Manuela Cardiga's Blog, page 4

GUILTY PLEASURES - Chapter 2

Chapter 2
Never twiddle nipples. Always caress with your fingers or thumb.
Nipples are not knobs. Clitorises are not knobs.
Do not tweak and strum frantically at a woman’s clitoris.
Both respond best to slow, almost-there-never-quite-arrive caresses.
Try to tease, tantalise. You may be firm, but never coarse.

—Sensual Secrets of a Sexual Surrogate



His cell rang. It sounded just like an old-fashioned telephone ring tone. “Jane, hello! Are you well? How goes it?”

“Fantastic, darling, and you?”

“Great! I have this new client actually, which is why I’m calling. I hear you’ve been to Guilty Pleasures.”

“You hear right! Jake and I are devotees! It’s amazing! Are you enrolling some lucky girl?”

“Um no, I mean to say . . . I need this to be for your ears only, Jane.”

“Lance, mum’s the word!”

“I’ve been hired to do an Awakening . . .”

Dead silence greeted his revelation, followed by a giggle. “For Millie? You are Awakening Millicent Deafly?”

“Now, Jane, you know I can’t reveal who or what I’ve been hired for.”

“It is Millie! Oh, Lance, my dear man, you have no idea! Millie is just so . . . it’s hard to imagine you can . . . well, one word of advice, dab soy sauce on your pulse points and garlic oil on your nipples! I can’t imagine she’ll notice you unless you’re edible!”

Lance laughed. “Jane, my dear, really! Soy sauce indeed! Where exactly is the restaurant?”

“It’s not a restaurant. I mean, it’s a sort of place you go to eat . . . I mean really eat. Millie doesn’t do that chic cuisine where you starve half the time. It’s real food, lots of calories, high cholesterol, loads of sugar, an absolute shot to the liver, which is why you’re only allowed in once a month . . .”

“Allowed?”

“Well, by Millie, of course. She’s really strict. Anyway, it’s on Glass Street, number 36, I think. I’ll check for you.”

“Thanks, Jane. Lunch on Tuesday as usual?”

“Of course, Lance dear! See you there! Kiss-kiss!”

Thoughtfully, Lance switched off his cell. Soy sauce, indeed! He knew how to get a woman’s attention and soy sauce was definitely not it.



Lance took a prolonged shower to remove the remnants of the dastardly pheromone spray. Refreshed and with his annoying rash carefully covered in pink calamine lotion, Lance went back to the drawing board. Casually meeting Millicent was out. As a client, he could only have access to her once a month, so what else?

He opened the Guilty Pleasures site once more. A Help Wanted button was flashing in the upper right-hand corner. He clicked on it and read the ad.

Wanted: Cook’s slave and general ASSISTANT. Only strong men (or really muscular Slavic women) need apply. Hearing-impaired welcome. Excellent salary, great health insurance, No experience required. Apply through this site.

Maybe . . . working for her could work. Unrestricted access, physical closeness . . . yes. That would be it. Lance positioned the pointer and hit enter with a masterful tap.

“In like Flynn!” he exclaimed. Lance read the ad through twice. It was witty, whimsical, quite charming . . .

He clacked away industriously, looking for, rectifying, and uploading a bogus resume and cover letter. He pondered several false names and settled on Wilfred. It was a good name. Wilfred Pecklise. Yes, that was it!Wilfreds are nonthreatening and reliable. He hit send and he was on his way.

Yes, this was perfect. A reluctant client was most accessible where she was most confident and relaxed. Often people who flinched from social interaction were more open in a work environment where their abilities were enhanced and their guard was down, as evidenced by the overwhelming number of in-office affairs.

Now to build Wilfred Pecklise into a creditable, likable, and hireable personage. Glasses? Maybe . . . no. No glasses; it was too nerdy. It seemed to him that a Wilfred would be preppy, shy, sensitive, and unaware of just how good-looking he was. Rather like a young man he had once been: a long since forgotten young Lance.

Lance softened his hairdo. He would go for a gangly and vulnerable look with an underlying hint at a hidden dark sensuality. He proceeded to his walk-in closet and started working on Wilfred’s image. Jeans? No.

Lance picked out pleated pants in a fifties cut, and a ton-sur-ton burgundy-striped bowling shirt, buttoned up to the neck but with very short sleeves that revealed his muscular arms to perfection. He added two-toned shoes in cream and ox-blood red. A retro chic and bookish, preppy image was absolutely perfect for his alter ego, Wilfred Pecklise.

