Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Hope



"I just want love. Is that so awful? A kind touch, warm arms to wrap around me--isn't that normal?" Tears streamed down her cheeks and she enclosed herself in her own hollow embrace--as if that could ease the chill.


I looked at my friend and my heart echoed her words, "Sure Sara, everybody wants that. But the way you're going about it...you're losing your focus. How will you survive without a job? What about your kids?"


She looked so fragile. Cool gray eyes clouded over with exhaustion and depression, I felt for her. I really did. It was tough to be a single mother. I knew she was looking for a lifeline--for something that would make her life make sense. She faced me boldly, "I had it once. Real love--I felt in my soul --like quiet poetry washing over me. So simple yet so right. I felt it. I know what it is. I crave it Laurie."


I walked up to her then and shook her shoulders. Something had to get her attention. "You are losing everything! You've no money, no food, no electricity, you're gonna be evicted from your apartment.Where will you take your children? How will you live? You haven't even packed a box. How long before the state takes your kids and locks you in the loony bin? You gotta focus!"


Her face fell and sobs racked her slight frame. "I know. I know! What am I gonna do Laurie?!" She buried her face in my shoulder and I looked at the ceiling. The room was full of paintings she'd created years ago. Photographs of smiling faces leered like nightmares from freshly dusted frames. On top of everything....Christmas was coming.


People build you up when you have potential. They say, "What great artist. What a powerful writer." But life skills and inner strength aren't things you can really learn. You either have them to back up your talent--or you don't. I knew her paintings would sell--if she had the courage to put them in a gallery. I knew her writings could be published--if she had the balls to send them out. It wasn't that she was an empty shell of a woman. It wasn't that she was pathetic. It was just that life had beaten her down.


It was easy to be witty and charming online or in a classroom--but throw life obstacles at her and she collapses. She was everybody's darling when the party was roaring, but she was nobody's problem when the lights went out. I pushed her back and told her quietly,"I'll help you pack. We'll put your things in storage and you and the kids can stay with me. But you have to find a job. I can't afford to feed everyone."


I wasn't sure how much Sara heard. I watched her walk woodenly over to the Christmas tree. She tenderly fingered an ornament. There were lights strung in the branches, but they remained dark. Daylight was waning and our breath hovered in the air. The kids couldn't sleep there tonight--it was far too cold with the power disconnected. She pulled the angel down from the tree top. "I bought this when I was still married. I thought it was a symbol of hope. I guess I should've stayed with him..." Her words trailed off as her mind wandered. 


"Leaving him was the smartest thing you did! That marriage was toxic and you know it. We make our own hope, Sara. We create it within ourselves or else we lose everything. Now go find some clothes for the kids to wear to school tomorrow." Sara put the angel aside and climbed the steps like a zombie. The fog would clear. Her thoughts would flow and one day she'd be back to herself again. I could only  pray that when that day came she'd be able to forgive herself. It's a helluva thing to try and move forward when you're blanketed in guilt.


I opened an empty box and started to fill it with plates. Wrap the newspaper around the dish and stack it on the previous one. Wrap the newspaper and stack. Wrap and stack. Shit it's cold in here. I touched my cheek. The wetness I found there surprised me. I looked around the room slowly being eaten by shadows. We all want love...but at what cost?

Thursday, November 25, 2010

Happy Thanksgiving Day!!!!

Well, my fellow patriots....today is the day we gorge our faces, devour a roasted bird, watch some football, wrangle some kids, drink some brews, ignore our in laws, and give thanks for the year's madness!


So what are ya waitin' fer? Git to it! :D




I hope you all have a rockin' holiday. 


I for one, am thankful to have met such wonderful folks on Blogger, grateful to those who read my smutty tales and still called me friend. Take care and God bless. 


Hugs! ♥♥♥

Sunday, October 31, 2010

Ache

Scorpions sing of the wind of change
I watch the sand kick up
And swirl

Everything is shifting sand
Lost in the eye of hurricane
Lost on empty promises

It's a strange life
I'm a strange girl
A woman and yet

Somehow childishly free
I danced tonight
And laughed in moonlight

Sure the witching hour felt
My pulse catch
Felt my heart

Ache

Loneliness calls
Shadows fall
But light peeks through

I dreamt a dream of joy
Of early morning kisses
And late night caresses

I dreamt of long hair falling all around us
Big hands searching out my secrets
Warm breath on my neck


I dreamt of you.


Thursday, October 28, 2010

Sold!!! :)

Just using my blog to confirm a sale, sorry bloggers.

This is the box I made and the way it will ship.


Sunday, October 24, 2010

Saturday, October 16, 2010

It's a Prison

It's a prison. It's a horrible state where hunger begets hunger begets insanity begets self-destruction begets emptiness. And the emptiness becomes a void impossible to fill. Feelings consume and food becomes salvation. Eat away the tears. Eat away the loneliness. Eat away the pain. Eat away the self-doubt...the self-hate. Eat away the bitter truth. Eat away the past, the present, and the future.


Gorge until you're full. Gorge until your soul no longer bleeds.


Eat till you vomit.


It's hell. A place where faces spread and bulge and distort into something macabre. Your features get lost in the mess. Eyes too small to hold outsiders' attention, so they turn inward. Thick lips become traitors to the eyes as they wrap around each morsel. No one really sees you anymore. They see only the gelatinous ooze that you've become. Ankles with rolls that bunch and fall over bulbous feet. Shoes don't fit. So why wear them?


Skin hangs in long lumps of yellowish brown chicken gel. It bulges then droops. It twists. It shakes as you laugh. It shakes as you cry--like a bowl full of jelly. But you're no beloved old man in a red suit delivering toys to good little boys and girls. You're just you. Just invisible--yet gawked at--sad, not so little you. You're just fat.


You sit because standing hurts. You sit because walking steals your air. Life is a sweet grape to be plucked from the vine and savored--but you lost the truth of that somewhere along the way. You've become a monster in human form. A fucking joke--only no one's laughing. So you sit and you eat. You sit and you eat and you wait. You wait for death. You wait for the crane to knock down the wall. You wait for the news reporter to say what a beautiful soul was trapped in a freak-show form. You wait for your mother to sob, for your neighbors to say, "She was the kindest creature I've ever known."


It wasn't always this way. Once, many moons ago, you'd been a knobby kneed little thing with teeth too big for your smile. You ran and played and threw your arms wide and danced under swaying tree tops. You giggled and rolled down the hill. You raced the boys on your bike. You were sassy and fun and utterly brilliant. Once upon a time you shone like the sun.


A tear streams down your anonymous face. Vacant eyes stare vacantly into nothingness. You raise the turkey sandwich to numb lips. You can't taste anything. The colors have drained from your world and become a gray monotony that looms like storm clouds all around you. Love and lust and sex are fairy stories you read about in Harlequin. Chew, chew, swallow. Food isn't the enemy. You are. You've done this to yourself.


It's a prison. Yet they call it my body.


* I guess I had one more flash in me. I'm trying to lose weight. Guess I had something to say about it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V1bFr2SWP1I&ob=av3e

Friday, October 15, 2010

Lunch With a Psychic

You know the feeling you get when it seems like someone is watching you and the hair on the back of your neck stands up? Well, I was trolling the internet at work one day, on my break, using the community germ-infested computer when I got hit with that feeling. I looked around the crowded cafeteria and didn't notice anyone obvious. So I went back to wrecking havoc online.


Not a minute later a security guard pulls out the chair next to me and sits down. She stares right at me and I start to freak a little. I mean, hey, I don't swing that way, you know? I try to ignore her and lean a little more into the "privacy screen" which was naught more than the equivalent of a folder separating the row of computers.


Then she grabbed my arm.


I jumped in my seat.


"What the hell?" I say and glare at her. 


She looks around uncomfortably, and speaks in a hushed tone. Her ash blond curly hair smacks of the eighties and her gut juts out awkwardly over her belt and security equipment attached there. "I'm sorry," she says, "But I have to talk to you."


I still think this Chica is totally off her nut, but I'm a sucker for the urgency in her tone. I decide to give her shot. "Okay, what's up?"


