Sex in the City--Dublin Read online

  SEX IN THE CITY

  DUBLIN

  EDITED BY

  MAXIM JAKUBOWSKI

  Published by Accent Press Ltd – 2010

  Print Book ISBN 9781907016233

  PDF ebook ISBN 9781907726378

  ePub eBook ISBN 9781907761232

  Copyright © individual stories: Individual authors 2010

  Copyright © compilation: Maxim Jakubowski 2010

  The right of individual authors(as shown on stories’ title pages) to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  The stories contained within this book are works of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the authors’ imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Xcite Books, Suite 11769, 2nd Floor, 145-157 St John Street, London EC1V 4PY.

  Cover design by Zipline Creative

  Contents

  Introduction Maxim Jakubowski

  Dublin Express Colin Bateman

  Madeleine. Like Seine Shelley Silas

  Juno and the Peacock Severin Rossetti

  Love is the Drug Ken Bruen

  Picking Apples in Hell Nikki Magennis

  Molly, You Have 4391 Words, Start Now ... Maxim Jakubowski

  Abstract Liffey Craig J. Sorensen

  Peeping Tammi Kelly Greene

  With a Vengeance Sean Black

  The City Spreads Startling Vast Elizabeth Costello

  Of Cockles and Mussels Stella Duffy

  Doublin' Gerard Brennan

  Author Biographies

  Introduction

  I AM RELIABLY INFORMED that the art and practice of sex is well-known outside of major cities too, but that’s another book altogether!

  Our new Sex In The Cityseries is devoted to the unique attraction that major cities worldwide provide to lovers of all things erotic. Famous places and monuments, legendary streets and avenues, unforgettable landmarks all conjugate with our memories of loves past and present, requited and unrequited, to form a map of the heart like no other. Brief encounters, long-lasting affairs and relationships, the glimpse of a face, of hidden flesh, eyes in a crowd, everything about cities can be sexy, naughty, provocative, dangerous and exciting.

  Cities are not just about monuments and museums and iconic places, they are also about people at love and play in unique surroundings. With this in mind, these anthologies of erotica will imaginatively explore the secret stories of famous cities and bring them to life, by unveiling passion and love, lust and sadness, glittering flesh and sexual temptation, the art of love and a unique sense of place.

  And we thought it would be a good idea to invite some of the best writers not only of erotica, but also from the mainstream and even the crime and mystery field, to offer us specially written new stories about the hidden side of some of our favourite cities, to reveal what happens behind closed doors (and sometimes even in public). And they have delivered in trumps.

  The stories you are about to read cover the whole spectrum from young love to forbidden love and every sexual variation in between. Funny, harrowing, touching, sad, joyful, every human emotion is present and how could it not be when sex and the delights of love are evoked so skilfully?

  Our initial batch of four volumes takes us to London, New York, Paris and Dublin, all cities with a fascinating attraction to matters of the flesh and the heart. We hope you read them all and begin to collect them, and that we shall soon be offering you further excursions to the wild shores of erotic Los Angeles, Venice, Edinburgh, New Orleans, Sydney, Tokyo, Berlin, Rio, Moscow, Barcelona and beyond. Our authors are all raring to go and have already packed their imagination so they can offer you more sexy thrills …

  And it’s cheaper than a plane ticket!

  So, come and enjoy sex in the city.

  Maxim Jakubowski

  Dublin Express

  by Colin Bateman

  DANNY GUTHRIE SAID, ‘Excuse me, is this seat taken?’

  Her eyes flitted up. She had dark hair and pale skin with a reddish tinge; was maybe twenty. College books out on the table, iPod earphones and the tsk-tsk of her music. This train, the Dublin train, was far from packed. It was mid-morning, spring. He’d got on at Drogheda and patrolled up and down the corridor until he spotted her.

  She didn’t really say yes or no, just nodded, which could have meant anything. But he sat and she returned her attention to her books. He tried to read them upside down.

