Podcasts about miss emily

This week, we're talking to the authors of a new book about spaceflight called "Star Bound: A Beginner's Guide to the American Space Program, from Goddard's Rockets to Goldilocks Planets and Everything in Between," Emily Carney and Bruce McCandless III. Emily started the popular Facebook group Space Hipsters, now 66,000 members strong, and Bruce is a retired lawyer and space enthusiast who also happens to be the son of Bruce McCandless II, the NASA astronaut who flew on the shuttle and pioneered the use of the Manned Maneuvering Unit. We're going to cover a lot of territory in this one, so take your hand off the eject lever and strap in! Get "Star Bound" (Amazon Affiliate): https://amzn.to/4hvHtXo Headlines - Trump's Mars Vision: The administration's push for a crewed Mars mission by 2029 sparks debate. Tariq notes Elon Musk's visible enthusiasm, while Rod highlights the technical and political hurdles. - NASA Leadership Shuffle: Janet Petro named interim NASA administrator, bypassing Jim Free. The move might signal potential shifts in Artemis priorities. - DEI Rollbacks: Executive orders halt NASA's diversity initiatives, sparking workforce concerns. - SpaceX Milestones: 400th Falcon 9 landing celebrated, with 60 Starlink satellites launched in a week. ULA's Vulcan launch remains delayed. - Meteorite Doorbell Footage: A meteorite impact in Canada, captured on camera, stuns scientists and homeowners. - Quirky Moon Naming: IAU dubs a quasi-moon "Cardea" after the Roman goddess of door hinges. Main Topic: Star Bound - Book Overview: A cultural history of the U.S. space program, connecting missions like Mercury, Gemini, Apollo, and Skylab to societal shifts (e.g., civil rights movements). Authors Emily Carney and Bruce McCandless III emphasized accessibility, avoiding "engineer-speak." - Skylab's Legacy: Emily's passion shines as she details Skylab's role as a bridge between Apollo and the Shuttle, citing the groundbreaking science performed and how it may help us send humans to Mars. - MMU & Bruce McCandless II: Bruce shares stories of his father's iconic untethered flight with the Manned Maneuvering Unit (MMU), suggesting that future missions may revive jetpack tech for tourism and repairs. - Shuttle Era Love/Hate: Both guests defend the Shuttle's cultural impact (e.g., Judy Resnik's inspiring legacy) while acknowledging its flaws. - Conspiracy Corner: The duo laughs over wild theories (STS-1 being flown by clones; Neil Armstrong being a robot) and praises Rod's 2016 book "Amazing Stories of the Space Age" for documenting Project Orion's nuclear explosive propulsion tech. - Future of Space: The book ends at today's "precipice"—Artemis delays, Mars hype, and private ventures. Bruce predicts jetpacks and hotels; Emily urges newcomers to embrace space history's messy, human side. Don't Miss: - Emily's Space Hipsters Facebook group for lively space discussions. - Bruce's website (brucemccandless.com) with book sources and WWII project teasers. Hosts: Rod Pyle and Tariq Malik Guests: Emily Carney and Bruce McCandless III Download or subscribe to This Week in Space at https://twit.tv/shows/this-week-in-space. Get episodes ad-free with Club TWiT at https://twit.tv/clubtwit

Esta semana, en Islas de Robinson, años 80. Suenan: THE WATERBOYS - "ALL THE THINGS SHE GAVE ME" ("A PAGAN PLACE", 1984) / DEXY'S MIDNIGHT RUNNERS - "I LOVE YOU (LISTEN TO THIS)" ("DON'T STAND ME DOWN", 1985) / VIOLENT FEMMES - "I KNOW IT'S TRUE BUT I'M SORRY TO SAY" ("HALLOWED GROUND", 1984) / TEARS FOR FEARS - "MAD WORLD" ("THE HURTING", 1983) / TALK TALK - "CALL IN THE NIGHT BOY" ("IT'S MY LIFE", 1984) / TOM VERLAINE - "MISS EMILY" ("COVER", 1984) / THE CHILLS - "PINK FROST" (1984) / R.E.M. - "LIFE AND HOW TO LIVE IT" ("FABLES OF THE RECONSTRUCTION", 1985) / THE CHURCH - "ALREADY YESTERDAY" ("HEYDAY", 1985) / IMMACULATE FOOLS - "I FELL" ("HEARTS OF FORTUNE", 1985) / FELT - "MY DARKEST LIGHT WILL SHINE" ("IGNITE THE SEVEN CANNONS", 1985) / THE BLUE NILE - "A WALK ACROSS THE ROOFTOPS" ("A WALK ACROSS THE ROOFTOPS", 1984) / ECHO & THE BUNNYMEN - "OCEAN RAIN" ("OCEAN RAIN", 1984) / THE WATERBOYS - "THE BIG MUSIC" ("A PAGAN PLACE", 1984) /Escuchar audio

 Brandon has been harboring a secret librarian fantasy by horn pixy. Listen to the ► Podcast at Connected.Wednesday night before Thanksgiving, 2010 Brandon has been harboring a secret librarian fantasy for many years, but Emily was hardly his idea of a hot librarian. She was the type of women who came a side-serving of Complication. So why couldn't he stay away from her?It was almost time for last call. Brandon wiped the sodden rag over the counter and put the empty glass the girl had just put down into the crate under the bar with the other dirty glasses.“One more?” he asked. She nodded and took her wallet from her purse. He handed her the scotch on the rocks; her sixth or seventh one for the evening; and wondered how she managed to keep her balance on the high barstool. Her eyes had that glazed look of somebody who had definitely had a few too many, but if he had not been the one to pour her drinks; all six or seven of them; he would not have guessed she was drunk. There was no characteristic slumping or wobbling or even raucous laughter. In fact, her ramrod straight posture and uncanny balance reminded him of a ballet teacher, especially with her hair scraped back into a bun like that. She was pretty enough, in a neat, mousy little way. It was impossible to hazard a guess at the figure under the bulky, shapeless coat she was wearing over goodness knew what. She was wearing glasses with a nice frame that actually suited her face in a non-descript kind of way. Brandon had never seen such a dignified drunk in his life. She had better manners drunk than most people had when they were stone cold sober and sitting their grandmother's sitting rooms.“Thank you,” she said politely when she accepted her change and slipped half of it into the tip-jar, as she had been doing all evening. He kept an eye on her as he started straightening bottles on the shelf behind him, wondering about her story.Brandon loved his job. He owned several bars and still spent an evening now and then behind the counter. After serving drinks for three years across the globe when he was fresh out of high school, he enjoyed the occasional trip down memory lane. It fascinated him to see how alike people were, no matter where they lived. Broken hearts healed just as slowly in Hawaii as they did in Australia, and flirting was a universal art that did not differ too much from one place to another. He loved watching the games, the intrigues, the emotions, as people relaxed around him. He'd seen it all; the break-ups and the make-ups, the hopeful souls scouring the bar for the love of their lives; or at least the lay of the night. He'd seen people drink to forget, or to try to keep memories alive. He'd seen them drink because there was nothing else to do, or because they couldn't do anything else. He'd seen the lonely girls go home with the wrong men and knew they'd wake up the next morning with alcohol on their breath and regret in their hearts. He'd seen women play fast and loose, and the men who managed to escape their clutches. He'd seen the best and the worst of people, but he thought he'd never quite seen anything like the girl sitting there in a dull brown coat, finishing one drink after another without toppling over or falling into somebody's lap on her way to the bathroom. She was fresh and new, and it intrigued him.The bar was rather empty in comparison to most Friday nights. But to be fair, it was the middle of the month and there was a blizzard raging on outside. He was closing up earlier than usual to give the staff and the customers the chance to get home before it got worse. The neat lady; there was other way to describe her; was one of the diehards, but since she was hardly causing a scene, he didn't ask her to leave just yet while they were cleaning up.Finally they were done, and he had to ask her to leave. She blinked owlishly at him from behind her glasses.“Excuse me?” she asked, as if she had not heard him the first time.He leaned closer and thought he caught a whiff of something clean and fresh under the ripe smell of alcohol and closed-up people that hung over the room.“It's closing time,” he repeated. “We're going to lock up.”“Oh,” she said, frowning slightly as her impaired brain tried to sort out his words. “Right,” she said finally. “Well, I'll just go then, won't I?”“Can I call you a cab?” he asked, because she still had not moved from her seat. He waved a hand at the two waiters and the other barman, indicating that he would lock up and they could go home.She looked at him, her eyes still slightly unfocused.“To take you home,” he explained. “You shouldn't drive.”“Did I come with a car?” she asked, bewildered. “I hope not. I don't own a car. Did I steal one?”He grinned. This was fun. Normally drunk people just annoyed him a bit, but this girl struck a chord somewhere in his chest he'd never known to exist.“Not that I know of,” he said. “How did you get here?”“I must have walked,” she said, puzzled. “From work. Fancy that.”“What work do you do?” he asked as Rod, one of the waiters, closed the door behind the other staff members.“I'm a libal; librali; a li bra rian,” she said, looking quite pleased with herself for managing the word. Fancy that indeed, he thought, his mind going into immediate overdrive at the mention of her career. Like many, many men, he harbored a secret Librarian Fantasy. Even the way she broke it up into syllables didn't diminish the thoughts running though his head.The job suited her perfectly, he thought. She was cut out for the silence and air of wisdom and propriety that hung around the books like dusty clouds. He imagined being scolded by her for being too loud and grinned.“Where do you live?” he wanted to know. He would help her home, call her a cab, and forget about her. She was not the type of librarian he fantasized about; she had glasses, but they were the wrong kind, and even though her hair was scraped back out of her face, there was nothing sexy about it. She wasn't wearing nearly enough make-up and not at all the right kind of clothes, either. She was just a girl, hiding behind stacks of books. Her fingers were unadorned, and he guessed her to be single. She probably had four or five cats and a vibrator named Bob hidden in her nightstand that she rarely used because it made her feel guilty.“Up the street, I think,” she said, pointing vaguely with her fingers. “That way. You have pretty eyes.”He lifted an amused brow. ‘That way' would take him to the kitchen and eventually, an alleyway behind the building.“How about an address?” he asked. “To give to the cab-driver.”He grabbed a paper napkin and a pen. She wrote slowly, carefully, her handwriting still managing to be neater than his illegible scrawl.“You don't live far from me,” he said, lying smoothly. “Just one block south, to be precise. Would you like a lift home?”“Never get in the car with strangers,” she said firmly.“A cab driver is also a stranger,” he pointed out.“Not the same thing.”“Nope. But on second thought, I'm not sure you'll find a cab in this weather.”“That's right,” she said, smiling broadly for the first time. The expression transformed her face from plain to pretty. Her innocence amused and tickled him. “It's snowing. Like a White Christmas.”He couldn't help it. He grinned; it was January. She wasn't just drunk, she was completely sloshed. But still amazingly stable and logical.“Let's get you home,” he said, coming around the bar to help her from the stool. This was not something he ever did. He owned the bars; how the patrons got home was their problem, not his. But he couldn't just leave this girl to her own devices, not unless he wanted the next time he heard about her to be her name in an obituary. She'd probably fall asleep in the cold right outside his bar and die. It would cause all sorts of unwanted paperwork and police questions.She didn't even need his help standing up. The liquor, it seemed, had not affected her balance one bit. Still, he kept a hand on her back to steer her. He locked up behind them while she stood looking at him through her wide, trusting eyes.“You're really tall,” she said. “I wish I was taller.”“You're the perfect height,” he said. “See? My arm fits right round your shoulders. You're like a portable armrest.”She didn't giggle at that, and he wondered of she'd heard him. It was a pretty lame joke, but in his experience, drunk people will laugh at anything.“I wish I was hot,” she said. “Like you. But not like you. Like a girl. Then maybe I could have sex.”He coughed, choking on his breath, the way some people trip over their own feet.“What?” he asked when he finally had the air back in the right pipes.“I wish I was prettier,” she said matter-of-factly. “I'm not being pessimistic, really. I just; well, no use crying for the moon, is there?”“You are pretty,” he said automatically. She sighed.“I'm not. But thank you for pretending, anyway. Oh, my goodness, it's cold.”He had just opened the back door and yes, it was cold indeed. The wind was blowing sheets of snow into their faces and heaping it against the side of the building. He steered her with one hand in the direction of his car, which was parked under the staff-members-only roof.He cranked up the heater and took the drive slowly and carefully. The cold was making her drowsy, and he could see her head drooping slightly. No doubt the drinks were finally taking effect.“I take it you don't drink often?” he said.“Nope,” she said, pulling the edges of her rather ugly coat closer around her. “I've never been drunk before.”Until tonight, he thought, but he waited for her to continue on her own. After a few seconds, she did.“I'm sort of a virgin,” she said.” By choice. But it's not my choice.” She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Technically I'm no longer one. But I've never been with a man, you know?”Well, he certainly knew now. But his years as a barman had taught him when to listen and when to talk. So he kept quiet.“Well, anyway, I always thought it was because I'm too shy. Men don't like that, right?”“Some do,” he said, because what else could he say?“Liar,” she said fondly. “Nobody wants to be with somebody who's ashamed of themselves. I know I wouldn't like that in a man, so I can hardly expect any man to show interest in me. That's why I went out tonight,” she added after a few seconds. “Too see if drinking helps me get loose. Turns out I'm even boring when I'm drunk.”“You're not boring,” he said firmly. “You just need to learn how to fake it. Everybody is secretly self-conscious. Some just hide it better that others. You need to find a way to pretend. If you can convince yourself, you know other people will believe it.”“I don't think I'd know how,” she said. “I'm no good at acting or pretending or lying. I can't even lie to telephone sales people. ““I'll help you,” he said impulsively. “I'll show you how to fake it.”“Really?”“Sure. When you're sober. Anything I teach you now will be wasted.”“Like me,” she sighed. “I'm wasted, and all I want to do is go to bed. That's my building up there.'“That's a gas station,” he said with a grin.“Oh.” She frowned. “Then it's not my building, is it?”“I sincerely hope not.”They found her building eventually, tucked away between a tall, scary-looking block of flats and a three-story bridal boutique. He helped her out of the car and up the steps. It took her three times to key the right series of numbers into the keypad so the door would open. Finally, she recited them to him to read it in.“Thank you,” she said awkwardly. “For the lift, and the ear.”He grinned. “No problem,” he said. “Hey, what's your name?”“Emily,” she said.Emily. It suited her perfectly, as if her parents had had a glimpse of her in the future when they named her. She looked like an Emily more than anybody else he'd ever met.“I'm Brandon,” he said. “Can I pick you up tomorrow around noon for your first lesson?”“Lesson?”“In faking it.”It occurred to him then that ‘faking it' might refer to something else as well, but he always made damn sure a girl does not need to fake it when she's with him. Not that he planned to have sex with her. This girl's second name was Complication. It would be cruel to pluck her cherry and then be off on his merry way. She was not the type to come; and then go.“Okay. Wanna come up?”He considered saying no, but realized she might need help to get into her apartment. It seemed her brain had simply been behind on its reaction, and she was finally in the clumsy imbalance phase of drunkenness.She might get hurt, or lost, or wind up asleep on a hallway chair somewhere.“Sure,”' he said.It was three interesting flights of stairs. She only almost-fell seven times, even with his arm around her waist. She was still incessantly polite, apologizing profusely and telling him how pretty he was.Yeah, because that's what every guy secretly wants to be. Pretty.He had to take her keys and unlock the door himself. She was toppling over and had to hold onto the wall with both hands to keep from introducing her ass to the ground. It was a good thing she was wearing sensible flats rather than sexy heels, and he had to be the first guy ever to have that particular thought.“There we go,” he said when he finally got the door open. She would need to get a locksmith to take a look at the thing; the key had stuck a bit, as if the mechanism inside was rusty.Her house surprised him. He had unconsciously expected it to be decorated like something from the Victorian Era; Chintz and flowers, frilly and stuffy. Chokingly girly. It wasn't. Oh, it was undeniable a female place, but it was feminine rather than girlish. The door opened into the sitting room, which had a sage green couch with big white pillows and lampshades. The lavender curtains had been drawn against the cold air and what was probably a dreary scene outside. The art against the walls was lovely; no modern skyscrapers with red splashes to indicate blood and lust, or wriggling shapes than reminded him of female sex organs during ovulation.A small little galley kitchen on the right showed no dirty dishes in the sink, and a gleaming espresso machine on the countertop next to an equally gleaming microwave.He half-carried, half-dragged her to the only other door, guessing it to be the bedroom.It was, and here was more proof of neat, uncluttered taste. The room was tiny, with built-in cupboards and barely enough space to walk around the bed to the bathroom on the other side.“You gonna kiss me now?” she asked when he helped her onto the bed and slid a pillow under her head.“Sure, thing, honey,” he said as he switched on the bedside lamp so he could turn off the harsh overhead fixture. “In a minute, okay? You just wait right there.”He made sure she wasn't too close to the edge to roll off and brought her a glass of water from the kitchen. He found Advils in her bathroom cabinet, along with some make-up and an unopened packet of condoms. Pity stirred his heart. She was well and truly lonely, wasn't she? All cosseted in her small little apartment, hiding behind books and pretty paintings. So far he hadn't seen any sign of a cat, but maybe the building didn't allow pets.He found a heater and turned it up. She was lying suspiciously still on her side, one arm flung out to the side. He tucked it into a more comfortable position. It was the desire to get her comfortable as much as curiosity that made him wait until she was deeply asleep, or, more likely, passed out, before he pulled her coat off to reveal her body.She was small, and firm, and the only word he could think of to describe her was neat. She was utterly non-descript. She had tits, but they were just there, situated on her chest much in the way a nose is situated more or less in the middle of a face. He doubted he'd notice them if he saw her in the line at the grocery store other than for the obvious reason; they were female tits, and therefore bound to be noticed, even if they did not get a second look. They were completely average tits. He couldn't see much, as she was wearing a creamy beige sweater that had clearly been bought with an eye on heat rather than hotness, and brown slacks that sat loose around her legs and revealed nothing about what her body looked like.He shook his head as he slipped her shoes from her feet and considered doing her another favor and tossing them in the trash. They were butt-fuck-ugly. He hated sensible shoes on a woman.He pulled the quilt over her body and since he had some experience with drunk people, found a plastic bucket in her kitchen to put next to her bed. She seemed to have missed the psychedelic-yawn, porcelain-god-worshipping part of the evening, but judging by the fact that her body seemed to have its own ideas of how to react to alcohol, he wasn't taking anything for granted. She would hate herself if she woke up in the morning, only to find she'd puked all over her pretty, plush white carpet. Who bought white carpets anyway? Wasn't that like a direct invite to Karma and Murphy and all those other sadistic creatures who makes people spill coffee just after they get dressed in a new shirt, or back their car into a lamp pole the first time they take it out for a drive?He left a piece of paper with the instructions to drink the tablets and the water next to the glass and went back downstairs, only to tread back up when he couldn't find his keys in his pocket.It wasn't in the living room either, nor anywhere else in her house that he could find. He went as far as opening her underwear drawer (he really was desperate, after all,) and was not too surprised that they weren't there. He was pleasantly surprised, however, that the librarian lady had quite good taste in underwear. He didn't touch any of the pretty lace and satin snips of fabric, but he could imagine them on her easily enough, and it made for a pretty image.He finally located his keys; sitting in the ignition of his car, the doors firmly locked against him.“Son of a bitch!” he said, slamming a frustrated hand onto the snow-covered roof. “Dammit!”He took his phone from his pocket and tried to call a cab company to come get him and take him home to get his spare key, but just as he got an operator his phone made a cheerful beep just before the battery died. He considered throwing the piece of shit into the nearest heap of snow, but figured that would be counterproductive.He was stuck, and he'd be dammed if he was going to wait for the sun to rise outside on the streets, looking at a locked car.He trudged back upstairs, grateful that he hadn't been able to lock the door behind him and made himself at least semi-comfortable on Emily's couch, and closed his eyes. By any luck he would be awake and gone long before Miss Emily found the courage to leave her bed. And when he left, he would stay gone. She probably won't remember the impulsive promise he had made to help her get confidence, so she won't be upset when he doesn't show up. He already regretted the invitation; Emily the librarian was not the type of girl he needed to spend time with. She was too shy; she said so herself; and she dressed atrociously. Except for her underwear, of course. She was plain, bordering on dowdy, a self-proclaimed virgin, (whatever she had meant by technically) and she had you're-going-to-break-my-heart written all over her.She was a librarian, for goodness sake. That was a species of women best suited to the porn industry, where they wore impractical high-heeled pumps and button down shirts with sexy glasses and tight skirts. If you put Emily in an outfit like that she would; well, she would look hot, to be honest. Almost any woman would look awesome, dressed like that. He imagined it easily, right down to the stern look she was giving him for putting a book in the wrong shelf.“It belongs in the back,” she would say and motion for him to follow her so she could show him where to put it. He would wait for the right moment to pin her against the shelves and kiss the living daylights out of her while his hands explored her hot and eager curves. She would slide one leg around his waist and grind against him seductively;Brandon came to his senses with a jolt, his hand around his cock. He groaned. This was ridiculous. He was sporting a hard-on for the most wood-uninspiring girl he's ever met. She was shy and plain and, frankly, her life was a little pathetic. She had to be at least twenty-six and she'd never had sex? What was he even doing in her house, other than trying to beat one out?He swore and closed his eyes, trying to get comfortable and wishing he had a blanket.This was what he got for playing the Good Samaritan.Emily could feel the light all the way down to her queasy stomach, and it burned the whole way down.“Oh,” she moaned and wondered, briefly, if a freight train or a passenger one had hit her. The question seemed important, somehow. Her head felt like the maze of a Pac-Man game. Something was running around inside there and eating bits of grey-matter. She tried to squint through the smallest of slits she could make with eyelids; straight into the light of her bedside lamp. She could hear her corneas go up in flames. She whimpered and turned her face into her pillow to hide from it. She regretted waking up with every fiber of her being. The longer she was awake, the more issues were brought under her attention by her irate body. Her mouth tasted like something she would gag at if she were to smell it on her way to wok. Her body was sore, and she was nauseous. The most pressing problem, however, was her bladder, which was screaming for attention. She eased her legs over the side of her bed carefully, surprised to find herself in her wrinkled angora sweater and slacks of the previous day. At least she'd had the sense to kick off her shoes the previous evening before she got in bed.Her eyes fell on the bright red bucket sitting next to her bed. It was the one she used when she washed floors or windows, and it belonged in her kitchen on top of the cupboard that holds other cleaning supplies. What was it doing next to her bed? The next second she grabbed for it as her stomach revolted against the switch from horizontal to vertical. She was sick; violently and tear-inducingly sick. When it was over she sat there, sweating and just trying to get her breath. Another wave hit her and she was infinitely grateful for the bucket, though she still had no idea how it got there.Finally it seemed to be over for real. She made her way cautiously to her bathroom and emptied the bucket in the toilet with a grimace. She would clean it later. No, she would throw it out. Nobody needed a reminder like that sitting in their kitchen.She flushed the toilet before she unbuckled her slacks and sat down, relief spreading over her body like a flush. Eventually she realized she couldn't hide on her toilet forever and she got up.She just looked at herself in the mirror. Was that her? That rumpled, bleary-eyed stranger who's make-up had smeared and whose hair; well, to be honest, the ruthless bun she'd tied her hair in had held pretty well. It still looked reasonably neat, in comparison to the rest of her. But her skin was white, her eyes red. There were pillow-creases on her check and she smelled like; No. There was no words to describe the odors wafting around her. But it was foul and she might need to burn her clothes.She pulled it off, stepped into the shower and closed the curtain. The next second she screamed when the icy water hit her skin and she realized too late that she should have waited a minute for the hot water to reach the pipes. It cleared her head instantly, however, and she forced herself to stand there while it warmed.That's when she heard her bathroom door swing open, and an unfamiliar voice say, “What the hell?”Oh, dear heavens! There was a man in her apartment.Brandon could see vague movements behind the translucent curtain; he truly hated those things; but nothing else. He'd woken up to the cheerful sounds of somebody throwing up and considered leaving before she emerged. But he would still be stranded until he could get home for his spare key, and he knew the lady would probably have a few questions regarding the previous evening. It seemed cruel now to leave her to her own speculations. And then she'd screamed and although he knew there was probably no crazy axe-murderer in her bathroom, he did feel some concern. Or, at the very least, the desire to be spectator to her humiliation. The uncharacteristic bout of pettiness was undoubtedly brought upon by the crick in his neck after spending the night on a couch that was too short for his frame. Why didn't women invest in man-sized leather couches or lazy-boys with cup-holders?“Who‘s there?” she asked, and he could hear the shiver in her voice. Was it fear or cold?“Me,” he said, wanting to punish her; just a little; for the worst night of his life. Not that it was entirely her fault. He had decided to help her home all on his own, after all. But the punishment her couch had meted out had neutralized his part in this little clusterfuck. That, and the raging case of blue balls he was suffering from even now. Though, to be fair, there was no way in which he could hold her responsible for that.“I,” she said.“What?” Brandon asked, confused.“You mean I. Not me. Grammatically speaking…”“You're giving me a grammar lesson?” he asked, astounded. “You're naked in the shower and there's a stranger outside who could, for all intent and purposes, have a chainsaw or an electric appliance, and you're pointing out grammatical errors?”There was a moment of silence, during which he could only hear the sound of running water.“Do you have a chainsaw or an electric appliance?” she asked after a few seconds. Steam was rising and she sighed in pleasure. The sound shot straight downstairs. He winced.“No,” he admitted.“Well, then,” she said as if that explained everything. “I assume we met last night?”“Sort of.”“Did we…” There was trepidation in her voice now. “Did we have sex?”He grinned. There was no way he was passing up this opportunity.“Baby, you rocked my world,” he said. “Twice. Where'd you learn to do that thing with your tongue?”“What thing?”“That thing where you; Oh never mind, I'll show you later. Mind if I join you?” He jiggled his belt, making it sound as if he was pulling off his pants.“No!” she said quickly. “I'm naked!”“That's the idea,' he said. “Naked and wet. Just the way I like you best. Just like last night. Man! You were wet.”He thought he heard her whimper something about deities unknown.“Want me to go make coffee instead?” he asked, taking pity on her.“Yes,” she seized the opportunity. “Please. Coffee. Why don't you take yours to go?”She was kicking him out? After everything he'd done for her the previous evening?“Now that's no way to talk to your new husband,” he said reprovingly.He could hear her shock in the very silence.“My what?”“Don't you remember?” Oh, he was enjoying this.“My what?”“After we met up at the bar, we went to a judge I know and got a special license. He married us. He's a good guy, Judge Henderson. Owed me a favor after I got rid of a little problem for him a year ago.”“Please leave,” she begged, close to tears, if her voice was anything to go by.“Now, honeybun, I told you last night the garbage disposal company I work for doesn't work over weekends. Where would I go?”She moaned, a pitiful sound that made him feel slightly guilty. There was a movement behind the curtain and then her head poked out. She was holding the curtain prudishly high to hide the rest of her.“Please tell me you're joking,” she pleaded.He let his silence speak for itself, while he took her in. Her eyes were bloodshot, but that didn't do much to distract from their beauty. Had he ever seen such big blue eyes outside the porcelain-doll industry? Why hadn't he noticed that before? He was standing close enough that he could see the water clinging against her long lashes. Her nose was fine with the cutest tilt, and her skin, though still slightly sallow from the previous evening, was perfect and unblemished.He was stunned. She was beautiful. How the hell had he missed that?“This can't be happening,” she said.His thoughts exactly. He could not be noticing her beauty now. It was just his libido talking. He'd spent a restless evening tossing around coldly on her couch, getting images of her all mixed up with his librarian fantasies. That's what this was. His cock was desperate to convince him he was attracted to her so he would make his move. And she would fall for it, no doubt about that. She was inexperienced and, by her own admission, desperate. If he turned on the charm, he would have her under him before the end of the day.But he wasn't that kind of a guy. The guy who sleep with girls and leave them when they bore him. And bore him she inevitably would. She was too quiet, too shy, too damn librarian-ish to hold his attention for longer than it took him to come. He preferred women with fiery personalities and lots of experience in pleasuring her lover in bed. Emily would probably faint dead the first time she saw him naked. And try to be prim and proper, and not want him to go down on her. Sex with her would have to be after dark, a quick, awkward coupling under the covers. She wouldn't want to do any of the things he liked; no blowjobs, no cunnilingus. Definitely no role-play. It would be utterly unfulfilling.So why wouldn't his cock stop trying to make happy-happy with her?“Don't worry,' he said, finally annoyed by himself and his thoughts and feelings. “It's not. I'll go make coffee. I'll even leave if you want me to.”She looked at him, blinking those big eyes of hers.“No,” she said. “Stay. I'll be there in a few minutes.”She brushed her teeth and even her tongue for what felt like hours to no avail. The taste of her humiliation sat as if the enamel on her teeth had absorbed it. She felt as if she was chewing on moss as far as she went. She twisted the towel around her head and drank the Advils next to her bed. Bits and pieces of the previous evening was filtering down to her. She had been at the library and Mrs. Gunnings; bless her heart; had been talking about how Emily needed to find a nice young man to take care of her. Of how nice it was to go home and not spend the evening alone. Of how nice it was to go out and hold somebody's hand in public. Of the lovely man who'd swept her daughter right of her feet and now they were married with a little baby and how happy they were; she'd talked and talked until Emily was so depressed with her own lonely little life that she decided to stop for a drink, rather than face her empty apartment. As she sat there, she kept thinking of ways to meet somebody; clearly, her job was no help; and the thought had somehow taken root that people met other people in bars. When they were drunk. So she'd ordered one drink after another, hoping she would magically become sexy and; and pretty and desirable. And somebody would magically notice her and fall magically in love with her and they would magically live happily ever after.To be continued, by horn pixy.

