Perfect Date

By DX

Copyrighted 01/01, 08/2024 all rights reserved, story and artwork may not be reproduced electronically or otherwise without written consent. 

 You need arm candy! No corp exec can go anywhere without a trophy spouse hanging off his arm. You move, you shake and you don't have time to pay the high costs of a mistress or sycophant. 

 Wrongco hears your cry and presents... The Perfect Date! 

 Got a big convention to go to? Board meeting? Perhaps you’re in the closet and don't dare come out least it cost you your job! Weekend at the CEO's estate? Don't even think of going alone, let Wrongco create the Perfect Date for you who won't even bat an eye if you go home with someone else! 

 We use only the highest quality candidates made to order. In this promotional, we will walk step by step through the Perfect Date creation.

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Copyright 01/2001, 8/2024, all rights reserved
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Hand on Scripture

By DX

A man meets a beautiful woman, but she is betrothed to a Prince and secured in Chasti-Permalocks until she marries.  If she doesn’t, she will face the full might of Chasti-Permalocks!  Who will she marry, or live in permanent chastity?

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Copyright 1/2018 6/2023 all rights reserved.  May not be reproduced without prior written permission from the author.

 Sitting on a bench, overlooking the grassy quad, I watched with bemused eyes as an invisible wind god scooped up a girl’s stack of papers and ran madly through the grass, scattering them as he went.  She frantically chased the pages drifting in the air like snow in early winter.  She wore a gray and black jilbab, a long tailored coat of Middle Eastern wear, and its hem dashed around her ankles and bogged her down, frustrating her attempts to grab her work.  Other students were giving chase trying to catch the sheaves of paper, but the god of wind mischievously plucked them out of reach.

 As the god of wind ran past me, I slowly rose, grunting, and calmly, carefully, reached up and snagged them one by one.  Peeved, the god of wind sensed the game was over and dropped them all, scattering them like fall leaves across the grass.

 The students gathered them all up and brought them to me, their professor, as a central drop off point, and I jotted them all neatly for the girl to reclaim.  She was panting as she came up, winded from her mad dash.  I noted she wore a black and red Hajib over her head, and a black Niqab, a black scarf that covered her face but left her eyes exposed.

 She looked up as I handed her the pages.

 I knew it was rude in some cultures to look a woman in the eye and I tried desperately to avert my gaze but the instant I saw them, that flash of expansive, expressive, melted chocolate and star burst hazel eyes, I fell headlong into them.

 Through sheer will I looked down at my hands and the papers they held.  “Here you are.”  I said with a cough.  “To your pile I add one more.”  I laid a flyer on top of her pages, trying not to marvel at the creamy skin of her hands.  “I’m doing a talk tomorrow at the Warren Building on the Byzantine economic structure and its ramifications on free market today, to a bunch of dust covered academics.  A lethally boring topic, I’m sure.”  I smiled, still looking at her hands.  “Tell your friends!  They can cheer me on and help keep me awake.”

 She nodded, placing a hand on the flyer.  I tried not to react when her hand, warm and soft, brushed mine.  She then touched her heart, again nodding.  I returned the standard Arabic gesture.  She nodded again and walked away, her classmates chittering around her.

 I sat back down on my bench and unwrapped my lunch.  As I ate, I watched the students wander off, confident I would never see her again.

 The following night, as I addressed the facility about Byzantine economics, I was shocked to see her looking up at me from the front row of the audience, her eyes, her mystical, powerful eyes peering up at me.  She had with her a cadre of other students, most bored out of their minds before I even spoke.  I focused on my talk, dipping into my passion reserves, to try to sell the importance of the topic, and got a surprising, rousing applause at the conclusion.  I had even won over some of the kids who asked poignant and relative questions after.

 She had said nothing.

 I tried not to be aware of her magical eyes during the talk or during the question and answer phase, but it was impossible; sharp and aware like a jungle cat, filled with shades of darkness like an anti-rainbow.

