Advent Calendar: “Reason For The Season” by Andrea Trask

Reason for the Season
by Andrea Trask

“I don’t celebrate Christmas,” he’d said any time she brought up the holidays, and every time he had backed it up with a slew of reasons: it was tacky, it was complete commercialization, it was too religious and the date for what it was celebrating was totally wrong, it was an attempt to usurp the day of celebration for a completely different religion, it encouraged people to overdo themselves on food and gifts and decoration, and seriously what was the deal with that song about the donkey?

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Sponsored Event: The Slutcracker

Fellow Bostonians (and Somervillians, and Cantabrigiae Novae), have you found yourself sitting and musing, on this fine wintry afternoon, “Self, I’d love to go see the classic story of The Nutcracker this holiday season, but I can’t help thinking that there just aren’t enough tits in ballet.”?

Wonderful news! Someone has come up with a solution to this problem. The inimitable Sugar Dish, classically-trained ballerina and burlesque dancer extraordinaire, is once again producing The Slutcracker, the heartwarming tale of sweet Clara, the daring Drosselmeyer, and a magic dildo. The whip-cracking, pole-dancing, festive holiday Bacchanale runs at the Somerville Theater, including performances on XXX-Mas Eve and First Night.

We at Circlet Press sent out an envoy to deliver a large box of Christmas lesbians (in convenient paperback form) to the producer before the show opened. Get your tickets now to see what she’s done with them!

(I’ll be serving as an usher on December 20th and 24th. Come verify for yourself that we really do exist outside of the internet! — Arabella, the Porn Fairy)

Advent Calendar: “Fences” by D M Hubbard

Fences

by David Hubbard

Everyone expected the world to end with a bang: nuclear war, alien invaders, even zombies would’ve been fun. Instead, it was with a whimper; the smallest of sounds, really, a virus of all things. Dubbed the X1N1 virus, X for short, it was the most virulent strain of swine flu ever seen, and no one knew where it had come from or how it had become so lethal. I like to think it was just Darwinism at its finest. Survival of the fittest, and this time around humanity wasn’t all that fit. Almost the entire population had already become infected before the virus had even been identified and named. But X was a clever little bug; it didn’t always kill its host immediately. Sometimes it would just lay dormant: weeks, months, sometimes even longer. Like years, in my case. Continue reading

Sponsored Event: The Literary Roast, Volume Three

Porn Fairy: Hey, do you want to go to the Lit Roast with me?
Porn Fairy’s Housemate: I don’t know. What is it?
PF: A bunch of burlesquers and circus people, plus my boss, are getting together to make fun of books.
PFH: …yes. Yes, I do.

Come see the third Literary Roast, at OBERON (2 Arrow Street, Cambridge, MA) on Thursday, 12/18! Join an all-star roster of naughty librarians and dirty grammarians for a knock-down, drag-out celebration of books and authors — including Grand High Poobah of Circlet Press (and loyal Harry Potter fan), Cecilia Tan, taking J K Rowling down a peg or five.  We never turn up to these things without a hostess gift of the adult persuasion, either, which the hosts say will be going home with a few lucky someones in the audience.

Turn up, take your chances, and leave with a whole new definition of “bookworm”.

Sponsored Event: The Buttcracker

Hello again, Boston locals! Just in case you’re not already having an ass-tacular winter, I’d like to tell you a little bit about a show going on tomorrow. Wednesday, December 17th. Hosted by the legendary Johnny Blazes, this 5th anniversary show provides the perfect rear-end to your burlesque year!

From their Facebook event page:

“The BUTTCRACKER – 5th ANALVERSARY SHOW!
December 17 at OBERON
Doors 7:30pm
Show 8:00pm
$20
http://tinyurl.com/buttcrackertixxx

When Madge of Honor and Johnny Blazes conceived of The Buttcracker, they never imagined there would be enough butt puns + ass imagery to stuff five shows full, but here we are: the 5TH ANALVERSARY ASSTRAVAGANZA! The holiday hole in Boston is in fact gaping enough to fit another clASSIc show. The Buttcracker truly is the gift that keeps on giving!”

