More! Is There More?

mjc-writing on bed 6 knees and elbows -0685

“Well, hello, insatiable you. I love a reader with… appetite.”

So. More:

m jane colette posts new content, Monday to Friday.

You: “Over-achiever!”

Me: “Actually, the correct word is… paranoid… If you’ve written something, and nobody reads it… does it even exist?”

The blog menu is as follows:

mjc-blog menu

Tell Me comes out in March 2015. You can devour it in full then. In the meantime: Teasers (taste Tell Me). Every Tuesday. Delicious.

More still? Right now, I’m working on this crazy story. Want a sneak peak?

You: “Yes, please.”

Me: “I want you to beg. Just a little?”

You: “Seriously?”

Actually, in truth, I cannot wait to tell you. Come, come, read with me:

Methadone (The Photograph)

What’s that?

– This?

Yeah. That.

– Nothing. A photograph.

I’m not blind, lover-mine, I know it’s a photograph. Of whom?

– Everyone. Family. It’s from Christmas.

Now there’s a facet of you I did not know about. Nor suspected. Such sentimentality. Sweet.

– My sister-in-law had them printed. Gave it to me the last time I saw her, I guess. I slipped it into the iPad. It must have fallen out when you were rummaging through my bag for condoms.

Ha. That’s more like the Elizabeth I know and fuck. The one in this photograph doesn’t look like the Elizabeth I know either. Jeezus. What’s wrong with your face?

– What? Nothing. I’m smiling. I’m just smiling.

Grimacing. Grinding teeth. Almost in physical pain. I’ve seen you smiling and in ecstasy and in pain, Liz, and—well, there’s no pleasure in any part of you in this picture.

– It was a hard night. You know. Christmas. Family. High tensions. Stresses.

Tell me about it. About them. Who are all these people? My God, did you cook for all of them? In an apron? Tell me you wore an apron.

– Talking about my dysfunctional family is not going to put me in the mood to fuck again.

It doesn’t have to. That’s my job. Come on. I’m curious. And, isn’t this what all women want? A lover who’s passionately interested in the quotidian details of their excruciatingly boring, dysfunctional lives—as well as skilled with hands, and tongue, and cock?

– Fuck you.

You have. And if you tell me the story to my satisfaction, you will again.

– You really want to hear this?

Absolutely. The drama and tension is palpable, it jumps off the mildly fingerprinted surface. Just look at your face again. And the man next to you—is that your husband?

– That’s Brian, yes.

He looks like he’s restraining you, keeping you from running out of the frame. Terrified you will leave. The photograph or his life? I’m full of wonder.

– You’re reading too much into a grip on an elbow.

Then correct me. And that? That’s your daughter? What’s her name?

– I prefer that you don’t know her name.

Interesting. Understandable. But it will make telling the story cumbersome. Let’s call her… Alexandra. She looks happy.

– She is. She was—it takes a lot to spoil a child’s Christmas.

Next to her is?

– You insist on this?

I insist. Indulge me. Here, I’ll reward you. You may keep one hand on my cock as you tell the story.

– Such a reward.

I’ll put both between your legs. Stroke you when you please me.

 Pervert.

That does not please me. Who’s next to… what did we call her? Alexandra. Who’s next to Alexandra?

– That is Brian’s ex-wife. Zia.

Gorgeous. Egyptian? And may I say, lover, your lack of jealousy pleases me. I reward you, a little.

– Ah, fuck.

Talk.

– She’s as Egyptian or Arab as I am French. Canadian, in other words. Born here. As for lack of jealousy… well, it wasn’t my idea to have her there. It was the first time that’s happened in 15 years. But you’re pushing ahead of the story.

Indeed. I’m impatient. You know that. Still. We should do this properly. Continue with the cast of characters. Kneeling at her feet? Love that pose, of course.

– That’s Stefan. He… well, that’s hard to explain. In that moment, in that photograph, he’d be Zia’s… boyfriend.

Such a juvenile word when used in relation to a man fucking a 50-year-old woman. Lover?

– Well… that depends on what you understand by the word.

I can’t wait for you to explain that part of the story. The wife, the husband. The daughter. The ex-wife. Her—ha!—boytoy boyfriend. This young angry woman—the only person in the picture in more pain than you, lover—this must be the daughter of the first marriage?

– Yes. That’s Brian and Zia’s daughter. Sasha.

Her real name? Mmm. Fascinating. I’m allowed to know the step-daughter’s real name. Does she hurl accusations of favouritism and evil stepmotherness at you?

– All the time.

As she should. Now, this woman? She’s the reason I’m forcing you to tell the story, you know. As soon as I looked at the picture, she jumped out as its centre, focus. And yet, there she is, at its edge. Almost out of frame.

– I have to stop fucking artists with EQ. Yes. That’s what she is. The centre. The focus. That’s Annie. My sister-in-law. Brian’s brother’s wife. She’s the reason—she was the glue that made us a family. Or something. And the reason we had that horrific gathering—the reason everything happened.

Everything? This gets better and better. And you wonder why I want to hear the story. But wait. There’s Brian’s brother’s wife. And where, I must ask, is Brian’s brother?

– Oh… you’re right, he’s not there. He was there, I’m sure he was there. He must be taking the picture.

Brian’s forgettable brother. Does he have a name? Wait—don’t tell me. Not yet. So. That’s the cast. Now put the picture over there… and now, both hands on my cock. And tell me everything. I won’t distract you too much. Except when you get to the really good parts.

– I have no idea where to begin.

At the beginning., of course. At the photograph.

– That’s not the beginning. That’s practically the end.

Well. Then begin with the thing that’s most important to me. When you met me. It must have been around that time. I recognize the haircut. And those shoes.

– We met the following week. But you’re not part of the story. Not at all.

You’re so wrong. Every story before you met me is the backstory to… well, why you’re here. In my hotel room. Naked. Beside me. Beneath me. With me. So it’s, really, all about me.

-Narcissist.

Sociopath. Still. I’ll indulge you. Never mind me. Start with her.

– Her? Annie?

Yes. She is the story, isn’t she? Or its pivot? Anyway. She is where you should begin. I want to know her intimately.

-I don’t.

But you do, don’t you? So. Talk. But keep in mind… I’m easily bored. And I only really like one type of story.

-Am I telling a story to you or to your cock?

We are fully integrated. One and the same. And what a perfect feedback loop you have. Now. Impatient. Begin. Tell me about you and Annie. And start the story with…

-How about a mis-texted, inappropriate photograph?

I love it. Go.

… and that’s how it begins.

What do you think? Tell me. I’m writing more, right now…

(this post is a replica of the menu page MORE! IS THERE MORE?)

About mjanecolette

Writer. Reader. Angster. Reformed Bohemian (not). Author of the erotic romance Tell Me, the erotic tragedy (with a happy ending) Consequences (of defensive adultery), and the rom-com (she's versatile) Cherry Pie Cure, as well as the non-fiction collection of essays Rough Draft Confessions: not a guide to writing and selling erotica and romance but full of inside inside anyway. Coming in 2018: Text Me, Cupid, a steamy romance in four episodes. Current WiPs: Queer Christmas in Cowtown, Jewel of the Not-So-Spectacular Boobs, All In the Cards, and Un-Valentine. Yes, working on four projects simultaneously is a spectacularly bad idea.

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