Deeds Without Words ( #FlashFiction #AgeDifference #StrangerSex )

by Annabeth Leong

There seems to have been something of a flash fiction theme going on, so I guess I’ll go with it.

***

Deeds Without Words

She didn’t like it when people said it had been a long time because to her that came off sounding cute and falsely modest, as if it was possible to still be demure, at this age, even while asking for more fingers in the ass.

But it had been a long time, whether she wanted to say so or not. She’d forgotten how greedy she could get, the unbearable wanting that made her say harder long past the apparent limits of her body.

She’d let a long time pass because for a while it had been impossible to say yes, but now that she’d started again, on this night, with this person she barely knew, it seemed as if yes was just about all she could say.

She got fucked hard, in the ass and everywhere else, with everything it occurred to her lover to put inside her. She got fucked until she understood that taking it wasn’t just about being a series of open holes. It could also be about draining the other person dry, reducing her lover to a shaking, straining, inarticulate mess.

When they finally stopped what they’d been doing, she felt separated into layers by all the fucking. One body, limp on a bed. One mind, blessedly still. One soul, flying high on everything she’d just taken.

The other person in the room seemed to exist only as gasping breath and lingering ecstatic soreness.

Then they pushed up onto one elbow. “It’s late,” they said. “I’ve got to get back to the dorm.”

“The dorm?” She echoed the words dumbly.

“Yeah. I have class in the morning.”

“Christ! How old are you?”

The lopsided grin that had made her say yes in the first place. “I’m legal. Do we need to say anything more than that?”

No. Words would have made this all so terribly awkward. She didn’t want to get self-conscious and start making weird jokes about decades-old bands and her own wrinkles.

She flopped onto her back on her bed, received a kiss on the forehead, and basked in the sweat-soaked aftermath.

Four Takes on the Generation Gap

                                    

by Daddy X

Here are two flashers from Flash Daddy and two that didn’t make the cut for obvious reasons.

This one was chosen for the Flash Daddy media kit’s G-rated excerpt because everything else was laced with Amazon’s taboo words. :>)

                                    An Almost Legal Adult       

Bob awoke to a rustling in the kitchen. His daughter Beatrice was back from wherever she goes at night. It had been a while since they’d had much contact, given the way their respective schedules conflicted.

He descended the stairs. “Don’t tell me you went out dressed like that.”

Beatrice turned from the cocktail she was preparing. “Dad, I’ve turned eighteen and I can wear what I want. I’m paying rent with what I make on my job. That makes me legally your tenant.”

“But sweetheart! Why go like that? All that tight leather. Your bare ass sticks out of those chaps. And when did you start drinking?”

“I didn’t. But there’s lots you don’t know about me, Dad. This is for someone in my room.”

“You have a boy in your room?”

“Well, not exactly.”

“Oh no. Not another girl!”

“No, Dad. A man. I have a man in my room.”

“Oh my god! Get him out of here! While you remain under my roof, you will be subject to my rules, no matter what you pay in rent. Now get him out of my house!”

“But Dad... He’s tied to the bed.”

“What?”

“Plus, he’s already paid.”

This one was chosen for Flash Daddy just because some characters are idiots:

Later for Poontang

I answered my mobile without checking the caller. “Hello.”

“David? It’s your Uncle Nat.”

“Hi Uncle Nat.”

“How’s it going, son?”

“Fine sir.”

“You graduate soon, huh? That’s what your mama said.”

“Yeah. In a month or so.”

“Well, them girls gonna be chasing you, boy. Once you’re out of school they’ll be lined up.”

“I’m not much for the ladies, Uncle Nat.”

“Right. Education first. Later for poontang.”

“I guess.”

“Just be careful of broads that come on too strong, too willing.”

“What’s that?”

“Them’s got teeth.”

“Teeth?”

“In the cunt, boy. They’s out to get you. Bite your dick off.”

“I don’t think—”

“Didn’t nobody ever teach you nothing? All that schooling?”

“My classes didn’t—”

“You gotta learn about women, son. How old are you?”

“Twenty two, sir.”

“Twenty two and don’t know pussy. You know about oriental girls?”

“Asian?”

“Same difference. They’s slits go sideways.”

“Sideways?”

“Most cunts goes up and down? Chinks go sideways.”

“I don’t really think—“

“I had dozens of them, boy. You never had no Oriental chick, I’ll bet.”

“Right, Uncle Nat. But I have to go now. Thanks for the advice.”

“You bet. Goodbye.”

“Who’s that?” asked Kevin.

