Your hands move to my stomach, running across the trail of hair that leads to my groin. Your hands lightly intertwine with the small hairs, pulling th...m slightly and moving to the sides of my stomach, across my waist. Small red lines begin to form as your fingertips begin to drag across my skin back to my ‘happy trail’, and I only inhale sharply again. Your hands find their way on my pants button and zipper, a grin appears on your face as I feel your hands go to work. The joints in your fingers. None of them wanted to hear that I had gotten as far as goddamn ‘The’. So I stayed locked away, growing a beard that would have looked right on a motorcycle gang’s meanest member. Never write a fucking novel. Chapter 2 So I’m sitting and ‘writing’ at my computer, watching the slush that they call snow here fall, when I heard the doorbell ring. Nobody rings my fucking doorbell. At least not since I ran my last agent off with a golf club. Especially not on Christmas. When I opened the door, golf. More

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