Tuesday, July 31, 2012

Search terms that have brought people to this blog over the past four days, in chronological order, most recent to oldest

“how tall is josh hartnett?”

“christina ricci as connie”

“the second coming yeats translation”

“jonathan franzen freedom movie cast”

“christina ricci young”

“freedom the movie franzen cast”

“lost love analogies”

“patricia clarkson”

“erotic passage”

“norwalk ct parking violations appeal faq”

“lorna doone”

“patricia clarkson young hot”

“christina ricci young”

Based on this cross section of the global population, their burning questions and desires, I'm happy to say that it's clear that this blog is serving its purpose!  Obviously, we reach our targeted audience within their first few google search results.  This is a much needed boon to our mission, and a reaffirmation that these last seven years have not been in vain.

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

A second passage from my forthcoming erotic story, Sliding into Second, about a minor league baseball player's quest for love and happiness in the heartland

               The game had been a rough one.  A loss in the 10th inning, and Roberts had gone 0 for 6 at the plate.  Dejected, he sat slumped in front of his locker, alone in the flickering lights amidst the laundry bin of dirty uniforms, the floor of discarded tape and dried Georgia clay.  But then a long shadow fell across the emptiness. It was Consuela.

She was the local Spanish language sports reporter. Long black hair, shapely mouth, and even shapelier hips, she cut quite a figure. She walked purposefully over to Roberts and stood hands on hips, towering above him.  Six foot ten in her stocking feet, she was taller still in the stiletto heels that no one had ever seen her without.

‘Como estas?’ She asked.

‘What?’ Roberts fumbled. ‘I don’t speak…’

‘Shhhh,’ she said.  ‘The locker room is dark, a secret place. Muy secretivo.’

‘It smells a little like the junkyard near where I grew up.’

‘A little?’ She leered.  ‘Mucho.’

He wanted to ask her about her heels, why she wore them, but it was well known that the one player who ever dared to ask that question had been kicked through the neck and was now working as a sign language TV simulcast presenter. No one wants to have to learn sign language, Roberts thought, especially me.  He suppressed the urge and glanced around the locker room. 

‘What do you want…’

She quieted him again, this time by reaching down and pinching his cheeks together tightly.

‘You talk too much compadre, uses up your energy.’

She let go of his cheeks and suddenly, with her other hand, punched the locker next to him leaving a 4 inch dent.

‘That’s Santiago’s locker,’ Roberts began to protest, but before he could finish she had reached down and picked him up by the shoulders, lifting him above her head.

‘Hey, put me down! I’m afraid of heights!’

‘I’m going to show you something, muchacho, that no one has ever seen.’ 

She dropped him and began to slowly unzip her knee high heels.  The tension was as thick as the musty smell of the locker room, as the caked dirt between the spikes of his cleats.

She reached the bottom and paused, looking up with her big brown eyes, and then slipped off the four foot high black boot.  He gasped.

‘What?’ he said uncomprehendingly.

She removed the other boot much quicker and stood, unsteadily, upon the two steel hooks that made an awkward substitution for feet.

‘Huh?’ Not for the first time, Roberts was betrayed by words.

‘Now you know my secret,’ she hissed.  ‘And I need you to do something.’ 

Quick as a jungle cat, she leaped into the air and grabbed a hold of a water pipe that ran across the ceiling.  Tucking her legs up under her, she did a slow, graceful backwards somersault, before hooking her two metallic feet around the pipe, and let her body dangle upside down.

‘You need me to make love to you?’ He winced.

‘No, senor.  I just need you to push me back and forth.’ 

He did so. It was like swinging a heavy punching bag.  He had to use all of his strength to get her moving.  But once she gained momentum he could just stand there and push her, like a child on a swing.

‘Weee.’  She said.  And again.  ‘Weeeee.’

He woke up hours later on the bench.  Consuela was gone.  Sunlight streamed through the small windows near the ceiling.  The hamper of uniforms was gone.  The floor had been hastily swept.  The door swung open and in walked Santiago arriving for an early pre-game workout. 

‘Hey, you been here all night?’

‘Yeah. I mean, I think so.  Consuela…’

‘Whoah.’ Santiago stopped and stared and swatted at a fly.  ‘Consuela was here? With you?’

‘Yeah. I mean, it was weird.’

‘How weird?  Did she show you … anything?’

‘Man, she hung upside down like like some kind of batwoman.’

‘Batwoman?’ Santiago asked, shaking his head while he did some light calisthenics.  ‘Consuela didn’t show you everything then.  I’m going to do some steps.  You in?’

‘Yeah, sure.’  Roberts gulped.  He didn’t like where this was headed.  And yet, everything seemed strangely predestined. There was nothing to do but let the future take its improbable but decided course. He noted that he hadn't thought about his recent batting slump, which was good.  Maybe he’d be able to turn things around yet.  On the other hand, it was pretty clear he was about to embark on a steamy affair with a giant transvestite or transsexual (he wasn’t sure which) and that somehow didn’t seem prudent.  Not now.  Not in the month of May. Not this early in the season.

Thursday, July 19, 2012

Spying, Chavez-Style

                                 The place: 59th Street/Columbus Circle subway station

The time: 8:47 AM

The vantage point: From an uptown C train, with the doors closing.

The scene: A white man, 30ish, short black hair, a couple days of stubble, wearing a grey "Marines" shirt, cargo shorts, laceless sneakers, pausing on the platform and using his MetroCard to pick his teeth before putting it back in his pocket and walking off into the crowded New York morning.

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

Page 1

                            There was no single moment. No one event that started it all. At first, there were only unrelated reports and stories.

Monday, July 09, 2012

And your point is...

               "In short, life is made into a non-stop, commercially pre-packaged masturbational fantasy."
--Allan Bloom, 1987

And to think he made this argument based only on walkmans and MTV.  But you tell me - is he a seer, or only a voyeur?   

Thursday, July 05, 2012

I remember...

                 I Remember...
1...watching...(Kevin Bewersdorf, The Chill of Winter)
2...bubbles on a fountain...(Aretha Franklin, One Way Ticket)
3...laughing all the way to the parking lot...(Ian Matthews, Shake It)
4...faded blue jeans...(Terry Melcher, Rebecca)
5...this side of heaven...(Sandra Wright, Lovin' You Lovin' Me)
6...rain on the window pane...(Joe Dassin, Quand Sara Deux)
7...a wasted thing...(Johnny Marr and Neil Finn, Too Blue)
8...the well to do...(Stills-Young Band, Foutainebleau)
9...Sissy Spacek...(Carl Orff, Vier Stucke fur Xylophon)
10...back and forth...(Jennifer O'Connor, Change Your Life)
11...the speed of sound...(Girls, Carolina)
12...saying sorry to all those people...(GoddammitBoyHowdy, Faith and Thunder)
13...the dreams that I've had since a child...(The Roots, Make My)

I think you should be able to download this here