Thursday, July 29, 2010

Romantic Thoughts

"Let me shipwreck in your thighs"

Under Milkwood, Dylan Thomas

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

Alpha Female

Red stilettos entwine my feet, drops of blood at the end of black shrouded legs. A gasp emanates from the door; she's staring at my shoes.

"I hope you're not going to wear those."

I point my toes, stretch my calves. "I wore them on our first date."
And the first time we made love, I remember.

She struggles for words. "I don't think they're appropriate. You shouldn't wear them."

"I think I should." I move on the floor in a solitary slow dance, annoyed with her.
"They were his favorite. I think he'd like it."

She clenches her fist, her emotions beginning to rise. "I don't want you to wear those shoes. I don't think you should make a mockery of his memory."

I glare at her. "Don't speak to me about memories, they're all I have left."

Tears begin to form in her eyes as she growls very slowly, "You are not going to wear those shoes. Not today."

I tense, ready for a fight.

"Don't tell me what to do, I'm burying my husband!"

"AND I'M BURYING MY SON!" she roars.

I look towards the floor; submitting, yielding defeat, I remove the shoes and put them back in the box. A song about angels and red shoes dances in my head. I slip on a pair of worn, black flats and follow her out of the room, my head bowed. The shoes repose in their box, waiting for a more appropriate time to be embraced.

Monday, July 12, 2010

Avenging Angel

"That's enough!"

She looked over and gave him an insolent smile. Damn her and her incessant meddling! He walked towards her but she held her ground, arrogantly defying him. He towered over her as he stood before her.

"Stay out of this. It's no concern of yours. I won't have you in my business."

She held his gaze, her smile growing larger.

"Why do you care? You discarded her, used her for your own pleasure and then cast her aside with out a second thought. It's no longer your business. She's no longer yours." Her smile faded as she growled the last sentence.

He raised his hand to strike, then thought better of it. Lilith was not someone to cross. Her large, delicate wings were unfurled, her hand grasped the hilt of her sword.

"You've had your fun, Gabriel, too much if you ask me. Always stalking the weak. You and your kind always look for easy prey. Forcing me and my kind to clean up your messes."

She moved closer, raising herself on tip toe, her lips so temptingly close to his. He bent to kiss her; she dropped to her feet and stepped back, laughing.

"Not today, beloved. Not until you've suffered as much as she has." She flew off into the fading light, laughing at his pain.

Gabriel stayed perched on his cloud, his wings heavy. He sighed to himself, then unfurled his wings and took flight, looking for new hearts to break.

Friday, July 9, 2010

Broken Hearts

"Hearts will never be practical until they are made unbreakable."
The Wizard of Oz

They were walking down the street when he ventured, “Does it hurt to get a tattoo?”

Smiling slightly she answered, “A little, it’s like a scratching, bee sting type of pain. Why do you ask?”

Waiting for the light to change, he tried to be casual in his reply. “Oh, I don’t know, I was thinking maybe I’d get one.”

He glanced over to see her reaction. She regarded him curiously.

“You don’t seem the type. You really have to be committed to get one.”

He felt somewhat diminished by her answer.

“What would you get?” she asked.

He pondered the question.

“I was thinking of a broken heart, on my arm, with her name on it.”

She flinched a little; dating a man with a dead wife was like being in a macabre ménage a trois, without any pleasure for her.

“I’m not a big fan of putting other people’s names on my body. It’s usually bad luck; I mean what happens when you break up?”

“You can’t break up with a dead woman,” he said softly.

They walked in silence until they reached her apartment.

“If you’re really serious, I know a place. I’ll go with you if you’d like” she offered. His body relaxed and he smiled.

“I’d like that. Maybe we can get the same thing.”

As she said good night all she could think was, I’ll be damned if I’ll have another woman’s name on my body.

He picked her up on Saturday and they drove to the shop. The day was hot and humid, the air thick and still. He was nervous, but didn’t want to back out now. Still he was worried, what if it hurts a lot, what if I faint? They walked into the shop where several heads were bent over various limbs and torsos. One man looked up, smiled at her in recognition and called out.

“It will be a few. Look through the books and see what you like.”

She handed him a large binder with drawings; tigers, hearts, angels, daggers, every shape, size and color. He flipped through the pages, looking at the multitude of designs. The room was warm, despite the air conditioner. He looked over towards the other room, listening to the low buzz of the tattoo machine. He let his fingers drum across the top of the book. She placed her hand gently over his.

“If you’re not sure, you don’t have to do this. Not everyone’s cut out for a tattoo. It doesn’t matter to me.”

He squeezed her hand back, and thought maybe he’d rethink this, when someone called his name.

“Did you find something?”

He cleared his throat and pointed to a picture of a large heart, broken in two down the middle.

“This one. I want to put someone’s initials on it.” He followed the artist back into the room and sat down.

“Where do you want it?”

“Here,” he said, pointing to his left bicep.

“Ok,” the artist said, “Take off your shirt while I make the stencil.”

He sat in the chair,his bicep exposed and tried to relax as the artist applied the stencil.

“Try to stay as still as possible, and make sure you keep breathing.”

Taking a deep breath he exhaled as the man began to draw the outline of the heart. He flinched a little, but as the pain became regular he began to relax, only occasionally tensing up. He sat like that for over an hour. Sweat was starting to bead on his forehead.

“Take a look.”

