Coimetromania

Always prepared, always primed, that was Anna. She knew it. Her fiancee Phillip knew it, too. Ready for anything, including what Phillip referred to as their latest “adventure.” Smiling through her 39-year-old perfect teeth, she corrected him. “Sexcapade.”

“Evenfall with crescent moon,” Phillip said with his usual poetic flair as Anna drove the black Wagoneer up to a decrepit gate, chained with an equally decrepit lock. 

He didn’t bother mentioning the gray clouds that populated the sky. He didn’t mention the gravel popping under them. He was too busy listening to Roscoe Holcomb sing Village Churchyard on Spotify. And he was too busy thinking about their plans, things to come.

Anna put the SUV into park. They stared deep into each other’s soul. Both had brown eyes. Both wore black eye makeup. She was his immortal beloved, as he reminded her every day.

Her brunette hair was shoulder-length. She was short and stunning. She was voluptuous, her large breasts supported by a push-up bra when they weren’t in his hands. Her ass was wondrously not small. And all of her was vampishly sexy in Goth attire, from bat earrings and necklace to her scarlet high heels that looked ready to stab, if not kill, to say nothing of a low-cut black dress that would have been perfect for Morticia.

Phillip matched her style that day, the two wanting to dress appropriately for their isolated debauch. His black hair was greying, but it still matched his black shirt and sports jacket, the right lapel adorned with a pewter pin in the shape of a raven. Charcoal trousers, black socks, and black Italian loafers. 

It was time. After getting out of the vehicle, they shared the load: picnic basket, blankets, and a bottle of Freixnet.

Twilight of the sex gods into Valhalla Cemetery. Entry assured, without any key, just by sneaking through a section of falling iron fenceline. Ever the aspiring gentleman, Phillip pushed it open for his true love, his grip befouled by recent dust and ancient corrosion. 

As they stepped onto the overgrown grass, Phillip wiped his hands, not clean, but less dirty. Anna shot him a lewd glance. 

“Heels,” she said, lifting her right foot. He pulled the shoe off, then the same again with her left, no easy task while holding a picnic basket. But it was worth it. Anna would saunter through the boneyard in her bare feet, if only not to trip and fall.

Remembering his Poe, Phillip lifted an eyebrow and said “senescent.”

“Me or the fence?”

“You’re fresh as a daisy, angel.”

“No daisies in here.”

“Angels?”

“Not me.”

“Not for the next hour.”

Anna led Phillip deeper into the remote cemetery, or perhaps it was the other way around. The perfect spot beckoned, even if it was yet to be discovered.

Valhalla opened for business in 1823. Phillip was the researcher. He knew. Anna heard, and she loved it. Location, Middle of Nowhere. Contents, corpses so old they weren’t corpses. Bones, maybe. Dust to dust, certainly. 

Six feet above the aging ash was a grand collection of large tombstones and gravemarkers, some featuring the winged skull so popular in early America. Several leaned. Others had broken into pieces, just like their owners. The cemetery was home to many less-than-monumental monuments.

The most fortunate residents had mausoleums, but that might have made them the least fortunate, certainly in the 21^st century. Roofs collapsed. Walls crumbling. Interiors inhabited by insects, vermin, and the occasional drunk teenagers.

Phillip and Anna inspected the statuary, particularly a shrouded figure, its stone hood hiding its face and its gender. Stained and covered with mold, it was historical, but not necessarily an oracle. The sphinxlike sculpture either saw everything or nothing. There was no in between.

Valhalla’s overgrown weeds were new. Its trees were not. Here was a dank, humid necropolis, wind blowing just enough to accentuate the heat, just enough to indicate limited life among the desolate dead.

And there was that smell, not rancid, not stale, but a fetid mingling, the perfume of putrescence and the cologne of creation, the earthly and the unearthly layered into a grievously erotic aroma. The duo took deep breaths in order to relish it.

After quite a few steps, Anna halted with precision and confidence. Triple-X marked the spot. Dilapidated tombstones. One grave surrounded by its own small, wrought iron fence. To the east, a weeping willow. To the west, a gnarled and twisted tree, its biggest limb shaking unsteadily in the sultry breeze.

Anna lay the blankets on the ground, three of them, overlapping to keep the ants off their soon-to-be naked skin. Phillip opened the picnic basket. Two champagne glasses. He popped the cork. She gripped her smartphone and cranked up their latest favorite album, Bashful Billy’s Late for an Early Grave.

Phillip stuck his hand back into the basket. Three Godiva chocolates for her, each filled with truffle. A bloody rare steak wrapped in foil for him.

She began to eat. He began to read.

Phillip had chosen not Shelley, not Keats, not even Poe. He had printed out something unique, something folded and tucked carefully in his jacket pocket. She devoured the second truffle as he opened the paper.

It was Baudelaire. Phillip recited in his most dignified and seductive voice: “Sweet souls that shrink from chaos vast and etern/Essay the wreaths of their faded Past to entwine/The sunset drowns within its blood-red brine/Thy thought within me glows like an incense urn.”

Anna began to disrobe. “Say it,” she teased.

“Tenebrous,” he cooed.

“Not that one.”

“Obscurantic.”

“Nope.”

“Decayance,” he proclaimed.

Her smile grew, because he had uttered a word of his own invention. His smile grew, because she was completely nude.

Anna had cast her clothes onto the blanket, at least most of them. Her panties fell short. They dropped onto the lawn, a damp spot glimmering in the darksome light.

Phillip never knew where to look when Anna gazed at him obscenely. Her eyes or face. Her breasts or pussy. Or the curves that connected everything into a singular fantasy, one seemingly conjured by an archaic, magicke incantation. 

She looked at her best without clothes, wearing only her eye makeup, lipstick, and a pearl necklace with a handful of red gemstones that dangled downward, as if they were oozing blood. 

Anna licked her lips as she straddled a marble memorial, moving to and fro three or four times, as if she was riding a ghostly horse in slow motion. The grit felt softly hard against her vagina, and even better with Phillip watching. 

“More,” she asked, loving his arcane words.

“Eldritch,” he said, before adding “Cimmerian.”

Her eyelids half-shut with pleasure. He knew she was already close.

“Slumbrous,” he said, taking a pregnant pause before adding “Crepuscule.”

“God, more.”

“Caliginous.”

Anna had never squirted so quickly before. It trickled down the side of the marble, which bore a name, black as any ink: “Unknown.” 

Phillip read that word and offered his own in return: “innominate.”

Taking a deep breath, Anna dismounted. With her circling finger, she signalled Phillip to disrobe. In so doing, he accidentally knocked the champagne bottle over, its bubbles quickly soaking into the soil.

After grabbing the third and final Godiva, Anna seductively consumed it before grabbing Phillip by his hard cock and ushering him to the same marble stone, pushing him against it before kneeling. He could feel her juice on his ass cheeks. She smiled up at him, her teeth speckled by the remains of the chocolate. Then she devoured her next treat.

He could feel her warm, wet mouth, as well as the remains of the last truffle. He was getting “head on a headstone.” He started to laugh, but she interrupted.

With his cock in her mouth, Anna said “more.” It came out as an inarticulate, guttural sound.

Phillip knew what she wanted. He complied, thrusting in and out of her mouth as if he was fucking a rupture into another dimension.

And he spoke, though not much better than she had with her mouth full. “Sonorous horns sound into sepulchers, heard by embers glowing.” 

She removed her mouth to move her jaw. 

“Poe?”

He shook his head “no.”

“You?”

“New poem.”

“You deserve some pussy for that.”

They returned to the blankets. She got on all fours. 

“Heels,” she asked.

Before Phillip snugged them back onto her feet, he had the wild urge to lick a few of her toes. Combined with cemetery dirt, they tasted preternaturally sexy. 

He breathed inward, slowly, his cock leaking jizz. Exhaling, he shoed her.

“Eat me,” she said.

“The steak?”

“And the steak.”

Phillip removed the meat from the foil, holding it in his hands while gnawing away with his canines. Bloody grease dripped down his mouth onto his chin, and down his fingers onto his paws. Three big bites. 

The sound of him ripping into the steak thrilled her. She couldn’t see Phillip, which made him seem all the more ravenous. She listened to him chew and swallow, her titillation soon transforming into impatience. 

“Eat me,” she ordered. “Now.”

Phillip tossed the rest of the steak onto the grass and grabbed her ass with his ruddy hands. He licked her from stem to stern. They often fought gently over who loved it more, his tongue slithering up and down her crack, from one hole to another. 

But he stopped abruptly. 

“More,” she moaned, wiggling her ass.

“Thought I heard something.”

“Me saying more.”

“Before that.”

“Like what?”

“Don’t know.”
“People?”

“No.”

“Tell me something, quick,” she said while touching her clitoris. 

“Ebon shades gather,” he said.

“And?”

“And I want to fucking eat you.”

Phillip smashed his face in between her cheeks, oblivious to the fact he really had heard something, if not some things, now unvaulted.

He munched. He flicked his tongue. He lapped and lapped, until another enigmatic noise distracted him. That prompted Anna’s next move.

“Do me slow,” she said, rolling over and looking up at him.

Phillip understood that slow meant glacially slow, except for the temperature part. Creeping pace and torrid heat.

“Siegfried,” she said, grinning. That was her name for his cock.

The two as one, locking eyes, before synchronously closing their lids, like a vampire movie when it fades to black.

Phillip and Anna remained in the cemetery, but now it was in them. In them as much as it was around them. They were encrypted and outcrypted on Valhallowed ground. 

“Speak it,” she said.

“Elegiac.”

“More.”

“Encrimsoned.”

“Oh, yeah, baby.”

“Triumvirate.”

Neither of them understood why he chose that word, but both of them simultaneously did, in this elseplace that allowed them entrance. 

Light rain fell, landing rhythmically on their bodies. Fingertips from the river Styx or from river nymphs. It didn’t matter. The lovers succumbed without hesitation. Bashful Billy was singing about “vast waves eternal.”

Phillip moved in and out of Anna as she held him. 

Her nipple was pinched so hard as to not be hard enough. It was not his hand. A crow soon cawed above them.

Something scratched Phillip’s back, so deep as to be like getting finger-fucked, but it wasn’t a fingernail. More like the tip of a rusty coffin nail.

He saw through the eyes of dead romantics, staring at long-gone women who passed through the past back to the present in the form of Anna, his truest of loves.

She envisioned men of different eras, gentlemen of the nineteenth century, goth rockers of the twenty-first, all embodied in Phillip, her cherished partner.

They heard the howl of wind. They heard something else. Not a person, but something that sounded pleasurable, something that sounded like it was being pleasured. That which festered now flourished.

No questions. Anna and Phillip wanted more, needed more, so much more of memento mori. Their mouths agape, dirt lightly coated their tongues. It tasted good. And nasty. They French kissed, sharing the flavor.

Warm stone seemed to move against their bodies, its shape reminiscent of a statue’s hand. The lifeforce of the dead. The hereafter was after her, or at least something was. Interred and instirred. Inhumation and exhumation. 

At times the presence definitely seemed male. At times female, being flowers, not of evil, but of mournful and joyful neverending remembrance. Bashful Billy promised, “This night is going to live forever.”

The stone hand went from monolith to monolilith, lavishing attention on Phillip. Anna felt sweet stings on her butt, as if from snake bites.

The funereal was fun and real, so it seemed, so it was, even if it wasn’t. Wreaths of a faded past had perchance grown vibrant again.

The sordid scene intensified. Weeds encircled Anna’s wrists, holding her arms down. She was uprooted by a root, as if being doubly penetrated, Phillip in her pussy, and something beautifully rough in her ass. She had wanted it. Now she had it, in all of its bubbly and somber glory.

Droplets like hot wax spattered on both of them, his back, her nipples. Anna imagined that it was molten wrought iron. She was probably right. 

Bashful Billy sang Beyond the Vale. Wind gusted, blowing everything and everyone. The weeping willow no longer wept. Where once there was wither now was strength, rigid and unyielding. 

Thunder clapped, as much with applause as with fury. Lighting cracked, striking the big limb on the gnarled tree.

Those present simultaneously orgasmed. The ground shook. Everyone shook. Had he been able to speak, Phillip would have said “effluence.” 

The tree limb fell downwards, hitting the ground. Phillip and Anna opened their eyes. Catacombed, marked by markers, they realized that an unfathomable third party had taken part in their party. Anna had not planned for it. Neither of them had. But it happened. 

