SLH

books about sex, life, and romance gone to hell

Navigation Menu

Superman Charm

Superman Charm

Posted by on Sep 1, 2010 in SLH Excerpts | 1 comment

From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 2, Spring Season (CHAPTER 15: DOCTOR BIG LOVE)

Tonight is the first night I am going out on a real date with someone other than Mr. Smyth. Cain is driving down from Calabasas to pick me up, and then he’s taking me to Koi on La Cienega.

This is no small feat. He lives an hour north of me and I, in L.A. traffic, live an hour away from Koi. His wanting to spoil me like this doesn’t surprise me, however. Cain is a true gentleman. He’s intelligent and witty, sophisticated, and extremely thoughtful.

He discreetly snuck me two extra pieces of chocolate cake at his sister’s wedding. He also paraded me around like a princess on his arm, introducing me to all the wedding guests as his “lady.” And he didn’t once try to kiss me—even though his broad shoulders and blue eyes looked amazing dressed up in a suit, and the mounting sexual tension between us was as heavy as a Bible lying on a blackjack table. Any woman would die to be in my Stuart Weitzman Fevers and Allen Schwartz halter dress right now, waiting to be picked up by a gorgeous man of solid pedigree. And yet, I felt…uneasy.

I had gone to the Benson wedding not expecting to have all that much fun—but I did. I thought the most amusement I would have was watching Celeste squirm out of her comfort zone all night—except she didn’t. She was too busy trying to fend of Cain’s brother, Jake, who became completely infatuated with Celeste after she crossed her legs next to him and exposed the bottom of her lavender garter belt.

I had never seen a man throw himself at a woman as much as Jake did that night. He catered to her every need, meaning he got her a fresh Perrier with a slice of lemon every hour on the hour, and begged her to dance for four more, even though she kept saying “No.”

By the end of the wedding, Celeste wasn’t speaking to me and I had agreed to a date with the doctor.

My Blackberry chirps, and I reach for it with my free hand, the other twisting large curls into my hair with an oversized curling iron.

“I can’t hide the truth from you any longer,” Jack begins dramatically. “The lies, the deception…it’s killing me.”

“Oh Jack, you know you can tell me anything.” I doubt that after thirteen years of friendship Jack can shock me.

Jack rambles on, “There’s been no secret between us, ever, since that horrible Valentine’s Day party where my stupid sister tricked me into Seven Minutes in Heaven with the biggest queen in high school, and then I had to endure being called a fag until I had sex with Angela, the high school slut—even though I did not make out with him in any way shape or form because his breath stank of tuna.”

This is the part where I expect Jack to reveal he has some horrible STD, except that I know Jack doubles up on condoms any time his penis is within arm’s length of any exposed genitalia and that he bleaches his body on a regular basis.

“I never believed you made out with Corey Levinson.” I try to make Jack feel better.

“Your sister’s staying with me.”

My hand stops mid-twist. I don’t say anything. I feel my blood start to boil. “What did you say?”

Jack’s voice is apologetic. “I know, it’s bad, but she had no place to go and begged me—”

I cut him off. “How does she even have your phone number?”

“Hawaii. I gave it to her because she told me I was the only person that understood what she was going through…”

I throw my curling iron down and it bounces off one of my Fevers.

“This is bullshit! I begged you to visit me when The Ex broke up with me on New Year’s, and all I got was ‘Be strong.’ And now you’re letting my sister—who is totally manipulative, by the way—live with you?”

“It’s temporary, until they catch her husband and figure out where her money is—and then she promised to pay me for the favor.”

I bend down to make sure I haven’t scuffed my stiletto. “Great! You’re pimping yourself out to my sister.”

“I don’t have any other options right now,” Jack whines.

I hear a knock at my door. “I have to go.”

“Tell me you still love me.”

“Don’t test me!”

Jack grumbles. “Your love for me should not be a test!”

“Maybe my sister can console you.” I hang up the phone.

