previous  |  main  |  index  |  next

January 29, 2003 post-coital rag "When will I learn?  I never should have slept with you.  It cost me a friendship." Elliott Longstreet held the telephone receiver at arm's length and scrunched his face as though stifling a fart.  He put the phone down on his desk and lit a cigarette.  Like a cartoon, smoke curled itself into an index finger beckoning Longstreet to leap from his second story office window.  Death seemed preferable to Sylvia's self-centered, horseshit matinée.  Longstreet looked down at the Quarter below.  A jump from this height wouldn't prove fatal.  So he picked up the receiver and exhaled.  Sylvia was still talking. "Why the big sigh, Elliott?  You know it's true." "That wasn't a sigh, Syl.  I'm smoking.  Helps me concentrate on what you're sayin'." I'd rather try to bend a spoon with my mind, he thought.  They had known each other since high school and he had always liked her.  She had come to New Orleans for an RN convention and had called him from her room at The Monteleone.  Several martinis later, they gave in, not so much to passion, but to boredom.  Before the post-coital wash rag could cool, Sylvia had him by the balls--figuratively this time. Sylvia Barton was in awe of her own snatch.  In her mind, it was man's Holy Grail, his Golden Fleece.  Once found and claimed, the search was over.  Any hero who set sail and departed after drinking from the chalice or cuddling the fleece was a wretched man indeed.  And, certainly, he was no hero.

©  2003 by the beastmaster