The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 2

by Maxim Jakubowski

  During timeless nights, she taught him all she had learned from the Incarnadine Countess and her Carnelian Acolytes. Where once he had startled her by buffing his penis on a razor strop while readying for a set-to, now the tricks she could show him made that seem like a trivial novelty: her cloister had become a veritable machinery of agile musculature whose soft wheels, resilient rollers and subterranean gizmos commenced a turbulent pulsating and clutching that astonished him with its precision – it was like a gilding of the very lily of sentience, and in its throes it seemed as if his penis were a celestial cud being worked and reworked by the mouth of some divine bovine; he felt as if the neurons all along its sultry length were being irradiated and marinated in a sort of effervescent salt brine. She belaboured him with her cunt: her mobile vulva chewed him over methodically, like a loving dog with soft electric teeth, and when she had achieved her own orgasm, which he recognized by a gaudy cry like that of a peacock flushed from cover by a Fauvist gamesman, she brought him off as well with a sudden series of muscular tugs and primpings analogous to those of a mother urging her son onto a public school stage for a holiday performance.

  She came for the first time not with a bang but with a whimper. But by the end of their honeymoon, she would bring psychic luggage for each orgasmic journey, monogrammed and covered with travel stickers from Xanadu, Shangri La, Valhalla and, of course, Baton Rouge.

  Concussion! Convulsion! Haroldine undulated with orgasm, coming in great whopping spasms, coming, coming, coming, coming, coming, coming, coming and coming again (after all, the sign on the door had suggested it!), and as the roaring waves of release carried her onto the hot beach of fulfilment, she felt more erotically pleased than she had ever felt before, as if she had just stepped from a solitary confinement cell, been ushered into a lilac Rolls-Royce and driven along a jungle highway where all the trees dripped sperm in the aftermath of an extraordinary storm that would have every bird and animal staring skywards for days to come.

  It was in her night-time dreams that her daydreams came true. There, freed from the cold bondage of her priggish upbringing, her hothouse fantasies blossomed in candy colours: she crawled through an orgy in a pitch-dark room, tasting everything she touched until the flavours made her brain ring like a holiday bell; she performed a fantastic cartwheel through a constellation of stars and blue moons onto a cosmic buffet table where she lay amid the viandes and desserts, dappled with sauce, prinked with flecks of celestial mayonnaise and meringue and sweet adhesive gravies, herself the pièce de résistance for the gods and goddesses who began to jostle one another in competition to taste her hot and savoury corpus; she drank ginger beer from the black-leather boot of a countess while the lovely lady’s toe tickled sparks of orgasm from the tender tinder of her clit; and she swung on a braided golden rope across a huge ballroom where a host of naked lords and ladies played a roistering parlour game on all fours, dropping herself carefully and with unerring accuracy onto an uptilted erection that her plush sex encapsulated as smoothly as a velvet glove did a well-manicured hand.

  Without women, Grayson learned, men do strange things. In the twilit yard, he came upon a heayy-set man from Prague who had tricked up his penis in a little dirndl and sketched a likeness of a female face on his glans. He was engaged in the act of trying to bob his mouth down low enough to kiss the minuscule face and that with a bad back, as Ivan would later point out in the infirmary.

  Volume II

  Where pornography and literature intersect is where we find Gatling Wessex, the author of such novels as A Legend in His Own Pants; Blondes in Brass Brassieres, Pig-Iron Panties and Galvanized Garter Belts; In Vulva Veritas; Buggering Heights; The Hershey Highwayman on the Cadbury Canal (and 116 others!). A self-confessed pornographer who has said that he “considers arousing the reader sexually no less important than the self-consciously arty inkslinger’s goal of cozying the critics”, Wessex has been described by John Updike as “a writer who brings up refreshing quaffs of briny liquor from the well of the libido” and by Norman Mailer as a writer “whose work is a form of psychosexual football full of primal scrums and prurient scrimmages.”

  Here, for the scholar of erotica, or the one-handed reader, is a selection from the recently published Notebooks of Gatling Wessex, Volume II (Onan & Sons, $14.95).

  Ideas, Thoughts

  • Horror story – Man who returns to the womb, is subsequently evicted and forced to move into anus.

