Apr 30, 2014

The Term Resurrectors of Trayas (Maud)

We met Maud in the street the other day, and she, normally a serene neighbor with a charmingly stand-offish approach to local gossip, she was all-aflutter.

"Michael," she says, "I have something for your. I've seen the light! Have you ever been a member of the Militant Grammarians of Massachusetts?"
"Yes," I say.
"Well, I got evicted."
"By Avril Mondragon?"
"How do you know?"
"Never mind," she says, "but we're getting the band back together again. There's a new society. The Term Resurrectors of Trayas."
"The what?"
"The Term Resurrectors of Trayas. Let me explain. Or better, let me not explain. A picture says a thousand words."

(She shows me this picture:)


"Here, she says, "queer" resurrected. Queer!"

"Have you been listening to this?" --- This is heaven (teaser)

Just real quick: We start with the last words of Brigittå about her encounter with Ben. Then there is Juliette who has spent the last couple of minutes behind Brigittå's back---those crucial minutes that the author of flame-hot romance literature shares the best orgasm of her life. And then there are the Knights of Malta ... yes, they came up first in Chapter 28 of Part I when Ben and John shared Ben's bed and and then again in Chapter 54 when Alex and John shared John's bed. For more context, please see previous teasers. So, Brigittå speaking: 

 "That’s exactly it. Time has disappeared. There is no beginning to your lust, and not end, you’re suspended in the sky held in place by the absence of time and yet another little flutter of Ben's crotch. Words fail me. A pure miracle.”


There’s a puzzled expression on his face and a dreamy one on hers

Apologies for interrupting this (this is John speaking now), but we’re getting interrupted anyhow. Romeo has made it across the field and is close enough to seek Juliette’s eye contact. There’s a puzzled expression on his face and a dreamy one on hers---it is stunning how much Romeo resembles Ben at this very moment. Brigittå, sensing somebody behind her, turns around.

Romeo, supposedly

Apr 28, 2014

Obama's fault

The many little Nazis of Germany tended to ask rhetorically "Wenn nur der Führer das wüsste," (if the führer (Hitler) would only know); meaning to say: "it's not Hitler's fault." Führer translates to "leader," by the way, I think any business school worth its endowment would fire you immediately if you would raise the subject at a faculty meeting.

You get the gist.

But we have something else in mind, Something lighter. Stay tuned.

Apr 27, 2014

Green Eyes --- Part II (This is heaven) (Teaser: Scribble, scribble, scribble, Mr. &) (Reposted)

When we started the research on "This is heaven," we wrote a few posts (about it) (the research). Here's the first one, reposted:

We've started the research on part two of the Green Eyes and are wondering how to get our mind around various issues, such as (1) vampires, (2) the end-of-the-word, (3) X-factors (America-got-talent or whatever), (4) Romeo & Juliette, (5) murder, in particular murder by poisoning, (6) amnesia and/or the loss of identity, (7) pageants, (8) Ebonics, (9) verse meters, and (10) orgasms, in particular female ones.


The idea is that John and Alex will stay together, so we cannot repeat the love-story-construction of Part I. Let's hope we'll get some mileage out of Alex's mysterious post-suicidal personality (he's suffering from serious amnesia, has no recollection of his personal past), and, in particular, out of his sexual ambiguity vis à vis John --- Alex had been informed of his homosexual orientation, more or less accepted the information, experimented a bit with straight sex, and is now living with an anxious John, an unreliable narrator who doesn't quite understand whether Alex is real, or just trying to be nice. Ideally, Alex would have shed his depression but maintained most other parts of his personality, but that's perhaps too much to ask for, as John understands himself. From the point of view of the further story, Alex will have to walk a fine line between ignorance and insouciance.

Handsheet for the erotic writer (6)

Salvador Dali: The temptation of St.Anthony

(Like the last post on this...)...not exactly a hand sheet either, but we couldn't help developing second thoughts when reading the following short quote from an article about sanctification:

"Saintliness is part of the church's DNA," the Vatican's current chief saint-maker, Cardinal Angelo Amato, wrote in his 2012 tome on canonization. "Through the centuries, saints have been the spiritual doorway through which humanity is directed toward God."

