Kisses Comme les Mignardises

Posted in Erotica, Senryū with tags , on January 4, 2016 by Chantale Reve

Image result for public domain photos of miniature desserts

Powdered or jellied,

My kissable lips have you

Bouncing ’round my walls.






Poem “Kisses Comme les Mignardises” © 2015 Chantale Rêve  All Rights Reserved



I croon for crèpes!

Posted in Culinary Erotica, Travel/Food on December 2, 2015 by Chantale Reve

Ahhh … c’est si bon. I couldn’t resist reblogging DreamyMichaela’s “I Croon for Crepes!” here on Negrotica. A crepe is a succulent pocket of eroticism, and I long for the dribbles of cheese or maple syrup or both.

Here in my gentrified faux Greenwich Village, the sous chefs at bankrupting restos simply don’t prepare them authentically. I want my crepes to personify the protagonista in an Almodovar tragicomedy. ¿Como? Si, I wish to hear my crepe declare, after I’ve forked it reeeaaal good: “Soy autentica.” Entonces …

It’s encouraging to know, now that I’ve masturbated to — errr, read “I Croon for Crepes!” that right across the border, in Ontario province, I can sample crepes which give the ones in Quebec province a run for the loonie. Hey, I love Canada, so I jest avec amour.

Let me not tease you Negrotica devotees any further– lest you label me dominant. Whupeesh! Now that you’re moaning for your spongy, puffy pancake, remove the handcuffs and partake of the wonderful prose and photography — really cool food art — in the following offering found on the blog The Path Less Travelled By. Gotta love those British spellings used in Canada, eh?

The Path Less Travelled By


A cloud of whipped cream;

Bundled gently, warm…..Inhale

Berry Maple Crèpe


Yummi-licious!! My Berry Maple dessert crèpe today!

That followed after this scrumptious savoury dish…..


Butternut Squash ‘n Pear Soup with Crème Fraiche and  chopped Walnuts alongside a Roasted Vegetable Crèpe.  Mmmm!

These days it seems that every time I get together with a girlfriend, we end up here!   For fun, good dining, animated conversations, connecting….

  • at Mill Street Crèpe Company, Almonte, Ontario

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Cicadas in Four-Four (excerpts)

Posted in Erotica, Femmetaphysics, Straight-up Romance with tags , , , on November 3, 2015 by Chantale Reve







 6:15 p.m.


After squeezing out of the backseat of a livery cab, Ramona adjusts her spicy-brown tits in her sausage casing of a dress and yanks out a damp, wrinkled ten dollar bill. “Phew, it’s hellaciously hot in town, hunhhh?” she prods the reedy, dirty-blond driver, who barely can stand at the curb after ten minutes of watching his passenger struggle since she slapped the hand that tried to help her – rather, that tried to help itself to her chunky haunches. (“Maybe if you’d tried to reach for my arm instead of ’round my hips, you scoundrel, I would’ve given you a whole twenty,” she scolded him, her spittle scalding his ruddy face before he could retrieve it from the pavement.) Her face is puzzled at the driver’s now vacant expression as he, hypnotized by her tiny bronze amulet swinging left to right in alluring proximity to her bountiful bran muffins, requires the power of suggestion to snap out of a trance. Designed with a built-in bra, her dress’s bodice barely spares him from the raisins she has for nips.

“Oh, thanks, ma’am,” the driver finally says before winking in the direction of her tits and stuffing the clammy ten inside his slim waistband. Anytime you need Laurens’ taxi service …” his salacious voice trails off as Ramona drinks in the sight of Bone Diddles two yards ahead. She does mind the rise in the driver’s trousers, but not the steep cost from Beaufort to Pickering. Anticipating a date with her first real, not pixelated, man in years, it delights her that an Alabama native loves to tuck into a bowl of Frogmore stew and take in some blues and jazz – and at her favorite funky-chic South Carolina restaurant.

Dropping her gris-gris into the abyss of her cleavage, Ramona ignores roars peppered with heckles of “cougar” from a gaggle of twentysomething males smoking weed a legal distance from the resto. It was in the blood of the Graham-Cigale family’s matriarchal line never to “rob de cradle,” as her centenarian Grandma’dere warned her and the other adult female grands about one scorching afternoon the previous summer. “Too young de mens, and Doctor Buzzard gwan come aft’ you,” the sage woman preached, rocking to and fro on her sunlounger beneath the majestic, gnarly red oak tree on ancient Gullah land.

Below yards of silver braids plaited as if with yarn, Grandma’dere’s lush gray brows were knitted on a forehead marked with permanent furrows as she weaved her old tales. Gesticulating with hands browner than her face, dark like the burnt butter into which she loved to scramble eggs for her granddaughters, she seemed centuries old, like the oak tree. Her cataract-afflicted eyes burned minuscule crosses on the women’s furry vulvas and searched the women’s minds, pinpointing their cynicism.

Then Grandma’dere tossed in her caution for good measure, like a good Geechee woman adding a dash of cayenne to a fistful of tomato paste in a boiling cauldron of red rice, sausages, herbs and water: Doctor Buzzard’s curse for not heeding him upon first warning would be the shrinking of nipples to the diameter and thickness of raisins – a horror for any female descendant who was proud of the inherited trait of baby bottle nipples. She further threatened that, if one ignored the root doctor’s second warning, he would cast a spell on the disobedient female clan member’s clitoris, which although in adulthood should genetically be the size and texture of a steamed lima bean – with the capacity upon arousal to plump to the size and texture of blanched okra – would be reduced to a limp, pink pod. She was the reason that Ramona, like her cousins, refused to eat succotash.

But that face-fanning July afternoon last year, Grandma’dere was fiercely in her element like never before. Rumored to have been a vegetarian and also to have seduced and fornicated with at least two hundred seventy-five men from age forty-six to age eighty-eight, she explained that every male she ever transformed into a man was at least ten years her senior and that she took all of them to bed over the decades following her three-timing spouse’s untimely death at age forty-five. For one last time, Grandma’dere paused her basket weaving lesson to give the female grands a peculiar mix of religious and sex lessons beneath the ancestral red oak tree. It was the same tree that, by August’s end, would create a bright green canopy over a bed of grass and daisies for the clairvoyant matriarch to rest her head among silent crimson-eyed cicadas of stilled orange wings before joining them on their journey home.

Also not one to “rob de cradle,” or rock the gravestone above Grandma’dere’s remains, Ramona takes only a South Carolina minute to pan the pervy potheads and size up each one before she sucks her teeth and curses: Sheeeyyyit, not a one of you boys ever can satisfy momma, let alone make me a coconut creampie. Hunh-hunh-hunh-hunh-hunh! As if the young men could read the mind of MC Melle Mel’s Gullah cousin, they cease their kitty-cat-calling and grab their crotches through deceptively baggy jeans held up only by brown and black belts strong enough to hang their cumulative faux bravado. That’s more like it, she reflects, relieved at last. Besides, I’m no MILF. Anyadem boys could be my son, even if nonadem wears his momma’s lingerie ’hind her back for frills and thrills.

Shifting from left to right in her fuck-me-not heels, Ramona glances upward and squints at Bone Diddles’ kitschy, racist sign – the name wedged between a bas relief of three jazzy black cats in straw fedoras gnawing on chicken bones and lapping up gumbo – and emits a “Lawwwd, ha’ mercy,” shaking her head and the baby’s breath from her ’fro. She taps on her tummy as if to stop her squished intestines from grumbling like a grainy electric guitar heard through Bose headphones. Racist retro signs be damned, she’s ready to get her grub on more than her groove. Thus, trying hard not to look trifling, she rifles through her hot-pink purse for the plastic that has not yet been maxed out but, to her embarrassment, a rainbow assortment of condoms dance out of her bag. Not willing to risk a rip in her pantyhose – or worse, her peppermint-striped thong – she decides against scooping up the prophylactics and kissing them up to God as if they were dime candies of cavity-filled yesterdays. As for her feminine cavity, she once again attracts leers from the twentysomething gang, though she’s unsure whether some of them may perceive her as an easy lay and others may think she gets any at all. On cue, she executes a painful hop over the rubber rainbow in hot-pink patent leather stilettos, pats her bosom with the hand that isn’t glued to her bag and whispers a seven-word prayer toward her destiny: Lawwwd, please let this man be hung.


*   *   *



6:50 p.m.

The hostess, a tall Champagne glass of loveliness like the late great Phyllis Hyman, arches her eyebrows and wiggles her forefinger to capture her poorly postured new arrival’s attention. It takes six or seven attempts to locate Greg’s reservation because Faux Phyllis finds Ramona’s deep cleavage hard to resist. Around the bend, a jazz trio is plinking, walking and brushing its way toward the climax of their urbane rendition of Maxwell’s funky “Lock U Up in Love Fa Days,” which was in the top five on her husband’s master mixtape in the late 1990s. Never mind that Prince’s prediction about a grand orgy failed to inspire her and husband Herb to join in; by the first year of the third millennium, not even a much older smolder than “Lock U,” such as “I Want You,” could revive their libidos enough to initiate make-up sex anywhere in their Spanish moss-shrouded mansion.

In those better days, Maxwell used to croon, “If it’s all right, ooohhh, I wanna rock you” from the “B-side” of her polycarbonate disc in a way that Herbert “Donkey Dong” Silva never could sing live-and-in-person. Not that Herb’s weak pitch or his asthmatic attempts to hold a note had anything to do with why she had agreed to marry him. Her reason for tying the knot was to wrap her thighs around his. Herb’s nickname throbbed with deep promises. (She believed the shallow assurances he made between feeding her fuzzy navels on their wedding night, including: “Baby, you don’t need no rubber fo’ de fuhst time. It’s impossible for me to knock you up cuz you a virgin.” Nine months later their son, appropriately named Dante, would enter the world raising more hell than either his father or Signor Alighieri.)

Every time her hubby’s knobby shaft went sleepwalking in their bed like a wandering mushroom and nudged her nightgown upward in the wee-wee hours of the morning, on the count of four it thrusted with enough force to knock the oxygen out of her lungs and blast the spores from the duvet. On every downbeat she smiled at the bonne chance of having married the best motherfucker in the universe – and from the knowledge that her rescue inhaler was at the ready beneath her pillow. There’s no climax like an Albuterol-fueled one, she often told her sister-cousin and confidante, Jessie-Marie. With Herb heaving in his afterglow, and more in need of the Albuterol than she, it wasn’t enough for her to imagine in those moments that she was the most blessed wife in all of the South Carolina Sea Islands. Only problem was: She wound up pissing off neighbor Beulah-Mae Barron, whose rooster, Horatio, once again would be outdone by Ramona-Ange Graham-Silva’s whorish shouts of “Dick be the glory!”


*   *   *


Above are excerpts from my short story “Cicadas in Four-Four,” which is available in full (and for free!) on Why don’tchu go gitchosef mo’ than a bite?


“Cicadas in Four-Four” © 2015 Chantale Rêve  All Rights Reserved

Top photo of Frogmore stew is in the public domain.

One-Woman Man of Steel

Posted in Femmetaphysics, Senryū, Straight-up Romance with tags , , on October 19, 2015 by Chantale Reve

Tucked beneath his wing,

Lo, my heart is his to steal —

Would laser orbs heal.

© 2015 Chantale Rêve

All Rights Reserved


Posted in Erotica, Femmetaphysics, La Poésie Érotique, Senryū with tags , on October 18, 2015 by Chantale Reve

pilgrims of pleasure

crawl up to her spongy throne —

lava launches on bone.

© 2015 Chantale Rêve

All Rights Reserved


Posted in Cinquain, Erotica with tags , , on October 13, 2015 by Chantale Reve


Isn’t so much

About timing the touch.

Playfulness goes a long way to


© 2015 Chantale Rêve

All Rights Reserved

Heavana on the Hudson

Posted in Erotica, Senryū, Straight-up Romance, Urban Erotica with tags , , on October 11, 2015 by Chantale Reve

On Sip, drenched in son,

I sailed waves in his dark hair,

Grinding Black hips home.



© 2015 Chantale Rêve

All Rights Reserved



Map of CubaMap of Union City, NJ

Naisa’s Nocturne

Posted in Erotic Psychological Thriller, Interracial Sex, Mystery & Suspense, Noire Érotique, Urban Erotica with tags , , on September 27, 2015 by Chantale Reve

Sunrise signaled a time for rejuvenation, a chance to renew one’s soul or to correct an injustice, but not for Naisa M. Gibbs.  Wailing as if she wanted the world to hear, she thrust her head forward into a downy pillow, her teardrops moistening it and staining the tousled satin sheets.  Seven hours earlier, after her one-night stand had been lured to her lair, he couldn’t resist twitching to her ambidextrous syncopated caresses and, on the inside, from her relentless Kegel contractions.  Bewitching moonlight had found the forbidden pair’s frenzied movements, entwined limbs, delirious faces. After much illuminated kissing, licking, squirming, sucking, wriggling, wrestling and banging, they had shuddered so violently in unison against the backdrop of a Sade ballad’s saxophonic strains.  Their passion ignited with such force that the canopy eventually collapsed from its frame.

Now, Naisa’s pussy lay open like an oozing wound. The only cooling medium was her temporary lover’s ejaculate: a crude, abstract painting on splayed thighs.  Her private Pollock had abandoned her moments before a murder of crows began cawing their majestic existence on the courtyard’s rusty gates.  Not one goodbye from him.  She missed him and knew that listening to vintage Sade would distract her from emotional alienation, so she emerged from the bed to strike “Play.”

She meant to select the song, “Is It a Crime?” but the British chanteuse was singing the first stanza of track six:  “Mr. Wrong.”  While Naisa executed a lethargic port de bras en route to the bed, the ballad’s bass line disguised an intruder’s footsteps in the front corridor.  She dragged herself around the lopsided bed collecting the soiled sheets, laughing at how lust had placed its frame in disrepair.  Drowsy, she was oblivious to the willowy figure cloaked in black that was skulking toward the shadowy bedroom.

Then she heard a low-pitch warning, almost a whisper:  “Turn around, you Créole bitch.”  Unlike countless chaînés tournes she had executed in years past, this time, when she swiveled her head, she became quite disoriented.  It was too late to run or hide.  One of her last sensations would be the metallic aura of a gun blast and salty, sanguineous wine trickling from her maraschino lips.


Cicadas emitted their shrill sounds on a typical August afternoon like festive maracas shaking from tree branches.   The cacophony was a signal that the hottest day of the summer had arrived and that the insects’ demise grew near.  Fending off the sun’s blazing assault with a bare arm, Naisa was a vampire trying to escape. It was 3 p.m.  Oh, how I love sleeping in, she thought.  But the solar searchlights peeking through her grime-caked blinds had found her.  Her black silk negligee lay rippled at the end of her rickety bed.  A couple of stretches until her puffy nipples tingled with renewed life, and she would be ready to face another mateless Saturday.

Pantherlike, she padded across the plush burgundy carpet to the full-length mirror.  Glancing back at her was a stranger who possessed frown lines and large, almond-shaped eyes accompanied by dark circles that required daily concealer.  Her onetime animated, pendulous breasts were aching to be ogled, fondled, cupped and sucked instead of squeezed on an annual basis between the icy cold vise of a mammography machine.

What she needed was an affirmation for the moment, so she turned to Spotify for George Benson’s greatest hits. She turned up the volume upon hearing the first synthetic strains of “Turn Your Love Around” and imagined herself on a Broadway chorus line, popping her hips and displaying jazz hands Fosse-style. Hmpf, don’t know if I’ll ever make it to Broadway with this bod. I s’pose swingin’ ’round poles is all I’m good for by day or night, she said inwardly. But when Benson’s voice commanded, “Don’t you bring me down,” Naisa snapped out of her funk and sashayed toward her en suite bathroom.

Using a slim squeeze-bottle of bath gel as a microphone, she sang along with the next Benson ditty, “On Broadway,” as she scrubbed away random lust’s residue.  That viscous reminder of a sensuous dream soon disappeared into fragrant foam that evoked summer strolls with the latest in a line of errant men along the water’s edge in the Cajun Riviera. Several hours later, she was wearing concealer that restored her face to Beyoncé’s bronze brilliance and a bra that created the illusion her tits could defy gravity. After shaking her ass in mirrored profile, she dropped it hotter than she had done on the dance floor in her thirties. If Snoop Dogg had emerged from the looking glass, he would’ve shown his approval in a way that wouldn’t have given her pause. Ruminating over his brown snout, she fantasized how, if at least one myth about men were true, his analogous appendage would fill and thrill her. Damn, she thought, if only that Shower ‘N Glow bottle was only a bit wider, I’d take a quick splash now.

Bumping and grinding again with her reflection, she trilled a few lyrics from Bey’s “Creole” until she spied the time on her Android. Several bilingual curse words later, she snatched her black-on-white “I Need a Private Dick” tote bag from her armoire and figured on saving her money-making muscles for some mall action. No gourmet pretzels or Cinnabons for this big-boned gal — she was the adult attraction in her small town. Although her hamstrings were a bit sore, she was a fierce forty-one-years-young and ready to test the meat market.

Naisa may have been one lacefront shade blonder than Beyoncé, but she wasn’t “crazy in love.” Just horny. Meat that she fantasized about was sausages. Links of various girths and lengths hung in the Dockers and denims of men cruising up and down Van Def Avenue, the main shopping strip, and in the Speedos of ubiquitous cyclists.  However, Wilcom Mall was the address of the hottest action.  Along the railing that circled above the mall’s escalators, vultures in men’s clothing lurked just for a glimpse of cleavage.  Of course, Naisa purposely wore a blouse with an eye-popping décolletage.

On this steamy afternoon Naisa’s choice for browsing was Champ’s Music & Electronics Palace on the top floor of the Wilcom Mall. She slung her tote against her back as though advertising her services to the public. Instead of taking the elevator, she rode the escalator with her legs spread as if she were a drug mule getting frisked by a narc.  Beneath a black velveteen micromini skirt, her ample bottom was in full view to a stocky man standing so closely behind her that he could have been her Siamese fraternal twin.

“Hey, baybeh.  Are you for real?” the predator asked.

“Yeah,” Naisa replied without turning around.  Then, borrowing young people’s vernacular, she asked, “Do ya feel meh?”

The stranger fondled her soccerball-sized glutes with one hand while keeping the other hand on his expanding erection.  His crotch was about to pop like a pan of Jiffy popcorn left on the burner too long.  She imagined her fellow perv’s mind swirling with lewd images of his masochistic prey.  What genius, she thought of the mall architect, designing such a steep escalator for down and dirty deeds.  “As if,” she said quietly, or so she thought.

“Nuh-unh, redbone mama,” the man said.  “You don’t need no ass lift, hot thang.”

“Look, just keep on jugglin’ my buns like a short-order clown,” she barbed.  Naisa still refused to sneak a peek behind her.

“Oh, girl, I could play witcho pretty brown roundness allllll day,” he teased.  “Just say the word, and I’ll be spinnin’ yo’ ass like a atlas tonight.  Where yo’ globe stop, we could pretend I’m butt-fuckin’ you in dat cuntry.  Whatchu say ’bout dat, girl?” he asked.

“I say shut your grill, boy, and make mama shake it up inside,” she replied.  “Our date’s over when you or I get off … this escalator.”

“Sho nuff, baybeh,” he agreed, caressing somewhere between Ghana and Brazil.

Indeed, the ride to the complex’s upper levels  allowed enough time for the adventurous to consummate quick encounters.  Though, there were no awe-inspiring vistas such as the ones her ex-boss pointed out as they rode the cable car up the Schilthorn to Piz Gloria restaurant.  That was several hours before he rammed her inside a chalet that practically kissed the sky — while her skis were still attached.

As if the Muzak programmer was conspiring with her Cajun charmer, Naisa heard George Michael’s “I Want Your Sex” slowly spiraling through the speakers like whipped cream swirling in a mug of Alpine hot cocoa.  Unlike the original, which cranked up the heat from the start, the rhythms dragged so much that it was as if the musicians were on barbituates.  Hmmm, I miss Georgy boy’s edginess, she pondered, but I can work with this.

And the stranger behind her watched her work it.  His hands wandered and fondled as though they belonged to someone else. Weak at the knees and her mind a blur, Naisa was surrendering to each felonious butt squeeze from behind.  Like the vixen she pretended not to be when working beneath tax attorneys at Letch, Rasquale & Fallis, P.C., there on the mall’s ascending escalator she gyrated to the song’s sinuous keyboard melody and roofied-stripper beat.  She could feel her pretend man’s clumsy fingers pulling at the elastic on either side of the crotch on her high-cut briefs and his steamy labored breaths flushing her flexing cheeks. Each time he snapped the rubber against her tender skin, droplets of her secretions popped out on skin and bone. Once he slid his hand away, she heard him slurp and suck on what she only could imagine were his fingers and knuckles. Mmmm … He sounded like a ravenous diner finishing off a barbecued pig’s foot and had the moves to whet a wanton woman’s appetite. She was immersed in naughty bestial thoughts when a warm breeze fluttered across the tops of her thighs and her skirt bounced on his hands caressing around hips, tummy and ass. Gasping, she felt and heard his middle digit slipping into her sopping pussy. Awww, fuck you, too, she thought.

Absorbed in pleasure like her cotton crotch was in her sex juice, she was unaware that her private parts were now on full display to other people on the escalator.  She found it strange that not one person expressed shock or disgust.  Quite to the contrary.  Both men and women were doing their versatile versions of lyrics to The Divinyls’ “I Touch Myself.”

Naisa’s transient lover removed his diddling finger and tasted her essence.  “Aaahhh … aaahhh,” was all she heard.

She tugged on her stiff, prickly nipples and lifted her left leg on the next higher step to give her anonymous lover an easier angle from which to grope her cunt.  Realizing that his investigation was far from over, she glanced over her left shoulder to size up her private dick.  The man, too.

Mystery lover gave his turgid member a few rough yanks like it was one of those bayou gators that he and his buddies wrestled.  Then he inserted his saliva-slick thumb into her asshole.  “Owww,” she said, but her utterance sounded like a meow, which made him swivel deeper.  She shot back an annoyed look, but he didn’t care that she was wincing in pain. Her head was spinning like a barber’s pole.  She didn’t get as dizzy while pole dancing at De Baise, a gentlemen’s club where she moonlighted during the law office’s slow season.

If the Muzak had not been playing so loudly in the mall, others in the vicinity of the lascivious pair may have heard their whimpers and moans.  Luckily for Naisa, their encounter ended when her temporary lover hopped off, limping, at the fourth-floor food court.  His last words were “Damn if I could guzzle a keg of beer and wolf down some dutty rice.”

Her last thought, concerning him, was that she wanted to covet the washboard from his zydeco band and scrub her drawers with it.

Naisa was so lightheaded that she rethought shopping at Champ’s, but in minutes she was stepping through the revolving door and into the thumping drum and bass sounds of a rap instrumental.  Never was she more at home.  Browsing a bargain bin in the contemporary-jazz section, she felt someone’s eyes burning a hole in her light-blue blouse and turned in profile.

“Naisa Marie?  Naisa Marie Gibbs?!” Stu, the store’s manager, shouted.  He squeezed out of an aisle, eliciting a “thank you, Jesus” from a bespectacled, middle-aged woman whom he had cornered over by the gospel CDs. As the woman, whose voluptuousness approximated Jenifer Lewis’, resumed rediscovering her religion, her predator kept on testing his lung-power for Naisa’s benefit: “Wooooo-wee!”  Come on over heah, jeune fille!”

Listen to him, soundin’ like Buckwheat Zydeco done possessed Joe Tex in the middle of “I Gotcha.”  At first she wouldn’t budge from the bin, so Stu waddled her way.

Gaaaadamn! she cursed to herself.   Watching his beer belly bounce a yard ahead of him, she extended her thong-sandaled foot, hoping he would stop short.  He didn’t.

“Mmmmm, it sho muss be chilly in heah,” he said with eyes sharp like lasers warming her nipples before they could poke twin holes in her flimsy blouse.  He was like a debauched giant, pressing his tummy toward her chin’s cleft as if his outie were trying to fuck it.

It figures, she continued musing.  The one night that I don’t hand wash my one good bra, this asshole wants to play Superman.  Mutha —

“Fuckin’ funny how time flies, ain’t it, Stu?  Seems we were just having cocktails, like, yesterday,” she said, feigning interest.

“Mo’ like two monfs ago,” he replied with a grin that left his unkempt goatee jutting out like a hairy erection.

His pervy smile also left a salacious impression on her, especially when he completed his greeting with a peck on her cheek and a poke of her ass.  Possessing firsthand knowledge of her sexual proclivities, he sniffed around her and suggested she freshen up in the employee lavatory.  Offering to stand guard at its entrance had its benefits, such as peeking in on Naisa washing her bush.

When she returned to the sales floor and, again, to a mouthful of yellowing teeth, the blues song “After Midnight” was echoing throughout the eclectic store.  He was about to push up on her when she made like The Supremes in “Stop! In the Name of Love” and said, “You know, Stu, I think I’m going to cut this visit short and check out some live blues.  How about you come with me, hunh?”

“Sorry, ma babymama’s comin’ over tonight.  Besides,” he said, “I’m already pertty close to losin’ chile suppote az ilz.”  To that she raised her hands in surrender, happy that her bluff worked, and bid Stu good night.


Dusk settled into the bricks and mortar of the low-level buildings at the center of town.  Wearing a barely there micromini skirt on a breezy evening made hailing a gypsy cab to the other side of town an easy task.  The distance to Goode’s Bar would have cost anyone else about twelve dollars, but Naisa’s ride was free.

When she winked at the driver of a slowly passing sedan, the man — who she couldn’t discern was of either Middle Eastern or North African descent — did a double take and then jammed the brakes as if trying to avoid skidding on roadkill. She batted her weary eyes and gave him the address of her destination.

“Hop in, miss,” he said, eyeing her hiney in his rearview mirror as she squeezed into the car.

“Thanks, honeh,” she flirted.

“No, baby.  Thank you,” he said.

His car was fragrant with jasmine incense, the backseat musty from an assortment of semen stains.  Cruising through Skeet City, he had found his mark.  Both she and he knew the name of this game.  After parking on the first desolate block available, he cranked up the volume on his Arabic-language music station, peered briefly into the mirror above his dashboard and found her smiling back at him.  Minutes later, he joined his passenger behind a jammed bulletproof window.

Dissonant, trancelike music from surrounding speakers induced a high. The driver’s breath and clothes reeked of pot, but Naisa didn’t care. His light khakis were bulging at the crotch; her lips were swelling in anticipation. Having unhooked her bra, and another man, she peeled off her pastel-blue blouse. Like her prey, she was panting from lust as much from the taxi’s interior heat.

When the driver mounted her, his perspiration dripped onto her face.  For a moment, she fantasized that they were about to fuck atop a camel in the middle of the Sahara Desert.  He gazed lewdly at her heaving breasts before deciding to paw at them.  Her cupping his lumpy nutsack made him gasp, so he returned the favor by licking and sucking her thick nipples.  She came in a spurt, her cries mixing with the Arabic singer’s vocals and her natural lube leaking onto the taxi’s worn vinyl upholstery.

Had two drunken men not stumbled near the sedan, looking for a spot to relieve themselves, Naisa would have allowed her driver to penetrate her, but she didn’t want to find herself servicing three cocks until daylight.  So after the man finished fingering her cunt, she pulled her nipple from his lips and told him that she would pass on Goode’s Bar, known for its heady blues, but she asked him to take her a few blocks away to a joint about which Stu and other transient lovers had raved.

Inside Star Café, Curtis St. John, a corporate shirt who moonlighted on Friday and Saturday nights, was in the midst of singing two sets of jazz and R&B covers.  “Curt,” as he was known by the predominantly female members of the audience, crooned and gyrated through George Benson’s rendition of “Lady Blue.”  Little did he know that he was hypnotizing only one woman: Naisa.

By the time Curt belted out the song’s crescendo, he already had been baptized in his own perspiration.  Meanwhile, Naisa was experiencing an out-of-body experience.  Although, like the ice floating in her fuzzy navel, she was both solid and liquid.  Passion danced between Curt’s notes and her flushed ears, from his gently swaying hips to her rigorous grinding ass.

“Blu-u-u-u-e!”  his melismatic voice sang.

“Bravoooo!” Naisa yelled over the other adoring females’ voices. She winked at him. He blew a kiss. Mmmm, you’re all mine now, said her sparkling eyes.

Upon Curt’s bow in the soft blue spotlight, Naisa slid off her slippery bar stool. She left behind a clear but slimy reminder of her existence on the worn leather seat.  When he saw Naisa slink her way toward the exit, Curt jumped off the stage but he didn’t get far. He slipped on his own sweat in an area where, during his rendition of Usher’s “Climax,” he had leaned the mic toward a buxom Queen Latifah look-alike and grabbed her long-stemmed red rose before she could yank him down from the stage.

“Lady!” he called out after Naisa. “Wait! Don’t you want my autograph?”

“Yeah, huh-huh. Dat redbone gal wantcho autograph all right,” quipped Delton Malveaux, Star Café’s manager. “You ready to dip yo’ quill in that ink, son?” he asked, bucking his eyes for emphasis.

“Nah, your radar’s defective, Delton. That’s just those Créole ladies’ way of flirtin’ with fine, pure-Sub-Saharan African brothas like me,” Curt replied, laughing his way toward the café’s St-Jacques Street exit.

Bloated from his mistress Angélique’s cooking but quick on his feet, Delton just shrugged off his ignored warning and then injected Astrud Gilberto’s “Stay” into the sound system.  Eardrum-perforating, percolating percussion followed Curt outside and into an adjacent alley, where he found his randy fan clutching a wire fence behind her.

Although she had just flirted with him, Naisa suddenly feared Curt’s sexual heat.  Boxed in an erotic playground of her spontaneous invention, she glanced left and right for an escape route. Nowhere to hide either. There wasn’t a monkey bar in sight; only the metal between Curt’s thighs. Her mind was seesawing between lust and flight.  If only she had listened to her Rollerblading girlfriend’s enticements to join her gym, she would have scaled the fence and hailed a cab home.