Lance smiled sexily at the mirror. No. Too seductive. Wilfreds are not overtly sexy. They creep in under the radar, and hit you when you’re not looking.

He smiled endearingly and rubbed at his nose. That was it! That’s the expression he was looking for, Wilfred’s trademark mannerism. For his scent, Lance hesitated. Pheromones were a no-no. He somehow doubted Millicent was into Carolina Herrera. He decided on going unscented.

A few hours later, his computer pinged. He accessed his e-mail’s in-box and scrolled down a long list of messages. Several were from grateful clients, and one was a long rant from his mother complaining that he never called.

Lance scrolled down further, skipping several ads, and read through three new referrals from a fellow therapist. There was also a message from George, his best—and only—male friend, asking him out for a booze-up. And finally the last message made him smile. “Yes!”Lance cried and opened an e-mail from Millicent Deafly.


Mr. Wilfred Pecklise, kindly present yourself at four in the morning tomorrow at number 36, Glass Street in Westminster City for an on-the-job interview/tryout for Guilty Pleasures.

Don’t be late.

Best regards, Millicent Deafly


Fantastic. The sooner the better. He’d have to forgo his morning run, reschedule a meeting with his ghostwriter—a harried single mother of three who was bravely helping him write his ground-breaking self-help/how-not-to book for men: Sensual Secrets of a Sexual Surrogate—and skip his afternoon visit with his gran. Lance decided to keep the day free in case his interview ran longer than expected.

Calm, confident and relaxed, Lance sat down to his raw all-bran and cabbage salad, took his multivitamin complex tabs and did his pre-bedtime exercise routine.

Arms pumped, abdominal muscles admirably defined, Lance smiled in the full-length mirror in his gym. Life was good and going according to plan.

  _______________________                                      
“You headed home, Millie?” Serge asked.

“Yes, finally! You did an amazing job cooking alone today. But don’t worry, I’ve set up a new tryout for tomorrow morning—a Wilfred Pecklise. He’ll meet you here at four tomorrow morning. Please behave, Serge! We need someone to actually stay.” She leaned down to kiss him. “See you tomorrow, love.”

Shamefaced but unrepentant, Serge scowled. “Namby-pamby idjits! I’ll try, okay, Millie? G’night, sweet-pea!”

Millie rubbed at her tired shoulders, sighed, and shouldered her handbag. She walked down the steps and out into the chill London night.



From the Diary of Millicent Deafly:

Dinner went well tonight, though I must remember to reinforce the no-plate-licking rule. Otherwise tonight I hosted quite a reasonable group, though they swore like troopers and drank like fishes. The new Portuguese white wine from the Alentejo went down very well and really complemented the zuppa caprese.

For tomorrow’s dinner, Jackson Rivers confirmed for a French Baroque supper for twelve—Louis XV style—with a string quartet and bel-canto performer. I must get more candles and more Veuve Clicquot champagne—at least three cases.

His wife, Charlene, wants breakfast in bed at nine in the evening with hot chocolate and buttered croissants with blueberry compote and clotted cream served by a dwarf in livery and powdered wig! And where on earth can I get my hands on a Louis XV canopied bed at the last minute? I wonder if I can talk you-know-who into putting on a wig?

God! I must remember to reinforce the no-sex-on-the-premises rule, especially with a bed there. This whole sensual immersion/culinary experience we offer at Guilty Pleasures seems to stimulate the gonads as much as the taste buds.

In kitchen news, another one of Serge’s assistants quit. He’s the third one this month, but at least this one didn’t call the police. Serge stuck to verbal abuse this time, and no sharp objects were involved. God be thanked for small mercies.

Luckily, I got a new applicant today, and I’m starting him out tomorrow. I hope Serge behaves—as much as he can. We really must get a more permanent arrangement. This constant training of new helpers is very unsettling, and bad for business.

Also, Mother called wanting to schedule our monthly torture session. God only knows why I still agree to these little encounters with her. It does me absolutely no good. She will start criticising me the moment she sees me: my hair, my nails, my weight, not to mention my personality, my values, and who knows what else.

She will then proceed to tell me all about her friend’s daughters’ stellar achievements, how many children they have produced, and how happy other women are to have such successful children. Then she will really sharpen the knives and start on Father: his inadequacies, his weakness, and of course, how I inherited all those traits from him.

