Fifty Shelves of Grey

by Vanessa Parody

  Carefully remove all the wrapping. If I’m in a rush I’ve been known to leave the outer layers on, but honestly I think this works best when all the skin is exposed to the air. Start at the top, caressing the flesh lightly, sensuously, almost like a tickle. Imagine you’re smoothing cream over a particularly delicate piece of confectionery. Cover the whole surface once like this, making sure to get into all the nooks and crannies, this will help to tenderize the meat. On occasions I’ve used a pastry brush, or even a rubber spatula. Allow to rest for a minute or two, then begin at the top again, but with a firmer hand, kneading slowly but surely as you work your way down, paying particular attention to sensitive zones, much as you’d handle well-risen bread dough. I’d advise avoiding implements and sticking to just your hands this time, it’s really about that flesh-on-flesh sensation.

  Test with a finger: if it’s moist to the touch you’re ready for the next step. You can do this with a machine if you like, but I prefer to do it by hand, and have developed a pretty fail-safe technique over the years. Start by rubbing with your fingers, gently at first, like making pastry mixture, but gradually getting faster and faster. I like to picture vigorously beating egg whites into stiff peaks. This is the trickiest part, it’s all in the speed and positioning, but if you get it right, the results can be explosive.

  35

  Moby-Dick

  by

  HERMAN MELVILLE

  ‘Call me Ishmael,’ I said, hoping the stranger with whom I’d shared an amorous night had not already gone through my wallet and discovered I was actually called Steve. As the strapping figure rolled over, I discovered with some horror that the nifty mover I’d seen through an ale-goggle haze as we shimmied across the dance floor, was in fact a heavily tattooed Polynesian harpooner. Good heavens, how much had I consumed? ‘Call me Queerqueg,’ he simpered, and I was about to ask him with deep apprehension whether he had been tested recently, when I realized with horror that I was in fact face to face with two faces. Although one would be hard-pressed to call the other a face as such, for it was very small. And without any kind of flesh. ‘This is Martin. He’s an ex, whose embalmed head I’m trying to sell here in Massachusetts.’ He winked. ‘Would you like to use his eye holes again?’ ‘Dear God, no,’ cried I! ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘How about a cruise? Men only . . .’

  I knew the whole thing was a disaster when I caught sight of The Pequod. It was the poorest excuse for a party boat I’d ever seen, and I considered asking for my ten dollar ‘drinks kitty’ deposit back and making a run for it, but what with the 300 lb bulk of Queerqueg loping menacingly about with his ex-boyfriend’s skull, I decided I’d just have to bide my time and make my way back to shore later on the inflatable banana boat. Still, I was looking forward to seeing the rest of the party-goers, whom Queerqueg had assured me were a pretty bunch. It was only as we drew anchor I realized with sheer horror that the burly, rough-hewn crew were in fact the only occupants of the boat. Furious, I went in search of the Jacuzzi. Typical of the day I was having, there wasn’t one, and to add insult to injury I was hit on by an unattractive Quaker, Starbuck, offering some below par coffee.

  As the land melted into the distance, I considered hurling myself into the violent waters and making a swim for it – if I hurried I’d still make Happy Hour – but at that moment a foreboding shiver ran through me. Standing erect on the deck above me was a man of such haunted expression that I wondered if he too was feeling jaded about the lack of spa facilities. Then he spoke. ‘My name is Captain Ahab. And I’m searching for the largest Dick in the world – Moby.’ At last! Someone ready to party. Though I’d have to clear up that my name wasn’t Moby.

  36

  The Old Man and the Sea

  by

  ERNEST HEMINGWAY

  It was his eighty-fourth day without a catch. The sun had scaled the cotton-streaked sky and reached her zenith. She was a cruel bitch. They called her jua in Swahili, meaning ‘sun’. He had set out before dawn, heaving the mast on his age-gnarled back down to the skiff and rowing out through the phosphorescent waters of the Gulf of Mejico to the great well – a deep of nine thousand fathoms where all kinds of fish gathered in the whirl.

  He set the lines of Catalan cordel and settled back into the stern.