She relaxed visibly and a string of words rushed from her mouth in a heavy whoosh! "I have to tell you that you aren't living right. You're on your way to being sick, really sick. You're a Gemini, right? Gemini's working in the positive are supposed to be long and  willowy. Gemini's in the negative pack on stress in the form of pounds. I'm very worried about you. I saw you and got hit with a sense of urgency, I just have to tell you. The man you're seeing--he's no good for you. He's a Scorpio in the negative. Sure its sexy and fun, but he's gonna drain you of your joy, and then he'll be gone."


She took a deep breath and my shocked mind tried to form a rebuttal, but I wasn't quick enough. "I'm psychic," she says, "I used to give readings. I could do your chart. But really you just need to read a couple of books. I can't let this get out around here--I don't want to be fired. And let's face it, small town USA isn't very witch friendly." She jotted down the name of two books I'd never heard of before, some sort of new age astrology crap, no doubt.


I interrupted her next stream of madness, my face flushed with fear and confusion, "How do you know that I'm a Gemini? And who are you to tell me to lose weight?" She tossed her eighties do over her shoulder and laughed. "You don't get it. You don't need to lose weight. You need to lose stress--that's the only way you'll be fit. And I'm not saying you'll have a stroke or anything. No. Your health problems will be female related....hair loss...insomnia...infertility." 


I laughed at her then. "I'm not infertile. I have two little boys. So you're worried for nothing." She smiled and said, "Is your fella a Scorpio?" I quieted down then, he was. She winked at me. "Listen up. That relationship will run it's course. It's not the "one" you follow me?" I didn't like this. I didn't want to hear it. She squeezed my arm sympathetically and continued. "People view relationships all wrong."


"Everyone is looking for their one true love. But it doesn't work like that. Relationships are about learning. You take what you need to learn from this relationship and move on to the next. See everybody's here to learn something different. I think you're here to learn patience and trust. You want everything right now and you don't trust anyone--least of all yourself. And not only that, but your "one true love" changes as you change. What you need now in a mate may not be what you need ten years from now. Right now your attracted to his take charge attitude and his stability. But you'll see pretty soon that he's not really that stable. And Scorpios have drinking issues, so beware of that."


Well, by now I'd had enough of this shit. "How do you know it won't work out? How do you know I don't trust people? You don't know me." She smiled then I swear I saw clouds swirl in her blue eyes. It was like looking into a limitless abyss. I shivered and looked away. "You don't have to believe me, but someone who loves you wanted you to know. I relayed the message. That's all I can do."


She stood up and started to move through the crowded room. I jumped to my feet. "Wait! Who wanted me to know this? Did someone set you up to this?" She looked at me. "You're a smart girl, don't be dense. Who loves you and has crossed over?" My jaw hit the floor and I sat with a thunk in my chair. Grandpa? He didn't believe in astrology or psychics....


Everything in my life was shit at the minute. The divorce was slow going and volatile. My boyfriend was an emotional roller-coaster. One day he loved me the next he just wanted to be friends--it was never simple or consistent with him. And this morning in the shower a clump of hair fell out when I was shampooing.


But how could she know?


Just cuz it's a bad-ass song:

Monday, October 11, 2010

Jewelry Time!

So...I have been a jewelry making fool. :)


A friend wants one of these necklaces, but can't decide between them. They are all 16 inches, sterling sliver, and have onyx and agate stones. Help a girl out and pick your favorite?


Much grass!!!!


Kat :)

Onyx Cross


Cross Chain

Glass Heart

Heart chain details

Glass Red Pendant

Red Pendant details

Friday, October 8, 2010

Sunlight and Lust

Sunlight slices across the white 400 count Egyptian cotton comforter. Shadows collect in the folds of the blanket. Rumpled sheets suggest hushed movements slow and sweet from the night before. His foot peeks out the side. A strong thigh begs to be caressed. My greedy eyes devour the contours of his back. I love that he sleeps on his belly.


A beautiful waist widens up to his shoulders. Soft dark hair dusts his arms and legs. He's hugging the pillow and I smile to myself. I remember the feel of those arms wrapped around me. I remember the thrill as I watched his eyes, felt his breath on my flesh.


I know that if he turns over his chest will be deliciously furry. I know his eyes will be heavy lidded and plagued by blue-black shadows. I know his mouth will be full and irresistible. If he turns over I'll have to rake my nails over his chest, circle around his nipples. I'll have to kiss him.


I feel the urge to leave the window and go to him. I feel my feet wanting to pad across the room and straddle his hips. I want so much to press my breasts to his back, to run my hands from his shoulders down to his hands. I need to lace my fingers with his and kiss him...kiss him...kiss him again.


I want it so badly that my thighs tremble and I nearly drop the coffee cup.


My face is flushed, my breasts aching...I clear my throat and go to the bed.


I settle next to him on the edge of the mattress. My t-shirt exposes a lot of leg as I sit down. I skim his back with my nails in large circles, then straight smooth strokes. I feel like I'm on fire, but try desperately to cool down. "Sweetie?"


He mumbles and buries his beautiful face into the pillow. I stifle a grin by biting my lower lip and try again. I lean in close, my hair spilling over him. I tug on his ear lobe with my teeth and kiss the corner of his jaw...still petting his back. "Baby, it's time to wake up. I brought you some coffee."


He groans and rolls over. "Is it morning already?" I feel like I've been struck a blow when I see his chest. Lust ticking along my skin. The colors and scent of him are bewitching. His arm over his eyes pulls his chest flat. And I inhale sharply at the tent he's pitching. I set the coffee on the night stand. A true hedonist...I lick his nipple and my hands begin to explore his wicked form.


He sucks in a deep breath and looks at me then. His randy grin fades to need as he sees the look in my eyes. Slowly he sits up and pulls me upright. "Want more?" His voice is rough and sleep worn. I swallow and nod, yes. His hands are on either side of my face as his mouth tastes mine. His tongue licks the corners of my mouth, then traces the inner line of my lips--parting them. I open to him reveling in the feel of his tongue stroking mine.


I don't know if all we have is this moment or a million more moments just like this. But I don't care. Because this moment is perfect. He drags his mouth away, presses his forehead to mine, and growls, "This is madness." I smile and tell him, "I know...but it's such a beautiful shade. Kiss me again, Baby, I wanna see the colors swirl. Please?"


He aggressively takes my mouth and I hope he brands my skin with his touch. I want to remember it always.

*I am the Smut Peddler...dontcha know? :D

Friday, October 1, 2010

Seduction 101

"Well...it was a brilliant idea. No clue why I felt so confident that it would work, I can only say that I felt it was pure genius from the second it popped into my head. I remember the rightness of it all as I planned and plotted my way through it. I remember the joy as I meticulously picked scented candles and mood music.


The joy that burst 'neath my breast as I casually strolled the lingerie aisle was pure bliss. It's an addictive feeling, really. The idea that you've got someone to play naughty games with is so heady that it trudges you past the size 6 black lacy treats to your own double-digit size. It's false pride, a delusion that convinces you that your guy will think you're absolutely gorgeous (minus a roll here or there).


It was surreal. One of my best experiences ever.


My tiny hands skimmed soft silky fabric. My eyes glazed over with visions of happy endings running through my head as I found a matching garter belt. I just knew you'd love this surprise.


I had it all planned out.


You'd walk in the door, find me looking incredibly fetching in my new naughty nightie and heels (can't forget the heels!). A bountiful spread of your favorite feast laid out on the table. Soft candle light to warm the room while Bob Dylan sings "Lay Lady Lay" from the stereo. It was going to be amazing.


Then I saw the bondage store.


I eyed it with suspicion and blatant fear.


The clerk was a punk with green hair and chain from his nose to his ear. I stood there holding my dainty underwear in a pretty pink bag that read, Victoria's Secret. He snorted and exhaled a stream of smoke. He looked me up and down, then scoffed. "You're too timid for this store, Lady." That pissed me off. Timid? Me? Pffffffffft. I marched into the sore like Sherman marching to sea. I'll show him timid.


