The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 5

by Maxim Jakubowski

  And so many normal women had started off as princesses. The pretty ones, those who had emitted evocative poise in their first underage competitions, whooped and danced a-go-go, stammered posturing that was pedophiliac in all but name, metamorphosed into pressured baby flesh worked through a hundred stressed afternoons. The humbling-down local shows with filthy floors; tryouts; Proper School auditions for doll livestock; rigorous tests that began from as young as three, from as soon as the little girls could find their way to the bathroom to pee by themselves and therefore could be herded into halls, dumped in classes. Left to be prompted into positions, shouted at, stretched, blown up, cut down. By now, most of this talent have resigned themselves to their unaccomplishments with grace. Their hope folded away, but buffeted by the sense of a world where they can pay all their own bills. And this can hold them fast, give power in other means, but does not dwarf the desire. That seeps on as years tick past, unrelenting. And the women who are twenty-eight, but can no longer realize their idealized bodies, feel as keenly as a mother for a lost child the sense of missing in action, the emotional pull to recapture themselves as they were in their former picture-selves.

  Uhaaaaghhhhhh. The knife is really wreaking it now, doing something bad. Right arm, top left, a contact point. She moves, tries to escape, even though they warned it would be worse if she reacted. She can imagine it now, pain blasting out raw energy, eco-power for the body system, the body’s defenses springing into life even though it is mute. The body racked in nervousness. Her mind putting it into place, willing it. The glittering knife really another elaborate rubber toy, with a hidden reservoir of fake blood that the user can release with a series of mechanical clicks. The knife in the end as inconsequential as the heel of stiletto shoe, jagged edged, but destined only to skim the surface of the earth, never to force its way through. The pain real where, for what seems like hours but could be only minutes or seconds, time uncountable under the mask, the skin knits in the places it has been tied. The creases white-ringed, uncomfortable. Bondage giving always a throbbing and boiling pain. The jut of the fake blade sometimes had an edge nevertheless, even the droplets of the marketed blood, discernable, another wrench on the sensations. Katje’s skin agonizing as if it were the real thing, the body’s still desperation authentic somehow, even though the experience was not.

  Cut to a long shot. Katje’s body now arched, the legs raised, a bondage version of Marilyn Monroe in her first naked shoot. Naked, but for the mask, some rope. But still a dancer on the red sheets, unwieldy breasts thrust defiantly out from the extreme arch of the back, like a stilled limbo dancer ready to spring up, triumphantly. The hip bones rough cut, prominent. Splayed vagina as happy as a dog in mating season, its plump lips loud, one lip hanging, unconventionally lower than the other. Toby sees her pleasure is real, that the horror film mad bitch gets off on it, without telling anybody. She is too well formed to play a nubile virgin, over-muscular in parts from the various energetic training she endures to be a bimbo, but yes, she is interesting, he can use her. And he will. The punters from Fetish Times still get off on the fact that they can read her column as well as see her naked pictures in the same magazine. The fact that she is masked and anonymous just adding to the hype, her eclectic persona growing every month. Fans ringing with questions, other press even illegally running stills, passing it on. She remains anonymous. Someone Out There, a real person with a real job, who likes just to play a little for them.

  For a moment Katje is fazed, orgasm high. It comes and goes all too quickly. She has to time it right because as soon as she’s come, anything that can will chafe. Moment gone, now the comedown. The mask now sweated beyond use. The clutch of the rope at her wrists and ankles a child’s game that seems sad and has gone on too long. Her bladder as usual, wanting to go. The need to satisfyingly piss, paramount. Above her, the two cameramen are talking intently about a missing light. The extras have vanished. She looks a real sight, tied up, anxiously waiting. The end bit, when all the sex acts have finished and she is herself again, is the hardest of all. Her breasts suddenly incongruous, difficult to manage without a bra. She’s not really a porn actress, only allowing herself to be fucked by strangers’ dildos, aping pain. Unusually shot retro bondage pics for punters who have tired of seeing it all. Who need a bit of safety, someone who won’t kill them while they’re getting off. As usual, the fantasy that she exists as one of those too beautiful to die. That she has to be tortured, finished off like a stray extra who wandered into a remake of Last House on the Left. The reality, that the dance lessons were sporadic. She had started gymnastics at fifteen, too late. That earlier she had been a dancer only in her mind, her Barbie doll had had the dresses, the dinky little shoes. And the self-conscious battle ever since to try to catch up with herself. Dancing most days, getting film extra roles, the odd fetish shoot only because she interviews the directors as a part-time journalist. That she is somehow in this world and behind it at the same time. She is everywhere and nowhere.

  Now she’s showered again, for the second or third time that day. Her skin is feeling too sore for another layer of body lotion. When she pissed it came with a little sting, today the guys were overzealous, but the sting-pain, though small, feels good, her body shudders deliciously at pain but she has to keep the skin undamaged for potential shoots, other work. The irony is that despite these fake gore photo shoots, she is unable, while still working as a model, to indulge in her predilections for hard CP and cutting. What was it that Brian Yuzna had been told while researching skin cutting for Return of the Living Dead, Part III? It’s not the cutting of the skin that’s the problem, it’s dealing with the healing process afterward. . . . And her skin, on the outside at least, has to look patently undamaged.