  ‘I wish I had a six-pack of Hatuey,’ he said, knocking back a shot of aguardiente instead.

  Suddenly, a line stretched taut under his old foot. He felt a trembling pull.

  ‘Don’t be shy, fish. Eat well and then I will kill you.’

  The tugging grew harder, and then the surface of the water broke. He saw the lavender flash of a tail.

  ‘Marlin. Enormous.’

  Just then, the head of a woman looked over the port wale. She was damned nice and pleasant enough.

  ‘Hey, silver fox. Give me a hand. Pull me in.’

  He obeyed and went over to haul her in, but hesitated when he saw she was topless.

  ‘It’s OK. You can touch. I’d like that.’

  She turned in the water so that she was facing away from the skiff. Without a word, he hooked his arms under her armpits to pull her up into the keel. His hands closed under her breasts, which were heavy and full. He felt a stirring in his groin. He landed her and fell back against the tiller, unsure what to do next, since normally at this point he would club his catch over the head and then gut it with a machete.

  ‘Thanks, Viejo. I do love the touch of an old man. You really know what you are doing. I’ve been circling you for days, waiting for the boy to leave. Finally, I’ve got you alone. Take me. Love me.’

  She flopped over, brought her face close to his and kissed him. Her lips were pleasantly salty. She explored his mouth softly with her tongue, nibbling and sucking on his lips and moaning softly. He found himself sex-aroused.

  ‘Play with my breasts. Squeeze them. Pinch my nipples. I want to feel your touch.’

  But his left hand had cramped (they were sitting at an awkward angle). If the boy had been here he could have helped him.

  ‘Come on left hand, you traitor. Do not fail me now.’

  He stretched out his calloused hands and massaged her tetas. Her smooth skin and the gentle curve of her belly reminded him of a whore he had known in Pigalle. Paris. She was moaning louder now and pushing her tongue into his ear. She moved his hand down over her belly and he was surprised to find a damp opening just above where the scales of her tail began. It was smooth with no hair and reminded him of some sluts he had drunk caipirinha-sodas with in Rio.

  ‘Ai, papi, how I love the rough hands of an honest working man. All the rich-bitch mermen have such smooth, bourgeois fingers.’

  He pushed his old fingers inside her and she clung to him, breathing heavily and fumbling with his trousers. She took out his old maleness and began to work it. She excited him greatly and he tried to hold back the semen-rushing by thinking of other things: lions on the coast of Sierra Leone; long, cool sips of hurricanes in New Orleans; his great-aunt Esmeralda.

  ‘I want you inside me.’

  She pulled him on top of her. She was as strong as a rhinoceros he had bagged in Malawi. They began to make animalistic, aggressive love, grappling and wrestling in the keel of the boat. It seemed to him it was the original, epic struggle between man and woman, between man and fish and finally between himself and all the women he had loved, the first woman and all those who came after.

  He came first, firing his seed deep into her with a clear shot as if his manhood was a W. & C. Scott long-barrel rifle. She in her turn came moaning and shuddering like a bull brought low by the estocada of a master torero such as the graceful Joselito in the bullring of Madrid.

  ‘Ah, Sahib, you came hard and strong.’

  ‘Si . . . bueno . . . bof . . . it’s been eighty-four days. My left hand cramps often – it’s the one I use on myself. So . . . what say we head back to Havana, hit the Bodega and have ourselves a mojito or ten?’

  37

  The Boden Catalogue

&
nbsp; Vintage-look linen sundress, £89

  We love the ruffled shoulder straps on this gorgeous knee-length swingy dress. Equally perfect for sunny country strolls and for being pushed up around your waist as you are taken vigorously from behind by a farmer, yokel or rural milkman.

  Fun polka-dot shirt, £29

  The mother-of-pearl buttons on this delicious fifties-look tailored blouse are ideal for ripping open to reveal your tremulous breasts when he can’t wait another moment before getting your raspberry ripples in his mouth. Available in three retro shades.

  Side-button wide-legged sailor trousers, £59

  A firm favourite with you from last year, we’ve adapted these nautical strides to be even easier to pull down quickly when you need to be good and fucked right now. Features front-facing pockets for a more flattering fit.

