Excessica Anthology BOX SET Winter (7 page)

About Phillip
Sweeny

Phillip Sweeny is a free-lance writer whose
interests encompass fantasy creatures such as elves, fairies, and dragons and
how they would relate in our present world, all in an erotic genre, of course. Initially
a poet, he branched out into mystery novels and romantic fiction. His first
erotic story, Christmas in Paradise, was published by Sultry Heat Publications.
As a Stardust Press author, he published The Christmas Fairy, which garnished
excellent reviews at Romance at Heart Magazine, Coffee-Time Romance and
Euro-reviews.

THE CHRISTMAS CAT

By Paul McDermott

I'd lived on the
West Coast of Denmark for some time, working offshore. That particular winter,
however, was bitterly cold, even by the standards of the Danish segment of the
North Sea. I mean, when was the last time you can recall seeing the salt water
of a busy harbor freezing over, strong enough that you could safely skate to
Fanø, an island popular with summer tourists and a 20-minute ferry ride out of
Esbjerg?

It was our first
Christmas together and we were infatuated with each other. I doubt if we'd have
noticed purple snow falling from green clouds…that was, until the Christmas cat
dragged us back to reality.

He was nothing
special to look at. He'd been ‘around the block' a few times, and had quite
possibly lost more fights than he'd won, from his appearance. No collar or
signs of recently having possessed one, so we assumed he was feral—but at
the same time he seemed to have taken more care with his grooming and
appearance than you'd expect from someone who habitually ‘slept rough'.

It was late on
Christmas Eve when he first came calling. We were living on the first floor of
a set of walk-up apartments, three apartments on each of three floors. There
was also a basement with shared laundry & storage facilities.

There was no key
needed for the street door, and he must have simply walked in when an
opportunity presented itself for him to escape from the cold. There was a fine
old echo in the hallways and stairwell, so he didn't have to exert himself
unduly to be heard.

Well, of course,
we made a fuss of him. Who wouldn't, especially at that particular time of year
when nobody—not even an animal—should be lonely or without a family
around them? It wasn't until later that we actually asked ourselves…did he
somehow sense that our door—physically no different from all the
others—was the one at which he could be certain of a genuine welcome?

As everybody
does, we had, of course, bought far more than we could possibly eat over the
holiday period, even taking into account the fact that food shops were going to
be closed for much longer than was the norm. An extra mouth to feed was neither
here nor there, although we had not specifically planned any feline provender.
However, the shops were by this time closed and there was no window of
opportunity to buy more.

He wasn't a
shorthair breed. To look at him, you'd have thought at first that he was
permanently dusty, but on closer inspection, this proved not to be the case.
His fur was black, but in layer upon layer, as if he had been living wild for
some considerable time, allowing his fur to thicken and provide natural
protection against the elements.

Although I can't
find any source references, I am certain I remember as a child being told a
folk tale. Its message was that at midnight on Christmas Eve, animals all over
the world are briefly granted human speech.

When we first
heard his voice outside the door, it was neither petulant nor angry. That might
sound stupid. How can any animal give any hint of emotion in their call? I've
never really understood it myself, but I'm convinced in my own mind that a cat
can express emotions very clearly and distinctly by the tone of voice they use
in a given situation.

He sounded
somehow both sad and lonely, but also dignified, polite, requesting assistance
rather than demanding sanctuary, if that makes any sense at all—probably
not, to anyone who hasn't experienced something of a similar nature.

There are people
who could never be anything other than cat-friendly, feline by their very
nature, and I admit that my wife and I fit very definitely into this category.
Our hearts melted immediately when we saw him. There was never any question of,
"Do we or don't we...?" Of course, we took him in.

He approved of the
apartment and the children—two boys, barely old enough to crawl,
certainly not old enough to understand the concept of an unexpected Christmas
guest. He also approved of the Christmas tree and all the decorations, which he
obviously decided were mostly intended for his personal amusement—though
he was definitely an adult cat, well beyond the natural inquisitiveness of a
young kitten.

Not being sure
if he was ‘housetrained'—and having no cat tray or litter in the house—we
were unsure what to do for best at bedtime. We walked out with him to the
garden behind the house. He did what was necessary, cleaned up after himself,
and led us back to the apartment. You could almost hear him think,
"Problem solved!”

