December 19, 2016
I am the reluctant eroticist. This is my collection of erotic short stories, flash fiction, and bathroom-stall poetry. Some of it is new, and some of it is old. A few stories I continue to edit, and append, because, well... I am never quite satisfied with my writing. I am kind of embarrassed that erotica is the genre that chose me. I've tried writing other kind of stories, but the muse refuses. So here I am, writing about bodies that slide in the dark; hoping, praying, that nobody discovers my dirty little secret and the inevitable conversation that ensues.
"You write erotica? That's surprising. I mean ... you ... really?"
"Is it any good?"
"I bet it's great. Your Facebook posts are always fun to read."
"There's a big difference between writing something witty on Facebook, and assembling a truly good story that is compelling to read."
"Can I read some?"
"No, that would be counter productive."
"If you love writing erotica so much, why not publish it? Who's going to care?
"Because that would make me a pornographer, and I don't think I could live with that kind of validation."
"So nobody reads what you write?"
"Outside of a few editors... nobody."
"You have your writing edited?"
"It's more workshopped than edited. You know, grammar, pacing, plot etc. I want to make my writing as good as possible; and it's not like my editors get-off on my work. They are infinitely more concerned with my inappropriate use of a semi-colin."
"So you write for an audience that doesn't, and will never exist?"
"Can I edit your stories?"
"Oh... I get it... You're a sadist."
Cupid sat back on his shiny pink ass, laid his bow to one side, crossed his chubby little legs, and lit up a cigarette. It was the first smoke that he had succumbed to in weeks. He was trying to quit, but with the new quota system from home office, the pressure to deliver was intense.
"Only so much can be expected, even from Cupid." he groused openly to no one in particular.
Mom wanted him to become a cherub, of course. He rolled his eyes at the thought. He was quite content with the open road and freedom afforded him as cupid. When it came right down to it, as cupid, there was only one real busy month and he got to spend winters in Jamaica. Shit, you think a cherub has that?
He squinted through one eye as his lips wrapped around the cylinder and pulled. The smoke entered into his lungs, warm and fast, like the memory of lost loves. The coughing fit that followed, reminded him of the dogged divas that filled in the gaps between.
"The kiss of Death. Now there's an office party I'd like to forget. She gets a lifetime of valentines from yours truly, and I get the mark of the beast tattooed on my ass, and a three-pack-a-day nicotine habit." Cupid hacked painfully at the vibrant lust-filled memory. "She was a looker though, all black and Goth with that sickle, and porcelain white skin. She definitely made my arrow quiver."
Cupid took one last drag for old time's sake and snuffed the stub out with his fingertips.
"Let's see," He callously looked over the day's selection of hapless romantics mindlessly walking the park. It was one of those bright, unusually warm spring days that just screamed fornication. Good thing too, Cupid thought, 'cause this bunch needs as much help as they can get.
His finger bobbed daintily in the air from person to person, like a conductor at the Met. "Loser … loser … loser," he shifted his weight a little, and scratched his tattoo. He continued, "loser ... loser ... loser ... wait!" His eyes narrowed, "yep, oh yeah ... there's a live one."
Cupid sat up, picked up his bow, hand-keyed an address onto an arrow, waited for the up-link connection to post, and then shot his unsuspecting victim.
Tom looked up from his laptop and suddenly felt ill, or was it gas? The park seemed like the perfect place to eat lunch and do some work, but three hot dogs may have been two hot dogs too many. After looking subversively to the right and left, and making sure he was alone, he deftly shifted his weight to one side and prepared to do his part to further global warming.
"Hello," a young woman's voice cheerfully broke from behind him. "May I sit here?" She motioned to the empty spot beside him on the park bench as she walked into view.
His abrupt vaporous abort happened so fast that he about blew his left leg from its socket.
"Uhmm … sure, please do." Tom imagined that the grimace of pain on his face wasn't the most pleasant first impression so he mustered the troops and slapped on a smile. The effect was strangely life-like.
The girl sat down, and continued, "My name is Syndee with a 'y' and two 'ees.' I used to draw a little heart over the 'y' but I stopped that now that I am going to college. A teacher that I used to know said that it didn't look very mature, and I thought that a more mature person needed to look more mature on her college application. I think college is all about maturity don't you?"
Tom listened to the balloon-like squealing that seemed to correspond to the movement of her lips, as dogs in a far-off corners of the park barked and howled incessantly. Slowly words and syllables formed into sentences as he realized he was being spoken to.
"Oh! Um, maturity, sure, I mean, yea, it's all about … maturity." Are those real, Tom Thought? His head kept bouncing up and down from her over-sized chest to her eyes and back again.
"So what's your name?" Syndee asked.
Breaking his trance-like concentration, Tom's voice stammered. "T-T-Tit-Tom, Thomas, Thomas Church."
"And what's that?" Syndee cocked her head to one side, bit her lower lip coyly, and pointed to his lap with a smile.
Tom broke into a cold sweat and closed his eyes. He thought; Surely, I have more self-awareness than that? Slowly he looked down into his lap, opened his eyes and saw his hands holding his warm, hard, seventeen-inch, laptop.
