I lay in the dark and listened, uncertain what awoke me. Nights rarely passed undisturbed any longer - too many hours of the day were spent wondering what the next few hours might bring that I don’t think anybody in the house slept well any longer. Although Wolf did not seem to be having too much problem. He lay on the bed beside me as always, over the covers and clutching his gun, but his breathing was low and steady, and I eased myself to the floor as carefully as I could. It was bad enough knowing your nightwatchman was sleeping. Even worse to be the one who woke him up.
I crossed the room without turning the light on, pissed in the pot and then moved to the window. Three weeks. That’s how long I’d been here; that’s how long it was since I last set foot outside. And that had been hard at first, so hard. But the more I learned the more I adapted, and the last news report that I heard on the TV made me so mad that I almost kicked the tube.
“I was not kidnapped,” I swore. “I’m a guest.” A guest, true, whose movements were limited, but that was to keep me secure from the world’s prying eyes. I knew I was here of my own free will, and had permission to leave whenever I chose. But however many thousands of people who’d seen me on the news or on the front pages, or the reward posters gummed up around town by my parents, they weren’t going to believe that. Or even understand it. So I stayed indoors eating Poptarts and cereal, cheap take-out Chinese and runnin’ on Dunkin.
The street outside was dark, of course, and apart from the occasional headlamp that swept down from the crossroads, deserted. Across the street, a light went on in an upstairs room and I smiled. Something must have disturbed their sleep as well.
I listened for voices elsewhere in the house; heard nothing, but of course that meant nothing. In a house full of trained urban guerillas, most of them with some form of military background or other, I’d hardly expect them to be banging around if they thought there was anything to be at all concerned about. Another reason why I never strayed from my room, even for the bathroom, once the lights went out at night. You never knew what might be lying in wait.
I made my back to the bed, feeling my way around the few sticks of furniture, the desk and my own clothes scattered in heaps where I’d dropped them, exhausted, at the end of a long day on the firing range - a basement lined with mattresses and egg cartons, with three crudely caricatured politicians for targets. I’d been asleep before Wolf even took up his post, and as I settled back into bed alongside him, I realized just how accustomed I had grown to his presence.
He had never touched me. Not even on the first night when, tearful, bound and sometimes gagged, the rest of the gang had delighted in humiliating and tormenting me, and a physical assault could only have been a brutal thought or two away. Instead, he lay silently down on the bed alongside me, his body pointedly not touching mine and when, at some point, I shifted and my foot touched his leg, he moved that away as well.
We talked, of course we did. Alone or with the others, deep into the night. Revolutionary theory, guerilla tactics. Our General had drawn up a long list of sympathizers whom he claimed were either on our side, or who he felt could be drawn over to our struggle. Many were public figures, Hollywood icons and rock’n’roll superstars, and Wolf had been charged with making contact with the latter crew, because a song or two from them would make all the difference to us.
So we talked about that as well, and those were the conversations I enjoyed, just kicking back in our bedroom at night (how strange to call it “our” room, in a world where all property was strictly communal), like the college-aged kids that we used to be, discussing our favorite records. Then the lights would go out at 10 on the dot... we used to listen for the sound of the basement door creaking, as the general went down to pull out the fuse... and I would retire to sleep, while Wolf stayed alert for intruders.
Tonight was different. Tonight, we talked about me. How the world should be told that I was no longer a victim, how the police should be warned to consider me an enemy. How my parents should learn that I considered myself orphaned.
The General raised the subject, which surprised me. I’d known for days how I felt about the cause, and the rest of our cell seemed to accept that. He remained suspicious, though; he thought I might be playing a trick, and every word out of his mouth from then on had been designed to somehow trip me up. I guess I’d passed all his tests at last, or maybe this was the final one and he wanted to see just how far the heiress was willing to go before breeding and background jerked her back to her old self.
I answered the unspoken question for him. “As far as I need to.”
I was lying on my side, facing Wolf. Despite the darkness, enough glow shone through the window for me to trace his silhouette against the whitewashed walls, and my eyes lay on the bulge on his lap, the pump action shotgun from which he had never been parted, which needed just one flick of the safety catch to send it roaring to lethal life. The safety catch that he only engaged after i pointed out to him one night that, if he insisted on sleeping throughout his guard duty, he’d better do something to avoid any nocturnal discharging. I certainly didn’t want to wake up with one leg blown off because he’d been dreaming about twiddling his thumbs, and once he’d accepted that possibly he did drift off once or twice (and that was a battle in itself) he agreed.
I raised a hand slowly and gently touched a fingertip to the barrel. I had always loved guns, to my mother’s disgust, although my father and brothers were delighted by that. My father taught me to shoot a gun, my brothers taught me to clean one, and even when I was too young or too busy to join them on a hunting trip, they knew I’d be impatiently waiting at home, happy to strip down their weapons and put them back, sparkling new. Wolf’s barrel felt coarse and gritty. I doubted whether it had ever seen the business end of a rag full of Froglube.
My finger traced the barrel down to the stock, so long, so smooth, so unbelievably hard. I danced around the trigger and scraped a nail across the safety. Then the butt, hard wood but splintered, pocked by poor care, bruised and abraded. Wolf told me he’d had the weapon for years and it felt like it, but I wondered what he’d been using it for if he’d had it that long. A weapon like this was scarcely used for hunting, and - present circumstances notwithstanding - wasn’t your average home protection gear either.
The general warned me that Wolf was a bad ‘un, which was why I’d been left in his charge. How many lives had this weapon taken or altered? How many skulls had its butt crushed, how many bones had it broken? I let the backs of my fingers trace back up the stock, then trail the length of the barrel again. One teased the muzzle, felt the dryness within. It’ll be a wonder if this thing doesn’t blow itself up, the very next time Wolf goes to fire it, I thought, and I thought of something pops once said as we read about a bank job in the paper one day. Guns are wasted on the majority of the people who use them. A gun is a thing of beauty and grace, to be treated as well as a car or a lover. And like a car or a lover, if you let it decay, then it will pay you back.
I shifted my weight, careful not to disturb the sleeper. My finger below the barrel, raising it slightly, my head leaning forward, the muzzle to my mouth. I closed my lip on the cold, acrid metal, sucking gently, eyes closed as my mind raced. Beside me, Wolf slumbered on, inside me, an image began to form. An image lit by bright flood lights, an image played out on an unmade bed, an image spooling through the movie camera that I’d seen the General toying with as he talked of our next missive to the outside world.
A missive in which I would star.
A missive in which I would fuck a gun.
Every other photograph, home movie and scrap of paper mentioning me has been shown on every TV show in the country. But I wonder if they’ll show that on the nightly news?
With thanks to everyone who has made the sale such a success, I'm extending it for yet another few weeks. Call it my Post-Valentine's gift to you all. Or an early Easter present. Either way, (almost) all my Kindle and Nook e-book editions remain available for $2.99, and don't forget to check out the print editions too if that's what you prefer.
THE NYMPHO LIBRARIAN AND OTHER STORIES Eleven scalding tales of lust and love in the halls of public learning - the town library!
The sex is hot, but the librarians are hotter, as authors Chrissie Bentley and Jenny Swallows reveal the lip-smacking truth about what goes on behind (and on top of, and around as well) the bookshelves.
