October 2007 Archives

Sin Cult

By Bruno Decesare

190 pp.

© 1962

Publisher: E.K.S. Corp.

Series: Bedside Book 1235

To fully appreciate Sin Cult, you must first understand the protagonist Mark Hanes. Mark has hit the road to put as much distance as possible between himself and the immorality of New York City. Raised in a wealthy family and given a monthly allowance, he was able to settle into life as a painter in Greenwich Village without any of than starving that artists are known for.

Then he meets Candy and fell in love. He proposes marriage. She says no, citing her nymphomania and need to sleep around as a reason, so he rapes her. This wins her heart and they wed. Soon though, Mark starts to have second thoughts about the whole marital-bliss thing, cuts her a check to cover the inconvenience, and hauls ass.

Now that we have the sterling character of our hero worked out, we can get on with the story.

Mark is driving his Thunderbird to California but is in no hurry to get there. He's willing to take detours as long as there are some landscapes to paint along the way, but when he picks up a young hitchhiker named Carol, going off the beaten path gives him more than he bargained for.

Carol is willing to offer up the groceries but Mark is on a nookie hiatus, at least for a little while. She suggests he check out Devil's Bend, which she says has lovely scenery. He drops her off and drives there afterward.

Carol was right on the money, if you don't count the unkempt moonshiners that populate the town and surrounding area. Devil's Bend even had an ineffectual and possibly corrupt sheriff, a vital stereotype for any small-town fight between good and evil.

It wasn't long before the evil presented itself. Mark was up in a nearby canyon, looking for something suitable to paint. He saw three hillbillies sexually assaulting a young woman off in the distance. Morally outraged, he reached for his binoculars and observed the outrage in greater detail. When it was over, he approached the victim, who said she was from Peace Haven and was out picking berries when she was attacked.

Mark, to his credit, decides to report the crime but the sheriff refuses to do anything about it. Nobody in Devil's Bend cares much for the well being of Peace Haven folk because the place is reportedly some sort of cult preaching peace and love. And if there's anything hillbillies hate worse than revenuers and marrying outside one's immediate family, it's peace and love.

Undeterred, he decides to pay a visit to Peace Haven to see if he has any luck there. They offer him their hospitality, but are unhelpful and suspicious. Passivity is Peace Haven's way, at least that's what's in their mission statement. The reality is that this cult recruits young women from the criminal-justice system who are given the choice between serving their sentences in prison and a pastoral setting where everyone wears white robes and sings "Kumbaya" a lot. What the women are not told is that their probationary duties include servicing horny old men of influence who visit Peace Haven for a romp. The cult also brings in a few male convicts to keep the womenfolk in line.

Mark, being the hero and all, takes it upon himself to right this great wrong. He goes about this with grim determination, pausing only once or twice to sample the local lovelies and spy on the odd atrocity at length so his moral outrage does not waver.

In the end, justice prevails, not that I gave a shit. It's the lurid excess, not the triumph of virtue, that make novels like this a joy to read. And it is Mark's habit of stopping to watch these excesses in all their glory that makes Sin Cult worth converting to.

Sorry for the delay. You will have to wait until tomorrow to read about Sin Cult. In the meantime, please enjoy this "Thriller" video, done Bollywood style.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LbvP7dT3Dx0

Shakey Jake Woods was an Ann Arbor busker, a downtown fixture in a purple velvet suit and a guitar on his back, and anybody who lived or went to school at the University of Michigan knew him. He was there for decades. Well, he died a few weeks ago. Finally. All the Birkenstock wearing, Vulva drivin', yoga twistin' dipshits had bumper stickers on their cars saying "I Brake for Jake". Every newspaper had a page dedicated to him, the beloved Shakey Jake, as if he were this jazz icon, this sage. Nothing, but nothing, parallels the bathos and pomposity of the bullshit posted about this horrible sewer dweller than the "Chicago Tribune".

http://blogs.chicagotribune.com/news_columnists_ezorn/2007/09/shakey-jake-woo.html

Okay, Fuckchics, I was there, man. I lived it. I still have flashbacks, man. I still have the scars. If you weren't there, man, shut the fuck up. I love the Chicago Gentleman who says he "drank wine and played guitar" with Jake. Uh... you wouldn't share Jake's bottle, dude. Jake didn't have any front teeth. And you COULDN'T PLAY GUITAR WITH HIM BECAUSE HIS GUITAR DIDN'T HAVE ANY FUCKING STRINGS, YOU FUCKING WINDY CITY LYING PIECE OF SHIT.

A woman could not walk past Jake without being groped. So, you'd get a dollar out of your pocket, extend your arm and hold it out to him and "pay your toll". And after I packed on my freshman 20#, Jake started saying, "Thanks, Tiny," and I would say, "Fuck you, Jake," And he'd cackle.

I was dancing at Joe's Star Lounge one night... by the way, if any of you Chicago poofters ever ventured into Joe's on Main, I'll blow you and eat out your emaciated wife while you film it... and in walks Jake. He shimmies up to the dance floor, grabs my girlfriend's hand, spins her around then rocks and rolls out of the door again. 3 minutes later she screams, "My ring is gone!"

It was at that time I came up with idea to print bumper stickers to correct the balance of the universe. Not "I Brake for Jake" but "I ACCELERATE FOR JAKE". Unfortunately, people who agreed with me didn't own a vehicle.

Oh, rest in peace, you fucker.

Crocodile: Rapist or Romeo?    

"Oh Lawdy mama those Friday nights
when Suzie wore her dresses tight
and the Crocodile Rocking was out of sight"

-- Elton John/Bernie Taupin

In Asylum or Hell, the character Diane Morrisey cites a number of examples of men's barbaric treatment of women through the ages that justify the atrocities she commits upon her male sex slaves. One of her reasons is because of crocodile rape. That's right, crocodile rape.

According to her, watching women get violated by croc cock was a form of popular entertainment in ancient Rome. Such a claim is half plausible. The Romans were, by all accounts, a bunch of vicious thugs who bankrolled their empire through plunder and extortion and celebrated their supremacy by staging cruel and depraved spectacles. So yeah, they were fuckers. But crocodile rape? To believe that, I'd need more than the say so of a one-dimensional character in a poorly written novel.

I decided to go to Wikipedia for answers. I've heard the allegations that the site is filled with misinformation on a number of topics and I'm OK with that. So is Poison Spur. I've gone to great lengths to ensure that factual accuracy never gets in the way of a fun read here and encourage others to do the same.

