Thursday, January 28, 2010

Dead Men Get No Tail by Misty Malone

Chapter One

Wednesday Afternoon

One of the things Clay loved most about Jack Bowman was his ability to make an entrance.  Sure, he was suave and cool, funny and charming, but no one could make a dramatic appearance quite like the University of Colorado's self-proclaimed God of the Senior Class.

"My life is over.  Completely.  Nothing left worth saving.  Just kill me now."

Speak of the devil, Clay thought as Jack stormed into their dorm room and collapsed on top of the nearest bed. 

Unfortunately, it happened to be the bed Clay currently occupied.

"Oof!  Get off me, fucktard!  I can't breathe."

"Life as we know it is finité, and all you can think about is breathing?" Jack rolled off and lay beside Clay in the bed.   His hand settled on the curve of Clay's hip, a warm weight that made the blond hairs on the back of Clay's neck stand on end.

"Can I help you with something?" Clay asked, proud that his voice cracked only a little.  Ever since the start of the school year, being so close to Jack made his body do weird things, like make his stomach churn or start his heart racing. 

Fuck it all if he knew what it meant, though.

His dark-haired roommate sighed and stared at the ceiling as if searching for the meaning of life among the cracks, spit wads, and trophy condoms that had accumulated during their nine-month tenure in the room.

Clay watched Jack and waited.




"Aren't you even going to ask me what's wrong?"

Right on time.

"Jack, after four years, I've learned to wait until your hissy fits are over before interrupting."  He sat up and stared down at his friend.  "Are you done flouncing yet?"

"You're cruel, Clayface.  An ass, just like everybody else!"  He rolled off the bed and stormed across the room, arms folded over his chest.  Jack stared out the window instead of pacing like he usually did during his snits.

Clay began to think something might actually be wrong this time when Dominic and Miles came into the room, the former's face bright red.

"Jesus, Bowman.  It was just a joke!"

Jack kept his back turned.  "There's a lot of truth in jest, asshat.  Didn't your mom ever tell you that?"

"Yeah," Dominic said.  He scratched the back of his head.  "And my dad told me to lighten up and not act like a girl.  So what's your problem?"

Jack didn't answer.  Instead, he huffed like, well, a girl.

Clay forced himself not to roll his eyes.  "What happened this time?"

"Laura," Miles said, grimacing.

Ah.  That explains it.  It wasn't exactly a well-kept secret that Jack and Dominic's latest conquest didn't exactly see eye to eye.  For example, Laura argued that their Resident Advisor Preston was really a smart, honest, good person at heart.  Jack disagreed with the "being a person" part.

"What was the fight about this time?" Clay asked.

Dominic sighed.  "Laura was talking about graduating next month, and how we all should've left a legacy or something for future classes to remember us by.  Then Jack here had a shit fit!"

Jack turned, grabbed a pillow from Clay's bed, and hurled it at Dominic's head.  It missed, but the calculus book he flung next didn't.  Dominic tried to dodge, didn't make it, and ended up tripping over the pillow.  He fell, his head making a not-so-pleasant thud on the ugly tiled floor.  "Mierda!"

"Don't you 'shit' me, you cocksucker," Jack yelled. 

Clay winced.  He'd never liked that term. 

"Your girlfriend said all I'd leave behind was a trail of STDs and illegitimate children," Jack yelled.  "And you laughed!" 

Dominic shrugged.  "Well, she's right.  I mean, you have slept with half the upperclassmen."

"And there was that sophomore chick around Christmas, too," Miles added.

Dominic pushed off the floor and stood up.  "You are called Jack-Off for a reason.  Face it.  You're a man-whore."

Clay winced.  He could see the explosion before Jack even opened his mouth.

Jack's face turned red.  He growled and clenched his fists.  All he needed was steam shooting out of his ears to make the picture complete.

"I.  Am not.  A man-whore!"

"No?"  Dominic folded his arms.  "This month alone, you've done Tina, Jennie, Elizabeth, Whitley, and that skinny white chick with the weird name."

