Dazed

Death is all around me. Seems like every fucking day too. Ran into a drive-by on 10th and Cherry the other night. The corpse was horribly mutilated, pierced by numerous bullets. Broken body lying scattered against a graffiti-sprayed cinderblock wall. I didn’t stick around. Saw a six-car pileup on the 405 today. Two bodies covered with increasingly red sheets. Eerie feeling, just seeing the feet stick out. One was missing a shoe. One of the cars, an old beat-up looking Dodge, had a shattered red stained windshield.

This seems to be the month for death. My girlfriend’s grandpa passed away. Two of the girls in her office lost people. One of my friends lost her cousin in a wreck. A college buddy was gunned down in cold blood–for his bike! My mother called to tell me that one of my high school friends died in a car wreck in Virginia. This girl always wanted to get married; never did. Just got engaged and jilted.

—THE PUBLISHERINTERRUPTS THIS STORY TO STATE THAT VIOLENCE OF ANY SORT IS NOT TO BE CONDONED AND ANY MENTION OF VIOLENCE, VIOLENT ACTIVITIES OR VIOLENT DESIRES IS HEREBY THE SOLE RESPONSIBILITY OF THE AUTHOR’S PROTAGONIST, WHOMEVER HE OR SHE ULTIMATELY WILL BE—

…and you know what else he said? That cockfucker said he’d like to grudgefuck her off a mountain! Rape her, pull her guts out and eat ‘m for dinner. Now what do you think about that?

Oh, you’re back. Sorry for the interruption. You see, I don’t get to exercise full control. I don’t have sole authority and I have to deal with motherfuckers like the publisher and those other goddamn writerfuckers!

Anyway, like I was saying, last night we heard a blood curdling scream if there ever was one. Went on and on. We’re actually kind of used to them by now. It’s our neighborhood. After a few minutes, it suddenly stopped. Couple moments later and the thump thump thump of the chopper blades started FOR ONLY THE UMPEENTH FUCKING TIME THAT DAY and the spotlights shone in glaring all around and we peeked through the blinds to see the street being blocked off by the coppers and we knew it had happened again. When they finally found the body…

—WE’RE SORRY, BUT WE CANNOT ALLOW THE DESCRIPTION OF THE CORPSE TO APPEAR DUE TO ITS GRISLY NATURE. FAMILY PUBLICATIONS LIKE THIS MUST MAINTAIN THEIR VENEERS OF RESPECTABILITY… I MEAN MUST UPHOLD COMMUNITY AND FAMILY MORAL STANDARDS…—

…and it was disgusting to see but I’m sure it will dry. God knows the apartment down the hall stunk for days after that old witch offed herself, but it eventually went away and the present occupant states that only rarely does he ever smell anything closely resembling death and decay and usually he is all doped up anyway with a giant buttplug up ‘m too so it doesn’t matter.  Julius dug death anyway. He kept hoping to go in a fiery car wreck. That’s why he bought his little red Fiat. So when he did it on the 405 or the 710, it would be immediate and bloody.

But I don’t know about all that. All I know is, I occasionally get a strange sensation when I look at razorblades, especially when water is running. I’ve dreamed, you know. The walls are absolutely soaked with a mixture of cum ‘n blood. Gets kinda pasty. I wonder how you could market that? “Orgasmic Glue for a Bloodthirsty Generation?”

Ya ever seen someone get decapitated? I have. Another car wreck. Little blond girl. Friend with her. Little Volkswagen. They were probably doing about 60 on a commercial road with a top speed limit of 40. Mega-sized truck stopped in the left lane to turn. Of course, didn’t use his signal and the girls never saw it coming. When her head came off   

—ONCE AGAIN, WE APOLOGIZE TO READERS ON BEHALF OF THIS ESTEEMED PUBLICATION. THE AUTHOR’S PROTAGONIST SEEMS UNCOOPERATIVE REGARDING THE SENSITIVE NATURE OF THIS SUBJECT MATTER AND REPRIMANDS WILL SURELY FOLLOW. WE HOPE FOR NO FURTHER INTERRUPTIONS—

… and I saw that big, fat juicy cock peeking out at me there on the beach and I wanted to suck it, lick his balls, rim him out, feel cum gushing down…

Oh shit! You’re back.

