In Which Boychick Goes to Broadway (Short Story)
Legs. Bare legs glinting in the torpid summer sun, pervading my senses and the sweet, egg-laden yeasty smell of plaited bread, challah, rising and heaving in my mother’s oven — those were my first impressions of women. The women drifted past my basement window, legs extended, their small forms and scanty shifts plashing past, their perfume, ahhh, the perfume wafting in. At age six, already I knew there was more to life than my life and more to women than my mother.
I wanted to tell the interviewer this, in answer to her question, “when did you first discover women,” but I didn’t. She asked the question with a lilt in her voice and partly in the faint but vain hope that I might discover her. Her main purpose, however, was to unearth my secret relationship history, which many women would like to be a part of. I know this. I understand this — sort of.
The Artists Work (Short Story)
Piercing her sticky wad of clay, Margo felt a sense of revulsion at the naked male model straddling the large plywood platform, his legs splayed at what she considered to be an unnatural and almost lewd wide angle. His sloping forehead reminded her of an early man in a diorama she’d seen in the county natural history museum, a primitive subspecies that no longer existed. And weren’t models supposed to have defined musculature? This model’s torso was more Pillsbury dough boy than buff. She quickly chastened herself. She and her classmates were fortunate to have anyone who was willing to pose naked in their exurban enclave. Just one mention of the class in the community weekly paper would be enough to close the class down. When the session ended, Margo lingered at the front of the class, her fingers nervously closing and re-closing the hasp of her plastic art supply box while waiting for the model to get dressed. She chatted with him before she left the class, her small act of contrition.
Allie’s Boy (Short Story)
"Kid, get in here," my boss Alexandra says, and I rush in. Allie is an impatient sort whose voice escalates from a whisper to sonic-boom timbre in record time. But the voice never has an edge to it. It is orotund yet dulcet, Zeus-as-female in a benevolent mode, albeit with bad acoustics. Although I am by metabolism and inclination slug-like, I rouse myself with the requisite fervor, having convinced myself since I began working for her four months ago that I have transformed myself into a high-energy type, and thus am eminently right, eminently suited for her, and thus a corporate asset.
I remind myself to duck as I enter her office, which contains an assortment of high-quality reproductions of unclad and semi-clad classical Greek sculptures, some of which are life-sized, armed, and dangerous.