* CRACKLE *
By ~ Zelda Martin
I met him on the stairs. I was going down into the basement, as he was coming up. The stairs were narrow. We stopped, at an impasse. His head was level with my hips. He looked at my crotch before he looked at my face. I tried to say "Hi, Danny," but my voice was stuck in his eyes. Smokey green eyes, they were, topped with dark brown hair, surrounded with smooth olive skin. He reached out his hands, put one on each of my hips. An electric charge crackled across my groin. "Don't, Danny," I think I said, or maybe thought I should have said. But he did, and I did, and we did, and we did again. And then I heard someone else on the stairs, and I was almost sorry I had ever come down those stairs, or at least thought I should have been sorry.
Turns out I was sorry that I wrote the above paragraph, because Stanley came into the room while I was typing it, and asked to read my story.
"Who's Danny?" he asked testily.
"Oh, no one. I just made him up. This is just a fantasy.
He shuffled off to the kitchen; I could hear him making popcorn. He eats it without butter or salt. That's just one of the differences between him and me. He likes his popcorn and his life plain, unadorned, unflavored. And I like mine with lots of butter and salt, and sugar and honey, dripping with hot, juicy, melting, sticky stuff, at least I think I do, or would if I could, I think, but I don't actually know, because, so far, the condiments have been in depressingly short supply.
Danny could have flavored my life very nicely if I had let him. But I didn't, couldn't, wouldn't, because I was married, but I wanted to, oh so badly. He wasn't a fantasy. He was a real, live, hard-muscled, flat-bellied Adonis who had worked with me in the factory, a long time ago. Those green eyes of his were like warm probes, sliding over my body like butter melting on a hot skillet. Everything in that paragraph was true, right up to the electric surge part, anyway, but at that point, what really happened was that I grabbed my voice and used it to say, "Excuse me," and turned to let him pass me...
...And when he did, he pressed against me, slid his hard chest across my breasts, and then reached behind me and slowly ran his hands down my butt and gently squeezed my thighs...
Damn. There I go again. Another variation of the story with one beginning and a thousand endings. Oh well. Maybe it's better this way. I never get tired of him, nor he of me. Neither of us gets old and fat. He'll always have a flat belly and a stiff cock.
The smell of popcorn fills the air. Geez. It even smells dry with no butter.
|theatre lighting ala Max Wo|
SHE ZINGS, SHE ZOWS, SHE'S EVERYBODY'S SLICK CATS' MEOWS ~ AT THE BIJOU . . . We're so happily hepped up she comes to grace our place and make it likewise her own show biz home away from home. But style most inclusive, our gal Zelda's not reclusive. She tries to claim from the roam of her blogging home that she's going to continue to shoot blurbs into the ether and see if anyone responds; calling those chances probably slightly better than sending a message in a bottle out to sea. Well, messages in bottles are known to hit true grit on shore and at Zelda's "GET YOUR Z's" . . . you sure can too.
AT THE BIJOU is much more than a lucky roll of any gentlemen's dice that Zelda, Madame Z, can waltz in the writing room and cause a real sensation. . . . 'cause they all keep comin' back for more!
Thanks Madame Z oh Zelda
You bring the zing to just about everything!
and our fine staff of renown,
AT THE BIJOU