To Be Titled

It’s been a long time since I had a first kiss. Longer still since I’ve been with two men with only a few hours of separation. And I can barely remember the last time I fucked in a truck. But on an evening a few nights ago I experienced all three.

From a distance he could almost pass for Ian. The height, build, close cropped dark hair, slightly crooked smile… they all have a close resemblance to the Australian. Except for the eyes. Where Ian’s twinkled blue, Joe’s are a deep brown. Almost black.

This is not a new revelation. I knew Joe before I met the Australian. And after, when our paths crossed, I couldn’t help but notice the similarity.

When we met almost a decade ago he was in the middle of a separation and I in a committed relationship. But there was a spark, a rich undercurrent, the velvety tease of desire. Witty banter lead to flirting laced with thick innuendo which gave way to long looks and intentional unnecessary brushes of skin.  Continue reading

The Solo Ride

I exited the train, strode down the wooden platform and saw him standing just past the turnstiles. Tall and handsome in a grey sweater, tan jodhpurs and brown riding boots, he was unmistakably my guide for the day.

“Hello,” I said to him in his native tongue. The five days prior in this European country had perfected my accent.

“Hello,” he replied, a look of slight surprise on his face.

We walked out towards his car in tandem and in silence.

“How are you?” I asked, nearing the limits of my recently acquired skill in his language.

“I’m very good,” he replied, a crooked smile alighting his face, “And you?”

“Very good.”

“You speak my language?” he asked.

“No, not well,” I said, reverting to English, “I do try though.”

“What you know is very good.”

“I have a good ear, but limited vocabulary.”

He glanced over at me as he opened the door to his car, a ghost of his first surprise still haunting his features.

“I hope I haven’t kept the rest of the group waiting,” I said, referring to my slightly late arrival.

“There is no one else,” he said.

“What?” I replied, confused. I thought I had scheduled this village and countryside ride along with a group of other horse enthusiasts.

“There is just you, so no one is waiting,” he confirmed. Continue reading

What Ever Happened to That Girl?

Jake leaned back in his chair and scratched the back of his neck as had been his habit since he was a kid when he was trying really hard to remember something. He frowned.

Pete took another sip of his beer, watching his friend. He didn’t ask the question. Men just didn’t. If Jake wanted to tell him what he was trying to recall, he would. Simple as that. The two men had spent many hours in companionable silence. That’s what you did when you had a history. You didn’t have to fill it with small talk.

A fly buzzed around the bottle of hard cider near Jake’s hand. He watched it dip and dive in the fading evening light, dancing around the rim. Just as it prepared to land he exhaled with a whoosh, blowing the insect away.

“Rebecca. That was her name,” Jake said, no longer scratching the back of his neck.

“Rebecca who?” said Pete, who hadn’t been privy to Jake’s internal train of thought.

“You know, I don’t think I ever did get her last name. Just didn’t seem to matter much at the time.”

“What time?”

“August 16th, 1969,” Jake said with a twinkle in his eye.

“Ahhh,” said Pete, suddenly wise to Jake’s reminiscing, “You met her on the second day didn’t you.”

“Yeah, late in the afternoon when we went down to the pond to wash some of the mud off. She was just standin’ there. Short hair. Biting her bottom lip as she looked at me. Wearin’ nothing but some jean shorts. I’d never seen a pair of tits I wanted to touch more.”

“They were something,” Pete agreed, but now he had begun his own trip down memory lane. Those four days at Woodstock had been life changing for Pete. But not in the way you would expect.

“I wonder what ever happened to that girl,” Jake mused.

“No way to know,” Pete said, as he leaned back and closed his eyes, remembering.

Screen Shot 2016-03-27 at 8.12.44 PM


I Moaned in My Sleep

The hot shower water pelted by body, waking me up slowly, opening my pores and my mind. I ran the bar of fragrant soap over my skin… quickly. Efficiently. There’s been no time to linger over a shower in weeks. It’s become habit now. Get in. Get clean. Get out.

Nathan’s voice pierced the cloud of steam, “So, what did you dream last night?”

He never asked me about my dreams. Something had prompted his inquiry. I was instantly on guard. Had I talked in my sleep? What had I divulged?

“Why do you ask,” I responded.

“Well, why don’t you tell me what you dreamed,” he said, giving me no hint as to why he had asked. I racked my brain. And for the life of me I couldn’t remember dreaming of anything. That in itself was odd. I normally have a vidid dream life that I can recall without issue.

“Darling,” I said, “If I did dream last night, I don’t remember it.”

