The Girl Who Wrote Erotica, Book One: The Method (Contemporary Romance)

by Jordan, Angela

  The Girl Who Wrote Erotica

  Book 1: The Method

  A Contemporary Erotic Romance by Angela Jordan

  Copyright 2013 by Angela Jordan. All rights reserved.

  Reproduction expressly prohibited.

  (Word Count: 17,000)

  Contact Angela: angelajordanbooks@gmail.com

  Check out the latest romance from Angela Jordan:

  DARK ANGEL: A Mafia Romance

  Book One: Hunter, Hunted

  A sizzling romance with sex so hot, it leaves a body count...

  Karen's a free spirit, and she's not about to let anyone boss her around -- that is, until she meets Angelo DeSilva. But Angelo's got a secret...

  Can Karen keep her head on her shoulders, even as she gets wrapped up deeper and deeper into Angelo's dark world? Or is she doomed to fall prey to her DARK ANGEL?

  The Method

  Chapter One: The Inspiration

  I walked into the coffee shop at 10:30 AM, just as I did every morning, and waved hello to Amy, my regular barista.

  “Dark roast and a banana muffin, please,” I told her with a smile.

  “Surprise, surprise,” she replied with a coy grin, and turned to fetch my order. I just smiled and shook my head. Was I really that predictable?

  She handed me the coffee and muffin, and I passed her a five-dollar bill. While she made change, I glanced around the cafe. It wasn't too crowded, which was just how I liked it. I got more work done on days like this.

  “So, what steamy stories are you writing today?” she asked, snapping me out of my thoughts.

  I took my change and blushed. “I'm not sure yet, actually. I get a new assignment today.”

  She leaned forward slightly, an earnest look on her face. “Well, I can't wait for the next one, Natasha. I've read them all. You're a fantastic writer.”

  “Thanks!” I replied, smiling, though I was a bit taken aback. I was always thrilled to receive compliments on my work, but I was still having a bit of trouble adjusting to my newfound fame – however modest it was.

  “You know,” I said, “I'd be happy to sign something for you.”

  Her eyes lit up. “Really?”

  “Yeah, totally! I mean, come on – you guys keep me caffeinated. Without that, I would be completely lost!” We both laughed. “Just bring in a book or something tomorrow, and I'd be happy to sign it.”

  She seemed starstruck. “…I’ll do that!” she managed, after a beat. I smiled inwardly at her reaction. I still couldn’t believe it. You’d think I was actually famous or something, I thought.

  “See you tomorrow, then,” I said coolly, and waved as I headed towards the milk and sugar. I was relieved to snag my usual seat in the back corner by the windows, facing in towards the entire cafe. I liked to observe people here in the shop and try to incorporate them my stories, to make my writing feel more realistic. And to do that, I needed a good vantage point. I set up my laptop, popped in my earphones and started typing.

  Maybe it’s a gift, or maybe I was born under a good sign – who knows. But for some reason, words have always seemed to just flow from my fingertips. I’ve been a writer my whole life. I was a journalist for six years, but eventually I got fed up with how much B.S. I had to deal with at the city newspaper – and so, I quit my job on an impulse two years ago. Ever since then, I’ve been writing full-time, and making a decent living off it to boot.

  My genre of choice? Romance… erotic romance, that is.

  Within five minutes, I was completely immersed in the text at hand. It never took me long to get into the “writing zone,” as I called it – especially when I was writing erotica.

  Just as I was getting into a hot scene between a woman and her ex-boyfriend – involving lots of torn clothes and pulled hair – I felt someone tapping me on the shoulder. I jumped a little, startled because I hadn’t heard them approach. I glanced up to find a young man standing before me, maybe a year or so older than I was. He was looking at me anxiously, like he had something to say.

  I tugged my earphones out and gave him a smile. “Can I help you?”

  He grinned devilishly and slid into the seat in front of me. “Well, I was hoping that I could help you.”

  “I'm not sure I understand—”

  “Oh, come on, you know what I mean,” he pushed. “You're Natasha Banks, the erotic fiction author, right?” His eyes gleamed brightly, and he had a lecherous look on his face.

  Oh, jeez. I groaned inwardly, trying to swallow back my annoyance. This had been happening more and more often recently, ever since my latest book, Hunger in the Night, was picked up by one of the major publishing houses. These days, you could find my book in any bookstore you walked into – with my smiling, black-and-white photo inside the back cover. So for the last three or four months, I’d been getting this all the time: creepy men approaching me on the street, thinking that they could be the star in my next erotic book.

  “Yes, I am Natasha Banks,” I confirmed with a sigh. “But I’m kind of busy right now, unfortunately…” I glanced back to my computer screen, trying to give him a hint to go away.

  “Isn't it true that you write from real-life experiences?” the guy asked, leering at me with anticipation. He was making me uncomfortable now. “I think that’s so hot…”

  I sighed and closed my laptop abruptly. I needed to put this guy in his place.

