What a fantastic pair of legs. Long, smooth, shapely and with dark tinted stockings.
Mmmm, not tights mind you, real stockings – I know the difference. Ohh and that skin of black satin rolling over her perfectly shaped bottom. God that’s tempting. Wow, I mean.
Obviously, I need to make sure that someone else is in the frame, but in the confines of this lift it could be anyone touching her.
Yeah, go on, do it. Don’t talk to yourself, just do it.
Yes, yeesss –
Well what a result. Really nice backside, just as I thought….
Fancy her turning towards me, just as I did it, and then smiling at me, before she turned back to the scapegoat. He knew it was me, but he couldn’t really accuse me could he, wouldn’t be right would it. Smarmy face, gelled hair, narrow eyes, sharp suit, too smooth by far. Still, the poor sod will remember that slap for a while eh. And there’s nothing worse than taking the stick for something you haven’t done. I know that and now he will. Excellent. What a result. Heh, heh.
Sometimes, when I look out from my apartment window, I see a sort of airbrush of pale orange whisper across the Persil white of the clouds as evening approaches. Reminds me of my life I suppose. Then I wonder how long before the colour changes once more to a darker night-shade and how long before sleep eases my workload. Long days and late nights - the paragraphs of my lifestyle, changing only as the light changes and finishing only when I sleep. I’m told that long working hours are the norm for busy executives, but that doesn’t really mean a great deal to me, I do that continuously just to keep the wolves from the door.
I write, but my skills don’t come naturally. Not like the successful sod novelists who rake in the money for seemingly little effort. What I write strikes uncomfortable tones for those who read me. My style’s not always suited to my audience and my publishers’ despair at my colourful use of language. They don’t really follow what I am trying to get Jo Public to understand you see. Those mercenary city boys see success only in volume of sales and return on investment. Still, their complaints seldom reach my ears anyway; they’re afraid I might get upset and throw a tantrum, though where they got that idea from God knows. Publishers, huh ? patronising bastards.
You see, what I want to say they don’t want to hear. I want to tell them that they should pay more attention to the twighlight, the world of evil thoughts and deeds, the unmentionable aspects of abuse and hatred and fear of the unknown; and the discrimination of course. I’m a writer of that world, from that world. I see the evil and the hatred and I try to exploit it. Not for financial gain, but simply to show them all that it exists and needs to be attended to. I shout loudly at them to be noticed, “Hey, you condescending gits, don’t just stand and look away, see me, listen to me.”
I’ve been writing for a few years now. Had some success, but never really a bestseller or even a near bestseller. In fact, the modest number of books I have had published recline on the bookshelves of libraries and institutions rather than on the pushy points of sale at the booksellers. It’s really fact you see, what I write, but everyone sees it as fiction and consequently it comes over as a bit enigmatic.
God knows why I decided to take up writing anyway. Reckon I could have been a dancer, moving to cool rhythms in a rock opera, or a musical. It’s my natural feeling for movement and sound y’see. I’ve got lots of movement, inside me that is. Sort of Jacksonish style, if that’s the right description, real feeling for the beat, but with an interpretation that’s all my own. Smooth and cool. And I love music, all kinds, every kind – it just seeps into me and I come alive.
I love the arts as well. Could’ve been a painter, but there’s no money in that either, unless you’re a bloody monkey maybe. Then again perhaps I should have been a physicist. Sounds completely different to dancer or an artist doesn’t it? Well maybe, but with my IQ of 170 and such devotion to work it’s not really out of the window is it. Only problem is, its too boring, too bloody intellectual a lifestyle and you’re always striving for something you can never achieve - the lost particle, the smaller core that nobody has come up with a name for yet. …. And you never get to dance. I love to dance, at least inside.
I just need some recognition, some damned recognition.
Ahh well, need to stop this daydreaming, it’s a habit I have and it slows my concentration. I’m a workaholic y’know, even though nobody realises it. Think I sit on my arse all day and do nothing but daydream. I’m no different to anyone else I suppose. My output is a bit poor sometimes, but I’ve never missed a deadline. Well, the odd one maybe, when I’m out playing golf or the occasional game of football, heh, heh. I have to get out on occasions, just to break the monotony. I enjoy golf. Played at Wentworth last week and parred the 14th no problem, birdied the 15th and I’m a high handicapper so that’s some achievement. Yeah that’s me, a high handicapper.
Football’s a bit different. Got a good eye for the ball, just the one so to speak, heh, the other one’s well off the mark. Makes things difficult when I play up-front. Goals come few and far between, but then it’s the taking part that counts isn’t it and footy isn’t really my scene anyway.
I hang out with some brilliant guys though. Dave, my right arm, gives me real honest words and gets me through the bad times. Then there’s Mary, my counsellor. Didn’t I mention her before? Ohhh yes, I need a counsellor believe me – what with the sympathetic smiles, the Chinese whispers, the blank understanding. Oh, and of course my total inability to control my workaholism. I have to have someone’s shoulder to cry on and Mary’s only 5’0” tall so I can literally cry on her shoulder all day if I need to, and I do need to on occasions.
Then there’s Jane. Pretty Jane, gorgeous Jane. I’m in love with Jane, she is fabulous looking. Blonde hair that floats silk spider threads around her face in the breeze. Skin that tints her cheeks a paler pink than perfect and deep sea blue eyes that you swim into and never wish to surface from. It’s not just her beauty either, she has this sensual presence that wraps around you and dissolves you into her scent. She’s here all the time when she’s not working and we make love constantly. Deep, precious, silent, smooth, silky love for hours and hours and then we sleep. She’s always gone when I wake up though, strange that, but then she’s always back again in the evening. I’ve thought about asking her to move in, but well….
Strange, when I hear my mates talking, they have this odd view of me. I reckon they see me as a bit different - a sort of professor type, a thinker – a guy who wears dishevelled clothes, bottle glass spectacles that no one else could see through and hair that is always in need of a heavy trim. A guy with a head that leans perilously to one side with one eye to the ceiling and the other on the girl walking by, hmmff. I heard some of them talking in the bar the other night. Really pitying this guy in a wheelchair, who types with a stick in his mouth onto a laptop and suffers with some unpronounceable, incurable disease. Can’t hold a conversation ‘cos he’s almost deaf, drives around in an electric wheelchair and has a carer to put him to bed. ‘Poor bastard,’ they reckoned, lives in a dream world without realising it.
I mean we all have our little ism’s, I know. I mean, my saliva misses the edge of my lips on occasions and dribbles onto my lap, I don’t hear so good either, don’t move as quickly as I would like, so yes, I suppose I can empathise with the guy, can’t we all. And, I guess I do speak with an electronic accent – huh, machines eh? - and I do run my wheels over people sometimes, but I’m sound really. Not like that poor sod they were talking about. He must be so miserable, so angry. I just wonder if he knows who they’re talking about.
doughty 2003
