Faint stream of light through the window, first thing in the morning.
Sex Boy has cut his tongue on one of Fuck’s razorblade earrings. He gets up, puts his jeans on, brushes his teeth, takes a piss, washes the blood off his lips.
It is not quite morning.
As dawn breaks through the windows in streams of apocalyptic brilliance, Fuck’s flesh begins to decay.
Sex Boy thoughtfully reaches up and pulls the blinds closed.
He bends over the stereo. With the flick of one switch, three disks begin to play simultaneously. Skinny Puppy, Diamanda Galas, the ubiquitous Pavarotti.
It’s a wake-up call to the not-yet-dead.
Cock bulging against stretch jeans.
Sex Boy unzips and starts for the futon.
Da Da
Toby Litt
It is 1976. Brighton, The Grand Hotel. An as-yet-unfamous pop group from Sweden has just won the Europrism Singing Contest. They are called DaDa (pronounced as if referring to a lickle baby’s daddykins rather than to a dubious European art movement of the early twentieth century). The song with which they have triumphed is called “Stalingrad”. It likens the joyful terror of knowingly beginning an abusive relationship to the encirclement by Wehrmacht forces of the Russian city of Stalingrad. The chorus goes: “Stalingrad! / You beat my sister up really bad. / Stalingrad! / I never knew you were such a cad. / Stalingrad! / Meet me tonite at the helipad. / Stalingrad! / I want some more of what sissie had.”
After the awards ceremony, DaDa retire to one of their two matching penthouse suites at The Grand Hotel.
The members of the band are two foxy chicks, A1 and A2, and two horny guys, B1 and B2.
A1 is wearing a blue chiffon jump-suit trimmed with yak fur, knee-length suede boots and a knitted Peruvian menstruation hat, with symbolic ear-flaps (ie, whatever you say, I won’t fucking listen).
A2 is dressed in a more fireside-porno look: crème-caramel coloured silk blouse under an I-read-books-sometimes cardigan, fitted-by-a-gynaecologist spray-on blue jeans and Scholl-but-sexy clogs.
A1 has long blonde Aryan hair; A2 has a tight chestnut perm.
As for the guys, B2 looks like he is seeking political asylum from the Glitter Band; whereas B1 is sporting the latest designer-Serf outfit (complete with encrusted faecal traces) by international Swedish designer Sprog Max Borgstern.
B1 and B2 both have big bushy beards.
A1 and B1 have been married for three years but manage with effort to combine being recovering alcoholics with being on the rocks.
A2 and B2 are an item: Lot 69 in the Stockholm I’ll-Be-Your-Sex-Slave-For-The-Long-Winter-Months Auction, September 1975.
Unbeknownst to B1, A1 is having an affair with B2. A2 is fully aware of what’s going on – in fact, she encourages it, because it allows her to pursue her illicit flinglet with B1. Al, of course, is completely ignorant of A2’s affair with her beloved husband.
That is the situation, as they burst triumphantly back into the second of their two direly decorated hotel rooms. The wallpaper is a Touch-Me TM velvety effect, just, in a way, as Austria mimicked Germany during the inter-war (1918 to 1939) period.
B1 turns on the headboard radio and a stiltonesque- Bontempi-organ and Electro-zither track begins to play, in C minor.
B2 strokes the dimmer-switch with practised forefinger (he has one of these, a dimmer-switch, not a forefinger – urrh, you silly dur-brain! – amongst the myriad gidgets and gazmos in his batch-pad back in Stockholm).
A1 says, “I feels so hot and am really turned on by the winning we have dome of Europrism, no?”
A2 replies, “God, here below I am such of a wet pussy, you know . . . I drip and I am horny, so I want taking hard and now, baby.”
(Being Swedish, DaDa talk like a porn movie all the time, of course, yah? Until now, however, they have never acted in a porno way, too.)
B2 says, “As you say, the idea of all those pretty girlies from all over the Europe, just with the hots for me, it makes me hard in the pants like a stick of the famous Brighton rock, but much more wide.”
B1 replies, “You are correct in that I feel as long and rigid as the pier penetrating the womanish sea that I am seeing outside this very window here.”
A1 says to B1, “I cannot wait for privacy in a room of one’s own. Take me here and now, in a rough manner, from behind.”