Christmas Day
itself was as mad as it always will be with children of ‘a certain
age'—and, of course, the wrappings from presents were a cat's idea of heaven
on earth! Add the smell and taste of a typical Christmas dinner, and his
gastric juices must have been working just as hard as ours in anticipation of
what was to come. When the main meal was served, he actually sat politely, without
trying to steal anything before it was offered, on a chair at the table with
the rest of the family.

Boxing Day came
around all too soon, as it always seems to, and ours was spent relaxing and
visiting with neighbors. It was not practical for either of us to visit family
members, as we were both "strangers in a strange land" to use a
Biblical phrase. Of course, all our neighbors wanted to know as much as we
could tell them—which wasn't really very much—about the Christmas
Cat, but none of them seemed to have heard him when he was mewing outside our
door. This was probably when I first began to wonder if there was more to this
cat than first met the eye. It seemed unlikely to me then—and even now,
many years later, still seems incredible—that we were the only ones to
hear him

The weather
continued to be bitterly, bitingly cold. Without somewhere for shelter and
warmth, I am certain that our Christmas Cat would not have made it through the
festive season.

When December
twenty-seventh dawned, the skies were clear and there was no longer a cutting
‘edge' to the weather, although it was still cold but not uncomfortably so.
Businesses were setting out their post-Christmas displays of sale goods, fresh
foods such as bread and milk were once again available, and a partial thaw
seemed to be setting in, though we were pretty sure that it would only be a
temporary respite.

By now we'd
grown used to the unexpected guest who had given us so much love and affection
during the three days of the holiday period. Curiously, although I think we'd
already tacitly agreed that we would offer him a permanent place in our hearts
if he chose to remain with us, we hadn't got around to giving him a name. We all
know, of course, about the naming of cats, and the name which is known to only
one  cat, but it never even occurred to us to find even a temporary ‘label' of
any sort.

We took him out
to answer nature's call that bright winter morning, and stood by the back door
as he selected his corner of the garden and attended his needs. After a lengthy
grooming period in the morning sun, he suddenly sat up straight, looked us in
the eye, and purred far louder than we had previously heard from him. Even
today, I am convinced that it was his way of expressing his gratitude.

I think at this
point, I knew what was about to happen. That, however, didn't make it any
easier to accept when he turned calmly to face the rear of the garden, trotted
to the fence, and leapt over the wall and out of our lives, leaving a line of paw
prints in the pristine snow and an ache in our hearts which remained there
until we acquired a cat in need of a loving home from an animal sanctuary.

About Paul
McDermott

Born in the
Year of the Tiger, it seemed inevitable that Paul McDermott would form an
attachment to all things feline and have the same urge to roam. His wanderlust
(and a teacher training course) drew him to Liverpool, and a few years down the
line, his urges pushed him further still to Denmark.

Perhaps it
was the catalyst of breathing the same air as Hans Christian Andersen? While
living there, he allowed himself to be persuaded to write ‘for a purpose’
instead of purely for his own amusement.

Now, twenty
years later, the story he began at that time has been rewritten and revised a
hundred times and he’s still not satisfied with it! Fortunately, he’s had
several other irons in the fire over the years.

Recently he
had his first taste of success: a short play was selected for performance at
the 2006 Edinburgh Fringe Festival. He’s hoping to persuade Mr. Moneybags to
back one or more of several dramatic pieces he’s penned with Liverpool’s
Capital of Culture 2008 in mind.

His ultimate
ambition? Like the “One Hit Wonder” Thunderclap Newman, Paul aims to earn
enough to retire from the rat race. Then he can buy the plot of land the Lough
Key, County Roscommon (Castle Island) and rebuild the castle, which used to
belong to his ancestors.

A LITTLE SOMETHING FOR SANTA

By J.M.
Snyder

There’s nothing
worse than pulling down the graveyard shift at Sylvia’s Grill. By seven in the
evening, the dinner crowd has thinned out. Maybe we get a few families in
before nine for dessert or ice cream. But after that, it’s basically dead until
the next morning, when workers from the rubber plant start to trickle in for
breakfast.