"Whitney, you ass.  At least try to get the names right."  Jack waggled his eyebrows and nodded towards Miles. "And which Elizabeth?"

Hey!" Miles shouted, shoving Jack.  "If you touched my sister, I'll kill you!"

Jack sighed.  "We're getting off topic.  Can we focus here?"

Clay couldn't decide if that was a good decision or not.

"Mitsubishi! That was her name," Dominic said, snapping his fingers and looking proud of himself.

"Jackass, that's a car," Jack said.

"Eh, whatever.  You still get the Dick of the Month award."

"See?"  Jack flung his arm towards Dominic and looked at Clay.  "Again, back to me being a whore who hasn't done anything meaningful in four fucking years."

"Calm down, Jack," Clay said.  He put his hands on the taller man's shoulders and squeezed, ignoring the strange flutter in his stomach as he did so.  "Dominic didn't mean it in a bad way.  Just that you've been a little…loose this year." 

"Yeah."  Dominic snorted.  "You've gotten more tail than the rest of us combined."

Jack looked like he wanted to argue, but instead sighed and bowed his head.  "It's not that."

"Then what's got your thong in a twist?" Dominic asked, leaning against Jack's dresser.

"Do…do you agree with Laura?  That that's all people will remember me by?  'Jack Bowman, the No-Tell Motel?'"

Miles tried to hide his snicker.  Unsuccessfully.

"See!  I haven't done anything worth shit."  Jack slouched towards his bed and collapsed face-first onto the mattress.

"You streaked across the field at the homecoming game," Miles offered.  "People will remember you for that."

"Not like anyone can ever know about it, though," came the muffled response.  "Wore a mask, remember?"

Who could ever forget, Clay thought with a shudder.  Hilary Clinton's face on a very male body.

He fought the temptation to run his hands through Jack's thick, shoulder-length hair.  "Hey, what about the fact that you've got A's and B's in most of your classes?  Or that you're on the varsity soccer team?  Those are both impressive."

"But what does any of that mean?  My dad's a doctor, Mom's a lawyer, and my brother works for the Peace Corps.  How could anything I've done be considered a legacy compared to that?"  Jack rolled over and covered his face with his hands.  "Ugh.  This sucks.  My life has no meaning."

Dominic and Miles looked at each other and shrugged.  They were shit at handling Jack when he got like this.  Clay was, too, but he hated seeing his friend so upset.  He blew a piece of blond fringe away from his face and tried again.  "Jack.  Believe me, years after we've all left school, people will still remember you.  Hell, I bet in seventy years, half the eulogies people give will say the highlight of their lives was meeting the great Jack Bowman."

Jack popped up from the bed so fast, he smashed headfirst into Clay.  "Oww!  Damn it!"

Before his eyes had a chance to refocus from the blue and black spots dancing in front of them, Jack grabbed Clay's shoulders and shook him like Big Tammy's tits on Wet T-Shirt Day.  "What did you just say?"

"Uh, meeting you?"

"No!  The other part!"

Clay thought his head might explode.  Whether that would happen before or after he puked, he didn't know.  "What other part?"


Jack released him.  Clay fell back on the bed and hit his head on the footboard. 

When the room stops spinning, I'm gonna kill him.

"Eulogies.  Like funerals.  That's where people say nice shit about you and get all sad and stuff, right?"

"Er, yeah," Miles said.  He looked as confused as Clay felt.

The light of mischief and mayhem shone in Jack's blue-gray eyes.  Clay felt something inside him shrivel up and die.  Nothing good could come from that look.  Nothing at all.

"I should have a funeral!"

Miles made a sound like a dying cat. 

Dominic's jaw flapped up and down a couple of times until he finally came up with, "Que joder le pasa a este tipo?  Esta loco."

Clay didn't exactly find the sound of that encouraging.  He'd only gotten two words out of that: fucking and crazy.

