HOW I WRITE ABOUT SEX...

HOW I WRITE ABOUT SEX...

It Was a Dark and Stormy Night...

How I write…

It’s an odd thing, things just come at me, and I write; these random, and sometimes not so random, thoughts come at me, and I write.

So here goes, this little story is about as sexy as I get...

It Was a Dark and Stormy Night:

Steve Hill and his new wife, Cheryl, were honeymooning in Eastern Europe, near Transylvania.

One mid-trip hot summer evening, they were driving along in their rental car, listening to music from the local radio station, Taylor Swift’s, “Bad Blood” was blasting from the car’s speakers as they motored along a deserted local highway. It was late; they were going back to their quaint suburban Transylvanian chateau styled hotel after a long, looooong, multi course native dinner with multitudinous local wines at a fine, though touristy, in-town bistro.

It was raining very hard just then, and Steve could barely see the unfamiliar road in front of the car.

Suddenly…

The car skidded out of control.

Steve attempted to control it, but to no avail, the car swerved and forcefully smashed into a tree, bounced off, and turned over in a ravine.

Moments later, as Steve shook his head to clear the fog, Taylor was no longer singing  and silence reigned. Dazed, Steve looked over at the upside down passenger seat and saw Cheryl unconscious, but still holding the copy of the book, “The Art of the Deal” by Donald Trump.

Despite the rain and the unfamiliar countryside Steve knew he had to get Cheryl medical assistance. Steve exited the driver door, went over to the passenger side, opened the door, undid Cheryl's securely fastened seatbelt, and carefully picked Cheryl up from the seat and began trudging down the road. After a short while he saw a light in the distance and he headed towards it.

Steve approached the huge front door warily, and knocked.

… 

A short bit later, the door was opened by a small, kind of bent over, almost hunchbacked, unruly clothed, middle-aged man.

Steve, in complete exhaustion and relief, immediately blurted out loudly, and in 

English:

“Hello, my name is Steve Hill, this is my wife Cheryl, we’re here on our honeymoon, and we’ve been in a terrible accident; my wife is seriously hurt.

Can I please use your phone?

Please…”

The almost hunchbacked little man replied softly in heavily accented, almost pidgin English:

“I’m  zo  zorry,  ve  doan  hab  a  fone.

Bud  mi  Mazter  iz  a  Doktor…

Cum  in,  cum  in,  und  I  vil  ged  him.”

Steve slowly carried Cheryl in through the huge wooden door, into a chilly, dark, moist feeling, cavern like stone entry room with a small, burning, fireplace and a gigantic stairway...

…

A well-tailored, man, with a cape over his shoulders, was already walking down those stone center stairs towards Steve, and he spoke immediately, in perfect English... first in annoyance, and loudly, to the almost hunchbacked, middle aged man:

“Igor…

I’ve told you before not to speak like that, you went to school, speak like you were taught, don’t embarrass me that way again…”

And next, more normally to Steve:

“I’m afraid my assistant may have misled you.

I am not a Medical Doctor.

I am a Scientist…

Next “Master” said forcefully:

“Igor, bring them down to the La-bor-a-tory.”

With those forcefully spoken words, Igor took unconscious Cheryl from Steve’s arms and carried her to the stairway heading downstairs with Steve following closely behind. The two walked silently down one long flight of steps, and after walking down a narrow, cold, stone corridor some 30', opening a rough-hewn wood door, and entering an immaculate, and modern, stark white room with fluorescent lights aglow, Igor placed Cheryl on a long table (in what must be the “la-bor-atory”), just as Steve collapsed from the burnout and stress of his efforts to save Cheryl, and his own massive internal injuries.

Just then, Igor’s “Master”, now dressed all in white, entered the la-bor-a-tory. After a brief physical examination, first of Cheryl, then of Steve, Master looked worried. In a short moment he said:

Igor...

"Prepare a transfusion.”

Igor and his Master then worked feverishly on both Cheryl and Steve interchangeably.

FEVERISHLY!

 

Steve and Cheryl Hill were soon no more.

Muerto!

Muerte.

The Hills’ deaths upset Igor’s Master greatly.

Wearily, and ever so slowly…

SLOWLY…

Master left the death and quiet of the La-bor-a-tory and climbed the steps up to his second floor Conservatory which housed his grand piano. It was there, in that Conservatory, that Master always found solace.                  

             

And soon a stirring, almost haunting, melody filled the house.

Haunting…

Taylor Swift’s:

 

Just out of the corner of his eye…         Igor definitely caught some movement.

So he put down the broom in his hand and looked head on and now he’s certain that the fingers on Cheryl’s right hand were twitching, that they were keeping time to the haunting piano music.

Igor was stunned.

STUNNED.

And so, somewhat addled, he turned slightly and glanced over at Steve, and next he watched in horror as Steve’s right arm began to rise, his raised hand marking the beat of the haunting piano music.

And just then, both Cheryl and Steve sat up straight.

OMG!

OMG.

Igor was frantic.

Frantic!

Unable to contain himself any longer, in outright FEAR and excitement, Igor dashed up the two flights of stone stairs to the Conservatory where his Master was attempting to mask his grief by playing piano…

And as Igor burst through the Conservatory doors he shouted out (and in perfect English…):

“Master, Master!

…

The Hills are alive with the sound of music!”

  

Damn…

How I write.

Damn.