Tag Archives: fiction

Casual sex

18 Apr

Her dress was of lycra, short, with open back; a floral second skin. Her hair was soft and wavy, silky dark strands reflecting the summer moonlight.

He was tall, massively strong, skin dark as the night, gorgeous smile and black eyes. He never approached her, yet she could feel his eyes on her body all night.

Eventually their arms touched, and after catching her friend talking to his, she found it difficult not to look at him and smile. They went home together. He grabbed her by the thighs and sat her on the bathroom countertop, his hands moving to discover her round, ample ass. His large fingers slid the skintight dress off her body in one swoop, revealing her completely nude, sensual.

She smells him still, this morning, his scent strong on the lapel of her jacket as she strolls to the park with the dog. The memory brings her to smile wide, and after that smile comes the thought of… him. And no matter how hot and spontaneous the previous night may have been, it was not one with him.

Because with him, she would’ve spent the entire night either on or off underwear, from 11pm to 5am, feeding him ice cream, helping make snacks, packing his bowl, talking about everything and nothing, wrestling in bed, listening to reggae, making out.  With him, she would muffle her own screams as he bit her, hard, and she would squirm in pleasure each time. He would slap her across the face too, while she laughed, arching her back and riding him even harder. Always a good girl, always obedient, always smiling.

And he’s not here right now. And he was not there last night. It’s only casual sex with no emotion, and no playfulness.


Trouble in Zipperland

10 Jun

She paused the Western World History lesson on track 37: “World War III and the Birth of the Unified Party.” Her 54th alarm for this particular Wednesday was going off, and a quick glance at her iWatch told her it was time to prepare for a meeting with the Contractor Relations Assistant Director for the Fashion Industry Corporations’ Union.

Rose was the Customer Relations Coordinator for production on Section 252 of Freedom Fasteners, Inc, the largest manufacturer of separable textile fasteners of the civilized world. 90% of zippers, buttons, velcro, and press studs were made by the company, and it owned land in 388 sections within 7 different towns in China – both in China proper and the newly available Japacheese territory.

China Town 23 was located in Japacheese land; former Japan, now controlled by China. A wall was feverishly being erected to keep away dissident Japacheese (descendants of the Chinese and the now exterminated Japanese), living in remote rural areas, as they would sometimes attempt to invade production facility campuses to terrorize Chinese workers. Section 252, for which Rose was responsible, was a production campus located in Japacheese territory, about 200 miles east of a densely populated Japacheese reservation. Freedom Fasteners received a generous discount on the purchase of Section 252 land, coupled with a 10 year subsidy on private military spending for grounds protection.  For the last 4 years, the investment had really paid off – Freedom Fasteners dominated the market.

That Wednesday, however, Rose was to meet with a CRAD of the FICU to request a pardon of the Subpar Performance Fine that was being imposed, and to request a 10% increase in private military funds aid. The recent storming of Town 23 by the Japacheese had been poorly handled by the private military, resulting in much higher Chinese casualties than usual. Town factory workers, though decentralized, were re-entering a period of civil unrest and looting, severely disrupting production. This was particularly troublesome for Section 252 of the town, because it was also experiencing a water contamination problem that seemed to affect children worse than adults. Since the majority of these children comprised the list of on-call workers, Section 252 found itself dealing with a worker shortage problem.

It was a difficult situation, but Freedom Fasteners were already recruiting hundreds of Japacheese willing to undergo sterilization and vaccination for work at the production campus. The company factored into production costs their projected 39% increase in fatal accidents, given the Japacheese’s unfamiliarity with the machinery and shortage of proper training time.  It was, however, a better alternative to waiting for containment of civil unrest or purification of the water supply. Once these two issues were finally resolved, the Japacheese would be bused back to their territory, and by then, the wall was likely to be completed.

The situation might not have been so dire were it not for the introduction of nipple zippers on blouses, by the Armagenous fashion house in Summer 2050 fashion week. The idea was embraced by men and women all over the western world and quickly incorporated by all other fashion houses just in time for Pre-Autumn fashion week. With 75% of all male and female tops featuring nipple zippers that season, Freedom Fasteners had a 24% increase in demand for zippers – a truly inopportune time to be dealing with difficult workers.

Rose’s assistant had sent an e-dossier on the FICU CRAD Rose was to meet that afternoon; as a standard e-d, it included pictures of him, a list of his corporate accomplishments, and favorite iTivities.  For this meeting, Rose chose a long white latex dress featuring a diamond encrusted double helix zipper from chest to ankles.  She practiced her presentation in front of the mirror:

“Oh Mr. Thompson, I am so sorry,” she said, twirling her index finger around the zipper, which rested on the slope of her bosom. “What can I do to make this OK?”

