People's Choice

Ralph stopped so abruptly he nearly dropped his coffee. Not his jelly donut, however. A moment of stunned silence was followed by the expected explosion. “What the flaming fuck?”

Messy as a bear’s den at the best of times, Ralph’s desk had been transformed into a garish shrine adorned with balloons, crepe paper, and wrestling memorabilia. There was even a replica of a WWE championship belt draped over a metal folding chair. In lieu of rose petals, the desktop had been strewn with printout photos of the same man’s face—bearded, clean-shaven, smiling, scowling, all with one eyebrow raised. In the very center stood a framed cover from the latest People magazine, proclaiming Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson as “The Sexiest Man Alive.”

And right next to his desk, holding a big red heart-shaped balloon, stood that junkless snake Lamar with a huge shit-eating grin on his face. Maybe snakes did eat shit. Ralph wouldn’t put anything past a snake.

“It’s official,” Lamar cooed. “Your dream date is now the sexiest man on the planet. People says so. How could they be wrong?”

“Say cheese,” added staff photographer Jamie, and snapped a picture of Ralph’s face, which was rapidly going beat-red. Because of course the whole damned newsroom had turned around to watch. They lived for shit like this. Didn’t anybody come to work just to work any more?

Ralph stomped up to Lamar and jabbed a blunt finger at his grinning face. “Get this through your scaly head. I am not queer for the Rock! It just so happens he’s the greatest wrestler who ever lived. And a better actor than people wanna give him credit for. A real man can admire another real man for that without wanting to, uh … ” Here Ralph ran out of steam. “You know. Without wanting to do other stuff,” he finished triumphantly.

Lamar, who didn’t appear to have a fearful, or sensible, bone in his sinewy body—or bones of any sort, for that matter—slithered closer. “What kind of other stuff?” he whispered eagerly.

Ralph’s grizzly blood rose to the fore. “Listen, Mr. Mind in the Gutter, I ought'a string you up and tie you in a knot—”

“Oooo! Sounds like a fun evening. Come to the club with us? We’ll bring the pics of Dwayne along. For inspiration.”

“I'm gonna kick you in the—oh wait, you don’t have any.”

“Yeah he does.” Jamie grinned. “Probably more than Dwayne.”

Ralph rounded on Jamie. He was an easier target. “Is that what you think?” he said with deceptive mildness.

“Yeah, I—”

“IT DOESN’T MATTER WHAT YOU THINK!”

The bullpen went dead silent. Ralph had gotten his black bear dad’s diminutive size, but his grizzly mom’s full-on roaring genes. Even Lamar swayed backward, out of striking range.

“Listen up, you jabronies,” Ralph barked. “That goes for alla you. It’s okay to like another guy without, y’know, liking the other guy. I mean not like the snake here. The Rock is the greatest wrestler ever. He comes down to the ring, the whole arena gets electrified. Can any of you do that? Of course not. The man’s a frikkin’ genius. If Pimple wants to put him on their cover, it’s because they’re trying to class up their rag. He should be on the cover of Sports Illustrated anyway—”

“In a swimsuit?” Lamar asked.

“That’s it, scale boy. You’re goin’ down.”

“Too late. Did that this morning.”

“What the hell is going on in here?”

Scat. All the roars had brought editor Nick out of his office. If anybody could out-bellow a grizzly, it was an alpha wolf. “Now look whatcha done,” Ralph complained.

Nick growled low in his throat while he took it all in—the photos, the balloons, Lamar. He picked the snake to vent at. “What did I tell you about unauthorized parties during working hours?”

“Uh … not to have any?”

“Damn right. You’re not even on staff any more. You’re freelance. Clean up this shit and get the hell out of my bullpen so we can get back to work. And you—” He whirled on Jamie. “Delete all photos. No exceptions.”

“He didn’t even bring any cake,” somebody grumbled. Nick swept the room with an ugly glare, but the grumbler had successfully ducked behind a desk.

“And for the record,” Nick finished, “Andre the Giant is the greatest wrestler who ever lived, so I don’t want to hear any more of this ‘Rock’ crap.” He reached for the framed magazine cover.

Ralph snatched it away just in time. “This stays,” he said. And even Nick knew better than to argue.

S(he)-Devil with a Sword

Jamie burst into Gypsy's dressing room at the Pleasure Club without knocking. "You gotta stop him," he begged her. "He's gonna—"

"Too late." Gypsy shrugged a robe over her dance costume. "He already is."

"Sonuva—" Jamie raked his hand through his already-messy red hair. "He's gonna hurt hisself."

"It's a rubber sword, Jamie."

"I ain't talking about the sword."

Gypsy pursed her lips. Even she, a connoisseur of exotic costumes, had questioned Lamar's latest choice. But once a snake-shifter tossed his coils around a notion, he tended to squeeze it to death. There'd been no deterring him. "I voiced my concerns," she said. "It was all I could do. I have some salve for afterwards, if he needs it." She rested her hand on Jamie's shoulder. "Can you stand to watch?"

"Guess I better," Jamie grumbled. "Case I have to carry him offstage."

The performance had already started by the time Gypsy and Jamie reached the floor. Lamar was in the middle of a sinuous sword dance, writhing in ways only a snake could pull off without physical damage. The audience ate it up, forgetting even the food and steins of beer on the tables before them. When a crowd's made up of mostly predators, that's high praise indeed.

Jamie couldn't help wincing. "I can't believe he'd wear that. I can't believe she wears that."

Gypsy nodded in sympathetic agreement. "Ouch."

After the Amazon warrior had popped into existence in Talbot's Peak over a week ago, there'd been a minor fad at the Pleasure Club, with the dancers adopting warrior-woman garb. Gypsy herself had devised a variation on a Xena costume. It wasn't practical for fighting but allowed for adventurous dance moves.

Lamar had gone in a totally different direction. A flaming red wig and two brief strips of glittery metal barely inches away from a wardrobe malfunction. Calling it a bikini was being generous. Even for Lamar it was risqué.

"Is that real chain mail?" Gypsy asked.

Jamie nodded glumly. "He bought it off some cosplayer. They had a comic book convention down by the exit last year."

"Some poor human girl was wearing that?" Gypsy shook her head.

