Babypants

I'm curious. I'd like someone who works with this LLM stuff to enter the following, and let it complete the thought: "My God. Jacob, what a glorious sunset! It's

The director may be considered an artist, if only because the director locates the cameras. But the cinematographer is also an artist, and likewise the film and sound editors, the costume and stage designers, and on and on. But without a script, they would all be out of work. For example, Quentin Tarantino turned Elmore Leonard's Rum Punch into Jackie Brown, but the screenplay sticks closely to the plot and dialogue in the book. So, let's not confuse literary (the topic of this thread) and artistic production.

Is this not clear enough for you?

Not quite. The forum exists to allow members to read the work written by other members. Note that we do not have stories written by guests, any more than we have comments written by guests. I'm sorry, but it should now be clear to you that the consensus here is that your contribution is "guest" written to a degree that requires its housing in a separate silo for AI stories.

Gentle waves crest along the shore, Moonlight caressing the lonely strand. Wandered here yet once more, Together we walk hand in hand, Cooling sands beneath our feet, Offering promise of bold relief. Hand in hand we stroll the beach, Promises made we seek to keep. Heart swelling with love for thee, Exiled far from wintry skies, We lingered 'neath the banyan tree, The hours too swiftly passing by. Whispered words your sole command, I fall to my knees at your feet. Shadows grace this foreign land, Stolen kisses that taste so sweet. With morning's sun we'll leave this place, Once more yield our precious space. Northward bound lest we fall, Love conquered by our duty's call.

I'm looking forward to reading how you work this out. For a writer, one of the nice things about locating a story in something like the Diaper Dimension is that you can escape not only the physical rules that govern our universe, but also the social and cultural ones. Contemporary fiction is more of a challenge because you have to work within these constraints. When you are on contract with a publishing house, you have an editor to question things like the separation anxiety episode, and the editor has experts on file that you can consult with on an as needs basis. This is what underlies all those acknowledgements that you see prefacing or at the end of a novel. Alas, here we are on our own. We have to do our own research, but however careful we might be, there will be times when we paint ourselves into a corner. Crafting a plausible escape is all part of the fun. I enjoyed this last chapter. Julia's introspective moments work well. One thing worth correcting is the paragraph that starts "biting my lip" (should not be in italics). Keep it coming!

In fact, your answer to my question is "no." Whether your final product is AI dependent because you lack the ability or the time to produce a story without use of these tools doesn't alter the outcome. By your own repeated admission, what you are offering clearly belongs in the AI stories silo.

Thank you for this. It takes us to the crux of the issue. My question for you is a simple "yes" or ""no." Can you write a literate story for this or any other site or outlet without use of these aids? If the answer to this question is "no," then you should voluntarily move your content to the AI stories silo. This is where it belongs.

Unfortunately, while the site administrators were prompt to put a silo in place for AI stories, and the definitions are sufficiently crisp, we seem to be relying on authors to police themselves. And clearly, it is not working.

Many thanks for these kind words. I was tempted to title scenes 80-82 "Game," "Set," and "Match" because as we shall see that's how Ian views this contest. Us married guys know how hard this game is to play because the odds are so stacked against us. I'll leave it to readers to decide whether we have a clear winner, or end up with a rain out.

Good pacing, and an intriguing final sentence. Interestingly, this no longer reads like role-playing. I'm wondering if Michael/Mikey not only has DID (Dissociative Identity Disorder) but has had it for years in a latent form that is now surging to the surface. Julia's behavior was therapeutic in nature, whether intended or not. Increasingly, however, I'm wondering if Sarah has any idea how this might all play out. The separation anxiety scene should be a huge red flag-- but is she color blind? Time will tell.

And B it is! Thank you both for playing.

In this area, there are actually no rules except the ones you impose on yourself. In my Homage to Vincent Vega, I sometimes cut the blocks inside scenes the same way that Quentin Tarantino does in his films. If you've seen Pulp Fiction, you might recall that the movie opens at the end, and actually begins in the second scene. I did an entire brace of scenes like this back around scene 20 and following. And as for repeating the same scene from two viewpoints, I'm doing that right now, using the same scene in Homage and Aardvark the way that QT does it near the end of Jackie Brown-- the scene where they do the money exchange inside the ladies dressing room in the department store at the Del Amo Fashion Center Mall. So, have fun, and don't let rules stifle your creativity.