When they stood up, their bodies were deliciously weak, their genitalia moist. After dressing, they packed their belongings. Once again, he carried her heels as they returned to and through the sloping fence.

“Coimetromania,” Phillip said.

“Your’s?”

“Webster’s.”

“And?”

“Abnormal and strong desire to visit cemeteries.”

Anna started the Wagoneer. Phillip thought about playing Blind Willie Johnson’s Dark Was the Night, Cold Was the Ground, but the ground hadn’t been cold. So he chose Götterdämmerung.

As they bounded down the gravel road, bits of stone sputtering under them, the cemetery became ever the more distant. Without speaking, the lovers agreed to return. They needed to. They had to. Fornicari in pace.

Christmas Comes Early For Santa

Santa stares at himself in his bathroom mirror, jowls hanging low and heavy, his hangover written all over his sad clown face. Sad Clown Nimrod, the drunken king of being drunk, the joke of the North Pole. Mrs. Claus has finally after many long and frustrating years petitioned the court to have their sham of a marriage dissolved. A sham, a shame.

Santa watches violent reindeer porn and jerks off. When he completes there is sweat between his rolls of fat. He doesn’t feel like crying but he is crying. His doctor has warned him. You need to lose weight, you’re not a healthy man. You need to avoid stress.

The elves are not virgins. There are brothels at the North Pole, it’s a dirty business. The elves who can’t cut it in the workshop still need to make a living, someway, somehow. Santa is too high profile to go to a brothel. How could he look a low-productivity elf in the eye and threaten him with a year at the bottom of the well if he saw him the night before at the whorehouse?

Santa is not really their boss. Nominally he is but they enforce their own frontier-justice if things go too far, and they always do. “Go too far.” Santa grunts to himself in front of the mirror, watching his swollen lips moving, a pair of pallid slugs. “On Blixen. On Trollop. On Slattern and Floozy.” The elves, continuously involved in an endless series of blood-feuds. It’s the old story, no one can remember what started it all off, and just when it seems like it’s finally over it flares up again, the screams of children in the night as homes burn in the permafrost.

There’s an old joke: “The North Pole, where the elves are ugly and the reindeer wear rape whistles.” The brutality of the world is conveyed through short declarative sentences. The truth is Santa doesn’t use reindeer to pull his sled anymore. His health problems prevent him from personally delivering presents. The job has been contracted and sub-contracted so many times that Santa has no idea how the presents get under the tree anymore. He’s not the only one to notice this, there’s grumbling around the elf union hall.

Santa Claus goes ice-fishing. He enjoys the companionable solitude of the other ice-fishers visible across the terminal flatness of the lake, huddled besides their dark circles where the line of continuity from water to ice to air blurs. The fishing line collects tiny shards of ice, plucking them right out of the air along its length. Soon it is encrusted in icy fuzz. He warms himself out of an old flask. Who gave him this flask anyhow? It has his initial on it: SJC. The booze in the North Pole is made from fermented snowberries mixed with carefully rotted seal blubber. It’s an acquired taste.

The night sky shines colors, but everyone at the North Pole is used to it. Hawaiians don’t freak out over every sunset the way tourists do, Pisans can’t get excited that their tower is leaning, and elves don’t care that much about the northern lights. Aurora bores they sneer, those little shits. They are hardened, opaque, they are not crystals capable of transmitting light. At best a clouded quartz. 

The eternal night of the wintry North Pole lures in no tourists. Santa would like to do some traveling himself someday. But he’s confused about his finances. These details are taken care of by a comptroller, a squat little gnome who Santa is afraid of. He and his executive team do almost all of the day to day management, not just of the gift operation, but of Santa himself. When he last brought up the idea of a vacation the comptroller gave him a stare. He’ll ask again next year.

Santa waits and waits for a bite. Taking little swigs of blubber-rum every few minutes. Across the ice field is some other redundant version of himself, mild and uncomplaining, filtered out of the thing he created by the simple economics of the new efficiencies: Automation. Decentralization. Logistics. Supply lines in squiggles and loops unfathomable. When he wiggles his line it sets quick darting concentric circles reverberating out to the edge of the imperfect circle he has carved out of the ice. For some reason they don’t ripple back. For bait he uses chunks of smoked reindeer. He chokes down a slug from the flask. It feels like it warms him a little less each time. He chokes down another. Wiggles the line again. Forgets what he’s even doing here, what manner of fish he hopes to catch, what he would do if he did catch one. Chokes down another slug, snorts and shakes his head. There’s a heavy vagueness to it all, and he lets his eyes close.

Time passes in this way and each time he starts awake it’s with a gasp of cold. The shiver of the stars in the sky tremulous and distant, but lending their sympathy to him anyhow. That’s ice in my beard he tells himself, but it feels remote, as if he’s telling someone else. He knows if he lets this go on too long he may get frostbite. Mrs. Claus isn’t around anymore to send someone to find him if he doesn’t make it home for dinner, to stare at him with that admixture of longing and contempt. He thinks about that expression, wonders if he misses it as he slowly freezes to death atop a fishless, unnamed lake. No one misses him for a week.

A Perfect Fit

Still sore because Master Kurt had fucked me hard that morning, I drove with him to the pet store. It was a Monday when I didn’t have classes and I was nervous about going because a few students worked there part time. But what would they see? Their professor with a male friend in military fatigues, bomber jacket and boots, somewhat gruff, not anyone they’d automatically connect with me. Certainly, they wouldn’t begin to imagine my secret enslavement, my craving for master’s cock. Nor would they conceive of the butt plug securely lodged in my ass. 

And the plan was to buy a choke collar. We found our way to the back between glass-fronted pet cages, one side for dogs, the other for cats, etc. At the end of the glass wall rose a rack of leashes and collars, suitable for all sizes of dog. Kurt started fingering the choke collars when a voice behind us asked if we needed help. I turned and blushed to the roots of my hair. It was indeed one of my students, Alaric, a somewhat shy, tall and slender lad with freckles across his nose and thick wavy auburn hair and green eyes. I have always fancied opening my legs for him, if I were free to do so.

“Hey, hi there, ma’am!” 

“Alaric? Don’t you have a class this morning?”

“Nope, no class until two, so I’m good. What are you looking for, ma’am. Can I help?”

“I’m with my friend here and he’s looking for …”

Kurt then blurted out.

“I need a choke collar for my dog, one it will feel when I yank it during training sessions, large enough to fit and around…say, her neck but not so large to slip off her head. I want heavier links. These seem too small.”

“Ah, you’re together then?” Alaric asked, staring Kurt up and down, clearly impressed by the soldier’s muscular body. And again, I blushed.

The thing is, Alaric sat in the front row in my class, his legs spread, a prominent crotch, fingers poised suggestively above it, watching me, pretty daring for a shy kind of guy, but I suspected he had fuck fantasies about me. To be truthful, I also glanced at his bulging groin. A shy student isn’t necessarily weak, and he can be a dominant fucker in his private life, powerful in many ways. I wasn’t entirely sure about Alaric who did give hints of what he liked in the real world, wearing scuffed construction boots that always attracted my attention, and stopping by my office, more than was necessary.

And I had encouraged him to speak and enjoyed how he sat, legs spread wide, a faint flush on his handsome cheeks. If he was inclined to tell a friend that he met me in the pet store, all he could say was that I was with a soldier friend looking to buy a dog collar. He couldn’t speak about anything else, aside from Kurt’s muscles, nor could he even imagine that I was the soldier’s slave, I tried to convince myself, my butt cheeks clenching the butt plug. Or, maybe he could, maybe I wanted him to imagine possibilities.

“Well, let’s see. Here’s an 18 incher,” and Alaric grabbed the chain off the rack and held it up.

“Looks small.”

“What kind of dog is it?”

“A mongrel, like a combination terrier and poodle, a fucking frisky, disobedient bitch. 

Alaric seemed taken aback by the language, as presumably customers didn’t ordinarily talk that way.

“And it needs a lot of discipline and training to behave properly and so I want a choke collar for sure. Fuck it’s hot in here,” and Kurt removed his jacket to reveal his torso in a khaki t-shirt and biceps and hard pecs, which I noticed practically made Alaric’s eyes pop out. I remembered how good it felt to wrap my legs around my master’s waist. 

“It would help if we knew the neck size,” Alaric said, a quaver in his voice, and out of the blue added:

“Are you a soldier by any chance, sir?”

“You bet, buddy. Can’t you tell by my dog tags? Why? You like soldiers?”

Alaric giggled and didn’t know where to look.

“So, you’re my professor’s friend …”

“Yeah, fucking right, we’re great friends, ain’t we, bitch? She likes soldiers, too.”

I blushed and noticed that Alaric also blushed when he heard Kurt call me bitch, as if Kurt had struck a chord or recognized some kind of affinity. Alaric smiled strangely at me. He had no idea who the “dog” was. Or did he?

“We might have longer choke collars in the stock room. Let me check.”

“Why don’t we come with you to save the return trip?”

Alaric hesitated. I kept my eyes to the floor.

“Customers aren’t permitted in the stock room, sir.”

“You can’t make an exception for Miranda here and her soldier friend?”

“It will only take a minute, if you’d wait here.”

“Is your boss around?”

“He doesn’t come in Monday morning until noon. Only the lady at the cash.”

And then Kurt placed his hand around the back of my neck and chuckled.

“Well, I hope you have a collar big enough to go around your professor’s neck.”

At that I raised my eyes to look at Alaric who reddened deeply, the smile wiped off his face, but a fierce light of recognition sparked in his eyes.

“Her neck is just the size of my dog. We can try the choke collar on her. How about it, buddy?”

He removed his hand from my neck and gently punched Alaric in the arm as if they, too, were buddies. Alaric paused and looked Kurt in the face, and then whispered as if he was doing something illegal but wanted to because he could get away with it. 

“Okay, if we’re quick. This way.”

And we followed him to a curtained door that led to the stock room. We stayed near the entrance while Alaric rummaged about the shelves and supplies looking for a longer collar. Kurt winked at me. Alaric returned with a thick, silver chain link choke collar, the longest he had in stock.

“Now we can try it out on Miranda’s neck,” Kurt said. “You do it, buddy.”

Without a word Alaric wrapped the chain around my neck and looped it the way you’re supposed to get choke collar properly connected, one portion of it hanging loose for several inches. I could tell by his eyes that he was enjoying the scenario. I could smell his peppermint scented breath. Then, emboldened by Kurt and my willingness to be used, he grabbed the dangling end and pulled to tighten the chain around my neck. I winced. 

“This looks good on you…. Hündin,” Alaric joked, his face glowing from the audacity of calling me a female dog.

“So, you think the chain would suit your dog, sir?” He yanked the chain again just for the hell of it to give me a little jolt, and the links pinched my skin.

“How does that feel? A dog would notice and obey.” 

He was having fun, I could tell. I was feeling deeply humiliated, and my student was getting excited by it. But that was Kurt’s purpose. And something else was beginning to bubble up in my consciousness. The humiliation was arousing and natural, especially intense because I was a professor being collared by a student. My juices were flowing. I didn’t protest. And I had long fantasized about Alaric fucking me on my desk with his exceptional cock, which in my experience tall and thin guys often had. 

“It’s an excellent collar for training purposes,” Alaric added, “don’t you agree, sir? Suitable for… for your dog? Do you like it?” This time he was directing his questions to me.

“If it fits her neck, will it fit your dog, sir?” He directed that question to Kurt who was enjoying himself.

“Oh, I think you’ve shown that it fits very well. Good choice of chain, buddy. Perfect. How about a suitable leash?”

“I’ll look for one now.”

He returned with a long black leather leash with a locked S hook designed to fit into a link of the choke collar. He attached it and then held the leash firm and tightened the collar. He himself was beginning to feel hot, I could tell by the heat in his face and the look in his eyes. There was a very evident bulge in his crotch. He wrapped the leash around his fist as if he didn’t want to let go and tightened the choke collar. My sense of humiliation deepened, but it also included sensations of exquisite pleasure as I drifted into the exhilarating subspace I fell into when dominated, drifting and obeying the demands of belt, boots, cock, cum, piss, flogger, whatever master decided, drifting like a beautiful canoe following the force of a strong current. 

