Peter Cherches

Deux histoires

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Autumn Leaves

 

I’d been invited to a party at the home of an old college friend I hadn’t seen in ages. Everybody in our circle from the old days was there. It wasn’t an official reunion, but the host had managed to track us all down, and some even came from out of town. I pretty much recognized everyone through the signs of age. It was fun catching up. At one point I felt a tap on my shoulder. 

 

“Peter?” A woman’s voice. I was sure it was hers. 

 

I turned to look. It was indeed Lynn, as beautiful as ever 45 years later, beautiful in the way that Charlotte Rampling and Julie Christie have retained their beauty. As beautiful, and, yes, even sexier. We’d had a brief but intense fling way back when. We hugged and I felt a jolt of electricity. Without a word we found our way to a bedroom, sat on the bed and started making out. From guarded hesitancy to full-on passion, it was intoxicating. Lightheaded, I looked imploringly into her eyes. Lynn nodded her head and whispered, “Yes.” 

 

We undressed each other and started fucking, the missionary position—maybe we fell into it naturally as an homage to a time when our repertoire of positions was far more limited. It was perfect, totally simpatico. After a while, though, I noticed something odd. With each thrust I felt something unpleasant against my chest and belly. Something dry and scratchy, making a crunching sound as my flesh made contact with hers. As I lifted my torso, I discovered that Lynn’s body was covered in dry, fallen autumn leaves, mostly brown, with hints of orange.

 

Then I heard another voice in the room. “Looks like you guys wasted no time getting reacquainted.” It was Sammy, my best bud in college. We had kept in touch for a while, but I’m sure I hadn’t seen or spoken to him for at least thirty years. Time has a way.

 

“Here let me give you a hand,” Sammy said. I wondered what he had in mind. As Lynn and I continued fucking, Sammy came over to the bed and brushed the leaves off Lynn’s belly and breasts with the back of his hand.

 

“Thanks pal, I owe you one,” I told Sammy, without missing a beat.

 

Petals

 

Two men who had daisies where their penises should be were in love with the same woman. Neither had declared his love to the woman, but each had visions of her watering his flower, so he’d no longer have to do it himself. The two men were despondent, pining for the woman, but they were also the best of friends, which made the situation even more difficult. Finally, the agony becoming too much to bear, the men decided they had to find out which of them, if any, she truly desired. One of the men had an idea. “Since we have daisies where our penises should be, why don’t we play she loves me, she loves me not?”

 

“What a brilliant idea!” the other replied, and they got down to it. One man would pull a petal from the other’s daisy and say, “She loves me.” Then he’d pull another petal and say, “She loves me not.” Then they’d change roles, and the other man would do the same. And it would go this way back and forth until they determined which of them she loved. Or at least that was the plan, but something funny happened after each of the men had pulled a few petals from the other’s daisy: they realized they were really in love with each other.

 

And on top of that, they each had a few petals left.

 

A longtime friend of the Macabre, Peter Cherches' latest book is Things, from Bamboo Dart Press.

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