Tag Archives: fiction

Fiction: Fairy Tale of New York

Washington Square Park covered in fairy tale snow

Washington Square by David Carrales

New York is rarely quiet. The city’s a living thing, with subcutaneous systems and concrete skin. But New York in winter is different. In January, the city drifts in and out of sleep in the hours before dawn, when snow and ice muffle its pulse.

She is new to the city. It’s her first winter here. Fresh out of high school, she’s a fragile thing with hollow eyes and delicate wrists. Her father calls her a ghost. She hates it when he does.

Her fragility scares and angers her. She bristles into mirrors that reveal her sensitive bones. They are the sort of bones that get broken by wind and circumstance. She doesn’t want to get broken. She’s afraid she already is.

She leaves her dorm just before dawn – she has rehearsal before class. She pads through the lobby of the old brownstone that the University gutted and made a dorm. It’s charming from the outside, but it looks like an asylum above the ground floor. She breathes better whenever she leaves, even on mornings when the wind singes her face as it whips down 5th.

She usually goes around the park, rather than cut through Washington Square, but it’s 6am and the snow is fresh and no one is around. Besides, the smell of snow is comforting – it reminds her of mountains and home. The mountains are clean and simple. For all that she likes the city, nothing is simple here. Nothing, really, is clean….

She walks carefully down the icy street, watching her feet in their shearling boots and dreaming restless dreams. She thinks about boys she wants to fuck, and girls she wants to kiss. She has never had sex and she has never kissed a girl. She’s not the girl who gets kissed. She’s best friends with that girl.

She reaches the arch that frames Washington Square and looks up as she passes through. The city sounds hush and stop. Everything is still. Even her breath hangs, suspended, perfect and round, like a drawing of a cloud. The world within the arch is pure and white, relieved by slashes of black wrought iron and even blacker trees.

She takes a step back, afraid to ruin the snow. She’s a girl in the beast’s garden, but there is no father and no rose.

“Sasha!”

She jumps at the sound of her name. The syllables break the spell. She turns around, annoyed, until she sees who it is.

“Lana, it’s freezing! Why are you out?”

“You forgot this when you left. You can’t rehearse without a script.”

Her roommate hands her a binder. She looks like a Russian princess with her long blond hair and snow leopard eyes. Normally, they’re lined, gothic and black, but it’s early morning and her face is as clean and untouched as the snow. For a moment, Sasha imagines an old-fashioned sled taking them both away.

“Thanks, Lana,” she says, feeling awkward and cold. She’s stood in one place for too long.

“No worries, Sash. I was up anyway.”

Neither girl moves.

“I should… I should get going. I shouldn’t be late.”

Sasha turns away. She’s blushing and she doesn’t know why. She lives with Lana. There are no secrets in their room. But something in Lana’s measured gaze makes her feel like something’s changed.

“Mind if I walk with you?”

“You’re barely wearing a coat! Look – your hands are blue!”

Sasha reaches for Lana’s naked hand, but Lana pivots and links their arms.

“So snuggle and keep me warm.”

Sasha doesn’t argue. Lana is like that. She makes decisions on impulse and rarely changes her mind, but disaster never touches her. Disaster wouldn’t dare.

Together, Lana and Sasha step onto the snow, creating deep deliberate prints and moving like Siamese twins. Suddenly, Lana shivers.

“Maybe I should have worn a better coat.”

“And gloves,” Sasha says, stopping beside a bench. “Come here….”

She takes Lana’s hand in hers, intending to give her her gloves. But the park is a frozen garden again, and they are princesses in snow…. Following an impulse so old she can’t stop, Sasha slips Lana’s fingertips into her mouth, holding the other girl’s ice cold skin against the liquid heat of her tongue.

Her heart hammers but she can’t stop, and Lana doesn’t pull away. Their breath combines like a fractal bloom, warming the space between them. Sasha begins to suck, running her tongue over Lana’s skin in tiny, liquid strokes. Lana sighs.

“Don’t stop.”

Sasha freezes. The impulse that got them there leaves her and she feels too shy to move. Lana gives her a measured look. She looks ancient and wise, like the keeper of secrets Sasha wants to know. There’s so much she wants to know…

Lana strokes her cheek. Then her mouth moves over Sasha’s, like every boy she’s ever kissed. But Lana’s lips are soft and her skin is even softer, softer than a boy’s, and she cups Sasha’s neck like a dream – the dream of a restless girl who’s been brought up to look for a prince.

