Tag Archives: lust

Interplanetary Intercourse

“You know our first navigator’s got to be a girl who will—”
“She will be,” Rydra said. (Babel-17, Samuel R. Delaney)

I’m not asking the world be sane,
Pointing at his naked loin, she says,
nor am I asking you be either:
That would be complete waste.
All I want now is sex from you,
Great sex, if you can manage.
She fondles him, watches him grow:
It has potential, much, I like.

In turn he ogles her, full taut nipples
Pushed out from cone-shaped breasts,
Pointing to either side of his face.
With hungry fingers he reaches,
Touching, rubbing, twisting lightly
Keeping his eye on that serene face
And on her legs: they were swift,
And deadly, the Martian women.

But she said, she liked.  It was
What they’d call on earth, an omen.
She wouldn’t hurt him, her desire
Would rule her movements and
It was for him at the moment. Yet
I am insane, she knows, he thought
To enter the Martian’s cabin, naked.
What will she do, once done with me?

Fear washes pale beneath red lust,
Ask her, it said, ask her, before
You bed her and she takes your mind.
Is she a member of the stranglers?
Would she kill him to complete
Her needed orgasm before orbit?
He’d heard some needed it,
It opened their minds to space
It’s how they became navigators
So went the myth, never dispelled. 

Bullshit, he hears himself say,
She’s just a woman, needy like me
Naked, like me.  In lust like me. 
He reaches his muscular arms
Full around her slim, firm waist
Draws her tightly to himself,
His breathing loud, his heart a hammer
His chest pushes against her
He enters her and both scream.

Ah, best I’ve ever had, he hears.
Are they his words, in his head
Unrehearsed – is he alive then?
They are her words from her lips:
Alive, unrehearsed, spoken to his ear.
You please me immensely earth man,
You live for me. I’ll want you again.
Now I must connect to navigation:
We depart, quick, do not say a word,
I mark you, I find you, later.


The Incompatible, Impossible Couple

A short story, by Sha’Tara

Introduction:  I was watching “Last Love” that amazing movie with Michael Caine and Clémence Poésy for the third time tonight.  I had my netbook on my lap to record passages in the movie when the following story simply jumped at me.  I don’t see that is has much to do with the movie, except perhaps the ages of the couple, and the fact that “Mr. Morgan” was a college professor, but anyway, here goes. 

“Hello, Matthew, I’m glad you decided to meet after all.”

“Hi, Giselle, what made you think I wasn’t going to show up?”

“Oh, maybe your way of showing a complete lack of interest in my doings?”

“I’m sorry,  my face is a complete traitor, plus I’m essentially an asocial person, I thought you knew, understood and accepted that about me?”

“I forgot, Matthew.  Should we order?”  I tried to make my voice hard and cold but I was trembling with fear inside, to the point of feeling sick.

“Yes, certainly.  Garçon?”  I moved to sit next to him; the meal was beyond excellent.  He talked then, and I listened.  Had there been company I would have had to do all the talking.  

That’s how it was with us.  Matthew and his French girl, the incompatible, impossible couple, they called us.  His friends from the college where he teaches English and Philosophy all speak English.  When they see my name written down, they call me Giselle with a hard “g” as in guide.  They make it sound like gazelle.  It’s their little joke, they know how to say my name.  I like the feeling the name gazelle gives me, it suits me somehow.  

We make a strange pair, there’s no denying that.  He’s a twice-divorced college professor who’s also over twice my age.  I’m a tall, somewhat skinny brunette who’s a landscape artist and arborist.  I spend most of my time outdoors, he spends his days teaching and interacting with people and he’s the one who’s asocial.  I love people as much as I love plants. 

We met on the bus a couple of months ago when I was having my truck serviced and forced to take the day off.  I was on my way to my Yoga class and he dropped a couple of books at my feet.  Before he could retrieve them I’d picked them up and as I handed them back to him our eyes met.  He has piercing blue eyes and very expressive hands. Call me a slut, but suddenly I wanted those hands on my skin.  And I wanted his lips on mine.  Just like that.  I was taken. 

“How would you like to come to Yoga class with me?”  I asked him.  Why?  Some things just have no explanation.  I wanted, no, needed, him near me.

“You don’t even know my name, I don’t know yours… did you say Yoga class?  I’ve never done Yoga; don’t know much about it except what I’ve read.  I don’t see the point of it, actually.”  He had a pleasant bass voice that filled my heart with instant and deep longing.  I wanted to swim in it, naked. 

“I’m Giselle.  You?”

“Matthew,  Matthew Hislop.   What’s your last name?”

“Oh, it’s Laliberté.  That’s my maiden name, never married.”  Then it struck me, why did I volunteer that information?  I know, I wanted him, and my woman’s intuition told me to make myself vulnerable, the best way to attract him in case my physical attributes weren’t enough.  Did I ask myself if he was married?  No.  It’s as if I knew he was free, available and could be mine. 

It worked.  I came to my stop, got off and he followed me. 

“Yoga class, Matthew?”

