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About the author:
As well as writing, she loves polka dots, random Japanese stuff, snackfoods and her beagle Gemma.
What inspired you to write your book?
I liked the idea of a group of women with seemingly nothing in common being drawn together with the common aim of being “bad”!
Here is a short sample from the book:
I drove to the shopping strip and parked out front of the shop, lurid neon beaming into my car – hopefully not bright enough for anyone to recognise me. The street looked quiet but, the minute I got out of the car, you could bet everyone I’ve ever known since kindergarten would have some legitimate excuse for shopping in Cromwell Street at 9.30 at night.
All I had to do was get out of the car and dash into the shop. Too easy. Just get out of the car. I opened the door and eased myself out. I walked to the shop. I walked past the shop. I kept on walking right into the 7-Eleven. Well, I did need milk.
I could do it. I could walk in there. But first I had to get rid of the milk. You can’t go into a sex shop with milk, can you? That would look really weird and kinky.
I took a deep breath. The sooner I did this, the sooner I could get back to bed.
I pushed through the black louvre doors and stepped inside the store. It was easier than I imagined. No screaming alarms declaring my presence in the world of sleaze. No filthy old men in trench coats ready to sell me into the white slave trade. No sex shop police on the hotline to my mother.
I took another step and a buzzer shrieked. I jumped. It was only the door. A guy in a grease-stained singlet sat behind the counter flicking ash on the floor as he flipped through a magazine. God, I wish I’d been more organised. I could have gone somewhere upmarket instead of this den of sleaze. He just sneered at me anyway. Sneered at me as if he thought I wasn’t going to buy anything. Like I was some uptight little prude here on a dare. I’d show him.
The inside of the store was so brightly lit. You would think they could have some mood lighting, for God sake. The florescent lights made it about as sexy as a pap smear. And it smelt like a weird mix of cheap plastic and dirty sex. Imagine the Barbie Dream House, post-Barbie-and-Ken-and-Skipper-and-GI Joe-orgy, that’s kind of what it smelt like but with an underlying odour of corn chips.
I looked cautiously around. Just some shelves with boxes and a rack of magazines and – ick – do people really do that? Hardcore Sandwich Sluts. Seriously, two at once! If my butt were that big, I’d lay off the sandwiches, and definitely wouldn’t be displaying it on the cover of a magazine.
They had quite a display of rubber dolls. Oh my God. They were disgusting. Big, gaping, red-ringed mouths. Piggy doll eyes covered in bright blue eye shadow and nylon yellow hair. You’d think they could make them look less slutty.
I found the vibrators displayed on the back wall. Who knew they made so many models? What was the difference anyway? I didn’t know what I wanted. Well, I did. I wanted to get the hell out of there.
The first lot were knobbly and bumpy. They looked a bit too hardcore for me. I wasn’t sure that I liked knobbles and bumps. Then there were the realistic models with veins and balls and stuff. How stupid. As if veins and balls weren’t bad enough in real life.
The next section was in all the colours of the sex toy rainbow. Pity the sex toy rainbow went from bilious to garish. Glitter – now that was classy – and I couldn’t really see the point of the glow-in-the-dark model.
There was the range that looked like deadly weapons – spiky and grinding. More like torture devices than fun toys. Designed for someone a bit more robust than me, I think.
The Extreme SkankMachine – huge. Enormous. Monstrous. Just as I reached out to take a closer look, the door buzzed. I dropped the box; crash onto the floor.
A guy walked in, scowling at me then dropping his gaze as he passed. I guess eye contact is a big no-no in the sex shop. He went through a door at the back marked ‘Video Lounge’. OK. I wasn’t going to think about that.
The next lot of vibrators were tiny. What was the point? Oh. Clitoral stimulators. I got it. I wondered if they counted as part of the dare or if I had to buy an actual vibrator. There were bees and butterflies and dolphins and bears. Sex toys shaped like animals – that was just wrong. Then there was the Rubber Duckie. Just like a regular bath toy but with batteries. Even weirder. Gave a new meaning to that song though.
These different models were so confusing. I wondered if maybe I’d been looking for too long, like a freaky amount of too long. I needed to get something plain and get out of there.
The door buzzed again but I kept my calm. I peered out the corner of my eyes at the new customer – a scruffy old man mooching around the magazines.
Any of these vibrators would do. I grabbed a yellow one. That’d do. No way, $79.00 – far too much to lay out for a dare. Maybe the black one? Except that came with some scary accessories. Maybe… Damn, damn.
I jumped around, ready to explain everything, but he was talking to the other guy. That guy sure looked dodgy, hunched over like he was hiding something while his dirty tracky pants drooped down to show a couple of inches of butt crack.
‘What?’ The scruffy vagrant looked up, like a dog being kicked awake from a pleasant nap.
‘You heard me,’ Mr Singlet-and-Cigarette-Ash said, emphasising his words by poking the glowing end of his cigarette in the air. ‘Put it back or I’ll phone the cops.’
‘I don’t have nothin’, the vagrant replied but he turned away from the counter.
‘I saw you. You took something off the shelf. Now put it back. Fuckin’ put it back. Now.’
The vagrant just grunted. ‘Wot? Wot?’
I grabbed the closest vibrator and took it to the counter, avoiding those magazines and those DVDs and the skanky lingerie in nasty, nasty polyester.
Mr Singlet-and-Cigarette-Ash looked up, his eyes stopping at my tits. ‘Nice beginner’s model,’ he said as I handed him my money. What? Did he think I’d be back for a trade up? I don’t think so. Then he turned back to the vagrant.
‘OK, I’m getting the cops.’ He pressed a buzzer and sneered at the old man.
Like he couldn’t give me my goddamn receipt and let me get out of there. I didn’t intend being an eyewitness to a sex toy shoplifting scandal. I tapped on the counter, whispering hurry up under my breath. Then stopped. That wasn’t good. Wasn’t good at all. It looked like I was desperate to get home with that thing.
I snatched my stuff from the guy and ran from the shop but not before seeing the vagrant remove a pair of edible undies from his track pants and replace them on the shelf. In the safety of the car, I checked out what I had bought. The PleasureMaster 2000 – a nice, plain, smooth, beige model. I could deal with that.