{the sweetness of salt} ann tinkham

{the sweetness of salt}
ann tinkham

Alexis didn’t peer over her muted cubicle wall when she called out, “Hey Jen, give me another word for throbbing.”

Without missing a beat, Jen replied, “Engorged.”

“C’mon, is that the best you can do?” Alexis had hoped Jen could offer a little inspiration for her erotica slump.

“Sorry, I’ve shot my wad today. I had to churn out a ménage-a-trois scene with swingers.”

“Better you than me.”

“Yeah, I knew I was in trouble when at our last staff meeting, Sylvaine was talking about the upsurge in swinging among average American couples. I was thinking—oh god, please don’t give me the swingers. And lo and behold, I got an email the next day with my new assignment—“The Girl and Boy Next Door.”

“Well count yourself lucky. My next assignment is paranormal erotica.” Jen’s head popped up. Her strawberry blonde ringlets were going haywire. “Oh my God. What is that—alien porn?”

“Who the fuck knows? This genre-merging is hard to keep up with. So engorged is as good as it gets today?” Alexis asked while shoving her art-house rectangular glasses to the top of her head to serve as a headband. Her purple-jet black hair was always falling in her eyes.

“Why don’t you refer to your arousing adjectives handout from your Latin love bug?” A paper fan appeared above the cubicle wall. Jen hid her face behind it—geisha style—and then fanned herself. “Is it getting hot in here or is it just me?” Jen let out a belly-laugh and plunked down. The great cubicle disappearing act.

“Guess I’ll have to consult Guillermo’s list. This is due to copy editing by the end of the week. I’ve got three more sex scenes—one BJ in a saloon, one rear entry on a horse, and one vanilla in hay.”

“What, is your protag doing a horse? Riding Queen Catherine style. Ouch!” What genre is that? Beastiromantica? Hey, if you need help with the BJ scene, I’m the BJ scene queen, as you know.”

“May I ask if you’re drawing from your own…”

“No, you may not.” Jen laughed. Let’s just leave it at confidential research.”

Feeling at a loss for penis descriptors, Alexis leaned back and chewed the tip of the penis eraser atop her pen, which read: Romantica Fest 2006: Romantica writers do it with the lights on. Each year, thousands of romantica (romance + erotica) writers, seeking inspired ways to write about sex, descended upon Manhattan. They attended sessions, such as “Between the Sheets”, “Not Your Average Bedtime Stories”, and “Steaming the Windows and Other Special Effects” Her favorite all-time session was given by a sizzling hot Venezuelan man named Guillermo called “Arousing Adjectives.” Guillermo had dark, curly hair swept back by his designer shades, revealing his bright green, almond-shaped eyes offset by his dark skin. His dimples were parentheses setting off his cocky smile and bleached white teeth. As he described the power of adjectives to pop sex scenes, Alexis guessed that the entire conference room of at least 50 women and 3 men (few men braved the halls of Romantica Fest) were applying the adjectives to their fantasies about Guillermo. She wondered if the conference organizers didn’t select him on purpose so that they would all have a take-away—eye candy for the mind and pen.

At another session, she had learned 101 words for penis, 55 words for vagina, and 35 words for intercourse. “Flesh kabob” was the ringer for penis and “furburger” took the prize for vagina. Once, when trying to practice her vocabulary, she invited a nerdy literary guy to put his flesh kabob in her furburger. This invitation promptly ended her Internet date, which is exactly what she was going for. It worked so well for Alexis, some of her friends tried it; however, most of them had takers. One of her friend’s dates left off the “fur” while talking dirty, and she asked if he wanted fries with that. He didn’t get it. This didn’t help Alexis’ sinking opinion of the modern American man. Because of her profession, Alexis had become the clearinghouse for all things erotic and romantic to her friends and family. When her friends wanted to write love letters, she was asked to co-author; when guys planned to propose, she was asked to collaborate (read: compose the proposal); when girlfriends wanted to spice up their sex lives, they called her to get ideas for accessorizing and positioning.

