C'est pas tes oignons

by Giselle Renarde

When I was in kindergarten, the whole class had to line up single file by the door at the end of the day. Mlle Medina wouldn't release us into the care of our parents or picker-uppers until we'd neatly arranged ourselves in no particular order.

One day, I saw Grant bud in front of Nathan. I was not happy. You can't just cut in line like that. Nathan was there first! How dare you?

Even at the age of six, I was not one to let injustice go unnoticed. I went over to Grant and I was like, "I saw what you did! How dare you? Nathan should be in front of you!"

Mlle Medina came over to see what all the loudness was about. I explained the situation to her. She explained that it had nothing to do with me. C'est pas tes oignons, Giselle. I should take my place in line. Mind my own business.

My teacher wasn't mean about it. Not at all. I could tell that she was amused by my crusade to right the wrongs of the kindergarten line. This was the same teacher who told my mom not to worry too much about my... behaviour. Life would soften out the edges.

It hasn't.

I'm in trouble again.

With family, this time.

I just finished watching a very touching documentary called Much Too Young, about caregivers of parents with early-onset Alzheimer's and dementia. The thing that sets this film apart from others on the topic is that these caregivers are young men and women in their twenties, some in their teens. I could never have done what they're doing. Not at that age, not at this age, probably not at any age. I'm not a nurturer. I care, but I'm not caring.

But some of the sentiments they expressed resonated with me, especially early in the film before the various participants had met each other. They didn't know who to talk to about what they were experiencing. There were support groups for caregivers, sure, but not for people under 30. All the caregivers were the age of their parents. They felt very isolated.

I've been feeling that way too, when it comes to stuff with my grandmother. If you've been reading my posts over the years, you know that I've participated in her care. She does not have dementia. That's a big distinction. But she is legally blind, she's experiencing hearing loss, and her mobility isn't the best. Recently, she was hospitalized for 6 weeks with multiple infections that resulted in a whole lot of delirium.

She checked herself out of hospital prematurely. Realistically, she requires round the clock care. She can afford it, but she's too cheap to pay the money. A lot of people who grew up in the Depression era are like this. She wants to stay in her house. It's not safe for her to be living there anymore, but my grandmother is one hard-headed motherfucker. I'm allowed to trash-talk her because I AM her. We have exactly the same personality. We share the same faults. Anything negative I say about her, I would be more than willing to say about my self.

So how did I end up in hot water with my family?

Well, here's the thing about old people... they can be assholes. I have this on good authority. Every story I tell my girlfriend about the latest asshole thing my grandmother (whom I love very much) has done, she's like, "That's old people. That's what happens."

I sure as hell hope that by the time I'm in my late 80s, those suicide booths from Futurama will be a real thing, because God Almighty I don't ever want to turn into that. Does it really happen to everyone?

"Focus narrows," my girlfriend says. "Life becomes very narrow."

This is what I see in my grandmother now. It's not that she's necessarily a different person than she was before, it just seems like you're dealing with the worst possible version of her. Someone who takes everyone else's time and care for granted, someone who feels entitled to all this and more, someone who expects everyone to give give give even when they're already drained and never feels the need to say thank you.

Without getting into too much detail, it came to my attention that my grandmother had lied about a medical professional in order to manipulate a situation and achieve her own ends. My grandmother's actions led to serious repercussions for that medical professional.

I love my grandma, but no. Just no. You can't fuck with people's livelihoods like that. This is someone's job, someone's career, someone's pay cheque. Someone's life. I don't care how old you are and how much your focus has narrowed, you don't pull this shit.

My grandmother's already reeling from feeling that she's lost control of her life. She calls us "mean" and tells us we won't let her do what she wants to do, even though everything we do is what she wants. At times our entire lives are wrapped up in doing what she wants. So I went over her head with this one. I phoned the supervisor of the medical professional to tell them my grandmother had lied and here's what her motives were.

The supervisor was frankly quite relieved, because their whole organization was baffled about the accusation. It didn't make sense to anyone--didn't make sense because it wasn't true. I was told that an investigation was already underway, and I spoke to them less than 24 hours after the whole thing started.

Maybe I'll always be the same kid I was in kindergarten, but if I see someone doing wrong by another human (even if the wrongdoer is a relative and the wrong-done-by is a relative stranger), I need to speak up. You can love someone and not support their actions.

