Collections By Stephen Faulkner

__        Josey, you won’t believe what happened to me today, you just can’t. I’m not even sure I believe it myself, it was so unreal.


__        You’re right, Marie, I don’t believe it at all. It just can’t be true. Things like that just don’t happen. You must be lying.


__        How can you say that when I haven’t even…. Oh, now I get it. “Quit the preamble, Marie, and get to the point.” Right?


__        Words right out of my mouth. So tell me; what’s so unreal that you can’t believe that it actually happened? What’s the big revelation?


__        “Not a revelation, really, and not even so big as I made it sound. Well, anyway, get this…. I’m on the “preferred list” down at Aaron’s Collectibles, you know. Well, I got their “special issue” catalog for this month in the mail and it was just fantastic. You wouldn’t believe what they have in this month. I don’t know who the buyer had to bribe or sleep with to get all this stuff but whoever it was, it worked. Spode Limiteds, Lladro Numbered Editions, Hummel Originals. Can you imagine? Five complete sets of the Hummel “Band” collection – violinist, flautist, horn player, guitarist, the whole thing. Vintage 30’s – just incredible. And the envelope the catalog came in was only postmarked yesterday. Now, here comes the “you won’t believe it” part – aside from the fact that I almost had an accident in the car on the way down there, Anyway, are you ready?  Four of the band sets, all of them complete, were already gone by the time I got there and someone had bought the bowler hatted violin player out of the one set that was left, I tell you, Josey, I was just devastated.


__        Too bad. Did you buy what was left of the last set? Horn, flute, guitar and the rest?


__        What would have been the point? The violin makes the set. I just had to settle for something else, that’s all.


__        For what? For a Lladro?


__        No. All they had left was The Shepherdess and I already have that one. I really need the Goat Girl but all that they had of that one was a three incher with a chip out of the bottom. But let me show you what I did get, though. It’s really….


__        Don’t bother, Marie. You know my only interests in your knick-knacks come from your enjoyment of them. For myself, it’s all a waste of time. Just tell me what it is, that’s all. My pleasure is seeing the excitement in your eyes when you describe one of your acquisitions to me.

__        My pleasure is your pleasure, huh? It’s a pity I don’t have your own hobby to get really involved with, Josey. Instead of your always getting a vicarious charge watching my face brighten with the thought of a new piece I’ve just gotten or that I’m about to get, I could be delighting in your little triumphs.


__        I have my own triumphs; you know that. My hobby is social rather than material in nature. And for you to see the delight – rapture, really – on my face when one of my “acquisitions” have been truly successful, well, you’d have to have put yourself into something of a compromising position in order to do so.


__        Yeah, I imagine that I would. Not that I would want to be in one of your – ahem! – “acquisitions” when it happens. The trouble with your “hobby”” – and I have a hard time thinking of what you do when you collect as a hobby – is that what you have gained in the doing is so transitory that it can’t be enjoyed afterwards. Now look at this. Hey! Don’t make a face about it, just look. See? You can look at it, touch it, handle it, appreciate its beauty. I bought I, know that it’s mine, that it will last. In your “collection,” what do you…?


__        “Is that what you bought? A statuette of a naked woman? Marie, I had no idea. I mean, I didn’t realize that you, of all people, swung that….


__        Josey, what are you thinking? One track mind, that’ you, as usual. So all right, it’s a naked woman but there is nothing smutty about it. It’s the beauty of it that matters. Here, look at its clean, flowing line. Art Deco, 1920’s. I love it and always will have it to hold and look at….


__        Until you need some fast and ready cash. Then I suppose you could get a pretty penny for it, couldn’t you?


__        Give it a couple of years and I’m sure I could sell it for a lot more than I paid for it today, though I would hate to part with it. But that is a consideration. As long as the pieces in my collection re in mint or close to mint condition, the return I could realize could really be nearly astronomical.


__        The difference between us, then, is that you have to wait for your collection to appreciate in value while what I collect is given freely to me and what I give in return can be pretty damned valuable on its own to a man whose tastes are discriminating and he’s willing to show me how much what we do means to him….


__        Josey! You don’t mean to tell me that you actually…?


__        Don’t get all excited about it. It only happened once, and I didn’t even mean to. I just tossed off a silly suggestion while we were undressing each other. Something like, “Monetary considerations would be greatly appreciated.” You know, just a joke, really. I didn’t think the guy would take me seriously. I just did it to see what kind of reaction I’d get and if I could get away with it.

__        And did you…? Did he…?


__        Yes, he did. Fifty dollars. I think I must have felt the way an actress who’s in love with the theater feels when she gets her first paying role. Like I was stealing or something. Doing what I love to do and getting paid for it? It didn’t seem right somehow, made me feel kind of guilty. I went right out and gave the whole fifty to a priest at Saint Anselm’s for the church’s poverty drive.


__        You didn’t! I would have gone right out and….


__        And bought a Hummel violin player with a bowler hat. I know. But like I said, my collection’s free and clear. There’s nothing to buy; no money changes hands. Oh, well, sure, there are some things to buy like make-up, new clothes now and then, trips to my gynecologist and contraceptives. I would have gotten those things anyway. The big expense is alcohol. Six bucks a drink at Hunter’s but with their bartenders making vodka Collinses almost three to one, it’s really not such a bad deal. Six or twelve bucks on a bar tab and I usually get lucky. Like with your fancy bric-a-brac, I do it for the pleasure, so the money spent is worth it to me.


__        Bit like I say, Josey, after all is said and done, what do you have to show for it? A half hour or so of foreplay, maybe a full hour for the whole thing. A couple of orgasms and if the guy has something communicable maybe a case of the clap or something exotic that the doctors in the States haven’t found a cure for yet. All that done, your collection‘s all in your head, just some pleasant memories, that’s all. Joe, Jack, Jimmy, Bob, Bill, Tom, Dick, Harry – one has to be pretty much the same as all the others, I would think. All bunched up in your head as one face, one cock, two balls…. Like one man meshed together out of many.


__        Oh, no, that’s where you’re wrong. They’re all individuals. Sure, If I just trusted to memory they’d all become a single mass of faces and genitals in my head. But…. Have I you ever shown you this before?


__        A high school composition book? No, you never… Wait a sec. Josey; don’t tell me that this is your “little black book”? But why so big?


__        Look closer. It’s not a “little black book.” The phone numbers I want to keep I have elsewhere. I call this my “memory aid.” See? About a half page per each…. Well, call them conquests if you want to. I hate that word, Nothing is ever conquered when everything is given and taken freely. Except for that fifty I made that one time and that shouldn’t count.


__        Not if you gave it all to charity, I suppose not.


__        Anyway, see this sheet here? Two sides, four guys. That was last weekend’s tally of…. Well, of whatever you want to call them. Lover is a good word.


__        “Friday: Jason P.; Saturday: Gregory O. and Edgar R.; Sunday: Abdul Q.” Abdul?


__        Works for the Saudi Consulate. Young, dark and hairy as a gorilla, even on his back. Recited selections form the Koran as we undressed. Could barely keep it up, no matter what I tried. See the black X? Means loser. Sweet man, a little eccentric, but a loser all the same. Probably had some hang-up about making it with an infidel or maybe a Mommy complex of some sort.


__        And the red asterisk next to Edgar R?  What’d you use, a felt tip?


__        Edgar…? Ooh, yes, Edgar. Mmmm!  Red anything means definitely contact again. Asterisk is the highest, overall. With a name like Edgar you’d expect a bookish guy with glasses and who whispers instead of talks, shy and retiring, you know? Well, he was like that at Hunter’s – his first time there – but when I got him home…. Wow! Talk about passionate. That man could kiss. And hung like a Clydesdale. Shit, I tell you, Marie, with a shlong like that…. Ai-yi! I’ve never been split open so wide or plowed so deep I’m scared he might have hurt my cervix. If I get pregnant the kid would have to be his. Even with all my precautions – the pill, like always, and a diaphragm – I wouldn’t be surprise if his spermy flood got through and knocked me up somehow.


__        Josey…!


__        I know, I talk too much. Just read. Keep the book until I see you next, if you want. I only cruise on weekends, so I won’t be needing it for a couple of days yet.


__        Really, Josey, I don’t think I….  Hey, take a look here. What does “pos.” mean?


__        Hmn! Oh. That. It means positions. My own short-hand. But it’s all pretty self-explanatory.


__        “Pos. – missionary, fem-top-straddle, fem-top-lain, shower-standing-rear-vaginal, doggie-all-fours, wheelbarrow-hands-only-support, front-lain, pillow-raised-middle, side-lay-frontal, side-lay, fem-back/male-front.” Really, Josey, you expect me to believe…?


__        The man has staying power. What can I say? How many positions do you count there? Eight? Nine?


__        One, two, three…. Umm…. Nine of them.


__        I came like rockets with the first four. Broke the monotony with other things; it’s all there, you’ll see. The other five get all rolled together in my head. Like a space shot, all jets open to the max the whole trip, just one continuous orgasm. Notice the numbers in the right hand for Abdul, Jason and so on? I rate my orgasm with them on a one to ten scale – zip for Abdul, five and half for Jason, seven for Gregory, et cetera. With Edgar the scale exploded. I didn’t know what to put. Ten was too cheap. If it was a piece of porcelain you’d probably call it priceless. Anyway, read on; it gets interesting.


