Category Archives: Fiction
She walked into the diner just as I was finishing my dinner. She dragged her feet and popped her gum and wore a frown perfectly.
The place was 50s chic, the counters lined with chrome and the booths with well stuffed red pleather cushions. A Lower East Side remake of a Brooklyn version of a Happy Days or David Lynch ideal of a greasy spoon.
She wore a huge puffy pink parka, pink pajama pants, rain boots, and big movie star sunglasses. She looked both miserable and determined. She was my age, but with a decidedly more youthful fashion sense, to put it mildly.
She stomped up to the counter, pushing past a family of tourists who were looking over the menu, unsure of their order. She didn’t need a menu, she knew exactly what she wanted.
“Sweet potato fries and a peanut butter cup milkshake, to go,” she dead panned to the man behind the counter. He pushed back his little paper hat and nodded.
I swooned at her order and her bratty delivery.
I tried not to stare at her as she waited for her order, but as she unzipped the ridiculously large coat I glimpsed something skin tight, low cut and pink, underneath. I looked away, but she caught my eye and glared.
I went back to my Kindle. The digital revolution making it easier to hide the fact that I mostly read smut. She eyed me and my food and swiveled her head to look at my book, which I agilely moved out of her view.
There seemed to be a bit of an internal debate going on behind her sunglasses. Deciding if I was a creep or not. Frankly I didn’t know the answer to that one myself. Looking me up and down once more I guess she thought I was at least tolerable. She moved my way to make room for the tourists.
“What did you order?” she interrogated.
I looked down at the little nub of what was left of my dinner.
“It was hotdog wrapped in cheese, wrapped in bacon, with avocado and spicy mayonnaise on top.”
She bit her lip and groaned.
“I want that,” she said, seemingly to herself.
I laughed and smiled, but she cut her eyes at me.
“No, I mean I want one now. You should get me one.”
David didn’t remember turning his alarm clock off, but as he yawned and stretched that Saturday morning he decided it was probably a good idea he hadn’t set it. After the week he had, he needed a little extra rest. Plus, it was the weekend – weren’t you supposed to sleep in?
He turned in his instinctual morning movement to check his phone and found a crisp sheet of white paper folded over it.
He opened the note and saw the neat script of his girlfriend Emily.
I hope this doesn’t come as a shock – and it shouldn’t if you have any awareness at all about our relationship over the last few months – but, I’m leaving you.
I just can’t do this anymore. I love you, but we both have grown and grown apart. Everything has gone sour and I don’t see that changing. You will always be in my heart in some way, but I am getting out before I start hating you.
I took the liberty of getting you a replacement. I know you don’t like to sleep alone and, frankly, I worry about you. You have an important job and I don’t want you to fuck it up because you are depressed about our divorce.
The replacement’s name is Claire.
I’m staying with my parents in Decatur for a while. Don’t call.
To meet the husband of you lover is a strange thing. To realize he was flirting with you was quite another. Henry, poked at his eggs and smiled nervously as Adam and Kay whispered to each other, both pairs of their pretty eyes sparkling at him as they conspired.
Henry squirmed under their eyes and attention. The whole thing wasn’t going the way he had planned at all. He had expected brunch to be something formal, like meeting your girlfriend’s parents, but he should have known any man who would have the balls to marry Kay would have to be an interesting character himself.
When they asked him back to their apartment, Henry choked on his cold brew. Still, it was put so innocently, he had to say yes.
She promised not to smoke if I just came over. When I got there, she stank of mouthwash and she didn’t know what to do with her hands.
You could always tell the state of Amanda’s life by the state of her lips. As she moved in to kiss my cheek, I saw that that those absurdly plump lips were bitten, chapped, and raw.
“I broke up with him,” she said, walking to the window as I sat on the broken futon.
Him being Jimmy, who was an asshole. But was tall and crooked and supposedly some fascinatingly morbid musician. I shrugged and asked if she was okay. She didn’t answer.
From the top of the stairs, Tom watched as they were introduced.
He always knew Katherine would meet Diane at some point. Their circles of friends were far too close for them to stay strangers forever. Diane had been in his life for years and had been his lover once. He remembered those days and nights as he watched Diane kiss Katherine’s cheek and laughed at some joke she made. Katherine had that self deprecating charm that he imagined Diane would like.
Tom was in love with Katherine in a way he had never loved anyone. She took care of him. She was his rock as well as his inspiration. She also owned his body in a way no one had before.
