To read the whole story click the link, go ahead, be the first on your suburban block.
http://paxacidus.com/read/read_badday.html
Raymond Carver
-
mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
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Well, I enjoyed it, McC, the bit you posted! Haven't checked out the link yet. The paragraph with fat-free ice cream is funny. It general, it works because as a reader, the situation isn't happening to me. I wonder what a person who was really in that situation and read it might think. But it doesn't matter. It's cool, good for you.
I had neglected to mention, just as a suggestion, in your story about record collecting you posted not too long ago...the point at which the guy realizes the record is bent, after the mailman has come, that might be played out a little more comically than you did. There's a potential for a good bit of humor there that I'm not sure you truly maximized. Might want to play it up a bit more. Well, anyway, this is food for thought.
I had neglected to mention, just as a suggestion, in your story about record collecting you posted not too long ago...the point at which the guy realizes the record is bent, after the mailman has come, that might be played out a little more comically than you did. There's a potential for a good bit of humor there that I'm not sure you truly maximized. Might want to play it up a bit more. Well, anyway, this is food for thought.
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mccutcheon
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mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
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funny that you tommy mention updike, i started with "your lover just called" and never looked back.
and it was nice to hear martin amis say the other day that there are only about two people who write well about sex, namely updike and dh lawrence.
personally i think mccutcheon writes super about sex too but i have an abnormal taste.
and it was nice to hear martin amis say the other day that there are only about two people who write well about sex, namely updike and dh lawrence.
personally i think mccutcheon writes super about sex too but i have an abnormal taste.
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mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
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- Joined: Tue Oct 03, 2000 8:01 am
- Location: NYC
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Here's an anmeic first draft of a story I just wrote this morning, inspired by this thread. Thanks to all. And don't worry, I'll work on it.
Jamaican Vacation
by McCutcheon
The rain was coming down hard. Hard enough that I had to turn the sound on the TV up so as not to be distracted. It was winter in Seattle. I was staring at the walls more than the TV screen. I was staring at the ceiling more than following the show. The rain came down. I turned the TV off and listened.
I was bored. I was dealing with non-functioning sobriety so I decided to get drunk. I called a few friends. They answered and said to meet them at the bar. I put on a few layers to keep me dry and walked the three blocks down the alley. My friends were there when I arrived. We sat at the bar and drank. After a few pitchers my friends went home. They had work the next day. I didn't. I was on vacation, and since I didn't have the money to travel, I've been staying home, watching TV, listening to rain drops.
When my friends left, I took a seat in a booth. I thought I'd put some music on the jukebox, order another pitcher, put my feet up and close my eyes. Maybe if I played some reggae and my eyes where really closed tight and I kept all my layers on, sitting inside, I could be at the beach.
“Can we sit with you?�
I opened my eyes. Two girls were standing in front of me. They were swaying, so I assumed they were drunk. They must be drunk to want to sit with me. I was drunk as well. The girls sat down. One was big and fat. Part of the American obesity problem. She sat next to me. She wanted to go home with me she whispered. She promised a blowjob. I thought she must be very good with her mouth. The other girl was pretty. She was indifferent. As we talked I tried to turn the flirting to her. She didn't care. She drank my beer. I wasn't too disappointed. In the back of my mind I was already winning. The worst that would happen would be that I would get a blowjob off a fat chick.
“What do you do?� the pretty girl asked.
“I'm on vacation.�
“Oh really, where are you from?�
“I live three blocks away,� I said.
“But you said you were on vacation.�
“I am. I just didn't go anywhere.�
“Why?�
“Well, I couldn't afford it. And I'm a writer, I thought I'd use the time to finish my second novel.�
“Second?�
“Yeah.'�
“Is your first one published?�
“No.� Usually when drunk in bars talking to girls I lie and say my first novel is published. If they ask to read it I tell them to look it up on Amazon and change the subject. I'm not sure why I didn't lie to this girl. She was pretty enough I wanted to impress her. It was something about her eyes. She seemed in the know.
“So how is it going?� She asked.
The fat girl put her hand on my thigh. The pretty girl didn't see; it was a move made under the table. The pretty girl sipped beer and was waiting for an answer. Maybe she liked writers, or at least reading.
“Not so good.�
“Why not?�
“I don't know, I mean I used to write all the time, I've actually wrote quite a bit, but everything I sent out doesn't get published.�
The fat girl put pudgy fingers into my pants. With my beer belly and her huge hand it was a tight fit. She squeezed my limp dick. I felt very small. The more pressure she applied the stiffer I got.
