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.

“Flame-red and wind-tossed is always the preferred color, trust Brigittå on that one,” Brigittå replies.
“Aphrodisiacs don’t exist, it’s a myth,” Alex says.
“A myth that dared to speak its name yesterday night,” she says. “Let me share.”

“Introductions are stridently made, intimacy swiftly develops, and girlie confessions lubricate another encouraging drink. Her husband is traveling the far-flung shores on urgent business, and she is given to libertinage when he is abroad. ‘Let's see,’ she says while casting an expectant gaze upon the masculine throng around us. We single out some specimen for closer scrutiny, tipping them off one by one, but find them all wanting. (Women, you know, start with the buttocks, then focus on the face, then on the crotch.)
‘You know,’ Jane confides, ‘I met this guy last week, John, he’s hot as pineapples, and he has started an A-level service for damsels in late-night distress. I had a chance to taste him already.”

(Alex gives me a lateral look.)

“Jane giggles, fingers for here handy cell phone tucked away in her quivering cleavage and finds herself connected to said service. Arrangements are quickly agreed upon.”

(Brigittå interrupts herself:)

“John, that is supposedly you,” she says.
“How do you know,” I say.
“Jane painted your lively picture while we were waiting, the elongated torso, toned and speaking of gymnastic pursuits, strong legs thrown into relief by untidy shorts, a staunchly pensive expression on his handsome face, eyes of fine gray and amber, lips full with promise and melancholy, his hand in his face as if he’s trying to hide, a perfect hairline under a careless, or shall we say carefree, coiffure.”

John, supposedly

(Now you know, folks, finally. It took us 67 chapters to get there. She’s exaggerating, of course. I lower my hand.)

“But John doesn’t show up,” Alex says.
“How do you know,” Brigittå asks, and Alex, for the first time in my life at least, Alex shows signs of something akin to embarrassment. Brigittå doesn't take the matter any further.

“John does show up, you’ll see. It’s Ben. Ben is his pet name. His Christian name is John.

“You boys battling for the other team will have noticed how handsome he is, our John of convenience, and to two tipsy damsels in late-night distress he appears to provide an answer to many moonlit prayers. His jungle-cat body, his skin black as sin, his magnolia smile, his beguiling manhood so expectantly packaged in the bulge of his jeans, they all speak to us of many candlelit answers.
‘What is your girlie stance on the ebony race?’ Jane confides.
‘A promising challenge to rampant confessions,’ I answer a bit mysteriously because I couldn’t think of anything else. In the meantime, our jungle-boy has let his spadiceous eyes wander over the animated crowd and recognized my face. His shee..., his shyish smile segues into a lingering question mark. I lift a hand to hold his attention. Jane, in sympathy, signals the Esperanto of an emptying tumbler with her elegant digits.
‘I know him, I know him,’ I say.
‘Already?’ Jane mockingly asks.
‘It’s not what you think.’
‘It soon will be,’ Jane giggles.

Queen of the night, relief from Southern Mesopotamia, reign of Hammurabi, 1792-1750 BC

“In the meantime, our ebony boy has made his way to the bar. ‘Excuse me,’ he says to us, I’m a bit lost.’
‘And found,’ Jane replies.
‘I’m John,’ he says.
‘We have been expecting a John,’ Jane says as if she were a lady-in-waiting to the Queen of the Night.
‘I don’t quite know what is expected of me.’ John-Ben says.
‘No need to worry,’ Jane says, ‘we do.’
‘It’s an outcall,’ he says.
‘An outcall,’ Jane says, her soprano rich with turtle dove gurgle. ‘Your first time?’
‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘I guess.’
Jane bursts into an aria of laughter one might not dare call hysterical in polite society, enfin, she says it a bit so that people can hear us, ‘The boy is a virgin, Tamina.’”

(“Tamina?” Alex asks.)

“Tamina, yes, but that’s not important, she’s just confusing names, perchance I didn't introduce myself properly. What is important, as Ben will enlighten us on the occasion that our flushed bodies are reclining on Jane’s tiger hide in the lambent afterglow of a particularly breathtaking chain reaction, what is important is that she has called him a boy. Both of us girls didn’t know, you are not expected to apply the word to Afro-American males older than nine years in polite society. Ben, at any rate, arrests his smile, his expression overtaken by minority sorrow, his brows furrowed into angry question marks. He point his saddened eyes at Jane and says ‘Nahh.’ He lets his gaze swivel erratically between the two distressed sisters of the evening.

 ‘Ladies,’ he says, ‘this is an unfortunate mixup. I ain ‘t, you know, I ain’t, you know, at least, I wasn’t.’ He is making preparations to bid his farewell...

Go here for the previous teaser of This is heaven, here for the next one, and here for a choice of chapters of the Green Eyes.

Update: The title of the chapter is now: "Let's visit the candlelit interior of your delicate soul."

Update, update: No-no, the handsheet title stays. Here's the relevant fragment, I think it works:

(Brigittå  says:) “Enfin, we concentrate our attention on the leading part in this---isn’t there an expression in German, ‘Lustspiel?’”

I don’t know how, but unexpectedly she holds a sheet of paper in her hand, studies it attentively. It’s titled Handsheet for the erotic writer.

Meanwhile, Alex flips his cell phone, swipes. “It’s German, yes,” he says, “means comedy. A play with a happy ending.”

“Right. Happy ending, that’s what we achieved, a happy ending, although poor Ben paid a steep price...

(a few more lines, indulge us (Brigittå is speaking, don't forget):)

...Let’s hope he’ll recover soon. His reputation will spread, a bright future beckons, the nation needs him. He’ll be the hero of my next book, so much is certain, he’ll start as a run-away slave in the mid nineteen hundreds, is taken under the wings by a libertine lady like Jane, his reputation spreads across the lands, the White House gets involved, what was the name of Lincoln’s wife, the Tsarina sends her greetings and a clipper from Saint Petersburg to pick him up, pirates intercept his voyage, then, enamored, treat him very well, all this in graphic detail, you can’t sell anything these days without a gay component…I don’t even have to invent anything, just rephrase it in dated language and have people dressed up like Gettysburg, and voilà.”

Are you still there? Then you'll possibly like the GREEN EYES. The first part is out now, available as Kindle book on Amazon, under this link:

Night Owl Reviews

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