Welcome to another Sunday – which of course means another six sentences. I’ve really been enjoying this process of revelling mealy six of the (what feels like at times) millions of sentences that I write throughout t the week. It’s fantastic to see people enjoying what I’ve been presenting and given some helpful advice along the way. I’m very grateful for all the wonderful support you’ve been giving me over the past few weeks. So a big thank you to each and everyone one of you for reading.
This six comes from part two of the series and is about the consequence of the big night I had last night. Yes, it was last night – Hence why this six is so fresh. It was only written his morning & I still have the feeling I might vomit every two seconds. Don’t feel sorry for me, (I’d be surprised if you did), It is only the fault of myself and the 5 bottles of wine me and my friend consumed.
This weeks six:
I’ve got the usual suspects – Headache, fragile stomach and world-class weariness.
Ideally, I need a recovery that is as fast as Usain Bolt, and as smooth as David Beckham’s arse..
The ritual of deep fried breakfast and orange juice has proven helpful time and time again to relieve the horrendous pain in my head and dulls the urge to kill anyone who dares to make loud noises around me.
If this hangover were a film, it wouldn’t have a decent plot line and would most definitely be in a foreign language: Unbearably boring to watch and overwhelmingly confusing to understand.
You like it? Hate it? Comment on it! xx
SO I was sittin in a cafe this morning doing some work on the series, when I started to write a Mills & Boon scene. Some of you will know my background in writing pretty much covers comedy, and not much else. Never have I been asked to write about real love, sex, or something that doesn’t contain a joke about breasts. So now that I’ve been asked to write about my own love life (and to not leave out the sexy details), I tend to have quite realistic ‘sex flashbacks’ .. in public
I’m one of those writers that really has to get into what I’m writing. (Yep, I’m one of those wankers) So I visualise everything. I’m very lucky that I’m writing about my own life and own experiences because I’ve already lived what I’m writing. But when I want to go back to.. say that night with a particularly hot guy; I have to close my eyes and really get back to that frame of mind. What was I feeling, doing, ect. So when it starts to get a little hot and heavy.. the palms start to sweat, the smile on my face increases, and before I know it I look like this:
Replace Judith with the waitress holding my coffee with a look of concern on her face as one of her patrons is having (what looks like ) an orgasim in her cafe and you have the situation that was this morning.
Perhaps I should start writing these scenes in the privacy of my own home.
So I’ve got something a little special for this weeks ‘Six Sentence Sunday‘ ..
Firstly, thank you for everyones comments last week. I really appreciated them.
This is a snippet from the second instalment of my series ‘Mr Perfect’s Apprentice’ which isn’t being released until February. Not even my beautiful editor or publisher has seen this before. It’s fresh from the writing desk. Take a look:
His hand caresses my blushed red cheeks as his face gets closer toward mine. I close my eyes and simply let my lips touch his.
It might be the four wines I’ve had, but I feel my body surrender to what is happening as I feel his right hand wrap around my waist drawing me closer to his strong and solid body. My smile is uncontrollable as he draws back to look at me.
“For a first time kisser, that was pretty damn good.”
I want to say something witty like “Youtube tutorials can actually teach you anything” but on second thought, I think a less honest approach is the way to go.
Please note, that the video I linked isn’t the actually video that I watched to learn how to kiss, (yes, this is a true story) but the one I’ve linked his hilarious. Defiantly worth a giggle.
So that’s my first kiss. If you liked that then I can assure you you’ll love the rest of that chapter. Keep an eye for ‘Second Time Lucky’ being released in February and ‘At First You Don’t Succeed’ being released in January by ‘Tercio Publishing’. Watch this space!
I’d love any feedback you may have. As a new writer, any advice from anyone is useful. Hit the ‘Leave a comment’ button bellow and don’t forget to add your six sentence link to the comment so I can read yours.
My first ‘Six Sentence Sunday!’
This is a small snippet from my series ‘Mr Perfect’s Apprentice’ – Part 1: At first you don’t succeed. Basically I was extremely happy about my recently retail purchase, and I saw this really hot guy on the train whom I thought he was giving me flirtatious eyes.. Maybe he was checking out my new shirt.. Maybe not.
I begin to make my way towards the doors of the train when ‘sexy eyes’ stops me in my tracks..
“Excuse me, but I just thought you should know..”
That I am the man of your dreams and you want to take me away to your penthouse apartment to make passionate love to me all night long whilst whispering sweet nothings in my ear?
