NAUGHTIE SCRIBE

Pajama Party @ Omega Room

Naughtie Scribe — Tue, 07 Sep 2010 02:51:56 GMT

In the DMV area? Come party with Naughtie (Naw-T)
Advance Tickets $20.00/More at the door
Ages 25 & Older
Suggested Attire: Sleepwear but not mandatory
Music by: DJ Ezzy, Pumpin Archie, DJ Frisco
Photos by Chauncey the CameraMan
Free Set-Ups, Free Buffet (while supplies last)
BYOB (bring your own bottle)
Prizes: Sexiest Sleepwear Contest, 50/50 Raffle
For tickets contact Naughtie_Ness@yahoo.com (subject tickets)

It's My Birthday

Naughtie Scribe — Mon, 23 Aug 2010 05:11:00 GMT

I'm 44 today. I look back and see many accomplishments, a few regrets, and so much more to look forward too. I'm truly blessed.

Preview Fellatio: Why Men Really Get Off When You Swallow - Part II of VI

Naughtie Scribe — Sat, 21 Aug 2010 03:17:00 GMT

Four Sense Stimulation (FSS) - Sound, Sight, Smell, and Touch

Yes dear reader it has been a while, as some of you know I've recently gone through some major changes. However her naughtiness is back and ready to pick up where we left off. I hope this sounds good to you because sound is the first subject we take in hand.

Baum chika wa wa-in the late sixties and early seventies some genius associated this snippet with some of the most popular and high grossing porn films made in the United States. This snatch (pun not entirely intended) of music is so ingrained in the public psyche that over 30 years later it's used in an international commercial for men's body wash (Axe). What's the relevancy, that sound plays a major role in the enjoyment or lack thereof when it comes to intimacy.

Slurping, gasping, moaning are only a few audios every man plays on his inner soundtrack. It translates like this-she can't get enough of my taste (slurping). I'm almost too big for her to handle (gasping). She loves the way I feel in her mouth (moaning). These are but a sampling. I haven’t even broached humming, lip smacking, or gagging.

Oh, really. Yeah I heard that, and no smarty I don’t have one (unless you count the strap-on, subject for another article).

Fellatio: Why Men Really Get Off If You Swallow - Part I of VI

Preview - Macabre Petite Homecoming

Naughtie Scribe — Wed, 18 Aug 2010 00:57:00 GMT

My baby still loved me. I could see it in her eyes. Even through the tomato bisque and chunks of ham salad I spewed all over the window, she still loved me.

The date lived up to its reputation, Friday the 13th, and everything went wrong. The moving company fired the girl who booked our reservation for a 30-foot trailer and a six-man crew. Her temporary replacement, the owner's mother, sent two teenage boys with a pickup truck and utility van. As if that weren't enough, the realtor misplaced the keys and security code to our new home on the opposite coast, and I had to wait four days before she could overnight another set.

My wife and I had argued all morning. When I saw the cruiser pull up in front of our house, I knew one of the neighbors had enough. I never expected to see my Rachel Elaine, “mercy help me”, I hoped never to see her again.

Over a year had passed since I last saw my daughter. In February on Friday the 13^th, her instability first became apparent. While at the dinner table, she confessed to pretend dissections of her little brother as he slept-- with a very real butcher knife. Of course, she was adamant that these were practice runs so she didn't need to open him up, yet. In June of the same year, again on Friday the 13th, Dr. Loomis an expert in child psychology agreed to examine my daughter. After only an hour interview, Dr. Loomis quit her case. He told us she reminded him too much of another patient he treated in Haddonfield. With that, he promptly rushed out the door, and to my knowledge, no one has heard from him again.

10 months later, on the same blasted Friday, my wife and I admitted our daughter to a facility for severely disturbed juveniles. I promised Rachel Elaine that if she were a good girl and did as she was told I'd make sure she'd be home for her ninth birthday. I knew for the sake of my family that I could never keep that promise. Not after the next door neighbor's missing pit bull, and countless cats were found behind a dumpster at the local park. All with jagged cuts made in the same pattern, just a few short feet from the monkey bars our favorite spot.

Yet in spite of it all, I still loved my daughter and a part of me couldn’t leave her in such a sterile cold place without some hope. I should've known better. Rachel Elaine always managed to get around me when she really wanted something.

Today, bloody Friday the 13th, my daughter found her way home.

Macabre Petite 　

New Body, New Me? - May 2010

Naughtie Scribe — Sat, 07 Aug 2010 02:31:50 GMT

Have you ever shouted a request (“Bring me a glass of water, please.”) from the comfort of your bed/sofa to a child or partner? Have you ever kicked an article of clothing or snack wrapper under a piece of furniture while cleaning? Have you ever had to cancel a night out with friends because you didn’t do laundry? If you’ve answered yes to even one of these scenarios, you have an intimate relationship with laziness.

Yeah, I know. But I had surgery so I get a temporary pass. Besides, my kids love doing little favors for mommy. Really, they do.

My point (yes there is one) is that there’s nothing easy about gastric bypass, especially when you consider the post op mandates.

Multi Vitamin – one tablet three times a day – For Life
Calcium + Vitamin D – two tablets three times a day – For Life
Biotin – one pill everyday – For Life
Iron - one pill everyday – For Life
B-12 – one pill three times a week – For Life
Prevacid – one capsule daily – For Life

It usually takes me a few minutes to remember where I put the To-Do List of errands I’m supposed to run after work. Now I have to keep a schedule of pills I must take several times a day, or lose my hair and teeth, become hospitalized, or die. Yeah, that last one’s a hoot, and a definite possibility.

Needless to say after a month I found it extremely difficult to maintain this regimen. I also got tired of crushing pills into a nasty powder, and opted for a vitamin compound (also not covered by insurance). True I pay $20.oo more a month. However, I take fewer capsules, they are easier to swallow, and the schedule doesn’t require a degree in metaphysics (take three with every meal – yeah I can remember that).

It’s a compromise I can live with (literally), much like the demon Lovenox.

What’s Love-nox got to do with it? Not a damn thing. Lovenox is a blood thinner that I was required to administer to myself twice a day for thirty days.

Let me clarify:

Hatred of Needles = Me
Lovenox Administered Via Syringe = Like Hell
Giving Myself Sixty Injections for a Month = Two Prayers Short of a Miracle
Dying of a Possible Blood Clot = I’ll Take the Dang Shots (Coerced Practicality)

Funny what hang-ups you’ll get over when death goes from a theoretical possibility to a bad internet hookup. Yet not everything is gloom and doom. There are some amusing aspects to gastric bypass. Face-Farts are hilarious (to everyone but you).

Face-Farts, I’m coining a phrase here. It’s when air explodes out of your mouth in a series of rapid fire bursts. Face-farts should not be confused with burps (or the occasional vurp). Burps are commonly caused by a build up of gas due to a food item consumed. Face-farts are unexpected expulsions of air cased by your surgeon pumping your innards full of oxygen to make sure they plugged all the leaks.

Of course no one tells you that it takes days, or in my case two weeks, before all the air work it’s way out. And before you ask, the back door wasn’t fully operational at that time, which is why I was passing gas from the northern region of my anatomy to the delight of my family and friends.

Trust me; loved ones will roll on the floor laughing (rofl) at your discomfort. Especially when in the middle of a conversation you suddenly puff up like a bull frog and blow out invisible candles like a sub air-machine gun.

So as you can see “laziness” really isn’t a good adjective to describe a gastric bypass patient. “Stick-to-it-tiveness”, now that’s a word that has numerous applications, and the subject of my next post.

Pre Op Weight (March 4, 2010) - 357 lbs
Post Op Weight (May 13, 2010) - 312 lbs
Net Loss - 45 lbs

New Body, New Me? - April 2010

NO MERCY GENERAL: Installment #10

Naughtie Scribe — Mon, 05 Jul 2010 03:07:00 GMT

Who knew doing laps had such ball builder properties? It would explain a lot about the Olympic Swimmers from the West Block. Think about it. From birth, only children with great form, endurance, and aggression made the cut. Fast forward a few years, and the lucky few who’d survived multiple injuries, emotional overload, and immeasurable hours of physical conditioning are rewarded with a spot in the world‘s arena.

Why do it?

