Flash Fiction: Order Up

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I’m a big fan of free writes. When sitting down to work on a project, I like to start out with a fifteen minute free write. Anything and everything is acceptable, no matter how petty or trite. Skipping this process tends to result in fewer words written overall and a tendency to become distracted. Most of the time, what comes out is self-serving drivel: my plans for the day, a great meal I’ve recently cooked and/or eaten, a rant about well-meaning family members who just don’t “get it”. Sometimes I surprise myself by coming up with something coherent— and maybe even cohesive.

What follows is the result of my most recent free write. It’s clearly the beginning of something, though I’m still a bit fuzzy on exactly what. Mostly, I’m sharing it to prove that you can plant your butt at the page with every intention of kvetching about noisy neighbors and the ever-growing pile of dishes and still walk away with something that makes you think, “Hey, not bad.”

If you like what you read here, I encourage you to share your thoughts in the comments.

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“What can I get for you?”

My ears pricked at the deep, Southern drawl.

“I’ll have a burger, medium, no fries.”

“Something to drink with that, sir?”

“Large coke.”

“And for you, ma’am?”

Yeah, it was him all right. I knew his family owned the place, but, I had no idea he’d still be around four years later. My chest tightened, among other things.

“I’ll have the meatloaf with a side of gravy.”

“And to drink?”

“A diet coke.”

“Great, I’ll have those cokes out for you in a few moments.”


I shielded my face with the menu as he stalked past the booth. His stride was just as I remembered: long and heavy, yet agile. He even smelled the same.


The restroom door creaked and out marched Sarah, wiping her hands on her jeans.

“No paper towels. Fucking hick town.” She slid into the booth. “You okay, Callie?”

I peered over the laminate. “Yeah, fine.”

She opened her menu. “What’s good in this dive?”

“I don’t know. It’s all pretty much classic diner food.”

“Come on, you used to work here back in high school, right? Help me avoid food poisoning.”

“That was years ago. Things change.”

“Nothing changes. Just loses its shine, that’s all.”

“Hmm.” I glared at the Early Bird Special.

“Hot waiter, though.” She snickered.


“Over by the counter. I prefer ‘em clean shaven, as you know, but he’s perfect for you.”


“Aren’t you gonna look?”


“Sheesh. What crawled up your butt?”

I scowled. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

“Well, either way, you’re in luck.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because he’s coming over here.”

“Fuck,” I spat.

His footsteps thudded on the old oak floors. I angled towards the interior of the booth.

“What’s wrong with you?” Sarah whispered.

“Have you ladies had enough time to look at the men—Callie?”

My heart sprang into my throat. The leather groaned beneath me as I rotated. “Hey, Josh.”

Dear, God, that lopsided grin.

Continue reading “Flash Fiction: Order Up”

My Lover, Poseidon

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I am at the ocean.

After a delicious lunch of lobster stew and fried calamari, plus a bite of my best friend’s salad (because, you know, gotta stay healthy) we went for a walk on the beach.

We walked the long strip of sand, all the way out to the jetty, with its jagged boulders and briny, anaerobic scents, and sat there until we couldn’t feel our noses.


On our way back to the hotel, we spotted an older gentleman in a gray sweatshirt writing something in the sand. I remarked to my friend how the beach often brings out our innate playfulness; memories of building sand castles, dodging waves, feeding seagulls (as opposed to chasing them; I love seagulls), and writing messages in the damp sand that will inevitably be washed away by the tide. As we marched up the stairs to our room, I noticed a woman in a red coat sitting on a lower balcony, smiling to herself. I didn’t think much of it.

Now, sitting on my third floor balcony, I see what the man has etched: a heart, shot through with an arrow, with the words, “Betty My Love” scrawled at the center. I attempted to capture it, but the camera on my phone just isn’t up to snuff.

Trust me, it’s there.

Just now, the woman in the red coat and the man in the gray sweatshirt are walking arm-in-arm along the beach. Upon further inspection, they appear to be in their late-fifties to early-sixties. She has a kind face and brown, shoulder-length hair. He is grizzled, with long, gray hair tied back in a ponytail. They seem content—as content as two vacationers could be, surrounded by blue skies and even bluer seas.


