Today’s flash fiction piece is for all those women who have ever been bored to their marrow while waiting for a small child to emerge from a worthy under-fives activity group of any sort.
When I said there was something dirty in my bag, she was probably imagining a cloth nappy. In this part of town that’s normal. Your baby has to be padded with cotton and chewing on some rainforest-friendly rattle. Mine always was. They have to be sandwiched between your tits too – unless they’re momentarily loosened to get plugged onto one. I did all that. I was doing my best. But I found I still had to write. Even then, when Thomas was tiny.
When I say write, I don’t mean pastel-toned tales of Hickory and Walnut the bunnies. I mean erotic fantasies. I mean stories where arty edges up to graphic and sometimes graphic gets arty by the nipples and… You know what I’m talking about. Even if you are trying not to imagine it, you still are.
It wasn’t a problem really. No-one needed to know. When Mike got in from work I would tell him all about Baby Rhyme Time or whatever. I didn’t need to tell him that I had just completed a tale in which the man in the deli employed a range of soft cheeses in the pleasuring of a woman not unlike myself. It wasn’t necessary. We were doing fine.
But with Laura I just got so comfortable. We met most days. Her Jake was two months older than Thomas. She passed on clothes, kept me up-to-speed on Babble and Splash sessions at the swimming pool. I liked her. I suspected she wasn’t quite as squeaky as she appeared. I dropped my guard. So, that day when I managed to wheel my buggy out her front door leaving my bag on her kitchen chair, I texted,
Can u look after it til tomoz, babe? Warning, something dirty in there!
Was it an invitation? Anyway, now I’m earning again, which I love. I call the group Hot Coffee Time. Six participants now – all word of mouth. While the kids do Creative ‘n Crafty I share some of my tips – get their mummies creating too. The anthology is going to be good. Really dirty.