"Explain to me again why you cut off the votes for July at noon and let the January Awards run until midnight?"

What could I do besides sigh? I'd told my Muse my reasoning at least a dozen times (okay, three) and she still didn't see the point.

"I want to 'cast a streaming video of the awards presentation," I patiently explained, "and I want each presentation to be unique and special for the winners."

She looked at me strangely. "And you think a streaming video of you holding a little statuette of a naked silver woman and certificate varnished onto a grey piece of wood is going to make a lasting impression, or increase the thrill of victory?"

"It's called 'sharing the joy.' It was, like, Delta's last request. And shared joy is multiplied." Maybe I was spending too much time lurking at Alt.Callahans.

"Have you advertised this event on ASSD?"

Oops. "No, but the whole of ASSD is waiting eagerly for the awards presentation, and they'll see the post and the link and want to see the presentation." I heard a touch of defensiveness in my own voice.

"You just couldn't think of another place to hold the presentation as nice as the Conch Train," she accused. And whose fault was that, anyway. She is my Muse, after all.

"I heard that! I suggested the top of the 'Eiffel Tower' at King's Dominion."

I tend to forget that Muses read minds. So she'll also get that I'm thinking that freezing temperatures in a closed (for the season) amusement park don't make for a "rewarding" experience, either.

"It's a July award. I would have made the temperatures appropriate and the park open."

"You could do that?" She could do that. Muses are magical. She just smiled in response. Why hadn't I asked sooner?

She answered that one. "You were preoccupied with Fred," she said. I glanced at the carcass of my old computer. "You usually start writing these awards presentations, at least the background, as soon as you announce the finalists."

"You really don't like the idea of the streaming video?"

"No. And you're already way behind - you're not even dressed."

"So I should just announce the winner, apologise, and move on?"

She rolled her eyes. "You don't apologise. Your presentation isn't what makes the Silver Clitorides Award special to the recipient - it's the fact that their fans and other writers cared enough to vote for their stories. The Author shared the story, then the readers shared the story - and that's the joy."

"You mean I could just sit here in my bathrobe at the keyboard and type, 'The winner of the Silver Clitorides Award for July, 2001 is Why The Bride Was Late by Oosh' and she'd enjoy the award just as much as if I had gathered a crowd at the top of a 1/3 scale Eiffel Tower?"

"Well," she smiled tolerantly, "you might have left out the bathrobe and included a link to /~oosh/whybride.html to let people know where to find it. And you might consider adding your congratulations."

"No streaming video?"

"No streaming video."

"Can I at least make jokes about how difficult it must be to walk with all those silver and gold clitties?"

"No."

"But..."

"NO." Fine!

So, here I am sitting without my bathrobe at the keyboard, typing:

It is my pleasure to announce that the winner of the Silver Clitorides Award for the Best Story of the month of July, 2001 is "Why The Bride Was Late" by Oosh. Congratulations and Well Done!

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep...

By general invitation to all the authors, their friends and family, and their fans, the campgrounds have filled up to near capacity. The facilities range from primitive to civilized. There are pup tents, family tents, pop-up campers, and recreational vehicles. There are even a customized bus and a charter bus (Oosh's fans, or so the rumor goes.)

In a central clearing, a bonfire blazes in the middle of a cleared area. Barrels of water are off to one side for firefighting if need be. The fire is at the hollow of a natural bowl, and logs are set on the slopes to form a sort of amphitheater. The logs are mostly occupied, although a steady stream of people wanders back and forth to the bathrooms and showers.

Authors and fans alike have been swapping ghost stories around the bonfire while waiting for the final tally of the Silver Clitoride voting. Some have been toasting marshmallows or making smores. A flash of skin at the edge of the woods indicates that not all of the revelers are around the fire. Indeed, one of the RVs is a-rockin' (no one's a-knockin, but that could change at any time with this group.)

Gary steps before the bonfire and yells for attention. In his left hand, he holds a small silver trophy; his right holds a certificate suitable for framing. It must be suitable - it's in a pine frame with a matte border. Before he can yell a second time, a trio of streakers bursts from the woods and passes between him and the assembled throng. It does nothing to quiet the hooting and hollering, but it does serve to bring attention to the front. He holds the trophy over his head and the cacaphony dies off until the sound of the flames and the crackle of the fire can be heard.

Into that relative silence, Gary announces, "I have the results of the voting. I know it's late and a lot of us are tired, so I'll just read them off, and the winners can come up afterward and pick up their trophies and certificates." He raises the trophy higher and lifts the framed certificate as well. Scattered clapping mixes with tired murmurs and slowly trails off.

He lowers the trophy and frame. Reading a note taped to the back of the frame, he says, "The Silver Clitoride for the Best Story of the Month of August, 2001, goes to 'Til Death Do Us Part' by Desdmona."

He waits patiently for the clapping and whistling to abate. It isn't reduced by the streakers transitting once again, their number swollen to five, but eventually it is low enough to continue.

"The Silver Clitty for the Best Story of the Month of September, 2001, goes to 'Business Class' by Wiseguy." Once again the noise level rises, encouraged by yet another passage of the eleven streakers.

When he can again be heard, Gary observes, "I suppose we have our own form of Dangling Chads" to much tittering and snickering. "The Silver Clit for October goes to..." he pauses to sip from a Diet Coke can held by his Muse's sockpuppet. "Where was I? Oh, yes. The Month of October, 2001, belongs to 'War Secret' by Oosh."

An entire section of the amphitheater erupts in cheering and squeels of delight. Oosh's fans are legion and vocal. In the firelight, someone (possibly Oosh herself) is being carried away. In all fairness, lots of people are getting carried away, especially the twenty or so naked runners now headed for the lake for a little midnight skinny-dipping.

When the crowd once again achieves a level of composure, Gary announces the final award. "In the most closely contested heat, the Best Story of the Month of November, 2001, goes to 'The Way to Pitsburgh' by Mat Twassel. A shift of a single vote could have created a four-way tie. As it is, Mat's story was judged the best of an excellent crop by his friends and fans."

Standing so close to the fire, Gary is giving serious thought to joining the streakers in the lake. But he has one last duty to perform. "Those of you who are leaving tonight, please drive safely. Those who are staying in camp tonight, please stick around in the morning long enough to police the area." He pauses for the boos and catcalls. "In either case, I want to thank you all for participating."

One month later:

A haze slowly coalesces into what appears to be a jeep with a locomotive body connected to a chain of carts with seats and a surry top. Painted on the "engine" are the words "Conch Train". A flag rising from the back of the jeep proudly proclaims the Conch Republic. All the seats on the "train" are filled with confused people.

"Hi, I'm Gary Jordan and I'd like to welcome you Ladies, Gentlemen, and Others, to the Conch Train, Key West, Florida's 90 minute tour of the sights of Key West, and for today only, host of the December Silver Clitorides Awards Presentation. Many of you already know the driver -er, engineer, Louis the Leprechaun, but for those who don't, I've provided links at the bottom of the presentation for your enjoyment.

"If you look to the passengers seated around you, you might be startled to recognize them from Father Ignatious' ASSDer's Mental Images Page. That's why I'm wearing this silly 'crackerjack' sailor suit, for example, and looking so much younger than my AARP Card would imply.

"If you don't recognize the person next to you, chances are you're surrounded by fans and readers. Be polite; one of them might be yours. And if you look very carefully at someone you have met or exchanged pictures with, you'll find them dissolving into the correct image, at short range."

Gary reaches into a briefcase and removes a trophy and a framed certificate. "Before we start the tour, I've a little old business to conduct. When I was receiving votes for the December Awards, there were so many that I decided to create subdirectories by storyname and save the e-mails voting for that story to that subdirectory. Then I could just count the e-mails instead of re-opening and re-reading each one."

The young sailor's cheeks gradually become more ruddy. "I decided to extend the scheme to the previous months as well. When I finished, I found that there was a teensy-weensy clerical error. Without further ado, the Co-winner of the November Silver Clitorides Award is Haunted by Jordan Shelbourne. Jordan, when we stop at Sloppy Joe's bar, let me buy you a beverage of your choice by way of apology."

A haze slowly coalesces into what appears to be a jeep with a locomotive body connected to a chain of carts with seats and a surrey top. Painted on the "engine" are the words "Conch Train". A flag rising from the back of the jeep proudly proclaims the Conch Republic. All the seats on the "train" are filled with confused people.

"Hi, I'm Gary Jordan and I'd like to welcome you Ladies, Gentlemen, and Others, to the Conch Train, Key West, Florida's 90 minute tour of the sights of Key West, and for today only, host of the December Silver Clitorides Awards Presentation. Many of you already know the driver -er, engineer, Louis the Leprechaun, but for those who don't, I've provided links at the bottom of the presentation for your enjoyment.

"If you look to the passengers seated around you, you might be startled to recognize them from Father Ignatius' ASSDer's Mental Images Page. That's why I'm wearing this silly 'crackerjack' sailor suit, for example, and looking so much younger than my AARP Card would imply.

"If you don't recognize the person next to you, chances are you're surrounded by fans and readers. Be polite; one of them might be yours. And if you look very carefully at someone you have met or exchanged pictures with, you'll find them dissolving into the correct image, at short range."

Gary reaches into a briefcase and removes a trophy and a framed certificate. "Before we start the tour, I've a little old business to conduct. When I was receiving votes for the December Awards, there were so many that I decided to create subdirectories by story name and save the e-mails voting for that story to that subdirectory. Then I could just count the e-mails instead of re-opening and re-reading each one."

The young sailor's cheeks gradually become more ruddy. "I decided to extend the scheme to the previous months as well. When I finished, I found that there was a teensy-weensy clerical error. Without further ado, the Co-winner of the November Silver Clitorides Award is Haunted by Jordan Shelbourne. Jordan, when we stop at Sloppy Joe's bar, let me buy you a beverage of your choice by way of apology."

Muttering something about "hands on Volkswagons," the Leprechaun jams the transmission of the Conch Train's "engine" into gear, causing a lurch to travel to each successive car in the "train" in turn, and Gary hastily continues, "We're starting the tour now, so please keep your arms and legs and other protuberances inside the cars at all times.

"Since this is a magical train, we don't need to follow the normal tour path. We can skip some of the lesser sights and go straight to some of the more popular points. So let's see a show of hands. Who wants to see the Key West Aquarium?" A couple of hands. "The Turtle Kraals?" One extremely enthusiastic leg is raised and waving. "Sorry, Kenny, maybe later. The Hemingway House?" A definite majority of hands, wings, and other things rises. "Louis, if you please?"

The Conch Train lurches forward somewhat less than smoothly as a fog envelopes the coaches. "Since this is a magical train, we aren't constrained by matters of time or space; when we arrive, Papa will be inside working on one of his stories." Gary observes a number of eyes lighting up, some lips being licked, and at least one pair of panties being discarded. He rolls his eyes and reconsiders mentioning the old Cuban Bordello.

After 85 minutes of what is supposed to be a 90 minute tour, Gary rounds up the last of the wayward writers and instructs Louis to get them to Sloppy Joe's. The bar was prominently displayed in an old movie, "Beneath the 12-mile Reef". The conch train arrives after filming those scenes, but before the actors have left the island. Inside, Robert Wagner, Terry Moore, Gilbert Roland, Richard Boone, Peter Graves and J. Carrol Naish are rubbing elbows with some of the local wreckers and shrimpers.

"Before everyone gets too drunk to remember, I'd like to announce the winners of the December Silver Clitorides Awards," Gary hollers. The plural starts a general murmur, broken by Richard Boone yelling, "Silver Clit-rides? What kind of pussy award is that?"

Two trophies and two framed certificates in hand, Gary announces, "And the winners are... "Monsters by Alexis Siefert and Twelve Nights by Wiseguy!"

Gary shakes Wiseguy's hand and kisses Alexis' cheek as they take their awards. The authors are swept away in a crowd of congratulatory handshakes, kisses, pinches, backslaps and buttslaps. Gary searches out Jordan Shelbourne for that conciliatory drink, as the bar fades into haze...