I spun a full circle before I realized that I didn't have a clue what I was looking at. I heard Mr. Green chuckle behind me. "Here, try these." He shoved some powder blue polka dotted scarves in my hands. "Let your old man tie you up with those." My eyes went wide. "Tie me up?" My voice squeaked and I blushed.


He laughed out loud. "Um...this is an S&M shop, you know." I bristled at his dig and snapped, "I know that. Show me something interesting." He looked at me again. "I guess you do have some spunk. Ok, lady, check this out." He pointed at a contraption hanging from the ceiling. I paled visibly. "A torture device?!" I shrieked.


Mr. Green clucked his tongue, "No. A Spiderweb. You get in it. It hangs from the ceiling and your old man can come at you from any angle, spin you around. Whatever he likes. But you can't really move much. You're just suspended there." I looked at the crazy thing through slitted eyes. "So I become an inanimate object?"


"It's not as bad as it sounds. It's sexy. One of our best sellers." I looked at the leather monstrosity. I looked at Mr. Green. "Ok....I'l try it..." But I wasn't convinced.


So my brilliant seduction scene took me all day. I cooked. I cleaned. I shaved things that I'm pretty sure shouldn't be shaved. I curled my hair, did my make-up, put on the flimsy bit of naughtiness. Then I hung the beast. I climbed into it. I squirmed. It flipped me upside down. I shrieked. I fought the bastard, but it won. It hooked my leg up thatta-way and my arms over here. And that, Sweetie, is how I got tangled up in this damn thing! Now can you please stop laughing long enough to cut me down?"


* The characters in this tale are fictional...any similarities to real people are coincidental!!! But that is exactly why I'd rather kick it old school. Just me and my guy. Hehhehehehee. ;)

Love this tune.



Wednesday, September 29, 2010

I Dreamt of Van Gogh

*Thought I'd try a 3 Word Wednesday. The words are: engulf, tamper, and imminent. :)

Paint brush streaks across the desert terrain whisper softly. Hues of green and brown with splashes of purple and red draw my eye and engulf me in serenity. It's artist porn. The wind catches in my hair. Sunlight beaming as if to say, "Hey, I know you." The mountains stand proud and welcoming with trees like dancing arms to scoop me up in a hug.


It's peaceful here.


So much is chaos now. Thoughts are a jumbled mess inside my brain--imminent trouble on my horizon. But the day burns bright and warms the chill in my bones. For a moment I forget. I forget the stress. I forget the divorce. I forget the words. For a moment I'm just a girl with sunlight warming her face. I'm a simple creature with a sketch pad and coffee watching shadows morph into spiderwebs and crawl across the street.


The street's alive with creatures rushing about their day. Shoppers stopping to say "Hello," "Oh how pretty!," stopping by to try on necklaces. They shuffle their bags and comment on the weather. They beam as if the sun had worked it's way inside them and their eyes are stained glass windows.


They become a mosaic to me--a wash of living glass in red and amber and white. They are tanned skin and turquoise flowing over the old brick streets of Las Cruces. Potted plants and ancient trees line the middle of the street. Children laugh and dash barefoot past my booth. A beautiful little boy with onyx hair and sienna eyes chases a fairy princess in a frilly dress with dirty feet. Her Tinkerbell anklet twinkles in the morning sun. Yellow ribbons flow behind her as she shrieks with glee and evades his grasp.


It's Market Day.






I settle back and think of new jewelry designs, new materials. I sketch and think. Take a sip of coffee. My mind wanders as it's prone to do. I see a lady in a blue skirt. The kind the old Mexican lady's wear. I saw that shade of blue once before. I saw it on a slide of Starry Night. I remember the off color yellow flicker of the projector's light bulb. The instructor speaking with reverence, "Van Gogh saw with his heart. And his heart bled color."


I never really liked Van Gogh. His brushstrokes were primitive, brutal, to harsh to be impressionist. I thought he was a crazy man who cut off his ear. But that was before I knew him. Before I met him in an amber field ablaze with wheat and orange and cadmium red blurring into a river of joy. He smiled at me, an old man with kind blue eyes. Hands too big for his arms and a voice as soft as winter snow, he spoke of all the things within him.






His words rushed out in a stream of cotton. He explained why art should not be tampered with, how expression burns from within and comes screaming out. I listened. I wept. I looked at the honeyed sky and saw frantic brush strokes. I looked at the wheat beneath my feet and saw truth. I looked at Van and held out my hand--one artist to another. But he was gone and it was just a dream.


I blinked and looked at the lady standing at my booth, "How much is this?" I smiled and glanced around her. The other woman with the Van Gogh blue skirt had disappeared. "40 dollars," I say to woman holding my necklace. The Labrodorite beads burn a cool green fire, softened by an antique brass chain. She smiles and says, "I'll take it." I smile back to her and box it up.


It's Market Day; the sun is blinding. Somewhere in the distance Van Gogh is painting heated brush strokes across the sky.

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Strut

"Hey Baby"
She purrs
A cock-sure strut
It's so easy


A fine way to
Pass the time
Men come
And men go

Seldom linger
Hour by hour
Why get attached?
When goodbye comes so soon?

Skirt hiked up to there
They think she's easy
Fair game to touch and pander
Think she'll give them a thrill


But it's just a game
A chase
Who will pounce first?
Will she walk away?


Or go for the kill?
Say she's beautiful
Spin the line
Smile like a snake


Watch her pat your face
See her wink and lick her lips
A fox in woman's skin
Too smart to fall...


I posted this on Facebook. It got stuck in my head. Then came the poem. Somewhere a shrink is looking for me. :D



Then this came to mind:



And this:



My mind is a scary place. :p

Saturday, September 25, 2010

What Else?

There's a kind of loneliness stalking me
It settles in bones
Steals my breath away


I could give in
Let rule me
Take me down with unseen weapons


Or I could tell it
To piss off, bury deep
And pretend I don't feel it


It's not so bad when the sun is high
And the sound of my boys
Distracts me


Tougher to fend off
At night when it's quiet
When the long shadows fall

And my bed is cold
No man to warm my skin
To fill the space within...


What's a girl to do?
But lay back in the stillness of my mind
And listen to some tunes


:)














Friday, September 24, 2010

Friday Flash

"Did you read my Friday Flash?"


I smiled at him, "Of course. As if I'd miss one? It's been awhile since you wrote one. I think you should write more."


"Humph," he scoffed, then looked at me tentatively, "Did it upset you?"


My mouth quirked a bit, "No. Should it have?"


"Well, no...I just thought..."


I laughed at the uncomfortable expression on his face. "Am I the dead girl in your tale, Sweetie?"


He paled visibly. "No! Absolutely not." The words rushed heatedly from his lips and I walked up to his chair. My eyes narrowed on his handsome face, his silver hair catching in the soft glow of the lamp light. "Baby...am I the dead girl with worms oozing from her skin, perched on your couch, asking you for a kiss?"


He chuckled then, "No. Not you, Kitten. Never you."


I leaned over the back of his chair, my hair softly brushing his shoulder, my breath on his ear. I kissed his jawline and whispered soothingly, "Then why doesn't anyone else see me?"


Tunes for no particular reason:



Thursday, September 16, 2010

Miss Sella Don't Know Much



Miss Sella don't know much, but she knows Big Momma Thornton. Her gnarled hands shake as she shucks the corn. Trained and calloused finger tips strip out the the silk and her wrists fling it in the bin as an New York dancer might flick theirs for effect. She taps her toe and sings out loud. "Rock me baby," she bellows, and I just know Miss Thornton is smiling down from heaven.


Old Miss Sella never graduated high school. She couldn't tell you what half the words in the dictionary mean. But she can figure change in her head every Thursday as she sells her homegrown tomatoes at the square. She can't talk like a lady, but she can love as big and strong as the earth she tills. 


"Ya gonna start on them beans, child? Or are we eating air for supper?" I grin and grab up a handful of green beans. I snap the ends off just like she taught me all those years ago. It's hotter than Hades today, but the clean mountain air makes up for it. And every so often a sweet crisp breeze blows through the mosquito netting and ruffles my hair. "We havin' succotash, Miss Sella?" 