 Brandon has been harboring a secret librarian fantasy by horn pixy. Listen to the ► Podcast at Connected.Wednesday night before Thanksgiving, 2010 Brandon has been harboring a secret librarian fantasy for many years, but Emily was hardly his idea of a hot librarian. She was the type of women who came a side-serving of Complication. So why couldn't he stay away from her?It was almost time for last call. Brandon wiped the sodden rag over the counter and put the empty glass the girl had just put down into the crate under the bar with the other dirty glasses.“One more?” he asked. She nodded and took her wallet from her purse. He handed her the scotch on the rocks; her sixth or seventh one for the evening; and wondered how she managed to keep her balance on the high barstool. Her eyes had that glazed look of somebody who had definitely had a few too many, but if he had not been the one to pour her drinks; all six or seven of them; he would not have guessed she was drunk. There was no characteristic slumping or wobbling or even raucous laughter. In fact, her ramrod straight posture and uncanny balance reminded him of a ballet teacher, especially with her hair scraped back into a bun like that. She was pretty enough, in a neat, mousy little way. It was impossible to hazard a guess at the figure under the bulky, shapeless coat she was wearing over goodness knew what. She was wearing glasses with a nice frame that actually suited her face in a non-descript kind of way. Brandon had never seen such a dignified drunk in his life. She had better manners drunk than most people had when they were stone cold sober and sitting their grandmother's sitting rooms.“Thank you,” she said politely when she accepted her change and slipped half of it into the tip-jar, as she had been doing all evening. He kept an eye on her as he started straightening bottles on the shelf behind him, wondering about her story.Brandon loved his job. He owned several bars and still spent an evening now and then behind the counter. After serving drinks for three years across the globe when he was fresh out of high school, he enjoyed the occasional trip down memory lane. It fascinated him to see how alike people were, no matter where they lived. Broken hearts healed just as slowly in Hawaii as they did in Australia, and flirting was a universal art that did not differ too much from one place to another. He loved watching the games, the intrigues, the emotions, as people relaxed around him. He'd seen it all; the break-ups and the make-ups, the hopeful souls scouring the bar for the love of their lives; or at least the lay of the night. He'd seen people drink to forget, or to try to keep memories alive. He'd seen them drink because there was nothing else to do, or because they couldn't do anything else. He'd seen the lonely girls go home with the wrong men and knew they'd wake up the next morning with alcohol on their breath and regret in their hearts. He'd seen women play fast and loose, and the men who managed to escape their clutches. He'd seen the best and the worst of people, but he thought he'd never quite seen anything like the girl sitting there in a dull brown coat, finishing one drink after another without toppling over or falling into somebody's lap on her way to the bathroom. She was fresh and new, and it intrigued him.The bar was rather empty in comparison to most Friday nights. But to be fair, it was the middle of the month and there was a blizzard raging on outside. He was closing up earlier than usual to give the staff and the customers the chance to get home before it got worse. The neat lady; there was other way to describe her; was one of the diehards, but since she was hardly causing a scene, he didn't ask her to leave just yet while they were cleaning up.Finally they were done, and he had to ask her to leave. She blinked owlishly at him from behind her glasses.“Excuse me?” she asked, as if she had not heard him the first time.He leaned closer and thought he caught a whiff of something clean and fresh under the ripe smell of alcohol and closed-up people that hung over the room.“It's closing time,” he repeated. “We're going to lock up.”“Oh,” she said, frowning slightly as her impaired brain tried to sort out his words. “Right,” she said finally. “Well, I'll just go then, won't I?”“Can I call you a cab?” he asked, because she still had not moved from her seat. He waved a hand at the two waiters and the other barman, indicating that he would lock up and they could go home.She looked at him, her eyes still slightly unfocused.“To take you home,” he explained. “You shouldn't drive.”“Did I come with a car?” she asked, bewildered. “I hope not. I don't own a car. Did I steal one?”He grinned. This was fun. Normally drunk people just annoyed him a bit, but this girl struck a chord somewhere in his chest he'd never known to exist.“Not that I know of,” he said. “How did you get here?”“I must have walked,” she said, puzzled. “From work. Fancy that.”“What work do you do?” he asked as Rod, one of the waiters, closed the door behind the other staff members.“I'm a libal; librali; a li bra rian,” she said, looking quite pleased with herself for managing the word. Fancy that indeed, he thought, his mind going into immediate overdrive at the mention of her career. Like many, many men, he harbored a secret Librarian Fantasy. Even the way she broke it up into syllables didn't diminish the thoughts running though his head.The job suited her perfectly, he thought. She was cut out for the silence and air of wisdom and propriety that hung around the books like dusty clouds. He imagined being scolded by her for being too loud and grinned.“Where do you live?” he wanted to know. He would help her home, call her a cab, and forget about her. She was not the type of librarian he fantasized about; she had glasses, but they were the wrong kind, and even though her hair was scraped back out of her face, there was nothing sexy about it. She wasn't wearing nearly enough make-up and not at all the right kind of clothes, either. She was just a girl, hiding behind stacks of books. Her fingers were unadorned, and he guessed her to be single. She probably had four or five cats and a vibrator named Bob hidden in her nightstand that she rarely used because it made her feel guilty.“Up the street, I think,” she said, pointing vaguely with her fingers. “That way. You have pretty eyes.”He lifted an amused brow. ‘That way' would take him to the kitchen and eventually, an alleyway behind the building.“How about an address?” he asked. “To give to the cab-driver.”He grabbed a paper napkin and a pen. She wrote slowly, carefully, her handwriting still managing to be neater than his illegible scrawl.“You don't live far from me,” he said, lying smoothly. “Just one block south, to be precise. Would you like a lift home?”“Never get in the car with strangers,” she said firmly.“A cab driver is also a stranger,” he pointed out.“Not the same thing.”“Nope. But on second thought, I'm not sure you'll find a cab in this weather.”“That's right,” she said, smiling broadly for the first time. The expression transformed her face from plain to pretty. Her innocence amused and tickled him. “It's snowing. Like a White Christmas.”He couldn't help it. He grinned; it was January. She wasn't just drunk, she was completely sloshed. But still amazingly stable and logical.“Let's get you home,” he said, coming around the bar to help her from the stool. This was not something he ever did. He owned the bars; how the patrons got home was their problem, not his. But he couldn't just leave this girl to her own devices, not unless he wanted the next time he heard about her to be her name in an obituary. She'd probably fall asleep in the cold right outside his bar and die. It would cause all sorts of unwanted paperwork and police questions.She didn't even need his help standing up. The liquor, it seemed, had not affected her balance one bit. Still, he kept a hand on her back to steer her. He locked up behind them while she stood looking at him through her wide, trusting eyes.“You're really tall,” she said. “I wish I was taller.”“You're the perfect height,” he said. “See? My arm fits right round your shoulders. You're like a portable armrest.”She didn't giggle at that, and he wondered of she'd heard him. It was a pretty lame joke, but in his experience, drunk people will laugh at anything.“I wish I was hot,” she said. “Like you. But not like you. Like a girl. Then maybe I could have sex.”He coughed, choking on his breath, the way some people trip over their own feet.“What?” he asked when he finally had the air back in the right pipes.“I wish I was prettier,” she said matter-of-factly. “I'm not being pessimistic, really. I just; well, no use crying for the moon, is there?”“You are pretty,” he said automatically. She sighed.“I'm not. But thank you for pretending, anyway. Oh, my goodness, it's cold.”He had just opened the back door and yes, it was cold indeed. The wind was blowing sheets of snow into their faces and heaping it against the side of the building. He steered her with one hand in the direction of his car, which was parked under the staff-members-only roof.He cranked up the heater and took the drive slowly and carefully. The cold was making her drowsy, and he could see her head drooping slightly. No doubt the drinks were finally taking effect.“I take it you don't drink often?” he said.“Nope,” she said, pulling the edges of her rather ugly coat closer around her. “I've never been drunk before.”Until tonight, he thought, but he waited for her to continue on her own. After a few seconds, she did.“I'm sort of a virgin,” she said.” By choice. But it's not my choice.” She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Technically I'm no longer one. But I've never been with a man, you know?”Well, he certainly knew now. But his years as a barman had taught him when to listen and when to talk. So he kept quiet.“Well, anyway, I always thought it was because I'm too shy. Men don't like that, right?”“Some do,” he said, because what else could he say?“Liar,” she said fondly. “Nobody wants to be with somebody who's ashamed of themselves. I know I wouldn't like that in a man, so I can hardly expect any man to show interest in me. That's why I went out tonight,” she added after a few seconds. “Too see if drinking helps me get loose. Turns out I'm even boring when I'm drunk.”“You're not boring,” he said firmly. “You just need to learn how to fake it. Everybody is secretly self-conscious. Some just hide it better that others. You need to find a way to pretend. If you can convince yourself, you know other people will believe it.”“I don't think I'd know how,” she said. “I'm no good at acting or pretending or lying. I can't even lie to telephone sales people. ““I'll help you,” he said impulsively. “I'll show you how to fake it.”“Really?”“Sure. When you're sober. Anything I teach you now will be wasted.”“Like me,” she sighed. “I'm wasted, and all I want to do is go to bed. That's my building up there.'“That's a gas station,” he said with a grin.“Oh.” She frowned. “Then it's not my building, is it?”“I sincerely hope not.”They found her building eventually, tucked away between a tall, scary-looking block of flats and a three-story bridal boutique. He helped her out of the car and up the steps. It took her three times to key the right series of numbers into the keypad so the door would open. Finally, she recited them to him to read it in.“Thank you,” she said awkwardly. “For the lift, and the ear.”He grinned. “No problem,” he said. “Hey, what's your name?”“Emily,” she said.Emily. It suited her perfectly, as if her parents had had a glimpse of her in the future when they named her. She looked like an Emily more than anybody else he'd ever met.“I'm Brandon,” he said. “Can I pick you up tomorrow around noon for your first lesson?”“Lesson?”“In faking it.”It occurred to him then that ‘faking it' might refer to something else as well, but he always made damn sure a girl does not need to fake it when she's with him. Not that he planned to have sex with her. This girl's second name was Complication. It would be cruel to pluck her cherry and then be off on his merry way. She was not the type to come; and then go.“Okay. Wanna come up?”He considered saying no, but realized she might need help to get into her apartment. It seemed her brain had simply been behind on its reaction, and she was finally in the clumsy imbalance phase of drunkenness.She might get hurt, or lost, or wind up asleep on a hallway chair somewhere.“Sure,”' he said.It was three interesting flights of stairs. She only almost-fell seven times, even with his arm around her waist. She was still incessantly polite, apologizing profusely and telling him how pretty he was.Yeah, because that's what every guy secretly wants to be. Pretty.He had to take her keys and unlock the door himself. She was toppling over and had to hold onto the wall with both hands to keep from introducing her ass to the ground. It was a good thing she was wearing sensible flats rather than sexy heels, and he had to be the first guy ever to have that particular thought.“There we go,” he said when he finally got the door open. She would need to get a locksmith to take a look at the thing; the key had stuck a bit, as if the mechanism inside was rusty.Her house surprised him. He had unconsciously expected it to be decorated like something from the Victorian Era; Chintz and flowers, frilly and stuffy. Chokingly girly. It wasn't. Oh, it was undeniable a female place, but it was feminine rather than girlish. The door opened into the sitting room, which had a sage green couch with big white pillows and lampshades. The lavender curtains had been drawn against the cold air and what was probably a dreary scene outside. The art against the walls was lovely; no modern skyscrapers with red splashes to indicate blood and lust, or wriggling shapes than reminded him of female sex organs during ovulation.A small little galley kitchen on the right showed no dirty dishes in the sink, and a gleaming espresso machine on the countertop next to an equally gleaming microwave.He half-carried, half-dragged her to the only other door, guessing it to be the bedroom.It was, and here was more proof of neat, uncluttered taste. The room was tiny, with built-in cupboards and barely enough space to walk around the bed to the bathroom on the other side.“You gonna kiss me now?” she asked when he helped her onto the bed and slid a pillow under her head.“Sure, thing, honey,” he said as he switched on the bedside lamp so he could turn off the harsh overhead fixture. “In a minute, okay? You just wait right there.”He made sure she wasn't too close to the edge to roll off and brought her a glass of water from the kitchen. He found Advils in her bathroom cabinet, along with some make-up and an unopened packet of condoms. Pity stirred his heart. She was well and truly lonely, wasn't she? All cosseted in her small little apartment, hiding behind books and pretty paintings. So far he hadn't seen any sign of a cat, but maybe the building didn't allow pets.He found a heater and turned it up. She was lying suspiciously still on her side, one arm flung out to the side. He tucked it into a more comfortable position. It was the desire to get her comfortable as much as curiosity that made him wait until she was deeply asleep, or, more likely, passed out, before he pulled her coat off to reveal her body.She was small, and firm, and the only word he could think of to describe her was neat. She was utterly non-descript. She had tits, but they were just there, situated on her chest much in the way a nose is situated more or less in the middle of a face. He doubted he'd notice them if he saw her in the line at the grocery store other than for the obvious reason; they were female tits, and therefore bound to be noticed, even if they did not get a second look. They were completely average tits. He couldn't see much, as she was wearing a creamy beige sweater that had clearly been bought with an eye on heat rather than hotness, and brown slacks that sat loose around her legs and revealed nothing about what her body looked like.He shook his head as he slipped her shoes from her feet and considered doing her another favor and tossing them in the trash. They were butt-fuck-ugly. He hated sensible shoes on a woman.He pulled the quilt over her body and since he had some experience with drunk people, found a plastic bucket in her kitchen to put next to her bed. She seemed to have missed the psychedelic-yawn, porcelain-god-worshipping part of the evening, but judging by the fact that her body seemed to have its own ideas of how to react to alcohol, he wasn't taking anything for granted. She would hate herself if she woke up in the morning, only to find she'd puked all over her pretty, plush white carpet. Who bought white carpets anyway? Wasn't that like a direct invite to Karma and Murphy and all those other sadistic creatures who makes people spill coffee just after they get dressed in a new shirt, or back their car into a lamp pole the first time they take it out for a drive?He left a piece of paper with the instructions to drink the tablets and the water next to the glass and went back downstairs, only to tread back up when he couldn't find his keys in his pocket.It wasn't in the living room either, nor anywhere else in her house that he could find. He went as far as opening her underwear drawer (he really was desperate, after all,) and was not too surprised that they weren't there. He was pleasantly surprised, however, that the librarian lady had quite good taste in underwear. He didn't touch any of the pretty lace and satin snips of fabric, but he could imagine them on her easily enough, and it made for a pretty image.He finally located his keys; sitting in the ignition of his car, the doors firmly locked against him.“Son of a bitch!” he said, slamming a frustrated hand onto the snow-covered roof. “Dammit!”He took his phone from his pocket and tried to call a cab company to come get him and take him home to get his spare key, but just as he got an operator his phone made a cheerful beep just before the battery died. He considered throwing the piece of shit into the nearest heap of snow, but figured that would be counterproductive.He was stuck, and he'd be dammed if he was going to wait for the sun to rise outside on the streets, looking at a locked car.He trudged back upstairs, grateful that he hadn't been able to lock the door behind him and made himself at least semi-comfortable on Emily's couch, and closed his eyes. By any luck he would be awake and gone long before Miss Emily found the courage to leave her bed. And when he left, he would stay gone. She probably won't remember the impulsive promise he had made to help her get confidence, so she won't be upset when he doesn't show up. He already regretted the invitation; Emily the librarian was not the type of girl he needed to spend time with. She was too shy; she said so herself; and she dressed atrociously. Except for her underwear, of course. She was plain, bordering on dowdy, a self-proclaimed virgin, (whatever she had meant by technically) and she had you're-going-to-break-my-heart written all over her.She was a librarian, for goodness sake. That was a species of women best suited to the porn industry, where they wore impractical high-heeled pumps and button down shirts with sexy glasses and tight skirts. If you put Emily in an outfit like that she would; well, she would look hot, to be honest. Almost any woman would look awesome, dressed like that. He imagined it easily, right down to the stern look she was giving him for putting a book in the wrong shelf.“It belongs in the back,” she would say and motion for him to follow her so she could show him where to put it. He would wait for the right moment to pin her against the shelves and kiss the living daylights out of her while his hands explored her hot and eager curves. She would slide one leg around his waist and grind against him seductively;Brandon came to his senses with a jolt, his hand around his cock. He groaned. This was ridiculous. He was sporting a hard-on for the most wood-uninspiring girl he's ever met. She was shy and plain and, frankly, her life was a little pathetic. She had to be at least twenty-six and she'd never had sex? What was he even doing in her house, other than trying to beat one out?He swore and closed his eyes, trying to get comfortable and wishing he had a blanket.This was what he got for playing the Good Samaritan.Emily could feel the light all the way down to her queasy stomach, and it burned the whole way down.“Oh,” she moaned and wondered, briefly, if a freight train or a passenger one had hit her. The question seemed important, somehow. Her head felt like the maze of a Pac-Man game. Something was running around inside there and eating bits of grey-matter. She tried to squint through the smallest of slits she could make with eyelids; straight into the light of her bedside lamp. She could hear her corneas go up in flames. She whimpered and turned her face into her pillow to hide from it. She regretted waking up with every fiber of her being. The longer she was awake, the more issues were brought under her attention by her irate body. Her mouth tasted like something she would gag at if she were to smell it on her way to wok. Her body was sore, and she was nauseous. The most pressing problem, however, was her bladder, which was screaming for attention. She eased her legs over the side of her bed carefully, surprised to find herself in her wrinkled angora sweater and slacks of the previous day. At least she'd had the sense to kick off her shoes the previous evening before she got in bed.Her eyes fell on the bright red bucket sitting next to her bed. It was the one she used when she washed floors or windows, and it belonged in her kitchen on top of the cupboard that holds other cleaning supplies. What was it doing next to her bed? The next second she grabbed for it as her stomach revolted against the switch from horizontal to vertical. She was sick; violently and tear-inducingly sick. When it was over she sat there, sweating and just trying to get her breath. Another wave hit her and she was infinitely grateful for the bucket, though she still had no idea how it got there.Finally it seemed to be over for real. She made her way cautiously to her bathroom and emptied the bucket in the toilet with a grimace. She would clean it later. No, she would throw it out. Nobody needed a reminder like that sitting in their kitchen.She flushed the toilet before she unbuckled her slacks and sat down, relief spreading over her body like a flush. Eventually she realized she couldn't hide on her toilet forever and she got up.She just looked at herself in the mirror. Was that her? That rumpled, bleary-eyed stranger who's make-up had smeared and whose hair; well, to be honest, the ruthless bun she'd tied her hair in had held pretty well. It still looked reasonably neat, in comparison to the rest of her. But her skin was white, her eyes red. There were pillow-creases on her check and she smelled like; No. There was no words to describe the odors wafting around her. But it was foul and she might need to burn her clothes.She pulled it off, stepped into the shower and closed the curtain. The next second she screamed when the icy water hit her skin and she realized too late that she should have waited a minute for the hot water to reach the pipes. It cleared her head instantly, however, and she forced herself to stand there while it warmed.That's when she heard her bathroom door swing open, and an unfamiliar voice say, “What the hell?”Oh, dear heavens! There was a man in her apartment.Brandon could see vague movements behind the translucent curtain; he truly hated those things; but nothing else. He'd woken up to the cheerful sounds of somebody throwing up and considered leaving before she emerged. But he would still be stranded until he could get home for his spare key, and he knew the lady would probably have a few questions regarding the previous evening. It seemed cruel now to leave her to her own speculations. And then she'd screamed and although he knew there was probably no crazy axe-murderer in her bathroom, he did feel some concern. Or, at the very least, the desire to be spectator to her humiliation. The uncharacteristic bout of pettiness was undoubtedly brought upon by the crick in his neck after spending the night on a couch that was too short for his frame. Why didn't women invest in man-sized leather couches or lazy-boys with cup-holders?“Who‘s there?” she asked, and he could hear the shiver in her voice. Was it fear or cold?“Me,” he said, wanting to punish her; just a little; for the worst night of his life. Not that it was entirely her fault. He had decided to help her home all on his own, after all. But the punishment her couch had meted out had neutralized his part in this little clusterfuck. That, and the raging case of blue balls he was suffering from even now. Though, to be fair, there was no way in which he could hold her responsible for that.“I,” she said.“What?” Brandon asked, confused.“You mean I. Not me. Grammatically speaking…”“You're giving me a grammar lesson?” he asked, astounded. “You're naked in the shower and there's a stranger outside who could, for all intent and purposes, have a chainsaw or an electric appliance, and you're pointing out grammatical errors?”There was a moment of silence, during which he could only hear the sound of running water.“Do you have a chainsaw or an electric appliance?” she asked after a few seconds. Steam was rising and she sighed in pleasure. The sound shot straight downstairs. He winced.“No,” he admitted.“Well, then,” she said as if that explained everything. “I assume we met last night?”“Sort of.”“Did we…” There was trepidation in her voice now. “Did we have sex?”He grinned. There was no way he was passing up this opportunity.“Baby, you rocked my world,” he said. “Twice. Where'd you learn to do that thing with your tongue?”“What thing?”“That thing where you; Oh never mind, I'll show you later. Mind if I join you?” He jiggled his belt, making it sound as if he was pulling off his pants.“No!” she said quickly. “I'm naked!”“That's the idea,' he said. “Naked and wet. Just the way I like you best. Just like last night. Man! You were wet.”He thought he heard her whimper something about deities unknown.“Want me to go make coffee instead?” he asked, taking pity on her.“Yes,” she seized the opportunity. “Please. Coffee. Why don't you take yours to go?”She was kicking him out? After everything he'd done for her the previous evening?“Now that's no way to talk to your new husband,” he said reprovingly.He could hear her shock in the very silence.“My what?”“Don't you remember?” Oh, he was enjoying this.“My what?”“After we met up at the bar, we went to a judge I know and got a special license. He married us. He's a good guy, Judge Henderson. Owed me a favor after I got rid of a little problem for him a year ago.”“Please leave,” she begged, close to tears, if her voice was anything to go by.“Now, honeybun, I told you last night the garbage disposal company I work for doesn't work over weekends. Where would I go?”She moaned, a pitiful sound that made him feel slightly guilty. There was a movement behind the curtain and then her head poked out. She was holding the curtain prudishly high to hide the rest of her.“Please tell me you're joking,” she pleaded.He let his silence speak for itself, while he took her in. Her eyes were bloodshot, but that didn't do much to distract from their beauty. Had he ever seen such big blue eyes outside the porcelain-doll industry? Why hadn't he noticed that before? He was standing close enough that he could see the water clinging against her long lashes. Her nose was fine with the cutest tilt, and her skin, though still slightly sallow from the previous evening, was perfect and unblemished.He was stunned. She was beautiful. How the hell had he missed that?“This can't be happening,” she said.His thoughts exactly. He could not be noticing her beauty now. It was just his libido talking. He'd spent a restless evening tossing around coldly on her couch, getting images of her all mixed up with his librarian fantasies. That's what this was. His cock was desperate to convince him he was attracted to her so he would make his move. And she would fall for it, no doubt about that. She was inexperienced and, by her own admission, desperate. If he turned on the charm, he would have her under him before the end of the day.But he wasn't that kind of a guy. The guy who sleep with girls and leave them when they bore him. And bore him she inevitably would. She was too quiet, too shy, too damn librarian-ish to hold his attention for longer than it took him to come. He preferred women with fiery personalities and lots of experience in pleasuring her lover in bed. Emily would probably faint dead the first time she saw him naked. And try to be prim and proper, and not want him to go down on her. Sex with her would have to be after dark, a quick, awkward coupling under the covers. She wouldn't want to do any of the things he liked; no blowjobs, no cunnilingus. Definitely no role-play. It would be utterly unfulfilling.So why wouldn't his cock stop trying to make happy-happy with her?“Don't worry,' he said, finally annoyed by himself and his thoughts and feelings. “It's not. I'll go make coffee. I'll even leave if you want me to.”She looked at him, blinking those big eyes of hers.“No,” she said. “Stay. I'll be there in a few minutes.”She brushed her teeth and even her tongue for what felt like hours to no avail. The taste of her humiliation sat as if the enamel on her teeth had absorbed it. She felt as if she was chewing on moss as far as she went. She twisted the towel around her head and drank the Advils next to her bed. Bits and pieces of the previous evening was filtering down to her. She had been at the library and Mrs. Gunnings; bless her heart; had been talking about how Emily needed to find a nice young man to take care of her. Of how nice it was to go home and not spend the evening alone. Of how nice it was to go out and hold somebody's hand in public. Of the lovely man who'd swept her daughter right of her feet and now they were married with a little baby and how happy they were; she'd talked and talked until Emily was so depressed with her own lonely little life that she decided to stop for a drink, rather than face her empty apartment. As she sat there, she kept thinking of ways to meet somebody; clearly, her job was no help; and the thought had somehow taken root that people met other people in bars. When they were drunk. So she'd ordered one drink after another, hoping she would magically become sexy and; and pretty and desirable. And somebody would magically notice her and fall magically in love with her and they would magically live happily ever after.To be continued, by horn pixy.

Brandon has been harboring a secret librarian fantasy by horn pixy. Listen to the ► Podcast at Connected.Brandon has been harboring a secret librarian fantasy for many years, but Emily was hardly his idea of a hot librarian. She was the type of women who came a side-serving of Complication. So why couldn’t he stay away from her?It was almost time for last call. Brandon wiped the sodden rag over the counter and put the empty glass the girl had just put down into the crate under the bar with the other dirty glasses.“One more?” he asked. She nodded and took her wallet from her purse. He handed her the scotch on the rocks; her sixth or seventh one for the evening; and wondered how she managed to keep her balance on the high barstool. Her eyes had that glazed look of somebody who had definitely had a few too many, but if he had not been the one to pour her drinks; all six or seven of them; he would not have guessed she was drunk. There was no characteristic slumping or wobbling or even raucous laughter. In fact, her ramrod straight posture and uncanny balance reminded him of a ballet teacher, especially with her hair scraped back into a bun like that. She was pretty enough, in a neat, mousy little way. It was impossible to hazard a guess at the figure under the bulky, shapeless coat she was wearing over goodness knew what. She was wearing glasses with a nice frame that actually suited her face in a non-descript kind of way. Brandon had never seen such a dignified drunk in his life. She had better manners drunk than most people had when they were stone cold sober and sitting their grandmother's sitting rooms.“Thank you,” she said politely when she accepted her change and slipped half of it into the tip-jar, as she had been doing all evening. He kept an eye on her as he started straightening bottles on the shelf behind him, wondering about her story.Brandon loved his job. He owned several bars and still spent an evening now and then behind the counter. After serving drinks for three years across the globe when he was fresh out of high school, he enjoyed the occasional trip down memory lane. It fascinated him to see how alike people were, no matter where they lived. Broken hearts healed just as slowly in Hawaii as they did in Australia, and flirting was a universal art that did not differ too much from one place to another. He loved watching the games, the intrigues, the emotions, as people relaxed around him. He'd seen it all; the break-ups and the make-ups, the hopeful souls scouring the bar for the love of their lives; or at least the lay of the night. He'd seen people drink to forget, or to try to keep memories alive. He'd seen them drink because there was nothing else to do, or because they couldn't do anything else. He'd seen the lonely girls go home with the wrong men and knew they'd wake up the next morning with alcohol on their breath and regret in their hearts. He'd seen women play fast and loose, and the men who managed to escape their clutches. He'd seen the best and the worst of people, but he thought he'd never quite seen anything like the girl sitting there in a dull brown coat, finishing one drink after another without toppling over or falling into somebody's lap on her way to the bathroom. She was fresh and new, and it intrigued him.The bar was rather empty in comparison to most Friday nights. But to be fair, it was the middle of the month and there was a blizzard raging on outside. He was closing up earlier than usual to give the staff and the customers the chance to get home before it got worse. The neat lady; there was other way to describe her; was one of the diehards, but since she was hardly causing a scene, he didn't ask her to leave just yet while they were cleaning up.Finally they were done, and he had to ask her to leave. She blinked owlishly at him from behind her glasses.“Excuse me?” she asked, as if she had not heard him the first time.He leaned closer and thought he caught a whiff of something clean and fresh under the ripe smell of alcohol and closed-up people that hung over the room.“It's closing time,” he repeated. “We're going to lock up.”“Oh,” she said, frowning slightly as her impaired brain tried to sort out his words. “Right,” she said finally. “Well, I'll just go then, won't I?”“Can I call you a cab?” he asked, because she still had not moved from her seat. He waved a hand at the two waiters and the other barman, indicating that he would lock up and they could go home.She looked at him, her eyes still slightly unfocused.“To take you home,” he explained. “You shouldn't drive.”“Did I come with a car?” she asked, bewildered. “I hope not. I don't own a car. Did I steal one?”He grinned. This was fun. Normally drunk people just annoyed him a bit, but this girl struck a chord somewhere in his chest he'd never known to exist.“Not that I know of,” he said. “How did you get here?”“I must have walked,” she said, puzzled. “From work. Fancy that.”“What work do you do?” he asked as Rod, one of the waiters, closed the door behind the other staff members.“I'm a libal; librali; a li bra rian,” she said, looking quite pleased with herself for managing the word. Fancy that indeed, he thought, his mind going into immediate overdrive at the mention of her career. Like many, many men, he harbored a secret Librarian Fantasy. Even the way she broke it up into syllables didn't diminish the thoughts running though his head.The job suited her perfectly, he thought. She was cut out for the silence and air of wisdom and propriety that hung around the books like dusty clouds. He imagined being scolded by her for being too loud and grinned.“Where do you live?” he wanted to know. He would help her home, call her a cab, and forget about her. She was not the type of librarian he fantasized about; she had glasses, but they were the wrong kind, and even though her hair was scraped back out of her face, there was nothing sexy about it. She wasn’t wearing nearly enough make-up and not at all the right kind of clothes, either. She was just a girl, hiding behind stacks of books. Her fingers were unadorned, and he guessed her to be single. She probably had four or five cats and a vibrator named Bob hidden in her nightstand that she rarely used because it made her feel guilty.“Up the street, I think,” she said, pointing vaguely with her fingers. “That way. You have pretty eyes.”He lifted an amused brow. ‘That way' would take him to the kitchen and eventually, an alleyway behind the building.“How about an address?” he asked. “To give to the cab-driver.”He grabbed a paper napkin and a pen. She wrote slowly, carefully, her handwriting still managing to be neater than his illegible scrawl.“You don't live far from me,” he said, lying smoothly. “Just one block south, to be precise. Would you like a lift home?”“Never get in the car with strangers,” she said firmly.“A cab driver is also a stranger,” he pointed out.“Not the same thing.”“Nope. But on second thought, I'm not sure you'll find a cab in this weather.”“That's right,” she said, smiling broadly for the first time. The expression transformed her face from plain to pretty. Her innocence amused and tickled him. “It's snowing. Like a White Christmas.”He couldn't help it. He grinned; it was January. She wasn’t just drunk, she was completely sloshed. But still amazingly stable and logical.“Let's get you home,” he said, coming around the bar to help her from the stool. This was not something he ever did. He owned the bars; how the patrons got home was their problem, not his. But he couldn't just leave this girl to her own devices, not unless he wanted the next time he heard about her to be her name in an obituary. She'd probably fall asleep in the cold right outside his bar and die. It would cause all sorts of unwanted paperwork and police questions.She didn't even need his help standing up. The liquor, it seemed, had not affected her balance one bit. Still, he kept a hand on her back to steer her. He locked up behind them while she stood looking at him through her wide, trusting eyes.“You're really tall,” she said. “I wish I was taller.”“You're the perfect height,” he said. “See? My arm fits right round your shoulders. You're like a portable armrest.”She didn't giggle at that, and he wondered of she'd heard him. It was a pretty lame joke, but in his experience, drunk people will laugh at anything.“I wish I was hot,” she said. “Like you. But not like you. Like a girl. Then maybe I could have sex.”He coughed, choking on his breath, the way some people trip over their own feet.“What?” he asked when he finally had the air back in the right pipes.“I wish I was prettier,” she said matter-of-factly. “I'm not being pessimistic, really. I just; well, no use crying for the moon, is there?”“You are pretty,” he said automatically. She sighed.“I'm not. But thank you for pretending, anyway. Oh, my goodness, it's cold.”He had just opened the back door and yes, it was cold indeed. The wind was blowing sheets of snow into their faces and heaping it against the side of the building. He steered her with one hand in the direction of his car, which was parked under the staff-members-only roof.He cranked up the heater and took the drive slowly and carefully. The cold was making her drowsy, and he could see her head drooping slightly. No doubt the drinks were finally taking effect.“I take it you don't drink often?” he said.“Nope,” she said, pulling the edges of her rather ugly coat closer around her. “I've never been drunk before.”Until tonight, he thought, but he waited for her to continue on her own. After a few seconds, she did.“I'm sort of a virgin,” she said.” By choice. But it's not my choice.” She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Technically I'm no longer one. But I've never been with a man, you know?”Well, he certainly knew now. But his years as a barman had taught him when to listen and when to talk. So he kept quiet.“Well, anyway, I always thought it was because I'm too shy. Men don't like that, right?”“Some do,” he said, because what else could he say?“Liar,” she said fondly. “Nobody wants to be with somebody who's ashamed of themselves. I know I wouldn't like that in a man, so I can hardly expect any man to show interest in me. That's why I went out tonight,” she added after a few seconds. “Too see if drinking helps me get loose. Turns out I'm even boring when I'm drunk.”“You're not boring,” he said firmly. “You just need to learn how to fake it. Everybody is secretly self-conscious. Some just hide it better that others. You need to find a way to pretend. If you can convince yourself, you know other people will believe it.”“I don't think I'd know how,” she said. “I'm no good at acting or pretending or lying. I can't even lie to telephone sales people. ““I'll help you,” he said impulsively. “I'll show you how to fake it.”“Really?”“Sure. When you're sober. Anything I teach you now will be wasted.”“Like me,” she sighed. “I'm wasted, and all I want to do is go to bed. That's my building up there.'“That's a gas station,” he said with a grin.“Oh.” She frowned. “Then it's not my building, is it?”“I sincerely hope not.”They found her building eventually, tucked away between a tall, scary-looking block of flats and a three-story bridal boutique. He helped her out of the car and up the steps. It took her three times to key the right series of numbers into the keypad so the door would open. Finally, she recited them to him to read it in.“Thank you,” she said awkwardly. “For the lift, and the ear.”He grinned. “No problem,” he said. “Hey, what's your name?”“Emily,” she said.Emily. It suited her perfectly, as if her parents had had a glimpse of her in the future when they named her. She looked like an Emily more than anybody else he'd ever met.“I'm Brandon,” he said. “Can I pick you up tomorrow around noon for your first lesson?”“Lesson?”“In faking it.”It occurred to him then that ‘faking it' might refer to something else as well, but he always made damn sure a girl does not need to fake it when she's with him. Not that he planned to have sex with her. This girl's second name was Complication. It would be cruel to pluck her cherry and then be off on his merry way. She was not the type to come; and then go.“Okay. Wanna come up?”He considered saying no, but realized she might need help to get into her apartment. It seemed her brain had simply been behind on its reaction, and she was finally in the clumsy imbalance phase of drunkenness.She might get hurt, or lost, or wind up asleep on a hallway chair somewhere.“Sure,”' he said.It was three interesting flights of stairs. She only almost-fell seven times, even with his arm around her waist. She was still incessantly polite, apologizing profusely and telling him how pretty he was.Yeah, because that's what every guy secretly wants to be. Pretty.He had to take her keys and unlock the door himself. She was toppling over and had to hold onto the wall with both hands to keep from introducing her ass to the ground. It was a good thing she was wearing sensible flats rather than sexy heels, and he had to be the first guy ever to have that particular thought.“There we go,” he said when he finally got the door open. She would need to get a locksmith to take a look at the thing; the key had stuck a bit, as if the mechanism inside was rusty.Her house surprised him. He had unconsciously expected it to be decorated like something from the Victorian Era; Chintz and flowers, frilly and stuffy. Chokingly girly. It wasn't. Oh, it was undeniable a female place, but it was feminine rather than girlish. The door opened into the sitting room, which had a sage green couch with big white pillows and lampshades. The lavender curtains had been drawn against the cold air and what was probably a dreary scene outside. The art against the walls was lovely; no modern skyscrapers with red splashes to indicate blood and lust, or wriggling shapes than reminded him of female sex organs during ovulation.A small little galley kitchen on the right showed no dirty dishes in the sink, and a gleaming espresso machine on the countertop next to an equally gleaming microwave.He half-carried, half-dragged her to the only other door, guessing it to be the bedroom.It was, and here was more proof of neat, uncluttered taste. The room was tiny, with built-in cupboards and barely enough space to walk around the bed to the bathroom on the other side.“You gonna kiss me now?” she asked when he helped her onto the bed and slid a pillow under her head.“Sure, thing, honey,” he said as he switched on the bedside lamp so he could turn off the harsh overhead fixture. “In a minute, okay? You just wait right there.”He made sure she wasn't too close to the edge to roll off and brought her a glass of water from the kitchen. He found Advils in her bathroom cabinet, along with some make-up and an unopened packet of condoms. Pity stirred his heart. She was well and truly lonely, wasn’t she? All cosseted in her small little apartment, hiding behind books and pretty paintings. So far he hadn't seen any sign of a cat, but maybe the building didn't allow pets.He found a heater and turned it up. She was lying suspiciously still on her side, one arm flung out to the side. He tucked it into a more comfortable position. It was the desire to get her comfortable as much as curiosity that made him wait until she was deeply asleep, or, more likely, passed out, before he pulled her coat off to reveal her body.She was small, and firm, and the only word he could think of to describe her was neat. She was utterly non-descript. She had tits, but they were just there, situated on her chest much in the way a nose is situated more or less in the middle of a face. He doubted he'd notice them if he saw her in the line at the grocery store other than for the obvious reason; they were female tits, and therefore bound to be noticed, even if they did not get a second look. They were completely average tits. He couldn't see much, as she was wearing a creamy beige sweater that had clearly been bought with an eye on heat rather than hotness, and brown slacks that sat loose around her legs and revealed nothing about what her body looked like.He shook his head as he slipped her shoes from her feet and considered doing her another favor and tossing them in the trash. They were butt-fuck-ugly. He hated sensible shoes on a woman.He pulled the quilt over her body and since he had some experience with drunk people, found a plastic bucket in her kitchen to put next to her bed. She seemed to have missed the psychedelic-yawn, porcelain-god-worshipping part of the evening, but judging by the fact that her body seemed to have its own ideas of how to react to alcohol, he wasn’t taking anything for granted. She would hate herself if she woke up in the morning, only to find she'd puked all over her pretty, plush white carpet. Who bought white carpets anyway? Wasn’t that like a direct invite to Karma and Murphy and all those other sadistic creatures who makes people spill coffee just after they get dressed in a new shirt, or back their car into a lamp pole the first time they take it out for a drive?He left a piece of paper with the instructions to drink the tablets and the water next to the glass and went back downstairs, only to tread back up when he couldn't find his keys in his pocket.It wasn't in the living room either, nor anywhere else in her house that he could find. He went as far as opening her underwear drawer (he really was desperate, after all,) and was not too surprised that they weren't there. He was pleasantly surprised, however, that the librarian lady had quite good taste in underwear. He didn't touch any of the pretty lace and satin snips of fabric, but he could imagine them on her easily enough, and it made for a pretty image.He finally located his keys; sitting in the ignition of his car, the doors firmly locked against him.“Son of a bitch!” he said, slamming a frustrated hand onto the snow-covered roof. “Dammit!”He took his phone from his pocket and tried to call a cab company to come get him and take him home to get his spare key, but just as he got an operator his phone made a cheerful beep just before the battery died. He considered throwing the piece of shit into the nearest heap of snow, but figured that would be counterproductive.He was stuck, and he'd be dammed if he was going to wait for the sun to rise outside on the streets, looking at a locked car.He trudged back upstairs, grateful that he hadn't been able to lock the door behind him and made himself at least semi-comfortable on Emily's couch, and closed his eyes. By any luck he would be awake and gone long before Miss Emily found the courage to leave her bed. And when he left, he would stay gone. She probably won't remember the impulsive promise he had made to help her get confidence, so she won't be upset when he doesn't show up. He already regretted the invitation; Emily the librarian was not the type of girl he needed to spend time with. She was too shy; she said so herself; and she dressed atrociously. Except for her underwear, of course. She was plain, bordering on dowdy, a self-proclaimed virgin, (whatever she had meant by technically) and she had you're-going-to-break-my-heart written all over her.She was a librarian, for goodness sake. That was a species of women best suited to the porn industry, where they wore impractical high-heeled pumps and button down shirts with sexy glasses and tight skirts. If you put Emily in

