The Sexiest Proposal Contest

The Open Road contest was a success, and T. S. Addison was the winner! He got a package full of goodies. Now it's your chance, because...

It's time for another contest!

In a few weeks, I'm going to marry the man of my dreams. In celebration, we're giving you a chance to win a prize package full of smut, music, this-and-that surprise goodies, maybe even a t-shirt or two. I'll even throw in an Amazon gift certificate so you can buy more smut!

On to the contest details:

A woman always remembers her wedding -- but what she remembers just as well is her proposal. Did he get down on one knee? Did he ask her in the afterglow of delicious sex? Was it sweet and intimate, or was it entirely public? Or perhaps convention was turned on its head and she did the asking?

For this contest, I'm looking for tales of the hottest, sexiest proposals. Tell me your original story in 1000 words or less. Stories should be both erotic and romantic -- make me hot and make me smile.

The deadline is August 14, 2007, midnight, US Central time. Send entries to gwennydear AT gwenmasters DOT net. One entry per person, please.

All entries will be blinded, then judged by yours truly and the man of the house. The winner will be announced on September 1, 2007.

You've got two weeks, so get busy!

Love on the Dark Side

Today I opened my mailbox to find a copy of Love on the Dark Side, a novel of paranormal romance and erotica from Black Lace.

Isn't that a yummy cover?



I'm happy to be included in such a great collection! My short story "The Shadow of Matthew" is here, along with some hot stories by many of the other sexy Lust Bites women.

For your reading pleasure, here's an excerpt from "The Shadow of Matthew."

A bit of background: Alison hasn't been back to her home in many long weeks, afraid of the memories she would find there after losing her husband in a tragic auto accident. Now she has returned, and she finds more than she bargained for.

She walked through the unforgiving sunlight and looked down into the sink. The cologne bottle was in a half-dozen pieces. She picked up little shards of green glass with careful fingers and dropped them into the wastebasket. Then she turned on the water and washed the majority of the cologne down the drain. The scent was still in the air.

She turned the water off and looked at the sink. There were drops on the side, high on the edges where the water didn’t normally reach. She dipped her finger into one and sniffed. Yes, it was cologne. She put it on her wrists, on her throat, behind her ears. The scent of Matthew surrounded her.

She started to cry again, but it was a quiet and gentle cry, not the sobbing hysterics she thought she needed. She turned on the water again, used the closest washcloth to sweep out the sink, and tidied everything up again.

Alison.

This time she turned with a small scream, sure there was someone in the hallway looking at her, certain there was someone in the house. She stood stock-still and waited. There was nothing again, nothing at all. She stood there for what seemed like an eternity, afraid to move, lest she miss some little sound that would give away the fact that there was an intruder in the house. She was aware of the grandfather clock, the ticking of it from down the staircase and down the hallway and around the corner, and she wondered if she could hear that, why couldn’t she hear someone breathing?

The logic of it relaxed her, and she stepped toward the door again. She looked out into the hallway. The sun had reached that point Matthew always loved the most, when it found the half-moon windows in the top of the house and spilled light through them in shafts that were so strong, they looked almost solid. The light danced across the floor and dust motes danced in the beams, reminding her of how long it had been since she had been in the house. Avoidance had seemed the right thing to do, but looking at those shafts now she wondered if she had waited too long, if Matthew’s memory had somehow evaporated during those long weeks she slept in her old bedroom at her mother’s home, afraid of the memories this house would hold.

I missed you.

Alison stared at the sunlight and waited. The fine little hairs on the back of her neck stood up and she broke out into goosebumps, the same way she always did when Matthew kissed that sweet spot right underneath her ear. She listened and heard nothing and decided she really was going crazy, bonkers, bound for the funny farm, one brick short of a load, not playing with a full deck –

Stop it, BeeBop.

Alison was suddenly dizzy. She groped for the wall and leaned against it. The voice was shocking but the words were so astounding that she couldn’t utter a single sound in response. No one called her BeeBop; no one even knew that name existed. Not her best friend or her mother or her sister or anyone else.