__        You mean where it says “Sans Int. Pos.”?


__        That’s it. “Sans Intercourse Positions.” It means, oh, any position that doesn’t entail actual cock and cunt screwing. You know: foreplay kind of stuff.


__        “Sans Int. Pos.: cunn., fell., fingers, hands, 69, athletic 69, G.S., sod. – doggie, sod. – frontal….” Athletic 69?


__        He sat up while I was blowing him and hoisted me so that I had my legs wrapped around his head and he tongued me crazy while I sucked him off. I was head down and getting dizzy but I loved every minute of it.


__        What about “G.S.”?


__        Golden shower.


__        He pissed on you or you on him?


__        Me on him. It was an accident, really. I was riding him, sitting up – fem.-top-straddle” is how it’s written there. I was playing with my clitty as I was going up and down with him way inside of me. Just as I was getting my first rush of an orgasm…. Well, I pissed on him. I didn’t mean to do it, it just happened. I don’t think he even noticed. He didn’t say anything and even if he did notice, it dried up pretty quickly.


__        And “Sod.” means sodomy, right?


__        Right. Don’t really like it but by the time he suggested it I’d already been laid three times – I think – and had been both the tongue-er and tongue-ee maybe twice, so I was willing to try just about anything to keep the ball rolling. So to speak.


__        Ball rolling. That reminds me – what about him? He was virile all this time. Nine instances of intercourse and however many of fellatio, sixty-nine, sodomy, masturbation….


__        What can I say? The man had staying power. I helped, of course – educated hands and an expert tongue. Five hours and he only popped three times. It didn’t seem fair to me but he said he was satisfied.


__        Sounds like he’s got you spoiled. Anything less will seem – hmmsh! – anticlimactic. So to speak.


__        Yes. So to speak. But it doesn’t stop me from trying to find better, though. Almost a lost cause, when you think about it. A five hour erection on that guy and with only two wilts. Sweet and affectionate almost to a fault when he wasn’t dreaming up some new, untried configurations. And just look at those stats.


__        Stats? You mean these? “Ht. 6’ 5”, Wt. 240 lbs.” Big guy, huh?


__        More than you know. Keep reading.


__        You tape measure them before you make love to them?


__        Don’t be silly. Just call it a trained eye. I’ve made it with enough weight lifter types to know a 45 inch chest from a 50. Those numbers are only approximate but I’ll bet if I’d asked I’d have found I wasn’t more than an inch or two off. But keep going, the best is yet to be heard.


__        What? Legs and arms?


__        They’re there, too. But something else. You know what I mean.


__        Oh, that. Yes, of course.




__        Kielbasa! Is your trained eye that good? I mean, couldn’t it possibly have been just eight or eight and a half inches?


__        No, it was a nine all right. Actually closer to ten but near enough to the halfway mark to make it iffy.


__        And six inches in diameter? Now, really Josey….


__        Well, that part was really just an educated guess.


__        Nine times in one night….


__        Day and night, actually. We got started at about five in the afternoon.


__        All right, then. Nine times in one five hour period.  And with that…?  My God, girl, how could you even sit down afterwards? Or even think of trying it later that night with mushy Abdul?


__        Hopes of one fantastic success being followed by another. Boy, was I ever wrong.


__        Still, though, a red asterisk for Edgar….


__        And he deserves every crossed line of it. Turns just about all the others I’ve had – or thought I had – rather pale by comparison.


__        You gonna call him? Set a date for the next time you’ll get together?


__        That’s what a red asterisk means.


__        And it doesn’t make you feel like a… like a….


__        A tramp? A slut? Whore? Nympho? Easy lay? Well, Maybe the last two. For myself, though, I prefer to call it simple eagerness.


__        Collecting eagernesses, orgasms, men. Quite a hobby you have there. Still, what it all really comes down to are tangibles and abstracts. For all you have written here, the main things you have collected are just memories. Abstracts. Nothing you can touch or see.


__        Don’t have to. The doing is the main thing: that seeing, that touching. Like an actress and her craft, once the play is over, the performance is a memory. But one which leaves her with a feeling of something accomplished, something given as well as gained. Anything of an abstract nature has that at its core. With your hobby you gain, but what do you give? Twenty five, fifty, a hundred dollars or more to Aaron’s Collectibles? Does Aaron groan in orgasmic joy and appreciation as you write out the check or place the crisp, new bills into his hand and walk out of the shop with your purchase?


__        You’re blowing a smokescreen over the whole thing. What it comes down to is the pleasure we derive from what we collect.


__        And as I collect my pleasures I also give pleasure in return. An equal exchange. The pleasure I give to the man – as much as I can find out from him about it – does too double my own. Interaction. You can’t claim that kind of satisfaction from your hobby, no matter how rare the treasure you buy.


__        No, I can’t. I really don’t know how to answer that, no matter what kind of defense I could mount to counter what you just said. Makes my own hobby sound like a petty, selfish thing. Get, buy, acquire, collect. All for my own satisfaction and nothing more. And it’s a pleasure which I don’t think that I could amply describe.


__        But that’s the whole point, don’t you see? For both of us. Our own satisfaction – owning or doing, it doesn’t matter – the pleasure involved, no matter how we go about attaining it. A shelf full of curios for you, a book full of names, stats, positions and memories for me. “Oh looky look at all that I have. Aren’t I just wonderful?”


__        You make it sound so petty and self-indulgent.


__        Well, isn’t it? I mean, maybe it is. I don’t like to think of in those terms, but I can see your point. Each of us satisfying some personal obsessive hunger. Material objects and sexual experiences. What’s the difference?


__        Matter of preference, I suppose.


__        That’s all? Nothing to do with style?


__        What does that mean?


__        What does that matter, you mean?


__        That, too. Style doesn’t mean anything if you’re not content with it. If you’re not content, why even do it? Style doesn’t matter a fig, then, either.


__        So there you are.


__        Just choices, then. Preferences.


__        All right then. That’s settled.


__        How about morals? Right and wrong. Something else you don’t think about, I suppose.


__        If it’s right for me, I try not to let it bother my conscience.


__        And the guys you sleep with?


__        Fuck with, you mean. Let’s call a spade a spade, Marie dear. I figure that if they do it and accept my terms – and they are indirectly agreeing from the first flirty glance – then it must be all right with them, too.


__        So, then there’s no worry what’s right or wrong as long as it’s right for the individual. That’s your story?


__        In a nutshell, yes.


__        Relativist.


__        You want to talk philosophies? Fine, but don’t expect anything earth shattering from me.


__        So, then, it’s my Hummels, Spodes, Lladros et cetera and you with your collection of cocks, balls, missionary, doggie straddling sixty niners and what not. Yours is yours and mine is mine and we’re friends because we don’t compete.


__        Well, that’s not the only “because,” but it is one factor of our friendship, I guess. We go for different things. Something of a harsh assessment, but fitting, as far as it goes.




__        Still, Josey, with your “hobby,” there’s nothing to see, touch or feel after the – what do you call it? – the transaction is completed.


__        Ah shit! Are you still harping on that?  I thought we finished with that point a while ago.


__        It’s not a point, it’s the point as far as I’m concerned. Look, here’s the result of my little obsession for this past week. Late 20’s Art Deco, semi-glazed female nude figurine. You can see it, hold it, feel its weight and texture. And what do I have from you? Words on paper, descriptions of penile dimensions and how it cleaved you open upon entry into your vagina. Nine orgasms, whoopee! I wish you had some pictures to show me, at least.


__        I’ve got an old Polaroid around here somewhere but that would mean employing a third party as photographer. Changes the whole…. Oh, what is the word I’m looking for? Ambiance? Sounds like a word you’d find in a restaurant guide but I guess it’ll have to do.  A third person changes the whole ambiance of the situation. Spontaneity goes right out the window with a flash going off in your face every so often. You feel like you have to pose instead of just enjoying what you’re doing. And who would be taking the pictures? A woman? I’d be spending half my concentration wondering whether or not she’ll want to get into the action. A strange kind of jealousy when you think about it. A man? I’ll be mentally sizing him up for his possible inclusion thereby causing the guy I’m shtupping to lose his concentration wondering if and when he’ll have to share me with the other guy.


__        An odd kind of dilemma. Nothing like that with my hobby. Except when another collector’s got his eye on the same piece as I do. On the whole, though, as soon as the purchase is made, no more worries. The piece is mine, it’s there in my hands, neatly and safely done up in bubble wrap for protection from any accidents. At home, proof of purchase is right there on the shelf or in the hutch. Three-dimensional for all to see. No pictures needed, no description or written notes. There it is, and that’s all.


