Closet voyeur

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There he is again. A flash of light reflects off sunbronzed skin, moving out beyond the break. I pick up my binoculars and glance around,  feeling a little sleazy.

I take another sip of my morning go juice and lick my lips. I can’t help myself. This man is poetry in motion and as regular as the sunrise. Everyday, his body is a streamlined work of art, sliding in and out of the crystal blue swell beyond the break, well apart from the younger, more supple  surfers that gather there for the best sets of the day. I imagine him as he slides out of his crystal blue sheets in the morning, naked, as he scans the point and plans his session. I see him oil up his body and pull his speedos over his muscular thighs…

I shake my head and adjust my binoculars for better focus.  I can see his face as he lingers momentarily to gulp some air before he turns into the water again. His jaw is hard and his lips are soft and full. I wonder what the lucky recipient of his attention looks like and if she appreciates the delights that he has to offer her. I feel a pang of jealousy and pull back from the binoculars quickly, as a hot flush creeps up my neck, and a tingle runs down my torso.

I shift in my loungechair and bang the binoculars onto the table. This is getting a little creepy. I’m turning into a serial visual stalker. What’s wrong with me?

I blink, as I try to erase an erotic vision of adonis slowly peeling his cherry red speedos down his dripping thighs, and frown at the walking stick – the bain of my existence since the accident, and the gatekeeper of my intention. I have nothing better to do than lurk and limp around on my balcony with my stick, and perv at anything that moves, or more recently…the one thing I like that moves.

I twist myself around my stick and hobble inside, pressing myself against the wall for balance. Little spikes of frustration stabb at my innards. No point in looking if you can’t touch. I try to justify him, and myself, by rubbing him up against an equally hot looking number at the local gay bar down the road, but something tells me  he’s strictly hetero and hot for it.  

I think I’m getting a little toey. I  haven’t slowed down this much since the last accident. I guess this is what you get when you prefer a fast motorbike throbbing between your legs. Nothing like giving in to the beast on the open road, and getting a little dirty with a well oiled machine. No man has ever given me that kind of  satisfaction.

I relax and turn the television on. Nothing wrong with me that a good ride wouldn’t fix. My body just doesn’t recognise the kind of ride it wants. While a hot bike is a no contest, flexing my motorcycle muscles around that hot, well oiled adonis – and watching him purr – was more than tempting.

I flick through the channels, but there’s nothing on. I sigh and look down at the mottley cast that covers half of my best assets. Nice legs, when you can see them. I scrub up well in a set of tight leathers too- but let’s face it – I won’t be getting any satisfaction from man or machine while I’m wearing a plaster mood inhibitor that starts at my groin and doestn’t end until it reaches my ankle..


I run my hands around the smooth body and lick my lips.  I trace my finger around the speedometre, and feel a surge of excitement so profound I’m lightheaded. I grab the throttle in my hand as I swing myself over the object of my desire, and ease myself into the seat. Nice fit. I flex my quads around the tank and pull my right leg over the peg to test the brake. No problem – weeks of physio and frustration has paid off,  – I was revved and ready to go. ‘When can I have it?’ I eye the sales guy underneath my lashes, and lean forward for effect.

‘Tomorrow.’ He  pushes his pen around in his pocket with one hand, and tries to adjust himself with the other. ‘Easy. Pick her up at 3 o’clock. Everything will be done.’ He’s drooling by the time I bend over to adjust my boots. Mission accomplished.

4 o’clock tomorrow finds me cooling my heels on the customer courtesy lounge at the dealership. I’m  impatient to get this show on the road and go for my maiden ride, and things aren’t going according to plan. Months of hanging out on my balcony, entertaining thoughts of what I would do to Adonis if I ever got hold of him, have mangled my brain. I need a fix and I need it fast, or I’m going to blow.

I watch every move the salesguy makes, and when he finally walks towards me with the keys at 4.30pm, he’s as nervous as a cat on a hot tin roof, ‘Sorry ’bout that, we had to get another order out with yours.’

