When does sovereignty of naked photos expire? Do they ever? Or should they?
Not the commercial nudes adorning glossy magazines or porn sites, but those serving as, what, mementos that have been passed between lovers. In some circles, these are called “dedication pictures.”
As in “dedicated to the one I love.”
Naturally. What proclaims deepest affection and fidelity more than a lover’s or companion’s voluntarily exchanged nude photograph? Continue reading Yours Alone
This concludes Intrigue the Boy and Three Kimonos
Gone that March 1978 Thursday night were Trevor’s shitkickers. His entire casual appearance, the being it conferred, had been exiled. Though technically still a greenhorn, he learned quickly. He bought another pair of Western boots specifically for decent social occasions as well as two-steppin’ and instructor-hosted events. Not only did he endeavor to keep the black leather glossy but the white stitching pristine.
Absent also on this night were chinos and tees, replaced by tailored navy blue serge over a button-down shirt. One real-life tie whose Windsor knot was genuine completed the transformation that startled Delores. After he crossed her threshold, she smilingly stepped back, then circled to better assess “the wonder.”
Continue reading His Azure Adventure Ends
Trevor couldn’t certify the moment Delores monopolized his horizon. Though certainly a presence from Arizona Day One, she remained undistinguished for what seemed his longest hours.
To him, Delores personified gravitas. More so than any other older figures he should’ve respected outside his parents. Not just her face, whose age she made zero attempts to Continue reading Intrigue the Boy
Fabio could’ve taken lessons in deviousness from Celia. He should’ve. Maybe pointers from her might’ve prevented his now and forever pronounced limp. Probably not. Indifferent a student in youth as he had been, Fabio was not an old dog to be taught new tricks.
Maybe ascribing Celia as devious is unnecessarily harsh. Driven. She was driven. At least that lends her a trait Americans can admire. Otherwise it would be too easy to call her manipulative.
Celia grew up in Brazil’s Minas Gerais state. Once I asked her town’s name, and she told me, but I forgot it. Or misheard it. Likely the last. Sometimes having drank too much vitamin whiskey her accent thickened into incomprehensibility. And she couldn’t be understood either.
Continue reading The Amoralists — Part Two
Another obscure Islamic cleric has thundered in self-righteous indignation about a young woman who didn’t know her place. A woman, who, God forfend, expressed herself without concern how it would enrage some screaming man who’d forgotten his last erection. Continue reading Woman Is a Devil