Well, would YOU want to read on?
[this is the opening paragraph of a book I will be writing one day]
The last time I saw Price Johnson he’d had his hand up the back of my t-shirt in a valiant attempt at trying to unfasten my shiny new Wonderbra. I think if I’d had a bit more to drink and a bit less savvy about me at the tender age of eighteen I might have told him it was a front-loader and let the romance commence. However, as it happened, after about twenty minutes of getting just about nowhere and finally more overcome with exhaustion than passion, he’d excused himself saying he was thirsty and wandered off into the sweaty, heaving throng that was Julian Crane’s New Years Eve party. I didn’t see him again. Not that it bothered me unduly. I hadn’t gone to the party with him anyway. I’d gone with Colin Butterfield. Only Colin’d had his head down the Crane’s toilet for most of the evening and I knew if I was going to get any kind of snog out of him, that it wasn’t going to be a particularly tasty experience – ‘proper’ boyfriend or not.