When I talked to that supervisor, I figured they'd tell me "Oh yes, your aunts have all called me to give me this information." I was very surprised that, even though the whole family knew about my grandmother's wrongdoing, nobody was willing to say it out loud, except to each other. I told my mom I'd made that phone call. She supported my decision but warned me not to tell my aunts.

Last week I let my guard down. I told one of my aunts I made the call. To my face, she was smiley and supportive, but my sister tells me that, behind my back, my aunts are all saying I should mind my own business.

These days, because anxiety has been an issue, I'm trying to reflect on potential repercussions before I get worked up. When my sister told me my aunts are mad at me, the first thing I did was laugh. Then I said, "What are they going to do? Punch me? Disown me?"

Most probable scenario is they'll keep talking about me behind my back and never say a word to my face.

You know what? I can handle that.

"My First Little Golden Book of Pornography" An Appropriated Story

Chapter One
 "Having Fun With Horny Dick and Jane"

Jane sits on the bed.  

The bed is big. Big, big bed.

See Jane sit.  Sit, Jane sit.

Here is Dick.   

Hello, Dick, says Jane.

Hello, Jane, says Dick.  How are you?

I am very horny, says Jane.  How are you, Dick?

I am very horny too, says Dick. 

Jane is horny.  Dick is horny. Dick and Jane are horny.  

Are you horny?  What will horny Dick and Jane do?

Let us play balls, says Dick.

Yes, says Jane. Let us play balls.

Dick has two balls.  Look at Dick's two balls.  Dick's funny balls are big.  Dick's two balls are pink.

Would you like to play with my big, pink balls? Says Dick.

Yes, says Jane.  I like to play balls with you.  Would you like to play pussy with me?

Pussy says Meow Meow.  Jane's pussy says ahhhh ohhhh

Would you like to play with my big, pink balls now? Says Dick.

Look, says Jane.  Look, look.  Here is Pussy. 

Hello, pussy, says Dick. Dick likes to pet Pussy.  

Jane likes Dick to kiss pussy.  Funny little Pussy.  

Pussy is wet.  Wet, wet, wet Pussy.

Jane plays balls.  Dick pets pussy.  

Look at Dick's funny face.  Look at Jane's funny face.

Jane kisses balls.  Dick kisses Pussy.  

Would you like to kiss Pussy too?  

Would you like to kiss Dick's balls with Jane?

Dick is on the bed. Look up, Jane.  Look up and see Dick.

See Dick go up.  Dick goes up, up, up.

See, baby.  See, see.  Dick is up.

Oh, Dick, says Jane.  You are up.

Yes, says Dick.

See Pussy, says Jane.  Look, look, look. Pussy is wet.

Pussy loves Dick.  Dick loves Pussy.

Dick kisses Pussy.  Oh, see. 

See Jane's happy face. See Dick kiss Pussy.        

Hear Jane go Meow Meow!.   

Oh, Dick! Oh, Dick, moans Jane.  

 Moan, Jane.  Moan, moan.

Come, Pussy, come, says Dick.

Meow Meow Meow, moans Jane.

Now, now, now? Says Dick.

Wait, wait, wait, moans Jane.

Pussy loves Dick.

Dick loves pussy.

See Jane lay.  Lay, Jane, lay.  

Lay, lay, lay.

Dicks lays too.  Dick lays on Jane.

See Dick's funny face.  See Jane's funny face.

In, Dick, In.

Come, Jane, come.

In, Dick, in.

Yes, Jane, yes.

In, Dick, in.  In, in, in.

Dick goes push.  Push, push, push.

Oh, Jane, oh, says Dick.  Oh, oh, oh. 

Yes, Dick, yes.  Yes, yes, yes.

Squeak goes the bed.  Squeak, squeak, squeak.

Unh,unh,unh, says Dick. Grr, grr, grr.

Shake goes the bed. Shake, shake, shake.

Squeak, squeak, squeak.

Push!  Push!  Push!

Dick!  Dick! Dick!

Shake, shake, shake.

Pussy! Pussy! Pussy!

Squeak, squeak, squeak.

Ooo!  Ooo!  Ooo!