The layman would answer “for victory, bragging rights, or endorsements. “ True, though a very small part of it. An athlete with a lifetime of training behind him might answer, “To prove while loosing may be inevitable, defeat is never an option.”

Even money bet, Scotch did a lot of laps after hours.

For a moment it seemed the partly shifted Were had accepted his loss, and more grudgingly Ryland’s dominance. Except for his elongated canines, and the tawny peach fuzz that covered the decadence of his chestnut skin, Scotch appeared to focus the remainder of his strength on the simple task of breathing.

It’s all he should have been able to do, after the last blow Ryland delivered. Yet, with every heave of his broad chest, the level of primal energy ramped up, and charged the air around us with static electricity.

I didn’t know what to make of the sudden show of force, unlike my leopardess who envisioned several lascivious outcomes. For her nothing was ever too complicated. Defiance meant strength, strength meant a good mate, and a good mate meant lots of sex until little ones arrived. Startled at first, my inner alley cat became very aroused, and I knew if I weren‘t careful she‘d find a way to make a three-way a real possibility.

I summoned a bit of my own primal energy and prepared to douse the trifling pussy with a bucket of psychic cold water. Just then Scotch spoke, in a baritone that bottomed out to the undersides of his toes, and triggered a familiar throb south of my border.

"I swear Ry, if you did this, I'll fuck you up."

"Operative word is, IF, asshole. Now earn your damn paycheck and order a sweep of the entire facility.”

“Finally, for real this time, we’re back on track”, I thought. My relief unfortunately was short lived. For in a flash, my leopardess turned on me, with a smug snarl and psychic garden hose set to full blast.

To be continued...

NO MERCY GENERAL: Installment #9

No Mercy General - Intallment #10 Preview

Naughtie Scribe — Sun, 04 Jul 2010 05:34:00 GMT

NO MERCY GENERAL: Installment #9

Naughtie Scribe — Sun, 27 Jun 2010 23:20:11 GMT

Sometimes a single moment reveals too much. Like an intimate touch between my fiancé and best friend at a dinner party. Or the glimpse of a gun butt in the waistband of a colleague I passed on the way to grab a Chia Latte. In the spans of a few seconds, I knew absolute clarity, and with it came an undeniable truth. Ryland Hynes was indeed a killer.

I no longer heard the water lap against the sides of the pool, nor the constant whir of jets from the four hot tubs. Only the thunder of my pulse, lodged in my throat, registered to my ears like a B-Movie soundtrack. Even my eyes soured at the seascape, so painstakingly hand brushed, in pale blues and corals onto the massive walls. This room constructed for gentle healing, forever tainted in my eyes, and the current insanity threatened to diminish it further.

Both men went unnervingly still, as if a breath would tip their fragile truce, a thing made up of slim hope and faint sensibility. One man lay partly sprawled across the floor, his massive biceps and well-honed forearms, trembled with the effort to keep upright. The other man, down on one knee in a predatory crouch, prepared to strike with the slightest provocation. At a distance, the two combatants resembled a piece of classical art. Each figure cold and unyielding, suspended between recklessness and reprieve. From a few feet away, cracks in their facade began to appear, as the atmosphere around them crackled with finality.

Ryland maintained the hydraulic grip on the downed hyena's throat. His left hand scored by purple veins, flexed with lethal intensity, while agitated fingers danced in Morse code over the jugular of a once good friend. Even his well-tailored suit shimmered with an energy Kenneth Cole never intended, as his six-foot frame debulked to its pre-battle form.

Maybe the loss of Eric Prentice, the wrongness of the fight, or a cramp developed in his hand as well as his conscience. It really did not matter; Ryland acted out of character, and offered a compromise of sorts. Though a wisp of uncertainty troubled his hardened features, Ryland’s eyes remained amber fury. After less than a heartbeat to reconsider, he retracted the talon, and eased his grip by a fraction.

It was enough for Scotch. He began to breathe deeply of air fragrant with chlorine and death. Labored at first, each exchange became easier, as his chest moved with rhythm and purpose.

“Finally”, I thought, “they’re done with this crap.” Until another spike of primal energy prickled my skin.

To be continued…(yes next week)

NO MERCY GENERAL: Installment 8

No Mercy General - Installment 9 Preview

Naughtie Scribe — Tue, 22 Jun 2010 12:52:00 GMT

Comment:

Judie: The next three installments are being written and reviewed. Installment #9 goes up on Sunday, June 27th at midnight. Here's a preview just for you.

Sometimes a single moment reveals too much. Like an intimate touch between my fiancé and best friend at a dinner party. Or the glimpse of a gun butt in the waistband of a colleague I passed on my way to grab a Chia Latte. In the spans of a few seconds I knew absolute clarity, and with it came an undeniable truth. Ryland Hynes was a killer.

Macabre Petite

Naughtie Scribe — Wed, 09 Jun 2010 03:09:00 GMT

When I first told my family about becoming a vampire, they didn’t believe me. Okay, I sometimes had friends that were reality-based challenged. And I got into a little trouble at school. Hey, I was seven, what kid my age hadn’t gotten into trouble? Honestly, did that mean I was making it up?

Mom gave me one of her “yes-dear-I-know” smiles. Then she whooshed, back into the kitchen leaving the funk of garlic and onions behind. How’s that for a blatant diss?

Dad tweaked my nose, “soooo first grade," and headed upstairs to change out of his work clothes.

The mistake - otherwise known as my little brother Bobby - flat-out called me a fibber before racing for the dinner table. That boy’s enough to make me go postal, seriously.

Mom made spaghetti with smoked sausages, French loaf dripping with garlic butter, and tropical punch Kool-Aid. Plus my all-time favorite dessert, banana cream cheesecake, loaded with real bananas and tubs of Cool Whip. As a fledgling vampire I realized this wouldn’t be my typical diet, but I managed to force it down. Unlike my parents who weren’t swallowing a word I said.

“Rachelle Elaine Patterson! I told you, no pretend playing at the table."

“I’m not pretending. I’m really becoming a vampire. Even my friends think so.”

“Watch your tone young lady, or we’ll see what your friends think of no dessert.”

“Hey Mom! Does that mean I can have two slices?" Bobby asked.

Upset by Mom’s obvious cruelty, I folded my arms across my chest, and slammed back against the chair hard enough to make it rock. We would see who got what. Just then, Mr. Can’t-we-all-get-along a.k.a. my Dad, chimed in. Guess he wanted to avoid another night hearing about his fatherly screw-ups.

“Rach, honey, you don’t want to be a vampire. Vampires are monsters, monsters are bad, and bad people don’t get into heaven. You want to be able to get into heaven, right honey? Besides, a good girl would never wanna drink anything as gross as blood.”

Dad was my all time favorite parent. He was tall like the elm in our front yard. He could make me laugh, even when I was mad, kept that woman I’m not speaking to happy and off my case, most of the time. He also had the prettiest browny-orange eyes in the entire world. But sometimes, like now, he was dumb as dishwater.

“Daddy, once a month we go to church to drink blood, and that’s supposed to make us good people. So how come vampires aren’t even more ‘gooder’ for drinking it every night?”

He turned to Mom and did that parent thing. You’ve seen it; they get this funny look on their faces, and then all of a sudden your dad knows what to say, because your mom put the answer directly into his head. Sometimes my parents were real freaks.

“Rach…hon, what makes you think you’re becoming a vampire?”

“Because, at night when everyone is really asleep; I go into the kitchen and get the big butcher’s knife. Then I sneak into Bobby’s room and practice cutting his throat without waking everyone. I really wanna see if his blood tastes the same as it does in church. But the really important part is I’m doing an experiment. I wanna find out if Bobby’s insides are warm and sticky like the neighbor’s puppy.”

Bobby threw up in his plate and ran to Mom. My parents went Casper pale and did that look thing again. Dad walked a little funny before he scooped me up, and gave me a big hug. Normally I loved my dad’s hugs, but his chest kept doing this shivering thing. It struck me then, “how stupid could I be.”

“Daddy, you’re right, I’m not becoming a vampire!”

He made the funniest noise, and his eyes were all red and watery. Dad even had a ridiculous smile on his face as he rubbed my back. Mom kept thanking someone…who, I couldn’t be sure; she was hiccupping too much. Bobby just clung to her like a baby chimp at the zoo.