---

/~MariaGonzales/ fantasy/passengers.html

/~MariaGonzales/ fantasy/intro.html

http://www.conchtourtrain.com/FrontPage.htm

http://www.conchtourtrain.com/Images/ map%20(Large).jpg

/~FatherIgnatius/Images.html

Up on the stage is an enormous mostly-white flag, with the silhouette of a nude woman on the left and the stylized letters "ASSTR" vertically rising up the left border. The flag forms a background to the stage.

An impressively uniformed figure strides from the right wings to center stage. When the individual reaches center stage and pivots on a heal to snap to attention facing the audience with a WHACK from heels brought togther, the camera starts a slow pan. From the mirror-shiny black boots, past the chocolate colored razor-sharp creased pants, the patent leather belt, the camera switches to the silvery helmet bearing four lime-green stars, to the shoulder boards bearing the same stars. Next the camera pans the rows of ribbons

Other recipients easily recognize many of the ribbons - the crimson ribbon with gold circled "C", indicating the bearer is a veteran of at least one C*pyr*ght Flamewar; purple field with chalice, a Religious flamewar; Tan and White-striped ribbon for Dulcinea Memorial Campaign; other ribbons which may or may not have any significance but sure look purty.

"Be seated.

"Some people," he begins in a gravelly voice reminiscent of George C. Scott only if your ears are full of cotton, "have suggested that you win Silver Clitorides Awards by Sweating Blood for your readers. Bullshit! You win Silver Clitorides Awards By making the other authors Sweat Blood for their Readers!"

To emphasize this point, he slaps his riding crop into his left glove. Only the first row notice the wince.

In the wings, his Muse's Sockpuppet whispers to his Muse, "I hope he manages to get across that he thinks a little competition is healthy and improves everyone's writing, because that 'Patton' speach he's parodying is full of negative crap about hating losers."

The Muse nods. "You know how he gets. Some e-mail about the July Awards Presentation sent him scurrying to a uniform rental place. He wanted to polish the Silver Clitorides Awards' image."

"Did you watch the movie?"

Muse nods. "This speech is the antithesis of the one that opens that movie. That one praised Americans and their bellicose nature. This one praises writers of all nationalities and genders and preferences, and makes a big deal about..."

"...pen is mightier than the sword," Gary thunders on stage.

Sockpuppet groans, "Couldn't you get him to use something less trite?"

"Shhhh," she hushed. "It is a parody; it's supposed to have well-worn sayings in it. Now hush, he's about to announce the winners."

"..and that's why it gives me such pleasure to announce our first three-way tie." The riding crop smacks smartly against his leg. Not all the sweat on Gary's forehead is from the bright stagelights.

"The winners of the Silver Clitorides Awards for the best story of the month of January, 2002 are: Topped by Katherine T, Empirical Research by Wiseguy, and as falls cuyahoga so falls cuyahoga falls by Nicholas Urfe.

"Congratulations!

"Atten-HUT!

"Dis-MISSED!"

Gary looks around him at the milling writers and fans. Everyone seems to be having a good time, although there are lots of knots of people gathering in cliques, whether by acquaintence or genre. He rolls the hot dogs on the grill and flips a few burgers, careful not to let the animal fat contaminate the vegetarian burgers on their side of the grill.

Several of the crowd are standing with varying degrees of impatience, concealed with equal variance, buns in hand. Breadrolls, that is, although there are plenty of hands on buns tonight. Urfe and spin are having another heated discussion, punctuated by feinting hot dogs and riposted by bear bottles. Had they gone the turkey dog route? The vegetarian franks? Who could keep track?

He stayed busy a while longer, dishing out the meat (or meat substitute) until no one was left in line. He checks the condiments one last time, noting that the pretzels are all but gone from the snack trays. The piles of double-fudge chocolate brownies have been a memory for half the cookout.

Although liquid refreshments were BYOB, he retrieves a Diet Pepsi from a 55-gallon drum of ice to slake his own thirst. (Good word, slake; it just seems more fitting than "quench" or "satisfy.") Looking around, he notes a nude woman with a swan-like neck on a spread blanket with some of the other writers by the duck pond.

Another contingent is sparring with shiny swords around the horshshoe pits, chainmail jingling and armor clanking. "It's joust about time for the presentation," he calls to them. A shower of peanuts answers.

Nevertheless, the crowds gather round, as he stands on a chair and rips the end off the sealed envelope. There are groans as he steps down to retrieve the statuette and framed certificate. Once again on the chair, he clears his throat, and the crowd's murmur softens again.

"The Silver Clitoride Award for the Best Story of the month of February, 2002, goes to..." He pauses for another sip of soda. More peanuts indicate that the dramatic pause is NOT appreciated. "... 'The Eve of Victory' by Oosh. Congratulations again, Oosh!"

A sizeable contingent attempts to lift Oosh to their shoulders to accept the award, but have difficulty, since Oosh is one of those in full plate armor for the event. Instead, Gary makes his way to her, shaking her mailed glove and passing the trophy and placque to one of her squires.

He returns to the grills, where he spends the time until the last of the revellers has sla... er, satisfied their hunger. Nothing like a good dejeuner sur l'herbe to make an event successful.

"Is he still in there counting votes?" Gary's Muse's Sockpuppet has never been know for his patience

"Yes," Gary's Muse replies. "You must admit, a four-way tie would be a most unusual occurrence."

Sockpuppet snorts. "I doubt he can count past twenty-one, anyway. Twenty-two if he uses his nose."

"Sockpuppet!" Muse laughs despite herself. "He's just trying to be thorough. He tried a form-mail voting system for the first time, and it had... bugs."

"What kind of bugs?" Sockpuppet looks around anxiously for silverfish and moths.

Muse just rolls her eyes. "Not those kind! The kind where you have to tell the CGI script the correct address to send the votes to. Besides, you're not afraid of a few insects, are you?"

"Never say 'frayed' to a sockpuppet," Sockpuppet shudders.

The door to the secret vote-counting room opens, making the sound of a flushing toilet more audible. Gary emerges, bleary eyed.

"Is it still a four-way tie?" Muse and her Sockpuppet ask together.

He shakes his weary head. "No. Once the votes sent by the form to my main screen name - let's call them 'absentee ballots' - were added in, it came down to just two."

"Just two?"

"Yeah. Giggling by Nicholas Urfé and A Garden Called You by Jamie Joy Gatto." He yawns. "Anyway, here's what we'll do this month - we'll invite all the authors and fans to a cheese and wine tasting."

"The Ripple or the Boones Farm?" asks Sockpuppet.

"That's not important. Anyway, we'll pick up some Zinfandel or a nice Mogan David. Where was I? Oh yeah, wine and cheese. After we get everybody's cheeks all rosy, I'll make a toast to the winners..."

"To Brie or not to Brie..."

"Enough with the cheesey remarks," Muse cuts in. "Gary, do you realize..."

"I'll say something really swave about their style and class," Gary continues.

"...that you've already..."

"I'll mention what a wonderful crop of stories they competed against."

"...announced them?" Muse finally finishes.

"I'll thank them for their... I what?" Gary looks puzzled.

"Read back to the twelfth paragraph. You already announced the winners."

Gary reads. His face turns it's favorite shade.

Muse pats his dejected back. "You can still congratulate the winners, you know."

Sigh. "Congratulations, Nick. Congratulations, Jamie Joy."

I felt my Muse's hand on my shoulder as she looked at the words I was typing on the screen:

"'Twas sautig and the erogists did wribble covingly on their worps."

She picked up the wine bottle on my computer desk and examined the label. "Chathouse Portmanteau '01?" she asked the air. Cautiously, she sniffed the bottle, setting it suspiciously aside.

She shuddered. "Please, please tell me I did not inspire this... this..."

"It's poetry," I supplied.

"Then your licence is revoked!" she returned.

"Ah HA!" I exclaimed. "I told Denny that spelling for license came from somewhere logical. Um, what license?"

Muse just rolled her eyes. Oh. That license.

"Look, you can't revoke my license... er, licence right now - I'm doing this to honor the winner of the April Silver Clitty!"

"I thought you had arranged guest presenters for this month. Willy something and that bartender woman."

"Mr. Crystal and Ms. Goldberg withdrew because of the death threats."

"Death Threats?!"

"Yeah. When they found out what kind of writing we honored, they wanted to quit. I kept threatening to kill myself if they did. They said it was a deal, and left."

"And you think that jabber you were typing will honor the honoree?" She shook her head. "I guess I'll have to save your bacon again," she sighed. She snapped her fingers.

I looked around. Under a single spot, the winner of this month's award was reading his work aloud, accompanied by a bongo drum. At tiny tables all around, authors and fans gazed on behind cheap sunglasses, sipping espresso. Although I saw only a few lit, the atmosphere was thick with cigarette smoke.

Through that haze, it was difficult to pick out any particular writer. The "Maynard G. Krebs" look was popular with men; ratty grey sweatshirts, chinos, sandals. A "Mary Tyler Moore" look was more popular with the women; black leotards, turtlenecks and sandals.

Just then, the featured artist completed his reading, to the sound of fingers snapping everywhere. Based on past experience, I kept expecting to disappear, and reapprear elsewhere, but the muses were restraining themselves.

I went to the front, holding the statuette of Argent Tina aloft. I handed that and the usual framed certificate to Alexander Renault for "Shannon's Shadow". I may have said, "Way to go, daddy-o," or some similar '50's expression of congratulation. Dig?

There were finger snaps in abundance, but one particular set returned me to my computer keyboard, still wearing a sweatshirt reeking of stale tobacco and espresso. I turned to my Muse.

She made a turtleneck and leotards look damned good, and the twinkle in her eye was visible even through the dark glasses. She pointed at the keyboard. "One thing left to do."

Right. Wrap it up. "Congratulations to Alexander Renault's "Shannon's Shadow", voted best story of the month of April, 2002. And congratulations to all the nominees and finalists, as well. We experienced the highest total vote count of this year - you can all be proud, and prouder still of the comment that accompanied so many votes: 'It was close between X and Y, but I decided to go with X.' Another great crop of stories all around."

It wasn't exactly a costume party, although many of the Authors and fans were in full regalia of some type. There was definitely a contingent wearing their favorite togs from the "Chicks In Chainmail" challenge, a bevy in blue, so to speak. A good many purple robes said that the Coven of Bliss was well represented as well. Leather was worn in abundance, too. There was even a tall Valkyrie at one table.

It wasn't exactly a casino night, although dice littered the tables like pebbles on a beach. Given the hobbies, professions, and proclivities of the attendees, maybe "bookies" would take on a new meaning as well. There was definitely some gamboling taking place, too.

It wasn't exactly a writing discussion, although there were character sheets in abundance, and a good deal of plotting and... fleshing out. Heck, at some tables there was more flesh out than in the entire "Naked in School" series.

So, what was it, exactly? It was another Silver Clitorides Awards presentation, of course! The one for May, 2002. But you knew that.

The background music was the theme from "Fellowship of the Ring", and some agreed that it was appropriate, while others argued that the score from "Shrek" would have been better. I just smiled - that would come in later on the CD.

Overhearing the conversation at one table, I had a sudden fear that the whole thing would come to a loud and violent end, until I realized that they were discussing something far different from what I thought I heard. Coping Rites are a far safer topic than what I had first assumed they'd been discussing.

I had my own role to play as Master of Ceremonies. I made my way to the head of the room to make my announcement, aware that the nature of the announcement was anticlimactic given the theme for the night. Still, if anyone was displeased, they hid it well. Perhaps my muse's threat to turn people into chocolate covered grasshoppers had something to do with it.

Facing the assembled authors and guests, I uttered a cantrip memorized from my Spell Book ("English for Dummies, or How to Spell Good"):

"Mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy", I intoned, solemnly. "A kid'll eat ivy too; wouldn't you?"

For no discernable reason (given the nature of the spell), a small silver statuette appeared on one of the tables, and the authors there gasped. Beneath it was the usual framed certificate.

It gives me pleasure to announce that the winner of the Silver Clitorides Award for the best story of May, 2002, goes to Dragonseekers by Ice Phoenix.

Congratulations!

