Tag Archives: sex

Sixes – Korea Peoples Asia Pussy

Based on true story that happened to two friends of mine last weekend.


Hello my friend!

Hello? Can uh, can I help you?


What uh, what can I do for you?

You know the Asians?


I think you’ve got the wrong house, man.

It’s in this this buildings no? The Asians? Here.

There might be people from Asia in here, but I don’t know everyone here.

No the Asians? Korea peoples?




Try the intercom thing. You see, that thing there?

No no friend, this thing is no good. I need the pussy.


The pussy. Asian pussy.


Korea peoples Asia pussy.


Okay, I think maybe you’d better –

Hookers. I want it.

I really don’t think there are any of those here.

I need it. The hookers. Big hookers.

Have you – What’s that on your wrist?



Which hospital did you come from?

I don’t know. Friend, where the pussy?

No, no the hospital. Which hospital?

It’s a big one. My friend, the Korea hookers I wanna see.

Uhh. This is too much man.

No, no, no too much. I have the money. See see?


It’s early dude, go away, I’m just not in the mood for this right now.

This the door?

The door to what dude? No hookers here. No me gusta, fuckin’, hookers, por fa-fuckin’-vor!


Just get the fuck outta here man.

Yes! Fuck. I wanna the fuck all the big Asia pussy.

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Mental Breakdown #4 – Actress




Date: 3/14/2013

To whom it may concern,

I took money from a guy I slept with a few days ago. I still have it all. It’s sitting in a drawer next to me. I thought about throwing it away. But I couldn’t.

I don’t know if this is a confession, or just some way that I can push everything I have away from me and breathe, but I need this. I need you to listen to me and I need to pretend that you understand, and that the same problem befell you, or someone you know. I need to think that this landed in the hands of someone that at one time felt like they needed something as badly as I need you. When I got home I opened this bottle of wine, sobbed in bed and looked through my entire phone book for someone to talk to. I hadn’t a single a name that would be able to hear me without judging me. Scores of acquaintances, taking and giving, but no friends that I can share with. That made me feel like I’d completely wasted the last ten years of my life.

I met the guy about a month ago. He came in one night when I was cocktailing. We got to chatting and he said he was a producer for some reality show. I said I was out here doing my thing. He asked how it was going. I looked at him before I answered. I could see he wasn’t judging me. He understood. He saw me, and my dreams, and not the tray with his drink on it. I said it was going well. He smiled, and said ‘Good, I’m pleased’. But we all knew it could have been better. In the eight years I’ve been here I’ve realized that LA loves nothing more than reminding most of us of that very fact.

We exchanged numbers. He said he would introduce me to a few people that could help me. He tipped me really well, like 40%, and that was that. I texted him that night and thanked him. The texts kept going back and forth casually for a few weeks before we found time to go out.

The night out itself was really nice. We had a great meal in West Hollywood then went to a bar nearby, before going back to his place downtown. All night he’d been talking about his job, telling stories, name dropping. He talked about how he would make some calls and get me some parts. I just listened, taking it all in. At his place we talked over Jazz and stayed up drinking and taking blow, and eventually started making out on his couch.

When I came out of his bedroom the next morning there was this little pile of hundred dollar bills sitting on the kitchen work surface. There was a note on top of it.

“I had fun! Text me.”

I heard him in the shower, whistling. I looked behind, out of the huge windows at the tops of the bank buildings, and the hills behind them in the distance. I’d never seen the city from that height before. I looked back at the money. I put my hand down slowly on the bills, and took it off again as soon as I felt them. I counted them. Ten fresh hundred dollar bills.

It was like the air rushed from the elevator as it started to drop. I felt disorientated. My organs thumped inside my body, and I felt them working like they were dying. As soon as the doors opened I wanted to press the 35th floor button and go straight back up and leave the money where I’d left it. But I couldn’t. I walked quickly through the lobby and felt the cunt hostess at the front door eyeing me up and down, like I was someone else’s stain. I was dragged along, trailing, pulled by every negative emotion I could feel.

Truth is, I’ve been partying really hard over the last year. It’s gotten to be something that I no longer do because I’m happy. I wouldn’t have been in the situation I was in were it not for the fact that I’m deep in debt, deeply depressed and almost certainly an addict. In the last few months I’ve been dating a lot of guys, not because I want a relationship, but because I need to have someone to pay for me to drink, and then fall in love with me, for that night at least. And reading back over that I really feel like the sad, pathetic little Hollywood casualty I never wanted to become. But I’m scared now, because I don’t know who to call, and aside from the ten fresh hundred dollar bills in my drawer, I’m completely broke, lost and miserable.

