2012 December Issue

On December 1, 2012 by rarw


Empire Moon presented by PEN Center USA


Empire Moon is an annual literary event put on by PEN Center USA, an literary organization that hosts events like this, and has over 600 writer-members. PEN Center USA strives to protect the rights of writers around the world and stimulates interest in the written word. PEN Center USA fosters a vital literary community with diverse writers across the Western United States. Empire Moon is a long standing networking event for the California writers, and an exceptional creative writers and poets reading as well.

The line-up of writers who read at Empire Moon 2012 included Tod Goldberg and Maggie Downs from University of California, Riverside (Palm Desert); Greg Bills and Rachel Reynolds from the University of Redlands; Chad Sweeney and André V. Katkov from Cal State University, San Bernardino; and Mariah K. Young and Susan Straight from University of California, Riverside.  Normally every nerd I know would be at this event if it were in L.A., but being in beautiful and peaceful Palm Springs made the turn out intimate and full of friendly academics and fun geeks to get to know. I felt honored to be mingling with such great writers, and whole-heartedly entertained by the readings, which is SO rare. Ruth Nolan, a fellow Artbound writer turned me onto this amazing event, and even got our Editor, Drew Tewksbury to make a weekend of it and leave his cushy little KCET cubicle in Burbank for Empire Moon.

A gorgeously renovated desert-chic hip new hotel, Ace Hotel is a 180-room hotel, spa and resort located in Palm Springs, CA. It’s on the grounds of a renovated mid-century modern motel, within walking distance of downtown and within driving distance of Joshua Tree and the Salton Sea. The hotel has dozens of earth-friendly and eco-trendy elements including raw teak tabletops, rusted and Date Farmers-art-covered trailers-turned-bars, recycled materials, vintage taxidermy, western desert color schemes, rustic-chic design, low VOC paints, and vintage furniture.

Empire Moon made me dream of exactly THAT event, with exactly THOSE people, and I felt inspired by them; motivated and awe-struck. I listened to poets read their souls in front of 200+ strangers. I listened to writers read pieces of whole books they have made. I listened to their words and felt their humanity and spirit flow between consonants and vowels… Steaming with gold and purple auras all around me, I felt desire inside myself, and a yearning for their courage and their talent, and I felt compelled to be up there with them.

Luckily, Empire Moon also had a vast array of resources for visitors. A “table alley” on either side of the large outdoor room full of local literary nonprofits, writing collectives and journals that aimed to find more writers like those on stage, reading their hearts out. An absolutely perfect night of literary love and nerding out.

For more information about EMPIRE MOON, please visit www.penusa.org


FeverDreamBurn – Haunted Euth



1. Color separating – Day Glow pink for the first layer is used to contrast the black which will be used in the second layer. It will make the poster easily distinguishable once outside, and will help separate it from the commercial printing ( photocopy and offset ) methods used by other artists.


2. The paper is left on the drying rack … to dry.


3. The black layer is pulled – often time’s screen printing is the cheapest method to use for large production runs of 24 x 36 handmade posters – it ensures a high level of quality and is a relatively fast process, usually a entire run is finished in under 5 hours from the production of the first screen to the washing out of the last.


4. The second layer is now printed, placed on the drying rack and allowed to set.


5. Details


6 – 8. – All the fun stuff.


9. Lastly, all the stickers are made with a similar process – always make sure to have stickers, they are a valuable asset to carry at all times.





I blinked and in a moment, 20 days had passed. Astranomelly would have been little more than a thought if Alexander Salazar Fine Art had not graciously extended my artist residency an additional 30 days.  As my time drew to a close, I was determined to fulfill a creative vision that would far surpass the ambition of anything preceding it. This vision had a name (Astranomelly) abstractly blending concept and muse, local musician Astra Kelly.  At 6.5′ x 10′, it was as large a piece as I could fit through the entrance. If it could have been even an inch larger in either dimension, it would have been. Because of the magnitude of its mass, it took almost 4 days just to prime this amazing specimen, eight coats of gesso with sanding in between. To ensure the experience was captured in order to share it, a friend, made at the nearby YWCA, assisted me in creating a full-length time lapse. In an effort to make sure everything was captured, the camera was placed high in farthest corner of the room and pointed in the direction of Broadway Avenue. Every three minutes the shutter would go off so if you walked down Broadway at that moment, you are probably in the video.