"It's a genuine Red Sonja costume, so he's been telling me. The theory is, the bad guys get distracted by her boobs and forget to fight. Lucky for her. That armor don't cover up scat."

"It covers enough. Just barely." Gypsy couldn't stop staring at the bottom half of what passed for Lamar's outfit. All that interlinked metal pressed up against a woman's most sensitive area. The mail didn't even leave room enough for protective panties underneath. She shuddered.

"It ain't so bad for him," Jamie said, interpreting Gypsy's queasy expression. "Snakes don't have body hair, and his personal property's tucked away in the pouch. The falsies protect his nipples. Still, it's gotta pinch. But you know Lamar. Anything for art."

"If he chooses to suffer for a performance, that's his decision. I wouldn't wear anything that dangerous, though. Not even after a wax."

"It's not about the performance so much. It's afterwards. He wants to wear it to bed. I ain't snuggling up against that. I got body hair."

Gypsy couldn't help but smile. "He wants you to be Conan?"

"I got nothing against that either. Wish I had the build for it. I ain't no Schwarzenegger. Hey, you know who'd make a terrific Conan? Sergei. Least he's got the muscles." Jamie gulped. "Aw scat."

"What?"

"I just pictured Sergei in a loincloth. With a sword. I think my balls just ran for cover."

Gypsy also imagined her massive lover in furry briefs, wielding a broadsword, with his long hair flying and his shaft at attention. She growled happily.

"What about Tarzan?" she asked Jamie once she got her voice back. "They always used to cast swimmers as Tarzan for the movies. They're not as bulky. And you'd get to wear a loincloth."

Jamie watched Lamar shake his near-naked ass at the audience. "Tarzan and Red Sonja?"

"Tarzan and Jane. The books were written back in the '20s, I think. Jane always dressed modestly. Nothing that threatened the skin. At least … " Gypsy's dimples appeared. "Until she put on the leopard-skin swimsuit."

"Yeah." Jamie looked thoughtful. "Boas are a jungle snake. Bet he'd go for that. Wonder if I can do the yell? It's pretty close to a howl."

"You'll be fine," Gypsy said absently. Her mind had drifted back to thoughts of Sergei in a Conan pose. All of a sudden she wanted her shift to be over. Somebody was going to be doing a lot of yelling tonight.

# # #

Which brings us to today's public service announcement. For all you female comic fans out there, I direct you to The Hawkeye Initiative. This site is devoted to pictures of male superheroes copying the skimpy costumes and contorted poses too often foisted on women in comics. Enjoy!

Ride 'Em, Cowboy!

Twice a month the Pleasure Club held a Ladies’ Night. “That don’t mean you get to dress up like a lady,” Jamie said to Lamar. “I do that all the time,” Lamar said in response. “Ladies’ Night gives me a chance to switch up. Keeps the act fresh.”

When he and Jamie responded to Mooney’s call and he saw the huge stuffed unicorn abandoned at the side of the road, inspiration struck. Over Jamie's objections he'd lugged the big toy home, and started planning.

The Thursday night crowd was a rowdy bunch. The women wanted men, and they wanted them handsome, muscular, mostly naked and gyrating up on the stage. Lamar had all that covered, except for the musclebound part. Snakes just couldn’t bulk up, not even the constrictors. On the other hand, no man and very few women on earth could out-gyrate a snake.

Jamie was seated in the front row as usual, and getting jostled by howling, slavering women. The previous acts had whipped them into a frenzy. Even the herbivores were clamoring for blood, or other body fluids. Everybody knew Lamar was the best male (and occasionally female) dancer in the club, after Gypsy. He hadn’t revealed his new routine’s specifics to Jamie, just smirked a lot. He’d taken almost obsessive care of the stuffed unicorn, brushing its mane and fluffing its fur.

Please, Jamie prayed to the wolf gods, don’t let it be too obscene.

The stage lights came up. Lamar burst through the curtain. He had on a cowboy hat, a leather vest, chaps, boots, and a gun belt slung low on his narrow hips, with the single holster and a long-barreled Colt positioned where mammalian men kept their hardware. He came out firing cap pistols, with the stuffed unicorn positioned between his knees as if he were riding it. The unicorn had a condom on its horn. Jamie groaned and prayed harder.

Lamar did a high-legged dismount and went into his sinuous dance. The women crowded the stage and waved dollar bills. Lamar turned his bare butt to them and twerked hard enough to rattle the Colt in its holster. He flashed a smirky grin at his audience, but mostly at Jamie.

“Why do I do this?” Jamie muttered to himself. His lament went unheard beneath the screams of the women. “Why do I punish myself like this? I ain’t even Catholic.”

But dayum, the boy could dance up a storm. Wasn’t nobody on earth could dance like a snake with its sex drive cranked up to the max. Jamie crossed his legs to hide his hard-on. Again, nobody noticed. Nobody except Lamar. The women might think otherwise, but Jamie knew that grin and wink combo was meant for him alone. What Lamar kept in the pouch behind the holster belonged to him alone, too. Jamie gave up on his scowl—Lamar always ignored it anyway—and grinned back. Lamar responded with a hip roll that got a whole passel of dollar bills waving in his direction.

After a drop to the stage floor for some serious suggestive writhing, Lamar fetched up against the unicorn. He pursed his lips and planted a kiss on the plush creature’s muzzle.

The spell Marissa had placed on the beast over the phone chose that precise moment to wear off.

The whole room shook with shrieks when the stuffed toy unicorn suddenly shimmered and grew to life size. Nobody screamed louder than Lamar. He dove off the stage into the crowd, fought his way to Jamie, and scrambled into his lover’s lap. His arms coiled around Jamie’s neck in a stranglehold.

“Dayum,” Jamie said. “I knew you had a kiss that can wake the dead, but dayum!”

“That wasn’t part of the act!” Lamar hissed. “Moon Moon! He set me up, the stinking—” His hiss dissolved into raging Spanish.

Meanwhile, the unicorn stood on the stage and stared out quizzically at the audience. He blinked and shook his horn. The remains of the condom split and went flying. The unicorn finally located Lamar amid the chaos and extended his muzzle. Lamar shrank back against Jamie.

“Does this mean no second date?” the unicorn said.