Includes the tales THE NYMPHO LIBRARIAN, SILENCE IN THE LIBRARY, COUSIN TOM’S FIRST BLOWJOB, CUM BREATH, THE LIBRARIAN’S CHRISTMAS STOCKING, THE STUDENT BODY, STICKY FINGERS, MY CIVIC DUTY, WATCHING THE CLOCK, THOROUGHLY MODEM MISS and CHECKING OUT.
Roadhead - Torrid Tales of Sex in the Front Seat by Chrissie Bentley
It’s an adult fantasy that’s built upon a youthful reality. I don’t know about you, but almost all of my earliest significant sexual experiences took place in a moving vehicle of some description, from the first hard cock I ever touched to the first (more or less) that I ever sucked, from the first time I orgasmed to someone else’s touch, to the first time I felt that touch to begin with.
It wasn’t deliberate, and it certainly wasn’t planned. It’s just... where else were we expected to go? It’s why the western world is still littered with Lovers’ Lanes, and long after the drive-ins rolled up their screens, we all have friends who lost their innocence to the splash and slash of an all night creature feature. Our parents used the car to get from A to B. We used it to learn the birds and the bees.
That is the world that this collection of short stories takes us back to, those wonderful years when parents or room mates or whoever held a curfew, and bed rooms and back rooms and bathrooms and all were out of the question for more than a cuddle.
So we took to the highway, the wide open road, with the wind in our hair and Bruce on FM, and I still say a silent prayer of thanks to the speed cop who seemed happy to believe that I was simply resting my head in my boyfriend’s lap, and who didn’t even ask him to move the jacket I’d been resting under. He’d probably seen it all before anyway and hey - he was young once as well.
Not that every story here takes place in the front seat. We begin on a Greyhound, and take a bus too, and we even get diverted to a motorcycle sidecar. What they all have in common, though, are youth and exuberance and, most of all, escape. Escape from reality, escape from authority and, most of all, escape from inexperience and ignorance.
Travel broadens the mind, they say. The travelers here have very broad minds.
THE FIRST TIME & 59 OTHER MAGIC MINUTES is a breathtaking compendium comprising no less than SIXTY sexsational verses, tracing her sexual journey from inquiring teen to amorous adult, from backstreet assignations to the sanctity of marriage - and beyond.
THREE NUNS AND A MOTORCYCLE A lipsmacking collection of short stories and book excerpts, including highlights from all of my novels and novellas, plus previously unpublished adventures for Ambrose Horne and Cousin Tom, and much more. KINDLE EDITION - buy here
COUSIN TOM'S MOTORBIKE AND OTHER STORIES Seven hot new erotic adventures with the Rocky Mountains' raunchiest couple. Follow Cousin Rose and Cousin Tom as they hump and bump their way through Monroe CO - includes the stories "Cousin Tom's First Motorbike," "Cousin Tom's Revenge," "Cousin Tom Slips Behind," "Cousin Tom & The Sisters of Mercy," and more! KINDLE EDITION buy here
WHAT I DID ON MY SUMMER VACATION Everybody says you should never mix business with pleasure. But my vacation had already been squeezed in between a couple of work assignments, and I was a single girl in a foreign country. What did I expect might happen?
What I Did On My Summer Vacation is a non-stop whirl of sight-seeing and sex, historic England seen from angles that the tourist guides never mention. And you wouldn't believe my holiday snaps!
NOOK EDITION buy here PRINT EDITION $14.99 buy it now In London in the 1960s, pornography was a man’s world.
Stag movies and blue films were viewed by men, written by men, directed by men and filmed by men. If they hadn’t needed actresses to play a part on camera, they would probably have been made by men as well.
And then a woman came along, and changed that world completely.
This is her story.
DON’T FORGET TO BREATHE contains six full-length, red hot tales of lust, love and the most explosive oral sex imaginable. That’s around fifty pages of sucking, blowing and, of course, swallowing. Because good girls don’t spit.
Building the ultimate porn library, one great flick at a time Maybe it’s the fact that I watched it while grappling with a pinched nerve in my shoulder. Maybe it’s the knowledge that Batman has already been parodied well, and any return to those pastures can only try to compete. Or maybe it’s the fact that Batfxxx: A Dark Night Parody effectively comprises the same over-choreographed stag film being reshown again and again, with just a quick change of costume to differentiate a few of the players. But in the already over-egged pudding of parody porn, this is one more (insert your favorite cooking allegory here) too far.
The plot. The J-Kerr (Paul Chaplin - the true star of the movie) has stolen a sex potion from Poison Ivy, and is planning to release it on the population of Gothard City. Batfxxx (Nick Manning), presumably, wants to stop him, and maybe if his role had remained aloof from the fucking and sucking that inevitably ensues, his mission would have felt believable. But he’s as horny as everybody else, so why is he even bothering?
A cool cast wanders through the movie, with Robina the Girl Wonder (Krissy Lynn) and Batchick (Isis Love) both taking on all the meat they can chew. And then there’s Katwoman (Madelyn Marie) who may not quite deliver on all her character’s promise, but is certainly devoted to raising the temperature. Young and fun and full of cum, she is the one saving grace throughout this movie.
The question is - why? Why does this movie adhere so firmly to very poor porn stereotype? That’s probably a question that only director Nicholas Steele can answer, but here’s a few thoughts.
Remove Jo-Kerr from the equation and nobody in this film has a well-defined role, nobody even has a purpose. And direction that seems to view plot as simply a line or two of irrelevant dialog that leads into the next sex scene seriously detracts from the obvious care and attention that went into the sets and (some of) the costumes.
None of which would matter if the sex wasn’t so samey, orgy after orgy after orgy. On and on it goes and if you watch it with a few friends, you will actually have more fun playing “guess the next position”... at least until you realize there’s not that much guesswork involved. You just remember what happened the last time. And the time before. And the time before. This movie earned sixteen nominations at the AVN awards. How?
Because everyone loves clowns?
It’s difficult to put into words how disappointing this movie was, and it certainly doesn’t bode well for the same team’s sequel Katwoman XXX, which was next on my viewing pile. Maybe I’ll hold off for a while... wait for the nerve to unpinch itself or watch an old favorite instead. This was meant to be a porn parody of Batman. When in fact, it’s Batman parodying porn.
It’s only now that you can see what a massive difference it made in the end. At the time, it was simply a bloody good laugh, and besides, it really wasn’t something you see every day. An entire building… city… country… continent… planet full of people, and all of them dropping whatever they were doing, and either getting or giving head to whoever happened to be closest to them at the time. And doing it for charity as well! That was the most exciting part, I think. The whole planet got its rocks off, and then it got saved. And we’re here to reap the benefits of that.
It’s hard to believe it was 50 years ago, though. The way the history books talk about it, and the old timers reminisce (ha! I should talk, I’m almost 80 now!), you’d think it all happened yesterday. But no, fifty years have passed since that magical day, and the images are still burned into my brain. A beefy cop on a traffic stop, kneeling to eat out the woman he was ticketing. A girl on the cosmetics counter at Macy’s, getting her make-up smudged by a co-worker’s pussy. A surgeon, pausing midway through a vasectomy, to offer the patient’s wife one last taste of her husband’s living seed. And so on. If you were there, you have a story. If you weren’t… well, at least you’re still alive. There was a moment there when we doubted that would be the case.
