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Reviews / Testimonials:

"Some friendships are bonds that can't be broken. 'Liaisons for Laughs: Angie & Ella's Summer of Delirium' tells the story of two best friends in a frank and entertaining method. A hilarious and endlessly entertaining collection of stories about the little things of life, 'Liaisons for Laughs' never stops its assault on the funny bone. A fine and entertaining novel, 'Liaisons for Laughs' is a choice pick for fiction readers."

-- Midwest Book Review (in "Small Press Bookwatch"; 5 stars on Amazon)

"...we absolutely love Robert Scott Leyse’s Liaisons for Laughs: Angie & Ella's Summer of Delirium. Leyse is the editor of the popular erotica website Sliptongue and his first book release is fun, steamy, and intelligent."

-- Ian and Alicia Denchasy, LA Weekly

“Licentious. Salacious. Those rich, naughty, mannered words from another era are given a cunning and contemporary twist in Leyse’s reinvigoration of a classic literary form--the epistolary. At a time when so many ‘real life’ intimacies are overlooked because we’re too tired to be seduced or to instigate some imaginative new direction in our mortgage anxious relationships, it’s refreshing to be reminded of the pleasures, prurient and also just plain human and often very funny, of overhearing other people’s intimacies. Fun and eroticism don’t go together nearly often enough. They do in Leyse tit for tat. This is clever, humane, word-sensual writing.”

-- Kris Saknussemm, author of Zanesville and Private Midnight

“You can feel the humidity in your own backyard as Angie and Ella soak up the summer in New York with various paramours with their super sexy, sex-positive attitudes. This is one of those books that, finally, puts sluts in their rightful places. They aren’t shameful or shamed. They’re proud of it, and having the time of their lives, and the reader will, too.”

-- Susan DiPlacido, author of 24/7 and House Money

Liaisons for Laughs re-enlivens a venerable literary tradition, the epistolary novel, but now in an arousingly contemporary form. The erotic e-mails of these two libidinous heroines recount their escapades with wicked charm and droll humor. Their tales memorialize the lusty landscape of the New York corporate world, and the bratty sophistication of their narrative voices makes their sensual adventures all the more appealing. Angie and Ella are trollops for our time, and Robert Scott Leyse is a Trollope for our time.”

-- William T. Hathaway, author of A World Of Hurt and Summer Snow


Excerpt from Chapter II,
Trailer Trollop Romp & Martin's Comeuppance

To return to Chapter Index click: HERE

_______________

II.1
Angie to Ella
Monday, June 30, 2003 10:03 AM

Ella, why on earth would you fail to show up at work today? I thought we had the maul-Martin’s-peace-of-mind project all planned out! I was thirsting to hike up my skirt and get him salivating without you but, of course, that would preclude having the added dimension of yourself posing as sympathetic confidant and providing advice as to how he’s to court my favor. But I want to punish him in the worst way! Want him languishing in the toils of violent desire he’s unable to sate! Want him thirsting for me while showing him nothing but cruel disdain! And you know this! So why would you call in saying you needed to take a Personal Day (Oh, yes, I already know: Sylvia told me!) and deprive me of my revenge?

I expect an answer today, Ella! I need to know if you’ll be here tomorrow! That creep has got to blaze in his very own hell of an inflamed body that he’s unable to escape from! What he did to Linda’s inexcusable, and he’s going to suffer miserably for it!

So let me know, Miss Unreliable!

Your,

AnnoyedAngie

II.2
Ella to Angie
Monday, June 30, 2003 10:46 PM

Darling, I apologize profusely! And don’t you worry, we’ll have arrogant thoughtless Martin incurably melancholic by the end of the week! I’m definitely coming in tomorrow, as much to assist you in your project as to justify Sturmheld’s confidence in me. (I’ve been busy pacifying him for the past three hours for today’s absence by faxing in comments on the [____] IPO.)