Carini2Astranomelly was more than a painting to me. It was a way for me to give thanks and show my appreciation to everyone that had inspired me during my 50 days in the box. Simultaneously, it was meant to serve as a personal reflection of the culture shock experienced during this sociological experiment. It was for this reason that the composition was developed to iconically symbolize a vortex or black hole (adding a little irony to the concept of a time lapse), while simultaneously representing the all seeing eye looking in at me as I was naked, exposed in the heart of Downtown San Diego. A colorful rainbow was woven around this central element, the various color interactions representative of my experiences with the community. The colors of every painting created during the residency were carefully blended and interlocked in repeating pattern, cycling back into themselves like the mythical ouroboros. To ensure no individual was forgotten, the names of every individual that visited me were inscribed into the underpainting, the foundational structure upon which everything else was built.


After 550 frames, 33 paintings on canvas, dozens of pieces on paper, a handful of custom-handmade shirts for the homeless, several photo shoots and a journal, everything was complete. At one point a mere thought in my head, it was now tangible. By the time I had completed that final stroke, time as I understood it ceased to exist. In accordance with the laws of equivalent exchange, I willing offered my senses, working to the state of synesthesia, in which I was vividly seeing music and clearly hearing the reverberations of color. This dedication, along with random acts of kindness, I believe, had paved my path. I found it necessary to conclude my time lapse with me standing in my studio on the corner of 7th and Broadway completely nude, concealed by only a sign. That nakedness is symbolic of the  personal renaissance I experienced as “The Boy In The Box,” returning to the pure, dreamlike state of children and breaking free.



Finding myself completely out of place, I felt the freedom necessary to take great risks and employ new techniques and approaches, including placing humorous signs in the window on a daily basis to draw people in.  It was a means to initiate, a catalyst of dialogue from those that might not otherwise engage. It worked. People stopped in, people questioned, people engaged, and people walked away with a smile having shared a rare and intimate experience with a complete stranger.  I felt so privileged walking away with the same.  My personal openness and exposure, I found,  stripped away all preconceived notions and restored, if only for a moment, a lost sense of humanity. At times, it was so jarring I was paralyzed to the point of basically falling forward. Any forward progress, though, is still a motion in the right direction, regardless of how it is taken.  Autonomous assimilation, a critical element of survival in that state of fight or flight, I had to rely purely on my instincts. I had to trust that if I imbued this universe, this dream, with my own passion and sincerity, it would reciprocate.  My goal falling down the rabbit hole was to help others discover their own new beginnings. I did not ever anticipate that, climbing out of the hole and emerging from my box, this genesis was the very gift they would give me. Falling and stumbling through the darkness, it was their hands, their kindness, that picked me up and kept me moving towards the light at the end of the tunnel.


One experience I will always remember, and the last I will share with you in closing, was with a young man named Zach, who would come by on a daily basis over the course of a week to inquire if he could have a piece of candy which I had displayed in the window. After several visits, Zach felt comfortable enough to stay a bit longer and chat. Upon being handed a signed lithograph of one of my paintings and a small piece of canvas, Zach’s eyes began to tear up as he shared with me that he had just been accepted into a program and for the first time in as long as he could remember, he would have a warm bed to sleep. The lithograph I gave him, he said, would be the first thing he had to take home and hang above his bed. Zach, like Blue and others before him, became part of a painting, entitled “Zachericle,” which tells a story of rebirth and second chances. Acts of kindness are so much more powerful than we can ever possibly imagine.






