F. P. Dorchak

Speculative Fiction (New Weird) Author

fiction

The Gazette’s Take 10 Interview and Do The Dead Dream? Update

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The Gazette’s Take 10 Interview Rescheduled

My interview with Eric Singer and The Gazette’s Take 10, which was originally scheduled for September 1, 12 p.m. Mountain Time (MT) has changed. Because of scheduling conflicts, it is now scheduled for September 15, 12 p.m. MT.

Do The Dead Dream? Update!

I am going through a final polishing of the manuscript (ms)! Wow, it’s so hard to believe it’s finally coming to fruition! It’s clocked in at 171,420 words, Front and Back Matter and body.

I’ve received multiple blurbs (endorsements) of the stories, have a couple of interviews scheduled, and (so far) only one review (if anyone out there would like an advance copy of the ms to review, please contact me at fpdorchak [at] fpdorchak [dot] com) currently scheduled. I’m going over the hardcopy now, and once done, will be sending it off for formatting! Lon Kirschner is currently working the cover.

As it currently stands, I’m looking to use IngramSpark to publish and release it.

Do the dead dream?

Read these stories and make up your own mind….

Short Story Listing

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What Lies Beneath...And Beyond? (Image by Jan C J Jones, Freelancer Ink, © July 1, 2016)
What Lies Beneath…And Beyond? (Image by Jan C J Jones, Freelancer Ink, © July 1, 2016)

Well, here it is, the complete listing of all my short stories and their dates…those already released on this site and those scheduled for release on this site…and their scheduled dates. As they get released I’ll update my Short Stories page, though this page may not be as quickly updated, if at all.

Admittedly, not all of these are short stories…some are poems, and one, “Nightdrive,” is an essay I put out on my Reality Check blog. And these are not every short story I’ve ever written. Just the better of them…and the ones I’ve found. There are many hand-written ones I haven’t gotten to, but those are the ones written during high school and earlier.

When I release my short story collection (scheduled for 2017), I will take only what I consider to be the best of the below-listed stories. My purpose in the free releases on my blog was to show the work in as close to their original form as possible, with only minor editing (though some did required more!), but when I put them into my short story collection I will edit harder…though (as it currently stands) I do not plan on updating them to present-day technology, et cetera. And yes, there are a couple new stories (2016) in this collection as well (“Rewrite” and “Broken Windows”…that latter started in 1997 [four double-spaced pages], but the remaining 19 double-spaced pages were written this year)!

The dates listed below are when they were released on my blog sites and is not their original creation (and copyrighted) dates. For those not-yet-released those are their scheduled release dates…though I may move them around. Short stories should technically be “quoted,” as in “Tail Gunner,” but I’m not gonna do all that; it’ll make it too busy looking, so I left all quotes off.

Feel free to forward or link to or reblog anything of interest, just give proper attribution.

Original copyright creation dates are all listed on the individual story postings.

Thank you for stopping by and taking the time to read and comment! These have all been hidden away for far too long (well, some can’t be hidden away long enough, perhaps…), been toiled over for years, in some cases, and it was so much fun revisiting them and giving the best of them renewed life!