“My daft uncle. He’s never been laid outside a whorehouse, and he still thinks I’m straight.”

This one was left out of Flash Daddy because I’m obviously no poet:

                          All That’s Left is the Longing

Out by the benches

he’s dreaming of wenches

watching young girls stride by.

Through watery eyes

a willowy prize

glides within his perspective.

Lit from behind her

a light summer jumper

catches breeze in its flowery folds.

A glimpse of her profile

so luscious and tactile

the old man’s future can't hold.

Now in his purview

(He’d sure like to fuck you)

And diddle her all through the night.

If he asked her kindly

or subjective-mindly

she’d run away in fright.

This one was rejected for Flash Daddy because of the idea of the Great White Savior combined with the Asian female sexuality trope. I had none of that in mind when I read that at any one time, there may be tens of thousands of these relationships in Bangkok:

                                 Bangkok Power Parity 

“You must think of me as very old, Sumalee.”

“In Thailand we revere age, Herbert. Older men possess power.”

“But you have to work so hard to make me come. A boy your own age would be better for you.”

“I am young, sir, and because of you, I have a life ahead. I learn English from you. You pay for my education at university. You charge me no rent. No need sell body to strangers. 

“I simply provide for your welfare, Sumalee.  Now that I know you, I couldn’t bear to see you continue in that brothel. Come here. Take your clothes off and sit. I want to feel your youth beside me.”

“I am happy to make you feel sexy, Herbert. Now, touch my pussy. I’ll feel sexy too.”

“You should not pretend, my sweet. I understand that my body is used up.” 

“You still know how to pleasure a woman. Oh that feels good, Herbert.”

“I can hardly maintain an erection any more. If not for-”

“You get hard when you fondle my tits. When I dance for you and make my ass quiver.”

“Yes. But it all goes away so quickly.”

“Then I’ll show you more, you silly man. Watch, as you make me come. Use both hands, Herbert. Then your tongue.”

Motherhood and apple pie

Some time ago I found  myself on the receiving end of a piece of really good advice. It was this.

Imagine a time perhaps sixty years in the future. You’re long dead, and your daughter is a grandmother herself, talking to her own grandchildren. And she’s talking about you. What will she be telling your descendants?

Will she be saying that you were a great mother, always there, ready to listen, to help, to support? Will she say that you were a great role model? Will she say you were warm and caring, that you always had time for her? That you were proud of her and showed her every day how much she was loved?

Perhaps the praise will be of a more practical nature. You were a good cook, always worked hard and made sure the bills were paid. Pyjamas were ironed in your house, there were plenty of home-cooked meals on the table and beds always neatly made up.

Or perhaps you were seldom there because you were working. You made plenty of money and were generous with that, but she saw little of you.

Or maybe you were a mix of all these and more besides.

The basic truth is, we all do our best. Parenting isn’t easy, there’s no manual and little training to be had. I well remember the day we brought our newborn daughter home from the hospital and placed the baby barrier in the middle of the dining room floor. We looked at each other, then at the door. We were waiting for the real owner to turn up and take charge. It dawned on us, we were on our own. So we got on with it, and that’s pretty much been our approach in the 18 years since. I consider my daughter to be my finest WIP, one that will never be finished.

But I digress. Back to those pearls of wisdom I mentioned. The thing is, we all need to decide what sort of accolades we want our great grandchildren to hear, and we need to act like that. Now. Not sometime later because that’s too late. We do get to write our own epitaph, and it’s the things we do now, today, that matter.

I hope my daughter will tell future generations that I did okay, that I tried hard and that I cared. Because that’s the truth.

Parenting, in particular mothering, is a theme which often finds its way into my books. Not all the mothers I create are great. Many make mistakes – we are fallible beings – but it’s never too late to make an effort. This excerpt from Spirit, a book I wrote a couple of years ago, sort of demonstrates that.

“I forgot. This came for you.” He gets an envelope from the inside pocket and hands it to me. I take it, puzzled.

It’s handwritten, addressed to me, Beth Harte, but at the offices of MLR in Leeds. I turn it over, but the reverse side offers no clues.

“Who would write to me at your office? My website gives your address in Hebden Bridge as my contact details.”

Matt shrugs. “No idea. It arrived in today’s post.” He grins at me. “You could try opening it. There might be a clue inside.”

“Ha ha.” I peer again at the handwriting on the front. It’s familiar, I’m sure I’ve seen it before. Not recently though, not since…

“Oh!” The blood drains from my face as I recognise the scrawl. The lop-sided T in ‘Harte’ clinches it. I can’t believe I didn’t see it straight away.