Go, Dick, go.  Go, go, go.

Dick says “Here I come, Jane!”

Jane says “Wait for me, Dick.”

Come, Jane. Come, come, come.

Come with me, Dick, says Jane

Oh god, Jane, oh god, says Dick.

Wait Dick, wait.

I must come, says Dick.

Wait Dick, says Jane.

Oh god, says Dick, ohgodohgodohgod 

No, Dick, no.  No, no, no.

Oh, Jane, OH!!

Wait, Dick, wait.

Oh - Jane - HUNH! Oh holy fuck . . . ah.

No, Dick.  Shit . . .

ahhhhh, says Dick.

Sorry, Jane. Sorry.

See Jane's frowny face.  See Dick's funny face.

Selfish bastard, says Jane.

 

(Mis)appropriation

I Googled ‘appropriation’, like you do when one of these Grip topics has you stumped. I was glad I did because I learned it’s one of those words – I can’t recall the proper grammatical name – where the opposite means the same thing. Or it can do. Words like flammable/inflammable are interchangeable. Appropriation/misappropriation can be. I know, I know, there’s a subtle difference in that misappropriating something is always dishonest, but it’s close enough.

And there’s a lot of it about. Misappropriation, I mean.

I used to work in the public sector where rigid regulations are in place intended to prevent the inappropriate (another variation of the theme) use of public finds. It was the cardinal sin, the eleventh commandment. Thou shalt not be caught with thy fingers in the cookie jar. As a senior manager towards the end of my public service career, it fell to me to enforce these expectations, and it never failed to amaze me how loosely the rules might be interpreted.

“No, of course I wouldn’t forge someone else’s name on a company cheque! Perish the thought!” But the same person would see no problem in ‘borrowing’ items of equipment on a more or less permanent basis.

“Of course I wouldn’t steal money from the till. But there’s no harm, surely, in being a bit creative with my travel expenses. Everyone does that…”

“No, I wasn’t really ill that day when I phoned in sick. But I’d no annual leave left so I had to do something. It was a family wedding, I couldn’t miss it.”

This is all quite low-level stuff. A sense of perspective always comes in useful. But once or twice (well, maybe a bit more often than that) I encountered really staggering examples. Such as the employee who did forge a colleague’s signature on a cheque to himself. He needed the money to fund a trip abroad and insisted he intended to pay it back so that was all right and why were we making such a fuss? I might have made less fuss – and taken a bit longer over unearthing what was going on – if he’d had the wit to spell the colleague’s name correctly on the forged cheques.

On another occasion I was stunned to learn of a colleague in a different organisation who, having recently been promoted to a plum job, was suddenly in jail for stealing twenty thousand quid from her new employer. That was career-destroying stuff, and I’d have understood it better if she’d got away with telephone number-type amounts. But twenty thousand pounds was a lot less than a year’s salary. The mind boggles.

Or what about the project leader who got it into his head that other colleagues were criticising his team unfairly, so he used his budget to purchase covert surveillance equipment and used it to spy on other members of staff. He even bugged the ladies loo!

So, what gets into people who pull stunts like this? Could it just be greed, plain and simple? Not everyone in a position of trust will live up to it. People make mistakes in a moment of panic, madness or piss-poor judgement. 

Possibly all of the above at different times, though I think it’s more complicated. Even though the chances of getting away with misappropriation of public funds are fairly slim, in every case I’ve been involved in investigating, the person concerned didn’t expect to be caught. Or they thought they could put the money back before it was missed so it was just a loan, really. Or they tried to argue that what they’d done was no big deal, others did much worse.

I’ve been out of that world for some years now and I can’t say I miss it. At least these days when my characters do bizarre and senseless things I can make up a reasonable motive for their apparent madness. Ah, the power of being an author…

You’re Bound to Piss Somebody Off #Appropriation #PoliticalCorrectness #Humanity

By Lisabet Sarai

Our Grip title for the next two weeks is “Appropriation”.

If you’re an author, appropriation isn’t something you do. It’s something other people accuse you of doing. And frankly, most of the time those accusations ring hollow, at least to me.