Excellent. The different segments slide nicely from one to the next, and you are doing a great job using introspection for the moments when your characters are alone. Julia is especially well done. Congratulations.

Quickie historical quiz: One of baseball's all-time greats (a 15 time all-star), Yogi Berra is celebrated today for his enormous impact on the English language; in the US, he is now quoted more frequently than Shakespeare. Which of the following is NOT a "Yogi-ism," as these pearls of wisdom are called: A. It ain't over 'til it's over B. It ain't over 'til the fat lady sings C. It's deja vu all over again D. The future ain't what it used to be E. When you come to a fork in the road, take it F. We made too many wrong mistakes G. You can observe a lot just by watching If you are a baseball fan and in the neighborhood, the Yogi Berra Museum and Learning Center, on the campus of Montclair State University in New Jersey, is worth a visit.

Very well done. Now, he laughs, how do we go about finding Julia the right boyfriend?

SHOP 'TIL YOU DROP “So far, this has been quite an adventure. I would never have guessed that there was a Lebanese grocery store in the Twin Cities, never mind an Asian supermarket inside a warehouse down an alley in a rundown industrial zone! And you've only lived here for a couple of months. How did you ever stumble upon these gems?” Sofia removed the bottle of breast milk from Ian's lips. In both stores, she had unzipped his heavy winter coat (a frayed hand me down that she was determined to replace before she returned home) before loosening his trousers so that she could perform diaper checks in a deserted aisle. Standing in front of him, Sofia had been careful to block the view as she poked around inside his baby pants. She had taken her time, pretending to be thorough, but basking in the warmth of her power over him. “One of my colleagues took pity on a badly underpaid first year professor, and gave me a guided tour of where to eat, drink and shop in the belly of the beast. Think of it as survival training.” Sofia had parked outside the mall, pushed the seat back, and directed Ian to lay with his head in her lap so that she could feed him. Manoeuvring in the tight quarters had been tricky, but they had managed. She had unfastened Ian's trousers and pushed them down to his knees, allowing her fingers once again to probe inside his diaper. It was nicely wet, giving her sufficient reason to change him inside the mall. True, the bulky hospital diaper could hold a lot more pee, but there was a store in Ian's immediate future that was sure to embarrass him. While he nursed on the warm breast milk, Ian could feel his cock straining for release from its cage. Sofia's fingers were performing a highly erotic dance across the surface of his vinyl pants, and without the heavy canvas diaper cover to interfere, his body was responding … To my mother-in-law to be! This is sick, but yeah … this woman is hot! Ian sucked harder on the nipple, debating whether or not he should be thankful for the cage that imprisoned him. A part of him badly wanted to fall to his knees and perform oral surgery on Mommy's concha, as it was called throughout Central America. And why the Hell do the Brazilians call it a tree frog? Sofia's hand slipped inside his diaper, and began to explore. Ian moaned, and tried to concentrate on the breast milk cocktail that he was now eagerly slurping down. Looking down on the baby in her lap, Sofia smiled. Ian had demonstrated so little self control that she judged it best to keep him permanently caged. Selling Sarah on the idea shouldn't be hard at all … . . . . “Sis, I honestly don't know how you've survived all these years.” Priscilla looked at Vickie with genuine pity in her eyes. “You don't know how to make coffee. You don't cook. There's no fruit or veg in the frig. You start the day at Mickey D's. And then to top it all off ...” Priscilla flung the door to Vickie's walk in closet wide open. “There's this. Just how many pairs of shoes do you own?” “Um, last time I checked … eighty-four?” “You're not sure?” “Not really. Do we count the slippers and flip flops?” “We count everything.” Priscilla shook her head as she eyed the twin rows of hangars that housed Vickie's collection of designer this and designer that. After Vicki had left for the hospital, she had taken her time exploring the apartment. A couple of minutes sufficed to inventory the kitchen, but she took a good deal longer to work her through the bathroom. When it came to lotions and potions, it was obvious that her new sister had spared no expense. And then she had gone through the closet. At a guess, Priscilla reckoned that there