During that long stretch from midnight to five it was just Chris and me,
wiping down the tables or sweeping the floor, cleaning the grill, cutting veggies
and meats to keep up our stock. The stoplight across the street went on the
blink a little after ten p.m. We moved around the diner at a languid pace. The
whole night stretched out before us, an indeterminable wait.

Chris, the night cook, was a full head shorter than me and twice as big.
I wouldn’t say fat, exactly, but he could put away two twelve-inch subs over
the course of our shift, and he was always nibbling on the fries. The wire
glasses he wore, perched on constantly flushed cheeks, seemed too small for his
round face. My first day on the job he spent half the shift going on and on
about a girlfriend I suspected was made up on the spot to impress me. Chris was
the type who probably hadn’t been out on a date in his entire life and was
still waiting for that first real kiss. Before he got too far into his boast, I
cut him off with, “Girls aren’t really my thing.”

We were between customers at the time, and Chris stared at me for a full
minute, turning my words over in his head as if trying to puzzle through them.
Finally, he lowered his voice and said, “You mean you’re…” Letting the sentence
dangle between us, he raised his eyebrows and nodded at me, wanting me to say
it, but there was a shiny interest in his face that made me think I wasn’t the
only one who liked dick. Before I could answer, Chris wanted to know, “So, are
you with someone right now?”

With a shrug, I replied, “Not really.”

Bad move. I should’ve made up a boy to use as a shield between us, because
Chris slid a little closer and tentatively touched the counter two inches from
my hand. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like,” he started. He had a way
of beginning to say something and then stopping to look me over, as if seeking
my approval before going on. “You know, with another guy.”

“I’ve never been with a girl, so there’s nothing for me to compare it
to,” I said. “I’ve just always liked guys.”

Chris persisted. “Do you ever hook up with someone just for the hell of
it?” he wanted to know. “I mean, to experiment or whatever? Nothing committed.
Like, just as friends?”

I laughed and took a step back. “Friends with benefits?” I asked. When he
nodded, I winked. “Don’t tell me you want to get with me. What about your
girlfriend?”

“Who?” Then, realizing his mistake, he shrugged. “Oh, her. No, I’m not
saying I want you to
do
me or anything. I’m just…” Flustered, he grabbed
a nearby rag and began to wipe down the counter, avoiding my gaze. “I’m just
curious, you know? I’m not
gay
.
”

“Oh, me either,” I replied. When he gave me a quizzical look, I grinned.
“My last boyfriend was, though. What an ass. And Cock-zilla, I’m telling you.”
I held my hands a foot apart and almost laughed at Chris’s wide eyes. The bell
above the door to the diner tinkled, signaling a customer. I nudged Chris with
my elbow before heading through the swinging kitchen doors. “I’ll keep your
offer in mind.”

Chris paled. “I didn’t make an offer,” he called out after me. He stood
on tiptoe to see out the pass-through window above the sandwich counter and
repeated, “I didn’t make you an offer.”

I leaned on the other side of the window, inches from his scared face.
“You know you want to,” I whispered. In a low voice, I sang, “You think I’m
sex-y. You want my bod-y.”

The damp rag flew through the window at me. “Shut up,” Chris muttered. I
laughed because I knew my words had hit closer to home than he wanted to admit.

* * * *

In the back storeroom there was an old, thirteen-inch TV hidden behind
industrial-sized cans of green beans. I noticed it when I went back for a sack
of potatoes—the blank screen caught the light from the bare overhead bulb
and threw the room back at me in reflection. “Hey,” I called out, half talking
to myself. Chris stood by the grill. He probably couldn’t hear me over the
sizzling burgers. Forgetting about the potatoes, I moved the beans aside to get
to the TV. “There’s a TV back here.”

Chris glanced up as I came back into the kitchen. “It’s Dawn’s,” he told
me. Dawn was the daytime manager, a mythical being I had never met since I
worked nights. Chris flipped two burgers on the grill, pressing them flat with
his spatula to make the grease spit. “I think she said it doesn’t work.”

Undeterred, I unplugged the meat slicer and plugged in the TV. It was
fairly new, and without cable hooked up, the screen went from black to a pretty
shade of blue when I turned it on. I flipped through the channels—they
were all the same. “Damn,” I muttered.

