About The Buff Storm Type

by Vic Winter
11 pages / 4200 words
Available file types - html, lit, pdf, prc

Derek thinks he wants a guy like his fictional character, Buff Storm. As a writer, he can make his ideal man real, right? When he finally takes a vacation and meets a man who could be Buff's clone, though, Derek finds out that maybe he should be taking his inspiration somewhere else. Can an honest, down to earth guy teach Derek that Buff Storm is not his type?

Sample

He hadn’t officially won any awards as the greatest dancer in the world, but he was still pretty damn good and he loved nothing more than to go to the clubs and dance his heart out. He loved the music and the movement. He loved losing himself out there on the floor, under the lights, in the middle of hot, sweaty, writhing bodies. Everyone wanted to dance with him, rub up against him.

Dancing was a lot like hand-to-hand combat; it was hot and sweaty and involved physical contact.

Derek put down the pen and sighed. His fictional characters led way more interesting lives than he did. They got out more, they were sexier, and more confident, which wasn’t that hard, really, and most of all, they got laid more often. A lot more often. Of course, that wasn’t that hard, either, given Derek was practically a virgin. Not technically, but practically.

Buff Storm was brave and courageous. He was gorgeous and suave and could kill you three hundred and forty seven ways, with or without weapons. And no matter what the adventure, what the story, he always got the girl.

Of course, Derek wasn’t interested in that. Getting the girl, that was. No, if he was the hero of his own sexy action adventure, he’d get the guy in the end. Mind you, he was more the rescue-e type than the rescuer. He wasn’t alone in that, though, which was why his Buff Storm Adventures books sold like hotcakes. Guys wanted to be Buff Storm, girls wanted to do him. Everybody handed over their cash to read about him.

It worked for Derek.

Even if he sometimes felt a little invisible.

He rubbed his eyes and looked at the ink on the paper, the words blurring into nothing more than blots on a page. That’s all that Buff Storm was. The man wasn’t real; he lived in Derek’s imagination. Hell, sometimes he didn’t even seem to live there, which was why Derek had switched to ink and paper to write a chapter or two. He was in a rut, and it was affecting his writing.

He’d thought maybe a change of scenery would help, so he’d driven away from his place until he’d found a coffee shop he’d never been to before, installed himself in a corner with a fancy muffin, an even fancier coffee, a ridiculously fancy notebook, and a plain gel pen.

So far it was turning out to be a waste of time.

Maybe he needed a night out. Maybe it didn’t matter that he’d probably wind up sitting in a corner nursing a drink or two and then going home alone, having proven once again that he wasn’t one of the beautiful people or the type of guy who got lucky in the back room. Maybe then he could settle back into his routine of writing about Buff Storm and making lots of money.

Maybe he needed to kill off Buff Storm.