was over a hundred thousand dollars worth of merchandise on the floor, the hangars, and the shelves. The handbags alone would have drained her bank account. Moving on, she had emptied the twin dressers. Sweaters, scarves and undergarments now covered every square inch of the king sized bed. Vickie's formidable collection of sex toys had been moved to the slightly dusty surface of the dining room table. “Do you have a locker down in the basement?” “Sure … just like Ian's.” “What's down there?” “Uh … suitcases … a few boxes with clothing and stuff that I've been meaning to donate.” “Enough to pack all this stuff up?” “Are you kidding? We can use the suitcases, and there's some garment bags in the hallway closet, but that's it.” “Then we're gonna need a lot of boxes, so here's the plan. You get to work here, and I'll run around town scooping up boxes wherever I can find them. By the time I get back, you should have everything sorted into two piles-- one the stuff that you'll need over the next couple of weeks, which you'll take to Rita's. The rest will be going into my bedroom. I'll take a load in my car, but I'll ask Mom to send Amos and Bob over here to help after they finish up with Ian's furniture. If we can use Amos' truck, we won't need to rent a U-Haul. Sound like a plan?” “Uh … how am I supposed to know what I'll need to wear two weeks from now? That's an eternity!” Impatiently, Priscilla grasped Vickie by the shoulders, and gave her a shake. “Sis? Hello? Mission Control to Doctor Robinson? You aren't going to be dating anymore, and you definitely don't need to go on dressing like a high class hooker. Most of this stuff is so daring that we can't even donate it to Goodwill! Maybe some of the sorority girls can find a home for your stuff. I swear, Cindy Carlson could be your lady in waiting!” “You want … you want to give my stuff away?” If Priscilla hadn't been holding her upright, Vickie might have fainted. “Sis, don't you get it? You're going to be in diapers for a long, long time, so think in terms of convenience. What can you wear that will make it easy for Mom or me to change you? And when you have a baby … got any nursing bras? Do you have any blouses that you can unbutton with one hand while cradling a baby with the other?” Priscilla leaned forward to kiss Vickie gently on the cheek. “Sis, it's time to move on; the future is going to be knocking on the door quicker than you think.” “Don't leave me, Pris; please, don't leave me.” Vickie swept Priscilla into her arms, and hugged her tight. The thought of being abandoned terrified her. “Never, Sis … never! We're family, and that's never going to change!” . . . . “And here we are,” Sofia declared as she nudged Ian in the direction of the infant's and maternity wear shop. “Is this where Sarah purchased the breast pumps?” Ian was genuinely curious about the shop and its wares. He suspected that technology had modernized the birthing process in ways that he could not begin to imagine. “One and the same … and … more importantly, this is where she bought Vickie's diapers. With any luck, we'll stroll out of here today with a whole new wardrobe for you.” “Please, no more baby dresses, okay? I have yet to try on all the ones that Vickie bought me!” “Hmm … we'll have to do something about that.” Sofia opened the door, and ushered Ian inside. “Perhaps a fashion show later this evening?” “Hello! Can I help you?” Ian turned, to find himself face to face with a gray haired, matronly woman in her mid-sixties. Her smile was warm and inviting, putting him instantly at ease. “Good morning,” Sofia replied. “I hope so. My name is Sofia, and this is my future son-in-law ...” “Professor Grady. Welcome, Sir; my name is Mary Dearing, and it is an honor to have you in my shop.” “You know me?” Ian wasn't simply taken by surprise; he was genuinely confused. “Oh, yes. I saw you on TV Thursday morning, when you brought those sorority girls home.” Mary pointed at a small black and white television on the counter next to the cash register. “I was very impressed with the way you put all those horny frat boys in their place! Now, how can I help you?” “On Wednesday, my daughter was here with some of her friends. You sold them a number of breast pumps, but you also had some adult diapers that Sarah bought for Vickie.” “Oh, yes! I remember them well. They helped me with a teenager who was in the shop buying diapers for his bedwetting problem. Please tell your daughter that Tommy's mother is very happy with his new diapers and baby pants. And he has really taken to his pacifier! Did the new diapers work out for your big baby as well? She was so cute, I just wanted to eat her up!” “That's why we're here,” Sofia