Tales of Love & Lust

By Alex Exley

"Tales of Love & Lust" is NOT a romance book, though all the stories do contain a couple, some of whom are in love, all of whom are in lust. Several themes are infidelity, swinging, and sexual experimentation. It ranges in nature from literary--there's a good amount of plot and characterization propping up the sex scenes--to downright dirty. And there's a lot of book for your buck with over 56,000 total words.

"Send in the Clown" (Word count: 13,600)
Erin feels like her marriage has lost its spark. When a mix-up at her job as a performance clown lands her with a group of college guys who were expecting a stripper, she's tempted to do something she'd never imagined.

"What’s Mine Is Yours" (6,900)
Jason is irate that his on-again off-again girlfriend was with another guy. His anger subsides as time goes by, but he can't get the thoughts out of his head – and his anger turns into something else entirely.

"Going to California" (11,700)
Jesse, a typically upstanding Midwestern guy, is having problems. An old friend invites Jesse to stay with him in California for a while to get away from his trouble at home. It seems like a good idea, until he meets his friend's girlfriend.

"Anya" (7,700)
Anya, the daughter of Peter's uncle's Russian mail-order bride, introduces Peter to a sexual awakening and makes the summer before his senior year the best yet. But things aren't going so well for Anya, and what happens that summer may have consequences that haunt them both for the rest of their lives.

"Young Love, Young Lust" (17,000)
Brian and Liz are a college-aged couple trying to navigate the rocky terrain of a young relationship. Liz wants a stronger commitment from Brian; Brian likes Liz, but he’s young and horny and wants to play the field. After experimenting sexually to try to find some common ground, neither is sure what they want. This story is told from alternating points of view, and some of the action repeats as we see it first from Brian's and then Liz's perspective.

Total word count: 56,900

Contains adult content and descriptions. Not intended for persons under age 18.

Cover photo by Dave Hare.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alex Exley
• Release date: Oct 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465773739

Book preview

Tales of Love & Lust

by Alex Exley

Copyright © 2011 Alex Exley and Humburger Publishing, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of quotations embodied in reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Names, characters, places, and events are the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Cover photo by Dave Hare. See the original photo and many more at http://femaleform.moonfruit.com

Feel free to contact the author at [e-mail] with any comments or questions. And ratings and reviews are always appreciated.

Stories

Send in the Clown

What’s Mine Is Yours

Going to California

Anya

Young Love, Young Lust

Send in the Clown

Erin looks at herself in the bathroom mirror, feeling dejected. She hasn’t slept well the past few nights and has bags under her eyes. She rubs on a moisturizing cleanser, then brushes her teeth while the cleanser works its magic. She splashes water on her face and re-examines herself in the mirror—pretty much the same. Though she refuses to believe she’s no longer attractive.

She lifts off her shirt, unclasps her bra. She turns to the side to look at her profile. Her large breasts slope down like miniature ski jumps; the undersides form soft curves. There’s a slight droop, but nothing more than you’d expect from 34Ds. She places her hand palm up against the bottom of her breast. She raises her hand, lifting the supple breast, then quickly releases her hand and watches her breast fall back to its natural, teardrop shape.

She turned thirty-two last week. Sure, she thinks, she could afford to lose three or four pounds, but she’s tall, large-breasted—the few extra pounds are barely noticeable on her frame.

Erin, are you coming to bed? her husband Mark says, raising his voice so he’s heard through the closed bathroom door. I have to get up early for work tomorrow.

She opens the door and leans her head out. What the hell? I thought we were going to Newport tomorrow.

Mark is sitting up in bed, the covers pulled up to his stomach, his reading glasses on. He reads Sun Tzu’s The Art of War for Corporate Managers. I know, sorry. We’re busy at the office. They need me to come in—what can I say?

She shuts the door emphatically. Her dejection turns to irritation as she again faces the mirror. She isn’t irritated simply because he’s cancelled their plans for tomorrow. It’s been building for months, perhaps years. She still loves Mark—she wants to love him, more than anything in the world—but things have changed so much. She’s not sure what’s happening to them.

When was the last time they’d even had sex? Almost two weeks ago. And then it was probably because it was her birthday. It took no more than fifteen minutes and was more procedure than passion, which has become the standard.

She raises her arms over her head, her breasts rising in sync. She sways to the left, then the right, trying on a few sultry expressions. She brings her arms down and corrals her breasts between them, squeezing the pliant mounds together. She gives the air a provocative kiss, then laughs at herself, realizing how goofy she must look. You bet I’m still sexy, she thinks, as she clicks off the bathroom light and walks across the room to her side of the bed.

She walks slowly, watching Mark out of the corner of her eye to see if he looks at her. His eyes latch onto his book. She steps out of her jeans, her underwear. She doesn’t usually sleep nude, though she’s begun doing so more often. She gets under the covers and snuggles up to her husband. She runs her hand over his T-shirt, then under his T-shirt and up his stomach, her fingers snaking through his chest hair. He closes his book and puts it on the night table, puts his glasses on the book. He turns to her and kisses her. She kisses him back harder, brings her hand to his face and kisses him harder still. He holds her wrist and brings her arm back to her side.

