by Marge Boksy

“Do you take it black or with cream?” a strong voice called from the kitchen.

She laughed lightly. “You know I like everything black,” she said. “And two lumps, please.”

Maya Angelou came into the room balancing two cups of coffee on saucers. She smiled warmly, the sun enveloping the crevices of her face and brightening her eyes. Her guest watched as she thoughtfully placed the coffee, turning the handle towards her visitor, placing a spoon and two lumps of sugar on the saucer and gently nudging it in her direction.

“I do love to watch you work,” the other woman said.

“I love that you love it, Toni.”

She turned to grasp the cream and her head wrap unraveled a little. It flopped softly against her forehead and both of the women laughed warmly, Maya reaching to fix it.

“Occupational hazard,” she joked.

“It’s just excited,” Morrison cajoled. “Just like you.”

Angelou smiled. “You’re too kind.”

“You’re too cute.”

Toni plopped the sugar into her coffee and swished it about with the spoon. She eyed her partner pervasively, looking over the folds of her clothes and forehead, over her warm eyes and firm lips. Maya basked in the general comfort of Toni’s silver locks, watching them bounce in time with the rotation of the spoon around her dark, dark coffee.

“I don’t mean to be obtrusive,” Morrison said after a long time, breaking the silence, “but if we’re going to…you know…well, you’re going to have to put the chicken in the oven.”

Maya giggled. “Oh look at me,” she said, “Poet Laureate of the United States and I’m giggling like a school girl.”

Toni put hand on her forearm. “That is the best way to be,” she said, biting her lip.

They searched each others’ eyes, looking maybe for love if not passion. Toni’s grasp, slightly cool despite the sun and coffee, on her arm; Maya’s head wrap contrasting purple with her exuberant dark face.

“I have to…the chicken,” Maya said, breaking away despite her want to stay together.

“Yeah….” Toni said, “Yeah. It’s, uh, KFC, right?”

“Is there any other kind?” Angelou responded. The two women laughed.

Maya sat down again. “So where should we, you know?” Toni asked.

“Well, I have a room downstairs. All prepared for us. Stocked with everything we need except for the chicken.”

“Good, good. Cause tonight honey,” Toni reached and brushed Maya’s face, “if you don’t mind my saying, tonight I’m gon’ make your caged bird sing.” She drew Angelou closer.

“Oh, Toni…I forgot how creative you are with your language.”

“Oh Maya…sing me some free-verse.”

“Ah, I want to relish your metaphors.” She placed a hand on Morrison’s shoulder.

“I’ll ravish your imagery, if you ain’t careful.”

“Honey, I want to annotate your succulent parables….”

“I want you like I want your similes. Oh, Maya, Maya….”

“Toni, I want to express the hardship of the African race with you….”

“Oh Maya, I—”

Behind the women, the oven timer chimed. Bleep, it cried, Bleep Bleep! Toni softened her embrace.

“Oh Maya, I think you know what time it is!”

“Oh Toni!”

“Uh, Maya, Maya babe…ah, you know where I like my fried chicken. Mmmmm….”

by Herman Lande

Rubbing the scratchy gray cotton all about his face, Jimi purred lovingly. He let the sock travel all around his body and coil around his legs, snaking up to his arms. Both hands parted the opening as he plunged his nose into it. Jimi took in all the smells of who ever the foot the sock usually called home. Jimi smelled traces of butter and flour in it and figured his victim loved to bake pastries. Jimi had a sock fetish.

Taking a second whiff of the sexual cloth tube, Jimi remembered the chase. How scared his victim must have been! Sweet, savory sweat running down the victim’s ankles, pooling in the bottom of the sock. Jimi had been like a rhino in heat when he plowed through that alley, ramming his target with his seductive horn.

Reliving the moment excited Jimi all over again. He gripped the sock in his hands and his mouth foamed with saliva. He began to tongue the sock, letting the individual threads bump about his taste buds, like docile sheep.

“Oh god! Don’t rape me! I have an important dish to make. Don’t tare up my asshole!”

In the alley, Jimi had just laughed and laughed. He was like hobo who had found a preloaded IV needle in the dumpster. Jimi had clasped the man’s foot and gently wiggled off his shoes.

“Rock-a-by-baby, on-the-tree-top,” cooed Jimi as he fuddled with the laces. After a few moments, Jimi eased off the shoe and looked inside it. On the sole of the shoe, inscribed in bold letters, was ‘Big Papa.’

“Oh Big Papa, have I been a silly boy?” snickered Jimi. Big Papa could only scream in terror as Jimi played the ‘little piggy’ game while taking extra time to admire the thickness and color of the sock. Jimi was thankful it was cotton rather than wool, because he found wool socks were harder to clean after making love to. Jimi knew it was time to end his time with Big Papa. He wrapped his nose with a handkerchief doused in ammonia, making certain his mouth was shut. As soon as he was out cold, Jimi yanked off his socks and stuffed them into his shirt’s lapel pocket. He hid the body in a dumpster, but not before kissing Big Papa’s big toes.

He couldn’t take it anymore! All of the memories made Jimi go into a frenzy as he stuffed the sock into his mouth and sucked it like a kid with a lollipop. Jimi was in ecstasy.

For, you see, Jimi had a sock fetish.