Doppleganger

Doppelganger

by

Steven Hunley

Dave hated waiting for Andromeda to get ready. The make up was understandable, and he actually enjoyed watching her paint her face, or as she termed it “putting my face on” but when she finished and started to approach the computer desk he knew he smelled trouble instead of Chanel Number Five.

“What’s that, Darling?”

“Oh, I’m just shutting down and checking my e-mail.”

He took another sip of Dr. Pepper and figured she’d be finished by the time it hit his stomach. Dave figured wrong. She was still at it.

“What’s the hold-up, Honey? You know we have dinner at eight!”

“Almost done, Sweetheart.”

‘When she gets done, it will be when Hell freezes over, I bettcha.'

Dave enjoyed watching her fingers fly from one key to another like a Raven and hearing her nails rap-tap-tapping. But now she was trying his patience and he wanted her to stop and type Nevermore.

He slid up behind her and looked at the screen. Where was his last e-mail, and where were all the rest that cluttered her in-box in the same way her notes lovingly cluttered his?

“What’s up with this, Honey?”

“Oh, Dave, this is my old e-mail box, I’ve had it a long time, and it catches most of my spam. I have another, and that’s the one I use with you. You know, the important stuff.”

‘What a nosey bastard. What does he think he’s doing looking over my shoulder?’

They arrived at dinner at eight forty-five. The music was soft and the band was playing ‘It’s it Romantic.' The tablecloth was white linen and the waiter was efficient and so nonintrusive you understood he knew his craft.
Andromeda and David held each other’s hands, and gazed intently into each other’s eyes. When David leaned nearer to whisper sweet nothings across the candle-lit table, Andromeda smiled and blushed in an endearing feminine manner that would have qualified for an Academy award had the cameras been rolling.

“You’d never cheat on me, Darling, would you? You understand that so many men have before.”

“Never, not in one million years.”

Everything was picture perfect-until the check came. David figured it was Dutch-treat but Andromeda ignored the check, avoiding it as if it were the plague.

It was a wait-out, and since the restaurant was Don Jose’s, a Mexican stand-off.

Finally David sprung for the check. He calculated she’d pay for it later, and pay for it dearly. He knew Shakespeare would back him up.

‘The villainy you teach me I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction.’

David was certain that he’d balance the scales with barter, and that she’d pay him back with a pound of flesh he’d measure out on his bedroom pillow-top mattress.

As they left the restaurant and were walking to the car, Andromeda turned and laughed,

“I hope you aren’t upset with me about the bill, David, I sensed a certain something going on with you.”

“It was nothing, My Sweet, you read me incorrectly.”

But as he shut the car door politely he paraphrased to himself in a whisper,

‘So do I answer you.

The pound of flesh which I demand of her
Is dearly bought. ‘Tis mine, and I will have it.’

***
©Steven Hunley 2012

to be continued...

http://youtu.be/P0DK1dl8eRc



When David left it was two in the A. M. Simple Minds played on the I pod dock, Don’t You Forget about Me on softened sound waves that gently lapped the shores of their shell-like ears, pure unadulterated sex with a copy write of 80’s rhythm and blues. The couple slept together but didn’t sleep together.

By the time Andromeda was wandering alone in a dream, dark hair spilling over her four-hundred thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets like the dusky third cataract, David was searching his pockets for car keys, then for his ignition, then his street, then his home, and finally… for his bed. He replayed every second of their close encounter over and over until he fell into a delicious sleep stuffed as full of savory erotic images in glorious Technicolor and Stereophonic sound as a twice-baked Hollywood potato. There was nothing half-baked about David’s memorizations.

The next morning, after two cups of Columbian Supremo, he wandered to the breakfast nook and his computer and decided to make a new e-mail address.

‘What shall I call myself?’ he mused. ‘I know, I’ll make my name Misterreal. That will be my new moniker or appellation. After all, there’s too much deception going on on the web nowadays, but I…I shall be different.”

He typed in his new e-mail address.

‘It’s only a few minutes and a few clicks away. It’s simple. How many others are out there doing what I’m doing? How many are true, how many false? How many Cyrano de Bergerac’s are writing their love-plays with the help of a friend? It’s impossible to tell. But I don’t have to worry about them. I’ll only have to worry about myself and keep my own counsel.”

Half a grapefruit and a bowl of shredded wheat later he decided to start on a new story and strolled into his bookroom for further stimulation while he waited for the coffee to work its magic. More like a large closet, the ‘bookroom’ was piled high with dusty paperbacks and periodicals, and rows of hardbacks lined each wall. On the top shelf was the dark section. Bram Stoker, the Shelleys and Poe reigned supreme. There was Dracula, Prometheus Unbound, William Wilson, and Stevenson’s Strange Case of Dr. Jeckle and Mister Hyde slipped in by accident. Although David was mild-mannered on the outside, something wild and crazy waited within, and this aspect was never expressed to his satisfaction. His psyche was a caged animal just waiting for someone to leave the door unlocked. He unconsciously expressed this aspect by writing what he thought were ‘fantastic’ stories, and posting them on line. Each author he studied influenced his ‘voice’ and when it came down to it, David hadn’t developed a ‘voice’ of his own. He was a frustrated parrot, a juvenile imitator, and a bad one at that.

He took another sip of South American java and typed the start of what he called ‘a good one’.

“It was a dark and stormy night…”

Charles Shultz’s Snoopy could have done better.

Waking up alone and cold, Andromeda squinted at the early morning light, and turned over to face the wall. Its nobbly surface with all its bumps and squiggles could be made into anything she imagined.

‘Why doesn’t he sleep with me? Where does he go at that time of the night? What’s wrong with me anyway?’

Then tears formed a wet spot on the four-hundred thread-count Egyptian cotton pillow and suddenly, in the flash of a cosmic instant, it wasn’t as comfortable as advertized.

