by

Alicia Night Orchid

Copyright 2008 Alicia Night Orchid. All Rights Reserved.

Leonard stepped through the door of his cozy office building into the dark and cold of the city street. Although he was dressed in an overcoat and hat, the frigid air bit him, turned his breath to steam, and pinched his nostrils. He hunched his shoulders and pulled his scarf tight. He hated this time of year. It was dark in the morning when he took the train into the city and dark in the evening when he headed home. He found the Christmas lights neither hopeful nor heartwarming.

Last minute shoppers were out in abundance. He saw this every year—the harried husbands buying perfume at the counter as Fields was closing, the mothers fighting over the last toys left on the shelf. December 24^th, his least favorite day of his least favorite season.

People strode past, moving with purpose, in a hurry to get to their parties, concerts, and gift exchanges. They’d drink too much, eat too much, spend too much. Then they’d regret it in a few days when they got their cholesterol checked and received their credit card bills in the mail. Then they’d come whining to him, or another accountant like him, “Help me Leonard. I can’t afford this Leonard.”

by

Alicia Night Orchid

Copyright Alicia Night Orchid 2008. All Rights Reserved.

Joel chose this "green" adults-only resort for our getaway. Our secluded villa has only three walls, allowing tree frogs and the sound of the deluge unfettered access to our bedroom. We look out onto a private lanai, a grove of mango trees, and the turquoise Caribbean. Off to our right, a rocky piton, the remnant of an ancient volcanic eruption and the confluence of massive geological forces, stretches two thousand feet skyward. Its phallic shape is both disconcerting and alluring.

The rain falls in sheets.

I stand naked, sheltered from the downpour but exposed to a fine spray caused by the rain striking the roof's overhang. The coolness of the spray is refreshing in the heat and humidity of this tropical paradise.

Smoke

by

Alicia Night Orchid

Copyright 2008 Alicia Night Orchid. All Rights Reserved.

Warning: If you are reading this content on any site other than www.anightorchid.com, you are reading an unauthorized publication.

She found this one in the Mark Russell lounge of the Omni Shoreham. Kennedy had held his Inauguration Ball here. Clinton, too, that old horndog. It was a nice, old, dignified place, a tidy distance from the White House.

Mark Russell, the placard said, was a musician who'd come to play piano for a two week stand. He'd beenso popular and well-liked he'd stayed twenty years and had the lounge named in his honor following his death.

But she wasn’t looking for Mark Russell’s ghost.

The man in her sights was at the opposite end of the bar. Alone, nursing a drink, and smoking.

The Masseur

by

Alicia Night Orchid

Copyright 2008 Alicia Night Orchid. All Rights Reserved.

WARNING: If you are reading this content on a site other than www.anightorchid.com, you are reading an unauthorized publication.

Jason worked as a masseur. Even after all this time, he still enjoyed the relaxed atmosphere of the spa, the soft music, the aroma of incense and oils. Most of all, he enjoyed the pleasure his touch could bring to another. He’d learned to play piano as a child and the act of touching another person’s body with his strong, nimble hands reminded him of playing a challenging piece. You played with a gentle touch here, a little pressure there, until your client became your instrument and her sighs and moans your symphony.

He especially looked forward to Wednesday mornings. That was when Alexis Carter sought relief from muscles strained during her hard fought tennis matches. Tan and supple, he guessed her to be in her early thirties. She was a tall, dark haired beauty with high flaring cheek bones, wide-set brown eyes and long, muscular limbs. A self-assured and well-known real estate agent, she was divorced and had a reputation for running with a fast crowd.

by

Alicia Night Orchid

Copyright 2008 Alicia Night Orchid.  Alli rights Reserved. .

(This story won first prize in Desdmona's 2007 '60's Contest)

WARNING: If you are reading this content on a site other than www.anightorchid.com or Desdmona's Contests, you are reading an unauthorized publication.

“Stop,” Bobby said.

“I’m not doing a thing.”

We were in his 1965 Mustang in the lot across from the high school where we’d graduated two days earlier—Dunlap High, Class of ’67. Christiana Creek bubbled nearby and a breeze rattled the corn on the other side of the creek.

I snuggled and nibbled his earlobe.

“You know that drives me crazy,” he said.

My blouse was open. His class ring dangled on a chain between my bare breasts. I turned and slid into the back seat. "Come on, if you want to go again."