It was another raucous night in La Taverna (The Official Bar of the 2002 Autumnal Pornolympics). Someone had rounded up the usual suspects. Same old crowd by the aquarium, give or take a new face or two. Same old crowd on the same old barstools (and one high chair.) Same old clerics pontificating or sermonizing. Same old, same old.

One sudden change - like "the wave" at a football stadium, a bunch of the female authors (and a few males) flashed their talents, and the patrons at large flooded the room with cheers. This was outside the norm. It was a welcome distraction from the dry discussions of "two", "too", or "to."

Me? Well, I wanted to join in, but my muse and I were too busy tallying the votes for the June Silver Clitorides Awards for me to dangle *my* chad in public. She and I had a table in a dark corner. Maybe the darkness contributed to the time it took to count the ballots - maybe not. Next month, I think I'll just do away with the "Silver Voting" address and take all the mail at "Silver Nominees." Maybe I'll just get a more generic address and replace them both..

My stack was done; my muse still had a few to go. Then there'd be the engraving on the trophy (I knew that vibro-etcher would come in handy). While she caught up, I signaled the waitress for a refill. My hot chocolate was nearly empty.

Muse asked, "How can you drink that on a day like this? The sun's down and it's still triple digits outside."

"I've decided to embrace the International System. It's barely 40 degrees, and to a 'Mericun, that sounds cold. Besides, we aren't outside, we're inside, and the air conditioning is set to maximum." She just shook her head, and continued counting.

The waitress brought my order, and I savored the drink. Especially the little marshmallow bits. I might even have some more. I winked at the waitress and she winked back. She appeared to be one of the later models. I briefly wondered if her programming included... never mind.

"Done!"

She passed me her tally sheet. I combined the totals with mine. We had a winner. I started engraving.

Finally, we gathered up the trophy and certificate, and went to stand in front of the bulletin board. "If I could have your attention for a moment?" I shouted. The patrons paid me the usual respectful deference. Before I could yell again, I heard a distraught cry from a table in a dark corner. Three people sitting there. A short, red-headed author auditioning a couple for her next MF story. The author seemed to be patting the hand of the distraught character. I heard her whisper, "There, there. Of course that's the way it has to be. Didn't read my specs? MF stories, one character must ALWAYS be killed off. Get over it. Die like a man."

I shuddered, hoping she wasn't contemplating a Fantasy Train story full of fellow authors any time soon. Out of the corner of my eye, I spied a certain Aquarium Proprietor and a Red-headed Texan approaching. I hastily shoved the trophy and placque into my Muse's arms and sat, covering my mouth with both hands.

Annoyed, my Muse snapped her fingers. A hush decended over the bar (do hushes have to descend? can't a hush ascend, or approach from an oblique angle?), and she announced in her clear contralto, "The winner of the Silver Clitoride Award for best story of June, 2002 goes to...

"Nano Virus, by cmsix at Stories Online

"Congratulations to cmsix, and to all the finalists!"

It was another raucous night in La Taverna (The Official Bar of the 2002 Autumnal Pornolympics). Someone had rounded up the usual suspects. Same old crowd by the aquarium, give or take a new face or two. Same old crowd on the same old barstools (and one high chair.) Same old clerics pontificating or sermonizing. Same old, same old.

One sudden change - like "the wave" at a football stadium, a bunch of the female authors (and a few males) flashed their talents, and the patrons at large flooded the room with cheers. This was outside the norm. It was a welcome distraction from the dry discussions of "two", "too", or "to."

Wait just a damp minuet! (I'm a wet blanket at a formal dance.) Wasn't this beginning to sound like a repeat of last month's award presentation? I looked around for my muse...

Strange. La Taverna appeared to be be packed with four times as many women as men! And the women seemed different somehow. I couldn't put my finger on it (at least not without getting slapped), but the dresses and blouses seemed, well, fuller. I wondered briefly whose muse the clues would identify as the source of the "enhancements," and whether the recipients would be amused.

"Oh, well," I thought, scratching at the rash on my neck. "Probably nothing that will concern me anyway." I tacked the latest revision of the Silver Clitty Frequently Asked Questions on the bulletin board and ordered a Zombie at the bar. It just seemed appropriate tonight. I glanced at my watch. I had a couple of hours to go.

Behind and above the bar, a television was tuned to CNN Headline News. Two busty anchorwomen I had never seen before were explaining something about government employees reporting to recycling centers and landfills. I'm a government employee. I glanced at my watch again.

At 25 after the hour, the anchorbabes had switched to sports. Apparently, a preseason charity scrimmage between the Dallas Cowboys and Green Bay Packers was cancelled because only the busty cheerleaders and one of the referees showed up. When I saw my congressman at the landfill, I might complain. Probably not, though. I had a feeling it was nothing that would concern me, shortly.

Finally after a commercial, the anchorwomen came back to the top news. They announced, "The winner of the Silver Clitoride Award for best story of July, 2002 goes to 'Nano Virus', by cmsix at Stories Online."

I left my car keys on the bar and called for a cab. Someone may as well enjoy my car. On my way out, I waved at cmsix, surrounded by a dozen or so large-breasted women. One of them was idly rubbing the rash on his neck.

"Congratulations to cmsix, and to all the finalists!"

It seems like only minutes have passed in La Taverna since Rui Jorge presented the 2002 Golden Clitoride Awards. In the wake of that award ceremony, presenting the Silver Clitoride Award for best story of the month of August, 2002, might seem almost anti-climactic.

But it isn't.

All around the tavern, revellers buy drinks, slap backs, kiss cheeks (some even on the face), and utter congratulations. Jimmy Bot rolls over to Gary's table, where, a glazed look on his face, he fondles his clit in obvious dazed rapture.

Gary's Muse taps him on the shoulder. No response.

A certain winged nymph flutters over and, after whispered consultation with Gary's Muse, arranges herself daintily seated on Jimmy Bot's head.

"A-hem"

No response.

She tries again. "A-hem."

Same response. With a wave of her insubstantial looking silver wand, a deafening boom is heard inside the Taverna.

Immediate silence.

"A-hem," she whispers, a lopsided smile on her face. She straightens her wings, adjusts her bodice and announces, "I now present to you the presenter of the August 2002 Silver Clitoride Award... Mr. Gary Jordan!"

Stunned by the boom, Gary still manages to stand. "Thank you, BN," he acknowledges. She just grins and nods, wriggling on JB's head.

"It is my very distinct pleasure to award the Silver Clitoride Award for the best story of the Month of August, 2002, to The View From Inside by Alexis Siefert.

Like Rui before him Gary says, "Congratulations Alexis. And all the writers, period. Job well done." With a sigh of relief that gets promptly drowned out by the cheering, backslapping and general revelry, Gary sits and raises a glass. "To Alexis, and all the Authors, Editors and fans!"

He swallows his hot chocolate. He aims at La Taverna's hearth. This glass will never be used for a lesser purpose - it shatters among the logs.

It was a much-subdued crowd gathered in La Taverna tonight. Authors and fans, gathered in response to a summons to the solution of a mystery. The mystery of Who Killed Kenny Gamera.

Staring at each of the participants in turn, Gary announced, "One of us in this room is the perpetrator." An undercurrent of murmuring and nattering washed over the room.

Leaning close to two of the whisperers, Gary overheard Selena Jardine sexily saying, "Murmur, murmur, murmur... murmur." DrSpin responded, "Nattér nattér. Nattér." It was just as he suspected. French.

"It all comes down to Means, Opportunity, and Motive. Means... Opportunity..." Gary repeated slowly and with emphasis, "...and Motive." He paced in front of the gathered suspects.

He stopped in front of celia batau, idly playing with her boning knives and scissors. "celia certainly had the means," he said, pointing. "hi, Gary!" celia responded. "have you changed your mind about learning to be a slave?"

Gary moved to the next suspect with alacrity. Apparently, alacrity was uncomfortable with slavery, too. "As for motive, celia's 'Submission 113' was in competition with Kenny's 'A Pepsi.' He spun on his heel. "As was Selena Jardine's 'Red, Light'!"

"Vous ne savez pas de quoi vous parlez," Selena responded. "Je faisais lécher mes ongles d'orteil ce jour-là." Beside her, DrSpin nodded as though he understood what she said.

"So was 'Russian Radiance'," Gary pointed out, fixing DrSpin with a gimlet eye.

Being neither broken, nor in need of a gimlet eye, Spin shrugged it off. It fell into his drink, which was not a gimlet, either. "Not much motive 'ere, Mate. Me 'n Dyson's already struck Gold. So's the French Sheila."

Gary nodded. That still left DB Story, the secret grrl, and iambe. He whirled on DB Story, flanked by two impossibly perfect specimens of feminine pulchritude. "Where were you on the night of the seventh?" he interrogated.

"He was with us," his companions replied together.

"The third? Twenty-third? Nineteenth? Fifth?" Same answer each time. Sheesh. When did he find time to write?

Gary turned to the secret grrl. "I suppose you have an alibi, too?" She nodded.

Gary waited patiently. Finally, he was forced to ask, "Well? What is it?"

"It's a secret," she responded.

"Oh." Gary turned away.

Oosh stood. "Surely, after dismissing all the other Silver Clitorides Finalists as suspects, you're not implying that Iambe killed Kenny?"

Gary looked startled. "Of course not! She had no motive at all. After all, "Flagrante Delicto I: Velvet" is the winner of the Silver Clitorides Award for best story of the month of September, 2002. The assembled crowd broke out in chears.

"Then who killed Kenny Gamera?" shouted one author

"Nobody. Kenny isn't dead. Congratulations Iambe, and all of the nominees and finalists for October.

"Hold still."

Gary couldn't help fidgeting, as his Muse tied the noose-like object around his neck. "I hate these things."

"Oh, hush. You look good in formal wear."

Gary rolled his eyes. He'd suspected his Muse told the occasional "little white lie." This was confirmation. Actually, he considered this one an outright whopper. Only Hollywood actors looked good in formal dress. Guys like Timothy Dalton or Pierce Brosnan. Shaken, not stirred.

He tried once again to avoid it. "Look, I'm not into BDSM. This thing is a collar and leash if I ever saw one. If I have to wear one, couldn't it at least be a clip-on?"

"No." He knew that "no." It was the "no" that said, "You'll shut up about this if you know what's good for you."

It didn't matter. Gary had never known what was good for him, and he knew that, at least. He persisted. "But it's La Taverna. People like to be comfortable there. Let their hair down. Flirt. They have comfy bar stools. They have comfy tables..."

"It'll be the comfy chair for you if you don't hold still."

Gary rolled his eyes again. "Ha, ha. Very funny."

Finally she cinched it tight against his Adam's apple. "There. All set." She snapped her fingers.

Gary was disoriented for a moment. Teleportation always had that effect on him. He looked around. He was on La Taverna's stage - he'd expected that. He looked to the left. The curtains buldged slightly, and 10 pairs of spit-shined white boots peeked out from the bottom. Turning to the right, the curtains bulged even more, hiding any trace of footwear. He shrugged.

Looking out at the patrons, he did see a mixture of formal and casual clothing. There was that sysop guy in a penguin suit - no surprise there, considering. Fine. As much as he hated ties, he figured he might as well get on with it.

"Good Evening, Ladies, Gentleman, Turtles, Dragons, Nymphs, Cats and Dogs." By the time he finished that much, a semi-respectful semi-silence had fallen over the patrons. Some were even paying attention.

"It gives me great pleasure once again to announce the winners of the Silver Clitorides Awards. The Winners of the Silver Clitorides Awards for the Best Story of the Month of October, 2002, are 'Enchante' by There Is No (Number 6) and 'Let Yourself Go' by Selena Jardine.

"Congratulations, Number 6. Congratulations, Selena. And congratulations to all the nominees and finalists."

Okay. Some ties he didn't hate.

Gary rises up from his deathbed on one elbow...

"Deathbed!" snorts his muse. "Get real. It's just pneumonia, for crying out loud, and they can cure that. It's not like you had some mysterious new strain of influenza or something."

"Well, it feels like my deathbed," he whines, annoyed once again by his Muse's seemingly total lack of sympathy.

"Oh, quit whining. And it isn't a total lack of sympathy, it's simply reduced by circumstances."

