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The Case of the ‘Catch & Release’

June 16, 2015

The Case of the ‘Catch & Release’
Erotica by Will Crimson

  • I’ve gotten back to editing the Daydreams & Distractions. This was one I completely rewrote and so thought it would be fun to repost. Originally in the second person singular, I fashioned it after Tentacle & the Alien Abduction, where you will also find the detectives Frank and Joe.

Another case: the third incident in five weeks.

greatmike_31c162The desk lamp casts a pale green light on the peeling paint of the station walls. A fluorescent light sputters above them.

Joe sighs. His knees bump the underside of the table. He’s too tall for the chair. He leans forward, elbows on the table, fingers together, thumbs up. “Okay, Missus. Let’s start when you were leaving the party.”

“It was maybe midnight or a little after,” said the student.

Frank, Joe’s partner, asks: “And you say you were dressed in a long black dress?” He’s squat; leans back in the wooden chair.

“You’d been drinking?” adds Joe.

“Yes, Sir. I didn’t want to drive and the buses stopped running. I was waiting for a taxi but—” She gnaws her lip. “There wasn’t any bathroom.”

Says Joe: “That’s why you were in the park?”

“Just in the bushes and out of the street lights,” says the young woman. “There was nobody there. Nobody.”

“You thought,” says Frank.

“I thought what?” asks the girl.

“No, I mean, you ‘thought‘ there was nobody there.”

“Yeah, and so I hear a woman say ‘Move!’, and I think she means I shouldn’t be, you know, peeing there. ”

“What happens?” asks Joe.

Read more…

Chapter 3 • Into the Woods

June 14, 2015

Into the Woods
by William Crimson

Chapter 3

2d1fa3a46d6feedc3e3a10ac4e63b450“Not since I’ve been here,” said Tilly.

Barbara’s husband placed a serving bowl and sat. Brian was his daughter and Tilly was his girlfriend. Bill was a bald man, powerfully built with a broad chest and thick fingers. “Let’s hope it’s nothing like your brother’s hysteria.”

“Where’s the soup bowl?” Barbara interrupted.

“What’s wrong with this one?”

“It’s not the soup bowl.”

“Well then now we’ve got two soup bowls.”

Barbara grimaced. She was a narrow women with tightly drawn, bleached hair. Bracelets shivered on her long, thin arms. “Roy’s got reasons to be hysterical.”

“She should have left him years ago..”

“He’s my brother.”

“He’s not mine.”

“He’s family, Bill.”

“The guy hasn’t laid—“ Bill glances at Tilly. “How old are you now? Twenty-four? You and Brian seen it all by now, right?”


“The guy hasn’t laid a hand on her since the children.”

“That’s not true,” said Barbara cooly.

“It’s true enough.”

“To break up a marriage?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“There’s more to a marriage than sex, Bill.””

Read more…

Chapter 2 • Into the Woods

June 2, 2015

Into the Woods

by William Crimson

  • As I wrote before, this is a try at a different sort of writing. Readers looking for the erotic will find more in this chapter than the last. I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter 2

To the north or south of Middlebury is the place to live, if you like a view. The sunsets bronze the steep bluffs of the green mountains, running north to south. And on a good day, broken clouds will blacken underneath and whitely Victorian_Portrait_young_woman_loose_hairbillow above. The westward Adirondacks grow in stature as the sun falls behind them—a layered, rugged, saw-toothed range. The sheen of Champlain lies under them like beaten pewter, appearing and disappearing. To stand at the level of the lake is to fool oneself into seeing the ocean. To north and south the horizon is water.

Vermont may be divided by haves-and-haves-not or by elevation. In either case, the same results will be produced. To the north of Middlebury, the best views are taken by early to mid-eighteenth century farmhouses. New owners, having the wherewithal to retire the old farmers, lovingly restore the houses to their platonic ideal: straightened ridges, poured basements, leveled clapboards, paint as white as paper and tall, wide windows.

The house bought by Tobin Marsh around 1918 is generally considered among the most spacious of the stately farm houses.

Marsh was a short and stout man with a broad nose and bushy hair. He wasn’t the kind to draw a woman’s eyes. But what draws a woman to a man is more often what can’t be seen—least of all by other men. Kathy Topsham’s increasing visits to the Marsh farm, and for lengths deemed less than sensible, was duly noted and remarked by the general community.

Marsh’s unprepossessing homeliness and poverty of character hardly seemed a match for Kathy’s acknowledged beauty. She was as tall and whispy as he was short and stocky. She was as graceful in word and character as he in brusque unneighborliness. Kathy had already left in her wake an unprecedented number of suitors.