The entry I found was most illuminating. It turns out that the Romans did get their jollies watching forced interspecies copulation, though there was no mention of crocodiles or any other reptile. I did, however, find this cute little tidbit involving some of our closer cousins in the animal kingdom:

Chimpanzees and mandrills, both in fact ferocious and very powerful species of primate: "made drunk by wine and inflamed by the odor of females of their kind, were loosed upon girls whose genitals had been drenched with the urine of female chimps and mandrills." The victims were often virgins and not infrequently young children. One spectacle is said to have included "a hundred tiny blonde girls being raped simultaneously by a horde of baboons."

Perhaps I've judged the Romans too harshly. I'd watch that in a heartbeat.

Crocodile-human sex was discussed in the section about ancient Egypt but if anything, it sounded like the croc was the victim. So Diane, we're going have to agree to disagree. Crocodiles may be voracious predators with remorseless tears whose actions have led to countless deaths and a couple of Paul Hogan movies, but they are not, I repeat, not rapists. Case dismissed.

It was known as the "Paris of the Nineties," which was true enough if you didn't care much about talent. It was, however, a glorious and exotic playground for young and disaffected Americans who could scrape together enough money for a plane ticket.

I was in Prague during the early months of 1994. At 31, I wasn't as young as most of my compatriots but I had disaffection to burn.

My original plan was to settle in Amsterdam and arrived in that city in November of the previous year. I was sick of the United States and my comfy little life there. I wanted change. I wanted adventure. I wanted to be surrounded by six-foot blonde hotties who talk funny.

Getting to Amsterdam was easy. Being able to stay there required landing a job. That wasn't so easy. The Dutch economy, along with most of Europe's, was in the toilet at the time. I quickly gave up all hope of securing employment and focused my attentions on getting snockered with vacationing Australians in Leidseplein bars.

In February, I relocated to Prague. It was a lot cheaper there and I had a place to stay. Jen, who had been my girlfriend back home, was living there and teaching English. She said I could probably get a job doing the same. The Czechs didn't care if you had any credentials as long as you were a native speaker. Unfortunately, the pay sucked. Therefore, I opted to spend my days wandering the city and my nights drinking myself into oblivion.

Czech winters are very cold, especially to someone who grew up in Santa Barbara. Walking across the Charles Bridge, I could see Volkswagen-sized chunks of ice floating down the Vltava. The frigid air, polluted from coal-burning furnaces, had a sulfur smell and covered everything and everyone with a layer of soot. Gorgeous and menacing buildings surrounded me, poised for a new round of defenestrations that the city is famous for.

When the weather go to be unbearable, I'd warm myself in the Globe bookstore and coffee shop, which also served absinthe. My cold, sooty days in Prague were happy ones

At the end of the day after Jen got off work, we'd meet up with other expats. Most evenings involved dinner, drinks, and perhaps a smoke-filled basement nightclub playing punk rock.

One night, a friend of Jen's invited us to a cozy little bohemian (by both definitions) spot to hear him perform a song he wrote. He was to go on stage right after a woman gave a public reading of her recent work. Finally, I thought, the "Paris of the Nineties" was about to be deserving of the name. We arrived early so we'd be sure to catch both acts.

The reading was a collection of feminist fairy tales. The plots varied slightly but always involved a princess, wise beyond her years, whose sage words saved the day from some problem that the King couldn't figure out because he was stupid and male. In the end, he'd abdicate and let her rule as Queen happily ever after.

It takes a special sense of social justice to try to tear down the patriarchy with such vigor while having no problem leaving monarchies intact.

Next up was the song. Oh God, that song. Between feeble strums of the guitar, Jen's friend whined insipid gibberish with little rhyme and less reason. The tune was called "Alpine Dove." If such a species of bird ever existed, it's extinct by now. The entire population would have died from embarrassment.

I'm being harsh and unfair of course. It's not like I created anything of value while I was there, just self-absorbed ramblings in my journal that will never see the light of day. My time in Prague was time wasted, plain and simple. And you know what? I've never regretted it.

It's past three in afternoon and my boss is going on vacation starting tomorrow and continuing through all of next week. You might think this would be a reason to celebrate, that I get to spend the next seven workdays showing up at noon, still drunk from the night before, just in time for my liquid lunch.

If only life were so easy.

Originally featured June 13, 2006.
Asylum - or Hell?

By Ralph Brandon

152 pp.

© 1963

Publisher: Art Enterprises, Inc.

Series: Intimate Edition 718

When you put a nymphomaniac in charge of a mental institution, you're asking for trouble. Top that with a feminist agenda heavy with revenge and sweetened with a substantial profit motive and you have Asylum - or Hell? This is a tale full of sex, false imprisonment, torture, mutilation, and deception. All it lacks is plausibility, suspense, and a narrator who doesn't need to be slapped.

"The minute Diane Morrisey walked into the room I knew she would be in bed with me before she left," opines protagonist Robert Howard at the novel's opening, warming the reader's heart with his unassuming charm.

He knows this by the way by the way she sways her hips when she walks. Some folks read tea leaves, others palms. Robert reads hips, and what they tell him comes in the form of both an offer and a challenge. What the hips say is this: only serious stud muffins need apply.

However, there are a few questions the hips don't answer. Where is he? How did he get here? What happened to that gutter he collapsed in with only his whiskey vomit to break his fall?

Diane explains that she rescued him from his predicament, bathed him, and allowed him to rest up long enough for him to answer the call to action. If you haven't figured it out already, Robert is not your workaday average Joe. He is a bum and proud of it. He live by his own rules and follows his own schedule. When it's time to leave town, he goes. When it's time to make a few bucks, he works. When it's time for basic hygiene, he takes it under advisement.

This is not to say that Robert is some run-of-the-mill rummy. Oh no. When Diane first came upon his prostrate form a day and a half earlier, she was able to look past the growing yellow puddle around him and realize that she was in the presence of a veritable love machine. My guess is she assumes that a man must have the sexual capacity of all the Kennedys combined if he has the alcohol capacity of Ted.

To Diane's credit, this line of reasoning makes as much sense as anything else in the story.