Brandon has been harboring a secret librarian fantasy by horn pixy. Listen to the ► Podcast at Connected.Brandon has been harboring a secret librarian fantasy for many years, but Emily was hardly his idea of a hot librarian. She was the type of women who came a side-serving of Complication. So why couldn’t he stay away from her?It was almost time for last call. Brandon wiped the sodden rag over the counter and put the empty glass the girl had just put down into the crate under the bar with the other dirty glasses.“One more?” he asked. She nodded and took her wallet from her purse. He handed her the scotch on the rocks; her sixth or seventh one for the evening; and wondered how she managed to keep her balance on the high barstool. Her eyes had that glazed look of somebody who had definitely had a few too many, but if he had not been the one to pour her drinks; all six or seven of them; he would not have guessed she was drunk. There was no characteristic slumping or wobbling or even raucous laughter. In fact, her ramrod straight posture and uncanny balance reminded him of a ballet teacher, especially with her hair scraped back into a bun like that. She was pretty enough, in a neat, mousy little way. It was impossible to hazard a guess at the figure under the bulky, shapeless coat she was wearing over goodness knew what. She was wearing glasses with a nice frame that actually suited her face in a non-descript kind of way. Brandon had never seen such a dignified drunk in his life. She had better manners drunk than most people had when they were stone cold sober and sitting their grandmother's sitting rooms.“Thank you,” she said politely when she accepted her change and slipped half of it into the tip-jar, as she had been doing all evening. He kept an eye on her as he started straightening bottles on the shelf behind him, wondering about her story.Brandon loved his job. He owned several bars and still spent an evening now and then behind the counter. After serving drinks for three years across the globe when he was fresh out of high school, he enjoyed the occasional trip down memory lane. It fascinated him to see how alike people were, no matter where they lived. Broken hearts healed just as slowly in Hawaii as they did in Australia, and flirting was a universal art that did not differ too much from one place to another. He loved watching the games, the intrigues, the emotions, as people relaxed around him. He'd seen it all; the break-ups and the make-ups, the hopeful souls scouring the bar for the love of their lives; or at least the lay of the night. He'd seen people drink to forget, or to try to keep memories alive. He'd seen them drink because there was nothing else to do, or because they couldn't do anything else. He'd seen the lonely girls go home with the wrong men and knew they'd wake up the next morning with alcohol on their breath and regret in their hearts. He'd seen women play fast and loose, and the men who managed to escape their clutches. He'd seen the best and the worst of people, but he thought he'd never quite seen anything like the girl sitting there in a dull brown coat, finishing one drink after another without toppling over or falling into somebody's lap on her way to the bathroom. She was fresh and new, and it intrigued him.The bar was rather empty in comparison to most Friday nights. But to be fair, it was the middle of the month and there was a blizzard raging on outside. He was closing up earlier than usual to give the staff and the customers the chance to get home before it got worse. The neat lady; there was other way to describe her; was one of the diehards, but since she was hardly causing a scene, he didn't ask her to leave just yet while they were cleaning up.Finally they were done, and he had to ask her to leave. She blinked owlishly at him from behind her glasses.“Excuse me?” she asked, as if she had not heard him the first time.He leaned closer and thought he caught a whiff of something clean and fresh under the ripe smell of alcohol and closed-up people that hung over the room.“It's closing time,” he repeated. “We're going to lock up.”“Oh,” she said, frowning slightly as her impaired brain tried to sort out his words. “Right,” she said finally. “Well, I'll just go then, won't I?”“Can I call you a cab?” he asked, because she still had not moved from her seat. He waved a hand at the two waiters and the other barman, indicating that he would lock up and they could go home.She looked at him, her eyes still slightly unfocused.“To take you home,” he explained. “You shouldn't drive.”“Did I come with a car?” she asked, bewildered. “I hope not. I don't own a car. Did I steal one?”He grinned. This was fun. Normally drunk people just annoyed him a bit, but this girl struck a chord somewhere in his chest he'd never known to exist.“Not that I know of,” he said. “How did you get here?”“I must have walked,” she said, puzzled. “From work. Fancy that.”“What work do you do?” he asked as Rod, one of the waiters, closed the door behind the other staff members.“I'm a libal; librali; a li bra rian,” she said, looking quite pleased with herself for managing the word. Fancy that indeed, he thought, his mind going into immediate overdrive at the mention of her career. Like many, many men, he harbored a secret Librarian Fantasy. Even the way she broke it up into syllables didn't diminish the thoughts running though his head.The job suited her perfectly, he thought. She was cut out for the silence and air of wisdom and propriety that hung around the books like dusty clouds. He imagined being scolded by her for being too loud and grinned.“Where do you live?” he wanted to know. He would help her home, call her a cab, and forget about her. She was not the type of librarian he fantasized about; she had glasses, but they were the wrong kind, and even though her hair was scraped back out of her face, there was nothing sexy about it. She wasn’t wearing nearly enough make-up and not at all the right kind of clothes, either. She was just a girl, hiding behind stacks of books. Her fingers were unadorned, and he guessed her to be single. She probably had four or five cats and a vibrator named Bob hidden in her nightstand that she rarely used because it made her feel guilty.“Up the street, I think,” she said, pointing vaguely with her fingers. “That way. You have pretty eyes.”He lifted an amused brow. ‘That way' would take him to the kitchen and eventually, an alleyway behind the building.“How about an address?” he asked. “To give to the cab-driver.”He grabbed a paper napkin and a pen. She wrote slowly, carefully, her handwriting still managing to be neater than his illegible scrawl.“You don't live far from me,” he said, lying smoothly. “Just one block south, to be precise. Would you like a lift home?”“Never get in the car with strangers,” she said firmly.“A cab driver is also a stranger,” he pointed out.“Not the same thing.”“Nope. But on second thought, I'm not sure you'll find a cab in this weather.”“That's right,” she said, smiling broadly for the first time. The expression transformed her face from plain to pretty. Her innocence amused and tickled him. “It's snowing. Like a White Christmas.”He couldn't help it. He grinned; it was January. She wasn’t just drunk, she was completely sloshed. But still amazingly stable and logical.“Let's get you home,” he said, coming around the bar to help her from the stool. This was not something he ever did. He owned the bars; how the patrons got home was their problem, not his. But he couldn't just leave this girl to her own devices, not unless he wanted the next time he heard about her to be her name in an obituary. She'd probably fall asleep in the cold right outside his bar and die. It would cause all sorts of unwanted paperwork and police questions.She didn't even need his help standing up. The liquor, it seemed, had not affected her balance one bit. Still, he kept a hand on her back to steer her. He locked up behind them while she stood looking at him through her wide, trusting eyes.“You're really tall,” she said. “I wish I was taller.”“You're the perfect height,” he said. “See? My arm fits right round your shoulders. You're like a portable armrest.”She didn't giggle at that, and he wondered of she'd heard him. It was a pretty lame joke, but in his experience, drunk people will laugh at anything.“I wish I was hot,” she said. “Like you. But not like you. Like a girl. Then maybe I could have sex.”He coughed, choking on his breath, the way some people trip over their own feet.“What?” he asked when he finally had the air back in the right pipes.“I wish I was prettier,” she said matter-of-factly. “I'm not being pessimistic, really. I just; well, no use crying for the moon, is there?”“You are pretty,” he said automatically. She sighed.“I'm not. But thank you for pretending, anyway. Oh, my goodness, it's cold.”He had just opened the back door and yes, it was cold indeed. The wind was blowing sheets of snow into their faces and heaping it against the side of the building. He steered her with one hand in the direction of his car, which was parked under the staff-members-only roof.He cranked up the heater and took the drive slowly and carefully. The cold was making her drowsy, and he could see her head drooping slightly. No doubt the drinks were finally taking effect.“I take it you don't drink often?” he said.“Nope,” she said, pulling the edges of her rather ugly coat closer around her. “I've never been drunk before.”Until tonight, he thought, but he waited for her to continue on her own. After a few seconds, she did.“I'm sort of a virgin,” she said.” By choice. But it's not my choice.” She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Technically I'm no longer one. But I've never been with a man, you know?”Well, he certainly knew now. But his years as a barman had taught him when to listen and when to talk. So he kept quiet.“Well, anyway, I always thought it was because I'm too shy. Men don't like that, right?”“Some do,” he said, because what else could he say?“Liar,” she said fondly. “Nobody wants to be with somebody who's ashamed of themselves. I know I wouldn't like that in a man, so I can hardly expect any man to show interest in me. That's why I went out tonight,” she added after a few seconds. “Too see if drinking helps me get loose. Turns out I'm even boring when I'm drunk.”“You're not boring,” he said firmly. “You just need to learn how to fake it. Everybody is secretly self-conscious. Some just hide it better that others. You need to find a way to pretend. If you can convince yourself, you know other people will believe it.”“I don't think I'd know how,” she said. “I'm no good at acting or pretending or lying. I can't even lie to telephone sales people. ““I'll help you,” he said impulsively. “I'll show you how to fake it.”“Really?”“Sure. When you're sober. Anything I teach you now will be wasted.”“Like me,” she sighed. “I'm wasted, and all I want to do is go to bed. That's my building up there.'“That's a gas station,” he said with a grin.“Oh.” She frowned. “Then it's not my building, is it?”“I sincerely hope not.”They found her building eventually, tucked away between a tall, scary-looking block of flats and a three-story bridal boutique. He helped her out of the car and up the steps. It took her three times to key the right series of numbers into the keypad so the door would open. Finally, she recited them to him to read it in.“Thank you,” she said awkwardly. “For the lift, and the ear.”He grinned. “No problem,” he said. “Hey, what's your name?”“Emily,” she said.Emily. It suited her perfectly, as if her parents had had a glimpse of her in the future when they named her. She looked like an Emily more than anybody else he'd ever met.“I'm Brandon,” he said. “Can I pick you up tomorrow around noon for your first lesson?”“Lesson?”“In faking it.”It occurred to him then that ‘faking it' might refer to something else as well, but he always made damn sure a girl does not need to fake it when she's with him. Not that he planned to have sex with her. This girl's second name was Complication. It would be cruel to pluck her cherry and then be off on his merry way. She was not the type to come; and then go.“Okay. Wanna come up?”He considered saying no, but realized she might need help to get into her apartment. It seemed her brain had simply been behind on its reaction, and she was finally in the clumsy imbalance phase of drunkenness.She might get hurt, or lost, or wind up asleep on a hallway chair somewhere.“Sure,”' he said.It was three interesting flights of stairs. She only almost-fell seven times, even with his arm around her waist. She was still incessantly polite, apologizing profusely and telling him how pretty he was.Yeah, because that's what every guy secretly wants to be. Pretty.He had to take her keys and unlock the door himself. She was toppling over and had to hold onto the wall with both hands to keep from introducing her ass to the ground. It was a good thing she was wearing sensible flats rather than sexy heels, and he had to be the first guy ever to have that particular thought.“There we go,” he said when he finally got the door open. She would need to get a locksmith to take a look at the thing; the key had stuck a bit, as if the mechanism inside was rusty.Her house surprised him. He had unconsciously expected it to be decorated like something from the Victorian Era; Chintz and flowers, frilly and stuffy. Chokingly girly. It wasn't. Oh, it was undeniable a female place, but it was feminine rather than girlish. The door opened into the sitting room, which had a sage green couch with big white pillows and lampshades. The lavender curtains had been drawn against the cold air and what was probably a dreary scene outside. The art against the walls was lovely; no modern skyscrapers with red splashes to indicate blood and lust, or wriggling shapes than reminded him of female sex organs during ovulation.A small little galley kitchen on the right showed no dirty dishes in the sink, and a gleaming espresso machine on the countertop next to an equally gleaming microwave.He half-carried, half-dragged her to the only other door, guessing it to be the bedroom.It was, and here was more proof of neat, uncluttered taste. The room was tiny, with built-in cupboards and barely enough space to walk around the bed to the bathroom on the other side.“You gonna kiss me now?” she asked when he helped her onto the bed and slid a pillow under her head.“Sure, thing, honey,” he said as he switched on the bedside lamp so he could turn off the harsh overhead fixture. “In a minute, okay? You just wait right there.”He made sure she wasn't too close to the edge to roll off and brought her a glass of water from the kitchen. He found Advils in her bathroom cabinet, along with some make-up and an unopened packet of condoms. Pity stirred his heart. She was well and truly lonely, wasn’t she? All cosseted in her small little apartment, hiding behind books and pretty paintings. So far he hadn't seen any sign of a cat, but maybe the building didn't allow pets.He found a heater and turned it up. She was lying suspiciously still on her side, one arm flung out to the side. He tucked it into a more comfortable position. It was the desire to get her comfortable as much as curiosity that made him wait until she was deeply asleep, or, more likely, passed out, before he pulled her coat off to reveal her body.She was small, and firm, and the only word he could think of to describe her was neat. She was utterly non-descript. She had tits, but they were just there, situated on her chest much in the way a nose is situated more or less in the middle of a face. He doubted he'd notice them if he saw her in the line at the grocery store other than for the obvious reason; they were female tits, and therefore bound to be noticed, even if they did not get a second look. They were completely average tits. He couldn't see much, as she was wearing a creamy beige sweater that had clearly been bought with an eye on heat rather than hotness, and brown slacks that sat loose around her legs and revealed nothing about what her body looked like.He shook his head as he slipped her shoes from her feet and considered doing her another favor and tossing them in the trash. They were butt-fuck-ugly. He hated sensible shoes on a woman.He pulled the quilt over her body and since he had some experience with drunk people, found a plastic bucket in her kitchen to put next to her bed. She seemed to have missed the psychedelic-yawn, porcelain-god-worshipping part of the evening, but judging by the fact that her body seemed to have its own ideas of how to react to alcohol, he wasn’t taking anything for granted. She would hate herself if she woke up in the morning, only to find she'd puked all over her pretty, plush white carpet. Who bought white carpets anyway? Wasn’t that like a direct invite to Karma and Murphy and all those other sadistic creatures who makes people spill coffee just after they get dressed in a new shirt, or back their car into a lamp pole the first time they take it out for a drive?He left a piece of paper with the instructions to drink the tablets and the water next to the glass and went back downstairs, only to tread back up when he couldn't find his keys in his pocket.It wasn't in the living room either, nor anywhere else in her house that he could find. He went as far as opening her underwear drawer (he really was desperate, after all,) and was not too surprised that they weren't there. He was pleasantly surprised, however, that the librarian lady had quite good taste in underwear. He didn't touch any of the pretty lace and satin snips of fabric, but he could imagine them on her easily enough, and it made for a pretty image.He finally located his keys; sitting in the ignition of his car, the doors firmly locked against him.“Son of a bitch!” he said, slamming a frustrated hand onto the snow-covered roof. “Dammit!”He took his phone from his pocket and tried to call a cab company to come get him and take him home to get his spare key, but just as he got an operator his phone made a cheerful beep just before the battery died. He considered throwing the piece of shit into the nearest heap of snow, but figured that would be counterproductive.He was stuck, and he'd be dammed if he was going to wait for the sun to rise outside on the streets, looking at a locked car.He trudged back upstairs, grateful that he hadn't been able to lock the door behind him and made himself at least semi-comfortable on Emily's couch, and closed his eyes. By any luck he would be awake and gone long before Miss Emily found the courage to leave her bed. And when he left, he would stay gone. She probably won't remember the impulsive promise he had made to help her get confidence, so she won't be upset when he doesn't show up. He already regretted the invitation; Emily the librarian was not the type of girl he needed to spend time with. She was too shy; she said so herself; and she dressed atrociously. Except for her underwear, of course. She was plain, bordering on dowdy, a self-proclaimed virgin, (whatever she had meant by technically) and she had you're-going-to-break-my-heart written all over her.She was a librarian, for goodness sake. That was a species of women best suited to the porn industry, where they wore impractical high-heeled pumps and button down shirts with sexy glasses and tight skirts. If you put Emily in an outfit like that she would; well, she would look hot, to be honest. Almost any woman would look awesome, dressed like that. He imagined it easily, right down to the stern look she was giving him for putting a book in the wrong shelf.“It belongs in the back,” she would say and motion for him to follow her so she could show him where to put it. He would wait for the right moment to pin her against the shelves and kiss the living daylights out of her while his hands explored her hot and eager curves. She would slide one leg around his waist and grind against him seductively;Brandon came to his senses with a jolt, his hand around his cock. He groaned. This was ridiculous. He was sporting a hard-on for the most wood-uninspiring girl he's ever met. She was shy and plain and, frankly, her life was a little pathetic. She had to be at least twenty-six and she'd never had sex? What was he even doing in her house, other than trying to beat one out?He swore and closed his eyes, trying to get comfortable and wishing he had a blanket.This was what he got for playing the Good Samaritan.Emily could feel the light all the way down to her queasy stomach, and it burned the whole way down.“Oh,” she moaned and wondered, briefly, if a freight train or a passenger one had hit her. The question seemed important, somehow. Her head felt like the maze of a Pac-Man game. Something was running around inside there and eating bits of grey-matter. She tried to squint through the smallest of slits she could make with eyelids; straight into the light of her bedside lamp. She could hear her corneas go up in flames. She whimpered and turned her face into her pillow to hide from it. She regretted waking up with every fiber of her being. The longer she was awake, the more issues were brought under her attention by her irate body. Her mouth tasted like something she would gag at if she were to smell it on her way to wok. Her body was sore, and she was nauseous. The most pressing problem, however, was her bladder, which was screaming for attention. She eased her legs over the side of her bed carefully, surprised to find herself in her wrinkled angora sweater and slacks of the previous day. At least she'd had the sense to kick off her shoes the previous evening before she got in bed.Her eyes fell on the bright red bucket sitting next to her bed. It was the one she used when she washed floors or windows, and it belonged in her kitchen on top of the cupboard that holds other cleaning supplies. What was it doing next to her bed? The next second she grabbed for it as her stomach revolted against the switch from horizontal to vertical. She was sick; violently and tear-inducingly sick. When it was over she sat there, sweating and just trying to get her breath. Another wave hit her and she was infinitely grateful for the bucket, though she still had no idea how it got there.Finally it seemed to be over for real. She made her way cautiously to her bathroom and emptied the bucket in the toilet with a grimace. She would clean it later. No, she would throw it out. Nobody needed a reminder like that sitting in their kitchen.She flushed the toilet before she unbuckled her slacks and sat down, relief spreading over her body like a flush. Eventually she realized she couldn't hide on her toilet forever and she got up.She just looked at herself in the mirror. Was that her? That rumpled, bleary-eyed stranger who's make-up had smeared and whose hair; well, to be honest, the ruthless bun she'd tied her hair in had held pretty well. It still looked reasonably neat, in comparison to the rest of her. But her skin was white, her eyes red. There were pillow-creases on her check and she smelled like; No. There was no words to describe the odors wafting around her. But it was foul and she might need to burn her clothes.She pulled it off, stepped into the shower and closed the curtain. The next second she screamed when the icy water hit her skin and she realized too late that she should have waited a minute for the hot water to reach the pipes. It cleared her head instantly, however, and she forced herself to stand there while it warmed.That's when she heard her bathroom door swing open, and an unfamiliar voice say, “What the hell?”Oh, dear heavens! There was a man in her apartment.Brandon could see vague movements behind the translucent curtain; he truly hated those things; but nothing else. He'd woken up to the cheerful sounds of somebody throwing up and considered leaving before she emerged. But he would still be stranded until he could get home for his spare key, and he knew the lady would probably have a few questions regarding the previous evening. It seemed cruel now to leave her to her own speculations. And then she'd screamed and although he knew there was probably no crazy axe-murderer in her bathroom, he did feel some concern. Or, at the very least, the desire to be spectator to her humiliation. The uncharacteristic bout of pettiness was undoubtedly brought upon by the crick in his neck after spending the night on a couch that was too short for his frame. Why didn't women invest in man-sized leather couches or lazy-boys with cup-holders?“Who‘s there?” she asked, and he could hear the shiver in her voice. Was it fear or cold?“Me,” he said, wanting to punish her; just a little; for the worst night of his life. Not that it was entirely her fault. He had decided to help her home all on his own, after all. But the punishment her couch had meted out had neutralized his part in this little clusterfuck. That, and the raging case of blue balls he was suffering from even now. Though, to be fair, there was no way in which he could hold her responsible for that.“I,” she said.“What?” Brandon asked, confused.“You mean I. Not me. Grammatically speaking…”“You're giving me a grammar lesson?” he asked, astounded. “You're naked in the shower and there's a stranger outside who could, for all intent and purposes, have a chainsaw or an electric appliance, and you're pointing out grammatical errors?”There was a moment of silence, during which he could only hear the sound of running water.“Do you have a chainsaw or an electric appliance?” she asked after a few seconds. Steam was rising and she sighed in pleasure. The sound shot straight downstairs. He winced.“No,” he admitted.“Well, then,” she said as if that explained everything. “I assume we met last night?”“Sort of.”“Did we…” There was trepidation in her voice now. “Did we have sex?”He grinned. There was no way he was passing up this opportunity.“Baby, you rocked my world,” he said. “Twice. Where'd you learn to do that thing with your tongue?”“What thing?”“That thing where you; Oh never mind, I'll show you later. Mind if I join you?” He jiggled his belt, making it sound as if he was pulling off his pants.“No!” she said quickly. “I'm naked!”“That's the idea,' he said. “Naked and wet. Just the way I like you best. Just like last night. Man! You were wet.”He thought he heard her whimper something about deities unknown.“Want me to go make coffee instead?” he asked, taking pity on her.“Yes,” she seized the opportunity. “Please. Coffee. Why don't you take yours to go?”She was kicking him out? After everything he'd done for her the previous evening?“Now that's no way to talk to your new husband,” he said reprovingly.He could hear her shock in the very silence.“My what?”“Don't you remember?” Oh, he was enjoying this.“My what?”“After we met up at the bar, we went to a judge I know and got a special license. He married us. He's a good guy, Judge Henderson. Owed me a favor after I got rid of a little problem for him a year ago.”“Please leave,” she begged, close to tears, if her voice was anything to go by.“Now, honeybun, I told you last night the garbage disposal company I work for doesn't work over weekends. Where would I go?”She moaned, a pitiful sound that made him feel slightly guilty. There was a movement behind the curtain and then her head poked out. She was holding the curtain prudishly high to hide the rest of her.“Please tell me you're joking,” she pleaded.He let his silence speak for itself, while he took her in. Her eyes were bloodshot, but that didn't do much to distract from their beauty. Had he ever seen such big blue eyes outside the porcelain-doll industry? Why hadn't he noticed that before? He was standing close enough that he could see the water clinging against her long lashes. Her nose was fine with the cutest tilt, and her skin, though still slightly sallow from the previous evening, was perfect and unblemished.He was stunned. She was beautiful. How the hell had he missed that?“This can't be happening,” she said.His thoughts exactly. He could not be noticing her beauty now. It was just his libido talking. He'd spent a restless evening tossing around coldly on her couch, getting images of her all mixed up with his librarian fantasies. That's what this was. His cock was desperate to convince him he was attracted to her so he would make his move. And she would fall for it, no doubt about that. She was inexperienced and, by her own admission, desperate. If he turned on the charm, he would have her under him before the end of the day.But he wasn’t that kind of a guy. The guy who sleep with girls and leave them when they bore him. And bore him she inevitably would. She was too quiet, too shy, too damn librarian-ish to hold his attention for longer than it took him to come. He preferred women with fiery personalities and lots of experience in pleasuring her lover in bed. Emily would probably faint dead the first time she saw him naked. And try to be prim and proper, and not want him to go down on her. Sex with her would have to be after dark, a quick, awkward coupling under the covers. She wouldn't want to do any of the things he liked; no blowjobs, no cunnilingus. Definitely no role-play. It would be utterly unfulfilling.So why wouldn't his cock stop trying to make happy-happy with her?“Don't worry,' he said, finally annoyed by himself and his thoughts and feelings. “It's not. I'll go make coffee. I'll even leave if you want me to.”She looked at him, blinking those big eyes of hers.“No,” she said. “Stay. I'll be there in a few minutes.”She brushed her teeth and even her tongue for what felt like hours to no avail. The taste of her humiliation sat as if the enamel on her teeth had absorbed it. She felt as if she was chewing on moss as far as she went. She twisted the towel around her head and drank the Advils next to her bed. Bits and pieces of the previous evening was filtering down to her. She had been at the library and Mrs. Gunnings; bless her heart; had been talking about how Emily needed to find a nice young man to take care of her. Of how nice it was to go home and not spend the evening alone. Of how nice it was to go out and hold somebody's hand in public. Of the lovely man who'd swept her daughter right of her feet and now they were married with a little baby and how happy they were; she'd talked and talked until Emily was so depressed with her own lonely little life that she decided to stop for a drink, rather than face her empty apartment. As she sat there, she kept thinking of ways to meet somebody; clearly, her job was no help; and the thought had somehow taken root that people met other people in bars. When they were drunk. So she'd ordered one drink after another, hoping she would magically become sexy and; and pretty and desirable. And somebody would magically notice her and fall magically in love with her and they would magically live happily ever after.To be continued, by horn pixy.