As she speaks, however, A1 winks at B2; B2, pretending to smoulder at A2, but actually directing his linguistic lust back at Al, says, “My hot-rod of throb will in the very next moment be riding down your sticky-Tarmacked highway of desire.”
B1 rips off his sheepskin jerkin and begins to unlace his mediaevo-flies. At which point, A2 looks at designated fuck B2 and says, “All this bad horniness is making me of the very same persuasion. I am here for you to take me wherever we want to go.”
With this declaration, A2 flings her cardigan across the room. It lands on the textured mini-bar, knocking over the six assembled bottles of Babycham. (One of which is suspiciously empty. Oh no! Could someone else be in the room, hiding somewhere?)
B1 continues to struggle with his immensely complex crotch-fastening arrangements.
A2 finds it equally hard to remove her the-world’s-your-speculum blue jeans.
By contrast, A1 pulls the rip cord on her jump suit and “has it off” in a mere demi-hemi-semi-trice.
And B2, once the sparkly shoulder pads are ditched, nudifies himself with utter celerity.
As she has very little else to do, A1 kneels down and starts to find out just how sugary sweet B2’s stick of Brighton rock really is.
Oh, no! A divorce could be in the offing.
But the sight of their co-band members getting down on it merely inspires A2 and B1 to redouble their efforts of fashion escapology.
“I am to you a microphone,” groans B2 to A1. “Show me the technique you are having.”
Finally, B1 says, “Have you a pair of scissors in your possession?”
A2 replies, “Good, Batman.” Her handbag is very handy, and soon she is snipping her way through his twenty leather-look pant tighteners. They ping and they pung, and soon his Palace Pier is being lapped by the incoming tides of A2’s saliva.
But more (and other) is to come.
A2 reaches across and, in a post-Global-telecast frenzy of Sapphic lust, tweaks A1’s bright red nipple.
“The fans,” she says. “They are wanting us to be do-be-do-be-doing this to each other for the longest day.”
A1 groans and, removing B2’s lurve-microphone from her imminently million-selling larynx, says, “I am a waterfall of wanting this dream to come true. Let me ‘visit with your close family’.”
With which rare Swedish lesbo-idiom, A1 muff-dives across the room like a Furby on heat. (If you’ll excuse the anachronism.)
In her delight at being so pleasured, A2 releases B1’s schlong from its dental clamp.
The massive Euro-penis strafes the room with heavy threat, like a Sherman tank about to liberate Paris.
He puts his hands on his lithe hips and says to song-writing chum B2, “How about you and me, here and now, melodic big boy?” Big-beefy-beardy B2 needs no further RSVP. He is suckety-sucking before you can say Roger Wilco John Thomas.
All of top Swedish pop band DaDa are now naked as the day they last sauna-ed together. (Wednesday.)
Gay fellatio and dykey cunnilingus last for a long while.
Then A1 says, “Now give it to me up where the sun ain’t gonna shine any more.”
B1 and B2 look at each other confusedly. In order to do this, B2 has to make a small centre parting in the afro-bush of Bl’s public hair. Neither of them knows which of them A1 meant. All they are sure of is that A2 wasn’t the addressee.
So, how do they solve this tricksky problemo?
Well, surely, by pulling themselves apart and then by pulling apart Al’s pert bumcheeks.
“I’m to die for it,” she says. “I ache like a tooth.”
; The Swedish are a polite people.
“After you,” says B2.
“No,” says Bl. “After you.”
Eventually their prevarication annoys A2 into taking action, she turns her soon-to-be equally unit-shifting shitter ceiling-wards and says, “Last one in’s a cissygay-boy.”
And so, B1 slams his schlong into A2 and B2 buries his hatchet in A1.
Swedish ugghs and mnnns sound much like English ones.
The ex-backing-singer nymphettes, side by side on the chocolate counterpane, ride the hard cocks of what will, in twenty years, be widely acknowledged as the greatest song writing partnership since Lennon and McCartney.
Hands reach out from one coupling to touch the humping humps of the other.
Now the shit really hits the fan, who has been hiding half under the bed all this time. (After celebrating the band’s success by quaffing a bottle of their Babycham – Aha!)
She is sixteen, a virgin, but very obviously up for it; viz she is wearing an ultra clingy DaDa T-shirt and a pair of hot pants that would make even the Turin Shroud’s eyes water.
