Saturday, December 28, 2013

Holiday Naughty Bits: Two Sexy Seasonal Stories

So finally—moments before year-end—I published a few short stories on Kindle. It was a fulfillment of a promise I made to myself, and several other people. They are both holiday stories, one taking place on Christmas Eve, the other on New Year’s Eve. And they both are intended to entertain, invigorate your sense of what is art and craft, warm you’re a heart a bit, and heat-up whatever you like heated. Santa has left a few tidbits of the prose below as a teaser, but the complete stories can be found in Amazon’s Kindle store:
The Ripened Grape
       He put his hand on the bottle, but she pulled it away and chugged. “Maybe not…but I can choose what I do. I’m staying here with you.”
“No you’re not.” He squeezed her hand tight and stood up, jerking her up with him. “Please go,” he begged.
“How did you even get into here?”
“I stopped by Dave Mathis’ house and told him I overlooked two crates of wine. He gave me the key and asked me to return it to his mailbox. I really did have two crates of wine left on the truck, but that was a loading error, not an unloading error. I guess I’ve made a small dent in one of those crates tonight.”
“We,” she whispered. “We…you and I made that dent.”
“Our whole Christmas Eve has kind of been a ‘dent’.”
“And I’ve loved every minute with you.”
He pulled her into himself. “If we could only be together,” he whispered into her ear, “we could make beautiful dents all day long, chipping and chiseling away until we were left with a beautiful sculpture. I don’t know what it would resemble, but I think it would glorious.”
A familiar dizziness registered with Liz. It was chilly in the store room but probably not unbearable. She unbuttoned her coat, knowing her time was short, and whispered into his ear:  “Let’s just close our eyes and start chiseling.”       
His hands pushed her fingers off the last coat button and in a moment her coat dropped to the floor, quickly followed by his. Roger’s fingers started at her neck and strolled all the way down her—lightly over her lingerie—until landing on her thighs. “Did you just leave in a hurry, or did you intend to present yourself this way?”
“We made good progress earlier,” she said. “Why start from the beginning again?”
Vibrations of Victoria, Varvatos, and Vodka
       What she imagined she’d never label as “making love”. She shoved again and this time he backed up, and she could see his face. “Obviously there’s some attraction between us,” she said. “But don’t you think we should get to know each other—.”
He squeezed her thigh and brushed his lips over hers. “Why?” he asked, directly into her mouth.
Honestly, she didn’t have an answer for him. She turned her head to her left, and his lips dragged over her cheek. She looked back to the masterpiece behind her, flipping back about 13 steps in her plan. “They’re making Chocolate Carmel Martinis in the break room,” she said.
He kissed her cheek and then her neck. “Are they using chocolate syrup or liquor?” he asked.
Since the occurrence was a complete fabrication her answer was thoughtless:  “Syrup.”
“Mmmm…” His lips continued down her neck, and her head tipped back and she closed her eyes. Holly felt herself slowly falling…
She braced her upper body with her elbows and her eyes popped open, captivated by the mystical piece of art next to her. The shiny silver paper clips were a first as far as she could remember and seemed appropriate for the holiday. Their glossy triangular container had her mesmerized until she realized a finger was gliding lightly down her breast bone.
His face was buried between her neck and the stiff collar of her blouse. “Tell me Holly. Does your mouth taste like vodka?”
Actually, the cool peppermint toothpaste she’d used minutes before entering his office lingered on her tongue, but his question instigated the formation of a new tactic. Balancing on one elbow, she used her left forearm to push against his chest. “Do you prefer gin or vodka?” she asked.
He moved away from her, both of his warm hands now gripping her sides. Nick pulled her back up to sitting. “Actually, I prefer Don Julio Tequila Reposado.”
His riposte, possibly intentionally, didn’t fit the shape. This response was big and round. She needed an answer with a straight, deep “V”.

Wednesday, December 11, 2013

Mirrored Symmetry

The tiny snowflake lands on my bare belly
I arch my back as my lover bites my neck, and the snowflake is warmed
He whispers in my ear, and I begin to purr, the snowflake holding tight as I long to let go
My lover strokes me and teases me and licks me, and I beg for it to never end
           while the snowflake clings to my skin with the same hopes for infiniteness
                        Yet we both know—the snowflake and I—that the end is near
                        That the heat will be too much for us
                        That our euphoria can’t last forever
The moment comes…            
And together we melt—the snowflake and I—it into my skin, and I upon my love
And we both are returned to a humble state, one that is simple, basic, and life giving
Yet we long with great anticipation for the moment once again, when nature elevates us, shapes us, and molds us
Into something of extreme beauty, uniqueness, and art 

Tuesday, December 3, 2013

Charade and its 007 Twists

I recently had the privilege and pleasure of writing an essay about the 1963 film Charade for Bond_Age_:  The James Bond Social Media Project. My task was not only to discuss the movie, but, perhaps obviously, to compare it to the James Bond franchise of film. I found many remarkable similarities between Charade and the Bond film, From Russia with Love, which was released in the same year. So my essay focused on comparing the plot points and characters in the two films. However, the character similarities between the two movies did not prove to be a simple alignment based on sex. For its era and genre, Charade did a bit a gender bending which was not discernable to me upon my first couple of viewings. And that sexual twist is only one of the many elements that make this film so brilliant.