“Beth?” Matt leans towards me, concern etched in his expression.

“It’s from my mum. It’s her writing.” I stare at him, bewildered. “How did she know where to send it? What does she want?”

Matt takes the envelope and looks again at the handwritten address before laying the envelope flat on the table between us. “So, your mum, eh? Well there’s a turn up.”

“What does she want?” I repeat my question, despite knowing that no one at this table can answer it. Then another thought occurs to me, a dire possibility. “Did he put her up to it?”

“You need to open it love, read what she has to say. Then we’ll know how to respond.”

“Respond? If you think I’m writing back to her, after, after… Well, I’m not. I’m not.”

Ned leaves the table, excusing himself with one of his customary grunts. He must be desperate, he’s left half his pudding in his zeal to be elsewhere. Annie just watches me, curiosity and something else apparent in her features. Concern? Compassion?

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. But you should read what she’s saying. What harm will it do? You can always tear it up after.”

“I take it you and yer mam ‘ave ‘ad words, then?” Annie gets to the heart of the matter with her usual clarity.

I nod. “You could say that.”

“‘Ow long since?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, ‘ow long is it since you last saw ‘er?”

I shrug. “A while. Nearly nine years.”

“Oh. That’s a long time ter be apart. ‘Ave you been in touch at all?”

I shake my head. “No. I don’t, I mean, I never…” I turn to Matt. “How did she find me? Will she come here? What about him?”

“Beth, nothing’s going to happen, I promise you that. You’re safe here.”

“How can I be safe if he knows where I am? What if he finds me? He might…”

“Might what? What can he do? You’re not a child now. If it comes to it, you can brain him with a cricket bat. You’ve had some practice. Or Ned might help out with a shovel. I’ll deck him for you myself if you like. But I don’t think any of that will be needed because you’re able to stand up for yourself. You’re not a victim, not a vulnerable young girl any more and men like him don’t come after any other sort. That bubble’s burst. You’re beyond his reach, love.”

I look at him, then at Annie. She may not know the specifics, but intelligence gleams in her old, wise eyes as she puts together the gist of what we’re talking about.

“Open it, lass.” She shoves the envelope back across the table toward me. “Open it, then we’ll decide what to do.”

We? I smile at her, grateful for her support, and for Matt’s. It’s good to be part of a ‘we.’ But my resolve is fragile. I pick up the envelope and rip it open before I can lose my nerve. A single sheet of white, lined paper drops out. It’s covered in my mum’s handwriting, one full side and half of the back. I spread it out on the table and lean over it to read.

Dear Lizzie

Or should I call you Beth? The news said you were called Beth Harte now, but I’ll always think of you as Lizzie. And an artist too, imagine that? I always knew you had talent, always drawing, colouring in. You loved all that stuff.

I saw you on the TV, and I cried. I’d thought you might be dead, even though I didn’t want to believe that. But there you were, alive, and looking so well. So grown up. I just wanted you to know that I’m proud of you. And I wish all that had never happened. You know, with Bill Findlay. I wish I could go back to that night and not say the things I said. I was wrong, I know that now. You were right about him.

We never got married. He wasn’t interested after you went. I blamed you for a while, but not that long really. I was a fool, a gullible, silly woman, infatuated. But I saw the truth in the end. By then it was too late though and you had gone.

He was arrested, you know. Got sent down for having pornographic pictures on his computer. Loads and loads of them, pictures of children mostly. He’s inside now, doing seven years. Still has five to go. He won’t dare show his face round here again when he gets out.

I tried to find you. I asked the police and the Salvation Army. I put pictures of you in the papers, asked all your friends but no one had any idea. I tried for two years, then I didn’t know what else to do. Where to look. I was scared, so worried. Anything can happen to a young girl on her own.

Years went by, and I wondered if you were still alive. If you were married. Perhaps with kids of your own by now. Then I saw you, on that programme last week. I looked up the firm you’re working for in the phone book, and I sent this letter there. I hope you get to see it. If you do, perhaps you could write back, or phone, and let me know where you are. I won’t pester, but I miss you so much and I would like to be in touch. Family is important, I should never have lost sight of that.

I’ve moved but my new address is on here. And my phone number.

I’m sorry. I love you

Mum

By the time I get to the end tears are rolling unchecked down my cheeks. I cover my face in my hands and weep. Moments later I’m lifted, picked up bodily and placed on Matt’s lap, his arms around me. He says nothing as I bury my face in his shirt and sob.

