Monday, 15 March 2010

First words

The inspiration came from frustration, a dire need for money. And my lodger. Simples. You'd think it would come from an amazing romance, a relationship, a mind-blowing fuck with a loved one or stranger. Or memories of being a dancer, or actress, or stripper, or travel rep. Some really obviously sexy situations. In a way it was all of those, yet much more mundane. Just an ordinary red blooded girl who had had plenty of sex, some dodgy, some overwhelmingly romantic, mostly with unsuitable men but one or two who were real lovers, but who right now was getting none at all. She was on her own, living inside her imagination because there was no man, just then, to occupy her.
She was in her thirties, a single mother, an Oxford graduate once dubbed the college beauty, tall, auburn haired, Catholic upbringing, had lived in Italy and Cairo. A good life, an interesting one, but everything had slowed down, jobs gone wrong, men leaving her, thrilled with her gorgeous baby but motherhood was holding her back, until she was faintly depressed and almost broke. Why wouldn't you want to lift yourself out of it via fiction? So here goes.

Primula sat by the window, four floors up, staring out at the rain. Seemed like everyone had somewhere to go, it was Saturday in Earl's Court for God's sake, they were all hurrying along the pavement in high heels towards the tube and the bright lights, laughing and pushing, all except her. Her reflection was pale and sombre, watched by one orange street lamp. Her baby was asleep in his cot, angelic. That was why she couldn't go out. Babysitter let her down. Friends busy. His father was on the other side of the world, oblivious to his existence.
She ran her hand over her hot face, down her throat. It was boiling up in this attic flat. Maybe she would just scoop J out of his cot, into his buggy, go walkabout down by the Thames. Don't be daft. It's nearly ten at night. She was fidgety, frustrated, bored, lonely, angry with herself. And what had made it worse was the DVD she'd found under the bed when cleaning her lodger's room. She put it in the machine, groaned impatiently when the badly edited film started with no intro, halfway through an incomprehensible scene, was about to eject it thinking she'd stumbled on some embarrassing home movie, when she saw all this floating white muslin, lilies in vases, and sunshine in wide stripes across a wooden floor, panning slow across the room like a French film noir, almost laboriously, and then the moaning sounds off camera started to make sense, and it turned out to be porn. Soft porn. She'd watched this before, with some ex boyfriend, squirming with embarrasment because it wasn't just him and her, for some reason it was her and a room full of his mates, all sniggering, trying to show they weren't turned on, what was she thinking of, sitting there trying not to fidget as her pussy twitched, making jokes, taking the piss, wishing she was anywhere but here but being seventeen had no balls just to stand up and walk out.
Soft porn, girls in soft focus and flimsy dresses breathing heavily, Emmanuelle style but not the hideous cravats and moustachios of the 70's, just tanned limbs, pale limbs tumbling over each other, a curved bottom then closer into soft breasts hanging like fruit, a nipple pushing between the pouting lips of an open red mouth and more sighing as glossy hair rippled over arched spines.
Primula watched, perched stiffly on the edge of the sofa, stiff with suppressed excitement. She tore her gaze away from the screen and saw her room arranged awkwardly around her, the furniture, pictures, books, plants, a toy telephone, toast crumbs on a plate. Her body was crawling with frustration but this was stupid. She was on her own in her scruffy pad in London, all that moaning and sex and wet pussies miles away, in a studio miles away in another country, those girls were actresses, and she was just pathetic.
She switched it off and went to stand, shaking, by the window, which is where we found her. Her body was pulsing, her mind full of those images. She touched herself at last, knowing that once she stopped she wouldn't be able to stop, it had been years since she'd frisked herself, but she lay on the bed, pulled her jeans down, trailed her fingers over her stomach, down between her legs, tossed her head back on the pillow, let those girls with their red lips and long hair crawl over her, sighing and moaning... and then the doorbell rang.
She had to answer it. It would wake the baby. She staggered upright, to the entryphone. Who the hell wanted her at this time of night?
'Hi, it's me, Colin.'
The ex lodger.
'I left something behind.'

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