I attended their show last year, and let me tell you, you never forget the first time you hear someone utter the phrase, “And the Glory of the LORD twerked around them.” And don’t miss your chance to win an assload of prizes! Yours truly, the hard working Porn Fairy of Circlet Press, will be dropping off some fine adult literature for Johnny and Madge to give out during the show.

Sponsored show: The Batman Ball, a Burlesque and Batusi Dance Party!

Looking for something to do this weekend? If you’re in New York City, you’re in luck! Loopy lovely Lefty Lucy is putting on a Bat-tacular shindig at Slake, 251 W 30th St, NYC.

Photo by Ben Trivett Photography

 

THIS SATURDAY, you’re Invited to Gotham’s ONLY all Batman-themed burlesque show AND post-show dance party inspired by the 1966 Adam West TV series!

PLUS, since it is the season of giving, we’re offering a holiday discount! Get an additional $5 the online price—that’s $10 off the door price!—when you use code NUDENERD at checkout!
http://tinyurl.com/ldbklnd

That’s right—come to The Batman Ball—A Burlesque and Batusi Dance Party at Slake and you get:

  • original Batman-inspired burlesque acts from Magdalena Fox, Dee Doll, Mary Cyn, Lefty Lucy, Miss Poison Ivory, Kitty Nights NYC’s Fem Appeal, and Toronto’s Leelando Calrissian & Zilly Lilly PLUS host Fan Cy Feast
  • a hip-shakin’ 1960s Bat-tastic dance party DJ’d by nightlife legend and Toilet Boys front man Miss Guy
  • prizes from Toy Tokyo, original sin cider, Midtown comics, Circlet Press, and Booty and the Geek!

This one night only event is less than a week away, so get your tickets now!http://tinyurl.com/ldbklnd

Microfiction: Fallen Leaves by TS Porter

And since you were good enough to enjoy our deliciously sexy trick, please, have this treat to see you off into the night. Don’t worry about the things in the yard and the things in the trees and the things that go bump in the night–not every nocturnal sound is a scary one, after all!

TS Porter is a talented newcomer who thought it would fun to slip this into the mailbox, and again, we forgot to get a bio before they vanished…but I can tell you that a piece by this author will appear in the forthcoming Like a Haunted Trail sometime next year.

Happy Halloween, Spooky Samhain, and so on and so forth to all!

Fallen Leaves by TS Porter

They lived for that one night every year – not that either of them were alive, anymore. The days turned crisp and cool, the trees erupted with a riot of reds and golds. Summer died on the cold teeth of winter, and for just a single night the lines between the spirit world and the physical world blurred completely away.

Eliza could feel it in the house as October lengthened. Increasingly she felt a prickling at the back of her neck, as though she were being watched. Things moved in the house, not where she’d left them. Doors opened and closed on their own, and quiet footsteps echoed across empty floors. Occasionally she felt the ghostly touch of fingers on her arm, her cheek, brushing across the back of her neck. It was an old house, Eliza had built it for her love centuries before. There had obviously been renovations since then, but at its core it was a very old house. It would be easy to blame it all on a draft, on the settling of an old building as it adjusted to the cold of winter. She knew better.

Eliza dreamed full lips against her own, the softest golden skin in broad curves under her hands – rubbing her face against plump breasts and running her fingers through long dark hair. She dreamed endless kissing, caressing touches all over her body. She yielded eagerly to insistently probing fingers that entered her, stroked and filled and brought her to the peak of pleasure. She dreamed the heat of a pulse shuddering under her teeth and the intoxicating sweetness of her love’s blood on her tongue. No one else tasted so good.

She woke in the evening with a second depression on the bed beside her and ran her cold fingertips across the silk sheets, feeling the ghost warmth with a smile.

It was like this every year as the walls between them began to fall away. Eliza purchased the latest fashion magazines and left them in a neat stack on the coffee table. Over the next days she found them other places around the house – as though someone had been paging through one curled up in the window seat overlooking the night garden, or lounging across the bed, or on the couch by the fire.

Eliza sometimes caught a glimpse of a raven haired woman in a red dress as she walked through the house, just a hint from the corner of her eye, but whenever she looked back there was nothing. Just mirrors that reflected an empty house back through her.