She grins and I see that a few more teeth are missing. "You know it, child." My tummy growls in anticipation, my taste buds burst with the memory of the buttery goodness yet to come. Ain't nobody alive can cook like Miss Sella. "You fixin' to have some fried chicken?" Miss Sella clucked her tongue at me, "Fraid not, youngin'. Got me a nice hunk a ham. Gonna have us a feast with some biscuits, if you ever get them beans ready."


I chuckled and assured her, "I'm a goin', I'm a goin.'" I held up my basket and showed her my progress. She squinted against her cataracts and nodded. "Why ain't you singing? You know how we cook in this house. Or did you forget? Down there in your big city with your big city men, I bet you forgot." 


"Hey now! I ain't forgot, Miss Sella. Honest." I leaned back and started up where she'd left off. Wasn't long till she joined in and we were singing Big Momma Thornton up in the West Virginia mountains. Bees buzzin,' breeze blowin', sun about to bake us half to death--and us crazy women singin' the blues. 


Charles hates it when I come home to check on her. He says I don't talk right for days, sound like a damn hillbilly. Well, I reckon he's right. But there is something about the winding black snake road flanked by bright green grass and cool mountain air that beckons me up this manic rock. First thing I do is kick off my fancy heels and dig my toes into the cool spongy grass. Second thing is to chase down Miss Sella for long needed hug.


I look at Miss Sella and try to picture her in the city, walking through the galleries. I wonder what she'd make of seeing her favorite blues singers splashed across walls and idolized by folks who would have forced them to use colored bathrooms 70 years ago. The world is changing so fast it's hard for old relics like Miss Sella to make sense of it.


I could fill an ocean with the things Miss Sella don't know. 


Her knees pop as she climbs to her feet and hugs the basket of corn to her hip with one hand, leans on her cane with the other. "Let me get that, Miss Sella!" She swats me away with her cane and I remember the precision with which she wields that thing. "I ain't dead yet, youngin.' You wanna help? Bring them beans to the kitchen."


Sunlight fills the kitchen with warmth and joy. I breathe in the fresh lemon scent. She makes her own lemon soap and cleaners. Always has. Sunflower prints line the walls. I remember cutting and framing them for her on the days my mother left me here. Miss Sella loves her sunflowers.


She wraps the honey-spiced ham with foil and shoves in the oven. I don't say a word as she huffs and rights herself. Then she takes a sharp knife and scrapes all the corn off the cob and tosses it in a large pot. Next goes the Lima beans and finally the green beans. She puts some chicken stock in and brings it to a boil. I pour her a glass of iced tea and smile at her as she sits down at the table. 


She squeezes my hand. "Ya know he died, don't ya child?" Her voice is well worn gravel turning under heavy tires. "Yeah...Momma told me." She blinks back some tears and I stare out into the sunlight till my eyes go blind and my vision fills with spots. "He was a bad man. Couldn't see why your Momma married him. Never wanted to you run away like that. If you'd just told me..." 


I blinked and swallowed hard. Miss Sella waved her hands in the air. "No matter. You come home when ya can." I got up and gave her a big hug. Her strong hands ran over my back, expelling demons. Tears spilled over my cheeks. "I'll be home a lot more now, just wait and see." She gave me a tight squeeze and let go. 


I sat back down and she took a hearty gulp of her sweet tea. "Ahh that's the stuff!" We chuckled together and fell into local gossip. Miss Sella might not know much, but she knows what matters most. I sniffed the air. Honey baked ham. Mmmmmm....

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Turn Him Loose



I met you on a Wednesday
Sunlight at your back
Shadow over your face


Tattoo branding your skin
Peel it back
See the sin within


Freedom; something sweet
Suckled from your tongue
But never meant for me


Cry with the crow
Hide in the corn field
Dark prince, fallen angel


You think you're something 
Bigger than you are
A sliver star


Dangling in  an opaque sky
Just a little boy
Cowering under Spiderman sheets


Never be what I need
Never see the truth of me
Best to turn you loose


Rather than swing from your pretty noose
On wicked night
Kiss your smile goodbye




One more Danzig tune...cuz I feel like it. Lol. Dang I love a man with a furry chest. Yum!!!

Monday, September 6, 2010

Labor Day and Jewelry

First off... Happy Labor Day to my fellow Americans. Hope you didn't have to work. :p


Secondly...I have been a jewelry making fool these days. Whew! Think I'm gonna open  a booth at out local farmer's market and craft show. Check it out here.




Anyway...these are not the best pictures, but it'll give you an idea of what I've been up to (when I should be writing. Ugh!).


I totally dig that copper hammered heart. It's purty-full. :)


I miss my camera. My phone camera blows chunks. Sorry!


Then I got a "brilliant" idea to make my own boxes and dress them up to match my jewelry pieces. Why do I complicate everything? lmao!

Looks like a coffin, lol. But pretty in person. 


That's the interior of the heart's box...

Here is the exterior:



Another sample:
Last One:



So...what do you all think? Have I wasted weeks of my life? Now I have to figure out what to sell them for. Suggestions? I used real stones, copper, antique brass, and silver. turns out that I'm a fussy girlie-girl. Lol.

Friday, September 3, 2010

Why Don't You Do Right?




"Just 5 g's, Baby. That's all I need is another 5 g's. I know you got it sweet cheeks. I seen Big Paul hangin' on ya. Everybody knows he's sweet on ya. If you don't got it, you just whisper nice in his ear and he'll give it to ya. Whatd'ya say Baby? You gonna help your fella out?"


I looked at my ruby red nails. same old story. Jimmy'd never change. I knew it then, like I knew the line he'd been feeding me was rancid. He'd never grow up. I stood up and turned my back to him. I left him sitting on the bench. The only sound I made was the clicking echo of my heels on pavement. I was tired of his lies--sick to death of his gambling and cheating. I knew about Denise. Did he think I didn't know?


"Baby! Come back here!" He grabbed my arm and spun me around. He stroked my cheek the way a mother soothes her child, "Baby. I know you're fed up. I know you want the white picket fence and a car load of kiddies. And I'll give em to ya. This is it. My big break, can't you feel it? You lend me the 5 g's and I'll triple it. I'll buy you that rock you want and we'll go swimming in Hawaii just like we said we would. Come on, Baby. Trust me this one last time."


I looked at his earnest face. Sad thing is, he probably believed his own bullshit. I remembered last summer when we laid in bed all day and made love on crisp cotton sheets in warm sunlight. I remembered how he kissed me, how his hands teased and plucked my body like I was a priceless violin. I remembered him coaxing my strings into a fine, hushed melody. My eyes stung with tears and I blinked them back. I vowed to never cry over his sorry ass again.


I leaned in and pressed my soft lips to his. I opened my mouth and lured his tongue inside. I grasped at his shirt and walked him backwards to the bench. He flopped down on it and I straddled his lap. I kissed him deeper, wetter, hotter than I had in ages. I felt him stir between my thighs, heard his moan. I remembered the note I'd left on his pillow back home. I remembered the train ticket in my purse.


I whispered against his yummy lips, "I got the money, Babe. You're right. Paulie is sweet on me. He's been taking real good care of me. That's what a man does." Jimmy started to protest, but I kissed him again. I kissed him deeper, more demanding, tugging on his lips.

He never saw it coming.... till after I had fired.


I stepped away from him, the smoking gun shaking in my hand. I thought of the confession I'd written that morning. Wouldn't be long till the cops found it. I thought of Paulie waiting for me at the station. Jimmy looked up, blood dripping from his side. Eyes wide with shock he touched the wound and looked at me. I aimed straight at his heart. The shot fired smoothly.


He slumped over and I tossed the gun at him. I felt a twinge of remorse, but crushed it quickly. "Sorry Jimmy. Bullets were cheaper. Guess you shoulda asked Denise."