Brandon has been harboring a secret librarian fantasy by horn pixy. Listen to the ► Podcast at Connected.Brandon has been harboring a secret librarian fantasy for many years, but Emily was hardly his idea of a hot librarian. She was the type of women who came a side-serving of Complication. So why couldn’t he stay away from her?It was almost time for last call. Brandon wiped the sodden rag over the counter and put the empty glass the girl had just put down into the crate under the bar with the other dirty glasses.“One more?” he asked. She nodded and took her wallet from her purse. He handed her the scotch on the rocks; her sixth or seventh one for the evening; and wondered how she managed to keep her balance on the high barstool. Her eyes had that glazed look of somebody who had definitely had a few too many, but if he had not been the one to pour her drinks; all six or seven of them; he would not have guessed she was drunk. There was no characteristic slumping or wobbling or even raucous laughter. In fact, her ramrod straight posture and uncanny balance reminded him of a ballet teacher, especially with her hair scraped back into a bun like that. She was pretty enough, in a neat, mousy little way. It was impossible to hazard a guess at the figure under the bulky, shapeless coat she was wearing over goodness knew what. She was wearing glasses with a nice frame that actually suited her face in a non-descript kind of way. Brandon had never seen such a dignified drunk in his life. She had better manners drunk than most people had when they were stone cold sober and sitting their grandmother's sitting rooms.“Thank you,” she said politely when she accepted her change and slipped half of it into the tip-jar, as she had been doing all evening. He kept an eye on her as he started straightening bottles on the shelf behind him, wondering about her story.Brandon loved his job. He owned several bars and still spent an evening now and then behind the counter. After serving drinks for three years across the globe when he was fresh out of high school, he enjoyed the occasional trip down memory lane. It fascinated him to see how alike people were, no matter where they lived. Broken hearts healed just as slowly in Hawaii as they did in Australia, and flirting was a universal art that did not differ too much from one place to another. He loved watching the games, the intrigues, the emotions, as people relaxed around him. He'd seen it all; the break-ups and the make-ups, the hopeful souls scouring the bar for the love of their lives; or at least the lay of the night. He'd seen people drink to forget, or to try to keep memories alive. He'd seen them drink because there was nothing else to do, or because they couldn't do anything else. He'd seen the lonely girls go home with the wrong men and knew they'd wake up the next morning with alcohol on their breath and regret in their hearts. He'd seen women play fast and loose, and the men who managed to escape their clutches. He'd seen the best and the worst of people, but he thought he'd never quite seen anything like the girl sitting there in a dull brown coat, finishing one drink after another without toppling over or falling into somebody's lap on her way to the bathroom. She was fresh and new, and it intrigued him.The bar was rather empty in comparison to most Friday nights. But to be fair, it was the middle of the month and there was a blizzard raging on outside. He was closing up earlier than usual to give the staff and the customers the chance to get home before it got worse. The neat lady; there was other way to describe her; was one of the diehards, but since she was hardly causing a scene, he didn't ask her to leave just yet while they were cleaning up.Finally they were done, and he had to ask her to leave. She blinked owlishly at him from behind her glasses.“Excuse me?” she asked, as if she had not heard him the first time.He leaned closer and thought he caught a whiff of something clean and fresh under the ripe smell of alcohol and closed-up people that hung over the room.“It's closing time,” he repeated. “We're going to lock up.”“Oh,” she said, frowning slightly as her impaired brain tried to sort out his words. “Right,” she said finally. “Well, I'll just go then, won't I?”“Can I call you a cab?” he asked, because she still had not moved from her seat. He waved a hand at the two waiters and the other barman, indicating that he would lock up and they could go home.She looked at him, her eyes still slightly unfocused.“To take you home,” he explained. “You shouldn't drive.”“Did I come with a car?” she asked, bewildered. “I hope not. I don't own a car. Did I steal one?”He grinned. This was fun. Normally drunk people just annoyed him a bit, but this girl struck a chord somewhere in his chest he'd never known to exist.“Not that I know of,” he said. “How did you get here?”“I must have walked,” she said, puzzled. “From work. Fancy that.”“What work do you do?” he asked as Rod, one of the waiters, closed the door behind the other staff members.“I'm a libal; librali; a li bra rian,” she said, looking quite pleased with herself for managing the word. Fancy that indeed, he thought, his mind going into immediate overdrive at the mention of her career. Like many, many men, he harbored a secret Librarian Fantasy. Even the way she broke it up into syllables didn't diminish the thoughts running though his head.The job suited her perfectly, he thought. She was cut out for the silence and air of wisdom and propriety that hung around the books like dusty clouds. He imagined being scolded by her for being too loud and grinned.“Where do you live?” he wanted to know. He would help her home, call her a cab, and forget about her. She was not the type of librarian he fantasized about; she had glasses, but they were the wrong kind, and even though her hair was scraped back out of her face, there was nothing sexy about it. She wasn’t wearing nearly enough make-up and not at all the right kind of clothes, either. She was just a girl, hiding behind stacks of books. Her fingers were unadorned, and he guessed her to be single. She probably had four or five cats and a vibrator named Bob hidden in her nightstand that she rarely used because it made her feel guilty.“Up the street, I think,” she said, pointing vaguely with her fingers. “That way. You have pretty eyes.”He lifted an amused brow. ‘That way' would take him to the kitchen and eventually, an alleyway behind the building.“How about an address?” he asked. “To give to the cab-driver.”He grabbed a paper napkin and a pen. She wrote slowly, carefully, her handwriting still managing to be neater than his illegible scrawl.“You don't live far from me,” he said, lying smoothly. “Just one block south, to be precise. Would you like a lift home?”“Never get in the car with strangers,” she said firmly.“A cab driver is also a stranger,” he pointed out.“Not the same thing.”“Nope. But on second thought, I'm not sure you'll find a cab in this weather.”“That's right,” she said, smiling broadly for the first time. The expression transformed her face from plain to pretty. Her innocence amused and tickled him. “It's snowing. Like a White Christmas.”He couldn't help it. He grinned; it was January. She wasn’t just drunk, she was completely sloshed. But still amazingly stable and logical.“Let's get you home,” he said, coming around the bar to help her from the stool. This was not something he ever did. He owned the bars; how the patrons got home was their problem, not his. But he couldn't just leave this girl to her own devices, not unless he wanted the next time he heard about her to be her name in an obituary. She'd probably fall asleep in the cold right outside his bar and die. It would cause all sorts of unwanted paperwork and police questions.She didn't even need his help standing up. The liquor, it seemed, had not affected her balance one bit. Still, he kept a hand on her back to steer her. He locked up behind them while she stood looking at him through her wide, trusting eyes.“You're really tall,” she said. “I wish I was taller.”“You're the perfect height,” he said. “See? My arm fits right round your shoulders. You're like a portable armrest.”She didn't giggle at that, and he wondered of she'd heard him. It was a pretty lame joke, but in his experience, drunk people will laugh at anything.“I wish I was hot,” she said. “Like you. But not like you. Like a girl. Then maybe I could have sex.”He coughed, choking on his breath, the way some people trip over their own feet.“What?” he asked when he finally had the air back in the right pipes.“I wish I was prettier,” she said matter-of-factly. “I'm not being pessimistic, really. I just; well, no use crying for the moon, is there?”“You are pretty,” he said automatically. She sighed.“I'm not. But thank you for pretending, anyway. Oh, my goodness, it's cold.”He had just opened the back door and yes, it was cold indeed. The wind was blowing sheets of snow into their faces and heaping it against the side of the building. He steered her with one hand in the direction of his car, which was parked under the staff-members-only roof.He cranked up the heater and took the drive slowly and carefully. The cold was making her drowsy, and he could see her head drooping slightly. No doubt the drinks were finally taking effect.“I take it you don't drink often?” he said.“Nope,” she said, pulling the edges of her rather ugly coat closer around her. “I've never been drunk before.”Until tonight, he thought, but he waited for her to continue on her own. After a few seconds, she did.“I'm sort of a virgin,” she said.” By choice. But it's not my choice.” She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Technically I'm no longer one. But I've never been with a man, you know?”Well, he certainly knew now. But his years as a barman had taught him when to listen and when to talk. So he kept quiet.“Well, anyway, I always thought it was because I'm too shy. Men don't like that, right?”“Some do,” he said, because what else could he say?“Liar,” she said fondly. “Nobody wants to be with somebody who's ashamed of themselves. I know I wouldn't like that in a man, so I can hardly expect any man to show interest in me. That's why I went out tonight,” she added after a few seconds. “Too see if drinking helps me get loose. Turns out I'm even boring when I'm drunk.”“You're not boring,” he said firmly. “You just need to learn how to fake it. Everybody is secretly self-conscious. Some just hide it better that others. You need to find a way to pretend. If you can convince yourself, you know other people will believe it.”“I don't think I'd know how,” she said. “I'm no good at acting or pretending or lying. I can't even lie to telephone sales people. ““I'll help you,” he said impulsively. “I'll show you how to fake it.”“Really?”“Sure. When you're sober. Anything I teach you now will be wasted.”“Like me,” she sighed. “I'm wasted, and all I want to do is go to bed. That's my building up there.'“That's a gas station,” he said with a grin.“Oh.” She frowned. “Then it's not my building, is it?”“I sincerely hope not.”They found her building eventually, tucked away between a tall, scary-looking block of flats and a three-story bridal boutique. He helped her out of the car and up the steps. It took her three times to key the right series of numbers into the keypad so the door would open. Finally, she recited them to him to read it in.“Thank you,” she said awkwardly. “For the lift, and the ear.”He grinned. “No problem,” he said. “Hey, what's your name?”“Emily,” she said.Emily. It suited her perfectly, as if her parents had had a glimpse of her in the future when they named her. She looked like an Emily more than anybody else he'd ever met.“I'm Brandon,” he said. “Can I pick you up tomorrow around noon for your first lesson?”“Lesson?”“In faking it.”It occurred to him then that ‘faking it' might refer to something else as well, but he always made damn sure a girl does not need to fake it when she's with him. Not that he planned to have sex with her. This girl's second name was Complication. It would be cruel to pluck her cherry and then be off on his merry way. She was not the type to come; and then go.“Okay. Wanna come up?”He considered saying no, but realized she might need help to get into her apartment. It seemed her brain had simply been behind on its reaction, and she was finally in the clumsy imbalance phase of drunkenness.She might get hurt, or lost, or wind up asleep on a hallway chair somewhere.“Sure,”' he said.It was three interesting flights of stairs. She only almost-fell seven times, even with his arm around her waist. She was still incessantly polite, apologizing profusely and telling him how pretty he was.Yeah, because that's what every guy secretly wants to be. Pretty.He had to take her keys and unlock the door himself. She was toppling over and had to hold onto the wall with both hands to keep from introducing her ass to the ground. It was a good thing she was wearing sensible flats rather than sexy heels, and he had to be the first guy ever to have that particular thought.“There we go,” he said when he finally got the door open. She would need to get a locksmith to take a look at the thing; the key had stuck a bit, as if the mechanism inside was rusty.Her house surprised him. He had unconsciously expected it to be decorated like something from the Victorian Era; Chintz and flowers, frilly and stuffy. Chokingly girly. It wasn't. Oh, it was undeniable a female place, but it was feminine rather than girlish. The door opened into the sitting room, which had a sage green couch with big white pillows and lampshades. The lavender curtains had been drawn against the cold air and what was probably a dreary scene outside. The art against the walls was lovely; no modern skyscrapers with red splashes to indicate blood and lust, or wriggling shapes than reminded him of female sex organs during ovulation.A small little galley kitchen on the right showed no dirty dishes in the sink, and a gleaming espresso machine on the countertop next to an equally gleaming microwave.He half-carried, half-dragged her to the only other door, guessing it to be the bedroom.It was, and here was more proof of neat, uncluttered taste. The room was tiny, with built-in cupboards and barely enough space to walk around the bed to the bathroom on the other side.“You gonna kiss me now?” she asked when he helped her onto the bed and slid a pillow under her head.“Sure, thing, honey,” he said as he switched on the bedside lamp so he could turn off the harsh overhead fixture. “In a minute, okay? You just wait right there.”He made sure she wasn't too close to the edge to roll off and brought her a glass of water from the kitchen. He found Advils in her bathroom cabinet, along with some make-up and an unopened packet of condoms. Pity stirred his heart. She was well and truly lonely, wasn’t she? All cosseted in her small little apartment, hiding behind books and pretty paintings. So far he hadn't seen any sign of a cat, but maybe the building didn't allow pets.He found a heater and turned it up. She was lying suspiciously still on her side, one arm flung out to the side. He tucked it into a more comfortable position. It was the desire to get her comfortable as much as curiosity that made him wait until she was deeply asleep, or, more likely, passed out, before he pulled her coat off to reveal her body.She was small, and firm, and the only word he could think of to describe her was neat. She was utterly non-descript. She had tits, but they were just there, situated on her chest much in the way a nose is situated more or less in the middle of a face. He doubted he'd notice them if he saw her in the line at the grocery store other than for the obvious reason; they were female tits, and therefore bound to be noticed, even if they did not get a second look. They were completely average tits. He couldn't see much, as she was wearing a creamy beige sweater that had clearly been bought with an eye on heat rather than hotness, and brown slacks that sat loose around her legs and revealed nothing about what her body looked like.He shook his head as he slipped her shoes from her feet and considered doing her another favor and tossing them in the trash. They were butt-fuck-ugly. He hated sensible shoes on a woman.He pulled the quilt over her body and since he had some experience with drunk people, found a plastic bucket in her kitchen to put next to her bed. She seemed to have missed the psychedelic-yawn, porcelain-god-worshipping part of the evening, but judging by the fact that her body seemed to have its own ideas of how to react to alcohol, he wasn’t taking anything for granted. She would hate herself if she woke up in the morning, only to find she'd puked all over her pretty, plush white carpet. Who bought white carpets anyway? Wasn’t that like a direct invite to Karma and Murphy and all those other sadistic creatures who makes people spill coffee just after they get dressed in a new shirt, or back their car into a lamp pole the first time they take it out for a drive?He left a piece of paper with the instructions to drink the tablets and the water next to the glass and went back downstairs, only to tread back up when he couldn't find his keys in his pocket.It wasn't in the living room either, nor anywhere else in her house that he could find. He went as far as opening her underwear drawer (he really was desperate, after all,) and was not too surprised that they weren't there. He was pleasantly surprised, however, that the librarian lady had quite good taste in underwear. He didn't touch any of the pretty lace and satin snips of fabric, but he could imagine them on her easily enough, and it made for a pretty image.He finally located his keys; sitting in the ignition of his car, the doors firmly locked against him.“Son of a bitch!” he said, slamming a frustrated hand onto the snow-covered roof. “Dammit!”He took his phone from his pocket and tried to call a cab company to come get him and take him home to get his spare key, but just as he got an operator his phone made a cheerful beep just before the battery died. He considered throwing the piece of shit into the nearest heap of snow, but figured that would be counterproductive.He was stuck, and he'd be dammed if he was going to wait for the sun to rise outside on the streets, looking at a locked car.He trudged back upstairs, grateful that he hadn't been able to lock the door behind him and made himself at least semi-comfortable on Emily's couch, and closed his eyes. By any luck he would be awake and gone long before Miss Emily found the courage to leave her bed. And when he left, he would stay gone. She probably won't remember the impulsive promise he had made to help her get confidence, so she won't be upset when he doesn't show up. He already regretted the invitation; Emily the librarian was not the type of girl he needed to spend time with. She was too shy; she said so herself; and she dressed atrociously. Except for her underwear, of course. She was plain, bordering on dowdy, a self-proclaimed virgin, (whatever she had meant by technically) and she had you're-going-to-break-my-heart written all over her.She was a librarian, for goodness sake. That was a species of women best suited to the porn industry, where they wore impractical high-heeled pumps and button down shirts with sexy glasses and tight skirts. If you put Emily in

Brandon has been harboring a secret librarian fantasy  by horn pixy. Listen to the ► Podcast at Connected. Brandon has been harboring a secret librarian fantasy for many years, but Emily was hardly his idea of a hot librarian. She was the type of women who came a side-serving of Complication. So why couldn't he stay away from her? It was almost time for last call. Brandon wiped the sodden rag over the counter and put the empty glass the girl had just put down into the crate under the bar with the other dirty glasses. [[MORE]] “One more?” he asked. She nodded and took her wallet from her purse. He handed her the scotch on the rocks; her sixth or seventh one for the evening; and wondered how she managed to keep her balance on the high barstool. Her eyes had that glazed look of somebody who had definitely had a few too many, but if he had not been the one to pour her drinks; all six or seven of them; he would not have guessed she was drunk. There was no characteristic slumping or wobbling or even raucous laughter. In fact, her ramrod straight posture and uncanny balance reminded him of a ballet teacher, especially with her hair scraped back into a bun like that. She was pretty enough, in a neat, mousy little way. It was impossible to hazard a guess at the figure under the bulky, shapeless coat she was wearing over goodness knew what. She was wearing glasses with a nice frame that actually suited her face in a non-descript kind of way. Brandon had never seen such a dignified drunk in his life. She had better manners drunk than most people had when they were stone cold sober and sitting their grandmother's sitting rooms. “Thank you,” she said politely when she accepted her change and slipped half of it into the tip-jar, as she had been doing all evening. He kept an eye on her as he started straightening bottles on the shelf behind him, wondering about her story. Brandon loved his job. He owned several bars and still spent an evening now and then behind the counter. After serving drinks for three years across the globe when he was fresh out of high school, he enjoyed the occasional trip down memory lane. It fascinated him to see how alike people were, no matter where they lived. Broken hearts healed just as slowly in Hawaii as they did in Australia, and flirting was a universal art that did not differ too much from one place to another. He loved watching the games, the intrigues, the emotions, as people relaxed around him. He'd seen it all; the break-ups and the make-ups, the hopeful souls scouring the bar for the love of their lives; or at least the lay of the night. He'd seen people drink to forget, or to try to keep memories alive. He'd seen them drink because there was nothing else to do, or because they couldn't do anything else. He'd seen the lonely girls go home with the wrong men and knew they'd wake up the next morning with alcohol on their breath and regret in their hearts. He'd seen women play fast and loose, and the men who managed to escape their clutches. He'd seen the best and the worst of people, but he thought he'd never quite seen anything like the girl sitting there in a dull brown coat, finishing one drink after another without toppling over or falling into somebody's lap on her way to the bathroom. She was fresh and new, and it intrigued him. The bar was rather empty in comparison to most Friday nights. But to be fair, it was the middle of the month and there was a blizzard raging on outside. He was closing up earlier than usual to give the staff and the customers the chance to get home before it got worse. The neat lady; there was other way to describe her; was one of the diehards, but since she was hardly causing a scene, he didn't ask her to leave just yet while they were cleaning up. Finally they were done, and he had to ask her to leave. She blinked owlishly at him from behind her glasses. “Excuse me?” she asked, as if she had not heard him the first time. He leaned closer and thought he caught a whiff of something clean and fresh under the ripe smell of alcohol and closed-up people that hung over the room. “It's closing time,” he repeated. “We're going to lock up.” “Oh,” she said, frowning slightly as her impaired brain tried to sort out his words. “Right,” she said finally. “Well, I'll just go then, won't I?” “Can I call you a cab?” he asked, because she still had not moved from her seat. He waved a hand at the two waiters and the other barman, indicating that he would lock up and they could go home. She looked at him, her eyes still slightly unfocused. “To take you home,” he explained. “You shouldn't drive.” “Did I come with a car?” she asked, bewildered. “I hope not. I don't own a car. Did I steal one?” He grinned. This was fun. Normally drunk people just annoyed him a bit, but this girl struck a chord somewhere in his chest he'd never known to exist. “Not that I know of,” he said. “How did you get here?” “I must have walked,” she said, puzzled. “From work. Fancy that.” “What work do you do?” he asked as Rod, one of the waiters, closed the door behind the other staff members. “I'm a libal; librali; a li bra rian,” she said, looking quite pleased with herself for managing the word. Fancy that indeed, he thought, his mind going into immediate overdrive at the mention of her career. Like many, many men, he harbored a secret Librarian Fantasy. Even the way she broke it up into syllables didn't diminish the thoughts running though his head. The job suited her perfectly, he thought. She was cut out for the silence and air of wisdom and propriety that hung around the books like dusty clouds. He imagined being scolded by her for being too loud and grinned. “Where do you live?” he wanted to know. He would help her home, call her a cab, and forget about her. She was not the type of librarian he fantasized about; she had glasses, but they were the wrong kind, and even though her hair was scraped back out of her face, there was nothing sexy about it. She wasn't wearing nearly enough make-up and not at all the right kind of clothes, either. She was just a girl, hiding behind stacks of books. Her fingers were unadorned, and he guessed her to be single. She probably had four or five cats and a vibrator named Bob hidden in her nightstand that she rarely used because it made her feel guilty. “Up the street, I think,” she said, pointing vaguely with her fingers. “That way. You have pretty eyes.” He lifted an amused brow. ‘That way' would take him to the kitchen and eventually, an alleyway behind the building. “How about an address?” he asked. “To give to the cab-driver.” He grabbed a paper napkin and a pen. She wrote slowly, carefully, her handwriting still managing to be neater than his illegible scrawl. “You don't live far from me,” he said, lying smoothly. “Just one block south, to be precise. Would you like a lift home?” “Never get in the car with strangers,” she said firmly. “A cab driver is also a stranger,” he pointed out. “Not the same thing.” “Nope. But on second thought, I'm not sure you'll find a cab in this weather.” “That's right,” she said, smiling broadly for the first time. The expression transformed her face from plain to pretty. Her innocence amused and tickled him. “It's snowing. Like a White Christmas.” He couldn't help it. He grinned; it was January. She wasn't just drunk, she was completely sloshed. But still amazingly stable and logical. “Let's get you home,” he said, coming around the bar to help her from the stool. This was not something he ever did. He owned the bars; how the patrons got home was their problem, not his. But he couldn't just leave this girl to her own devices, not unless he wanted the next time he heard about her to be her name in an obituary. She'd probably fall asleep in the cold right outside his bar and die. It would cause all sorts of unwanted paperwork and police questions. She didn't even need his help standing up. The liquor, it seemed, had not affected her balance one bit. Still, he kept a hand on her back to steer her. He locked up behind them while she stood looking at him through her wide, trusting eyes. “You're really tall,” she said. “I wish I was taller.” “You're the perfect height,” he said. “See? My arm fits right round your shoulders. You're like a portable armrest.” She didn't giggle at that, and he wondered of she'd heard him. It was a pretty lame joke, but in his experience, drunk people will laugh at anything. “I wish I was hot,” she said. “Like you. But not like you. Like a girl. Then maybe I could have sex.” He coughed, choking on his breath, the way some people trip over their own feet. “What?” he asked when he finally had the air back in the right pipes. “I wish I was prettier,” she said matter-of-factly. “I'm not being pessimistic, really. I just; well, no use crying for the moon, is there?” “You are pretty,” he said automatically. She sighed. “I'm not. But thank you for pretending, anyway. Oh, my goodness, it's cold.” He had just opened the back door and yes, it was cold indeed. The wind was blowing sheets of snow into their faces and heaping it against the side of the building. He steered her with one hand in the direction of his car, which was parked under the staff-members-only roof. He cranked up the heater and took the drive slowly and carefully. The cold was making her drowsy, and he could see her head drooping slightly. No doubt the drinks were finally taking effect. “I take it you don't drink often?” he said. “Nope,” she said, pulling the edges of her rather ugly coat closer around her. “I've never been drunk before.” Until tonight, he thought, but he waited for her to continue on her own. After a few seconds, she did. “I'm sort of a virgin,” she said.” By choice. But it's not my choice.” She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Technically I'm no longer one. But I've never been with a man, you know?” Well, he certainly knew now. But his years as a barman had taught him when to listen and when to talk. So he kept quiet. “Well, anyway, I always thought it was because I'm too shy. Men don't like that, right?” “Some do,” he said, because what else could he say? “Liar,” she said fondly. “Nobody wants to be with somebody who's ashamed of themselves. I know I wouldn't like that in a man, so I can hardly expect any man to show interest in me. That's why I went out tonight,” she added after a few seconds. “Too see if drinking helps me get loose. Turns out I'm even boring when I'm drunk.” “You're not boring,” he said firmly. “You just need to learn how to fake it. Everybody is secretly self-conscious. Some just hide it better that others. You need to find a way to pretend. If you can convince yourself, you know other people will believe it.” “I don't think I'd know how,” she said. “I'm no good at acting or pretending or lying. I can't even lie to telephone sales people. “ “I'll help you,” he said impulsively. “I'll show you how to fake it.” “Really?” “Sure. When you're sober. Anything I teach you now will be wasted.” “Like me,” she sighed. “I'm wasted, and all I want to do is go to bed. That's my building up there.' “That's a gas station,” he said with a grin. “Oh.” She frowned. “Then it's not my building, is it?” “I sincerely hope not.” They found her building eventually, tucked away between a tall, scary-looking block of flats and a three-story bridal boutique. He helped her out of the car and up the steps. It took her three times to key the right series of numbers into the keypad so the door would open. Finally, she recited them to him to read it in. “Thank you,” she said awkwardly. “For the lift, and the ear.” He grinned. “No problem,” he said. “Hey, what's your name?” “Emily,” she said. Emily. It suited her perfectly, as if her parents had had a glimpse of her in the future when they named her. She looked like an Emily more than anybody else he'd ever met. “I'm Brandon,” he said. “Can I pick you up tomorrow around noon for your first lesson?” “Lesson?” “In faking it.” It occurred to him then that ‘faking it' might refer to something else as well, but he always made damn sure a girl does not need to fake it when she's with him. Not that he planned to have sex with her. This girl's second name was Complication. It would be cruel to pluck her cherry and then be off on his merry way. She was not the type to come; and then go. “Okay. Wanna come up?” He considered saying no, but realized she might need help to get into her apartment. It seemed her brain had simply been behind on its reaction, and she was finally in the clumsy imbalance phase of drunkenness. She might get hurt, or lost, or wind up asleep on a hallway chair somewhere. “Sure,”' he said. It was three interesting flights of stairs. She only almost-fell seven times, even with his arm around her waist. She was still incessantly polite, apologizing profusely and telling him how pretty he was. Yeah, because that's what every guy secretly wants to be. Pretty. He had to take her keys and unlock the door himself. She was toppling over and had to hold onto the wall with both hands to keep from introducing her ass to the ground. It was a good thing she was wearing sensible flats rather than sexy heels, and he had to be the first guy ever to have that particular thought. “There we go,” he said when he finally got the door open. She would need to get a locksmith to take a look at the thing; the key had stuck a bit, as if the mechanism inside was rusty. Her house surprised him. He had unconsciously expected it to be decorated like something from the Victorian Era; Chintz and flowers, frilly and stuffy. Chokingly girly. It wasn't. Oh, it was undeniable a female place, but it was feminine rather than girlish. The door opened into the sitting room, which had a sage green couch with big white pillows and lampshades. The lavender curtains had been drawn against the cold air and what was probably a dreary scene outside. The art against the walls was lovely; no modern skyscrapers with red splashes to indicate blood and lust, or wriggling shapes than reminded him of female sex organs during ovulation. A small little galley kitchen on the right showed no dirty dishes in the sink, and a gleaming espresso machine on the countertop next to an equally gleaming microwave. He half-carried, half-dragged her to the only other door, guessing it to be the bedroom. It was, and here was more proof of neat, uncluttered taste. The room was tiny, with built-in cupboards and barely enough space to walk around the bed to the bathroom on the other side. “You gonna kiss me now?” she asked when he helped her onto the bed and slid a pillow under her head. “Sure, thing, honey,” he said as he switched on the bedside lamp so he could turn off the harsh overhead fixture. “In a minute, okay? You just wait right there.” He made sure she wasn't too close to the edge to roll off and brought her a glass of water from the kitchen. He found Advils in her bathroom cabinet, along with some make-up and an unopened packet of condoms. Pity stirred his heart. She was well and truly lonely, wasn't she? All cosseted in her small little apartment, hiding behind books and pretty paintings. So far he hadn't seen any sign of a cat, but maybe the building didn't allow pets. He found a heater and turned it up. She was lying suspiciously still on her side, one arm flung out to the side. He tucked it into a more comfortable position. It was the desire to get her comfortable as much as curiosity that made him wait until she was deeply asleep, or, more likely, passed out, before he pulled her coat off to reveal her body. She was small, and firm, and the only word he could think of to describe her was neat. She was utterly non-descript. She had tits, but they were just there, situated on her chest much in the way a nose is situated more or less in the middle of a face. He doubted he'd notice them if he saw her in the line at the grocery store other than for the obvious reason; they were female tits, and therefore bound to be noticed, even if they did not get a second look. They were completely average tits. He couldn't see much, as she was wearing a creamy beige sweater that had clearly been bought with an eye on heat rather than hotness, and brown slacks that sat loose around her legs and revealed nothing about what her body looked like. He shook his head as he slipped her shoes from her feet and considered doing her another favor and tossing them in the trash. They were butt-fuck-ugly. He hated sensible shoes on a woman. He pulled the quilt over her body and since he had some experience with drunk people, found a plastic bucket in her kitchen to put next to her bed. She seemed to have missed the psychedelic-yawn, porcelain-god-worshipping part of the evening, but judging by the fact that her body seemed to have its own ideas of how to react to alcohol, he wasn't taking anything for granted. She would hate herself if she woke up in the morning, only to find she'd puked all over her pretty, plush white carpet. Who bought white carpets anyway? Wasn't that like a direct invite to Karma and Murphy and all those other sadistic creatures who makes people spill coffee just after they get dressed in a new shirt, or back their car into a lamp pole the first time they take it out for a drive? He left a piece of paper with the instructions to drink the tablets and the water next to the glass and went back downstairs, only to tread back up when he couldn't find his keys in his pocket. It wasn't in the living room either, nor anywhere else in her house that he could find. He went as far as opening her underwear drawer (he really was desperate, after all,) and was not too surprised that they weren't there. He was pleasantly surprised, however, that the librarian lady had quite good taste in underwear. He didn't touch any of the pretty lace and satin snips of fabric, but he could imagine them on her easily enough, and it made for a pretty image. He finally located his keys; sitting in the ignition of his car, the doors firmly locked against him. “Son of a bitch!” he said, slamming a frustrated hand onto the snow-covered roof. “Dammit!” He took his phone from his pocket and tried to call a cab company to come get him and take him home to get his spare key, but just as he got an operator his phone made a cheerful beep just before the battery died. He considered throwing the piece of shit into the nearest heap of snow, but figured that would be counterproductive. He was stuck, and he'd be dammed if he was going to wait for the sun to rise outside on the streets, looking at a locked car. He trudged back upstairs, grateful that he hadn't been able to lock the door behind him and made himself at least semi-comfortable on Emily's couch, and closed his eyes. By any luck he would be awake and gone long before Miss Emily found the courage to leave her bed. And when he left, he would stay gone. She probably won't remember the impulsive promise he had made to help her get confidence, so she won't be upset when he doesn't show up. He already regretted the invitation; Emily the librarian was not the type of girl he needed to spend time with. She was too shy; she said so herself; and she dressed atrociously. Except for her underwear, of course. She was plain, bordering on dowdy, a self-proclaimed virgin, (whatever she had meant by technically) and she had you're-going-to-break-my-heart written all over her. She was a librarian, for goodness sake. That was a species of women best suited to the porn industry, where they wore impractical high-heeled pumps and button down shirts with sexy glasses and tight skirts. If you put Emily in an outfit like that she would; well, she would look hot, to be honest. Almost any woman would look awesome, dressed like that. He imagined it easily, right down to the stern look she was giving him for putting a book in the wrong shelf. “It belongs in the back,” she would say and motion for him to follow her so she could show him where to put it. He would wait for the right moment to pin her against the shelves and kiss the living daylights out of her while his hands explored her hot and eager curves. She would slide one leg around his waist and grind against him seductively; Brandon came to his senses with a jolt, his hand around his cock. He groaned. This was ridiculous. He was sporting a hard-on for the most wood-uninspiring girl he's ever met. She was shy and plain and, frankly, her life was a little pathetic. She had to be at least twenty-six and she'd never had sex? What was he even doing in her house, other than trying to beat one out? He swore and closed his eyes, trying to get comfortable and wishing he had a blanket. This was what he got for playing the Good Samaritan. Emily could feel the light all the way down to her queasy stomach, and it burned the whole way down. “Oh,” she moaned and wondered, briefly, if a freight train or a passenger one had hit her. The question seemed important, somehow. Her head felt like the maze of a Pac-Man game. Something was running around inside there and eating bits of grey-matter. She tried to squint through the smallest of slits she could make with eyelids; straight into the light of her bedside lamp. She could hear her corneas go up in flames. She whimpered and turned her face into her pillow to hide from it. She regretted waking up with every fiber of her being. The longer she was awake, the more issues were brought under her attention by her irate body. Her mouth tasted like something she would gag at if she were to smell it on her way to wok. Her body was sore, and she was nauseous. The most pressing problem, however, was her bladder, which was screaming for attention. She eased her legs over the side of her bed carefully, surprised to find herself in her wrinkled angora sweater and slacks of the previous day. At least she'd had the sense to kick off her shoes the previous evening before she got in bed. Her eyes fell on the bright red bucket sitting next to her bed. It was the one she used when she washed floors or windows, and it belonged in her kitchen on top of the cupboard that holds other cleaning supplies. What was it doing next to her bed? The next second she grabbed for it as her stomach revolted against the switch from horizontal to vertical. She was sick; violently and tear-inducingly sick. When it was over she sat there, sweating and just trying to get her breath. Another wave hit her and she was infinitely grateful for the bucket, though she still had no idea how it got there. Finally it seemed to be over for real. She made her way cautiously to her bathroom and emptied the bucket in the toilet with a grimace. She would clean it later. No, she would throw it out. Nobody needed a reminder like that sitting in their kitchen. She flushed the toilet before she unbuckled her slacks and sat down, relief spreading over her body like a flush. Eventually she realized she couldn't hide on her toilet forever and she got up. She just looked at herself in the mirror. Was that her? That rumpled, bleary-eyed stranger who's make-up had smeared and whose hair; well, to be honest, the ruthless bun she'd tied her hair in had held pretty well. It still looked reasonably neat, in comparison to the rest of her. But her skin was white, her eyes red. There were pillow-creases on her check and she smelled like; No. There was no words to describe the odors wafting around her. But it was foul and she might need to burn her clothes. She pulled it off, stepped into the shower and closed the curtain. The next second she screamed when the icy water hit her skin and she realized too late that she should have waited a minute for the hot water to reach the pipes. It cleared her head instantly, however, and she forced herself to stand there while it warmed. That's when she heard her bathroom door swing open, and an unfamiliar voice say, “What the hell?” Oh, dear heavens! There was a man in her apartment. Brandon could see vague movements behind the translucent curtain; he truly hated those things; but nothing else. He'd woken up to the cheerful sounds of somebody throwing up and considered leaving before she emerged. But he would still be stranded until he could get home for his spare key, and he knew the lady would probably have a few questions regarding the previous evening. It seemed cruel now to leave her to her own speculations. And then she'd screamed and although he knew there was probably no crazy axe-murderer in her bathroom, he did feel some concern. Or, at the very least, the desire to be spectator to her humiliation. The uncharacteristic bout of pettiness was undoubtedly brought upon by the crick in his neck after spending the night on a couch that was too short for his frame. Why didn't women invest in man-sized leather couches or lazy-boys with cup-holders? “Who‘s there?” she asked, and he could hear the shiver in her voice. Was it fear or cold? “Me,” he said, wanting to punish her; just a little; for the worst night of his life. Not that it was entirely her fault. He had decided to help her home all on his own, after all. But the punishment her couch had meted out had neutralized his part in this little clusterfuck. That, and the raging case of blue balls he was suffering from even now. Though, to be fair, there was no way in which he could hold her responsible for that. “I,” she said. “What?” Brandon asked, confused. “You mean I. Not me. Grammatically speaking…” “You're giving me a grammar lesson?” he asked, astounded. “You're naked in the shower and there's a stranger outside who could, for all intent and purposes, have a chainsaw or an electric appliance, and you're pointing out grammatical errors?” There was a moment of silence, during which he could only hear the sound of running water. “Do you have a chainsaw or an electric appliance?” she asked after a few seconds. Steam was rising and she sighed in pleasure. The sound shot straight downstairs. He winced. “No,” he admitted. “Well, then,” she said as if that explained everything. “I assume we met last night?” “Sort of.” “Did we…” There was trepidation in her voice now. “Did we have sex?” He grinned. There was no way he was passing up this opportunity. “Baby, you rocked my world,” he said. “Twice. Where'd you learn to do that thing with your tongue?” “What thing?” “That thing where you; Oh never mind, I'll show you later. Mind if I join you?” He jiggled his belt, making it sound as if he was pulling off his pants. “No!” she said quickly. “I'm naked!” “That's the idea,' he said. “Naked and wet. Just the way I like you best. Just like last night. Man! You were wet.” He thought he heard her whimper something about deities unknown. “Want me to go make coffee instead?” he asked, taking pity on her. “Yes,” she seized the opportunity. “Please. Coffee. Why don't you take yours to go?” She was kicking him out? After everything he'd done for her the previous evening? “Now that's no way to talk to your new husband,” he said reprovingly. He could hear her shock in the very silence. “My what?” “Don't you remember?” Oh, he was enjoying this. “My what?” “After we met up at the bar, we went to a judge I know and got a special license. He married us. He's a good guy, Judge Henderson. Owed me a favor after I got rid of a little problem for him a year ago.” “Please leave,” she begged, close to tears, if her voice was anything to go by. “Now, honeybun, I told you last night the garbage disposal company I work for doesn't work over weekends. Where would I go?” She moaned, a pitiful sound that made him feel slightly guilty. There was a movement behind the curtain and then her head poked out. She was holding the curtain prudishly high to hide the rest of her. “Please tell me you're joking,” she pleaded. He let his silence speak for itself, while he took her in. Her eyes were bloodshot, but that didn't do much to distract from their beauty. Had he ever seen such big blue eyes outside the porcelain-doll industry? Why hadn't he noticed that before? He was standing close enough that he could see the water clinging against her long lashes. Her nose was fine with the cutest tilt, and her skin, though still slightly sallow from the previous evening, was perfect and unblemished. He was stunned. She was beautiful. How the hell had he missed that? “This can't be happening,” she said. His thoughts exactly. He could not be noticing her beauty now. It was just his libido talking. He'd spent a restless evening tossing around coldly on her couch, getting images of her all mixed up with his librarian fantasies. That's what this was. His cock was desperate to convince him he was attracted to her so he would make his move. And she would fall for it, no doubt about that. She was inexperienced and, by her own admission, desperate. If he turned on the charm, he would have her under him before the end of the day. But he wasn't that kind of a guy. The guy who sleep with girls and leave them when they bore him. And bore him she inevitably would. She was too quiet, too shy, too damn librarian-ish to hold his attention for longer than it took him to come. He preferred women with fiery personalities and lots of experience in pleasuring her lover in bed. Emily would probably faint dead the first time she saw him naked. And try to be prim and proper, and not want him to go down on her. Sex with her would have to be after dark, a quick, awkward coupling under the covers. She wouldn't want to do any of the things he liked; no blowjobs, no cunnilingus. Definitely no role-play. It would be utterly unfulfilling. So why wouldn't his cock stop trying to make happy-happy with her? “Don't worry,' he said, finally annoyed by himself and his thoughts and feelings. “It's not. I'll go make coffee. I'll even leave if you want me to.” She looked at him, blinking those big eyes of hers. “No,” she said. “Stay. I'll be there in a few minutes.” She brushed her teeth and even her tongue for what felt like hours to no avail. The taste of her humiliation sat as if the enamel on her teeth had absorbed it. She felt as if she was chewing on moss as far as she went. She twisted the towel around her head and drank the Advils next to her bed. Bits and pieces of the previous evening was filtering down to her. She had been at the library and Mrs. Gunnings; bless her heart; had been talking about how Emily needed to find a nice young man to take care of her. Of how nice it was to go home and not spend the evening alone. Of how nice it was to go out and hold somebody's hand in public. Of the lovely man who'd swept her daughter right of her feet and now they were married with a little baby and how happy they were; she'd talked and talked until Emily was so depressed with her own lonely little life that she decided to stop for a drink, rather than face her empty apartment. As she sat there, she kept thinking of ways to meet somebody; clearly, her job was no help; and the thought had somehow taken root that people met other people in bars. When they were drunk. So she'd ordered one drink after another, hoping she would magically become sexy and; and pretty and desirable. And somebody would magically notice her and fall magically in love with her and they would magically live happily ever after. To be continued, by horn pixy.

