Back to the Fuchsia (18 page)

“Are you planning on cutting back on using magic?”

“Ha! Do you really think I could do that? Not a chance. Think of all the fun we’d miss out on.”

Literal Leigh Romance Diaries, Book #1

Goodbye Carl, Hello Vlad!

A
pparently, the strangest, yet most powerful thing has happened to me, which isn’t saying much. After all, I’m a single, overworked and under-fucked elementary school teacher. This strange and magical thing wasn’t expected and I sort of stumbled on it by accident.

Maybe, I should first explain what led up to this discovery. Let’s just say that because I have a non-existent love life, I’ve decided to spend my summer break doing something new. I decided to write romance stories. Like most women, I love reading romance books that are unabashedly hot. Let’s call it my guilty pleasure. Don’t get me wrong, I read a lot. I get into the brainy essays and the trending book club recommendations. I love the classics as well. Reading has been the single most influential part of my life, but nothing gets the juices flowing quite like a steamy, smoking hot hero who delivers orgasm after panty wetting orgasm.

Some, mostly men, would sneer at the way women consume romance books. I’ve heard men refer to romance books as nothing but pulp. They like to call them bodice rippers, mommy porn, paperback porn, and the like. Women, and a growing number of romance reading men, would agree with me when I say the romance genre of today is a rich source of good fiction that really draws from so much more. Is it full of erotica? Hell yes! Is it full of feel-good Happily Ever Afters? Sometimes. Let’s face it. Women are smart readers. They know what they want and what they need. Maybe some of the Nay-Sayers (mostly men) could learn a little bit about how to be a real man from a good fictional alpha male. God knows, the male gender seems to be sorely lacking in some of those qualities these days. Hence, we have to get what we need and what we want from fiction.

To say the least, I’m a book-whore and I follow multiple series and authors. You had better believe, I keep my masturbatory fantasies pretty stocked up with just about anything that could possibly suit my mood. I have a pretty creative imagination that often puts together some exciting ideas. All of my naughty ideas are drawn from the themes from my reading habit. In the past year, I realized that I had developed a true artistic vision, and I pondered what I could do with my creativity. Why not write these stories down? They could someday be bestsellers! Like I said, something strange happened and that is why I need to keep a diary of what’s going on.

It all started last fall. I had been casually dating a guy named Carl, a math teacher at the middle school. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a nice guy. He just doesn’t come close to being a shadow of what my book boyfriends are like, and he could never even dream of being the lead hero in anyone’s fictional fantasy, let alone mine. Carl is just too… dare I say, bland. He’s soft, pale, and a little lumpy.

I have a category for guys that fit this exact description. Marshmallows. Marshmallows have some good qualities though, they can’t simply be overlooked. They are usually decent guys that are financially stable. They just don’t have what it takes to get the juices flowing, if you know what I mean. Carl never gave me that initial jolt that made me even consider having sex with him. The passion never even smoldered. Hell, who am I kidding, the spark never ignited!

One Saturday morning, he called and wanted to see if I’d like to go out to dinner and catch a movie. I really tried to ignore him, but he’s a persistent little bugger. I found myself scrambling for ways that I could be tactful about saying, I already had plans. I mean, it was the day that I had been eagerly awaiting for months. I had finished reading the third book in the Shifted Hearts Vampiric Wolf series the day after it was released. This next installment promised to be hot, and I was foaming at the mouth!

Book four was ready and willing to provide the long awaited pleasure that I so desperately needed. I was all set. I had bought the perfect mood candles, the bath soaps, and a giant size pack of AA batteries. We’re not talking about the family size package, no, no, no… This was the size that the Red Cross orders during extended power outages resulting from catastrophic natural disasters. I hate to admit this, but I even bought the perfect skimpy little negligée to wear after my four hour bath. Oh hell, I might as well admit it, I had already received a special gift to myself. It arrived in discreet, plain brown packaging. The gift promised to measure up to Vladimir Wolf’s fictional hardened length, every long, thick inch of it. Where was I? Oh yeah. Back to Carl, who couldn’t let go. I finally let it blurt out of my mouth.

“Carl! I told you that I already have plans. I’m busy tonight.”

“Doing what, Leigh?”

“Dammit! I have a date already!”

“Oh? Really? With
who
?” Carl said
who
with a very nasally and sarcastic tone, by the way, and that really just pissed me right the fuck off! We’re talking about my boy Vlad, now. Nobody, and I mean nobody, talks bad about Vlad!

“You wouldn’t know him, his name is Vladimir, and he’s from Romania.”

“What? Let me guess, you have a date with another one of your fictional characters. That’s what it sounds like to me. Leigh, why didn’t you just say you didn’t want to see me anymore?”

“Okay fine, Carl. I would rather stay at home and masturbate than go out with you!” The stinging words rolled off of my tongue and hung in the atmosphere between cell phone towers like a swarm of angry bees. I clamped my mouth shut, as if I could still stop them from getting to Carl, but it was too late.

