All posts by Steven Hunley

I teach English, write my brains out, take things as they come.

You Belong to Me

You Belong to Me

We lay still for a while, but when I withdrew, we both laughed. Each of us laughed because we both knew we’d been somewhere together we’d never been before, and wherever it was, it was strangely enough, virgin territory.

This is why our sexual attraction is so fierce and unrelenting.

Making love takes us somewhere we’ve never been before, and we’re not afraid to explore it together hand in hand. We have no questions.

Besides, any fool could see the whole matter of us, of you and I, is no longer yours to decide. You’re my woman,  you don’t even belong to yourself anymore. You belong to me, and Babygirl, I’m never giving you up. We’re in this for life.Our wounded hearts have earned each other’s sanctuary.

©StevenHunley2017 You Belong to me.


Love for Sale

Love for Sale

On my third Heineken at Reynaldo’s place. Getting uninhibited, feeling frisky.

Stale cigarette smoke, red leather padded booths, dim light, bad business lately, for the girls that sit like nervous students against the wall on a bench. They are students, students of the school of hard knocks, and take payment for wicked acts, extra if there are no intermissions.

Silvia sits apart from the rest. Assured, calm, collected.

While the others wait nervously to be chosen, Silvia isn’t cut of the same cloth. Those girls are common sackcloth, while Silvia is silk. While they are pretenders, she is rare earth, a unique element. But I don’t know this. I know nothing, nothing, for I am Shultz ven it comes to women.

While the vast majority of customers simply walk in, pay Reynaldo, and point, not so with Silvia’s patrons, they are patrons of the arts. They stroll in with great deliberation, ask politely, crave introductions, and produce business cards with an executive’s flourish. They have manners, are men of distinction, smell of old money.

On one end of the bench sits Lupe. She’s says she’s from the Iberian Peninsula. She has more obvious fire, they call her The Opal. But Silvia has more success. Magdalena, who sits next to Lupe, is better looking. She posed nude for magazine covers in Cartagena and once dated a cartel baron. Still, Silvia gets the business. Francesca, who sells dirty 3D pictures of herself in living color, can twist and contort her herself with great skill. They call her the talented acrobat. Never the less, it is Silvia, and no other, who garners monumental reputation.

“Why is this, Reynaldo?,” I asked the barkeep. “Why does Silvia gets all the business? Certainly it isn’t her beauty. Many of the girls are younger, more vital, more chic. I must know, so tell me, what secret does Silvia possess?”

Reynaldo folded his towel, twisted his liquorish moustache, and grew thoughtful.

“For Silvia, each time is new, each time, she is a virgin. For her customers, it’s a rare experience, a precious commodity. She makes them feel it’s their wedding night, a white wedding, and nothing less.”

©Steven Hunley2017 Love for Sale