Monday, April 30, 2018
Sunday, March 18, 2018
Product Review: Butterfly G-Spot Vibrator
 |
| Get it from Manshop for $11.99. |
The Butterfly G-Spot Vibrator
I gave this one away in March for my Muffin's Change event. That little beauty tortured me from its package for months, so when hubby felt frisky yesterday, he set out to buy this one for me. If you're more patient. (yes, Patient Lee hears the irony) click here to get it from Manshop for $11.99. (I paid more for it on another site for my giveaway, much to my dismay.)
When he got to the store, he found the Platinum Edition, which he purchased. If you have a couple extra bucks, click here to check it out.I think it's worth it.
 |
| Get it from Manshop for $21.95. #recommendedbypl |
Here's what I thought:
The shape is enticing. It's made of "flexible rubber jelly," which made it pleasant to the touch, even just on the fingers. Mine is pink, but all three available colors look great.
The original Butterfly has three speeds only. The Platinum beats the hell out of the original with six additional settings with different vibration patterns. I'll confess, I didn't use the three original settings. I'm all about the switch up.
I took it into the shower with me, put it in place and washed my hair. It was pleasant and fun. It's a good size, so it stayed put without much trouble. Until I tried to wash my feet. That was comical, but I managed not to drop it. I'd like to try it in the bath sometime.
After my shower, I positioned myself comfortably on my bed and found some porn. Then I got serious about getting off. It isn't easy for me, and I have a tendency to burn out battery-operated toys. I'm happy to say that the Butterfly still worked after the Big O. (I just got it yesterday. I may change my mind the next time I pick it up. Who knows?)
At one point, I was thinking it was too much because I thought I was losing sensation around my clit. When I investigated, I realized it had twisted around, and it was only the vibrations from the internal part I was feeling on my clit. I laughed at myself, repositioned it, and got back to business.
Not only did it get me off, it got me off HARD. It's a good thing no one was home because I was LOUD.
I love waterproof toys. I never feel as though I can wash a non-waterproof vibrator thoroughly enough, so I tend to use condoms with those. That's a definite selling point for the Butterfly Kiss.
 |
| This is mine. Get your own! |
The size is quite nice. My favorite, go-to toy is my Magic Wand, but it's quite heavy, and my hands get tired from holding it. This one stayed in place with no hands when I was lying down. It's much lighter, too, so gravity wasn't pulling it out of position.
One criticism is the noise, but I guess I could have gagged myself. I'm kidding! The device itself was quieter than the Wand, but I would still worry that someone would hear from the other end of the house.
There was also no option to use the vibration patterns on a lower setting, and I think it could be too much for some women. That's just a guess though.
Last criticism, I swear. Perhaps I'm not as smart as I think I am, but I couldn't turn the damn thing off. The on button cycled through the rest Not a problem when you're on dry land. Just twist to open the battery case on the handle. The problem is in the shower. If you decide to turn it off to save your batteries while you shave your legs, you can't open the battery compartment to shut it off without destroying the vibrator.
Overall Impression: #recommendedbypl
If you have a clitoris, I'm pretty sure you'll like this toy. If you can get a quick orgasm out of other toys, you'll probably like the original model. If you're like me, and you prefer something with variety, shell out the extra ten bucks. And you might want to pick up a gag while you're at it. I'm pretty sure the neighbors knew I was coming.
Saturday, February 24, 2018
Hexborn: Can a Child of War Fight for Peace?
If you haven't read her stuff yet, you should. I don't usually enjoy paranormal or vampires, but her November Snow series is one of the best things I've ever read. Twice. I'm gonna ask you to trust me on this and click here to nominate this book for Kindle Scout. Please. You have nothing to lose, and an excellent author has EVERYTHING to gain. The campaign ends March 9. Please click now.
Patient Lee and A.M. Manay thank you!
Here are the details:
Author: A.M. Manay
Cover Design: Eeva Lancaster, www.thebookkhaleesi.com
Genre: Young Adult High Fantasy
Kindle Scout link:
https://kindlescout.amazon.com/p/2Q22TVKET6NES
Kindle Scout Campaign: Feb. 8 – March 9, 2018
Tag line: Can a child of war fight for peace?
Mini-blurb: Hexborn. Abomination. Unclean. Young Shiloh knows exactly what she is. Her missing hand and the world at large are ever ready to remind her. Outcast she may be, but her broken body hides great magical power. The king’s servant Silas seeks to use that power to preserve the uneasy peace the kingdom has enjoyed since the end of the Siblings’ War. He'll slit her throat if she threatens it instead. Will Shiloh prove her worth? Or will past sins rise to destroy Shiloh, Silas, and the kingdom of Bryn?