I feel a surge of anger towards the recipient of the other order. I can’t help it, my whole being is centred around getting on my machine and getting out of here. I start to say something sarcastic, but stop mid-stream as I  catch the back-end of Adonis through the side door with a helmet in his hand. He’s  sporting a set of leathers that gives me a hot flush. I’d know that butt anywhere, and it looks better today than it did in the speedos last week.

The salesguy follows my gaze and hones in on me, a sly grin enhancing the pockmarks of pimples on his pubescent cheeks. ‘That’s the boss, Matty…he’s the man. Hot rider.’

I flush again. I’m sure he is.

I shake my head and grasp at the keys jingling in the salesguy’s hands. He takes a step back and sizes me up for a moment, probably not really sure which team I’m batting for after all. ‘Ok, paperwork’s done. Here’s the papers and out there is your new ride.’ He points in Adonis’ general direction and tries to not to smirk.  I don’t take the bait, but I feel annoyed that he would presume to have me pegged. I leave him floundering in my jetstream as I straighten up and stride towards my quarry. By the time he catches up with me, I’m shoving the key into the ignition and pulling the clutch in.

‘Hey, hang on. You need to see that guy over there before you go.’ The smirk has gone and he dances around me, waving his arms about and trying to mouth above the din I’m making to drown him out. I rev it a bit more, and he points and dances a little more, just in case I’m thinking of making a run for it. I dropped the clutch and plant my foot on the floor, rev it again, and put my other foot on the brake. There’s enough drag to move towards him and give him a tap.

‘Sorry. Got a little carried away.’  I smirk at him while he straightens his trousers and looks around him. The workshop has gone quiet, and anyone within earshot has stopped to listen. I remove my helmet and flick my hair down my back. I’m feeling better already.  And I’m in control again.

‘That’s fine. Over there.’  He points towards the big guy in the corner, standing next to Adonis, and flounces off in the other direction, no doubt to reinstate his authority over the sales girls in the showroom.

I head towards them, suck in some air for courage and sway my hips subtly. I’m in control, even as Adonis leans up against the back wall and puts his hands in his pockets. He eases his hips forward and smiles, and I see flashes of grinding hips around me in cherry red speedos. I’m almost lost as my head begins to buzz and my lower stomach takes a nose dive into my groin.



Up late..again

Writing samples: Parker 75

Image by churl via Flickr

It’s around 1.30am here, Australian Eastern Standard Time…and once again I can’t sleep. So here I am, tapping away like some demented lunatic, if there is such a thing, searching the grey matter for something refined and inspirational to transmit onto screen.

Refined and inspirational, in my case, can be as elusive as the proverbial needle in the haystack – out in the barn and a mile away from the house. It takes a lot to get going, and it usually hits me at an inconvenient time when I’m at least a suburb away from my trusty laptop. I’ve developed a system  that involves a dog-eared notebook and large pen – both of which lurk at the bottom of my handbag, and can be called upon when the creative juices begin to flow.

A lot of the things that I see around me can be exeptionally good fodder for great story, even if the event that I am witnessing is as unremarkable as my grandmother’s old socks.  The man limping down the road with a walking cane, for all we know could have been a war hero, with a remarkable life of adventure and intrigue. The woman hurrying down the street glancing furtively behind her, may have a pandora’s box of secrets worthy of a Stephen King novel. That  distracted kid down the street? Maybe he’s a bit like Dennis the Menace, he’s always got some big plan that’s definitely going to get him into hot water. Not to mention my local bus driver, who’s always eyeing me up, and every other female that crosses his path. He might be the friendly neighbourhood serial killer sizing up his next target. You never know. At the risk of offending anybody that can relate to the above,  details have been changed to protect the innocent – except for my grandmother’s old socks, which were an unfortunate reality.

Anyway, I haven’t been suitably inspired tonight, as you can see, or I would be writing something inspiring, instead of writing about writing something inspiring.  I have been told that the mainstay of a good writer is to write, write and write some more, even if it’s trash –  you can only get better at it. If this is true, according to my calculations, I should be a great writer by 2018. But don’t quote me on that, I could be signing autographs in the next five years.

Life of Riley

Family Walk

Image by chiaralily via Flickr

Yawn. Could life get any better?