“Vampires don’t eat flesh. I’m becoming a zombie!” I was so glad I’d figured it out before I embarrassed myself or something.

“And that's how I ended up at this hospital for the criminally insane. See it’s just a big misunderstanding. So doctor, when are my parents coming?“

New Body, New Me? - April 2010

Naughtie Scribe — Wed, 05 May 2010 04:42:00 GMT

Gastric bypass is an easy out for weak willed individuals too lazy to exercise.

Really?

Let's see. Two weeks before surgery, my diet consisted of clear broth, V8 Splash, Ocean Spray Light, Crystal Light, meal replacement shakes, and lots of water.

Two days before surgery I had to prep my bowels. This required the ingestion of three doses of Milk of Magnesia taken an hour apart. Thus the inaugural "Two Second Potty Dash" commenced. I qualified for first string.

One day before surgery, I was allowed to consume all the water I wanted (and NOTHING ELSE) before midnight.

The day of surgery I was stretched across a narrow plank of wood, strapped down by a posse of masked kind-eyed assailants, and pumped full of drugs until I passed out. I awoke six hours later with an elevated heart rate and hives (thanks to the antibiotics), and difficulty breathing. Funny what can happen with the removal of a breathing tube? Who could have known my tonsils, uvula, and air passage would have become irritated and swollen.

All things considered, I don't believe "weak willed" is the appropriate label for a gastric bypass survivor. Just tossing it out there.

Oh, did I forget to mention the PAIN. Or the bedside procedure to start a new IV, through my groin. All made partially bearable by drugs, really good drugs.

After a few extra days in the hospital, I was finally released and sent home.

"Weak willed", I guess everyone is entitled to their opinion. It doesn't have to bear any semblance to reality or rational thought. Oh, well.

On the other hand "lazy, oh hell naw." This is an argument I'm ready to have. See you next post when we do this thing.

Pre Op Weight (March 4, 2010) - 357 lbs
Post Op Weight (April 22, 2010) - 326 lbs
Net Loss - 31 lbs

New Body, New Me? - March 2010

Naughtie Scribe — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 18:18:00 GMT

I am known by many names: Rubenesque, Pleasingly Plump, BBW, Large & Lovely, Thick Chick, Giantess, Full Figured, and of course Obese. All my life I've lived at one end of the overweight spectrum or another. In little more than two weeks my life, literally my life, as I've always lived it, will change.

Until two years ago, living as a sensual woman of size was the norm. After years of dieting, exercise programs (when work and energy permitted), and being a single-working mother (translation - making time for everyone and thing except me), I'd learned to accept myself and reaffirm my worth. Admittedly, this wasn't too hard in my geographical area (plenty of men that "Love 'Em Large"). For the most part I've lived an active and full life. Family and a small clique of great friends have always infused me with love, acceptance, and support. So what happened to change my life this drastically? My health.

Over the last two years I've developed painful arthritis in my knees, suffered from chronic lower back pain, been diagnosed with high blood pressure, and learned I am pre-diabetic. For the last several months I went from being pretty healthy but needing to lose some weight, to developing severe medical issues that can and may well degrade my quality of life (if not shorten it - at any time). Needless to say, fear can be a great motivator.

So for the last nine months I've been enrolled in an extensive bariatric program that culminates with gastric-bypass surgery (Roux-en-y Gastric Bypass). This process has entailed:

Primary Physician Recommendation
Mental Health Clearance
Dietician Consultations
Medically Monitored Gym Appointments
EKG
EDG
Sleep Study
Cardio Clearance
Ultra Sounds
Chest X-rays
Insurance Approval
And Endless Lab Work

Only now that I'm within days of surgery has it hit me. Everything is going to change. The way I've self identified will change.

Will I like me anymore?

Being a large person is more than hoping you'll fit into the airplane seat, or being presumed lazy. It's an attitude (armor) developed over time that helps you deal with the negatives that go along with the pounds, and the safe environment needed to build your self esteem.

In forty-three years my armor became stronger than iron and fit like a second skin. I have a helmet made of self worth and accomplishments that protected me from lethal doses of self loathing. My chest-plate deflected countless slings and arrows, and gave me the space needed to love and be loved. Arm and leg plates along with a shield that stretches from head-to-toe, granted me the confidence needed to plot my own course and plow through those who stood in the way. My armor has served me well; I don't know that I'm ready or willing to put it aside.

I'm not accustomed to letting fear dictate my actions, and I'm willing to face myself head-on, and with your consent I'll take you along for the ride. Over the next twelve months I will document my successes and failures with monthly posts and pictures.

I won't shield either of us from the fallout, nor withhold any of the victories. I hope at the end of this first year you'll still be with me, and together we become stronger.

New Body, New Me? - April 2010

The Dangers of Internet Dating

KNumerick — Tue, 16 Feb 2010 00:30:00 GMT

Anxiously waiting, Charles ran his palehand through his short, dark brown hair and exhaled slowly. Hestretched his thick palm across his nose to rid himself of an itch,then mumbled to himself softly, “This is it. This is finally it.After years of talking through emails and online messengers, we'regoing to finally meet.” He exhaled again, shook out his fingers asif warming them up before pressing them against his old whitekeyboard. The keys were thick, clunky and hard to press down, but itworked for everything Charles needed it for. Typing.

Charles, known to many as a great guy,incredibly charming and fun to be around was a little over weight.Almost 60 pounds, but he considered himself a plump, lovable man,someone any real woman would take interest in. Unfortunately, as hediscovered, that was not generally true. His weight had cost himseveral relationships, mainly because he was competing against thoseother guys. The guys that work out more than they are around, theones who are so focused on themselves they barely think about theirrelationship. Why should they though, if their relationship ended,they could find another girl, even though they were total ass holes.It was just that easy.

Not for Charles, however. His luckwith women had run dry several years ago as he began to gain weight.Once, he was an athlete too, a top class runner, one who competitorswished they were. That was before his injury. He was fine now, ofcourse, but pulling a hamstring to the point where he could barelywalk for a year set him down a path of laziness. He regretted notbeing able to force himself to get back into the groove of workingout everyday. He sighed, then brushed away the negative thoughts ofhis past and focused on the joys the next week would bring.

He typed fantastically to Joan, thewoman he had been trying to meet for the last several years. It beganthrough simple emails from an internet dating site, a place ofrefuge, somewhere single people can mingle, yet ignore responses ifthe person does not catch his or her interest. It was the perfectplace to try to get to know someone, specifically before having toworry about appearance, which is significant.

“Hey Hon!” His fingers clankedagainst the keys with haste, “How was your day? I missed you, asalways!” After a moment of silence his messenger flashed and Joan'swords appeared across his screen.

“Hi Charles. I'm good, I missed youtoo. How was your day?”

“I'm great. Work dragged out alittle longer than I would have hoped, but that's okay, you're herenow, *smile*” Clank, his fingers smashed against the return key.

“*Smile*”

“So, I'll be leaving tomorrowmorning at 6am and should arrive there around 8:30. I'm reallylooking forward to seeing you, finally.”

“*Smile*I'm looking forward to it too, Charles. It's been a long time coming,that's for sure. It will be nice to finally be able to talk to myfriends and family about the great guy I met too.”

“For sure. Iknow how you feel about online dating, but I would have thought youwould have told them about us by now, honestly.”

“I know, butit's just awkward for me, knowing that they all frown on onlinedating, I wanted them to have a chance to meet you in person before Itold them how we met. I'm sorry.”

“Ahhh, it'sokay hon, I understand, I just wish it wasn't an issue, but it won'tbe after tomorrow, right!?”

“Yes, they willknow about us in a few days for sure, when we go to meet them. Ipromise.”

“I understand,that sounds great then hon! I'm really excited! It will be very nicethat they will finally know about us. Will you be at the airport whenI arrive or will you be there a little later?”

“I'll be thereright on time. Unless traffic slows me down, of course. I shouldn'tbe too late, even in the worse case scenario. For all you know, Imight be waiting on you. *smile*.”

