Written By: Sebastien La Croix
There’s a lot people don’t know about Ontario. When a province is bigger than most countries that sort of thing can happen. Canadians really have no idea how spread out we are until we get out of our cities and into the country. Those long stretches between civilization and primordial being can do a lot to the human spirit. Two hours north of Toronto you can find yourself in all sorts or predicaments and delicate circumstances. Take, for example, a very wealthy family with a 5000 square foot home on a private island in Muskoka. An abode privy to neither comfort nor commodity and yet sooner or later the gods will smile down and put these feeble humans to the test. Such is the story of Mrs. Stacy Muller and young Wade Walker. (more…)
Written By: Sebastien La Croix
The first days of summer are always the hardest to survive. It’s the initial heat that gets right under the skin lingering there all day and night. The problem arises when that lingering and most anxious feeling spills over into the following day…all the worse when the particular day in question consists of stress, conflict, and an overall unsavory feeling. So it was in this sad state of affairs that Ryan left his office on a hot and hazy Friday evening. There’s nothing quite like the sun setting over water in Austin. Not sure if it’s because it shines through the city or if it’s because it makes the city shine a million shades of gorgeous. Not even that sunset could sort Ryan out before he got home. Every mile seemed to drag on forever between traffic lights and traffic jams. All he could think of were all the ways he planned to bend and turn his wife when he walked through the door. As he imagined it he got even more pissed off and bit-by-bit his body filled with adrenaline fueled by bad day at the office memories. Just as he pulled into the driveway his teeth started to grind ever so slightly and all his senses suddenly became heightened and irritated. Ryan put the car in park and clasped at his steering wheel while staring at his front door for about half a second before ripping the keys out of the ignition, getting out of the car, and slamming the door. He took about three brisk steps before hitting the auto lock button on his key chain. Walking fast turned into jogging up the front pathway not giving a damn about his brief case, wallet, or cell phone that were all sitting on the passengers seat. He could smell dinner through the door as he unlocked it whipped it open only to slam it back shut. Ryan slammed the door so loud he heard his wife drop something in the kitchen from how startled she was.
“God damn it Ryan!” A sweet voice with a little bit of southern twang at the end of it. The kind that comes out when someone gets upset or flustered.
All it took was those four words and all of Ryan’s frustration manifested into a bulge pulsating from under his work cloths. He made his way over to the kitchen and took one look at the table that was set, the dirty dishes in the sink, and his wife’s round ass. She was on all fours as she wiped gravy off the tiles. Her ass just waiting for him under that cotton knit dress that hung on her just so perfectly. Ryan could feel his mouth salivating as he walked over feeling his cock from over his pants. He crept up on her not making a sound and knelt down behind her putting his hand around her waist as he hung over her with his chest to her back. She could feel his breath on the side of her face as he moved her hair out of the way only to drag his lips over her cheek. He pushed himself up on her hard while finding his way up her thigh and inside her French lingerie full bottom panties and venturing inside them with great haste and force. Ryan pulled his hand out and put it right up to his wife’s mouth forcing his fingers in it while she licked and sucked her essence off him. (more…)
Written by: Amorica Croce
Late Night at The Office My uncle Jake would often remark: “Just because things ain’t hard, that don’t make’em easy”. I never understood what he meant by that growing up. I guess when the old folks tell you what to expect from life you really can’t grasp what they mean till the expected walks up and knocks the daylights out of you. I’m sure everyone has that moment where they wish they could rewind a pinnacle moment of life and do it over again. I often do when I think of all the times I should have gone left instead of right. I picture going left in my mind on a regular basis these days. When I picture it, it usually goes something like this. Days are monotonous…that shade of gray we all come to see and despise. You wear the same suit to the same job on the same day of your dreaded life. It would seem that the ninth ring of hell is a coveted vacation spot compared to the confines of a three by three cubicle plastered with post-it’s. The various and never changing days of my life where I started and ended up going right all looked like this; all except for one. I rarely stayed late at the office. But, I was a friendly gal and the cleaners used to let me in and out whenever I need to stay a little later. The winters are always the hardest to stay late. You dread the cold outside so much you don’t want to leave after a certain hour. Seven turns to eight which turns to nine and before you know it, it’s eleven p.m. on a Friday night and you’re still at the office. What I need is to get out of these cloths and into a hot bath…what I’ll settle for is some freshly brewed coffee. (more…)
Written by: Amorica Croce
I sit listening to a play list that logistically makes absolutely no sense to anyone but me: and I think of him. Of all the things I write and then rip up in a million pieces. I think of all the times I make voice recordings of what I can’t say…only to erase them seconds after I listen to how ridiculous I might sound to anyone with any kind of sense at all. It’s such a girl thing to do. Nonetheless I do it, we do it, women in general. We create these relationships that don’t exist. It has yet to be scientifically proven but women can actually envision the moment of a first kiss to dieing in the arms of the object of their affection in less than thirty seconds. It is either a significant sign of evolution or the saddest state of affairs known to man.
