My latest flash fiction piece represents my shortest turnaround ever from writing to publishing. I wrote French Kiss for the 52|250 challenge “Union of Opposites” and emailed it over to the e-zine SLEEP.SNORT.FUCK. Got an answer that day: we like it and we’re posting it tonight! Thanks to Margaret et al at this unusually cool place for writers.
Other writers you’ll find there: Brooklyn writer Sean H. Doyle, beer lover Jackson Warfield, Bartleby Snopes editor Nathaniel Tower, and Robert Vaughan, who loves his mother. And now Martha Williams, too — who is so cool. Good company indeed.
The date began badly. First, she turned up her nose at my suggestion of sushi: “Ew! I want real food!” So we found ourselves at a picnic table eating hamburgers and fries, hers dipped in a large pile of blubbery mayo.
Back in the car, she switched the radio from Waits to Madonna. I thought about kicking her out right then.
But I’m a gentleman, so I suggested wine at my place (she was French, after all), but she said, “No, that’s boring,” and next thing I know we’re down by the lake drinking Jaegermeister. Jaegermeister, for chrissakes! Haven’t drunk that stuff since college. I managed not to puke this time, even when she said, “I’m going to fuck you now, oui?” What could I say? I was powerless in her hands, her mouth, her cunt. She scared the hell out of me, from her rock-hard nipples to her abundant thighs to her curious tongue. I envisioned news flashes next day: Culture Clash: Carniverous Frenchie Fucks Shy Biology Teacher Dead. She was all energy, grinning and grinding, sound and sexual fury. I ached for days, especially where my knee wedged into the dashboard. How she fit all those ways I never did figure.
I kept her number for a long time. “Call me,” she said as she slipped the paper into my jeans pocket. Not a question, more a demand. I wanted to, I really did.