Page 86 of Thick

“Well, it’s past dinner time, so I’m guessing you two didn’t come here to eat.” He turned toward the kitchen. “You’re a coffee drinker, aren’t you, Tate?”

All of Tate’s characters drank coffee. In fact, many of his fights, dates, and discussions happened at coffee shops.

“How many of his books have you read?”

“Seven or eight.”

While we followed my father to the kitchen, I did a mental eye roll and then looked at Tate. He grinned and shrugged.

“Which ones?” I asked.

“The four about the boxers, one about a bunch of high school misfits, one about a crazy tattoo artist, and two or three about bikers.”

I exhaled heavily and mouthed the words I’m sorry to Tate. He smiled and shrugged, as always.

My father poured three cups of coffee and turned around. “Cream and sugar?”

Tate nodded. “Please.”

“That’s the way I like it, too. Coffee is pretty nasty by itself, but doctored up, it’s good stuff.”

We sat at the kitchen table. I’d already decided my father didn’t hate Tate, but it was too early to tell if he liked him or not. He’d never once indicated that he thought anything other than positive thoughts about him, but then again, I had yet to explain that feelings were developing and developing fast.

“Why do all of your characters have great big dicks?” my father asked.

Midway through a sip of coffee, I coughed it out my nose. “Dad!”

“Well, they do. Hell, I kept waiting for one of ‘em to get undressed and pull out something normal. You know, a four-incher. Hell, maybe a good solid three. But, seven books in, and I’ve got a handful of eight-inchers, a couple of nines, and a thirteen. Who has a thirteen-inch rod, anyway?”

My face went flush.

Tate didn’t skip a beat.

“A book is supposed to appeal to the intended audience. For instance, if I wrote dystopian fantasy intended for young adults, my characters wouldn’t cuss. In real life, they would. Look at Hunger Games. If that girl was being shot at, and her friends were being killed off one by one, don’t you think she’d drop an F-bomb from time to time?”

My father raised his cup. “I’m sure she would.”

“In the book, she didn’t. It’s because the intended audience doesn’t like to have their books muddied with such filth. They’ll read about murder, and graphic scenes of torture, but cussing is a no-no.”

“And your intended audience likes men with a big Johnson?”

“The masses do, yes. Or, at least they like to fantasize about it. Not to say a book about a guy with a three-incher wouldn’t sell well, but it would have to be presented carefully. There’d have to be a reason for it. It’d work in the right book.”

If I read a book about a couple that I liked, and the guy pulled out a three-inch dick, I suspect I’d giggle. In real life, a three-incher beat a no-incher. In the book world, things needed to lean toward my fantasies.

And, in my fantasies, guys with three-inch dicks didn’t exist.

“Like the Elephant Man,” my father said.

Tate’s eyebrows raised.

“The man was a horrific looking soul, but he had a heart of gold. In that book, everyone felt compassion for someone they’d normally be repulsed by. You’d have to give your readers a reason to like the three-inch fellow. No differently than every book couldn’t have an Elephant Man, every book can’t have a three-inch man. Am I on track?”

Tate laughed. “Yes, Sir.”

“Tell me about your riot.”

Tate looked at me.