She can no longer remain anonymous.
The squits of superstar bum juice in her flaxen hair are just too much for this little fuck-kitten’s neurons to process.
She crawls out on hands and knees, much to the poptabulous quartet’s surprise and delight.
Her yellow-butterflied bunches swing as she says, “Make me depraved like you guys.”
The fan’s pert titties jiggle beneath the DaDa logo like two heads giving blow-jobs.
B1 and B2 immediately pull their un-Trojan stallions out of their particular siege situations.
The fan seizes her opportunity, in both hands.
Her cutesy-girl clothes are ripped from her soft English flesh. And, pretty damn soon, A1 and A2 are collaborating in holding her spread-eagled on the floor whilst B1 and B2 unite in de-hymening her Limey love-passage.
“Your songs mean so much to me,” the fan yelps. “They helped me get over my break-up with Derek.”
With their free hands, A1 and A2 begin to twist her beehive-shaped, honey-sweet nipples.
“Ow,” she says. “That hurts in an unexpectedly nice way.”
“Hold her in a still position down,” A1 demands. “While I fetch the equipment.”
A2 sits her fanny on the fan’s face.
“Tongue my wet parts,” she says. “That’s an order, corporal. If you don’t, we won’t be doing no Christmas Message on your stupid Fan Club flexidisc this year.”
B1 and B2 are banging into the fan like the rhythm section on “Nympho Hippo, Hunky Monkey”, which is to be the follow-up single to “Stalingrad”.
(“Nympho Hippo, Hunky Monkey” concerns the attempts of a grossly overweight Norwegian girl to seduce a particularly well-hung orang-utan in Oslo Zoo, one dark and windy night.)
A1 returns from the beside taB1e with her King Dong KlassiK vibrator – twelve inches of throbbing battery-powered silicone.
“Let me coming through,” she says.
Miraculously, B1 and B2 part – like the Polish populace in 1939 for the invading German Panzer tanks.
The fan faces the B1ack fucksimile of a porn god.
“Pierce me like an ear,” she shrieks. Clever B1 and B2 are soon giving her a taste of the wonders of stereo, stud-style.
A2 is feeling left out of all the fun, and so she fetches her own unmatronly orgasmatron – it’s a “Holmes”, and pretty soon it’s installed in front of a roaring fire, having a bit of crumpet, up her own personal Baker street. “Aaaagh,” A2 shrieks, like an out-of-sync disco violin.
At this moment, both B1 and B2 have an idea for a follow-up single to “Nympho Hippo, Hunky Monkey”. It will be called “What’s Yours Is Mine (and What’s Mine is Yours)”. The subject of the dead-cert gold-disc song will be the transfer of the herpes simplex virus from a Belgian child prostitute to a senior member of the Royal Family of Luxembourg and thence, by stages, in each succeeding verse, to an English butler, a Spanish opera singer and finally – in a delicious irony – the child prostitute’s own grandmother. The chorus will go: “It’s cold, it’s sore / It’s really rather raw / From poor-oh whore-oh / to Euro bore-oh / from Tea-at-four-oh / to Toreador-oh / to At-Death’s-Door-oh! / What’s yours is mine / (and what’s mine is yours) / Oh!”
The thought of creating such a musico-masterpiece makes B1 and B2 simultaneously ejaculate in such an extravagantly creamy fashion that the shag-pile carpet of the penthouse suite of The Grand Hotel, Brighton, will need a shampoo and set before the room is once again fit for human habitation. But the fan-gangbang night has many more hours and many, many more pervy permutations to get through before Dawn spreads her rosy cunt-lips. (Dawn being, of course, the chambermaid.)
Downtown
Hanne Blank
Adult Books flickered the neon sign, hanging behind grimy glass. Katie hung back a little bit as her lover opened the door to the place, which she did without reticence. An even five feet of fireplug-stocky, fire-engine red-haired, freckle-faced stone butch, Mick looked a lot like Opie Taylor. Opie Taylor with D cups and a strap-on, and a boyishness that was probably the quality Katie liked best about her.
The shoppers inside were few, and uniformly male. Mick’s presence seemed not to trip their radar, but then Mick passed, more often than not. She usually used the men’s room.