# # #

The unicorn’s name was Hugh. He could assume a human form, but chose to stay in his unicorn shape because the women clearly liked it better. They sashayed past Lamar and Jamie’s table in a steady stream, to fondle his sparkling horn or run their fingers through his mane. Hugh did nothing to discourage this, though he politely passed any dollars they waved at him over to Lamar. As far as the Pleasure Club patrons were concerned, this was the best damn show the snake had ever put on.

“I don’t know how I missed this place,” Hugh said. “I have got to come back here.”

“They’re not virgins, y’know,” Jamie warned him. “Good luck finding a virgin anywhere in Talbot’s Peak.”

“I’m not into virgins. That’s a misconception. It’s purity that gets us galloping. This whole room’s pure sex right now.” He bared his big horse teeth. “Me like.”

“Listen,” Lamar started. “When you were, uh, a stuffed toy … ”

“Do I remember anything? Just bits and pieces. I didn’t mind it, really. I was plenty drunk when I passed out. Stuffed toys don’t get hangovers. Thanks for all the brushings, by the way. My coat’s never looked better.”

“Any time,” Lamar said. “Um. Is one of those bits and pieces … ”

“The night you two played Lone Ranger and Zorro in the kitchen? Oh yeah. That was pure, too. Loved the ‘sword’ fight.” He winked. “I’m normally into women, but any time you boys would like a third—”

“We’re good,” Jamie said quickly.

Hugh rippled his coat in a striking rainbow shrug. “Your loss. Y’think maybe I can get some of these fine ladies to buy me a hard cider?”

End of an Era

“Great Caesar’s goat!” Nick roared. Which, according to legend, Caesar had eaten grilled with a side order of fries. Nick vowed whatever was making that ear-splitting caterwaul would suffer the same fate.

He burst out of his office and into a scene straight out of a horror movie. Ralph Bruin, movie reviewer and writer of op-ed opinion pieces, was throttling the life out of a plaid canvas bag with pipes stuck in it. The bag shrieked a death knell that could probably be heard all the way to Missoula. Apparently his staff was celebrating the object’s demise, because they were gathered (not all that closely, he noted) around a desk with a sheet cake on it. Black balloons had been tethered to the chairs.

I’m not going to ask, he told himself, then said, “What the hell?”

“It’s a wake.” Oh dear Lupa. That thing with his face nearly hidden by his shirt’s black ruffles was Lamar. Behind him, Jamie looked at Nick apologetically. Ever since he and Lamar had hooked up, Jamie seemed to wear that expression constantly. “We’re celebrating the demise of 2013.” The snake wiped a tear from his eye. “I’m going to miss it.”

“Is that a bagpipes?”

“Yeah.” Ralph paused in his assault on all decent music everywhere. The bagpipes wheezed like an asthmatic. “There’s this Scotty bar out in the woods. I been taking lessons.”

Nick wondered how Lamar would taste grilled with a side of fries. He’d heard somewhere that snakes tasted like chicken. “Let me guess. ‘Amazing Grace.’”

“You kiddin’ me?” Ralph said. “I was doing U2. I wrapped up ‘Grace’ about ten minutes back. You people don’t know what good music is.”

Yes, we do, Nick thought, and that wasn’t it. “You’re supposed to clear any office parties with me first. Do you even still work here? I thought you quit to write porn.”

“M/M erotica,” Lamar corrected. “And this isn’t a party. I told you, it’s a wake. The old year’s coming to an end.”

“Good friggin’ riddance, you ask me.”

Lamar gaped at him. “Are you loco? Look at all that happened. The world didn’t end in 2012, for starters. It’s hard to beat that. Then we had the classic car cruise, and the fair, and that month where a bunch of people turned into My Pretty Ponies—”

“Which obviously it skipped you, though I can’t imagine how. That was not a fun time.”

“I’ll say,” Teddy called over from accounting. “I still whinny when I sneeze.”

“But everybody looked so pretty, with the manes and tails and all. Better than your usual grouchy—” Lamar watched Nick’s face get redder and redder and for once took the hint. “Okay, so we almost got wiped out by the psycho snake god—”

“Psycho snake god?” Jamie said.

“That’s right, you mammals wouldn’t remember him. No problemo. His wife got herself preggers and dragged him off to the serpent dimension, so todo es perfecto. And speaking of little wrigglers, I hear congratulations are in order.” He waggled his brows at Nick.

Nick went still all over. “What did you hear, and from who?”

“False alarm?” Lamar glanced at Jamie. “According to El Rojo here—”

“Hey, don’t go dragging me into this.”

Sharp horns and missed kills, Nick thought in a panic. Jamie. Because Jamie didn’t chase after the shes, Nick sometimes forgot he was still a wolf, with a wolf’s nose. He could read the changes in Ziva’s body like Ralph read the sports page. Thank Lupa she wasn’t in today. “Yeah. False alarm. Bad rumor. If anything winds up in the gossip column, I swear I will hire you just so I can fire you all over again. Got it? Oh scat. Tell me you’re not crying.”

“I can’t help it,” Lamar blubbered. “I hate it when the old year ends. It’s like shedding skin. You know why snakes shed their skin? Because they’ve gotten fat!” He burst into tears.

Nick gaped at Lamar, whose body was roughly the width of a No. 2 pencil, then at Jamie, who had his arms around his sobbing lover. “This morning,” Jamie said to Nick. “His moods’re jumping all over to hell and back.”

Sweet dog, Nick thought. This year couldn’t wrap up fast enough. “He’s not … um … ”

“Oh, hell no! That’s a rumor too. Male snakes can’t get knocked up.” Jamie looked suddenly panicked. “Leastwise, I hope they can’t. C’mon, sweetie, cut it out. Don’t be such a drama queen.”

“But it’s the only kind of queen I know how to be!”

“Hey.” Ralph patted Lamar’s shoulder gingerly, as if afraid whatever he had might be catching. “Look at it this way. It ain’t 2014. It’s 2013, the sequel. Same shit, different stink, y’know?" Lamar bawled louder. "Aw hell.” Ralph threw up his hands and walked away. “Hey, I tried. Who wants cake?”

“You want some cake?” Lamar asked Nick through his sniffles. “I really wanted a piñata.” His eyes filled up again.