“Hah, that isso true. Hopefully my flight won't have any delays and we'll be ineach others arms before lunch!” Charles ran his hands through hishair again, then loosened his navy blue tie from around his neck andunbuttoned the top three buttons of his vanilla colored shirt, dashedwith a small amount of mustard, unintentionally, from the days lunch.

He rubbed hishands together and let out a long sigh. “Hey, listen hon, I have tofinish packing still and write up this report for work , plus getmyself some dinner. I should probably take off so I can be ready togo in the morning and then we have all of next week to ourselves!”

“*giggle* OkayCharles. I should probably finish cleaning anyway! Have a gooddinner, a safe flight and I will see you tomorrow!”

“Okay hon. I amso excited, I cannot even tell you! I love you and will see youtomorrow, Joan!”

“I love you too!”

Charles pushed away from his desk, rolling backwards in his black leather chair,then spun around to stand up. The room was small, but clean. A couch was behind him on one wall and he had two lamps, one on each side ofthe couch, which lit up the room. The lamp shades were removed sothat more light would brighten the otherwise dark and bland area. Thewalls were painted with a shade of green comparable to the middle hue in camouflage.

He stretched,arms reaching above his head towards the white and prickly seascapeof a ceiling. Charles yawned and then walked to his right and intohis room to pickup his suitcase, tossing it onto the perfectly madebed with a slight bounce as it landed.

Charles thenwalked over to his dresser, dark brown and rustic looking with agiant mirror lining the back of it. The dresser only went up to hiswaist, but it was long with three drawers across and stacked two highfor a total of six drawers. The top was for accessories, such assocks, underwear, specifically boxer-briefs, and the third drawer forhis ties. The bottom row was for shirts, pants and pajamas.

Without muchthought, Charles opened the drawers and started filling his suitcase with the necessary clothing for his trip to see Joan. A few t-shirts,some dress shirts, pants, jeans and multiple socks as well as multiple pairs of navy blue boxer-briefs. “Everything needs to beperfect,” he said softly, turning around from the dresser to make sure he had enough of everything in the case.

Charles'seyebrows rose as the thought of what was missing perpetrated histhoughts. He quickly turned around, opened up the drawer for socksagain and pulled out a box of her pleasure condoms and tossed theminto the suitcase. “Just in case,” he said with a grin beforere-examining the contents of his suitcase one last time. “Perfect.”

He returned tothe computer room and went into the next adjacent room. The kitchenwas small, but had ample counter space for him to prepare food andcook up his own meals. Charles opened the fridge and skirmishedthrough it quickly to find some eggs, bacon, green peppers and cherrytomatoes.

He turned on thetop of his gas stove and threw a small pan on it to warm it up. Heprepared himself an omelet, the scent tickling his nostrils as itcooked. He put the ingredients back into the fridge and then ate hisdelicious meal.

“All right,let's get this damn report done for work so I can shower, shave andgo see my potential bride to be tomorrow!” His stomach swirled inexcitement and anticipation. He went back to his computer and openedup a black briefcase, pulled out some paperwork and started to skimthrough it, using his finger as a guide to search through informationand pages of data so that he could prepare a report for his boss.With a quick click, Excel opened up and he began to enter numbersinto a spread sheet. Once the numbers were entered he opened up Wordand wrote a brief summary of what the data meant. Click, save, close.From there he opened up his email account and sent the report andsummary to his boss. “DONE!” He exclaimed.

Before Charlesknew it, hours had passed by and it was nearing bed time. He openedup an email from Joan with her picture attached before stepping awayfrom his desk. She was beautiful, with soft caramel colored skin,shoulder length dark brown hair, brown eyes and a wide, straighttoothed smile that pushed her cheeks out, creating dimples that anyman would adore. Joan was relatively thin, certainly not overweight,and she was full of life.

He looked at herpicture, exhaled, and said to himself, “How the hell does a fatfuck like me get such a beautiful, amazing woman to like me. I'mreally lucky, that's for damn sure.” He put his pointer and middlefingers together, kissed them and then pressed them to Joan's photo.“I love you and will see you tomorrow morning Joan!”

Charles moved tohis bedroom again and undressed, walking into the bathroom to shaveand shower immediately after. “A nice hot shower sounds so niceright now and will help me sleep, hopefully.” He turned on the hotwater in the shower and then the sink, used his shaving cream andbegan to shave slowly.

After he finishedshaving he got into the shower, glass doors steamy from the heat, andscrubbed himself clean. Once he finished cleaning himself he stood inthe shower a little longer, closed his eyes and thought of Joan somemore. His mind raced to thought of them talking, sitting next to eachother on a couch, similar to his own, and kissing. He smiled andopened his eyes.

Charles steppedout of the shower and grabbed a towel from the rack directly in frontof him and dried off. He hung the towel back up on the rack andrushed to his bed, setting his small black alarm clock to 4:00am toensure he made his flight. He lifted up his covers and slid into bed,his nakedness meeting the soft feel of his cotton sheets. His headmet his pillow and his eyes closed immediately after.

MEEEP, MEEEP,MEEEEEP! Charles jolted upright as his alarm blared. He tossed thecovers off of him and stumbled out of bed, reaching for the alarmclock, knocking it to the floor. He picked it up and struggled toturn it off while the weight of his sleep still hung on his eyelids.He finally managed to turn it off and rushed to take another showerto remove the nights sleep and help wake him up.

His stomachtwisted into knots. He let out a loud sigh, “Here goes nothing.”He finished showering, rushed to brush his teeth, got dressed,grabbed his suitcase and then hopped into his car, a plumb coloredSaturn Aura. He managed to get to the airport without any problemsand got onto his flight.

After listeningto the instructions on how to use the seat belt, oxygen mask andnoting the exits, the plane was finally off. No one was sitting nextto Charles, so he was able to close his eyes and sleep through mostof the flight. He didn't open his eyes until he heard the captainspeaking, “Please Fasten your seat belts as we prepare to land.”

Charles smiledand adjusted his seat belt as the plane got closer to itsdestination. It landed and came to a stop. A muffled voice came fromthe speakers,“At this time you may turn on any cell phone orelectronic devices. We will be able to get off momentarily, so pleasebe patient and thank you for flying with us.” Charles turned on hiscell phone and called Joan.

“Hi, this isJoan, leave me a message and I'll get back with you as soon as Ican!”

“Hi Joan! It'sme! I'm here, but on the plane still, hopefully you'll be here soon!I love you and will see you shortly!”

The sound ofCharles's special ring tone went off, but the phone had fell onto thepassenger side seat floor as Joan was driving down the freeway so shecouldn't answer. The phone beeped to signify there was a newvoice-mail. Joan looked towards the passenger side floor and saw thephone laying in about the middle.

“I shouldreally let him know I am running late. If I could just reach theblasted phone.” She kept her feet steady, traveling at roughly 70miles per hour down the freeway and reaching for the phone could bedifficult. She looked ahead to make sure there weren't any vehiclesin front of her, then unbuckled her seat belt, leaned over towardsthe passenger side seat and stretched her arm out to try to grab thephone. It was just out of reach.

She forcedherself to lean further towards the phone and managed to flick itwith her fingers, putting it within range of her hand. “Ah hah! GOTIT!”

She looked up tosee a semi pulling in front of her from an off-ramp as she smashedinto it, spinning her vehicle wildly, flipping it over and over. Thewindshield shattered, Joan was tossed from the vehicle, her phoneclenched tightly in her grasp as she screamed and flew towards theasphalt below. Her head hit the ground, knocking her unconscious andthe phone went flying, breaking across the road as she slid down thefreeway until pieces of it lay strewn alongside her breathless body.

Written by Kevin Numerick: Life, As I write it.

Orange Line

Naughtie Scribe — Sun, 10 Jan 2010 19:31:00 GMT

"Funny how calming it feels, this urge, like sipping hot cocoa while soaking in a bubble bath. Three steps to redemption, barely a yard, and then no more anything. Simply walk off the platform, and all the hurt goes away. Please mercy, let it just go away," she prayed.

Transfixed by the blackened tunnel, seemingly vacant of light or hope, Giselle stood alone with her guilt, carelessly close to the edge of the platform. The screen on a mounted schedule noted the 'Orange Line' from New Carrollton was due in fifteen minutes. Another forty-five minutes and the rail would arrive at the Rockville Station, only a few blocks from her home. Too long a ride, too much time to sit in my head, she thought and trembled with unease.

