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Fiction by ERWA Bloggers

Halloween In The Castro
by Donna George Storey

Renfield's Lament
by Lisabet Sarai

by C. Sanchez-Garcia

Three Times Lucky
by Remittance Girl

Last Tango in Paris, Texas
by M. Christian

Eddie's All-night Diner
by K D Grace

A Curious Case
by Jean Roberta

Sleep Well, My Love
by Elizabeth Black

are you going to kiss me?
by Ashley R Lister

Free Ebooks

Naughty Bits: Technology for Authors
by Lisabet Sarai

A Slip of the Lip Anthology
by Remittance Girl (Ed)

The Fog of San Francisco

An Addictive Desires story
by Big Ed Magusson


erotic fictionI only clearly remember the endless lapdance from the Polynesian stripper, and the way the sun glittered off the Bay when the fog broke.  There’s an obvious metaphor in there, but it’s not true. Real life’s not that clean.

It’s not like I had high expectations for that weekend. All I was thinking Friday night was ‘free weekend in Mecca on the company dime.’ My duffel bag hit the hotel bed and I hit the street. O’Farrell’s completely filled my mind.

Several hours later, I stumbled back smelling of cigarettes, perfume, and sweat. I was glutted.  Breasts, asses, pussies—they all blurred together.  Four dancers had played with my dick and one had hinted at a blowjob in the Kopenhagen Room, but I’d already maxed out my ATM limit.  I settled for being discreetly stroked off in the Green Door Room under a table.  The blonde stripper giggled when I shot all over her hand. At least I think she was blonde. All I really remember is her tits.

I sat on the side of the hotel bed and rubbed my temples. Then I shoved my duffel bag to the side, curled up on top of the bedcover, and closed my eyes.

And morning came too soon.

In my haste the night before, I’d forgotten to close the curtains.  Light oozed in, casting a grey pall throughout the room. While diffuse due to the fog outside, it was still enough to force me awake.  Unpleasantly so. It may take alcohol to get drunk, but not to have a hangover. When I could no longer stand it, I dragged myself over to the window and shut the damned curtain.

And didn’t get back to sleep. I was uncomfortable and thirsty and the bed was strange and the pillow a bit uncomfortable and...

...and I was just too irritated to sleep.

As I floated to full consciousness, it became clear what the source of the irritation was.  The California ‘Mecca’ of high mileage strip clubs wasn’t quite paradise now that my ex-fiancée lived across the Bay in Berkeley. She’d been hovering around the edges of my mind during the flight, and even during the walk to the club.  Not in the club, thankfully, which allowed me to concentrate on the beautiful women in front of me. But it was morning, the clubs were closed, and Sandy lived a short train ride from my current location.

And she was back in my head.

Eventually I gave up on sleep. I took a Tylenol and a shower and made my way down to the hotel restaurant for breakfast. I grabbed my novel, but managed to finish it about the time the server cleared my plate.

That left a dilemma—what to do with my day?

I knew what I was going to do in the late afternoon. I’d read online that many of the dancers at the Market Street Cinema offered blowjobs and some even full service, but I’d never been there. If it was a bust, I could head to the New Century after that.

But until then?  I’d done most of the tourist spots on previous trips to San Francisco. I’d even gone up to wine country with Sandy, back when things were good. Back when she wanted us to move here together and ‘enjoy the California lifestyle.’  Funny that. Her California lifestyle and mine weren’t exactly in the same storybook. But she’d followed through on hers, while I... was still a great place to visit.

But thinking of Sandy made me realize that I hadn’t actually been to Berkeley in any of my past visits. I could get there on the BART, so why not? I could wander around and look at the shops and maybe get a sense of the “hippie” vibe. Even if I hated it, it’d kill a few hours.

So after breakfast, I grabbed my coat, bought a new paperback in the gift shop, and headed to catch the train.

But as the BART crossed the Bay, I began to have serious misgivings. I’d started to fantasize about bumping into Sandy on a corner and seeing her smile in delight, but I knew that was bullshit. She hadn’t given me her new address for a reason. If she saw me first, she’d most certainly slip away without a word.

And if I saw her first, did I really want to force the issue?