Like Alex says, the power of substitution, folks. Start considering substituting terms for "saints" and "humanity."

(Just saying, okay. When you write sex scenes---yes, it happens, people write sex scenes---you have to rely on the power of similes and analogies. Along those lines. Nothing deep. Peace from Cali.)

(Sorry, Alex didn't say "the power of substitution," he said "the power of subsumption"---never mind)

Apr 26, 2014

Sexual input --- This is heaven (teaser)

Indulge us, indulge us, one last teaser for Chapter 13. Brigittå Haagen Dasz, the author of flame-hot romance novels, continues to share the events of last night in another very short fragment.  

She has just finished a few paragraphs filled with rampant oral sex and allusions to the "Fountain of Geneva," and needs to catch her breath:

Brigitta takes a deep breath and fans herself with the hand sheet. The lush climes of Georgia have taken a turn towards the flame-hot---let me rephrase this: the air is heavy and sticky, and even the sea breeze has taken a break. Alex walks over to Luke’s stand to fetch a few cans of coke. I check optically whether anybody could notice the onset of my erection. Brigittå apparently has, she’s quite satisfied. We drink our drinks. “Ready?” Brigittå asks. We nod.

Bob Bienpensant: Hi, this is me

“Meanwhile, both sisters have undressed completely and are ready for more. Ben is not quite ready but Jane’s aimful caresses restore his manhood swiftly to operational valor. He’s expected to stand stud now, and he knows it. ‘Shall we toss a coin?’ Jane asks teasingly, then says: ‘you go first, you are the guest.’ Token resistance is my answer, and soon I find myself on the edge of her luxuriant bedstead, my legs wide and sky-wise directed, my lust craving and yearning, and Ben inside. Yes, the moment of initial penetration was fleeting, gentlemen, the bodily fluids were flowing and lubricating his approach so wantonly that little is remembered of the instant that his juicy organ slides into my quivering love purse for the first time.”

Apr 24, 2014

Ben groans wantonly --- This is heaven (teaser)

Brigittå Håågen Dasz, the author of flame-hot romance novels, continues to share the events of last night:  

“It’s the same with love, Alex. The sensual and the physical, it’s not an easy marriage. Women, you may have noticed, are more practical when it comes to the inevitable; they bear children, they live longer. So Jane shakes Ben’s maleness knowingly, precum coating his crown, dripping off in all directions, then whispers: ‘He’s about to burst, no way he can hold this, he'll explode at the very moment of penetration. Let’s enjoy his fountain while it lasts. He has two more ejaculations to go, at least, one for each of us, I know men.’

The fountain of Geneva

Apr 23, 2014

Shakespeare---let's celebate his 450th birthday...

...and repost our piece about his 18th sonnet:

(So, it starts:)

Since we are a literature blog now, we have to do serious stuff, like posting some serious pictures, like. Like this one...

Tyson Beckford
...which brings to mind Shakespeare's 18th sonnet...

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st,
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. 

...(you don't want to look at the HTML code underneath)...

...but you might want to look at this clip, eternalizing David Gilmour, the singer of Pink Floyd, when he set the sonnet to his music, because that's what aging rock stars, like us, do, when, they, have, their, reflective, moments...

...and judge yourself.

Hold on, here are a few pointers to Sonnet 18:

Tuesday matinée (Jezza Smilez)

(Just a new picture from Jezza:)

Apr 21, 2014

Handsheet for the erotic writer --- This is heaven (teaser)

 If you are following this: In Chapter 10 ("A box of sleeepy kittens") John's A-level escort service phone rings late at night. He feigns sleep. Alex answers, and tricks Ben into taking the (out)call. Now we're in Chapter 13, where Brigittå Haagen Dasz, the accomplished author of steamy romance novels, relates her version of the ensuing story. The title of the chapter is tentative, we expect Brigittå to produce her own erotic hand-sheet at one point to look up an expression, not sure this will work. (This is only a draft, expect the final version to be quite different.)