Brandon has been harboring a secret librarian fantasy by horn pixy. Listen to the ► Podcast at Connected.Brandon has been harboring a secret librarian fantasy for many years, but Emily was hardly his idea of a hot librarian. She was the type of women who came a side-serving of Complication. So why couldn’t he stay away from her?It was almost time for last call. Brandon wiped the sodden rag over the counter and put the empty glass the girl had just put down into the crate under the bar with the other dirty glasses.“One more?” he asked. She nodded and took her wallet from her purse. He handed her the scotch on the rocks; her sixth or seventh one for the evening; and wondered how she managed to keep her balance on the high barstool. Her eyes had that glazed look of somebody who had definitely had a few too many, but if he had not been the one to pour her drinks; all six or seven of them; he would not have guessed she was drunk. There was no characteristic slumping or wobbling or even raucous laughter. In fact, her ramrod straight posture and uncanny balance reminded him of a ballet teacher, especially with her hair scraped back into a bun like that. She was pretty enough, in a neat, mousy little way. It was impossible to hazard a guess at the figure under the bulky, shapeless coat she was wearing over goodness knew what. She was wearing glasses with a nice frame that actually suited her face in a non-descript kind of way. Brandon had never seen such a dignified drunk in his life. She had better manners drunk than most people had when they were stone cold sober and sitting their grandmother's sitting rooms.“Thank you,” she said politely when she accepted her change and slipped half of it into the tip-jar, as she had been doing all evening. He kept an eye on her as he started straightening bottles on the shelf behind him, wondering about her story.Brandon loved his job. He owned several bars and still spent an evening now and then behind the counter. After serving drinks for three years across the globe when he was fresh out of high school, he enjoyed the occasional trip down memory lane. It fascinated him to see how alike people were, no matter where they lived. Broken hearts healed just as slowly in Hawaii as they did in Australia, and flirting was a universal art that did not differ too much from one place to another. He loved watching the games, the intrigues, the emotions, as people relaxed around him. He'd seen it all; the break-ups and the make-ups, the hopeful souls scouring the bar for the love of their lives; or at least the lay of the night. He'd seen people drink to forget, or to try to keep memories alive. He'd seen them drink because there was nothing else to do, or because they couldn't do anything else. He'd seen the lonely girls go home with the wrong men and knew they'd wake up the next morning with alcohol on their breath and regret in their hearts. He'd seen women play fast and loose, and the men who managed to escape their clutches. He'd seen the best and the worst of people, but he thought he'd never quite seen anything like the girl sitting there in a dull brown coat, finishing one drink after another without toppling over or falling into somebody's lap on her way to the bathroom. She was fresh and new, and it intrigued him.The bar was rather empty in comparison to most Friday nights. But to be fair, it was the middle of the month and there was a blizzard raging on outside. He was closing up earlier than usual to give the staff and the customers the chance to get home before it got worse. The neat lady; there was other way to describe her; was one of the diehards, but since she was hardly causing a scene, he didn't ask her to leave just yet while they were cleaning up.Finally they were done, and he had to ask her to leave. She blinked owlishly at him from behind her glasses.“Excuse me?” she asked, as if she had not heard him the first time.He leaned closer and thought he caught a whiff of something clean and fresh under the ripe smell of alcohol and closed-up people that hung over the room.“It's closing time,” he repeated. “We're going to lock up.”“Oh,” she said, frowning slightly as her impaired brain tried to sort out his words. “Right,” she said finally. “Well, I'll just go then, won't I?”“Can I call you a cab?” he asked, because she still had not moved from her seat. He waved a hand at the two waiters and the other barman, indicating that he would lock up and they could go home.She looked at him, her eyes still slightly unfocused.“To take you home,” he explained. “You shouldn't drive.”“Did I come with a car?” she asked, bewildered. “I hope not. I don't own a car. Did I steal one?”He grinned. This was fun. Normally drunk people just annoyed him a bit, but this girl struck a chord somewhere in his chest he'd never known to exist.“Not that I know of,” he said. “How did you get here?”“I must have walked,” she said, puzzled. “From work. Fancy that.”“What work do you do?” he asked as Rod, one of the waiters, closed the door behind the other staff members.“I'm a libal; librali; a li bra rian,” she said, looking quite pleased with herself for managing the word. Fancy that indeed, he thought, his mind going into immediate overdrive at the mention of her career. Like many, many men, he harbored a secret Librarian Fantasy. Even the way she broke it up into syllables didn't diminish the thoughts running though his head.The job suited her perfectly, he thought. She was cut out for the silence and air of wisdom and propriety that hung around the books like dusty clouds. He imagined being scolded by her for being too loud and grinned.“Where do you live?” he wanted to know. He would help her home, call her a cab, and forget about her. She was not the type of librarian he fantasized about; she had glasses, but they were the wrong kind, and even though her hair was scraped back out of her face, there was nothing sexy about it. She wasn’t wearing nearly enough make-up and not at all the right kind of clothes, either. She was just a girl, hiding behind stacks of books. Her fingers were unadorned, and he guessed her to be single. She probably had four or five cats and a vibrator named Bob hidden in her nightstand that she rarely used because it made her feel guilty.“Up the street, I think,” she said, pointing vaguely with her fingers. “That way. You have pretty eyes.”He lifted an amused brow. ‘That way' would take him to the kitchen and eventually, an alleyway behind the building.“How about an address?” he asked. “To give to the cab-driver.”He grabbed a paper napkin and a pen. She wrote slowly, carefully, her handwriting still managing to be neater than his illegible scrawl.“You don't live far from me,” he said, lying smoothly. “Just one block south, to be precise. Would you like a lift home?”“Never get in the car with strangers,” she said firmly.“A cab driver is also a stranger,” he pointed out.“Not the same thing.”“Nope. But on second thought, I'm not sure you'll find a cab in this weather.”“That's right,” she said, smiling broadly for the first time. The expression transformed her face from plain to pretty. Her innocence amused and tickled him. “It's snowing. Like a White Christmas.”He couldn't help it. He grinned; it was January. She wasn’t just drunk, she was completely sloshed. But still amazingly stable and logical.“Let's get you home,” he said, coming around the bar to help her from the stool. This was not something he ever did. He owned the bars; how the patrons got home was their problem, not his. But he couldn't just leave this girl to her own devices, not unless he wanted the next time he heard about her to be her name in an obituary. She'd probably fall asleep in the cold right outside his bar and die. It would cause all sorts of unwanted paperwork and police questions.She didn't even need his help standing up. The liquor, it seemed, had not affected her balance one bit. Still, he kept a hand on her back to steer her. He locked up behind them while she stood looking at him through her wide, trusting eyes.“You're really tall,” she said. “I wish I was taller.”“You're the perfect height,” he said. “See? My arm fits right round your shoulders. You're like a portable armrest.”She didn't giggle at that, and he wondered of she'd heard him. It was a pretty lame joke, but in his experience, drunk people will laugh at anything.“I wish I was hot,” she said. “Like you. But not like you. Like a girl. Then maybe I could have sex.”He coughed, choking on his breath, the way some people trip over their own feet.“What?” he asked when he finally had the air back in the right pipes.“I wish I was prettier,” she said matter-of-factly. “I'm not being pessimistic, really. I just; well, no use crying for the moon, is there?”“You are pretty,” he said automatically. She sighed.“I'm not. But thank you for pretending, anyway. Oh, my goodness, it's cold.”He had just opened the back door and yes, it was cold indeed. The wind was blowing sheets of snow into their faces and heaping it against the side of the building. He steered her with one hand in the direction of his car, which was parked under the staff-members-only roof.He cranked up the heater and took the drive slowly and carefully. The cold was making her drowsy, and he could see her head drooping slightly. No doubt the drinks were finally taking effect.“I take it you don't drink often?” he said.“Nope,” she said, pulling the edges of her rather ugly coat closer around her. “I've never been drunk before.”Until tonight, he thought, but he waited for her to continue on her own. After a few seconds, she did.“I'm sort of a virgin,” she said.” By choice. But it's not my choice.” She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Technically I'm no longer one. But I've never been with a man, you know?”Well, he certainly knew now. But his years as a barman had taught him when to listen and when to talk. So he kept quiet.“Well, anyway, I always thought it was because I'm too shy. Men don't like that, right?”“Some do,” he said, because what else could he say?“Liar,” she said fondly. “Nobody wants to be with somebody who's ashamed of themselves. I know I wouldn't like that in a man, so I can hardly expect any man to show interest in me. That's why I went out tonight,” she added after a few seconds. “Too see if drinking helps me get loose. Turns out I'm even boring when I'm drunk.”“You're not boring,” he said firmly. “You just need to learn how to fake it. Everybody is secretly self-conscious. Some just hide it better that others. You need to find a way to pretend. If you can convince yourself, you know other people will believe it.”“I don't think I'd know how,” she said. “I'm no good at acting or pretending or lying. I can't even lie to telephone sales people. ““I'll help you,” he said impulsively. “I'll show you how to fake it.”“Really?”“Sure. When you're sober. Anything I teach you now will be wasted.”“Like me,” she sighed. “I'm wasted, and all I want to do is go to bed. That's my building up there.'“That's a gas station,” he said with a grin.“Oh.” She frowned. “Then it's not my building, is it?”“I sincerely hope not.”They found her building eventually, tucked away between a tall, scary-looking block of flats and a three-story bridal boutique. He helped her out of the car and up the steps. It took her three times to key the right series of numbers into the keypad so the door would open. Finally, she recited them to him to read it in.“Thank you,” she said awkwardly. “For the lift, and the ear.”He grinned. “No problem,” he said. “Hey, what's your name?”“Emily,” she said.Emily. It suited her perfectly, as if her parents had had a glimpse of her in the future when they named her. She looked like an Emily more than anybody else he'd ever met.“I'm Brandon,” he said. “Can I pick you up tomorrow around noon for your first lesson?”“Lesson?”“In faking it.”It occurred to him then that ‘faking it' might refer to something else as well, but he always made damn sure a girl does not need to fake it when she's with him. Not that he planned to have sex with her. This girl's second name was Complication. It would be cruel to pluck her cherry and then be off on his merry way. She was not the type to come; and then go.“Okay. Wanna come up?”He considered saying no, but realized she might need help to get into her apartment. It seemed her brain had simply been behind on its reaction, and she was finally in the clumsy imbalance phase of drunkenness.She might get hurt, or lost, or wind up asleep on a hallway chair somewhere.“Sure,”' he said.It was three interesting flights of stairs. She only almost-fell seven times, even with his arm around her waist. She was still incessantly polite, apologizing profusely and telling him how pretty he was.Yeah, because that's what every guy secretly wants to be. Pretty.He had to take her keys and unlock the door himself. She was toppling over and had to hold onto the wall with both hands to keep from introducing her ass to the ground. It was a good thing she was wearing sensible flats rather than sexy heels, and he had to be the first guy ever to have that particular thought.“There we go,” he said when he finally got the door open. She would need to get a locksmith to take a look at the thing; the key had stuck a bit, as if the mechanism inside was rusty.Her house surprised him. He had unconsciously expected it to be decorated like something from the Victorian Era; Chintz and flowers, frilly and stuffy. Chokingly girly. It wasn't. Oh, it was undeniable a female place, but it was feminine rather than girlish. The door opened into the sitting room, which had a sage green couch with big white pillows and lampshades. The lavender curtains had been drawn against the cold air and what was probably a dreary scene outside. The art against the walls was lovely; no modern skyscrapers with red splashes to indicate blood and lust, or wriggling shapes than reminded him of female sex organs during ovulation.A small little galley kitchen on the right showed no dirty dishes in the sink, and a gleaming espresso machine on the countertop next to an equally gleaming microwave.He half-carried, half-dragged her to the only other door, guessing it to be the bedroom.It was, and here was more proof of neat, uncluttered taste. The room was tiny, with built-in cupboards and barely enough space to walk around the bed to the bathroom on the other side.“You gonna kiss me now?” she asked when he helped her onto the bed and slid a pillow under her head.“Sure, thing, honey,” he said as he switched on the bedside lamp so he could turn off the harsh overhead fixture. “In a minute, okay? You just wait right there.”He made sure she wasn't too close to the edge to roll off and brought her a glass of water from the kitchen. He found Advils in her bathroom cabinet, along with some make-up and an unopened packet of condoms. Pity stirred his heart. She was well and truly lonely, wasn’t she? All cosseted in her small little apartment, hiding behind books and pretty paintings. So far he hadn't seen any sign of a cat, but maybe the building didn't allow pets.He found a heater and turned it up. She was lying suspiciously still on her side, one arm flung out to the side. He tucked it into a more comfortable position. It was the desire to get her comfortable as much as curiosity that made him wait until she was deeply asleep, or, more likely, passed out, before he pulled her coat off to reveal her body.She was small, and firm, and the only word he could think of to describe her was neat. She was utterly non-descript. She had tits, but they were just there, situated on her chest much in the way a nose is situated more or less in the middle of a face. He doubted he'd notice them if he saw her in the line at the grocery store other than for the obvious reason; they were female tits, and therefore bound to be noticed, even if they did not get a second look. They were completely average tits. He couldn't see much, as she was wearing a creamy beige sweater that had clearly been bought with an eye on heat rather than hotness, and brown slacks that sat loose around her legs and revealed nothing about what her body looked like.He shook his head as he slipped her shoes from her feet and considered doing her another favor and tossing them in the trash. They were butt-fuck-ugly. He hated sensible shoes on a woman.He pulled the quilt over her body and since he had some experience with drunk people, found a plastic bucket in her kitchen to put next to her bed. She seemed to have missed the psychedelic-yawn, porcelain-god-worshipping part of the evening, but judging by the fact that her body seemed to have its own ideas of how to react to alcohol, he wasn’t taking anything for granted. She would hate herself if she woke up in the morning, only to find she'd puked all over her pretty, plush white carpet. Who bought white carpets anyway? Wasn’t that like a direct invite to Karma and Murphy and all those other sadistic creatures who makes people spill coffee just after they get dressed in a new shirt, or back their car into a lamp pole the first time they take it out for a drive?He left a piece of paper with the instructions to drink the tablets and the water next to the glass and went back downstairs, only to tread back up when he couldn't find his keys in his pocket.It wasn't in the living room either, nor anywhere else in her house that he could find. He went as far as opening her underwear drawer (he really was desperate, after all,) and was not too surprised that they weren't there. He was pleasantly surprised, however, that the librarian lady had quite good taste in underwear. He didn't touch any of the pretty lace and satin snips of fabric, but he could imagine them on her easily enough, and it made for a pretty image.He finally located his keys; sitting in the ignition of his car, the doors firmly locked against him.“Son of a bitch!” he said, slamming a frustrated hand onto the snow-covered roof. “Dammit!”He took his phone from his pocket and tried to call a cab company to come get him and take him home to get his spare key, but just as he got an operator his phone made a cheerful beep just before the battery died. He considered throwing the piece of shit into the nearest heap of snow, but figured that would be counterproductive.He was stuck, and he'd be dammed if he was going to wait for the sun to rise outside on the streets, looking at a locked car.He trudged back upstairs, grateful that he hadn't been able to lock the door behind him and made himself at least semi-comfortable on Emily's couch, and closed his eyes. By any luck he would be awake and gone long before Miss Emily found the courage to leave her bed. And when he left, he would stay gone. She probably won't remember the impulsive promise he had made to help her get confidence, so she won't be upset when he doesn't show up. He already regretted the invitation; Emily the librarian was not the type of girl he needed to spend time with. She was too shy; she said so herself; and she dressed atrociously. Except for her underwear, of course. She was plain, bordering on dowdy, a self-proclaimed virgin, (whatever she had meant by technically) and she had you're-going-to-break-my-heart written all over her.She was a librarian, for goodness sake. That was a species of women best suited to the porn industry, where they wore impractical high-heeled pumps and button down shirts with sexy glasses and tight skirts. If you put Emily in