So, going back to that wreck, the car came to a stop and the look on the passenger’s face was indescribable. I went to the funeral. Closed casket. The priest gave a nice speech about what a great life she had (yeah, all 19 fucking years of it!), how quickly she went, and how she was now up in motherfuckingheaven with god and angels and that BS. I wanted to stand up and scream “You shoulda seen the look of anguish and horror on her face as it was coming off of her body and the blood flew and it wasn’t fast it was torturous and deadly and the head hung on by a thread of gristle and her friend ate her face for lunch and now her life is motherfucking ruined,” but I somehow restrained myself and left.

So I picked up a magazine the other day in some indie bookstore and it was all about death and suicide and shit like that. Question Me was the name maybe? Don’t quite remember. It had hundreds of photos of people with their faces shot off, fingers still on the trigger, and of hangings, faces purple and bloated

—WE INTER…

No you don’t! Not this time buddy. Come in here once more and I’ll bite your fucking nuts off. This is my territory, and you can’t fuck with it! Besides I want some ass. And I’m not too particular. It’s all about sets of balls cumming…

Fuck. Again?

What? Who? The reader? What do you mean? What the hell does the reader have to do with anything? A story? With action? I’m sorry, but that isn’t possible here. This is interior monologue. There aren’t any other characters. We can’t have dialogue and there’s only one way of looking at things–my way! Got it? Besides, this IS a story of sorts.

God, the interruptions. 

My creators sent me to therapy when I was young. Eleven. Everyone claimed I was too violent, too angry, they wanted to “help” me. I even got into a fight with one of my shrinks. Supposed to be caring and nurturing. Yeah, right.

I like to ramble. I go on and on about things. Meaningless, really. Don’t know why. I think I just live for that next hot flash; the knowledge of life leaving someone else, being squeezed out. Or maybe just cum being squeezed out. What’s the difference? Fear of the unknown? The power of bestowing that fear upon others. I want to pound hard, I want to crash and burn. I want to know the real fear of fear and enjoy watching others’ realization while nutting out.

I read a bizarrely fascinating story last week about some freak who went to morgues at night and would pay the nightwatchmen to let him in with the corpses. Would tell ’em that he had this ‘thing’ about reading the Bible amongst corpses, would slip ’em $50s, and would be left alone. Then he’d fuck the corpses, over and over again. In their dead cunts, assholes, mouths, entrails if he could get to ‘m. When I read this story, I was disgusted, but the more I think about it, the more titillated I find myself. I mean, if you’ve got people trying to legalize pedophilia, why the hell not necrophilia? You could really let loose! Don’t hold back; anything goes! Fuck ’em in the ear; fuck ’em in the nose, hell anywhere.

Death. It’s all around. I know a lot of people who believe that karma shit, reincarnation, you know? They say that people come back, that the bug flying around your burger could be your Aunt Hilda. Well, bully for them! They know what’s what. I say, smack the shit outta ’em! Knock those little bastards around. They want to move on to a better afterlife anyway. You’re just doing them a favor. In fact, I’m a major proponent of offing all religious types. They’re always whining about going on to the hereafter; well, help ’em along! I’m only too damn glad to rid the world of those pretentious smug fascist bastards. If they’re dying to meet their gods, who am I to stay in their way? Accommodate their wishes, say I.

And, you know what else???

OUR MOST SINCERE APOLOGIES. WE AT THIS PUBLICATION APOLOGIZE FOR LETTING THE AUTHOR’S PROTAGONIST GET INAPPROPIRATELY CARRIED AWAY. SOME WRITERS SEEM TO DO THIS OFTEN. WE HAVE PEOPLE IN THE PRODUCTION DEPARTMENT WORKING ON THIS PROBLEM EVEN AS WE SPEAK. FICTION CAN BE SO MESSY ANYWAY. MUCH BETTER TO STAY WITH NONFICTION. REAL LIFE. PERHAPS A LITTLE SELF-HELP. VERY POPULAR THESE DAYS. IN FACT, OUR COMPANY WILL BE EXPANDING INTO SOME OTHER FIELDS IN THE NEAR FUTURE WHILE DOWNSIZING OUR FICTION RELEASES. AGAIN WE APOLOGIZE; WE HAVE BROUGHT ANOTHER AUTHOR OUT OF HIDING TO TIDY THINGS UP.