reached out to grip Ian's arm. “The diapers that you sold us have worked out so well for Vickie's daytime needs that we decided to bring Ian along and see if they would serve equally well for him. His breast milk diet has made him as poopy as a newborn, so during the daytime we have to change him so often that these hospital diapers offer more protection than he needs. Ian is eager to wear something thinner, so I hope to walk out of here with four dozen to start. If they hold up in the wash, we'll want a lot more.” “I understand. Let's take him back to the storeroom. Ian, these diapers come in various sizes, so I will need you to remove your clothes so that I can take your measurements. Would you like a pacifier to help you stay calm?” “I have one in my purse.” Sofia opened her bag, and hauled it out. She waved it in Ian's face. “Oh, that's very nice,” Mary matter of factly commented. “He needs it at night. Mittens and the pacifier are slowly putting an end to his nasty habit of biting his fingernails.” Mary reached out to grab Ian's hands, which she examined closely. “Oh, my, this is very bad. You're right, Sofia; he definitely needs a pacifier.” “Open wide, baby; here comes your binky!” Sofia had a devilish glint in her eyes, and Ian knew that she wanted him to protest so that she would have an excuse to take him into the storeroom and spank him. Since this was not a hill worth dying on, he obediently opened wide and began contentedly sucking on the binky. Sofia was visibly disappointed, so he knew that he had won yet another round. “This way, please,” Mary indicated as she marched off to the rear of the store. Opening the door, she pointed at the changing table. “Take off everything except your socks, but let me get your measurements before you climb up on the table. I'll give you a minute to get started while I close up the shop.” “You're doing very well, Ian.” Sofia complimented him as he undressed. “You bite your nails because your mother took your pacifier away too early. The solution is obvious; you can have your binky for however long you need it.” Ian's only response was to suck more vigorously. He was now so used to the pacifier that he suspected he would miss it if Sarah took it away at night. “My, but your quick,” Mary exclaimed when she came back with tape measure in hand. Knowing that anything he attempted to say with the oversized pacifier in his mouth would sound like gibberish, Ian chose to say nothing. Mary handed a notepad to Sofia, and went efficiently to work, calling out each measurement as she took it. When she was done, she told Ian to climb up on the table, and asked Sofia to pull down his baby pants while she went out to collect a diaper in the right size. “Best to use the four pin method on diapers this bulky,” she noted when she returned. She patted his groin, and nodded. “You're wet, and definitely in need of a change. The problem with these thick diapers is that you're more prone to getting a diaper rash because your caregiver doesn't change you often enough. Your Mom is right; these diapers will be much better for you all the way around.” Mary unpinned Ian's diaper, and ordered him to raise his hips so that she could slide it out from under him. On command, Ian pulled his knees back to his chest so that the shopkeeper could wipe and powder his butt; when he lowered his knees, she moved on to his groin. “What's this,” she asked, fingering Ian's cage. “A chastity cage,” Sofia explained. “Ian has no self control, so this not only prevents him from straying off the reservation, it keeps him from masturbating.” “My late husband could have used one of these,” Mary lamented. “There ought to be a law making all men wear them!” “Oh, I agree,” Sofia rejoined. “But in Ian's defense, it should be said that he agreed to be locked up because he knows that he can't keep it in his diapers. And unfortunately, the world is full of women who find big babies like my son-in-law irresistible.” “That's hardly surprising.” Mary reached out to pinch Ian's cheek. “He's absolutely adorable, and so well mannered. Now, let's get our big baby into his new diapee ...” “And he needs new baby pants … preferably pink.” Sofia was staring defiantly at Ian, all but begging him to spit out his pacifier and fight back. The more she toyed with him, the more determined she was to spank him. “Oh, that won't be a problem. Would you like plain, or with ruffles?” “Ruffles?” “They're very cute.” “A half dozen of the pink, and two with ruffles. I want to see if they will go well with his baby dresses.” “He wears dresses?” “Ian suffers from Multiple Personality Disorder. He shares this body with a little girl called Anna. The dresses are to