Gary wastes a moment remembering that his thoughts are completely transparent to his Muse. Why can't he ever remember that beforehand?

"I don't know," replies his Muse. "Advancing senility, perhaps."

He rolls his eyes. "What circumstances are you referring to, anyway? It's not like I played in the rain during the sleetstorm or anything."

She has no mercy. "You don't think thirty years of inhaling tar and nicotine and increasing your susceptibility to every respiratory infection that comes down the pike constitutes 'circumstances'?"

"Yeah, sure," Gary grumps. "And now it means in addition to the cough and the chest pains I have withdrawal symptoms to drive me crazy."

"For that you want sympathy? You should have quit years ago!"

"Fine, fine. Will you at least help me get to the keyboard so I can announce the winner of the Silver Clitoride Award for the best story of the month of November, 2002?"

For this, Gary's Muse smiled and gave him a hand. "I see you're dressed appropriately for that story." She grinned.

Gary grimaced and coughed, then hobbled over to the computer. He typed, "Congratulations to Nick Scipio for his story, Summer Camp Book 1: Susan. And congratulations to all the finalists and nominees."

The seats of the small multiplex theatre were filled with authors and fans. This month's presentation of the Silver Clitorides Awards were preceeded by a complimentary showing of a classic play, in Cinemascope™, Dolby Stereo™ and SurroundSound™.

As the play drew to a close, the audience squirmed and moaned in appreciation of the erotic undertones of the duality of the ideal lover/ultimate disappointment.

The house lights came up, dimly, as clothing was rearranged and fingers were wiped, or licked, or whatever. In the wings, Gary leaned toward his Muse and whispered, "I think I'll need a...

A podium appeared, center stage. Gary turned to smile his appreciation, noting that his Muse's pupils seemed to momentarily dilate.

Gary enters, stage right, and proceeds to the podium, accompanied by Muse. Arriving, he realizes that he's forgotten the awards. He turns to his Muse to ask, "Could..."

A silvery statuette of the woman Gary has christened "Argent Tina" and the usual framed certificate wink into existence atop the podium. Smiling his thanks yet again, Gary can't help but notice that Muse's pupil dilation has increased, ever so slightly.

Gary's mouth is suddenly dry. Is his Muse under the influence of pharmaceuticals? He wishes he had something to... his hand now contains a glass of clear liquid, and Muse's pupils are dilated further. Trembling, he takes a sip, and turns to face the audience.

He reaches for the silver trimmed envelope... the contents appear in his hand. He's afraid to look into his Muse's eyes. He reads the name of the winner, and suddenly understands. He turns on the microphone. "I love you, microphone," he says as he carresses it.

"Good evening, Ladies, Gentlemen, Dragons and Trolls, authors and fans of all persuations. Welcome once again to the monthly presentation of the Silver Clitorides Awards. Without further delay, the winner of the Silver Clitorides Award for the Best story of December, 2002, is..."

"...Anticipation Like a Drug by Nick Scipio," his Muse finishes in a very, very mellow voice.

"Congratulations, Nick, and congratulations to all the Finalists and Nominees!"

The crowd in La Taverna was fairly thin, for a change. Maybe because it was Sunday. Maybe because it was a long weekend, that started with Valentine's Day evening and ended after President's Day. (Lots of research going on for erotic stories, no?) Maybe because it was early afternoon. Maybe because bizarre weather patterns took Alaska's snow and dumped it all in the eastern U.S.

Maybe. Maybe not. Only a fraction of the patrons inhabit the eastern U.S., or even the northern hemisphere. Only a fraction observe U.S. holidays. No matter. The place would fill up soon enough.

Gary slouched in a chair by the fire, letting the heat soak into his bones. He decided he wanted to be here just for the warmth, even if he hadn't had a Silver Clitorides Award presentation to make. It was for sure warmer than the stupid heat pump could make his home. (Do NOT ask him about "heat pumps." He'll rant your ear off.) Today, he envied the Aussies and Enzies and Afrikaaners, enjoying their midsummer heat.

Gary looked at his Muse's Sockpuppet. He looked so forlorn, just lying... laying... screw it, he was all balled up. Gary's Muse was taking the rest of the weekend off. She thought she deserved it, having worked her butt off all week. Gary missed her warmth as well.

"So, Sockpuppet," Gary said, "what say we order a couple of brews, invite some ladies over, and work up an award presentation?"

No answer. Sockpuppet seemed empty, limp.

Gary was undeterred. "We can talk about the enormous volume of the voting, unusual for this time of year."

No reply.

"We could compliment the authors on the quality of the nominees and finalists."

Nothing.

Gary made a last-ditch attempt to perk up his friend. "We could talk about story codes and copyright."

Sockpuppet had had enough. "I'll be darned if we will!" His button eyes gleamed. He seemed more animated than he'd been all day.

"Muse! You're back!" Gary cried.

She sighed. "I can't leave you two alone for a minute, can I." It wasn't a question. "This is the most pathetic excuse for a presentation I've ever read!"

Muse snapped her fingers. La Taverna began to rock to the beat of a live band. Where before, a sprinkling of patrons occupied scattered tables, it was now SRO. A redheaded streaker dashed across the stage, allowing the audience to admire an interesting pattern drawn in calomine lotion from freckle to freckle - if those *were* freckles...

"The band is about to take a break. Get up there and do your thing."

Gary picked up two statuettes and two certificates, suitable for framing, and approached the microphone.

"Without preamble, I'd like to announce that the winners of the Silver Clitorides Awards for the best stories of January, 2003 are: Lucky by iambe and S'mores by Souvie.

"Congratulations, Souvie! Congratulations, iambe! And congratulations and well done to *all* the nominees and finalists!"

Gary returned to his seat while the crowd clapped and cheered the winners. His Muse smiled, and said, "So, tell me all about heat pumps..."

[Cut to Special Report from La Taverna.]

"This is Carrie Meoff for WSCA News coming to you live from La Taverna, with an exclusive report. Just an hour ago, Gary Jordan, sometime pornographer and Awards Moderator, was carried from this popular watering hole by paramedics to be taken to Central Hospital and Storm Door Company in what appeared to be a chocaholic coma.

"WSCA has interviewed some of the witnesses, and brings you their statements, taped earlier."

[Cut to taped interview 1.]

"Hi. you were sitting near Gary when he collapsed?"

"Yes, I was."

"And you are...?

"Oh. Call me Alexis."

"Please go on, Alexis."

"Certainly. He was sitting at the table, mumbling about not knowing what he was going to do about the presentation, since he originally planned to have it in 'Sunny, balmy, verdant Alaska' - his words - but now Anchorage was suffering severe wind storms and sub-freezing temperatures. Then the serving wench delivered his drink, he took a few sips... well, guzzled a bit, really. Anyway, his eyes rolled back in his head, he moaned loudly, and slumped out of his seat to the floor."

"Do you think the drink was poisoned?"

"I don't know. Perhaps someone else might."

[Cut to next taped interview 2.]

"Could you tell our viewers who you are?

"Well, sure, darlin', but first, you can think of me as your pal."

"I, ah, that's nice. But what I want to know is, did you see anything before Gary collapsed?"

"Oh, sure. The old geezer was chattin' up one o' the redheads when that cutie, Eloise, brung him his special, mixed by Ray over there, behind the bar. Say, darlin', you new in town?"

[Cut to taped interview with Ray at bar.]

"So, Ray, are you the regular bartender?"

"No, I just help out occasionally, like when Dryad asks me to."

"The tall blonde over there said that you mixed the drink Gary was served just before he collapsed. Can you tell us what he ordered?"

"Sure. He ordered a Hot Ghiradeli. Thats a special hot chocolate, with a smidgeon of Bacardi Añejo, topped with whipped cream and a sprinkling of freshly ground nutmeg."

"That sounds delicious! Was there anything else in it that might account for his reaction?"

"Well, um, er, that isn't exactly what he was served..."

"Oh? What was he served?"

"Look, you gotta understand this was all her idea, on account of it was for Gary, and I just went along, okay?"

"Yes, of course. Tell us what was in his drink."

"A Godiva Belgian Dark Chocolate Ice Cream and Kahlua float, sprinkled with Shaved coconut and a squirt of cherry syrup."

"Oh. My. Gawd! That would certainly put me in bed! Say, do you know that blond's number, and whether she likes chocolate?"

[Cut to Carrie, live.]

("I thought I told them to edit that last part out") <cough> "We've just learned that Gary is awake! With him now is WSCA'a own Ginger Thyse. Ginger?"

[Cut to hospital room, with tall redhead holding microphone, sitting on bed next to Gary.]

"Thank you, Carrie. This is Ginger Thyse in bed with... I mean, here with Gary Jordan. Gary, I understand that the doctors have ruled out chocolate-induced coma."

"Yes, Ginger, they have. In fact, I explained what happened myself, after they woke me up. Say, did you know that they consider it normal when examining an unconscious patient to stick their fingers... never mind."

<cough> "Yes, well, can you tell us what did happen?"

"I'd rather not say, exactly. Let me just say that some folks consider it normal for a guy to fall asleep after one of those..."

"Oh?" <long pause> "Oh. OH!" <cough> "And that was caused by the drink?"

"Well, the drink might have been the final straw, but with this whole month, Valentine's Day, the Birthday Festival, and Desdmona's 'Chocolate Covered Cherries' winning the Silver Clitorides Award for best story of the month of February, 2003, I'd had plenty of forepl... um, preparation for what happened.

"Say while I'm on camera, can I say congratulations to Desdmona, and to all the finalists and nominees?

"You just did. That's it from here, Carrie."

[Return to regular broadcasting.]

Cue the music.

It was a hot and sultry night. The kind of night that sucked away your ice cream, banana, and hot fudge, and left you holding your nuts. I had decided to split and go to La Taverna for some cold brews and hot broads. Then she walked in.

I knew she was trouble the moment the door opened. She stood there with her red hair, looking for all the world like a strawberry lollipop. You know the kind; an all day sucker that leaves your lips and tongue all red and sticky and gives you a buzz that lasts until the next morning, even though you petered out the night before.

She sashayed up to my desk, undulating like a garden hose with the nozzle wide open and plenty of pressure in the water main. Like I said, Trouble. That starts with T and that rhymes with P. I needed to take one, so I crossed my legs and waited for her to speak.

I didn't wait long. She said, "You Gary Jordan?"

I didn't keep her in suspense. "Me Gary Jordan. You Jane?"

The joke was wasted on her. She pursed her lips in annoyance. I'm a guy; I don't do purses, so I walleted my lips right back at her. She beetled her eyebrows; I rolling stoned mine. Her eyes shot daggers at me. My eyes parried en forte.

"Are you going to keep this up all night?" she asked with a snarl that would curdle milk still in the saber-tooth lioness.

"At my age, I'm happy if I can keep anything up all night," I replied with a grunt that would've make a Neanderthal come running with a "Where da Cro-Magnon chicks?" look on his face.

She leaned over my desk. Fortitously... I mean, fortuitously, that gave me a gander at her melons. Big casabas these were, with nipples like thumb-sized erasers standing sentry over the silver dollar portals of Fort Guernsey, the Federal Milk Depository. Now I knew why, from the time we're babies, we guys think of only one thing: food.

"Look," she said, even though it was pretty obvious I already was, "I'm just here to deliver a message."

"Fine," I said, because they were. "Who's it from?"

It's from..." She paused melodramatically, which was okay by me because I was feeling dramatically mellow at that point. Or those points. Sadly, from my perspective, she ended the pause by straightening up, an act that must have strained a back muscle that I'd have been happy to massage for her for a day or two. She finally finished (and I was pretty close myself by then), "...the Muse."

Her words sank into my brain like two casaba melons settling into a loose tank top, jiggling around for a brief moment like cherry gelatin from round-bottomed bowls. Meaning strained against my grey cells like a couple of tiny cock shaped sentries, setting up tents... I shook my head. "Let me have it."

