T Williams - Dirty Minds

When assessing how graphic to make your description, I would suggest that we are setting out to shock, ma non troppo. Try writing something you might not feel comfortable showing to your mother. At the same time, it should not unduly shock your sister or your best friend.

She reflected that her mother would, without question, have shocked less easily than her big sister. At the same time she was grateful to him for spelling it out. The sheet ended with notes about the contractual arrangements, reimbursement of expenses and division of royalties. It all looked fair. He ended with the words:

Collaborative writing will involve joint decision-making and, inevitably, compromise. Please bear this in mind if you are offered the position. For my part, I pledge that I will endeavour to keep an open mind at all times.

She folded the pages and slipped them back into the envelope. She knew she could write. She had been writing articles, stories and unfinished books for as long as she could remember. But she had never tried anything like this before.

‘I’d better talk to Melissa.’

‘Ariadne, oh Ariadne darling.’

Jimmy was affecting a high-pitched, nasal whine. His voice echoed up the stairs.

Clinton stirred. Out of habit, he looked at the alarm clock on the bedside table. It was almost lunchtime.

‘Thank God it’s Saturday.’

‘Who’s Ariadne?’ The girl’s voice was sleepy.

‘That would be me.’

He climbed out of bed and opened the curtains. A gusty wind whipped the rain diagonally across the glass. He could barely make out the shape of the houses across the road: A good day for going back to bed again. He turned away and surveyed the chaos in the room. Her clothes were strewn across the floor, as were his. Her red bra was draped across the reading light. The Chablis they had spilt on the desktop was congealing, the shape of her buttocks still discernible in the sticky mess. He licked his lips. Among all the other tastes, there was definitely Chablis.

He opened the door, and wandered out onto the landing.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, put some clothes on, Clint.’ Jimmy had brought the post upstairs.

‘That’s Ariadne, to you, James.’ He did his best to imitate Jimmy’s high-class accent. Jimmy did it better, but then he always had had a way with words. ‘Leave the letter there, my man. One is going for a piss.’

When he emerged from the bathroom, he picked up the large A4 envelope, addressed to Ms Ariadne Anstruther. He took it back into the room. Dolores had gone back to sleep, so he didn’t disturb her. He dug out a clean sweatshirt and jeans and sat on the edge of the bed, as he pulled on socks and shoes.

Inside the envelope was a letter addressed to Ms Anstruther. He checked the signature. He had been right in his assumption that it was a man. Feeling hungry, he wandered downstairs to the kitchen. Jimmy was sprawled in the lounge, watching football.

‘Coffee?’

Jimmy raised a thumb.

Clinton went into the kitchen. As the coffee machine wheezed into life, he read through the letter. When the green light came on, he made two big cappuccino coffees. He went back into the lounge.

‘Here.’ He pushed the cup into Jimmy’s hand. ‘And take a look at this. We have a result!’

‘One thanks one, Ariadne dearest. Pray tell me, is this coffee the finest arabica, or is one slumming it with Brazilian?’

‘Just read the fucking letter, Jimbo.’

Jimmy read it through. From time to time, he looked across at his friend. Finally he laid it down.

‘Historical, that’s awesome. What the hell do you know about historical sex?’

‘I know sex, Jimmy. The historical is just a matter of digging around a bit on the internet. All we’ve got to do is choose a century. You know anything about history?’

‘I know it’s light years since I got lucky.’

‘I’m serious. I need a time and a place.’

‘I’m serious too. What I need is a woman. And you also need what he calls an “encounter”.’

‘That’s the easy part. I won’t just write it, I’ll perform it.’ His thoughts flitted briefly back the girl upstairs. ‘If I haven’t already done it.’

Jimmy had a stroke of genius. ‘How about cavemen? If we go with cavemen, there’s no dates to get wrong, or other stuff. Imagine if we made it, say, only a couple of hundred years ago. Have you any idea what was going on then, who the king was, or stuff like clothes? Hell, the ladies’ underwear was probably whalebone corsets.’

‘And chastity belts.’ Clinton really didn’t know much about history. ‘Cavemen is good. I like cavemen. I always thought Barney Rubble’s wife was hot.’

‘Wilma?’

‘No, the other one, I’ve forgotten her name. Wilma was Fred Flintstone’s wife. But cavemen is good. Now what about where?’

‘Does it matter? If we are going back a few million years, anywhere will do.’

‘How many million years are we going back?’

‘Ten, maybe?’ Jimmy was a good accountant, but he didn’t know much about history either.

‘Fine, we’ll make it ten million years ago. As for the place, we’ll need caves. You any idea where there are caves?’

‘Underground.’

‘Yeah, right,’

‘I think this is where we turn to our faithful laptop. We’ll find some caves somewhere easy enough. Cheddar Gorge, maybe? That sounds like the kind of place we want.’

‘Now then, all I’ve got to do is to decide what sort of sex to give him.’ Clinton was going to enjoy this part of it.

‘Caveman sex. Hit them over the head with a club and drag them into the cave. But he’s probably looking for a bit more than that. All this talk about Fifty Shades of Grey , he probably wants it a bit weird.’

‘You don’t get much weirder than hitting a chick over the head and dragging her into a cave.’

‘Yes, nowadays. But way back then, they were all doing it. Ten million years ago, stockings and suspenders would have been really kinky.’

‘Jimmy, my boy, stockings and suspenders are dead kinky nowadays, too.’

‘Fancy a walk?’

The dog’s response to the question was animated. He rushed over to the chair in the corner and fetched his lead. Tom pulled on his heavy jacket and a woolly hat. Outside it was blowing hard, although the rain had stopped. If anything, it was colder than before. It looked like February was going to be bad all the way through to the end. He clipped on the lead and let himself be tugged down the road. By the time they reached the footpath, the rain had started again. He pulled up his collar with grim resignation.

‘Well, we’re here now.’

He released Noah to run in the field, while he reviewed his plans for the new book. Clearly, if they were to convince a publisher to take them on they would need to come up with more than just sex. He needed a compelling storyline, and one that would appeal to women. But what did women want to read? He had hardly so much as spoken to one for two years now. And Cynthia didn’t count. What would Diane have said? He was feeling more and more out of his depth.

Apart from wading through that damn book, as he found himself calling it he had continued his investigation of erotic literature. There turned out to be hundreds of websites specialising in stories of a sexual nature. Many of the collections were so big that readers were offered the chance to select whatever specific genre they preferred. Underneath the title and brief synopsis of each story, there would be symbols or words, specifying the contents.

He soon worked out that MM, FFM, FFF referred to the gender of the participants. Some of the descriptors were self-evident, such as Lesbian, Gay or Group. Some were not so clear. For example, BDSM pretty obviously referred to Bondage and Sadomasochism, but Spanking was a category to itself. Hard-core existed as a distinct category, but for the life of him he couldn’t see any difference between it and BDSM. Most unexpected of all, there often appeared to be no classification for traditional sex involving one man and one woman.