He walked over to the mirror and saw the broken, bleeding heart etched forever on his arm. He smiled at his reflection.

“I like it” he said, holding out his hand.

He went to grab his shirt and started to walk out of the room when he suddenly felt light headed. Next thing he knew he was on the floor looking up; she had a cold clothe and was wiping his brow.

“Are you ok?”

He felt like an idiot and tried to sit up.

“Hold on, not so fast. Just rest a little longer.”

He stayed on his back a few more minutes then tentatively sat up.

“I’m ok,” he said, smiling meekly. “The heat got to me, that’s all.”

She helped him up, and the two of them slowly walked out of the shop.

“Do you want to get some ice cream?”

He felt the last shred of his masculinity melt away.

The next morning he was still in bed, his arm throbbing slightly, when his daughter snuck into his room.

“Dad,” she whispered, “Who’s in the bathroom?”

He didn’t bother to open his eyes.

"A friend,” he mumbled, “Why don’t you go play in your room for a while and let Daddy sleep some more?”

She stayed next to his bed, suddenly gasping.

“What’s that on your arm?”

He tried to sink under the covers, pulling the pillow over his head. He felt her jump on the bed and grab his arm. He opened his eyes and found her perched over him, staring intently at the new piece of artwork. She gently let her index finger trace the outline of the heart.

“Who’s BM?”

“Mommy,” he answered.

She pondered this information.

“Who’s EC?”

They both looked towards the bathroom as the door opened.

“Oh” was all she said. They both waited for her to appear in the doorway, and when she did, she smiled shyly and said “Morning, glories.”

His daughter got off the bed.

“I’m going back to my room now.”

They heard the door close behind her. He pulled the pillow back over his face as she sat on the bed next to him.

"What did she think?”

“About what? The tattoo or you?”

“Either, I guess.”

He thought for a moment.

“She didn’t say anything. I guess she needs to get used to both.”

She bent over and kissed his broken heart.

“I think we’ll both be around for a while.”

©2010 VL Sheridan

Thursday, July 8, 2010

The Watering Hole

He enjoyed hanging out with his students during the summer sessions; they were his own age or slightly younger, and it was easy to relax. Most would never write more than a grocery list. Only one, Vanessa, had any true talent. He noticed she wasn’t lounging with the rest of them. Vanessa reminded him of a tiger, beautiful and regal to look at, but dangerous to get too close to.

One of the others, her eyes flirting, asked, “Who would you have sex with from this class if you could?”

He moved away from her. Why did women think that being vulgar was a mark of sexual confidence?

“It would be extremely inappropriate to be intimate with one of my students.”

He reclined on his elbows, letting the sun hit his face.

"But if you could,” she insisted, stalking him, “who would you pick?”

He ignored her and listened to the chattering of the others.

A voice said, “Well, if I had a choice, I’d pick Vanessa.”

He smiled at the thought.

“I think making love to Vanessa would be a terrifying experience, like a praying mantis being devoured by its mate” he said to no one in particular.

He was enjoying the sun when he realized it was suddenly quiet. He felt a body behind his.

An arm wrapped itself around his shoulders as a voice asked quietly, “What makes you think you’re worthy enough to be invited into my bed?”

He opened his eyes; Vanessa was kneeling behind him; if he leaned further back his head would be in her lap. All he could think was, Don’t move, don’t startle her.

He looked into her eyes.

“I’m not,” he said, resting against her thighs, “That’s why it’s terrifying.”

He closed his eyes again, her laughter at his honesty shaking his body.

©2010 VL Sheridan

The Salsa Queen of Princeton

“Grandma thinks you’re an asshole.”

I looked at my 12 year old daughter; what was worse, being told my mother continues to consider me the village idiot, or that my daughter needs to remind me of this fact?

"She says you’re stupid for going to a dance class. She says you’re wasting your time looking to meet someone because you always pick losers anyway.”

My mother has never forgiven me for being born without a penis. I tried to think of an answer that didn’t sound defensive.

“I like to dance. It makes me feel good about myself. Going out one night a week isn’t selfish.”

The single mother’s albatross around the neck, putting herself first.

“I go out for me, not necessarily to meet someone.”

“Yea, but if you met someone he could help you pay the bills,” chimed in my 15 year old son. “It would be nice I we could afford to have cable TV, internet connection, a better cell phone plan.”

How comforting to realize my son viewed relationships for their financial possibilities. I guess I should just settle on the candidate that would bring about the best economic reform.

“You’re a romantic” I said to him.

“No,” he replied, “I’m a realist. Not having cable sucks. We live like the Amish, no cable, no internet. More money makes life easier. You need a boyfriend.”

Why I was going to this class, I thought on the ride into work? I never meet anyone at these things; I join a book club and its ten women and one retired man, a cooking class and there’s more estrogen than tarragon in the room. The idea of meeting someone new seemed possible when my marriage first ended, but now, ten years later, the chances seem slim to none. I didn’t want to give up hope, but was it asking too much to meet a man you could have an adult conversation with? When does being realistic about your chances to meet someone decent turn into giving up hope and settling for someone who bathes on a regular basis?

Hope. Love is important in life, but hope is essential. Hope is what gets you out of bed in the morning, what comforts you before you fall asleep at night. It drives you through the day, whether it’s a mundane hope of “I hope I get to work on time”, to something akin to a profound prayer, “I hope I’m not screwing up my kids’ lives”.

