Chapter 18

The Novelist
Chapter 2

Bernard stared out the window, not typing. From the window, all he could see through the trees were rooftops. Squirrels ran from branch to branch, making a tightrope out of electrical lines when the trees were separated by the road. He wondered how they weren’t electrocuted. He supposed it was because they weren’t grounded or something, but what did he know about electricity? He thought if he was going to be a successful writer, he should learn about things like that. Maybe he would write about an electrician. Ha! What a joke. Him, writing about an electrician.

Bernard listened for sounds from the ground floor of the house. He heard nothing. There had been no front door slam, only one inside the house, so he knew Marcus was still in the house - probably doing what he accused him of doing. Damn computer. He would have liked them if they didn’t steal Marcus from him. He shook his head. He didn’t understand men. He thought it would be so much easier if he were straight. Women, he understood. All his friends were women. Men got on his nerves. Marcus especially.

Bernard shook his head again. He had to get these negative vibes out of his head. Nothing productive was going to come from them. Then, it occurred to him what he could write about that would prevent him from slamming on Marcus: his main character could be heterosexual. A woman. He understood women. That would keep the ghost of Marcus out of his story. If his main character was heterosexual, then she would have a boyfriend, and her boyfriend would necessarily have to be completely unlike Marcus, who was the gayest man Bernard had ever met. What would he have her do? He didn’t know. The heterosexual thing was a lot as it was. He would have to really stretch his imagination to create heterosexual main characters. He thought about drawing on the one time he had slept with a woman, but decided against it. Obviously heterosexuals didn’t feel that way about fucking each other or else they wouldn’t do it. He had found it disgusting, unnatural, and he swore he would never have sex with a woman again.

Bernard stood, focusing on his reflection in the window. He stared at himself staring at himself, absently playing with himself. He stepped away from the window and walked around the room. He looked in his closet. Maybe he would get redressed. Maybe a blouse and nice skirt. That would put him in the mood to write a good heterosexual female. Bernard rarely cross-dressed - he never cross-dressed in public, not even for Halloween. But when he was writing a female character, he always put on a skirt or a dress, something to put him in a more female space. Panties especially put him in that mood, so he went to his desk and opened the bottom drawer. There lay a half dozen pair of panties, cotton and silk, different shades of pink, one with white daisies. He wore the daisies when he was writing young girls. That put him in a little girl mood, and made him think like one. He’d only worn those for a few short stories.

Bernard grabbed a pair of pale pink panties, silk, and slipped them on. He chose silk because his protagonist was going to be beautiful and sexy. People loved beautiful, sexy women. There’s a selling point. But she was a beautiful, sexy what? Maybe he would discover that as he wrote. He thought, as he went back to his closet and pulled out a miniskirt, he should start the story with her at a party. A glamorous party. Bernard grabbed a white silk blouse from the closet and put it on. He loved the feel of silk against his skin, tantalizing his sensitive nipples. He was definitely in a sexy mood. He just had to be careful to avoid becoming pornographic or overly sentimental. Bernard sat in front of his typewriter again and started writing.