"Aren't you a bit close to the edge, hon," a garbled voice asked.

"I'm fine, sir, I don't ever take chances," she said, parroting Sean's favorite slam.

Sunken globes of red light aligned on either side of the platform began to pulse, alerting passengers of an oncoming train. Much like a toddler who's begun to walk, Giselle took a wary step closer to the ledge, as a morbid exhilaration began to take hold.

"It's my choice. You don't get to decide. How many times, Sean, how many times have you broken your word? Can you even count the heifers you've been with? But I'm supposed to trust you, especially now?" Their last fight, over the phone no less, preyed on Giselle's heart for weeks after the breakup. She knew she had every reason to doubt him, but being right isn't the same as doing right. Forgiving Sean was part of loving him, maybe if she'd forgiven him one more time things would be different.

A light breeze kissed by early winter attempted to steal the little warmth her regrets had missed. In her rush to Sean's apartment, Giselle had pulled on whatever clothing was at hand. As she stood in the near empty subway wearing a light sweater, tank top, and jeans, she couldn't help but wonder if she'd just thrown a jacket over her pajamas could she have gotten to him sooner.

"You're not the only one with a say," Sean yelled. "My family and most of my friends are planning to come. Even the Pastor is willing to rearrange his schedule. Why would I put myself out like this if I weren't going to stand by you? How could you do something so drastic?"

Giselle cringed as she recalled the message he left. She'd have given anything not to have Sean find out. She bought several over-the-counter tests and, like her courage, stashed them out of sight, unused. She knew someone who worked at the hospital, and was able to get a morning-after pill. Convinced it wouldn't be wrong if she didn't really know, Giselle took the pill without telling Sean. Two days later, she had a heavy flow, not much different from her normal cycle, for which she was grateful. Later that week, Sean surprised her with dinner, flowers, and a diamond engagement ring.

"It's dangerous so close to the edge, hon. Anything's possible," the garbled voice warned again.

"It'll be fine soon, thanks for your concern," Giselle replied, with her back to him. Oblivion was coming and it would erase everything. She wouldn't remember Sean's trashed and crowded apartment. She wouldn't have to remember the cut piece of rope that dangled from his home gym. And she wouldn't have to remember Sean, naked on the living room floor, surrounded by paramedics.

The train exploded from the tunnel. Giselle bolted toward the edge. Unyielding brakes locked in place. An iron grip claimed her wrist. Massive wheels slid along metal tracks, as she traced the raw ones on his throat. The station pulsed with a mechanical rhythm. Sean wrapped his arms about her waist. Passengers streamed into waiting cars. Resolve flowed from one to the other. The conductor announced last call, while they savored one more kiss. As the train pulled from the station, hand in hand, they took a final step.

Friendly Advice

Naughtie Scribe — Thu, 24 Dec 2009 05:01:00 GMT

It was a little after 10:00 a.m., and the day already sucked. The sun was bright in a cloudless sky, a delicate breeze carried away the morning chill, and hatchlings chirped in a nearby tree, safely nestled above the day’s drama. Even that hag of nature was against me today, I thought as I shuffled through the doors of Washington General Hospital toward the park across the street with all the exuberance of the condemned.

Protected by a moat of asphalt filled with honking man-eaters built mostly in Detroit, the park stood out against a backdrop of smoked glass and baked concrete as a welcomed refuge in the center of D.C.‘s commercial district. After a brief game of dodge the car as I jaywalked to the other side, I headed off in the direction of a recently cleaned walkway that led to the center of the park and the only true solace in my life, Jorge Rumme.

With my hands clenched, shoulders hunched, and an expression that could give ice cubes frostbite, I trudged past budded trees and newly planted flowerbeds, resentful of their promise for renewal and hope. Still irked at the hospital administrator as I replayed the morning’s incident, I was unaware I’d reached my destination until an explosion of bright white and yellow stars blew apart my train of thought as my kneecap banged into the edge of a pressed-wood-and-steel bench.

“Damn it, Rumme, you could have said something before I took out my knee.”

“I did Marion, twice. Apparently the bench speaks louder than I do.”

With one hand, I gripped the top of the bench for balance, as I drew up my injured knee and began to vigorously massage it with the other. I concentrated on the sharp flashes of pain and my ministrations; it was all that kept me from literally choking off the braying laughter of the chestnut-maned ass that was my best friend.

By the time I was able to hobble around the bench and take a seat, Rumme’s guffaws had subsided to a mildly uncontrolled fit of wheezing. I wanted to say something mean and hurtful, the words pressed against the back of my lips. I should never have dared to look at the pudgy idiot, for a smile broke free in spite of the pain. Typical Rumme. No matter how bad I felt he always managed to lighten my mood, even if at my own expense. It was his unique magic, one for which I’d go to the grave and back.

“Whose crap got you wading so deep you can’t watch where you’re going?” Rumme asked as he pushed up from his knees and slouched against the backrest of the bench.

Even though the raw-honey of his eyes was shielded by dark state trooper-styled glasses, which I noticed he’d begun to wear around the clock, and the puffy caterpillars that passed for eyebrows continued to wrestle for composure, I knew Rumme was still whooping it up on the inside. It was just his nature to turn any bad situation inside out until he found the buried humor. Bastard.

“Some jerk spread my personal business around the ward. The grapevine being what it is, the higher-ups got an earful and decided to reassign me from lead nurse on the critical patients ward to supervisory helpline specialist. True, I’ll be making a few extra dollars, but basically I’ve been demoted to a desk jockey.”

“Well, I’d tell you not to worry yourself gray, Marion, but the shine from your dome is blinding.”

“You know, Rumme, you’re the only person I let get away with that crap.”

“What crap?”

“Making fun of me when I feel like a steaming shovel full of dog shit.”

“Is there anything you can do about your situation, Marion?”

“Not really.”

“Won’t the extra money help out?”

“Yeah, it really would,” I huffed.

“Are you going to sit there and pretend, as drained as you looked, that a lighter workload isn’t a good thing?”

“You know, Rumme, I could bury your ass out here and no one would know.”

“Yeah, well all things considered, that’s not likely, now is it?” he remarked through a lopsided smirk.

He was right of course, damn him. There was a time when I was NBA fit. My big feet and long legs used to carry me along a three-mile run in less than forty-five minutes. I’d done crunches and weight training four times a week that left my abs, pecs, and biceps so defined, water didn't glide down my body: it tumbled.

Lately, if I didn’t get winded on a trip back from the corner store, it was a good day. I took hundreds of pills to keep my white blood cell count up, which left me a little better than the walking dead. Still, the way things went down this morning was foul, at least I had our trip to look forward to.

“So, we still on to do Kilimanjaro this month?” I asked as I gingerly swiveled on the bench toward Rumme and rested my knee. I’ve always been a competitive bastard, and I decided it would be better to pick a fight I might actually win. I watched as his flabby chest expanded and fell on a deep sigh. His lips became thinned and pursed, and I could have sworn I saw his eyes roll behind the heavily tinted lenses. Score one for me.

“Gee, that was a smooth segue. I hardly noticed. Public speaking is truly your calling,” Rumme said in a voice better suited for the end of a ten-hour lecture on the mating habits of slugs.

“Yeah, well I’m not feeling my A-game today. Are we still on or what?”

He didn’t answer right away. That bothered me. I watched as Rumme took in another deep breath and a moment to consider his response. His gaze focused, as I knew it would eventually, on a misshapen birch tree about thirty yards from where we sat. If he started with that old mess again, it was going to be all-out war. Time was ticking for both of us, and she was a complete waste of it.

"You know, Marion, before I met my lady-love-"

"Man, don't start that mess up again."

"Before I met my lady-love, Maaaarion. My life was as fulfilling as yours. No family, no close friends-"

"Excuse me, I am sitting here, right?"

Pushed too far, Rumme fell silent. His chin dropped to his chest as he slightly shook his head. After a moment he became still, and his gaze once more trained at a spot just below the birch tree. A look of contentment had replaced his exasperation. He was with her again, which meant the situation was critical.

***

"I'm sorry," I said from behind my hand as I rubbed the tension from the bridge of my nose. I didn't need a reminder that before the day Rumme approached me in the park, I had no friends, no family left who would deal with me, and a sorry-ass job only good for paying the bills.

