So last night I’m reading through a scene in Crotch Rocket (working title, of course). Hot guy, smokin’ bike, everything’s moving along smoothly, until the voice in my head pops up.
Now, this voice is not some smooth James Earl Jones saying “Oh dear, you’ve made a mistake here.”
This voice is Gilbert Gottfried screeching “You screwed up! Massachusetts has a helmet law, you dumbass! You suck!”
Helmets are just like condoms, dammit. They’re not sexy, they screw up the pacing of a really hot scene, and nobody likes them, but if you skip them, all of a sudden your heroine’s TSTL and the author’s irresponsible. And the donning of said helmet/condom is almost always awkward enough to cause a skip in the flow.
Now, my hero (oh crap his name is Danny which is the little boy in 72 Hours and WHY does my muse limit itself to recycling the same ten names?) isn’t wearing a helmet. He’s a bad-ass, of course, and there wasn’t really time to worry about a helmet. But now he’s picking up the heroine, and well…
She’s never ridden a bike and she’s a Responsible Adult, so I’m sure she would say something like “Shouldn’t I have a helmet?” And when he says no because we don’t have time because the bad guys AND the cops are after me so just jump on, her response would be “Thanks, but I’ll call a cab.”
So, right smack dab in the middle of this scene, he has to pull the helmet out from under the cargo net, and she has to put it on. Then it’s going to take her five minutes of fumbling the buckle before he steps in and does it, no doubt pinching her neck and making her cry because his fingers are big. And then during this awesome chase scene, she’s going to be whacking him between the shoulderblades with this big, heavy helmet.
Oh, gee. Let me fan myself. Not.
Helmets and condoms. What’s a writer to do?