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Subject: Fucking Celeste - by MIKE HUNT
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"Fucking Celeste," I said.

"What, honey?" my wife asked. "What's wrong?"

"Oh," I chirped. "Did you see Celeste's review of 'Wet-T Shirt'?"

June shook her head. "It's funnier than my story. Again. She even
stops the review to tell JOKES in the middle of it."

"So?" my wife asked.

"So I HATE that!" I shouted. "It's not fair. I'm not allowed to do
that. And did you see the review of the one before that?"

June shook her head.

She gave it one paragraph. Jeez!"

"What were the numbers, dear?" June asked.

"'9's' and a '10'", I answered. "But you have to look past the numbers.
Everybody looks at the numbers. You have to read the review if you want
to know anything. The numbers are a crutch." I was a little testy.

"Why? The numbers give a nice quick idea of how she liked it, right?"

"Oh, you have to be a writer to understand. It's her written criticism
that's helpful. Even though I sometimes get my shorts in a knot when I
read it. Anyway, she tossed that one off in one paragraph! She said 'it's
good but he's done better.'" I frowned. "And like three sentences of story
summary, and then the numbers." I frowned again.

"Fucking Celeste," I said to no one in particular. "And she *never*
comments on the disclaimers where I try to sneak in the part about having
to be 18 or older to read the thing." Like that.

"Now she's hired guest reviewers and won't even tell us who they are!" I
was in a funk. "How are you supposed to know whether to believe them or
not? Christ, it could be Mr.Fucking Spraycan writing the goddamn thing."

"There, there, dear. Why don't you just go downstairs to your computer and
write a story?" June suggested. "That always seems to calm you down." She
was right, as usual.

"OK, I'll try." I shrugged. I got up from the table and went to the stairs.
"Fucking reviewers," I muttered under my breath. I went to the computer.
I thought for a few minutes and started typing. Here's what I wrote:

Fucking Celeste - by MIKE HUNT

How had I gotten myself in *this* situation? I've been in
some strange circumstances before, but nothing like this.

I was at a parent-teacher conference. At the Sadley Virgin School. In
Flint, Michigan.

You see, I don't have children. None. Not at the Sadley Virgin School,
not anywhere. Hell, I don't even live in Flint!

Maybe I should back up a few hours and to tell the story properly.

I was visiting Michigan on business. Flint, Michigan. Not exactly the tourist
destination of America, but there's still a little business left there. The
city always reminded me of Pittsburgh or Rochester. I think of the bricks
when I think of those cities. More precisely, the grit in the bricks. Those
are hard-working industrial cities. You don't find the pretty bright brick
like in Atlanta or Boston. No, in Flint it's dirty brick and dirty
fingernails. And unemployment. Lots of it. That's why I was there.

The government had hired me to do an analysis of how many people were
really unemployed, as opposed to how many were just collecting the checks.
So I, already employed, got to go count the unemployed. I thought they
could have hired one of the unemployed to do the job, but that's not how
it works, I guess.

Anyway, my sister lives in Flint, actually just outside it, and has a
kid, a bright young boy named Eric. I was staying with them for a couple
days in the guest room, and had come back to the house after my hard day
at work on unemployment. It was around 5:00. The phone rang.

I answered it, thinking it might be my wife June calling to say "Hi."
Instead it was my sister. She was obviously on a cellular phone; I could
tell by the crackle.

"Mike!" she said.

"Oh hi," I replied. "What's up?"

"Thank goodness I got you." She sounded a little breathless. "I had an
accident in the car..."

I interrupted. "You OK?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," she answered quickly. "But the car's kind of smashed.
Crazy teenager coming out of a McDonald's parking lot." I could imagine.

"Do you need a ride?" I asked. "Where are you? I'll come get you."

"No, no," she shot back. "The tow guy is here and he's going to tow me
to the garage. I'm on his phone. He thinks he can just hammer the fender
away from the wheel and I'll be able to drive it, at least until I can
get it repaired properly."

"Oh, good," I said.

"Anyway, I have AAA, and I can catch a ride home from a taxi if the car
isn't drivable. But he thinks it will be, so no big deal." I was silent.
"But I do need a favor, if you don't mind..."

"Anything," I said.

"Eric's school advisor has a parent-teacher conference with me tonight
that I'm likely to miss. Would you go and sit in for me? I mean, it's not
the same exactly, but you know Eric, and you can tell me what she says."

