Fifty Shelves of Grey

by Vanessa Parody

  ‘I’m four and twenty. I look younger because I’ve been on the baccy since I was eight and it’s stunted me. Just like my friends Tiny Tim and Artful. Tim is a year older than I, and Artful is fifty-eight.’

  Since she had a captive audience, Nell continued unwrapping her wares, chattering all the while.

  ‘Oh yes, I am quite, quite poor now, but one day with these little tea parties I shall be ever so rich – and then I shall open a franchise chain. All selling delights such as this Chinese dildo from the fifteenth century.’ She invited one of the ladies to run her finger over the surface, which was textured with little bumps.

  ‘These ribs and notches will heighten your pleasure.’ As she proceeded to unwrap more antique relics, the ladies fell upon them overcome by curiosity. Only Mrs Quilp hung back timidly. Seeing this, Nell took up a parcel and addressed her directly, ‘Mrs Quilp, I should like to demonstrate this last rarity for you. Shall we step into your sleeping-closet?’ And with that, Nell left the room and Mrs Quilp followed dutifully.

  The two women settled on the bed and Nell drew the curtains shut. From the tissue paper she extracted a string of pretty marble balls.

  ‘Is it a necklace?’ asked Mrs Quilp.

  But Nell answered her not. Instead she reached up through Mrs Quilp’s underskirts and touched her there with the cool of the marble balls. Mrs Quilp felt an involuntary rush of pleasure and let escape a tiny sigh. Nell leaned forward and kissed her neck, her décolletage and then her lips, all the while allowing her little hands to explore the softness between Mrs Quilp’s legs.

  ‘Tush, tush,’ said Nell, her hair hanging loose and her face flushed. ‘Now see if you do not prefer these curious Geisha beads to Mr Quilp’s poor attentions!’ She took up the silken string of balls and began gently to push them into Mrs Quilp. As she did so, pretty chimes rang out. Mrs Quilp moaned softly. Nell pulled on the beads a little, then with her petite fingers pushed them back in, teasing Mrs Quilp into a frenzy. When she could contain herself no longer, Mrs Quilp’s bright eyes dimmed with tears and she cried out, ‘You are an angel! Such a sweet, tender-hearted angel!’

  Nell felt Mrs Quilp collapsing around her teeny-tiny fingers and she withdrew her hand, leant her head upon Mrs Quilp’s soft bosom and fell asleep there.

  Emerging later from the boudoir, they found all the ladies vanished, and all the curios gone.

  17

  Blink: The Power of Thinking Without Thinking

  by

  MALCOLM GLADWELL

  Studies have shown time and again that when it comes to making decisions in fast-moving, high-stakes situations, it’s frequently the case that the less we know, the better the decision we make. That’s really what my message is – don’t get bogged down in reams of data and research, trust in the snap judgement of your unconscious.

  Let’s take, for instance, the case of Ana. She has decided that she’s ready to lose her virginity, a key moment in the life of a young woman. She’s offered a choice of two contenders to assist her: Jose, a university friend whom she has known for years, and Christian, a multi-millionaire business man whom she has only met a couple of times. Jose is around the same age as her, has obviously been sexually drawn to her for a long time, and is totally trustworthy. He is also incredibly boring. Christian is significantly older, weirdly distant with her and on their second date he tried to get her to sign a contract committing to sadomasochistic sex. He too is incredibly boring but in a different way.

  If Ana had been thinking consciously, weighing up the options and evaluating the pros and cons as received wisdom recommends, Jose would be the obvious choice. The sex would be hygienic and safe, he’d cook her breakfast the next day, be nice to her parents, read the map when they got lost in the car, notice when she saw a necklace she liked and then surprise her with it, take her to the airport and collect her after trips, watch subtitled films with her, let her have all the orange and purple Skittles, not leave shaving stubble in the sink, do his share of the laundry, buy her favourite flowers for no reason and not because he’s having an affair, and floss.

  But Ana allowed herself to be led by her instinct. The smell of leather emanating from Christian’s Red Room of Pain was an immediate and overwhelming aphrodisiac and, thanks to her split-second decision, Ana now regularly has upwards of four earth-shattering orgasms a day. Could Jose have provided that? Of course not.

