Cheesy Porn ... and other fairytales

** See important message below excerpt. ** ...Because some things beg to be touched [excerpt from Cheesy Porn] ...Across the street from the scene of the pickle incident, my eyes gravitated toward the white-washed windows of the store-fronts in the same morbid way people turn toward car accidents. The door was open for the first time in eons; its darkened interior echoed like a low moan and stroked my lonely soul. So I drifted across the street through the summer haze and heat, ignoring that acidic memory gurgling in my stomach. Squinting inside, I focused on a tall guy on a ladder doing something to a light fixture. Paint cans, broken sheet-rock and all sorts of crap littered the floor beneath him. He wore torn and paint-splattered denim shorts, oversized and hung extremely low, the back pockets were almost out of reach of his pale, hairy arms. His purple and white boxers were on display, looking crisp and new compared to the shorts, shirtless and sweating, his baseball cap cocked and balanced the way only the youngest and coolest can cock and balance it. Waves of jet-black hair spiraled out the back. A small paint-splattered boom box on the dusty counter blared Outcast’s infectious old hit, ‘Hey Ya!’ The same counter where I’d once pointed at a promising five-gallon jar and said—One, please. As always, when I heard that song my body started to move, doing that quirky little dance that André 3000 did in the video. Thoughts of fuzzy pickles, explosive diarrhea, and debilitating stomach cramps faded, and I had a moment. I drifted into the store, sandals crackling over sheet-rock. He was six-one maybe two, Puerto Rican or maybe Spanish—Spain Spanish, I mean. He was feeling the music also, snapping narrow hips to the beat as he fiddled with the fixture, oblivious that we were dancing together. I danced closer. Don’t know why. Don’t remember doing it. But next thing I knew I was at the base of the ladder looking up at that pale, youngest and coolest-of-the-cool Puerto Rican guy—or Spain Spanish—who was dancing on a ladder, fucking with a fixture, head craned back looking straight up. It was amazing he didn’t fall. I could’ve reached out and stroked the hairs on his calves. I could’ve pulled his boxers down and exposed a pale butt with more hairs poking from the crack. I could’ve extended a finger and trailed it down the line of that sweaty spine, down through the crack and tickled him there; yeah, I could’ve done that. Outcast blared. He danced and fiddled. I hovered below and behind, so close I could feel the heat coming through those boxers, could smell his tangy pheromone—with just a splash of cologne—that the youngest and coolest-of-the-cool kats emit in the heat of July. I watched my hands hover at his hips, as if I was gonna lift him off that ladder; watched as they slowly, almost imperceptibly, made contact with thin damp cotton. Still, he danced and fiddled; unaware that my uncontrollable lust was lurking so close to his cherished parts, delirious from his scent. Suddenly, as if they had little minds of their own, my hands clamped together and my fingers gripped his warm cottony hips right there in that old deli.... Available NOW! CHEESY PORN...and other fairytales Taylor Siluwé releases his most eclectic short-story collection to date. New tales of fantasy, fairies and obsession - from the whimsical to the shocking. Only on KINDLE ... (& apps for iPhone, iPad, Blackberry, PC and Android!) log onto www.TaylorSiluwe.com or search "Taylor Siluwe" on Amazon.com ** proceeds go to the DANCING WITH THE DEVIL page to screen project (preliminary filming begins 07.19.2010!)

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