***

.©Steven Hunley 2012

to be continued...

http://youtu.be/wiqQmGkWHaQ

A promise of sex and possibly force!
Will he have his evil way with this exotically named chick?
Go for it !!

Hi, Steve. Love your work.

Couple of spelling errors, though, if you don't mind me pointing them out, ole busybody that yer auntie is:

"nosy" instead of "nosey."

"keep my own counsel" instead of "council", unless he's got an office-full of henchmen in the other room.

I was going to nail you on the excessive clichés-- "When hell freezes over," "not in a million years," and the grand-daddy of 'em all "It was a dark and stormy night" until I realized that the trite phrases were intended to show a certain trait of your male character. (Incidentally, re: "dark and stormy night"-- rather than paint the late Sparky Schultz with that brush, "Google" the Bulwer-Lytton fiction contest. You ought to consider entering it--you're so goshdarn witty you'd probably win first prize and be a guest on GMA!)

Speaking of wit, yours is so brilliant that you should be writing for Leno. (God knows he needs something!) I think I told you this before. Some prime examples of the Hundlean humor:

Quote:

---

". .he knew he smelled trouble instead of Chanel [N]umber [F]ive."

"The couple slept together but didn't sleep together."

---

Also the word-play on "twice-baked"and "half-baked."

I hope somebody in the "Biz" spots your work and gives you your big break!

Over a month later, little had changed. That is to say, passion was still the main ingredient in their formula of love. There were candle-light dinners and French kisses in darkened doorways while shopping at night on the tree-lined boulevards. There was snuggling together under a small umbrella in the rain. There was toujour romance. After a while David memorized her sizes, especially the size of her ‘unmentionables’ rather than the size of her shoes. She knew what he expected and when. His touch drove her mad with desire, and he swore that her legs were as smooth and pale as polished alabaster, and often compared her skin to the Venus de Milo, mentioning she was better, as she had beautiful arms to boot. She, in turn, convinced him he was the best lover she’d ever had and he replied that she, only she and no other, was the reason.

“And I’ll make no bones about it. It’s your sensitivity,” he schmoozed. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“And you… you are,” she searched for the right words while squeezing his hand, “as Tina Turner once said, Simply the Best.”

Any strangers watching them cavort would instantly know they were lovers. Hand in hand was their specialty. Their interactions conveyed a certain ‘I know statistics say we can’t go on like this forever, but we’re going to prove them wrong’ attitude. If love is an intoxicant, they were fatally intoxicated and didn’t give a whit.

As much as he praised her good looks and expressed his feelings for her, Andromeda displayed certain feminine insecurities and reservations. To her way of thinking all the words in the world didn’t carry as much weight as deeds. It was a rare occasion for him to sleep with her the whole night through until the next morning; in fact it seemed as if his time spent with her was diminishing daily. There was no explaining it.

One afternoon they had lunch together and just couldn’t resist making love. Afterwards while she showered he asked to use her laptop computer.

“Go right ahead, it’s a Mac but I’m sure you can handle it.”

“I’ll try.”

In a couple of minutes she strolled out of the bathroom and he abandoned the computer immediately. As she struggled to wrap her hair in a towel, he laughed and compared her to the turbaned Arabian princess Scheherazade.

“Come on, Sher, let me dry you off.”

Andromeda smiled in anticipation. The late afternoon, the warm steamy room, her hair dripping droplets over her shoulders, down her breasts, off the tips of her nipples, his strong eager hands warm under the white fluffy towel, the rubs that were merely badly disguised caresses, it was just too good to resist.

‘Twice? Well, why not?’ she calculated. ‘There’s nothing like love in the afternoon.’

After completing their business they panted ---with the exhausted breath of a thousand angels who just finished decorating the sacred gates of heaven.

She collapsed on the mattress in a lady-like swoon, like a swan folding wings for the night. He tied his shoes and disappeared as usual, and it was only one-thirty five.

***


©Steven Hunley 2012

to be continued...

In the morning Andromeda dried her tears and lifted herself from the empty bed and decided to woman-up. put on her Big Girl Panties and attack the problem with vigor.

‘I’m named after one of the original Amazons,’ she said to herself, ‘It’s time I learned how to keep a stiff upper lip. Some coffee will help, I’m sure.’

She proceeded to French-press two cups of coffee so strong that when she stopped stirring the sugar and let go of the spoon, she was sure it would stand upright in the cup all by itself. Not wanting to poke her eye, she shook her head, removed it and proceeded to answer her e-mail, and started her daily routine as if nothing had happened.

‘But what’s this?’

The page wasn’t her page at all. It was his page, his e-mail. In his eagerness to consume her he’d forgotten to close it and sign out.

“The silly man, he’s like a baby. Momma will have to do it herself.”

Her wonderful French-tipped nails were just about to press the keys, but then hesitated, hovered, and then folded back into her palm and drew away.

There were all his e-mails and the address wasn’t the one she was familiar with. It was his new one, a secret one, a nasty sales-pitched, spam-filled one. The last place she’d seen so much trash was the city dump.

The one at the top of the list was from someone named Sarah and the subject was “Be a Bigger man.” When she clicked on it, it proved to be from a Dr. Maxman, for Max Penis Enlarger Pills!

Dr. MaxMan was created by a M.D, a Board Certified Urologist who has treated over 85,000 patients with erectile problemos. He is a member of both the College of Urology where he had a B average, and the Society of Urology, and the director of a whole lot of Urologists. He is also the past president of his state society of Urologists, so you know he ain’t no joke!

Gain 3+ inches---Today! Real doctors! Real science! Real results! AS SEEN on TV!

