Part 1: Fantasy Release Therapy

Change is your essence; see its companion, failure. Both are glorious. The words soar through my mind on the wings of orgasm. Fragmented thoughts tear me away from mortality into the infinite space of joy. How we recognize the eternity between yesterday and tomorrow in the surf of time when pleasure clings to the endless moment is in the climax of communion only heard by lovers. Anita’s contractions continue—forever—as if her insides are dry and thirsty for my flowing need to give…

“What if we start an escort business… become prostitutes.” Anita tightens to exclaim with laughter or disbelief. Both? I don’t give her a chance. “I read about a male playwright who supported himself that way until his writing got going… he was older too. We’ll work together. You look so young and pretty we would have no trouble getting clients, and what better way to learn about how people truly behave. Clinical observations and public surveys are bullshit and…”

We’ve all been there, entered a land that has been well traveled but the paths to get us where we want to go are not marked to match our expectations. Many turn back. If I had to do this alone, I never would have considered it. But with Rod and I together, it just seemed natural…

ALICE: In the wind on a puff of smoke, that drifts through the mind with lazy days of seasons never spent and places never went, floats a lady—Thin as a plate of asparagus and green beans wrapped inside a sliver of poached sole and soaked in the juice of a lemon. Half a lemon. …With us we have a lady. A willow that lives on the languid shores of fluid assets: runoff from the solid embankments that grow tall and formidable by staying still and waiting for the waves of the masses, hungry and searching, to come to them to borrow and to buy. “I don’t know how far I want to go.” She unbuttons her jacket and hands it to Roxy. “Maybe for the first time we could… just kiss… and maybe we could cuddle in our underwear.” So between the sheets she is between us. “I feel so protected. No one can find me.” Indeed. She is so thin we have trouble separating her from ourselves as she twists and tangles into our arms and legs…

DON AND YVONNE: Don and Yvonne is the story many sex crusaders dream will happen before impotence strikes down their inconstant puppet. …With my eyes closed it’s impossible to tell who is licking at his head or who’s nibbling at his base as husband and wife share Woodstock. Except for the stubble that bristles within a few hours of shaving, no matter where the lips kiss whiskers are the only way to tell a man’s from a woman’s kiss. Inside, a mouth has no gender. Surprisingly, men sucking my penis tend to be gentler than I prefer. And they usually ask if they’re doing it right. But Don followed Yvonne’s obvious comfort with this intimate act. The lady he loves teaches her man how to suck another man’s cock…

Part 2: Relief From The Same

March 6, 1987. Four fire trucks, ambulances, police cars and to convince us that Roderick was in real trouble a helicopter circled overhead. I don’t remember parking or walking through the maze of onlookers, police and reporters. A cameraman hid behind a tree with his camera on his shoulder; he targeted us in his lens. It was raining, not heavy, the drizzle we often get on the coast in the spring—more like thick fog than rain. It was cold. And we shivered on that mountaintop for two hours before the police sent us away to Emergency at Royal Colombian Hospital. Two hours later another cop, older, red-faced and gentled-down for such occasions told us Roderick was dead. And we are sucked into a vacuum of accelerated space where life is counted in painful seconds as it spins us into an alien void…

Describe a Wendy Special please. The Wendy Special is very simple, but, as with all physical sexual expressions, it requires practice for perfection. For now let’s presume you know how to perform a decent cunnilingus and won’t pounce on her clitoris and suck until her new hairdo winds up in her throat. Or yours. So, you’ve teased, licked vaginal lips, tongued inside her and determined how sensitive her clitoris is. Hopefully she doesn’t depend on a vibrator for orgasm unless your tongue can oscillate at 2000 licks per second. Now separate your fingers like Mr. Spock, only let the small finger loose from the ring finger…


Jack, as in off, is the most complex of our clients. Certainly, we are all intricate beings when broken down into parts. Portions of us are often much more interesting than the whole because the total of our character is formed in the dehumanizing blender of politics, religion and corporate advertising and must come out neutral to be considered a success as the politically correct, financially secure bore. I’m sure many that have shared our bodies are more intricately composed then he. But, within our bordello, none have been disassembled and put back together with such detail as Jack…

