@ 2008-06-26 – 22:52:56
Chapter 1 My Aunt as a Fashion Accesory
It was slow that night in Falsettos, but Bungy was determined to score.
Chapter 2 The gold Lamee Wetsuit
It was impossible not to like the guy, despite his stupid diamond fangs. Pity he was too old for me - and, ideally, the wrong gender.
Etc
@ 2008-06-25 – 07:12:58
Grant felt more excited than he had intended. He stood back from the bed, throwing her lipstick from one hand to the other, battling with his impulse to break all the rules he had made for himself.
She was beautiful, she was sexy, she was trash. He had rented her body for the afternoon, and he could do anything he liked with it, subject to not being found out. Not that Grant had any desire to be violent. This incident (he was already anticipating others) was nothing to do with vengeance. He could not imagine two whores less similar than Frederique and the one who had taken his virginity. Yet... Maybe vengeance is a dish best served sweetly.
The taste in Grant's mouth was sour.
Frederique legs were too short for her to be a model. At last he had found fault with her. The underwear made her look tawdry. That was part of the reason he had got her to leave it on.
She was twitching. Her body was shaking! She was frightened, poor girl. Probably all her normal clients would have finished their fornicating by now. But Grant was not like the others. Besides anything else, he would never fuck her. That wasn't the point. He had no plans for adultery. Penetrate Frederique's mind maybe, but never her body
@ 2008-06-19 – 02:35:50
She had an upturned nose.
He hated her for looking cute. She had no right to.
"I love you," he told her, simplifying.
@ 2008-06-17 – 20:44:07
Broken.
Unspoken.
There is no way back the hill,
Except memory,
Blistered.
@ 2008-06-16 – 07:48:48
stuff rots if it stays the same.
so tempting, though, to pickle the present
and call it inevitable.
hang on for dear life.
tempting but fruitless.
death isn't an end-of-term prize giving.
life is not about rotting.
@ 2008-06-07 – 07:43:08
"Of course it's going to be disastrous," said Wendell in his letter-to-The-Times voice. He was always worrying. "But no one has the guts to do anything about it."
"Disastrous?" Gotty repeated reluctantly. As far as she was concerned, the only disaster in the air tonight would be if Wendell prevented her going to sleep.
"If present trends continue." His indignation made their bed crak. "If the price of Bauxite continue to rise."
So they were talking about Bauxite. In her sleepy state Gotty had been running down a path on the way to her primary school. Somehow, she found the energy to sit up and clear her head. He expected his wife to be interested in everything he said.
"What is Bauxite, Wendell?"
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