The bulk of the next forty pages of the book can best be summed up as AC/DC's "You Shook Me All Night Long" translated into prose. Between the copious sexual romps, Diane tells Robert how she rose to her present level of privilege and why it's so swell to be her. It turns out that she was sent to a mental hospital, married her psychiatrist, and transformed the place into an institution as successful at making money as it is at treating troubled minds. Robert's take on this is to take exception to being called "Robbie" and uttering "I'm the man, you're the woman" and other pearls of patriarchal pithiness.

When Diane thinks she's won Robert's trust (or near enough), she drugs his drink and he wakes up in a padded cell. After various steps are taken to break his spirit and warp his psyche, he is introduced to the other members of Diane's four-man harem. Before this happens, Robert swears revenge:

I swore that if I ever got my hands on her I'd kill her, but I promised I'd have her once more before I did. She owed me those two things - first her lust, then her life.

At least he got them in the right order.

Being the newest arrival, Robert is top dog. The number-two man, Larry, explains the grim situation. If you're in first or second position, your job is to be her personal concubine. Excellent job performance is crucial because if you drop into the number three or four slot, she has you castrated and you must find alternative means of pleasuring her. Robert shudders at the notion as he feels the limp handshake of the gelding Martin (castration reducing hand strength is just one of the fascinating facts I learned from this book). If you fall from the top four, you get lobotomized and spend the rest of your days tending the grounds and watering the plants with your drool.

The harem is just one part of the hospital's evil plot. Diane and her co-conspirators are making a mint having wealthy, sane men legally committed at the behest of their greedy spouses and relatives. And as long as no one on the staff tattles and alley cats don't knock over a trash can full of testicles and frontal lobes, the plan is foolproof.

Robert realizes that to escape this fate, he needs to pretend to be madly in love with Diane. True to form, his means of expressing this love is by running amok, assaulting several guards and punching out poor Martin while he's at it. Diane, finding herself in the presence of a real man worthy of her, swoons.

She spirits him away from the asylum and takes him to her cabin in the woods with no guards and the two have a lot more sex. She also explains her reason for the harem. Men, you see, have been rat finks to women since the beginning of time and it is her right to even the score. She cites several historic examples such as: murder of female offspring from the Chinese, sexual slavery from the Hindus, crocodile rape(!) from the Romans, witch burnings, and so on.

Robert's rebuttal of two wrongs not making a right didn't do any good so his only recourse is the time-honored male tradition of not paying attention until she runs out of steam.

At this point, a very curious thing happens. Robert falls in love with her for real. He decides to try to get her to listen to reason, understand that she's sick, and put things right for good. Will he convince her or will Robert be consigned to the same fate as Jack Nicholson at the end of One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest, albeit with looser-fitting pants? I won't give away the ending but will assure you that credibility will be stretched in ways you never thought imaginable.

I'm at a wine shop in Detroit. The owner is a doll, flirting, tells me to grab a bottle and he'll open it up.

"She doesn't like wine," says my friend.

"WHAT?" says the owner.

I tell him I don't drink much, but the bond is broken. A dog runs down the aisle, toenails skittering on the tile. It has an odor. My friend pets the dog; I ignore it. I'm not going to adaptively pet a smelly dog as if to say, "Oh, look at me, I'm a cutesy animal lover," and have my hand reek. Dogs have to earn my love.

"I suppose you don't like dogs either," the wine shop owner says.

"Dogs don't like me," I say, "They sense the violence in my soul."

He stares at me.

The dog is a beagle and reminds me of this horrible beast from a canoe trip many years ago. 20 or 30 couples went. One couple I didn't know very well brought their dog. We all shove off and soon my ex-husband and I are way, way far behind. I suck at paddling. I get bored, I'm weak, I'm lazy. Did Cleopatra have to schlep down the Nile? We decide I should sit in the back and steer. This results in simply crashing from one bank to another.

"Are you steering?" my ex yells, paddling furiously.

"YES!" The oar is across my knees and I'm applying suntan lotion. Right then, I look up and see that couples' dog standing on the sandy shore.

"Are you sure that's their dog?" my ex asks.

"Positive."

We get out and carry the dog into the canoe. Once we start paddling, the dog leaps out and starts swimming for shore. We zigzag to the dog and I haul it back into the canoe by its collar. It's wheezing. The idiot dog hops out 8 more times before we finally reach the meeting point. We're the last people to arrive. Everybody grilled and ate, we see the dog couple at a picnic table WITH THEIR DOG. They have a lab and the wet hound in my canoe is a beagle. Whoops.

"Whose dog?" someone asks.

"What dog?" I say.

"The one in your canoe."

"I don't know," I answer honestly. My ex is looking for beer, I went to look for a hamburger to feed the dog. I got distracted and forgot about it. By the time I went back to feed the dog, it already escaped.

I made my hotel and flight reservations yesterday. I'm going on vacation during Thanksgiving week and picked Hawaii more or less by default. May passport is expired, which keeps me from most of the real fun to be had around the globe. Whale eating in Japan, dynamite fishing off the Great Barrier Reef, and refugee fondling in Darfur are all beyond my reach. So Hawaii it is.

I need to get away. I haven't taken any vacation since I reentered the work force full time over three years ago. What I need is to hang out in a place by myself where nobody knows me. Maybe, just maybe, the time away will release a few of those creepy crawlies I've had bottled up inside my head.

Admittedly, there are probably more cost-effective means to this end. Renting a cabin up north might have done the trick. I could spend the days staring out at the ocean from a cliff face, looking deep and insightful as the sea breeze gently wafted through my graying locks of hair. Passersby noticing me might even assume my thoughts were on more elevated topics than machine-gun wielding female wrestlers coming to abduct me in their leather bikinis.

Or if I opted for a more social venue, I might have gone to a fantasy-foosball convention at a Day's Inn in Fresno. Good times could be had partying down with attendees, whom I'm guessing are made up in large part by telemarketers and the odd shift manager from a rendering plant.

Alas, neither of these options would suffice. Where's the adventure? Where's the romance? Where's the opportunity for hula upskirt? Hawaii promises all these things, or at least it would if I were the one writing the travel brochures.

I'm counting on divine providence to make mine a fulfilling and memorable vacation. However, I already have two strikes against me.

First, I'm staying at a respectable hotel near Waikiki Beach instead of a Honolulu flophouse frequented by crackheads and the insane. While my lodging choice lowers the chances of having all my possessions stolen below 100%, it also carries the risk of boredom one finds in the company of solid citizens.