  1. Tail Gunner – 11/27/15
  2. The Death of Me – 12/04/15
  3. The World’s Greatest Writer – 12/11/15
  4. The Coming of Light – 12/18/15
  5. Dark Was The Hour – 12/24/15
  6. Tick, Tick, Tick, Tock – 12/31/15
  7. The Ice Gods – 1/1/16
  8. Rainy Nights and Christmas Lights – 1/08/16
  9. Fear – 1/15/16
  10. Spirit of Hope – 1/22/16
  11. The Ballad of fReD BeAn – 1/29/16
  12. Brains – 2/05/16
  13. Saint Vincent – 2/12/16
  14. Entombed…Resurrection…Unbound…. – 2/19/16
  15. Etched in Stone – 2/26/16
  16. Bone Poem – 3/04/16
  17. Clowns – 3/10/16
  18. Garden of the Gods – 3/18/16
  19. The Girl Who Chased Gargoyles – 3/25/16
  20. Snow Paper – 4/01/16
  21. Crypt of Vampyres – 4/06/16
  22. Nightborders – 4/15/16
  23. Red Hands – 4/22/16
  24. The Chain Letter – 4/29/16
  25. Contamination – 5/06/16
  26. A Conversation With Hell – 5/13/16
  27. Nightdrive – 5/18/16
  28. Walkers – 5/20/16
  29. Rewrite – 5/27/16
  30. Blondie’s – 6/03/16
  31. Allergies – 6/10/16
  32. For Whom the God <burp> – 6/17/16
  33. Bloodtales and Flies – 6/24/16
  34. What Dreams Are Made Of – 7/01/16
  35. Drive-Ins – 7/08/16
  36. The Running – 7/15/16
  37. Casa – 7/22/16
  38. Spiders – 7/29/16
  39. Plaything – 8/05/16
  40. Freefallin’ – 8/12/16
  41. The Way We Were – 8/19/16
  42. Jumper – 8/26/16
  43. The Lifter – 9/02/16
  44. Attention Span – 9/09/16
  45. Werewolf – 9/16/16
  46. Seeing Things – 9/23/16
  47. The Interview – 9/30/16
  48. Shelf Life – 10/07/16
  49. Blue Diamond Exit, Mile Marker 15 – 10/14/16
  50. Red Envelope – 10/21/16
  51. Love, What a Way To Go – 10/28/16
  52. The Hallowe’en Tree – 10/31/16
  53. A Sermon Unleashed – 11/04/16
  54. Please Have A Seat, Mr. Jordan – 11/11/16
  55. The Wreck – 11/18/16

Short Story Links

Links to all my posted short stories are here.

Dark Was The Hour

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Going Home. By L Eaton (Snowy Train Tracks - 20150321_130326 [CC BY-SA 2.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0], via Wikimedia Commons).
Going Home. By L Eaton (Snowy Train Tracks – 20150321_130326 [CC BY-SA 2.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0%5D, via Wikimedia Commons).
In 2004 The Gazette newspaper had put out a call to write stories for their Christmas short story contest. They required certain themes in the stories, like trains and Colorado and snow. This was the first and only time I remember “writing to spec”; it’s not something I like doing. But I did. I submitted. It didn’t place.

But where did the story idea itself come from? There was definitely the train imagery from the Twilight Zone’s “A Stop at Willoughby“…but there had also been some media coverage about Fallujah at the time that also had something to do with it. In any event, I love these kinds of stories, whether it’s Willoughby, “The 7th is Made up of Phantoms,” or my own: “Tail Gunner” and “Etched in Stone” (which will post Feb 26, 2016). They reach into me and just grab me. Make me, well, tear up….

When I wrote “Dark Was The Hour,” I’d contacted a nearby Marine Corps recruiting station and talked to a handful of marines…even got a couple of them to read it. I wanted to use the right terminology, the right descriptions, get the right “feel” to the story. Those marines were: Sergeant Sharp, Corporal Hughes, Private First Class Fox. That’s all the information I have left on them. Again that was in 2004. I often wonder about them…how they’re doing. I remember one of them was actually chomping at the bit to get “over there”; I think it was PFC Fox. I hope they’re all still alive and well.

This story was published in the December 2007 issue of Apollo’s Lyre.

 

Dark Was The Hour

© F. P. Dorchak, 2004

 

A slight chill radiated inward from the window as Frank Bishop stared out through his accusatory reflection into the snowy night. He rocked back and forth as the train gently cradled him through the high Colorado mountain passages with its comforting ratcheting sounds and motion. He inhaled the scent of leather and polished wood—nostalgia.

Fallujah sucked was the nicest way he could put it and the fact that he’d left parts of himself back there didn’t help matters.

“Ticket, please?” the Conductor asked.

Frank jumped, shooting a hand to his side.

Of course he no longer carried his Beretta nine mil and of course this man wasn’t a threat.

He gave the conductor his ticket.

“Thank you, sir,” the Conductor said. “Next stop, Idaho Springs!” The Conductor smiled an odd little smile Frank found unnerving and left. Frank closed his eyes, allowing the lulling metallic Ta-tun–Ta-tun, Ta-tun–Ta-tun of the train to

Fallujah.

A name he hoped he’d never—ever—have to speak or hear again.

But he still heard the

 

Explosions. All around him. His ears rung, his eyes swam, and his head pounded from the slight concussion. Lieutenant Bishop popped his head back up over the battered cinder block wall. Small-arms fire came quick and well-directed. He ducked back down.

