Japanese, Dutch, Norwegian, German, Spanish, Italian, French ... it's pretty damned cool to suddenly realize how many languages I've been translated into.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Languages
Japanese, Dutch, Norwegian, German, Spanish, Italian, French ... it's pretty damned cool to suddenly realize how many languages I've been translated into.
Painted Doll, An Excerpt
Here's a tantalizing taste of my new novel, Painted Doll, currently available from the always-great Lethe Books.
Chapter 2
... Qui Dan Road to the High Street, a stumble of crisp British in a city of fish sauce and MSG. The change didn’t alter her steps, modify her movements.
Beautiful? Oh, yes: without doubt, without a question. The splendor of a rose, the loveliness of an orchid. The kimono is flawless, as is the china white of her immaculately applied artificial complexion. As she walks, hearts stop then race. As she walks, heads twist, eyes widen. As she walks, breaths are hissed in, sighed out.
Beautiful? Oh, yes: without doubt, without a question. But she is a knife-edged rose, a razor sharp orchid. Her stride is mechanically perfect, as is her perfectly vertical posture. Their hearts might race, their heads may twist, their eyes certainly widen, their breaths absolutely hiss in and hiss out, but as she steps nearer they instead step back. As she walks, they avert their eyes. As she walks, they pull themselves in.
The woman walking down the High Street feels them watching her, their glances furtive tickles, their quick stares barely felt hooks out of the corners of her always forward facing eyes. Passing a bookseller – tight fans of rough tan paper with lurid Cantonese chops on their glistening plastic covers hung in sagging arcs of cord – a reflection was revealed to her, a caught sight of what they were seeing.
But not what they were thinking. But she knew, nevertheless: each of them lost in illusions and fantasies as carefully crafted as her rouge, as flawlessly presented as the mae migoro and ushiro migoro of her kimono, as immaculately assembled as her performance:
She’s a dragon, some might think: the cruelty of a reptile, the flawlessness of a myth. You may approach her, with bravery beyond that of any battlefield, speaking with a stammer and a twitch, and if you were fortunate beyond your worth she’d slow, pause, turn with prudently measured grace, deeming your presence not completely disgusting. With that look, at that glance, would be a flickering forked tongue of cruel invitation, a scintillating promise of peaked breasts topped with fist-tight nipples, a belly steel plate flat and firm, a behind curving out in twin clenches of muscular intensity, thighs sculpted by rigid posture, and between them a scented valley of ruby silk.
But first, a miniscule task. But first, an all but insignificant request: to firmly stand guard for her honor and dignity; to fetch a inestimable gem, an incalculable jewel, or just a unexceptional sticky-sweet pastry; to perform for her a melody of praise, or a stammering litany of desperate worth; or a quick athletic demonstration of physical merit; or become for her an avenging knight, a battle to defend her honor against some heinous offense.
A minuscule task. An insignificant request. Accepted without doubt or hesitation, the reward a slow curl at the corner of her cold stone face, a bow of gratitude, and a bright flash of serpentine green eyes. Totally entranced by her, completely captured by her, the dragon would then reveal the metaphorical points of venomous teeth, sinking the illusion of her love deep into the shaft of your encouraged penis by showing you the true face of her cruelty.
The prize was yours but the tasks were actually anything but miniscule, not at all insignificant: firmly stand guard for her honor and dignity – for a year; fetch a inestimable gem, an incalculable jewel, or just a unexceptional sticky-sweet pastry – from a thousand miles away; perform for her a melody of praise, or a stammering litany of desperate worth – perfectly, without the tiniest flaw; a quick athletic demonstration of physical merit – unattainable by even the greatest athlete; or become for her an avenging knight, a battle to defend her honor against some heinous offense – in combat against a killing machine.
And so the dragon passes by, a smile on her cold-blooded face. No one approaches her, no one is willing to come near. And so they live, by letting her just walk by.