The second strike is that I signed up for transportation to from the airport to the hotel and back. This may be convenient and economical, I'm not much looking forward to being herded into the back of a shuttle bus where some Iowan's Midwestern fat spills over into my seat.

I might just take a taxi instead. This would be more expensive but well worth it, as it has been my experience that drivers know much about local attractions not found in any guidebook. When he looks into his rear-view mirror and sees me give him the signal (palm of the hand against the chin, tongue darting out between the index and middle fingers), he'll know that I'll be looking for a little something extra during my stay. In no time flat, I'll have offers for grisly souvenirs from the USS Arizona or to be taken to a clandestine nightclub where the stage show includes a Samoan transsexual crushing a luau pig to death with her thighs.

However things turn out, I'm sure I'll find some way to debauch myself. I seem to have a talent for that.

My long dental nightmare is over, after thousands of dollars, a root canal, four crowns, and a level of pain inflicted that would make Laurence Olivier in Marathon Man blush.

I plan on taking better care of my teeth from now on. Of course, that means a loss of source material for this blog but I'm willing to live with that.

Let us move forward and put this unfortunate episode in my life behind us.

Originally featured May 31, 2006.

Passion Madman

By Andrew Stole

192 pp.

© 1963

Publisher: Corinth Publications

Series: Leisure Book LB 603









Jack Garth is not a nice guy. He kills people for money, enjoys doing so, and performs his job with gusto. If you're looking to have a murder done where the victim is undetectably poisoned or made to disappear a la Jimmy Hoffa, you're probably better off hiring someone else. However, if you prefer a crime scene that spattered with blood and festooned with entrails, Garth is the man to call. Early on, author Andrew Stole treats the reader to a
vivid, if gratuitous, description of the killer's style:

Now was Sheila Keller lying naked, her insides shot to pieces. Now was him putting the gun there where he had intended to put something else and pulling the trigger until the hammer clicked dully over an empty chamber.

Party on, Garth.

This is not to say that all he likes to do is kill, far from it. Jack Garth also enjoys rape. A lot. Fortunately for him, he lives in a world before the advent of DNA fingerprinting so he can mix business with pleasure without worrying about any crackerjack CSI teams ruining his day.

The story opens with Garth sitting in a bar after a botched hit, the first of his career. His employer has sent him to bump off an entire family because a relative in Vegas had amassed a huge gambling debt and needed some inheritance money pronto. He manages to butcher five of the six members of the Regan family, but misses daughter Linda.

The first thing we learn about this other focal character in the book is the tightness of her sweater, followed by a description of the tightness of her pants. Such dwelling on Linda's physical attributes is arguably sexist yet preferable to attempts have the reader see inside her mind through really painful beatspeak such as this:

She began to feel groovy again, almost. The shock of her family's death had been such a monumental bring-down it had seemed like the whole world had gone sick and nothing in it could possibly swing again. But if it was going to swing again, it would be here in Hip City, nowheres else...

After reading this passage, I found myself wanting to snap my fingers. This was less an urge to groove to the hepness of the prose than a subconscious desire to get Garth's attention and direct him to Linda so he can kill her immediately.

Since the offending paragraph sits on page 45 and there are roughly 145 more to read, it is perhaps unrealistic to to expect Garth to wrap up the plot this far ahead of schedule and spend the rest of the book committing grisly murders for his own enjoyment and ours.

Oddly enough, this is pretty much what he does except for the killing-Linda-first part. He tells his boss that he finished the job, making a rational assumption that since she has gone into hiding, his little fib is difficult to disprove. Not so rationally, he figures she will stay hidden until he finds her so he takes on other jobs, apparently assuming
that he will eventully bump into her on the street.

Garth now finds himself in the employ of some swarthy foreigner of indeterminate national origin who is a prominent figure in New York City's heroin trade. The swarthy heroin guy disapproves of unfair (or even fair) competition and decides that arranging a few murders will send the message that he is not a man to be trifled with. He also sends the message he possesses absolutely no business sense because the first people on his hitlist happen to be his biggest customers.

None of these concerns matter much to Jack Garth provided there are both cash and atrocities involved. Of course, there still is the Linda Regan issue to be resolved. Will he spare a moment to focus on carrying out the only killing that has anything to do with the plot of this book or will she survive the beat era to become an even more annoying hippie? In the end, the reader is treated to a prolific enough killing spree that it hardly matters either way.

I am thinking about a story I heard in college about an experiment with frogs. Being cold blooded, they adapt to the temperatures around them. In this experiment, a frog was placed in a pan of water. The temperature of the water was turned up, one degree at a time. Little by little the frog cooked. The temperature changes were so gradual, the frog kept adapting, until it eventually died.

Master taught me to love pain in a similar fashion. At the beginning, he'd fuck me from behind, swatting my ass with his big rough palm, until I cried out.

"Play with your pussy," he ordered one day. I couldn't do it that first time and was too ashamed. I froze. He stopped abruptly and pulled out, his wet cock rubbing me. I pushed back, wiggling, wanting him back in me. He backed away, and I sensed his fury.

"I'm sorry, please come back," I said, sitting on the bed, "Please."

"Fuck off, I'm outta here," he said, pulling on his jockey briefs, looking for his pants.

"NO!" I was panic-stricken. I couldn't believe he would leave! This wasn't the way it worked for me; I should tell him, Fine, get the fuck out. But I can't do it. If only my pussy wasn't so hot. "Please, stay, I'll do it."

"Do it now," he told me "Get on your hands and knees, spread your ass and pussy for me, rub your cunt, and beg for it. Now."

I do what he says. I turn and present myself to him, wide. I close my eyes in shame, in heat and touch myself. I'm so wet, ready. The begging comes easily.

"Please fuck me," I say, "I'm so sorry for acting like a bitch. I just want your cock in me, PLEASE. I'll never do it again, please just fuck me."



He enters in one thrust, and is pounding me hard. He grabs my hair with one hand and hits my ass hard with the other. I'm thinking that he's hitting too hard, this is too much, but I start to cum and cum and nothing hurts.

We didn't talk about this, but something changed between us. In my mind at the time, I was being "nicer" to him, because I liked him. I wasn't nice to many men, I didn't have to be. A few days later, he had me lay face down naked on the bed, fingers in my pussy. He told me to masturbate. I did as he told me, until I was grinding my hips a little. At that point, I felt a sharp pain across my ass. I stopped and tried to turn around, but he pushed my head roughly to the bed.

