by Z. B Heller
The Chronicles of Moxie
Z. B. Heller
Copyright © 2014 Z.B. Heller
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locales or events is entirely coincidental.
THE CHRONICLES OF MOXIE
Edited by: Ella Medler http://ellamedler.wordpress.com/custom-writers-services/
Cover Art: Cheeky Covers www.cheekycovers.com
Formatting: Polgarus Studio www.polgarusstudio.com
To my Moo.
Thank you for helping me
bring out my Moxie.
mox·ie
ˈmäksē/
noun informal
noun: moxie
1. force of character, determination, or nerve
“She wore that fugly dress? Boy, she’s got a lot of moxie!”
Prologue
My name is Moxie Summers. I’m sure one wonders why the hell a parent names their child Moxie. The story goes something like this. When my mother was pregnant with me, she constantly had morning sickness up until she gave birth to me. I also gave her gestational diabetes, major heartburn, kicked her ribs and sat on her bladder so she constantly had to pee. Therefore earning the name for the spawn that she bore.
I’m 5’7”, have long red hair and gray blue eyes. They say that the eyes are the windows into your soul. If that’s the case, people had better be able to handle the head case that they see within my soul. I am beautiful, sexy, and a size sixteen. I’ve never been self-conscious about my curves in the past. They just give a man a little extra flesh to grab onto when we are in the throes of passion.
With that explanation out of the way, my name is Moxie and I am being punished.
Thump, thump, thump.
Apparently, the man above me thought that me squeezing my eyes shut meant an orgasm was near. It really meant that I hoped my brain wasn’t being thrown around too much and cause me a concussion.
There I was, laying there, in a bed with a mattress that was approximately 40 years old. The bed springs squeaked so loud, the noise could easily have been mistaken for barking dogs, well…more like injured barking dogs. The sheets felt like they had not been washed in about two months and I believe I just saw a spider crawl across the pillow. Wait, was that a half-eaten sandwich underneath me?
“Oh, Moxie baby, are you ready to come?”
“Umm…”
What I really wanted to say was when earth freezes over, your dick grows about 3 inches and gains about an inch in girth. I believe the name pencil dick was coined for this man. Joel lay on top of me, pushing my body into the squeaking mattress. The hair on his legs and chest was coated in sweat, ruining my beautiful triple D lilac Wahcoal bra. I was going to have to run my next wash on high heat, with extra detergent.
It was time for a choice to be made. Unfortunately, it involved faking an orgasm. Here are my thoughts about faking an orgasm. It takes way too much energy. This is energy that should be used for an all-out fuck fest. The kind of fucking that leaves you almost breathless and in pain. In order to perform a perfect faker, you have to practice your “oooo’s and ahhh’s” to gain a certain pitch. Luckily for me, I took improv classes, so faking was my specialty.
“Oh, baby. Yeah, do it harder,” I moaned in my best fake-moan voice.
In my head: No, seriously, do it harder.
“Oh, I think I’m coming,” I cried out in my best seventies porno voice.
Again, in my head: Did I remember to rotate my laundry?
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” I screamed as he did this ridiculous pumping motion into my body.
Finally, in my head: Oh, I have leftovers from that amazing dinner Renee and I went to last night. Score!
I believe I pulled off an Oscar-worthy performance. I just hoped Joel didn’t realize I faked it, but I had two thoughts about that. One, I didn’t think he ever felt a woman really orgasm, and two, his penis wasn’t large enough to feel an earthquake. Then I heard something that kind of sounded like a dying cow. I was ready to go find the barn it’d come from and provide CPR, but realized it was Joel finishing his triumphant release.
Joel was what I would describe as mediocre. He would be the equivalent of going to Wisconsin Dells, when really you wanted to go to Disney World. I met him through my stepmother, who thinks she is the wisest and smartest Jewish matchmaker in Chicago. We refer to these as “Yentas”, otherwise known as psychotic women with nothing better to do.
When I met Joel, he took me out to dinner at Chili’s. What date can you possibly take seriously when they take you to Chili’s? Maybe if I were still in high school, I would have thought it was the Ritz Carlton, but as a twenty-six-year-old adult, it was a disappointment. To add insult to injury, he suggested we split the check. Our conversation during dinner was a little mundane and went something like this:
Me: So, you’re in finance. That must be exciting.
Joel that Blows (my nickname for him for the purpose of this dialogue): I guess so. I didn’t know what I wanted to major in college, so I picked something.
Me: Well, do you have a passion for anything?
Joel that Blows: My main interest in college was smoking a shitload of pot.
Me: Then maybe you should have gone into botany or horticulture.
Since it was early spring and the weather was warming up, we walked to his apartment building, which was in Bucktown. When we got there, I had every intention of heading back to my place, until Joel asked if I would like to see his Bar-Mitzvah pictures. I knew what this really meant. It was code for I want to have sex with you, but I’m using my sad excuse of a childhood milestone to lure you in. The last thing I wanted burned into my brain was a picture of a thirteen-year-old with braces and acne. However, being that I hadn’t had sex in a while, I figured this was a chance to feed the angry beaver.