As Alexis sat in her cubicle, studying her list of adjectives from Guillermo, she wondered, for the gazillionth time, how she ended up writing for Aphrodezia. She had earned an MFA from the University of Iowa, the best writing program in the country. Only 1% of applicants who applied were accepted. She was one of the lucky ones, or so she thought, until she met scores of MFA grads slinging greasy diner food, working in florescent-lit convenience shops, and university sportswear shops with U of Iowa on the butt of sweat pants. Despite evidence to the contrary, she thought she would do something more remarkable, more noteworthy with her degree. She would work as a freelancer and write for the New Yorker; or maybe specialize in women’s health and lifestyle issues and write for Jane, Marie Claire, and even lower herself to write for Cosmo. Or she would get a fellowship to write the great American novel, which she already had an idea for—hacker brings U.S. to a standstill and single-handedly transforms the society. No way would she get stuck selling horse, sheep, and cow-chow to Iowan farmers. No way.

Instead of hay for horses, she was selling romantica to housewives. The similarity was that they both gobbled it up. The difference was that the hay gave life and the romantica led to brain death, especially her own. Some days, she felt that she couldn’t write one more foreplay scene if her life depended on it. But the irony was that her life did depend on it. Her life depended on Rod’s throbbing cock and Vanessa’s wet pussy yearning for an engorged member. The days of pushing the limits on iambic pentameter and experimental prose were long gone. Now she just had to push out boners and orgasms.

When it came time to have real sexual experiences, she couldn’t clear her mind of the clutter of romantica scenes. Her mind could only produce clichéd scene after clichéd scene—sex on the beach, sex in cramped airplane lavatories, and sex in cabanas. She wondered if she would ever be able to rescue her sex life from the pages of romance writing.

When guys would talk dirty during love-making, she covered their mouths and said she preferred silence. Little did they know that what was dirty talk to them was shop talk to her. It transported her immediately to her dingy grey cubicle with no natural lighting, dying bamboo plants, and stale cups of coffee with floaters. There was one guy, though, whose dirty talk was so poetic and prolific, she would encourage his monologues and secretly record them. She wanted to have sex constantly, much to his delight, until he started to repeat his repertoire. Then she cut him off. He left her voice mail message after voice mail message, “Was it something I said? Was it something I didn’t say? Did I say too much? Too little?” As Alexis deleted his messages, she thought, you said exactly what I needed you to say. Then she used his material.

#

One time when Alexis was in her cubicle, writing the scene in which her protagonist—Chloe Cox—discovers that her man—Jack Hammer—is having an affair, she overheard her cubicle neighbor—Slater—breathing heavily. She hoped it wasn’t what she thought it was. Perhaps he was merely having an asthma attack or experiencing a sleep-induced breathing disorder. She stuck her iPod into her ears and cranked Usher as loudly as she could, but then overheard a slight grunt and moan. Alexis sent an instant message to Jen.

Alexis: OMG. Did you hear that?

Jen: Hear what?

Alexis: Heavy breathing and a grunt?

Jen: I thought that was you. LOL.

Alexis: Very funny.

Jen: Must be a good scene. I dare you to IM him and ask to read it.

Alexis: OK

Jen: JK. God, you wouldn’t.

Alexis: I just did. Opening the doc now.

Jen: You HAVE to share it.

Alexis: Do I hear an offer for a four-course dinner at Zopitas? Margs and all?

Jen: C’mon. Give it up.

Then Alexis began to breathe loudly and moan softly.

Alexis: This IS good. Oh man. Who needs sex when you have Slater’s scenes?

Jen: You’re FOS.

Alexis: What’s FOS?

Jen: Full of shit.

Alexis: Am I?

Then she sent Jen: “Like a spandex-clad superhero, he pulled off his sleep mask, grabbed her, and threw her down on the bed. He knew from experience that relationship talks never got her in the mood; they always led to her getting mad at him for some way in which he wasn’t meeting her relationship standards. Kissing her was sometimes the only way to get her to quiet her thoughts. Her vocalizations began on the lower notes of the scale, pianissimo, crescendoing with each movement. The activity from the other room continued—thuds, bangs and groans, but it was now merely percussive background noise for Lilly’s aria. Starting in the alto range, she moved to the second soprano range and then first soprano, and then back to alto, first, second, alto, first, second. The parts, now sung in staccato, were alternating faster and faster. When she hit the high C, she told him she wasn’t finished. Good, he thought, neither am I.”

Jen: I can’t believe you did that!

Alexis: I didn’t. It’s mine.

Jen: Very funny, you moron! And, BTW, that’s not bad.

Alexis: Remember what they told us in Between the Sheets? It’s okay to get aroused by your own sex scenes. In fact, it’s a good thing because it means others will too.

Jen: Fine, but what do they say about arousal in cube farms?

Alexis: Trembling and stirrings should be shared with colleagues to inspire great writing.