A Rogue Adventure in NYC – BY ANDREA STEEDMAN


New York is generally accepted as the center of the Universe of art.  Oh sure, Los Angeles wants to claim it’s a rival, but no one is really fooled.  Paris and London still pretend they’re it, but no one has been buying it since World War II.  So flying on the red eye to New York, I was excited.  I was going to see all that art in person, and I was going to be part of the art world in The City, capital T, capital C.

I was flying across the country to speak in a conference at The School of Visual Arts.  This school wasn’t anything like my sprawling suburban alma maters. This department of the school was on the sixth floor in Chelsea, and it housed a library donated by art legend Leo Steinberg.  I was intimidated the minute I walked in.  The students, however, were not unlike the ones I knew.  Bright and engaged, of course, but most students I’d known in my grad program had been that.  There was some big ideas in that little room, but also some pretention, and definitely self-importance, along with hardworking students that I’m sure I’ll read about in Art Forum at some point.  The most engaging part of speaking in a conference with people that share your passion, though, is feeling your ideas bounce off theirs, and become something new and different.  Seeing your thoughts in a new light when mirrored back by someone else.  And feeling something new sparked by something someone says.


The other best feeling is walking into a room and seeing Les Desmoiselles d’Avignon staring down at you, imposing and frightening in its beauty.  The Museum of Modern art fits so many celebrated works into such a small space, the viewer barely has time to appreciate one before turning around and being confronted with another one.  My first glimpse of Les Desmoiselles was from the next room, when I turned from viewing a lovely Van Gogh, only to see The Starry Night shining in all its humble beauty on the backside of a freestanding wall.  I felt I was almost tripping over art—quite literally in case of the famous Carl Andre piece.

NYC2 NYC3 (1) NYC4

In my way too-quick turn around trip to New York, I found myself quite taken with the city, in the way romantic way that I felt about Paris.  The winter light shone through the trees in a certain way, the old brownstones shading the streets, and the people in coats and scarves made me feel like I was in a black and white movie with Cary Grant or Ingrid Bergman.


Is New York the center of the art universe?  No other city houses as good a collection of Rauschenberg or Johns pieces, but I think New York has the same things a lot of cities have: People who are passionate about art, good museums, and lots of artists struggling to get by.  Nothing you can’t find in other places, but then again… none of them are New York.


Virtual Visit with artist, Nathan Watson – BY EVAN SENN


Nathan Watson is a Santa Monica-based entrepreneur, poet, musician, and artist. He owns and operates Cacao Coffee House in Santa Monica, a skeevy Santa Monica staple. This tiki-themed eclectic coffee shop also serves as a late night hang out spot for underage kids, artists, ex-alcoholics, and nerds, freaks, geeks, and musicians. Nathan has been dabbling in many different forms of creative expression over the years, and encourages other Cacaoians to express their creativity with Cacao. Custom artist-created tabletops, signs, trinkets, and artwork grace the walls and hearts of the coffee shop. Nathan’s newest series of mixed media paintings are causing quite a stir in the community of Westwood/Santa Monica area, and the Rogue Art Historians were lucky enough to get a sneak peak into Cacao as well as into Nathan’s art practice.

Nate1 (1)Nathan’s art practice involves many different kinds of media. Feeling confident in photographic imagery, Nathan documents his world through the photographic lens and uses paint to finish the artwork. The ambient atmospheric paintings are mostly abstract, with a hint of metropolitan life and melancholy feeling. Inspired by the street and the loneliness of late night living, viewers can sense a kind of nostalgia and yearning in his pieces. Nathan was raised in Los Angeles without a mother or a father near him. Being able to fend for himself in the city made him stronger as a person, musician, and artist. The dominance and authority of being a loner is prevalent in his visual work, and yet the color choices and compositions suggest familial human attraction; the presence of electricity, man-made elements against the natural world. Inspired by his surrounding, pairing the contemporary imagery with antique. The city life calls to him in his music and in his art.