 All I could see of her was her eyes.

 And that was enough.

 I soon learned her name was Malika, and she was an Islamic studies research associate and not a student.  She was in her early thirties and engaged to be married to an Arabic Prince.

 A Prince.  Of course.

 I chided myself for being a silly old man.  What was I thinking?  Well, the obvious, of course--those wondrous, wondering, and wonderful eyes.  Either way, my talk on Byzantine economics must have been pretty good.

 She popped up again during another of my talks, sitting in the front row.  She also stayed for the Q&A and the refreshment phase.  I never saw her eat or drink anything, but I simply chalked that up to dietary restrictions.  She had a friend, a charming blonde girl with dual hearing aids, who seemed to be a confidant and bodyguard.  I knew her as staff from the math department.  Eve.

 I chided myself for calling them, ‘girls’.  They were certainly women and paid faculty staff.  Being in my (cough) early fifties, anyone in their thirties began to look like children to me, Eve especially.

 I, as a proper teacher, did what I was supposed to do.  Encourage them academically and professionally and otherwise ignore them.

 Ah!  Those eyes!  I treated myself.  That small slice between her scarf and her veil was a full turkey dinner.  Through glances from the side of my vision, I dinned.

 Malika and Eve popped up at more functions and even during lectures, and I noticed that although Malika never spoke, the two seemed to communicate.  I also noted that Malika would always stand between Eve and me.  I experimented, casually standing next to Eve, and within moments Malika gracefully, subtly positioned herself between us.  I then tried the experiment on other women, older and younger, and each time Malika would somehow, her ninja powers brimming, find herself closest to me.

 When I expanded the test to men, and the same result occurred, I quipped.  “Keep this up and people will talk.”

 But she only looked at me as she always did, her dream filled eyes studying me, and I shamefully adored the attention.

 She never seemed to acknowledge when I spoke to her, almost as if she didn’t hear me.  While speaking with Eve, noting her hearing aids, it dawned on me that Malika was deaf.  This suddenly explained why she was watching me.  She was reading my lips, I assumed.  Well, we all know what happens when one assumes.

 I met up Professor Washington, a language teacher, and began studying American Sign Language.  I only hoped Malika knew it.  Arabic Sign language was different than American.

 When I met her again at a semester end faculty party I signed, Hello, how are you?

 Her face lit up and her hands flashed and I had to stop her and sign, Student, which practically exhausted my vocabulary.

 She nodded and began a lesson, pointing to glasses and forks and trays and signing the words for them as the party went along around us.  As I watched her, I realized she was a beautiful, intelligent woman who saw me as a safe, respecting friend, something rather rare in a male dominated academic world where women with doctorates were still expected to fetch the coffee.  Most men knowing her betrothal gave her a wide berth, but with me she could have a person to talk to like proper adults, someone who understood her culture.  She saw me as an ally and I accepted my role happily.  It allowed me to continue to satiate on her eyes in the edge of my vision.

 While my lesson continued, her boss, Margaret Cho, stepped over.  “Malika?  Eve may have gotten a hold of bad oysters.”

 Malika bowed to me, hand on heart, and walked off following Margret.  I figured I would not see her again for the evening and indulged in Euan MacTugg’s whiskey tasting, but Malika was back at my elbow by the second drink.  I signed, Ok?  And she answered, Eve is all right.

 With index finger and pinky extended on both hands, she crossed her hands, taping her wrists together.  She then spelled out the word, alcohol.  She then declined any, simply enjoying watching us.

 After the sixth round of drinks the party was well over and Eve was no where around.  I signed to Malika, Eve?  And she responded, Home.

 Margaret was blitzed, as were the rest of the staff, and Euan asked if I could see Malika home.  Everyone knew my answer and everyone expected the next words out of my mouth.

 “Of course, most certainly, if Malika will mind my company.”  And as gently as I could manage I said:  “But it still distresses me to know that in the hallowed grounds of intellectualism of this esteemed and ivory league campus, a member of staff or student is not safe to walk home at night.”