  “Look, do you think that you're the first loser to come along hoping he can get his fifteen minutes of fame as a character in my books?” The guy looked embarrassed now, and he peered around to see if anyone was listening. “Well, think again, bud,” I continued. “Yes, I write from real experiences, but I pick the guys. And if this is your idea of a pick-up line, it is not working.”

  My harsh words had the effect I intended. “Okay, okay, sorry,” he said indignantly. “No need to be a bitch about it.”

  My eyebrows raised up a mile high. It was much too early in the morning for this.

  “You’ve got about two seconds to leave this table,” I said icily, “or I am going to stand up and beat the shit out of you.”

  Now he stood up. Lucky for me, the author description in the back of my books also mentioned my proficiency in kick-boxing. Awkwardly, the guy stood there next my table staring at me for a moment, and then just walked away and out the door without another word.

  I rubbed the bridge of my nose between my eyes. Suddenly, I felt myself getting a headache. Guys like that made me sick. What did they take me for?

  I looked over at the next table to see a young college-aged girl, giving me a look that said she felt my pain. Her platinum-blonde hair was tied in a messy bun, and her black-rimmed glasses sat nicely on her dainty nose. From the looks of her, she probably knew exactly what I was going through. I smiled back and shook my head, as if to say, thanks for the sympathy. She giggled.

  I decided to brush off the degrading encounter. I had a lot of work to do today, and the first order of business was a new assignment from my publisher. After opening my laptop again and scrolling through emails from my editor, I found my new assignment – and it was a doozy.

  Tasha,

  There is a high demand for girl-on-girl erotic romance. I know it's not your area of expertise but I'm desperate for good writers. The assignment is under the theme of 'first time lesbian experiences,' and try to keep it within 3,000 words. Let me know if you have any questions.

  Helen

  I groaned. “Are you kidding me?” I muttered. Girl-on-girl romance? How was I supposed to know anything about that?

&nbs
p; I took a swig of coffee and leaned back to ponder over the email. Why would my editor suddenly change my genre and give me an assignment I knew absolutely nothing about? I write from personal experience; that’s my secret weapon. Helen knows that. I wouldn't know how to even begin to hit on another woman. It’s not that I was opposed to the idea, it’s just… nothing like that had ever crossed my mind before.

  How was I going to pull this off? I sighed, crossing my arms and slumping my head over them. It wasn’t even 11:00 in the morning yet, and already this day was shaping up to be a doozy.

  Just then, the girl from the next table got up and came tentatively over to my table.

  “Hey, are you all right?” she asked, noticing my dejected position. “Are you still creeped out by that guy? …I can sit with you a while, if it helps.”

  I couldn’t help but smile “Oh, no, thanks,” I replied. “I've totally forgotten about him. Right now, I’m just at a total loss with my job.”

  “Oh, no, thanks,” I replied. “I've totally forgotten about him. Right now, I’m just at a total loss with my job.”

  The girl smiled and crooked her head sideways a bit, examining me with curious interest. “You're an author, right?” she asked. She was awfully cute, I noticed. I couldn’t help but smile – perfect timing, I thought. Maybe this was the writing gods’ way of giving me a chance to practice flirting with a woman.

  “Yeah,” I said, “a frustrated, exasperated author, whose editor just threw her a total curveball.”

  “That doesn't sound good,” the girl said. “Can I help?”

  I grinned. “Thanks, but unless you know anything about lesbian romance, I’m not sure how you could help me out.” I laughed softly, so that she knew I wasn’t trying to presume anything or offend her.

  I needn’t have worried. She pursed her lips a moment, her face the very picture of earnestness. “Well, I'm not a lesbian, but my parents are both writers, so I picked up a thing or two,” she said proudly, with a sweet smile. “Maybe I can give you some ideas!”

  I eyed her for a moment, taken aback by her total willingness to help out a stranger – a trait that was all too rare in this city. She must be a tourist, I decided. Suddenly, I realized she was waiting for me to speak.

  “So, uh, what do you do...?” I trailed off. “I’m Natasha, by the way.”

  She giggled shyly. “I know who you are! I've actually read a couple of your books. But I'm not a crazy stalker fan, I swear!” I believed her, of course; I could spot the crazy fans a mile away.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “I’m Sam.” She reached her hand across the table for me to shake. “And I'm an actress.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “An actress, huh?”

  “Yep, it's always been my dream – and guess what? I only came to the city a few weeks ago, and just yesterday an agency signed me to a contract!” She could barely contain her delight.

  “Oh! That's… great!” I replied cheerfully. I wouldn’t dare say it, but the truth was that I was worried, and even sorry for her – a girl as nice as she was, this city was going to eat her up. “What agency?”

  “Athens Talent, down on Fifth,” she shrugged. “They seem really nice. Have you heard of them?”

