Inspiration

"Where do you get all these ideas?

Believe me, you don't want to know the answer..."

"Well, this question has been asked many times, but few could provide a satisfactory answer. If I answered that life inspires me, I'd be lying because I'm shy around women and haven't had sex in a few months.

More precisely, over two years...

" "You could answer that it's because of this hunger for sex, but I've been writing for a few years, so where would my other novels on this subject come from?"

And we're back to square one...

" "So I have to disappoint you and say that I don't know. I simply don't know.

Another lie. Another step backward on the path to salvation...

I hate meetings with readers. Not because I disrespect them, but because I feel embarrassed during them. If they knew the truth, I wonder if they would be as eager to read my books. They'd probably dismiss me as a freak and a misfit, even though they do the same thing themselves, but of course, none of them would admit it." It's human nature to stigmatize others even though they do the same thing themselves...

It's funny that there are never any women at the meetings. One woman once approached me and called me a "male chauvinist pig"—she looked like she couldn't afford anything better—and started punching me. When I asked if she could justify her opinion, she said that women in my books are treated like objects. Why? Because they're naked...

Men understand that. Not everyone, of course, but those who have imagination and admire the beauty of the female body whenever they can. I don't describe women vulgarly. I use words like "hill" or even "fountain of pleasure," and that's what distinguishes my stories from those in cheap "erotic" magazines. I used to try to draw inspiration from them, but the result was simply the same stories told in a more difficult language. As if Michael Corleone suddenly started speaking the language of Hamlet...

I always wondered if the journey home could be inspiration. Riding a city bus, you see all these sad, bored people and either become absorbed in them, becoming one of them, or you think about something that—bordering on pure madness—would be an antidote to the ubiquitous grayness. In a way, the bus inspired me—my last book was about a couple who made love in public because the boy couldn't get hard otherwise, and one of those places was a bus. My latest collection of short stories, "A Touch of Desire," also features a bus theme—a story about a driver who desires his sister and finally does. Their orgasms are so incomprehensibly wonderful that they decide to stay together.

My bus stop...

There's no point in deceiving myself. I can lie to the whole world, but I and God know what inspires me. What makes these stories come to life in my head. Well, a sea of creators have taken drugs to suppress ideas, but somehow I don't feel superior to them, even though according to social norms I should. What I'm doing is also wrong, even though it doesn't process my brain, but it's also a sin and distances me from the Kingdom of Heaven.

After a delicious dinner of frozen pizza, it's time to begin the creative process. "A Touch of Desire" was four months behind schedule, and I have to submit my next collection of short stories for publication by the end of the year. The life of an artist isn't as rosy as I thought. I live alone in a studio apartment, while my friends who studied mathematics earn five or six times more per year than I received for my last three books, which cost me two years of work. I stimulate minds, and this is supposed to be my payment? Maybe in my next novel I'll write about an artist who wasn't paid enough and turned to prostitution...

It's actually a good idea, but I'll "tweak" it later. For now, it's time to close the door, sit comfortably, and check if everything is ready...

Toilet paper, paper, a pen, and some soft music. Something romantic for today, maybe Barry White. Clothes fall onto the armchair, time to start the creative process...

A boy. Sixteen years old. He goes to school, but otherwise stays at home, and one day a friend of his mother's comes over. She immediately catches her eye. He's shy, so he doesn't have any friends. One day, his mother is away, and the friend is supposed to come see how the boy is doing (of course, she volunteers and insists it's a very good idea). She comes home at night (she has the keys), and the boy is asleep. The woman pulls down the covers and starts fondling his penis with her hands. He wakes up and doesn't know what to say. She teaches him step by step what to do and how. "Take off my bra," "Kiss me there," and "Tress my ears" are the phrases he utters. When he enters her, she moans. So pleasant... Paper!

Afterward, he falls asleep, and when he wakes up in the morning, he wonders if it was real or just a dream.

Another step backward on the path to salvation...