In Praise of British Slang ~ A Poem

A short time ago, I had the privilege of speaking to an English author who is also a wonderful poet. During our conversation, he asked if I was still writing poetry. The question caught me off guard. I don’t write poetry regularly and have not done so since working on my current novel.

It got me thinking though, because I adored his English accent and way of speaking. He used words and phrasing I never hear in conversation with friends—which I found both amusing and endearing. As Canadians, we have adopted British words in our day-to-day language, but there are many we don’t use.

It also amazed me to discover how much of British slang sounds vulgar, even when the words are not. Some of the words in my poem may be regional or outdated, but they entertained me nonetheless. Brits can comment and tell me if I’ve made a twit of myself.

I hope you enjoy this short poem inspired by a special Englishman. I know he fancies wordplay and has a healthy sense of humour (that’s humour with a second ‘u’ since I’m being British and all).

eden

****

In Praise of British Slang

The dog’s bollocks is the best
But bollocks alone is rubbish
And rubbish is actually garbage
Don’t speak it; throw it in a bin

If you spend a penny in England
Expect to be in the loo
But if you get diddled while in there
Check that you still have all your pennies

No point fannying around
As the arse is the ass
And the fanny is not the arse
It’s the female naughty bits

And what of the John Thomas or Todger?
Found on a mate, a bloke, or a codger
So many names to describe a plonker
There should be as many words for a lughole

You may think I’m barmy or bladdered
I’m neither, just a wee bit knackered
In need of a good eight hours
And I’ll be full of beans again

Yes I do love many things British
The language, the slang, the humour
A dry cocktail of irony and wit
Perfect for taking the piss

One Stolen Night ~ A story written and read for @RBwood’s Word Count Podcast

You can also hear me read this story on: Episode #31 of R.B. Wood’s “The Word Count” podcast.

The prompt for this podcast is The Thief. 

*  *  *  *

Brenda and David had a Thursday night ritual triggered by a series of signals. The first came when Brenda put on her black satin negligee after a regime of skin care and grooming. She slathered her arms and legs in Jergens lotion and brushed her hair—one hundred strokes before twisting it in a bun atop her head. After crawling into bed, she switched the lamp to the dimmest setting. David, upon entering the bedroom from brushing his teeth, pulled down his gingham boxers and slipped under the covers. The second signal involved Brenda draping a leg over David’s torso, gently brushing his penis. In the ensuing silence, foreplay consisted of light groping and kissing with no tongue until Brenda mounted David and rode him. As she neared climax, she reached behind and stroked his balls. This final signal was the cue for David to squeeze her nipples—which set off her orgasm. David’s muted grunts followed only seconds later.

After dismounting, Brenda got out of bed and opened the dresser drawer to retrieve a face towel, one of many neatly folded inside. She went for a pee and then soaked the towel under hot water, wringing it dry. Brenda held it between her crotch and jumped up and down to expel David’s semen. She rinsed the towel and repeated the process twice more.

****

David was a man who liked predictability. It’s what drew him to the actuarial sciences to begin with. Statistics and numbers made sense to him. This morning, however, as he sat in his office and stared at the framed image on his desk—something no longer made sense. The picture showed him with Brenda on their wedding day eleven years ago. Only moments prior to that shot, Brenda whispered in his ear, told him how sexy he looked, and how she couldn’t wait to leave the party and have him all to herself. Just as the photographer snapped the picture, she grabbed his ass and squeezed. The expression on his face in the photo conjured up memories of why he married Brenda—spontaneous, exciting, and unlike him—unpredictable.

David didn’t even like Brenda on top. He was an ass-man, always had been, and he couldn’t see Brenda’s ass in that position. Last night when Brenda returned to the bedroom, he pretended to be asleep curled in a fetal position facing away from her side of the bed. He wasn’t in the mood to have her wipe down his private parts with a scorching hot towel. For added insurance, he even faked snoring though he hated himself for deceiving her.

The more David thought about it, the more annoyed he became that they had fallen into this rut. He adored Brenda and he was certain she felt the same for him. What happened to the David and Brenda of their wedding day?

To increase the probability of their marriage’s long-term success, he resolved he had to change, and he wasn’t going to wait until next Thursday to do it.

****

Brenda entered the bedroom to find David lying on top of the covers, naked.

“What are you doing?” she said, her teeth brushed, her lithe frame in a tattered flannel nightie, and in her hand, a glass of water.

“I’m stealing some time with my wife,” David said, sitting up.

Brenda furrowed her brow and walked tentatively to the bed. She placed the glass on the night table. “But … but it’s Friday.”

David extended his arm and pulled Brenda into bed with him. “You mean it’s not Thursday, our usual night.”

“What’s gotten into you?” she asked.

David stared into his wife’s eyes and leaned in to kiss her. Brenda did not respond at first, but then she opened up and accepted his probing tongue. After several seconds, David reluctantly pulled away.

“Brenda, our life has been on a merry-go-round lately. Are you happy?”

“I … of course I am …” She averted his gaze. “Why … are you unhappy?”

“Brenda, I’m not unhappy, but I want the carefree woman I once knew. I want the us we used to be.”

Brenda looked at her husband, confusion written across her face. “But I thought you liked routine?”

“I do,” he said, “just not in the bedroom.” David reached over and pulled the pin out of Brenda’s hair. “I prefer it down.”

Brenda shook her long tresses and brushed it forward with her fingers. “What do you have in mind?”

“I want you on your hands and knees. I’ve missed seeing that gorgeous ass of yours.”

Brenda’s eyes widened and her lips parted as if to say something, but nothing came out.

David’s words sounded foreign to his own ears, but he’d calculated the odds of being rejected, and it was low. He received his confirmation when he saw the twinkle in Brenda’s eyes.

After David and Brenda made love like they hadn’t made love in years, they clutched one another and fell asleep in each other’s arms.

In one stolen night of intimacy, they changed the course of their relationship.

If you enjoyed this story and would like to read a collection of erotic flash fiction and poetry, pick up my ebook Hot Flash, which includes two non-erotic stories too.

Click on the cover and LOOK INSIDE to read a sample.

Available at Amazon:

US | UK | Canada | Germany | France | Japan | Italy | Spain

No Kindle? No Worries.

There is a Kindle App for just about any electronic device (Click here to get one).

 

From Every Angle ~ A story written and read for @RBwood’s Word Count Podcast

You can also hear me read this story on: Episode #29 of R.B. Wood’s “The Word Count” podcast.

The prompt for this podcast is That’s when the cameras all turned toward me…

*  *  *  *

She slowly pulled herself up off her knees. His penis now appeared like a shriveled earthworm nestled against his scrotum. She crouched on his lap facing him, spreading her thighs on either side of his and looked into his face. When he didn’t respond, she brushed her index finger lightly across the lashes of his closed eyes until he took an audible breath and sighed. With the taste of him still fresh in her mouth, she licked her lips and felt the skin tighten around her chin from the caked semen.

“Did you notice anything?” he asked, opening his eyes to stare at her.

“About what?”

“That mouthful you just swallowed. Did it taste … different?”

She wondered how to answer, not really paying attention to that aspect of him. “Hmm…” She pressed her lips together and thought fast before responding, “Sweet, you tasted really sweet.”

“Good,” he said. “That’s exactly what I was hoping for.”

A smile slowly crossed her face. “Really? What did you do?”

Pineapple, he said. He’d read it improved the taste of a man’s ejaculate and could provide a stronger orgasm. He’d eaten three tins of it in the past week.

“Yes…now that you mention it, it was intense, almost too much for me to swallow.” She lied; he grinned like a ten-year-old boy.

In so many ways he was still a boy—only twenty-two. Theirs was a business arrangement, though she suspected he’d grown rather fond of her in the process. Seeing each other every Thursday for the past two months, he was not only a regular, but her best paying client as well.

He intrigued her with his expensive taste, living in an artist’s loft filled with gadgets. When asked what he did for a living, he said he was trained as a filmmaker but confessed his first loves were gaming and larping, a term she had never heard of before.

“Larping is live action role-playing,” he said. “I’ve always had a love for games, so I’m trying to turn it into a business.”

She admired his creativity but couldn’t understand it as a money-making venture. “Your job would be to play games?”

He shook his head. “No, not play games, develop them.”

The concept was too vague for her and she wasn’t all that interested anyway. She could see he had a talent. Costumes, props, and simulated weaponry including guns, swords, and knives filled his house. As long as he paid her for her hour with him, she didn’t care how he earned a living. For a man who liked the fantasy life, his pedestrian sexual appetite was the only thing that seemed out of character.

He’d sit on his Italian leather couch and watch her undress, clad only in boxer shorts. She’d do a strip tease for him, always wearing the identical pieces of clothing and removing them in the same order—first, her red silk blouse—button by button, then her leather pencil skirt—inch by inch, then her black stiletto heels. Next, she’d slowly roll down her thigh high stockings—starting with the right leg. With only her panties and bra remaining, she’d saunter over to him where he’d fondle her breasts, peel back the cups of her bra, lick the right nipple, suck the left nipple, push her tits together and bury his face in her cleavage. She’d moan—loudly, then pull away to do a painstakingly slow dance where she would fondle herself, remove her panties and bra, and masturbate until she screamed from her orgasm. Not long after, she’d crawl over to him and stare down his erection before taking him deep down her throat.

