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.
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?
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?”