Diane was some dark secret he thought of when he was alone. He had told Katherine stories, but then Tom told her all of his secrets. Watching her sip whiskey and stand near Diane, Tom’s heart ached and his cock hardened. He knew both of their bodies. He knew what it was to have Katherine ride him or slap him or fuck him. He knew what it was to push three fingers into Diane and have her beg for more. He knew the taste of them both and there they were, her hand on her arm for a moment as they charmed each other.
The first page of a story was stapled to the back of a paper on economic reform in post soviet Russia.
Jason wasn’t sure if the story was for him or the professor or simply a mistake. He assumed the students knew that Jason was the one who really marked all the papers. Hell, he gave the lectures for the majority of the semester. Big name professors don’t do very much, teaching assistants do all the real work.
Still, the single page was like nothing Jason had ever seen in the context of Russian history, or more accurately contemporary Russian economic history. This was a snippet of a dirty dream. A little fragment of someone’s fantasy.
Jason carefully opened the staple with his fingernail and pulled the single page from the rest of the paper and then closed the staple back up.
Like most of Sophia’s work, the paper was a solid B. The story on the other hand was far more difficult to quantify.
He sliced the exotic fruit with a huge knife on the perfect cutting board. Furry greenish gray splitting to show vivid green and neat circles of black seeds.
She sipped her coffee and watched him with annoyance. There was some kind of distracting formality he put into things that should be simple, like cutting up fruit. It was one of the million things that once seemed charming, but now annoyed the shit out of her.
She couldn’t watch any more as he took his oh-so-sharp knife and pealed the fur off of the thing. She went into the bathroom to finish putting on her makeup.
There was something about her silent huffy irritation with everything. She acted like a teenager irked at the fact that her parents existed. That’s what their relationship had become, something akin to parental, maybe sibling, which made the fact that the sex was still so potent something rather awkward to think about.
She came back from the bathroom to find a plate with six neat slices of the fruit fanned out in a half minimalist half elaborate statement on the little white plates they had gotten from her grandmother.
“We need to break up.” she breathed out.
I looked down at my phone for the hundredth time, then up at the train as it chugged back into its underground tunnel. People rushed to leave and in moments I was alone on the platform, turned on and scared.
“Take the L train to Lorimer, get out and walk two blocks west…” the instructions started.
I got out of the subway station, looking around the foreign streets of Williamsburg or Greenpoint, I wasn’t sure which. There seemed to be nothing but bars, pizza places, and trendy little boutiques.
Everyone on the street looked hip and pretty. I looked down at my somewhat fashionable jeans and my high heels and suddenly I felt a little like Sandy at the end of Grease, but I walked on. I took out my phone again, more as something to do than for information.
I knew what the email said, I’d been reading it over and over all day.
“I have this good friend, I want to lend you to him for the evening. Six to midnight, or when ever he’s done with you. You’re not to stay over. He’ll be safe, he’ll stop if you say “red” and he knows the things that you are not to have done to you. I’ve negotiated for you, so all you need to remember is “red” and that I am giving you to him for the evening,” I read and realized I missed my turn because the words made my whole body hot and confused. Continue reading
There was a peace in the courtyard of the hotel that he thought was gone from the world. A good strong pot of coffee wordlessly placed on his table, fresh fruit and fresh croissants, pristine white tablecloths under wide cerulean umbrellas which were in turn under a wide and cloudless azure sky.
He took his breakfast there every morning and between sips of coffee closed his eyes and listened for the not too distant sounds of the river. Waves lapping ancient stone bridges, the lonely cries of sea birds.
“Promise?” she whispered.
Her pink t-shirt was pulled up, as was her bra. Her thick black rimmed glasses were almost falling off and her bangs were in her eyes. Her breasts were big, pert, the imprint of the lace of her bra left pink and red patterns on the soft skin. Their eyes locked and she squeezed one breasts hard as her hips swayed. Her eyes were thickly rimmed around with black makeup and the corner of one eye was smeared.
She was straddling his legs as he laid back on the couch. She moved one hand down and grasped his cock again, biting her lip as she played with it.
Winifred stood proudly in the gray light of dawn. A hair over five feet tall, seven stone, and barely nineteen years old, she was stark naked save a pair of Jack’s childhood hunting boots and a bright red fox hat, its tail flapping in the wind. She blushed down to her navel and her green eyes burned with fear and excitement.
Jack and the others watched her stand there, her cream skin with nary a blemish nor a freckle was sheened with morning dew. Her smallish breasts were high and pert, the curve of her bottom seemed to jut out at a lurid angle. Her chest heaved and her heart raced from the shame of being naked, the joy of being the savior of the foxes and, if Jack guessed correctly, the wicked thrill of being wildly bad.
She turned, the contrast of the black of the boots against her white skin making her seem even more naked and the bright splash of carrot orange between her legs directing ever eye down to the virgin shadow every man in the hunting party almost painfully longed for.