The world had been sinking for a long time before 2008 came along, and a lot of worthy souls had thrown a lot of effort into reversing the decline. There were pop concerts to alleviate hunger, sports events to combat disease, Telethons to arrest poverty… once, they even threw another pop show to raise awareness of global warming, and hands up everybody who thought it would have been far more effective if the performers and audience had just stayed at home, and not added to the problem by driving and flying to be there?
It’s like a lot of things. Second-hand cigarette smoke kills, it was said, so the early century went out and banned people from smoking in public places. How long did it take them to realize that second-hand exhaust fumes, second-hand factory smoke, and second-hand cooking smells, for God’s sake, were just as lethal as a pack of Marlboro?
What about emissions? The government of the day set some truly admirable targets for the nation’s car manufacturers to meet, and a lot of them succeeded. But they never even mentioned the infinitely more poisonous stench being made by the tanks and armored cars they were driving round their warzones, or the clouds of smoke and filth released every time they dropped a bomb. So the planet continued rolling to hell in a handcart, with our governments telling us to use energy-saving lightbulbs, to take our minds off the fact that they were burning entire forests. And then we woke up at the beginning of February, 2008, to be told that the world was going to end, literally cease to be, in six weeks time, and there wasn’t a thing we could do about it. Or, rather, there was, but would anyone actually do it?
If we switched off every engine, every radio, every motor, every TV, every microwave, every aromored car… if we switched off everything that sent its little poisons into the air, and kept them off for just 5 minutes, all at once, all over the world, we could buy ourselves another year of life on this planet. 10 minutes would give us a decade. Half an hour would give us an eternity. Just switch everything off and let the planet heal itself in its own magical way.
But how? How could you convince the entire human race, six billion people all over the globe, to just stand still in the silent, cold, dark for ten minutes? Half of them (religious fundamentalists and multi-national businessmen for the most part) didn’t even believe the story was true. They’d never go along with it, and they said so. There was nothing in it for them.
Or was there? The story broke on February 1, the responses came in on February 2 – and the solution was delivered on February 3. Valentine’s Day was just around the corner. How about, instead of a card and a kiss on the cheek, and all the other nonsense with which we mark the day; how about we all either get down on our knees, or have someone else do it, and give each other the best oral sex we’ve ever had in our lives? And how about if we switch everything off first?
It was a stupid idea, of course. Stupid and disgusting, degenerate, filthy and obscene. But it took off. The colleges first; within 24 hours, every seat of learning in the Americas, and most across Europe and asia as well, had announced they were going along with it. Even more impressively, they weren’t simply doing it on the same day, either. This was being co-ordinated down to the minute.
Big business, ever mindful of a good marketing opportunity (“Suck a Cock and Save the World” T-shirts were only the start) followed. The media giants announced that their transmitters and satellites would be off line for 10 minutes, while their employees did their bit for the planet. Auto manufacturers offered workers the chance to try out the back seats of the latest hot models. Even the porn industry, for whom this was more or less just another day of work, declared their cameras would stop rolling for the duration (although they reserved the right to take still photographs).
The United Nations came on board, bringing with it the involvement of every member nation. The frontrunners in America’s Presidential race added their support to the movement, and the rest of the pack quickly followed. The Queen of England said she’d give it a go. By the time the end of the week rolled around, there wasn’t a dissenting voice to be heard… in fact, there was scarcely a voice of any kind to be heard. One of the 24-hour cable news networks suggested it might be a good idea if we all got some practice in beforehand, and suddenly every channel you surfed past was showing either Deep Throat or Little Oral Annie, and every silhouette framed in the windows you walked past seemed to be sucking or licking or coming or groaning. And it was still only February 12.
At the last the day dawned and, before you even opened your eyes, you knew that it was special. For a start, the streets were silent. It was a workday, a Friday, and there were people on the street. But they were walking… an entire city walking to work, or cycling or skateboarding or whatever else they could do. Nobody wanted to be the first to break the silence with an engine, so nobody did.
Industry felt the same way. The factories and plants all opened, but the machines were quiet. The bosses merely asked that their staff turn up, and what they did with the rest of the day was their business. Only the schools – safe zones for children, and for anybody who truly didn’t want to be outside at the hour – were behaving in a normal fashion, but the papers the next day said truancy rates had gone through the roof, and who could really be surprised about that?
We were lucky where I lived; the way the timing of the event was worked out, our 10 minutes began at noon. I wondered how people were managing in those further flung corners where they needed to wait until midnight? But then I thought about it, and I was envious instead. Think of the sense of mad anticipation that they’d be able to build up in the meantime! The juices would be flowing before they even got their pants unzipped and, to be honest, I knew exactly how they felt. I was damp when I woke up, wet while I breakfasted and, by the time I got to the office, I was practically dripping on the pavement as I walked.
Margie and Sheelagh were already arguing over which of the mail room boys they would have; they hushed as they saw me, my higher rank automatically gave me the first choice. But I already knew who my eyes were set on, and the fact that he’d only been working here for a week merely added to the attraction. Let the others fight about the same old same old, I wanted to grab me some fresh meat.
Terry was already at his desk, his face buried in one of the manuscripts that I’d handed him a couple of days before. And that’s not all it’s going to be buried in, I thought, as I paused alongside him. “How’s it going?”
He looked up. “To be honest, it’s difficult to concentrate.”
I glanced at the time. “I know what you mean.” Two hours to go. “Isn’t it strange not to hear all the computers humming.” Nobody had switched on a single appliance. Even the overhead lights were out, but the gloom just added to the allure of the day. I thought of inviting him to the canteen for coffee, then wondered whether they would even be serving hot drinks today? The handful of cafes I’d passed on my way in were all making a loud virtue of offering just juice, milk and water, and I wondered how long the milk would last, being as no-one was using their fridge today. “I’m going to the water cooler. Fancy stretching your legs?”
He nodded enthusiastically and I watched as he stood. He had certainly dressed for the day, those pants were as tight as any I’d seen, outlining every ripple and bulge from his waist on down. My eyes halted around his crotch and I saw his gaze join it. He looked startled, as well he might. If I wasn’t twice his age, I was heading for it, but all that really meant was, I’d amassed both the experience and the enthusiasm for the task in hand. Younger girls might have one, but they rarely had the other; my only concern was that Terry would actually last the ten minutes. My personal teenaged experiences with guys his age were usually over in the time it took to get your fingers around them.
But you know what they say, “cometh the hour, cometh the man.” Or not, as the case may be. I had that boy jammed so far down my throat that he was practically bumping my clitoris, and it didn’t phase him one bit. He rode the shockwaves like a pro, his hips gently swaying while he searched for a rhythm, then he rolled me beneath him and brought his tongue into play against my screaming wet pussy
I opened one eye and glanced sideways. On one desk (mine, I noticed; I hoped she’d clean up afterwards), Margie was getting a ferocious tongue lashing from the UPS dude; on another, just off my sightline, but well within earshot, Sheelagh was screaming her way through a similar seeing to from one of the lads from accounts. And in the corridor outside, through the wide open doorway, I could see the mail room guys they’d been squabbling over… ah. So that’s why they were always hanging together.
