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 fiancĂ©es.”
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 accoutrĂ©ments - 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. :)

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

Mr. Smooth Gave Me An Award



Two days ago I stumbled five blocks east of skid row into a bad stretch of road that descended into an even worse stretch of town. Imagine my shock when my feet stopped in a dank, darkly lit, smoke-filled tavern. There was a Guido-looking man standing next to a table. Two guys with gold teeth and shark smiles puffed on cigars. A hot blond, Jean Harlow style, dealt the cards.

I took a step back. Wouldn't you? The yellow bulb in an old rusted copper lamp swung ominously from the ceiling and as I stepped back--I collided with a mountain. The mountain spoke in a guttural tone as mountains are prone to do. "The boss wants to see you."

See me? What on earth for? I'm only little, only me! I never whacked nobody! I never bought drugs. What the devil could this Chico want with me? The mountain's beefy hands gripped my shoulders and walked 5' tall little me over to a dark corner. I couldn't see his face. But he had Andrew Dice Clay hair and chunky gold rings on thin tapered fingers. He puffed on a big fat Cuban cigar and smoked shimmered in the ghost light before rolling off into the shadows. It seemed the darkness was consuming everything in this joint.

Two dice sat on the wooden table. The dings and scars upon the table's skin did little to ease my fears. Is that blood?! I swallowed hard and shook in my stilettos. He shuffled a deck of cards, but I doubt he ever intended to deal them. He seemed to enjoy the feel of them flexing under his nimble fingers. The red glow of his cigar drew my eyes. I marveled at the inch long snake of ash just hanging there. He clamped it in his teeth.

"I hear you've been writing smut." His voice was like dark chocolate. Deep and silky smooth as it drifted from the shadows. I nodded, yes, though it was really more of a statement than a question. He chuckled, a lovely rumble beneath his double-breasted suit. The man might scare the be-Jesus outta me, but he had style. "We like smut 'round these parts--gives this place atmosphere." The mountain laughed behind me. I wished he'd move--stop wedging me closer to the table and Mr. Smooth.

Mr. Smooth continued, dark chocolate spinning his line. "I hear your write noir." I shrugged and the mountain shoved me. My hands landed on the table--on the blood stains. I was getting an idea of how they got there. The mountain snapped like a growling beast. "Answer the boss." My breath caught and I squeaked, "I write a lot of things."

"Hey!" Mr. smooth admonished the mountain harshly and we all looked at him. He stood up, straightened his tie, rolled his shoulders and walked around the table. He pushed the mountain back with one finger. One effing finger! "She's a classy broad. Give her a break." He righted me by my elbow and pushed my hair out of my face. "You okay?" I nodded that I was and he gestured to a chair. "Have a seat, Doll Face."

I took a chair and looked at him."How'd you know I was gonna end up here? I didn't even know. I got lost." Mr. Smooth grinned, laying in wait, covered by shadows once more. "The only way to find the Golden Pearl is to get lost. Ain't that right boys?" The bar cheered...but it was more of a slow growling agreement than an actual cheer. This was not a satisfactory response, but he spoke before I could voice my opposition. "The point is that you made it."

He leaned over and set a briefcase on the table. I played it cool while he worked the combination and the clasps snapped open. "I have something for you. A gift from my family to yours." My brow crinkled, "Family?" He laughed, "Sure. We're a family, aren't we boys?" The mountain laughed and I heard, "Sure Boss," float around the bar. He pulled out a large yellow envelope and pushed it a cross the table. "Take this, post it on your blog, and don't make me send Joey after you." The mountain cracked his knuckles and all I could think was Joey was far too small a name for a man that large.

I picked the envelope up with shaking hands. Damn I hope Mr. Smooth didn't see. I cleared my throat, "So can I go now?" Mr. Smooth leaned back and folded his fingers over his abdomen. "Yeah, Doll Face. Scoot." He didn't have to tell me twice. I bolted from the chair--knocking it over. I headed for the door, choking on the smoke, and then some creep called Uncle Buk grabbed my ass. In a moment of pure insanity, I looked back as I reached the door.