Only once have I stood beside the sea, arm-in-arm, with a lover. Most often, I find myself here on the cusp of heartbreak. Perhaps this isn’t a coincidence. I’ve been visiting this particular beach with family and, more recently, friends for about two dozen years. Maybe I can just sense when I need my negative ion fix; that annual or biannual meeting between Poseidon and me, when I let the icy waves wash over my naked feet and he reminds me that there are plenty of fish in the sea.

Yesterday, I arrived with a slight scratch at the back of my throat. After a heavy lunch of codfish cake Benedict (so good…too good), I felt a sinus headache creep between my eyes. By late afternoon, I was laid up with a full-on migraine and everything that goes with that, and spent the rest of the night in bed. I woke up early this morning feeling much better and made it my mission to spend at least a couple of hours journaling on the balcony.

Here’s a snippet of what I came up with:

One of the most pervasive phrases used in erotic and romantic fiction has to be, “waves of pleasure”. It’s so common, it’s cliché.

However, sitting here, watching the waves ebb, surge, crest, froth, crash, foam, and ripple, I cannot think of a better analogy for female orgasm.

I’ve written my fair share of orgasms and, if I’m both lucky and determined, I will continue to do so for many years to come. Coming up with fresh, unhackneyed phrases for pleasure can be daunting, as there are only so many nouns, verbs, and adjectives (not to mention euphemisms) at one’s disposal before they cross the line into purple prose.

That said, some things stick simply because they work.

Some days, an orgasm is like a day at the beach.

There’s the gentle rippling of the water, when it appears as though nothing of particular import is going to take place. Then, you have the slight upheaval, the shaping of the wave, a deepening in color—the signal that you’re doing something right.

You see the peak, the sharp edge of the wave as it rises from the surface, surging closer, then closer, until it crowns and there’s nowhere to go but down, over, tumbling onto itself.

It falls and froths, skidding and rippling to shore, as far onto the sand as it can possibly stretch.

Petering out, it thins, dilutes, and dissolves, slipping back into the deep.

And then, assuming you’re the sort that recovers quickly, you let the current drag you into the fray once again. (And again, and again…)



Tonight, I lie down beside the Atlantic. A cold and jealous mistress, she will wash away Betty’s heart.

But, wrapped in the arms of her gray, grizzled man, Betty will not shiver.

And, lulled to sleep by the song of my lover, Poseidon, neither will I.

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Flash Fiction: En Route (Part 2)

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Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Here we have the conclusion to last week’s erotic subway flash fiction story. If you haven’t read part 1, or, if you’d like to reacquaint yourself with the story and characters, click here.

Otherwise, enjoy!

Leila’s handsome new friend trailed feather-light strokes along her outer thighs and up into the hem of her dress. She swallowed. Her cheeks burned and she prayed that no one would notice the sweat beading at her hairline and on her upper lip.

He caressed her, kneading her with his fingers. Leila closed her eyes, savoring the illicit contact and wishing that they were alone instead of crammed like sardines into a train car with a bunch of strangers.

Then again, he was technically a stranger. She buried the thought.

The man teased the backs of her thighs with his knuckles before sliding his thumbs to the interior of her legs. She inhaled sharply; her eyes snapping open. He skimmed his palms upward, pausing just below the crotch of her panties.

She bit her top lip and held it.

“Excuse me?” A woman spoke from somewhere behind her. Leila bristled.

“Yes?” her new friend replied. His hands stilled.

Please, don’t notice, Leila prayed.

“Can you tell me if this train goes all the way up to Bedford Park?”

“I believe it does.”

“Excellent, thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

Cheeky bastard. Leila’s heart sank as the train once again slowed to a stop.

The conductor’s voice crackled over the intercom: “125th Street.”

Shit. The next stop would be hers.

Leila expected his fingers to vanish, but they remained poised just below her buttocks.

A handful of people departed and even fewer got on. Again, the train car pitched to life. Her new friend continued to stroke her inner thighs, gliding down and skimming back up. Leila chewed at her lip and considered bending her knees to speed his ascent.