Part 3: Child Abuse Begins At Home

For some, pain is the key to open the door to sexual gratification, and though much has been fictionalized about men who need humiliation to release them from the great responsibility of their power over others, we have found no such distinction. If there is a common thread within the masochists we’ve met, it is guilt. With subservience playing an important role after their decision, as children, that they are “good-for-nothing.” Obviously the wealthy can indulge more frequently in that which wives are rarely asked to perform, and that may account for the conception that masochism is a game for the powerful. But I have spanked many a bottom that can barely afford the underwear they remove prior to whipping, and they have hoarded dollars for months for the experience of humiliation at the hands of a mature woman. It is the one time when I truly recognize my age as a plus. I doubt that many men go to young prostitutes for this type of sex. Old men may wish to spank young girls but seldom wish to be spanked by them…

We do meet from time to time, in the candlelit depths of our boudoir, the truly Truly-peculiar. Geoffrey professed to be a teacher of sorts although he did not tell us of what sorts he did teach. Prior to paying for his keep by educating those less supplied with imagination, he had apparently served time harassing travelers as a customs inspector. …From behind a voice cracks like ice dropped into a glass. “Sooooodoooomizer.” Totally incoherent. Again, it wails, “soooodoooomiiizeeeer.” It sounds as if Geoffrey is ordering a drink after having three too many…

Part 4: Closure

There is no escape. Not from a tragedy that takes every feeling you cherish and shatters those feelings and drops the fragments at your feet. Then the world around you tells you to pick up the pieces and get on with your life. And the ugliest word of all is closure. And it was used like a knife in a misguided attempt to slice the physical essence of Roderick from our hearts on the day he died. Closure: A terrible expression from innocent-ignorance when the only way to survive is to open. Open to all life that goes on and surrounds you with a circle that tightens like a noose around your emotions if your emotions stand still.

Shall I close my eyes to the naked beauty weaving on a bed of thick black hair? Close my eyes and fantasize when this jewel of fantasy lies beneath me? With closed eyes the potent sound of her name sends me searching through our trips to the islands. Kona: a wind that blows contrary to the Trade Winds, a gale that pounds the protected side of paradise, a storm that gives the lee-side of Hawaii a chance to face a storm. A tempest lies beneath me. I open my eyes, just a squint to let the beauty in—A gaze that does not stare. Water pools around my burning pupils; eyelashes add texture and haze to wonder. My mind drifts away from insecurity into a surreal pool of splendor. I bend slowly into the wind until my face is buried in black waves. The gale pounds the senses of my skin with the gentlest of touch as I’m wrapped in arms and thighs and breasts and hair. I’m helpless and drowning. Kona is not. Her back lifts up from its bed of silk waves and a strong, soft hand finds my thrashing buoy and guides it into the heart of the hot sucking cyclone—Down to its depths of pulsing solid-liquid…

Part 5: A Misdirected Indiscretion

Curiosity does expose fools. Two months later and Roxy and I are stretched out naked on our bed. I’m on top of her as we kiss. Three cameramen line up behind us with our asses as their focus. Their asses are fighting for space with a wall of bookshelf, a wall of mirrored closet doors and a wall of draped window. A boom man records our sexual sounds with a microphone held over our slurping mouths. The director lounges on a toilet seat to direct the scenes with a monitor set up in our private bathroom. The guest bathroom has become our dressing-undressing room and Roxy’s lingerie closet. Seated in the next bedroom without monitor or view of our bed-turned-to-stage is an obese baseball-capped man who apparently mixes his sounds of music with our sounds of sex. A makeup lady and the producer sip coffee in the living room.

Sex is a lot of fun. And it has great potential to be funny, especially after a mutually satisfying, loving session. For Anita and I silly works in British comedy but not erotically, and stupid is an adjective we save for political speeches and other asexual events such as circumcision and funeral rites. Roxy, with a smile in her eyes that could be mistaken for desire takes a producer’s-choice off the nightstand. Silly and stupid don’t work for this one. Absurd is the word…

Part 6: Wise is the Man Who Laughs and Who Sings

WINSTON: The quintessential English gentleman is a Pervert-in-waiting. …Much too soon to suit Roxy and I, there is trouble in paradise. Angelina grew to loath working with Yuki. “I’ll come no more unless SHE stays away.” Jealousy, that bitter-sweet anguish that in its glory can melt the macho skin off the back of a redneck’s neck, finds its victims in the most unlikely zones of star-tossed sex. …Our patron, now invested with much time and money, strips the rubber off his, to our amazement, still erect member, slips on another and just as quickly slips into FL’s pussy. Passively, she accepts his assault and those distinctive nipples flop about her chest like tiny wave-tossed fish on a barren beach as Winston vents his frustration on her pelvis. Not so much as a deep breath from FL. “You like?” He pants as if he needs to fantasize that she is here for a sensual experience, and he is her favored lover. FL checks the clock by the bed. “You come I like. I like you come.” “I’m not ready.” “You come quick. I like.” Her eyes for Winston fixed on the clock…