As with previous visits, today was no different. After she dressed, he paid her in twenty, crisp ten-dollar bills.

“Thank you, Laura for being so wonderful,” he said, walking her to the door.

She looked at him with uncertainty in her eyes. “Anthony, will I be seeing you next week?”

He put his hand on her shoulder and leaned in to kiss her on both cheeks. “I don’t think so. It’s time I move on.”

She wanted to say something, ask him why, but by the time she walked out and turned around, he’d shut the door behind her.

****

Anthony dismantled four tiny cameras strategically mounted in the room. He’d positioned them differently for each of Laura’s visits, ensuring he would capture her performance from every angle.

It was a big job, and he’d be paid handsomely for it. His client was a wealthy man who had specific requirements. Laura had met them to a tee, from her physique to her voice to her technique. Anthony had written the dialogue to elicit certain responses from her, and she had delivered brilliantly. Now, it was time to edit the raw footage of the past two months and turn it into a one-of-a-kind virtual experience.

If you enjoyed this story and would like to read a collection of erotic flash fiction and poetry, pick up my ebook Hot Flash, which includes two non-erotic stories too.

Click on the cover and LOOK INSIDE to read a sample.

Available at Amazon:

US | UK | Canada | Germany | France | Japan | Italy | Spain

No Kindle? No Worries.

There is a Kindle App for just about any electronic device (Click here to get one).

 

Farewell My Love ~ A story written and read for @RBwood’s Word Count Podcast

You can also hear me read this story on: Episode #28 of R.B. Wood’s “The Word Count” podcast.

The prompt for this podcast is One. Two. Three. He caressed each bullet in the palm of his hand before slipping it into its chamber…

*  *  *  *

James stopped typing mid-sentence and glanced across his desk to where she sat. Her sweet scent alerted him to her presence. He knew she’d return this morning to continue their conversation of last night. Mesmerized, he watched her put down her writing tablet and unwrap the long, silk scarf from around her neck. Curled up in her favorite chair by the picture window, knees drawn, her face revealed a woman of timeless beauty and infinite wisdom. Torn between his love for her and his work, he re-read the three nonsensical paragraphs on his computer screen. They were the same words he’d been typing for the past several days.

She wanted out; he couldn’t imagine writing without her.

“How can I go on if you leave me?” he said. “You’ve given me the best five years of my life, helped me through the darkest hours when I thought I would never see light again.”

“Oh stop it, James.” She pursed her lips in a manner that showed her annoyance. “You’re being melodramatic, cliché in fact.”

He wiped his brow and sniffled. “I need you Calli—now—more than ever.”

She took a deep breath and let her shoulders drop, as if to unburden herself from the responsibilities she held. “You don’t need me anymore, James. I’ve been your mistress, your lover, your confidante, but lately, I’ve been nothing but a roadblock. It’s time I move on. You know I’m right, and ….”

James cupped his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut. “La-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la …” He repeated over and over hoping to drown out Calli’s voice. Surely, she had to understand he couldn’t just let her go. Without her, he would never have written his three best-selling novels.

“James, please, stop being childish. We’ve had an incredible relationship—a true meeting of minds, but it’s time to say good-bye.”

He opened his eyes to see a sunbeam brush Calli’s hair and highlight her face in a colorful prism. She was a goddess, beautiful even when he exasperated her. She was the one who taught him perseverance, listened to him ad nauseam as he cried over missed deadlines and rejection letters. She stuck with him and helped him hammer out hours upon sleepless hours of prose, dialogue, narrative, description, and then one day, her persistence paid off. In exchange, he cast her in a thousand scenes, made love to her, worshipped her, but now … her impatience with him hurt more than anything.

“I can’t say good-bye to you,” he said.

“You must.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “You’ve come to an impasse with your writing, and the only way to move forward is to let me go.”

He pouted and cradled his head in his hands. “Now who’s being cliché?”

Calli released a heavy sigh and slowly rose from her seat. She glided gracefully toward James. When she stood in front of him, she gathered up the skirt of her flowing, purple gown and crouched at his feet, resting her head in his lap.

“You know I love you, James. I always will, but I’ve been around much longer than you have, and it’s not good for us to continue like this. You will grow to hate me when your wellspring of creativity dries up, as it is already beginning to.”

James stroked Calli’s head and unraveled her tightly braided hair. He splayed her long, golden tresses down her back, breathed in her clean and earthy scent that held a hint of roses. He loved her even though he’d felt the past months tinged with boredom and lack of motivation. He wanted to believe the feeling would pass, but it didn’t. Only when confronted by Calli did he realize he was too cowardly to end it himself. Now her permission to do so flooded him with guilt.

“Calli, how can I go on without you?”

“You can, and you will.” She picked herself up and knelt in front of him. “Take this.”

He eyed the revolver she held in her hand. “What? Where did you get this?”

“Never you mind,” she said in her characteristic melodic lilt. You know I’ve lived long enough to have many sources.” She slipped her hand into the folds of her gown and pulled out a handful of metal. “You’ll need these too.”

James stared at the bullets she gently placed in his palm. “Calli … no.”

“You must, my darling. It’s time.”

­James stared into dark, emerald eyes and witnessed centuries of creative inspiration gone by. She was right, after all. He’d have to kill her if he held any hope of ever writing again. Her lips curved in a tiny smile and she closed her eyes, seemingly ready to accept her fate.

His fingers trembled as he caressed each bullet in his palm before slipping them into the gun’s chamber.

“Farewell my love,” he said with tears rolling down his cheeks.

* * *

James awoke in the middle of the night agitated but filled with wild ideas. He jumped out of bed, flipped open his laptop, and pounded away at a fresh, new manuscript.

If you enjoyed this story and would like to read a collection of erotic flash fiction and poetry, pick up my ebook Hot Flash, which includes two non-erotic stories too.

Click on the cover and LOOK INSIDE to read a sample.

Available at Amazon:

US | UK | Canada | Germany | France | Japan | Italy | Spain

No Kindle? No Worries.

There is a Kindle App for just about any electronic device (Click here to get one).

 

MISTAKEN DOUBLE IDENTITY ~ A story written and read for @RBwood’s Word Count Podcast

You can also hear me read this story on: Episode #27 of R.B. Wood’s “The Word Count” podcast.

The prompt for this podcast is “Mistaken identity at the pub…”

*  *  *  *

Kim initially cast a wide net by chatting with nearly a dozen men who responded to her ad. After just two weeks, the field had narrowed to one. His name was Richard. He offered to send his picture early in the relationship. She preferred not to see it, said it wouldn’t change her mind about him.

After weeks of phone chat and texting, she thought he finally understood. “Looks are unimportant to me,” Kim said. “I like you. Let’s not complicate it with physical appearances until we are ready to meet.”

They connected on every level of likes and dislikes, but more importantly, they shared the same family values. He wanted to have children, maybe two or three. He had no clue what she looked like either, yet his willingness to continue their relationship revealed an important character trait in her eyes—he wasn’t fickle.

“I’d be a good provider,” Richard said in one of his emails. “You wouldn’t need to work, unless of course, you wanted to. I guess I’m old-fashioned that way.”

“I like that you’re old-fashioned,” Kim wrote back. “That’s how it was with my parents, and they were happily married for over fifty years.”

Conversation flowed smoothly between them, an effortless union. Following a three-month courtship, they finally agreed to meet at a pub downtown. Kim had dreamt about walking in to the bar, scanning the crowd and seeing a man in a dark suit, a red rose on his lapel to identify him. He’d spot her too, smile, and know she was the one. She’d saunter over and look into his blue, green, or brown eyes. He’d hold her face in his hands and say, “I’ve waited for you all my life, Kim.”

Yes, that was how she envisioned it would happen, but it never did.

On the eve before they were to meet, Kim received an email from Richard, devoid of a subject line. Had he changed his mind? She opened the email in a panic only to stare at a headshot of a male model’s face—large, brown eyes, an aquiline nose, curvaceous lips, all framed by a strong jaw line and flawless skin. Beneath the photograph were two lines:

“Taken last year in San Diego. I can’t wait to see you, Richard.”

I can’t wait to see you. I can’t wait to see you … The line echoed in Kim’s mind. She had thought Richard was different than other men, that looks were not all that important to him. Obviously, she was mistaken.

She shuffled to the bathroom, her heart heavier with each step. The mirror on the medicine cabinet reflected a thirty-year-old woman whose face was perfectly proportioned. “Women would die to have such beautiful eyes as yours,” her mother had said to her all her life.

Kim grabbed a bottle and several large cotton balls from a nearby shelf. She unscrewed the cap and pressed the absorbent fibers to the opening, soaking the cotton balls in clear liquid. She stared at her perfect blue eyes and swabbed her right cheek, wiping away a layer of foundation and blush. She did the same for the other cheek, aware that tears now blurred her vision as she uncovered the hemangioma. No matter how much make-up she applied, she could not conceal the reddish-purple birthmark that blanketed the left side of her face.

Following a good cry, Kim returned to her computer and fired off a note to Richard.

 * * *

Richard had hoped that by sending his picture to Kim, she’d be even more excited to meet him. His handsome face had always attracted women.