I had to settle for the message, but I was treated to a rear view as she glided out the door: Like two firm mel... never mind. Thats a cliche for another day - I already milked the other for all it was worth. I unfolded the message and read:

Gary~ If you don't knock off this half-assed "Mike Hammer" parody and announce the winner of the Silver Clitorides Award for the best story of March, 2003, I'm going to turn you into toilet paper in a public rest room in Tijuana during tourist season. Love, your Muse

The Muse doesn't make idle threats; my life unrolled before my eyes, and I realized I'd have to be three sheets to the wind to ignore her. Charmin' idea, that. Maybe later. I cleared my throat.

"The winners of the Silver Clitorides Award for the best story of March, 2003 are The Sunstroke Cure by Oosh and Walking the Dog by Smilodon."

"Congratulations, Oosh! Congratulations, Smilodon! And congratulations to all of the excellent finalists and nominees."

My Muse and I have always been proud to make The Silver Clitorides Awards presentations from interesting locations. Not for us the formal ballroom or auditorium (at least, not often) - we prefer variety. That's why we were so pleased to be invited to Stevey Austin State U for commencement ceremonies.

Of course, that was before we were told that SFA had recently instituted "The Program." You know the one. Think Karen Wagner, Carl and Beth, Dee and Adhara. That's right, the "Nekkid in School" program. Being an institute of higher learning, they went "all out." *Everyone* participates, students, faculty and staff. The Powers That Be in Nacogdoches had supported the school by decriminalizing public nudity for all ages.

Yes, there was a "clothing optional" visitor's section in the William R. Johnson Coliseum, but it was in the "cheap seats." Nobody who wouldn't shed would be in a good position to ogle the student body. Bodies. Whatever.

The procession began approximately 20 minutes prior to the stated start time of the ceremony. It was certainly fun to ogle the students as they entered, and my Muse must have enjoyed it, too, as she began to softly hum "Elephant Walk." She'd traded notes with Sailor Jim's Muse, I could tell. A grinning French Professor (Not at all Moody) whispered "Boingy, boingy boingy," to her and they both cracked up behind their hands.

Once the procession was over, the various bigwigs made their speeches and introduced the guest speaker. He didn't get very far, as commencement addresses go. He said, "When I first received the invitation to speak at your commencement ceremony, I thought back to my own graduation many, many years ago and you know what? I can remember neither the speaker nor what he or she said. The only thing I remember is that we all wanted it to be short." There was much tittering and giggling. With a confused expression, he continued, "So I will try to keep my message short, recalling from my own days at UNC that the person who lectures is sometimes the one who talks in other people's sleep.

"What I'd like to do this morning is say a few words about leadership. Here's why. Each one of you, by choosing to come..." The tittering and giggling resumed. "Oh, stop. By choosing to *attend* college and sticking it out..." Snorting and laughter. "Come on, people, grow *up*. I mean, show some maturity. Where was I? By attending college, staying the course and earning a degree, you're saying something important to society. You are saying that you want to lead.

"You want to be leaders in the workforce, in your profession, and in your communities.

"An admirable goal. But how does one learn to lead? The Greek philosopher Aristotle told us that we learn to lead by leading, by practicing the skills that are required to move men and women in concert toward a common goal." Several graduates in the front section began practicing, some of them Greek style. "Hey, it isn't funny anymore. Just let me finish the speech, please. Ah, screw it. Go get a job! I'm outa here. Thank you, and good day."

Several other speakers managed to grin through speeches fraught with double meanings, before Souvie was introduced. As part of the introduction, Souvie received her own sheepskin, a special honorary degree, a Bachelor of Arts in Pornography. (This was conferred in addition the regular degree she was to receive with her classmates in her private persona.) Taking the scroll, and shaking hands, she then moved her tassel to the other side and approached the podium.

Have I mentioned the podium? It was a transparent acrylic, slightly convex toward the audience. As such, it tended to act as a magnifying glass... Anyway, Souvie began to speak.

"Mr. President, Distinguished members of the faculty, fellow graduates, friends and family... My Favorite English Instructor, Dr. Leeds, tells us that if we feel nervous, we should picture the audience naked." She paused while an appreciative laugh swept the auditorium. "Well, I must be completely relaxed.

"I could give a wonderful speech full of inspirational messages and encouragement, but I'm really standing before you in my internet persona only to use a first line given to me by a friend while I flash." She paused until the laughter subsided. "That first line is:

"The winner of the Silver Clitorides Award for the best story of the month of April, 2003, is 'Playing to Win: Playing the Game II,' by Reverand Cotton Mather.

"Congratulations, Rev! And congratulations to all the authors, Finalists, and Nominees!"

As I clapped I thought, "I couldn't have said it better myself."

With sincere apologies to Gilbert and Sullivan AND the impending "Pirates of the Carribean" story festival, the Mighty Taverna Arts Players present: "The Writings of Pendance"
ALL:	Pour, O pour the story sherry; Fill, O fill the story glass; And, to make us more than merry Let the story bumper pass.
Gary:	For today our story 'prentice Rises from indentures freed; Strong his pen, and keen his script is He's a writer now indeed
ALL:	Here's good luck to Author's ventures! Author's out of his indentures.
Gary:	Words a-plenty, now he's writing, And alone he's fit to fly, Which we're bent on signalizing With unusual revelry.
ALL:	Here's good luck to Author's ventures! Author's out of his indentures. Pour, O pour the story sherry; Fill, O fill the story glass; And, to make us more than merry Let the story bumper pass.
(Author rises and comes forward with story Muse, who enters)
Muse:	Wotinell d'you think you're doing with this hopping back and for'd? Knock off all this song and dance crap, and present the damn award!
All:	Knock off all this song and dance crap, and present the damn award!

Fine! I can take a hint. <Ahem> "The winner of the Silver Clitorides Award for the best story of the month of May, 2003, is Marigold by Vulgar Argot.

"Congratulations, V.A.! And congratulations to all the authors, Finalists, and Nominees!"

My muse had reviewed the last few Silver Clitorides Awards presentations and was somewhat less than ecstatic. "You've simply got to stop winging it like this - people are going to assume I had something to do with it, and my reputation will be ruined among the other Muses!"

I won't claim that I didn't sulk a bit.

But when she's right, she's right. So I said, "Inspire me!" She did.

Did she give me words and phrases? No, that isn't how she works, not directly. I sat at the keyboard and started typing. I pictured La Taverna on a Friday evening. You know what I mean; you've been there. Crowded. Happy. "Thank-God-It's-Friday-ish." Looser than a weeknight, but not out of control like on a Saturday night. No "fever"... just good fellowship and loud music and bumping bodies and pheromones.

My Muse tunes in on thoughts like that, and just sighs or giggles a certain way or at a particular moment, like at the image of Please Cain getting tanked with Desdmona, and all those writers offering hints on how to hold the glass or turn the wrist, or how much to bend the elbow; whether to sip or gulp.

And the "Mmmmmm" at the image of a birthday Nymph leading a parade of testosterone; the snort as yet another Nekkid in School banner gets tacked to the bulletin board; the dreamy sigh as Jack Lipton again expounds so eruditely on his lack of writing ability.

And I typed. I built a scene of such stunning vision that there was no doubt the Oscars would plagiarize it this year. There was pathos, drama, humor - high and low - and best of all, pride in the authors, warmth for the readers. As I committed the last words to the screen, I was drained, empty, stunned. I wanted to cry. "You'd better help me capture some of this for my next story," I said, with equal parts awe and jealousy. She smiled in tolerant amusement.

Then she frowned. "Before you go and reenact what you've written, you'd better dispose of that other matter." I knew the one she meant. People think I'm a nice person - well, usually I am. But I'd written that desecration in a fit of anger and envy and... never mind. I wasn't even angry at the subject of the diatribe, I had merely lashed out blindly, a post that would start the flame war to end all flame wars, possibly resulting in the dissolution of the newsgroup had I posted it.

As good as the award presentation was, the unposted troll-post was bad. Clearing it from the hard drive was a simple matter of backing up everything else, over-writing everything three times with 0's and 1's, reformatting, doing a low level format with fdisk, smashing the hard drive with a ball-peen hammer, and installing the new drive.

But there was the matter of the print-out. E-mail daily assured me that "THE FBI IS SIFTING THROUGH YOUR GARBAGE," so merely crumpling it up and tossing it was Not Good Enough. It needed to be shredded, then burned, and the ashes scattered.

And the only shredder I knew of nearby was in the back office at La Taverna. While I dressed for The Presentation, she carefully disguised the filth to resemble Just Another Post.

"Here you go," she said. "The Troll is in this document protector - the one with the image of Sandra Bullock looking back over her shoulder. The Presentation is in this one." The cover page had an image of Pamela Anderson. Stunning misdirection. "Remember," Muse said, "The Binder with the Bimbo is the paper on the caper; the folder with the shoulder is the spiel to conceal."

"The bimbo with the bumpers holds the caper on it's paper," I paraphrased, "The penning of the poison's behind the lass with the class." Muse dimpled. "I'm going to run a copy by Denny, 'kay?" she asked? I winked in response.

We left, her to my editor, I to La Taverna. I knew Denny would approve this time - it was that good. All the way there, I amused myself paraphrasing my mnemonic. "The epistle with the gristle bears the star of 'the Net'...," heh-heh-heh, "the swim-wear full of plastic has the gold to be told." With an enormous grin, I snuck in the back way, slipped into the office, and started the shredder.

Someone was coming! I dumped the contents of the first Clear-View(TM) document protector into the shredder, and opened the one I still held.

Oh NO!!! There it was, in bold print:

"Allison George wears beige granny panties."

Those words joined the others in the shredder. I breathed a short-lived sigh of relief. At least the existence of those flame-evoking thoughts would never be known. But with them had gone the presentation to crown all presentations. I was once again reduced to winging it.

My muse would snap me in half.

So what could I do? I walked to the stage, where waited the podium bearing statuette and framed award, a-hemmed for attention, and announced, "The Winner of the Silver Clitorides Award for the best story of the Month of June, 2003, goes to "Camping," by Victoria Manley. Congratulations, Victoria, and well done to all the authors and finalists."

"Inspire me," I told my Muse.

Embarrassment forbids me to type her response. She's still pissed at me for accidently destroying last month's presentation, the one that would have made us both legends. It looks like I'm winging it again this month.

<Sigh.>

So I went to La Taverna. Sometimes you've got to go where everybody knows your name, and they're always glad you came.

A waitress approached my table. "What'll you have, Mac?" she asked.

"My usual," I replied, ignoring the fact that she mistook me for Katie. (Katie is taller.)

She frowned. "And what might that be?"

"Never mind. Just bring me something with chocolate in it." A minute later I was staring at a Tootsie Pop® and pondering the fleeting nature of fame.

So what could I do? I walked to the stage. I set on the podium the statuette and framed award, a-hemmed for attention, and announced, "The Winner of the Silver Clitorides Award for the best story of the Month of July, 2003, goes to "Callie," by Deana Johns. Congratulations, Mr. Johns, and well done to all the authors and finalists."

What seems only moments later, a catfight breaks out in the bar, and La Taverna is beset with charge and countercharge, terminating when one of the patrons gathers all his belonging and departs. A small committee races over to the podium, and I'm forced to confer at some length. There's been a change in plans.

"A-hem," I a-hemmed. "This is decidedly awkward. It seems the winner has removed his story and his website from contention... of any kind. After due consideration, the only reasonable thing to do, is to promote the second place story to first place. That's what all the beauty pageants do, and since all the finalists were beautiful stories...

"The winners of the Silver Clitorides Award for the Best Stories of the Month of July, 2003, are A Pirate's Party by Dryad and Black Spider in B Cup, White by DrSpin. Congratulations Dryad. Congratulations, DrSpin."

“So, you're not going to La Taverna tonight to make the presentation?”

“Nah.”

“Do you have an exiting locale picked out as an alternate location for the presentation?”

“Nope.”

“You’ve perhaps written something clever and witty in lieu of setting a scene?”

“Huh-uh.”

“This isn’t like you,” Muse fixed me with a stare. “What exactly do you have up your sleave?”

“Nothing.”

Muse tapped her foot impatiently.

“It all goes back to something you reminded me of,” I explained, “many presentations back.”

