Sep 28, 2016

Hillary, can you hear us?... (reposted)

After disappointing debate performance, Trump "threatens" to make Bill Clinton's marital infidelity a campaign issue. So, let's re-post this:

We're keenly following the US election campaign, including Hillary Clinton's preparations for the televised debates between her and Donald Trump. The communis opinio appears to be that Trump will throw any conceivable dirt at her, including Bill Clinton's affair with Monica Levinsky. What should be her answer? 

Sep 25, 2016

Flame-red and wind-tossed are always the preferred color --- This is heaven --- teaser (12)

So, Ben has been tricked by Alex into answering this outcall, and the next morning we're told by Brigittå Haagen Dasz, the erotic writer, what happened next. Hold on: this fragment also has the first authentic description of John's looks. Enjoy:   

“So, let me tell you the story,” she say when she’s back. “Yesterday evening, we return to the hotel, the Lupo di Mare, the auberge of Italianate style nestled squarely near the central traffic circle of this charming seaside town. My Håågen feels exhausted, the good man and husband, but he’s so kind to offer me a spousal refreshment at the bar. I know my Håågen and send him off to bed where sweet dreams will soon engulf him and/or usher him into Morpheus’s arms.”

Cover of a book by Susan Johnson,
the writer who provided the model
for Brigitta Haagen-Dasz

She interrupts herself. “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 patio door flung open and there comes a woman, the hair flame red, the curls wind-tossed, the striding apparition of a true equestrian gliding on eloquent thighs through the late-night crowd. She alights on the bar stool next to yours truly. Her voice is lazy with provocation as she speaks more to me than to the tender of the bar when she says: ‘I would fancy something stiff and strong and tonight.”
‘Amaretto,’ I reply instinctively, feeling a sudden craving for the sweet-night liqueur of carnal reputation. She giggles knowingly. 
‘Not exactly a drink one would think of as stiff, but the best aphrodisiac know to sisters,’ she answers. She orders two glasses of the amber-colored stimulant. It transpires presently that her name is Jane.”

Sep 22, 2016

Sep 13, 2016

My erection beat time in my underwear (update)

(This was posted quite a while ago---we promised to steal a quote from acclaimed author Manil Suri---and there's an update now (finally), scroll down:)

You remember our post about Walter Kelly and Pogo Possum, the comic strip, where the mice of the world meet to invent a worser mousetrap. Along those lines, the writers of the world have met to write a worser sex scene, and now we know who won, Manil Suri, a professor of mathematics in India, apparently, for a section in his novel The City of Devi, a story of three characters interlocking in inter-galactic intimacy:

“Certainly explode at this moment somewhere in a distant galaxy Supernovas. The hut around us disappears, along with the sea and the sand. Only Karuns body, firmly intertwined with my remains. We race as superheroes past suns and solar systems, we dive through swarms of quarks and nuclei. Statisticians the world over rejoice in the face of our groundbreaking fourth star.“

We will steal this folks, statisticians the world over rejoice, trust us. Talent borrows, know who... steals.

Some more: Susan Choi’s "My Education" made a good stab at first place with her “magma” that “still heaved and groaned and was yearning to fling itself into the air” also taking a geophysical line. Also in competition was Woody Guthrie’s House of Earth: “in the fires of her stomach she strained and moved to bathe his blood into the rumble and the thunder of her own.”

And then there is Rupert Thompson, with: “I closed my eyes as well and penetrated her. I imagined the stiff meat and the smooth ring of muscles before. Mauve and yellow flowers fill the black screen of my eyelids, the petals expectorant and down floating, to soften gray stone. I kissed the soft stubble in the hollow of her armpit, then I kissed the smaller trough on her collarbone. “

And finally, Eric Reinhardt, “The Victoria’s System”:

“The zipper of her skirt between her fingernails stuttered like a motor boat on a calm sea … My erection throbbed every second in my underpants.”