Please, I need help. I need you to understand that I’m not a bad person. I’m just going through some stuff.

Kindest regards,





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Why Do You Dance? – Part One



The room was small. It was slightly rectangular in shape, and about eight feet in height. There were doors and doorways leading to other rooms, but this was the central room. You could tell that much from the furniture, the composition and the heavier looking door with the peep hole on the far wall. The apartment itself would have been called a ‘studio’, and this room would have been a living room in the day, and a bedroom at night. The walls of the room were an off-white that was once just white. The scuffed lacquer of the dark hardwood floors still reflected the light, albeit with a dull haze. A single bulb hung from the ceiling by a chord that matched the walls in color. It pressed a spotlight onto the center of the room. This was where she stood.

In the corner was a bed. The sheets lay ruffled and slept in. They still bore the rough outline of a deep sleep. There was a bedside table next to the bed. The lamp was on. It illuminated the small square surface of the table. There was a book titled ‘Norwegian Wood’. A glass of water sat there too. There were thousands of little bubbles inside the still water. A small astray with several crushed lipsticked butts sat full, between the glass and the book. The drawer on the bedside table lay half open. Inside thick black eyes smiled and peered out from a large glossy photograph, hiding in the still darkness that held back the light.

There was a window next to the bed. The heavy drapes were drawn but for a bright crack. Through that bright crack was a semi-suburban neighborhood, backdropped by the Hollywood hills. From that window one could see parking lots, pylons, chain metal fences, and the odd black silhouette of a palm tree blocking the light from the sun. Through the crack a beam of sunlight stretched across the dark hardwood floor. Speckles of dust from the heavy old drapes filled the beam of light. The drapes swung slightly from a breeze that crept in through the heavy window that was propped open by a plant pot. The pot contained a cactus, parched in dry cracked earth. It looked hours from death. The late fall breeze smelt crisp, mixing with the light scent of the stale cigarettes was being whipped around the room with nothing to cling to.

Clothes lay in loose piles on the floor. Some were waiting patiently to be folded. Others waited impatiently to be cleaned. There were lots of deep reds, browns and blacks separated by splashes of laced pink and bold childish yellows. Bras lay exposed and open on the floor. Thongs sat delicately crushed atop dresses and tucked in jeans . The chord from a hairdryer ran across the floor, under a pile of clothes, and out next to a bag of makeup that sat across from itself in front of a full length mirror. The bag was part of some carefully planned clutter. There was a circular space in the center of the mess, framed by mascara, lipstick, a flat iron, and a stagnant amber liquid inside a long stemmed wine glass.

At the other end of the room a heavy drape was nailed to the wall. The nails stuck out at odd crooked angles, clinging to the heavy, deep red cloth. A teal green sofa sat in front of the drape. It had space for two sitting, or one laying. It didn’t have any cushions on it. About four feet from the sofa sat two brown boxes stacked on top of one another. A laptop sat on the boxes, pointing at the teal sofa and the burgundy drape. On either side of the laptop sat a tall free-standing light that pointed at the sofa where someone sat or lay.

There was a doorway without a door that led to the kitchen. The shadow of a person moved around in the kitchen floor. It was long and thin, and moved in controlled motions. The thin dark lines on the floor looked and moved like arms. A naked girl walked through the doorway and stopped in the center of the room. She looked around the room. The light from the crack in the drapes cut a line directly up her body and between her large breasts that hung slightly from her chest. She pushed her hand deep into her thick black hair and cradled her head as she scaled the floor. As her eyes moved across the clutter she caught sight of herself in the mirror.

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Sugar Mama – Based on a True Story

The next bus will be along in about six minutes.

Oh, okay. Thanks.

Oh my god! I did not expect that big gruff voice!

That big gruff Scottish voice.

Oh it’s Scottish too!? That’s so sexy!

Haha. Thanks.


So you’re here on vacation?

Nope. I’m here to live.

Get the fuck out of here! How?

I’m married.

Really? Shit!

Yeah, I’m sorry about that.


So what do you do?

Ehhh, nothing. Yet.

I’ll give you a job.

Yeah? Doing what?

You can be my boyfriend.

Is that a job?


I’d take care of you honey.

