Temptation

A Story by Matthew Little

Can you resist the world's greatest temptation while trying to finally write that wonderful bestseller?

"This time, I will do it!" You tell yourself once again. That's always how it starts. And it finishes the same tragic way every single time, except that sometimes, it just takes slightly longer to happen. You sit down at your desk, fingers coursing with energy projected from a constantly over-active mind, hands itching to be set upon your keyboard at long last and write a bestselling novel in but months, if not weeks. This is what your were born to do. You would write bestseller after bestseller, having no formal training whatsoever in your short little life. The world would turn to you, bow down before you, beg to kiss the hem of your magnificent, fantastical cloak that you always wanted to have, because wouldn't it just be so damn cool...! So you crack your knuckles, and settle down for a long, nice write. Ten minutes pass, and your fingers aren't moving as fast as they had been at first. Another thirty-five minutes or so later, you start reading what you've already written, beaming at your work with pride. It looks quite long, squished as it is into a little window like that. Your fingers stay poised above the keys for some time. That is the predictable breaking point, the moment you knew would come, even as you told yourself that you were strong, that you could hold it off this time. But you make the disastrous mistake. You glance up at your doorway, and see the very embodiment of temptation standing before you, only feet away, just waiting for it's chance to seduce you and take you to bed.

Your enemy knows your preferences, knows your deep desires at all times. The enemy knows what perfume you like your seducer to wear, the exact skin tone that you find the most appealing, knows your preferred size and weight. The enemy is thorough, and over time, learns these things so well that sending the seducer is a thoughtless and easy task. They aren't always the same, but they are always desirable. Sometimes it's a pure, pale, untouched virgin that has so obviously never known a human touch that you are almost too afraid to lay a finger upon that new white skin. Other times, you are in the mood for experience, something that can still make you cry after years together, years in which you carefully and lovingly mapped out every inch of skin, every blemish, every callus, and yet you still delight anew when you discover something forgotten or before unnoticed.

It doesn't matter who is waiting at your door, for they always know the prefect way to lure you away from your task, the exact moves that distract you just like they want. You sit there, torn, gazing upon the perfect creation before you, your very hands at war, half wanting to keep writing, but more than that they want to reach out and touch-

You sigh, glancing regretfully at your inspired nonsense on the screen, and get up. When you reach the door, your work is all but forgotten. You lean down and pick up the battered volume from the floor and soon enough, you're settled into bed with it cradled lovingly in your arms, and the yellowed pages turn easily under your fingers.