The View From Here: Breasts

(the following is part of an ongoing 'column' I did for Suspect Thoughts, and, no, it's not supposed to make sense: only be weird fun)

I bought a pair of breasts the other day. I’d been putting it off for months – general hemming, hawing, that kind of thing – but then I walked by a body shop, you know, that pseudoskin place down on Maholley Terrace, by the baby fat bakery, and there they were in the window: two of the most gorgeous set of tits you ever did see. Now I know what they say, that bigger isn’t always better, but I’ll tell ya, it’s only the folks who’ve got stuck with little bitty titties are the ones sprouting that kind of stuff. Size, I’ll tell you, is where it’s at.

So I go into the place right, just to get a feel for them – you know what I mean? – and like a pot-bellied nursing fly this sales drone latches right onto me …ssssuuuuccckkk! I had to whip out my pocket knife and ease the blade between his lips and my skull to break the suction. Soon as he’s free – leaving a mean-ass hickey, too – he starts right into it: a hardcore, non-stop, subliminally packed pitch: “Icansee(buy) thatyou’rethe(buy) kindaguy(buy) whoknowsquality(buy) merchandise.”

Lucky for me, my little neighborhood has recently become a spawning group for telemarketers, the ground thick with their gelatinous offal, egg-cases crackling underfoot, so I’d dowsed myself with cheap-ass perfume to ward off their greedy suckers. Once the smell of the stuff got to his ridiculously under-sized brain he’s quivering eyes lost their luster and his lips sagged down to his waist. “Yeah,” he gurgled through his flaccid sucking organ, “what you want?”

I nodded to the hooters in the window. “How much for the tits?”

He signed, his soft body rippling with the action. It was so disgusting I almost wished I hadn’t cheapened myself before becoming – excited he would have sucked by brain out of my skull trying to remove my wallet from my pants but at least he didn’t fart, burble and quiver like three-day-old birthday pudding. “That’s (sigh) the special. Three hundred goobahs.”

I slapped him hard across what passed for his face, sending his sagging organ whipping around his body at least twice – ending with a disgusting smack when his drooling mouth slapped against the side of his head. His cloudy eyes cleared just a bit so I snapped my hand down to his right hip and slugged his secondary sexual organ. Now completely clear, his eyes jerked and buzzed angrily with the stab of pain. You have to teach these parasites whose boss, you know?

“Don’t give me that feculum,” I growled, kicking him in his distended digestive tract. There was obviously a Paramecium World restaurant nearby, because he expelled a good three and a half bowls of wriggling cilia in red sauce: a venerable geyser of clear, watery flesh and crimson fluids that roared up, hit the ceiling, and rained back down -- pelting the entire establishment in greasy, half-digested Catch of the Day.

“How can I help you, Sir?” he managed to say between loud, sloppy licks of the walls, floor, management, other customers, and me.

“Like I said, I’m interested in the tits in the window,” I said, scraping saliva off my new shark-skin jumper.

“An excellent choice, sir,” he said, belching loudly, the action setting his entire body to quivering with a heavy wave-action. I was momentarily fascinated by him, hypnotized, by the rolls of loose flesh and the way they undulated up to the top of his head – momentarily covering his beady-eyed face with greasy skin. “The finest quality of breast there is.”

“How much?” I repeated, knowing that the ballistic discharge of a meal had most certainly purged his memory as well: our previous conversation just a residue on the harder-to-reach corners of the place.

“For you, fine sir, just two hundred and fifty goobahs,” he said, smiling. The effect was disturbing in the extreme.

I swallowed my revulsion and my own breakfast of immature college graduates and slapped him again. This time his face only wrapped partway around his tiny skull – and I filed away the fact that either these guys were getting tougher or I needed to work out a lot more.

“What was I saying? My goodness, I must have forgotten my brain today! I mean to say that those choice items are currently being offered for the special price of two hundred goobahs.”

Luckily I’d remember to shop armed, so I was able to drop the price down to a hundred and fifty by shooting him in the foot. He made the most delightful piercing scream – shattering every toe and fingernail in the place – as he jumped up and down, thin, yellow blood bubbling disgustedly from the wound.

“Sold,” I told him – pointing my weapon between his tearing eyes in case he had any thoughts about offering insurance or, heaven forbid, gift wrapping. Posthaste, my new boobs were out of the window and into a travel-bubble. The creature was even quite civil as he accepted my squirming pile of goobahs and fed it into the maw of the banking worm.

So that’s how I got my tits. Spectacular, aren’t they? I do have to say that I am quite, quite pleased with them – but, to be honest, while they’re loads of fun, I have to admit that the actually shopping was more fun that the tits ever have been. Funny how that is, ain’t it?