“You’re saying I’m responsible for this minimalist award presentation?” She sounded offended. I nodded anyway.

“You don’t remember? I wanted to do something all glitzy and splashy, and you reminded me that it isn’t what I write that makes the awards special, It’s what the authors wrote. I said something about ‘sharing the joy’ and you said the writers writing and the readers reading was shared joy.”

Muse looked briefly shocked, that I actually paid attention once.

“So, look at the field of nominees; out of hundreds, perhaps thousands of brand new stories, these were the ones that at least one fan thought enough of nominate for the award.” Before Muse could point out the obvious, I did.“Granted, not all fans are even aware of the awards - they’re primarily fans who read ASS/ASSD/ASSM, ASSTR, Stories Online, Literotica, The Erotic Writers and Readers Association, Cleansheets, EWP... places where the awards have had varying degrees of exposure. And I’ll grant as well that some folk are more concerned with figuring out their votes for the Annual Golden Clitorides Awards, our big sister.” I smiled when I thought of Rui tallying hundreds of votes. But I continued.

“But ninety-six fans enjoyed these stories enough to vote for their favorites. Twenty-six each for the winners, twenty-one for next, and a fairly even distribution among the rest.” I reminded Muse what that might represent. “Typically, fewer than 1% of readers take the time to dash off a quick e-mail to any author, and of those, 90% are simple ‘I enjoyed your story, write another’ types; maybe 10% are ebbulent praise when a story merits it. I’d bet that only that 10% would nominate or vote, if that. So every one of those votes might well represent 1,000 or more happy readers...

“That’s a lot of shared joy.”

My Muse smiled. I doubted she agreed with my math, but it does paint a pleasant picture. “You said, ‘winners.’ I take it we have another tie?”

I nodded.

“So which are they, and which authors get to share all that joy?”

I essayed a crooked grin. “She’s new. And she’s making as big a splash in her debut as Katie or Oosh or Selena.”

“‘She,’ singular?”

I nodded again. “The Winners of the Silver Clitorides Award for the best stories of August, 2003, are Reunion and The General, by Girl Friday. Congratulations, GF, and well done to all the nominees and finalists!”

Well, here we are in La Taverna. Again. Another presentation. And me with my Muse still miffed about the whole “Lost Masterpiece” thing. Forced to rely solely on “Native Talent.”

Right. Like that’ll work.

At least she was here with me, helping me control the pair of mixed Rottweiler-Shepherd loaned to me by my gay acquaintance Wilbur Piñot. Naturally, she made me take care of the pooper-scooper myself.

“I haven’t asked before now, and I’m still not at all certain I want to know,” Muse started, “but what do these mangy mutts have to do with the Silver Clitorides Awards?”

If she really wanted to know, she would just pluck the thoughts from my head. Muses do that. Mine used to. I suppose I would have to verbalize.

“They are—or so I've heard—integral to an oft-expressed desire on the part of this month’s winner.”

“An ‘oft-expressed desire?’ How does the winner even know Wilbur? Willie never travels north of the Mason-Dixon.”

“I don’t know. It isn’t important. If I can accomodate the wish as part of the presentation, I will.”

Muse shook her bemused head. (Hey! A bemused Muse! Cool, huh?) “It’s about that time. You had better take the podium.” She shook her head again.

So I took the leashes and escorted the brutes to the stage. Muse very kindly snapped her fingers, causing ambient light to dim and a spotlight to appear. I smiled my thanks.

“Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen and so forth. Welcome to the monthly presentation of the Silver Clitorides Awards. Before I present the Award for the best story of the month of September, 2003, I’d like to attempt a feat in honor of the winner.” I went on to explain about the owner of the dogs.

Stooping, I placed my arms under the first canine. Hoisting him wasn’t much problem, but getting the second dog in my arms would be more of a challenge. It didn’t help that the first one didn’t seem to enjoy being carried. He wriggled a lot.

Nevertheless, I persevered. It wasn’t until I set the first down and picked up the second in a fireman’s carry that I managed to pick up both at once.

Finally, someone in the audience asked, “Gary, what’s the point of this exercise?”

“The Winner expressed a desire to see this. It’s even more important to the winner than winning awards.”

“But what are you doing?”

“I’m finally,” I said as I managed to get both dogs into my arms, “lifting the curs of the pom, Piñot.”

To the accompaniment of an orgasmic groan (at least, I hope it was orgasmic), I announced, “The winner of the Silver Clitorides Award for Best Story of the Month of September, 2003 is What Do You Dream Of? by Frank Downey. Congratulations, Frank! Well done to all the nominees and finalists!”

Don't stop me if you've heard this one...

An Epic Romanticist, a Serial Hedonist, and a Short Story Writer walk into a bar...

The bartender says, “What’ll it be?” The first author replies, “I’ll have a Tankard of Tolstoi, and keep it coming.”

The second says “A Stein of Dostoevski and don’t let it run dry.”

The third writer says, “A shot. Something... not sweet. Set it up.”

The bartender sets up the drinks. “You’re that guy who has a 143 chapter romance novel with dozens and dozens of characters--in progress--aren’t you?”

The first author nods happily. “And lots of novelettes while I'm waiting for inspiration.”

The bartender nods back, and turns to the second. “You have that four-book serial series going with dozens and dozens of characters, about half-done.”

The second author smiles and acknowledges this, happy to have found yet another fan. “It contains romance, but it’s really more of a ‘coming of age’ story.”

The bartender looks down at the third writer.

“You’re the one who writes about a few characters, and finishes them.”

“They had it coming.”

“I meant the stories.” She flashed a smile.

“So, what do the three of you have in common?”

The Winners of the Silver Clitorides Awards for Best Story of the month fo October, 2003 are Curse of the Bambino by Frank Downey, Summer Camp Book 2: Gina by Nick Scipio and White Stucco Walls by Alexis Siefert. Congratulations Nick, Frank, and Alexis. And congratulations and well done to all the nominees and finalists.

November Silver Clitorides’ Day Speech:
With Apologies to William Shakespeare

Enter the WRITER

MUSE. O that we now had here
But one ten dozen of those authors in Usenet
That do no work this month!

WRITER. What’s she that wishes so?
My faithful Muse? No, my fair Muse;
If we are mark’d to publish, we are enow
To do our erotic art well; and if to be nominated,
The fewer authors, the greater share of honour.
God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one author more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my site;
It yearns me not if authors my genre wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires.
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my Muse, wish not an author from Usenet.
God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour
As one author more methinks would share from me
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
Rather proclaim it, Muse, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this art,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse;
We would not publish in that author’s company
That fears their fellowship to publish with us.
This month is call’d the month of November.
He that nomineed this month, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this month is nam’d,
And rouse him at the name of November.
She that shall finalist this month, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast her neighbours,
And say ‘Next month is November.’
Then will she boot her PC and show her stories,
And say ‘These words I had on November’s days.’
Old authors forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But she’ll remember, with advantages,
What feats she did that month. Then shall our names,
Familiar in her mouth as household words-
Smilodon the Extinct, Anais Ninja and Night Wolf,
Frank Downey and Girl Friday, Mat Twassel and Scipio-
Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb’red.
This story shall the good author teach her child;
And Crisp November shall ne’er go by,
From this month to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered-
We few, we happy few, we band of siblings;
For they this month that pens their words with me
Shall be my sib; be they ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle their condition; 
Make them a member of the writer’s guild, even if they are a dabbler.
And gentlepersons in Usenet now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here,
And hold their copywrites cheap whiles any speaks
That wrote with us upon November’s month.

(The generator recently affixed to Master Shakespeare’s coffin is reportedly supplying all of London. Indeed, they needs must step down the voltage and frequency, he spins so in his grave.)

Once more into the britches, dear friends...

The winner of the Silver Clitorides Award for the best story of the month of November, 2003 is Naked in School: Bobby and Kathy by Night Wolf. Congratulations, Wolf, and well done to all the nominees and finalists!

"It was the best of tomes; it was the worst of tomes."

My Muse rolled her eyes. That's her subtle way of letting me know that I was NOT on the right track. At least she was communicating with me again, even if only in the negative.

"Tis a far better thing he did..."

"It's good; the voters say it's the best this month. But better than ever before? Are you qualified to make that judgement, even in the hyperbole of an awards presentation?"

Very negative. I'd have to try harder.

"Are there no prisons? No poorhouses?"

"What in blue blazes does that have to do with anything?" she asked, nearly shouting.

"I don't freaking know!" I replied. "Maybe if you weren't being such a Scrooge with the inspirations, I'd type something worth sharing with the readers!"

"I gave you the best words of your life, and you shredded them!"

"And you've given me the Dickens for it ever since! Are you ever going to forgive and forget, or am I doomed to wear these chains for eternity?" Damn it, I used to like to write.

She got a funny look on her face. She looked at the winner; she looked at the screen. "I suppose I must be forgiving you, even if I can't forget." She pointed. "Even as bad as it is, everything you've typed has been on-topic for the winning title."

What? I read it all again. And smiled, slowly.

"Does this mean you..."

"Oh, just finish it up," she semi-frowned. Her voice was a good deal more tolerant than even a minute ago. Maybe I'd get to write something of my own after all. I returned to the keyboard.

"The winner of the Silver Clitorides Award for the Best Story of the month of December, 2003 is The Ghosts Of Christmas Past by Frank Downey.

"Congratulations, Frank! And well done to all the nominees and finalists." Despite my personal beliefs, I couldn't resist adding, "God bless us every one."

Welcome, all, to the first presentation of the Silver Clitorides Awards for 2004. Join us here at the Highland Games and Celtic Festival in the beautiful green countryside of...

...Gatlinburg, Tennessee?

"Okay, why are we here?" Gary's Muse asks. "Your ancestors were French-Canadian, as I recall, and German on the Texas side."

Keeping his voice down, Gary motions in the general direction of a hulking bruiser of a man. "That's my boss. Call him 'Fitz.' I had to be here anyway to show solidarity and cheer the home team." The man has just released a chain with a large weight at the end, to soar over a bar. Gary claps politely.

"I see. He likes to play with his stones?"

Gary nods. "But his favorite event is when he tosses his caber."

Muse giggles. "That sounds like a typical Scotsman."

"Not so loud!" Gary looks around. "Anyway, it's a Celtic Festival, too. Half these folks are of Irish descent. The podium is set up by the dancers." He points to a line of wee bonnie red-heads in authentic garb doing some sort of intricate footwork, hands at their sides. "I'll announce this month's winner after the caber-toss."

Gary, his Muse, and a number of the authors and fans gather to watch grown men toss telephone poles end-for-end. Less than half of them make the cut, actually turning over before they settle. Finally, Fitz takes a turn. The helpers walk the pole vertical, and he manages to get it resting in his cupped hands. He takes a few steps into a squat, and rises up as the pole begins to tilt forward, using his entire body to give the bottom end the necessary momentum to continue over the top. He hurls the caber...

...along with his kilt, some part of which must have gotten between his hands and the base of the caber. The crowd is momentarily stunned. After all, how often do you see a man in a skimpy tartan thong? But the authors are a supportive lot. In moments, a dozen more kilts rise into the air, to land on the grass. Kind of a supportive "Highland Fling," as it were. Oh, and the caber turned, so Gary's boss is in the medals.

Gary and his Muse stifle laughter as they head for the podium. "I predict interesting stories around the coffee station for the next week or two," Muse said. The authors and fans begin to gather around.

"If I can have your attention, lads and lassies and so forth, we'll make this announcement brief," Gary begins. A titter stirs the crowd at the last word. Behind him, one of those wee bonnie red-heads peers over his shoulder and sees the Certificate Suitable For Framing. The moves she bursts into seem less like a Celtic dance than Snoopy's Happy Dance.

"The winner of the Silver Clitorides Award for the Best Story of the month of January, 2004 is Scouting by Alexis Siefert.

"Congratulations, Alexis! And well done to all the nominees and finalists. Now, go enjoy the Haggis!"

The Guest Presenter for this month is Golden [and Silver] Clitorides Award-Winning Author Frank Downey.

---

"No, you have to do it," she whispered in my ear.