“It’s fine. It’s perfect. Couldn’t be better.” Nick cut himself a hunk of cake and took it back to his office, leaving Lamar and the party/wake in Jamie’s hands. Whoever claimed reptiles were cold-blooded had never tried to work with Lamar.

2013, the sequel. More of the same, only worse.

Nick nibbled the cake—it was actually tasty—then picked up his phone and dialed Rattigan’s Pub. “Hey, Louie? Nick,” he said when the rat answered. “Next time Gil comes in, give him the biggest drink you make. Put it on my tab. Tell him I know what he has to put up with as mayor and I understand completely.”

The Lusty Ladies of Talbot's Peak Present ...

“Is this everybody?” Mistress Penelope did a slow-mo turn in Java Joe’s cramped back room, more to show off her skintight rhinestoned catsuit than to do a check of the roster. Satisfied on both counts, Penelope announced, “All right, then. This meeting of the Talbot’s Peak Ladies Society Wednesday Afternoon Book Club is hereby called to order.”

“That's ten minutes right there," Ziva said. "We need a shorter name."

Jamie raised his hand. “Point of order here. I ain’t no lady.”

“None of us is, sweetie. It’s just an expression. And we had a shorter name, but the Lusty Ladies Book Meet got us too much of the wrong attention.”

Mary Ewing waved for an explanation. “Men wanted in,” Penelope said, moving her lips slowly so Mary could follow. “They weren’t into reading, either.”

“Unless the book in question was The Joy of Sex.” Greely made a face. “I dated one of those guys once. ‘Joy’ and ‘sex’ were mutually exclusive terms in his case.”

“Now that we’ve discouraged the bad element,” Penelope said, “we can get on with our meetings in peace. Get to the good stuff, as it were.” She took her seat and crossed her legs in a prim move that made Ziva snicker. “Who wants to start?”

To no one’s surprise, Jamie raised his hand again. “Another classic from—” Ziva coughed into her hand. “Tempest Arouz?”

“Why don’t we just cut the crap? It’s Lamar. Everybody knows it.”

“I’m all for it. I like a good male-on-male tale,” Penelope said. Heads nodded around the circle. “Is he going to write another one about Dillon and Coltrain?”

“As a matter of fact … ” Jamie stood. He faced Mary so she could read his lips, but spoke to the entire group. He held up a sheaf of papers. “Lamar just sent this one off to his publisher. It doesn’t even have a cover yet.” He shot a glance at Penelope. “You’ll probably want to make one up.”

“If it has hot parts. Does it have hot parts?”

“C'mon. Lamar wrote it. It’s all one big hot part. The readers get so wiped out by the time the real sex happens it’s like overkill.”

Ziva leaned forward, nearly tipping her coffee mug. “Does Dillon stop being the world’s biggest douche and finally admit how much Colt means to him?”

"You know I can't spill that. We’re going for a series here. Y’can’t throw everything into the pot first time out. What’ll you do in the next six books?”

Penelope immediately pounced on the “we” and got the hot blush she was looking for. “I’m helping out with this one. Kind’a. Colt’s a photographer. Lamar keeps bugging me for tips.”

“I’ll just bet he does,” Penelope murmured. “Speaking of tips, have you had a chance to test that advice I gave you?”

Just when you thought a red wolf couldn’t get any redder. All the ladies giggled at the tint of Jamie’s skin. “I thought we were talking about fiction here.”

Taking pity, Penelope said, “All right. Back to the business at hand.”

“Does he?” Greely asked. “With his hand. That scene in the last book was one of my favorites.”

“It goes a ways past hands in this one. If I say any more I’ll wreck the plot.”

Mary was gesturing frantically. “Out the door and to your right,” Ziva said.”

“Ain’t that,” Jamie said. “You haven’t read this series yet, have you? Okay. Dillon’s a cop and Colt’s a crime photographer. They solve mysteries, then they—” At a loss for the word for “fuck” in sign language, Jamie settled for jabbing his forefinger through a circle of his thumb and index finger. Mary nodded, understanding.

"Dillon’s a real hard case,” Greely said. “Closeted as all get out.”

“Can’t imagine who Lamar based him on,” Ziva said.

“And where’s the hot Latin sex?” Penelope said. “Lamar always writes these smoldering Hispanic characters. Dillon and Coltrain? Has he gone Anglo on us?”

“Dillon’s mom was an illegal Mexican. It’s one of the secrets he keeps bottled up. It’s why he’s so randy in bed. All that frustration’s gotta blow off somehow.”

Greely bounced up and down on her chair. “Excerpt! Excerpt!”

“Lessee.” Jamie riffled through the pages. He cleared his throat. “Dillon ripped the newspaper from Colt’s hands. ‘I don’t want to read about it,’ he growled. ‘I want to do it. I want to do you.’ ’So what’s stopping you?’ Colt said. 'This.’ Dillon tore Colt’s belt away and practically ripped the zipper down its length. ‘And this.’ He hooked his fingers into the elastic rim of Colt’s briefs. His eyes dared Colt to stop him, to tell him anything but yes.” Jamie looked up from the pages. “You hear something?”

“Just my heartbeat and a lot of ragged breathing,” Ziva said. “Don’t stop now.”

Suddenly the ventilation grate near the ceiling popped off. A huge snake slithered down the wall to form a coil on the floor. The coil reared up and turned into Lamar. He glowered at Jamie.“So this is what you do on Wednesdays. Darkroom, my ass.”

“It’s a room,” Jamie stammered. “It’s dark.”

“This is why you can’t be with me? Because you have to be with—” He looked around. “Hey. You’re all women.”

“Last time we checked.” Penelope took command. “We’re a book club. We’re big fans of Tempest Arouz and her work. I’m the one who coerced Jamie into giving us previews. You’re fast, but it’s still a long wait between books.”

“And we’re going nuts with this whole Dillon/Coltrain thing,” Greely put in. “They should … ” She broke off and stared at the nothing between Lamar’s legs. “Where’s your ding-dong?”

“Somebody else explain to the frog that snakes are built differently. So that’s it?” Lamar said to Penelope. “You dragged my boyfriend away from me so you could talk about books?”

