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Showing posts with label Work in Progress. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Work in Progress. Show all posts

I Love Paris


Lately, I've been rummaging around my collection of writing ideas and unfinished work. Sometimes, it's very clear why I never completed a particular piece, why I abandoned those words in favor of others. But, sometimes, I come across things I don't even remember writing, things that seem like they should have gone somewhere other than cold storage. Like this one.

I Love Paris

What was I doing?

This was insane, heading down an alley in Paris with a man I didn't know like he was a trusted lover, his hand riding my ass like he owned it, like he wasn’t just some French fuck I’d picked up in a bar two minutes ago.

My week had been weird all around; I’d been traveling with my best friend, Lila, and my boyfriend, Scott, who bailed on me after a fight in Barcelona that started over the best train to take to London and ended with them confessing to a drunken fuck the night before. They are probably back in Portland now, two days early, fucking each other just like before we left, even though they denied it. Lying mother-fuckers.

I’d ended up at Harry's Bar because Scott had wanted to see it; the idea that F. Scott Fitzgerald and Hemmingway had frequented the place in the '20s and '30s apparently had given wannabe writer Scott a hard-on.

Tonight, the last night of my trip, I’d gone to spite him, feeling powerfully and happily alone. The bar was all right I guess, more knock-off French than “Casablanca”, but it was dark and the drinks were reasonable in a city where most tourist places were a total rip-off. After several glasses of house red and a few chanteuse songs I was sad and drunk as I wove a somewhat wobbly path toward the door.

Getting laid had been the last thing on my mind.

I’d spotted him leaning against the bar. He was dark, handsome, and unmistakably French, wearing a pissed off expression. He came complete with hooded eyes and hawk-like features that managed to be sharp and sensual all at the same time. He’d smiled and I had moved to him as if he was magnetized.

The woman sitting on the stool closest to him glared at me when I pushed past her and held out my hand to him. He took it immediately, threw some bills on the bar, and pushed open the door for me. A blast of night air gusted through Harry’s smoke.

He seemed as eager as I, his long finger finding the crease in my ass, sliding into it, pressing the silken fabric of my skirt against the shocked, bare pucker of my asshole, urging me along. I was glad I had left my panties at the hotel.

His boots and my heels were loud, disharmonious, the noise bouncing off sepia colored buildings. Even the alley behind 5 Rue Daunou was elegant—cobblestones, wrought iron stairs, potted trees, creeping vines and flowers.

He pushed me into a stairwell. It was dark, but through an archway I saw a courtyard, a silent fountain standing sentry, but we didn’t go there. He smiled the smile he’d flashed in the bar, the one that had made me follow him out the door, the one that was dangerously sexy, snarly, and confident. He tugged me under the iron stairs into a darker space, thrusting his hands between my thighs and pushing my dress up. He explored my ass and cunt, not missing a thing. This man knew his way around a woman’s body.

I sucked in a breath, my hands curling into the wall, my body bowing to lift higher for his exploring hands, my knees spreading. I groaned as he sunk long, crafty fingers into me.

He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to.

I was so wet, so slippery; he knew I liked everything he was doing.

I reached for his cock, and he growled when it sprang into my hand. I jacked him off in the darkness, my trembling fingers scraping against his spread fly and the rough thatch of his pubic hair.

“Someone’s coming!” I whispered, squeezing my legs together, trapping and stopping his hand, my eyes wide as he rested his forehead on mine, his fingers curled inside me still.

We watch as a drunken couple fumble their way through the doorway and up the stairs above us. She flashes us long legs and a hairy cunt as they pass.

I close my eyes so they don’t see the luminous, hungry shine of them in the darkness, and I sink my teeth into the fine cloth of his suited, very broad shoulder, to quiet a whimper caused by the scent of him—cigars and Paris—the feel of him; hot mouth on my earlobe, swivels of palm over clit until I burn.

My hand itches to wrap again around his hard length, uncut and thick, but he beats me to it, hiking my leg up and spreading me wide, prick in hand.

