, right?

The cops showed up when somebody drove by and saw a bunch of naked people running around. I thought we were screwed but it turns out Wisconsin has this law that states if you are working and drinking, it's okay to be underage. They just can't drive afterwards.

Oh, and I (You) made Sundays a Clothing-Optional Day because it was heading in that direction anyways. Just remember, if you come in Monday morning don't light a match.

The pole was such a hit, we raised over $2000 dolars for a charity. The bad news is some of the female agents realized they were grossly underpaid and left to pursue other opportunities.

But things are running very well. We were having a problem with one of the campaigns underperforming so I (You, actually) came up with the Pinata Award. The lowest performer in the campaign gets strung up by their heels and we beat them until the candy comes out. Problem solved. But we had to let go of Shandy because it was impossible to understand her with a broken jaw. I'm sure she'll be back when the doctors take the wires off.

We repainted the walls, too. Instead of the Kindergarten colors of before, we painted them in Packer Navy Blue and Orange, just like you like it. As a Packer fan, I'm sure you'll feel right at home.

People have been asking a lot of deeply personal questions about the nature of your illness, so to protect your privacy and dignity, I've been telling everybody you have Syphillis. When they ask why your arm is in a cast, I tell them you've been reaching for the stars and just leave it at that.

Oh, and I (you) turned that cluttered storage room into a Smoosh/Smoke Room. It was a lot of fun until I realized a few people would never leave. My (your) solution was to put a camera up with a live web connection. This way, people pay to log in and we make money while employees do their business on breaks. You'd be amazed at how full that room gets during lunchtime. The added bonus for us is that we've made over $30K in subscriptions. Google "Breakroom Lovin'" and you'll find the link.

Since you haven't been using your office, I've been putting it to good use myself. It was great for taking pictures for my calendar, 12 Months of Ted. You might laugh, but morbidly obese erotica is a fast-growing market, and I might sell a couple dozen. I'll be certain to get you a free one, too.

I (you) have been hiring people. You recently hired somebody who needed a chance. Fox News called him The Horse Lover. He is sueing them right now because the horse in question was dead and therefore didn't violate any laws. Also, if they curse on the phone because of Tourettes Syndrome, that doesn't violate company policies about call quality. So when Sandy begins shouting into the phone, ignore it. That's the polite thing to do, anyways. We all laugh when she's not looking.

I (you) also designed a special project for Jenna and I to work together on. It's been tough because every time I get close to her she gets that wild look in her eyes like she knows she needs to run or stab me. I think she's still pissed off and irritated at me about the whole "stalking" mistake. I wasn't stalking her, I was looking for mushrooms and happened to stumble upon her sunbathing. The reason I was there for hours was because I was waiting for a certain mushroom to finish growing. Everybody knows I'm a shroomologist. And that time she found me on her farm at night, I wasn't looking in her windows, my dog Sven ran away and I was chasing him down. I miss that dog.

So yeah, she and I are in a deeply committed relationship only she doesn't know about it yet. She will, I'm sure.

Because your email pile was getting big, I logged into your account and began to reply to a few of them. Things got personal so I (you) started flirting with a few of them on your behalf. It's going well with a couple of them. One got kinda butthurt about my (your) comment on how her body reminded you of a VW Beetle. I (you) smoothed it over with an expensive gift from Victoria's Secret. Money was no object because I (you) used the company accounts.

But the relationships that have gone well have really gone well. Don't be surprised if when you do come back several women approach you with all kinds of offers. And a couple of guys. I mean, they were intriguiged by your need to experiment.

All said, Boss, you really don't need to hurry back. I got this. Besides, I want you take your time and heal with your family. You don't need to hurry back for my sake. And I'm positive I'm speaking for many when I say we'd all prefer to know you're taking care of yourself first instead of us at Veridian Dynamics.

Your Favorite Employee,

Uncle Ted

,

 

The Days of Our Ted

Have you ever looked at your life and imagined it as a soap opera on television?

