Happily Ever Anal!
Um, Happy Valentine’s Day, everybody! I’m late.
Happily Ever Anal is the fourth in our series of booty books, and in this year’s anthology our stories have a romantic twist. My contribution, ‘Dr Facility and the Loving Butt Plug’, tells of a woman who’s longing to lose her anal virginity within a committed, loving relationship. So she seeks the advice of the mysterious and slightly monstrous Dr Facility.
My story isn’t trad romance, as you can probably tell! I had heaps of fun playing with the conventions of romantic love and the tropes of romance fiction when I wrote this story.
Here’s the beginning of the piece.
Dr Facility lived on the wrong side of town, tucked away among the warehouses of the old docks. At the entrance to his practice, an engraved silver plaque read: Dr Facility makes dreams come true.
It neglected to say whose dreams.
I pressed the bell. Immediately, the voices came tumbling into my head, a cacophony of lines I’d been rehearsing since embarking on my journey (my emotional, sexual journey, that is, not the one that had brought me there that night). What to choose?
“Dr Facility, I want to lose my anal virginity to a man who’ll truly love me.”
“Good doctor, I’ve heard buttsex used to be meaningful and you might think me old-fashioned but I yearn for those days.”
Or “Please help. I want to get romantically fucked up the ass. Is that even possible in the 21st century?”
When the buzzer sounded, I heaved open the thick, steel door. My hands shook. I’d heard so much about this man, always in whispers and rumors, in bars late at night when tongues grew loose, and in furtive conversations, the sort where a friend tells you about a friend of a friend who could recommend a man down by the docks.
He wasn’t what I was expecting. He was shorter, for one thing, and dramatically handsome — his eyes smoldering, his brow grim and brooding, his starched white coat at variance with the carelessness suggested by his unshaven jaw and unkempt hair. Too caught up in intellectual pursuits to remember daily grooming, no doubt. In the center of a vast room stood his desk, a deeply polished oak number topped in green leather, an Anglepoise lamp casting a pool of light onto the surface. Dr Facility sat behind the desk in the half-shadows.
“Tell me what you want, ” he said as I took my seat opposite him.
I spoke, nervous and halting, and he studied me, turning a pen in one hand. When I’d finished, I awaited his response, my heart thumping, my plea for help hanging awkwardly in the silence. I had to remind myself he was a professional, he’d heard it all before.
Finally, he said, “This is the first time anyone’s come to me with a problem like this.”
I looked down, embarrassed. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be, please. I enjoy a challenge. It could even make a credible research paper. Your identity would be protected, of course.”
“Now if you could raise your skirt and lean over my desk.”
“But …” I struggled for words. “You mean this desk? Here?”
Dr Facility gestured around his dingy, oversized consulting room. A low bookshelf lined with leather-bound texts ran along one wall, next to it a winged armchair and a small table, big enough to hold a book but little else. Opposite, pinned to an empty wall, was an eye chart of letters diminishing in size. Standing forlornly in a far corner, just about visible in the gloom, was a tall, balance-beam weighing scale made of wood and brass. Below a square window whose blinds were drawn, a drinks cabinet offered a multiplicity of liquor bottles, short and fat, tall and slim, their colorful contents reminiscent of an apothecary’s wares.
Once my eyes had adjusted to the dimness, I could see the details of a framed picture hanging several yards away from the eye chart, a black and white photograph of a wild-haired woman in a straitjacket, the image flecked with dirt and scratches. The woman looked to the camera with deranged glee, and yet it also seemed as if she were looking at us, her avaricious eyes fixed on Dr Facility’s desk.
It was hard to say what sort of doctor this man was.
“Do you see any other desks here?” he asked.
“No, I’m sorry. It’s just that …”
I trailed off helplessly. Dr Facility, at ease in his big, swivel chair, observed me as if waiting for me to expand. He resumed toying with his pen, his spotlit hands flexing and twisting as he slow-twirled his little, ink-filled baton. His shirt cuffs peeked below the sleeves of his white coat, cufflinks glinting in the light. Boldly, I met his gaze, thinking if the madwoman could face her tormentors, then so could I. Immediately, I checked myself, thinking, But I’m not paying him to torment me. I’m here for his help.
My boldness shrank the more I looked at him, fear creeping in as its replacement. I saw fathomless depths in Facility’s eyes and an intensity in his manner, a suggestion he’d seen darkness and had survived. I saw, too, that he wanted more. Here was a man who could carry other people’s burdens without being dragged down. I suspected he rather liked the weight of us in our flawed, fumbling glory. It made him feel superior, not quite human.
I shrugged. “There’s nothing else. I’m nervous, that’s all. I’d rather know what’s in store for me before I … obey.”
“The first step,” said Dr Facility, “is recognizing that surrender to the unknown is crucial to the process of falling in love.”
“I know plenty about falling in love, thanks,” I said crisply. “And no one ever asked me to bend over a table and bare my butt. At least, not until we were going steady.”
Oh, yes I do! I was in the final stages of writing my next novel, Undone, and I’m very much a mono-tasker. Anyway, Undone has since been delivered to my editor at Black Lace, and will be published on September 11th.
I’m very excited by this book but more on that another time.
Right is a pic of the manuscript, printed twice, and made messy with edits.
And now I can remove that HEA note from my ‘To do’ list!
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