The month wore itself to a close, vivid dying leaves fell from the trees, and finally it was time. Eliza brought up a bottle of rich red wine from the cellar, a good year from a wonderful vineyard that tasted like home. She let it breathe while she dressed herself in the very best of her clothes.

She sat by the fire and poured the wine as the sun set, the welcome dark of this one night settling in. Eliza could feel the change in the air, a presence when her love could finally join her. Lightly glowing fingers wrapped around the stem of one of the wine glasses, and Eliza finally looked up to see her love seated on the other end of the couch.

Rosabel was every bit as gorgeous as she’d ever been in life. She wore a very modern slinky red dress with a slit up to the thigh, but her long black hair she still wore in a crown atop her head, bound in ribbons. She moaned as she sipped the wine, a happy hum with ruby drops on her soft lips.

Rosabel’s warm brown eyes crinkled at the corners in a smile as she set the glass aside.

“My love,” she greeted, reaching toward Eliza. Eliza took Rosabel’s hand in hers. It was warm and her skin was smooth, so very much like how she’d felt in life.

“Eliza?” the ghost asked, reaching up to softly wipe away a tear from Eliza’s cheek.

“It’s just been a long year,” Eliza shook her head. “I missed you.”

“No, dolcezza…” Rosabel crooned, tugging on her hand, and Eliza couldn’t hold back any longer. She fell into her love’s arms, holding as close and tight as she could. “I know, I know,” Rosabel soothed, gentle fingers stroking through Eliza’s hair. “I’m here now. I’m here.”

Eliza leaned up to kiss the smoky wine from Rosabel’s perfect lips, her own glass forgotten. There would be time for wine later. There would be time for talking, to tell the most important of everything that was new. There would be time for dancing, Eliza had new music of their old dances to share. There would be time to make love. Eliza would have the chance to worship Rosabel’s body, to feel and taste and brand her love into her memory for another year.

They lived for this one night every year – neither of them alive, but each eternal in their own way. They were nothing but bright leaves fallen from the tree – but did not leaves dance as they fell?

They would dance as long as they might.

Microfiction: The Fairy Princess, the Trickster, and the Hatchet Man by Renata Piper

Happy Halloween! For your reading pleasure, we have a pair of tasty treats, free for your enjoyment. Just knock on our door, and try not to flee in terror when our door-ghoul answers. I assure you, it doesn’t bite…much.

First, have a bit of a trick, courtesy of the talented Renata Piper, who dropped this off on our doorstep and ran away cackling madly before we could coax a bio from her. All she’d confess was that she’d been previously published by Circlet in Like a Beast

The Fairy Princess, the Trickster, and the Hatchet Man

Charlotte shivered. She loved her costume–pink-and-gold netting, tiara, dragonfly wings–but this was October in New England, and the night air smelled like snow. She sniffled and kept walking. She wasn’t used to heels, but they were definitely part of the outfit. Be beautiful, she told herself, and be brave, and have fun tonight. That’s all you need to do.

As if summoned by the thought, a woman appeared at her side. She wore down-at-the-heels cowboy boots, a sensibly-heavy plaid shirt, and a slouchy leather hat. She stood eye-to-eye with Charlotte, which was saying a lot. “Good evening, princess,” she said. “Who are you?”

Charlotte was suddenly, bubblingly happy–it was the word princess. “Charlotte le Fey, of the Eternal Rainbow Realm,” she replied, and meant every word. “Good evening to you. Are you a cowboy?”

The woman chuckled, or snorted. “I’m Coyote the Trickster. Glad to meet you, Princess Charlotte. Where are you headed tonight?”

If Coyote had been a man, Charlotte thought, this conversation couldn’t be happening–Charlotte wouldn’t have answered, or lied. “The Weimaraner,” she said. It was public and accepting, and she didn’t expect to see anybody she knew. “There’s dancing and a costume contest.” Coyote walked alongside, nodding. “Want to come?”

Coyote smiled, nodded again. She took a large, square, undyed-cotton kerchief from a pocket, draped it around Charlotte’s shoulders. “See if that keeps you warm,” she said, and it nearly did. After an adventure with heels and a high curb, Coyote’s arm around Charlotte’s waist did even better.