Friday, August 20, 2010

Satisfy My Soul

He walked into my diner with an air of indifferent insolence and a cloud of smoke. He sat at my table, not waiting to be seated. You can't smoke in public anymore. So I watched in shock as he dumped the pink Sweet & Low packets on the table and flicked his ashes in the ceramic cup.


I stood there like a slack-jawed-ninny...my pen and pad frozen in my tiny hands.


He looked at me with those sarcastic, discontented eyes and  ground his order out through coffee stained teeth. "Gimme some eggs, bacon, and a stack of buttermilk pancakes with real maple syrup. Got it, Toots?" I scribbled some nonsense on the pad and nodded, "Sure." He swatted my ass as I turned to place his order.


I hated working the graveyard shift. Nothing but the drunk and lonely came to call. Why should he be any different? Fame and fortune didn't stand in the way of general disquiet. I watched him from the kitchen...as if he were the most interesting exhibit in the zoo. Maybe he was. I noticed something in the sureness of his hands as he flicked his ashes. There was a calm beneath his armor. Sure he came off like a sexist prick who hated the world...but there was more to him than that.


He stood and stretched his skinny frame to it's full height and shuffled over to the jukebox. I expected something cool and seedy to flow from the speakers, but he played the Doors, Roadhouse Blues. "Hey Toots!" he bellowed. 





I tucked my pad into my apron's pocket and walked out to him. He took my hand and spun me in a circle. I giggled as he dropped his bitchin' Fedora on my head. He brushed my curls behind my ears and danced low and dirty with me. It felt gritty and wrong. It was grounds for termination. I think I fell in love with him.


Carl yelled from the window. "Order up!" I smiled and said, "I better get your eggs." But he pulled me closer. Close enough to smell his cheap cologne and cigarettes. He pushed me back onto the table and wedged himself between my parted thighs. I felt the wildness of stampeding elephants rage across my abdomen. Roadhouse was nearing the end as his lips assaulted mine. I can't call it a kiss. It was a bruising battle of heat, sex, and wetness slipping from his juicy mouth to mine. I moaned and fell back on my elbows, my tits thrust up as if they'd been designed to do so all along.  He leaned over me and ground his mouth into mine. His tongue rushed wickedly over mine and I squirmed. 


He stood and hauled me to my feet by the lapels on my powder pink uniform. He claimed my mouth again. His calloused fingers rounded over the heavy swell of my breasts and he popped the first three buttons. I shivered as his hot breath and teeth scraped over the crease of my cleavage. "Toots has some sweet tits." He gruffly whispered over my collarbone and my knees turned to Jello.


I wanted him then. I wanted him like I wanted air--like I wanted to drown this shit-hole diner in gasoline and flip Carl the bird as it went up in flames. Sweet Lord I wanted him to bend me doggie-style over that 1970's yellow Formica table and fuck me senseless.


But he chose that moment to button me up and send me to fetch his meal. I bet he chuckled smugly as I wobbled over to the window. I carried his plates with shaky hands and sat down across from him as he lit another smoke. I'd spent $22.50 on blood red nails that morning and they glittered like rubies as I snatched his cigarette away and took a drag. Smoke burned my lungs and I coughed, but it tasted like him, and I so dug that.


He took  his smoke back and dove into his eggs. I never saw anyone smoke and eat at the same time before. He spoke with a mouthful of yolk, "You need religion, Toots." I took a sip of his water and choked. "I need what?" He swallowed his bite, took a drag off his cigarette and laughed,"You don't need no holy roller dive to pray in. You just need  little oral communion...on your knees, Toots."


My face burned red--I knew what he meant. I sat back and crossed my arms just under my breasts. "Pfft. As if I'd ever pray to you." He threw his head back and laughed. We sat in silence as he devoured his pancakes. Then he pulled out a little candy. He unwrapped the foil, and held up a chocolate Jesus. "Try this religion, Toots. See if you feel holy when the chocolate melts on your tongue."


I leaned forward and looked him in his bloodshot eyes. "You trying to save...or fuck me?" He grinned like an ungodly nightmare, reached out, and rubbed a knuckle over my nipple till it stood at attention and practically winked at him, "Both." My eyes closed so I didn't know he'd moved til he had me in his arms, his hands squeezing my ass, revealing the tops of my silk stockings. He took my mouth by storm one last time, took his Fedora back, and folded some cash in my fingers. He tipped his hat and said, "Thanks for the dance, Toots."


And then he was gone.


I sat down and looked at the money in my fist. Two rolled up fifties. I blinked. I looked again. They were still there. I looked at the green glass doors, popped the chocolate Jesus in my mouth,  and whispered to his ghost..."Thanks for the tip Mr. Waits." And as that little Jesus melted...I heard a choir of angels sing...."It's got to be a chocolate Jesus..."

Thursday, August 19, 2010

Spiderwebs



Everything collides
One strand into another
Faces twist and blur

Hearts that beat...then slow

Nothing but the marrow
Suck it from the bone
Feel the chill of death

See the friends you'll never know.


Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Winners, Music, and Quiet Meditation

Greetings good people. :)

So SmutFest 2010 is long over and I need to reveal the contestants. I think it's obvious that the winner is story #1, based on the votes. And I have to say that I cried when I read it. Not only did I cry, but I stopped several times throughout the piece to read the words aloud. I weighed them, rolled the syllables over my tongue, tasting them--bewitched by the their colors and textures. I view the author of story #1 as one of my favorite wordsmiths. I thrill at the use of his palette, the sureness of his knife as he forges words into paintings. And when I got to the end of his tale--tears streaming down my cheeks--I blurted out "Damn it Mark!"


Then I read it again.


It's my pleasure to reveal the winner of SmutFest 2010 as none other than Mark Kerstetter with The Explanation. Please check out his blog here.

I wish I had something cool to give him. Maybe next time I'll have this whole contest thing down pat, but for now he'll have to be content with mad props. And a tune, lol. I see his poor character trying valiantly to build his sculpture and forget Fay--but unable too...or maybe I'm just stuck in the 80's and love this song...whatever the reason...Skid Row, "I Remember You."




Story #3 got a vote, so that makes it the runner up. Independence Day by one of my favorite chicas--Cathy Olliffe. Feel free to check out her wonderful blog here. I hope you have a hankering for some wedding mania though, cuz Chica is knee deep in it.

So for Miss Cathy...with love and best wishes....doesn't have a thing to do with her tale...unless Moonbeam really digs that freshly shaved peach...if not I got some guys in my harem...kidding!!!! Seriously? Could Cathy and Dave be any cuter? Hugs! This dance is on me you wild Canadian Lovebirds:





Last, but certainly not least, is story # 2. This colorful tale was delivered to Crooked Tales in a black wrapper labeled "Holy Crap! Ask And Ye Shall Receive." I opened the package with trepidation and trembling fingers, inside was a brief manuscript and a card that read: Who Takes This woman? by Manon des Sources: Originally from Europe, Ms des Sources now resides on the East Coast of the United States, somewhere between Exit 9 and Exit 7A, where nothing matters in the whole wide world when you're in love with her.


That's it. That's all I know about the author. What song to play for Mr. des Sources? Anything other than Inxs would be uncivilized. :p






I hope you've had fun. I know I have. I have one more submission to post and then that's the end of SmutFest 2010 till next year. But no worries, I've more deviancy in my twisted little mind in store for the fair citizens of Blogger. Have a great night. I'm off to wrangle some moneys, dream of faraway hot mean to kiss, make some gruel, and quietly meditate. :)



One for the road:

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

The Nitty Gritty

So I've been a naughty Kat and have played hooky. Lol. Actually, it's been a maddening few days for me...but I digress. I've neglected my minions and there's no excuse for it--so--my apologies.