I have always hated soaps.  I grew up watching them as a child.  Both my parents worked so for about the first 6 or 7 years of my life, I went to a baby sitter, where myself and a bunch of other kids were subjected to each other's weirdness.

Remember the cartoon Muppet Babies?  Yeah, same thing only with less interesting people.

I'll admit I was a blend of Gonzo and Fozzy Bear.  But that's all I'm admitting to.  For the record, the baby sitter's daughters were Miss Piggy.  Both were obnoxious, pushy little bitches.

Back during the summer, we were forced to watch soap operas.  If it was too hot outside, or if it was raining, then we stayed inside.  The baby sitter loved soaps.

Frankly, I never understood them.  To me they seemed like boring sets of dialogue that needed gunfire, explosions and monsters.  And I think the creators of Supernatural and X-Files thought the same thing and that's how we got those awesome shows.

So yes, I watched those cursed shows.  And as I got older, I understood them.  It's a simple formula.

First, one plot line just begins.  A second plot line is in the middle and a third one is just wrapping up.

This is how a show that's a hundred years old keeps snagging and hooking new viewers.  My guess is a hundred years from now, we'll still have that show, only it'll be that time's equivalent to television.  Maybe implants in the brains of people that automatically get a wireless signal that generates memories instantly of that day's episode.  You're in an elevator, you tap your temple, and suddenly you remember being in a fight with your evil Mother-in-Law about the inheritance left to you when your wife, her daughter, was killed by a swarm of bees.  What she doesn't know is how those bees were meant for her because the daughter, your wife, found out about the affair you two were having.

So, yes.  My life would make a great soap opera.

As beer pours out of the tapper, so are the days of our Ted.
or...
All My Tedness.
 or...
The Bold, the Beautiful, and the Ted.
or...
The Young and the Tedless.
or...
One Life to Live with Ted.

The plot lines would be easy.  My life is a weird blend of train wrecks, bad choices, unrequited love, paranormal mistakes and watching a lot of people around me have sex.  Well, not watching them, actually.  More like they do it, film it secretly and then tell me all about it later while we watch the video.

The first set would be work.  I work in a call center surrounded by all kinds of people making terrible choices, hiding their pasts, smothering their feelings and losing their minds.  And it's a meat market so they're hooking up constantly.

As a writer, it's a material-rich environment.  Not too long ago, a girl was crying because her boyfriend was teasing her about the um...lack of aromatic pleasantness in her um....lady parts.  You can't make this stuff up.  He was teasing her, other women were teasing her, it was ugly.  She was really upset.

And so I was thinking this could be perfect for a product tie-in.  The advertising revenue generated by a plot that incorporated sponsorship would be huge.  An entire week of Female Character #12 and her angst over the foul smell of her hoo-ha while people make fun of it.  And then a doctor, or Uncle Ted (wink), comes to the rescue.  "Don't be sad, Female Character #12, millions of women suffer from your condition and it's treatable with Corporate Hoo-Ha Cleaner."

I could make millions on this one campaign alone.

The second plot would be the unrequited love Our Hero (moi) feels towards Female Interest of the Month.  She would, of course, be totally incompatible with him.  So much so, it would add to his angst. Soap Operas have a lot of angst, so this would work out well.  Because Our Hero (moi) is too good for her, she will recognize this and hurt him terribly through her dark evil bitch powers.  She will laugh at him behind his back, make jokes about him with the many men she patrons, and generally show just how wrong she is for him.

This brings up the third plot thread.  We would need to have something paranormal and supernatural.

Having a medium or a psychic is great for foreshadowing, but also because they can be used to explain weird behavior.  The Female Interest of the Month is only in her position because Our Hero (moi) was cursed by alien warlocks that abducted him in his sleep.

And then throughout the entire show would be Our Hero's (moi) struggles to be a successful writer as he is tormented by inner demons and loneliness.  We would later learn the unrequited love bit is a function of his alternate personality who sets these things up just to torment the other half.

