When I awoke in our sunny hotel room, my wife was reading a travel guide in a large, comfortable armchair, her bare feet together on the seat and her knees bent out from her body. Seated in this position, wearing a mini-dress, she was giving me an intimate view. Her narrowly-clothed crotch took center stage, framed by the creamy curtain of her thighs and the cushion of her bottom. I noticed how the slim gusset of her lavender panties lay clingingly in the center of her slit, leaving the outer parts of her femininity visible. The lewd effect was crowned by the cute, straw sun-hat she had put on, in preparation for the day's tourist activities.

When the wind suddenly changed direction and the weather vane on top of the roof rotated a full ninety degrees, the man walking along the deserted street turned his head the other way and shielded his face with his hands. The wind was frigid, blowing down from the north. It was late at night. He had been working late as he usually did, partly because he loved his work, partly because he didn’t like being alone in his apartment, except to sleep. His name was Robert Black. He was a research scientist in one of the large pharmaceutical companies. He was working on the development of new drugs.

It's not that he wishes he were dead, but Wendell sometimes feels that he doesn't quite see the point of being alive. It isn't a despairing emotion or even a depressive one; it's more just a function of garden-variety, existential boredom.

She rises like Venus from the ocean, her sheer swimsuit clinging to her like a second skin. Her rosy nipples are visible, and so is the curve of her stomach, the shadowy indent of her belly button, and the dark triangle between her legs—she might as well be wearing nothing. The Parliament dangling from her coral lips is soaking wet and she's laughing, the sea rippling waves of orange behind her. Her hair hangs in wet clumps around her shoulders, dripping salt and sand and sex.

Today's Special: Wanton Delight, Served In Three Way

Smirking at the typo on the sign outside the China Curry Palace, I decided to try the restaurant anyway. A cloud of pungent spices made me cough as I opened the door. Inside, a horseshoe of stools ringed an open kitchen where a slim Asian man in chef’s whites orchestrated the motion of pans, food, and assistants with barked orders in Cantonese.