Friday Flash: The Postcard

In an odd mood today, so here' an odd little short. Happy weekend!


The Postcard


Silver bleeds to salmon as night becomes dawn, and I sigh, watching soft petals fold away. How long until night falls again?

...goodbye, the breeze whispers. Good day.

Noon, glaring gold and faded green, wilted heat. Promise of thunder in the distance, but only a tease; bone-white clouds fray and fade away. Ducking into a market, I am served a brown drink like mud-flecked water. Delicious! Tamarind. Bought you this postcard and a shirt, pale gauze, voluminous. The cloth smells of the shop: bay rum and citrus. I wonder if it will glow in the moonlight, as the petals do?

(Imagine me rising from a blossom, clad only by the moon and wreathed in flower-scent. Does that thought make you smile, too?)

Late afternoon, the sunlight gold as honey, shining through drought-thinned leaves and melting over melted post-work pedestrians. Office workers swelter in their sweaters and jackets until they can shrug free, rushing for their air-conditioned cars. I nibble crisp jicama white as starshine, flavored with lime and chile, and smile as they pass wiltingly by. They are so very beautiful, a garden's worth of blossoms, similar and yet unique.

Once, you were such a face, chance-spied, limned by the rays of the setting sun. And I...

I, arrayed in silver-white, sit lotus in the garden and wait for the moon to rise. My eyes are closed, yet still I perceive Moonflowers’ slow unfolding, furry calyx yielding to the need of the luxuriant satin petals to be free. The urgent approach of nightbird, moth, bat, seeker after sweetness summoned by perfume. A slower drawing-near, footsteps light as goosedown but not at all hesitant.

Your smile, as you wait for me to turn.

The heat of you in the cool night, and the satin brush of petals over our skin...

See you soon!

pxj

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Friday Flash: Pick of the Season

Strange couple of weeks. Haven't had any issues with my memory in a while--the last symptom of my illness and by far the most disturbing. The doctors cleared me to get back to life, though with lots and lots of cautions. And the Universe...promptly gifted me with jury duty. A whole blessed week of jury duty.

This, I need?

Haven't yet converted that ordeal into fiction, sorry. But, hey, it's spring! Incredibly vibrant, cheering, blooming-and-blossoming-and-burgeoning all over SPRING. End of the loquat season, beginning of mulberry. Yummy spring, bright and warm, and it feels so wonderful that (gasp!) I had to reach for my keyboard and celebrate.

Hmm. Maybe I'm not quite back to normal, if that was the first impulse? -G- Can't complain too strenuously, though I'm not yet certain where this particular fruit-inspired story is going. But you'll see what I mean...


Pick of the Season

Ivan watched sidelong as, just outside his window, the nymph tipped back her head, exposing the long column of her sunbrowned throat, and sank small white teeth into the sunset-hued fruit she had just plucked from his tree.

His tree. Seed planted with his own two hands, in the rich soil of his land, planted to grrow where he could see. And still! Birds and wasps he expected--thiefs of nature who yet gave back as much as they stole--but this was no bird to pay in song for the fruit she ate.

Not...exactly.

Eyes flashing, he rose, headed for the door. But a mirror gave him back his appearance, reminding him he was not appropriately attired. Changing his guise took no effort, only a spark of will. A man of this age, this place and time. A man to charm this unwinged thief.

The mirror told him he now wore greying hair, shaggy if not unkempt; his reflection looked at him from earth-brown eyes. Neat pressed denim pants and a shirt of similar weight showed shoulders broader than his own form had, a lightly muscled chest, a stomach softened with age though not quite fat. Older than the nymph--the woman, he corrected himself. A father figure, perhaps.

Or perhaps she, too, was older than she looked. He paused in the doorway, neither indoors nor out, and stared. Bright sunlight picked out silver strands within the russet hair, and faint pale lines radiating outward from her eyes. When he spoke, she turned at the first sound of his voice, her lips shining with fruit juice, cheeks coral with emotion, spring-green eyes wide.

He met her gaze and he felt--

Something.

#

"Excuse me?"

Caught in the act, Sadie could only wince. It's not as if you don't know better, she reminded herself, and slowly turned to face the (presumed) owner of the tree she'd been robbing. Harvesting. Over-ripe fruits fermented at her feet, proof enough he had no use for the things. So was it really stealing?

The cops would say so, if asked. She could only hope the tree's owner would be satisfied with scolding her and sending her away.

