The Morning After
Virginia said she would make the breakfast herself.
For it was a beautiful London morning in June. She kicked back the covers and looked at Cady Stanton’s luscious ass. Smelled faintly of honeysuckle. Or was that patchouli?
In the kitchen, Virginia semi-consciously cooked three eggs. She felt troubled. It was not the first time she’d consummated her Sapphic love, but it was the first that her inner monologue had run this deep. The mere mention of Cady’s name was enough to set her off – Cady, Cady, Cady. Those two cozy syllables, and those dirty, dirty drawers.
One of the yolks broke. “Mrs. Woolf!” came Cady’s voice from the bathroom.
I wish she wouldn’t call me that, Virginia admitted, whisking the eggs. The problem with Cady was her inscrutability. No matter how often you tried to read her, you never got Cady’s perspective.
A Real Wizard
She spent her time writing of wizards young and old, evil and virtuous, and her imagination was as magical as any on Earth. Her words had brought her money and fame, but only tonight did she manage to encounter a wizard more powerful than Harry, Sirius, and Albus rolled into one. As she lay in bed, stroking his beautiful stubble, he smiled, smoking a cigarette he had conjured out of thin air. He was a bit proud of his own accomplishments, she had to admit, but what man, or even wizard, was without flaws? The last six hours had been the most delightful of the flame-haired writer’s life, and she was willing to accept his cockiness just as she’d accepted his cock. “I think making people crave cigarettes after sex was a great whim of mine,” spaketh the Lord as he snapped his fingers and made the room cooler. “It’s as if I’m subtly telling people that sex is deadly. Not as bold an idea as the human race, but a great one nonetheless.” Joanne Kathleen knew he was deluded, as was anyone who called himself Creator, Father and other extremely flattering nicknames. But his skill in the boudoir was unmatched by any mortal, and the same could be said of his size and shape. But, as much as she wrote about it, Joanne would have to be crazy to truly believe in wizards. Peerless lover or not, there was no such thing as magic… was there?
A Statutory Tale
“Sit down, Holden,” said Emma. She pulled her dress over her head. The corset laces caught in the third petticoat, and she tugged them free. “Can I hang this up?” she asked.
He stared at her. She’d never seen such a petrified face.
“It cost me eight thousand francs. I don’t want to wrinkle it.”
“Madame Bovary –” he began, sweating, eyes on her enormous breasts. She swung a leg over his lap and began to kiss his youthful gray hairs.
“We should pledge our love by moonlight,” Emma sighed into his ear. “Oh Holden, Holden, swear on the stars and the moon we’ll never part!”
Swept up in a passionate ecstasy, the love-torn adulteress began to moan and grind on his pubescent thighs. Images swam before Holden’s eyes: a little surreptitious porn, clouds of pimply Pency Prep sophomores buzzing above it…a witch’s teat…and, of course, those stripping nuns. In a sea of delirium, Holden passed out.
For no reason, Franny started to cry.
Crime and Prejudice
Since you like using your tongue so much, joked Dmitry Karamazov, why don’t you use it on this, the infamous debauchee made an indecent gesture of obvious import.
“Mr. Karamazov,” Elizabeth Bennett replied with a clipped, peremptory eloquence, “With the full and sordid knowledge of your character I possess, I am afraid that I have no choice but to impute the coarsest possible meaning to that demonstrative pronoun. Moreover, your apparent belief that my loquacious faculty is indicative of a fellatial one merely indicates your own lack of a mental faculty. I daresay you are an indecorous rascal whose propensity for suggestive speech betrays an inadequacy of anatomy. Nevertheless, as providence has ordained the masculine and feminine needs with such concord as to permit their mutual satisfaction by means of expedient congress, and as I seem pretty enough to tempt you at the very least to lewd remark, I do indeed consent to your entreaty given the permissible, I trust, emendation to missionary position intercourse.”
For no reason, Alyosha started to cry.
