WHAT A DEAL!!!

My dear friend Carole Murray is celebrating 29 years in the metaphysical field by offering an absolutely fantastic deal on her readings. From Monday, April 13th - Sunday, April 19th Carole is offering a 29 minute phone reading session for only $29.00. There is a limit of 2 per person. So, treat yourself, your friends and loved ones. As soon as you place your order with Paypal, Carole will contact you and schedule the time of your appointment. Be amazed by this truly gifted woman.
To learn more about Carole and her gift visit her site- ServingSpirits.com Look under the Reading Section Anniversary Special. Thanks so much.

"THE MONOGRAM" A SHORT STORY

"THE MONOGRAM"

The skinny, long haired, hippie chick leaned against the wall beneath the flashing lights of the ShoBar. She could not have been older than sixteen or seventeen. Bourbon Street was exceptionally crowded that night, but she felt totally alone. Her friends were late and if she hadn't been so desperate for their company and the promise of getting high, she'd have tried to slip in and catch her favorite dancer's show.

Drunks staggered past her making rude comments as they went. A couple young guys even stopped, walked over to where she was, and offered to buy her a drink for a threesome. She rebuffed their crude proposition. After cursing her, they too stumbled off.

Just when she decided she had waited long enough, a mountain of a man approached her. He gave her the once over, walked by, only to return a moment later. His voice was deep and haunting when he, initially, spoke. Her hackles went up. She had the feeling, that it wouldn't be advisable to blow this guy off with a flip comment. His looming presence over her attested to that. She was cordial, but showed no real interest in what he was saying, until he offered to take her into the strip joint.

He guided her to a table on the front row. The owner, emcee, and many of the patrons seemed to know this man. And before drinks could be ordered, a bottle of champagne was sent over to them. "It's on the house," the waitress said. Needless to say, the girl was impressed and wondered who her companion might be. But, his identity was really of no importance to her. What mattered more was the free flowing liquor and the show was about to start.

Rita came out on stage and began her act. The girl never tired of watching the tall blond slowly undressing before her. She was mesmerized by her every move. She felt herself getting sexually excited. She loved this entertainer, she loved this woman.

The man across from her appeared enthralled by what he was seeing too. He stared at the performance intensely.

The girl's attention was reluctantly diverted from the stage. She could not believe her eyes. The man had unzipped his fly, pulled out his penis, and was stroking it. As Rita's gyrations intensified, so did his hand slide up and down his hardened shaft.

His face flushed, beads of sweat appeared on his brow, he moaned softly, and ejaculated upon the floor. Rita scooped up her costume and accouterments and disappeared behind the curtain.

"You stay here. I'll be right back," he commanded after righting his pants and composing himself. She sipped her drink and watched as he walked toward the restrooms and pay phone.

Upon exiting the men's room, he seemed upset. Or was it angry? He stopped and made a call. He slammed down the receiver, returned to where they were sitting and told her sternly, "Hurry up. We're leaving."

Once outside they walked to the corner. "Wait," he said. She thought he might have forgotten something in their quick departure from the bar.

Sirens were blaring in the distance, but were getting closer and louder by the second. The street was lit up with blinding flashing lights as police cruisers filled the block. More than a dozen officers stormed into the lounge the girl and the giant beside her had just left.

"What do you think is going on?" the girl questioned in alarm. "Shut up," he hissed. His concentration was fixated on what was transpiring and she knew not to utter another word.

Within minutes paddy wagons screeched to a halt in front of the establishment. Soon customers, dancers, staff, and the owner were led to the waiting vehicles in handcuffs. In all of the confusion, the girl failed to catch a glimpse of Rita.

She hoped that the woman, she cared so deeply for, had escaped what was obviously a raid. She hoped she was safe somewhere and not going to jail with the others. But, most of all, she wished she could have protected her in some way.

The crowd that had gathered dispersed and went about their business of getting loaded. The police were gone and the ShoBar's entrance was locked and chained. Strangely, the man at her side now appeared quite satisfied and smug. "Disgusting degenerates," she heard him snarl.

He turned back to the girl and smiled, "Come on, Baby. I really feel like having a good time. I've got some great shit back at my hotel. I'll bet you'd like to get stoned." Something didn't seem right, but the girl didn't feel free to turn down his offer.