I was coming now, could feel it driving from the pit of my stomach, building up speed as it rushed to the surface. Terry was nearing his own end as well; his gentle pulses were now seismic shakes, and I sensed that sudden twist in the taste that he was drilling into my mouth, where the pre-cum ends and the real thing begins. And then, pandemonium, as we exploded together in exquisite harmony, both of us trying to swallow as we cried out with joy, both doing our damnedest to enjoy one another as our own bodies consumed us with pleasure. And when it was over, and we both lay there panting, our taste and juices still caked on our faces, I looked up to see Sheelagh looking down with amazement.
“Half an hour,” she smiled. “Half a fucking hour.” She handed me a wad of cash. “The office sweepstake. Who could keep it up the longest. I was so close as well.”
I took the money, counted it quickly ($4,000? Jesus Christ!) and handed half to Terry. “Let’s just hope this whole thing worked,” I said. “I want to live long enough to spend this.” Then I walked over to the window. As far as the eye could see, couples sat, lay or simply staggered around, lost in an absolute daze. One or two were still going at it; one pair in the park across the road had even gathered a small crowd of admirers, and looking up at one of the windows opposite, the CEO of a top New York ad agency was suckling the last drops from the panhandler who haunted her company’s lobby. I smiled; it was only two days ago that she’d called the cops on the poor guy. Now she was saving the world with him.
Because she did save the world. So did I, so did Margie and Sheelagh, and so did everybody else on the planet. Two days later, the scientists revealed their latest calculations. The world had been at a complete electrical, industrial and technological standstill for no less than 18 minutes, enough time for the planet to roll the clock back several centuries. And the process is ongoing, because nobody, and I repeat nobody, was going to pass up the opportunity to relive that wonderful day again and again. So now we do it every year, and when I say “we,” I mean it. Black and white, rich and poor, young and old, and even us ancients. My husband’s 84, but his cock’s as hard as it ever was. And you should see what I can do to it when I slip out my dentures. Stop
Just a bit of seasonal fun. Except I don’t think I was laughing so hard at the time!
The flowers were dead, and the card misdelivered The restaurant screwed up so we didn’t get dinner When the bar asked for ID, I’d forgotten my purse So why did he say things couldn’t get worse?
“Wanna go back to my place?” I asked; he said yes At least there was one thing That couldn’t get messed And we just couldn’t wait Till we got up the stairs I dropped to my knees Sucked his cock then and there
He leaned on the wall His hips gently grinding I couldn’t believe All the flavors I’m finding Then I paused… shit! Goddamit! He was so nearly there But someone else in the building Was coming downstairs
Victoria’s Secret sold him the wrong size And 50 First Dateswas scratched on both sides He needed to pee, and his voice sounded terse When he said surely things just couldn’t get worse?
We reached my apartment I pushed him in quick I had unfinished business With a thick, spit-slicked prick I rubbed his firm helmet All over my face Felt his sweet precum smearing I came at the taste
I said “you’re delicious! “My favorite supper” Then my throat closed around him And he slipped in like butter But when he reached for my pussy And I felt his tongue kneading “Oh shit, man! I’m early! “I’ve just started bleeding.”
We gave up! We cuddled. It was one of those days When things just get worse whatever you say I looked for some respite once we got into bed But I just called him Johnny… …when I know his name’s Fred
Imagine, if you can, a mid-70s art movie... getting gang-banged by early 80s MTV... then being transported to modern-day Los Angeles... and sent out onto the streets to earn its living. Well done, you have just invited yourself into the world of Neu Wave Hookers, one of the most refreshingly avant-garde XXXs of the 21st century, and all the more so because it "avant garde" a clue that that is what it is destined to become.
The cast... Riley Mason, Joanne Angel, Justine Joli, Tiger, Sierra Sin, Felix Vicious and Nyomi Zen... nobody’s notion of your typical street girls, all the more so when they hit the ropes in full-on eighties drag. But we start at a yard sale where they are sweet-talked into buying an old VCR and a handful of vintage pornos, including what has since become one of the most infamous of them all, the original New Wave Hookers. That, you may or may not remember, is the movie that launched Traci Lords to fame - at an age when the law insists she should have been sitting at home with her legs tightly crossed and her mouth sealed shut. Sweet seventeen, with a fake ID... yes, you can Google the ensuing fall-out once that little nugget became public knowledge.
The movie was pulled, Lord’s role expunged... but it forms a fascinating subtext to this film, an homage of sorts that revolves, in a very very circular manner, around the efforts of the titular sextet to discover more about the original film. To the extent of breaking into the film-maker’s offices and unearthing the original paperwork.
But in and around that, Neu Wave Hookers dances around some stunning cinematography, excellent sets and even - and this is so rare for a modern prono - a devastating soundtrack, fittingly glued into the modern era’s fascination with retro-eighties synthi sounds. Dirty Sanchez, familiar to my long time readers (“Fucking On The Dancefloor”) appear with a wonderfully staged “I Dig It,” and the verse about being caught masturbating by your mother is Grammy material on its own. Avenue D’s “O-Tron” and Electrocute’s “Fun Is A Floppy Bitch” are the highlights, with director Eon McKai putting on his best pop video director’s hat and wearing it better than most of the crap that’s on TV these days.
The hottest scenes... the DVD box credits Dana DeArmond, playing Traci Lords, with giving “perhaps the most provocative blowjob in DVD history.” And it’s not bad (although it would have helped if Tommy Pistol, playing the Greg Dark character, at least had a full erection). But there are better - Joanna Angel maybe spends too much time spitting on Kurt Lockwood’s cock for their sequence to be truly memorable, but Riley Mason and James Deen (plus a swing set) are great to watch.
And then comes the true piece de resistance, Riley and Nyomi tagteaming, and reminding us that the Olympics are just a few months away. Believe me, that’s not an easy position to hold for any amount of time but fuck it’s worth it. If you’ve never felt your own blood rush to your head while making sure your partner’s keeps rushing to his other head... well, you should. Oh, and if you dig into the Behind The Scenes sequences on disc two, the shadowy couple getting to know one another backstage is a beauty, too. Which raises my one criticism of Neu Wave Hookers - in a movie that works so hard to disavow the common cliches and set pieces of modern porn, why then conclude so many scenes with the stand “jerking into the girl’s open mouth” sequence?
Yes, viewers expect it, blah blah blah. But they expect a lot of things that Neu Wave Hookers does not deliver, and the movie is all the more powerful because of that. Which brings me to what sundry Internet reviewers seem to feel is the most controversial element of all, a series of sequences in which our hooker heroines find themselves in the clutches of an uber-slimey old man, whose entreaties are alternately pitiful and sinister, and are so exquisitely discomforting that more than a few viewers apparently fast forwarded through his appearances.
Don’t. Yes, they are uncomfortable, and yes, they are creepy. But they also serve as reminders of the realities of hooking, the fact that a girl cannot always choose just the hunkiest customers, and that occasionally things get out of control. Here the slimeball is simply cajoling, and the scenes never slide into violence. But they could, and in and around the rest of the movie, they offer a chilling counterpoint to the fantasies played out elsewhere.