"Excuse me, please?" the voice came again, and Sadie paused in her glacial motion, caught by the rich tones--and the accent. Like something out of an opera. Russian? Yummy as fresh-picked loquats, she giggled, and the smile stayed on her juice-sticky lips when, at last, she faced him.

Oh, yum-yum-yum! Loam-brown eyes in a sun-weathered face, brows raised quizzically. A thatch of greying hair flopping to the collar of a shirt that framed broad shoulders. A strong but not too strong chin. And those lips--
Sadie blushed as she realized what she was thinking. Blame it on the perfect day; spring always made her frisky. And there'd been the delightful feeling of naughtiness as she crossed the sidewalk, venturing near the house, the allure of those golden-sunset fruits hanging so temptingly, their taste...

"Excuse me, please," it wasn't a question now, the voice firm though still melodic, "I asked you, what are you doing to my tree."

To the tree? That's nothing, tovarisch, she thought, swallowing laughter and nearly choking. Ask me what I want to do to you! Better he didn't; the way she was feeling, she might tell him. Which would open up a whole new can of...fruit.

"Loquats," she managed, holding out her hands, a cluster of ripe yellow-orange fruits balanced on one palm, the fruit she'd just bitten into when he caught her in the other. Her gaze followed his as he stared down, and seeing the clear juice welling from creamy flesh, she sighed. Licked her lips.

"They are...you find them good to eat?"

A good sign. The folks who asked that didn't usually call the cops. (And you know you need a new hobby, she scolded herself, when you've racked up enough past encounters to judge that! Right? Right.) The standard loquats-for-dummies lecture rose to her lips, but she didn't speak it. Instead, she plucked a perfectly ripe fruit from the cluster and held it out to him.

His brow furrowed: a forehead-centric frown. "Show me."

She looked at him, this homeowner who, so far, hadn't really objected to her trespassing. He stood barefoot on the slate steps, in jeans and a button-down shirt with the sleeves folded back, and made no motion either toward her or away. Cell phone in his pocket, so if he'd wanted to dial 911...but instead he simply stood, waiting. Watching her as much as she watched him.

Okay. Her purse lay still where she'd dropped it, by the sidewalk, but she had a small pocketknife on her keychain, used that to slit the fruit in half. "You can't eat the seeds. Poisonous. Pretty, though." Two large tiger's-eye ovals flew as she flicked the knife. "And you'll probably want to pull the membrane. Some gourmets blanch and peel the fruits, at least for cooking, but fresh," the blossom-end cut away, she extended the fruit to the man, "well, here."

He took one half from her, delicately. "Show me."


#

Sadie watched his eyes as he bit into the creamy flesh, but saw nothing. No flash of surprise or of pleasure, no ecstatic slow closing, not even the suspicious narrowing of a man who thinks a trick's being played on him. He bit down, chewed, swallowed, but showed no reaction at all.

It worried her. But the sun's rays warmed the fruit-half still in her hand, releasing its unique bouquet, and she remembered his request. Demand. Show me, he'd said, and so she would. Feeling a trickle of juice making its sticky way toward the hollow of her palm, she decided to truly give him a show.

Step one: put the knife away. That was harder than it should have been, even after she wiped the blade clean; her hands were shaking, just slightly. What was it about this man? Something. One thing at a time. The blade snicked home at last, and she stifled a relieved sigh. Step two: Um, next? Oh, right; she needed both hands free. So all the fruit, except for that one still-leaking half, she laid by his feet.

Noting their oddly squared appearance in passing, and the old-ivory sheen of his toenails.

Rising, she took a sudden step back, out of his shadow. Shivering. She panted, tasting copper, wondering. Fear--like a storm--had swept over her, through her, but surely there was no reason to be afraid. There was only an attractive older man standing on his front stoop, asking, quite reasonably, why she was picking fruits from his tree.

An attractive older man willing to listen, to try, to learn. And he'd asked her to show him...

#

Ivan shifted his weight back on his heels, adjusted his newly broadened shoulders to let the sunlight pass unimpeded. She'd flinched from the touch of his shadow, sudden fear darkening those light green eyes. A moment he had not chosen, would have side-stepped had he been able to, but he hadn't expected her--yet--to kneel at his feet.

Laying his own fruits down in offering. Brazen, this woman!

And no sooner had he thought it than a new light was in her eyes, mischief dancing in green like the legends of his home that led wanderers a merry and dangerous way. Could she be more than she seemed? But, no, she was human, salt sweat and strong emotion and the rich red blood beneath the skin. Human, mortal, thief.

Her mouth would taste so sweet.

