member service

A short story for mature readers.

“A man struggles to set aside his expectations when he shares his lunch break with an attractive co-worker.”

There she was, clad in all-glory, walking directly towards him. OK Reggie, he would say to himself, today’s the day. Today, you’re going to talk to that girl. And then she would walk passed, and he would say nothing.

Couldn’t say it wasn’t on-par. Reg thought he would see her working more during the Pandemic: sadly, the opportunities were less, walking out of the building as he did at opening when she started, from the graveyard shift he was just promoted to. Some promotion. Three AM start. At least it was only part-time hours, what with his wife just giving birth and all… what am I even doing thinking about going with her? She would part the Red Seas wherever she walked, like that song by Ben Folds Five. She never gets wet, she smiles and it’s a rainbow… This was true of Megan.
She was tiny: so tiny you could mistake her for someone half her age. And to Reg, that was her appeal: her youthfulness; her natural blond hair; her curves. And make no mistake, Megan was a curvy girl, with her own Ben Folds & hairpin spirals to make Reg’s eyes water every time she strolled by. He thought this would have made it easier for him to go introduce himself: his own affinity for larger women. But Megan had a vivaciousness. Every guy was talking about her and every woman was jealous of the attention she got. Reg was never the man he wanted to be & always the man others envisioned him to be, and he was miserable for it.

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the tip

A short story for mature readers.

“Sparks ignite despite past schisms between a waitress and her customer.”

“Hey! I haven’t seen you in a while!” She still had a tray of food in her hand as she set it down on the hostess’ podium and gave the Boy a great, big hug. As much contact as he ever had with her in High School.
I moved to the city, but I’m just back for the evening.
“Well, that’s great! We can catch up! Here, I’ll show you to a table.” She picked up the tray and the Boy & his cohorts followed her to an empty booth, as she motioned she would be back in a bit.

“Hey, who’s that?” “Yeah, who’s the sexy waitress?”
Just someone I knew from school.

In actuality, she was someone he had seen every day, when he closed his eyes and willed the memories to come on strong. She was a rabble-rouser. Fifteen-years-ago, when he was still living in this developer’s dream called a small town, she ran with the wrong groups and flirted with the worst kind of danger. When the Boy was in the parking lot of that same restaurant all those years prior, driving food deliveries just to make a dollar to move away, she was drinking from a paper bag just a few cars parallel with one of the Wretched: the corrupted group of Grade 13s who learned early-on how to reap to their advantage. Amy must have been fourteen-or-fifteen at the time but there she was, dancing to the techno music blaring from the car stereo and just barely able to keep standing. Her partner saw the Boy. “Hey, you want some of this?” Amy lifted her top. There were two tanned, young, B-cup breasts, bouncing up and down, the nipples stiff from the evening air. The Boy tried to keep face as he continued tallying up his tip-sheet, the Wretched throwing a half-empty beer can at his car before the Boy realized this was not a battle worth winning and drove away. The next day at school, he could remember Amy just across the hall from him at her locker, sheepishly looking over her shoulder at him, avoiding his gaze, embarrassed? Turned-on? Curious? He didn’t know. All he knew then was that the heavy layers she wore did a good job of covering up the exotic figure underneath. Forget it, she’s fourteen! Maybe even fifteen… but with the Rule-of-Sevens that still meant he should only be dating someone sixteen or older. What was the age-of-consent anyway? These questions kept him busy enough and by the time he graduated Amy became an evocation, her natural breasts carrying him through many a lonely night to come.

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a christmas miracle

An erotic mirco-story for mature readers.

i walk around the wrapping paper trip mines that dot the path from the living room to the bathroom when i see the lights on the street from the basement window, pull up, then shut off. i knew who it was. my phone goes off in my pocket. just a sec, gimme a minute, will you? i offload the most eager of waste while my mind rattles-off a mile-a-minute, my erection throbbing against the inside of the toilet seat. i use a wet wipe then give my girlfriend a kiss. she sits on the couch in a half-baked eulogy to the evening, her phone in her hand while the last few tracks of the christmas cd play from the stereo. i’m going outside for a smoke, do you want to come? “no, i’m ok here.” that’s great, you stay here. you look very comfortable. i don’t. “you don’t. everything ok?” everything’s fine, i just need to go outside to smoke up, calm down. “what do you have to be uneasy about? it’s christmas!” she takes my hand from just inside the radius that allows her to reach from her seat without moving, and pulls me toward her. she kisses me. it’s sloppy, and i miss her lips and peck under her nose in the fervour. “are you sure everything’s ok? you just seem off.” i’m fine. my phone goes off again. “someone is really trying to get a hold of you.” i know, it’s probably Dad, you know i tried him earlier and he didn’t pick up. “well hurry back to me.” i will. she has said her peace, but she still knows that something is up. she isn’t stupid, and i’m easy to read. i kiss her once more for extra reassurance before robing myself up for the storm outside and venturing forth, around the side of the house from the basement suite entrance to the street out-front, where i can see the darkened silhouette of a figure in the car parked out-front. i can recognize that hair anywhere. and she put it up for me, with a little poinsettia scrunchy that enunciates her flawless smile and red lipstick. i kick the snow off my boots before getting in to the passenger side of the car. hi. “hi.” she starts the ignition and pulls away, waiting for the last minute to turn on the headlights.

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Jay’s Take: The Godfather Part III (Coda, whatever)

A revisionist & spoiler-heavy movie review and personal analysis.

A Roman, divorced from his wife, was blamed by friends for the separation. “Was she not beautiful?” they chorused. “Was she not chaste?” The Roman, holding out his shoe for them to see, asked if it were not good-looking and well made. “Yet,” he added, “none of you can tell where it pinches me.”

– Adapted from Plutarch by Reader’s Digest

When I was in Grade 9, a few friends and I got together one afternoon and shot a movie on my Dad’s ancient Hi-8 Panasonic camcorder. Grade 9, how old would we all have been… 15? In this riveting independent feature (that took hours to film and only yielded 10-minutes of useable footage), there is a gang war between humans and bottles. Anthropomorphic, Ebonic-spouting plastic Pepsi bottles with angry faces scribbled on them in black Sharpie. There were three scenes: the prologue, with the bottles encroaching on the humans’ turf; a “driving” scene where the humans go to the bottles’ hideout (where all us underage-teenagers pretended to drive around in my friend’s mother’s sedan, which was parked in the garage); and a final confrontation where the humans kicked the shit out of the bottles. We win, The End. It sounds ridiculous just writing it here, and it WAS ridiculous, and a good memory. But – being the fledging cineaste I was – it wasn’t good enough. It could have been better. So I tried to “improve” it by adding 90-minutes of stock footage stolen from both poorly-converted VHS tapes of Hollywood movies and the public domain database that came off the editing software CD I was using.

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graveyard shift

A poem.

i look at you
and then i look at your daughter
and i see a man who will do anything.

a man too self-consumed
putting prosperity on the table, not food,
that he can’t make any productive difference in her life.
only fifteen, already too late
with shorts that leave nothing to hide,
a glare through deep holes entwined
so you can’t see the fear they leave behind.

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