Writing Wrongly

By "Thomas" "Corfield"

When the worst writer in the history self-publishes his books, the world of literature is decimated overnight. Illiteracy becomes something to aspire to and book burnings become rife. The publishing industry is left hemorrhaging credibility and verges on collapse. But its recovery not a matter of removing said books, or even destroying them, the same must be done to the mind that created them.

Thomas may be the worst writer to have ever lived, but if he’s not careful, he won’t be doing much of that, either.

Written with little regard for spelling, punctuation or even words, this Sortabiography is the story of one writer against the entire publishing industry. There’s lots of swearing and temper tantrums, as well as a brand new psychiatric illness. There’s also an excellent café scene, which although short, is worth mentioning.

“Dreadful. The title says it all. Except about it being dreadful. ” - Carmen Schneider. Acquisitions Editor, PBA.

“The publishing industry is in upheaval, it’s true. But this just rubs balsamic vinegar into its wounds and garnishes it with slices of turd.” – Robert Tasher. MD, Banquet Press.

“It’s ebooks like this that should have the internet banned.” - Malcolm Shrot-Faith, Literary Agent.

• Language: English
• Publisher: "Thomas" "Corfield"
• Release date: Jun 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310003998

"Thomas" "Corfield"

Thomas Corfield was born in London several years ago, definitely before last Thursday. This was a good year for all concerned, and for him in particular, because without it, later years would mean little. He owes a lot to that first year, and now lives because of it in undisclosed locations after having successfully absconded from probation. Although he finds making friends difficult, this is only because no one likes him. Including his mother, who didn’t bother giving him a name until he was nine. His solicitor describes him as having an allergy to apostrophes and an aversion to punctuation that borders on pathological. This makes the popularity of his books all the more remarkable. At least it would if there was any. But there isn't. So it doesn't. He was recently interviewed in Joomag's Meals of Food magazine, which didn't help anyone.

Book preview

Contents

Title Page

Licence

Preface

Dooven Muzak Album

Opening Chapter

About the Author

Licence

Copyright 2016 Thomas Corfield

This book contains adult themes.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is not only purely coincidental, but rather worrying.

Legal procedure has been altered for creative purposes.

References to material of faith and references to mental illness are made with no intent to ridicule belief or belittle suffering.

This book is also available as an audio book from all good online retailers, and some less reputable ones.

Preface

Writing Wrongly is a book that recounts the disastrous consequences of writing the Velvet Paw Of Asquith Novels (aka the Dooven Books). In it, I was trying to rationalise, in my own mind, why I was writing something that no one would read, i.e. Fluffy High Adventure. Or was it Anthropomorphic Adventure—or Imaginative Realism. This was the problem: I did not know who I was writing for or what I was writing. Being unable to identify audience and genre goes a long way to making books commercially unviable, which, along with my clinical allergy to punctuation and appalling use of possessive apostrophes, has resulted in the sort of books that’s turned illiteracy into something of a status symbol.

I sent some early drafts of the first Dooven Books to several publishers, which resulted in not only rejection and ridicule, but threats of legal action if I didn’t stop writing immediately—with one publisher begging me to cease and desist for the sheer sake of humanity and the love of all things both sacred and secular. I took this particular comment as encouragement, considering the other rejections had been written in blood, smeared in vomit, and, in one case, obscured by the still smoking ashes my submitted manuscript. Thrilled, I forwarded another draft—one not written in crayon—to them in the hope that this was indeed the case, with a polite invitation that they send large wads of cash in lieu of anticipatory film rights.

It hadn’t been encouragement.

The opposite, in fact.

As a result, legal action followed.

Lots of it.

Enough to fill a book.

Most of which is recounted in this one.

Writing Wrongly is, therefore, a Sortabiography: it’s both a true story and a serious cry for help. It is not only the story of one writer against the entire publishing industry, but of one man against the entire world.

Receiving rejection letters is inevitable for any aspiring writer, but receiving them in the form of death-threats is not. So, read on, at least until the appalling punctuation makes doing so untenable, and attempt to decipher the madness behind the infamous Velvet Paw of Asquith Novels, before failing to do anything of the sort considering this book is universally regarded as being one of the worst ones ever written.