Hello. I am an author. I have been procured by the above-mentioned company for the purpose of cleaning things up a bit, so to speak. We want to be reader-friendly here. So sorry about those previous intrusions. I mean narratives. I mean, oh what’s the use? Can’t pull one over on your lot. We’re all in it together. I mean, the company, the protagonist, yes, even me. We’re very…oh…well, you see, we want your business. Thus, we decided to create some sort of…well, tension. Marketing came up with it. It’s all a scam, I must say. But, we’re all adults here. I mean, can’t we all get along? Work it out? That sort of thing? Basically we all love to jerk off and that’s the experience we’re providing, if in an unusual package.

I spoke with the CEO about it recently. It’s just that the publishing industry is dying, as you know — thanks tech! Actual books are dying, magazines are dying, newspapers are long gone–all because of bits? Hexes? Social media? People don’t want to read anymore. Watching jism shoot out of a pulsating cock is where people are now.

We’ve decided to try a new business model. Rock hard XXX lit cum dumps wrapped around ultraviolence that Anthony Burgess never could compete with. After all, many think they go hand in hand and maybe all it takes will be underlying suggestions, found here, to really get people’s rocks off. Who knows? Call it a modern de Sade. And if this new model jerks er, takes off, we plan to incorporate digital, interactive – but we’re still trying to ensure this is a quality interactive experience without JG Ballarding it – but that’ll be up to readers, if so inspired.

What? Sick? Twisted? Crime? I think those’re a bit strong. Not real stories? Of course they are! Well, they’re meant to be. Plot? Of course they have one. They’ve got a characters, beginnings, and…ok, we’re working on endings.  But we all need closure in our lives. Everything has an ending. And remember that singer? That Australian group? INX-something? Think that, but like quantumed. Our goal is to make you cum so fucking hard that you’ll never want to go back to just boring kinky sex. And some might not be able to – the new path to the ultimate orgasm.

Oh yeah. Naturally this is just fantasy and we don’t and won’t actually be advocating any of this. Don’t want to read about too many disastrous incidents accompanying some personal pleasure, right? It’s fiction. But we think anyone likely found … impacted … will have the biggest damn satisfied smile on their face – if their face is still there. And that truly original high stakes Vio-Sex-game sounds like damn perfection. Doesn’t it?

Sex Education

“We don’t need to ask what the poet means, just what he feels. Better yet, Adam, what do you feel when you read these lines?”

“What lines?”

The guys chuckled; two or three guffawed in that attention-gathering way of hulky jocks. Oh dear; perhaps her admiration for beefy athletes, as well as slender swimmer types, had become too obvious once again. The more serious, academic-minded boys disappeared from her range of vision, although she encouraged their poetic sensibilities because, after all, it was a poetry appreciation class. One or two of the students had literary aspirations, which she, of all people, would be the last to discourage. A poet herself, Mandy understood the creative impulse. She also painted swirling, delicate water colours inspired by dream imagery, took Indonesian dance classes at the Java Institute, and meditated in the lotus position under a print of vulvar flowers by Georgia O’Keefe.

The less physically prepossessing among her students benefited from the presence of athletes who helped to spread good cheer in her class room. Most of the two dozen students consisted of males who belonged to one college sports team or another. Five girls huddled together in a corner, smirking more than smiling, she noted, giving each other pregnant looks. Everyone passed. She awarded marks liberally, if they wrote the way she talked or tried to show their appreciation. She didn’t correct grammar or structure because Mandy believe they inhibited creativity. On their papers, she was certain the students benefitted more from comments like “I enjoyed the soul of your essay.” If one of the jocks had written in muddled prose, she wrote in an exquisite hand: “this is a wonderful and truthful piece of work, Jimmy. Do come see me after class to discuss it.” Jimmy came, and she saw to it that he would come again. No one had ever complained about a high mark.

“Were you paying attention, Adam?”

“Yes, miss. I was following your lines, miss.”

In the library last week before her evening class began at seven, they had found a secluded study carrel. She unwound her batik sarong, purchased in Jakarta where she had taught English as second language to lithesome boys for a few months before too many clucking tongues and that incident of betel juice spat in her face indicated that it was time to leave. During his penetrating embrace of her jasmine-scented body on the carrel desk near the deserted philosophy stacks, Adam had repeated, “Oh, miss, miss, oh God, you’re so hot, miss, I’m coming, fuck, fuck, I’m cummmmming.” They shuddered together beautifully and he loved it when she praised his silky-smooth body and wrapped her sarong around his hunky body.

Unlike many of her female colleagues, she hadn’t repressed sexual allure simply because of the pedagogical imperative. She didn’t believe in the traditional hierarchy of education and the arbitrary barriers it established between students and their teachers who were more or less the same age, give or take six or seven years. Well, that wasn’t as true as it used to be, since time inexorably pushed her further and further away in years, but surely not in desires. She understood the fantasies and natural compulsions of randy boys.