"Sure," I said. I'd never done this before, but I figured I could
substitute OK.

"It's at 6:00, Room 212, I think, Mrs. Redstone, Sadley Virgin school.
It's just a couple blocks up and over one. You drive right past it on your
way into the neighborhood."

"Oh sure, I know it," I answered. "You sure you're OK?"

"Yeah, just have to fill out the accident reports and get towed and get
fixed and come home. Nobody hurt, no damage done except to the cars. See
you later. Thanks."

"Sure," I said. "Bye."

I hung up the phone and walked through the kitchen, up the stairs, and
into the guest room. I needed to freshen up, and I took the opportunity
to wash my face and hands and brush my teeth again. I took off my shirt
and applied the wet washcloth to my torso. I felt like showering but didn't
have time. This would have to do.

Ten minutes later I was walking out of the house on my way to the Sadley
Virgin School. I'd pulled on a polo shirt and thought I looked fine. Of
course I don't play polo. I'd call it a golf shirt, but you can't call
what I do on the golf course golf, either.

I walked into the building and looked for the room. 212. It was at the
far end of the building, 2nd floor. I found it without trouble and looked
in. An attractive woman was seated at the teacher's desk in the front corner
of the room. She was alone.

I knocked on the doorframe as I poked my head into the room.

"Mrs. Redstone?" I asked.

"Yes?" she answered.

"I'm MIKE HUNT," I said.

"You don't say," she retorted. "Can I help you?" she asked.

"I'm here about Eric. Wilma couldn't make it."

"Are you his father?" she asked.

"No, his uncle. They're divorced, the father lives in Oregon." I was
answering questions I hadn't even been asked.

"Well, this is supposed to be for the parents or legal guardians," she said.

"I know," I replied, "but Wilma had a little car accident, nothing serious,
and asked me to fill in. So here I am."

"I see," she said. She thought for a moment, then said "Sit down."

I pulled a chair away from one of the student desks and sat in it. There
was an uncomfortable silence. I took a moment to size her up. She wasn't
frowning, but she wasn't smiling either. Mrs. Redstone was red all right.
She had red hair, almost orange red. It went well with the reddish outfit
she was wearing. She looked to be in her late 30's.

Finally she said, "Mr. Hunt, I should tell you first that I'm quite
I don't mince words. I'm known for it around here."

"OK, good," I said. This was not an auspicious opening, I thought.

"So first I should tell you that Eric is very bright."

"I think so too," I said. She threw a quick glare at me. She didn't like
being interrupted, apparently.

"He catches on to new things quite easily and is a quick study. Too quick,
perhaps. He doesn't apply himself. He only studies the night before a test,
and his homework is rather slap-dash." She was on a roll. I interrupted

"Well, I was like that as a student. All except the 'bright' part, I guess."

"Yes, well, it would be helpful if he were more disciplined. He obviously
could use a father figure in his life. His father's in Oregon, you say?
Too bad. Because in spite of his brightness, he's becoming a problem here
at the Sadley Virgin."

"How so?" I asked.

"He's sometimes disruptive in class. Tells the stupidest jokes to his
classmates." It's hereditary, I thought. "Comes in late, fools around
in the back, doesn't pay attention to my lectures. As I said, he's very
bright when he wants to be. Does very well on the announced exams. Does
just as poorly on pop quizzes." She went on. And on. I stood up from the
chair and began wandering. I was restless hearing all this about my nephew.

I had my back to her when she said "I guess I'm leading up to the really
bad news." I turned to face her. "I had to report him to the principal
last week. There's serious disciplinary action being considered."

Now she had my full attention. "Why?" I asked. "What happened?"

"Well, this is delicate, but as I said, I'm forthright, so I'm just going
to say it." She paused, far longer than necessary after that preamble.

"So, say it," I said.

"I caught Eric having sex with girl here after school." She seemed
uncomfortable with the announcement. "Right in this room. Actually, right
in that supply closet over there."

I turned my head and stared at the door to the closet. "In there?" I asked.

"Yes," she said matter of factly. "Now I know he's of the age where the
hormones start raging, but that behavior is unacceptable here at the
Sadley Virgin. The principal wanted to suspend him immediately, but
I convinced him that Eric is a good student, and that I would talk with his
mother during our conference. This conference. The one where his mother is
supposed to be."

"Yes, I know," I said. "She had a car accident. I'm sorry she's not here."

"So what are you going to do about it?" she asked.

