by Dacia Quinn
“Come on in tomorrow, then, and chat with him. Show him what you’re working on, and we can go from there.”
“We’re gonna have to talk about it.”
“You mean...”
“Yes!” Why the hell couldn’t anyone just say it? “The woman-fucks-a-guy scene.”
“He’s already read it! What more would you need to talk about?”
“That’s what everyone wants to talk about,” I say. “I can barely talk about it with my best friend. Now you want me to sit down with some guy whose claim to publishing fame is editing books with docile, subservient women?”
“Alright, I admit that might be a bit awkward,” she says. “Still, I’ve got nothing else for you right now. Give me a few weeks and I might be able to convince someone else to take you on. It’s not a good thing to be in limbo, Sara, especially for a new author—no matter how hot their … sales.”
“I haven’t said no.” That isn’t exactly an option. I’m running on fumes financially, and I’m not about to suddenly change my mind about being a writer. Every job has its demands that kick you in the proverbial balls. Maybe this is mine. “I’ll come in. But just know that I’m not comfortable with it.”
“Trust me, he’s worth seeing,” she says. I can hear the smile on her face. “The company headhunted him, you know. Stole him away from Burke and Co. He’s got a fantastic reputation. And, well, I didn’t know if I should say.”
“Say what?”
“He kinda asked to work with you.”
[TWO] ADVANCES
WHAT"S MORE FRIGHTENING? MEETING A guy who has read your book’s socially taboo sex scene and shies away, or meeting a guy who reads your sex scene and then asks to work with you? My face doesn’t stop blushing until I reach the twelfth floor of the building housing the local office of my publisher. It would have stayed that way permanently, but I think I ran out of blood.
My publishing house is a small, niche imprint of one of the big New York firms. Thankfully I’m not required to travel to New York often. I like my small town. It’s the setting for many of my stories, and source for whatever small bit of inspiration I find. So it’s nice that I only have to drive an hour to the office rather than hop on a plane to New York. In the back of my mind I’m wondering what an editor working out of a skyscraper on the Avenue of the Americas could find enticing about a job at a small imprint.
I manage to get some control over myself before walking into the office. No one seems to recognize me. Here I am just another writer plying her wares—and despite my recent flicker of fame, still a dim light in this room—or, maybe, a little hare jumping about in the tall grass while the lions prowled the savannah. I can’t decide which metaphor I like best.
“Sara!” the receptionist calls out, followed by a cry of delight. I think the technical term for the sound is “squee!” I feel an awkward, inward compression of my chest. I should be able to remember this girl’s name, but for the life of me I can’t. I’d had a long conversation with her during the interminable wait before my first real meeting. Of course, I’d been consumed more by anxiety over the meeting than in any interest in the conversation.
We’d bonded a bit over … something my memory had let slip. What I recall is her well-loved copy of Clara Barton’s first book placed prominently on her desk. That had gone, replaced by a Juniper Stiles novel about a woman who kills her lovers.
“It’s good to see you!” I say. It is, too. Or, at least, not bad to see her. “How’s life?”
“Oh, you know, still kicking my ass.”
Boyfriends. That’s what it had been. We’d both been through minor breakups at the time of my last visit. Nothing major or earth-shattering, but enough to create that psychological connection, or at least the illusion of one. Theresa. Theresa Hamilton. That’s her name, thank god.
“I’m here for a meeting with Karen and, uh, also with Thomas Thane.”
“I’ll let them know you’re here,” she says, then passes word back via the overly-complicated phone system. She puts on a sly smile. “You know, he’s something else.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s like some model out of GQ.”
I make a noncommittal noise. “That’s not usually my type. I like my men a little rough around the edges. He’s all yours.”
She blushes a bit, then turns back to her work. Poor girl. Probably gets to fawn over all the handsome male writers coming in, all famous and somewhat better off than impoverished. She’s a cute girl, herself. Probably wouldn’t have any trouble if she got a bit of a confidence transplant and maybe did something with her hair. I take another quick look at her.