Yeah.  Pretty much sums it up.

He took a deep breath.  Once again, the task of knocking some sense into his Drama Queen roommate fell into his lap, even if he had to use a baseball bat to do it.

"Gotta do it soon, before finals start.  We'll send out invitations, and put up flowers and posters and shit, and maybe we could get some restaurant on The Hill to cater the food," Jack rambled.  "Do you think we should have a band?"

Clay got to his feet, a bit wobbly after the recent abuse to his skull.  "Jack.  I think you're missing one, rather important, kinda vital thing here."

Jack stopped ticking off ideas on his fingers and looked genuinely surprised that any facet of his Great Awesome Scheme could be anything less than stellar.  "What's that?"

Whatever remained of Clay's patience evaporated in the face of Jack's complete denial of reality.  "In order to have a funeral, you have to be dead, you moron!"

Jack waved him off.  "Details, Clayface.  No, really, we'll tell people that it's a fake wake.  Just a way to bring everyone together before we leave school and find out what legacy I'll leave behind.  It'll be perfect!"

In Clay's experience, perfect meant problem.

My Fair Genie by Tigra-Luna LeMar


Christine Lago walked into the office building on Gershaw Street and headed straight for the elevator. She felt a bit hurried to get all loose ends tied up before her trip, but business came first.  She was taking some time off for a vacation and to do some personal research on Amante Salvador. 

While at university, in between researching and writing papers, classes, partying and pep pill buzzes, she spent every extra minute reading about the life of the famous lover from Mexico.

Now that she owned her own business, though she had to answer to her clients and some others, she could pretty much do what she wanted. As long as she wasn't using company funds, got her work done, and didn't cause any public relation nightmares or legal issues, she would be fine.

From what Christine had heard, Mexicans loved retelling folklore. Maybe she would be lucky enough to find some far off descendant of the infamous lover.

The doors slid open and immediately the ringing of telephones assaulted her senses.  People conversing in hush tones on phones or with each other around her caused a slight dash of paranoia to flow through her. There was something about so many people whispering that unnerved her--needlessly.  She smiled with her normal pleasantries and hurried to her office with her personal secretary and friend Ginger Phelps right on her heels.

"You got a few calls from Paul Mizer." Ginger flopped down on the leather sofa in Christine's office, a folder in her hands. "He's been calling since last night. He keeps leaving messages. He wants to know if we found anything yet on his Loga."

Christine poured herself some coffee, then sat down in her chair and crossed her legs. "Give him Duval's number in Columbia." Christine frowned. "Let him deal with Mizer."

Ginger wrote it down then looked up at Christine. "Mrs. Stovenhiem called. She wants to book an appointment with you as soon as possible."

"Have her meet with Bridgette. I'm leaving for Mexico tonight." Christine sipped her coffee.

"About that...are you sure you want to pursue this? I mean, this man has been dead for thousands of years. Who cares how he died?"

"I do. There has to be something there...I mean you don't just become the greatest lover of all time and disappear, and no one wants to talk about you.  Something must have happened. Something really bad. I mean, sure, if he kept stealing other men's women then I could get it, so why can't I find more information on him?"

"You just be careful. Maybe someone doesn't want stones being turned over, and if you flip it and something pops out..."

"I know...Whammo."

* * * *

Packing her laptop was the final thing she had to do before her shower. She glanced at the clock and sighed, but didn't have time to sit down for a bit. She hurried into the bathroom, stripping as she went. By the time she closed the door behind her, she was naked and stepping into the shower.  Rubbing a hand up her left leg, she realized she needed to shave but she didn't have the time. Besides, no one could see anything, unless they were brassy enough to rub their hands up her leg and that would just get them hurt.

She grinned underneath the water and turned her face up to the downpour.  The water flowed over her face, then her hair, then down her back.  She felt relaxed and wished she could stay like that for a while, but knew time was flying by and her limo to the airport would be there soon.