To call him handsome was a misnomer; he was pretty. A delicate face, a somewhat chiseled chin, warm brown eyes, always clean shaven and looking slightly younger than his twenty-something years. He had the grace of an old time actor. Cary Grant in leather pants.
The room was large, low ceilinged, all black and red in some budget approximation of chinoiserie. Black lacquered chairs and overstuffed embroidered couches. Gold dragons on the walls and paper lantern hanging from the ceiling.
The crowd was riding the line between a kink party and sex party. As I walked around and eyed the pretty boy it struck me that we’d all become disconnected from the vanilla world. As I watched friends kiss and play kinky games and fuck out in the open, I thought how normal it all seemed to me and how shocking it might be to someone else.
Somewhere in between dreams I heard the shower start.
Opening my eyes some time later I found myself bathed in gray light coming through white linen curtains. Then I watched the naked legs of a woman in a towel walking back and forth in front of me as I laid on my side trying to decide whether I was awake or not. Occasionally those legs were followed by a nervous black cat who batted at the towel.
There were the distant smells of soap, shampoo, perfume, and all those sweet feminine scents I associated with her.
For a few moments sleep took me again, like an undertow dragging me into the waves.
Seconds or minutes or hours later I awoke with a start and sensed her near. She was far less nervous than the cat. Continue reading
Monsieur Desrosiers was, frankly, a curmudgeon. Around fifty, salt and pepper hair, a strong jaw, nearly six feet tall and roguishly handsome I think he was getting fed up with America very quickly.
I could only imagine what he thought of me and my horrible pronunciation.
The dry cleaner (a lovely woman from Belarus, I believe) had my order hanging near the cash register, waiting for me. She tried to brush away my tip, but as always she eventually conceded with a smile and daintily shoved the few extra dollars (as daintily as someone can shove something) into her vast brassiere.
Usually by 8:30, which my pocketwatch told me it had just struck, I’d be making coffee, but since my employer was “with guest” and the various grinding of beans and screaming of espresso making apparati would, I’m sure, be a less than ideal wake up call, I was out running the errands which I usually saved for later in the day.
The mornings when my employer had an overnight guest (or guests, as sometimes happens) were some of the most challenging in my professional life, I assure you. Still, in their own way, they were some of the most rewarding.
Most mornings my employer, Mr Leinhardt, and I would share some light banter on topics both political and scandalous while I gave him a shave, dressed him and attend to his breakfast. On mornings where Mr Leinhardt was entertaining I instead had to focus on the detailed movements and well thought out strategies of readying food, newspapers, clothing, and other essentials whilst not disturbing he nor his scantily clad (if that) visitor. I assure you this is no small feat and it takes all of my not unconsiderable skills.
After procuring the provisions for the day I made my way through the servants entrance and through the house, cleaning up a spilled cocktail and a pair of stockings in the hallway. I then entered the master bedroom silently and attempted to take the least amount of time possible picking up the scattered clothes and various detritus of my employer’s nocturnal activities, which by the look of things were both violent and sordid. It’s hard, I admit, not to steal glances at his guests. That morning specifically it was impossible not to notice the shapely legs of my employer’s acquaintance. The curve of her bottom, which seemed to my keen eyes to have earned a bruise or two, though one never knows if those bruises were collected in the scuffle and decadence of the evening before or, like so many objet d’art one picks up in one’s travels, she simply came that way.
There was a single breast exposed by the tangled limbs and wrinkled sheets of their morning tableau. It was pert, economic even, not the full hand heavy bosom I am fond of, but a perfect example of a flavor that is not my favorite, yet so lovely it gave me cause to question my preference.
I only paused a moment to take in the sight, feeling a bit foolish standing there holding a handful of her silk under things and a feather duster.
It was half past nine and by my employer’s orders he was to be up by ten even in the most extreme of cases. I started some bacon, I washed fruit. I did it all quietly, but banged and bumped around just enough to let them know someone was in the kitchen.
I had already steamed the young lady’s fetching silk dress (last season’s Givenchy?) and laid out her shoes (thankfully not Louboutin) and undergarments when I heard shower start. Mr Leinhardt did not like to dine until he was clean and fresh. As well, when having company, he often enjoyed entertaining his guest in his large, almost cavernous, shower. That, I’m sure, was a sight.
Since they were up I could grind the coffee beans, prep steamed milk and warm the cups. I had soy milk on hand in case his guest was vegan. One never knows these days. The table was laid out with plates and silverware, cloth napkins quickly twisted and folded into the shapes of roses, croissants, fruit, a variety of jams, all of the various the accoutrements.