The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 1

by Maxim Jakubowski

“She’s a homoeopath – well, she’s training to be anyway and–”

  Karen cut her off, bored already. “Anyone else?”

  “Her kids.”

  Great, thought Karen, a homoeopath from Cornwall and kids as well.

  Impulsively for a second she toyed with an alternative plan. Perhaps she could get herself booked on a last-minute “water-sports” weekend. She’d seen it advertised on afternoon television: a group teamed up at a man-made lake and learned about being wet and cold with some sailing thrown in. But what if all the men were accountants? Or worse, what if there weren’t any men at all? She could always do what that weekend Life Skills workshop had recommended – hang out in Hyde Park talking to trees. But to be honest she didn’t want to attract any more unkind attention. Cora was enough.

  No. She’d chosen the only course of action available. Even if Frances was married to Brian, at least it was a known quantity and she knew she’d hate it marginally less than staying in London.

  The train was hot and crowded as she bumped herself along the carriage with her carrier bags of women’s magazines and a rather phallic-looking brie baguette. Her overnight bag was lolling off her shoulder, which meant she had to raise her armpit to straighten it, which meant in turn that the faceless grey men at the tables might spot her armpit stubble or, worse, get a sniff. God, summer was a worry.

  Oh, for the camouflage of winter, when velvet-tailored jackets hugged themselves tightly over unsightly body parts. But no. Her Ghost dress with matching cover-up cardi was falling off with the strain of her ill-thought-out baggage and smelly cheese.

  This was getting increasingly annoying, as three carriages down she still couldn’t find a seat. The only “possible” was an aisle seat next to a man whose lap-top, phone and spreadsheets had been staked so obviously across the table. She wasn’t in the mood to squeeze in and balance her carriers on the two centimetres left. Nor was anyone else, which she could see was an effective use of the territorial imperative but, really, who gave a fuck. Obviously she would if she could, but not with him.

  Finally Karen spotted a seat opposite a woman and baby. The seat next to them was piled high with baby bags, toys and general nappy paraphernalia, which explained why the whole area had been given a wide berth.

  As Karen set about committing herself reluctantly to the seat, the woman smiled in a rather fixed way at her, clearly enjoying the sucking of the baby at her nipple. Karen really didn’t know if she could stomach such a sight for long. But it was between “lap-top” or “breast”. Bank Holidays brought them all out, it seemed.

  The woman’s eyes seemed to glaze over as if in a sexual reverie, which looked ominous. Karen decided if the woman got near a climax she’d turn tail and go, carriers or no carriers. She’d sort of suck it and see, as it were, before moving on.

  Karen distracted herself with the weekend ahead. Perhaps they’d do that drive again to the nearest Ikea where you bought small candles and tiny noticeboards and paperclips, having looked at the garden furniture and decided against. Sensible in her case, given she had no garden. Or perhaps they’d stay in and have a take-away. A far cry from when they were at school. She remembered nostalgically how Frances and she had been allowed to go away together at eighteen and catch the ferry to Calais. If only their parents had known what had been in their minds they’d never have been allowed out of their rooms.

  But then, in those days, if you wanted a snog you just went out looking for it. Why wasn’t it possible now? She was just as keen to get one but somehow looking hopeful seemed to put men off once you turned thirty-five.

  Or was it the fact that they’d both been virgins which seemed to open so many doors? Not theirs, per se, but did “Virginity” offer more pleasure possibilities than the “lone penetration” of the future? Karen pondered on these profundities as she watched the baby twitch and guzzle while the woman smiled unashamedly.

  Her Life Skills weekend workshop had advised her that if she thought of those moments where things had gone really well, she could re-create the mood and make them happen again – more or less. Karen set to on an early memory involving a penis.

  Here was one. She remembered Frances’ sister had got them both tickets to a hockey club disco in Sidcup. A drink in one hand, she could remember looking around pleasantly at the men, none of the insecurity of the present day with, “Do I look attractive, are they committed and does my breath smell?” tattooed across her waistband. It was simply, “Here I am, in my nice white rosebud Biba cotton dress – take me I’m yours and we’ll deal with the virginity factor later.”

