I was told by older relatives and friends that going to college would be the best experience ever in more ways than one. Supposedly, I was going to meet a boy and have wild sex parties with lots of booze and do things I’d never tell my parents about.
Unless I became a lesbian overnight, my little college didn’t have enough suitable sex partners to go around. Girls outnumber the boys by a big margin. All the cute guys don’t last very long. Forget about the creepsters, I’d as soon hang on to my virginity. Continue reading “Sunday Quickie: Laundry Day”
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Apologies if this is a story I’ve repeated. First, I didn’t realize how many of these flash stories I had. Second, I need a better organization system. Enjoy!
On Tuesday, I didn’t go to the grocery store to just get laid. I didn’t have to go in the first place, my cupboards and fridge had enough food for a few days. Only needed eggs, milk, and butter. So I wore cut-off jeans that were cut off a wee bit too short, and a low-cut tank top that showed off the little freckled cleavage I have. And what of it if I wore dark wrap-around shades so I could check out guys without them knowing?
Just a typical loony day at the store in the sweltering summer. Every aisle was packed with people and their loaded shopping carts. I used a hand-basket so I could zip around the store and be done. All my stuff was on the outside sections anyway. But I wanted to walk down the frozen aisle anyway. Continue reading “Sunday Quickie: The Tuesday Dairy”
It started with her fingernails and hair. Linda always painted her nails in funky colors and designs—red skulls, blue flowers, pink dubious shapes that might’ve been lips of one type or the other. And she used those nails to torture me right before orgasm.
She’d ride me non-stop, our sweaty bodies slapping together and making a musky sexy smell, and then suddenly she’d be scratching me up and down my sides. I’m ticklish as hell, and I always squirmed and laughed despite being near the edge of orgasm.
Then Linda lowered her head so her hair brushed against my face, tickling me even more. Continue reading “Sunday Quickie: Tickled to Orgasm”
Nate sat to one side of the easel, dry paint brush in one hand, color wheel in the other. Dirty sunlight filtered in through the venetian blinds. We had Vivaldi playing on the CD player, just some soft music to set the mood. I had a half eaten BLT on a napkin off to one side, a ginger ale next to that. I was almost done with my painting—a self portrait of him, curly black hair tangled up as if he just rolled out of bed, five o’clock shadow, steely blue eyes that could chip ice.
Oh yeah, and we were both naked. Continue reading “Sunday Quickie: Paint By the Numbers”
Mark had promised me a birthday gift for a week, and for seven whole days I badgered him to tell me what it was. My boyfriend of too many years simply shrugged in that not-so-innocent way of his, and evaded my rapid-fire question bombing. He was the only man I knew who could withstand the barrage.
Finally, on Friday night he walked in the door, holding a small brown paper bag in one hand, slipping off his necktie with the other. I dragged him to the bedroom, ignoring the cordon bleu I had prepared earlier, and ripped half his suit off.
“Where’s my gift?” I said. Continue reading “Sunday Quickie: In the Bag”
It was a Thursday afternoon, sunny out, warm enough to be pleasant and cool enough to be autumn. I’d just gotten home from my Advanced Russian Lit class at the university. Quick bite of ramen soup and cherry soda while checking email, and then I was done for the day. Time to play.
My apartment in those days was small. The kind of place a giant sized hamster would feel cramped in, but tidy and clean and it was all my own. The single room had a queen sized bed, a floor lamp, and a small kitchenette. I had enough space to cram a desk for my laptop and another table to sit the TV on. No cable. I streamed and watched DVDs while sitting upright in bed. Suited me just fine. Continue reading “Sunday Quickie: Interrupted”
I’d been giving free guitar lessons to Helen the neighbor lady for eight weeks, in return for her housecleaning skills. My condo had never been cleaner thanks to her. And she was steadily improving as a guitarist. Not jamming Hendrix riffs yet, but eight weeks of practice helped her a ton.
This was supposed to be the end of our agreement. After this, no more guitar lessons, no more housecleaning. Continue reading “Sunday Quickie: The Last Guitar Lesson”