The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 1

by Maxim Jakubowski

  The Day of the Dolphin

  (Mike Nichols, 1973, US)

  There’s a bit of action with police chasing a black guy down the road and they look like they’re about to shoot except we don’t do that here. And Keith runs out of the auditorium, well he would be watching fucking dolphins, and tells us the film is down and Lucy’s in her element cause she’s in charge and has to give an announcement and Michael does his drama queen and rushes up to Graham to find out the film’s snapped.

  We offer free coffee, guess who’s first in line, and it’s up and down to fill the machine, get out ice creams and more demand on cake. By the time the dolphins are cavorting again me and Michael are run off our feet and sharing a fag when guess who walks by with his dog.

  Cornered

  (Edward Dmytryk, 1945, US)

  And it’s so awkward cause Michael’s not moving and he asks if we fancy stopping by for a nightcap? First, I’ve never heard of nightcaps, second I never take them and I tell him Michael and I were going to have ourselves a nightcap when we come off, which is a downright lie cause we’re not members of an all night drinking club.

  1 + 1 = 3

  (Heidi Genee, 1979, W.Ger)

  It’s fucking dead to the world at this hour and Michael looks intrigued. Why don’t you both pop by? Michael’s in there like a flash he only wants to see the pad.

  Nightcleaners

  (Berwick Street Film Collective, 1975, GB)

  Well, I’m busy packing up my sweets, emptying coffee dregs and generally getting sorted. I won’t have the next person on complain. It’s awkward when Dustin Hoffman brushes past me binliner in hand. I make out I have highfalutin plans, binliners to fill and I do. But this time me and Michael joke around cause he can’t wait to see what Ralph has up his sleeve and I touch up my make-up while Michael finds a condom though it doesn’t look used. Can’t they restrict themselves to handjobs? This gives Keith more ammunition to tell us where the world’s heading when Bella comes for Lucy and she’s got that look that says she’s been on the make and happy to have had her evening free. You know the minute they’re in the car, Lucy’ll start whining at her in the worst possible way. She can’t wait to hear out Ralph report so she books me and Michael for Tuesday and another late weekend.

  After Hours

  (Martin Scorsese, 1985, US)

  We head towards the smart end of Elgin Crescent and he answers the door with Oliver. The dog. I ask about the kid but he says he’s with his mother. Where is she? I ask, like I don’t know they aren’t cohabiting. And we head up so many flights I lose count. Michael and I sit opposite each other on matching leather sofas and we start to get the giggles which is him and I to a tee. He comes in with glasses and a bottle of champagne and I see a line of coke on the table.

  Before I can signal, Michael is helping himself. I’ve no luck with drugs but I do it just for the hell of it. I get an immediate kickstart and then there’s the champagne and not much in my stomach and I see we’re heading somewhere when Michael looks at me again. It’s that curious look taken up a few notches and Ralphie wastes no time getting down to business.

  Let’s Get Laid

  (James Kenelm Clarke, 1977, UK)

  I find you really attractive, don’t you, Michael, he asks. Now I have two of them looking at me with that dumb look of desire – it always makes you foolish. What’s going on guys! I say cheery but Ralph’s on his way over and kisses me and touches my breast. Well he knows how to touch them and I see Michael and he’s passed from foolish clown to horny bugger.

  Man on Fire

  (Elie Chouraqui, 1987, Fr/It)

  Shall we fuck her Michael he says as he drops his hand to rub the crotch of my hot pants and slide his hand up inside. Come here Michael he tells him and Michael comes over like an obedient pup. I can feel his hard-on while Ralph has moved behind me and is sliding his hand down the back of my shorts. I hate my arse and don’t want him to feel it but what’s happening in front with Michael is amazing and I wish Ralph wasn’t there. Particularly when I feel that his hands are enveloping Michael from behind me and touching his face. What did I fucking tell you I hear myself thinking.

  Signs of Life

  (Lebenszeichen) (Werner Herzog, 1968, W.Ger)

  I wonder if Michael had a clue to his intentions. Ralph heads to the windows to draw the curtains and on his way back takes his cock out of his trousers and Michael finds this as good a moment as any to take his prick out too. Well this is the moment I would if I had one and I can hardly believe it when Ralph turns down the lights and straps a dildo on me. I feel a darn sight better fully clothed. He’s telling me to ram my cock up Michael’s arse he’s such a pretty arse and I’ve got a beautiful cock and to be honest I’ve forgotten most of his choice phrases, as you can imagine I’ve not found the opportunity to pick Michael’s brains.