***

No, that's not all there is. That's not even all I've written today---but it's all I'm going to post right now. In part because I've already gone over wordcount, but also because there are three separate and distinct paths I can see for this story. And I'm feeling greedy enough that I want them all! Were I to post the next bit, that only works with one path, I'd feel obligated to keep traveling it.

But, hey, if you have any preferences...

The happy hermit,

pxj

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Story: Donny Boy

yes, I've written something. This must be a good sign. A very brief seasonally appropiate work-safe m/m something. Enjoy. (The story and the holiday. Just, if you really do drink green beer, please don't tell me!)

pxj




Donny Boy


“Hey, Danny boy. You know why there’re no good men around?”

Donny kept his eyes on his work, pulling a Guinness with an artist’s attention to detail. Customers who couldn’t be bothered to get his name right shouldn’t expect any better than to be ignored. The woman in the green lipstick didn’t seem to need an answer anyway.

“It’s all the fault of that damned Irish saint.”

Not the wisest thing to say in an Irish bar, and particularly not on St. Patrick’s Day, but Donny wasn’t going to tell the woman so. She was sloppy drunk, half poured out of her perch on the bar stool, and would probably fall over if anyone took a swing at her.

He almost wished someone would, just so he could see it. Green lipstick! The saints wept. And a green-patterned dress about three sizes too small that made her look like a mildewing sausage. About the best that could be said of her appearance was that she seemed very much one of the crowd.

Donny thought there was little worse that could be said of a person. Except maybe that he was an Englishman. Grinning to himself (he didn’t really have any problem with the English, though it was sometimes fun to pretend so), he delivered drinks to a booth in the back and swiveled his way back to the bar, trying not to step in time to the ghastly version of whatever “traditional” tune the band was mangling at the moment. At least it wasn’t Paddy Murphy—again. Not yet sunset, and already he’d heard every interminable verse of “The Night Pat Murphy Died” five times! When once through was almost enough to make him wish he himself were dead.

At least the tips were good. St. Patrick’s Day was big business. The bar’s floorspace had been extended by a tent and temporary taps installed behind a board-and-sawhorse arrangement, but he’d claimed the permanent Guinness taps for himself. Even if that meant doing the odd bit of table service when others were busy. He hated fighting with the jury-rigged air-lines, and besides, the tent was louder. Though this year, some idiot had put the stage just beside the delivery door.

Which was open. Donny tried not to frown—it would only make his headache worse—tried not to curse, tried not to hear the bagpipes and bass fighting to establish a key.

Tried not to step on the man kneeling behind the bar.

By all the saints! That was a sight Donny hadn’t expected on this day of days. Though certainly no stranger to men on their knees, Donny was between companions and in no hurry to form any new attachments. The last one had left scars. But this man was lovely, more beautiful than handsome, all entreaty with his big brown eyes and soft red lips parting.

“Excuse me?” His voice! Oh, bards would have given their souls in trade for such a voice, rich as stout and deep, flavored with the lilt of home... “You! Hand me that bag afore the line blows. Drinking the green beer...”

Donny’s cheeks were hot as he fumbled for the stranger’s tools. “Sorry,” he mumbled, cursing himself. Great first impression he’d made. “That the central or the stout mix?” He could fill pitchers of the other while the man worked, get ahead of the crowd’s thirst and busy his hands so they wouldn’t reach out all on their own to stroke the shining nut-brown hair or trace the line of those shoulders...

The man’s smile flashed bright in the neon glow of bar signs. “Central, this one. I’ll be changing out t’other in a moment, but it’s up for now.”

“Thanks.” It was only his imagination, he knew, but Donny felt as if he stood near a fire, the man only inches away, gracefully bent toward the arrangement of valves and tubes and canisters that fed the taps.

Whoever he was, he was a good deal faster than the guys who usually serviced the bar. In only a few minutes, Donny felt an incandescent tapping on his right calf; looking down, he fell into deep brown wells, hearing only distantly the man’s words that the Guinness would be briefly offline.

And then he was standing, a bit shorter than Donny’s own six feet, slim enough to seem taller than he was. Neon barsigns sent light bouncing red and gold and green from the long brown hair, and the green shamrock lights strung all around made his skin almost impossibly pale. His jeans and dark tee looked almost like a costume on him, somehow—Man Celebrating St. Patrick’s Day—the body so wonderfully displayed it had to be intentional. No man wore jeans that cupped his ass like that unless he wanted it to be looked at.

Right?

Donny felt the stirring in his own jeans and thought desperately of cold. Screwing his eyes shut helped; his headache, but it seemed a decent trade. When he thought he was safe, he opened his eyes and smiled at the serviceman.