I’m sure you would.

I could be your sugar mama.

And what would that entail?

My sugar’d stop you from getting bitter.

I need some of that sugar right now.


Is it true what they say about tall, skinny guys?

What do they say?

That you’re ehhh, well, you know… hung?

Of course. I’d rupture your spleen darling.

Baby, I don’t think you’d even touch the sides!

You know, you’re probably right.


I’m a home help these days.

Who do you help?

My man. He’s not well.

I’m sorry to hear that.

It’s okay. He’s getting better, I think.

I’m pleased to hear that.


Is this your stop?

Yeah, this is me.

Can I get a kiss before you go?

Yeah. Where?


Hahaha. No.


Okay, on the lips.


Oooh! I’m going to be thinking about that at home tonight!

I’m sure you will be. What was your name by the way?

It’s Mark.

Ross. Nice to meet you.

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The Taboo List – A true story

The following is a completely true story.


“Ross-uh” said my co-worker quietly, tapping me on the shoulder. I spun around in my chair and tried to smile.

“Hi” I said. I’d given up trying to remember her name.

“Yeah, hi. Uhm, I is uh hab-uh a job por you” she said, smiling.

“Okay” I said. I pulled the head phones out of my iPhone and stopped Metallica screaming at her from their tiny little speakers.

“You know is, uh, these days is-uh, Smart-uh TB. Okay?”


“Good. Okay, okay. You need to uh, changey the system. We is uh write-uh the taboo words for Smart TB.”


I had no idea what she was talking about. But that was normal. I’ve been in Korea for long enough to know that trying to work out what people are trying to tell you in their mangled ‘Eng-uh-lish-ee’ will make you bleed from the ears. I’d gotten pretty good at smiling and nodding and not getting fired, so I just did it again.

“Okay good” she said, smiling. She handed me a piece of paper. There was a mixture of printed Korean and penciled Eng-uh-lish-ee on the page. I took it from her and tried to smile again.

That smile burst across my face as soon as I saw what was written on the page.


I quit teaching English here about a month ago. Since then I’ve been working for a company that writes the dialogue for a new form of Smart TV (Smart-uh TB in Korean). I’m told that this is the future. Within the next year the first remote control-less TVs will hit the market and will set the trend for the future. You will be able to order your TV to do things from sofa. But only if you’re American or Canadian. Scottish people are not allowed to talk to technology yet.

I got this job because I told them that I was a writer. And I suppose I am, to an extent. I write as a hobby and hope to make it a career one day. But I also got the job on the strength of my fake American accent, which is, if do say so myself, fucking good. I have fooled many Americans over the last few months and I seem to be getting closer and closer to becoming fluent. I think with an American accent now.

But in this job I must write commands and responses for both the human user and the robot TV. I do this for eight hours a day, writing the phrase “change the channel” in as many different ways as possible. It’s mind-numbing, pencils-up-your-nose-and-smash-your-face-off-the-fucking-desk boring. But I’m out of the classroom and I can go for a cigarette whenever I want, so it’s fine for now.

But after a week of writing this monotonous dialogue and thinking about quitting every minute, I was given a very special job. I was chosen from a pool of four foreigners as the person most qualified to write the ‘Taboo List’. This is the database of crass, sexual, violent and racist language that the TV isn’t allowed to process. If someone commands the TV to write or search for any of the phrases or words on the taboo list, they will not be processed. I don’t know why I was selected as being the perfect person for the job, but they clearly saw something in me. In me they must have seen a man of the world, who’s Scottish heritage (I tell the Koreans I’m half Scottish) and metrosexuality made him the ideal candidate for the job of listing every racist, sexual and violent phrase that has ever been uttered.

Finally, I had been given the job I was born to do.


I looked at the piece of paper in my hands. My eyes were immediately drawn to the word “pussy” written under the “Sexual Language” section. I looked back at her. She smiled again and pushed her hair behind her ears. She looked so naive, almost genderless.

“You understand?” she asked.

“I think so.”

“Maybe, you is uh, liting the sex-uh talk. Uh, like-uh..”

She stood and made little circles with her finger as she tried to force the words out. She wanted me to help her out. I just waited.

“Suck my pussy thing.”

My eyes exploded. I tried my hardest to keep the smile back, but I couldn’t stop the laughter in my eyes. My middle aged Korean boss had just said ‘suck my pussy’ to me in the middle of our office. I looked around. The other members of staff had stopped working and started leaning over the backs of their chairs to listen in.

