I can't write fiction...story not raunchy enough. I came last in the competition.

POLITICAL SCIENCE

I see there is a competition for a short fiction story about sex and sensuality. I love writing and can write screeds of things about human rights, psychology and philosophy, but have never written anything that lived only in my imagination. In fact, I have only ever read three or four fiction novels, preferring to read non-fiction. But the lure of the prize money for the “Adults Only” short sharp stories as one of the events at the National Arts Festival for next year is too tantalising to ignore.

I have been sitting for days, thinking about how to even begin a story that incorporates the requirements of sex/sensuality/culture and South Africa. I really want to write a good story, but am stuck on how to make this story one that will not only win the competition, but will also turn the reader on; one that will make the reader feel horny.

I have asked all my friends for ideas, I put a request onto Facebook to ask what my Facebook friend’s sexual fantasies are, but was bitterly disappointed that the only responses I got are different words and variations of the same activity…cunnilingus. Bearing in mind that I have always thought that the perfect man has a ten inch tongue, and can breathe through his ears, I don’t find that any of my friends can assist me in this writing task. I have to find a plot, and then I have to have some raunchy sex thrown in with a good sprinkling of cross-cultural South Africa. Here goes:

She looked across the room at him and felt a flutter in her stomach. How many times had she looked at him when she was sure he was otherwise occupied, and she could continue with her secret life with him? The sun was catching the silver strands of grey around his ears, as he stood at the podium, delivering another one of his political discourses. He was the sole reason she had changed from psychology to political science as a major. In every way he was wrong for her. He was clearly an atheist, an older man, married, her professor, and with different cultural roots. The oddest thing about him was his impeccable English, as though he has been to Public School in England, with surname like Malan. She had been brought up to believe that anything vaguely white was the enemy. Surnames like Botha, Malan or Van der Merwe were to be more feared than others with a more English sounding surname. An Afrikaans surname depicted the worst brutality of the enemy.

Her mind drifted to the stories she had been told of the sacrifice of her parents, and their friends, made during the struggle for freedom for South Africa. The very thought of telling her mother of her complete fascination with one of the enemy, sent shivers down her spine. But those shivers only enhanced the desire to be held in his arms. What was the saying about forbidden fruit being more enticing than that which you could have? Was the yearning for this professor only because he was forbidden fruit? It could not be. Most of the girls spoke about him between lectures, many speaking of his charisma, and his undeniable sexiness. Were they also only interested because he was “forbidden fruit”?

How often had she fantasised that he was making love to her, gently and urgently; every moment of the love-making deliciously imagined. She watches her day dreams that take her from the hunger that drives her to jump into his arms, her legs wrapped around his waist; to the soft nibble of his teeth on her lips until she responds to the hunger by her pushing her tongue into his mouth. Their tongues collide in a never-ending feeling of exquisite delight; the desire to consume one another bordering on pain.

Would he even notice her, one of almost 500 students sitting in the lecture hall? How would she be able to satiate her hunger and lust for this man who represents everything that she cannot, and should not have? If thoughts are behind everything created, as she had heard in philosophy class, then he would make contact with her. She held the desire in her mind and used affirmations all day. “He wants me…he wants me…he wants me…”, she repeated to herself quietly. She was sure that he would deliberately pick her out of the students sitting in front of him and speak directly to her. She would make a special effort to see if he would smile at her, if she smiled at him. That would be the moment that she would know for certain that there was ‘something’ between the two of them. Before she could start on her experiment the lecture was over, and the students were walking out. He was still at his desk, packing away the overhead projector and rolling up the electrical cord, putting each piece of equipment into the space provided by the sculptured Styrofoam.

She squirmed in her seat, rubbing the tops of her legs together. The delicious feeling between her legs was becoming a wanton craving to feel ‘his’ hands on her. Her vagina started tingling as she felt herself get wet. Heavens, she had never been so horny in her life!

She watched the last few students leave the lecture hall. His bags were packed, and he was starting to walk out when he turned his head. His eyes fell upon her and he smiled. As their eyes met, her heart started to race.

“Did you want to see me?” he asked. “Come on down here”, he invited, beckoning to her.

“Um…yes…I was just thinking…”, she stammered as she tried to hastily pack her books and pen into her shoulder bag, all the time watching him. One book slid down the outside of the shoulder bag, and she bent down to pick it up, fumbling and dropping it a few more times on the floor. Her pen slipped out her hand and rolled down the aisle. She could feel the heat moving from her chest to her face, her ears ringing from the furious beating of her heart. Embarrassed by her awkwardness, she wondered what on earth she could say to him. After months of dreaming of him, she was suddenly confronted not only by his smile, but by the invitation to come towards him. In her haste to get to him, she tripped against the chair leg, dropping her books for the umpteenth time. The pen is left to continue its roll towards the front of the hall.

She stumbled and then with super-human effort, picked up all her belongings, and walked sedately down the aisle, swinging her hips; towards her the object of her day and night dreams.