I’m sorry, but I don’t intend to apologize for writing stories that feature black characters, even though I’m white. Nor do I feel any sort of reticence in imagining and capturing the experiences of men, either gay or straight, despite the fact that I don’t have a penis. Or creating a character who’s a Catholic nun, when I was brought up Jewish.

Sure, it’s quite possible that I will not get everything “right” (although I’d argue that human beings are so diverse and multifaceted that the concept of accuracy might not make a lot of sense). If someone objects to the way I’ve portrayed a gay man, an Asian woman, a Native American, a Catholic, a transgender woman, or whatever, because I’ve made some factual errors, I welcome the correction. However, I categorically reject the suggestion that I’m not qualified to write about groups to which I don’t belong, or that my doing so somehow inflicts damage on the members of that group.

Remember Black Lace, the groundbreaking erotica imprint that would not accept submissions from male writers? Of course they were free to make their own rules, and I suppose that in some sense “erotica for women by women” was their marketing gimmick. Still, I found it annoying, and I know many male colleagues who felt the same way. I would be willing to bet there are quite a few male authors out there who could convince an editor they were female.

Part of the magic of writing is spinning truth out of the imagination. Experience may be important, but our stories transcend experience.

The concept of appropriation is closely tied, for me, to the notion of political correctness. Please believe me when I say that I try to respect every human being on the planet. Compassion, civility, human rights for all —these are among my most cherished values. Paradoxically, political correctness often erodes these values. Wars about the appropriate terminology for a marginalized group don’t help build trust and cooperation, they tear it down.

I’m an author. I’d never claim that words are not important. However, actions still speak much louder, for me at least.

Immediately after the 2016 presidential election in the U.S., I wrote a story (Divided We Fall) about a possible dystopia I saw arising from the outcomes. The two young protagonists, one black, one Vietnamese, live in adjoining ghettos in Los Angeles. They’ve been taught to hate and distrust one another, because the powers that be understand that a divided resistance will never be effective.

The story includes some harsh language, including racial slurs. When I asked my fellow authors to help share my blurb and excerpt, some of them objected because of the language. I found this deeply frustrating. The language was the whole point, after all. It’s a deliberate attempt on my part to show how they have dehumanized one another. If I were to remove the references to “nigger” and “gook”, the story would lose some of its impact.

Finally, I just have to shrug. You’ve got to have a thick skin and a philosophical attitude, because you’re always going to piss someone off.

Meanwhile, here’s a politically incorrect excerpt from Divided We Fall. If you want more—well, all sales benefit Planned Parenthood.

“Freeze, bitch.”

I’m expecting the challenge, but still, my stomach does a queasy flip. I remain motionless, as instructed, keeping both hands visible. A tall, lean figure steps out from behind some pollution-rusted shrubbery in front of a ruined apartment building. He carries his Kalashnikov like it’s another limb, one which he points directly at me. Funny how there’s never enough food, but no problem getting guns.

“What you doin’ here? This ain’t your territory. You get your gook ass back ‘cross the street before I kick it back!”

Though the guard talks tough, I can see he’s young, maybe younger than I am. He fixes me with a belligerent glare and brandishes his weapon like he’d just as soon shoot me as not, but there’s a softness to his mouth that lets me imagine him smiling. Using his left hand to draw an ugly blade from his belt, he strides in my direction.

He wears threadbare jeans and a faded camouflage shirt, open to the waist. The inky skin on his bare chest gleams with sweat, despite the brisk wind. The paler flesh of a scar slashes across his chest, just above his left nipple. That must have been a dire wound, close to fatal. He might be young, but he’s no stranger to battle. None of us is, these days.

“You hear me, bitch?” he growls and jabs at me with his knife.

Instinct taking over, I shrink backward, then recover. He mustn’t think I’m afraid. Straightening my spine, I raise my flag a bit higher.

“I claim the right of truce.” I make my voice low, even, and respectful. But not subservient. “I’m looking for my three-year old brother. He wandered out of our territory earlier today. Someone said he might be in Niggertown.”

“You better hope he’s not.” The guard gives me an evil grin. “Me and my boys just love a bit of barbecue.”

I ignore his jibe. He’s just trying to pull my chain. I hope. “Can I have a look around? Please?”

“Any gooks enterin’ Niggertown got to pay the toll.” His leer widens, his white teeth a shocking contrast to his soot-dark complexion.

