Flasher Fiction

by Madam Z

I found a parking place fairly close to the entrance of the mall, so I was happy about that, if nothing else, since it was hot as frigging hell outside and I was anxious to get inside the air-conditioned building and enjoy the cool, civilized interior, which was so different from the crummy, hot, primitive farmhouse I lived in with my delusional, wannabe-farmer husband, whose idea of a good time was accusing me of not being an adequate “helpmeet” because I didn’t want to spend every waking minute of my life planting, picking, canning, freezing and cooking our own food. He wanted to live off the land, and I wanted to get off the land. So I got out of the car and was headed for the entrance, when a really cute guy wearing bib overalls and no shirt came up to me and asked me if I knew where Bob’s Tuxedo Shop was, which I didn’t, so we went our separate ways, my way being into the Sears store, which I would have been happy to live in, since it had everything I needed in life, like climate control, bathrooms, clothing, beds, and a snack bar. I bought my supplies and reluctantly headed back outside to the inferno that was the parking lot. A green Ford sedan pulled up beside me and the driver, Mr. Bib Overalls, beckoned to me, grinning in such an enticing manner that I could not resist approaching him, although I shouldn’t have, because when I looked into the open window of his car I saw what he wanted me to see, which was his magnificent manhood, standing straight up. “Omigod, it looks good… but I can’t… I mean I don’t…,” I stammered, as the sun in the sky beat down on my head and the sun in my groin threatened to ignite me from within. “It is good,” he said, laughing, “but you can’t have it,” and he pulled away from me, leaving me in a cloud of exhaust and humiliation.


Madam Z, author of Anger Pangs, lives, loves, and writes unpublished stories in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, though her heart is still in her native California, which makes it extremely difficult to do much aerobic exercise.


Harry said...

When parking lot pervs seem an attractive alternative, four out of five sexually frustated farmer's wives agree it's time to trade wannabe farmer husbands for gonnabe former ones. Then keep an eye peeled for traveling salesmen.

Madam Z said...

Hmmmm....Count me in the majority there. What are *you* selling, Harry?