Remembering the advice he read on line somewhere that there was really no such thing as writer’s block because all one simply had to do was just lower one’s expectations, he began to type.
“You can tell these things are marketed to men with a statement like that on the package,” she told him as he crawled back into bed beside her. She was holding the torn open –and now empty- package scrutinizing the label and smoking one of her long, feminine cigarettes. He just smiled.
“Probably so,” he said. “You know how we men are, babe. We strive to please.”
”Ha, bullshit!” she said after a moment’s contemplation. She rolled her eyes and tossed the empty package down on the floor and took a quick drag off her cigarette before crushing it out in the ashtray beside her. “What the man is REALLY interested in is… HIS pleasure!”
…Lifted his fingers from the keyboard. Where exactly was he going with this thing, he wondered? He took a sip of his coffee and re-read that last sentence.
“What the man is REALLY interested in is… HIS pleasure!”
Hmmm, he thought. There was a lot of truth in that sentence but yet…no, there wasn’t either because love and pleasure and the whole men-are-from-Mars-women-are-from-Venus relationship thing was way bigger than that. He resigned him self to the fact he was stumped -stuck again in that deep bottomless shifting sand of when the words just refused to coalesce. Puzzling. What to do? How to work free from that?
Damn this writer’s block that does not really exist! He suddenly typed with anger before back spacing the whole sordid affair off his computer screen. For something that supposedly did not exist –even in spite of his already on the basement floor expectations- it was certainly feeling real as rocks and trees to him.