A Place To Draw Blood Laughing

One afternoon a few weeks ago, I’m sitting with an older gentleman who’s become something of a writing mentor for me in the past few months. Among other projects, he’s helping me in my attempts to wrangle out a book about kinky young people, and kinky sex, and deviance in general.

We sit for a while, and he reads bits of my story, and we talk about the relationship of character and action. He becomes interested in a character: a boy who stands against a wall with his shirt off, his eyes closed and mouth open, completely silent as a girl with a grin presses a knife to his face, and then hits him in the shoulder. He’s a character I based off the Boston Boy, except I’ve changed his name and re-imaged his life, and kept his face, his body, and his nuances of sound.

How does this character’s silence betray his personality? My older friend asks me these and other questions. He calls my writing “acceptable” and I laugh at him, a little.

We talk, and I think aloud, and then he apologizes for kicking me out so soon. A famous author is coming to see him, and I just don’t rank. That’s all right, I assure him, I understand. And as I say it, the famous author is at the door of his office. We are both caught by surprise.

My friend introduces him to me. “Nice to meet you,” I say as I shake his hand and smile.

“Nice to meet you too,” he replies. He is very short, and round, and I like him. I have heard his books are terrible.

My friend then introduces me to him. “This is Eileen,” he says. “She’s a pornographer.”

I smile again. “Well, aspiring.” I amaze myself with my own suaveness.

The famous author looks between the two of us, and then everyone chuckles. “I’ll be one of your best customers someday,” he jokes, although I wonder if he’s really joking.

“Great,” I respond, “someone’s got to read it.” And I smile one more time, and say goodbye. As I walk out of the office, down the stairs and into the light rain, I think how proud I am that I caught that curveball and threw it back. And I wonder when I became content with my pornography. And I wonder how many times I’ll have to catch that ball again.

I go to a library and find a desk by a window. I curl up in the chair, and then I write about sex.