His fingers made contact with the crotch of her panties. She squeaked, grateful for the train’s incessant droning. He drew a firm line back and forth over her slit, grazing the spot just below her clitoris.

Leila’s nails cut into the heel of her hand as she tightened it around the bar.

Two fingers prodded at her, engraving a trench between her folds. Slipping between the elastic and her thigh crease, he made contact with Leila’s bare skin.

She gasped.

His fingertips were warm. He drew them back and forth over her lips before wedging himself between them, and Leila swore she heard a sharp intake of breath as he learnt just how wet she was, for him. The man distributed her juices, gliding upwards and forwards.

He found her clitoris.

Leila gritted her teeth as he prodded the tiny bundle of nerves, buffing it with his moistened fingers. Each circular stroke elicited a sharp twinge of arousal and threatened to send her into hysterics.

The man slid his other hand up and over her buttock. He cupped it, massaging it with his broad palm. She swayed with the train as it banked left, her feet slipping a few inches and placing her even deeper into the vee of his legs.

Gasps became whimpers; twinges deepened into throbs. His touch was light, yet insistent, unrelenting as he thrummed her sensitive bud. She bit down hard on her tongue as the muscles in her groin tensed, spasmed—

The conductor’s voice crackled over the low roar of the train car. “Now approaching 149th Street, Grand Concourse.”

Fuck. She came; her knees liquefying. If it hadn’t been for her vice grip on the overhead bar, she would’ve collapsed into his lap. The man drew slow circles over her, prolonging the ache.

The brakes squealed as the train coasted toward the 149th Street platform. Leila tapped the man’s foot with hers. He withdrew from her panties, gliding his fingertips down the backs of her thighs—including the two that were now slick with her juices. The stranger shuffled and stood, his torso flush against Leila’s back. His right hand covered hers on the overhead bar as the left planted itself on her backside. His breath washed over her, hot and moist upon her neck

Leila’s heart threatened to bust a hole through her chest.

The train car stopped and the doors slid open. She leaned back against the man’s torso and then snaked her palm out from beneath his. The last thing she felt of him was his hand as it uncoupled with her rear and the resulting chill as her skin grew accustomed to the lack of touch.

Weaving through the crowded car, Leila stepped onto the station platform. She breathed deep, letting the mob take her.

Is he following me? She wondered.

Leila pushed ahead, her pulse sprinting. Where do I go? Should I lead him to my apartment?

No, that’s insane. What if he’s dangerous?

Panic and arousal coalesced in her belly as she debated whether or not to duck into a bathroom or find an attendant. The stairs loomed and she climbed them two at a time, cursing the slow pedestrians ahead of her.

Oh, God, Leila thought. What do I do? She found it impossible to take a full breath. Gripping the banister, she hurled herself onto the top step and out into the street. She scanned the busy intersection, afraid to turn around, to face his expectant stare—after all, she’d let him get her off; now it was his turn.

This is crazy—crazy hot, but still crazy.

She jogged across the street and allowed herself to be swallowed up by the crowd. Footsteps thundered in her ears along with car horns and distant sirens. The crotch of her panties was practically soaked through and, even amidst the fear, she found herself longing to put all of that moisture to good use.

You’re willing to let a handsome stranger finger you on the subway but not in the privacy of your own room?

She sighed, trying to swallow the enormous lump in her throat. She swore she heard his heavy footsteps trailing behind her as she rounded the corner of the Bronx General Post Office.

But what if he wants to hurt me? Sweat trickled down from her hairline.

What if he’s as good with his mouth as he is with his hands?

Leila stopped short and spun around.

“Hey!” A girl’s voice barked.

Leila winced as she collided with a well-built teenager in a red sweater, the impact knocking her back against a lamppost.

“The hell did you stop for?” the girl shouted. “Dumb bitch.” The girl brushed herself off and stormed down the sidewalk, muttering obscenities.

Leila blinked; her chest tight and hands shaking. A drop of rain tapped her forehead and trickled down her temple, followed by another. The gray skies rumbled as the wind sent discarded newspapers whipping about the street.

Panting, Leila leaned against the lamppost and scanned the sidewalk for a familiar face, but there was no sign of the beautiful man with the skillful hands from the 4 Express train.

Damn, she thought.