"Play with your cunt," he told me through clenched teeth, bringing the belt down again and again. "Keep playing with your cunt." The belt stung badly, I was starting to cry out. He hit the lower part of my ass, again and again.

"I'm cumming," I told him, feeling the orgasm in my cunt, ass, and the endorphin release in my brain. I remember actually stopping the orgasm because it was lasting so long it scared me.

Pain became associated with pleasure. Or maybe it was the other way around. I didn't care. He'd wear the belt that he beat me with to work, to dinner. I'd look at it, cunt aching for it, oblivious to anything else. I could take anything for him, crops, canes, and whips, while strumming myself to a crescendo.

One day, he tied my hands to the bedposts. I wondered absently how I was going to get myself off. I snuggled into the mattress, ass and thighs waiting, wanting. Pussy already soaked, it was Pavlovian at this point. The first blow from the wire coat hanger took a second to register. Rather than scream, I gasped for breath. The horrible pain hit, I started to scream, when he whipped me again. My mouth was open in agony, and no sound was coming out. Again the hanger whistled through the air and I felt nothing but white-hot pain. This I couldn't take.

"Cum," he told me. Another blow. I remember begging, although I have no idea what I said. I also remember hating him.

"Cum, you dumb cunt," he said in a normal voice. The hanger whistled again, landing across both cheeks, searing me. I screamed again. I was sobbing and incoherent.

"Just cum," he said again, "It's what you do best, fucking whore." I was beyond despair, I clenched my ass together, waiting for the next slice. He hit again. I remained clenched, my whole being cringing waiting for the next blow. He hit low, where my thighs start, burning beyond anything I'd ever experienced. I remember my voice sounding ragged, screams coming from deep in the back of my throat. I also remember something happening, the clenching of my muscles, and the whipping was having an erogenous effect. I felt a fucking orgasm building and it was going to be huge.

"Cum for me," he said, and then he hurt me again. This time I obeyed. When the waves of the orgasm ebbed, I had a feeling of sadness, wondering if I'll ever cum like that again. He patted my flank, told me I was a good girl, and left me.

We are having brunch at a local deli. I've called in sick to work. Again. There is a rumor that I am seriously ill, and I think it's very funny. He's telling me about a woman he met a few days before. Said he thought he liked her at first. I do a reading of my emotions, checking for jealousy, surprised to not feel it. He tells me that she likes to be hurt, that she was attractive in a "hard way." He tells me that she smoked cigarettes, and would talk with it sticking straight out of her mouth. It reminded him of James Cagney. I laugh at his description. He likes to make me laugh. He's looking at me very carefully.

"Do you have any limits?" he asks. I was used to sudden topic changes. I long ago abandoned any conversational games. At one time I would have stalled for time, "What do you mean?" or "Limits?" Now, I just answer, "Gang Bangs, I guess," I tell him. I'm not sure if he heard me, he's looking at something across the restaurant, on to something else.

He paid the bill, and we got in the car. I didn't know where we were going, but it was spring and sunny and I was feeling good. He drove into the parking lot at the local college and parked by the basketball courts. Seven or eight students were playing, in lieu of eating lunch. Shirts and rosy skins, in the brisk air, bumping under the net. He got out of the car and leaned against the hood. I thought he might join in the play. Instead, I hear him say "Hey!" They stop grappling, curious.

"Do you want to see her tits?" He asks them. One laughs. The leader, holding the basketball on his hip says, "Yes." The group moves a little closer. They are so cute. I think almost tenderly, I can read their minds. They've been trained by their mommas to not take candy from strangers, but they've sized up this man, and know that they have safety in numbers. He walked around the car, and opened my door. He extended his hand to me, elegantly, helped me out.

"Gather 'round men," he said, as he pulled my blouse from my skirt, unbuttoning me, "Today's your lucky day." My back is to the school, they are in a semi-circle around us.

"Take your bra off," he told me. A few snicker. I hesitate, pulling my blouse closed.

"I told you to take your fucking bra off, cunt," he says, calmly but deadly serious. Several of the guys think this is hilarious. I reached back and unhooked my bra. He lifted the bra and my tits flopped out.

"You can touch 'em, but you gotta be rough," He told them, as he lifted one by the nipple, and let it fall with a slap. I couldn't look at any of them. I let my hair fall over my face. I heard the basketball drop, and descending bounces as the first pair of hands grabbed me. The basketball player squeezed them very hard, kneading them. That pair of hands was soon replaced. The next one twisted my nipples.

"Feel her cunt," He told the team, "She loves this."

Rough fingers slide into my slit. Someone kissed me, tongue deep into my mouth.

"See how wet? How juicy, men?" He said, sounding like a coach, "Always remember, Men; treat the ladies like whores and the whores like ladies.



Unless it's this whore in particular, and then you just fuck her up." I was pushed down to my knees. The car blocked me from the view of the school. I remember the first cock in my mouth, almost pulsing before I had him all the way in.

"Rough, men," I heard him saying, "I see two more holes available, by the way. You gentlemen will thank me for this when you're in a fraternity."

"100 bucks for the one who makes her cum," he said, bringing on a fresh onslaught of pumping, and cumming. My skirt was hiked up high over my hips, and I felt my ass cheeks spread. I was entered decisively; this one knew what to do. As he pounded my ass hard, I took another cock in my mouth. It was already salty. They were on seconds.

"Cum, bitch," he said, his mouth close to my ear. And I did, my ass gripped him, milked him to climax.

"She came!" he panted, joyous. From fucking, or the hundred dollars, or both.

I was dazed on the ride home. I had sperm drying on my cheek and he made me leave it there, tightening the skin. He was high, and incredulous.

"We were there less than 15 minutes!" He hooted. At the house, he dropped me off at the door, saying he'd be back later. He said he had to cum, but I was too dirty for him.

If I were a saner man, I would breathed a sigh of relief after learning I'd been spared in the recent round of layoffs. Granted, avoiding the ax doesn't give me license to spend my workday surfing porn but if I get my work done and and not piss off anybody, I should have nothing to worry about. The staff needed pruning. It was pruned. I'm still here. End of story.

Unfortunately, there are parts of my psyche that are just not wired up that way. Doom for others in the past raises the chances of doom for me in the present, regardless of all the evidence to the contrary.