  Three Into Two Won’t Go

  (Peter Hall, 1969, GB)

  He’s naked now and he’s wanking himself off while he tells us what to do and me and Michael are a touch inhibited till Ralph rubs some cream on his cock and tells Michael he’s going to coat his pretty little arse with it and he spreads some on my cock too and pulls both of us over to suck at his, only the taste is all hand lotion and it’s making me gag and when it’s Michael’s turn he seems to enjoy it and looks up at me with his mouth full.

  Take It Like A Man, Maam

  (Ta’ det som en Mand, Frue!) (Elizabeth Rygard/

  Mett Knudsen/Li Vilstrup, 1975, Den)

  He holds my cock and guides me to Michael now on all fours who squeals pure pleasure when I ram it in as far as it goes. Now Ralph’s behind me pushing me in and out of Michael for what seems like ages with Michael crying and Ralph grunting and knocking my thighs till he says we’re going to come we’re going to come we’re going to come. The sounds they make are horrendous and I can hear Oliver scratching at the door to get in.

  I’ve got Michael having what looks like a fit on the ground beneath me and hot come jetting between my legs which must be Ralph’s and two men in a heap and a dildo with nowhere to go. I unstrap the dildo while the boys return to planet earth and sit on the soft leather couch. And with what appears like synchronicity both of them start lapping at my pubes like there’s money to be found. I’m already thinking stains on leather.

  Not For Publication

  (Paul Bartel, 1984, US)

  Now we’re talking cause their tongues are sort of French kissing while they’re exploring my clit and it’s as exciting watching them snog as it is to feel them and Ralph jumps up and returns in no time interrupting Michael’s skills with a vibrator like a fighter jet and before I know it I’m moaning with pleasure. They’re urging me in unison, come baby come, let it out, let it go, sweet pussy, beautiful cunt and when it finally happens I multiple orgasm into the back of the expensive leather sofa and it’s enough to fill a coffee filter and I’m ready to sleep but I’ve two stiffies awaiting action.

  Let’s Do It Again

  (Sidney Poitier, 1975, US)

  Ralph flips me over and now I’m too tired to follow the details but it feels like they’re taking turns. I soon wake up when I feel Ralph’s cock in my arse he’s directing again and getting Michael to lie on the couch underneath me. It doesn’t take long till he’s turning him over and I hear myself encouraging the boys though I’m ready to drop.

  Spot

  (Dogpound Shuffle) (Jeffery Bloom, 1974, Can)

  Ram your cock up his beautiful boy arse I chant repetitively do it do it do it. Michael’s screaming now and Ralph is riding him and Oliver is yelping in tandem with Michael and somehow manages to push open the door to find the three of us in a compromising position. I feel more embarrassed than I ever did with Michael or Ralph. The show’s over. Oliver is sniffing at us, particularly the boys and to be honest I find it a bit disgusting sharing body fluids with a dog. I start pulling on my clothes and let’s face it, it’s hardly the night to spend cosied up in bed, all three. Michael follows suit only he l
ooks disappointed like he wants something. Scrambled eggs. Fresh coffee.

  Two For The Road

  (Stanley Donen, 1966, GB)

  We’ve all gone quiet and Michael asks if I want to share a cab. He’s sleeping at Ian’s. I wonder if he’ll tell him. I can hardly look at him. Ralph asks us to come by again but we know he doesn’t mean it. He’s after one-offs is Ralph and there’s always the dog. Are you allright asks Michael which is his way of acknowledging we’ve made a poor choice. When I see him Tuesday there’s no curiosity looks, just a false sort of upbeat hello.

  A Cry in the Dark

  (Fred Schepisi, 1988, Aust)

  I go to the loo when there’s a lull and have a good cry for Michael, and particularly Ben who should be out there making sure I don’t get into these messes. And for Oliver. I feel like I’ve only had pure affection for dogs and now they’ve been sullied and I blame myself really cause of all that cavorting in the foyer. And the worst thing is Lucy when she quizzes, cause we describe the house and the coke, the champagne and the decor, but come over all vague like it was so boring. And when we order a pizza I don’t give him my share but get an appetite of my own for a change.

