Erotica – I’m not cut out for this.
So the plan today was to get down the remaining 1,500 words of a 3,000 word erotic short story in time for a deadline tomorrow. I got sort of close to completing it, I had a beginning, a middle and an end, I had two characters I liked and a plot I thought was decent enough, but I had a feeling in my gut that I wasn’t supposed to be spending my time creating work like this.
I’ve enjoyed some of the process, but have felt myself seize up more often than not. I decided mid-afternoon that I would not be able to do this full-time, and contacted the lovely lady who had offered me the position. It felt like the right thing to do. She got back in touch saying it would be nice to work with me in the future on different projects. So there was a good outcome in the end.
As I was saying, I’ve enjoyed some of the process, so I’m going to share some of the bits I wrote and actually liked.
I’ve cleaned everything. Even the skirting board behind the washing machine. The house smells like it was built yesterday. I crack my fingers then let them hover over the laptop keyboard. They’re trembling. I wonder how easy it is to delete computer history. My Mother has a habit of using my laptop without asking, after she’s let herself in with the keys she had cut without permission. I type in BDSM Shopping in London and snatch my hands back like I’ve just been burnt. 1,140,000 results. The back of my head feels hot. I look over my shoulder, twist my head so I can get a good view of the rest of the living room and the hallway. I have that feeling of being watched by someone who’s ready to judge me solely on the words I’ve just typed into Google.
I’m not used to doing this sort of thing and it’s making me feel anxious. I get up and close the living room curtains. I lock the front door and leave the key in, just in case my Mother decides on one of her legendary surprise visits which, nine time times out of ten ,happen during the hours of sex or arguments. Most of the websites I tentatively click on look as though they emerged at the dawn of the world wide web, and haven’t been updated since. I start tapping a list down on my phone. Change my mind, delete it and put it in a notebook instead. I draw little stars to the things that are most important: leather paddle, ball gag, pvc mini skirt, crotchless panties, black bondage rope. At least if I lose a notebook it’s anonymous. I double check the inside covers to make sure I hadn’t casually practised my ‘autograph’ one night while pretending to be interested in Dr Who.
I get the tube into London. I fucking loathe the tube. I’ve always had a deep seated fear that people know what I’m thinking or tapping into my phone just by looking at me. I try hard not to think of sex, but it’s all my brain wants. I lose a few minutes recalling the sex with Si the night before last, when he gave me an orgasm that moved like a swift, sweet fire through my entire body. I was jittery and happy for hours afterwards and wouldn’t let him sleep. The night before he muttered the D word as he was coming in my hands. When I’m on the verge of tipping over into dangerous territory I bring myself back by snapping the hair band around my wrist. I saw someone do that on TV before. It seemed like a good idea. I glance at the people sat opposite.
My paranoia leads me to think that they know exactly what it is that I have in my bag. I make myself believe that they know I have a folded piece of notebook paper, with a tidy list of naughty items and where I’ll find them. The old women with her mournful looking Yorkshire terrier knows. The business man with lime green socks and matching tie knows. The student with her scruffy plastic portfolio bag and jangling piercings knows. I cross my legs tight, until the blood starts to swell in my thighs. We get closer to the centre of the buzz and I feel a nervousness cripple me. Maybe it’s best if I just go home. Forget about this. Never mention the word dominate to Si. Maybe he’s forgotten he said it in the first place. Maybe it was the wine.
This is where other stuff happens. But I’m not happy with the sex fuelled passages where our leading lady is spanked and all that malarkey, so you can have the last, soppy few lines.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, pulling some strands of hair away from my face. I love the curve of his smile when he says that, how it makes my stomach feel as tight as a scorpion in amber. He kisses me. I can taste myself on his tongue.