Flash Friday- Smutty edition.

I have had a hell of a week. So how about some smutty flash fiction to start the weekend?

I have a terrible and wonderful love/obsession with Vagina Dentata.

Here, have this little dreamy piece about it.Next week, I’ll do a sample from my writing classes I’m working on featuring this piece and an exercise.

Enjoy.

Gia’s Secret

I blame my loudmouth roommate for this entire situation.

When JJ got home from her date with Gia.

I heard her say-

“Goddamn Gia is a toothy cunt.”

I think that is what she said. I don’t know I was too busy being drunk and low key in love with Gia.

What I heard was-

“Goddamn Gia has a toothy cunt.”

Had I not been so drunk I would have understood.

I was drunk because I had just broken up with my girlfriend and upon hearing that my roommate was going on a date with my crush I did the sensible thing. I bought an enormous bottle of cheap wine and took the couch.

JJ stopped to lean over the couch to look down at me.

“You should call Gia and ask her out on a date. She is way more your type than mine. And you should probably go to bed. You’re really drunk.”

I don’t remember JJ putting me in bed or stripping me. I do remember her taking my bag of chips away and putting a bottle of water on my nightstand.

After she left me, I lay there turning over the idea of Gia in my head.

My cunt started to burn, I felt the blood moving, my lips swelling and wanting to be touched. I waited, thinking about JJ’s comment.

“Gia has a toothy cunt.”

Toothy cunt, toothy cunt. I closed my eyes and pictured her fine, lean brown body. I’d seen her naked before. Shit, I’ve seen almost all of my friends naked. We have stripped together, tricked together, been photographed together. Yet, I could not remember if I had seen teeth or not.

Gia is sleek where I am not. She is muscled and tight, catlike and androgynous in a classic kind of way. I wonder if she still has that precision trimmed bush, verdant in a tightly controlled way that is beyond sexy. My fingers move between my own thighs as I imagine the topography of her cunt.

Are her lips dark like the ones on her face? Do they have that petulant mean curve, do they fold soft and wrinkly as wilting fern fronds? Could I get them to swell and spread with just one finger? Just one finger dragged slowly just where they protrude, just a tickle. Just enough to promise more but not enough to deliver.

I saw myself with my face between her strong thighs, dipping my tongue into the crenulated secrets of her cunt before peeling her lips open to tickle her sharp secret teeth.

Eyes closed I imagined dipping my tongue just inside her, just enough to feel the slick of teeth on the tip of my tongue.

Unwise as the desire might be I wouldn’t recoil from the slick smoothness, I would smile against her. I could almost taste her, feel her lithe, muscular body twisting, warning me of the danger to come.

Against the backdrop of my closed eyes, I tried to paint her, lips full and dark, slick and revealing the barest sliver of deepest wet red. Wet as a screaming mouth full of danger.

I’d want her fuck hungry, ready to devour me whole.

I neared orgasm the world grayed out around me, I must have passed out because I woke up with a fuzzy mouth and my hand wedged between my thighs.

I couldn’t remember coming or not, but I did remember vivid dreams of a flash of teeth, old ivory buried inside hot wet red.

The beauty of my fixation is that I have a date with Gia tonight and I hope to come home tongueless.

 

Be That Shit University In Session

Okay, so I was thinking last night about my whole data situation and how this happens at least every two years or so.

This whole problem could be avoided if I lowered my output. If I stuck to my hour-two hours at night after the day job and catch as catch can on weekends, this wouldn’t happen. All my stuff would be safely sitting on my laptop Gertie.

I did try that.

Unfortunately, I do my best work when I have multiple streams of creation. My moods are shifty and my brain power tends to wax and wane. I think a lot of that is a result of my formative baby writer years were all about me churning out EVERYTHING because I was still working so hard on figuring out what I really wanted to write.

So while I know how to make this not a thing I’d have to deal with outside of hardware failure, I don’t think I’d be doing my best work if I limit how much I write.

So I take the chance.

In other news.

While I am recovering I’ve hit a couple of personal writerly milestones recently.

I’ve had some donated/sold work about body politics sent off into academia. In a you are my expert, let me give you money kind of way. That is pretty great.