“So, let me tell you the story,” she say when back from the restroom. She’s a bit conspiratorial, her budding breasts play with the décolletage of her gold-palm-embossed tank top. Alex pays too much attention.

“Let me tell. Yesterday evening, we return to Lupo di Mare, the auberge of Italianate style nested squarely near the central traffic circle at the heart of this charming sea-side town. My Haagen feels exhausted, the good man and husband, but he’s so kind to offer me a spousal refreshment at the bar. I know my Haagen and send him off to bed where sweet dreams will soon engulf him and/or usher him into Morpheus’s arms. No, drop the 'and/or,' let's say 'will soon engulf him and take him into Morpheus's arms.' Be this as it may, I am content to spend a few minutes alone with the drink and my poetic musings, yet find myself soon distracted by a current of lush air wafting into the room. The terrace door has opened, and there comes a woman, the hair flame red, the curls wind-tossed, the striding apparition of a true equestrian gliding on her eloquent thighs through the late-night crowd. She alights on the bar stool next to yours truly. Her voice is lazy with provocation, and she speaks more to me than to the tender of the bar when she says: ‘I would fancy something stiff and strong tonight, what would you suggest?’
Feeling a sudden craving in my late-night loins, I answer instinctively: ‘Amaretto'---meaning the sweet-night liqueur of carnal repute. She giggles knowingly.
‘Not exactly the stiffest thing one could think of at this time of the day, but the best aphrodisiac know to sisters,’ she answers and orders two glasses of the amber-colored stimulant. It transpires presently that her name is Jane.”

The cover of "Seductive as flame" by Susan Johnson, the renowned author  of steamy romance novels that inspire  Brigittå's voice

“Jane,” I say---Jane, that could be the Jane of Muffy & Jane, the desperate housewives with their gleaming Audi A8 on the driveway and a double dildo on the coffee table and my head locked between their pussies in an afternoon-Kamasutra. That happened on Thursday, the Kamasutra, and it was the final straw on the back of a---this metaphor is going to break down soon---I mean to say it triggered the A-level escort web site that put poor Ben out on the market yesterday night. But Jane’s hair is dark, not red. “I know a Jane like her, but her hair is dark, not red,” I say.

Time for a really bad poem

Upfront update: This is really getting embarrassing folks---we're getting so many hits for this post, possibly because people think: "This must be a good poem," but no, this really is a bad poem:

The Morning flame is on her mind
The up-and-up is hard to find,
For every dollar is a dime,
For summer solstice is a crime.

When moonlight strikes the heaven breaks,
Has nothing done, has eaten steaks,
Has drunken whiskey far to much,
Has left the sickbed not as such.

Halfdead she is and half alive,
Not given much to sinful strife,
How is she getting out of this,
Well, she is not, tell mighty Chris.

It's Easter morning here in town,
My neighbors dog won't show his crown,
But royals will, and that's enough.

(And you thought we were joking)

Happy Easter

Taurus (Jezza Smilez)

Apr 18, 2014

Friday matinée

"Show us the way to the next whiskey bar."
(Artwork by Bob Bienpensant)

And in case you were wondering:

And in case you are still wondering...

San Francisco (13) --- A walk across the Berkeley campus (Teaser: "Freedom Fries")

University of California, Berkeley---market stand near the entrance

So we're visiting Berkeley across the bay and in particular the campus of UCB, because our first, still unfinished novel "Freedom Fries" is partially set there, with Pamela Woods (fictional) as the dean of Berkeley Law School, John Yoo (real; the legal brain behind the Bush/Cheney waterboarding policy) on the faculty of said school, and a harebrained subplot to abduct Yoo and somehow press him to confess to evil deeds, preferably not by waterboarding. In order to execute the plan we need to know where Yoo parks his car. Zack, Leona and Liz are co-conspirators, and Justin Bieber (fictional) is the school's vice dean; the plot is set in 2009, the year (or more precisely the week) that Justin Bieber, the Canadian singer, finally breaks through.