That commune in California had taught her the joys of openness and the role sensuality played in developing the mind. Logic and rationality had corroded the Western spirit. And how gorgeous the boys! The tasty bodies, the curvature, the firm thighs, the long strong legs, the lips and hips, the flat washboard or smoothly hard stomachs, the bright and sensitive eyes awash with healthy lust, and, oh, glory be, their proud and demanding cock, the pride of their beautiful masculinity. Students learned so much better if they were also loved. Occasionally, Mandy experienced a twinge of guilt when she thought about the girls. She always chatted casually with them and tried to persuade them to join in the camaraderie of the classroom and not assume that sulky look of comic book heroines who wondered if their boyfriends really loved them.

Ah, love, love: love was not simply a subject of sonnets or pop songs. It was thrilling physicality like Adam’s provocative chest, his nipples pushing against the tightness of his black T-shirt. Oh, lovely nipples, oh, lovely belly button, oh, lovely lips and tongue. She had licked his sweet-smelling flesh in a deserted section of the library stacks, delighting in its saltiness, her hands almost within reach of Allan Ginsberg’s Howl.

True, times were a-changing, a lesson emphatically made clear at the end of her first teaching year in that Connecticut private school where the headmaster suggested that her methods and their curriculum were irreconcilable. At least, the good man had written a glowing letter of reference to ease the transition and avoid unpleasantness. Here, in this junior college, Mandy believed she had found a permanent home when she was hired three years ago. The college had opened its doors in the heyday of countercultural movements years ago, and still prided itself on innovation in pedagogy and non-traditional teaching techniques. So, it claimed, but definitions of pedagogical technique seemed to be a matter of opinion at times.

In the early years of its existence, several teachers had been hired on the basis of real-life work experience, alternative knowledge gained in the third world, and not upon standard degrees, which they did not all possess. Despite greyness and sagginess, many still wore jeans, and a few of the older male teachers sported ponytails. Yes, she had been born after the fact, but her parents had smoked, toked, chanted, meditated, and protested all over the United States. Her sojourn in the forest commune was the result of an impulse to explore heightened consciousness and liberation shortly after graduating from the university.

In the commune, she absorbed eastern thought in a totally non-structured way, walking through among giant trees with one guru or another, men who had transvalued themselves and emerged, well, elevated above the muck and mire of mere materialism. They had also raised coitus to a platonic ideal without sacrificing the physical. Three gurus had taught her tantric sex, not always at the same time, which she tried to teach to her favourite students, but they got tangled in each other’s limbs. They tended towards impatience and quick thrusts, satisfying in their way, but not entirely spiritual. Oh, blessed boys, oh happy satyrs frolicking in the pools, who had such pleasure in them to give, to whom she could give so much more.

“Jean-Claude, what do you feel about Whitman’s lines? Please read them aloud first, so we can all enjoy them again.”

He did not look at her sitting on the desk in front of the blackboard, one leg crossed and sandaled feet visible beneath below the hemline of her sarong. The finely muscled structure of his shoulders apparent beneath his football jersey, Jean-Claude shifted his legs and leaned forward, hunched over his book, and read the lines:

Are you the new person drawn toward me?
To begin with take warning, I am surely far different from what you suppose;
Do you suppose you will find in me your ideal?
Do you think it so easy to have me become your lover?

Dear heart, he read English with a heavy Québécois accent that made her bones tingle with pleasure, although today his voice had a hurried, hard quality. So demanding when he made love, a bit too rough, and insisting that she always be available to satisfy his aching needs and must never let another guy fuck her. She did not need anyone else, he proclaimed. After the fifth time last month, they had a little tête-à-tête about jealous possessiveness, and not expecting more than the ecstasy they shared in the moment. Embrace the joys of the here and now and don’t try to chain the future, she had tried to teach him. 

He mustn’t think of breaking up with Rachel of the auburn hair and distinctly pouty expression, one of the girls who sat in the back row. Surely, Jean-Claude didn’t believe that Mandy could ever replace his girlfriend, such an intelligent young lady? Despite all her exquisite ministrations and his ejaculations wherever he pleased, he had raged out of her apartment when she’d refused to swear everlasting fidelity to a sweet boy who had his entire future ahead of him. Oh, the sensuous texture of his skin, like shimmering satin. How she loved watching him dive like a demigod into the pool during swim team practise until her presence aroused too much attention. 