So why was I absent today? Simple: I had another Stevie adventure! They’ve been coming rather thick and fast of late, taking up all my spare time and intruding on time I don’t necessarily have to spare; but why shouldn’t they? Stevie’s a bottomless well of imagination-stimulation and there’s no sense in letting such abundance go to waste; because if my imagination’s stimulated then my svelte lil’ body’s stimulated and la petite mort truly becomes a fountain of life! Stevie’s always willing and I’m always willing: not a chance am I going to say no to another chapter of our ongoing adventures in fantasy-becomes-flesh! Stevie makes me feel sultry and seductive, as if a dying man would spring to health at the sight of me: such feelings are irresistible to a vain lil’ fashion plate plaything like me! I apologized for missing work today, but I’m actually not sorry in the least! And before you get miffed at that lil’ confession, let me tell of today’s fantasy fun: maybe then you’ll understand why the mess-up-Martin’s-manhood project, worthy though it be, had to be placed on hold! I’m sure you will, because you’re a funloving—fantasy-mongering—floozy too!

My fun as follows:

I finally fulfilled one of my most treasured ambitions: indulgence in a trailer trollop fantasy fling! Dressing for the fling was a delight-unto-itself: I had a fine doll-myself-up time of it in the bathroom, with the CD player blaring dance music, an organic health bar and plate of mixed berries for nibbles, fizzy spring water with lime juice infusion for quaffing (Ha, ever notice how annoyed some people get at our finicky health food diet?—accusing us of being food snobs because we have the good sense not to cram our gullets with hydrogenated oil saturated garbage?—because we refuse to undermine our energy with empty-caloried trash? We eat right to play right, right? There’s nothing more essential to having fine sex adventures than a clean bill of health; and if one makes oneself ridiculously healthy... Oh, ho ho! I eat right to lust right! Good nutrition fans the slut fires, and how! Good nutrition brings about that itching-to-rut bouncing-off-the-walls feeling of empowerment I love so much!); I didn’t step from the bathroom for at least three hours, being as how I did plenty of trail-and-error mirror star stuff! After all, why bother to get ready for a date if I can’t play like a little girl who dreams of growing up to have the boys fawning at her feet?

As for what I wore: 1) a polyester leopard print skirt, with slits very sloppily cut up each side with a pair of scissors; 2) a pink pullover, sleeveless and of faded cotton with some bleach splotches; 3) a God-awful wig, dirty mousy brown, piled high in a circa 1950s do; 4) the cheapest brassiere I could find at the drugstore, with the tan straps dangling down my arms (A discomfort I was willing to endure for the sake of trailer trollop authenticity.); 5) plastic gold bedroom slippers with the toes cut off (Not the easiest things to saunter down the sidewalk in; but, again: for the sake of having the best trailer trollop getup ever.); and 6) pink stockings with plenty of runs. And then there was the makeup, layered on like I’ve never done in my life! Just take my word for it: I was something of a hybrid of clown and witch, fit for a carnival or Halloween! There was enough of it on me to make me feel like my cheeks were being pulled down my face! In short, I didn’t just look like a trailer trollop, I was a caricature of what a city girl thinks a trailer trollop looks like! By the time I was done, make up was spilled all over the vanity and floor—nail polish splattered, sparkles scattered, a compact shattered! ’Twas a labor of Hercules, and I was like as not to orgasm sheerly from the delight of making that kind of mess...

OK, so I’m ready and it’s nearly eleven. Stevie’s not at his apartment: he’s taken a room at the Essex House, a brilliant ad lib of setting (He called at about nine-thirty to tell me.) that lends more of a myself-as-a-trampy-out-of-towner feel to this grand event. It was worth it for what happened in the Essex House lobby alone...

The reaction from the man at the front desk is priceless: first, there’s a drop-jawed gaping-eyed look of utter disbelief—“His eyes opened up to swallow the sky,” as they say; then there’s a huffy gathering up of his dignity, a look like he’s about to shoo me away. So I speak up and, in my very sophisticated (If I say so myself!) attorney voice, say: “Mr. Bergendahl is expecting me in room 1544. Please tell him the girl from Arkansas is here to discuss the legal matter.”