By the time she got her clothes on, her stomach began growling. She hurried into the kitchen and pulled out a large bowl of grapes. She headed back to her room with it so she could pop a few while she put her makeup on and checked her passport and other belongings.  She had just stuffed her passport and other papers into her purse when her doorbell rang.

"Coming!" she yelled as she darted down the stairs. She yanked the door open and smiled. "Hi," she said. "Come on in. I brought the suitcases down here so you didn't have to bother with the stairs."

"That's appreciated," the driver said with a genuine smile.

"Anytime." She grabbed the smallest of her suitcases and walked out the door with it as the man pulled the large one and closed the door behind him. She heard the distinctive click that told her the door was now locked before she stepped into the limo.

On the drive to the airport, Christine did not know how she managed not to bounce through the roof of the large black car with tinted windows.  She was so pumped up and excited that all she could do was touch up her already fresh make-up and try to do some crossword puzzles, but nothing helped. She was too excited about the possibilities of the trip.

When the driver announced that they were at JFK Airport and that he would see to her bags, she almost leapt from the car. She stuffed a fifty-dollar bill into his hand and thanked him before hurrying to check in.

Her flight was long, but Christine barely got any sleep. She kept talking herself into positivity. Perhaps if she thought nothing but good thoughts, the trip wouldn't be a complete waste of time and money.

* * * *

Near the end of her trip, Christine had run out of options; one door after another slammed in her face.  The one library she was allowed to search through had nothing on Amante, and the librarian simply gave her a blank stare when she asked about him.

It was a hard decision, but Christine finally decided instead to enjoy the little time she had left in Mexico before going home. Glancing around, she saw a food cart and smiled.  Jogging over, she purchased a burrito and before took a bite, the idea hit her.

"Puedo hacerle una pregunta?" Christine spoke to the friendly-looking man at the burrito stand.

"Question? Si!"

Returning his smile, Christine cleared her throat. "My question is about Amante Salvador?"

The man got a scared look in his eyes. He instantly slammed the window on his vending cart shut. He was swearing at her in Spanish, and if she was any other person she would have clobbered him when he called her a burro, but she watched in utter astonishment as the man shoved his cart and began running with it down the slight hill.  At his speed, one would think she had threatened to murder him or had lit his pants on fire.


Turning, she dropped her uneaten burrito into a nearby trash can and returned to her ride. She wondered what was so dangerous about Amante, why no one would talk to her about him. With a sigh, she drank from her water bottle before re-corking it and dropping it back into the bag.  There had to be someone who--

Her thoughts were interrupted when a vehicle that had been driving beside them suddenly veered sharply and slammed into the side of their car.  She screamed and grabbed onto the seat before her. Her heart began hammering into her chest and her head pounded slightly from the sudden rush of adrenaline. The men in the attacking car were all clad in black, with their faces partially covered. They were yelling someone that she didn't quite understand.

"Hey! Watch it, you morons!" she yelled out the open window. That was probably the wrong thing to say, because the other vehicle simply swung away to gather its position. It turned once more and crashed into her vehicle. She heard a slight cracking sound as her head was flung forward, and she prayed that she hadn't broken something. Her nails dug into her seat, harder and deeper.

Her driver swerved all over, trying to retain control of the vehicle only to be hit once again.  They veered dangerously close to falling off the road into a deep ravine, and she screamed in fear. When she looked up again, the other van was taking up position for another hit.

"Slam on the break!" Christine yelled in Spanish.  The driver did as she commanded. The vehicle lurched forward dangerously but stopped instantly, causing the other car to miss crashing into them a fourth time. The attackers didn't stop to check on them but continued speeding away from the scene.

Christine was angry as hell, but there was nothing she could do about it. She did, however learn one thing for certain during that fiasco.  Chasing a ghost was not worth her life.   It was time to switch careers. If she stayed in the research business, she didn't think she have the courage to let go of her obsession with Amante Salvador.

Corporate Desires by Bridget Midway

Who in the world would fuck an Edna Zulma? As Edna stood there staring at her reflection in the long mirror, she wondered just that.