I was bending to Alaric’s will. My student!! He could have kept me collared and leashed all day and I would have reveled in the humiliation, but of course I fought against temptation in order to keep my private self and submission to Kurt a secret. Kurt, however, knew everything about my fantasies about some of my students, for it is axiomatic that a submissive tell her dominant everything, including her secret, wildest fantasies and desires so the master understands and uses what he can for mutual exploration and satisfaction. Kurt flexed an arm, bulging a bicep, saying something about a cramp, only an excuse, for the action riveted Alaric’s attention and he let go of the leash. 

“Collar and leash are perfect, buddy.”

“I think so, too. Maybe we should try some other kinds of dog collars on her.”

Alaric then took a great and daring personal risk, obviously impelled by his own feelings.

“I guess you work out a lot, sir.” It looked like he wanted to touch Kurt’s bicep.

“Gotta keep fit buddy. What with being a soldier and all. Maybe you should come to my place one day and we’ll work out together. I’ve got equipment at home. We could spot one another on my bench. The bitch can watch. You work out?”

“I’m trying to…” and then, as if he realized that we were still in the back room and he had me collared, and I was secretly panting for his cock. Alaric flustered a bit, unhooked the leashed and removed the choke collar, his eyes all the while on Kurt and a sly smile directed at me.

While I was paying for the purchases, Alaric carried on a private conversation with Kurt. Kurt may have been playing with innuendos, but I knew he wouldn’t tell Alaric anything about us, at least not yet, however much he dropped hints and pushed the envelope to amuse himself with my humiliation and discomfort and Alaric’s evident arousal. Before we left the store, Alaric said that he wanted to have a private meeting with me, if that was okay and, as if inspired by the dog collar, he spoke so my master would hear.

“I’d like you do something, if you let me.”

“Oh, she will let you do what you want, buddy,” Kurt said, “she’s perfect that way.”

“I believe she is, I believe she’ll let me do what I want,” Alaric agreed, and, emboldened by Kurt’s use of the word, whispered in my ear, “won’t you, Fotze? And again, my face burned with pleasurable humiliation and still some lingering anxiety about exposure, and I almost melted before Alaric when he called me a cunt. Grasping at a straw, I was relieved that at least, Kurt hadn’t called me a cock sucking cumslut in Alaric’s presence, not then, not at that moment in the store.

Holiday Lights

Candice served peppermint schnapps on the boat with extra schnapps. On paper, she wasn’t supposed to, not for the Holiday Lights Cruise. It was approaching midnight on the Merry Way, a triple decker yacht, and no other boats cruised along the river. With the weather turning freezing, the last thing she wanted was any guests on the cruise complaining about how cold they were. The cruise would run up and down the river in town, and people could look up at all the Christmas lights on the mansions that loomed over the cliffs. She served peppermint patty after peppermint patty, loaded them up with extra marshmallows and whipped cream and sugar to keep everyone feeling all warm and Christmasy on the inside. Keep them all drunk and warm and leaning on the rails to marvel at the pretty lights, how the greens and reds and blues dance between the snowflakes to the tunes of a few good men playing violin.

Honestly, who cared if anyone ended up overboard? Would anyone miss another drowned papermill owner, or banker, or newspaper editor? Last Christmas, when Candice was working the bar, she’d seen a woman drop a necklace overboard, and she fell into hysterics. She jumped overboard to recover the necklace, this woman. They pulled her up, already dead. She’d been dragged under the hull. At below freezing temperatures, sudden drops in the water like that can cause a heart attack. 

A coworker had joked, “For real, this ship is haunted. Every hecking year, someone dies, I swear to god.” Candice didn’t buy it, even though later that night, a couple of gentlemen got in a drunken fight, and one pulled a gun and shot the other. The shooter got locked up in one of the cabins with his victim, and people just drank and partied while the cruise completed its route. Candice poured heavier drinks that night, and people tipped same as usual. Nothing, not nothing at all, will keep these rich people from partying.

Later that night, her coworker said, “It’s because years ago, years and years, back when this liner first started, there was another ship, the Finer Spirit. One night, around the holidays, it was doing one of those night cruises. Back then, it was like, prohibition era or something, and this was like a speakeasy cruiser. So everyone drank extra hard, even the captain.

“Well, that night, there must have been something wrong with the boat. Like a leak or something. All night that boat cruised around in the dark. Except the thing is, the boat was slowly sinking, and hardly anyone knew. With it all dark outside, hardly anyone could tell they were getting closer to the water. Then the thing capsized. Ever since then, people who live along the river say that around the holidays, they hear jazz music. That sometimes at night, they look out on the river and see lights in the water.”

Meanwhile Candice split out the tips between them and said, “You know we get tipped the same even if someone dies?” 

Tobacco smoke clouded the dining area. The doors in the boat kept opening and closing with people drifting in and out of the dining area like spirits. Gusts of snow and the violin sounds followed people inside. Candice didn’t have a coat. Not even a suit jacket. Ship policy said she wears a white dress shirt, a bowtie, and suspenders. 

She kept her own mug of peppermint patty hidden behind the bar, and sipped that to keep warm.

A man approached the bar, his skin practically blue, with snow and frost clinging to his coat and beard. He looked like an old captain, like a Captain Ahab type. His teeth chattered and he leaned against the bar. He said, “Please, liquor. Something, anything.”

Even his breath was cold. 

Candice poured cocoa from a fresh carafe, and then added two shots of schnapps. A great cloud of steam rose from the cup, and the tips of her fingers burned when she put the cup down in front of the man.

“Be careful,” she said, “That’s fresh cocoa. It’s super hot.”

The man put the cup to his lips and gulped it all down in a single swig. Cocoa dripped from the hair on his lips, still scalding, still steaming. The man said, “Another.” He reached into his pocket and put coins on the counter. Quarters and dimes.

Candice picked them up, and they were wet, ice cold. The coins were all dated from fourty, fifty years ago at least. “What’s the name on your tab, sir?” These rich bastards always skimped on tips, even during the holidays. 

“Engstrom, captain,” the man said.

There was no Engstrom on the guest list, not that Candice cared. Just another man stupid drunk on the holidays. The door to the dining area opened again, and Candice, to fight the cold wind that blew through, took another drink of her peppermint patty. She still felt cold, colder than she’d been all night. 

She took the man’s cup and poured more cocoa. A little splashed on her hand, and it burned. “Shit!” she said, taking a rag and wiping the liquid off. A bright pink continent shined on her skin where the cocoa fell. It stung and she picked an ice cube out of the nearby ice maker to take the heat off.

Another voice behind her said, “Excuse me darling, can I trouble you for a drink? It’s dreadfully freezing out there.” 

“Just one second,” Candice said. She rubbed the ice cube along her burn, and could tell already it was going to blister. This must have been one of the ways the cruise line came up with to slow down people’s drinking. By making the cocoa so hot people had to take it outside and wait for it to cool before they could drink.

Candice turned back to the bar, and standing next to the old man was a woman in a dripping white dress. Icicles hung from her hair. Behind this woman, a path of wet foot prints led to the door. Guests stepped around them, and they briefly stopped to look at the girl, before resuming their smoking and their looking outside. 

Candice looked over the bar, and the woman was barefoot.

“Excuse me, miss, but our policy says you have to wear shoes at the bar,” Candice said. She didn’t even know if that was true, but at not one, not a single bar she ever worked at, did she serve a shoeless person.

“Oh dear, I must have lost them out on the deck,” the woman said. Her hands reached for her own neck and touched a gold necklace, glittering with diamonds so big and gaudy they must have been costume. 

Someone else came in, soaking wet, covered in ice and ordered a peppermint patty. This one dressed like a flapper girl, her short hair frozen stiff.

Was there some sort of costume party themed ice plunge that Candice didn’t know about? More people came in, one bearing a dripping violin. Candice poured, drink after drink, the cocoa from the carafe still steaming. She went through a bottle of schnapps, and called the back for more cocoa. With each serving, she said, “Be really careful, this stuff will burn you.”

Each customer gulped the cocoa down like it was a shot. When asked what name was on their tab, they gave names like Westchester and McAdams, all names that were streets, or were on the sides of buildings.

None of these names were on Candice’s tab list. There were no cards on file for these people. But whatever. There were other bars on the ship, two per deck. Candice could make it through a night only seeing a patron once, and still have to cut them off for drunk conduct. People would end up overboard, and Candice and her coworkers would have to clarify from which deck someone jumped, because someone else had a jumper that night as well. 

A man approached the bar with his hand held over his stomach. He limped between people, his skin pale and sickly. He said, “Can I just get a beer maybe?” He removed his hand from his stomach, revealing a gaping red bullet wound.

“Holy shit, sir. You’re hurt! Stay where you are, I’ll find somebody,” Candice said.

She bolted from behind the bar, yelling, “Somebody? Hello! We’ve got an emergency! Someone’s hurt.” 

But all the patrons on the ship stood frozen still, looking out the windows, as though Candice weren’t even there. She ran up to them, yelling, “Is anyone here a doctor?”

They all stared ahead, out the windows.

Candice went outside on the deck, yelling, “Come on! We got a guy who is losing a lot of blood.” The cold cut through her clothes instantly. It was quiet outside. The sound of people talking, and music playing had gone completely. Everyone stared at the same direction.

Candice grabbed someone by the arm. “What the fuck is the matter with you people?”

The man didn’t respond. His mouth hung slack, and a pale green light shifted on the surface of his skin.

Candice looked out where the man looked. A green light drifted in the river. There was nothing above the surface in the water that caused that light. It seemed to glow from beneath. Faintly, drums and horns played from its direction.

A cold hand clasped Candice’s shoulder. A voice said, “I need another cocoa drink.”

Candice turned around, and there stood the old man with the peacoat, talking close enough his breath froze against her face. His eyes were blackened, his skin blue. He opened his mouth, exposing blackened gums. “I’m so cold,” he said.

Behind him stood the man with the bleeding stomach. “I never got my beer.”

And then the woman with bare feet. She stood outside in that small white dress. “Have you seen my shoes out here, dear? I just took them off to get my necklace.”

Hands came over the ledge of the deck, and people dressed in fine fur coats, tuxedos with long tailcoats pulled themselves onto the ship.

The old man said, “This is your captain speaking. We are reaching max capacity on the Finer Spirit. We may have to make some room.” To Candice, Captain Engstrom said, “Now please, could you go and pour me something warm?”

Candice shivered. She nodded, and walked back into the bar area.

The cold and drowned started shoving the patrons off the ship. The people did not resist, did not notice the frozen hands grasping them. They stood hypnotized by the holiday lights they had come to see. Candice poured peppermint patties into each mug, and refilled the carafes as fast as she could. She lined the bar with steaming mugs with whip cream and extra marshmallows. She watched as people dropped into the icy waters silent as the night, until that faraway jazz finally stopped.

Roger That

Jonah sat at the usual table in the corporate cafeteria with his work buddies. It was lunch hour in the drab hall. He took a bite of his turkey sandwich that his wife, Meredith, had made him in the morning. Good old Mare, he thought, as he chomped on an over-mayonnaised wedge. Jonah’s friends were a bunch of naughty goobers who dissolutely talked about T & A like it was the only thing that ever mattered.

“What would life be without tits and ass?” one of them, a rather handsome bloke named Phil who often bragged about getting laid, was saying as he scrolled on his phone for sexy pictures of women. Phil came across a photo that he apparently liked, and he peered closely at it. “Now that is one gorgeous redhead, gentlemen,” he commented.

“Ha, they’re either extremely hot or butt fucking ugly, right!” one of them blurted out. A bunch of obnoxious snorts and chortles ensued.

“Hey, I’m a redhead,” said Pat, who didn’t find it all that hilarious.

“Yeah, and we all know which category you fall under, too!” someone remarked, for additional snorts and chortles.

Phil showed the men gathered at the table the photo of the woman on his phone. She wore red fishnet stockings and was lying on shiny, emerald green bedsheets. Her matching green eyes stared back into the soul. She was impeccably fair-skinned and large breasted with hard, fat nipples. The woman had a thick, V-shaped fur of red pubic hair above her pussy.

“New girlfriend, Phil?” one the guys asked, aching to crack up laughing again.

“I wish,” Phil replied. “Internet.”

“Hey, send that photo to me, if you don’t mind?” Jonah asked. “I found this AI app yesterday that makes short videos out of nudie pics. That’ll be perfect!”

Phil sent Jonah the picture of the woman, and within a couple of minutes Jonah held up his phone to the group of horny guys. “Holy shit!” one of them remarked.

