A sea of beige

They filed in. A sea of beige and brown cutting through the overwhelming whiteness of a super modern function room. It was another book launch. A young writer was having their day in the sun before the inevitable crucifixion and eventual rejection. It was a night to build up that which would later be torn down.

Dorfman, the anarcho-socialist, was there as was Munoz, the Hispanic separatist. Lyndon Pike, the funky, committed Christian was chatting with Shaolin, the shaven-headed, gay, Chinese cherub. Gillian Selikowitz, the frosty publisher, exchanged pleasantries with noted ethicist, David Singer.

As eye-pleasing cocktails swirled through the room the crowd bent in their direction. It was your typical mix of the city’s finest literary minds along with its most feared publishing executives.

In the corner, Heather the PR girl from 'Selikowitz Publishing' mingled and acknowledged acquaintances and if necessary looked interested. Shaolin, who shot to fame with a more or less fictitious account of growing up gay in China, felt the need to continually brush past Heather. This made her feel somewhat uncomfortable. She giggled away her nervousness while wondering what he wanted from her.

Dorfman and ethicist Singer debated about the morality of people being denied the right to defecate in public. Heather managed to politely smile at that conversation too.

At some point the ethicist Singer began giving Heather lustful looks and the two began a process of positioning themselves closer to each other. Soon they were near enough for Singer to break the ice with some insignificant comment that neither of them would remember a minute later.

Heather was a profoundly average woman in her thirties. She had never married. Her hair was mousy brown and her facial features pleasant but plain. She had had no particular interest in literature but fell into this world simply due to her job application being at the top of a pile on a desk. Where she could she attempted intelligent conversation.

"Working on your latest book?" she said.

"Well trying to" said Singer.

The conversation boringly plodded on like this for a while. Soon enough Singer invited Heather back to his room. After a token coffee, the two were groping and Singer hung off Heather's back getting his rocks off.

After finishing his business inside her, he zipped and buttoned up his studious beige and brown outfit.

As he dressed, he laughed to himself and thought about how a callous society pays him to be its softer side, even insisting he wear a certain uniform to go along with this role.

"As if I am any more selfless or pure than anyone else out there!" He mumbled.

He moved to leave the room.

As he began to unlatch the door, Heather asked "Is this it?"

"Yes Heather, that was it" Singer replied.

"So I was just about a quick sex session? Am I no more than a common whore?"

She looked down and stopped talking. Next week the venue might change along with the room and the writer, but otherwise it would all be just the same.

Heather knew that yes, indeed she was a whore.

She was a writer’s whore, making herself meaningful to these creative folk in the only way she could.

"Good night", she said as she let him drift off in the direction of the hotel bar.

Heather quickly dressed, sprayed her seediness away with a shot of perfume and left the room too.

As she walked down the corridor he heard sounds coming from another room. Lyndon Pike, It seemed, was having his way with Shaolin, the gay cherub from China.