Caritas

By Lisabet Sarai

“Beanpole.” That’s what they call him, that designer-clad, perfectly-coiffed pair of society moms over near the window. One of the kinder epithets they’ve bestowed, actually, but it fits him, poor man.

Awkward, skinny and at least six feet tall, he hunches over his laptop at his regular table in the corner, alternately pounding away at the keys and staring into space. His head’s a wild mass of straw-colored curls. His eyes are a watery blue behind the thick lenses of his wire-frame specs. His wrinkled shirt is half untucked and half unbuttoned. I catch a glimpse of his pale chest, sprinkled with blond fuzz.

He flashes me a vague grin when I bring him his double cappuccino. Not at all like the avid gaze he turns on the coeds and career gals who come in for their caffeine fix—all those tanned legs and painted toenails, flirty skirts and high heeled sandals. Not that I blame him; summer brings out the best in the local women.

With my buzz cut and tattoos, I guess he doesn’t realize I’m a girl. Still, I’d wager a triple mocha frappe with extra whipped cream that I could show him a better time than one of those little tarts.

He’s not really my type—I prefer both my men and my women with darker hair and more meat on their bones—but he broadcasts his need like an S.O.S. Plus I’m intrigued by his metier. He’s spent almost every weekday afternoon here, for the past month, and I’ve had plenty of opportunity to sneak glimpses at his screen.

He’s a writer—well, anyone could figure that out—but guess what he writes? Erotic stories. Kinky stories, if I’m not mistaken. I’d love to read them, but in my professional capacity I’ve only caught a sentence here and there.

“I’m willing to bet the price of this fancy ride that your pussy’s bare under your skirt.”

“Oh, but those rosy nipples just cry out for some clamps!”

“The belt slices into my flesh, less than an inch from my pubis.”

I’ll say one thing for Mr. Beanpole. He’s got a vivid imagination. Probably compensating for a lack of sex in his everyday life. In this image-obsessed town, especially, someone with such a total lack of style probably has a tough time getting laid.

What would happen if I came on to him? I can picture him stretched out on my futon, his desperate cock rearing up from the yellow tangle of his pubes. I suspect it’s long and thin, like he is, just right for getting at those hard to reach places. Perfect for back-door entry, actually. That’s probably something he’s fantasized about a lot—most guys do, I gather. One of my specialities—both taking and giving.

Wiping the smudges off the massive brass espresso machine, I pause for a moment to close my eyes and imagine his solid, greased rod sliding into my anus. I feel the scary pressure against my tight ring of muscle, always there no matter how many times I’m butt-fucked. Then the painful instant when he breaches me, followed by the sweet, nasty sensation of his bulk filling me up. My clit tingles and swells as I mingle recollection with anticipation. My jeans are suddenly too tight.

When I shoot a glance in his direction, I discover he’s looking back at me. He points to his empty cup and with an apologetic grin, raises one finger.

Sure, baby. Whatever you want.

I grind the beans, set a pristine cup under the spout, and go to pour the milk while the head of steam builds. Inhaling the rich, complex scent of high quality coffee, I flip the scene in my head. Now I’m the one reaming him, the straps of my harness biting into my hips as I bury my cock deep in his ass. His pasty white cheeks tense each time I impale him. They just cry out to be pinked by a slap or two.

Would he like that? Given what he writes, he just might.

He wouldn’t refuse me, certainly. If nothing else, he’d want the opportunity to research all the things he writes about. And I expect he’d be suitably grateful. After I make him come, I’m sure could coax him into eating me out.

So what I’m not his ideal woman, all soft and feminine. Beggars can’t be choosers.

I scribble my phone number on a napkin and stuff it into my jeans pocket. Then, feeling playful, I sprinkle cinnamon over the foamy surface of his beverage, in the form of a heart. When I place the cup next to him on the table, I deliberately brush the side of my breast against his arm.

He starts, looks up, snags my eyes. Oh, there’s fire there! A bolt of lust sizzles from my solar plexus to my pussy.

I’m just about to hand him the napkin when the door of the shop opens. His gaze snaps to the woman who enters.

He jumps to his feet, towering over me. “Layla! You’re early!”

