Olivia Gaines Author

Around 15 years ago I wrote a series of erotic vignettes.  For a few intriguing weeks, a male friend and I exchanged intimate short stories with one another.  He wrote well and I cherished the notion that I held my own in this domain too, armed as I was with a reasonable grasp of the English language and a willingness to embrace the moment.  How wrong I was.

A few weeks ago, I was clearing out my old archive of stuff – you know – the odd bits of stuff you keep because it seems premature or a bit brutal, to discard them.  And somehow years later there they still are, in a box, tucked away somewhere.  In my archive of stuff there was a sealed envelope with a cryptic label. I realised immediately what…