May 14, 2012

Romantic schlock or ????

No, I’m not one of the Brontes, nor ar I Jane Austen, but ‘romantic schlock’?

Why romantic schlock? Well, a dear closetobeingagoodfriend of a super wonderful blog that very recently closed its eyes (but still is online) isn’t a great lover of romance (even though he is on the way of trying to convert) and likes the word ‘schlock’ when he writes about it on the blog.

I dared him to post the first page of my ‘romantic schlock’ on their blog  – yes, yes, I am talking about – but he agreed with me when I said that he would probably delete my comment + first page.


This is what Glyn Pope wrote about that first page of The Sleeping Madonna (yeah, I’m talking about her again):

Review by: Glyn Pope on May. 16, 2011 :     

The Sleeping Madonna has the best opening page that I have ever read. It is so well written, that it immediately takes you into the novel.

So there! And that’s what you’ll get, dahlinks. Zee openeeeng page of zee Sleeping Madonna:

Chapter One

Sitting opposite Michael at the Louvre station of the Paris metro, I was looking out the window while waiting for the train to move on, when I noticed him standing on the platform.  In fact, notice isn’t the right word, because it was he who steadily forced me to meet his eyes.

     He was a beautiful man and not just because he happened to be extremely handsome.  No, a little something in the hardly noticeable smile on his lips and the magnetising look in his dark, intense eyes made him beautiful and urgently desirable.

     He stood very still, his lean body proudly erect and elegant in a fashionable suit, as he gazed at me.  I tried to look away, stunned by the intense sensual magnetism between us, but he forced my eyes back to his.  He obliged me to feel his erotic attraction to me and answer it with mine.

     Afterwards, long after the train had left the station, all I remembered was that everything around us fell away and that – our eyes locked – he and I slowly and tenderly and without any hurry began to make love. We kissed and touched, we felt and fondled and tasted even the most intimate part of each other’s body, until the need to come together became urgent.

     Neither of us moved.  He stood on the platform, I sat on the train, but through my eyes I opened up my body and he penetrated me.  He drove deep inside, I met his thrusts and we moved to and fro, in and out, deep, deep, deeper.  I put my legs around him and curved up my pelvis, I pushed down his buttocks with my feet and opened my mouth to his, met his tongue and…

     Our orgasm was a long, rolling spasm.  It was like the surf of the Atlantic and we rode it together.  Not fiercely passionate, but tender and filling and fulfilling and when it was over our eyes languidly fondled and kissed the epilogue of our copulation.

     I felt drowsy, my body contented and lazy and, for the first time in many years, sexually satisfied.  I looked up and from the platform his eyes smiled at me from under sleepy eyelids. We were total strangers.  Yet, we knew each other so well that it had been normal to love and mate within the timespan of just a few minutes.

     Little by little and still holding each other’s eyes, we became two separate beings again.  Two people surrounded by other people.  Two intimate strangers.

     When the metro moved out of the station he kissed me goodbye with a hardly noticeable nod and I kissed him by touching the window with my fingertips.

     “Gorgeous station, eh, Rox,” Michael commented and I agreed with him.

  end page 1

(!! And one thing I keep forgetting to mention is that all proceeds of this book go to Amnesty International and Unicef !!)