In closing, I am reminded of the words of Etienne Perrault-Bonnin, the little-known French absurdist novelist, who once asked, Quelqu'un a vu mes clés de voiture? Which is remarkable, considering I don’t speak French.

Thomas Corfield.

Shortly before his medication,

April, 2016.

thomascorfield.com

velvetpawofasquith.com

Dedication

This book is dedicated to anyone who’s currently alive and wondering what all the fuss is about.

Chapter One

Spelling’s ovrrated

Everyone fell silent, which left Thomas more uncomfortable than if they’d been rioting against him specifically.

Mister Corfield, how do you plead?

Is that the same as begging?

No, it is not.

Ah—well—that’s a pity, because I’m quite good at that.

The court room was full in the sense that Thomas had become very popular, though not in a good way. Most of the jury hated him, something evident in the large quantities of phlegm they doused him in whenever he arrived in the dock. He no longer bothered smiling at them, having assumed his smiling was what they’d taken offence to. But it soon became apparent this wasn’t what bothered them; evident in the large quantities of phlegm they doused him in when he no longer smiled at them.

Thomas found social convention confusing. As far as he understood it, smiling should not result in being doused with phlegm, and being doused in large amounts of it didn’t help to alleviate his bewilderment.

Confusion was one of the reasons that he was in this predicament.

That, and his spelling.

Mister Corfield?

Yes?

How do you plead?

Can I get back to you on that?

We’ve had three adjournments already.

Is that at yes?

No, Mister Corfield, it is not.

He looked at his barrister, who was busy mouthing the word ‘guilty’ at him. But he wasn’t guilty. None of this was his fault. At least, not intentionally. Can I ask my barrister, please?

The Judge, a middle aged women wearing the body of a man, hung her head. She’d been doing a lot of that lately, and he wondered if her neck had a separate agenda to the rest of her.

Mister Corfield, you need to plead guilty, or not guilty. The court needs a response.

Yes, but the thing is that my confusion won’t let me give one.

Then I suggest you take your counsel’s advice. His mime couldn’t be any clearer. Even the jury are doing it.

Thomas glanced at them. They were also mouthing ‘guilty’ at him, which was surprising, considering he hadn’t paid them nearly as much as he’d paid his barrister.

I need time to think about this—

"You have had time, Mister Corfield. Ample time. In fact, you’ve had more time for deliberation than I give in sentences to those found guilty of indecent exposure. It was said in a manner suggesting she could do with some. Mister Corfield, I am not going to spend the rest of my career indulging your procrastination. This case may have become a media circus, but I am beginning to find it tiresome. Plead, Mister Corfield, before I do something illegal myself."

Look, said Thomas—which was met with a groan from everyone, I’m neither guilty nor innocent. Yes, I wrote some dreadful books, but no, I did not wish to decimate an entire industry as a consequence—

Mister Corfield, the Judge said, after supporting most of her head in her hands, we are past this stage. Both the prosecution and your defence have had their say. It is now time for yours, which must consist of one or two words only: guilty or not guilty.

But it’s not as simple as that—

"It is, Mister Corfield. And so I shall ask again: to the charge of decimating an entire commercial sector of the economy, how do you plead?"

Well, it depends what you mean by decimate.

Another communal groan.

The Judge leant forwards and glared at him across glasses that were no less appeased. How. Do. You. Plead?

Can I ask him something? said Thomas, pointing at the prosecution, and in particular the bald man heading it.

I’m sorry?

Can I ask him something?

Ask him?

Yes.

Ask him what?

A question. It won’t take long. It’s quite short.

It’s highly irregular for the accused to ask a question of the prosecution.

Well, that’s the thing about media circuses, isn’t it? They’re full of surprises.

She thought for a moment. Actually, no, she said. You cannot. I’ve had enough of this. You will plead instead.

Please.

No.

Go on, and then I’ll plead.

She looked at him. It had better be quick.

Oh, it will be. Thomas cleared his throat and looked around for a bucket to expectorate into. When there wasn’t one, he swallowed instead, before turning his attention to a middle-aged man who been saying some pretty awful things about him over recent months. You’ve said some pretty dreadful things about me over recent months, he said, most of which most of which are either untrue or should be. So I’d be interested to know; have you actually read my books?