  She remembered how a real-life Wimbledon player who had been deseeded (as he was fast soon to become again) asked her if she’d like to go out for a walk. She did, and very soon found herself snogging him against a wall. She felt it was necessary to tell him about the virginity thing, since it was quite interesting to her and she assumed it might be of interest to him, but he didn’t seem to be listening – a rummage around her breasts and a fingering up her pants seemed to be more pressing. After a lot of heavy breathing Karen knew she had to take action to prevent the usual cross and sulky riposte. This was the lot of an active virgin. She leaned down to oblige him but he’d already got there before her, waving it about as if to say, “Ready!”

  She had become quite efficient at seamlessly hoovering up, like a cat with a saucer of cream. A neatening up of housework really, thought Karen fondly.

  Then she had reported in to Frances about exactly what had happened with the tennis player and received general approval before they were driven home by the unwitting sister.

  As the train journey continued Karen busily went over other penis occasions and started to wonder how often Frances had similarly reported in to her? The thought suddenly struck her: had it just been Karen who’d gone round doing the “plating”, as it was then called. What had Frances been up to in the meantime?

  She knew Frances liked to talk about it a lot and remembered when she first met Frances’ husband Brian, he seemed to like it too. She found him staring at her mouth in a rather odd way. Eventually she asked him what was up and he replied, “I’m just imagining that little mouth round all those dicks. Hope you don’t mind.”

  Well, she did, but as usual she didn’t say.

  “Tell him about the chewing gum,” Frances had instructed.

  “No, I can’t,” said Karen, “I really can’t.” Not sure if she liked being in the company of Frances and Brian together.

  “Let me then,” begged Frances.

  Karen had allowed the telling to go ahead, since at that point in her life talking about sex wasn’t as painful as it had become. Talking about it now just reminded her how easy it had once been and would she ever remember how to do it again? “Your hole will heal up at this rate!” Cora had cheerfully remarked recently.

  Frances duly got into her stride about the chewing-gum incident, which had involved a tall Australian. He had been allowed to take Karen to a beer cellar near Charing Cross and it was here that he had suggested kissing Karen “there”, which was indeed a new one on her – so much so that she’d thought she’d misheard him at first. But when he dropped her back home, she soon realized she hadn’t. They went into the play-room upstairs – which had been re-named the “piano room” for obvious reasons. (They had cut out Formica flowers and stuck them over the piano since it was the late sixties and the room needed to reflect its time. Frances always liked using background information to embellish a scene.) A lie down together on the Mexican rug was followed by the usual routine of “Hey, I’m a virgin but you can play with me” type of thing. Frances then described how, at bedtime, Karen couldn’t get her knickers off. They were stuck and she simply couldn’t think why. She pulled and she pulled, until she bent over and had a peek. The Australian was obviously partial to a bit of gum and, rather than break off proceedings with Karen, he had chosen to deposit the gum – perhaps as a personal signature, like the flag left on Everest. Karen, however, wasn’t th
at impressed at the time since much scissor work was required to free her from her pants.

  Brian had clearly enjoyed the gum story and insisted on a re-play of just exactly where the gum had been, and when did she discover it, and how did she remove it from her – you know . . .

  Karen had started to get slightly uncomfortable then, about how much pleasure they both might be getting at her expense.

  “Why don’t you tell Brian about when we went camping in Brittany then?” suggested Karen. “You know, when we had to go in the tent and you ended up with Robert and . . .”

  “You ended up with Patrick,” finished Frances.

  Brian had started to shift about in his chair stiffly.

  “When was this then?” he asked.

  “Oh,” Frances said airily, “it was ages ago. I think it was more to do with Patrick and Karen though. Do you remember when you got in his tent and he came before you even got to lie down!”

