Misdirected Vice

I sat down at the computer last night, turned it on, waited forever for it to boot (I have a used Pentimum II) and started a story. I've had this idea lately that I should write erotica shorts, no more than two pages maybe, to give to my boyfriend/ partner/ whatnot to make things more interesting. (After all, we've been together for nearly six years.) He, as you might imagine, is not against the idea.

I like a nice plot. Or at least a funny one. So I had to think of one, and I did. Then I started to write. Things were going well: I had the scene, I had the characters, I had the conflict and the resolution and the reason for it all. I was happily typing away, only pausing every now and then to knit (I knit while I write. Don't you?) while I considered the exact phrasing or expression that would fit.

Just about the time my boyfriend/ partner/ whatnot came home I realized I had a serious problem. Things had gotten out of control. I'm not talking whips and chains and dwarves, or anything like that. I mean I was about 300 words in and I still hadn't gotten anywhere near the sex.

Yes. That's right. Despite my best intentions, I was writing a romance novel.