Here’s an excerpt from an unpublished novel, Inside Out, a sort of sequel to Close to the Edge. The characters are Vinnie and Karen. Is it love or merely lust? In the bad old days when I was using snail mail and the opportunities to get published were slim, I came up with this tag to lure literary agents and publishers: "Can a novel be both explicit and meaningful?" Only one was intrigued, a small press guy who wanted to see if I'd "pulled it off." I doubt I sent him the entire manuscript. Fortunately, he rejected it. I'd written it in the early 80's and it was more explicit than it needed to be. When I began transferring all my writing to the PC, it allowed me to rework everything I'd ever done. At that time I was so turned off by the overuse of profanity in the arts that I eliminated most of it from my work, the only exception being Exchanges, which required the frequent foul language of the commodities trading floor in order to be authentic. Anyway, since this is a family blog, I stopped the excerpt just short of the slam-bam. It's only a couple of minutes read:
He rang the bell and waited, plastic shopping bag in tow sagging under the weight of its contents. He hadn't called. He thought he would drop in unexpectedly. Perhaps she would be with another man. He might finally be cured of the infatuation, if that was what it was.
Her voice through the intercom sent a charge through him.
"Grocery boy," he said.
She was waiting in the kitchen, bag slung over her shoulder, sunglasses in place. His heart seemed to skip a beat.
"This stuff's not fattening," he said, laying the bag on the counter near the refrigerator; "and it's actually good, and good for you."
"I hate fruit."
He made a face. "How can you hate fruit? You gotta start taking care of yourself. You're over thirty now."
"Thanks for reminding me."
"As if anybody's more aware of it than you."
"And the chauvinists of chauvinists -- you."
"Still pissed?"
Frowning, she shook her head. "Only at myself. I hate to get sick. I never do. I don't have the time."
"It's amazing you're not sick all the time the way you treat your body."
"Don't start."
She seemed to lack the energy to argue. She gazed into his eyes briefly, then looked away. He slipped a hand inside the waistline of her shorts and pulled her toward him. He felt her quake, and smiled.
"So you finally deigned to come on your own," she said bitterly, head craned back.
"Five days by the phone was enough. I was afraid you were serious this time. I was hoping you'd melt once you saw my pretty mug."
"You're like the ugly dog I never had as a kid."
There was pain in her eyes. She was unable to resist, however, as he went at her again. She kissed him hungrily, then pulled back, breathless.
"Oh, God, not now. I have a thousand things to do. It's my pop's birthday. We're celebrating at my sister's on the Island. I have to go."
"Just a quickie, then, to tide us over."
"I'm afraid it'll turn into one of our marathons."
"I won't let it. C'mon. Don't let me hold this load 'til tomorrow."
"Damn you," she rasped, spinning into place.
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