Brian Salter's Creative Bits:
Boris

 
This was my very first short story. Written in the 1970s, it demonstrates a very raw effort, but I include it here as a reminder that we all have to start somewhere!

Boris was depressed. It was no good pointing out to him what a beautiful day it was, or how summer was transforming itself into the most glorious golden autumnal hues, or reminding him of that superb takeaway meal he had enjoyed last evening. He was depressed and that was that.

How could he confide in his mates. They would only laugh at him. "What! Still a virgin at your age!" they would shriek. He could just picture it if word got out. No, that must never happen. So much for adolescence! It certainly was not all it was cracked up to be.

You might wonder why depression should have left its unhappy mark on our Boris, today of all days. Being a virgin was by definition nothing new to him! He had had ages to get used to this debilitating condition. And in truth he was not bad looking. A little bit plain, perhaps, but that was all down to his parents, wasn't it.

Was it? He had not known them, of course. He had been brought up as an orphan along with all his brothers and sisters, and it was plain for all to see that they all shared similar characteristics.

No. Today was THE day in his life. The day when SHE had appeared. The day when lust had reared its ugly head and turned his world upside down so now there was nothing he could do to stop himself from thinking about her constantly for every hour of the day - and night.

Her name, he did not know. She lived somewhere over the hill - not a long walk from his squat. Rumour had it that she was very Experienced. That she had had three husbands and that all had died in peculiar circumstances. Certainly she always dressed in black (though it did suit her!).

Boris closed his eyes, thought of her beautiful long legs, mentally stroked her silky body and re-discovered parts of himself that embarrassed him something rotten.

It was no good. He would have to grow up fast and face her, tell her about his feelings and his fantasies, throw himself on her mercy and just hope that she did not burst out laughing at his pathetic pedestrian efforts at coming to grips with life.

He wondered what it would be like to make out with her. His mates boasted that for them the earth had moved, that their girlfriends just couldn' t get enough of it and that sometimes the foreplay went on for hours before the final thrust and quiver and wave of emotion that went flooding through (and from) their bodies.

Well, he would find out. Tonight! Oh yes. It mattered not if she was a widow. (That was probably a malicious lie anyway.) She was probably pure and virginal herself. Probably longing for Mr Right to come over the horizon and paint her world with love and attention. He would be that Mr Right! Sod his so-called mates! He would show them all! You just see if he wouldn't.

Boris stared at his reflection. He had scrubbed himself spotless and now there wasn't a single hair out of place. The sun was sinking towards the horizon as he set off up the hill, his speech all prepared. (I just HAPPENED to be passing; just HAPPENED to notice that you were on your own; just HAPPENED to wonder if you'd like a quick shag. - No, really, he must not let his imagination run riot. Wipe that dirty look off your face immediately!)

He found her pad. And in the following half hour Boris grew up fast. She was no virgin, that was for sure! She wasn't interested in conversation; didn't want to make little pleasanteries before getting HIM down on the mat. Couldn't wait to experience all the pleasures and pain that he was going to provide her with. Didn't care that he was a virgin!

Boris could not believe his luck. He knew all about toy boys - how fashionable it was for the older lady to be seen with someone young and dashingly debonair. But this was for real. Inexperience counted for nothing, it appeared. The earth really did move for him that night. Months of frustration which had welled up inside him for so long carried him away on a fast running river of delights, each moment transporting him to a higher plane which he felt must be the pinnacle of pleasure, but each time discovering that there was more to come until......

... ..until he felt a nip in his side. She had bitten him! Well, stuff love bites for a lark. That really hurt. "Just who the hell do you think you are anyway". He looked into her eyes. Cruel. He looked at her body. Tense. He looked at her legs. Vicious. He looked at her lips. Parted. And wide. And.....

. . . . and a wave of nausea overcame him. And a feeling of light headedness changing to dizziness.

The lights dimmed, his legs collapsed from under him, splayed this way and that, forward and back, left and right; and in time honoured fashion his life flashed in front of him as the Black Widow started on her supper.

Funny how sex gives you a raving appetite isn't it?