Here's an example. This morning, the engineering VP came over to have a chat with my boss. This is not unusual as there are often production issues that need to be addressed. Even though my boss and I sit about 10 feet away from each other, I was working on some stuff so I didn't pay much attention to the conversation.

The one part I did overhear was the VP saying, "That thing we talked about. I'll send out an email."

The rational part of my mind shrugged it off as something that was not my concern. Unfortunately, the what-if part of my brain could not resist the urge to offer up a conspiracy theory.

"Dave, you're fucked," it said. "That email is going to HR to inform them of your impending termination. I wouldn't be surprised if they hire Blackwater to handle security. Hell, they might even have you shot in the head and your body shipped to China for organ harvest."

Fortunately, the what-if part of my brain is fond enough of hyperbole for me to seldom take it seriously.

I have decided to bring back reviews of sleazy pulp novels. These entries will occupy the Tuesday slot, just after Meatmarket Mondays.

For the first two installments, I'll be reprising reviews published last year in the now-defunct Pulp Reviews section of the site. That'll give me the time to both address some technical and design issues. It'll also give me a chance to assemble a backlog of content to cover those days when I'm too pooped to post.

San Francisco fans of this fiction genre are encouraged to visit Kayo Books. Thanks to their wide selection, I can dedicate my time to reading and reviewing the books rather than hunting for them. And no, they're not paying me for this plug though I did steal the above cover art from them.

For fans of my random musings, fear not. Wednesday through Friday will be chock full of them.

1)

From: DarkXXXX

Subject: FWD: chuckling

Why are you here? (On bondage.com, or on Earth,

or both)

Because I already fucked everybody on Alt.com

Wrong...you didn't me

2)

From: meatmarket

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

Warm grinz

3)

From: DarkXXXX

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

chuckles .. you I like

4)

From: meatmarket

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

blushes

5)

From: DarkXXXX

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

smiles .. I do ..I like a woman with humor

6)

From: meatmarket

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

giggles, lowers eyes

7)

From: DarkXXXX

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

smiles ... very nice ...

8)

From: meatmarket

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

....ponders...

9)

From: DarkXXXX

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

yes? ponders what?

10)

From: meatmarket

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

>>smirks

11)

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

waits ....for her answer

12)

From: meatmarket

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

*frowns*

13)

From: DarkXXXX

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

why the frown dear?



14)

From: meatmarket

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling



^shudders^

15)

From: DarkXXXX

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

talk to me ..smiles ..

16)

From: meatmarket

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

(weeping)



17)

From: DarkXXXX

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling



what is the matter?

18)

From: meatmarket

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

>wicked evil grin



19)

From: DarkXXXX

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

raises an eyebrow

20)

From: meatmarket

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

glares

21)

From:DarkXXXX

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

laughs softly

22)

From: meatmarket

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

*bats eyes*



23)

From: DarkXXXX

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

I opened the door ..smiles .. I'd like to know you

talk to me.

24)

From: meatmarket

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

+tilts head, bemused+

25)

From: DarkXXXX

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

very well

26)

From: meatmarket

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

27)

From: DarkXXXX

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

right

28)

From: meatmarket

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

-grabs brown paper bag containing bottle of Popov

Vodka-

29)

From: DarkXXXX

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

shakes my head



30)

From: meatmarket

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

crawls, reaching,



31)

From: DarkXXXX

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

no

32)

From: meatmarket

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

So, you just use me? And throw me away? Is that

it, you bastard? YOU BASTARD!

33)

From: DarkXXXX

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

I'd use you .. but not throw you away.

34)

From: meatmarket

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

*pouts* ^stomps feet^ Not until Y/y/You apologize.

35)

From: DarkXXXX

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

apologize? apologize for what?



36)

From: meatmarket

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

Now THAT's funny. #wry smile#

37)

From: DarkXXXX

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

is it now?



38)

From: meatmarket

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

Is 'what' now, Master?

39)

From: DarkXXXX

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

you said that it was funny ..I asked you is it now?



40)

From: meatmarket

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

=smacks her palm on forehead= silly sub!

41)

From: DarkXXXX

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

smiles ... winks ..you I do like .. why,I don't know

42)

From: meatmarket

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

^curtsies^

43)

From: DarkXXXX

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

I would like to see you with out the hood

44)

From: meatmarket

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

@backs away, covering her hideously disfigured face@



45)

From: DarkXXXX

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

smiles ... knowing better

46)

From: meatmarket

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

*ruminates a stick of gum, while ruminating*



47)

From: DarkXXXX

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

laughs ...winks..goodnight

48)

From: meatmarket

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

waves, hugggggglez, Sweet dreams Master



49)

From: DarkXXXX

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

good morning dear

50)

From: meatmarket

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

\\-Yawns. Stretches. Blinks. Cuddles up to Master-\\



51)

From: DarkXXXX

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

pulls her close .. holds her to me .. kisses her

softly .. good morning

52)

To: DarkXXXX

From: meatmarket

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

**grabs M/master's ears and shoves HIS head between

her legs**

53)

From: DarkXXXX

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling

growls ... placing my hands behind your knees ..

pushing the wide and up ... then slapping your

pussy ahrd .. and the licking ... then slapping

harder .. the tongueing softly ... sucking ...

spreading you .. and spanking your pusshy hard

.... then lowering my head to softly lick ...up

and down .. then thrust my tongue deep into you

... then lick broadly up and just around your clit

....

54)

To: DarkXXXX

From: meatmarket

Subject: RE: FWD: chuckling



*fakes orgasm*



finis

It appears as though Meatmarket is MIA today. For her loyal readers, I can offer apologies but no explanations.

For those of you fear for her safety, I wouldn't lose much sleep over it if I were you. No matter how perilous her current circumstances may be, I have every confidence that her feral cunning will keep and preserve her.

That said, if anyone in Michigan happens to see an attractive, 40ish blonde roaming the streets with a knife in her teeth, please tell her to send me her goddamn story. Thank you.

Well, "lurked" is perhaps more accurate. She had tapeworms so I had to take her to the vet. She is now cured.

I learned that the parasite can be spread by flea bites. My cat's fleas have bitten me. Does this mean I'm going to squat down one day and give birth to a bait shop? Only time will tell.

Week before last, I accomplished something of sorts. I had a bartender cut me off for being too drunk.

