tagHumor & SatireFlowing Deep

Flowing Deep


Assignment (1,000 words min):

Write a first-person narrative short story, in the form of an internet diary entry.

*Includes Footnotes!*

I'm continually on the lookout for new and interesting experiences (i) (especially if the experience involves two women and a video camera), and I'm always keen to meet new people, so really it was only a matter of time before I took the plunge and signed-up for some adult evening classes. In fact, joining such a group seemed like such an obvious thing to do --just look at the name!-- that it's a mystery to me why I'd never thought of it before. The idea of joining an adult evening class had in fact been planted in my mind one evening when I saw a most fascinating statistic on the Internet; I had been enjoying looking at one of my favourite websites ('Horny Housewives'), and I had somehow managed to take my eyes away from the 'XXX Picture Gallery' to read some of the 'information' on the website, where I was rewarded with the following fact: "75% of 'Horny Housewives' say that they look for casual sex at ADULT EVENING CLASSES." This came as something of a revelation to me, and it immediately struck me as being the truth. Where else but at a place of learning would a randy housewife go to find an intelligent, sexy man? A man with a great mind and a good body. A man eager to learn new things. A man like me, in fact. I cursed myself for not having thought of this sooner. I wanted very much to meet these 'Horny Housewives'. I wanted the statistic I had read to be based on solid fact. I was keen to sign up. And so, having taken the decision to join an adult evening class, I hurried along to my local college to see what was on offer for the keen and enquiring young mind.

After half an hour or so of standing around in the foyer of the college, pretending to read a prospectus, it became obvious to me which course I wanted to join. I had been watching the students as they hurried into various classrooms, and I couldn't fail to notice that all the young and attractive women had been heading for room 203. I smiled as I headed for Reception, where I flirted with the lovely young receptionist, and very soon I was happily signed up for a three month course in Creative Writing, held each Monday night in (where else?) room 203. If nothing else, I thought to myself, I was finally going to understand how to properly use a semi-colon.

A week later, I was back at the college, dressed intelligently (tweed jacket and jeans, Shakespeare t-shirt, prop reading spectacles), and with pen and notepad at the ready, eager to begin broadening my horizons. Unfortunately, I had forgotten about my appalling sense of direction, and after twenty minutes or so of wandering confused around the labyrinthine corridors of the college, I had to admit to myself that I was lost. Damn it! Help was at hand, however, in the shapely form of a young woman who I saw standing outside a classroom, talking on her mobile phone. I approached her with a seductive smile and unflappable confidence. "Excuse me, darling, but this wouldn't be the Creative Writing class, would it?" I asked her. The woman broke off her phone conversation and shot me a look which could curdle milk. "I'm not your 'darling', and no, this isn't the Creative bloody Writing class, it's the Female Empowerment Group, alright? The Creative Writing class is down there, at the end of the corridor." I smiled, dazzlingly, and said, "Thanks, love. Perhaps I'll see you later for a drink, eh?" "Fuck off," came the reply. I thanked her again and stalked off, panther-like, down the corridor, where I soon found room 203.

I had joined the Creative Writing course three weeks later than all the other students in the class (obviously they had seen the information on 'Horny Housewives' weeks before I did), so my arrival at the class (late, but looking good) caused a bit of a stir. "Hi! I'm Dante," I said, sitting next to a Nicole Kidman (ii) look-alike near to the back of the class. "Claire," said Claire, introducing herself with a smile. The course tutor was an attractive blonde in glasses called Sally, who that week was wearing a pink cardigan and (rather fetchingly) chalk dust on her nose. She cleared her throat to reinstate some kind of order, and briefly filled me in on what the class had so far learned about Creative Writing (iii). Then a woman in dungarees stood up and read aloud a long and incoherent poem about the rolling, misty mountains of Peru. I leaned back in my chair and smiled. My education in Creative Writing had begun, and it looked as if the next three months were going to be great fun.

A couple of weeks later, I was feeling rather pleased with myself. Claire, the Nicole Kidman look-alike, hadn't asked me to move; I had gone for a drink with the mountain-poetry woman from Peru (which had certainly been interesting, if defiantly un-arousing); and I had the telephone numbers of several of the other women in the class. I had also learned how to use a semi-colon. Which was nice.