The rustle of paper tells me that one of them has picked up the letter. More rustling as it is passed between them. No one speaks. They wait, wait for me to finish crying. When at last I do, it’s Annie who hands me a bundle of tissues and places the rest in a box on the table.

“Well lass, she writes a fine letter does your mum.”

The Ramblings of an Old Generation Mind

Sacchi Green

My mind is pretty much fried right now, Sunday night. I’m on a 5+ hour bus ride home from NYC, where I did a reading with some of my writers and the next day went to watch some of the Pride March with a college friend who lives in Greenwich village (except that we got stuck on the wrong side of all the traffic barriers along the march route, and eventually had to hike some distance to get to where we could get a subway to take us under the crowd and the barriers and let us out pretty far from where she lives.) So, good times, but trying ones.

The March, what we saw of it, was great. once we found a shady area under some construction scaffolding to watch it from. Huge amounts of noise and intense crowding (that’s not the great part,) much entertainment, and even more political activism, not limited to LGBTQ issues but tackling healthcare and gun regulation and major injustices of several kinds.

I wasn’t thinking then of trying to wrestle the March into a suitable topic for our theme of intergenerational interaction, but on reflection I remember being impressed by how much generational intermingling there was. The causes that were proclaimed with signs and banners and bits of street theater were important to people of all ages, and you could see men and women even older than I am marching or riding on floats side by side with kids who may not even have been out of their teens. The different generations shared not only common political/social interests, but the commonality of living in a society that too often rejects them. Youngsters who may well have been disowned and thrown out by their own parents could take some comfort being with older people who had suffered the same pain, and persisted, and survived.  I don’t know how far the spirit of Pride carries over into daily life, but at times like that the “us versus them” lines that separate generations get re-formed, if only temporarily, to enclose LBTTQ people and leave their detractors outside.

See what I mean about trying to wrestle something to fit our theme? There’s probably a hint of truth in my meanderings, but not all that much. There are still old/young fracture lines within the “we are fam-i-ly” claim. The young will always disparage looking old, and the old will always disparage youthful ignorance.  The young will try to believe that they will never be so stupid as to look old, and the old…well, they probably base their opinion of youthful ignorance on memories of their own youthful failings, so there’s no equivalence there.

Stepping aside from musings on the March, I see alarming amounts of resentment these days on the part of young people. The young have always felt apart from the old, clinging to an unexamined and probably subconscious belief that they will never let themselves be old like that, or that old people must deserve to be old. Never trust anyone over 30.
 
I suppose new generations have always blamed the older generations for screwing up the world they inherit, which is, in a way, true, while we in the older generations say we did the best we could with what we inherited, and so ad infinitum. I think this feeling of the young is getting more intense all the time, with good cause, although when I hear them say that my generation is too conservative and intolerant and sexually repressed, I feel like asking if they’ve ever heard of the sixties and seventies, of Free Love and the March on Washington for Civil Rights, of protests against the War in Vietnam and sit-ins at military bases (I did some of these) that actually had an effect. I realize that there’s no use in claiming what we think are the virtues of our youth now that we’re older, but I know older people now who are still in the fight, elderly women being arrested for civil disobedience, men…well, I can’t think offhand of any men I know who are out there chaining themselves to military base gates along with the women, but there are certainly many determinedly progressive older men around. Bernie, for example, although I have some issues with him.

But there’s something else going on now that hasn’t always been there. Many young people feel that they will never be as economically secure as their parents’ generation. They’ll never be able to afford homes like the ones they grew up in. There aren’t enough good jobs available for them.  In a wider context, they might justifiably feel that the generations before them have used up too many natural resources in their greed, and damaged too much of the world. I can’t say that they’re wrong.

Well, drat, I should just have gone with my first impulse, which was to write a flash story, inspired by the old men in our government who seem determined to not only prevent women from using contraceptives or having abortions, but from having insurance that pays for the medical costs of pregnancy and childbirth. Basically, women who can’t afford the medical costs of having babies must not have sex with men, at least not until they’re past childbearing age. That made me think of a dystopian world where a few rich, powerful older men have sex with young women so they’ll bear them children (yes, I know, The Handmaid’s Tale) which leads to the younger and/or less powerful men only being able to have sex with women past childbearing age. The upside could be that the young men look forward to having a chance with the older women who can teach them how to please women so that if they ever get a chance at the younger ones…Oh. Nevermind.  Not necessarily an upside. I guess I really don’t feel like writing that story after all.