I can't remember this ever occurring before. It could have happened plenty of times post-blackout, except that I seldom experience those. Memories of the night before may be a little hazy when I wake up, but as the day wears on, they coalesce into embarrassing crystal clarity.

The night in question was no exception. After a stressful but productive day at work, I needed a drink. In fact, I needed several. I wanted to drink myself into that elusive alcoholic paradise where my banter is witty while at the same time, hot babes lust after my tortured poet's soul.

Nice work if you can get it.

As you can imagine, the evening did not quite turn out that way. It started out swimmingly. Good friends, good conversation, all was right in the world. The problem was that I'm a whiskey drinker, which means there is an extra level of intoxication waiting in the wings. I'm a seasoned veteran and should have been mindful of this, but that night I was in no mood to be mindful of anything.

By 11 pm, I was a stumbling, leering wreck. Taking a seat and holding onto the bar to maintain balance, I attempted to order another drink. The bartender, quite rightly, said I had enough. No matter, thought I, and cajoled a friend into buying me a another whiskey. After that, I had a few glorious moments of pirouetting about and bumping into people until the bartender came up to me, snatched the drink from my hand, and told me I had to go home.

I had fucked up. Not only that, I fucked up at the Argus, my local and home away from home. I needed time away to atone. Fortunately for me, I have plenty of liquor at home so atonement meant getting ripped to the tits on scotch and treating a BDSM chatroom to the kind of obscenities that even makes those perverts' skin crawl.

Ten days later, my friend Alex reported back to me that all was forgiven, this time. I have since been back to the Argus and have more or less behaved myself.

Redemption is a wonderful thing. You should try it sometime.

A large part of my daily grind involves my teeth. Actually, most of the grinding goes on at night when the horrors locked up in my subconscious get loose and force the choppers of my upper and lower jaw into a war of mutually assured annihilation.

Years ago, my dentist fitted me with mouth guard to protect my teeth from being ground away. It was a large, cumbersome plastic thing that resembled what a boxer wear when he steps into the ring. The difference was that boxers, even punch-drunk ones, knew better than to wear theirs while they slept.

The guard covered all of my upper teeth, sealing them off from the natural process by which the mouth cleanses itself. The result was that by morning, the inside of the thing would be a reservoir of plaque and drool. In order to keep stalagmites of tartar forming, the guard needed to vigorously cleaned with a toothbrush after each use.

Ultimately, I learned that my devotion to the upkeep of high-maintenance dental gear was on a par with my devotion to the upkeep of high-maintenance women.

"The hell with it," I concluded. "Let 'em grind."

And grind they did. Five long years of nocturnal gnashing exacted a horrible toll on my teeth. Fortunately, mouth-guard technology has progressed quite a bit since then.

When I was at the dentist yesterday, I tried on one of these newfangled devices. It is much smaller, attaching to the two upper front teeth only, keeping the others apart without marinating in their own slime. He handed me a mirror and let me admire my rodent-like countenance.

I can have one molded to fit me, all for the low price of 130 shots of Jameson's down at the local bar.

I am quickly making my dentist a very rich man.

If only my teeth were so pearly white

I came out of the Powell Street BART station a little after nine and started walking toward Union Square. Department stores and tourist boutiques shared the street with older businesses that evoked the San Francisco of Herb Caen, if not Dashiell Hammett. The night's fog still hung overhead and thanks to the mayor's recent crackdown on the homeless, the urine stench was at a minimum.

I arrived at an office building on the 400 block of Sutter Street and took the elevator to the 19th floor. Around the corner and down the hall was the dental lab. I was sent there to determine the matching color for a crown on my upper canine. The darkest my dentist had to choose from was "coprophagous chain smoker," which simply wouldn't do. I was instructed to go down to the lab so they could pick something suitable from their "Shane MacGowan" collection.

The lab had no real front office to speak of, just a secretary at a desk with paperwork piled high in several places. I had a clear view of of the back where little white plumes of dust rose from the workbenches of technicians shaped fake teeth with miniature belt sanders.

I was quickly introduced to the lead tech, an older Filpina whom I'll call Imelda. She led me back to her work area where, on command, I bared my teeth like an animal.

"Tectracycline," she said, and waved over an assistant for a second opinion.

"Oh wow," said the assistant.

I told Imelda how I was given tetracycline when I had my tonsils removed in 1965 and it had discolored my teeth.

"This is going to be difficult," said Imelda. "The discoloration is not not uniform. Have a look."

She then handed me a mirror. I hadn't really noticed it before (or maybe I just didn't want to), but my teeth contained a blended strata of hues. It was like a Rothko painting.

"To match all these colors, I'm going to need you to come back after the crown is molded. I think I can do it but it won't be easy."

Naturally, I consented. Far be for me to keep Imelda from what will no doubt prove to be her masterwork. Also, I could treat the whole experience like a modeling gig. I liked that. It made me feel glamorous.

He almost walked by without seeing her, missing the smell of blood in the water. She sat on a park bench, crying in the pouring rain. Her white sundress, her thick black braid plastered to her tanned skin. Sweet wet shoulders slouching, she held a white shredded bag of wet popcorn. Pigeons left long ago, smart enough to find drier ground.

He stopped and walked back to her. She didn't look up, eyes streaked with mascara like a harlequin. She stared at the pavement. He saw the slope of her clavicles, delicate wrist bones, feet in white sandals and toes painted indigo. Without speaking, he sat next to her on the soaked bench and held his umbrella over her head. The raindrops punched angry little fists against the fabric, trying to jab her. He was her shield.

Twenty minutes passed along with die-hard joggers, two lovers under a rainbow umbrella and cyclist sizzling by on the wet cement. Brad Flynn's eyes slid over the woman. He could see the shadows of her ribs on her chest while she breathed and felt that familiar ache. She would be easy prey. He specialized in the sick, the damaged, angels with broken wings.

A gust of wind blew the rain diagonally. Brad felt her shiver, watched small goose bumps and tiny blond hairs raise in flags of resignation on her brown arms. Without a word, he handed her the umbrella. He stood, took off his trench coat and wrapped her from shoulders to legs. He sat down, taking the umbrella again.

"Thank you," she said. A new tear repelling down her cheek.

"It's nothing," he said, he thought about handing her his handkerchief but decided he liked the tears, "Would you like to find a coffee shop?" She thought for a moment.

"Yes, thank you," she said, standing, and held out her hand, "I'm Winona."