  Perfect slip-on suede pumps, £129

  Johnnie Boden always says that when screwing up against a wall, it’s crucial to get the angles right. That’s why these sassy shoes come in three different heel heights! Buy one pair for each partner. (We do recommend use of a suede protection spray.)

  Question to Model:

  —Marceline, what’s your favourite sexual position?

  —I’m French, so it has to be soixante-neuf, bien sur!

  38

  The Library of Babel

  by

  JORGE LUIS BORGES

  The Library is an infinite, unremitting tessellation of hexagonal galleries. Above and below each gallery is another, ut apes geometriam. The Library is a vast and limitless honeycomb. Each gallery replicates its vertical and horizontal neighbour in structure.

  The galleries connect to each other by mirrored corridors and spiral staircases. Some men of the Library spend their whole life in one hexagon engaged in the translation and interpretation of texts therein. Some men seek only the monograph of their own existence. As an Inquisitor I roam in search of The Compendium, a perfect codex containing the essence of all other volumes. But my task has changed.

  Yesterday, in the crepuscular light of the stacks, I was in the Crimson Hexagon lost in perusal of an octavo bound in yellow silk when my auricular faculties were perturbed by an unusual sound. We are only supposed to whisper in the Library. A woman was singing in my environs. I looked up to see a Siren in a diaphanous blouse, her hair caught fast in a bun and glasses balanced on her nose. She leaned over my desk and osculated me forcefully. Then she stood up, walked to end of the shelf and beckoned me to follow. She led me through into the narrow corridor, pushed me up against the mirror and reosculated me.

  I was nervous since I was a virgin, as were many men of the Library, but luckily in my peregrination I had encountered a palimpsest written by a Priestess from Samoyedic Lithuania in the fourth century BC that purported to be a manual of sexual congress cataloguing coital techniques with some eye-popping lithographs to elucidate the more recondite positions.

  She undid the buttons of her blouse and pulled down the straps of her brassiere. Her obelisks had a pleasing symmetry and constituted a perfect simulacrum of the orbs of Doña Pamela Anderson. I bent to kiss them and thus set about deciphering the syntax, grammar, morphology and clitics of her pleasure. A woman’s body is a cryptograph, but I was determined to penetrate her enigmas.

  I pulled down her skirt and underneath her sheer panties I could discern the penumbra of her pubic hair. I felt myself swell to Leviathan proportions. I slipped my fingers under the border of her pants and started to explore her garden of forking paths. It was dewy and fresh and I dropped to my knees to taste. She sighed and I pushed my tongue into her arcana.

  She interrupted me and pulled me to my feet. She undid my flies and guided my phallus into her labyrinth. I thrust deeper and deeper and the walls pulsed around me. The image of myself penetrating her was reflected ad infinitum in the opposing mirrors and I was dizzied by the thought of penetrating her in infinite dimensions and worlds.

  She pushed me away and I was momentarily discombobulated but then she turned towards the mirror. Looking in the glass, she smiled at me infinitely, and then reached back with her hand and once again drew me into her Eleusinian mysteries, this time from behind. Every time I was about to climax she would initiate me in a new juxtaposition of our bodies. Scholars of the flesh, we devised and examined different combinations with the zeal of Cabalists.

  Our naked milonga quickened and she came shuddering, uttering the syllables hlör u fang axaxaxaxaxaxas mlö, which means ‘The moon rose above the river’ in Tlönic Ursprache, and in our tongue, ‘Oh my God, I’m coming’. My orgasm was contingent and necessary upon the retraction of her vaginal muscles.

  We sank exhausted by our endeavours. I succumbed to sopor and contentment with her head nestled on my shoulder. When I awoke, I was alone. She had gone, I know not to which far hexagon. I have abandoned my search for the Compendium and am committed to seek only that Woman. I am no longer an Inquisitor. I am that which they call a Stalker.

  39

  The Very Hungry Caterpillar

  by

  ERIC CARLE

  In the light of a computer screen a little cock lay totally flaccid on a mouse mat.

