Last Class

By Emkay Scott

What do a gay teenager whose first name is Last, a future sorority queen who calls her horse Pierce Chad Stonington III, a virgin-until-marriage pledge group, a pirate radio station, a wacko fundamentalist Christian terrorist organization, and the National Guard have in common? The answer is: A fun and zany look at lust and love, small town life, authority run amok, and teenage rebellion.

Last Class is a comedic novel about a small town in the throes of a modern-day sexual revolution. In this madcap hormonal romp, a shy high school student, Last Mundy, launches a multimedia protest against narrow-minded teachers, his tranquilized monkey classmates, and a totalitarian high school principal. Heidi Malone, a local herbal supplements seller, joins the protest to raise awareness of her impending court trial—all on account of a trumped-up obscenity charge leveled at her car’s hood ornament. The protest snowballs into a full-fledged rebellion that spreads throughout the town and captures the attention of the nation’s media, rocketing the town’s tiny population from obscurity into the bizarre glare of unwanted stardom.

While the protest wreaks havoc against false morality and double-dealing politicians, three romances blossom amid the chaos. Treasure Stephens, a suffer-no-fools, middle-aged gladiator, wonders if writing her fictionalized autobiography has forever consigned her to living alone with the past. Suresh Chatterjee, a high-strung teenager, begins to take anarchy lessons from Treasure, all in the hope of protecting his would-be love, Last, from the grips of a marauding high school chimp. And, thirty-seven years earlier, a love affair ahead of its time lives through the most momentous events of the autumn of 1971—the debut of The Sonny and Cher Comedy Hour, the launch of ChapStick’s flavoured lip balms, and Soul Train storming the airwaves of the nation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Emkay Scott
• Release date: Jan 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301771080

Emkay Scott

Last Class is Emkay Scott’s first novel. He lives in Toronto but, like the setting of the novel, grew up in a small, rural town. He is at work on another novel. Please feel free to email him at [e-mail], or communicate via www.twitter.com/emkayscott https://www.facebook.com/EmkayScottAuthor

Book preview

LAST CLASS

By

Emkay Scott

Last Class

Copyright © 2012 by Emkay Scott

Smashwords Edition

This book is a work of fiction. All characters, plot elements, events, settings, places, dialogue, and locations are fictitious and are derived from the imagination of the author, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only, and should not be reproduced or distributed without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

ISBN 978-0-9917322-0-3

Book cover illustration and design by Shira H.

Synopsis

What do a gay teenager whose first name is Last, a future sorority queen who calls her horse Pierce Chad Stonington III, a virgin-until-marriage pledge group, a pirate radio station, a wacko fundamentalist Christian terrorist organization, and the National Guard have in common? The answer is: A fun and zany look at small town life, authority run amok, and teenage rebellion.

Last Class is a comedic novel about a small town in the throes of a modern-day sexual revolution. In this madcap hormonal romp, a shy high school student, Last Mundy, launches a multimedia protest against narrow-minded teachers, his tranquilized monkey classmates, and a totalitarian high school principal. Heidi Malone, a local herbal supplements seller, joins the protest to raise awareness of her impending court trial—all on account of a trumped-up obscenity charge leveled at her car’s hood ornament. The protest snowballs into a full-fledged rebellion that spreads throughout the town and captures the attention of the nation’s media, rocketing the town’s tiny population from obscurity into the bizarre glare of unwanted stardom.

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Synopsis

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Epilogue

Dedication

About the Author

last (v.) – to endure, to continue existing

 Chapter 1

Arthur Mundy had considered that HairHairHair, a manufacturer of toupées, might be a front for the Central Intelligence Agency. The company insisted on receiving hair clippings from customers in order to make properly matching wigs. To Arthur’s mind, this business practice was a plausible cover for widespread and covert typing of DNA. Still, he admitted that he could not easily explain the CIA’s interest in building a database solely of bald people. After careful consideration of the Before and After photographs on HairHairHair’s website, Arthur took the plunge and ordered his first hairpiece.