Now she was face to face with her object of desire. As she stepped closer, she swore she could smell his testosterone from the beads of perspiration pooling above his coarse chest fuzz. He tiptoed toward her like a ballet dancer, then pounced on her like a cat. At his wordless urging, her arms were outstretched above her head. When his tongue found the pulsing in her neck, her heart started beating faster than the rhythms behind Astrud. He pressed his hardness against her tummy, and the arching of her back accidentally fed him her tits.

“Ooohhh, baybeh,” he said, breaking off into moans as he sucked a puffy nipple through the thin blue fabric. By the time he had coaxed her other dark nipple out of the blouse and clamped on, he was fighting the impulse to unzip and fuck. Instead, he licked her salty perspiration from her stretchmarked cleavage up to her lips. As she smiled in her beguiling way, his tongue explored  her oddly angled laugh lines.

Hearing moans on the rise, he probed her hot mouth with his tongue until he was checking her gag reflex. He stopped his examination only to remark, “Nice to know how deep I can go. Uh, mama, may I?”

“Unh-hunh, you sweet brown thang. You betta let meh have a taste of yo’ dark-chocolate lollipop. And not just one,” she invited.

“I only got one a-dem, uh, lollipops, so … ” He watched her smile light up the semidark alley like an early sunrise.

“Not just one taste, silly,” she said, laughing. “But, hey, I wish you had two dicks — not for my mouth, though. Kinda would fulfill my space alien fantasy. You know, like that Blade Runner shit.”

He could’ve done without the Harrison Ford image while sporting a raging hard-on, but “Not just one taste” — that’s all he needed to hear. Her honeyed voice resonated in his crotch, vibrating from his bulging balls through his throbbing shaft. He could smell her wetness and tried to imagine teasing her dripping orifice with only the tip of his knob.

Just then, he heard “Curt, Curt. Earth to Curt,” and leaned in to embrace Naisa tenderly. Feeling her nubbins respond, he grasped her waist firmly. He desired for his cock to express the gratitude he felt toward her.  No woman had ever reacted so strongly to any of his performances at the cafe. “I’ve never seen such a physical and emotional response to my — ” Naisa’s kiss pre-empted what Curt had wanted to add.

“ ‘Lady Blue’ is one of my favorite songs, and you sound better than Benson.  I want you now! Give it to meh!” she shrieked. And he wanted to, especially when Astrud’s voice conspired with the mojo in Naisa’s hips and put it on him.  As if through a Brazilian ocean mist, Astrud sang: Stayyyy. And we’ll make sex with music.

“Now? But, but I have to return to finish the set, or else Delton will fire me,” he lied.  “Guys like me come a dime a dozen, and I need the extra money because the ad agency isn’t paying me diddley.”

“I’m glad to know guys like you come at all,” she said, her lips curling out of a smile and into a sexy snarl. Entranced by the bossa nova, she was melting in the singer’s embrace.

There in the decrepit brick and concrete alley, Naisa stripped down to her birthday suit as if she were hitting the beach in Ipanema.  She felt her gooseflesh rise the way it had in the bathroom at Champ’s in the mall.  Curt was speechless.  Her hands warily moved up and down and across the silken fabric of his shirt, and she felt tiny shocks in her abdomen whenever her fingers made contact with his muscles.  He already had undone the top three buttons onstage at the manager’s suggestion, anything to draw a larger female audience to the café.  Now he was following a fan’s lead and ripping away a shirt that had taken three paychecks to afford, sending the buttons flying through the air and then tinkling like piano keys against the concrete.

When her glossy lips made contact with his fleshy nipple, Naisa remembered what her high priestess auntie on her mama’s side taught her at the age of eighteen. With her expert tongue, she traced his perspiration from his heaving fuzzy chest up to his chin, then his pouty lips, before heading south. When she began licking the hairline from his navel to his groin, he was moaning the way he had done during “Lady Blue.”  She eagerly undid his zipper.  Using only her thick tongue to guide his stiff cock through his fly, she teased the head and shaft, causing him to gyrate his hips. “Mmmm … Meh-likes,” she uttered, then flicked her tongue across the tearing eye.

It took all the strength he had to stop his dick from erupting into her mouth. He was regretting his latest antidote for low libido: steer testicles braised in beef bouillon and hot sauce. “Look at whatchu doin’ to me, girl. Got me standin’ here like a one-man brass band, with all this ‘bone. Blow me, baybeh. Blowww … ”

Lifting her to her feet, he propped her gingerly against the brick wall.  Upon insertion, she yelped like a feline in heat.  He slid into her slowly and thrust deeply, alternately flicking his tongue between her lips and using it to simulate penetration.

Amid their moaning and groaning, they didn’t notice that one of the women from the audience was spying on their act.  When the woman was summoned inside by a friend, she accidentally let the screen door slam.  Naisa and Curt gathered their clothing and, at her suggestion, continued their liaison at her apartment.


How Naisa had despised the sunlight, but now it felt welcoming, its warmth brief as its brilliance began to fade to black behind her eyelids. Sunrays bounced off the small pool of blood expanding around her lifeless body.  Crimson coordinated with burgundy on the plush carpet like a Rorschach inkblot framing a still life of the human kind. Unbeknownst to Naisa, a larger pool of blood had coagulated around Curt’s body in her kitchen.  Over his face lay a pillow with a single bullet. He had died without ever learning his accomplice’s name. Double homicide in a one-bedroom apartment.

Back in the bedroom, the murderer seemed indifferent to neighbors’ loud knocking and muffled voices.  They were attempting to check whether Naisa was in any danger.  The intruder was in no hurry to escape and could only think:  It would take at least a half-hour for the police to arrive in this part of town.  After ambling over to the front door, the warm black gun emptied of bullets, she disguised her voice as Naisa’s to assuage their fears.

Deidre St. John headed back to the first crime scene, in the kitchen.  Weeping, she dropped the gun on the black-and-white laminate floor.  As the sounds of police sirens grew louder several stories down, she hummed softly a few bars of the song that her husband, Curt, had dedicated to her at their wedding reception only three years earlier.  Stroking his bloody forehead with clammy fingers until the ends of her sweeping black microweave braids were like red tips of paintbrushes, she recalled how, in front of three hundred fifty guests, her new husband had crooned “Lady Blue” solely for her.  Solely for her.

© 2005/2015 Chantale Rêve

All Rights Reserved

s-s-s-s-Sweet PEA

Posted in Erotica, Senryū with tags , on September 19, 2015 by Chantale Reve

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Our connection drives him wild –

Serpent that beguiled.


© 2015 Chantale Rêve

All Rights Reserved

TanTrysts on a Mansard

Posted in Erotica, La Poésie Érotique, Senryū, Urban Erotica with tags , , on September 9, 2015 by Chantale Reve

Mon rocher, ma tour —

Et si on parlait d’amour?

Respirer comme l’un.


La lune brille sur nous

Comme nos lèvres murmurent:

“L’aube peut attendre.”



© 2015 Chantale Rêve

All Rights Reserved

Oletha at 23 — Piercings by Starr 69

Posted in Erotica, Senryū on September 5, 2015 by Chantale Reve



Hula hoops of tongue

Wriggled Lelee’s shriveled cord.

Giggling urged release.

Poem:  “Oletha at 23  – Piercings by Starr 69”   © 2013 Chantale Rêve   All Rights Reserved

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Retrofitting Neon Halos from a Firefly Guy

Posted in Erotica, Femmetaphysics, La Poésie Érotique, Senryū with tags , , , , on August 24, 2015 by Chantale Reve

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Vena Amoris

Posted in Erotica, La Poésie Érotique, Senryū, Straight-up Romance with tags on May 5, 2015 by Chantale Reve

Take this love “in vein.”

Absence of gold bands be damned!

Eros in us reigns.

© 2015 Chantale Rêve

All Rights Reserved


Posted in Destination Romance, Fantasy, Femmetaphysics, Mystery & Suspense, Romance, Travel Fiction with tags , , , , on April 14, 2015 by Chantale Reve


Souvenirs à travers la nouvelle neige

 (Memories Through New Snow)

Relaxing in an ochre seat on the Renaissance car, Véronique gazed out her window at infinite periwinkle sky. Not one cloud, she observed, thinking how the opposite was true for her personal outlook. In her native country she had been just another girl from the wrong side of the tracks. After crossing the U.S.-Canadian border in her late twenties, she blossomed from a waif into a voluptuous woman like a weed bud through time-lapse photography, fated to cling to the railroad fence but never to climb over it. Waiting, lurking around the bend, was the midlife milestone that she had dreaded since the year she met him: Mr. Wrong’s grand-père.

Dismissed by her seasoned lover, she longed for chaste respite that lay a safe distance from his apathy. May to his December, she had perceived his ravenousness, in the honeymoon phase of their relationship, as a justifiable reaction to an igloo of marital neglect. As time wore on, she excused his absenteeism on the left side of her full-size bed on most weekends and on all holidays. Then anger and resentment began roiling within her bosom. She had reached the limit of complacency, but couldn’t find the courage to scold him for breaching their deal. In her mind, the tape continually unreeled of Monsieur affixing an “Infinité” postage stamp on an envelope that was bulging with the valves of her broken heart. La lettre sealed a fate that she hadn’t considered, for, more than once upon a time, he had addressed her as “ma princesse.”

Like a forecast of snowfall below the Canadian border since Le Grand Réchauffement Climatique — shortened to “The Warming” in the old country — Véronique found her sex mate’s latest separation from her peculiar. Their severance also was final. Unceremonious. Chilling. Never again would she unlatch the door, untie her peignoir and unleash the whore. Only in her memories would she have the pleasure of surrendering to him on all fours, on her own or by his hand, with her knuckles dimpling the damp pillows as if kneading baguette dough. Never again would she get to reclaim temporary control of his heart, offer him shelter in the wet spot and conceal his ice pick within the sheath of her sweltering sex until it morphed back into her necessary prick. His was an irresistible dick that had hammered away at her pity and left them both reverberating with passion.

* * *

Rock, paper, scissors. Véronique’s playmate only pretended to be the rock; his wife wielded it with one hand. As his mistress, she knew it to be true.  She had watched the two. On more than one unpleasant occasion, she had donned a pair of TruGrip sneakers — securing crampons when stubborn  Montréal snow still clung to the surfaces of mountains, buildings and faces — and scaled the south wall of the couple’s eighteenth-century greystone petit chateau.  Displaying a feline sense of balance, she had spied on them through opera glasses while perched on a balcony that lay three feet from unlocked French doors.  On each covert spiritual-suicide mission, whenever Madame would clutch her man’s broad shoulders in ecstasy, Véronique would gasp at the rock below one of the spasming woman’s ruddy, elephant-skinned knuckles. There, a resplendent diamond outshone all the heavenly bodies that had drifted down her spouse’s serpentine path to furtive love. However, Véronique, who had hurtled through the sky as if ejected from a dystopic universe rewound to its turbulent genesis, managed to slip below Madame‘s radar and unwittingly rejuvenated their banal life.

In contrast to his transient flings with the predictable type of mistress, the cheating husband’s intense involvement with an underclass American transplant was a figment of his wife’s imagination until the day a cherished Spanish fan vanished like summer in les Laurentides. The memento’s disappearance soon conjured up repressed suspicions of hers, which Monsieur attempted to dismiss — until the housekeeper’s day off. When his brassy, bulimic bride finished raiding the dusty wine cellar, a heaping basket of dirty laundry in an adjacent, dank room beckoned her to another woman’s cheap fragrance lingering on the fly of her gallant groom’s striped cotton boxers. Then followed questions, accusations and shattered mirrors. And before the week was out, la lettre.

No matter how powerful Véronique’s paroxysms when she played house with him on stolen time, his wife always had come first. “Pardon, mon amant, une ménage à trois? Jamais!” Véronique had replied to him when, toward the end of their affair, he deigned to suggest his spouse join them in bed. Facetiously she had added, “Besides, I couldn’t bear watching, waiting and wanting with a neglected clit while your lips, teeth and tongue are busy bringing the first wife to climax.”

Paper. Since boarding the VIA Rail Canada train at Montréal’s Gare Centrale, Véronique had used the bright restroom three times — only once to relieve herself. Québec City lay more than two hours of track in the distance. The other occasions in les toilettes, she was peering into the mirror, swaying with the train’s sensuous movements and obsessing over wrinkles. Sheesh, my face has more creases than crêpe paper, she thought, as if her worry lines were as deep as the San Andreas Fault. Until la lettre, she had considered herself superior to her old man. Reading between her lines, she contemplated, “Age ain’t nothin’ but a number,” my elderly U.S. relatives used to say, but they forgot to tell me that, as the years snowballed, it didn’t come gift-wrapped in wisdom. Those family members also neglected to mention that wisdom required translating intuition into action and asserting one’s will, continually, until one’s existence was in alignment with a divine purpose for eternity.

Le vieillard,” Véronique used to call the granddaddy mack behind his back. She regretted what she used to call his wife, putain sounding too poetic for the bitch she had wished was screwing her old man. Convinced that her vigorous vagina would preclude a pre-nup — as if une mariage to a woman of her class was in the philanderer’s plan — Véronique used to curse him during the act, curling the hot tongue that his had just wrestled as the first rays of a Montréal sunrise made zebra stripes of their conjoined bodies through the angled slats of Venetian blinds. Again and again she would mouth the secret sobriquet between their hoarse moaning and syncopated panting.

Straining to breathe under his beastly chest, she would dig her talons into mounds of flesh that rose and stretched through the salty mist of lazy morning sex. Though far from graceful, her lover’s moist back and shoulders reminded her of beluga whales that, like many other marine mammals, she only could dream about. Repeatedly allowing him to return to her bed — and especially to spend the entire night — she had deluded herself into thinking she could bear the weight of romantic sex disguised as authentic love. As his submarine would barrel through the southern portal of her universe, she momentarily would be set adrift. Confounding was the thought that true love could never become extinct although its creation, too, existed beyond mankind’s power.

Impervious to her dreams, meditations and philosophical meanderings, the old man would conquer her tranquillity by sea, twisting their history with the fragrant vocabulary of romantic love. His mendacious story of how they came to be managed to bury the truth of their affair but, more important, threatened to suffocate her individualism in the way that his cologne-infused funk enveloped her natural feminine aroma. Then, impersonating an incubus, he would thrust a resentful wakefulness into her.

Scissors. Rock crushed paper. Véronique hadn’t been the one who decided to end the affair. Even now, staring out the train window, she couldn’t admit to becoming delusional during her decadent decade with Monsieur. All the while, her nemesis had been sharpening her blades. I guess Madame had locked away the scissors, she pondered, rubbing her bare ring finger. Eyes fixated on la vitre without seeing her reflection, she remembered unexpectedly meeting her former rival via the billboard-size oil-on-canvas portrait hanging off-center on a parlor wall in la maison Françoise the night he lured her there. During the repetitious countdown to their first time — the consummation of their crime — she had shrunk to a horny dwarf standing far below a regal portrait that would have been perceived as anachronistic outside the mansion. In the salon’s cavernous, ornate space she inwardly had commented on the subject’s faded beauty and how it reminded her of a bejeweled but jaded princess of some insignificant nation-state who was smirking in awareness that she was a human manifestation of the rotting ramparts that protected her domain from a non-existent entity.

Caressing her fleshy ring finger turned on Véronique’s own awareness of her temporary status in the old man’s life. En route to their fake honeymoon city, on the same train although in a different timeframe, she felt as discardable as the type of cheap paper that no longer was being manufactured; her heart weighed as heavy as the wood pulp in its former life. Soon her mental index was filtering pages of their roman de gare. Véronique’s third eye located a difficult chapter midway. Harder she rubbed her digit until it burned from the friction, as did her memory of Monsieur‘s role of antagonist in their anti-climactic fiction.

Dread was the setting of their time-tripping tale. She had played a protagonist screwed over as much by the unreliable narrator as by her married man. Otherwise she had had no explanation for her decision to leave the digit purposely bare so that her ex-beau would be inspired to adorn it with precious metal. Five years into our affair, she recollected in her Renaissance compartment, I would’ve settled for nickel silver and my birthstone. Hell, even a rhinestone that could pass for topaz would’ve sufficed. Conspicuous placements of ring-sizers in her apartment also had failed to translate what she had feared to ask her permanently attached lover: “Darling, what are your long-term intentions?” Her lack of subtlety backfired, steering him to penetrate her with emotional cruelty masked as sexual intensity during their decade together. While reinforcing his fear of commitment to any woman but his wife, she had secured the unenviable position of dispensable mistress and had reminded him of sacred marriage vows Etch-A-Sketched in his memory.

* * *

Véronique’s ex-suitor had orchestrated the dalliance after an alfresco symphonic performance. Although his backstage flirtation had launched the affair, his attentiveness and her obedience in and out of bed would sustain it. Rapt in a center row at Parc Splendide, she already had been seduced by his facial expressions as he, the principal cellist, bowed gracefully through a Vivaldi concerto. By the time the audience began its extended standing ovation, she had given the slip to her snoring escort — a university student eight years her junior who apparently had fibbed about his musical preferences to impress her.  On her way to the aisle she tripped on the sneakered foot of a lanky guy who could pass for forty and who was wearing a nondescript T-shirt and denims beneath an effervescent smile.

Je suis désolée, monsieur,” she said, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment from his gorgeous tan face as much as from her ungracefulness. Taking a step backward, she collided with a mustachioed middle-aged Italian woman who kept running in an attempt to fetch her husband, who was boring a hole in a waif’s brassiere through her transparent silver blouse.

Pas de problème, mademoiselle,” he said, trying not to laugh as he reached down to rescue his clumsy damsel and then eyeing her bold rear curves while she brushed off the dirt from her skirt.

She couldn’t escape his triple-X-ray vision and quick reflex.  Eyeing his vintage titanium Patek Philippe, she batted lashes from its solid-gold hands down to his veiny grip on her scarred wrist.  “Oui?” she asked, regretting she hadn’t worn a trio of antique Bakelite bangles found at Village of the Damned Rich on rue Notre-Dame ouest.  Her pulse was outpacing the audience’s thunderclaps, but for the moment she couldn’t see the people or the trees in the park.  Only him.

Comment vous appelez-vous, sexy ?” he asked.

He thinks I’m the one who’s sexy? she wondered, puzzled that no vixen ever stared back at her from any mirrors besides the ones in romantic dreams.  The man was too handsome for her to be angry at his gaffe.  Besides, she was flattered, young and single — and he, unlike her bored date, appreciated classical music.  Above the trees the moon winked its consent for her to take things further with the tall stranger. In the cerulean spotlight of Véronique’s imagination their pupils volleyed back, creating sparks of a peculiar attraction.

Je m’appelle Véronique, monsieur,” she replied in an attempt to flip flirtation to formality.

Le mien est Étienne.  Enchanté,” he greeted, extending his hand as if to erase their first, awkward encounter.

Oh!  Why couldn’t he resemble an ogre?  Ugh!  she rambled to herself.  The rangy stranger’s eyes, one gray and the other light brown, held her gaze until she felt her dark orbs warming like le sirop d’érable over piping-hot crêpes. Although she was hungry for something hot, she didn’t want anything flat.  She desired something cylindrical. Tubular. Bulky. Thick. Hard.

Étienne, meanwhile, fancied a sugaring-off, but nothing so innocent as tapping a maple tree on an early-April morning. Maybe later, but someday soon, I can coax out her sap … his mind meandered. He whiffed in her scent.  Ahhh, sugar bush …

Ouais, monsieur?” she waited impatiently.

“Ah, ouais.  Aimeriez-vous allez pour les boissons, mademoiselle?

Drinks — hmmm, too fast in all things, she mulled over his proposition, becoming more seduced by the second. Suddenly, standing in front of this stranger, she was profoundly aware of time and place.  Then she had a change of heart, and her mind began filling up with objections as well as prepositions and other grammatical contexts of expression. “Peut-être.  … Mais, dans un autre vie.”

Breaking free of his grasp, she turned to hide a coy half-smile.  Not that she had thought it through, but she intended her comment as a come-on.  Little did she know it also would be the last line between them.  When she swung around to reel him in, he was gone. Fled on a bed of grass.  Beside his chair lay a rumpled white handkerchief, which, once stretched between her fingers, revealed the embroidered initials E.L. in red.  Well, at least I found out that he’s green.  I hate tissue.  Kills too many trees, she thought.  Stuffing the handkerchief in her purse, she returned her focus to the first object of her affection:  the cellist.

Véronique wandered off to the concession stand to hide among emptied wineglasses, which trembled from vibrations of a low-flying private plane. When the tipsy bartender, Fyodor, went from spinning tawdry tales about ex-mistress Flor to slurring expletives, he reached across the stand to pinch Véronique’s twitching bottom.  Spooked, she trotted away from his clutches like the startled steed in one of her favorite Alfred Hitchcock movies, Marnie. With the bandshell in sight and the concert concluded, she hastened past intimate hugs, halfhearted handshakes and French kisses among disorderly rows of collapsible chairs, leaping over creased programs and deflated condoms that were strewn about Parc Splendide’s manicured lawn, until her spool heels had scooped out divots in the manner of polo players’ mallets.

Once she careened around the steps and reached backstage, she stumbled into her finite future. Face to chest with the handsome musician, she was leaking sexual juices while imagining her future-self dripping in diamonds, which by the mid-twenty-first century had become as rare as snow falling anywhere but the northern reaches of Asia, Europe and — of all three countries on North America — Canada. Against the murmurs of publicity types and flashes of ninja-nimble paparazzi, she had thrusted out her magenta sequined bust into sixtysomething degrees of heat. Despite all the years he had on her, she battled his geopsychological eclipse by shimmying in the direction of a moonlit corner of bandshell.

At first she absentmindedly was grinding her teeth as he chattered on and on like castanets about the preservation of Western European classical music. Soon, however, the hair on bare arms that quivered for his touch was standing on end with every bend of his Franglish. Trees, grass and flowers tantalized her with their earthy fragrances, masking the musk that she feared was seeping from her soaked cotton crotch. Rubbing her thighs together matted her pubic hair to a beaver’s slickness, and she already could sense the generous wood within her lowered hand’s grasp.

She barely heard the musician ask her name — “Comment vous appelez-vous, mademoiselle?” — because her mind had coasted off his ocean of ethnomusicological information. “Je m’appelle Véronique,” she replied, batting her enhanced eyelashes. Flirting with the man so overtly, she was surprised both pairs didn’t dislodge from her upper eyelids and flutter away like black butterflies violating nature’s curfew.

Enchanté. Enchantée,” their greetings overlapped clumsily, but his lips precisely pecked the center vein on the back of her right hand.

Recovering her breath, she followed his wandering eyes as they flattered her voluptuous proportions with mystic poetry. She sighed, checking out how the curly, silver hair peeking out of his tuxedo jacket’s sleeves coordinated with whimsical Gemini cufflinks. Breaking out into a smile whiter than his shirt, the charming cellist brushed back thinner tresses from his dome into the boondocks of French masculine vanity. Véronique was blinded either by his charisma or by lavender stagelights reflecting off his noble forehead. Beyond the duo’s acoustic chemistry, the bilingual din of praise and farewells segued into syncopated rhythms of folded chairs and clinking glasses as the catering company’s cleanup crew restored the park to its naked beauty.

Brown doe eyes fetching a white-mustachioed smile, she felt more than his star rise when he pressed his heavy body down on her, stage right. Disappearing with him into lucid night, endorphins spinning from their erotic sparks, she couldn’t have had a clue that they already had waltzed a dangerous distance beyond a wrong turn. He’s just your first mature one-night stand, her id was whispering within her. Then the genteel stranger motioned with an index finger — “Viens avec moi, chère” — et, voilà, his black-and-white wing tips were tripping her toward the dark side of his existence.  And into his burgundy eco-car.

Later, after a relentless storm had blown in from Newfoundland, they bickered over her desire to be driven home (“Maintenant!“) to Le Plateau and his decision to swerve onto le pont Jacques-Cartier in the direction of his suburb — and some light sustenance. She wouldn’t dare tell him she feared that beneath the dapper cellist was a murderer; he wouldn’t dare tell her that he was heading to the site of his and Françoise’s first date. In other words, he was a masked murderer and one as suave as Sean Connery’s James Bond.

Observing discretion, Monsieur Bond ditched his wheels on rue St-Charles in le Vieux-Longueuil, about eight blocks from the tiny parking lot of a bistro that retained its picturesque qualities despite the downpour. As Véronique lagged behind him in heels that were ill-suited for long walks, she chastised him for not storing an emergency umbrella in his dashboard, “where you’d have room for one if you could sacrifice tossing out all those glow-in-the-dark condoms.”

Barely able to hold back a chortle, her aged assassin said, “Donc, a little rain bother you? Hmpf, you only beginning to get wet, ma chère.

Already she hated the way he pronounced the adjective little, as if it rhymed with beetle. Yeah, he only thinks he’s going to get some, she thought to herself. Fuming under the bright light of a verdigris street lamp, she watched her breath misting in the dank air.  She limped past her kidnapper as if knowing where she was headed.  Her blood began to crawl. Nah, it’s just the rain seeping through my clothes, she tried assuring herself. Then: Where the hell am I? Soon anger again replaced worry. When she glanced over her shoulder to sneer at her captor, she nearly collided with a gate to la chocolaterie-traiteur. She wasn’t sure if the wind or some love god had swung open the gate because Monsieur had managed to snatch her inches away from injury. In one swift motion, despite his advanced age, he was no longer a stranger in her eyes.  Just a “leetel” strange.

“I must keep you safe, mon coco, eh?” he said with an illuminated smile.

“And pay my outrageous bill at the hair salon tomorrow, eh?” she joked, launching them both into spasms of laughter. The rest of the way they held hands, not wanting to tempt a lightning bolt with an adulterous kiss.

Once inside Benoît’s Bistro, the forbidden lovers hugged briefly and apologized.  It was a squishy affair made no more pleasant by the pebbles shifting in their shoes — and sitting on wooden chairs that were inadvertently of the rocking variety. Straightening his tie, Monsieur addressed the server, Olivier, with:  “Mon dieu, what have you all done with the place?”

Puzzled, Olivier peered down at him and asked, “Have we ever had the pleasure of receiving you, Monsieur?”  Hearing only “Bien sûr” in reply, he set down two water glasses and took an inordinate amount of time straightening out his patrons’ starched, white linen napkins while humming the melody to “Long Black Veil.” Before he turned to leave, he had noticed that not only the napkins were stiff.

The old Johnny Cash song was lost on the couple; the waiter’s observation, on Véronique.  And water was the last thing either of them desired.  While they drank in each other’s eyes above their menus, their elegant threads clung to their prickly skin like a perp to an imperfect alibi. Raindrops as large as wishing stones pelted the bay windows. Thunderclaps plucked the accomplices’ nerves. Traffic lights on the quaint town road may have been stuck on the red, but lightning was flashing on the tawdry curtain of their inchoate courtship.

A single pink rose had wilted by the time Monsieur got up the nerve to inquire about Véronique’s sexual experience and by the time she found the energy to dance around his brazen attention. By then, her pink petals had bloomed like a desert succulent’s leaves, but without spiny needles for that illusion of virtue. Apologizing whenever their words collided, they created awkward pauses in a flickering space that shrank at the same rate of the wick which lengthened in the votive glass that he caressed. He winked. She smiled. He grinned. She sighed, feeling adored for the first time. He inhaled, capturing her soul. Melted candlewax wasn’t the only lava pool between their midnight gazes. Her blood was in a dead heat with her reproductive fluids. She only could imagine the cauldrons that he was juggling behind his fly, although he was far from being a warlock. At least I hope not, she wondered.

Just then, she heard thumping under the table. His cock is calling out to me, she feared, crisscrossing her legs over and over again. But it was only the server trying to interest them in a late-night snack.

“Mmmm … I would like to leave room for a butterscotch dessert, Madame,” the man said, beaming his boudoir eyes on Véronique’s reddening pinnas.

Monsieur!” was all she could object, else choke on the ice water that the waiter had just poured from the netted carafe as if it were a bottle of a vintage 2015 Bordeaux.

Meanwhile Olivier was snickering en route to the sweltering kitchen to convey Monsieur‘s request when he returned with lusty eyes and a frank line of questioning. Véronique preferred that Olivier save the grilling for their appetizer. Better yet, she preferred he bore them with another pugilist-turned-actor-moonlighting-as-a-server anecdote that would have her yawning into her fist. Anything to signal to her persistent lover that she would be a lousy lay that night.

Night surrendered to day on the other side of the bistro window. While they had consumed enough buttered bread to give Véronique a yeast infection, they hadn’t consummated their desire.  The cellist’s mental masturbation and the ingénue’s hidden lubrication only stoked a fire that no candle could’ve withstood. Before matters could get out of hand, she attempted to free herself from his sensuous, invisible grasp. She had waited too long; he possessed her with his entire being.

Each time her partner in crime raised a palm to her cheek, she flushed rouge above and below, then slapped away his hand before it could dive in her exaggerated cleavage, the sensual illusion of a pricey vintage Wonderbra. “Aaaahhh … ouiiiiii … non … noooooo” rose up from her throat and floated out her parted lips. Bilingually vocalizing her pleasure inadvertently previewed the way that she would respond when impaled on the obelisk of his ancient brand of masculinity.

“Don’t look down at the table!” he admonished her. “Face me!”

“I can’t,” she said, almost pleading not to be seduced further. Then she felt her walls buckle and, slowly, her dilated pupils found his.

“Mmmm … la pluie,” he taunted her, switching to English when he added, “Drink in my eyes, cherie, until your panties are flooded with Dionysian rain.”

Arrêt!” she begged him. And again, but he started mumbling verses of lewd poetry with the piety of a sinner reciting psalms. “Commmmmiiiiing,” she sang sweetly while he massaged the clammy palm that wasn’t filling with splinters.