When Pandora finally gave into temptation and opened the box that released all the evils into the world, she slammed the lid shut before hope flew away. Sometimes hope is all we have left. When we loose hope do we loose everything? Is there any point in going on without hope?

As 5:00 pm drew near my confidence began to wane like the setting sun. Why was I going to this class? I loved to dance, but my previous experiences with Community Education dance classes hadn’t been very enjoyable. The tango class last spring made me uncomfortable. Tango is full of machismo control with the man moving the woman around, she having to wait for him to initiate the movement. It brought back feelings of being trapped in a relationship with a controlling and abusive husband. Would a salsa class be better or a variation on a theme I didn’t want to repeat?

I drove home, made dinner for the kids, took a shower and changed into an appropriate outfit for the evening, half way between confident and trying too hard. The class began at 7:30 at the community center in town. My mother would arrive at 6:30 to watch the kids for me; that would give me plenty of time to drive back and find a place to park.

"You look pretty,” my youngest said, “I like that dress. Those earrings are pretty. Can I have them when you die?”

My son wants me to marry to increase our economic possibilities, my older daughter contradicts everything I say, and my youngest daughter is taking inventory of my possessions.

“When I’m dead you and your brother and sister can fight over all of my stuff. I’m not promising anything to anyone.”


My mother had arrived and was voicing her usual disapproval of the way I expressed myself around my children. Forty seven years of mutual disappointment.

“Will you be late coming home; I don’t like to drive home when it’s late?”

“No, the class ends at 9:30, so I should be home by 10:00. Unless I meet someone.”


That was her “how presumptuous” click. My mother could say more with a click of her tongue than any great orator.

“Remember,” my son called from his room, “It would be nice to have cable.”

The drive took less time than during the morning commute, so I arrived at the community center with way too much time to spare. This isn’t good; I thought to myself, I’ll only start psyching myself out. I sat in my car, and wondered who was all ready inside.

Well, you could always go in and find out , instead of sitting out here in your car noticing that your shoes are a little too tight and your skirt is a little too short, wondering why you put yourself through this. It’s just as easy to stay at home at night, working a full time job and raising three kids on your own, that’s a long day, no one would blame you if all you did was sit on the couch. Yes, I said, interrupting myself, someone would blame me. Hope. Hope would blame me for not trying just once more.

I opened the car door and made my way towards the building. I heard music through an open window; saw people milling about the dance floor. I opened the door, took a deep breath and went in. We went in; me and Hope.

©2008 VL Sheridan


The night we met you drunkenly dumped a fistful of acorns into my lap.

“I wish these were emeralds.”

Twenty years, three kids, two visits to rehab and one extra marital affair later we sit in a restaurant. You push a small box across the table towards me.

“I wish these were acorns,” you say softly.

Emeralds encircle a band of gold. I slip the ring on my finger. Struggling to find the right words, the only emotion I feel is tired. Tired of apologies. Tired of fighting. Tired of disappointment.

Is that life? Learning to live with the disappointment? I know I should say thank you, or I love you, but I don’t feel any of those things. I glance at you and see so many things in your eyes. Fear, resentment, hope.

Hope? For what? For what we were? For what we wanted to be? For the chance that maybe it will get better? Maybe true love is not great passion or constant laughter and good times. Perhaps true love is accepting that no matter how imperfect your mate is, they need to love you, and are grateful for the love they receive from you.

I slip my foot out of my shoe and let my toes gently caress your ankle. A smile forms on your lips.

“I’ll ask for the check.”

You reach for my hand, the emeralds glinting in the candlelight.

©2009 VL Sheridan


“Do I have to?"

“You can’t put it off any longer."

“It’s stupid. None of my friends do."

The tension is rising between us. “I’m not mother to all your friends. I’m mother to you. You’re getting too big and told old to be without one."

Cursing under her breath, she slips her arms through the straps and lets me hook the back. Pulling and stretching, she whines, “I can’t breathe, I hate this."

“I couldn’t wait for my first one."

She mumbles under her breath some more, pulls her shirt over her head and stalks
out of the room, ignoring him as he enters.


“Her first bra. She’s not happy."

His face falls. “But she’s so young."

“She’s also very developed for her age."

“Now boys will notice her."

“Yes. Sorry."

He sighs. “I feel like I should call your father and apologize."

I laugh. “You should."

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Last Tango in Past Tense

“You’re supposed to let me lead” he says, unable to hide the frustration in his voice as he pulls away from me.

I drop my hands, equally frustrated. I had thought a dance class would be a fun ‘couples activity’ for us, more intimate than sitting silently in a movie theater, less intimate than the horizontal mambo (not that we hadn’t indulged in THAT). It had been enjoyable at first, but his constant desire to practice the tango over and over again was lessening my desire to spend time with him. I was starting to feel like a possession, as if the only reason for us being together was to dance the tango. The tango is a very male dominated dance, with the man moving the woman around the dance floor; she’s supposed to wait for him to initiate her actions. The tango position is called” The Embrace”; the dancers’ bodies are pulled close together, the man’s right hand placed around the woman’s back, the woman’s left hand placed above his right bicep, two people standing nose to nose almost. Luckily for me he’s of an average height and my nose just grazes his lips (and he has lovely lips). All my life I had wanted tall, dark and handsome, and whenever I had gotten it I had gazed squarely into the middle of a chest (vertically and horizontally). He is short, light and cute, with deep sea blue eyes and an English accent to die for. I gaze at the floor of his deck.