Trailer: https://youtu.be/AC78jhZ5q4Q
Contact info and social media: Email: ammanay@gmail.com
Website: www.ammanay.net
Blog: http://www.ammanaywrites.blogspot.com
Facebook: facebook.com/ammanaywrites
Twitter: @ammanay
Instagram: instagram.com/a.m.manay
Amazon author page: amazon.com/author/ammanay
Tuesday, February 13, 2018
Jars of Dead Things, Bradley
I like to write dreams. Mine are vivid and complex, even though they don't always make sense.
I dream about snakes all the time. Snakes in cages, snakes in baskets, snakes under the couch. Friendly snakes, snakes on the attack, dead snakes. All kinds of snakes.
One summer my family took home the corn snake from the biology class next door. (The same teacher who inspired Mrs. Maitland's SAD Valentine with her idea to mate her pythons for Valentine's Day. Her female snake wasn't a healthy weight for breeding, so she had to scrap her plan, but for Mrs. Maitland, it went much more smoothly.) I enjoyed our temporary pet until the night I dreamt that I sautéed him. I cut him in three and cooked him in garlic and butter. Ralph Scampi, I guess.
After that dream, I was terrified of him. As if he knew I'd had a wicked plan for him.
Anyway. Here is a snakey excerpt from Mrs. Maitland's SAD Valentine.
I dream about snakes all the time. Snakes in cages, snakes in baskets, snakes under the couch. Friendly snakes, snakes on the attack, dead snakes. All kinds of snakes.
After that dream, I was terrified of him. As if he knew I'd had a wicked plan for him.
Anyway. Here is a snakey excerpt from Mrs. Maitland's SAD Valentine.
While others dreamt of roses and lovers
and sex on that Valentine’s Night, Brad dreamt of snakes and dead things in
jars.
In
his dream, he stood in Mrs. Maitland’s classroom, staring at the Jars of Dead
Things. The lights weren’t on, and the sun had dropped below the horizon, but
the last vestiges of daylight allowed him to see the contents of the
glass-paneled cabinet. As he looked from jar to jar, he felt the familiar mix
of revulsion and shame he knew so well when he was in high school.
Just
like he always had, he started at the bottom shelf, looking at the tapeworms
and the starfish and the other faceless creatures, swimming in formaldehyde
ponds. The second shelf held the kinds of creepy-crawlies you wouldn’t want to
see up close, but were fascinating from the safety of a tightly closed jar—a
hornet, a scorpion, a brown recluse spider.
Movement
on the third shelf caught his eye. Before he could even lift his gaze, the
snake’s head hit the glass with a single knock. Brad tried to jump back, but
his shoes were bolted to the floor. The snake was thin and about three feet
long. He didn’t know what kind it was, but it wasn’t one of Mrs. Maitland’s
pythons. It disappeared behind the jars.
Brad
turned his head to look over his shoulder, which he wouldn’t have risked during
biology class. The room was three times its usual length, and even in the
dream, he was overwhelmed by the amount of cleaning it would require. The desks
stretched in long, crooked rows which would take half his night to straighten.
Mrs.
Maitland’s animal cages had been replaced by tall stacks of papers on every available
surface. Her posters and skeletons and drawings and photographs had
disappeared. The walls were bare except for the Emergency Eye Wash instruction
poster and the fire exit sign.
“Look
at the Jars of Dead Things, Bradley,” he heard behind him. “Maybe they’ll
remind you to come to class prepared.”
Mr.
Morgan? He retired last year. What the fuck was he doing here?
A
projection screen the size of the front wall had been pulled down in front of
the chalkboard, and Brad’s stomach lurched when he smelled the
almost-but-not-quite banana scent of dry erase marker. His palms were sweating
as he searched his pockets for a pencil. He was falling behind, and he hadn’t
even taken out his notebook yet. Mr. Morgan was about to erase the screen and
fill it with another page of nonsense words, and he hadn’t found anything to
write with.
He
heard Morgan’s voice again. “Jars of Dead Things, Bradley. If you can’t
participate in class, at least educate yourself with the Jars of Dead Things.
Look on the third shelf. Learn something.”
Third
shelf. Animals with faces. He hated the third shelf.
