Short Stories & Essays

January 25, 2016

JJ Cords' real name was Julieta Juliana Cordoba. Her blonde hair was born brown. Her take charge, type A demeanor was about as real as her newly bought and paid perfect breasts. She enunciated her english exercises every morning to the slightest tinge of an accent, only noticeable to her. Working for her, while engaging and dynamic was exhausting and I couldn't take it anymore. She used to pay me $300 a day which was so not worth it. Trust me. No amount of money was worth it. She was erratic. One second you did a great job and the next you had to do it all over again. Nothing was ever good enough for her. 


Jules Cords was a poet. I met her in college when her blonde hair was red. She could write love songs with the best of them, but for some reason never pursued the spotlight. She never knew she was good enough. I remember one particular open mic night. Only four people were there, but those four people were mesmorized. We weren't very serious, s...

December 29, 2015



Alan Elder was born six pounds, eight ounces with the largest baby penis his mother had ever seen. She didn't circumsize him for fear that it would hurt too much. Susan Elder, an only daughter and single mom, had always considered herself a tolerant, brave, revolutionary. She had always been the supportive one, the creative one, the outgoing one. This is what she told herself the morning of Alan's gender reassignment surgery. This was her mantra as she breathed in and out and counted once more to ten. Not that she needed her therapist to give her this advice, she didn't need a therapist because, well, she was tolerant, she was brave, she was revolutionary. 


THAT morning, the morning that everything was going to change, she looked at photos of Alan as a baby.  She laughed at his giant baby penis. She saw him so uncomfortable in all of his toddler clothes, except for when he had pants on his head; his "hair". He looked most happy with his tutu, with his barbies, with his mothers shoes....

December 14, 2015

“It’s not you, it’s me; it’s my job, family, health, last girlfriend”, was the gist of what I would ritually say to women after a few weeks of dating. Most of them bought it. They would hug me, crying,  and wish me luck on my recovery, my promotion, my dead relatives or whatever other bogus excuse I’d made up as to why I could no longer date them. “Tim, I know you’ll find the right woman one day, I just wish it could have been me”, they would say over and over again. It was pathetic really. All of them desperate, all of them hopeful; all of them except Laura Ashford. 



I met Laura at a house party in college while on a date with another woman. She was witty, and funny and very attractive. After “dating” her for a few weeks, I used my famous line on her and she let me have it. She called me a liar, a child and selfish bastard. She was right, but she gave me a chance five years later and when I ruined it, five years again after that. She finally gave me the pink slip in Novembe...

December 2, 2015


He had his eyes on me all night. I knew it was wrong, but this was the first time in my 

entire life, that he had shown any kind of interest towards me and while I felt 

disgusted, I was also overwhelmed with love and excitement carefully masked 

behind an uncaring face. Men are wired to want what they can’t have, so I forced 

every particle of my body to ignore him when all I wanted to do was study his face 

and see what his touch felt like. He had no idea who I was.


He came over to me and asked if he could buy me a drink. He spoke Spanish and was 

predictably seductive in his look and approach. I let him buy me a Cuba Libre, a rum 

and coke concoction.  He tried to make a joke about the age of the rum being used. 

He said it reminded him of us meeting here since the rum was twenty years older 

than the diet coke. I laughed and for a moment, recognition, but he quickly buzzed it 

off, as in his mind it wasn’t possible. None of this was possible.


I asked him what he was thinking and he sai...

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