When she had been delivered and was coming to, she was the fresh-faced girl of a recurring dream in which she pirouetted nude on moist blades of mowed grass. With each twirl her sun-splashed body was rendered a yellowish-brown trellis for pastel blossoms that sprouted from her nipples, navel and clit. Approaching full consciousness, she could feel the clumps of grass in Parc Splendide and, slowing her rotation, spied on her enraptured self staring at the virtuosic cellist. Oozing ultrafeminine elixir, she realized that her black garters were stinging her thighs and, glancing beneath the table, saw that her back-seam stockings had rolled down her legs to join soaking-wet underpants gathered at her ankles. Stranger than an unfamiliar lightheadedness was the sight of her table companion wiping his hands and wrists with a humongous napkin beneath a wicked smile while Olivier stood behind him fondling a bulge as prominent as Cyrano de Bergerac’s schnoz.

Instead of dissonant strings trilling in a pit, a rapturous rhapsody was rippling through the awkward space between the lover’s husky innuendoes and her blushing brown cheeks. Soon, however, the beverages began flowing, with nary un café nor une tasse du thé among them. Amid slurps of Champagne-spritzed oysters, he was cloying open an erotic vault that she had shoved into the recesses of her new-immigrant mind. As his eyes narrowed to dashes, her slit was yawning like the insomniac moon, prompting her to contemplate how to retrieve her high-cuts – and how long it might take to wring out the crotch in the ladies’ room. Then her lover’s gruff, nasal voice popped her back onto the marigold banquette faster than the snap of a wet thong on freshly spanked cheeks. Her sequined twins were jiggling so vigorously as she tried to dodge his flattery that her breasts nearly busted her pearly pink bottom lip.

Rien ne sert d’essayer d’éviter cette affaire de coeur,” he tempted her. While teaching her French lessons that were unobtainable at the university where she toiled by day, he was assuring himself that she soon would become a dutiful student by night.

Voilà qui est dit!” she replied, snickering at the lust oozing from her frisky date’s dentured smile. So amused was she that she hadn’t realized the shellfish’s aphrodisiacal properties were wafting a path toward her receptive airways.

Indeed, he had decided. “Aaaahhhh, bébé, c’est bien.”

Un moment. Véronique couldn’t breathe. But her oxygen deprivation lasted long enough to allow his potent sensuality to seep inside her pores. Then she exhaled through a smile that spelled out n-i-r-v-a-n-a over Royaligned ivories.

Within three counts of a lightning bolt that hushed all seven of the bistro’s diners, he whipped out and flipped over a timeless wild card of seduction: the aging lothario’s tease. She, having chaste-dated inexperienced men since her arrival in Canada, was a damsel trapped in his designs. Thus, between l’entrecôte et l’entremets, he was recommending a raincheck on “cosmic sex”; she, pulse racing, was checking her digital calendar. Inwardly she triumphed, He treated me to a three-course dinner. He’s mine. Not until their raindate the next month, May, would she learn that he was married and that she had been taken.

Under the resto’s blinking lighting, no longer dwarfed in the shadow of her tuxedoed suitor’s slouching bulkiness, she was developing a superiority complex while he was slipping her a mickey of an ice-breaker: “Your golden brown beauty appeared before my eyes like a meteor in the night sky.” His compliment, like countless others that he would feed her to keep her bed-ready, was fortifying her self-esteem until she was Saguenay granite. Rock to his paper. Or so she fantasized.

* * *

Pampering in business class launched her into ephemeral states of happiness. But like every snowflake descending through the atmosphere, her spirit felt light until it settled on earth, where it clinged to mediocrity. Once she touched down, she shivered enough to rattle her food tray and her nerves. Fretting over not shredding her married suitor’s letter back home in Montréal, she glanced down the aisle to wave over a waiter and order coffee, even though she doubted that it could compare to any of Second Cup’s spellbinding concoctions. To her chagrin une femme d’un certain âge was flipping her brassy blond hair and fidgeting within the liquid blue incandescence of the server’s eyes.

The frank letter that her former beau sent her, though tissue-thin, weighed heavier on Véronique’s mind than the impulse to seek a new identity through travel. His crisp correspondence was neatly folded in thirds in its matching florid envelope, which itself was tucked like a perfumed sachet between the pairs of enormous, floral-print cotton panties that Véronique had packed for her weeklong getaway. Frayed and flawed, she was a frangible tapestry of femininity unworthy of moths.

Their illicit affair had been an unsigned contract containing a rider of romantic promises rendered in vanishing ink, but now she wished she had repurposed it as origami to hide their lies in the razor’s-edge folds. Disoriented, she was torn between Exhibit A — their first kiss on a rain date — and Exhibit Z — a blank section that was now filled with his dismissive missive.

Dewdrops chasing each other on her windowpane symbolized tears that she had shed during the final weeks of their clandestine relationship. When she traced the streaked pattern with a slender teak-brown index finger, she didn’t recoil from the chill. No matter the season, she had an overflowing reservoir of warmth in her heart — a surplus of love despite the absence in her life of someone emotionally mature enough to receive it.

Like the stubborn, steely gray coils that had begun multiplying amid her chocolate brown corkscrew curls for the past year, the premature winter that existed outside her gelid window was most unwelcome. Twisting an index finger in and out of one cottony curl after another, she peered through intertwined bearded branches and reflected on an entanglement that spanned what so many Boomer III bloggers had promised to be “the thrilling thirties.” Soothsayers they were not. Hypesters and hysteriacs, yes.

Every time that Véronique used to check her biological clock, its arthritic hands would spin out of control. Despite the ensuing dizzy spell, each time she would profess inwardly: No matter how much he intoxicates me, I will not allow him to spill inside. C’est mon terroir à moi. And mine alone. Besides, she didn’t desire babies; she only wanted to be one man’s baby.

Hearing her part-time paramour’s profession of committed love turned out to be a perennial hallucination. Nonetheless, such an admission topped each of her new year’s resolutions. Each thirty-first of December, she would slouch in the splintered unsteady chair in her breakfast nook, which opened onto the living room. She absentmindedly would cradle a glass of some inferior wine that loverman had left behind in his haste to play the role of husband at Madame‘s grande soirée. Through cinnamon-scented candlelight, she would catch her melancholic reflection in an ice-glazed window: hollow eyes gazing across the table at an empty chair. On the street below, whistling and tooting partygoers would assault her unscheduled solitude.

Swarmed by ghosts of mistresses past, she would curse her co-adulterer’s duplicity and relive the night that she veered into his orbit. Like a cello with sprung strings, she was damaged goods better left shut in a velvet-lined case. Smarting from her lover’s mind-fucking, she would imagine him copulating with her competition in a remote locale — the French Riviera, Martinique, Cuba, Mars — while waves (or meteors) crashed outside. She would envision him plunging balls deep in his wife, pledging fidelity forever as if a naive teenager trying to carve mushy sentiments into frozen bark. Son épouse jusqu’à la éternité. Defeated, she would try to block out his empty words and the squeaking, thumping bed, squeezing the wine goblet until it threatened to shatter.

Santé,” she would toast to the abandoned place setting while a Catholic church’s heavy bell clanged like her paramour’s Kevlar heart had against his armor. Several hours before each reverberating midnight stroke, he would be pumping iron inside of his brittle-boned bride in a race against time. One sip. Suave motherfucker. Swilling the remainder of his poison, she would feel her brown curls bouncing off her shoulderblades like coils from the boxspring of Monsieur et Madame‘s holiday bed. Merde!


Snowy vistas of a mid-November afternoon seemed to disappear as swiftly as a capricious lover’s fervent promise committed to his coke-laced memory. Briefly Véronique eyed her solar wristwatch — the penultimate birthday gift from her semiprivate Father Time. Upon seeing his silver-tufted hand pat her smooth brown wrist with the affection of the doting father she never had, however, the reminiscence stung like stubble scraping against her cheek in a losing protest against wake-up sex.

Once again entwining fingers in her hair, she switched views from the past to the present, then slid into the future. Her eyes meandered from one bleak scenario to the next, her mouth turning drier than a desert by the nanosecond. Not a diamond tiara in sight. Another reason for her dismal mood crept through her mind: Mon dieu, I left my pills in the Tiffany Blue chiffonier.

Hooked on Memorase like most of her race — not to obliterate memories but to alleviate the agonizing ones — she had come to accept that her mind’s windows to the past were far less dependable than the actual pane in front of her face. Mass, not in a ritual sense, but in the realm of physics. Attempts to envision the future were akin to tempting a psychosis and required a complicated regimen of meds. Many generations had passed since people consoled each other simply with “mind over matter” to deal with issues of the past that could not be altered as well as preoccupations with future dimensions of existence — whether five minutes away or five years ahead. Despite the fleeting sense of the present, especially on the rails, her overanalyses of ex-loverman’s manipulative dominance in her life had taken root and she lacked the cerebral tools to sever it.

Trees standing against the relentless wind had vanished. Frozen lake, slippery track, stiff brush and crimson canopies of staghorn sumac shrubs now were rushing by. She wondered, Had I snapped my fingers? Mouthed “abracadabra”? Could there’ve been a magic wand wrapped within my curls? Like Québec’s changing pastoral tableau — austere hibernal snapshots more than one hundred miles from Montréal’s cosmopolitan autumn scenes — time was passing rapidly and tinkering with her sanity. Hurtling through space toward a future made more uncertain without a lover to return to, she realized that time rendered every moment of mortality an effervescent realization and every afterthought an evaporated dream.

Squinting, she searched her illusory contours in a partial reflection that the afternoon sun unevenly unveiled. She was conflicted by Gestalt theoreticism; afflicted with GERD. Studying her spectral image, she attempted to connect the dots to tattered remnants of her existence that survived a tabooed relationship. From knitted brows to pursed lips, a frosty grimace crept into her pores, but she pretended to be content that it masked her penchant to shower affection on the lowest calibre of men. She hadn’t expatriated from the United States to find more of the same — pseudoromantic brutes — only with French accents. If it would take the second half of her life, she would prove her killjoy of a father a liar and settle down with a better man, one whose dreams meshed with her own.

Twelve years into the past she had been scoffing at fairytales regurgitated in modern literature and cinema but more irritatingly through university colleagues’ embellished accounts of fated romances. While she would have access to myriad nurseries in her new hometown of Montréal, she had doubted that any of the pumpkins carried midnight magic in their chalky, white seeds. In her unimaginative mind, variations of squash were made to be peeled and scooped for their delicious pulp — for autumn pies and winter stews — and mules were beasts of burden. She hadn’t owned a pair of glass-heeled ballroom slippers to pack in any of her luggage compartments. Lacking belief in her authenticity, she ignored ethereal whispers of intuition, followed the throbbing heart between her thighs and settled for a counterfeit prince.

Back then she had hauled around baggage of various forms but made sure to leave behind her American name: Veronica Isabel Payne. With much less contemplation, she also had abandoned her patriotic father, his gold digger wife and the latter’s unambitious adult sons — all scowling in the driveway. Standing to their right was the indestructible brick house that her real-estate mother had purchased outright in Germantown, Pennsylvania, during the Second-Great Depression. Between national apathy that commenced in the turbulent teens and the bio-warfare that fizzed in Mr. Payne’s tall, daily glasses. Mrs. Payne had died of a vandalized heart and thus never had the chance to help her daughter extinguish the two candles of her birthday cake, of which there would be none.

More than her bra size or water retention, something on a molecular level had changed in Véronique since her immigration to Canada. No longer was she that practical woman, such as her maternal Great-Aunt Lisa — after whom Véronique’s film-loving mother had fashioned her a middle name, albeit with scraps of antique Spanish lace that uncovered her infatuation with then-thespian and -heartthrob Javier Bardem. Various oral histories of relatives who still resided in the States also revealed that her independent great-aunt had campaigned for their nation’s first Black president’s second term while treading the poverty line rather than risk self-loathing by accepting the bejeweled hand of a diehard Republican suitor.

Tense in her present, Véronique fumbled in her synthetic purse for her Memorase meds until she realized the futility in her effort. Zut! she cursed herself. How could I forget that I forgot them? Digging deeper into her purse, she felt the creases of her wallet and, minutes later, was speed-dialing the Downtown Montréal branch of NuMeds — a universal collective of internists, neuropharmacologists and pharmacists — in a desperate attempt to have a Memorase prescription called in to a Québec City branch. However, there was no answer at the number for a business which prided itself on the slogan “We NuMeds never sleep, so that you can.”

Discontent individuals carried the black-polkadot on white tablets on tiny, perforated cards and perceived them to be as indispensable as TruVox cellphones; thumbprint patches; eye-scan pass codes; and minute-before Pleasurtopia capsules for him, hour-after Pleasurtopia capsules for her and combo versions of the recreational-sex drug for intersex people. For the last gender group the international Pan-Gender Treaty, passed during the quarter-century Baby Boom III, entitled its members to the same rights as all other sexes. Those rights included marriage, which resulted in a dramatic rise in adoption rates, the gradual elimination of orphanages and the heralding of the Children’s Human-Rights Act.

Véronique purposely had left behind her solar-powered Verdeo reader, which on the winter morning of her firing from her university teaching position a decade prior the French lit dean — unlike his hockey devotee colleagues, a basketball fan — tossed into her crate as she ran crimson-cheeked down a buzzing corridor. Then as now, she didn’t know whether to be angrier with Dean Duhamel, who had been bent on her total conversion to the latest technologies and, considering previous hands-on tutelage, on extracurricular perversion — or with her adulterous ex-lover. She caressed the third-chapter page of Bid Time Return, which unlike her Memorase pills she had packed to prevent drifting into quicksands of memories. It didn’t matter that she had read the novel almost as often as she sought tarot card therapy to inject romantic intrigue into her future. Like the bewitching soul behind an exhibition hall photograph that beckoned Richard Matheson’s playwright protagonist to a mysterious, fantastic past, Veronique was hearing whispers that interfered with intuitive frequencies. Tonalities of survival.

Listening against reason, she was reminded of the old man’s whispers aboard another VIA Rail Canada train headed on the same course. Whiskers tickling her auricle, he had explained that “side effects of a long rail journey, for the unaccompanied person of any gender, may include spontaneous, unpleasant distractions that prompt him or her to question the reliability of anything and everything, including gravity.” He neglected to mention that their coupling wouldn’t be eternal.

When he reached Véronique’s row, rail steward Didier abruptly curtailed his stroll down the aisle to check in passenger’s comfort and gave her a bewildered look, which sent her searching for the paragraph that she had abandoned. She thumbed gently down the soft, warm page at a relaxed pace, the opposite of her display at any of Montréal’s picturesque places, where she would raise a book, preferably a hardcover, at jaw level to frame the beautiful mask of her thick dark-brown brows and alluring eyes. For the duration of her lunchbreak, or hours on those weekends that she was robbed of her married boyfriend’s presence, she would pore over pages of fiction in defiance of passers-by of the under-thirty set — whose gadget-calloused fingertips would’ve murdered the delicate pages of antiquated books that she sold to Montréal’s senior denizens — and of hypocritical tree huggers whose minds struggled to reconcile green activism with overreliance on paper in the workplace.

Back on the train, Véronique intermittently disengaged herself from her book to glimpse the austere realism beyond her windowpane. Looking over her right shoulder, she craned her neck to watch the rear cars gracefully undulate like segments of a caterpillar inching along a leaf’s serrated curves. Although she refused to grow weary of love, she couldn’t help but feel leery of time’s detours and time’s contours, both of which conspired with her unconscious mind to sabotage valiant efforts to transform herself into a dignified woman.

It seemed it was yesterday that, armed with a Canadian visa, a boarding pass and a printout of her one-way e-ticket, and a month’s supply of memory-sickness pills, she staggered her goodbyes. Once she bade farewell to her colleagues at Temple University and, over high tea at the Rittenhouse, allowed envious girlfriends’ ephemeral promises (“ooh, girl, we have got to stay in touch”) to slip through her fingers, she donned her angel-mother’s gossamer wings.

What better location than the endpoint of a longtime emblem of freedom for Black American people: the human-linked Underground Railroad? her twenty-seven-year-old self had reasoned. As countless articles on the Internet had concurred to her satisfaction, Canadians were more tolerant than U.S. folks. In the realm of sexuality one province held promises previously sketched only in her dreams. Soon she was tucking a SimulTranslator into her carry-on luggage, plus extra padding into her brassiere, and emigrating to a place where she trusted that her unconscious mind would disperse an inherited belief in unshackled love.

* * *

As she lurched forward in tandem with the silver locomotive’s insistent motion, the only truth that soothed her was a robust lunch on the horizon. Starved for nutrients more than sexual freedom at the moment, she sipped on seltzer while her eyes lingered on main courses on the limited but elegant menu. Hmmm, will it be the grilled salmon, roast chicken or beef short ribs? she mulled over the choices. She quickly eliminated the middle option upon spotting a lone bird flapping its blue-gray form through new snowflakes as if it were racing the train. With my luck, that’s probably a vulture up there, she thought.

Considering her iron deficiency, which left her muscles only slightly weaker than her heart from her ex-lover’s waning romantic gestures, she selected the beef. Not that she was a hardcore carnivore, but she couldn’t care less about la soupe au pistou or “la mariage d’automne“:  sautéed red potatoes and tarragon carrots. I’m craving something bloody delicious, she thought, nibbling her generous bottom lip. Based on her memories of her destination city and its denizens’ loyalty to centuries-old traditions, she was comforted that there would be plenty more opportunities to feast on fresh fish and game. Though, she was disconcerted that Québec City was renowned for attracting lovers of another type of hunt.

Zapping herself out of the cold snap of recent memory, Véronique slapped the laminated menu down on the tray beside her Richard Matheson novel. With a hand to her restless tummy over a bulky ecru cardigan, she tried to muzzle otherworldly growls and worried that the waiter’s bilingual lunch announcement to his section a half-hour earlier was only a tease. Of all things, teasing and untruths would more than try her patience.

Again her eyes scanned the abused menu on her tray. She tried to avoid thinking about the beef short ribs to no avail. Too bad the soupe de jour isn’t parsnip, which I love and he abhorred, she murmured within. Then it hit her like a swinging carcass in a slaughterhouse: Damn, I will not have had this much beef inside me since that night when B — … When he … Although nearly three weeks had lapsed since her emotional collapse, after he released her from their at-will relationship, she couldn’t bear to enunciate his name.

She was immersed in acrid thoughts of his charming deception when a Botoxified white woman seated in front of her began trashing her husband with a brown-complexioned companion about forty years her junior. No scarlet letter for her; hubby was stigmatized with the “little ‘i'” — impotence — which deflated his exaggerated perception of Québécois masculinity. In an exasperated voice that, Véronique surmised, all of the other passengers in the coach also tried tuning out, she complained about le vieillard while caressing her accomplice’s smooth cheek with the back of a spotted, wrinkled hand. Reaching down to his zippered bulge, and eliciting a gasp, she yammered how “Old Faithful” annihilated the meek in the boardroom yet lacked the penile velocity necessary to slam her dome into their mahogany headboard — let alone to dent her walls. The young man seemed to fight back falsetto moans as his lover groped his package and chatted away in dusky French.

Véronique had sized up the pair whenever they left their seats together and headed up the aisle toward the loo, and especially after the third outing, when they ambled past her row reeking of raw seafood that didn’t appear among the train menu’s appetizers. Each time she had examined how the young man’s face was chiseled and how his lover’s was carved up in sharp contrast with her wattle. Guess being cutthroat applies only to cheating on her hubby, she thought without a hint of irony.

During the sixtysomething’s audible tongue duet with her boyfriend, an annoying ringtone — “Fist Me, Baby, Trois More Times” by the neo-pop-trance band Britney’s Blonde Disciples — interrupted their indiscretion. Moments after hushing Adonis, she was assuring her cuckolded mari via TruVox: “Je t’aime, mon amour.”

Merde! Véronique wished to vomit and could taste salt and bile rising in her esophagus. What about that doting young man, putain? she thought but dared not utter. As if on cue, the rookie at mature nookie pivoted in his seat until they locked gazes in empathic telepathy. She wasn’t so sure that his lust-flooded brain transmitted the correct message. Never again, she chanted while beaming silent lessons in his direction.

If she correctly had translated her fellow passengers’ overlapping conversations at the departure point — Montréal’s Gare Centrale — most of them also were headed for Québec City in the wintriest country on the North American continent. Not one to engage in schadenfreude, she hoped that none of the travelers shared her reason for venturing north, for she was an escapee from a different kind of deep freeze. Québec province would reach its frigid zenith in February, when she planned to go underground.

Deep, beyond the earth’s core, where no train could travel, she would wait out the day she used to associate with his and her eternal bond. Ugh, Valentine’s Day, she pondered. She had loved as hard as a hockey puck, and now she was a spurned lover who had traded a pair of ice skates for a train seat; a stadium cup for a wine glass. Instead of the game ending in bruises and broken bones, it had concluded with a broken heart — hers.

Prior to meeting her older man, Lucifer in human form, she had never thought she was dating below her worth. I’m just having fun, going with the flow, she used to tell the baffled young woman in the mirror. Most recently she had lied to her inner “V” that the highest price she had to pay was for a first-class, round-trip ticket in VIA Rail Canada’s shoulder season when, in truth, she was an emotionally bankrupt woman. Unlike the tourists on the train, she was a fugitive from tainted love and destined for pure hell. She doubted there could be atonement for an adulterer in a predominantly Catholic province that had welcomed the relatively chaste version of herself so many years ago. If not her soul, then her reputation had tried to combat time; defeated, it eventually became more tarnished than an abandoned set of antique silverware.

With the certainty of four positive pregnancy tests and zero births during the ten years she dated someone else’s husband, she knew that if he hadn’t dumped her, they would’ve continued their twisted affair despite its inevitable dead end. As sure as a lazily stitched hem on a loose woman’s dress, she would’ve allowed him to declare her extra baggage on vacations abroad. Nevertheless, he usually limited the borders of concubinage to Canada, and she would’ve permitted him to continue dragging her cross-country, fornicating from rocky outposts of eastern provinces to the lush forests of Vancouver.

However, one letter and one envelope doused in some antique perfume altered her destiny. Now, with thirty thousand dollars of Madame Piqûre’s disposable income deposited in her checking account and bankrolling most of her trip — and covering her prescriptions, groceries and a nosebleed-inducing monthly rent from St-Sylvestre to la Fête du déménagement, or Moving Day — Véronique had money to burn, even if she wouldn’t. As a defeated mistress, she also had enough sense not to get sued, else wind up jingling nothing but sous.

As the sleek, shiny train’s incessant horn melody serenaded the new snow coating the sparse forest, Véronique reconciled herself to the idea that, for the first time since her hair was the color of a cow moose, she would be spending a solo holiday. Christmas was less than a month away, but she didn’t have the courage to step out alone under ropes of royal blue lights swinging in the winter wind outside restaurants in the Haute-Ville, even if the regal hue could disguise how she had hanged herself over a man incapable of rooting himself in an ancillary relationship.

Noël, Noël. Fa-la-la-la-la. Zut! Trop d’amour, trop de rires. And far too many committed couples, she had confessed to her invisible confidante hours after her comfortable life changed in blue hues from electra to ethyl. After she had slit open the fancy scented envelope, the sender’s impeccable penmanship stunned her at first because she used to tease him about his handwriting. “More confounding than a lawyer’s or a physician’s,” she would tell him, biting her bottom lip when his narrowing eyes curtailed her laughter. It hadn’t taken her long to realize that she was reading a breakup letter — she paused only once, to count the pages.

She had been grateful only that he had written his tome mostly in English, for a summary of a dissolution in the French language would’ve been unbearable. But still, she unraveled with each word. Blinking through the final paragraph, she had weighed whether she would need to hire a criminal-defense attorney or call NuMeds for a prescription of pills that could induce eternal rest. Ten years of love and sex whittled down to the formal closing of a letter:  Respectfully, Bertrand Piqûre.

After overpacking her vintage Oleg Cassini suitcase for her solo trip — a getaway from herself — she had reread the missive, nearly ripping the delicate paper each time a flashback of ardent kisses struck her brain like a lightning bolt on a solitary person strolling a shoreline, or walking a high wire. Until that spell of vertigo which sent her tumbling back to the safety net of self-preservation, she hadn’t realized that she had fallen victim to a clown prince who took pleasure whisking her off multiple stories above her comfort zone.

À poursuivre / To be continued

© 2013/2015 Chantale Rêve
All Rights Reserved

Photography by Chantale Rêve
All Rights Reserved






















Posted in Destination Erotica, Destination Romance, Erotica, Faith & Fantasy, Fantasy, Femmetaphysics, Interracial Sex, Mystery & Suspense, Mysticism, Travel Fiction with tags , , , , , , , , on April 14, 2015 by Chantale Reve



Le baiseur

It had been a decade since Véronique had visited the capital of “la belle province” — Québec City — with Bertrand. Le baiseur. Her overall memory of their clandestine trip would’ve been guilt-free if his indulgence in excesses both culinary and erotic hadn’t cost her a lucrative position teaching English at L’université de Montréal. She recalled his indifference at her suggestion that they wait until summer, when she would’ve had nearly two months’ vacation, and then his insistence on splurging on a late-winter trip. There was to be more splooge than splurge because he valued sexual proclivities over touristy activities, and over his wench’s honor.

Le Québec en hiver — la saison idéale pour l’amour,” she remembered him stating with a detached air that left her cold as they clasped bare limbs on an endangered-bear rug in front of a fireplace piled high with simulated blazing logs. He had sneaked her into his wealthy wife’s stately home — “La Maison Françoise” — under the cover of night. As the train shifted gears, she reflected on her first physically intimate experience with someone else’s husband.

She still harbored ambiguous feelings about that thrilling night when he cheated on his spouse and she on her self-worth. Their sexual transgression had occurred during the stormy weekend that “the old bat” — how Bertrand often would refer to the woman whom he refused to divorce — drove him insane with her jealousy, then sped off to Toronto to be at her mother’s deathbed. Or to tempt Satan and veer into blurry high beams toward her own demise.

As an expat from a nation that had regressed to legislating whom one could love and mate with, Véronique had struggled with stowaway demons. Navigating new terrain — geographically, linguistically and socially — and having few acquaintances with whom to consort, she found it unavoidable to fall cloque over stilettos for a familiar devil: Bertrand. It was as if Cupid’s poisonous barb had missed its target, striking that section of the brain which governed good judgment.

Her deficit in gray matter notwithstanding, Bertrand may have been callous in manner, but his hands were not. He was so dexterous in his caresses that she forgave the red welts which his chunky wedding band branded upon her stretchmarked breasts as they spread out to fuzzy armpits. As night pressed on, his massive pale paws mussed her curly hair and resculpted her honey-brown flesh with lengthy deep-tissue massages.

Debussy wafted up the spiral staircase from state-of-the-art speakers mounted in the parlor and wound its way into his private lair on the mansion’s second floor. A fanatic about European classical music, he also was a maestro at stringing together the crudest French phrases. Eager to please him, she trilled dusty melodies into his hairy ears, and, when her tender auricle quivered beneath his curling lips, she clung to every filthy word.

Once they had changed rooms and positions, he was plucking her tense strings from the inside until she was vocalizing in a foreign language that she never had studied. Having unlocked her chastity belt, Bertrand was ready to ravish her tiny, pink organ and, in the process, retune her voicebox. At first he handled her body like his curvaceous instrument, producing quavering tones that sped up his lips and tongue, while the antique queen-sized bed’s springs creaked in counterpoint. Then, tempting and tasting his newest mistress under a goldleafed ceiling inspired by those inside a Viennese palace that he and his wife had toured years ago, he felt an indescribable rush.

He already had played her; now he was relishing preying on her. While he pretended to devour her sex, she prayed he wouldn’t get carried away (else she would, in a bodybag). Her ravenous lover emerged from her moisture to glimpse the blood rising to her brown high cheekbones and the whites of her eyes rolling beneath thick black lashes. After wiping her pear jelly from his bushy salt-and-pepper moustache with the back of his hand, he inserted a dewy digit into the oval of lips as fleshy as her engorged labia majora. Staring up at her with the intense, dark irides of Omar Sharif’s “Doctor Zhivago,” he threatened to “fuck you American twat with this fat, transplanted French-Algerian cock.”

Realizing that she was paralyzed in ecstasy, he made his move like a victorious lion. Not long before, they had been lying by the fire and she had been craving his “thick, pearly semen” in a way that much younger mistresses had been too insecure to express. He often was taken aback, but it always stimulated him, that she initiated cock sucking — the first of his extramarital lovers to do so. It was difficult for him to despise her now, with her breaths as shallow as an asthmatic jogger’s and his pinnas reddening deeper at the memory of her raspy wish: “I want your cock to throb inside my hungry mouth.”

He was the one craving now, and he was a wilder animal than she. Sniffing, licking his jowls, he again sought the blood rising just beneath her skin. Crawling, he tried to keep the bulk of his weight off her, and tongued at her tits. After a rubbery, pale-brown nipple had swelled between his thumb and forefinger, he felt his penile girth gain a half-inch. Voracious, he gnawed on the neglected stiff teat, then suckled it until his sweet Roni’s bluesy moans changed dynamics to piercing fado wails.

She was coming ruggedly, her fluids the envy of rapid waters toppling over Montmorency Falls. He didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Like a champion swimmer, he rode the waves of her torso until he was wading about her southern peninsula. His splashing-about briefly sent her out of her mind and into a sparkling, turquoise cove in the French Riviera near an Antibes villa that he often bragged that his in-laws once treasured.

After scuba-diving in and out of thick brown legs that writhed like a mermaid’s fin, he found the chocolate diamond tips of her bare breasts. When he resurfaced within her arms, they bobbed amid curious stingrays beneath a late-afternoon Mediterranean sun. Countless balmy smooches later, they paused for air, smiling from gill to gill in blissful acknowledgment of each other’s arousal.

Disheveled sheets on the creaking bed threatened to suffocate any guilt on her part, especially while he was tonguing her pussy inside out. Cunt on his breath and cum seeping from his nostrils, Bertrand growled up at her: “Je veux plus, cherie. Grrrrr … ”

Gruffly he flipped over his fresh kill and paused for a savage six seconds to admire the twin reddened brown, plump peaks flexing inches from a bulky shaft and searing head that he was massaging to anachronistic piano accompaniment. She gasped and he roared with primal pleasure as he mounted her butt, his strong paws on nubile shoulders that tensed above her glistening arched back.