“Of course.” I’d expected something like this. I jerk my thumb toward my backpack. “May I...? I’ve got veggies, from my mother’s garden. Cucumbers, green beans and kale. Chilies, too.” 
 

Money wasn’t much use in the barrios. Fresh vegetables, though—they were hard to come by, and I’d heard the soil in Niggertown was even more contaminated than ours.

He steps closer, until he’s looming over me. The point of his knife grazes my throat. Unflinching, I meet his eyes, brown as the muddy water of the Mekong in Mother’s old photos. His blade travels down my chest, pausing between my breasts. “I want something hot,” he murmurs. “But it ain’t chilies.”

“You think you’ll rape me?” Amazed at my own daring, I grasp his wrist and drag it to one side, until the blade’s a safe distance from my flesh. He doesn’t resist. Dropping his hand, I give the little kick I’ve practiced so many times and flip the switchblade into my hand, already open. “I’ll kill you first, boy.”

“Don’t you call me that, bitch!” I’m ready for him to hit me—I expect the toll to include some blood—but he holds back. “Anyway, I wouldn’t rape your skinny yellow ass. Nah, I’m gonna wait till you beg for it!”

I burst into laughter. I just can’t help it. “Right. That’ll happen the same day the pigs lay off the barrios and the Tower collapses.”

He tries to look fierce, but he can’t quite pull it off. “Just you wait,” he warns. “You gonna be on your knees. Beggin’ for me to put my big thing between your legs. An’ me, I’m just gonna leave you there!”

But she promised

By Tim Smith

She promised me that we’d stay in touch after we both got home.

We met at a romance writers convention. She was new to the novel writing game, but I’d been churning them out for a few years. She had never been to one of these gatherings before and didn’t know anyone. I offered to show her around and introduce her to some of the players. She was alone and so was I. She was also drop dead gorgeous, slight of build with long brunette hair accented by blonde highlights, a cute upturned nose, and the sexiest voice I’d heard in a long time. She looked as though the first heavy gust of wind would whisk her away, like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. When she flashed her light blue eyes in my direction, I knew I was in trouble.

She promised to meet me for dinner but she was late. The conversation we shared over prime rib was silly but stimulating, interesting and flirtatious at the same time. I listened while she told me her life story, and all about her hopes of making it big in the world of writing. She also shared a little about the ups and downs of her marriage, and that this weekend getaway was a sort of time-out for both of them. When dinner was over, I suggested a drink in the bar. She promised we’d get together after she spoke with a couple of publishers who had shown interest in her book proposal.

She kept me waiting for an hour, but I didn’t mind. It was worth the wait to share a glass of wine with her and hear that sexy voice massaging each word she spoke. I felt myself being drawn in deeper the longer we talked, like I was in a trance, a sweet, intoxicating spell that I couldn’t break. I didn’t want it to end.

Later that evening, before I left her room for the night, she promised we’d meet for breakfast the next morning. I slept soundly in my empty hotel room, feeling the glow of satisfaction. The only thing more satisfying would’ve been holding her close all night and waking up next to her. I hinted at that after we made love, but she said it wouldn’t look right, both of us leaving her room together at daybreak. Someone might see us and tell her husband. I didn’t argue with her.

The next morning, I waited at the breakfast buffet, but she didn’t show up. After check-out I saw her standing in front of the hotel, waiting for the shuttle that would take her to the airport and out of my life. We talked as long as we could until it was time to say goodbye. She promised she’d write to me after she got home, and I promised that I’d keep our weekend rendezvous a secret. I took my bags to my car and began to feel the ache of loneliness in my gut. As I drove out of the parking lot, I looked back at that same spot where I’d left her standing, hoping to get one last look, one that I could keep pressed in my mental memory book forever.

But she was gone.

And I never heard from her again. 

 

Fulfilling Promises: Making the Reader Happy

Someone once sent me a dirty story.

This is years ago, before I had a publishing company. My guess is that it was a fan of my stories who wanted to write his/her own story to try and impress me.

It was just some random email I received and there was no subject line and the only content to the message was this story that this person had written. The story was maybe a thousand words long, two thousand at the most.