She breezes in, silver bracelets tinkling, unutterably lovely. Ringlets black as midnight tumble over her shoulders and down her back. Ropes of colorful beads encircle her neck, nestling in the valley between her opulent breasts. A flowing rainbow-hued skirt drapes over her equally abundant hips and swirls around her sturdy ankles.

“Michael, darling!” I back away as she descends on the writer and sweeps him into a searing French kiss. His hands slide down her back to fondle her ass. As his tongue plunders her mouth, he grinds his pelvis against hers. The gesture’s definitely not family-friendly. I glance around at the other customers, hoping no one has noticed, but everyone appears to be transfixed by various mobile devices.

They make out for a shockingly long time, while I watch, becoming hotter by the instant. And I thought this guy wasn’t getting any! I thrust my hands in my pockets and crumple up the phone number, as a blush climbs into my cheeks. Talk about feeling stupid!

Finally, I tear myself away from the erotic spectacle, hurrying back to busy myself behind the counter. They’re still kissing, though the intensity has waned a bit. At last he releases her. She sinks into the chair next to him, licking her lips.

I’m still quivering with arousal when the writer—Michael—beckons to me.

“Can I get the check please, Nicki?”

I didn’t think he knew my name. “Oh—sure. Just a sec.” I have new respect for this guy. Despite his less than impressive appearance, he must be someone special, to have hooked someone as gorgeous as Layla.

He turns to the gypsy-like vision beside him. “This is Nicki. She’s been taking care of me over the past few weeks, while I’ve been trying to finish the novel.”

Layla snares me with eyes the color of French roast coffee. “Thanks, Nicki. I know Michael can consume a lot caffeine when he’s in the throes of a creative endeavour.”

“Um. Yeah. I noticed.” I’m burning up, though I can’t say whether desire or embarrassment makes the greater contribution.

She turns to her lover. The pair share a long, smoldering look, before she swings her gaze back to me.

“Looks like you work really hard.”

Is she mocking me? I’m sure she saw the cinnamon heart. “Well, you know. It’s a job.”

She fingers a inky tendril of hair before it flipping over her shoulder. Her full lips curve into a friendly smile. “So we were wondering, Michael and I, when you have a day off.”

What? My knees actually go weak for an instant. Does she mean...?

“I’ve been feeling a bit sorry for you, actually,” Michael adds. “Seems as though nobody here really appreciates you.”

“Except Michael,” Layla adds, stroking his arm. He shifts in his chair. Even though his lap’s in shadow, I glimpse the swelling in his crotch. “And me, of course.”

The beanpole hands me a twenty. Electricity sizzles between us when our fingers touch. “Keep the change, Nicki.” His smile makes me feel naked.

Meanwhile, Layla pulls a pen from her lover’s shirt pocket and writes something on the check. “Call us,” she murmurs. “We’ll be good to you.”

Blood roars in my ears. I have a lot of fantasies. I’m not used to having them come true.

I’m certainly not going to turn them down. Even if, for them, it’s an act of charity.

TBW

(To Be Written)

by Jean Roberta

I like writing in various genres. Like Annabeth, I'm squeamish about talking about a work-in-progress, or something I seriously plan to write in the near future, so I won't describe the book I discussed recently with a local publisher. The more distant future is a different case. I think it's useful to have a set of possibilities on paper.

For years, the Phantom Book (series of articles?) in the back of my mind was the true story of how I was treated by my family and the “mental health" profession after I tried to commit suicide after being raped at age nineteen in my dorm room in a Canadian university in 1971. (For the record, I had had consensual sex with the guy before. On the day of the event, I agreed to go to the cafeteria with him for coffee and a conversation about our relationship. I didn’t invite him to my room.)

The first male psychiatrist to whom I was assigned (as far as I knew, I had no choice) told me I had not experienced "real rape." A psychiatrist in my home town diagnosed me as a “borderline schizophrenic.” I was told that I was rebelling against my parents because of being the youngest child in my family (I was actually the oldest, and this hasn't changed). Apparently my parents were told I was on drugs. (That must have been some good stuff – I wasn’t even aware of having taken/smoked/injected any such thing.)

At this point in my life, I don’t think I will write that book. I still have relatives who would strenuously discount everything I have to say on grounds that I have always been mentally ill. They would point out that no one was ever legally charged with raping me, which presumably proves that it didn’t happen. I don’t know how my relatives could affirm that I was acting out because of youngest-child syndrome; they might just insist that I caused a lot of trouble for my good parents.

