A Day In The Life Of An Erotic-Writer Wannabe

“Oh, my God, I’m so wet,” she said to him, quivering while

  biting her lip. "Give it to me now, please give it to me now.”

  So he quickly handed her his umbrella.

  
      So there he was, in his room, on his computer, furiously pounding the keyboard, an erotic-writer wannabe, trying to create his titillating pseudo-masterpiece, currently writing a wicked, kinky, nasty hardcore sex scene that would put E. L. James to shame, typing words that would make even Caligula or a convicted sexual predator blush.

     Then, the phone in the living room rang—persistently. Grudgingly, he stood up and answered it. It was just a call from the phone company, offering a new promo, he politely refused and went back to his room, only to find his almost three-year old nephew, sitting at his chair, looking intently at the screen (he could already read and write), probably trying to make sense of the words he was seeing. He immediately took the boy away from the screen and brought him to the living room, where his sister and older brother were now playing.

      He went back to his monitor, he glanced at his nephew before he continued typing. It would really be awkward if he’d one day blurt out the words *bleep,* *bleep* and *bleep*

.

      Maybe, one day, he should write him a children’s book. A compensation for what he briefly went through this day. He’d write about a cute, dieting hippopotamus, or a hyper tortoise, or helpful snakes or vegetarian crocodiles and other inspirational animals. But for now, he'd try to write about the libidinous birds and the bees.