After receiving Kim’s terse rejection, he realized he’d made a big mistake, though he couldn’t understand why she never wanted to hear from him again. He turned off his computer and sat for a moment with his head in his hands. Muscle fatigue plagued his weary body. He pushed himself to his feet and reached for his cane. A bout of polio as a child had left him with an atrophied right leg. As he hobbled to the bedroom, a heavy sigh escaped his lips. He wondered if he’d ever find a woman who would love him, in spite of his imperfection.

If you enjoyed this story and would like to read a collection of erotic flash fiction and poetry, pick up my ebook Hot Flash, which includes two non-erotic stories too.

Click on the cover and LOOK INSIDE to read a sample.

Available at Amazon:

US | UK | Canada | Germany | France | Japan | Italy | Spain

No Kindle? No Worries.

There is a Kindle App for just about any electronic device (Click here to get one).

 

LAST STEPS ~ A story written and read for @RBwood’s Word Count Podcast

You can also hear me read this story on: Episode #26 of R.B. Wood’s “The Word Count” podcast.

The theme for this podcast is “Those last few steps seemed the most difficult I had ever made in my life.”

*  *  *  *

The phone rang just as I was sitting down to eat. With my feet tender and swollen from a recent attack of gout, the only thing I wanted was to elevate my legs on the La-Z-Boy chair and watch the baseball game. On the fifth ring, I swore under my breath and put down my TV tray. Who the hell would let it ring so many times?

“Hello?” I said in a brusque manner, ready to snap if a telemarketer came on the line.

“Tony?” The woman’s voice vibrated in my ear and immediately sent a shiver up my spine.

“Who’s this?”

“It’s Gina … from Vegas.”

Her name bounced around in my head, and I struggled to match a face to it. “Gina … Frank’s wife?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

I overheard a sigh. Was it relief or something else?

“I’m sorry to call you like this,” she said, “but I didn’t know who else to turn to.” A sniffle, another sigh.

“Does Frank know you’re calling me?”

Silence.

“Gina?”

“No,” she said finally, “Frank doesn’t know.”

I wasn’t surprised. I’d had a thing for Gina once—a big thing, but that was a lifetime ago. She left me and married my cousin Frank about fifteen years back, had a few kids, but the family never liked her. She was French, and her real name wasn’t even Gina. It was Ginnette. To appease Frank’s widowed mother who’d only call her “Gina,” she had her name legally changed.

After a couple of years living under her mother-in-law’s roof, she and Frank moved to Vegas and severed all ties with the family. Not long after, I’d heard rumors Frank beat her, that she deserved it. I didn’t care to know the details. It was all family gossip to me. Gina had made her bed.

Now I listened as she told me the story of the last few years of her life with Frank. She begged me to help her, said she’d always trusted me. She wanted to do the right thing by the kids. I couldn’t believe I’d be the only person she could turn to, but she swore she had no one else.

After I hung up the phone, I turned on the television and sat down with my Hungry Man dinner—roast beef, peas, mashed potatoes, and peach cobbler. I stabbed a piece of meat and broke it away from a white fatty film, which had crusted over the gravy. I immediately lost my appetite.

Why me? Couldn’t Gina have called anyone else from the family to do this?

* * * *

I felt no obligation to Gina, but after thinking about her request for a day, I decided to do it. I heard the relief in her voice when I called her back, and at that moment, I knew she really didn’t have anyone else. It upset me somewhat that she’d suffered so long in silence. Maybe a part of me still cared for her, even hoped that after all this was over, I might have a chance with her. Funny how I should be thinking with my dick at a time like this. I had no clue what she looked like anymore, but her voice still tugged at my heart, and her sexy French accent had not completely disappeared.

I arrived in Vegas Friday evening. The flight only worsened my gout. After removing my shoes on the plane, my feet had swollen and were throbbing by the time we landed. Squeezing into a pair of shoes I couldn’t even lace up, I was in agony after I checked into my hotel room off the strip.

Gina had given me directions to where Frank would be the next morning, and the exact time he’d be there. She tried to sound casual about it. “Imagine me asking this favor of you, Tony, after all these years. I never thought it’d come down to this.”

Neither did I.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “It’ll be over soon, and you and the kids can go on with your lives.”

* * * *

I arrived fifteen minutes early in a land of water fountains, palm trees, and immaculate greens. It was dark and overcast, unusual for a Vegas afternoon this time of year. I stood and watched the clouds drift through an empty sky. Quiet like death.

In the distance, I heard the drone of car engines headed my way. I stepped back from the path and leaned against a tree to alleviate the pressure on my right foot. I looked at my watch and saw Frank was right on time, just as Gina had said.

Three cars slowed down and parked by the side of the road twenty feet in front of me. A pause, and then it seemed all the car doors opened at once. I walked slowly toward the first car, one hand in my pocket, the other gripping a curved wooden handle.

To the right of me, I saw Gina exit from the second car followed by three teenagers. A crack of thunder, and the sky opened as she came toward me. I depressed the metal button of my umbrella and shielded her under its canopy.

“Thank you for coming Tony,” she said and leaned in to kiss me on each cheek, as beautiful as the last time I saw her.

“I’m sorry about Frank,” I said.

Gina gave a tiny smile. “He wouldn’t listen, still smoking even as he lay on his deathbed.”

I gave her my umbrella as a man approached and handed me a pair of white gloves. “Put these on,” he said, “and follow me.”

Along with the funeral director and four young, skinny lads who looked like they could use an extra meal, we carried the casket nearly thirty feet to Frank’s final resting place.

Those last steps just about killed me.

If you enjoyed this story and would like to read a collection of erotic flash fiction and poetry, pick up my ebook Hot Flash, which includes two non-erotic Christmas stories too.

Available at Amazon.com and Amazon.UK.

No Kindle? No Worries.

There is a Kindle App for just about any electronic device (Click here to get one). If you own a computer, smart phone, iPad, or iPod touch, then you are able to download my e-books.

* * * *

Click on the cover and LOOK INSIDE to learn more.

“Doing it With the King”

You can also hear me read this story (complete with sound effects ) on: Episode #25 of R.B. Wood’s “The Word Count” podcast.

The theme for this podcast is “A scene between you and your favorite fictional character.”

*  *  *  *

The flickering of amber light turns me on. Perhaps it’s the heat, the crackle of wet wood, or the licking of hard wood. Whatever it is, dancing flames hypnotize me. They also remind me of a film—one about a king. No, I’m not talking about Elvis. I’m referring to a different king from my fantasies. I’ve seen most of the movies. I’m sure you have as well. It started in 1933, a classic starring Fay Wray. Since then, numerous sequels have been made about this beast. My favorite though, remains the panned remake with Jessica Lange. For me, she and the king had the best chemistry.

The last time I watched the movie was back in college. I was dating the pitcher of the varsity baseball team, staying over at his apartment following yet, another disappointing romp in the sack. He held the school record for the fastest pitch. Unfortunately, that translated to the bedroom as well. After pumping me like a wild animal and coming in less than five minutes, he fell asleep. I was left to my own devices.

When he started snoring, I got up, went into the other room, and turned on the television. To my delight, King Kong was playing, and the best part was yet to come.

Aroused and unsatisfied, I foraged in the fridge for a suitable dildo. Aside from a jar of relish, a soggy cucumber, and a skinny carrot, there was nothing I could use. I pulled open several drawers, rifled through them, finally settling on an old-fashioned aluminum ice-cream scoop. I stretched out on the couch naked and fingered myself in anticipation of the big scene.

The room was pitch black save for the light coming from the TV. Blaring horns and the pounding of drums transported me into the jungle. The natives had just abducted Jessica Lange’s character, Dwan. I was wet.

Dwan was drugged and tied up, her wrists secured to an altar. She stood weaving in and out of consciousness. I inserted the scoop handle into my pussy. It wasn’t as thick as I would have liked, but it was certainly hard enough. With one hand, I fucked myself using the utensil. With the other, I grabbed my breasts and squeezed my nipples. I closed my eyes and the beating of drums intensified. The natives were restless.

Kong! Kong! Kong!

I masturbated in time with their chant, savagely thrusting the scoop in and out while they hammered their torches on the ground to summon up their god.

In the distance, a huge beast awakened. He stomped his way toward the light, snapping trees in his path like twigs.

Kong! Kong! Kong!

My hands moved faster. My breathing grew shallow. The chanting suddenly stopped. The chirping of cicadas filled the silence. Dwan sensed something large standing in front of her. She raised her head to see a monstrous gorilla thumping his chest. He let out a barbaric roar; she screamed; and I rammed the scoop into myself as deeply as I could. Unlike the orgasm I faked earlier, this time I erupted—for real. My body convulsed, and I wasn’t sure if I had screamed along with Dwan. In the end, it didn’t matter, the snoring from the bedroom would have drowned me out anyway.

After my passion subsided, I turned off the TV. On my way to the bedroom, I passed the kitchen. As I was about to put the ice-cream scoop in the dishwasher, a whimsical change of heart struck me. I thought to myself—oh,  fuck it. I opened the drawer and tossed the scoop back in.

This story is included in a collection called  HOT FLASH, now available 

Amazon US  ~ Amazon UK

“Cancer – My Story”

You can also hear me read this story on:

Episode #23 of The Word Count podcast. The theme for this podcast is “Beating the Odds.”

