A Story
When I was first at university, studying Film and Media Studies with Video Production, I wrote a short story for a competition I don’t think I ever entered. From there I started writing more, until I eventually had forty-plus short stories, half-a-dozen novels and novellas, and dozens of half-finished and barely started stories.
I stopped writing after the death of my daughter, for about ten years give or take. Last year I started writing again, and finished a new novel. I’m trying to get somewhere with this one.
But, today, here’s that first short story I wrote nearly three decades ago:
Beautiful Stranger
by Simon Forster © 2026
Ritualistic courtship.
That’s what night-clubs are all about, that and the dancing. However, this isn’t one of the larger or more dance-orientated clubs. No, this place is a pure meat-market, filled with young men and women out on the pull and to get drunk and what dancing they participate in is just part of the ritual. I’m here for precisely the same reason, though I’m not one of those sleazy guys that frequent these clubs. I’m more of a suave, possibly even elegant gent, who approaches women and talks to them eye-to-eye. I’m not the sort to dance behind some young girl and grope their arses from behind in the vain hope that they’ll be interested. Now I know that’s how it usually works- though for the life of me I still can’t figure out why- but it just isn’t my style. Once I’ve discovered the secret of mixing my own way of pulling with that of the general population, then I’ll make a fortune with self-help books for those shy guys amongst us. Until then I’ll just do what I usually do and hope for the best.
This particular club goes by the name The Garden and it’s really a bit of a dive. Still, it’s the only decent club in the area (actually it’s the only one, but that’d be picky) so I have to make do. The place is tacky and a bit gaudy for my taste, the place too small and cramped when full. The bars are the worse, since there are only one or two staff per bar and there should be at least three- make that five- considering the size of the place and the number of people this place attracts. Getting a drink can take ages, so most people get sloshed before hand. That’s probably why it costs a small fortune to get in and why the place is always on the verge of closing down. Anyhow, it’s good enough for what I need, so there’s no point in complaining.
What am I here for? I told you, I’m here to pull like all the other blokes. I’m on the prowl at this very moment, scanning the opposite sex from tables to dance floor, eyeing each and every woman up, choosing my target. Love and warfare have so much in common, which is why we have phrases like that and ‘going in for the kill.’ It’s the way things are.
Tonight’s going to be a bit more difficult than usual. For one thing, it’s a Friday rather than a Saturday, the latter my usual prowling night. That means there are more townies here, less of the crowd I usually go for, the more alternative specimens of womanhood. These people are all strangers to me, which can be both a boon and a curse. Over the past weeks I’ve made a few connections, caught a few eyes, set myself up for future meetings. Sadly I’ve had to change my plans this week due to work commitments, so here I am surrounded by nameless people. This does mean that my reputation is unknown, so that works in my favour. I think the pros outweigh the cons tonight, so I’d better hurry and choose my target before only the leftovers remain.
I squeeze myself along to the opposite bar, the one raised to give a more commanding view of the upper floor of the club, including the meagre (but adequate) dance floor. The women nearest me aren’t anything of the sort. They’re girls, teens certainly, most likely still in school. Eighteen’s my limit, thirty my top, so they’re out of the picture. It wouldn’t take much effort to pull them, but they’re still young and fairly innocent and it just wouldn’t feel right. So I move my gaze on, picking out a few possibilities nearer the floor, the women lounging by the tables supping from bottles and smoking like hyperactive chimneys. No one stands out though, none have that oomph I’m looking for. Next I check out the dance floor, barely suppressing a laugh at the blokes trying to dance.
Now, I’m not the best dancer in the world but I have some sense of rhythm and what I lack in skill I make up for in enthusiasm. The blokes that amuse me are the sort that are trying to be part of the whole ritual courtship thing, but just can’t get it right. The trick is to be able to dance just enough not to look like a complete prick and to ‘dirty-dance’ behind the woman. This lot are just standing there, one hand twitching to some made-up beat that only they hear, whilst nodding their heads in time to their own pulsing blood flowing into a certain phallic organ. Their eyes are fixed on breasts and arses, they are virtually drooling and are having about as much luck as a two-legged blind cat thrown into a pen full of rather hunger dogs.
To be fair, half the women out there haven’t much of a clue either. They all dance with rotating hips and flicking of hair, with the same moves to most of the music playing. Granted that meant they’re usually in time with the tempo, since the stuff the DJ is playing all sounds the same, but a bit of variety would have made a pleasant change. Because of this and the fact that most were teenagers of various degrees- I’m in my mid-twenties by the way- no one stands out there either. It looks like my night isn’t going to go too well, so I’m considering just getting plastered instead, when I spot her.
Across the far side of the dance floor, dancing like she’s born to it. Long black hair floating, slim figure gracefully bending and twisting to the music. Dressed in a short black dress, simple yet elegant, FM boots and a lone silver necklace adorning her slender neck. She stands out amongst the crowd, the most beautiful stranger in the entire club. Target is chosen, time to move in for closer surveillance.
I head around the floor, edging past drunken louts and easy women, until I reach her spot. She’s still there, seemingly alone on the dance floor, ignoring the advances of the more seedy blokes trying it on. Good, she has taste as well. She’s perfect. Then one of my favourite songs starts playing, albeit a remix, but still one I like. It pours out of the air, a calling for me to get up and boogie. I walk onto the floor, confidant and smiling, stopping in front of this beautiful woman and immediately I start dancing. As the music plays I find myself carried away with it, setting my soul on fire and my dancing becomes magical. I’m outclassing everyone else and a few envious looks aim their way towards me. I ignore them all, concentrating all my senses on the beauty before me. Then I look into her eyes and it feels like my world has just come crumbling down. So green and deep, filled with a hard edge that speaks of painful experiences and a not so easy life. She’s a fine choice, so I smile pleasantly and my heart skips a beat when she returns it threefold.