Not the parking lot of Berkeley  Law School ...

They need to know where Yoo parks his car; else the plan would not work. He has stopped using the parking garage in the basement, and the rumor mill---a defective tool in Yoo’s case with his few friends---the rumor mill has it that he is upset by hostile bumper stickers on his Lexus and scared of water-boarding related scratches.
... but the parking lot of the physics department (you can read it, right: it says: "Parking space reserved for Nobel Laureate.") 

Zack and Leona are at Barbara’s cabin, Liz is studying Supreme Court opinions, Jim is helping her, somebody has to find out. It is fairly urgent. She collects the secret phone---Zack could call any minute now---hides it in her bag, and leaves the office. She will take up position in the lobby, where she will play the Populist Dean. The populist dean is expected of her anyhow, occasionally, and her performance is not without merit (despite mixed reviews), especially on Friday afternoons when people want to go home early, an inclination she applauds with one hand and dismisses with the other. Anyhow, there she stands, expansive as always (not always, only since twenty years), dispensing kisses, Hi’s, compliments (“you look great”), compliments (“you look great”), feedback (“we missed you at the budget meeting, where were you”), more compliments (“where did you get that tan?”), as her academic subjects are drifting toward TGI weekend.

Apr 16, 2014

Handsheets for the erotic writer (6) --- from Catherine Millet to James Joyce

Not really a handsheet, but anyhow:

We haven't seriously researched this, but writing style is not different from finger prints or irises, every author has her own. And the spread of the distribution is wider, think of comparing the foot print of a dinosaur with the touch of an ant or the mark of a rabbit (even inside a genre, just compare erotic writers Susan Johnson and Ludmilla Sanders).

We had this idea to look at a few female erotic authors, their rendering of the climax, the crest, the moment, when he
brings you off with that extraordinary precision soon unbearable, sooner or later after having you mounted with the vacant expression of a mating animal, having you kept there for an hour with his extraordinary erotic fabulations, perhaps after he would have tried out the most acrobatic positions, and the most improbable substitutes (cucumbers, sausages, Perrier bottles, a policeman's luminous white trunchheon), and then he would suddenly become quiet a few moments before orgasm...

...and compose all this into a report of last night's meeting of minds and bodies of John ("Ben") Fletcher and erotic author Brigitta Haagen-Dasz in the second part of the Green Eyes.

Yes, along those lines, more or less, although we'd like it to be a bit more poetic.

Let's think.

Okay, let's proceed this way, let's try to apply a simple elimination filter, not really modifying anything, just eliminating unnecessary, extraneous, or otherwise irritating expressions.

Catherine Millet at home

So, for example, let's not employ the verbification (yes, it exists, and an ugly word it is) the verbification of climax.

By the way, all expressions above are from Catherine Millet, founder and editor of France's leading art magazine Art Press, you may have heard of her and her book The sexual life of Catherine M. It is---spoiler alert---extraordinary---her book, and there's this familiar clustering of superlatives that we will now try to tackle:

Apr 14, 2014

Green Eyes (teaser) --- Germans playing Monopoly

Apologies, apologies, this has nothing to do with the Green Eyes, except that we played Monopoly once, with Sacha, the model for Jack Horn in the novel, and it ended in tears like this (I was Karl Marx)  (click to enlarge):

(find a few lines from the Jack Horn chapter underneath)

San Francisco (12) --- Bullit

While Chang and I were strolling through San Francisco yesterday, the conversation turned to the peculiarities of the street layout here, each street being its own turnpike, as it were, connecting A and B like Alpha Romeos would in the old days, no, wrong, we mean via the shortest route afforded by Euclidean geometry, straight, that is, straight, regardless of the third dimension---and the opportunities this affords to the cinematography of car chases. So here it is---you've certainly seen it a hundred times already---the car chase scene from Bullit, the 1968 movie with Steve McQueen:

Apr 12, 2014

Handsheets for the erotic writer (5)

We're doing research for another chapter of "This is heaven" (Part II of the Green Eyes), which will relate the story of Brigittå, the passionate writer of romance novels, who has been in touch with John's A-level escort service recently. More precisely, it will relate Brigittå's side of the story, which begins in Chapter 10 (excerpted below).