There were plenty of juicy before and after pictures, tiny Vienna sausages before and Goodyear Blimps afterwards, and a testimonial that was forgettable had it not been so funny, signed in utmost sincerity, from a previously sad man with a previous four incher-

Thank You Doctor Maxman! You saved my love-life!!!

And all this was from an address named Sarah!

The second one was from a woman named Maria and the subject said, “Shhhh, Your Secret Numbers are inside!"

Inside she clicked and found:

Requesting your Free Lucky Numbers will enable you to benefit from all the wonderful opportunities for Money, Love and Happiness my powers as a Medium can bring you.

Turned out “Maria” was a clairvoyant, a universal medium (rare) a Tarot reader and numerologist.

The last one was from a writing site and the subject was “You have a new review of your short story Come Rain or Come Shine on Writers-Network from Grey Dove.”

Hail, Master!

What can I say? David does it again. I will add this though: you writing is fast becoming very poetic and advanced. But the literary references are a little too much. Not to insult the intelligence of the average reader, but very few on WN will take the time to read this through, slowly, and appreciate the depth of it. Or even make the associations you've mentioned. So, please do not ascend too far beyond us mere mortals, and write so we common peasants can enjoy your sharply honed skills.

It was a five-star review and Grey Dove was but a teenager from Transylvania. Her perfect novel was one of the Twilight series, and her icon was dressed in a provocative manner, be it Goth or whatever whatever. Andromeda knew from newscasts on BBC America they didn’t have much money in Transylvania, but she was certain they had enough money to wear more clothes than that!

Andromeda sat back for a second and wondered, ‘The internet is becoming a quagmire, a swamp, with all these deceptions and subterfuges. It’s becoming a dangerous place, more savage than any jungle Edgar Rice Burroughs could ever dream up. Just reading this kind of stuff leaves a bad taste in your mouth.’

Having said that, she took a bite out of a donut and another sip of coffee and considered,

‘I wonder what would draw David in more, a well-shaped model dressed in a Bikini, or a good review, one that flatters him no end? One or the other? What would it take to become his absolute magnet? How could I become the perfect Jane to his Tarzan?'

***

One night Andromeda and David were discussing possible movies to see together but had reached an impasse. David wanted something new and Andromeda something old.

“I’d like to see Transformers, or the latest Twilight film, or something as Disney as possible like the latest pirate movie with Johnny Depp,” said David.

“The first one was good, Pirates of the Caribbean, but for me at least, the newer ones have lost the thread. They’re too caught up with Bruckheimer’s special effects.”

“Well, he has plenty of money to spend.”

“All the money and special effects in the world don’t’ make up for a lack of story. If I wanted to see a pirate movie, I’d look where they were playing Captain Blood or the Seahawk. Sabatini knew pirates better than anyone else and Flynn knew how to swashbuckle with the best of them. In fact, he owned the patent on swashbuckling; though I’m convinced Douglas Fairbanks invented it."

David shuffled the newspaper and looked at the retro-theater listings, and was pleased to announce,

“There’s nothing like that showing tonight.”

Andromeda gazed up at the heavens and whispered, “Sorry Errol, maybe next time.”

Then she became quizmistress and asked, “You know why they called Johnny Depp’s character Captain Jack Sparrow, don’t you?”

“No, Honey, why?”

“Because Errol Flynn, a man’s man who towered over six feet tall, was the Seahawk. Johnny, and don’t get me wrong, I love Johnny...especially in ‘What’s eating Gilbert Grape’, and I love Leonardo too, but Johnny is short. Seahawk---Sparrow, get it?”

There was a certain look of distain on David’s mug. He didn’t care for her logic, or Johnny-bashing, either one, and had never seen the grape movie.

“Yeah, I get it.”

Then a look of triumph took its place when he replied, “But, Honey, there’s not anything like that on now,” while thinking, ‘Praise be to God and thank heaven for that.’

“What’s showing at the El Capitan Theatre? They show classic films all the time.”

“Here it is. It’s an oldie called Duel in the Sun.”

“I think I’ve heard of it, with Gregory Peck?”

“That’s it, with Peck and Jennifer Jones, Lionel Barrymore, Walter Huston, Lillian Gish, Joseph Cotton, and Herbert Marshall. It’s a love-story and a western.”

"A western, huh? The one truly American film genre. And a love story? You know I adore love stories, they remind me of us.”

She placed her hand warmly over his, and moved closer so he could notice her perfume and continued her sell.

“And probably in magnificent Technicolor. We should see it.”

David knew he was in trouble the minute she used the words Technicolor and genre and breathtaking and love-story. Next she’d be mentioning Lillian Gish’s silent career, Huston being in Treasure of Sierra Madre, giving him the entire history of the Barrymores from John to Ethel to Lionel down to Drew. Then she’d skip to how John and Flynn used to pal around and get drunk, and from there go back to Peck and Jones’s respective careers and how Cotton was in Citizen Kane.

David understood that to uphold his position on modern films spiked with digital effects was a last stand. Or was it simply an exercise in futility, a less than useless endeavor in a vain attempt of a Digital Davy Crockett in a modern-day electric Alamo, to put up a fight with nothing but digital ammunition?

He found himself surrounded by the Warner Brothers, crazy Howard's RKO, United Artists and Metro Goldwin Mayer on their home territory of the old studio system. In other words...he was doomed.

Even a maveric like Martin Scorsese would have given up, and in that fact he took a Quantum of Solace. Just thinking of Marty made him want to hit the Mean Streets and find a Taxi Driver.

“OK, Honey, what have we got to lose? Let’s go. But I pay for the popcorn...this time."


http://youtu.be/9nBOj5IzoKU



They made the movie right on time, found good seats, ate kettle popcorn, drank all-American Coca Cola, and viewed every advertisement. David thought Andromeda would want to sit in the last row, hiding in the darkness, and expected her to throw a few hearts his way, but the most she gave out were two kisses. When he wanted to comment on something she played Hush hush sweet Charlotte by pressing two fingertips over his lips and saved her comments for later. When they left they decided to walk on the way home and held hands.

