We kicked off with a tale of sex with a total stranger in the dark. Next was the story of the traveller who has a one night stand with a sexy Cuban local. And last week we ate up the account of therestless 40-something suburban housewife who went looking for adventure online. Today we bring you the fourth finalist in Mamamia’s erotic fiction competition, C M Matheson’s “Sculpt” – the tale of Ally, the antisocial artist who has a chance encounter with a new neighbour …
And remember there’s still a few weeks left to enter. If you think you could write something better than 50 Shades of Grey, get to it. Click here for details.
And now, pour yourself a glass of wine and read C. M Matheson’s story, “Sculpt” …
Ally could barely exhale as his hands flattened firmly around her waist. She swept her arm deliberately behind her to clear the bench as he pushed her forward and down. Their mouths parted as they paused momentarily, each imagining what they were about to do. It had been so long since she’d had sex and she wanted him, badly. She wanted to come but she also wanted it to last. This was not going to be love making. They didn’t know each other well enough for that. This was going to be a straight fuck. Ally smiled as she remembered that it was her carelessness which had led them to this moment, “Thank God for that slippery chisel.”
* * * * * * *
“You mother-fucking-son-of-a-bitch,” Ally screamed as she grabbed the nearest rag and wrapped it around her bleeding hand. She took some deep breaths and dared to pull back the edge of the now blood-soaked rag. “Shit and arseholes!” It revealed a deep, spurting cut, about the width of the chisel blade which had skated into her palm.
Ally was working on a commissioned piece for a formal garden. The sculpture was from beech wood and, depending on the angle it was viewed, was either a small girl or a grown woman and she was very proud of it. Her work had progressed from naive representations of nudes and animals to more complex, thoughtful works which a few loyal customers and patrons had come to recognise as having innate aesthetic value and longevity. She loved her work but she hated its occupational hazards, namely poverty and injury. It was the latter which now had her cursing like a drunken sailor at the call of last drinks.
She clutched her palm tightly as she searched the workbench for her car keys, not an easy exercise in the curls of wood shavings and saw dust. She was aware of feeling dizzy and this scared her. Ally lived alone and if she passed out in the work shed no-one would know. She’d had enough cuts to know that this one was arterial and she needed help. She decided she couldn’t drive and so instead walked out of the shed and into the street. She couldn’t see anyone but there was a car parked in the driveway across the road. The owner was an elderly man whom Ally had sometimes waved to and she hoped he was home. As blood dripped from her hand and the pain started to overwhelm her she reached for the doorbell. As she glanced down she registered the amount of blood on her overalls. The door opened. It wasn’t the old man. She said help and then passed-out.
Ally woke-up reclined on an old grey and red, floral couch. “Oh Christ! I’m so sorry she cried as she noted that the red flowers weren’t flowers at all, but more blood. She wasn’t even sure who she was talking to as the sunlight from the front window blinded her. A friendly, warm voice reassured her, “Don’t worry about it. That couch is about 10 minutes away from being thrown in the tip.
Ally was confused and responded, “You’re not an old man.”
“How kind of you to notice.”
Ally sat up and turned toward the voice. It belonged to a man in his late thirties. He was about her height, not fat, not thin just an average bloke in work clothes with a bleeding woman on his couch.
“I think we’d better get you to the hospital before you ruin the carpet as well.” He smiled. She felt grateful and humiliated all at once. Ally had lived alone for so long that it was hard for her to accept help from anyone. This time however she knew she was out of her depth.
“I’d re appreciate it. Can you take me or maybe I should call an ambulance.”
“Oh! I’m Ally and I’m so grateful. I live across the road. Where is the old man that lives here?”
“That’s my Dad, John Mason. He died a few months ago and I’m here to sort out the house.”
“Oh I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I don’t get out much, I mean outside the house. I’m not very social. I like to work a lot. I guess I just didn’t notice.” Aware that she was babbling all the wrong things Ally turned her attention back to her hand.
“What work do you do Ally?” He changed the subject for her. She once again found herself being grateful to this man and it made her squirm. “I’m a sculptor. I work in my shed and live alone so I often miss the goings on in the outside world. I’m working on…oh! We’re here.
As they approached the Accident and Emergency ward Zac asked Ally if she would like him to come in with her. “You’ve already done so much. Thanks but I’ll be OK. I’ve had so many cuts I could almost stitch it myself except for the fainting.”
“OK. Well good luck.” As she shut the car door he wound down the window and quipped, “If you ever feel the need to faint again my door is always open.”
“Cheers.” As he drove away had a feeling she hadn’t felt in years. Was it remorse? Regret? Not quite. Ally was so content in the company of wood and tools and herself that usually when people left her presence she was relieved. Not this time. How strange! “ Maybe it’s just the blood loss,” she thought. Ally turned and walked into the hospital.