Because they are fantasies. The sets are amazing, but you never lose sight of the fact that they are artful artifice, lurking somewhere between Warholian Pop Art and Grade School set design. Backdrops are deliberately rendered as obvious theater props, and the Traci Lords car wash scene is decorated with little more than a hand-drawn sign that says, indeed, “car wash.”
Sweet too is the ease with which sequences arise out of fantasies; Sierra Sin wondering what DP might feel like, and immediately finding herself sandwiched between James Deen and Tommy Pistol. And finally, there is the climactic scenes, all the girls together and not a cock in sight. Up there with the cat-women squawling through that memorable scene in The 8th Day (and maybe the orgy in Not Bewitched XXX), one of the finest lesbian action scenes around.
So, a magnificent movie, a stunning production and all in all, one that is effortlessly up there with that select handful of other modern offerings in which the sex drives the action, as opposed to interrupting it. In other words... I wanna be a Neu Wave Hooker too!
An excerpt from my novel Below Blue London, an erotic supernatural thriller set in London's East End... forever changing but somehow, forever the same.
This chapter is dedicated to Birthday Boy Charles Dickens... the greatest English novelist of them all. Although, if this tale is to believed, things might have worked out very differently....
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP - 1841
Night is generally my time for walking…. The glare and hurry of broad noon are not adapted to idle pursuits like mine. A glimpse of passing faces, caught by the light of a street lamp or a shop window, is often better for my purpose than their full revelation in the daylight. And, if I just add the truth, night is kinder in this respect than day, which too often destroys an air-built castle at the moment of its completion, without the smallest ceremony or remorse.
That fellow over there. The way his face hangs in shadow, while his frame melts into the black. He dresses as well as his profession will permit, but the ink stains on his fingers give his game away. In his own mind, he could be anyone, he could be anything. But I know that tonight, he shall be mine, so I sidle alongside him, and offer him a smile.
He shifts awkwardly. He thinks I am a streetwalker, as his type often do. But, if I were, would I choose this neighborhood in which to ply my trade, this busy thoroughfare named for the river that once ran fleet beneath it, and from whose quarters every newspaper and publication in the land takes wing every evening? Would I not be better served sashaying around the taverns and opium dens, brightly dressed and gaudily painted, with the price of my wares the first words from my lips?
Instead, I dress as befits the calling I was given’ and, if my words are seductive, it’s because the services I render are worth more than mere money. I offer immortality, in this life and beyond. I offer fame in excess of a man’s wildest imaginings, and success that would cause the most famous to cringe. I offer the greatest story ever told, and seek only a man who is worthy of telling it.
I whisper some words, and his eyes flash with interest. I vouchsafe some truths, and his body responds accordingly. I have a knowledge, and a secret to share, and all it will cost him is time and some words, words that will set down forever the mysteries I will unveil, to bring hope to the hopeless and joy to the joyless, and extract all humankind from the toiling uncertainty that passes as life, with the knowledge that, Hereafter, all will be pleasure.
“What kind of pleasure?” They always ask that, and I always answer like this. I drop to my knees and unfasten his trousers. We are in darkness; walking as we talked, until I maneuvered him into one of the mean blind alleys that runs between every significant building. I take out his tool, soft, heavy, salty, and take a swift nip of Armagnac to enliven his flavor. I roll back the foreskin and angle my head. His knob-end is liquid in my brandy-hot mouth.
He looks at me warily, repeats my words back at me. He does not move away, but I sense his unease, as incredulity fades into disbelief. He suspects skullduggery, some low form of trick, and he looks around nervously for the compatriots he is certain I have stashed in the darkness, who will leap out and rob him, then beat him to death. There are none. I travel alone because the secret is my own; and, though others have been privy to it over the years, their own shallow minds have blotted out its importance, and sent them scampering back to the safety of their own world, where the shadows are dismissed by the flare of a Lucifer, and the truth shrinks back with them, because it is too much to manage.
I am sucking, and he cannot help himself, thickening in my mouth, growing firmer and warmer as the muscles start to fill. I stop and he groans; I stand and he sighs. I grasp his hard cock and push it back into his trousers, fasten them tight and then step away.
“You cannot stop,” he whispers, imploringly.
“But I have,” I reply. “So you know what to do. Be at this address in one hour.” I hand him directions. “And then you’ll discover what happens next.” I patted his still furious erection through the coarse fabric of his trousers. “And don’t forget to bring this fellow with you.”
But already I know he’s unlikely to show. I am a muse, and I seek a maestro. Yet all I ever find are charlatans, so bereft of the depth and perception that their vocation should demand that they might as easily be illiterates, scratching ragged finger nails into the impervious bark of a tree trunk.
Except one. One man had the wisdom to understand what I offered; one had the sagacity to comprehend what it portended; one might have spared me this interminable questing, before it even began. And, had his waking mind not wrestled his dreams and ambitions into bitter submission, we might both now be reaping the rewards of our labors. Instead….
I lay down my quill, studied my writings for a moment, then sighed loudly. Instead… I would never say that I hate any man, but I can find no other word for Charlie Dickens.
It is not simply because he called me a liar without using that word; that he mocked my beliefs with no glimmer of humor; or accused me of trickery, with no clue how I tricked him. I could forgive him for any of that. Nor is it because he has risen so high in the public esteem, while I still occupy the same lowly station I was born into. That is capricious fate at work, and no man or woman can control her machinations.
I hate him because, if he had only listened to the story I gave him, rather than the ones he so callowly set down in print, his reputation would now be set forever. Instead – who will read his words in ten years time? Who will care for his sentimentalities when he is dead and gone? “Who,” people will ask as they sling his moldering maudlinities onto the rubbish heap, “was Charlie Dickens anyway?”
Things could have been so different. We would have made a great team. Close my eyes, and I can still watch it unfolding – lecture tours in luxury, our writings bound in gold, an audience with Royalty, and more society memberships than we could ever know what to do with. Not bad for the grand daughter of a Poplar shopkeeper, and the son of a debtor who wrote court reports for a pittance.
Yes, he was a writer even then, but scarcely one you would recognize. Would-be writers were everywhere at that time; I know, because most of them passed through grandfather’s shop at one time or another, either searching out bargains to assist them in their trade… writing implements, blotters, or simply inspiration… or seeking to sell off another family treasure, to tide them over until their ship came in.
That’s what Charlie was about, the first time he crossed our threshold. I never did discover what he was doing in these parts – he always behaved like a city soul, with no reason whatsoever to be traveling this far east. But here he was, marching down West Ferry Road with such a look of determination that I know I wasn’t the only person to stop still and watch him pass. Except he didn’t pass. He walked straight in through the open door, sought grandfather out from the shadows at the back, and lay half a dozen trinkets down on the desk.
“I wish to sell these.”
Grandfather never even looked at them. “Not interested.”
“I was told you never turn down a bargain.” The visitor appeared young, but he had the voice of an old man. Or perhaps it was merely weakness; he looked as though his last decent meal came at his mother’s breast.
“You was told wrong. I’m not interested.”
Grandfather’s a curmudgeon and no mistake. I stepped forward. “I apologize, sir. My grandfather is correct, he isn’t interested. I do the buying here. My grandfather does the selling.”