She’s a doll, some might think: a porcelain figure, an ivory representation. Beneath the silks and satins would be a body as perfect as only a master artisan could create. Breasts both delicate and womanly, nipples as delicate as rosebuds, a belly with an ideal swell, hands with the grace of ten Noh performers, calves a perfect taper, thighs an entrancing form, back a clean surface of alabaster, neck a musical curve, feet delicate and precious, a behind highlighted with sacral dimples, and a female cleft that was a pale oyster and a tiny pink pearl.
Like a doll, she would belong to whoever buys her. Cash, credit, merchandise – the right amount and the woman would instead walk behind, following her owner towards palace or hovel, both with the same unmoving mask of her face.
Palace or hovel, she would walk in the door, standing still and quiet with an item’s posture. Maybe she’d look better in the living room window, where the afternoon would bathe her in golden light? Or perhaps she’d be better exhibited in the bedroom, where her kimono could be removed like one from a real woman.
Yes, the bedroom. That was where she would be best displayed. Moving past, it was clear in their eyes, the allure of her perfect submission. A thing. An object. A piece of feminine sculpture. Unable to disagree, unable to refuse, bendable in all kinds of imaginative ways. From behind, cock sliding between her cool ivory cheeks. Face to face, marble breasts for unimpeded kiss, licks, and sucks. On top, her tight thighs spread apart and welcoming upward thrusts. Anything you wanted, anytime you wanted.
Desire was a rippling wave behind her, a heat distortion in the warm city air. It was obvious in their eyes that there, in her, was a world without ‘no,’ a land without complaint, a woman without a soul.
Then they stopped, that wave of erections and licked dry lips chilled with a slap of frigid revelation. Stepping back with the rest of the crowd, these men retreated from the precise rhythm of her steps, with whimpering fear in their wide eyes, their shaking heads.
Ivory arms, marble legs, alabaster body: inflexible, unfeeling, stiff, unbending, unyielding, and -- worst of all -- cold. With her you’d never hear ‘no,’ never be refused, never be denied, but you’d also never hear the beat of her heart, the music of her voice, the chimes of her laughter, the moans and screams of her pleasure. You’d perform with her your deepest, darkest, most subterranean – and all she would do would be to look at you with inscrutably glass eyes.
She’s a tiger, some might think: a beast with the stripes of a traditional Japanese dress. Hidden beneath her Asian camouflage was a woman’s body, exercised into an extension of her erotic drive. Where other women had euphemisms and poetic alliterations, she had simple, direct, and powerful words to describe herself. Where other women had bosoms, she had tits of ideal jiggle and sway, covered in thrilling smooth skin. Where other women had nipples, she had a pair of dark brown direct connections to her clit. Where other women had posteriors, she had two plush muscular globes that clenched and released with the beating heat of her clit. Where other women had sexes, she had a demanding, insistent cunt.
To see and handle these differences would be more fortune than seduction. You did not take the tiger to dinner and slip hot words between dessert and coffee. You did not lay flowers at the feet of this hot blooded woman within the cool disguise of a geisha. You did not whisper poetry into the shell-like ear of this elegantly robed bitch.
There was no way to make her do anything, no way to slyly allure or simply trick her into a private room, no way to seduce her. The only thing anyone could do was to stand within the range of that sweeping predatory glance and hope that her eyes would positively estimate your worth as a device for her pleasure. Then, and only then, would her red-painted lips open ever-so, more than a whisper but less than full voice, and speak the one word you’d prayed to hear: “Come.”
Behind her, pulled along by her insatiable need, you would follow. It wouldn’t be a long journey, for her cunt has a very short attention span. Cheap hotel on the next street, expensive one even closer by, or just the nearest fetid and slimy alley – whatever was within range.
Patience was for ladies. Hesitation was for women. Tigers – even ones hidden within silks and satins – had no need for foreplay, patience, or hesitation. They wanted, so they took.
And if you were lucky, she would take you. Hands down to your cock, a squeezing judgment for size and firmness. Lips to yours, a tongue penetrating your mouth, am attacking kiss wanting nothing of you but to be kindling to her roaring heat.