“Can’t we take a break” I ask, none too happy with the petulant tone in my voice.

He sighs and steps further back.

“You said we’d practice tonight.”

A look of disappointment flashes over his face. He goes over to the railing and leans against it. Taking a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket he lights one and takes a long drag. I’m not too crazy about the smoking, but so far it’s his only fault, that is until this dance class started. Now he smokes and wants to practice the tango every waking minute. I look up at the sky and listen to the tree peepers' incessant symphony. Stars shimmer in the black velvet night overhead. The sounds of tango music flow softly from the CD player near the door.

“I’m just a little tired tonight” I answer.

“You’re always tired anymore.” Now it’s his turn to sound like a child not getting his way.

I look at my hands. Well, here it is our first fight. Nothing to be concerned about, right, sooner or later every couple has to have their first fight. I catch myself as I hear that word in my head; couple. Are we now officially a couple? The rules have changed so much since I first started dating sometime in the last century, and after 10 years of marriage, a divorce and then 5 years of single motherhood I’m not all that confident I know what the rules are anymore. I try to ask my younger co-workers for advice, but it’s somewhat unnerving to seek guidance from a person who was born the year I graduated university. There seems to be no hard and fast rules anymore. Is it first date drinks, second date dinner, third date sexual intimacy, or is it first date dinner, drinks, sex, or is it just drinks and sex or do you just walk up to the first attractive guy you meet and say “Open for business”? And don’t get me started on that whole absurd “cougar” or “MILF” moniker. There’s nothing like having your definition as a human reduced to your ability to attract the opposite sex. It isn’t any better than being referred to as either a “nice girl” or a “loose woman”.

I look over towards him in the dim light. He’s strung fairy lights all around the deck, and the first few times we had practiced we pretended we were dancing at a garden party at a chateau somewhere outside of Paris, or at a milanga in Buenos Aires, or on the promenade of Gatsby’s Long Island mansion. I really don’t want to fight, not tonight when it’s so beautiful in the moonlight. I walk over towards him in time to the music; ONE two THREE four, ONE two THREE four, letting my arms glide around my body. I smile as I catch him trying not to look at me, see the way the tension leaves his body to be replaced by desire. I stand next to him at the railing.

“Where are we tonight?” I ask in my most sultry voice.

He steps on his cigarette and crosses his arms across his chest.

“I don’t know. Where are we?”

His voice is tight and wary. SIGH, I think, this isn’t going to be easy. I continue to look over the railing into the dark back yard. How do you explain to someone who’s been nothing but nice to you that it’s hard to let go of the fear that you’re screwing up again? That you don’t believe in happily ever after or Prince Charming sweeping you off your feet, even when you’re treated like a fairy tale princess. No, that’s not right, I think, he treats me like a wonderful human being, someone who’s funny and intelligent and sexy, someone he really respects and likes spending time with. I lean my head against his arm.

"I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be difficult,” I whisper, “Sometimes it’s hard for me to relax and let go of the past."

I hear him give a short bark of a laugh.

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

He keeps his arms across his chest. “I’m not him, you know,” he says quietly.

I feel as if I’ve been slapped. He is so right, he isn’t my ex, he’s a million times better, the answer to a million prayers. I take a deep breath as I try to keep the tears at bay.

“I know you’re not, and I’m really grateful to you for that. I just hate being told what to do. It brings back bad memories. I just feel like I have to be in control all the time. Strong and tough.”

He sighs and shifts his weight, bumping his shoulder against mine.

“You’re not the only one who’s been hurt, you know. This is hard for me too. I’m not trying to control your life; I’m just trying to learn this bloody dance.”

We stand side by side, facing in opposite directions. I don’t know what to do, and I hate not knowing what to do. I start to speak softly, still not looking at him.

“Somebody once told me that it’s wrong to tell people to ‘get over it’ when something painful has happened to them, because you never really forget. You have to think of your psyche as a giant pantry, and all your life experiences are items on the shelves. The painful ones are still there, but if you’re working on getting on with your life you find a place for them on the shelf. Sometimes they spill over and you have to clean up the mess but for the most part they sit on the shelf and you can say, “Oh, yea, I remember when that happened,” and then you close the door to the pantry. Close the door to the pain”. I take another deep breath “I guess I need to rearrange my pantry some more.”

The music stops playing as the CD ends. We stand silently next to each other; it takes me a while to realize that he’s turned his head and is staring at me, a smile on his face, trying desperately not to laugh at me.

“What?” I ask, as my lips begin to mimic his. Have we averted the crisis? He bumps his shoulder into mine again as he starts to walk across the deck to the CD player.

“You’re not so tough,” he says.

I try not to smile.

“Tough enough to handle you”, I answer back. “It’s the tattoos, you know.”

He laughs and changes the CD.

“I like your tattoos,” he says. There’s no missing the hunger in his voice.

Now it’s my turn to laugh. I keep my back to him as I pretend to look over the dark yard. The music begins to play again.

“Where are we tonight?” I ask as I look over my shoulder at him.

“Paris”, he answers, “In a flat overlooking the Seine.”

“What room are you in?” I ask, feeling the tension building between us.

“The living room.” I hear him move across the deck towards me.

“And what room am I in?”

I step back to him as I feel his hand brush across my hip. I feel his breath in my ear as he brushes his lips against the back of my neck.