  He said, ‘French?’

  She said, ‘What?’ and pulled out one of her earphones.

  ‘Studying French?’ She nodded. Before she could put it back in he said, ‘You must have exams coming up, studying on a Saturday.’

  ‘Yeah. Soon.’ She replaced the earphone. Her cheeks were a little redder. She was easily embarrassed.

  ‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘If it needs doing.’

  She looked up. ‘Sorry?’ She pulled the earphone out again.

  ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to disturb you.’

  ‘No, it’s OK.’ It clearly wasn’t OK, but now she felt she couldn’t just go back to the music. ‘What were you saying?’

  ‘Nothing, really. Just … French, it’s a beautiful language.’

  ‘Oh. Do you …?’

  ‘Oui.’

  He smiled, and she smiled, getting it. He was a bit older than her: short black hair, hint of stubble. Neat.

  ‘You going into town?’ he asked.

  Stupid question; just for the sake of it really. Of course she was going into town. The train was going into town; it was an express, no other stops between Drogheda and town.

  ‘Oh, yeah. Yeah. Meeting my boyfriend.’

  Making a point. Boyfriend. When he held her gaze she managed a half smile, then looked away. Banks of unsold apartments slid past. He watched them as well.

  Then she said, ‘You?’

  ‘Yeah. Into town. Something to do. Man on a mission.’

  ‘Mysterious.’

  ‘Yeah, kinda.’

  ‘You could tell me, but then you’d have to kill me?’

  But he didn’t smile back the way she expected; he just kept looking at her. She felt a bit foolish and averted her eyes. She didn’t know him from Adam. He could easily be a nutter. She looked up again, and now he was smiling. He was full of himself. She quite liked that, in a man.

  Danny Guthrie said, ‘You’re not going to see the President?’

  ‘The President?’

  ‘Aye. She’s giving a speech out at the Barracks. Anniversary of something or other.’

  ‘No. No interest.’

  ‘Funny that, isn’t it? If it was the President of like, America, there’d be motorcades and Secret Service and all that shit. But with her, you know, she’ll be lucky if there’s a traffic warden and a guard with a dodgy walkie-talkie. President of our own country, nobody gives a toss.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I suppose. But I mean, she’s ceremonial more than … you know? She doesn’t have her finger on the nuclear button or anything.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose. I’m going to pop out anyway, have a listen.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Sure. Like I said. Man on a mission.’

  This time he patted his jacket.

  She gave a little laugh, but at the same time her brow furrowed. She pretended to pat her blouse, like what’s the big secret? But he just kept looking at her. She pretended to return her
attention to her books. Without quite looking up she was aware that he was closer, arms folded, on the table, leaning towards her.

  Danny Guthrie said: ‘Do you think if someone has the chance to alter the course of history, for the good, they should?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Do you … I mean, look you’re studying French, right? Say if a couple of hundred years ago someone, say a waiter, had had the foresight to whisper in Napoleon’s ear that invading Russia was really going to fuck him up. And in so whispering, and Napoleon taking it on board, he saved the lives of hundreds of thousands of soldiers, do you think you would have whispered, if you were a waiter, waitress? Or would you have said, these big world events have nothing to do with me, I just serve frog’s legs and shit?’

  ‘If I was a just a waitress, how would I even know what could happen during a Russian campaign?’

  ‘Well, for one, I think you’re needlessly complicating this, but for the sake of argument: you’re a waitress whose family came from Russia, and you know how bloody cold the winters are, which a lot of people in France at the time must have known too, but were too bloody scared to say. At least until you came along. But my point is, do you think you would have said something?’

  ‘Well, I’d like to think so.’

  ‘OK, but what if we took it one step further. Say Lee Harvey Oswald …’

  ‘Lee Harvey Oswald.’

  He started to look exasperated, but his frustration was halted by her sudden, radiant smile. ‘Sorry,’ she said.