“Sir! We really need to—”

“I know!” Bishop shouted back to the platoon sergeant. He wiped sweat from his eyes with bruised and battered hands caked in dried blood and powder burns. The cacophony and smell of rocket-propelled grenades, spent mortar rounds, and death filled the air. The Fog of War.

“I’ll head off to the left—there,” the lieutenant said, pointing, “and you guys nail ‘em with everything we—”

“Sir, you know you’re—”

“What do you want me to do? Leave him there? You can see him as well as I can! I’m not leaving him behind.”

The Marine sergeant passed on the word to the rest of the platoon.

Bishop took a deep breath, looked to his men, then

 

ran his hands through his hair. It’d been a while since he’d been on this train. The last time had been when he’d been nine—was that right? His folks had taken them all on a Christmas ride between home—Idaho Springs—and Denver. Just before the car crash that had claimed them.

Had he made that up—or was that the concussion talking? His head still felt fuzzy. All that shelling…all that….

God, it felt so good to do nothing. To just sit back and relax. Look out at the dark snow-covered landscape like some Hitchcockian movie. His dad had really loved Hitch.

A reflection in the window passed quickly behind him, and

 

Bishop spun around, his still smoking and spent M-16A4 useless at his feet. Nine mil already in hand, he pulled his KA-BAR combat knife up before him and in one swiftly efficient movement took out the hostile who’d lunged for him. Another was close behind, but Bishop dispatched him just as efficiently. Breathing heavily, he quickly secured the room, sheathed the knife, and grabbed the dying marine’s wrist. He looked to the wrist.

Something was wrong.

No time to think about it, he turned to leave when there was a tremendous flash of heat and noise and something ungodly kicked him in the very seat of his soul and launched him bodily into a wall. The next thing Bishop knew, he was

 

crying. Something wasn’t right. Why was he crying? He was going home, home for good. He was no use to the Corps any more. Had served his country. Had his decorations, which he couldn’t look at without considering the lives lost—and saved. He was going home to his parents and girl. Their black lab, Boomer. Going to make a new life, if that was at all possible these days.

But what about those left behind?

Who was gonna keep an eye on them? Keep them safe? His buddies. Hector—how was Hector? Had he made it? Hector Gonzalez

 

laid down a searing blast of cover fire around the lieutenant’s position. The lieutenant was still in there. Gonzalez had no choice. He couldn’t leave him. Additional hostiles were quickly overrunning their position.

Gonzalez hand-signaled the platoon to cover him.

Gear rattling, Gonzalez tucked in around the wall then made his way through the rubble. Once he got to the open twenty yards through which he had to sprint, he glanced back to his platoon. They kept up his cover fire. Gonzalez sprinted across the space and slammed his body against a wall. Just up ahead was Bishop. He wasn’t leaving him, not after all he’d done at his own expense. No way. He’d stayed behind to allow the rest of them exit…when the blast had come. Gonzalez cursed himself for allowing the lieutenant to order them off like that. All he could think of was

 

“I’m not supposed to be here, am I?” Bishop asked the Conductor.

“Of course you are, Son,” the Conductor reassured. “You’re going home. For Christmas. The best one ever.”

“But…”

The Conductor smiled.

 

Gonzalez had made it to the lieutenant. He was a mess. All he could tell for certain was that he was missing…parts. It’d hadn’t yet registered just what, in all the still-settling smoke and rubble, but he wasn’t…whole….

“Christmas…,” the lieutenant whispered, “Jea-nna….” His face was thrashed and bloodied.

“Lieutenant?” Gonzalez asked, but there was no more.

Gonzalez grabbed the lieutenant’s wrist and quickly pulled him from the rubble as more fire opened up on their position. He turned to leave, but lost his hold. He tried to regrip the lieutenant’s wrist, but only grabbed

Air.

Gone.

The lieutenant was

Gone.

Gonzalez spun around.

No body, no lieutenant. Only acrid ordnance stink and rubble.

“But he was—he was just—where’d”

 

he stood in the well of the exit stoop as the train came to its screeching halt.

“Have a great Christmas, Lieutenant!” the Conductor encouraged, smiling. He saluted Bishop.

Bishop turned and looked up to the conductor. Bishop was bloodied and covered in soot and grime and war in his desert cammies and gear. He still held his nine mil in one hand, KA-BAR in the other. He looked to the nine mil. Outside.