All this and more while I watch him pump his gas; in the same place he’d done it for the last ten years. It’s amazing how someone so great can be so predictable in the most trivial of instances. His hair was amazing. Never out of place–not even a millimeter: thick, jet black, and curly. That jacket clung to him like nothing I’d ever seen before except for how I’d seen it on him. I could feel the saliva gathering to the rim of my lips, almost and ever so slightly, trickling from the corner of my mouth. David was his name. I’d watched him for so long I could literally be a living testament to the evolution of his sex appeal. He must have brushed up against me paying for gas twenty or thirty times over the last ten years-not that he’d noticed. Our polite exchanges of “I’m sorry” and “Excuse me” paled in comparison to what I’d dreamt about before and after those few seconds of bliss. I can’t even count the times I sat alone in the window of that run of the mill super standard coffee shop franchise reaping the benefits of free WIFI just to catch a glimpse of him. I even know how David takes his coffee: large, four creams, four sugars.
But guys like David don’t notice girls like me. They notice the tall blonde who walks into their salon with already salon perfect hair, nails, and body. Guys like David become hair stylists so they can be in constant contact with those kinds of women. Because, let’s face it folks there are two kinds of people in this world: the kinds that go to the “Salon” and the rest of us who go see a “Hairdresser”. People like me we never get our hair touched by people like David: it simply costs too much. Me, I watch David from a coffee shop window and fantasize about what it would be like have all eight inches of him deep inside me…then I go home and fuck myself: because that’s just what I can afford: economically, emotionally, and mentally. (more…)
Written by: Sebastien La Croix
Cosmopolitan is (perhaps) the easiest way to describe the city of Toronto. The city is full of dual realities. There is just as much good in this place as there is bad. As much possibility as there is impossibility. Truth be told there are many contradictions required to sustain the harmony of this extraordinary place. I can help you understand this better by introducing you to Nic and Carmel. Nic is a corporate lawyer; he makes a six-figure income, drives a Maserati, dines twice a week at Panorama, and takes his Friday night drinks over at Ultra Super Club on Queen Street. He’s 36, successful, good looking, educated, and just so happens to fuck some of the city’s most beautiful women on the regular. Nic’s problem is he’s bored despite the fact that he has very little time on his hands. On the other hand Carmel is a rare books and antiquities dealer who owns a small shop in the city and lives just upstairs from it. Carmel’s life paced to her own liking: she travels at least once a month to make significant purchases other wise the bulk of her business is done online. To sustain her income she doesn’t need to keep the shop, but since it was her parent’s it has a sentimental value to her she’s not willing to let go of. Carmel is 28, short, feisty, and very Mediterranean looking. She’s not the kind of beautiful men notice right away: Carmel’s beauty is the kind men today take for granted. It’s the kind of beauty that at first glance isn’t visible but once you look closely the many facets of its wonder are revealed to you. These two come from completely different worlds and yet they live in the same city; and in every way that is right and wrong they embody what the city is. To better understand this I’m going to share with you the story of Nic and Carmel. (more…)
Written by: Lara Sabian
In the time it took the short red head behind the counter to draw a smiley on the froth of my caramel macchiato I reconciled the fact that the possibility of getting the tall dark and handsome cashier’s number was long gone. Some people spend their whole lives trying to reconcile even the smallest of inevitable probabilities; I reconciled mine in the time it takes to draw a smiley: somehow, I still didn’t feel lucky. But, as it were (as it is for all of us really), one never knows how lucky they are until that lucky moment is replaced by a more unlucky moment that is irredeemable in every way. As I took my caramel macchiato I caught a glimpse of that very sexy cashier writing his number down for a very tall and blonde (and very chic looking) gentlemen; the cashier subtly caressed the other gentleman’s hand ever so slightly as he handed over the small piece of paper…I was luckier when the petite red head was making that smiley face…I just couldn’t have known it until I looked left when I should have been looking right.