Now how do I get from here in the story to the sex part? I sit staring at the computer screen while visualising different options and nothing I can think of makes the story real. A friend pops in for a cuppa and I tell her my problem.

She points to my book shelf and says, “There is a book that will give you some ideas”, as she gets up and fetches the book. She opens it. “The New Sexuality, written by Dr BJ Cox”, she squeals with laughter, repeating the word ‘cox’ over and over.

“That isn’t going to help me”, I respond. “That book must be about fifty years old”. I am right. It was printed in 1968. I flip through the pages and see some pencil drawings of various postures that can be used during sex. All the drawings are of fat females but the men are drawn with well-defined muscles and bodies. It is a medical book that covers anatomy and the female/male sexual response. There are more strange chapters such as incontinence during sex and the ideal coital positions for couples during pregnancy. I mean honestly, do people still use words like coital, like copulating, and suffusing. Not much help from that book. I also don’t want to hear the Bible’s definition of marital sex, which my friend wants to tell me about. “That Bible stuff will never make the reader horny”, I tell her. But even before I get to the sex part of the story, I have got to get her and the professor to actually touch one another and it must be plausible. Who on earth gets turned on by reading about vaginas and penis’s? Perhaps I should use the words common to all or at least the words that are used in my family. Would anyone know what an umthondo or an ibenze is? Family words that every African would understand. Or should I use words such as dick and pussy? Dirty talk turns people on, so I guess I will be using the latter terminology. I try again.

She walked up to him, completely flustered.

“How can I help you?” he asked again.

And before she can gather her thoughts into a coherent whole, she hears herself telling him, “I can’t get you out of my head”. With that one sentence, it all comes tumbling out. “I can’t study. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I can think of nothing but you. I dream about you at night. I fantasise about you during the day. I want to feel your arms around me. I want to kiss you and I want you to kiss me back … and I…”

She stops to catch her breath as he walked around and behind her towards the door. She stood still, shocked at what she had just confessed. He reached the door and pulled it shut. The Yale locks clicked loudly into place. Slowly he turned to look at her, smiling and opening his arms to receive her. She walked towards him, and suddenly she was in his arms. She inhaled his aftershave as she put her face into his neck, her arms reaching up as she clung on for dear life. There was no way she was going to let him get away from her now. She wanted him, and she wanted him badly. She wanted to feel his dick sliding into her pussy. He started kissing her, his lips playing gently over hers; his tongue pushing her teeth apart and entering her mouth. The delicious sensation in her lower belly intensified. She responded with uninhibited movement of her tongue winding around his; nibbling, tasting, and feeling until he pulled away, and started licking and biting gently from her neck to her ear and back down again. The shivers ran up and down her spine. She wanted more, much…much more. She pulled him down towards her so that she could reciprocate with her own tongue on his neck, breathing in the musky smell of his aftershave, sticking her tongue into his ear. Their breathing become faster and more ragged…their movements more frantic. Their hands moved wildly up and down one another’s body. Not a word was spoken, although there were sounds of lust, heavy breathing and little sighs of contentment.

The clothing was inhibiting their need to be closer. He pulled at her t-shirt and lifted it over her head. In less than ten seconds he had her bra unhooked and was pulling the straps down her arms. At the same time, she was attempting to loosen the buttons of his shirt, but her fingers where clumsy.

Oh, fuck! I have just seen that this competition has to be in by next week. I do not have, what I thought was months, to enter. The pressure is on to get to the sex part now. How I wish I had had a varied and interesting sex life so that I could fill the pages with the how it feels and what I did and what he did.

He stepped back smiling, and started removing his own shirt. She was by now standing naked from the waist up. With a great deal of urgency, she started undoing the buttons on his Levi jeans, the belt already loosened. She pulled his jeans down where they fell loosely around his ankles. Grabbing his boxer shorts, she pulled them down where they folded upon the jeans that were still around his ankles. She dropped to her knees. Her face was level of his penis.

No, ‘penis’ does not sound right, and ‘umthondo’ sounds even more foreign. I will have to change that last sentence with a different description of that part of his anatomy.

Her face was now level with his cock. She attentively and gently cupped his scrotum in her left hand, slowly moving the skin between her thumb and forefinger. With her right hand, she took his shaft (now that is another description – maybe I could have used “trophy”) in her hand, and was stunned and flabbergasted at how flaccid it was. This had never happened to her before. All her previous partners had hard-on’s by the time she had got to this part of the process. Somewhat shocked, but undaunted, she slowly took his flaccid dick into her mouth and started sucking gently, alternating by moving her tongue around the glans; (that is another word that won’t make someone horny) flicking the underside of his dick with her tongue. With equal slowness, she took the whole of his dick in her mouth and sucked first gently and then with some vigour. There was no corresponding response to her ministrations. She sucked harder and changed tack with her free hand by rolling each ball, one over the other, between her fingers. There was just no response. She was shocked that his dick was not behaving as it should. She did not have that much experience in oral sex, but the three men she had been with were already erect by the time she got her mouth anywhere near their ‘umthondo’s’. His dick was so soft and floppy that she could suck the entire thing right up to his belly, and hold it all in her mouth. Her cheeks started getting painful from the amount of sucking she was doing. Instead of being focused on the sexual act, she could feel the hard surface of the floor on her knees. It was too distracting for her to continue. So in desperation, she stood up and pulled her panties off.