“Maybe, kiss my pussy. You understand?” she asked.

I covered my face with my hand and laughed silently into my palm. I composed myself and looked back at her.

“I think so” I said.

“Good. Maybe the racist thing too. Okay?”

I looked back at the page. She had written the word “nigger” and underlined it twice. I looked back at her. She was smiling. I looked back at the word “nigger” again. It’s not a word I see written down very often. It seems more offensive when it’s written in pencil and underlined. Twice.

“You is uh, maybe, liting the racist hip-hop thing. And the sex-uh. And maybe some killing and fighting thing. Okay?”

I looked back at the word “nigger” again. I noticed the words “Jungle Fever” and “Dirty Jew” written next to it. The whole thing had lost it’s fun a little. I looked back to her. She was still smiling.

“Okay. I’ll do it now” I said.

She gave me a big thumbs up and walked out of the office. The other girls kept looking at me over the backs of their chairs. They were smiling from ear to ear. I didn’t really know how to feel.


I took a deep breath, and started typing.

  • Cracker
  • Nigger
  • Kike
  • Gook
  • Spick
  • Gypsy

I stopped and looked at the screen. Those words all looked really sinister. As I read over them I realized that I was such a spineless liberal that I had tried to be equally racist to everyone. I felt quite good about myself. I tried to keep this up for a few minutes before I my mind ran dry. I started trawling the internet for inspiration. I’m sorry to report that black people get it worse than anyone else. White people get off pretty easily.

There were seven sections in all, and I left the “Sex Section” until the end. I had been instructed to make sentences using some sexual terminology. I’m going to give you some of my choice sentences. There were 138 in total, but I feel that that is too many to post on here. I would like to post them all for the sake of emphasis, but I don’t want the funnier ones to get lost in the mess of bizzare sexual acts and definitions that exist on the Internet.

So, without further adieu, here are some of my favorites, with some explanations where considered necessary:

  • Sorry sir, I’m not into fist fucking.
  • Give me a foot job, love.
  • Cock fingering sounds painful.
  • Give me your poontang.
  • She did a queef.
  • I’m getting old, I need an Arab strap.
  • Show me your Spam Purse.
  • Do you want my love sausage?
  • I produce a lot of sperm.
  • I went to a bukkake party last night. I had no idea that’s what ‘bukkake’ meant.
  • She wanted to give me a Cleveland Steamer, but that’s where I drew the line.
  • I think that makes me gay for pay.
  • Bitch snowballed me.
  • I can’t come to the phone right now, I’m flicking my bean. Please leave a message after the tone.

As you can see, they started to get ridiculous towards the end. I couldn’t keep going in the sexual way that I had intended to. It didn’t matter in the end. I just needed to put the words into a sentence. In my head, I had no other option but to make them weird and funny.

I gave this list to my boss at the end of the day and she was shocked to find that it was 363 lines long. We haven’t looked one another in the eye since.

Glossary of Sexual Terminology

Snowball – the act of ejaculating in someone’s mouth and then kissing them afterwards.

Bukkake – where a group of men will all ejaculate on a girl’s face.

Spam purse – a gross terminology for a vagina.

Cleveland Steamer – when someone defecates on their partner’s chest.

Arab Strap – a penis ring that focuses the blood flow to the penis and helps a gentleman maintain an erection.

Queef – when a vagina breaks wind.

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With Love – Prequel – Part One

We came rolling up to her daddy’s house at about 4am. I was driving, slowly, lights out. Creeping sort of. She knew exactly where to go.

“It’s the second house up there on the left,” she said, throwing her arm in front of me and pointing. I looked over at the big house with the wall around it. The whole situation suddenly felt exactly like it was. My cold sweats started up again as the car slowed.

“That big one?” I asked.



I brought the car up to the sidewalk and switched the engine off. The music stopped playing and everything went so quiet. There was a little cricket whistling somewhere to the side. I threw my cigarette out the window and turned to her. She was putting her lipstick on in the mirror. She had gone for red today. I watched her pout those full red lips out at herself.

“So what are we doing then?” I asked.

She raised an eyebrow and turned her eyes to me. I saw one of those little smiles come across those big red lips. She kissed the color out. She turned to me and took my hands. My cold sweaty hands.

“Okay, so first, we’re going in. You’re going over the wall. There will be a keypad on the left hand pillar, next to the gate. You press the little green button. That one opens the gate. Then I come in.”