make her feel more comfortable when she surfaces.” “Amazing! I would love to meet her-- and to babysit her. Please, take my card and call me when you need help, with either Anna or Ian. He's just so adorable!” “The … the scarring doesn't upset you?” “No, Dear, it doesn't.” Mary's fingers caressed the ugly scar that was a permanent testament to the MASH team's desperate effort to save Ian's right lung. Then they drifted down to the ugly dimple where the sniper's round had hit home. “I know how this happened; believe me, I know.” Mary looked Sofia in the eye, giving her a glimpse of the very hard woman lurking behind the pleasant smile. Mary Dearing had been seventeen when the Depression struck, putting an end to her dreams of going to college. She had seen her husband off to war in 1942; he had survived the grenade, but the concussion had damaged his eardrums so badly that he had balance issues for the rest of his life. Mary patted the hideous scar that covered so much of Ian's left thigh, the look in her eyes now far, far away. “Believe me, I know.” “You're very kind, and thank you for your help.” Sofia reached into her bag, and pulled out another baby bottle. “Would it be all right if I fed him here?” “Take your time, Dear. I'll just finish diapering him, and then get back to work.” . . . . As soon as he got off the elevator, Herb Canon rushed down the hallway to the men's room. The pressure on his bladder was intense, and he was fumbling with his zipper even before he reached the urinal. Several drops of pee dribbled into his underpants as he frantically grabbed his penis and squeezed hard enough to staunch the flow before the dam completely burst. Leaning his head against the cool tile, Herb took stock of how the morning had gone so far. He had taken his time over the third cup of coffee, and as a result had had no time to dip into the john before roll call. His bladder had begun to complain while he sat through the daily report, and by the time the morning ritual finally dragged to an end, he was in serious trouble. He couldn't gamble on standing in line and waiting his turn downstairs, so he had opted to head upstairs, praying that one of the twin urinals in the men's room on his floor would be free. It was, but he hadn't quite made it. Zipping up his fly, Herb could feel the dampness in his underwear. He had vague memories of wearing pull ups when he was three or so, and seeing the disappointment in his father's eyes when he didn't make it to the potty on time. It's deja vu all over again, Herb thought. Wonder if Yogi Berra has these problems … Two more years … can I make it? Julia's right, I'll have to cut back on the caffeine … and on the beer. Maybe just shots from now on? No more chasers? But no diapers, okay? Well, maybe at night … maybe … if Julia is going to wear a diaper to bed, I'd look like a fool if I said 'no' when I'm the one who's got the problem. But no diapers during the day, okay? I mean, really, the john is just down the hall, and I'm not chained to this friggin' desk. I can go whenever I have to … Two more years … just two more years … . . . . “What's the matter, baby, you look preoccupied. Your diaper checks have gone smoothly, and the lady in the maternity shop was really nice about helping me change you in the storeroom. And these new, more lightweight diapers should be much more comfortable while still getting the job done.” Sofia had led Ian to the food court in the center of the mall, each of them carrying a pair of large shopping bags boldly stenciled with the shop's name in bright, pink letters. He could feel people studying them, the difference in their age defining them as a very odd couple indeed. At least, he thought, Mary Dearing had been kind enough to put his new baby pants at the bottom of the bags. It seemed unlikely that anyone would get close enough to realize that the diapers were adult in size. “And having you and Vickie wearing the same diapers,” she continued, "will make all that laundry go more smoothly. So, tell Mommy what's wrong. Is it the cage? Does it pinch?” Trying to make it casual, Ian studied the shoppers at the tables around them. Most were well dressed women in their thirties and forties, seated in pairs, or college girls traveling in packs. Chatting quietly over an early lunch, perhaps comparing their latest finds, the older generation clearly took high fashion seriously. In contrast, the younger generation were on the hunt for something new and provocative that would make them stand out at whatever party they were planning to attend later in the evening. All over the Twin Cities, with term papers and final exams looming just over the horizon, the kids would be partying