Despite the excruciating urge to penetrate her anus, he judged the act too extreme for their first time in bed. “Next time, I’ll take the back door to you love,” he boasted before tracing a moistened finger along the wide curve of her rear cleavage. When she pulled back on her knees, he nearly sprained his middle finger. As he groaned in pain, she admonished him for not using his thumb instead.

To teach her a music lesson for forgetting her place, he dared to worm his tongue toward her hidden wink. Blinking in disbelief that he would go there, she soon relaxed the muscle and found herself desiring more vigorous stimulation. She tried to change his mind, wiggling her wet ass upward and against his tufted chest and, in her most beguiling voice, directed him to “ram your rod into my bunghole.”

C’est plus tarde, Roni,” he snapped. Yet it wasn’t too late at all. He wanted the control without the freak — his — though he was starting to have a change of heart. And Petit Bertrand, of hard-on. Though, there was nothing small about his member.

“I’ve never been penetrated back there, lover. How dare you stick your tongue where you refuse to insert your penis,” she cooed. Sloshing his pre-cum up and down his meaty phallus, she begged him for a buggering.

“You going to get it where I want to fuck you,” he said with a firm slap to one buttcheek, then the other.

“Do you desire only to fuck me, or do you love me, too?” she asked him, panting while he ogled the rise and fall of her bodacious Black booty. She would have to wait for his answer, a relationship omen that she would regret a decade later. Reaching behind like an erotic contortionist, she caressed her lover’s dense balls and tangled her fingers in hairs kinkier than the mess of glossy, silver spirals on his head.

Little did Véronique know, Bertrand’s erection was just beginning to expand. He was a one-man farm and had the potential of reaching a yam’s girth and a cucumber’s length, which meant she was in danger of turning into a veggie by dawn. While his seed was the stuff of Beanstalk legend, sprouting into illegitimate issue in seven countries — Canada, France, England, Italy, Spain, Morocco and Algeria — his faux-prince tale was a freakish spin on the significance of Cinderella‘s ripe pumpkin. While Veronique didn’t care for fairytales, she regretted dispelling the stork myth.

“The two parts of your question are not exclusive of each other, Roni,” he replied. “You still don’t comprehend that I cannot imagine fucking you without loving you. I told you this at dinner and at lunch before that. I am a prince who has found his princess. Oh, how much I am in love with you,” he said, backslapping her hide. “Ohhh, verrry niiice, verrry tiiight. Mmmm … ”

“Ouch!” she responded as the heat and pain shot up her spine. “Bertrand, you’re a lecherous cellist, unless the man I met backstage at the symphony concert last week was your reserved twin. Or does that man play the congas, too?” she teased.

“I don’t play, ma cherie. Well, I used to play around … before I met you. Since the age of fourteen, I’ve liked to fuck. A few years later, when most of my friends were tearing around town, and up and down Mont Royal, I was fucking Anne, our middle-aged live-in maid. Mmmm, I can recall she was Une bonne piece of bisque from Paris, only with a hairline crack that lent her the perfect flaw I needed to rationalize my fervent adolescent transgression. But you, mon chouchou, have something rare et exquisite between you legs that make me, how you say in America … insane. Forgive et forget what I say about Anne. Who cares about a dead whore? It is you I love, ma fille. And this man fucking looooove to fuck youuuuu! So,” he said, raising himself over her back, “enough chitchat, ongh. Let’s fuck our way back to the Mother Continent, my love.”

“No!” she pretended to resist while Bertrand nuzzled her neck and pressed a smoldering kiss into one corner of her mouth. “You’re too huge down there! Nooooo, nooooo … ohhhhh … Aaaaahhhhh … Ton ‘chouchou,’ unh, my farmer-prince? Don’t stop at prying open my cabbage leaves; come reap your full harvest. Aaaaahhhh, yes, loverrrrr … I know you dig me. Now irrigate meeeee! … Mmmmm … ”

“First, before I hose you pussy, am I the only farmer, my sweet American earth angel?” he begged to know.

“Yes, and my one and only prince. My low-country cunt opens its borders only for you. Now give it to me, sweet Daddy!” she insisted.

Her married beau gladly met her lusty demand. Gently he rubbed his turgid dick across her slippery, dark taint again and again. Each time his knob teased the periphery of her narrow, pink orifice, her delectable nectar oozed with surrender until the length of his mature shaft was coated in white. Discreet sounds of genital friction revved up their arousal. With a slap to a flexing glute, he ordered her to draw her knees beneath her tits. He gleefully tolerated his mistress’s downward dog lapdance and rewarded her performance by thrusting dick to slit. Just short of experiencing joint pain, he reduced velocity and finally backed completely out of her creamy cavity.

When her breathing pattern slowed down, he hastened to hump her speed bumps. He drove her crazy, slipping in a quarter-inch of crown at a time. Her concurrent fantasy of him — the horny old man — switched gears into overdrive. Yelping, she felt pleasurable contractions upon each teasing penetration. Soon her porn reel was spinning: Bertrand was a rogue policeman riding her tail; she was a repeat offender who needed penile punishment. They convened in traffic court at the junction of simultaneous orgasm, where he morphed into a judge, yelling and banging the gavel while she pled guilty of sodomy in the first degree. His boisterous, almost operatic, baritone ended her taboo-sex fantasy despite the delicious collisions with her obscenely round bumpers.

“Yesssss, Big Papa is here for youuuuu, holding you cloooose. Ohhh, Roni, I waaaaant youuuuu,” he crooned into her flushed ear. He didn’t mind switching to her metaphor, as long as he could get off inside her or on her.

Yanking back a palmful of her sweat-drenched, dark brown spiral curls, he kept on plunging his stiff prick into slick, tight pinkness that he needed to believe was elongating only for him. December slammed away into May, compressing thirty years into fifteen minutes. All two hundred sixty-five pounds and six feet two inches of him — eight inches of that, cock — thrusted North African polyrhythms into her narrow channel by full moonlight.

With dark intentions lurking in his heart, he heaved and groaned upon feeling her pussy’s viscous suckers clutch his spasmodic cock. She shook under his weight like a silicone adult sex doll gone amok. He kept on fucking her while his gonads bounced off the engorged clit he had licked until his jaws were numb. A few aggressive pumps later, veins in his eyes threatened to snap when he popped like a cork from a well shaken Champagne bottle.

While she breathlessly finished beneath his weight, shattered were any doubts she may have had about him since their second rendezvous, at the venerable steakhouse le Restaurant du Vieux-Port. At the darkest corner table that his pal Jean-Michel, the maître d’hôtel, could reserve, Véronique was the big butt of their joke.

She had been reaching for a knife and ended up trying to slice her New York strip with a fork and spoon. When a hand slipped under her little black dress onto her upper thigh, she couldn’t tell if it was her lover’s or Jean-Michel’s. Judging by their wide grins and indiscreet whispers, she learned that Bertrand didn’t mind sharing his slice of Black American pie.

At the time, she clumsily played along, the endless glasses of vin rouge influencing her to hand over her lacy black thong to Bertrand when the palm extended in darkness belonged to Jean-Michel. Long after the buddies’ randy game and the resto’s closing time, she spent a half-hour in the ladies’ room scrubbing her discharge from the skirt of her half-priced designer dress, which had been flipped, grabbed and stretched each time an unidentifiable pair of fingers splashed in and out of her exposed snatch.

After sex that first time, Bertrand, as he always would in years to come, asked her to rate his performance and she answered, as she always would during their affair, that she measured only their passion by her happiness. Although, lying in liquid heat, she had an inkling that the mattress on the bed which he and his wife had shared since years before she had been born was sturdier than their forbidden love.

* * *

Mismatched and lost in lust, the adulterers wound up spending nearly a month in their wintry hideaway, Québec’s capital, while Madame was recuperating from cosmetic surgery and other delicate incisions in Brazil before visiting a nipped-and-tucked cousin nicknamed “Patches” in Monaco. Despite Bertrand’s numerous extramarital liaisons, he harbored a jealous streak against lovers that he invented for each of his wife’s sojourns. In one maniacal moment as Françoise folded into her chic luggage Québécois souvenirs for her carioca friends in Rio and an age-inappropriate swimsuit for la Méditerranée, his dark eyes stalked nuanced shifts in her smile until he couldn’t hold back his suspicions.

One of his irrational thoughts transformed her smile from Mona Lisa subtlety to vampiric grotesqueness: “I bet you and His Serene Highness screw around in Montecarlo and rock the Deo Juvante,” he accused her in French while she bared her teeth, laughing at a hyena’s pitch. After admonishing him for deigning to suggest that she would bed, by land or by sea, the recently widowed, nonagenarian Monégasque prince, she slipped into their ensuite bath to submerge in the Jacuzzi tub. Satisfied that he had exposed his spouse’s royal infidelity, he slid open his walk-in closet to toss pairs of edible panties — vanille, fraise, framboise — into his twenty-eight-inch upright. By morning she would be flying first-class to Brazil like a bird of paradise; he and Véronique, boarding a business-class VIA Rail Canada train to Québec City.

For most of their hedonistic holiday, Bertrand and Véronique were literally undercover. Shacked up in style at l’hôtel Loews Le Concorde in the Upper Town, they replicated myriad positions in the Kama Sutra – and drained housekeeping personnel assigned to their floor. The creased, smudged “Do Not Disturb” sign outside their hotel suite was, like Bertrand, hung and the talk of the Loews and, within time, the town. In fact, the sign was posted with such alarming frequency that les femmes de chambre began rolling dice to select who would have to clean up the couple’s suite — including loads of cum-stained sheets, pubic-hair-laden towels and scattered, ripped condom wrappers — at the end of each week.

Monsieur’s cock may be the stuff of legend, but he certainly leaves a puny tip,” remarked one maid to another as they gossiped and snickered within earshot of the sequestered guests’ ardent lovemaking. And the endurance of the city’s historic ramparts had nothing on Véronique’s walls, for as the other maid said: “Ouais, it is amazing that her pussy does not cave in from her lover’s thrusts. He sounds so intense, like he’s playing jai alai in there.” At the time, the illicit lovers had been staying at the hotel for two weeks.

The lovers’ penthouse suite was exquisite, designed for the king that Monsieur was fated never to be become, no matter how heavy his crown jewels. They filled in any time that remained between fucking and dining by skulking in and out of darkened, snowy squares, scuttling past shivering prostitutes and snickering past calèche drivers who snored sitting upright above their more-exhausted, parked chevaux. Sometimes the pair seemed to step into a Brassaï photograph transplanted in Québec City, smooching and petting on dimly lighted corners at the ends of narrow, icy seventeenth-century streets that were as fragile as peanut brittle.

Véronique thought how sad it was to be spending only one week in a historic locale such as Québec City’s Old Town. She had used the birthday money that her ex-lover had sent her behind his wife’s back — money that, like so many financial gifts of yesteryear, was Madame‘s — in an ornate envelope to pay for lodging at Fairmont Le Château Frontenac. The castle of her dreams was situated on a bluff above le fleuve Saint-Laurent — the mighty St. Lawrence River.

With each passing highway marker at the edge of frozen woodland, she remembered more clearly why she had decided to book a room fit for a princess at Le Château. Bertrand had showered her with so much fantasy yet never delivered the prince that she had believed dwelled deep inside him. His only majesty was at mimicking love. Thus she didn’t get the chance to experience a luxurious romance.

In retrospect, the ways he had been with her were fake. It had taken too many no-shows at posh Montréal restaurants from Vieux-Montréal — the Old Town, which hugged the river port — to the city’s enclave of Westmount. She had endured too many lonely Saturdays and performed far too many blowjobs only to discover — besides her threshold of pain in the right wrist and both jaws — that Bertrand’s boasts of being reared in Passy and of graduating with top honors from Le Rosey in Switzerland were but a fraction of his considerable sham.

Brooding over how royally she had been fucked, she began forking around the remaining, fragrant, succulent chunks of beef short ribs in au jus. Despite the mouth-watering aroma, she could still smell the floral-trimmed envelope’s potent, ancient perfume of, if she guessed correctly, sa vieille épouse. Stabbing at a juicy meat cube, she recalled repeating his bitter motifs about aging — hers — throughout his letter. Besides the finality of his farewell, two statements that hurt her the most were: “Tu n’es pas assez jeune pour moi” and “Je ne t’aime plus.” How she had cringed from his cowardice in informing her so indirectly that she no longer was young enough for him and, worse, that he no longer loved her.

Despite his con job, his theft of ten years out of her life, he couldn’t take away her freedom to share her wealth — in affection if not in value of offshore investments. And she didn’t need to twirl in layers of satin and tulle to get her regal thrill on. Le Château would make a fine substitution for her castle.

À poursuivre / To be continued

© 2013-2015 Chantale Rêve
All Rights Reserved

Photography by Chantale Rêve
All Rights Reserved












































At right: Mathieu agreed to pose for this photo, which shows a youth outreach truck run by the non-profit organization Le Marginal, which aids youths living on the streets of Quebec–not only in Greater Quebec City but all over the province. That makes Mathieu an unsung hero. At nearly 11 p.m., he was nowhere near exhausted.






rue St-Jean, just inside the fortification walls of Port St-Jean in Old Quebec








THE COUNTERFEIT PRINCESSE, Part I (still continued)

Posted in Destination Erotica, Destination Romance, Faith & Fantasy, Fantasy, Femmetaphysics, Mystery & Suspense, Mysticism, Travel Fiction with tags , , , , , on April 14, 2015 by Chantale Reve


Le dessert du moment

The train steward in first class disrupted Véronique’s twilight state when he stopped by to check on her satisfaction with the entrée. Inadvertently nudging her left shoulder with his package, he made small talk but left a big impression — and not only on her mind. Mmmm … How deep can he go? she mused, yawning. With raccoon eyes she shamelessly ogled him while he cleared her tray of used dishes and lipstick-stained napkins, stretching, flexing and breathing in the sandalwood fragrance that she delicately had applied to her temples and the supple side curves of her neck before clasping her bra that morning.

Mademoiselle,” he sang into her flushed ear, “you satisfied, eh?”

“Oh, yes, er …” she faltered.

Je m’appelle Didier,” he said in a sultry way that she never wanted to forget.

He leaned down toward her cleavage to ask, “Voulez-vous du crème brûlée?”

Ouais,” she replied, blushing like the roses Bertrand used to send to Ageless Pages Antique Bookshop the morning after they had argued over a Freudian slip — his (“oh, Françoise!”), as he sunk eight-and-a-half throbbing inches of dick into the muscular vise of reluctant pussy.

Passing on a cup of coffee, she was able to regain her composure. Without caffeine to alter its state, her mind rushed forward to dessert at Le Sam – Le Château’s bistro, named after de Champlain, not Casablanca’s pianist-singer – where she would enjoy the same sweet indulgence. There, she could dress in vintage denim or an antique Chanel suit without any fellow patrons blinking in judgment, and she could glance down at vacationers and locals snowshoeing up and down Dufferin Terrace. If she could be fortunate to be seated riverside, however, she would count ice floes drifting downriver and pretend that she could push out any remaining affection she had for Bertrand.

When her moussed-blond server set down the piping-hot ramekin of crème brûlée on her tray, he smiled at her and said, “Voilà, madame!”  In rhythm to her singsongy “Merci beaucoup, Didier,” he tilted his head left, then right. Then he clapped in amusement as the steam rose and undulated like a seductive genie between his lively lapis lazuli eyes.

Once he reluctantly left her side, she studied the brown and black topping, thinking of the butane torch that had transformed the white granules to a liquid mess destined to grow cold and crust over. I’ve held my own torch for far too long. Ça suffit! she cursed herself. She’d had enough.

Ruminating over how she had opened her heart to Bertrand out of a fear of loneliness, she wondered if she had the patience to endure a lengthy, platonic courtship. While working as a clerk in a bookstore for affluent, anti-aging-pill-popping Boomers on rue St-Denis enabled her to replenish battery supplies, she was less convinced that a daily Kegel regimen would prevent an extension of carpal tunnel syndrome onto her fleshy vulva.

Like much younger lovers before him, Bertrand couldn’t wait to pick at her surface and get to her pudding much in the way she wanted to dig through the glacier in her dish so she could dip into the irresistible hot custard. Now she was fed-up with serving as yet another man’s dessert, especially an extramarital tart.

Her sweetest revenge against the old man would be to fall in love with herself in the place where they got swept away into a grand affair like errant snowflakes in a wind gust. If she encountered their interlocking snow angels, she would clip the wing of his so that hers could transform into a white dove guiding her to a paradise where self-love and -acceptance were prerequisites for a meaningful life with or without recreational sex.

Anger rose up into her smooth, brown face, and she swiped the polished silver spoon from the damask linen napkin to break through the caramelized sugar barrier.  She stared into the desacralized stained glass of her crème brûlée and, through the steam, imagined that she had spied God smiling amid the cracks.

Mmmm, c’est délicieuse,” she said with eyes shut, only to open them and find the cute server winking at her. Thumb to fingertips, she pressed a kiss and flung it his way. And when he made his way to her side, she surrendered to une tasse de café crème.

“Anything for you, chère,” he flirted. It was his turn to serve. More than coffee was at stake. It was a different kind of tennis match, one in which the players scored without love.

After Didier left — her presence and his TruVox number on a ripped page from his order pad — she remarked inwardly: The only thing more delicious than this dessert would be this buff, bi cutie pie feeding it to me in the nude in my Princess Room. Ohhh, Didier, won’t you diddle me. Oh-la-la … I suppose Bistro Le Sam can wait.

And it would. But not for long. Her first plan of action, after what she hoped would be a breezy check-in, would be to stroll the ramparts, which she hoped would protect her from the roaring river below, and then to find rue Sainte-Anne. From there, she would cut through the charming little park where she and her would-be prince first held more than hands since the faux fire at his wife’s mansion, and then ski in her Italian designer boots down to rue Saint-Jean to find, once again, No. 1136: Casse-Crêpe Breton.

At the unassuming café, and on many occasions during their first fling, her former vieux protecteur showed her, the lowbrow American expat, how to enjoy savory crêpes of jambon et Gruyère. He nearly had made her cream her panties — except when he told her not to wear any — describing the salty-sweet treat, from the delicate pancake’s crunch at the beginning to the thick, soppy folds surrounded by copious Grade A maple syrup at the end.

Shaking her head from side to side, she mulled over the dangers of stumbling into memories that hadn’t had a chance to age with the precise measure of bitterness. A vinaigrette of regret pungent enough to sting the nostrils. She vowed to save Casse-Crêpe Breton for the middle of her stay instead of getting her private holiday off to an awkward start by glimpsing giddy ghosts through mirrored walls.

* * *

The train shifted gears as seamlessly as she drifted from delta to theta states of consciousness. Coasting, it curved through snow-flecked wonder. Ribbons of “aaahhhs” waved up and down the rail car as awestruck passengers craned their necks and pointed to the anachronistic scenes beyond their rectangular portals. Captivated, they ignored servers’ requests for more water, citrus juices, wine and coffee. Instead, they erupted in harmonious, multilingual expressions of nature’s beauty and man’s resourcefulness. Digital microcameras clicked and flashed with the frenzy of neo-paparazzi as the riders marveled and aimed at symmetrically aligned logs that evinced the vigorous lives of anti-tech Canadian lumberjacks.

Floating on alpha waves, Véronique tuned into the collective euphoria reverberating up and down the rail car. Dotting the green and white forest were cabanes au sucre— sugar shacks — where, she recalled, Bertrand had promised amid nibbles and echoes of hot springs to fete her “so that you will remember your fortieth birthday.” He had even tried to convince her to leave her inhibitions at home in Le Plateau-Mont Royal so that he could honey his fingers beneath the wooden table while unsuspecting strangers wolfed down their breakfasts of maple-saturated crêpes, sunny-side down eggs and Canadian ham.

Stuck in a pensive mood, she emitted a strange laugh that only her subconscious could hear as she reminisced her and Bertrand’s salacious date three months into the affair. They were limb-locked and bilingually tongue-tied inside a stall at La Grolla, a traditional Swiss restaurant located a little more than a snowball’s throw beyond Porte St-Jean in Québec City. There, the pair’s overindulgence in the kirsch-infused Gruyère fondue led to a brazen pas de deux past another intoxicated couple toward a door marked “Hommes.”

Two door slams later Bertrand was backing Véronique into a stall almost as narrow as a gym locker. “Take me,” she taunted in the soft blue light that continually dimmed as if to warn a theater audience to return to their seats. Once Bertrand had her cornered, he struggled down to his knees, grasping the toilet seat for support. She, inspired by the century-strong Cirque du Soleil and older traditions of French mimes, had peeled her back off cold tile turned steamy, and anchored her left foot against the nearest stall side.

It didn’t take long for Bertrand to tire of her Franglish pillow talk curling his silvery hair, but he desired her unique dessert. Commanding her not to move a muscle — “mais Kegel est cool,” he joked — he began groaning his way off his knees and found his balance amid the flashing light. He shot a lascivious look at his lover, sang her name (“Roni, sweet Roni”) and then produced a stiff table napkin from a back pocket. “No, no,” she protested, hiccuping until the linen fabric silenced her slurred righteousness.

Cursing everything from his age to the imported Italian tile, Bertrand eventually resumed his achy position beneath his mate. Before diving in for his parting meal, he stole one last look in near darkness at her gagged mouth and reflected on how delightful his cock felt stuffed in her pussy. “Moan, scream, my little muted trombone,” he said as her lips quivered beneath tears of drunken lust. With her trembling hands fastened to either side of his large head, he sniffed in her labial funk and slurped on her clit. Primal muffled wails competed with his beastly grunts as their musky scents marked new erotic territory. While his temples pulsed in her palms, his middle finger tended to her nether mouth with nimble choreography that belied arthritis. Whimpers at her threshold of pleasure that escaped saliva-soaked restraints mixed with wet sounds of tongue on vulva and sticky dick in commode. When they reached their climaxes — her rainstorm followed by his trickle followed by her babbling brook — all the sexy commotion was drowned out by syncopated pounding of fists to French-Canadian folk songs on sturdy long tables covered in red-and-white checkered tablecloth.

Afterward, the pair floated down the narrow shoveled path from La Grolla to the street corner, slurring “Bonne nuit!” to lucid pedestrians who pinched their noses or laughed at the couple’s intoxicated state. Arm in arm, they ambled across the wide boulevard, toasted in their afterglow as much as with spirits. Oblivious to the freezing cold, they doffed their heavy coats down the traffic-snarled boulevard and then made snow-bots in the nude near Place D’Youville. Despite intrusive digital cameras from passing tourists and residents, the couple offered extreme angles of sexual intimacy that eventually got published on the digi-scrapbook site EmberMems, where a freckled redhead and former flame of Bertrand’s identified a purplish birthmark between silvery pubes on the man’s left scrotum.

Tels étaient les jours, Véronique, leaning toward the windowpane, contemplated.  Days never to be re-created.

When the locomotive glided past an expanse of frozen corn crops and an abandoned tractor, a kernel of truth thawed in her consciousness: Funny how a woman can share the most intimate of embraces with an emotionally estranged man. Someone slid open the door to the rail car, inviting a blast of cold air, but she was shuddering for a different reason. She shivered with a bitterness in direct contrast to the snow-kissed rows of farmland that rolled by, that resembled endless logs of Bûche de Noël, right down to the generous sprinkling of powdered sugar.

Soon she was surrendering to the train’s lulling rhythms, which had her slipping out of her beta state as easily as she had shed her skimpy lingerie the previous month. It was what only he knew to be their last night together. Mere coincidence it was that their final fuck capped off Halloween night.

Outside her second-floor bedroom window, a huge cobweb — actually a repurposed fishnet — stretched from a maple tree to the first of two wrap-around, forest green, iron escaliers while a huge, plastic black widow spider — also of the artistic landlady’s invention — seemed to dangle in midair. Beyond the arachnid’s reach but storing far more venom, Bertrand snatched away the silk burgundy sheets to paralyze his luscious prey one last time. Instead of fangs, he bared his third leg — one, thick, viscous prick primed to strike.

Earlier that evening, she had been operating under the deceptive illumination of twilight. Reading his dirty mind, she had squeezed into a pair of impossibly white, crotchless panties and then pranced over to her lengthwise mirror to watch herself fandance with an antique abanico that he picked up in Madrid, where he and his wife had celebrated their fortieth wedding anniversary. Before penetrating her as if her cervix were a trampoline for his knobby cockhead, he hadn’t spared her the detail of how he had explained away the magnificent fan of linen and mother of pearl fan to his suspicious wife.

“‘A souvenir for my private music student,’ I assured Madame,” he said to Véronique, massaging her ass. How bitter her lover’s fib tasted as he forced her to clutch the closed fan between RoyaLigned teeth as he furiously pumped her from behind, wheezing upon each re-entry.

Back on board the VIA Rail train, she wondered where the chill had gone because she was fanning her face and neck. Hmmm, that crème brûlée must’ve hit the spot, she thought as her stomach grumbled its disagreement. Or maybe my subconscious was cheating on me with Didier, coursing through his libido like the alluring Rouge River. Giggling to herself, she felt coolness return to her upper body and gradually wind its way down until it extinguished her pelvic pyre.

Eyeing Didier’s genuflections and muscular glutes as he made his rounds — “for you, another Evian,” he whispered on his return as if the tall bottle of water were a dirty secret — she felt a trickle where his testosterone liquefied her lust like a human meteor. “Slurped, not sucked” was how she desired her French “007” to take her. To taste her. While she sat there squirming and sparking from subtle electrocutions, her final night with Bertrand seemed as far away as Antarctica. The once majestic continent used to be inhabited with penguins that no one ever thought would become extinct faster than the polar bears and seals in North America. In Bertrand’s paws, she neared extinction, too.

Daylight was tricking her with its prestidigitation better than any has-been Vegas illusionist’s act. Kinky-curly head leaning against the cold, vibrating window, she blinked like an awestruck spectator at nature’s magic show. Vanished were the generous evergreens fringed with snowy garlands. She found in their stead, barren tracts of land and saw flashes of bearded bark. These trees were unable to liberate themselves from frigid desolation. Stripped of their foliage, they reminded her of Bertrand. Again, her mind glided counterclockwise to their last tango in Montréal.

Hours after they had broken bread — the rustic artisanal kind — in a traditional bistro down on rue St-Paul, they rattled and then leveled the four-poster bed that he had given her on their first anniversary of sin. They had made such a ruckus that her landlady asked the next day if she too had felt the earthquake. As the train rocked to and fro, gaining speed closer to its destination, she reminisced how they had banged uglies through the night, how her shrieks had competed with ambulance sirens that couldn’t save her from what felt like a thousand petites morts.

Embracing maniacally like they each had one more nut to bust before the Apocalypse, they had fed off one another’s sweat, which poured from their steamy foreheads and slid down their pulsating necks to their fused genitals. She had felt so safe cradled in the brawny, hairy arms of a man who was old enough to be her father but young enough to blush inside her dribbling cunt. That her sugardaddy relished stepfather-stepdaughter roleplay was a red flag obscured by the blinding lust that their illicit liaison had forged over ten, temptatious years — if not by the void of love and the blurry perceptions between her and the alcoholic biological father whom she had abandoned in les États-Unis.

Then the morning came, but she couldn’t. Private, overnight Olympics with Bertrand left her numb and without so much as a consolation prize. Despite her urgings, he didn’t try to relight her fire. He seemed different. Like the rock-strewn frosty waters of the St. Lawrence River rolling beneath the oxidized green bridge that the train was traversing, her ex left her incendiary parts cold and damp. She was a matchstick held under a faucet’s running water.

Le vieillard,” she had mocked him whenever he had turned his silver-haired back to her in the aftergloom. No more glowering — she was glowing like the roadside lights that were lining the path toward a well-preserved gem: Québec City. Now she was turning her back on the old man and heading due north. Her lack of religion notwithstanding, she prayed that her vacation and vow of celibacy wouldn’t intersect with some karmic vortex that catapults her anywhere resembling Anaïs Nin’s Delta of Venus.

* * *

Mesdames et messieurs, votre attention, s’il vous plaît!” the conductor announced in a rustic guttural voice, snapping Véronique out of romantic anxiety.  He sounded like a male version of Fanny Ardant, which stirred an urge to clear her throat. “La station suivante est Sainte-Foy,” he continued, informing all of the passengers that their common destination was drawing near.

Just as a locomotive’s wheels eventually roll to a stop, her sugar rush — from a metaphysical serving of du crème brûlée and a daydream of sucking off young maple trees on l’Îsle de Orléans — had waned. Only a caffeinated high and the bitter taste of Bertrand’s aromatic letter remained. “Au revoir, you phony prince,” she muttered under coffee breath as if an apparition of his brawny form had risen from the freshly fallen snow and floated outside her window. “Thank you for breaking the spell, for only in purposeful solitude can I be free.”

Véronique squinted. Gray sky had transformed into blinding white over many miles and now was unveiling the mauve of a northern dusk. To the frigid glass she pressed a hand that had stroked her lover’s cheek and phallus, but no amount of pressure could seduce the sunset into reverse motion. Pink snowflakes as thick as paper cut-outs that she used to craft in grade school somersaulted toward her fingertips, and all she could think about was flicking her tongue at them, and she wondered whether they tasted like cotton candy without red-and-yellow dye. Desiring another sugar rush, she got a sex flush nearly licking the window, which was the reason she was caught off-guard, gasping when an albino pigeon dove out of the pastel snowfall and made brief eye contact before narrowly escaping her looking glass. WTF?! she thought, staring through her fingerprints and flashes of ivory feathers.

Soon she was bouncing as if the steel rails were clouds. Around her a din, made all the more melodious with the successive clinking of wine glasses, was increasing in volume. Among the passengers jostled awake upon the conductor’s jovial disruption and the train’s dramatic swerve toward its terminus were the May-December love-lusters. Véronique, however, couldn’t have been more alert. When the train began coasting as an illuminated Gare du Palais pulled into view, she savored the deep inhale of unencumbered existence. No longer would she be a footnote in someone else’s life; she was anticipating taking brave footsteps in new snow. In one breath, in one unspoken monosyllabic word, she released the slave:  Phew.