“Do you send out a lot of stuff?�
“No, not actually. It depresses me too much.�
“Why?�
“Because every time stuff comes back rejected I usually go on a bender. I don't think I have an audience. I read Raymond Carver, and think my stuff is as good as his, I mean at least in my stories something happens.�
“What happens in your stories?�
“I don't know, people drink, and take drugs, fuck.�
“And that is something?�
“Yeah.�
“Seems very sophomoric.�
“Maybe.�
“You read Anais Nin?�
“Yeah, kind of boring. But she does get away with writing about pedophiles, seems strange now, with all the Michael Jackson problems. I don't find her erotica all that sexy.�
By this time it was getting difficult to carry on the conversation. The fat girl had me hard. She unbuttoned my pants, and was now jacking me off, instead of just squeezing. She moved her big mitt up and down, from the tip of my cock, then crashing down onto my balls.
“You know Raymond Carver wrote about sex, but did it in a sophisticated way,� the pretty girl said.
“Yeah,� I yelped. I came and some of it oozed out flowing over the fat girl's pudgy fingers, but the first spurt, the immediate ejaculation flew past the edge of the tabletop and landed in the pitcher of beer.
The pretty girl stared at it.
“What is that?� She asked.
The fat girl giggled.
“Oh gross.� The pretty girl said. She sat up straight, put on her coat and ran out the bar.
The fat girl rubbed her thick fingers on my pant leg.
“I think your friend is pissed off,� I said.
“Yeah, she must be,� the fat girl said. “She really wanted to talk to you.�
“Me? Why?�
“We are from New York, we work for Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc. You know we published Raymond Carver and Nicholson Baker, you know, who wrote Vox, and U and I, that book about John Updike. She read your novel on the Pax Acidus website. She wanted to publish you.�
“Really? That sounds great.�
“Well, I don't think it's going to happen now, do you?�
“Why not?�
“Because you blew it.�
“What about you?�
“Me? I'm just her secretary, besides I didn't like the book. I don't like writing that has sex in it. It's too trashy. I read Oprah's book club books.�
“Oh.�
The fat girl got up and left. I was going to finish the pitcher of beer but then remembered the sperm in it. I walked home in the pouring rain. I got into bed. I turned up the heat, and drank a bottle of Red Stripe. I wished I were in Jamaica.
Jamaican Vacation
by McCutcheon
The rain was coming down hard. Hard enough that I had to turn the sound on the TV up so as not to be distracted. It was winter in Seattle. I was staring at the walls more than the TV screen. I was staring at the ceiling more than following the show. The rain came down. I turned the TV off and listened.
I was bored. I was dealing with non-functioning sobriety so I decided to get drunk. I called a few friends. They answered and said to meet them at the bar. I put on a few layers to keep me dry and walked the three blocks down the alley. My friends were there when I arrived. We sat at the bar and drank. After a few pitchers my friends went home. They had work the next day. I didn't. I was on vacation, and since I didn't have the money to travel, I've been staying home, watching TV, listening to rain drops.
When my friends left, I took a seat in a booth. I thought I'd put some music on the jukebox, order another pitcher, put my feet up and close my eyes. Maybe if I played some reggae and my eyes where really closed tight and I kept all my layers on, sitting inside, I could be at the beach.
“Can we sit with you?�
I opened my eyes. Two girls were standing in front of me. They were swaying, so I assumed they were drunk. They must be drunk to want to sit with me. I was drunk as well. The girls sat down. One was big and fat. Part of the American obesity problem. She sat next to me. She wanted to go home with me she whispered. She promised a blowjob. I thought she must be very good with her mouth. The other girl was pretty. She was indifferent. As we talked I tried to turn the flirting to her. She didn't care. She drank my beer. I wasn't too disappointed. In the back of my mind I was already winning. The worst that would happen would be that I would get a blowjob off a fat chick.
“What do you do?� the pretty girl asked.
“I'm on vacation.�
“Oh really, where are you from?�
“I live three blocks away,� I said.
“But you said you were on vacation.�
“I am. I just didn't go anywhere.�
“Why?�
“Well, I couldn't afford it. And I'm a writer, I thought I'd use the time to finish my second novel.�
“Second?�
“Yeah.'�
“Is your first one published?�
“No.� Usually when drunk in bars talking to girls I lie and say my first novel is published. If they ask to read it I tell them to look it up on Amazon and change the subject. I'm not sure why I didn't lie to this girl. She was pretty enough I wanted to impress her. It was something about her eyes. She seemed in the know.