I cannot believe my sister is trying to steal my best friend. I toss my Blackberry on my couch and straighten my dress. I take a breath to get calm before walking to my front door and opening it.

When I do, I have to steady myself on my doorknob.

He looks even better in a snug Hunter-green sweater and grey slacks than he did in his monkey suit. He looks like Superman—if Superman had a casual outfit—and he’s holding a bottle of red wine. He is Superman.

“You read my mind,” I say, reaching for the bottle.

He grabs my hand, leans in, and kisses me on the cheek. “Lady, you’re like a thunderstorm in the middle of a drought.”

I gush inside. Southern men are so…poetic.

I lead him into my kitchen and we engage in small talk about our week. I tell him I talked to his dad about the general concept for his new community; he tells me how he mended seven broken bones and was able to send a kid into remission. I begin checking for a red cape…

He asks me for a bottle opener. I fumble through a couple drawers, finally find one, and hand it to him.

He takes it and looks at it awkwardly.

“Tell me how it is,” he says, smiling as he pulls open the small plastic device, “that a woman who claims to live for red wine does not have a bottle opener?”

“It’s a bottle opener.”

“No, darlin’,” he says, pausing to stroke my shoulder with one hand, holding up the complimentary MGM Grand corkscrew with the other. “What you have here is stolen Las Vegas memorabilia. I think your birthday present is a given.”

I wonder if he knows my birthday is months away…

But I don’t have to wonder for long. Over dinner, I realize Cain Benson isn’t afraid to talk about the past, or the future. He confesses he wants nothing more than to be married and have kids—ten, if possible (my vagina actually quivers). That he’s jealous of all his sisters who married their high school sweethearts and lead these fulfilling lives with their life partners.

Either I’m the luckiest woman in the world, I think, listening to this, or he’s about to bring out Mr. Hyde…

But he doesn’t. Instead he tells me about his life before pediatrics. How he used to be this skinny nerd with no life who graduated early from high school just so he could get into pre-med faster.

I stare at the man who looks like he can bust out of any extra-large shirt. It was hard to imagine Superman as Super-geek…

“So, what happened?”

“I met a girl in one of my classes and wanted nothing more than to ask her out. I asked a friend of mine how I could get her to go out with me, and he told me to start pumpin’ iron.”

Laughing, I raise up my glass of wine and take a large sip, silently toasting the woman who inspired this male splendor for the rest of us to enjoy.

To Be Continued…

COPYRIGHT
Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 2, Spring Season by Dorota Skrzypek.
Copyright 2009 by Dorota Skrzypek.
ISBN 0-9768869-0-7
All Rights Reserved.

Read the entire Sex, Life, & Hannah Spring Season on Amazon now!

Read More

Complicated Sex.

Complicated Sex.

Posted by on Aug 10, 2010 in SLH Excerpts | 0 comments

From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 2, Spring Season (CHAPTER 14: FRIENDS…WITH BENEFITS)

We’ve polished off the bottle of wine and everything on the tray, and we’ve wrapped up the frivolous chitchat and goofy horseplay. Mr. Smyth takes the wine glass out of my hand and sets it on the concrete. He wraps his arms around me.

“I have to say, Hannah,” he starts, brushing his lips against my shoulder, “I’m quite disappointed you don’t want us to be friends.”

I feel a knot of disappointment too; but I’m tipsy, so it’s easier to ignore the fact that…he hasn’t changed his mind.

His hands move down and squeeze my hips as I wrap my legs around his waist. I nuzzle up to his ear and lick his neck. I can’t imagine why Mr. Smyth would want to give any of this up.

“Why do you want to be my friend?” I whisper as I run a hand over his chest.

He puts his hands on my ass and pulls me against his hardness. “We understand each other,” he says—then lets out a groan as I grab his hair, pull myself, wet with anticipation, onto him, and kiss him, hard, so that he can contemplate our friendship. He responds, harder. “Right?”

I grip him firmly, dig my nails into his back so that he doesn’t forget what we have, sink my teeth into his neck, and clasp my thighs around him. I don’t say anything, losing myself in the pleasure of our bodies.

