A Scribner’s Tale

A Scribner’s Tale

     Brooke says, “John when you told me about those bitches from the previous agency who took the belt to you, I cried for you. Just thinking of what that tough leather on your soft bottom must have felt like made me wince. John, know that I will never try to force you into a career mold by brute force.”
     “Like their namesake flower, those belladonnas enticed me with beauty whose touch was poison.”
     “What drove them to such cruel measures?”
     “They felt like I discredited their program by turning down their job offers which were pathetic for a college grad like me. Their caveat was that if I didn’t submit to their sordid penance no other agency would take me.”
     “You need not have capitulated to their sick game. Here I am living proof that another job coach was always waiting in the wings for you. Know that if you ever need correction from me it will never be meted by pain.”
     “Presumably human females are unlike those of bees whose women are the sole stinger bearers.”
     “Women, like queen bees, mostly reserve their stingers or tongues for their other catty queens.”  
     “Brooke, you have my complete cooperation in all things job-related and otherwise.”
     “John, I know we usually meet at the coffee shop. But for me to understand your book clearly, I need quiet. So, this time let me take you to my apartment where we can work together without all the noise.”
     Upon arrival, Brooke says, “John, my couch will go easy on your derriere. I know the bed provides more relaxation to your body overall. But though I feel we are close in many ways perhaps we should not yet share the intimacy of my bed. Let’s get as comfortable as possible while not engaging in bedroom aerobics which could inflame your still tender and swollen flesh. There is no need to be uncomfortable when getting down to the work at hand.”
     She says, “I usually help people get on a payroll but for you, I am doing something different by helping you get your book published. However, after having read it I am trying to figure out how the pieces fit together and how the plot works.”
     “Here is a passage that brings it all together.”
     “That chapter fascinates me. Your evocation of
a female having coffee with her girlfriend was clearly written by a man. The emotions you describe are not those of a woman.”
     “I just based it on movies and reading women’s prose at poetry websites.”
     “I hope being with me here at my pad doesn’t make you nervous. Now be quiet while I finish reading the scene. All done. Your imaginary trip down the river of womanly camaraderie was clearly based on a studious reading of authentic female authors. Yet your description of women talking about their men friends was clearly written by a male. Don’t feel bad. You have to be in our skin to feel what we feel. But I’m all sweaty. Do you mind if I take a shower?”
     She walks out of the shower towel wrapped and dripping with her skin pinkened from the hot steam. I am on edge about not disappointing her with my writing. But her questions are focused on plot structure, though my female characters hold
her interest.
     Her hip sways so closely to me that I can feel the heat from the hot water of the soaked towel she wears. She says, “Let’s shed some light on the subject.”  When she reaches over me to pull the light cord the droplets that flow from her thinly veiled delta down her inner thighs are near enough for me to lick them up with my tongue was I that daring.      
     I say, “This passage should pull it all together for you.” She wipes her hands on her derriere and takes the book.
     Her hand rests on my knee but soon travels up my thigh. I laugh. She slaps me on the back. We laugh together. She says, “Sorry just wanted to make you feel more at home in my abode. You seemed a wee bit tense.”
     “I know you are just trying to help me relax. Your hand is welcome.”
     “John, tell me if I am correct, one of the key elements of successful fiction is to suspend disbelief. Well, there are some pretty surreal scenes in your book from what I’ve read of it. So let’s act out some of your scenarios just as you described them in your stories. Here I am speaking of the confessional scenes.”
     “Which ones are you referring to?”
     “The most unreal ones are the ones that involve wives sharing their secrets about their old flames though they are in fact married. Those are the ones we should focus on. You’ve told me about being horsewhipped by those bitches from hell. But most of all the silver-tongued devil that you use to seduce the hearts of lasses through prose has never been properly exorcised by a woman in real life. So, this will be your opportunity to make your prose more believable by getting out of your intellect and into your emotions.”
     She says, “I want to see with my own eyes what those brides of Satan did to you.” She undoes my belt and slips my 401s and the fruit of the looms off in one fluid motion. Then she grabs my hips and guides me into a kneeling position on the sofa with my knees sunk into the cushion. Her fingertips move in lazy circles round and round my buns. She says, “The welts that strap left on your tender flesh are almost healed but still pink.” She says, “With my fingertips, I can read the Braille of your punishment barely legible like scars from childhood. Are they still sensitive to my touch?”
     “Just enough to enliven my skin like the pelt of raindrops.” She traces the pink stripes of my psychedelic zebra haunches with her velvety fingertips. She smooths out my memory pillows for a fresh impression wherein the ache of love replaces the sting of the lash. She caresses me lovingly like a woman does her hair as my temperature rises.      
     “Now, tell me truthfully. When you felt those she-devil’s leather bite into your flesh, did you get turned on?”
     “To the point of no return.”
     She replies, “I’ll paddle those buns but just enough to give them the palest rosé wine blush and only with my hand so as never to leave welts. Belts are made for holding up britches. Besides, I’m just a kitchen witch whose bitchiness is limited to the subliminal sabotage of a soufflé.”