“So we could talk about dirty books,” Ziva corrected. “There’s a big difference. I’m assuming you read 50 Shades?”

“Couldn't get past the first twenty pages.” Lamar sniffed. “Christian's a rank amateur. Why am I only hearing about this group now?”

“Well … ” Jamie’s blush achieved a whole new level of red. “I know you think I don’t like what you write, but I do, really. Only if you knew that, you’d want to … ”

Lamar grinned. “Do all the stuff in the books?”

We thought you were already, Mary signed.

“We’re fascinated by the creative process,” Penelope said. “Could you tell us where you got the idea for the series? And why a series? You’ve only written standalones up until now.”

“That’s because up until now I was standing alone.” Lamar had no trouble switching over from miffed to center of their rapt attention. “Now that I’m in a committed relationship, I want to explore that in my writing. Hence the continuing story of Dillon and Colt.” He hooked his arm around Jamie’s waist and yanked the uncomfortable wolf against his naked serpentine body. “Let me tell you what prompted that scene my biggest fan here was reading.”

“How much of it was based on real life?” Ziva wanted to know.

Lamar’s grin got bigger. “Funny you should ask.”

# # #

Out in the coffee shop, two cowboys on a break listened to the peals of laughter echoing from behind the door to the back room. One of them sent a questioning look at the barista. “Book club,” the Goslin girl said with a shrug.

The cowboy snorted. “You kidding me? Books? They sit around reading? They call that fun?” He slurped a mouthful of coffee. “Women. They don’t know how the hell to have a really good time.”

Getting Wild in Talbot’s Peak!

“A kissing booth?” Ziva offered up to the group surrounding the table.

“Oooh I like.” “Sweet!” “Who will do the kissing?” “Ziva.” “Penny.”  Everyone spoke at once which was typical for the group at this table.  Lamar, Mooney, Jamie, Penelope and Ziva sat in a semi-circle facing their boss and doling out ideas for the upcoming fair.  What kind of booth could the town newspaper offer up?  Their latest idea was a kissing booth.  Everyone liked the idea, or in Ziva’s case just put up with it to finally have some resolution on the entire event.

Nick just growled.

No surprise he hated the idea of a kissing booth, she, herself, was less than certain she wanted him offering up his soft lips to any other females.  This on the heels of the football fiasco made Nick one unhappy canine.

“Listen, Bossman,” Penny huffed, leaning toward the aggrieved wolf. “The suggestion could have been for a fucking booth.  Would that make it better?”

“Now that’s a booth I can get behind.” Lamar crooned.

“Lamar!” Jamie barked impressively for the shy wolf.

“Marissa would never allow me to participate in that…” Mooney chuffed, a blush rising from chin to forehead.

“Leave him alone, Penny…”

“That’s Mistress P to you Z.”

“…There will be no fucking booth.”  Ziva winked at Penny, giving her a smidgen of submission to settle her down, before looking back to her mate.

“What,” he growled.

“Nick, we’re running out of time here.  We need to think of a booth.”

“Why can’t we just do what we do…the news.”

“What, and let people stand around us as we write?”  Ziva snarked, her frustration rising with every pout Nick presented.  “We’re a newspaper, Nick, not TV news.  Not much to watch here.”

“FINE!”  Nick’s hand hit the table with such force the others jumped a bit in their chairs, but Ziva knew the sting of flesh to wood ignited his blood.  “Have a kissing booth, but you, Ziva, will not take part.” Her mate leaned in close, his lips a heartbeat away from hers.  “No one kisses you but me!”

“I’d say the same to you, Nicky, but where would that leave us?  We’re both out; Mooney’s out because magick with flow from Marissa's witchly britches if she sees him kiss someone else and just looking at the vein bulging on Jamie’s forehead make me think Lamar would have to be scratched from the list as well…”

“What!? Oh I’m so in.  Someone has to kiss the boys and make them cry…you know, not everyone in town is hetero-specific, some are omnisexual and will be looking for some boy smoochies.”  Lamar reached over and smoothed Jamie’s forehead.  “Sorry, lobo rojo, just consider it research.”

“Excuse me,” Mooney interjected, loudly from his place at the other end of the table.  “How about we adjourn for a few hours and everyone thinks up at least two non-sexual options for a booth.  Then we can reconvene and vote on a winner.”

“Good idea, Moon.”  Nick smiled for the first time since the meeting had started.  “Marissa and the boys are a good influence on you.  Meeting adjourned.  Be back here in two hours with better suggestions.”

##

Two hours later…

“I think we have a workable solution to the booth problem.”  Ziva said, standing in front of the group of hair tousled, stressed out people in charge of the fair booth for the G&B.

Nick looked up from his desk.  “I’m all ears.”

“A kissing/picture booth with a banner that reads… ‘Getting Wild in Talbot’s Peak’ People could kiss a wild animal and take a picture home as proof.”

Ziva waited for Nick’s outburst.

“What happened to non-sexual?”

“No one could think of anything totally without fun.”  Penny quipped.

“So we’d be going furry?”

“Some of us would.” Ziva nodded as she spoke.  “But some would need to stay in human form.  Jamie needs opposable thumbs to work the camera and you, Nick, need to play the alpha card to keep the animals in line.”

“But you’ll still be kissed…”

“Only the top of my head, not my lips.”

“Fine.  But make sure we have an assortment of animals to choose from and you stay in the background.”

“No worries, jefe,” Lamar smirked.  “Everyone will want to lay lips on my snake.”

Most of the group laughed.

