Anyway, I went to a reading at Sh! last night, along with Jilly, Emma and various other reprobates (KD Grace has an excellent write-up of said event), and on the way back I mooted the idea of sharing more of my erotic writing. At which point I realised that I could do so on my blog... and then realised that a lot of it hasn't even been finalised and there's not much of it in prose form.
I'm so cool.
So here's something from a while ago. It's from the novel I'm not writing, tentatively titled Louise, from the point of view of the eponymous heroine. The last scene ended with her meeting a boy, leading to this...
That was three hours ago. It’s now 8:17pm. Michael (for that is his name) is asleep. Or maybe he’s unconscious. It’s very difficult to tell sometimes. Every now and again he breathes, so at least I haven’t killed him – which is a good thing, as I’d hate to be found in his flat by a concerned neighbour who has no idea who I am. I wouldn’t have much of an alibi. Then again, most murderers kill family members, or at least people they know. I barely know Michael. I didn’t even know he had a flat until about an hour and a half ago. He didn’t seem like the type.
I need to find a bathroom. This is a small flat – it’s not particularly tidy, either, but it’s unlikely that a whole room has slipped down the back of the sofa. It shouldn’t be difficult. I slip out of the bed, pad across the carpeted floor, exiting into a bizarre kitchen/living area combination. There’s a door leading to the way out – I know that much. There must be another one somewhere. It takes me a while to work out that what I previously assumed to be a dark patch on the wall is, in fact, another door. I walk across and push it, and it swings open with a small click. Yes, it’s a bathroom. Nice find, Louise.
My reflection glares at me like I’ve done something wrong. I watch her comb her hair – the dull glow of the yellow light doesn’t really accentuate the red colour as much as daylight does, but I can’t afford to be picky. My reflection washes her hands, dabs herself down with a wet flannel, and for good measure, splashes water on her face. She looks just like how I feel – better. Flashing her a brave attempt at a smile – which she returns – I turn and swan out of the bathroom, making my way back across to Michael’s bedroom. He’s still sleeping when I open the door. I pick up my clothes, dress, and then consider waking him up to tell him that I’m leaving. Considering the fact that he spent a large amount of time following me around at work today, it would be the polite thing to do, putting in a bit of effort... but then I remind myself that I’ve already exerted a lot of effort on him. I put on my shoes, fasten them with the Velcro, and silently slip out. I check that I’ve got my iPod, ’phone, keys and wallet, and then leave his flat.
Down a few flights of some stone grey steps and then out into a car park. I’ve no idea where I am, but that’s never bothered me before. I know we walked here from the library. We went via a café, so logically the right thing to do is to find the café, then go from there to the library, and from there I can get home. By the time I’ve gotten to the first main road, I’m bored. I hail a taxi instead. It’s 9:30 when I get back to my flat. It’s smaller than Michael’s, but a lot cleaner and tidier... and brighter – something I have come to appreciate a lot more in the last few minutes, considering how navigating Michael’s flat was similar to orienteering during a night hike. Weighing up my options, I decide upon lemonade and a lie-down. This eventually turns into sleep – ‘eventually’, that is, meaning ‘almost suddenly’. I barely make it to my own bed, and sleep where I fall. I don’t even get under the covers.