She sat with them on the porch of her father’s house, seated on the opposite end of a swinging bench. Every suitor brought a gift—flowers, chocolates, fruits, candies and more. There was always the understanding that she would be amply provided for. She would never lack. Yet one after the other her suitors parted piqued by her beauty and puzzled by her dreamy indifference. Surely, the men thought, there ought to have been one among them.

Read more…

Chapter 1 • Into the Woods

May 28, 2015

Into The Woods
by William Crimson

  • So, my apologies. For the last month I’ve had relatives staying in the same house already busy with goings on. I’ve hardly had an opportunity to be alone with my thoughts, let alone a story. The following is a departure. There’s nothing erotically explicit in this first chapter, just a preparation for more to follow. I’m not good at longer stories, but I keep trying. A better writer, a real novelist, might have stretched these first four snippets into 40 or 60 pages.

Chapter 1


She pauses, hand softly on the glass edge of the car door. There’s been a passing shower. But for the café, the 6860f64e155773c260a984db92e51571-d4dejvtshops have closed and their remaining lights blur on the street’s black mirror. The remaining cars will stay until midnight or longer, but seldom through the night. There are some lighted windows above the storefronts, curtains pulled slant-ways. Eveline quietly closes the door, walks between a blue pick-up and a red sedan, under the windows and down the gleaming sidewalk, and into the warm, coffee-scented café.

There’s a corner table she likes. She can sit with the orange wall behind her and the toothy bookshelf above. She doesn’t carry a purse, but a small leather backpack. She hasn’t used it since her early twenties, after marriage and before children. Now the backpack carries more than she’s put in it. It carries her too. She’s middle aged. Her hair’s turned darker and her eyes are lined by both sorrow and laughter. Her eyes are a soft brown, and clear and as luminous as when she was twenty-one. She draws her raincoat self-consciously over her shoulders. A much younger woman brings her coffee, smiles and leaves.

“I’ve heard that someday, when you’re an old woman, the wolf will come for you and consume you,” says red riding hood.

Eveline sighs and gazes at the raven-haired beauty across from her, the raven-haired girl she used to be. Her nose is lean, her skin smooth, and her eyebrows sharp. “And then what?”

“I don’t know,” she answers, “but it depends on who tells the story.”

“But he’s not really after grandma,” says Eveline, “he’s after red riding hood.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because you’re young and beautiful.”

“Maybe he’s after both?”

“Not likely.”

“Or maybe grandma and red riding hood are really the same?”

Eveline smiles and sips. “I want to be you again.”

“You will be,” answers Red Riding Hood, “but you will have to forget and begin a new fairy tale.”

“How do you know?”

“I still walk in the woods.”

“The wolf is coming.”

“I know. But the wolf is unpredictable. He doesn’t love you. He’ll use you.”

“Yes, that’s why I’m here.” Read more…

On the Deaths of Lovers

April 30, 2015

On the Deaths of Lovers
by Will Crimson

I, death, prefer that my name not be capitalized. To capitalize my name suggests a formality and importance utterly misplaced; yet I digress before I even begin. Where I ought to begin is late August, and unexpectedly. Two lovers, having received Halloween costumes several weeks in advance, are inspired to try them on.

IMG_0102His costume is a skeleton. Hers is a ghost.

Naturally, in the course of trying death on, they must be naked and resplendently alive. This frivolity doesn’t go unnoticed. In the time it takes to discover if death fits, they shed the giddy presentiments and make love. The costumes go in the closets; but neither of the youths are oblivious to the delicious incongruity: death and procreation.

But then, who isn’t?

But let’s be generous and allow each generation its rediscoveries. Let them flirt with the poetry of a ghost and skeleton making love. If you can’t make fun of death while you live, then when?

Read more…


April 26, 2015

by Will Crimson

it’s how I describe it.
it’s when
you’re in my lap, your back
turned to me,
and my
cock is the curve of your spine.


tumblr_mmaa0rjJFj1r8bs07o1_500it’s when I take you
by surprise,
and every
is a shock; and your
orgasm stuns and confounds you.


it’s when I thrust
a last time
and force you—hold still,
the way your nipples burst as if too much
filled you.


April 13, 2015
And here’s another man —
Wouldn’t you know? —
Kissing your coy and artful hand.
He’ll be an also-ran
In a night or so.
And here’s another man
Who wears a wedding band
And look how slow! —
tumblr_my0m3pBZMn1qfbon7o1_1280Kissing your coy and artful hand.
I know how this began.
I should go.
(And here’s another man).
But here I am as planned,
Another gigolo
Kissing your coy and artful hand.
What’s not to understand?
Beauty is the status quo
And here’s another man
Kissing your coy and artful hand.
William Crimson: April 13 2015
  • I wrote this today as a rewrite for the upcoming Erotica: 101 Daydreams & Distractions.

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