  18

  The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency

  by

  ALEXANDER McCALL SMITH

  One evening, when Mma Ramotswe was watching the sunset with her husband, Mr J. L. B. Matekoni, proprietor and head mechanic of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, a young man burst into the room in a state of some distress.

  ‘Mma, I need your help,’ he said.

  ‘What is it, Rra?’ said Mma Ramotswe.

  ‘My girlfriend wishes to have sex with me and I do not know if I can comply. I am a man of no sexual experience at all. In short, I am a virgin.’

  ‘Do not worry,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘That is what the No. 1 Ladies’ Escort Agency is for. Mr J. L. B. Matekoni, please give this young man a cup of Roibos tea, and then we will begin.’

  Mr J. L. B. Matekoni put the kettle on and removed the cup featuring the picture of Sir Seretse Khama, President and father of Botswana, from its special shelf, while Mma Ramotswe went into the back room to disrobe. As a modern lady, but of traditional build, she was the perfect person to guide a young man through his first intimate encounters. Her breasts and buttocks were welcoming, unthreatening and huge, three important factors described in her professional bible, Clovis Anderson’s Principles of Enlightened Sex Work, and she was willing to participate in all activities that did not violate the laws of her country or of good taste and decency. She put on her soft pink dressing gown and went back into the main room.

  ‘Would you feel more comfortable having intercourse with me straight away, or would you prefer to watch Mr J. L. B. Matekoni and myself first, in order to learn the basics?’

  ‘Thank you, Mma. I think I will watch.’

  ‘Very well, Rra. Let us commence.’

  Mr J. L. B. Matekoni washed the engine oil from his hands and undid the fly of his navy-blue overalls. ‘I will now put a condom on,’ said Mr J. L. B. Matekoni. ‘Your girlfriend will appreciate your consideration in this matter very much,’ said Mma Ramotswe as Mr J. L. B. Matekoni penetrated her and started moving his hips back and forth.

  Mma Ramotswe made the sounds which indicated pleasure. At times like this she tried not to think about Note Mokoti, her first husband, a jazz trumpeter and very bad man who was a lion in the sack. Mr J. L. B. Matekoni lacked Note Mokoti’s skill with a woman, not to mention his breath control, which had come in very useful in the bedroom as well as the nightclub, but he was a kind man and an excellent role model for the young people of Botswana. This did not stop Mma Ramotswe having the occasional clandestine encounter with the two young apprentice mechanics who worked with her husband at Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, but this was largely for research purposes.

  ‘Thank you, Mma Ramotswe,’ said the young man, putting down his teacup. ‘I think I am ready to try now.’

  Mr J. L. B. Matekoni detached himself and the young man removed his trousers and climbed on.

  ‘You have a very nice vagina,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, Rra,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘It is very important to pay compliments. Your girlfriend is a lucky young woman.’

  This praise caused the young man to ejaculate immediately.

  Not for the first time, Mma Ramotswe felt the satisfaction of a job well done.

  ‘Mr J. L. B. Matekoni, would you put the kettle on now?’ she said.

  19

  The Three Musketeers

  by

  ALEXANDRE DUMAS

  The Shoulder of Athos, The Six-Pack of Porthos and the Balls of Aramis

  ‘Zounds, that was some workout,’ exclaimed Aramis as the three musketeers hit the showers of M. de Trev
ille’s gym in the rue du Vieux Colombier.

  ‘Morbleu, gentlemen, thanks for spotting me in that last engagement!’ cried Porthos, dropping his doublet to the floor of the changing room, revealing his tight six-pack glistening with sweat.

  ‘Sangdieu, I need a good massage for this shoulder,’ shrieked Athos, working his fingers over the rippling muscles of his left shoulder. In three bounds, Porthos was at his side and began to knead Athos’s shoulder with his strong hands. As Athos leaned back into him, Porthos kissed his neck softly. Whereupon, Aramis, not to be outdone in the proffering of favours, leapt to his feet and joined them, all at once kissing Athos in the French style and rubbing the pommel of Porthos’s sword.

  ‘Why don’t we adjourn to the showers, good sirs?’ murmured Porthos.

  ‘That’s a good idea, because I feel so dirty right now,’ breathed Aramis.

  ‘Bags be Piggy in the Middle,’ screamed Athos.