“Okay, so then we go round the back. We can break in through the back door. We creep upstairs, go into their bedroom and tie those motherfuckers up. You deal with that bitch. I’ll take care of that piece of shit.”

“Okay” I said again, looking down at my cold hands in hers. They looked just fine without any blood on them. I exhaled with some force. I just wanted her to know how I felt about all of this. I wanted her to know that I would do anything for her. But I wanted her to know that she could never ask me for more than this. This was my limit.

“Look, I know that you don’t want to do this. But my ‘for’ is much stronger than your ‘against’. I need to do this. And I need you to help me.”

I looked up at her and smiled. Her big eyes were blinking softly at mine, soaking up and keeping tight. I looked back at her hands, and nodded.

“Great! Now get that coke out. We need some electricity.”

I smiled. I went into the glove box and pulled out the wrap. This was the last of the coke we bought before we left LA. Almost eight grams of electricity had rushed around our body in the last three days. Through our noses, into our blood, into our heart, into our liver and out somewhere, into something. We forced ourselves to leave just one more line each for this. We didn’t want to need something we couldn’t get. We were in crystal meth country. And we knew that we’d rather crave coke than end up craving crystal. But leaving those two big lines had been hard. When you’d been thrashing it like we had it was tough to just stop. You could hear the shit whispering at you from the glove box, drowning out the growling of the engine and the grinding of your teeth. We’d been hitting it for what felt like weeks. But that was only cause we hadn’t slept for days for the tweaks and the twists.

“Okay, but me first. You owe me that much” I said with a smile.

“Of course sugar” she replied, leaning over and kissing my hair.

I pulled out the Cadillac manual and carefully poured what was left out onto the picture of our big red car. I started moving the stuff around with Mr. Daniel Ford’s maxed out credit card, taking every last grain and shifting it around. Poor Mr. Daniel Ford, whoever he was. I stopped and looked at the big fat lines. They were identical. I felt my hand start to shake a little and my heart start to race. I cut a little of mine and pushed it onto hers. She needed that extra power. Damn triggers are heavy rocks to move. I rolled up my last Andrew Jackson and leant into the book. I looked right into the front seat where I sat and vacuumed the line, passing her the book and closing my eyes. I sucked the stuff back into my throat as I let my face freeze. I felt my hand steady but my heart start to thump in my chest. I looked at my dark eyes in the mirror. They looked like they were dying with a fight.

I watched her lean over and blast the last of what we had. She sat up and wiped her nose. She grabbed my hand licked my fingers. She rubbed them across the manual, getting every little bit we’d missed, and put them into her mouth. I felt her soft tongue run around my fingers. I started to get hard. I kissed her. I smelt her hair, felt her body and tasted the last of the coke. I wanted to grab her and fuck her right there in the open air. Forget all this madness for a few minutes. But we both needed this buzz. I opened the glove box and pulled out our guns. I had mine and she had hers. I saw those dying eyes of mine in the reflection from the barrel. I checked the chamber and hoped that there would only be one bullet missing from each by the time we reached Playa del Carmen.

“Alright,” she said, throwing the manual onto the back seat “let’s go kill my daddy!”


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Fake – Anniversary Story

Tomorrow marks the first anniversary of my blog.

So here is the last short story of year one

I knew a guy once. Dirty Harry. Like the Clint Eastwood movie. He wasn’t a dirty cop or anything. He was just a regular guy called Harry. But he owned a sex shop. I know right, what a weird job! I guess someone’s got to do it. He was in his late forties I reckon. Married for god knows how many years. No kids though. I don’t think he could have kids. Something about the whole situation made you think that was probably the case. He was a good guy. You could tell he was a looker in his day. He was still a handsome guy, but he wasn’t what he was. But then, none of us are what we were. What I’m trying to say is, he didn’t look like the sort of guy who ran a sex shop. He was, like I said, regular. Apart from all the sex shop stuff. People wouldn’t have called him ‘Dirty Harry’ if he was a panel beater or something.

I used to go to his shop on the reg, looking for stuff for me and the wife and the others. I got toys for them too. Well, ex-wife I should say. Dirty Harry and I used to get to talking. At first it was all business talk. I would ask which things to buy. Which handcuffs were the strongest, which bottle of lube did that tingly thing when you put it on. Sex stuff. But as we got better acquainted I started asking him about him and he started asking me about me. One day I brought up something that I had always wondered about.