Honey, I’d love to, but I’m tired. I really have to get some sleep. I have to get up early tomorrow.

I know, she says.

He leans over and turns off the lamp. She rests her head on his shoulder, tracing patterns with her finger on his chest.

* * *

I’ll make it up to you tonight, Mark says, knotting a tie around his collar. Justin and Colleen are having people over, but we can go out, just the two of us—we’ll do whatever you want—and maybe swing by their place later on.

Erin hasn’t yet gotten out of bed. I’m working tonight. At seven.

A disgusted look flashes across Mark’s face.

What? Erin says.

You know what I think of that…that job. I can’t even call it a job with a straight face. Mark shakes his head and looks away from her, finds his watch on the bureau and puts it on. It’s so…it’s…kind of embarrassing. I mean, people ask me, ‘So, what does Erin do?’ And I have to say, ‘Oh, you know, she’s a clown.’ For God’s sake, we’re not kids anymore.

Erin had taken a few theater classes in college. They’d stirred her interest, and when she graduated—nine years ago—she decided she hadn’t yet had her fill. She took a few more acting classes and performed in several local theater productions. She’d had to get a job that gave her some flexibility. She was going to waitress until she came across a job performing as a clown at kids’ parties and events. It wasn’t a long-term career move, but it allowed her to pursue activities she considered just as worthwhile, and she enjoyed performing tricks and funny acts for people, making them laugh. She did it for almost two years.

Then Mark asked her to marry him. She’d known him since their freshman year in college, had been dating him since junior year. He was everything she wanted in a man: strong, loyal, responsible, yet with a healthy wild streak in him. She didn’t have to think twice—she said Yes on the spot.

They’d driven cross-country to visit friends in Los Angeles that summer, and had stopped in Las Vegas along the way. They came across a vintage used-clothing store and were browsing the wares when Erin saw a 1920s flapper dress complete with feather boa.

Oh my God—look at this. I have to try this on, she said.

She put the dress on and spun around in front of a three-sided mirror, kicking her leg back, her arm extended, her hand flattened and bent back at the wrist.

How do I look? she said.

You look like you need to be kissed. And often. By someone who knows how, Mark said, mimicking Clark Gable. He tilted her back over his arm and kissed her long and hard.

She found him a gangster-style zoot suit and, the dressing rooms being occupied, he changed right there in the aisle, Erin acting as lookout. They held each other in front of the mirror.

Let’s get married, Mark said.

We are—aren’t we?

I mean let’s do it here. Let’s get married here, today.

She looked at him with surprise then jumped into his arms, nearly knocking him over.

They bought the clothes, wearing them out of the store, and found a small white chapel with a neon sign out front: Weddings, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Witness provided. They were driven in the chapel’s limousine to the marriage license bureau, also open 24 hours, then back to the chapel where a non-denominational pastor with a handle-bar moustache and cowboy boots conducted an impromptu service. They made love all night long and left for Los Angeles late the next morning. Though only a four-hour drive to L.A., they stopped after an hour and a half and got a room in a cheap motel to make love again. After another hour of driving, they pulled over to the side of the dusty, desert highway—instead of spending more money on a motel—and made love in the front seat of the car as traffic whizzed by at eighty miles an hour.

Those days seemed like they would last forever.

Do you remember when we got married? Erin says as she sits up on the edge of the bed.

Of course I remember.

I mean the first time…in Las Vegas.

Their parents had made them have a formal wedding ceremony when they returned from their trip, informing everyone they were now married. But they always celebrate their anniversary on the date they married in Vegas.

Why would you ask me that? Of course I remember, he says. Then he adds, Thank God those days are behind us.

Erin sounds annoyed. Why thank God those days are behind us?

That’s not what I mean. Mark sits down beside her, putting one arm around her shoulders and a hand on her thigh. She puts her hand on his and holds it tightly. I just mean—we’re so much better off now. Thank God we made it. Those were great times, of course they were, but we wouldn’t want to live like that now.

She looks from his eyes to the floor. I guess not.

Erin had decided, around the time they’d married, that she would have to get a higher-paying job if they were going to make a life together. She thought her performance background might lend itself to a job in sales. She got a position as an employment recruiter and did well, though over the years her enthusiasm waned. She found it increasingly difficult to feign excitement about a prospect’s multi-tasking skills to potential employers, about the dream of fulfillment through a job to potential employees.

Unsure of what he wanted to do and finding nothing appealing, Mark had switched jobs several times his first few years after college. Shortly after they’d married, he found an entry-level position in a boutique brokerage firm. He wasn’t sure about it at first, working long days and studying for the series 7 and 63 license exams at night, but Erin gave him much-needed moral support, encouraged him when he considered giving up. He soon passed his exams and moved swiftly up the company’s hierarchy. He assimilated himself to the position more fluently than Erin did to hers. His personality’s rough edges, which Erin had found so charming, became more polished. Material possessions took on a heightened importance. A certain amount of spontaneity was lost.

