It doesn't make sense --- teaser --- This is heaven

It doesn't make sense, but then we rarely make sense. Here's a picture by Guy Billout, which beautifully sums up This Is Heaven:

Louis of Versailles and the Titanic in the same frame? Let's start with Louis of Versailles, one of our best neologisms, invented by Greta Wetten Dass, the award-winning romance author, in steamy Chapter 14; Greta recounting last night's adventure with Ben Fletcher and Jane Trumpleton, (Alex and John listening):

“The pursuit of love-making, gentlemen, has a practical component. Despite the best efforts of my pen-colleagues, a male person can have only so many ejaculations during a limited period of time. We would have Ben three, at most four times during the night. Letting him come at that moment would have meant that a quarter of his lust had already been consumed while we weren’t quite undressed.”

“It’s funny,” Alex says, “how your voice oscillates between the practical and the romantic.”

“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, more precum oozing in all directions, then whispers, ‘He’s bursting, no way he can hold this, he would explode at the very moment of penetration. Let’s enjoy this fountain while it lasts. He has enough ejaculations left, at least one for each of us, trust your sister.’

“I signal my consent. ‘Shall I?” she asks. I nod. Jane clutches Ben’s rutting rod at the bottom, cups his balls, squeezes twice, and—you’ve heard of the Fountain of Geneva, I presume, the monument built by Hadrian, the Roman emperor to commemorate the most memorable event of his sex life—the fountain erupts. While Jane squeezes his lustspiel one last time, the ongoing, persistent moans of its owner—hereunto a languishing, slowly building crescendo—burst into shouts of rampant surfeit.

‘Aaahhhggg,’ he groans wantonly. ‘Aaahhggg.’ A first contraction of his abdomen shakes him (and us) to the bones, and now a second contraction brings forth a gush of sheer delight, a jet of man milk so pure, so sweeping, so resplendent that both of us girls gasp in pounding admiration, our hearts filled with joy, our mouth gape-wide-open, and while the fountain erupts yet again, and again, and again, his jizz, so destined for the moon and the stars, has gently reversed direction—thank the Almighty for that—and is pouring down on us, the authors of his climax. We were lightly dressed at that point, fortunately. More gushes are forthcoming, more delight is shared, more jungle jizz soars across the sky like sparks in a firework from Louis of Versailles. You get the idea.

“Ben, half-recumbent throughout the performance, is sinking back. We lick his goo and find it sweet like honey. Jane refills the flutes with more champagne. A short break is observed.”



And now the Titanic. Here, in steamy Chapter 27, "We Need a Room," where John and Taylor urgently need a room: 


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 weren’t round. We bolt the door. We stare at the room: the king-sized bed, closet, balcony window, mini-desk along the wall under the TV. Above the bed—the washed-up scriptwriter must have done this—hangs a framed poster of the White Star Line about the maiden voyage of the Titanic.

Why is it different this time? Is there anything beyond sheer sex that holds us back? I mean, John, please, be realistic, how many emotional punts have you placed inside a week, more than you’ve placed during the rest of your life, practically. And now Taylor? All this while Alex is viciously banging the Bienpensant downstairs? Or upstairs?

I turn my ears to the left wall, the right wall, the ceiling, the floor. We’re both listening now. This is a thin-walled structure from the ‘70s, we’ve noted this earlier. It resonates with clanking elevators, children’s shrieks, flushing lavatories, banging doors, passing footfalls outside on the gallery. There’s connubial disagreement upstairs, and a connubial agreement downstairs, something beating against the wall, a bedhead, presumably.

“Let’s have a shower,” Taylor says.

Good idea. We undress. Shorts, drawers, shirts, they don’t drop on the floor but—under Taylor’s attentive eye—are folded away on the luggage tray next to the desk. Half-boners come into view. Taylor looks at my thing and affects a coughing laugh. His junk has been treated to a fairly thorough bikini wax since yesterday, all pubic hair is gone. It’s quite okay, his body, nothing too small or too large, the slender features of a belated twink—not much in the way of definition, of course, very white, the body, not much beach time apparently for this enterprising nerd who has put his spectacles away and squints at the world like someone just waking up. He isn’t Hollywood material, but even-featured enough to run for office or have full sex with impoverished assistant professors of French. His red hair is very thick and unruly—his strongest point, physically...



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