__        Very nice, I agree. Pleasure to the eye – most of them, anyway. Like men, it’s all a matter of taste.


__        That’s the final measure then? Just taste?


__        Probably not. It’s a good starting point, though. But we’ve been tossing this back and forth now for what? How many years has it been?


__        Since high school graduation. You celebrated by going down on Mister Sulgrave, your old tenth grade math teacher – or so the rumors had it and you told me later – and me by buying my first Hummel. “Busy Student.” I still have it in my collection. Seemed appropriate at the time, besides the fact that I’d fallen in love with the sweet chubby face of that little girl concentrating on her ABC’s.


__        And you think that “taste” or “style” or any one word you might come up with would do any of it justice? Yours or mine?


.__       Well, we could chalk it up to “lifestyle.” Is that better?


__        Same terminology. It’s just us, Marie. Each with her own peculiarly personal preferences. Let’s just leave it at that.


__        I guess you’re right.




__        Josey? You busy this weekend?


__        Hunter’s again, I guess. Or maybe the Red Orange. Their Happy Hour is the best that I’ve found for drinks and their male clientele.


__        No chance of your company then, I suppose. Over at Aaron’s Collectibles or at the South County Flea Market.


__        It depends. Any cute guys?


__        I thought you’d say something like that. Cute guys? Mmm, sometimes at the Flea Market, I guess. I don’t pay that much attention.


__        You wouldn’t. I see that you’ve still got that old Bel Aire in the driveway. A regular tank, that car.


__        Always was, you know that. So?


__        And a back seat that could comfortably sleep two.


__        Uh-huh. I’m beginning to get the drift here. Keep talking.


__        Tell you what. You’ve got me for Saturday on one condition. Or, at least, one that will sound like two.


__        Whatever. Just say it.


__        I’ll bring my Polaroid. After the shopping is done and I find myself a likely candidate for the continuation of my “hobby,” you be the photographer.


__        I see. I pick up the porcelain, you pick up the guy. No competition.


__        You kidding me? With your figure and that adorable face? I’ll expect I’ll have to fight like hell to even get a guy to look at me with you nearby.


__        Thank you for that. Now about the photography…. You’re talking about you and whoever in the back seat, pants around his ankles, you pantiles with your skirt hiked up to your belly button, doing the hot and nasty while I’m hanging over the back of the front seat snapping candids…. Have I got the gist of it?


__        Very astute girl. That catches it perfectly.


__        All right. I’ll do it. But on two conditions.


__        I think I saw this coming. One, of course, will be that I’ll have to buy something.


__        Right.


__        And the second?


__        You clean up the back seat afterward of anything that might cause stains.


__        Fair enough, I guess. Fairer still would be the old rule of “She who makes sticky mess with man shall be the one who does the cleaning.” And I wouldn’t be surprised if you and I will have to share that little chore equally.


__        You mean that you think that I…?  And doing it while you and your guy are in the back seat as I and…?  Oh, please, sister, just don’t hold your breath for that little scenario, that’s all I have to say.


__        And don’t you expect me to spring for forty or sixty bucks on a Lladro or a Royal Doulton or something. Not the first time out, at least. Remember, dear, I’ll be a virgin in your little world, too.



Not For The Birds By Andrew Miller

Janice sprinted into the living room, shot past Larry, grabbed a pair of binoculars from the book case. “Unbelievable,” she said, “unbelievable.” She raced toward the back porch.

“Something interesting out there?” Larry had the latest issue of Natural History Magazine in his lap and didn’t look up. “Fall migration’s about to start. Should be some warblers out there.”

The door banged shut behind her. “I’ll let you know.”

She and Larry had arranged the furniture on their porch, an old couch and three wicker chairs, so they could watch birds in their back yard. The had installed floor to ceiling screens on all three sides, which kept out mosquitoes and flies and provided a wind break during chilly weather. Janice adjusted the focus, sighted past three birdfeeders, a row of azaleas, a wooden trellis crawling with morning glories. Holy, holy shit, she thought, I wasn’t dreaming.

She held the binoculars steady, licked her lips, wiggled her butt. “Larry,” she called, “Come quick. Ya gotta see this.”

“Need the bird book?” He tossed the magazine on the table, got to his feet.

“Forget the book, come here.”

“Check that out.” She pointed toward the back yard, handed him the binoculars.

He began a sweep of the hedge. She shook her head. “Not there. The porch on the gray house.”

He let out a low whistle. “My God, look at that. Penis erecti.”

“Yep, subspecies: elongatus.”

“They are really going at it.” He held the binoculars steady. “A rare sight, this time of year, a pair of mattress thrashers. In full breeding plumage.”

“I knew you’d like the double breasted one. Gimme the binocs.”

“Not so fast. Now they’re doing it standing up.” He dropped one hand to his crotch for a quick adjustment. “She’s got her legs wrapped around his waist… clawing his back, sucking on his neck. Passion… passion… whew… he’s got his fingers up her ass…” He leaned forward, tugged at his pants again.

Janice squeezed the bulge in his trousers. “Come on, let me see.”

“Damn, wish I’d bought that tripod. It would be nice to have both hands free.” He passed the binoculars to her.

She zeroed in on their neighbors. “I don’t know what I like better, watching them or listening to you describe the action.” She adjusted the focus. “They’ll make an evening of it. See that bottle of wine on the table?”

“Sure.” Larry leaned forward, squinted through the screen. “Now what’s happening?”

“She’s strapping on a dildo.” Janice shifted left to improve the view. “And,” she glanced at Larry, “hers is longer than his.”

Larry pressed his forehead against the screen. “Longer than mine?”

“Oh, hell no. He looks like a Georgia peanut next to you.”

Larry nodded, stood a little straighter.

“Hang on, he’s down on his knees—great set of buns—ready for his pegging.” Janice moved closer to the screen. “I’d love to sink my teeth into one of his cheeks. Hard, firm, like they were chiseled out of oak.” She glanced at Larry’s pants. “Her fake schlong is ready for action… now she’s on her knees… she’s got both hands on his shoulder… pump-pump-pump… and rubbing his big dick…”

“We’ve got a live sex show. Didn’t have to pay a cent.”

Janice eyed Larry’s trousers. “Whatdaya think, big fella?” She kicked off her shoes, squirmed out of her shorts, black panties, slipped off her light blue polo shirt, unhooked her bra. She hopped on the couch, landed knees first, twisted her butt toward him. “We’ll do it while we watch.”

“I hear you. Damn, we need another set of binocs.”

Larry pulled down his pants, being careful not to damage Mr. Ready-For-Action. He jumped up behind her, scooted close, began to massage her breasts. He pressed in close, poked his rod between her cheeks.

“Slow down. Take off your shirt. Give me some chest-to-cheek grinding with your pecs.”

“Okay if I leave my socks on?”

“What do I care about your socks—get on with it.”

He tossed his shirt on the floor, bent at the waist, squeezed his pecs against her smooth, round buns. While he stroked her breasts with both hands he moved side to side, massaging her cheeks with his chest. She arched her back, raised her butt. He stroked her boobs, continued chest-rubbing. She said in a low voice, “Keep at it, big boy, I’m getting into the mood. A couple of times she felt his penis poke up her crack. She held out the binoculars. “Here, take them.” A few minutes later she turned her head., “Okay…”

He slid inside. In real slow; he knew how she liked it. He gripped the binoculars with one hand, fondled her breasts with the other, started to rev up. “I’ve—never—done–this—before,” he said between strokes. “Never—never—nev—er.”

She reached between her legs, gave his nuts a twitch. Uh-oh, she thought, getting to the hard-ball stage. Won’t be long now. “Slow down, I’m not ready for Mr. P to go limp, lose his umph.”

“Ok.” He eased out, watched the couple for a while, then continued, “She stopped pegging.” He pressed in close to Janice. “Their porch is like ours. Got a couch, table, and bunch of chairs. Except, they’ve got a hot tub. Maybe they’ll jump in later.” Larry slipped inside, moved slower than before. With his free hand, he touched her breasts, felt her nipples firm up.

Janice moved her butt in a circular motion, matching his rhythm. A warm feeling spread down her legs, up to her breasts. “Tell me some more.”

“She yanked off the dildo. Now they’re having a glass of wine.” Larry stopped thrusting, continued to fondle her nipples. “It’s kind of odd…every once and a while…one of them disappears behind some sort of partition…”

“Too get more wine?”

“Maybe, hard to say… okay… they’re getting at it.” He watched for a while, then, “Now she’s got one leg on this little table, and he’s about to go down on her.” Janice closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of him inside, made all the richer by his description of love-making from afar. “He’s got his head between her legs—tongue’s a flying—she’s gripping his neck, scratching his back, moaning and writhing…”

“Let me see.”

She took the binoculars. “Ooooo, very good, his butt’s writhing and twisting all over the place… look at that cheek separation.”

Larry slid out, then pressed his chest up close, wrapped his arms around her. Do you know those folks?” His voice was low, husky. She could tell he was close.

“Sure, its Ann and Henry Scott. Don’t know him, but I see her at the gym. Sometimes we go for coffee.”