“Well, David, how did you like it?”

“It was a western and a melodrama for sure. I liked the performances, every one of them was top-drawer, and the locations shots were authentic. They spent some money on this one.”

“I think that Selznick was trying to copy his success in Gone with the Wind. What did you think of Huston’s as the preacher ministering to Pearl? The bit about purity and remaining chaste being harder for a beautiful woman?”

“I agree with that totally.”

“Me too, men just can’t leave them alone. Beauty always comes at a price.”

Andromeda knew what she was talking about; she’d been living the part for years. David continued,

“As a western it was fine, but as a melodrama it wasn’t mellow enough for me.”

“You mean the end?”

“That’s it, I mean…” David began speaking like a practical man,”…how many lovers kill each other?”

“Not too many, it’s usually only one or the other.”

“Usually the male does the killing, and if the woman does, she usually uses poison. Poison is traditionally a woman’s weapon.”

It had been misting while they were in the theater. Wet streets reflected the street light, changed from green to yellow to red, and dancing neon signs and car headlights shined in shimmering bars across the pavement in their direction wherever the couple walked. The smell was fresh new rain displacing old summer dust.

“Unless she’s an Army graduate-schooled in Afghanistan or Iraq kinda girl,” David laughed.

“Or an Amazon,” she said with a wink.

David laughed even harder. Sometimes Andromeda was so funny it hurt.

“It’s usually over infidelity,” he said, “You know, when one finds the other one lying and cheating.”

Andromeda hesitated a moment and grew serious.

“You’d never lie or cheat on me, would you David? I’ll never have to worry about that, will I?”

He looked straight into her eyes and smiled in a strange condescending manner.

“Not me, Babycakes. Not in one million and one years.”

Andromeda took his hand again and continued walking, but every step she took seemed more unsure than the last, and into her mind popped a quote from her English class, although it had been years ago. Was this a bold-faced lie she’d just heard, or a lie of omission? Either way….

They stopped in front of a bakery that was still open and went inside for a treat.

“What would you like?” asked David.

“I’d like a cream Danish,” she replied, and began searching through her purse.

“It’s OK, Honey, it’s on me,” he smiled again, the same sort of kiss-your-*ss smile and she was sure of it now.

Again, in popped Shakespeare, and reverberated in her brain like Hamlet.

‘O villain, villain, smiling, damnèd villain!...That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain—
At least I am sure it may be so in Denmark.’

***

©Steven Hunley 2012

to be continued...

When David went home at his typical early morning hour the first thing he did was visit his computer. At that time of the morning it was quiet. No traffic, no sirens, no neighbors playing loud music or speed-freak bums rummaging through the dumpster providing a wake-up concerto like Jamaicans playing steel drums.

He’d left Andromeda extra early for a shot of sleaze, something he’d learned he couldn’t do without. His secret e-mail had become the key to releasing his alter-ego, so ignoring his regular e-mail he scrolled and clicked on his alternate G-mail address. If dope was a slang term for information, what was waiting on that electronic page was a shot of bad dope, though he had the opposite impression at first. That’s because one of his favorite sayings had been stolen from the Greeks.

“Never look a gift-horse in the mouth.”

He scrolled past the ads for Viagra, cheap auto insurance and 0% credit cards, past $250,000 in term life insurance for $15 a month, and zeroed in on his latest critique, a response to his blog on Blogger.

It was a response to his story The Kiss and he was really excited that someone actually read it.

“This was a great story,” a woman gushed. “The setting in Paris is sooo romantic. I just love the ending too, so exciting and fun! I’ve been writing myself for some time now, and have come nowhere near this level. I like how you populate your stories with likeable characters, snappy dialogue, and descriptions of settings so poetic they’re simply to die for. You drew me in completely with the very first sentence and hooked me like a tuna the paragraph after that.

How can I ever expect to become such a fine writer when life is so short?

Ann”

David examined her icon. It was a picture of Annie Oakley, the sure-shot western heroine. He just had to reply so he went to Blogger.

“Ann, I’m happy you enjoyed the piece. I read all the time. Start reading all you can. Life is long enough to get what you want if you really want it. You have time to develop. I’m sure you’re young and have plenty of time to practice your skills.”

But then, within minutes after he left the message, another one appeared.

“But I’m not as young as you think. I’ve been writing since I was twelve, I attend writer’s conferences all the time and I’ve taken writing classes too. It’s just that the teacher didn’t really help me and I decided it was a waste of time. Really, I’m a mature Italian woman who knows what she wants, and right now it’s learning to write. Don’t let the icon fool you, I’ll attach a picture so you can see.”

Sure enough there was a photo of a woman standing near the entrance to the zoo and not an American icon standing with a rifle in her hand. She was a tall redhead with heavy eye make up dressed boldly and provocatively. Low-ride hip-huggers left her middle exposed. When he looked closer at what he thought was an imperfection, it turned out to be a piercing on her navel, and she wore bold black Maori tattoos on her arms. They were as shapely as Andromeda’s, and her figure sported a body of curves designed for speed, undoubtedly designed by Pininfarina.”

This prompted David’s tiny brain to reverberate Little Richard’s Long Tall Sally.

“Well, long tall Sally, she built for speed
She hot, everything that Uncle John need
Oh Baby,
Yeah, Baby
Wooo baby, havin’ me some fun tonight.
Yeah.”

It brought out the rock and roll side of David, in other words… the sex side, the one that inevitably got him into trouble.