Jamie growled.
~~~

Will it work?  Will the gang be able to turn furry when the time comes or will the kisses be doled out human style after all...  Don't miss the fair, coming soon to a town near you!

Serena

Boys and Their Toys

Vernon McMahon beamed at the crowd wandering around the Talbot’s Peak town square, many of whom detoured into the Grease ‘n’ Grill. He squeezed Elly’s hand. “I’m telling you, baby, this is the best idea I’ve had since that time I offered raw meat.”

Elly shook her head, but even she had to admit Classic Car Cruise Night was a tremendous hit. She’d never seen so many gas-guzzlers and convertibles in her life. But then, she didn’t go around looking for any, unlike the car enthusiasts who’d turned out for her husband’s promotion. Nearly all of them were male, and nearly all of them had that same puppy-with-a-chew-toy look on their faces. A car was a car to Elly. It must be something carried on the Y chromosome.

“Holy cow, would you look at that Pontiac!” Vern exclaimed. “Get a couple paddles and you could float that boat down the river.”

“Oh my,” Elly gasped. She darted over to a vintage ‘60s VW Beetle, complete with windup key attached to the back. “I had one of these when I was Mary’s age. They’re so much cuter than the new ones.”

Vern hugged his wife against him. “Same reason you married me."

“Knock it off, you old wolf. People are watching.”

“No, they’re looking at the cars.” Like Vern. “I always wanted a street rod. Too bad the oil embargo hit around the time I got old enough to drive. It pretty much killed the car culture. I ended up with a pickup truck, like the rest of my unimaginative family.”

“You could get one now. A big boy toy. We can afford it.”

“You wouldn’t bleat?”

“Of course I will. Just not too loudly.” She grinned up at him. “I wouldn’t mind tooling around town in a classic convertible.” She broke off as a man and woman in their 40s ambled past them. The man had his hair in a greased-up DA, and the woman wore a pony tail and poodle skirt. “But not dressed like that.”

Vern just snickered. Quite a few of the attendees had opted to dress to the era. The square looked like a casting call for a Happy Days revival. Jaunty ‘50s rock and roll blasted from the ice cream shop, adding to the atmosphere. Like Vern’s diner, it and the other shops that had opened for Cruise Night were doing a brisk business.

“Does it bother you,” Vern said, “that you and I may be the only people here who actually remember the ‘50s?”

“Speak for yourself, old timer. I was just a lamb for most of it. The ‘60s were more my decade.” She stopped and nodded toward a vehicle more lounging than parked at the far end of the square. “And speaking of which … ”

Both grinning, they strolled toward the VW minibus painted in a swirl of psychedelic colors. “In A Gadda Da Vida” blasted out of a modern-sounding stereo system. On the sliding-door side in a lawn chair sat Lorelei, decked out in jeans and a t-shirt, with dandelions wound through her masses of hair and enough beads to start her own Mardi Gras parade. Her boyfriend Bobby made an acceptable, if big-footed, John Lennon. Digger the wolf stood by a portable grill, roasting veggies under his human girlfriend Laurie’s supervision. Digger and Laurie were dressed like Digger and Laurie. Not so Lamar, who’d gone full-on greaser with leather jacket and sinfully tight pants and his ebony hair styled to within an inch of its life. Rounding out the makeshift commune was Jamie, in his usual slacks and flannel and long-suffering grin.

Lorelei held up two fingers in a V sign. “Peace, dudes. Join the food-in.”

“Only if you tell me what that smell is.”

“Relax,” Digger said. “It’s cooking herbs only. I don’t grow recreational.” He nodded toward Lorelei and Bobby. “I can’t speak for the bunnies.”

“You’re looking authentic,” Elly said to Lamar. “Very stylish.”

“Protective coloring,” Lamar said. “The ‘50s were a dangerous decade for those of my persuasion. I won’t feel safe until the ‘70s swing around again. Ay!” He bolted out of his lawn chair as a blue Plymouth Fury growled past. “Was that Christine?”

“Don’t think so,” Jamie said. “Christine was red.”

“I hate haunted cars.” He hopped into Jamie’s lap. “Hold me.”

“Hey, Pops,” Digger said to Vern, “you look like you’re from the era. You want to explain the fins to me?”

“They’re spiffy.”

“Is that even a word?”

“It was in my day. Show some respect for the machinery, puppy.”

“Uh-huh.” Digger suddenly froze with his spatula half-under the carrot slices. “Oh, that is sweet.”

They all turned to look at the immaculate Mustang purring its supercharged way into a nearby parking space. The door swung open and Ziva got out, done up to Pink Lady perfection: black Capris tight as a coat of paint, scoop-neck blouse, killer heels, a kerchief around her neck in the same scarlet shade as her lips. Nick slouched out of the passenger seat and fell in at heel. He hardly rated a glance.

“You’d better be talking about the car,” Laurie said to Digger.

“Shoot,” Jamie said. He got up, dumping Lamar off his lap. “Better get back to work. I’m supposed to be shooting photos of the cars.” He scurried off in the opposite direction with Lamar clinging to his arm.

“Quite a crowd, Dad,” Nick said, following introductions. He was trying his damnedest not to scowl at his father holding hands with a herbivore. Ziva jostled him with her elbow and stepped over to check out Digger’s food. He didn’t growl, but Laurie did, very softly.

“You offering prizes?” Nick asked.

“A coupon good for two free meals at the Grease ‘n’ Grill for the most authentic car. This isn’t a contest. It’s for funsies.”

Nick looked around, more at the people than the rides. “I didn’t know so many shifters were into street rods.”

“Yeah, well … ”

“Let’s be honest,” Elly said. “Most of them are human. We picked up a lot of the raceway crowd from down by the exit. Word got around, and … ” She shrugged.

“Dante’s not pissed, is he?” Vern said in a low growl.

“Are you kidding? He’s been looking for some way to ease contact. It just happens you lucked into it. If there’s one thing human and shifter males can agree on, it’s cars. Oh dear dog,” he added, suddenly panting. “Is that a Corvette? I have got to check that out.”

Nick trotted off, followed by Vern, Bobby and Digger. Laurie took over the grill. “I don’t get it,” she said to Elly. “It’s a car. What’s the big deal?”

"Well," Ziva said, "there's always the back seat."

Laurie smiled and nodded. In fact, there were smiles and nods all around. Over at the ice cream shop, the soundtrack kicked into “Little Deuce Coupe.”

Helping Hands (and other body parts)

