Not Just Another Romance Novel
© 2015 Lisa Suzanne
His thunder stick pounded ferociously into her delicate flower.
“Thunder stick?” I muttered aloud to myself.
I’d seen some interesting terms over the years, but “thunder stick” had to be one of the dumbest ones I’d seen used to describe a man’s penis. I supposed it was better than “meat popsicle” or, my personal favorite, “fuck rod.”
I set my Kindle on my nightstand. I was in the middle of reading a sex scene, but the stick entering the flower managed to kill the mood.
I stood and headed toward my kitchen for a snack as I pondered books.
I had a top ten book boyfriend list, which of course changed (often) depending on what I was reading. I had a collection of signed bookmarks. I had a bunch of signed paperbacks that I never opened, preserving the beautiful words and the new book smell with my favorite authors’ signatures inside.
But what I didn’t have was a real, actual, living leading man.
I needed some excitement to spice up my life. I needed an adventure like the ones I’d been reading about in romance novels since I’d first stolen The Flame and the Flower from my mom’s closet shelf when I was twelve.
I needed a boyfriend who could pound his thunder stick into my delicate flower. It was getting a little dusty down there. There may have been a cobweb situation happening.
In addition to the woes of my love life, I also needed to figure out a research topic for my master’s thesis.
I was less than a year away from my master’s degree in Psychology. I just needed a few more classes, including the one class I’d been dreading since I first filled out my student application: Master’s Thesis Research.
I had to generate a topic that I’d research over the next few months. I’d need to complete field studies. In April, I would have to defend my paper to a panel of professors who had the power to negate my two years of post-graduate work in Psychology. If they hated my project, I was screwed. I’d end up on deep fryers at a fast food joint instead of counseling couples whose marriages were in trouble.
I thought about the thunder stick book still lighting up my Kindle in my bedroom. If only I could write about romance novels. Now there was an area where I was a true expert.
A knock at my door pulled me out of my thoughts.
I glanced through the peephole and found my best friend in the world, Scott Redland, and I opened the door.
“I’m looking for a treasure. Mind if I take a look at your chest?”
I burst out laughing, and then Scott held up a six-pack of Stella Artois bottles—my favorite beer. I grinned and opened my door wider.
“Are you religious? Because you’re the answer to all my prayers.”
Scott laughed as he walked past me. “I win tonight.”
I nodded in agreement. His cheesy pick-up line outplayed mine. “What’s the occasion?”
Big Brother starts in fifteen minutes.”
I giggled, glancing over at the clock on my oven. Scott claimed to hate the reality show, but we spent the entire hour of the broadcast psychoanalyzing every “character.”
But really, I was pretty sure he loved the drama. In any event, it was a good excuse to get together with my friend to practice our burgeoning analytical skills.
“Who got sent home last time?” he asked, setting the six-pack down on the counter.
“Jasmine was evicted.” I stressed my word to encourage him to use the correct show terminology—a constant uphill battle.
Scott narrowed his eyes at me. “Right. You want a beer?” He grabbed the bottle opener from his keychain and popped the top off of one before he took a long gulp.
I nodded.
He popped the top off of another one and grinned as he handed it to me. “Then lose the attitude.”
I giggled, and we settled into my couch to analyze our favorite (but Scott’s non-favorite) show.
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