The man looked at the Judge with the sort of surprise generally reserved for spontaneous human combustion. With a sigh, she nodded that he answer before someone required an obituary.

I haven’t, no.

Why not? asked Thomas. Surely, to glean some insight to my apparent literary depravity, you would have glanced through them at the very least?

The man looked at the Judge again, who’d removed her glasses and was squeezing at the bridge of her nose as though trying to remove it in one piece.

Because, Mister Corfield, he said, your books are so dreadful that their very existence has decimated the world of literature. He turned to the jury, delighted to reinforce the prosecution’s case. As a consequence, we have seen illiteracy become something to aspire to and book burnings have become rife. Indeed, some libraries have been set on fire not by vandals, but their own librarians. Your books, he said, turning back to Thomas, are so utterly dreadful, that the publishing industry has been left haemorrhaging credibility and is on the brink of financial collapse.

Yes, but have you read them?

The man chuckled. I am not that irresponsible.

So you haven’t actually read them?

Mister Corfield, your books are so utterly ghastly that any decision regarding reading them has been taken entirely out of my hands.

That’s not an answer either.

The Judge released her nose, which stayed in place, and said, "We have been over this, Mister Corfield. Many times. Too many times, in fact. If he reads your books there’s a significant risk that Mister Philotyi-Hjrtttuiy-Splung will be too mentally impaired to represent the prosecution."

Thomas looked at the opposite wall defiantly. I just don’t see how you can make an informed judgement about any of this if you haven’t actually read the books supposedly responsible.

Mister Corfield, she said, "we’ve just endured three months of specialist medical opinion insisting that no one should read them for not only their own mental well-being, but the well-being of the public at large. That’s how dreadful your writing is. She sat up, having had enough. I am not going over this again. Opportunity for presenting prosecution and defence has been and gone, and frankly, some of us are no better for it."

I just can’t accept that they’re that dreadful, Thomas said. They’re just books, for goodness sake. Admittedly, the spelling’s questionable in places—

"They don’t have spelling, Mister Corfield. That’s the problem."

And the punctuation could do with some improvement—

Tell me, Mister Corfield—in your own words—what’s the difference between spelling and punctuation?

I’m sorry?

What is the difference, as you see it, between spelling and punctuation?

Punctuation?

She nodded

Well, the spelling, for a start—

Objection! Thomas’ barrister cried. Your Honour, I insist this line of questioning be refused.

Even though it’s your client doing the questioning?

Particularly because it’s my client doing the questioning. It’s clear he has no idea what he’s talking about.

I don’t know if you can raise an objection against your client.

Why not? Everyone else has.

Look, said Thomas, can I just go home? I’ve said I’m sorry.

That’s not good enough, Mister Corfield, the Judge said. Not when you’ve decimated an entire industry.

But I’ve said I’m sorry. I’ve burnt all my copies, and everyone else has burnt theirs. I don’t see what more I can do besides apologise and incinerate books. I’d incinerate myself if it helped, but my psychiatrist won’t let me use matches.

Objection!

Yes—your psychiatrist, she said, ignoring Merchison and shuffling through papers. She’s on stress leave, as I understand it.

I’m glad someone understands it.

Her report was most interesting. I know we’ve looked at this earlier, but I still find it extraordinary. She pulled out a paper and stared at it, before holding it up to the light. It’s the only report I’ve ever seen in my fifty-three years where the ink’s run from tears.

She does cry a lot, Thomas admitted.

And I understand she’s read you books?

He nodded. A bit of them. The first page at least. Well, some of it. She definitely read the title. I remember that much because I had to help her spell it out. It’s why I like her, you see. Because she made an effort. I think Doctor Margery’s an excellent psychiatrist.

The Judge lowered the paper and looked at him. You do realise she’d de-registered herself?

It could be worse.

And admitted herself into an asylum.

Told you.

Tell me, Mister Corfield; why do you think she cries?

Well, considering she starts getting teary halfway through our sessions and then is sobbing by the end of them, I’m presuming it’s because she’ll miss me.

Miss you. It was said flatly.

Yes. He shrugged. Either that or she hates me.

There was another silence.

And do you think she hates you, Mister Corfield?

‘No, I don’t think so."

