Wednesday, September 11

First Two

I’ve started a writing project with a friend that I hope will only grow & grow. Two hundred words (give or take twenty) to write about a subject suggested by the other, usually erotic in nature. Here are my first two. (Otherwise, if you must know, I am feeling strange this evening but big changes are afoot and I’m feeling good.)

Just A Pip

She was miserably unemployed. I had a job. When I kissed her good-bye in the morning I knew that she would get another few hours. Each of us envied the other.
One day I returned home to find her in the bathroom. She was stood nude in the middle of the room. On the tiled floor around her feet was a cirrocumulus cloud of black hair; pubic hair; dry; tangled and vague. She was patting her pubis.
‘What happened?’
‘I got bored so I decided to give myself a trim.’
I thought of all the time she had been lying in bed that morning—‘Please tell me dinner’s ready!’
‘No… but look at this.’ She showed me herself: all bare except a strip of black aimed at her navel—‘I feel so much cleaner!’
Her sex looked good. I forgot about dinner.
Sighing at me, she sat on the bath edge and spread until it glistened.
All of the details were there, ignited. I kneeled down. What had been shrouded in the mystery of thick black pubic hair was now bare and translucently pink. She spire’d her fingers above it, peeling apart the folds, and pulled my hair until we connected.
I could make out blurry pink curtains and a swollen clitoris. Then I smelled my aftershave balm and swallowed.

Just A Pip

Miss Ludwig held the remainder of her tuna sandwich in her left hand and with her right she alternated between turning the newspaper pages and putting crisps in her mouth, careful not to let them touch her lips. She was sat behind the school reception and the sound of the dinner-hall could be heard.
All of a sudden—‘Miss Ludwig!’ a boy ran out of the hall—‘Miss Ludwig, please call my mum right away! There’s been an emergency!’
‘What is it?’
‘I swallowed an apple seed.’
‘That’s nothing to worry about. It’s just a pip.’
‘No, it’s not. It’s a seed and unless something is done right away an apple tree is going to grow outta my belly and you’re gonna have to explain my death to my mum.’
The receptionist put down her tuna sandwich on the grey newspaper and called the boy’s mother, calmly explaining the situation. The mother gasped and hung up.
‘…I don’t think she’s coming.’
The boy took a seat. His knees tapped nervously. ‘Never thought I’d go out like this …’ he said.
Moments later, a screeching car, the mother arrived, dragged the boy by his arm to the toilet and said to Miss Ludwig—‘Get me a glass of water and a pot of salt immediately!’

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