I watched a pretty brunette in a red dress take the stage. A piano began to play of it's own accord and she started to sing, "Black Coffee." When she turned around my heart stopped. It was like looking in a mirror--if I'd been trapped in the 1940's that is... I turned back to the door and hurried out into the starless night.

I stumbled backward into the gutter. My heel snapped. "Dammit!" I stood up and dusted off the dirt. When I looked up The Golden Pearl was gone. Every trace of it had vanished. In it's place stood a sorry looking Chinese noodle place. I looked around--nothing. It was gone. A chill seeped into my bones and I hobbled back the way I'd come. I didn't know where I was exactly, and I couldn't see any cabbies out. I made to the end of the block before I remembered the envelope clutched under my arm.

I opened it.

A green certificate winked at me. "The Versatile Blogger Award." I shoved it angrily back in the envelope. "Oh for Pete's sake! All this for a Blogger award?!" I scoffed to the blinking streetlamp. "Pfft. Men. And they say Chicas like drama. Humph."




It took me two days to get home and somebody owes me a new pair of stilettos. So, my dear sweet minions...I apologize for the delay. But Mr. Smooth...ah Ant...was kind enough to gift Crooked Tales with The Versatile Blogger Award. Apparently I have to tell you 10 things about myself that you might not know. But if you read my seedy little rag--you pretty much know everything. Lmao! So I'm gonna post 5 truths and 5 lies instead. See if you can pick them out. ;)


1. I Did back to school commercials for Value City and Schottenstein's department stores as a kid.

2. I was nominated for Miss Teen Ohio in 7th grade.

3. I love lobster.

4. I never wear panties. (Hehehee.)

5. I sometimes dream about being Fred Astaire.

6. I want to retire on an island somewhere with a harem of oh...say...30 cabana boys to do my bidding.

7. I used to scam kids in school outta cash by eating bowls full of jalapenos for $5 a pop. ;)

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!)

9. My favorite color is green.

10. Gawd I need more?! Ugh. Okay. My hands down favorite singer ever is Iggy Pop.


Now for the fun stuff! I get to tag 5 bloggers. Hehehehehe. It's supposed to be 10, but eh, I never have liked rules, and Ant has a point about the black plague. I know I'm supposed to be looking for versatile bloggers, but I'm feeling more like girl power. Or maybe I just like to flip off rules as much as humanly possible--who knows? So my pics are as follows:


1. Cathy cuz I love her and she's killing me with her damn wedding sugary sweet syrupy crap! Lmao! Kidding Chica! I'll just email you my dental bill. I jest. If you haven't read her blog, then you must be mental. Really, if you wanna be one of the cool kids (or surly loner eavesdropping on the cool kids like me) then her blog is the place to be. You never know if you're gonna get a story to make you chuckle, to make you cry, or just catch up on gossip. Sweet. ;)


2. VL Sheridan. Seriously. Why aren't you reading Sins of the Flash?? It's awesome, tawdry, yummy, stark, and oh so sinfully bad for you. ;)


3. Carrie. I'll be honest...I dunno much about her, but Crooked Fang has profanity and scares me--and I love it! I leave her place feeling like I need a shower or a preist (and I'm not Catholic!) or both. Rock on, Chica. ;)


4. Maria. Look. She's got a freaking HUGE gun on her blog! Like I'm NOT gonna pick her? Pfft.. I'm mental, but not stupid. Seriously, she writes some crazy shit and I totally dig it. You want sexy assassins? How about some baby/creature murdering cults? Then she's your Chica, I'm telling you. Read her blog and love it! ;)


5. Is thing still on? Testing? Testing? Oh. Okay, cool. Last but not least...is my Chica. She doesn't post that much of her writing. Typically she blogs about writing, but when she does post some fiction prepare to be gripped by an overwhelming sense of--how the eff does she write like that? So polished, so brilliant, so flawless. Honestly, she sickens me. lmao! But I luvs her. So go over and check out Mistress Savage. :)


Hmmm...I'm winking a lot today. Just slap me simple and call me Twitch. Hope you had fun folks. Hope you have a rockin'-kick ass day and happy blogging! :D