That night, Mr. Smyth and I fall into a grey area of friendship that includes complicated benefits.

To Be Continued…

COPYRIGHT
Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 2, Spring Season by Dorota Skrzypek.
Copyright 2009 by Dorota Skrzypek.
ISBN 0-9768869-0-7
All Rights Reserved.

Read the entire Sex, Life, & Hannah Spring Season on Amazon now!

Read More

Cock Metal.

Cock Metal.

Posted by on Jul 22, 2010 in SLH Excerpts | 0 comments

From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 2, Spring Season (CHAPTER 13: ORAL FIXATION)

I have just enough time to set my glass down next to the couch before he reaches for my hands and pulls me onto him. His hands run up the length of my jeans and grab my ass.

I straddle him and beeline for those plush lips. Ben is such a great kisser…

His hands reach under my shirt, stroking my back, squeezing my breasts. He pulls my shirt off and works his hands into my hair, rubbing and tugging like he used to when he was just a shampoo boy. I unbutton his white dress shirt and start kissing his smooth chest, working my way south. I grab his package and feel his growing bulge. Sliding down further, I pop the button of his black pants open, pull his zipper down, and…whoa! Someone’s commando—and that’s not the only surprise.

I look up. “You got your penis pierced?”

“A friend told me it makes you more sensitive.” He beams, as if he’s just discovered the lost hanging gardens of Babylon.

“Didn’t that hurt like a mother…?”

“I was really high.” Ben smiles, pushing my head down.

I wrap my lips around his dick. I feel my tooth whack into his new cock metal as I swirl my tongue around the head of his penis. Within seconds he’s moaning and grabbing the back of my head; I’m praying his Prince Albert doesn’t chip one of my teeth. And then he stops me.

“This is supposed to feel really good for you too,” he says, pulling me up and my jeans down.

We’re having sex; I’m praying his piercing doesn’t rip the condom. And it does feel different; maybe it’s the new jewelry he’s donning…or maybe Ben’s changed. We’ve talked more tonight, gotten to know one another better, gotten more comfortable. Things feel good, he feels good, and I’m starting to think he may be right about the cock charm…but suddenly he’s telling me he’s about to come.

It’s over.

He pulls me off of him and I fall back on my couch.

I stare up at the ceiling, hearing him say: “Oh man, it really does make you more sensitive. I’ll be ready to go again in like five minutes. I promise.” I sigh inwardly. He may not be a shampoo boy anymore, or gay, and he may have a newfound admiration for suits—but some things just didn’t change.

To Be Continued…

COPYRIGHT
Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 2, Spring Season by Dorota Skrzypek.
Copyright 2009 by Dorota Skrzypek.
ISBN 0-9768869-0-7
All Rights Reserved.

[/private_SLH Book Club]

Read the entire Sex, Life, & Hannah Spring Season on Amazon now!

Read More

Sex in an Airplane Bathroom.

Sex in an Airplane Bathroom.

Posted by on Jun 28, 2010 in SLH Excerpts | 0 comments

From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 2, Spring Season (CHAPTER 12: POST-EJACULATORY REMORSE)

I’m in my closet preparing for my date with Mr. Smyth. It’s been nearly three weeks since our last date, and it’s our two-month anniversary. Not that I think he’s keeping track, but…

I grab a short dress (as in, I-thought-it-was-a-sweater-when-I-first-saw-it-on-the-rack short) and hold it against my body. Yup, it still falls just below my ass. I smile; it’s perfect.

I throw on the three-quarter-sleeved black cashmere aphrodisiac and a pair of strappy black heels to match. I head to the bathroom.

My face is better, but there’s still a yellowish-green tint around my eyes and nose. I grab the MAC cosmetics bag filled with the all-new makeup I bought the day after my accident, and try to remember how to apply everything in it. And generously—just like the full-figured goth girl behind the counter did. My phone rings.

“Something strange happened today.” It’s Jack.