My lovely cannibal mother.

Still, I can’t say no to her. I agreed to see her for lunch tomorrow at one o’clock sharp.

Oh, Shakespeare, forgive me. “Come, you Spirits that dwell on human thought . . . fill me from crown to toe with heavenly patience . . .” Lady Macbeth would have sorted this out, no sweat.

GUILTY PLEASURES - Chapter 1

Prologue
Lance Packhard, sex therapist, the world’s number one G-spot sleuth and premier undercover man, was flummoxed. Never in his long career had he been faced with such a challenge.

Millicent Deafly—his mark—ignored him. Him. It seemed almost impossible. Instead of eyeing his magnificent body, Millicent was lasciviously fondling a cucumber. Her eyes misted. Her delicate pink
tongue flicked over her pouty lower lip.

“Yes. Oh, yes!” she whispered. “Tonight, yes . . .”

Lance had spent the last hour following her through the local supermarket trying to get her attention, to no avail. Millicent ignored him at the fruit and vegetables section, and at gourmet cheeses he deliberately brushed up against her back, murmured an apology in his huskiest bedroom voice, and accomplished nothing.

Undeterred, he followed her to the wine section, where he attempted prolonged eye contact. Alas, she always seemed to be looking in another direction, and Lance found himself trailing her into the Seafood Court.

There, he liberally doused himself with a powerful pheromone spray he usually avoided using because of the unpleasant side effects. But again nothing happened. Nada.

All he got was a serious skin rash from the pheromone spray and a multitude of lustful supermarket attendants—not all female—insisting on giving him a “hand.”

Lance should have known when he first saw Millicent that she was trouble—big trouble. In fact, he should have known before. He’d never been hired by a mother. Husbands hired him, lovers, concerned friends, even someone’s boss once, but never a mother.

Something in the almost always competitive mother/daughter synergy precluded a mother from fixing her daughter up with a man she fancied herself, and let’s face it, Lance was well aware that all women fancied him.

From his dark, silken hair to his sinewy—and talented—toes, he was regarded as prime genetic material, and he had improved on nature’s bounty. He worked out four times a week—running for an hour each morning before sun-up—and rigorously watched his diet. He used a moisturiser, a hair conditioner, and carefully barbered his muscular chest and abdomen, while cultivating a becoming three-day scruff. All this was in addition to a six-foot-three lean and mean frame, a sculpted face with dreamy green eyes, and a sulky, sarcastic mouth.

Everything about him screamed absolute bastard and he came across as absolutely irresistible.

And what happens when an irresistible object collides with an indifferent target? Something’s gotta give . . .

Chapter 1


If you have never explored the hidden depths, or valiantly searched for the Holy G, fear not . . . the cavalry is here!

—Sensual Secrets of a Sexual Surrogate


Lance struggled valiantly with inspiration and was deep into chapter twenty-three, “Go for the G-Spot,” of his revolutionary how-not-to book, Sensual Secrets of a Sexual Surrogate, when his phone rang.

“Lance Packhard.”

“Mr. Packhard, it’s Gwen Spencer from the Willow Bend Clinic.”

“Mrs. Spencer? My gran is . . . is something wrong?”

“No, Mr. Packhard, not at all. Mrs. Pecklise is as well as can be expected for a woman of her age, and in her clinical condition. The problem . . .” She paused, trying to word things delicately. “Um . . . I really hate to do this, Mr. Packhard, but you’re overdue by two months. We have a rather strict policy. We provide the best care, and that is most costly. We cannot carry patients. If the settlement is not made by the end of the week, we shall need to ask you to remove Mrs. Pecklise from our facility.”

“Mrs. Spencer, please, I just need a little more time! I have some assets I’m trying to liquidate, but I can’t acquire the funds overnight. Would you consider depositing my art collection with you as surety?”

“I’m afraid not, Mr Packhard. Settlement in full, for the last two months, and don’t forget next month is due in two weeks’ time.”

“I won’t.”

“Thank you, Mr. Packhard.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Spencer. I’ll be there on Friday.”

“I look forward to seeing you then.”

Desperate, Lace ran his hands through his hair. Three months? That came out to a little over nine thousand pounds. He already had his car on the market, and he had been trying to sell some of his art collectibles for several months now, but in this financial climate, people just weren’t buying.

Busy as he was with his clients, he just wasn’t making ends meet. His last hope was tied into the self-help book he was writing. When he handed in the bloody edit, he would get the first instalment of his advance, but he was at least two months away from that.