This is a special Word Count Podcast dedicated to Joshua Moore, son of friend and author Maxwell Cynn. Joshua is currently fighting leukemia, and the community of authors, filmmakers, and artists have rallied to raise at least $10,000 to help the family with medical expenses. Numerous people are on board helping with the fundraiser by donating their books, services, and time.
This podcast is an example of R.B. Wood’s generosity in using his excellent show to promote the cause.

Please donate what you can at IndieGoGo: Indies Unite for Joshua, and help us spread the word.

Sincerest thanks,
eden

*  *  *  *

Mine is but one of millions of stories about cancer. It is neither more nor less significant than any other story from a survivor or someone who’s been touched by the disease. I don’t usually share it publicly for a few reasons. Firstly, the word “survivor” carries an undertone of achievement. Metaphorically, it’s as if surviving cancer elevates one to a different status as a human being. I’m not comfortable with that, but it’s clearly my issue. I don’t downplay cancer as a formidable opponent, however, it was never an option for me not to survive. Secondly, cancer does not define me even though it was a large part of my life. Lastly, I am now cancer free and have been for almost twelve years. It’s in the past—and as with most things of my past, I’ve made my peace with it and moved on.

I share my story on a personal basis with those who are going through cancer treatment, and I do it because survivors shared their stories with me when I needed it most. I felt empowered by people who had endured so much—multiple surgeries, chemotherapy, radiation, and countless other treatments and then went on to live their lives fearlessly. For this reason, for Joshua and his family, and in support of R.B. Wood’s special Word Count Podcast, here’s my story.

* * * *

The specialist ignored my request to do a core biopsy. Instead, he did a fine needle aspiration to test for malignancy of the lump I’d found on my breast. It was a test I knew carried a high percentage of inaccuracy. I’d done my homework before I went to see him.

“Look,” he said, annoyed with my questioning him. “I can tell you right now you don’t have cancer. You have no family history of it, you’re Asian, and you’re too young.” His voice was authoritative and dismissive, implying he was doing me a favor by even performing any test. It was obvious to me that I was nothing more to him than a body part to examine. After all, he was the specialist with letters behind his name, and I was just a scared woman who knew my body. Though I considered him a heartless bastard whose practice had long outlasted his compassion, I was relieved when my test results came back showing I didn’t have cancer.

When my lump continued to grow over the next few weeks, I returned to my general practitioner and asked for a referral to a different specialist. I wanted a second opinion.

I got a young female doctor this time. She confirmed that fine needle biopsies carried a high degree of error and recommended I have surgery to remove the lump. Given its aggressive growth, she didn’t want to waste time doing additional tests. I walked out of her office slightly nervous, but relieved that I’d made the decision to have surgery. The thought of a scar didn’t appeal to me, but hell, having a third boob wasn’t going to be any more attractive.

 * * * *

On the day of my surgery, my best friend, Mae, drove me to the hospital early in the morning. Everything went off as scheduled, and after the anesthesia wore off, I was moved to a private waiting room where my girlfriend was waiting. We laughed and chatted about where to go for lunch. I was starving!

The nurse who had prepped me for surgery came in with the doctor carrying some pamphlets—post-surgical care instructions, I thought, but no … they contained information about breast cancer—which I had.

The only thing I remembered hearing was the word “cancer,” and then my girlfriend’s quick intake of breath before she started crying.

It was surreal as I watched the doctor mouthing words “Cancer … metastasis … more surgery … oncology …” and other medical terms I’d never heard of at the time.

Finally, at the end of it, the nurse handed me the pamphlets and asked if I had any questions. Sure I did, I had plenty. But my friend was sobbing, and I couldn’t think straight. The questions would have to wait.

Don’t ever underestimate a hungry woman who’s just been told she has cancer, or her best friend who’s quite reserved until she gets behind the wheel. That day, we hit a hundred in a sixty-kilometer zone, barreling down one of the city’s main arteries in search of comfort food.

“I dare a cop to stop me,” Mae yelled at the top of her lungs. “I’m going to tell him you’ve just been diagnosed with cancer, and I don’t give a shit what he says!”

“No kidding,” I said, “as if he can possibly make my day any worse. I’ve got cancer for fuck’s sake!”

“Yeah, but if I get a ticket, you’re paying for it!” she screamed.

We laughed until we cried.

* * * *

From the day I was misdiagnosed until the end of my treatments, there were countless decisions to make. I can only compare it to climbing an old tree with numerous branches. Reaching the top meant I could grab my health back, but there were limitless, different ways to get there. At times, I was paralyzed for fear of making the wrong decision. In the end, I did what was right for me based on all the options I was aware of. As an active participant in my well being—knowledge gave me power.

My mother always said I hated to lose—she was right. There was no way I was losing my life to cancer.

*  *  *  *

Some final words for Joshua

You may feel the weight of cancer on your shoulders right now, but you have hundreds of thousands, if not millions in your corner to help lighten the load.

Keep fighting, young man. I know you can do it. ♥

Related post: Cancer ~Fuck. The Hell. Off

“An Eternal Love”

Happy Valentine’s Day to all who celebrate love, and really … who doesn’t? Here’s my take on what eternal love might look like.

* * * *

The man across the table looked at me with skepticism in his eyes. I had repeated my story three times, but it was obvious he was looking for inconsistencies as he scribbled in his notepad.

“I know you think I’m crazy,” I said, “but I’ve known Emily since we were five, and there’s no other explanation for her disappearance other than what I’ve told you.”

“Miss Martin, what you’re saying is highly unusual, so we have to get the facts straight.”

I sighed—loudly. “I understand, but the story is not going to change no matter how many times I tell it. I’m tired, and I want to go home.”

He looked over at his partner who merely shrugged. I hated the whole “good cop, bad cop” routine they’d been playing for the past two hours. I was losing patience. Emily was my best friend, and I had no reason to lie about what I thought had happened to her, even if it was … highly unusual.

“Miss Martin, we all want to go home, but tell it to me once more. I promise you this will be the last time.”

* * * *

The cryptic note left for Emily’s mom read:

Dearest Mom,
Please don’t worry about me. I am well and happy and wish the same for you.
With all my love, always,
—Emily

Her mother was understandably distraught. She called me immediately after finding the note and said it was uncharacteristic of Emily to be so irresponsible, to vanish without saying a word. She would never leave like this …

Yes, but her mother didn’t know my friend the way I did. To her, Emily was the good girl who had done everything right from day one. As an only child, she had been an “A” student her entire academic life. She had always been there for her mom since her dad died when Emily was just an infant. The pressure to be the perfect daughter was not easy, and Emily had constantly wrestled with her mother’s inability to move on with her own life.

Emily was completing her master’s degree in metaphysics when she disappeared. As long as I had known her, she’d been interested in the idea of parallel universes. I had read some of her papers, and though they struck me as fascinating, my understanding of another dimension was rooted in science fiction, not science. Emily, on the other hand, believed there was something more and was determined to find it.

She hadn’t dated anyone in a long time, so I was naturally intrigued when she confided she had met someone. Over coffee one afternoon, Emily told me about the new man in her life. She described him as having hypnotic eyes, a deep voice, and charisma that had her dreaming about him almost nightly.

“I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something dark and mysterious about him,” she said.

Ever the cynic, I replied, “Oh, seriously, Em…”

“I know it sounds cliché, but it’s true. He’s not particularly handsome—not in the classical sense anyway, yet somehow I’m drawn to him.”

“And has he noticed you?”

“Not really, no more than any of the other students. His teaching style is not interactive. He stands behind the podium for the entire two-hour lecture, and he barely moves. He just tells us which chapters to read, and occasionally, he reads out the chapters verbatim.”

“He’s probably your type though—you like them a bit strange.”

“Ha! No, he’s not strange—he’s deadly seductive. His voice makes me think of dark chocolate—thick, delicious, and his lips, my god …”

“What does the rest of him look like?”

“… Plus he has this flawless complexion. With the auditorium lights reflecting off his skin, his face is radiant.” She took a gulp of coffee, lost in decadent thought. “Sorry, what was your question?”

I had never seen Emily so taken by a man before. “I asked what the rest of him looks like.”

“Gorgeous. He’s over six feet tall, appears in great shape, and has fierce, dark brown eyes with a hint of crimson.”

“Hmm…the way you describe him can only mean one thing.”

“What?”

“He’s a bloody vampire!”

We both doubled over laughing. It had always been a joke between us to unabashedly label men as fictional characters. Between us, we’d dated a werewolf— hairy dude with the bad teeth; a zombie—guy with the dead eyes who walked with a shuffle; and gladiator man—my last boyfriend who had the rugged looks of Russell Crowe and a temper to go with it.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Emily said. “How do you get vampire from what I’ve told you?”

“Come on, he’s hypnotizing, can stand for hours without moving, and has a flawless complexion. He must be a vampire!”

That was the last time I saw Emily. After that, we continued to exchange e-mails and phone calls, and she told me about her escalating crush on her professor. He’d invaded her thoughts so thoroughly that she awakened nightly with wet dreams, her body trembling and flushed. She even found evidence of small marks on her breasts and around her neck, which she referred to as love bites. Although this alarmed me, Emily just laughed it off, saying she couldn’t wait to go to bed every night.

I was envious hearing about the passion in her dreams! It was better than any sex I’d experienced in a long time with a real man.