The set-up was intriguing enough. It was a gay BDSM erotica story told from the POV of the submissive. The dom pulled him into the bedroom and told the sub that he must be sure to comply with any and all sexual demands, lest he get spanked with the paddle sitting on the chair in the corner of the room. The sub was eager to obey and determined to please, but he eyed up the paddle every few paragraphs. He kept fearing that he’d do something to deserve a bruised ass.

The sex was brief and reasonably well told. But by the end of the story, the paddle had not been used.

That paddle might’ve been a motivator to submit to his dom and do his best to please, but for me as the reader, with all that build-up of how intimidating the paddle was… I wanted to see it in action.

While the author may have told the story they wanted to tell, the focus on the paddle created a promise to the reader — a promise that the author failed to follow through on.

If you mention something like that in such a context, readers expect to see it in action at some point. It’s like that old piece of writing advice — Chekov’s gun — if a rifle is hanging on the mantle in chapter one, it must be fired by chapter three. And if it doesn’t get used, it shouldn’t be there in the first place.

I never did reply to that anonymous emailed story. I didn’t really know why this person was sending it to me, nor did I know what they had hoped to get out of it. And I was still a rather newbie author at the time that I didn’t really understand the type of attention erotica authors can get online. (Now, though, I’ve seen so many unsolicited dick pics, I’ve had so many people hit on a female pen name I sometimes use, and I have so many submissives eager to enter into a dom/sub relationship via Twitter with one of my more masculine pen names. I guess you could say I’m a little older and a little wiser now and understand it better.)

I try to always fulfill the promises I make to my readers — even if they’re promises I don’t intentionally make and I’m not aware of. When I revise my work, I try to figure out what I’ve unintentionally set up and then I try to follow through on that promise — or excise that promise so I don’t have to follow through on it. I once had one character bite the nipples of the other in a way that implied the sex was going to be rough, which was not the case, so I revised it to a lick of the nipples.

That promise is part of all stages of writing and publishing a book. Your cover design, blurb, and how you market it are all part of the promise. Each of these things elicits a response from a reader and creates expectations of what they think they’ll find in the pages of your book.

Over-promising isn’t the only problem. Under-promising is just as bad.

With over-promising, you create expectations that are too high, which can lead to disappointed readers and bad reviews. But with under-promising, you might not be doing enough to even attract readers. (I talked a little bit about this last year; I found an “erotica” ebook whose cover was a poorly formatted shack in the woods. That’s it. It creates zero erotic promise for me so if I wasn’t specifically looking for bad examples, I wouldn’t have even given it half a second of consideration.)

Promises to the reader are something I continue to struggle with. In particular, the promise created by previous experience. Every book I’ve written has been loaded with sex and as I’ve gotten better at writing, the quality of the sex scenes have gotten better too. I’ve spoken frequently of a book I’m working on, New York Heat, which will be epically long and loaded with smut. Not only does it have to meet the promises internal to the book, but it has to meet the external promises -- the ones held by readers who are expecting each book to be better than the last.

In the past week I’ve taken a break from New York Heat to work on a YA gay romance novel — which, because it’s YA, has zero sex. I really struggled with it for a while. I’m so used to the promise being sex. Here, the promise is a kiss. How can I create an engaging and captivating story if there’s no fucking? I have the tone and style and plot down now, but there was a lot of self-doubt along the way.

I had to remember that I wasn’t promising the same thing. It was a completely different promise than I normally make to the reader — and as long as I fulfil the promise I make, then everything will be fine.

If not, maybe I’ll get my ass paddled.

;)




Cameron D. James is a writer of gay erotica and M/M erotic romance; his latest release is Autumn Fire. He is publisher at and co-founder of Deep Desires Press, member of the Indie Erotica Collective, and hosts two podcasts, Deep Desires Podcast and Sex For Money. He lives in Canada, is always crushing on Starbucks baristas, and has two rescue cats. To learn more about Cameron, visit http://www.camerondjames.com.

When Promises Have to Be Broken

Sacchi Green

Sometimes you really can't help breaking promises. Sometimes you have trouble convincing yourself that you can't help it. But I'm in no mood to go there just now, so I tried to remember any story of mine that referred to a promise. I opened a folder of my many past stories, prepared to even run a search for the word "promise," but right there, almost the first piece I saw, was this one, and right away I remembered that a promise was involved, and came pretty close to the beginning. Just the thing!