He thought the fitting instructions had been quite clever. HairHairHair used measurements provided by the customer in order to design a custom-fitted toupée. After registering online with the company and paying a small deposit, Arthur had received a kit with measuring tape, plastic calipers, a small sandwich bag for the hair clippings, and a blank dimensions chart. The kit arrived in the mail on a cool, late September Friday, briefly interrupting Arthur’s preparations for winter hibernation.

Having skipped HairHairHair’s customer testimonials and propaganda about the science of skull measurement, Arthur had dutifully measured his dome. The last step had required that Arthur tell the company if his head was round, ovoid, square, rectangular, or triangular. He had ticked the ‘Ovoid’ box, writing helpfully beside it: ‘like a football’.

HairHairHair delivered Arthur’s wig two weeks after he had mailed off the measurements. He set the parcel on the kitchen table. Relieved to be alone at that moment, Arthur cut through the packaging with a paring knife. Taking a deep breath, he gingerly withdrew the hairpiece from the container and let it rest in his trembling hands. Draping the toupée over his steepled fingers, he angled the wig toward the overhead light and marvelled at HairHairHair’s skill. Unable to contain his glee, Arthur walked around the kitchen holding the hairpiece away from his chest as he admired its magnificent sheen. He twirled around the table and glided toward the microwave. It was his first time waltzing with a toupée.

The thwack of the side door slamming shut snapped Arthur out of his reverie. He quickly slid the wig onto his head and brushed its lower fringes into his own hair. Knowing that Last, his 17-year-old son, would detour into the kitchen for junk food, Arthur calculated that he had nine seconds to practice nonchalance.

As Last rounded the corner from the kitchen, he stopped short, mystified but not entirely surprised. His father was sitting on the loveseat with his arms stretched out along the top edge. He knew it was his father because of the bags under his eyes and the T-shirt’s quotation: ‘To perceive is to suffer — Aristotle’.

Hey, Last.

Dad, acknowledged Last matter-of-factly. He set some potato chips on the coffee table and perched on the edge of an overstuffed chair. Without taking his eyes off his father, he sipped from a can of pop.

It’s new, said Arthur, rolling his eyes in the direction of HairHairHair’s masterpiece.

Last nodded. I gathered that. He sipped some more. Waited. Slurped.

Arthur got up and moved to the centre of the oval, crazy-fringed rug that Last had bought from a retrograde hippie burnout in East Dover. Arthur slowly walked around in a small circle to show it off to Last.

Last set the pop can on the coffee table and stood next to his father. Stay still, he said. With Arthur planted on the rug, Last looked down on the toupée from his greater height. He tilted his head sideways and looked at it from a different angle. Then he reached out and lightly felt a clump of hair. He tugged a bit to test the fit.

Watch it! exclaimed Arthur, leaping back from his interloping son. He raised his hands and delicately patted the hairpiece to ensure its fit remained seamless.

Sorry, shrugged Last. Just confirming it’s real.

Real?

You know—hair.

Of course it’s hair, said Arthur indignantly.

Whose? asked Last.

Whose?

Uh huh.

It’s mine now.

But where did it come from?

The company is called HairHairHair, explained Arthur.

No. said Last. Where does HairHairHair get its hair?

I never asked. Does it matter?

Not really. Last sat down again and Arthur retreated to his loveseat. They looked at each other for a bit. Last clicked on the television and watched people throw chairs at each other on The Jerry Springer Show. It probably has deals with mortuaries, mused Last.

Mortuaries!? exclaimed Arthur.

Where did you think they got it from?

I don’t know…donations?

From who? asked Last.

Perturbed, Arthur hesitated before answering. From people going bald. Kind of like a 401(k) for hair, he said, immediately liking his spur of the moment explanation.

