The Most Wanderful Time of the Year

June 30, 2017

Single Wicked Female Seeks Fairy Godmother 
for shoe-shopping companion 
and sappily-ever-after. 
Must be able to work 
family unfriendly magic with wand.

Summer lovin', had me a blast from the past.

To my childhood, when I routinely watched my VHS tape of a vitriolic vixen who behaved like a heel to her daintily-tootsied stepdaughter.

I didn't realize it once upon a time, but once I reached adulthood, it occurred to me that the duplicity and felicity showcased in the story bestowed a scintillating simplicity upon the toxicity of its messages.

Not only is everyone in the tale expected to exhibit a proclivity to heteronormativity (it's a small-minded world, after all), but all female figures are solely permitted a personality as transparent as a glass slipper.

As a child, I couldn't right wrongs. As an adult, I can't write wrongs. Thus, in "SWF Seeks FGM," my tale in Sacchi Green's lavender-laced storybook, Witches, Princesses, and Women at Arms, Cinderella's malefactor and benefactor are enriched with a mother lode of depth -- as well as a desire to fathom the depths of their feelings for one another.

Told from the purr-spective of the catty Wicked Stepmother, the story enables its leading ladies to experience wiggle room and breathing room from sitting room to bedroom, as you'll see queer -- that is to say, here -- in this excerpt:

Fairy Godmother has more curves than the staircase toward which I'm tugging her, but I must stay ahead of said curves lest she get lost on her first visit to the palace.

In the privacy of my boudoir, mere seconds after I latch the door, we latch on to each other and share true love's first kiss.

It neither breaks the spell she has over me, nor slakes the dry spell I've been under for the whole of my existence.

Instead, the kiss makes my bliss go from bad to worse, awakening me like the fanfare of a thousand trumpets.

I shoot the messenger a flirty look.

Her hand wanders to her wand. She culls it from her cleavage and, with a flourish of the wrist and an infuriatingly infantile incantation, her clothes vanish from her body.

"Surely if I can gussy up a girl, I ought to be able to hussy up one too," she reasons, lifting her shoulders in a shrug. She smirks at my princess-size eyes. "Look at you," she coos, "looking at me. So helpless, so harmless, so speechless. My little pine tree, stripped of its bark." She tickles the underside of my chin as if I'm a kitten. "Cat got your tongue?"

"Not yet," I murmur, as I kneel at her feet. My lips flex against hers. "Now it has."

Has this animated sorceress the power to make a vitriolic vixen's dreams come shrew?

Or, at the very least, true?

Curiouser and curiouser,
Allison Wonderland