I came to grips with my own nascent bisexuality a long time ago. The right girl, the right mix of hormonal imbalance (which usually came from the kind of forced abstention that I currently inhabited) and … well, thinking about it makes me edgy. I know what I’m going to have to do again when I get home. Theresa will probably play an imaginary role.
I sigh, sit, and scoop up a style magazine while I wait. It doesn’t help that it is chock full of hot, half-naked women. So now I am nervous, flustered, and horny. Not a great combination.
I am thinking of this meeting as a sort of job interview. I’m still uncertain property from the perspective of the publisher. Sure, my book is selling unusually well, and is showing some stamina in the sales department. I am still a month or so away from my first royalty check, and working essentially without a firm offer for my next book. And here comes this hotshot editor the firm has likely put up substantial money to acquire. So, I’ve got to prove that I’m worth the time of their new star editor, as well as their money. Because what I really need from them is an advance large enough to cover expenses for a few months. If you look in my cabinet, you’d think the only two food groups were Ramen and Cap’n Crunch.
“Sara?” Theresa calls from her desk. “They’re ready.”
I set aside the tanned, taut bodies of runway models and stand. If I were a guy I’d be sporting major wood right then. Thankfully, I am a woman—and so my lady wood is all internal. My nipples are incredibly hard in the air conditioning, and every movement sets my bra to rub at them as I follow Sara back to Karen’s office. This is quickly becoming a nightmare scenario.
* * *
THANE IS TALL AND PALE, with thick black hair that curls about his face in a dark halo. Not exactly long, but somewhat more unkempt than I expect in a man wearing a $5,000 bespoke suit. I understand what Theresa means by him being out of a GQ magazine—he is not traditionally handsome, but angular and rough-hewed. I’m not sure I would have said he was good looking had he not been dressed so impeccably. Still, he has the kind of confidence that men secure in their position hold. My instinct is to curl up in a ball in the corner. To my credit, I hold out my hand.
“Sara Miles,” I say. He shakes my hand.
“Thomas Thane. A pleasure to meet you,” he says. He has a mild British accent, as if years in the States have gradually eroded it. It surprises me. I assumed he was from New York. “I know all this is a bit of a surprise, and I’d like to apologize.”
“There’s no need,” I say through stiff lips. Karen gestures to a seat, and I take it. My blouse moves sensually across my nipples and I bite my lip. Why can’t she have the air conditioning at a reasonable temperature!
“Well, these sorts of changes upset apple carts,” he says. His accent begins to charm me. How can anyone say no to someone with that accent? It’s like the voice of calm authority. “Clara Barton was moving on to a new series, and it was a good opportunity to find a new project myself. Are you familiar with her work?”
“Uh, yeah,” I say, sounding close to illiterate. I clear my throat. “I read her first book. Not my sort of thing.”
“Of course not,” he admits, and I have a flicker of hope. Which quickly dies. “Hers are better.”
“Excuse me?” I blurt. Karen’s eyes go wide and frozen.
“Her books are better,” he repeats. “N
o surprise, since she’s written nineteen of them as opposed to your single title. That’s not to say yours is bad. It’s most certainly not. I loved it. But I wanted to bring some concerns I have to you.”
“Concerns?” I’m doing it again, that thing that drives Gail nuts. But my brain function has momentarily flatlined.
“Your men. They’re weak.”
I gasp like a fish out of water while my brain struggles to instruct my lips to move. I’ve been sitting less than a minute, and he’s already aimed an arrow at my heart. No, not an arrow—a full broadside.
“Maybe you just don’t like strong female characters,” I stammer.
“No, I love strong female characters. But it’s hardly a victory for them when they push around beta males.”
“Are you actually listening to this?” I ask, turning to Karen, but it is clear that she is.
“Men don’t want to read your book,” Thane says, simply.
I scowl. “I’m not writing it for them.”
“You should be. They want to read your book.”