Happy Birthday, Pauline -

It's that time of year again: time to wish my sweet friend, Pauline, another - and very sincere - happy birthday!

Writers have different dreams than ‘civilians.’ Some of them are pretty obvious: big book deals; Pulitzers, Nobels, etc; “Honey, there’s a Mr. Spielberg on the phone; ” an Oprah sticker ….

But there are other dreams: less obvious ones. One of them, a very special one, even the most hard-core, hard-case, hard-assed grizzled hack has, but will never admit: a friend.

Not just any friend, but a friend who comes from them following your trail of silly little literary breadcrumbs. Not a fan, but someone more than that: a cherished pal, a smile on your face whenever they send a message.

I’m lucky, and very grateful, for many things: my various breaks and bursts of luck in writing; my cherished, so-wonderful Sage Vivant, my brother, Sam; the support of my mother; and – yes – some fantastic friends.

One of them, Pauline, is one year older today. I don’t really want to embarrass her but let me say a few things about this truly wonderful person.

Pauline is sweet and caring, smart and funny, giving and supportive, kind and generous – a real treasure to know.

Happy Birthday, Pauline: you’re a dream come true … for a writer or just anyone lucky enough to have you in their life.

Thanks, Gizmodo

Very cool: Gizmodo picked up Avi and I's piece about early monorails ....

Dark Roasted M.Christian

Here we go again: another article for the always-great Dark Roasted Blend. This time it's about early monorails. Enjoy!


Ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages, allow me to present to you, for your amusement and edification, one of the strangest, weirdest, and most counter-intuitive ways of getting from point A to point B: the monorail.

While the concept of possibly traveling across a city, and/or across the landscape, on monorails has become close to acceptable these days – or even grudgingly acceptable -- back in its infancy visionary proponents of this form of transportation instead saw a future where everyone, everywhere, moved in gleaming high-tech splendor balanced on a single rail.

One of those first dreamers was Henry Palmer, whose creations worked the docks of London for many years – and even carried quite a few passengers. Terrified of falling over, to be sure, but passengers nonetheless. Other inventors, like Ivan Elmanov in Russia and Charles Lartigue, the French Engineer, saw their dreams made in iron and steel and even – in the case of Lartigue – were able to ride their visions and see them as, abet short-lived, successes.


To be fair, some of these early designs were more thought-out than you might think – though the actual engineering was naturally a bit primitive. Some designs used a single rail for both balance as well as power (either balanced by a gyroscope or hanging by an overhead support), while others kind of ‘cheated’ by having a single rain for balance and then a second wheel off to the side for propulsion.

While the early 20th century didn’t see a lot of huge developments in one-rail trains – except for here or there earnest experiments and limited uses – the 1920s and 30s were a boom year for the monorail in the pages of science fiction and techno-gee-whiz magazines like Popular Science and Modern Mechanix.

For some reason the brilliant artist of these and other magazines always saw the future as balancing on one rail. Their images are bold and daring, a plastic … or more like bakelite … glowing and chrome gleaming tomorrow of pipe-smoking, hat-wearing business men and balloon-toting and picnic basket-carrying children and wives zipping across meticulously manicured landscapes at the astounding speeds of 300 miles per hour.

Dreaming along similar Tomorrowland vistas, Disney’s imagineers adopted the monorail as the futuristic way of traveling around their famous amusement park. Other engineers looked to this high-speed, or at least futuristic, way of travel as well, getting their visionary monorail systems installed in Japan (naturally), Seattle and a few other rare urban experiments.

It’s ironic that a system put in place – sometimes -- as a way to bring the future into the backward world of today would now be seen as a realistic future mass transit alternative – all because of magnets.


Well, Maglev to be precise: “magnetic levitation” to you and I. The principle is simple: put the plus pole of a magnet to the plus pole of another magnet (or negative to negative) and you get resistance, that fun little ‘repulsion’ that’s delighted kids since magnets were first discovered.

While this propulsion method was often included in those chrome and bakelite futures of one-railed, high-speed trains it wasn’t until recently that the idea of using magnetic levitation has been taken seriously as a mass transit alternative. It seems that one of the best ways of using Maglev is as the lift for a monorail system – as test beds around the world have proven. Proven so well in fact that Maglev trains hold the current ‘fast train” record at Modern Mechanix, Popular Science astounding speeds of 361 miles per hour.

It’s fun to look back at those old pulp dreams of tomorrow, at their bulbous machines and glowing tube control panels, their mountain-sized turbines and silo-proportioned engine cylinders and barely suppress a superior smirk at how they – charmingly, to be sure – got it so wrong, but, who knows, maybe sometime soon we’ll be doing that smirking while we silently blast across our own carefully maintained landscape as passengers in 300+ miles per hour, magnetically supported, one-rail trains.