On her knees, she would take you. But only because that was what she wanted. Your come was not expected or important. A flesh device to penetrate an orifice, you would be used until she was bored and ready to move onto other penetrations of other orifices.
Or perhaps she’d require something else. Falling back, satin fabric pulled roughly aside, she might bare an insistent slickness, the gleaming lips and fast-beating clit, and demand your service. Failure to accept or in performance too terrible to contemplate.
At the end, your cock would be needed: hard, strong, and fast -- nothing else important to her. Burning hot, insanely wet, you’d enter and execute the task she’d ordered, working until her screams tore at your ears and her nails scratched along your back.
Then that would be it. Humiliating? Being reduced to only a device for someone’s pleasure usually is. But the blistering heat of her, the ferocious need of her cunt would put – and keep – a smile on your sweaty face.
But – and again men standing step back, retreat in shivering dread when she walks back – one does not ever tame a tiger, even after it is fed. Who knows what she might hunger for after? Meat, blood, flesh, dignity, any number of horrible violations – any of them within her grasp, and you too exhausted to resist.
Tigers are wild things, after all: enjoyable to watch in zoos, penned behind restraining bars, but far too bloodthirsty in bed.
She’s a machine, some might think: isn’t it wonderful what they’re doing with shape memory alloys, mnemetic plastics, optical fibers, and conductive polymers? Absolutely wonderful things coming out of Japan, India, the Wilding, and the young turks of the École Polytechnique, these days. Look up and there are dragonfliers pausing for location fixes before darting off at near-invisible speeds, packages clutched under their iridescent fuselages. Look down and there are myriad scurrying mechanisms trailing polished tracks of perfumed cleanliness through the city’s persistent grime. Look around and there are cinematics lazily scrolling across a lady’s fluttering fan, posters for the newest Malasian blockbuster cycling through tantalizing glimpses of furious martial arts and stiffly chaste duets, the hushed commuting fuel-cell and ethanol traffic, and the softly creaking carbon fibers of a prosthetic hand on a crumble-faced veteran of the Chinese genocide as he lays down a mah-jongg tile.
Look at her and you might see a device as carefully machined as a German car, a Swiss watch, a Japanese entertainment center, Indian software, or an African running shoe: breasts as ideal and resilient as silicone, skin of perfectly cured plastic, muscles as precise and strong as actuators, a genital-pleasuring interface between her thighs, a mouth with the same technology.
It was a safe bet that without her protective kimono covering, the pseudo-body of hers was as superlative as a supermodel, as sensuous as a Playmate of whatever month, as adept as an amalgamation of every courtesan who’d ever lived, as refined and machined as her manufacturers could make her.
Movement like the architecture in fine software, presence as authoritative as graceful as a jet fighter, skin as smooth as the polish on a fresh-from-the-factory-floor Ferrari, she passed by – and with her passing the tracking of lust and greed in the eyes of the male crowd, and sour envy on the faces of everyone else.
Here was the best of both of a man’s world: the twin allures of a clever device together with a well-articulated woman – or, to be more specific, as those men revealed so obviously, ‘coupled’ together, a mating between flesh and sex and advanced technology and power. Purchasing this – or simply leasing with an option to do the same – and putting it in the garage or the bedroom, would mean not just a product but also a woman of every dream, not just a sex partner but also a sophisticated piece of fine engineering.
But that wasn’t all. Look at them watching her move by. Lust was there, both for machine as well as woman, but there was also the dawning realization that there could be even more there: things that squeezed, buzzed, vibrated, hummed, heated, cooled, swirled, oscillated, tingled, and more, more, more so much more.
But then they pulled away, out of her way, out of her traffic, their fantasies dropping behind to be passed by the rushing acceleration of a nightmare, the barreling truck of a terrifying understanding.
