Call Me Billy

I’m Billy

I would like to tell you a secret. Perhaps you’ve no interest whatsoever in listening my unworthy secret, I wish to tell you nonetheless. I fall in love with a lady! A lady, is it possible? People tell me, dream less and you will be more realistic. No, no, no, you are wrong, I’m truly and crazily in love with her.

Ok, I will tell you her name, but please don’t complain because this is not going to be a fairy tale. I would say this story is a mixture of chocolate and alcohol, the heavenly bitter sweet flavor blended to my heart’s content.

Her name is Belinda Lane. I saw her in a function and she was, I tell you, the most stunning, sexiest and the most outspoken in that function. She danced like a butterfly who tirelessly waving her wings to humble desperate souls around her. I fell in love with her at the very first sight.

Well, this is my another shameful secret, but I would tell you dutifully since I already promised you, didn’t I? I couldn’t help but locked my keen gaze on her bosom. They were just, whoosh, pretty. Staring at them made me wonder what’s the feeling to fondle them with my, emm, ardent and loving hands?

I guess the feeling will be heaven like. That’s why when I approached her and greeted her with my exquisite manner, I purposely shook her hands longer than I should. Her hands felt like silk and I could imagine the intoxicating pleasure I would have (hopefully) when I mount her.

Sumptuous. My patience burnt out in precipitous pace, my head was throbbing while her gaze danced elegantly on my body. Was she trying to scrutinize and fantasize my jittery masculinity?

Now, I can tell you now shamelessly? Why? Because I tell you, she was a horny bitch. I could still recall the pleasure when she pressed her delicate bosom on my chest and groaned “c’mon baby”. We were still in that ballroom but did we care? We couldn’t care less!

She rubbed against my body, told me she would like to have me cut into pieces while her hands were playing mischievously with my aroused masculinity. Again, we didn’t give a damn to people around me.

“Are you fake?”

“Oh, can’t you feel them? Can’t you savour their greatness?

“I’ve bad hands.”

“Then, use your mouth.”

She winked at me and I knew this night wasn’t going to be brief.

I’m not Billy

I’m standing here right now. Ok, you can strip me, I afraid neither being naked nor obnoxious. But, before this, I must tell you I’m not Billy. Who the hell is Billy anyway?

The character I created yesterday? To hell with him.

Now, you choose to listen to me, so whatever Billy says, you should forget about it. His view about the world is totally blasphemy and insulting. Be sensible, whoever listens to me should never believe in the world Billy fantasized.

He is not real. Undeniably, isn’t it?

You might not believe me but what if I tell you I’m a novelist? I sense worm of doubt gnawing inside you, how dare you! You are the one who come to me first but now you tell me you have doubts on me? Ludicrously foolish, aren’t you all?

Yes, I’m a novelist. Billy is a character I created yesterday, not with mud just like what God has done, but with my adored fountain pen. Please don’t accuse me for acting like God, I’m just a hapless writer, the characters I created have no souls. They lived in a virtual world where whores are available and sex is permissible everywhere.

Talk about sex, I must confess, I’m a virgin. But I’m proud, like an actor who just won an award. Why? Because sex is meaningless. Pleasure? Don’t lie to yourself, you don’t need pleasure. Tell me, do you need pleasure to continue writing? Well, despite being an amateur in sex, my few novels about sex were both award-winning and bestseller.

“Didn’t you have better thing to write about? How about politic?”

I rebuked with amble of anger slowly creeping in my body.

“Politics? Are you an imbecile?”

Who cares to read anything deemed as boring stuff? Sex is the only thing that will arouse my readers’ interest. I don’t feel sorry for those who just bought my recent bestseller, they are just senile enough to believe in anything I purposely put inside my unworthy novel.

“Hei, have you bought my newest bestseller?” I postulated my question in nonchalant and little lackadaisical attitude.

Silence prevailed but I can still some people busily concealing their angered masculinity.

I was not Billy

Don’t get confused. I’m still Billy but I was not called Billy after I have met her.

Her scent was still on my body, like a radiating aura, so brilliant and resplendent. If you are easily embarrassed or your face will blush in brilliant red easily, please refrain from listening to my narration because it’s going to be inevitably erotic.

Moments ago, our bodies were intertwined. After making love like the two lunatics, she finally asked about my name. Didn’t I tell her? No, I didn’t.

What should I tell her? I’m given no name by my dearest ( foolish as well) author (creator as well). This really troubled me and caught me off guard.

“You are nameless?” She was more persuasive than what I had anticipated.

Unsure, I told her my name is Billy. She cogitated for a while and I seized this opportunity to look at her attractive bosoms once again. I couldn’t believe I had just mounted her! I nearly cried out in joy when she asked suddenly, “Why Billy?”