“.. that you’ve forgotten to take the price tag off your shirt.”
I want to climb into a hole and die, but I take a deep breath and reach around to the back of my shirt to rip off the tag. Somehow I don’t think sexy eyes is jealous of my op-shop purchase, even if I did get it for $2.50.
I do apologise for my lack of blogging. It’s been a busy few weeks getting the first part of the series sent of to the editor. I can’t wait for you guys to read it!
P.S Any feedback would be great.
So tonight I’m at a bar in town..
I’m here with my friend Izzy for some Friday night drinks and eye candy. Izzy is certainly a confident little lady when it comes to talking to the gentlemen (so she should be), she’s such a great gal, and she knows how to get the men right in the palm of her hand. She’s on a leash at the moment as she’s in a relationship, but this doesn’t mean she can’t help me! So I guess we could call this a Friday night masterclass. How to find men in Melbourne. Lesson one.
We are both standing at the bar on this Friday night talking as girlfriends do. Me with my apple cider, and her with her exotic cocktail (that looks like it has half a pineapple sticking out of it). I hear in the distance something amazing. It felt like one of those moments when you smell something really bad and you’re trying to find out where the awful smell is coming from, except replace the awful smell with the glorious sounds of an Irish accent. It’s like all my senses searched until it found a group of guys standing at the back of the bar having a great time. One guy (talking a little louder than the rest) with the thickest Irish accent. Oh god.
“Izzy. I don’t mean to interrupt this story about you’re boyfriends masterbation habits. But I have the feeling there is a stunning Irishman over in that group of guys”
Luckily she understood the urgency, so she was happy for the conversation to be disrupted. All the details of her boyfriends ‘self satisfaction’ we’re getting a little to close for comfort so I was a little happy for the topic to be put to rest.
It was like finding your favourite jocks in the pile of shit in the draw. Once you’ve found them, everything seems to be okay. And I found him in the sea of men standing with him. His accent stands out like a neon light in the darkness. He was a well built guy with black curly hair. Even from the 5 meters distance between us, I can see his smile (which is already making me blush). As I subtly show Izzy what guy I’m talking about, I see a revolted expression on her face.
“Oh Blake. What you see is the accent. You’re blinded by the noise that comes out of his mouth. Trust me on this one. Do not pursue.”
What do you mean blinded? Thats ridiculous!
Wait, could she be right? Am I blinded by the accent? Surely not. I’ve always found curly hair attractive, and this guy is defiantly not bad on the eyes. No; I’m going to trust my judgment. Izzy has made her mind up that he’s no good. “It would take at least another six of these before i’d even look at him twice”. Her exact words. So either my standards are really low, or this accent has me hooked.
So here we are. Friday night, Izzy and myself trying as hard as we can be to not be obviously checking him out (even though we are) with the second round of drinks in our hands. Giggling away, on and off checking out my Irish. Suddenly, the Irish guy looks our way and our eyes meet. It’s a solid 5 seconds of eye contact before he smiles at me and turns away.
“Izzy. Did I just have eye sex?”
Yes. Yes I did. Holy shit. I just had eye sex with this guy. Would it be appropriate to simply ask him if I could make passionate love with him right here on the bar floor? I’m sure I’m not the first person to have asked that question. Maybe I should go talk to him. If he actually said anything to me, I think I’ll melt. Andddddd.. I spoke to soon. Here is he, coming right over to me. Shit shit shit shit shit. Okay, breathing. Acting natural. I defiantly haven’t been talking about you all night to my friend. He stands at the bar right next to me. I’m now in the middle between Izzy and this beautiful foreigner. Izzy has turned her back as to give me more privacy with him but I don’t think it’s working since he keeps swapping his glance between her and me.
“Well, ‘ey dare.”
I’m going to go ahead and guess that he said ‘Hey there’ but I can’t be certain. The only downside to the whole accent thing is you kinda have to guess what they are saying. But the point is, he has actually said something to me. My heart is racing and the heat in the room is starting to increase. I suddenly realize I’m standing here, with the good looking Irish guy starting a conversation with me, but I seem to be frozen. All I can seem to do is stand there smiling at him. Like an idiot.
“Can oi git yer a draink or somethin’?”
Just. Say. Something. Blake.
“Yeah. Yep. Umm, sure.”
Suddenly his green eyes stare at me perplexed. Was it because I actually had a full bottle of cider in my hands so there is actually no reason for a drink, or did I not speak English. Perhaps he can’t understand my Australian accent. I was raised in the country remember, the accent is a little thicker than a pure-bred Melbournian.
