The odds of a woman reaching orgasm are slim to none. Those odds are the same for a writer to try to find their “C-spot”. The creative spot that indicates the location, routine, materials, and mindset a writer must have to attain true inspiration. Finding both spots take many different tactics. Some men try to set the mood by adding music for the woman who’s g-spot they’re seeking. Writers also try to set the mood with music in quest for their c-spot.
The underwear clad woman sat at the foot of a fluffy down feather bed. An author sat at his carved hardwood desk. The man across from Her took a few steps forward, their eyes meeting, he had something in his hand. She closed her eyes, heard a faint click sound and the room was suddenly filled with the smooth tones of a jazz saxophone and piano. The Author just bought an old Nat King Cole record at a garage sale. The Man and The Author both adjusted the volume just right, not too loud, not too soft but so natural that it blended into their peripheral hearing. He sat next to Her and she let the music and his body heat entice her. The Author listened and analyzed the lyrics of Autumn Leaves. He picked up the pen and began to write. The Man’s face slowly moved closer to Hers and in a moment their lips were touching. The Author was a page down, he thought to himself, this is it, first draft. It had been so long since he wrote. The Man laid Her down on the bed, she thought, this is it, finally. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been with somebody. She was so attracted to him and she could see their future. The author had the whole story in his head, he could see it being a best seller. The music continued to play, The Man was touching Her in places she was beginning to believe were foreign. The Author forgot what it felt like to be in the zone. The music was taking over all of their senses. They could hear it, smell it, and almost taste it. Was she making love to The Man or the music? Was The Author writing or was the music? The Man slightly panted, she softly moaned, the ink spilled on the paper. The Man and Her rolled around on the bed, taking each other’s bodies, so in synch, so animalistic. The letters turned to words, the words turned to sentences, and the sentences turned to pages. The author and Her were in pure ecstasy. The man was on top of Her, enveloping her with everything he had to offer at the moment. Nat King Cole took The Author to another world. The Author wrote faster, already ten pages written. The Man’s rhythm increased. The Author and The Man both reached the climax. The jazz stopped, Nat King halted, the record needed to be turned over, which broke The Author’s concentration. She came down from the euphoric state she was in. The Man slept, The Author got up, angry, and threw the pages on the floor. He was so close to finishing. She stood up angrily and picked her clothes up off the floor. She was so close to finishing.
