What am I doing here? The picnic blanket is scratchy, but it’s all I have for warmth. The graveyard where I find myself is cold at night, but I was told to come here with no clothes on, and I did.
It’s the old kind of graveyard, with concrete slabs over each grave. At first I had the picnic blanket in between me and the cold concrete, but since the blanket is now around my shoulders, my ass is on the concrete. There’s a pebble nudging my vulva.
The grave I am sitting on belongs to a man who died in 1919. I picture him, stern and Victorian – a frown in a bowler hat, scandalised my my current state. His disapproval only heightens my excitement – the excitement that allows me to endure this discomfort.
And I keep hearing voices from the nearby road…
Goths are weird. He asked me to meet him like this, and I was too intrigued to turn him down, but of course it hit me how utterly bizarre and dangerous this is. But I flirted with him. I broke the ice and made the first move. Who am I to say no to him. He is older than me. Jet black hair and a goatie, and a beautifully sculpted face. He reminded me of the devil, or Jonny Depp.