Incroyables and Merveilleuses. -
“The names are sometimes spelled and were pronounced incoyables and meveilleuses without the letter R, as, in reaction against the Revolution, which begins with an R, in which so many had suffered and lost relatives, the letter R had to be banished.”
If relief were guidoes then I would have been brimming with wax, bronzer, and unresolved issues with my father. I had finally received an email from the ancient and renown magazine Res Nova for an interview; you see, my renown as a humor and sexual deviancy reporter was well established in the back waters of New England. They loved me in New York, but since I made the fateful choice to leave my provincial life of Ivy League lectures and featured New Yorker articles for the dog-eat-dog life as a freelancer in the Big Discharge (that’s what we call metropolitan Delaware back east), I had been drowning in a sea of cheap women, cheap booze, and cheap booze.
The stately prose of the emailed sobered me up (just a turn of phrase, mind you), at least enough to realize that I was in a public library, dressed in my tattered baby blue bathrobe and bright pink “Juicy” pants that prominently displayed my junk (tastefully, mind you), with only 20 minutes to determine where and what the hell HoT was. I struck up a conversation with the dirty homeless man languidly masturbating next to me. He winked and offered to take me there, singing to the tune of “Like A Prayer”. I crossed my legs and gingerly agreed.
After we inhaled some glue (it was Sunday, after all), we lurched to the Annex or Addendum, or Appendix, or—whatever. A total vacuum of sound welcomed us to the dank chamber; the homeless man threw back his trench coat to reveal a pure white suit; his aroma suggested convicted sex offender, but his nametag declared with a heart dotted i that he was in fact David. He took his spot, to the left of the head of the central table, and greeted the other editors with a short bow. He bade me to sit on a pitifully small seat, made from what appeared to be legoes and tiny mouse skulls.
“How fucking eldritch,” I thought.
I gleaned from the tattooed serving midget massaging the head man’s feet that he must be Colin, editor-and-chief, the man who had emailed me. I had apparently interrupted the portion of the meeting where the editors share how their New Years Resolutions had been coming. Colin was the first to speak up from his high dais, decked in rare animal furs and plush red velvet. “I have found him,” his deep resonant voice commanding fear and respect, “the scum that killed my father and destroyed my village.” His massive fist pounded the skull-capped arms of his throne, “I slew his men, drove his women before me, and crushed his throat before stealing the Jewel of AkmemRanc from his crown.” He displayed the palm-sized ruby and grunted with pride.
The following silence permitted me to take a brief inventory of the scene in front of me; I realized that the other editors of Res Nova were cowled in darkness, and that I had most assuredly pissed myself during Collin’s speech. I began to muse if the micturition was due to fear or Quaalude abuse and as to why all editorial meetings take the air of a Satanic Cabal, as though freelancers didn’t have the means to worship His Satanic Majesty (All Hail). My reflections were interrupted by the Editor on the right hand of Colin. As he rose, the surrounding air pulsed with menace. He spoke like a tomb being sealed.
“STAND,” He Intoned. “DECLARE YOURSELF.”
I got up, took a deep breath.
“I am Charles Donnelly, completely respectable journalist,” I lied.
“FROM WHERE DO YOU HAIL.”
“From the blimp-filled skies of Connecticut.” I thought I would play to their notions of the east: that between racing around the world in hot air baloons, we hunt whales and sodomize one another.
Which one of these is true? I’ll lets you guess, but we love it. All night.
“LET THE QUSITION COMMENCE.”
To his right, another Editor rose. Her voice dripped sex, and even from behind her bulky robe, I could see the curves of a real goddamn woman.
“Greetings Charles.”
I summoned everything I knew of romance, sensuality, and the subtle give and take of seduction. I needed her wrapped around my finger like so much belly button lint.
“TAKE OFF YOUR SHIRT,” I screeched.
“Wha-“
“TAKE OFF YOUR SHIRT,” I repeated. Some chicks need to be told twice, right fellas?
“Please quiet down…”
“TAKE OFF YOUR SHIRT.” Three times!?!
Our sexy little game of cat and mouse continued until she finally dissolved into quiet sobbing. I had this dame in the bag. A moment or two of silence followed as the Editors stared at the vanquished woman. Colin cleared his throat and the room emptied. It was just me and him.
“You’re hired.” Of course.
“But first, I need some information.” Of course.
“You will be attached to a lie detector.” Shit.