  • Science fiction – Woman has appointment with extraterrestrial gynaecologist.

  • Closing line – Up yours truly.

  • Breaches of sexual etiquette – Masturbating under mistletoe; Kneeling to kiss the bride.

  • Male child of couple who named daughter Chastity – Celibacy.

  • Laws – Law of Contraception – Invention prevents the necessity of motherhood.

  Theory of Bisexual Relativity – E=AC/DC2.

  • Characters names for western – Spread Eagle; Split Beaver; Little Big Tits; Head Over Hooves.

  • Censorship, sunk off Virgin Islands, with no survivors.

  • Monogamy as symptom of disease misogyny.

  • Two subliminal messages – The penis is mightier than the sword.

  The rapist.

  • Modern love story formula:

  Boy meets girl or boy or boy/girl (transexual or bisexual)

  Boy loses girl or boy or boy/girl

  Boy gets girl or boy or boy/girl.

  • Sex organs of Irish women – Labia majora, labia minora, labia begorrah.

  • Militant feminist sexual position – Woman on top, man overboard.

  • TV Shows – I Dream of Genet, The Santa Barbarians, The Bel Airheads, The Sherman Oakies Parallel History Playhouse (Première – Japanese bomb Pearl Bailey) A Streetcar Named Desire Under the Elms The Invisible Nudist History of Elements (Première – Curie’s radium & Dworkin’s feminesium).

  Scenes

  Not for nothing was he a mathematician. He divided her legs and added his body to hers, then began to do immeasurably pleasurable things with their figures, multiplying sensations, faster than any computer, losing himself in the soft geometry of her vital statistics, their libidos mutually entwining like an exercise in hot topology. His cock was harder than advanced calculus.

  “Soixante-neuf, soixante-neuf!” she begged, reaching for the ceiling as he plowed her like the proverbial north forty. But, alas, he did not speak French and thought she was sneezing.

  Later, in the aftermath, she would reach for his abacus and only half playfully attempt to lodge it in an uncomfortable place, while whispering to him a bit of advice on the value of learning a little about Language Arts.

  Dr Spender followed the guttering candle flame through the musty corridor, glancing carefully about at the walls and ceiling for spiders or whatever other cryptic horrors might lurk within the vault. Alicia was close behind him and he reached back his hand to touch hers lightly as if to impart assurance.

  The corridor yielded into a larger area and they found themselves standing in the funeral chamber itself, a room dominated by a great stone catafalque upon which rested a casket of gold which even in this tenebrous atmosphere shone like the light of the sun. Dr Spender held the candle aloft and saw that the walls had been decorated with bas relief cunts in an amazing profusion of styles – cunts like orchids and roses and hyacinths and African violets, all in a riot of gaudy efflorescence, each labial fold and interior petal beautifully articulated; cunts like the entrances to sinister caves and alluring seaside grottos; great menacing cunts like the thirsting maws of mythical beasts wherein might lurk viperish tongues or carnivorous dentation; cunts like the portals and doorways to palatial rooms and rich storehouses; wondrous cunts like magical mathematical vortices into which one might plunge like Alice down the rabbit hole into a subterranean wonderland. They were surrounded by bouquets and tableaux and displays of fabulous cunts.

  “Well, we certainly know what he liked,” Dr Spender un
derstated, spellbound by the sight.

  “Marvellous,” Alicia breathed, and her voice, void of any professorial detachment, was like that of a child on Christmas morning.

  “Indeed,” Dr Spender said. And “I . . . I . . . I seem to be having some trouble with this zipper, Alicia. Could you give me a hand?”

  In his twenty years of knocking around the civilized galaxies, Filbert had done it all, he thought with quiet satisfaction as he reviewed his sex life. He had been to interspecies orgies, triple moon singles bars, extraterrestrial brothels, android swing parties, and incarnadine carnivals in all of the sexiest constellations. He’d suckled lactating ladies all throughout the Milky Way, done it Dog Star doggie-style, and made both moons of Uranus revolve during the Anal Spelunkers Ball on Buttworld. He’d tried all of the water sports on Oceanus with bisexual (literally!) mermaids. He’d had a Jovian fellatrice with an extensible tongue give him a blow job from around the corner and gone to a bicolour orgy with a colourful lady with kaleidoscope eyes, piebald hair, and plaid erogenous zones. He’d had a mutant girl introduce him to green showers, clump humps, and drool jobs. He’d experienced Venusian pinatas, methane sponges, pink smorgasbords, and blob jobs. He’d gone down the sluice tube and had the jelly wallow with Megadork on Cygnus IV and submitted to black and blue bondage on the fabled Planet of the Blondes. He’d been mindfucked by telepaths, tried the Big Hot Softy with Zug Zug, and ridden the sodden subway with pinkheads and mutables on Little Old New Sweden.