The people I would have liked to sue for professional misconduct at the time must be retired by now, and some are probably dead, as are both my parents. I have nothing to gain by writing the book except the satisfaction of seeing my truth on paper, and that might be outweighed by the drama that would result.

Luckily, I have other writing projects in mind. I know I won’t have time to tackle all of them until I retire from teaching, and maybe not even then. I also don’t know if any of the books on the following list would be publishable, but writing them would certainly give me something to do. Note that this isn’t a complete list.

Novel #1

Here is a rough synopsis of a dream that I would like to turn into the first chapter of an erotic novel.

I (female narrator) came to earth from another planet or alternative dimension in which human females function much like other mammals: we go into heat on a regular basis, and no one blames us for that. Applying ugly labels to females in heat would be like blaming them for eating food. (And who does that?) We form relationships (one-to-one or multiple), and relationship-sex usually feels different from heat-sex, but everyone on my planet knows that women occasionally need to have it with whoever is handy.

I know that human females in this world are assumed to be much different from me; in fact, some are brought up to believe that any sexual feelings they might have are a personal problem. Luckily for me, some humans understand how my tribe functions.

I’ve gone to a job interview, suitably dressed for an office job. Unfortunately, I’m in heat. The more I try to ignore or suppress it, the hornier I feel. After squirming in a chair in the waiting area for awhile, I am shown into the office of the head of Human Resources. He is a man in a suit who sounds Canadian but looks more-or-less African. He knows what it feels like to be outside the cultural mainstream, and he clearly prides himself on his knowledge of cultures outside his own. He can see at once that I am likely to be distracted during our interview if I don’t get some relief first.

Mr. Suit asks, “Is there anything I can do for you?” This is the traditional phrase used by my tribespeople to offer sex to a female in heat.

I say something like, “Oh goddess, yes.” I tear off my clothes while Mr. Suit does the same. He has a sofa in the corner, and he has a supply of condoms in a file cabinet. He lies on me, but he is not too heavy, and I’m grateful that he doesn’t tease me too long before sliding his very erect cock into me. Apparently my condition triggered an instant response in him.

Neither of us has all day to spend on this activity, so as soon as we have each come once, we put our clothes back on. He returns to his desk, and I return to the visitor’s chair in front of it. We proceed to discuss the job description and my qualifications. He promises to let me know the outcome, one way or another.

I have been volunteering at the local women’s centre which runs the sexual assault line. I find the idea of sexual assault (especially when males assault females) to be incredibly gross, partly because it makes no sense. I go into the centre on my usual day, about a week after my job interview. The co-ordinator of the volunteers asks how my day is going, and I say, “disappointing. I just learned that I didn’t get the job.”

Co-ordinator asks what I applied for, and where, so I describe the job interview. She is appalled that I was “sexually abused” by a man who seems to do this regularly to vulnerable job applicants. I point out that I was in heat. She interprets this to mean I was so desperate for the job that I would consent to anything. She advises me to contact the local Labour Standards Board to complain that Mr. Suit violated several rules of the game by coercing me into sex by promising me a job and then breaking his promise.

I am aghast. I tell Co-ordinator that making accommodations for people who are different from oneself is the height of professional behaviour, and I certainly wouldn’t want Mr. Suit to be removed from his job. In my experience, there are too few like him. I explain that one of the other job applicants must have had more impressive qualifications than mine -- and this is not a double-entendre.

Co-ordinator tells me that I need to raise my self-esteem and learn to assert myself. She points out that I have to stop worrying about being accused of racism every time I refuse inappropriate sexual advances from a “person of colour.”

If I hadn’t lived in this world as long as I have, I would have no clue what Co-ordinator is advising me to do, or why.

I really want to educate her. She really wants to educate me. We both want this to happen as soon as possible, for the good of the other person. I realize that she will never understand me until or unless she experiences heat herself. Can I help her with that? I need to try.

Novel #2

This would be a historical novel about an American heiress of the nineteenth century who was (and still is) widely considered “eccentric,” if not batshit crazy. I think she needs an advocate, or at least a reconsideration.