Last looked dubious and turned back to the television. Arthur unconsciously stroked where the toupée joined his own hair. He shuddered at the thought of wearing dead people’s hair. Do they de-louse it? Last didn’t seem as preoccupied with it as Arthur was. A chair sailed across the television screen.

Arthur prepared himself mentally and then asked, What do you think of it?

Last muted the television and swung around to face his father. It looks like a chipmunk that sings show tunes.

Arthur was crushed. He knew Last was right but he hadn’t had the stomach to admit it to himself after opening the box from HairHairHair. Since he had long ago perfected the art of self-delusion as a survival mechanism, Arthur had thrown his wilful ignorance into high gear when the plastic wrap came off the toupée. He had, within his short 90 minutes of ownership of the pelt, become strangely enchanted by its spell. It brought back memories of real hair and the comforting protection it had offered him.

What makes you say that? he asked Last.

Last walked over and sat beside Arthur. The colour, said Last. Yours is reddish-auburn with lots of grey. The ru—. What do you call it?

Hairpiece, replied Arthur.

The hairpiece’s colour doesn’t match very well. It’s too…vivacious.

Vivacious?

You know, startling.

Less metaphor, more colour palette, said Arthur.

Last took hold of his father’s head and moved it to and fro. He yanked open the curtain to let more natural light shine on it. Ahh, that’s better, he declared, raising Arthur’s hopes.

Really? asked Arthur.

Yes, said Last. Sort of electric pink-orangey-red.

Arthur’s shoulders sagged even more. Like a fox? asked Arthur, grasping futilely for any measure of hope.

Or, Ronald McDonald, offered Last.

As the inevitable reality set in, Arthur knew he had no other choice. He reached up and tugged off the hairpiece. It dangled between his legs as he slumped on the loveseat, head resting on the pillowed back. He expelled a long, low rush of air the length of which impressed even Last. I’m doomed, said Arthur.

You’re bald, said Last, patting his father on the arm. Set Alvin free.

Last returned to his potato chips and Jerry Springer; his father to the wisdom of Aristotle. Little could Arthur realize that the purchase of his wig was to foreshadow an autumn of change that would forever alter their lives.

 Chapter 2

Treasure was unique. She had the brain of Mr. Spock and the disposition of Genghis Khan. It was a fearsome combination that scared some, alienated many, and puzzled most.

I liked her.

She and I were contemporaries. There was us and there was everyone else. When I had my first crush in 1970, she was my confidante; when she had her first period…I wasn’t hers.

Even back then Treasure had style. No code-named menstrual cuteness shared with her mother, no visitor. Visitor? No my time of the month. For what—rock climbing? Mowing the lawn? And certainly no dumbass giggling with fascinated girls in awe of the class’s first menstruater—as if it were a skill Treasure had learned over the weekend between doing homework and perfecting her smoke rings.

When she announced her first period, I was sitting in the back of the class desperately adjusting myself. She’d seen me do it before and said, Why don’t you just take it out? Everyone’s watching anyways.

I blushed crimson and surreptitiously scrabbled to get it pointing up to my navel to avoid having it snap in two. I slunk down in my seat to hide it below the desktop.

Treasure said, It ain’t that big.

I replied, Shut up, cow. We were so supportive of each other.

At that, she got up and marched to the blackboard. Miss Pickens looked up from the romance novel she was reading and said, "Treasure, what ever are you doing?"

Treasure ignored her, picked up the chalk, and wrote in big manly letters: On the rag. Stay out of my way. She dropped the chalk onto the ledge and took her time strolling back to her desk. The more proper girls looked appalled. The boys started laughing. The envious girls started tittering to each other. Miss Pickens sputtered. Back at her desk, Treasure leaned over to me and said, You too. I just nodded, figuring she packed a mean punch at the best of times.

Down at the office where she had been sent by a since-recovered Miss Pickens, Treasure wreaked havoc with Principal Waters who sent himself home early for the day. He had started with, So, Miss Pickens has asked me to talk to you.

