Hullo people. Here is a transcript of a story i wrote after i saw a man riding on a bicycle and started wondering how far from being a woman could that man be. or something
Guy is the main character (the cyclist)
Angela/Ange/Angie is his significant other
CRITICIZE ME
Listening to something with guitars strumming energetically. Adjusts wrap-around sunnies and swallows the wealth of sputum that forms in response to the cold air gushing into his mouth. He tried clenching his teeth whilst breathing but that just pained his jaw and froze the milky enamel of those well-kept chompers.
He is going home, to his pleasant three bedroom house where his defacto Ange would be rushing around for this and that. She was working tonight, in some candied bar with more colour adorning it walls via decor and drinks than any kaleidoscope.
He smiled briefly as the throb in his hamstrings reminded him that he was almost home. Home alone in this heavy but still winters afternoon.
Guy worked as an offician, of the sort that clambers desperately behind the scenes to attain even more officiality. The major tasks that comprised 2/3's of his weekly waking hours were;
1. menial duty fulfillment (the typing, filing, binding, sending and receiving of invoices/inventories/accounts and stock)
2. menial request duty (the ordering of other employees [usually of higher position] foodstuffs, the making of stimulating yet legal beverages and last but not least the proferring of cigarettes to them that lack)
Did he know what he did without all that bureaucratic morass attached? Surely not. A surprise it would have been ( if he had an inkling of...) that he was not also wiping floors, refilling water dispensers and cleaning the chic unisex toilet [aka restroom] for those that employed him.
Guy didn't think about the menialities that conglomerated to form a working day. He Didn't even think that he might be getting the raw end of the deal. Angie certainly thought so when she saw his first paycheck. Guy didn't care when the OACTAX Ltd. accountant for the Perth office took his last cigarette either without so much as a glance at his empty packet. Guy got by, still.
He got by. Sucking in innuendo and odd-gossip like a dry sponge, filing it immaculately into his archives, much like he did as part of his work. This archive was secret though, only he had the key to unlock the informative goodness inside.
Twilight coming. A colder bite to the constant wind buffeting into him. He walked some more and felt the heat and tension in all his upper body muscles melt. His legs still throbbed horribly. Aah you know what they say, No Pain, No Gain.
Clatter splatter went the five hundred dollar bicycle. Off with his gloves, off with his head, i mean helmet. It spun on the tiled floor in his absence and stopped; chromish dome reflecting an angry LED red 5:24PM. Follow the trail of specialized cyclist store bought apparel. Uh rash suit, that thermoplasticated fabric that is meant to function as a second skin, bike shorts; stretchy, itchy and black. Socks, underwear.
The door is ajar to the bathroom. Hot water sizzles across the floor into your inner ear. Plumes of steam escape the gap then dissipate over the white floorway tiles grouted white also. The tiles gleam faintly with condensation, gleaming becoming more pronounced in accordance to the proximity of the source.
The wraparound sunglasses are the only item of Guy's Bicycling Boutique that is not discarded or strewn despite its monetary cost. They sit in all their mirrored and polarized glory on the wash stand, next to the basin. He wears them under his helmet, he wears them to work. All the time.
He wears lycra biker shorts under his slacks to work. Some of the time.
5:35 and it's night outside. Angie said today was special, some cyclic thing, she said. Bicycles? he mused. No, solstice, she sighed. Oh...
Clambers out of the shower red and his nude form wet. His hairlessness is strangely unapparent to the glancing eye. It comes part and parcel with the unwritten annals of metrosexuality. Plus, it pulls under his tight lycra. Cyclists shave their legs.
He walked into the boudoir. Angie's toilette was littered with the usual plethora of cosmetic and odorous crap. He looked at it preremptorily whilst fiercly scrubbing his hair (on his head) with a baby boy blue Sheridan towel.
A comb, another comb, a brush. Guy started cataloguing the objects unconsciously. Perfumes, pads, pins, uh and stuff he could not name. His hair was now dry and he dropped the towel on the floor.
A glance, pre-emptive or not turned into scrutinization. Still naked, a little less red and more or less dry he seated himself on the plush chair in front of the toilette. The soft, velvety material of the seat instantly made his skin tingle and burst up in goosebumps. Before even taking into awareness, he started shifting and grinding his perineum into the downy material. Tingles of pleasure enamated from his prostrate. He felt good.
Then Guy took notice of the otherworldly chaos in front of him and stopped his gyrating lower body motions.
Eau de this, Eau de that. He opened a bottle of apricot something or another and was tempted to eat it just from its luscious fruity aroma. It smelt sooooo delectable. He started rocking again and this time he laid back and closed his eyes with the super succulent smell of fresh apricots still swimming around him.