There was the sort of sigh associated with being forced to re–endure something traumatic from childhood. Mister Corfield, you do understand that the Publishing Industry is arguing that you’re a danger and serious threat to the public?

Yes. But so are head-on collisions. Can I go now, please?

I don’t think you fully understand the gravity of the situation you’re in.

You’re probably right, said Thomas. I find it all very confusing and tend to gloss over the details and instead look at the broader picture.

There was another concerned stare.

And what is the broader picture, Mister Corfield?

I think it’s a plate of sandwiches.

She glanced as Merchison, before asking, Has your barrister been explaining things to you adequately?

Yes, but I don’t really understand what he’s on about.

Counsel for the defence, she said. I take it that you have been explaining the proceedings to your client?

Barrington Merchison-Merchison stood. Indeed we have, Ma’am. Unfortunately, Thomas finds it difficult to understand things.

What sort of things?

Words, Ma’am. Which is not particularly surprising, considering why we’re all here festering in insanity’s hinterland.

The Judge sighed one of those long ones reserved for mortal expiration. Mister Corfield, she said, because this case is unprecedented, I’m going to give you one more adjournment in order to allow your defence to explain the gravity of your predicament to you, as you’re clearly in more of a mess than some of your better attempts at punctuation. We will return in two weeks’ time. If, by then, you still refuse to plead, then I shall overrule your contribution and take my opinion wholly from the jury. Do you understand?

Before he could say that he didn’t, there was a cheer from the jury, followed by lots of phlegm and at least one brick.

Thomas ducked and it went through some cabinetry.

Chapter Two

ACcosted Development

Mister Corfield, may I have a word, please?

Thomas stopped and turned. The woman was young, pretty and held a microphone in a manner suggesting he ingest it.

Have you read any of my books?’ he asked. Because if you had, you certainly wouldn’t be asking for any."

I’m a reporter, and I—

Are you sure?

Yes.

They stood on a pavement of a side street in London. The pavement wasn’t busy, and Thomas had chosen it for this reason, hoping there’d be less reporters upon it to pester him, which they had a growing habit of doing. He didn’t want to be perused by reporters. He’d had enough of them. They kept asking him nasty questions and shoving bits of recording equipment in his face.

Are you certain you’re a reporter? he asked. Because I thought journalists preferred chasing earth-shattering news about exploding dolphins and celebrity bosoms—or is it celebrity dolphins and exploding bosoms? Regardless, you shouldn’t be interested in the pathetic rambling of a hopeless writer.

I’m not interested in celebrities or dolphins—

What about bosoms?

I’m interested in your court-case.

Yes, that much I understand. Though I can’t imagine why. Even I fail to see what all the fuss is about. I mean, really, what have I done to deserve all this attention? All I’ve done is write some dreadful books. That’s all. I haven’t set fire to an old-age pensioner, or bankrupted the state of New York. I haven’t found a cure for stupidity and then accidently trodden on the vial it was contained in while doing a dance of joy.

No, she agreed, that’s true. But no other writer has ever gotten the entire publishing industry to hate them, either. So it’s a fascinating story.

Thomas sighed. "Is it, though? Is it really?"

Yes, it is. Even if you, yourself, are not.

Look, Thomas said. I’ve just spent three hours being harangued in court by their legal representatives. Fortunately, I managed to escape out of a toilet window to avoid the throng of media wanting to humiliate me further, so I am not inclined to discuss the matter with you. Frankly, I think you should re-evaluate what you, as a reporter, are reporting on, because I am just a sad wanker who’s having a really bad life at the moment.

But you can’t deny the public’s fascination with the case?

No, I don’t deny their fascination with the case. Nor do I deny the swathes of loathing the public seem intent on swamping me with, either.

So you don’t agree with the public’s perception of the case?

I don’t even agree with my barrister’s perceptions of the case. This whole charade is mad. I wrote some books, all right? They’re dreadful—and I’m the first to admit it. So bad that the publishing industry wants to crucify me. That’s the only perception I‘m aware of—and it’s mad!

You think the publishing industry’s reaction is an over-reaction?

No. Their parading my skinned corpse down main street in a deep-fat fryer would be an over-reaction. Although no doubt you lot would find some far better photo-opportunities.

You don’t agree with it?

With what—skinning my corpse?

No, the industry’s reaction to your books.