“You must have the best sex life Harry” I said to him, looking up from the vibrator he advised me to get. He said it was the one that all the women bought. I was only half joking him around. But more than a little bit of me wanted to know how dirty Dirty Harry really was.

Dirty Harry turned away from me. He started putting these big brightly colored dildos in a straight line. They cast these big old shadows bigger than them.

“You’d think that, wouldn’t you Bill?” he said.

“Yeah. The ladies must love you coming home with all this stuff!” I said. I don’t know why I put it like that. I knew he was married. I’d seen the ring before. But he wasn’t wearing it that day.

“My wife, well, ex-wife, she hated all this stuff” he said.

“Really? That’s weird.”

He looked at me with one of those, ‘really?’ expressions. As if he was saying, ‘take a look around buddy. I work in a room full of big rubber dicks and blow-up chicks!’

“Well, maybe not that weird.” I said, taking that cue to correct myself.

“I sometimes wonder why I’m even in the business Bill. The money ain’t even what it used to be. People are buying their stuff on the internet these days. I don’t know…”

I didn’t say anything. I looked down at the vibrating thing in my hand. It had been vibrating the whole time Dirty Harry spoke to me. I looked for the off button. I was thinking about how much Janet would love this. Would love me for buying this for her. For me.

“You make a lot of people very happy Harry” I said.

He looked down at the floor. He brought his hand up to his face. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his eyes.


Dirty Harry starts telling me that he almost sold the place once. He had it on the market. Had a few folks interested in buying it. One guy wanted to use the space. He didn’t want to own a sex shop though. Who the hell wants to own a sex shop? Not me let me tell you. I mean don’t get me wrong. I love the sex shops. But where would be the fun in being around this stuff all the time? And I don’t want to be known as Dirty Bill!

So Dirty Harry’s in the shop one day, waiting for the clock to strike midnight so he can lock up and go home. This broad walks in. High end he tells me. Not his words, mine. Big thing. All tits and ass and hips. Again, not his words. He smells her perfume before he hears the little door chimes rattle. She comes in all confident like. He told me once that women usually had more confidence in sex shops than men. I could understand that. So she comes in, all confident like.

I want the best vibrator you sell, she says. As calm and cool as that. Dirty Harry gets a little nervous. Says she’s looking at him, right in the eyes, just throwin’ her cards on the fuckin’ table.

Okay, he says. He shuffles round the counter and plucks the best toy off the top shelve. She stands behind him. He can feel her breath on the back of his neck. He hears a lighter click. He hears her suck on the cigarette. He feels her blow it against the back of his neck. He smells the blue smoke mix with that perfume. His hands are shaking like mad. He ain’t even got the dildo switched on for the woman yet!

What’s the rpm? she asks. Just like that. Obviously, this was not her first barbeque. Holding the thing against her palm, looking Dirty Harry in the eyes. He sees that there ain’t a wedding band on her finger. He was still wearing his then.

16,000, replies Harry.

Anything stronger? she asks. Poor old Dirty Harry is just about bowled over let me tell you. She’s looking at him like he’s an engine. He can feel her wondering what his rpm is. He can’t look her in the eyes.

That’s about as strong as they make them, he says, moving a couple of dildos around, tryin’ do somethin’ with those shakin’ hands. They were probably about 17,000rpm!

She closes her eyes and licks her lips, subtle like. She’s moving the vibrator around her palm.

Do you know how to use one of these? she asks him, still with her eyes closed. When he was telling me this he was looking really uncomfortable. Sad almost. But if I was sitting down, I’d have stood up, I’ll tell you that. This was a great story!

No, he says. She looks at him that same way I did after he told me about his sex life. She didn’t believe him. Man working in a sex shop must know a thing or two about dirty sex. She goes into the little handbag she would no doubt be keeping that vibrator in. She sounded like the type that would carry it around with her at all times. She pulls out her card. She hands it to Harry.

If you ever want to learn, just give me a call, she says, with a little wink.

Okay, says Dirty Harry, hand still shaking, holding her card.

She pays and leaves, leaving that perfume smell in the empty shop.


“I sat there the whole night Bill” says Dirty Harry, “I thought about calling her. I did. Thought real hard.”

“Did you?” I asked.


“Why?” I asked. I probably would have.

“Because I was married. Well, then I was. I went home the next morning and told my wife I was leaving her.”

“Shit” I said. It was all I could say. “Just like that?”

