And one of them is in secret code.
I also found something that was such a relief to find. You see, in high school, I literally wrote a three notebook long postapocalyptic porno. There was a 'clean' version of it, too, that I wrote in college, that had a lot more relevance to the real world and less badly written sex.
Now, the second two books full of bad postapocalyptic porn have never been a problem. I know where they are, and they're rather laughable now-- they involve a girl who is chosen to be the sex slave to the son of a textile manufacturing plant. The boy apparently doesn't really want a sex slave but is told to choose one by his father, who thinks that he needs to be 'prepared' so he won't disappoint the ladies. But pretty much everyone else wants to sleep with his sex slave, including the adoptive father of the sex slave's twin half-brothers.
Yeah, so it's bad. Anyway, the problem is that the first book vanished while I was still in high school. I was mortified. Mortified because all the male characters were totally named for boys I had crushes on.
Yes, I am kind of ashamed to admit this.
I couldn't figure out where I'd lost it, and there were two possibilities, one worse than the other:
1) At school, where anyone could find it. ANYONE.
2) At my godmother's house, where my godmother would find it.
So I went several months being terrified that I was going to get arrested or someone was going to read it out loud at Meeting for Sharing (the non-denominational Quaker-Meeting style meetings my high school did every Wednesday), and several years wondering if one of my friends had it, and finally stopped worrying about it at all.
And then, today, I FOUND IT.
I FOUND THE SMUT.
I haven't read it yet; I'm a little worried, because I started writing this when I was 14 and my most involved sexual experiences involved learning how to give a blowjob to a popsicle and kissing the shortest boy in school. And it will be funny, but I must read it. And it will be hilarity. True hilarity.
In other news, I wanted to share some of my bad non-smut writing with you all. This is from the same era-- it looks like ninth or tenth grade.
Liam traced the images onto the ground with his index finger, making paths in the dust in hope that such action would expel the pictures from his mind: two hands reaching out to him, two hands that seemed to cry for his help. But how could a pair of hands cry? he asked himself: hands can't cry without the rest of the person, without the mouth to cry for them. He wished that he could reach them, yet they were simply a picture emblazoned on his memory, eternally hopeless. To touch these hands, thought Liam, would mean hope, hope that has eluded me since they imprisoned me here. This is the home I feared to leave, and now I am its prisoner, and now I would with nothing more than to breathe the air that waits beyond these walls.
He glanced sullenly at the boards that had been placed before his window, and the hands flashed like a phosphorescent afterimage against the wooden surface. He reached, his fingers outstretched, and placed his palms upon the imaged of the hands. A piercing warmth shot up through him arms, a warmth that both shocked and comforted. He could feel these hands, pressing against his own; he could hear the cry he had imagined only a few moments before.
Thank you! I'll be here all week.