With a laugh, Chris said, “Told you.”

I turned off the TV but didn’t bother to unplug it. “Guess we’re back to
entertaining ourselves.” Leaning against the counter, I raised a leg and nudged
Chris’s hip with my foot. “I do a mean strip tease. Wanna see?”

Chris jumped back, terrified. “No,” he scowled, but the way his gaze
darted to my crotch made me laugh. He wanted me, I could practically taste the
curiosity and need wafting off of him like the stale smell of grease that clung
to us both when we clocked out at the end of our shift. But I had no intention
of getting with him, and my relentless teasing kept him at bay and on guard. He
was the type to try and wheedle me into a handjob in the walk-in freezer, or
maybe a quick dick-licking in the back storeroom. Anything to get him off and
satisfy his as-yet-unrelieved libido. But, as long as I made the moves, I could
keep him off-balance and flustered. Any sexual innuendo from me was instantly
shot down, thank God. It was fun to watch him get all bent out of shape when I
flirted with him. And hey—it was something to do.

Turning back to the TV, I pushed the buttons along the bottom and sighed.
“Too bad there’s no VCR. I have some great Bel Ami porn tapes I could bring in.
Those European boys are
hot
.”

“I’m not—” he started.

Suddenly a thin tray slid out from underneath the TV and I cut him off.
“It’s a DVD combo.” I laughed and pushed the release button again to close the
tray. Over my shoulder, I winked at Chris. “What do you think of that?”

“Do you have any porn on DVD?” he asked, a little too eagerly.

“I’m sure I can come up with some,” I replied. A look of horror crossed
his face at my pun, but I added anyway, “Get it? I can
come
—
”

“I got it.” Chris turned back to the safety of the grill, where his
burgers were slowly charring from inattention, but his gaze kept straying
towards my butt. “I wasn’t asking,” he tried to clarify. “I mean, I don’t
want
you to bring them in or anything. I was just saying…”

The way he blundered on made me laugh again. “I know what you mean.” He
sighed in relief and I said, “You want to take them home to watch. I understand.
I’ll see what I can do.”

“No—”

“What kind of guys do you like?” I pressed on. Chris shook his head, his
mouth moving without making a sound. “I’ve got mostly blondes because I like
twinks myself. But seriously—what do you look for in a guy?”

Chris found his voice. “I don’t—”

I wouldn’t let him finish. “Young? Old? I have some about this guy, Lukas?
You might like him. He looks a little like me. Tall, blue eyes, brown hair. My
dick’s bigger, though. You want a porn star that looks like me?”

The spatula flew out of Chris’s hands and struck between my shoulders before
falling to the floor. “Shut up!” Chris hollered—his standby response
whenever I pushed him too far.

Despite the greasy smear that stuck my T-shirt to my back, I laughed as I
picked up the spatula. Chris’s face had turned a dangerous shade of red, his
breath hard and fast as if he’d just run a marathon. I tried to wipe the smile
off my face and held the spatula out like a peace offering. When he took it, I
couldn’t resist a final jab. “You might want to wash that off before you use it
again.”

“Fuck you,” Chris replied.

I grinned. “So you admit you want to?”

I had to duck around the sandwich counter to avoid the spatula a second
time.

*
* * *

As the holidays rolled around, business picked up at the new shopping
mall across town, but we were too far away to see any of it. Even with
Christmas just around the corner, the only other place besides us that stayed
open all night was Wal-Mart, which had its own eatery. Once midnight rolled
around, Sylvia’s all but curled up and died. The door stopped opening and the
hands on the clock stopped moving, and the only way I found to break up the
monotony of the night was to mess with Chris and fuck with the TV. I must’ve
put that damn television on every counter in the kitchen and once out in the
main dining area, but I could never get in a picture to save my life. And,
despite my teasing, I would never bring a porn flick to work, though from the
way his eyes glittered brightly whenever I brought out the TV, Chris thought
otherwise. When I finally had enough of flipping through blank channels, the
movies I brought in were holiday classics. Tossing a handful of DVD cases onto
the sandwich counter, I told Chris, “I hope you’re not Jewish.”