No one but her husband.

To get more, click here: Love on the Dark Side: A Collection of Paranormal Erotica from Black Lace

Worth Her Weight in Diamonds!

This is our littlest baby...Minnie Pearl.


She had a bit of an accident a few days ago, and by the time the vet is done with her, it will have cost over five-hundred dollars to get her little foot all stitched and doctored up.

I keep thinking...if her foot is worth five hundred, then how much is my whole little kitty cat worth?

No wonder cats act like royalty!

Handcuffs are Very Good Things

The delightfully sexy Alison Tyler is editing the Alphabet Series of naughtiness for Cleis Press, and I'm happy to be in the "H" volume. H Is for Hardcore is now available, and Alison is treating you today with an excerpt from my story, "To Protect and to Serve."

And if you check it out right now, you might win an autographed copy!

Go on, now. Go see Alison. Give her a comment, and give it to her dirty. You know she likes it that way.

Good Reviews Make Me Happy

Check out this praise for my story "And the Award Goes To...," now available in the Erotika: Bedtime Stories anthology:

When attending a nationally televised awards show, famous attendees must be aware of the ever present public eye, the flashing photo ops, and possibility of scandal.

For some stars, this might be an opportunity for an arousing game of sexual chance - the excitement heightened by the fact that a miscue could result in front page material, plastered across the checkout lines of the world. How far will they go?

That's a question that author Gwen Masters puts forth in her enticing wordplay for Erotika: Bedtime Stories, a new collection of sensual stories just released by Sensorotika Press. The action Gwen depicts on the floor of the Country Music Awards is so real that one wonders if she hasn't been seated at the CMAs herself at some point. It's a backstage look at just what happens in the limos that speed away from such events that never backs down and never disappoints.

Makes one wonder, indeed. *wink*

To read an excerpt from the story and get the book, go here.

Panty Fetish, anyone?

It all started with a pair of purple panties.

I bought them at Victoria’s Secret, one of the few indulgences I could afford to make on a part-time salary. I was a full-time college student, and saying money was tight was an understatement. I had scrimped and saved for those panties and that beautiful matching bra, the one that held my breasts in just the right way, the one that always made me look a size bigger. Those panties, however, they hugged in all the right places, never rode up and made my hips look perfectly curved. I loved the bra, but I loved the panties even more.

My boyfriend loved those panties, too.

Taylor would lie in bed beside me and run his fingertip across the edging of those panties, riding it all the way around my hip and between my thighs, over my belly and across the small of my back. He would slip his finger underneath and lightly touch the satin with just his fingertips, then trace the places on my skin where it had touched. The panties became our own special brand of foreplay. He would spend a good hour making smaller and smaller circles until he found the wetness he had created, and then he would make me come while those panties caressed my skin with the familiarity of a lover.

Sometimes we would go out to dinner or a dance or simply walk around the college square at night and at some point, I would lean over and casually tell him I was wearing purple. Other women might get a rise out of their men by mentioning they were stark naked under whatever demure outfit they were wearing, but I could always get Taylor going by simply leaning over and whispering into his ear, “I’m wearing purple.”

Sometimes he fucked me while I wore them. He pulled the crotch aside just enough that he could slip his cock against the satin even as it slid into me, and the delicious friction of my tight wetness and that satin tease would drive him over the edge faster than anything else we could possibly do in bed. Then, of course, he would pull the panties back into place. I would walk around the house with panties on and nothing else, drenched between my legs from the wetness he had put there, and before I could get out of the bedroom to get a glass of water he would be ready for another round.

I was wearing the purple panties when he asked me to marry him...

And then, things started to get really interesting!

To read the rest of the story, as well as other hot and steamy tales from fantastic authors, visit Ruthie's Club. You'll be glad you did.

You Are So F--ing Obscene

I've been cathing up on my reading these last few days, and I came across this
fantastic article from Mark Morford of SF Gate.

I wish I could rant as well as he does!

You Are So F--ing Obscene
The president says it, you say it, your kids say it all the time. So what's the f--ing problem?