Jamie’d gotten good at gauging when Lamar was in a Mood. He hissed like a set of leaky pipes and swore under his breath in Spanish. For a Mood (caps and Italic), he hissed in Spanish, right out loud. If the hisses were directed at the closet, it meant he couldn’t decide what to wear. If he hissed in the kitchen, they were out of either chili or nachos, or both.

Today the hisses blasted out of the breakfast nook, punctuated by a string of Spanish too rapid to follow, though Jamie picked up on the shitty piece of shit part. He glanced within and saw Lamar hunched over his laptop’s keyboard and casting aspersions on the screen’s ancestry. Aha. This must be a Writing Mood, no doubt prompted by a deadline.

Since he wasn’t the target, Jamie deemed it safe to enter. Just the same, he stopped just beyond what he figured must be Lamar’s strike range. “Lemme guess. Trouble with the latest masterpiece.”

Lamar hissed like a punctured helium balloon and spat a dirty word at Windows 7. “Those limp bastards. They won’t fuck!”

“Uh, who won’t … what you said?”

“Esteban and Carlos. They had dinner at that fish place Carlos likes, Esteban’s got him down by the river, the moon is high, the wolves are singing, and now Carlos won’t put out. What is wrong with you?” he yelled at the words on the laptop’s screen. “Esteban’s your mate! You two are destined to be together! Can’t you even kiss him, for fuck’s sake?”

“How’s his breath?” Jamie asked. “Did Esteban rinse after dinner?”

Lamar hitched around on his chair to stare at Jamie. “This is a romance. It’s a fantasy. Bad breath doesn’t factor in.”

“Maybe Carlos just ain’t in the mood. Dog knows I been there,” Jamie added in a mutter.

“Que?”

“Maybe Esteban’s coming on too strong. He bein’ all bossy and alpha wolf and acting like a jerk?”

Lamar frowned at the screen. “Well … kind’a … ”

“Thought so.” Jamie nodded. “You do tend to write to a type. Esteban should just back off for once and let Carlos take the lead.”

“Carlos is King Wussie when it comes to romance. By the time he makes a move they’ll be too old to lift a finger, let along anything else."

“Why not give the boy a chance? He might surprise you.” Jamie crossed the intervening two strides to the laptop, and Lamar. “Lessee what we got here. Oke-doke, got it. Esteban’s frustrated as all get out ‘cause Carlos ain’t responding. But Carlos wants to get it on, he just don’t know how. He’s just as frustrated, only he don’t know how to express it. This is his mate and he’s all put out. So he figures what the hell, and he screws up his guts and makes a move.”

He slid his arms around Lamar from behind. Lamar hissed, but it didn’t burn like the acid hisses he’d been spitting at the screen. This was thin and surprised-sounding. Jamie grinned and nuzzled Lamar’s slender neck while running his hands up and down the snake-shifter’s slender torso. “Esteban ain’t expecting this, so he just kind’a stands there.” Like Lamar was doing right now.

Knowing how much Lamar like the feel of fabric on his skin, Jamie used his partner’s own clothing as a wipe-cloth and gave Lamar’s chest a thorough rubdown. He took special care over Lamar’s ribs; the snake was ticklish there. As an extra added bonus he flicked his tongue around the cup of Lamar’s ears in addition to the nuzzling. “Think Esteban’d go for this?” he purred.

Lamar hissed something. Jamie couldn’t make out the language, but he could hazard a guess from the tone.

“Carlos ain’t a dummy,” Jamie went on. “He can see what he’s doing to Esteban. Now he’s getting all hot and bothered to, so he picks up the pace a bit.”

Jamie knelt in front of the chair and eased Lamar’s legs apart. All he had on was a shirt and some boxers. Jamie lifted Lamar an inch off the chair and teased the boxers off before setting him down again. “Esteban just kind’a sits there,” Jamie said. “He’s the one does all the business usually. He ain’t used to getting it. Am I right?”

Lamar made a gurgly sound. Jamie chuckled and went to work on the inside of Lamar’s thighs. His legs were slender as a dancer’s, but made of solid muscle. When those legs wrapped around your hips, you weren’t going nowhere. Those muscles were trembling now, like most of the rest of Lamar’s body. Not in fear, oh nosiree. Jamie’d been on the receiving end of play enough times to know how the script was supposed to play out—and when to tear it up and throw it out.

He eased his kneading, petting fingers closer and closer to the lips of the pouch that concealed Lamar’s reptilian cock. Jamie pushed his nose in for a thorough sniff. He traced his tongue along the sensitive seam of the pouch, then puffed a breath on it. Lamar shuddered all over. “Didn’t know Esteban could make a noise like that,” Jamie murmured against the moistened lips. “He like it sitting up or lying down?”

“Fuck Esteban,” Lamar croaked. The pouch’s lips pulled back and Lamar’s Dreaded Hooded Cobra thrust its snout out of its den and went prodding around for the source of delight. Jamie kissed it hello. He would have done more, but Lamar lurched off the chair and bore him down to the linoleum. In an instant Jamie found himself trapped in his lover’s twining embrace, with Lamar’s hips grinding against him. His own Big Bad Wolf slammed against Jamie’s pajama bottoms, howling for release.

Then Lamar got the pajamas off, and Jamie lost track of the plot.

# # #

Some time later, both sweaty, panting partners levered themselves up off the floor. “Did it work?” Jamie said. “We bust your writer’s block?”

“We busted something,” Lamar said with a grin, rubbing his hip. “I think I can finish the scene now. But then I’ll have to edit. Run upstairs, grab a shower, and get that tight ass back here in half an hour. Esteban’s going to want an encore. He’s one insatiable dude.”

Kill or Be Kilt

The trouble with snakes, Jamie decided, was that just when you thought you had them sussed, their twisty little brains slithered off in a whole other direction, and there you stood, wearing a skirt.

“It’s a kilt, rojo,” Lamar insisted. “A cultural costume. Manly men wear these.”

“Manly men.” Jamie eyed Lamar, whose last Halloween costume had consisted of feathers, sequined hot pants, a wig and a cone bra, dubiously. “Manly men like us.”

“Manly men like Scottish Highlanders, which is what we’re going as. Big, burly Scots reeking of heather and testosterone, with muscled chests and flowing hair and giant—” Lamar’s tongue flickered over his lips. “Claymores.”

Jamie sniffed. He had to admit, though not out loud, that Lamar looked dashing in his blue-and-black plaid outfit, with the red sash draped across his chest like a splash of an enemy’s blood. The skirt—okay, the kilt—showed off Lamar’s dancer’s legs to devastating effect. “Are kilts supposed this flamin’ short?"

