Monthly Archives: July 2008

“Finger Lickin’ Good”–flash fiction, Difficult People

Finger Lickin’ Good



          Zazu had been reading her latest lover’s email. Well, more precisely, he’d been sharing the office male circle of humor, which had a fair number of juvenile sexual references. And there was this one new guy, a lawyer, who through his own obsessions always seemed to try out original lame verbal jokes about sex, offhand stuff, if you were okay with sex, even if a little kinky.

          In some reference to horse racing and thoroughbreds…he compared one of his conquests to the sport of kings: “She was a great strider…I used to ride her mother to make a threesome.”

          This explicit joy in the physical raunchiness of sex, this masculine fascination with large tits and ramming home the spear…it amazed her how thoroughly boyish, pneumatic and somatic these men were.

          And Zazu liked that about cheating on her husband who had been cheating on her in hotel rooms around the globe for two decades. So what if she got fucked hard in the ass in a co-worker’s tinted window suburban van. So what if she “rocked his backbone” till he begged her to stop. Or sucked or jerked him off while having a meeting in her cube. Who really cared? Teen fantasies come true. The sperm made a sticky hand lotion. She licked her fingers as he hastily covered himself.

          “What about the smell,” he whispered, eyes bulging like a toad, a miscreant amphibian at school.

          And so for the helluva it, Zazu targeted the silly attorney, who was in the office only half time. She locked the crosshairs on him and set out her perfumed desire traps and knew he was hers when she complimented one of his jokes that ended with the punch line “finger lickin’ good.”

          Six months later he’d moved on, Zazu had forgotten his name, and really didn’t care, but she was proud how quickly he’d served her as a fantasy plaything. Such an easy game, yet always room for improvement in the seductive arts. All in all, she reasoned, despite most men being stuck in junior high, they were still fun and…well, tasty, whether extra crispy or original recipe.



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“Hard To Get”–flash fiction, Difficult People

Hard To Get



          “Celia, please try not to be available, so easy.”

          “You mean hard to get?”

          “Well, yes. Let me pursue you. Fight me. Make it a challenge to possess you.”

          “I can do that, sweetie but I don’t wanna fight too long. Remember that cottage in Maine. The neighbors thought a homicide was in progress.”

          “That was too extreme. Those lobster claws really hurt.”

          “They’re cannibals, you know. That’s why they bind their claws.”

          “I was trying to eat you that night, metaphorically.”

          “My screams, my pleadings didn’t sound literary?”

          “They sounded like, hello 911!”

          “The police came.”

          “But we’d settled down. I’d showered off the butter.”

          “I’d hidden the bong and aired out the front room.”

          “Rehearsing a play, you said, standing bravely in the front door’s threatening void. That turned me on.”

          “Really? They called out, you okay, ma’am, remember?”

          “And I said, sure…just having some vacationland fun!”

          “Yes…and then they went away and reassured our neighbors who were gathered on the lawn hoping to see a gurney and body.”

          “It was lovely on the water at Pine Crest.”

          “Could’ve been a murder, faked it, just for their entertainment. The man next door spoke to me the next morning, then said, she must be a wildcat, a real live wildcat. Not your stuffed variety.”

          “And you said, yeah, and she’s playing hard to get.”



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“A Friendly Cup of Joe”–flash fiction, Difficult People

A Friendly Cup of Joe



          I am alone in this. I started the tunneling about ten years ago. I told no one. You tell someone, it’s gonna screw up. You know what I mean? Actually, I may have first thought up this escape, oh, fifteen years ago. I’m almost there now. Inches to go. It’s been like an archaeological dig. Wisp broom action. By the way, in case you’re wondering, and just for the official record, yeah, I killed the guy in the shootout at the bank, but it was a ricochet that hit him in the head. I shot at his legs. You don’t have to believe me. At this point who cares? Nobody remembers, except the family of the guy, but it turns out he was a real asshole and sexually abusing little boys in his neighborhood. That came out later, and a guard brought me the paper and showed me the picture of his house on a circular cul-de-sac.

          “The parole board will hear about it, don’t you worry. You did society a fuckin’ service.”

          Well, I’ve embellished through time I admit it. But it was a rumor he said that…I did see the picture of the shit box rancher the dirt bag lived in. As I scooped out the final inches of golden mortar, as the sounds of the outside, a distant interstate pulsed against my ear…ohhh…I dreamed of his lonely, blonde widow and those kids of hers, probably scarred for life by the gossip, maybe by genetics condemned to reenact their father’s pederast fantasies. And I saw myself, new name, coming down the street, new clothes, a tan, a confident smile under aviator shades and standing before that sad house, I don’t know why but I wanted to walk right up to that front door, and faking an old friendship with hubbie, invite myself in for a friendly cup of joe.



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“Burning”–flash fiction, Difficult People




          Definitely a burning in his private parts. But certainly not an STD…no, he’d been “safe”. That whore in Vegas at the PC Trade Show, Millennial Pizza, that software that’s almost as much fun as pepperoni and anchovies.

          “Hey, mister, we’re here to please…take this demo disk with you,” she had said, something about the slave sandal high heels, the generous décolletage and wind fluffed hair, Peacock eye shadow of a Persian princess…beautiful ears…plump lobes decorated in rubies…that looked very real, a perfume meant to smother, slay, with a sex bondage whiff of leather and lust.