“Ken,” said the man with the appropriately stout-hued eyes, holding out a long-fingered hand.

Donny introduced himself, almost choking on his own name as his mind finally registered the design of Ken’s shirt. “Test your work?”

“Thought you’d never ask.” Ken swung lightly over the bar to sit beside the drunk still half-propped between stool and stein. Turning to her, he asked her to explain. “What did St. Patrick do that you think there are,” his voice made the words a quote, “no good men around?”

“St. Patrick banished all the snakes.” She nodded owlishly. “An’ where do you think they came? Here!”

“My lady, that might explain a number of bad men, but not a lack of good ones. I assure you, some such survive.” He leaned in close. “You must first seek if you would find.”

She blinked again, laboriously following his gaze toward the crowded tentspace, then slipped from her stool and lumbered off.

“Nicely done. Thanks. I was about ready to drown her, myself.” Donny slid the Guinness across the bar so accurately that the glass stopped an inch before Ken’s hand.

“ Not one to hear the good Father maligned?”

“Don’t much care. He was a Roman anyway. No, it’s that I’ve heard the whole pitch. After she gets that bit out she starts singing. ‘Trouser snakes nipping at my ankles’.”

“I don’t believe I know that song.”

“Neither does she.”

Ken’s laugh drew attention, and the music hiccupped as the crowd began a sort of osmotic movement toward the bar. “Oh, damn,” he muttered before sipping his stout, raising an eye and nodding his appreciation. “That’s why the separate line. You use a proper pub mix. Lovely.” He drank more deeply this time, and Donny watched the play of his throat, admiring.

“Hey, Kenneth!” The shout came from three directions, startling Donny until he realized the caller was onstage, his voice miked. “Ken-neth!”

“She wasn’t altogether wrong, you know. There’s a snake for sure, great legs or no.”

Donny grinned wide watching as Kenneth made his slow way to the stage. Good looks, great voice, humor, knew the difference between proper stout and swill, and shared his taste in men. Truly someone was looking out for him. If not for Ken himself, who’d seemed more than a bit reluctant as he turned from the bar. Or perhaps that was only wishful thinking; certainly, there was nothing shy or reserved about the way he stood before the mike!

“Can’t stay long, boys,” he heard Kenneth say from all around, “I’m working tonight. But if the crowd drinks enough, I might get to come back.” And as the band began a song, all the instruments miraculously in tune, Donny found himself suddenly busier than he could possibly be.

Everyone ordered Guinness, no doubt in honor of Ken’s, Kenneth’s, T-shirt. Or perhaps inspired by the delivery truck outside, just visible through the still-open door. Though in that case, wouldn’t someone have ordered Harp, or a Black and Tan? Well, no matter; Donny pulled pint after pitcher after pint, dancing behind the bar as the band he’d been cursing earlier suddenly proved that they could, in fact, play.

And then the crowd was shouting and clapping and carrying on, and Ken was there, smiling wide and bright, grabbing up his satchel. “I’ll be listening for the call,” he nodded, and was gone, leaving in his wake a scent of stout and salt and green and a chorus of sighs.

Donny’s first among them. Damn, but that was one lovely man.

***

The Guinness flowed like water, ales and lagers and whiskey fell into open mouths like rain, bands followed one after another up onto the stage. Donny lost count of the number of times he heard the same few songs. Some of the groups could play their instruments, others could play the crowd, one or two even managed to do both at once, but none caught his attention for more than a song or two.

Until he heard that deep, rich voice with its bite of iron rise above an off-key chorus of some neo-trad piece. “Hey,” it called, “you’re not Irish!”

Donny let his hand slip from the tap, leaving golden foam to drip into a half-filled glass, and raced to the door. He made it just in time to see a young man leap from the stage, cordless mike in hand. Heart in his mouth, visions of riots dancing in his mind, he watched, breathless, as Kenneth reached the other man and the two of them nodded—not at each other, but toward the stage.

“Oh… You’re not Irish, you can’t be Irish, you don’t sing Danny Boy...”

A stunt. Damn him. Impressively staged, though, and wonderful harmonies. Heart still pounding, Donny went back to work, dropping a bar cloth to sop up the worst of the spills. Ken shouldn’t have to get his knees wet.

Though that mental image did nothing to slow the race of his pulse.

The band finished out its set, and Donny cocked an ear toward the crowd. It wasn’t his imagination, he really could track the singer’s progress by the sound: high-pitched squees and low rumbled invitations, any number of admiring whispered curses, soft sighs… Who was the man? And did he do it on purpose? He’d slipped in easily enough that Donny hadn’t noticed, it was the voice—he’d laughed, and suddenly all the world was his stage.