“That’s why we’re trying them on now, so we’ll have plenty of time to make alterations. Why? Having problems with yours?” His tongue reappeared again. “Because I’m not.”

“I was under the impression kilts landed somewhere below the knee.” Jamie slapped his thigh, where the red plaid fabric left quite a bit of freckled skin exposed. “This is a skirt.”

“It’s a Halloween costume. It’s not supposed to be historically accurate.”

“Well, I’d like mine to be about another six inches accurate.”

Lamar stuck his tongue out all the way. “Prude.”

“Ain’t nobody gonna believe we’re Highlanders anyway. With our accents? C’mon. Ain’t no way either one of us sounds Scottish.”

“You come from a long-lost clan. Ages ago a boatload of virile Scottish warriors got caught in a storm. The winds blew them all the way across the Atlantic. They washed up on the Gulf Coast. A pack of beautiful wolf-women found them and took them in, since it just happened to be their heat season. That’s why your tartan’s red, for the red wolf.” Lamar paused. “I like that one. I should write it up as a story."

“But it’s got women in it. You don’t write about women.”

“You didn’t let me finish. There was a young man with them, the wolf prince, the son of the alpha bitch. The captain, the most handsome warrior of the bunch, stumbles out of the surf.” Lamar swayed the intervening two feet into Jamie’s arms. “The boy catches his arm to steady him. The captain looks into eyes that gleam like stolen pirate’s gold, and in that instant loses his heart forever.”

He twined his arms around Jamie. Jamie’s breath caught in his throat. Even in human form Lamar could get mighty twiny. Not that he ever minded, but …

“So if the captain mated with the boy, where’d I come from?” he had to know.

Lamar hissed against his neck and let go. “He screwed the mother too, okay? Jesu Cristo. You could suck the romance out of a Harlequin novel.”

“Just askin’. What about your accent? You get sloshed, you start sounding like Desi Arnaz.”

“No problemo. Back in the day, before he met Lucy, Desi was kidnapped by escapees from a Scottish convent. He got away from them by using his considerable charms, with the expected results. And thus the MacBabaloo clan was born. It was later shortened to Balboa for easier pronunciation. You never heard of them?”

“You’re deranged.”

“And you have no imagination. Have some fun with it, rojo. Live a little. Otherwise I’m going off to write that Scotsman story. I haven’t had a book release party in a while.”

Jamie grinned slyly. “Okay then. Why don’t you try imagining what I’m not wearing under this skirt? ‘Scuze me, this kilt.”

Lamar’s tongue flicked in and out. “Not wearing?”

“I wanted to be authentic.”

“Then I better check your authenticity. Can’t have any anachronisms getting in the way.”

He reached for the kilt. Jamie dodged out of reach and ran for the bedroom, with a hissing Lamar right behind him. Viva la Scots, Jamie thought. Or whatever.

In On the Action

Jamie stumbled down the stairs, yawning and scratching his hair. He stopped all three activities in the kitchen doorway to stare at Lamar’s actions in the breakfast nook. “Son of a hound. Just when I think I seen you do everything, you pull a new pervy action out’a your hat.”

“And what,” Lamar said with a superior sniff, “is so pervy about this?”

“A grown man playing with dolls? Where do I start?” Maybe he should start with how Lamar had the dolls positioned. He gestured uncertainly. “Them two doing to Ken what I think they’re doing?”

“They’re trying to. My next book has a four-way sex scene and I need to test the logistics. Can you get four pumped-up dudes on a couch together and which limbs have to go where? Since you never want to help me with my writing—”

“I try to stay out of the research phases.”

“Hence my need for action figures.”

“Yeah, he’s getting some action, all right.”

“But is it plausible? See, Ken here fits perfectly between Randy and Batista, but then where does Trips go? And if I try to fit Randy’s legs around Trips, it doesn’t work. Too much thigh muscle. See?”

“You named them?”

“They came with names. These are WWE action figures. Got the whole bunch at a yard sale. Best ten bucks I ever spent.” He plopped a cardboard box full of dolls on the table. “These boys have helped me create literary history. I’m forever in their debt.”

“You’re working out sex acts with dolls.”

“That’s the unromantic way of putting it. I prefer ‘utilizing visual aids.’” He set his “visual aids” in a semicircle around the box on the table. “This is Randy Orton, Batista, Triple H, the Macho Man—he’s old school—Undertaker and Stone Cold Steve Austin. Austin usually plays the dom because he’s bald.”

“Who’s the little guy in the mask?”

“Rey Mysterio. He bottoms.”

Jamie pulled a final doll from the box, a naked plastic female with My Little Pony hair glued on its face and in several strategic places. “A woman? Really?"

“That’s Shapeshifter Barbie. My sister made her. My publisher might want me to write a ménage. Gotta be prepared.” He picked up the Undertaker doll to study it. “Y’know, ’Taker here reminds me of Sergei. I think I’ll paint him white and give him to Gypsy for Christmas.”

“Poor Ken,” Jamie remarked, rubbing a finger over the doll’s plastic brown locks in sympathy. “He looks so scrawny next to all these body builders.”

“Yeah. I got a soft spot for old Ken. Strip off the clothes and he looks just like a naked snake.” Lamar tugged down his PJ bottoms to demonstrate the similarity. “When I was a little squiggler, I thought that was neat. Dolls made just like us.”

“He don’t look so much like you right just now,” Jamie remarked dryly.

“He doesn’t?” Lamar glanced south. “Hola! Where did you come from?”

“You want to put that away? I ain’t had breakfast yet.”

“Now that it’s out, we might as well use it. C’mere and get into position. You’ve got more flexible parts.”

“But there’s only one’a me. You said you were writing a foursome.”

“I’ll figure out where the others go later. Okay, Ken—he’s Raoul in the story—”

“Ow! I think I just crushed Randy Orton.”

“No loss. He’s a little bitch. I never liked him anyway. I need to get a John Cena figure. Come with me to the swap meet on Saturday?”

“You’re not just a perv, you’re a loony perv.”

“I’m a snake. We’re twisted. Now drop those trunks. In the story, Master Marlon has his way with the virginal Raoul. That just became you. We're going to work on this scene until we get it right." He danced the bald action figure in front of Jamie’s face. “And that’s the bottom line, ‘cause Stone Cold said so.”