He scooped up the DVDs before they slid to a stop. As he read the titles,
though, his ill-concealed excitement disappeared. “
The Santa Clause
?” he
asked. “
Miracle on 34th Street
?
Rudolph
—what the hell’s
this?”

“Oh, that’s a good one,” I told him, watching disappointment settle into
his features. I tried not to laugh. “It’s about this reindeer? Who has this
glowing nose…”

Chris slapped me with the DVD case. “I know what it’s about. I thought
you were bringing in some of your gay porn.”

My eyes widened in mock surprise. “Shit! I totally forgot you wanted to
borrow some. I’m so sorry, Chris. I’ll bring them tomorrow, how’s that?”

Instantly he took a step back. “I don’t
want
them,” he tried,
glaring at my grin. “I didn’t say I wanted you to bring any. Damn, Patrick.
You’re always twisting around every little thing I say.”

“You know you love it.” I took the DVDs back and scanned through them,
looking for something to watch. I felt Chris’s hot gaze on me, saw his foot
slide a little closer to mine, and added, “I bet you go home and jerk off
thinking about everything I say to you. Why don’t you just ask me, Chris? I
know you want to get with me. Just ask and see what I say.”

“No,” he whispered. I didn’t know if he meant no, he didn’t want to ask
or no, he didn’t want to see what my answer would be. Or maybe he was
pre-empting me, he knew I’d say no so he said it, too. But who knew? I could
surprise us both and say yes.

That thought bothered me more than I cared to admit. Changing the subject,
I held up the first DVD, whose case depicted Tim Allen dressed as Santa. “What
do you think?” I wanted to know. “Hot or not?”

For a moment, I didn’t think Chris would answer. But when I glanced at
him, he was studying the case in my hand as if debating whether or not he
should answer honestly. He knew I would try to embarrass him no matter what he
said, so he answered my question with one of his own. “Isn’t that the guy from
Home
Improvement
? You think he’s hot?”

I shrugged. “I think Santa is. This dude could be anybody, really. Can I
tell you a secret?” Chris nodded and leaned towards me, his eyes wary. Lowering
my voice, I told him, “Santa suits? Turn me on.”

“You’re joking,” he murmured. A dreamy look came over his face, and I
wondered if he pictured himself dressed as Santa Claus, me on my knees before
him, both of our hands working loose the thick black belt that held up his red
fur-trimmed pants. Then he gave me a sharp look, as if I might be lying.
“You’re shitting me.”

Despite the fact that it was Chris’s face in the picture, the image of myself
about to go down on Santa sent a spark of electricity through my blood that
jolted my dick. “Serious,” I swore. “I’ve always had this thing for Santa. He’s
like the ultimate sugar daddy, right? Brings you presents whenever he comes.” I
winked. “He’s hooked me up over the years, let me tell you. I wouldn’t mind
paying him back a little, you know what I mean?” Raising my fist in front of my
mouth, I stuck my tongue in my cheek and mimed giving a blowjob.

Chris’s eyes widened until I thought they’d to roll out of his head. “My
cousin?” he said—his voice squeaked, and he had to stop and clear his
throat before continuing—“She has this costume shop over in Chester.
Mostly Halloween stuff, but some dress-up things too. You know, for…” He made a
vague gesture with his hand, hoping I got the point.

With a grin, I asked, “Sex play?” His cheeks pinked and he looked away,
embarrassed. “Like what, nurse and maid uniforms? Or gimp outfits? You remember
that scene in
Pulp Fiction
?”

Quickly, Chris said, “Just costumes, okay? I don’t know what all she’s
got, I’ve never really
inquired
.” He frowned when I laughed. “I know
she’s got a slew of Santa suits, though. She rents them out this time of the
year, for parties or charities or whatever. She makes a killing off of them.”

“Anyone can put on a red suit,” I said with a shrug. “But not everyone
can pull off that real Santa Claus look. You know, rosy cheeks, wiry white
beard, belly that shakes like a bowlful of jelly?”

“Her costumes are top notch,” Chris assured me. Nodding at the DVD case
in my hand, he said, “Like that. No fake beards or bad makeup or any of that
mess. Her Santas are so good, Mrs. Claus wouldn’t know the difference.”