Wearing sensible mid-heel black pumps, an ankle-length black skirt, and a long-sleeve shirt that buttoned up to the neck, no way would she get any play in an outfit like this and with her dowdy name.

Now a Madame Z? That woman could get anything she wanted. Yeah, like jail time, she thought.

She shook her head. Enough of that old life. Time to start fresh. In the outfit she wore, it felt more like a prison than her confinement behind concrete and steel.

She adjusted her collar, convinced she could feel heat churning from underneath. Edna smoothed her hand over her hair, which was pulled back tight in a bun.

Despite wearing no makeup, she still thought she looked great for being almost forty. Of course, the makeup helped her not look so close to that age.

She would have to thank her genes for her not getting the telltale lines around her eyes and mouth. The old saying of "Black doesn't crack" fit her right now.

She wished she felt as young as the décor in her room. Back now in her childhood bedroom, Edna scanned the walls covered in New Edition and Michael Jackson posters. This was the Michael Jackson from his Off The Wall days--cute, dark-skinned, real. Then again, she couldn't comment on anyone's authenticity.

She peered down at her shirt and attempted to close the front of her blouse, opening due to her size of her breasts. If she could walk out of the house without a sermon from her mother, Edna would consider it a good day.

New adjustments consumed Edna's life now. Her small twin bed humbled her from sleeping in her huge California king-sized bed for the last few years, but it was way better than the musty mattresses in prison.

If she really wanted to be reminded of past pain, she could think about her days in D.B.'s Dungeon. A shiver traveled up her spine.

She took a deep breath. On the exhalation, her breath came out ragged.

"Come on, girl. No nerves." She shifted her weight back and forth, a mistake considering the crusty condition of her mama's house. The hardwood floors squeaked under her feet.

"Edna?" her mother called from the kitchen. "Eddie? Na-na?"

Edna rolled her eyes. She knew there was trouble when her mother started calling her by her old nicknames.

"Coming, Ma."

Her new living situation provided another crushing blow. After her incarceration, Edna lost her home, The Oh Club, the money Sire Darin had given her when he died, everything. She had to start from scratch, which included her relationship with her mother, a woman she hadn't seen since Edna ran away from home at the tender age of seventeen.

Fuck this. And fuck her new life. The hell with starting that new job today. Edna unbuttoned the cuffs on her shirt and started undoing her blouse. Who needed the hassle of the daily grind?

Now in her old life, if she had said "grind," men winced; that's what she wanted, what she needed.

No, what she really needed was a good fuck. Good luck getting that in this house with her mama watching over her every second of every day. If not her, then it was J.J. Kresty, her parole officer. Hell, the man wasn't even good looking enough to imagine while she masturbated.

Edna laughed. Yes, maybe that was what she needed to take the edge off. She rolled up her sleeves and peered over her shoulder to make sure her mother wasn't going to barge in on her. To give herself some extra time, Edna ducked into her walk-in closet full of clothes and shoes--unfortunately, not any of her old clothes or shoes.

She tripped over a toppled wedge heel before falling back against a rack full of clothes. Once on stable footing, she lifted her skirt, quite a hike at its long length. With the garment secured around her waist, she pulled down her pantyhose. Damn, she missed her stockings.

Now who would be mentally fucked today? Edna closed her eyes. The first image that popped into her mind was the one man she used to fantasize about for years and could never have: Winston Biggers.

She'd received letters from him while behind bars. Actually, the letters had all come from Maybelline--Mistress Mayai as Edna had known her--Winston's new wife. But Edna knew that May wouldn't mind her using May's husband as masturbation material.

Edna slipped her hand into her panties. Her other hand eased into her bra cup. While her index finger circled her nipple, trying hard to extract the pebble from the deep, she attempted to coax just a bit of wetness from her pussy. Aside from its own natural moisture, Edna could easily classify her cunt as being bone-dry.

