Author Archive

Marjory’s bag

September 2, 2010 7 comments

“Wondered if I could get your thoughts on a matter of some delicacy?”
“By all means, dear boy. Fire away”
“About ladies’… *ahem*… bags.”
“Bags, eh? More port, Godfrey?”
“Don’t mind if I do. Most kind.”
“Bags, you say?”
“Yes. Marjory’s bag in particular.“
“Not sure I’m much of an authority on bags, dear boy.”
“Nor me. Part of the problem really.”
“What seems to be the trouble?”
“Marjory’s bag. Not what it was.”
“What it was?”
“When we met. She had a very nice little bag back then. New one.”
“Something special?”
“Special? No, no. Quite the contrary. Rather plain, neat, very charming. Discrete, you might say.”
“This really is an excellent cigar.”
“Thank you.”
“Terrible about Fortescue, by the way.”
“And the cricket.”
“Oh, let’s not.”
“Between you and me, I’m quite fascinated by bags. Out of admiration of course, nothing sordid.”
“Of course not, who would suggest such a thing?”
“Really quite astonished at what the Missis has managed to produce out of such a tiny bag over the years. Capacity wise. All things considered it’s lasted rather well.”
“Goodness yes, sometimes Audrey produces entire picnics from hers.”
“Picnics? I…That’s to say, when I say bag, what I mean to say is…”
“Oh I see! Oh good gracious, how silly I am. Terribly sorry.”
“My fault entirely.”
“So, of course, Marjory’s bag…”
“Become a little worn. Rather thin and bashed about. Which I understand is not unusual for ladies d’un certain age. So I suggested she got a new one.”
“I say.”
“Yes. Know a chap. you see: Staughton. He’s in the business, as it were, very respectable. Gave his wife a new one last month. By all accounts they’re both quite delighted.”
“Well then, that sounds like just the ticket. Perhaps I should speak to Audrey about it too.”
“Marjory was most put out.”
“She says that new bags are terribly nouveau. Said that her bag is perfectly serviceable. An extravagance, she called it. Spent the rest of the afternoon lopping the heads off flowers.”
“Good gracious. Nouveau, did she say?”
“Terribly nouveau.”
“My word, old boy, it’s a minefield.”

Godfrey’s penis

August 29, 2010 10 comments

“First had the suspicion the penis was shrinking the morning after Jeremy’s wedding.”

“How was it, old boy? Good do?”

“Yes, yes, very smart. Excellent service.”

“Good-oh. So, the penis, you say?”

“Yes. Bit of a shrinkage situation.”

“Had a chap out to look at it?”

“No. Doctors are terribly busy these days, doesn’t seem appropriate to bother them with penis deflation. Wouldn’t you say?”

“Well, yes, when it’s put like that…”

“After all, one expects some attrition with age.”

“We’re not the young men we were.”

“Way of the world.”

“Yes. Yes.”

“Surprised, though, how noticeable the difference was. It was rather…”



“Goodness, that does sound a tad alarming, if I might say so.”

“Thought at first it was perspective; a little wide around the midriff these days.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, in percentage terms, what sort of a, um, reduction have you experienced?”

“Percentage? Oh my dear boy, there’s hardly any of it left.”


“The bare minimum.”

“Perhaps a doctor would be in order nevertheless?”

“That’s the funny thing, Not sure I want patching up.  Never been happier.”

“My word.”

“Taken a weight off the old shoulders.”

“Excellent, excellent.”

“Yes. More whisky, old chap?”

“Wouldn’t say no. Much obliged.”

Peach (2) – by Claire King

June 5, 2010 9 comments

I don’t see him all day, he’s up in his office with the air-con cranked up, working on his papers. But then around 5.25 he starts up like a teenager – sprays on cologne, brushes his teeth, so when she gets in from Kroger he’ll be fresh for all the PDAs. He brushes his teeth with hot water; I’ve seen him. What is that?

Ugh, whatever. She’s, like, eight years older than me, and he’s getting ready to retire. It’s disgusting. Way to go, Dad, Mom would be so proud of you.

They love it when I ‘stay over at my girlfriends’. Petting in privacy in the den, eating take-out, watching her belly grow round. He bought me the car when they found out she was knocked up. My consolation prize.

Today it’s the gas station guy.  He was a way down the list but he’s easy-pickings. I’m early parking up, so I get a soda and stand out front looking like some kind of hooker. But the night’s warm and there’s a stand of gardenia right by me. Smells like heaven.

He’s here at last and playing Springsteen. His eyes light up like a kid on Christmas day when I slide in beside him. He’s pleased to see me, all right. Damn it, though, he’s taking me to Joe’s bar on Lafayette and Tenth. Shit, Joe’s seen me here before with the biology teacher that gave me herpes. Nice twist on sex education, you asshole. But Joe’s OK. He looks at me funny, but then turns away, shaking his head a little, and pours the beers.

I’m a virgin, I tell Gas Station Guy. They love that shit.  He holds my hand. He has stubby, rough little fingers. Good. Then I drink my beer and shut up. Gas Station Guy can talk for both of us. I guess not many people listen to him.

Tomorrow morning I’ll tell him I’m feeling sick. Headache. He’ll give me Tylenol. I’ll tell him I don’t remember a thing. Then he’ll tell me nothing happened, that I was a little drunk, couldn’t say where I lived, passed out. The usual. I’ll thank him. Then he’ll leave for work early, tell me to make myself breakfast, close the door behind me. I won’t eat a thing in his crumby kitchen. Gross. But I’ll help myself to a little souvenir.  I’m a collector.

Peach – by Claire King

May 27, 2010 4 comments


by Claire King


Ah, shit, Man, she’s a peach. I know her Daddy.  Rough son-of-a-bitch. Old though. And rich. She’s standing outside the 7-11, skirt up round her ass. Ripe. She could be a whore but she looks way too classy. Plus she has a huge soda – I’d guess diet – and a Twinkie. I work kitty corner, at the Sunoco and I’ve been watching her since six-thirty. I’m getting off in ten minutes.

I drive the Chevy over, top down. I have to make four rights to get back over there. It’s a pain in the ass. She smiles mad, like she’s been waiting on me for hours.

Want to get a beer? I say.

I’m fifteen, she says.

You don’t look it.

There’s oil stains on my arms and I stink from the heat, but I got Springsteen in the deck – always a winner. Just like that, there she is, sitting right next to me, Her legs open a crack in her little Barbie skirt.  All that skin. I’m telling you man; she’s a fucking grade A peach. What man in his right mind wouldn’t?

We park up on the corner of Lafayette and Tenth. The place is still half empty, strip–lit in blue. The bartender looks at me funny.

Rags, he says. And he pours the beers. Oily Rags, that’s what the sons-of-bitches call me in this joint. They’re as close to family as I got, though. I order beers.

The girl’s at the jukebox. The whole damn bar is staring at her ass and she knows it. But she ain’t playing it. She’s put on some goddam sentimental shit. The regulars groan, but when she comes back to the bar she takes the cigarette from my mouth and puts it in her own. She sucks it hard, and she knows what she’s doing. Jesus.

I’m a virgin, she says. Just so you know.  I hold her hand and she relaxes a little.

I love Foreigner, I say.

Four beers later and she’s falling through the screen door.  I scoop her up, over the couch and I pull up that skirt. I’m still good to go on four beers. My cock is hard. Not that she’d notice either way.

Who’s your Daddy? I say. And I slap her ass.