“Yup.” he said, smiling. But it was off sorta. Not a real smile. “There’s more to it than that. It’s never a simple thing Bill.”

I said nothing. I looked down at the thing in my hand. I had found the off button about halfway through his story. But I didn’t click it. At that point though, I turned it off. I thought about my wife. And Janet. And the others. And this thing I held in my hand.

“How much is this one?” I asked him.

“$65” he said.

I handed him the cash and walked to the door. I heard the little chimes above my head. I turned to Harry.

“See you later Harry” I said. I knew that I wouldn’t though.

He smiled that fake smile again. It fit. Everything in there was fake.

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With Love – Part Five

“Put on the radio” she said, “I want to hear if they’re onto us yet.”

I reached down and ejected the tape. I started scanning around for a station. I scratched past some country and western, some talk show stuff, some classic rock. I found a news report and left it on.

We both sat in silence, listening to the newscaster. They didn’t mention what happened in Albuquerque, or in Deming, or at the side of the road where we left the bleeding cops. We were both a little disappointed.

“I don’t think we’re going to get to hear about ourselves” she said.

“I think you’re right. They probably won’t report it until they’ve caught us.”

She looked at me and smiled again.

“If that’s the case then they’ll never report it.”

“They’ll report it tomorrow baby. Nationwide. Worldwide maybe.”

Her eyes lit up and she started clapping her hands together.

“We’ll be famous! Posthumously fucking famous!”

I smiled at her. I always wanted to be a famous rock star. She told me once that she wanted to be a famous Hollywood actress. We knew that tomorrow we would both get half of our dreams. I guess that’s more than most people ever get.

I looked back in the mirror. There were no twenties left in bag. I could see the half moon rising higher in the sky behind us. I reached my arm over and put my hand in front of her mouth. She started to kiss and bite at my fingers. She looked around for another tape. She picked one and pushed it. It was Rumours by Fleetwood Mac. Our favorite album.

“Yes!” I shouted, springing back to life, “I fucking love you sugar!”

“I fucking love you too button!”

We both sung ‘Second Hand News’ as we blasted towards the setting sun, almost gone behind the wide horizon.


We heard the cop cars just as the sun disappeared. We pulled over and turned the music down. ‘Don’t Stop’ was playing quietly in the background. It seemed pretty appropriate to be honest. But we did stop.

“Is this it?” she asked, smiling widely.

I looked at the blue and red lights lighting up the dark sky from around the way. That deep into the desert we could hear the sirens for miles. They’d be here in a couple of minutes at most. I tightened my hands around the wheel. I could feel my knuckles go white, trying to burst out of my skin.

“Yeah. I think it is.”

“Okay” she said. She opened the door and got out. She walked to the hood of the car. She turned the light on her cell phone on and started to write something in the dust on the hood. I got out and walked around. The sirens were getting louder. I looked back. I could see a helicopter light beaming down onto the sand, scanning around for signs of life.

“What are you writing?” I asked, putting my arm around her and kissing her hair.

“Our suicide note!”

“That’s great!” I said, watching her write it quickly, beautifully, without thought.

“Done!” she said, stepping back and shining the light onto the hood.

It read:

We did what we did because we do what we want.

And our laughter will echo forever,

louder than guns and sirens.

Our victory lap around the wind.

Good night motherfuckers x


I felt a little tear drip from the side of my eye. I wiped it away and started to laugh.

“It’s beautiful sugar.”

She turned to me.

“You’re beautiful.”

I saw that same drip in her eye, tugging at her thick make-up. It held up strong. She looked so real.

I brought her to my lips and felt that rush run through my body like it had so many times before. We pulled away and wiped the tears from one another’s eyes. We both smiled. We turned and looked to the blue and red lights getting closer, stronger.

“Let’s do this then” I said.


We got back into the car and sat down. I opened the glove box and pulled out the other gun we brought with us. We hadn’t used it yet. I just pointed it at her stepmother. You know, to calm her down. She shot her with the other gun. I took off the safety and closed the glove box.

“Okay” she said, “take out one of your bullets and give it to me.”


“Just do it.”


I pulled one out and handed it to her. She did the same.

“That’s the one I want to kill me.”

“Okay” I said. We each slid the other’s bullet into the chamber and snapped it shut.

She turned the music up, drowning out the helicopter and sirens. ‘You Can Go Your Own Way’ played on. She looked at me and smiled. Her tears had dried up. Mine had too.