He
felt the second snake slithering across his ankles before he saw it. The hairs
on the back of his neck stood on end, and he remained frozen in place. After
circling his shoes twice, it slithered toward the teacher’s desk. This one was
much longer, maybe five or six feet. Brad wondered if it was poisonous. It
wasn’t a python, but he had no idea what it was.
“Third
shelf, Bradley,” Mr. Morgan said again. Third shelf. A miniature shark. A frog.
A chick. All bleached white.
And
then his eyes rested on the fetal pig. His stomach lurched as it always did. So
tiny. Its features frozen forever. So sad. Shame and revulsion. If he could
just be prepared for class, he wouldn’t have to look at this poor little piggy.
Another
snake dropped from the ceiling, dangling right in front of him. This one was
yellow with huge fangs that dripped venom.
He
was suddenly aware of the scent of liquor and breath spray.
He
tried to take a step only to find that his feet weren’t bolted to the floor.
They stuck to the floor, held tight by some kind of adhesive. He could bring
his foot up a couple of inches from the floor, but the glue immediately pulled
it back to the ground, like in a cartoon.
A
drop of poison fell from the snake’s mouth, landing on the tip of his nose.
Brad tried to scream, but no sound came out.
As
he looked up at the monster hanging before him, snakes of all sizes and
markings came out of the room’s cracks and crevices. They came from every
direction, all converging on Brad. Their long bodies knocked over the piles of
photocopies, scattering the papers to the floor in the slow motion only seen in
nightmares. It would take all night to clean this room.
And
he still couldn’t find his pencil.
The
snake from the ceiling stretched toward him; its head touched his skin right
below his ear. Again he tried to scream. He felt the snake’s scales on the back
of his neck as it moved across him. It was still attached to the ceiling, and
it seemed to get longer and longer.
He
felt it brush his other ear, and then he heard it speak. “Look at the Jarsss of
Dead Thingsss, Bradley,” it hissed in his ear.
His
bladder let go, and he woke up.
Now he could scream.
Friday, December 1, 2017
Sexual Assault in the Workplace
The second piece of fiction I ever wrote started out as a rant about those in my workplace who receive special treatment because they're tight with administration. Where I work, people walk into opportunities because they went to high school with the boss or because they make extra coffee and invite only those in charge.
In my story, it happens to be a man losing out to a woman because she and the boss went to high school together. (I wanted to try writing from the male perspective, and I felt less whiny since I wasn't writing about myself.) The man and his friends go to a bar and lament the inequality in hiring, and the cute, younger (female) bartender overhears and makes an outrageous offer--to be his reference because the boss needed some *ahem* oral persuasion.
What follows is a scorcher of a date between the younger bartender and the older teacher with steamy fantasizing and super-hot sex.
And then I went and ruined it with a Patient Lee Tittie Twister Ending. (I can't resist the twist at the end of a short story.) The ending resulted in my lowest scores ever on Literotica (vote for MST while you're there!) and most hateful comments I've ever received (and believe it or not, I've gotten some doozies. Literotica is not always a friendly place.), including threats to maim and kill me, all because I horrified the straight, macho readers at the very last minute.
After the sting of the comments eased, I realized that I had struck a nerve. Hard. They didn't hate my story because I hadn't written well. They hated it because I lured them in with the heat of the rest of the story and then poured a bucket of ice water on their *ahem* Johnsons by putting a man in a position usually "reserved" for women in the workplace--on his knees.
This week, my story feels particularly relevant. If you read this story and feel revulsion at the end, good. Women are not any more comfortable performing *ahem* oral things on a man they don't choose and more than a man feels. If it revolts you, it means you understand how these women who are finally coming forward to tell their stories felt. Choosing between your career and performing a coerced sexual act should not ever happen again to a man or a woman.
(This didn't happen to me or anyone I know, BTW. It's fiction. And the inequities in my workplace are greater than ever. Preferred parking, bathroom in a classroom, missing meetings, and a host of other perks--offered to one, but not the rest.)
Thanks for reading. If you'd like to read the story for free, click here. Usually I ask readers to subscribe to my newsletter, and I give the book in return. This week it feels important to get as many readers on it as possible.
Thank you,
PL
Friday, July 21, 2017
Flash Fiction: Alex and the Intern
Last weekend, I participated in the WritersWeekly.com 24 Hour Short Story Contest. In this contest, we had 24 hours to write an 850 word story following the prompt below.
It was supposed to be the summer job of a lifetime, working as a chef at an upscale "summer camp" for adults. But, the air conditioner was broken again. After closing, the stale outdoor air brought little relief. The path to the cabins housing seasonal employees was dark but short. She stopped in her tracks when she came across one of the windows. With her pupils dilating, she couldn't look away...