Thomas looked at her, stunned. What sort of stupid—? Tell me, have you been doing this long?

Doing what?

This job—this journalism-reporting thing. Have you been doing it long?

She shrugged. About a year.

Right. Starting from when—yesterday?

No. About a year ago. Why?

Because that is possibly the most stupid question I have ever been asked in my life—other than mother asking me what name I wanted when I turned nine.

The reporter stared. Do you think the publishing industry’s reaction is an over-reaction?

Thomas folded his arms. You couldn’t even be bothered re-wording the question, could you?

What?

You asked a stupid question, and then asked it again without even the basic courtesy of trying to make it less so by re-wording it. That borders on offensive. It really does.

Is that a yes?

Is what a yes?

That you think the publishing industry’s reaction to your writing is an over-reaction?

"Actually, no. And if you want something to quote for your silly paper, then quote this: Yes, my writing’s dreadful, and yes, everyone hates me, and yes, an entire industry is trying to bankrupt me. But none of that matters, because I am a writer! Albeit a bloody awful one! I might not have readers, I might not have money, and I may well have a clinical aversion to punctuation! But I will never stop, do you hear? I shall never stop writing!"

I see, said the woman. I believe that’s what the industry is afraid of. Tell me, how has this affected your family life?

I don’t have a family life.

Your social life, then?

I don’t have one of those either.

Okay, what about your love life?

Are you being offensive, intentionally?

No,’ she said, I’m simply trying to get a picture of the way this has affected you."

Well, how about you picture this: close your eyes, use your imagination, and write the hell whatever you want.

I don’t think that’s a very good idea.

Oh, really? Why, pray?

Because I suspect that’s what you do, and look at the trouble it’s got you into.

Thomas blinked at her. It’s intentional, isn’t it. You’re being offensive intentionally.

Not at all. I’m just doing my job.

What a wonderful, morally indifferent excuse, that is.

Nevertheless, I’d like to know how it has affected you.

Oh, I’m sure you would! Your thinly veiled voyeurism is so thinly veiled it borders on naked.

Is there nothing you can tell me about how all this has affected you?

He sighed. "I don’t know—I don’t even know what I do any more. I wake up in the morning, lie in bed for a while hoping this is all a dream, and then get up when I realise it isn’t."

So you’re depressed?

My God, you’re brilliant, aren’t you?

Are you depressed?

Would you like me to be?

I’d like you to answer some questions.

Then try asking some sensible ones.

Like what?

Oh, great. So now I have to do your job for you?

Not at all. But you telling me what to ask is apparently the only way I might get anything coherent from you.

Thomas stared at her. Coherent—have you read my books? My fundamental lack of coherence is one of the reasons I’m in this mess! A reason I’ve just spent three hours being assaulted with by the prosecution!

Right, nevertheless—

And anyway, Thomas said, what makes you think you’re entitled to answers? Because I’ll tell you one thing; I have nothing left to give, all right? I have no money, no hope and no life, all right? In fact, the only thing I do have, is swathes of reporters intent on exploiting my situation, for their ignorant, voyeuristic readers, to enable them to feel a little bit better about their own meaningless, useless lives by reading about one far worse!

Is that a yes?

Thomas sighed and rubbed his face. Look, I’ll tell you the one thing that gets me out of bed in the morning.

She raised the microphone.

Knowing that I have at least tried writing some books, despite my failure,’ he said. I’m glad I haven’t made excuses for not daring to do either."

So, is that a yes?

What?

Is that a yes to your being depressed?

"Oh, for fu—do you want me to be depressed?"

Are you?

Why don’t you just bugger off?

Why don’t you just answer the question?

Why don’t you take that microphone, Thomas said, shove it up your backside, and record the meal you had last night? He turned, and stormed up the street, muttering things about leaving the thing in there, and then running an editorial on it.

Chapter THree

Broken SIdeboard

Thomas threw his keys on the sideboard, looked at them, and then threw the sideboard. His phone was ringing. He answered it. Fortunately, it had not been on the sideboard.

Hello?

"Thomas?"

No, it’s Lord Byron.

"Very droll. It’s Merchison."

Thomas rubbed his face. I know who you are, Merchison, he said. We’ve just spent the morning together in court. In fact, we’ve spent so much time together over the past six months, that I’m thinking of ringing your wife and asking her whether it’s my turn.