  So saying, the faithful companions hastened to derobe. They whipped back the shower curtain of an impractical burgundy velvet, and hurtled into the shower. The water cascaded down over their bodies, meanwhile a moonbeam streamed through the high window, silvering their fine and manly lines. Their silhouette was very like to the depiction of athletes on a Greek amphora in the Louvre, and it might be discerned from the outline of their figures that the blood of each was fairly roused. But at this very moment, the heavy drape was swept back once more and standing before the three friends was a handsome young man, tanned with cheekbones high, dusky eyes and a full mouth – the infallible mark of a Gascon. Infallible.

  ‘Aha, good sirs! I see I have interrupted you in your toilette,’ shouted the stranger.

  ‘No, this is the shower! We’re not pigs!’ squealed Athos.

  ‘He means toilet as in ablutions, ma poule,’ sighed Aramis.

  ‘Pray tell, young sir, who may you be? Gascon, certainly – that’s obvious. But what is your business?’ enquired Porthos.

  ‘I am John D’Artagnan and I seek an audience with M. de Treville about gym membership. And you, gentlemen? It is by no means polite that you should know who I am, and I not know you.’

  ‘We are known as the Three Musketeers,’ answered Porthos, undressing the stranger with his eyes.

  ‘Also called the three inseparables. We have pledged ourselves to each other,’ added Aramis.

  ‘We come as a threesome,’ trilled Athos. ‘All for one . . .’

  ‘And one for all!’ they cried, chorusing their co-dependent motto.

  ‘Hmmm, a ménage à trois. Interesting. “All for one and one for all” – yes, it’s not a bad card game, but I’ve always found “Baccarat” more satisfying or better still “Back Alley”, and for those you really need four players.’ D’Artagnan smiled as he started to peel off his tabard and woollen doublet. His slender torso was toned, lithe and tanned by the southern sun, the very image of a Greek kouros. The three musketeers gasped as one when he took off his riding hose. For despite his youth, he had what could be deemed a ‘greatsword’ and it was certain that it would require more than one hand to wield it. D’Artagnan dropped to his knees and, using both hands and his full Gascon mouth (infallible!), he engaged all three at once. He was young, but his handling of their swords betrayed no lack of experience.

  ‘Decidedly the Gascon is a man of spirit!’ panted Porthos.

  ‘Take my honour, take my honour,’ groaned Aramis softly.

  ‘Touché! Touché!’ yelped Athos.

  Jumping to his feet, D’Artagnan made a sudden lunge and thrust with his rapier. Quick-thinking Athos parried with his mouth. The corps-a-corps was on the point of reaching its climax when the bloody curtain was again flung open by the delicate hand of a beautiful woman with a fabulous cleavage. At her side stood a gentleman with a haughty demeanour.

  ‘Ah, I thought I may find you all here,’ said the lady with a smile, and, turning to her companion, she continued, ‘Monsieur de Roquefort-Fromage, allow me to introduce you. These are the famous Three Musketeers: the statuesque Porthos, Fragrant Aramis, and my ex, Athos.’

  ‘What?!’ bellowed Porthos and Athos together. ‘’Ods Boddikins, what the deuce is she talking about? Your ex? What does she mean? O Athos! Your ex! We don’t even know you any more! Are you even gay?’

  20

  One Day

  by

  DAVID NICHOLLS

  FRIDAY, 15 JULY 1988: Emma and Dexter nearly have sex.

  SATURDAY, 15 JULY 1989: Emma doesn’t have sex. Dexter has sex.

  SUNDAY, 15 JULY 1990: Emma doesn’t have sex. Dexter has sex.

  MONDAY, 15 JULY 1991: Emma doesn’t have sex. Dexter has sex.

  WEDNESDAY, 15 JULY 1992: Emma doesn’t have sex. Dexter has sex.

  THURSDAY, 15 JULY 1993: Emma doesn’t have sex. Dexter has sex.

  FRIDAY, 15 JULY 1994: Emma doesn’t have sex. Dexter has sex.

  SATURDAY, 15 JULY 1995: Emma has sex! Dexter also has sex.

  MONDAY, 15 JULY 1996: Emma doesn’t have sex. Dexter has sex.

  TUESDAY, 15 JULY 1997: Emma doesn’t have sex. Dexter has sex.

  WEDNESDAY, 15 JULY 1998: Emma doesn’t have sex. Dexter has sex.

  THURSDAY, 15 JULY 1999: Emma thinks she might have sex but then doesn’t. Dexter has sex.