“The bedroom,” he whispers as he kisses me.

I turn to him and put my hand on his arm as his places his hand on the small of my back. He pulls me close to him; our stomachs press against each other for an instant. I take a deep breath and exhale as I let him move me across the deck.

©2009 VL Sheridan

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

Even Now

Naked bodies interlace, a Saturday afternoon stolen while the children are away. Two decades of lust and love mingle with extra pounds, receding hair lines, sagging breasts. A comfortable sense of familiarity not taken for granted. Her hand rests on his soft belly, the tips of her fingers caressing his treasure trail. The weight of her head in the crick of his shoulder is comforting. The nice thing about a long term relationship is you don’t have to pretend to be someone you’re not.

“Do you remember the first time we made love” he asks?

“Yes” she says, kissing his neck, “Why?”

“I was terrified. I wanted you so much, and I was so worried you wouldn’t like me.”

She snuggles closer, hugging his chest.

“If I recall correctly, I was the one who invited you into my bed. How could you think I didn’t like you?”

His hand follows the tendrils of her hair.

“I knew you liked me, I was afraid you’d find me disappointing, you know, as a lover.”

He buries his face in her hair.

“Oh,” she says quietly.

The silence settles over them like a quilt. Her hand moves lower to the top of his groin, entangled in his garden; he sighs and sinks deeper into her hair.

“I wasn’t worried,” she purrs, drifting deeper into a sated sense of being. “I knew you were the one I always wanted to wake up next to.”

“Even then?”

“Mmm hmm.”

His arms wreath around her, trying to pull her closer.

“And now” he murmurs?

She coils her body around his.

“Especially now.”

©2010 VL Sheridan

Ties That Bind

The interrogation was not going well. The suspect, a woman known to have ties to a subversive organization, had not uttered a word in the two days that she had been held in the safe house. It had been necessary to call in ‘The Breaker’, a man with a reputation of being able to get any information from any person, by any means necessary.

The two of them were alone in the room, he sitting in a chair as she stood before him. She was dressed in a red summer dress, its fabric clinging to her body. He gazed at her, trying to get a fix on her personality. She held his gaze, her eyes filled with anger and arrogance. He could see why they called him; she would not give up anything to him without a struggle.

“Give me what I want and you’ll be free to go”, he said quietly as he studied her, looking for a vulnerable spot. She was small with a voluptuous body, full breasts above ample hips, the stiletto heels she wore making her legs look especially attractive. Long, red, curly hair surrounded a pale face with big, brown eyes, and a pink, seductive mouth. He was surprised at his reaction to her; usually he viewed his subjects as nothing more than prey to be captured and broken. It had been years since he’d been stirred by a woman. He and his wife had stopped being intimate after the birth of their last child, though it was hard to become intimate with a woman who viewed sex as a penance to be endured. He stood up and walked towards her. She braced herself as he drew nearer.

He stood behind her, towering over her. Even wearing heels she couldn’t have been taller than 5’5”, and the size disparity between the two of them made him feel he could easily dominate the situation. He lowered his mouth to her ear and said, “Give me what I want and you’ll be free to go”.

She shifted her weight slightly but continued her silence. He stood there a moment, then took hold of her dress and unzipped the back, pulling it off her body. She gasped and tried to move away from him, but he was too quick. He grabbed both of her hands and hand cuffed them behind her back. She stood there in only her bra and panties. Perhaps the lack of clothes would increase her sense of vulnerability and break her.

He sat again in the chair, gazing at her body. She had been unnerved by his stripping her, but her will was strong, and as she gained her composure the look of arrogance once again masked her lovely face. He sat silently, allowing himself the pleasure as he viewed her form. She was in good shape for a woman her age, curvy and soft. Two tattoos adorned her torso, confirmation of her political affiliation. He was slightly distracted by the ache in his groin as he sat there. Perhaps he could use that to his advantage. Perhaps he could scare her into giving him what he needed.

“Give me what I want and you’ll be free to go”, he repeated once again. A small, mocking smile appeared on her lips, a smile he’d seen all too often on his wife’s face. Enraged he jumped to his feet and went to her; she took a step backwards but started to fall as she was unable to keep her balance without the use of her hands. He grabbed her by the arm to steady her, and then stood behind her as he reached into his pants pocket. His hand brushed against his engorged shaft as he pulled out a switch blade knife. He flicked it open in front of her, enjoyed the shudder of fear that it extracted from her. Holding the knife in his right hand he wrapped his left arm around her shoulders, pulling her close against his body. He pushed his groin into her ass as he once again whispered in her ear, “Give me what I want and you’ll be free to go”.

He felt her start to shake against him. He buried his face into her sweet smelling hair and continued to grind into her. He loosened his grip slightly and brought the blade down towards her shoulder. She tried to break free but the blade came down and cut the left strap of her bra. He repeated the movement on the right side, slicing through the thin material. He moved his hand to her back and cut the remaining material. His left hand pulled the bra away from her breasts and threw it to the floor. He returned to his seat to survey the results of his work.

She wasn’t quite so arrogant now. With her hands behind her back she had no way to cover herself, and stood slightly hunched over as if to protect herself. He lost his composure slightly as he looked at her standing there. Her breasts were perfect, naturally large with huge brown areolas. A small metal bar pierced each nipple, signifying her rank within the organization. He was grateful to sit down; he could feel the blood draining from his head as it settled in his cock, his breathing becoming quicker and shallow the more time he spent with her. He took several deep breaths to calm himself. It took him a minute to maintain the steadiness to his voice.