“Does she walk around naked in the locker room?”

“All the time. And plays with herself in front of the full-length mirror.”

“Oh, come on.”

“You wish.”

Janice flipped over, positioned herself on the arm of the couch so she could see the neighbors. “Do me like Henry is doing Ann.” She squinted through the binoculars. “Gotta make sure they are in view before licking begins.” She shifted position, then motioned him closer. “Come on.” She slipped her legs apart, pulled Larry’s head toward her crotch. “Put that tongue in gear. Our neighbors are ahead of us.”

She slipped her palms behind his neck, locked her fingers. She felt his tongue dance up and down her thighs, tiptoe over her pubics, then zoom straight to her hot spot. Janice sighed, swiveled her hips, sucked in air. His fingers began to tease and tickle, wander about, probe here, probe there. She closed her eyes, stretched her legs, flexed her toes, dug her fingers into the cushions, raised her butt, began to moan.

#   #   #

Larry felt her chest heave, her body tense. She’s getting close, he thought, I gotta go slow, steady, not spoil it by making unexpected moves. He knew she was at a critical stage. Any unexpected motion, distraction from anywhere, would wreck everything. She’d lose her footing, slide off the mountain without ever reaching the summit. He felt her fingers on his scalp, gentle, soft, now on his shoulders, slight pressure. Closer, closer, her fingers said, go a little deeper, but stay gentle. He shifted his position. He knew that the contractions were about to start.

The liquid, rich, whistling notes of the Baltimore oriole are the most beautiful of any American songbird. A series of chirps and trills up and down the scale, part warble, part bubbly gurgle, unlike any musical instrument. Larry had found the ring tone for her on a bird-watching website. She was enchanted by the song, happy to use it instead of any of the preprogrammed ones from the manufacturer. Whenever someone called, she delayed answering for as long as possible, just to hear the oriole’s melodious call.

That wonderful song came from Janice’s phone, which lay on the table in the living room.

Larry’s eyes snapped open. “What the fff…. Let the damn thing ring!”

She sat up, pushed his head aside. “I better get that. Might be Mom.”

Janice bounded into the living room, grabbed the phone, hustled back to the porch. She flopped down on a chair opposite Larry. He clenched his teeth. God oh God, he thought. How did this happen? What class double A jerkoff is calling? If they had only waited five more minutes.

She pressed the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

“Hi, this is your neighbor, Ann Scott. We see each other at Love Your Body Health Club. Remember?”

“Oh yeah. Hi—how’s it going?” She mouthed to Larry, who was slumped on his side, “This will be quick.” She winked, spread her legs, gave a couple hip thrusts.

Ann had more to say: “Henry and I were wondering— are you guys bird watchers?”

“Yes, yes we are.” Janice slid her legs together.

Larry groaned when he heard, ‘Yes we are.’ Oh no, he thought, we’re going somewhere. He looked at his penis, beginning to shrink and shrivel. Soon it would look like a button mushroom that had been abandoned for weeks behind the potato salad on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. Larry took a deep breath, let it out slowly. His sex plans had taken an unexpected nose dive. The phone rang when Janice was seconds from an earth-trembling climax. What was supposed to happen—if the phone hadn’t rung—was to bring her to a screaming climax, let her recover, then slip inside, stroke slow and steady, slow and steady, for as long as possible—she’d be climaxing all the time of course—then throttle up for one gigundamunduss, super long, off-the-Richter-Scale organism that would blast their heart rates off the charts, leave them both panting, near death. To miss all that, just because of her Mother on the phone?

Janice took a deep breath when she heard: “We saw that you were watching us.”

“Oh yeah?”

Larry didn’t notice the anxious look wash over her face; he was still agonizing over his shattered plans. They’d open that bottle of Merlot, break out the special cheeses and crackers, the red grapes. Legs tangled up, they’d eat cheese, drink wine, watch their neighbors go at it while he repressurized down below for the next tumble. Grape juices would meander down her chin, drizzle onto her boobs. She would get up every so often, pour them more wine. He could watch her bustle about with no clothes on—luscious, bouncy.

“We’re bird watchers, too. And, we have a 40-mm spotting scope. Great for detail.”

“Uh-huh.” Janice continued to hold her breath.

“Yeah, it’s hidden behind this partition. Don’t want to spook the birds.”


“And, we noticed that Larry has a weird line of freckles across his chest.”

“Uh-oh.” Janice frowned, rubbed the back of her neck. She squinted through the screen at their neighbor’s porch. Laughter on the other end of the line.

Larry closed his eyes, continued to dream about the lost sexscapade. After hors d’oeuvres they’d order pizza from Gino’s, slice up some heirloom tomatoes and cucumbers from the garden. Stay naked all evening. Eat on the porch. Light candles, rev up the CD player. It could be a two, maybe three-orgasm night. Finish up by watching an old Sopranos episode. Then a mutual shower. Maybe she’d even suck a little, do a bonus soap-off to tide him over ‘till morning.

“And we’ve been watching you watching us.”

“Oh wow.” Janice sat up straight.

Larry saw her snap to attention. Oh no, he thought. New plans for the evening—but what could be more fun than sex? It might be her good-for-nothing brother Alfie, wanting to go bowling at Bubba la Flubba’s Magic Lanes, five hundred feet from the end of Runway Five Zero at the international airport. If I drive, Alfie will spring for the shoes, plus a round of heart-burn hotdogs and all the diet soda we can drink.

Janice began to exhale as Ann continued, “That’s okay, don’t worry about it. Anyway, it got us thinking. How would you and Larry like to come over, sit in the hot tub with us?

Janice smiled and nodded. “Yeah, that’d be great.”

“And we can…do whatever. Henry and I are fine with this. Okay with you two?”

“I’ll ask Larry, but pretty sure the answer will be yes.”

“Your man Larry has a scrumptious ass, by the way.”

Janice nodded, smiled, flexed her toes.

Ann continued: “How about staying for dinner? We’ve got a couple of rotisserie chickens on the spit.”

Janice leaned forward in the chair. “Sure. Can we bring anything?”

Larry heard ‘bring anything?’ and groaned. This is worse, he thought, no one brings food to a bowling alley. Not even la Flubba’s. Sounds like dinner at her Mom’s. Tuna-noodle casserole buried in soggy potato chips, a basket of rock-hard biscuits. No beer or wine, only lukewarm tea with no ice. For desert, a mushy apple pie made from some cheap canned filling. Her father waving his arms and yelling about fantastic life was when he was a kid. How he doesn’t give a flip about computers, email, smart phones, Facebook, or texting. Janice’s brother griping because can’t find a job, doesn’t have a girlfriend, can’t drive more than 100 miles without putting two quarts of oil in his old Chevy.

His penis, shriveled and limp, lay like a jellyfish, stranded on the beach at low tide. How can I get out of this family dinner? Janice already said ‘yes.’ Isn’t it time for my prostate exam? Maybe I’ve got a couple more wisdom teeth that need extracting. Aren’t I supposed to be making ‘Bag Your Dog Turds’ posters for the Bird Club?

Janice nodded as she listened to Ann: “Bring some cucumbers and fancy tomatoes from your garden. I’ve got rice pilaf in the crock pot.” Janice saw the pained look on Larry’s face. “And bring towels, anything else needed for a fun evening—know what I mean? It’ll be the four of us.”

Janice nodded. “Sounds fabulous, more than fabulous.”

Larry stared at the ceiling. His charger, once stiff and hard like a hickory stick, had shriveled to nothing, lay hidden under its pubic hair blanket. How did this happen?

Janice smiled. “Okay, we’ll be there in thirty minutes or less. Bye.” She dropped the phone on the table, jumped to her feet, winked at Larry.

“You’ll never guess what’s cooking for the rest of the day, maybe the rest of the night.”

Work By M. Earl Smith

It was 11:30 on a dreary Friday morning in November. The thermostat had dropped almost thirty degrees in the past month, and the coolest days of fall were upon us. You were sitting at your desk, working away on some worthless spreadsheet, when the text message popped up on your screen. It was, of course, from me.

“Go back to the same locker room and take a selfie for me.”

Shaking your head, you looked at the clock and laughed. “Y”

“Trust me on this one.”

Sighing, you went to the aforementioned room and positioned yourself in the mirror. With an exasperated look on your face, you lined up the picture. Little did you remember that this was the weekend I was due back from Philadelphia. As you hit the shutter button, I clicked the door locked, and stepped around the corner, draping my arms across your shoulders as I did.

You started for a moment, but, upon seeing who it was, you grinned, and craned your neck upwards for a kiss. Our lips locked, and my hands slid from around your neck, starting at your hips, which I used to pull you against me, so you could feel how hard I was. Grinning, I slid my hands under your shirt, under your bra, and on to your breasts, where I teased your nipples between my thumb and forefinger.

“I want you. Right here, right now. It’s been a month, and that’s far too long.” By this point, I was whispering in your ear, nibbling as I did so.