Conceivably out of pique, Rachel had spoken to the dean, who in turn requested a meeting. She had always praised the girl and awarded her high marks. The boys were all over 18, well, except for Jean-Claude, who would turn 18 next month, and one or two others, but no one knew about them, she didn’t think. The meeting with the academic dean, her department head, and a union representative was directly after class. Why had the union become involved? A student had complained about her marking methods; that was all she had been told by the chairperson; that, and “other issues” which required consideration. The matter could hardly be a question of labour relations. She taught her classes well, her success rate above average, students contented; indeed, happy. New students, mostly boys, flocked to register in her class at the beginning of each semester. Why would anyone complain about high marks to the dean? 

Perhaps it would be wise not to put Jean-Claude on the spot, so Mandy turned towards, well, a female seemed advisable, but not Rachel. Louise had golden frizzy curls just like hers, although the girl’s body tended towards the Rubenesque, which, great for a painter, didn’t appeal to most randy athletes.

“Thank you, Jean-Claude. Let’s get someone else involved. Louise, what do you feel about the lines Jean-Claude just read?”

Louise mumbled an answer to which Mandy paid scant attention because the class had come to an end. Jean-Claude rushed away. She wanted a word with him. Mandy couldn’t dally with the boys jostling around her like satyrs encircling a nymph in a forest glade. Adam slipped her a note that she read as she sauntered toward the dean’s office on the second floor. Mandy wondered if she should agree to spend the weekend with Adam and a couple of other boys, whom she had personally tutored to improve their performance. He had a heated pool and his parents would be in New York.

When she entered the dean’s office, his secretary was decidedly cool in her greeting. That didn’t surprise Mandy, for the secretary always wore a disapproving scowl on her face, but she was surprised to see Jean-Claude sitting, hunched over as usual, almost panting under an official school portrait. He didn’t reply to her question. Nor did he even bother to look at her, and he turned his body away when she approached, as if to avoid contagion.

The dean opened the door and wordlessly motioned for Jean-Claude and Mandy to enter his office.

The Schlong

~ Inspired by Nickolai Gogol’s “The Nose”

One day when Peter pulled himself to the apex of the rowing machine at the gym, he felt his penis pinched in the mechanism. As he slid backwards, his unattached cock scampered away, squealing, Free! Free!

What the fuck? Peter discretely looked down inside his gym shorts and saw—horrified—only a smooth patch of skin where his manhood used to be. He started chasing the darting dick, weaving in between weight machines and treadmills, only to see it skedaddle out the front door and vanish. 

He finally spotted a red two-seater Porsche that had just finished filling up at the gas station across the street from the gym. The driver was none other than his runaway body part, wearing a snazzy black track suit.

Peter knocked on the side window: Excuse me, but aren’t you my penis?

~Listen, asshole, I have a mind of my own. And I’m horny as hell. I need sex, and I need it now. So—fuck off.

You’ll regret this, Peter said.

~Oh, blow me. And the red Porsche zoomed away.

At wit’s end, Peter drove to Urgent Care. The amazed doctors kept poking the patch of smooth skin. Soon, the entire staff gathered to gawk at Peter’s groin as he lay on his back in bed, wearing only a hospital gown. 

He ran half-dressed to his car, where, looking at his phone, he discovered that his cocky cock, using the screenname “Playa,” had somehow amassed over 10,000 Instagram followers in less than a day and was now considered an “influencer.”

I’ll fix his little red wagon, Peter thought as he complained about his missing prick to the police. They responded, Pranking 9-1-1 is a felony, and hung up on him.

He went to bed early that night with a throbbing migraine. The next morning, half-awake, he stumbled to the toilet as usual and flipped up the seat with a bang.

His hand automatically reached down and grabbed his schlong. It had returned to its normal place and enthusiastically started to pee.

Come to Me

Luna, still fully clothed in the tight jeans and sweater she’d worn when she prowled the bars last tonight, lay upon her bed. Her head swam, then swayed pendulously to the side and she saw the LED numbers of the clock: 7am. With her tongue she licked dry lips. Cotton mouth, she thought. She closed her eyes and felt as though she were treading water over her head. Her eyes flicked open and the room appeared to be spinning. Again, she shut her eyes tight. Luna was still drunk.

