I am a story with little plot, little thought, a story you should not enjoy. I am a guilty pleasure, a worthless treasure in a paperback cover. Sex, lies, deceit, not so discreet proposals of physical bliss, happily ever after.  

I’m thought up in a flurry, written in a hurry, whisked to the shelves, ripped from the stacks, gone from the racks to dwell in busty women’s homes, in trembling hands, hiding in drawers, openly displayed on homemade plywood bookshelves.

I am the same story every time. It’s a different place, a new face, a cowboy and a librarian, a circus clown and an uppity businesswoman. I am a story about two people who only have in common their initial hatred towards each other and their secret pornographic sex lives.

I am the story where conflict is the same maddening scenario every time. He lied, she lied. One discovers the other lied about his identity, after the sex – mad, crazy passionate, never-ending orgasmic sex – had because of a bet, a dare, or for money. No, he really didn’t care. His feelings weren’t true. Let’s unite again in our hatred towards one another. But wait. After we have sex. The sex is done, now let’s hate each other forever, you lying bastard, how could you? Trust is shattered in my story. Wills are broken, as well as his nose after she practiced her Kung Fu classes on his face, the face she never really liked anyway. I am the story where his hand raises as if to strike her, only to have his memory flooded with flashbacks of his hard years in prison, the gang rapes, the cigarette currency, his long years without a woman in his arms pressed against his hardened abdominals.

Anger and hatred enter me. The readers of me – of my pages full of letters, spaces, semi colons and commas – seek closure. I must give it to them or never again will they return to me for the full story. Instead they’ll seek only the good parts located in the middle, towards the end, the parts full of lust and passion, bodices and triangular patches of coarse, curly hair. Those are the parts they read me for, anyway.

I long to please them. Without my readers, I am nothing but a thought in space, floating above everyone’s heads, dodging pens and pencils, laptops and wireless keyboards.

So I do it. To please them. I make it all better. I change dramatically, yet expectedly. It’s not a surprise, but they act surprised. They never saw it coming, they say. So that’s why. They shake their heads as I make him explain. Tears stream down their faces as I make her forgive. I make his engorged member quiver, her cheeks flush, his hands roam her supple bosoms, her hands find his hardened magic wand. Bliss, pure bliss, pages of lust, passion and angst. Happily ever after.

I am the same sad, worn out story told again and again, over and over, beaten to death by all who aspire to fame and fortune. I am an easy sell.

Sometimes even I tire of hearing myself repeated. My idea started with a go, maybe let’s have another go. But no. It’s out of hand. I long for retirement, but it will never come. Being the story – THE story – is exhausting. When will a new story step up and steal my spotlight? I wouldn’t mind, really. I’m just the same old, tired story.