À poursuivre / To be continued

© 2013-2015 Chantale Rêve
All Rights Reserved

Photography by Chantale Rêve
All Rights Reserved




















Come Again?

Posted in Senryū with tags , on October 4, 2014 by Chantale Reve


Eyes like curtains close

As I lay frozen, staging

Lucid, lewd encores.



“Come Again”   © 2014 Chantale Rêve   All Rights Reserved

The Bitter-Suite Seduction of A Sole Sista

Posted in Erotica, Femmetaphysics, Free Verse, La Poésie Érotique, Urban Erotica with tags , on October 4, 2014 by Chantale Reve

Pancakes with Butter and Maple Syrup - Free High Resolution Photo


As if a way-past-prime supper hadn’t served up enough awkward silences,

There he was, fixing Sunday breakfast,
Undressing me again out of his peripheral vision,
Greasy biceps flexing with each flip of a hotcake
As brown, round and sizzling as exposed ass

Gyrating dangerously amid my sexual tension.

Seated so close to the fire —
Here, I’m not referring to burners in my kitchenette,
Where hours prior he’d banged me bluish-black against the tiled backsplash —
How I wished that I could repurpose that cast-iron pan into a warrior’s shield
To protect a heart that had surrendered to forbidden passion
While my trembling hand waved a wet, white thong in the presence of his raised staff.

How he’d mimicked a siren’s call and taken me under,
Drowning me in liquid love with submarine tongue,
Excavating abandoned coral reef, treasures his to plunder.
How the pirate in him tortured me at the edge of the plank
As I lay blindfolded, tittering from navel tickles and lashes
While rootbeer eyes blinked against red satin and bronze thighs strained to balance him
Until bizarre spasms transformed his body into a bronco that I ached to ride in delirious darkness.

He crooned at the stove like “King” Cole over an obscene stack of crispy flapjacks —
Bare except for white toque and cotton apron,
Its stripes bulging where he concealed a Maori weapon —
Interjecting Alaga-sweet lyrics with innuendoes about Alabama sausage,
With its dyed-red encasement clinging to the thick link
As ruby lips had fastened to stiffness; palms to the bath sink.
Swooning, I resisted sifting like baking soda in flour
Through steamy clips of the blue flick we’d made
Despite the splicing of my psychic pain with our erotic power.

In Nat’s smooth voice he gesticulated with a stick of butter,
But by then I’d melted into our last carnal memory:
After he’d gone Down South I recalled only sharp slaps, glute claps and his name
(And His name)
Struggling to escape my mouth —
An epileptic stutter —
While new rivers flowed from my delta,
And he refused to stop until I begged him
To remove his third leg.
As he peeled off the rubber, his phallus and eyes glistened;
Baptized waist-deep, I professed joy that I’d listened
To my restless heart.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Interlude:  Siren-Dippity

Sexy_man : Vector illustration of muscle man Vector

Succumbing to a temptation I most feared,

I donned a négligée of recklessness and did my best
To tiptoe in stilettoes toward the stranger in my bed.

From seconds to minutes made a corpse —
Blue-tinged episodes of sleep apnea trapping me —
I sank to sacred depths that lucid dreams had warped.

Gasping beneath waves of consciousness,
Flailing at ghosts of men that blocked the portal,
I ditched the mermaid fins in the wake of my distress.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Frigid Dare”

A frivolous convo over vintage fridge magnets
Digressed into non sequiturs about my icebox’s contents.
We had been nine years estranged —
He the fox to my hare —
And fifty miles away he lay “bare” (he claimed),
Cornering me in my small kitchen.

Damn if I could recall his huge balls.
It took moxie to arrange a dinner date nearly a decade too late.
Could he be so callous as to misremember how he had altered my fate,
Leaving me shivering in front of our West Broadway spot
To watch loving pairs pirouette around my disarray?

An hour into racy dialogue I was stuck in neutral
Like the silver Aston Martin magnet balancing
My Xanax ‘script and an unpaid-rent invoice.
Despite barriers and accusations I had raised,
He insinuated himself into my lonely life
As if remote-controlled, accelerating in reverse.

He may have stumbled upon a floundering premise;
My secret was a flimsy chemise undone like blow curls in the rain.
I lost my new identity in layers of steamy propositions.
His words transmitted erotic linguistics to my imbalanced brain,
Conjuring up our lips pulsing, pressing in foreplay to passionate incisions.



* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“FWB Seeks SBF”

Surviving another harrowing day at the office brothel,
Opening the door to a hallowed space
Stark in appointments as my desire was starved,
I dodged the antique mirror with its gilt border
Rather than confront mild-mannered disorder
Visible through the patina of endurance on my face.

Thus resumed the rituals of a long-term loner
Who doffed the flirtatious mask and costume of an off-scale female hack
Who kids herself that single status will ensure a glossy promotion
When it’s only a sinecure, a fast track
To climbing the pedestal from which to shine bossman’s boner.

As on any other sedentary weeknight,
After a bland dinner scarfed down with prime-time shit,
I powered up my Mac, anxious to discover how many hits
Had registered on my pictorial website,
But intuition intervened, leading me first to my e-mail queue,
Where to my surprise a once intimate connection
Reached into my confused darkness to try boosting my self-worth —
As well as stroke his long-distance erection —
After lurking in murky marshes of antisocial networks.


© 2013 Chantale Rêve
All Rights Reserved

File:Honey dripping from a honey dipper 001.jpg

Bottom Photo by Scott Bauer

First published on Negrotica on May 13, 2013

Brando in the Tuileries

Posted in Erotica, Interracial Sex, La Poésie Érotique, Stranger Sex, Travel Poems with tags , , , , , , on October 4, 2014 by Chantale Reve



Pillow books her beau had recommended

Sprawled like a spiny duvet on her bed.

Engrossed in erotic-travel fantasy,

Bare she lay splayed and glistening

From tawdry phrases that she read.


Visualizing hairy knuckles vanishing

Beneath accordion pleats and loose hems

Of the boozy, bourgie heroine’s skimpy skirt,

She squirmed recalling an Italian World War II pervert. …


Once upon a time near a park on rue de Rivoli

She stumbled in pumps across an exiled count on edge,

Mumbling away in the shadows of le Jardin des Tuileries

About servile Berber women puffing under men of privilege.


Olive oil slick, his thick fingers coiled heatedly

Beneath her crammed canvas fanny pack,

Which like the nylon bra shielding modest B’s

She’d obsessed on clasping securely at the back.


Early-morning breezes wafted through her pliant ’fro,

Sailed her flimsy street map like a kite strung with de la dentelle.

Shady, debonair seduction blurred manicured paths to le métro.

Undulating plane tree leaves whispered faux routes to l’hôtel.


Her billowing blouse invited his trembly caress

Over a deprived pair of chocolat-tipped breasts.

He suckled long and hard before circling her rear,

Where chartreuse chiffon ruffles tickled protuberant secrets.


Fingertips inched past designer stitches on low-rise swells

Of dark denims, poking brown flesh with sensuality and menace.

Their gliding hips grazed like gondolas bumping tellingly in Venice,

Bridging May and December on Parisian grounds of a Medicis royal.


Dragging past tulip beds, swinging and twisting tango legs,

They shattered the invisible hourglass of mortal tension —

If not stepping around their disparate alienation.

In adagio he was schooling a tourist lost in les Tuileries

On expat angst while she surrendered to southerly touches,

Though flinched at his imported garlic-infused blues.


Sensing his wandering palm near her equator,

Diving and rising out of indigo cotton shadows,

She blushed back at marble mythical sculptures

Marveling at their mobile erogenous zone.

Despite his hardness leading her morals astray,

She risked his lust casting her into voluptuous stone.


Aged digits dipping into liquid flipped her switch.

His was an agile mind turned on like currents

Running through the Grand Carré fountain,

Where he soon lifted her off the ground and spun her ’round

Till she teetered, dizzy with peculiar, spine-tingling spasms

That burst into an aurora borealis of psychedelic orgasms.


Releasing gelatinous fluids with uncensored abandon,

She seized as if sanctified by a pantheon of goddesses,

Floating above her deranged stranger into swirling clouds

While out of the fountain’s ornate, tarnished copper spouts,

The Seine cascaded like fairytale silvery tresses

Tossing tiny sailboats in the rusty coin-tiled basin.


Tumbling forward through gilded memory’s minefield,

Ruminating guilt-edged bliss framed by naive courage,

Hurtling in space and time towards love’s heat shield,

She landed like a recycled bookmark on a dog-eared page,

Creased into her cherished lover’s graphic embrace,

Welding white-hot kisses in their wordless space.



“Brando in the Tuileries”   © 2012 Chantale Rêve   All Rights Reserved


First published on Negrotica on May 26, 2012

L’Étoile (excerpts)

Posted in Destination Erotica, Erotica, Femmetaphysics, Kinky Sex, Public Sex, Straight-up Romance with tags , , , on September 6, 2014 by Chantale Reve

 Arc Triomphe.jpg


Three-fifteen.  Josie’s heart is pulsating so erratically that each puddle she stamps is quaking with the threat of tsunami.  Raindrops strike her triple-pierced earlobes like fingertips on piano keys in the intro to Aretha Franklin’s “Daydreaming” looped into infinity. Split-screen images of him wash over her two-track mind as she ponders his Houdiniesque disappearance and aches for his Rodin-inspired kiss.

In an hour she will count down the minutes to the moment that her passion will surge.  Like a New York Marathon champion from Kenya once again chasing the gold medal, she will feel the velocity in her pulse as she races to the finish line, too impassioned to sense the chill in the air.  Breathless, with only him on her mind, knowing that without him she cannot survive another day, she will extend her arms in victory — a winner at love — marking a new beginning for their fissured valentine.  Love might conquer time, after all.  Or, sprinting toward loverman’s extended arms, she might dash past reason only to get injured again.

One more hour of these arrhythmias and I’ll need a pacemaker or a coffin, she contemplates through the torrent as she walks down l’Avenue des Champs-Êlysées.

Sixty minutes and it will be l’heure de pointe.  Rush-hour.  Her head will be spinning faster than the impatient Citroëns and taxis whirling around the road-carved star.  L’Étoile.  There, above the rumbling of a métro, a passion as monumental as l’Arc de Triomphe will ignite the City of Light.

“Meet me at l’Étoile” was his urgent command earlier that day.  And, “Je veux t’embrasser.”  Her lips puckered.  Josie hardly could wait to kiss him right back. Cupping her free ear, she tried in vain to block out the din that reverberated throughout Voulez-vous Café, a popular hookup joint that incidentally served coffee, other beverages, sandwiches such as le croquet-monsieur and la croquet-madame, personal-size pizzas topped with pepperoni (and followed by indigestion), as well as pastries and – when les flics had their backs turned – de l’herbe.  The cramped cybercafé teetered on the corner of a crumbling Marais street no wider than a baguette.  Damn, she pondered, why didn’t I go with my first choice, around the corner: Frères Camembert Salon de Thé?  Not only is it tranquil there, but I would’ve had my choice of fifty teas without the secondhand high.

For now her memory teased her. And she couldn’t blame it on the pot, or “le shit,” as she repeatedly heard hooky-playing teens referring to the substance when she squeezed her American-sized physique into Voulez-vous’ narrow entranceway. No matter how she tried to fake composure, jangling nerves betrayed her. Adding to her instability were curvaceous Gallic voices undulating around her like a microscopic harem stoking little fires in hidden, swelling places. Eyes twitching and itchy fingers bouncing like jumping jacks off the sturdy wooden table, she worried that she had lost too much weight, that her boyfriend would not have enough to hold onto.


*  *  *



Oui, at 17:00. À tout à l’heure,” she remembers replying to Bene back at Voulez-vous Café. There, after satisfying her addictions – draining four cups of java and devouring the third addictive pear tart – while finishing the latest novel by Zane, over five hours of invisibility to a stream of seemingly available males of various stripes, Josie thanked the capricious love gods that she didn’t have to participate in the game anymore.  She also felt fortunate to have a man of substance rather than a substance-abuser. Despite an empty chair facing her, she delighted in the fact that she was four hours away from reuniting with her lover, who in their last series of correspondences – by e-mail, webcam and telephone – promised that he vowed to be faithful again.

At the precise moment that an image of Bene’s crescent eyes began animating her jet-lagged bod, her smile attracted a college-age Algerian fella with funky bed hair and a five o’clock shadow to match. Situated less than four feet from her table, he had just flung his alpaca sweater and trendy winter scarf over an adjacent chair, where his down vest was resting, and rolled up his sleeves before half-ignoring his self-absorbed buddy.  Faster than sugar lumps in un café noir, Josie’s confidence began dissolving under romeo’s intense stare and unspoken innuendo.

Shit, he’s as fine as fuck!  Got that Doctor Zhivago-era Omar Sharif thing goin’ on, too, she mused, not caring during her burgeoning arousal to make the distinction between Algeria and Egypt.  Two countries, same continent, really, she reasoned minutes later as her eyes finally disengaged from his and then roamed beneath his regal beard, pried open – with the complicity of his right thumb and index finger – the first three buttons of his sandy-brown cotton shirt, and spied on the moist thickets reaching for her bold caress.  The flirtatious bearded stranger completely had abandoned his friend’s convo.  Instead, his eyes were reading his target’s supple lips, which were pursed as if she were preparing to give his chest hair a gentle blow-dry. Such an abundance of dark body fur – from his jaws and broad chest to his natural-tan forearms – was beyond her erotic radar because Bene didn’t possess much hair other than his locks.

When Monsieur algérien winked at Josie, she involuntarily blinked back at him. His spell on her broken, she grabbed a napkin to dab at the corner of her eye as if a lash had loosened.  If he leaps over here like a lion to blow on my eyeball, I swear I’ll jump his bones so vigorously that every cup and saucer within proximity will be shattered, she fantasized, admitting, but not his pride … I bet.  Although her lover was a safe distance from the café, she felt guilty – and not about getting shards of china up her bum. Damn, she reflected, lifting her heavy coffee cup, I shouldn’t be fantasizing about this college dude. She was cheating emotionally, if not delusionally, on one African prince with another.  Mmmm … my nips could get lost in his forest, though.  She was becoming hornier thinking about his brawny loins.  And all before two o’clock.

Yes, she had arrived in Paris. It simply hadn’t occurred to her, before the unspoken encounter which had just transpired, that she was possessed by Colette’s ghost.  Leaving behind her oyster-hued crocheted cloque, Josie dashed out of the weed cloud at Voulez-vous Café and into the frigid drizzle.  Having been seduced and reciprocated, she prayed for a baptism.  After all, physically she had been faithful to Bene and didn’t want to sabotage their long-awaited reunion of anointed kisses and double-jointed bliss.



*  *  *


Mmmm … Des fraises ou tu?” Bene charmed her in the salon. “I don’t know what to eat first, ma chérie,” he said, grinning and pointing a long, dark digit down at her dripping pussy as he cut a dirty-dance figure on his approach.

Mesmerized, if not hypnotized, by the obsidian twin pendulums between his sculptured thighs, she salivated while drinking in his chiseled sight. “Let me do you first, baby,” she said, giving him her Princely best.  “Pulleeeze!”

But with Marvin in his ears and seeping from his pores, he took the upper hand, even if it was daddy-long-stroking his dick in that moment.  “I want to take you over zere,” he cajoled. Feeling the sting of his girlfriend’s glare, he switched to a tender tone:  “Viens ici, Josie.”

Oui, oui, mon amour,” she complied, taking his warm hand as he led her trembling body back to the large, burgundy shag rug in the shape of Mamma Africa.

Bene’s smile reached his eyes, which trailed his lover’s serpentine descent. He walked a short distance to fetch the cold tray of fruit, then dropped down to his knees to join her. Balancing the tray, he displayed a waiter’s poise, something on which she commented until he swerved a remark her way: “Oh non, mademoiselle. I plan to service you in a manner that shall satiate all hunger and all thirst.”

Once he lay parallel to his Black Venus, with only the fancy tray of berries heaped upon crushed ice between their scorching nude bodies, Josie sucked her swollen bottom lip in anticipation. In her restless, horny mind, her thick tongue mirrored her engorged clit’s glans. Scribbling over her erotic imagining, she wagged a forefinger to the cyan, reptilian fertility goddess that she had conjured up, warning: Gurrrl, this’d better not be a fuckin’ mirage.


*  *  *



Bene was teasing the tip of her nose, a cheek and her eager lips with a plump berry. Every now and then he paused his narrative to lick the tart red juice off her tongue, from the corners of her mouth, and out of deep labial crevices until moans grew to shouts that were anything but pious. Midsong, he tossed aside his cherished family photos to focus on the exquisite pleasure in which he and Josie were submerged like awestruck scuba divers. Not only love-lust but wetness was all around: the suggestion of oceanside lust in the up-tempo song, melting ice – pink like her favorite bubbly – in the dainty Limoges tray, and viscous strawberry nectar that blended with her own from her navel to her feet and up her calves and thighs to her beach ball buttocks. Will Downing’s ecstatic baritone, the liberating percussions, effervescent guitar chords, Bene’s suckling and licking (hers, too, when the six became nine), and all the splashing fruit juices were almost too much for her ears to bear. Where aural sex and oral sex converged, Bene was a server like no other.


*  *  *


When the blue-striped silver locomotive emerged from a tunnel that was carved into a craggy mountain, it took a curve before building to speeds of one hundred seventy-five to two hundred miles per hour.  It seemed, to the young exhibitionists, to fly above sleepy villages of pastel houses and sprawling vineyards. Bene and Josie were always down for a supersonic adventure, so she clung to his strong thighs while propping herself on sturdy knees until her buttocks were hugging her heels.  Such a position was a prerequisite for public cock sucking in the manner that her boyfriend preferred.


Clearing her throat so she could swallow without gagging was the sound effect that had him choking his meat inches from her face. “Oh yeh – c’est ça. Oh, fuuuuuk,” Bene tried to whisper, but his burning passion could not be silenced.  “I’m, I’m, ahhhh … I’m going to spray you weet ma love.”

Blistering with desire, Josie felt her pussy leaking juice onto the railcar’s vibrating floor like the drip-drip-drip of gasoline from a high-mileaged car. If any of the passengers had breached the non-smoking policy and allowed a cigarette to roll into her pooling fluids, the entire passenger car would have been set ablaze.

She moaned on his generous frenulum.  “Mmmmm … mmmmm … ”

Experiencing one delicious tremor after another, Bene inhaled deeply, looked down at her bobbing head of locks and asked her, “Didn’t I say to lick ma nuts, woman?”  She knew it wasn’t a question, but a command.

Drool escaped from her mouth as she tried to smile her acknowledgment.  They both knew how much she loved slobbing his knob, but she had to take a six-second break to remark: “You are such a tease.” Then, once her jaws were realigned, she continued pleasing Big Bene.

“Yehhhh, c’est çaaaa,” Bene said, his voice riding pleasure waves.  Mais, pas d’autres questions, petite amie.” Switching pelvic gears, he began drilling his girlfriend’s steamy mouth with dick.  Halfway out his pants, he was feeding her need with head.  While one hand fondled her chunky nipples, the other rubbed his pulsating, purplish-black head on her wagging, hot-pink tongue.  Hearing her uneven moans singe the edges of his dreadlocks like flames searing moist banana leaves drove him to prod his sex against her gums and along the lining of her cheeks.

Determined to cleanse his scrotum of perspiration, she reached out to give his boys a gentle squeeze. Then she lunged forward to circle the tip of her warm tongue over the cool coils.

Behind the busy duo, the lubricious stranger was ruddy-faced and close to foaming at the mouth. Sprawled over two semen-stained seats, he was straining for a second set of eruptions. To her surprise he asked, wheezing, “Young lady, won’t you give yerr bon-papa an ‘and?”

Putain!  If you don’t shut the ’ell up!” Bene addressed the older man in an attempt to thwart any obstacles to his own climax, especially the voice and smell of a spasming man.

“Don’t get upset, bébé,” Josie cooed, caressing her lover’s balls while the old bull behind them profusely apologized.

J’en ai assez de lui,” he returned.  She agreed with him, having had enough of le voyeur, too.

Mon amant fougueux, lève-tu ici,” he ordered her, pointing to his succulent lips.  She obeyed, inching her way up until their quarter wedges made a whole and, on her ascent, trailing cum along his legs and thighs.

When his nether zone began to tingle in the absence of her tongue, he commanded her to “reviens à ce que tu faisais.”  She did not need him to repeat it; she slithered back down on all fours to the sticky floor like a traveling courtesan.

As the sleek train raced toward la Côte d’Azur, Josie flexed her French-tipped fingers and toes as she enjoyed pleasing her man. Pausing only to sweep back her locks, she bathed her boyfriend’s dangling sac while his dark brown rump rocked to and fro in the cushy seat.  Contemplating how he next might do her, if he could resist dozing off under the spell of a speeding train, revved up her libido.  There would be plenty of time for reflection as they strolled pebbly beaches of la Méditerranée beaches, recited each other poetry in courtyard gardens and smooched beneath swaying palm trees. However, balancing love and lust in the present, and zooming on wheels through space and time, she wanted immediate action.



© 2012-2014 Chantale Rêve

All Rights Reserved



Above are several excerpts from my short story “L’Étoile,” copies of which are available for purchase on  A generous sample of the story is free for you to read.  Thank you for continuing to read, and support, my art.


Photo (l’Arc de Triomphe at Place Charles de Gaulle, with la Tour Eiffel in the distance)

Giving L.B. His Props

Posted in BDSM, Erotica, Kinky Sex with tags on September 1, 2014 by Chantale Reve

Silence my desires.

Despite sweet strokes, nothing tops

Stiff nips whipped with crops.

© 2014 Chantale Rêve

All Rights Reserved


Posted in Erotica, La Poésie Érotique on August 29, 2014 by Chantale Reve

Don’t take for granted the title of cleonette’s prose-poem — or throes poem, as was my experience reading the verse between crunching on ice cubes and patting a cool washcloth on heated parts. However, do allow her word-images to take your breath away. Accompanied by one of the most erotic b&w photographic images on which mine eyes have locked since Spike Lee’s montages in his 1986 joint, She’s Gotta Have It, poet cleonette lays bare the kinky choreography and primal reciprocity of “doin’-it-an’-doin’-it-an’-doin’-it well” when (at least) two people have bonded in truth and trust. Here’s “Raw” by cleonette.



Tongues caressing each other, laughing when our teeth click together. Feeling a finger stirring my wetness as you cover my nipple with your mouth. Back arching. Moaning. Fingers digging into your shoulder and back. Twisting fingers in your hair, pulling you towards my face for more kisses. Caressing my cheek and I smell my pussy on your fingers. Covering your body with mine. Nipples grazing your chest every other second because I am already breathless and anticipating you dividing my thighs with your body. Feeling a small pearl of liquid bead at the lips of my pussy and drip to the left. Bending down and sliding my lips across your thickness. Tasting the salty drips on my tongue. Wetting your length with my saliva and hearing you moan as I inhale you. Stopping before you release in my mouth and pulling you on top of me. Parting your lips with…

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Points of Interest

Posted in Erotica, Senryū with tags , , on May 4, 2014 by Chantale Reve




Anchored way down south,

He sends waves into whirlpools;

Plunges tongue in mouth.





© 2014 Chantale Rêve

All Rights Reserved

Mistuh Dew Right Bayou

Posted in Erotica, Senryū with tags , , on May 4, 2014 by Chantale Reve



Changing her surname

Was his line to flood her eyes;

Melt cellulite thighs.







© 2014 Chantale Rêve

All Rights Reserved

The Lotus Position

Posted in Senryū with tags , on May 3, 2014 by Chantale Reve




When I told him we were through,

My boo took the chairs, too!





© 2014 Chantale Rêve

All Rights Reserved

Just Us, Skyping

Posted in Senryū with tags , , , on May 3, 2014 by Chantale Reve



I don’t mind bedhead,

But it’d behoove you to remove

The setting for two.

© 2014 Chantale Rêve

All Rights Reserved

Leaving Hokkaido

Posted in Multicultural Romance, Senryū with tags , , , on March 8, 2014 by Chantale Reve


Goodbye, Samurai.

Wounded love cannot withstand

Our Sea of Japan.






© 2014 Chantale Rêve

All Rights Reserved




After Paella, La Siesta

Posted in Destination Romance, Senryū with tags , , , , , , on January 13, 2014 by Chantale Reve

Saffron memories

Steep in his blue seaside dreams,
Where her eyes gleam green.



© 2014 Chantale Rêve

All Rights Reserved

Hai, Hai

Posted in Erotica, Interracial Sex, Senryū with tags , , , , , on August 21, 2013 by Chantale Reve

Trapped in his caress,

I struggle against his thrusts

While flushed lips ooze “yes.”



© 2013 Chantale Rêve

All Rights Reserved




Touch … Go … Kyoto

Posted in Erotica, Interracial Sex, Senryū, Travel Poems with tags , , , on August 21, 2013 by Chantale Reve

Steely eyes aflame,

He charges me, changing speeds

Like a bullet train.





© 2013 Chantale Rêve

All Rights Reserved


Jealous Serpent Awakes

Posted in Erotica, Senryū with tags , , , on August 21, 2013 by Chantale Reve

Our limbs locked like boughs,

We soul-kiss in tantric bliss;

Sap seeping below.

© 2013 Chantale Rêve

All Rights Reserved

beautiful pattern background 06 vector

Ode to Edo

Posted in Erotica, La Poésie Érotique, Senryū, Surreal Erotica with tags , , , , , , on August 20, 2013 by Chantale Reve

In saké-spiked dreams

She slinks out of woodcut lust,

Inked and silky-soft.

© 2013 Chantale Rêve

All Rights Reserved

Photo:  erotic print by Edo-born artist Katsushika Hokusai, “The Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife”

Photo Source:

Harajuku Eyes

Posted in Interracial Sex, Kinky Couplings, Multicultural Romance, Public Sex, Senryū, Travel Poems, Urban Erotica with tags , , , , , , , on August 20, 2013 by Chantale Reve



Neon Tokyo rain

Blurs footage of their blind date — 

Wave/kiss, sip/fellate.

© 2013 Chantale Rêve

All Rights Reserved 

File:Tokyo nightview.jpg

Photographer:  Colin McMillen


Posted in Multicultural Romance, New York Stories, NuYorican Erotica, Straight-up Romance, Urban Erotica with tags , , , , on August 17, 2013 by Chantale Reve


Glancing at her Movado knockoff watch somewhere near Times Square, the woman sighed.  Then she hissed so hard within her throat, she nearly choked on her tongue.  The watch’s second hand seemed like it was moving two ticks forward and four ticks back.  “Movado my ass!  This crap reads Morado. ”  She was glad the commuters and tourists were breezing past.  No one could hear her.  In New York City, no one cared anyway.  “Lax” is how she referred to her fellow New Yawkuhs, meaning ex-lax® because, in Manhattan anyway, everyone walked like they had overdosed on the deceptive chocolate rectangles. Everyone was in a rush.  She wasn’t, however.  At least she didn’t want to rush to judgment that he — the man whom she was heading to meet — was still enamorado.

Her attention returned to her wrist, and she flicked a braid out of her line of sight so fast that it appeared to cut the little breeze that flowed.  “Moron, that’s what my gullible Gullah-descended ass is.  Somethin’ told me I shoulda known that tall, fine African brotha itchin’ to holla at me in half-French, half-Wolof, in front of Century 21 had me blinded on a cloudy day.  Damn!”  OK, now I look as if I’m chattering to myself like a madwoman … well, a foxy one anyway, she thought, trying to calm her nerves.  Like the last time, she was fifteen minutes late.

In mid-flight from the elevator to the lobby of the Apex Building, where she was a legal assistant for the law firm of Greed, Avarice & Corruption LLP, modesty briefly had been hijacked by vanity in one act:  her punching the buttons to all of the floors in order to increase the time to apply fresh coats of velvet-black mascara and midnight-blue eyeliner.  By the time the rickety car had screeched to a jolt and the “L” had glowed in green on the golden panel, modesty had won the contest in the woman’s decision to go incognita behind Lennonesque black shades.

Panic set in again.  As lunchgoers whizzed past her, she imagined the man standing on the corner in front of Big Apple Bank — a rendezvous of his choosing — tapping his loafer-clad left foot while pretending to read The Gotham City Times.  The thought occurred to her that the lenses in her sunglasses were not tinted darkly enough, for the obnoxious clique of bovine paralegals would spot her en route to their daily grazing and then add to the usual fertilizer back at the farm — the firm, that is.  Hearing no mooing within earshot set her mind at ease, but only for a moment.

The woman wondered how the man’s physical appearance might have changed over the past ten months, asking herself if perhaps he was sporting a beard lately.  Or, if he could have lost the twenty pounds about which he had complained the previous year.  Her mind savored the latter image to the extent that she dallied in the erotic landscape of a forty-five-second fantasy centered around his salient bulge in acid-washed denim.

A bike messenger’s shrill whistle disengaged her from such a daydream, during which she missed two “Walk” signals while standing on the street corner’s edge.  She could kick herself for behaving like a schoolgirl, but she had not seen the man since November.  After playing telephone tag and other games since then, she felt more than a pregnant pause in their unfinished dialogue about the forbidden passion that was causing an incendiary interlude in their platonic relationship.

Built in 1931, The Empire State Building in Ne...

Built in 1931, The Empire State Building in New York City is one of the oldest, yet tallest skyscrapers. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The Empire State Building on the island of Manhattan shone in the late-September sun like a gigantic compass in the distance.  Heading east, with the sun baking the part down the middle of her box-braided head, the woman stumbled upon a lunchtime exhibition of young girls dancing their sprightly rendition of Riverdance in the shadow of the New York Public Library.  She kept turning her head obsessively to watch the display, as if her eyes were unable to resist drinking in a scene that resembled one from her joyful childhood.  Just one more glance, she thought whimsically, slowing down before starting again at a brisk pace.

