‘So, how’s the new book going?’ Richard asked over beer and a large Americano by the river.
‘Slowly.’ I said. ‘The story’s going great, but I’m getting a little bogged down in the erotic scenes.’
‘Really? What’s the problem?’
‘Nipples,’ I said. ‘They seem to become engorged like clockwork: every fifty pages or so. I think I’ll have to ban them.’
‘Words; the one’s that seem to crop up all the time. No more engorging, gasping, sliding or sudden moistening.’
Richard said that was probably very wise. ‘So you’re going pretty far with this erotica stuff then.’
‘Oh, I’ve decided that as long as it works then I can go as far as I like. But no more engorged nipples.’
It was an interesting question though: How far should one go? Where should you draw the line in pursuit of art?
‘I would never ghost write for Kerry Katona,’ I said. ‘That’s a line I will not cross.
‘What about you?’
‘Well, I’m an actor; I’ll do pretty much anything.’
‘I have no problem doing ads, but there are some companies I wouldn’t want to be associated with.’
‘And how about gay roles; there’s a lot of work for gay roles these days.’
‘I have no problem playing a gay man, none at all.’
‘Fair dos,’ I said. ‘And I reckon playing a homosexual will probably stretch you.’
Richard arched a sympathetic eyebrow, and I realised I’d run headlong into an unwanted Claryism.
‘Ah,’ I said.
‘Hm,’ he replied, then he salvaged the evening by asking for the bill.
I don’t know about you, but I’m a martyr to the unintended double-entendre. I don’t know what is it; maybe my brains wanders, no idea, but it’s one of the things I look out for when I’m reading through, and another good reason why someone else should be checking your work.