By Mark Morford, SF Gate Columnist
Wednesday, June 13, 2007

My grandmother' s face used to scrunch up like she just stepped in dog droppings whenever she heard it.

My own cherubic and supercute mother rarely used to say it but has become much more friendly with it over the years because, you know, what the hell, and now whenever she launches an f-bomb or even an s-bomb she almost can't help but smile a little sheepishly afterward, like her own mother is looking down from the heavens and making that face, or if my mother's really angry and the cuss is meant to be a serious exclamation, well, it's almost impossible not to smile yourself, like you just heard this really adorable squirrel pass gas.

Me, I remember my first time. Somewhere around 7 or 8 years old, just chillin' on my bike in my Spokane 'hood on a warm summer's eve, a gaggle of other boys scampering around (there might have been girls too, but at that point girls were still incredibly toxic and hence my brain would not have registered their existence) and everyone just doing boy stuff.

Suddenly, it happened. From outta nowhere, one kid launched a never-before- heard "screw you" at some other kid and all chattering stopped as we all sort of looked at each other as if to say "huh?" and "what was that?" while this weird electrical charge shot through the air like creamy peanut butter on fire.

Everyone felt it. Everyone present sort of knew, even then, even without the slightest clue as to what the words actually meant, that something interesting had just occurred, something powerful and strange and, well, just a little bit wonderful.

As a quick test, I dashed home with those two words hot in my mouth and promptly unleashed them on the head of my older sister. To, if I recall, absolutely fantastic effect.

Clearly, Bush's Federal Communications Commission is terrified of boys like me. Oh yes they are.

Let us now recap: Since 2003, BushCo's own nipple-terrified regulatory agency has been working like a prudish little ferret to destroy perceived indecency, particularly those "fleeting expletives" that love to pop up in major media, threatening to fine any network roughly $5 bazillion for any appearance of the dreaded "f--" or "s--" or anything else that causes unusual tingling sensations anywhere in the pallid body of FCC Chairman Kevin Martin.

Dismissed as eye-rollingly idiotic by every cunning linguist in existence, this absurdly strict rule nevertheless caused enormous panic and trepidation among generally spineless network honchos who immediately shifted programming and yanked uncut versions of "Saving Private Ryan" from broadcast and fired on-air talent for the slightest indiscretion and desperately called their lawyers in prayer. It was, to put it simply, f--ing ugly.

Fast-forward to now. A New York appeals court just told Bush's hard-line FCC that they are, in essence, a bunch of simpleminded out-of-touch dweebmonkeys and that the TV networks, while morally vacant in nearly every way imaginable, still cannot be held to such impossible standards when such juicy curse words are a common element of everyday speech, including that of President "Stop This S--" Bush and Dick "Go F-- Yourself" Cheney and just about every other being anywhere, with the possible exception of the ghost of my late grandmother.

"We are sympathetic to the networks' contention that the FCC's indecency test is undefined, indiscernible, inconsistent and consequently unconstitutionally vague," Judge Rosemary Pooler wrote in a delicious smackdown, a decision that also called the FCC's obscenity rules "divorced from reality," a perfect kicker that promptly induced Kevin Martin to whine uncontrollably.

"It is the New York court, not the commission, that is divorced from reality," he puled. "Boogerbooger wabba, jerkface thhhbbbppptt! " he did not spittle, his face turning bright red as he hopped on his Big Wheel and pedaled away furiously.

Ahh, obscenity. Here is where you may want to jump in and play devil's advocate and argue that, while swearing may be delightful amounts of everyday fun, mature discourse doesn't actually require such language. And sure enough, you can go through your entire life and never utter a single curse word or, for that matter, never let alcohol pass your lips or enjoy a butt plug or inhale from a joint or be just like Frank Sinatra and never once wear a pair of jeans, and you can still make it to your grave a reasonably happy person. It's true.