Brandon has been harboring a secret librarian fantasy  by horn pixy. Listen to the ► Podcast at Connected. Brandon has been harboring a secret librarian fantasy for many years, but Emily was hardly his idea of a hot librarian. She was the type of women who came a side-serving of Complication. So why couldn't he stay away from her? It was almost time for last call. Brandon wiped the sodden rag over the counter and put the empty glass the girl had just put down into the crate under the bar with the other dirty glasses. [[MORE]] “One more?” he asked. She nodded and took her wallet from her purse. He handed her the scotch on the rocks; her sixth or seventh one for the evening; and wondered how she managed to keep her balance on the high barstool. Her eyes had that glazed look of somebody who had definitely had a few too many, but if he had not been the one to pour her drinks; all six or seven of them; he would not have guessed she was drunk. There was no characteristic slumping or wobbling or even raucous laughter. In fact, her ramrod straight posture and uncanny balance reminded him of a ballet teacher, especially with her hair scraped back into a bun like that. She was pretty enough, in a neat, mousy little way. It was impossible to hazard a guess at the figure under the bulky, shapeless coat she was wearing over goodness knew what. She was wearing glasses with a nice frame that actually suited her face in a non-descript kind of way. Brandon had never seen such a dignified drunk in his life. She had better manners drunk than most people had when they were stone cold sober and sitting their grandmother's sitting rooms. “Thank you,” she said politely when she accepted her change and slipped half of it into the tip-jar, as she had been doing all evening. He kept an eye on her as he started straightening bottles on the shelf behind him, wondering about her story. Brandon loved his job. He owned several bars and still spent an evening now and then behind the counter. After serving drinks for three years across the globe when he was fresh out of high school, he enjoyed the occasional trip down memory lane. It fascinated him to see how alike people were, no matter where they lived. Broken hearts healed just as slowly in Hawaii as they did in Australia, and flirting was a universal art that did not differ too much from one place to another. He loved watching the games, the intrigues, the emotions, as people relaxed around him. He'd seen it all; the break-ups and the make-ups, the hopeful souls scouring the bar for the love of their lives; or at least the lay of the night. He'd seen people drink to forget, or to try to keep memories alive. He'd seen them drink because there was nothing else to do, or because they couldn't do anything else. He'd seen the lonely girls go home with the wrong men and knew they'd wake up the next morning with alcohol on their breath and regret in their hearts. He'd seen women play fast and loose, and the men who managed to escape their clutches. He'd seen the best and the worst of people, but he thought he'd never quite seen anything like the girl sitting there in a dull brown coat, finishing one drink after another without toppling over or falling into somebody's lap on her way to the bathroom. She was fresh and new, and it intrigued him. The bar was rather empty in comparison to most Friday nights. But to be fair, it was the middle of the month and there was a blizzard raging on outside. He was closing up earlier than usual to give the staff and the customers the chance to get home before it got worse. The neat lady; there was other way to describe her; was one of the diehards, but since she was hardly causing a scene, he didn't ask her to leave just yet while they were cleaning up. Finally they were done, and he had to ask her to leave. She blinked owlishly at him from behind her glasses. “Excuse me?” she asked, as if she had not heard him the first time. He leaned closer and thought he caught a whiff of something clean and fresh under the ripe smell of alcohol and closed-up people that hung over the room. “It's closing time,” he repeated. “We're going to lock up.” “Oh,” she said, frowning slightly as her impaired brain tried to sort out his words. “Right,” she said finally. “Well, I'll just go then, won't I?” “Can I call you a cab?” he asked, because she still had not moved from her seat. He waved a hand at the two waiters and the other barman, indicating that he would lock up and they could go home. She looked at him, her eyes still slightly unfocused. “To take you home,” he explained. “You shouldn't drive.” “Did I come with a car?” she asked, bewildered. “I hope not. I don't own a car. Did I steal one?” He grinned. This was fun. Normally drunk people just annoyed him a bit, but this girl struck a chord somewhere in his chest he'd never known to exist. “Not that I know of,” he said. “How did you get here?” “I must have walked,” she said, puzzled. “From work. Fancy that.” “What work do you do?” he asked as Rod, one of the waiters, closed the door behind the other staff members. “I'm a libal; librali; a li bra rian,” she said, looking quite pleased with herself for managing the word. Fancy that indeed, he thought, his mind going into immediate overdrive at the mention of her career. Like many, many men, he harbored a secret Librarian Fantasy. Even the way she broke it up into syllables didn't diminish the thoughts running though his head. The job suited her perfectly, he thought. She was cut out for the silence and air of wisdom and propriety that hung around the books like dusty clouds. He imagined being scolded by her for being too loud and grinned. “Where do you live?” he wanted to know. He would help her home, call her a cab, and forget about her. She was not the type of librarian he fantasized about; she had glasses, but they were the wrong kind, and even though her hair was scraped back out of her face, there was nothing sexy about it. She wasn't wearing nearly enough make-up and not at all the right kind of clothes, either. She was just a girl, hiding behind stacks of books. Her fingers were unadorned, and he guessed her to be single. She probably had four or five cats and a vibrator named Bob hidden in her nightstand that she rarely used because it made her feel guilty. “Up the street, I think,” she said, pointing vaguely with her fingers. “That way. You have pretty eyes.” He lifted an amused brow. ‘That way' would take him to the kitchen and eventually, an alleyway behind the building. “How about an address?” he asked. “To give to the cab-driver.” He grabbed a paper napkin and a pen. She wrote slowly, carefully, her handwriting still managing to be neater than his illegible scrawl. “You don't live far from me,” he said, lying smoothly. “Just one block south, to be precise. Would you like a lift home?” “Never get in the car with strangers,” she said firmly. “A cab driver is also a stranger,” he pointed out. “Not the same thing.” “Nope. But on second thought, I'm not sure you'll find a cab in this weather.” “That's right,” she said, smiling broadly for the first time. The expression transformed her face from plain to pretty. Her innocence amused and tickled him. “It's snowing. Like a White Christmas.” He couldn't help it. He grinned; it was January. She wasn't just drunk, she was completely sloshed. But still amazingly stable and logical. “Let's get you home,” he said, coming around the bar to help her from the stool. This was not something he ever did. He owned the bars; how the patrons got home was their problem, not his. But he couldn't just leave this girl to her own devices, not unless he wanted the next time he heard about her to be her name in an obituary. She'd probably fall asleep in the cold right outside his bar and die. It would cause all sorts of unwanted paperwork and police questions. She didn't even need his help standing up. The liquor, it seemed, had not affected her balance one bit. Still, he kept a hand on her back to steer her. He locked up behind them while she stood looking at him through her wide, trusting eyes. “You're really tall,” she said. “I wish I was taller.” “You're the perfect height,” he said. “See? My arm fits right round your shoulders. You're like a portable armrest.” She didn't giggle at that, and he wondered of she'd heard him. It was a pretty lame joke, but in his experience, drunk people will laugh at anything. “I wish I was hot,” she said. “Like you. But not like you. Like a girl. Then maybe I could have sex.” He coughed, choking on his breath, the way some people trip over their own feet. “What?” he asked when he finally had the air back in the right pipes. “I wish I was prettier,” she said matter-of-factly. “I'm not being pessimistic, really. I just; well, no use crying for the moon, is there?” “You are pretty,” he said automatically. She sighed. “I'm not. But thank you for pretending, anyway. Oh, my goodness, it's cold.” He had just opened the back door and yes, it was cold indeed. The wind was blowing sheets of snow into their faces and heaping it against the side of the building. He steered her with one hand in the direction of his car, which was parked under the staff-members-only roof. He cranked up the heater and took the drive slowly and carefully. The cold was making her drowsy, and he could see her head drooping slightly. No doubt the drinks were finally taking effect. “I take it you don't drink often?” he said. “Nope,” she said, pulling the edges of her rather ugly coat closer around her. “I've never been drunk before.” Until tonight, he thought, but he waited for her to continue on her own. After a few seconds, she did. “I'm sort of a virgin,” she said.” By choice. But it's not my choice.” She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Technically I'm no longer one. But I've never been with a man, you know?” Well, he certainly knew now. But his years as a barman had taught him when to listen and when to talk. So he kept quiet. “Well, anyway, I always thought it was because I'm too shy. Men don't like that, right?” “Some do,” he said, because what else could he say? “Liar,” she said fondly. “Nobody wants to be with somebody who's ashamed of themselves. I know I wouldn't like that in a man, so I can hardly expect any man to show interest in me. That's why I went out tonight,” she added after a few seconds. “Too see if drinking helps me get loose. Turns out I'm even boring when I'm drunk.” “You're not boring,” he said firmly. “You just need to learn how to fake it. Everybody is secretly self-conscious. Some just hide it better that others. You need to find a way to pretend. If you can convince yourself, you know other people will believe it.” “I don't think I'd know how,” she said. “I'm no good at acting or pretending or lying. I can't even lie to telephone sales people. “ “I'll help you,” he said impulsively. “I'll show you how to fake it.” “Really?” “Sure. When you're sober. Anything I teach you now will be wasted.” “Like me,” she sighed. “I'm wasted, and all I want to do is go to bed. That's my building up there.' “That's a gas station,” he said with a grin. “Oh.” She frowned. “Then it's not my building, is it?” “I sincerely hope not.” They found her building eventually, tucked away between a tall, scary-looking block of flats and a three-story bridal boutique. He helped her out of the car and up the steps. It took her three times to key the right series of numbers into the keypad so the door would open. Finally, she recited them to him to read it in. “Thank you,” she said awkwardly. “For the lift, and the ear.” He grinned. “No problem,” he said. “Hey, what's your name?” “Emily,” she said. Emily. It suited her perfectly, as if her parents had had a glimpse of her in the future when they named her. She looked like an Emily more than anybody else he'd ever met. “I'm Brandon,” he said. “Can I pick you up tomorrow around noon for your first lesson?” “Lesson?” “In faking it.” It occurred to him then that ‘faking it' might refer to something else as well, but he always made damn sure a girl does not need to fake it when she's with him. Not that he planned to have sex with her. This girl's second name was Complication. It would be cruel to pluck her cherry and then be off on his merry way. She was not the type to come; and then go. “Okay. Wanna come up?” He considered saying no, but realized she might need help to get into her apartment. It seemed her brain had simply been behind on its reaction, and she was finally in the clumsy imbalance phase of drunkenness. She might get hurt, or lost, or wind up asleep on a hallway chair somewhere. “Sure,”' he said. It was three interesting flights of stairs. She only almost-fell seven times, even with his arm around her waist. She was still incessantly polite, apologizing profusely and telling him how pretty he was. Yeah, because that's what every guy secretly wants to be. Pretty. He had to take her keys and unlock the door himself. She was toppling over and had to hold onto the wall with both hands to keep from introducing her ass to the ground. It was a good thing she was wearing sensible flats rather than sexy heels, and he had to be the first guy ever to have that particular thought. “There we go,” he said when he finally got the door open. She would need to get a locksmith to take a look at the thing; the key had stuck a bit, as if the mechanism inside was rusty. Her house surprised him. He had unconsciously expected it to be decorated like something from the Victorian Era; Chintz and flowers, frilly and stuffy. Chokingly girly. It wasn't. Oh, it was undeniable a female place, but it was feminine rather than girlish. The door opened into the sitting room, which had a sage green couch with big white pillows and lampshades. The lavender curtains had been drawn against the cold air and what was probably a dreary scene outside. The art against the walls was lovely; no modern skyscrapers with red splashes to indicate blood and lust, or wriggling shapes than reminded him of female sex organs during ovulation. A small little galley kitchen on the right showed no dirty dishes in the sink, and a gleaming espresso machine on the countertop next to an equally gleaming microwave. He half-carried, half-dragged her to the only other door, guessing it to be the bedroom. It was, and here was more proof of neat, uncluttered taste. The room was tiny, with built-in cupboards and barely enough space to walk around the bed to the bathroom on the other side. “You gonna kiss me now?” she asked when he helped her onto the bed and slid a pillow under her head. “Sure, thing, honey,” he said as he switched on the bedside lamp so he could turn off the harsh overhead fixture. “In a minute, okay? You just wait right there.” He made sure she wasn't too close to the edge to roll off and brought her a glass of water from the kitchen. He found Advils in her bathroom cabinet, along with some make-up and an unopened packet of condoms. Pity stirred his heart. She was well and truly lonely, wasn't she? All cosseted in her small little apartment, hiding behind books and pretty paintings. So far he hadn't seen any sign of a cat, but maybe the building didn't allow pets. He found a heater and turned it up. She was lying suspiciously still on her side, one arm flung out to the side. He tucked it into a more comfortable position. It was the desire to get her comfortable as much as curiosity that made him wait until she was deeply asleep, or, more likely, passed out, before he pulled her coat off to reveal her body. She was small, and firm, and the only word he could think of to describe her was neat. She was utterly non-descript. She had tits, but they were just there, situated on her chest much in the way a nose is situated more or less in the middle of a face. He doubted he'd notice them if he saw her in the line at the grocery store other than for the obvious reason; they were female tits, and therefore bound to be noticed, even if they did not get a second look. They were completely average tits. He couldn't see much, as she was wearing a creamy beige sweater that had clearly been bought with an eye on heat rather than hotness, and brown slacks that sat loose around her legs and revealed nothing about what her body looked like. He shook his head as he slipped her shoes from her feet and considered doing her another favor and tossing them in the trash. They were butt-fuck-ugly. He hated sensible shoes on a woman. He pulled the quilt over her body and since he had some experience with drunk people, found a plastic bucket in her kitchen to put next to her bed. She seemed to have missed the psychedelic-yawn, porcelain-god-worshipping part of the evening, but judging by the fact that her body seemed to have its own ideas of how to react to alcohol, he wasn't taking anything for granted. She would hate herself if she woke up in the morning, only to find she'd puked all over her pretty, plush white carpet. Who bought white carpets anyway? Wasn't that like a direct invite to Karma and Murphy and all those other sadistic creatures who makes people spill coffee just after they get dressed in a new shirt, or back their car into a lamp pole the first time they take it out for a drive? He left a piece of paper with the instructions to drink the tablets and the water next to the glass and went back downstairs, only to tread back up when he couldn't find his keys in his pocket. It wasn't in the living room either, nor anywhere else in her house that he could find. He went as far as opening her underwear drawer (he really was desperate, after all,) and was not too surprised that they weren't there. He was pleasantly surprised, however, that the librarian lady had quite good taste in underwear. He didn't touch any of the pretty lace and satin snips of fabric, but he could imagine them on her easily enough, and it made for a pretty image. He finally located his keys; sitting in the ignition of his car, the doors firmly locked against him. “Son of a bitch!” he said, slamming a frustrated hand onto the snow-covered roof. “Dammit!” He took his phone from his pocket and tried to call a cab company to come get him and take him home to get his spare key, but just as he got an operator his phone made a cheerful beep just before the battery died. He considered throwing the piece of shit into the nearest heap of snow, but figured that would be counterproductive. He was stuck, and he'd be dammed if he was going to wait for the sun to rise outside on the streets, looking at a locked car. He trudged back upstairs, grateful that he hadn't been able to lock the door behind him and made himself at least semi-comfortable on Emily's couch, and closed his eyes. By any luck he would be awake and gone long before Miss Emily found the courage to leave her bed. And when he left, he would stay gone. She probably won't remember the impulsive promise he had made to help her get confidence, so she won't be upset when he doesn't show up. He already regretted the invitation; Emily the librarian was not the type of girl he needed to spend time with. She was too shy; she said so herself; and she dressed atrociously. Except for her underwear, of course. She was plain, bordering on dowdy, a self-proclaimed virgin, (whatever she had meant by technically) and she had you're-going-to-break-my-heart written all over her. She was a librarian, for goodness sake. That was a species of women best suited to the porn industry, where they wore impractical high-heeled pumps and button down shirts with sexy glasses and tight skirts. If you put Emily in an outfit like that she would; well, she would look hot, to be honest. Almost any woman would look awesome, dressed like that. He imagined it easily, right down to the stern look she was giving him for putting a book in the wrong shelf. “It belongs in the back,” she would say and motion for him to follow her so she could show him where to put it. He would wait for the right moment to pin her against the shelves and kiss the living daylights out of her while his hands explored her hot and eager curves. She would slide one leg around his waist and grind against him seductively; Brandon came to his senses with a jolt, his hand around his cock. He groaned. This was ridiculous. He was sporting a hard-on for the most wood-uninspiring girl he's ever met. She was shy and plain and, frankly, her life was a little pathetic. She had to be at least twenty-six and she'd never had sex? What was he even doing in her house, other than trying to beat one out? He swore and closed his eyes, trying to get comfortable and wishing he had a blanket. This was what he got for playing the Good Samaritan. Emily could feel the light all the way down to her queasy stomach, and it burned the whole way down. “Oh,” she moaned and wondered, briefly, if a freight train or a passenger one had hit her. The question seemed important, somehow. Her head felt like the maze of a Pac-Man game. Something was running around inside there and eating bits of grey-matter. She tried to squint through the smallest of slits she could make with eyelids; straight into the light of her bedside lamp. She could hear her corneas go up in flames. She whimpered and turned her face into her pillow to hide from it. She regretted waking up with every fiber of her being. The longer she was awake, the more issues were brought under her attention by her irate body. Her mouth tasted like something she would gag at if she were to smell it on her way to wok. Her body was sore, and she was nauseous. The most pressing problem, however, was her bladder, which was screaming for attention. She eased her legs over the side of her bed carefully, surprised to find herself in her wrinkled angora sweater and slacks of the previous day. At least she'd had the sense to kick off her shoes the previous evening before she got in bed. Her eyes fell on the bright red bucket sitting next to her bed. It was the one she used when she washed floors or windows, and it belonged in her kitchen on top of the cupboard that holds other cleaning supplies. What was it doing next to her bed? The next second she grabbed for it as her stomach revolted against the switch from horizontal to vertical. She was sick; violently and tear-inducingly sick. When it was over she sat there, sweating and just trying to get her breath. Another wave hit her and she was infinitely grateful for the bucket, though she still had no idea how it got there. Finally it seemed to be over for real. She made her way cautiously to her bathroom and emptied the bucket in the toilet with a grimace. She would clean it later. No, she would throw it out. Nobody needed a reminder like that sitting in their kitchen. She flushed the toilet before she unbuckled her slacks and sat down, relief spreading over her body like a flush. Eventually she realized she couldn't hide on her toilet forever and she got up. She just looked at herself in the mirror. Was that her? That rumpled, bleary-eyed stranger who's make-up had smeared and whose hair; well, to be honest, the ruthless bun she'd tied her hair in had held pretty well. It still looked reasonably neat, in comparison to the rest of her. But her skin was white, her eyes red. There were pillow-creases on her check and she smelled like; No. There was no words to describe the odors wafting around her. But it was foul and she might need to burn her clothes. She pulled it off, stepped into the shower and closed the curtain. The next second she screamed when the icy water hit her skin and she realized too late that she should have waited a minute for the hot water to reach the pipes. It cleared her head instantly, however, and she forced herself to stand there while it warmed. That's when she heard her bathroom door swing open, and an unfamiliar voice say, “What the hell?” Oh, dear heavens! There was a man in her apartment. Brandon could see vague movements behind the translucent curtain; he truly hated those things; but nothing else. He'd woken up to the cheerful sounds of somebody throwing up and considered leaving before she emerged. But he would still be stranded until he could get home for his spare key, and he knew the lady would probably have a few questions regarding the previous evening. It seemed cruel now to leave her to her own speculations. And then she'd screamed and although he knew there was probably no crazy axe-murderer in her bathroom, he did feel some concern. Or, at the very least, the desire to be spectator to her humiliation. The uncharacteristic bout of pettiness was undoubtedly brought upon by the crick in his neck after spending the night on a couch that was too short for his frame. Why didn't women invest in man-sized leather couches or lazy-boys with cup-holders? “Who‘s there?” she asked, and he could hear the shiver in her voice. Was it fear or cold? “Me,” he said, wanting to punish her; just a little; for the worst night of his life. Not that it was entirely her fault. He had decided to help her home all on his own, after all. But the punishment her couch had meted out had neutralized his part in this little clusterfuck. That, and the raging case of blue balls he was suffering from even now. Though, to be fair, there was no way in which he could hold her responsible for that. “I,” she said. “What?” Brandon asked, confused. “You mean I. Not me. Grammatically speaking…” “You're giving me a grammar lesson?” he asked, astounded. “You're naked in the shower and there's a stranger outside who could, for all intent and purposes, have a chainsaw or an electric appliance, and you're pointing out grammatical errors?” There was a moment of silence, during which he could only hear the sound of running water. “Do you have a chainsaw or an electric appliance?” she asked after a few seconds. Steam was rising and she sighed in pleasure. The sound shot straight downstairs. He winced. “No,” he admitted. “Well, then,” she said as if that explained everything. “I assume we met last night?” “Sort of.” “Did we…” There was trepidation in her voice now. “Did we have sex?” He grinned. There was no way he was passing up this opportunity. “Baby, you rocked my world,” he said. “Twice. Where'd you learn to do that thing with your tongue?” “What thing?” “That thing where you; Oh never mind, I'll show you later. Mind if I join you?” He jiggled his belt, making it sound as if he was pulling off his pants. “No!” she said quickly. “I'm naked!” “That's the idea,' he said. “Naked and wet. Just the way I like you best. Just like last night. Man! You were wet.” He thought he heard her whimper something about deities unknown. “Want me to go make coffee instead?” he asked, taking pity on her. “Yes,” she seized the opportunity. “Please. Coffee. Why don't you take yours to go?” She was kicking him out? After everything he'd done for her the previous evening? “Now that's no way to talk to your new husband,” he said reprovingly. He could hear her shock in the very silence. “My what?” “Don't you remember?” Oh, he was enjoying this. “My what?” “After we met up at the bar, we went to a judge I know and got a special license. He married us. He's a good guy, Judge Henderson. Owed me a favor after I got rid of a little problem for him a year ago.” “Please leave,” she begged, close to tears, if her voice was anything to go by. “Now, honeybun, I told you last night the garbage disposal company I work for doesn't work over weekends. Where would I go?” She moaned, a pitiful sound that made him feel slightly guilty. There was a movement behind the curtain and then her head poked out. She was holding the curtain prudishly high to hide the rest of her. “Please tell me you're joking,” she pleaded. He let his silence speak for itself, while he took her in. Her eyes were bloodshot, but that didn't do much to distract from their beauty. Had he ever seen such big blue eyes outside the porcelain-doll industry? Why hadn't he noticed that before? He was standing close enough that he could see the water clinging against her long lashes. Her nose was fine with the cutest tilt, and her skin, though still slightly sallow from the previous evening, was perfect and unblemished. He was stunned. She was beautiful. How the hell had he missed that? “This can't be happening,” she said. His thoughts exactly. He could not be noticing her beauty now. It was just his libido talking. He'd spent a restless evening tossing around coldly on her couch, getting images of her all mixed up with his librarian fantasies. That's what this was. His cock was desperate to convince him he was attracted to her so he would make his move. And she would fall for it, no doubt about that. She was inexperienced and, by her own admission, desperate. If he turned on the charm, he would have her under him before the end of the day. But he wasn't that kind of a guy. The guy who sleep with girls and leave them when they bore him. And bore him she inevitably would. She was too quiet, too shy, too damn librarian-ish to hold his attention for longer than it took him to come. He preferred women with fiery personalities and lots of experience in pleasuring her lover in bed. Emily would probably faint dead the first time she saw him naked. And try to be prim and proper, and not want him to go down on her. Sex with her would have to be after dark, a quick, awkward coupling under the covers. She wouldn't want to do any of the things he liked; no blowjobs, no cunnilingus. Definitely no role-play. It would be utterly unfulfilling. So why wouldn't his cock stop trying to make happy-happy with her? “Don't worry,' he said, finally annoyed by himself and his thoughts and feelings. “It's not. I'll go make coffee. I'll even leave if you want me to.” She looked at him, blinking those big eyes of hers. “No,” she said. “Stay. I'll be there in a few minutes.” She brushed her teeth and even her tongue for what felt like hours to no avail. The taste of her humiliation sat as if the enamel on her teeth had absorbed it. She felt as if she was chewing on moss as far as she went. She twisted the towel around her head and drank the Advils next to her bed. Bits and pieces of the previous evening was filtering down to her. She had been at the library and Mrs. Gunnings; bless her heart; had been talking about how Emily needed to find a nice young man to take care of her. Of how nice it was to go home and not spend the evening alone. Of how nice it was to go out and hold somebody's hand in public. Of the lovely man who'd swept her daughter right of her feet and now they were married with a little baby and how happy they were; she'd talked and talked until Emily was so depressed with her own lonely little life that she decided to stop for a drink, rather than face her empty apartment. As she sat there, she kept thinking of ways to meet somebody; clearly, her job was no help; and the thought had somehow taken root that people met other people in bars. When they were drunk. So she'd ordered one drink after another, hoping she would magically become sexy and; and pretty and desirable. And somebody would magically notice her and fall magically in love with her and they would magically live happily ever after. To be continued, by horn pixy.

We FINALLY get around to doing our event review for Bia Vida! It was a fun wet time for sure. Also got a couple interviews including the world debut of "Say less with Sammie and Miss Emily Sweets" , When the girls get together its quite the handful!!!!If you wanna see what the sexy Sammie looks like then just check out her OF!Sammies OF@sammiesworldSamOF- Sammie

n this episode of Point of View I have the great privilege of talking to Irish writer Nuala O'Connor, who is a prolific novelist, short story writer and poet, her latest and sixth novel 'Seaborne,' based on the life of 18th-century Irish pirate Anne Bonny, about whom much fake, fictional, fantastical stuff was written which gave Nuala  a lot of freedom to invent.'  Nuala has a talent for bringing to the page  with her powerful imagination the lives of  maverick women , in Miss Emily that of Emily Dickinson, in Nora published in 2022 she conjures in sensuous and resonant prose the definitive portrait of Nora Barnacle, the strong , indomitable, passionate wife and muse of James Joyce , named one of the best books of historical fiction by the New York Times, Nuala also talks openly about her recent diagnosis with autism and how it has provided clarity and self compassion and a sense of calm and joy..  inhale that sea air and prepare to voyage with Nuala as she reads from Seaborne ..

What started as a innocent middle of the week episode quickly turns into a hour long fiesta. Miss Emily gets heated as we accidently bring up a old topic which got her going originally. Also got our DTF Lust party coming again this Saturday. The fun never ends!

This is a first in a recurring series of special episodes featuring past guests, and how it works is we go back to those original sessions, and pull out a bit of Jeff's introduction, along with the artists song set ups and stories, followed by the live performances they delivered at Wild Woods Blue. Hence the name "Performances", and this time starring Miss Emily.See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Miss Emily and Miss Ema discuss motherhood and their favorite holiday-season movie: LOVE ACTUALLY

269 - " 'But the law requires you to tell what you're going to use it for.' Miss Emily just stared at him . . . until he looked away and went and got the arsenic." Tuck in and along with the British rock group, The Zombies, you may fall victim to Emily, too.

This week on ‘Tits Up' we are joined by the baddie flattie herself, Miss Emily! Emily chose to have an aesthetic flat closure for her reconstruction and she walks us through the considerations that went into her decision to go flat and life after treatment. Thank you, Emily, for sharing with us what it means to feel ‘whole' again after feeling broken. Our loudest message from this episode: Find a surgeon that respects your wishes and who trusts that you know your own mind. https://standtallafc.org/ (https://standtallafc.org/) https://notputtingonashirt.org/ (https://notputtingonashirt.org/) https://www.flatclosurenow.org/ (https://www.flatclosurenow.org/) Keeping the existential dread at bay…for now, Megan and Sam Follow us and leave a review on Spotify, Apple, and Google Podcast! You can also follow us on Instagram and Facebook where we would love to read your comment with your own stories, thoughts, feelings, and suggestions for future episodes!

This time a 2022 Juno nominee, and Maple Blues Female Vocalist of the Year, Emily Fennell, better known as Miss Emily, with more of her trademark “electrifying roof-rattling performances”, the “soul-blues dynamo” comes with guitar in hand and joins Jeff for conversation and performances live on record, live at Wild Woods Blue, and from the studio from her latest acclaimed album, “Defined by Love”. See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Salty Dog's CHARGE! Podcast, November 2022 Visit: www.salty.com.au The CHARGE this time around is a great interview with Australia's 'X' punk lead singer turned blues man, Steve Lucas. Check out the interview about 30 mins in (and the other half on separate podcast soon). Fabulous tracks from across the blues and roots genres from John Mayall, Ray Beadle, Matt Schofield, Greg Izor, Miss Emily, Chris Whiteley, Roy Buchanan, Leigh Sloggett, Steve Lucas, Ry Cooder, PJ O'Brien, Layla Zoe, Larkin Poe, Rod Stewart, Social Distortion, Joe Pug, Amy Helm, Aerial Maps. ----------- ARTIST / TRACK / ALBUM ** Australia 1. John Mayall / Country Road / Jazz Blues Fusion 2. ** Ray Beadle / That's What The Blues Is All About / STAX of BLUES 3. Matt Schofield / Tell Me Some Lies / Far As I Can See 4. Greg Izor / Shoot The Moon / The Ground 5. Miss Emily / Sometimes It's Better To Lose / Live At The Isabel 6. Chris Whitley / Kick The Stones / Living With The Law 7. Roy Buchannan / Too Many Drivers / Live at Town Hall 1974 8. ** Leigh Sloggett / Switchback / Wait For The Change 9. ** Steve Lucas / Cross That Line / Interview October 2022 10. Ry Cooder / Crazy Bout An Automobile / Borderline 11. ** PJ O'Brien / High Cost / High Cost 12. Layla Zoe / Dark Heart / The World Could Change 13. Larkin Poe / Bad Spell / Georgia Off My Mind 14. Rod Stewart / (I Know) I'm Losing You / Every Picture Tells A Story 15. Social Distortion / Can't Take It With You / Hard Times and Nursery Rhymes 16. Joe Pug / Call It What You Will / Live at Lincoln Hall 17. Amy Helm / Verse 23 / What The Flood Lives Behind 18. ** The Aerial Maps / Back In The North Country / Intimate Hinterland

HOY! Is the Tober of Octs! My has casted another pod! Tsyohh! Is the linkage for my animatin' buddy, Miss Emily! https://www.instagram.com/missemilysoto/ --- This episode is sponsored by · Anchor: The easiest way to make a podcast. https://anchor.fm/app Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/mrbearmsauntie/support

A conversation with Juno nominated, Maple Blues Award winner, Singer/Songwriter - Miss Emily - https://themissemily.com/

In this episode, Jack talks with Children's Music Education Expert Miss Emily Baum.As if the joy of experiencing music isn't enough, the benefits of learning to play music at a young age have been shown to enhance brain growth, language and math skills, the development of memory, attention, and concentration while fostering discipline, self-confidence, and social skills.But the benefits of learning to play an instrument aren't limited to children. It's also been shown to have a positive impact on adults… from brain function, stress relief, boosting blood flow, and just the general sense of accomplishment.As a former elementary school teacher, Miss Emily specializes in teaching music to kids ranging in age from 4-104. She busts through the old stereotype of piano lessons being a chore with her special teaching techniques including Musical Storytime for young children as well as using music as therapy as a tool for mental and physical fitness with what she so aptly calls Yoga for the Mind. Miss Emily enjoys inspiring students with special needs and engaging them in musical activities as part of their therapy. Also a fitness and wellness enthusiast, Emily coaches youth and adults in healthy habits.Miss Emily enjoys inspiring students with special needs and engaging them in musical activities as part of their therapy. Also a fitness and wellness enthusiast, Emily coaches youth and adults in healthy habits.The environment of Miss Emily's Piano Studio in Hermosa Beach, CA is a peaceful, fun place one block from the beach. From Steinway Pianos to Kohler and Campbell uprights and a group of magic keyboards, it's a fun, magical place to make music and have an educational, relaxing musical experience each and every week.Listen in and you'll quickly understand how Miss Emily has touched the lives of so many students, creating GRIT and building the self-confidence to face life's challenges.To learn more about Miss Emily Baum visit https://MissEmilyBaum.comConnect with Miss Emily on social media:Instagram – https://Instagram.com/missemilybaumFacebook – https://Facebook.com/missemilybaum

Host Ange Stever sits down with friend and 2022 JUNO Award-nominee Emily Fennel (Miss Emily) for a candid catch-up on her personal and professional highs and lows through the COVID-19 pandemic, and discuss the making and release of her highly anticipated new album, Defined By Love. Host: Ange Stever Links: Miss Emily https://www.kingstonlive.ca/listing/miss-emily/ Kingston Live music listings, news and more http://kingstonlive.ca Tyton Sound http://tytonsound.com Your suggestions, ideas and criticisms are important and encouraged. Please let us know what you think by commenting here, or by email at podcast@kingstonlive.ca

When was the last time you checked in with the future of your brand? Emily from H-Town joins us to talk about life in Generaton Next. 

Emily Meggett talks to Kayla Stewart and Mark about the joy and frustration of learning to cook, Edisto Island's commitment to old style food and traditions, and her rich history of feeding her community.Order her new book Gullah Geechee Home Cooking: Recipes from the Matriarch of Edisto Island, here. For the recipe featured today head over to the Bittman Project, here. Subscribe to Food with Mark Bittman on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or wherever you like to listen, and please help us grow by leaving us a 5 star review on Apple Podcasts.Follow Mark on Twitter at @bittman, and on Facebook and Instagram at @markbittman. Subscribe to Mark's newsletter The Bittman Project at www.bittmanproject.com.Questions or comments about the show? Email food@markbittman.com. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Forty-two miles south of Charleston, SC and home to a little more than 2,000 people, Edisto Island is a place where everyone knew everyone else when Emily Meggett was growing up. Today she calls it a “little slice of heaven,” and says that when the side door is open, people know that there is food in her kitchen. And there is almost always food, as Miss Emily cooks “big,” as she calls it, cooking enough to feed 8 to 10 people on the regular. She began cooking professionally in 1954, at now, at 89 years old, has published her first cookbook, Gullah Geechee Home Cooking: Recipes from the Matriarch of Edisto Island. She's spent a lifetime cooking and sharing Gullah Geechie food, keeping its distinctive flavors alive and celebrated, all while raising ten children. She cooks with all her senses, and when she talks about cooking, she often uses her hands to demonstrate the method she's teaching you. It's beautiful, just like her laugh, especially when she sometimes refers to “butt's meat,” her name for salt pork, one of her favorite flavoring ingredients.

Alongside the delicious food, the new cookbook “Gullah Geechee Home Cooking,” tells the story of the Gullah Geechee through the history of Edisto Island and author of the book, Emily Meggett's family. The recipes that she shares have been passed down through generations. The cookbook will be available on April 26, and in it you'll find fresh seafood recipes that are an homage to the Sea Islands on the Atlantic Coast – recipes like deviled crab and Miss Emily's famous Stuffed Fish with Parsley Rice and Roe. There are recipes that might remind you of other Southern cooking you may have tried, like red rice, corn fritters, and okra gumbo. And there are plenty of pie recipes and one for a glorious Pineapple upside-down cake. We speak with the author new cookbook “Gullah Geechee Home Cooking,” Emily Meggett, also known as “the matriarch of Edisto Island.” And co-author of the cookbook Kayla Stewart, who is also a food and travel reporter.

Alongside the delicious food, the new cookbook “Gullah Geechee Home Cooking,” tells the story of the Gullah Geechee through the history of Edisto Island and author of the book, Emily Meggett's family. The recipes that she shares have been passed down through generations. The cookbook will be available on April 26, and in it you'll find fresh seafood recipes that are an homage to the Sea Islands on the Atlantic Coast – recipes like deviled crab and Miss Emily's famous Stuffed Fish with Parsley Rice and Roe. There are recipes that might remind you of other Southern cooking you may have tried, like red rice, corn fritters, and okra gumbo. And there are plenty of pie recipes and one for a glorious Pineapple upside-down cake. We speak with the author new cookbook “Gullah Geechee Home Cooking,” Emily Meggett, also known as “the matriarch of Edisto Island.” And co-author of the cookbook Kayla Stewart, who is also a food and travel reporter.