“Strange? To you?” Jack saying something strange happened to him is like Rocco Siffredi saying he likes having sex in front of the camera.

Anyway…I get on the plane—”

“Oh, so you finally decided to leave Maui.”

I’m still not happy about that. After Holly proclaimed she never wanted to go back to Montreal and Lola prodded her on by saying we were all welcome to stay as long as we wanted, Holly convinced Jack to stay there with her an extra few days.

“Stop being bitter.” Jack sighs. “Anyway…I find my seat and start putting my bags away, when this stewardess saunters up to me, her full ass swaying from left to right, and says in this thick French accent: ‘Sirrr, I theenk yuu ave ze rong zeet.’ And then she ushers me to first class!”

Of course. Jack gets to extend his vacation, fulfill some childhood fantasy he’s been hiding about my sister, and nabs a ride home in first class. I on the other hand, get to rush home to a job I hate; riding in a cramped seat, sipping on a small plastic cup of ginger ale, and munching on a bag of preservatives.

“But that’s not the strange part!” Jack interrupts my self-pitying ruminations. “Halfway through the plane ride, she whispers in my ear ‘Get te ze batrum, an liiv ze duur apen.’”

“Great accent, Jack.” I mean it. “You could almost pass for a French slut.”

“I’m trying to give you the full flavor of the situation.”

I tell Jack I prefer not to taste anything he’s ever been involved with.

“Whatever—I get up and look around, and there’s only two other people in first class; one’s asleep, and the other is grooming himself while reading some boring financial paper.”

“No other stewardesses?”

“No, they were all busy serving the poor people in coach.”

I put Jack on speaker phone to try my hand at the concealer.

“So I get in the bathroom, and I have no idea whether to get naked or start washing my hands. Five minutes pass, which feels like an eternity when you’re stuck in the only type of bathroom smaller than a port-o-potty, and finally the door starts to open and I pray it’s the busty French airline tramp and not the gross fat man picking his ear.”

“And…” I prod.

“And it’s her. She walks in, grabs my face, and starts tongue-wrestling me like Super Barrio on Spanish Fly.”

I stop dabbing. “Super-what?

“Oh my god, you are so not international. He’s a famous Mexican wrestler who helps impoverished children.”

“Helps them do what?” I reach for the foundation and a sponge.

“Who cares! Anyway, she tastes like a total French stereotype: red wine and cigarettes, and it’s almost making me nauseous; but then she stops and jumps on top of the little toilet seat that leads to nowhere, and says ‘Eeet ma chatte.’”

“Chatte?”

“Yes, chatte, kitty cat, pussy! Eat my pussy!”

I pause, realizing that with my Maui tan, my foundation doesn’t exactly match my skin color anymore. “At least you won’t gain weight eating pussy.”

“Bitch! I’ve been losing weight ever since the stomach pump. Anyway, I get down on my knees, praying there isn’t urine on the floor, and start lickin’ and suckin’. She of course starts freaking out.”

Of course. Jack is not modest about his ability to please.

“She keeps saying ‘Yu eeat chatte lak a canibaal.’ Then she comes, and of course she’s a squirter, so it goes everywhere—the mirror, the door, my shirt, my hair—and I’m trying to get out of the way, but there’s no space, so I get hit right in the eye! And then, as I’m trying to get up to wash it out, she pushes me against the sink, and tears—literally tears—my new six-hundred-dollar Prada pants, slaps a condom on me, and jumps on! So I’m pissed, my eye is burning, I’m standing in a vaginal waterfall, and I’m holding onto the turbulence handle so that her thunderous thighs don’t break my back. And then it’s over. And for the first time ever…I experience”—Jack hesitates—“post-ejaculatory remorse.”

I grab my MAC bronzing powder to even things out. “What the hell is post-ejaculatory remorse?” I ask, dusting my face.

“You know: guilt, regret, disappointment…”

“About the pants?”

“No! Not about the pants, about the whole experience!”

I drop my compact. “Shit.”

“I know! I’m starting to feel like…” Jack takes a deep breath. “Like I need to reassess my life.”