He was a king and a savior, a hero to many, but a villain to himself. If those who had plotted his downfall knew of his weakness, the peace established in Narnia would surely come to swift end. But, more importantly, he did not understand his own desire, and he felt he should shun his sad young lover instead of embracing him as he did so tenderly whenever they were lucky enough to be alone. The moments they spent with their bodies intertwined, one’s fur scratched away by the other’s busy feelers, a thick, lustrous mane being nibbled and pulled as they metamorphosed into one ferocious creature of lust, and perhaps a little bit of love. It would always have to remain a secret, not just from evil royalty, but from disapproving family members as well, for if their secret was exposed, death was nothing short of a certainty. And while the hero was well versed in surviving such punishment, his lover stood little chance of returning from the next life. Thus, the duo would have to take solace in their occasional flings, slices of physical and emotional heaven present in their world. One thing was for sure, however: fleeting as they may have been, Gregor’s dreams were never troubled.
A Sleepy Hollow Romance
So I don’t get the pumpkin, Catharine said. If you have no head, why do you have a pumpkin there?
Well, the Headless Horseman explained, it puts people at ease to have something there. It’s better than empty space.
Suddenly, Catharine seized the pumpkin in her soft, white hands, as if to bring it forward for a deep kiss, yet instead threw it the ground where it exploded in an orange flambeau of vegetal innards.
What the fuck is wrong with you, the Headless Horseman interjected angrily from empty space.
I am sooo sorry. It was an impulse. Honest. Oh my god, I can’t believe I did that.
I mean, I guess I can get another one from a vineyard or whatever the thing is where pumpkins grow, but seriously what the hell.
I know. I know. I’m really sorry. She wasn’t sorry.
The headless horseman pricked his nonexistent ears, what was that smacking sound.
Are you eating my fucking pumpkin, the headless horseman asked in shocked disbelief.
Oh no, of course not, stammered Catharine the Great, her mouth full of the raw, sticky pumpkin seeds. God she was famished. What do you care now anyway? She sidled up to the headless horseman, gave a sly wink, and leaned forward to whisper into empty space, hey baby, let’s take this to the stables.
The Politics of Innuendo
Thatcher paused in the doorway, casting the Freud girl a spurious glance of disinterest. She moved to the window, peeling her gloves from each powerful, masculine finger. Lighting a cigar, she gazed on the neon night. The hairs of her knuckles stood erect with the sense of that supple and semi-clad figure, prone on the long black sheets.
“Margaret,” Anna whispered, crawling to the edge of the bed. Thatcher stood still, but the crook of her strong jaw tensed in the backlit glow. “Oh, Margaret,” Anna breathed, sensing that beneath her lover’s steely demeanor a vortex of repressed debauchery seethed. How she longed for Thatcher to ravage her again – to privatize her parts.
With a patience born of long Parliament sessions, Thatcher turned. Her eyes traveled over Anna’s skimpy slip, embroidered with the Freud family name. “You really want it,” she said in a low voice.
Anna nodded, lips open and eager. Thatcher pulled her roughly against her broad chest, and forced the cigar into Anna’s mouth.
Lady Windymere’s Sphairos
Oscar Wilde lay his hand on Sappho’s exposed upper leg. It lingered there like a dying fish on alien rock. Well then…, he began, trailing off in desperation. Yes…, Sappho replied with cold enthusiasm. Shall we, asked Wilde awkwardly—of course, interrupted Sappho too quickly and then gave out a nervous laugh which did nothing to mitigate the situation. So I guess this coupling was ill-considered given the…general drift of our infatuations. Yes, Sappho agreed, Yes it was.
Justifying the ways of man to hooker
Medusa never had a problem getting her Johns rock hard. No one in the Western World was more skilled at anticipating the desires of the men she encountered, and her prowess was so legendary that her clients turned to stone, so to speak, as soon as she was in their sights. But this guy was having issues. She had pleasured the blind before, and so his lack of sight was hardly the largest mountain Medusa was forced to scale. No, this John wouldn’t shut up. Anytime she opened her mouth to accept him, he opened his to refuse. A lot of her clients spoke during their time together, but most men wanted to talk about how much of a dirty girl she was, how deep they were going, how good she was feeling, and a lot of other lies in which they had paid to indulge. But this fellow was obsessed with justifying his ways to her, as though she didn’t already understand his reasons for hiring a woman like Medusa. Justification, it seemed, turned him on, but as hard as she tried not to, she burst into fits of laughter at this poet’s pitiful ramblings. She didn’t want or need his money. And whatever paradise he was talking about was going to have to happen alone, because Medusa just couldn’t provide it for him.