The comic relief in all of this, as if you'd need it, would be the moronic people Our Hero and the other characters are forced to deal with daily.  For this, we could take real calls from the people I actually talk to and simply use them.  I couldn't make up a more insane group of people acting as if they were in another dimension where sanity was unheard of and basic human kindness was abhorred.

"What do you mean I called the wrong number?  Why did you pick up the phone if I called the wrong number?  Why didn't you give me the right number in the first place?  I hate you and your company!"  

The season finale would be centered around whether or not Our Hero (moi) finally gets The Girl, or in this case the Female Interest of the Month.  Season Finales are always cliffhangers.  It looks like it might actually happen...it might become a reality.  Oh wait, she just wanted to get close to Our Hero (moi) just to talk trash about another women so he wouldn't designate her the next Female Interest of the Month.  And once she made her case, she refused to talk to him ever again. 

Aw, so sad, too bad.  But just before his heart breaks, aliens come and wake up the ghostly spirit of the Female Interest of the Month from last season who died in a quilting accident.  The spirit does in fact love him!  Wow!

I really should be in soap operas.  But I would have to include Larry, my houseplant.  He could be my spiritual adviser in matters of the heart. 

The best part of soap operas is how they never end.  Ever.  Fucking ever.  I'm serious.  There are story lines from 2000 years ago still being played out on TV.  The Greeks had a play they did called General Apothecary.   Socrates called it, "the worst piece of shit I ever sat through" but he never missed an episode and openly wept when the hero, Phisysius, was killed with poison by his lover.  But he was happy to learn a few seasons later it wasn't Phisysius that was killed but rather his evil twin and his lover was just protecting him.

This shit goes on and on and on....

Peanut Butter and Broken Glass

While working on a short story, I recently realized I cannot write a sex scene worth a damn, no matter how I hard I try. 

Really.  They come out totally crappy. 

Part of me wants to use this as an opportunity to send out a plea for help from the ladies in my life.  You know, ladies, if you really wanted me to be a better writer you'd come over to my dungeon apartment and help me...um...map out the scene a bit. 

But I won't do that because I know better.  Besides, careful what you wish for, eh?

I avoid sex scenes.  My characters kiss, a little detailed description of some breathing and body language, and then the scene closes.  We come back and they're putting their clothes back on.  Done. 

When I try to write out the scene with details, it always gets weird.  One time I had to write something kinky.  It was for a writing class.  I was told sex should be dirty and a little kinky.  What ended up was this little gem:

Stefan grabbed Lori's wrist and pulled her roughly towards himself.  She looked into his eyes for a moment then kissed him hungrily.  
"Baby," she whispered.  "This is our only night."  
Stefan tried not to think of her husband and failed.  
"I want you to make me remember this forever," she said.  
Stefan walked over to his closet and pulled out a jar of peanut butter and a bag of broken glass.  
Lori's eyes grew large and her mouth hung open a bit, but she said nothing.  
"Oh," Stefan said.  "I'm sure this will come up a lot in therapy."  

Yeah, nobody liked that scene very much, either.  Personally I found it to be evocative of many post-modern sentiments and a wonderful statement on the creative uses for peanut butter. 

But I was the only one. 

I once tried to enter into a BDSM-themed writing contest.  The editor wrote back to me that my submission was, "bordering on Sadistic and sociopathic homicidal fantasy" and wrote at the bottom of the rejection, "Sex is supposed to be fun!"  

In my defense, I will say that one of the characters did laugh a lot. 

My favorite sex scene ever written was the one in The Eve of St. Agnes by John Keats.   Keats was brilliant in his language, pacing and form.  Technically speaking, it was more of a rape than a sex scene, but I'm sure in 1819 it was the highlight of romance.  Plus, this was supposed to be a dream, so she gives in willingly.  This is why it can be great literature and still be a bit rapey. 