This is one of the very few stories of mine that have never been published. I wrote it so long ago that I'd have to update it quite a bit for it to be usable, but I may get around to it someday. It's a ghost story, not really erotica in spite of the beginning, but I had it rejected at least once because a publisher thought that anything about lesbians must be erotica, or even porn.

In any case, it's just what I need now. The whole story is too long to bore you with here, though, so you don't get to see the ghost parts, but you do get a bit about trying to find an excuse to break a promise.  


In the Flesh

Sacchi Green

The fuchsia-topped cupcake was still there in the morning. Worse, so was I. Last night some darkness all too close to my own had roiled beneath the surface of her mind, some pain as sharp-spiked as her day-glo fuchsia hair; now she was all matted bed-head and muted mood. I didn't care enough to probe.

Waking up was all I could handle. Waking from dreams of Allison, vibrant, sensuous, her breasts warm against mine, her thigh teasing my crotch... But Allie was gone.

I had thought I would hold some part of her forever, all those times I cradled her essence, shielded her, bore what I could of her pain; until that final time, her own will driving me (Go for it, Lexie, do it, Love, now, please!) when I pressed the pillow over her face and felt the life drain from her body...her spirit fade…fade…into infinite distance. Leaving me empty, and alone.

The message light pulsed in counterpoint to the throb in my head. Last night I'd ignored it; now I resigned myself to the inevitable.

"Lexie? You're still in New York?" I had a sudden, gut-wrenching hunger to hear Allie's husky-sweet voice--but it was only Janet calling, trying for casual and not quite making it. "Let me know when to meet the train again, okay?" She drew a shuddering breath. I dropped the receiver and burrowed under the pillow.

When I came up for air last night's little distraction had the phone. I’d expected her to take a stab at my wallet once I'd zonked out. Maybe, if I were lucky, a stab at me. She hadn't even picked up the bills on the dresser.

"Don't you wanna know what else she said?"

God, an emotional voyeur. My head pounded. When Allie and I were young there was no such thing as too much wine--too much anything. I curled into a ball of black misery.

"If you don't get back today she's gonna come find you. And then she said, 'Lexie, you promised!'"

"I didn't promise her!”

The musk of sex hung heavy in the air. I lurched into the bathroom, hoping she'd get the hell out. No such luck. When I stumbled out of the shower she eyed me in obvious hope of earning an honest bonus.

"I didn't think you'd be so...well, I've never been with a silver butch before."

"Yeah? You want some referrals?" A year ago my hair had still been dark. Six weeks ago, for the memorial service, I'd let Janet crop it down to the new gray. The only touch I would accept.

"You must work out or something."

"I split a lot of firewood. You don't get calluses like this at a health club."

A flush tinged her neck as she glanced at my hands, reminding me briefly of Janet. Inconsequentially I wondered whether I'd left enough wood to get the house through a Vermont winter. Janet is strong enough, and willing, but a klutz with an ax.

"The good life." I said. "Right. Fresh air, organic veggies, exercise..." I'd tilled gardens, shoveled snow, rousted bales and boxes; and all I had to show for it was the strength to carry Allison in my arms, when it came at last to that, and never stumble.
I had the right to stumble now.

"Get dressed...Nyx, is it?" Her body didn't particularly appeal to me. Fashionably bony, marginally perky; perky leaves me cold. In Allison's bountiful joys I could lose myself. But Allie was gone.

Diversion had been my goal last night, not pleasure. I couldn't remember what impulse had driven me toward Nyx, but the kid had done well enough. In reward I'd impelled her to a mewling extremity that seemed to astonish her. By her look at my callused hands, she wanted more.

Then she astonished me. "You get into people's heads, don't you."

"What, because I knew how to push your buttons?" Kids never believe in the value of experience.

"Besides that." Her neck reddened again. "I felt you at the trade show, checking me out."

She must have some rudimentary talent herself. "Yeah, well, reconnaissance never hurts," I said. "It wasn't women you were trolling for, but I figured you might settle."

