Your Lolita

D.B. Wells

These stories are sensual, they are rough and comic. What carries many of them into a rugged pathos is the fact that they cover the twilight area of pedophilia, wherein an upper-age teen hooks up with an older man. But as Wells points out in her excerpt below, that is a twilight area, and the line between seducer and seducee can quickly blur: 

ISBN, trade paper: 1-931982-36-8, $14.95                 Sale $7.50

ISBN, library edition: 1-931-982-35-X, $25.00           Sale $12.50

  About the Author: 

D.B. Wells' stories have appeared in New York Stories, Chelsea, Yemassee, Redbook, Cleveland Magazine, Art Times, New Letters, The Raven Chronicles, Northwest Florida Review and Peregrine.   D.B. writes in Kentucky.


 Excerpt From the Book:

I CHANGED THE story around a lot. Left some things out and made other things up. Not important things but just enough small things so that I could tell myself that the story wasnít really about us whenever I needed to. I changed our names for instance. I changed the setting of some of the things we did too. I put Illinois in Iowa and Iowa in Indiana. I made an F-150 into a Silverado and a blue room into a white one. I made these changes and I could write about the other things that really mattered. It was just a question of how to say it.   

WHEN THEY DRAGGED me back to Kentucky, they put you on trial. Not a trial in the courts, mind you, but in the whorehouse of public opinion. Television commentators and editorial page pimps held a fire sale. They just had to draw some mor-al, some con-clu-sion, some rea-son for what we did. So these great minds pondered and pondered and consulted psychiatrists and professors and lawyers and men of the cloth, and they all came up with the same verdict.

They blamed you. 

You wore the pants. You were the boss. You were the one with all the power in the relationship.

Pretty funny, huh? You must have looked down from heaven and just laughed your ass off at those stodgy old shits who huffed and puffed and decried the kinkiness of it all while completely missing the Numero Uno Kink. 

THEN WE COME to the end.

The end is there, of course, and Iím writing my way to it. I donít know how Iíll handle it yet, but I know Iíll deal with it some way; and I wonder, when I finish, if that will exorcise your ghost and free me from your memory. I wonder if I even want that to happen.

I wish Iíd never met you.

If there had been no beginning there would be no end.  

But I donít have to think about that yet. Iím thousands of words from the final chapter. For a while, I can still take refuge in the middle ground of this Realm of the Unreal, this fictional land of prophetic sonnets and durable dreams that seem so close we can hardly fail to grasp them, where you still drive the back roads under the dark night of the Republic, and I still lay my head on your shoulder.