"The Moon is Bloodshot"
A Novel by Valerie Kirwan
Published by Hornet's Nest Publishing.
COPYRIGHT. Kirwan. 2000
All enquiries regarding this material should be made to
Valerie Kirwan: email@example.com
An extract from The Moon is Bloodshot
There is a restaurant in the city called The White Tavern. Mirra and I decided to take Maurice there for lunch. Maurice had been beautiful once with a mop of wild curls. These days he crops his hair very short and there are lines of confusion and sorrow on his face.
Everything was easy to begin with. We became drunk on cheap wine.
"Everyone at home is so confused about you Rosa, they keep on asking me to explain you away." Maurice's voice was punctuated by the deep and rowdy strains of the bouzouki.
"How wonderful. Tell me more."
"Do you like the music?" the waiter asked.
"No, we like the sound of our own voices," Maurice told him.
Somebody sat down at the next table. Slender, black hair, fervent green eyes. Wearing a singlet and jeans.
Maurice stopped listening to my conversation. His gaze devoured this marvellous stranger.
In a fury I turned around to see what was more interesting than ...My blue eyes exchanged glances with his green eyes. A tattoo of a big sailing ship poked up over his singlet. He pushed back his chair, stumbled across to our table.
"Mind if I join you?" he asked me.
"By all means do," Maurice purred.
He sat down and told us what was wrong with his life. He talked non-stop for an hour. He was in his late twenties. A cheeky mouth and so drunk he couldn't light a cigarette. Maurice ignored Mirra and myself, tried to cut us out of the conversation. Mirra winked at me. Our attractive stranger was not too drunk to miss that wink. He leant towards me. "I'm going to get into you," he said gently. "Here, light my cig. for me love." I lit his cigarette. Then he produced a roll of notes from a travelling bag. "I'll take you out to dinner," he said. "I'll take you anywhere you want to go. I'll hire a Rolls Royce."
"If you take her you'll have to take me too," said Mirra.
"Cool," he grinned. "You two girls are sexy."
"You're so drunk you'd think anything was sexy," I told him. Maurice was quick to agree.
Green Eyes said he built houses. He was down from the country for the
day. He had a young wife and three children at home and not many hours left to spend in the big city. We didn't hire a Rolls Royce. We ditched Maurice and grabbed a cab. "Poofters should be strung up," said Green Eyes. He meant it. Mirra and I exchanged horrified glances.
"You haven't got a gun, have you?" I asked, joking. He was silent for a moment. Then he said: "This is just between you and me." He opened his bag. There was a .38 wrapped up in a pair of trousers. "But you two don't have to know about that."
We went to the most expensive restaurant in town. We ordered French champagne and oysters and pigeon breasts and exotic ice-creams. We didn't even exchange names. We clinked our glasses and drank. In the middle of the dinner Green Eyes leant across the table and kissed me.
"You haven't got the clap have you love?" he asked me. "Because if anyone loads that on me I'll kill `em."
"Oh my God!" groaned Mirra.
"Have you got any rooms here," the silly bastard asked the head waiter.
Mirra whispered to me, the only time I have ever heard her whisper. "Don't go to any room with him. We'll make him leave his bag under the table and take him to the toilet."
So the three of us went off to the ladies' powder room trembling with
passion and anxiety. Between our heavy breathing we could hear the constant clicking of high heels in and out of the next door toilet. At first it seemed as if Green Eyes was too drunk to get his cock up at all. He tried to give me an orgasm with his tongue.
"Give us head love," he moaned. "Give us head." He had a gorgeous silky body. We gave him the best head he'd ever had. Then I found myself leaning up against the wall and his cock was moving slowly inside me. I had an orgasm and fell against the flush button. The toilet flushed, a handful of coins cascaded from his pockets into the toilet bowl and we collapsed in a heap of laughter.
"The management is coming to do you any minute," I said.
Mirra and I climbed back into our clothes. We slipped out of the restaurant and left our green-eyed stranger with the bill.
Maurice hadn't been shot but he wouldn't talk to us for days after. I can't say I blame him.
In the nights which followed, when Mirra put her arms around me and pulled me close to her, as she pressed her tiny face and her lips close to my own, sharpening my passion with her tongue, running it slowly, caressingly over my body, I often thought about that nameless man with the green eyes. I asked Mirra several times if she ever thought about him. She swore that she didn't.
"It's past. I discard memories like I discard stockings with holes in them," she assured me.
COPYRIGHT. Kirwan. 2000.