A Sexually Transmitted Disease

This story chooses to start in the evening. It's very important, actually, that the thing which I shall call a story starts in the evening (as opposed to the morning, which would be ridiculous). Quite frankly, it wouldn't work in the morning, so please don't give it another moments thought.
Right, the evening. It's a time of play for many of us. Darkness too, and, depending on the season, the cold. The temperature is quite ironic actually. Right now it's what we English call "bloody freezing, but I want the temperature of this story to be anything but freezing. Put sensationally, I want sizzling.
It's cold outside, and the character of our little whimsical journey is feeling the rain and the wind busting all over his well shaved face as he walks down Western Road on his way to meet a lady friend for a drink and a meal. However, his thoughts are far from cold. Would you like to know what he's thinking?
No, I don't suppose you would, would you? You're probably thinking what I'm thinking. He's got his lady friend on the brain, wondering what interesting new position he can try out on her as they sweat each other into joyful oblivion under the sheets. Words couldn't do justice to his erotic thoughts anyway, so I won't even try.
In fact, though I could speculate as to what he's thinking, I don't really know. I'm only a writer, and don't have the power of telepathy (although I do sometimes get a strange feeling that I've been here before). It's high time they invented a Bluetooth thing to transmit thoughts, that would make this whole whimsical story business a whole lot easier. I could simply send you the images he's got in his mind straight into your mind, and we could dispense with a these messy "words.
Anyway, as it is we shall have to treat the matter empirically, using facts primarily and relying on speculation only when our imagination gets the better of our curiosity. Then we can watch porno movies in our heads till we're as happy as Larry.
Larry, Larry, Larry, you are the subject of our story, as you walk so purposefully down Western Road, on your way to meet your lady friend. It's a shame we don't know what you're thinking. As you pass the bus station on Norfolk square, I swear I can see a slight frown cross your brow. What are you worrying about? Technically speaking I suppose we are stalking you, writing speculations about you when we don't really know a thing, and also noticing such personal, close up details as a slight frown. How the devil did we get close enough to you to notice such a thing, especially as you are walking so stridently?
The answer to that question is key to the successful culmination of this fictional stroll, and in order to answer it, I am going have to employ a secret weapon that writers have used throughout the ages, since the dawn of literature in fact. Do you really think Homer was there when Achilles slay Hector? Was Plato really taught by Socrates, and if so did they really get on so swimmingly? And when did Shakespeare ever visit the royal court of Denmark, not to mention Scotland? Of course not. They made it up, they lied through their teeth to make themselves look good and in the process make a few bob to buy some chips at the casino and a double whisky to boot.
Well, that secret now revealed, and my reputation shattered, I now can get down to business. Let the blatant lying and unfair speculation begin.
So Larry (his real name I swear), what are you thinking? What are you thinking as you now make your way past Waitrose on your quest to meet this lady friend? I overheard you mention you were taking her for an Italian meal when you bought some eggs at Tescos this morning. Are you thinking about what wine you're going to order when you arrive there? Or perhaps the taste of her nipples?
And last night in the pub, I could have sworn you said to your mate that she was ready to put out. How long have you been wooing her with your twinkling eyes and your smiles and your little laughs? Two weeks isn't it? At least that's what you told your brother when he asked you to go bowling with him tonight and you had to refuse because you were seeing this "lovely little number from the office who's got body parts comparable to a whole series of ripe fruits.
I don't blame you Larry, she is lovely. But consider this. Are you really sure you want to deal with the post putting out situation. She'll go down a notch or two once you've had her in the sack you know. And then you'll have to consider all the things you hate thinking about. She'll be all over you with questions about the future. You'll have to meet her parents. She'll be your girlfriend for god sakes man, are you really ready for that?
And what if she was just another notch? How many times do you think your office colleagues are going to except your routine with the new girl (she always has to be the new girl, doesn't she)? It's really hard to read your facial expressions you know. Especially since you are now passing Churchill Square and there are so many people hanging about waiting for buses. I can't decide if you're grinning because she's just another notch about to be notched, or if it's those peaches and melons that just drive you crazy, or if you just remembered how Liverpool beat Middlesborough 2 ' 0 or if it's that raise the boss promised you last week or if it's some joke your mate told you or maybe if it's just me and my ridiculous story telling that's tickling you.
I don't suppose I can ever know. You might even be falling in love with her. Lord knows she's got a beautiful smile and one of those "radiant personalities.
But this all remains speculation. "Feelings, I tell you, the next thing you know this will become a love story instead of something perverse, seedy, erotic and funny as I had intended and it will be tears of "humanity that drop from our dear readers eyes. I really hope not.
However one thing is now for certain. You've just taken out 100 pounds from the HSBC on North Road, so there's bound to be some sweaty action in someone's bed tonight, the culinary delights you can afford to shower her with. You lucky bugger. And now you are walking towards the sea front, through the lanes. Where are you going Larry? You've gone past all the decent Italian restaurants.
Wow! A spectacular choice! I was misinformed about the arrangements. Come on readers you've got to give it to him here, he's chosen Thai food for this little speculatively assumed seduction. No less than the King and I, a great restaurant by all accounts. So he won't have to worry about all those dashing Italian waiters making moves where they're not wanted.
There he goes, through the doors and off to war. And here, dear readers, is where we leave poor Larry and his almost perversely stalked walk to the restaurant. He now goes on to meet his fate with the lovely as yet unnamed lady of his choice. Does he love her? Will they have great sex tonight? Will she do that special thing he really loves? I couldn't possibly comment. In fact I've already gone far past my remit as a writer. How can I possibly know their true feelings and intentions? Even without listening in on their private dinner conversations, for which I have no stomach for, or researching their entire life experience and behaviour in a vain attempt to scientifically predict what they are thinking feeling and intending to do at every single instant of their existence. Even without these far fetched and frankly unpleasant routes, I still think we would miss the mark of knowing their true thoughts and feelings.
And besides, lying and making up stories are one thing, but I couldn't possibly pretend to be telepathic. That would be a step too far.