the guy next door and christmas




Late last night, midnightish, I steathly watched the guy next door string lights on two artificial Christmas trees. I know these are artificial tress because I have stood next to them on previous Christmases, and yes, the artificial part is the first problem I have with this scenario. Real or nothing, please. But what bothered me more is the fact that he was doing this alone, late, probably pissed that he was given this task and a timeline that had no wiggle room whatsoever. I doubt that he was doing this to surprise his children, sure that he was not doing this for their pre-chirstmas delight. His children are teenagers, privileged suburbanites, most likely the ones who set the timeline, and Bob the neighbor is get-it-done-dad.

So blah, blah, blah – what have we done to Christmas, where is Christ, the spirit of giving, etc., etc. I am not a religious person, and not since my days in the church, youth choir have I thought much about Christ in Christmas. But the rush and horror and obligation and expense of Christmas is obscene, offensive even to the non-believer. DON’T DO IT!! Don’t bite the Christmas candied apple. YOU DON’T HAVE TO, YOU CHOOSE TO! You are the adult—make the holiday what you want it to be. Teach your children to be participants, not just recipients.  Fill the house with green fragrance, food, family, dare I say, fun. Real or nothing, please.


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write dirty to me




She thought he invented talking dirty. Never, ever before had she been talked to this way, nor spoken this way, nor lusted this way. He did it to her every fucking time it seemed—got her hot. At least their conversations always started out hot and dirty, what are you wearing, there’s a bead of moisture at the end of my cock I want you to lick, but there were those occasions when he drifted into obscene politics instead. But the letters, Jesus, they were always dirty, fucking her with his hand, rape scenes, tag teams, strangers, waiters. And never before had she written this way, nor wanted this way.

Did you fuck me, baby, she asked, stirring from the love drunk, half sleep.  Yes, baby, he replied.  Are you going to fuck me again, she asked.  Yes, baby and he moved to the bed with long pieces of rope.  I am going to tie you, he said, moving around her body and taking her limbs, telling her everything he was doing as he was doing it, kissing her, soothing her. When she was bound to the bed, his hands moved over her constantly, up and down her slip, up and down her legs, mauling her breasts. He crawled all over her, licking her, sucking any piece of her that fit into his mouth. He kissed her hard, he hurt her lips, his fingers traveled around the insides of her mouth. I’m going to fuck your mouth again, he said. When I fucked you in the mouth before you pulled from me, and now you cannot.  Baby, please, she started, remembering when he told her that he could kill her this way – fucking her till she choked – but his dick was inside her before she could finish.  He was hot and hard, into her throat, she could not breath, she counted each thrust of his cock, one, two, three, four,  five, six, breathe baby, again, one, two, three, deeper, four, five, six, deeper, breathe, the demon is fucking you, bitch, four, five, six. He felt her fight diminish, felt her finally weaken and satisfied he pulled from her. He went between her legs and sucked her bud, slipped his tongue and his fingers into her, waited for her hips to rise, sucked her harder till he felt her shudders begin and went back to her mouth.  Fucking you, fucking you, fucking you he said with each thrust, look at me bitch, fucking you, fucking you and he came in her throat, gagging her, come falling from her lips, his cock still spurting as he pulled out and watched it pulse on her face. 


All this mail has overwhelmed me. I give myself to you now, baby. I am lying in bed with the computer resting on my thighs which are raised, feet on the bed. I stop to rub my nipples. I close my eyes to see you above me. I type. I rub my pussy under the sheets, your lust, your intensity begins to flood me. I type. I pull my nipples thru my camisole, I move my hand to my cunt and read about what you will do to me over and over. I have two fingers inside me and we are both fucking me and I give myself to you, baby. My demon will set you on fire and put it out with her come. Fuck me.



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on writing and san bernadino




Congratulations to me—my new, short story, In Flight, is now available in The New Urge Reader 2, published by New Urge Editions and the awesome Norman Conquest. My hat off to you, unknown editor. You have supported me in ways that you can perhaps imagine, but also in ways that are very personal. I, of course, have a super crush on you.

But an apology one more time to my readers. When I have writer’s block, and yes, even a blabber mouth like me gets writers block, I practice stream of consciousness writing on this blog. I give you bits and pieces of stories I’m thinking about or working on and try to rope in readership with chapters—and it’s not working, it’s messy and confusing. So, no more of that. Get the anthology and finish In Flight—it’s good–and I know, even without having read the book as of yet, that the selected authors are stellar. Regarding my car accident story and The St. Vincent Hotel—I will let you know when they get published.


On a difficult subject—my daughter-in-law is an ER resident at Arrowhead Hospital and just treated the first victim of the San Bernadino massacre. She is superwoman and angel. My son, a psychiatric resident at Loma Linda Hospital, was off today. The clinic he often works in is blocks from where the shooting took place. I do not pray, but if I did, I would pray for some kind of peace for the families of the victims. Enough with the fucking guns already. Really. It’s out of control.







black friday hell and working women




I work part time in a major department store, in the women’s, sportswear department—the busiest department in the store. I can write volumes (okay, not volumes, but a lot) as to why I’m there, what I think of the job, the industry, etc., but for the sake of brevity, I will try and stick to just a few thoughts.

This first two weeks of this job wreaked havoc on my body. I was recovering remarkable well, my body had perhaps recovered fully—and then came my first, Black Friday. My back is now thinking that I may have slipped on a banana peel and don’t remember because of the blow to my head. Black Friday in itself, meaning Friday only, was rough but manageable, minus the 6:45 arrival time (I was not the first shift). At times, there seemed to be more salespeople than customers, but traffic overall was steady, the day was long (8 hours), and the female customers were obnoxious. I swear to heaven, if a lady found a sweater for $1.00, she would ask if she could get it for $.50. Coupon hell. Does this coupon work, do you have any more coupons back there, why doesn’t the coupon work on these pants, I left my coupons in the car, where did she get that coupon? They trashed dressing rooms, they traveled with giant packages and packs of crabby, sticky, kids, they not so innocently built cashmere mountains that I sorted through two hundred times. I was sweating, my feet and back and brain hurt. Management tried to serve up thanks with a less than perfect turkey and yucky stuffing in the break room for a complimentary lunch. My fellow associates and I sat there like zombies, plastic forks held mid-air while we stared at a soap-opera played on the room’s tv. And then back on the floor.

I suppose you’re thinking I hate this job, but I don’t. The only thing I hate is how it has cut into my writing time—the good news is, I am finally and definitely working my way back to a steady writing flow. What I love about this job is the women I work with. Their ages are split pretty evenly—half young, half old (me). They are worker bees, pretty far down within the department store hierarchy, but absolutely and positively the hum of the store. They work and think fast, they are clever conversationalists, they are courteous, hilarious, and very fashion savvy. I hate to resort to cliches but I have no other word—they are a sisterhood. They are happy—and if they’re not, they don’t burden you with their woes unless strongly pressed. And I think the concept of females as happy people (minus those suffering from couponitis) is up there in my top-five-favorite-things-about-women. They laugh so much more than men, especially aging men. Men have far more baggage then they will ever let on to, often beaten down and tired by their competitive, often thankless, lives. Women are lightness in a heavy world, raised by cheerleaders to become cheerleaders—and the really lucky and wonderful women are those who can become advocates for themselves, who wear their attitude with grace and pride, and tremendous in-store discounts.


postscript: I wasn’t going to include this but decided to add my pitch for sympathy – I worked Black Friday after an eighteen hour flight back to the U.S. from Venice and 4 hours sleep. I then worked Saturday thru Tuesday. Today in my first day off.


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