It’s Thursday. Nearly another whole week out of the way and another week where I’ve not achieved even close to half the things I wanted to get done. No website updates, hardly any blogging done, hardly any blogging read, and I can’t even blame Football Manager 2005 because I haven’t been playing that either. And it’s not like I’ve been snowed under at work, because I haven’t.

I don’t think the weather helps – it’s muggy and humid and hot and sticky and yet there’s almost no sun. We did manage to sit in the beer garden at the back of the pub across the road yesterday lunchtime to enjoy fish and chips and a pint, but that’s about it. Headache weather the girls in the office call it. They’re not wrong – I’m getting through Nurofen like nobody’s business.

Still, life goes on. I believe I now have a finished draft of “Private Party”. I’ll go over it once more today before submission. It topped out at nearly 4500 words and now has a stronger opening than before and more of the ‘inner voice’ during the sex scene, which the fishies at the tank told me they quite liked. I just hope I haven’t over done it. Short extract follows below.

I’ve also managed to follow up one of my outstanding submissions. “Public Performance” has been accepted by Ruthie’s Club. I’ll let you know the date for publication when I have it.

I haven’t heard from Phaze yet about “Charlotte’s Secret”. I know it’s only been ten days, but I’m forever an optimist. Its not on my calendar to follow up for another few days, but damn it, I’m an impatient bastard at times. On this occasion, however, I’ll have to wait.

From “Private Party”

Paul and Jack spent the evening trying out cheesy chat-up lines and collecting kisses from the female students. Jack pushed it too far with one of them and got a vodka and Coke thrown over his crotch. While Jack nipped back to his room to change his jeans, Paul started on the tequila. Paul and tequila had a history—to say they didn’t get along particularly well was an understatement of titanic proportions. “Mortal enemies” would be a better description. Normally, he didn’t touch the stuff, but Angela and two of her friends were slamming and they invited him to join in.

“Beat all three of us and I’ll snog you,” she offered.

Paul was never one to turn down a challenge anyway, but this time the prize on offer was definitely worth having. He tried to act cool, gulped down his nerves and said, “And if one of you beat me?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ll think of something, won’t we girls? Best two out of three?”

“Okay, you’re on.”

Three glasses of the evil fire-water later, Paul and Angela were sitting on her bed, four rooms down from his, and he was cleaning her tonsils with his tongue. She tasted as good as he had imagined—like strawberries and vanilla ice-cream sprinkled with cinnamon. He had one hand on the back of her head and fondled her boobs with the other. When they eventually came up for air, all Paul could do to sit and stare.

Say something clever, said the voice in his head that had been drinking orange juice all night. This might be your only chance. Say something witty. Make it memorable.

“Angela, you’re fucking gorgeous, you know?”

Is that the best you could come up with? Fucking hell, I’m putting in for a transfer.

Angela stared back at him, her eyes twinkling like sapphires. She shook her head and her black hair fell around her shoulders. “You really think so?”

I can’t believe this. Worst line you’ve ever used with and it might actually work. Don’t fuck this up!

“God, yeah. You’re fucking top drawer.”

Angela’s smile widened. “I thought gentlemen preferred blondes?”

Careful. Careful. “Oh, they do.” Fuck! You’ve fucked it up, moron! “But I’m no gentleman.” Ohhh, good save

“That’s good. ‘Cause I’m no lady, either.” She threw herself at him, locking her lips to his. This time it was Paul’s tonsils that required cleaning. The little fella in his boxers sprang to life—at least brewer’s droop wasn’t going to be a problem.

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