The Meaning of Life on the Inside of a Dark Chocolate Wrapper

 

erotic

**A friend asked me if I ever write erotica. I said no, but decided to give it my best shot anyways…

Samantha sat over a cup of soft coffee, pondering the meaning of life; there were charts, tables, graphs, quotes, poems, and even the wrapper for a bar of dark chocolate.

Samantha sighed. She turned. A man stood in her door. Half of her breath took a walk.

He was big in every way you want a man to be big, and not in any way you don’t. His name was Steve, because sometimes big guys are named Steve.

“I’m Steve,” Steve said, his voice sounding and resounding as the Liberty Bell might have.

“…” Samantha said.

Steve smiled; it was the first and last smile ever created by God–the rest were made in China. Steve stepped forward, he wore only pants and oil. Samantha could feel his heat before he was half-way to her.

“Wha–” she began. But Steve’s smile ate the rest of her words. He bent down and picked her up in one arm. Samantha pressed a hand into his chest; it reminded her of the first time she touched a horse. His heart beat–hers ran.

“Wait,” she whispered.

Steve kissed her neck.

“For what,” he whispered to every cell in her body. Samantha took a breath. “I need to know the meaning of life first,” she managed. Steve understood, because just as some men named Steve are big, some big men are understanding.

Steve placed Samantha down.

They both turned to the charts, tables, poems and quotes. Steve reached out and ran his finger over the wrapper of dark chocolate. Then, from somewhere Samantha would find out about later, Steve pulled a pair of glasses.

As it turned out, Steve was a genius, because just as some men are understanding, some understanding men are also geniuses.

Within ten-minutes Samantha and Steve discovered the meaning of life. Then, without waiting to say it aloud, Samantha took off Steve’s pants. When she did, she was startled by a childhood memory; her and her friend Helen had found a thick log by the river. They had dragged it out into the current and laid on it, drifting along with the sun; it was big enough to keep them both afloat.

Samantha smiled, it was a good memory.

Then, with one small finger, two teeth and a tongue, Steve removed Samantha’s clothes. He held her close.

“Put your sexy mouth on my mouth,” he cooed–the most manly of coos.

And, of course, Samantha did.

 

The Drunk Collar

yesterday's

I sit at the bar alone. It is a Tuesday. It isn’t late, it isn’t early. The sun has been hanging around later these days, yet the wind is still at war with the warmth, so I take my jacket out with me to smoke.

A man is there, speaking English into his phone. Something about an apology. He puts two fingers to his lips, looking my way. I pass him a cigarette. He cringes as he places it in his mouth as though he’s taken it from the lit end. He turns away.

I find him later, in the bar, also alone.

“Hey man,” I say. He gives me a funny look.

“You’re American?” he asks.

I nod.

“You like Trump?”

I sigh. “Honestly don’t care.”

He frowns. “That’s worse.”

“Oh well. You?”

“Do I like trump?”

“No, where are you from?”

He seems to think about it a moment.

“England,” he decides. He doesn’t sound English.

“Mind if I?”

He takes his jacket off the chair beside him. I sit.

“So,” he says, “why don’t you care about trump–ah!”

His face jolts into a grimace.

I lean away, confused.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. He taps his neck. I look and notice a thin strip of metal around it.

“What the hell is that?”

He slips a finger under it, itching. “Drunk collar,” he says, as though it is a thing.

“Excuse me?”

“You haven’t heard of them?”

I shake my head.

“Ah, well, you take them out when you go drinking. You can program them to shock you whenever you do something you wouldn’t normally do sober.”

“Uh-huh.”

He laughs. “No, I know, it sounds absurd. My wife got me hooked on it. It helps. You make more friends, and when you do, you keep them.”

I look at the collar again. It doesn’t look too fancy.

“How do you program it?” I ask.

He pulls out his phone.

“There is an app.” He turns the phone to me. “This is my list.”

driving

eating chicken wings past 10PM

touching female strangers

fighting

texting ex-girlfriends

smoking

arguing about politics

public urinat–

He puts his phone back in his pocket before I can finish the list.

“Anyways, it’s a long one.”

“I see.”

“But really man, how could you people elect Trump–AH,” he grits through the pain.

I shy away from him a bit. “Look, I don’t like talking about politics, like, ever. And, well, you seem to know it’s a bad idea.”

He shakes his head, knocking away the pain. “My wife made this list with my damn mother-in-law,” he growls.

“I’m sorry?”

He seems to calm down a bit.

“It’s fine. I just don’t understand you Americans.”

I shrug. “You don’t have to. Not sure we do.”

He takes his drink down in one.

“I’m off to piss,” he says. Then his face twists into knots.

“Not right here!” he cries at his collar. It calms down, he sighs and heads for the bathroom.

 

 

 

Apollo and the Laurel Tree

apollo

A clearing. A tree. A river. It was night. Apollo sat, head in hands.

“Now that the chase has ended what am I to do now?” Apollo called to the night air.

The laurel tree swayed and sighed.

Eros perched himself in the tree above Apollo’s head, laughing.

Apollo, being a god, knew that it was no use defying nature. So, he took the Laurel tree as his crest and went back out into the world, leaving his heart behind.

Each century, Apollo returned, stood under the tree and sang all the love songs sung in the past hundred years. Throughout, the laurel tree would sway, and sigh, and sometimes dance. Always, though, she remained unmoved.

In one year, while singing a ballad lost to us, a man walked along the riverbank. He was young. He stopped a while and watched Apollo sing. When the song ended, the man clapped.

“What for art thou singing to this laurel?” The man asked.

Apollo touched the tree and sighed.

“My love was turned from me, into a tree.”

The man nodded, thoughtful. He spoke thus, “Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.”

Apollo turned and narrowed his eyes at the man.

“What is this about Cupid, that flagitious little harpy. Has he sent you to mock me?”

“I–Uh,” the man managed, startled.

Apollo drew his sword and chased the man from the forest.

Apollo never met another soul in that forest until the day he came to find the Laurel tree gone. At first elated, thinking his love had been freed, he soon fell into distress. Eros sat upon a stump in the spot where the laurel tree had been.

Eros, sighed.

“Poor thing,” he sung. Then he winked, and vanished. Apollo, furious, began to search the forest. He knew every wrinkle of the Laurel tree and found her, slain, sitting in a logging mill.

And there Apollo wept, before smashing the mill to bits with his bare hands. He then took the laurel tree on his back and carried her to a bookmaker where she was made into a thousand blank pages.

In these pages Apollo wrote all the songs he knew, until they were wet and heavy with ink.

These pages he took to the river and laid them one by one into the water, singing as he did.