We entered his apartment, which looked like someone vomited up a dorm room. There were clothes on the floor, a laptop on a desk, with what looked like a half-eaten burger next to it. His couch seemed to be a hand-me-down from his grandma or a steal from a dead neighbor. The carpet had cigarette burns in it, which I figured were from previous tenants, since Joel didn’t smell like smoke. Unless the heavy drenching of cologne was masking it.
Ok, I realized that I hadn’t stumbled upon gold here, not even bronze. But I was horny and my beast was getting restless. So I did what any ladylike woman would do. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, prayed to the sex Gods, and jumped towards him, knocking him down onto his moth-infested couch. This is what led me to where I am now.
After sex, I always like to do a post-sex recap like ESPN Sports Center, with my pussy as the lead quarterback. As I lay in Joel’s slimy sheets, I thought about what my newscasters would say.
“In tonight’s game we had a horrific tragedy that just might put our lead player out of commission.”
“Yes John, I agree. Did you see the size of the balls he was playing with? I know squirrels with bigger nuts then those!”
“I can’t believe he tried to perform the backdoor play. What was he thinking?”
“John, I don’t think you can score a touchdown with a cocktail-sized frank.”
Joel’s sprawling stretch brought me back from my play-by-play. I had to question whether he wore any form of deodorant. The odor com
ing from his pits smelled like a McDonald’s Egg McMuffin. I could now cross those out from my breakfast options.
“Oh, baby, that was so good.” He sighed as he rolled onto his back and ran his hand over his balding hair.
Exactly what planet was he on? It certainly couldn’t be earth, or in this bed. I simmered, staring at the ceiling, wondering which one of my fantasies I would be using later with my handy-dandy vibrator, Carl. Yes, I named my vibrator Carl. I needed a name to scream out during an orgasm, and Carl seemed sophisticated. That was when I thought about something that could be a solution. Well, for me anyway.
“Maybe we can bring in some sex toys, like a large, thick dildo,” I said softly. But I didn’t get so lucky. He heard me.
“Gross! Don’t say dildo,” he said with a disgusted look on his face.
Did I mention that Joel was not a fan of dirty talk or anything that seemed dirty in his mind? I tried to spice things up during our coupling, mainly because I was bored out of my mind. I threw out phrases like ‘ride me hard’ or ‘blow your load’, only to be shushed by the dirty-talk police.
Joel turned his head to me. “I’m all the pleasure you need. Why the hell would you want to do that?”
Retreat, retreat! Mayday, Mayday! What I was really thinking about was the Subway jingle, 5 dollar footlong. At this point I’d pay 1000 bucks for a foot-long.
“Well, I’m not into that kinda stuff. What’s the purpose of getting something that will do exactly what I do to you now? That idea is so lame,” he snarled.
Stay silent, stay silent. Don’t let the crazy out of my head and into my mouth. At this point, it would come out to be verbal diarrhea, and I would just have to clean up the mess along with all the tact I had left. I stretched. “I’m super-tired now. You know, long day at work and then meeting up with you…”
I’m going to hell for all my lies. I just pray the devil has a bigger dick than this guy.
“Ok, well, I’ll just put on my underwear and we can go to sleep,” he said.
Underwear? Who says underwear, unless it’s your old Aunt Phyllis?
“You know, I have a huge day tomorrow, with a field trip and shuffling around twenty kindergarteners. I should really get a good night’s rest and I know that you’ll want round two and three tonight.”
Who’s coming with me to hell?
“Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll call you tomorrow and see if we can do round two and three tomorrow night,” he said.
Can a person sprout a larger penis overnight? I thought that was only Pinocchio’s secret power. “Right. I think this whole week is going to be tied up. I have to go visit my grandma in hospital.”
Does hell have cookies? I really hope so, since I will be there for a long, long time.
“I didn’t know your grandma was in hospital. Anything I can do to help?”
If you want to go to the cemetery, unearth her body and put her in a hospital bed to cover up my lying, then sure.
“Oh, that’s really sweet, but totally unnecessary. She’s very frail. Skin and bones, you know,” I responded, thinking of my poor grandma laying in peace in the ground.
“Well, give me a call when things settle down so we can go out again and work it like rabbits.”
Oh my God, he officially scared me. Did they make disinfectant for cleaning my ears after they heard something completely disgusting?
“Umm, sure,” I croaked as I got up and picked up my clothes from the floor. With that, I got dressed and walked out of his place, taking my little cotton tail with me.
Chapter One
I walked into Montgomery Elementary with coffee in one hand and a donut in the other. My work bag was falling off my shoulder due to the amount of work I was supposed to get done in the time I wasted with Tiny Tim.
