blush factory.

"object i: the bag itself

it’s an oversized department-store style paper sack with shoelace handles, ornamented with a simple white design and the word FENTE, which I don’t recognize. it’s sitting by the door when i walk inside, waiting to be taken. i didn’t realize she had already packed it. it’s heavier than i expect when i carry it to the sofa and begin to pick at its contents: everything i’d left at her apartment. “je suis une personne sérieuse,” she had told me once. true enough. meticulous, nostalgic, she couldn’t have missed a thing. not a penny i’d dropped, nor a note i’d scribbled. a pubic hair.

she says take off your shoes and she sits on a rolling desk chair with her feet propped up on the coffee table beside a carnivorous plant named after an american actor that’s only famous in europe. it isn’t well. november. following her feet up her bare legs i think about burying my face between them, about fucking her against the wall, about dirty words in a thick accent. when i move my gaze to her mouth she stares back coldly so i drop my eyes quickly into the big red bag. she won’t say another word for half an hour. i take off my shoes."

and this is how i found my calling as a smut writer. what happens next (in what was supposed to be a relatively serious work of semi-nonfiction) is that i replace the heartbreaking bit of nostalgia i had intended to examine with something far more interesting: a "sex scene" so wet with detail that it is, in fact, a more accurate portrayal of the thoughts and motivations of our, how shall i say, hapless narrator. unfortunately, i will not be posting that here. however, garbage will be available upon request. also, i might be soliciting for experiences (read: research) vital to the past (read: present) of a future smut writer. this doesn't mean put your finger in my ass. it means bring your sister.

have some class.


note: the above excerpt is from a work of (as of now) fiction. any resemblance to real people or events is completely coincidental.