“A sensible arrangement.” The young man straightened up, tapped his collar self-consciously, and held the objects out towards me. “And who do I have the pleasure of addressing?”
“You can tell me if it’s a pleasure once I’ve given you my price.” Then, relenting a little, “Nell Trent. And you, sir?”
Introductions were exchanged, small talk was made. Yes, he was a writer. No, he had not yet published more than a few words. But yes, he had very high hopes for the future, and I bit my tongue and refrained from remarking that, if a man could live by ambition alone, there’d be a lot less starving in the workhouse. I examined his offerings, and was surprised to discover that they really weren’t bad. The gold was high quality, the silver was better, the cast was solid. I could go… I named a price, pitching low, just to see how he’d react.
He knew his own mind. “I was hoping for a little more,” he murmured.
“How much more?” He told me, and I laughed; threw back a figure that I was certain he’d reject… oh, I can haggle all day if there’s nothing else to do… and was astonished when he accepted it. “With one provision.”
“What’s that, then?”
“That you allow me to take you to the theater tomorrow evening. And perhaps a meal beforehand?”
Well, he’s a cool one, after all. I looked him up and down. The clothes weren’t bad, the beard was trimmed, his accent was honest, and he had nice eyes. Quite a toff, in other words. But despite all that, I liked him. “Why not?” It wasn’t as if I was any kind of disgrace to look at either, and if I needed new clothes, I’d just go through the shop. We have a wardrobe that is fit for a Queen. We met on Blackfriars Road, outside the Royal Surrey Theatre, dined at an eatery a few houses down, and then turned towards the night’s entertainment. The posters advertised Esmerelda, or the Deformed of Notre Dame, and I suppressed a little shiver at the thought of what such a title might conceal. But my companion kept up such a constant stream of chatter that I never discovered what was unfolding onstage.
Much of what he spoke of was nonsense, as is so often the case with these self-made intellectuals, convinced that every thought in their head is original, every idea in their quill has never previously been written. Truthfully, I would wager that I’ve spent more time in books than he ever has; the shop is open all the hours God sends, but customers can be scarcer than snakes needing shoes, which leaves me plenty of time in which to devour the volumes that are heaped in one corner.
Still I found him entertaining and, when he asked if we could meet again, it scarcely seemed worthwhile to feign demure surprise. Besides, at least one of the directions in which his inclinations seemed to lean was one in which I have a great deal of experience. Most people have a mind for the so-called supernatural. But few have a mind that is open as well. Charlie was one of those few.
My name is Nell, you know that already, and I work for my grandfather, in his curiosity shop – so named not for the nature of the items we sell, but because it encourages passers-by to feel curious, and come in to discover what merits such a name. And they are rarely disappointed.
Just a few yards from the dockyards, where the treasures of the empire are unloaded from great ships, and a few more from the mean streets where entire families survive on what they can pawn, we sell (and buy) the wonders of the world, from furniture to furs, from jewelry to jugs. It would be a dull soul indeed who did not find something to take his fancy buried amongst our stock.
But my tale is not about the business, it is about the building from which we conduct it, a brick and clapperboard construction that seems to lean in every direction at once, and carries on its crumbling shoulder every one of the centuries that have elapsed since it was first erected by the old ferry road.
My grandfather purchased it long, long ago, a tavern that had fallen upon hard times – and one wonders just how appallingly its last owner conducted his business, that he could go broke selling alcohol and tobacco to sailors! The shop was opened on one floor, the remainder was retained as living quarters, and first my mother (God rest her soul) and then myself were born within its walls. But the walls have secrets that no man might believe. Except Charlie. He believed.
My bedroom was most peculiarly sited, directly above that corner of the tavern where – although there is no indication of such usage today – the men once gathered to smoke their opium. And, when I was first beset by my visions and dreams, that is what I assigned them to, some leftover vapors that clung to the fabric, and infiltrated my sleeping mind.
It was the nature of the dreams, however, that perplexed me so, and ensured I could never relate them to anyone else.
Were they sinful? Perhaps, although they did not feel that way. Were they obscene? You might think them so, although that, too, is not an observation I would trust. All I know is, long before I even thought to wonder what goes on between a man and a woman, when the lights are down and the shutters are drawn, their most intimate actions were playing out on the walls… no, in the very air of my room.
It was as though a magic lantern show was taking place, but it was unlike any magic lantern I had ever witnessed. No static display of trickery and travail. The images moved and writhed of their own accord; I might have reached out and touched them… did so on more than one curious occasion, but my hand simply sailed through the forms that seemed so solid – “like phantoms!” breathed Charlie, as I told him about them, but I shook my head. Not phantoms, for there was no sense of a spectral presence, no ghostly shivers up my spine, or hairs standing fearful on the nape of my neck. The actors were there, but they were not there. And, though I could not hear them, I could smell them… odors that quickened my heart and moistened my loins… and taste them… flavors that tormented my senses and weakened my virtue.
Did I tell Charlie about that? That one morning I awoke with my passions so enflamed that I slipped out of the door before the household was awake, and made my way down to the dockyard, to find a man… any man would do… who might quench the fires that were blazing within me? I did not, and perhaps that would have made a difference.
There are magazines (I know because I have seen them, in my grandfather’s study and my brother John’s bedroom) where stories such as mine are published with abandon, and accompanied by engravings that should make a maiden blush. Had Charlie only known the full extent of my experiences, and written it up for one such magazines, would he ever have strayed into the world he now inhabits, of pumping out so much calculated bilge, to be sold a chapter a week to a baying populace?
I think not. He would have launched a career in another world entirely, one where it was his own heart that dictated the stories he tell, and not the rapacious demands of the common herd – most of whom cannot even read for themselves, and gather instead to hear showmen tell the tales. I mentioned that my experiences might have been caused by the inadvertent inhalation of a certain drug. Well, these readings, too, are a drug, one that is forcibly and deliberately inflicted upon the populace, to keep them down and in their place. Sentimental stories, the opiate of the masses. And Charlie, my Charlie, is the means by which it is forced upon them.
“I would very much like to experience the powers of this room for myself,” says he.
“I wager you would,” answers I, as his hand strays onto my knee and begins to hoist up the fabric of my dress. I slapped it away. “But, for that to happen, we would need to remove my grandfather, and that never happens, not even for Church.”
“I will come to you at night, place a ladder to your casement, and effect my entry like a thief.”
“In full view of the entire street,” I mocked, “with the dock workers passing by at all hours, and the Runners on the look out for smugglers and light-fingers. You would be lucky to place your foot on the lowest rung.”
“Smugglers,” he breathed, his eyes ablaze with sudden inspiration. “You will smuggle me in during the hours of business, while your grandfather is busy elsewhere in the shop, and your brother is at his apprenticeship. I will secrete myself in a wardrobe or cupboard, or under your bed or any such place, and when all is at rest, I will emerge.”
“You might have a very long and hungry wait,” I cautioned.
“I am patient,” he responded, and so it was agreed.
I wondered what my intentions were. The morning that I went abroad, explicitly to scratch an itch, was ancient history now, but it was not an occurrence to be repeated. Away from my own room, it felt crude and savage, and the beauties I had envisioned were lost in the grime of barefaced reality. Though I scarcely let the man touch my body, and touched nothing more of his than a fist could wrap around, I felt filthy for days, and took so many baths that my grandfather finally filled the tub up with coal, so I could at least do something useful when I carried it in from the scullery.