  “Yes,” said Karen, not sure whether to pursue how Frances and Robert’s goings-on had all got a bit ugly because Robert had been one of the few blokes who wasn’t keen on the virginity thing at all. Karen remembered having to find her torch – which wasn’t easy because she had to slip about over Patrick before finding it in her rucksack and go and calm him down. Amazing what the offer of a plating can do to placate an ugly scene, she mused. Then they’d packed up and left the next morning without reference to it again.

  Brain had changed the subject after that and suggested quite a strict game of Scrabble which didn’t allow people’s names. Which ruled out Dick, of course.

  Karen was just beginning to doubt the real usefulness of going down to see her friend at all, when there was a commotion opposite. A woman was lurching down the carriage with a bottle heated up in a tumbler. She screamed when she got to Karen’s section.

  “What?” said Karen, nervously looking around, wondering what was wrong. “What?” she asked again.

  “My baby!” screamed the woman. “My baby!”

  She looked furiously at where the suckling woman was sitting – who, it had to be said, appeared to be on the brink of a massive orgasm judging by certain sounds and kicking movements of her legs against the table-top.

  The new woman plucked the happy baby from a monstrously enlarged nipple and shrieked, “She’s mine!”

  The first woman could no longer keep the orgasm at bay as it had been building for so long and roused herself with a “Yeeees!” before sinking back into the seat with closed eyes, clearly spent.

  “I told you,” said the new woman, now apparently familiar with the situation, “I told you I’d be a few minutes, but it’s Bank Holiday – they’re short-staffed.”

  The baby had started to whimper without the succour, so the new woman shoved a teat from the now heated-up bottle in its mouth. Then the two women started to snuggle and admonish each other indulgently.

  Karen’s mouth had dropped open so much the two women turned to look at her with interest. “This is too much,” thought Karen as she gathered up her bags, looking around for support from the neighbouring passengers. None was forthcoming. Apart from looking up at the louder phase of the orgasm, most of them had retreated back into their holiday reading and Game Boys.

  “It has to be first class,” Karen decided, and began hobbling down through the corridors again. By now several people had got off and it was easier to find an empty compartment. Karen was shaking with disbelief and settled down to ring Frances on the mobile to tell all.

  She was still looking at the mobile when a man came through and sat opposite. Karen felt very exposed since two people alone in a private compartment are somehow required to acknowledge each other. She looked up quickly to see who the offending interloper was and whether there would be any more trouble ahead.

  Amazingly and miraculously, the interloper turned out to be a man of around her age, not particularly good-looking but not ugly either. Karen started to feel hot. Perhaps this was it. Positive thinking had worked. This was a man on his own in her compartment. She made herself look directly at him since the Life Skills workshop had forced everyone to look each other in the eye for at least five minutes. This had been excruciating but was apparently crucial for bonding and sexual attraction. The man soon became aware of Karen using her new life skill and finally could stand it no longer. He asked her. “Is that a Nokia?”

  “Yup.”

  “How do you find it?”

  “OK. Well except I can’t plug in addresses.”

  “It’s easy,’ he said, keen to get rid of the staring eyes. Karen was just as keen to stop staring because it had produced tears and she didn’t want him to think she was emotionally unstable. He moved a little closer to her and said, “May I?”

  “Of course,” Karen replied as if they were at a tea dance.

  She was starting to get hot. Hot because she liked him. Hot because he was a man and hot because, well, it was summer and her Ghost outfit absorbed the heat.

  “It’s hot isn’t it?” The man took off his jacket and Karen noticed some sweat marks under his arms. She found this exciting and mentally worked out how long she had before her stop. Was there time to either jump on him or at least get a firm promise of a date? She tried to look attractive while she weighed up her options.

  “Do you know who you remind me of?” he said.

  Oh, no, she thought. Here we go.

  “A goldfish?” she suggested, to get it out of the way.

  “I wasn’t thinking of a fish, no,” he said.

  “Look, I know this is mad,” Karen ploughed in, realizing she had ten minutes left and simply had to jump in feet-first. “But I, well I’d started wanting something to happen today and now it has, so I was wondering . . .”