Jen: Fuck you.

#

Jen and Alexis were attending the Romantica: Where Erotica Meets Romance 2007 conference in Manhattan. After a full day of writing tips and tricks for romance and erotica writers, Alexis felt sexual arousal fatigue and was looking forward to intentional mood altering with Merlot. They plunked down at a table in the middle of the Hyatt’s ballroom as the keynote speaker—an oversized middle-aged woman with a bowl cut and a too-tight canary-colored suit—discussed her 36th romance novel and her upcoming series about the adventures of a bisexual Midwestern housewife. Alexis kept kicking Jen under the table when the canary would laugh like a hyena on crack with her jelly roll at her midsection jiggling. Not a good visual for romance writers, thought Alexis. They had to quell their hysterics to the point of Alexis pinching her nose until it hurt. If they broke out in uncontrollable laughter, they would be the main attraction at the keynote speech, not the canary. Alexis was certain that the attendees were desperately seeking an upstaging incident. She wouldn’t be it. Not this time.

After the keynote, came the main course—bloody beef tenderloin with underdone new potatoes and overdone string beans. Peering at this sad trio from above, Alexis decided that her main course would be the Merlot. As the writers, agents, and editors clinked, sliced, slurped and munch

ed, Romantica’s organizing committee congratulated each other for a job well done. Alexis likened this part to the Academy Awards when the award winners would thank everyone and their Aunt Gertrude for their successes. She always tuned it out.

Then Jen tapped her on the shoulder.

“What?”

“They’re calling you to the podium.”

“Huh?”

Jen whispered, “You’re getting the romantica writer of the year award!” Alexis now understood the meaning of: and then she peed in her pants.

“Shit,” she whispered under her breath in the style of a ventriloquist. With all eyes on her, she scooted back her chair and wore a pleasant but professional expression, all the while feeling a little woozy and tipsy and wishing she were at home with her kitty cat—Tiktytac (an anagram of kitty cat) and a Katherine Hepburn flick. Making her way up to the podium past a line of smiling suits with bad halitosis, she positioned herself next to the award giver. Dottye was holding a cherry-wood plaque with a gold embossed Romantica Writer of the Year, 2007: Alexis Townsend.

“Alexis Townsend, you have been chosen by the Romantica Writers’ Committee as the most extraordinary, outstanding emerging talent in the romantica genre. Would you like to say a few words of acceptance?” Alexis stepped up to the podium and leaned into the microphone, trying to shrug off her tispyness.

“Um, this is highly unexpected. I had no idea…I’m not really prepared nor do I think I’m the best by any stretch. Take Jen Ingalls or Slater Babcock or Maria Cortez —all colleagues much more gifted than I. I dedicate this award to them for helping me through writer’s blocks, for helping me to push the limits of romance, and contributing to imaginative plots…” Then she was silent, like she had lost her place in the speech she hadn’t prepared. Audience members shuffled, cleared their throats, and took nervous sips of their beverages.

“God, what am I saying? I really can’t accept this award. I actually don’t even believe in this genre with its formulaic approach and predictable endings; its moronic dialogue and dime-store sex scenes; its one-dimensional protagonists and antagonists. It’s contributing to the dumbing-down of America and to its unimaginative renderings of sexuality. We’re feeding junk food to savages who wouldn’t know the difference between this and good literature. I’m sorry—yes they would. They like this stuff and would hate good literature, if they ever laid eyes on it, which they don’t.

Who am I kidding? This is just a way to pay the bills. As a professor of mine at Iowa once said, ‘A starving writer is not a writer at all. For how can you write if your stomach is growling and your brain needs fuel?’ So that’s why I write romantica—so that I can put food in my stomach and a roof over my head. That is the one and only reason. I can’t accept this award in good conscience. Please accept my regrets.” As she stepped down from the podium, the audience members were stunned into silence. The organizers, so perky and organized before, were dumbfounded. Then, someone in the back began to clap—solitary applause. Then another and another until at least a few dozen people were applauding. The applause was interrupted by tapping on the microphone. “Please, please. Show some respect.” And the applauders promptly ceased.

Alexis escaped out the side door of the ballroom and bolted from the conference facility into the streets of Manhattan. The streets were slick with rain and the streetlights were like spotlights, with drizzle as the headliner. Alexis ran down 42nd Street in front of Grand Central Station, over to Avenue of the Americas and onto Central Park South before she had an awareness that she was running in stilettos. She couldn’t feel her feet, her damp clothes, or even the tears streaming down her face. Perhaps it was because her tears were mixing with raindrops.

