Monday, September 24, 2012


A Vulcan gotta roll in a tight-ass whip. You know. For the ladies.

Daydream Believer or Hell Is Other People

Hey, monkies. I've got a Trek story ready to go and will post it this weekend.

So, I have ADHD and sensory possessing issues.  It makes me impulsive and socially ham-fisted and physically clumsy -- even though I have strong ankles and good balance. It's pretty cool.

I live in my head and only emerge when I absolutely must.  But my job dictates that I have intensely emotional interactions with people. In order to remain sane, I need periodic breaks from reality. Actually, I need to not be checked into reality very much at all.  I daydream all day long. Lush, time-traveling daydreams. Filled with sex.

So deep is my internal preoccupation, that right up to the moment before I have to give a talk or interview a family or write a report, I'm daydreaming about

...being at a party in Cary Grant's Bel Air mansion in 1967. I'm wearing a strapless, cream satin gown that skims my body and pools at my feet. My only jewelery is a half carat ruby solitaire pendant surrounded by tiny diamonds on a fine platinum chain. I'm there with Dean Martin and I'm laughing and having a fabulous time because he's my best pal but everyone thinks we're lovers. The air smells like cold olives, gin, cigarettes and sliced oranges. I look across the ball room and see Peter Graves and he's leaning with one wide shoulder against the wall and he's wearing a slim, black tuxedo with the bow tie undone and his hair is the color of moonlight and I can see the blue of his eyes from where I stand and I think, how does a man like that happen? And because he's my best friend, Dean walks right up to Peter Graves and says, hey Pete, take care of my girl for a minute, will ya? So Peter...

See what I mean?

I daydream about everyone: Spock, Matt Dillon, Abraham Lincoln, Brian, Peter Graves and some real people, too. I'm going to write these down an post them.

See you tomorrow and as always, thanks for spockjonesing.

After the Hunt

I know. I'm obsessed! I love writing fan fiction. It's so wonderfully overwrought.

A/N: I wrote this really fast a couple of weeks ago.  No beta. All my fubars are belong to me.

~~After the Hunt



Dillon was back in Dodge after three weeks of hunting Frank Steptoe, a man who brutalized and murdered two Pawnee girls then bragged about it at the Lady Gay.

I have watched Dillon deal with outlaws and over-stepping cowboys. His demeanor was authoritative, his expression grim, his voice loud. He would wade into a brawl throwing and taking punches, hauling men apart and tossing them out into the street.  He did not often get truly angry and most men could sense when to stop before he did. A man who pushed Dillon past that point might find himself backhanded out of his boots – or in some cases, with a bullet in his heart. 

If there ever was a man who needed killing, it was Steptoe.  Unfortunately, he would likely not hang for the murder of two Indian girls.  But things go badly for men who rape children of any race in Kansas. The day Dillon left to chase down Steptoe, his face was hard, his eyes flat and murderous beneath the brim of his hat. 

There was much speculation as to what condition Steptoe might be in when Dillon returned with him – if he was alive.  But Steptoe rode in with Dillon without handcuffs and without a mark on him. I watched them dismount and walk into the jail, Steptoe glancing smugly over his shoulder at Dillon.

I hurried along the boardwalk to Dillon’s two-room house, lugging a supper bucket of antelope stew, biscuits and four apple tarts.  I passed the depot and warehouses along the train track and kept an eye out for Kite Thibodaux.  I stopped at the Chinese laundry for a clay pot of hot, sweet tea brewed in branch water. 

When I reached Dillon’s house, I dug through the dirt in the small garden box on his porch rail and retrieved the door key. I lit a fire in the fireplace in the bedroom, set the dinner bucket and clay pot on the hearth to keep warm and put a large kettle of water on to heat.  It was a cold spring afternoon but I opened the windows for a few minutes to let the chilly breeze blow out the stuffiness.  I laid out a towel, sponge and a bar of my cedar soap next to his washbasin.

I turned down the bed. 

I was scribbling a note for Dillon when he walked in the door.  His face was etched with exhaustion and his eyes looked haunted.

“I didn’t plan to be here when you got home,” I said.  “I brought food and tea. There is a kettle on and I put out your bath things.”

He stood in the open doorway and gazed at me silently.

“Your cook stove takes too long to heat so I used the fireplace.”  I stood and crumpled the note in my fist.  “I’ll leave now.  I know that you like to be alone after these... hunts.”

“Stay,” said Dillon, closing the door. He slid home the bolt and hung his hat on its hook. He stayed in his spot by the door, staring into the space between us.  His eyes were wide and dark blue in the low light.

“Are you hurt, Matt?  Did you get shot?”

He blinked as if I startled him.

