by Lola Darling
Maybe you don’t understand the women in my books because you’re nothing like them. The women I write about are willing to take risks to be with a man because they value physical pleasure. They know that a great fuck – sex that leaves you sweaty and panting – that kind of sex gives a woman power and energy. And peace. It’s what the human body is for.
But you don’t understand that, do you? You don’t understand how the full exploitation of the senses can affect your ability to enjoy life, to laugh, to connect. For you it’s all about the brain. You need to stop thinking and start feeling.
Do you even fantasize? You have to be able to imagine it to do it.
The hair stood up on the back of my neck. What a presumptuous asshole.
I’m fantasizing about you right now. We’re alone in the elevator at DR. You’re wearing a skirt and blouse, no bra or panties. I know you did that for me. I press the “stop” button. Put my hands on your face and kiss your lovely lips, the hunger building. My tongue enters your mouth, and at first you hesitate, but then you let go and our tongues explore. Now I know you’re ready. I unbutton your blouse – fast – and I moan when I see your gorgeous tits. I need to taste your dark nipples; now I’m biting them, losing control. I turn you, a bit too rough, shoving you against the glass wall of the elevator. A shiver goes down your spine as your hot breasts press against the cold glass. Now you’re exposed for all New York to see, dirty girl. I press my incredible hard-on against your ass, grinding against you. Now I reach down, fumbling to free my cock, to yank up your skirt. I’m biting your neck as my fingers enter your wet pussy. I rub your juices over my cock, lubricating. I’m rock hard. Your pussy is aching for me but I know what I want. “I’m going to fuck your ass,” I say. Then I position my cock, and with a few desperate thrusts I enter your ass. It’s so tight. You cry out, over and over, as I fuck you. Your breath ragged. I reach down and my fingers gently vibrate your clit making you climax. And I fuck you and I fuck you till I can’t hold back, my cock pulsing inside your tight ass.
“What the fuck,” I whispered. I was kind of stunned. It was totally inappropriate. What made him think he could talk to me like that? I was so offended. What was even more disturbing was the fact that I was also incredibly turned on.
Of course I’d seen Jackson Ford, at book launches and readings. With his physique and those blue eyes, it’s kind of impossible not to stare at the man. He looks like a taller, more rugged Ryan Gosling, with blondish-reddish hair and a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. He radiates intelligence. Jackson Ford is commanding, charismatic, and totally GQ, but still.
What was he thinking? Writing something so explicit to a colleague? Did he think himself untouchable? With his money and his influence. How could I work with this man?
Suddenly I began to panic. Was he firing me? I reread the email, assessing his tone for clues. He was arrogant. And inflamed. But also passionate. “I’m fantasizing about you right now.” That was surely a fabrication. A provocation.
“I’m your editor, not a fucking groupie,” I said aloud.
I hit “reply” and began to type.
Jackson,
Congratulations to you. There is more passion in the email you just sent than in your last three books. Perhaps the lack of emotion in your recent writing is the reason your female audience has declined 17% since 2013. But that’s just one woman’s theory.
I’m unafraid of you.
I want to make your work better than it has ever been.
If you want the same thing -- and you feel you can work with me, let’s have a sit-down Monday at 8:00 a.m. Just tell me where.
All the best, Ellie
And I hit send.
Then I printed all three emails before deleting them from my hard drive. I packed up my things. On my way out, I stopped at the printer on Carolyn’s desk to retrieve the copies I’d made, noting the tremble of my hand as I slipped the pages into my bag.
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