Their tongues touch and Sasha imagines Lana’s mouth between her legs. Sasha clenches her thighs. She’s strong. Not fragile. She’s feeling so much that she’s melting the trampled path.

They move closer, ignoring the cold as they pull at zippers and fumble with scarves. The bench feels like a bed. They’ve left the mundane world and bloom, surrounded by black and white.

Crunches in the snow.

Sasha looks up. A man goes by with a funny, little dog. He smiles and nods and keeps walking, making careful, deliberate prints. Sasha watches him go.

“When do you have to be at rehearsal, Sash?”

Lana bites her lip. It’s plump and pink and freshly kissed, and Sasha wants to keep it that way.

“I’m skipping rehearsal today.”

It may be several days after Christmas, but Exhibit A has been kind enough to leave all the prompts from his Awesome Christmas Erotica meme open until midnight on December 31st.

This story has very little to do with The Pogues EXCELLENT song, “Fairy tale of New York” (which ranks near the top on my favorites list). While the song is a glorious, semi-drunken duet that *always* makes me smile, this story is rooted in something that actually happened to me – a frigid walk through Washington Square Park one dawn in early January. The sight of Washington Square, quiet and covered in untouched snow, has stayed with me for many years. It seemed the perfect setting for this. 

To read more seasonal erotica and nonfiction, head on over to Exhibit A’s site. Click here to catch the prompts and participate (there’s still time!). And click here to see who else has made merry this December.

Flash Fiction: The Holly & The Ivy

A portrait of a young Tudor era woman

Portrait of a Young Woman thought to be Catherine Howard, Met Museum, NYC

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It will be different with me, she thinks as he presses her down to her knees. Silk rustles as she bends like a young rose on a fragile stem. He smiles, and she takes heart. He is gentle with her now, this great man, larger than life, with hands like paws and a mind like jagged trap. He will be different with me.

Green groweth the holly,
So doth the ivy.
Though winter blasts blow never so high,
Green groweth the holly.

He removes her wedding gown and she bows before him. He is already undressed. His vast, bear-like body, once wrapped in velvet and fur, fills her vision like the sun. She shivers. His fingers, so gentle with the outer casing of her gown, bite into her skin. He wants her, she knows. He has told her as much. He has written and told her so.

As the holly groweth green
And never changeth hue,
So I am, ever hath been,
Unto my lady true.

He is impatient and entitled as he grips her head. She opens her mouth and complies. She is no prudish Catholic, but neither is she a whore. Her cousin was a whore, an incestuous whore. She betrayed him and lost her head, spilled her blood all over the block, red as the holly he wrote about. Red blood on a dark green dress.

As the holly groweth green
With ivy all alone
When flowers cannot be seen
And greenwood leaves be gone,

There will be no blood with me, she thinks. I will keep his love. I will keep it evergreen. He grips her head harder, guiding her mouth as she sucks his cock with a skill that she learned as a girl. That skill would not betray her. That skill, and the gift of a pliant throat and an equally pliant nature, will keep me queen, she thinks.

Now unto my lady
Promise to her I make,
From all other only
To her I me betake.

Her eyes stream as his cock batters the back of her throat. She feels the bulk of his body tense. He’s getting close. She wills herself slack and feels the drool dripping down her chin onto her pretty white breasts. When he comes, he comes like an animal, grunting and thrusting into her mouth as if she were a thing. I will be his cherished thing, she thinks, gagging on his spend.

Adieu, mine own lady,
Adieu, my special
Who hath my heart truly
Be sure, and ever shall.

He tastes overly sweet, and beneath that a bitterness that makes her gag again, but she swallows and swallows and swallows. Then she smiles as she knows he wants her too, and lavishly licks her lips. I will do what I must do, she thinks. I will survive the love of this man.

Post Script: 

The italicized poem is called “Green Groweth the Holly” by Henry VIII. The lady whom it addresses is unknown but, for the sake of this piece, I imagined it to be his ill-fated 5th wife, Catherine Howard, cousin to Anne Boleyn and the second of his six wives to be accused of treason and beheaded.