Sarah Pardee Winchester (1837-1922) was married to William Wirt Winchester, heir of the Winchester Repeating Arms Company, founded by his father, Oliver Winchester. The “Winchester” was said to be the gun that “won” the West. As a rifle (a long-barrelled gun with spiralling grooves inside the barrel), it had a more accurate aim than those of the muskets of old. As a repeating rifle, it could fire more bullets in a short time than previous firearms.

In short, the “Winchester” was probably the deadliest hand-held weapon of its time.

Sarah had a baby girl who died within weeks. She was grief-stricken, and didn’t conceive any more children. Oliver, her father-in-law, died in 1880, followed by her husband, W.W., in 1881. This left Sarah with a fifty-percent share in a very lucrative company. She suddenly became one of the richest women of her time. And possibly the loneliest.

In 1884, Sarah moved from the industrial East to the area of what is now San Jose, California, bought a farmhouse on an acreage, and hired workmen to renovate it. According to legend, she believed that if work on her house ever stopped, she would die. Eventually, the house came to have 160 rooms, staircases that lead nowhere, and doors that open onto walls.

Sarah is said to have been too influenced by late nineteenth-century spiritualism, and a belief that the money she inherited was cursed by the spirits of all the people who were killed by Winchester rifles. Supposedly, her house was intended to be a maze to outwit the angry ghosts.

Would you feel like a member of the deserving rich if you suddenly inherited a fortune that was raised by the sale of a very efficient killing device? I wouldn’t.

The Winchester House has been a tourist attraction for years, but as far as I know, no one has written a novel about the mistress of the house. It seems overdue.

Reference Book #1

There are serious reference books on several sexual topics. (See Martha Cornog’s book on masturbation, listed here.)

www.amazon.com/The-Big-Book-Masturbation-Angst/dp/0940208296

I have a file of notes for a book on the history of anal sex, which was illegal in several European countries for centuries. (This is one of the “crimes” of the Marquis de Sade in revolutionary France – whether it was consensual or not is less clear.) “Sodomy” (from the biblical city of Sodom) has been used to refer to a spectrum of sex acts considered immoral and “unnatural” – so why is it more often understood to mean anal sex rather than, say, oral sex?

During the “burning times” or the “witch craze” (approximately 1480-1700), accused “witches” were said to be required to kiss the Devil, their Master, on his dirty bum, presumably under his tail. Was this “kiss of infamy” a euphemistic reference to something else?

Was anal sex outlawed because: 1) it can’t result in the conception of a baby, and can therefore be seen as a way to outwit “God’s plan” to overpopulate the earth? Or because: 2) it is the only form of penetration possible between two men? Or both? The term “bugger” is a corruption of “Bulgar” because Bulgarians were assumed (by non-Bulgarians) to be especially fond of this activity. Is there any historical basis for this assumption? If I would like to learn the answers, I'm sure other people would too.

Reference Book #2

When my daughter Liz was a baby, I thought of compiling a Book of Elizabeth, including brief biographies of all the famous women I could find who had that name. I still think this would be an interesting research project, with a ready-made audience: all currently-living Elizabeths, and their friends and relatives. The current Queen of England is an obvious example, along with her predecessor, Elizabeth I, as well as the late Elizabeth Taylor, but did you know that “Mother Goose” is claimed by some to have been an actual woman, Elizabeth Foster Goose (1665-1758) of Boston, Massachusetts? (Actually, this claim is doubtful. References to “Mother Goose” stories and rhymes for children occur as early as 1590, and several French writers wrote “contes de la Mere l’Oie” in the 1600s.) Elizabeth Fry (1780-1845), Quaker reformer of the horrendous English prison system of her time, and Lizzie Borden (1860-1927, American woman acquitted of killing her father and stepmother with an axe, but widely believed to have been guilty), are easier to trace. The list could get very long, especially if it includes imaginary and generic characters. ("Outside, Eliza!" was a term used in the Victorian age to get rowdy women out of pubs.)

Fixer-Uppers

I have several stories and a novel (Prairie Gothic, written in 1998, available as an e-book from Amatory Ink from 2002 to 2006, when the publisher folded) that need some revision and updating.

The fall semester at the university where I teach is approaching like a speeding truck. If I seriously want to tackle at least one thing in my TBW pile, I probably need a sabbatical and a set of deadlines.