Besides, what could I say, “Hey don’t worry, I’m not stalking you. I’m just in town to get lapdances and blowjobs in strip club backrooms.”?

And was that really why I’d come?

I reminded myself that my stated reason for coming was to have fun. It’s just that my definition of fun was socially unacceptable. That didn’t make it bad, did it?

I didn’t like the question. I particularly didn’t like knowing what Sandy’s answer would be.

But I couldn’t dismiss it either.

So the mental termites of Sandy and lapdances and what could’ve been if I hadn’t called her a frigid bitch gnawed at my brain as I wandered the misty hills of Berkeley.

I saw things, I know. The mental camera wasn’t recording but there were receipts from a bookstore and a sandwich shop in my wallet when I returned to the hotel. I obviously wasn’t dazed enough for anyone to call for the guys in the white jackets, but I’m not sure I was much better.

My monkey mind was simply locked in nested loops. What the hell was I doing? Why the hell was I in Berkeley? Why the hell was I in San Francisco? Why the hell was I alone instead of with Sandy or some other amazing woman?

Questions begat arguments begat more questions begat more brain freeze.

Somehow I still made it back to San Francisco and the Market Street Cinema, a polite 20 minutes after they opened. I found a seat in the second row where I was quickly joined by a petite Hispanic stripper. She put her hand in my lap and stroked me through my slacks while we watched a new dancer take the stage.

I didn’t get hard.

I let the stripper take me to a back room and try to give me a handjob. She gave up, but not before pocketing my twenties and suggesting we go to an even more private room. I didn’t like her pushiness and declined.

I did go to the more private room with a black dancer sometime later. I wasn’t stiff for her either. My mind just wasn’t in it. I was surrounded by naked and nearly naked women, all happy to touch me, and all I felt was numb. Not excited, or eager, or even interested. It felt like I hadn’t been able to shake the malaise of Berkeley. It’s not that I was thinking about Sandy. It’s that I wasn’t thinking coherently at all.

So I sat, with a spaced-out gaze that drew no special notice, as dancer after dancer paraded across the stage. I turned down private dances. Sometimes I got up and wandered around. I remember seeing a broken light fixture and wondering if any dancers stashed their drugs in it. I wondered if I was on drugs.

And then... there was Melani.

How do you describe a goddess? A heavenly vision in a g-string? There was something in the way she moved—no, in the way she stood—that beguiled me. I’d seen enough dancers to distinguish mere skill from artistry. She... well, I mean... there just aren’t words.

There was no doubt, from the way she moved her hips, that she’d once worn a grass skirt. Her full breasts would’ve overflowed coconuts, though. It didn’t matter. On stage, she was solely in heels. There was a light in her dark eyes and her black hair shimmered under the spotlights. She...

No. Words still don’t do this angel justice.

I tipped when she was clothed. I tipped when she was topless. I tipped when she was fully nude. As she crouched down, thighs spread to give me a view of her treasures, I mumbled something about a private dance.

And somehow soon thereafter, we found ourselves in a curtained back room.

It wasn’t much. The curtains formed two walls around a space the size of an office cubicle, with only a lone armless chair against one of the solid walls. The concrete floor was swept, but in the dim light from a single overhead fixture it was too hard to tell if it was actually clean. We could hear the couple in the next room over, but the eighties rock music drowned out most of their words. It smelled slightly of cigarettes, but more of mustiness with a hint of sleaze.

Melani looked completely out of place.

But my goddess ignored the dinginess of her surroundings and gestured for me to sit in the chair. I handed her a twenty, which she palmed, and then held out her hand again. With another twenty, she straddled my knees and slowly lowered herself onto my lap.

She smiled at me warmly, and I lost myself in her eyes. A new song started and she reached behind her and unhooked her top. With it tossed to the side, she leaned forward, wrapped her arms around my neck and pulled me close. My face buried itself in the crook of her neck as she began to undulate on my lap.

I breathed deep. She smelled of vanilla and musk with a hint of, oh god, could a stripper be aroused?

Her fingers slid down my back, caressing me, massaging me, as the sound of Def Leppard faded away.