I have two pitches out to big swing magazines.

I have tentatively worked out how to get out my first writing lesson/class.

The main hold up with the writing instruction is that most of the sites people use to sell their classes I just don’t have the start up money. I don’t have a good camera for video. I just don’t have the resources to do things in the way my research has found that it is done.

I thought I had a shot at teaching through another site, but I think because of my day job schedule and inability to do phone meetings that went off.

I am working on it. I think I have it figured out.

Setback or no, I am on that mother fucking grind.

This is Be That Shit University.

This is Write that Shit.

This is how I survive.

Now my current plan is to get my pitches together to send to the big swing things. Write like a motherfucker.

Work on writing classes.

Perhaps, submit some fucking poetry.

Be That Shit University is now in session.

Data Loss Update X-Posted from Patreon

GOOD NEWS!! (I’ll be cross posting this to my writing blog)

I found my older, less reliable flash drive that has backups from about a month and a half ago.

I checked it last night and here’s where I am at:

I have recovered Chapter 1 of the ongoing Daiyu rewrites.

I have some incomplete other fiction works that I will be able to redo.

My pitch list is gone so I have to redo that.

My submission tracking spreadsheet is gone.

I lost four entire short stories.

Some SCLAB stuff.

Blog posts for my new blog. 

And some other stuff.

Solutions:

Thanks to a donation (THANK YOU HOLY SHIT) I have on order a replacement thumb drive 32gb.

I was able to purchase some extra cloud storage.

I am moving the stuff from my old thumb drive to my new cloud storage.

I activated (FINALLY) my outlook that I;ve had for ages. I will be moving some of my submission info etc for safe keeping.

I also did some trouble shooting and have figured out that part of the problem was fubar’d settings on my One Drive along with a shit port.

SO going forward, I’ll be able to catch up.

I can breathe.

I have so much fucking work to do.

For Patrons, if I can manage to get your next chapters rewritten I’ll send it out at the regular time. If i can’t get something satisfactory I’ll send y’all something else but it WILL be good. Likely a first look at a whole new thing I’ve been trying.

Thank you as always for your love and support. You’re all just the bees knees, the cats pajamas and everything good in the universe.

Catastrophe

Posting is going to maybe stop entirely for a hot minute.

I’ve had a catastrophic data loss. While I was doing backups everything got corrupted and is pretty unusable.

I have a few things tucked in odd places, but I probably lost 3.5 months of work.

All of my pitches in progress, my Patreon project, uh yeah.

I’ve kind of passed, tears.

I’m kind of at numb and upset and working through how to get back to where I was.

I have so much to try and do. I have pitches I need to rescind because the pieces are gone.

I need to figure out what to do about Patreon for the next two months. I’m feeling like I deserve to have patrons bounce even though it would be financially devastating.

I have ONE thing I thought someone had already gotten but hasn’t. I still have it.

So FML.

After rent and bills, hopefully mid June I can get a new drive and this bracelet USB drive I’ve got my eye on. I had just gotten a lot of done/old stuff moved to backups. Something like 22-30gb.

I still just want to sit down and cry.

That doesn’t even take into account a fuckload of racist fuckery.

That said I posted a new thing at Medium last week. Go look.

Yeah Write #266- Beautiful Pit Vipers

Beautiful Pit Vipers

Through the blood of my Mother I am Thai. I have her round moon face and nasty disposition. My Father gave me his dark brown skin and gap toothed smile. I wish I was sweet like him, back home, he always greeted every other Black man he saw with arms wide open, a big smile and a “hey brotha, how you doin?”

Everybody loved my Daddy. Even them boys, the ones who hung out drinking tall boys all day. When something good happened to them, my Daddy was the first person they told.

My Mama on the other hand. Most everyone in our neighborhood gave her a wide berth. Daddy always said we were his jungle vipers. His brown spotted green pit vipers, nocturnal and deadly. He never knew about The World, even when it came for him. He only knew that my Mama taught me to fight the way she learned to fight.

Mama taught me the same Muay Thai she learned. Hours outside kicking saplings, Mama with me at the gym barking at me,

“Elbow, like axe! BOOM! CHOP! KNEE KNEE KNEE!”