My library lover – II

3 May

Read part I first!

Monday morning was received with determination as I bounced off the bed like a Christian kid on Christmas day. Energetic and free of cramps, I put on my better jeans and eye liner and made it early to work. It was a long day, but a productive one. The excitement mixed with the shame of being excited about stalking a stranger was suppressed, and this strange concoction of emotions led me to work fast and focused. The boss was out of office, and on that 75 degree afternoon of joy, I left work early and stopped by JP Licks for a cup of half vanilla, half chocolate with hot fudge, that was finished just as I pulled into the library parking lot.

Here I come, Mr. Fuzzy Beard, the Volunteer – this time my hair is fragrant. I had a plan too; I’d browse the catalog from the computer station facing the foyer. Yes, I’d spy on him for a few minutes, assess the situation and find the perfect “in.”

I sat in front of the computer for fifteen minutes but saw no sign of him. I peeked into the office where returned books are sorted, I  walked around, checked the reference desks on the first and second floors, and was in low spirits as I made my way toward the third. I thought, I’m fucking crazy. I’m a crazy stalker. Downstairs, now. Research a book you will take home and read, as punishment for your insanity. I swear, for as secular a life as I seem to live, I was never able to let go of the Catholic shame and self-castigation bit. I blame the Church for my bondage infatuation.

As I foraged through sci-fi compilations, focusing on titles featuring loveless, faithless societies, I thought about the boring baseball-loving guys in the sea of insipidity that is the Boston bachelor population. I knew my library lover would keep coming to mind. I hadn’t much to think about, so naturally, I started making shit up.

He likes horror movies, gruesome ones. Unlike me, he does not gag when guts are sliced on screen, but he would respect my courage to watch, nonetheless. He prefers independent movies and is the type to be up for one with a half hour’s notice. His snacks of choice are Skittles – mine are Twizzlers – and we would share. He can play a few Temple of the Dog tunes on acoustic, but he sounds pretty bad when he tries to sing along. That’s OK, I’ve a pretty nice voice. He likes to read for hours on end but would really enjoy a pretty girl, in her own literary world, a few feet away. Yep, that would be me. Silly boy – he has no idea how much I enjoy being nice and preparing snacks for reading breaks.

It was nearly seven by the time I went to checkout. My eyes were on my phone when a woman’s flirty laughter caught my attention. I looked up and ahead, and there he was, on my side of the counter, making her day. A few moments later she called me up. He and I were shoulder to shoulder now – I, fumbling for my library card in the black hole I carry as a purse, and he, leaning my way and watching me silently in my clumsiness. I could feel his stare and it was distracting.

OK, here we are! Sorry, my purse is a mess.

Aaaah, all done with Teddy K? he asked, as the lady – now frowning – scanned my card.

Yep, yep. I know all about America getting back on track now.  [THUMP.THUMP.THUMP.THUMP.THUMP. – Sorry, that’s my heart. Go on.]

Cool. Heading home?

Yeah, after I get some food. I just had ice cream, but that’s not exactly a healthy dinner.

I bet it was chocolate. Am I right?

Yeah, actually! Good guess! [You’re so brilliant!]

OK, dear, you’re all set, have a good day. NEXT!

Whore, I thought. You filthy, jealous, unwanted whore.

I’ll see you around… what’s your name?

I’m Adam. We shook hands.

Nice to meet you, Adam, I’m Juliana. Take care!

I pressed my lips shut as I walked away, waiting to reach the door before screeching under breath.  I should’ve stuck around, made conversation. Why does he remember me? Is he just a friendly librarian? Does he think I’m cute? Adam… I have a forbidden fruit for you, Adam. God, I’m so lame.

Inside the car I checked my hair in the rear-view mirror but my eyes went a bit south to something horrible.

Oh my fucking God, I have an ice cream moustache. I have a FUCKING CHOCOLATE MOUSTACHE. I’ve been walking around the fucking library with a Dirty Sanchez. He was staring straight at my retarded upper lip when he guessed chocolate. Uuugghh…

I whimpered and nearly shed tears. My throat felt painful as the rage climbed from gut through esophagus, but I clenched my teeth, grunted, and stomped my feet because it was still light out and there were too many people walking by for a bona-fide scream. Fuck it. Whatever. FUCK. IT. Seriously, I don’t care. I can’t care. I went straight home that evening and blasted music through earphones on a long walk with the dog – when you have Pennywise, you don’t need love.