"You need to let go, Marion, if only for your own sake."

"I know, Rumme. I just can't remember when it’s ever been this tense between us except for maybe the first time you came to my job as a patient."

It continued to eat at my soul that I hadn't paid enough attention to his symptoms. Caught up in my own drama, which hadn’t been as serious at the time, I was AWOL when my friend needed me most. No wonder he turned to that heifer.

“You should never have ended your appointments, Rumme, not for any reason.”

"Marion, the problem with opening old wounds," he said in a weary tone, is once they’re opened they need to be re-dressed. Are you sure you want to go there? I'm seriously tired of you ragging on my lady-love."

This confrontation had been in the works for months. I should have broached the issue sooner, but I was too afraid I’d lose my best friend -my brother- in the aftermath. I’d been given another chance, damned if I’d let it slip away without a bare-knuckled-alley scrape -not again.

“You never answered my question, Rumme. Kilimanjaro. Are we still a go?”

“No, Marion.”

“Care to tell me why?”

“Very soon, my lady-love and I will be fully committed to each other. “

“Uh-huh.”

“Look, Marion, we share the same passion for sailing. I’ve already placed a sizable down payment on a forty-five-foot destination houseboat. I had to cash in almost everything I own to do it.”

“Riiiight,” I responded through teeth clenched so tight my ears began to twitch.

“We’ve plotted a course that will take us down the Eastern Sea Coast, shoot us around the Gulf, and spit us out in the Caribbean Sea. This is my last shot to chase this dream or to have someone special to share it with.”

“If you say so, Rumme.”

“See, Marion, I knew you wouldn’t take me seriously.”

“Seriously? Rumme, you can’t even face me like a man, eye to eye. “

He moved very slowly, as if quick-drying cement had begun to set within his veins. With a slight wince Rumme removed his sunglasses as he turned in my direction. Cautiously, he trained the full force, or as much as he could muster, of his honey-glazed attention toward me. The pained look that framed his clouded orbs was all the evidence needed. The aneurysm had ruptured.

***

At some point I must have blacked out. It was the only explanation. When I came to, it felt as if a huge belt were looped around my chest. I couldn’t see it, but it was there. I knew this because as I tried to make sense of what Rumme had told me, the belt tightened. Soon it was almost impossible for me to breathe, my thoughts became fuzzy, and my vision blurry. I knew one of us was a dead man, I just couldn’t be certain it wasn’t me.

I braced my hands on either side of me and kept my breathing shallow. It helped. My lids closed of their own volition and left me temporarily blind. Even better. I was ashamed, but the last image I wanted in my head was Rumme’s face, folded in on itself out of concern for me. A stray thread of rationality flickered through my brain; I grabbed hold of it with everything in me.

“Rumme, your relationship is not what you think. You’re not really in love,” I said gently.

“You’re my brother, Marion, and I love you, but you don’t know my heart not even a little. Maybe you should check your own and make sure it’s not jealousy that has you hating my lady-love.”

“Jealous? Of that heifer? How can I be jealous of someone I’ve never seen, Rumme? Anywhere!”

“I don’t mean any harm, Marion, but you’ve been attracted to me since the first time I met you at this very park. Hell, you were sitting on this exact bench when you asked if I wanted a date. Instead of hating my lady-love, maybe you should go find your own Prince Charming or at least get laid.”

My head became too heavy for my neck. It lolled forward and swayed against my chest, like a buoy rocked by a strong wave. I was being sucked in. I would drown on this bench in the shame. If I could just put some distance between me and it, I’d be able to surface, regain myself.

“You bastard, Rumme. You sorry-assed bastard.”

Somehow I managed to turn the rest of the way toward the backrest. Guided by the last shred of my self-respect, I was able to grasp the top and push off from it into a bent-over stance. With some effort I was able to stand. My knees were still a bit so-so, but for the moment they held.

“You call yourself my friend, Rumme, my brother?“ I challenged as I tried to dislodge the hurt that had settled in my chest with several pounds of my fist.

“I am, Marion, but that doesn’t give you the right to cross every line.“

“I thought we’d gotten past that crap.”

“We’ve been friends for years, Marion, so don’t get all sensitive on me now. You hit a tender spot, and you did it on purpose, so deal with it.”

Oh no, I wouldn’t let him squash it that easily. I’d never been more embarrassed than that day I mistook Rumme’s initial gesture of friendship for a casual hook-up. It took me months to get over the need to apologize and to accept I’d found a true friend. Until now, he’d never thrown it in my face. Fine!

“I’m gay; an older man approaches me in the park, Rumme. What the hell else was I supposed to think?” The binding loosened, my chest filled with deep, scalding breaths. Liquid steel fused my knees and backbone into the straight and upright position. Indignation consumed me, and the burn felt good.

“Look you ass. All I‘m trying to do is get you to put your affairs in order. Not because I want anything from you, Rumme. Because I care. You clear?”

At six feet two inches I’d tower over Rumme, even if he weren’t seated. I’d invaded his personal space. I was too close for him to stand comfortably and not shove me out of the way. I blocked his precious view of that damnable silver-barked tree and his imaginary lover. He’d have to deal with me. I was ready for any response except for the one I actually got.

At first, Rumme sat there seemingly unfazed by my behavior. He simply crossed his leg with one ankle resting on the other leg and began to pick unseen lint from his nylon sock. I started to reach for his shoulders in order to shake some sense into him, when an alarming look crossed his face.

The ruddiness of his skin took on an odd bluish-green pallor. Sweat began to stubble his bare lip. His hands slid to the edge of the bench, drained of all color by the force of his grip. His stomach collapsed in on itself and doubled Rumme over, as if an invisible mugger had attacked him. The moment I touched his shoulder, he convulsed violently then spewed an inconceivable amount of pink-orange bile over my shoes.

***

There was no soundtrack. No cars wrecked on the streets, no thunder clapped overhead, not even the screams from a mugging or crack of gunfire interrupted the tranquility of the park. Absent, too, was the inane chatter of the local minions who preferred to remain in their offices working frantically to justify their existence. I was about to lose my best friend, and the city simply lost its voice.

I needed space; Rumme’s insanity might have been contagious. I offered him my handkerchief, which I’d dampened at a nearby water fountain. So, what does the fool do after he freshens up? He smiles weakly and waves his fingers, not at me, but the damn tree. I was done. I sprinted toward the small reflection pool, no more than fifty or so yards opposite where we sat. I still wanted to keep an eye on Rumme as I cleared my head.

In medical school I was taught never to get personally involved with a patient. At the time I thought it was a completely obvious and unnecessary course to take. If only I understood then… I walked up and down the length of the pool with my fingers tightly laced and resting on top of my head. The counter-pressure from my big hands eased the one inside my skull that threatened to blow it apart.

On a sunny day, in a quiet park, by a pool of calm water, I was faced with breaking the heart of the dearest man I’d ever met. Rumme stood by me when half my family disowned me because I’m gay. He was there when the other half abandoned me because of my HIV status. In a world where it’s still okay to break a bottle over the head of a homosexual, Rumme embraced the human being and never let me forget I was worth something.

Exhausted, I laid down across the cool marbled ledge of the reflection pool. It was the only thought of the last few minutes I didn’t second-guess. At once my body responded as if I were lying on top of a tension magnet. Every muscle that came into contact with the mystical stone unknotted and immediately relaxed. Only after a mild drowsiness began to blanket me had I risked a glance in Rumme’s direction.

Other than him being seated on the opposite side of the bench, nothing else seemed changed with Rumme. He even managed to regain that stupid doe-eyed look he got whenever she was present. Should I have told him when I first suspected his lover was just a by-product of pressure to his optic nerve? Did I have the right to? Wasn’t he better off delusional, happier even?

Fear slammed into my groin and snaked its way up my spine. Suddenly, I pictured Rumme, penniless, filthy, and warehoused in some state-run facility, left to die with no one there who gave a damn to even hold his hand. No, better he faced the truth and lived out what little time he had left on his own terms. My decision made, I eased off the ledge and went to destroy a dying man’s dream.

