2002 - 2006
The years between 2002 and 2006 were the most enjoyable and fruitful of the years spent sitting in my secondhand bookshop, John's Bookshop, Mosman. I took a step back from my dream of becoming a serious writer - which, strangely enough, meant that I ended up writing more often. I read more deeply than I had ever done before. I started copying out passages from the books I was reading, and making notes. I began to write little sketches of incidents in the shop, strange conversations, odd behaviour etc, and I entertained myself coming up with neat little aphorisms which I jotted down and sometimes wrote on the shop's chalk board.
During this time I made a concerted effort to educate myself in history, philosophy and above all literature. And I talked with a vast array of interesting people. A second-hand bookshop is like no other business. It affords opportunities for intellectual intercourse with complete strangers on a level of intimacy some people never attain even with their nearest and dearest.
And these were the years I wrote a set of interlinked erotic stories about a woman named Emma. These stories later formed the basis of rather large mess of a novel. The novel was eventually deemed beyond redemption and scrapped. Little did I know then what would become of Emma!
The following is from a short story called Emma's Thirtieth which didn't make it into the original novel. Nor was the story included in the published Emma novels.
Emma Stories
The morning after Emma's thirtieth birthday...
Emma's sister Fiona was the first to wake. She washed and dressed, being as quiet as a mouse, and went downstairs to the kitchen. She grimaced, thought about cleaning up for Emma, decided not to, felt guilty and then blamed David for not doing it before he went to bed. She drank some orange juice straight out of the bottle, then decided to leave the scene of the crime and head home.
She stepped into the room Emma and David called the study, to grab her purse, and found Sally and Elliot both unconscious and seated side by side on the Chesterfield. Elliot’s pants were undone and his flaccid cock lay on its side still covered by a condom with fluid in the end. His shirt was unbuttoned and he had bite marks on his neck and chest. His head was slumped back, his mouth was open and he snored softly. Sally lay against him, her head on his shoulder, knees together, her black underwear caught in the heel of her left shoe, her black skirt raised and her pubic hair exposed.
They both looked as seedy as any two people could look. The air was foul. Fiona, though repulsed, could not fail to take in all of the details. She let sleeping dogs lie and left via the french windows which opened onto the verandah.
Sally woke. Fiona had left the french windows wide open. A slight breeze tousled her hair. The sky had cleared and the midday sun was bright and hot beyond the shade of the verandah. She heard voices and a car door slammed. Her head thumped and her senses were crippled. She opened her eyes but the blue brilliant light of midday assaulted her, so she closed them. She was still again. A few minutes passed quietly. Then all at once she recognised the position she was in. She sat up, pulled on her underwear and adjusted her skirt. She turned to Elliot and shook him awake. He looked at her uncomprehending - his head thumping also; his senses slow and weak, too.
"What?"
"Look at yourself," she said.
He looked down and saw and was instantly mortified. He pulled off the condom and not knowing what to do with the foul thing, flung it out the french windows and over the railing.
"Damn," he said, when it got stuck in the azaleas.
They both entered the hallway sheepishly. Other than Emma's brother Peter, who they saw was asleep on a sofa in the lounge room, nobody was around.
Elliot made for the bathroom and was followed in by Sally. While he paused to examine his bleary eyes she pulled down her black underwear and lifted her skirt and sat on the loo. Elliot stretched out his arm and closed the door. He stared at her in a manner which remained impersonal and unobtrusive, like the way people look at each other on early morning trains. He saw that her thick blonde hair was still pulled back but had become messed during the night. Her sleepy face seemed softer and more approachable. She had lovely honey tanned legs which were long and slim. Her feet were unblemished and very feminine. Pampered. Sally was looking at her feet, waiting to pee. Silence. Nothing happened. He followed the line of her leg up her thigh and saw it roundoff at her arse. He assumed much about her - that she had never held a job, that she had a personal trainer, a podiatrist, a beauty therapist, that her hairdresser would be one of the few people to hear about this latest indiscretion of hers. She would sit there embellishing the tale, cleaning it up.