Somehow, he had to come up with the money and fast. But since when did money rain from the sky? He sighed.

By three o’clock, he was busy juggling numbers in his accounts when his appointment arrived. They exchanged very short pleasantries before she got straight to business.

Mrs. Deafly, an elegant platinum blonde in her sixties who exuded perfection, deliberately leaned forward in her chair and fixed a cool, analytical eye on Lance. “Mr. Packhard, I want a grandchild and I am prepared to pay handsomely for it.”

“I’m afraid you’ve been misled, Mrs. Deafly. I don’t do impregnations. I do Awakenings. You know, help women get in touch with their senses, unlock their sensuality, and awaken their libido. Whatever you may have been led to believe, I do not touch or engage in any sexual or physical contact with the client,” Lance explained.

“Mr. Packhard, my daughter is not interested in sex. Not with men, not with women. I even gave her a Great Dane three years ago to see if her inclinations steered that way, but nothing attracts her. If she’s not into sex, I can’t get her to procreate.”

“That’s unfortunate, but I fail to see how I can—”

“We are the last of our line, Mr. Packhard—a fertile and lusty line, I might add. I could tell you some stories . . . but the truth is that I am faced with the extinction of my way of life. Unfortunately, my late husband’s grandfather had the ridiculous idea of entailing his estate. Under the provisions of that entail, my children need to reproduce and continue our family line before their fortieth birthday. My son is forty-two, and has gone from being high on drugs to being high on God. My daughter is thirty-six. It’s now or never.”

“Mrs. Deafly, I’m sorry but—”

“Now you see, Mr. Packhard, if I don’t have a grandchild, control of Deafly Enterprises passes from my hands in four years’ time. I know all about your financial situation, and I am prepared to pay you handsomely for your services.”

Lance shifted uneasily. “Mrs. Deafly, my financial situation is not up for discussion—”

“Mr. Packhard, as profitable and successful as your practice is, it does not come close to your actual financial needs, does it?” Her perfectly shaped head swiveled on her long neck, taking in the pristine expanse of the office’s exquisitely decorated open space full of artwork: the early Francis Bacon on the wall, the Lucian Freud hanging opposite it, and the tiny Paula Rego of a girl kneeling with spread thighs, arched back on an artist’s easel in a corner.

“I regret you—”

“You have expensive tastes. Very expensive tastes indeed, but I must admit, quite exquisite!”

“Mrs. Deafly, thank you for your praise and the offer, but I must refuse. Unless of course you’d be interested in purchasing some of my art pieces.”

“I have no need for art, Mr. Packhard. I was commenting on your financial situation. You have, as I said, exquisite taste: refined and most expensive. Which is all wonderful, but you also have a huge mortgage on one of the most expensive pieces of real estate in the world, a 1936 Aston Martin in a garage, a grandmother who has recently—and most inconveniently—been diagnosed with an incapacitating degenerative disease—”

“Mrs. Deafly! My family is not your concern!”

The lavishly elegant hand lifted in dismissal. “An absurdly expensive degenerative disease, requiring twenty-four hour care. The elderly are so inconsiderate! All that lovely lolly you’d so diligently squirreled away over the years—an impressive amount, or so my investigators informed me. How unfortunate it just vanished in that pesky financial crash everyone seems to go on and on about.”

“Mrs. Deafly—”

“You are on the very edge of bankruptcy, Mr. Packhard. Within a few months you’ll lose all this, and your grandmother goes into NHS care—well if she’s still alive, poor thing.”

Lance stood up. “Madam, I must ask you to leave.”

Mrs. Deafly leaned back deliberately in her chair. “How unfortunate that you are counting on writing yourself a best seller. A dicey venture for a man who likes betting on sure things.”

Lance slowly sat down. Could this woman somehow be the reason why no one was offering to buy his artwork? “What do you want? It’s obvious you’ve gone to a lot of trouble over me.”

“I’m so glad you asked. I’m suggesting you use that talent of yours in a truly profitable way.” Mrs. Deafly ran a caressing hand down her own throat and smiled. “You come highly recommended, Mr. Packhard. Here is an opportunity to use your talents, all your talents.” The perfectly delineated lips curved. “It won’t hurt, Mr. Packhard. All that’s needed is one little prick, and all your problems will be solved. For life.”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about, but my answer is—”

“Three million, Mr. Packhard. Payable on completion of your assignment. Here is ten thousand pounds, your monthly allowance for your time and expenses.” She handed him an envelope. “I don’t expect you to labour unrewarded. So do tell me, Mr. Packhard, are you the man for the job? Are you up for it?”

