I Can Write Romance, I Swear

Chapter 1 - The Language of Love

"Up to My Balls in Love," said Billy, "now that's what I call a title. He waited for a response. He knew that Debra, or D, as he often preferred to call her, harbored suspicions that writing any type of story that required dealing sensitively with female emotions, was not his calling in life.

"Perhaps not using that particular word might attract more readers," she replied, after careful consideration.

"D, for heaven’s sake, if I don't put the word 'love' in the title--"

"Balls," Debra said, with a grin.

"No, I'm serious," replied Billy, "you can't leave 'love' out of the title."

Debra laughed. That was one of the things she loved about her boyfriend of eight months. Despite his intelligence, his complete inability to see what was sometimes right in front of him, fascinated her. It pleased her that he was making every effort to curtail his profanity, though the substitutes were often transparent..

"How about, Up to My Neck in Love?" she said.

"Is there something wrong with my balls?"

"Your balls are just fine, Billy. Perhaps just not for the title of a romance novel."

"I was thinking more of a short story, D. Novels can be an absolute beeatch to write."

Debra studied Billy's features. Not bad looking at all. He could do with shaving more often, but it was his eyes that captured her attention. Dark brown, almost black, with an intensity that belied his verbal shortcomings. He was working hard on that aspect, however, replacing cuss words with improvised alternatives.

"Shock value, D. That's what sells books. You can't afford to bore people in print."

"I kind of like that remark. Did you make it up?"

"No, I read it somewhere, but it's the truth. You can be outspoken, and controversial, and still make a fortune. Just don't bore people to death."

"That definitely fits your profile," she said, "not the boring part, the other two."

His eyebrows closed the gap between each other, making lines in his forehead visible.

"That would be a good start, D. The most brilliant of writers are outspoken and controversial, no matter the topic at hand."

"You should learn to type using both hands instead of just two fingers, though. Then we can be rich sooner."

"It's amazing what I can do with these two fingers, D," Billy said, wiggling his index and forefinger in the air."

Debra merely smiled.

"You're a dirty bugger, D," he said, as they shared a chuckle.

She could tell that his feelings for her went deep. His penetrating gaze always softened when turned on her. "Why don't you enter one of these writing competitions advertised in that magazine you're always buying? Five hundred dollars are being offered for first prize, and I'm sure it's for short stories."

Billy glanced down at his hands before returning his attention to his girlfriend. "You think I should?"

"Why not, you do want to be a professional writer, don't you?"

"Do you think I'm good enough?"

Debra cocked her head to one side. "Do you doubt yourself?"

"Hell to the no! How much is it to enter this competition?"

"It's free."

"Free? The competition will be stiff then. Which magazine did you see it in?"

"That one over there," she replied, twisting around and pointing to the pile of magazines on his bedside table. "The one on top."

Billy sidestepped a cushion on the floor before sliding the magazine in question off the pile.

"Page fifty eight, I think," Debra said.

Billy flicked through the dog-eared pages. Page fifty eight it was.

Debra watched as Billy's eyes flew over the page.

"It has to be emailed in by Tuesday of next week," Billy said.

"You'd better get a move on then. Good job it requires no more than fifteen hundred words."

"Shorter can be tougher than a Hippo's unwashed scrotum," he replied, still with his attention glued to the page. "Hey, look at this, D."

"What is it," she said, diving across the bed, close to where he held the magazine.

"There are actually two competitions, but you are only allowed to enter one."

"What's the second one?" Debra asked, grabbing for the magazine.

Billy snatched it out of her reach. "Another five hundred smackeroos, too."

Debra's eyes rolled towards the ceiling. "Read it out loud then."

"Write four engaging opening sentences for each of the following genres. Romance, Sci-Fi, Horror, and Comedy. It has to be in for Monday of next week. That's only three days away, D."

"Three days and sixteen sentences, or four days and fifteen hundred words, which one will you pick?" Debra asked.

Billy's expression was pensive. "If I go for the fifteen hundred words, I have to come up with a storyline, engaging characters and add a twist that can't be seen coming, while watching my word count at the same time. I think I'll take a crack at the contest requiring the opening lines."

"Billy, do you realize that it's been almost five minutes since you swore?"

"Shut the front door, that’s nuckin futs. Mind over matter, D, that's all it is."

"Nonsense, Billy. It was because your attention was diverted elsewhere, with something that intrigued you."

"Sounds like a load of old cobblers to me, D."

"That's because you aren't up-to-date on the finer points of psychology."

Billy’s tone was suspicious. "And you are?"

"I watch Oprah." An all encompassing statement to be sure.

"Oprah?"

"And Hannibal Lecter."

"Didn't know he had a show."

"He doesn't, but I watched both of the movies with him in it."

"That’s not helping me right now, D.

"So why are you wasting time talking to me about Hannibal Lecter, instead of coming up with--"

"Is this one of those psychological tests, D? You know, the one that determines if it's in your DNA to strangle your girlfriend after she pushes every last one of your buttons?" Billy’s facial expression matched his question.

Don't know what you mean, my love. Get writing, will you?"

Billy sighed. "Which would be easiest to start with, Horror or Sci-Fi?"

"Romance, of course," Debra replied. "Let's face it, you're a natural romantic."

"Too flippin’ right there, D. I'm up to my balls in love, to quote a shortly-to-be-famous author."

Debra decided that Billy needed to be galvanised into action and chose her words accordingly. "My right foot is going to send your balls up into your throat at twice the legal speed limit, if you don't start putting pen to paper. You have a competition to win."

"I wonder if I can use that phrase of yours for one of the opening sentences in a horror story?" Billy tapped a forefinger against his chin.

"Which phrase?"

"The one about your foot and my balls. I think it has potential."

"It'll go down as non-fiction if you don't extract the finger and start writing."

"Slave driver!" he said.

"Procrastinator!" she replied

"Most famous authors prefer solitude when writing creatively, did you know that, D?"

"You're making that up."

"That's possible."

"Well, are you?"

"You wouldn't believe whatever I said."

"Try me?"

"Famous authors do prefer peace and quiet when pondering their next masterpiece."

"Liar!"

Billy tidied up his stack of magazines. "D, do you think you could go into the bathroom for an hour or so?"

"What am I going to do for a whole hour in there?"

"Same as you do every other night would be my guess."

"Hah! Start with the comedy openers, Bozo. Just don't look for any extra-curriculars later on."

"Who's Ron?"

"Bathroom here I come," Debra said, tossing the cushion from the floor in Billy's direction, without checking to see if it made contact.

"Okay," said Billy, "to work."

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Blue ink met white paper. Half an hour had passed and Billy was deep in the throes of creative writing. He decided to start with romance after all.

           

His balls were blue, not that wishy-washy light blue, but more of a royal... no, that wouldn't do. A little too romantic, perhaps. He started again.

 Maureen was wetter than a duck's backside at high tide. That wouldn't do either. Ducks don't swim in the sea. At least not that he knew. Crud-bucket, this was more difficult than he first thought.

The love Gordon had for Marcia was as deep as the ocean and as wide as an elephant's backside. Hmm! What if it was only a baby elephant. Good job he was on top of things. Anybody else might not have picked up on that.

The pain was unbearable. What pain was unbearable? The pain of his shattered heart? The pain from the zip that tore its way up his cock when he wasn't paying attention in the bathroom? He wondered how Debra was getting on.