Category Archives: Garrett Socol

Dangerous Introductions by Garrett Socol

I met James on a sunny Saturday at the gym. We found ourselves approaching the one stationery bicycle available. He flirted, but I got the bike.

Guess who happened to be leaving the gym at the same time. Coincidence? Yeah, right. He held the door for me and said the word blisskrieg. Not blitzkrieg. Blisskrieg. “What’s blisskrieg”? I asked. That became our password for tumultuous sex. We went back to my apartment and did it on my Versailles wool rug in front of the fireplace.

James often strolled up to me at the gym and asked, “Blizzkrieg?” I usually said, “Sure, stud. Right after I do a few pelvic pumps.” He said I was a Nordic goddess with the mouth of a Teamster, and he loved that combination.

I think we kept waiting for this profound love to develop, but it never did. And that was cool. We enjoyed being in each other’s company, and how many people can you say that about? So what if bells didn’t ring a ding?

Never once did he give me the slightest suggestion that he was criminally insane. If he’d tried to choke me, I would have fought him with every ounce of strength in my toned body. I would have kicked and shrieked and shoved and smacked him over the head with a frying pan. I’m glad the bastard is behind bars. Strangulation is not an acceptable way to end a date, even if you don’t get along.


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Lucky (French) Dogs by Garrett Socol

Complaining isn’t my style, but on behalf of my canine brethren, there are a few things I’d like to get off my silky chest. First of all, it’s terribly annoying to be spoken to like a toddler. I realize I’m unusually cute, but according to the human calendar I’m pushing fifty. Please speak to me the way you’d converse with a savvy college graduate.

Of course it’s nice to be caressed, but if I’m trying to grab a few zzzzs, find someone else to stroke. Your petting only keeps me awake when I desperately need sleep in order to be bouncy and playful for you later. Being adorable is part of the job, and adorable requires rest.

According to my observations, in an average day, man relieves himself every couple of hours. (Woman relieves herself a touch more frequently.) So why do some humans think their precious pooches only need to go once in the morning and once at night? It can’t possibly be good for the bladder, the nerves or the new carpet.

In Paris, France, dogs are welcomed in elegant restaurants. In America, we can’t even accompany you into a lousy Starbucks. Think it’s fun being tied to a flagpole six inches from a trash can? Considering the fact that our sense of smell is 100,000 times stronger than yours, this is not what I’d call amusement. In this one area, can’t we be more like the French, s’il vous plait?


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Wig in the Water By Garrett Socol

Isabel Regal, the grande dame of New York whose nickname was the Wicked Witch of the West Side, drowned in her own bathtub.  The shrew had swallowed a few sleeping pills, then she decided to take a bath.  Unfortunately she dozed off in the tub as the warm water ran.  Her entire apartment flooded.
The gay male couple living in the apartment below noticed drops of liquid dripping from their ceiling, and decided to investigate.  They rang Isabel’s bell and knocked on the door for a good three minutes.  When water began to seep out from under the front door, Barrett Cooper continued to bang and ring while Nick Lowell bolted downstairs to alert the building manager.  The manager managed to open the door, and the men immediately noticed Isabel’s auburn wig floating across the dining room floor.  Along for this little water excursion were Isabel’s brooches, watches, and several vials of prescription medication.  One theory was that someone had been in the apartment when Isabel drowned, and the guilty party rifled through her things, perhaps searching for drugs or cash. 

Isabel had been known to knock over nuns when rushing for taxis, and refusing to wait for a table at any restaurant.  The New York Post ran with the headline: Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead.  The police asked Isabel’s playboy son Bobby if he knew of anyone who wanted her gone.  “Yes,” he admitted.  “Basically everyone she knew couldn’t stand the sight of her.”


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Postcard from Paradise by Garrett Socol

“Did you hear what happened in Fiji?” Harriet’s best friend Phyllis asked via cellphone.

“No, what happened?” Harriet nervously inquired, knowing it had to be bad news from the sound of Phyllis’s quivering voice.

“There was an earthquake,” she managed to say.

“How bad?” Harriet asked.

“From what I hear, very bad.”

“Let me try calling Seth,” Harriet said, immediately releasing the call. With shaking fingers, she speed-dialed her grown son. Couldn’t get through.

The news on television was sketchy. The only solid information was that a major earthquake hit the Fiji islands, and fatalities numbered in the hundreds. An hour later, CNN had more to offer: Buildings had collapsed, schools were decimated, one small hospital had disintegrated. Cameras caught shell-shocked survivors ambling aimlessly.

Harriet sipped chamomile tea and tried calling her son every ten minutes. Not only was the line dead, she couldn’t get any concrete information. “Oh Lenny,” she cried out to her late husband, “I wish you were here. Please come back for one lousy day!”

During her sleepless night, Harriet baked: banana bread, bundt cakes, chocolate cookies. This calmed her considerably and supplied her with a deliciously sweet breakfast.

By morning, the death toll had risen to over two thousand. Later that afternoon, a postcard featuring a colorful, breathtaking sunset arrived in Harriet’s mailbox. It read:

Dawn and I got here yesterday. Fiji is most beautiful spot on earth. Might stay forever.
Love, Seth


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ZOOM By Garrett Socol

Callie Swain classified the last sexual experience she had with her husband as necrophilia. This determination came about when she realized she had uncannily resembled a corpse: pale, motionless, emotionless. As Russell’s body pummeled her, it would not have been apparent to the objective observer that she had a pulse.

Toward the end of this four minute fiasco, Callie noticed that Russell’s eyes were closed, as if in a REM state. Not only did he have no interest in kissing his wife, he apparently had little desire to look at her. Oblivious and inattentive, he could have been making love to any available babe on the Vegas Strip.

This turned out to be the nadir, the straw that broke the camel’s already injured back. Callie maneuvered herself away from him and raced to the shower. “What are you doing?” Russell moaned, frustrated that she’d taken herself away from him thirty vital seconds too soon. A response didn’t come and neither did he.

After rapidly drying off, she threw on a sleeveless top and a pair of khaki shorts, and tossed a few necessities into her leather bag. Then she flung the front door open and zoomed off toward a new zip code.

Russell, lying on the sheets clammy with sweat, continued to obsess about his wife. Half asleep, half conscious, half dreaming, he could still feel her, touch her, smell and taste her. He had never been so into this woman, the love and lust of his life.


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