Lance gasped. Three million? And ten thousand right now? He could keep Gran at the clinic, wipe out his debt, and retire before his thirty-sixth birthday. He could have a life. Holy smoke, but a child? The thought of a child—his child—growing in a strange woman’s body was repugnant to him. And getting paid for it like a whore was worse. It would be the perfect solution, but no. He couldn’t. He shouldn’t.

But what if he took the money now, did an Awakening, and reneged on the rest of the deal later? He could treat the venture as a loan and as soon as the money for his book came in, he’d tell Mrs. Deafly she could go suck an egg, and throw the cash back in her face. But right now, Gran needed him.

“Well?”

Lance took a deep breath. “Well, Mrs. Deafly, I’ve never done this sort of thing before, but you have piqued my interest. I will certainly do my best to make an attempt to approach . . .”

“That’s all fine and good, Mr. Packhard, but I am a businesswoman. I pay for results. You will receive the rest of the money as a monthly bank transfer into your account. Don’t worry about giving me your banking details, I have them already.” She handed him another envelope. “Here are my daughter’s particulars: name, home address, and current photo.”

Lance stretched out his hand to take the envelope, hesitating for a second. “You understand, Mrs. Deafly, that there are, of course, no guarantees. There is a strong possibility I will not succeed, and I’d like to discuss my legal obligations? If there is a child?”

“As for legal obligations, rest assured you will have none. I intend to have full custody of my grandchild. All responsibility will be mine.” Mrs. Deafly dabbed carefully at the corners of her artfully made-up eyes and uncrossed her shapely ankles. “Please, Mr. Packhard, you are my very last hope.”


Lance noticed Mrs. Deafly had not once referred to her daughter by name. Curious, he slipped the photo of the daughter—Millicent Deafly—and ID form from the envelope.

Yikes. Poor girl. The photo was a ten by fifteen inch colour glossy. Millicent Deafly stood precariously balanced on her toes on a windy shingle beach, clutching a broad-brimmed white hat to her head. Yikes again.

Millicent had a round face with pretty, dark eyes and a sultry, pouty mouth. She was also not a low-fat-no-sugar person. Her five-foot-three frame was well fleshed, with full rounded hips and thighs, and she obviously didn’t go to the gym.

Well, Lance had faced bigger challenges. He winced. What is that peeking out from under the edge of her black fifties-style bathing suit? Yep. It was the dreaded bane of butts and thighs: cellulite.

He continued perusing the photo, but nowhere did he find any evidence that Millicent had ever had any kind of surgical interventions or improvements. She was, in fact, completely au natural from her small breasts to her very generous hips. It was unusual, almost unheard of, and quite unlike her very polished and well-tucked mother.

It was time to make a plan.


Lance started out by investigating Millicent’s background. Like any good detective, he set a search engine on her trail on the Internet. There she was. There were lots of references to her business, Guilty Pleasures. The site had no contact information. There was just one way you could get in and that was to be invited, through personal referral only. Weird. Very mysterious.

Customers’ comments on the site were mostly anonymous—with a sprinkling of famous entertainment-industry names—and looked like they were mostly from women. They featured gushy statements about how Millicent had changed their lives, broadened their sensual horizons, and braved new frontiers.

What in the world does this woman do?

Aha! Halfway down the commendation list he saw a name he knew: Jane De Mondio, who was an ex-client and current friend of his. Lance had met Jane when her current husband—her fifth—had hired him for an Awakening. Jane was a lovely, bright, and well-known television actress. At fifty-two, she was stunning and confident, and had responded astonishingly well to Lance’s methods. They became fast friends and did lunch regularly. In fact, a remarkable number of Lance’s new clients seemed to be Jane’s friends or acquaintances.

He could talk to her as she was very discreet and canny. Her insight would be invaluable. He reached for his cell. “Jane baby, call me. I need to chat!” He left the message on her voice mail and got back to studying Millicent Deafly.

Upon further investigation, he discovered that Guilty Pleasures seemed to be some kind of restaurant or dinner club. Enrolment was by referral only, according to the site, and subject to medical and psychiatric evaluation. Health issues were elimination factors, as were any kind of eating disorders.