She turned once, pulling my hands around to her breasts as she rose up and down, my hard cock nestled against her ass. But when she turned back and looked into my eyes, she smiled knowingly and never turned again.

Instead, she held me. My hard cock pressed against her pussy, with two thin layers of fabric in between. Her breasts rested heavy against my chest. One hand cradled my head against her shoulder, the other idly stroked my back.

She held me.

Vanilla, musk, and a hint of compassion.

She still moved. Danced, so to speak. But while the friction kept my cock hard, my attention wasn’t there. Not like the night before. Not like so many nights before.

It was in the way her cheek nuzzled the side of my head. It was in the way her fingers stroked my back in small circles. It was in the way she breathed, raising us both up, then down. It was the way she was.

I did pull back once, well, more than once, to bury my face between her breasts. I wanted to feel her bare skin all around. I wanted to be surrounded by her.

I hadn’t felt this way since... well, not even with Sandy.

When the music stopped, money changed hands and the cuddling continued. When the guy in the next booth moaned, “god, your ass is tight,” we exchanged a knowing smirk. During one fast-paced song, she jiggled and I briefly captured each nipple in my mouth.  But I soon returned my head to her shoulder.

Vanilla, musk, and everything that mattered.

Eventually the money ran out, and with a disappointed smile, Melani slid off my lap and stood. With shaky knees, I joined her. We walked back to the front where she gave me a kiss on the cheek before disappearing into the dressing room.

I fled into the streets.

The rest of the day is lost to memory. There was a street hooker who looked like Jamie Lee Curtis and gave me a disappointed look when I shook my head. There was a bumpy cab ride. I found a movie ticket in my pocket the next day for The People Vs. Larry Flint, but to this day have no idea what it was about.

But I know Melani gets goose bumps, in a small cluster near her collar bone when the air conditioning comes on. Her nipples have this crinkle in the tip and the right one is slightly more oval than circular. Her eyes are actually dark brown, with flicks of black, and her hair is lustrously soft, especially when it slides against an unshaven cheek. She smells of vanilla and musk.

Back in the hotel room, late that night, I realized that there was only one thing I wanted to do.  I wanted to go back to the club with a condom and have Melani cuddle me while my cock nestled inside her.

I also realized that there was one thing I absolutely could not do. I couldn’t go back to the club with a condom and ask Melani to fuck me. You don’t pull the goddess into the gutter. You don’t suck the feast into the filth.

Which... which is what I was.

Sandy knew it. I knew it. Melani knew it—but didn’t mind.

And that broke my heart.

I couldn’t be the pathetic loser who talked about how tight a stripper’s ass was while he fucked her. I couldn’t be the guy who lived for handjobs under the table. I couldn’t be the one who emptied his wallet yearning for just a caress...

I couldn’t...

I couldn’t...

I couldn’t go back.

Somehow I got undressed, curled under the blankets in a fetal position, and cried. I cried until I fell asleep.

Morning brought blinding sun. Once again, I’d forgotten to close the curtains. I woke groggy, but when I stood my head was clear. I paused in front of the window. The fog had gone and the sun glittered off the Bay. Blue, beyond what I thought blue could be. Clean, as if God had wiped the grit from the air.  As I stood there, breathing deep, a sense of warmth filled my body.

Church bells pealed, and I followed the sound to see a small Catholic church near the hotel. I smiled as I watched the happy people gathering in the square outside.

I threw my clothes on and headed down. I could slip into a back pew and have breakfast after. It felt like a day for, well, as cliché as it is, it felt like a new day.

I’ve never been back to San Francisco.  There’s no need, really. ‘Mecca’ is just a bunch of seedy joints when you’re clean. And when you’re clean, the Melanis of the world can find you outside the club. I should know—I married one.

She has this soft spot, right behind her ear. It’s sensitive when I kiss it and makes her squirm on my lap. That gets me hard, but it doesn’t matter. I just nestle close and breathe her in.

© 2014 Big Ed Magusson.All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: Big Ed started writing erotica after several years of strange and varied explorations of the sexual and emotional kind. These days, he drifts between erotic romance, character heavy sex stories, and literary erotica. More of his work can be found at and


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