  Fade To Black

  (Vernon Zimmerman, 1980, US)

  Deathrocker, Sex Boy, and Fuck

  Thomas S. Roche

  It is Walpurgisnacht. But then, it generally is.

  Deathrocker and Sex Boy float like avenging angels or haunted death spirits. They wander through the legal/illegal smoke and smart-drug B.O. of the Orphanage, the club where they hang. The Orphanage: the Orphanage is littered with spirits, orphans, junkies, water-nymphs, download losers, upload pricks, former Catholics, urban soldiers of fortune, punk rockers, goth rockers, fallen new-agers, fashion victims of poorly executed Exile-on-Main-Street chic, and other assorted rejects. Basically the club fills up each weekend night with anybody fucked up enough to waste their time there. Lingerie-boys dance in indiscreet abandon suspended above the dance floor in cages, wearing manacles. Strap-on girls writhe on platforms to either side, flashing trendy blue-black modern-primitive tattoos at the edges of rolled-up sleeves on tattered Fruit of the Loom T-shirts copped from their fathers or, maybe, their boyfriends. The club is filled with machine-gun drum machine mixed with guitar feedback and samples from the Black Mass played backwards, the Ave Marla, Russian Orthodox services, obscure William Burroughs albums, and Pavarotti. The flowers of evil scatter their petals on the winds of the approaching apocalypse.

  Deathrocker cocks her head, tosses her hair, feigning indifference.

  “There’s Fuck,” she says.

  Sex Boy’s snappy retort: “Fuck?”

  “Yeah, Fuck. You know.”

  “I thought that poser spent his time at the Gallery. Or the fucking Institute.”

  The Gallery is the Gallery of despair, perhaps the only club in town, maybe anywhere, with a more pretentious clientèle than the Orphanage. The Institute is strictly for kids as far as Sex Boy is concerned.

  “She,” sneers Deathrocker. “Fuck hangs here now,” she says. “She got kicked out of the Gallery. They told her never to come back. Something about a bouncer and a twenty-dollar blowjob.”

  “Fuckin’ A, twenty dollars. That’s a lot to pay for a blowjob. I thought Fuck was a he.”

  “She,” says Deathrocker. “Look at those tits.”

  Look he does, oh, yes. It is certainly something to behold. This is the good part; keep your hands out of your lap. Fuck wears a tight spandex dress stretched across shoulders and tits and flat belly and bulging crotch, boneframe angled and dangerous. She has knife-edged eyelashes, razorblade earrings, thick blackberry lips in an eternal pout. Bleach-white hair scatters like Niagara Falls over her broad, unblemished white shoulders. Her tits are big and silicone-firm. Her long legs stretch into heaven or hell (depending on your particular wish). The legs are unstockinged, bare, beautiful. Fuck wears high-heeled deathrock boots, the buckles recycled from chalices used by the Pope when he had his little breakdown and said the Black Mass in public a few years ago – you remember. No one seems to know, in the stories they tell about Fuck, whether Fuck is a he-fuck or a she-fuck. But rumour has it that under that tight spandex Fuck harbours the yin and the yang, the princely pestle and the bearded clam, the pride and the prejudice, John Thomas and Pussy Galore, both of ’em in eternal synchronized interaction. It’s called “G.O.D.” on the street, short for Genetically Operative Doctoring, but that term is, according to the Faustus and Pangloss article in last week’s New England Journal of Medicine, no longer considered scientifically accurate. Living tissue splice is now the preferred medical term for the technique. But it’s still theoretical, never even tested in the chop-shop labs in Amsterdam. The operation is strictly the thing of urban legend, even if you hear stories all the time in the drag bars and whorehouses.

  The chick responsible for spreading most of the Fuck stories is a burned-out designer drug techno-child whom no one trusts anyway. But she claims to have sucked Fuck’s cock, down on her knees in the little girl’s room, and fingerfucked her pussy at the same time. That’s enough to get my hormones flowing, I dunno about yours. Everyone knows it’s unlikely that Fuck’s the androgyne the stories say Fuck is. But from the looks of those tits and the bulge in the front of that dress, it might be true, and some of us prefer to dream. Wonder about it for the next couple pages, OK?

  “I’m taking Fuck home tonight,” says Deathrocker. Right into Sex Boy’s ear.

