That Sort of Thing
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About this ebook
The story of a woman named Valentine who meets a charming writer of risqué stories. As she is seduced by his words she is also confronted by the guilt of playing his taboo games. Will reality live up to the dirty fantasies?
Jack Stratton
Writer, hedonist, feminist, queer, kinky, polyamorous, dandy. Join my Patreon for access to over 100 stories, audiobooks, and more. 47 years old. Brooklyn. He/him.
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That Sort of Thing - Jack Stratton
That Sort of Thing
Jack Stratton
Published by Jack Stratton
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2019 Jack Stratton
Discover other stories by Jack Stratton at writingdirty.com
They were at a gallery opening. Freshly painted white walls covered in neat rows of colorful canvases. People milling about sipping red wine. The room was abuzz with a hundred conversations, sounding like a tipsy beehive.
Mitzi Parker, the assistant to the gallery owner, eyed the crowd and spotted two friends she had been meaning to introduce for months.
She swept over to Valentine first, taking her arm and pulling the pretty redhead halfway across the room, her mind set on the perfect match she imagined the two of them making.
Val, this is Mark,
Mitzi said, tugging the arm of the tall man in a smart black suit, so that her two friends faced each other awkwardly.
Mark is a writer!
Mitzi said with raised eyebrows.
Valentine smiled at him shyly and he looked down at his glass of wine with slight embarrassment, feeling pressure to be as interesting as his introduction sounded.
Nice to meet you,
Val said, shaking his hand as her eyes lingered on the perfect knot of his thin black tie.
You too,
he said with a laugh, watching Mitzi the matchmaker walk away.
Val wore a red wrap dress that clung to her curves. It was not low cut enough to be scandalous, though it was sultry enough that Mark made a point of not focusing on it for too long.
Interesting work,
he noted, pointing his glass at the painting in front of them.
The painting was mostly streaks of blue and black, as if the canvas was a dirty window that was just hit with rain.
I’m not sure I get it,
he said with a frown.
I don’t know, there is something in the depth of the blues,
Val said moving a little closer.
The way everything bleeds down, it just seems so sad, like life draining away.
He nodded and sipped his wine somberly.
I guess I’ve never been one for paintings. I think there is a lot of beautiful work, but I always seem to be looking at something and not seeing all the deep things everyone else sees. I’ve always been far more of a book person.
Well, I think it’s fine to just enjoy something for its beauty,
she said with an understanding smile.
His smile had some edge to it that made her both nervous and giddy.
What do you write?
Val asked.
Mark continued looking at the painting silently. After a pause that lasted long enough to bring back the initial awkwardness of their introduction he turned to her and said, All sorts of things. I just got a piece in Wired about internet dating.
Oh, I’ve tried that. What did you have to say about it?
He shrugged.
I guess that it has its time and its place. It isn’t for everyone, but at certain points in certain people’s lives it can be extraordinary. Give me your email and I’ll send it to you,
he said taking a pen and a business card out of his pocket.
She scribbled her name and email and then looking up at him again her phone number.
Valentine, hm? That’s quite a name,
he said with a crooked smile, moving closer and whispering in her ear, I’m glad we were introduced. I noticed you the minute I walked in. You have these sort of hungry eyes. You were standing in the corner watching everything, taking it all in, devouring the whole party.
She felt her face redden as she smiled.
I’m off for more wine, would you like some?
he asked holding up his empty