Montgomery Elementary was a kindergarten through fifth grade school. It was an older school, but it had charm – if you didn’t mind the asbestos seeping from the walls. It was my first job after college and at the time I couldn’t be picky. I had a choice: either get a job quickly, or be an endangered slave to my stepmother and her boutique. I’d rather shovel horse shit for the rest of my life.
My best friend and fellow teacher Renee spotted me slipping into my classroom and followed me in. Renee was tall, had auburn hair, and was thin, the type of girl you would see getting nominated to be prom queen in high school. I, however, was the type of girl who would have been pulling a Carrie-like prank on her, pouring the pig blood over her head from behind stage. Yes, that’s right, I’m classy.
I met Renee on my first day of teaching here five years ago. She had come into my classroom to borrow tape for her Garfield “Hang in there” poster. If I remember correctly, our conversation went something like this:
“Hi, I’m Renee. I teach fifth grade down the hall. Can I borrow some of your tape?”
“Sure. I’m Moxie. Obviously the new kindergarten teacher.”
“Is that a chocolate chip muffin on your desk, next to the People Magazine?” Renee asked.
“Yup. I was reading about Heidi Klum and how she lost her baby weight in two weeks by eating nothing but kale. So I decided to start my own diet of chocolate chip muffins and see if I could put on the baby weight she lost.”
“That’s one way to rebel at society.”
“That, and I plan on killing her in the middle of the night.”
“Do you want me to bring the rope and duct tape?”
From that point on we became inseparable. She was the Bonnie to my Clyde, the apple to my sauce and the chocolate to…well, everything.
Renee stood in the doorway, eyeing my donut, knowing the true meaning behind the tasty morsel. “There is a donut in your hand, which means something bad happened. Which also means you have 30 seconds to tell me what it was before the bell rings,” she said.
“If you ever tell my evil stepmother I’m eating a donut I will officially disown you. She already gives me enough shit about my diet habits and my size.”
My stepmother Martha and I had a complicated relationship. Most of it was due to my weight. She had always been stick-thin, and the fact that I was not dampened the prospects of suitors in my life. This would also spoil the chances of a house full of grandchildren to taunt like she did me growing up.
Yes, I was a little thick through the hips, but I decided to love my curves instead of obsessing about them. I believed in being a strong confident woman who enjoys her chocolate donuts. If there were any skinny bitches out there that had a problem with it, I would squish them between my DDD knockers. So I kept telling myself.
“I won’t tell her. She would only lecture me that I need to come over and eat since I’m too skinny. Something about it being the job of a Jewish mother to make sure everyone gets fed enough, even a Shiska.”
“Yes, she has to make sure the whole world is fed. She has, however, threatened to wire my mouth shut,” I explained.
“Isn’t that abuse?” Renee asked.
“Not if my looks get in the way of catching Mr. Right and having many grandkids.” I shrugged, suggesting that I really didn’t care.
“So what happened to you last night?”
I couldn’t help but squirm at the question. I was recalling Joel’s bad breath when he attempted to whisper sweet nothings into my ear. Something about having sunshine stream through my hair.
“Really, there isn’t much to tell. Martha set me up last night with one of her Mah Jong friends’ son.”
Renee rolled her eyes. “Why do you insist on going on these dates that Martha sets up? We have been through this before and we have decided that plucking out your pubes one by one would be a better choice.”
Renee was right, and in this case I would have plucked out an entire bush full of hair. “Well, I ended up sleeping with him anyway. I haven’t gotten laid in a long time and ivy was starting to grow on the Golden Wall.”
This was true. I hadn’t seen any action for a while and I was wondering if my parts were in working order. Yes, I
had my collection of vibrators at home, but it’s always nice to feel another human being give you an orgasm instead of something with batteries. That and the fact that batteries are becoming way too expensive.
The bell rang and the kids started straggling in one by one. Renee slipped past the kids, but pointed to me on her way out. “We are so not finished with this conversation,” she said, and walked to her class.
I have been teaching kindergarten since I started working at the school. They say it takes a special person to work with kindergarteners. I, however, think I’m mentally ill. Although, it does warm my heart to see my kids grow up into young adolescents and know that my teaching didn’t send them into therapy for the rest of their lives.
“Ok everyone,” I waved my hands in the air like I was trying to land a 747. “Put your stuff in your cubbies, then come have a seat on the carpet for morning meeting.”
Twenty little bodies scurried around the cubbies like a pack of dogs that lost their tails. I called that area “the cock fight pit” because every day the kids would try to get their favorite hook. They would peck at each other until the final cock won, which was usually Drake Finley. Let’s just say this is a kid you wouldn’t want to be alone with in a deserted alley. I truly believed that he was a seventh grader disguised as a kindergartner.
Finally, we were all in place and I could start teaching about some very important life lessons. Such as, be kind to each other, take responsibility for your things, and get Miss Summers her Snickers bar that’s sitting on her desk.
“I hope everyone had a great weekend,” I said in an animated voice. “Why don’t we share what we did this weekend to start our morning meeting? Andrew, why don’t you start us off?”
