Featured Post

LustSpiel Festival (10) -- Cre-a-ti-vi-ty -- Michael Ampersant

We've passed the milestone of 4 million clicks, and it's time for another self-congratulatory festival: a pageant of the best, most-successful posts of the last 10 month.

Here's  entry #10, written by LustSpiel's house author Michael Ampersant, and published first on Dec. 12, 2020. Ampersant informs us that his stories are often inspired by a specific picture, and this one is a case in point:


There’s this blond demigod stepping onto the bus, lightly, the way they step onto Line 40 even when weighed down by two supermarket tote bags. He’s not a regular on this line. He doesn’t even have a contactless card and needs to pay the chauffeur with a money card which he---encumbered by the bags and the wallet---parks between his lips. The chauffeur refuses to touch the card, fumbling ensues, coins tinkle. Demigod will trudge past holding bags, short thick hair not waving, and end up in the back like all of them.
There’s this scent of ambrosia next my ear, somebody saying: “Do they serve coffee on this flight?” He’s sitting in the row behind me, on the aisle seat.
“No,” I say.
“Anything else they serve?”
“No,” I say.
“This bus going to Tailgate, mate?”
“No,” I say, and spend a full attention span on a smokestack rumpling past.
“But this smokestack belongs to Tailgate, don’t it.”
“We’re not going to Tailgate, we’re coming from Tailgate.”

“Huge smokestack, ‘ave you noticed?” he asks.
“You going home?”
“You’re parents at home?”
“Dad is,” I says. “He’s back from the night shift.”
“It’s a pity,” he says.
“He has to wind down first,” I say.
“I’m Chuck,” he says, holding out a hand above the seat, awkwardly. I turn around to shake it but now he’s already sitting next to me, the two bags on the floor, one touching my ankle. I shift my leg a bit.
“Not much space,” he says, “sorry.” He smiles. His bag’s touching my ankle again.
“That’s Castor,” he says.
“She’s in a hole. ‘Ad to take her to the shrink. That’s why she’s hiding.” He gestures at the other bag where the white snout of a dog gasps for air, half Jack Russell, half mutt. “Pollux,” he says. “Pollux is okay”---he points at his temple---“but Castor won’t leave home without the uther one. ‘Ave to take them both.”

I spend a full attention span on Pollux. “Give him your hand,” he says.
“Give him my hand?”
“Yeah, so he can smell you.” I have to stretch my arm across his lap to reach the dog’s snout.
“He likes you,” Chuck says, his upper leg touching my forearm. “Try Castor,” he says.
“Reach into the bag. Don’t be scared.”

I feel the raspy warm touch of a dog tongue licking my palm. Chuck follows my every move with benign concentration: “Feel her? Feel her?”
“Yes,” I say.
“They are twins,” he says. He peers at the greenery rumbling past. “What’s this?” he asks.
“The Holland Park,” I say.
“Wow, huge,” he says. “Huge park?”
“Large, yes,” I say.
“You ‘ave a few minutes?” he asks.
“How do you mean?”
“A few minutes. You get back onto the next bus.”
“How do you mean?”
“You dad won’t mind, would he?”
“Why should I…”
“The shrink says I need to find someone, some new person in Castor’s’ life. Therapy, mate. Therapy, you understand. I ask the driver.”

He gets up, clutches both bags, trudges forward along the aisle, leans onto the driver from behind (who’s not amused). But the bus slows down and pulls into an emergency space. The front door slides open noisily. Chuck waves. “Cum, cum,” he shouts. “Good riddance,” the driver answers. We step off the bus and into the park.

“How did you get him to stop?” I ask.
“That was close,” he answers. “Ouff.” He’s still holding the bags, set to walk across an expanse of careless grass towards a thicket of trees yonder.
“Why do you have to carry the dogs?” I ask. “Why can’t you set them free?”
“Castor’s scared. Won’t come out. She’ll be fine under the trees. A-go-ra-fo-bia, the shrink says.”
We walk.
“We need a quiet place for Castor,” he says. “She hates people watching. Here. Nobody can see us here.” He puts the bags down, unpacks the dogs, which huddle around his legs, squeaking.
“We ‘ave to undress,” he says.
“Therapy, you understand? A new therapy. Shrink talks about it all the time.”

He has already chucked jeans and drawers, the T-shirt comes off last. There he stands, the demigod, geared up, a true faun. “What’s your name?” he asks.
“Nobody can see us, John, come on. You ‘ave a stiffy already.”
“You do this all the time?” I ask.
“Nah, always try something new. Cre-a-ti-vi-ty, you know?”

Michael Ampersant writes laconic-erotic prose. He moved recently to Portugal.