I pause, not only because I can’t decide between the dark purple and dark brown eye shadow. I wonder whether Jack really wants to reassess his life, or just wishes he’d worn safety glasses.

To Be Continued…

COPYRIGHT
Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 2, Spring Season by Dorota Skrzypek.
Copyright 2009 by Dorota Skrzypek.
ISBN 0-9768869-0-7
All Rights Reserved.

Read the entire Sex, Life, & Hannah Spring Season on Amazon now!

Read More

Lola’s soon-to-be baby daddy.

Lola’s soon-to-be baby daddy.

Posted by on Jun 15, 2010 in SLH Excerpts | 0 comments

From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 2, Spring Season (CHAPTER 11: TALLER, PRETTIER, BUSTIER, CURVIER)

I walk through two large glass doors wearing a feathery brown tube top stuffed with the latest in gel push-up technology, matching hot pants, and tall grey suede boots. The party is in full swing because Lola knows how to throw a party: light appetizers, strong cocktails, and beautiful people as far as the eye can see.

“Darling!” Lola calls out, motioning me over to her. “You’re the spitting image of Keira Knightley—you could be her stand-in. And let me tell you, stand-ins make good money.” Lola starts squeezing two lemon slices into her drinking glass. “Say the word and I’ll call my agent.”

Lola is always trying to convince me to be an actress. If I ever start looking good in front of a camera, I’ll consider taking her up on the offer. Unfortunately, I always appear uncomfortable in photos and I stammer in front of a video camera—drunk or sober. To me that says it all.

I grab a Mai Tai off the tray of a waiter walking by. “And your guy looks like a god. Where did you find him?”

Lola puts her arm around my shoulders. “You wanna know the truth?” she asks under her breath.

I’m not sure if anyone is every ready for the truth—especially from Lola—but I nod.

“I hired him.”

“He’s a prostitute?” I don’t do as good a job of saying this under my breath.

“No!” Lola reels back. “If he were a prostitute he wouldn’t have cost nearly so much.” She continues under her breath: “It’s this agency, Peterson & Associates. They’re like a match-making service, but for woman who want to get pregnant. Well, women who want to get pregnant but are tired of waiting for men to step up to responsibility.” She whispers the amount she paid for Tomi in my ear.

I reel back. I don’t make that much, working nine to five, in a year. I am so in the wrong business.

I notice Tomi across the pool from us. He’s draped in a loose white linen shirt and matching pants, striking as ever, looking like he came with the furniture. I wonder if there’s a buy-out price on him—and how he really feels about having a bunch of little Tomis running around and not being a part of their lives. Is that how men really wanted it? Would Tomi never want a kid on his own accord? The Ex had wanted kids; of course, he’d also wanted to wait until we could afford a nanny.

I ask Lola how long she’s planning on keeping her sperm donor.

“When I get pregnant, he leaves,” she says, sipping her lemon water, unconcerned. “That’s how most men prefer it: spread their seed and bolt.”

Apparently, that’s how Lola felt men really wanted it.

“Do you like him?” I ask her, taking a bite out of a spicy tuna roll.

“Of course I like him. I wouldn’t have picked him if I didn’t think he was an absolute doll! But seriously, long-term relationships are passé.” Lola follows my lead and grabs a few spicy tuna rolls for herself. “They never last past five years.” She dabs her napkin around her large lips. “After the first year, the infatuation goes away; after the second year, the sex starts to dwindle; after the third year, you’re fantasizing about other men to get yourself off; and after four years, you’re looking for the next best thing. It’s happened in every relationship I’ve been in.”

“Maybe you haven’t found The One,” I offer—although my own foundation on the topic has been rocked.

Lola stops chewing. “Darling, there is no One; there are Many. That’s survival. You’ll understand when you’re in your thirties.”

To Be Continued…

COPYRIGHT
Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 2, Spring Season by Dorota Skrzypek.
Copyright 2009 by Dorota Skrzypek.
ISBN 0-9768869-0-7
All Rights Reserved.

