Read Online Being Eloise (An Erotic Romance Collection, Books 1-3) by Eloise Spanks - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Eloise Spanks
Tags: Romance
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shifted gears and rode off. I carefully removed the wet towels and placed them in the bowl of remaining half-melted ice and tentatively felt my skin, white now, no longer radiantly pink.
And then I proceeded to do something with the remote control, a condom, a half-bottle of massage oil that was at least ten years old, and my vagina—the particulars of which I believe require no exposition. How much did I want something in me after just tongue, tongue, Terrance’s delicious tongue?
I was changing the goddamn channels without using my hands.
SIX THE GOOD LIFE, NOT MINE
Something was happening to me and I wasn’t sure I liked how quickly and easily I liked it, excuse the circuitous logic. I’d begun to take pleasure in missing deadlines for Terrance, in working late into the night to make up for the time, but never quite catching up. But after a few weeks of this, I felt sucked into a life made for a much younger, less sleep-deprived woman. So I was thankful when a writing assignment forced me to put a big old pause on pleasure. I dropped my son off with his father for a few days while I flew out to Los Angeles to work with an ex-baseballer—and now partner in an investment firm—on his memoir. Mr. Irldale. After making a gazillion dollars in sport and business, he was now suffering from the I-want-to-write-a-book syndrome. Still, it was sold, due out in a year, and I’d already spent two months fleshing out his ninety pages into two-hundred. And yet there was some necessary component missing from his story: continuity, a meaning, a purpose, a drive. What I had was a string of anecdotes and empty phrases and platitudes about his life. Never mind that that’s what most of our lives amount to—in a book it’s a no-no.
So there I was, in L.A., ready to get to the heart of the matter. It didn’t turn out that way. Not at first, anyway. My plan was to spend a good six or seven hours a day, for a couple of days, interviewing Mr. Irldale and finding the threads that could hold the book together. There were fresh batteries in my voice recorder, new pens clipped to my notebook. I’d even gone out without my laptop just so I would concentrate, one-hundred percent, on the job. Instead, I was pulled into his office for quick ten-minute cram sessions between his many, many meetings. I spent most of the first two days wandering around the office building, planning my words for my next brief encounter. After a couple of days it almost felt like I had one of these jobs, was fully employed, a boss above me. At least I pretended that’s what others thought when they passed me.
Who is this woman, this renegade who can wear jeans in a suit-and-tie world? Wow.
In reality, no one noticed me as I wandered around outside the office, in the hallways and corridors, past the banks of elevators and the glass walled entryways of firm after firm: law, banking, investment, finance. Behind the glass were polished rosewood tables and young men in white shirts and ties arguing and gesticulating and holding up pieces of paper and flipping pens into the air and catching them with the practiced precision of a late-night talk show host. I’d entered the world of stock photography. A world where it looked like work, but didn’t feel like it to the bones. What could these people possibly be doing in there that was real? That wasn’t just moving numbers around? And yet there I was, too, moving words around. Numbers or words, what was the difference? It was all an illusion.
Ghostwriting in a male voice, I’d tried to make Mr. Irldale come off as erudite and warm; a person you’d want to take advice from. Mr. D. H. Irldale. It was either D. H. or Mr. Irldale. I’d always thought people who used their initials like that were hiding something. Dick Head Irldale, perhaps. Doufus Hornacious Irldale. I asked. Apparently it was just D and H. Nothing else. What letters there had been were wiped clear off his parents’ minds after his mother gave
And then I proceeded to do something with the remote control, a condom, a half-bottle of massage oil that was at least ten years old, and my vagina—the particulars of which I believe require no exposition. How much did I want something in me after just tongue, tongue, Terrance’s delicious tongue?
I was changing the goddamn channels without using my hands.
SIX THE GOOD LIFE, NOT MINE
Something was happening to me and I wasn’t sure I liked how quickly and easily I liked it, excuse the circuitous logic. I’d begun to take pleasure in missing deadlines for Terrance, in working late into the night to make up for the time, but never quite catching up. But after a few weeks of this, I felt sucked into a life made for a much younger, less sleep-deprived woman. So I was thankful when a writing assignment forced me to put a big old pause on pleasure. I dropped my son off with his father for a few days while I flew out to Los Angeles to work with an ex-baseballer—and now partner in an investment firm—on his memoir. Mr. Irldale. After making a gazillion dollars in sport and business, he was now suffering from the I-want-to-write-a-book syndrome. Still, it was sold, due out in a year, and I’d already spent two months fleshing out his ninety pages into two-hundred. And yet there was some necessary component missing from his story: continuity, a meaning, a purpose, a drive. What I had was a string of anecdotes and empty phrases and platitudes about his life. Never mind that that’s what most of our lives amount to—in a book it’s a no-no.
So there I was, in L.A., ready to get to the heart of the matter. It didn’t turn out that way. Not at first, anyway. My plan was to spend a good six or seven hours a day, for a couple of days, interviewing Mr. Irldale and finding the threads that could hold the book together. There were fresh batteries in my voice recorder, new pens clipped to my notebook. I’d even gone out without my laptop just so I would concentrate, one-hundred percent, on the job. Instead, I was pulled into his office for quick ten-minute cram sessions between his many, many meetings. I spent most of the first two days wandering around the office building, planning my words for my next brief encounter. After a couple of days it almost felt like I had one of these jobs, was fully employed, a boss above me. At least I pretended that’s what others thought when they passed me.
Who is this woman, this renegade who can wear jeans in a suit-and-tie world? Wow.
In reality, no one noticed me as I wandered around outside the office, in the hallways and corridors, past the banks of elevators and the glass walled entryways of firm after firm: law, banking, investment, finance. Behind the glass were polished rosewood tables and young men in white shirts and ties arguing and gesticulating and holding up pieces of paper and flipping pens into the air and catching them with the practiced precision of a late-night talk show host. I’d entered the world of stock photography. A world where it looked like work, but didn’t feel like it to the bones. What could these people possibly be doing in there that was real? That wasn’t just moving numbers around? And yet there I was, too, moving words around. Numbers or words, what was the difference? It was all an illusion.
Ghostwriting in a male voice, I’d tried to make Mr. Irldale come off as erudite and warm; a person you’d want to take advice from. Mr. D. H. Irldale. It was either D. H. or Mr. Irldale. I’d always thought people who used their initials like that were hiding something. Dick Head Irldale, perhaps. Doufus Hornacious Irldale. I asked. Apparently it was just D and H. Nothing else. What letters there had been were wiped clear off his parents’ minds after his mother gave
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