  Sex Boy laughs. “Taking Fuck home. You think you’re taking Fuck home. Gonna fuck ’im?”

  “What else?” shrugs Deathrocker. “Wanna join in?”

  “I don’t waste my time on cheap-perfume posers.”

  Deathrocker doesn’t respond. She slides away towards Fuck.

  Goth girls and B&T dance-club whores crowd around Fuck, aching for a feel. Fuck remains distant, aloof, untroubled, untouched. No one at the Orphanage will grace that multiply endowed form tonight. Then catch sight of Deathrocker, dancing, swaying through waves of blue-grey smoke, smelling of cloves and whiskey. The crowd dissipates.

  “Pleased to meet you. I’m Deathrocker.”

  “Fuck.” Fuck pouts at Deathrocker, shoulders back. Her nipples poke through tight spandex. Fuck does not offer to shake hands. Instead, the two wordlessly head for the dance floor.

  The two become ghosts in the strobe lights. They engage in a dance-floor grope session, rubbing against each other and whimpering. Sex Boy haunts them from the shadows, watching. Stretch jeans stretched more than previously.

  Deathrocker and Fuck make their way to the front of the dance floor. A circle forms quickly, ghoulgirls and wraithboys watching the show. Whispers travel through the crowd. Deathrocker, anonymous black-clad bitch, is putting the moves on Fuck, the coveted thing of many sexes.

  Deathrocker gets down on her knees in front of Fuck. The dance is an excuse for Deathrocker to mimic cunnilingus/fellatio with this creature of Hindu divinity. Sex Boy watches from beneath the strobe lights, touching himself surreptitiously.

  Fuck gives Deathrocker a significant wink, then turns, stalking in those heels through crowd of silent deathrockers who part for her like the Red Sea for Moses. Deathrocker kneels there bewildered, thinking about it. She follows Fuck out the door. Sex Boy is not far behind.

  Fuck is waiting outside. The trio climb into Sex Boy’s rusty sixties Cadillac, and Sex Boy gets the top down and hammers the car into gear. Fuck and Deathrocker play the tongue game in eighty-mile winds up Third. Fuck gets her hand up Deathrocker’s skirt and slips the middle finger in there.

  The apartment is not far away, and the triumvirate don’t waste any fucking time making a pot of coffee.

  The three of them get down on the stained black futon. Fuck’s black dress comes down hard around his/her tits. Her nipples are pierced with 14-gauge rings. Sex Boy’s always had a thing for pierced nips. He gets his hand on the left one, and his mouth on the right. He nibbles at the silver ring as Deathrocker
slides to her knees and gets Fuck’s skirt up over her spread thighs, around her waist. Deathrocker gropes for the hard shaft of Fuck’s living-tissue manmeat, which pops out helpfully in eight-inch thick-headed splendour.

  Sex Boy, French-kissing Fuck, reaches down and wraps his fingers around the base. He guides the cock into his girlfriend’s waiting mouth. She sucks it down hungrily.

  Deathrocker pulls at Fuck’s tight white panties until they come off over her ankles. Sex Boy and Deathrocker reach Fuck’s crotch at the same time with their fingertips, groping to discover what generations of two-week trendies have tossed and turned in their beds at night wondering about.

  They gasp, as one, as they feel the softness of Fuck’s cunt giving way to their probing. Sex Boy prevails. He bats Deathrocker’s hand aside and slips two fingers inside. The cunt is wet and ready. Sex Boy slides his tongue deeper into an eager Fuck’s mouth.

  Deathrocker swallows Fuck’s cock again and again, then sucks on the balls. Her tongue snakes down to flicker across erect one-inch clitoris just below. Sex Boy has his fingers working overtime inside Fuck’s cunt. Deathrocker reaches out, smears her fingers with lube from the 16-oz pump dispenser on the nightstand, and goes to work on Fuck’s ass.

  Fuck’s ass gives way eagerly, clean and slick, more eager and open even than the cunt. Deathrocker gives it two fingers. Sex Boy’s tongue has become a whirlwind, a horny thunderbolt, Fuck whimpering in unholy abandon as she/he takes it multiple times and feels the two pairs of hands working their dark magic upon his/her high-tech body. Fuck begins to recite the Lord’s Prayer. The threesome explodes in a whirlwind of sex and sensation – fade to black.