‘I can say anything I like about this with complete impunity, since she doesn’t know who I am. Her teacher was a lucky guy, to have her in his class. I bet she distracted him like crazy. I wonder how he could keep his mind on the lesson at all. How could he? I couldn’t. Just look at those tits.”

Now his mouth was becoming moist. His hand trembled as he typed, “I’m sure you have all the equipment to become a good writer. You must practice. Can you send me a manuscript? Maybe I could make some suggestions.”

“I have a piece I’m working on right now,” she answered. “But it’s not finished.”

With his hand more shaky than ever he responded, “I’ll look at anything you have to show me.”

“All right. You’re so kind to help.”

A manuscript was attached to her next note. It was childish, poorly written and full of errors.

In other words, just what he wanted.

©Steven Hunley 2012

http://youtu.be/eFFgbc5Vcbw

to be continued...

There are enough witty lines to keep the reader's interest, but the digressions have a slight tendency to derail the unity of the story. About those interludes, I agree with you re: Hollywood's irritating habit of boosting special FX while minimizing the importance of a good script. Yer auntie's "l.s.s." (long-suffering spouse) shares your narrator's enthusiasm for Mr. Flynn. The passages devoted to the dangers of the World Wide Web have some satiric bite; all that's missing from the spam folder is the legendary and notorious email from the Nigerian prince.

I've got a confusing image of Andromeda -- is she really voluptuous or merely "zaftig" --"pleasantly plump?"-- the notion that the former describes her figure is the reference to her "Big Girl" underpants. Underendowed females (such as yrs fooly) can take comfort in the fact that the allegedly more-desirable buxom gals very often run to fat upon reaching middle age.

In some of your previous works I might have mentioned a tendency toward excess in your descriptions, but I see some improvement in this piece. You still might try to avoid overreaching phrases, as well as their hackneyed opposites.

Looking forward to the concluding section, in which case I'm sure you'll pull all of this together!

I forgot to say above ^^ that while the line about the disarming though armless Venus de Milo is witty, it's not original:

Quote:

---

"But strictly between us/ You're cuter than Venus/ and What's more, you've got arms!"

---

I thought it was from Johnny Mercer, but I was wrong (again.) Good thing I checked:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Love_Is...und_the_Corner

***

Within days several notes flashed back and forth between the two. At first they were about writing but after a while that changed. Something else gradually slipped in; innuendoes started taking precedent over writing that provided only a thin veneer of respectability and scholarship over what was fast becoming full-time flirting. David believed he could act with impunity whatever he said or did, and because the woman lived in Pennsylvania, he didn’t consider it 'real' flirting. He felt he had nothing to lose and wasn’t accountable for his actions.

‘After all,’ he reasoned, ‘nothing will come of it, not in a million and one years.’

Ann was becoming bolder with each letter. At the same time she displayed a surreal intimacy and familiarity with David, communicating more like a lover rather than a friend, sharing her most intimate secrets and asking his advice in matters of the heart. What started out as an innocent game between two adults, quickly turned to an X-rated recess play-time. Each one was eager to outdo the other, and before David knew it, he was spinning out of control, with no responsibility and no one in charge, with no morals or consequences to curb his idiotic impulses.

Finally, matters came to a head with her latest message.

“I’m coming to L.A. for a writer’s conference at the Marriot near Staples Center. We should meet and compare notes. I’m just dying to see you in person. You should be dying too.”

David read and re-read it more carefully than the founding fathers read the constitution. He couldn’t quite grasp its implications. What was in store for him now? What new adventure awaited? What unknown territory was he about to explore? The curves of her admirable buttocks? The sweep of her coal-black hair? It made no difference; this wasn’t an expedition to uncover the source of the Nile like Burton and Speke. This exploration was of a totally different nature.

“If anything,” thought David. “It will only be a few safe inches of feminine form. There won’t be any danger. I owe it to myself to find out. And lucky girl that she is, I owe it to her. I can handle it. I was born for this kind of action.”

The woman was about to test his limits and stretch his imagination beyond belief when her next message arrived.

“Do you have any silk ties? Four silk ties? Any fabric will do “in a pinch” if you’ll pardon the expression, but I prefer silk.”

Right away was not soon enough to dive in his closet and check. There they were on a hanger. And then, rather than a Whiter Shade of Pale, her next missive turned a Delicious Shade of Nasty when it said,

“And olive oil. We must have a bottle of the very best stuff. Do you prefer virgin?”

“Oh My God, Oh My God,” he exclaimed to the heavens. “This just gets better and better.”

***

The lobby was filled with cushiony chairs under a large renaissance painting, an odd combination of landscape and portraiture. The room was comfortable, dotted here and there with potted plants, flowers, and thick patterned rugs underfoot.

Across the room a woman sat waiting. She was exquisite. When she stood up to shake hands he couldn’t help notice how she towered over him, and wondered exactly how high her high heels were. Her hair was dark and dusky, and her eyes were sea-green and liquid. Her voice had a familiar quality that made him feel comfortable, even though it was an awkward situation.

“I’m Anne,” she said with an accent, and offered her hand.

He couldn’t identify her accent. It was eastern-European or Russian, not Italian as imagined.

“David,” he replied, “And I’m so pleased to meet you in the flesh.”

They shared a nervous smile, both for different reasons.

Although their e-mails had been sexual in nature, their talk now became small talk and it was painfully obvious they’d changed gears. This stage lasted minutes until a convention of electronics manufacturers. wearing white short-sleeved shirts with pen protectors in their pockets, arrived and surrounded them. Loud and joking, playing juvenile pranks, laughing like hyenas, they were driving them crazy.

“Most likely been drinking,” she said leaning nearer.

“What’s that?”

“I said, they’ve been drinking!”

David leaned even nearer, so close he discovered her perfume. It was a familiar scent. He had no idea what kind, so never mind the identification, just enjoy.