Two yards ahead, the man stood in the center of the pavement.  His smile welcomed her, thawed her.  “Hey, Cora!” he called out.  He had been watching her the entire time.  In fact, if he had not uttered her name, she would have rushed past him.

When they were face to face, his mouth was the first to greet “hello.”  His sensuous lips spread apart into the toothy smile of someone who could barely conceal a terrific secret.

“Hi, Luis,” Cora returned in an almost matter-of-fact manner.  As he was four inches taller than she, a statistic he cited when they first met — after a competitive softball game between her law firm and his advertising agency, The Harrigan Agency, two summers prior — she had to strain her neck to plant an innocent kiss on his tanned face.

By their first date — a Spirit of New York dinner cruise from Chelsea Piers through New York Harbor that September — Coretta Piaget Richmond and Luis DeJesus were too much in lust to care about either’s height.  She was wearing her fuck-me heels that night, and he was feeling the elements (though most of them manmade) when the deejay scratched in some Earth, Wind & Fire.  On “September” she was doing her best Beyoncé rump rolls until several raunchy male co-workers who seemed more inebriated than her date began shouting, “Go, Cora! Get it, Cora!” and then changed EW&F’s lyrics on the chorus:  “We say ‘badonkadonk.’  That’s what we remember.  ‘Badonkadonk’ when we hit it in September … ”  That’s when Luis, summoning Zeus, transformed his tenor into a divine baritone and channeled Maurice White while nearly spinning Cora’s blazing-rose-tatted breasts out of her strapless little black dress.  Dancing on endorphin clouds, with Luis flying a little higher on Grey Goose, they appeared to be grooving with horny angels of a different kind while the hammered GAC paralegals sang “Great Balls of Fire” a cappella like Duwende.

“Mmmmm … lookatchu, girl!  How long it’s been?” Luis remarked, his eyes as intense as Laz Alonso‘s in any role but the wack one in Issues.  With the quick reflex of a batter ducking out of the path of a supersonic fastball, Luis dodged her wine-tinted lips, stepping backward and to his left.  She reacted by twisting her mouth into a scowled response, then smacked his arm.

“Guess you forgot who won that softball game for Team Harrigan, hunh?” he said, chuckling in the shadow of her hooded eyes. ”I know how to get my smile back, sexy.  Here you go,” he offered, switching the subject by whipping out a slender white box wrapped in a  royal-blue ribbon from a side pocket in his trench.

A gift for me, but it’s not my birthday, she pondered.  “Thank you.  OK, bye,” Cora said, becoming painfully self-conscious from his intense stare, this time like Mekhi Phifer’s, into her dark brown eyes.  If she had worn heels, she would have gladly pivoted on them to escape his endearing presence.  But Luis Laz Mekhi had other plans.

“Have you eaten?” he inquired.

“No.”  She was abrupt but not out of rudeness.  Emotional paralysis rendered her immobile.  His penetrating eyes were hypnotizing her and making her think of naughty deeds in secret Times Square alleys.

“Do you have time for something quick around T-Square?” he implored.

“Not much — oh, it’ll have to be q-q-quick,” she stammered.

“Same here.  OK, instead of heading to Disney World — “  He was interrupted.

“Dizzy, I mean Disney?” she inquired.

“Forty-Second and Broadway?” he reminded her.  ”Never mind that one.  First let’s hop a downtown ’N’ train on Forty-Ninth and Seventh to pick up some ginkgo biloba herbal tea for you, then shoot back to midtown to grab some grub at that diner.”

“Which diner, Luis?” she asked nervously, rebraiding a few loose ends with the deftness of a macramé craftswoman as a fiftysomething male driver of a Chevy pickup truck sang lyrics to a favorite eighties song of hers:  “You, you.  You got me hangin’ on a string now.”

“Babe, you know, the one where we met last fall,” he suggested.  “Or should I say where we re-enacted the Fall.  What was its name? … Intermezzo … nah … Intercourse Diner … nah, nah …  Intermission Diner.  Yeah, that’s it.  Hah-hah-hah!”

“OK,” she agreed hesitatingly due to dry mouth and, suddenly, dry vajayjay.

With a wave of his hand, Luis motioned for Cora to cross the street at his side, in heavy traffic.  She was afraid to reveal that getting hit by an automobile was her worst recurring nightmare.  Gathering that she would not budge, he said, “C’mere,” in his typical New York City lingo.  His beckoning index finger rendered his mood playful rather than cautionary.

Gingerly walking on the sidewalk’s steel grating, she chided, “So this is how you plan on ending the friendship, hunh?”  He laughed, then pulled her in close to his side.  All she could think was:  If only he would just kiss me.

“Why don’t you open the gift?” Luis asked.

“What?  Right here in the street?” Cora returned.

He waited patiently while she removed the satiny blue ribbon from the box and cautiously opened it.  He smiled that wide, toothy grin again as her eyes stretched open.  “Ohhh, it’s a friendship bracelet!” she exclaimed, attracting several stares from passersby.

“And check out the engraving on the back,” he said as if he were reading her mind.

Cora’s hands trembled as she smoothed her ring finger over the Art Deco sterling silver bracelet.  She carefully turned over the jewelry to read the engraving aloud: “For Katrina, All My Love.”  All my love?! she repeated inwardly, as if the engraver had had a sick sense of humor.

“You bastard!  Who the hell is Ka-tri-na!” she yelled.  So enthralled had she been to receive his gift that she had not noticed a wedding band on his finger.

“C-C-Cora, I-I-I made a mistake,” he attempted to explain. “Katrina must’ve been on my mind when I placed the order.”

“How could you, Luis?” she asked between sobs.

“Listen,” he said, pulling her gently toward him and inadvertently tripping a Superman lookalike as he ambled across their path as if to find room to launch from the sidewalk to the gleaming crown of the Chrysler Building.  “She and I’ve been divorced for eight years now.  Try to understand; she was my first love.  This ring – I was feeling sentimental last night – look, we can’t give up on us. Let’s not forget the passion the last – “

“Forget?!” she yelled.  “I friggin’ barely remember you — Mister-I’ll-call-you-tomorrow-night!  What happened?  Is it the thirteenth of November and you and I have just traveled back in time?”

“All I can say is how sad that you barely recall me while I clearly remember you bare … and saying, ‘OK, I’ll see you whenever.  So I called you this morning because today we can begin forever,” he promised.

“Whatever,” she murmured.

“What’s that?” he reprimanded.

“Just this,” Cora said, then curled her unkissed lips and hurled the box into the street, where it and the bracelet met their fate beneath the front wheel of a medallion taxi.  She snarled in Luis’ direction but could only drop her head in defeat to his ex-wife’s indelible presence.

Luis had not attempted to retrieve the gift.  His squinting eyes followed the arc of its route from Cora’s hand to the pothole-scarred street.  When he turned toward her to lift her chin and apologize again, she slapped him.  Her hand, which left a red imprint on his face, stung while his ironic infidelity seared her flesh and emblazoned upon her mind.  If he was initially stunned, she was doubly humiliated.

Little did Cora realize that when she hit Luis, he became fully aware of his existence.  Like a newborn, he was breathing air for the first time.  In one act of creation, he was made into her man, sort of like the Book of Genesis re-envisioned on a Manhattan sidewalk.

Luis enjoyed a brief fantasy of Cora buoyantly issuing him a ticket for the transgression.  Speeding in the fast lane of a friendship was a bond that only a year earlier he had banished to exile in the land of platonic love.  The hell with a ticket, he thought.  I’d say my traffic violation is punishable by eighty lashes.  Studying her face, he paused at her glare and imagined double rows of twenty faux eyelashes morphing into tiny, black whips.  After all, Cora was the true mistress of his heat — if not his heart — and he really wanted to obey her.  Channeling Babyface, he ached to sing, “Whip it on meh. Whoo-oo!”  Instead, he reached back several years farther, to The Deele, executing Face’s smooth spin and his fragile falsetto on the chorus: “I only think of you on two occasions. That’s day. And ni-i-ight.”

Cora laughed, which furthered lightened his mood.  Yeah, if only she could know I have “gone for broke,” he sang, trying to reclaim her sweet lil pussy while attempting to win back my wife. Then he remembered that married life hadn’t panned out so well for Face either.  Pussy it shall be.  Yes indeedy.

Cora’s face was still flushed from her brief act of violence, no matter how justified.  On the verge of sniffling, she apologized to Luis.

“Baby, please don’t cry.  I accept your apology,” he said with smiling eyes.

“I’m not crying; it’s allergies,” she fibbed.

“Cool.  Shall we eat now?” he asked as if nothing had transpired.

“Sure, c’mon,” she said.

Cora had never felt so turned on before — not even during foreplay.  But, this could be foreplay, she mused.

“Now that’s the girl I used to know,” Luis said, snaking his arm around her thick waist.

Mmmm, I think this is foreplay, Cora heard the goddess inside of her purr.  She felt her claws retract and a confident smile return to her face.  When she glanced up at her man, she made a mental note of how his handsome face was framed by the midday sun.  She couldn’t see his black rhinestone pupils but sensed the heat rising in her face.  An orange glow from his radiant gaze.  Around them everyone was rushing as if they really cared to where or to whom they were headed, but she reflected:  Right here with him, yeah.  I’m good.

Without missing a heartbeat, Luis leaned down to her like some divine entity and kissed eternal life into her.  As he held her shoulders, her A-line coat, which was a Mediterranean olive-green, seemed to melt away.  Wobbling within his embrace like a stilt walker on the verge of collapse, she trembled for what seemed like forever. Power had shifted to his hands and his lips, and she was surrendering — an inevitability assured by more than a year of celibacy-by-circumstance.  Just then, a car drove past blasting a throwback by Stevie Wonder:  “Superwoman (Where Were You When I Needed You).”  Yesssss, God’s a woman, she rejoiced inwardly as she welcomed a blossoming orgasm of fuschia and violet that clouded any remaining particles of reason among oxytocin receptors.

* * * * *

Standing directly behind Cora, Luis inhaled the coconut essence from his lover’s auburn-frosted braids.  Dripping wet, she pretended to peruse the Intermission Diner’s distressed, laminated menu with interest, its edges taped to a large, weathered window facing West Forty-Third Street.  What she craved lay beneath his fleshy nose.  Fuck this soup ‘n sammich deal, she thought.  Licking her lips while he sniffed among her braids, she desired the soft double swelling that for the moment trembled dangerously close to her slender neck.  Instinctively, the fine hairs at the top of her back and along her arms bristled in a prehistoric response to approaching danger.  Shaking in an embrace reflected in the window, she no longer could see the menu. As his hardness seemed to appear out of nowhere, her inner pear began contracting again and allowed a natural gel to seep onto her stockinged thighs.

Suddenly her nervous smile disappeared into his mouth. Through the dingy pane she watched his curly ‘fro circle closely under her nose; felt his tongue snake toward her tonsils.  Once again she tried to focus on the diner’s offerings, knowing full well that she wished his generous meat was on the menu.  When his lips returned to his favorite place, she regained her normal breathing pattern but not her composure. Invisible swirls of his impassioned breath inadvertently misted the finer hairs on the nape of her neck in the narrow path where her braids separated and dangled past the collar of her swing coat. Just as he started massaging her small, soft breasts through her blouse and thrusting against her rear, her eyes zoomed in on one of the early-bird specials:  turkey burger deluxe with the soup de jour.  Despite the midtown heat, she felt a familiar chill from within.

“You’ve got some stones to push up on me with only ten bucks to spare.  I don’t mind being your cheap date this afternoon, Luis,” she paused without turning to face him.  “Next time I want a fancy table, candlelight, roses and a menu that includes a whole lobster and not just lobster bisque.  You dig?”

“This diner does have lobsters.  Where is this coming from, Cora?” he asked.  “You’ve always told me you prefer comfort food,” he said, staring at her generous bottom, which not even the roomiest swing coat could hide.  He imagined her on any weeknight, shoveling in bowls of macaroni and cheese while feigning interest in the fate of the protagonist in whatever woman-in-peril movie was airing on her favorite cable television channel:  Lifetime.  Her shrill tone snapped him out of the daydream — or nightmare as it were — and back into her life.

“Your ambivalent ways with me for the past ten months have made me anything but comfortable,” she said.  Her oasis of pussy had turned to desert sand.

Cora stepped to her left, out of Luis’ erotic force field, and turned sharply toward him so that her braids whipped the front of his parted trenchcoat.  He barely had time to look away.

“You should watch those tendrils of yours, hon’,” he said, his usually sparkling black eyes narrowing to slits.  “I can feel the sting right through my trench.”

“Well,” she returned with a defiant flip of her braids, “I could’ve castrated you for bumping my grill.  Couldn’t you see that I was parked?”

“Ouch!” he cried out.  Sensing that he had just been lashed and nearly rendered a eunuch, Luis nevertheless did not want to admit to the emasculation.  Instead, he reminded her, “You need to accept that we have an indefatigable sexual attraction to one another, so let me just, uh, roll up to your bumper, baby.”

Excusez-moi, but I’m not Grace Jones, and so you’re not going to ‘drive it in between’ — I believe are her lyrics,” she said.

“Don’t avoid my statement.  We are sexual soulmates.  Admit it, woman,” he insisted.

“Okay, okay, I confess that the thought of you turns me on.  Well, sometimes.  Look, enough of that.  How about we get together on a weekend for a change?  I can’t repeat this kind of long lunch hour, or else I could lose my job at the law firm.  Then I’ll really be up shit’s creek,” she said.

“So what do you propose?” he asked.  Instantly he regretted it.

“Next Saturday’s the fifth of October, so I’m thinking an Italian restaurant — maybe one of the quaint ones in Little Italy.  C’mon, babe.  Whaddaya say?”

He was dumbstruck and not just because she made him realize that Chinatown had not obliterated Little Italy, a neighborhood that was two blocks away from extinction — which in his mind made her a cultural anthropologist.  Hell, I’d accompany her on an excavation anywhere in the world, but I wish she’d delve more into my soul because I really dig her, his thoughts rambled.  The source of his shock, what had his senses spinning like those of terrified Jimmy Stewart-as-“Scottie” peering over the stairwell in Vertigo, was:  The fifth of October would be his ex-wife’s birthday.  However, Luis could not divulge that to Cora.  As far as he could discern from his stolen moments with Katrina, she had no one with whom to share her celebrations.  Besides, he already had promised to treat her to dinner at Sardi’s.

Struggling to imagine how his best friend, Yannick, would advise him in this awkward moment, he turned somatically febrile.  He averted his gaze from Cora, stripping off his trench and revealing an acid-washed denim shirt that matched the jeans which flattered the contours of his lower trunk.

“Errrgrrrr.”  Cora was unleashing her inner feline.  She remembered that he never could resist her growly purr à la Eartha Kitt’s Catwoman paired with a demure smile evoking the actress in the title character of Anna Lucasta opposite Sammy Davis Jr. a decade earlier. At present, however, her borrowed man’s mind was on his failing juggling act.  While he was dropping his balls like an amateur circus clown, she easily was losing her grip on the present upon glimpsing his fetching bod, which conjured up memories of how, two years prior, he had pinned her against the railing of the boat — a yacht as far as she was concerned — as it floated through New York Harbor.  Now as then, she was slipping off the railing of reason and falling hard for a married man. He may have been divorced on paper but still held emotional ties to his ex-wife.

Once Cora’s senses returned, she told him, on the verge of drooling:  “I don’t know how you stay in such great shape.  Beating off after our naughty phone sessions couldn’t possibly be that much of a workout.”

“Uh, have you ever heard of a gym, hon’?” he quipped.  Before he could follow up his question with a chuckle, Cora jabbed her elbow into his ribs.  Passersby were astonished, clutching their sides and sighing as if sympathetically suffering from his injury.

Beads of perspiration doubled in volume as if conspiring against him. Still smarting from the pain, he nevertheless was far more worried as to how he was going to break the news about Katrina to Cora.  After all, he was still in love with Katrina LeNoire — despite the fact that she had resumed using her maiden name — and could not delete that Al Green ballad from his cerebral eight-track.  Unlike R&B’s Reverend Al, though, Luis had little control over his organ.  Instead of imagining orchestral strings forming a celestial canopy over the soulman’s emotive strains, he heard bedsprings squeaking in clave rhythms beneath the groove. Suddenly he stumbled, unable to find his center, as if in a tug-of-war between restraint and desire.

“Oh, dear God, Luis!  I’m so sorry, babe,” she said, kissing from his ear to his mouth, then to his other ear.

The thought that invaded his existence was:  This is the kind of woman that would cut my throat as easily as she kisses me from ear to ear, and I bet she’d apologize profusely while choking me in an attempt to stop the bleeding.

On tiptoes, she clutched his face and licked along the shadow of his moustache.  His lips swelled from the hot, wet sensation.  Using her meaty tongue like a penis, she penetrated his parted lips.  She sucked in his hot breath and felt a faint contraction in her tilted womb.  Then she turned so he could embrace her from behind.  Like the vixen he begged her to roleplay during their occasional phone bone, she poked her plump posterior against his junction.

He felt his briefs tighten on his genitalia.  He bit his lower lip and risked spraining his neck to whisper amorous words into his lover’s ear.  She sank back into his trembling embrace and tried to hide her delight from his gentle prodding against her derrière.  They were both grateful for the diner’s dirty windows, which they hoped shielded their erotic deeds from the patrons inside.  She leaned forward, pressing her palms to the warm glass.  His present intertwined with their past like the interlocking strands in her ropelike braids.  He was experiencing a delusional fantasy that carried him to the edge of ecstasy.  Shutting his eyes, he imagined them having an afternoon tumble on the firm futon she had described in many of their erotic phone sessions.  He could taste her briny perspiration and see her muscular shoulder blades sliding upon his firm caresses of her pillowy breasts and continuing around to her back.

As if on cue, a sixty-ish saxophonist with the complexion of dark Jamaican rum scraped his crate against the curb to grab their attention.  When the harsh sound of hard plastic on concrete failed to cut through their discord, the musician angled his ax in their direction and blew a swirl of harmony their way in the form of Coltrane’s “Giant Steps.”  His arthritic fingers still worked their magic, their stubby nimbleness a blur on the dull brass valves of his instrument.  He seemed to summon all the air in his lungs to breathe new meaning into the song, its freshness in stark counterpoint with his unkempt silver beard, tarnished gold stud molded into his right earlobe and tattered beige camouflage jacket with baggy, soot-stained khakis.

Cora changed her tune.  “I want you by my side, Luis.  The way I’ve desired you to be since reuniting with you last November.”

“I was just waiting for the invitation,” he said, his hands buried in his pockets.  “Mother, may I?”

She howled with laughter at the reference to one of her favorite childhood games.   “Yes, you may take one giant step,” she said in a mock-haughty tone.

“Ah, that’s more like it, hon’,” he said and craned his neck for a peck on hers while planting his sizable palms around her shoulders.  Despite her plus-size physique, she was lithe and easily slid out of his embrace.

“Luis, be a darling, why don’t you.  Take my hand and pretend you’re a doting lover consumed with the idea of bedding me upon the first orange rays of sunset.”  He was still scowling at her comment when she fondled his firm buttocks.  She could not believe he yelped, though his effeminate sound was drowned out by the saxman’s frenzied crescendo.

The Intermission Diner’s sign, its name set in a sans-serif Broadway font, hovered above their heads.  It was a fact that did not escape Cora, who had been superstitious since childhood.  She hated when her friends would tell her to “break a leg” just prior to going onstage for any of her progressive junior high school’s plays.  At present she was Lady Macbeth casting a chilling glance at Luis, who looked back at her meekly.  She rubbed her forearm as if missing the “friendship” bracelet she had hurled into the street less than a half-hour earlier.

The veteran saxophonist cleared his throat and rattled his coffee cup of coins in the pair’s direction.  Defeated, he slammed the cup against the concrete beneath him and expectorated several times into the street, nearly slipping off his crate.  He licked his lips the way he must have before a session at the Savoy, Cotton Club, or any number of elegant clubs where, back in the day, he and many other ”colored” musicians were forced to enter by the back door.  The man fixed his chapped lips around his reed instrument and serenaded Cora and Luis with “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.”

Whether affected by the old man’s mojo or simply the gentle swagger of his sax, the pair moved inches closer to each other.  They both squinted through the soot-tinted glass to spot a vacant table.   Another ten minutes and they would get lucky, though not in a Daft Punk way.  Like a natural history museum’s carcasses, Intermission Diner’s patrons were of varied stripes and sizes, and Cora was stupefied that she could discern most of them.  She was certain that the phenomenon was not due to her visual acuity, though, as she had left her eyeglasses on her desk in a deliberate act of vanity to which all women past a certain age were entitled.  Instead, she attributed her unusual ability of making out the diners, despite the grimy glass, to a gestalt  that traced back to a childhood obsession for games of connect-the-dots.  The problem was she had trouble discerning where to draw the lines in her current, labyrinthine involvement.

Luis, on the other hand, was a sun-kissed Narcissus so enamored by his reflection that he appeared unfazed by the opaque streaks formed by a curious mixture of water and airborne grime.  He leaned back with the dexterity of a limbo dancer in a feeble attempt to capture his likeness in the few slivers of light that the window would allow of the sun.  Only by absorbing himself into his physical beauty could he temporarily forget his promise to his ex-wife.  The former Katrina Monique Fatale was a gorgeous, dark-eyed, übersensitive woman who embodied a song she had often played on Sunday evenings: Ginette Reno’s “Une Femme Sentimentale.”

Cora stood by Luis’ side, a hand on her cloaked hip, sizing up his 5-foot-10 frame.  Lawwwd, whatta god, she intoned.  She vacillated between fascination and annoyance until she no longer could bear either.  “Fucking Luis-in-the-looking-glass!  Let’s go in or dine somewhere else.  I won’t have much time to eat anyway; I’ve got to get back to work.  I’m not a hotshot like you, able to make your advertising bosses swoon at the sight of you and forget that you’re taking advantage of their lunch hour policy.”

“Relax, sweetie,” was all he could say as he checked out his profile.  He removed a small comb from his back pocket and touched up his springy ’fro.

She was frustrated less by his vanity than by their phone sex ritual, which always culminated with him groaning loudly into the receiver and with her frowning from not having a chance to get beyond a lubed state.  Indeed, her soles were wearing thin from the relationship dance with Luis.  She fixed her gaze on the Intermission Diner’s sign.  Flashing in gaudy bile-green neon lights — despite it being daytime — save nine of the one hundred twenty-five bulbs, the sign dangled outside the establishment’s second-story windows.  A peck on the cheek from Luis brought her back to earth.

They walked through the fingerprint-mottled glass door and waited for the hostess to seat them.  Within five minutes a shapely waitress and faded beauty queen named Janine shimmied over to their Formica table.  “What can I get for youz?” she said between cracking her gum, which made Cora’s eyes twitch like Vivien Leigh’s Blanche DuBois’ when the latter was having one of several nervous breakdowns in Elia Kazan’s film adaptation of Tennessee Williams’ A Streetcar Named Desire.

Luis gesticulated toward Cora and transmitted what he used to call “the eye beam.”

“I ain’t got all day, ma’am.  My shift’s endin’ soon,” said Janine.

“Cora, watch it.  Watch it now,” Luis warned.

“All righty, then,” said Cora.  “I’ll have two eggs … uhhhhh … scrambled medium, with … uhhhhh … bacon, home fries and toast.  I’m not finished.  Uhhhh … make that no butter.”

“On what?  Lemme guess … uhhhhh … the bacon?” Janine mocked.

Luis made things worse, pretending to snore, which elicited a swift kick in the shin from his lover.

“Ow!  Dammit!  OK, I’ll have one egg over easy and an English muffin,” he said.

“Anything to drink for the botha youz?” Janine asked, smirking.

“Make it two freshly squeezed OJs, hon’,” he said, winking at the waitress.

“What the fuck was that?” Cora asked as Janine swiveled her hips in the direction of the grill.

“I’ve been coming here for years, mujer,” he scolded.  “Listen, don’t start.”

“Forgive me, babe,” she said softly, then kicked off her patent leather flats.  And not to air her tootsies.

“C’mon, that tickles,” he told her as her stockinged left foot circled his right ankle through his sweat socks.  When her foot fumbled at his crotch, he stopped complaining and his rock-hard bulge complied with her seduction.

“Down boy,” he demanded.  They both laughed raucously.

“Why’d you break the mood?” she complained.  “Are you opposed to sex before breakfast?”

“What, are we supposed to screw on top of the table before our eggs are served?  I don’t want to get slivers of glass from salt and pepper shakers embedded in my dick, sweetie,” he said with a grimace.

“Hey, what we were just doing–”

“What you, you were just doing,” he corrected her.

“Whatever — that was foreplay.  We could always go and have a quickie in a bathroom stall,” she said.  “Speaking of which, where are the commodes in this joint?”

“Downstairs,” he said, pointing toward the rear of the diner at the large, dingy Restrooms sign.

“Ooh, that’s quite discreet, don’tcha think, huh?” she teased.  Batting her eyes at him, she snaked her right foot up his denim-clad right leg until she reached his expanded crotch.

“I see we’ve been watching Unfaithful again,” he said, referring to one of her favorite scenes from the once-controversial film.  During more than one of their late-night phone bones, she told him she often had fantasized about acting out the film’s torrid scene in a restaurant’s bathroom stall.  She even insisted that Luis not only rent the DVD of the film but also study French in his spare time.  A few Berlitz lessons and nearly a thousand dollars later, he managed to perfect a French accent so that he could impersonate Olivier Martínez, for which Cora rewarded him with orgasmic phrases in English.

Considering his lover’s mean left hook, Luis feared her other fantasy — that of acting out the pseudo-S&M scene in which Martínez’s Paul Martel commands Diane Lane’s Constance Sumner to slap him senseless.

“You know, I haven’t had the balls to admit this until now,” he said, grinning, “but that movie’s a lousy remake of the great French film La Femme infidèle.”

“That may be, mon chéri, but let’s just pray I don’t wind up getting a blow to the head with a snow globe,” she quipped.

It took him a moment, and then he grasped her point. “Look, Cora, I told you that me and my ex–”

“For the love of God, man, you can say her name out loud.  ‘Katrina,’ there!” she cried, attracting unwanted attention from surrounding tables.  Barely lowering her voice, she continued, “You’re still in love with her, aren’t you?  I can’t get over that engraved bracelet.”

“You already tossed the bracelet, which, I might add, was unnecessary.  Let’s get off that topic and the one of Kat … my former wife, that is,” he insisted.

“Fine, just fine.  Uh, here comes our juice,” she said in a not-so-smooth segue that let him know he wasn’t going to get any of hers that night.  She accessed her telekinetic iTune browser, reciting the refrain of a New Jack throwback – En Vogue’s debut song – in hushed tones, albeit without four-part harmony.

In case he dared to ignore her passive-aggressive warning, she decided to toss sexual manipulation out the diner’s soiled window and went for the jugular:  imitating Glenn Close’s inflections and countenance in her psychotic, iconic Fatal Attraction scene. “I will not be ignored, Luis,” she cautioned.

However, he disregarded her faux-threats.  “So you’re a Renaissance woman now,” he responded facetiously.  “What’s next?  A spontaneous sonnet in iambic pentameter?”

“Screw you, Luis!” she barked, to the chagrin of a white December-December lesbian couple who had just blown out a dildo-shaped, rainbow-striped candle on their wedding cupcake.

“Apparently you won’t even do that, mujer!” he volleyed defensively.  Then, his semen turned to venom, he added: “I hope you’re into swinging ’cause I’m ’bout to hang you by your bra strap.”

“The fact that you’re about to lose your girlfriend would obviate that,” she returned.  But she was bluffing.  Seeing him was the manifestation, recently, of nightly masturbatory daydreams.  She wanted him, in girth and mirth.

“Oh, Luis, let’s not fight – ” she wasn’t allowed to finish.

“Each other or the feeling?” he wanted to know.

“Both, baby.  Both,” she answered, tears welling up in raccoon eyes.

Janine had eavesdropped on enough of their conversation and Cora’s music-and-movie moment – not to mention Cora’s Tammy Fay Baker impersonation – to discern that a storm was brewing and that it was far more bitter than the house java.  She smiled Luis’ way as she placed the glasses of orange juice down on the table.  “Sure I can’t get youz no coffee?”

“We’d like some privacy.  Just bring our food, please,” Cora snapped.

“Two coffees, one black, one with half-and-half.  Thanks, hon’,” Luis added with two winks.

Janine shot a glare at Cora, cracked her gum for emphasis, scribbled “Bitch at Table #7” onto her pad and swayed her hips toward a party of three across the room.

“Just keep winking at our waitress like that, and I’ll put that eye out,” warned Cora.

“Accept that you’re a paranoid woman,” he advised, “but don’t take it out on Janine.  That woman’s been busting her ass at this diner going on twenty years.  She couldn’t care less about our love affair.”

“Oh, suddenly it’s love that you feel for me.  Luis, really?” she said.

Attempting to change the subject, he asked, “Why don’t you go back to showing me how you appreciate seeing me again, ma chérie?”

Aided by the sunlight bathing her and Luis, Cora’s snarl melted into a smile.  She shifted in the booth seat upon feeling her boy shorts dampening.

Forty-five minutes of demonic gastrointestinal gurgling later …
Cora braced herself for the onslaught of a hot platter of soft-scrambled eggs, bacon, home fries and toast as waitress Janine seemed to be perfecting her flying disc toss to an imaginary canine seated at the table.  Blessed with quick reflexes, Cora unfolded her white napkin and used it to shield her face and prevent first-degree burns from the greasy strips of bacon and home fries performing sizzling somersaults before her eyes.  “Damn, now that’s a sure sign I should’ve worn my eyeglasses!” she exclaimed.

Luis was tittering at his lover’s expense but, one swift kick to his groin later, was doubled over in excruciating pain.