My library lover

30 Apr

I enjoy the library. My town’s is a sound, stoic structure housing billions of words of wisdom. I wish I  could grind all the books in the non-fiction section, pack the goods into a giant bowl, and puff a little, every night. I’d live perpetually high on knowledge. Instead, in this dimension, I visit the building and take out a modest 3-4 books every few weeks, generally following a theme. This month I’m feeling particularly atheist and insignificant so I’ve chosen The God Delusion, A Briefer History of Time, and a collection of poems by Jewel. She wrote them in the back seat of her car, and hummed the words as lullabies to calm herself to sleep during her lonely, homeless years.

It’s only Monday and I finished reading my last 4 books on Saturday, but the new batch will have to wait until the weekend. Because Saturday is a safe day.

Three months ago I did my library run straight after work, as usual, note card with call numbers in hand. Walk in, retrieve, check out, done. Except this time. It was a Friday in early June and I was just getting used to warm sunshine during after work hours, so while my mood was chipper, my wardrobe was stuck in winter. Baggy jeans held up by an embroidered hippie belt, filthy Converse high tops, a faded black tank top and a plaid button down with rolled up sleeves. Preferably, my hair should’ve been washed that morning. The neighborhood female lumberjack is not the girl you hit on at the library, if hitting on girls at the library is your thing – dirty nerd. It was my routine and I thought nothing of it until I saw him; until I realized he was the only person on the other side of the checkout counter. A quick scan of his hands showed no sign of marriage.

Fuck, he’s hot. I glanced quickly at the self checkout station behind me – two people in line – and I was next to be helped by him. If I go to self checkout I’ll look like an idiot. What the fuck? Just check out the stupid books, you ass, you came here for them, not to find a boyfriend.

Hi, can I help you, he asked with raised shoulders and hands on the counter, impatient with my aloofness.

Hiiiiiii… returning these and taking these. OW! I stood paralyzed, my gaze shifted to the ceiling, holding my uterus.

Hey, you all right? Something wrong?

My uterus is falling out and I didn’t wash my hair this morning. I usually look better than this, I PROMISE! Oh, I’m fine, just… a weird… stab feeling inside. Nothing – nothing at all. It’s NOT GAS! It’s clumps of blood travelling down the straw between uterus and cervix!

Oh. OK. nice titles you got here, doing research for school?

Oh no, I’ve been out of school for a while. These are just for fun.

Well, I hope you’re gonna put Ted Kennedy aside tonight, ’cause it looks wicked nice out there.

Ha-ha, yeah, no, definitely. What about you, do you get to leave soon?

Yes, as a matter of fact, in about 20 minutes. I love volunteering here but no Friday nights and weekends for me. Oh, looks like you have a $6 fine, these books are a few days late.

Oh shit, I didn’t bring my wallet with me.

That’s fine, you can pay next time.

Awesome, thanks. Well, enjoy your weekend. Let’s hope the weather holds up!

Yep, yep, you too. Night! He raised his arm slightly to give me a half wave good-bye. As I walked away I noticed the ink of a tattoo inside his bicep and the hemp and leather bracelets he wore on that left arm. Then I tripped. I tripped on my own unhemmed, baggy pants, and the sound of my left foot stomp, as I caught my ground, echoed throughout the foyer and was surely heard from the checkout counter. Don’t look back, just keep walking. Just go, the mind-voices whispered.

Seriously? Did you have to trip? You fucking loser? If you hemmed your pants like every decent person does, if you’d just washed your hair this morning, if you’d taken the fucking Midol instead of insisting on being anti-over-the-counter-drugs, none of this would’ve happened. I think he was flirting with me. Was he flirting with me? Who cares, I fucking blew it. I’m a freak with dirty hair and he knows I don’t have any plans for tonight.

The self-hate speech went on until I reached the car and decided; stop it. No stranger is worth this agony. Even if his beard was perfectly fuzzy, his bracelets were cool, his smile was warm, and his shoulders were wide. Even if he volunteers at the library and plays guitar in his free time, and once played in a metal band but now is totally way more mellow. Fuck it, I’m coming back on Monday.

I liked you, now what?

13 Apr

The drive was deliberately slow.  I was showered and ready to go quicker than I expected to, and sitting around waiting for the clock to hit 7pm was the most stressful thing I could do at the moment. I grabbed the keys, kissed the dog’s muzzle, and started driving 21 minutes ahead of schedule.

The highway was avoided and I took Commonwealth Avenue instead. Suburban living can be nice when you have time and gasoline to spare; a street like Comm. Ave. will take you from blue-collar Waltham, through affluent Newton, Boston College, Kenmore Square, and finally into Back Bay –  where tourist cameras and Bostonian briefcases clash along narrow sidewalks. Thanks to the red lights, construction delays and adventurous pedestrians (there’s no way they would do that in New York), I arrived at the restaurant just four minutes early. Thank you, Spring, for allowing me to enjoy a cigarette outdoors.

