Not another piece of erotic writing

Like the title says this is not another piece of erotic writing. The other day one of my followers mentioned that he felt my writing was poignant. This writing definitely fits that category – so for some of you it may be a bit much, especially if you are feeling a little emotionally delicate. However it is not simply sad, I hope it comes across as hopeful as well…

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I stepped impatiently out of the car, to the sound of guitar chords wafting across the supermarket car park. With green bags in hand I headed toward the electronic doors, intent on getting the cat food and returning home before the feline witching hour of 5pm. In no mood to linger, I quickly by-passed the busker who had stopped playing and was chatting animatedly to another man.

Despite my haste, I surreptitiously checked out the other shoppers, looking to make eye contact, exchange a smile or a few friendly words. But everyone else seemed to be caught in the frenzy of shopping for the evening meal, just as I was. Eventually, with both feline and human food needs met, I joined the queue for the cash register, dimly aware that the busker had resumed his music, but largely preoccupied with the question of whether I was suited to a poly-amorous lifestyle, and how I could find out.

Single life was exhausting me, I had little compulsion to engage with anything but my sex toys and my blog at the moment. Even the small pleasure of taking photographs for my on-line activities had failed to lift a mood of loneliness and the futility of life which had descended unexpectedly on my way home from the studio yesterday. Glancing down at the pre-made salads in my shopping basket, I thought fleetingly of a time when food was both a social occasion and a prelude to hot sex.  It seemed so long ago now. Now it seemed that even major celebrations like Xmas would be spent alone. In the three years we had lived together before she died, Mum and I had made social occasions out of food, both at home and in cafe’s we frequented, where we’d chat about inconsequential things, discuss family histories and shared incidents, or sometimes, to my intense frustration, the weather. Last year we had managed to make a joyful social occasion out of Xmas, even though our plans to spend Boxing Day and then New Year at The Oasis had collapsed the following day as rapidly and unexpectedly as her failed lung…

 

The shopping bag felt surprisingly light as I hefted it onto my shoulder, declining the supermarket docket with a smile and a sentence which was beginning to feel habitual. “No thanks, I’m trying to give them up.” A wave of warm spring air wafted toward me as the supermarket doors opened, simultaneously letting in the sound of a gravelly voice and hammered guitar chords. As I rounded the corner the busker was in full flight, moving his thin body in accompaniment to the song – not one I’d heard before. I slowed, listening intently, trying to work out whether he was actually any good, or simply trying too hard. He looked up, catching my eye and giving me a look that dared me to stop and pay proper attention to his art.

I did, returning his look with a half smile, then walked to one side and perched on the narrow brick edging of a nearby supermarket pillar, to listen and watch him perform. He reminded me in some ways of my late brother. He had the intensity that those who are passionate about their music bring to a performance, even one in a supermarket car park. The thin frame and narrow face seemed to speak of a life perhaps a little too well lived, devoted to the cliqued trio of sex, drugs and rock & roll. Yet his clean shirt and belted worn jeans signalled not only his rock aesthetic but also personal pride in his appearance. Perhaps, like my brother, his will to create, to share his passion with an audience, to say “I am here and I’ve got something to give” remained strong, even though his physical appearance suggested that his timer, too, may have been running down in the background.

Realising that he had an attentive audience, the musician turned more fully toward me, adding extra emphasis to his raw vocalisation as he caught my eye again. I smiled, and his face returned the compliment, face creasing, eyes twinkling with apparent delight as he continued the song.

I listened to the end, then added some money to his guitar case as his attention was distracted by another man, probably on old friend to judge by the similarly graying hair and easy manner. When I turned back, the friend was gone, but the musician was looking back at me, smiling again, revealing uneven, slightly yellowed teeth. I walked toward him, echoing his friendly demeanor. “Thank you.” I said, “I enjoyed that.” He half reached toward me as if to give me a hug, then thought better of it and held out his hand instead, saying simply “I’m glad you liked it. I’m Michael.” I looked up into his craggy face, lit by pleasure and the simple joy of shared connection, and with no hesitation took his hand, giving him my name in return…

The feline chorus greeted me as I walked in the door, still mulling over my car park encounter. It was I thought, a story begging to be written. An instance of beauty in an otherwise fairly mediocre day. A bit of a nudge from the Gods or the Universe or some form of the Life Force, to get off my butt, stop feeling sorry for myself and get on with embracing life. I’ve had a few of those nudges lately. Time, I think, to get on with it…

Thanks Michael.

 

 

 

2 thoughts on “Not another piece of erotic writing

  1. I somehow almost missed this… Glad I had a spare moment to catch up with your writing. I’m glad the Universe is giving you moments and nudges to move forward… Call me greedy, but I want to read more about you and your adventures – and am hoping fate provides lots for you to blog about! I’ll be watching and reading! 😉

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    • Thanks Michael. I appreciate the feedback. My adventures are at a bit of a standstill at the moment as the act of blogging seems to be taking over my life a bit, I’m flat out keeping up with the Smutober challenge. as well as Sinful Sunday, Wicked Wednesday and now MM. So what may get aired are some more of my earlier encounters. I find it difficult to write about fantasy per se perhaps because my solo fantasies often include tentacles and avenging horse gods (I read your article on the ancient gods with a good deal of interest). I’m also reading a lot and learning about what interests and arouses other people, including yourself and the other contributors. I’m on a learning curve here… lol.

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