Part 7: Beyond The Guilded Myths

MORRIS AND LACEY: Her voice so sweet. So unexpected, so filthy sweet. Woodstock parks under her chin faster than that speeding bike on that highway to hell. Several licks and kisses and he’s prepared for entombment in rubber for the chance at cremation inside her perfect body. Little hands fit Woodstock with a gentleness that makes his head swell with vanity over such loving attention. Morris kisses his lady, expresses his true love and scurries back to his seat so as not to miss the main event. His chair is three feet from the end of the bed and my ass is soon two feet from the center of the bed and Lacey’s thighs are open and I touch my penis against the lips of her cleft and bend forward onto my elbows and kiss the lips her husband just kissed. …Our experience as surrogate-lovers has dispelled many of the stereotyped myths we carried into the business from over fifty years of accepting and observing. If anyone had suggested to Rod that a healthy, attractive, well-educated, very successful businessman would pay to watch him make love to the man’s beautiful wife, Rod and I would have said that will only happen in Rod’s dreams. Morris and Lacey and many others have expanded our beliefs. We have been expanded in totally unexpected areas. The stereotyped middle-aged male as a quick-in-and-out-then-back-to the-game macho overweight bore is probably the most common myth that has been expelled for us. Sadly, the overweight factor is very common, but the hardest issue with a male client is to get him to say good-bye after orgasm. They love to cuddle with us on our bed and talk about their life, their loves and why we do what we do and how do we stay together and love each other while doing it? Except for those inclined to spankings, men are generally easy-going and relatively uncomplicated sexually. Women are not. …There is now no doubt in our minds that the female is the true sexual being. Once free of dogma the lady becomes an artist of sexual ecstasy—Or, at the very least, a hunter in uninhibited wilderness…

Rachael has all the rewards one expects when they go down on a lady, all I can want and much more. With Woodstock in her mouth and me at her cunt she wraps her legs around me and pulls me tight as I nibble and tease her clitoris and insert two fingers into a wide open vagina. Inside she feels thick as warm succulent flesh surrounds and caresses my fingers. Very soon she clenches me with her thighs and the deep pelvic muscles that shape her vagina contract and hold. Suddenly the walls gripping my fingers seem to disappear. Her vagina balloons and my fingers twitch in emptiness; for several seconds I search for walls to this suddenly spacious cavern. Until her pelvis contracts, her entire body vibrates, the walls come crashing back in search of my fingers, and my mouth fills with hot liquid…

Part 8: Myths, Clones & Stereotypes

The pleasure becomes ours, the three of us dancing as one to the singular tune that gives us reason to live beyond the mundane confines of mere existence and the needs required for survival. Marsha holds Woodstock in a little hand and kisses me as if it’s me Rod’s cock is attached to, and I cup her genitals and let my fingers wander deep inside as my tongue plays in circles with hers. Rod’s hands fondle four breasts as he holds the little lady’s backside tucked tight against his tummy and he puts his arms around me and holds Marsha and I together as if she is the weld that holds Rod and I together. And the waltzing partners change positions in a reflex-like motion as rehearsed by immediate desire. A desire of free spirits dancing to the tune of hundreds of thousands of years of human evolution; a song with the notes of spring flowers and melting snow, of a baby feeding at mother’s breast, the song of the mating of life with our added tune, a joining of three bodies on the trip to the soul’s song of orgasm. It’s now that my Catholic sexual teachings work well for me. They provide a residual of guilt that takes me back to the excitement of innocence with just a flicker of conscience like a touch of spice added by the waiter after he serves a plate prepared by a connoisseur—When conditioned intellect is so important to avoid gluttony as we savor every mouthful…

Knights of a Vanishing Macho Court

Rob feels secure, yet incredibly sad and empty, in the truck he’s driven for years. The dry rolling valley, the insanely tortuous road that vanishes in the mist drifting up from the magnificent river far below, the beauty contrasting the destruction: it all seems pointless, addictive, hopeless, suicidal. There is no escape. He wipes away a trickle of tears, perhaps from the dust or perhaps from his mood, revs the engine, puts it in gear, releases the brakes and starts down the hill. He’s driven mountain roads thousands of times over the past seven years with butterflies in his gut and a load of logs on his ass: tons of logs chasing him down narrow roads that get steeper every year. Tips of the logs on Scott’s truck disappear around the first corner. Exhaust funnels from chromed pipes as Scott shifts gears and Rob wonders how the new truck handles on this first real corner with its first load of logs. The dust is six inches thick and Scott’s truck tires stir it into a soupy mist that hangs above the road. It will rise higher with every truck until it blankets the road like thick fog and creates a sensation of floating on a cloud: a hypnotic blend of fear and comfort that sucks the driver’s concentration into a dream-like distant void of memory and fantasy. What in hell am I doing here? Mum, I hope to hell you’re not watching. I promise you I’ll quit. I promise you, Mary, I’ll quit. Davy, don’t turn out like me. I don’t know what to do. A forest fire, that’s what we need. A raging fire will clear away all the mess logging has made to this valley and everything can start fresh and new.