Well, the deskman’s face is contorting every which way; the shoo-away impulse makes an embarrassed retreat, and confusion reasserts itself. “Yes, Ma’am,” he finally manages while continuing to look me up and down, “I’ll let Mr. Bergendahl know.” He makes the call while exchanging a sort of, “She seems to actually know someone who’s staying here, so I guess I have to do this.” look with his coworker, a fiftyish woman. She’s looking at me as if I’m some sort of riddle to solve—undecided as to whether I’m a hooker, lunatic, bona fide hick, or bright girl playing games: no real way for her to know, right? Ha ha ha!

It’s during the deskman’s ring upstairs that Stevie distinguishes himself in the gratuitous pranking department, asking (as I quickly discern) the man to describe me.

“Uuuhh... What?” the deskman manages to articulate. His eyes skitter every which way, as if seeking to locate someone to pass the phone to; obviously, he doesn’t dare bother the woman, who’s probably a superior. There’s no one nearby, though—what a shame: he’s stuck with the unpleasant situation. (And how I adore being an unpleasant situation a pompous dolt must deal with!)

Stevie obviously reiterates his request more emphatically, because the deskman answers, “Sir, I realize it’s a simple question... I wasn’t sure I heard you right... No, Sir, I’m not trying to be difficult... I don’t doubt you, I...” Again he trails off, treating me to a glance of alarm; you’d think he’s being asked to provide intimate details of his sex life, or lack thereof...

Then a look of relief comes into the deskman’s face; he tells Stevie, “I’ll just pass her the phone.” and extends it towards me in a manner I find insulting, because there’s an implied command to take it from his hand.

“Oh, no!” I quickly say, taking a step back in horror. “Public phones are contaminated—unsanitary, covered with germs! I just got over a bad cold, and I know a public phone was the cause! I’m never touching a public phone again!” Ha ha, as if I’d ever allow a conceited clown to wriggle out of a ticklish situation! As if I’m the sort of girl who’s going to do violence to her dignity by blindly obeying the laughably fake firmness of manner with which he holds the phone to me while giving me one of those pathetic meaningful looks! I’m thinking: “The moon will fall into the Atlantic Ocean before I’ll take that phone from you, buster! Not a chance am I letting you off the hook, cringing unmannerly coward!”

Then I add in one of those evil-polite, laced-with-poison, tones: “Sir, I’m very surprised that a man in a professional situation would thrust a phone at me as you have. In the first place it’s rude; in the second place it’s not your place to ask me to do your job for you; in the third place I have no idea where that phone’s been or whose lips it’s touched (Here I give him a particularly derisive look.), and... Sir, it’s a health hazard and I’m truly astonished.”

Out of the frying pan and into the fire, as they say. Now our deskman stammers: “Ma’am, I meant no disrespect...the gentleman asked me to describe you... All due respect to him, he’s put me in an embarrassing circumstance... I thought it might be indiscreet...wanted to cause no offense, Ma’am!”

“Well, just do your job and describe me, then—I won’t be offended. Mr. Bergendahl’s an important man who must guard against unsolicited visitors—he’s just being careful. Go ahead and tell him what I look like.”

Oh, Angie Honey! I had to turn my head away and pretend to cough to conceal the grin that flashed onto my face! And I know what you’re thinking: a shameful instance of failing to maintain my playacting front! But you had to be there! An icy-miened hanging judge would’ve laughed at the deskman’s twitching cheeks! Plus Stevie starts speaking on the phone so loud I can almost make out the words and, in his haste to bring the receiver back to his ear, the deskman butterfingers it, drops it on the desk.

And then the deskman’s saying: “Sir, there’s no problem here... I dropped the phone, I apologize... No, Sir! There’s not a robbery going on—no commotion here! Yes, of course... She’s wearing a leopard dress... a pink shirt... Yes, Sir, I think her hair’s a wig... What?

OK, now I sense Stevie might be going too far; it wouldn’t do to give the game away...