That was unfair. She'd been paid to make the fuck-me leather butt-sling with the gold zipper down the back look good to buyers for leather/fetish shops. I'd been the one trolling, checking out the pseudo-street-smart section of the show. None of that stuff is right for our...my...store. What tourists will buy in the Village or Soho isn't what they're after in Vermont. Always play to the customers' fantasies.

"My boss was pissed that you didn't place an order," she said.

"Did you tell him my card had my hotel room number on it?"

"He figured. He's not so dumb."

"So are you still trying to sell me?" She had some hidden agenda, all right.

"More trying to buy something. Some help. But...it could be dangerous, and I don't have much to pay with." If she'd planned to bargain with her body, she knew now that all the bargaining power was on my side.

I started to yank on some clothes. "If it's dangerous enough I just might bite." I felt her nudging at my mind and blocked her.

She picked up on my mood anyway. "What's the matter, you into suicide or something?"

Too perceptive. But Allison had made me promise.

"Just get on with it.”

"I need to find somebody. I mean, I know where he is, sort of, but...he isn't really there."

I sprawled on the chair and covered my eyes. Was this going anywhere? If there was ever a time for a cigarette! But I hadn't had any for fifteen years. Could ignoring the Surgeon General's warning be considered a suicide attempt?

"Tim is...was...my room-mate, a real sweet kid from Kansas. We helped each other through some tough shit, had sort of a trust thing going. Not much sex because of his medication, which didn't matter to me; I kinda like women better anyway, but there's more to love than that, isn't there?"

I grunted assent.

"It mattered to him, though. He stopped his meds and got so paranoid I couldn't get him on them again. Somebody told me about a doctor who treats that kind of stuff without pills, and I talked Tim into going, but after his second appointment he just...didn't come back."

"Did you check out the doctor?"

"Her office wouldn't give me the time of day. Neither would the police. Known crazies aren't high priority on the missing persons list."

"But you know where he is." I'd given up hope of anything useful, but it wouldn't hurt to let her vent.

She sat cross-legged on the bed. "Yeah, but...it's him and not him. A girl I know works at a health club near Washington Square. A couple of weeks ago she saw him there, and when she checked the club register he had a different name and an upscale address. I cruised that neighborhood till I saw him, but...he really, really didn't know me! He brushed me off, hard, and the doorman wouldn't let me past. And then, when I was almost home, I felt somebody following me, and started to turn around, and a knife whipped right by my neck and into the door! Clipped my ear right here."

The scar might have been from a torn-out earring. If anything, it had been only a warning; there are less dramatic tools than knives for getting rid of somebody.

 "Lucky move, huh? Anything else?"

"I didn't wait to find out. Been crashing at my brother's place in Jersey."

"Why didn't you stay there? And why the hell are you trusting me?"

"I've gotta know what's happening! Besides, the modeling gig was lined up already, and my sister-in-law doesn't feed me for free." She let the spread slide from her naked body and flopped back, legs splayed. "Anyway, you were pretty up front about what you wanted." She wriggled her skinny hips.

"So are you, but I'm not in the mood now. Look, I'd like to help, but there's nothing illegal about multiple personalities."

"Tim had delusions, sure, but not that multiple stuff! And...something else. I looked real close to be sure it was him, and saw a humongous scar on the back of his neck going up under his hair."

Right. Maybe the guy's delusions were contagious. "Who told you about this doctor?"

"The bartender at a club in Chelsea. The Gay Cuntessa."

"No shit, they really call it that? We just used to kid about it when it was Marlene's, twenty years ago.” She gaped at me. "Hey, I haven't always lived in Vermont."

I hadn't looked there for diversion for fear somebody would recognize me and ask about Allison. Sooner or later I'd have to face it. If there had to be a later.

"Okay." I swung to my feet and waited for the pounding in my head to subside. "I'll pump the bartender and maybe go by the doctor's office. I'll take a stroll by your guy's place. But even if I get a chance to probe I won't know whether he's himself, since I've never met him."
"I could come with you...."

"I'll call if I need you. Get some room service. If I'm not back in twenty-four hours--well, tell Janet I was helping out a friend."

As good an excuse for breaking my promise as I’d ever find. I could walk now, cease to exist, loose ends as tied-off as they'd ever be. Janet would get the house and store. She'd kept the business going when Allison got too sick for me to leave; she deserved more than I could ever give her.