She grabbed his hand and directed it towards her wet pussy. He opened the pussy lips with his fingers. With shock, she realized that he had slid not one, but two fingers into her vaginal canal. She squirmed, trying to move back and away from his hand, extracting his fingers with her own hand. Quick as a flash, his hand moved back to her pussy and again he opened up the pussy lips. He started rubbing her clit roughly with a back and forward movement. She enjoyed soft, rhythmic and circular movements on her clip but what he was doing was bringing her down from horny heaven. To make matters worse, he was shaking with excitement or fear. She could not be sure why he was fumbling and shaking. In this dream come true, she remembered an old joke. Why do women love old gynaecologists? Because their hands shake! No, it was not funny. She did not find it funny at all. She would never tell that joke again. His continual rough scouring of her clit, in-between the shakes and trembling only served to make her clitoris over-sensitive and painful. It did not feel good nor did it remotely turn her on. With some irritation she moved away from his probing fingers, and again knelt down to take his member into her hands. She started sucking his dick, alternating between soft and hard sucks, moving her mouth up the outside and then the underside of his dick. There was just no response. Even her jaw was starting to ache.

He reached down and put his hands under her arm, and lifted her up to her feet. He carried her over to the desk and put her down so that she is sitting with her legs hanging over the side of the desk. He spread her legs, lifting her skirt up around her waist. Fumbling, he took his dick into his hand, masturbating himself rapidly while at the same time sucking hard on her nipples. There was nothing gentle or tender in his attention to her nipples or the fumbling between her legs with his unoccupied hand. She tried to move her hips further back on the desk in an attempt to protect herself from his uncouth treatment of her clitoris. Suddenly, he grabbed her and pulled her closer to the end of the desk. He lifted her legs and balanced them on his shoulders, her ankles looking like over-sided earrings on his ears. There was much grunting while he attempted to stimulate himself by rubbing his dick up and down between her pussy lips. Only now and again did his dick even touch her clitoris. By this stage, she was so not into him, that she started counting the number of times he rubbed his dick against her. She was wondering what on earth made her want him in the first place. Her previous lovers were attentive, loving and they always had a hard-on. Every six rubs, he attempted to push his penis into her. Since her pussy was still wet, the situation became rather a slippery affair. With all the huffing, puffing and pushing, trying to get his dick into her, she started sliding back on the smooth wooden desk, making contact between their sexual organs even more difficult to achieve.

Oh, fuck sake…where to from here? And don’t tell me that if I can say “fuck” that this should be an easy story to write. Fornication under the consent of the King! That is where the word “fuck” comes from. So far, I have the South African culture, the sex and the plot in the story. All I have to do now is to find a suitable ending. One of the things I hate the most about sex is when the man is either too drunk or too old to get, or even maintain, an erection. It is definitely like trying to push marshmallows into a piggy bank. I tell my friends that it is very frustrating when the clock is pointing to six o’clock and not 12 o’clock. It is not funny to a white person, but it is very funny to a black; and only in South Africa. Black South African’s have an amazing sense of humour when it comes to double meanings when talking about sex. “Please use your pencil on my slate…show me your trophy…let me take your temperature”, are sentences all about sex. Back to the story:

Her one leg kept sliding off his shoulder, causing her to slide further and further towards the side of the desk. He tried to hold her ankle with his shoulder bent towards his ear, which made her angry with herself for putting herself in this position. While all the puffing and pushing, and trying to hold her legs up in the air, she got to the point where she has had enough. “Stop please”, she said to him. He did not hear and continued with his crazy monkey-like behaviour. “Stop it”, she shouted louder, pushing him away from her with her hands and her legs. She got her foot onto his chest, and gave him a mighty shove backwards. With that, she slid off the desk onto the floor. He could not maintain his balance with his pants around his ankles, and fell on top of her. At that precise moment, the loud click of the Yale lock, and the banging of the bucket and mop against the door, sounded a warning that someone was coming. It was the janitor using his master key.

He saw a white arse between a pair of ebony legs. “Hehake”, he said aloud. The Professor tried to scramble to his feet while pulling up his trousers. She gathered her clothes and dressed as fast as she could. Without a word, she grabbed her bag of books and walked rapidly out the lecture hall. The embarrassment, the sheer stupidity, the anger, and the disgust she felt for her lecturer and his stupid, horrid love-making, replaced every horny thought she had ever had about her lecturer. How would she be able to continue going to his lectures after what had just happened?

It was time to change from political science to law. Now that lecturer was definitely worth a try.

At last, it is finished. I have reached three thousand five hundred and eighteen words. The story has to be between three and five thousand words. All I have to do now is to clean it up, check the grammar and punctuation, and submit it. And then I will dream about what I will spend the prize money on.