No story. No wifi on the bus (there’s suppose to be, and was on the way down, but it isn’t working on this bus.) And only sporadic electrical power to charge my computer. Maybe I’d better try to snooze. We older generation folks need a lot of snoozing.

Flasher: First Time

by Jean Roberta

Here is a little flasher I wrote about a kind of messy triangle:

The woman I met in the gay bar is sitting on my hide-a-bed, the place where I sleep. She calls herself a dyke, but I suspect it would be rude of me to call her that.

“How do you like to do it?” She is smiling, licking her lips.

I don’t know how I like to do it with a woman, underneath a woman, on top of a woman. Or a dyke. Whatever. “I never did this before,” I blurt. I feel mortified.

She looks delighted. “Oh, I’m gonna love this,” she promises, wrapping me in her arms. Her lips are hot. Her hands feel careful but determined.

“Mom!” My four-year-old is awake. “I hear noises! I think an animal is in our house!”

“There’s no animal in our house, honey. Go back to sleep.”

“I’m scared!”

“Sorry,” I mumble, standing up. I go to my daughter’s bedroom, and find her sitting up, wide-eyed.

“Why can’t that man or lady go home?”

“It’s okay,” I insist. I’m not convinced. “You sometimes have a friend stay for the night. I can have a friend stay with me.”

“No.”

Grown-up laughter wafts in: dyke-language competes with child-language. I have to multi-task.
-----------------------------------

I'll say more tomorrow.

Getting back in the game (with the #babysitter) #lesbian #erotica

An Excerpt from...

Sitting for Cynthia

by Giselle Renarde

Lola had been asleep for hours by the time Cynthia got home from her big date. First time out with a man since the divorce. I half expected her to burst through the door, drunk as a skunk, dragging the guy upstairs for an I-haven’t-had-sex-in-four-years fuck.

I was sitting in the living room, watching TV and eating Lola’s fruit snacks, when Cynthia walked in and said, “Well, that was a bust.”

Turning off the TV, I swivelled around to see her. For a woman her age, she looked pretty kick-ass. And I guess she wasn’t old-old. She worked with my mom, but they weren’t the same age. If I had to guess, I’d say Cynthia was… maybe forty? Hard to say.

Sometimes she looked tired and run-down, but not tonight.

Tonight she looked defeated, but gorgeous.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, though I didn’t expect her to tell me.

She’d never confided in me before, but I guess she was super-down-in-the-dumps that night, because she collapsed on the couch like I was her therapist. “I don’t know how to date, Lin. It’s been years! You know I started going out with my husband in college? I was nineteen when we met. Nineteen—that’s the last time I went on a first date with a man.”

“Oh,” I said, second-guessing my psych major status, because I felt super-uncomfortable listening to the woman vent about her personal life. “So, I’m guessing it didn’t go well with Ed?”

“Fred.”

“Right.”

“No.”

“Yikes. Sorry.”

Cynthia sat up on the couch. When she leaned forward to grab the box of fruit snacks, her breasts nearly popped out of her low-cut dress. “Tell me the truth, Lin: am I not attractive? Is that the problem?”

If she’d caught me staring at her tits, she’d have known that wasn’t the problem.

“It’s not you,” I said. “It’s men. They’re idiots.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re a lesbian. You don’t need a man.”

My blood ran cold when she said that, not because I was ashamed or anything. More that I couldn’t believe my mom had outed me to her coworkers.

She didn’t wait for me to speak. She just asked, “What am I doing wrong? Is it my dress?”
She stood up to showcase the tight-fitting red gown that was both sophisticated and playful. It hugged her curves like you couldn’t believe, drawing my eyes, once again, to her magnificent boobs.

“It’s definitely not the dress,” I said.

Again, she collapsed on the couch. “If it’s not my looks and it’s not my clothes, it must be ME.”

I kinda didn’t know what to say. Because, yeah, it totally was HER. If she treated her date in that superior and condescending way she spoke to her first husband, then yeah.

I’d been babysitting for Cynthia since Lola was a toddler. I’d seen a lot, over the years.
But I didn’t know how to tell her that. Some therapist I’d make, huh?

“I invited him in for coffee, Lin. I invited him in for coffee and he said NO. Why would he say no?”

“Maybe he doesn’t like coffee.”

“Oh, he likes coffee. We work together. I’ve seen him drink entire pots of coffee.”

“Well…”

“Anyway, coffee doesn’t mean coffee. Everybody knows that.”

I tried to think fast, come up with something that might console her. So I said, “Well, he knew I was here. Maybe he thought it would be awkward because you’d have to drive me home.”