I was hooked up and ready to lay down some truth. I was pensive however, about the confounding number of electrodes attached to my crotch. They didn’t seem so much attached to the lie detector as a car battery.
“When your obituary is written, what would you like said?” Odd.
“I would like to be remembered as a great writer and a great fatheeerrreerereerfads.” I see, those electrodes DID have a purpose.
“Try again.”
“I would like to be remembered for my fertile loins.” He paused uncomfortably for a moment.
“What is your greatest fear.”
“That the planet will not be suitable for our childreasdjngqa, OH GOD NO.” A second passed before the heavy smell of burnt flesh and burning pubic hair filled the air around us.
“Christ, okay, Nipple Worms. Google it. Trust me.”
“What is your favorite word?” I knew the game now.
“Open Bar.” It was a risk, but if you say it fast it sounds like one word.
“Have you ever stolen from an employer?”
“Haha, if I had a dime for every time I was asked that, I wouldn’t even have to steal office supplies. I’d have all those dimes.”
Pause.
“You’re in. Here is your cowl. Your first Assignment is to write a dumb story about your interview.”
Res Nova hasn’t always been the paradigm of literary and journalistic virtue you now hold in your hands. We used to print under the name Pedicabo and chances are, if you purchased erotic fiction at an Exxon between Little Rock, Arkansas and Topeka, Kansas in the mid-nineties, it had the Pedicabo label. As the chief editor, I have read and written some of the most breath-takingly ballslapping bonetastic erotic work of the mid-nineties. Due to the recent glut of erotic fiction submissions that have crashed my email, I would like to give some tips to you amateurs, because I tire of the endless face palming. Please, please heed my advice and your abominative (More like aboneinative, am I right?) coupling of Spock and Jafar set in Waterworld will look like For Whom the Bell Bones.
1) It’s hard to be creative: Get some serious boning done before you even put pen to paper.
It’s hard to use mere words to describe some of the literary abortions that have smeared across my desk. It’s like some people have never spent several sweaty days and nights holed up in a rank motel somewhere near Reno with a sinus destroying pile of coke, horse tranqs and 4 or 5 Kansas runaways hitch hiking to L.A whom you have thoroughly convinced that you are an agent. You don’t have to tell me that erotic fiction (EroFic for the rest of the article, I am profoundly lazy) is not about realism and that people can’t with live my life of the fuck first fuck questions later attitude all the time, but if your life has been so sad that you have never even watched porn in a sodden couch then perhaps you should just read another chapter of Twilight.
Example of erotic fiction written by someone who has never even had sex on the back of a tiger (I totally have):
“As the sun was setting, David awoke in the laundrette. He heard the sift sounds of moaning coming from the back room “ooohhh aaaahhh”. He immediately felt uncomfortable. He was not used to such intense feelings and his manhood tingled with anticipation. He slowly got up and walked towards the door - he could not be forsaken against his religious order, and hung his head as he knew he would spend the last night of his sabbatical alone wondering about the intimate details of Bethany.”
You see here is the problem, David is clearly a priest. Priests as a rule cannot be into anything that doesn’t look good in a Tee Ball uniform. All you got here is pitiful anticipation with no release. And in EroFic you want release, everywhere. Here is some better EroFic from my first novel, The Curious Cock of Ben-jamming Butt-in.
“Under the hot Louisiana sun nothing moves in the afternoon. Excepting me and the fattest hooker in the French Quarter, the love of my lunch break, Susan One-Eye.”
See what I did there, I made screwing fantastical. I made the impossible possible. How you ask? Because I am one lusty glance from boning at any given moment. At the merest suggestion of sex I am erect and quite probably ejaculating. That is how impossible comes (hehe) to be. It is also why I can’t go back to Denver International.
2) Get it right, get it tight. Change it up.
We all know about missionary, doggie, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, the Arabian cockslide, the twist-and-shout, and this week’s favorite, Bumper Cars. But you gotta vary it a bit; you gotta keep the reader’s attention. Always ask yourself, do the readers want more hookers or fatter. All you have to do is what I do whenever I feel like I am losing someone’s attention: Surprise Butt Play; which brings me right up to number 3.
3) Don’t get too detailed.
EroFic is about two bodies going at it. Hard. Like your mother and I. Turns of phrases like “slipped her hand gently but firmly into my loins” and “I wished only that she would allow me entry into the dirtiest of places” are trite, cliché and should be avoided. Try replacing them with something like “I really wanted to plow her ass” or “she grabbed my cock and I was all like, “I am going to utterly destroy that vag. Like you don’t even know yet…”’. See what I did there, it was artful and to the point, like an embroidered dildo. Plow means screw and you can’t even conceive of what I am going to do to that vag.
