Untitled awesome story I wrote that's awesome.

This is the first page from a book I'm working on. No title yet.

 

“Tell me how I look darling.”

“You look fine.”

“You’re an atrocious liar. I never look fine. Right now, I can best be described as stunning. But you are much too hetero to admit that.”

“Yep you’re right. I am blissfully cemented in my vago-centric universe.”

“Oh my God, the way you said “blissfully” sounded so gay!”

“Shut up. Why are we drinking wine?”

“It’s an educational experience that will hopefully lead to you living a more fulfilling life.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I’m hoping it will get you laid.”

“Laid? That’s rather crass for you don’t you think?”

“I was using a vernacular I thought you would understand.”

“Bugger off.”

“Oh look, you’re using a vernacular I understand.”

“So your date is soon right?”

“Nine thirty. We are meeting for drinks. Do not look at me like that. I’m having one drink with you so that I can relax a little. You are going to finish the bottle, all the while trying to understand about tannins, subtle nuances, bouquet, and all that other malarkey that wine drinkers mention in order to sound more couth than the rest of us. Arrogant bastards.”

“Arrogant bastards? You’re a wine drinker, isn’t that a little bit like the pot calling the kettle black?”

“It is not, because, unlike them, I deserve to be arrogant. And what will you be doing tonight?”

“I’ll probably play some video games and call Lyndsey.”

He rolls his eyes and says, “Loser. You are a pathetic loser.”

 

I am. I really am.

 

Lyndsey is my dead girlfriend. So I guess she’s actually my ex-girlfriend. That was Ashley Bancroft, my effeminate, anglophile, straight, room-mate. I’ve been friends with Ash since high school. We lived in the type of town where a guy named Ashley, who acted like Ashley acts, was destined to get beat up on a regular basis. I mean he once wore an ascot to school! Anyway, the only reason Ashley didn’t get beat up on a regular basis was that there were enough women who were willing to admit that, while they hadn’t slept with him (as that would tarnish their virginal facades) they had made out with him rather heavily on several occasions.  

 

While these girls would publicly admit to a little kissing, Ashley explained to me, often, the finer details of these make-out sessions. And he never spared any details. Let me tell you something, not even a British accent can make the story of your sister’s first blow job sound classy.

 

Lyndsey and I were together for six years before she died. I met her at seventeen and she wanted to save herself for marriage. She was the first girl who paid attention to me, so I was willing to wait. Heck, I’d already waited for 17 years, what was a few more?  Then, after a booze-up with Ashley, I decided (he decided for me. I’m very susceptible to peer pressure) that I should break up with her. Just before I was going to do it, she got sick. Then she died. And because I was “always there for her” and “giving her the strength she needed” her mother gave me her ashes. And that’s why we’re still together, two years after she died.