But maybe that's beside the point. Because as far as Bush's God-spanked FCC is concerned, it is, always and forever, all about protecting the children. Or rather, it is all about protecting some imaginary Christian Everychild, some sort of perfect hypersheltered dovelike organism made of spun glass and delicate bunny hearts and little golden crucifixes, a fragile, blessed thing whose happy, unblemished life had been completely free of blood or spit or pain right up until he overheard Bono say "f--" at the Golden Globes and his precious virgin heart shattered forever.

No matter. It's all fast becoming rather moot anyway. Broadcast television as we know it is dying a clumsy, confused death, curse-happy cable/satellite TV is in 87 percent (combined) of American homes, satellite radio remains free to blaspheme up a storm, the Internet is a giant linguistic smut-for-all and even the more serious blogs and indie media outlets are happily loosening crusty journalistic binds and slanging their way into the hearts and minds of readers everywhere.

See, most people seem to get it: As is always the case in things prurient and dirty and fun, it all comes down to balance. Too many gratuitous f-bombs and you sound juvenile and uneducated and mean. Too few (or too awkwardly placed, or unearned) and you sound prudish and awkward and far too much like, say, Jerry Seinfeld.

This, then, is the real linguistic lesson kids need to learn. When it comes to a good curse, it's all about the placement, the timing, the precise usage. After all, "f--" is a delightful power word, one I wish I could actually employ in this very column every so often without those damnable dashes that protect, well, no one.

The truth is, there are always perfect cuss-ready moments. There are always those times when it's not only entirely appropriate to launch a well-placed swear word, but not to do so would feel, well, downright irresponsible. Let me see if I can think of a good example ...

Ah yes. How about this: "The FCC finally got some comeuppance from the courts? The Christian right's death grip on the culture is weakening even further, and the nation as a whole appears to be slowly but surely coming to its senses? Well. Thank goodness. Praise Jesus. Pass the wine."

"And oh yes, it's about f--ing time."

See? Perfectly reasonable.

***
Click here for the original post

Sex & Guitars

I'm working on another final edit of Sex & Guitars. It's been a few years since this book came out in hardcover, and now it's finally -- maybe -- hopefully -- coming out as an Ebook. As soon as I know for sure, you'll know for sure.

In the meantime, I'm going over the manuscript and cleaning up little things I might have missed before. A word used too many times, a turn of phrase that seems odd, things of that nature. But as I'm doing the editing, I'm also re-reading the story.

Sometimes, a walk down memory lane is a real bitch.

I poured my heart and soul into that book. It's a memoir, after all -- isn't it supposed to be all about the heart and soul? I wrote the novel with not only Ayza's consent, but his constant support during every stage of the process. As my journal became a novel, he encouraged me to include everything, even the parts that were almost too painful to write. If I took out a scene that I thought was too close to my heart, too sensual to be laid out in the open, he almost always talked me into putting it back in. The result is a broad, honest account of what we went through together.

That's to his credit, not mine. If it had been entirely up to me, I might say I would have been as open about things, but I'm not sure that's true. I think I might have tried to protect myself from the things I didn't want to remember, and focused more on the things that I wanted to hold onto the most. The good times versus the bad ones.

Looking back, I see myself for who I was back then -- a young woman, little more than a kid, in love with a man who was forbidden. It was that very fact that kept me coming back at first. What person doesn't want their moment of rebellion against all things sensible? But as time went on, he became a need, not just a want. He became the center of me.

In many ways, going back through the story of that time is ripping that center wide open all over again. It's dragging me through the long nights, the empty bottles of alcohol, the passion that was just as intense as the fury, the arguments that made no sense and the moments when everything was so crystal clear, it cut like a jagged blade of broken glass.

It is pulling out those things I left buried, too -- the lines on the mirror, the nightmares while he was in rehab, the haunted look in his eyes when he was coming down from it all.

It's a look I can still see in him. The scars are too deep to ever go away.

Writing about the sex during that time only made sense. Our relationship was based on a lot of things, but sex was the glue that held it together. We expressed so much in bed, things that couldn't be expressed through words. Sex broke down barriers and made us vulnerable, pulled us together in our exclusive little world, where we could discuss things that would never come to the surface in any other way. An orgasm was like striking oil...once the initial rush was over, the steady stream of words would come.