Still nothing came. Elliot turned on the tap and the noisy trickle of Sally’s pee was kick-started. Elliot washed his face and rinsed his mouth. He watched her wipe herself and saw her stand up, wearily pulling her underwear up in the same movement. He watched the underwear rise up her legs; accepted her physical presence; felt a twinge in his cock; smelt the slightest hint of a feminine fart; watched her straighten herself up; noticed her. Elliot undid his pants and moved towards her, she stepped aside, looking at his cock all the while. It was thick but not erect. He held his cock and aimed it down into the bowl and a yellow stream emerged and he shivered. She stood close to him and watched.
Sally fixed herself up the best she could. She pulled back her hair neatly and washed her makeup off. They made their way into the kitchen and he found the juice and poured a glass to share.
"I don't think anybody saw," said Sally, after a large gulp of juice. She leant against him.
"Anyone could have seen. It’s twelve."
"Maybe, maybe not. At least we know he didn’t see," she said, motioning with a quick nod towards the lounge room.
“We've done no harm.”
“Tell that to my husband.”
"I thought you were divorced," he said absently, for he was distracted by the pleasant presence of her body against his.
"No, we were just separated. We're back together now."
"That’s news you should have shared," he said lazily, failing to rouse in himself an appreciation of the serious consequences of his behaviour. He was amazed at how unconcerned he was. This was another man’s wife, he told himself to no avail. He had never done anything remotely like this before for fear of causing in a woman’s husband or boyfriend the kind pain Paul had caused him all that time ago. But this? What was this? Atrocious.
"Look it isn't so bad. It isn't as though we remember it. I don’t, do you?" she asked, realising that though she couldn't remember what happened, she could still feel it.
"Not a thing," he lied. His cock was rigid.
"You see. It’s like we never did it," she said, trying to shake away her thoughts.
"Yeah," he said. He remembered a woman riding him; her eyes closed, an expression of thoughtless abandon on her face. Even though he had just woken beside Sally and had watched her pee he was still somewhat concerned that he had made some mistake. He was under the impression that the woman with the face of thoughtless abandon had been Fiona, not Sally.
"Not that I would mind doing it," she said, reaching out and rubbing his fly. This initiative made her feel so sexy. It had been too long since she had last reached out for what she desired. Her hand cupped the fly of his pants. She found it had changed since the bathroom. She was imagining the drunken fuck they had in the night air. Vague images were dancing just out of reach. She knew from their positions when she awoke that she must have ridden him to his climax. The overall picture was not a pleasant one. And this is exactly what had her so wet. She had behaved badly. And now here she was, with no make-up on, sharing a drink with a strange man and rubbing his penis.
During this time I made a concerted effort to educate myself in history, philosophy and above all literature. And I talked with a vast array of interesting people. A second-hand bookshop is like no other business. It affords opportunities for intellectual intercourse with complete strangers on a level of intimacy some people never attain even with their nearest and dearest.
And these were the years I wrote a set of interlinked erotic stories about a woman named Emma. These stories later formed the basis of rather large mess of a novel. The novel was eventually deemed beyond redemption and scrapped. Little did I know then what would become of Emma!
The following is from a short story called Emma's Thirtieth which didn't make it into the original novel. Nor was the story included in the published Emma novels.
Emma Stories
The morning after Emma's thirtieth birthday...
Emma's sister Fiona was the first to wake. She washed and dressed, being as quiet as a mouse, and went downstairs to the kitchen. She grimaced, thought about cleaning up for Emma, decided not to, felt guilty and then blamed David for not doing it before he went to bed. She drank some orange juice straight out of the bottle, then decided to leave the scene of the crime and head home.
She stepped into the room Emma and David called the study, to grab her purse, and found Sally and Elliot both unconscious and seated side by side on the Chesterfield. Elliot’s pants were undone and his flaccid cock lay on its side still covered by a condom with fluid in the end. His shirt was unbuttoned and he had bite marks on his neck and chest. His head was slumped back, his mouth was open and he snored softly. Sally lay against him, her head on his shoulder, knees together, her black underwear caught in the heel of her left shoe, her black skirt raised and her pubic hair exposed.
They both looked as seedy as any two people could look. The air was foul. Fiona, though repulsed, could not fail to take in all of the details. She let sleeping dogs lie and left via the french windows which opened onto the verandah.
