It has been six weeks since the US election results, and I am still unable to get any writing done. Domald Tromp’s victory has dragged me into a severe depression and the worst writing block I’ve ever experienced. Sure, my last book was only published in early December, and although ‘Fake News, Real Boners’ has topped the New York Times Bestseller lists thrice and earned me millions, I feel myself growing restless and jittery. The words are still stuck and I still can’t write.
My son Jon has tried to cheer me up by asking me to teach him Taekwando so he can beat up Todd from down the street. But even that fails to lift my spirits. I now spend my days trawling the streets of Billings, Montana, desperate for inspiration. Sometimes I sit at my local coffeeshop, fending off phone calls from Matthew McCockahay who is desperate for the lead part in the upcoming ‘Helicopter Man Pounds Dinosaur Billionaire Ass’ movie.
It is during one of these coffeeshop trips where I’ve just finished yelling at Matt Demon and Butt Affleck on the phone (begging me for the movie option for ‘Buttception: A Butt Within A Butt Within A Butt’) that I find salvation for my writing block. Someone sits at the table next to me and clears his throat, and I find myself facing a shockingly handsome Bigfoot doctor.
“Hi there,” says the very masculine Bigfoot. “I couldn’t help but overhear. Are you the famous and extraordinary writer Buck Trungle?”
“The very same,” I answer. I normally try to keep my identity a secret, but this Bigfoot’s handsomeness has caught me off guard.
“I’m Dr. Cork Gobbler.” He extends a hairy, muscular arm, which I shake. “I’m such a huge fan. Your way with words is remarkable. I own all your books.”
“Thank you very much.” I sigh and point towards my laptop. “It might be a while before my next one, though. I’m having very bad Writer’s Block.”
“Oh.” That handsome, chiseled face is marred by his deep frown. “Well, I have a suggestion, if you’re interested?”
“What is that?” I ask, more and more charmed by his low, masculine voice.
“I’m part of a group of Buck Trungle fans online who write fanfiction about you and your books,” he says coyly. “There is a huge fandom writing challenge called ‘Yuletide’ where we write fan stories in small fandoms. Maybe you could take part, incognito?”
“Wow,” I say. I’m amazed that there is a small legion of handsome, muscular fans like Dr. Gobbler who are writing about me and my little stories. It sure beats being harassed by the likes of Matt Demon and Butt Affleck. “Yeah, maybe I will join and take part in this.”
The handsome Bigfoot writes down the URL on his name card, and after a moment of hesitation, he adds his cell phone number too. “Feel free to call if you need help,” he adds with a saucy wink, before leaving.
Although I’m not gay, I take his card with my heart thumping in my throat. Maybe I should check this out after all.
When I get home, I take off my white gi and settle into my writing desk and chair. My writing corner is surrounded by my book covers, congratulatory letters from President Moldok and a plaque from my biggest fan, billionaire dinosaur CEO Elon Tusk. I give it a fond look before turning on my computer and keying in the URL that Dr. Cork Gobbler gave me.
It’s fascinating, to say the least. I had no idea people invested such time and loving energy into ‘fandoms’ for books, movies, anime, even commercials. I blush when I see quite a number of requests for my various books, which means more to me than movie options or millions of dollars. Maybe, as a thank you to my devoted fans, I could invent a pseudonym and write them something for this Yuletide challenge? I feel a surge of gratitude (and strangely, lust) for the enticing Dr. Cork Gobbler.
Signing up on archiveofourown.org is a breezy process, and I choose the username ‘billionairedinosaurfan2’ since ‘billionairedinosaurfan’ is already taken. I look through the requested fandoms and pick a few prompts that call out to me. My fans are so inventive! I thought I had already covered the full spectrum of erotic spectacles, but it seems they are just as imaginative. I close my eyes, wondering what it is like to be pounded in the butt by a Nightvale podcast.
In the end, I decide to do something completely outside my wheelhouse and pick a prompt about a millionaire erotic writer who gets pounded in the butt by a space pterodactyl. To my surprise, it only takes me a few hours to write something, and I’m very grateful to the sexy and masculine Dr Gobbler for his suggestion.
After some quick editing, I decide it’s fine for posting. Unfortunately, I’m alarmed to find there are no existing tags for my story yet despite its common themes, but I get assured by the moderators that the unwrangled tags will get sorted out once the stories are revealed on Christmas Day.
Shrugging, I key in the new tags:
‘Interspecies Dino Lovin’
‘Jurassic Space Sexventures’
‘Pounded by a Pterodactyl’
‘Fuck you Todd’
Contented with the end of my horrible writing block, I post the story and head to bed, dreaming of handsome space dinosaurs and charismatic Bigfeet doctors.
I jerk awake when I hear loud angry knocking on my door, blinking in confusion. It’s still dark out, and the glowing red numbers on my alarm clock tell me it’s only 4am. Who could it be? I slip on my white gi and grab the baseball bat that I keep nearby, in case it’s burglars or Todd.
When I open the door, my jaw drops in surprise. There is a group of stunningly handsome Yuletide tags standing outside my door, their tight shirts showing off their chiseled abs. “Y-you…” I stammer, dropping the bat to the floor with a clatter. “I created you only hours ago!”
“We know, Dr. Trungle,” says the tallest tag, ‘Buttageddon’. His voice is low and smooth, like the jet fuel of a handsome billionaire jet plane. “That’s why we’re here.”
“We’re here to thank you for bringing us into existence,” says another tag, ‘Fuck you Todd’ who has the most muscular arms I’ve ever seen. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here.”
Well, what can I say to a group of handsome Yuletide tags whom I’ve brought into existence? It seems the least I can do is invite them into my home for some chocolate milk, which they accept eagerly.
Shutting the door, the tags shiver a little, probably glad to be rid of the Montana night chill. “Take off your shirts and warm yourselves by the fire if you want to, guys,” I offer, bringing out a tray bearing glasses of warm chocolate milk. The tags gladly accept my invitation and guzzle down the milk. I can’t help but notice all of them shooting me steamy glances over their glasses, and I can’t help blushing. Who wouldn’t while being admired by a group of shirtless, rugged Yuletide tags?
“Dr. Trungle,” says ‘Pounded by a Pterodactyl’ in a deep, masculine voice. “We are so grateful that you gave us life, and now you’re giving us shelter and warm milk too.”
“Surely there must be a way we can repay you?” ‘Jurassic Space Sexventures’ says, giving me his empty glass and flexing his muscles as he does so.
“Oh, I uh--” I trail off when ‘Buttageddon’ and ‘Space Taekwando’ both stand up and advance towards me in a manly, lustful fashion, undoing the robe of my gi with slender fingers.
“Shh, it’s time for us to take care of you now,” ‘Trungleverse’ says, pressing his long thick finger against my lips. “It’s time we do the wrangling, good doctor.”
Well, what can I say to that?
After a steamy, enchanting night with my sentient Yuletide tags, I wake up alone and disappointed in my bed. However, a cursory check on my computer confirms that the tags have been wrangled and canonized. A deep part of me is disappointed - and sore - until my eye falls on the name card of one good Dr. Cork Gobbler lying on my desk, his number scrawled on the back in a strong, masculine fashion.
I pick up the phone, smiling to myself. I have to thank the gentle, handsome Bigfoot doctor after all for getting me out of my writing block.