***

I took one step then another on the grayish-white walkway that led past the benches, through a wooded garden, and back toward the hospital. A few yards more and I’d reach the ruination of my friendship. My feet had already carried me halfway across the manicured lawn before I realized I’d made the decision. Well before Rumme could amble out of his seat, I stood before the birch tree and unzipped my fly.

“What the hell, Marion? Was that really necessary? What was that supposed to prove?” Rumme bellowed as stomped around the tree.

“Marking territory I guess,” I replied with a slight shrug. I felt damn near giddy. If I had to battle this bitch for my friend, then it was going down dirty.

“Sometimes, Marion, you can be a complete asshole.”

“At least this asshole was around when you lost your stomach. So tell me, Rumme, where was your lady-love then?” I knew it was wrong, but an evil satisfaction welled up in my chest.

Rumme lowered himself to sit on the lawn just a few feet away from the tree. Though he moved like a man twenty years his senior, there was a slight flush to his face. He was angry and for the moment focused. He was exactly where I needed him to be.

“Unlike you, she respects the fact that I hate to be fussed over like some slobbering old man.”

“Fair enough. So where did you meet your angel of mercy?” I prodded as I took a spot on the lawn across from him.

“At the hospital, as a matter of fact, on the critical patients ward,” Rumme said as he leaned back on his hands and crossed his ankles. A look of smugness he hadn’t earned washed over his face. If I hadn’t known him better I’d swear he was enjoying this.

“I know every patient and staffer on that ward, Rumme, and I’ve never seen this woman you’ve talked of.”

“Do you know every visitor as well, Marion?”

Okay, he had me there.

“If you must know, I was there about the headaches. I ran into my lady-love as I was leaving the building.”

“Fine. So how come you’ve never mentioned her name?” He better have a good one for this.

“You’ve made your feelings plain about my lady-love, Rumme. Was I really supposed to help you persecute her as some kind of gold digger or black widow, just because I might have done something nice for her?”

“Ouch.”

“May I ask the interrogator a question, or would that be against the rules?”

“We’re friends, right? Ask me anything; just be certain you can handle the answer.” I was determined not to be sidetracked, no matter what he threw at me.

“What makes a relationship real to you?” He asked with a sincerity that was unsettling.

Rumme knew the answer as well as I did. It was everything I hadn’t had until I met him. It was what my family didn’t have the courage to give, what strangers who didn’t know me feared I could offer. “Acceptance without conditions, genuine concern for each other’s well-being, someone by your side always”, I blurted. “Everything I lost when you died.”

It was out. It all came out in a rush the guilt, the regret, the loneliness. For several months, I’ve come to this park, on the same day, at the same time, and prayed for a second chance to make things right. I saw the symptoms, the neck pain, the sensitivity to light, the headaches and rationalized them away. I was so obsessed that some lab tech mistakenly posted my test results that I neglected my best friend. By the time Rumme began to talk of his lady-love, I needed her to be real too.

“Do you want to know what makes a relationship real to me, Marion? A sense of belonging, memories I can cherish, the comfort that comes from knowing I mattered to someone. In this I’ve been blessed two-fold, by you and my lady-love.”

I saw Rumme then really saw him. Not the guilt-tinted specter with which I’d haunted myself for so long, but Rumme the way he’d always been. Head tilted to one side with a smile that matched. His honey-colored eyes were uncovered and sparkled with mischief, and an aura of gentleness surrounded him. This was my Rumme, the one I’d cherished and loved. The one who needed me to let go.

“I’m afraid, Rumme.”

“You’re also ready, Marion.”

“What if I never find another friendship like ours?”

“What if you stop being such a drama queen?”

I closed my eyes for just a moment to let Rumme’s good-natured chuckle work its magic in my heart. When next I opened my eyes I was alone, in a quiet park, seated under a silver-barked tree, on a wonderfully sunny day.

Last Hurrah

Naughtie Scribe — Thu, 24 Dec 2009 04:51:00 GMT

Four years at Juilliard, top student in the Arts Department, graduated valedictorian, and I‘m no better than this, Noelle thought. With very little effort, she was able to pull back the grate from a lower window enough to make an opening. Lincoln Junior High was one of the poorest schools in the city; it would be weeks, maybe even a month before the break-in was reported.

With a list of supplies already in mind, she wasted no time with side trips. Heading straight for the Art Class, she made short work of her scavenging. Grabbing a roll of paper towels, an assortment of brushes, a palette, a small spackle, a handful of paper clips, and a roll of double-sided tape Noelle had everything she needed.

Getting out proved more difficult, but at this hour of the night unless the local dealer and hookers developed a sense of civic duty, her getting arrested wasn’t likely. Having maneuvered her way through the opening with all items accounted for, Noelle made her way home with a new purpose.

“Damn. Can't bleed a rock.” Posted to the front door of her apartment was an eviction notice. She wasn't all that surprised, after all it had been over two months since she'd paid rent. “Everyone knows it takes time for a struggling artist to get situated. A few months rent won't mean anything once my big break comes," she reasoned.

Inside her one room apartment, she immediately went to work. Much like her dignity, most of the furnishings were sold or bartered for food and drugs. Save for a battered three-legged easel, one dining chair, a milk crate, a card table, and an old mattress.

The image had played in her mind for weeks and now it was time to get it on canvas. First, Noelle ripped up a section of linoleum from the dining room floor. She next grabbed a sheet from her mattress and began cutting both in a twenty by twenty square. Stretching the linen tightly she used the double-sided tape to affix the sheet to the flooring. Now she was ready to begin sketching.

Cigarette ash and spittle made the perfect charcoal and allowed her to transfer the image in her head onto the linen. Noelle realized this work would demand all her creativity and talent. Never doubting herself, she prepared to meet this new challenge head-on. She would imbue this piece with her very essence.

Jonathan, her ex-husband and only true friend, would serve as the subject. She crucified him on linen, by his good intentions and failed attempts to get her off the streets and clean. Paying special attention to his face, she made sure to depict all the torment and heartache she caused.

Next to take form were the johns and dealers whose actual faces were too numerous to recall. Not that it mattered; she would expose their true selves as a warning for all. In the form of bestial specters, they began to envelop the condemned soul with vaporous bodies composed of regret and self-loathing.

“It’s good, not great, but good. “ Noelle felt the initial flutters of satisfaction as she stepped back to appraise the grey and white portrait. Left as it was it captured in a two-dimensional sense the image that had obsessed her for weeks. In order to breathe life into the sketch it needed emotion. Raw emotion. Determined to give her work great depth as well as immense feeling, she decided to go old school and use egg tempera based colors.

Spread out before her on the card table were several emptied and washed cat food cans, a carton of eggs, a pestle from where she’d forgotten, a two liter soda bottle filled with tap water, as well as the supplies she procured earlier. She scoured her apartment much as she had done at the school for the organic ingredients in which to mix her colors.

Petrified fecal matter left by a kitten long gone would be the base for the blacks, brown, and maroons. Mold painstakingly scraped from the bathroom walls and refrigerator would be blended to make the greens. Sputum and drainage from a wound that refused to heal would constitute the base for the yellows. Blood from a gash to her thigh with the spatula provided the material needed to give the browns, blacks, reds, and oranges greater intensity.

One color was still missing. White. Racking her brain for what seemed an eternity, Noelle remembered getting a travel sized toiletry kit from one of the many rehab centers she frequented. Rummaging through it, she spotted a sample-sized tube of toothpaste. She now had the base for the final color needed.

Sitting at her worktable, Noelle began the process of separating the egg yolks from the whites. Careful not to break the yolks she used a sheet of paper towel to roll the yolks in order to remove any remaining whites or membranes. Once done she placed the yolk in one of the cat food cans and repeated the process until every can contained a yolk.

Next, she placed the cat’s offerings between two sheets of paper towel, and ground it into a fine powder using the pestle. Once done she placed the powder and the other remaining ingredients in separate cans. Adding a teaspoon of water to each, she diligently mixed the contents using a plastic fork. Surplus egg yolks were included in the tempera to lighten colors as needed.

She worked for hours without a break, testing every color on a separate sheet of paper towel until she finally had the exact array of colors required. Choosing to start with two of the smallest brushes she had on hand, Noelle began to flesh out her creation. One unsteady stroke infused the following stroke with a fraction of her past resolve. Soon she recaptured the sureness of hand that was the envy of her classmates in college.

