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I didn’t write a lot on holiday. I didn’t check Facebook, text anyone or try and contact the outside world in any way. Writing sort of fell under that category. I was on holiday, so I would not write.
What follows is what happened on the one day that I did write, laid on a sofa and with Emma constantly looking over and saying “Have you finished yet?”.
It is kind of based on a dream, but also on me exploring the phrase ‘stolen kisses’ one afternoon when I was, literally, stealing kisses. Not in the way the story makes out though.
She kissed him outside ‘The Red Lion’, round the back in the darkest of alleys. Illuminated only by a full moon, she moved her hands to his hair, pulling him roughly towards her. He tasted new, of ash and stale beer, and his lips didn’t fit hers, finding her chin too often.
But he was enthusiastic at least, and she was drunk, and his amateur fumbles sent a few shivers down her spine and up her legs. And she loved him. She loved them all. She had to really, for what she wanted in life. It made the kisses mean more, warm her heart more.
She ran her hands down his back, lifting his shirt when she reached his belt and digging her nails in. He drew in breath: short, sharp, pleasurable.
* * *
The next guy was at the office, an old favourite. He was young, and his short attention span meant she was always on the verge and never really enjoying herself. She thought of her workmates in the other room, trying to find enjoyment in the forbidden thrill of it all.
He used his tongue too much, thinking it the way to a woman’s heart. She knew the way to his, and she reached for it through his boxers.
* * *
George kept telling her his name was George. He was so prim and proper, wining and dining her before he even held her hand. He blushed when she suggested coffee, in the way that meant that coffee was the last thing on her mind.
She loved George and his coyness. When he eventually kissed her, he wanted her to be happy. It was refreshing. He tasted of mint, sharp and clean like his mind.
He never did accept her “coffee”.
She left him at her door and listened to him drive away as she climbed to her room. She sat down on the edge of her bed as she placed her heart into the small wooden chest. George’s kisses were white; naïve and kind.
* * *
The fair was loud and busy in the early afternoon. Most people walked past her stall without stopping, or read the sign and chuckled. Occasionally someone would stop, curious enough to offer her the five pounds she was asking.
She thanked them, graciously, asked them to close their eyes. Many refused, but she insisted, adamant to keep her secret. From the wooden box, which was carve with nymphs and stars and hearts, she would remove a kiss.
On this day, George’s kiss floated up first, eager and playful, but she would save that for someone special. She reached into the box instead, feeling the kisses brush against her wrist. From the bottom she removed a black one, dark and smoky.
She planted it gently on the customer’s lips, and watched as he squirmed with pleasure. For that brief, fleeting moment (and for five of his British pounds) he felt loved, even if it was by a tattooed bouncer, who couldn’t tell the difference between lips and a chin.
What follows is what happened on the one day that I did write, laid on a sofa and with Emma constantly looking over and saying “Have you finished yet?”.
It is kind of based on a dream, but also on me exploring the phrase ‘stolen kisses’ one afternoon when I was, literally, stealing kisses. Not in the way the story makes out though.
She kissed him outside ‘The Red Lion’, round the back in the darkest of alleys. Illuminated only by a full moon, she moved her hands to his hair, pulling him roughly towards her. He tasted new, of ash and stale beer, and his lips didn’t fit hers, finding her chin too often.
But he was enthusiastic at least, and she was drunk, and his amateur fumbles sent a few shivers down her spine and up her legs. And she loved him. She loved them all. She had to really, for what she wanted in life. It made the kisses mean more, warm her heart more.
She ran her hands down his back, lifting his shirt when she reached his belt and digging her nails in. He drew in breath: short, sharp, pleasurable.
* * *
The next guy was at the office, an old favourite. He was young, and his short attention span meant she was always on the verge and never really enjoying herself. She thought of her workmates in the other room, trying to find enjoyment in the forbidden thrill of it all.
He used his tongue too much, thinking it the way to a woman’s heart. She knew the way to his, and she reached for it through his boxers.
* * *
George kept telling her his name was George. He was so prim and proper, wining and dining her before he even held her hand. He blushed when she suggested coffee, in the way that meant that coffee was the last thing on her mind.
She loved George and his coyness. When he eventually kissed her, he wanted her to be happy. It was refreshing. He tasted of mint, sharp and clean like his mind.
He never did accept her “coffee”.
She left him at her door and listened to him drive away as she climbed to her room. She sat down on the edge of her bed as she placed her heart into the small wooden chest. George’s kisses were white; naïve and kind.
* * *
The fair was loud and busy in the early afternoon. Most people walked past her stall without stopping, or read the sign and chuckled. Occasionally someone would stop, curious enough to offer her the five pounds she was asking.
She thanked them, graciously, asked them to close their eyes. Many refused, but she insisted, adamant to keep her secret. From the wooden box, which was carve with nymphs and stars and hearts, she would remove a kiss.
On this day, George’s kiss floated up first, eager and playful, but she would save that for someone special. She reached into the box instead, feeling the kisses brush against her wrist. From the bottom she removed a black one, dark and smoky.
She planted it gently on the customer’s lips, and watched as he squirmed with pleasure. For that brief, fleeting moment (and for five of his British pounds) he felt loved, even if it was by a tattooed bouncer, who couldn’t tell the difference between lips and a chin.
:D
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