So here's the sheet, the fifth in the history of this blog (click on the picture): 

(There are a few typos; it must have been the excitement)

"The doorbell rings. Ben of course, or the cops (certainly the cops if anybody knew the real story). I’m asleep. Alex will buzz the buzzer and let homeless Ben in who will explain. Alex will suggest a beer, perhaps, and the couch in the kitchen. Would Ben expect to sleep in my bed? Our bed? Ben and Alex must have bonded during the twenty minutes of my jury absence, the voices in the kitchen sound conspiratorial, familiarized. The phone rings (my cell), which is lying on the computer desk. I’m asleep. Alex answers the phone. It’s for John (surprise), for the escort service (surprise). Alex knows about the escort service, I had told him about the money, or the lack thereof, and the failed outcall on Saturday (on Saturday). John, Alex says to Ben, your real name is John, isn’t it, they need you (he half-grins (I presume) (Alex)). It pays. It pays well. Right up your alley. Outcall. What’s an outcall? You’ll see, you know that stuff. Hold the line. Alex googles “escort + service + Georgia Beach” on the computer on the desk (I can follow him through my half-open eyes), and arrives on the website of the Georgia Beach A-level Escort Service. Why does he do this? To get the numbers right---two-hundred fifty bucks for an outcall (per hour), two thousand bucks (per night) (prohibitive (on purpose) (the rate)). He whispers something to Ben. And where? Lupo di Mare. You know where Lupo di Mare is. Yes, Ben knows (I know). We owe you, dude. Alex slaps Ben’s shoulder (dude) (again), and sees him off---make sure you get paid in advance. John is asleep. Alex returns to the bedroom, resumes his recumbent position next to me, clutches his i-thing, and fidgets with my tousled hair. John falls asleep."

For an earlier teaser of Chapter 10 ("A box of sleepy kittens"), go here.

By the way, the picture underlying the sheet ...

...is by Liliya Peter

Albert Camus --- This is heaven (teaser)

Context: John is called to the police station, where Ray is held as in connection with the mysterious death of Neill Palmer. Inspector LaStrada from the homicide unit wants to "chat." And, there's a new addition to the offices of the police department, a goldfish bowl.

The detective points at a transparent ticket holder lying on the counter. It contains a used sheet of paper, crumpled and refolded several times, letter size, written upon in what appears to be an approximately illegible hand. LaStrada flips the ticket holder, and the back side of the sheet appears to be written-upon as well, written in Alex’s hand, to be specific. This was Alex’s suicide letter, the letter I handed to Neill Palmer on Saturday night when the drunken rice queen had asked for a sheet of paper as we met in the street, me staggering home in despair while Alex and Amy-Lou were busy falling in love.

Let me interrupt myself briefly and talk about James Bond again. It doesn’t matter which movie we’re talking about, so let’s talk about the last one, Skyfall. Daniel Craig introduces himself to Dr. No or one of No’s co-workers, like Bérénice Marlohe, and says “The name is Bond, James Bond.” And while any other person on the planet would now go, like, “Great,” or “Can you give me an autograph,” Bérénice has apparently never heard of James Bond, grimaces casually, and shakes the stranger’s hand.

Albert Camus (1913 - 1962)

Along those lines, LaStrada has apparently no idea that he’s dealing with one of the most outlandish documents ever featured in erotic writing. He flips the ticket holder, grimaces casually, and reads: “‘Some people expend enormous energy merely to be normal’… Sounds mysterious, doesn’t it, Mr. Lee.”

Apr 11, 2014

The passive tense (Mr E.) (reblogged)

Mr. E., the mysterious voice behind the 50 shady gayshas returned to Thailand. Here's his latest post, reblogged with his permission:

I’d made it a rule never to trust a man who had begged me to piss on him; but on this occasion, he turned out to be right.

