Page 98 of Smut

“Cock,” I tell her. “It’s always cock. Maybe dick. Never penis unless you’re talking about someone related.”

She scrunches up her nose. “Why would you talk about the penis of someone you’re related to?”

“I have no idea but from now on its cock.”

She shrugs. “I can deal with cock. I can deal with a lot of cock. This, you know.” I watch as she opens her palm and plops the spoonful of mayo into it. She puts the spoon down and starts rubbing her hands together, like she’s putting on hand cream.

“What,” I start, pointing at her, “uh, what?”

“What?”

I nod at her mayo hands. “What are you doing?” I hiss.

She looks down and grins. “Oh, you’ve never seen this before?” she asks, seeming pleased. She then starts rubbing her mayo-covered hands over her fucking face. “It’s great for your skin.”

I raise my brow. “Yeah. I’m sure GMO-filled canola oil does as much good for your face as it does your immune system.”

She makes a dismissive sound. “My grandmother used to rub fresh goat’s milk all over her face and she had skin like a baby.”

I don’t bother pointing out that fresh goat’s milk and canola oil are like comparing apples and poisonous oranges. Instead, I try not to stare at her in revulsion as her face turns an oily white. It must be the erotica writer in me because all I can think about is how much it looks like an epic cum shot. Cream pies all over the place.

“Well, tell me how I can help you,” Ana says as she washes her hands in the sink. “Need me to be firm with you, like a dictator? I have experience.”

I shake my head, unable to take her seriously as a dictator with a face full of mayonnaise and/or cum. “No, that’s okay. Actually, I may go away for the weekend, you know, for inspiration.”

“Oh yes? Where?” She frowns quickly, looking hurt. “Am I too much of a pain?”

“No, no,” I assure her, even though she is around an awful lot now that her makeup schooling is over. “It’s not you. I just can’t think. I can’t concentrate and I’d rather be doing everything else except writing. Procrastination is at an all-time high.”

“And you’re sure it’s not me?”

“Nooooo,” I say again. “My parents have a cabin on Salt Spring Island, just a thirty-five-minute ferry ride from Swartz Bay. It’s small, cute, with a little wood stove and a big deck overlooking the ocean. It will do me some good. Recharge the batteries.”

“So you’re going all alone…”

“Well…” I say slowly, studying the linoleum pattern on the floor. “I may have just invited Blake.”

A lengthy pause falls over us. She takes a moment to think that over, pursing her lips. “I see,” she eventually says, her expression growing disarmingly suspicious.

Don’t take the bait.

“Interesting.”

Don’t do it, Amanda. You don’t want to hear it.

But I can’t help myself. “Why, why is it interesting?”

Damn it.

She shrugs. “I might not know many things, but I know things about people, particularly men.”

“Do tell.”

“This isn’t about writing.”

“It is!” I exclaim. “A change of scenery, fresh air, all of that will be good for me!”

She wags her pointed nail at me. “You do not jet off to some island somewhere with another man if you’re not interested in him.”