Cynthia gave me a look that said GIMME A BREAK and I shrugged. I didn’t have all the answers.

“Or maybe it’s because Lola’s in the house.”

“Lola sleeps like a rock.”

“He doesn’t know that.”

“Stop making excuses for him!”

“I’m not!”

Jeeze, it’s not like I was taking sides. I didn’t even know the guy. I met him for five seconds when he picked her up and all I could think was, “Cynthia, man, you can do better than this loser.” He was a balding, pudgy old guy with the personality of a lumpy bowl of oatmeal.

“What did you talk about?” I asked.

“On the date?”

“Yeah, on the date. Of course on the date.”

Cynthia tore into a packet of fruit snacks, but the plastic burst and the gummies flew across the room. “Damn it. Just my luck.”

“I’ll get them.”

I slumped onto the floor and picked up fruit snacks while she listed off the things they’d talked about at dinner: divorce, kids, lawyers, work, lawyers’ fees, child support, ex-spouses…

Finally, I just had to say, “You know, I’m no expert, but I don’t think that’s the best way to hook a guy.”

“What’s not?”

“Talking about your ex, for starters. Talking about divorce. No offense, but I’ve heard you talk to my mom about divorce. You come off kinda…”

“Kinda what?”

“Kinda…”

“What?”

I sat on my feet on her carpet and scrunched up my nose. “I don’t want to say.”

“Just say it.”

I sighed. “Kinda bitchy, okay? You sound kinda bitchy when you talk about the divorce.”
To be honest, I thought she’d yell at me and kick me out of her house. She didn’t. She absently grabbed another thingy of fruit snacks and opened it properly this time. She just started putting them in her mouth and chewing them, one after another, like factory work. She stared into space and just ate a bunch of fruit snacks in front of me.

It was kinda weird.

“Sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, you’re right,” she replied, without even looking at me. “You’re right. No wonder Fred didn’t want to come in. I’m repulsive.”

Before I knew what I was doing, I’d thrown the fruit snacks on the coffee table and placed my hand on Cynthia’s thigh. “You are not repulsive.”

“I am.”

“You’re not!”

“My personality is repulsive.”

“No it isn’t!” I climbed up on the couch and sat beside her, with my body turned to face hers. “Cynthia, listen to me: you’re a really cool person when you’re talking about whatever. It’s just when you’re going on about the divorce and all that…”

“Then I’m bitchy.”

“You come off that way, yeah. Doesn’t make you a bitch.”

She finished off the fruit snacks, then turned to face me. “Do you think Fred will give me another chance?”

“Why do you even want another chance? Fred’s a dud.”

She seemed surprised. “Maybe to you. Talk to me in twenty years, when you’re a divorced mom raising a daughter on your own.”

“Yikes.”

“Yikes is right. They’re not exactly coming out of the woodworks for a shot at this.” Cynthia showcased her body the way The Price is Right models point at a new car.

“I think you’re undervaluing yourself, Cynthia. I really do. You’ve got a great body, and, like, nice hair and stuff. A nice face. You’re more attractive than you think, I think.”
She seemed puzzled.

“And you’ve got money,” I went on. “That’s a real draw for younger guys. Maybe that’s who you should be going for.”

She waved her hand. “I don’t want to marry a younger guy.”

“I’m not talking about getting married, just dipping your toes back in the water. You’ve got to start somewhere, so be a cougar. Why not?”

Her eyes widened. “You think younger guys would go for me?”

“Sure!”

“College guys?”

“Absolutely! A sexy older woman? Why not?”

I had no idea whether I was blowing smoke up her ass, at this point, but she seemed a lot happier, so mission accomplished.

“Let me get out of this dress and I’ll drive you home,” Cynthia said. “Or you can stay, if you want. The guest room’s all made up.”

It was only midnight. I could still go out. But I was having a not-so-bad time cheering Cynthia up, so I said, “I’ll stay, if you really don’t mind.”

“Not at all. Saves me driving at night.”

I nodded as I followed her upstairs.

The guest room was to the left of the stairs, just past Lola’s, but when I turned that way, Cynthia said, “Oh, this zipper always sticks. Can you give me a hand?”

So I went with her to the master suite, which pretty much had its own wing on the second floor. In a lot of ways, I felt bad for Cynthia’s ex-husband. He was just a nice, quiet guy and he’d lost all this in the divorce. Now he lived with his mother. Yikes.