"Research." Tom replied, more than just a little bit relieved, "Just a little research."
Syndee scooted a little bit closer as she tilted her head near Tom's to get a better look at the screen.
The aroma of her hair and skin, so close, and accessible, began a small series of short circuits in his brain. She smelled like roses, and rum and tropical breezes. He imagined himself with her by his side swinging in an over-sized hammock, drinking iced drinks with tiny umbrellas. Before succumbing fully to his fantasy, however, he caught a glimpse of the URL from the corner of his eye. His finger flew like a bolt of lightening to close the window.
"Research," Tom choked a laugh, not knowing if she had seen the focus of his current research. "I'm a …" Tom's mind searched frantically, "… a gynecologist?"
Syndee's deep blue eyes locked onto his for a moment. She knew a lot more than she's letting on, Tom thought. For a moment all the pretense, and walls of insecurity fell. He saw the inner intelligence that this woman hid behind an act of inanity. "Oh yeah, I'm busted, busted, busted for sure."
Syndee slowly slid back into position next to Tom on the park bench, their shoulders touching, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her chin raised slightly but her gaze and smile fixed intently on the person next to her. She hesitated for a minute, and then said with enthusiasm "A gynecologist? I think family history is fascinating! Personally, I am going to be a scientist. I am studying to be a medical train-tran-trans, you know the person who writes down all those big medical words."
And maybe not so busted after all, Tom thought with an internal sigh of relief. She was dumb as a post, but hell's bells, look at those eyes!
A deep sigh left Syndee's lungs. It was like a signal flare that could not be ignored. His eyes dropped immediately to her chest. Tom fought the instinctual urge to look, bounced his chin on his chest a couple of times, and then forced himself to lock his eyes back to her's. She smiled that same deep knowing smile, and took another deep purposeful breath. She exhaled slowly.
"Did you know that we have something in common?" Syndee cooed.
He was afraid to look away from her eyes, afraid to confirm that the bulge in his pants was now a prominent mound. She was reaching into his lap and unzipping his pants! Intelligent people are prone to very vivid day dreams he told himself. Gifted geeks like myself even more so. This is just a Freudian manifestation of repressed sexual anxiety, and bad lunchtime sausage. He felt a spring breeze flow over his now exposed loins.
"In common ... Really?" His eyes widened.
"Our genitals, silly."
His erect cock, practically jumped out of his boxers. Her hand deftly reached inside, grabbed the base of the instrument and squeezed. Her grip was warm, and firm. Definitely not a dream he concluded. His mouth had gone dry, and his breathing quickened. He looked quickly around the park. A convenient placement of her body, his laptop and the concrete arm rest of the park bench hid most of this public display from view, although, if anybody should walk by, the charade would be over and police action would certainly ensue.
Tom gulped nervously. "Genitals? Heh, who would have thought?
Her hand moved tenderly over the length of his erection. A small drop of pre-cum appeared like a pearl at the tip. She released the base of the cock and used the tip of her finger to spread the slickness around the helmet of his trembling soldier. "Oh shit." he whispered.
"Uh huh." Snydee continued, her breath a little more breathy than before. "The genital tubercle is a body of tissue which forms in the ventral, caudal region of mammalian embryos of both sexes, and eventually develops into a clitoris or penis. I had one, and it looks like you had one too, although I must say that yours has grown quite a bit since then." Her hand had returned to slowly milking his dick.
"You learn that in transcriptionist school?" Tom asked, not really caring if he got an answer.
Syndee continued the stroking, and spoke to him through half-closed eyes, "You really a Gynecologist doing research in the park by surfing porn sites?" She smiled as her hand squeezed hard and emphasized the last three words in metered rhythm.
"Oh shit, yessssss." Tom replied, not really sure what the question was.
"Then I'm a transcriptionist" Syndee answered in a practiced bubbly, vapid sort of way. "I've got a book in my office that has pictures and everything." She looked at him directly and added, "Would you like to see ... it?" Syndee stopped stroking his penis, folded the tortured tubercle back into his pants, stood up, and offered him a hand.
"Absolutely." Tom responded, folding his laptop, zipping his pants, and standing.
"Great, and when we are done with the book, maybe we can talk more about your family tree." She smiled, pulled him close, and patted his still erect cock gently through his pants.
Tom let his hand gently glide over to hold Syndee's. Dumb as a post he thought again, But god damn, look at those eyes.
Together, Tom and Syndee, with one "y" and two "ees," walked hand-in-hand, out of the park, and into one another's lives. It was a match made in heaven.
"Boo-Yah!" Cupid yelled out loud as he pulled out a small pink laptop and typed in his report:
Statement of completion
Targeted arrow missed intended male subject and hit female instead. Despite overwhelming odds facing Mr. Tom Church, Female subject recognized his inner beauty.
The following subjects should be moved from active to inactive status as of 12:41 p.m., Feb 14, 2009.
Church, Thomas R. Ph.D, Ed, Physicist
Rhase, Syndee O. MD, OBGYN, Gynecologist