We made tentative plans to get together for dinner. Emily promised she had some exciting news to share and even hinted she wanted me to meet her professor. I gathered their relationship had moved beyond her dreams. Thrilled and excited for her, I was looking forward to our dinner to find out more. When I called to confirm our date on the morning we were supposed to meet and couldn’t get a hold of her, I was concerned, but not all that worried. I sent a follow-up e-mail but received no response. It was only when Emily’s mother called a few days later that I first suspected something was wrong.

* * * *

Numb from exhaustion after the four-hour interrogation, I kicked off my shoes upon entering my apartment and threw my coat on a chair. The emotional turmoil of the past week had completely stressed me out. Emily’s mother had no idea her daughter had been seeing someone, and I was beginning to wonder about it myself. It wasn’t as if I had actually met the man. I didn’t even know his name and had nothing concrete to offer the police about him.

I brewed a cup of tea and prepared to watch the news before going to bed. I don’t recall when I fell asleep, but I awoke with a start to realize I was still on the couch with the television blaring, and my cup of tea knocked over on the coffee table.

“Shit,” I whispered, running to the kitchen to grab a dish towel.

As I pushed aside the pile of magazines to wipe the table dry, I saw an envelope peeking out beneath my latest issue of Vogue. I had not noticed it before and pulled it out. It was addressed to me in a handwriting I knew well. My heart raced as I opened it and read the note.

Dearest Amy,

You are the only person who’s ever understood my desire to know more than just what this life has to offer.
You were right about the professor. With him, I have found everlasting life … and love. Please understand I have chosen to be with him. He is the one.
Your friend forever, love,
—Emily

The bittersweet pang of loss swept over me. Emily was gone. She had found the portal to eternal love.

This story is included in a collection called  HOT FLASH, now available 

Amazon US  ~ Amazon UK 

“On the Heels of Submission”

You can also hear me read this story on:

Episode #22 of The Word Count podcast.

The prompt was “I washed the blood from my hands…”

*  *  *  *

I could tell what he wanted the moment he sat next to me. He showed me what he had in his duffel bag and invited me to his place. He was aggressive, which was ironic. I had to follow through, or I might not get another chance. The six beers, three glasses of wine, and two Tequila chasers made me brave. My ex always said to me, “Never mix your fruits with your grains. You can’t handle it.” He should know. He’d experienced more than his share of my violent outbursts.

* * *

Goddamn it, what the hell was I thinking? I couldn’t even recall how I got here. Thoughts tumbled around in my head like clothes in a dryer. I was in the dingy bathroom of his apartment, staring at my ruddy complexion in the mirror. My eyes were puffy and bloodshot, my mouth dry like I’d been sucking on a tennis ball. I spit out a blob of brownish phlegm, turned on the water, and watched the thick mucous swirl down the drain. With my chest heaving, I managed to gulp two handfuls of water.

“Hey, are you almost done?” he yelled. He was already in the bedroom, and the only thing separating us was the flimsy lock on the bathroom door.

“Yeah … just give me a minute.” I left the water running to mask the sound of my coughing. I spit once more and took several deep breaths before I unlocked the door.

He was on the floor, naked, save for the dog collar around his neck and the leash in his mouth.  My first instinct was to bolt, but it’d be pretty difficult to run with swollen feet inside five-inch heels.

He crawled over to me on all fours, and dropped the leash at my feet. “I’ve been a bad dog. I couldn’t wait for you and had an accident.” He whimpered and rubbed his face along the side of my leather pants. Sure enough, there was a puddle in the corner of the room. I suppressed my gag reflex and again thought of running.

“You are a bad dog.” Did those words really come out of my mouth?

Proceeding to the bed, I sat down awkwardly as a wave of nausea hit. He followed behind me, panting like a lovesick puppy. I crossed my legs and extended one in front of him. “Lick my shoe. Now!” I demanded.

Relieved with my quick recovery, I waited for my stomach to settle, but my discomfort only increased. His flabby body spilled out in front of me in full view. I, on the other hand, was stuffed like a sausage into my corset unable to escape. Listening to this fat slob slurp my stiletto and suck on my heel made me sick. I just wanted to get it over with and vomit.

“Bring me your whip,” I said.

He stopped tonguing my shoe and crawled over to his duffel bag. Using his teeth, he unzipped it and burrowed his head inside like a truffle pig.

With my heart hammering inside my chest, I quietly removed both shoes and gripped one in my sweaty hands. As I neared him, he craned his neck and saw me just before I stabbed the heel into his eye with all my strength. His body stiffened, and he let out a high-pitch yelp. He scrambled to his knees, frantically grabbing at the embedded shoe in his face. From the opposite side of the room, I watched as he twirled around like a wind-up toy and then slumped forward until his head hit the floor.

Inside the bathroom, I washed the blood from my hands, scrubbing my skin raw. Next, I knelt over the toilet bowl and vomited, immediately feeling better. After a few moments, I got up and braced myself against the sink. There was half a bottle of mouthwash in the medicine cabinet, and I used it up. When I  saw my reflection in the mirror, I frowned and wondered who the stranger was staring back at me.

This story is included in a collection called  HOT FLASH, now available 

Amazon US  ~ Amazon UK

“Love Bites”

It’s January, the month of “new beginnings,” and I learned something new from a wonderful poet—the word “scansion,” which refers to the rhythm of a line of verse.  He also taught me 4-3-4-3 ballad style poetry, so I’ve composed something here in that style. Hope you like it.

eden

“Love Bites”

I’ve typed so much my fingers hurt
Nerve endings start to sting
An odd yet pleasing discomfort
Reminds me of a fling

The only way to stop the pain
Is bite down on each one
Suck the tips ’til feeling’s regained
Then kiss them when he’s done

He scrapes my skin with his sharp teeth
Licks a trail with his tongue
Leaves me burning from deep beneath
A place where it once stung

Connected and so intricate
Is pleasure with my pain
Small bites that inflame and then sate
Resistance is in vain

His oral skills make me shiver
Unleash a lover’s cry
All too soon I feel a quiver
Exhale a drawn-out sigh

“An Adult Christmas Fairy Tale”

Once upon a time, there were three sisters who lived among the rolling hills of a faraway land. The Bradford sisters were, in fact, identical triplets. They caused quite the stir when they entered the world twenty-five years ago one wintry night. The town had never seen such beautiful babies and to have three at once! Their birth was declared a miracle as the last one was born just as the clock struck twelve on Christmas Eve.

Elizabeth, the eldest and considered the brightest was a tenured professor at the university teaching Economics. Catherine, the middle child, was blessed with great sex appeal. Although all the girls had long flaxen hair, pale blue eyes, and beautiful, shapely bodies, Catherine was the runway model, and she could charm the pants off any man—literally. Finally, there was Alexandra, or Alex, as she preferred to be called. She was the youngest, and though accomplished in her own right, she couldn’t be more different than her sisters. Her dad called her his “free spirited” daughter.

Alex was infinitely creative and always open to trying new things. In her late teens, she played guitar in a band and became good enough to perform at respected venues, but she soon tired of the scene and left the band on the eve of their debut tour. Next, she took up photography and excelled at it. Her landscapes were featured in National Geographic with a sold-out show in Paris. When other galleries came calling, she suddenly decided she’d had it with taking pictures and sold all her camera equipment. Her latest venture was baking, and she quickly became successful at it. Her “delectable edibles,” as she called them were sold to local businesses, and she had difficulty keeping up with the demand. She had started baking purely on a whim (like everything else she did), and now her kitchen resembled a baking factory.

* * * *

“Honestly, Alex, why don’t you open up your own shop?” Catherine said, as she sat on the couch wrapping presents. She and Elizabeth had come by to exchange gifts and to pick up Alex en route their parents’ house for Christmas Eve dinner.

“I like baking in my own kitchen. Besides, I don’t want to become a storeowner. I sell to shops and restaurants, and that’s fine for now.” Alex carefully stacked colorful cupcakes, brownies, and cookies on a giant crystal platter, creating a pyramid shape. Next she set the platter atop cellophane, wrapped the arrangement, and finally secured it with a bright red bow at the top.

“That looks amazing,” Elizabeth said. “You know Bill is going to die when he sees those brownies!” Bill was her fiancé and had quite the sweet tooth—it showed.

“I’ve made boxes for each of you to take home,” Alex said, “so tell Bill to hold back tonight! This is just enough for everyone who’s going to be there for dinner.”

And what a dinner it would be. Each year it seemed there were more and more guests. Between her immediate family and their cousins’ families, her parents also invited some of their friends and neighbors. That was the wonderful thing about where they lived (in this faraway land), nobody ever had to spend Christmas alone.

Alex finished packing more of her goodies into tins as her sisters gathered bags of presents and piled them by the door.

“We’re going to load up the car,” Catherine said, slipping on her boots. “Good thing Larry has a big truck!

“Ha! You’ve always loved men with big trucks,” Alex said.

“Well … he has a brother with a truck too if you’re interested.” And with that, Catherine swung open the front door and a cold gust blasted her in the face. She grabbed two parcels in each hand and headed outside.

“Hurry up, Alex!” Elizabeth yelled while balancing the dessert platter in her hands. “It’s starting to snow.”