A pickup with rifles displayed menacingly across the back window and three men heading up to kill deer, takes up far too much of the road. The driver is terrified by the sheer cliffs on his side of the road, but a blast from Rob’s air horn convinces him to move as suddenly the truck bearing down on him is far more frightening than the cliffs. Rob takes a corner that kicks back into another steep bend in the opposite direction then up a slight rise and now over a small hill then level into a short straight stretch before I run into the sharpest corner on the road. Man, I know this deadly road by heart.

He crests the hill.

What the fuck is going on up there? A camper van has stopped in his path and four people stand in front of it waving their arms. What in the hell are you doing? You bloody idiots get off the fucking road. I can’t stop this goddamned thing in that space! Rob starts to gear down. His reflexes press the brakes much too hard. The trailer brakes are too weak for the load. The trailer pushes him into a skid as it gains speed on the cab. A jackknife! Ease off the truck brakes. Straighten with just the air brakes. He wonders if the new truck has more braking power. He gears down as fast as the truck can handle, double clutching, shifting two levers with two hands. The engine strains as the truck slows. The weight keeps pushing the rig deeper into a jackknife.

People from the camper run for the banks. Frantically, desperately they climb. “Christ, there are two little kids! For God’s sake, people, run!” Rob screams, and shifts, and brakes, and fights with the steering. The family climbs as death gnaws at their backsides. “You god-damned idiots! Don’t you know you have to drive on the left side of these roads?” Rob screams and his voice echoes insanely-ineffectual inside the cab. “There are signs everywhere telling you. Jesus-fucking-Christ!” Rob’s mind functions far beyond his thoughts. It flashes a thousand images a second. His reflexes are agonizingly slow. The transmission is geared right down. His foot eases down on the brakes, harder and harder. The damned camper is right in the middle of the fucking road. I don’t have enough room to pass. That’s a two-hundred-foot drop. But, if I can get control, I might have enough room to get the cab past and hope that fucking van won’t tip the trailer over when we hit. Everything moves in slow motion. Rob has control of the truck just three-hundred-feet from the van and aims the huge cab at the narrow space between the camper van and the cliff. There isn’t enough room. No fucking way!

His mind is numb. The hood of his truck looms over the small, flat hood of the van. He stares inside the empty mobile home like a Peeping-Tom: an unmade bed, dishes in a tiny sink. The side mirrors of the truck smash the windshield of the camper. Huge wheel studs tear through thin steel. Metal shatters. Rob’s truck grinds away the sides of the pretty toy this idiot desk-jockey bought to take his family out to show them the forest. When the trailer hits that van I’ll be pushed over the cliff. The load of logs smashes the camper. Rob presses the brakes hard and fights to keep the wheels straight. The trailer slams the van up against the bank, and keeps on moving straight. Rob doesn’t feel the impact; the truck stops in a cloud of dust. He rests his head on the steering wheel. Good fucking Jesus! I hope to hell they all got out. He tries to open the door, but it’s jammed; he kicks with both feet until it grinds opens a foot, and he squeezes out.

“Is everyone all right? Did everyone get out?” He yells toward the van. The wreck lies on its side halfway up the ten-foot bank. All the steel on the topside has been stripped away: the seats and interior exposed. It has the look of a woman lying naked after she’s been ravaged by a savage intruder.

“Yes! We’re all okay, but look below!” Four voices answer in chorus as they point down the road ahead.

“Look below what?”

“The cliff! The cliff!” They yell and point toward the road ahead of Rob’s truck.

Rob walks to the front of his truck. His heart pounds; he can’t breathe. He looks down the road, trailer skid-marks dug deep into the dirt lead to the shoulder of the road and disappear. He yells. “Scott! Scott!” Rob runs to the edge of the cliff and looks over. Angus’ new truck lies two-hundred-feet below. It’s upside down. The cab has to be crushed like a small can by the tons of logs on the trailer. The wheels of the trailer are still turning. The air is full of dust.