  SATURDAY, 15 JULY 2000: Emma doesn’t have sex. Dexter has sex.

  SUNDAY, 15 JULY 2001: Emma and Dexter have sex.

  MONDAY, 15 JULY 2002: Emma and Dexter have sex.

  TUESDAY, 15 JULY 2003: Emma and Dexter have sex.

  THURSDAY, 15 JULY 2004: Emma dies. Dexter doesn’t have sex as a mark of respect.

  21

  As I Lay Dying

  by

  WILLIAM FAULKNER

  ADDIE

  So this is awkward. Apparently my entire family think I’m dead and they’re carting me all over the countryside in a coffin. Yesterday they actually tried to forge a river carrying me. Honestly, they’re that stupid. Not one of them can read a map. I did think about letting them know I wasn’t actually deceased but was simply sleeping off a night on the mint juleps, but then I thought, why bother? Faking my own death is actually a really good way of getting away from them. Not that I hate all of them. I quite like the middle one, but only because he’s the result of some hot action round the back of the altar with the Reverend. That man sure did know how to celebrate the epiphany.

  Mmm, yeah, up a bit, up a bit, no down, um, look pretend I’m the body of Christ . . . OK, now we’re cooking. Take me, Reverend, take me to the holy land and back again . . . Why, I do believe you’ve risen again.

  But anyhoo, the kids, yes, what a bunch of halfwits. I mean that quite literally. None of them have had the faintest idea I’ve been sneaking out to the Yoknapatawpha County Swingers Association (single ladies free) most nights. They actually swallowed the lie I told them that I had a cold so they shouldn’t disturb me for four days. One of them, can’t remember his name, decided this meant I was going to drop dead and actually started building a coffin under my window. I mean, how freaking tactless is that? If I were really dying then, frankly, that would be the biggest downer ever. ‘Look outside at the beautiful blue sky that the Lord did bring us this day, Mama.’ ‘Oh thank you child . . . Oh no wait. I can’t see the sky because there’s a great big coffin in the way.’

  Why, Miss Lawington, I haven’t seen you down this way before. Why, thank you, I’m rather partial to this girdle myself . . . but of course you may remove it. Hang on, I may have to suck in. Ow . . . ow . . . ow . . . no the other way . . . yep, OK we’re there. And here let me free you from that darned petticoat. My, what a sweet cherry pie . . . oh, Miss Lawington, why what you’re doing down there is better than winning first prize at the state fair for my zucchini bread.

  But yes, back to my children, here’s an example coming up...

  VARDAMAN

  My mother is a fish.

  ADDIE

  I know. He actually said that, I heard it through the coffin, which inciden
tally is a terrible piece of craftsmanship. Five years of school my children had and apparently they’re unable to stick six pieces of wood together.

  Why, Doctor Peabody, I had no idea you were also a member of our little association. Perhaps you could give me an internal examination of some sort?

  And then there’s my husband, Anse. There goes a walking pin-up. Not. He’s awful. We’re talking hunchback, splayed toes (nail-less for Pete’s sake) and no actual teeth. Not a one. Plus he believes if he ever sweats he’ll die. What kind of a person thinks that? We live in Mississippi for Christ’s sakes, you’re going to sweat picking up a leaf. You know I wouldn’t have married him if it weren’t for that crummy teaching job.

  Hang on a minute . . . El Stupido’s coming back . . . What the hell . . .?

  VARDAMAN

  ‘It ain’t right. You kilt my maw! She cain’t breathe with the lid on her coffin!’

  ADDIE

  You have got to be kidding me! HE’S GOT A DRILL!

  VARDAMAN

  ‘Gonna save you, ma, like a fish. Gonna fix you up wiv’ breathin’ holes.’

  ADDIE

  No! Stop it you idiot!

  VARDAMAN

  ‘There you go, maw. Boy, I sure do love you.’

  ADDIE

  Oh that’s just fan-freaking-tastic, that is. He’s just drilled through my face. I am actually dead now. Oh Hallelujah very much.

  22

  Cyrano de Bergerac

  by

  EDMOND ROSTAND

  Cyrano has fallen foul of two men who are envious of his wit.

  DE GUICHE: This fellow grows tiresome.

  VALVERT: Observe! I will proceed to put him in his place. Ahem. You know what they say about men with big noses.