To Be Continued...Maybe...



Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

“It’s sad isn’t it? I mean, you made a mistake and you're sorry so it feels like it shouldn’t be over but, oddly, it is.” Paul said this looking off someplace over my head. He sounded detached, more like a scientist explaining the pesky nature of his experiment rather than a man breaking up with the girlfriend who desperately didn’t want him to.

I gaped at him, struck mute by confusion. I couldn’t absorb what he was giving me. From my point of view everything had been fine, happy even. We’d met, he was amazingly funny, smart and a total flirt. He’d actually warned me away from him, told me he’d break my heart if I fell in love with him but when, for the first time in my life, I listened to a man and distanced myself from him, he’d been doubly charming until I fell madly in love with him. He’d said he loved me too, had said it in public even, in front of people. He was the one who said we shouldn’t see anyone else, who planted dreams in my head, who’d given me an engagement ring and the promise of his love, always.

That man and this man, were completely different. This man seemed to not care if he ever saw me again.

“I hope you know I really loved you,” he said, still not looking at me.

“I loved you too,” I said, controlling a whimper, twisting my ring around my finger. Loved? I LOVE him. How could he go from promises and adoration to this?

“I hear the plane engine starting,” he said with that crooked smile that used to make me melt but now made me want to slap him so hard he’d scream like a woman.

“What plane? You're going someplace?” I reached out, my fingers clutching at his shirt.

“No sillygirl, the plane scene at the end of Casablanca.”

“You mean the one where she leaves in tears and he goes back to his bar to drown his sorrows in other women?”

“Actually, he went off to fight the war with Claude Rains.”

Maybe I Suck


You've heard about successful writers who wrote only on napkins, or tiny notebooks, every chance they had, while working fourteen hours a day, raising ten kids and volunteering at their local homeless shelter. The point of their stories is to make other writers feel like shit when they don't write.

Today, I found myself with a slice of time to call my own and, of course, sat down to write. I started working on a blog post explaining my absence, but I stalled before I wrote a word. Did I want to apologize for not being here, say I'd be coming back, finishing this story or that novella? Did I want to talk about publishing deals or plans for a new website design? Did I want to thank the people who still come here despite my recent lack of new posting (I really am grateful to all of you) or, did I want to just admit that I am tired? Tired from working non-stop, traveling constantly, expending all of my energy on a day job I perform for the money. I sold out to suckle upon the fatted tit of corporate America and I am too exhausted to sugar-coat it today. Too exhausted to write.

All my favorite writers say they write everyday. I admire that, and when I don't write daily, I stop calling myself a writer. Unable to produce new words, I read old, filed away, story beginnings. I tell myself I am looking for something worthy of posting on the website, or something to spark an idea, but I am really looking for a reason to keep writing, to not give up. I find snippets of ideas, sometimes whole pages, more often paragraphs. I find breakups and surviving, sex and memories. I find funny things, painful things, and I find this, filed in August, 2006 and forgotten about.

Working Story Title - The Church

I’d seen him in the village. He was hard to miss. Heathcliff, Lord Byron, Jim Morrison; all my girlhood fantasies rolled into one tragically beautiful package. Dark, lanky, foreign; his lonely, haunted air captivated me from the first time I saw him riding his bicycle through the grove of olive trees near the town’s 500 year old church.

I saw him in the square, in the park, down by the river. Once, in the flower shop, he brushed against me but he never looked at me. I knew his eyes were so dark they were almost black because I’d watched him often, growing bolder the more time passed without him catching me spinning my lustful castle in the sky all around him.

He had a faraway dreamy quality about him. He looked bored, yet snapped with energy. He was always alone.

I never had the nerve to follow him home though I ached to climb whatever stairs led to his house, knock on his door and throw myself at his feet, confessing weeks of lustful fantasies, begging him to fuck me.

When I finally met him, it turned out I could not utter a word until he demanded it.

“Yes,” I screamed.