When Demons Are Redeemed: The Dominant's Muse

Fifty-Nine - Older Writer, Younger Writer

FIFTY-NINE

 

Older Writer, Younger Writer

 

Catherine returns her attention to Soft Curls, even though the creaking has not stopped, and the structure before her that is restraining the women therefore continues to threaten collapse.

“I was writing a novel,” the young woman is heard to say, once Catherine looks into her eyes once more, shutting out the others.

The only unrestrained woman in the room is surprised, on the one hand, that the young woman before her possesses another artistic outlet, since she previously exclusively expressed passion about her videos, but is not shocked on the other that the non-refundable would attempt such a demanding project, even though young, since she appears to have her material quite together. The likeness of the other streetwalker-writer Catherine knew comes and goes in her mind, allowing a comparison to be made of the romantic before her to the older and wiser woman she knew a year ago.

No wonder I was drawn to her. And even now, she remains calmer than those around her, Catherine adds to herself, after an additional creaking sound catches her attention.

“I was writing what I know, of course, and so, the men in my book were like the men that I see all around me, which means that they demanded all that men demand of women, in the real world. For pleasure,” Soft Curls adds. “One night, I didn’t set out to work because I was feverish and throwing up, and I saw, on TV, a scene where a man demanded that his girlfriend play with a play thing that he’d just bought and brought into their bedroom. And she did.

And that’s when I realized that my novel -- especially in its unfinished, incomplete state -- might actually be helping men, that I might actually be doing their dirty work for them, through it, by including in it what girls and women see all around them and have to deal with, and so, by being real. What a vicious circle.

It was quite the shock to me, the realization that, even though I was pointing out all along what men do that’s just not nice, I was probably helping men overall with the grooming of girls. And I really didn’t want to be helping men. But if girls and young women were reading the titillating scenes in my work without realizing that my written world shouldn’t become their reality, that men had no right to ask that it did, then what?

But I just . . . I just felt that, in order to realistically show love growing, I had to show it somehow starting out of and poking out of ground where growth seemed impossible, where nutrients for it appeared completely lacking, where it seemed that it could not only never begin, but also never continue to grow stronger either. Love out of nothing, out of emptiness. But the real life side-effects of doing that . . .

 I began to worry about the young females who were just learning about the male-female world, and how my novel might actually be their textbook, but in the male way. I didn’t want them to fall. I soon so missed my characters, however, and I so wanted them back touching and interacting, that . . .

Well, when it was all off my chest, I knew that, despite it all, I still wanted to write a tale about a man who regains his humanity, or at least part of it. Or, who finds it or that mere part of it, for the first time. And a story about a woman who struggles in his world, in a version created from the real world. So, I realized that I really did just want to write a love story of sorts, even with its strange elements. In the real world, after all, a girl and a boy, or a man and a woman, meet and get to know each other, and then form whatever relationship they can, against this very backdrop in our society that I depict to the extreme in my work. It’s just how it is.