I was traveling with my parents and my three children when the contest started, so between sleeping in the car and unpacking, I wasted about six hours dancing around the first thing that popped into my head: octopus. For a less-than-two-minute education on octopuses (yes octopuses,not octopi), click here for a clip from Animal Planet's show Tanked (one of the few shows my family watches together with no grumbling).
After struggling and sketching and trying to pull the story together, I was beginning to lose hope of bringing it together. But then the clouds opened up, the sun shone down on me, and Tool came on. Schism is my writing song. "I know the pieces fit." (See the video below.)
My parents took the kids to the beach, and by the time they returned, the story was half-written. I finished twelve hours early. Amazing what a little quiet time can do for the creative brain.
Here it is, for your enjoyment.
Alex and the Intern
© 2017 Patient Lee
It wasn’t true, of course. Alex, the Great Pacific Octopus, had been a dining-room fixture at the camp since it opened. Octopus was Chef Roscoe’s specialty, and it was on the menu every Saturday night, but Alex wasn’t dinner. He was the camp mascot, and he provided conversation fodder for the uncomfortable adults sharing tables with strangers on the first night of camp. Until the wine started flowing, Alex kept the party going.
Peter, the sommelier, discovered Alex’s absence minutes before the first dinner seating. He raced to kitchen. “Chef, where’s Alex?”
“The octopus?”
“Yes, the octopus. He’s not in his tank.”
"Again?” The chef groaned. “One of these days, I’m going to serve that monster in a tomato confit, I swear. Get the intern to look for him.”
Peter raised his eyebrow. “You want to leave that to her? She’s made a dozen mistakes since she got here. Besides, don’t you need her in the kitchen?”
“Would you rather she pour wine tonight?” The chef dismissed him without another word. Instead, Peter performed a cursory search of the kitchen and dining room himself, and when the first guests entered the dining room, peering into Alex’s tank, he distracted them with Sauvignon Blanc.
A misogynist, Chef Roscoe resented the management’s choice of intern for the summer. Tanisha Jones didn’t care what Chef thought. She’d earned her place in his kitchen with her 4.0 at the university and three wins in prestigious cooking contests. Even though he’d blamed every error in the kitchen on her since she arrived at camp, she was ready to stand tall against his pompous attitude.While Chef was in the dining room announcing the evening’s menu—octopus braised in red-wine with Kalamata olives—Tanisha tended to the pots and pans on the stove. When he returned to the kitchen, he barked three orders in a row to her, and before she could do any of them, he said, “And put that octopus over there in the big pot for the third seating.”
Tanisha followed his instructions to the letter, knowing it didn’t matter. Chef set her up for failure every time she turned around, but she did her best for the sake of the diners who were paying a small fortune for a week at the adult summer camp.
Sniffing the air, she followed her nose to the corner of the kitchen where she found a metal bowl containing an octopus, ready for the cooking pot if it hadn’t begun to rot from the intense heat in the cooking area. Swallowing the urge to vomit, she called, “Chef. You have to see this.”
“What the hell?” His eyes narrowed in anger. “You were supposed to cook the octopus. What did you cook?” His voice rose in pitch as his anger increased.
“The octopus in the jar over there!” She pointed to the counter next to the stove. “It was right next to the pot. I assumed that was the one you meant!”
Chef shook his head and chuckled without humor. “You idiot. You know Alex got out today, right?”
“Alex from the dining room?” Her face fell as it dawned on her. An octopus could open a jar to hide in it. “Did I cook Alex?” Her voice was a whisper, punctuated by projectile vomit as she accepted the truth. She’d cooked the camp mascot.
After cleaning her mess and the putrefying octopus, she stepped into the dark, wishing for relief from the heat. Instead, the stale air knocked her back a step, nauseating her again.Regaining her balance, she started down the dark path to the employees’ cabins. Worry ran circles in her head. Would the camp administration fire her? Would animal rights activists call for her head on a pike? Could she live with herself after making such a horrific mistake?
She heard Chef Roscoe’s voice, stopping her short. She turned and found herself at his cabin, his open sitting-area window providing her a view of his kitchen. He sounded as if he was speaking to a puppy. “I got that uppity bitch. Yes, I did, Alex.”
Her eyes flew open, pupils dilating, when he stepped into view. Any thought that he’d stolen Alex to keep as a pet vanished as he placed the platter on the table, the octopus moving listlessly as it languished out of water.