Without a word, you reached behind you and, unzipping my pants, pulled my cock out, working it with your hand in slow, steady strokes. Someone knocked gently on the door, but we both managed to ignore it as I worked your pants down your slender hips and onto the floor.

The knock came again, a little more insistent, but we ignored it as the person let out an exasperated mutter and went on their way. After a few more strokes, you grinned, and slowly started to bend at the waist as I pulled your panties to one side. After rubbing your pussy with my two fingers a few times, I chuckled, and quickly slid my cock into you, reaching forward to take your hair and pull you gently back.

The month apart hadn’t killed any passion between us, as we both came hard and fast right where we stood. As we finished, the knocking started again, almost at a pound, as we both giggled and worked our pants up. I used your hair to pull your mouth around to me, and after a passionate kiss, I let go.

“Text me later.” I said simply, tossing the name badge I had used to gain entry to the building in a trash can. You followed me to the window as I crawled out, jogging across the parking lot to climb onto a motorcycle. Tossing my helmet on, I fired up the bike and peeled out.


Pamela’s Wet Dreams By Charles E.J. Moulton

Confusion. It all seemed completely topsy-turvy to her, all these things happening to her, these harsh words, these accusations, these strange remarks, all these hard looks. Would she do this? Could she fill in for that guy at the theatre? Did she have time to empty the dish washer, mow the lawn, bring the kid to sleep, fetch the bottle from the cellar? Why had she not fixed that lamp in the kitchen yet? Too fucking much at once.

Yes, Freddie had so much to do at the office, he was so overworked and she did have the time, being a freelance artist. La-dee-frigging-dah. Juggling between housewife chores and learning choreographies for “All That Jazz”, hopping between finishing that painting the bank wanted and teaching that drama student.

A Renaissance Woman.

That’s what the press had called her.


He sat in his office chair eight hours a fucking day, stressed out – hah! – pointing his finger at his employees and his cock at his secretary, wondering why she had not filled out the forms yet or brought him coffee today.

And then: that day. The bike-ride. Seven year-old Joshua had to have his grey shorts on, Freddie screamed, those that went over the knees, otherwise, Christ help them, he could not go on the frigging ride. But, oh, when Pamela, the ultimate Renaissance Woman, asked Freddie why on God’s name he had to have the grey shorts on, Freddie went nuts. Pamela answered that, damn it, she was the woman in the house and could darned well decide what her own son should wear – and added in her own mind that she would find the first stud and fuck him – just to get even.

A silent bike ride followed, the kid playing in the park and Pamela and Freddie sitting on different park benches – hating each other. A silent summer fucking family barbecue, Freddie brooding. A silent evening, Freddie in the garden, playing with his Smartphone.

Pamela? Writing another story on her Samsung laptop.

And, hot damn, wondering why the hell she had to go through this.

Success, heck, yeah, lots of it.

A husband she loved, sure as hell.

But also a husband that drove her nuts.

“Is the barbecue thingie gonna stay out there in the garden all night?” he yapped.

“Shit, Freddie,” she yapped back, “are you gonna bitch all night? You the man, right?”

So, Freddie banged up angrily to the upper floor, telling Pamela that she could leave the pavillion open. After all, it wasn’t gonna rain tonight. Well, lah-dee-fagoolin-dee-dah.

“What am I,” Pamela thought to herself, “the local maid? There’s a storm flashing outside. What do you want? Should I lick your nuts? Lick them yourself.”

Darned, she was cooking inside, flaming, an inferno. In her mind, Pamela Reiff wanted to shove that guy’s nuts up his keester.

Pamela came to bed, as always, three hours later than Freddie, after having written another story and sent it to another publisher.

Pamela meditated in bed, lying on her back, fingering her fanny and boobies, closing her eyes, saw that her chakras were aligned, rightly colored, the right size and that her breathing was steady. She did her best to try, at least try, to count the positive things in her life: successful author, successful actress, singer and dancer, semi-successful painter. And Freddie wasn’t a keester all of the time, but she had suspected the guy to be a borderline psychotic for quite a while.

He was good in bed, when he was in the mood. With that long cock of his shoving up her sweet and wet furburger, slapping two hard testicles against her asshole, causing her boobs to dance and her buttcheeks to wobble, knowing why she had married him in the first place: he was a darned good fuck. Okay, not just for the sex, but, after all, when he straddled her face and squirted that cum onto her cheeks, she felt good. Salty, luscious sperm running down her cheeks onto her tits.

Not today, though. Today, they hated each other.

So, Pamela Reiff lay there in the marital water bed, fell asleep and escaped.

Pamela felt herself sinking into another dream. She had reached the upper crown-chakra when she drifted into another reality. A familiar reality. The soul’s reality. Strange and yet so … what was the word? Oh, she would think of it. Lovely. That was it.

A lovely spiritual reality.

Green trees were there, of a greener tinge that she had seen anywhere in the world. Blue water. Not just blue because of the shining sky, but true blue in every sense of the word. Red roses, redder than blood, more red than cherry juice, more intense than red apples. A sun as bright yellow as the most ripe lemon, only that this lemon was not sour, but as ripe as her own C-cup knockers, more pink than her most aroused pussy. A sunset as sexy as apricot colored candy. Earth as brown as chocolate. And a sweet fog over it all. No, not fog. A sweet mist, ever so slight. And flowers the colour of cum.

Pamela knew she was dreaming, but it was pure escapism by choice and by necessity.

She walked down a long path in that dream, a long and winding road down through a forest patch full of happy trolls and giggling fairies, all pointing their fingers at her and cheering for her to find the valley of love, finally strolling down into a bright expanse exploding in so many colours that it dazzled the eye.

The most amazing thing about this place were the men. Many men of all creeds and races. All these men lay there on the grass, grass leading down to a large lake, leaning their heads against their hands, smiling at her, all of them jerking their huge cocks, raised erectly toward the sky, waiting to be blown, sucked and fucked.

“Who are you guys?” she asked them, heartily.

One African fellow, the one with the biggest dick of them all, answered her:

“We are here to relieve you of your tension.”

She giggled, a bit shy over getting all this acceptance and sexy love.

“You’re ready for it, Pamela,” an Asian guy with a gigantic schlong mused.

“What do you mean?” she chirped, looking down on her own body and discovering that she was stark naked, her jugs willing to be licked. As soon as she discovered her own nudity, she saw that the valley was filled to the brim with fucking couples, simply expressing their own lust for life. Blonde Caucasiangang bnag women riding Arapaho cocks, even granting Pamela a glimpse of the white-red child to come. African women fucking Asian dicks, giving Pamela a sneak preview of the yellow-brown baby of the future. There were literally hundreds of copulating people here … and it all made sense. Love, lust, freedom of expression, it all made sense. There was no hate here. Just emotion. Just … life.

“Sex is not a sin, is it?” she asked a white boy with a cock that seemed to be nine inches long.

He shook his head.

“You wanna try tasting my glory?”

Pamela smiled, nodding, looking forward to this heavenly gang-bang.

So, this frustrated woman, her erect titties pounding, her throbbing pussy leaking, her pink asshole and all expectant, went down onto her knees and took the first dreamy and long dick in her mouth, sucking like a genius, tasting that wonderfully salty thing, grabbing two balls with her hand, massaging them, licking them, putting them into her mouth, switching to the long schlong again and loving it.

It was half-way into the facial, that white stud squirting his cum onto her willing face, that Pamela suddenly felt a little peck on her anus. Looking behind her, she noticed the dreamy black fuck trying his best to gently shove in his long one-eyed-willie into her butt.

It hurt, she would admit that, but seeing the line of dicks that were rowing up to stick their penises onto her willing tongue, it was a pain that was worth something.

Weirdly enough, the Arapaho fellow that had fucked the blonde chick was now sharing her body with the black guy, fucking her pussy ever so gently. It went on and on, so many schlongs fucking and squirting into her pussy, onto her ass, onto her face. She lost count at twenty men. It went on forever and ever.

“Glory,” she thought to herself, “we women have it good. Men have to take a break after squirting. We can fuck as long as we want with as many men as we want … at least until our pussies and asses get red and sore. Fuck, yeah, I love men after all.”

The glorious finale came when Pamela was met by ten men, all of different nationalities. She took a look at them before swallowing their cocks. One American Indian – a red cock. One Chinese man – a yellow cock. One Indian fellow – a nougat cock. One Swedish guy – a white cock. One Italian macho – a beige cock. One African bloke – a black cock. One French dude – a pink cock. One Brazlian gentleman – a beer-coloured dick. One Russian man – a creme-coloured penis. And finally: a British fellow with the biggest white cock she had ever seen in her life.

The British fellow banged his cock into her mouth harder and faster than she had ever seen anyone fuck before. His helmet felt like one of those big hard walnuts and his big tasty cock had the hardness of a wooden pole. Pamela’s cunny dripped like crazy. Cumming on the floor under her cunt while his gender pumped in and out of her word hole aroused her in ways that defied gravity. Pamela felt like flying. She moaned and groaned in higher and higher tones, while other dream men fucked her from behind.

