Recently, I was working on a scene where Belial, my demon, snags a dance with the ever-elusive Dara. He only managed to score this dance was because Dara was raised in a teetotalling household and thus was unprepared when someone set what seemed to be a mildly alcoholic drink in front of her and told her it was iced tea.
During the dance, there’s a lot of sexual sparring and eventually he brushes his fingertips over the back of her thigh, just below the hemline of a very short dress (another first for our Dara).
Only then I got to thinking: If a 6’2″ guy was dancing with a 5’5″ woman, would he be able to do that? Or would he need long, monkey arms to be able to reach?
My husband is really good about helping me block out scenes between my lovers, but he’s my height, so he wasn’t a good option for figuring out this question.
When I got into work, I was still turning this over in my head. The I spied my co-worker, Craig (who, it should be noted, I’ve worked with for many years and who is 15 years younger than me, a mere child).
“How tall are you?”
He looked startled. “Six-two.”
“Perfect,” I said. “I need you to do something for me. If this makes you feel sexually harassed, just say so.”
His eyebrows shot up all the way to his hairline.
I explained what was happening in my scene. He looked a little freaked out.
“I don’t need you to dance with me, ” I said. “I just need you to stand beside me, so I can see where your hand would come on my thigh.”
He’s a good guy, so he obligingly stood there while I determined that, yes, a six-foot-two demon could definitely graze the back of a five-foot-five woman’s thigh with his fingertips if her skirt were short enough.
“I feel so used,” he said.
But that’s okay. What matters is that he made a contribution to art.
And he didn’t call HR.