The story was inspired by “The Holly and the Ivy” – a traditional Christmas carol and one of the prompts in Exhibit A‘s Awesome Christmas Erotica Meme. A new song title goes up every day between now and Christmas so click here to catch the prompts and participate (you should!). And click here to see who else is making merry this December.

Fiction: Bluebeard’s Clever Wife

Gary Cooper & Claudette Colbert in Bluebeard's Eighth Wife (1938)

Gary Cooper & Claudette Colbert in Bluebeard’s Eighth Wife (1938)

A few week’s ago, I wrote a post called Death and the Maiden in which I mentioned Angela Carter’s story “The Bloody Chamber”. That story is an adaptation of the Bluebeard fairy tale, my favorite fairy tale in the entire world…which probably says a lot about me. 

Given that it’s been a bit serious around here lately, I decided to lighten things up with my own adaptation of the Bluebeard story. I wrote “Bluebeard’s Clever Wife” a couple of years ago and it’s been languishing in a file ever since. It’s not erotic, sexy or even remotely hot, but I do think it’s kind of romantic…in an Addam’s Family kind of way. At the very least, writing it made me smile. Hopefully, reading it will do the same.  

Bluebeard’s Clever Wife

Once upon a time, a girl married a man. He had a shady reputation, but he gave her flowers and she thought that was nice. Plus, he was rich – not that she noticed, of course. So they married, and went to live at his castle, which was large and very isolated because he liked his alone time.

One day, shortly after they married, he told her that he was going on a business trip. He gave her the keys to every lock in the house and said that she could open them all, except for one.

“Don’t, under any circumstances, open that door,” he said, pointing to a large, black door with a big iron lock and a No Trespassing sign. “If you do, I’ll have to kill you. Fair warning.”

Then he left.

The bride was an obedient and dutiful soul, so she waited until he’d left to go to the forbidden room. What she found shocked her. Bits and pieces of his former wives were scattered about like puzzle pieces. Hands, torsos, heads… the place was a wreck. Unable to stand the mess, she went to work reassembling the ladies until they were all lined up, neat as pins.

She was just congratulating herself on a job well done when her husband came back home. Apparently, the whole thing had been a test! When he discovered her in his secret room, he was understandably upset, but she impressed upon him importance of keeping things tidy. Then she showed him her improvements, which included a clever little bucket for miscellanious parts.

Bluebeard was so struck by her logic, and by the convenience of having everything close to hand, that he quickly forgave her with a hearty laugh. From that day forward, he left the door unlocked, while she, inspired by her husband’s hobby, took up the study of anatomy. They lived happily ever after.

Fiction: Jack Rose & the Old Fashioned Girl

Jack Rose loved nothing more than the little seam that ran up the back of a woman’s leg. That thin, straight line led to beautiful things—garters and silk and soft, soft skin—all the things a man never saw until a woman was nice and mussed up.

backseamTrouble was, there weren’t too many of those seams to be had anymore. It was an old fashioned fetish for an old fashioned time. Sure, there were girls all dolled up with bright red lips and dark, inky eyes, but they weren’t the real deal—too much make up, to much dye, too much of everything, including trying too hard. The stockings they wore didn’t lead to silk and skin. More often than not, they ended in elastic so tight it could have kept foreign invaders out.

Platform hipster heels with a too short dress…. That was all fine and dandy for some guys, but not for Jack Rose. Jack wanted the real thing—a girl whose silk stockings glossed against the sway of a skirt that ended just below the knee. He wanted to trace the ridge of a real seam that ran straight and true all the way up her leg before he buried his face between her thighs. He’d been wanting that for a real long time. He’d gotten lots of near misses in hipster heels, but he’d never quite struck gold.

Then she walked into his bar—a lanky brunette with a wicked jaw, straight out of Dashiell Hammett. She wore a little tailored jacket with a tailored skirt that flared just below her knee. The minute he saw her, the whole place faded to smoky black and white, and he hadn’t even seen her legs.

The place was nearly empty. She had her pick of seats, but she slid right onto the stool directly in front of him.

“What’ll you have,” he asked, wiping at the spotless bar with a rag.

“An old-fashioned. Thanks.”

