Heather would masturbate to interviews or podcasts with famous writer’s most nights. She would have to partake in this ritual as a form of revenge procrastination. It was her ASMR. She was a true sapiosexual. She felt that if she screwed intelligent men she would absorb their knowledge and become a genius herself so she could become a full-on autosexual.
Heather was obsessed with the author Adam Jarrod Smith and she knew he was in town. Adam Jarrod Smith was so intelligent that his books were illegible. Each of his novels had about 10 plots going on at once and half the novels were endnotes. Genius!
Adam Jarrod Smith was also hot in a kinda sensitive tortured soul kind of way. Like nobody could understand him. But Heather could. Heather was determined to meet him. Maybe she could seduce him with her smoking hot looks. She’d make this big intelligent big man weak at the knees and turn him into an animal.
Adam Jarrod Smith was doing a reading of his 2,000 page novel The Squirrel Chooses the High Nuts tonight at 7pm at the book shop The Wet Quill. Heather had been planning her outfit all month. She decided to go for a dark red dress as red was the colour of passion and dominance.
Heather glided in The Wet Quill. She spotted her target. He was shuffling through papers. He was wearing his signature leather jacket and big boots. He was tall. Heather sat in the middle row with the rest of the audience. The bookshop was full. Adam Jarrod Smith stood up. He seemed tired and bored like he was about to start his shift at Costco.
“Well let’s get started,” he shrugged. He began to read. Despite his unenthusiastic vibe, his beautiful words still moved Heather. The way he described the world so honestly and in such a complex way. Heather was moist.
The reading was over and Adam Jarrod Smith thanked everyone. Heather waited until the swarms of hipster girls, softbois and litbros left after getting a picture with Adam Jarrod Smith. Heather snaked up to Adam Jarrod Smith. “That was fucking amazing.”
“Thanks,” Adam Jarrod Smith nodded casually while gathering up his papers. Heather knew she had to get his attention. He was probably used to hotter, younger girls throwing themselves at him. Heather let the words just flow out of her.
“I think you’re such a genius your jizz and smegma should be bottled and made into ink to be used to write novels.”
Adam Jarrod Smith looked up at her in amazement. He was speechless. So was Heather. They were frozen, staring at each other. Heather could not believe what she had just said.
Adam Jarrod Smith broke the silence, “Ok, how much would you pay for it?”
Heather thought for a second. How much should she pay for it? How much did she have in her savings account? £2,000. She spoke before she could think. “£2,000.”
“Fuck it, why not,” he shrugged.
“Oh ok. You want to do it now?”
“Sure.” Adam Jarrod Smith picked up an empty plastic bottle. “How much do you need?”
“Enough for a short story?”
He nodded and strolled off to the toilet. Heather sat down.
Three hours later he returned holding the plastic bottle. It was filled with a gooey white liquid with small chunks of yellow in it. That must have been the smegma. He passed her the bottle. “I’ll write down my bank details.” He grabbed a post-it note and noted down his details and handed the post-it note to her. He then grabbed his bag and started walking out the door. He turned back. “Let me know how the short story goes.” Then he left.
Heather was frozen for about 5 minutes. She turned around and walked out.
When Heather got home she knew she needed to write straight away or else what was the point in all this madness. She sat down and began to write.
She wrote down anything that came out of her head using the smegma and jizz ink and her quill. She wrote about a tea party she hosted for all her teddy bears when she was five. Surely this trite would turn into gold with her new ink.
The sun began to rise. Heather had been working off adrenaline all night. She went for a nap to allow the ink to dry.
After she woke up, the ink looked dry. She took a close look. “Hmm will anybody be able to read this?” The ink had melted into the paper and ran. Not wanting to give up on her fantasy. Heather decided to parcel up the writing and sent it off to a local publishing house- Mustard Custard publishing.
A week later the receptionist, Janice, at Mustard Custard publishing received the package. She opened it and pulled out the pages. They were all stuck together.
“What the hell is this?..Smells funny.” She showed it to her boss.
“Ugh. Just throw it in the bin,” he replied.
Janice threw the short story in the biohazardous waste bin.