  He nudged the mouse and – pop! – on to the screen came a tiny and very hungry search engine.

  He started to look for some pictures to entertain himself.

  On Monday he came across a pair of boobs, but he was still horny.

  On Tuesday he came across an amateur home video from the former Yugoslavia, but he was still horny.

  On Wednesday he came across a German plumber called Dolf who was helping a Hausfrau out with her pipes, but he was still horny.

  On Thursday he came across a team of cheerleaders who’d got bored in the locker room and were enjoying a group shampoo, but he was still horny.

  On Friday he came across a very fat woman having an unusual dentist’s appointment, but he was still horny.

  On Saturday he came across a team of Bolivian firemen trying to put out a blaze in a brothel, by forming a naked human pyramid and using only their own bodily fluids, to a soundtrack of Beethoven’s ‘Ode to Joy’ played by a group of lesbian panpipers.

  That night he was wasn’t horny any more.

  The next day he erased his browser memory and went for a nice pub lunch with his in-laws.

  40

  Pride and Prejudice

  by

  JANE AUSTEN

  Within a short walk of Longbourn lived a family with whom the Bennets were especially intimate. Mr Bennet found Lady Lucas far more agreeable than his somewhat silly wife, so was careful to encourage regular intercourse between the houses. As such it was no surprise that after the ball at Netheregions a delegation should arrive from Lucas Lodge to discuss events. The eldest Lucas daughter, Charlotte, a sensible, stern-looking girl of twenty-seven, was Elizabeth Bennet’s particular favourite. After the Miss Lucases had been ushered in, and the lengthy but obligatory enquiries about the health of their relatives had been made, Charlotte and Elizabeth escaped to Elizabeth’s chamber so that they could converse in private.

  ‘Mr Darcy becomes more intolerable every time I see him,’ said Elizabeth. ‘He barely speaks, and when he does it is only to insult: “Not handsome enough to tempt me.” Indeed! He is such a disagreeable man, I would consider his regard to be a misfortune.’

  ‘My dear Eliza,’ riposted Miss Lucas, ‘it is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in posession of an attitude problem must be in want of a good seeing-to. Darcy’s interest in you is not in doubt. The real question is whether he is capable of meeting your needs.’

  ‘What can you mean?’ said Elizabeth. ‘It is well known that Mr Darcy is a man of great fortune with a quite exceptionally well-appointed house.’

  ‘You misunderstand me,’ said Charlotte. ‘A husband may be useful in so far as he should provide material comforts in the matters of an estate, servants, clothing, vittles, carriages and so on. But you cannot count on a man to bring you fulfilment
in all areas.’

  Charlotte moved from the window to sit next to Elizabeth on the bed.

  ‘Those of us less in demand due to irregularity of form are obliged to be more pragmatic in our decisions,’ she continued. ‘I have employed an especially pretty chambermaid who is extremely adept with her hands. My front parlour has never been so well looked after and many a pleasurable afternoon has been spent stoking the fire and plumping the cushions.’

  ‘I already have a chambermaid, Charlotte,’ said Elizabeth.

  Charlotte sighed. ‘It’s a metaphor,’ she said. ‘Lizzy, it was clear to me long ago that I would have to explore alternative solutions when it came to the pleasures of the flesh. Physical love does not only have to be between a man and a woman. After all, who knows a woman’s body better than another woman?’

  ‘A man?’ said Elizabeth.

  ‘No!’ Charlotte struggled to contain her exasperation at her confidante. ‘If you will only consent to lying back, I shall demonstrate my meaning.’

  With a quizzical expression, Elizabeth reclined on the bed. Charlotte raised her dear friend’s skirt and unlaced her pantaloons.

  ‘This,’ said Charlotte, ‘is called your clitoris. I do not expect that Mrs Bennet has seen her way to educating you as to its purpose. But if you apply a finger, thus . . .’ There was a brief pause. ‘Or a tongue, thus . . .’ A longer pause. Outside, chickens clucked in the yard. ‘You will see that I am quite correct when I draw your attention as to its benefits,’ concluded Charlotte eventually.