  In her street clothes she becomes a different person. You would never guess. And he doesn’t either. Joachim, her occasional lover, once feted horror director, now reduced to hash ravings behind closed doors, doesn’t want to hurt her, physically. He indulges in mental cruelty, belittling her with tales of his actress ex-girlfriends. And of course she’s not famous, yet. That’s his intention, but it excites her to hear about these other women. The dark pouty one who appeared in The Witchwoman. I knew she would make it. Lisa, the daughter of the famous Spanish director who has now started making her own movies. Joachim litters the house with hundreds of naked photos of Lisa and thinks she suffers when he talks so raptly about his ex. That she will feel jealous, deflated by comparison. But, mmmm, the delicious decadence of it. Just thinking about Joachim’s treachery, her pussy juices are warming, tingling on her freshly shaved cunt lips. And they don’t even have to touch each other to get excited, it’s mainly masturbatory. Mind fucking leaves no traces. She walks toward his flat, taking pink, smooth strides, but inside her mind is singing.

  Perilous Penny, Part Time Pornographer

  Tara Alton

  Christmas Cards

  My sister stopped by today, not so much to see how I was doing, but rather to scope out which Christmas cards I’d gotten so far. She wanted to make sure that I hadn’t received any more from our relatives than she did. I had to give her credit though. She waited an entire half hour before she mentioned my pile of unopened mail on the counter.

  “You’ve got a whole pile of Christmas cards here,” she said. “Why haven’t you opened them yet?”

  I shrugged. I hadn’t had the time.

  “May I?” she asked.

  “Knock yourself out,” I said.

  I turned to pour us another glass of Peroni beer when I suddenly heard her choking. At first, I thought she was choking on a feta cheese stuffed olive from Dimitri’s Italian Goods, but I realized she was horror struck by one of the cards she’d just opened.

  Looking over her shoulder, I patted her on the back at the same time. It was from one of my publishers, featuring a woman’s genitalia artistically perched on top a Christmas tree like a bizarre pink angel.

  “Cool,” I said. “I bet you didn’t get this one.�
��

  Grabbing her camel hair coat and Coach purse, she stormed out. Now she was going to be mad for six months. My sister considered my porn writing to be a short-lived hobby, like when I tried doing needlework or creating mosaics. She is certain I will get bored with it eventually. The only thing was that my needlework looked like a drunken hamster had attempted it, and my mosaics looked like someone had thrown up grout, broken glass and rocks. Believe it or not, I’m good with porn. People actually wanted to pay me money for what I’ve written. What better validation do you need than that? In addition, I wasn’t going to get bored. I usually had sex on the brain anyway. Why not put it to good use?

  My sister didn’t see it this way. She hated the whole sordidness of it. To her Showgirls should have been rated XXX, and she never let her husband watch the Emmy pre-show because of the nipple factor on the red carpet.

  The next time I see her I’m sure she will act as if everything was fine, but it will be in her eyes, a brittle little crack in what was left of our sisterhood.

  Camel Toes

  Today, I learned what a camel toe was. It’s crotch cleavage, the distinct cleft between the legs when a woman wears her pants too tight. I had no idea this existed, that it had a name, or there were even a few Web sites devoted to it. See what you learn on the Internet by just following a few links?

  Now, I find myself staring at women’s crotches, in the drugstore, in the library and in the hardware store. It’s fascinating. It’s everywhere. In all shapes and sizes. Then at my favorite corner grocery store, I saw the mother of all camel toes. I didn’t care that this blonde girl had mall hair or that she was wearing way too much makeup for daytime. It was her clothing. She was wearing a skintight black halter-top and the tightest pair of jeans I’d ever seen. She must have used pliers to zip them up. Her camel toe was so tight it looked painful. Just the thought of all that pressure down there made me want to go pee.

  That was what I was thinking about when I was busted. The head cashier caught me blatantly staring at another woman’s crotch. How can I go back there now? Of course, it’s the only place that carries my favorite no name sugar pops. My boyfriend, Michael, would never go get them for me. He hated the place. Moreover, the head cashier was always there, wearing her 70s frosted shag hairdo and dangling earrings like she existed in a time warp. I swore she never went home.

  I can’t believe I lost my no name sugar pops to a camel toe.

  Love Notes

  Michael thinks I’m cheating on him because he found a note with my handwriting in the laundry. Normally, this wouldn’t be a big deal. I write a lot of notes, but this note was about a physical exam with Dr. Eric. I had written how much Dr. Eric turned me on with his swarthy dark looks and his warm hands on my legs.

  I tried to explain to Michael that it was part of a story I was working on, but he wasn’t convinced because I had recently gone to the doctors. Trying to clarify it further, I told him I was writing it from the point of view of the character, not me! It was hopeless. He just couldn’t grasp the concept. So I gave up on the explanation and hoped to get the note back. I had defiantly written something sexy I needed.

  “Where is the note?” I asked.

  “I threw it away,” he said.

  “Why would you do that? Aren’t you supposed to confront me with it?”