  It was good that she was more relaxed with him now, bearing in mind what was coming. ‘You know the story, OK? He was in the Book Depository. But say he was getting set up to shoot Kennedy, and you happened to walk in and say, ‘Lee Harvey Oswald, what do you think you’re doing?’ And he said he was going to shoot the President because of the Bay of Pigs and the Mafia, or whatever, but now you knew what he was planning, so he was going to have to kill you, and you knew it too, and he knew that you knew it, so you had a choice to make. You could either run for it, which wasn’t going to work, or start screaming. But who was going to hear you way up there with all the noise outside, waiting for the President? So what would you do? You wanted to save your own life, and you wanted to save the President’s, so what really would you do?’

  ‘I … don’t know.’

  ‘What have you got to bargain with?’

  ‘I don’t … I’m not sure what you mean.’

  ‘There’s this guy in front of you. He’s like an ex-marine or something, so he’s built. But he’s also a bit nerdy looking, and you, you’re this young girl, young beautiful student, how’re you going to distract him? And save the President, maybe save the world, because the fingers on nuclear buttons could easily press fire if Kennedy goes down? What’re you going to do?’

  ‘I don’t really …’

  ‘Would you do it?’

  ‘Would I do what?’

  ‘Would you say to Lee Harvey Oswald, on the verge of maybe destroying civilisation as we know it, would you say: Lee Harvey, you can make love to me right now, if only you won’t do this terrible thing. And afterwards I promise I won’t even tell a single person what you were up to.’

  ‘You mean would I have sex with him?’

  ‘To save the world.’

  ‘I don’t know. God. Why would you ever ask such a … Yes. Maybe. To save the world.’ She was very flushed now. ‘He’d have to wear a condom.’

  Danny Guthrie said, ‘What if that was a deal-breaker?’

  ‘Wearing a condom?’

  ‘Yes, what if he had a strict no condoms rule?’

  ‘Well, yes, maybe to save the world. God. How did we start talking about this? We’re nearly in town.’

  ‘It’s just interesting, isn’t it? So, if you’ll forgive my French, if we zipped back forty, fifty years, to save the President, Camelot, all that bollocks, you would screw Lee Harvey Oswald on the floor of the Texas Book Depository.’

  ‘The floor?’

  ‘Yes. The floor.’

  ‘I suppose. To save the world.’

  ‘OK then, obvious next question. Say the equivalent of Lee Harvey Oswald, a twenty-first century Lee Harvey, got on this train, and he was on his way to assassinate, say, the President of Ireland, what would you do to save her?’

  ‘Well it’s hardly the same thing, is it?’

  ‘OK, granted, no it’s not. Obviously she hasn’t got that same standing. Nobody hangs on her every word. But for the sake of argument, if you could save her life, what would you do? If someone who got on a train and sat down beside you and said they were going to shoot the President of Ireland, but might not if you agreed to ride them in the toilets?’

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Not just to save the life of the President of this country, but to save the life of a person? Of a woman?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No? Why not?’

  ‘Because doing that and saving the world, there’s a big difference between doing it and saving one person. Horrible choice as it is, I wouldn’t.’

  ‘What would you do?’

  ‘In what sense?’

  ‘In a sexual sense.’

  ‘To save the President of Ireland what would I do in a sexual sense?’

  ‘Yes.’ He patted his jacket. ‘If he, the lunatic with the gun in his coat said to you, show me one of your breasts right here, right now, and I won’t take the head off the President of this green and pleasant land, would you do it?’

  ‘Do you have a gun in your jacket?’

  ‘Oh, we’re talking about me, are we? Are you sure about that? And if we are, do I have a gun? Well, that’s for you to decide.’

  ‘One breast for the life of the President? I would have to think about it.’

  ‘Maybe you wouldn’t have much time to think.’

  ‘Maybe you don’t have a gun.’

  ‘Maybe I do.’