Treasure replied, So I gathered.

Waters asked, Is there anything you’d like to discuss or ask?

Big mistake. Treasure buffed her nails on her jeans and, the picture of earnest innocence, asked, Shall we discuss feminine protection?

Waters reflected on the wisdom he had gathered over the years and, in the space of mere seconds, relived the glory of the few victories he held dear. This encounter, he knew, would not add to those memories. Being a wise man, a greybeard of the schoolyard, Waters gamely smiled at Treasure, stood up, and ended the briefest disciplinary discussion of his career. He took Treasure over to Miss Josten, the school secretary, and together they watched him carefully walk to his car in the parking lot out front. Doesn’t have much of a way with women, does he? asked Miss Josten. Treasure knew she had found a friend.

When Treasure got back to class, I hissed, So?

She wrote me a note: Mr. Waters is no longer with us.

When I swooned for a townie who would be breaking rocks by age 20, Treasure counselled me. Look at his fingernails. They’re all black. You want that playing with your thing?

Ignoring her subtlety, I protested, But look at his lips!

Treasure reconsidered, Well, if it’s just his lips that he’ll be using then maybe you’ve got a point.

I never found out because I never got up the nerve to tell him that I stayed awake at night fantasizing about him ravishing me. Ravish. Unbridled passion. Urgently pressing himself against me. Maybe Miss Pickens was on to something with her romance novels.

The next year, grade ten, I started writing porn during class as a way of passing the time. In the early seventies, the penalty for writing pornography in school was 76 life sentences served consecutively. I assumed it was double that for gay pornography. They say that you should write what you know but since I was short on experience and long on hope, that wasn’t an option. So, I threw caution to the wind, bought a 10-cent scribbler that fit inside my larger class notebooks, and sought inspiration looking out the class window to the playing fields.

Treasure was my first reader. She had an editor’s eye and a gift for dialogue. In her opinion, my first effort was entirely too Victorian. We worked on it after school, lolling in her backyard.

She read out my first paragraph:

The stormy winds blew in off the fields. Paul could see Darren walking toward him, his raincoat slapping against his lithe body. His long, silky locks clung to his alabaster forehead as he strode with a determined step. Beneath the maple tree, Paul waited, barely able to contain his desire. Darren stepped into his arms and they pressed against each other. They tilted their heads back and slowly drew forward until their lips touched, ever so lightly. Then, overtaken by passion, they kissed fervently. Yet to say a word, they threw off their jackets, watching each other as if it were their first time together. They peeled off their shirts and rivulets of rainwater slid down their heaving torsos. Again they came together in a loving embrace and Paul, breathless, asked Darren, May I touch you?

I had purposely ended the first paragraph at a moment of heightened tension. I was quite pleased with myself.

Treasure bellowed, May I touch you?!

Startled, I responded, Well, it’s only polite, isn’t it?

Polite?! Polite?! Treasure leaned forward as if to slap me so I pulled back out of range. She yanked her pen from her back pocket—no girly pencil case for her—and readied her attack. Is this a church homily, or porno for horny gay boys like yourself?

Porno, I answered somewhat reluctantly.

And what’s Rule Number One for good gay porn?

How the hell should I know? Tension? I ventured.

It’s not a spy novel, Samuel! It’s porn! She scrawled big red letters across the top of my page: ACTION!!!

She readied her pen and said, You’ve got some good verbs here, Sammy. Slapping, clung, pressed, threw off, peeled off, heaving. Good solid action verbs. It’s just all the stuff in between that needs fixing.

I nodded, somewhat miffed at her backhand compliment.

Repeat after me, she said.

I knew the word she was going to say. Hell, it was the object of my every desire. But, I had never used the word. Frantically, I looked for an escape…then Treasure said it. Out loud.

I nearly died of embarrassment.

Repeat, she commanded.