  Shit. Of course I’d heard of Athens. That agency had been known for scamming and taking advantage of sweet young actresses like Sam; new to the city, new to the business. I hesitated for a moment, choosing my next words carefully. “Athens, huh? Yeah, I’ve heard of them. Are you… happy there?”

  Her smile turned again to pursed lips, and she fidgeted with her hands. “Well, yeah, it’s alright, but the first gig they assigned me is way out of my league. I'm just afraid to turn it down, you know? What if it's my only shot?”

  “Oh, come on, it can't be that bad,” I said to try and comfort Sam. She just gave me another nervous look. “What is it?”

  She grinned. “Well, wouldn’t you know it – I'm supposed to play the role of a confused teenage girl who soon discovers that she's gay.” She looked across the table at me, all cheerful smiles again. “Hey, it seems like we’re kind of in the same boat!”

  I was stunned. Could it really be this easy? Is it actually true that sometimes opportunities just fall in your lap like this? I mulled the idea over in my head quickly before speaking.

  “Sam, how old are you?”

  She looked confused at my question. “I’m Twenty-four, but I look extremely young for my age. That’s why they cast me as a teen, they said. The guy at Athens.” She fidgeted with her hands some more. I noticed that when she got nervous, she started to speak faster. “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, Sam,” I replied, “have you ever heard of… method acting?”

  Sam brightened. “I sure have!”

  “Well, that’s sort of how I write.” She looked at me a bit blankly, so I kept talking. “In my erotic novels, I write about real experiences that I have – real encounters with men. Some of them I’ve known for a while… some of them, I meet for a one-night stand and that’s the last I ever hear from them. Then, I create stories from the experiences.”

  Sam’s eyes were shining as I spoke, like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. I wondered where she was from – some small town, most likely, where good girls simply didn’t discuss these things. The city would change her soon enough. But for now, I had more pressing concerns at hand.

  “Anyway,” I continued, “that’s where my problem is. I've never had an encounter with another woman, and I have no idea how to go about it. But it seems as though you and I both have problems that could, you know… fix themselves.”

  Sam blinked a few times, not registering my meaning. I waited. Sure enough, after a few seconds she seemed to catch the direction I was going. She grinned at me.

  “…Go on…” she prompted.

  “Well, think about it. I need to have a lesbian experience to write about, and you need the very same experience to help you with your role...” I trailed off after that, letting her fill in the blanks for herself. It was a delicate moment, and I didn’t want to scare her off. What I was proposing sounded crazy, even to me, but I had the sense that it was so crazy it just might work.

  Sam leaned back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest as she looked at me thoughtfully. I let her ponder over my idea for a few minutes while I sipped my coffee.

  Finally, she leaned forward. Her voice was barely above a whisper.

  “How would it work? I mean, how would we do it?”

  I grinned from ear to ear. “However you want, really. But I do know of this great gay bar downtown. We could meet up, pretend like we just met, and go from there. It’ll be just like acting,” I offered.

  She chewed her lip, thinking it over. “I don’t know,” she said. “Do you really think we could make it work? Wouldn’t it be… strange?”

  “Look,” I said, “you’re the actress. If I can do it, so can you.” And then, after pausing a moment, I played my trump card.

  “Plus, if you can make this work for me, I’ll call my agent friend and see if he can help you out. He’s way better than any agent at Athens.”

  It was just as I suspected: at the word ‘agent,’ Sam started bobbing back and forth in her seat like a little girl, unable to contain her excitement. Poor thing, I thought. She’s too naïve for this. For a moment, I considered calling the whole thing off. I didn’t want to feel like I was taking advantage of her.

  But to my surprise, she had a forceful, confident tone in her voice when she spoke next. “All right, let’s do it. Where do you want to meet?” she asked, looking me straight in the eye.

  I paused and smiled at her, sizing her up for a moment. She held my gaze easily. Okay, I thought to myself, I guess we’re doing this. Reaching into my handbag, I pulled out a pen and scribbled the name and address of the club on a napkin.

  “Meet me here tonight at nine o’clock,” I said, handing her the napkin and closing my laptop. “I’ll be sitting at the bar with a glass of wine.” S
he stared at the piece of paper like I had just handed her a wad of money. I had to laugh.

  “I’ll see you later, Sam.” I stood up and slung my purse over my arm, grabbing my laptop off the table. I was a master of the dramatic exit, and I didn’t want to make things awkward by hanging around any longer.

  “See you tonight, then,” she giggled. I grinned back at her. “And hey – don’t be late.”

  She nodded. I turned and headed out of the café, shaking my head and wondering if this was the craziest idea I’d dreamed up yet.

  Chapter 2: The Method

  Later that day, I found myself standing in front of my queen size bed, staring at nearly every article of clothing I owned. Silk blouses, lace cocktail dresses, and miniskirts stared back at me. But somehow, nothing seemed appropriate – what do you wear to a fake date? In the end, I had decided on a black lace dress that hugged my body nicely. I let my jet-black hair hang straight and loose around my shoulders, and threw on a pair of black pumps.