Confessions of a Literary Streetwalker: Keeping it Together

(the following is part of an ongoing series of columns I did for The Erotica Readers & Writers Association on the ins and outs and ins and outs and ins and outs of writing good smut)


Well it's tax time again and I'm here to tell you to do something I didn't do for the longest time -- and no, it's not making out a yearly check (sigh) to the IRS. I mean keeping track of what you're up to.

It may seem like a bit left brain for all you good right brain writers but keeping organized and maintaining accurate records is very important for a writer -- and not just to keep the audit wolves from huffing and puffing down your door your door.

As you write more and more stories -- and hopefully get more and more serious about sending them out -- keeping track of what went where and when becomes essential. Even the most left brain of you right brains can't always remember what story went to what editor and, most importantly, when it was sent out. Just to paint you a vivid picture, here's a common situation: you know you shipped off "Busty Nurses in Trouble" to Big Tit Magazine but can't remember when that was -- and so you sit longer than you should on the story and miss out on other opportunities. Or you don't remember what story you sent. Or you think you sent it off a long time ago -- and, pissed, you berate the editor only to realize you just sent the story off a week or two before. Red faces, for sure, but in this business a wrong impression can take a long time to wear off.

Instead of guessing or plowing through your sent email folder, it's much wiser to create a simple database or table or all your work and when/when/how/why and so forth it was sent you. For all your technophiles I suggest Excel, and for the Luddites I recommend a simple MSWord table. You don't need a lot of info for your records, but I've always found that more is always better. Or, I should say, since I learned to keep good records. There's a point to this, just be patient.

Here are some of the basics and why they are such a good idea:

• Story title: duh
• Words: because sometimes a market is only interested in stories of a certain length, or more/less than a certain length
• Subject Matter: I recommend a simple code, like "gay," "straight," "S/M," "Fetish," and so forth. The reason for this is once again certain markets want certain things, and it's way too easy to forget what you've written. You can also sort by this code in certain programs so you don't have to plow through record after record looking for a certain type of story. Just click and there they all are. Neat-o.
• Submitted When/Where: If you're like me and certain stories just won't sell then you'll need a lot of these, one for each unsuccessful attempt. It might be depressing to fill it out for the sixth or seventh time but it's better than sending the same story to the same agent twice. Trust me on this one.
• Published When/Where: Always a good idea to keep track, just in case a new market is not interested in reprints, or vice versa.
• Paid: It does happen -- believe it or not -- so it's good to keep track of how much (if anything) you got and when the check came. If you also want a real good cry just total up this field to see exactly how much you've made.
• Notes: For whatever else you want to say about a story.

Those are the basics but feel free to add a lot more -- some folks, for instance, like to put in editor's addresses, how the story was sent (email vs snail, for instance), and all kinds of other stuff.

The other kind of record keeping you should be mindful of should be obvious by the way I started this column: money -- coming in for sure but especially going out. Now I'm not an accountant and wouldn't even play one on television but I do know that you should keep track of everything and then let your professional play with it. Depending on your tax situation you can sometimes take as unlikely things like your ISP fees, all of your postage, DVD and CD purchases, mail box rentals, office furniture, and phone bills (and more) off your taxes. Like I said, it's really up to your accountant but if you don't keep good track of it all how are they even going to know where to start? Better to over-keep records than not at all.

How do I know? Well, I haven't been audited (knock on wood) but I have had the experience where I've sent a story to an editor only to have them reject it with a note: "I didn't like this the first time I read it." A big bummer and a lesson for writers everywhere -- especially me.

M.Christian at Cybernet Expo

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First, we'll have an orgy. Then we'll go see Tony Bennett.

I’m thrilled to be part of the blog tour for Jolie Du Pre’s upcoming anthology Swing, produced by the great folks at Logical-Lust.

My own humble contribution to the anthology is a story called "Bob and Carol and Ted (But not Alice)" which is clearly a twist on the classic Paul Mazursky late 60’s film on the new climate of sexual liberation.

I wish I could say my story’s based on actual events, with the names and faces changed to protect the innocent and all that but, aside from some (ahem) ‘experimentation’ conducted with the help of the San Francisco kinky scene back in the 90s, my sexual history is pretty un-cinematic.

Aside from the porn film I did. But that’s a story for another time ….

Ted Henderson: First, we'll have an orgy. Then we'll go see Tony Bennett.

Captain Future ... Is Amazing!

I've raved about my pal David Guivant's film work before ("Tony Stark is Just 'Spam in a Can.' Here's a Real Iron Man Genius" over at meine kleine fabrik) but it looks like he's really going to outdo himself with his new project: Captain Future. Here's a quick taste:

DIRTY WORDS - Out Now!

Lethe Press is proud to announce that M.Christian's Lambda-Award Finalist gay erotica collection Dirty Words is back in print!