“Give me what I want and you’ll be free to go”. This time the words came out strained instead of demanding, and he looked away to center himself. When he looked back at her she had grounded herself, was standing straight again, her eyes looking over his head. He took a moment to assess the situation. Once again he stood and walked towards her, standing behind her. He placed his right hand on her stomach; his left cupped her right breast. She drew in her breath as he touched her. He let his mouth fall to her neck, letting his tongue and lips and teeth taste her flesh. “Give me what I want and you’ll be free to go”.

This time the words were a plea, desperate sounding, and he cursed himself for loosing control. His hands moved over her body. He started to move his right hand into her panties between her legs but she clamped them shut; he moved his knee between them and forced his hand down, feeling her soft muff in his fingers. He bit her neck harder as he rubbed her, his fingers become slick and sticky.

She cried out and he wasn’t sure if it was in grief or pain, but he didn’t care. He was able to rub his groin in her bound hands; she caressed him as he pressed harder into her. They stood like that for a long time. Her breathing came quicker as he moved his hand deeper and deeper into her. Still she wouldn’t answer his question.

He pulled away from her, light headed. He was finding it difficult to maintain his composure with her, felt his needs as a man gaining the upper hand. He staggered to the table and poured himself a shot of brandy; twice he gulped the liquid, relishing the burning sensation as it slid down his throat. He took a deep breath and turned to look at her; she was bent over, her head down, taking deep breathes in order to keep calm. A sense of admiration swept over him as he looked at her. She was obviously not a woman to be trifled with.

He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. He moved towards her again. She braced herself, waiting for the next assault on her. He stood before her. The top of her head barely reached his shoulders. He looked into her eyes, unsure of what he wanted to see. She looked back, the anger and resentment growing in them. He hated that look, hated the way it made him feel. He took the tie in his hands, a gift from his wife on their last anniversary, and wrapped it around her eyes. She tried to move away but the lose of her sight added to her lack of coordination. She stood there, unable to move. He unbuttoned his shirt and removed it, took her face in his hands and kissed her.

She didn’t respond, kept her mouth hard and closed. He continued to kiss her, gently. She began to reciprocate, tentatively at first, then willingly taking his tongue in her mouth, their naked torsos pressing against each other. He broke away from her mouth to bite her throat and again said, “Give me what I want and you’ll be free to go”.

She pulled away, sadness covering her lips. He allowed his tongue to travel freely down her body, suckling each breast, her nipples rock hard from the attention. He knelt before her, his face resting against her groin. He let his hands run up her legs. Her legs began to shake as he pulled her panties down. He closed his eyes as he deeply inhaled her scent. He sat on his heels, and placing his thumbs on either side of her lips, he pulled them apart and gave her the deepest French kiss she’d ever received.

She moaned and her knees began to buckle as he sucked her. He tried to hold her weight up but couldn’t, so he lowered himself onto his back as she dropped to her knees, his tongue probing and licking her. She began to move her hips back and forth, moaning and sighing as he continued his work. Her thighs began to shake violently as she climaxed, a sweet drop of dew falling into his mouth. He slid out from under her as she collapsed on the floor. He still had the taste of her in his mouth. It had been a long time since he’d eaten a woman. His wife thought it was sinful. He crawled over to her and gently caressed her hair. “Give me what I want and you’ll be free to go”.

She lay quietly on the floor. She tried to sit up and couldn’t. He reached over and pulled her to her knees. She shook her head no.

He studied her in amazement. Most women would have broken by now. She was obviously a cut above the rest. He pulled her to her feet and pushed her into the next room, throwing her onto an old brass bed that was there. He slammed the door shut. He could feel anger welling up inside him, and fought hard not to let his emotions get the better of him. He paced the floor, trying to calm down. She was curled up on the bed, blind folded and bound, naked except for her shoes. He glanced at them, sharp stilettos which could do serious damage if she were to stab at him. He went to the bed and removed them, then sat and tried to figure out his next move.

The room was growing dark; he was running out of time. The others would be back soon. He moved closer to her and removed the blind fold. She blinked twice and turned to look at him. Her eyes were tired and red, as if she’d been crying. There was one more thing he could try. He stood up and started to undress. He turned towards her, naked and aroused. He went to her, sat her up and said, “Suck me”.
She looked deep into his eyes, shame deepening her cheeks. “Untie me first”, she finally said.

He returned her gaze. Could he trust her? His gut reaction was no. “No”, he said. “Show me I can trust you, and then I’ll untie you”. She didn’t like that answer and he could see her starting to close down again. He picked up the tie that had been around her eyes and placed it between her legs. She looked surprised as he began to draw it back and forth between her legs, gently masturbating her. A small smile flickered across her lips and she knelt forward towards his groin, taking him into her mouth. He threw his head back in ecstasy as she wrapped her tongue around his shaft. One hand continued to rub her pussy with the tie while the other dug deep into her thick curly hair. The two of them pleasured each other as time began to run out. He was so close to climaxing, he wanted so much to cum in her mouth. He pulled her away from him and cried, “Give me what I want and you’ll be free to go."

“Untie me first." Her eyes were ablaze with desire.