The song ends and in the brief lull before the next starts up and blasts all conversation into white noise, I ask her if she fancies a drink. She nods, following me as I exit the floor and head towards the nearest of the undermanned bars. It’s quieter here, less noise pollution from the music and a hundred or so sweating blokes and perfumed women. When I’m sure that she can hear me I introduce myself, nod as she tells me her name is Jenny. Then I enter into my spiel.
“I’ve never seen you here before, do you come here often?” I ask. Now I know what you’re saying, that’s one of the oldest lines in the book. You’re right of course, but they can actually work, so long as you say them seriously and as if they’re just a part of the normal conversation.
“No, I’ve just moved down here,’ she replies with the voice of an angel, a fallen one of course. “I’m checking out the nightlife here. Not too impressed so far.”
“Can’t say it gets any better. Who you here with?”
“No one, I don’t know anybody yet.” Excellent, this gets better and better. No friends to get in the way, no one she needs to stay with and wait for. No one to miss her should she choose to go somewhere else other than home.
“Well, I’ll be happy to show you around. I’ve lived here a couple of years now and I know the area well enough.” She smiles her thanks, then I turn my attention to the bar, catch the barmaid’s eye by pure luck and quickly order us some drinks. Then I turn back to my prize. “Tell me about yourself, what do you do?”
“I’m a researcher for a television company,” she tells me. “Just started work on a documentary. Had to move down here for the job.”
The conversation moves on. I’m somewhat evasive with my answers, keeping as much of myself hidden away as possible without making it too obvious. We laugh, chat away, drink more- doubles for her, singles for myself, since it can help if they’re drunk- and then we’re on the dance floor again for the ‘party hour.’ It’s that time in the evening when the DJ plays all those songs people actually like, mixed and snipped and re-mixed, but good to dance silly to. By the end of the hour we’re holding onto each other, very close and enjoying ourselves.
It’s as we’re dancing that I feel a little troubled. So far, during the past few years, I’ve avoided getting too involved with the women I pick up. I’ve never fallen for any of them, which is just as well as otherwise it would all be too complicated. Tonight would appear to be different. I keep looking into her eyes as we dance, did so when we were talking and each and every time my heart skips, my head goes all light and my blood grows warm. There’s a giddy feeling in my stomach, a stiffening somewhere else and I feel flushed and excited. Bugger, this isn’t what I need. Still, she’s the best of the bunch here tonight, so I’ll swallow whatever it is that I’m feeling and just get on with it.
The night soon draws to a close and we find ourselves collecting our coats and heading out into the chilled street. The rest of the rabble fans out in search of kebabs and chips, taxis and night-buses, and I begin to walk with Jenny towards the nearest stop. Then I ask if she’d like to come back mine for coffee and she happily agrees, much to my delight. I take her hand in mine- not something I generally do, I’d like to make that clear- and head off down the streets to my small flat.
My home is a modest place, in the quiet and dead part of town. Perfect for my needs and reasonably priced as well. The flat below me hasn’t been occupied for months and the one above is home to a deaf couple. So I can make as much noise as I like and no one knows. It took me ages to find the place, but it was worth the wait. Up the stairs we go, in through the door and onto the sofa. My lounge is also rather modest, as is the adjoining kitchen and single bedroom. The bathroom’s lovely, so that makes up for the shortcomings of the rest.
“I’ve had a nice time so far,” says Jenny with a smile as we get comfy.
“The night’s only just begun,” I half-whisper back. Then I caress her cheek and pull her gently towards me. Our lips meet, part, tongues entwine and we get down to some serious snogging. She tastes of cherries and beer, vodka and orange, smells divine, feels wonderful. Of all the rest, she’s the best yet. Just a shame I have to feel more for this one. Still, once she’s out of sight she’ll be out of my mind. Lucky I won’t have to get to know her too well, as that would surely make me fall for her. Time for the drinks, I think.
We part, somewhat reluctantly, as I excuse myself and head into the kitchen. “Some wine I think, if white’s okay?”
“White’s fine,” she says, stretching out on the sofa and loosening her clothing.
With a smile on my face I rummage in the cupboard and fridge, bringing out the wine and the package. I pour out the wine, then glance back into the lounge. Jenny’s looking through my CD collection- full of doom and gloom songs- and isn’t looking my way at all.
I plonk the tablet into the wine and watch it dissolve and fizz until the wine is clear again. Then I head back inside, hand her the drugged drink and sip at mine whilst she puts on one of the more genteel CDs. As the CD begins to sing away, I sit and watch Jenny drink her wine, a smile on my face.
So all right, drugging people isn’t very nice, tell me something I don’t know. However, you have to understand that what I do can’t be done unless they’re drugged. They’d never volunteer, none of them are ever that stupid. So I drug them to make it easier. Once they’ve frozen up and can no longer move, I take them into the bathroom- where it’s easier to wash away the blood- and strip them. Then I take out my tools, my digital camera, and start cutting and piercing, photographing and generally be the artist that I am. Tomorrow I’ll send the prints to my colleagues via e-mail, for their web-sites and the gallery they’ve been building for years. Then next weekend I’ll start all over again.
Jenny’s paralysed now, her eyes wide in fear, face pale and set in a grimace. Perfect, just what our clients want. I carefully haul her up, mumbling meaningless words of comfort in her ear- I am a gent after all- and carry her into the bathroom.
As I begin my work I look deep into her terrified eyes, knowing that she is indeed the most beautiful stranger I have ever sculpted.
See you next weekend.
The End
Maybe I’ll post some more of those early stories another time. Until then, stay safe.