Truthfully, I was nervous. He was funny, interesting, and attractive and I was fostering a four-day crush that started three seconds after we met.  He had caught me off guard; I was accompanying a friend to an event “for just an hour or so” before heading to the usual Saturday night spot. When we locked eyes and shook hands, I decided I’d have to talk to him for as long as I was there.

He wasn’t hot. It was the way he looked at me. He dared to stare longer and sincerely. It puzzled me and made me giddy. So naturally, I moved to the other side of the room  because, if there’s a chance he’s interested, I’d rather not be approached right now. Right now I would mess up my own name, forget my age, where I live, stutter like the 12 year-old immigrant my subconscious cannot evict… I needed to move away, shake my wrists, take a hit of the bong going around, and discuss some very serious political topic with another person. After a few minutes of regrouping, I would dazzle him with… something. I hadn’t decided yet. Either that or my conversation mate would excuse himself mid-sentence and my secret admiree would accost me a second later.

Oh hey!

So how do you know our friend David? Did you go to high school with him too?

Yep, yep, I did. Um, no, actually, we went to college together. And then I became friends with his high school friends too, because we all went to college together and now we’re friends. All of us. [WHAT?]

After forty minutes of chatting, I could tell he was a really nice guy.  He was actually listening to all of my words, laughing occasionally, and contributing clever words of his own. A passerby would conclude that we were indeed, a man and a woman engaged in conversation. Once I realized that, I glanced at my watch and was relieved to learn it was time to go. He and I hugged good-bye and his embrace was comfortable, his scent was pleasing, and again, he disarmed me with his gaze just before wrapping arms around my waist. I needed to get into the car and away from there.

Uuummm… sooo… I kinda liked your friend.
Duh, you guys talked the whole time. What’d you talk about?
I dunno, everything. You know.
Right. Did you give him your number?
No, I wanted to get away. I’ll add him on Facebook.
You’re very strange.

I’m great on paper (or on a computer screen). In person, I’m a native gibberish speaker – if I like you. And since I had liked him, the stomach pain I was feeling while smoking a cigarette outside of the burger joint I picked as our meeting spot was… uncomfortable and undesired. Hopefully it would force me to eat less.  I lit my second cancer stick and raised my head to find him, crossing the street, looking as cute as he did while smiling and shaking my hand the other night. He removed the cigarette from his mouth. His eyes were tiny and child-like mid-smile and I decided to take that as reassurance. If we’re actually here, it’s because we both chose to be. Perhaps I should relax and have a few laughs?

A lil story

14 Sep

It’s just another frigid New England Friday night. The slushy gray mud-snow covers everything, but at least the winds are not at skin-piercing levels. Didn’t go skiing with everyone else for the weekend because, as it turns out, unemployment leads to a depletion of one’s bank account. It’s 9:30pm and I refuse to spend my night watching television and listening to my middle-aged neighbors have sex (I imagine they played a lot of 7 Minutes in Heaven when they were young, because that’s how long the sex always lasts). This is not how I envisioned life as a young, independent, college graduated adult. I was encouraged to take charge of my life and carve out my future. So far, all I’ve carved out is a nice and warm dark spot on my IKEA couch, compliments of my ass.

My friend Janette is usually as broke as I am, or at least she says so. We’ve been friends for a while and she hasn’t made any large enviable purchases during this time, or given me any reason to believe she might be investing on mutual funds and/or saving for a house. I’d be pretty pissed if she is because I plan on counting on her friendship when I am officially recognized as a bona fide loser – which, by my calculations, will come around age 34. But that will be then, and this is now, and now I digress. We’re broke, but we’re never too broke for a couple of drinks. We agree that she’ll pick me up and we’ll head to Down Under, an aptly named, ill-lit basement that is all the rage with the cool (read: attractive) kids this winter. Partly because the DJ knows what the girls like and partly because the options are THAT limited in Cambridge.

Once I get off the couch, it’s a race against the clock: shower, shave, style hair, moisturize body, moisturize face, tan body, tan face, prime face, makeup, fix eyebrows, quick coat of nail polish, accessories… fuck, which shoes?? The only thing I’m not worrying about tonight is the dress. It is a good luck charm and has delivered the right amount of elegance and sex to land me two highly enjoyable nights on the town. I’m banking on the third time being the charm for bigger and better things; pairing it with my new thigh high boots, I’ve created a visually transmitted message written in man-code.