The Erotica Writer's Assistant

Dear Diary;


I can’t come anymore.

It’s this asshole’s fault, that fat panda I’ve been working here - For. Like. Ever.

And I can’t stand my toenail polish. It’s this kind Megan Cain wears, its supposed to be like emo, this metallic blue-black, that makes you look like totally deep, existentially like ripped. I saw her on Fox News, but I think when people see you with this shit it’s whoa! Mental illness. Like I slammed my toes in a car door, one by one. Do these toenails make me look fat? I got it from this place in Augusta Mall, Da Vida nails because the Viet Namese girls are so totally, but I get this old lady and she’s working over my feet and I don’t feel turned on. Instead I’m just thinking I’m grossing her out with my feet, but there’s someone who has a crappier job than me, working on people’s ugly feet.

Who the hell writes sexy stuff in like effless Augusta? Baptists? Hello?

Sanchez-Garcia. This guy ruined me. I’m messed up because he’s totally tearing a hole in my ozone. I used to come good. I used to come like porn stars pretend to come. I figured it out when I was like thirteen with a big stuffed panda bear I used sleep with between my legs. I still can’t look at stuffed Panda bears without squeezing my thighs together. And then this ad I read in Metro News for an Erotica Writers assistant. I thought no way. It’s like Starbucks? You think if you work for Starbucks, at least you learn how to make good coffee. So I’m thinking, I think I’ll learn some seriously gnarly fizznuckin from this guy.

Please.

Today we learned a new word. What is it?


Merkin.

Hint – it’s not a wizard with, like, a beard. Hello? Well, at least it’s not a wizard.

This morning he calls me in, I’m bringing him his espresso, which is a double shot with a skim steamed milk with chai syrup and a full gainer with a double twist of lemon and leave the lemon on the lip of the cup, Cookie. Oh – and Biscoff cookies. The kind they give you when you fly coach. The way personal assistants fly on world book tours. Because they won’t let your boss put you in baggage. Peanuts or Biscoff. Jesus Christ. And he’s at his maniacal ego desk, the size of a small bridge, which he bought from Anne Rice at an estate auction when she went Catholic and her agent just totally belly flopped her, bums rush bingo, this monster tyrannosaurus desk, he holds up this insane thing, and my brain is like - oozing. It’s hairy, triangular. I’m thinking “Did he run over a squirrel?” and he says “Cookie! You know what this is?”

And I’m like – gagging? And I’m like “No, Mr. Garcia. Did it suffer?”

“It’s a merkin. I’m going to use it in a new story. It’s a fetish story about a guy who gets turned on by women’s body hair.”

“ . . . agh … jesus . . “

“I didn’t hear you., Cooks.”

“Wow,” Like poor little Cookie is trying not to lose my cookies in his cookies and coffee tray. “That sounds really sexy.”

“But I don’t know what it looks like on somebody. Can you try it?”

“How do I try it?”

Like can he possibly look at me more like I’m a dildo? “You don’t really know what a merkin is, do you? (you ignorant pithecanthropus) Just tell me. It’s okay.”

I shake my head. So he tells me what a merkin is.

I set his cookies down and just lose it in the shredder bin. You reading this? You want to know what a fucking merkin is? Look it up. Think Bikini wax for cave girls. I wouldn’t wear it for Halloween. I’m waiting for Lady Gaga to wear one on her next album cover. I don’t know.

I’m telling you I can’t come. I used to have a database of like, scenes?? I used to come with these fantasy scenes, but they were like so mine. Like being tied up by Amazon cannibals, these kind of oily little brown guys with long black hair and bones in their noses and big muscles and they tie me to a tree with snakes and fire ants biting them and they’re so into doing me they can’t stop even with ants biting them. Now my Indian guys, they just look at me like whatever. Or kidnapped by aliens who look like Jay Zee, now they won’t even probe me. I’ve been seriously merkinized.