Nate7Nathan looks to artists like Escher, Sally Mann, Ed Ruscha, Diane Arbus, and Paul Kirley for motivation and inspiration. His work is reminiscent of a dreamy and contemporary mix of Rothko, Dorothea Lange, and Paul Kirley. I have known Nathan for almost 10 years, and seeing his artistic nature come through so many different avenues has been inspiring to watch as an outsider. His heart is big and his work shows a side of him that isn’t normally seen. His fellow Cacaoians were floored at his first gallery show. This bright and funny man is a very private person and his work lets people in to see a side of his personality and his subconscious that shows through his hard, heavily tattooed exterior and shows an architectural organized and playful being, a solemn soul with a purpose to create.

Nate8 Nate6 Nate5 Nate3



Ceci n’est pas de l’art – BY MICHELLE LEPORI


I took my handicapped self to Bows and Arrows on a Wednesday night for happy hour. My guide for the night is Mr. Simpson. He aids in transporting my shattered-right-foot to the same cultural delights enjoyed pre-foot oblivion. Our objective? To assess curious Art Bar, Bows and Arrows. As I scooter (medical device–check it) on the blackened rain slick cement and look for trip hazard cracks, neon lights reflect in aqua blue and punch red. I see the sign, “Open”, “Beer”. Right on. Sky-high glass windows promise warmth from an eclectic blend of golden lighted chandeliers. Racks of clothes pushed to the storefront in an exotic retail funky blend of possible thrift.  A briefly read A-frame sign says something about waiting to be seated, maybe. These exciting first moments trivialized reading, we wanted to devour the place. Upon entering I saw a multi-staged platform operating on several cohesive themes: vintage shop, art gallery, music venue, cafe and bar. I knew immediately to take my time, wheel this in slowly.

Bows and Arrows is a seller of “all things special” (self-proclaimed on bowscollective.com) and curated by co-owners Olivia Coelho and Trisha Rhomberg. Their selection of luxe leather is impeccable, and I visually ate the rich purple Italian clutch purse decoratively tucked into a mid-century wooden bookcase. I gleaned at an oily black patchwork stitched backpack and caressed soft skinned thick cut belt straps with sterling silver buckles. Lusted over a burgundy tight fit laser cut jacket. And all these treasures were around twenty dollars. I spied a rack of beige and white vintage shoes, sturdy heels and oxfords. No, I must not, I pulled out of the trance and realized my neglected male companion, Mr. Simpson.


Smack in the middle, rise two whitewashed walls with draping chain barriers. Like geometric legos, canvas and sculptural maché objects cover the walls in a wash of pink. Every piece in this gallery is shaded Pepto Bismol and arranged in a mash collective of dissimilar styled and unlabeled art. Two fuchsia papers hang with name and price info and alarmingly accessible $25 to $500 price tags. Each piece is a world of its own. One took us to an ice cream cone penis near the lips of a coquettish school-girl in a pink bedroom. Another to a Pollock-style drizzle with an off centered black-painted rip in a suggestive shape (it looked like a vagina with a face in it). These were dense arts and offset by neighboring stark designs.

All this salt and pepper style, I’m thirsty. In theme, we imbibed a non-Provence Rosé. Wary of pink wine in mason jars, the charm of this place got me and the wine was perfect. Now in back of this blackened-jazz styled room, we sit at a magnificent tree-slab table, polished and showing rings of age. More art to be found here as well; a sketched woman lies naked and turned away.

Two older men laugh and talk at the bar top.  A woman in the corner banquet is glowing from her Macbook. Three lively hipsters drink Miller High Life, The Champaign of Bottled Beer, out of a can. Chalkboards crown the bar with drink specials and a brief menu of popsicles, soups and sandwiches. These boards are hard to read. White hasty chalk and wiped-down grey. Mr. Simpson and I are struggling.