I was dumbfounded. I knew Eric had grown up a lot in the last few years,
heck he was nearly my height already. And I remembered that the sex thing
kicked in pretty strongly for me at about age 12. Several years ago for
Eric, then.

"Uh," I said. "I don't know. You say he had sex with a girl right here?"
I was just a few steps from the closet. "Actual sex?" I stepped to the
door and reached for the knob. "Not just, like, kissing and making out?"
I turned the knob and pulled. The door opened easily and a tiny closet
was revealed. It had shelves on all three sides and was chock full of chalk,
papered with paper, and flush with toilet tissue rolls.

"Yes, actual sex," she answered. "I didn't see their genitals in action,
if that's what you're asking. But it was plain enough."

"How was it 'plain enough'?" I asked.

"I've seen enough sex in my time to know," she said. I looked doubtful.
"And I'm *certainly* no prude, if that's what you're thinking," she added.
"I teach hygiene and sex education here at the school." I looked even more

"At this school?" I said. I obviously didn't believe her.

"Mostly hygiene, but yes, also sex education. We have a progressive

"Well, I don't mean to question you, but looking at this closet it would
seem impossible. There's not enough room. Look." I held the door wide open.

"There certainly is," she said defiantly.

"OK, I'll take your word on the tests and the quizzes and the rest," I
said, trying to find a compromise, "but it's just impossible for me to
believe that there were two people in here. You say the door was closed?"

"Yes," she answered. I came back into the room to get some homework
assignments to grade at home and heard sounds. So I opened the door and
there they were."

"Excuse me," I said. I stepped into the little closet and closed the door
behind me. The darkness enveloped me immediately, and more than a little
claustrophobia set in. "Impossible," I thought to myself.

I opened the door. "Impossible," I said. "Can't be done. No way."

"Are you saying I'm lying?" she said, angrily. Her face turned red to
match her red hair and red outfit.

"Perhaps not lying," I said. "But maybe mistaken. Now maybe Eric and his
friend were over here at the closet, and maybe they were even making out.
Maybe even petting. But they certainly weren't having sex. And they couldn't
have been in there with the door closed. Impossible," I said again for

She stood up from the desk and walked toward me. "You're impossible,"
she said. "I don't like being contradicted." She scowled at me. "Come here.
I don't like to have to prove what I'm saying is true."

She motioned me into the closet and I followed her instruction. Then she
pushed me back against the shelves that held the pencils and pads and other
supplies. She followed me in, and before I knew what was happening, pushed
herself against me.

"It was just like this," she said, her torso pinning me against the shelves
in back.

"But you said the door was closed," I said. "Can't be done."

"Of course it can," she said. She reached around and pulled on the doorknob.
The heavy door swung around and whacked her in the ass. It didn't close.

"See?" I said. "You must be mistaken."

"I'm not mistaken," she said. "I never am." Her face flushed crimson.

"Never?" I said haughtily.

"All right. Occasionally. But it's rare."

"Then why won't the door close?" I asked.

"Perhaps I've forgotten something," she answered. "Yes, that's it. Now
I remember." She stepped onto one of the side shelves along the bottom,
lifting herself up a couple inches. Her body dragged across mine as she
moved. Her breasts momentarily brushed against my chin. She settled back,
our groins now tightly mashed against each other. I had an involuntary
reaction. She didn't seem to notice.

She continued. "If I just, uh, move in a little closer and put my knees
a little to the sides..." she said with some difficulty. She pushed against
me again. I thought she might be enjoying pushing herself against me, but
I got no such vibe from her.

"Try the door again," I suggested. She did.

The latch hit, but wouldn't click. Still not enough. She was clearly
frustrated and angry.

"Maybe we're bigger than they were?" I asked.

"No," she said. My figure and hers are the same. And Eric's and yours
are too. It must be this darn clothing." She looked down and scowled. "Aha!"
she said brightly. "I have it." With that she reached down and pulled the
front of her skirt and thick petticoat to the side. "I'll bet with this
out of the way it'll work," she said. Now her panties were scraping along
the front of my trousers. My bent up erection was working against her,
though, providing a small extra measure of distance between the fulcrums
of our bodies. The door whacked her in the ass again, driving my bulge
into the valley of her panties. I sensed a change in her demeanor.

"Perhaps if I helped," I said gallantly, lowering my hand to my zipper.

"Only in the interest of proving that I'm right," she said, looking me
in the eye.