Having looked left I walked back to my table with very little regard for what was right. Often we all get lost in our tunnel vision when we are determined to be let down by events that are otherwise inconsequential. Perhaps, if we relied more on the peripheral we’d get a better idea of what that good old “everything happens for a reason” really means. So I sat with a heavy heart. Not because two of the best looking guys in the room were gay men, but rather, because for a moment I wished I was one of them-even if only secretly.
Quickly I digressed back into the studious girl who was 4 months over due for a trim at the salon and way too comfortable in her joggers and now caramel stained gray t-shirt. To be completely honest the t-shirt was actually a very old and thinly worn long john shirt I often slept in…sleeping in it made getting dressed for studying a lot more convenient especially when studying on Sunday mornings was the furthest thing from that. In a matter of moments I was swept back into the dull essence of myself. The lingering yearning for something exciting was laid to rest as is often done by people like myself. I sipped on my caramel macchiato and let the moments of my youth be consumed by the relics of academia. Of course, that was until Santo sat down next to me. Well, not exactly next to me but in the seat closest to me. Most people when inviting themselves to your table will sit directly across from you: Santo wasn’t like most people or most men for that matter. (more…)
Written by: Sabra Malcorum
Once upon a time, in a land far away from the eyes and ears of this world there lived a young man named Lucien. Lucien lived alone in the center of the city just beyond the castle gates. To the right of his home was a theatre, to the left was a market/café, directly across the street was a bookstore, and next to that was a tailor. Lucien had everything a young man could ever possibly need with in 50 paces across or to either side of his front door. And so it was that Lucien would rise with the sun and work the day, as it is right for any young man to do. In Lucien’s mind life was simple and kind-needless to say he was a strange young man full of strange notions and emotions which made sense to none if but to himself. The earth beneath him meant relatively nothing despite the fact that it was what brought him everything of sustenance; the trouble was it supposed him very little substance.
He was a striking young man at first glance. Although he looked at all who passed him by he truly saw no one. It seemed as though Lucien walked through life looking for what simply was not there. His eyes saw in people what they could not see in themselves. He never shared his findings with his passer by’s which left an air of intrigue about him. Half of his allure was everything people did not know. You see, although Lucien lived and worked in the city beyond the castle gates he somehow was a stranger to it. Monsieur Gaston at the Market had prepared his groceries for some years but had no idea as to what Lucien’s favorite of anything was. Madame Gaston prepared his coffee every morning but could not tell you how he took it even if you asked her. Gaspard the tailor had dressed him since he was a boy and yet it was a mystery to him how tall Lucien actually was. Sabine and Charlotte from the old bookstore across the street had sold him books for the better part of 10 years and still they could not tell you his preference in author or genre. He was a mystery to all despite the fact that they’d known him all their lives. Nonetheless, Lucien was a very well liked young man, sought after even. (more…)