A band emerges slowly, sets up and flirts with girls. We amused ourselves identifying their clothing style which was eighties, relaxed Boy Meets World, Americana, punk-hippy blend. I picked up an illustrated band poster off the table. It was made on burnt aged paper and smelled like an ashtray. Sexy young people started to fill the place dressed to the nines and were seemingly unimpressed with their kind. They masked excitement with a subdued “lax” attitude, though slight posturing showed these groups of talking twenty-somethings to be tense and preening. Some looked mildly into the racks of clothes and we watched a girl come out of the fitting room to twirl in a floor length red dress.

Ridiculously high crash cymbals and amplifiers push to close to the white walls of the gallery. That little Pollock-styled painting looked pretty close to getting dented. I wondered about these kids being so close to the art. What if they bumped, bent or spilled on these little pink worlds?

It was time for us to go. Literally, went to the loo and behold… more art. They do an artist feature with works, a short bio and events list in the bathroom. These are interesting choices of high and low-brow concepts of curation. It is done with such ease and care, the maestro is barely recognized.

We took our wine to go and ran into co-owner Olivia Coelho. She wrapped our bottle up in a turquoise plastic bag and used masking tape as a cork. Her waist length straight brown hair, clean face, high cut denim shorts that resembled bikini bottoms, paired with long tan legs stemming ankle booties that rocked the look of Penny Lane. We talked briefly of her other ventures and concept ideas. The conversation was terse and dismissive.

Bows and Arrows is a paradoxical art bar, placing visitors on equal level to artists and musicians alike, while also undervaluing the art and the artist at the same time. This treatment and approach is unresolved in my opinion, if it is done on purpose or thoughtlessly. It is hard to imagine the same duo that meticulously decorated this building being so half hazard. Though I felt it was a cute and kitschy store, it definitely acts as a shitty gallery with poor treatment of artworks, has cheap and trendy low-brow cuisine, with decent booze and a ton of stupid hipster shit every where. Mason jars, Miller High Life and people that just aren’t my people, albeit all is fun to observe. It tries too hard in some ways and not enough in others, and the co-owner is a beautiful bitch. I am hopeful for Bows and Arrows however; I felt like the store was a representation of the hearts of the owners and became an encompassing organ of performance art—there were levels of deepness if you wanted to see that far. Which in itself made it a beautiful place, but the experience is complex. See for yourself.

Bows and Arrows

Tues-Sat 11-11 , Sun 11-3

1815 19th Street

Sacramento, CA 95811

(916) 822-5668



Free soloing and its connection to art generally – BY ADAM GILLANDERS


It may seem strange that the act of rock climbing can really be connected to art in any way without being pretentious, or over-reaching. Although there is an aesthetic aspect to climbing generally, free soloing in particular has a connection to art for me, both in the enjoyment and the creation of routes, which I find hard to dismiss. Free soloing is the act of climbing without the aid of equipment, and is a sub-set of Free climbing, the act of climbing while only using equipment to stop a fall.

I used to free solo, it’s something that many people don’t know about me. One of the first things that people assume about free soloists (aside from them being is insane) is that they are just adrenaline junkies much like many other ‘extreme sport’ enthusiasts (this term and how it is ridiculous deserves an article of its own). Although there is definitely a certain amount of adrenaline involved, it’s surprisingly small. The connection that free soloing has to art for me is two-fold. Like art it is about a certain kind of focus, and like creating art it is extremely personal.

If I think back to the first time I saw a Rauschenberg piece or a Van Gogh painting in person (two of my favorite artists), there was a very clear sense of focus. I think that most people can relate to this if not with fine arts, then with movies or music. The kind of focus that occurs from aesthetic beauty is a particular kind of focus, one that doesn’t just force someone to see, or hear, but to have a heightened sense of the self as an observer. Art makes us conscious of ourselves, and our actions in the world. The same goes for free soloing. The beauty of the route you are climbing along with the rest of the environment sets a stage for self-awareness, the way you are thinking about the climb, and the way your body moves through the sequences. This kind of focus is crucial, if you don’t have it you’re much more likely to die.