At home, she would wait until Daddy left for work or just elsewhere, and we would sit together in our training area in the basement. We sat cross legged on the cold floor, knees to knees, eyes to eyes. She taught me the ways and hows of The World. She hypnotized me with her low voice.

“We do not give quarter. We are made for bringing death. We will protect the Innocent, like your Daddy. Okay?”

I always said yes ma’am. Or screamed wild as any beautiful pit viper should, “YES MAMA!”

Now I’m alone.

I’m sitting in the basement of my parents house with their ashes cradled in my arms and tears streaming down my face.

The World took them.

For that there is no forgiveness, I will take no quarter.

The World will learn.

I get my shit together and stop crying over their ashes. I get the house closed up tight, mirrors covered, furniture sent to neighbors and friends. I get my weapons and head out into the night to find a Door and walk out of the world until The World bleeds, as I shed tears.

The world will forget us. The World will wish it could.

###

What I’ve been Doing.

What have I been doing?

I’ve written some new poetry that you can find here and here.

I’ve got a few new things over here at Medium as well.

I’ve been working on essays and while I was looking at some calls for submissions etc and I keep running into a few issues.

When editors post their calls and have conversations about it in the comments I wonder if they go back and read them? I saw one call where a person asked about “non-standard” English and there was some banter and an ultimate answer of probably it wouldn’t get published.

What does that mean?

No AAVE?

No Spanish?

No mixture of Engish and other languages?

As I am delving deeper into the places where my voice goes and how I use language, I see these things and realize that where I want to go does not intersect well with getting paid or landing the big bylines.

I keep promising myself that I will figure out how to write less uh, something. Be more, uh, general or something. So I try that and find that I have nothing to say. Obviously, because I am just not that writer for good or ill.

It is a strange state of affairs.

While I’m writing things I have doubts as to how publishable they are in terms of commercial sales, I’m still pretty happy and writing what the fuck I want to write.

While I’m researching where to try to place that stuff, I feel not as happy and hear the call of my sad little bank account.

Sometimes I am very sure that my ideas are just not palatable to 90% of people and sometimes that gives me pause.

Other times I hunker down and just tell myself- WRITE THAT SHIT.

Today I’m telling myself to write that shit.

Be about that shit.

Do that shit.

All by myself if I have to.

That’s all for today. Tomorrow we’re back in The World and later this week I may or may not geek real hard about some stuff I’ve read recently.

Storytime.

The weather in Seattle is warm and windy today.

So I want to share about me being a baby writer.

Before I had my own computer I worshipped pen and notebook. I have always loved fancy little journals, but always wind up buying steno pads. When I was about 21 and had a day off from my phone sex company office job, I’d take about 5-8$ and head up to the Capital Hill Neighborhood in Seattle.

Remember, I am an Old so back then Cap Hill was full of street kids, Queers, poor folks, etc. It was way less prone to dudebro shitbag behavior and the violence that brings.

I’d take my little money and buy the biggest coffee, I could afford and head into the park. I would lay in the grass in the sun with my coffee and watch gutter punks lay about, guys cruise each other, sometimes the gutter punks I hung around would come over and I’d read them my poems or help them patch their clothes and we’d talk about writing being magic.

That was magic.

I kind of miss writing that way, even though I was so self conscious about it and put an entirely different kind of pressure on myself then than I do now.

Back then, my goal was to magic up myself a full, complete book of writings. Then I would find myself some very wealthy benefactor who would parcel out my pieces to publishers while I gallivanted.. uh no let me be real fucked my way around the world.

I look back at baby me and just kind of chuckle.

You had a GREAT idea kid.

Even though writing was a thing I did in secret, as in I didn’t tell my friends or family but shared it with strange street kids and it was really difficult and traumatic, it was okay.

I learned how to write with absolute abandon. At that time I often burned my journals when I was done with them so I wrote like my words wouldn’t exist and that taught me a lot.

Okay, I’m an OLD and I am yammering.

So here have some news. I have some new stuff at Medium so go have a looksy.

Things will lighten up around here soon. I’ve got many irons in the fire and a fire in my belly.

I’ll be all right y’all.