“So how is it going?� She asked.
The fat girl put her hand on my thigh. The pretty girl didn't see; it was a move made under the table. The pretty girl sipped beer and was waiting for an answer. Maybe she liked writers, or at least reading.
“Not so good.�
“Why not?�
“I don't know, I mean I used to write all the time, I've actually wrote quite a bit, but everything I sent out doesn't get published.�
The fat girl put pudgy fingers into my pants. With my beer belly and her huge hand it was a tight fit. She squeezed my limp dick. I felt very small. The more pressure she applied the stiffer I got.
“Do you send out a lot of stuff?�
“No, not actually. It depresses me too much.�
“Why?�
“Because every time stuff comes back rejected I usually go on a bender. I don't think I have an audience. I read Raymond Carver, and think my stuff is as good as his, I mean at least in my stories something happens.�
“What happens in your stories?�
“I don't know, people drink, and take drugs, fuck.�
“And that is something?�
“Yeah.�
“Seems very sophomoric.�
“Maybe.�
“You read Anais Nin?�
“Yeah, kind of boring. But she does get away with writing about pedophiles, seems strange now, with all the Michael Jackson problems. I don't find her erotica all that sexy.�
By this time it was getting difficult to carry on the conversation. The fat girl had me hard. She unbuttoned my pants, and was now jacking me off, instead of just squeezing. She moved her big mitt up and down, from the tip of my cock, then crashing down onto my balls.
“You know Raymond Carver wrote about sex, but did it in a sophisticated way,� the pretty girl said.
“Yeah,� I yelped. I came and some of it oozed out flowing over the fat girl's pudgy fingers, but the first spurt, the immediate ejaculation flew past the edge of the tabletop and landed in the pitcher of beer.
The pretty girl stared at it.
“What is that?� She asked.
The fat girl giggled.
“Oh gross.� The pretty girl said. She sat up straight, put on her coat and ran out the bar.
The fat girl rubbed her thick fingers on my pant leg.
“I think your friend is pissed off,� I said.
“Yeah, she must be,� the fat girl said. “She really wanted to talk to you.�
“Me? Why?�
“We are from New York, we work for Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc. You know we published Raymond Carver and Nicholson Baker, you know, who wrote Vox, and U and I, that book about John Updike. She read your novel on the Pax Acidus website. She wanted to publish you.�
“Really? That sounds great.�
“Well, I don't think it's going to happen now, do you?�
“Why not?�
“Because you blew it.�
“What about you?�
“Me? I'm just her secretary, besides I didn't like the book. I don't like writing that has sex in it. It's too trashy. I read Oprah's book club books.�
“Oh.�
The fat girl got up and left. I was going to finish the pitcher of beer but then remembered the sperm in it. I walked home in the pouring rain. I got into bed. I turned up the heat, and drank a bottle of Red Stripe. I wished I were in Jamaica.
-
Jack Chiefton
- Old Skool Pax
- Posts: 286
- Joined: Mon Nov 13, 2000 9:01 am
- Location: Madison, WI
Good one. Will you be adding this one to the read section? I had a fat lady go down my pants at a country bar in Wisconsin once. Her husband was shooting pool. I asked her if her husband would mind if he saw her fat paws down my pants, but he just stumbled around and sang along with Billy Joel. She looked a lot like Monica Lewinsky.
i am very much in favor of magic realism, but nevertheless the trajectory of the ejaculation strikes me as pretty unlikely.
a handjob under the table but the abspritz (to use the german term) over the table? hmm.
if there is one thing i do not like about sex writing it is when the hero has superhero traits, i.e. a permarection, the ability to come 7 times in a row, the prowess to make a lesbian come within 180 seconds, krakatoa ejaculations, and such. henry miller's writing gets on my nerve with that kind of stuff.
but if you can keep a straight face when you come you are well deserving of praise.
i think it is a well-written story too, original -- and funny to boot. you should give it a facelift and a rethink and then put it into the read section.
and then go to zona with the knowledge that the creative juices are still flowing well.
a handjob under the table but the abspritz (to use the german term) over the table? hmm.
if there is one thing i do not like about sex writing it is when the hero has superhero traits, i.e. a permarection, the ability to come 7 times in a row, the prowess to make a lesbian come within 180 seconds, krakatoa ejaculations, and such. henry miller's writing gets on my nerve with that kind of stuff.
but if you can keep a straight face when you come you are well deserving of praise.
i think it is a well-written story too, original -- and funny to boot. you should give it a facelift and a rethink and then put it into the read section.
and then go to zona with the knowledge that the creative juices are still flowing well.