She knew instinctively that these dream gigolos loved her voice range climbing into the extreme high range. Now she sucked a new cock and exerted small staccato squeaks as he rolled over her tongue. With a thunderous plop and really sexy splash of a sound, that sounded like she had just finished a cocktail, she took out the Brit dick out of her mouth, wiped sperm off her chin and exclaimed: “Lick my pussy long and hard. Lick this sexy bimbo’s cunt like a good boy. Show me you are good for something other than to bitch.”

The red dick didn’t have to wait long in order to follow her dominating orders after the Brit cock was finished. He lift her off the ground, his dick bobbing in its erect position like a flagpole in the wind. Pamela and the red dick rode like masters, while six other cocks pleased her other holes on the grass. The sun was setting as the Indian fellow inserted his tongue into her pussy snatch for the forth time. She had the feeling that he buried his face deeper and deeper into her clit by the second. So deep, in fact, that she soon only saw his hair looking like an extension of her own pubic hair.

She alternately rubbed her C-cup titties and his by now ruffled hairdo. Head hair on pubic hair, cock hair on pussy hair, clit-juice on cum, tit on muscle.

The Russian fellow now shoved the Indian guy aside aside and began licking Pamela’s snatch. The sound he was making was quite similar to the sound when eating spare ribs. The slurping and licking sounds made her think that there were gallons of clitty-juice in there – and there probably was.

She laughed to herself, aroused by this amazing sensation, loving the way that stud licked her clit. It really made her understand why she liked men in the first place. They certainly knew how to fuck, if nothing else.

Then, the triumph: all the men that had fucked her up until now came up to her face and all squirted their sperm on her face, all at once.

There were gallons, litres, nay, metric tons of cum on Pamela’s face that dreamy night. And she ended up finishing off her dream fuck with a long and very sexy shag with the only guy that she hadn’t fucked yet: the Irish fellow with the ten inch erection. Wonderful pain.

One ray of light hit Pamela’s eye. It fought itself through the window and forced her left eyelid open. This eye slowly met the sun, shining through a crack in the blinds and letting the sensitive blinking of his eyelid open. Orangecolored see-through-draperies graced a cream painted window. A heart hung on a string from the curtain. It bobbed slowly back and forth from a breeze that came from somewhere. Pamela knew not from where. Sighing and yawning, Her other eye opened and she first wondered where she was.

Her eyes drifted over to the pillow next to where she was laying. Crumpled orange sheets with pictures of Tut-Anch-Amun on them met her gaze. The satin sheets felt soft. Her dreams smelled of hot sex, of bodies intermingling, of hot words of lust, of newly washed bodies reeking of coconut cream, green grass and blue water, red roses and apricot cum.

Reality, as of yet, cold, but expectant.

Pamela looked around and remembered the dreamy Irish cock, the tanned skin of the Brazilian fuck and the long dick of the Arapaho fellow. She had never asked their names.

Did it matter?

Pamela breathed in slowly. The salty, welcoming smell of frying bacon met her nose.

Soft music playing in that kitchen, the noises of plates being taken out of cupboards.

When she stood up, she stumbled over her own bra, panties and skirt. They lay in a crumpled bunch on the floor next to Fred’s ancient sperm-covered copy of Playboy. Faked old-style floor, made to look like log-cabin-boards, graced the floor.

Picking up her panties, bra and skirt and putting them on, Pamela noticed Fred’s Elvis T-shirt laying over the chair. Fred certainly was a virile as Elvis. Walking out of the bedroom, she noticed the reproduction of an old Monet painting on the outer wall. It all seemed new, though so old. Walking out of the bedroom, the coffee and toast also came floating over. The balcony table overlooked what from her position seemed to be the inner yard.


Was all this for her? Breakfast? Her husband made her … breakfast?

Another man she had known way back now had returned, looking out across the spring-like city of wondrous lust.

“I love you!”

Pamela shrugged.


Fred’s cock in her mouth felt like the soft fabric of the Persian carpet under her feet: soft and yet hard. The fluffy sound of Pamela’s bare knees under her knees felt like a miracle. More home than what she had in years.

Fred looked down at her features, her hair swaying in the breeze from the open balcony door.

“I am sorry I have been a jerk,” he cried.

The two of them hesitated, like teenagers hesitating before a first blowjob. The breeze refreshing, their souls still shy even after a complete take-over of nightly lust, they realized that they looked at each other for the very first time and liked what they saw.

The woman sucked her husband’s cock. She bit her lip, trembled a bit, exuded some gorgeous perfume, sweated, sighed and received a hot-load of his sperm, willingly accepting it into her mouth. The couple fucked again, showered together, woke up their son, forgave each other and made another child that evening.

They never misunderstood each other again.

There was a whole lot of love and loads of cocksucking.

And Pamela’s wet dreams were exuberant.

She never revealed it to Fred, but, after being shagged by her hard hubbie every night, in that dream valley Pamela gave lots of international dream men loads of wet cummy fellatio.

The Pyramid By Michael Fontana

They first met at work where Perry noticed the tattoo of a pyramid on the back of Michelle’s neck, just below the hairline at the top of the spine, in a place where he wished to reach down and touch to feel the imprint and then to kiss it, figuring it would spiral her out of control somehow, that this solitary wild spot held the key to all the sexual circuits scattered throughout her body.

Still they said nothing, did nothing, just danced around each other when a transaction had to be discussed or a ledger entry or a check cut. She was the accountant, he the spender, this game of opposites in the workplace driving him near to sorrows with his insatiable desire for her. They were a similar age, early fifties, an age when others were sexually waning but he wanted more. He felt dead without it.

She was tall and black haired, brown-eyed, low key in speech and eye contact, dressed in slacks and fine blouses, limited makeup and perfume. That damned tattoo appeared in the midst of all this modesty like an insult in a way, a way of saying to him “you’re mistaken as to who I am.” He was tall also, lean, dressed in suits and loud ties, spending money to lure further business to the firm. The lunches, the parties, the evening events, it was all pandemonium of sorts but it was sexless and drunken and beyond anything as interesting as Michelle’s solitude.

He returned to the office one evening after a charity gala, mouth in a burn from red wine, and found Michelle still behind her desk, still fingering the calculator with one hand, ruffling papers with the other. He stopped her right there, put his hand on the hand with the papers.

“Bet you didn’t calculate this,” he said and lowered his face for a kiss which she returned deeply, lips for lips, tongue for tongue, the breath slowing, shallowing, until she slid her chair back and pulled him down to her by the hair, towards her and then towards the floor.

It was strange to undress on the carpet that they trod every day, that everyone ignored and found dull but suddenly it was not dull, it was illumined by the bareness of their bodies, by the electricity of their desire as he opened her blouse like the pages of a sacred book, the beauty of her nakedness beneath almost unbearable to him. But he reached for it and kissed it, sucked her breasts which rose with his attentions and she reaching up to undress him as well.

Suddenly his mouth explored her further, dipping down to her slacks, unzipping and unbuckling them, removing the sweet silk of her panties and then down to lick her in slow circles around the edge of her cunt, slowly working his way inward to the clit and focusing on that, the way it made her jump and yelp.

She nearly slithered in her passion, her fingers working clumsily to undress him as well, her hand reaching for his cock, yanking it until it stood upright and then lowering herself to lick around it and then suck it slowly, moistly, so that he could barely contain himself.

When he entered her it was as if they had lost any separation at all between them. The ride twisted and turned them, they growled and howled at certain junctures. She dragged her nails down the backs of his arms until they bled and then he released into her. But still the biggest prize remained unclaimed. He pulled her head forward and found the pyramid there, he anointed it with a finger full of their combined juices and then he kissed it clean.

The Twilight Zone of Sensuality By Charles E.J. Moulton

Did it matter… in the long run?

There was no question that it hurt.

Cedrick just wondered if it really had any relevance at all that it hurt … in the long run.

In the long run.

Would it still hurt that he had lost her … in twenty years?

Twenty years without Jenny?

Could he live without her?

Could, yeah.

Wanting to, no way.

He wanted to keep loving her.

No, wrong: he needed to keep loving her.

Looking at these waves crash against the shore and the sunset meeting the horizon, feeling the gentle surface of the beer bottle in his hand, the summer wind against his face, that felt pretty good. Just sitting here felt good, cooling down. There was no woman beside him. No nagging woman, talking, chirping, hoping, dreaming of shopping. Oh, but no loving, kissing and hugging woman, opening wide, telling him to squirt his juice onto her tonsils. No love. In spite of all the nagging, that was what life was about after all. Love.

Holy shit. If it hadn’t been for that gnawing feeling in his gut, he would’ve been happy. The emotion lay there in his bowels, screaming for him to let it out, bashing its bloody symbolic head against the proverbial wall of his soul, yelling:

“I want her back! Damn you, call her, stupid moron and say that you are sorry! You have her number! Just say you’re sorry!”

Why had she… why had she not… why had he… what had she meant… why had she brooded so that evening? Why had he not reacted quicker when she had asked him to go fetch that necklace for her? Had he used the wrong washcloth for the bathroom?