Beyond a mortal man impassion’d far
At these voluptuous accents, he arose,
Ethereal, flush’d, and like a throbbing star
Seen mid the sapphire heaven’s deep repose;
Into her dream he melted, as the rose	320
Blendeth its odour with the violet,—
Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows
Like Love’s alarum pattering the sharp sleet
Against the window-panes; St. Agnes’ moon hath set.

Isn't that just the loveliest?  Much better than when I tried writing a sex scene after spending the whole summer reading Kurt Vonnegut novels.  His novels should come with a script for Prozac and other mood-enhancing drugs.  I was less depressed after reading Elie Wiesel's Night while listening to Henryk Gorecki's Symphony No. 3 (Symphony of Sorrowful Songs) on a rainy Sunday afternoon. 

When I tried to write it out, the characters didn't even like each other much.  They didn't hate each other, either.  And their disinterest in each other made the sex so joyless I couldn't help but feel sorry for them.  Killing them off was an act of mercy.  They were eaten by a bear who was angry his favorite tire swing was removed from the oak tree near the woods.  As he chomped bitterly at their flesh, he reflected upon their acceptance and stoic reactions. 

That story didn't sell, either. 

What I'm reading always has a huge effect on what I'm writing.  So you can imagine how fucked up the sex was during my Hunter S. Thompson phase. 

She looked and talked like a Texas debutant.  But this was Day Three of the GOP Convention and she was on Day Two of a meth binge.  The hotel room was completely destroyed as if a twister from her hometown of Tyler, Texas, had done meth right along with her and together they made this awful mess.  

I had gotten myself into this terrifying position because the manic bitch promised me an interview with Senator Smith in exchange for some drugs.  But earlier she and I had done them all and she'd forgotten the whole affair.  Now she was on top of me and screaming Republican gibberish while tearing off her clothing.

It just got worse after that. And note that I never really got into the sex part.  I just can't do it! 

When I play with the language, it just doesn't work.  I'm just not good at softening things up. 

He gently opened her legs to reveal her hoo-ha.  And it was a stunning hoo-ha, indeed.  In fact, of all the hoo-has he had seen in his life, her hoo-ha was the prettiest.    

When I was in college, I had the assignment of writing a sex scene that was supposed to be realistic.  The professor said it should be embarrassing.  No problem!  I have a ton of those stories to tell. 

Instead, everybody laughed when I read it in front of the class.  But that laughter stopped when I began to describe in great deal the horrible things our bodies produce, do, smell like and feel like as you discreetly try to wipe them off your skin. 

The human body really is a disgusting bag of rotting chemicals.  Once you understand that, sex just isn't all that great.  It's a nice idea, but in practice it's kind of gross.  This is another reason I don't ask women out.  Sure, they're wonderful, pretty and full of light--but once you see them without the illusions of fantasy, they are all just bags of slimy, rotting fluids.  Men are, too. 

This is the crux of the whole problem I have with writing sex scenes.  Flesh is a lie.  Flesh is a putrid, fetid prison for our spirits.  So the last time I tried to do any kind of sex scene at all, it read more like an autopsy report done in the middle of the night by a drunken coroner.  Things fell on the floor with a wet splatter, etc. 

This is another reason why I like necrophilia stories so much.  They're already dead, so you can't insult them by holding your nose.  Plus, if you stop what you're doing to wash them off, even the reader understands.  And just by the act itself, you can allow your character a certain amount of insanity. 

I'll end by telling you this story.  It's true, sadly. 

I was in a bar in Albany, Illinois with a friend of mine.  We were intercepting somebody on the way back from the drag races in Cordova.  While at the bar, we joked about kinks and freakish things people do. 

I said, "Yeah, she's a freak.  But she's not into peanut butter and broken glass."

The 50-something bartender, who looked like a surfer girl that had seen plenty of better days, overheard me and smiled.  She said, "Mmm, that sounds kinky!"

I almost named this blog Peanut Butter and Broken Glass.  Truth.