I hesitated then squeaked it out.

Sammy, it’s supposed to be about slapping and pounding and smacking!

Sounded like a fistfight to me.

Enjoy those consonants, she said. Caw! Caw! Cawk!

I repeated as instructed, Cawk, cawk, cawk! Lord, her mother was going to think we were being attacked by crows.

Treasure began the editing process, asking me questions, seeking input but indelibly putting her stamp on the passage as any good editor does.

There, said Treasure, handing the scribbler back to me with a flourish.

I read it eagerly. You’ve said that word five times in eight sentences! I blurted out.

Yes, replied Treasure, pointing at my groin, and it seems to have worked.

Trying to salvage some sense of decorum, which isn’t the easiest thing to do with Treasure, I lowered the scribbler over my crotch. That’s just plain nasty, I said.

You’re a prude, she said.

I’m a romantic, I shot back.

And so it continued during that grade ten year. I drafted quality gay romance about burgeoning desire and dear Treasure turned it into smut.

• • •

The sign for Treasure’s business, screwed into the clapboard shingles beside the front door of her house, proclaimed in surprisingly elegant script: Treasure Stephens - Answers to Questions. The need for the sign was questionable because Treasure ran an internet-based business. Her clients never saw her, or the diaphanous nightgowns in which she liked to work. It seemed an ideal arrangement all around.

At age 53, Treasure was a self-employed, never-married, suffer-no-fools gladiator. She took life as it came, as long as it didn’t annoy her too much, and lived by her own creed. The rules were simple: never enter a mall; avoid party invitations; and to thy own attitude be true.

The bulk of her income came from several law firms dotted around the country. Some years ago, Treasure had stumbled across a research area and had built a substantial database of her own design to feed her work. Treasure wrote in-depth reports on countries which seemed to delight in persecuting their own people, demonstrating a particular passion for religious, ethnic, and sexual minorities. Her specialty was finding obscure information that helped lawyers’ cases for clients fleeing butchers, dictators, torturers, and assorted other maniacs.

Apart from this bread-and-butter work, Treasure also answered random questions from random people about random topics. The sheer oddness of her fellow humans endlessly fascinated her. Their kooky questions seemed, somehow, a spirited defence of individuality…and, besides, it confirmed her suspicions that extraterrestrial beings had long interbred with earthlings. How else to explain the farmer who wondered which Japanese game show would best increase his chickens’ egg production, now that CSI: Miami no longer held their interest on the widescreen televisions he had installed in his barns?

The doorbell rang.

Stomping through the house, Treasure whipped her housecoat off the television set in the living room and pulled it over her nightie. Through the screen door she saw a whip-thin, brown-skinned teenager standing on her porch. She yanked open the door and loomed over him. Mustering her most polite enquiry, she said, You better not be a lost Mormon looking for his mama.

I’m n-not, he stammered.

Good. What are you selling?

Nothing. I’m buying.

What’s that got to do with me?

He pointed at her sign. You sell answers?

That’s what the sign says.

Sucking up his nerve, he rallied forward, I’ve got a question.

No doubt. Treasure stared into his dark, earnest eyes for a time, and he returned her examination with a sincere, if slightly worried, gaze. She nodded as if he had passed her test. Come in.

He followed her along a dark hallway into the living room and sat in an old leather chair as directed by Treasure with a nod of her head. Treasure flopped onto the sofa and slung a muscular leg over her knee. Transfixed, the boy waited for her to start. The cuckoo clock cooed noon. Go ahead, Treasure prodded.

He retreated deeper into the chair and examined his spindly hands. He cleared his throat. What kinds of questions do you answer?

Any. The more interesting the better.

He twitched nervously and absentmindedly patted the chair’s arm. This is private.

All right.

He considered that for a bit. It’s about my best friend.

Yep. Treasure picked at a nubby bit on her robe.

Really!