Charlie, though – Charlie would be on my home territory and, if the room worked its magic, then anything that transpired would be a part of the spell. Although I wondered, for all his apparent worldliness, just how far into the sensual world he might venture? I had watched (and, in a peculiar way that I cannot describe) experienced deeds that I’d never imagined in the past; that I couldn’t imagine any two people ever undertaking without guidance of some sort. Had he ever… would he ever… I would soon discover the answer to that.
“I am considering adding your story to my Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club,” he announced, as soon as we were alone. It was the novel he’d been working on for what he described as years. It sounded trite and banal to me, but I smiled encouragingly. He continued. “Even if nothing of a spectral nature should occur this evening, still the waiting alone should be of ripe amusement.”
I was pleased that he was taking our vigil seriously. I had wondered whether he would – a young man, surreptitiously admitted to a pretty maid’s bedchambers, might well have more pressing concerns on his mind than mere recording. But Charlie did not only arrive with pencil and paper; while he lay beneath my bed, awaiting my return, he had somehow scratched out the rudiments of a story. My story.
I scanned the pages while we talked, sometimes of frivolities, sometimes of more serious fare, but never of our reasons for being here together. Perhaps he feared that by mentioning them, he might prejudice his chances of experiencing them; or, more likely, he was shy. Certainly the distance between us as we sat, him by my dresser, myself near the bed, conveyed a tangible notion of nervousness, and I was wondering now whether such a powerful emotion might somehow serve to deaden the sensations that the room naturally exuded.
But what would become of our experiment, if I were to try and hasten things along? I knew what happened in that room every night, of the scents and scenes that played out all around me. I knew, I told him laughingly, that they were not a figment of an overactive imagination, “an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese.” (How strange that he should write that down).
He did not share that knowledge, though, and that was the obstacle that I must overcome. Although I ached to hold him in my arms… had been aching all day, if I were honest to myself… I knew that to do so would render our entire vigil immaterial.
He rose and walked to the window, drawing back the curtain an inch and peeping down to the street below. “How many spirits are abroad, do you think? Lost, lonely, floating among us, unable to communicate…” his voice trailed off. “But I forgot. You do not believe in spirits, do you?”
Was he teasing? I wasn’t certain. “I believe in phenomena that we do not understand. If I felt I was merely the subject of a haunting, you would not be here. But these are not ghosts. They are truths, attempting to push back the veils that we have drawn over our natural humanity, in the name of science and progress and decorum and manners. Perhaps the figures I see have died in our world, but they are not dead. They have simply passed on to another realm, where they live the lives that our society prohibited them from enjoying in the past. That is what I summonsed you here to witness, in the hope that you will put it into words that will bring those prohibitions crashing down.”
He laughed sadly. “You think that one man has that power?”
“If he does not, then he is not the man I believed him to be. You said yourself, you wish to make a mark on the world, and that your weapon will be your pen. Well I am offering you the ammunition that will fuel that weapon.”
He stepped towards me, a sympathetic frown on his face; then paused, his expression suddenly startled. I turned towards where his glance was frozen, and I froze myself. Standing beside me, looking kindly down, a naked youth clasped his erect penis, stroking it vigorously, as it twitched in his hand.
I turned away, looked towards Charlie, and he, too, had a partner now - a woman, tall, jet-black and beautiful, a great ebony mane sweeping down across her shoulders, masking her vast, bare breasts. He reached towards her, ran his hands through the tresses. “I don’t believe it. You are real. I can touch you.”
“And I can touch you,” she replied, although I would not swear that her voice was audible. Rather, it sounded in my head, bright and chiming, alive with a laughter that swallowed my unease and flooded my heart with happiness.
The man had moved closer, stroking my scalp with one hand, while the other guided his erection close to my face, ran its smoothness lightly over the flesh of my cheek, my forehead, my chin. I didn’t move, I couldn’t. The sensation, so strange, but so compelling, bound me to my chair, and then my tormentor was before me, gently parting my legs so that he might stand between them, then bending slightly, to caress my shoulders and breasts.
My clothing dissolved at his touch, but my nakedness did not shock me. Nor did I flinch as he leaned in to kiss me, first on my lips, then on my breasts, then – as he knelt, and spread my legs wider – on my sex.
I had seen the act so many times, as I lay in my bed alone at nights, and how often had I mused upon the sensations that it must produce. But nothing I imagined had prepared me for this, the wet warm questing that, at first, just felt strange, but which gained in excitement as it gathered intensity. Hands clasped my hips, pulled me closer to that searching tongue; and then raised me slightly off the chair, so that my arms and feet supported my weight and a single finger probed between my buttocks.
I wriggled slightly, to aid its passage, and the sensation between my legs grew sharper; I wriggled some more, and heard myself gasp.
My eyes were closed and I could not bear to open them, not even to marvel at Charlie’s predicament. His gasps were certainly audible, and it seemed certain his pleasure was marking time with mine, was perhaps a few steps ahead of me, for suddenly he groaned and then fell deathly silent – so silent that, now, I did open my eyes, to watch his erection as it subsided, while his partner raised herself to her feet, and forced a thin, dripping finger between his lips.
He suckled it willingly, and I felt my fever rising, felt my body tense as my muscles tightened, and then experienced such release that I’d never felt before, raising me high into the air before slamming me back down.
I gave a cry and it was stifled as fingers clutched my jaw. But I did not want to be held. I broke the grip and slipped to the floor, pushing my partner onto his back, grasped his penis and licked at its tip.
The taste was strange. I needed to think, to balance its flavors against my desire. I laid it to one side, kissed his stomach instead, then ran my tongue up, towards his chest. A nipple caught my eye, and I sucked hard upon it, as hands grasped my legs and pulled them apart. I was straddling his loins and he entered me hard, brushing aside the maidenhead that I thought would surely slow him, and I felt myself unfolding, yielding to his strength.
Deeper he sank and deeper, until it was as though his length was inside my throat, pushing aside all my internal organs. I pushed back, willing him to enter even further, wanting now to taste him with every fiber of my soul, and feel him through every nerve end. I wondered how long he could maintain this fierce strength, and how long I could withstand it before my body exploded again, but an instinct that I had never imagined now took hold of my body. I rode him fast and furious, my ears echoing to the sucking splashes of flesh against wet flesh, my breath coming in sharp, hard gasps that shocked me with their intensity… or were they mine, or Charlie’s partner, as she echoed my movements on her lover’s face, and galloped towards a finishing line that I thought I alone was approaching.
We came together, and then we came together, rolling in one another’s arms, while the men looked on, their eyes bugged with delight as we stroked and provoked one another’s body, tasting and teasing the tart, sweaty corners, delighting in the delirium that is the realm of the poetess Sappho.
I wondered whether the men might follow our lead, and suspect that they did. But my eyes would not focus as my pleasures increased. Locked in an orgasm that consumed me like fire, my mind could concentrate only upon prolonging the moment for as long as I could, as wave upon wave crashed down on my body, and I know my screams would have awakened the neighborhood, had anyone else but myself only heard them.
