The January 2002 Silver Clitorides Awards Presentation

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!"

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The February 2002 Silver Clitorides Awards Presentation

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.

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The March 2002 Silver Clitorides Awards Presentation

"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."

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The April 2002 Silver Clitorides Awards Presentation

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."

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The May 2002 Silver Clitorides Awards Presentation

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!

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The June 2002 Silver Clitorides Awards Presentation

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!"

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The July 2002 Silver Clitorides Awards Presentation

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!"

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The August 2002 Silver Clitorides Awards Presentation

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.

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The September 2002 Silver Clitorides Awards Presentation

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.

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The October 2002 Silver Clitorides Awards Presentation

"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 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.

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The November 2002 Silver Clitorides Awards Presentation

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."

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The December 2002 Silver Clitorides Awards Presentation

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!"

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