by Andrew Vasey In response to Mary Druce's 'The Seduction' The stage was set, the music blared from a speaker in the lobby. She'd chosen all those, 'Take That' hits from when they still had Robbie. She knew that she was pretty - like a plumper Vicky Beckham - and, thanks to elocution, none would guess she came from Peckham. Just one tattoo was showing; it was traced upon her neck. Her undies hid the other ones, but not for long, by heck! She guzzled down an alcopop of brilliant, dazzling blue. For him she'd got some lager in - two cases ought to do. When she'd seen him in the gym she'd thought she was in heaven; some men had a six-pack, but she'd swear that he'd got seven. She'd ordered them a take-away; "No time to cook," she'd said. She couldn't wait to get that hunk in her silk-sheeted bed. But now the minutes ticked away, her carnal lusts unsated: how could he keep her waiting so - all ready, but frustrated? Her mobile rang; she picked it up, "It's me," she heard him say. "My missus came home early - can you make another day?" Just at this time there came a knock upon her hardwood door. "Take-away delivery - for Number Thirty-Four." She opened up and looked at him: "Come in," he heard her say. "Six pack there or six pack not, this is your lucky day!"
The end