“I’ll be out in a minute, just tidying up.” Alex grabbed a dish towel and wiped the flour-caked counter. She was happy Elizabeth had Bill, and Catherine had … well, she always had several men on the go.  “Larry with the big truck” would be another in a long line of men who had graced their family Christmas table, and unlikely to be the last. Alex, on the other hand, never brought a date. She didn’t need it with the pressure of the holidays, especially when her family worried that she never made time for anyone in her life. Alex preferred creative conquests and baking had been the biggest challenge yet. She’d been waiting three years (a long time for her to be doing the same thing) to receive affirmation that it was what she was meant to do with her life. She was beginning to wonder if she’d ever get a sign. Tonight was another chance to find out.

Setting aside any pessimistic thoughts, she gave one final look toward the kitchen before stepping out into the cold.

* * * *

Alex opened the door to her house and dropped the bags of gifts she had received. The dinner was a huge success, as usual, with enough food to feed a small village. Her mom even sent her home with leftover turkey to make sandwiches. She was just happy to be home now and looked forward to getting out of her dress. As she walked by the kitchen toward her bedroom, the sweet smell of cinnamon filled her nostrils.

Alex stopped in her tracks and gasped. The mug she had left next to the pot of apple cider had been moved, and the plate of cookies on the counter was now bare, save for a few crumbs. She ran to her desk and flipped open her laptop, signing into her e-mail. With bated breath, she read the note she’d been wishing for.

Dear Alexandra, Thank you for inviting me into your home. The past couple of years have been extremely busy traveling the world for the children, so my apologies for not visiting sooner. After hearing all the wonderful things about your baking, I knew I had to make a special trip. The cookies were as you described—exquisite, and the cider really hit the spot! I appreciate your continued belief in me at a time when so few believe anymore. You have a true gift to see the world through a child’s eyes, and I hope you never lose that wonderment for all that life has to offer. Your friend, K. Kringle

From that day forward … Alex baked happily ever after.

~ The End ~

*A special message for my readers*

No matter what you believe in at this time of year, I wish you peace, health, and happiness. All my very best to you and those you love this holiday season,
eden ♥

“Sleep Eludes Me”

It’s December, the month of pressure—too much to do, too little time. I wrote this poem after a sleepless night.

eden

Photography by Sonny Semansco

“Sleep Eludes Me”

Lustful thoughts
Swirl inside my head
Like a gang swarms its victim
Circling
Before an attack

I lie in bed
Waiting to be still
But my mind races forward
Changing scenes
Like frames in a film

My body yearns for rest
A voice cries out “No!”
It steals my attention
Demanding gratification
Carnal satisfaction

I interrupt your dreams
Massage you awake
Hold you firmly in my hand
Quietly
I climb on top and lock you in

I’ll be your mystery lover
Your fantasy girl
Let me ride you
To satisfy me
No need to open your eyes

“On Top”

I haven’t written poetry in awhile, so here’s another attempt at it.  My theme this month is “patience,” and it’s a great prompt for an erotic poem, don’t you think?

Hope you enjoy,

eden

I climb on top
Straddle
Your hardness
Between my legs

Palpable
Throbbing
Ready

Lower myself
Anticipate
The push
To copulate

You tease
Make me wait
Frustrate

Swivel hips
Lubricate
Gyrate
Finally
Penetrate

You cradle me
Stroke
Fondle
Play

I grab my breasts
Entice
Pinch
Squeeze

Can’t slow down
Bounce
Thrust
Grind

Can’t wait
Shake
Tremble
Breathless

Can’t stop
Accelerate
Too late
Coming
Convulse
Coming
Ejaculate
Coming
Saturate
Coming

Eventually
Deflate

Breathe
Await

Fill me
Once more

Breathe
Await

“I’m Not Mad, I’m Hysterical”

You can also hear me read this story on: Episode #19 of The Word Count podcast.

The prompt was “The only difference between a madman and me is that I’m not mad.”

* * * *

“Did you know that you can sell guns on any street corner in Alabama, but it’s against the law to sell sex toys?”

He pursed his lips, showing his disapproval. “And how do you know so much about the subject, Lena?”

“I read. Just because I don’t have letters after my name doesn’t mean I’m ill-informed.”

“No, no, of course not. You’re an intelligent woman, Lena.”

“Don’t patronize me, you narrow-minded hypocrite.”

“Lena, there’s no need to be combative. I’m just trying to help you.”

I glared at the man sitting in front of me—a boy, really. He was probably no more than thirty but had the wisdom of a ten year old. At the insistence of my god-fearing husband, I’d been coerced to seek medical help. I was even prescribed drugs for my little problem, though I didn’t take them, of course.

“Yes doc, in Alabama, you can shoot your guns at will so long as you’re of legal age. Just don’t shoot your sperm into a vinyl blow-up doll.”

His expression changed, though unsuccessfully masking his contempt. “Really, Lena, must you speak in such lewd terms?”

“Your puritanical way of thinking is ridiculous and maddening.”

“And why does that make you mad, Lena?”

This guy was something else, so incredibly innocent that I could bait him with a piece of snot. “First of all, doc, don’t call me by my name. You haven’t earned the right, and you’re not going to endear yourself to me by doing so. Secondly, the term madness is open for interpretation. I’ve been called many things: insane; crazy; even hysterical, which in itself is quite ironic.”

Ironic indeed. My problem was that I had urges—often, and I didn’t mind satisfying them. The issue was my dear husband didn’t think it was normal for me to have such an active libido, and he was shelling out big bucks to have me “cured.” He certainly didn’t approve of my using vibrators, or as he called them, my “marital aids.” In Victorian times, I would’ve been brought into an office not unlike this one, only I’d be manually masturbated by the doctor as a remedy for my anxiety or depression. Now, I just had to sit in front of this shrink and talk about it.

“You don’t like me very much, do you?” he asked.

Wow, the dim bulb flickered. “I don’t like what you represent, doc. Do you think you’re going to cure me of my desire? If you do, you’re the one who’s mad.”

“Lena … sorry—look, I know you’re not happy about coming to see me, and you’re only doing it to appease your husband, but you have a legitimate problem.” He paused to wipe his upper lip with a handkerchief. “My apologies, it’s quite warm in here today. I—”

“Cut the bullshit, doc. It’s no warmer than usual for a Tennessee summer day. You have some nerve telling me I have a problem. I think I turn you on, don’t I?”

His face went ashen and he began stuttering incoherently.

I offered a coy smile. I’d known from day one what his weakness was. From the stark appearance in his office, lack of family photos, and no wedding band, it wasn’t difficult to guess that he was unmarried and likely a virgin. The fact that he would counsel me on becoming a righteous woman was laughable, and now I’d confirmed what I had suspected all along—he had a Mommy complex.

“Doc,” I said calmly, now almost feeling sorry for him, “you need to pull yourself together. It’s not very professional of you to have your tongue hanging out.”

“Mrs. Robinson! I don’t think I can see you anymore.” He got up, walked over to his desk, and shuffled papers. “I’m going to recommend another doctor immediately.” Scribbling on a notepad, he thrust a piece of paper in my face—all the while, avoiding eye contact.

I looked at the note. It was the name of another doctor. Getting up slowly from my seat, I stood shoulder-to-shoulder with this young, small-framed man. “You know doc … I was just beginning to like you.”

“Please leave,” he said, his eyes looking toward the door.

I picked up my purse and left his office. Once outside, I crumpled the piece of paper he’d given me and threw it in the garbage. Another shrink conquered—my dear husband will surely be mad.

* * * *

This story is included in a collection called  HOT FLASH, now available 

Amazon US  ~ Amazon UK

“Creative States”

You can also hear me read this poem on:

Episode #17 of The Word Count podcast.

The prompt was “It happened so quickly I had no time to think, only react…”

Naked in bed

Slouched over a laptop

Tapping at letters

Banging out words

Plotting and scheming

Writing and editing

Exhausted

An energy shift

The mind drained of thought

The body swept by lust

Impulsive heat

Warm and sticky

Wet with anticipation

Aroused

Skilled hands

Playing with a firm touch

Exploring every curve

Fingers wedged between swollen folds

Hips lifted off the bed

Writhing for more

Feverish

Hard frantic strokes

Grabbing at breasts

Squeezing and rubbing

Gasping for air

And a scream of release

Shallow breaths

Refocused

“Better Her, Than Me”

You can also hear me read this story on:

Episode #16 of The Word Count podcast.

The prompt was “Your character suspects his/her husband is having an affair and decides to spy on him. What she/he discovers is not what he/she was expecting…” (I completely forgot about the “spying part” in this prompt, but the rest is there!).

*  *  *  *

The nightmare of the past seventy-two hours began when I received a phone call from San José, Costa Rica. The man speaking English with a Spanish accent asked for Mrs. Collins, and I knew something had happened to Mike. All I heard was: accident; hospital; and please come as soon as possible.

I had not heard from Mike in almost two weeks. He had been in Cahuita, a small city on the Caribbean coast of Costa Rica. He’d been living there for the past eight months, supervising the building of a bed and breakfast —a new venture and our second chance.

We had been married ten years, were childless, and life in the big city of Chicago had become stale. Mike and I had honeymooned in Costa Rica, and he had fallen in love with it. An indiscretion with his assistant had created a rift in our marriage about two years ago. In an effort to recapture the romance, he begged my forgiveness and convinced me to return to Costa Rica. It seemed to work. That’s when he got the idea to move there permanently. It was a tough sell initially, but I had to ask myself what was I afraid of?

