Today's guest is Terrance Aldon Shaw, with a complete short story from his new collection The Moon-Haunted Heart.
The 50 very-short pieces in this collection of mature literary fiction range from as many as 4,000 to as few as 50 words, exploring the human condition through the lens of disability, pan-sexuality and erotic mysticism. Brief, richly atmospheric vignettes sit close to longer, more conventional mainstream stories. . . all distilled within that secret place where love and madness meet...
As pussies go, it isn’t bad—a plump, gibbous cornucopia insinuating itself ever-so sveltely between a pair of long slender legs, professionally waxed, tweezed and plucked for an imminent major lifecycle event.
It is one of those captivatingly photogenic cunnus vulvae you see lots of close-ups of in porno videos: the impossibly perfect epitome of the classic Cosmo cooch, the trendily empowered Sex and the City kitty, crouching demurely to strike, hissing and growling with impuissant menace. It is the kind of respectable mazelblum nice boys want to take home to meet their mothers, or, at least, invite out for a quick nosh with their schmickle. The type you want to touch just to feel all that velvety store-bought smoothness beneath your fingertips, or kiss just because you really like the taste—and who ever needs an excuse to chow down on punani?
I swear, sometimes, they call to me from between the bridesmaids’ thighs, their dulcet siren songs muted like the sound you get when you put your ear up to the aperture of a cowrie shell—which, come to think of it, looks uncannily like a vulva. They burble and sigh from inside their gossamer prisons—the frilly gussets and diaphanous drawers, hot-pink tangas like tulle fig-leaves, raspberry hipsters, tangerine boy shorts and sea-foam green bow cheekinis, French-cut mesh and jeweled G-strings like removable vajazzle facades, low-risers in turquoise and teal, fluorescent chartreuse bikini briefs and parti-colored thongs.
I’ve ‘traded up’ to best man and should, theoretically, have my pick of the litter tonight. They’ve all had Brazilian waxes, courtesy of the bride’s mother. Rumor has it, that imperious cougar’s gone in for some work herself and now looks even younger than her daughter down below. Visions of extremely expensive vaginal rejuvenation procedures, velvety Mohicans, taut flesh and glistening polished pearls do a dance of seven veils in my brain.
I look at my watch. We’ll all be meeting around the chuppah in about forty-five minutes.
Then I hear the call, soft but insistent, from one of the reserved suites on the eighteenth floor. A game of hide-and-seek, it seems, and I am it. No time to count to one-hundred. I rove the corridors, pretending to run an errand for the groom, following the music to—no! It cannot be! I find it where I least expect, beneath something borrowed, the Georgette halter babydoll from Victoria’s Secret that was supposed to be special for tonight.
“There’s not a lot of time.”
As if she needs to remind me.
A simpler gift was never given and I unwrap it with rough reverence, touched that she would offer it to me on this day of all days. Swathed in filigreed net without frills or flounces, mocking maiden-white, a bridesmaid no more in her lacey bridal thong.
She wraps her longs legs around my back as I do another man’s office. I am still fully dressed for the occasion to come, in black tie and tartan cummerbund, having had only enough warning to strip off my jacket. There is a death wish in my desperate pumping, the feral groans welling up from the back of my throat and the blazing torrent that bursts the dam below. I slump into her grudging embrace as orgasm overtakes me, my juddering limbs giving way.
“Not bad for a first try.” She rejects my kiss, not wanting to muss her makeup. Her body is suddenly rigid beneath me, alien, distant, cold. “Maybe next time you’ll actually get me to come, too.”
“Damn straight, boychik! Tonight, after the reception.”
“Are you sure?”
“Be up here, primed and ready, 11 ‘o clock sharp.”
“If you say so, but—”
“Do I look like I don’t mean what I say?”
“No, of course not. It’s just that—”
“Enough! Get out. I need to start getting ready.”
So this is what I’ve gotten myself into.
I only hope her daughter won’t be too scandalized on this, her special day.
Buy The Moon-Haunted Heart on
Amazon US :: Amazon UK
Terrance Aldon Shaw (TAS to his friends) was born and raised somewhere to the left of Chicago in that vast whitebread wilderness known as the American Heartland. As a kid, he passed the time by creating his own graphic novels and “pretend” screenplays, conversing with a brilliant circle of imaginary friends, and dreaming about escape from the stifling phony wholesomeness and pious pabulum of small-town life.
Now devoting full time to writing and reviewing, TAS specializes in mainstream fiction with strong erotic themes and explicit sexual content. His work might best be described as “psycho-rotica,” as he prefers to explore the complex, fascinating inner world of sex; the thoughts, feelings and emotion s that accompany the erotic experience.
Readers can find Terrance Aldon Shaw’s books in both electronic and traditional print at most on-line retailers. His reviews of erotic fiction, musings on the craft of writing, and the occasional free short story are posted on his blog, Erotica For The Big Brain.
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