“Just for that bit...”
“Trust me when I say that scene is not a selling point for most men. It’s a good book. I loved it. I would have loved it more if your male characters had been stronger. If they had put up more of a fight.”
“You should listen to him, Sara,” Karen says, finally breaking her silence. “It’s good advice.”
“Men don’t mind strong female characters so long as the man puts up a sporting effort. They don’t even mind him losing, just so long as he's done what is expected of him. Your characters give up too easily. They don’t act like men. They’re boys.”
“Most men are boys.”
“Well, then, you’ve already sewn up the bitter spinster demographic.”
I’m a published author, dammit! I shouldn’t have to put up with this! You know, this horrible, straight-forward truth telling. I hold on to my stubbornness a bit longer.
“So this is all about sales, then. Right. Gotcha.”
“So you’re one of those authors who doesn’t actually want to sell books?”
“I want to write books. The way I want to write them.”
“And to do that, you must sell books. But this isn’t just about sales. This is about making your books better. I’m an editor, not a salesman. I know what I want to read.”
“And I know what I want to write. Look, Karen, maybe this isn’t the best fit. I don’t think this is going to work out.”
“Thane, would you give us a moment?”
“Certainly,” he says, before standing, straightening his jacket, and leaving the room.
“Sara, listen to me,” she says, leaning forward and giving me her best “this is for your own good” face. “He’s a good editor. He has a reputation, not only for putting out good books, but for working with authors. Not against them.”
“It doesn’t sound like that from my side of things.”
“You’re just not willing to hear him. I’m not going to threaten you. Livery Press wants you. Believe it or not, they thought you’d be pleased by having them throw Thane at you. They were trying to do you a favor. And more than that, he specifically requested to work with you.”
“How the hell does he even know who I am?” I ask. I had no previous published books, and when Thirty Hour Day came out, I’d been given no real publicity until after the book's sales unexpectedly spiked.
“I haven’t got a clue. It doesn’t matter. This is an opportunity. Work with him. See where it leads you. You might be surprised.”
“Okay, alright,” I say. “Not that I have much choice here, right? I appreciate what you’ve done for me, so I’m going to follow your advice. Just remember that I’m doing it despite my better judgment.”
Thane entered again, but the discussion was primarily between Karen and him. I was going to have to learn to work with him, like it or not.
* * *
I LEAVE LIVERY PRESS WITH a check in hand. Not a royalty check, but a (small) advance on my second book. The rest of the conversation steered clear of Thane’s problems with my first novel. Karen passed him a draft of my current work, and we worked out some details. Thane tried to catch my eye a few times, but I just couldn’t meet his. Karen urged me to keep an open mind, and I’d reluctantly agreed.
My first stop is to buy a new phone. Then I order Chinese food and call Gail. Maybe it’s the tone of my voice that does it. She drops everything and comes over. With two bottles of wine.
An hour later I’m feeling guilty about the amount of General Tso’s chicken I’ve eaten. Less guilty about the wine.
“Bums,” Gail says.
She’s getting out my mango vodka. My downfall. I’ve almost forgotten what we'd been talking about, but the topic comes back to me.
“Bums? Really?”
“It’s all I need. Just a shot from behind of a guy doing his thing, and I’m good. All those tight muscles...” She shivers dramatically and takes a sip of her drink.
“Guys in porn are overrated,” I say, a bit more honestly than I would have had I not been drunk. “They never shut up. They’re all like, ‘oh, baby, suck me, yadda, yadda,’ and I just want them to be quiet and get on with it.”
“Danny likes to watch the lesbian porn.”
“Isn’t that, like, taboo for him or something?”
She shrugs. “The lesbian bit, or just porn in general?”
“I’m just surprised he watches it at all,” I say.
“I caught him awhile back, and he was all apologetic,” she says. “It was kinda cute, actually—like catching a seven year-old with his hand in the cookie jar.”
