3 Short Stories

<CENTER> <IMG SRC="Images/menu.gif" ALT="Splash Screen" ALIGN=TOP WIDTH="400" HEIGHT="275" BORDER="0"> </CENTER> <TABLE> <TR> <TD WIDTH="140"> <CENTER> Nora by Jacques Wakefield </CENTER> Last night when everybody was drunk and partying Nora knocked on the door and he was the only one who could hear it. She talked to him at the door for a little while, then talked him to the top of the stairs. Then to the roof, and she, not afraid of the dark and thick silence of the glaring night, proposed, saying she wanted to show him something. And she did as she pulled him into herself with glee and mystery and pushed him away like the daily news after she got hers, leaving him standing, peeing for need of understanding, and want to remember. He stayed up there on the tired torn tar roof after Nora left in the dark, smelling fish and cornbread going heavenly, hearing the murmur of families' chattering disputes in apartments beneath his hang jawed breathing; underneath his piss wet sneakers, and in the shout of the number echoing in the streets below. He would remain up there until his dick went down and when he could mindfully recapture exactly how she looked as she shook her ass afterwards in the upper thigh red leather skirt, thick thighs held in by off-white panty hose, her ass bouncing hello and goodbye, pulling the panty hose up and the skirt down to disappear into the apratment where she was babysitting' dressed to kill. He masturbated head bumped against a wall with tears as a threat. </TD> <TD WIDTH="10"> </TD> <TD WIDTH="140"> The Game by H. Amanda Robb Tamr's and my favorite game was spy. Telling ourselves we were doing undercover work for the religious police we regularly broke into her next-door neighbor's home after school. Abdul Hussein was thirty-ish, a government official of sorne kind, and single, which was enough to arouse our suspicions that he was ungodly. He left his bathroom window open and we climbed through it regularly, examining first his shaving supplies and, as we grew more bold, his clothes closets and refrigerator. One sultry afternoon in the rainy season, we were poking our way down the long hallway to the bedroom when we heard a voice. Quickly, I showed Tamr how to shirnmy down the hall like they did on "Mission Impossible." And just like on television, we peered through a cracked door and watched what was supposed to be private: an African woman rubbing Abdul's erection, his head thrown back, moaning, "Oui, bebe, oui." Almost bursting with giggles, we tore back up the hall and spirited ourselves back out the bathroom window, the crank hitting me between the legs, causing an unfamiliar surge. Once we were back in Tamr's room and recovered from our convulsive laughter, Tamr rang for Joquin, a slight, silent Filipino boy of fourteen who was new to their household. He brought us tea and English biscuits. Tamr took the tray from him and ordered him to drop his pants. When he didn't understand her Arabic, French, or English, she did it for him and he trembled. We squeezed and rubbed his penis until, to our delight, it swelled like Abdul's, its pulse quickening our own. We stopped and it shrank. We did this over and over until it was too easy and we were bored. Then Tamr ordered him away and we started playing with some Barbie dolls my father had picked up in Egypt. </TD> <TD WIDTH="10"> </TD> <TD WIDTH="140"> Madonna's World by T.L. Kelly I want to live in Madonna's video world, a world where men and women are not equal. I want the whole king size bed to myself and all the covers. I want to borrow his shirts and never return them and I want to complain if he leaves his socks on in bed. I want to cum again in five minutes and again in five more minutes. I want him to be on top every time, doing all the work, and I want him to fetch the tissues every time. I want him to sleep in the guest room if he snores even just once, or if I feel like sleeping alone, or if I'm mad at him for no reason. I don't want him to understand my feelings. I want my feelings to remain an ancient mystery older than the gods, older than dirt. I want my way or no way, and I'll know he'll come around to that eventually, because a hot wet screamer always gets what she wants in the end. Let men manage the wars. Let men go forth and conquer, move up the ladder, sign on the dotted line, manipulate the hostile takeovers, fix the elections and retrieve the holy grail. Let men earn a living and pump their paychecks into the national defense. In the end, they will be defenseless against the whims of the president's mistress. Let men bring home the bacon, fry it up in the pan, and then go back to the store because they forgot the tampons and Midol. Let men be afraid, be very afraid, for five days a month while women rage and bleed. And while men run up and down the world, defending it to the death, let women eat cake. Let them eat chocolate cake with butter pecan frosting. Let them eat fettucini alfredo with lots of garlic on a first date, and French vanilla ice cream and Taco Bell super beef burritos with extra cheese all day, in bed, watching soap operas until they can diagnose every social disease. Let them eat and eat without ever gaining a pound, with their lipstick perpetually even and moist and their breasts eternally perky. Let women with cold feet fall back into bed again and again to turn up the electric blanket no matter how hot it gets, and let women who sweat too much lay naked on the kitchen linoleum with the air conditioning turned up high in the dead of winter. Let women hold the remote control every second of Super Bowl weekend. Let women hold the secret keys to Madonna's video world so that the truth will never be revealed to men, the truth about Madonna, the truth about women, the truth about orgasms, the truth about ice cream. Let women change their minds about the truth whenever it suits them, so that the fulcrum of power forever rests on a pair of hooters. </TD> </TR> </TABLE>