Odd he wasn’t playing, then. Irish musician on St. Patrick’s Day, surely he could have had his choice of gigs. But instead he was making air-mix deliveries. Very strange. Maybe I’ll ask.

“Got that call.”

Donny’d expected it, but the voice still surprised him. He nodded without turning, hating the flush he could feel spreading down his neck. He was too old to have schoolgirl crushes—and the wrong gender besides. When he felt less like he was on fire, he glanced over his shoulder. Under his arm. Finally turned, to gasp as Ken’s hands grasped his hips to keep him from falling as he jumped back.

“Sorry. Just wanted to see how long it would take.” This close, the singer’s eyes were flecked, earth-brown and iron-dark. His breath smelled of malt (how else, on this day of days?) but also of grass. And his body was a furnace, radiating heat.

Donny tried to speak, but his voice was gone. Licking lips gone dry, he managed to croak: “...take...?”

Ken blinked, and his eyes when he opened them again seemed somehow less hot. More sane. “Never mind. It’s just that I hate this damned green-tinted-everything travesty of a day. No need to take it out on you.” Ken smiled, but it was a smile devoid of humor or warmth, and Donny shivered as he was freed.

“Let me see to the lines and I’ll get out of your way.”

What the hell just happened? He went out like a light! Still beautiful, but…quieter…now. Oh. His voice was as wonderful as ever, but pitched so that only Donny would hear. Off stage. Probably not a bad thing.

Though Donny wasn’t sure just why he thought that. “Ah. Um. Ken. Going to sing more tonight?”

“No, I don’t think so.” The voice echoed hollowly from somewhere beneath the bar. “Why?”

“Your leprechaun seems to have gone off-shift. Thought I might offer to take his place.”

Donny held his breath. If he had to, he’d make himself a good deal more plain—he could still feel the touch of those hands on his hips, yearned to feel that touch elsewhere, and that odd chill, too, had reached him, making him think that Ken maybe shouldn’t be alone on this St. Patrick’s night. Let the basses and bagpipes fight it out without him.

Ken twisted somehow, coming up from his knees gracefully enough to steal Donny’s breath. “My leprechaun—? Ah.” He grinned. “That’s not all he does, you know...”

And Donny laughed, hearing the question beneath those lilting words. Deliberately campy, he fluttered the bar cloth in one hand. “Well, darlin’, I should hope not! What a waste of a good shillelagh!”

Kenneth raised a pint, toasting the words and the bargain just made.

-end-

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Duck, Cough, Goose

Yes, folks, I’m okay. Picked up the traditional holiday cold (it’s not Xmas until I start coughing!) and couldn’t seem to shake it off for entirely too long, but I’m back. Working through a whole heap of messages—please resend anything urgent—and chasing deadlines and so on.

Such fun. Anyway, it occurs to me that I haven’t said anything to anybody about my holiday yet. Seeing as I’ve been flat on my back since. -G- It was something of a fowl-heavy trip, between the usual Peking duck (one of those things you just can’t get here at home, and a lovely excuse to visit the only part of Philadelphia in which I’ve ever felt welcome, even when I don’t get a chance to see particular friends there) and the geese I finally managed to get through airport security. No avian flu, fortunately. I kept waiting for a down pillow to explode or something, to finish out the pattern, but had to settle for a chance glimpse of one of my favorite sorts of raptors, a Harris Hawk, on New Year’s Day.

But I think the standout event of the whole holiday season—not counting unwrapping and attendant girly squee!—had to be the discovery, while playing a dice game with family, that I’ve officially become a “real” author in everyone’s eyes at some point when I wasn’t looking. Mind, I’ve been “my {insert relationship} the writer” for years, but it’s now so much a part of my identity that they can joke about it.

At which realization, you really could have knocked me over with a feather! Except that the “rhino virus” beat you to it. -VBG-

Hope you all had a lovely holiday, and that your 2008 has so far exceeded expectations!

-pxj

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Solstice Wishes

x-rated and otherwise

-pxj

(The image is one of several Solstice e-cards available at JPC Artworks)

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Does that condom come in decaf?

Happy holidays—celebrate safely!


It occurs to me that I haven’t done a condom posting in, oh, weeks! So here are some relatively recent condom links and images, carefully selected for your reading pleasure. Enjoy!

