dishonor on your cow & W1L 019: Write one leaf about your workplace.

I didn't even want to preface this post with an outfit, but I feel obligated to, for those of you who don't read my writing posts, so here's an outfit I didn't like very much but felt obligated to document:

This is my face of trepidation.

Jacket: mother's, H&M. Sweater: thrifted. Fingerless gloves: Bancroft Clothing Store. Skirt: secondhand, gift. Tights: secondhand, gift. Oxfords: Payless.

P. S. For those of you who don't usually click through the jumps (if you're viewing this from the front page), the personal challenge for this writing prompt is "Write in the style of a trashy romance novel." AWWWW YEEEAAAAAHHHHH.

W1L 019: Write one leaf about your workplace.

PERSONAL CHALLENGE #8: Write in the style of a trashy romance novel.
  1. Technically this isn't about my workplace. It's just about some workplace somewhere. And this is definitely not one page long.

  2. For fun, my original response to this personal challenge is attached at the very end. (It was for a different prompt.) It was an attempt to be sexy-funny that definitely fell short of being either awesome or awful. (Writing something really awful is surprisingly hard. (I salute you, Ebony Dark’ness Dementia Raven Way.))

  3. I hope this falls closer to awesomely bad than to awfully bad, but if it's mediocre, I won't be surprised.

  4. I had such a hard time taking myself seriously that I put the bad sex scene inside a makeout scene inside a comic scene. (INCEPTION (insert "we need to go deeper" joke)!!!) But yeah, the makeout scene was supposed to be a serious attempt at being sexy, but I suspect it's hard to make anything sexy when you don't have an emotional throughline and you've already gone over your one-page limit and have run out of space to build sexual tension.


  6. It is quite entertaining, though, if I do say so myself. (Special thanks to this site for most of the euphemisms.)

  7. I don't say this often, but PLEASE COMMENT if you read this at all. Even if it's just "HAHAHAHAHA" or "cool story bro" or "ive read better on and thats saying alot.....ur a sorry excuse for a writer get off the internet u ho".
Junior Assistant Editor Michael Steele walked down the hall clutching a sheet of paper, shoulders swaying like drunken dandelions headily sowing their seed in truly impressive quantities. With his free hand, he ran his fingers through his hair, then adjusted himself before swinging his entrance around the cubicle wall of Natalie Jones, secretary and certified bombshell, status: single and looking.

“Miss Jones.”

“Yes?” She glanced up from her monitor. “Oh, hi. I’m almost done with this set if you want to wait.”

There was no reply.

“Michael?” She looked up again to find him pretending to lean casually against her cubicle wall, which would have collapsed were he actually leaning against it. He gave her a shit-eating grin as he brandished the paper he had been holding.

“You know, I’ve been having the strangest morning.”

She considered him thoughtfully before asking, “Are you drunk?”

“What? No – ”

“Then why are you doing your Mike Steele Is The Real Situation voice?”

“Look, Natalie,” he said, planting one hand on the stack of manila envelopes on her desk. “We both know what I’m talking about – ”

“What are you talking about?”

He gave her a Look before clearing his throat and continuing in The Voice.

“Miss Jones, a very strange fax arrived on my desk this morning, sent from within this department, and I think someone needs to be punished.”

Oh. Jesus, I told Clive he’d get his copying privileges revoked if he did it again!”

“Oh, no, I don’t think Clive was responsible this time. His buttocks were not involved in this fax.”

“W – That’s quite relieving to hear.”

“There were, however, other buttocks involved.”

Natalie closed her eyes. “…Was it Alan?”

“Shall I read the fax to you?”

“Wh – It’s not a picture?”

Michael Steele shook his head, cleared his throat, and began to read.

"The exact circumstances under which she had come to be locked in a poorly lit broom closet with one half-naked Trillian Trask, resident playboy and bane of her existence, were of little import for Charity Seabrook, whose foremost concern at the present was escaping his infuriating company.

After a few moments' futile pounding on the heavy door, she turned to yell at Trillian in order to blame him for their current predicament but was met with his upper body, all glistening muscle. It was a very small closet. She looked down to avoid making eye contact. Or chest contact.

'Trillian. You are clad in leather trousers,' she observed.

'Of this I am aware.'

'Why are you clad in leather trousers?' she demanded with the righteous anger of an 18th-century vegan.

'My lady, I could not tell you, not in my present state of befuddlement, with your heaving white bosom entrancing me like an Oriental snake charmer. Hark, I sense a one-eyed snake stirring in response!'

Charity tried to stop her white bosom heaving, but it was really a very small closet, and Trillian was uncomfortably attractive for an archenemy, and he was really very, very close to her. There was a tearing noise, and her dress fell from her shoulders.