Tanisha’s scream couldn’t save the octopus as Chef brought the cleaver down on Alex’s bulbous head.
Friday, July 14, 2017
WIP: Pittsburgh- Coming in August
The Facebook challenge was to post a one-word story title and a brief synopsis. I looked up from my spot in the passenger seat and saw the sign for Pittsburgh. Three minutes later, this little story was sketched out in my head.
Here's a flirtatious excerpt about two men who meet in a Philadelphia sports bar watching a 76ers (basketball) game.
This sexy, MM short story makes its debut on August 19 at Patient Lee's Saturday Takeover on Queeromance Ink's Facebook Page.
(And check out Queeromance Ink's website to search for your particular favorite type of queer romance and erotica. Sign up for their weekly newsletter and receive FIVE FREE BOOKS!)
Pittsburgh
The warm blast of heat as I opened
the door of Tommy’s, the sports bar down the street from my office, hit me like
a hug from my mother. It was frickin’ freezing in Philadelphia this week, and
it didn’t look like it was gonna warm up any time soon. I was late getting out
of work, again, and I’d already missed the first quarter of the Sixers game. It
didn’t help that the bar was packed. I looked around for people I knew, but I
could hardly walk, never mind see. I pushed my way to the bar, just as an older
guy pulled his overcoat off the back of his chair and yelled a thank you to the
bartender.
“You leaving, man?” I asked as I
put my hand on the stool before somebody else grabbed it.
“Yeah,” he said. “Just stopped for
a beer. Basketball ain’t my thing.” He pushed his way through the crowd, and I
bellied up to the bar. I arranged my coat on my chair and loosened my tie,
checking the back on my Flyers tie tack to make sure it was secure.
“Stella Bella,” I called, flagging
the bartender over. Her name was Stella, but that didn’t stop me from adding on
the Bella. I’d been coming to this bar for four years, ever since I moved out
of my parents’ house in King of Prussia to my townhouse in Rittenhouse Square. Stella
was gorgeous. Long, brown, wavy hair, and an ass that filled her jeans to a
level that most men would find delicious.
Most men. Not me. I came out in
high school and took all the shit that came along with it, but I graduated and
went to Penn State Main Campus. I got my degree in business, and right after
graduation, I got a job at PNC bank in Philly. It was a good job, not my dream
job or anything, but I had a nice place to live and I was pretty happy with my
life. All that was missing was a guy who filled his jeans like Stella did. A
nice package in the front wouldn’t hurt either.
Stella put the pitcher of Yuengling
and a frosted glass in front of me. “How ya doing, Clarke?”
“Better now that I’m in here,” I
said. “It’s fucking cold out there.”
She filled my glass, clucking her
tongue and smiling. “It’s January in Philadelphia. What the hell did you
expect?” The State Farm commercial on the giant TV in front of me ended, and
the second quarter of the game started.
I didn’t notice the guy next to me
until I finished my burger. I was so fucking hungry, and so focused on the
game, I wouldn’t have noticed if a bomb went off. The Sixers were down by four
for most of the second quarter, and I didn’t want to have to depend on the
replay when they turned the tables on the Bulls.
He actually hit me when the Sixers
caught up. His arms flew up in the air when Robinson tied the game up. His hand
clipped my head, and his head snapped toward me. The shocked look on his face
was hilarious.
“I am so sorry,” he said. His eyes
were wide, and I could see that he hadn’t even realized I was there.
“Quite a game, huh?”
“Yeah. Great game, now that we’re
tied up.”
Stella leaned in between the two of
us, looked at me, and said just loudly enough to hear over the noise in the bar,
“I know for a fact he enjoys that.”
He blushed an adorable shade of
red, but I did, too. “How does she know that for a fact, huh? Did Stella Bella
tie you up?” I tried not to grin too widely. I didn’t want him to think I was
coming on to him. I was coming on to
him, but I’d been shot down in an embarrassing blaze of dismay enough times to
stay cool.
“NO!” He said it loud enough for
our whole side of the bar to hear. “I drank too much one night, and she—”
“She tied you up?” I laughed,
mostly from discomfort. Bondage wasn’t in my bag of tricks. Neither was hetero
sex.
“No.” He snorted out loud. “She
coaxed the story out of me. This bachelorette party was discussing Fifty Shades of Grey. I made a comment,
and she didn’t let it go until I told the story.” He took a long drink,
draining his beer. “I am so freaking embarrassed right now.”