“Steptoe confessed to me what he did to those little girls,” he said.  “They weren’t the first.”  He took a deep breath and swallowed hard. “He told me about all of them.”

“Oh, cherie,” I said. I took a step toward him.

He held up his hand, palm out. “I need to wash.” 

He shrugged out of his coat and dropped it to the floor. He took off his gun belt and let it fall on top of his coat.  He toed off his boots and unbuckled his belt, pulling his shirt out of his pants. He started unbuttoning his shirt, became impatient and ripped it open. Buttons flew everywhere. He yanked his undershirt over his head and kicked off his pants.

He strode naked into the bedroom then returned with his bath things and the kettle of hot water. He wet and soaped the sponge and started scrubbing his body hard enough that I thought he might take off some skin. He lifted the kettle and poured water over his head. Water cascaded down his body and splashed all over the floor.  He filled the kettle from the pump at the sink and poured it over himself again. That water was close to freezing when I filled the kettle earlier.

Dillon stood with his head down, water streaming from his hair. His chest heaved and he shivered.  He stared at the kettle in his hand. The kettle was cast iron and big enough to hold two buckets of water.  I had struggled with it even when it was empty, filling it only after I got it to the fire. Dillon had lifted it over his head as if it were made of papier-mâché. I thought he might throw it.  

He set the kettle on the cook stove.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Don’t be. You’re tired,” I said, handing him the towel.  “Dry yourself by the fire before you freeze.  I will -- .” I looked at the puddle of water on the floor.  “I will let this dry, I suppose.”

“Will you stay?”

“You should sleep.”

“Talk to me. Read aloud, anything. I want Steptoe out of my head.”

“Go dry yourself. Eat some of that stew.”

“I’m too tired to eat.”

“At least have some tea.  Mrs. Yiu made it.  I’ll get more wood for the fire.”

When I went into the bedroom, Dillon was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring into the flames, his cup of tea forgotten in his hand.  I took the cup from him and set it on the bedside table.

“Get into bed,” I said.

He continued to stare into the fire.

“He wanted me to know what he did,” said Dillon, his face anguished.  “Me, specifically. He thought I’d understand.”

“What could possibly make him believe that?”

“I’m a killer.”

“You are not a killer, my love.”

Dillon reached out and pulled me to him by hooking a finger into a belt loop of my pants. He wrapped his arms around my waist and pressed his face into my body.  I stroked his damp hair. He inhaled deeply and exhaled in a long sigh.  His breath was warm through my clothes.

“You smell good,” he said, his voice muffled.

“It is the same soap you just used.”

“You smell like… you.” He leaned back and looked into my face.  “I sometimes forget how young you are.”

“I turned eighteen while you were gone.”

“You look much younger.  Men like Steptoe…”

“I am not a child,” I said. 

“He --.”

“No, Matt.  Steptoe is a liar and a manipulator.  He is separate from the rest of humanity. Good people share nothing in common with him.”

Dillon nodded unhappily.  “Okay,” he said. 

I ran my fingers through his hair.  “Lie down. You need rest,” I said.

“Lay with me.”

“I thought you wanted me to read aloud.”

“You can do that lying next to me.”

“Doc will wonder why it took so long just to bring you dinner.”

“Take off your clothes.”

“I have to be back before dark.”

“I need to feel something good against my skin, Jimmy,” said Dillon. “I’ve met some bad men in my time but this...”

"Okay. Shh," I said, taking off my clothes. "Okay."

Dillon gathered me to him and lay back against the pillows like a child with a rag doll.  He was still and quiet for so long, I thought he’d fallen asleep after all.  I shifted to look at his face.  He tightened his arms around me.

“Talk,” he said.

“I forgot to get a book to read to you.”

“Tell me anything.”

The wind picked up outside and whistled around the eaves but the room was warm.  I pushed the quilts away with my feet.  I rested my chin on Dillon’s chest. 

“Your little stone house reminds me of something I read in a history text in Calcutta,” I said.  “There is an ancient fortress in the northern desert of India. No one knows who built it or why.  It is not near any of the well-travelled routes for trade or war. Its walls do not bear the marks of siege and the buildings look as if they were barely lived in. It was abandoned for a thousand years before it was discovered in the 3rd Century.”

“That’s old,” whispered Dillon.

“Older than the Pyramids they say. It is huge. Large enough to support twenty-five hundred people, with cattle and crops. Bigger than Dodge City. It is built against a mountain and has two gates, each thirty feet high.  All around it is dry, lifeless desert but inside is cool and verdant. They even found the remains of rice paddies.  Can you imagine? Rice paddies in the desert.  There is water there but no one can find it.  It is said that faeries brought the water to the gates.”

“The water is in the mountain.”