I feel like today is a perfect day for a music interlude. So how bout some classic G 'N' R? Why? Pfft. Why not? Axl's been kicked around lately and it annoys me. Is he a complete ass? Why yes he is. It's why I love him so. Because today's post is gonna be a bit obscene...please take a seat and enjoy Rocket Queen. :D



So...first order of business, good people, is my ten "confessions," what's fact and what's fiction you ask? Well, I'll tell you. :)

1. I Did back to school commercials for Value City and Schottenstein's department stores as a kid. True. I did back to school commercials when I was eight. :)

2. I was nominated for Miss Teen Ohio in 7th grade. True. I was 13 in 7th grade Cathy. Was nominated by a teacher. But I didn't think I was pretty or smart enough to compete against 16-17 year old girls, so I didn't enter. :(

3. I love lobster. False. I don't eat cockroaches from land or sea. Lol.

4. I never wear panties. (Hehehee.) True. Panties are for schmucks. :p

5. I sometimes dream about being Fred Astaire. False. Love his movies, but not THAT much. Lol.

6. I want to retire on an island somewhere with a harem of oh...say...30 cabana boys to do my bidding. False. As if I have the patience for 30 Cabana Boys. Pfft. Men are so needy!

7. I used to scam kids in school outta cash by eating bowls full of jalapenos for $5 a pop. ;) False. I did it for free, just to watch a bunch of white kids' eyes bug outta their heads. hehehehehehehe.

8. I once talked politics with Corbin Bernsen in a limo after a play he'd starred in, and he said I was very pretty and intelligent. (heart!) True. He was very cool. And tall! :)

9. My favorite color is green. True. I luv, luv, luv green, but I'm very fussy about the shade. :)

10. Gawd I need more?! Ugh. Okay. My hands down favorite singer ever is Iggy Pop. False. I heart Iggy like mad, even painted him (it's on this blog somewhere, lol), but my all time favorite singer ever is Van "the man" Morrison (I painted him also). :)

Okay. More Guns N Fucking Roses--cuz I say so! This I love:



One day very soon I will write something completely manic and moody to that song. *Sigh... Know what else I love? I love Mr. Smooth's blog and the story he subbed to SmutFest 2010. I had to flip a coin between his entry and another tale. It's wonderfully seedy and delicious. Check out Ant's blog here...and enjoy!

A STRIPPER’S CREEED by Anthony Venutolo
She couldn't think with Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar On Me" piping into the break room for the 989th time. How she hated those fucking stripper songs. For three years, she'd been at it -- this dancing thing -- and while she realized she was almost a cliche, the money kept her happy. Or at least happy enough.

Her stripper's creed was simple and sparse: Grease monkeys tipped the most; cops tipped the least; and don't ever ever cross the line in the back room because they'll respect you more and in the long run, you'll get more lap dances.

She did fuck up tonight, though. Something didn't feel right about those three older guys. Not the regulars, the ones that wanted wine. But they kept tipping her during her session and she was never one to discard customers. Especially since the downturn.


After an hour, the handsome one with salt and pepper at the temples bought a dance. Walking into the back room, she made small talk with him. That's what you do to gauge where they're at. But the more questions she asked, the more unsure she became.


Halfway through some stupid rump-shaking rap song, her instincts told her to pull back on the intensity and even then he still had what she called a "happy accident." The man was slightly embarrassed but she fluffed it off and reassured him that it was pretty normal. He thanked her, gave her a healthy tip and was on his way.

Recognition reared its ugly head and she shivered. Rubbing her right inner thigh with rubbing alcohol, she replayed their conversation in her head:
Just moved into a new golf development
Had three kids
A developer.
Just built that strip mall near the Pancake Hutt
... bingo
She lit her cigarette and dreaded the call she was about to make. As AC/DC's "You Shook Me All Night Long" came to a close, she dialed her new boyfriend's number and said, "I think I just gave your dad a lapdance..."

Needless to say, she didn't officially meet the parents -- and never did.
It wasn't long before she updated her stripper's creed to include "Never give your boyfriend's dad a lap dance..."



Friday, August 6, 2010

Come One, Come All And Cast Your Vote!

Seriously...don't make me beg!!!! The contest is over. SmutFest 2010 is done, time to pick your winner. remember...this contest had one real requirement: truth. Our brave contestants were welcome to get as crazy with the subject or genre as they wanted as long as what they wrote was honest and real. So bearing that in mind...write your vote in the comments. I'm posting all the stories as written by "anonymous" so you won't know who you're voting for.

You've got one week from Saturday to vote. Then I'll reveal the names of the top three authors and link their blogs. I know many viewed this contest with skepticism or disdain (Pffft!) but I think these entries will floor you. They did me. I mean one of them left me so brokenhearted...words fail. Another made me laugh out-loud! And a couple of them...well...lets just say...you may need a cold shower. ;)

There weren't many entries, but I will post the runner-ups, no worries. So happy reading! And don't forget to vote!!!!



Story #1: The Explanation by Anonymous (For now, lol)
Only because you’ve asked how it came to this, because you deserve an answer, Gail, I will linger a little longer. After that, I’m done with words. That must shock you almost as much as the murder.

The pen and paper I’m using came from my cellmate. It was just my luck to get locked up with a young romantic full of Nietzsche. “ That stuff makes me puke,” I told him. Thumping on the wall of our cell I said, “This is reality.”

But we should be shockproof, you and I, after those two copulating pigs who birthed us let us in the bedroom door. You were only seven, and I was six. They splayed their incomprehensible bodies across the bed, their weird sex organs out and open like alien prostheses. And the camera they taught us how to aim and shoot. And the other things they made us do. We should be over it, you and I.

But just when you think you’ve seen it all, life shows you something else. Something that was maybe there all the time. Something you missed. It may be as simple as a common flower. Dear Gail, have you ever seen a flower? I have.

You know me, married to Connie for sixteen years. Here’s what you don’t know: for the last fourteen of them we never touched, hardly even talked. Our marriage was a machine that hummed along. We slept in separate rooms, never ate together. After work I read books.

Every morning I awoke with a hard-on. I’d carry it in front of me to the shower like a stick with shit on the end of it. I’d stick my head under the shower, rub my eyes with my left hand while my right hand worked it up and down until ejaculation. For years I did that, my mind a blank, just a machine humming along.

And then I saw the flower. A girl. Fay was not one of my students. At least I can say I’m not a walking cliche. She was hired as an assistant in the English office. A girl without guile. Innocent. Pure, both of skin and of thought. I began to look for excuses to linger in the office.

She was eager to tell me the sad story of her life. Her parents had divorced when she was young and she never knew her father. Her mother was an alcoholic. A lover of poetry, she met an artistic boy at school and the two exchanged phone numbers. Clutching the phones to their faces for hours, they whispered their dreams into each others’ ears until the wee hours of the morning. Carl was the first boy to be nice to Fay. They dropped out of school and got married.

“But what about the poetry?” I had to ask. Fay smiled at me, and that’s when the world opened up. I realized that up to that point I had been dead and now I was alive. A torrential downpour after months of desert dryness hardly begins to suggest it. That smile hit me like lightning.

The little hand-written note she gave me with one of her poems on it was our first act of intimacy. Please know this: it was all innocent. Neither of us knew we had fallen in love. We didn’t know what love was.

There were additional poems, I recommended books and then I happened to drop by one day when she ate her bagged lunch by the ugly metal sculpture. I started bagging my lunch then and it became our routine. The more I learned about her the more concerned I became. I know the signs of abuse when I see them.

We bit into our sandwiches and looked up at the weird painted metal thing. “Carl would like this,” she told me. Carl was a sculptor of metal, and as I would learn, of other things as well. It began with the lunches. Her food never varied, always the same meager assortment of tidbits hardly sufficient to nourish a young woman. I began bringing extras, which she happily accepted. Carl did all their shopping and tightly controlled what Fay ate. But that wasn’t all. Buying a book was out of the question. I began lending her my books but noticed she never took them home. So Carl had forbidden books in the home as well? Fay was barely conscious of the poet struggling to be born within her. Poetry could become her ticket to the wide world around her, and here was this man—this ogre—barring her way.

It was none of my business, yet she wanted me to know everything, even about Carl—not that she was disappointed in him, just the facts, but they were enough. I had taken his place, I suppose. She needed to talk to someone and Carl had stopped fulfilling that role. For the first time in years I was needed. And if anyone needed help, it was Fay. Do you know the asshole didn’t even work? OK, yes he was a sculptor. But no gallery represented him. No one even knew about his work, much less bought it. They lived on her eight-fifty an hour job.