She knew I was nameless. Panicked, but still managed to remain my composure, I turned my gaze to her LV bag left pathetically on the carpet.

“Belinda Lane I Love You."

BLILY ~ BILLY.

She gasped. Was it because of my talent in anagram or my futile attempt to please a lady?

“That’s very sweet of you.” She moved her slender finger to my chest and caressed it tenderly.

“I’m always as tender as spring breeze frozen in Shakespeare’s stanza.” I proclaimed confidently.

I am destined to be Billy

I thought I heard something while I was cracking my head, trying to add predictable yet entertaining twists into my novel. I knew Billy was going to die, no matter what happened. Death aroused hibernating people, didn’t it? I was sure most of my author would be intrigued by death, especially it’s imminent.

Who cared about life? I always wondered why people were chasing around plot that’s not going to materialize in reality and chose to neglect whatever that’s going to happen. Anyway, I didn’t want you to hear my grudges and lamentation of my insignificant life.

My life was worthless and uninteresting. So was my sluggish story, lacked of mocking animation and crystal clear sound. If I were going to write story about myself, it’s going to be distorted and annihilated eventually.

Thinking of that, it made me grief.

I whined like an old lady. I screamed at top of my voice, out of desperation, out of despair. I couldn’t be Billy, could I? Did I need to compromise and masquerade myself and stepped into loathed Billy’s shoes in order to be noticed?

I refused vehemently!! But that voice I heard was ringing again.

Someone just told me I will end up like Billy and even predict my ultimate demise. After hearing that, I waved my arms in defiance, I can’t be Billy, can I?

But, he convinced me I would continue writing about Billy, until I instinctively breath my life into Billy, thus giving Billy an unwanted soul. Then, Billy will live like me. How terrible will my life be!

That person told me, a novelist will never write something that he/she doesn’t even know. On the contrary, a novelist will write like the other novelist, imitating each other.

I cried in utter bewilderment, “But I never read any novel by other novelists! I will never imitate!”

“But you are imitating my narrating style right now.”

“It can’t be true!”

“Not if I’m your novelist.”

Oh my God, you are God!

“You are right.”

I will always be Billy

My writer told me he will be me. He just told me and I’m really telling the truth, why don’t you believe me?

What is the churning feeling under my belly after I heard the news?

Disorientated, I’m still skeptical. How can he be me? I’m a Don Juan, he is a nerd. I can’t live without woman, he can’t live with woman around. That’s another secret, he has erectile dysfunction, so his masculinity has wilted hopelessly. Did he tell you he is a virgin and how proud he is? He is a wretched liar.

Deep inside me, I know he also lusts for embrace of sensual body, I know he is aroused by sensual pleasure derived from staring at the hardening nipples. Only he will naively reckon I will never know his ignominious desire.

He is a mediocre novelist, as he always has surmised. I wish I can tell him personally and spit on his despicable face. How can he lie to everyone who reads his books so loyally?

He likes to be spectacular, doesn’t he? He always imagines he’ll perhaps write a novel that can touch so many people. Tell me, did he ever tell you all he wishes to be a prophet? No, he didn’t? Pathetic liar.

What should I write? I often hear that while he is pondering for his novel. Sex, nope… Violent, nope… Love, nope…

He possesses no courage, he doesn’t even know how to kill me whom he always wants to kill. To him, I’m his enigma and nemesis. He tells himself he must eliminate me before he can become a martyr, how myopic he is! Doesn’t he know I’m him and he is me?

Please tell him, all of us are dice to one and another. He thought by creating me, he is no inferior than our Almighty Lord, but he’ll soon know he is also a story, written by another braver novelist, who reluctantly creates him but skillfully kills him slowly.

“Who is your die?” Belinda asked.

“I don’t write story, I enjoy being a story.”

“I like your arrogance.” She smiled slyly.

I’m becoming Billy

Painfully, I’m morphing. Can you hear my requiem clearly? I’m in a cocoon, lamenting my fate.

What takes to be a writer?

Guts or Guards?

Compromise or Contemplate?

Be a story or Stay out of a story?

Both of us are Billy

We will never write a good story without bravery. But if we are not cautious, we will be too absorbed into our own story. Are we ready to compromise? When other despise our story, when your love one tells you frankly your stories are dry, are you ready to change? To write a good story, of course we must look clearly into our subject, what we want to write and what message we wish to convey.

To write a good story, you should neither be a story nor stay out of a story. What you should do is write a story as if you were not a writer and tell a story as if you were the listener. Am I understood? No?

We don’t blame you because we are both Billy. Who’s the writer and who’s written?

p/s : No offense to Intec's Billy...