“No, Matt. Faeries brought it.”

 “There’s a well somewhere.  An underground spring.”

“They’ve been digging for two thousand years.”

“It’s there.”

“I thought you wanted me to talk.”

“Keep talking.”

“I have forgotten the point I was trying to make, now,” I said but had accomplished my goal of getting him to think about something besides Steptoe.

I traced a scar on his chest with my finger.  I could feel his muscles slowly relaxing beneath me.  I pressed my lips against his skin.  Desire stirred in my belly.

“It’s Thursday afternoon,” I said.

“So it is,” he said.

Dillon rarely had a full day off but under Doc’s strict orders, he took time away every other Thursday afternoon, from noon until six o’clock.  For the past three months, he had spent every hour of those afternoons making love to me.

“Well, it’s not our regular Thursday, but we have to make up for the two we missed,” I said.

“I’m all wrung out, cowboy.”

“I will drop you off the hook, Marshal.”

“That’s let me off the hook.”

“Whatever you say,” I said, planting light kisses on his chest.

“Really, James Anna. I don’t think I can,” he said, softly.

“But I can.”

I trailed kisses down his body, nipping softly with my teeth.  Dillon tensed and put his hand on the back of my head.  I looked up into his eyes. I reached down and slid my palm slowly up and down his hardening cock.

“Let me,” I whispered.  “I want to.” 

I bent my head and drew him into my mouth, sucking gently and stroking his shaft with my tongue.

“Oh, okay. Sure,” sighed Dillon.  He lay back against the pillows. 

He was shocked and a little embarrassed the first time we did this.  I had to remind him that I read books on human anatomy – and that I am French.  It took a few times but he was no longer shy about asking for it.  I laughed when, after, he always said, “Thank you.”

I enjoyed the feel of Dillon’s cock in my mouth. I enjoyed sucking him. I enjoyed drawing it out, bringing him to the brink of orgasm again and again then watching the expression on his face when I finally let him come.  It troubled him the power I held over him sexually. And against this one thing, above all others, he was defenseless.

I cupped his scrotum in my hand and ran my mouth from the base of his cock to the tip, sucking it between my lips and circling the head with my tongue.  Dillon groaned and his fingers tightened in my hair.  I sensed that this time, he would not suffer my teasing, that what he needed now was simple release. I sucked him in until I felt the head of his cock hit the back of my throat and then slowly withdrew. I did this over and over, using my hand to gently slide his foreskin up and down his shaft, faster and faster. Dillon gasped and shuddered and flexed his hips.

“Ah. God,” he moaned.

I felt his cock swell in my mouth and knew he was close when Dillon grasped my upper arms and pulled me up his body.  He rolled and pinned me to the bed,  opened my thighs with his knee and thrust himself inside me. He paused, breathing deeply through his nose, his eyes glittering with reflected firelight.  I was generally on top when we made love or he positioned himself behind me like spoons in a drawer to keep from crushing me. 

Now, he crushed me beneath him, pumping his hips, driving his cock hard into my pussy. I wrapped my legs around his waist and twined my fingers in his hair.  I held on to him and let him fuck me until he came with a long, low moan, his head thrown back, his features contorted as if he were in pain.  For the first time since we became lovers, I felt Dillon pulse inside me.  His body tensed then shuddered and he cried out as he emptied himself into me.  He lay on top of me drawing hoarse, ragged breaths.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.  “I’m sorry.”  He pushed himself up on his elbows and dropped kisses on my face.

“Shh. It’s okay,” I said, kissing his lips.

“Did I hurt you?”

“I have left you bruised on more than one occasion.”

He shifted his hips and his cock slid out of my body with a warm rush of fluids.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

“Well, I think we might be okay,” I said, counting days in my head.

He moved down and lay his head on my chest.  He was heavy, even though he rested most of his weight on the bed. He splayed his hand on my belly and stroked his palm over my hip bone.

“You’re so small,” he said.

I moved his hand up to my breast.  “I am a woman,” I said.

Dillon slid his arms around my waist and held me with his head on my chest, reminding me again of a child with a dolly.  I shifted to more comfortably bear his weight. He stirred and mumbled something unintelligible. I smoothed his hair with my fingers. His breathing evened out and deepened.  The light in the windows darkened.  The fire crackled and the wind blew.

In this little fortress on the high prairie, I felt like a princess held captive by a giant she loved.


Sunday, September 09, 2012

On Peter Graves

I’d like to take an afternoon nap on the couch, stretched out on top of Peter Graves, as the light through the window dims into a summer shower.   
Ceiling fan, hard lemonade, bare feet and potato salad. 
My head on his chest, the smell of a freshly laundered cotton shirt and the man wearing it.