..."Go, park yourself!" -- a new, if so-so neologism...

Dec 31, 2017

Harem Rock

By Michael Ampersant (text) and Theo Blaze (art)

Michael Ampersant had dreamed of using some poetry in THIS IS HEAVEN---one character speaking in verse, say---but nothing came of it. But then he discovered that the first part of Chapter 33, "Harem Rock" would actually work as poetry if reformatted as a stanza. Nothing up to Shakespeare standards, but still. Next, the formidable Theo Blaze put up an invite on his site, asking authors to come up with a brief story to illustrate one of his pictures. Michael reacted, and they got a deal; Michael would write a story, if Theo would create an illustration for "Harem Rock." And there we are:

Why couldn’t you,
At the end of a page-turning,
Adverb-packed day,
Of unparalleled heat levels.

Why couldn’t you,
Just down the third ‘fortification’ the lady of the house was handing you,
And chuck your dirty shorts one more time,
And let the sex slave fix the Magic-Mike collar around your neck.

In view of the advanced hour,
We’ll keep the strip-tease to a minimum.

Shed your drawers,
To the dutiful applause,
Of the sex-starved men on Gohard’s lustlager.

And now the typical complication,
Of a hinterland orgy,
The sex slave fitting us,
With lime-green boxers of glossy balloon-dog material,
(More foil than cloth).

Balloon-dog bulges,
Reverberating in the starry ceiling lights.

Alex downing yet another flute,
Offered by the lady of the house,
Half the bubbly spilled.

Alex putting in a belly dance to a tango from Gohard’s Bose box,
The tune shifting to quartertone harem-rock,
(Paint it Black).

Alex taking the hint and taking me from behind,
(Clean good fun),
Alex dry-humping with the tipsy elegance of a pubescent raptor,
(Or cobra, or alpha-pup),
Whispering to my ear,
That he will always love the lazy-yet-serendipitous cum-squirrel,

That he couldn’t do this after four cum-episodes,
Unless people were watching.


The sound shifting gear again,
Alex testing the waistband of my balloon dogs,
Alex briefly on his knees,
Testing my balloon-dog-bulge with his lips,
(I hate cotton sex).

Trevor stroking Gohard,
Gohard stroking Trevor,
More of this.

Gohard going down on Trevor, cool,
We’ll be left to our own devices here on the dance floor.

And now Maurice’s getting into the act,
Clapping me off and taking Alex’s arm.

Tango again for a misleading moment,
Maurice’s glandular needs bursting forward,
(I skip the details).

Balloon dogs shed,
Inches inching forward,
Harem rock resuming,
(Quarter tones composed by Muslim Obama).

And I’m standing there,
Transfixed in inner space,
Wondering needlessly how Alex will pull it off,
Maurice grunting,
Alex grunting needlessly,
Trevor grunting,
Gohard grunting,
The sex slave grunting serving condoms, needlessly,
The infallible stir of a climax in the making,
(“Yeah, fuck”).

And I retrieve my dirty shorts,
And grab my dick and put it back into my shorts,
And run away. 

You're still there? Then you'll like the book. It's out now, here:

Michael Ampersant

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