Felicity and the Bright Red Pumps

Felicity stood nude in front of the full-length mirror.

She didn’t look forty.

Her hair?

Still thick and black.

Felicity inspected her breasts: firm and free of puckers.

She stepped back from the mirror for a last quick take.

Her skin fit perfectly.

Roger watched from the bed.

Mornings were difficult for him, more so recently, with
the burning in his gut that never goes away.

He grimaced and took another swig of his coffee.

“What?” Felicity asked.

“What, what?” replied Roger.

“You made a face.”

“Did I?”

“Don’t be coy darling. Is it me?”

“It’s never you.” Roger said. “It’s me. My stomach hurts.”

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better–tell me the
truth: you think I’m a hag!”

Roger gestured toward a chair by the bed.

“Have a seat Imelda.”

Felicity sat and smiled, “Bring me my choose.”

Roger hopped up and scurried over to the walk in closet.

Felicity watched him cross the room.

“I like that little droop in your ass.”

“I should have known not to let you see me naked. How
many pairs do want, Imelda?”

“Bring me my dance shoes!” Felicity laughed. “I was giving you
a compliment; you’re a sexy older man.”

“And you are well-preserved; are these the heels you want?”

Roger held up a pair of bright red Christian Louboutin
cha-cha heels.

“Perfect Ferdinand; you may kees my toes.”

“Will you promise to give me a break on the age thing?

“Oh, but Roger, Roger, Roger; I’m having a mid-life crisis: there
are books to buy and surgeons to consult!”

Roger crossed the room, knelt by her feet and said
in a mocking whine: “When I feel old I feel guilty!”

Felicity slipped her feet into her pumps and stood: “That’s
the spirit, darling. You write the book; I’ll buy the shoes.”

 

<c> Robert Goldstein 1990 -2017 All Rights Reserved

for Christy Birmingham with a change of perspective.

A Semi-Literate Boy Named Bobby

I was a project kid, pretty but hard to make.

Most of the men I let into my life started in pursuit but stayed as teachers.

I was bright and gave my full attention to any man who was willing to teach me about the world of art.

The music I knew was the music of my parents and the other kids in the projects.

From my Father I got Porter Wagoner, Buck Owens, and Skeeter Davis.

From my Mother I got Dinah Shore and Kitty Wells.

From the other kids in the projects I got Motown.

With the music of Motown I learned I could dance and for me dancing is still spiritual.

Everyone said I moved like a black kid, and it was true.

Black folks were my friends and neighbors.

As far as I was concerned I was a Black kid with pale skin.

I figured that Blackness was as much about class as it is about race.

My friend Paul knew I knew my ‘place’ in Charleston’s antiquated class system and that I wanted out.

Paul lived in the rich part of Charleston; the historic district near Battery Park.

He invited me to lunch one especially bright spring day.

He poured tea and showed me a decorative plate that was inlaid with hundreds of shimmering butterfly wings.

Paul liked exquisite objects.

We stepped onto the patio that overlooked his garden and I brought a branch of wisteria to my nose.

Paul said that he wanted me to hear a record.

He said he wanted my opinion.

Then he placed the Beethoven Violin Concerto in D Minor on the turntable.

I heard the needle drop, and then a timpani followed by woodwinds.

I listened as Beethoven told me a story.

I had never heard a story more complex and profound.

It was more beautiful than anything I had ever seen or touched.

And I never stopped listening….

Beethoven Violin Concerto in D major, Op. 61

by Yehudi Menuhin, violin Wilhelm Furtwangler, cond Philharmonia Orchestra of London Recorded: 1953

  1. Allegro ma non troppoSecond Life designs:Sharp by [ZD] ALEX OPEN MESH HOODIE black – S

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Fusion

You have no

business

No right to

Tell me how to feel.

I do what I must:

I wake up

and pull

the Sky

down.

I plant

my feet

in the best

tradition.

Here, where the

mattress is soft

and damp;

we are bound

by wire and anger:

we are one again.

(c) Rob Goldstein 2015-2017 All Rights Reserved

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Felique Dupré in the Haunted World: Farewell my Raisin D’etre!

Marcy awakens the next morning and Felique is gone.

On the mirror, scrawled in lipstick: Farewell my raisin d’être!

Behind the message Marcy’s reflection bubbles and is slowly
replaced by the face of a hag.

“Who are you!” demands the Hag.

Illustration of the 'Hag' based on a photograph of a paste up on Valencia Street in San Francisco
The male gods are titillated but not amused

“I am Marcy Bloomingdale of Queens, New York.”

“No! You are Persephone, ex-wife of Hades!”

Marcy rolls her eyes, “What he want?”

“The male gods are titillated but not amused by your lesbian ways. They take revenge on you by unleashing your love’s late Mother for she cannot bear to see her daughter happy. Felique is her hostage in the Underworld.”

“By the gods,” Persephone, alias Marcy Bloomingdale of Queens, New York exclaims, “How can I retrieve her!”

The image of the Hag begins to vanish, “You must seek the mercy of Hades…You must return to the Underworld…”

To be continued…

(c) Rob Goldstein 2017 All Rights Reserved

Felique Dupré in the Haunted World in the Haunted World: An Affair

 

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