'It appears that the heaving of your white bosom has ripped your bodice,' stated Trillian calmly. 'Please try to remain calm,' he said, comforting her breasts with his hands. 'I am here.'

She was only slightly comforted. 'I require more comforting,' she hinted. 'Here,' she said helpfully, hanging her mouth open. Trillian kissed her for ten and a half seconds before he felt Charity's rosy peaks grow rock-hard beneath his masculine thumbs. She moaned with the delight of a naked child escaping from bath time, reaching her soft hands to rub Trillian's enormous arousal through the front of his leather trousers.

She could feel his hunger pulsating beneath her hand, imagining that same throbbing inside her vaginal canal like a vital organ harvested from a recent cadaver, vacuum-sealed in a plastic bag lined with pleasure sensors. She felt her nether lips grow wet with the nectar of love and longed for everything Trillian could give her.

But Trillian only teased her, plundering her mouth as he unlaced his trousers. He broke their passionate kiss to let his trousers drop to the ground, revealing his colossal engorged member. Charity gasped at the sight of it. Trillian pressed her backwards into the wall, only to lave the hardened peaks of her globes with his tongue. Charity clutched his head in her hands, pressing him into her but writhing in frustration at the incompleteness of the act. After whimpering to no avail, she moved a hand to tug at her love button.

Trillian swatted her hand away as if it were a malaria-carrying mosquito.

'I desire your love juice,' he whispered huskily, divesting her of her skirt.

'You make me so moist, Trillian,' she replied breathlessly. 'Ravish me.'

He reverently lowered his mouth to her clitoris, simultaneously moving his fingers to her feminine mound. Trillian flicked his tongue wildly whilst slowly advancing his fingers into Charity's silken love cave. Charity cried out as her entrance was breached, trying to draw the intrusion further into her fiery-hot depths but longing for something so much bigger.

When Trillian withdrew his hand, Charity felt an unbearable loss, like that of a mother for her stillborn child, and Trillian chuckled at her disappointed whine. He kissed her dew-moistened petals as if to worship a pagan god of harvests before standing again. He took his gigantic pulsing shaft in hand and poised at Charity's portal of pleasure, capturing her lips in a crushing kiss. Charity could feel his tongue seeking admission into her mouth, and she moaned her surrender, granting him permission like a season pass for a summer-long ride on the Ferris wheel.

Taking this as his cue, Trillian slowly pressed his massive throbbing manroot into Charity's weeping orifice, nearly scraping her cervix with his formidable length. Charity gasped, then struggled for greater friction. Trillian began to thrust at a punishing pace, and Charity screamed in pleasure as if she were afraid of heights but were riding the Ferris wheel with a charming suitor and they were caught at the top of the wheel while other passengers boarded at the seats located opposite them along the diameter. She bucked and thrashed violently in the throes of blissful rapture as he pounded into her, until she threw her head back and cried his name, nearly sobbing in pleasure as she clenched uncontrollably in wave after wave of ecstasy. Within ten thousandths of a second, Trillian groaned as he ejaculated, his tallywhacker gushing his male essence in a release to rival the explosion of Krakatoa."

Nathaniel finished proudly and looked up to gauge Michelle's reaction.

"So? What do you think?" he asked.

"It was hot," she said immediately. "I demand we make out now."

Nathaniel laughed nervously.

And that was the last thing that registered as A Thing That Happens To Nathaniel In Real Life because he felt distinctly unsure of what his body was doing for the next few minutes, until he became stunningly aware that he was panting and there was a hot open mouth against his neck,
and he was pretty sure his knees were going to buckle, and it was all wet, hot sliding and it was good and oh now there were teeth and they were good too, and she was pressing into him and moving and - oh, God - that had to be illegal in conservative states, and he hoped he didn't just make that noise, but her hands were tugging at his belt and she was making these little sounds like she wanted it -

“And it cuts off there,” he finished with a drawl. “So what say you, young Natalie?” said Michael, pitching his voice low. “Or should I say… Charity? Do I make you moist?”

Natalie looked at her tape dispenser. “Is – is this entirely appropriate?” she asked weakly.

Michael smoldered at her like a preventable forest fire. “Shall we take this to my office, then?”

“No. No, Michael, no.”

“Oh, then here?”

“No. Not here, or anywhere. Ever.”

“I… Have I misread the story? With the leather trousers and the ripped bodice?”

“Yes you have. That is not my fax. You do not make me moist. I am not moist.”

“I seem to have misread this situation.”


“…Please excuse me,” said Michael as he backed out of the cubicle, looking like he wanted to hide inside his stain-resistant khakis and cry.

Just then, Clive sauntered in from the hallway, and with a lingering look at Michael’s retreating backside, he remarked, “God, I would slam that like a screen door, but he won’t give me a second look after that time with the powdered wig.”