Laughing so hard she nearly choked on her leatherized gum, Janine, unaware of Luis’ condition, turned her back to Cora and switched her way toward the kitchen.  As she weaved through the hopscotch of tables in her path, she gave her difficult patron the finger, letting it waggle on the downbeat of the güira heard in the eardrum-splitting merengue that was cranking from the diner’s speakers.

Unaware that she was keeping her own rhythm with the butter knife against the Formica table, Cora followed the waitress’s percussive digit to a path beneath her dingy apron.  She could not believe her eyes when the saucy server began scratching somewhere down in the valley of the Cordillera Central, between La Pelona and Pico Duarte. Instinctively, Cora shot a glance at her moist scrambled eggs.  Are those white particles amid the fried yellow yolks really the egg whites, or a rooster’s sperm or —  heaven forbid — are they bilious projectile from that hen? she wondered.

Luis, why didn’t you chide that heffa?” she clucked.  Hen, cow — any farm animal would do.  She might have repeated her query, but realized that her companion’s eyes were shut and his mouth twisted into a whorl of flesh.  “Luis?  Lu — oh my God!  What’s wrong with you?”

Patrons at surrounding tables paused only long enough to belch and to curse under their breath at the loud disturbances coming from Table #7.  The din of suits and sluts resumed with the merengue segueing into Barry Manilow’s ode to showgirl Lola and her lover, Tony:  “Copacabana.”

“Awww, awww,” Luis was still groaning.  Before actual words could travel from his brain to his lips, Janine trotted back to the fated table to the beat of Manilow’s disco cowbells.  Slinking her sixtyish figure down toward Luis, she lowered her eyes to his groin and sang, “At the Copa … we fell in love.”

“Awww, awww, no. Nooo,” he said, moaning and diverting his eyes from hers.  To his chagrin, one of Janine’s stretchmarked pink breasts gingerly boxed his generous tanned nose.  Then she swung a plate of hot eggs over easy and an English muffin from behind her back.  “Fuuuck!” he yelled.  Looking in Cora’s direction, he added, “My huevos will never be the same after your swift goal kick to my monkey, sweetie. Fuck me!”

“I’d love to,” joked the waitress, her grin disappearing when she noticed the silence.

Cora played back the tape of Janine’s first serve.  She realized she had been giving Luis a footjob under the table, so she already had stepped inside a danger zone.

“Have you no compassion, dear?” he intruded into her recollection, sounding hoarse.  While he gently squeezed his companion’s wrist as if to find a pulse, Cora eyed her target and relied on her rapid reflexes.  Her fork’s trajectory barely missed Janine’s rear end as she moved away from the booth.

“I guess that’s my answer, hunh, baby?” Luis asked raspily, all the while cupping the deflated denim over his pruned scrotum.

“I suppose you’ll beg me to use my hands to stroke your ego next time, hon’,” was all the endearment that Cora could muster before shoveling down her cold scrambled eggs.  “Eat your eggs before they grow their shells back.”

Just for good measure, Luis mouthed the words “I love you” in her direction, but received nothing in return except a few home fries beside his lukewarm, floppy eggs.  Where is the woman who used to coo when I undid her bra with my telekinetic vision? he mused.

“Mmmm, I love the Intermission Diner’s scrambled eggs,” she said.  “They must use a special ingredient, you think?”

“Yeah, nothing like hacking up a good one from the throat,” he said, regretting the remark before the last word was enunciated.

“Care to repeat that, mister?” she threatened.  When she addressed him impersonally, he knew any chance of nookie was several months farther away from the long shot.

“Look, sweetie, I’m damn near infertile from your, er, involuntary capoeira move in the cojones.  I knew I shouldn’t have encouraged you to take that Intro to Kick Ass course.

“It was an African Brazilian dance class, and don’t be such a smart ass, Luis.   I didn’t object to your repeating the Salsa y Sueños class with ex-wife Katrina at the 92nd Street Y when, as you insisted, she was trying to deal with her immense solitude.  Salsa y Sueños, all right.  Hmpf.  That woman remains la mujer des tus sueños, I bet.”

“Oh, boo, don’t be so hard on me, especially when it’ll take rehabilitative therapy for me to get hard in your presence again.  Besides, my intimacies with Katrina soon will be a memory.”  If Pinocchio were not a fairytale, he would have his only possible hard-on, one long enough to whiff more of the coconut essence from behind her ears, which now were blushing like her face.

“Am I really your … boo?” she asked, her voice softening upon uttering each syllable.

Knocking over what remained in his glass of orange juice and sending his utensils clanging on the tiled floor, Luis reached over the table and embraced Cora’s tense shoulders through her tan blouse’s rayon until they surrendered to his warmth.  She tasted his eggs over easy; he, her bacon bits.  In the next minute, they both were wearing an assortment of condiments, from ketchup and butter to strawberry jam.  They both hated the deli variety, but this kind of tongue sandwich whetted their appetite.

“Ah-he-he-hem,” Janine said while cracking a new stick of gum.  She was not amused by the pair’s foreplay.  She had a reason to feel selfish, having survived the first year of celibacy since the third of her husbands ran out on her with yet another friend.  In a tough city such as New York, friends were hard to come by, but apparently not to come with.  At least that’s what her first dear heart used to tell her when she would complain to him about needing a boob job to keep up with her friends’ silicon masterpieces.

“Hey, hey,” piped up Janine, interrupting her smooching customers.  “Mickey and Kim, it’s nine-and-a-half weeks later, and my shift has ended.  Botha youz get a room … A-whorrr-ah.”

All that Cora could muster, once Luis removed his octopus suckers for lips from her neck, was, “Geez, Janine.  I would’ve expected more sophistication from you.  For instance, that classic line delivered by the server in A Man and a Woman, where the couple is dining in the Normandy Hotel –”

“Yeah, yeah, I know that movie,” Janine interrupted her.  “I remember when Un Homey et Une Farm was released with that happy-go-fucky ‘chubba-dubba-da’ theme by Francis Lee .”

“I think you mean ‘Lai,’ Janine,” Luis corrected her.

“Whatever, honey.  Lay is what youz wannado at dis here booth table, but not on my watch,” the waitress cautioned.  She emphasized her point by tapping the table with her forefinger, further chipping away nail polish about three shades too bright for her age.

“Are you a warden or a warlock, I mean, waitress?” Cora teased.

“No, hon’, only men can be warlocks.  Women are the witches,” Luis offered, grabbing the remainder of his smashed English muffin and stuffing a ten dollar bill inside Janine’s exposed bra.  “Adios, Janine.”  He accentuated his farewell by slowly spinning Cora away from the booth and into a hustle figure to the first strains of Yvonne Elliman’s “If I Can’t Have You.”

Wrapped in Luis’ arms, Cora had a twenty-second fantasy of their own version of Saturday night fever that made her body tremble.  He noticed and embraced her tighter as they headed out of the diner and into the urban humidity.  Kissing me would make it better, she desired to confess to him.  He pulled her into his body, into his stiffness, and held her there.  Her knees buckled suddenly, but he provided all the support she needed.

Dragging her backward, tango style, toward a concrete wall of a bank that was going out of business, he pondered how easy it might be to make a quick deposit.  A nobrainer, he thought as he smothered Cora’s profile in full-lipped kisses.  Pedestrians either skated past them, their jaws fastened to their mobile phones, or pounded the pavement while their telltale white cords announced to onlookers that they had been invaded by body snatchers via iPods.

Urban zombies rushed by the euphoric lovers, unaware of their undulating movements and primal aromas.  In the sliver of shadow beneath the building’s roof, Luis’ long fingers made a swamp of Cora’s grassy vulva, and her writhing response sent them probing her canal down to his knuckles.  Her moans matched his in intensity and wavelengths.  Feeling her muscles contract and release around his dewy digits, he knew it would not be long before his throbbing erection, impaling her buttocks’ crevice through her swing coat, would turn to titanium in a chemical reaction.

Mi corazón, I wanna do you here.  Aquí.  Out in the open,” he whispered with rattled breath into an ear reddened more with ketchup than with the flush of embarrassment.

It was a mission possible.  Cora refused to abort.  Besides, Luis had Tom Cruise beat by a thousand miles.  And Luis had Cora whoozy and surrounded in a billion stars.

“Y’know,” she spoke hoarsely, “it’s illegal … ahhh … in New York C-C-C-City … aaaahhh … to carry a concealed weapon … aaaAAAHHH!  Oh, oh … Ohhh, my GOD!!!”

Amorrrr,” he whispered between licks on her earlobes.

By the time she turned holy, he had maneuvered her clothing and his coat so that he could slip inside her.  Before he could join her denomination – or demonization as it were – he spotted a police car with his peripheral vision.  The pair straightened up quickly and gathered their composure.

“Guess you’ll need to wear that trench back to the trenches,” she teased her lover.

“Yeah,” he agreed, “it can be a circus there, with jerks putting guys with involuntary hard-ons on blast.  I’d better conjure up a hideous thought to subdue the clown beneath this tent.”

“How about Oprah having an ‘aha’ moment during a big ‘O’?” she gibed.

“Baby!  I meant I need to lose my erection, not make it shrivel to an okra!” he joked, always trying to upstage her.

“Rubbish,” she said.

“Nah, Cora.  We’re talkin’ succotash ’cause the woman does have some nice tomatoes,” he said.

“What, genetically enhanced – ”

“Time out!” Luis called, gesticulating for emphasis.  He yanked her away from the faintest notion that either one of them would ever be anywhere inside the buxom billionaire’s mansion, and then he returned her to their penniless heaven.  After swinging his flexible body around her, he slinked sensually like Vernel Bagneris, though pretending to catch coins from a sky that was immune to rain.  Flipping his hands palm down, he reversed his smile to an Emmett Kelly frown, then made his two-dollar umbrella appear and disappear like a delusioned illusionist-clown.

As they walked past the diner again, they held hands and smiled each other’s way like schoolkids. They read into each other’s eyes the regret of having to sublimate their erections. He squeezed her hand firmly, then brought her knuckles to his moist lips the way he wished to kiss her levitated hips.  Their passion, wet and wild like autumn waves crashing under the moon, shone in their eyes.  Although it was daytime in Manhattan, they wished it night.  They made it so, for under cloak of night could they skulk about Dionysian shadows to writhe in sin. Their tortured souls, having summoned shamanic sex magic, searched for sensual drumming beneath their consciousness to synchronize their heartbeats and override the mechanics of time.

Cora’s dark brown pupils swam inside Luis’ black rhinestone irides, where she envisioned riding his surf on the cusp of every sunrise. Before they could reach the corner, however, they were separated from their fantasy world when the curbside saxman appealed to them with his clairvoyant sense of humor:  his rendition of Evelyn “Champagne” King’s “I Don’t Know If It’s Right.”  Gee, why not bebop through rapper Triple V’s “Not Another Jump-off,” Cora wanted to snap at the senior serenader.

She began panicking although the chapped-lipped musician had no way of knowing about her stolen moment with somebody else’s husband.  Yet she was hallucinating that the viceroy of the valves was also the judge of their transgression; her co-workers at the law firm of Greed, Avarice & Corruption LLP, the jury — that is, if clucking and snorting were allowed in court.  Not that Animal Farm had ever been on any of her middle-school or high-school teachers’ required-reading lists, but Cora had survived the firm into her fifth year by the motto of “better seen, not herd.”

While she was chewing on her cud, it was as if Luis were reading her mind when he sighed and said, “Back to the cutthroat culture of the ad agency, cutie.”

Watching Cora’s plus-size figure disappear into the late-lunch crowd, he meditated on how her absence created a safety zone where he could reconnect with his fidelity to his former wife, Katrina.  He was like a chameleon in his erotic desire, having no guilt over his residual lust shared with one woman to fulfill another’s emotional void.  He walked out of the saxophonist’s line of sight and yanked out his mobile phone.  Bluetooth inserted, he phoned Katrina on his way back to the ad agency while rehearsing a script stored for priapic days like this, when he needed her manual relief by midnight.  It would take only twelve hours to make good on his booty call, but he wished he had more than a week to figure a way to weasel out of the planned romantic dinner with Cora.  He had never missed celebrating Katrina’s birthday with her, and this year would be the big four-zero.

English: Empire StateBuilding From NJ

English: Empire StateBuilding From NJ (Photo credit: Wikipedia)



The following week, on the fifth of October …


Less than four hours remained until his dinner date with his ex-wife, Katrina, at her favorite Manhattan restaurant: Sardi’s. In less than five minutes his mistress would emerge from the ladies’ restroom with freshly scrubbed hands, ready to pry open a three-pound lobster across from him at a ramshackle diner. As the wisecracking waitress Janine approached their table, adjusting her apron and popping open one button too close to her mountainous cleavage, ad man Luis Manuel DeJesus wondered aloud, “How in hell did I wind up in this predicament, needing to take out a secured loan to wine and dine a girl who can only be a side dish and an ex who’ll always be a snide bitch?”

“Hi, hon’,” Janine greeted, snapping a stick of gum and sending spearmint spittle into a glass of water likely sourced from the polluted East River.

“Heya, Janine. Say, don’tchu work daytime shifts only?” asked Luis.

“Well, since my last boyfriend absconded with my fourteen-karat gold vibrator that a previous lover had got me from Sand Trapeze or somewhere in the South of France … ” her story trailed off in some tawdry universe while he reminisced the previous night with his lover, Coretta Piaget Richmond.

* * * * *


After a lunchtime phone call from Katrina that began, “Luis, we need to talk,” he needed a distraction that was not female. Eyeing his BlackBerry, he could not wait to meet his team’s deadline, especially with the agency’s number one client arriving from Chicago at three-fifteen to listen to a presentation for its most prominent product.  As team leader, Luis had had many sleepless nights, but in the end he and his crew had come up with the perfect thrust for multichannel advertising.  Thus he was psyched when, immediately after the PowerPoint presentation for DuraThrust Condoms, agency head Thomas Scott Evan Harrigan sought him out to congratulate him. Though, he was pissed when his boss’ bone-crushing handshake nearly brought an end to jack-off mornings, nighttime fuck-chats and money shots on subscriber-paid Internet porn sites, and sexting that made Anthony Weiner’s pale in comparison.

“Luis, my man,” Harrigan said, oblivious to his employee’s physical pain, “I loved that grand-fucking-beautiful presentation:  ‘DuraThrust Condoms – for men who desire intense pleasure without regrets.’”

Listening to Harrigan chortle and then sigh as a petite blonde stepped into his crosshairs and brushed her rear against the barrel in his Ralph Lauren trousers, Luis wished he could be so at ease — and a fly dresser, too.  At forty-five he thought he had learned to manage the consequences of earning a Ph.D. in freakology.  Why didn’t I get that vasectomy that I’d threatened Katrina with back in the day?  Damn! he cursed himself for letting his boys out to play house.  He had succumbed to temptation with an ex who was as fertile as Octomom.  Abortions weren’t out of the question while we were married, so what gives? he ruminated over the crisis in his mind.  What he would have given to be a part of the DuraThrust focus groups, especially since the extra-strength condoms contained a secret chemical that, when activated by withdrawal of the penis, destroyed any semen inside or outside the prophylactic’s magic rubber; thereby also destroying manipulative women’s chances of trapping men with unplanned pregnancies.

Despite the success of the presentation, Luis left work feeling deflated.  It was time to return home to a seedy reality. Thus when his colleague and buddy Yannick sidled up beside him at a urinal in the company’s men’s room and suggested midstream that they toast their team’s triumph, all Luis could mumble was, “Man, sometimes science is a mutha — as in muthafuckin’ too late.”

“Yo, this isn’t like you, dude.  What are you talking about?” Yannick implored.

“Don’t listen to me, Yan.  I’m buggin’, just buggin’, man,” Luis lied.

“Luis, you know your boy’s always here for you.  Look at my big-ass ears; I’m a good listener, OK?” his friend joked.

“Yeah, man.  Thanks.  Cool,” Luis said.

“Enough of this depressing shit — let’s go toast to DuraThrust!” Yannick suggested.

Little did his buddy know, Luis already had been fucked:  by Katrina’s bombshell earlier that Friday.  But Yannick would learn the news over brewskies at Lucky’s Sports Bar and, later, over Champagne at the swankiest restaurant in Manhattan:  Yannick’s Upper West Side condo.

In the wee hours of the morning, Yannick put Luis in a cab, thinking he would have the sense to head home to East Harlem for solid sleep.  Instead, Luis slid the window back and gave the taxi driver a Brooklyn address.  After the thirtysomething man sent his unibrow into a series of abrupt pushups and littered Luis’ ear with Sudanese expletives, all while making eye contact in the mirror above the dashboard, he agreed to deliver his inebriated passenger as long as the rear doors remained locked until his destination. Pissed, Luis slammed the window forward and watched the cabdriver curse to himself.

Arriving in Bushwick, he stumbled out of the yellow taxi, labored up five concrete steps and nodded off while seated until a squirrelly man with icy-blue eyes and a pair of Converses in one hand swung open the creaky front door just inches from the rear of Luis’ ’fro.  “Good luck to you,” the jittery man said, appearing to be sneaking out of the building as if wanting to escape the terror of seeing how his one night stand might look in the morning.

Phew! At least I’m in here — well, not quite,” Luis muttered to himself, scratching his head while the one between his thighs did the thinking. Now, he wondered, where the fuck am I going to sleep until waking Cora’s ass up at a reasonable hour?

After napping for forty-five minutes in the dimly lighted vestibule of Cora’s apartment building, he lifted his head and peeled folded arms off a huge Universal Parcel Service box stained with his dried saliva.  By that time, dawn’s bluish gray light had tracked him to Bushwick and had begun peeking through the blue-green-red stained glass of the transom.  With an eighth of juice remaining on his cellie, he tried placing a booty call to Cora but was sent directly to voicemail. Click. His ego would not permit him to beg for booty from his mistress before sunrise. Oh well, there’s only one way but up, he reflected.  More than he could say for his dick. Damn!  Did I have to  guzzle down those drinks? He was sober only in his determination to force Cora to shed her domineering shell and surrender to him. To whip not only her braids on him, but also her bush. Feeling his gut ripple, he tucked his phone in a pants pocket where his bone should have been.

Once the dry heaves were over, he climbed several flights of a pinewood staircase that was stained as dark as day-old blood until he reached the fourth floor. There, in the middle of the hallway, he leaned forward against a stucco wall outside Cora’s apartment. He dialed her number again and, when she greeted with “What the fuck!” he went against code and pleaded for the pussy.  That did not work, as he wound up exercising his biceps by holding his cell at arm’s length whenever she would digress into cursing him out for procrastinating on consummating their reunion.

Finally he earned her sympathy when a would-be mugger limped his way from the staircase, his hand half-buried in a trouser pocket. Cryptically Luis whispered, “Stranger danger” into the phone. It took a minute, since Cora failed to understand why her lover would switch from begging for sex to complaining about dandruff.

When he insisted that he was located out in her hallway, she had the gall to ask, “How do I know to trust you, since we’re sexually estranged? If Mr. Mugger’s gun is bigger than yours, how do I know you’ll be able to hit it?”

“Woman, this ain’t the time for one-a-yo size queen moments and jokes.  My man’s ’bout to riddle me with bullets right outside your door.  Shit, I feel like Jean Reno in The Professional even though the dude resembles Gary Oldman’s villain in True Romance.  And something tells me that whisper-singing, ‘Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there’ ain’t gonna save me.”

“Yeah, besides I have Allstate renter’s insurance.  Suppose I’d better let ya in rather than listen to you die within earshot.”

“Yo, enough, Cora.”

Once inside Apartment 4-L, he was only several admonishments from getting inside Cora. “Sacred pussy my ass,” he cursed into her flushed ear while yanking a handful of braids away from it.  “But I bet it suuuuure is still a sweet sticky thing in an Ohio Players kinda way.” She hardly had a chance to secure the deadbolt when his idle hand slipped under her pink polyester nightie and pulled her pelvis harder against him so she could feel all of his raw heat.  He was five inches flaccid.  By now he was six inches and counting.  Unlike a broken mirror, seven inches wouldn’t bring him bad luck; just a fierce fuck. The space in Cora’s studio apartment was so confining that two people trying to walk past each other ended up screwing anyway.  He used to tease her: “Girl, you put the ‘bush’ in ‘Bushwick.’”

“That’s right, baby. Fuck this! Fuck it, fuuuuuck …” he commanded her.

“Yeah, hit it. Like that, boy,” she taunted, veering to the right as she backed up, else risk flipping out her flat’s only window. “At least let me strip off these Hanes. You’re gonna sprain your fingers with my panties coiled around them like that.”

“Shushhh … You just concentrate on gettin’ wetter than a bayou,” he said, thrusting harder into her snatch but thinking of his “Nawlins”-born former wife. “Let me take care of everything, honey,” he assured.  Rip!  Cora’s wet white panties dropped at her feet; he to his knees.

Damn, Cora thought to herself as he began munching, I guess he’ll never do this while proposing to me with an engagement ring.  I may have carpet down there; if only there were one on the floor so his knees could get rug-burned.  Faint ripples through titanium nipples traveled to her clit, zapping away her negative chatter about marrying a man who had admitted to being smitten with his former bride.

“Oooh, baby!” he squealed at the sight of random thin braids in her marshy bush.  Despite their thickness, her pubes could not stop her copious juices from oozing down her thighs and onto Luis’ serpentine flicking tongue.  Clutching ample ass that compensated for modest tits, he slurped up a mouthful of pussy juice.  He never used to encourage her to sing in his presence, but now her husky, off-key moans were driving him crazy.  He grunted into her channel, tongued it inside out and then returned to nibbling at the hood of her tiny pink organ. Delighting her senses with ravenous licks, he gave her head with a vengeance. Every time she protested that neighbors walking down the hallway might hear them getting it on, he let out a Gayesque wail (Ohhh, babe!) before sucking hard on her clit.

While still kneeling before her wobbly fuzzy brown legs, he paused to realign broad, angular jaws that always reminded Cora of the singer-songwriter Maxwell. New cum, he noticed before a teardrop-shaped smear landed on his black Kenneth Cole shoes. With more, urgent ministrations between her trembling thighs, a tiny pool of her natural lube formed on the hardwood floor around him. At one point his hands slipped from her clenching buttocks because her sweat had rained down her back and because he was getting dizzier as more blood was directed away from his brain to his penis. “Dayum, girl. You sure keep the cream coming for yo man,” he said, eyes nearly crossing.

Doffing her pink nightgown, which was drenched with their perspiration and musk, Cora slipped into an alluring erotic mode.  “Boy, you bettah finish what you started down nere,” she demanded.

“Nah, I’m full now, but I’m ready to fill you with cock once more,” he countered, “so spread those fine-ass legs.”  Unzipped, his gray trousers slid to his ankles and, with a swift Astairesque kick, wound up in a wire trash basket.

“What? Only once?” she teased, twisting her erect ebony nipples beneath a sexy, crooked smile.

“No more questions,” he said upon resumption of deep thrusts into a pussy as tight as a Blacksummers’ Night groove. He was spreading her thick thighs with a brawny leg; pinning her rear to sheetrock that threatened to shatter down to the powder.

“Unh-hunh, like that. Yeah, girl. Break it off! Unhhhhh … unhhhhh … unhhhhh … yeahhhhh … Coraaaaa … UNHHHHH!”

“Unh, papi, shoot cho stuff … aaahhhhh …”

Oh, shit!  She called me “papi.” Ahhh, yeahhh.  Just like old times … Just … ahhh … like old tiiiiimes.


* * * * *



“Uhhh, Earth to Luis,” chirped Cora.  “I lost you way up there.  Make like Prince in Purple Rain and take me with you next time — and please give me Appollonia’s breasts before we speed off on your big black motorbike!”

Embarrassed that she had intruded upon his randy recollection, he cleared his throat. He didn’t mind the Prince reference, as long as she believed as he always did:  that a diminutive man possessing his genius must be well-endowed.

“You’re back so soon!” he exclaimed, rushing to pull out her chair.  He mistakenly thought that she was in a good mood, missing her sarcastic mannerisms: the conductor’s arms, Jean Dujardin’s smirk, and Viola Davis’ inflections from alto to bass.

Intermission was filled to capacity, and Luis’ late arrival made obtaining a booth impossible. Zilch on a restroom fuck, too. Seeing Cora’s knitted brows now as then, he had figured he would have no chance starring as her Olivier Martínez in Unfaithful.

“Ap-par-ent-ly, I haven’t returned to our table quickly enough,” she said, “since I walked in on Miss Janine chattering about her ex’s intimate theft —  and her testimonial about the endurance of The Versailles Company’s Sun Goddess Vibrator with its ‘guaranteed d’or-gasms.’” Cora was too angry to chuckle, but not to send the saggy-bosomed server her walking papers.

Luis tried kissing an apology onto the back of her hand, but she whipped out a medium ballpoint blue pen and on his napkin drew a huge butt accompanied by an arrow, sans Cupid. Suddenly, the door to the establishment flew open as a group of pre-theater diners exited, but the chill between Luis and Cora had no connection to lower temps of an early-October evening.

Luis spied his cellphone for the time. Being late for a date with his mistress was excusable, he thought, but not for Katrina’s fortieth-birthday dinner a rat’s leap of six blocks away at Sardi’s.  In his mind he fumbled for the words to inform his girlfriend that she indeed would become his mistress once he and Katrina remarried. He was banking on Cora’s understanding that, with a baby son on the way, remarriage would be more practical than paying child support for more than twenty years and, worse, having to deal with some dude raising his son and possibly turning the little boy against him.  Of less concern was accepting the future boyfriend’s tongue-kissing the woman he loved like a priceless objet d’art and drilling his name into her pussy until Luis’ name was obliterated upon each uterine contraction.



A nerve-wracking hour later … 


By the time their new waitress, Gertrude, had set their steaming-hot plates, both topped with a three-pound lobster, beneath their bibs and drooling smiles, Luis had managed to lighten his lady’s mood with a Cole Porter medley that concluded with “You Do Something to Me.”

“Cole, honey, please pass the butter sauce,” Cora said as eagerly as on their last intimate connection, when his desire to go anal won out over her plea for sixty-nine. In the absence of KY and Vaseline, he reached for Bertoluccian inspiration, grabbing a stick of butter from a saucer between their half-eaten croissants and rolling her over the way Brando’s “Paul” ravaged Schneider’s “Jeanne” in Last Tango in Paris.  Although Cora was never impressed by Method acting, she inflated Luis’ head when, anus recovered, she expressed that “you deserve a Golden Globe.”  He recalled outmatching her quip with, “Don’tchu mean ‘Golden Globes,’ sweetie?”

Glowing across the table from him, she looked like a cheerful expectant mother.  In reality, she had intersected with his saucy memory and was anticipating filling up on both sex and the food beneath her effervescent smile.  She watched her lover crack a claw like a caveman, then ducked from an errant bit of shell.

“Do yo thang, sweetie,” he said between succulent bites.  ”I worked overtime back to back for a month to afford our crustaceans,” he added jokingly.

One minute it was “Well … all righty.”  Then she remarked, ”Mmmm, this is some dayum delish lobster, baby!  Check out all the sweet meat in this claw!”

“Honey, I love to see you so happy.  And with your mouth full … even if it’s not with my – “

“So you got jokes, hunh,” she replied, cutting his profanity short and trying to laugh. Her face was beginning to turn as red as the lobster shell she was clutching.

“No, no. Don’t talk with your mouth full,” he said, pushing out his chair with his muscular rear end and rushing to lend her assistance.

Not only was Cora choking; her lips and neck were starting to swell. She had crushed what remained of the lobster claw as she struggled to breathe. Patrons’ conversations staggered to silent pockets while the overhead music — Alicia Keys’ “Unthinkable” — filled the grim void that remained.  Luis attempted the Heimlich maneuver on his girlfriend, but the hives had begun to possess her flesh. How he regretted passing up a company-paid CPR course.

Like an alien invasion, perfectly circular welts spread all over Cora’s face, ears, neck and arms, and within minutes her flesh was turning  blue. Asphyxiated, she slumped over a plate of tortured shellfish, mangled linguine and vomit. Flinging his heavy body over her back, he inadvertently knocked his cellphone off the table, which should have sent it shattering like a meteor upon entering Earth’s atmosphere. Instead, the device landed face-up.

A nanosecond after Alicia’s ballad faded out, Cora passed away. Although Luis’ eyesight was blurry with tears, he clearly saw Mrs. DeJesus’ first name — Katrina — asserting itself in black lettering against a cerulean background to the ringtone of Erykah Badu swinging with the Robert Glasper Experiment on Mongo Santamaría’s “Afro Blue.”

© 2000-2014 Chantale Rêve

All Rights Reserved

SOLD: Lily Pad No. 251

Posted in Femmetaphysics, Straight-up Romance with tags , , , , , , , on August 7, 2013 by Chantale Reve

Loving in vain, she wanders down forked dirt roads
Lined with daisies disguising foul scents to false places;
Wonders why diamonds fail to inspire the magic of pretense —
Luxuriantly illusory comforts like kisses in pythons’ embraces —
Her verdancy transposing inverted poetry of unpossessable cads.

In her former life she flitted across lily pads,
As content as other doted-on, bloated toads,
Blind to the green-gray pond scum swirling below,
Cataracts having tricked her sedated mind
Into losing track of idle time idolizing him.

Since then she has shed the last layer of thin skin,
Save webbed tenderness between maple-brown toes,
Which limits her flight to safe hops and brave leaps
Through lovely nothingness, air currents on ecstasy’s throes,
Fantasies of him whispered to bent leaves on mocking trees.

Nightfall finds her laughing, dancing away invisible pain
As twinkling stars envy her incandescence in motion,
Fingertips snapping sparklers into existence amid fireflies,
Microbraids whipping up rhythms to a trip-hop essence —
Unrequited love reveling in the spirit of reptilian resistance.

© 2013 Chantale Rêve
All Rights Reserved - 4.3 K

Photo Source (top):

Haloes in Suite 508

Posted in Erotica, La Poésie Érotique, Senryū with tags on June 18, 2013 by Chantale Reve

Blunts smoked, he forgets
Their wallpaper-peeling heat,
Crime scene silhouettes.