At the Weimaraner, to Charlotte’s surprise, the doorman accepted Coyote’s wink in place of the ten-dollar cover. Inside was dark and dry-ice-smoky, smelling of pumpkin and booze. The music was silly–“Zombie Jamboree”–but Coyote led straight to the dance floor. The kerchief was twisted behind Charlotte’s waist, more a ribbon than a shawl. Coyote held the ends, so they danced together without even touching hands. Coyote moved fast, boots pattering, while Charlotte swayed in place, mindful of her heels but enjoying the roll of her hips and arms. When “Tubular Bells” ended, she stepped forward and kissed Coyote on the mouth.

It was an excellent kiss. Coyote’s arms came around her, warm even in the heat of the club. Her fingers slipped up to Charlotte’s neck, angling to let in a touch of teeth. They broke apart when “Psycho Killer” started, and Charlotte was brave enough–without even a single drink–to say, “Tell me, milady Coyote–might you like us to go out back and do a little more?”

Coyote’s grin went feral, and she winked at the doorman as they went past. Back in the alley, Coyote pressed Charlotte against the brick wall–softened just a little by the cotton kerchief–and they kissed at length, again with a little of Coyote’s teeth. Then Coyote tipped her hat back and dropped to her knees.

“Oh no–oh wait –!” Charlotte squeaked, terrified. Coyote nodded and stilled, smiling up from under the hat. Moving very, very slowly, she lifted the layers of Charlotte’s pink-and-gold skirt. Without breaking eye contact, she ran a hand, very lightly, down the front of Charlotte’s panties, outlining the erection within.

“This enough of a wait?” asked Coyote gently. “Still no, or maybe, or yes?”

“…Maybe?” Charlotte whispered. “I mean if you want…?” She didn’t think she sounded like a princess at all.

Coyote grinned. “Yep.” She pulled a condom from the same pocket as the kerchief, and let the skirts fall over her as she coaxed the heavy organ out of Charlotte’s underthings. The condom slid on easily, followed by the heat and sucking pressure of Coyote’s mouth. One hand dropped to caress Charlotte’s balls, the other behind to knead into her ass. Charlotte’s hips bucked and Coyote rode her like a bronco, rocking back and pushing in, twisting and sticking through every thrust. When Charlotte came she cried out–something she never did, certainly not in alleys–a high stuttering sound like a laugh.

When she opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was the full moon, sailing just clear of the Weimaraner’s roof. The second thing was Coyote’s face, nipping a kiss into the corner of her mouth. “Oh my goodness,” said Charlotte. “Oh my… Coyote, can I do something for you?”

Coyote smiled tenderly, then turned away as she spoke. “Watch my back.”

There was someone else in the alley. A man, taller than Coyote or Charlotte in heels. His face was painted white, with an ugly smile in red lipstick. In one hand he held a hatchet, and as Coyote approached he raised it high. “Ugly little back-alley bitch,” he said. “I’m gonna–”

Coyote skipped up and stopped his voice with a kiss. “You’re gonna pay ten bucks, go inside, and dance,” she said clearly. “Come back out when somebody nice asks you, and suck them real good, almost as good as me. Be kind to them always, forever after. And tonight you’re gonna forget that axe, leave it at the bar, and never even think about it again.” The man was nodding. Coyote took him by the shoulders, steered him back towards the Weimaraner’s doors.

Charlotte watched until Coyote turned, beckoning Charlotte over. She took the handkerchief, wiped lipstick off her mouth with a grimace. Then she grinned a hangdog grin, handing it back. “Wanna clean up too?”

Charlotte blushed. “Thanks,” she said, turning away. There wasn’t much mess, but she palmed the condom awkwardly.

“Thank you,” said Coyote. “It’s been a pleasure. But I’m tired now, and I’m going home. Happy Halloween!” She went to the end of the alley and turned left. Charlotte couldn’t have been more than two steps behind, but when she reached the sidewalk, Coyote was gone.

Charlotte looked left and right, then down.  In her hands the condom and wrapper had changed into a mug from the Athenaeum full of hot chocolate, and a long woolen cape embroidered at the edges with gold.  She swung it over her shoulders, and she didn’t get cold or trip even once as she went about that night.