  The man looked very interested. “Yes?” She could see his pupils starting to dilate; which was encouraging.

  “And, well, I wonder, if you could just, well, could you kiss me, do you think?”

  “Here?” he asked.

  “Yeah, it’s just a train thing,” said Karen, trying to be throw-away. “It’s just with the rocking motion of the train, I tend to vibrate . . .”

  “Do you?” asked the man with even more interest.

  “Well, I wondered if you could just, sort of test it for me, to see if I’m vibrating?”

  Karen hoped this made sense to him because it didn’t entirely to her but they were getting close. The man stood up awkwardly and slightly adjusted his trousers. He came over and cleared his throat, and then started very tentatively putting his tongue over her lips and then inserted it into her mouth.

  It was so long since Karen had snogged anyone, she’d completely forgotten what to do. But she wasn’t going to argue. She just sort of hung her mouth open to see where he was going next. Then he used his hands to prise off her cardi and pull down the straps of the Ghost shroud. People were getting off at the station and looking in with fascination. She realized that one breast had been taken out of her bra and was pointing straight at the window but she didn’t care. Something was happening. She’d made it happen and it was happening now.

  The train pulled out with many more curious people waving at their window. With some awkwardness he lamented that he lacked “protection” but offered to lick her if that would appeal at all? She said it would and together they moved into an even more unusual position, with her legs up against the window while he set to.

  Suddenly his mobile rang.

  Oh no, don’t stop now, Karen thought but couldn’t really give this too much attention. He picked the phone up, breaking off only to say he’d missed the stop and that he was sorry. Then he resumed the action.

  Then Karen’s phone rang, which he deftly intercepted and said, “It’s for you,” holding it by her ear while he continued his work.

  It was Frances.

  “Was that your right breast I just saw winking at me through the window?” she demanded.

  “Probably. Are we there already?” gasped Karen, raising her hip f
or a better angle.

  “You were. I can still see the train in the distance. I forgot to tell you my brother was on the same train. He would have got you off in time. Mind you, he brought his friend down with him, who apparently went off to the loo and hasn’t been seen since.” She sounded annoyed.

  “Ooohhh,” managed Karen.

  “Exactly,” agreed Frances. “I was going to set you up with him. The least you can do is turn up. What am I going to say to the friend?”

  The man paused to lick his lips.

  “Ooohhh, sorry, can’t think right now . . .”

  Little Deaths

  Heather Corinna

  “So, how would you want to go?”

  I’d thought about it for an hour now, listening to each of them in turn, thoughts of quiet calm and peace, thoughts of swift release be it by gunshot, by heart attack, by being slammed to the front of a train. We talk death over coffee, interspersed by celebrity gossip and the season’s lipstick shades, compliments on my geisha sandals, sad coos over her recent divorce, her loss of such a great job, her inability to come as often as she’d like, or with whom she’d like, or just to come, period.

  Women can do that. It appears to be one of our singular arts: to give as much credence to a magazine article as we do to the great tragedies of our lives.

  I brush a pile of scone-crumbs from my trousers.

  “Slowly,” I said.

  “Slowly . . . like, how slowly? From a terminal disease?”

  “I don’t know. Just slowly. I wouldn’t want it to be any more sudden than anything else. I’d want to feel every second of it, right down to the last.”

  This was cause for much uncomfortable chuckling.

  “And I suppose you’d want to be teetering on the verge of an orgasm at the end, right?”

  I hadn’t thought of that. Not a bad idea. “That’d be good. I wouldn’t want to come, though.”

  “We should have expected this kind of answer from a professional masochist.”

  This is almost true. Yes, they should have expected that kind of answer, but I’m really a professional sadist. Hey, it’s a job, pretty much like anyone else’s, and besides, I’m good at it. It affords me hand-tailored Armani suits, I get to get my rocks off while I’m doing it, and it’s legal. Barely, but then, so is going five miles over the speed limit and everyone does that all the time.