#

Alexis’s office phone rang and upon inspecting the caller ID, didn’t recognize the number. She picked up to greet the mystery caller.

“Alexis Townsend.”

“Hello Alexis. I’m Oakley Ellington. We’ve met before.” “We have?”

“In a sense. Let me refresh your memory.” Then he started clapping into the phone.

“Let’s see—Zen retreat, Topanga Canyon, 2004. What is the sound of one hand clapping?” “Nope.”

“I’m sorry. Your auditory clue is lost on me.”

“Romantica 2007—Hyatt ballroom. You left in a hurry.”

“Oh god, not that. If you’re calling to reprimand or shame me, I’ll be suddenly unavailable.”

“I admire your integrity, Alexis.”

“You do?”

“Very much.”

“Not so much integrity as falling apart in the face of hypocrisy.” She suspected he was trying to butter her up before he roped her in. She had been approached by agents before, wanting her to go out on her own and do freelance romance.

“Thank you, Mr. Ellington, but whatever you’re proposing, I probably can’t accept. Aphrodezia offers a regular paycheck.”

“But you’re miserable. You said so in front of thousands of people.”

“I’d be more miserable without a way to buy pizza slices and Coke and the occasional indie flick.”

“What if I told you that you could eat sushi and drink sake every night? Alexis, hear me out and then tell me what you think of my offer—okay?”

“Okay,” she was removing the nail gunk from under her nails and flicking it into the trash can.

“Would you consider leaving if I told you I could get you a book deal?”

“Listen, Mr. Ellington, I’m not in a position to go out on my own on a whim and a gamble.”

“What would you say if I told you that Random House is offering you six figures—no strings attached—to write whatever novel you want?” Her permanent office chair slump straightened and her heart and mind went haywire.

“I don’t get it. How is this possible? Don’t people have to finish novels—especially first-time novelists—before they get offers? I mean, I’m a trash romance writer. Why would they take such a, well, uncalculated risk on me?” Alexis’s mouth had hijacked her brain and she was talking a mile a minute, while her brain was stuck in a state of 911 with a spiritual conversion bent: Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god!

“I’ve been following your work for, oh, a couple years and you are a damned gifted writer. I can see beyond the clit lit—forgive me for being crude. I pitched you—just you—to Random House and they took the bait!”

“Is this some kind of prank? I mean, did someone put you up to this? Was it Jen? Slater? Is it April Fools? Oh, right, it’s October.”

“Nope, this is the real deal, Alexis.”

“This is the part where I wake up and realize it’s all a dream—right?”

“Nope. Here, listen to this.” Alexis was thinking that this guy must have been on radio at some point; he had the audio thing down.

He played a voice mail message for her: “Oakley, this is Soriah Delecor from Random House. We want to offer Alexis $200,000 for her first novel.”

“So, what do you say?” Alexis stared at her latest composition: Monica unzipped Rusty’s Wrangler’s with her teeth and slipped his jeans to the floor. Then she used her tongue to remove his tighty whiteys.

“You’ve got one damned talented mouth,” he said as his pony came to life and trotted along his belly.

“You ain’t seen nuthin’ yet. I’ve just one request, Rusty.”

“What’s that, pretty lady?”

“Keep your cowboy hat on. I’ve always wanted to ride a cowboy.”

Alexis asked Oakley to hold for a minute while she took time to consider his offer. She put the phone on mute and stared straight ahead, no longer seeing the dialogue from Rusty’s Red Wagon. She catapulted out of her chair, leapt onto her desk, flung her arms up and screamed at the top of her lungs, “Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaw!!” An exclamation that would have made Rusty proud, had he been a real character. Then she did a faux-Irish jig on her desk. She had no awareness that all her coworkers had awoken from their erotica-induced stupors. She didn’t see that her boss was making her way over to her cubicle to tell her to simmer down. She didn’t detect the creepy guys from accounting sneaking a peek up her skirt. She didn’t notice that Jen was gawking at her like she had finally cracked from writing one too many foreplay scenes. Neither did she see that Slater was giving her the thumbs up, even though he had no idea what she was yee-haawing about.

She bounded off her desk, picked up the phone, unmuted Oakley and said, “I accept!”

Alexis finally understood the meaning of tears of joy. The joy, streaming down her cheeks, trickled into her lips. Saltiness had never tasted so sweet.