Remember, character development is for chumps who write love stories. We deal in furious hardcore humping. Love is a dime a dozen, a transcendental 45 minute romp in a K-mart bathroom is forever, or at least the herpes is.
4) Don’t be afraid to be realistic.
Hollywood has shown us that a gritty reboot is an excellent substitute for content. If you want your stories to be taken seriously you need more grit than The Road fighting in a desert on a sandstorm against Clint Eastwood with gravel catapults.
“The maid wore a surprisingly stereotypical maid outfit- not the first time on this world that he had noted clothing similar to that worn back home. She had short, wavy brown hair and a nice smile, but her brown eyes looked bright and almost feverish. Was she drunk, he wondered? Or stoned maybe?”
I suppose you should get some background for this story. This is the tag line, “Do aphrodisiacs work on demons, anyway?” This is a story about an alchemist who basically date-rapes a demon in a maid outfit in some fantasy universe that we, the collective, non-heavy-mouth-breathers have a whole lot of trouble connecting with.
Here is a gritty reboot of the whole premise.
‘“Does this rag smell like ether?” I asked the vaguely Latina house cleaner.
“Que…” And she was out like a light.”’
I am going to leave it to the reader to fill in what happens next but it is sweaty and involves picking hair out of teeth.
5) Gang-bangs are curiously absent from most non tentacle-hentai related EroFic.
Seriously, what’s with that? Just sayin’.
Well there you have it. 5 easily followed rules that will take your EroFic from horrifying to whorrific.
And please if you have any questions or comments, please facebook, email, write, or call our editors. They do not mind.
A special thanks to Morgan Flagg who acted as a consultant and confidant in my quest for tasteful word boning.
I ran up the stairs. Ran is a relative term, I suppose, because of my alleged “socially degenerative drinking” it could also be called vomit-fall-sob-scream up the stairs. After Pepe, the omnipresent Latino man who makes sure everything in the shit show country club works, got me a clean shirt; cause apparently you can’t serve a table a 50 dollar lobster if you are covered in the food you invented on the way to work, read: sweet brown whisky and whatever that brown moldy proto-fruit you ate in desperation not to puke.
And rice, there is always rice.
So after I got out of the bathroom from changing and scraping the steak flavored sex jelly out of several places God did not intend to be lubricated, I made eye contact with the aging beauty that was my manager.
She said something sweet and sexy like “Holy shit, its 10 in the fucking morning. If my husband didn’t take me out last night I would rape you with a pistol.”
I knew what she meant.
With a caustic wink and a glance at the crusty sex jelly mixed with what I know identified at black gunpowder, said “Baby once you go flintlock you never go back”
Choking back the bile rising in her throat she mentioned I should get the fuck to work.
I of course was stunned! Vomit? I was sure she didn’t have a gag reflex.
All former amorous thoughts for her died in that moment, as they have so very many times.
After fishing the moderately sized crucifix out of my pocket and putting it around my neck, because there is nothing that the WASPs I was serving hated more than catholics, except Jews, and change.
So they could never understand the SHALOM I would yell when I saw them, nor the occasional hail Mary I would whisper over their food before is served it.
All I know is that hot teen country club jailbait love a mystery and the amount of sex they would offer up was directly connected to their father’s disapproval
On advice to my lawyer I can should not talk about the taught bare(Mostly not)ly legal poon that was being carted around there.
I went up to Greg, the bartender, and asked for my usual. Which was, for his short ass, nothing that I couldn’t steal.
“C’mon Greg, just a bit of a drink to help me remember not to kill you.”
“No”
“I have to do this whole shift sober!”
“Charley lets not pretend you are sober.”
After what is described by the police as a prolonged rolling black out, and what my friends call lunch, I found myself in my car driving home.
Again, driving is a relative term. Despite what the cops tell you as the beat your “Rank disorderly ass”, you can drive anywhere, so long as the glass doors are wide and the crying of children is a comfort.
Driving has always been cathartic for me, ever since my Dad reminded me that my parents never loved me and sped away from the orphanage that I would spend much of my thoroughly repressed childhood living in. I mean, just because psychiatrists tell me I should deal with my problems, that I shouldn’t yell at women with purses large than a head, nor only be able to have sex while Wife Swap is airing (did you know they don’t sell DVDs of it), doesn’t mean I shouldn’t give their wives the clap and never pay their goddamn bills even though its “covered” in my “health insurance”.