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With Love – Part Four

“Sugar, we could steal their car and their clothes!” I shouted.

She turned to me and slid her glasses into her hair.

“Darling, if you think I’m going to spend my last day in this fucking world dressed as a cop, you don’t know me as well as I thought you did.”

I looked around at the raw desert. There was no one around but us. The two of us and two dead cops, bleeding all over the burning road.

“Baby!? We could-“

“I’m dying in heels and a Vivian Westwood dress. And you’re dying in that shirt and tie I love so much.”

She grabbed my tie and tried to pull me in to her lips. I pulled my tie from her hands. I looked at her. She was deadly serious.

“So we’re just going to die. That’s it?! No fight, no blazing guns. We’re just giving up and we’re going to die?!”

“Well, yeah.”

I slumped back down into the car seat. I thumped the dashboard. I grabbed the bottle at my feet and took three big gulps of the burning tequila. I wanted to cry. She slid in close to me. She took my hands and wrapped them around the gun. We held it together in our hands.

“Baby, we’re going to die. And we’re going to die together. I’m going to kill you and you’re going to kill me.” I looked into her eyes. They looked warmer than I’d ever seen them. “That’s how it needs to be.”

I looked down at our hands, together, wrapped around that thing that had brought us to where we were. I looked at the horizon in front of us, cradling that sun that was like our hour glass, counting down slowly.

“Okay” I said.

“So let’s get going then. I want to drive a little more with you.” She leant in and kissed me on the cheek. She put her hand down and started to rub at my dick again. I started the engine. The old bird roared to life. Raw Power by the Stooges kicked back in where it left off. I kissed the beads and hung them back on the mirror. She unzipped my fly and put her head down into my lap. I slammed my foot down and headed for the border. Moving our big red grave further into the sand.

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With Love – Part Three

The police stopped us after we left Deming. I’d seen them at the side of the road with their speed gun. They clearly didn’t know to look out for us yet. I put my foot down. We whipped the dust up as we shot past them, bills flying out behind us. We were both buzzing. She’d fired a couple of shots in the diner but didn’t kill anyone. We didn’t even take anything. We didn’t need to. What were two people laughing and jumping up and down on their death bed going to do with a couple of grand? We already left about thirty thousand dollars on the road behind us, burning in the evening sun. We decided that we were going to die between her daddy’s place and the diner. But we decided that we would die laughing, just as we’d lived.

“Is this it then?” she asked me, looking at the cop car wailing at us the rear view mirror.

“They don’t know about the diner. Or about your daddy.”

She looked at me and smiled. She knew there was still some time on our side.

“How do you know?”

I smiled at her.

“I just do. So what do you want to do sugar?”

“I wanna fucking kill them!” she shouted, laughing, all giddy like, checking the chamber of the gun between her knees. I laughed too. I put my foot down a little more. I narrowed my eyes and looked in the mirror.

“I wanna fucking kill them too.”

She whipped the chamber shut and leant in to kiss my cheek. I watched the car speed past us and slow down in front. I closed my eyes and exhaled. I clutched at the beads that hung from the mirror. I ripped them off and brought them to my lips. I pushed them to hers.

I brought the car to a halt in the middle of the road. The dust came over the car and covered everything. The cops came out of the car. There were two of them. One was fat. The other was all tall and lanky. The fat one was the superior. But none of that mattered.

They slowly walked towards the car. I reached down and held her hand. She looked at me and smiled. She clicked the safety off and held the gun out of view, next to the door. My palms were sweating. Hers were bone dry.

As the fat one got to the side of the car his radio started up. I couldn’t hear exactly what it said, but I knew it said something about a couple in their late twenties driving a red Cadillac convertible. It probably said we were armed and dangerous. But it probably didn’t say that we didn’t give a fuck.

I smiled as he looked at the car. And then at us. And then back at the car. And then to his partner. As he tried to pull his gun she shot him in the head. I didn’t even see her pull it out. The tall one started running back to the car. She stood up above the windshield and fired another shot. He flew forward and crashed against the back of the car. Blood burst all over the back window.

“Yes!” I shouted, slamming my hand against the horn. She started laughing hysterically. I looked up at her. Her long blonde hair was blowing in that desert wind. The orange light from the sun was all across her face. I stood up and kissed her. I could still taste that gravy, mixing with that raw tequila. I knew we could live a little longer. At least as long as the sun that day.

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