I rolled over and rumpled up my fluffy blanket and buried my face in it. It wasn’t time to get up yet, and I wasn’t in any hurry to do anything either. I felt buzzy and light inside. I was surrounded by people who loved me and took care of my every whim on command. I smiled to myself. I might get up in a minute. There might be a little treat waiting for me in the kitchen for breakfast, if I was lucky.

I stretched out slowly and plonked my feet onto the floor. Summer was fast approaching and the polished wooden floors felt good underneath my toes. I heard the postie putter past and thought about going out to the gate to greet him, but the delicious aromas wafting from the kitchen beckoned to me, and I hurried, in case I missed out.

Everybody smiled at me when I walked in, and I smiled back. My brother Michael looked at me and winked, ‘You been sleeping in again Riley?

I nodded, yawned and stretched out again for effect, and everybody laughed. I was in heaven. Nobody ever got mad at me for always being the last up, or the last out the door, or the last one in the car. I was a bit slow, but it didn’t matter, I was loved and appreciated just for being me.

Yeh, I’m pretty spoiled, but I’m not a brat. I know I’m going to get the lion’s share of the attention because I’m special, and I’m nice to be around. Being cute has always been a bonus too, I guess. And I’ve got that in spades – from the day I was born.

I’ve been a member of this family for a long time now. I can’t remember all the way back to when Mum brought me home, but I can remember my first sweet treat – a great big ice cream. I dug my face in and got it all over me. Everybody laughed, until I jumped all over them and got it on them too.

They are all laughing at me again today. I have my favourite treat on my plate. Scrambled eggs, with a little toast on the side. I’m making a mess, but I’m enjoying myself. Mum comes and wipes my face with a towel and I look up at her and smile. How nice it is to be loved as much as I am.

Mum picks me up and gives me a big cuddle. I squirm a little and nuzzle into her neck. I smell her familiar soft perfume and feel myself nodding off again. Yes, life is good for me, the favourite of the family – a number one much loved Maltese called Riley.

Do it yourself


My husband has recently returned home from sea with a ‘flea in his ear’, and is intent on renovating the bathroom. They don’t have much to talk about out there, obviously, so the ‘mine’s bigger than yours’ state of mind often covers a lot  more than the latest car, motorbike, boat or caravan.

I’m not complaining. I’m a little tired of doing battle with the shower curtain as it wraps it’s cold flaps around my warm body on cold Winter mornings, and is the harbourer of all sorts of vermin in the hotter months. I could tell you about the time a very large and hairy arachnid plopped out of the folds and scuttled up my naked leg, but I won’t. You get the picture. And it’s not pretty.

I’m concerned about my husband’s state of mind however, and the bank balance, as the brochures mount up and he starts talking about spa baths with all the fittings, and fancy accessories that I have never heard of before. I didn’t know that there was so much to it, or so much interest, in the higher end of the bathroom renovation.

I have accompanied my husband to the various showrooms, and marvelled at the size of the spas and number of jet outlets that go with them. Of course, he wants maximum jets and maximum power, with LED control panel, neck massagers and independent heated water accessories. I would be happy to be able to just stretch out and relax. There are some places that I don’t want a therapeutic jet massage.

I’m in charge of the colour scheme. Just as long as it meets with his approval and is the correct size, weight and depth –  I can have anything I want. I thought that a sandstone look on the floor with a marble effect up the walls would be nice. I’ve seen it before in showrooms and it looks straight forward, and I don’t have to be too creative – just match the colours, right? Wrong – I’m a rabbit caught in the light reflected off the  sheer array and variety, not to mention size, weight and depth – of my tile quarry.

I’m starting to panic now. I haven’t been able to make a decision yet and my husband’s do-it-yourself clock is ticking. So I’m off again today, for the fifth and final time, to make my selection and hope that it meets with approval. I was going to take my father for backup, until my mother reminded me of the time when he decorated the bar with blue tiling and a funny orange fur for the trims. We all liked it at the time, but the excess of the seventies is definitely not transferable to the new millennium of bathroom de haute qualite.

I can’t wait until the captain decides to renovate his kitchen.