"Of course," I said. "We must know if this is actually possible." She
was saying one thing but meaning another. She seemed a little too eager.

I lowered my fly and withdrew my cock. Sticking straight out, it made
closing the door impossible, of course. She pulled her panties to one side
and took hold of my penis. She pulled it forward and introduced my angry
mushroom tip to her nether lips. I began to sink into her.

"Now I expect a full apology from you," she said to me, "after I prove
my point."

"Absolutely," I replied, "but only if you're right."

"Of course I'm right," she said. "Just watch." And with that she slammed
herself down the full length of my erection, jamming me against the shelves
in the back. One of them cut into my torso. I didn't complain.

She turned and grabbed the doorknob and yanked on it. The door slammed
shut, and we were in almost total darkness. A bit of light crept
under the door.

"Ha!" she cried triumphantly. "I told you." I grunted. "OK, that's enough,"
she said.

"That's enough?" I cried. "What are you talking about?"

"That's enough. Period. I've proved my point." She reached around and
grabbed the doorknob. She was *stopping*, for chrissakes. But the space
was so small and our bodies were jammed so tightly that the doorknob wouldn't
turn. There was too much pressure on the spring.

"I can't turn it," she said. "It's stuck."

"Too bad," I said. My dick said a prayer of thanks.

"You try," she ordered. I reached for the knob and gave it a half-hearted

"Nope," I said. "Maybe if you weren't in the way..."

"Well, get me down," she commanded. As if I could. As if I wanted to.

"I can't," I replied. "We're stuck. Really stuck. Majorly stuck. And with
you on my dick this way, you can't move up or down, and there's no room
to move back or forth. Yep, I'd say we're stuck."

"Then just lose your erection," she pleaded.

"Can't do that," I said. "It's not in my control. Only one way to go soft
that I know of."

"You're lying," she said. "Of course you can control it. You made it go
up. Now make it go down."

"Excuse me," I said. "I didn't make it go up. You made it go up. And if
I recall, you're the one who put it up there. I'm an inocent bystander."

"Not exactly," she said with a smirk. "I'd hardly call this innocent.
You're definitely a stander, though. But I'd call you more of an insider
than a bystander."

"I see what you mean," I replied. I wriggled my arms up and got them
bent at the elbow. One of my hands slid across the material of her
blouse and up over a breast.

"And what the hell are you doing?" she demanded.

"Uh, just trying to get on with this," I said. "I can barely move my hips,
and if I just stand here and wait for my dick to go down we could be here
for hours. Or worse. Maybe somebody else will show up and hear us in here."

"Don't worry about that," she said. "You were the last appointment of
the night. I'm quite sure everybody's gone by now." She paused, thinking.
"So perhaps you should go ahead, I suppose."

I squeezed the breast that lay beneath my palm. It was full and round
and firm. I felt a hardness growing in the center of my palm. I moved my
hand a bit more to the center and began fumbling with the buttons on the
blouse. She stared at me as I did it. I stared back in the dim light.

Finally I got two of the buttons to release their grasp and I slid my
hand between the two layers of material. I pushed further and got my
fingertips under the edge of her bra, then finally to scrape against her
taut nipple. But the angle of my arms was awkward, and I could push no
farther. I gave a little bounce with my hips. Her butt banged against
the door.

"Are you going to help?" I asked.

"What would you like me to do?" she asked in return.

"A little movement might speed this along. How about if you went up on
tip-toes and back down?" She tried it, and we got about an inch of movement.
She slid up my pole, then back down. "Good, good," I said.

"Yes, it is pretty good," she answered. She repeated the motion. I pushed
harder with my hand, trying to envelope her tit, but only succeeded in
pushing my forearm against her neck. "Uggh. Mffxt," she cried.

"Sorry. Sorry," I said. I moved my arm as best I could to relieve the
pressure. I might have choked her if I wasn't careful. "I think if we just
sort of work at it this way I can get to my right and proper conclusion.
That should give us a little more room."

"OK," she said. She began bouncing up and down on her tip-toes, and I
began flexing my knees. We got about two inches of thrust altogether. It
was quite a cooperative effort, and I could tell she had begun enjoying
it in spite of herself. We bounced that way several dozen times, over many
minutes, looking into each other's eyes as we concentrated on the joining
of our sexes.

