Exceptional A satirical look at romance writing I never met a metaphor I liked by Brad Bennett      All about writing Contest Winner

Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of sexual content. The attractive young model sprawled across Rene’s studio couch, her smooth legs revealing just enough under the draped towel to set Rene’s artistic fluids bubbling. He mixed some intense reds and pinks into his sable brush and caressed the virgin canvas. The wet hue washed downward, blending sensuously into the raw burnt umber below. “Yes, I will model completely nude for you,” Jolene announced. “But what’s in it for me?” The abrupt reply completely killed Rene’s mood. He tossed his brush down in disgust. “I do not pay for any modeling. If you want to be part of my art, that is your reward. Otherwise, get your coat and leave; I'll finish the portrait alone.” Jolene got up and… ...This story isn't working. My artist is too freaking temperamental, too much of a downer. OK, change of plot, new name. Rene is now Samuel. He’s just met up with Alexia; they're strolling along a village boardwalk somewhere along the beach. Here goes… The couple wandered past the quaint shops until they found a little ice cream parlor. Samuel sensed their chance meeting could lead beyond a casual stroll. Alexia had everything he had longed for. She stood before the ice cream display, studying the tantalizing flavors. Her firm breasts rising, falling, feeding Sam's excitement like a salivating kid ogling two mounds of caramel nougat offered from a dripping cone... He… GOD!… This is bull shit. Too silly. I need a more exciting identity–a man’s man. OK, Sam is now Daymond Steel, a top CIA spy, cultured, continental. He's after Natalia, a Russian counterspy, one of the world's most beautiful women. Here goes… The soft footsteps on the teak deck above announced to Daymond she had found his sailboat at the marina. He opened the hatchway, and Natalia quickly entered. She was distraught; the Russian mob was hot on her trail. Daymond took her coat and brought her favorite drink, Vermouth, no ice, one slice of lime. "Ah, that’s much better,"  Natalia replied. She rolled her tongue seductively around the glass's rim, letting her eyes relay the meaning as she slid back onto the couch. Daymond’s pulse immediately fired up like the ten throbbing pistons in his Ferrari Gran Turismo with twin Turbos… He… … No, No, No! Forget the spy thing! I hate the Bond types; they are so predictively hung up on possessions. I need a good down to earth, adventurous guy caught up in foreign intrigue. OK, his name will be Harry. He's a single tourist, sitting in a French cafe, sipping a chardonnay. Natalia is now Nanette… She entered the little cabaret, instantly catching Harry's attention. As she walked to the counter, Harry's mind envisioned Juliette Binoche’s walk in his favorite scene from Chocolat, a purposeful stride, mysterious, sensual. She sat at the other end of the bar, just enough distance from Harry to indicate it was now his move. He picked up his glass and slid away from his stool to her side. “Do you speak English,” Harry began. "I'm a bit lost. I just arrived from the US." “Oui. What part of the states are you from?" she answered. "LA." Harry lies, trying not to give away his southern Arkansas accent. “I love LA,” she told him, her blue eyes widening. "Someday, I will go there." “Do you live here in Paris?” Harry ventured. "Oh yes, I'm studying French culinary cooking at the Academy here in Paris. I've studied English as well. I want to become a Chef in the US when I graduate." “How exciting," Harry sensed a promise here. “My name is Harry. Do you mind if I sit?” He gestured to the other stool. "Oh, please do, Harry, I'm Nannette. Interesting that you are from the West. I love the old French regional style, and I would like to specialize in that for western tastes.” "What an excellent idea; I'm sure you will be successful." Harry could feel his chances were warming. As they chatted, Nannette adjusted her tight skirt and placed one bare, creamy leg across the other. The glimpse just enough to send Harry's excitement mounting like two fresh escargots plucked from a steaming hot garlic sauce, dripping with bubbling snail butter. He… ...barfed all over the carpet! … Gawd, what an overcooked analogy! That’s it, no more struggling metaphors with the word LIKE in them. I need a more sophisticated setting, more class. All right, forget Paris, we’re in New York. Nannette is Loraine; Harry is now Steve, an up-and-coming writer. This time, maybe use a visual analogy for the hook instead. Yes. I'll use an object to set up the mood for the story. Loraine is the star headliner at the 'Have it all' club where she sings. Steve frequents it often, listening to the tall beauty’s sultry voice. Loraine has many pursuers, but their chances of dating her are slim. Then one evening, Steve dared to slip a dinner invitation onto her tips plate. After Lorain's show was over, Steve couldn't believe what he was seeing—she was coming towards his table. "Well, hello," she said, her voice teasingly soft, as she stopped and smiled. "I just had to meet a man who has the guts to leave me a note." Steve was ready. "You can't get on base unless you get to the plate." He ventured. "Ah, now here's a man who wants to play ball." She laughed. "Terrific dinner line. Tell you what, I have to finish up here, but why don't you hang around a bit, dinner at Marjo's?" Steve had to catch his breath. This hard-to-get beauty had accepted his invite. "Marjo's it is," he came back. The stylish dress Loraine wore from her dressing room was cut low, showing a tantalizing hint of a bosom. They found a quiet little table at the popular eatery and dined. All evening, Steve is mesmerized by Loraine’s daring persona, bold yet disarmingly alluring. Later, after dinner, Lorain informed Steve she disdained the nightclub scene, rarely drank, and preferred tea. Then, completely out of the blue, she invited him up to her high-rise apartment. The evening now took on an encouraging path. Loraine's apartment was stylish but simply decorated, her tastes practical rather than showy. She put on the tea kettle and then cozied up with Steve on the sofa. His excitement began to rise along with the steaming water's roiling. Suddenly, the whistle of the kettle sounded. She arose, silenced the whistle, and poured two cups. “I like that whistle,” Steve jokingly laughed. “Would you come to me if I whistled?" “If you want me," Loraine answered seductively, "just whistle. You know how to whistle, don't you, Steve? You just put your lips together and blow…." Wow. This is it. I’ve found a new exciting metaphor full of sexy innuendo and hidden meaning. I feverishly began pounding away on the keyboard. But something still bothered me. Somehow, that last line seemed familiar. Nah. I typed on. (Guess where that line came from? Note: clues in the nightclub name and the word Slim.)     All about writing Contest Winner Author Notes Plagiarism is where our poor writer is headed. Clues: The name Slim, the name of the nightclub, and of course the last sentence of the metaphor. All refer to the movie, Have, and have not, with Lauren Bacal, and Humphrey Bogart.

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