 Everyone politely nodded, not wanting to get into an argument they all agreed on while three sheets to the wind.  We said our goodbyes, and Malika and I headed out into the night.

 It was cool, but we were properly dressed.  Knowing full well she couldn’t hear me I talked about the history of the campus which ultimately got me on the subject of campus security and the truth of women being sexually assaulted in the one place they should be the safest.  I felt guilty for taking advantage of the situation as I got to spend time with her aura, her gaze.  She tended to walk behind me and I would stop and wait for her to walk beside me.  When she did, she pointedly averted her gaze, as appropriate.  I did walk closest to the curb.  The irony was not lost on me.

 It was a winding college path, about a half-mile to the apartments where the associates lived.  I still had a lovely mile to walk home.  Nice weather and quiet, I looked forward to muttering to myself, arguing with the night.  If I timed it right, I would not be quite sober before I topped off from my own cache of Scotch at home.

 At the front of her apartment I signed Goodnight.  She touched her hand to her heart and nodded.  I responded, smiled and turned away.

 She grabbed my elbow.

 As I turned around I realized how close she was.  She was looking down.  I instinctively stepped back but she stepped forward, clutching my arm.

 She looked up into my eyes.

 A cobra can freeze its prey with a glance and I thought of that as the dim street light flashed in her eyes.

 We stood there for, I don’t know how long.  I could feel her hand on my arm.  I could feel the tiny space between us.  I could feel the cool night.  I could feel her eyes cast upon mine.

 They were sad and wondering and confused and fascinated and terrified.

 She reached up and touched my face, my beard, my lips.

 She stepped closer.

 Her breasts were up against me.  I stood like a statue, unable to do the professorly thing and step back, nod regally, stoically, and run like hell.  Her arms moved like serpents, sliding around me, hugging me.  I tentatively touched her shoulder only so I wouldn’t look like a proper goober.  I allowed her warmth to flow through me before I motioned to break.  She didn’t for several seconds longer.

 Free, I nodded and smiled weakly.  I went to say, Goodnight, then run for my life, but she stopped me by placing a finger across my lips, shushing me. 

 Freezing me.

 Her eyes locked on mine.  She reached up and pulled down her Niqab.

 Like the Fox and the Sour Grapes I had imagined she had a bare-knuckle boxer’s nose, flat and misshapen, and a witch’s wart complete with hair sticking out the end, but instead it was perfect in every way, narrow and chiseled.  I had imagined her mouth to be bulging fire hose ringing around a smashed picket fence of teeth but like her nose it wasn’t what I expected.

 Nothing like I had imagined at all.

 She looked at me defiantly, proudly.

 There was a shining disk of gold where her mouth should be.  Contoured to the curve of her face, an escutcheon from the bottom of her nose to the top of her chin somehow glued in place.

 Before I could speak she grabbed my lapels and pulled me down as she rose up on her toes and placed her metal plate against my lips.  It was as anyone would expect, like kissing metal.  

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Copyrighted 6/2023 all rights reserved

The Ball Thief

By DX

Copyright 1/2019 6/20123 All rights reserved.  Story may not be reproduced without written permission from the author.

 Bobby felt his breath rasp in his lungs as the world slowed around him.  His muscles tore as the sponge in his knees were crushed.  His body protested as he lunged for the football spiraling at him like a bullet.  The game was Two-Hand-Touch.  The field was the street.  The goals were manhole cover to manhole cover.  He and his friends had played this game almost every day of that long, endless summer.

 The summer that ended twenty years ago.

 Now he and his friends had come together for one last game of Two-Hand-Touch.

 Bobby jinked left, then charged right, slipping Jack.  He was in the end-field, wide open and Maurice hurled the football.  Bobby felt it slip past this fingers and into his chest where it bounced crazily, leaping like a fish.  His hands clapped desperately for it as it bounded drunkenly up into the air, over the curb, out of bounds, and into Mrs. Starlin’s prized rose bush.