Did I say I didn’t believe you? Sheesh. Treasure tapped one foot against the other, impatient to get to the heart of the matter.

He hesitated, stalling for time. Aren’t you going to ask me my name?

Why, are you famous?

No, but— He stopped and watched the now silent cuckoo clock, willing it to come alive again as a distraction. Treasure swivelled her head to see what he was looking at. I’m Suresh Chatterjee, he said, as he got up to walk around the coffee table. He put out his hand very formally.

She leaned half-upright for her slouched position and extended a hairy arm. They shook hands. Treasure Stephens, she replied.

He nodded and then returned to his chair. May I ask what you charge? he asked.

Depends on the question. You ask it, I’ll tell you the price. If you like it, it’s a deal. If you don’t, away you go.

Okay. He hesitated again. Drew a deep breath. What I want to kno—

Shouldn’t you be in school?

It’s noon hour.

It’s noon? asked Treasure, oblivious to the cuckoo clock’s announcement of moments before. Suresh nodded his head. Crap, she muttered.

Do you want me to go?

Got a deadline, she replied, as if that explained everything. She stayed on the sofa.

Suresh got up and started for the door.

Where are you going? Treasure asked as he made for the hallway.

He stopped abruptly in front of her. I assumed you wanted me to leave.

Assume nothing. Treasure pointed commandingly to the leather chair.

He returned to his seat. He looked expectantly at Treasure. She returned the favour. Quietly, Suresh asked, How do you stop a bully?

From bullying you? asked Treasure.

Suresh shook his head.

Treasure asked, Your friend? Suresh nodded. Treasure heaved herself off the sofa and headed to the kitchen. She called over her shoulder, You allowed to drink coffee?

He followed her into the kitchen. Why wouldn’t I be?

Because you’re ten.

"Older people sometimes underestimate the age of young people due to the significant difference in years."

Treasure’s eyes widened and she laughed with delight at his gumption. She ripped the plastic lid off the coffee tin as if beheading it. Suresh stood by the door into the living room, ready to run. How old are you? she asked.

Seventeen—grade 11.

The coffee gurgled into the pot. They leaned against the counters. Straight up, Suresh. Is there a friend?

There is.

You’re his white knight. She looked at Suresh. Correction, his brown knight.

He raised his left eyebrow. Treasure matched him. He rolled his eyes. She rolled her eyes. All in all, they seemed to understand each other.

I’m his only friend.

So that’s your interest?

Uh huh.

He look like you? Treasure asked.

Skinny? he asked. She nodded. He said, He’s a bit taller, kind of pale.

Who’s bullying him?

Suresh’s nostrils flared. Freddie Lank.

Why is your friend getting bullied?

Because he’s a loner, and he’s got a neurological condition.

Treasure handed him a mug of coffee. What’s wrong with your friend? She slid the milk and sugar across the counter.

He has Reiker Lally Syndrome. When you ask him a question, he tells you the truth.

Treasure sipped her coffee and eyed Suresh over the mug’s rim. Quite a concept.

The whole truth, said Suresh. "He can’t not tell the truth. Ask him a question and he gives an answer."

And Freddie doesn’t like this? asked Treasure. Suresh grunted affirmatively. How does your friend respond to Freddie?

He avoids him. Freddie uses him as the butt of jokes. Freddie knows that if he asks him a question, Last will tell him the truth.

Last? asked Treasure, upon hearing the name.

Last, confirmed Suresh.

Can’t Last just avoid answering the question? Choose not to answer it, instead?

Reiker Lally doesn’t work that way. A question is a trigger that fires his brain. It’s automatic like a yawn.

So Last is constantly running around telling people they’re too fat or ugly?

Not really. He avoids people. That way, he doesn’t have to answer any questions.

Ahh—the loner with one friend. Why, Last?

His name? asked Suresh.

Yeah.

His mother died during childbirth; he’s got no brothers or sisters. It’s a nickname he gave himself.