"Come on, baby. Just a little for mama. Please." She circled her clitoris with her thumb, then squeezed her eyes closed. "I need it."

Winston's image popped back into her head. The one she saw, the one she imagined, stood in front of her wearing a suit. As though she'd asked him to, imaginary Winston started disrobing, slipping off his expensive suit jacket and laying it carefully over the back of a chair.

Edna's thumb worried her poor clit until it became almost painful to touch. What the hell was wrong with her? Getting wet and getting off had never been a problem. Her masturbation subject may have been the problem.

Never again would Edna fall for another corporate type. She'd fallen for that damn professor, Sire Darin. Then she wanted Winston.

Edna deduced that the more straight-laced the guy looked, the more twisted he must have been. She'd been through enough weirdos in her life. She didn't need to get involved with another one.

Determined to have at least one orgasm before heading to work, Edna slipped her hand out from between her legs, yanked her pantyhose down and off from one leg, then kicked that foot up and braced it on the closet wall. She returned her hand to her pussy and tried again.

Edna closed her eyes. Imaginary Winston had his shirt off and started to work on his slacks. In her mind, she imagined Winston's cock pressing against the front of his pants. When she just concentrated on his penis and not his face, she felt herself starting to get wet.

"Yeah, that's it. You're getting it."

Now with his pants off and boxers down, Edna really let her juices flow. She leaned her head back. Her heart pumped so hard she heard the beats in her brain. Edna squeezed her tit, massaging it as her body trembled.

"Come here," imaginary Winston said.

In her fantasy, Edna stood before him naked already. She took Winston by the hand, and he led her to a bed. He pulled her down to the feather-soft mattress, then got on top of her. When he plunged inside of her in her fantasy, Edna let out a yelp in real life.

She slipped in a second finger, creating a thickness she attributed to the size of Winston's dick. The leg supporting her body buckled.

The last thing she needed would be to collapse in her closet, half-dressed and with her fingers in her pussy.

As the scene got intense, so did Edna's fingering. So close. She felt herself finally reaching that peak. Her breath came out in pants.

It didn't take long for the imaginary part of herself to climax. Though not right there yet, Edna knew her relief approached. She just needed a little bit more.

Imaginary Winston continued thrusting as he looked down at her.

"I'm almost there."

Damn it, so was she. Edna felt the slick walls of her vagina tightening around her fingers. The heat inside seared her fingers, fusing them together to make one amazing piston, pumping hard inside of her.

Winston, with his arm around her waist, turned over onto his back, carrying Edna with him to position her on top. Edna rode him hard, circling her hips and pushing him in deep.

"Oh, shit!"

Just when she came close to erupting in real life, Winston said in a guttural growl, "I want you to get off and put your mouth on my--"

"Edna!" her mother screamed.

But Edna couldn't stop yet. As she pinched her nipple, her fingers delved deeper inside to hit her spot. "I'm coming! I'm coming!"

"Good. Don't want your breakfast to get cold."

Edna bit her lower lip to suppress her scream just as an orgasm rocked her body. Every cell and nerve in her throbbed as goose bumps coated her flesh. As soon as the fireworks display that had exploded in her eyes dissipated, she eased her eyelids open.

Taking a deep breath to slow her heart rate, Edna eased her foot down from the wall and planted it back on the floor.

Shit, she couldn't do that every morning, not with her mother around.

Before straightening out her clothes again, Edna wiped her fingers on the towel she'd used after taking her shower that morning.

She pulled her pantyhose back up and slipped her skirt back down.

Time for business.

After buttoning her cuffs again, Edna slipped on her jacket and tried to button it.

"Damn!" Even with the jacket, Edna's recently enhanced breasts stretched the front so much that the shirt gaped open, exposing her black lace bra. Knowing her mother, she would say something about her outfit and she just wasn't in the mood to get into it with her today. Not today.

