EMOTIONAL GEAR-STRIPPING
By Paul Jacek
This hug was lasting too long.
The man was shorter than I, smaller framed. Looking over the top of his head, I marveled at the Japanese lanterns hung in the trees, and the tables with candles. A warm summer evening, I was at a chic garden party celebrating a documentary for Showtime that I had been interviewed for.
As I was being introduced to the small man, he exclaimed, "I know him", and slammed his body into mine.
I have good manners, generally. He was deep into my chest, and mumbled, "how nice".
This hug is lasting way too long.
My next thought was, "Get off me!"
He finally leaned back, "You don’t know who I am, do you?
I HATE coy games.
I have gotten to the age I’m lucky if I remember what I’ve had for breakfast. As I have aged, I have discovered a new personal game; I play with myself called, "What’s this room?"
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JUST ANOTHER FAIRY TALE ROMANCE
by Mark Miller
Anyone who met him realized he was far from a special man. Seven hundred and twelve miles, to be exact. His voice was light, trivial, like a thistle bloom falling into silence without a sound, without any weight, as though a parakeet was being vacuumed out of its cage. His life-long projectile phlegm problem didn’t help matters.
Still, there was a manly aroma about him. It was the lusty odor of earth and cattle, mixed with the scent of Parisian nightlife and never-washed junior high school sneakers. He smelled tart and fruity and full of vitamin C, yet there was also the nauseating stench of low tide and crawling things and badly prepared Szechuan eggplant. And, of course, there was his beloved tattoo – the one of the transvestite bikers convention where his parents had met.
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