And then it subsided, and I sat up to see Charlie lying beside me, his face a mask of ecstasy, his body weak and drenched by exertion. We were alone in the room, the first rays of the morning sun filtering through the curtains.
He spoke first. “Who were they?”
“I don’t know.” It was true. I had never seen those faces before, nor anyone as striking as the black girl. “It’s never happened like that before. I’ve felt things, of course, but only as echoes, or ripples that spread from some far agitation. I have never been a part of it like that.”
Charlie was dressing. His eyes refused to meet mine. “I should leave. I need time to think.”
“You think I tricked you, don’t you?” I could see distrust in his every movement.
“I cannot say. Something happened that I don’t understand, and that is the only explanation that makes any sense to me. I don’t know how you did it, if you did do it, but it is easier to believe that some human agency masterminded this, than to believe that I spent the night tupping a creature from another dimension.”
I could see his point. He was frightened and confused, and there was no other explanation, if you refused to believe the truth. But I was angry as well. “What about the story?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know if I can write what you’d like me to write, or whether I even want to. It was one thing when this entire affair was simply a perplexing mystery. Now….”
“Now,” I wheeled on him, “you would rather brush it under the carpet, forget that it ever happened, and get back to writing up trials and lawsuits, while you dream about the day that someone might deign to publish your Picknose…”
“Pickwick,” he corrected me.
“No matter. Well, good luck to you, mister Dickens. You’re not the only writer in the world, you know, and if you were, what a pretty pickle the rest of us would be in. There’s plenty more would jump at a story like this… a chance like this. And I’ll find one before you’ve even published another sentence.”
“I’m sure you will,” he said sadly, and was gone, from my room, from my life, but not, I regret, from my awareness. Six years have passed since that fateful night, and Charlie… I apologize, it’s Charles now… Charles Dickens is everywhere, and I’m still here, sleeping in the same room, tossing to the same dreams, imagining the same bright futures. Except even I sometimes wonder whether I should care so passionately.
There are, I have realized, only two types of writer in this world, those who take note, and those who take notes. I thought Charlie was the rarity, one who could actually splice those two skills together, and maybe he was. Certainly he has caused a veritable splash, first with his Pickwick, and Nicholas Nickleby, and then the sorry saga of the orphan Oliver Twist. In fact, the last time I saw him…the only time I’ve seen him since he fled from my chamber… he was on his way into his publisher, with the last installments of that tale, as I was on the way out, my crumpled manuscript rejected out of hand.
We exchanged a few pleasantries, made some small talk, and then hung, immobile through a lengthening silence. Finally, he asked if the room was still as he remembered it. “It depends,” I answered, “upon what you remember,” and I handed him my manuscript. “Mr Chapman called it fanciful,” I smiled, blotting out the stronger, harsher terms that the brusque little publisher had also resorted to. “But you may find it amusing.”
“I thank you, Nell,” he said softly, and he began to walk away. Then he turned back to me and smiled, softly. “And I swear, if there is anything that I can do with your story, anything at all, it will be done.”
Well, he did it alright, in 41 weekly parts, and I might not have even cared if he’d only told the truth. But he pilfered my text and he hijacked my name, and he wove such vile and putrid melodrama that any right-thinking person would rather vomit than read more than a few lines of his bilious frippery. And my story? It continues on from where it ended, another night, another encounter, another hour spent waiting for a man who never comes.
Then into bed with the whispers and the gasps, the feelings and the fevers, the energies and the ecstasy. And a secret that I’ll probably take with me to the grave. That death is not the end. It is merely the first premonitory shudder of an orgasm that will last all eternity.
Porn books and librarians have always had a passionate, mutually defining relationship—it was, in fact, a prudish French librarian in the early nineteenth century who coined the word pornography. So it comes as no surprise that the sexy librarian, a fixture of the pornographic imagination, is most at home in books. Each year, new titles are added to the librarian-porn bookshelf. This past season’s crop included additions like Hot for Librarian by Anastasia Carrera; Lucy the Librarian—Dewey and His Decimal by John and Shauna Michaels; The Nympho Librarian and Other Stories by Chrissie Bentley and Jenny Swallows; A Librarian’s Desire by Ava Delaney, author of the Kinky Club series; and soft-core selections like Sweet Magik by Penny Watson. The conventions of the form—the dimly lit stacks, the librarian’s mask of thick glasses and hair tied into a bun, et cetera—are, of course, well known. Unlike video porn, where these conventions are typically used as a wholesale substitute for narrative, porn books still feel the compulsion to tell a story, to make the glasses and bun mean something. I was curious just what story these new books were telling. What does our most current version of the librarian fantasy say about us? To answer this question, I visited the library.
The library sex fantasy has, in other words, entered an apocalyptic period. “Throw me on my back in the dark room with the microfiche,” says the narrator of “Checking Out,” the final story of 2011’s Nympho Librarian. “Fuck me amidst the relics of a world that progress threw away.” And in the eyes of the next generation, whose view isn’t sweetened by nostalgia, things look even bleaker. In another story from Nympho we overhear the devastating comment of a brash young paramour—a boy with no memory of a world before Google—as he pinions his elder librarian mistress to a shelf of Russian lit (“not a section of the library that received many visitors”).
“I like your hair down like that,” he says, “it makes you look abandoned.”
A unique voice in erotic fiction, January 31, 2012 By J. Gentry (New Fairfield, CT USA) - See all my reviews (REAL NAME) Amazon Verified Purchase(What's this?) This review is from: The First Time and 59 Other Magical Minutes (Kindle Edition) Erotic writing is difficult. It takes a real talent to bring a unique voice to a genre full of wannabe's of modest talent. Jenny Swallows, through verse and rhyme, has achieved something new. Her tales are visually full, verbally explicit and paced the way only poetry can be. I didn't think someone could write 59 poems about sex and still have them interesting and mind bending. I was wrong. Jenny Swallows did it.
I am not a big reader of erotica because it gets boring quickly. Sorry. Most writers are missing something basic. Good writing skills. Jenny combines her own lust to fulfill her needs with a masterful sense of expression. She brings you into her mind. It is a journal of her experience and extensions of fantasy written in first person. It is as much confessional as it is descriptive. That is the compelling part of the read. Whether fact or fiction, you feel her emotions and wit and sense of raw passion. Yes, she does not hit a home run on every poem, but in most cases she tells you up front that the lyric is a stretch or the rhyme is pathetic.
I am sure that among the poems there will be one or two that come back to you over and over. That is the power of her imagery. You can almost hear her gasping for air. Read the poems, you'll know what I mean.
I'm a writer, not a photographer. So just be aware that the pics on this site were not taken by me, and aren't owned by me either - not even the ones that I'm in. If you are a photographer and find your pics on this site, please get in touch - I'd love to credit you (if you wish), and even use more of your work. If you're here it's because I love the photo!
MISS AMERICA - A BDSM VAMPIRE TALE
An ancient cult, a modern secret society and one of the most extreme erotic adventures you have ever read. Buy it now from Amazon.
The Nympho Librarian & Other Stories
Eleven scalding tales of lust and love in the halls of public learning - the town library!
The sex is hot, but the librarians are hotter, as authors Chrissie Bentley and Jenny Swallows reveal the lip-smacking truth about what goes on behind (and on top of, and around as well) the bookshelves.