They walked down Bourbon Street toward the place he was staying. She noticed more than a few street people showed an instant recognition of the man at her side. But, just as quickly they turned away never making eye contact. Again, she tried to dismiss the occurrence, just like she had at the bar. She was going to smoke some dope, maybe down a pill or two. Whoever this guy was, as long as he came through with what he promised, she dismissed her uneasiness.

He ushered her into the room. From the flask he produced, two drinks were poured. She looked about. Strangely, there was nothing to suggest he had ever been in this room, let alone was a guest staying there. No suitcase, no clothes hanging, no toiletries in the bathroom. For the first time since they met, when his presence made her uneasy and uncomfortable, she let herself think past instant gratification with booze and drugs. Something was wrong, terribly wrong and she knew she had to leave.

Naked on the bed, she lay beneath him. She had been too afraid to refuse his advances. He violently plunged into her over and over. Just went she thought she would die under his weight, he withdrew and holding his swollen penis, ejaculated upon her belly.

Too frightened to move an inch, she wondered what he had in store for her next. Slowly, he dipped his index finger into the sticky puddle of cum, and drew what appeared to be letters on the bare part of her stomach.

He wrote two initials with flair and flourish. He leaned back and seemed very pleased with himself. Then, he looked down on his prey and said in disgust, "Don't you ever forget who you have been with tonight, bitch. Now, get the fuck out of here. You make me sick."

The girl frantically got dressed and hurried to leave. As she turned the knob on the door and began to exit, he came up behind her and held it shut. "Don't you ever mention tonight to anyone. You understand?" he warned. She nodded. He glared at her. "You understand?" he said again more menacingly. "Yes, yes. I promise," she swore. With that, he roughly pushed her out of the room and slammed the door behind her.

She stood outside the hotel shaking uncontrollably. She knew she had to get away from there, but was immobilized with terror. Finally, she calmed herself down enough to venture towards Bourbon Street, where she hoped she could get lost in the anonymity of the crowds.

People she knew ignored her. Friends were aloof or downright hostile. She didn't know what she had done to cause them to act this way. She was called a "snitch", a "rat", a "fucking sell-out" when anyone would speak to her at all.

She sat by the fountain in Jackson Square. A couple hippies approached her. "We just want to know why you did it? Why did you turn on us? We thought we were family." "What do you mean?" she asked, "What did I do?" "You were with him. We saw you. You were with that prick and then, the Square was raided and a lot of people were busted. You turned on us. You betrayed us," they sneered. She tried to grasp what they were saying, the accusations they were making. It made no sense. "Who was I with? What prick? Please tell me," she begged. "Yeah. OK. Play dumb. But, you know you were with that mother fucker. You know you were with that son of a bitching creep."

She felt like someone had punched her in the stomach, the stomach he had painted his initials on in sperm.

No wonder he was recognized at the ShoBar. He had the place raided enough. No wonder people on the street knew who he was. He probably sent many of them to jail. Yes, it was in fact who her friends said it was who took her into the club, plied her with drinks, offered her drugs, and raped and defiled her. It was this same man, who gathered peace-loving individuals, who hurt no one, as they sat innocently in a park and saw fit to condemn them to jail on fabricated charges.

And although, decades have passed and the white slime is long washed away from that young girl's belly, today the woman remains indelibly marked by what happened that night at the hands of the sick, the evil, the chief prosecutor of New Orleans-J.G.

It has taken me over 40+ years to have the courage to tell this story and only because the perpetrator is dead. Monsters like him live on in the nightmares of his victims.

2 THUMBS & A BUTT PLUG UP FOR MILK!!!

I just finished viewing the dynamic story of Harvey Milk, who was assassinated in San Francisco in 1978. Watching the true account of this man's life and his contribution to the gay population and world in general took me back to the days I, personally, fought for the rights of my brothers and sisters in the Liberation Movement.
I suffered a broken jaw and loss of teeth among other injuries, when I was assaulted by three men following the march against Anita Bryant in New Orleans, while my peers on the West Coast and around this country were also being brutalized. I had been honored at the rally held in Jackson Square earlier that day by given the opportunity to speak briefly prior to an address being made by Leonard Malcovich, the first openly gay military officer.
So much has changed over the years and many take for granted the rights we enjoyed these days. But, I saw firsthand in the Deep South the raids, the arrests, the murders by police of individuals whose only so-called crime was being born lesbian and gay.
On this day, when Iowa has seen fit to uphold same-sex marriage, I wanted to take a moment to thank Harvey Milk and the other courageous pioneers who gave of themselves so we could be free to be.