Nineties girl Florence Spring joined Avon to find her Edward
Scissorhands but instead needs to rescue his porno alter ego.
When Florence notices her eccentric ex-boyfriend, Eddie,
isn't putting on his usual show in the front window on Friday night she decides
to investigate. She asks her best
friend, Nelson Tyler, to help but he seems more interested in seducing Florence
than in finding her personal flasher. Florence has no idea when she embarks on
the adventure she will accidentally shoot an undercover policeman, or that her
actions will lead to Nelson's kidnapping.
Now with two men missing she has no choice but to continue and thwart
the plans of a psychotic soon to be divorcee.
She needs to rescue Nelson because life without him is unbearable,
especially since she's discovered his long sensitive fingers are far more
erotic than scissorhands.
Guest Post
Fairytales, fantasy
and films.
Have you ever watched
a movie and wished your life was like that? My heroine Florence Spring has. In
fact she is so caught up in the dream of finding her perfect on screen man,
Edward Scissorhands, that she fails to notice her ideal man was there all
along.
Florence sucks at
selling Avon and I feel her pain as I too sucked at selling Avon. But
undeterred she carries on determined to be the closest thing to Peg Boggs she
can be and find the man of her dreams. Instead she gets sucked into a
nightmare, one where her ex-boyfriend, Eddie, who has taken up a role as her
personal Friday night flasher, goes missing. Does she call the cops? Hell no. She could be the next Nancy Drew,
Charlie’s Angel or Miss Marple if she doesn’t get a move on. The case of the
missing flasher requires her amateur, haphazard and ultimately life threatening
personal touch. So, whilst Florence lives out another fantasy by getting busy
and saving Eddie, who is going to save Florence? Fortunately her best friend
Nelson is used to playing knight in shining armor. However his interest in
Florence has never been less platonic and he does own a leather jacket. Has she
missed the man of her dreams?
About the Author:
Born and bred in the UK, my whole life was turned on its
head when, at the tender age of eighteen, I met and fell instantly in love with
my darling husband. I knew the minute I
met him I was going to marry him and, fortunately, he came to the same
conclusion less than six months later.
My husband has shown me the world, starting by bringing me
to Australia. The country we now call
home, and where we have raised our two boys. It didn’t take me long to turn
native, becoming a citizen and dropping the British accent. However, our
wanderlust didn’t stop there. We have moved from state to state, always ready
for a new adventure. We have also
visited many destinations around the
world.
My stories reflect my love for travel and exotic locations,
along with my quirky British sense of humor. Well, you can’t give up all of
your heritage now can you?
Excerpt:
Florence Spring trudged down another empty street. A bag
full of lipstick, foundation, eye shadow, and all manner of items designed to
make a girl of the nineties a sight to behold, swung from her shoulder. The
tote banged against her hip, aggravating an already aching bruise. Even though
drizzle soaked her face, she resisted the urge to wipe it off. She knew it was
her duty to represent the products she sold to the best of her ability. The
handbook for sales 101 read, better to appear damp, than smudged.
This wasn’t how she’d envisioned life as an Avon
representative. Where was her dark castle? Her mysterious hero? When would she
find a beautiful man with a penchant for leather and rubber? She joined up to
find her Edward Scissorhands. The closest she’d come was his porno alter ego,
Edward Penishands.
If Eddie Cain wiggled his dick in his front room window one
more time as she walked past, she would take the gold-handled nail scissors, on
special this week for two dollars with any order over twenty dollars, and snip
the little worm off. Bad enough she’d gone out with him once—once, and only
once. The relationship had been doomed from the start. After his mother died,
Eddie became most odd. Their one date had confirmed her belief that he was
strange.