*VivaGel is coming! This microbicide has been approved in Australia as a condom coating, and the manufacturing agreement’s official. The product is “designed to prevent transmission of STIs” including herpes and HIV! It was announced for US testing in Nov. 2006...


*Musical condom ad. No, that’s not “ad for a musical condom” (how last year!); it’s a six-minute musical film promoting condom use. Catchy song, too!


*No lead in these, I hope? (Sorry, couldn’t resist!) The perception of condoms in China is undergoing a profound shift. In a country where possession was once considered de facto evidence of “illegal prostitution,” new laws require condoms to be provided in hotel rooms by the end of next year.


and condom ads on TV in that region, too.

(But, sadly, the aphrodisiac ant extract won’t be coming to store shelves any time soon.)

*Safe eggs and other Asian condom ads. Some great images!




...And, finally, news from Ethiopia, fabled Home of Coffee: coffee-flavored condoms.

Yes, really.

Upon their release, in one week approximately 300,000 of these coffee-flavored condoms were sold to the masses. Each pack contains three condoms and costs about one Ethiopian birr or eleven cents, less expensive than other condoms being marketed in Ethiopia.

These coffee condoms not only smell the part, they also look the part with their deep brown color. DKT-Ethiopia was meticulous in their research, even creating the new condoms to taste like the Ethiopian coffee of choice: the macchiato. The macchiato preferred in Addis Ababa, the capital of Ethiopia, is usually made with a shot of espresso and liberal amounts of sugar and milk. DKT initiated this campaign as a response to condom-user complaints that the latex scent of regular condoms was overpowering. This spurred the launch of these coffee condoms in Ethiopia as well as other regional-specific flavors in other parts of the world.

Man, some days I think the Universe really does love me. How else, in the midst of the HoliDaze, would it arrange such a beautiful distraction for me? Standing in line for a hour to hand over money I can’t afford on things I’ll then have to carry across the country? No problem! Because while I wait, I can wonder:

What “regional flavors” might be deemed appropriate here in the Lone Star State? Chewing tobacco? Chuck-wagon chili? Beer?

As you chase around town tossing your tinsel, ask yourself what weird flavors might be popular in your neck of the woods? Or, um, not neck, exactly...

As always,
peace and x-rated joy!

-pxj

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Friday Flash: Regional Were

Well, the first version of this post was on Friday! (Ah, the holidays—when one can spend so much time running around like the proverbial decapitated fowl that one completely forgets the celebratory aspects of the season.) After the jump, one wholly unedited excerpt of a story that just bloomed beneath my fingers yesterday. As yet unfinished, sigh. Did I need this? Apparently part of me thinks so.

Drinks are properly someone else’s territory, but I try never to ignore the breath of the muse. Hand that chica a breath mint and be prepared for long silence! Besides, drinks and raccoons are a natural match; that dipping behavior, don’t ya know.


“Ah. Wondered where you’d got to.” The bartender’s smile said more than his words, full of mischief again with a hint of—what? Sorrow?—something she couldn’t name. “Friend of mine wants to buy you a drink.” He pushed a martini glass across the bar.

Whatever that drink was, it was certainly no martini. Red and white, cocoa or something around the rim, with a tiny dried pepper floating on the top... Lacey blinked, looked again. Still there. “What in the name of Santa’s smallest reindeer is that?”

“Seasonal.”

“The drink or the curse?”

He only shrugged, but the tilt of his head suggested she look toward a certain table. For whomever had suggested that perversion of decent alcohol, no doubt. She didn’t, too appalled to move so much as her head. “Do I want to meet someone who would buy one of those?”

“Yes. Well, you want to meet this guy, at least. I think.”

She wasn’t so sure, but he’d turned away to serve someone else anyway. Sighing, she reached for the glass, holding it near the base of the stem lest it contaminate her. The smell of spice and chocolate rose as she moved.

The bar’s lighting could have won awards, a marvel of shadow and illumination, grace and mystery. Lacey stepped through pools of gold and silver, grey and night-black, feeling rather like she’d walked all inadvertent into a movie. Something definitely cross-genre, she mused, noir-ish atmosphere welded onto a Western setting and a perfect horror of a concoction in her hand.

As she neared the table the bartender had indicated, she added grunge to her list. There were two men at the table, both scruffy. The one seemed huddled within his oversized top and sloppy pants, and his hair hadn’t seen a barber’s shears in far too long.

The other, though, the one with his back to her...he wore his battered clothing like high style, his jeans torn beneath leather fetish straps, his shirt pure silk. The set of his narrow shoulders told her he knew she was coming. She had to laugh; was he so sure she wouldn’t dump the drink over his head? Not that he’d done anything to deserve it except have execrable taste, but that might be enough. Chocolate liqueur and hot peppers? And whipped cream?

