It was one of those days when there just wasn’t anything to do. I had tried the TV, the radio, and had looked through my CD and tape collection. Absolutely nothing appealed to me. I had even considered putting one of my porno tapes in the VCR and jacking off to Ginger Lynn, Nina Hartley, or Annet Haven. Even this really wasn’t what I wanted.
Almost in desperation I went to the “health club” where I’d been conned into buying a years membership. The gal that coned me
When, Sally, who had worked for my employers ever since she had left school but, having been redeployed, was to me, the new receptionist, I really took notice. She was an extraordinarily pretty, slim lass, with long blond locks, sparkly blue eyes, a pert nose with a cutely bulbous tip, slightly younger than I and, unfortunately, possessed of an engagement ring that she displayed with, considerable, pride.
Her virtues were many but she could be very argumentative, particularly about literature,
I want to tell you my story about something wonderful that once happened to me before I came to live in this place; call it what it is, an old folks home. I will do my best to stay on course but if I skip around some just be patient with me.
After the phone call I had to sit down. My legs trembled. I felt perspiration on my upper lip. My armpits became wet and I felt a drop slip down my side. Oh my, I thought, Kenneth, after all these years that I should react as I did. I felt myself flush as
At what point does a preference become a fetish?
I met Stella at a party. She had arrived with the critic Darian Fellini. Back then, Fellini was one of the art world’s big stars. His book — All the Naked Women — had just come out, and everyone was talking about it. Was it art criticism? Or was it pornography? As a 19-year-old art student, I didn’t really know. And I didn’t really care.
It was presented as art criticism. No one said that it wasn’t. But it was
I could have sworn she was about my age.
I’m 21 now, making me a dedicated observer of girl’s asses and legs for the last eight years or so. I can detect the slightly-too-slender look of a hot little piece of jailbait, or the subtle signs of impending cellulite that brand most older women.
So as I walked along the beach perhaps 30 feet behind the bikini-clad brunette, I never would have guessed she was old enough to be my mom.
It was about 8:30 on a sticky, windless June evening in
“Come on, Jennifer, give me some,” was the standard plea from my husband Duke.
Not that I minded making love with him, heck, we’d been together 8 years and had made love countless times in a variety of places. But this was Tiffany’s wedding day and we were late for the ceremony. I was dressed in my perfect outfit, with perfect hair and perfect make up. I looked good.
Duke had played golf in the morning, had a couple beers with the guys, and arrived home late. Only stern
The snow storm was getting worse. It was about ten miles to the next town and I began to wonder if I would make it. The Ford F250 I am driving is four wheel drive, but even the big truck was having a hard time staying on the road.
I’ve done something appalling, something that I have tried to stop doing but can’t. No matter how severely I berate myself with a vow never to repeat my actions in moments of remorse, I can’t resist such an overwhelming power. It’s not lust; lust is such a puny word when I
I named him Frank, as in Frankfurter, because he was a schnauzer, and as kids, we called them frankfurter dogs.
It had been 2 weeks since I found him huddled out by the trash cans, shaking in the cold night air. I brought him into the garage, which was a lot warmer than the 15 degrees it was
“I’m worried about my boys, Marge,” Gina Smith confessed to her best friend after church one day.
“Why?” Marge replied. “You’re a great mother, and your boys seem happy and they do ok in school, right?”
“I know… maybe I’m over