 Out of breath and wheezing, the men gathered slowly on the sidewalk in front of her house.

 The house of the Ball Thief.

 Twenty years ago Mrs. Starling was the sole occupant of every boy’s wet dream.  

 She was handsome, with sharp, blue eyes and strong lips.  She had long, cascading black hair that shimmered like hot tar.  In the fall, all the young teen boys found a reason to be outside, hopefully to catch a glimpse of her in a tight sweater that hugged her bountiful, battleship breasts, while she tended her beloved garden.

 Her house was in the middle of the block, right where the kids played.  More often than not the ball wound up in her yard.  More often than not she refused to give it back.  Years back, after an intense argument over something no one could remember, Bobby, still miffed, hurled a soft ball at Maurice’s head.  He ducked and the ball sailed right through Mrs. Starlin’s plate glass window.

 “Who will pay for that?”  She raged.

 The other kids had fled leaving Bobby alone, his face dower.  “I’m sorry.”  He mumbled.

 Her eyes flashed, scalding.  “Do not apologize to me.”  She grated.  “Apologize to the window.”

 Bobby looked at her askance, then to the window.  “Sorry, window.”  He snorted.

 “Is it fixed?”  Her voice was steady, like a teacher.

 Bobby shrugged.  “No.”

 “No.  It isn’t.”  She concluded.  “It will cost me five hundred dollars to replace that window.”

 Bobby’s cheeks burned.  “I said I was sorry.  What do you want?”  He said, haughtily.

 “Don’t give me attitude.”  She admonished.  “Bobby, sorry isn’t going to fix this.  You have to think about your actions and the repercussions of those actions, do you understand?”

 He shifted queasily.  “Can I have my ball back?”

 Her eyes narrowed.  “I will return it to your parents when they come here to pay for the damage.”  She turned and went into the house.

 Bobby never told his parents.  He never fixed the window.  He never got his ball back.

 Throughout the neighborhood the legend of the Ball Thief grew.  The penalty was always;  “You can have your ball back when your parents come see me.”  But no one ever told their parents, and so no ball was ever returned.

 Bobby’s mind flashed with the twenty year old memory as he stood on the sidewalk in front of her house.  His breath stilled as she opened the screen door and stepped out onto the stoop.  Her eyes flashed with mild disbelief as she looked at the men and then to the splash of rose petals on her lawn.  “Aren’t you men a little old for this?”  She stressed the word, men.

 She hadn’t aged.  On the contrary, she was even more breathtaking.  There was a single streak of white flowing through her hair like a ribbon.  Her eyes were still sharp and piercing, gazing right into the soul.  Her waist was still slim, her thighs still shapely, and her breasts, her breasts still heavenly.  If anything, those dreamy breasts were larger.

 Years ago they couldn’t conceive the depth of her beauty.  They could only follow their teenage hormone induced lust.  They made jokes about her breasts, drew graffiti about her breasts, fantasized about her breasts.

 They all still fantasized about her breasts.

 She was wearing a sweater.

 As if she had it poured over her, it clung to her curves leaving no doubt of her lovely bulging breasts.

 The men, still out of breath, only stared.

 Standing on the top of the stoop, looking down at them, her lips were a thin, terse line.  “Well, go get it.”  She nodded to the flowers.  “Please be careful.  Try not to inflict any more damage to my roses.”

 Slowly, like a mourner, Bobby stepped forward, trying not to steal glances at her, at the subject that still flittered around in his dreams.  As he approached the fat rose bush, he could feel the shadow fall from her mammoth breasts on the back of his neck.

 He crouched low but couldn’t see the ball.  He shambled into the darkness and the delicate perfume of roses drifted all around him.  His eyes slowly adjusted to the dim.  He spotted its shape and grabbed it.

 As he retreated, the rose bush grabbed him.