"You’re welcome to her. You do realise your performance in court this morning has probably cost you an exorbitant amount of money?"

Yes, but I’m not going to plead, Merchison. I can’t. I’m not guilty despite being guilty. It’s a terrible conundrum. And anyway, the Judge doesn’t like me. She’s made that quite clear from the beginning when she threw her gavel at me, remember? I’ve still got the dent.

"Sometimes what we think is unfair, is actually in our favour."

I don’t care, Merchison. I’m not going to stop writing just because some industry wants me to.

"Well, that’s the thing. You might have to if things are found in their favour. You can’t delay the inevitable, Thomas. In two weeks this thing comes to a head. The prosecution have vast resources to draw upon, whereas you have next to nothing—"

I know, Thomas said. Your fees have cleaned me out better than a three-course laxative.

"I’m doing the best I can, Thomas. But if you refuse to take my advice—"

Do you know the greatest irony in all this?

"What, that you really are a dreadful writer?"

"No. That the prosecution are being financed by the profits publishers have made from writers."

There was a sigh on the other end. "Thomas, life is not fair. In fact, the majority of those living would have far better odds if they’d gone nowhere near it in the first place. But the fact is, you are in this up to parts you didn’t even know you had."

Thomas said nothing and tried to right his sideboard. But the bit he pulled at, snapped, and he fell backwards onto his keys.

"As much as I admire your conviction, Thomas, the fact is, you’re about to run out of money. And as much as I’d like to—which admittedly is not very much—I can’t do this as a charity."

Not even on the grounds of my being insane?

"You know that Doctor Marjory’s resignation has rendered her professional conclusions invalid. They have helped your defence up to a point, but you certainly can’t start a business with it."

But I had so many sessions with her. That must count for something.

"We can use her reports regarding the restraining orders, but her self-admission to hospital only reinforces the prosecution’s case against you."

But they’re related, surely?

"Yes. Legally. But so is my mother. It’s never simple, Thomas."

Isn’t that what I pay you for?

"Look, this case is unprecedented and has so many aspects that sometimes even I get confused. I’m deliberating over harnessing the expertise of a colleague of mine—"

What about if I did something really stupid. Would that help?

"Like what? Pissing off the entire publishing industry? Look, Thomas, I admire you. I admire what you believe in. I even admire what you stand for. I don’t admire your writing, obviously—"

Obviously.

"—but I have a practice to run."

"Merchison, you make one and a half million a year!"

A sigh. "Are you married, Thomas?"

You know I’m not. I don’t even have a girlfriend since all this started—not since those blasted injunctions, anyway.

"Then you have no idea how quickly that sort of money disappears into the bottomless pit of matrimony."

Thomas cringed in sudden realisation. You’re not going to abandon me, are you? he said. "Not you as well! Please! I feel like a floating turd in a bathtub of rubber-duckies. I can’t do this on my own. I can’t fight these people. They’ll crucify me. They’ll flail me, boil me, and then shave bits off me, before sticking said bits between two slices of wholemeal and make me eat myself—"

"I’m not going to abandon you, Thomas—"

—and then force me to watch chewed wholemeal come out of the holes their initial flailing made—

A sigh. "Thomas, please don’t cry. I’m not going to abandon you. The publicity you’re generating me alone is at least a million a year—"

And then they’ll make me eat it again—

"Thomas, please—"

And then there’s the thing with the deep-fat fryer—

"The what?"

And all those blasted journalists! Do you know I was accosted by a very pretty one after you helped me out the window?

"This morning?"

Yes.

"Lucky you."

No, Merchison, not lucky. Very unlucky. She didn’t accost me in a good way. She looked at me with loathing. With disgust. She had so much contempt for me, that it bordered on pathological generosity. And she didn’t even know me! What chance have I got to make a life for myself after all this?

"I’ve never known you to be so upset, Thomas. You’re usually just incensed."

I’m sorry, but I just sat on my keys quite badly.

"Oh."

And I haven’t dared get up yet.

"Oh?"

No. I think there’s a distinct possibility I might have unlocked my bottom.

"Right."

Thomas sighed. "Even attractive women look at me with the sort of disdain reserved for something that