My apartment
was near the Arboretum in Seattle, hidden back from the road beneath a canopy
of dark green trees. When I got home, I slept for the rest of the day. A week
with my brother had been draining. When I woke the next morning, I sat in my
study staring at my laptop, flipping through my books, unable to call forth the
buzz that usually came from three separate ideas fighting it out while I slept.
This focus I normally had in abundance early in the morning. The books reminded
me of how Tristan helped me move into my apartment downtown after Dad died two
years ago. When I set up my office, he said there was too much light, but I
loved it. I had a bedroom with tall windows down one wall, a study that was
smaller but just as bright. There was a large living room with a kitchen bar
attached. We arranged my bookcases both in the living room and study, going
over all the books we had in common. He fingered the shiny, new, unread books
he sent me after he got into this big literary phase.
“Jesus, this
is some collection,” he said as he unpacked the boxes of erotic novels.
“Those are
for the study,” I said, and he obediently dragged the boxes in there. When I
followed him he said, “Don't you have a bunch of dishes to put away? I can
handle this.”
I was
suspicious, he seemed to want to be alone with my books, many of which he joked
about destroying. “What are you up to? If you do anything to my erotic space
operas…”
“Relax Max.”
He used a term our father used to use on us both as children. It made me smile.
“I can alphabetize quicker than you. And don't worry, I will put your Marquis
with the S&M, the dick burners with the dick burners and so on.”
Skeptical,
but unwilling to turn down his offer to help on what was in fact a large job, I
moved toward the kitchen. After a few moments I heard the comforting and
familiar knocking of the books against the wood of the bookcase. He was in
there most of the afternoon, long after I moved on from the kitchen to my
bedroom. I was just finishing up putting away towels and sundries in the
bathroom when he finally announced he was done. I inspected his work while he
sat in my swivel chair, checking out the contents of my drawers.
“You did a
great job,” I told him. “Everything appears to be in the right place.” I
fingered the shelf above my head where my father's books stood like a stand-in
for his wrinkled disapproval.
He held up
Chronicle, a short story I'd written that was more about family life than sex.
“This isn't
bad, Slug,” he said, holding one page up. “I can feel the hatred coming off the
page.”
“Yeah, so
far the only non-romance stuff I write about is about Dad. There is still a
dick in it though.”
He nodded
and pushed his lips together, but didn't say anything.
“It's like I
don't have enough middle fingers you know?”
Buy Now @ Amazon
Genre – Literary Erotica
Rating – X
More details about the author & the book
Website http://www.mywildskies.com/
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