(Update:) The steal is official. Here, from Chapter 15 of This Is Heaven [context: our characters Juliette and Romeo have just left the scene, holding hands]:

The cell-phone rang.

It’s Maurice. He’s stuck. Writer’s block. He can’t think of any decent trivia-wise. Nothing with a snap-your-finger feel. “Does it matter?” I ask.
“Certainly,” he says, “that’s why we are in the business of writing, isn’t it, to feel inspired, and by feeling inspired becoming more inspired.”
“You sound like an expensive graduate course of something,” I say.

He falls silent.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “I apologize. I went too far.”
“Indeed,” he says.
“The trivia,” I say. “Think of it as a commission. Quick and dirty. Deadline approaching, copy editor leering over your shoulder.”
“Well, nobody is leering over my shoulder.”
“Ben still asleep?”
“Hold the line,” I say.

‘Hold the line,’ I said, because Juliette’s friends are upon us, the children of vampire trivia. “We missed you yesterday,” Alex has said to them in the meantime. 

Well, they have been busy finding accommodation and stuff, somebody had sent them on a wild goose chase for a motel without GPS and they got lost behind the Okefenokee Swamp. They’ve rented tents now on a camping ground nearby.

Juliette, have we seen her? No, we haven’t, we have no idea that Juliette is losing her virginity as we speak, possibly in a real-beautiful way to a really beautiful kid who calls himself Romeo, can you believe this, this happens only in soap operas written by the washed-up screenwriter, but it does happen, against all odds, statisticians the world over rejoice. We have no idea. 

“Today,” I say a bit out of turn, “today is your day.” 
“Trivial pursuit, vampire trivia.” I wave my copy of the program to cover the act of slipping an active, connected cell phone into a pocket of my shorts. “You’re into this, aren’t you?”

No, they are not. They are serious. 

Stay tuned, more is coming soon. We're are almost done with the first draft now, finally. Four more chapters to write.

Sep 12, 2016


So we go for a walk along the Augstbord water pipe, a duct that exists since 1320 and distributes meltwater among the villages in the neighborhood. Last time we visited was 8 years ago, when we got almost killed by falling rock (Michael, for unclear reasons, had stopped walking, perhaps waiting for Chang behind him, and 6 seconds later, at the exact location were he would have been, a massive rock slipped and would have killed him---not making this up). So we avoided the trail for superstitious reasons, but then Chang got his new Nikon D3300, and we had to go.

Click for a larger picture

It's funny how memory works. You don't remember anything about the trail 8 years later, save for the falling rock, but then, five minutes into the hike, things come back, and you recall having walked past this house (the Swiss call it "Hütte" --- hut). Last time, you remember, the structure was empty, or abandoned. This time, a dog (center) charges down the slope, barking, and, upon arrival, turns immediately on its back in expectation of cuddling and caresses. 

We continue. We're above the Matter valley at ca. 2100 m (Zermatt and Matterhorn are up the valley to the south (to the right of the picture), and frontal you have the entrance to the Saas valley that plays such an important role in Michael's story The Fountain of Geneva (Roman Emperor Hadrian, a shadow of Antinous, an erotic SWAT team, crazy Vikings).

A thunderstorm breaks (almost), we turn around. There's the dog again, plus his master, Marcel. "She has her beauty from me," Marcel opens the conversation (he means the dog, a Border Collie mutt). Marcel is a cowboy, really, he guards cows during the summer, and lives here. We talk about (a) language, how the Swiss dialect relates to ancient German, (b) the locals (god-fearing, superstitious Catholics, still), (c) afterlife, and (d) we promise to be back soon with a bottle of Fendant, the favored local wine (also mentioned in Michael's story). Later, during dinner at the Moosalp, the favored local restaurant, Carmen, the publican, tells us that Marcel writes plays.