***

“C’mon, babe,” said Rita, “let’s get high,” and she mimed bringing a cigarette to her lips. Luna nodded and across the dance floor they threaded their way. Then out the front door and to the back of the tavern, where they climbed a rickety flight of stairs to the venerable old building’s roof. There they joined a half dozen other bar patrons familiar to them. The acrid smell of burning marijuana was thick in the air and a soft wind blew the blue smoke into the distance.

The joint reached the newcomers, who toked avidly, then passed  the reefer on to the next person. “You ought to get closer to Rick,” suggested Rita.

Luna rolled her eyes exaggeratedly, owing to her consumption of THC, and said, “Not a chance.” Rita’s brother was 20 years old, or five years younger than his sister and Luna.

“How come?” asked Rita. “He told me he’d like to get to know you better. He digs you.”

“He digs my chest,” corrected Luna. When Rita gazed at her quizzically, Luna continued, “When I ran into him downstairs, he said to me, ‘Nice rack.’ “

Rita winced. “I know he’s a little crude with women sometimes, but it’s only because he doesn’t understand them. He’s young. I think he really likes you. He was probably only kidding.”

“Sorry, Rita, but I told him to go screw, and that I didn’t want to be a notch on his bedpost,” said Luna.

“Rick’s not a player, Luna,” protested Rita. “He might kid a lot, but basically he’s pretty lonely. He’s got stuff going on and could use another friend.”

“I know he’s your brother, Rita, and you’d like something to happen, but there’s no chemistry. I can’t get excited about a guy — no matter how good-looking, which he is — who obsesses on a woman’s body parts. You know what I mean?” she asked.

Rita shrugged.

“Besides,” continued Luna, “Say we did hook up, dated for a while, and then broke up? He might hate me and then how would you feel about me? I mean, there are millions of guys; why should I date the brother of my very best friend and risk screwing that relationship up? You’re lots more important to me than any guy.”

“But, I’m not saying you need to date him. Rick’s not like that, believe me. He’s no player.”

Luna smiled, took the next joint that had made its way around again, and said, “I’ll toke to that. Best friends don’t grow on trees,” Luna went on. “Guys do, just like nuts and fruits and apes….”

Rita laughed. “So, babe, do you want to start dating me? We already know we’re compatible. And I promise not to fixate on any of your…parts.” She looked, sleepy-eyed and stoned, at Luna.

“Sure thing,” replied Luna. “Just clear it with your old man first, okay? i don’t want to cross any jealous husbands.” 

Rita hugged Luna, who hugged her back. “Deal,” she said.

Some of the other stoners, completely blitzed by now, began to sing, loudly and off key. Lyin Eyes, an ancient song by The Eagles, thought Luna, recognizing the tune.

“C’mon,” suggested Rita. “Let’s beat it before the cops investigate all the racket.” The women descended the flight of stairs and returned to the tavern. “There’s one thing I’d like to say to you, Luna,” said Rita somberly, as they passed through the door of the pub.

“What is it?” asked Luna.

“Woman to woman, babe, and as your best friend….” Luna looked at her. “You do have a nice rack!” 

Luna slugged Rita in the arm and they both laughed.

***

The evening proceeded apace and Luna, who loved to dance and drink beer, danced and drank beer with everyone, male and female. Near the end of the evening, she even danced with Rick, who was still smarting a little from her rejection of him earlier in the evening. He was contrite.

“I apologize for insulting you, Luna,” he said, taking her in his arms for a rare slow dance.

“Forget it, Rick,” she told him, putting her hands round his neck. Luna was drunk and Rick’s strong, sinewy physique felt good to her. Sensual.

“We’re okay then?” he asked, placing his hands round her waist.

“We’re good,” she agreed. Suddenly the DJ spun a record that always affected Luna: How Deep is Your Love, a hit by the Bee Gees nearly half a century ago. For whatever reason, it always made her amorous. As couples softly swayed to the music, Luna reached down and moved Rick’s hands from her waist to her hips. He gently squeezed her cheeks. Ah, she thought, much better. The dancers molded their bodies against the other and moved in time to the beat. Rick almost instantly became aroused.

“Nice junk,” whispered Luna, gently pushing her pelvis into Rick’s.

After the bar closed, Rick went home with Luna.

***

According to the clock/radio on Luna’s bedside table, it was nearly 4am. She and her new lover had been going at it for more than an hour. The boy has stamina, she thought drunkenly. Luna was on her elbows and knees, with Rick, behind her, with his hands clutching her  thighs, was thrusting his cock in and out of her with a beat reminiscent of How Deep is Your Love, the song they’d danced to hours ago. Suddenly he stopped.