He struggled off the bed and groped for the keys in his pants pocket. He came up behind her and started to remove the hand cuffs when she broke free of his grasp. She started to run for the door but he caught her and threw her face down on the bed. He lost his temper, and fell with his full weight on top of her. He held her hands above her head as he pushed her legs apart with his knees. He plowed into her from behind; taking what had been denied him for too many years. She struggled beneath him as he fucked her. He lifted his body briefly to turn her on her back, plunging deep into her once more. She clawed at his back; bit his chest, her legs locked around his waist. Finally he climaxed and dropped into her arms. He rolled off of her onto his back. It was almost completely dark. The others would be back soon.

They lay quietly together on the bed. He reached over and gently caressed the back of her hair. She turned to him and brushed her hand against his cheek.

“It’s getting late” she said.

“I know”, he sighed.

“They’ll be back soon."

“I know." He pulled her closer to him.

“I need to get dressed”. She tried to pull away from him but he wouldn’t let go.

“Not yet. Don’t go yet."

She sighed and turned towards him. “If my sister finds us here in your bed together they’ll be holy hell to pay." She kissed him gently on the lips, wiggled out of his grip and went into the other room to retrieve her clothes.

He looked at the ceiling and thought about his life. A middle age man playing out interrogation fantasies with his sister in law. Married to a woman who hated sex. It was pitiful.

She came back into the room, dressed, looking presentable. “Come on, get dressed, she and the kids will be home soon."

He sat up and took her hand. “I married the wrong sister."

“You knew that twenty years ago."

“Maybe we should correct that mistake."

She looked at him with a sad smile. “No, we can’t. We’ve made our bed. We have to lie in it."

She left the room and he got up and began to dress. The tie his wife gave him lay crumbled and stained, abandoned under the bed.

©2009 VL Sheridan

Sunday, July 4, 2010


“Shit” she said as she got out of bed and walked into the bathroom. She sat on the toilet and put her head in her heads, frustrated by the way this was playing out. They had both agreed that their relationship was sex, sex only, no emotions, no strings, and no promises. They had met two or three times a week, whenever their schedules had allowed, and up until now things had been working out well. Now all of a sudden he wanted to know where things stood between them, wanted to define their ‘relationship’. She cursed again; when had this become a relationship?

She flushed, washed her hands and walked back into the hotel room. They had agreed to meet in hotels because it would be a neutral territory, neither of them would have to feel that their personal space was being invaded, plus they didn’t have to worry about his wife or kids catching them. Was that it? Was guilt getting the better of him? She lay on her back; her head at the foot of the bed, her knees bent up, and looked at the ceiling. He was stretched out, his head on the pillow, his hands behind his head, his eyes closed. They lay there in silence for a while.

“So what’s this all about? I thought we agreed that this was no strings attached?”

He didn’t reply. Was he sleeping? She tried to listen to his breathing. It didn’t have that steady rhythm of a person completely relaxed. She waited. Still no reply; she waited a few more minutes, then slowly got off the bed and began to dress. Bra, underwear, stockings, blouse, skirt. She had just finished tying up the laces on her ankle boots and was looking for her purse.

“Why are you running away?”

She looked at her reflection in the mirror and gave herself a ‘what the fuck’ look.

“Who says I’m running away? Why are acting like this?”

He kept his eyes closed, his voice cracking, “I think my wife knows.”

Shit, she thought, and sat down at the bottom of the bed. She stared at her reflection again.

“Oh, well, it was fun while it lasted.”

A sharp sound escaped from his throat.

“Oh, well,” he said, the emotion rising in his voice, “that’s all you have to say, ‘oh well’? It’s that easy for you to walk away from all this?”

She stared at him.

“What’s ‘all this’? You knew when this started that this was nothing more than great sex. We never made any sort of commitment. It was fun and now it’s over. Stop trying to make this into something more than what it was in order to feel less guilty about what you did.”

He scrunched his eyes tighter, as if fighting off tears. She got off the bed and picked up her purse. She turned to look at him one last time. She knew it would be the last time.

“I hope it works out for you.” she said softly, “I hope everything works out ok.”

She started for the door when she heard him sob.

“I didn’t want to be this kind of man, I didn’t want to be that guy who fucks around on his wife.”

Her hand was on the door knob and she tried to think of something to say. Should she be kind and offer words of comfort, or should she be a cunt and say something cruel and vindictive? She heard another soft sob from the bed. She pulled the door open and quickly slammed it behind her.

“Shit” was all she said as she walked to her car.

©2009 VL Sheridan

The Answer to Your Question Is . . .

From me to you; Still waiting for your answer

He tried not to spit his drink all over himself, but her question had caught him off guard. He coughed violently, trying to catch his breath, as she sat calmly across from him, waiting for the answer to her query.

“What does an atheist say when he has an orgasm?”

Friends of friends had fixed them up, and at first he had thought her a complete flake, with her hippie clothes and her wild child hair. He had only met with her to be polite, and because he had nothing better to do tonight, and what was one drink, right? One drink had evolved into two, and now they were sitting at a table with a half empty bottle of wine between them. He took another deep breath, his eyes still brimming with tears.

“I don’t know, what does an atheist say when he has an orgasm?” he croaked out.

She sighed in exasperation.