  He looked as if it had never occurred to him.

  “I was pissed so I threw it away,” he said and stormed out of the room.

  Once again, he was proving that some really good-looking guys aren’t too bright.

  When we first met, I thought he was a little too slick and cocky for me. We went to the same health club. I swam laps. He ran. We kept bumping into each other in the coed hot tub and steam room. Since I never considered him an option, I acted like myself for a change. Also, he had already seen me at my worst in my nasty old swimsuit. You have no idea how many swimsuits I’ve ruined because of the chlorine, so now I buy the ugliest, cheapest suit I can find because it’s only going to last me a few months anyway. On top of that, he’d seen me with swimming goggles on, and that was just not a good look.

  I figured he had to be talking to me because he was bored. Mostly to shock him and alleviate my own boredom, I told him about my part time porn career. He didn’t seem too shocked, thus proving the boredom factor in his motivation to talk to me.

  Imagine my surprise when he kissed me in the parking lot one night. He was a very good kisser, leaving me breathless. Then he told me he had been harboring a secret crush on me for months. I didn’t believe him, but he convinced me with some more kissing. We moved in together six months later.

  Girlfriends

  After dealing with Michael, you can imagine my relief going to lunch with Jen, my one sane friend, although she was a little wild. She rented a big loft near the Eastern Market, and she goes to all the clubs on the weekends, where she likes to wear “fuck me” clothes and then acts surprised when men look at her.

  We met at La Shish Kabob. I loved the Arabian Night atmosphere with the arched windows, brass chandeliers and fabric draped across the ceiling. The place was empty except for one other table. Of course we were seated close by them and there were kids, who amazingly were eating Happy Meals.

  Over our freshly made pita bread, spicy salsa and mango smoothies, Jen started telling me in vivid and lengthy detail about the three way she had over the weekend. She had done it with two guys she was currently dating. Casually, she’d mentioned it to them as a fantasy she wanted to fulfill. To her amazement, they both agreed.

  “Did they do each other?” I asked.

  “No. Just me.”

  “So how did it happen?”

  “I went and sat on the bed. Alex went into the bathroom and came out naked. It really broke the ice.”

  “Did it hurt?”

  She shook her head.

  “One hole or two?” I asked, eagerly.

  The manager came over to us.

  “I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” he said. “There has been a complaint. Your topic of conversation is inappropriate for the restaurant.”

  We glanced over our shoulder at the family. The mother was glaring at us. Those kids were way too little to know what we were talking about.

  “What if we change the topic?” I asked.

  He shook his head.

  “Can we at least get our food to go?” I asked.

  I couldn’t imagine leaving without our vegetarian platters with hummus, tabbouli, spinach pie and grape leaves.

  “The manager says you have to leave. That is his sister.”

  “What about an order of the baklava?” I pleaded.

  I had promised Michael I would bring him some back. I couldn’t leave without it. This was the only place I knew that made their baklava with pistachios instead of walnuts, and they used an orange syrup instead of the usual lemon. Michael would flip if I didn’t bring some home.

  The waiter shook his head. After taking one more sip of smoothie each, we left.

  Our lunch plans ruined, we stood in the parking lot, staring at one another. Jen didn’t look happy with me, but it had been her fault as well. She was the one having the three ways. I promised to call her soon and we parted. I went home, where I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich by myself.

  Other Girlfriends

  Lately, I’m not having too much luck with my friends. My other friend, Constance, was acting nuts. She claimed she was into corsets, but she had never bought one. I caught her complaining the other day that her bra was too tight. You would have thought she would have liked that. She worked at an upscale bed linen store with thousand count sheets and wrought iron beds, and yet she chowed down on little greasy hamburgers at places truck drivers would stop.

  Constance thought I wanted her, because I took a scrap of our conversation in a dressing room and inserted it into a story about two women doing it in a similar dressing room. What happened was this. We were trying on lingerie in a dressing room together because
the place was so crowded during a sale. Constance mentioned that she had been checking out girls recently. I didn’t pay her much attention because she was always saying stuff like that, but nothing ever came of it.

  In my story, I had the two girls in the dressing room hook up after the confession with admiring glances of long limbs, lots of lace and garters. In real life, I had been trying on a yellow rubber duck design nightshirt, and Constance had been trying on a boring white slip.

  I was so excited about seeing the story published on this classy erotica Web site that I sent her a link to the story online, totally forgetting where the inspiration for the story came from.

  Now she kept leaving me voice mails, asking me to get together for lunch and lingerie shopping.

  Cats Under the Bed

  A few days later, I finally finished the Dr. Eric story. It was truly a masterpiece of sexual degradation, and it made me so horny I had to masturbate.

  Michael’s cat wanted some attention. He’s had this cat ever since he was a little kid, and now she’s like seventeen years old. I gave her points for lasting this long, but sometimes she was a pest. She had the most unimaginative name in the world, “Kitty.” I’ve thought about upgrading her name, but Michael won’t hear it, so sometimes I’ve added adjectives like “Pretty Kitty.” Michael just rolled his eyes. Sometimes, I think it was more important what his cat thought of me than his parents.