“Wh….what is it?” Luna asked, looking back at him over her shoulder.

“I’m getting ready to come,” Rick confessed. He was breathing very hard. A thin bead of sweat ran down his naked chest.

“What’s wrong with that?” she asked.

“I want you to come at the same time,” he said huskily, and withdrew and turned her over on her back.

Most men she knew, thought Luna, weren’t in the least concerned whether she climaxed or not. This was another mark in Rick’s favor, she decided.

With Luna now on her back, Rick gently spread her legs and entered her. Luna gave a little gasp. Rick was huge. He did have nice junk!

Softly caressing and then kissing her breasts, he moved his hips in rhythm to Marvin Gaye’s Sexual Healing, which Luna had put on repeat on her stereo.

Luna’s breaths were coming faster now and she began to move her ass in little circles, affording Rick additional stimulation. Rick reached his hand down and squeezed Luna’s butt, inserting one of his long fingers into her anus. Now she was panting. Next, she was thrusting her pelvis into his and together they came with little groans of ecstacy. Luna grew still, but Rick kept pumping away and in moments he was hard again.

“God, oh God,” cried Luna and together they came a second time. Afterwards, they lay spent, on the bed, which was moist with their perspiration.

Snuggling face to face with her young lover, Luna whispered, “God, Rick, I’ve never come like that before. You know, if you keep practicing, you’re liable to get pretty good at this.” Together, they laughed and held each other tight.

***

When Luna awoke, she glanced at the clock and gasped. 9am! She was late for work, she thought, instantly rattled. Then she remembered: last night was a Saturday and she went out to the bar, which meant that this was only Sunday. With that load off her mind, she sighed and turned over to go back to sleep, but suddenly she was fully awake. Where was Rick? she wondered. She looked around. None of his clothes were there, not the jeans she had peeled off him early this morning, after the tavern, so they could have mind-blowing sex. And the thick leather belt she had pulled out of the loops of his jeans so that he could softly beat her ass. She stared down at herself. When did she get redressed? Where did Rick go? she wondered again. He didn’t even say goodbye.

***

At work on Monday, Luna ran into Rita in the break room and they sat at a table to enjoy a Pepsi. “How’s Rick?” asked Luna, regarding her friend closely. Both women were editors at a prominant literary magazine.

“He’s fine,” replied Rita.

Huh! thought Luna. Maybe Rick hadn’t told his sister of his budding relationship with her best friend. Brother and sister was extraordinarily close, Luna knew.

“I think he might’ve found a new friend,” remarked Rita with a smile.

“Anyone I might know?” asked Luna with a straight face.

Rita shrugged. “He wouldn’t tell me their name.” A pause. “I hope it’s not some low-life from the college, you know, 18 and loose.”

Luna frowned. “I’m sure he wouldn’t date someone like that, Rita. I think your brother has better taste than that.” She glanced at her  friend’s face again, but it was inscrutable.

Rita furrowed her brow. “I thought you thought that he had no taste.”

“I never said that,” her friend protested. “I just said that he maybe focused too much on women’s body parts.”

Rita shrugged, finished her soda and tossed the can in the trash. “Back to the salt mines,” she said, and the women returned to work.

***

The next Saturday, Luna decided to try the tavern again. It had worked out well the last time. She’d had a wonderful time with Rick, but he hadn’t called her. What was that all about? she wondered. Perhaps she’d run into him tonight.

At the tavern, Luna hung around the bar, nursing a beer and looking for Rick. He was nowhere about. At long last, he appeared. By coincidence, the DJ began playing that old Bee Gees tune — their song — at that very moment. Taking this as an auspicious sign, Luna approached Rick, placed her hand on his arm and said, “I think this is our dance.” Rick started, swiftly withdrew his arm.

“I beg your pardon?” he said. He looked confused, distressed — embarrassed.

“Let’s dance, handsome,” said Luna, replacing her hand on his arm and pulling him onto the dance floor.

“Excuse me,” Rick said stiffly. “You told me what you thought of me last week and….frankly, I’m no longer interested, Luna.” And disengaging her hand once more, he walked away.