-
mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
- Posts: 4996
- Joined: Tue Oct 03, 2000 8:01 am
- Location: NYC
- Contact:
If anyone is interested in the craft of writing a short story, or better, and for much worse, McCucheon writing a short story read this...if not skip. Please comment as Martino did. Sarah with an H what do you have to say? I will take all into consideration so please be objective like Martino. In my defense coming over a tabletop is possible. Not superhuman. As I'm not superhuman. This is all fiction of course. 90%. This is version 2 of probably 12. Isn't it great growing up in public? I feel like Brittany Spears. But not MJ. Martino you own the rights to this. Too bad for you. I wish I could do better. I'm working on it. I have some good shit I'm not posting. Or maybe.
JV part 2.
I checked my email. Nothing good came that day. I was alone, sitting at home listening to Galaxie 500's On Fire. After I turned the album over five times I knew I had to change my habit. I went into my bedroom. The rain was coming down hard. Hard enough that I had to turn the sound on the TV up so as not to be distracted. It was officially winter in Seattle. I was staring at the walls more than the TV screen. I was staring at the ceiling more than following the show. The rain came down. I turned the TV off and listened.
I was bored. I was dealing with non-functioning sobriety so I decided to get drunk. I called a few friends. They answered and said to meet them at the bar. I put on a few layers to keep me dry and walked the three blocks down the alley. My friends were there when I arrived. We sat at the bar and drank. After a few pitchers my friends went home. They had work the next day. I didn't. I was on vacation, and since I didn't have the money to travel, I've been staying home, watching TV, listening to rain drops.
When my friends left, I took a seat in a booth. I thought I'd put some music on the jukebox, order another pitcher, put my feet up and close my eyes. Maybe if I played reggae songs, something good like Errol T and Joe Gibbs, and my eyes where really closed tight and I kept all my layers on, sitting inside, I could be at the beach.
“Can we sit with you?�
I opened my eyes during ‘Colour TV'. Two girls were standing in front of me. They were swaying, so I assumed they were drunk or either dancing. They must be drunk to want to sit with me. I was drunk as well. I nodded. The girls sat down. One was big and fat. Part of the American obesity problem. She sat next to me. She wanted to go home with me, she whispered. She promised a blowjob. I thought she must be very good with her mouth. The other girl was the prettiest girl I'd ever seen. At least I think she was. I'd have to see her sober to be sure.
The pretty girl was indifferent. As we talked I tried to turn the flirting to her. She didn't care. She drank my beer. I wasn't too disappointed. In the back of my mind I was already winning. It's been a long time since two girls sat down and I went home with the pretty one. The worst that could happen would be that I would get a blowjob off a fat chick.
“What do you do?� the pretty girl asked.
“I'm on vacation.�
“Oh really, where are you from?�
“I live three blocks away,� I said.
“But you said you were on vacation.�
“I am. I just didn't go anywhere.�
“Why?�
“Well, I couldn't afford it. And I'm a writer. I thought I'd use the time to finish my second novel.�
“Second?�
“Yeah.'�
“Is your first one published?�
“No.�
Usually when drunk in bars talking to girls I lie and say my first novel is published. If they ask to read it I tell them to look it up on Amazon and change the subject. I'm not sure why I didn't lie to this girl. She was pretty enough that I wanted to impress her. It was something about her eyes. She seemed in the know.
“So how is it going?� She asked.
The fat girl put her hand on my thigh. The pretty girl didn't see; it was a move made under the table. The pretty girl sipped beer and was waiting for an answer. Maybe she liked writers, or at least reading.
“Not so good.�
“Why not?�
“I don't know, I mean I used to write all the time, I've actually written quite a bit, but everything I sent out doesn't get published.�
The fat girl put pudgy fingers into my pants. With my beer belly and her huge hand it was a tight fit. She squeezed my limp dick. I felt very small. The more pressure she applied the stiffer I got.