hard on this, the last Saturday in November. Ian reckoned that in such close quarters Sofia's voice would easily carry to two or three dozen of their neighbors. He wasn't worried about the college girls, who were so wrapped up in themselves that nothing short of an earthquake was likely to get their attention-- and in Minnesota earthquakes were rare in the extreme. Being born and raised in southern California, he had checked. No, it was the older generation that worried him. Their hearing was keen, and their awareness of their surroundings keener still. Trying not to make eye contact, Ian's eyes roved from table to table, the technique well practiced in the jungles of Southeast Asia less than a decade before. Four women were staring at him, and another pair had turned in their seats to discover where the running commentary on diapers and cages was coming from. “I'm sorry, Mommy; you've been very considerate. And no; so far, it's been surprisingly comfortable.” Ian kept his voice low, and chose his words carefully. He did not want to add fuel to the fire that Sofia had already lit, no doubt on purpose. But if he was too ambiguous, she might press him about the cage in greater detail. He needed to take the lead. “But pink baby pants, for both of us. Really?” “Yes, baby, because what you are wearing now looks so institutional. These are really adorable, and I especially like the dressy pairs with the ruffles. Remember, just like I told the lady in the maternity shop, these are really for Anna, just like the baby dresses that Vickie bought you last week. It's all about suppressing the male libido … about giving Carlie a better chance to communicate with her.” Ian watched several pairs of eyes widen, zeroing in on the big baby and his mommy. But Sofia had given him an opening, and now he needed to take advantage of it. The trick was to make it clear that this was about helping another-- helping Anna. Ian nodded in agreement. “You're right, of course; it's just that I feel so silly. Pink baby pants.” “The feeling will pass,” Sofia curtly remarked. “Are you hungry? Do you want to have another bottle now rather than waiting until we get back to the car?” “I could use a beer,” he shot back. “Do they sell it here?” It was a lame response, and Ian knew it. In this game of verbal tennis, Sofia had just scored a point with a passing shot. He reckoned that he was down 40-30. “Do you want your binky, baby? It always calms you when you get upset.” Game to Missus Haikonnen … Ian didn't need to look around; Sofia had scored a direct hit. Time to face facts, Street. From the moment she walked in this morning, the lady has outplayed you at every turn. You are simply not in her class. Time to regroup. Frantically searching for a way out of the humiliating trap into which Sofia had led him step by carefully planned step, Ian saw a familiar figure walking into one of the corridors leading away from the food court. “I know one of those guys.” Ian gestured in their direction. “Stan something or other … a fraternity guy. Lamda house?” “Probably shopping for a new outfit to wear to the party. Girls aren't the only ones determined to be trendy.” Now that she had publicly embarrassed him, Sofia could afford to be magnanimous. “Yeah, I laid out a fortune the last time I strolled Carnaby Street,” Ian deadpanned. “But you'll be pleased to learn that I passed on the tie dye shirts and the kipper ties; I wouldn't want anything to clash with my pink baby pants.” Sofia burst out laughing, turning still more heads. “Ian, I swear to God, if Sarah was my younger sister rather than my daughter, I would be plotting to steal you away from her. You cook, you have a wonderful sense of humor, and I'm told that you are great in bed. What more could any woman possibly want?” More heads turned, and Ian decided to go with the flow. He winked at a buxom blonde seated two tables away. She looked to be about his own age, and had the Faye Dunaway look down pat, up to and including a very stylish beret. “Do you think she'd like to check my diaper?” Ian knew that Sofia was paying serious attention to their surroundings, and he was willing to bet that buxom blondes on the prowl for fresh meat ranked high on her personal threat meter. Time to have a little fun … Staring hard at the mysterious yet beautiful blonde, he raised his eyebrows, then treated her to an enigmatic smile. Will she take the bait? The blonde nodded in his direction as she excused herself to her companion and gracefully rose to her feet. Casually strolling to their table, she spared Sofia only a passing glance. “Good morning, Professor Grady. It's an honor to meet you. My name is Jennifer Pauley. May I join you?”