“Oh,” he said with a chuckle, “you dreamed all right.”

“Did I talk in my sleep,” I asked, trying to hide my alarm.

“No, you didn’t talk.”

“Well then, why on earth are you so sure I dreamed?”

“Because,” he said, coming to stand in the shower door way and watch me rinse off, “you moaned.”

“How do you mean?”

“You know how I mean. You moaned how you moan when you are…” his voice trailed off and his look became more knowing.

“No! I did not!” I said in shock.

“You did. You did so much it woke me up!”

“Well why didn’t you wake me up so we could enjoy my dream together?”

“Because you sounded like you were having a splendid time on your own. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Hmmm,” I mused as I toweled off, “I wish I remembered.”

And I do wish I did. It’s been far to long since my back was arched an genuine moans were pouring from my mouth.

Long Drives in the Night

“Damn,” he whispered, “I could make love to you.”


I stood up and walked towards his bedroom.

“Where are you going?”

“To bed with you.”

He jumped up from the sofa and blocked my path with a kiss. Grasping my shoulders firmly he steered me away from the door.

“I’m confused,” I said. “Do you want me or not?” Continue reading

Talking in Circles

I parked on the street where Kevin had instructed and texted him that I had arrived. “I’m coming down,” he quickly wrote back.

I got out of my car and my phone rang. It was him.

“Turn around,” he said. I did. And I saw him walking to meet me.

He greeted me with a tight hug.

“You’re really here,” he said, smiling and taking my hand. “Come on up.”

I followed him up three flights of open air stairs, the city night swirling around us. Once at his door, he opened it and motioned for me to go in. Inside it was clean, modern and quiet. But it also felt a little bare. Like someone who kept their belongings to a minimum because it makes packing easier.

He gave me the 20 second tour, watching my reaction. It was underwhelming but the condo wasn’t why I was there. As he stood against the corner that separated the living room from the kitchen I walked up and placed my arms around his shoulders. His mouth found mine. Continue reading

It Started with a Wine Tasting

It all started with a wine tasting.

“Come with us!” my friend texted me. She and her man had been invited to a private wine tasting and somehow wrangled room for me. Never one to turn down the grape I texted back “YES!!!!!!!” with many exclamation points.

The pours were generous. The laughter and merriment more so. Watching my friend interact with her man fills me with joy. They are so openly sexual that it both turns me on and makes it very clear to me that that part of a relationship is missing with Nathan. He simply isn’t wired that way.

I began to crave adventure. A rush. Something.

After the tasting I was driving home (yes, I was ok to drive) and the craving intensified. Nathan wasn’t home. Thanks to social media I knew he was in a far flung city on a roof top bar living the high life. Literally.

I pushed the Siri button and said, “Call Kevin Brown.”

Kevin and I met several years ago working on a project. We have flirted for years, joked about taking trips together, and admitted a mutual attraction. Yet, it had never been acted on. Not even a kiss. He teased me about being all talk and no action. “You say you’ll come see my new place,” he had texted a few months ago, “but you never will.”

He answered the phone with a smile in his voice, “Hey stranger. What are you up to?”

“Can I come over?” I asked. No preamble. No small talk. Just blunt. Direct. Urgent.



“Sure. Give me ten minutes.”

“Ok. Text me the address.”

My phone chimed a few seconds later. And I pointed my car toward his condo.

Taken – The Australian: Chapter 8

“What?” Ian asked with a smile, his Australian accent making my world tilt violently.

“You’re beautiful,” I said, eyes wide, taking in the man before me.

“You’re gonna make me blush,” he chuckled, and closed the gap between us.

Carefully Ian bent and gathered the hem of my long, clinging black dress and lifted it up my body. I held my arms aloft as the fabric slid up and over my head. He knelt before me and lifted a foot, gently removing the black high heel encasing it before repeating with the other. Still kneeling, his hands began at my ankles and traced up the outside edges of my calves and thighs, under my black satin spaghetti-strapped slip to the waistband of my hose. Ever so slowly, he pulled them down, stripping me of the sheer black bindings. As I stood there, in just my slip, he wrapped his arm around my waist and rested his head on my abdomen. Tenderly I ran my fingers through his thick dark hair, massaging his temples. He looked up at me.  Continue reading

Unbuttoning and Unbuckling – The Australian: Chapter 7

The kiss deepened slowly, as if we both were savoring the moment, trying to lengthen each second. The feel, the scent, the touch of him, it was as if he had been designed especially for me. I knew his touch already, his taste. I remembered him. Something deep inside me responded at a level I was unfamiliar with, a level I was unaware even existed. The beautiful hotel surroundings ceased to exist. All that mattered in the universe was us.