Most of that book was written while I was still tingling from his touch.

I approached this final editing of Sex & Guitars with the question in the back of my mind: Would it still matter? Would it still be relevant? Would it still have the same impact, tell the same tales, hold the same openness and honesty and outright pain that it held in the beginning? Would the sex still burn as hot as fire, would the passion still make sense, would the desire still linger?

The answers to all those questions is yes.

I'm glad for that. That means it might be draining, it might be emotionally exhausting, it might be difficult to look at in the light of day, all these years later -- but it's worth every minute.

Occupational Hazards

Do kitchen utensils make you think naughty thoughts? Do you find your best sex toys in the hardware store? Do you look at any location -- even the train tracks or the courthouse steps -- and imagine what dirty things can be done there?

If you said yes, you just might be an erotica writer!

Over at Lust Bites, we're talking about the delightful Occupational Hazards of writing about sex for a living. Get over there and enjoy!

The Open Road Contest Winner!

Thanks to everyone who entered the Open Road Writing Contest! The entries were all filled with down and dirty smut, which is just what we were hoping to read. All entries were blinded, printed and then taken to bed, where we read through each and every one.

The choice came down to three entries. This was the one that came out on top...so to speak. *wink*

T. S. Addison will receive a prize package with all sorts of goodies in it! The next contest is coming soon, so you'll have another chance to win great prizes.

Congratulations to T. S.! And now, on to the story...

One Hot Ride
By T. S. Addison

The engine hummed its way up to a roar as the sleek silver bullet shot out of a turn. Tires squealed as it broke into the straightaway. The power of four hundred horses thrummed through the chassis and right into the center of me, right there between my legs. His hand slid up my thigh as the speedometer slid into the red.

My hand slid up his thigh, clutching his gearshift through his slacks. As I squeezed, his foot pressed harder on the gas, and he grew harder beneath by fingers. Under my skirt, he reached my pussy to find nothing blocking his way, not even soft, fluffy fur. That morning, I’d decided to go bare just for giggles.

Between the feel of the engine through the chassis and the stroke of his fingers between my smooth lips, I was dripping wet and ready for more. I tugged down his zipper and plunged my hand inside to find my hard, hot prize. I gripped his cock tightly. He moaned.

“Pull over. Now,” I ordered, cupping the head of his dick in my hand and giving it a squeeze.

He pulled his hand away from my sopping pussy and grabbed the steering wheel. He whipped the convertible off the highway and down a dirt road, dust filling the sky behind us. Another turn of the wheel and he slammed down on the brake, sliding to a stop in a small grove of oaks.

Still gripping his cock, I leaned over and whispered in his ear, “Leave the motor running.” I released him, jumped from the car and hopped onto the hood. He was out just as quickly, in more ways than one. He’d undone his pants and let them slide down. Now that’s a cock, I thought as he approached me.

My skirt was up, and the engine throbbed beneath my ass. I raised an eyebrow as I leaned back on my elbows and spread my legs. He smiled at my bare cunt, leaned forward and ran his tongue between the lips, flicking the clit rapidly. He closed his lips around it and sucked. Oh, Lord, I couldn’t wait any longer.

“Fuck me!” I commanded.

He didn’t have to be told twice. Giving my dripping pussy one last lick, he straightened up, grasped my legs in strong hands and drove that gorgeous cock deep into me with one thrust. Yes! The engine vibrated my ass as he drew back, then plunged forward, deeper this time. His balls slapped against me as he set his pace, stroking back and forth. He brought his dick to the brink of popping out only to drive it home, again and again.

We both groaned in delight as he pounded away. It was more than I could stand – the engine sending tremors throughout me, his cock spearing me, his balls rhythmically slapping against my ass, my pussy flooded with my juice.

“Come,” I pleaded. “Come with me.”

He stroked faster, harder, the head of his prick slamming into me. I could feel his tension building as I quivered, my pussy going into spasms, gripping him and relaxing, gripping again and relaxing. I felt his hot come splash into me, mixing with my own juices. He buried his fingers in my ass cheeks as he held on for life, his cock buried as deep in me as possible. I felt his spasms finally ease, then stop. He let go of my ass, putting his hands on the hood to brace himself.