Obviously Millicent had something going. Evidently, he would have to get onto that list to make her acquaintance. Lance was confident. He would do an Awakening, leave the rest to chance and nature. Soon, very soon, he would be hard at work building Millicent’s libido and releasing her pent-up sensuality. All he really had to do was worm his way into her confidence and buy some time before he finished his book, so he could pay back Mrs. Deafly in full. He was sure the harpy would be having him watched like a hawk and he needed to keep the cash flowing for at least three months. He would have to be seen to be hard at work.


Unaware that her peace of mind was about to be rudely shattered, Millicent Deafly proceeded with the tranquil routine of her well-structured and most satisfying life. Humming softly, she walked into her pretty little townhouse, placed her groceries on her kitchen counter, and turned on her radio. Kicking off her shoes, she poured herself a glass of red wine and walked to her desk—a lovely rosewood eighteenth-century antique, a gift from her father.

Millicent opened her diary. It was a large hand-bound linen-paper relic, with a fine-tooled Moroccan leather cover in deep red. She sat down and opened it, smoothing the page and rolling her pen between her slender fingers.

A huge black and white Great Dane wandered in and threw itself under the desk with a heartfelt sigh, rolling onto its back and groaning in ecstasy as she gently scratched at its belly with her bare toes.

“Hello, Horse baby. Come to share Mummy’s thoughts?”

The dog snuffled and licked her ankles. Nibbling on her full lower lip, Millicent ordered her thoughts, made ready her square-nibbed fountain pen, and proceeded to unwind the day’s happenings in graceful scrolled loops of lilac ink across the creamy page.



From the Diary of Millicent Deafly:

Today was a great day.

I found a supreme cucumber. It was firm, had perfect diameter and length, great colour, and absolutely no blemishes. It was perfect for accompanying ground slow-roasted lamb—with rosemary, of course, and a garlic yogurt dressing, saffron rice, topped with melted goat’s cheese, and with a side dish of caraway seeds and dates. Would wild honey and orange zest be too much? Or maybe pine nuts?

I must not overdo the condiments, though I must experiment. I’m really excited about the big do tomorrow.

Freaky thing happened, though. This really weird man followed me around the supermarket all afternoon—sleazy type, smelled bad, too. I was about to call security, but the supermarket staff must have caught on and chased him away.

I came home and puttered around in the kitchen, watered the orchids, curled up with that new book I was recommended, and took Horse out for a walk. The bloody animal nearly tore my arm off chasing a Chihuahua. Thank God he’s actually quite a gentle sort: all size, no rage. What on earth possessed Mother to give me a Great Dane, I’ll never know.

We walked to Nunhead Cemetery and put some lovely, sunny daffodils on Daddy’s grave. I miss him so much, more it seems with each passing year. Horse and I walked around between those lovely old mausoleums, and I could just imagine Victorian ghosts peering out through the lacy ferns with reddened eyes and skeletal fingers, weeping for dead lovers.

We went home and had a quiet dinner: roast lamb for me, a pound of steak tartare for Horse. I’ll admit to the better part of an excellent bottle of Shiraz . . .

All in all, despite the stalker, it was a lovely and quiet day off from work.

A STORY ABOUT A MAN AND A DOGSweet my love, I want to tel...

A STORY ABOUT A MAN AND A DOG
Sweet my love, I want to tell you a story about a man and a dog.

(I don't know why a man and a dog! Every good writer has a story about a man and a dog, so I'm a-telling you about a man and a dog.)

Anyway, here is how the story goes:
Once upon a time a lone man walked in the endless whispering desert inside his mind. He walked and walked, and the sharp edges of the cracked and calcified sighs and screams littering his life cut into his soles.

(I said SOLES, not souls. It's a frigging metaphor. And NO, he wasn't wearing any shoes... Why?BECAUSE IT WOULD RUIN THE STORY!)

As he walked he left behind him a trail of blood-stains, the exact shade of clotted pain. It hurt too - you better believe it - but he was one stubborn dude, and so he walked that trail of shattered dreams for days and days.

At night he'd stop and build a fire with left-over bits of old loves he found tossed and trampled by the side of the track, and sat as close as he dared and warmed his hands to the flickering embers. Sometimes a flame would fitfully leap out and singe his palms, and he would yelp, but never did he lean back. The burning of a dead passion was infinitely better than the cold encroaching poisonous ice of the desert night.