Aside from my mother, a small network of close friends, and a teaching job that was no longer fulfilling, I really didn’t have much to tie me to the city anymore. At thirty-eight, it was time to take a leap of faith.

When the phone rang, I was in the middle of packing. The house had been sold, and the plan was to stay with my mother until the guesthouse in Cahuita was ready. It was left to me to settle everything in the city—not an easy task, but in the end, I had to believe my marriage was worth it.

* * * *

Now, I was on a plane to San José with a hospital address scribbled on a post-it note, a suitcase of clothes hastily thrown together, and a host of unanswered questions regarding Mike’s condition. Were it not for the sweet old lady beside me whose head kept hitting my shoulder as she nodded off, I probably would have burst into tears.

What could have happened to Mike? Was it an accident at the construction site? How badly hurt was he?

* * * *

I threw a twenty dollar bill at the cabbie and his eyes lit up.

“Senora, no tengo cambio,” he said, looking like he had just won the lottery.

“Keep the change,” I told him in Spanish. Three months of conversational Spanish was proving handy, but when I entered the hospital and was bombarded by all the signage, I didn’t know which way to turn.

A young woman approached me in a white dress with a silver nametag over her heart. It read “Maria” and her position was “Customer Service.” She directed me to the elevators and even pushed the button to the third floor where Mike was located.

Following a brief conversation with the lady at the information desk, I took a seat in the waiting room. The modern look of the hospital gave me hope that Mike was receiving good care. From what I had read about the facility, it was one of the best in Central America.

No more than five minutes later, a thirty-something man came up to me and introduced himself as Dr. Filip Ramirez.

“Mrs. Collins, thank you for coming so quickly. I know it could not have been easy.”

His English was surprisingly good. “Doctor, what can you tell me? Is Mike all right?”

“He’s suffered a…devastating injury. We had to operate to stop the bleeding.”

“What happened? Is he going to be okay?”

“Mrs. Collins. This is an unusual case. Your husband is going to need your support over the next few months.”

“Doctor, for god’s sake. What happened to him?” My anxiety must’ve been palpable.

“Mrs. Collins,” he said, “I promised your husband that I’d let him tell you the story. You may go see him.”

I followed the doctor through several corridors before entering a large room. As I walked in, I saw Mike sitting up in bed. A sheet covered the lower half of his body, and he appeared deeply tanned. I ran over and wrapped my arms around him, tears streaming down my face with relief.

“Mike, I’m so glad you’re okay.”

I nodded my thanks to the doctor as he quietly left the room.

“Abby, Abby…” Mike cried. “Oh my god Abby, I’m so sorry.”

I slowly pulled away from his embrace. “What are you sorry about, what happened? Was there an accident at the site?”

“Abby, promise you’ll forgive me. I’ve been such a fool, I never meant to hurt you.  I…”

Mike had an expression of terror, which I’d never seen before. It both scared and confused me. I held his face in my hands and kissed him gently on the lips to calm him down. “Forgive you for what? Mike, you’re not making any sense. Where did they operate on you?”

I followed his gaze as he looked toward his legs. Gently, I pulled down the sheet and saw he was heavily bandaged around his groin.

“Mike?” I turned to see him welling up with tears. “How did this happen?” Was it a shark attack, some freak industrial accident, or…?

The realization slowly began to sink in, but I refused to believe it.

“Abby—” Mike pleaded.

“How bad is it?”

“It’s gone, Abby … It’s gone.”

“How the fuck did this happen?” I didn’t want to hear the answer, but I couldn’t contain the rage that now threatened to overwhelm me. “Tell me right now or I’m walking out of here.”

“Abby, she meant nothing to me. I swear it.”

The color drained from his face as the blood rushed to mine. Taking a deep breath, I released all the tension I’d been holding in. The past seventy-two hours had come down to this – my husband had been having an affair—again, and now, he no longer had a dick.

“How long, Mike?”

“Abby, does it matter?”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Six months.” He wiped his face with the back of his hand.

I cringed. “Six months meant a lot for her to do this to you.”

“She was a psycho, she—”

“Enough!” I said. “How dare you try to blame her for what you’ve done.”

“Abby, Abby, I’ll make it up to you, I swear. I love you.”

I never expected to feel so much anger, yet, in my mind, there was a quiet resolve, a detachment that gave me strength.

“Just answer me one question, Mike.”

“Anything, babe, anything.”

“Where’s your penis now?”

He hesitated before responding, “In the ocean, she threw it in the ocean.”

I bit my lower lip, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. In the end, all I could say was, “Better her, than me.”

* * * *

This story is included in a collection called  HOT FLASH, now available 

Amazon US  ~ Amazon UK

“A Good News Day”

“A Good News Day” was originally posted on author, Al Boudreau’s site for Erotica in the Cage, a 24 hour writing competition. I didn’t win, but it was a great experience.

I’ve reposted here for your reading enjoyment.

Stay sexy,

eden

I was horny as I drove home after work. A scorcher of a day, it had been a real letdown not to see Jessica in the office. With Chelsea away for the weekend, I was looking forward to spending some time with the guys from the newsroom, but it was Jessica I really wanted to be with. She wrote the sex column for the paper, and I covered politics. We talked daily, and I found her openness and knowledge of the world to be a real turn-on. I loved Chelsea, but she didn’t always stimulate me mentally. On the few occasions she met my co-workers, she appeared a bit intimidated, though she and Jess seemed to get along fine.

Arriving home to find the elevator broken again, I dragged my ass up the four flights of stairs. By the time I reached our apartment, sweat was streaming down my face. When I opened the door, the scent of jasmine hit me. That was odd ­­as it was not Chelsea’s perfume. I didn’t think twice about it and kicked off my shoes in the middle of the living room. Without Chelsea at home for the weekend, I could at least let loose for a couple of days. As I entered the bedroom, I pulled off my T-shirt, flipped on the light, and was startled to see dark, long tresses peeking out from underneath the covers.

“Babe, what are you still doing here?” I asked.

“Well hello, sweet thing,” Jessica said as she rolled over and eyed me up and down.

“Jessica, what the…?” My heart began to race as the blood rushed to my loins. “What are you doing here? How the hell did you get in?”

She crawled out from under the covers wearing only a one-piece black negligee. The flimsy material couldn’t hide her full, round breasts nor the fact that she had nothing else on underneath.

“Surprise, Vince,” she purred, moving toward me, “I hope you’re happy to see me.”

I was suddenly aware I was shirtless as she traced her fingers across my damp chest, circling my nipples.

“Jess, how did you get in?”

“Details, details, you newsmen always need to know the facts. Isn’t it good enough that I’m here?”

“Yes, but…”

Jessica continued to stroke my chest. I couldn’t deny how sexy it felt to have her breasts pushed against me, but I wanted the details. I was a reporter after all, and I had to know the answers. How did she get in the apartment? Did Chelsea know about this? Was I being set up? My mind raced through all the possible scenarios until I felt Jess tugging at my belt, loosening the buckle.

“Come on Vince, you want me. I know you do.” Her breath was soft and hot near my ear.

“Jess, there’s no man on earth who wouldn’t want you, but Chelsea—”

“Forget about Chelsea. She’s not here, I am!”

Her words shook me out of my foggy state, and I backed away. “Jessica, I’m sorry. I’m not sure what you were thinking by coming here, but I can’t do this.”

“You can’t, or you won’t?” She stepped back and slid the thin straps of her negligee down her shoulders, allowing the delicate material to fall to the floor.

My jaw dropped as I stared at the beauty in front of me. Jessica cupped a breast in each hand and fondled herself, pulling on her nipples until they were long and hard. She moved to some imagined music, swaying her hips in an enticing dance, trailing her right hand down her stomach, and then lower toward her pussy… my god…her pussy. Puffy lips covered in wisps of dark hair could not conceal the slit that had already parted, its moisture an open invitation.

“Jess …” My mouth went dry.

“Look at me Vince, and tell me you don’t want me.” She moaned as she brazenly pleasured herself.

My cock strained against my pants as I wrestled with doing the right thing. Jessica was my fantasy girl, but Chelsea was my love. I couldn’t believe what I was about to say.

“Jess, I’m going to take a cold shower now. As much as I want you, and believe me, I do want you, I can’t. I’m sorry.”

Jessica’s expression suddenly changed to pouty disappointment. She bent over slowly, exposing her full ass cheeks and picked up her negligee. My cock was bursting as I watched her slip the garment back over her ample breasts.

“Fine, Vince. Go and take your cold shower.”

* * * *

I heard a door slam after I got in the shower and could tell Jess was not used to being rejected. It took several minutes of the water hitting my cock before my hard-on subsided. Jessica was unbelievably hot, and she had basically offered herself to me. What the fuck was I thinking by turning her down?

I stood under the cold shower until I was numb and then turned off the taps. As I finished toweling off, there was a knock on the door. Damn, Jess had not left after all. I wrapped the towel tightly around my waist and braced myself for a confrontation. When I swung open the door, Chelsea stood in front of me. She was naked and had a grin on her face.

“Hi honey,” she said.