"Brad Cook," he shook her hand, bones like a small bird, he could crush them.

They walked through the park; Brad noticed she deliberately swerved 6 inches to walk through a puddle. The rain seemed to let up when they hit the sidewalks and the shops. It was probably all the awnings.

"Let's stop in here real quick," he said. It was a little women's boutique called "Open and Close". "I'll buy you something dry."

"No way," she said, looking up at him in his huge coat, soaked hair, raccoon eyes.

"Well, I insist and I'm a very determined man," Brad took her elbow and pulled her into the store. Inside, she took off his trench coat, handed it to him and walked to the racks of clothing. Brad watched her shopping behavior; rather than stroking material, she simply checked price tags. A dress fell off the hanger; clothing tends to do that in stores. Rather than leave it on the ground, she bent to pick it up. Her white sundress was still wet and transparent. He saw her tan back and the outline of a deep purple thong. Naughty Winona, he thought, feeling that tightening way low in his belly. She stood up, turned around and looked at him. He returned the gaze. Neither flushed, blushed nor looked away. He breathed a little heavier and there was a buzzing in his ears.

She picked out a black cotton dress and on the way to the dressing room, asked a clerk for hair pins. His cell phone rang. Friends were meeting for drinks tonight.

"Can't," he said, "I found a wounded gazelle."

"You're a sick fuck, man," his friend knew about him, his little form of sadism. He seduced a woman in their group a week after her suicide attempt. Then dumped her.

"Somebody has to cull the herd," Brad said, before ringing off.



When Winona came out of the dressing room, Brad barely recognized her. She wore a plain black sheath, her face was clean and flawless, and her hair was pulled up, pearl earrings showing, a picture of subtle elegance. He wondered if she left the thong on or not. He'd find out. He paid for the dress with a credit card, not looking at the price.

"Thank you, Brad," she said.

"You look amazing. Are you hungry? Do you like Italian? My favorite Italian restaurant is one block down."

"Sure," she said, and he led her out of the boutique, hand on the small of her back. No thong.

The restaurant quieted a few decibels when the striking couple walked to their table. Patrons stopped talking, a fork suspended in the air, a wine glass floated. The exotic princess with gleaming black hair, angular eyes and regal bronzed cheekbones. The man guided her with his hand. Where she was dark, he was light. Tall, white blonde hair, ice blue eyes and sunburned on the cheeks and nose like a boy.

He ordered a bottle of wine. He'd loosen her up, get her story, and turn her into a broken puddle. A little firewater for the squaw, a little consolation cuddling at his place, then he'd use the used. He wondered why it was the broken, the damaged that he found so arousing. Tomorrow he would break her entirely.

"Tell me," he said, pouring her glass 3/4 full.

"Nothing spectacular," Winona said, "I came home early from work and found my fiancé in our bed with another woman." Wow. Brad wondered what the other woman looked like. "I moved here from Washington for him. I don't know a soul. I don't even have my purse with me."

"I'll help you," Brad said, "Cheers." Brad listened to the story but knew the reality was women always go back. He'd be the recipient of her revenge fuck tonight and life would go on.

"Oh, I'm not going back," she said. He looked at her. It wasn't the hurt or the anger talking, she seemed very congruent.

"I'll get you a hotel for tonight," he said.

"Oh no, I couldn't, I couldn't accept that, but thank you."

"Where are you going to sleep? You're more than welcome to come to my place," Brad offered, as if he just thought of it.

"Ummm."

"I only murder prostitutes," he said.

She laughed at his sick joke and Brad got a glimpse of what she really looks like. Sparkling, a white smile that warmed her face. Oops, thought Brad, too happy. He had to turn the conversation around.

"Why do you think he cheated?" He asked. She took a small sip of wine, licked her lips and met his eyes.

"Why would you ask me that?"

"I thought it would be good to get some feelings out." Fuck.

"I don't care why he did it. I'm sure he has excuses, blaming, apologies. He did it, it's over." She picked up her wine glass, swallowed twice. She folded her napkin, "Let's get out of here."

She was messing with his seduction rhythm. He looked for the waitress. She was a good waitress with Waitress ESP and brought the tab right over.

"My flat's not too far. Four minutes. Let me put my coat on you," It swallowed her.

"You are so good and kind and nice," Winona said. There's a saying: 'Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.'"

"Why? Are you an angel?"

"Maybe," she said, "Are you?"

"Hardly."

"This is beautiful," she said when he opened the door to his flat. She gravitated to a wall of paintings.

"I like this," she said, "It looks like you buy paintings you like, not pictures you think would look good."

He laughed, "I'm not sure how to take that."

"When did you buy this picture of the lone man standing outside the door?"

"Oh, I was alone, wandering in Europe after graduating."

"This one," Winona pointed, "This oil of the couple doing the tango that looks like a dove taking flight."

"I bought that with my first commission check."

"And this colorful painting of the three people drinking wine at the lake?"

"In France, artist named Dilley. I was with friends, a great time."

"Your paintings tell the story of your life."

"Nobody's ever noticed that before. I never did," he said, "Well, I'll change the sheets on my bed and I'll take the couch."

"No," she said.

"I insist," I insist on fucking you on a bed. He left and returned with boxer shorts, t-shirt, a new boxed toothbrush and a towel. While she was in the bathroom, he put fresh sheets on his bed. She came out and they met awkwardly in the hallway.

"Thank you so much for everything," she said, trying to step around his bulk.

"Is there anything else I can get you? Do you need to call anybody?"

"No, Brad, thank you."



He wrapped his large arms around her, running a hand down her spine. A string of pearls. "I'm going to hop in the shower for a sec," he told her.



The bed was heaven. Winona sprawled in the bed, wiggling her feet in the rich sheets. She looked around the room. A portrait of a beautiful woman in anguish, tears flowing, hands gripping her hair, stared back at her. Winona frowned. Slowly she turned and studied the painting behind the bed. It was a huge oil of a woman in jeans, her head bent, standing at a grave. Her hair curtained her face; it was the posture of a woman broken. Winona stared at the pair of tiny baby shoes that dangled from her index finger.

Brad walked out of the bathroom, toweling his hair. His bedroom door was open. She was gone. He knew without looking that she wasn't in the apartment but he looked anyway. He shrugged. He had work tomorrow. He slid into his clean sheets, turned off the lamp, and masturbated.