In and in. In and in. It was taking me longer than usual, partly because
of the shelf that was cutting into my back, and partly because she was
still fully clothed and I couldn't get my hand around her breast. That's
always a big turn-on for me, and it just wasn't possible here.

Still, the rhythmic thrusting of my penis into her cunt was having its
intended effect, and I could feel myself building. "How're you doing?"
I asked.

"Fine," she said. "The front of your trousers is doing quite a nice
job on me."

I smiled at the compliment, even though it was just for my pants. Her
breathing was deeper now, and her bouncing began to have an enthusiasm
that she couldn't hide. It was apparent she was enjoying the ride. That
knowledge moved me up another level. I ticked the point of her breast as
best I could with my fingertips.

Suddenly her motions became increasing violent, and I knew she was about
to have her orgasm. Sure enough, within a few seconds I felt a hot flush
of excitement around my penis and she began to moan. She lubricated even
more, her box flushed with warmth, and her entire torso went rigid as she
passed the plateau. Her hips bounced, her torso vibrated, her
eyes slammed shut. I did my best to thrust back at her, pushing
my dick deep within her and forcing my groin against hers as she came.

It's as much the knowledge that the woman is cumming as the actual physical
sensations of the warmth and the clasp of my dick that excites me. In this
case it was everything, and looking at her while she came pushed me over
the top, too. I bounced against her as I felt my spunk eject into her waiting
receptacle. I bounced with each ejaculation, time after time after time
after time. I lost track of time, so I threw in a couple extras.

Finally we were spent, satisfied, exhausted. We were still cramped
together, of course, but the temperature and humidity in the tiny little
room had become unbearable. I was sweating profusely. My softening penis was
bent at an uncomfortable angle. My peter was appalled and wasn't merry.
My head was spinning like some old record album. I lost my erection.

At last she could step down from the shelves. She did. "It certainly took
you long enough," she said.

"Sorry," I answered. "If I could have gotten my hand farther inside your
blouse I could have gotten there faster," I said. "There's something about
the aureola of a woman's nipple that excites me almost uncontrollably."

"You misspelled that," she said, matter of factly. "It's a common mistake."

"Huh?" I said. "What?"

"Aureola," she answered. "The correct spelling is "areola."

"How do you know how I spelled it?," I asked. "We just TALKING here, for

"No need to be vulgar," she answered. "I know. I always know."

A bell went off in my head.

"And besides, you misused 'farther' and 'further' earlier on. Another
a common mistake. You also misspelled innocent, but I let it go because
I didn't want to distract you." She was relentless.

"Uh, I thought you said you teach sex education," I muttered.

"Oh yes," she said. "But I know the language. I read a lot. I like to
read. I try to encourage the kids to read." The bell began to chime.

She was wiggling around, trying to gain space. She twisted an arm behind
her and grasped the doorknob. She couldn't turn it.

"Would you help?" she said, a touch of exasperation in her voice.

"Of course," I said. I reached around and put my hand over hers. I squeezed
and turned. The door popped open with a loud "sproinngg." We tumbled out.

She quickly pulled down her skirt. I arranged my pants and zipped up.
We walked over to her desk. I sat down.

"Do you, um," I started. "I mean, ah," I continued. "What I'm asking is,
uh," I said.

"I don't have all night," she said impatiently. "You have a question?"

"I guess I do." I said. "Do you read, uh, dirty stories?"

"Yes," she said. The chime turned to a gong.

"Do you read a lot of them?" I continued.

"Yes," she said.

"Do you know the difference between relative and interrogative pronouns?"
I asked.

"Yes," she said.

"And between the nominative case and objective case?" I wondered.

"Yes," she said.

I didn't know what to say. Eventually I asked, "Uh, are you Celeste?"

Silence. Then finally, "Yes."

You could have knocked me over with a bright light. "I thought you said
you taught sex education. Celeste is an English teacher," I said knowingly.

"Oh that. I used to teach English, but it was so dull. All that grammar.
Pluperfect tenses. Spelling. Yuk," she spit.

"And what are you doing here in Michigan? I thought you lived in Virginia
or something?" I asked.

"Oh that. I don't know how those rumors get started." Her tone was firm.

"And what about the red hair? I thought you were dark-haired." I kept going.

"Oh that. That's just to keep people off track. You don't think I'm going
to put out any real information about myself do you? I'm a respected member
of the community here. PTA. Church. Civic groups. I can barely find time
to read the stories." With her identity revealed it all came tumbling out.