It was later at the bar, after he had scrubbed himself clean, that he told me he was a writer for an ex-pat newspaper here in Thailand. As the Vodka flowed, his conversation became loose and he bragged about his career. He bragged of his, “success.” He told me of the formulas and structures that dictated his work. “Make your work read more, interesting, exciting and credible,” he said.
“Mainly use the active forms – nobody trusts the passive voice.”

I could tell; by the number of half naked, Thai muscle men that surrounded him, that he was reasonably rich – and that he liked Thai tops, or “Kings.” “Kings,” are active. They go to the gym, they have shit tattoos and many bully their wives etc… In contrast, exclusively bottom, “Queens,” look fem and flouncy and wear far too many skin whitening products. Subsequently, “queens,” tend to be ridiculed more often - is that because, “nobody trusts the passive voice?”

Apr 7, 2014

It's Obama's fault

(Recent paintings by George W. Bush)

Monday matinée

(I listened to this, in Horowitz's interpretation, perhaps 500 times, so there you have it. My Horowitz was a studio recording; this is a bit slower, and it is somehow even more gripping.)

San Francisco (11) --- Camp Meeker(2)

More from Redwooood Country north of the Bay Area where we are staying during the weekend, thanks to an invite of Karen, our landlady in San Francisco, to her cabin in Camp Meeker.

Karen's cabin in Camp Meeker

Connubial bliss inside Karen's cabin

Apr 6, 2014

Sunday matinée

We rearranged the furniture at Karen's cabin a bit.

San Francisco (10) --- Camp Meeker

À la recherche du temps perdu...along those lines: how does one manage to arrive in San Francisco? We apparently can't make it stick. So we're now in Camp Meeker, 1:30 hours north of SF, in serious Redwood country.


The view from the terrace
We already had dinner at the Bistrot des Garçon in nearby Occidental. 

Apr 4, 2014

"Call me Romeo" --- This is heaven (teaser)

This is already the second teaser for Chapter 9. The first one, "Meet Barbette Bienpensant" ended with the words:

“Well, thank you,” Barbette answers. The sun sets, the mood darkens, and the professor is off to find light somewhere else.

Okay, let's reiterate the context: (1) The festival is about to begin. (2) Ben, the black guy whom we met first in the chapter "The hitchhiker's guide to gay sex" in the previous part of the Green Eyes, runs the market stand of Luke's convenience store; Alex sells Bavarian leather shorts for Godehart. (3)  Juliette is Barbette's sister. We met her earlier in the day when she (Juliette) told us she's still a virgin but would do anything for ice cream: 

“Well, thank you,” Barbette answers. The sun sets, the mood darkens, and the professor is off to find light somewhere else. And Juliette stays behind to lose her virginity. And I really need to deal with the Ben-Alex-John problem now, the longer I wait the awkwarder it gets. And I need to deal with Juliette, who has lifted two folding chairs from a stack next to the storage shed, offered one to Alex, one to herself, and is presently sitting next to the Green Eyes behind the market stand as if they will live happily ever-after selling Bavarian crotch shorts.
“I hate her,” Juliette says.
“No need to elaborate,” Alex says.
“John is your partner?” Juliette asks.
“I’ve been asked that before,” Alex answers (not true; he had been asked whether I’m his brother).
“You are…?” Her sentence trails.
“Since seven days apparently.”
“That’s what they tell me.”

Ford Maddox Brown, Romeo and Juliet (1870)

Anything, anything I could say now would make it only worse. There I stand. I really need help. And, you know what, I get it, I get it for once.

Apr 3, 2014

San Francisco (9)

Harvey Milk, former (and assasinated) gay mayor of San Francisco
(Another picture from the superb artist Tony de Carlo, whom we discovered lately)

Go here for the previous San Francisco post

Apr 2, 2014

Tony de Carlo

Tony de Carlo: "Bird Man Of The Desert", 18" x 24", Acrylic on Canvas, 2006
(We discovered another superb gay artist, Tony de Carlo; see right column for a link to his site)