“I’m desperately trying not to make a smart-ass joke about cookies, now.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she says, waving a hand dismissively. “So we watched some together. I think he was surprised I didn’t cut his balls off for it.”
“I thought you didn’t like that girl-girl stuff.”
“It’s hot to watch. I just don’t know about actually doing it. Talking about it is making me horny,” she says. “Don’t you have some good porn to watch?”
“Lesbians?” I ask, then nod in understanding. “Bums?”
“Bums. I need bums.”
* * *
GAIL EXHALES A LONG BREATH and squirms in her seat. Her skirt has worked itself up her thighs. I don’t tell her that I find them as much a turn on as the men’s bums on the television, though I’m tempted to. Now, wouldn’t that make life complicated? Not only is she a friend, but a married friend.
We’ve done this before more times than I can count, usually after bad days. Drink, watch naked men on TV, get hot and bothered and then wank together. We’ve been friends for fifteen years, and basically know everything there is to know about each other. Nevertheless, I’m sure she has a few small secrets like mine, but I doubt either of us would be shocked by them.
“That bit, in your book,” she says, her head lolling just a little drunkenly. I notice that her glass has suddenly become empty yet again.
“Oh, come on,” I say, exasperated. “We’ve been over this.”
“It was the hottest thing I’d ever read,” she says. It comes out like an admission, like she is revealing a deep, dark secret. Like I said, I’m not shocked. “I mean, I’ve had fantasies before, but Christ I had to take a shower after that. I can’t look at a man’s butt without thinking about it. And you know me.”
I do know her. As far as I know, she is as vanilla in the bedroom as they come. Oh, she’s done some things with men that might be considered unusual, but nothing crazy. And she’d done it for them, not because those things had done anything for her. At least, that’s what she says. For instance, her tale of once being tied down to a bed had come out as comical rather than erotic. I, in contrast, am the kinky devil. The woman with dreams of big dildos and sodomizing men. No one seems to understand that isn’t me. Not really.
“Sorry.” I am. I love Danny—he’s the nicest, kindest, most
generous man I know. I never feel that variety of jealousy that some women get when their best friend gets married to a hot guy. I know he is a bit too timid in that department for my tastes. Sometimes I feel bad for her. The thought of Gail mounting Danny from behind gives me a little thrill, though—her toned thighs slapping against his tight, muscled ass. I feel the knot of tension in my groin begin to loosen.
“I’m not sure I want to actually do it, it’s just the thought of it.”
I understand. I mean, I felt the same way when I wrote it. I’ve written sexy bits before, but none of them had made me go off and masturbate. I’ve read erotic fiction and gotten off before, but I had never managed to turn myself on like that.
My head is caught somewhere in the cloudy space between the mindless porn and the more engaging movement of Gail’s skirt. My brain farts out a bad haiku:
naked bottoms dance,
Gail’s skirt slides ever higher.
my trembling thighs part.
Eventually she’ll give up the pretense and just go at it. I watch her thighs, occasionally switching my view to the television. In my mind I picture the scene in my book, with Nara, my protagonist, convincing her latest conquest to submit to her desire. Some men would do anything for a good fuck, but Nara didn’t want what they wanted. She wanted control, over her job, her life, everything in it. Men, other women. Mostly she succeeded. She was the anti-me. That feeling of power is an illusion—something that takes Nara another few hundred pages to figure out. Still, illusions have a power of their own. I imagine myself in that position, a man kneeling in front of me, exposed, the toy strapped tight to my mound, a plug in my ass, and the pounding of his spread cheeks against my hips as I thrust into him.
Alright, if Gail isn’t going to start, I am.
I unbuckle my belt and scoot my pants down. I'm wearing my comfy panties today, which makes me not just a little self-conscious. Not granny panties or anything like that, but they aren’t the pretty little things that Gail gets away with all the time. Her and her boyshorts. I decide to take them down with my pants and save myself the mild embarrassment. I leave the bunched pants and panties hugging my knees. I like the added bit of confinement they offer.
