Which Book? Of the Week
She clenched the edge of her biology exercise book, hands trembling slightly. Her eyes were transfixed obsessively, hungrily, almost animalistic, but still very much innocent as a virgin on him, as he sat there just across the room from her. There he was, heroically anaemic, gloriously bilious, pouting at the desk. A breeze drifted in through the open window, wafting the smell of her sweaty schoolgirl body towards him. He clapped a hand over his mouth, and stared point blank at her, with all the subtlety of a tortured magical species/ hormonal teenage boy. Her eyes met his horrified stare; enraptured by his glower a faint tinge of the palest pink spread over the tiniest centimetre of her sickly cheeks. Agonising chemistry (otherwise known as extreme sexual frustration) kept their eyes locked, before the school bell rang shrilly, tearing their gaze.
A few hours later, back in her bedroom, things weren’t getting any easier.
‘I want to touch you,’ he whispered.
‘Touch me,’ she begged.
‘I can’t,’ he moaned, ‘I’ll hurt you, I’ll destroy you. I don’t trust myself.’
‘I trust you!’ she whimpered. ‘I trust you won’t hurt me. I’m safe with you. And I want you to savagely bite me and drain me of my blood, life and soul anyway, as there is nothing going on in this shitty town and my Dad’s a weirdo. Screw women’s rights. I care for nothing but you. Your love is my drug. TAKE ME.’
Two centuries earlier, Tess of the D’Urbervilles and Nancy from Oliver Twist nodded in agreement.
He moaned, she cried, they both whimpered with extremely irritating unfulfilment.
‘For God’s sake!’ yelled E. L. James. ‘Please ditch your prehistoric depraved gender roles and HAVE SEX.’