The route you choose, the speed at which you do it, and the particular mind set you put into the climb…  it’s a very personal thing. It’s rare that you hear free soloistsp; speaking to each other of technical grade as being the most vital component to this act (although this is important to a small degree). The concentration instead is guided towards other aspects of it. For instance one of the big questions two free-soloists will ask each other is ‘why did you choose that route?’ To me this seems equivalent to one artist discussing with another ‘why did you choose this subject?’ or one supporter to another ‘why do you like this piece?’

The focus, and personal aspects to free soloing seems to carry out, though clearly not perfectly, to both the creation and the appreciation of art. Although there is not a perfect equation between soloing ‘traitor horn’ and looking at Rauschenberg’s ‘Erased DeKooning,’ for me soloing has touched me in a deeper way than much art ever could, still I see the similarities these experiences have had for me.



Irony of Etiquette – BY BRYAN MOE

Festive feast him and her, you and me

Islands dished and serving

Pressured cookers, tempting the tempered air.

Hovering eyes, words of gay truths

Wine’s sweetness finds gaping mouths.

Avett’s sing sweeter, the poet follows—moments are just moments

Words just words free like the easy sour hand.

Plate’s shuffle, in size order and proper taste civilized

A rock from which to ease unfamiliar loving actions and poetic community

Lost it has been, alone the feeding seems, missing words with mouths full

Oh the irony of etiquette.

Listen quickly & come to speak slowly, bits and bites in smiles

Sipping humorous stained teeth, grotesque and revolutionary over the conquered world on dinning room tables.


BMoeknifeChef me Anew – BY BRYAN MOE

For the poor to eat like you

Screams of blasphemy

Proper veal chops at the revolution’s restaurant

Faint crippling the knees sitting at the table set for two

Guttenberg’s gift of cooking with secrets

Everyone eats just like you

And its okay

Bon appétit


BMoespoonSolicitation and Goose Berries – BY BRYAN MOE

Mother’s head falls

For the goose and gander baste and grill

Pull off and tenderize

Trade spices for the trade prices

Lightly salt its worth in lavender

Colors contrast as you stuff the ass

Breadcrumbs or the chick feed.

Ohhhhh no the fire rages

To high of heat to keep meat muscle ohhhh so tender

Mother’s head has gone away

Oh how very brave

The heart is anew in headcheese pastries


Curved Shafts: A Case Study

By Allison Town 

The vibrating stopped.  Deenie sighed and whipped out her cell phone.  Another text. Mark just couldn’t let it go.  They were done.  Over.  Finished.

For the last week it had been like this, random attempts at connection; a missed call, a glimpse at the gym, or a feeble wave in the parking lot.  Mark wasn’t exactly the easiest man to avoid, let alone break up with.

Their torrid love affair began with an innocent meeting in a home improvement store.  Nothing too exciting, they both just happened to be searching for the Weedeater Featherlite Curved Shaft Gas Trimmer (XT260).  A versatile modile with a 16” cutting path and dual exit bump feed.  Deenie appreciated the bump feed, the price and especially the curved shaft.  Mark, a tall, blonde landscaper was desperate for a new weed eater that could tackle grass on a 10-acre horse ranch.  Luckily, there were two Curved Shaft Gas Trimmers left on the shelf–unfortunately one had been severely mauled by a bitter forklift driver.

However, semi-witty conversation concerning weedeaters, subtle flirtatious flutters of eyelashes, over eager laughter, and the inevitable exchange of digits made the entire situation enjoyable.  Deenie ended up with the Curved Shaft…in more ways than one.

A month of blissful courtship soon followed.  Deenie, who was a local baker, would often surprise Mark with delectable sweets; caramel almond sugar cookies, lemon tarts or chocolate truffle drops.  Mark, in return, planted new flowers in Deenie’s tiny yard and fixed her sprinkler heads.  They were happy.

Bzzzzzzzzzzz.  Another text.


