Sunday, August 4, 2013

Short story assessment

I am taking a subject the requires a short story. I have never written one before. I don't know how I feel about it... I had only 1,500 words to play with. Here it is. 


As oblivious to my surroundings as ever I failed to mind my step, tripping into the homeward bound train. After locating a seat between a portly man with a slightly offensive odour and a goth chick reading fifty shades of Grey I planted my ass. 

Fat-Mans' odour was wrongly assigned, typical, blame the fat one. Instead the mushroomy cross sneaker smell was wafting off Miss Manson. Actually, Fat-Man smelt like Ck Obsession, my favourite cologne. Defence lawyers should know better then to judge on appearance. 

Defending criminals I have learnt to stop thinking about the acts of my clients and look to the mechanics of the law to find the gaps. Instead, seeking loopholes and missed procedure to put my charge back within the law or outside its sphere of punishment.

Taking out my copy of some top 100 classic I read with only half interest. Preferring instead to think of more interesting ways to pass the time such as perving on any captive trade.

Warm bodies flooded into the carriage at the next stop. As seats were at a premium people were standing in the isles. This suited me perfectly as some handsome man with an ass tight enough to turn coal into diamonds in a flattering and expensive suit is now standing inches from my nose. 

 Thinking scenarios more suitable to the novel Miss Manson was reading I attempted to return to my crusty Literature. Nope.

My attention was squarely at the gentleman's fun zone questioning if he was a tightie-whitie or boxer brief kind man. Damn it. Focus, read your book I scalded myself. 'It is quite true that I have worshipped you with far more romance of feeling than a man usually gives to a friend.', even the old book was conspiring against my attempt at mental purity.

I resigned to taking in the view, casually slipping my sunnies down to conceal my cheeky pondering. Nothing inconspicuous about sunglasses at 6pm. On a train. Would there be a trail of hair? Does he "manscape", he is definitely not a manscaper, well not for the purpose of my escapism.  

'Hey, do you mind?' Mr Stunning asked. Crap, crap, crap how could he tell?
'Do you mind if I could read the blurb of your book?' he asked again with a rum and honey voice. 

About to apologise for my inadequate camouflage I thrust the book up to him, lord knows what may have come out of my traitorous mouth. 

'Actually you can keep it, I am finished' fell out. Our hands didn't touch but the heat radiating off his arms had my hairs standing on end. Unkindly, the pre-recorded train voice announced my station. 

'Hey! Can I get your number to return the book?' Called Mr Tight Ass.

I was half way to the door when I fell over Fat-Man and landed on Miss Manson's lap. Managing to catch a few words of Miss Manson's book on the way up. She flushed red when we made eye contact. I had been thinking quite similar things only moments before. 

Mr What's-In-Those-Pants handed me a pen and the book, quickly jotting down my mobile and a winky face. I am not limited to the verbal shits, it extends to written form. 

A few weeks go by, I hang about the same carriage as when I saw Mr Top-Gluteus the first time. Maybe I would see him again. 

Today I spied Mr Sexy-Pants across the carriage reading my book. It could have been chance and it could have been my intense starring that caused him to look up and make eye contact. There was what could have been a wink but probably a blink followed by him retuning a downward gaze. All in my head, much like the things I have done to him. Nothing creepy about that.

My phone vibrated with a message, it was from an unknown number 'morning handsome'. Who? What? Oh... Mr Dashing has my number from my first "appraisal". 
'Coffee?' faded up on the screen. 
'YOLO' spoke my fingers. YOLO? what am I? some vapid 13 year old Belieber? With that my "coffee" date with Mr Probably-Tighty-Whities was set for tonight.  

On my schedule is the courts for criminal call over on my sexual assault file, Mr Binder. The client will be there for the first time to give instructions as to what happened. It will be easy enough, stand up before the judge and request a month to do something it will take me about 10 minutes to do.

From the file I can see various defences, both legally and factually. The assault was on a young man after a hook up at the Beat. The complainant alleged he was tied up and beaten. The witness's statement lacked internal logic and read more like a work of horror fiction. I will make him out to be a drug addled twink should it go to trail. 

After an accusation is levelled most people see a single act as defining a person. The criminal stops being a father, brother, husband and pillar of the community. After a few years this shifted and I see the majority of my clients as people with a history and circumstances. 

It is only a short walk to the courts, however it is time enough for me to drench myself and the file in coffee. Busy cursing my propensity to be graceful like a bush turkey and as elegant as a rhino I did not see Mr Porn-Star approach. 

'Here, your tie is all drenched, have mine', with that he took his off and handed it to me, exposing just enough chest to leave me wanting his shirt too. Traces of CK Obsession left from where it rubbed his neck touched my nose. Any chance of actually drinking coffee on our date is dwindling away. 

Discussing the news and other comments an eaves dropper would mistake for respectable conversation turned a touch filthy.
He asked 'do you like baseball? Are you a pitcher or catcher?' in a leather and velvet tone. We shared a mutual preferred position, in baseball for the unknowing passer-by. Our banter became pre-text discussion for acts to be committed later.

'This is me' I shrugged as we neared the court. 
'Oh, me too!' Mr Smutty replied. According to Mr Next-Notch-In-My-Belt he had a criminal matter on today. Another lawyer, that explains the suit. 

We entered the complex and parted company. I head towards the men's room to dry off the remaining coffee. The door swings open, he has followed me in. 

It is just Mr Filthy-Things and I. Pushed up against the wall he presses into me while kissing me hard. His trimmed stubble grazing my face. He tastes like maple syrup and cinnamon. 

His abs have a downy coat of hair. Just as I had hoped. As interested as I am in answering the underwear mystery, call over starts in 2 minutes. We are cut short and head to court 18. 

'All arise' called the bailiff. Judge Bat-Crap-Crazy entered the room. 'Good morning, Ms Prosecutor who is first today?'. The excitable new prosecutor stood up and called 'the matter of R v Binder'. 

Making my way to the front of the court Mr Binder joined me, it is quite usual for clients to meet their lawyer on the fist court date, at the bar table. Turning to tell the client to sit down I was somewhat taken aback to see Mr Not-Really-Coffee was Mr Binder. 

A date was set and Mr Binder, first name Benjamin and I went to a small private meeting room to talk about his defence. It was all business now I represent him. Lawyers are not to sleep with clients lest a conflict of interest arrises. 

Benjamin expressed his innocence and having read the statements I believe him. After explaining the law and his options the conversation turned to 'Coffee'. Fuck it, fuck the rules, I want to feel his skin against mine. 

It was pretty clear our interests were not going to conflict, competing desires perhaps, but not conflict. The need to explore the curvature of his wast line into his pants became a persistent and consuming insatiable craving. 

From court we went to his house. Benjamin goes commando. The sex. It was not sex. It was the satisfaction of a hunger that had been eating at me for weeks. After much competing I passed out from exhaustion. 

I woke up tied to the bed, bound and gagged, not a bad thing in and of itself. I have read fifty shades of Grey, I am open to a second round with Benjamin.

Life is not a romance fiction. The accused can be guilty. If I live how will my witness statement read? With what he has in his hand who will believe it?

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