Sally woke. Fiona had left the french windows wide open. A slight breeze tousled her hair. The sky had cleared and the midday sun was bright and hot beyond the shade of the verandah. She heard voices and a car door slammed. Her head thumped and her senses were crippled. She opened her eyes but the blue brilliant light of midday assaulted her, so she closed them. She was still again. A few minutes passed quietly. Then all at once she recognised the position she was in. She sat up, pulled on her underwear and adjusted her skirt. She turned to Elliot and shook him awake. He looked at her uncomprehending - his head thumping also; his senses slow and weak, too.
"What?"
"Look at yourself," she said.
He looked down and saw and was instantly mortified. He pulled off the condom and not knowing what to do with the foul thing, flung it out the french windows and over the railing.
"Damn," he said, when it got stuck in the azaleas.
They both entered the hallway sheepishly. Other than Emma's brother Peter, who they saw was asleep on a sofa in the lounge room, nobody was around.
Elliot made for the bathroom and was followed in by Sally. While he paused to examine his bleary eyes she pulled down her black underwear and lifted her skirt and sat on the loo. Elliot stretched out his arm and closed the door. He stared at her in a manner which remained impersonal and unobtrusive, like the way people look at each other on early morning trains. He saw that her thick blonde hair was still pulled back but had become messed during the night. Her sleepy face seemed softer and more approachable. She had lovely honey tanned legs which were long and slim. Her feet were unblemished and very feminine. Pampered. Sally was looking at her feet, waiting to pee. Silence. Nothing happened. He followed the line of her leg up her thigh and saw it roundoff at her arse. He assumed much about her - that she had never held a job, that she had a personal trainer, a podiatrist, a beauty therapist, that her hairdresser would be one of the few people to hear about this latest indiscretion of hers. She would sit there embellishing the tale, cleaning it up.
Still nothing came. Elliot turned on the tap and the noisy trickle of Sally’s pee was kick-started. Elliot washed his face and rinsed his mouth. He watched her wipe herself and saw her stand up, wearily pulling her underwear up in the same movement. He watched the underwear rise up her legs; accepted her physical presence; felt a twinge in his cock; smelt the slightest hint of a feminine fart; watched her straighten herself up; noticed her. Elliot undid his pants and moved towards her, she stepped aside, looking at his cock all the while. It was thick but not erect. He held his cock and aimed it down into the bowl and a yellow stream emerged and he shivered. She stood close to him and watched.
Sally fixed herself up the best she could. She pulled back her hair neatly and washed her makeup off. They made their way into the kitchen and he found the juice and poured a glass to share.
"I don't think anybody saw," said Sally, after a large gulp of juice. She leant against him.
"Anyone could have seen. It’s twelve."
"Maybe, maybe not. At least we know he didn’t see," she said, motioning with a quick nod towards the lounge room.
“We've done no harm.”
“Tell that to my husband.”
"I thought you were divorced," he said absently, for he was distracted by the pleasant presence of her body against his.
"No, we were just separated. We're back together now."
"That’s news you should have shared," he said lazily, failing to rouse in himself an appreciation of the serious consequences of his behaviour. He was amazed at how unconcerned he was. This was another man’s wife, he told himself to no avail. He had never done anything remotely like this before for fear of causing in a woman’s husband or boyfriend the kind pain Paul had caused him all that time ago. But this? What was this? Atrocious.
"Look it isn't so bad. It isn't as though we remember it. I don’t, do you?" she asked, realising that though she couldn't remember what happened, she could still feel it.
"Not a thing," he lied. His cock was rigid.
"You see. It’s like we never did it," she said, trying to shake away her thoughts.
"Yeah," he said. He remembered a woman riding him; her eyes closed, an expression of thoughtless abandon on her face. Even though he had just woken beside Sally and had watched her pee he was still somewhat concerned that he had made some mistake. He was under the impression that the woman with the face of thoughtless abandon had been Fiona, not Sally.
"Not that I would mind doing it," she said, reaching out and rubbing his fly. This initiative made her feel so sexy. It had been too long since she had last reached out for what she desired. Her hand cupped the fly of his pants. She found it had changed since the bathroom. She was imagining the drunken fuck they had in the night air. Vague images were dancing just out of reach. She knew from their positions when she awoke that she must have ridden him to his climax. The overall picture was not a pleasant one. And this is exactly what had her so wet. She had behaved badly. And now here she was, with no make-up on, sharing a drink with a strange man and rubbing his penis.