Babe, just let me explain..meet me @Gimpy’s 2nite:-)


Deenie rolled her eyes and contemplated throwing the phone into the oven with her cinnamon rolls.  They had been good together though.  Her skin prickled a little as she remembered the taste of Mark’s skin.  His sweat was so sweet.  An impish smile began to creep across her face.


Fine, I’ll be there @8.


The night arrived quickly, rushing in with a frenzied air.  Maybe it was the thick smell of orange blossoms or the heavy summer breeze, but energy was definitely stirring.  Hot from the bakery ovens, Deenie wiped her moist palms against her jersey skirt, rubbing away any hints of nervousness.   The local crowd acknowledged her presence with smiles and a few, ‘Hey D, long time no see’ when she entered.   Gimpy’s Bar was crowded.  Already stuffy, bodies crammed together on stools, pressed against walls, or were packed on the tiny dance floor.  Deenie scanned the dim room and spotted Mark at the end of the bar near the bathroom, nursing his Bud Light.

“Finally made it, I see,” Mark grinned. “I didn’t order you a drink, ‘cause I figured you’d want to be sober when I made my apology.”

Deenie raised her right eyebrow haughtily and ordered scotch on the rocks, “You’re so considerate, hun.”

Mark smirked and downed his beer, his knee grazing Deenie’s thigh as a large man clumsily bumped into the couple.  An electric jolt seemed to pass between the ex-lovers.  Trembling slightly, Deenie took a sip of her drink.  The glass was slippery, the stifling room speeding the condensation process along.  Heavy droplets of water slid down the smooth glass, a few landing on her inside thigh.  Mark watched this phenomenon from the corner of his eye, hungrily following the water to its final resting place.  He put his hand on Deenie’s knee and felt her stiffen at his touch, but this only urged him on.  Slowly, he skimmed his fingers up her leg, until they reached the tiny moist spots on her skirt.  With a steady, rhythmic motion, he began to rub.

“Your skirt’s wet.”

Back and forth, back and forth, he pressed his fingers into the soft flesh.  Deenie gripped her glass and stared straight ahead, heart pounding louder and louder against her chest.

“Yup,” she replied, her breath catching in her throat.

Mark’s fingers sank deeper and farther up Deenie’s leg.  His ears were hammering, blood blocking out the sounds of the bar.  All he could hear was the constant beat of his pulse that was increasing rapidly.  More water droplets had fallen onto Mark’s hand, but they didn’t cool the passion growing inside him.

As if they had secretly agreed ahead of time, the two got up off of their stools and headed to the bathrooms.  Deenie entered the women’s longue, Mark close behind her.  As soon as the door shut their lips locked.  Greedy kisses, deep kisses, ravenous kisses; tongues exploring and teasing; teeth nibbling and biting with wicked delight.  Their bodies were so close; they could feel each other’s lungs heaving with erratic excitement.  Mark pushed Deenie against the mirror and slipped his hand up between her legs.  The jersey skirt glided easily along her soft skin, offering no resistance.  Whimpering ever so slightly, Deenie arched with pleasure pressing herself against Mark’s growing, throbbing bulge.  Her nipples were hard with expectation, fighting against their fabric prison.  With a guttural grunt, Mark began to thrust, plunging Deenie into a clouded, ardent haze.  The smell of sweat and sex clung to their hair, their clothes, and their panting breaths.  Nails dug into skin, as the tension built..faster, faster.  And for a moment both beings were still, caught in a pulsating delirium.

The bathroom lights flickered, the dull drone of drunken laughter drifting through the door.  Gimpy’s was a popular place tonight.

About the Author:



Allison Town is currently the Director of Marketing for Muckenthaler Cultural Center in Orange County, California. A closet creative writer pursuing a Masters Degree in Exhibition Design, this bubbly and passionate writer is fascinated with retro dime-store romance novels, she is a creator of all things beautiful; art, stories, exhibition, and décor. With a degree in Creative Writing from University of Redlands, on top of everything else, this romantic and humble writer is giving us just a taste of her passion and intellect with her first short story for RARW.



Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Protected by WP Anti Spam