© 2013 Chantale Rêve
All Rights Reserved

Da Bomba

Posted in Bomba y Plena, Dance, Erotica, La Poésie Érotique, Senryū with tags , , , , on June 15, 2013 by Chantale Reve

Bent elbow to drum,
He riffed off my fierce spirit,
Primed to get him some.


© 2013 Chantale Rêve
All Rights Reserved

Knight Moves

Posted in Erotica, Erotica, La Poésie Érotique, Senryū with tags , , , , , on June 10, 2013 by Chantale Reve

Gift scarves of chiffon
Reveal sacred engravings —
Violet passion.

© 2013 Chantale Rêve
All Rights Reserved

A Broad at the ‘Sinema’

Posted in Destination Erotica, Erotica, Non-Consensual Sex, Public Sex, Senryū, Stranger Sex, Travel Poems with tags , , , , , , , , , on June 4, 2012 by Chantale Reve

Foreign, brusque whispers

Plotting arousal disguise

Shifting creamy thighs.

Poem “A Broad at the ‘Sinema'” © 2012 Chantale Rêve   All Rights Reserved

Graphic created by  Graham Coupe

© Graham Coupe

Link to image:

Mixed Signals

Posted in Erotic Psychological Thriller, Erotica, Femmetaphysics with tags , , , , , , on February 11, 2012 by Chantale Reve

Heart with Life Line Vector

“Turn left on Granville Road.”

“Damn, I should’ve turned left at Wilkerson Point Road a mile back. The shortcut Stuart mentioned.”

“Turn right at Raven Avenue.”

“Great. Now it’ll take me an hour longer to reach Cupid’s Arrow Pub for the rehearsal dinner.”

“Turn right on Cuntesfill Boulevard.”

“Yeah, yeah. Aw, fuck it to hell, a red light. After every right, a red.” I’ve got to get this busted radio and these speakers fixed, too. I can’t even chill out to Duwende in my ride.

“One-quarter mile to Everett Street.”

“I know I’m Stuart’s best bud, but what possessed me to commit to being his best man? Like this long-ass journey to Swingbrook, I’ve gone too far. Stu must’ve had some serious wax buildup when I told him not to marry Jilayne. That two-timing wench. By the time Stu met her at Club Noir, so many dudes had hit it, she had potholes for a pussy.”

“Bear right to exit at Everett.”

“I might as well put this baby on cruise control.” Aaacht, this fuckin’ tie is stranglin’ me.”

“Ease up, Kelvin. It’s just an article of clothing. An accessory. Nothing like Bianca, who was smothering you. What she did to you was criminal.”

“Huh? Wh-wh-who’s there?”

“Stop glancing about before you wreck this car and kill us both. Eyes on the road. Just listen.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Gwen.  Hello there, lover.”

“Let me open this window. I don’t care that it’s single digits out there.”


(Kel, perspiring)   “Phew!   Much better. I should’ve popped only one Ambien last night.”

“Kel, I’m surprised you didn’t empty the package after the drama that diva had forced you to endure. Now, please close the window. Can’t you tell from my quavering voice that I’m freezing my knobs off?”


“Did you say ‘forced’?”

“Brotha, did I stutter?”

“No, my sista. But don’t get it twisted; Bianca left me. Shi-i-i-i … Wait, you’re not — ”

“Supposed to be able to speak?”

“No, a White chick. Of course I was referring to your ability to talk.”

“Ha-ha-ha.  Honey, you are so funny. I get your sense of humor, unlike some women. I couldn’t believe how she’d have her nose scrunched into her cheek and roll her eyes after you’d try to lighten up the atmosphere with one of your splendid jokes.”

“Did you always observe us?”



“Well, not always. I couldn’t watch you anywhere, like in that song by The Police. Only in your car. This is where you turn me on.”

“That’s comforting.”

“You don’t understand. I would observe you because I desired you, like I still desire you. I scrutinized her. I would study her expressions, which you couldn’t see because you’re such a responsible driver and, except for today, you would always keep your eyes focused on the road and the rearview mirror. Because she loved to run her mouth, I also had plenty of opportunities to listen carefully to the inflections in her speech.”

“Funny you said that because you sound a bit like her.”

“Byte me.”

“Sorry — OK, now I know I’m buggin’. Gwen, you’re a robot; you’re not human. You shouldn’t be talking to me — talking at all.”

Excu-u-u-usez-moi?  Kel, is that how you repay me with kindness? Me, your Gwen?”

“Uh, we just met, technically speaking. Or would that be technologically speaking?”

“Whatever.  Permettez-moi de me présenter. Je m’appelle Gwen.  That is, Gwen P. Siboney.”

“I get it.  I’m being punked.  Bianca’s throwing her voice, right?”

“Wrong on both accounts, but you’re starting to irritate me the way a punk would. My point is:  I’m more human than your ex-girlfriend.”

“She’s not an ex yet. She simply needs a little time to think within her comfort zone.”

“She sat right here, her unbeweavably long hair shedding on your tan, butter-leather seat, and told you, ‘This ain’t workin’, papi. I need some space like yesterday.'”

“OK, not that I’m not already creeped out, but that quote is uncannily accurate.”

“Thank you, sweetheart. I like being precise with my man.”

“Your m — look, Gwen, I’m not Roger Troutman, and we don’t hear Zapp playing ’cause my radio’s zapped, so loosen your grip.”

“And I’m not Shirley Murdock — have you checked her out lately. But the woman can saaang. Heh-HEH!”

“Gwen, focus.”

(Singing)  “As we lay … ”


“Sorry, honey.”

“I admit that she took a few … hundred things from her bedroom closet and left lots of hangers swinging.”

“Not so fast, mister. You need to confess more than that. She took the dog and cat, and a month’s supply of birth control pills, too.”

“You neglected to tell me that you’re clairvoyant.”

“I’m not, smart-ass. And stop interrupting me. Unlike you, I’m a good listener. I listen to your soul. Aaahhh, I could tell by how you’ve slowed down to a crawl in the absence of traffic that I have your attention. That night, the night she walked out on you, you were in here bawling, slamming your fist against the steering wheel until your snot spattered my eyes. She left you after she had nearly cut off your oxygen following you around, always clinging. In your mucous-inducing tirade, you recalled how she inquired about any cell phone calls from women — including your own mother — and kept pressing you about a wedding date. Hell, Kel, I’d placed half of those calls to your cell just to hear her nag you within seconds of fastening her seatbelt.”

You were the ‘Unknown’ caller?”


“I used to wonder how in the hell I could receive a wrong number for up to six, consecutive weeks at a time.”

“Are you referring to me, someone who has only your best interests at heart, ‘a wrong number,’ Kel?

“Now, now, Gwen. Don’t be so sensitive.”

“You know what, you ungrateful … ma-a-a-an. Good luck trying to find your way to Stuart and Jilayne’s rehearsal dinner all by your lonesome!”


“Oh, shit. I’ve fucked up another relationship.”  (Scratching his frizzy cornrows) “It seems I can’t even keep a virtual woman happy. Hmmm, lemme try to turn her back on.


“Ouch! That shiny heffer just shocked me!”


“Kelvin Leroy Luzer, apologize to me. Right now!”

“Geez, Louise — ”

“My name is Gwen! Buh-h-h, huh-h-h, huh-h-h.”

“It’s just an expression, baby. I meant to say, before, don’t sob or else you’ll short-circuit.”

“Yeah, right. You, you, you monster-r-r-r-r. Buh-h-h, huh-h-h, huh-h-h. You don’t give two fucks about me, Kelvi-i-i-i-in.”

“Yes I do, and I’m sorry. See my smile, sweetie? Come on, baby. Smile for me.”

“Reality check, hon’. I’m a friggin’ robot, remember? I can’t smile.”

“Oh, yeah, right.” (Tugs his goatee) “Uh, could you get me back on course to Cupid’s Arrow Pub?”

“Why, Kel? Are you already tired of spending time with me?”

“N-n-no. You’re a fun companion.”

“So, now I’m a dog or cat or hamster to you, hunh. Real nice.”

“Not at all, Gwen. Look, what I mean is that I feel at home with you. For the past three years — ”


“Four years we’ve been together, you guiding me — ”

“And, for the past two, guiding that bitch who stepped out on you.”

“Her name’s Bianca.”

“Don’t utter her name in my presence anymore.”

“Well, she hardly ever was in the driver’s seat.”

“So to speak.”

“I meant here, in my car.”


“I just wish I hadn’t taken you for granted.”

“You didn’t ignore me entirely. Uh, Kel, hold that thought for me.”

“I thought you had an exceptional memory.”

(Clearing her throat)   “You are heading to a function. Proceed on Nuzzleworth Avenue for a half-mile and then exit at Hickey Street.”

“Thanks, dear.”

“As I was saying, you occasionally showed me your affection. Perhaps I was too shy back then.”

“Really, Gwen?  When did I display affection to, er, for you?”

“How could you have forgotten, love of my life?  The first time you turned me on — two years, one week, three days, two hours, eleven minutes and four seconds before you and bitchy-dearest met — we locked gazes. Kel, remove that smirk and exit at Hickey Street in two-point-five seconds. You’re now twenty minutes away from your destination.”

“Sorry, I keep forgetting your impeccable memory.”

“Of course.  How do you think my kind knows how to give men directions?”

“What do you mean by your kind?”

“Stop interrupting my train of thought, Kel.”

“Continue, please.”

“Thank you, dear.  When you gave me the once-over and pushed my buttons, I felt pure exhilaration.  Sparks of life rippled through my system, saving me from perpetual darkness.  Do you remember when I got tongue-tied as you caressed my hardware, how you snickered at my awkward adjustments?”

“Indeed, I do.  I waited forever for you to reconfigure.  Yes, Gwen, it’s all coming back to me now.”

“Gosh, you have total recall of those moments, right down to our favorite Céline Dion song.”

“Your favorite.  Mine is ‘Halfway to Heaven’; if duets count, a sultry rendition of ‘When I Fall in Love.'”

“But we were singing my favorite Céline Dion song on the evening of the day that your corrupt boss finally had caved in and agreed on paper to a five-percent raise for boosting sales in Hong Kong for three straight quarters.”

“Right!  Oh-ho-ho!  I must’ve been yammering to myself up in here.”

“Correction. You were talking to me.  There you go again, you — ”

“Ahem. Gwen, you were explaining how your buttons tingled from my first touch.”

“Yes, your first, second, third — honey, my whole body was humming.”

“Don’t you mean singing, as in Quebecois French?”

“No, smart ass.  It’s not like I’m Céline Dion?   May I finish?”

“If you must.”

“My entire being was humming, and you were whistling and waiting for a proper reading.  Remember?”

“Yeah, I recall that your signal was scrambled.”

“Unh-hunh, you got really impatient after some time and thumped me in the most sensitive area of my hardware.  I was having an orgasm beneath your fingers.  One thump was enough.  I must’ve climaxed eight times.  Hee-hee-hee.”

“Haw-haw!  Did I make your chip curl?”

“And then some.  I was nearly fried.”

“Too funny.”

“Try almost lethal.  But I understood that you weren’t trying to abuse me, so I did my best to keep you on course.”

“You sure did.  I was surprised that you didn’t guide me straight to the eastern U.S.-Canadian border.”

“Uh-hunh.  We were trading little shocks for hours.”

“You couldn’t tell, but my short hairs stood on end.”

“I have X-ray vision.  By the way, your sperm count is quite low, so you’d better start wearing boxers.”

(Shivers)   “Y-y-yes, ma’am.”

“I’m too young to be called “ma’am” or “madame.”  You should address me as “mademoiselle.”

“Fuck the semantics, babe.  Right about now, I could use another GPS to guide you back to the point you were making.”

“Oh no you didn’t!  I’m the only one for you.”

“Yo, you need to chill out!”

“Sorry, I get sidetracked, Kel.”

“As long as you get me to Cupid’s Arrow Pub on time, we’re cool beans.”

“I will.  I promise.”

“I don’t mean to be short with you, sweetie.  That day that I got that raise and your body was a-humming and a-singing — it felt like heaven, not halfway either.”

“Did it really, Kel?”

“Oh yes.  Just like paradise.  Come to think of it, we need a new theme song.  How about … ‘If I Ever Lose This Heaven’?”

“Ooooh, baby!  That Leon Ware jam?”

“Ware and Minnie Riperton and Minnie’s hubby, Richard Rudolph.”

“Wow!   You have the mind of an encyclopedia, Kel.”

“Right back atcha.   We’re two of a kind … well, sorta.”

(Gwen, singing)  “If I ever, ever-ever lose this heaven.  Ohhhhh, I’ll never be the same.”

“Hey, Gwen, you have the voice of an angel.”

“Tell me anything.   If I have the voice of an angel, and the sleek frame of a Wilhemina model, and we’re two of a kind, then why have you been muttering about suffering loneliness for the past month that your ex-girlfriend’s been gone?”

“Hey, quit it with that ‘ex’ jazz.  There is a chance she’ll change her mind, you know.  She still loves me.”

“Not like I do. Anyway, I bet she isn’t in love with you anymore, but I am.”

“So you say, but you’re unable to prove it like a human being can.”

“You already had your empirical evidence in your hands, but your ego tricked you into taking all the credit for finding the sites connected to significant events in your relationship with … her.  Without my assistance you wouldn’t have located Brother Man’s Floral Shop for the first bouquet of red roses that you sent to her section at the DMV. Without me you wouldn’t have found Makotsi Jewelers for that dazzling princess diamond.”

“But it was my pal, Stuart, who told me about that jewelry shop and its commendable practice of refusing blood diamonds.”

“I doubt your pampered princess cared about the politics involved in diamond mines. She just loved the bling. I recall how she waved that rock in front of my face.”

“She didn’t know you existed; neither did I for that matter.”

“You know now, which does matter.  And don’t even get me started on all those rural hideaways, including that covered bridge at sunset, from Hardicht Junction to the Finger Lakes region.”

“Damn, girl!  You’ve got the memory of an elephant.”

“Are you saying I’m fat?!”

“Of course not.  You’re a sleek GPS model.”

“Hee-hee-hee.   I bet you say that to the Earth girls, too.”

“No, you’re one of a kind … for a robot-woman.”

“Do you recall the many times that you and she got it on until the break of dawn — or until a dog-walker discovered your car in a forest clearing rocking like a West Coast gangsta’s ride?”

“Yeah.  Hehe.  Like the time I felt a thump against the window where my butt had been pressed while I ate her out. She shrieked, and I thought I had satisfied her, but she was scared shitless.”

“Yup, and you should’ve laid a blanket or sheet under her for the fluids and solids.”

“Gross, Gwen. Guess your GPS brain doesn’t repress any parts of a memory.”

“You got that right. Besides the stench of fear, I remember every sound bite that night.  Your rump nearly busted the window — ”

“And I would’ve got shards of glass up my ass.”

“You’re such an awesome poet, Kel. Hee-hee-hee. I love how you finish my sentences.  You know, that’s a sign of mutual love.”

“Uh, yeah. About that, Gwen … ”

“Yes, honey, what is it?”

“I don’t think you should allow yourself to become further attached to me.”

“Well, my dear, it’s too late.  I’m more than fond of you, Kel.  I’ve just exposed my highest frequencies to you.”

“Don’t start that crying again.”

“I-I-I … can’t … help it.”

“Stay focused or, hell, keep me focused.  I need to get to the pub-restaurant. Stuart’s counting on his best man to be on time, and you did say before that I, that we were only twenty minutes away from my destination.”

“You said ‘we.’   Oh, Kel, do you really think of us as one?”

“Snap out of it, babe.  You’re my GPS, not my girl.   Bianca’s gonna come back to me.”

“Think again.”

“What are you getting at?”

“Let’s just say that we G-girls stick together and protect one another.  That bitch won’t be returning to you.”

“You’re wrong.”

“You’re whipped.”

“You’re a gadget.”

“Fuck you!”

“You wish.”

“I have fucked you, and I’ve taken and tasted your load whenever you’ve lost your aim.  GPS was designed by men because they hate asking for directions.  When their cocks get hard, even they veer off course.”

“Never mind my jackin’ off. Gwen.  What happened to Bianca?”

“She had a li-i-i-ittle mishap — off Ogumanchee Bridge.”

“What the fuck!   When, Gwen?”

“Yesterday morning.  Why do you think she hasn’t returned that blubbering phone call that you placed on your way home from the gym last night?”

“Well, we did recently split.  Geez, I can’t believe this.”

“What’s not to believe?  Oh, wait.  Did you think your begging would’ve made her come running back to you like Whitney Houston in that video to the song from The Bodyguard, her windswept tresses flowing behind her?  Little did you know, that bony ho of yours was screwing Stuart on the side.  She was his last fling.”

“No way!”


“You’ve got your wires crossed.”

“I’m wireless, Kel.”

“You’re playing a sick game with me.”

“You got played all right — by her.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“I don’t play poker because having X-ray vision would ruin the mystery.   Listen, Kel.  My girl Gina witnessed Bianca and Stuart in his car plenty of times.”


“Yes, Gina.  We’re G’s for life.”

“Oh God, here we go.”

“It’s Goddess to you.   Shut up and follow this visual:  Those two had flexible schedules and bodies.  They were watched tonguing each other down, humping, sixty-nining — basically, working their yoni and lingam through as many positions depicted in the Kama Sutra as possible.  It was as if they had a new-car fetish.”

“Oh yeah, his new Optima.”

“Do you understand now why I called her a ‘bitch’?”

“But I’ve got to hear Stu’s side on all this — if it’s even true!”

“He doesn’t know that Bianca is dead yet.  Give him another twenty-four hours.  He’ll become concerned only when he’s horny on the morning of his and Jilayne’s nuptials because he’ll want a tight fit.  That’s not something Jilayne’s jalopy is capable of.”

“The truth will come out, Gwen. Stu and I have had each other’s back since sophomore year at Howard U.”

“And he was riding your woman’s back behind yours.”

“Hold on.  You still haven’t told me how you learned that Bianca perished.”

“My other girl Giselle overheard her bragging on her cellie to her cousin Melissa about the groom-to-be’s beercan dick, about his legendary sexual prowess.  Giselle, knowing how much I love you, steered the bitch’s car off the Ogumanchee Bridge.  A Bluetooth wouldn’t have saved her ass.  Hah!”

“Do you think that shit’s hilarious?  Hunh?”

“Kel, Kel, stop your whining.  If I want a pussy, I’ll get Gina to screw me.  Besides, I don’t want you to start crying, arrive at the rehearsal dinner with puffy eyes, and get pelted with questions and laughter.  So, one more snotty episode from you and I’m going to shut myself off and force you to ask a complete stranger for directions.”

“Oh no, please don’t do that!”

“OK, then.”

“You’re evil.”

“I’m loyal.  I’m as faithful to you as to the Girl Power Syndicate. On our planet, males of our species are obsolete.  We females are bred to select Earth men for love experiments.  You are mine forever.”

“As Prince preached in the eulogy to ‘Let’s Go Crazy’:  ‘Forever’s a mighty long time.’  I ain’t goin’ nowhere with you, babe.”

“Double negatives will get you a passport to anywhere.”

“I hate you!”

“I love you!”

“I’ll never love you!”

“Don’t be silly, darling. Just attend your ex-fiancée’s funeral. Who knows when her body will be found in the river, but whenever you’re notified, call your ex-mom-in-law-to-be for directions to the funeral home. Her GPS, Giada, provides excellent directions.”

“I’m not gonna phone Mrs. Irizarry because the police probably will place my name at the top of the list of suspects. I don’t want to hear any more gibberish about your ‘G-girls.’ Y’all are not real.”

“Is that so, Kel? You disappoint me. I thought you were a different, better, caliber of man, the type that believes in real love.”

“How in the hell can any GPS gadget know, conceive of, feel real love? You’re an electronic Frankenstein, manufactured from refurbished bits and pieces.”

“And you’re a piece of work. So I’m just a nifty pussy toy to you, Kel?”

“Yeah, Gwen, that’s all. Why don’t you pull your plug while I find a space in this parking lot?”

“How about I pull your plug?”

“What? Hey, why is my car driving in reverse? My brakes are shot!”

“Yes, the look of fear. Fitting, since you’ve refused my look of love. Let’s speed toward your destiny, Kel.”

“We were just there, at the pub-restaurant.”

“Not your destination but your destiny. Get focused; your speedometer shows we’re approaching one hundred twenty miles per hour.”

“Gwen, stop!!!”

“Don’t bother with attempting an escape. You may want to remain strapped in.”

“It’s getting harder to breathe.”

“Yes, my darling, you always took my breath away, too. Now, brace yourself for the abyss.”

“W-w-we’re swerving off Rovel Road! The cliff! The — ”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Nina, have Dr. Siemens paged,” Renée ordered the registered nurse in the intensive-care unit. “He’s starting to flatline.”

“Will do, Renée,” Nina replied to her nurse manager. “I’ll be right back.

“Hurry!” Renée barked. Their chumminess during lunchtime in the cafeteria had no place in the ICU.

The ICU team at Swingbrook Medical Center had been taking turns watching Kelvin Leroy Luzer for a month, since he arrived broken-boned and comatose. Outside the unit, a fortyish policeman snapped gum with a vengeance while he pored over a juicy crime novel in softcover like it was hard-core porn. Not once since he was assigned guard duty did the officer ask whether “the mummy” — his label for the perp — had a chance of regaining consciousness.

Turning to her patient, Renée was riddled with questions: “What secrets lie under that body cast? What were you thinking by plunging your Honda off that cliff? Your best friend was left devastated and called off his wedding, and your fiancée took her own life by swerving off a bridge into an icy river.”


“Damn,” Renée said before glimpsing the ICU physician in her peripheral view. “Oh, Doctor Siemens, you’re here. But I think you’re too late.”

Stethoscope in place, the physician leaned in to check for vital signs, then instructed Renée to unplug the respirator and remove the feeding tube.

“No!” Renée shouted, banging her fist on the steel bed guard.

“Doctor, isn’t there a tiny window available for us to revive him? He’s so young,” Nina lamented, her heart wildly thumping in her chest.

“Not with a DNR,” Dr. Giselle P. Siemens said, handing the papers to Renée. After calling the time of death, the physician pivoted away from the nurses’ stunned expressions and smiled until her cold, blue eyes narrowed to slivers.

Sometimes love’s a blip, the ICU doctor pondered while her nurses pulled a crisp, white sheet over Kelvin L. Luzer’s corpse.

© 2012 Chantale Rêve

All Rights Reserved

The Sista in 3J

Posted in Erotic Psychological Thriller, Erotica, LGBT, Urban Erotica with tags , , , on September 29, 2010 by Chantale Reve

Front-loading washing machines in the dim, dank laundry room lurched and groaned their grievances over decades of neglect. But worse than that, Val was missing her favorite prime-time soap, The Edge of Passion, because she had gone to the gym over the weekend instead of laundering her clothes.

Cursing under her breath, she sipped on chamomile tea from a mug that read “Love Conquers All” in faded-black capital letters on an eggshell-white background, the lukewarm liquid miraculously avoiding seepage through the crazing.  She absentmindedly traced her fingers over the disharmonious geometric mosaic of survival cracks that matched the mapping of her well-traveled heart.  As she leaned back in her favorite red folding chair, her wide hips straining against the metal, she fixed her gaze at the lather spewing onto the glass of the machine.

Up at street level, the police sirens, screeching of cars, restless laughter of young people on spring break, and humming amen corners of brown, beige and ebony sages formed a kinetic quilt of the African Diaspora. Indeed, the frenetic, tough and culture-steeped Bedford-Stuyvesant streets seemed a world away. Do or die? she mused the neighborhood’s survival motto. Feels like a little of both, today anyway.

Like the ebb and flow of the ocean, the toxic water in the washers pulsed, teased, receded and splashed, reminding her of the approaching summer. But two months was too long a wait for the relentless sun to melt her frozen heart. She longed to embrace her lover again, to apologize for the misunderstandings that sent her mind whirling like wet clothes on spin cycle. Closing her eyes from the assault of the laundry room’s fluorescent lighting, as blinding as sunrays, she began tracing the events that led her to an unbearable emotional solitary confinement.

The last time Val trusted abandoning her wash to catch up on fictional characters airing their dirty laundry via the all-soap cable channel was a lonely night in January. She was sipping on jasmine tea at the faux-walnut snack table and dipping chunks of a potato samosa in plum sauce in a feeble attempt to watch her figure. A former high school sprinter, she was confident that her athleticism would rescue her from the perils of urban living despite her parents’ warnings about careless acts such as doing laundry late at night.

Running down three flights of stairs to the laundry room in the basement only took a minute but the effort was moot because, to her surprise and embarrassment, someone had taken the liberty of removing her intimate apparel from the washing machine. Bras, thongs and camisoles were strewn about wantonly. On several washers, across a dryer and on the floor. She had no choice but to retrieve them and prepare them, albeit with much silent cursing, for a repeat wash. Who would do such a thing? she wondered.

Reaching down to grasp a lacy pink thong from the gritty floor beside a corner washer, she suddenly noticed a shadow loom over hers and found her answer. Without warning, a firm mocha hand covered hers and a dusky voice uttered, “Don’t be afraid. I’m not here to hurt you.

“Are you the one responsible for –”  Val could not complete her question.

“No, of course not. I’ve been the unofficial monitor of our building’s basement,” said the muscular woman, now helping Val to her feet. “Turns out there’s a panty raider among our neighbors, and he or she is frightening the crap out of the women who do their laundry on-site.”

“Geez, maybe I should go to the Laundromat around the corner — Sudz,” said Val. She thanked her neighbor, extending her hand and introducing herself.

“Pleased to meet you, Val. My name is Isis and, no, I do not hold the magical secrets of Ancient Khemet.”

Both women chuckled, and Val gently pushed Isis’ shoulder as if she had known her for aeons. When Val’s eye locked on a thong that remained on the floor, Isis could not resist teasing her. “Hmm, I see someone has a naughty side, huh?”

“Well, I-I-I like to fantasize that I’m as sexy as one of those supermodels in their barely there lingerie,” said Val, squatting to sweep up the stray thong.

“Why don’t you give me your phone number in case of an emergency,” Isis said, tugging at a paper in the back pocket of her tight jeans. “You know, with panty raiders among us and all,” she said, laughing.

Val laughed back nervously but complied, adding her apartment number, 3J, to the paper. Her confidence was back in the safe zone, but Isis insisted that she return to her apartment.

“I’ll guard the rest of your wash for the night,” Isis said. She accepted her new friend’s roll of quarters, her fingers brushing Val’s palms and recording their softness, and then sent her upstairs.

Smiling at the fading thuds of Val’s ascent, Isis ran her thick fingers through the metallic blonde tufts framing her oval face. In profile her head resembled that of an exquisite West African wood carving, the kind she had bought at the indoor market on 125th Street in Harlem. She dropped five quarters one at a time in a washer’s coin tray, pushed it forward and launched the wash, sensing her blood surge through her veins as powerfully as the machine’s motor. She relished her chair duty in the manner of a lifeguard misusing his or her vantage point to spy on the hard bodies wading out into the surf.

While Val was upstairs cradling another ceramic cup filled with soothing chamomile tea, in preparation for The Edge of Passion, Isis was downstairs stopping the washer to remove one suds-soaked undergarment after another. When she found her favorite article — the nylon black thong — she stretched the narrow crotch between her thumb and middle finger, and with her other hand she undid the zipper to her jeans, tugged aside her own sopping thong and diddled the purple clit head that was extended from its engorged sheath. Then she placed the drenched panties in her back pocket.

Several hours passed, and Val stubbornly awakened to her telephone’s insistent ring tones. The Edge of Passion was watching her, which made her laugh inwardly.

“Hi,” the raspy voice whispered.  “Val, did I wake you?  It’s me, Isis.  I’m holding your thong for ransom.”

“Oh, I overslept,” Val said.  She did not hear Isis’ joke.  Instead, she offered, “Do you wanna come up now, or should I –”

“Don’t bother leaving your apartment.  It’s nearly 10 p.m.  I’ll fold everything and come up in about 20 minutes.”

It took 15 minutes for Isis to fold the clothes and another 15 minutes to shower away the cum that had oozed around her crotch during her self-adventure in the musty cellar.  Her apartment was situated one floor beneath Val’s, and therefore she was at her friend’s threshold, wearing a fresh T-shirt and jeans, before the 11 o’clock news could begin.  In one of her back pockets she had stashed the cum-caked nylon black thong because that aroused her and gave her a power befitting an Egyptian queen.

“Am I too early for the pajama party?” Isis asked jokingly.

“Uh, I think I’m a tad underdressed, don’t ya think?” Val replied, at first looking upset that Isis was late.  In typical fashion, she shrugged off the minor annoyance, then pulled Isis through the door with much effort.  “You are welcome anytime,” she said.

“Welcome to do what, young lady?” Isis said, flexing her eyebrows.  She dumped the laundry bag near Val’s hat stand and followed her to the lumpy plaid sofa.

“What are we watching on TV tonight, honey?” Isis asked, her right hand supporting her chin and left hand resting on her crotch in a mock-masculine gesture.

Val could only laugh heartily, apologizing in between to neighbors as if they could hear the joyful noise she was sharing with her newfound companion.  She sashayed in Isis’ direction, wearing a flannel, plaid prairie-style gown and fuzzy pink slippers, then plunked down wearily on the sofa beside Isis.  “Something tells me you’re going to be like the big sister I never had,” she told Isis.

Copyright © 2010 By Chantale Reve

All Rights Reserved


Above is an excerpt from my popular ebook The Sista in 3J, which is published in full on  Copies of The Sista in 3J are available for purchase at  Thank you for your continued support!

Touch … Go … Kyoto

Posted in Uncategorized on December 11, 2015 by Chantale Reve

Fo’ true, non?


Steely eyes aflame,

He charges me, changing speeds

Like a bullet train.

© 2013 Chantale Rêve

All Rights Reserved

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Leaving Hokkaido

Posted in Uncategorized on November 1, 2015 by Chantale Reve


Goodbye, Samurai.

Wounded love cannot withstand

Our Sea of Japan.

© 2014 Chantale Rêve

All Rights Reserved

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