“That’s fucking wild, man,” said another.

“Yeah, it’s kind of making me hard,” added Phil. “What kind of strange voodoo is this, Prince?”

“Hot, right?” declared Jonah. The photo of the naked redhead had come to life on screen, as Jonah had said it would. She was suddenly in a video being groped by an impressive male specimen. Think someone who might’ve auditioned for Magic Mike and gotten the part in another universe. His body was like a champion bodybuilder with huge, veiny arms and legs. He also had a chiseled jawline, neat black hair, and a well-trimmed beard.

“Who the fuck is that douche?” asked one of them.

“Gents, this lucky guy’s name is Roger,” replied Jonah. “It’s actually the name of the app: Roger That, it’s called. Pretty funny, huh? Real cutting-edge AI shit. All you do is upload the photo, hit the button, and old Roger here shows up in his skivvies and plays with their tits. And somehow the women are made to look like they love it!”

“Can he fuck her?” one of them asked.

“Sure,” Jonah replied. “Well, not yet. They say that update ought to happen soon. But for now, you can watch Roger fondle the breasts of anyone you have a picture of. Easy peasy.”

“You’re an idiot,” said Pat. “That’s fucking dumb.”

“Hey, don’t talk to your supervisor that way,” Jonah snapped. “Or I’ll fire you for insubordination!”

After a second, the men erupted in laughter again. Jonah was well-documented for making empty threats toward his workmates.

“I don’t know, Pat. It’s kinda hot,” said Phil, taking another look at the video of Roger groping the redheaded object of his affection. “Jesus, Jonah, how do you get any work done?”

Jonah smirked. “Eh, it’s been tough. I’ve been putting in pics of my wife and watching him feel her up.”

“Hey, Jonah, if that gets you off, you should probably talk to Mare about becoming a hotwife,” one of them remarked.

“No shot,” said Jonah. “We laid out boundaries when we were dating. Mare doesn’t even feel comfortable with porn in the bedroom.”

“That’s a crying shame,” said Phil, before a devilish grin appeared on his face. “I’d fuck your wife, bud,” he winked, “but only if she asked nicely.”

“No doubt,” chimed another friend. “We could all take turns, right guys? While old Jonah here watches us from the hotel cuck chair, of course.”

Realizing he’d bitten off more than he could chew by revealing his latest jerk-off apparatus with his buddies, Jonah decided to dial it back. “Alright, fuck off,” he said. “No one is boning my wife but me, guys. Sorry if that’s a bummer.”

Since Jonah was the manager of his branch, his office was sequestered in its own, private corner, tucked away from his coworkers. Sometime after their lunch break had ended, Jonah began feeling haunted by the idea of his wife being fucked by other men, with or without his consent. It made him nervous, but it gave him an undeniable hard-on.

Now alone, he opened the “Roger That” app at his desk, uploaded another sexy photo of his wife, and watched as Roger felt her up, as well as her subsequent, blissful reaction. That was the truly witchy thing about it. Jonah couldn’t remember the last time Mare had showed him that look of pure, raw ecstasy when he touched her. This was some app, he thought. Real magic.

Reclining on his office couch, his mind began to wander. He thought about how great it would be to actually trade places with Roger, the buff AI guy in the app who gets to play with random tits all day long. Roger never had to show up at the office. Roger never had to wear a shirt. Roger only ever wore skimpy boxer briefs, which accentuated his meaty prick. And Roger automatically sent any woman he touched through the roof with pleasure. Jonah was insanely jealous of him.

“Man, I fucking envy your setup, Roger,” Jonah said to himself. “What I wouldn’t give to have your life…”

Soon Jonah found himself drifting off into a fitful sleep.

As if in a dream, he found himself standing before a beautiful woman. For the moment, the brunette sat completely still. Her tight butt rested at the foot of a king-size bed in a low-lit, tidy bedroom. She was fit, sporting a bob cut, and wearing black lace panties with a matching open-cup bra, which lifted her bare breasts so that her nipples pointed slightly upward. Her head was tilted to one side, and her chin rested softly in her right hand, as if she’d been posing for a photo.

Feeling suddenly embarrassed, Jonah tried to turn away, but somehow he felt compelled to go to her instead. Draping his bulging arms across over her shoulders, he fondled her breasts while she came for him, hard as fuck.

Jonah’s mind, for lack of scientific terms, had turned to mush. He couldn’t remember anything. Before he knew it, he was being carted from one woman to the next. He never thought to ask any of them for their names. What was the point? His orders were always the same: “Go to the woman, drape your bulging arms across her chest or over her shoulders, and fondle her breasts while she cums for you, hard as fuck.”

That’s what Jonah did now, over and over. For five seconds, he touched and squeezed a vast array of anonymous breasts. All day and night, Jonah was summoned to a woman, perhaps sitting in a bedroom, or in a jungle, or on a beach, near a swimming pool, beneath a waterfall, the office, a kitchen, a hot tub, library, backyard BBQ, etc. Once, he showed up at the top of the Eiffel Tower for a French exhibitionist, and once, he rubbed some heavy, Egyptian tits right in front of the Great Pyramid. Sometimes, Jonah was ordered to repeat the same move for the same gal in the same scene many times in a row. It was never a bother because he never got tired.

This all carried on in blissful peace for some time. Then, Jonah got the order to appear before a particular blonde woman, and something terribly strange happened. He sort of recognized her. She was lying completely nude on a white, leather sofa. She looked like she’d just gotten absolutely railed. He even recognized the couch. Maybe he’d gotten stoned on that couch several times before. The problem was that he hadn’t thought of anything else but squeezing tits for as far back as he could remember.

Weeks earlier, the doctors had informed Mare that her husband had suffered severe amnesia after being found unresponsive in his office. For some reason they couldn’t quite explain, he now believed his name to be Roger Meatstick. Meredith, just thankful he was alive, allowed Jonah to be called Roger from now on. The “Meatstick” surname, however, she had outright refused to acknowledge.

Soon, Jonah’s wife and coworkers noticed that “Roger” was very different from their former acquaintance. “Roger” was full of outstanding knowledge about an array of things. On day one, he implemented changes at the office that not only sent sales through the roof, but improved company morale tenfold. Somehow, the new Jonah could speak fluently in almost every human language and even recite Shakespeare in Greek.

And although Roger could explain the act of sex to someone as though he wrote the book, Mare found that she didn’t appreciate the quirky, fetishy bullshit that he could now explain to her in great detail, instead of simply fucking her goodnight. Not to mention, Roger didn’t understand why Mare didn’t want him to feel her up every time she was near him. It was all pretty scary to her. She suspected that Jonah, the sweet, loving goofball who’d once been her husband, was simply no longer in there.

“Phil, oh my God!” Mare exclaimed over the phone to Roger’s workmate. She was pretty worked up. “I just don’t know what to do with him!”

“Just calm down,” Phil replied. “I’m here. You know you can tell me anything.”

“It’s so hard to stay calm, Phil. It’s Jonah—or Roger, or whoever the hell he thinks he is. The other day, I asked him if he remembered the first night, you know, that we hooked up back in college. He couldn’t. Said he never went to college. Then, I asked him how he knows all the things he suddenly knows about life, philosophy, and—fucking Greek? How is this possible?”

Phil couldn’t help but laugh at that.

“Oh, Phil, it’s not even funny—and sex, Phil! He knows things about sex that we never even discussed before! Stuff I hate to even say out loud.”

“You can tell me, Mare. This is a safe space.”

“Alright, like group sex—and anal, and BDSM or whatever it’s called. And now I think he’s been living this whole other life behind my back or something, Phil! But can I tell you? He won’t have sex with me. He just wants to rub my boobs!”

“Interesting,” replied Phil. He paused.

“What?”

“It’s just that, lately, he’s been really grabby with everyone at the office, too. Pat has had to stop him from groping Linda at the cafeteria, twice.”

“What the fuck, Phil?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I mean, in your case, I can see the attraction, Mare.”

“Phil!” she exclaimed.

“What, Mare? You’re sexy and you know it.” Phil sang it like the LMFAO song.

She stopped. “Thanks, Phil. You want to know the weirdest thing?”

“You know I do,” he smirked.

“When he goes in for my breasts and I don’t go all gaga for it, he gets extremely confused. And then he turns away like he’s lost interest in me all of a sudden. Then, I get so emotional after it happens, and he doesn’t seem to understand. Please, Phil, make it make sense!”

“Well, Mare, at least he’s, you know, taking care of his body again.” No one had failed to notice that the new Jonah was immediately back in the gym. His arm muscles had even begun to swell, and he was rapidly losing the pudge in his gut that he’d always proudly carried around.

“Believe me, Phil, I’m happy that Jonah—I mean Roger—I mean—that he’s suddenly decided to care more about his fitness, but it’s like he’s a totally new—” she stammered. “He’s become a—a fucking freak, Phil! I don’t know if I can take it any longer!” Here, poor Mare trailed off into sobs.

“Okay, Mare, I hear you,” said Phil. “What can I do? Do you want to maybe hang out? You up for grabbing dinner tomorrow?”

“Oh, Phil, that would mean a lot,” Mare replied. She was wearing a tiny, white T-shirt and hot pink boyshorts and was sitting on the toilet seat, leaning over the sink with the bathroom door locked. She grabbed a blonde tuft of hair that hung in her face, nervously twirling it between her fingers. “I could really use someone right now, Phil.”

The next night after having dinner together, Mare decided to follow Phil back to his downtown apartment and join him for a glass of wine.

“No harm in a little nightcap,” she thought.

“I’m so happy you reached out,” Phil said while pouring Mare’s wine. “I mean it. I know how hard it must be to feel like you’ve lost him. The guys—they kind of like the new Jonah, but I have to wonder some days. Is this even the same man?”

“It’s not the same man, trust me,” replied Mare.

“Well, one thing is certain. I’m extremely happy you’re here,” Phil added.

This went on for a little while. At some point in their conversation, Mare transformed from a lively, flirty companion to a vulnerable woman. She cried, “I haven’t slept with my husband in weeks, and things aren’t shaping up.” Her tears became a long embrace, then a light kiss, then more passionate tongue kissing. When she noticed Phil’s cock hardening against her body, she also realized that her panties were soaked.

Phil stopped after a moment.

“Are you sure, Mare?” he asked. “We don’t have to.”

“Please!” she whispered, desperately. “Can you put it inside me? I need it, baby.”

As Phil undressed her, he could hardly believe his luck. First came the tight, green skirt. He unzipped it down the middle of her crack, letting it fall to the rug. He finally got his first squeeze of Mare’s exceptional ass. And it was really good. She smelled like expensive, rose perfume. Next, he removed her peep toe booties, one by one. She grew impatient and swiftly peeled off her wet, purple panties, smiling into his eyes as she did so.

Suddenly, it seemed like an out-of-body experience for Phil. He wasn’t drunk. And as far as he could tell, neither was Mare. Yet here they were, finally. He stood up and prodded her to lie back on his white, leather sofa and admired the way her bare ass met with the leather, the sounds it made. Mare opened her legs wide for him.

“Someone’s been doing her yoga,” Phil commented, smiling.

“It ain’t gonna lick itself,” she said.

Phil got on his knees and buried his head into it. Mare gripped his brown hair and thrusted her wet pussy into his face. Now Phil was rolling his tongue over her clit, which made her moan, loudly. He began slowly probing his tongue in and out of her asshole while massaging her brimming clit with his fingers, until Mare began to shake and squeal uncontrollably.

After she came, she got up and unzipped Phil’s jeans. He wasn’t wearing any underwear and his cock sprung up as soon as it was let loose. Mare looked like she just got a new pony on Xmas morning. She began to suck like they did in the porn that she watched when no one else was home or like the stranger had instructed her the last time she had an affair. She relished in the discomfort when it pressed against her tongue, and she gagged when it hit the back of her throat.

“That’s it, baby,” said Phil. “Fuck, that’s a good girl.”

“Yeah?” she said. “Fuck my pretty face with your handsome dick.”

With her mouth wide open, Phil took her by the hair with two hands and fucked her face good, so that it made her mascara smear and snot dribble from her nose. Mare paused to spit a mouthful of thick saliva from the back of her throat. She aimed it right at Phil’s reddish tip. Some spit dripped off and landed on the shag she was kneeling on. Now, holding the shaft with one hand and the other gripping his ass, she looked into Phil’s eyes while playfully dabbing at his dickhole with her tongue.