When I stepped into Cynthia’s bedroom, she closed the door behind me. I used to snoop in there when I was younger. It seemed so fancy. Well, it still seemed fancy. Lots of dark satin fabrics on the bed, in the draperies. A few years ago, I’d pawed through her underwear drawer and come across things I’d found shocking at the time. Every time I looked at her after that, I felt super-guilty.

I actually felt guilty again, just thinking about it.

Walking over to her bed, Cynthia asked, “What’s it like, Lin?”

“What’s what like?”

She twisted her long chestnut hair into a rope so I could unzip her dress. Then she asked, “What’s it like, going to bed with a woman?”

~~~~~~~~~

If you want to read the rest of Sitting for Cynthia, buy the individual ebook or save money by purchasing Taboo Lesbian Erotica, which includes this story along with 9 others! Taboo Lesbian Erotica is available as an ebook and in print.

Hooking Up (#flashfiction #gayerotica #gayflashfiction)

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Generational Rift (#communication #morals #flashfiction)

By Lisabet Sarai 

(In homage to Daddy X - exactly 200 words)

“Oh God, Mom. Is that really you in that corset? In public?”

“What? I think I made a rather fetching Magenta. Those midnight shows—well, they were wild.”

“But everyone can see your boobs! It’s so embarrassing.”

“Come on, I was only a few years older than you are now, Jen.”

“Still... Will you close the album, please?”

“Rocky Horror was a major influence on me. ‘Don’t dream it, be it’. That was my anthem. Back then, I was ready for any erotic adventure.”

“TMI, Mom!”

“You don’t want to hear about how I seduced my best friend Lisa?”

“God, no!”

“Or the blowjob I gave my grad school boyfriend on the Greyhound bus?”

“Enough, Mom!”

“Or the threesome your dad and I had at the swingers club, before we were married? The orgies, later?”

“Please! Stop before I throw up!”

“I don’t know why you’re so upset. You know I wasn’t a virgin when I met your father, that I’ve always been a very sexual person.”

“Yeah, I know. But the thought of all those other people around...”

Ding! “’Scuse me, Mom. Text from Jerry. Oh, my...!”

“What? What is it, hon?”

“No, don’t...”

“My God, Jen! Is that you?”

Late Start

And when I say "late start" I don't mean the fact it's Saturday when I posted this instead of Friday!

No, my late start in this case refers to what I'm reading.

I finally managed to pick myself up a copy of Killing Floor by Lee Child. For anyone who's not in the know, this is the first of the Jack Reacher stories.

So far...I'm not truly loving it. I'm certain at least a part of that is down to me, and what I like in a story. Some of it is down to me recognising certain aspects which are generally considered errors. And a whole other—completely unfair to the author—problem is the massive exposure the books have had, which unfortunately created a certain expectation within me. One which hasn't truly been fulfilled by this first book.

Okay, firstly, disclaimers out of the way. I don't know a whole lot about Lee Child, so I'm not sure if this was his first published book. But in any case, the book is now 20 years old, and the faults I see within it might well be those of a fledgeling author finding his feet. We've all been there, and we all strive to get better with each book.

There's also some clunky referencing to mobile telephone usage (specifically how to use those beasties in the solving of a crime). Again, the book is 20 years old and there ain't much technology that's changed faster than mobile telephones in the past two decades. No criticism of the author on that one.

Final disclaimer is that I seem to have a tendency not to "get" a lot of writers who many others adore. I enjoy Neil Gaiman's work but don't find myself immersed. I loved Michael Crichton's attention to detail and his research, but not so much his actual writing. And Stephen King eludes me almost completely. I don't pretend for a second that my incompatibility with these authors in any way reflects on the quality of their work. Just the quality of my connection to it.

Righty-o. Now I've got all that said, I do believe I'll finish this book. I don't know yet if I'll pursue any more of the series. There are several hurdles I'm finding.

The pacing seems a tad sedate in most parts. A lot of key action so far (and I'm roughly half way through) has happened "off screen". Sometimes that's how it needs to be...sometimes it creates a sense of the tempo dragging. So far, it feels about half of one and half of the other.

One of the problems I mentioned above—the fame of the books—has had an effect, for sure. And in part it's because I've also seen the movie Jack Reacher. Putting aside the obvious physical differences between movie Jack and book Jack (such as a whole foot of height), and whether you like Tom Cruise as a person (as portrayed in the media), there's little doubt the man can hold your attention when he's on screen. Yet his portrayal of Reacher feels quite distant from the man I'm reading in the book.

