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If you could do that, then your stories would sing from the page.
Luca took pride in his storytelling. In the fact that so many readers came to his columns expecting sordid tales about tits and cocks, only to leave with lingering memories of Emerald the architect student, saluting the sun each morning without a stich of clothing, refusing to separate herself from the spirits of the soil. Or Daniel, the sixty-eight-year-old PhD student who was only now coming out of the closet, because he couldn’t stand the thought of dying with that regret.
Because the scandalous topics might draw the readers in.
But it was the incredible humans that made them stay.
And right now, Luca was trying to tell a very human story of sexual frustration, without any of the frankness he usually employed. Because the “tightrope” that Macy mentioned—that infuriating line of being captivating without being too controversial—was painfully real.
And that was Luca’s dilemma. Yes, this story had been his idea, but he still hated having to tone himself down for the mainstream. He wanted to start his literary rebellion now—to push back against those restrictions and write something that would piss off the Lone Star President and all his supporters. That would force the old bigots to read about people they thought were lesser and disgusting and not worth protecting.
But Luca knew that he couldn’t.
Not yet.
Not until he’d won his new employer’s favor.
And to do that, he had to make sure this article got published.
But how?
How could he talk discreetly about flashing his hole to a stranger? Or about his dreams of shoving his tongue—and plenty more besides—into Artair’s beefy ass? How could he talk professionally about days of blue balls and jerking off three times a night? About fantasizing that he was swallowing Artair’s big load, and wishing he could have his time again, just so he could see where that curious thumb might wander?
How could Luca be himself and still write this article?
It was a challenge for sure. And it was a challenge he needed to embrace.
After far too long staring into the picturesque distance, Luca forced himself to at least choose a title. One that he knew would walk that balance—cheeky and knowing, but not objectionable at face value.
In crafting it, he took inspiration from the posters on the wall. From another generation that had to allude to lust without saying things outright: the musicians of the 1960s and 70s.
I Can’t Get No (Summer) Satisfaction
And just as Luca was finally getting into his writing groove, something happened that shattered his focus.
Because down in the northern valley, past the point where he’d explored, rose a pillar of smoke.
Luca blinked for far too long before juggling the radio. “Fire!”
“Ow!” said Sandy, still with a few hours left on her shift. “I don’t actually need to hear you from the border, rookie.”
“Smoking fire! Fire smoke, fire!” he rambled, pressing his finger to the glass, as if it might help her understand.
“Okay, breathe. I know this might come as a shock, but fire lookouts will, on occasion, actually see a fire. Do you see a big map thing in the middle of the room.”
“Yeah?”
“Then congrats, now’s a good time to meet our friend Ozzy.”
Sandy guided him through the strange but beautiful device—the Osborne Fire Finder. Two concentric rings were laid flat on the circular map table, with one able to spin on well-oiled brass bearings and one fixed in place with etched compass marks. Luca turned the inner ring frantically until a gunsight-like pillar, also etched with numbers and markings all up its height, was aligned between the smoke and a black string across the map’s diameter.
“Read me the number,” said Sandy, calmly.
“Three hundred and twelve degrees,” said Luca, staring at the smoke like it was a wolf waiting to pounce.
“Just off northwest?”
“Yeah.”
