"So you can't write dialogue."

"Nope. Not at all. Rubbish at it."

"Are you sure that it's can't and not don't?" 

"Can't, don't. Six of one and half a dozen of the other. The stories are all me, me, me. No dialogue because there's rarely a second character. So, nobody to dialogue with." 

"That sounds more like don't than can't to me." 

"Maybe, but even when I do get a chance of some dialogue I usually find a way around it. Do a monologue or have a character narrate it back as a summary." 

"So what are we doing here then? Because all I'm seeing is dialogue so far." 

"We're going to enact a scene comprised entirely of dialogue." 

"A sex scene?" 

"Of course. This is Lushland after all." 

"I can see you've ticked the 'Historical' category and subheaded it 'George Eliot'. So do I take it that this is going to be about George Eliot?" 

"That would be a reasonable assumption." 

"So I'm guessing you'll be George Eliot being as you're the one with a pussy and breasts. So who shall I be?" 

"You'll be George Henry Lewes." 

"So two Georges, won't that be confusing for the reader?" 

"You can call me Mary Anne or Miss Evans. I'll call you George Henry or Mr Lewes." 

"Mary Anne or Miss Evans?" 

"Because George Eliot was a nom de plume. Her name was Mary Anne Evans." 

"I see. Shall we be doing mid-Victoriana dialogue then?" 

"Fuck no. I'm a hack, not an alchemist. We'll do it in good old twenty-first-century style." 

"Probably easier." 

"Definitely easier." 

"And the occasion of this conversational event?" 

"Our first meeting, I think. You've called upon the exceedingly famous George Eliot and I've granted you an audience. How's that?" 

"Fine. Shall I start?" 

"That would be helpful." 

"May I say what an honour it is to meet the renowned author of 'Adam Bede', 'Mill on the Floss' and 'Silas Marner'. Thank you for being at home to me this afternoon, Miss Evans."

"The pleasure is all mine, Mr Lewes, it's not often that I have such a fine specimen of married, Victorian, manhood come calling. How is the state of matrimony treating you?" 

"Frustratingly, Miss Evans. What with the domed skirts, the hooped crinolines, the chemises, the drawers, the bloomers, the bodices and all that flouncing, tiers, and lace it's a near miracle if I ever encounter spousal flesh." 

"And you all nattily attired in those new-fangled trousers with their buttoning and easy accessibility. I can appreciate your frustration, Mr Lewes." 

"That is kind of you to be so understanding, Miss Evans, and may I say how incomparably ugly you are. I'd heard rumours and read a few comments from your esteemed visitors but your actual ugliness in the flesh quite takes one's breath away." 

"It is well observed, Mr Lewes, and something I have commented upon myself with almost unseemly regularity in my correspondence. If I may be so bold, to what feature or features would you attribute my incomparable hideousness?" 

"If I may, Miss Evans, your chin, your mouth and your nose are all individually quite grotesque, but it is the combination of all three that produces a visage of such repugnance that it is beyond compare. Indeed, the last time I gazed upon such disagreeable features they were decorating an ecclesiastical building."

"Whilst you, Mr Lewes, with your excessively domed forehead and resplendent handlebar moustache are a perfect vision of Victorian manhood. I really must commend you on your quite stunning facial hair whilst eschewing the post-Crimea trend for a wild and untamed beard of Biblical proportions."

"And I hope you don't think it too forward of me, Miss Evans, but I can't help but observing that your right hand is noticeably larger than its counterpart."

"That, Mr Lewes, is a matter of some historical controversy. Admittedly I did state as much once in correspondence but it is not something noted by any other observers during my lifetime though that may simply be due to the social stigma that might result from such a deformity."

"Social stigma, Miss Evans? Why would a larger right hand result in social stigma?" 

"Because, Mr Lewes. Oh hold on, wait a minute, let me just use the hand in question to adjust your trousering because you do seem quite restricted down there. Well, well, this new fangled buttoning is a vast improvement over those old-style britches. A few little flicks of my fingers and voila. Now isn't that better?"