The ‘she’ in question was Gary Jordan’s muse. "Me?" I said. "Gary always does the Silver Clittie presentation! Where is he?"

"He’s....er...unavailable. He, well, he hit his head."

"On what?"

"Well, on the ice," Gary’s muse told me.

"Was there an ice storm in Virginia?"

"Uh, well, no," she said sheepishly. "It was at a rink. You see, Sophia was trying to teach him to quickstep."

I roared with laughter. "Gary? Was taking ice dancing lessons from Sophie? That loon! Did he hit his head before or after this happened?"

"Good question," his Muse answered. "Anyhow, since he’s a bit woozy...well, woozier than usual....he asked that you do the presentation for the Silver Clits this month."

"Why me?"

"Well, the winner is one of your proteges."

"Protege?" I snorted. "I don’t have no proteges."

"He’s a fan of yours. He’s making a splash with a Naked In School story. And the rest of his stories tend towards the mushy-mush romanticism you’re so well known for," she smirked. "What would you call him?"

"Insane," I grunted. "Poor guy. I just hope he never decides to work on a serial. All that chanting......"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," she interrupted. "Woe is Frank. Anyhow, he’s a protege...."

"Let’s just say he’s working in the same collective subconscious."

"WhatEVER," she blurted. "Anyway, he’s one of yours. So Gary thought you should do the presentation."

"He came up with this brilliant idea after he hit his head, didn’t he?"

"Well, yeah," she grinned. "But it’s still a good idea."

"Compared to what?" I snorted. "Fine, fine. Gary’s a good friend, even if he is a complete loon, so I’ll do it."

"Great!"

"What do I have to do?"

"Well, first we need to get you dressed appropriately." The muse looked at me appraisingly. "Do you own a tux?"

"No," I said. "But I do have this lovely red dress that would probably work."

"Oh, JESUS," Gary’s muse snorted. "No, that will not do." She snapped her fingers, and I was suddenly attired in a tux--with tails and everything. "There you go. Now, to La Taverna."

I stepped out onto the stage, and cleared my throat into the microphone. "Attention, gentlebeings."

"The winner of the Silver Clitorides Award for the Best Story of the month of February, 2004 is Love At First Sight by Jeremy Spencer.

"Congratulations, Jeremy! And well done to all the nominees and finalists."

Gary stood just outside the door of the library reading room, listening to the elfin redhead read to the attentive children.

"Once in this spacetime continuum, there were three siblings of a porcine protoplasmic species who, having reached the age recognized for majority in their civilization, decided to build habitats for themselves. The wisest recommended the strongest materials then recommended in the March 2004 issue of Galactic Mechanix, Illustrated (Swimsuit Edition), but the other two denigrated his suggestion, pointing out the esthetic nature of alternate construction paradigms.

"The first of the porcine protoplasmic entities assembled his habitat entirely of recycled organically derived materials, aligned in graceful arcs and an early post-modern motif, and was ecstatic at the artistic effect he achieved." I bet he was happier than a pig in shit, Gary thought.

"But before long, there arrived in his vicinity a malfunctioning fembot from Lupus III. The fembot desired access to the habitat, and called upon the porcine protoplasmic entity to dilate a portal. 'Not a hair on your ass' replied the entity. Whereupon the fembot discharged a Mark IV Vortex gun, blowing the house down and extinguishing the life of the porcine protoplasmic entity.

"The second of the porcine protoplasmic entities assembled his habitat entirely of transparent panels of silica alloys, arrayed in obtuse angles, and enjoyed pursuing his hobby of getting stoned, and was euphoric at the effect he achieved.

"But before long, there arrived in his vicinity a malfunctioning fembot from Lupus III. The fembot desired access to the habitat, and called upon the porcine protoplasmic entity to open a window. 'Not a hair on your ass' replied the entity. Whereupon the fembot discharged a Mark IV Vortex gun, blowing the house into shards and extinguishing the life of the porcine protoplasmic entity."

Unnoticed, Gary's Muse had stepped up behind him. "What in the world are you listening to?" she asked in Gary's ear, almost making him miss the words "titanium steel and reinforced concrete."

"I'm gathering inspiration for this month's award presentation," Gary replied. A child shushed them as the teacher got to the part about the Vortex gun.

"So I take it from the topic that..." Muse was saying over the revelation of the counterbattery fire from the Mark IX Disrupter.

Gary nodded. "The winner of Silver Clitorides Award for the month of March, 2004 goes to Modern Day Fairy Tale by Girl Friday. So I'd like to congratulate Friday and all the authors and finalists."

The notice on the bulletin board at La Taverna said "April Silver Clitorides Award Presentation Tonight - Come as you are, as often as you like." The place was filling up.

Have you ever wondered about La Taverna? Many people have, and have speculated about its layout and contents. Some folks liken it to Callahan's Saloon, from the Story Callahan's Crosstime Saloon by Spider Robinson.

Not me! In the first place, there's already a Usenet Newsgroup dedicated to Callahan's: alt.callahan's, it's called, appropriately enough. Any attempt to make La Taverna over in that image is a pale imitation.

More important, La Taverna is a place where adult artists entertain their clients (readers). So if we must be inspired by Spider Robinson, I choose to believe we're more like Lady Sally's House of Excellent Repute. Hidden in a warehouse section of town, it's an entire block in size with at least two levels above the main floor, and various basements and sub-basements.

"You could not descend that splendid staircase without feeling that you were making a grand entrance into the Imperial Ballroom....

"Have you ever seen, in the movies maybe, one of those very elegant and exclusive men's clubs in London, where the rich and powerful hang out? They have them in New York, too, but it couldn't be the same. Picture one of those, three hundred years old, richly furnished and decorated with exquisite taste. Islands of furniture groupings afloat in lots of open carpet. Chandeliers equal to the staircase in magnificence. Two bars."

Callahan's Lady by Spider Robinson

Lady Sally's "Whorehouse" is a very... "democratic" place. In Spider's books, artists and visitors report seeing everyone from bag ladies to the mayor of New York. There are actually three parlors, one for women only, one for men only, and the main parlor described above. There's also a discreet wing for visitors (lurkers?) who don't want to be identified.

Upstairs one flight are the artists' studios and function rooms, where they entertain clients. Think of the studios as individual websites, and the function rooms as ASSM, ASS, ASSG, Stories Online, Literotica, Cleansheets and so on...

Some of the artists have chosen to work primarily in the discreet wing, which we can think of as containing the Fish Tank, Ruthie's Club, etc. I won't keep pushing the analogy, but anyone familiar with Callahan's Lady or Lady Slings the Booze can easily see what I'm getting at.

Anyway... The notice on the bulletin board at La Taverna said "April Silver Clitorides Award Presentation Tonight - Come as you are, as often as you like." The place was filling up.

Gary is by the concert grand piano, on top of which is a silver statuette and a certificate suitable for framing. Someone talented is tickling a 'pathetique' from its ivories. (When Gary tries, the result is more usually 'pathetic.')

"If I could have your attention for just a moment..."

Gary's Muse snapped her fingers, causing a hush to descend the magnificent staircase and individually caress each patron into attentive silence.

Gary grinned. "The winner of Silver Clitorides Award for the month of April, 2004 goes to Tom's Diary by Gina Marie Wylie. So, I'd like to congratulate Gina Marie and all the authors and finalists."

"What are you doing?"

I must have jumped a foot out of my seat. I hadn't heard my Muse come up behind me. Not that she was sneaking - the background noises of La Taverna would have drowned out the average person's steps.

Muse waited patiently for my heart rate and breathing to slow, then asked again. "The Fish Tank," I finally gasped.

Muse glanced at the old 100 gallon aquarium. Air bubbled up from concealed tubes. A lone sucker-fish was and some plants were the only current inhabitants. Just like the old days, the lid of a treasure chest would occasionally open to release trapped air, revealing the treasure inside.

She turned back to me. "What about it? Nobody uses the old Fish Tank anymore. The new one upstairs in the Function Room is ten times bigger, and has lots of fish in it. Des seems quite pleased with it."

"Oh, I know! I chatted with Desdmona earlier today. It's doing really well."

"Then why are you staring into the old Fish Tank?"

I considered how to answer, without coming off as a complete voyeur. I mean, as an author, there tends to be a little of the exhibitionist in me, I suppose, and as a reader, there's some smattering of the voyeur as well. But nobody wants to be thought just an old perv - well, not just an old perv, anyway.

So I hedged a little. "It's very pretty, and it draws the eye."

"What in particular draws your eye?" she asked.

Had she been reading my mind again? I leaned closer, and caught that gleam in her eye that told me I was being teased. "You know darn well what I'm looking at, and why," I thought at her.

She just laughed. "There's no paint on those stones," she told me. "They are either colored stones, crystals, or glass. Paint would harm fish."

I sighed. She was right, of course. Anyway, it was time to announce the winner of last month's Silver Clitorides Award. As I got up to go to the podium, I would swear I saw figures moving in the Fish Tank, but when I looked back - nothing.

I tapped on the microphone. Everyone does, and everyone else cringes or flinches as feedback squeals and sends shivers up and down spines. I shrugged an apology, and launched into my announcement.

"If I could have your attention, please..." I waited as the noise level dropped in La Taverna's main parlor. Welcome once again to the monthly Silver Clitorides Award Presentation. Yes, it's that time of the month again..."

"Too much bloody information," a heckler shouted. I ignored him.

"The winner of Silver Clitorides Award for the month of May, 2004 is It Was Sexual Right From The Start by Gentle But Firm. So, I'd like to congratulate Gentle But Firm and all the authors and finalists."

Welcome once again to La Taverna, the official watering hole of the 2004 Summer Pornolympics.

Allow your eye to rove. (Oh come on, your spouse isn't watching!) Note the stage. Note the podium on the stage. Note the man behind the podium on the stage. Note the Muse beside the man behind the podium on the stage.

"What's with the wand?"

The Muse examines the device in her hand. To all outward appearances, it resembles an eighteen inch long quarter inch wooden dowel, with a crepe-paper star stapled to one end, both liberally smeared with Elmer's glue and sprinkled with glitter. Even the Muse wears a dubious expression.

"I sort of swapped the finger-snap thing for a while with a certain Nymph of your acquaintance." She grimaces. "I'm not sure I got the best end of the stick, if you know what I mean."

"How did you let her talk you into that?"

"She promised not to tell anyone my age."

"I see." Gary rolls his eyes. "Well, I'd appreciate it if you could make with the Presentation magic. We need statuettes, certificates suitable for framing, and recipients to bestow them on... er, on whom them to bestow."

Muse waves the wand doubtfully and...

BOOM!

Everyone in a silent La Taverna is staring at the stage, where now the podium sports two statuettes of Argent Tina. Behind the podium, a wide-eyed moderator holds in either hand certificates suitable for framing. On either side of the podium are chairs. Bound helplessly struggling in the chairs are the artists who occasion this presentation. (They're obviously tied, you see...)

Gary turns to his Muse. "What was that?

Sheepishly, she replies, "Takes a little getting used to, I guess. Just present the awards."

Gary nods, and turns to the wide-eyed patrons and fans.

"The winners of Silver Clitorides Award for best stories of the month of June, 2004 are Dancing Lessons by Holly Rennick and Havana Club by Strickland83. So, I'd like to congratulate Holly Rennick and Strickland83 and all the authors and finalists."

"You may all return now to your," he begins to sing, "wand-enchanted evening..."

It's Tuesday afternoon in La Taverna. Not as crowded as a weekend evening, but all the regulars are here. Having finished tallying the votes, Gary is enjoying the "free lunch;" apple-cranberry baked pork chops and nude potatoes (nothing on 'em but their skins.) Just a few minutes until the trophy of Argent Tina is engraved and the Certificate Suitable for Framing is inked.

Outside, the wind is howling and rain is beating on the windows and doors, at least on the side of the building that opens into the U. S. of A. (Not all of them do, you know - it's kind of a magical place that way. Some doors open into England, or Australia, or South Africa, or New Zealand, or somewhere else... why do you think all these 'Mericuns get their Joggraphy so screwed up?)

Gary's Muse appears on the platform by the baby grand and waves. She has the statuette and the award certificate. She waves.