The next morning the pallid sun would rise - it's fervid sickly heat belying its leprous light - and on he would trudge. After a few days, he realized he was being followed. Far behind him, almost lost in the vague shapes of the distant dunes, a shadow stuttered. Close one day, another day further, but always there.

(I don't know what it was, but since it's a story about a man and a dog, it stands to reason it's a bloody dog!)

One night he dozed off by the fire. Something he had never done before, as he feared some old obsession would overrun his senses as he slept. But somehow, that night he slept. And as he slept the ragged hesitant shadow crept closer and closer, and when he awoke he found an odd creature slept curled up to him.

(Yes, it WAS a dog)

It WAS a dog, but a scruffier creature could not be imagined: ragged coat, mismatched ears and snarly limp-tongued smile. All in all, not an animal to bring to mind any kind of warm cuddly tales about men and dogs.

It was - however - a dog, and so subject to the dastardly fate laid on every dog since the beginning of creation: the poor thing knew how to love, and so that is what it did. It loved. and since no better object presented itself in that arid land, he bravely proceeded to love the man.

Now the man was most indignant. He tried to chase the dog away. He threw sharp-edged stones of polished scorn, shouted his harshest words, but the stupid animal would not be dissuaded from his dogged pursuit.

(Ye, I get the irony in using the word "dogged" to describe a dog's mindless devotion to an unworthy object of love, I'm writing this, aren't I?)

The truth be told, on the cold nights, the man found the dog's presence quite useful. The gelid desert stars would throw down sharp arrows of ice, but the dog would stand above the sleeping man and snarl, and the frigid shards would break on his scruffy coat, and the man would sleep unharmed by the fierce stinging pain of old regrets.

During the day, the man forged ahead, and the dog would trail behind, trotting and pausing to sniff here and there; all the while lapping up the trail of blood the man was leaving behind.

This the man found singularly repulsive; as was the dog's attempts at licking at his feet, or at his face, on which the tears ran a constant stream of burning salt. It seemed to the man the animal was feeding on his pain: his blood, his tears; and in the silent fearsome nights when the dog lay close, it seemed to devour even his fears.

This went on for quite a while. Days and days, endless chains of nights. The man walking his cursed path, the dog trailing behind. Oh but one day, the man found lying on the ground something strange: the monstrous bones of a snark.

(What do you mean: what is a snark? Ask Lewis Carroll, I don't know what a snark is.)

The dead thing stretched out on the ivory sand, its rib cage arched up against the sky; its cavernous eyes and empty grin seeming to mock the man. It was just too much, and the man sat on the ground and decided to die then and there.

There was no reason to continue life under these pitiless empty skies. At first the dog nudged at him, and licked at his face, his feet, and uttered plaintive whimpers; but the man would just lie there. The dog barked, he nipped at the man's heels, he even snarled. 
The man pushed him away. "Begone! Fuck off! Go off and bug someone else. Leave me alone.""I can't!" The dog cried, "I just can't!""Why the fuck not?""Why because...because I'm a dog! I love you - that stuff about Old Yellar and Jock of the bloody bush-veld is bred into us- and I am obliged to lie at your feet and die if you die; and let me tell you, I don't want to die!""Go away, I tell you, I don't want you.""Well!" cried the dog in a huff, "If you didn't want me, why did you spend your entire life chasing after love?"
But the man, of course, up and died without replying; and the Love-dog howled a bit, and chased a few fleas across its shoulder before trotting off to look for another man to follow home. This time, maybe, one who would welcome the touch of its healing tongue, and savour the comfort of its warmth on a cold night.
(Yep. that's how it ends. Why didn't the DOG die? Well... I don't know. I suppose it's because its a Love-dog, see? And love doesn't die. Not naturally, you know. You have to kill it.)

Night and DayThe dripping faucet counts the nightdrop aft...

Night and Day

The dripping faucet
counts the night
drop after drop
of acid blight
powerless
to wash
away
drain
the pain
drip drip dripping
mocking refrain
pain
pain
pain

MC

WHAT LOVE ISIf that is what love isI'll have noneThe slid...

WHAT LOVE IS

If that is what love is
I'll have none

The slide-glide glance
The snivelly beggary
For a second chance

The dark nights alone
Cradling and comforting
Wishing for a heart of stone

If that is what love is
Then I'll have none.