“It’s not a joke; I’m not trying to be funny. You said you were an atheist and that you don’t believe in God or in any higher power or deity. I asked the question because it doesn’t seem fair to me for someone to invoke the Lord’s name in times of pleasure or pain if you don’t believe in his existence. You might as well yell out, ‘Oh Easter Bunny’, or ‘Yes, Santa, Yes’. You get my point?”

He wiped his eyes again and looked at her, really looked at her. She had pretty eyes, but there seemed to be an overwhelming sadness behind them, as if she had survived some sort of tragedy. Everyone’s survived some sort of tragedy in life, he thought, you don’t get to our age without having suffered some how.

He took another deep breath.

“Yes, I guess I see your point. I’ve just never really thought about it before. Just because I don’t believe in God doesn’t mean his name has to completely disappear from my vocabulary. It’s just a word to me; it doesn’t have any magical or mystical power for me. What do you say when you have an orgasm? Do you invoke the name of a deity you believe in?”

She smiled slightly and took a sip of her drink.

“I can’t remember that far back. It’s been a while since I’ve had the opportunity to express my self.”

He thought he saw a slight blush color her cheeks; maybe it was the wine, or the dark light in the bar, but he decided that yes, she was pretty, a bit flakey, maybe, but a nice person with a quick mind and an absurd sense of humor.

He took another sip.

“It’s been a while for me too, so I don’t think I can give your question an informed answer. Maybe we can finish this bottle of wine and go back to my place and I can give you the answer you’re looking for.”

She laughed.

“We just met. Casual sex is so nineteen seventy six”.

“I was five in nineteen seventy six” he replied.

“I was fourteen,” she said.

He was slightly turned on by her confidence, at the fact that she didn’t even hesitate to mention her age.

“You could have baby sat me” he replied, “You could have made sure I said my prayers before you tucked me into bed.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in God?” she said.

“Well, back then, I did, a little. Maybe I just need someone to make me a believer again.”

She laughed, took another sip of wine, and smiled at him with a saucy grin.

“Have you ever had a Michelangelo?”

He wondered if this was a joke, or another one of her absurd questions.

“What’s a Michelangelo? Is it a piece of art work?”

She smiled, leaned closer to him and answered in a low voice.

“A Michelangelo is when you lay on your back and I make you see God.”

Her smile turned to a mock frown and she said, in pitying tones.

"Too bad you’re an atheist. It probably won’t work on you.”

He leaned closer and put his lips close to her ear.

“I’ve always been a great lover of art. Maybe all I need is someone to make me a believer again.”

She laughed.

“Maybe you do, maybe you do.”

©2009 VLSheridan

Friday, July 2, 2010

Haven't we . . .?

He's standing in the hall way waiting for his meeting to start when she walks around the corner. He can't believe it; he hasn't seen her in months, not since that night at a conference in the Midwest. They hooked up after a particularly boring seminar was erased from their memories with two bottles of wine and spent the rest of the night in his hotel room, twisting their bodies into every conceivable shape and position. He had woken up exhausted, sore, and alone. Usually, that wouldn't have bothered him, but he remembers feeling slightly saddened by her abrupt departure. She stops suddenly as they make eye contact; a shy, sly smile crosses her lips.

"My God, what are you doing here?"

She walks slowly to him, the way a cat slinks towards a hand that may offer a caress or a swat. Boldly he grasps her hip, pulling her to him, gently planting a kiss on her cheek.

"I'm teaching here this year. We're having an orientation today."

She doesn't pull away, just gazes at him curiously.

"So you're going to be around for a while?"

He smiles; "Yes, at least until next June."

He bends his head towards her ear. "That will give you plenty of time to think of ways to make it up to me for leaving without saying good bye."

She laughs,pressing her body into his, her mouth dangerously close to his ear.

"I guess I owe you breakfast?" she whispers.

Closing his eyes, inhaling her scent, he replies, "At the very least."

Thursday, July 1, 2010

Creative Juices

"Writing is easy. You just sit down at a typewriter and open a vein."

~Red Smith

She stares at her laptop, the screen blank, the cursor blinking, mocking her. A cool breeze dances around her, moonlight streams in from a window. She hears the bed creak as he shifts his weight, searching for her. A deep sigh emanates from within; the heavy tread of slumbering muscles grows closer. Suddenly his arms are around her, his mouth upon her neck and shoulders.

"Why are you still up, it's almost 2:00 am? Come to bed." His body is warm.

"Can't. Have to have this finished by morning."

She feels his hands on her flesh, feels the chair pull back from the table as he positions himself on the floor before her. He buries his head between her legs.

"Come to bed," he insists, his lips dancing across hers.
"I won't take 'no' for an answer."

She smiles, and lets her hand fall upon his unruly hair as he pleasures her. He always tries so hard, she thinks. She lets him gorge himself, the balls of her feet bracing against the table, his lips and tongue accelerating as he strokes himself.

Staggering to his feet, he gasps.

"Switch seats," and pulls her onto his lap, thrusting deep inside her. She holds him tight as she rides him, her mind racing. She begins to vocalize encouragement; it makes him climax faster. Suddenly he erupts, squeezing her closer to him. They sit quietly, their breath fast and shallow. Slowly she stands up, wobbly, and pulls him to his feet, turning him towards the bedroom. Playfully swatting his ass she sends him off.

"I'll be in shortly," she whispers.

He shuffles away, laughing to himself.

"No you won't. I'm always a distant second to your one true love."

She hears him fall back into bed. She returns to her computer, her fingers dancing across the keyboard.