“Do you send out a lot of stuff?�
“No, not actually. It depresses me too much.�
“Why?�
“Because every time stuff comes back rejected I usually go on a bender. I don't think I have an audience. If they want sex, they say there is too much drugs. If they want drugs, there is too much sex. And of course, if they want a soccer mom story I'm really out of luck. I read Raymond Carver, and think my stuff is as good as his, I mean at least in my stories something happens.�
“What happens in your stories?�
“I don't know. People drink, and take drugs. Fuck. There should be an audience for all three.�
“And that is something?�
“Yeah.�
“Seems very sophomoric.�
“Maybe.�
“You read Anais Nin?�
“Yeah, kind of boring. But she does get away with writing about pedophiles, seems strange now, with all the Michael Jackson problems. I don't find her erotica all that sexy.�
By this time it was getting difficult to carry on the conversation. The fat girl had me hard. She unbuttoned my pants, and was now jacking me off, instead of just squeezing. She moved her big mitt up and down, from the tip of my cock, then crashing down onto my balls.
“You know Raymond Carver wrote about sex, but did it in a sophisticated way,� the pretty girl said.
“Yeah,� I yelped. I came and some of it oozed out flowing over the fat girl's pudgy fingers, but the first spurt, the immediate ejaculation flew past the edge of the tabletop and landed in the pitcher of beer.
The pretty girl stared at it.
“What is that?� She asked.
The fat girl giggled.
“Oh gross.� The pretty girl said. She sat up straight, put on her coat and ran out the bar.
The fat girl wiped her thick fingers on my pant leg.
“I think your friend is pissed off,� I said.
“Yeah, she must be,� the fat girl said. “She really wanted to talk to you.�
“Me? Why?�
“We are from New York, we work for Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc. You know we published Raymond Carver and Nicholson Baker, you know, who wrote Vox, and U and I, that book about John Updike. She read your novel on the Pax Acidus website. She wanted to publish you.�
“Really? That sounds great.�
“Well, I don't think it's going to happen now, do you?�
“Why not?�
“Because you blew it.�
“But she must have read my stuff. Why would she care?�
“She thought she was in love with you or something. That's why we came here unannounced. She thought if she met you, you would get together. She read that whole website of yours.�
“Then why did you do that?�
“I hate that bitch.�
“Can you publish my novel?�
“Me? I'm just her secretary, besides I didn't like the book. I don't like writing that has sex in it. It's too trashy. I read Oprah's book club books.�
“Oh.�
The fat girl got up and left. I was going to finish the pitcher of beer but then remembered the sperm in it. I walked home in the pouring rain. I got into bed. I turned up the heat, and drank a bottle of Red Stripe. I wished I were in Jamaica.
JV part 2.
I checked my email. Nothing good came that day. I was alone, sitting at home listening to Galaxie 500's On Fire. After I turned the album over five times I knew I had to change my habit. I went into my bedroom. The rain was coming down hard. Hard enough that I had to turn the sound on the TV up so as not to be distracted. It was officially winter in Seattle. I was staring at the walls more than the TV screen. I was staring at the ceiling more than following the show. The rain came down. I turned the TV off and listened.
I was bored. I was dealing with non-functioning sobriety so I decided to get drunk. I called a few friends. They answered and said to meet them at the bar. I put on a few layers to keep me dry and walked the three blocks down the alley. My friends were there when I arrived. We sat at the bar and drank. After a few pitchers my friends went home. They had work the next day. I didn't. I was on vacation, and since I didn't have the money to travel, I've been staying home, watching TV, listening to rain drops.
When my friends left, I took a seat in a booth. I thought I'd put some music on the jukebox, order another pitcher, put my feet up and close my eyes. Maybe if I played reggae songs, something good like Errol T and Joe Gibbs, and my eyes where really closed tight and I kept all my layers on, sitting inside, I could be at the beach.
“Can we sit with you?�
I opened my eyes during ‘Colour TV'. Two girls were standing in front of me. They were swaying, so I assumed they were drunk or either dancing. They must be drunk to want to sit with me. I was drunk as well. I nodded. The girls sat down. One was big and fat. Part of the American obesity problem. She sat next to me. She wanted to go home with me, she whispered. She promised a blowjob. I thought she must be very good with her mouth. The other girl was the prettiest girl I'd ever seen. At least I think she was. I'd have to see her sober to be sure.