Slowly, he withdrew and fell back on the car hood beside me. We both lay there for a moment, catching our breath and basking in relief. I turned my head to look at him. I hadn’t seen a smile that big in a long time. I slid off the hood and pulled down my skirt. Running fingers through my hair, I turned to face him, his slacks still around his ankles, his dick lying against his right thigh.

“So, what do you think?” I asked. “Do you want this one, or would you like to test drive the red one?

-- T.S. Addison lives in the Ozarks, writing about the joys of life, love and -- every now and then -- lust. A veteran journalist and columnist by day, at night T.S. is an explorer of the sensuous and currently is working on a short-story collection.

More of Those Sexy High Heels!

What's the easiest way to get a man's attention? Read on...

Catching a man’s attention is simple. In fact, it’s so easy, it’s often overlooked. It doesn’t have to be expensive or extravagant. It doesn’t have to take a lot of time, or even a lot of thought. It just has to be at least three inches, preferably with a sharp point.

At For the Girls, I'm talking about high heels. Not only what they can do for you outside of the bedroom, but the fireworks they can create behind closed doors, too!

Click for more...

How Many Inches Do YOU Prefer?

Today on Lust Bites, we're talking about boots! And high heels. And strappy sandals. And innocent yet sexy flats. And painted toes peeking out from the caress of leather...

And so many more feminine delights!

Come join us and tell us what you love.

"Under a Broken Sky"

Jack is a cold bastard, and he knows it. If the drinking hadn’t convinced him, running out on his wife when she found out about his affair was proof enough. But even a cold bastard can change – or so he hopes.

Here's a preview of "Under a Broken Sky":

Jack slammed on the brakes when he saw the snake in the road. He crept forward, the speedometer needle barely trembling, until the heat of his tires made the rattler see things in a different light. Jack watched as it slithered off the side of the road without a backward glance.

He looked at the watch on the dashboard. The crystal face was broken but the hands still worked just fine. It was two in the afternoon. He had half a tank of gas. He had two cigarettes, a bag of chips and one flat soda. He had six hours of road to cover. If he was lucky, he would make it in four.

He pressed on the gas pedal.

It had been six months since he had seen Hannah. It had been two months since the divorce papers found him somewhere in Oklahoma. He stuck them into his pocket without glancing at them and raised an eyebrow at the man who had delivered them. The officer had a gold badge on his lapel and a wide-brimmed hat that shadowed his eyes, but Jack didn’t need to see the disdain in them. He could feel it well enough.

He had waited almost a week to call, long enough time to leave no doubt that he had the papers, but short enough to let her know he actually did give a shit. Her voice was cool, too soft, too careful. He knew she was trying not to cry. He knew it as well as he knew her careful choice of words were for whoever was in the room with her, as if she didn’t want the new guy to know she was talking to the old one.

“Who is he?” he had asked, and in the one extra beat of silence, he knew she would lie to him. He hung up before he heard her do it. She would think he was angry, and he was, but not with her. He deserved the divorce, but he didn’t like the fact that he had turned her into a liar in the process.

He wondered who the guy was. What had her mother said about that new development? Her mother was always after Hannah to get Jack to straighten up and be a man and — his absolute favorite — stop drinking that beer. He started keeping a six-pack in the fridge just to spite her, and made a point of lying back on the couch and watching television when she came to visit, even if he had a dozen things to do out in the yard or the garage. Hannah chided him and said he was making it more difficult for her, and he supposed that was true, but his pride was louder than her protests.

His pride was louder than a lot of things.

He pushed the speedometer up to ninety and the old car rattled from every corner. The engine whined. He put his hand out the open window and let the wind blow it back.

Hannah wasn’t expecting him and that was good. He wanted to see her face when she realized he was back. The element of surprise worked in his favor, and her reaction would tell him whether there was a chance or not, no matter what her words said when he asked her.

