Around 15 years ago I wrote a series of erotic vignettes. For a few intriguing weeks, a male friend and I exchanged intimate short stories with one another. He wrote well and I cherished the notion that I held my own in this domain too, armed as I was with a reasonable grasp of the English language and a willingness to embrace the moment. How wrong I was.
A few weeks ago, I was clearing out my old archive of stuff – you know – the odd bits of stuff you keep because it seems premature or a bit brutal, to discard them. And somehow years later there they still are, in a box, tucked away somewhere. In my archive of stuff there was a sealed envelope with a cryptic label. I realised immediately what…
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