Isn’t the above title one of the most intriguing you’ve ever seen? It belongs to Stephen Elliott’s story collection, pictured to the left. This excerpt is from What It’s Like in San Francisco–one of my favourite pieces in the collection. In this scene, the narrator sits with a stranger at a bar. Neither of them have ever met before.
After a few drinks I slid my hand between her legs. Not inside her jeans, outside, rubbing the denim seam with the bridge of my hand, forcing her zipper against her pelvis. “Oh, we’re doing that,” she said, and unzipped my pants and pulled my penis out and started stroking me below the bar. The bartender looked over at us once then looked away. She gripped me tightly and pulled, letting her thumbnail scratch the tip of my penis. I thought she was going to tear my skin. I was so lonely I laid my head on her cold leather shoulder.