Peter stared at his laptop, a blank, white screen facing him down with cold detachment. He typed a few words and then immediately tapped a staccato beat on the delete key. The television jumped through images, but Peter did his best to ignore it. As soon as he got used to the steady channel surfing the TV fell silent and black like the void in his mind.
“Let’s go to bed, baby.”
The words broke through what little concentration Peter had left. He sighed and threw his best patient smile over his shoulder. Taggart was a sweet boyfriend, but he didn’t have a creative bone in his body. He didn’t understand the writing process let alone Peter’s drive to push through when writer’s block hit.
“Sorry, Tag. I can’t. I have to get this story done for Friday Flash.”
“You don’t have to. You can skip a week.”
“I can’t.” Peter shook his head and switched to a spreadsheet of random, unfinished ideas. They each had merit at the time but tonight, he couldn’t figure out why long enough to revive them.
Taggart draped his arms over Peter’s shoulders, running his hands down his chest. “Write something sex-ay,” he purred in Peter’s ear. “I’ll help you research it.”
He found the tiny rings in Peter’s nipples and tugged them through his shirt. He knew that trick: Peter’s on buttons. His eyes would glaze over when Peter talked about writing but when it came to physical pursuits, Taggart knew more about Peter than Peter did.
Peter whimpered. He needed to write but, damn, now he needed to fuck just as much.
“C’mon baby.” Taggart tugged and twisted. “I’ll give you something to write about.”
Slamming the laptop shut, Peter didn’t bother to remind Taggart once again that he wrote horror. His cock had already leapt to attention making it quite clear that Taggart would get his way before any writing would get done.
When Peter returned to the sofa an hour later, he propped the laptop on his thighs and started typing away without hesitation. After the first two hundred words, he stopped and scratched his ear. His fingers came away glistening red. Licking Taggart’s blood away, Peter smiled and then blew a kiss to the photo of the two of them on the end table.
“You were right, Tagg,” Peter said. “You were great research. Too bad you’ll never read this masterpiece.”