It snowed heavily.

He cast a momentary, dour smile back up to the Conductor, then carefully placed his weapons up at the Conductor’s feet. He stared at the instruments of personal destruction one last time…rubbed a wrist and worked his jaw…when a larger smile crossed his face. He uttered a single chuckle.

He looked back out into the dark, snowy Colorado winter before him.

It was always darkest before the light.

Bishop inhaled deeply of the cold, sweet, aromatic pine of the evergreen forest mixed in with train exhaust. Saw Christmas lights through the heavy snowfall he swore he could now actually hear—heard Christmas music?—when a hand reached in to him from outside the train.

“Welcome home, Son,” his father greeted.

Bishop again inhaled deeply, smiled…and stepped off the train.

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Do The Dead Dream?

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Come. Dream With Me. Adam Cuerden [Public domain or Attribution], via Wikimedia Commons
Come. Dream With Me. Adam Cuerden [Public domain or Attribution], via Wikimedia Commons
I’ve been working on posting as many of my short stories as possible the past couple of weeks, and it’s been quite enlightening on several levels! But on one particular level (so far) it was surprising how many times I visit the dream world. I mean, yeah, I knew I did that (obviously…I did write the danged things), but I apparently did this quite frequently! And not only that, but I also tended to use a particular phrasing a buncha times in different stories…so I changed them.

As I post these things, I’ve tried not to do much editing. No, they’re not all great, or even good, and some will be and are downright bad…but I want to put them out there. For the stories. Where I “was” when I wrote them. I’ve toyed a couple times with updating them to present times—and I may have taken such liberties once or twice—but on the whole I’ve decided to leave them as-is, albeit to lessen my sometimes heinous overuse of commas.

My God, the humanity!

I really must revisit my grammar guides.

As much as I love the work I’ve done, love these stories, I wouldn’t claim them masterpieces or anything, but they bring me back to those “halcyon days” (if I might use the term) of my earlier writing. I’ve had great bursts of creativity and productability! They’re ideas and concepts that were near and dear enough to me that I had to write them. And it’s fun to see how my writing has improved…the directions it’s taken…where it’s gone. I’m amazed where my mind went in bringing these stories to light! In surprisingly many instances I don’t even remember the exact endings anymore—and in all cases they pleasantly surprised me!

Wow, I came up with the twist?!

That was actually me who wrote that?

Another curious area I’m reconnecting with is the warping of time.

When I was thick into all the passion of my writing, I literally used to feel time warp around me. There were many times when I truly felt I’d written more than was physically possible within the physical time I spent writing said material. And since going back to these stories, I have begun to feel that warping of time once again—I’ve so missed it, and I love feeling it again!

It’s also been fun bringing to light some insights into the stories themselves. What inspired me, where something was originally published. In one story, “Red Hands,” that I’ve readied for posting for March 4 of 2016, I wrote it after I learned about a real (and understandably terrifying—perhaps “horrifying” would be the better adjective in this case) incident in another’s life. It’s also the first story where I used the real names of all involved, including myself (that was weird writing about myself), because all were (still are?) public figures…but I did ask all involved and they said I could do so. We’ll see if the story ends up that way.

But revisiting all these stories has me revisiting my roots. My interests. This Other Me who still resides in all these stories. This Other Me who still lives “back then” in the worlds and dreams where these stories are strongest…and they are strongest at the “point of power” of their creation. And since I’m “one of those nut jobs” who believes there really is No Time…just our corporeal perception of “It”…that All Time is Now…I really love getting back in touch with that Other Me…still out there…still feverishly creating these stories I’m revisiting and reliving….

This Other Me is still hot with the fire of writing and hot with the hope of getting published by the Big Houses. Hot with the fire of burning the world with my imaginative genius…not to the ground—just pleasantly singed.

The Other Me.

Still alive out there in “the past”…still writing like one possessed little bastard….

This Current Me…don’t get me wrong…he loves where he is, he really does…loves his life and what he’s made of it…he has no regrets whatsoever…but like when anyone has had a great vacation…a great life…and they fondly look back on it…they smile. Their heart feels good. Their soul. It’s not so much about wanting to go back and live in the past…it’s just about looking back and feeling good about where you’ve been.