“Um… Oi’m ‘appy ter buy yer a draink mate, but oi wus actually talkin’ ter yisser lady friend ere.”
Izzy (mid sip of her cocktail) and myself didn’t need a translator for that sentence. Although the thickness of the accent was still there, It was pretty clear what he was saying. Izzy in fact, found this a little funny so the mouthful of cocktail is now all over the back of my head and down my back and she has spat it back up in the midst of laughing. I’m not sure if I could get any more embarrassed. Not only have I miss-read ‘sex eyes’ from across the room, I’ve totally made a mess of myself half attempting to flirt with a straight Irish guy (who now doesn’t seem as attractive as he did fist glance) and to put the cherry on top, I now smell of pineapple and vodka. I still seem to be doing the same thing as before. Smile longingly into his eyes, except this time a little part of my soul dies of humiliation
“… I’m. Just… Cleaning up.”
I say as I walk as fast as I can out the door of the bar.
This was my Friday night masterclass. Useful and embarrassing lessons to learn.
A: As hypnotic as accents are, try and no be blinded by the beauty that is a foreign accent.
B: Don’t take a hot girl man-finding. This could result in disappointment when the girl is actually receiving the eye sex that you (and her) think you are receiving.
C: Clarifying (perhaps in the early stages of meeting) if they are in fact interested in the male genitals or the female. Could be very important.. IS very important.
I am a friend of Dorothy.
If you don’t get that ‘Wizard of Oz’ reference, chances are you either haven’t seen the Judy Garland classic, or you didn’t realize the ‘Tin Man’ was a raging homosexual. Living in what can only be described as hell, I was so closed off from the world that I didn’t even realize (until I hit a certain age of course) that being gay was even a possibility. As far as I was concerned, there was no such thing, and playing fashion parade or Chorus Line with my cousins Barbies was completely normal. It wasn’t until I was fourteen that I got slapped in the face with my gay reality. Ironically, I was sitting in the change rooms at school after football practice,when my best-friend at the time went to get changed into his favourite ugly shirt. As I had just begun to admire the delicious contours of his muscles, seeing that hideous piece of cloth prompted my mouth to open up, and before I knew it, the words
“Dude, that colour does nothing for your skin tone, and the fit is completely wrong”
tumbled out. There was silence in the change room. Feeling my insides fall apart, I calmly crammed my footy jacket into my bag and declared with feigned confidence and tranquillity: “Well, its true.” , and I got the hell out of there. To be honest, it wasn’t the fact that I was outraged by his terrible attire. I was getting out of there to hide my uncontrollable erection that was poking though my footy shorts. I mean it was a hideous shirt, but the sight of this muscular god was causing more problems in my pants rather than the issue of the fashion crime. And thats when it hit me like a cold shower. It now made so much sense why I never found fart jokes funny and why ‘Two-Girls One Cup’ had revolted me more that the others. I had the hots for my mate.
So I did what I had to do; for my high school days I ‘straightened up’. At one stage I even convinced myself that I could be remotely interested in vagina and I can tell you, that phase didn’t last long. Luckily I had my best friend Olivia, she ended up being the first person I told about my uncontrollable love with Harry Potter actor ‘Daniel Radcliffe’ and luckily for me she was totally okay with it. She was more of a red-head fan so we didn’t have to battle over which one of us would Daniel marry. Liv was the only person I could talk to about boys or fashion and she’d talk to me about her family problems. As I got older I got better at hiding my ‘fabulous’ qualities, I used to think of myself as an actor that was playing a character, and this character was straight. I should have won an Oscar for my performance because I had the whole town convinced. The problem with this character is that I had to play him all day and everyday. The last year has been the most difficult, there have been times that I’ve just wanted to scream and shout out to the world “I’m gay and why do you give a shit?” But I knew that if it became public it would devastate my family, being the only son; it would kill my father. My folks might not have been the best at dealing with me, (How could they not know? I asked for pink shoes on my fifth birthday) but I couldn’t bare to put them though this all because I like guys. I wish it wasn’t like this, I wish it didn’t matter but in the ‘small country town’ it does.
Now living in Melbourne, I finally feel like I belong. Before I moved here, I never met another gay man. But now I feel like every second guy I meet likes ‘Ikea’ as much as I do and I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy.
I’m now excited for tomorrow, and it’s the greatest feeling.