"Beaver, for Christ's sake. Sounds silly now even just to say it."
I was sitting in my editor's office. He was ranting and raving as usual. Probably his boss had been on his case about something and he was taking it out on me.
"After that, all of a sudden it's Squirrel. Can you believe that? 'Squirrel this,' and 'Squirrel that.' 'Hey, man, I got me some SQUIRREL this weekend.'" Shaking his head. "If you got a look up a chick's mini-skirt it was called a 'squirrel shot.'
"Of course for the longest time it's been Pussy. Now that I think about it, Pussy was always kind of mixed in with the others.
"Who thinks up all these fucking animals anyway?" He was talking around the fat cigar in his mouth, lighting it and puffing.
Our building is a no-smoking area, but he says his office is his and anybody who wants to argue about it can shove an 8-inch shade-grown long-leaf Dominican up their ass.
I've worked for this moron for seven years. I'm the top-selling author for Red Velvet Publications, Adult Fiction in Paperback, 12325 Golden Blvd, just next door to the Pink Pussycat Gentlemen's Club.
My mother doesn't know I write dirty books for a living.
"So you've got the animal thing, then there's all those other words--you know, certain nouns and adjectives and those, you know those, uh, metaphors that smut writers use over and over that are ridiculous."
"Um, can you give me an example or two, boss, I'm kind of not...."
"Juices."
"Pardon me?"
"Juices." He leaned back and puffed, he was loving this, feeling superior.
"'My hot juices were running down my leg.' 'He lapped up every drop of my pussy juices.' 'I could feel my warm juices....'"
"Right, okay, I get it."
"I mean who talks like that, for Christ's sake? Nobody, that's who." He punctuated with the long cigar. "It's pure smut-writer bullshit and I want you to change it."
"Change it? I'm sorry, I...." My lips kept moving but no sound was coming out.
I'm a we'll-spoken, articulate person, but I don't handle confrontation well.