“Oh, God, Scott, no! No! Scott!” Rob falls to his knees; his voice echoes around the little valley where the truck lies on its back.

Camelot’s Harvest

Every day after school I ran through the acres of trees and every day the orchard was stripped of more fruit. The farm that was alive with activity became emptier and quieter until all the trees were barren and silent. I walked alone beneath the rows of naked, lonely branches. My warm breath formed fog as I exhaled, and I shivered from the first chill of autumn. I ran down the deserted rows of trees, afraid to look behind; chased by a cold, cutting fear running up my spine. A veiled phantom had control of the orchard, of my playground. I ran into the house, slammed the door behind me and shivered by the stove.

After a dinner of English pot roast and roasted vegetables with burnt gravy, everyone sat around the stove and toasted the end of another season. The entire sixty acres of apples had been nurtured, picked and delivered. “Why is it so cold in here?” My mother asked. “The stove is stoked up so high we should be roasting.”

Grandpa checked the outside thermometer. “It’s ten below zero (Fahrenheit).” He said shivering from cold and uneasiness. “It shouldn’t be this cold for two months.”

“I think we’d better keep the fire burning until we’re ready for bed.” Dad packed in more firewood. “Damn it’s cold out there.” He threw an armload of fresh-cut wood into the wood box.

“Heat up some water for the hot water bottles, Maritsa.” Grandpa’s teeth chattered as he spoke to Grandma. “Our bed will be cold.” Chairs scrapped across the floor as we formed a semicircle around the big stove in an effort to get warm before braving the frigid bedrooms and the icy sheets. Last night was so hot we sat out on the verandah and watched the sunset through the haze of tobacco smoke as the heat from cooking supper drove us outside. Tonight we huddled together in silence; the only sound was the crackling fire. Everyone was quiet, listening. Listening for what?

The first sound was a loud, piercing crack as if a high powered rifle was fired outside the kitchen door. The next was a rumble from a distance, an echo, but so close. “What was that, Dad?” I warily asked my father.

“That was the house groaning because it’s cold.” Uncle Harry laughed timidly.

I checked out Harry, shook my head and sighed, then referred back to Dad. “What was that noise?”

“The house is cold, and it’s shivering.”

“I don’t think so, Dad, houses don’t shiver. What was that noise, Grandpa?”

Grandpa looked at me, he looked at Grandma sitting with her head bowed, and then he stared straight at my father as he spoke. “That’s the trees freezing. They are so cold they are splitting. It’s too cold too early. The trees are full of sap, and the sap is freezing. It will kill the trees, and there’s nothing we can do.” Young Red Delicious trees which two weeks before were full of apples, groaned as if in pain. Their branches, still succulent with leaves and sap, expanded and exploded as the liquid in their limbs turned to ice. My family, huddled in the drafty old house, heard the screaming of trees breaking apart. The life in their branches and trunks froze and split them: ravished by giant axes of ice. Trees, that should be dormant with all the sap from their limbs and trunks safe in their roots waiting for spring, died in the breath of a freakish early frost. Thick trunks of healthy young apple trees were split wide exposing their insides like gaping wounds. Branches cracked open with echoes that resounded around the valley below the orchard. Echoes beat like drums all night heralding the demise of my family’s dream.

The next morning I ran through the devastated orchard ahead of my father and grandfather. The frost had come and gone. Sap, that froze the night before, melted in the sunshine and ran down the branches and trunks of trees like blood oozing from wounds of dead and dying soldiers: soldiers with limbs hanging lifeless. “Why are all the branches broken and lying on the ground, Dad?” I asked.

“The trees are dead, Son. They froze. Half our damned orchard has been killed.” Dad spoke with a strained whisper as if afraid to put those words to this tragedy, afraid to make it real.

“These are the Red Delicious trees that froze,” Grandpa added sadly, “the apples that bring the most money. The later varieties of apples that make our profit are dead. All we have left are the big Macintosh trees; they don’t make as much money.”

“What the hell can we do now?” My dad asked. “It takes years to grow a tree the size of these.”

“We pull them out in the spring and plant new ones.” Grandpa answered. “That’s the way of a farmer.”

“I don’t think so, Grandpa, they’ll just freeze again,” I spoke with the sense of a child. “We should plant something that doesn’t freeze.”

“We should find work that pays for what we do and fuck this farming.” My dad’s voice cracked with such emotion I thought he was teasing.

“What does fuck mean, Dad?”