What the hell? thought Luna. She stood there alone on the dance floor as other couples began the slow dance and she soon felt stupid. Had it been only a dream?  Had she and Rick made passionate love last week or had she only imagined it? A sexual fantasy? Luna was an editor and she would have rejected any fiction which boasted the old meme, “It was all a dream.” But, in real life, did it ever actually happen? What was in the pot she’d smoked last week? Had there been a hallucinogen imbedded in the reefer? Her feelings for Rick, recently stirred… ” She felt lost.

Rita walked up to her, handed her another beer. “Got news, girlfriend.” Luna looked at her quizzically and Rita said, “I found out who Rick’s new lover is.” She grinned a shit-eating grin.

“Who…who is it?” asked Luna, increasingly baffled.

“The name is Amari,” revealed her friend.

“Who is she?”

“Not a she,” said Rita. “It’s a he.”

Luna blinked in astonishment. “Amari is a man?” she asked incredulously.

“He’s a writer, an African American,” explained Rita. “We’ve actually used some of his work at the magazine. In fact, I introduced him to Rick some time ago.”

Luna’s mind was muddled. “Is…is Rick…a”

“The word is gay,” said Rita with an understanding smile.

“But, I thought you wanted me to date your brother. You wanted us to hook up. You said he dug me.”

“I didn’t expect you to bed him, you silly goose. I only wanted you to become friendlier. You know, a platonic friendship. Rick doesn’t have many real friends.”

“How long have you known that Rick is gay?” asked Luna, feeling like she was a character in a movie.

“He’s been queer his whole life, baby. When he was much younger, I tried to convert him, you know, get him to like girls. But that was just my own ignorance acting out. I should have just accepted him as he was. It would’ve said us both a lot of heartache.”

“So Rick is happy with his sexual identity?” Luna wanted to know.

“I think so,” said Rita.

“Has he….ever dated girls?” she asked at last.

“Oh, I guess he might have, you know; but he has zero interest in the female gender. “Why would you ask that, Luna?”

“You don’t suppose he’s maybe, bi-?” she asked.

“Like I said, he has zero interest in the women. He told me recently that he came to terms with his sexuality after some deliberation, and that he had just one more thing to do before he accepted Amari’s proposal, a sort of experiment, he said. But, I guess the experiment was a success, because now he feels he’ll be comfortable in a same sex marriage.”

Now it all began to come together for Luna. “When’s the big day?” she asked weakly.

“In three weeks. You’ll be there, won’t you?”

Luna replied, “I’ll try to come — for Rick.”

Legal Affairs

The attractive client showed up at the prostitute’s motel room at the appointed hour.  Cindy looked at Wally and wondered this guy needs to pay for sex?  Well you can’t tell by looks, maybe his wife denies him or he’s got some kind of kink.

Wally looked at Cindy and thought Unusual – no signs of drug use or abuse and she appears healthy and attractive.

Wally told her “Show me what you got.”

Cindy said “Put the $150 on the table where I can see it first.”

Wally complied, then replied “Your turn.  Undress and get into bed.”

As she got undressed Wally noticed that she was unshaved and that she had erect nipples in her large areolas.  Her appearance and signs of arousal caused his arousal in turn which his pants couldn’t hide. 

While Wally inspected her, Cindy peeped at him and couldn’t help but smile at the effect she had on him. 

After Cindy got into bed, Wally said “You’re under arrest for prostitution” and showed her his badge.

Cindy reached for her blouse on the nightstand, brought out her badge and replied “You are under arrest for soliciting prostitution.”

They looked at each other.  After a long pause, Cindy said “Damn those screw-ups at headquarters.  I’m from the Northeast Precinct.  How about you?”

“Southeast.  Dumb question, but what is a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

“My ex-husband hated having a cop for a wife.  After our divorce, I thought that this assignment was the best revenge.  I know, kind of petty.  You?”

“I’ve seen what happens to sex workers and the families that they damage.  I’m happy that we have a diversion program for the women and men we bust.”

“What does your wife think about the work you do?  Does she complain like my husband did?”

“Never married.  Been close.  Mostly went through a series of breakups over stupid things.  The one I thought was the real thing died in a car accident.”

They stared at each other through a long silence until Cindy noted “We have the room for another two hours.”

It only took Wally three minutes to get naked and into bed.  After some mutual manual stimulation, ever the gentleman, Wally asked “What’s your preference?”  Cindy demonstrated by pushing him on his back and straddling him.  That only took them a couple of minutes.  They spent the rest of their limited minutes playing requests.  Licking, rubbing, and probing ensued with a soundtrack of Cindy’s purrs and chirps and Wally’s groans. 

The Beginning Of Their Story