The pretty girl was indifferent. As we talked I tried to turn the flirting to her. She didn't care. She drank my beer. I wasn't too disappointed. In the back of my mind I was already winning. It's been a long time since two girls sat down and I went home with the pretty one. The worst that could happen would be that I would get a blowjob off a fat chick.
“What do you do?� the pretty girl asked.
“I'm on vacation.�
“Oh really, where are you from?�
“I live three blocks away,� I said.
“But you said you were on vacation.�
“I am. I just didn't go anywhere.�
“Why?�
“Well, I couldn't afford it. And I'm a writer. I thought I'd use the time to finish my second novel.�
“Second?�
“Yeah.'�
“Is your first one published?�
“No.�
Usually when drunk in bars talking to girls I lie and say my first novel is published. If they ask to read it I tell them to look it up on Amazon and change the subject. I'm not sure why I didn't lie to this girl. She was pretty enough that I wanted to impress her. It was something about her eyes. She seemed in the know.
“So how is it going?� She asked.
The fat girl put her hand on my thigh. The pretty girl didn't see; it was a move made under the table. The pretty girl sipped beer and was waiting for an answer. Maybe she liked writers, or at least reading.
“Not so good.�
“Why not?�
“I don't know, I mean I used to write all the time, I've actually written quite a bit, but everything I sent out doesn't get published.�
The fat girl put pudgy fingers into my pants. With my beer belly and her huge hand it was a tight fit. She squeezed my limp dick. I felt very small. The more pressure she applied the stiffer I got.
“Do you send out a lot of stuff?�
“No, not actually. It depresses me too much.�
“Why?�
“Because every time stuff comes back rejected I usually go on a bender. I don't think I have an audience. If they want sex, they say there is too much drugs. If they want drugs, there is too much sex. And of course, if they want a soccer mom story I'm really out of luck. I read Raymond Carver, and think my stuff is as good as his, I mean at least in my stories something happens.�
“What happens in your stories?�
“I don't know. People drink, and take drugs. Fuck. There should be an audience for all three.�
“And that is something?�
“Yeah.�
“Seems very sophomoric.�
“Maybe.�
“You read Anais Nin?�
“Yeah, kind of boring. But she does get away with writing about pedophiles, seems strange now, with all the Michael Jackson problems. I don't find her erotica all that sexy.�
By this time it was getting difficult to carry on the conversation. The fat girl had me hard. She unbuttoned my pants, and was now jacking me off, instead of just squeezing. She moved her big mitt up and down, from the tip of my cock, then crashing down onto my balls.
“You know Raymond Carver wrote about sex, but did it in a sophisticated way,� the pretty girl said.
“Yeah,� I yelped. I came and some of it oozed out flowing over the fat girl's pudgy fingers, but the first spurt, the immediate ejaculation flew past the edge of the tabletop and landed in the pitcher of beer.
The pretty girl stared at it.
“What is that?� She asked.
The fat girl giggled.
“Oh gross.� The pretty girl said. She sat up straight, put on her coat and ran out the bar.
The fat girl wiped her thick fingers on my pant leg.
“I think your friend is pissed off,� I said.
“Yeah, she must be,� the fat girl said. “She really wanted to talk to you.�
“Me? Why?�
“We are from New York, we work for Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc. You know we published Raymond Carver and Nicholson Baker, you know, who wrote Vox, and U and I, that book about John Updike. She read your novel on the Pax Acidus website. She wanted to publish you.�
“Really? That sounds great.�
“Well, I don't think it's going to happen now, do you?�
“Why not?�
“Because you blew it.�
“But she must have read my stuff. Why would she care?�
“She thought she was in love with you or something. That's why we came here unannounced. She thought if she met you, you would get together. She read that whole website of yours.�
“Then why did you do that?�
“I hate that bitch.�
“Can you publish my novel?�
“Me? I'm just her secretary, besides I didn't like the book. I don't like writing that has sex in it. It's too trashy. I read Oprah's book club books.�
“Oh.�
The fat girl got up and left. I was going to finish the pitcher of beer but then remembered the sperm in it. I walked home in the pouring rain. I got into bed. I turned up the heat, and drank a bottle of Red Stripe. I wished I were in Jamaica.
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mccutcheon
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mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
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mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
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sara
I say I paid my 13 bucks for an entire collection of Raymond Carver's short stories, and the money would have been much better spent on this one of yours. It's good. I did have the save problem that Martino did with the trajectory of the sperm. But I'm not equipped with a penis, and I've never been as bold as meaty mitts, so who knows? Not me.