He turned, and she trembled, caught.

No. No, no, no. Eyes so rimmed in kohl he looked like he was wearing a mask. Absolutely not.

...except...

Spirits of the season! He was so completely wrong it might actually be right. Fun, that was what she’d been looking for, right? Not a date for the company Christmas party, just...fun. This so-confident man might well be that, with his sharp-toothed grin and his self-assurance like a cloak. He hadn’t pushed, had waited for her. That said something, surely.

His table-mate rose and departed, murmuring something Lacey didn’t bother to hear. She looked, really looked at the man, trying to see beneath the leather and eye-liner. A small dun man who could have been almost any age, any race. Dark eyes rimmed in black like a Goth, but without that self-consciously dire attitude. Black-outlined lips curved in a welcoming grin, and his sharp nose twitched with humor. A diamond stud earring twinkled in the shadow of his thick hair, that wasn’t no-color, Lacey saw now, but rather several shades, black and brown and tan and grey. His eyes were dark, brown or black or simply accommodating the bar’s dim light. His skin was a creamy brown thanks either to his parentage or the sun’s kiss, hands and rope-muscled forearms darker than his face.

What shade might it be in those places the sun never touched? If there were any.

Lacey choked on a laugh. Hadn’t so much as said hello to the man, and here she was undressing him in her mind. Did it matter that she was clothing him again? Well, yes: she’d skipped over the fun part! He would be fun, she was as sure of that as she’d ever been of anything. Any man who could grin like that!

She was staring, she realized. As was he, but he, at least, was smiling; she was just standing there, mouth open like some drunken idiot. “I’m sorry,” she managed, “the bartender didn’t tell me your name?”

“Call me Rocky.”

His widening smile made the words a dare, and she spoke exactly what was in her mind. “Not while I live. And that’s two.”

“The drink being the first? Hardly fair, you haven’t tried it. You pass, by the way.”

“I wasn’t worried.” She admired his quick grace as he rose, held out a chair for her. When he resettled himself across from her, a clattering caught her attention. His nails were long, slightly curved, and painted black. Oh, boy. Sudden flash of them against her skin, teasing; sudden image of him, just as he was, at some business function as her date. She couldn’t decide whether to sigh or sob or giggle.

“Try the drink.” His musical tenor wove between, among, her thoughts, suggestion, not command, and she was so torn between reactions she actually did it, lifted the glass to her lips, felt the soft thick burn or spirits seeping slowly as she sipped.

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Friday Flash: Home for Christmas

Early for Christmas, but appropriate for the date--this excerpt is from one of my very few military pieces. "Home for Christmas" is an erotic short with para elements, about 3,000 words all told. It first appeared in my "not-a-newsletter" infrequent mailing, with a contest: the story contains lyrics from several Christmas carols, and I gave a gift certificate to the first person who correctly identified them all.

And, yes, I will be sending another Message from the e-Garret this Solstice or thereabouts. In case you were wondering. -g-

pxj



Midnight, and quiet all through the house.

Jaci tiptoed into the living room, intending to dispose of Santa's snack, and to slip a few last surprises into the stockings. But what to her wondering eyes should appear—

Jill's playing tricks. Charlie's stocking had joined the others, displacing the angel. Jaci frowned. She'd chosen not to hang it, deciding it would just remind her that her love had to be away at Christmastime. Not that she could forget. But there it was, with a suspiciously shaped bulge in the foot that made her hope the kids wouldn't look too closely. The milk they'd poured so solemnly had been replaced with eggnog, complete with a dusting of spice, and there were fewer cookies than there had been on the plate. One even had a bite out of it, as though someone had heard her coming and just this instant slipped away.

She sniffled. The scene wasn't her sister's style. It was Charlie's. But he couldn't be with her this year. Damn it, I promised myself I wasn't going to cry. She ate a cookie instead. And then another, washing it down with a swig from the glass. The eggnog was well and truly spiked.

A little tipsy on sugar and sentiment and southern mash, Jaci toasted the star on top of the tree, and spoke. "Dear Santa, what I want this year..."

She inhaled to speak her wish, and choked. For the past few days, the house had smelled like evergreen and candlewax and cooking, with a little hint of dog.

Charlie'd been gone long enough that there was no hint of his scent anymore. Except there was. Her imagination, or just suggestion.

And then the touch of fur on her cheek. "Have you been good this year?"

