Wednesday, July 1, 2009

Since my last blog dealt with writing sex scenes, I'm dedicating today's entry to writing the not-sex, or at least the almost sex scene. Pull My String is a story I wrote about a 17 year old boy. By definition that means he's horny - almost constantly. He's got the serious hots for a sixteen year old girl, and she's not about to say no to him. When I described the scene where he decides not to have sex with her to a male friend, he laughed and told me that I write fantasy.

But I believe that it's possible for even a seventeen year old boy with a major hard-on to have empathy, compassion and love in addition to his lust.

My hero, David, really cares about this girl. He wants sex, but he's also concerned when she seems disappointed by his desire. He dares ask her why.

I grab her, pull her back against me until she gets her balance. Hold her so tight that even through the coat she’s gonna feel what I've got waiting for her. Know just how badly she’s wanted. Forget Perry. Forget Trey and the football team and everyone else. Grow as eager for me as I am for her.
She stiffens. Beneath the brown her skin goes from red to gray.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
I've got two sisters. A girl says that and she really means A-helluva-lot-you-stupid-male. “Yes, I want you. Why’s that wrong? I’m not Perry, I’m not gonna hurt you. We won’t do anything you don’t like. It’s gonna be good for both of us.”
“That’s what he said.”
Her head shakes. “Trey.”
Him again? Her body’s so tense she could be posing for a straight-jacket ad. Whoever this joker was she still feels something for him. “Is Trey someone you … lost?”
“Someone I found. We were placed in the same home and I thought it was like having a big brother or something. After three years I’d begun accepting my parents weren’t coming back. So I thought, a big brother would be nice. And when he said I’d like it, I thought, okay.”
Like it? It? I want her to tell me more. I’m afraid she’ll tell me more.
“He said it only hurt because I was dumb and didn’t do it right. That we’d have to practice a lot because that’s what guys wanted from me so I better learn to be good.”
Eight plus three is … eleven? God, Linda’s eleven.
The memory of my first time springs into my head and I fight down a shudder. At thirteen I’d been embarrassed. At eleven I’d have shit my pants in terror.
“Why didn’t you tell someone?” I don’t mean to sound accusing, but her head jerks as if I’d hit her.
“I finally did. And DCFS took me away.”
Took her away?
Drops of sweat bead on her forehead. “They yanked me out so fast I didn’t have time to pack. Course I didn’t have much, so I didn’t lose much.”
I can barely breathe thinking about how much she did lose. And I want the son of a bitch that raped her. I want his mutilated body on the floor at my feet. I won’t be quick about anything I do to the bastard, either.
“What … what do you want me to do?” How had she held all this inside her so long? I never knew how strong my Mighty Mite really was. “If you want I’ll take you home.”
“Oh no. It’s okay. I’m not a kid anymore. I just thought,” she sighs. “Let’s get inside and … and get busy.”
Big Willie agrees with her. But as we join the slow moving line coiling toward the ticket seller something’s wrong. I want Yolanda. Want her happy to be with me. With me, not just fucking me.
The guy in line in front of us is already halfway inside his date’s pants. Their kiss is hot, loud and wet. As he purchases two tickets for Witch Doctor Zombies his date giggles so wildly I wonder how old she is. “I don’t think I can watch this,” she says.
He pinches her ass as they enter the theater. “I gotcha covered, baby.”
The picture on the wall shows blood dripping from a maniac’s fangs down onto a bikini clad girl screaming at his feet.
“Two,” I tell the old woman behind the glass. “Holiday in Spring.”
She looks surprised. “You sure? That’s PG-13.”
My groin’s so tight I want to yell, but I say, “That’s right where I want to be.”
In a theater full of giggling middle schoolers.
Yolanda’s head rests on my shoulder and I feel her laughing. She looks up. Her eyes glisten in the darkness. That’s worth the uncomfortable chair, my too tight jeans and Willie’s disappointment. We kiss, and the stupid movie doesn’t matter. My arm slides around her shoulders. To hold her tight. To let her know she is wanted. And safe.
She relaxes against my chest.
And it’s all good.

So there it is, the "fantasy" scene where my 17-year-old decides he'd rather show his new girlfriend respect.

Fantasy - God, I hope not.

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