Short Story: "Three Authors."

Three authors have fallen on hard times. Their work no longer pays the bills, the economy has eaten the public's disposable income for books. They meet, by chance, at a local pub and introduce themselves to each other. One is a University Prof who teaches creative writing and has written several books that have made it onto their university's curriculum. One is a Literary Fiction author, who has won several awards. The third is a Genre Writer.

The University Prof and the Lit Fiction Author know each other already, informally. They sit down with the Genre Author. They're all in the same boat. After many, many a drink, one of them suggests that in the absence of other income, they should turn to sex work. "It is the oldest profession," the Professor waxes, poetically. After several more drinks they have decided this idea is good. After yet more, they have remembered they know where such an establishment is in the city: a house of ill repute, a place where such work can be done safely, for the safety of all involved. Bouncers, regular health checks, all the like.

Singing merrily, all three authors make their way to the house and, upon arrival, greet the owner. The owner is amused -- they've seen this sort before, they say. Authors, filmmakers, artists, eventually they all end up here, either as client or customer, they say. "All right," the owner decides, they'll give them a shot. They point the authors towards the top of the stairs, where there are three separate rooms. "In each of these rooms is one of our most loyal customers. Each of you choose one, and if the customer reports back that they are pleased, then you'll have the gig."

The University Prof goes into the door furthest to the left. They ignore the man on the bed and refuse to make eye contact, masturbate alone in the corner, and then leave. When reporting back to the owner, the customer gives them low marks.

The Lit Fiction author goes into the center room. They engage pleasantly with the man in it, who expresses what he would like from the interaction. The Lit Fiction author ignores this and proceeds to lube up two fingers. They push the fingers into the man's urethra, in and out, all while making unflinching eye contact. "Don't you like this?" they say, meaning it. "Isn't this so different from what you're used to?" When reporting back to the owner, the customer gives them low marks.

The Genre Writer goes into the last room on the right. They engage pleasantly with the man in it, asks them what he would like to get from the interaction. The things that the man requests, the Genre Writer provides. Where the things the man requests go outside the Genre Writer's comfort zone, they talk, a mutually agreeable arrangement is made. When reporting back to the owner, the customer gives them glowingly high marks. They say their every fantasy was fulfilled, that they were able to escape for just a moment. They ask if they can see that client again in the future.

When the three authors meet back in the lobby, the owner offers the Genre Writer a permanent position for as long as they might like, but politely informs the University Prof and the Lit Fiction author that their services will not be required.

On the cold walk home, the University Prof and the Lit Fiction author grumble to each other. "Ridiculous," one says to the other. "There's no accounting for taste. People just don't know what they should want."

This story was not about sex.