          He paused, taking the CD, her fingernails cerulean blue, capped teeth, beautiful lush pink tongue, mouth wide open for a karaoke mike.

          “I just wanna get outta here, get a drink, take a shower & Jacuzzi…” he said, “lie down for a few hours.”

          “Then say no more,” she said, “I know just the place. The cab line’s over an hour. I have my car out back. This is my town…”

          “What’s the fee?”

          “You don’t fool around. Hundred for the quickie, three hundred for the afternoon and dinner, five hundred for the sleepover and a grand for the all night special.”

          “Stop,” he said, “I know my budget…the Happy Hour rest stop and steak dinner.”

          “Fine, sweetie, I need some iron myself,” she says and clicks her claws like the surf on the turf, “but make mine a couple of Maine lobstahs.”

          That’s it, he remembered suddenly, the burning…that’s when he first felt the burning…not in his privates so much as in his wallet.



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“The Woman in Question”–flash fiction, Difficult People

The Woman in Question



          Let it be a lesson, Theron, let it be a lasting lesson. Your mother is an A Plus woman, highest standards on the domestic scene. I am writing you to say, yes, to say no, don’t marry this woman. I took that fatherly responsibility of checking on her family through certain very discreet sources of reliable information…All that you read here is confidential. The young woman in question is from a family of bankrupts, alcoholics and gambling ne’er do wells. While there is a great quantity of intelligence, wit and even in a few cases, out right brilliance (the uncle who could count cards at two games of black jack simultaneously!)…their character blood line leaves…to be polite…a great deal to be desired. There is rottenness there, son, a dissoluteness. Liars, cheats, thieves…but loyalty, see, gone missing—this woman will ultimately bring you terrific pain and hardship. The woman in question is certainly a little of all the bloodlines but son you must know when you were away in New Orleans…and she was staying with us at the River House…when your mother was down with the fever, oh my God forgive me, I had a drink, maybe one too many and I went to the room of the woman in question…and son, she took me into her bed and comforted me…she sorrowed for my worry over your mother’s recovery. I mean of course your wonderful mother drew on her inherent strength, like all the long living, stoical Grimes…and of course she did recover, but that night, son, I lay in the arms of a woman of advanced charms, a woman of corrupt experience, yes, yes, I know you’re cursing my name…but that woman has no loyalty to you, son, she’ll cheat on you again, she’ll come here and tempt us again, that Eve of the tabooed apple, son be kind, but leave her you must. Leave that evil woman; we are no match for her wiles.



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“Sleepwalking”–flash fiction, Difficult People




          Just too late I tell you. Just too late. Waited too long to get started. Got left behind. The town’s left with rank amateurs. All that shifting around, all that number and tango, all that high stepping lust and pride, where the hell was I? Buried in some corner, in some wall, white out. The surf a distant murmur, my eyes dazzled by a sleepy security. I didn’t know I even had a choice to join the party. Why? Was I deaf? Was I stupid? Eh gads, all of the above…and more. I just accepted my minor role off the highway, down a narrow street, in the winding rickety garage apartment stairs, right past the big oleander bush…the drip of the air conditioner, the grinding of invisible gears, the shift to a high plane never coming…why? Because I never thought I could, you see. Maybe you know me now and you think, hey, he’s a survivor, he got through but don’t know that I died back there in my youth, marking time, sleepwalking, day and night, my face a bland mirror of satisfaction I couldn’t enjoy. Injected mysteriously with a strange opiate of the psyche, a curse, or witchdoctor’s threat spell. I’m not sure, zombie, during parking, walking shopping, working at a desk, papers magically filtering through my ink-stained fingers and the horror of it was the others, the ones invited to the big party of the future, the ones who read the invitation and RSVP’ed. They’re gone…gone on to lives with content, with heady triumphs and raw failures…but me, it’s just too late. I shake, I quiver, I cough…and listen to the drip of the rusty air conditioner.



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“Wail of Sirens”–flash fiction, Difficult People

Wail of Sirens



          Jill’s lesbian lover, Tommie, the “man” in her life, she joked, was stalking her. She was chain-smoking Kools down the street in her Ford pickup right now.

          Yes, a lesbian cousin Eve was visiting Jill’s straight roommate Cassandra, and yes, Cassandra was at work because she was a ball busting investment banker trying to play hardball with the M&A crowd.

          And yes, Eve was a lipstick lesbian like herself…and yes, Eve was beautiful in a Marilyn Monroe classic way…but she also was an out there screenwriter with several indie credits, and yes, yes, there was a definite frisson for Jill when Eve crossed the room, barefoot, a flowered tropical shift hanging mid-thigh revealed beautifully sculptured alabaster legs, coral blue toe and finger nails, thick blonde hair with a mane of luscious curls, and yes, a bosom to die for…

          And yes, okay, Tommie sporting her purple Mohawk maybe didn’t have anything to worry about before the eruption of all those jealous rages, such horrid scenes, nights outside clubs, on sidewalks, in the cab of her truck, windows frosting with their grappling, and the long nights here when Cassandra was on the road, merging and acquiring. It was then Jill and Tommie went at it, no claws barred…and yes, this had also driven them apart…the ugly jealousy.

          And yes….and oh no…there was the knock at the door…as Jill pulled away from Eve’s cherry lips, letting her lean back against the kitchen sink…

          Jill saw it in a flash…lesbians wrestling for her on the front lawn and heard the neighborhood soundtrack, the wail of sirens, for which she would never make an apology.


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