“Jesus! Chelsea, when did you get home? I thought…” Then I saw her—Jessica in the background walking up behind Chelsea, herself naked, and wrapping an arm around my girlfriend’s waist. The two of them seemed like the best of friends, smiling and writhing their bodies against one other.

“Hi again, Vince,” Jess said.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. Was I dreaming? “Will somebody please tell me what’s going on?”

Chelsea planted her lips on mine and gave me a long, passionate kiss that sent shivers down my back. Jessica’s warm body was also pressed against me as she nibbled on my earlobe. I grabbed both women around their waists, moving my kisses from one to the other. I got confirmation I wasn’t dreaming when Chelsea ripped off my towel and pulled me toward the bed, leading me by my hard-on.

“I know we’ve been together nine years Vince, but I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeve. Jess and I have been friends for awhile, and this is a fantasy of mine.”

“I had no idea,” I said as I positioned myself on my back while both women crawled into bed on either side of me. Where Jessica had round buxom breasts, Chelsea had smaller plum-shaped upturned ones. Her pussy was clean shaven and it looked more swollen now than I’d ever seen it.

“I was attracted to Jess,” Chelsea said, “but I had to know she wasn’t going to be a threat to our relationship. The fact that you could resist her proved it.”

Chelsea got up and positioned her pussy over my rock-hard cock, teasing me as she gyrated her hips just enough to allow the tip to touch her. I groaned with desire to feel more as Jess moved beside Chelsea, and they massaged each other’s breasts. The sight of two women kissing each other while one hovered over me was almost enough to make me unload right there. For a few agonizing moments, all I could do was watch until my cock disappeared inside Chelsea’s hot, wet cunt.

As Chelsea bounced on top of me, Jessica crawled up the bed and offered me her breasts. I grabbed them and buried my face in her cleavage, kissing her perfect mounds.

“So, Mr. Hardcore Newsman,” she said, “do you still need more details, or is this enough for now?”

She whimpered, and I sucked her erect nipples deep into my mouth. “I’m fine now,” I managed to say before she repositioned herself, straddling my chin with her knees on either side of my head, facing Chelsea as they reached out to touch each other’s breasts.

“Good,” Jessica said, “because I’m going to sit on your face now, and I don’t want to hear another word out of you.”

Erotica in the Cage

24 hours to write a story based on a prompt – Sound easy?

Not when Al Boudreau writes it. (He looks sweet and innocent, doesn’t he?)

Al’s Cage Matches are legendary events of blood, sweat, and tears. Now, spanking, gagging, and kilt-wearing cheerleaders have been introduced with the latest Erotica in the Cage.

My opponent Amelia James and I received our prompt Saturday at noon and have been writing furiously to get our stories in by the deadline.

Al’s previous cage matches for Thriller, Fantasy, and Horror have drawn in crowds, but this one could be a record breaker.

Both stories will be posted on Al’s site at 1 PM EST today. Drop by, read, and vote. The winner will get an interview with Al on his fabulous site.

Thanks Al, Amelia, and all the wonderful people who’ve cheered us on for this event!

Stay sexy,

eden

“Taxi to India”

You can also hear me read this story on:

Episode #15 of The Word Count podcast.

The prompt was: “A Taxi ride late one night in the city turns strange, when…”

This story was inspired by the writings of Les Floyd, an exceptional man whom I met on Twitter. I’d highly encourage you to follow his blog, and on Twitter as @Lesism. He is an incredible writer.

Mike was leaving for another one of his so-called business trips. For some time now, I had suspected him of having an affair, and his latest vague explanation to head to Chicago—yet again, was just another chapter in the ongoing deception.

He had tried to sneak out early this morning, and despite having taken a sleeping pill only hours earlier, I woke up. “What time is it?” I asked, my throat dry and scratchy.

He strode over from where he was getting dressed and gave me a peck on the forehead.

“It’s five-thirty, gotta to leave in twenty minutes. Sorry to wake you, I was just going to leave you a note.”

Sighing heavily, I propped myself up against a couple of pillows. “Another partners meeting?”

“Yeah, damn meetings,” he said as he walked back toward the closet to find a tie.

“Three weekends in a row?”

“Sorry, babe, I’ll make it up to you, we’ll do dinner when I get back in a couple of days.”

I cringed as he splashed on the cologne I had bought him for his birthday.  “How many meetings does it take for a bunch of lawyers to make a decision?”

“Honey, I’m not happy about it either, but you know I’m in line to take over once Ben retires, and I want this.”

And on and on he went, blathering in that awful corporate-speak that he knew I hated—throwing in bullshit lingo to silence me. I was silenced, all right, not by his brilliance, but by my own apathy. I had protested just enough to confirm that my husband was a bald-faced liar. Like an amateur poker player, he had a tell. He slurred his syllables when he lied, as if he were in a hurry, and couldn’t stick around to chat. The worst of it was I didn’t care anymore. I had all the proof I needed of his affair, and yet, I had let him continue to get away with it.

After Mike left, I got up and took a long shower and cried. I sobbed, actually, like I hadn’t sobbed in years. Poetic, in a way, that I could only cry in the shower, as if the very thought of feeling my tears roll down my cheeks was a sign of weakness. As I sat in the stall, hugging my knees to my chest and letting the powerful jets beat down on me, my crying suddenly changed to hysterical laughter.  Roaring like a wild woman, I decided what I had to do.

 * * * *

“You’re going to the airport?” he asked, as he met me at the front of the apartment building.

“Yes, La Guardia.”

“No bags?”

“Nope, just me.”

The cabbie furrowed his brow in surprise and opened the car door for me.

Normally, it was a forty-minute ride to the airport if the traffic was clear, but it was rarely clear in New York City, no matter the time of day. It was a warm spring night, and the city would be coming back to life in the next few months. Too bad I’d miss it.

“What time is your flight?” he asked as he turned down the volume of the radio.

I looked at him in the rear view mirror and saw dark eyes staring back at me. “I don’t know. I guess I’ll find out when I get there.”

“You don’t have a reservation?”

“Nope, I’m going to buy a first class ticket to somewhere, just not sure where yet.”

“You don’t look crazy, Ma’am, but that’s just daft!”

I laughed aloud at his bluntness. He was cute, thirtyish, and had a playful charm about him. “You’re English. I thought I detected an accent. How long have you been here?’

He chuckled. “Long enough, it seems. I never thought I’d be driving a cab when I came here three years ago, but life’s funny.”

“Yes, it sure is.” I stared out into the blackness of the lit-up city, remembering the moment it occurred to me what I had to do. It was perfect, but a part of me wanted to share my plans with someone, anyone. My English cabbie seemed like an empathetic soul, and when I looked into the mirror, I noticed he was staring back at me. It gave me the courage I needed. “I’d like to tell you something that I haven’t told anyone,” I said.

“All right.”

I took a deep breath before starting. “I had an epiphany this morning as I took my shower. I realized I live in a beautiful, expensive condo, and yet, it’s never felt like home. I have my own thriving PR company, but the work is no longer my passion. The worst part? I’m married to a man whom I’ve come to detest because he’s been having an affair for the last six months. I knew that if I didn’t make a change, I’d be lost.”

“So you’re running away?” he asked.

“No. Quite the opposite. I’ve been shackled by all the things in life that people deem important. A house, a job, a marriage. I thought all these things defined me, but they don’t. They’re merely things, and they no longer make me happy. That’s why I’m leaving them behind.”

He was silent, and for a moment, I thought I had made a huge mistake by telling him my story.

“It’s a brave move,” he said finally as he made a turn onto the highway, picking up speed. “Very few people in life would be able to do what you’re doing. Some days, I think of going to India, experiencing the culture my ancestors played a part in, but…”

“So why don’t you go?” I asked.

He let out a raucous laugh. “What? And leave all this behind.”

“No wife and kids?”

“No, haven’t found the right woman yet.”

My mind went into overdrive as we neared the airport. Soon, I’d have decisions to make, but now I had one more question. “How’d you like to come to India with me?”

“What? You can’t be serious?” He craned his neck to try and look at me.

“Hey! Keep your eye on the road!” I said, tickled by his exuberance. “And yes, I am serious. I’m a strong believer that if you pay attention, you’ll make the right choices.”

He pulled into a spot by the departures area, put the taxi in park, and turned to look at me. “And you think I’m part of those right choices? You don’t know me.”

I stared into his eyes and saw someone of gentle spirit. “I haven’t taken many chances in my life, and I’m an all-or-nothing kind of gal. We may be strangers, but I think we can become fast friends. I’ve been paralyzed to make any important decisions for a long time, but in this short cab ride, I’ve made a decision to go to India, and to invite you to come along. I can’t tell you how good that feels.”

“8M27, 8M27, where are you?” came the call over the taxi dispatch.

He picked up the radio. “This is 8M27, I’m here at La Guardia.”

“What’s taking you so long? A Mr. Thompson is waiting for you at Arrivals.”

His eyes twinkled as he gave me a smile. I smiled back and nodded. “I won’t be picking up a Mr. Thompson,” he said, “and you’d better get someone down here to pick up this cab as well.”

“Have you lost your mind? What the hell do you think you’re doing?” said the voice over the radio.

I giggled to myself as I heard my Englishman say, “I’m leaving for India, boss, I’m leaving for India.”