“It’s getting so loud; it’s hard to hear you.”

“Let’s go up to my room where it’s quieter,” she offered. “Then we can talk.”

In a few minutes she was sliding the card to her door. The suite was terrific, with an antique four-poster bed, a period fireplace, and an incomparable view of the throbbing city below, lit by golden street lights that ran off into the distance all the way to the shadows of the San Gabriel Mountains.
Anne ignited the fireplace and sat down on a cushion on the hearth.

“Now, that’s better, isn’t it? Here, sit beside me.”

She unfastened and kicked off her shoes.

David looked around and remarked, “This is a pretty nice set up. The view is terrific, and it’s quiet.” He took his place at her feet.

“Yes, I wanted a room that was quiet. We’re not only screened from the noise others make, we can make all the noise we want and not disturb the sleeping patrons. I’ve been in too many hotels that kept me up with couples rapping the bed frames against the cheap walls.”

“Me too, and that’s quite a sturdy bed you have, I bet it’s solid.”

“You’re right,” she laughed. “I’m sure it can put up with some action and not fall apart.”

David liked the direction this conversation was going.

“I have an idea,” she said, “You’ll find some champagne in the fridge. If you’ll open it up I’ll slip into something more comfortable.”

Then she laughed in embarrassment as she opened an enormous steamer trunk parked next to the bathroom and began to sort through her clothes. She slipped into the bathroom and leaving the door open a crack continued,

“I can’t believe I said that. I must have seen too many B movies.”

“Or read too many dime novels. Don’t worry; I’ll attempt to open it in the most original way possible, to make up for your error. Where’s the cork screw?”

“There in the drawer.”

David couldn’t believe what he found in the fridge, a bottle of Chateaux la Fit Rothschild 76, champagne only a connoisseur could appreciate, one that Andromeda had schooled him about, a wine of incomparable vintage. How was Andromeda doing anyway?

He could care less.

His mind was elsewhere; riveted to the task at hand. He muttered to himself while he peeled off the foil, ‘This cork isn’t the only thing that’s going to get screwed tonight.’

“How do you like this?” she said, and appeared wearing something slinky and provocative. It was red, fire engine red, silky, spaghetti strapped, and as short as a munchkin on the Yellow Brick Road.

“Oh, my!” was all he could say. The cork popped and bubbling foam spurted from the neck of the bottle shooting into the air like Old Faithful, yet the woman remained calm.

“I can see you haven’t brought any other clothes, but I’ll try to make you as comfortable as possible.”

She unbuttoned his collar and untied his shoes, took his computer bag away and placed it on the bed. She began to take charge, initiating a theme she intended to carry on the rest of the evening.
Suddenly her actions resembled her words in the e-mails, bold and familiar, direct and up-front.

He was shocked and stimulated to give her the same but remained mute.

“Do you have the ties?”

“There,” he said. “In my… b-bag,” his voice trembled.

“Then, let’s have a toast.”

“All right, w-what shall it be? Bottoms up?”

“No, let me make it up. “Let’s live this night as if it’s our last night on earth.”

The toast bubbled over with tasty implications.

Anne docked her I-Pod. Then she began to dance to her favorite tune for this kind of venue, “Cause we’ve ended as Lovers” by Jeff Beck.

Moving like a sinuous serpent around the room, diming lights here, lighting incense there, checking his eyes to make sure he was paying close attention, soundless, guileless, totally lost in the moment, the woman worked her magic.

The cliché king had an expression stored in his memory, ‘Poetry in motion’, but that just didn’t get it.

Never taking her eyes off David, Anne cocked her head, stripped off a pearl earring and pulled her hair away from her neck, exposing one of her tenderest parts.

“Well, you know what we’re here for. Kiss me."

***
©Steven Hunley 2012

conclusion next piece http://youtu.be/jDdZelG1Q_8

No kiss is as important as the first. In one expression, all senses are employed to convey every emotion, giving an indication of how well your lover can express intimacy. David assumed the first kiss would naturally convey the awkwardness of the situation, and it did, but the rest that quickly followed got better and better. The two seemed to be literally ‘tuning into each other’ progressively kiss by kiss. By the time he reached her mouth, it was as if he’d been kissing her all his life.

The first part of undressing came when he pulled the spaghetti strap off her shoulder. The second stage was when she unfastened the buttons on his cuff. Then the game began in earnest, and they began flitting about one another, from one intimate spot to another, like dragonflies flying low over tubular reeds in a pond. They took their time and only hovered over hidden dark patches for now, with the intent to explore them when the time was right, letting the exposed spots get all their attention. He pulled the other strap down and began to caress her breasts.

Taking his time, being deliberate, he gently squeezed and licked the tips of her pretty pink nipples until they glistened like bits of hard cherry candy.

She reveled for uncounted moments at his neck, indulging decadently in the scent of his Givenchy Rouge, wandering back and forth between there and his mouth with reckless abandon.

Both felt on top of the food chain, and like dragonflies, hungry and predatory, ready for the kill.

He enjoyed touching her cheek with his hand as they kissed, or how she felt when he squeezed her just so.

She enjoyed him slapping her hands away playfully when she refused to stop tugging on his belt, or when she slipped two fingers in his waist band and proceeded to pull out his shirt, but then she had second thoughts and stopped. Walking to the steamer trunk she sorted through it and pulled out a package and began to unfold it. It was a thin plastic tarp like painters use.

Working quickly she spread it over the bed. Then she returned to the trunk and took out a long peacock feather and a bottle of Pietro Coricelli olive oil and placed them on the nightstand.

“Leave on nothing but your shorts.”

He did.

“Now have your last sip of champagne and lie on the bed. I’m going to take you somewhere you’ve never been before.”

