I’ve done a lot of thinking this weekend. A lot of that is a result of feeling quite sickly and being in bed all of yesterday. It is also a result of some deep and thought provoking conversations with fellow writers on Saturday.
I think it’s probably best if DSB discusses what we’ve discovered in more detail but I want to share something with you. I wrote something. Last night.
I finished watching a few episodes of Blood Ties and I was preparing for bed when I just had this burn. This urge. This yearning. I had to write something. It didn’t matter what, just . . . something. So I crept upstairs, put on the laptop and did this:
She danced. Tossed her hair, hugged her hips, twisted her waist. Every part of her body fell into the rhythm of the music, pulsing, throbbing, sliding, skipping. Music. Of all things in the world she had come to love, music ranked highest. Above film. Above poetry. Above food. Above sex.
Well . . . Almost.
She turned again, wiping a slick of sweat from her brow and flicking her fingers to let the salty drops fall upon the dance floor. The filthy tiles sucked it up, as though eager to taste the essence of her body.
A man slid in close. Short cropped hair. Brown eyes with pupils dilated from the effects of alcohol and lust.
“Hey baby. Wanna party?”
She twirled around him, trailing her hands over wide shoulders, tight pectorals and firm abdomen.
The feel of a man’s body beneath her fingers, little compared to it.
“What did you have in mind?” Though the music pounded in her ears, she refused to raise her voice. Instead speaking softly to force the stranger to lower his head to hers. When he did, the scent of his body teased in her nostrils. Vodka. Cheap beer. Sweat. And something else . . . Something primal. Visceral.
His hands covered hers and slid down her hips, feeling the strip of skin visible above the band of her low slung jeans.
“You’re so hot,” he whispered.
“You don’t know the half of it.” She let him touch her, enjoying the playful teasing of his fingers as they tickled her waist, he belly button, her ribs.
“Dance with me,” he said.
She faced him, tilting her head back to meet his gaze. “That’s what we’re doing, isn’t it? Dancing? Getting close? Feeling each other out?” She let the syllables tease over her lips, tasting each one before letting them free.
“Yeeah. Feeling.” His hands gripped her breasts, a possessive squeeze. “You feel good. What’s your name?”
She arched into him, curving her spine to press her arse into the hardness between his legs. “Lydia.”
“Yes you are.” She pressed into him again, twisting back and forth to generate some delicious friction. “Come.”
Rod followed eagerly as she took his hand. Their fingers twinned together, an inexorable knotting of flesh. He stood close, his chest pressed tight to her back as she led him across the dance floor, up the steps towards the row of secluded tables lit by a single bulb with a purple hue. He followed her beyond the tables and past the bathrooms to the door which lead to the rear garden.
The sharp stench of cigarette smoke billowed through, accompanied by white-grey wisps of smoke. Outside the door, clusters of young clubbers paused their mating rituals long enough to poison their lungs with the peculiar drug.
Lydia stalked passed all of them, guiding Rod to an alcove near the back beside a hatch in the floor where the club received all their deliveries. She released his hand, pressed her back to the wall and waited.
He quickly understood.
She moaned as Rod’s weight pressed against her, as his large hands enveloped her wrists and pressed them to the cool, gritty wall. His knee nudged between her thighs, parting her legs while his lips fluttered over her ear, her cheek, her throat.
“You’re a great dancer,” he said. “Like that woman with the hips. Y’know, the one with the mermaid hair.”
She laughed. “I have no idea who you’re talking about.”
“It doesn’t matter.” His fingers tightened on her wrists. His hips pressed more insistently against hers. “You’re so warm. And you smell so good. Like . . . Strawberries and warm bread.”
Lydia arched her back again, playfully straining against the grip on her wrists. “Kiss me, Rod.”
He complied, tongue thrusting into her mouth. Another taste of beer exploded on her lips, joined by the tangy taste of his sweat and something else. Something hotter. Something below the surface.
So far from the dance floor the music’s power was lessened, but Lydia could still feel the bass. It thrummed through her, providing a rhythm for the sway of her hips. The dance of her lips.
Boom. Boom. Thud-boom-boom. Boom. Boom. Thud-boom-boom.
She kissed him back and let her tongue trace the inside of his mouth. Slow at first, a tentative teasing of the edge of his lips. Then harder, deeper, following the smooth edge of his teeth. She allowed her tongue to dance with his, the slow, sensual grind together that matched the motions of their hips.
“Ah!” He jerked back, touching the side of his mouth with one hand. “Did you just . . . Bite me?”
Lydia grinned. For all that she loved the hunt, she had trouble making it last. After that first taste of lust on her lips, it was impossible to hold back from taking what she truly wanted.
The tiny bead of blood hung on the end of her tongue, sinking into her taste buds before she lapped it up and swallowed. The sweetness of it, the inexplicable hotness of it . . . Perhaps the only thing better than music.
She ran the tip of her tongue over the sharp protrusions of her teeth, extended from her gum line into long, white fangs.
“Rod,” she cooed, stroking the side of his face. “I thought you wanted to party.”
Shock filled the young man’s eyes, followed quickly by horror. Then fear. He pulled away, but she followed, gripping his hips and spinning to press him against the wall. Roles reverse, she took his wrists and pinned them to the brickwork, easing them up, up above his head. She stopped with her arms fully extended, her lips a hair’s breadth from his mouth.
“What are you?” he whispered.
Lydia focused on the side of this throat. On the patch of flesh above his veins, leaping with the force of his frantic pulse. She licked her lips. “I’m just a girl,” she told him softly. Her lips brushed his throat.
“You like that?”
“It’s like . . .” He struggled to form coherent sentences.
“Please.” Rod’s eyes fluttered closed. The tension flowed out of his arms and shoulders.
Lydia licked his pulse. Then kissed it. Then nibbled it with her front teeth. When she finally bit down and allowed her fangs to break flesh, Rod’s hips bucked beneath hers and a rough groan spilled from his lips. She felt the culmination of his pleasure flood the front of his jeans and stain the air with it’s musky scent.
“Good boy,” she cooed, sucking hard on the flow of blood.
She didn’t drink much. She never did. She drank enough to stem the tide of hunger, to tide her over until the next meal. The next dance.
She left Rod against the wall, gazing blankly into space, one hand still massaging his spent cock through the damp fabric of his jeans.
She walked back to the dance floor with a sway in her hips, a smile on her face and a song on her lips.
Music . . . Almost as good as sex. Almost.
I have no idea where it came from. Or even what it’s for. I don’t know that I’ll do anything with it or include it in anything else. It just . . . happened.
It has been a looooong time since something just happened. A long since the burn to write something led me to sit up at 10.30pm and tap away until satisfied. I only wrote for about 40 minutes last night. But I slept better last night than I have for days. Maybe even weeks.
I’m glad I wrote it. Whatever it is. And even if it is just a brain vomit first draft, I’m pleased to share it with you. Mostly because it helps prove to me that I can still write, even when I have days in which I want nothing more than to curl up in front of the TV and forget terms like ‘plotting,’ ‘scrivener,’ ‘narrative arc’ and ‘editing.’