He-Man — By S.G. Haynes



He was just too much. Over the top, preposterous, a hulking cliché.

His chest was from a mutant, his arms bursting at the seams (almost)—same with his legs—it was obscene. His face was mister Neanderthal, and then that hair! Oh man, that blonde shoulder length helmet bob did not date well!

He was derivative, cardboard, pointless, and boring—everything I learned to roll my eyes at, but there he was, He-Man, my first crush, in all his irrelevance.

It was my naivety maybe—how would I know at the age of eight about the finer points of good fucking? I wasn’t adept at cruising the field and had no knowledge of handsome men. I certainly had no sentimental education, no concept of fatal attraction and its broken promises. But otherwise, my crush wasn’t so bad after all.

He-Man: his peers liked him, and he looked out for the little guy even though…

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Knocking at heaven’s door (a ficlet).


The Watchtower lady was very attractive but seemed more concerned with her soul than her body. Anyone’s body. Julia lounged in the doorway in her half-open housecoat watching the play of sunshine on the Watchtower lady’s blonde hair and wondering what lay beneath the prim but pretty beige coat. She tried, too, to get a gleam from the blue eyes but for once her famed charm wasn’t working.

“You see,” the lady was saying earnestly (odd how she was definitely a lady and not a woman or a girl), we believe that human beings are doing their best to ruin God’s world and we are trying so hard to stop them. Aren’t you concerned about the state of the world?”

‘Nowhere near as much as I’m concerned about the state of my arousal,’ thought Julia, but she managed some kind of non-committal reply about how she believed in humanity’s innate…

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