He’s already packed his mental passport in expectation of such an occurrence. He positioned himself in the center spread-eagled like Leonardo’s Man with the grape-leaf. There was only his Hanes between him and her. She efficiently secured his hands and his feet with industrial-strength knots, as if she’d done it before. She slid off the bed and ran into the bathroom. He could hear her rummaging around in a shaving kit.

“Oh goody,’” he said to himself. “Shaving cream isn’t wipped cream but it’s close.”

“What did you say about whipped cream? You want something cold and sweet to eat?”

“I was just saying that shaving cream isn’t whipped cream.”

“Do you think I’m getting shaving cream?”

“Well, I thought…”

“It was this,” she announced smartly, and appeared at the door waving a man’s old-time straight razor. Andromeda climbed onto the mattress, then to his middle and gazed greedily at his member.

“En garde,” she warned, and sprang into action.

With the sure movement of an Olympic fencing champion or Errol Flynn she performed a perfect ‘assault’ and cut off his shorts as easily as the Sherriff of Nottingham’s green tights. Then she exercised a ‘disengage’ and returned to her previous position and closely observed his member again.

“It’s obvious that got your attention. Now you’ll be prepared to engage me.”

As she put the razor down on the night stand and picked up the feather he took a deep breath.
The air was fresh, stimulating air, alive with the possibilities of life.

Next, she ordered him to, “Close your eyes and see if you can feel this.”

She started at his toes and moved slowly north, dragging the feather over his skin. When she got to his throat, she realized he still had something on. A chain hung loose, and a charm hanging down touched the sheet. She caught a loop of chain on her finger and drew it up. It was a sterling silver sun face scalloped around the edges with flames.

“What’s this?”

“Oh, that? That’s my sun face. You’ll notice it’s frowning, it’s an unusual pose for the sun. It reminds me that every silver lining had a dark cloud.”

It was the anniversary gift Andromeda had given him two years ago. She’d clasped it around his neck during a quiet walk on the beach at sunset. They were spellbound and in love, vowed never to part, and that they’d always share the truth. ‘That was then,’ he considered, and turned over in his mind. ‘Now it’s today.’

“A gift from a lover?”

“No, I found it on the street. Believe it or not.”

“I don’t believe it, and it bothers me,” she replied aloud, and thought, ‘If he’d only come out with the truth. There’s a chance…’

“If it bothers you, you can take it off. Throw it over the balcony for all I care. It means nothing to me.”

“Nothing? Oh.”

Outside, summer storm clouds saturated with moisture and wild ions of electricity grew closer and closer. Hot Santa Ana winds blew through winding passes and down into the inland valleys. The cloud’s white heads peaking over the San Bernardino Mountains in the background grew larger and more ominous by the minute, like the evil genie let out of a bottle in Thief of Bagdad.

Inside her something was brewing.

“Have another drink,” Anne directed, “I’ll hold it for you.”

The champagne was having its effect on both of them. He was careless with his words, and she was more uninhibited by the minute. It was like watching a fuse burn down on a stick of dynamite. As he sipped she tilted, and spilled some onto his chest. She smiled, and licked it off with a technique a viper would have been proud of.

She felt sorry for him. He was pathetic. ‘A pathetic moron, who thinks with his penis!’

The sky grew grey and unsettled. There was a rumble off in the distance resembling muted cannon-fire. The storm made its way closer and more deliberately with every mile, simulating the thoughts racing through the synapses of her brain.

He could see her walking to the refrigerator and then unwrapping a Popsicle. “You still want something cold and sweet to eat?” she said, and threw the paper away. It was a Patriotic Pop, cone-shaped and short, with red white and blue stripes. She pursed her fabulous lips and pushed it inside her mouth. When she took it out the frost melted away like magic and it glistened and gleamed in the firelight.

“Now, where can we put this?” she pondered to herself aloud. It wasn’t the kind of night to ask anyone else’s advice. She placed the popsicle in her mouth again and scraped it with her pearl-like teeth. When she pulled it out it was pointy and sharp.

“Look, David. I have a surprise!”

She climbed back up on the bed and began to imitate a sheriff’s helicopter. Flying slowly over David’s body, over the flat parts and over the hills and valleys. Sometimes she’d hover and tip it downward, allowing drops to fall off the end over strategic spots. It went on for minutes, and with each passing moment he grew more excited until there was nothing left but the stick.

“Now, David, I wonder how I’ll clean you up?” she said, and searched for an idea. She looked around the room but got nowhere.

“All the towels are in the bathroom, and I don’t really want to get up and spoil the moment. I suppose I could use my tongue. What do you think? Is that a good idea?”

At this point he most definitely was losing his mind.

“Yes, Babygirl, the best one you’ve ever had.”

Suddenly her eyebrows furrowed.

“What?!”

In her mind, the room flashed with lightning and thundered so hard all the windows shook from the explosion. The sacred name he’d given her. He committed a sin, a travesty. The clouds in her mind boiled and seethed, lightning struck.

The lights, the music, everything electric went out, plunging the room into darkness.
Then it struck again, only for a second, but you could see.

The glint of cold steel in her hand, then a swift slicing movement from ear to ear.
A sickening gurgling sound followed soon after that.

When the lights came back on, Andromeda was putting the razor back onto the nightstand. A pool of blood gathering on the tarp expanded slowly outward to the edges in all directions.

In an attempt to regain her wits, she decided to get busy and pushed the steamer trunk next to the bed and opened the lid. Rolling the lifeless body up in the tarp, she shoved if off the bed and into the trunk where it fell with an unceremonious plop like a turd.

She straightened the room and called the front desk.

“Have the bellboy come up to my room. I have a heavy trunk I need help with.”

When the bellboy arrived she asked him to take the trunk and put it in the back of her car and gave him a hefty tip.