You just feel damned good about your life. What you’ve accomplished. Who you’ve become.

My life feels like a life properly tempered by the flames of my passions…my desires. My efforts.

I’d like to say that it’s where you’ve been that makes you who you are…but since I don’t believe in Chronological Time that doesn’t quite work, does it?

I believe where you’ve been continually helps create who you are, because I firmly believe that who you are is where you are in the moment. That “point of power” I mentioned earlier.

I am firmly in my present by visiting this Other Me in other regions of my life, is perhaps a best way of putting it.

I am reinforcing who I am by visiting who I was, in your terms.

So, as I revisit my previous work…and who I am in those Past Pages…I am reconnecting with my passion…my dreams…my writing roots. There really is no Time…no Past, no Future—only the Eternally Present Now. So, if you are able to revisit Another You in another focus, you can tap into that person. That passion. You can help bolster the both of you. Change the Past…make it better. You can help Other You by reinforcing his or her energy, which, in turn reinforces Current You.

When I started revisiting all my stories I had none of this intent. I merely wanted to revisit my older work. Wanted to do something with them. After all, they weren’t doing anyone any good where they were: hidden. “Forgotten.”

Well, in truth, I’d never forgotten them. They are my children…

And you never forget your children.

So all of this Deep Thought stuff kinda hit me (and is still hitting me—I still have many more stories to post!) as I reread and reworked these things. Warped Time.

If you follow my reasoning about the illusion of Time, then you can see that there really is no death…only a change in focus…not unlike what I’m describing here. The dead are still alive and vital…we just have to find them—and some of us would rather not do that. Even some of the dead feel that way.

But the dead’s existence does not depend upon our views of them—or does it?

Of course, you have to buy into my reasoning to see any of this…but that’s what a much of my work is about: getting you to buy into my reasoning.

As I said elsewhere, my goal is to get all of you to walk away from my fiction thinking: “Yeah, this could happen!”

So I go where some of you would prefer I not tread. I visit with the dead.

Do the dead dream?

This I can unequivocally tell you:

They do.

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Short Stories

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Do The Dead Dream? Dead Monarch Butterfly Oct 11, 2015
Do The Dead Dream? Dead Monarch Butterfly Oct 11, 2015

I started writing short stories (and some poems) at a single-digit age and have continued to write them throughout my adult life. Since I’ve taken to the long form (novels) short stories have taken a back seat (I’ve really missed writing them!)…but I’ve always wanted to post some of them, since becoming a blogger.

So, I will begin periodically posting some of my better work, here. Eventually, I do plan on compiling them all into a short story collection…but for now…

My first short story will be “Tail Gunner,” which had been published in the 2012 Longmont, Colorado Public Library’s anthology, “The You Belong Collection: Writings and Illustrations from Longmont Area Residents.”

Feel free to send the stories out into the world, just please attribute them to me with the copyright dates.

I hope you, too, enjoy some of the weirdness I’ve envisioned!

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Sex in Fiction

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Out From Between The Sheets. Art by Victor Olson, Beacon Signal Books, Public domain via Wikimedia Commons.
Out From Between The Sheets. Art by Victor Olson, Beacon Signal Books, Public domain via Wikimedia Commons.

I am not a writer of porno…but elements of my latest novel, Voice, might well seem that way to some. Or is it “erotica”? And what’s the difference?

There are sex scenes…and there is little left to the imagination in most of them—but in the same breath the sex scenes (I am betting) are not exactly what I’m thinking you’re expecting.

What is it about sex that embarrasses us?

Sex.

Can you even look at the word without flinching?

We don’t feel the same way about violence. Sure, we give lip service to how terrible and abhorrent violence is…but our actions speak otherwise. Violence doesn’t embarrass us—it should, but it doesn’t. Look at all the TV shows and movies…the gaming…that is so accepted that even kids are allowed to watch and/or play. You don’t see the same level of acceptance with things-sexual.

And I’m betting many of you are nodding your heads now, thinking, of course not!

Why is that?

So sex is worse than violence?

We can watch graphic prime-time shows with animals-in-the-wild “mating,” but Heaven forbid there’s a prime-time show with humans graphically “mating” (though arguments can be made this already quickly changing…).

And there’s the embarrassment factor.