Hello Friends! Happy Spring!! Welcome to another episode of Magic From the Root. We are still in Season 2, and in today's episode I interview Miss Emily. She is one of the most grounded and embodied humans that I know, a momma to a magical little human, wife to a supportive and masterful musician, a skilled bodyworker, talented dancer and all-around kick ass human. If you've been listening to this podcast, then you already know that she is also who I've been sitting in circle with the longest. Emily and I started our current coven together many moons ago. We've been friends for about 19 years and have known each other in various lifetimes of our existence. I'm excited to share her story today, and I hope that it inspires you to get more into your own body as a Spiritual Practice. 0:00 Intro 1:33 Tea Talk and Camel Nut ;) 7:33 Em's Path and a Partner who gets it! 18:53 Trance Medicine (including a convo about Amel Tafsout) 25:43 Connecting with Others and Teaching Skillz 27:47 Horse Medicine, Seeing the Body as a Holy Vessel 33:00 Bodywork Witchiness and how that leads to Seeing the Spark in Others 40:04 She's EXCITED about Runes!! 46:55 Teaching Others to be WILD 50:15 Working with Men 55:27 Em's Daily Practice 59:37 Tips on Your Path 1:08:49 Closing Sacred Space 1:17:54 Spring Tarot by O'Dell 1:19:42 Kuddos and Blessings to You! --- This episode is sponsored by · Anchor: The easiest way to make a podcast. https://anchor.fm/app Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/magicfromtheroot/support

Miss Louisa closed her book with a bang and looked around at us with a big smile, as she always did when she finished reading. I looked back at her, beaming. I was tremendously proud of her. She had turned in a magnificent performance. She had brought it off so smoothly, apparently effortlessly, without hesitation. I clapped my little hands together and said “Yay! Yay!” as if she'd just set a new record for the high jump.     I was the only one clapping. I looked around at my fellow pupils and I discovered that they, for some reason, were beginning to blubber. Matthew, however, was not. He sat there in Miss Emily's lap nodding his head, his mouth twisted into that sneering grin.     Miss Louisa's face fell. Miss Emily looked terrified. She began gathering children to her bosom. “It's all right,” she repeated as she ran around the circle trying to give a hug to each of them. “It's only a story.”     “It's not just a story.” said Matthew. “It's the truth.” His voice surprised everyone. We all looked at him, and the other children stopped crying. “I heard another story about the fox and the clam,” he said, “and it was just as bad.”     “I know a different story about the fox and the clam, too!” I said, smiling again, thinking that I might get a chance to tell my version.     Matthew looked straight at me. “How come you're always smiling, Peter?” he asked.     I stopped smiling. I thought about the question, but I couldn't think of an answer. I looked at Matthew, and then I looked around at the other boys and girls, at Miss Louisa and Miss Emily. They were all looking at me, waiting for an answer. None of them was smiling. I began to feel empty, stupid, and sad.     “I'm not always smiling,” I said, and I wasn't.     The mothers and fathers began arriving. One by one their children ran to them, weeping, inconsolable. When my mother arrived, I ran to her at once and took her hand and started tugging her toward the car. When we were nearly there, I turned back to look at Matthew. He was staring at me, and after a moment he stuck his tongue out at me. He looked so silly with his red tongue sticking out of his white face that I couldn't help myself. I laughed.Have you missed an episode or two or several?You can begin reading at the beginning or you can catch up by visiting the archive or consulting the index to the Topical Guide.You can listen to the episodes on the Personal History podcast. Begin at the beginning or scroll through the episodes to find what you've missed.At Apple Books you can download free eBooks of “My Mother Takes a Tumble,” “Do Clams Bite?,” “Life on the Bolotomy,” “The Static of the Spheres,” “The Fox and the Clam,” and “The Girl with the White Fur Muff,” the first six novellas in Little Follies.You'll find an overview of the entire work in  An Introduction to The Personal History, Adventures, Experiences & Observations of Peter Leroy. It's a pdf document. Get full access to The Personal History, Adventures, Experiences & Observations of Peter Leroy at peterleroy.substack.com/subscribe

One afternoon, at reading time, we settled onto the lawn, and Miss Louisa opened a book and said, “Today I'm going to read you a story called ‘The Fox and the Clam.'”     “I know that story,” I blurted out, surprised and thrilled. A new feeling arose within me, a warm and pleasant feeling. It was pride. I had already read the story of the fox and the clam, but the other children, to judge from their blank faces, hadn't; that meant that I was in an elevated position, closer to Miss Emily and Miss Louisa than any of the others.     “I know it, too,” said Matthew. The sound of his voice stunned everyone. It attenuated my warm and pleasant feeling. Miss Emily recovered first; she bounded to Matthew and scooped him up.     “Oh, good, Matthew,” said Miss Emily. She enveloped him in one of her pillowy hugs. “And you, too, Peter, good for you.” She had Matthew squashed in her arms, with his head bent to one side, but nonetheless I could see when he looked at me that he wore the same malevolent smile he had worn when he'd palmed that lard sandwich off on me.     “Now, Matthew and Peter,” said Miss Emily, “since you and I already know the story, we'll have to be very quiet while Miss Louisa reads, so that we won't spoil it for the others, won't we?”     “Yeah,” I said, crushed. Not until she had told me that I was going to have to be quiet did I realize that I had been hoping to parade my familiarity with the story, that I had intended to keep interrupting with “Here comes a good part,” or “Wait'll you hear what happens to the clam!”     Miss Louisa began.     “Once upon a time, a fox was on her way home to her family. She had spent all day scrubbing floors in the palace of the lion, who was the king of all the beasts.”     I had been wearing a big smile and the condescending look of the cognoscenti, but now my heart began to pound and I broke out in a sweat because the story Miss Louisa was beginning was clearly going to be wildly different from the fox-and-clam story I knew. I felt, at the same time, three kinds of anxiety. The first was the anxiety one feels when one is watching an actor in a difficult role, a musician playing a difficult piece, an athlete attempting a difficult feat: it seemed to me that Miss Louisa was undertaking a stupendous effort of improvisation, and I was afraid for her, afraid that she couldn't bring off the spontaneous construction of so vastly different a version of the story, afraid that she was going to make a fool of herself. The second was the anxiety one feels when one has pretended, in conversation, to have read a book that one has not and sees in the expression on the face of one's interlocutor genuine interest, interest that is already forming into a question that one will not be able to answer: it seemed to me that, since I had claimed to know the story, Miss Louisa might at some point ask me what was going to happen next, and I would be the one to make a fool of himself. The third was entirely new to me: it was anxiety born of rivalry. I looked at Matthew. His expression had reverted to his habitual look of disappointment, and from it I couldn't get any idea of what he was thinking. Since he stayed with the Leightons after the rest of us left, I wondered whether he had perhaps already heard Miss Louisa's story, whether perhaps he already knew what Miss Louisa was going to say. Since he and I were the only ones who knew anything about the story, we were competitors, but it might well be that he had an advantage, inside information on Miss Louisa's version of the story of the fox and the clam.     Miss Louisa went on. “Her knees were sore, and her hands were rough and chafed. Her body ached from the hard work she had to do. Her heart ached too, because she knew that she would have to go on doing this work until she died. ‘Oh,' she wailed, ‘A fox's life is a sorry life. I wish I could be some other animal.'     “Just then a fairy popped out from under a toadstool. ‘Your wish is granted,' said the fairy, who had the power to grant wishes. ‘You may be any animal you choose to be.'     “The fox's heart leaped up, and she skipped along, thinking about what animal she might become. While she skipped along, a small bird flew past her, and the fox said, ‘Oh, I think I might be happy if I were a bird like you. It must be wonderful to fly through the air instead of scrubbing floors.     “‘Does my life look good to you?' asked the bird. ‘All day long I have been flying back and forth with worms in my mouth to feed my babies, who scream all the time. If that sounds good to you, then why don't you take my place?'     “The bird's life didn't sound very good to the fox, so she went on. After a while, she saw a rabbit hop across the path in front of her, and the fox said, ‘Oh, I think I might be happy if I were a rabbit like you. It must be wonderful to spend all day hopping through the woods, so blithe and nonchalant.'     “‘Does my life look good to you?' asked the rabbit. ‘Right now I'm running from a farmer who saw me eating cabbage in his cabbage patch. If he catches me, he's going to impale me on the pitchfork he's carrying. If that sounds good to you, then why don't you take my place?'     “The rabbit's life didn't sound very good to the fox, so she went on. After a while, she came to a bay, and the fox said, ‘I'll bet there are clams in this bay.' And she called out to the clams, ‘Oh, I think I might be happy if I were a clam like you. It must be wonderful to spend all day resting in the sand.'     “‘Oh, yes,' called a clam. ‘It is wonderful. We don't have to hunt for food—we just stick our necks out and eat whatever comes along. We never have to bring food to our children, as the birds do—in fact, we never give any thought to our children at all. We never get chased by farmers, as the rabbits do. We don't have any work to do for the King, as you do, and we don't ever get sore knees, since we don't have any knees. However—'     “The clam's life sounded so very, very good to the fox that she didn't wait for the clam to finish. She cried, ‘I wish to be a clam,' and jumped into the bay. By the time she reached the bottom, she had become a clam, and she was happy.     “But just then, along came one of the Royal Clamdiggers, and he dug up the clam who had once been a fox. He took her to the Royal Cook, and that night she ended up in the Royal Stomach.”Have you missed an episode or two or several?You can begin reading at the beginning or you can catch up by visiting the archive or consulting the index to the Topical Guide.You can listen to the episodes on the Personal History podcast. Begin at the beginning or scroll through the episodes to find what you've missed.At Apple Books you can download free eBooks of “My Mother Takes a Tumble,” “Do Clams Bite?,” “Life on the Bolotomy,” “The Static of the Spheres,” “The Fox and the Clam,” and “The Girl with the White Fur Muff,” the first six novellas in Little Follies.You'll find an overview of the entire work in  An Introduction to The Personal History, Adventures, Experiences & Observations of Peter Leroy. It's a pdf document. Get full access to The Personal History, Adventures, Experiences & Observations of Peter Leroy at peterleroy.substack.com/subscribe

My mother and Mr. Beaker decided that I had memorized parts of the stories, and that I was making additions and changes to cover up for my not being able to remember other parts. In short, they decided that I couldn't really read at all.     My mother worried about me. In consultation with the other mothers in our neighborhood, she decided that I had serious intellectual deficiencies that should be corrected before I began kindergarten. She wanted to enroll me in the Misses Leighton's Nursery School. She enlisted Eliza Foote as an ally, and together they persuaded Mr. Beaker to endorse the idea. The Misses Leighton's Nursery School was much less practical than what Mr. Beaker would have liked, but it was the only school that that I could possibly attend, since there was no other nursery school in Babbington, and it would at least be a beginning. I would be, at least formally, a student. When my father seemed hesitant, Mr. Beaker offered to pay half the cost, and the matter was settled.     The school was conducted within the Misses Leighton's house, a large and comfortable frame house where the two women—Emily and Louisa—had for some twenty years attended their ailing mother. When she had died at last, the daughters, released from their responsibility well into middle age, had spent their small inheritance on a trip to Greece, where they acquired an enormous number of fascinating miniature plaster replicas of classical statuary, and where Emily learned to play the bouzouki, though not well.     When they returned, they opened the little school, which emphasized the visual arts (mostly coloring, finger painting, and modeling in clay), dance (which consisted of having the children put on shifts made of cheesecloth and romp around the lawn behind Louisa while Emily played the bouzouki), and literature (which consisted of our sitting in a circle and listening to one or the other of the Misses Leighton read aloud).     Most of our instruction took place on their porch. The porch had been enclosed with windows and knotty pine. In my memory of the time I spent there, the sun is always shining. Miss Emily, large and soft, is wearing a white cotton dress with a billowy skirt. She is constantly moving, bustling from one pupil to another, giving out squashy hugs, and from time to time she bursts into operatic passages that make Louisa, a wiry, wan woman with fine, dark hair, wince.     Miss Emily paid particular attention to one of the other boys, who was so plump and soft and pale that the rest of us thought of him as a marshmallow. He was a sad little boy who wore a look of disappointment nearly all the time. He didn't laugh, but neither did he cry. He was so uncommunicative that the rest of us gave up trying to talk to him after a while, though Miss Emily continually urged us to talk to him, to play with him. This was Matthew Barber. All of the rest of us knew that Matthew sometimes stayed at the Leightons' after we left. His mother would come to get him later, when she closed her shop. I had heard my parents talk about how big-hearted the Leighton sisters were, how fortunate Mrs. Barber was that the Leightons allowed Matthew to attend the school for nothing, how fortunate the poor boy was that he had this opportunity.     Outside the porch, behind the house, was a wide lawn, surrounded by lilacs. Surely these lilacs cannot always have been in bloom while I was at the Leightons' school, but in my memory they are. Perhaps I am remembering the lilac cologne that Miss Emily wore.     During the morning we would draw, paint, or model in clay. Then we would eat lunch. All of us brought lunches from home. When it was time to eat, we would gather together in groups of friends. Periodically, Miss Louisa took us aside, one at a time, and reminded us that Matthew was not a happy boy, that he had no father, and that we should share our lunches with him because he didn't have any money. Once, I traded sandwiches with him. The sandwich I gave him was tuna fish, and I was fond of tuna fish sandwiches. The sandwich he gave me was lard, just lard. With the first bite I decided that I'd been duped. I looked at him. He was wolfing down the tuna fish sandwich, but he paused to smile at me. It was not a pure smile. It was more like a sneer.     During the afternoon, we would dance, hurl the discus and javelin, play follow-the-leader, or act in skits. Then at the end of the day, our little group would sit in a ring around Emily or Louisa, who would read to us. On cool days we would sit on the porch, but on warm days we would sit outside on the lawn. After the day's reading, our parents would arrive, and we would go home.     Most of the time, my mother drove me to the school and picked me up at the end of the day. She was always deferential toward the Misses Leighton, who quite bowled her over. Sometimes, though, my father picked me up, and he was always nervous around the Leighton sisters. He would stand with his hands in his pockets for most of the time. He looked at the ground or the floor, or he looked quickly at the drawings and finger paintings I had made, but he almost never raised his eyes to look directly at Emily or Louisa, and since he spoke, when he spoke, in the direction of the floor, neither of them had any idea what he was saying. When we rode home together in the car, he would sometimes ask me questions about what went on at the school, but he seemed more interested in knowing whether the boys and girls changed into their cheesecloth shifts in the same room at the same time than in what I had made out of my ration of clay that day.Have you missed an episode or two or several?You can begin reading at the beginning or you can catch up by visiting the archive or consulting the index to the Topical Guide.You can listen to the episodes on the Personal History podcast. Begin at the beginning or scroll through the episodes to find what you've missed.At Apple Books you can download free eBooks of “My Mother Takes a Tumble,” “Do Clams Bite?,” “Life on the Bolotomy,” “The Static of the Spheres,” “The Fox and the Clam,” and “The Girl with the White Fur Muff,” the first six novellas in Little Follies.You'll find an overview of the entire work in  An Introduction to The Personal History, Adventures, Experiences & Observations of Peter Leroy. It's a pdf document. Get full access to The Personal History, Adventures, Experiences & Observations of Peter Leroy at peterleroy.substack.com/subscribe

Nuala O'Connor talks about miniature dolls, the beauty of short things, quitting alcohol and clearing the decks at fifty as she tells Ruth McKee which books she would save if her house was on fire.  Nuala O'Connor is the author of Becoming Belle (2018), Miss Emily (2015), The Closet of Savage Mementos (2014), You (2010) and six short story collections, her most recent being Joyride to Jupiter. Her fifth novel Nora is about Nora Barnacle, wife and muse to James Joyce, published in Ireland in April 2021 with New Island, and is the One Dublin One Book for 2022. 

MasterDebaters Episode 1 Welcome to the first episode of a new roundtable discussion series, the MasterDebaters. Thanks to Ryan from Dangerous World Pod, Niko from Upstate Unconventional Pod, Miss Emily, and Dave from Red Pill Cartel Pod for kicking this off. Some of the topics we touch on are: Potential Food Shortages, supply chain issues, and the rising inflation Current Real Estate Market & foreign influence Ghost Cities in China for next Great Reset? Controlled Opposition, who can you trust these days? What is shadow banning on social media? Predictive Programming in TV; current shows like American Horror Story & Midnight Mass Empaths & impact of programming thru spells, negative energy Word Magic and the spells Being Prepared for the apocalypse Health Tips from Emily Guests: Ryan: Dangerous World Podcast IG @dangerousworldpodcast Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/DangerousWorldPodcast/posts Email: dangerousworldpodcast@gmail.com Emily IG @missembily Dave: Red Pill Cartel Podcast IG @daveywavey2112 IG @redpillcartelpodcast Niko: Upstate Unconventional Podcast IG @upstateunconventional Email: upstateunconventional@gmail.com

Emily Taylor is a musician and singer songwriter born and raised in Price Edward County Ontario. In 2020 at the Maple Blues Awards in Toronto she was awarded Female Vocalist of the Year, New Artist of the Year, and the Sapphire Canadian Blues Music Award. She has released several albums, and her latest is a live album that was released during the height of the COVID-19 Pandemic.On this episode we chat about how Emily got into music, the mindset and determination it takes to follow your dreams, life as a working musician, and more.Miss Emily Website

How to make a Goombay Smash--my recipe as inspired by Miss Emily's Blue Bee Bar on Green Turtle Cay, Abacos, Bahamas. Green Turtle is a favorite! --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/ship-bright/message Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/ship-bright/support

Thank you for listening to another episode of DWP! Health is wealth! We brought on a knowledgeable and CERTIFIED health coach, Emily who specializes in root cause gut health. We get into all kinds of things ranging from supplements to take for certain issues to her experience working for d 0 nald T r Um p in the real estate game! Really fun conversation and I know we learned a ton so hopefully you do too! Reach out to her on IG @missembily !!! Support us on Patreon to hear the full conversation! Only $3 a month to get in and hear full length conversations. Come check out our new website and find a shirt you like! DangerousWorldStore.com $26 Tees and free shipping in the US. Worldwide shipping available at discounted rates! JadeCBD.co promo code “DANGER” for 10% off. Check out Listenable.io for a huge selection of audio learning courses. 30% your membership fees when you use this link: https://frstre.com/go/?a=76205-87a7d9&s=1784014-1f9d84&p_affiliate.referral_code=brandonpeacock Advertising Inquiries: https://redcircle.com/brandsPrivacy & Opt-Out: https://redcircle.com/privacy

Thank you for listening to another episode of DWP! Health is wealth! We brought on a knowledgeable and CERTIFIED health coach, Emily who specializes in root cause gut health. We get into all kinds of things ranging from supplements to take for certain issues to her experience working for d 0 nald T r Um p in the real estate game! Really fun conversation and I know we learned a ton so hopefully you do too! Reach out to her on IG @missembily !!! Support us on Patreon to hear the full conversation! Only $3 a month to get in and hear full length conversations. Come check out our new website and find a shirt you like! DangerousWorldStore.com $26 Tees and free shipping in the US. Worldwide shipping available at discounted rates! JadeCBD.co promo code “DANGER” for 10% off. Check out Listenable.io for a huge selection of audio learning courses. 30% your membership fees when you use this link: https://frstre.com/go/?a=76205-87a7d9&s=1784014-1f9d84&p_affiliate.referral_code=brandonpeacock --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/dangerous-world/support

Hello Side Questers! Are you ready for some spice today? Join me as I interview Miss Emily and her unique experience as a successful indie fetish producer and Dominatrix! If you're interested you can find out more about Miss Emily at emilyvalentina.com If you're interested in seeing Miss Emily as she speaks, please subscribe to my YouTube channel: Side Quests with Bri --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/bri8551/support

Topics discussed in this episode: Justin & Kylie took the kids and spent some time getting away together They took the kids to the Easter show Justin shares about a difficult phone call with Kylie, who was very upset Kylie shares about Miss Emily who received lots of presents for her birthday For a happier family try a Happy Families Membership. Because a happy family doesn't just happen!Find us on Facebook at Dr Justin Coulson's Happy FamiliesEmail us your questions and comments at podcasts@happyfamilies.com.au.See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Topics discussed in this episode: Justin & Kylie took the kids and spent some time getting away together They took the kids to the Easter show Justin shares about a difficult phone call with Kylie, who was very upset Kylie shares about Miss Emily who received lots of presents for her birthday For a happier family try a Happy Families Membership. Because a happy family doesn't just happen! Find us on Facebook at Dr Justin Coulson's Happy Families Email us your questions and comments at podcasts@happyfamilies.com.au.

You're listening to the Westerly Sun's podcast, where we talk about the best local events, new job postings, obituaries, and more. First, a bit of Rhode Island trivia. Today's trivia is brought to you by Perennial.  Perennial's new plant-based drink “Daily Gut & Brain” is a blend of easily digestible nutrients crafted for gut and brain health. A convenient mini-meal, Daily Gut & Brain” is available now at the CVS Pharmacy in Wakefield. Now for some trivia. Did you know that Newport became home to America's first jazz festival in 1954? The Newport Jazz Festival is usually held annually at Fort Adams State Park and will hopefully be held again this July. Fingers crossed. Now, here are a few events today that we're looking forward to. At 1pm this afternoon, the Westerly Library is holding one of their virtual talks about money with an aim to help people figure out their personal finances. Head over to moneysmartweek.org to read more and register. And The Groton Public Library is hosting a fun virtual bedtime story each day this week hosted by Miss Emily and Miss Tracy at 6pm. Watch online and register at groton-ct.gov or search for their facebook page for more details. Looking for a new role? We're here to help. Today's Job posting comes from the The Wine Store in Westerly. They're looking for a part-time cashier. Experience and a high school degree are preferred. Pay starts at $12.00 per hour and must be great with customers. If you'd like to learn more or apply, you can do so by using the link in our episode description.  https://www.indeed.com/l-Westerly,-RI-jobs.html?advn=2763303157644200&vjk=d249143ca2a13f8d Today we're remembering the life of Elynor Lamkins, formerly of Westerly. She was 88. She leaves behind her six childrenas well as many grandchildren, great-grandchildren, nieces and nephews. Born in Michigan, Elynor spent most of her childhood in Avon, CT, then raised her own family in southern California until 1978, then moved back to New England in the 1980's, and finally settled in Westerly in 1984. While Elynor worked in many professional fields, she considered nursing her greatest professional achievement, graduating with high honors at 60 and continuing to serve through her 70's, including Apple Rehab Clipper. A person of deep religious faith, Elynor dedicated much of her life to the preciousness and quality of life whether it be for the unborn, the impoverished, the suicidal, or the elderly, even volunteering her nursing skills in Haiti. She was an active member of the Catholic Church, a daily communicant, and regular adorer at the Perpetual Adoration Chapel at Immaculate Conception Church, where her Mass of Christian Burial will be celebrated at 10am on April 9, 2021. Burial will be private.  Thank you for taking a moment today to remember and celebrate Elynor's life. That's it for today, we'll be back next time with more! Also, remember to check out our sponsor Perennial, Daily Gut & Brain, available at the CVS on Main St. in Wakefield! See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

We sit and chat with Maple Blues Awards Female Vocalist of the Year Miss Emily and talk about her New Artist of the Year and the Sapphire Canadian Blues Music Video Award as well as a little Holiday Cheer

"With radiant love and radical humility we can become overcomers when the light seems to be dim". Brother Nathan and Sister Emily remind us that God will guide us through the darkest times and will eventually show us the light. They mentioned, "if we put our pride aside and let God into our lives, our walk with Christ will become stronger". Philippians talks about how we, as Christians, should shine like stars and guide each other out of the dark. If you are feeling down or feel like things are getting dim, this word would change your view on how you see things into a new perspective!

Making a Scene Presents the PODCAST of LIVE from the Midnight Circus Featuring Ally VenableThis is the Voice of Indie Blues, the future of the blues. Artists who embrace the diversity of the blues that always has and still is being created from it's roots. These artists understand the blues is a living art form that is driven by innovation and creativity. These are the Indie Blues Artists!Joyann Parker,Gone So Long,Out of the DarkThe WildRoots,Misty Morning in New Orleans,WildRoots Sessions Volume 1Grainne Duffy,Voodoo Blues,Voodoo BluesSkylar Rogers,Failure,FirebreatherThe John Angus Band,Heartbreak Hotel Blues,EpVeronica Lewis,Whoo Whee Sweet Daddy,You Ain't UnluckyJuliet Hawkins,Daddy,Duke Robillard,Rock Alley,Blues Bash With Duke Robillard and FriendsDave Thomas,I Like My Chicken Fried,One More MileAlias Smith & Jones Featuring The Button Men,Look What Love Has Done (Chris Whitley Cover),Hit & RunAdam Sweet,Trouble,Sink or SwimEarly Times & the High Rollers,ROSIE HERBS 'N TING,The CornerBeauwater,One Way Out,Who Works For Who?Brother Jon,Dog,Promo2Johnny Never,Shake It Up And Boogie,Blue DeltaMakingascene.org,Intro Ally,makingascene.orgAlly Venable,Heart Of Fire,What Do You Want From MeAlly Venable,Do It In Heels,Heart Of Firemakingascene,Ally Venable,Ally Venable,Played The Game,Heart Of FireAlly Venable,Tribute To SRV,Heart Of FireJosh Piche,Starry Eyes,Josh PicheFuel Junkie,Get out on the Road,All OutErin Harpe,I Hate That Train Called the M&O,Meet Me In The MiddleErin Harpe,When I Lay My Burden Down,Meet Me In The MiddleAbby Girl & The Real Deal,Let The Mama Hold You,Calling Me HomeDione Taylor,Down The Bloodline,Spirits In The WaterLayla Zoe,Nowhere left to go,Nowhere left to goTomas Doncker, I'm Gonna Run To The City Of Refuge,Wherever You GoRandall Bramblett,Even The Sunlight,Pine Needle FireDanny Brooks & Lil Miss Debi,We Do Whatever It Takes,Are You Ready  The Mississippi SessionsJohn Fusco,Hottest Part Of The Flame,John The RevelatorSamantha Martin & Delta Sugar,Loving You Is Easy,The Reckless OneShaun Murphy,Don't Put No Headstone On My Grave,Red Red,Long Black Train,SingleGhalia Volt,Can’t Escape,Miss Emily,Blue Is Still Blue,LIVE at The IsabelRebecca Downes,Chains Fall Down,More Sinner Than SaintBen Levin,Carryout or Delivery,Carryout or Delivery 

Making a Scene Presents the PODCAST of LIVE from the Midnight Circus Featuring Johnny NeverThis is the Voice of Indie Blues, the future of the blues. Artists who embrace the diversity of the blues that always has and still is being created from it's roots. These artists understand the blues is a living art form that is driven by innovation and creativity. These are the Indie Blues Artists!Layla Zoe,Nowhere left to go,Nowhere left to goLayla Zoe,Susan,Nowhere left to goEarly Times & the High Rollers,SHE'S ABOUT TO LOSE HER MIND (feat. Popa Chubby),The CornerEarly Times & the High Rollers,CHARLEMAGNE,The CornerDione Taylor,Down The Bloodline,Spirits In The WaterSkylar Rogers,Firebreather,FirebreatherSamantha Martin & Delta Sugar,Loving You Is Easy,The Reckless OneRed Red,Long Black Train,SingleTomas Doncker,I'm Gonna Run To The City Of Refuge,Wherever You GoBeauwater,Long Way Down,Who Works For Who?Duke Robillard,I Ain't Gonna Do It,Blues Bash With Duke Robillard and FriendsAlly Venable,Heart Of Fire,What Do You Want From MeJohn Fusco,Hottest Part Of The Flame,John The RevelatorAbby Girl & The Real Deal,Palm Of Your Hand,Calling Me HomeVeronica Lewis,Is You Is My Baby,You Ain't UnluckyMakingascene.org,Intro JN,makingascene.orgJohnny Never,Shake It Up And Boogie,Blue DeltaJohnny Never,Black Smart Phone,Blue Deltamakingascene,Johnny Never,Johnny Never,44 Blues,Blue DeltaJohnny Never,Death Letter,Blue DeltaAris Paul Band,One More Time,GhostsBrother Jon,Dog,Promo2Ben Levin,Carryout or Delivery,Carryout or DeliveryLarkin Poe,Take What You Want,Miss Emily,The Sellout,LIVE at The IsabelRebecca Downes,Breathe Out,More Sinner Than SaintJuliet Hawkins,Daddy,Fuel Junkie,"High Stress, Low Money",All OutGrainne Duffy,Hard Rain,Voodoo BluesGhalia Volt,Bad Apple,Joyann Parker,Predator,Out of the DarkJoyann Parker,Carry On,Out of the DarkShaun Murphy,Don't Put No Headstone On My Grave,Danny Brooks & Lil Miss Debi,We Do Whatever It Takes,Are You Ready  The Mississippi SessionsJosh Piche,Fall Down,Josh PicheRandall Bramblett,Even The Sunlight,Pine Needle Fire 

Making a Scene Presents the PODCAST of LIVE from the Midnight Circus Featuring Joyann ParkerThis is the Voice of Indie Blues, the future of the blues. Artists who embrace the diversity of the blues that always has and still is being created from it's roots. These artists understand the blues is a living art form that is driven by innovation and creativity. These are the Indie Blues Artists!Layla Zoe,Nowhere left to go,Nowhere left to goLayla Zoe,Susan,Nowhere left to goEarly Times & the High Rollers,SHE'S ABOUT TO LOSE HER MIND (feat. Popa Chubby),The CornerEarly Times & the High Rollers,CHARLEMAGNE,The CornerDione Taylor,Down The Bloodline,Spirits In The WaterDione Taylor,Workin',Spirits In The WaterSkylar Rogers,Thankful,FirebreatherTomas Doncker, I'm Gonna Run To The City Of Refuge,Wherever You GoGhalia Volt,Bad Apple,Red Red,Long Black Train,SingleBeauwater,Long Way Down,Who Works For Who?Samantha Martin & Delta Sugar,Loving You Is Easy,The Reckless OneAlly Venable,Bring On The Pain feat. Kenny Wayne Shepherd,Heart Of FireAbby Girl & The Real Deal,Palm Of Your Hand,Calling Me HomeJoyann Parker,Dirty Rotten Guy,Out of the DarkJoyann Parker,Either Way,Out of the Darkmakingascene,Joyann Parker,Joyann Parker,Carry On,Out of the DarkJoyann Parker,Predator,Out of the DarkVeronica Lewis,Is You Is My Baby,You Ain't UnluckyAris Paul Band,One More Time,GhostsBrother Jon,Dog,Promo2Ben Levin,Carryout or Delivery,Carryout or DeliveryLarkin Poe,Take What You Want,Miss Emily,The Sellout,LIVE at The IsabelRebecca Downes,Breathe Out,More Sinner Than SaintJuliet Hawkins,Daddy,Fuel Junkie,"High Stress, Low Money",All OutGrainne Duffy,Hard Rain,Voodoo BluesJohnny Never,Death Letter,Blue DeltaJohnny Never,44 Blues,Blue DeltaShaun Murphy,14. Don't Put No Headstone On My Grave,Duke Robillard,I Ain't Gonna Do It,Blues Bash With Duke Robillard and FriendsJohn Fusco,Hottest Part Of The Flame,John The RevelatorDanny Brooks & Lil Miss Debi,We Do Whatever It Takes,Are You Ready  The Mississippi SessionsJosh Piche,Fall Down,Josh PicheRandall Bramblett,Even The Sunlight,Pine Needle Fire 

Making a Scene Presents the PODCAST of LIVE from the Midnight Circus Indie Blues Double Shot Show!This is the Voice of Indie Blues, the future of the blues. An Indie Blues double shot of artists who embrace the diversity of the blues that always has and still is being created from it's roots. These artists understand the blues is a living art form that is driven by innovation and creativity. These are the Indie Blues Artists!Layla Zoe,Nowhere left to go,Nowhere left to goLayla Zoe,Susan,Nowhere left to goEarly Times & the High Rollers,SHE'S ABOUT TO LOSE HER MIND (feat. Popa Chubby),The CornerEarly Times & the High Rollers,CHARLEMAGNE,The CornerDione Taylor,Down The Bloodline,Spirits In The WaterDione Taylor,Workin',Spirits In The WaterSkylar Rogers,Thankful,FirebreatherSkylar Rogers,Firebreather,FirebreatherBeauwater,Long Way Down,Who Works For Who?Beauwater,Nodding Off,Who Works For Who?Ally Venable,Bring On The Pain feat. Kenny Wayne Shepherd,Heart Of FireAlly Venable,Heart Of Fire,What Do You Want From MeAbby Girl & The Real Deal,Palm Of Your Hand,Calling Me HomeAbby Girl & The Real Deal,Let The Mama Hold You,Calling Me HomeVeronica Lewis,Is You Is My Baby,You Ain't UnluckyVeronica Lewis,Ode To Jerry Lee,You Ain't UnluckyAris Paul Band,One More Time,GhostsAris Paul Band,Headlights (feat. Phil Brontz),GhostsBrother Jon,Dog,Promo2Brother Jon,990 Days,Promo2Ben Levin,Some Other Time,Carryout or DeliveryBen Levin,Carryout or Delivery,Carryout or DeliveryLarkin Poe,Take What You Want,Larkin Poe,(You're The) Devil In Disguise,Miss Emily,The Sellout,LIVE at The IsabelMiss Emily,Blue Is Still Blue,LIVE at The IsabelRebecca Downes,Breathe Out,More Sinner Than SaintRebecca Downes,Chains Fall Down,More Sinner Than SaintJuliet Hawkins,Slow Down,Juliet Hawkins,Daddy,Fuel Junkie,"High Stress, Low Money",All OutFuel Junkie,Once or Twice,All OutGrainne Duffy,Hard Rain,Voodoo BluesGrainne Duffy,Voodoo Blues,Voodoo BluesGhalia Volt, Bad Apple,Ghalia Volt,Can’t Escape,Red Red,Long Black Train,SingleRed Red,In The Pines,SingleJoyann Parker,Predator,Out of the DarkJoyann Parker,Carry On,Out of the DarkShaun Murphy,Don't Put No Headstone On My Grave,Shaun Murphy,Old Love,Johnny Never,Death Letter,Blue DeltaJohnny Never,44 Blues,Blue DeltaDuke Robillard,I Ain't Gonna Do It,Blues Bash With Duke Robillard and FriendsDuke Robillard,Rock Alley,Blues Bash With Duke Robillard and FriendsSamantha Martin & Delta Sugar,I've Got a Feeling,The Reckless OneSamantha Martin & Delta Sugar,Loving You Is Easy,The Reckless OneJohn Fusco,Hottest Part Of The Flame,John The RevelatorJohn Fusco,Motel Laws Of Arizona,John The RevelatorDanny Brooks & Lil Miss Debi,We Do Whatever It Takes,Are You Ready  The Mississippi SessionsDanny Brooks & Lil Miss Debi,One More Mile To Mississippi,Are You Ready  The Mississippi SessionsJosh Piche,Fall Down,Josh PicheJosh Piche,December Birds,Josh PicheRandall Bramblett,Even The Sunlight,Pine Needle FireRandall Bramblett,Another Shining Morning,Pine Needle FireTomas Doncker,I'm Gonna Run To The City Of Refuge,Wherever You GoTomas Doncker,Wherever You Go,Wherever You Go 

Bill & Paul Face The Music, Music Night.  Joining Bill & Paul December Rose and Miss Emily

Today I am joined by Miss Emily and Kmar to discuss new beginnings and a new horizon for the future. This will include where I/we are going in the future and the vision that is quickly coming to fruition. Sit back and enjoy some much needed comedic relief as we discuss how comedy and serious content collide in a new vision. 