After he left she went into the bathroom to clean up. Before she started her shower, she took off the black wig. In the shower she scrubbed off the Maori tattoos with great vigor. Before she finished doing her make-up, or as she phrased it, ‘putting on my face” she popped out the green contacts and threw them in the toilet, revealing her lovely blue eyes.

She deliberately took her time doing her make up, as there was no one there to annoy her or get on her case.

In the room she checked her computer e-mails and went to her Facebook account. Then she clicked on her ‘friends’ list. With one delicate movement of her French-tipped nail she erased David’s name.

Stepping out of the sumptuous hotel to the street was a pleasure. The summer storm had left the city clean and washed all the dust and grime away. It was bright and sunny and clear, and in a curious way, inspiring. Andromeda stopped and took a deep breath.

The air was fresh, stimulating air, alive with the possibilities of life.

“And life for a woman is a gift of nature.”

She drove to LAX and watched planes take off for various unknown destinations and guessed what they were. She drove from there to Pinks and got a hot-dog. Then she ended the afternoon by strolling along the short trail winding its way around the turtle pond at El Dorado Nature Center in Long Beach, ate a bean burrito with cheese at Taco Bell and left for San Pedro right before dark to view the sunset.

A couple of bridges later she pulled off the street and drove over a chain to the end of an abandoned pier. Seagulls soared over head in great numbers. Andromeda pulled as near the edge as she could and got out. The pier smelled a combination of salty-wet-and-rot. She took a power bar out of her purse and devoured it.

Opening the trunk, and with a great heave, she propped up her neaty wrapped package on the edge of trunk.

Taking a breath she stopped to look at the sky. It hung like azure in the west and white puffy cumulus clouds became backlit and edged with silver.

“The weather is simply mahvelous, Dahling, simply mahvelous!” she whispered to the trunk. “You should rahly be here to see it.”

She couldn’t make up her mind if she was Billy Crystal or Tallulah Bankhead or Katherine Hepburn.

In it went with a splash.

And what once was a manly monster, turned into a tiny stream of silver swirling bubbles engulfed by all-encompassing darkness.

They reminded Andromeda of her galaxy, spinning wildly out of control through the cosmos, with no one to answer to but God himself.




©Steven Hunley 2012

This story has a lot of things working for it. I was able to guess the twist ending from the get-go, but that's less of a nitpick and more praise of effective foreshadowing. Still, I kind of wish I knew more about the characters. How old are they? I mean, I don't think you literally have to say how old they are, but it might be nice to have some more details about their appearances and where they are in their lives to give the reader a better idea.

WARNING: SPOILER ALERT.
(Please don't read this reply if you haven't yet read Steven's story.)


Okay, now I do see how you bring all the elements together. Let me reiterate that though some of the early segments seem digressive and veer off topic, they are interesting (and wittily observed, as I said.)

Couple of comments: Thanks in part to the title, somewhere along the line, I somehat guessed where the story was going-- sort of a high-tech "Pina Colada" by Rupert Holmes, only more salacious with an added element of violence.

I wonder if you might want to give us a few more hints about how Andromeda/"Anne" acquired and is able to execute her shape-shifting talent as a mistress of disguise -- a real whiz at it, since she was able to fool Dave. I realize it would be difficult to do this without giving away the store or ruining the twist ending.

The part where Dave uses the wrong endearment is brilliant.

Watch out for typos --the first mention of "whipped" (as in the cream) and also the brand name for the men's underwear is "Hanes." (No "i" or apostrophe.)

The penultimate and closing sentences are a bit anti-climactic, but the third to the last sentence is a gem.

Thanks for posting this. I always enjoy reading your distinctive and refreshing works of the imagination.

Thank you both. The age thing will take consideration. I'm hoping it appeals to a wide-age group and that readers will assume it's about their particular age group. Still, some more deliniation of the characters wouldn't hurt.

Auntie-duly noted and repaired except the whipped bit. Do you mean it's called whip cream? OMG, all this time I've called it whipped cream. I mean, it's cream and it's whipped and all. Am I mistaken?

Someone wade in on this one and help me out.

Oh, and again, OMG! Looks as if I don't pay much attention to my very own underwear and read how they spell the name on the little tag on the back.

Sorry Hanes, my problem entirely.

Quote:

---

“Oh goody,’” he said to himself. “Shaving cream isn’t wipped cream but it’s close.”

---

You had the "-ed" all right, but missed the "h." Incidentally, this time of year
we often see the following on the beverage menu:

"Ice Tea"

Not as bad as putting an extra "r" in "sherbet" though--"sherbert."

Well, Auntie, a shape-shifter! She didn't have to be a shape-shifter after all, in the text her shape is covered like:

"...and she wore bold black Maori tattoos on her arms. They were as shapely as Andromeda’s, and her figure sported a body of curves designed for speed, undoubtedly designed by Pininfarina.”

So let's see. What are the details? Her eyes are a different color due to the colored contacts. She's dresses as differently as possible, with a piercing in her navel where Andromeda had none. Her arms have bold black Maori tatoos both to throw off comparisons (Andromeda had no tatoos) and by their design that works on a man's eyes like camoflage. (sp.?)

Of course, her hair is a different color and a different cut. She's taller, naturally, as Andromeda always wore flats. She smells the same, and that's where she messed up, but she speaks with an accent too,and Andromeda's speech patterns were as American as apple pie.

The thing is, I'm as skeptical as you are.

Does anyone out there really believe a woman could pull this off? Know of any similar situations? Any twins out there in ether-net land ever pull a bait and switch? You know, seduced your sister's handsome boyfriend at her request because she was always "The Shy One"? Always trusted her older sister and all. Trusted you to turn him over when the time was right.Then fell for him yourself? Am I creating crazy senarios here or is it just too much Columbian Supremo? (that's coffee, not anything else)