Guest Post: Fifty Shades of Green
A Horned God in Her Garden— “Phallus Impudicus”
I’d like to welcome Rebekah Shardy to the blog today to talk about her story “Phallus Impudicus” from Fifty Shades of Green. Over to you, Rebekah!
As a married middle-aged woman, I hiked alone in wild places and sometimes felt the unexpected flush of raw desire. This inspired me to write about the lonely divorcee, Carol, whose bed (and flower beds) have been neglected far too long. Despite following the conventional female script, her once-rambunctious gardens, both real and metaphorical, are withering. What is a woman to do?
Sometimes when the student is ready, the teacher will appear. In this case, magic knocks on the door in the guise of a garden handyman—Pan in his earthy glory—and amazing rejuvenation results. Flowers bloom unexpectedly and abundantly. Every woman on the block loiters outside just to pick up his musky scent. Carol’s old friend vies for his fickle attentions and no female neighbor is safe. Since we can’t control the forces of nature any more than we can the outcome of lust, this tale will end unexpectedly for some. As Wilde said: “There are but two tragedies in Life: not getting what one wants, and getting it.”
The word “pan” connotes universal (pandemic, panacea). Is it not universal—the freeing sexuality that knocks on everyone’s door as it does Carol’s? The question is: do we answer it? And if we do, beyond the abundant energy and exuberant pleasure, is there disillusionment? You will have to read the story to find out, but we know one thing: Carol will never be the same for having loved the wildness within her.
Excerpt from Fifty Shades of Green “Phallus Impudicus”
The garden languished, drooping in a spell of spiteful drought. She watered dawn and dusk, but nothing planted by her hand seemed happy to live. The once boisterously fertile front yard garden withered before her red-rimmed eyes, an illustration of her own flagging vitality.
It was minutes after she poured herself a rum and cola in the middle of a Saturday afternoon that she heard the wind rummage wildly through her backyard. Lightning crackled and ended in a boom that made her jump. She peered out the patio door to see it had split the little jockey statue in two. Don had left it behind when he abandoned her for a younger honey; and she had hauled it to the ‘unwanted pile’ out back. “Racist bastard,” she murmured with satisfaction at the sight. Rain followed, sizzling with a vengeance.
Carol then felt oddly horny. Her thoughts strayed to the little Moroccan sex toy an ancient aunt brought back from travels, completely innocent to its purpose (she had used it as a paperweight) when she gifted it to her niece. Carol kept the thing beneath the pillow on Don’s side of the bed for easy access. It was thick white porcelain with blue raised scrawl of exotic letters around its side, rounded and pouty as a young breast, even ending in a red tip. Amazing in the way its sides hugged the inner labia, its point aimed for her own hard tip, eager to meet the keen intruder . . .
A rapping at the front door startled her. She usually checked before she opened it, but this time, flustered by the storm’s recent vandalism and her inexplicable fantasy, she rushed to open it.
A dark man loomed before her; at least 6 feet 4 inches, imposingly strong, black eyes staring confidently into her widening ones.
“You called me.”
“I’m the one you need.”
“Look, I know the house looks bad right now, but I don’t want any roofing.”
“Your garden?” His round soft lips curled in derision as he turned to peer back at the sad mess.
It occurred to her that she could use someone with muscle to take some things out and put others in. And that he was getting drenched yet didn’t seem to care. “Why don’t you come round to the patio before you drown?”
The rain was making a racket on the patio’s metal awning. He headed instead straight for the detached mud room before she could get his attention. She followed him breathlessly into the doorless shanty.
“This is good,” he said peering around the shadowy, spider-webbed structure. He seemed
most interested in the old chaise longue in a neglected corner. “I can stay here.”
Before she could protest his presumption she had to ask, “What is that smell?” It wasn’t exactly unpleasant; definitely musky. Earth, absolutely, but also sky, the salt of a slow-moving river, and something darker. Nothing in the mud room could have smelled so rich and dense, so vital you could plant dirty thoughts in it and they would become a screaming jungle.
It was him.
Blurb and buy links
Fifty Shades of Green is a garden of naughty delights!
Within our pages you’ll discover:
– Virile gods and their mortal conquests.
– A community garden’s secret (and very dirty) fertility ritual.
– An Edwardian dominatrix living out her sadistic garden fantasies.
– Student/teacher lessons in horticultural hotness.
– Young lovers seeking the help of green witches.
– A beautiful, blind priest who helps an injured traveler.
. . . and so much more.
Peek inside the garden gate.
(You know you want to.)
A dozen racy tales await.
Fifty Shades of Green is a collection of twelve delicious and erotic short stories with gardening themes. What you’ll find in these pages is hotter than the hottest pepper on the Scoville index of heat! And smart, not smutty. Well . . . maybe a little smutty.
To buy Fifty Shades of Green (it’s on sale, just for you):
Rebekah Shardy (a.k.a. Rebekah, R.S.S., and Becky Trachsel) is a freelance writer and the author of 98 Things a Woman Should Do in Her Lifetime. She has received three short fiction awards, broadcast nationally, and has written for the stage. She edited and self-published five anthologies for under-represented groups to tell their stories: two Voices of the Muse (women on domestic violence/social challenges); Colors of Courage (30 GLBTQ writers); Last Hugs at the Exit Door (hospice patients), and Incredible: Selected Poems of Malachi Truman Harris.
FREE Sample Stories!
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