 A thorn snagged his shirt.  As he slid off it, another grabbed his sleeve.  He tried to turn but more thorns grabbed him, pricking him.  Cursing, he shifted violently, trying to dislodge them, but only felt more grab him.

 The others were giggling as Bobby wrestled with the roses.  He could feel Mrs. Starlin’s warmth as she came down the steps.  “Stop.  Let me help you.”  She said in her teacher steady voice.  “Don’t move and I can free you.”

 His friends were now laughing and Bobby’s face was a blazing crimson.  He shifted quickly and tried to rip free.  His shirt tore.  His feet slid in the upturned soil and he fell, cracking branches as he did. 

 “Bobby,” She called softly.  “stop moving.  You’re making it worse.”  Her hands brushed aside the thorns gently.  “Now take my hand.”  He could feel her strength as she clasped his hand and pulled him free.  He stood, brushing thorns and petals from his hair.  He looked at her, realizing for the first time how short she was.

 Or maybe how tall he had become.

 She handed him the football.

 His eyes searched her face, following the sweep of her cheeks and loosing himself in the corners of her frowning mouth.  He glanced to the rose bush.  It was wrecked.  “I’m sorry.”  He mumbled.

 She stiffened, and then sighed.  “Just go, Bobby.”

 He stepped back, his cheeks tingling as if he’d been slapped.  Twenty years and again the Ball Thief had humiliated him.  He turned to his friends and tried to cover up his embarrassment with bravado.  “All right, last down!  The scrimmage line was the back of that veedub.”

 “Ah, let’s call it guys.”  Maurice said.  “I gotta pick up the twins from soccer camp.”

Bobby scoffed.  “I got the ball.  One last down.  Come on, guys!”

Maurice laughed breathlessly, motioning with his chin as Mrs. Starlin retreated into the house.  “Another game called on account of the Ball Thief.”  He smiled dubiously.  “Sweet dreams tonight, am I right guys?”  He then motioned to Bobby.  “I bet you’re going to bed early.”  He winked.  “At least you got your ball back.”

 Bobby watched with growing sadness as his friends laughed, hugged and made plans to do it again in twenty years.

 Struggling to smile, Bobby watched as another endless summer ended.

 Another game called on account of the Ball Thief.

 Sitting in his car, the engine off, Bobby replayed the events.  He could see her standing over him, her sanctimonious scowl casually humiliating him.  Her cutting eyes flayed away his manhood with the precision of a surgeon.  “That bitch,” he whispered through his teeth as he recalled her look of disappointment whenever she saw him.  “Always putting me down.  S’ fucking accident.  Why can’t she see that?  Who does she think she is?”  He gripped the steering wheel and glared at the back of his hand.  Bobby had strong hands.  

 The hands of a man.

 It was time to teach the Ball Thief her place and Bobby was the man to do it.

 He texted his wife he was going out with his friends.  Then he got out of the car and went to the trunk.  There, he rooted around for things he would need and stuffed them into an empty gym bag.  In the glove compartment he found the rest of what he would need.

 As the sky filled with the color of autumn leaves, Bobby started the car.

 He knew the neighborhood, and most importantly, the maze of back alleys.  As he parked his car behind an empty shed, he remarked how unchanged everything was.  With the bag in hand and the sky turning to night, he slipped easily through the ally to where her house was.  He ducked below her well-trimmed hedge.  He popped up and scanned her place.  He could see the light from the kitchen window.  She was puttering and washing dishes.

 As a teen he had crouched in the very same spot.  He would gaze up to her bedroom window.  The shade was always drawn but he could watch her shadow as her arms pulled off her sweater, then folded back to undo the clasp of her bra.

 Her silhouette was amazing.

 Always, always, right after her bra slipped free and her jiggling breasts ran wild, she would pause, and her shadow moved away.  The light would go out and the show would be over.

 Now, as sweat prickled along his skin, he moved along out of sight from the window and took up a position behind a slim tree.  There he retrieved the gun from his bag.

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