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Fairy Tale Sex
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Flesh or fantasy? In Fairy Tale Sex, you can have BOTH! A baker wonders whether an intriguing sweet-toothed fairy is after sugar or something more tantalizing in “Devil’s Food Cake” by Shanna Germain.Mexican folk tales meet the story of the little magic girl in Anne Meadows’ “Matches” for a more romantic and hopeful twist on the original. Evan Mora’s Pinoccio is granted a transformation of a different sort in “Real Boy” after he falls in love with a fairy. Two visitors to Thailand get more than they bargained for when they submit to a scarlet-lipped stranger in Lisabet Sarai’s “Fourth World.” A wife knows the man returning from her husband’s business trip isn’t as he seems in Charlotte Stein’s “The Return,” yet he awakens desires she hasn’t had in years
Published: Cleis Press on
ISBN: 9781573449380
List price: $3.99
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Fairy Tale Sex

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INTRODUCTION: OUT-OF-THIS-WORLD BEDTIME READING

Someday your prince will come…and come again! In the magical realm of sexy fairy tales, there are many handsome princes, and they always know just when to rescue you and whisk you off to bed. We all loved fairy tales as children, and as adults, we can appreciate their endlessly sexy undertones. In this collection of bedtime stories, the sex is not hidden between the lines. Lustful sugarspinners, sensitive hairy beasts, and all manner of hot and bothered characters from your favorite fairy tales are having a good time. And you will, too, as you read what these clever storytellers have wrought for you.

Flesh or fantasy? In Fairy Tale Sex, you can have both! A baker wonders whether an intriguing sweet-toothed fairy is after sugar or something more tantalizing in Devil’s Food, by Shanna Germain. A Mexican folk tale meets the story of the Little Match Girl in Anna Meadows’s Matches, with a more romantic and hopeful twist on the original. Evan Mora’s Pinocchio is granted a transformation of a different sort in Real Boy after he falls in love with a fairy. A school reunion builds on sexual tension and ends with a magical surprise in Nikki Magennis’s Old-Fashioned dp n=6 folio=v ? Glamour. A wife knows the man returning from her husband’s business trip isn’t as he seems in Charlotte Stein’s The Return, yet he awakens desires she hasn’t had in years. Delilah Devlin presents a traditional yet naughty retelling of the classic Beauty and the Beast in The Obedient Wife. Nothing in the world is more romantic than a fantasy-filled fairy tale. Fall into the pages of this book and maybe your wildest dreams will come true!

Alex Algren

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MATCHES

Anna Meadows

On the night of my eighteenth birthday, my mother’s boyfriend handed me a box of candles and locked me out of the house. He said if I sold them all I could come back the next morning.

They had belonged to his mother, who’d taught me to make dolls from yarn and cornhusks and let me call her my abuela even though we were not related. The deep red wax let off the perfume of rose oil as I walked to la plaza. It was empty this time of night, the men home or drunk at the tavernas, the women asleep or waiting. The church was dark, the water in the fountain still, and the cobblestones shone from the last rain.

A few men stood at the opposite side of the plaza. I wasn’t afraid. The men in this town were too lazy to do anything but call out, "Wanna take me to church, santa guapa?" But one of them kicked at something on the ground. Another bent down and hit it with the side of his fist. When I got closer, I heard them saying the same thing over and over. Chucho. Mutt. I wondered if they were beating a young coyote or a runt mule.

I knocked my heel against the stone of the fountain. Leave it alone.

They shuffled enough that I could see between their legs. Not an dp n=8 folio=2 ? injured coyote, but a young man lay curled on his side. He couldn’t have been much older than I was. His hair was as dark as mine, but his skin was lighter, like the inner peels of birch bark. Just the rings of his irises showed around the blacks of his eyes. They were green as an agave frond. That was what they had meant by calling him chucho. He was half-dark, like me, like the men who were beating him, but the rest of him was pale. I wondered which of his parents had been which.

He lifted his head a little when he saw me. Blood shone on his lip and temple. He still had a watch on. I doubted they had taken his wallet. For them, it was about the fun of it, not what he had on him. If it was, they would’ve picked a man with a better watch.

"Princesa likes los chuchos?" asked one of the standing men.

I struck a match, lit one of the candles, and held it out, a sheet of light between them and me. The two men holding the young man down did not let him go. I remembered the prayer my abuela had taught me, De las doce verdades del mundo. The twelve truths of the world. I said the first truth, la Casa Santa—the Lord’s house.

The two men holding the young man took their hands from him and stood up. They each took a slow step back, as though I clutched a handful of cursed rock salt over their mothers’ graves and was slowly opening my fingers.

I held the candle just in front of me so they could see my face. I said the second truth, dos Tablas de Moisés—two tablets of Moses—and the third, tres Trinidades—three trinities. The man on the ground began to move his lips, first silently, and then his mouth slowly gave the words sound. He knew the prayer, and said it with me. Cuatro Evangelios—four gospels.

The men startled to hear him speak. Cinco llagas—five wounds. The men backed away like tadpoles scattering from a firefly’s light. Seis candeleros—six candles. The men left la plaza and vanished into the dark.

The man on the ground mouthed the rest of the prayer, eyes closed. I thought he might have been too hurt to move, but then he crossed himself.

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Can you get up? I asked.

He did, wincing a little. He had on jeans, and a leather jacket that was cracked and worn enough that it must have been at least a generation old. He was too clean to be homeless. His jeans had the soft look of being worked in all day, but there were no stains except new ones from his blood and the wet ground.

"Are you a bruja?" he asked.

No, I said. Are you?

"My bisabuela was, he said. A curandera, I mean."

He must have had a young bisabuela; my great-grandmothers had all died years before I was born. I didn’t know why he used the word bruja at all if his great-grandmother had been a curandera. Bruja—witch—was a word used by those who feared the women who healed with herbs from midnight gardens.

He tossed his head to clear his hair from his forehead. He had a brow-bone and a mouth like other brown men, but the gringo in him showed up in the shape of his nose and in those eyes. Even in the dark, with the shadow of his hair as it fell back over his forehead, his eyes were green as a tree’s first sprouts. He was that strange kind of handsome that only chuchos were, freckles on brown skin, green eyes, and hair dark as a river at night.

My name’s Roman, he said, and he stood there looking at me.

Are you stupid?

He shook his head.

You gonna wait around here for them to come back? I asked.

He shook his head again, slower this time, and put his hands in his pockets to leave. He looked over his shoulder and said, Thank you, no trace of an accent. It made me wonder if he was all gringo, and the men had made a mistake.

He tried locking eyes with me. I blew the candle out so he couldn’t see my face.

When I couldn’t see his shape anymore, I huddled into a corner of the church steps with the box of candles. There was no one to buy them at this dp n=10 folio=4 ? time of night, not unless I walked down to the bars, and those weren’t the kind of men who cared for las rosas de la virgen.

I