This April, Oshun Books presents Open: An erotic anthology by South African women writers. To whet your appetite, we bring you flash fiction from contributor Liesl Jobson, whose “Seven Saucy Smokelong Stories” is included in the collection.
from Seven Saucy Smokelong Stories by Liesl Jobson
What You Really Need
Jim lounges beside me against the counter in crinkled chinos and a crisp denim shirt.
‘Tired?’ I ask.
‘A little shopping goes a long way,’ he says, slipping his veined hand under my sleeveless blouse. He teases my bra strap, plucking and releasing it.
‘We’re nearly done. This is the last item on the Christmas shopping list.’
The clerk who gift-wraps the embroidered towels I have chosen for our eldest granddaughter looks about the same age as her. The girl strokes the peach satin monogram before cutting a length of red and green paper. There is a tiny engagement ring on her finger, a wistful look on her face.
‘Pretty,’ I say.
‘Nice and absorbent,’ she says.
‘I meant your ring.’
‘Oh, thanks,’ she laughs, holding the ring out momentarily for me to admire, then resumes creasing the paper into an elaborate design. Cutting tape, she flicks it in place with swift fingertips.
I wonder if she has ever shared a tub with her fiancé. I hope he folds her in sumptuous towels afterwards, rubs her softly and unwraps her tenderly.
My eyes rest on Jim’s crotch. He catches my indiscreet staring, twirls his hand through my short curls, and wraps a lock around his forefinger. It is a proprietorial gesture, an ownership. He gives a sharp tug, a private signal, a caution.
‘So, when’s the big day?’ I look up.
‘April 12th.’ She snips a strand of silver ribbon.
‘Nice! We had an autumn wedding, didn’t we?’ I prod Jim’s tummy. He nods and smiles. The girl blushes. She deftly twists a many-looped bow. I wish this girl glorious weather, a beautiful ceremony, and a long, happy marriage. If her groom is half as gentle between the sheets, half as patient on the pillow as my blue-eyed purple-tipped boy, she will be a contented bride. If her husband has anything like Jim’s strong arm and judicious eye for the correct position of the paddle, if he knows when to use a riding crop and when to use his own bare hand, she will grow to be a deeply satisfied old woman.
‘Merry Christmas,’ she says, handing Jim the parcel.
‘You too,’ he smiles.
‘Have a nice wedding,’ I say.
After we’ve gone, I think about what I should have said. I wish I had whispered in her ear, ‘Show him what you like. Ask for what you want. Don’t be afraid to tell him what you really need!’
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