Anyway.
Work, right, okay. The first well scrubbed man to come in the door had a woman with him who was dripping high class sensuality. You could tell from her eyes that the xanax was in full effect and maybe if you could get to her before her fifth glass of wine you might get a little play in the pantry. Just have to let her know that I am game for some clandestine sex and I knew that that she would be; I mean, after the fifth glass she will be ready for passionless sex with her hateful husband while her hateful kids steal from her wallet so they can get vicodin and have loveless sex with whatever boy or girl gets high with them. It’s a beautiful system. I can work both ends of the spectrum and once you realize that you don’t get tips at high class establishments such as this your scruples really take a hit.
I saunter up to the table, tell the man that the owner wishes to have a word about him about his club dues and sit down with his woman. Eye contact. Good. Words START.
“Hows are those xanies treating ya?”
“Scuse me.”
“I was wondering if you and me should get all kinds of weird in a dirty closet covered in dirty Mexican porn.” Damn, she wanted me. I could tell by the way my fingers were stabbing at her breasts and alternatively staring at the now obvious boner.
“Sure.” I love rich people, she barely glanced at her husband, who was screaming at Pepe, as all powerful white people need to yell at weak plot devices, at least the kind who almost certainly hire dominatrix’s.
“So what school do you go to?” Shit, she is getting clingy.
“Small Midwestern liberal arts. But I have a good back and a hair trigger, you see I take the tension off the whole junk situation by…oh listen to me, I’m dating myself.” I wish, and lordy I have tried. Enough Yoga and back stretching and I’ll never have to talk to another woman.
She seemed to understand.
After an impressive bleach ridden 2 minutes she was passed out and I had some explaining to do. I can’t tell if it’s the sex or the dense fumes from the certainly illegal cleaners keep in that dank closet; but either way the club takes care of things like this, bodies I mean. With any hope her memory will be fucked and her bracelet will get me the required Quaalude’s for the ride home.
Sorry about the digressions, where was I?
Oh yes. Eye contact. They hate it.
Something like thunder woke me. I kicked off my wet blue sheets and ran toward the door. Stopped to find an empty cup, which drew my gaze to all the other red and blue cups caked with either whiskey strait or whiskey mixed with some sweet soda. Cowards, I thought. Why are my feet wet? Chunky urine? Smooth Vomit?
“… The crossroads I’m standing at…”
Somebody left Dylan on repeat. I wish I could repay them but I am alone. But if my nudity was any indication I wasn’t alone always. Small Comforts.
Memories started shifting back from wherever they seem to hide. By the time I was in the shower I was totally aware of what had occurred to throw my surroundings into such a total hell. It also explains the lack of hangover.
“…Mama you’ve been on my mind.”
The quick cool water burned my shoulder. A glance and I realized that perhaps my time last night had been audited by my mind but not all of my actions.
Had she really been there? Did I really have to ignore her? Did I really put a cigarette out on my shoulder to impress someone else? And sweet God almighty, did that actually impress her… my lord was I such a degenerate… unwanted guilt began to circle my mind and twist it into a mobius strip of desire, understandings, confusions, innocents, hesitation, all breaking bad, all cresting and breaking, over and over.
Tired of hearing the self-pity/doubt/ loathing calypso machine turning in my head, I shamble to pour myself some breakfast. Once my thoughts had been properly disintegrated and only soft, marinated half thoughts swooned and began their cooing, did I remember my more obvious addictions.
A cold wind blew my red flannel shirt tight as I lit a smoke. A grey cloud of smoke mixed with the steel color of the Ohio sky. Why do the trees always look so dead?
“…Or bring me down with sorrow…”
Can’t turn that off. Some people chew gum or smoke to stay focused. I chew gum for the taste, I smoke to keep my goals in focus. I sing, I sing in my head, and the turntables seem to be pointing toward the last song I heard. I hope the chunks I cough up almost carry with them the traditional chorus’ of “ewws” and “that’s awful Don.” that usually follow my spring cleanings. More yellow then brown, more brown then red. These are good signs. Sort of.