No more a lifeless reproduction of her imaginings, the portrait came into agonizing being with every brush. The condemned’s tormented splendor burst to life in rancid colors. Spirits no longer willing to remain dormant erupted from the canvas in malevolent hues. The whole suspended in a crater void of light, kindness, and hope.

More potent than she remembered Noelle embraced the euphoria of creation. Unable to rest until the painting was finished, she ignored the constant throbbing and seepage from her leg. The onset of chills and light-headedness became merely an annoyance; the dimming of her vision required nothing more than extra concentration.

Having reached a turning point, Noelle settled into a calmness that had evaded her for some time. She hoped Jonathan would understand the meaning and importance of her work, as she made peace with the fact she would never know.

STROKE YOUR MUSE UNTIL IT HOLLAS!

Naughtie Scribe — Thu, 10 Dec 2009 09:38:00 GMT

NyceNNaughtie is where grown folks gather to share, discuss, and learn about the craft of writing, poetry, and graphic arts. Whether a novice, aspiring or published professional we welcome writers/artists of all levels. All manner of genre are accepted, the sensual, shocking, and sublime all have a home here.

February 2010 Short Story Challenge

Write a short story of no less than 500 words and no more than
1000 words.

Theme: Write a punany twitching, johnson jolting story featuring the erotic use of Champagne & Chocolate.

It can be as hot or as graphic as you want it. At the end of the month a poll will be set up at NyceNNaughtie.Ning.Com for members
to vote on their favorite story.

Step out of the 9 to 5, and let your muse bounce bare naked.

Nyce N Naughtie is a free social network for adults to express their passion for writing, poetry, and graphic media. We welcome authors/artists of all levels.

Check us out @ NyceNNaughtie.Ning.Com

HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO ONE & ALL

Naughtie Scribe — Sat, 05 Dec 2009 07:54:00 GMT

Dear Reader:

This will be my last post for a while. I'm currently working on an adult fairy tale submission due on February 1^st, 2010.

New posts will resume on January 31^st, 2010. In the meantime I encourage you to reacquaint yourself with the series installments, flash fiction, poems, polls, discussions, and other material currently posted on this site.

Until next we chat, I wish everyone a happy and joyous holiday season.

Yours truly,

Naughtie Scribe

P.S.: Remember there is a reason Santa keeps a naughty list (wink).

Pictures courtesy of HIPSANDCURVES.COM. Visit this site for more voluptuous lingerie and fashions.

Perfect Mate

Naughtie Scribe — Thu, 03 Dec 2009 02:45:53 GMT

"They ate him! Mercy, they ate him."

I bolted through the woods thrashing at stray branches and brush with one clear destination in mind, AWAY. The scene played in my head as my stomach churned, even though nothing remained to purge. Only an hour had passed since the ambush in the clearing, and I alone survived. I knew it was a mistake to camp so far out, in these woods, at this time of night.

"Help me, please help me", I cried into the wind, praying it carried more than my desperation. Maybe a rancher was near, out checking his livestock would hear, and come with his rifle cocked and loaded.

Dank air scorched my lungs; the ground leeched my strength, as I willed my fear to be still. I couldn't loose it just yet, had to push myself onward, panicking only made for tastier prey.

The crunch of dead leaves became the soft rustle of grass, as I cleared the forest in a stumbling trot. My calves strained with effort, knees threatened to buckle, and both arms were too numb to command.

Exhaustion found me first, as I knew the pack would soon too. Time, like my luck, had run out. Less than a mile away, I heard the alpha's bay, and the blood froze within my veins.

Not an owl hooted, nor frog croaked, or even a cricket dared to chirp. For the master had spoken, his long reign unbroken, in homage the forest fell silent in token.

No matter what, I had to get up. I had to make myself keep going. Across the pasture floor, a hundred feet or more, stood a cottage with door wide open. It was empty I could see, which didn't matter to me, as I had no more strength to flee. I barred the heavy door, crawled across the wooden floor, and prayed, as I never had before.

Through the trees they poured in a monstrous wake, of grizzled fur, razor fangs, and foamed maws. The cottage was soon surrounded: with large paws they pounded, against every shuttered pane, door, and grate.

I ran to the second floor, pulled down the attic door, and climbed the stairs with desperate intent. Then I secured the bolt, built a barricade and hoped they'd loose interest, go away, relent.

The autumn moon burned bright that sorrowful night, as a harsh wind rattled the roof. Upon a discarded mat in a far corner I sat, alone in the dark with the awful truth. I was glad the others had died so that I might stay alive. The relief I could no longer hide. Overwrought, I rocked as I heard a knock and watched as a shadow passed outside.

I braved the window to see, what destiny had in store for me, and immediately filled with dread. For on the opposite side the alpha grinned wide, and regarded me with a tilt of his head.

I suddenly despised the Lon Chaney lies, and Hollywood's special effects. No college kid in London or silver tipped bludgeon could save me from this horrific fate. My humanity it seemed would soon be a dream, as the alpha crashed through the glass plate. He decided not to tarry, as he was anxious to marry, and determined I would be the perfect mate.

THE ART OF FAKING ORGASMS - Part II of III

Naughtie Scribe — Sat, 21 Nov 2009 03:01:00 GMT

Dear Reader:

I know this article has been a long time coming. Shamelessly your curiosity was whetted then left mercilessly stranded between exquisite anticipation and unfulfilled frustration. A necessary inconvenience I assure you. For now, you have some understanding of what motivates the Responsible Practitioner or RP.

Unlike her irresponsible counterpart, which I discussed in the first article, an RP engages in AFO for the sole purpose of improving the mechanics of intimacy without damage to the male ego. For truthfully, few things are as delicate as the male sense of self.

Now before my testosterone inclined readers protests too much, consider the following:

You're at a bar tossing back a few with your male friends. Everyone is having a good time ribbing each other over a stupid play made during Sunday's game. While in the midst of dissecting an official's apparent loss of sight, your attention is drawn to a female at the end of the bar. She is without a doubt the most attractive woman you've ever seen in person. She notices that you've noticed and unabashedly serves up an I-could-eat-you-alive smile. Before you can act on the invitation, another male arrives and soon departs with the temptress on his arm.

If in a similar situation you:

A. Experienced a chest puffing satisfaction that out of all your friends,
she found you the most worthy of her attentions.

&

B. Felt a twinge of disappointment as you realized she preferred another male.

Based on nothing more than a look and/or a smile, it should come as no surprise that a female who actually cares for you would engage in AFO.

Honesty in Fakery: AFO to an RP is not deceitful. In fact, it is the goal of every RP to achieve a mind-blowing experience as a result of your very learned and capable hands (as well as other parts), learned and capable being key.

Every male reaches a certain point in his sexual prowess where he's confident in his ability to meet the sexual needs of a given female. Most males take pride in this perceived accomplishment.

Yet males often overlook the fact that what is exciting to one female is merely pleasant to another. Males just as frequently fall back on one or two techniques that garnered them the most noteworthy response from a prior lover, and apply it to a new one expecting the same level of response. It therefore becomes difficult to explain to an enthusiastic lover that his specialty needs more work.

Additionally, no male should misunderstand the need to improve or adjust his technique, with a woman's desire to be intimate with him. It is her desire to share satisfying physical closeness with a chosen male that necessitates AFO. After all, a female strives for sensual completion too, and her hungers should never be dismissed as secondary to a male's.

The Right Way To Stroke His Ego: We all have a need to feel special. Male or female we all need to stand out, even more so to those we hold dear. From the clothes we wear to the decor of our homes and the cars we park outside them, we need the accolades of recognition.

This is particularly important in the areas of sensuality and intimacy. In short, how healthy or skewed our self-image, in large part, can be gauged by our confidence in the bedroom.

Which as previously discussed can be a dicey area when dealing with males.

So how does a Responsible Practitioner in the Art of Faking Orgasms navigate such a sensitive mine field. Easy, by playing to the males need to dominate and achieve.

In the final article, we will take a closer look at "The Right Way To Stroke His Ego", and techniques that can lead to a satisfying physical relationship.

THE ART OF FAKING ORGASMS - PART I OF III