More to come
Guy is the main character (the cyclist)
Angela/Ange/Angie is his significant other
CRITICIZE ME
Listening to something with guitars strumming energetically. Adjusts wrap-around sunnies and swallows the wealth of sputum that forms in response to the cold air gushing into his mouth. He tried clenching his teeth whilst breathing but that just pained his jaw and froze the milky enamel of those well-kept chompers.
He is going home, to his pleasant three bedroom house where his defacto Ange would be rushing around for this and that. She was working tonight, in some candied bar with more colour adorning it walls via decor and drinks than any kaleidoscope.
He smiled briefly as the throb in his hamstrings reminded him that he was almost home. Home alone in this heavy but still winters afternoon.
Guy worked as an offician, of the sort that clambers desperately behind the scenes to attain even more officiality. The major tasks that comprised 2/3's of his weekly waking hours were;
1. menial duty fulfillment (the typing, filing, binding, sending and receiving of invoices/inventories/accounts and stock)
2. menial request duty (the ordering of other employees [usually of higher position] foodstuffs, the making of stimulating yet legal beverages and last but not least the proferring of cigarettes to them that lack)
Did he know what he did without all that bureaucratic morass attached? Surely not. A surprise it would have been ( if he had an inkling of...) that he was not also wiping floors, refilling water dispensers and cleaning the chic unisex toilet [aka restroom] for those that employed him.
Guy didn't think about the menialities that conglomerated to form a working day. He Didn't even think that he might be getting the raw end of the deal. Angie certainly thought so when she saw his first paycheck. Guy didn't care when the OACTAX Ltd. accountant for the Perth office took his last cigarette either without so much as a glance at his empty packet. Guy got by, still.
He got by. Sucking in innuendo and odd-gossip like a dry sponge, filing it immaculately into his archives, much like he did as part of his work. This archive was secret though, only he had the key to unlock the informative goodness inside.
Twilight coming. A colder bite to the constant wind buffeting into him. He walked some more and felt the heat and tension in all his upper body muscles melt. His legs still throbbed horribly. Aah you know what they say, No Pain, No Gain.
Clatter splatter went the five hundred dollar bicycle. Off with his gloves, off with his head, i mean helmet. It spun on the tiled floor in his absence and stopped; chromish dome reflecting an angry LED red 5:24PM. Follow the trail of specialized cyclist store bought apparel. Uh rash suit, that thermoplasticated fabric that is meant to function as a second skin, bike shorts; stretchy, itchy and black. Socks, underwear.
The door is ajar to the bathroom. Hot water sizzles across the floor into your inner ear. Plumes of steam escape the gap then dissipate over the white floorway tiles grouted white also. The tiles gleam faintly with condensation, gleaming becoming more pronounced in accordance to the proximity of the source.
The wraparound sunglasses are the only item of Guy's Bicycling Boutique that is not discarded or strewn despite its monetary cost. They sit in all their mirrored and polarized glory on the wash stand, next to the basin. He wears them under his helmet, he wears them to work. All the time.
He wears lycra biker shorts under his slacks to work. Some of the time.
5:35 and it's night outside. Angie said today was special, some cyclic thing, she said. Bicycles? he mused. No, solstice, she sighed. Oh...
Clambers out of the shower red and his nude form wet. His hairlessness is strangely unapparent to the glancing eye. It comes part and parcel with the unwritten annals of metrosexuality. Plus, it pulls under his tight lycra. Cyclists shave their legs.
He walked into the boudoir. Angie's toilette was littered with the usual plethora of cosmetic and odorous crap. He looked at it preremptorily whilst fiercly scrubbing his hair (on his head) with a baby boy blue Sheridan towel.
A comb, another comb, a brush. Guy started cataloguing the objects unconsciously. Perfumes, pads, pins, uh and stuff he could not name. His hair was now dry and he dropped the towel on the floor.
A glance, pre-emptive or not turned into scrutinization. Still naked, a little less red and more or less dry he seated himself on the plush chair in front of the toilette. The soft, velvety material of the seat instantly made his skin tingle and burst up in goosebumps. Before even taking into awareness, he started shifting and grinding his perineum into the downy material. Tingles of pleasure enamated from his prostrate. He felt good.
Then Guy took notice of the otherworldly chaos in front of him and stopped his gyrating lower body motions.
Eau de this, Eau de that. He opened a bottle of apricot something or another and was tempted to eat it just from its luscious fruity aroma. It smelt sooooo delectable. He started rocking again and this time he laid back and closed his eyes with the super succulent smell of fresh apricots still swimming around him.
More to come