  At least Filbert thought he’d done it all. But that was before Scrump and Bunny *****berg spazzled into the room, making him realize that everything that had gone before was in all likelihood mere prologue.

  Normally a somewhat restrained, if not downright phlegmatic lover, Mullings found that the aphrodisiac gave him incentive to fuck with a flamboyant panache, delving into Pammy with strokes so impassioned that each one banged her head against the bed’s headboard, making her intermittently cry “Oww!” through bitten lips and whoop like a distressed crane beached in the wash of an oil-spill tide. At some point Mullings seemed like a mere addendum to his dick, which definitely had its own notions about how to fuck, ranging from banging away nonstop like a Bofors Gun to veering and twisting at odd angles like a carnal divining rod seeking the secret flume of Pammy’s G-spot. Coming, normally a quick businesslike spritzing and subsequent falling away, was this time more analagous to the Big Bang theory of the creation of the universe, and Mullings lost consciousness as he pitched from the bed in the manner of one of the Flying Wallendas executing a triple somersault. Moments later, waking, he would discover Pammy tugging at his arm and asking in a dazed voice if he had any spare change, the ceiling sprinkler system showering them with water, and the sound of his car’s alarm ululating urgently from the nearby garage.

  “Fuck you!” Rorketon said, putting both hands on the bar and staring at the stranger.

  “And fuck you, too, buddy!” the stranger replied in a voice with no humour in it whatever.

  “Fuck ewe!” the shepherd called cheerfully from his table across the room.

  “Fuck you!” both Rorketon and the stranger shouted simultaneously at the shepherd.

  “Fuck Hugh,” said a fellow at the end of the bar wistfully, for that was his lover’s name.

  “Ah, good old Fuck U,” another fellow at the bar said nostalgically. “Class of ’69. Good times. Co-educational in all the best ways. No wonder I ejaculated when I matriculated.” And he blew the foam off his beer to emphasize the statement.

  Plimsoll did not consider it successful cunnilingus unless when he finished he had a milk moustache, a sprained tongue, a duplex smile, and a tendency to swing his head involuntarily to and fro like a bass following a zig-zag lure. Retention of sentience was mandatory, and perhaps the best proof of a superior session was a mind whose thoughts were as successively blurred as the figure in Duchamps’ Nude Descending a Staircase, although a hard on you could bend horseshoes on was pretty good, too.

  An inveterate leg man all his life, Drupes switched preferences in a fraction of a second after his first sight of Fancy. She swayed across his line of vision with that seemingly slightly buoyant stride of hers induced by a pair of breasts so aerodynamically implausible that the combination of convexity and resilience could only be accounted for by some mystical collaboration of physics and biology, and as she lilted past, evoking subsidiary visions of London beneath flotillas of barrage balloons and the Macy Thanksgiving Day parade, he thought: I wonder if she’s leaving her body to science fiction. Hitherto a certifiable leg man who could either take tits or leave them, Drupes’ mind was suddenly ravished by the zestful palindromic bounce of the word tit, and as Fancy hove to like some earthbound UFO he felt himself being drawn along in her wake as if by some preternatural force. And as he followed her, seeming to walk on air himself in response to her virtually levitational gait, he knew one thing for absolutely certain: Tit City was where he planned on dwelling from here on in.

  Some of Harry’s ideas, like the novelty fake semen blot, Spanish fly paper, and the scratch & sniff centrefold were, Melton felt, ambitious but crazier than roller skates on a race horse. On the other hand, a pussy-flavoured soft drink . . . ! The more he thought about it, the thirstier he got, and before he knew it he was writing a cheque and drawing up a partner’s contract. After all, the success of pet rocks was enough to give any investor the boldest of hopes.