  ‘Maybe you wouldn’t get close enough to kill her. If you have a gun it has to be small otherwise I’d see it, so it’s not like your Lee Harvey with his sniper’s rifle or whatever he had. So maybe you’re not as big a threat as you think you are.’

  ‘Or maybe I am. Maybe I have military training and know all about close quarter combat. Or maybe that’s the chance you have to take. Save the President’s life by showing me a breast. It doesn’t seem like such a big sacrifice.’

  ‘It’s not about the sacrifice.’

  ‘What is it about then?’

  ‘It’s about you, a complete stranger, trying to pressure me. For all I know you do this every week, every day. Maybe you’ve seen every breast in Dublin.’

  ‘For all you know, maybe I have. It doesn’t change your predicament. So what’s it going to be, are you going to show me your breast?’

  ‘Are you going to show me your gun?’

  ‘That’s not how we play this. You have to decide if it’s worth the gamble. I may have a gun, I may not. But you definitely have a breast. And it’s whether you think it’s worth showing it. Knowing that by so doing, there’s a chance that you might be saving the President’s life.’

  ‘And an equal chance of me being suckered in by a frickin’ chancer.’

  The doors hissed and the conductor appeared. He said, ‘Tickets please,’ to the couple three seats back.

  Danny Guthrie said, ‘If you say anything to him, I’ll kill him too.’

  ‘If you have a gun.’

  ‘Your call.’

  He came to their facing seats and said, ‘Tickets.’

  She held Danny Guthrie’s eyes, and held out her ticket.

  Danny Guthrie kept looking at her.

  The conductor said, ‘Sir?’

  Danny Guthrie nodded. But didn’t take his eyes off her. He unzipped his jacket enough to remove his wallet from an inside pocket. He slipped out a note without looking at it. The conductor ran off a ticket and handed it to him with the change.

  Danny Guthrie said, ‘Thank you.’

/>   The conductor moved on. Only when he was gone did Danny Guthrie put the ticket, wallet and change back into his pocket. But this time he opened the jacket a little wider and she thought she saw, she was nearly sure she thought she saw, she was about fifty-fifty sure that she thought she saw the dark outline of something that might or might not have been the butt of a gun.

  ‘So what’s it to be?’ asked Danny Guthrie.

  Two hours later she was naked and exhausted in her boyfriend’s bed, in his apartment: first floor, curtains open, the canal beyond. The sun was streaming through the window. She had bruises on her knees from making love on the hardwood floor. She had scrapes on her back from making love against the plumbing in the bathroom. At various points she had shouted, ‘Ride me, Napoleon!’ and ‘Camelot!’ in her ecstasy.

  The boyfriend was saying, ‘You’re confusing me. You’re quite the tiger, but every twenty minutes you jump up to check the news. Is there something going on I should know about?’

  ‘No, nothing. Just curious.’

  He pulled her too him. He kissed her hard. He moved on to her breasts.

  She said, ‘They’re all yours.’

  And then in the mmm of another kiss, she heard: ‘We interrupt this programme for an important news flash. We cross now to …’

  About the Story

  I’VE WRITTEN TWENTY-FIVE books now, and I didn’t realise until I was asked to write this short story, that there are virtually no sex scenes in any of them. I was determined to put that right with this story, but, as you will now realise, I didn’t. I intended to, but without being unduly wanky about it, the story is what the story is, and I never know what that is until the end. I don’t plan in advance. Making it up as I go along is the fun of it for me. I do a lot of my writing at my house in Blanchardstown, on the outskirts of Dublin, but I’m from the north so I’m a frequent traveller on the Dublin Express. Like any writer, my best lines are to be found on the page, not in small talk, so I like to watch and listen, but not partake. I suppose that makes me a bit anti-social. This story is a result then of a question I hear a lot on the train: ‘Is anyone sitting here?’ My inclination is always to say, yes there is, now bugger off, because you never know what kind of a nut might sit down beside you.