Each week, a member of the group was encouraged to read aloud some of their prose, and eventually it was my turn. I had come prepared with a very filthy erotic story I had written in a drunken haze, which involved a man, two women and a video camera. I wasn't quite sure how the group would react to my story (which I had called, "A Man, Two Women And A Video Camera", in homage to Ernest Hemingway), but I thought it was a pretty safe bet that they would find it much more interesting than poems about misty mountains. I stood up, shuffled my manuscript like the way I had seen Newsreaders do, adjusted my prop spectacles, cleared my throat, and began reading in a compelling, and sexy voice. I had reached the bottom of page one of my lusty story, which described, in graphic detail, how one of the women was licking the bottom of the other woman, while the man filmed them both with his video camera, when my tutor interrupted me.

"Stop right there, Dante!" She said --rather sharply, I thought. I looked up from my manuscript, and noticed that the classroom seemed to be filled with people with red faces and open mouths.

"Um...Is there a problem?" I asked.

"Not exactly a problem," said the tutor, "more a question of... where are you going with this story? Exactly?"

"I see," said I. I flicked through to the last page, and scanned through my red-hot prose. "Things get religious for the female characters," I said.

"Religious? In what way," asked my tutor, wiping sweat from her brow (rather becomingly, I thought).

"Well," I explained, "both women start moaning, 'Oh God! Yes! Oh God, Yes!'" There was an awkward silence in the room. Even Claire was starting to look very hot and bothered, very much like Nicole Kidman in 'Eyes Wide Shut'. I felt I needed to explain further. "Um...And there is a reference to the male character --'Stud'-- being Jewish."

"Jewish?" Whispered my tutor. She looked as if she wanted the earth to open up and swallow her whole. I felt a bit sorry for her.

"Um... It's when one of the women grabs hold of the man's penis..." I consulted my story. "... his 'love rocket', and she notices that he's been circumcised. 'It's no skin off my nose,' the woman says, and the she opens her mouth wide and--"

"Yes, thank you!" Shouted Sally, making everybody jump. "I think that's all we need to hear, for now."

"You don't want me to read the rest?" I asked.

"I think we've heard quite enough already!" said Sally, wiping steam from her glasses.

I sat down, forlornly, carelessly dropping 'A Man, Two Women And A Video Camera' onto the desk. There was a stunned silence. Nobody looked at anyone else. The tutor consulted her notes, and tried to rescue the remainder of the lesson. As the minutes dragged on, it became apparent that none of the class, including the tutor, had much interest in sub-clauses and 'thematic unity'. We were all begging for the lesson to end so that we could rush to the pub across the road for a much-needed drink.

Eventually, the hands on the clock reached the inevitable hour, the lesson ended, and all the tension drained from the room like an expulsion of dead air. One by one, the Creative Writing students fled from room 203. Soon the room was empty apart from Claire (who was fussing with something inside her bag, and studiously avoiding looking at me), the tutor, and myself. I was putting on my coat when the tutor approached me. She looked a lot more relaxed now that the lesson was over.

"Dante... I wonder if I might have a word?" She smiled.

"Certainly," I said, preparing an apology in my mind.

"Your story... Your erotic story..."

I stopped her then, not wanting to be chastised for embarrassing the class in front of the lovely Claire. "Can this wait until Claire leaves the room?" I whispered, desperately.

"I'm not leaving the room," said Claire, who had obviously heard me. She too seemed much more relaxed. Indeed, she looked very lovely.

"I was just wondering," said Sally, pushing the door shut with her pert backside, "if your hot little story was autobiographical?"

"Autobiographical?" I asked, confused as to where this conversation was heading.

Claire stood in front of me, and removed the prop spectacles I was wearing. "I was wondering that, too," she breathed.

"Well..." I began, as Sally pulled down the blinds and locked the door, "that's a long story." I smiled, as I realised exactly where things were heading now.

Sally kissed me, Claire kissed Sally, and very soon things got very creative indeed in room 203 (iv).

* * * * *

i A big thank you to the woman who e-mailed me with her suggestions for some very interesting-sounding experiences with handcuffs.

ii She looked like Nicole Kidman in Stanley Kubrick's last film, 'Eyes Wide Shut'. I couldn't keep my eyes off her --which is more than I can say for 'Eyes Wide Shut', which sent me to sleep.

iii Principally, the correct usage of footnotes.

iv The events are detailed in the erotic short story, "Getting The Creative Juices Flowing In Room 203" by Dante Convis.

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