"Much, thank you, Miss Evans."

"Oh, do call me Mary, Mr Lewes. Now, what do we have here, Mr Lewes? Something far more enlarged and swollen than my right hand. Gosh, fingertip to wrist with an inch or two to spare."

"George, Mary. No need to stand on formality." 

"Well, George, if I just wriggle my fingers down a little further. Perhaps you'd like to nestle your gorgeously domed cockhead in the crook of my elbow. Ohhh what a delightfully squidgy pair of plums, loving the feel of those soft hairs rubbing on my palm. Now, where were we?"

"Your right hand."

"The one cupping your nestling ball sacs?" 

"Yes." 

"What were we saying about it?" 

"It's larger than your left." 

"It is, George, you're very observant. It needs to be to get a good grip on this monster. Maybe if wiggle down a little further I can..." 

"Ohhh, Mary." 

".... just get the tip of my middle finger into that hidden pulsing star. Give it a gentle prod. Feel the muscles clinging to my fingertip. If only I'd wetted the tip. That would have been better, don't you think George?" 

"I wouldn't know, Mary, Mrs Lewes would never finger my arsehole and, truth be told, I don't believe she's ever had her hand on my cock." 

"Her normal, same-size-as-its-compatriot, hand?" 

"Yes." 

"Never massaged your furred family jewels or encircled your thick base as your forest of pubic hair caresses her pure, alabaster skin." 

"No."

"Or corkscrewed up and down your length revelling in your meaty thickness, eyes fixed on your pulsing slit as it oozes viscous precum across the smoothness of your blood-swollen gland." 

"God, no." 

"See how advantageous having a larger right hand is, George. Wouldn't you agree?" 

"Yes, Mary. Undoubtedly. Please don't stop. Whatever it is you're doing, please don't stop doing it." 

"Firm fingers pressing gently up and down your shaft? Caressing teasingly behind your engorged head? Is that what you don't want to stop, George?" 

"Yes, Mary. God that's good. Your touch; flitting, dancing, exquisite torture. How do you know? How do you the most famous, the ugliest, middle-aged spinster in the Empire know how to handle a cock better than Cora Pearl or Catherine Walters?" 

"This hand, George, is a milkmaid's hand, a butter and cheese maker's hand. Swollen with hours of teasing milk from a bloated teat just as it is now milking your own tumescent member. Nature has nurtured this pistoning fist, trained it to stroke and squeeze and manipulate your heated flesh."

"No, Mary, surely that can't be. How could you the High Priestess of Victorian Realism have been a lowly, slatternly, country harlot? A teat milker. A cock milker. A wanton, bucolic slapper ready to lay with any John Thomas that would avail himself of your bushy haystack. Tell me it's not true."

"Disown this hand, George? This hand that can feel your rising tide pulsing against its palm. That with each stroke drags you closer and closer to your inevitable release. The thick, sticky, yummy cream rushing up your narrow, throbbing shaft as you pant and moan and twitch beneath its glorious attentions. Would you have me do that, George?"

"No, Mary. Never, Mary. Oh God, No."

"All that glorious, spunky man fluid." 

"Yes." 

"It's cumming, George, I can feel it. Feel its wild,  demanding need beneath my touch. Feel its impatient yearning. Its desire for freedom. To burst free. To spurt ribbons of jism across my waiting face. Splattering globules of sizzling cum to decorate the most repulsive, repellent physiognomy of the classic literary canon. Cum for me, baby. Coat me in your homage. Bless me with your jizz."

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."

"Yes, cum for me, George." 

"Cumming. Cumming. Cumming."

"Mmmmm. Wow. So, so yummy. What do you think now then, George? Prettier?" 

"Oh God, yes."

"Now about this wife of yours. Not really any future in that, is there. Fancy trading up?"