Wednesday, October 21, 2009

The First Prostitute

Women weren't second-class citizens in those days. They weren't citizens at all. They were property. Women did not have any rights or social contact apart from those bestowed upon them by their respective owners. Of course the owners of women often had one-way consensual sex with their property, but they also had two-or-more-way consensual sex with one another (as did the men who did not own any women). All men, one might think, had sex with one another and with their property. Houston, however, abstained.

Clearly a system of ownership and economics had been established by this moment in history, but society had not yet come up with ideas like "job", "career", or "profession". Houston invented those. He noticed how much pleasure other men got from reciprocally consensual sex. He gave up his abstinence -- but he charged a fee!

He put on quite the show of desire as he seduced man after man and used their money to buy their women from them. Eventually, after not much time at all, he built himself a harem. And so, the first prostitute was also the first pimp.

Saturday, July 11, 2009

A Reluctant Pornstar Finds Herself in the Land of Opportunity

She thought it would start raining any minute. She hoped it would.

I shouldn't be doing this, she thought.

"Come on," he urged. "What are you waiting for?"

The rain to save me, she thought as she hesitated. He continued, "Look at your friend! She's got her titties out!"

"Okay," she muttered as she stretched the neck of her shirt down around the curves of her breast to just past the nipples.

"Alright!" the pornographer exclaimed. "Here's two hundred bucks for each of you. If you want to earn a couple thousand, follow me."

Her friend, Ell, followed without hesitation, leaving her with limited options. She could follow Ell and go with the pornographer, or she could wait alone on a back road in the rain until Ell came back. Or she could try to walk or hitch a ride somewhere.

She grabbed Ell's hand and joined her friend who was so enamored by this particular pornographer that she hadn't bothered to put her shirt back on before taking his lead.

When they arrived at the pornographer's van, his accomplice leaped from the passenger seat and opened the rear door, revealing cages.

In some of the cages were women. She felt the accomplice's hands around her waist as he lifted her into a cage and the pornographer lifted Ell into another, latching the cages and shutting the door.

From inside her cage, she could see Ell and some of the other women. She could also see the men in the front seats, and the men could see the women.

"Feel free to fingerfuck!" the accomplice called back.

"Feel free to fuck yourself!" a woman replied.

Ell was still topless and still wearing a goofy smile. How could she still be interested in a guy who put her in a cage? she mused frustratedly.

After a surprisingly short drive, the van stopped and the women were released into what seemed to be a well-to-do suburban neighborhood. What? she wondered. Why would they take us here?

She noticed she was holding Ell's hand again as the pornographer took Ell by her other hand. "Ladies, you," he announced, "are free to explore. This is the Land of Opportunity. We saw potential in here, so we brought you here. If you want to leave you're going to have to find your own ways out."

Shit, she thought. Ell didn't seem to mind.

The pornographer took them to a house where she saw a king-sized bed and cameras in the front room.

"A cab back to your car will cost about $400," he explained as he closed the door, "so you can get back with what I paid you, but you'll be right back where you started.

"On the other hand, if you make out, I'll give you each another $500."

Before she could even think about what to do, she had her topless friend Ell's tongue in her mouth. She felt hands cupping her breasts and glanced aside to see that a few of the other women from the cages had followed them into this bedlivingroom house.

The pornographer slipped a McKinley to each woman between her respective belt and body.

"Before we go any further," he calmly said while adjusting a camera on a tripod, "I need each of you to tell me your name, your age, and that you want to make movies with us for $2000 apiece."

"My name is Dors Williams," she was surprised to hear herself say, "I'm 22 years old, and I want to make movies with you for $2000 apiece."

She would definitely need to watch the video later. She had no idea what happened, but she was naked, sweaty, sore, and surrounded by nudity and sexual fluids. The pornographer also naked, sweaty, sore, and clearly spent as he distributed money to the other performers, $2000 apiece, as promised.

"Each of you is under a filmed verbal contract to shoot at least one more performance with us," he explained, smirking as he continued to perform his payroll, "because each of you said 'movies' in the plural. After your second film, you will have an option to join us in a salaried position, you can continue with your freelance freelove, or you can make your way out of the Land of Opportunity. You can do whatever the fuck you want after you shoot your follow-up with us."

