What are you wearing.... err, I mean reading?

Me? Girl porn. Just finished a book of it, in fact.

Of course, what I meant to say is that I've just finished reading an anthology of women's contemporary literary erotica.

Why? Well, apart from the obvious reason it was sent to me, by my South African friend Muriel, a regular poster on this blog. Muriel and I are good friends. Long-term readers may recally that we met after she wrote a scathing critique of the "romance" scenes in my second book, ZAMBEZI on the blog she co-authors, Salma-Gundi.

Muriel (not her real name) is a well-know Seth Efrican writer and has penned many an article and quite a few books as a freelance writer and editor. As such, she was invited to contribute a naughty little yarn to a book called, ahem, OPEN, an anthology of erotica by other famous sub-Saharan lit-chicks.

After having pilloried my efforts in this department, to her great credit Muriel invited me to review her endeavours and sent me a copy of the aforementioned dirty, errrr... I mean literary, tome.

Imagine my joy, then, Legion of Fans (LOF) when I paused to check my letterbox on my way into the city to run some errands, and found a plain brown envelope with a South African post mark. Inside was a slim volume with a tastefully discrete cover decorated with what looked suspiciously like a chocolate-dipped satin sheet!

Not having time to drop the book back inside my home I carried it with me and, unable to conceal my (professional) curiosity, I started reading it on the bus.

Boys, what have we been doing all these years looking at pictures? The girls have got it all over us in this department (and many others, I hear you Legionettes muttering). I glanced around the bus, furtively, over the top of the crisp, deliciously sharp-edged pages my new book as I moistened a finger and unleashed the next instalment. Not a single passenger could guess what I was reading.

I completed my chores and got back on the bus. No sooner had I parted the pages and begun delving into the hidden secrets within when the bus stopped. Who should get on but a lovely lady who lives in our block of flats. Laden with shopping bags she took a seat across the aisle from me.

I closed OPEN and placed it face down on my lap.

My neighbour is American. She is not, as some stereotypes might suggest, a 'loud' person, but to me it seemed as if she had sudeenly pressed a megaphone to her lips.

"Hiya. How's the writing going?" she asked.

"Oh, just fine," I replied. "Book five's just come out."

She looked at my lap. "You know, they say that to write a lot, you need to read a lot, is that true?"

"Umm, yes," I gulped.

"Watcha reading there?"

I do believe I started to swoon, Legion of Fans. I felt light headed, and my heart was pounding. I felt like George Costanza being caught by his mother with the lingerie section of the Sears and Roebuck catalogue.

I coughed. "Err, a book of short stories."

"Oh, really? That's interesting. What are they about?" my charming neighbour persisted.

For the briefest second I thought to myself: 'Hey, what's the problem here? I'm a 43-year-old professional writer who is reading a perfectly legitimate form of literary endeavour, readily available in quality bookstores. It's a sensitive, honest account of female sexualtiy, tastefully presented and thoughtfully written by a collection of respected, erudite fellow scribes. What would be wrong with telling my neighbour what I was reading?'

Then, of course, I came to my senses. I'm an old guy on a bus reading girl porn.

"Umm, it's about Africa," I stammered.

"Ohhhh."

Our stop approached. I pushed the bell to signal the driver and leapt to my feet. I won't say I ran for the door, but I do vaguely recall my neighbour saying; "Don't wait up for me, I've got all this shopping to carry and...."

(Stay tuned for the full review of OPEN, in which Mr Blog gets an inkling of what it is that women really want)