Purple Prosaic is a self-publishing label featuring the nocturnal emissions of eroticists Alessia Brio & Will Belegon.
Wingman
Cover © Alessia Brio 		WINGMAN
PP-B02, PURPLE PROSAIC, COMING SOON
Nice guys don't always finish last. Sometimes, they come first.

[EROTICA, EROTIC ROMANCE, HETEROSEXUAL, CONTEMPORARY]

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EXCERPT
My college years were spent in a town where the only buildings that outnumbered churches were bars, and the only job description that outnumbered John Deere factory worker was student. Three colleges in the center of town, plus a couple of seminaries, the Deere factory, and a meatpacking plant. Plenty of beer, steak, and potatoes consumed.

It made for a community big enough for a couple of breweries and a dog track but small enough to miss out on more cerebral forms of entertainment. This was in the years before the internet, mind you, when we wrote letters on paper and quaint things like that. Chatting was done over coffee, not a keyboard, and a text was a schoolbook.

Entertainment was much more localized. In a Midwestern county seat, you at least got something besides watching the corn grow. However, this was during the time of year after the junior hockey season ended and before softball leagues got started. If you didn't gamble and you had seen all the movies, you had only a few options on a Friday night.

Basically, I had the choice of going to a frat party and drinking, staying in the dorms and rounding up a couple of the guys and drinking, or going to a dive bar and—ta-da—drinking.

The futility of it all was starting to wear me down, so I decided against all three. I just kicked back in my room and read a book while listening to some tunes. A solitary evening perhaps, but one that would most likely be more intellectually stimulating than normal. Plus, I would not be paying for it with Tylenol in the morning.

Of course, since this was a decision that would keep me out of trouble, it had no chance of actually lasting through the night. My declared major was marketing, but a more appropriate choice would have been alcohol with a minor in athletics. Unlikely to be worth much in the job market, but at least it would have been honest.

At about ten o'clock, Jason walked into my room. I'd like to say he knocked first, but then it would not have been Jason. Jason was as full of contradictions as he was of himself. Considering himself polite while never having learned to knock was the least of these.

The most annoying of his delusions was his belief that he was the ultimate "Ladies' Man."

Perhaps he was—at least until they sobered up. At twenty-one, he thought he knew everything there was to know about women. At best, he knew everything he was ever going to know about women by twenty-one.