What the hell, she thought. I'm in too deep to worry about being ashamed. I came to South Beach with Ell to get away from my job for a week, but now I'm starting a new career. She was getting a little more excited in spite of herself. I hear Van Nyuns is nice all year long, or I could stay in South Beach.

As Ell watched her friend think, she smirked at Dors. Ell also slid her finger along the pornographer's buttcrack and whispered something into his ear.

Saturday, June 6, 2009


Marc awoke, startled, by the sound of a car door shutting in his front yard. Then another door slammed. And a third.

An engine started.

Two more car doors slammed.

Five car doors? Marc didn't have time to think. A bright red light filled his bedroom, and the engine noise got louder. The red light, coming in through the windows and seemingly the walls, coalesced into a pungent purple colloid in a bedroom.

This gelatinous substance, more osmotic than nitric oxide, lifted Marc and his Pekingese, Jennifer, while apparently passing through everything else.

The ooze had lifted Marc and Jennifer about six feet into the air when the car engine and the red light shut off. Five car doors slammed in quick succession, and a car engine started again. This time, Marc could hear the car drive away.

Slowly, the ooze began to vaporize and dissipate, turning back into red light and disappearing. Marc watched Jennifer bounced around the room like a kid in a playpen as he fell back asleep a yard above his bed.

Bobbi was acquitted. That sonofabitch Murdock couldn't even convince a jury to convict her. To Bobbi, the legal system was a truly beautiful thing.

She had committed dozens of white collar crimes and all but admitted to her crimes in court, but she played dumb, and now she was free to reap the benefits. She had so much fun in the trial, she was tempted to commit more crimes, but she certainly had no need to. She'd collected, in all, around seven billion dollars illegally. She had a billion dollars each invested in dozens of world markets in Swiss francs, Australian dollars, Canadian dollars, Kiwi dollars, Japanese yen, and English pounds, six of the strongest world currencies. The remaining billion dollars was split among liquid assets in Euros and American dollars. She never had to worry about money again.

Marc woke up on top of his comforter and confused. Jennifer was asleep at his feet. He thought for sure he had had a crazy dream. He got up, showered, ate breakfast, checked his email, and brushed his teeth. He went outside to check the mail. He found money covered in purple fingerprints.

He ran back inside and looked - in his wallet - in his desk drawer - in his safe - all of his cash was in the yard, covered in purple fingerprints. He called the police immediately. The police asked him to gather the cash by turning a plastic zipper bag inside out and touching the money only with the plastic. He was then to transfer the money to plastic bags, being careful not to disturb the purple-ooze fingerprints. The police would be over at 3:00.

Officer Green ran the fingerprints for a fourth time and she got the same result: Bobbi Reed. Why on Earth would a free-roaming white-collar criminal with billions of dollars steal cash from a single blue-collar man in the inner city?

Monday, May 4, 2009

Con of the Dead

This story is set in the continuity of George A. Romero's remarkable, out-of-copyright, Night of the Living Dead. Please, if you enjoy this story, support Romero's work.

Jason: Why did you need me to meet you here, in a phone booth, with as many reusable grocery bags as I could carry?
George: We're going to be rich. Wayne tipped me off. Just a few miles west of here, he came across a shipping yard full of trucks.
Jason: So?
George: So these trucks are semi-trailers filled, front to back, top to bottom with diamonds.
Jason: And?
George: And Wayne is going to drive one out to the parking lot that we're standing in, where we look like we're waiting for a phone call, and we're going to fill our bags up with diamonds.
Jason: What are we going to do with bags full of diamonds? Start a jewelery store?
George: Diamonds are like money, Jason! Filling these bags with diamonds is like filling them with cash.
Jason: I'm sure my grocer will accept them.
George: Hey, why do you have a gun?
Jason: Haven't you heard about the reanimated corpses?
George: That's just a hoax some college kids in Pennsylvania came up with. I can't believe you bought it.
Jason: I don't think it's a hoax, George.
George: Right. Walking, flesh-hungry corpses is totally believable. And of course, believably, reports of these reanimated bodies would start in one location and then, all of a sudden, come from everywhere. Those are copycats, Jason!
Jason: Well, the whole thing makes me uncomfortable.
George: You can go into hiding as soon as we get the diamonds from Wayne.
Jason: Oh, thank you Master George!
George: Shut up. Look! Here he comes!
Jason: Why is he going so fast?
George: Why is the trailer open and empty?
Jason and George (together): He set us up!
Jason: He's fucking dead!
George: What?
Jason: Look at that crash! Look at him stumbling toward us! George! He lured us out here, away from our cars so he could eat our flesh!
George: Sure he did.
Jason: George, shut up and run. My car is less than a mile away, but I only have six bullets.
George: Fine.