Gary waves back, and is about to make his way there, when he is distracted by a change in the sound of the rain beating on the door. Almost as if someone was pounding for admittance... He goes to the door and opens it.

There, as though rising from the depths of a storm-tossed sea, is a vision of loveliness. A nude vision of loveliness, with long windblown red hair and sea-green eyes, sea-foam clinging everywhere but where John Ashcroft would prefer it, standing in what might almost appear to be a giant oyster. She speaks...

But the words are drowned out by the wind. Gary leans close. She cups her hands against his ear. Gary holds up a finger and turns to La Taverna's patrons.

"Anybody here order the clams?" No reply. He turns back to the vision, shaking his head. She holds up a brown paper sack (miraculously warm and dry) so that he can read the address. Smiling, he points to the left and yells, "two doors down!" She smiles her thanks and Gary closes the door against the tempest.

That distraction disposed of, Gary rushes to the stage, where Muse is waiting patiently.

"If I may have everyone's attention," he announces, "I'd like to go ahead with the presentation of this month's awards.

"The winner of Silver Clitorides Award for best story of the month of July, 2004 is Tight by Alexis Siefert. So, I'd like to congratulate Alexis and all the authors and finalists."

August. Such a tawdry month. Always warm, moist, ready to blow you away, anywhere, anytime. Sticky. You can't trust August. Full of depression. Tropical depression, mostly - and moistly. You gotta grab what you can when you can, because there's no telling if you'll have the power for it later. August is a bitch.

August is the eighth month of the year in the Gregorian Calendar, with 31 days. Named in honor of Augustus Caesar. The month has 31 days because Augustus wanted as many days as Julius Caesar's July. Augustus placed the month where it is because that's when Cleopatra died. Before Augustus renamed August, it was called Sextilis in Latin, since it was the sixth month in the Roman calendar which started in March. See? Even Auggie knew it was a tawdry month. What could you expect from a month named sextilis?

It's hard to find a redeeming trait for August. July... July has Independence Day for US'ns and Canadians. September has a day to celebrate the dignity of the working man. Just try to get an extra day off on an August weekend, and listen to your employer guffaw. It's gonna cost you some of your hard earned vacation time.

Who loves August? Your electric companies even have mixed feelings. Oh, sure, the accounts receivable departments, sitting in their air-conditioned offices, is chortling gleefully as their customers' electric meters are whirring like the extra fans you have to stick in your window or blowing across the bed just to avoid heat prostration, never mind braving the heat and sweat to actually make love, and the kids are still on their vacations and wide awake in the next room because they can't sleep in the gawdorville heat and humidity, either. Yeah, August is great for accountants and nerdy office types. Try being a lineman for the county, or even the meter-reader who has to go out in that heat!

Who else loves August? Well, readers for one, at a guess. They managed to find something to take their minds off the swelter outside and kindle a fire in their pants instead. Two somethings, based on the voting this month. Yeah, we got us another tie.

So, without further complaint about the weather, let's get to the one... two good things about August:

"The winners of Silver Clitorides Awards for best stories of the month of August, 2004 are Kevin and Keli - The LHS Ski Trip by SunShowerGurl and Never Any Excuse by Uncle Sky. Congratulations, Megan. Congratulations, Uncle Sky. And let me congratulate all the authors and finalists."

It was a warm and stormy month with water, water everywhere just warm enough to steep tea... but insufficient ice to chill it.

The door to La Taverna facing Florida had been leaking for some time... apparently due to some branch that penetrated the door.

Someone had apparently thought it was delivered by a Florist since it had a tag reading "Thanks... -Jeanne".

Despite the dripping of the water and the squeaking shoes of all those who'd stepped through the puddle, the denizens and lurkers of La Taverna watched as Gary, blind-sided by his ISP, sits in a corner catching up with the Legacy of the Aldenata.

One of the regular authors waves to him... to be ignored.

Another famous (or, in Ashcroftian terminology, infamous) female author of interesting repute finally walks up to him and, hands on hips and arms akimbo goes "Hurrumph!" clearing her throat at the top of her lungs. Gary looks up from his book going "Huh?" a confused look crossing his features.

Gary was not expecting to be accosted, of course. He looks up at this woman who's tapping her foot, a question on his face.

"Silver? September? Do you remember the month?"

Gary shivers; yes, he remembers September. And even August. He points to an unassuming character known for his whiny voice and bizarrely inexplicable mood swings and says "Beat on him for a change, willya?"

A look of shock and then nausea crosses her face; others turn and look into the not quite darkened corner where Jack is cranked back in a recliner with a finkpad in his lap (after all, he claims to be in the Witless Protection Program), the door to someplace experiencing autumn near him so he can "chill out", apparently oblivious to the stares he was accumulating as more and more pairs of eyes lock onto him.

As if from ESP (actually, it was probably an IM from Suzee) he looks up, startled, then to all of the eyes and his face turns white. "Who, Me? All right, all right... The Winner of September's Silver Clitorides doesn't require any introduction, but I'll do it anyway now that I've finally got an interested and, better yet, captive audience..."

All of a sudden Jack jumps from his recliner and heads towards the floor, yelling "INNNNNN-COMMMMMINGGG!"

The scroll, lobbed by one of his hidden compatriots, slaps him on the back.

"Oh" he says, standing up and brushing himself off. It doesn't help, of course, so he gives up, unrolls the scroll...

"The winner of the Silver Clitorides Awards for best story of the month of September, 2004 is That's What Friends Are For by .B. Congratulations, dotB. Congratulations to all the authors and finalists."

The Presentation

(This month's guest presenter was to have been five-time Silver Clitorides Awards Winner Alexis Siefert. Alas, health issues dictate otherwise, so in her honor:)

Flour had his eye on Eggs from the moment she arrived at the Glass Bowl. He knew they'd be dancing together shortly, and more than dancing before the night was through.

She couldn't be shy - not coming here. The Glass Bowl was no mere mixing place. Things happened here, and everyone knew it. If she was shy, well she'd be out of her shell before she knew what hit her.

He enticed her onto the dance floor with sweetness - he knew how to lay on the sugar, and once out, whisking her around, added a little salt to his lines. He plied her with drink as well. Whole milk, not that half-strength rotgut. She barely noticed when they arrived at the skillet.

By then she hardly knew where she ended and he began. They were so hot, and she bubbled and sizzled and they flipped over. Does it matter who, if anyone, was more on top?

Finally, they were done. Or perhaps they weren't, for he had one more trick up his sleeve. Before she could escape, they were inundated with golden maple syrup. Immediately, they were consumed with passion...

And there was a side of bacon, too.

"The winner of the Silver Clitorides Awards for best story of the month of October, 2004 is One Night Stand by Mr. Freeze. Congratulations, Mr. Freeze. Congratulations to all the authors and finalists."

Due to a heart attack, Gary Jordon was unable to post finalists for November, take and tally votes, or even think about December or January.

The Taverna looks like a war zone. In keeping with the night before, the waitresses (all bisexual nymphomaniacs) in their short dresses and the lone waiter also in a short dress (don�t ask) go around the room handing out green coffee liberally laced with the hair of the dog that bit them. Most don�t take the offered beverages; they are too passed out to notice. Those who take the coffee are too in need of it to notice that it is green and not of the mind to wonder how the bartender managed to do it.

Having celebrated fourteen years since the last time I was drunk the night before, and celebrating fourteen years since the last time I woke up in jail, I limit myself to green coffee without dog hair and a plate of corn beef that the bartender warmed up in the microwave. I scan the crowd as they lay in front of tables, over tables, and under tables. I�ve quit wondering if the awards ceremony will be well received; I�ve begun to worry if it had been received at all.

There are few places in this world where one can find a giant turtle at a table eating corn beef. There fewer such places where such a sight would go unnoticed. But I wonder how the sight of a giant iguana with spikes glued to her back could not garner interest.

suzee looks up bleary eyed at me and says, �it�s �corned beef� not �corn beef�. Listen to me, why don�t you.�

�Sorry,� I answer. �I don�t think this is going well.�

�What�s going well?�

�The award presentation. And I said that it�s not going well.�

�When�s it start?�

�About half an hour ago.�

�Did you win?�

�I can�t win. I�m running it this year.�

�So that�s your excuse.�

�It�s not an excuse. It�s a reason.�

�And very a convenient one, too.�

�Anyway, I doubt that anyone was even aware of the song and dance number by those Windsor stripers that I brought in to thank Rui and Mike for the good job they did getting the server back on line. Not even Mike and Rui.� I sigh. �And they were dragged up into the number.

�This is the last time I do something like this after Saint Patrick�s Day. Which should be a day for reflecting on the nature of the Trinity and eating corned beef, not drinking beer with green food coloring in it until you pee green.�

�You�re only saying that because you�re sober.�

�No.� I glare at her. �Besides, no one should have gotten so drunk that they were too hungover to hear that Winemaker�s �The Lady in Blue� won the Silver Clitoride Award for January 2006.�

Iwalked into the coffee shop. She was waiting in the corner, nervously watching as her bodyguard flirted with the counter girl that would never flirt with me. I went to the counter, where I convinced the girl to ignore him long enough to make me a latte, light foam, by dumping a ten-dollar bill into the tip jar.

It was still closer to a cappuccino than a latte, but coffee is coffee.

The couch was old and sagging toward the center, but my old friend still managed to stay firmly against the arm of the chair. As I sat down on the other side of the sofa, she winced. She glared over the rims of her dark glasses with red eyes, as if I did something on purpose.

�Hi, Sandy,� I said in a loud voice. She winced again. �Have fun on St Pat�s?�

She growled at me.

�Anyway,� I said in a more normal voice. �About that favor I called you about.�

�Listen, Kenny. I�m retired, as in not doing that shit anymore. As in sitting around the house, bored and watching Regis and Kelly. As in� just go find someone else to take on that headache."

�But Sandy, you do such a good job at it.�

�Good job? Maybe I did a good job at breaking ties, but it sure as fuck ain�t a good job. No one likes a tie breaker. I have ninety percent of the country pissed at me at any given time, and I�m sick as hell of the whole thing.�

�I wouldn�t go that far.�

�Listen, my tie breaking days are over, Kenny. Over. Fini. Done. Go find someone else to break it.�

�But who?�

�Try Bud.�

�The Dark Lord of Baseball. He doesn�t break ties. He�d just call it off and award the February 2006 Silver Clitorides to both �Intemperance - Volume One� by Al Steiner and �Choices� by Tajod�.

Porn Star Rhonda Casabas walks up on stage. She is dressed in a frilly dress with frilling leggings. She carries a shepherd's crook in one hand. The other hand takes hold of the microphone.

"First of all, I seem to be missing my sheep."

The room is near empty, mostly because the Yanks are off getting their taxes completed at the last minute. The handful of Europeans and others in the room chuckle. Rhonda glares out at them.

"It ain't funny." She didn't need the microphone when she shouted but used it anyway. "I know what kind of perverts you all are. I even hear that there are Kiwis among you! I borrowed those sheep and I don't want them hurt. Or anything else! Understood!"

There were a few more chuckles from the crowd, which then turned back to there drinks and discussion on the care and feeding of muses. A few even turned their backs to the busty Rhonda. She cleared her throat into the mike. There was a blast of feedback. Some thought the BirthdayRobot was making an announcement.

"I didn't dress like this just to come here and lose my sheep!"

More laughs escaped the crowd.

"I'm going to kill Gamera, when he comes back from that cruise," she mumbled to herself before speaking normally into the microphone. "What do I have to do get you all to pay attention to me? Take my clothes off?"

A cheer broke out. Here and there, a head nodded up and down like a cmsix bobblehead doll. A dance poll emerged from the stage, and a disco ball appeared from the ceiling. Appropriate music blared from the sound system.

Rhonda turned and sighed. She walked off the stage and through the catcalls. Before leaving, she stuck a note on the bulletin board next to the requests for odd jobs, hand jobs, blowjobs and beatings.

The note read, "Congratulations to Old Fart and his Story 'Jack and Jill, Book One', winner of the March Silver Clitoride Award and all the other nominees."