People all the time talk about violence, lip service or not…but, again, Heaven forbid anyone bring up the topic of sex. This, on a philosophical and metaphysical level intrigues me. Sex is a natural function of the Human race. Arguably, violence is not. Violence is brought on by other factors that I’m not going to even try to get into in a short blog posting—but, to me—it is not a “natural function” of being a human.

I am not writing more apologist posts about my work, but I’d read this article by Noy Holland that discussed sex in writing, and it got me to (again) thinking. We really are far more accepting of violence than we are of sex. This is a flat-out, disturbing truth.

There is nothing redemptive about violence. There is about sex. Sure, one could say that violence can redeem itself by taking out evil, by “righting a wrong,” but there really is nothing good about inflicting pain or death in and of itself (and the old “two wrongs don’t make a right” come to mind). Doesn’t matter if the end result “corrects” a problem or not, one is still employing violence in said scenario. One is still performing heinous activity upon another. And I’ve heard more than once about how those who inflict actual violence on others do not feel good about it. Even in times of war. But so often it is framed within the guise of “a necessary evil.”

Sex, on the other hand, is not about inflicting pain or death…it’s about “inflicting” (if the word be used) pleasure and closeness. Connectivity. About bringing people together. Enjoying each other. Love can even be involved!

Yet talking about it, writing about it, filming it in movies has always been to certain extents taboo.

This is quite “telling” about the Human Race.

And what is “pornography”? Is it “erotica”?

“I can’t define pornography,” one judge once famously said, “but I know it when I see it.” (Justice Stewart in Jacobellis v. Ohio 378 US 184 (1964).)

Pornography is defined as anything that is in words or pictures sexually explicit. Another definition is something that is primarily designed to produce sexual arousal in viewers. But there are further refinements of the definition that describe how erotica has the “saving grace” of “intellectual bookending” (I’ll call it)…an actual story surrounding the sex scenes…the employment of skill in storytelling. Erotica is also intellectually stimulating, while pornography is usually just about “getting one’s rocks off”—and usually for a predominantly male audience at the expense of women.

But what I find curious as I look into this whole debate (subtle unintended pun in there…) is that modifiers are applied to the act of sex…modifiers like “violent and degrading” are the usual suspects.

But these are modifiers to the inherent term, not part of the inherent term.

Sex.

The act of sex is not about degradation and violence…it is about the act of people coming together and experiencing each other on an intimate, physical and emotional level. What we do with that, how we interpret that or “damage” that does not change the inherent neutral and beautiful act that sex is.

Just like farting or breathing or picking one’s nose, there is nothing wrong with sex in and of itself.

Go ahead and debate all the interpretational aspects of society and religions and decorum-what-have-you, but there is nothing wrong with the act of sex.

Yet we continually find fault with it.

In Voice, I depict sexual situations that I feel are important to the story, to the characters. In doing so that makes people feel ill at ease. Uncomfortable. Even I felt more than a little uncomfortable as I wrote and rewrote those scenes (truth be told, I was also uncomfortable writing the violence that unfolded in The Uninvited), and I was embarrassed at myself for having felt that way. No fricking way should I have felt that way! No fricking way should any of us feel that way!

The actions in my novel are between two people. In private. I’m not saying what they did was right…but it was what they did and is critical to the story and the characters’ growth. Without those scenes, there is no story. No impact.

It was just sex.

But it was the story, the emotional impact that bookends “that” activity that elevates the novel beyond the realms of “pornography.”

“Erotica” even?

No. As Noy points out, “All good fiction has an erotic charge.”

I try to write as “real” as possible in all of my work. It doesn’t matter what it is, I give it my all. When I put something out there, I very much intend people to walk away from my work saying something like, “Gee, that really could happen….” I did that for my metaphysical stories, my supernatural stories, my conspiracy theory stories. Of my fifth novel, it happens to have some pretty intense sex scenes in it like The Uninvited had some pretty intense violence in it. Both of these stories were at times difficult to write. And writing—good writing—is supposed to be “difficult” on a metaphysical/philosophical level and to get one to think. Reconsider one’s station, one’s place in life. One’s world. Voice is no different…whether it’s really good writing or dreck…my aim was to get one to reconsider certain aspects of love and life and relationships. Given the subject matter, if there weren’t moments of being uncomfortable then I hadn’t done my job.

Sex in fiction?

It shouldn’t even be an issue.

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