"Anyway, I stopped teaching English several years ago. I like sex. Teaching
it, I mean. Especially to kids. The stories have given me a wealth of
knowledge which I feel compelled to share. And I dyed my hair. I'm allowed.
And I really can't imagine how the 'Virginia' thing got started. Of course
I'm not going to deny it, because then people would just start guessing
other places." She was right.

"Well, well, well," I said. I couldn't think of another thing to say.

"So we were talking about Eric?" she said.

"Huh?" I said. I wasn't expecting her to change the subject. "Uh, yeah,"
I answered.

"First, I guess I proved that he could have been in the closet with a
girl. Second, I guess I can't tell anyone how I proved it. So I'm caught.
Tell you what. You have a chat with Eric, and I'll have a chat with my
boss and we'll let the past remain in the past. OK?" She offered a fair
compromise. I agreed.

She stood up from the desk and began to stuff papers into a briefcase.
I had a sudden thought.

"Hey you're always saying that authors work on the blowjob principle,
right?" I asked.

"Yes," she said.

"Well I'm an author, so how about..."

She cut me off with a scowl. "No way. Actually I misspell that on purpose.
It's actually the 'Blow Job Principal'. How do you think I keep my job?
Anyway, except for him I don't fool around. You should know that, I think."

"But what about the last half-hour...?

She cut me off again. "Some Things Just Happen." She paused. "But it won't
happen again. You should know that too." She started for the door.

I accompanied her into the hall, down the stairs and into the parking lot.
As she climbed into her car I said "I'll, uh, be sure to talk with Eric."

"Good," she said. "Maybe you could tell him a story, too? He needs a little
help. His technique is very amateurish."

I wondered what THAT meant. As she drove away I muttered "Fucking Celeste."
I glanced at the back of her car. I could barely make out her custom
license plate in the darkness of the parking lot. It said "801". It figured.

* * * *

Of course you saw it coming. It's hard to title a piece "Fucking Celeste"
without giving away the joke. Still, I loved the title so I had to use it.

The story was inspired by Delta's poem "For Celeste". I saw that and thought
I would write my own tribute to the esteemed reviewer of <>.
Of course Delta's was poetry, and it was nice. Mine is not particularly
either, but then I wouldn't know a poem from a transvestite, even if he
read it to me. I do know "nice" and it's not how I operate, either.

In fact, I have a very good friend in the billing department at AOL who
has looked up Celeste's billing records and forwarded them to me. I now
have her real name, home address, telephone and VISA numbers. With
that I've been able to do an Equifax check on her credit and personal
I also have a very good friend high up in the FBI, and he has done a complete
workup on Celeste for me, and it's quite interesting to say the least.

Of course I would never reveal the information because that would really
be fucking Celeste, and I wouldn't do that. I do have some discretion.

For instance, I have a reader on my e-mail list who is the Public Affairs
Director for the Minister of Information of a formerly communist country
in eastern Europe. I won't reveal who he is either, except to tell you
that I have my stories translated into Latvian for him.

Honestly the story started out being for a friend who is a teacher,
but I got stuck until I saw Delta's poem. So thanks Delta, wherever you
are. And whoever you are. Actually, I know that too, but I'm keeping all
this confidential shit in a big file cabinet in my basement.

You can get M1KE HUNT's stories by e-mail if you want. Credit, police,
and personal histories on all sorts of people are also available. E-mail
me at Please note the 2nd character in M1KE is a "one"
(1) not an "eye" (I). Thanks. Visit my web page at
<>. There's no "www" in the URL. There's
also no time like the present to visit. I've added some stories by
other authors I like. Or stories I like by other authors. I forget which.
Hey! It's got Mat Twassel's well researched "How Many People Read a.s.s."
It also has his shitty story "Bees" that won fucking Celeste's fucking
contest, in spite of at least, uh, three better entries I can think of.
There's even a special *bonus* interview with one of the MIKE HUNT staff!

"Fucking Celeste" is Copyright 1997 by M1KE HUNT. I'm talking about the
essay, of course. You can't copyright a sex act. Imagine trying to send
THAT in to the government!

The last piece of good news is that when she reviewed Delta's poem,
Celeste acknowledged that it was impossible for her to give a fair review
because it was a conflict of interest. So this probably is too!
Just my luck. She's started having guest reviewers. I'll probably get
fucking Plainman or something.

Fucking Plainman. Now there's a good title for a story! I don't think I want
to do the research on it, tho.

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