Dec 26, 2014

No more sex with minors --- This is heaven (teaser)

If we could only call all posts "Sex with minors." They attract double the amount of page-views and they add a little frisson... we posted a link to the previous teaser ("Sex with minors") in an erotic author group on Facebook, and a sister author (specializing herself in erotic murder) took exception ("Don't you see how offensive this is to many people")---having sex with a kid seventeen years old is the end of the world but snuff with eighteen year olds is okay---and then, having worked herself into a righteous frenzy she no longer needs to read the offensive post (no sex in it), or verify the age of consent (16, in Georgia, where the story is set), or verify the age of the kid (18, it's his birthday). 
Anyhow, John and Taylor (the kid) have been freed from jail, and they are discussing the circumstances of their arrest (which took place in a trailer sealed with crime-tape).
"Hullaboo," Bob Bienpensant

Taylor affects a sideway glance. “Funny, you had some dealings with this inspector before. The guy knew you. The police tape. You know something about the police tape?”
“I discovered the corpse.”
“The corpse?”
“The corpse behind the police tape?”
“No, yes, no.”
“You discovered the corpse. Cool. So it wasn’t a perimeter violation then. You entered the premises to recoup…your watch. No, not your watch, something serious. Like your cell phone. There was a situation. ‘Your Honor,’ you say to the judge, ‘upon discovering the dead body I was so shocked that I left my cell astray. And then I suddenly remembered Mom. It’s only once a year, your Honor, her anniversary, very special. I had to call her right away. I had to recoup the phone. A birthday emergency.’ And then the judge, if he’s male, he’s old and satiated and don't listen and echoes ‘Once a year.’ If she’s female, she’s still hungry and she asks: ‘Couldn’t you borrow a phone from somebody else?’ And then you answer: ‘Of course not, Your Honor, how would I know her number.’ Case dismissed.”
“Astray,” I say.
"Yeah, nice, isn't it, adds a little spice."


 We’re walking along the Davis canal in the dappled shade of the aspens. The trees are quiet today, no foliage is twisting, any hint of a breeze has died.
“Hot, isn’t it,” I say.
“As hot as a cat on a tin roof, isn’t that a Southern expression,” Taylor says.
“It’s a play by Tennessee Williams.”
“With Liz Taylor, right?”

Paul Newman, Liz Taylor, The cat on the hot tin roof (1958)

We’ve arrived at the draw bridge, corner Georgia Beach Avenue. I could turn left, leave Taylor to his own devices, and go home, nobody needs me on the field anyhow. Except that the truck is still parked there. Taylor has already lifted his arm, pointed his thumb eastward, and caught the attention of an approaching Toyota Prius with what appears to be Alex at the wheel. Alex pulls over, the passenger window rolls down. “Your destination?,” he asks.
The next cloud bank,” I say.
“You have your moments,” he answers and opens the door. Taylor ends up on the back seat, I ride shotgun. “Taylor, long time no see,” Alex says.
“Isn’t that a Southern expression: ‘You sweat like a prostitute in church’?” Taylor replies.
“Prostitute, right,” Alex answers. “À propos, John, how about Bienpensant?”
“I got distracted,” I say.
“You got distracted,” he says, tapping the wheel with two fingers. “You got distracted to the point of getting yourself arrested.”
“How do you know?” Taylor asks.
“Taylor, why don’t you ask…Dr. Watson, here?” Alex replies, nodding in my direction.
“Dr. Watson knows, but you?” Taylor answers.
“If Watson knows, Holmes knows.”
“You’re not Sherlock Holmes.”
“You’re right, I’m arrogant again,” Alex says, “I apologize.”
“But?” (Taylor). (What's your answer).
“Holmes lived in a deterministic age. His logic was mostly two-valued.”
“That’s the answer?”
“We, however, we live in a probabilistic age.”
“That’s the answer?”
“I see,” Taylor says.
“In that, how likely would it be that you two find yourself without any conveyance, in the middle of the summer heat, away from the field, at the corner of Beach Avenue and Canal Street, hundred yards from the police station, hitchhiking?”
“Holmes wouldn’t be convinced.”
“That’s what I implied. Holmes wouldn’t. But you were.”
“Two-valued,” Taylor says.
“Astray,” I say.

“Holmes wouldn’t be convinced.”
“That’s what I implied. Holmes wouldn’t. But you were.”

“Astray,” Alex repeats. “No, John, not astray.”
“Just saying.”
“Not sure you got it.”
“I did get it. Really, I did.”
“Okay. I retract, apologize.”
“No sweat.”
“I apologize,” he repeats, more pensively. We’ve reached the downtown rotary, the main downtown feeder, and are slowed down by the traffic.

He turns to me again, oblivious to the traffic: “Apology time. It was bad what I did, John, I’m sorry.”
“What did you do, then?”
“The Bienpensant thing.”
“Oh that,” I say.
“Out of the blue sky. I didn’t prepare it properly. Taylor is one thing. Bienpensant is another.”
We’re driving past Lupo di Mare, the Italian restaurant. “Lupo di Mare,” I nod, “tonight, you’re coming?”
“You need me?”
“You don’t need me. What do I know about Ray?”
“The Bienpensant thing, why do you bring it up now?”
“Dunno. The context. Dunno. I need my hands free. Getting done with apologies for today.”

“Can I ask you a question?” Taylor comes from behind. “You’re a couple, right?”

“We were,” I say, preempting Alex.
“Until when?” Taylor asks.
“Taylor,” Alex says, “you’re perhaps too young for this.”
“For gay relationships?”

Jeff Goldblum, Richard Attenborough, etc, Jurassic Park (1993)

Alex laughs: “No. I mean for Jurassic Park, the movie.”
“Jurassic Park is PG, I’d say,” Taylor says, “greedy programmers torn to pieces by rapacious raptors. PG.”
“It’s twenty years old or so, the movie, have you seen it?”
“Attenborough, you know, the owner of the park.”
“In one scene, Attenborough invites Jeff Goldblum to this artificial insemination room, a baby-raptor is about to hatch, high-tech equipment, carbon dioxide clouds billowing, the hatchling hatching, Attenborough says to Goldblum: ‘I always make sure I’m around when one hatches, the first creature the baby lays its eyes on, that’s its lode star.’ Attenborough phrases it better, you get the gist.”
“When I woke up, on Friday, the first creature I laid my eyes on, that was John.”
“You ‘woke up’ on Friday?”
“I’ve been the victim of a serious suicide attempt. John saved my life.”

We arrive at the field. "Be good, the two of you," he says while we get out.

Are you still there? Then you'll possibly like the GREEN EYES. The first part is out now, available as Kindle book on Amazon, under this link:

Night Owl Reviews

Go here for the previous teaser of This is heaven, here for the next one, and here for a selection of chapters of the Green Eyes.

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