What about teachers? They must ask him questions?

Sure, about school work. Facts. Sometimes one of them will forget and ask an open-ended question and then regret hearing the answer.

For instance?

Well, last week Mrs. Renfrew asked Last what he was thinking about because he seemed so quiet. Last told her he was categorizing people’s faces according to dog breed. Terry Heinemann shouted out ‘what kind of dog does Trish look like’. Last said a pug. Trisha told Terry off and called Last a pig. It went downhill from there.

What do you think I can do for you?

Suresh shrugged. I don’t know but I know you’re not afraid to say things.

How do you know that?

I saw the sign on the side of your house, searched your name in the land titles registry, and then looked you up in the school yearbook archives.

I guess we’ll stick with Brown Knight not Spontaneous Knight.

Suresh ignored her. Do you remember what you wrote for the caption under your graduation photo in your high school yearbook?

Of course I do. After all it was only 35 years ago. Let me think. Ah yes, ‘Don’t overstay your welcome’.

Again, Suresh ignored her and plunged along. You said, ‘Too Many Days in the Life of Treasure Denisovich’.

You got that? Treasure was amazed.

"What’s to get? Solzhenitsyn wrote One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich based upon his experiences at a camp for political prisoners."

Treasure pursed her lips as she mused over his explanation. What an odd teenager. Okay, Suresh, time for you to go. Let me think about this.

She walked him to the front porch.

He stopped on her front walkway. How much do I have to budget for your help?

You budget? What—you’re an accountant-crusader? Go back to school and wreak havoc.

When can I come by?

We’re not dating.

To get your answer.

Next week, same day, same time.

And the price?

Scram. It’s free.

Why?

Because.

I can pay.

Go.

Back in her sunroom office, Treasure felt oddly compelled to help the skinny teenager who had just confided in her. His visit left much unsaid but of what he did share, Treasure understood he had not done so lightly. His earnest care for a friend reminded her of another time, and she knew, through instinct alone, that she would fulfil his trust always.

 Chapter 3

Arthur Mundy and Heidi Malone were sitting in their usual booth at the downtown Perk & Lurk, discussing the endurance of a middle-aged man’s ardour. Heidi was grilling Arthur whose protests of a sensitive constitution had gone unheeded by the distinctly unsympathetic budding porn mogul. While the subject of sex was dear to Heidi’s heart and crucial to her livelihood, it resonated less urgently for Arthur. In fact, any contributions on his part were informed solely by faint memories which he felt free to embellish. He assumed Heidi understood him well enough to discount most of what he had to say anyway.

Heidi picked up her marketing pitch from the table. Let me read it to you again. I re-wrote it last night.

Oh, God, no, moaned Arthur, desperately looking around for someone to break up this shambles of a lunch.

Heidi started reading:

VigorSure is a potent cream that pushes blood to where you need it most. When the mood arrives, so will you. Life is bigger with VigorSure!!

Arthur was near tears. He appreciated that Heidi’s herbal supplement business was suffering a decline in sales, but these impromptu lunch hour strategy sessions were killing him. Why don’t you just sell rhino horn? he asked, trying not to envision the effects of VigorSure lest it remind him of his own non-existent love life.

Heidi blithely dismissed his delicate nature. Arthur, be serious. I’m not a Chinese herbalist. Besides, penises are a growth business…if you’ll pardon the pun.

She looked to Arthur for affirmation of her cleverness but his head, seeking to be anywhere but there, had rubbernecked into the space between his left armpit and chest as if he were doing a lymph node self-exam.

The internet has brought sexual options into the privacy of people’s homes, and they’re ready to experiment, she declared.

Arthur slowly brought his head up. Sexual options? he asked wearily.

Porn, positions, toys, enhancers. It’s Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, Arthur. People are looking for self-actualization.

Through their sex lives?

Why not?

Arthur picked up his donut. "Didn’t this happen in the