Our favorite erotica writer, the real Alex Cazenove, is forced to drastically pull in his horns when a young rocket scientist, Mallory, and the runaway Texan teenagers, Sarah and Cozette, fall on him from out of the beachy California sky. "You call that a plot?" Alex's New York publisher, Grace, bellows. Maybe not, but then the ancient love of his life, Keisha, shows up as a world-class madam with her own fascinating flock. And then the other love of his life, Sarah's Mom Roxie, roars in from Texas to collect her due. All this while Alex is doing his best to talk Mallory's irritated CEO Daddy out of killing her. The fundamental problem: Alex is just a regular guy with a vivid, if degenerate imagination. But the more he tries to explain this to neighbors, lovers, vengeful CEOs, and publishers, the less they understand. After all, he wrote the books, didn't he? But, as the exhausted soul keeps repeating, there's a reason they call it fiction.