Sep 9, 2016


(Hat tip: Homo Desiribus)

Fragment, fragment! Here, from This Is Heaven, Ch 27, "We need a room," (John & Taylor together)

(Early on in the chapter, before anything happened:) 

The room is in the same wing as Juliette’s (and Barbette’s I guess). The view is the same as well; we could see Africa if the world were flat. We bolt the door. We stare at the room: king-sized bed, closet, balcony window with A/C underneath, mini-desk along the wall with a flat-screen TV. Above the bed—-some anarchist decorator must have done this—-hangs a framed poster of the White Star Line about the maiden voyage of the Titanic. 

(It has happened now:) 

“The earthquake is over,” I say and withdraw. We’re lying side by side now, reeking of salty cum, unable to lift a limb, gasping, but otherwise silent. Everybody is silent. The children have stopped squeaking, the couples have made up, the bedheads are at rest. You could hear a pin drop. No pin drops. 

“You think they were listening?” he asks.
“So to hear,” I say. He laughs.

We’ve discussed this before. Up here, in our heads, us males get back to normal very quickly. 

“One more time?” Taylor asks.
“I’d take this as a compliment,” I say.
“Let’s cherish the memory.”
“This was the best sex in my life,” Taylor says.
“I thought it was your first time?”
“So, I’m right by definition.”
“You sound like Alex,” I says.
“Alex,” he muses. “Come to think of it. Alex. Ten inches.” 

He rises, steps into drawers, shorts, T-shirt, sneakers, horn-rimmed spectacles, collects his Marlboroughs, and says: “I think I’ll go now. Spread the good news.” He points at something above my head, above the headrest. There it still hangs, the Titanic, its frame severely off-kilter. “See you later,” Taylor adds.

In the woods and on the heath --- another book of prayers --- by Jan v. Rijn

Cool, folks, cool, we're in Jan v. Rijn's highly bibliophile book "In the woods and on the heath." And it's not, as you might expect, another explicit exercise. No, it is, as the subtitle says, "another book of prayers," so more in the old-school, Aubrey Beardsley style of cheeky suggestion. Jan's drawings are subtle, elaborate, time-consuming, black-and-white, and AROUSING! Michael is not the only author, there are contributions by Paul Eluard, Louis Aragon, Vanessa de Largie, and many others. 

Here's one of Michael's stories, accompanied by the corresponding picture. The story was written after Michael saw the picture, and the hero of his tale, Jeffrey, really is a spitting image of Jan's model. And as so often with Michael's work, the story is mostly true. Enjoy.  


The town house was located in an off-center residential street of Amsterdam inside its own red-light bubble: Blue Boys said the neon-sign on the façade. Jeffrey was one of the boys, although he’d come into the picture only after I’d failed to talk up a hot guy who sat behind the improvised bar on the second floor and assured me he’s a customer himself. 

The sex with Jeffrey on the third floor was so-so, so we had time to talk. He’d just enrolled with the Blue Boys because he had no place to stay, and no money, and a bright future with me—-if he could stay with me, that is, at my place, which wasn’t far.

Jeffrey spent one more working night at the brothel and then we had sex one more time, although I failed to penetrate. He pushed me away, wrapping himself in the blanket. I don’t remember how I came.

We separated, and he would sleep in the second bedroom. He’d “help,” or “contribute”—-he’d keep the place clean, which he did very well. 

My friends would comment on him, especially my female friends. He’s beautiful, they’d say.

On Saturdays he’d ask me to give him a ride to the acting school for poor boys/gals. “Cycle faster,” he’d say while sitting on the luggage rack behind me; he was from South-Africa.

We’d organize parties with his class mates and his new boyfriends. He had a Moroccan class mate, Muhammed, who’d complain later that the gals would never leave him alone and that he had to have sex in the spare bedroom, early-on during the feast, under the cover of the guest’s overcoats, and then more sex with somebody else later on, and it wouldn't stop; he didn’t look the part.

Jeffrey needed the money that I didn’t give him, but then he remembered Phillip, who had more money and was much older. I spent a lot of face time with Phillip while both of us were waiting for Jeffrey to show up. Phillip made his money running drugs but he’d always been honest with his clients, I learned. And he was addicted to Jeffrey.

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...