Thursday, 17 January 2008

Blue Squash

I am with an ex-girlfriend of mine. We are in a squash court. I am wearing all white, shorts and t-shirt, she is wearing the same, or just her knickers, depending on the fancy of my subconscious. No squash takes place.

We stand in the middle of the court and kiss passionately, hands on everything all at once, familiar but with fresh fervour, revived by the long awaited end to abstinence. The strip lights render everything brilliant white, devoid of hard shadow, the scene burning with sublime intensity as parts of our bodies pulsate and drip and beg each other for a taste of the past. I pull her patterned underwear to the side and reacquaint myself, lifting her to the cold wall of the court. Almost immediately she interrupts with 'we shouldn't do this people will see' and I back away, naked now, moments from climax as she shakes the passion from her body.

As I turn to leave I glimpse a tinted glass window running the full length of the court at the top of the opposite wall. There are around twenty men seated there, some looking in, some looking elsewhere, none of them interested in what just happened on court.

She mutters something about how this always happens and then I move onto other, less memorable, inventions.

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