Snuggled together upstairs at the back of the number
forty-six bus, he had whispered that he would like to handcuff her to his bed
and whip her with a riding crop. She hadn’t even had a chance to answer before
he let out a low moan and spontaneously ejaculated, leaving a noticeable stain
on the front of his gray gabardine pants. She’d graciously lent him her jacket
to carry in front of him as they climbed from the bus and entered the movie
theatre. When he unzipped his fly and pulled the worm free at the first
on-screen kiss, she excused herself and fled. She never did ask for her jacket
back. It was her favorite too, genuine faux leather and fur. Never mind. She
doubted even the dry cleaners would have been able to get the spunk stain out.
Cautiously, she approached number ninety-two Stoffer Street.
The curtains hung open, however the front window stood bare. Eddie appeared to
be out. She checked her watch. Bang on time. Eight p.m. as usual. She passed by
every Friday night. He lived on the most direct route from her allotted sales
patch to Nelson’s house. Eddie always waited for her. This time of the year he
was usually silhouetted by the living room light. He’d never missed an
opportunity to wiggle his wanger at her before. As much as she hated to admit
it, she missed the little bugger; the wanger, not Eddie. She needed a good
laugh after the dismal sales she usually mustered and Eddie always managed to
add some element of humor to the whole sordid show. If only he learned to do
the comedy act without the nudity he could take his show on the road. Of
course, he could take it on the road with the striptease if he wanted to appeal
to a whole other audience.
Truth be told, seeing him semi-naked once a week was, she
suspected, the closest either of them had come to dating lately. If only she
could find her prince charming, all dark, mysterious and quiet. She had a thing
for silent movies. Everyone knew men of few words were sexy. You could imagine
all sorts going on in their heads. Plans to show you the world, slay dragons,
and win your heart. No one wanted to deal with the truth of them wondering if
your boobs were real or if you had tissues stuffed in your bra, or calculating
how long it would take them to wrestle you out of your underwear.
With a shrug, Florence tugged her jacket collar up in a
feeble attempt to protect herself from the steady precipitation. She hated
winter. Every year her mother reminisced about her childhood in England,
telling Florence about the huge family Christmases they had which broke up the
long cold months. Nothing happened in winter in New South Wales. Florence only
had her mother’s secondhand memories of chocolate box celebrations. Although,
Grandma Wilson did her best to break up the monotony of endless gray days with
her Christmas in June party. Florence recalled the last outrageous family event
only six weeks ago. What had that been beneath the mistletoe with Nelson? She
shivered, even though she wasn’t cold. She needed to push that memory right out
of her head before she reached her destination.
With a dismissive toss of her head, just in case he was
watching, she left Eddie to his own sordid devices and continued on her way—her
ego a little deflated. Even the local flasher had lost interest.
She turned the corner and a feeling of contentment swept
over her. Her best friend Nelson’s home was her bolt-hole from reality, away
from her parents and the madness at her house. The small, rundown, two-bed town
house might look in need of TLC to some. To her it stood out as an oasis in a
horrible sales jungle. A lamp lit vision shrouded in mist. The tiny house was a
cottage by the sea, a cozy little shack in the woods, anything her imagination
fancied.
Not bothering to knock, she turned the handle and stepped
inside. A blast of motor oil and male musky-scented air greeted her, along with
Nelson’s cat, Killer. She lifted the undersized ginger fur ball to her face and
rubbed him against her cheek, giggling at his loud purr. He waited for her
every week, as did Nelson. She always popped in to warm up before he escorted
her home.
A shout came from the kitchen. “That you, Squirt?”
She put the cat down and dropped her heavy bag on the side
table. After tugging off her sodden woolen gloves and damp jacket, she tossed
them on the banister to dry.
“Yeah, it’s only me.”
She secured the front door so Killer couldn’t escape, and
sauntered the length of the threadbare carpeted hallway, glancing at the shiny
new bolt and padlock on the basement door. She stopped on the threshold of the
kitchen and stared at the vision before her.
Nelson glanced up from where he was kneeling on the floor.
His eyes were hidden by his tousled dark hair. A huge grin spread across his
face. “Hot chocolate’s by the stove.”
She stared at the red and polished chrome monster currently
taking up half the floor space. “What are you doing?”
0 comments:
Post a Comment