She looked expensive to the touch. Her angel face was smooth and unpowdered. Only her lips were made up, a ripe, gorgeous red that made him want to take a bite.

“You know how to make that, right?”

Jack started. He hadn’t meant to stare.

“Yeah,” he replied, clearing his throat. “Yeah, darlin, I’ve got it covered. You’re just the first person to ask for one in more than five years.”

She grinned then, showing dimples and pretty, white teeth.

“I guess I’m an old fashioned girl.”

Jack didn’t know what to say to that. All he knew was that he was dying to see her legs.

“Night, Jack!”

Jack looked up and waved as Sam and Kyle, a couple of die hard regulars, headed into the quiet night. “See ya, guys,” he called.

The place was empty now.

He took his time muddling the sugar with the booze. Then he set the tumbler in front of the girl.

“Thanks. How much do I owe you?”

“Do me two things and it’s one the house,” he said, wishing he still smoked.

“I don’t know how badly I want a free drink,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “How about you tell what you want me to do, and I’ll tell you how I pay.”

Jack smiled. He liked her. He liked her way too much.

“Sure,” he said, pouring himself a bourbon on the rocks. “First thing. Tell me your name, gorgeous.”

She nodded, shifting slightly in her seat. Jack watched as he took a sip, imaging that she’d just crossed her legs.

“Sure. My name is Myrna.”

“Myrna,” he murmured, nodding. It felt just right in his mouth.

“That’s a pretty name you’ve got.”

She smiled and leaned her elbows up on the bar. “Thanks. What’s the second thing?”

“Stand and up and turn around.”

Jack met her eyes just as her soft, open gaze shuttered. He rushed on, trying to explain.

“It’s nothing weird, I promise. It’s just… Forget it. Never mind. Drink’s on the house.”

Jack knocked back the rest of the bourbon with a clatter of ice against glass. He’d blown that one all right. Might as well start closing up.

“Wait,” Myrna said, smooth as fifty year old scotch. “I think that’s a fair trade. Providing….”

“Providing?”

“It’s a hell of a good drink.”

“Honey, that I can guarantee.”

Jack closed the till and watched as she slid of her stool and took three steps back. Then she slowly turned around. Long, black seams ran up her legs, from the heels of her spiky shoes to the scalloped edge of her hem.

“How’s that,” she said, meeting his eyes.

Jack cleared his throat.

“Not bad. I’d say we’re square.

“Like I said, that depends on how good your old-fashioned is.”

Still watching him, she sat back down and took a sip. She closed her eyes as her head tipped gently to one side, exposing the pale skin of her throat above the collar of her blouse. There was pleasure all over her face. He wondered if that’s how she looked when she came .

“How’s that,” he said.

“Oh… I’d say we’re square. In fact,” she said, opening her eyes, “I may owe you more than my name and a look at my legs.”

“Yeah?” Jack said, setting the rag aside. She was too damn good to be true.

“Yeah,” she said. “Why don’t you make yourself another drink?”

“Sure,” he said, “why not?”

With steady hands, Jack made himself an old-fashioned. Then he went around the empty bar, stopping just long enough to flip the closed sign over before taking the seat next to hers.

“What’s your name,” she said.

“Jack. Jack Rose.”

“Really? Jack Rose?”

“Yeah. My mom loved Hemingway.”

“That’s funny. I do too….”

A delicate flush colored her skin from collarbones to cheeks, as she slowly crossed her legs. Taking the invitation, Jack placed a hand lightly on her knee. When she leaned into him, he ran his hand down the back of her leg, over the perfect ridge of the seam. She sighed and bit her cherry red lip, as the scent of bourbon and sugar and Chanel filled his head. Goddamn. He wanted to muss her up.

Jack moved his hand back up her leg, pausing at her hem. She nodded, pulse skittering in her neck, so he allowed it to drift up her skirt, past the garters that kept those stockings in place, to a pair of silky knickers that were already damp and clinging to her sex.

Jack leaned in and kissed her. He loved an old-fashioned girl.

THE END

Note: I just wanted to quickly thank F. Leonora Solomon for our wonderful, wide-ranging conversations. This story was inspired by our mutual appreciation for the 1940’s and vintage underwear. She is a woman made of loveliness and class. Click here to read her drink – the Amaretto Sour.