Read the entire Sex, Life, & Hannah Spring Season on Amazon now!

Read More

Hot lovin’ in an elevator…almost.

Hot lovin’ in an elevator…almost.

Posted by on May 26, 2010 in SLH Excerpts | 0 comments

From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 2, Spring Season (CHAPTER 10: LOVE IN AN ELEVATOR)

I turn to face The Ex, searching his face for the truth. Does he still love me too? Does he want to get back together? Is this day more than just some horrible, ill-fated mistake? A part of me wants to believe that everything that happened last year, including the break-up, was just a test; that this accident was no accident at all: It was another chance for “us.”

The Ex smiles, laying his hand lightly on my cheek and pushing back strands of my hair. He pulls me in, and I rest my weary head on his warm chest.

I feel him stir. I feel his lips rest against my ear. He tells me I smell like lemon zest and daffodils—just like he likes. His free hand moves over the side of my leg, hip, arm. I look up and he moves his lips to the only part of my cheek that’s exposed. He takes the scrunched-up blood-soaked tee and flings it. He moves his lips over mine. I can barely feel it as he starts lightly kissing them, but I respond.

And just like that we’re kissing. Kissing, then petting, and then heavy petting. He pulls me under him and I pull him into me; we start groping like teenagers at a high school dance.

“What are we doing?” I groan.

“I don’t know, Baby.” He grabs my ass. “You know I love you.” His hands fumble near my zipper. “Things just always get complicated.”

I can feel his growing hardness against the inside of my thigh—the one aspect of our relationship that has never been complicated. I reach for his zipper.

“Awww, shit.” The Ex pulls away.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“You’re bleeding all over my new shirt.”

I push him off of me. “You’re such a dick.”

“Wha-why?”

I scramble to sit up. “This is just like when I threw the engagement ring and you said: ‘Hey, that cost me a lot of money.’”

“It did! And with that chip, I couldn’t sell it for nearly as much as it was worth.”

I freeze—unable to lift the bloodied undershirt my hand just grabbed.

After The Ex accused me of cheating on him with Brock, I threw my engagement ring at him. Then I stepped on it on my way out the door. We broke up, didn’t speak for months, and then he called me and apologized for the whole incident, trying to convince me to come back to him. He told me how he’d kept that ring on his desk—a daily reminder of how much he loved me; and told me he would always keep it, because he believed that one day we would be married.

“You sold the ring?”

The Ex is silent. And then slowly, “I needed a big down payment for the Mercedes.”

I shift away from him, waiting for some sign of regret for what he’s just said. Hoping to hear that he did it in a regrettable fit of emotion, or that he really did it to send a foster kid to college, or that he’s kidding—that he still has the ring sitting on his desk, waiting for the right moment to get back together with me and propose again. Anything to make me feel like I haven’t just been dry-humping a selfish, self-absorbed prick.

But he just stares back, and his eyebrow starts to quiver.

My body feels cold; I pick up the soiled undershirt and press it against my nose. The Ex starts in with his Baby-this-and-Baby-that, but I don’t hear anything he says; I swat away his hand when he tries to touch me. I crawl to the furthest corner of the elevator from him.

The Ex was right on New Year’s Eve: We would never get married. But not because things between us were complicated. We would never get married because as much as The Ex was invested in having the newest car, toy, dog, or designer shirt, he was never completely invested in our relationship. I was a throwaway, just like everything he’s ever owned. When the new model rolled in, it was always out with the old—and that would never change.

The elevator door opens. The technician looks from me to The Ex, sitting at either end of the elevator, our faces and clothes bloodied, our clothes half off. “Is anyone hurt?” he asks.

We both just stare…

To Be Continued…

COPYRIGHT
Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 2, Spring Season by Dorota Skrzypek.
Copyright 2009 by Dorota Skrzypek.
ISBN 0-9768869-0-7
All Rights Reserved.

Read the entire Sex, Life, & Hannah Spring Season on Amazon now!

Read More