Then other details emerged. Their house and other big ticket items came from Carl’s rich parents. Carl would drive around town looking for junk for sculpture, eating whatever while she earned their money and ate lousy cheese sandwiches and pickles. It was obvious that Carl’s parents had found someone to take over the job of babysitting their little boy and Fay was just right for it: a devoted girl, pure of heart and perfectly malleable. Everyone was coming out a winner, except Fay, who, at the age of nineteen, was already dying.

And then I saw a chance to make a difference. Fay told me they needed to replace their sewer pipe. Nothing to it, I told her, a cinch for a metal sculptor with time on his hands. But Carl wouldn’t do it so I offered to do the job. She could pay me whatever they could afford.

So there I am, my shirt off, shovel in hand, digging away, and the moment came. The tall glass of lemonade and the tender pale arm extending it. Those fingers! Slender, like porcelain. I accepted the glass, and our eyes met. Then she did a strange thing. She poked her tongue out a tiny bit and pulled it back in, like a cat. And smiled. The sweetest most unabashed smile I have ever seen. I would have dug a hundred trenches for a smile like that.

I dragged the job out for over a week. Carl ignored me. And then Fay invited me in. The whole damn place was his workshop, nothing but junk. Fay offered me lemonade. She was close. You have to understand, Gail, I had stopped touching myself. I had finally realized that this wasn’t just about platonic love. I wanted to touch those hands, feel those lips, know her breath on my cheek. I had stopped touching myself in some attempt at self-control and now she stood close, her cheeks flushed. My body was so hard and full that I was in agony, my penis crouched between my thighs like a beast in the shadows.

And Carl walked in. At first I thought he was just ignoring me until I realized he was angry and this was how he expressed it, to act like I wasn’t there. Fay quickly dashed away and came back with a box. “We wanted to know if you’d like to have these books,” she said. I opened the box and looked inside. Pulled the books out one by one. A picture book of wild flowers. A book on yoga. A volume on Mozart. A Dickinson, and Keats. I held up the Keats and said, “Surely you’re not giving these away.” Fay bit her lip, then managed to utter, “We don’t have room for all these things.” I glanced around at the collection of filthy detritus clogging the room, then looked at Carl. He did not return my glance.

I put the books back. “No,” I said, “You’re not giving these up.” Only then did Carl turn my way. “I told you,” he said, to no one in particular. “Throw the shit out.”

I stood up to Carl’s six foot frame. “This isn’t shit,” I said, glancing around the room. “But I know shit when I see it.” Carl said, “I don’t like you little man. People like you think you’re so fucking smart. You’ve got the whole world locked up in an encyclopedia. But this”—he slammed his fist into the wall—“This is reality!”

He didn’t scare me, but I went home and thought about my behavior. Maybe I was just another forty-one year old cliche after all, sweating through a mid-life crisis. I avoided Fay. But she was always there behind everything, because everything was an occasion to echo her in some way.

I went back to Books. I picked up Joseph Campbell’s Creative Mythology and came to the passage on Abelard and Heloise. This is Campbell at his most eloquent, describing how the romantic hero follows the urges of his heart no matter the cost. I got drunk on the words: “We today must enter the forest: and, like it or not, the pathless way is the only way now before us.” The Knights of the Round Table each penetrated the forest by their own chosen point of entry, suffering and sometimes dying. Campbell contrasts this mode of life with the traditional one, appearing as mere mists to the Knights, the men of heart who walk right through into the tangled forest.

Perhaps my heart was more noble than my head. But when I searched my heart, I found that there was no bottom, just a wilderness in which I wandered, lost. Then I realized: that was the forest.

I decided to see Fay alone. I called her at home and she quickly volunteered that Carl was on a junk run. Her frank manner startled and should have encouraged me but I made up the story that I left my pipe cutter in her yard. I fully intended to act, not knowing what it would be, only where I hoped to end up—with Fay in my arms, convinced that my fears and hesitations were mists of cowardice. I had to risk utter foolishness and catastrophic shame. Love and my manhood depended on it.

I arrived at her place, got out of the car and headed across their junk-strewn yard when a utility van pulled up. It was Carl. He got out and took one look at me—a look of rage. I waited for him. He walked around to the passenger side, I heard a door open and slam shut, and he reemerged with a large metal object in his hand. It had sharp edges and flashed in the sun. He came toward me.

Without hesitation or thought, I reached down and picked up a piece of junk from the yard. It too was metallic and sharp. Without waiting for his move I swung the thing forward. It landed on his skull like an ax.

I didn’t have time to reflect on what I had done. All I could see was Fay bent over the bloody heap screaming his name over and over.

You may wonder how I pass the time without my precious books. Well they let us have porn. Oh not to look at. It’s to block out her image. I focus on all these pictures so as not to see her. And when I close my eyes I gather one piece of junk metal and fuse it to another. I’m building it very slowly, in my mind, because I’m memorizing every detail, from all angles. It’s far more difficult than analyzing text. I expect it’ll keep me occupied for years. 





 Story #2: Who Takes This Woman? by Anonymous (He strikes again!)

They were sitting in his office discussing the Myerson account when he impulsively blurted out, “Why are you getting married?”
She smiled and gave him a questioning look. “I don’t know. Edward asked, so I decided to say yes.”
“Do you love him?” He had been aching to ask her that question ever since she’d shown up at work with a two carat diamond on her finger. He had been dreading a response in the affirmative.
She tapped her pen against her note pad and looked out the window at the storm clouds approaching.
“He’s very good to me and the kids.”
He relaxed slightly. “That’s not what I asked you. Do you love him?”
She turned back towards him and gave him a sad little smile.
“Women my age can’t afford the foolishness of marrying for love. He’s financially secure, responsible, and reliable”
“And dull as they come.”
She laughed, trying to hide her anxiety about marrying a man who did nothing for her sexually. Edward was attractive enough, was kind, gentle, but had absolutely no interest in being sexually intimate. She knew that was a red flag, but nobody was perfect, she thought. That’s why God invented vibrators.

Simon got up from behind his desk and locked the door to his office. He loosened his tie and sat down, removing his thick, Buddy Holly glasses as he dialed the phone.
“Carol? Do me a favor please? Hold all my calls for the rest of the afternoon. Thanks.”
He smiled at her; she could feel the tension rising between them. They had always had a flirtatious way with each other, which Claudia had always envisioned as nothing more than friendly fun. She was surprised at the tingling feeling in her groin.
“I just think that marriage should be a union of soul mates, of two people who are compatible on every level. Emotional. Intellectual. And especially sexual.”
He leaned back in his chair and gazed at her. She started to laugh as she rose from her seat and walked around to his side of the desk, sitting in front of him, placing her feet on either side of his chair’s arm rests. She leaned back slightly as he grabbed her ankles. He could feel his pants grow tight. He was aching to touch her.
“God you have beautiful breasts.”