"No. I've been very, very bad." Jaci opened her eyes to see Charlie in a Santa suit. Only Santa had never looked this good. No bowl full of jelly here! Ermine-trimmed red velvet did not hide the hard swell of biceps, nor the even ridges of muscle on his abdomen. The tunic ended mid-thigh, but there were leggings beneath, descending into black boots; the double layer of fabric did a slightly better job of concealing than only one, but not by much.

"You like?" Charlie smiled and struck a pose, and Jaci came out of her chair in a leap to hug him. Laughing, he pulled her to the doorway, tilted her chin up so she could see the mistletoe, and then bent to claim her lips in a kiss as tender as their very first, as long and passionate as any they had ever shared.

"Check the stocking," he husked when the need for air had grown too great. "I'll wait." He turned her and pushed her gently toward the mantel. She reached for her stocking, but, "No. Look in mine," he said, and, looking at the shape she was sure she recognized, she did.

He stole her laughter, and her breath, with another heated kiss, and pulled her down to lie before the tree.

"Unwrap me?" she whispered.

He took his time, using his teeth to undo the belt of her robe. Her unromantic flannel pajamas might have been precious silk, from the care he took, might have been tissue by the way she felt, his hands strong and hot through the material.

As he bared each inch of skin, he covered it in kisses.

"Charlie..."

"Aren't you going to model my gift?"

She had a bit of trouble finding it at first, the floor covered in discarded clothing as it was. But then her hand closed around a cool resilient column, and she smiled. Not looking away from Charlie, who had found his Santa hat and placed it—she giggled. "Damn, love, you're not that big!"

Charlie looked down, frowned, and scrunched the fur-trimmed hat up a bit, until it was obvious that he, did, in fact, reach the end. "I checked. Twice." He flexed his hips, and the bobble on the end of the hat bounced and jiggled. "You wouldn't believe how much trouble I had trying to find one that fit in all dimensions. Not something you can tell the elves you're looking for, you know."

She could almost imagine the conversation, and laughed until she spluttered, nearly choking before she gave up on trying to speak. He struck one pose after another, each funnier than the last, and though he made no sound, laughter shook his abdomen.

Her humor ran its course at last, and she sat up, reaching for him as he bent to her, the last few giggles still echoing as her lips claimed his.

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Holiday Food Torment

Looks like it's that time of year again--when ostensibly sensible people do perfectly senseless things to harmless harvest-fruits and sundries, and other people pay for the results. Wreaths made of hangers and cut-up empty laundry bottles shall soon battle for shelf-space with "decorative" hollow logs framing jelly-bean Nativities, tissue-box cozies that turn Kleenex boxes into Santa Clauses, and even less defensible things.

Okay, so I admit to having created the odd Popsicle-stick reindeer when too young to know better, but is there any justification in this world for trapping perfectly innocent corn and beans in this not-a-candle thing? It's not the kitschiness I object to so much as the worse-than-uselessness, the corruption of what once was a perfectly reasonable way to store food. In the old days, when food was often stored decoratively, in pretty jars or whatever, it was still edible. Unlike this.

I have a chile ristra in my kitchen--it's pretty, and useful. Jars of loose tea invite the eye as well as the caffeine-addiction. And I have, once or twice, even given attractively packaged pantry-staples as gifts, when I've been confident such would be well received. It's tradition. Blue popcorn on the cob is always a popular holiday-party hostess gift. It's eye-catching, different. And it's food.

Not something you can say about this. This is...anti-food or something. (The not-a-candle/not-a-lamp doesn't even burn corn oil!) A fiberglass wick and some sort of porous stone, plus heat-activated fragrance oil. The glass jar is purely a base, filled with something to look pretty. What a thing to do to perfectly innocent, venerable staples. Makes my foodie heart hurt.

Of course, this is also the season when sweetened bricks are mailed to unsuspecting, undeserving recipients, and the once-noble name of fruitcake is universally maligned. May I be the first to say Bah, Humbug, everyone!?

Or, maybe not. It's also pumpkin season. And fresh cranberries and new-pressed cider are on hand, too...

Just, if you have any corn dried on the cob, could you please not destroy it? Pretty please, for me? Popcorn's a whole lot of fun cooked a cob a time! Really. And, honestly...what did those poor little steam-demons trapped in the kernels ever do to you anyway? Put them out of their misery--and reap the yummy, puffy, results. Don't keep them embalmed like this.

Christmas is supposed to be a happy time for food. Well, depending on how the gingerbread men feel about decapitation, I guess.


pxj

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