I had everything just right. The mood was set and I slipped into a nice warm bath with my Kindle ready for action. Then it happened. In the second chapter, my beloved Vladimir, my hero, my fantasy love, was dead. Dead! Some low-life werewolves killed my vampire-wolf shifter with a wooden stake wrapped in silver. I screamed in pure agony, “Dead? Dead! No!” I spent the next couple of hours sitting on my bed crying, my tears dropping on my Kindle. Sad, I know. I called my sister in Pittsburgh, who shared my love for Vlad. I needed support and she sadly couldn’t offer it. All we did was cry over the untimely passing of our beloved Vladimir, and make threats against the writer who swiftly brought grief into our lives. All the while, my mood candles pathetically melted away, alone.

As the weeks went by, I slogged my way through the stages of grief over that damn book. It was a very serious thing for me. I was officially in mourning. I subconsciously chose black to wear to work. Who does that sort of thing? Me, that’s who! It didn’t go unnoticed by the other teachers, or even the students at my school. The day I realized that my grief was on full display was when a small voice asked. “Miss Epstein? Did somebody croak or something?” I lost it again. “Croak?” I couldn’t tell the little girl the truth. “Yes, Haley, someone did, in fact, croak. Somebody very dear to me. My boyfriend.” Kids! They are very observant, but they can be such uncouth little mongrels. I felt awful for lying, not because I was lying to a child, no. I only felt awful because I knew that I had just cast out the first of many threads which would eventually be woven into a huge web of deceit.

As the weeks went by, that little lie spread through the class like an infestation of head lice. Then the lie reached up from the sticky mass of mucus that is the student body and spread to the teachers’ lounge. Nothing gives the lunchroom coterie of stressed out teachers the dark and secret joy of morose delectation like good gossip. Like any viral lie, the croaking of Leigh’s boyfriend had grown. It became altered into a story of fantastic proportions. I felt the gravity of the lie, when finally, one of the perky new teachers approached me.

“Leigh, I just want to tell you that I am very sorry for your loss.”

I was caught a bit off guard and had to scramble to recover so I didn’t blow it. “Huh? Oh, thanks.”

“I lost my great-aunt a few years ago and it affected me deeply. I just can’t imagine losing my entire family in such a tragedy.”

I was curious now to know what the hell kind of tragedy had taken out my entire family. I wanted to lead her on, but I wasn’t quite sure of how to do it. “Yes. Yes, it was.”

She handed me a large folded poster board. “One of my students had asked if the entire first grade class could make a sympathy card for you. I hope you don’t mind the graphic images, but I believe the children should be allowed to freely express their feelings. I think it cultivates their empathy. Don’t you agree? I was just reading a study-”

My stomach churned at her still fresh first year teacher peppiness. She handed me the card that was adorned with a few doodles of what appeared to be bananas flying out of a box. Scattered around were dismembered stick figures with X’s for eyes.

“Oh my God!” I interrupted her discussion on the relationship between creative expression and empathy with my shock at seeing the grotesque artwork.

“What is it? I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Oh… Sorry, it was just unexpected. What exactly does this show? I mean, are those bananas flying through the air?”

“No, those are fingers, except for those two. Those are severed penises. Oh, and I think those over here are bratwurst. That tiny addition was little Carter’s contribution. Everyone heard how bad it was when the sausage plant exploded and your family’s car was caught in a giant fireball.”

I was trying with all of my might to keep from vomiting. “Okay, well, tell them how much I appreciate their consoling thoughts.”

I really wanted to ask her if she was secretly trying to groom the next generation of serial killers. I bit my tongue because more than wanting that question answered, I just wanted her to take her happy ass back to the classroom and leave me the hell alone. A sausage plant explosion was how my one tiny lie ended up? I supposed the gruesome details included a deluge of body parts and ground pork spattering the neighborhood. I imagined the surreal scene with empty sausage casings dangling from car antennas like so many discarded condoms.

I had no doubt, I had become the most recent fodder for discussion among my peers. I guess it must have been welcome. The other recent gossip included a middle school teacher’s husband, Ron. He taught history at the high school, but was forced to make an unexpected exit after the dressing down of his entire class. Apparently, a student questioned whether it was relevant to learn about the French revolution. He told the entire class they needed to learn it or become a generation of stupid assholes, just like their stupid asshole parents who lived in a town full of assholes, dipshits, and dumbasses. He then went on to recite a list of the worst assholes by name, which happened to include the entire school board. Now, the only time we saw him around school was when he was dropping off something for his wife. If you said hello, he only grumbled, “Asshole” and turned away.

In any case, a certain degree of mourning was appropriate. As insane as it may seem to some, any true fan of a good romance series will validate my grief. You really have a tremendous amount of emotional investment with the book boyfriend. Maybe more than you would with the real-life boyfriend. Let’s face it, when you are in the dating scene, you have a built-in level of expected disappointment. How many times have you heard it from your friends? You know, the “disclaimer.” Those usually start out with, “Well, at least he can hold down a job.” “Sure, he’s no Chris Hemsworth, but at least he doesn’t live in his parent’s basement.” And sometimes they get downright desperate. “Well, at least he didn’t have to blow into a tube to start his car.” The worse one I’ve heard someone say about their boyfriend was “you can barely notice the ankle monitoring bracelet.”

In the series you are reading, you have an immortal, consistent, and perfect lover. You don’t have to make excuses or apologize for him, like you would with the real-life boyfriend. The book boyfriend fills those empty spaces of your heart that most guys could never reach, and that’s just the emotional side of it. I don’t even want to mention the physical aspects.

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