Sunday, April 26, 2009


The days wore on. He stared at the ceiling as he tried to find a reason to get out of bed for the ten thousand nine hundred eighty sixth consecutive day. Inevitably, his thoughts found their way to her, and he rose from his comfortable yet tiresome bed. She, on the other had, had been out of bed for hours.

In the kitchen, he finished the milk by drinking straight from the gallon. She simply smiled.

Today was the first day she had not greeted him with a lecture. He was prepared to lash back at her for criticizing his laziness and odd hours. Eventually he probed: why was she giving him the silent treatment?

For reasons she didn't understand, she had quite honestly lost her ability to speak. If she tried to make a sound with her voice, she could not. Regardless of how hard she tried, she could not find a way to vocalize. She felt like the little mermaid, except she did not know what she was getting in exchange for her voice; she already had legs. Tomorrow, she thought, she would visit her doctor if her condition had not spontaneously improved.

She awoke the next morning with a pleasant surprise. The problem that had afflicted her the entire previous day was no more. Opening her mouth wide, she sang to him. Responding, he joined her for a duet. Years had passed since their most recent duet.

In the single day that she was without speech, he came to appreciate her nagging. Nagging is not the right word; criticism is.

Criticism is, he decided, necessary for everyone. Once he came to this realization, he no longer saw her speech as criticism, nagging, or lectures. Debates were sometimes held, but from that day on, spats were avoided entirely. Eventually both of them died, but until their deaths, they lived happily ever after.

Friday, April 10, 2009

Under the Knife

The ad during my stories finally drew me in. I've been struggling with my physical appearance my whole life, and now I'm finally in the waiting room. In the waiting room, waiting for my share of -pasties, -augmentations, and -ectomies. For as long as I can remember, I've wanted to have cosmetic surgery, and for a while I've been able to afford it. Like a tattoo artist, I want to be sure my plastic surgeon is worthy of my time and money, and whether I can trust my surgeon with my physical appearance. What could be more important?

Oh, God. Here I am, under the knife. I can't believe they didn't put me under for this. I'm having so much work done, and I'm going to be awake for all of it! This is the only plastic surgeon in the state with exclusively five-star reviews; I have a feeling that might change when I leave here tomorrow. Oh, God.

Now I get to see the miracle that I paid for. Where the hell is the mirror? HEY!!! WHY ARE THERE NO MIRRORS IN THIS ROOM?!?!?
Oh, sorry, ma'am. Right this way.
This is a long hallway.
Yes it is.
I wasn't talking to you.

Oh my God sweet Jesus. I look inhuman. I am more asymmetrical than a three-legged spider. I look like a three-legged spider being attacked by a squid! What the fuck!
We did everything we could with what we had to work with.
What do you mean? I looked like a normal person before! I even acted a few amateur porn videos on the internet! Mine was on the front page for months at one site! How can you say this is the best you can do?
Take off your clothes and look at yourself in the nude. That may help with your overall impression.
What the fuck? Where's my twat? What happened to my tits? Oh, God. I think...

Where am I? Oh my God! Monsters! At least they haven't seen me yet. They're fighting to the death! Oh, shit. They're eating the loser. Oh shit! It's not even dead yet! I've got to stay hidden.

I think I've got this figured out. God, I'm hungry. Whenever he makes a mistake or have a customer they know will not be satisfied, Dr. Cheflo's five-star reputation is at risk. So he makes them into monsters and throws them into this arena. With nothing to eat but each other. Damn, he's sick. God, I'm hungry.

Time to hunt.