Three Essex Boys and a Loft
How many eligible single women out there can claim they’ve had three Essex boys in their loft? What about how many eligible single erotic-fiction writing women? Bet you can’t even think of one!
Well, please allow me to introduce myself…
And, while I’m at it, let me introduce my three official loft men: Dave, Stu, and Steve.
Any time I need a suitcase down (or for that matter, one putting back up), I send off a text or email, and invariably someone bites. Even my landlady’s boyfriend has bitten. Hey, someone needs to negotiate that folding metal ladder and the multitude of suitcases and boxes and miscellany I have stored in my loft just waiting to come crashing down through the ceiling. I think I even have an old laptop stored in there. I can’t really be sure though, since I’ve never ventured up, preferring to leave this rather precarious task to others. For all I know, there might even be some Polish builders living up there. Thankfully my flat is only seven years old, or else I’d be worrying about the Germans too.
It’s becoming quite a competition, this loft business. In fact, I’m concerned there might soon be bloodshed. These lads are getting very possessive of my loft, grilling me as to who was in there before, and when. I mean, it’s MY loft, and what I choose to do with it is my bloody business. But no, I’ve got these guys asking me all sorts, as if expecting me to slip up and admit to some wild orgiastic scenario. And it got worse when Steve appeared on the scene. You see, I needed a suitcase down in a hurry, as I’d made last-minute plans to leave the country. I first texted Dave (whom, it should be noted, my loft lost its cherry to), but he couldn’t give me a definite answer and frankly, I was starting to panic. So I emailed Steve – who just so happens to be my landlady’s boyfriend. He’s usually the one who comes by my flat to do minor repairs that need doing, plus he works nearby, therefore I reckoned he was my best bet on this occasion. Well, Dave was none too happy when he found out that Steve (who’s a West Ham supporter) had been tinkering about in what he assumed was his territory. Then there’s Stu, who’s not exactly over the moon about Dave (and he doesn’t even know about Steve!). The other day Stu came by to take me grocery shopping and to sort out my suitcase for my upcoming residential weekend erotic writing workshop on the Isle of Wight. As he stood balancing precariously on the ladder, he quizzed me suspiciously as to when I’d last had Dave up my loft, seeming visibly relieved when I admitted that it had been awhile. Guess I’d better not tell him that Steve was just here this afternoon. It might be more than he can take.
Now don’t go getting any crazy notions that I make a habit out of collecting loft men, particularly loft men from Essex. But can I help it if I have three Essex boys all battling to get into my loft? I mean, it’s a nice cosy loft, so perhaps it shouldn’t be surprising that so many want to get into it. Plus it has good insulation, which is a real perk in a cold country like England. I admit it’s a tight space, not to mention a tad dark up there, but hey, that’s what torches (flashlights) are for! And no, it isn’t all wham bam thank you ma’am either. I don’t have that kind of loft – and my loft men know it too. Why, it so happens that one of my loft men has even proposed marriage to me – and more than once, I might add. (And no, it wasn’t my landlady’s boyfriend! You think I want my rent raised???) The last time he (my maritally minded loft man) came by, he brought me an early Christmas present: an ice cream maker, the plan being for me to use it to make some Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia ice cream (or a bastardised version of it anyway) whenever my little heart desired. Last Christmas another of my loft men brought a gift for Teddy in addition to the ones he brought for me. I tell you, when you’ve got loft men trying to impress your bear, you know they mean business.
Maybe I should consider doing a new version of my book Wicked: Sexy Tales of Legendary Lovers, altering it to Wicked: Sexy Tales of Legendary Loft Men. Or maybe I shouldn’t.
Oh, well, an eligible single American erotic-writing lass in Blighty can never have too many loft men, can she? 😉
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