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The 2003 Silver Clitorides Awards

The 2003 Silver Clitorides Awards encompass the months from January, 2003 through December, 2003. The period, July 1, 2003 to June 30, 2004 corresponds to the eligibility period for the 2004 Golden Clitorides Awards

Winners of the Silver Clitorides Award have been granted the privilege of becoming Finalists in the Golden Clitorides Awards in the category Sterling Silver. (Winning stories through June 2004 will compete for the 2004 Golden Clitorides.)

The authors and I hope that you enjoy reading all of the nominated stories, and that those stories lead you to other enjoyable stories as well. All are welcome to browse, and to participate in the nominating and voting process. Like sending fan e-mail, nominating your favorite story is another way to show appreciation for the authors and stories you enjoy.

Gary Jordan

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The January 2003 Silver Clitorides Awards Presentation

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..."

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The February 2003 Silver Clitorides Awards Presentation

[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.]

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The March 2003 Silver Clitorides Awards Presentation

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."

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The April 2003 Silver Clitorides Awards Presentation:

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."

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The May 2003 Silver Clitorides Awards Presentation:

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!"

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The June 2003 Silver Clitorides Awards Presentation:

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."

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The July 2003 Silver Clitorides Awards Presentation:

"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."

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The August 2003 Silver Clitorides Awards Presentation:

“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!”

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The September 2003 Silver Clitorides Awards Presentation:

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!”

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The October 2003 Silver Clitorides Awards Presentation:

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.

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The November 2003 Silver Clitorides Awards Presentation:

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!

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The December 2003 Silver Clitorides Awards Presentation:

"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."

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