My cigarette has been out for a minute now. Whatever chemical they used to keep a few drunken idiots from burning their houses down has pissed off this drunken idiot. My light flickered in the wind and with a deep pull I saw the paper burn into the first genuine smile I’ve seen for weeks. I walked back in and turned Repeat back on. Repetition of outside stimuli are the key to reflection
There is an old story that my mother used to tell me. My grandfather was driving home, in his old blue Pontiac, tearing up Route 1 back up to Vermont, when he understood he wasn’t alone. He turned to the man sitting next to him. Always the gentleman he offered him a Lucky Strike, and was met with an upraised hand and a counter offer of one of his own Luckies. My grandfather accepted, and the devil then smiled and told him the day that he would die. My grandfather nodded and when he arrived home he told my grandmother. She didn’t believe him; of course, my grandfather had a knack for telling stories. But my Grandfather did die, he woke up knowing it was the day, had cereal in the kitchen, and when my grandmother turned around to pour his orange juice, he was face down, Aneurysm. And I have to believe her, my mother that is. I have to believe that she never would lie about the devil, that she would keep the getaway car running if I asked.
I know my father has talked to the devil as well, because I have. The devil always sings with me. I’m waiting for him to tell me the day that I will die; I am waiting for my father to tell me when he will. I just don’t smoke Luckies.
rose under the mailbox
imperceptible rose.
Dogs blood on the floor
Fallen dog.
Rain drops on the suitcase
Cresting over the sidewalk.
Something like thunder woke me. I kicked off my sheets and ran toward the door. Stopped to find an empty cup, which drew my gaze to all the other red and blue cups caked with either whiskey strait or whiskey mixed with some sweet soda. Cowards, I thought. Why are my feet wet? Chunky urine? Smooth Vomit?
“… The crossroads I’m standing at…”
Somebody left Dylan on repeat. I wish I could repay them but I am alone. But if my nudity was any indication I wasn’t alone always. Small Comforts.
Memories started shifting back from wherever they seem to hide. By the time I was in the shower I was totally aware of what had occurred to throw my surroundings into such a total hell. It also explains the lack of hangover.
“…Mama you’ve been on my mind.”
The quick cool water burned my shoulder. A glance and I realized that perhaps my time last night had been audited by my mind but not all of my actions.
Had she really been there? Did I really have to ignore her? Did I really put a cigarette out on my shoulder to impress someone else? And sweet God almighty, did that actually impress her… my lord was I such a degenerate… unwanted guilt began to circle my mind and twist it into a mobius strip of desire, understandings, confusions, innocents, hesitation, all breaking bad, all cresting and breaking, over and over.
Tired of hearing the self-pity/doubt/ loathing calypso machine turning in my head, I shamble to pour myself some breakfast. Once my thoughts had been properly disintegrated and only soft, marinated half thoughts swooned and began their cooing, did I remember my more obvious addictions.
A cold wind blew my red flannel shirt tight as I lit a smoke. A grey cloud of smoke mixed with the steel color of the Ohio sky. Why do the trees always look so dead?
“…Or bring me down with sorrow…”
Can’t turn that off. Some people chew gum or smoke to stay focused. I chew gum for the taste, I smoke to keep my goals in focus. I sing, I sing in my head, and the turntables seem to be pointing toward the last song I heard. I hope the chunks I cough up almost carry with them the traditional chorus’ of “ewws” and “that’s awful Don.” that usually follow my spring cleanings. More yellow then brown, bore brown then red. These are good signs. Sort of.
My cigarette has been out for a minute now. Whatever chemical they used to keep a few drunken idiots from burning their houses down has pissed off this drunken idiot. My light flickered in the wind and with a deep pull I saw the paper burn into the first genuine smile I’ve seen for weeks. I walked back in and turned Repeat back on.
I have written something. On note cards. It will be up soon. I am excited about this. Its boring. Its not groundbreaking. But I am pleased to present something of a short story. It is called Something Like Thunder.
Dream 4
The giant grey baby
Is sharply exhaling
Against a
Small
Square
Window
Leading to the cell
Of the psych ward
Where I’m kept
Where I watched two men
Bleat against the wall
Till their fists fused and
Blunted.
They died
Squandering their
Fear torn
Resistance against the white plated wall Behind which
The baby waited for blood.
I knew only realizations in the gut, real, terror.
The government is unknowable and corrupt. Evil in every way.
And I am a paranoid skitzo.
Prophet in any other tongue.
And I waited for the future.
The shade was blown sideways by the revolving fan, opening one of the suns arteries. I tried like a pre-med student to force the blood back in, to stop it. Nothing. Nothing is as horrible as trying to hold back lifeblood. I pulled one of the curtains off the wall and tied it around my head like a tunicate. Back to sleep.