My essay can be found at The Bond_Age_ project partly consists of a series of essays examining the fifty years of James Bond film, and also includes “imposter” spy films and now Charade, a Bond/spy prototype of the era. Bond_Age_ also hosts weekly live tweet sessions for all the above mentioned films. The project is the brain child of and is wonderfully managed by James David Patrick, #Bond_Age_ @007hertzrumble on your Twitter dial. Check it out.


Tuesday, October 29, 2013

Rouge and the Beast

Running through the Ramble... My heart smacks quicker than my bare feet on the masked trail as I maneuver its maze in the dark of night. The trees undress around me, and their stripped leaves crunch beneath me. Yet another branch scratches across my torso, easily leaving behind its rigid mark, as I am more naked than the trees. I want to tell myself their wide, solid trunks will protect me, but it is a lie; the beast penetrates everything, as I borne witness to the fact only a brief time ago.
            The Lake teases me… “Slip in,” it cries. “Wash the evidence away. All traces will cleanse from your skin…your breasts…your lips…and I will confine your secret.” Another lie, because the incident will never leave me. Although only planted within the last hour, it has taken root and grown in my brain—feed by my coursing blood—and resembles the mammoth sycamores surrounding me.
            Hiding from the moon… Its reflection is his asset. Does it give him life? I stop to breathe and cling to a surface free of coarse bark. Pressing my cheek into the tree I confirm the presence of tears that were yanked from my horrified eyes and forcefully placed there. But did my prejudice trick me? Did I seduce or succumb? Was he a man or a monster? I peek around the tree and the moon lies to me, its face winking, just as it had the previous night and the night before. But tonight is All Hallow’s Eve, and the moon is holding a secret. I release the tree and run beneath thick, boney boughs and along twiggy branches that refuse to conceal me.
            Bow Bridge is in sight beyond the Lake, deceiving me, appearing within reach. Earlier its romance induced a kiss from my lover. We peered down at the Lake over its glorious balustrade, his deep brown eyes shining in the mischievous moonlight that illuminated the ripples upon the water. My heart leapt at the strength of his hands upon my shoulders and melted as his wet, raw lips met mine.
            The lights from the Dakota mislead, as they are not the beacon they claim. That distant building beyond Bow Bridge is my only plausible destination, but is its security yet another delusion? Tonight I was dancing there in the home of Mrs. Winsted with the man I thought was my love, his costume so clever, so very real. We snuck out into the night, he all in fur, and I in deep, red velvet. Central Park called to us…it screamed to us…its vastness a sanctuary for young lovers. We ran through the park—hand in hand—into the Rambles, seduced by the bridge, tricked by the moon, and teased by the shore of the Lake, where he laid me down upon brittle leaves, unbuttoned my dress, tasted my breasts, all the while his fur becoming more real. Courser…thicker…more convincing.   
            A howl splits the brisk night air. I jerk, searching for a movement—flicking twigs, rustling leaves upon the ground, anything... But the park is motionless. With an eye to the Dakota I lunge but discover I too am being held to no motion. My red velvet cloak, the only garment not stripped from my body, has been seized by the brush. I grasp it and pull, but nature will not release my masquerade. Another howl echoes around me. It is nearer, but its direction is indiscernible. I pray and cry and scream but am incapable of generating sound. Once again I am restrained by a force more powerful than I. First the man, then the beast, and now the playground of my childhood.   
            The whisper mocks me. My name is carried to my ears through the same mid-autumn air as the howl, and I know it was produced by the same being. I’m not fooled by his haunting tone, his seductive call. I continue yanking at my cloak as his voice becomes clearer, stronger, nearer… And then his words— “Come to me, sweetness…”—grip me and squeeze the tension from deep within. I discover his eyes nestled in the thicket. His smooth face comes into view, and he indeed is my lover. I close my eyes and pull at the cord around my neck, allowing my cape to succumb to the urges of the determined flora. I am fully naked, fully vulnerable, and I run to him through the Rambles. He steps forward as we embrace, our bodies tight and unclothed as before. And I feel it grow. Against my flesh, it grows. Once again the beast overtakes me—my mind, body, and soul— on this wicked and hallowed eve.


Wednesday, August 21, 2013

New Beginnings = Unexpected Endings

I begin a new season of writing today. Of course I’m excited about this, but in the back of my mind I’m worried, possibly even a little panicked. I know that the universe requires balance. Did I learn that from Einstein or another great mathematician or physicist? Perhaps. But more so, I believe the fact is simply an element of wisdom. “All good things must come to an end,” according to Chaucer, so what ends for me today? A point of anxiety? A relationship? A last hope for an unmet desire? And will I even know that the finale was today? Will the notice scroll across Facebook, Twitter, or present itself in the form of an email? Will I get an undecipherable text? Or will the information come via something I rarely receive anymore:  a phone call?
I think the natural balance of all that surrounds us is way too subtle for modern technology. And too artistic. I think these memorandums come from within us and are instinctual. We just know when something is over. The hard part is often admitting the final resolution to ourselves…or taking a moment to celebrate. Or perhaps just letting it go…
Will I share with you when I discover what today’s unexpected ending was? Yes, but it won’t be obvious in the form of a social media bleep. I hope I’m more artistic than that. I hope I sub-consciously weave it into a story character or plot and use my writing as a way of letting go. It’s a luxury we writers have—turning our circumstances into prose, cleverly disguising our tears and cheers in entertainment for those willingly to take us on. For an audience of one or many, we hope our endings transform into someone else’s beginning. Author’s release = Reader’s new life-ly lease