“Mr. SG,” Now that my tummy’s all better, I’m looking at the schedule app on my iphone, “You’ve got Gretta Van Klockhammer from Fox News coming over for a sit down in an hour and an interview with the New York Times Michiko Kakutani after one, and your agent needs to skype you about a book tour. Said you have an email?”

“I can’t get any email. The A drive doesn’t work.” He points at the floppy drive. “Can you fix this, Cooks?”

If I had pride. If I ever have humanity someday I will shove that merkin in his mouth the next time he calls me “Cooks”. But I don’t. I stick my Viet Namised naplamed fingernail in the door of the floppy drive. “No floppy sir. Your emails are on the web.”

The doorbell rings.

“That’ll be Greta. Here.” He hands me his laptop. With a whimper I take it from his hands.

“How many?”

“Only three.”

I go to the door to let Klockhammer in. “The writer will see you now. In there.” I let her in the room and go to work. Three stories. Three blank spaces for me to write in the sex scenes. He doesn’t do sex scenes anymore.

I have this rolodex in my head where I keep all the fantasies I’ve ever gotten off to. I peel one off.

. . . .Doc Savage squeezed the yellow seductress in his bronze sinews of steel. But all the while, beneath his torn khaki trousers his over sized throbbing tumescence ached for her reciprocating moisture.

“You cannot resist my charms, American dog.” She hissed, in spite of the absence of sibilants.

“Well, have it your way then,” he rumbled, “Time to teach you some manners Tiger Mother.” But even before he could reach for her, she had torn away the remains of his uniform and staring longingly at his aching organ.

“So,” she breathed. “It’s true what they say about your . . . endowment.” She lifted her skirt.

"And I see its true what they say about your . . . body hair." He moaned “But the only endowment you’ll be getting is the national endowment of the arts.” He snarled passionately. “The art of love.” So saying he plundered her soaking thighs with his bazooka of lust.’

Aie yaaah.

Next.

. . . Penelope, love goddess of the cannibals regarded her well muscled prisoner with undisguised desire. “I’ve been waiting for a man like you to come along.” She breathed huskily.

“Why,” growled Ohio Smith, “So you can eat me?”

“Fool!” she cried. “No – so you can eat me! Eat me you white American beast!” So saying she pressed her incredibly hairy vibrating womb fast against his lips.

Narfgh.

Last.

. . . . Eric the Lustful cast an eye as cold and blue as the fjords upon his captive virgin stable girl, as quaffed his libation of mead. “And look what booty my men have brought for me from the sun washed shores of France.” He chortled. But in his heart it was as though all the flowers of the tundra had bloomed at once. His engorged member yearned for her beyond all control.

“And is this how you treat all your guests?” She whispered poutingly.

“Not all,” he cried “Only those wenches with luxurious body hair. Like they say you French girls are copiously endowed with. But for you this will be our wedding night and so saying . . . .

so saying . . . .

his . . . broadsword of lust? Hammer of love?

Oh fuck.

I can’t come anymore. This is why.

The doorbell rings again. I put the laptop back, and hear the shrieks and groans coming from SG’s writing room. Cripes. This time the woman at the door is a tall, skinny, formidably sophisticated Japanese woman with intense eyes and long styled hair. “Ms. Kakutani?”

“Hello. . . . ?”

“I’m Cookie. The personal assistant.”

“I have a one o’clock.”

“Come in please.”

Oh god. Oh god.

I open the door of the writing room and – Holy Merkins, Boy Wonder. That's like . . . Oh. It's so not right. Bonobo ape's don't even go for that. Is this a sign of the Zombie Apocolypse?

Brains. Sweet sweet brains.

I slam the door shut. Kakutani is waiting in the hall, but I hear her footsteps coming closer like that dame in “The Fall of the House of Usher”. I wing the door open again. They’re still at it. “ I quit!”

Kakutani is in the hallway with that severe look of someone who doesn’t like having her reading time wasted. I open the door. “Ms. Kakutani’s here – I suggest you put on a tie!”

This is why I can’t come anymore. I am so out of here. I want my orgasm back.