When Ian lifted his head, I smiled up at him, and without reservation knew I would give him everything within me. No holding back. No games. I didn’t know what this was, but I knew it was a gift, one not to be squandered. Continue reading

Homing – The Australian: Chapter 6

‹‹ previous chapter

Ian piloted the rental car though evening traffic into the heart of the historic downtown district, the setting sun casting a blinding glare in our eyes, while I gave him directions to my hotel. Along the cobblestone streets we bumped, laughing over my shoddy navigation methods and moments we had shared throughout the day until we reached our destination. Ian pulled in under the canopied awning and the red-jacketed valet came trotting out to open my door.

“Welcome back Miss Green,” he said before dashing around the car to give Ian the claim ticket.

Together Ian and I strode up the old brick steps and through the open glass door into the expansive lobby. We walked under the massive crystal chandelier that gave off an array of shimmering light, past the magnificent curving staircase and to the iron gated elevator. A pianist softly trilled strains of Mozart on the mahogany baby grand. I pressed the pearl finished lift button and we waited. Out of the corner of my eye I watched Ian take in the opulent surroundings. This was the America I wanted him to see—one rich with the patina of aged elegance where the atmosphere was as gracious as the people.

Up we went, my heart rate getting faster and faster the closer we came to my room and then, we were there. Golden rays from the setting sun filled the yellow and blue room with an amber glow. Ian made himself comfortable on the stripped settee that was adjacent to the four-poster cherry bed while I gathered what I planned to wear, stepped into the bathroom, shut the door and locked it. Continue reading

Plaid or French Blue – The Australian: Chapter 5

Ian held the door to his room open for me and waited as I walked inside. I scanned the spartan space taking in the expected sights of a mid-rate all-suite hotel. Light beige Formica covered the counters of the corner kitchenette, medium beige carpet covered the floors and dark beige wallpaper covered the walls. A navy sofa and chair were paired with a yellow oak coffee table and faced a television.

“Would you like something ta’ drink?” Ian asked in his rolling Australian accent.

“I’m good. Thanks though.” I replied as I sank onto the sofa.

“I’ll be right out,” he said.

“I’ll be right here,” I said smiling.

He walked into the bedroom and shut the door. I lay back on the sofa, closed my eyes and listened to him turn on the shower. Like images flickering across the silver screen, memories of the day played across the inside of my eyelids. Why was I so comfortable with him so quickly? What were the chances of our paths crossing? Why did every move he made and every word he spoke seem so right, so familiar? The few times he had touched me had sent currents of electricity surging through my body. I let myself imagine kissing him. My mind dipped and dove through the fantasy of our lips meeting causing my heart rate to go from a steady thrum to a rapid flutter. But the ding of an incoming text message shook me from my trance. A quick glance at the screen let me know it was from my good girlfriend from home. Continue reading

Would Your Wife Please Demonstrate? – The Australian: Chapter 4

Maybe it was the very large, professional-looking camera that hung from my neck. Maybe it was my approachable look. A petite woman with blonde hair in a jaunty ponytail wearing dark blue skinny jeans, tall black riding boots and a black cashmere sweater is anything but threatening. Maybe it was because I couldn’t stop smiling due to the handsome Australian at my side, but as we walked along the park’s alley no less than four different groups of people walked up to us, handed me their camera and asked me to take their picture. I obliged, directing them on position and smile techniques and reshooting when the digital display showed anything less than the ideal. Ian praised me with each capture.

“You’re so patient with them,” he said with a question in his voice.

“Well yes, of course. I have the ability to help. Why wouldn’t I?” I responded with a slight frown.

“It’s just different. That’s all.”

I didn’t question him further.

Ian and I strolled under the giant live oaks to another historic home, went inside and bought tickets to the next tour—which would begin shortly—and went to the porch to wait for the guide. Placing a hand on the black wrought iron railing, I walked up two of the front steps, turned and leaned against a large white column. Ian remained on the ground, draped his large frame on the other side of the railing and leaned in towards me. We were almost eye-level, and less than two feet apart when I looked up and met his steady gaze. His eyes were a tawny hazel, flecked with bright blues and greens and framed with thick dark lashes.

“Oh my,” I whispered.

“Yeah,” he drawled softly in agreement.

Ian shifted his weight, bringing his face even closer to mine, never breaking the eye contact. Just as I was certain he was going to kiss me, a small group of people joined us, ending the moment. We both smiled, acknowledging what had almost happened without saying a word.

Continue reading