Will my car be ready today? Erin asks.

Mark puts the finishing touches on a gelled hairdo. I’ll call the shop, but I don’t think so. They said Monday or Tuesday, most likely.

I’ll need to use yours then.

Mark doesn’t say anything. His objection to her job hangs silently in the air between them. He finally picks up his briefcase and walks over to her.

I’ll be home by 6:30.

He kisses her on the cheek, checks his tie in the mirror, then heads for the door.

Bye, he says without looking back.

Bye.

When, three months ago, Erin gave her two-week notice at the employment recruitment firm, no one was more surprised than Mark. She had quit abruptly without considering what she would do. After a week of browsing the classifieds and the Internet, of wondering what possibilities appealed to her, of dreaming about others, she dug out pieces of her old clown outfit from a box in the garage. She filled in the rest at a costume store and called the agency that had supplied her with clown gigs seven years earlier.

She explained to Mark that she’ll get something more career-oriented soon, that she wants a break, to maybe take a class or two, to reassess things. She feels like she needs something different, and it’s not like they’re hard up for money. Mark suggested an MBA degree, but she isn’t too sure about that. Though she’ll think about it, she said. After two months of performing as a clown, she still hasn’t made any definite decisions. They’ve had several confrontations about it. He can’t understand what she’s doing, says that she’s wasting time, acting foolish. She feels the Mark she married seven years ago would have understood.

* * *

Several containers of face paint are scattered around the bathroom sink. Erin applies a white base, rosy red cheeks, tall black arches for eyebrows, some blue around the eyes. She feels phony when she paints a beaming red smile over her lips and up past her dimples, but then she remembers what compelled her to perform as a clown again, and the character begins to set in. It gives her an outlet to escape the buttoned-down demeanor that predominates in their working lives, that has gradually and insidiously seeped into their private lives. A genuine smile grows underneath the painted one.

She wears a pair of snug-fitting cotton shorts and a tight T-shirt that exposes plenty of midriff. She becomes aroused just looking at herself—over her breasts, across her exposed stomach, down her long legs. Then she looks in the mirror and sees the clown face attached to her body. The dichotomous being is a strange sight. She imagines it might work as a B-movie: Attack of the Sex-Starved, Man-Eating Clown Women. She tries to sneer like a sex-starved, man-eating clown woman might, but the painted smile hides any expression she makes.

Those aren’t the things to be thinking when going to entertain a bunch of kids, anyway, she thinks, as she slips into her clown costume: a billowy red jumpsuit covered with white polka dots and three yellow cushy balls, like buttons, up the front. She ties up her long brown hair under a curly yellow wig, notices the time—almost 6:30—and throws her bright red nose and oversized yellow, plastic feet into a bag and waits for Mark on the front stoop.

At 6:35 she calls his cell phone.

Hi, honey, he says. She hears the noise of a crowd in the background.

Mark, where are you? I told you I need the car tonight. I’m working at seven.

What? Can you speak up? I can’t hear you!

She says it again, this time almost yelling into the phone.

Mark pulls his silver Audi into their driveway at ten minutes of seven. She jogs down the walkway and, seeing as he isn’t getting out of the car, gets into the passenger’s seat.

We closed a really big account today, he explains as they drive, rain drops beginning to dot the front windshield. A few people went to celebrate at McCormack’s. I guess I lost track of the time.

She doesn’t want to get into an argument so says it’s no big deal, and though she’s slightly miffed, she tries to sound enthused about his closing the account. She changes from her sneakers to her clown shoes as they drive, not saying much for the remainder of the ride.

What time do you want to be picked up? Mark asks as he pulls into the customer’s driveway at five minutes past seven.

They booked me for an hour and a half, so about 8:30. Are you going back to McCormack’s?

I’ll probably swing by and have one more beer.

Just don’t forget—8:30, okay?

I won’t. Bye, honey.

Erin says bye and runs as fast as her clown feet will carry her to the front door, shielding her painted face from the rain. She hears Mark’s car accelerate up the road as a guy with a shaved head and goatee, no older than his early twenties, opens the door. He gives her a perplexed look and says, You’re the entertainment?

That’s me, Dotty the Clown, she says in a happy and energetic voice, though she thinks, How often do clowns come to their house?

Dotty? Huh. Well, I’m Matt. Come on in, he says, letting her in and leading her down a hallway. As she follows him into the house, a prickling sensation dances underneath her skin, all her troubles washing away, the identity of a joyous and carefree clown taking their place.

She hears deep voices coming from within the house. She follows Matt around a corner and into a large, rectangular-shaped living room. She stands in the opening along one of the long walls. To her left is an empty chair and an entertainment center with a large-screen TV—showing a Red Sox game. Across from her is a long couch with