After wiping her sweaty palms down her skirt, Edna grabbed the old glass doorknob and stepped out of the bedroom. A heavy smell of bacon, fried eggs, and toast hung in the air. Not surprising. Edna's mother always cooked like every day was Sunday.

Edna washed her hands thoroughly. Better than those drug sniffing dogs, Edna's mother had a warped gift of being able to smell sex. Edna slathered scented lotion on her hands, just in case, before heading to the kitchen. On the trek, she prayed in her head.

"Good morning, Mother." As expected, Edna kissed her mother on the cheek.

And as Edna suspected, a plate filled with a heaping mound of yellow-and-white scrambled eggs, a half-a-hog amount of bacon and three pieces of toast waited for her at the table.

At the sight of the spread, Edna's stomach compressed. To calm it, she put her hand to her belly and rubbed it a bit.

"Ma, this is too much." Edna sat down at the plate.

When she noticed her shirt gaping open, she curved in her shoulders to minimize the show. She would have to do that all day at her new job.

"You're going to need your strength for today." Her petite mother wiped her hands on a ratty dishtowel that should have been tossed in a rag bag years ago.

"I'm nervous enough as it is. I don't want to put too much in my stomach." Edna took a sip of orange juice to coat her dry throat.

"Nonsense. A good breakfast will get you through the day."

So would a good lay. Edna's mind wandered about thoughts of her former life, her former sexual life. As Madame Z, owner of the hottest BDSM club in Norfolk, Virginia, she had men crawling on their hands and knees to be with her. They would do whatever she'd asked them.

Wait. Asked? More like commanded.

"Lick my pussy," she would say.

"Yes, Madame Z," they would always respond. If they didn't, it was a sharp boot heel to a plump sac or a twist to a tender nipple.

Edna crossed her legs to douse the smoldering flame. While in her mother's house, all she would have would be her vivid imagination. No sex. No fun. No luck.

After these last two tumultuous years, maybe her reputation and body needed a break.

Edna lifted a piece of toast already slathered with enough butter to clog a rhino's veins. She took a bite. The crunch must have alerted her mother.

The woman whipped around with a wooden spoon in her hand and promptly smacked Edna on her knuckles.

Although her mother had lost some of her strength from back in the day when she used to hit Edna with her trusty spoon, it still stung her hand nonetheless.

"Ow! What was that for?" Edna waved her hand back and forth as though the motion would ease the pain.

"You know better than to eat before saying grace." Her mother sat the spoon down on the table, took a seat next to Edna, and took Edna's hand, still sore from the discipline.

Thank goodness the woman didn't know what had just crossed Edna's mind or what her disgraced daughter had done moments before. She would have probably gotten her belt and spanked the flesh off of her hide like she used to when Edna was a kid. Some scars had a hard time fading.

Edna bowed her head. As her mother spouted a prayer on the spot, one that included a wish for Edna to have a great day at her new job and to come home safe, Edna prayed in her head to just be able to get through the day.

Since Edna had never worked a "normal" job, a job that didn't involve sex in any way, shape, or form, this would be a whole new experience for her.

"Amen," her mother said.

Edna nodded. "Amen."

"Now you can eat. And I'm making a lunch for you. You still like Spam sandwiches, right?"

While Edna's mother's had her back to her, Edna contorted her face into a gagging expression. She hadn't eaten Spam in years, not since she left the house.

When her mother turned back to her, Edna masked her disgusted expression with a smile.

"Sounds great." Edna solidified the lie with a thumbs-up gesture.

"By the way, you look nice. Your aunt's clothes fit you well. Good to see someone could use them after she passed." Her mother pointed to her, then continued cutting large, thick slices of the processed meat and frying it in her cast-iron skillet.

"Thank you."

Edna wanted to say, "Thank you for making me the least attractive woman on the planet. Thank you for stripping me of my identity. Thank you for making me into you."

"You're welcome," her mother responded. She pointed to Edna's chest. "I'll see if I have any safety pins in my room to close that up for you."

