Sometimes even I find it hard to tell the truth. Sometimes the truth is hard to tell. I wrote this story for a collection, one edited by a person I know. I wrote it painfully, haltingly, stutteringly. It took an inordinately long time to write this piece of just over a thousand words; it might have taken weeks. Anyway, it was hard to write, but I wrote it, submitted it, and revisited it periodically in my head because even the telling of the tale didn't quite bear it away.
The editor of the collection dithered with it, promising me edits and then not giving them to me. Last night I heard that the piece would need substantial revision, and rather than revisit and rewrite, I killed the piece. Like my other rejected piece, it's about sodomy. There seems to be a trend.
Anyway, this collection's piquant loss is your salty gain. You'll find my rejected tailpiece of erotica #2 below the fold.