Making a Scene Presents the PODCAST of LIVE from the Midnight Circus Featuring Miss EmilyThis is the Voice of Indie Blues, the future of the blues. Artists who embrace the diversity of the blues that always has and still is being created from it's roots. These artists understand the blues is a living art form that is driven by innovation and creativity. These are the Indie Blues Artists!Joyann Parker,Predator,Out of the DarkJoyann Parker,Bad Version of Myself,Out of the DarkRebecca Downes,Chains Fall Down,More Sinner Than SaintJuliet Hawkins,Daddy,Skylar Rogers,Insecurities,FirebreatherBeauwater,One Way Out,Who Works For Who?Brother Jon,Dog,Promo2Josh Piche,Fools In Love,Josh PicheFuel Junkie,Push Me Away,All OutJohnny Never,Wiskey Glass,Blue DeltaGhalia Volt,05 Meet Me In My Dreams,Cousin Harley,Right Back With The Blues,Let's Go!Randall Bramblett,Pine Needle Fire,Pine Needle FireMiss Emily,Cry To Me,LIVE at The IsabelMiss Emily,Dear CBC,LIVE at The Isabelmakingascene,Miss Emily,Miss Emily,No,LIVE at The IsabelMiss Emily,Long Time Running,LIVE at The IsabelDave Keller,Land Of The Lonely (with Johnny Rawls),You Get What You GiveAbby Girl & The Real Deal,Burnt Toast  Black Coffee,Calling Me HomeRed Red,Long Black Train,SingleDanny Brooks & Lil Miss Debi,011_Where Will You Stand,Are You Ready  The Mississippi SessionsLIVE from the Midnight Circus-****,rjdoityourself,LMC-****Samantha Martin & Delta Sugar,One Heartbreak,The Reckless OneTomas Doncker,07 - Drown in Blue,Wherever You GoAlastair Greene,Alone And Confused,The New World BluesAlastair Greene,Heroes,The New World BluesKatarina Pejak,Weeping Wind,Sam Morrow,"Sit Crooked, Talk Straight",Gettin' By On Gettin' DownJohn Pagano Band,LOVE,Aster Pheonyx,If I Could,Need To RememberLayla Zoe,Dear Mom,Nowhere left to goJohn Fusco,The Sun Also Rises,John The RevelatorThe Barrett Anderson Band,Blind Faith,HypnoBoogieGrainne Duffy,Don't You Cry For Me,Voodoo BluesGrainne Duffy,Hard Rain,Voodoo BluesAJ Crawdaddy,That's What Love Will Do,Steppin' Out!  

Making a Scene Presents an Interview with Miss Emily!In February of 2020 at the Maple Blues Awards in Toronto, Miss Emily walked away with Female Vocalist of the Year, New Artist of the Year and the Sapphire Canadian Blues Music Video Award. This national recognition hearkened back to her early days of county fair singing competitions. In 1993 a then 12 year- old Emily Fennell was winning accolades not by emulating Whitney Houston or Celine Dion like her peers but by channeling Ray Charles and Aretha Franklin; belting out song choices that belied her age. Those traditional influences would be the foundation of a career characterized by fearless honesty and a constant connection to the roots of popular music.

Intro Song – Peter Veteska & Blues Train, “Am I Wrong Pretty Baby”, Grass Isn't Always Greener On The Other Side  First Set – Durham County Poets, “Hand Me Down Blues”, Hand Me Down Blues Greg Sover Band, “Feelin' Sumthin'”, The ParadeBobby Dean Blackburn, “Why I Sing The Blues”, Don't Ask… Don't Tell Second Set –Danny Brooks & Lil' Miss Debi, “Jesus Had The Blues”, Are You Ready? The Mississippi Sessions400 Bears, “Slow Blues”, 400 Bears Kern Pratt, “Baby's Got Another Lover”, Greenville, MS… What About You? Third Set – WIB Deb Ryder, “Get Ready”, single Miss Emily, “Blues Is Still Blue (Live)”, Live At The Isabel Abby Girl & The Real Deal, “Burnt Toast, Black Coffee”, Calling Me Home Fourth Set – Kirk Fletcher, “D Is For Denny”, My Blues Pathway Jack De Keyzer, “Just For The Funk”, Tribute David Rotundo Band, “Drinking Overtime”, So Much Trouble

Making a Scene Presents the PODCAST of LIVE from the Midnight Circus Featuring Dione TaylorThis is the Voice of Indie Blues, the future of the blues. Artists who embrace the diversity of the blues that always has and still is being created from it's roots. These artists understand the blues is a living art form that is driven by innovation and creativity. These are the Indie Blues Artists!Rebecca Downes,Screaming Your Name,More Sinner Than SaintBrother Jon,Dog,Promo2Dave Keller,Land Of The Lonely (with Johnny Rawls),You Get What You GiveGrainne Duffy,Hard Rain,Voodoo BluesGrainne Duffy,Don't You Cry For Me,Voodoo BluesJ Lee and The Hoodoo Skulls,Black Moon,Black Moon (Blues Rock)Samantha Martin & Delta Sugar,Loving You Is Easy,The Reckless OneJohn Pagano Band,LOVE,Randy Casey,That Train,Record TimeJack de Keyzer,That's How We Make Love,TRIBUTEJack de Keyzer,Let's Do It,TRIBUTEAJ Crawdaddy,That's What Love Will Do,Steppin' Out!Tomas Doncker,03 - Have Mercy Baby Please,Wherever You GoDanny Brooks & Lil Miss Debi,012_Hold On To Love,Are You Ready  The Mississippi SessionsDuke Robillard,Everybody Ain't Your Friend,Blues Bash With Duke Robillard and FriendsDione Taylor,How Many Times,Spirits In The WaterDione Taylor,Running,Spirits In The Watermakingascene,Dione Taylor,Dione Taylor,Spirit,Spirits In The WaterDione Taylor,Where I Belong,Spirits In The WaterAbby Girl & The Real Deal,Burnt Toast  Black Coffee,Calling Me HomeRed Red,Long Black Train,SingleLayla Zoe,Nowhere left to go,Nowhere left to goBeauwater,The Broken Man Behind The Wheel,Who Works For Who?Miss Emily,The Sellout,LIVE at The IsabelGhalia Volt,05 Meet Me In My Dreams,The BluesBones,Whiskey Drinking Woman,Live on stageThe BluesBones,The End,Live on stageLuca Burgalassi,The Real Me,Come To My WorldRusty Wright,World Upside Down,David Rotundo Band,Trying To Find It,So Much TroubleBrad Stivers,Just a Memory,SIXJohn Fusco,The Sun Also Rises,John The RevelatorRandall Bramblett,Another Shining Morning,Pine Needle FireSam Morrow,"Sit Crooked, Talk Straight",Gettin' By On Gettin' DownAster Pheonyx,If I Could,Need To RememberDave Specter & Billy Branch,The Ballad of George Floyd,The Ballad of George Floyd 

Salty Dog's BARRICADE Podcast, November 2020 Visit: www.salty.com.au Bunker down, in behind the barricades for some tunes that will ease your day tone hounds. Great cuts from North Mississippi Allstars, Dan Dinnen N Shorty, Josh Teskey N Ash Grunwald, Kid Ramos, Kirk Fletcher, JD Taylor, Melody Moko, Owen Campbell, Austin John, Backsliders, Charles Jenkins, Miss Emily, Layla Zoe, Fleetwood Mac, Harvey Dalton Arnold, Jack Broadbent, Lou Reed, Ashley Davies, Blues Arcadia, Chris Finnen, Syl Johnson, Joe Bonamassa, Jonny Lang. ----------- ARTIST / TRACK / ALBUM ** Australia 1. North Mississippi Allstars / Peaches / Up and Rolling 2. ** Dan Dinnen and Shorty / Feets / Dan Dinnen and Shorty 3. ** Josh Teskey N Ash Grunwald / Low Down Dog / Push The Blues Away 4. Kid Ramos / You Don't Love Me / Two Hands One Heart 5. Kirk Fletcher / No Place To Go / My Blues Pathway 6. JD Taylor / Anastasia / The Coldwater Sessions 7. ** Melody Moko / Last Cigarette / Two Kids And A Radio 8. ** Owen Campbell / The Cool Moonlight / The Rolling Thunder of Love 9. Austin John / Dynamite / Diggin In 10. ** Backsliders / Bad Recruit / Bonecrunch 11. ** Charles Jenkins / Walk This Ocean / The Willaroo Tapes 12. Miss Emily / The Sellout / LIVE at the Isabel 13. Layla Zoe / Don't Wanna Help Anyone / Nowhere Left To Go 14. Fleetwood Mac / Fighting For Madge / Then Play On 15. Harvey Dalton Arnold / Ain't Got Love / Outlaw 16. Jack Broadbent / Underneath The Rain / Portrait 17. Lou Reed / Mad / Ecstasy 18. ** Ashley Davies / Bring In Focus / Pulse Transit 19. ** Blues Arcadia / Two Wrongs Don't Make It Right / Carnival of Fools 20. ** Chris Finnen Band / Forty Four Years / To My Southern Town 21. Syl Johnson w. Jonny Lang / I Been Missin' U / Bridge To A Legacy 22. Joe Bonamassa / Trouble Waiting / A New Day Now 23. Jonny Lang / Walking Away / Wander This World 24. Jonny Lang / Nice and Warm / Smokin'

Our year-end roundup continues as Reid and Jackson dive into Miss Emily’s latest release, Live at The Isabel, and recap their favourite 2020 releases from Kingston-based artists, including Futura Free and many others who shared their new music over the year. Hosts: Reid Cunningham reid@kingstonlive.ca Jackson Coulter jackson@kingstonlive.ca Links: Miss Emily: https://themissemily.com/ Futura Free: https://futurafree.bandcamp.com/ Colin Watts: https://www.facebook.com/colinwattsacoustic/ Hays Code: https://www.facebook.com/hayscodemusic/ Luscious: https://www.lusciousband.com/ Joe McLeod: https://www.facebook.com/JoeMcLeodMusics/ Alex Mundy: https://www.facebook.com/alexmundymusic/ Shook Planet: https://www.facebook.com/SHOOKPLANET/ Oakridge Ave: https://oakridgeave.com/ Sian Alcorn: https://www.facebook.com/SianAlcorn/ JIMBO: https://www.facebook.com/OFFICIALJIMBOBAND/ Playsafe: https://www.facebook.com/playsafe.ygk/ The Codas: https://www.facebook.com/thecodasmusic/ Les Soliloques: https://www.soliloques.ca/ Anthea Feaver: https://soundcloud.com/afeaver Voyager: https://www.facebook.com/VoyagerYGK/ Erika Lamon: http://www.erikalamon.com/ Moira Demorest: https://www.facebook.com/moirademorestmusic/ Your Paris: https://www.weareyourparis.com/ Feedback: Your suggestions, ideas and criticisms are important and encouraged. Please let us know what you think by commenting here, or by email at podcast@kingstonlive.ca

Making a Scene Presents the PODCAST of LIVE from the Midnight Circus Indie Blues Double Shot Show!This is the Voice of Indie Blues, the future of the blues. An Indie Blues double shot of artists who embrace the diversity of the blues that always has and still is being created from it's roots. These artists understand the blues is a living art form that is driven by innovation and creativity. These are the Indie Blues Artists!Dave Specter & Billy Branch,The Ballad of George Floyd,The Ballad of George FloydAnnika Chambers & Derrick Procell,Black Man's Justice,Mojo Morganfield,It's Good To Be King (44.1kHz 16bit),Aster Pheonyx,If I Could,Need To RememberJohn Pagano Band,LOVE,Katarina Pejak,Silver Little River,Katarina Pejak,Flesh And Blood,Luca Burgalassi,All My Blues,Come to My WorldLuca Burgalassi,Come To My World,Come To My WorldChris Stapleton,Watch You Burn,Starting OverChris Stapleton,Devil Always Made Me Think Twice,Starting OverDuke Robillard,Give Me All The Love You Got,Blues Bash With Duke Robillard and FriendsDuke Robillard,Everybody Ain't Your Friend,Blues Bash With Duke Robillard and FriendsSam Morrow,Golden Venus,Gettin' By On Gettin' DownSam Morrow,Wicked Woman,Gettin' By On Gettin' DownBig Joe Shelton,Strong Addiction,I'd Never Let Her DownBig Joe Shelton,I'd Never Let Let Her Down,I'd Never Let Her DownLarkin Poe,Nights In White Satin,Larkin Poe,Rockin In The Free World,Miss Emily,The Sellout,LIVE at The IsabelMiss Emily,Land Of Greed,LIVE at The IsabelLaura Tate,Nobody Gets Hurt,Live From El PasoLaura Tate,Cowboy Jazz,Live From El PasoAlastair Greene,Back At The Poor House,The New World BluesAlastair Greene,Lies And Fear,The New World BluesGreg Sover Band,Feelin' Sumthin',The ParadeGreg Sover Band,Wake Up,The ParadeDanny Brooks & Lil Miss Debi,09_One More Mile To Mississippi,Are You Ready  The Mississippi SessionsDanny Brooks & Lil Miss Debi,016_Without Love,Are You Ready  The Mississippi SessionsJack de Keyzer,Keep The Fire Burning,Jack de Keyzer,Just For The Funk,TRIBUTEArtur Menezes,Free At Last (feat. Josh Smith),Fading AwayArtur Menezes,Devil's Own,Fading AwayThe Barrett Anderson Band,The Long Fall,HypnoBoogieThe Barrett Anderson Band,Blind Faith,HypnoBoogieJohn Fusco,Bad Dog,John The RevelatorJohn Fusco,Song For Peter,John The RevelatorAJ Crawdaddy feat. Jimmy Dewrance,My Back Scratcher,Steppin' Out!AJ Crawdaddy feat. Baxter Robertson,You'll Need Another Favor,Steppin' Out!Dione Taylor,Down The Bloodline,Spirits In The WaterDione Taylor,Ain't Gonna Let Nobody Turn Me Around,Spirits In The WaterJeremiah Johnson,Unemployed Highly Annoyed,Unemployed Highly AnnoyedJeremiah Johnson,Different Plan For Me,Unemployed Highly AnnoyedPaul Boddy & The SlideWinder Blues Band,Money On Love,Friends Of TuesdayPaul Boddy & The SlideWinder Blues Band,Pretty Kitty,Friends Of TuesdayDevin B. Thompson,Back Together,Tales Of The SoulDevin B. Thompson,Can't Get Over You,Tales Of The SoulThe McKee Brothers,A Scene From Sunday,A Time Like ThisThe McKee Brothers,Putt Putt Hustler,Duram Country Poets,Help Me to Change,Duram Country Poets,Evil In The Heart Of Man,Grainne Duffy,Don't You Cry For Me,Voodoo BluesGrainne Duffy,Voodoo Blues,Voodoo BluesJoe Bonamassa,Beyond The Silence,Royal TeaJoe Bonamassa,Why Does It Take So Long To Say Goodbye,Royal Tea 

Local music legend, Miss Emily made a surprise phone call to Indie Wake Up Call around 8:30 AM!  Our host, Cyndy Gibson got to talk to Miss Emily about her new album LIVE at The Isabel!  Listen to the conversation, support this amazing artist and get your hands that CD today!

One of Canada's top Blues musicians and a multi-award winning artist, I speak with Kingston-based musician Miss Emily about her new live album, what is upcoming and how COVID-19 has changed her life and the music industry in general. Visit her site at: https://themissemily.com Support the podcast at www.patreon.com/canadaehx for $3/month or donate at www.canadaehx.com E-mail me at craig@canadaehx.com Facebook: www.facebook.com/canadianhistoryehx Twitter: www.twitter.com/craigbaird Instagram: @Baird37

Hey there! Yes, you. How are ya? Good? Epic. Not so good? I feel you, and am sending you a properly socially-distanced and totes-acceptable hug. It'll get better. In this episode, Dana and myself discuss episode 2 of King Falls AM, as well as bullshit about random-ass things, including what tunes we head-canon the characters listening to, and what type of posters Dana had on her walls growing up (the stuff you didn't think you wanted to know, but are now gonna find out!) As always, rate and review on iTunes or wherever you listen, 'dear listeners', and hook us up with questions, theories, compliments, complaints, fan art of KFAM or any other podcast so we can help spread that goodness far and wide at either shotgunstaurdaynights@gmail.com or @ShotgunSammy71. We appreciate all of ya, be good to each other and wash your hands! :D - Dawn --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/shotgunsammy/message

In episode 291 of Financially Simple, Justin and family are on vacation but still take some time out to discuss the importance of taking a break. Small Business Owners are some of the hardest working individuals in any given industry, working 70+ hours a week, which can be exhausting. Justin, Miss Emily, brother-in-law Brian and Laurie get around the mic on a rainy day in Florida, to discuss the importance of taking vacations and unwinding as business owners, as well as the inevitable wind-up to get back into work, and the significance of having good systems in place so that the business can run while you put your feet up. Don’t forget to subscribe, and let us know how we are doing by leaving a review. Thanks for listening! _________________   TIME INDEX: 01:32 - Business Owners on Vacation 02:48 - Business Owners are not Employees 04:14 - Harvard Business Review 05:27 - Pre-Vacation Prep 10:19 - The Three Phases of Unwinding 12:36 - The Wind-Up 17:13 - The Post-Vacation Period 20:16 - Preparation Advice 22:00 - Wrap Up   RESOURCES: Financially Simple Educational Website Financially Simple on YouTube Financially Simple podcasts are recorded on a Blue Yeti Microphone & Samsung Notebook 9. Subscribe to the Financially Simple Newsletter Ask Justin a Question NEW Book: The Ultimate Sale - A Financially Simple Guide to Selling Your Business for Maximum Profit Harvard Business Review - The Data Driven Case for Vacation _________________   BIO: Host Justin Goodbread, Certified Financial Planner, Certified Exit Planning Advisor, Certified Value Growth Advisor. He is a serial entrepreneur, author, speaker, educator, Investopedia Top 100 advisor, and business strategist with over 20 years of experience. Justin owns Heritage Investors LLC, a registered investment adviser with the State of Tennessee. Heritage Investors only transacts business in states where it is properly registered or is excluded or exempted from registration requirements. This material is for general information only and is not intended to provide specific advice or recommendations for individuals. To determine what is appropriate for you, please consult a qualified professional. The Financially Simple podcast provides information, guidance, and support to Small Businesses in the United States.

Welcome to the Stick 2 You podcast! Thank you so much for tuning in! Ms Myers joins host, Karina Parikh, in this fun-filled episode to share her journey to becoming a high school english teacher and to share her experiences working directly with teens! We talk about how she keeps her classroom culturally-relevant, and she even drops some of her biggest wellness tips for teens towards the end of the episode as well. Here is the link to the feedback form! I would absolutely love if you could fill it out. I am open to any and all feedback that you may have, so feel free to fill it out honestly: https://forms.gle/5Dwy7R2V6tjVA9wt6 Have you checked out Stick 2 You on Instagram?! Follow us @stick2you_ (https://www.instagram.com/stick2you_/?hl=en)!

1. The Spirited Lads "Culchi Lad 2. Valdy" Turned Down Flat" 3. Junior Brown "Highway Patrol" (Excerpt) 4. Miss Emily "Hold Back the River" 5. Andrew Parkhouse Band "You Find You" 6. Jon Brooks "Standing at the Gates" 7. Saffron A: "The Road and the Radio" 8. JD Edwards" Singing All the Way Home" 9. Roddie Romero: "In a Louisiana State" 10. Justin Burgess "Sattelite" 11. Bob's Vinyl Spins: John Fayhey "Sunflower River Blues" 12. Amanda Rheaume "The Skin I'm In" 13. Our Shotgun Wedding "Hush Now My Love"

Hi everyone! In this episode, I do my second box opening of the day. Please welcome my beautiful toddler daughter Emily Jade.

This month on the Kingston Live podcast, Riley and Johnny explore the harder side of the the limestone city's music scene. They're joined in-studio by Mike Brown, one half of the heavy-hitting duo, Days of Thieves, and by Tara Pelow and Patrick Marshall from hard rocking power trio, Hallowood, who share a smokin' track from their brand new EP. From hard rock to hard work, the illustrious Miss Emily Fennell drops in to talk about life as a career musician in Kingston, and her new philanthropic initiative, MIKES: Music Industry Kingston Emergency Support. Hosts: Johnny San john@kingstonlive.ca Riley Jabour riley@kingstonlive.ca Links: Days of Thieves: https://daysofthieves.com Hallowood: http://hallowoodband.com Miss Emily: http://themissemily.com Kingston Live Music Listings: www.kingstonlive.ca Kingston Events, Accommodations & More: www.visitkingston.ca Feedback: Your suggestions, ideas and criticisms are important and encouraged. Please let us know what you think by commenting here, or by email at podcast@kingstonlive.ca

American Digger Magazine was set up at this past week's relic show in Dalton, GA where many fine relics were on display. Miss Emily Copeland was also there, plus she hunted after the show and found an amazing US plate!

American Digger Magazine was set up at this past week's relic show in Dalton, GA where many fine relics were on display. Miss Emily Copeland was also there, plus she hunted after the show and found an amazing US plate!

Today I get real with Miss Emily van der Walde from “Let’s Get Social!” I’m here in Ohio visiting Emily to talk about strategy on my upcoming social media campaigns and thought it would be awesome for all of my listeners to hear her top tips and tricks for a hot social feed! We also get down and dirty with her thoughts on Instagram stories and why they are important. You can find Emily on Instagram @emilyvdw and via her blog “Vino in the Village.” Enjoy!

On this week’s Book Show Nuala O’Connor (Becoming Belle, Miss Emily) takes a look at historical fiction.

Ep6: Sarah Burke And Drew Khan catch up with Chuck Dailey who has played with The Salads, David Wilcox and is part of I Mother Earth on tour. He is also busy with a band called Hundred Suns. https://hundredsuns.bandcamp.com/ https://www.instagram.com/chuckdailey/ https://www.facebook.com/TheSaladsMusic/ Plus - Miss Emily stops by to tell us about her new album "In Between" working with Rob Baker and Gord Sinclair of The Tragically Hip and much more! https://www.themissemily.com/ Upcoming Show: Tuesday Jan 23, 2018 Cadillac Lounge, Toronto, ON - Tickets $25 https://www.ticketfly.com/purchase/event/1619569?utm_medium=bks twitter.com/BandsNBuds facebook.com/BandsNBuds Music Heard In Episode: The Passion HiFi - Untouchable - Rap Beat / Instrumental Freehiphopbeatsforyou – Free-the-passion-hifi-untouchable-boom-bap-beat-instrumental

You won't believe this talented artist from Australia! Check out Miss Emily Perry on Making Life Brighter Radio with host, Winifred Adams, this Thursday January 18th, 2018 at 10am PST/ 1pm EST. Winifred caught up with Emily while she was in LA prepping her next big step on the Pop Music scene. A young talented dancer and singer, Miss Emily Perry was featured on the Making Life Brighter Holiday Spectacular show December 14, 2017 and at the famed Soiree Pre-Grammy Show-stopping event! With Chart-topping singles and inspiration that has only just begun, Emily Perry shares life, music and her quest to conquer the world of music. Don't miss Emily Perry on Making Life Brighter Radio! Catch it Live or Listen to the Archive: https://www.voiceamerica.com/show/2366/making-life-brighter Making Life Brighter Radio, "your choice for conscious entertainment." W~ Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/makinglifebrighter/ Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

- Ontario is cracking down on careless and distracted driving with tough new penalties - McLeish Orlando​'s Alison Burrison explains. https://www.mcleishorlando.com - Expert home chef Thea VanHerwaarden talks this year's PC® Holiday Insider Collection & shares tips for stress free holiday entertaining! http://www.presidentschoice.ca/en_CA/insiders-collection.html#!/ http://www.twitter.com/Thea_van1 - Movie & TV reviews with film critic Anne Brodie - http://www.twitter.com/annebrodie - Feeling stressed during the holidays? Rexall is here to help with the #12DaysOfHacks! Candace Derickx tells us more. http://www.lifeinpleasantville.com - Tips for getting your #skin ready for an event or special occasion with Clarity Med Spa Toronto​'s Linda Murphy. http://claritymedspa.ca - What a voice! Canadian musical maven Miss Emily​ performs 'Fire, Fire, Fire' in our LIVE #StudioSessions. https://www.themissemily.com SUBSCRIBE to What She Said & never miss an interview! http://www.youtube.com/WhatSheSaidTalk Miss a show? Stream & download full shows for free on iTunes: http://www.apple.co/1U700c0 Follow us on Facebook/Twitter/Instagram: @WhatSheSaidTalk Website: http://www.whatshesaidtalk.com What She Said! aims to inspire and uplift women by giving them a voice in pursuing their professional and personal goals through showcasing successful women across Canada and by creating opportunities for others to do the same. Tune in Saturdays & Sundays at Noon on 105.9 The Region or listen live: http://www. www.1059theregion.com

We're thrilled to have industry icon Ralph James on the show. An inductee of the Canadian Music Industry Hall of Fame, James helped to launch APA's new Toronto office earlier this year after UTA ceased its Canadian operations. He tells Mike about his recent move, the health of Canada's live music market, how he recognizes talents like Marianas Trench and Nickelback early on, and a lot more. Miss Emily has been turning heads for years with her huge voice and unique foot-stomping hybrid of blues, jazz, and rock; however, her latest project, In Between - written and recorded with The Tragically Hip's Gord Sinclair and Rob Baker - is sure to propel her to a new plateau altogether. She tells us about the making of the album, the heightened emotions surrounding The Hip's emotional year, the story of how she accidentally ended up singing backups for Bruce Springsteen, and more.

Miss Emily Beecham plays Minerva (aka The Widow) on the AMC Martial Arts show, Into The Badlands. Miss Emily Beecham – Episode 170 I was blessed to have AMC approach us and inquire about interviews for both Miss Emily Beecham and Mr. Daniel Wu. Of course, we said yes, and did what we could to make schedules work (which, as you might imagine, was a bit difficult due to their extensive commitments.) It was an honor to speak with Miss Beecham, and we get some good insight into her character, Minerva, better known as The Widow. We discuss what it's like on set, her injuries, the way she views her character, and a lot more. It's a fun conversation and one that gives you some great behind-the-scenes information into not only her life, but her character and the show overall. For photos, video, and other show notes on this and other episodes, please visit:   http://www.whistlekickmartialartsradio.com/170-emily-beecham/

Country legend JOHN CONLEE's success began in the late 1970s. His first release “Back Side Of Thirty” didn't climb the charts too high. Three more singles also met with a minimum success, although they all charted. But in March of 1978, the label released “Rose Colored Glasses,” a song John co-wrote, which became a huge hit as well as becoming his signature song. In January of 1979, the label re-released “Back Side of Thirty” which went on to become a No. 1 record, and the hits continued. The Conlee hit list includes songs like “Lady Lay Down,” “Friday Night Blues,” “Miss Emily’s Picture,” “Busted,” and “I Don’t Remember Loving You.”  He's been a member of the Grand Ole Opry since 1981 and was inducted into the Kentucky Music Hall Of Fame in 2006. John has just released an album called Classics 2 - available at iTunes - featuring many of his big hits. His latest single is called "Walkin' Behind The Star."

Dallas Smith British Columbia's Dallas Smith has skyrocketed to the very top of the Country music scene. His 2012 debut album entitled Jumped Right In generated 5 singles in the Canadian Hot 100, including the GOLD selling title-track, garnered five CCMA  Award nominations and was nominated for Country Album of the Year at the 2013 JUNO Awards. Following a slew of sold out tour dates with Florida Georgia Line and Bob Seger, Dallas released 2013's Tippin' Point EP making his debut in the U.S. and setting the bar high while representing Canadian Country music's cutting edge sound. Amassing national appeal, he earned three 2014 CCMA Award nominations including Single, Album and Male Artist of the Year and is the first Canadian country artist to have 8 singles reach the Top 10 at radio in Canada. Lifted - the latest album from Dallas Smith featuring the #1 single "Wastin' Gas" - reunites him with prized producer Joey Moi (Florida Georgia Line, Jake Owen).  John Conlee Country legend John Conlee’s success began in the late 1970s. His first release, “Back Side Of Thirty” went nowhere fast. Three more singles also met with a minimum success, although they all charted. But in March of 1978, the label released “Rose Colored Glasses,” a song John wrote, which became a huge hit as well as becoming his signature song. In January of 1979, the label re-released “Back Side of Thirty” which went on to become a No. 1 record, and the hits continued. The Conlee hit list includes songs like “Lady Lay Down,” “Friday Night Blues,” “Miss Emily’s Picture,” “Busted,” “I Don’t Remember Loving You.” John has just released an album called Classics 2 featuring many of his big hits. His latest single is called "Walkin' Behind The Star."

Miss Emily Click here to download.We all have at least one boulder in our lives.The people who are where we wish we could be.And these boulders seem to sit right in the middle of our path, blocking our way to success.This week, we interview soul singer and long-time friend (see picture below!) Miss Emily about insecurity, fear, and transforming the people who intimidate us into people who inspire us.Ways you can connect with Miss Emily:On the web: www.MyMissEmily.comTwitter: @mymissemilyMiss Emily's FacebookMiss Emily's YouTube channeliTunes:Miss Emily EP"Sweet Sunlight" singleVideo links:"Miss Emily // An Introduction - "Sweet Sunlight""Enjoy Music: Miss Emily" Music:"Sneaky Snitch" & "Fun in a Bottle" by Kevin McLeod"Lady Marmalade" by Bob Crewe & Kenny NolanPerformed by Miss Emily, Steve Williams, John Schultz, Fernie Garcia, & Bill Moody."Sweet Sunlight" by Miss Emily"Holiness" by Scott Carl Underwood

This week Bocoloco try's to kill Nick, We auction off a date with Miss Emily and Bry guy tells you how to build a Faux glory hole to spice up your weekend.  Thanks for listening and remember to tell a friend.

Well after a long undeserved break we are back.  This week we talk about Bry guy's boner killer of christmas party , Miss Emily talks chocolate, and we find out what celeb's we look like.  So sit back relax and enjoy the sand paper like sound. This weeks song provided by Alice in chains

This week, an old favourite from Broken Social Scene plus folktronica from Miss Emily Brown and 21st Century cabaret via Wendy McNeill.

“Youth Management” MISS Emily shares her expertise and wisdom when it comes to Youth Management by sharing tips, tricks and ideas for discipline, rewards,  teaching consequences and how to take responsibility in Scouting. Hosted by MISS Emily.  Sponsored by Boy Scout Store.