“Her stockings, Sir?” And here the deskman turns to the fiftyish woman, saying: “I think something’s funny... He wants to know what kind of stockings she’s wearing!”

“Uh, begging your pardon, Ma’am,” he quickly adds turning towards me. “I can’t be held responsible for what Mr. Bergendahl’s asking me to tell him...”

And then, turning back to the woman: “Will you please take the phone, Claudia? I’m not going to do this!”

Before Claudia can take the phone I say, “Sir, here’s my company ID—just tell Mr. Bergendahl, then this will be over.” I’d already fished my ID from my purse for the purpose of eventually treating the deskman to some brain-straining contradiction—always good for a laugh. Now I’m forced to use it prematurely...

With a gesture of impatience—because he’s beginning to wonder if he’s being toyed with, thanks to Stevie’s pushing the envelope too much (Doesn’t he always?)—the deskman brings the phone back to his mouth and says: “Mr. Bergendahl, she’s handed me her ID. That’s right... It says that she’s an attorney at [____]. Sir, it’s her picture. Her name’s Ella Jody Wishingrand. I wasn’t stalling, Sir! I would’ve done this to begin with had you requested it. We’re not in the habit of asking for the IDs of visitors of our esteemed guests at the Essex House, Sir. Yes, Sir, she’s on her way up.”

The deskman stares at my ID for a moment longer, then back at me; obviously, he’s perplexed by the contrast between my present appearance and that of myself in the ID photo, where I’m dressed immaculate New York corporate in my Bergdorf suit. (Remember how I beat cha to that bargain?) Choosing to be annoyed at the man’s presumptuous look, I say with calm coldness: “Sir, I do not feel it behooves you, as an employee of a world class hotel, to concern yourself with matters that are none of your business. I will not tolerate being stared at in that way.”

“Uuhhh...” is all he can manage, looking for all the world like he’d dearly love to sink into the floor.

“That’s hardly a response that does you credit, Sir,” I say, regarding him with distaste. Ha ha! He’s completely forgotten to wonder if he’s being toyed with; he’s suddenly in a waking nightmare and is only wishing it to end; and that’s what he gets for being rude from the get-go—that’s what he gets for treating me to shoo-away impulses, thrusting phones at me, seeking to not speak to me! Now he’s fully aware of the fact that he has no idea what he’s dealing with; now he’s unable to compute the contrasting evidence concerning yours truly; now he isn’t going to venture to even so much as blink, lest I get really riled!

Oh, Honey! What a nice aphrodisiacal way to kick off the festivities! Pranking always wets my pinkling, makes me juicy and loose! Being the center of attention in the lobby of the Essex simply because of my clothes? Ha, and acting the opposite of my look? Being Miss Corporate in intonation, mannerisms, and carriage while decked out in polyester trash? Ooooo! It’s pure scrumptious prepping-of-flowerpuss-for-pollination fun!

So I’m on my way to the elevator bank when it occurs to lil’ Miss MoodShift me that my dealings with the deskman have been too one-dimensional: it won’t do to only be a girl who’s annoyed at the treatment I’ve received. So I do an about-face, stroll back to him with a smile, place a five dollar bill on the desk, and say quite sweetly, “Notwithstanding your shortcomings, this is for your trouble, Sir. I trust you’ll work on your manners a bit? Have a nice day.”

Oh, Angie! The look of fear on the deskman’s face as I approached him; the flinching backwards impulse that half-seized his body when I extended my hand (As if he thought I might slap his face!); the wind-gone-out-of him expression of utter surrender and relief when my gentle intonation was heard and the five dollars materialized... ’Twas money very well spent!

OK, so let’s get me upstairs:

_______________

LIAISONS FOR LAUGHS:
ANGIE & ELLA'S SUMMER OF DELIRIUM
Excerpt from Chapter II,
Trailer Trollop Romp & Martin's Comeuppance

Copyright © 2009
by Robert Scott Leyse
All rights reserved.

To return to Chapter Index click: HERE

 

 



All contents Copyright © 2007-2011 by Robert Scott Leyse. All rights reserved.