The book character has the luxury of being able to narrate his thoughts to us, of course, so we can be certain when he's having doubts. Movie Jack seems never to hesitate, always has the right answer or solution. Again, through no fault of Lee Child's, my first exposure was to the movie guy, which has helped unseat the book guy's hold on my attention.

The other main stumbling block for me is the writing style. Child writes short. Sharp, brief sentences. Sentences which cut. Cut hard. He also writes tell. A lot of tell. Repetition is key. Key to understanding. See this metaphor? It's a good metaphor. Let me explain it. You now see how good it is.

I get it. These books are more in the thriller, action, crime kinds of genres. It's not like romance or erotica. I just find the overabundance of brevity to be quite jarring.

Oh, and one more thing which I just remembered. The author breaks, or sprains, a few of Elmore Leonard's ten rules of writing. And flogs another one almost to death.

Leonard's first rule ("never open a book with weather") gets sprained, rather than broken. Weather gets described in moderate detail several times...just not at the opening of the book. Rules 8 and 9 ("avoid detailed descriptions of characters" and "don't go into great detail describing places and things") get brushed aside with great regularity. But rule 3 ("never use a verb other than 'said' to carry dialogue") gets pounded hard. So hard that the word "said" becomes an echo, despite being needed.

These are observations more than criticisms...but as someone who loves the writing of both Elmore Leonard and Walter Mosley, I found those elements a tad grating.

So, as I say, I'll finish this one. And I guess I probably will try the next book or two in the series. I want to like them, and maybe I will when I get more familiar with them.

Some Smut for a Change

by Daddy X

I seldom read erotica strictly for my own enjoyment. These days, I’m usually critiquing under my editor’s hat on The Erotica Readers and Writers Association. That’s enough erotica for any one person.

The following are reciprocal reviews for those who are doing reviews of Flash Daddy for its mass media blitz on June 16^th.

Thanks to editors Lisabet Sarai and Jean Roberta for doing a hell of a job on a massive project. Imagine cutting 127 flashers down to 55 for the book.

Belinda, Ian and Sam are the other editors at ERWA. See below.

These reviews are also posted (with some possible truncation) on Amazon.

Broken Vows   by Belinda La Page

Ms. La Page hit some personal buttons in Broken Vows. Given my Catholic school background (knuckles still sore) I don't mind liberties being taken with religious themes in the name of art. And "Broken Vows " is most certainly a work of art.

The techniques the author employs to present her unorthodox characters and situations allow the reader to appreciate the lovable yet feckless slacker who finds a release for his proclivities in this well-rendered tale of good-natured transgression.

From the Top  by Ian D. Smith

From the Top is the third novel in Smith’s series Merely Players.

I’ve written OGG posts about the elusive quality of scope. Peripheral information rounding out a story helps to create a more interactive experience for the reader.

In From the Top, Ian Smith has allowed us behind the scenes of an elaborate stage production involving ancient lore, Egyptologists, stolen artifacts, actors and how it all comes together. Fascinating stuff.

We really want the characters Paul, Becky and Haley's triad to succeed. It has all the makings. Paul is one of the most principled main characters I’ve encountered in any erotic read. The threesome indulge their proclivities in an offhand, matter-of-fact fashion that comes across as easy and natural as falling into bed, which these three accomplish on a regular basis. If anyone wants to explore the ideal triad relationship, From the Top provides the perfect model.

Single Syllable Steve    by Sam Thorne

Thorne takes us into a world of the hearing impaired in this sensitive, hilarious story. And did I mention hot?

This piece came through the ERWA Storytime list over two years ago, and has been out for about two years. It has really come into its own since I critiqued an early draft in 2015.  

Celeste has her hands (and ears) full. Her bar gig isn’t the greatest, the boss verbally haranguing her for one perceived mistake after another. Just too damn much noise, distracting her from her given tasks.

Enter the quiet, stalwart bouncer, Steve—who as the title suggests—doesn’t have a lot to say. He’s a welcome relief, not to mention an enigmatic presence whose charm and rugged good looks definitely trigger our Celeste’s personal … ahem … response systems.

Makersex    edited by Annabeth Leong

Oh my.

Bots and grafts, gender modifications, toys of the trade and trade-offs thereof, come together on futuristic, dystopian worlds. Imagination reigns proud in this wide-ranging collection of dark, hyper-modernized sexual exploration.

Shades of Katherine Dunn’s Geek Love persist, if not in actual story line and detail, for sure in unheard-of imagination. This collection breaks boundaries.

Annabeth’s formidable editing skills are evident in the very choice of these six wildly atmospheric, literary tales.