Clive sighed the sigh of unrequited love.

“By the way, Nat, did you get the smutty story I faxed you?”


W1L 033: Write one leaf in which you answer a question incorrectly.

Originally, I followed this personal challenge for the 33rd prompt instead of the 19th. Here's the original commentary and response:

I had a hard time deciding if I wanted to do a good trashy romance novel or a terrible one. After attempting to research terrible ones, I’ve concluded that both are equally difficult to execute. Let’s say this is a scene from a mediocre trashy romance novel. I assure you, if you take out the line breaks and spaces, this is close to a page long.

“I'm so sorry, Professor Harkiss! I just completely forgot what time it was while we were discussing everything. I mean, I just – geography is the one subject that really turns me on – I'm probably bothering you – sorry, I – just a snack is fine, something to get in my system – I'll get something more solid to to put in my mouth later – I promise I won’t faint again – ”

"No, no, it's nothing! It’s nice to talk to someone who actually likes the subject and isn’t the same age as my mother. And you can call me Seth, Rachel," he added, setting the bowl of cherries on the table between them. "Professor makes me feel kind of old."

"You know, Professor Harkiss, I thought it was hard enough to be taken seriously as an academic when you're just about the same age as your students. Calling you Seth feels wrong somehow, like I'm breaking a professional barrier,” she teased, cocking an eyebrow, working the cherry pit between her lips with her tongue before letting it fall onto her napkin.

His eyes followed its descent.

"I mean, to be honest, yeah, it doesn't make my job any easier when my colleagues think my grad students offer to buy me drinks in exchange for passing grades, but I've always had a bit of a soft spot for you, Rachel. You're my best student after all."

"Professor Harkiss – "


"Seth, the other grad students don’t really do that, do they?"

“Offer to buy me drinks?”

“Well, not so you’ll pass them… Don’t they all have massive crushes on you?”

"Crushes?" he repeated, brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "On me? Why would they?" he wondered.

"Oh, I don't know. Tall, dark, and handsome young professor stimulating the minds of young people,” she mused, rolling the cherry in her mouth. She smirked. “It's tabloid gold.”

"Well when you put it that way. I wouldn't have said handsome, though."

"What, then? Dashing? Debonair? Sex in glasses?"

"Um… Awkward? Hopeless? In an intimate relationship with my left hand?” he offered helplessly.

"Brooding, mysterious, impossible to tie down, same thing. The point is, there are panties out there getting wet for you, and here you are, self-deprecating to a fault, thinking everything is about grades and not, say, your stormy eyes or something."

"Panties getting wet for me?" he echoed faintly. "Who's breaking professional barriers now?"

"Shut up, Seth." She aimed a cherry at his head, but he caught it and threw it back at her.

"Shit, this is silk," she said as the flying juice blossomed crimson on her white blouse, the cherry itself tumbling into her shirt.

"Oh, shit! I'm sorry if that stains! I'll buy you another shirt. I shouldn't have done that!" he blurted out, leaning over the table, futilely dabbing at her with a napkin. "I'm so sorry!"

"It’s fine, it’s fine! I just need to soak this, like immediately," she said, unbuttoning her blouse.

"Okay, yeah," he said heroically, dashing to the bathroom and definitely not looking.

He ran the tap.

And then glanced up to see Rachel in the mirror above the sink, blouse in hand, goosebumps up and down her arms, filmy black lace bra doing nothing for her warmth or his dry mouth. She crossed to the sink and submerged her blouse in the cold water, before grasping the bar of soap firmly in her left hand and vigorously rubbing up and down the length of the bar with her wet right hand.

"Doesn’t this fucking thing lather?" she demanded, plunging the entire bar of soap into the sink and scrubbing it directly into the blouse. Seth cursed himself for being too cheap to buy liquid soap that wasn’t even on fucking sale okay you had coupons for the bar soap dickwad and willed his eyes to shut and block out the consuming vision of her breasts bobbing like fucking, what, ocean buoys in a stormy sea or something equally horrifically tantalizing, like a wet Rachel, possibly naked, and pretty much failed.

He did manage to close his mouth, though.

Until he noticed the rogue cherry lounging between her poorly concealed cleavage like it fucking belonged there and attempted to fish it out in a show of gallantry.

“Oh my God, that’s where it went,” she remarked.

He might’ve pushed the cherry further down her bra and sort of felt around for it on a reconnaissance mission!

She giggled, shoved a cold, wet hand into his hair, pulled lightly, and breathed into his neck with oh my God wet hot grad student tongue, “Hey Professor. Pop quiz: What’s the capital of Botswana?”


“Wrong!” she declared cheerfully, backing him into the door. “I think somebody needs to be taught a lesson.”

She dropped to her knees.
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