Edna glanced down, not that she needed to look. Her shirt had gaped open again. She curved her back in, although at this point her cover had already been blown. Her mother had already seen all that she needed to see.

Maybe life would be better outside of the house, less judgmental.

She could only hope.

Sunday, January 24, 2010

Hard Lessons/Security (Binary Stars Vol. 1) by Jack Greene

It wasn’t that Tyler particularly dedicated himself to his work. He did, but he tended to lose track of time in the lab. He’d get an idea in his head for another set of calculations, or another experiment he wanted to run, and soon he realized it was dark outside, and all the other offices empty.
He liked to work alone; his project was so specialized that nobody else assisted him, and he could handle the work easily. He dealt mostly with computer simulations, then an experiment or two to calculate new parameters, then plugged those in to run the simulation all over again. The simulations took time, so he usually had more than one going at once.
Sometimes he collaborated with other scientists, but mostly his work was theoretical, and he just reported his results. Some engineer or another went from there. He didn’t really know, and didn’t care. All he’d ever wanted to be was a scientist—to have his own lab, the best computers, and solitude.
He’d gotten his bachelor’s degree in two years, his masters and PhD in another four; he’d been recruited right out of college by of one of the top research institutes. By twenty-five, he was firmly established in his field. He had everything he’d ever wanted.
Of course, his life was somewhat lonely.
Unlike most geeks, Tyler hadn’t been shy around girls in school. He simply had no interest in them. He’d known from an early age that he liked other boys, but he was always so focused on his studies that it was easy to bury his needs. His parents just thought he was shy and never pushed; they were so proud of his academic accomplishments that Tyler didn’t bother to tell them he was gay. They lived in a small town and there were no gay bars.
So it wasn’t until college that he’d been able to do anything about it. Going to college in a big city meant lots more opportunities. Tyler still remained very focused, but he did venture out. He spent a very intense couple of weeks discovering that he was a “twink,” and apparently his slender frame and boyish look was quite in demand. He had shoulder length hair, delicate features, and no lack of attention, and for a little while he tried just about everything that was offered. He approached sex with the same attitude he did science; and after a while he knew just what he liked. Unfortunately, it wasn’t easy to find in bars.
He liked big, muscled men, but not the body builder type. He also didn’t care much for body hair. He liked to feel overpowered. He liked rough sex. He liked to bottom.
He also soon found that he was mostly attracted to “straight”-looking men.
That proved to be a problem, and after almost getting beat up once, he learned how much.
He didn’t go out that much; his studies always came first, and as they progressed they left little time free. And he was wary of making a mistake again.
Once he left college, things got even harder. He moved to a smaller town with fewer options, and it was just easier to keep to himself. That didn’t mean he didn’t indulge in some hot fantasies, though.
His favorite fantasy involved a big, hard man in uniform. He didn’t know where his uniform fetish came from, but it was serious. Sometimes he thought about speeding just so he’d get stopped by some big strapping highway patrolman with mirrored sunglasses. Then he’d offer his body to get out of the ticket. With his luck, though, he’d probably get a woman officer, or an old fat man.
At work, he set his own hours, and since he was a night person he usually came in late and worked late. The lab where he worked was a secure facility, requiring a security badge at all times, and he entered and exited through a guard station. The usual guard on duty when he arrived was a jovial, gray-haired man who looked like someone’s grandpa. The night guard, however, was another story—the reason Tyler’s uniform fetish hadn’t faded.
Gideon, the night guard, was only a couple of years older than Tyler, he guessed. He had dark brown hair like Tyler, but the resemblance ended there. Gideon stood well over six feet, towering over Tyler by at least a half a foot. He was broad and muscular, with a boyish face and a ready smile. He didn’t say much except hello and goodbye, but Tyler was fascinated nonetheless. He fantasized about him sometimes, about being pinned by those strong arms, being fucked hard by Gideon while he still wore his uniform.
He felt vaguely guilty about fantasizing about a real person, who was likely completely straight. But he couldn’t help it.