Katie was another story. You just don’t walk into a porn shop when you’re an expensive-looking five-eight brunette and expect heads not to turn. The boys don’t know, and don’t care, that you sleep with girls when you look like that . . . in fact, if they knew, they’d think it was the answer to a prayer. The hungry glances that strafed Katie’s body made her nervous as hell.
Eyes down, she walked past the racks of cheap plastic dildos and grubby-looking magazines, watching Mick’s short, firm legs, feeling a little tingle of excitement smoldering somewhere below her belly button. She would’ve sworn that she didn’t know how she’d let Mick talk her into this, but her swelling clit would’ve called her a liar.
Katie liked sleaze. Secretly. She never came right out and said it. Not even to Mick. But it didn’t matter. Mick knew how to read between the lines. And Katie liked it dirty, and rowdy, with a scintillating edge of danger. She wasn’t about to cop to it, but then that’s just not something you do when you’ve got pearls from Tiffany, a briefcase from Coach, a birth certificate that says Grosse Pointe, Michigan, a law diploma that says Harvard, and a business card that says Junior Partner, McMicken, Hunting, Daniels, and Smith. Not even when you’re wearing a nipple-less bra from Frederick’s underneath your Chanel suit. It was the unspoken contract of their relationship: don’t ask, don’t tell. Just pursue.
And pursue Katie did, following in Mick’s footsteps past the Swedish penis enlargers, past the copies of “Shaved Pregnant Oriental Twat” and “Barely Legal Lesbo Teens”, past the rows and rows of video covers that showed every conceivable orifice and every conceivable thing with which an orifice might be stuffed. They walked straight to the back and turned right, Katie catching up with Mick as she paused before the doors.
Booth number three was small and dark and barely big enough for the two of them when they closed the door and slid the bolt home. The dim light overhead reminded Katie of the light in Mick’s beat-up old Toyota, yellowish and wan. Without preamble Mick’s hands were under Katie’s blouse, silk tugged from her waistband, breasts spilled from under-wires, rough thumbs pinching nipples, rolling them over and over. Katie whimpered, kittenish, into her lover’s mouth, already telegraphing her urgency though they’d hardly begun.
The booth wasn’t comfortable, but that wasn’t the point. Fortunately the floor wasn’t sticky. Katie breathed a sigh, then shivered and sucked in her breath, her long, red-tipped fingers anxiously fondling the short soft fuzz of her lover’s brush cut as Mick’s tongue and lips and teeth fastened onto one already-hard nipple. The tinny whine and thud of the disco music coming through the wall a
ccompanied their grinding embrace, doing nothing to mask the raspy groans that limped out of Katie’s throat as Mick bit and chewed and licked and sucked.
“Whaddaya want, cutie? You sound like there’s something you want,” Mick coaxed as Katie squirmed.
Katie blushed, the scarlet in her cheeks as obvious as the unconscious grinding of her hips. Mick slid her hand down, sneaking it under Katie’s hem, and stroked the soft skin just above her stocking top.
“Good girl, Katie,” Mick growled smokily. “Hose, not pantyhose, just the way your Micky told you to. Did you do the other thing Daddy told you had to do if he was going to bring you to the peeps?”
Katie nodded shyly.
“What’s the matter, girl? Cat got your tongue? Did you do what I asked you to do or not?”
Katie’s voice was a hoarse whisper. “Yes, Daddy. I did what you asked me to.”
“Show me.”
Her cheeks and ears red, conservative pageboy falling forwards to cover only some of her embarrassment, Katie leaned forwards and pulled up her skirt, hitching it up slowly. Black garters descended to tan stocking tops, and between her thighs . . . nothing. Not even a scrap of pubic hair remained to hide the puffy cleft of her pussy. But that was the way it was supposed to be. Daddy told her she should be bare. So she was.
“Oooh, Katie. What a nasty little girl you are, no panties on, getting felt up in a peepshow both like some trailer-trash slut,” Mick snarled, stroking one fingertip up and over the arch of Kate’s silken-smooth mons. “I think you should reach in Daddy’s pocket and find out what I’ve got in there for you.”
“For me, Daddy?” Katie asked, her voice little-girlish. Mick could feel how hot she was, could already feel the slip of girl-juice as she stroked the edges of Katie’s cunt.
Mick nodded as Katie’s long fingers slipped into the pocket of her 501’s, withdrawing the roll of shrink-wrapped quarters. “What are the quarters for, Daddy?”
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