  In recurring dreams Custody was repeatedly seduced by Rambeau, a renegade militant lesbian lover who worked her over so skilfully with a Browning Automatic Dildo and Gatling vibrator that she died from the pleasure, tongue extruded and a little puff of steam rising from her riddled cunt. In the next scene she was either awarded the Purple Heart by Eros at a ceremony in Washington AC/DC and/or given a heroine’s burial at Arlington, with Cupids firing a 21-arrow salute as she was lowered into the ground in a pink casket and wearing a smile no mortician could ever erase.

  “Have you ever seen an orgasm?” she asked him with a bemused smile, speaking to him as if he were a child.

  “That doesn’t mean they don’t exist,” he said. “Have you ever seen atoms? Molecules? The Easter Bunny? Spokane? No, but we know that they exist.”

  She looked away sceptically, but she was already remembering the wonderful chocolate and candy eggs that had always been waiting for her on Easter morning and the time when a cousin of hers who claimed to have been to Spokane talked about missing a connecting flight there and having to wait for so many hours that there could hardly have been any doubt at all that such a place really did exist.

  Geranium had written a series of erotic stories for the German men’s magazine, Schwank, using the nom de plume Tse Tse Ella Mare, stories with titles like Sans Panties Andante; Scumbunny; Rumpler; Pumpernickel and Wurst; Groceries in the Dark; and Lesbian Thespian Aphrodisiactors. At first she had confronted writing the stories as a task, but in no time at all she had been seduced by the vicarious pleasure of rendering her sexual fantasies in prose that waxed from purple through platinum to burgundy and bice, and as she really went with the flow she had found herself typing with one hand only, each printed syllable seeming to simmer in the wake of the stroking keys, every comma seeming to waggle like the tongue of a salivating satyr as she piled her prose into orgiastic clumps, licking her lips and flexing her toes as she raced every fictional orgasm to a collaborative climax with the action in her lap.

  Each day at lunchtime the dyke in the serving line whose breasts filled her grey prison blouse to voluminous capacity like two basketballs (and who had the name Tinker Bull tattooed on one bicep) would give Snook the eye and exhibit a series of little mouthing gestures and enticing moues like someone practising a Marilyn Monroe impression. On this particular day the dyke was serving hamburger patties with tongs and as she plopped a patty into Snook’s compartmentalized tray, she reached out with the tongs and deftly snared one of Snook’s nipples through the thin fabric of her blouse, holding it in delicate abeyance
and staring straight into Snook’s eyes. “Say uncle,” she said. It was precisely the wrong thing to say, for one of Snook’s pet peeves was the fact that there is no term in English the equivalent of the word avuncular that means “like an aunt”. She caromed her tray off the dyke’s head and lunged over the serving line, seizing her by the throat. The two writhed wildly on the floor, biting, kicking, and scratching, and probably would have killed each other if by some curious twist of fate Snook hadn’t fallen deeply in love halfway through the fray.

  Chi Chi gurgled like an emptying sink as her orgasms abated, and she clawed at the sand as if to anchor herself to the earth. Her expended body smelled like a newly opened package of fragrances: her sweat had the scent of an aphrodisiacal champagne fermented in the nuclei of her pores by some mystical erotic alchemy; an odour of ripe sylvan herbage rose from her excavated asshole; and her cunt gave off the wondrous redolent fetor of seaweed strewn surf and tangerine reefs and lilac sea beasts languishing in tidal pools.

  She could only have wished for one thing more, and that wish was granted, at least metaphorically, as the bank of lavender-blue clouds overhead yielded up a shower of warm rain, golden in the sunlight, a gift from the water spirit Undine to whom the whole world was a bathroom where no towels were needed.

  “Smell my fingers,” Gala said, thrusting them at Bruin. “Where do you think they’ve been?”

  Bruin looked at the peachblossom-pink fingernails, then took a sniff, tentatively. “Making tuna salad?” he guessed.

  “Nope.”

  “Uh, picking anchovies off a pizza.”

  “Nope.”

  He tried one more time. “Baiting hooks?”

  “Nope,” Gala said, grinning. “Giving starfish artificial respiration.” She laughed, and gave Bruin a punch on the arm that propelled him off of his stool.