Cedrick sighed, looking across the ocean, hearing those waves gently, ever so gently, crash against the shore, the waves approaching with that weird, steady and solitary security, knowing they would blast against the seaside and die, turning into foam and molecules.

The stone he sat on gave way for a moment, making him realize he sat on something not quite steady, not quite firmly planted in the ground. As Cedrick tumbled off, landing on the sand, quickly standing up and brushing himself off, he witnessed a small and brown animal crawling out of the hole that was under the bolder. It glanced back at Cedrick, its eye-whites glimmering in the oncoming dusk.

A stone that had been positioned between the grass and the beach had been the home for a… hiding groundhog? Yes. Well, not that Cedrick knew so much about groundhogs, but this guy seemed so agile, so quick, so alert. He popped out of the hole, scared, glancing back and forth, and scooting off into the distance, leaving Cedrick quite dumbfounded. Had this little animal actually lift the bolder out of its socket and him, the grown man, off the ground?

Whatever the case might have been, Cedrick stood there with his right hand in his Camel shorts, the wind in his hair, the salty air up his nostrils, looking at the scared animal disappearing beyond the sand dunes.

Just like that animal had toppled him off that stone just now, Jenny had toppled him off the rock of his life. Her words, oh, those mean words: “It’s over, damn it,” came from a row that had escalated out of nothing. Him not cleaning up enough, leaving pizza cartons all over the place, using the wrong sponge for the bath, whatever. And soon enough, Jenny and Cedrick were packing bags and sorting out jewelry and photos.

That damn flat in Walthamstow seemed darned empty comparing to the fine hubbub of their mutual London penthouse.

It could be that Jenny missed him, too, although she seemed to be rushing across the proverbial sand dunes of existence, hoping he would get lost… or something. Whatever. In his heart, he hoped that Jenny wanted him back.

As Cedrick loafed two steps toward the beach, minding his own business, forgetting about the strange and very strong groundhog, a lock of Jenny’s hair, that lock that she had given him during their trip to the French coast, came falling out of his pocket, landing on the sand. One lock in a small plastic folder, created for a ring, he believed. One blonde lock with the words: “I love you!” written on it in pink ink.

She had laughed when she wrote those words, remarking how pink ink actually had a very nice meaning for her. “That book by Dr. Seuss my mom gave me twenty years ago, for my 4th birthday,” she had mused with his gender halfway into her mouth and her pink pen in the other, “it was called One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish. There was a funny creature in there was a funny creature there called a yink that liked to drink pink ink.”

“So, what do you like to drink, babe?” Cedrick had responded.

She had given him a wink.

“Cum on, you know that!”

The sting of dying laughter buried into his heart again like a knife, memories of a happy facial fest making him realize the little sign of love on that folder was no more. No more. Just a small lock of Jenny’s pussy hair from a delicious bush meant to be a lovely token of affection. So why was it that he had eloped to France… again… just to escape her?

In fact, they had fucked right here on this spot, on this very beach. They had thought they had been alone. Maybe they had, until they heard a branch crack. It could’ve been the groundhog. The voyeur.

Wait a minute. When had they met? Four years ago? Yeah. It could’ve been the same groundhog, regarding the fact that groundhogs lived from 9 to 14 years.

Cedrick looked over at the tumbled rock, recalling the spot just a few feet away from it. It had been the spot where Jenny had stripped naked four years ago, spreading her legs, letting Cedrick stick his tongue up Jenny’s snatch, making him bury his head deeper and yet deeper inside her pussy, tasting her juices, licking that salty liquid off her clit.

Cedrick shook his head, more tears than arousal inside his soul.

“Why do I revisit every single place that meant something to us? Am I nuts?”

He walked over, clutching that lock, hoping that the temptation of going to that brothel on the west side would wither away. That would be cheap. Right?


Just a few minutes and the sun would be gone beyond the horizon. The groundhog would be sleeping and Cedrick would be joining the rich bums and the fifty-somethings in the hotel bar, getting drunk on cheap Chardonnay.

“Wonderful torture. I’ll just go back to my hotel room and squirt on Kimberley Clark.”

Cedrick turned around and faced the setting sun with all its dying dark orange and pink tinges, all its longing and mysterious bliss, all that spiritual beauty.

“Come back!”

Damn, how sappy was that.

Cedrick, the seven-inch-cocked stud, sounding like Kate Winslet in Titanic, his tears rushing down across his face. Sappy enough.

His £4,99 Woolworth sandals loafed almost involuntarily over toward the beaten path leading to the hotel, his hand sticking to that lock of Jenny’s clit hair in his Camel shorts again, his brain wondering why the fuck he did that, his soul really wanting to hold on to that pussy lock. No, not only hold on to it. He wanted to take out the picture of her he had brought along, whip out his dick and masturbate to it… as he cried… drunk and alone.

“Hell, Cedrick,” he mumbled to himself, “there are other women. It’s over, boy.”

Yeah, that other voice whispered inside him, that he had to hold on to true love.

True fuck?

That, too.

That was true. Her… what was the French word for it? Joie de vivre, lust for life. Man they had fucked in every imaginable position: anal, oral, riding, doggy-style – ooh, those wobbling buttcheeks – titfucking. They had done it all. She had made him fuck him openly in her car once, in a park behind a bush, even in the airplane rest room on their way to the Maldives once, even in her parents’ house – while the old folks were watching telly.

Heck, she had taken him into the ladies room of their local London pizzeria and given him a blowjob once, facial, cumshot, swallow and all. Imagine the looks on those old ladies faces when Jenny wandered out of the cabin with a huge smile on her face, Cedrick dashing out toward the parking lot, Jenny’s chin sporting a large sperm drop.

Now, years later, after a painful break-up, in a revisited version of the original France where they had fucked first, there were about seven people in the bar. When Cedrick arrived, piano-bar music filled the air, inspiring him to plop down by a window with a seaside view, the moon now rising over the Atlantic, sending reflections across the water, making him feel even worse, getting drunk and dying fast.

“But what do you do when you can’t let someone go? Pretend it didn’t happen?”

Cedrick’s mumbles sounded like groundhogs coughing drunken basenotes, hiding hearts overfilled with woe.

“You wallow in self-pity, crying over fucking spilled milk, hoping to mop up the droplets of tit-milk that can be saved, jerking your schlong off to a mere memory.”

The thin waiter with the blue eyes arrived, taking order upon order. As the evening went on, the waiter brought Cedrick his third Louis Royer Cognac that night and Cedrick secretly took out the plastic folder with the blonde lock of pussy hair, reached inside the bag and touched it. The ruggedly soft texture of her yummy pubic hairs brought back memories of digging deeper and deeper into Jenny’s vagina with his face.

Sure, Cedrick sat there with a boner by the window, but it was a hard-on with a symbolic knife sticking up his ass. It felt like the Chinese water torture.

Why had he followed his rage, let his impatience take the better of him? Why had he said all those things? Would she have stayed with him if he hadn’t been so loud, so obnoxious, so rude, told her that she overreacted all the time? Why had he let out all of his frustration about women being… what had he said… “such prissy bitches, overruling everything men say”? Men and women, different species, really, but Yings to Yangs, a plus to a minus, pieces of a puzzle, able to cope, becoming better people for it.

Cedrick lift his third glass of 32-year-old French Louis Royer cognac to his lips, finally thinking on deciding to call that hooker hotline, a bloody darned escort service. Tonight, he would ask for a nice redhead with big tits that he could hump until the sun came up, so he could fuck himself out of his own misery and get drunk again the next day. Maybe that would do the trick. Maybe then and only then, he could get over not seeing his soulmate again.

If it hadn’t been for the revelation that appeared before him.

As he turned around, his back to his third brandy and a rising lunar disc in the sky, facing the slowly populating bar, he saw a blonde woman. He knew her spirit, her fancy chit-chat and her endless deepthroating, her fantastic scrambled eggs and her witty text messages. In fact, he knew her vagina better than any other part of her body. That pretty and sexy blonde bush he had opened endlessly, sticking his tongue into. The clit he had eaten, tickled with the tip of his male wonder, it had returned, wearing that decent white dress that she had bought in Suffolk three years earlier. The one she had bought for the job interview at the Bank of England. It made her look “decent”, she had told Cedrick before ripping it off and setting herself down onto his erect penis and riding his blood blue.

“Decent, me arse, you’re my lusty whore,” Cedrick had whoppeed while thrusting his fat dick into her body and squirting her full of sperm.

Now, Jenny just stood there, looking like an angel, and, yes, a revelation.

Thoughts criss-crossed his brainstem, catapulting through his nerves into the bottom of his existence. Jenny? Here?

It was hard to express what he felt. His heartbeat accelerated, his eyesight failing him, sweatdrops trickling down his brow down behind his shirt into his buttcrack. Jenny? She just stood there, silent, her handbag in front of her crotch, her knockers swelling.