“I know you like that, mister,” she said.

“You’re a greedy little slut,” he replied.

“Don’t tell my husband,” she giggled.

Phil reached for his phone on the sofa. For the rest of the session, he snapped many scandalous photos of Mare in all her rare glory. Jonah had been correct all along, that Mare had fucked many other men both before and during their marriage. That night, however, would be the first time she ever let a man fill her asshole with thick, pulsating flesh. And she was surprised that even though it was kind of messy, she loved every minute of it.

Phil had the photos to prove it.

Days after the rendezvous with Mare, Phil was lying in bed, naked and horny. He thought of Mare’s exquisite ass and decided to upload the photos he’d taken of her into the Roger That app and have some fun with it. He’d recently updated the app with the new “Roger fucks her” commands.

Suddenly, Mare stood before Jonah for the first time in what seemed like ages since trading places with Roger Meatstick. He barely recognized his wife with her legs spread eagle, her asshole gaping, and her face soaked in milky pearls of cum. Much like the other women Jonah had been ordered to fondle all along, Mare was laying perfectly still on the white, leather couch like a photograph.

Only this time, his orders were not: “Go to the woman, drape your bulging arms across her chest or over her shoulders, and fondle her breasts while she cums for you, hard as fuck.” They were: “Go to the woman, and fuck her brains out until she screams ‘Hallelujah!’”

What else could he do? Jonah complied.

Who Would You Rather?

“Who would you rather fuck? Queen Amidala or Princess Leia?”

I consider Joakim’s question with serious thought. I delight in my options. “Hmmm,” I vocalize my internal struggle. “Natalie Portman or Carrie Fisher… Hmm….”

We are in the butterfly house where old man winter is unwelcome. The cold-hearted bastard remains, uninvited, just beyond the greenhouse walls. He mopes outside the patchwork of glass that retains a rich, warm, atmosphere, dense air, heady with the scent of earth, humid, and vibrant with life. The cold, like Dracula, cannot enter without consent.

“No,” Joakim takes the game seriously. “Not Natalie Portman or Carrie Fisher. Queen Amidala or Princess Leia. I’m not asking you which actress you’d rather have sex with, but which character.”

“As they were in their prime?”

“Well, certainly not as they are in the present. Both characters are now dead in the up-to-date story. One actress, too, in the up-to-date reality. And remember, they lived a long time ago.”

“In a galaxy far, far away.”

“That too.”

Flowers and butterflies compete to see which one can outdo the other, plant versus insect, a showcase of brazen, loud colors on display, an electric fashion show that smells as good as it looks. Orange and black monarchs flit about, sit and fan their tiger-stripe, speckled wings on cosmos petaled parchment white, it’s-a-girl pink, or radioactive magenta. Strawflowers carpet the earth in thick patches, every conceivable warm hue, every nuance of yellow, orange and red. Then, just to spite them, outdo them, a living neon light of radiant blue, cold as ice, traced in black, a blue morpho butterfly, parks its outlandish, gaudy and gorgeous self to break up the heatwave, to render it second class. Sunflower, echinacea, zinnia, azalea, big and bold, elegant and frail, no end of hue, beautiful, fragrant, just fucking lovely. Glass wing and blue moon, Julia and tailed jay, the butterflies counter with their own extravagance, their own great library of beauty. I just take it all in, sight and smell. I call it a draw. Insect and flower equally matched, equally gorgeous. It’s all so fucking divine.

In the face of so much beauty I consider my options. I go internal. I conjure up my own lovely imagery. Visions of Carrie Fisher in her prime come to the forefront of my mind. Jabba the Hutt, crime lord and fat bastard, his pudgy, slug-like hand gripping a leash fastened to his beautiful, mostly naked sex slave.

“Well, Joakim,” I say after some thought. “I’d pick Portman over Fisher, but if we are talking characters, not the real women who embody them, then I’d have to go with Princess Leia.”

“You’re thinking of Return of the Jedi,aren’t you?”

“Scantly clad, collared and chained, can you blame me?”

“Oh, look, the luna moth.” Joakim gestures to a winged creature, a veritable angel, that I could not miss if I tried to.

Equal parts erratic and graceful, the Luna moth dances through the air, an artful trajectory from flower to flower. Lime green, watered down with milky white, it sails across my face, silk on the wind, about the size of my outspread palm. Stunning. Incredible. Unreal. In this moment I am reminded; nature, great and small, is seraphic, and in this instant, I walk within Seraphic Park.

“My turn,” Joakim prompts me to continue our little game of who would you rather? So I think real hard. Try and abandon the Star Wars universe and come up flat.

“Who would you rather fuck? Harrison Ford or Hayden Christensen?”

“You mean Han Solo or Anakin Skywalker?”

“You’re such a stickler, Joakim.”

“Rules are everything. Without rules, we are merely animals.”

“We are merely animals, besides.”

“We are men.”

“Is that something to be proud of?”

“It’s something to accept. To embody. To exemplify. As men, we follow rules.”

“So who would you rather fuck?”

“Hayden Christensen.”

“You mean Anakin Skywalker?”

We look at each other. We laugh. We leave the butterfly house behind. We walk through a set of dangling plastic strips that hang down like those cloth curtains at a car wash. The transparent tendrils cover the exit, keeping the butterflies from leaving their floriferous kingdom, the shiniest of gilded cages in the whole of the zoo. We walk through another set of giant strands of plastic fettuccine because it’s always a double door at the zoo. Even for insects.

The next room is a narrow walkway, enough for three people to walk abreast. To our right is a concrete wall, a giant mural of tropical rainforest, the occasional plaque with animal information and fun facts. I study the isolated wads of chewing gum that teenagers and assholes have pressed into the wall. I zero in on a pale blue glob, likely spearmint, that covers the toucan’s eye with precision. It is gross, but artistic in its own light.

To our left is a low wall, a hip-high partition, and a wide expanse of simulated, indoor jungle. The large skylights provide a pleasant, natural light, illuminating a shallow pool below, moss-strewn rocks and logs, mature trees. Just beyond our reach, a net stretches from floor to ceiling to keep various birds from coming into contact with the humans that view them, and more importantly, vice-versa. In the pool below I see a dozen flamingos and admire their pink feathers, white zinfandel and rose. Above them, a trio of scarlet macaws, a vivid explosion of primary colors.

Joakim leads me to the next room, which is much the same, but with stronger protective netting. Here, I witness Zazu, the extravagant avian wonder, the lonesome great hornbill.

We wait for a passing mother and her child to move on before continuing our game.

“Who would you rather fuck?” Joakim asks. “Jar Jar Binks or Shrek?” Sometimes we do this, reverse the challenge. Try and think of a pair that would be hard to choose based on their undesirability. I hate CG characters and Joakim knows this. But in this instance he’s failed to make it a challenge.

“I wouldn’t touch Shrek with ten-foot barge pole.”

“You’d rather fuck Jar Jar Binks?”

“I’d rather not fuck Shrek.”

“Fair enough.”

We walk on past a “staff only” sign and unlock a door to enter Zazu’s attractive, but limited indoor rainforest. Zazu swoops down, mischievous and bored out of his mind, but delighted for our company, for some relief from the hours of nothing. Most of the zookeepers are afraid of going in with Zazu because he has an enormous beak and willfully bites, capable of breaking someone’s fingers if they are careless or unlucky.

I’m not worried, however, because Joakim has imparted a technique to avoid any misadventure. His tactic is straightforward, simple as can be. Rather than try and shoo the bird away, push aside his beak, or hold up your hands to protect your face, you simply make a fist, which protects your fingers, and offer up an arm. Zazu can break a finger, but he cannot break a wrist or a forearm. Sure, he bites your arm, and yeah, it hurts a little, but it’s no big thing. It’s not that bad. And besides, you get an incredible, up-close view of a stunning great hornbill, offering the beast an interlude of entertainment among its quotidian malaise.

The first thing I think as Zazu swoops down upon us is Woah, big fucking bird. And with a five foot wingspan, I’m not wrong. Perching on a branch level with our faces, he cocks his massive, banana-beaked head while scrutinizing Joakim and I. In his discerning, red eye I see intelligence and personality. I see an individual with a fiery soul.

At the crest of Zazu’s head, joining with his formidable beak, is a large, horny growth, brightly colored and cumbersome, like an ornate helmet or a decorative headpiece. Joakim tells me this is known as a casque, used as both a counterweight to a hornbill’s long beak as well as for amplifying vocalization.

From head to toe—or tail feather for that matter—Zazu presents himself a grand spectacle. He bedazzles with untamed beauty, prehistoric charm. He commands our attention, affecting authority over our senses. As I gaze at him up close, am not in the least disappointed.

Tangerine fades to banana, bright orange to yellow, from the tip of a razor beak to its base, colliding with cherry red eyes that showcase intelligence. I feel like I am looking into the face of a clever, feathered fruit salad. Sunset feathers fashionably match that rich, gorgeous tiara, that cornucopia headdress. Neck down, the great hornbill is robed dominantly in black, broken up in alternating bands of white. The overall look is impressive and eye-catching, yet avoids crossing over into something gaudy. Zazu’s appearance is suggestive of royalty. So it comes as no surprise when Joakim tells me that in Nepal his species is called homrai, and in parts of India, banrao, names which both mean “king of the jungle.”

Tight in a fist, my fingers remain safe as I offer my forearm to an under-stimulated hornbill. I defend my eyes from a beak that could easily gouge them from their sockets, blind me, or tally my face with red scratches. The pain in my arm while it’s used for a chew toy is minimal. I endure it, soaking up the marvel that sits before my eyes. Greedy and insatiable, I drink it all all in. I gaze in wonder, eye to eye with the king of the jungle.

Banana, pineapple, and mango, slices of ripe pear, an abundant sprinkling of cat biscuits: humble offerings to our liege. I take one last long look at Zazu and commit his regalia to memory. From his presence, somehow, I draw strength. With his image in my mind, mysteriously, I bolster my fortitude. As Joakim and I walk away, I feel like a improved version of myself.

Joakim breaks the spell. “My turn.”

I am lost in the majesty of a feathered king. “Turn for what?”

“The game. Who would you rather?”

And just like that, my dream-bubble pops. Reality takes place of mystic whimsy. Vacuous and all encompassing, blatant actuality rushes in. So I play the game. 

“Who would you rather get nasty with? Mel Gibson or Steven Seagal.”

“Who’s Steven Seagal?”

“You know, the asshole in all those karate action movies in the 90s. Black ponytail tied back tight. You know, Under Siege? On Deadly Ground?”

“I want characters, not actors. The rules, man! The rules!”

“Fine,” I yield. “Yoda or Kermit?”

“The frog?”

“Ribbit.”

“You give me a choice between little green creatures?”

“You gave me Shrek, a CG perversion, Mike Meyers on acid in hell, a green fat bastard.”

Joakim sighs. “Yoda, of course.”

“You like older men?”

“I like wise men.”

“Best stay away from Paul.” Paul is our boss. Gym build, tall, perfect teeth, dumb as a stack of bricks. 

“Now there is someone I’d like to fuck.”

I’m not gay, but I felt a bit jealous. I wondered if Joakim would like to fuck me. I don’t know why, but I hoped that he did.

We carry on, blah blah blah. We laugh as we walk back the way we came, past macaws the color of Superman, pink flamingos balancing on one leg. We wade through a ballet of butterflies, a fluttering of angels on the wing.

Just before we exit the butterfly house the luna moth lands on Joakim’s shoulder, then dances onto mine. It stays there, opening, closing, opening, closing, its milky, lime-green wings, the delicate pages to an ethereal storybook.

“Here’s a good one,” Joakim ventures. “The ultimate question…”

I silently doubt that the ultimate question awaits, but I await, nonetheless, for a question.

“Who would you rather become? What would you rather be?” Joakim asks me, stern and serious. “A Jedi Knight or a Lord of the Sith?” He takes this game very seriously. “An instrument of darkness or one of light?”

I’ve seen the films a million times. I could probably recite the original trilogy from beginning to end, failing only with character impersonations, but not the words they speak. I cheer for the good guys, sure, I guess it’s true. I root for young Skywalker as he whines his way across the galaxy. But there is one moment in the films where as a viewer I always falter, a moment I know I would fall to temptation if it were me in Luke’s position.

