"The P Word"

"Please, don't do it!" P said.

"You're right," I said. "I don't feel like it!"

It stared at my notepad then I glimpsed at my MacBook Pro. I wanted to write. I have so many ideas. I look at my lamp. But P is there looking at me.

"Of course, you cannot do it," he said, his long, dark curly hair exacerbated my problem. He's gorgeous! He's a combination of every handsome, dark-haired actor past and present: Valentino, Power, Clooney.

He laid there on my bed, his white shirt opened down to his navel, a sort of Fabio lite with his tight trousers and knee-high boots.

"You could sit here with me," said P.

"Why?" I asked.

He sat up and pressed his hand hard on my mattress. "It's a comfortable bed," he exclaimed. "As a matter of fact, it feels so much better with you under me."

"Ha Ha," I said. "Your flirting isn't working. You're not as hot as you think you are!"

"Really?" P turned over, lying down on the bed, his head at the edge of it.

"Why are you so sexy?" I asked him as I leaped up out of my chair. I got tired of looking at a blank MacBook Pro screen and a blank notebook and a closed pen. "I want to go out and walk on the grass in my bare feet."

"Anything but write?" said P.

"Anything," I said. "Even if I have a deadline."

P rolled himself over to sit up on my bed. He puffed up my main pillow, placed it on the backboard, and put his head against it. He looked so good on my pillow. He knew what he was doing. He was a seducer. He was an enticer. Those eyes looking at me. That mouth was full and luscious, slowly opening his mouth. Yes, he was a distraction to me. A sexy, amorous, intoxicating distraction to me.

But he was so tempting to me. He was a hard habit to break. He was the one stopping me from writing about an ugly Italian girl who became a swan after a near-fatal car accident. He was the one who pushed himself in front of my MacBook Pro while I was writing my story about a little black girl and her first black doll during the 1960s. This was an idea that was swirling around in my head, but HE was always there. He was always in my face, in my head, in my feet.

HE JUST WOULDN'T LEAVE!

"But I don't want to leave," he purred. "I love you! I want you! And guess what? You know you want me as well!"

I fidget in my chair, my hand pulling through my hair. The chair swiveled, so it made it easier to twirl around as if I was on an out-of-control merry-go-round. I felt a bit dizzy and about to pass out. Maybe if I passed out, he would leave. It didn't have to be this way. I couldn't shake him.

But goodness gracious, he had me. I closed the laptop, turned out the light, and joined him on my bed. He was in control. I was his subservient love slave. Every romantic novel cliche comes up when I'm with him. The rippling muscles, the six-pack abs, et cetera et cetera.

"WAIT!" I screamed as he put his hand between my breast. "I CAN'T DO THIS!"

"What?"

"This! I cannot be with you!"

P turned over on the bed, and his long dark curls cascaded around him. "I don't understand," he said. "Don't you want me?"

"I do, I do," I say, lying through my teeth. "But I have to finish this! You are blocking me!"

"From what?"

"Doing my work!"

I had had enough. This life of procrastination had to stop. This was a cycle that had to break. Procrastination had become my lover, hence the name "P". P was the ultimate seducer. P had seduced me to the point that I couldn't do ANYTHING P was able to control my life. I never had the ability to overcome this lover of mine. He was controlling, overbearing, and psychologically abusive. He was the cycle I had to break. But only I could do this. No one co this except me.

"You have to go!"

"Really?"

"Yes, P!" My voice rose as I was shaking. "YOU HAVE TO GO!" I was saying this while clapping. "PLEASE GO!"

"I don't know," P exclaimed as he made himself even more comfortable.

That did it. I reached out, pulled him up (boy, was he heavy), and made an attempt to throw him out of my room. Just as I was about to do it, he let go of my hand, turned around, grabbed me with his strong arms, and tried to kiss me. I wriggled away, found my black Pilot pen, and stabbed him in the arm.

"OUCH!" he screamed. While in pain, I took my size 8 foot and booted him out of my room. He went flying, and I locked the door.

"YOU'LL NEVER GET RID OF ME!"

"I just did!"

He knocked on the door for another five minutes before he couldn't do it anymore. I heard him slink away as I finally sat back down at my desk.

Before I could do it, I saw him at my window, bloody arm and all whispering, "I love you. You'll never get rid of me."

I got up from the chair and closed the blinds. He was unable to see me. Once I was able to do this, I returned to my chair, opened the MacBook Pro, logged in, opened a Word file, and began to type. I had written more than I had ever done. The words began to flow. The ideas came together. It was a character-driven theme. It was an actual STORY from me. I was doing what I should've been doing all along. I was finally breaking the cycle of procrastination. And all it took from me was discipline and maturity.

I had to write. I had to make this work. Breaking up with P was the best thing to happen to me and my writing career.

As soon as I took a deep breath, along with a minute more of meditation. I opened my eyes and began to type. If I need additional inspiration, I got it from the man who was still knocking at my window. But his knocks were fading away as I typed. The more I typed, the lighter the taps were on the window. In fact, when the taps finally stopped, it made it easier for the flow of ideas:

Philippe was the man who everyone envied and desired. With his cascading long, curly dark hair, women wanted to be with him, and men wanted to be him...