“Yes.  Why not?  I’m intrigued now.” 

We did Yoga together.  Two days and I was in his apartment making love with him. I was a twenty two year old virgin.  It was as wonderful as it was frightening.  I felt so terribly alone and vulnerable and sure of only one thing: I was lost in his maleness.  My lust turned to love and in his own way, he began to love me.  How could any woman leave such a man?

I learned how.  He did not engage.  It was as if he was always in two worlds, one that included me, an exciting convenience, a fun thing, a trophy girl, and another that no one would ever be allowed in.  I would have left him after that first week but my body would not let me.  I could not imagine ever encountering him when he wasn’t mine.  I was addicted to him, to his body, to his hands, to his voice and breath.  He exuded a kind of brutal magic I was powerless to break. 

Which brings me back to our dinner date at Michael’s where I had intended to confront his coldness.  It wasn’t going to happen, I already knew before I got there.  I was still taken, and I would remain taken unless his coldness became misogynistic.  I would never tolerate that, not ever.  Somehow, again that intuition, I knew he would never turn on me.

I would live my life with him and take care of him as he got older. 

I can imagine cutting his graying hair, trimming his eyebrows and ear hairs.  I can imagine even more personal caring.  Though he is a much better cook than I, I can also imagine the time when I’ll have to do it for him.  By then of course I will have learned to make his favourite dishes.  I can imagine my love for him growing in his cold soil.  I am that kind of seed that does best in a winter soil.  And I have a heart that needs to give.  He would fulfill that need for me.  With him I can imagine the unimaginable and thrill at the thoughts.  

I got lucky, there is no denying that, but perhaps he got even luckier. 


Why is it so many people don’t like and don’t trust Psychiatrists?


Why is it so many people don’t like and don’t trust Psychiatrists?
                [a short story from   ~burning woman~   by Sha’Tara]

This is so cool, I’ve been wanting to tell this to someone since this morning. Where to start.  Oh, yeah, my psychiatrist has an office just across from the Lilly labs.  It’s convenient, so why not?  His rent, he told me in a rare moment of true confidentiality, as he was ogling my legs and I wasn’t trying to hide them, is very reasonable.  The building belongs to Lilly, and they offered him a great lease.  That’s of course confidential but I know I can trust you not to spread that around, although why the big secret?  What’s wrong with a doctor getting some help from a drug company when he needs the drugs to help his patients?

There’s a spare room behind the examining room in his offices. It’s for special cases, like mine, the really, really difficult ones.  I can’t tell you much of what goes on in that spare room, of course, but it does have something to do with adjusting my underwear so my body will feel relaxed.  The bed is very firm and comfortable.

 I can tell you my doctor’s name, that’s not confidential. He’s a real hunk, with smooth dark skin, short black hair and a great six-pack – I peeked under his shirt when he was massaging me – and his fingers are expert at making you feel good about your whole body.  That’s Juan Lupe Carvello.  But he dropped the Carvello.  He said it didn’t fit his new American image.  Dr. Lupe is from Mexico City.  He told me, also in confidence, that psychiatrists in Mexico have to take a course in chiropractic, hence why he’s certified to work with cases like mine that require a lot of body work, massage and so on.  Makes sense to me; you can’t fix everything with words and drugs after all.

Me? Oh, I’m Doris.  I’m married, no kids.  My husband’s a lawyer so I have a good life, mostly.  He’s hardly ever home, and when he does show up, I don’t think he notices me much.  I try not to get in his way, he’s so fussy and fretful.  Me, I wouldn’t have to work but I got bored one day, so I asked Andy (that’s my husband) if I could get a job at the office.  It was so funny, he looked at me as if he’d never seen me before.  He works with a bunch of lawyers, dozens and dozens of them in this high-rise downtown.  They got so much staff there, I thought they could fit me in, no problem.  How about it, Andy?  He continued to look at me as if I’d just landed on earth from some distant planet, or from, what’s that place called… Afghan something.  That’s funny don’t you see?  I’m a typical, all-American blue-eyed blonde that all the guys went nuts over on account of my tits.  Uncle Jerry paid for the implants, a birthday present, but oh, never mind, that’d be telling. 

 Andy? He shook his head, looked at me some more, told me to get some business suits and to meet him at the office in a couple of days, for lunch.  Then he went to his office and that was that.  I got a job with a junior level lawyer, Dick’s his name.  I like him, he’s so easy to tease.  He’s totally in love with some eastern girl who looks like a real live doll, about half my size.  She’s cute, and Dick’s six foot three, if an inch.  They stick out in a crowd, don’t you know.  I notice things like that,

My job’s easy. A bit of computer search, fielding in-house calls, filing papers, but mostly it’s making sure there’s always coffee on, goodies in the fridge, and hand delivering stuff, office to office.  I get to do a lot of that.  I’m not suspicious by nature but I think the guys are still getting turned on by my tits and they like to see me walking around, my top bouncing, so I make sure there’s a lot of cleavage for them to look at.  Hey, I get paid, what the heck’s wrong with that?