In The Empire Strikes Back, after losing a close duel with Darth Vader, i.e. Daddy, Luke hangs from a catwalk that drops down into an endless nothing, an infinity below him. Maimed, one hand severed in combat, he stares up into the masked, concealed eyes of his enemy, his father, who looks down upon him in total control. Yet in this dire moment, a dread enemy transforms into a tender father, extending his hand as well as his offer, to spare Luke’s life, proposing he and his son share dominion over the stars. Together, as one, they will rule the galaxy.

In this moment during the film, no matter how many years and decades transpire, dozens of repetitious viewings, I find myself feeling the same as I watch Darth Vader, father, extend his offer to Luke Skywalker, son. I know what I would do if I received this same offer. I wouldn’t let go, fall to a fate that almost certainly would lead to my death—though Luke survives, of course. I wouldn’t run away from family, from the love of a father. I’d take his hand, embrace his offer. Maybe I have unresolved daddy issues, or maybe I’m just not attached to being a moral man, a good guy. But I can tell you this: if it were my narrative, if I were Luke, I’d not have let go to fall from that catwalk. I would have fallen, instead, headlong into the seduction of the dark side. I’d have become a black knight, a lord of darkness. I’d have ruled the galaxy with my father. Together, we’d devour the stars to satiate our lust for dominion.

“Easy one, I know,” Joakim dismisses his own ultimate question. “I mean, who in their right mind wouldn’t choose to be a Jedi Knight? Only a weak-willed, evil fuck would allow the dark side to seduce them to walk the path of the dreaded Sith.” Spoken like a true nerd.

I do not share my thoughts as I willingly reach for my father’s hand. I look up at my dad, caped and clad in black, a red light saber—red, to denote evil. I’ve already taken my first step towards the dark side, dipped my toe into the surface of a black abyss that I prepare to jump into headlong. I feel the shadows swallow me up from the inside, and I’m aware that it feels good. It feels right.

“Way too easy,” Joakim repeats. “Next time, I’ll do better,” he says. “I’ll think of a harder question. One that has more than a single, obvious answer.”

I do not offer my opinion or reveal my musings. I know what I am, or what I am capable of becoming.

“Come on, fellow Jedi. Let’s go.”

Upon my shoulder, a luna month suddenly takes flight, as if sensing something—repelled, perhaps—by the shifting aura of the being it had perched upon. Leaving the butterfly house behind us, Joakim and I step back out into the cold where old man winter waits to steal our warmth. We walk together and ascend the hill, Jedi Knight and Lord of the Sith.

Halloween

She was a monster. I was not attracted to her in the least, but she was there, at the bar, drinking. It had been a while since I’d slept with anybody. She was, allegedly, a friend of a friend, so likely the enemy. A rather heavy goth chick. I was into petite women. Asian women. Clean women. This woman was very heavy, very white and had sloppy tattoos, intentionally torn clothing and broken-down, oversized Doc Marten boots. Glasses with lenses so thick I could barely tell she had eyes, which, when I squinted, appeared tiny, like bug-bites. Pasty-faced with unevenly cropped black hair that looked unnatural. Vampiric. Maybe there were flies circling her head. Probably just tracers. Since I was high on something somebody had given me to snort, likely from a trade-off, an eighth of weed for a bindle of something or other; I could’ve been seeing anything. Ghosts. I was dealing weed, but I was a shit dealer. I barely maintained enough of a margin to smoke out my friends. The real friends anyway. I’d had the bogus friends surgically removed in Mexico since my nonexistent insurance didn’t cover pest removal. I ordered a beer with a double shot of Stolichnaya. I had indulged in a short chat with the Goth but now she’s glued to her cell phone, checking texts, checking her pulse, probably Googling my ass. It was a new thing, to Google. Got any doubts? Google it. Anything. Anybody. Anywhere. Why bother with education when the answer is instantly available at your fingertips? Shit. I actually was published, I actually did have work appear side by side with Burroughs and Wanda Coleman and Antler. But modern folk need hand-held, digital verification. I must have passed the screening, since the Goth was now sidling up closer, our barstools practically entwined. I snuck another look. She was fucking hideous. I was in the weeds for sure. Hours seemed to pass. The place was busy and loud with the TVs tuned to a spastic basketball game, with fat-ass Elvira-slash-Morticia Addams jabbering away drunkenly, punctuating points by poking my forearm with a pudgy finger. Annoying as fuck. My guess? It was about time. I didn’t want it to be. Then she mentioned that she had a car. It was drizzling and the wind was picking up threateningly. My motto? It always rains on assholes. This night, heading towards definitive proof. My room was across town. In the house of the Brown Man, who doubled as my supplier. Ballard. Not too shabby, but a helluva long bus ride, and taxis cost a mint. I earned my pittance on meager tips and dime bags. We scurried to her foreign subcompact, which sported a huge dent in the front right fender. Red flags waved across my vision. My instincts urged me to flee but too late, we were rolling. It was quite a way from Eastlake to Ballard; one must traverse the University Bridge to Roosevelt, take a left on 45th, cruise through Wallingford, but where 45th merges into 46th, we had some trouble. Directly under the 1-5 overpass the car suddenly began to fishtail. The Goth had lost control. Out of control in the pouring rain. The vehicle made a gnarly hard right and lurched head-on into the retaining wall of the underpass. Fucking shit… I looked around. I checked myself, patting my chest, my legs, my head. Everything seemed to be in order, or, at least, the same as before. I looked over at the Goth. Her head was hanging low over her heaving breasts, her hands clutching the steering wheel, fingers gripping the vinyl in senseless chubby fury. Was she sobbing? I couldn’t quite say. Then she let out a piercing scream. Where was Google now? The shock of the collision seemed to have activated something inside her to take action. With an impressive display of nimble agility for a person of her bovine physiognomy, she exited the vehicle, to assess the damage. I tentatively followed. It wasn’t that bad, just slightly more damage to the already-smashed front fender. The left rear tire was blown. You got a flat, I pointed out, ridiculously. No shit, Sherlock, she bemoaned. Do you have triple A? She shot me an acid look that said of course I don’t have triple fucking A you heartless bastard. I shrugged. We stood there for a minute as cars shot past through the slick. Then she got back in the car and started it up. I looked in through the passenger door quizzically. Just get in, she mouthed. I shrugged again. Shrugging came second nature to me. I got back in and we took off, the injured, protesting wheel dragging along, alternating between thuds and screeches. I could feel it getting more and more mutilated and misshapen as we navigated the next 30 blocks to the Brown Man’s house. I had to hand it to Morticia; her dogged determination was noteworthy. We arrived and she parked the car. I found my key and in we went. She saw the fridge and gestured defeatedly. You got any beer? I took a number of beers out of the fridge, trendy microbrews that somebody else had bought. We trudged up the staircase to my room, dripping and beat. I’d recently moved in and occupied the smallest extra “furnished” bedroom. There was a cheap Ikea dresser and a thrift-store mattress and box spring set on a rickety wood frame and headboard. We sat side by side on the bed and drank the beer in silence. Then she took off her clothes, slowly, as if undressing for the gas chambers. I shuddered. I finished my beer, removed my clothes and got into bed with her. She was everywhere. There was so much of her, I thought she might spill over onto the floor. I didn’t care. I somehow found the target and started humping. I wasn’t panting with exertion or sweating at all. It was all very robotic. She made small, whimpering noises. The bed was really moving. All of a sudden, with a harsh creak and snap, the side rails collapsed, jettisoning us to the floor in a heap. Good fucking grief, I thought, what a fucking travesty. The Goth was on her knees, crawling unsteadily, crying. I laid there for a while, then got up and dragged the wreckage of the bed frame into a corner. I kneeled to where she was now squatting, offered my hand. I led her to the mattress where she collapsed in surrender. I flopped down on the mattress as close to the edge as I could manage and went to sleep. In the morning, she was gone. I wandered around the house. No trace. I went outside where the streets were still wet, but the rain had stopped. She had driven away in the wrecked car with the flat tire. I didn’t hear from her all that day, or that night, or the day after. A week or so passed. I was relieved. The night of depravity in question seemed like a particularly repugnant dream that had diminished with time, leaving only an embarrassing memory. Until one afternoon at the restaurant I got a call on the phone in the office. It was The Goth. You gave me chlamydia, she accused. Your dick gave me a STD, asshole! That’s impossible, I said, my dick is perfectly antiseptic. You must have caught it from the next guy. Or the one after that. Are you certain it’s chlamydia? Perhaps you ought to Google it. And please, refrain from dialing this number again. This is a business line. I hung up. She didn’t call back. I never saw her again. Maybe she moved out of town. That kind of thing happens a lot.

Eve

Unlike the first rib cracked I wore a raggedy black cape and plastic fangs even to midday snack. Snack was cold pancakes left over from the dogfights. Technically we had to wash out our mouths with chlorine before meals. Eve had the teeth of a cross-eyed shetland pony which everyone agreed was adorable. The both of us were prescribed plastic specs we coulda been freaking cousins as per our mutual Ashkenazi ancestry. The hippie cult in charge put on these funky dances for the pubescents featuring the local AM radio hit parade which every year only differed according to tech advances in autism. Since I never removed my black velvet shroud I was basically shunned. The nerd element hadn’t entered our current chrysalis status especially with the girls so it was kept secret that I was their adorable little fiend. Despite my fits, fainting spells, spasms, seizures, tantrums and frequent bouts of hyperactivity, indispensable prerequisites for a growing young evil empath, ahem. Eve was a little tramp in training, she had that heroin-chic look going on at age 10 even a diet of potato chips and peanut butter cups couldn’t solve. The dance floor was a rickety wood-slatted platform built in the pioneer days doubtlessly by slave labor or at the very least indentured servant hicks. Oak trees, pine, sequoia and acacia, dirt paths and dented metal garbage cans. Very pissed-off birds. Supervised by drop-out vagrant chaperones whose filthy feet and underarm values were based on what psychotropics they happened to lift from the village pharmacy. Polar opposites of our guardian-captor-kapo parents. The discerning eye overall winking like a volcanic asshole at the mere mention of our existence. Crocodile Rock, Love Will Keep Us Together, Night Fever, Mamma Mia, Shining Star, Livin’ Thing, will it never end will I ever kiss a baby toadstool will the sneezing ever abate did I just trip over my fangs could a fiend be more of a danger to himself than any ol’ idjit biting off his own tongue. I moved quirkily and shuffled around elbows in ears, caught Eve right in the tit or the makings of one. My intricate plan to ask her to go steady shoved to the back burner as she crouched and rocked, arms hugged across spindly chest, painful mortification creasing her features. I poked her gently as if at a dead bird on the sidewalk. I tried soothing words without actively opening my mouth: struck dumb in her moment of crisis I attempted a sort of rudimentary telepathic sequencing. Best as I could muster. And failed. My literary trauma began with cribbed letters to Eve, an admixture of fluff and insult upon which my inevitable troubadour internship relied. Meanwhile I muddled through the motions of enduring activities meant to achieve fun. Ping-pong, softball, archery, water polo, tennis. Despicable acts of useless competitive vanity. Horseback riding wasn’t entirely appalling, though; I vibrated  to the sharp smells of the barn. It seemed to harden my baby walnuts which stirred and crackled for the wrangler, a husky strawberry blonde lesbian. Miniature brains cavorting, I put two and two together, Eve riding sidesaddle with the dyke. However, any attempt to tug synthetic designer cowboy boots on her dainty Semitic feet and that asthmatic tart would probably drop dead. Certain heavily edited teleplays in my head developed in time with the whiffs of cheap Mexican grass being smoked by the dirty hippie counselors. But was it? Was it all in fun? Our smooth, prepubescent, white, unadulterated bodies could’ve been manufactured by Mattel. I yearned to kiss Eve but it was a struggle to muster the courage to simply grasp for her hand between dances. When I finally did it was like plunging my digits into a damp hole full of worms. Gross. My future self advised me to get used to it. Because it gets nothing if not worse, once you venture inside the body, exploratory-like, in the heat of things. But it ended suddenly, like a knife attack. Out of nowhere the buses pulled up raising dust while suppressing pheromones. The first camp session was over. Belongings packed as per my astrological predisposition: fanatically minimal, neurotically organized. But at the last moment I was held back; a call made, the message received, as if a stay of execution: I was to remain for the second session. The parents were adjusting verily to my lack of presence. They’d sooner frequent the tennis club where avoiding each other with practical emotional detachment was vogue. The cultists locked me in a closet for two days while reconciling the camp grounds to Talmudic specifications. I enjoyed the privacy. When it started again I concentrated on swimwear trends and chlorinated waters. Lush minnow, river porpoise, I failed as neither when a streamlined entity joined my piscine frolic. Mermaid in training? I think not. Just another preteen heeb cutie helping me reduce drag. All smiles. She did the work as I pantomimed my best dog paddle. So what if it wasn’t Eve. Eve had left the garden to return to the big bad city. The serpent in my ear with a direct connection to the baby eel in my swim trunks had some pertinent advice: Get wet filthy thing!