The game resumed, and I let it go
for a few minutes. Stella brought another round, and this time, she spoke to
him. “Did you tell him all about it? I bet he’d love to know. I think he’s your
type.” She looked at me and gestured to him with her head. “He’s gorgeous,
isn’t he, Clarke?”
I cocked an eyebrow. Was she trying to fix us up?
“Clarke, this is Joe. Joe, this is
Clarke. I can’t believe you guys haven’t met here before.”
He had the same confused look as I
did. “I usually work second shift, so I’m not usually here until midnight,” he
said. “They got me on first shift this week.”
“What do you do?”
“Paramedic. I live around the
corner, so I stop in a lot on the way home. Tonight I just came to watch the
game with someone other than my cat.”
“Ha! Same. I work during the day,
but neither of my cats appreciate my obnoxious cheering. I’m in banking. Less
exciting, but then again, so am I.”
The Sixers got a three-pointer,
pushing them into the lead. Joe and I jumped up and cheered, along with the
rest of the bar. He turned to me and gave me a deliberate high-five. Our eyes
met for a moment, and a shiver ran through me. I tried to shake it off, but he
was hot. And it had been a long time since I met someone. But was he gay? I
wasn’t sure enough to risk it. Yet.
We returned our attention to the
game, and I was grateful for the distraction. This guy was making me hard, and
until I knew whether he was gay or straight, I didn’t want him to. The momentum
had shifted to the Sixers, and they were up by eight points.
Stella came around with refills.
She put them down on the bar and stood there, looking from Joe to me and back
to Joe. “What’s the matter with you?”
“What are you talking about?” I
asked. “We’re watching the game.”
“I’ve done all the work for you
two. If you blow this, it’s your own fault.” She snorted. “I mean, blowing
would indicate success, but . . .”
My heart was pounding. He had to be
gay. She had to be setting us up. He turned to me with raised eyebrows.
I grinned as the lump in my pants
returned. “So then you . . .”
“Oh, thank goodness,” he said,
grinning back.
The buzzer ending the game echoed through
the bar, and everyone jumped up, cheering. Without thinking, I leapt from my
chair and hugged him. I was almost embarrassed, but before I had a chance to
blush, his erection poked my thigh. Thank
goodness is right.
We pulled back and locked eyes.
“Did you say you live around the corner?” I asked. I couldn't resist. He was adorable, and I hadn't had sex in ages.
Stella raised her glass of ginger
ale to us as we grabbed our coats and left in a rush. The blast of cold air did
nothing to cool my ardor, but the snow had picked up.
“I think the meteorological term is
snowing like a son-of-a-bitch!” He
pulled his black-and-gold watch cap over his ears. “It’s just down there.” He
gestured with his gloved fingers to the gift shop down the block. “I live
upstairs.”
Three steps later, and my toes were
frozen through my wingtips. Joe was much better prepared for the cold than I.
Better prepared for the snow, too. I’d lived my entire life in Philadelphia,
and I still didn’t think to put my damn boots on in the winter. My heel slid
right through the snow, and I fell to the sidewalk, my skull smashing into the snow-cushioned
pavement.
My rational mind knew it was Joe’s
paramedic training which pushed him to cradle my head with such care, but my
rational mind was on break. I gazed into his eyes, and serenity engulfed me. He
shifted his head, and the snow and the streetlight formed a perfect halo around
his heavenly face. I heard horns—the angels, I guessed, but Joe’s head snapped
up, his eyes went wide, and everything went dark.
* * * *
The blackout affected a big chunk
of the city, but the accident which caused the horns I heard happened right in front
of Tommy’s, the sports bar we’d just left. We couldn't tell if anyone was injured, and it was
freaking dark. No streetlights, no neon, no LED signs flashing open, and now
that the accident blocked the one-way street, no headlights.
While I was still lying on the
sidewalk, I encouraged Joe to go to the accident. I could tell he was itching
to help.
“I already have a patient. I can’t
abandon one patient for another without transferring care,” he said, his voice
all business. He helped me to my feet once he’d finished his assessment and
determined I was okay. “Besides, I can’t show up on scene with a boner like
this.” He held my arm after that, which was just dandy with me. We were close
in height, and the traces of his aftershave drew me in.
He fumbled with the key in the dark
entrance to his apartment. “Jesus. It’s so dark I won’t even need to blindfold you.”
“Blindfold?” I choked on spit as I
said it.
To be continued . . .
Want More Patient Lee?
Visit my page on Queeromance Ink! (If you like MM, I recommend OUT: Five Erotic Stories of Gay Self-Discovery)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)