Second-guessing his pleasure
Groveling for approval
Thinking each thin smile a treasure

Not to boast, but I think
I'd rather stay home
Read a book
Watch a chick flick
Write a story,
Paint a smear
Of laughter on canvas

I think I might skip the wine
Though, or darkling midnight
Might find me lost
And weeping,
French-kissing a ghost.

MC

They Feared Lions And Tigers And Bears But The Big Bad Monster Lived Downstairs.

Once upon a time, a happy child lived in a shiny tower by the sea.

Outside was a dark forest full of lions and tigers and bears,

But in the tower there was no fear, and no danger and no pain.

The child lived with her Mommy and Daddy in the top floor of the tower,

And downstairs near the garden lived her Grandpa and her Grandma.

Her Mommy had a new baby, and her Daddy worked day and night

So the child wandered from room to room and took down magic books from the shelves and learned the secret of words.

You must not think she was lonely, because her Grandpa loved her very much.

He’d sit her on his lap and tell her how pretty she was, and how much she was loved.

And tell her wonderful stories

One day a strange and terrible thing happened.

Underneath her Grandpa’s face a Monster appeared and opened its jaws.

 And the Monster said: "Little girl let me touch you."

But the child knew a secret word from the magic books and she said “NO”

And the Monster screamed with rage but he could not touch her

That night she did not sleep, afraid of the Monster

But the next day, when she came down to the garden, the Monster was gone

And her Grandpa was just as nice as he was before.

“I have banished the Monster with the magic," she thought, "or it was never there.”

 For a long time all was well, then the Monster-Grandpa said again: “Little girl let me touch you”

And again she said “NO”, and it could not reach past her power.

From then on, she never knew who’d be waiting in the garden:

Her nice Grandpa telling stories or the Monster with the poison words.

One day she said to the Monster: “Begone, or I shall tell the world you are a Monster who made a nest inside my lovely Grandpa"

But the Monster laughed and said: “No one will ever believe you, because they don't want to."

So she told her Mommy and her Mommy pretended not to understand.

And she told her Grandma, but her Grandma looked away.

So she told the Wizard who taught magic words...

And the Knight in shining armor...

And the Lady who made get-well potions...

And they listened, and they heard her.

So the Knight and the Wizard and the Lady took the Grandpa away so they could take out the Monster.

And the child knew that when a Monster makes a nest inside the heart of someone who should be your friend you must shout "NO!"

And if someone - ANYONE - tells you not to tell, you MUST tell!

And tell, and tell and tell...Until someone believes you, because silence makes Monsters stronger.

But true words makes them go away forever, and set the children free.

Missing my dearest friend

ME: Did u know according to the stories once a gentile woman came to him begging a miracle for her children and he said "I am the feast set by the Lord for his Chosen People, I am not come for you, or yours." and the woman said to him " Rabbi, even dogs scrabble for scraps under the richest table"

IVAN: True

ME: He healed the children

IVAN; I am not surprised they killed him exclusivity is always precious to the pious

ME: Me neither and yu know they still behave the same now

IVAN: yes always. the enlightened are seldom welcomed. Yu must write ok

ME: what?

IVAN: write, always write. Just write

ME: yes

IVAN: Good

ME: but it hurts

IVAN: Its a gift, supposed to hurt

Me: ok. What u having for breakfast?

IVAN; im thinking now maybe kippers

ME: cool

FORGET ME NOT

You just came in
Smelling of gin
Reeking of sin
Shirt half tucked in
And from that grin
That stumbling walk
I know where you've been

Do you remember when we met?
Your heart was soured by regret
I thought my love would make you forget,
You haven't yet.

I was the clown
Who vowed
To turn that frown
Upside down,
Believing your love
Was a treasure
You'd trade for pleasure

I thought you'd be grateful
Or at the least faithful
I thought my love would make you forget,
You haven't yet.
Why can't I beThe one you needWhy can't you love me instead
I just keep waitingFor you to want me, to my regret,You haven't yet.
MC

WHAT DOES IT MATTER?

Would it matter if I lied
And told you
I've said goodbye
To a hundred men before?

Would it matter if I cried
Whispered promises,
And gave myself
To you once more?

Would it matter if I sighed
Every time you passed me by?
Would it matter to you at all?

It's over you said
On that sour bed
Rumpled sheets,
Where my heart bled

It's over you said
And cast me aside,
Trampled my pride
And left me for dead.

Would it matter if I did
All the wrong things:
Ran to your wife,
Ruined your life?

Would it make you return
Would it change your mind
Would it make you mine?
MC

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