Happyboy

“KID DON’T LOOK NO FUCKIN’ EIGHTEEN,” the old man mutters, glaring at Happyboy from just inside the front door of the apartment. 

A foul odor spills out from the apartment into the cold night air. It smells to Happyboy like puke and shit and piss mixed in with momma’s old breakfast casserole. But it doesn’t make him sick, it just makes him hungrier. A familiar pang rises from his gut while the man continues to stare at him.

“He’s my own brother – y’think I don’t know how old he is?” Jade replies irritably, standing on the dull gray concrete walkway outside the apartment. Jade wears a black vinyl miniskirt over fishnet stockings and stiletto heels. Her cleavage spills out of her tight halter-top, her nose and eyebrows pierced and bare arms heavily tattooed. 

The old man looks her over again, absorbing every detail with hungry bloodshot eyes. He looks back at Happyboy. “How old’re you, kid?”

As if on cue, Jade turns to Happyboy with wide expectant eyes, her parted lips silently mouthing words to him. Happyboy looks over at the doorjamb, gazes over the splintered old wooden doorframe, then replies, “Eighteen.”

The man raises his eyebrows with a smirk. “What year ya’ born?” he asks gruffly.

Happyboy goes silent and looks at Jade in confusion.

“My brother’s kinda slow. He don’t remember shit like birthdays an’ all too good, but trust me he’s eighteen,” Jade explains.

“Y’all ain’t with the cops?” the man asks suspiciously.

“Fuck no, man!” Jade replies, then dips her head down toward the parking lot in front of the building. “That look like a fuckin’ cop car to you?” She adds, “An’ if we was cops, we’d gotta tell you right? So now y’know we ain’t cops.” 

“Who’s in the car?” the man asks, looking down at the beat-up Honda Civic in the parking lot, its windshield cracked and front bumper hanging off with a large dent on the hood. A dark silhouette shifts behind the driver seat with the bright orange ember of a cigarette tip slithering beneath his hoodie.

“Just a friend – he’s good, just drivin’ us, nothin’ to worry about,” Jade answers while she steps forward into the doorway and softly presses her body against the man. “Don’t you wanna party with me tonight?” she asks, slowly blinking her eyes and pouting her lips. “I promise you’ll have a good time with me.” She brushes her hand down the man’s protruding gut, grazing it against his crotch and keeping it there a long moment before pulling it back. 

Happyboy shivers in the bitter cold, teeth chattering. He hugs himself tightly for every bit of warmth he can muster, welcoming the temporary distraction from his overwhelming hunger.

Gazing down at Jade while his hand pets her lower back down to the curve of her ass, the man says. “Okay, just sit tight while I go talk to my ole lady. Be right back.” He closes the door, leaving Jade and Happyboy alone in the cold dark night.

“Freezin’ my fuckin’ ass off out here!” Jade says as her quivering hand reaches into her purse to pull out a pack of American Spirits. She has to huddle against the gray stucco wall to light her cigarette as the bitter wind howls through the walkway. After a long drag from her smoke, she walks over to Happyboy. “You okay, baby boy?” she asks, brushing his tousled hair back from his forehead.

“I’m hungry,” Happyboy mumbles with large sad eyes. He puts his arms around Jade’s slim waist, hugs her tightly and presses his face into her side. “I thought we goin’ to Golden Corral? Please Jade, I’m hungry!”

“We will, baby, I promise. Just gotta finish up here then Liam’ll take us. Don’t you worry.”

“Why’s Liam gotta come? Can’t we just go?” Happyboy whimpers as a strong gust of cold wind whips through the walkway and blows his hair back.

“C’mon now, Happy, y’know we got no other ride now. I’m workin’ on gettin’ us a car but for now we need Liam.” Jade’s voice hitches and she presses her lips to Happyboy’s forehead. “I’m doin’ my best for us, baby, I promise.”

A tear rolls down Jade’s cheek and drops to the crown of Happyboy’s head. While it trickles down his scalp, he looks up at her and says quietly, “I know you are.”

Jade walks over to the rusty iron gate at edge of the walkway and looks down at the car, where the bright tip of Liam’s cigarette sits motionless behind the dark windshield. She nods down and hugs herself for warmth, then turns back to the apartment door when she hears it creak open.

“Okay, we’re good, now come on in an’ get the hell outta that cold,” the old man says when he reappears in the doorway. He moves aside to let Jade walk into the apartment leading Happyboy by his hand.

The first thing Happyboy sees when he enters the filthy, cluttered apartment is the woman on the lime-green sofa holding a can of PBR in one hand and a cigarette in the other. An oversized Star Wars t-shirt is pulled down over bony knees with pale skinny legs bent and tucked beneath her. She takes a drag from her cigarette, exhales, then studies Happyboy through a cloud of smoke. “Well now, Jesus H. Christ, will ya lookit the size ’a that lil’ fucker,” she says lazily then shifts her gaze to the old man. “Sure he’s ol’ ’nuff, Jebby?”

The man scowls back at her. “This ain’t a fuckin’ job interview, Gin. Said they ain’t cops and big sister here swears he’s eighteen.” He looks over at Jade, who nods her head to reassure him.

The woman looks Jade up and down, appraising her like a piece of used furniture, then shakes her head and smirks at the man. “Okay Jeb, go have some fun with your lil’ ragdoll over there while l get on wit’ tubby.” She purses her lips at Happyboy and, in her raspy smoker’s voice, says, “C’mon over here big boy, let ole’ Ginny take a look at ya’.”

Happyboy looks up at Jade, who nods back at him while Jeb’s grubby paw clenches her ass. “G’head, Happy, it’ll be okay,” she assures him.

“Happy’s his name?” the woman laughs. “Fat lil’ bastard don’t look too fuckin’ happy to me. Looks sick after eatin’ a truckfulla flapjacks!” 

Jeb cackles out while his lips nestle into the crook of Jade’s neck, his nostrils absorbing the pungent scent of cheap perfume.

“It’s just his nickname,” Jade explains quietly while Jeb snakes his tongue up her neck to her earlobe.

“Never heard ’a that nickname before,” Jeb remarks while he takes a brief pause from nibbling Jade’s ear.

“Our momma used ’a take us to McDonald’s and he’d say ‘I wanna happy’ when he meant to say happy meal. So we started calling him ‘Happyboy’ and it just stuck.” Jade looks down at Happyboy with a smile.

“Well he sure ain’t look like he missed too many happy meals,” Jeb chuckles, then looks over at Ginny who’s taking a pull from her PBR. “Clock’s a tickin’, ole girl, so you let Happyboy here make you right while me’n big sis’ get to know each other.” He grabs Jade by the wrist and leads her toward the bedroom.

“Hold on now,” Jade says, planting her feet in the stained shag carpet before Jeb can pull her further. “We gotta get paid first.” Looking up to meet Jeb’s gaze, she taps his stiffening bulge and says, “You gotta take care of us, honey.”

While Jeb moves his hand from Jade’s wrist to his pocket, she says, “An’ my brother’s starvin’ hungry now, you got anything here he can eat?”

“Whatever he can find over there’n the kitchen,” Jeb mutters as he pulls some folded twenties from his pocket.  

Jade turns away and hurries to the kitchen before Jeb can hand her the cash. After looking around, she returns with a half-loaf of Wonder bread and open bag of Doritos. She hands them to Happyboy who immediately digs in. 

“Peel that mold off the bread before you eat it, Happy,” Jade instructs as she looks in disgust at the bluish-green bread crusts visible through the clear plastic bag. Happyboy ignores her and stuffs a handful of the moldy bread into his mouth. Closing his eyes, he wolfs it down with a steady hum.

“Lookit ’im go!” Ginny exclaims, shaking her head in amazement as Happyboy polishes off the bread then plunges his hand into the open bag of Doritos. “Don’t get too full on me, boy, y’got s’more eatin’ to do tonight,” Ginny laughs. She glances over at Jeb, who’s looking down impatiently at Jade as she counts the bills he just handed to her.

“Only a hundred bucks here,” Jade says, glaring suspiciously up at Jeb. “The deal was two hundred for both of us – what gives, man?”

“You’ll get the other hundo after,” Jeb replies while pulling Jade into the bedroom. “It’s on the dresser.”

Ginny leans back on the ratty sofa and pulls her t-shirt up above her waist. She spreads her legs open and angles her pelvis toward Happyboy. “Pull my panties down, chubbyboy,” she commands as she leans back into the armrest of the sofa. When he hesitates, she looks up at him angrily, her small beady eyes boring into him. “C’mon now, don’t you know what the fuck to do? Your sister told Jebby ya’ did.”

Too scared to speak, Happyboy hears the man’s groans start up then get louder through the thin bedroom wall, followed the rhythmic sound of a creaking bedframe. He looks back at Ginny, now perched on her elbows glaring at him and saying something that he can’t make out while the buzzing in his head kicks in and grows louder, drowning out every other noise in the room. His head begins to spin and the dizziness sets in. His stomach churns and he can feel a sharp acidic taste at the back of his throat. He grows lightheaded, then stumbles forward to the armrest of the sofa opposite Ginny. He leans into it to steady himself.

Happyboy is ripped out of his stupor by Ginny’s hand yanking him forward so hard by a fistful of shirt that his head snaps back. The buzzing in his head stops abruptly, replaced by Ginny’s loud voice. “—ckin’ retard? Get on up here and take off my panties!” she screams at him with a violent scowl.

Happyboy reaches his hands up to Ginny’s bony hips and pulls at the sides of her light blue cotton panties. He only has them down to her upper thighs – revealing a thick reddish-brown bush that crawls down out of sight beneath her crotch – before a powerful gut-wrenching stench attacks his nostrils. He grimaces and squeezes his eyes shut as he’s assaulted by the ungodly stink of raw sweat, filth and putrid unwashed pussy and ass. Like a living breathing organism, the stench slithers through his nostrils and permeates his head, marinating in his skull and crawling down through his throat and lungs, activating the acidic bile at the pit of his stomach. Happyboy’s stomach churns again. He tries but can’t subdue the gassy belch that rises up from his gut. He knows what’s coming next. But this time he can’t stop it. 

Ginny’s eyes bulge out in disgust as the contents of Happyboy’s stomach pour out – covering her hairy crotch and lower stomach up to her abdomen with fresh glistening vomit. Unable to control himself, Happyboy turns and plods toward the bedroom door, stopping halfway to lean over and puke into the already-nasty shag carpet. Wiping off his chin, Happyboy pushes open the bedroom door. “Sorry, Jade, but that lady—”

Happyboy stops abruptly. Both stark naked on the bed, Jade is on all fours with Jeb kneeling behind her, thrusting into her with loud porcine grunts and flesh slaps. His pale flaccid pock-marked ass jiggles like jello while her head knocks against the metal headboard with each thrust. Both of them turn their heads at once when they hear Happyboy enter the room. 

“Get the fuck outta here, kid! You’re s’posed to be with Ginny!” Jeb screams at him, then looks furiously back at Jade. “What the fuck’s goin’ on here, sis’? I ain’t even come yet – now get ’im the fuck outta here!”

Jade opens her mouth to speak but when she sees Happyboy’s face she jumps up off the bed and wraps the crumpled bedsheet around her. She hurries over to Happyboy, who’s sobbing hysterically and saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry … I didn’t mean to.”

Jade puts her arm around his shoulders and presses her cheek against his damp tear-stained face. “Oh baby, just calm down now. Tell me what happened.”

Before Happyboy can answer, Ginny rushes into the room with a pistol in her shaking hand pointed right at Happyboy. Looking at Jeb, she bellows, “Fat lil’ fucker just puked all over me!” She turns to Jade. “I don’t care if Jeb ain’t done with your skank ass, hand over what he paid you then take your little piggy and GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!”