 But I was talking about Juan, my shrink, only he doesn’t like me saying that – he says it’s disrespectful. I dunno, I don’t get it.  So anyway, he says we should be on first name basis, makes it easier to talk.  He likes to talk and his accent is kind of sexy, but me, I don’t have much to talk about.  He says, that’s ok, just say whatever comes to my mind.  So, he’s a shrink, right?  I tell him all about my sexual fantasies, some of them are pretty wild.  He takes notes.  Sometimes he interrupts and asks really dumb questions like, how does that make you feel?  It’s just fantasies, who cares how they make you feel?  So I make stuff up just to keep the talking going. 

So yesterday morning during my session – that’s what they’re called he says – he comes over as I sit in the chair and he puts his hands on my shoulders and feels me a bit. I get a shiver when he moves his hands around my neck and pushes down on my shoulders a bit more then around my throat and down a bit.  You’re tense this morning, Doris.  Maybe you should lie down and let me give you a massage before we talk.  So I say OK, and I feel a bit of a fluttering in my stomach.  And I start having a fantasy about him.  I’m imagining him slowly taking my top off, then my bra, then sliding his hands around my tits… then I get really daring with the fantasy and he’s undoing my skirt, then sliding my panties off until I’m completely naked, facing up, and his face is almost touching mine.  Then impulsively I reach for him and we start kissing.  Well, before I know it, that’s exactly what happens.  So I get up off the bed and I unbutton his shirt and pull it off.  I’d never seen him topless before.  Oh… gorgeous… and now I want to see the rest of him, so I kneel down in front of him and undo his pants, then slide them down.  Then I slip off his briefs.  Now we’re both naked and he’s well, holy shit, like wow! 

 It was a great session. The absolute best.  Then we take turns in the washroom, get dressed, and I’m back in the chair again.  He’s sitting at his desk, sorting his notes.  What he says next kind of baffles me, but he’s the doctor.

Doris, he says, now I know what your problem is. You have a rare affliction which hasn’t made it into the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, but it will probably be included in the next edition.  Your condition would be labelled CNPS.  It’s quite rare.  So I ask what that means and he says, we call it Completely Normal Person Disorder.  Well, that doesn’t sound so bad to me Juan.  I’m completely normal? 

 It’s not so simple, Doris. What is normal?  The problem is, we don’t know and that’s the frightening part.  You have an undiagnosed and untreated condition and until we start treating it we won’t know how much damage it can do.  In fact we don’t know how much damage it has already done.  You’re not on our medical radar you see?  Any idea how dangerous that is?

 Well, and I thought I was normal all along, with a rather normal life, doing my normal things and now I realize that’s all wrong. I begin to cry, right there in Juan’s office.  He comes over with a box of Kleenex and starts comforting me, explaining that Lilly has some new, experimental drugs he’s going to prescribe for me and not to worry, my normalcy will be taken care of in no time.  Just three or four pills a day Doris, and you’ll be good as new, well better in fact: you won’t have to worry about being normal any longer. 

 Do I have to do anything different, I ask? And he says, oh, don’t worry, you will, and you won’t have to think about it, it’ll be so natural to you.  So, same time Friday then?  I’ll have those pills for you then, I promise.  So I nod and walk out feeling really weird.  Imagine that, me, having this rare condition called normal.  Actually, I’m in shock.  But now, try to imagine where I’d be if it wasn’t for Juan, for psychiatrists, huh? I’d be another untreated normal loony, that’s what I’d be and nobody would be none he wiser, not even me. 

So I ask you, what is it people have against shrinks anyway? They’re here to help, just like Juan is helping me.  I’m so, so thankful, you have no idea.



I am a Woman, what does that mean? flash fiction

(Damn those misplaced modifiers – corrections made)

I am a Woman, what does that mean?
[flash fiction from ~burning woman~  by Sha’Tara]

A shrivelled maple leaf and squashed Tim Horton’s coffee cup blew simultaneously across the sidewalk as a gust of wind presaged another downpour from driven black clouds pressing down on the city’s highrises.

 The bus stop was crowded; the 8:15 Downtown unusually late.

 She waited until they were all staring and said to no one in particular, “Oh, darn, I’ve got a run in my pantyhose!”

 She stood up, turned slowly to face the spot on the plastic bench she’d just vacated and lifted her leg to put her black knee-high boot on the bench. She looked down at her leg, running her hand under her thigh. Her skirt, which couldn’t afford any more hemming rose a few more tantalizing inches.  Looks intensified; you could have cut the anticipation with a butter knife.

 “Oh, I forgot, I’m not wearing any!” Deliberately, slowly, she lifted her leg a bit higher to slide her boot off the bench and pulling down desultorily on the black mini skirt, resumed waiting, standing, smiling at the street. 

 An older woman in a heavy grey coat and holding a folded umbrella scowled at the girl and said in a low voice, “That was uncalled for.”

 The girl looked at the woman, smiled openly, sweetly and replied so all could hear, “Actually it was begged for.”