Cedrick’s heart soared into new heights he had not experienced flying around into since… yes, since meeting Jenny four years ago. He wanted to rush up to her, embrace her, stick his erect penis in her mouth, squirt onto her gums and ask her to marry him.

Cedrick just sat there, looking at her gently order a dry Chardonnay. There was no spite there, just a wounded question in her heart. That evil, wounded pride that he had dwelt in the last few … what had it been? Eons? The fear of never ever meeting someone to share his life with turned into dust. Maybe Cedrick would turn into a married man after all.

Or maybe not.

Who knew?

“Oui, Mademoiselle,” the thin waiter answered, leaving them to… do what? Reacquaint? Yell at each other? Fuck? That would be fabulous, but… was that possible?

Slowly, in that stately manner that so signified her entire elegance, Jenny strode up toward the barstool that stood empty next to Cedrick’s seat, resting her elegant and fuckable tush down upon a brown cushion. Cedrick watched that ass lower itself onto the barstool, not really being able to believe maybe… just maybe… being able to…

“You’re here?” Cedrick croaked.

Jenny lay her white handbag onto the table.

“Your mom told me you’d left for France,” she whispered, her voice as familiar as the moonlight reflecting on stormy waters. Jenny looked up into his eyes. “There was only one possible place I could look.”

Those eyes, reindeer eyes, deep brown lakes of love he could drown in, he would love to drown in and disappear into.

“I’ve been miserable,” Cedrick mumbled.

Jenny nodded, looking down, a sadness in her gaze.

“Are you here to say good bye again?” he added with a questioning gaze. “Or just here with someone else to rub it all in, hoping to excel my misery?”

She shook her head.

“I wouldn’t be here if I wanted to repeat any break-up, baby,” she continued, her gaze now drifting beyond the dark horizon, dreamily hoping to find that love beyond the moon inside the starlit sky of the universe.

Baby. She had called him … baby.

How nice that sounded.

How promising.

How hopeful.

Did he dare to… hope?

“You know, I sat there in my bank office, getting calls from suitors, even fucking some of them. I gave some of them blowjobs, I let them squirt on my face, they took me to the opera, I even let one of them fuck me… in the ass.”

She smiled, bitterly.

Jenny reached into her handbag and took out the cloth napkin with the rose she had bought over in Dublin, drying the two tears that streamed down her wounded face with it.

“The flat just wasn’t the same after you left,” she said, “I broke up with every one of my suitors, mostly after a week or so. I hated myself for being so… crazy. Finally, after getting so drunk I could hardly stand on my feet, I decided to call your mother and ask her where you were. I… had to… come… and see you.”

Jenny looked up into Cedrick’s eyes, that spirit beyond the body swimming inside her soul, his aura mingling with hers. The tension tingled to the point where Jenny didn’t notice the thin waiter with the blue eyes serving her a drink. The couple simply kissed, tongues playing gently with one another, saliva drifting from mouth to mouth, lip upon lip, pussy tingling, cock growing, nipples stiffening, nostrils widening. An eternity passed before their mouths parted, their foreheads meeting, their eyes closing, their hands intertwining and Jenny gently whispering:

“Just promise me one thing, Cedrick.”

“Anything you want, Jenny!”

“Never call me bitch again!”

It was hard to say what prompted the tears. Clear enough was that the tears came and that several people inside the bar turned around to see who was producing these guffaws, these desperate sobs. They guffaws accelerated into such a frenzy that Jenny had to grab Cedrick’s wallet from his shorts and pay for the drinks herself.

Soon enough, two half-empty glasses rested on a lonely table by the window, two lovers reassuring the redhead receptionist that they would pay for the extra person staying here over night, the receptionist reassuring Jenny that room 121 had a double bed.

It didn’t take long for the couple to take off their clothes, slapping themselves down on that double bed in a horny 69, Cedrick’s face inside Jenny’s blonde bush, Jenny mouth embracing Cedrick’s big cock.

Outside, the moon glittered over French waters, the Atlantic wind sending its sweet breath into room 121. Cedrick licked his girlfriend’s titties. As he thrust into her body again and again, he promised himself never ever to risk losing the love of his life again.

He would think before he spoke, just as she promised to reason before she exploded.

The groundhog that had tumbled the rock had come back to set the rock back in place.

As Cedrick squirted his sperm load into Jenny’s body that night, an angel came into his waking dream, telling him that he would become a father.

Cedrick and Jenny fell asleep in each other’s arms that night, driving home to London that next early morning. They got married in a small chapel in Walthamstow no one ever heard of. Now, many years later, they’re retired, Cedrick an ex-sports-instructor, Jenny an ex-banker. But they always tell their daughter Hope, when she comes to visit them, her own daughter Charity playing with her own toys, that she was conceived the day they got back together, back in France, back when the groundhog tumbled the rock.

Cedrick and Jenny now know where they want to buried: next to each other in St. Anselm’s Cemetery in Walthamstow. Cedrick and Jenny still make love, even at their ripe age, ever so wrinkled, even with eyes and ears failing them. They celebrate their eternal souls manifested through sexual lust. And Cedrick still thinks that Jenny is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.

Sometimes, when they get really nostalgic, Jenny puts on her white dress and Cedrick puts on his Camel shorts, remembering their own youth.. They still fit into those garments, but not for long. They undress, they mingle, their lips and genders meeting, their heart uniting like they will in heaven. Cedrick squirts, Jenny wails. For they know in their hearts that the lust that created that their daughter is as little a sin as the sun itself.

And so they sit on that porch after sex, one drop of his cum dangling from her chin, glittering in the moonlight. They hold hands, looking at the stars, dreaming of their own youth back in France, back when emotions still were strong and the sun still glittered upon blue waves within what could be called the twilight zone of sensuality.

PIANO By M. Earl Smith

It was the last day of my summer job as a grant writer at the community college we both called home, and oddly, that Friday was the same day that the last of the student straggled in to return their books. Normally, I worked only half a day on Fridays, but seeing as I was trying to finalize all of my contributions before leaving, I agreed to work the full day. You, on the other hand, had left your gig at your dad’s store around 3:30, as you always do, and headed to return your books. You knew I was there, I knew you were coming, and nobody else knew that we’d be within reach of each other. It was a perfect storm.

I finished my work early and jogged over to the main college hall, just in time to gather all of your books from you with a grin. The assistant dean, with a wary eye, followed us out and, without a word, climbed into her car and left. Settling your books into your car, I watched her go with a mild disdain. “She is not the friendliest of people, that’s for sure.”

Shrugging, you glanced around quickly before pulling me in for a kiss.  I was surprised, yet I returned it with as much enthusiasm as you had given it with. Chuckling, I looked around.

“The main lecture hall is unlocked, and there’s a piano in there.” I grabbed your hand and pulled you in that direction. “Come play Fur Elise for me.”

You giggled as we made our way into the lecture hall. As we slid in, I managed to lock the door behind us. The blinds were pulled shut, the doings of the maintenance department, for an event the night prior. As you sat down at the piano, I laughed, and pulled up a chair, as I always did, right next to you. Without warning, you produced a blindfold, and pulled it down over your eyes. True to form, you ran through half a dozen songs before playing Fur Elise, and, with little effort, nailed it.

Pulling the blindfold off, you grinned. “I can play regardless of the distraction,” you boasted.

It took me all of three seconds to slide out of the chair. Pulling the bench out, while still leaving you within arm’s length, I slid under the piano and grinned. Pulling the bench back into place, I pulled your thighs apart and began to run the tips of my fingers down them.

“Play.” I commanded, as I felt your thighs tense under my touch.

Reaching for the piano, you started to play again, the notes solid and true. In the beginning, all I did was run my fingers along your thighs, but as you started to play the second song, I slid my left hand up your shorts, rubbing your pussy through your panties.  I felt you tense, even as you became wet under my touch, and yet the notes did not falter.

Grinning, I increased my efforts as the third song started. My left hand slipped inside your panties, and continued to work on your pussy, using two fingers to run circles around your lips as I hummed along with the song. Meanwhile, my right hand slowly started to work your shorts off, inch by inch.

You finally faltered, and shook your head, yet you refused to let me know that I was distracting you, even as your shorts fell to your ankles. Undeterred, and as you started a new song, I pulled your panties to the side and moved in, inserting a thumb into your pussy as I did so. I started licking you, in slow, agonizing circles, as you slowly began to work your hips.

Somehow, you made it to another song, one that was beyond complex, and involved a lot of movement. You managed to work yourself against my tongue and fingers, although you barely miss a note. Even still, your thighs were shaking at this juncture.

You barely finished the song and started the next, when, in an explosion, you came harder than I can ever recall. Your cries of passion echoed down the hallways, and in a final moment of defiance, you banged against the keys violently, almost rendering me deaf in the process. I didn’t mind, however. Feeling you abandon the keys and grab my hair in double handfuls, to pull my eager mouth towards your pussy as you come all over my face, was reward enough.

After a moment, you sighed, panting, and looked down at me.

“Okay, you win,” you said lightly.

Wiping my chin, I grinned. “I’m not the only winner here.”