Jade steps in front of Happyboy, shielding him from the gun pointed at his head.  “Ma’am, please. I’m sorry about what he did, it was an accident. Now please calm down and then I’ll get dressed and get the money. We’ll give it back to you then leave. But please lower the gun, you’re scarin’ the shit outta my brother.”

“Just put your fuckin’ clothes back on and gimme the money,” Ginny repeats without lowering the gun, now pointed at Jade. 

Jade nods obediently, then picks her clothes up off the floor next to the bed. Seeing an opportunity, she looks over at Happyboy, who’s standing frozen at the foot of the bed, staring at her in a trance. “Oh no, Happy, you don’t look too good,” Jade says. “You gonna be sick again?”

When Ginny and Jeb look over at Happyboy, Jade quickly pulls her cell phone from a pocket in her skirt and thumbs the keypad without either of them seeing her.

Happyboy looks down quietly, sniffling and shaking his head. 

“Fat lil’ bastard better not puke again. Now hurry the fuck up and hand over the money you nasty-ass whore!” Ginny commands while Jeb, now with a towel wrapped around his waist, walks over next to her. 

Jade hands the folded twenties to Ginny, then starts to put her clothes back on next to the bed.

“Hold on now, big sister, I ain’t had a chance to finish off yet,” Jeb says as he approaches Jade with a sly grin.

“C’mon, man,” Jade pleads as she pulls on her halter-top. “I gave you the money back, now we’re out.” Jade looks anxiously toward the door and says, “C’mon, Happy, we gotta—” 

The butt of Ginny’s gun slams hard against Jade’s temple. Jade falls back onto the bed while a sharp pain drives straight through her skull, splitting her vision as she loses consciousness. Through blurry eyes, she watches helplessly as Jeb hobbles toward her with his towel falling to the floor and his hand moving down between his legs. She hears Ginny’s bellowing laughter as Jeb’s beefy hands rip her stockings and panties down her legs, and then completely off. Using his girth to press her down into the bare yellow-stained mattress, he tugs at her bra, which finally gives way after the straps dig hard into her flesh. Barely conscious and unable to defend herself with the pain rocking her skull, Jade closes her eyes while Jeb’s sweaty flab slides up her torso until she can feel his hard member poking between her thighs to find an entry point. The buzz in her head grows quieter as she fades in and out of consciousness. Even Ginny’s shrill laughter seems far away now. As her eyes flicker and the blackness envelops her, all she can hear is Jeb’s heavy breathing in her ear as he finally forces himself inside. 

But Jade is jolted back into the light by the sound of the front door being kicked open. 

Happyboy rocks back and forth on his feet with his eyes closed and fresh vomit dripping down his chin while Ginny holds the gun inches from his head. He’s shaken from his trance by the loud footfalls behind them. When Ginny turns around toward the bedroom door, Happyboy sprints toward the bed with his arms raised and hands out, crashing into Jeb’s side and pushing him off of Jade onto the floor. He turns around when he hears the gunshot. Ginny is splayed across the floor with blood flowing from a fresh bullet wound in her chest. He looks up at what – actually who – stands just outside the bedroom door.

Liam.

***

Ignoring Jade and Happyboy, Liam walks calmly across the room with his gun pointed at Jeb, who’s now scrambling desperately across the floor to grab his towel. “Cash!” Liam screams at him. “Every fuckin’ penny!”

“All’s we got is what she gave my wife,” Jeb says to Liam in a shaky voice. They both look over at Ginny, now lying dead on her back with vacant eyes staring out into nowhere.

Liam looks back at Jade and nods over toward Ginny. “Get the money off that bitch and search the rest of this shithole. Take whatever you find.” He turns back to Jeb and, with his black leather steel-toed boot, delivers a sharp kick straight into Jeb’s ribs. 

Fighting the pain from Liam’s kick, Jeb wheezes out, “I swear that’s all we got, man. I mean look around – we look like we got cash stowed away?”

Jade grabs Liam’s arm before he can answer. “C’mon Liam. Cops’ll be here soon. Neighbors musta heard the gunshot.”

Liam hesitates, then nods at her. He looks over at Happyboy impatiently. “Let’s go, boyo, gotta bounce.” Then he turns to Jeb, who’s cowering against the wall with his head in his hands. “Towel!” Liam shouts.

“What?” asks Jebs.

“I said gimme that fuckin’ towel!” 

Jeb takes off his towel and hands it over to Liam with a scared, confused look on his face.

Liam carefully folds the towel into a square, then places it atop Jeb’s sweat-dampened head. He holds it there firmly and looks back at Happyboy with a smile while using his other hand to press the muzzle of his gun against the towel. 

Happyboy turns around to take Jade’s outstretched hand, barely blinking at the sound of the muffled gunshot behind him.

***

AC/DC’s “Back in Black” blasts from Liam’s car stereo while he and Jade pass a joint between them. When it’s snuffed out, Liam cracks open a Keystone Light from a six-pack on the floor and raises it toward Jade. “Cheers, babe,” he laughs before raising it to his lips.

Jade smiles at him, grabs the beer from his hand and chugs it down in one gulp, followed by a loud belch.

“Wow!” Liam exclaims in awe. “This girl likes her drink!”

In the backseat, Happyboy lies on his side, staring blankly at the back of Liam’s dirty cloth seat. “Jade, please, I’m so hungry,” he whimpers. He bites down on his knuckle to distract himself. 

“Here ya’ go, big boy,” Liam says casually while tossing a plastic-wrapped half baloney & cheese sandwich over his shoulder onto the backseat. 

Happyboy tears off the wrapper and downs the sandwich in two large bites. “I’m still hungry,” Happyboy whines. “Can’t we just go to Golden Corral?” He turns over on his seat and faces the backrest.

Jade looks over at Liam with pleading eyes. “C’mon Li, it should be fine. I told him earlier we could go after this one.” She places a hand on Liam’s thigh.

Liam pats her hand. “Let’s just see how this one goes. Should be gettin’ two bills from these fuckers. Maybe you can work him for another fifty or so an’ then we can go after.” He tokes the joint, then adds, “If not, I got plenty ’a food the fat little bastard can eat back in the apartment.” Liam takes a long pull from his beer. “An’ he don’ need t’eat every goddam minute of the day, else he’s gonna fuckin’ explode.”

Jade looks back at Happyboy, who’s turned around with his face buried in the backrest of the seat. She smiles then turns back around and grabs the smoldering joint from Liam’s hand. She takes the last hit as he pulls into the cracked old parking lot of the apartment complex. Staring at the dark, drab brick apartment building in front of her, lit only by a small sliver of moonlight, Jade sighs and asks, “How much longer, Li?”

Looking over at her with empty eyes, Liam replies, “When I say so.”

“But what about Happy? He’s just—”

“Not now, Jade. I – we – need the fuckin’ money.”

Liam takes the joint from Jade and presses it out in his ashtray. Looking at her for a long moment, he asks, “Good to go?”

Jade exhales softly, then quietly nods back to him.

Liam nods. “Room 214, second floor. Dude’s name is Jeb.”

****

Eyes closed, Happyboy looks deep into the black void. Like he always does to ignore the hunger screaming out from his stomach and consuming his body. He pinches his eyes tight and smiles, relieved when the colored rays break through the void. This part always relaxes him. But he’s never seen this one before. Maybe it’s a new one just waiting to escape into the light.

Happyboy can hear the sizzling bacon from the kitchen. And that smell. That delicious smell of frying bacon that fills his nostrils and expels every competing odor, every other sense. And possesses him.

Happyboy knows what that smell means: that momma is close by. She’s in the kitchen with her apron and spatula, just cookin’ quietly and hummin’ along. Maybe even signin’? Momma loved to sing. Happyboy walks into the kitchen and momma turns around with a smile. She plants a soft warm kiss on his forehead and tussles his hair. “Look what I made for you, baby boy,” she says while pointing over at a full plate on the kitchen table. A heap of scrambled eggs, hash browns, bacon and sausage links sit invitingly next to a smaller plate of thick buttered toast. 

Between mouthfuls, Happyboy looks up at momma excitedly. “Can we get ice cream later? Jade said—”

“Well now … daddy may need the truck today, but if not then maybe—” 

Before momma can finish, Happyboy jumps out of his chair and races towards the stairwell. “I’m gonna ask Jade so maybe she can ask daddy to take us!”

“Happyboy, no!” momma yells after him. “Don’t go up there! C’mon back down here!”

But it’s too late. Happyboy bounds up the stairs as fast as he can, using his hands to propel him up the stairs in front of him. Breathless when he reaches Jade’s bedroom door, Happyboy is too excited to hear the steady grunts on the other side. He turns the doorknob and throws the door open but then stops. His face goes slack when he looks over toward the bed.

“Happy!” Jade screams at him. But a meaty hand slides over her mouth as her head is forced violently into the pillow beneath her. Her eyes fill with tears as she struggles to breathe. Happy looks behind her and his legs give out. There he is. Mounted behind Jade. Thick tattooed forearms pinning her down while his hips thrust violently atop her.

Daddy.

***

“The fuck is wrong with you?” asks Liam as he pushes Happyboy into the back seat of the Civic. On the passenger side, Jade leans shaking against the door, quiet sobs escaping her mouth from somewhere much deeper. “Get the fuck in the car, Jade!” Liam shouts while looking wildly around the parking lot. “We gotta get the fuck outta here! Like now! Pronto!”

Jade doesn’t move. She’s staring through the rear window at Happyboy, whose face is pressed against the glass looking anxiously back at Jade. “I’m so sorry, baby,” she repeats over and over, only stopping when Liam grabs a fistful of her hair and yanks the car door wide open. 

“Goddammit I fuckin’ told you we gotta get the fuck out—” Liam stops short when he feels the gun being pulled from the rear waistband of his jeans. He lets go of Jade and spins around. But before he completes his pivot, the butt of the gun crashes into his face and he falls backward, tripping over Jade’s foot onto the cold black pavement of the parking lot. Staring up in shock with one hand pressed against his shattered eye socket, Liam murmurs painfully, “Why you fat little fuckin’ bas—”

Liam stops when the first bullet pierces his jugular. Happyboy’s kick strikes him beneath the jaw and drives his head back into the pavement. Blood spurts through Liam’s fingers that are grasping at his throat.

Wasting no time, Jade grabs Liam’s keys from his pocket and hurries around to the driver-side door while Happyboy hops into the passenger seat. His door slams shut as the Civic peels out of the parking lot. 

“What we gonna do now?” Happyboy asks Jade when they’re out on the road. 

Keeping her eyes fixed in front of her, Jade shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t know. We’ll figure it out, baby.” She pauses, then adds, “We always do.”

After a long silence, Jade looks over at Happyboy with a comforting smile. “Still hungry, baby? Golden Corral might still be open.”

“That’s okay,” Happyboy replies, placing his hand protectively over Jade’s. “I’m good ‘til breakfast.”

Stickball Promiscuous and the Matrimonial Miscommunication

Stickball Promiscuous, the retired broomsquire, was aghast when, shortly after he’d joined her with bawdy intentions in the hay-stuffed sackcloth that passed for their conjugal bed, his wife and helpmate Hoggesflesh informed him that his penis was crummy.

“You’re not exactly in the bloom of youth yourself!” the former twig-tyer cried. “Believe me, there are things I could say about your vagina. For example, I could compare it to an empty bag of potato chips, or a worn-out baseball mitt, or for that matter, a dusty sarcophagus, or an old rusted out pipe, or a piece of lasagna left out overnight on the kitchen counter during dry weather, or even a thrift shop penny loafer. In fact, the only thing stopping me from making such comparisons is the fear of what could happen to me, socially speaking, if I did and you subsequently posted about it on the internet. For one thing, Shlomo the cobbler would almost surely be prohibited by his wife from ever inviting me over again for brandy and stimulating conversation about the relative merits of realism versus nominalism, and for another, I highly doubt Eanflæd the garment weaver would be willing to sell me a new undertunic at the upcoming market day, which would be bad news indeed considering my current one reminds me more and more every time I catch a passing whiff of it of the back end of a dyspeptic hognose.”

“My dear,” came Hoggesflesh’s reply, “I’m afraid you’ve got me all wrong. I didn’t say your penis was crummy – I said it was crumby.”

And in all fairness to Hoggesflesh, considering that Stickball had spent the entire afternoon naked below the waist eating croissants and Cadbury Flakes, it probably was.