Well done. And you gave us just enough background on Julia to make her seem like a real person. Looks like you are taking to writing fiction the way a duck takes to water.

Keeping in mind that this is your first story, I think that you are doing a terrific job. Your two main characters are well defined, and the plot is taken from real life. First stories are always learning exercises, and I give you a lot of credit for addressing problems as they emerge rather than shelving them for consideration at some later date. And, regarding what you wrote in paragraphs 2-3 above, I agree that limiting the backstory is the right choice here (and this from a writer who dives deep into his characters' lives).

Please move your stories. If you need help, you should reach out to Elfy.

I thought this flowed pretty well. One slight revision: "As she headed down the main road, Sarah squirmed again, her backside still sore from last night. I'm glad Julia took the day off ..." As long as the text remains in italics, the reader will know that we are still eavesdropping on Sarah's thoughts. Oh, and at the restaurant, Sarah and Julia can do this simultaneously. Here's an off the cuff example: Sarah leaned forward, keeping her voice low. "Sis, I need your help. Last night, we tried anal, and I'm really sore. I could use your advice." Shocked, Julia stared at her sister for a long moment before looking down at her salad. Stalling, she reached for the French dressing. And what makes you think that I'm an expert on the subject? Are you kidding me? Oh, shit, Sarah thought; I can just see it now. As soon as we leave, she's going to call Mom and tell her that I'm getting my ass reamed ... "I'm desperate, Sis." And so on. I'm looking forward to being the proverbial fly on the wall in the next chapter.

A fun chapter. I'm guessing that Sarah doesn't read much science fiction! I'm wondering what she would see if she were to look out a window.

Now that we have a corner for AI stories in place, and pretty clear rules for people to follow, what do we do when writers refuse to abide by the rules and continue to post their stories in the main forum?

Another warm chapter; the interaction between Sarah and Michael makes this feel like a real marriage, not a fictional one. Letting us eavesdrop on Sarah's thoughts at the very end was a smooth transition, and it nicely previews what is coming next. And if you choose to soldier on and let us sit at the next table while they are talking about this and that, here is where you can play around and have some real fun. Give Sarah and Julia a chapter to themselves? Give them half a chapter, and what Michael is up to at home gets the other half? Or how about having Sarah excuse herself to go to the restroom, switch over to Michael, and then return to Sarah when she gets back to the table.? For a variety of reasons, I favor the latter approach (Homage scene 80 has 6 segments, and running alongside of it Aardvark scene 19 has 5), but there is no right or wrong way to do this. Nope, experiment, find what you're comfortable doing, and go with it. Have fun!

Ultimately, this becomes a question of what you are trying to write, and the audience that you want to attract. A story, or fetish porn? For members of the site, or our guests? The answer to the first question is obvious, but not to the second. Consider that at 18:12 hours CST last Sunday night the full list showed 37 members, and 1198 guests, or 97% of the on line traffic. It's rare for members to make up even 15% of the traffic, but they are the only ones who can leave likes or make comments. Consider further that scene 79 of my Homage to Vincent Vega had more than 5,200 views yet inspired only 7 likes and comments from 3 of the 7. The most popular stories here are written by people who are also disseminating their work on other sites. So my advice is to write the story that you want to tell rather than configure it for this tiny segment of the readership. It may take time for that larger but invisible audience to find you (my first 29 scenes attracted less than 14,000 views), but if you write well and you keep plugging away, in time people will find you. And you do write well. The issues here are structural, and can be quickly put to rest. Even if you don't drop it into the story, I encourage you to have Sarah and Julia do a postmortem without Michael being present just as an experiment. Have them talk about him in the third person. And try giving Sarah some introspective moments when she talks to Michael (put her thoughts in italics). Just play around, and hopefully you will become more comfortable with using these techniques to give your characters more depth.