From mischievous Native American spirits, to victims of cybernetic nightmares, these stories will amaze, amuse, terrify, fascinate and – always – excite you. Subtle and not, these well-crafted tales will touch you – and always excite you – in ways you’d never expect.

These aren’t just erotic stories; they are slices of life, fables, tales, and surreal anecdotes. Amazing, amusing, terrifying, and much more, they’ll excite and touch you in ways you’ll never expect.

Here's what people have said about this funny, wild, scary, and fun collection:

I like M. Christian. Yes sireee. But up until now his punchy fiction has been laid on my lap drop by drop through various anthologies that have come my way. Once you’ve licked up one of his short stories, you’re left with a bitter sweet taste in your mouth that has you sniffling the air for more.

Dipping into his erotic prose is like being doused with a bucket of icy cold water on a sticky Summer’s day. It’s a sense awakening experience, which enlivens and sweeps you away in the same narrative breath. It’s dark, it’s dangerous, it’s horny, it’s mouthwatering, it’s witty and it’s sharp.

Read my lips: Read this book.

- Skin Two

#

Calling Dirty Words "provocative erotica" is like calling an orgasm "a pleasant sensation." M. Christian doesn't just peek over the edge; he grabs you and jumps and tells you a story all the way down, a story so strange and wonderful and deeply disturbing that you almost forget you're falling. You just hope you have time to find out how it ends before you hit bottom. It never ends the way you think it will.

M. Christian is that rarest of literary birds, a virtuoso stylist. Oh, I could rhapsodize about his tricolons, his parallel constructions, the noir beat of his prose rhythm. I could revel in the slow roll of his vowels, the crack of his consonants, and yes, even his assonance. But what it all means is that he reads like a dream. You can't open Dirty Words without finding a beautiful sentence.

To get the most out of M. Christian's haunting mix of rapture and horror, exaltation and degradation, love of language and lust for flesh, read him out loud. If you have someone to read him out loud to, someone who knows that the best porn is also art, you're both very lucky.

- Clean Sheets

#

As it is with anything (food, art, clothing, fill in the blanks), taste in literature is nothing if not subjective. When it comes to erotica, it is doubly so. There are some writers who, through the sheer brilliance of their work, transcend the boundaries of taste and genre in a way that appears almost effortless.

M. Christian is one of those.

Dirty Words, is a challenging and thoroughly enjoyable collection of short stories, all of which incorporates sex - and its peripheral issues - within their scope. Despite the common theme, the stories featured in the book cover a wide spectrum in terms of subject matter.

M. Christian is a writer who doesn't force the reader to labor through overblown descriptions or struggle with metaphors that don't quite 'click'. Rather, his language is so carefully chosen that it comes across as an untailored stream of consciousness: offhand, easily and very, very honest. It is the kind of writing that makes the process of reading seem unnecessary - the ideas simply exist on the page like surprises, waiting to be experienced.

I strongly recommend you experience Dirty Words by M. Christian for yourself

- Outlooks

#

Part folklore, part pornography, part horror, part brutal romance - and all erotically kick-ass. Dirty Words takes readers in a tour of 14 contorted mental interiors and labyrinthine psychic dungeons inhabiting M. Christian's mind. This is not a collection of short stories where the music swells and the camera pans to clouds passing the bedroom window on a moonlit night.

Smart, hot, and vorpal-blade sharp, Dirty Words is perfect reading for those who love their sex fantasies in-you-face and are unafraid of a little blood

- AVN Inprint

#

Order a copy today!

Lethe Press
Paperback
ISBN-1590211243
$15.00

If you're interested in reviewing Dirty Words please email M.Christian:

zobop@aol.com
mchristianzobop@gmail.com

Bachelor Machine Taste -

As a tantalizing appetizer, here's the new cover for the Circlet re-release of my science fiction erotica collection, The Bachelor Machine, by the always-incredible Wynn Ryder ....

Call for Submissions: Sex In San Francisco

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Help!

After spending six months on unemployment, I started a new day-job about three months ago. And that job is a such a nightmare that even in this horrible economy, I'm going to have to quit or lose my mind. (And I like my mind, so I'm opting to lose the job instead.)

What I need from you, my friends, are any job possibilities you might hear of. Since I’m going to quit, I won’t have the option of EDD. I am qualified to do admin work, freelance writing, general office stuff and even simple grunt work such as schlepping and carrying. In other words, I will do almost anything.

But there's more.

I’m also interested in crashing for some much-needed mental heath R&R. If you have a spare bedroom and wouldn’t mind a guest for a little while please drop me a line – no mater where you might be. At this point in my life, I am open to new environments of all kinds, here or abroad. I'm a good houseguest, I promise. Will even do chores.

Hugs

Chris