Jack wasn’t entirely sure what had started the chain of events, but it didn’t really matter. What mattered was the way it had ended. Hannah had been acting all strange that day, making snide comments that Jack didn’t understand and really didn’t want to. While making dinner she had thrown a spoon into the sink so hard that it flew up onto the counter and cracked one of her porcelain soup bowls. She had buried her face in her hands for a moment and then turned around, but instead of sobbing, what came out was a screech of anger.

“You never change, Jack. You never change!”

She was right. He never did. They met and he fell in love and things were good for a while, then they married and things were even better. But Jack had somehow skipped that for better or for worse part. He always did have a problem with tuning out what he didn’t want to consider.

It wasn’t that anything had gone bad; it was just that it had gone stale. They had been together for ten years. It happens, his friends said. But that didn’t stop Jack from thinking of himself first instead of his union. When he ran into one of his ex-girlfriends at the bar after he told Hannah he was going to a friend’s house to watch the game on the big screen, he didn’t bother to push away her advances. That night he wound up in a hotel room with the ex while Hannah waited at home, thinking nothing was amiss.

He did it once, so he thought he could do it again. So he did. Dozens of times, and everyone at the bar was talking about it, but he never dreamed it would get around to Hannah.

That night, she threw their dinner at him. Her good pot roast, the kind with the thick gravy and every good vegetable from the garden, slid down the front of his body and dripped onto the floor. Then she threw the beers at him, one by one, and caught him upside the head with the last one just as he reached the car. It hurt like a son of a bitch, and when he yelled back at her she threw out the words whore and hotel and the one that made Jack’s world grind to a halt: divorce.

It was pretty clear that she knew.

Jack didn’t know where to go, so he just kept driving. He stopped at a gas station and threw his ruined shirt into the trash. His jeans were passable. He cleaned himself as best he could in the tiny bathroom that reeked of piss and stale vomit, and stared at himself in the dirty mirror.

When he took stock of what was in his wallet, things didn’t look good. He bought an overpriced shirt with a smiley face on it at the convenience store and broke his last twenty for a deck of smokes. Then he went to his ex-girlfriend’s house and bummed two hundred to get him out of town. He told her it was to buy a part for his old truck, to get it running again so he could give it to her. The truck had gone to a junkyard three years before, but she didn’t know that. He fucked her before he left.

He drove into Arkansas. Somehow he found himself in Oklahoma, then in Texas. He managed to get a job on a cattle ranch for a few weeks, and made enough money to get back up into Oklahoma, where he landed a job pulling black gold out of the ground. He thought he might never get the smell of oil out of his hair or the black of it out from under his fingernails. It seemed embedded in his skin.

But it was good for him. In the oil fields, he had time to think.

He wanted Hannah. Being away from her reminded him of the things that he loved about her in the first place, the reasons he had fallen in love. He remembered her soft and small hands, the smell of her good dinners on the stove, the way she packed a napkin in his lunch pail with a little note that made his coworkers tease him. He remembered the way she cursed when she tried to drive a stick shift for the first time, the raised eyebrows when she wanted to make a point, the music she played too loud and the way she danced to it when she thought no one was watching.

Where had it all gone? Ten years of marriage was a long time, but a woman who would stand by you for a decade was a blessing, not an excuse for doing shit you would regret. Hannah had put up with his cocky ways, his bad attitudes, his string of jobs that didn’t last more than a year at best, his reckless driving, even his outrageous flirting with her sister, though he had to do some fancy talking to get out of that one.

And yes, okay, fine — since he was being honest why not just go for the whole shebang? — he did drink too much. In the last year or so it had been too much whisky, but it always started with beer. He had been drinking too much beer since he was nine years old and started sneaking it from his dad’s cooler in the garage. It was true, and her mother was right about at least that much, so there.

Hannah knew her mother was right, but she stood up to her anyway. She gave Jack more chances than any man should have had. She believed in him. A woman like that was worth her weight in gold.

Then she filed for divorce.

And now someone else had her...

Read "Under a Broken Sky," the first of several stories about Jack, at Ruthie's Club.