She began to unbutton her white blouse, pulling it out of her skirt as she slipped it off her shoulders. She unhooked her bra, playfully flinging it at him like a sling shot. He stood up and cradled her face in his hands, kissing her mouth gently, slowly teasing her with his tongue as his hands cupped her full, creamy white breasts. She sighed and caressed his hair. He had played out this scene so many times in his mind that he knew exactly what to do. He latched onto her left nipple, sucking and biting it while his fingers flickered quickly over the right one. She began to moan softly, asking, “Oh God, Simon, why are you doing this to me.” She didn’t tell him to stop.
Pushing her onto her back he pushed her skirt up over her hips, then pulled her panties down her long, curvy legs. Seating himself back in his chair, he pushed her legs up and admired her neatly trimmed pussy.
“A Brazilian, Claudia? I love the feel of a smooth pussy.”
He leaned forward and kissed her smooth skin, slowly working his way down to her lips. He began by kissing them, and then let his tongue lick and tease her. She began to wiggle her hips back and forth. He buried his head deep within her thighs, his arms wrapped around her hips as he probed deeper and deeper into her. She began to groan and cried out, “Oh yes, eat me, oh yes Simon, eat my pussy. Tease me. Make me beg for your cock.”
He continued his feast, her knees up next to her ears as he licked and slurped her love juice. Finally she let out a moan and her entire body began to shudder. Simon stuck his tongue deep into her in order to taste every drop of sweet honey. He stood up and unbuckled his belt, lowered his pants and exposed his huge, hard cock. He climbed up on the desk and lowered himself on top of her. Three years of masturbatory fantasies were about to come true.
“Claudia, you will never have to beg for my cock. It will always be yours for the asking.”
He plunged into her, his head beginning to spin as her tight muscles grabbed a hold of his shaft. Jesus, he thought, this was exactly how he hoped it would be; God please don’t let this be a dream. He kept thrusting deep into her. He couldn’t believe his staying power. She grabbed a hold of his face and brought his lips to hers, grabbing his tongue and sucking on it. She moved her hips back and forth. She bit his neck and gasped, “Fuck me, fuck me until I’m raw. Oh baby if I’d only known how good a fuck you were, we would have been doing this for years.” He continued to pummel her for several more minutes until they exploded in a mind shattering orgasm. The two of them lay on his desk, panting, heads swimming, bodies stuck together with sweat. Finally he pulled off her and collapsed back in his chair, his cock still hard and dancing a little victory dance in his lap. He looked at her still on his desk, legs up, spread eagled, her pussy purple and moist. He bent over and kissed it gently.

“Don’t marry Edward, Claudia. You don’t love him. I love you. I swear I’ll spend the rest of my life taking care of you and your children. I promise to stay sober, work hard, and come home every night and fuck the shit out of you. Please. You’re making a terrible mistake.”
Claudia lay on the desk and pushed a piece of her hair out of her face. Simon was right; she didn’t love Edward, she was only marrying him for security. Christ, he didn’t even want to have sex with her until after the wedding. And Simon was so sweet, so kind, so caring, and boy could he fuck!
She sat up slowly and looked at him, tears starting to form in her eyes.
“Simon, it’s not about what I want, it’s not about my happiness. It’s about being able to take care of my family. I’ll always care for you, but, I’m going to marry Edward next Saturday.” Her words trailed off.
Simon rose to his feet, leaned towards her and kissed her gently.
“You’re making a mistake. Don’t break your heart as well as mine.”

A week later Simon was sitting in a pew at ST Matthews’s church, watching the woman he loved marry another man. Claudia looked exquisite in her dress; Simon had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from crying. He bowed his head into his hands as he heard the minister say, “If anyone knows of any just cause why these two should not wed, let them speak now and forever hold their peace.”
“YES.”
Simon looked up, horrified that he had spoken out loud. He looked at Claudia, who was standing at the altar, a shocked look on her face. All eyes in the church were fixed on Edward.
He looked at his feet, cleared his throat and then looked at Claudia.
“I’m sorry Claudia, but I can’t marry you. I’ve been leading you on; I’ve been lying to you and to everyone else. I’m in love with someone else.”
He turned and walked back down the aisle out of the church. Claudia sank down, sitting on the steps leading up to the altar. She looked towards where Edward had left, and then let her eyes search over the various wedding guests. She finally locked eyes with Simon; she smiled slightly as she saw the tears of joy slide down his face.

A week later they were in his office again. Edward had gone on the honeymoon trip with his new love, Tim (who, in retrospect, really was the best man). Claudia was tapping her pen against her pad as she stared out the window. Simon looked up from the spread sheet he’d been studying and looked at her lovely face. This had been the first time they’d been alone since the fiasco.
“You ok?” he asked softly.
A short laugh escaped her.
“I guess so. I know it’s for the best, but I had no idea. I guess I should have known, I mean most adult men want to have sex with their fiancées.”
Simon leaned back in his chair and loosened his tie.
“What are you going to do now?”
Claudia smiled a saucy smile, stood up and closed the office door, making sure the lock was latched. She walked slowly over to Simon’s desk, sitting in front of him. She placed her feet on either side of his chair, hitching her skirt up.
“I was thinking of letting you cum in my mouth. Unless of course you’d prefer a different place.”
Simon pressed a number on the phone.
“Carol? Do me a favor, please? Hold all my calls for the rest of the afternoon.”




Story #3: Independence Day by Anonymous (he's been busy, lol)

The adventure was only starting with Moonbeam’s dark voice.
She didn’t know that yet. But she would. Months down the road when Moonbeam was just a distant, uncomfortable memory, she would be confident in her adventure, strong in the faith in herself, sexy as proverbial hell.
For now, though, she was new to the game and Moonbeam’s insistent internet voice pushed her forward, albeit reluctantly.
After 18 years of having Mrs. Janice Dean beside his name on the mailbox, personal cheques and Christmas cards, Mr. Peter Dean decided he didn’t want a Mrs. anymore. Opting instead for Miss Gilly Stewart, the pouffy tart who secretaried at Mr. Dean’s used car showroom, he abandoned Janice and their three teenaged children. He went to work one day, shut the door behind him, and never came back.
Janice found out about it after she wrapped her husband’s cold dinner with plastic and stuck it in the fridge. She called his office to see how long he’d be and Gilly answered. “He won’t ever be coming home,” she told Janice. “He’s with me now.”
Janice felt a cold wave burn through her. She hung up, then took her husband’s dinner out of the fridge and scraped it into the trash can. She scraped meat loaf, she scraped mashed potatoes, she scraped 18 years of marriage, all of it, into the trash. Then she went to bed and stayed there for a few weeks.
She roused around one day when she realized she needed a new man. She’d led a pretty sheltered life, devoted to her family. She had relied on Peter for everything: he paid the bills, he drove the car, he directed all of their lives. Without his ballast, she was adrift. She needed an anchor.
And, oh yeah, she needed to get laid.
She’d heard about those dating websites, the ones on TV. She set up an account and it wasn’t long before she was getting hits. There seemed to be more men online than women and she suddenly she felt like Cinderella at the ball – they hummed around her like hairy bumblebees and she was tasty yellow pollen. This astounded her. She certainly wasn’t anyone’s idea of a prize. Plump, middle-aged, suffering perimenopause and all its accoutréments - mood swings, hair growing in weird places and, worst of all, periods that lasted for weeks at a time. Still, to the guys in her online world she was Rachel Welch in that deerskin bikini. She was all that and a bag of chips. She wasn’t anybody’s Missus – she wasn’t anybody’s anything. She was herself. And she was hot.
There were plenty of guys bugging her to meet but the one who interested her the most was Moonbeam.
He was into domination, he said. He liked to take the lead, let a woman relax, be her man, her strong leather-clad man, he said. Every time he wrote stuff like this she quivered in her middle. There was just something so sexy about him, so confident. She trilled like a morning bird at an empty feeder whenever she saw him online.
They decided to meet.
He wrote, “I want you to shave.”
She looked at the words. Didn’t, couldn’t, answer.
“Down there,” he added.
She blinked, stared at the computer, considering. She knew what he was talking about but this was something she had never done. The generations were distinctly divided between those who shaved and those who didn’t.
She felt a slow heat flushing through her veins.
He wrote, “There’s nothing like the taste of a freshly shaved peach.”
***
In the shower, on the day of the meet, she stood, dripping with suds, holding a pink disposable razor in her hand. She heard her children, out in the living room, watching television. Nervous tears ran down her face, disappearing in the shower. She held the razor, indecisive, paralyzed with doubt. Her children laughed at something. She put the razor down on the edge of the bath tub. Then she heard Moonbeam’s dark voice in her head. “A fresh peach,” he said, his lips popping over the last two letters. “Pea-ch.” She picked up the razor and stroked it through the hair that had been there since she was a girl. Dark curls fell around her feet, pooling in soapy eddies towards the drain. The razor moved quickly; there was no turning back. Fresh tears soaked her wet cheeks as her children laughed and the TV chirped and normalcy seeped down the bathtub drain in a swirl of soapsuds, hair and liberation.




* All images belong to their owners. I don't own any of them. :)