Engineering, went their minds as they retreated, is fine and good, stimulating and thrilling. Sex, they thought as they ran away from her, is fantastic and wonderful. But to fuck a machine, to be intimate with gears and cogs, synthetics and electricity, hydraulics and radiators, could be good, but also could be like thrusting into a meshing, tearing, burning, shocking, scalding, blistering industrial accident.
Beautiful? Oh, yes: without doubt, without a question. The splendor of a rose, the loveliness of an orchid. The kimono is flawless, as is the china white of her immaculately applied artificial complexion. As she walks, hearts stop then race. As she walks, heads twist, eyes widen. As she walks, breaths are hissed in, sighed out.
Beautiful? Oh, yes: without doubt, without a question. But she is a knife-edged rose, a razor sharp orchid. Her stride is mechanically perfect, as is her perfectly vertical posture. Their hearts might race, their heads may twist, their eyes certainly widen, their breaths absolutely hiss in and hiss out, but as she steps nearer they instead step back. As she walks, they avert their eyes. As she walks, they pull themselves in.
The woman walking down the High Street feels them watching her, their glances furtive tickles, their quick stares barely felt hooks out of the corners of her always forward facing eyes. Passing a bookseller – tight fans of rough tan paper with lurid Cantonese chops on their glistening plastic covers hung in sagging arcs of cord – a reflection was revealed to her, a caught sight of what they were seeing.
But not what they were thinking. But she knew, nevertheless: each of them lost in illusions and fantasies as carefully crafted as her rouge, as flawlessly presented as the mae migoro and ushiro migoro of her kimono, as immaculately assembled as her performance:
She’s a dragon, some might think: the cruelty of a reptile, the flawlessness of a myth. You may approach her, with bravery beyond that of any battlefield, speaking with a stammer and a twitch, and if you were fortunate beyond your worth she’d slow, pause, turn with prudently measured grace, deeming your presence not completely disgusting. With that look, at that glance, would be a flickering forked tongue of cruel invitation, a scintillating promise of peaked breasts topped with fist-tight nipples, a belly steel plate flat and firm, a behind curving out in twin clenches of muscular intensity, thighs sculpted by rigid posture, and between them a scented valley of ruby silk.
But first, a miniscule task. But first, an all but insignificant request: to firmly stand guard for her honor and dignity; to fetch a inestimable gem, an incalculable jewel, or just a unexceptional sticky-sweet pastry; to perform for her a melody of praise, or a stammering litany of desperate worth; or a quick athletic demonstration of physical merit; or become for her an avenging knight, a battle to defend her honor against some heinous offense.
A minuscule task. An insignificant request. Accepted without doubt or hesitation, the reward a slow curl at the corner of her cold stone face, a bow of gratitude, and a bright flash of serpentine green eyes. Totally entranced by her, completely captured by her, the dragon would then reveal the metaphorical points of venomous teeth, sinking the illusion of her love deep into the shaft of your encouraged penis by showing you the true face of her cruelty.
The prize was yours but the tasks were actually anything but miniscule, not at all insignificant: firmly stand guard for her honor and dignity – for a year; fetch a inestimable gem, an incalculable jewel, or just a unexceptional sticky-sweet pastry – from a thousand miles away; perform for her a melody of praise, or a stammering litany of desperate worth – perfectly, without the tiniest flaw; a quick athletic demonstration of physical merit – unattainable by even the greatest athlete; or become for her an avenging knight, a battle to defend her honor against some heinous offense – in combat against a killing machine.
And so the dragon passes by, a smile on her cold-blooded face. No one approaches her, no one is willing to come near. And so they live, by letting her just walk by.
She’s a doll, some might think: a porcelain figure, an ivory representation. Beneath the silks and satins would be a body as perfect as only a master artisan could create. Breasts both delicate and womanly, nipples as delicate as rosebuds, a belly with an ideal swell, hands with the grace of ten Noh performers, calves a perfect taper, thighs an entrancing form, back a clean surface of alabaster, neck a musical curve, feet delicate and precious, a behind highlighted with sacral dimples, and a female cleft that was a pale oyster and a tiny pink pearl.
Like a doll, she would belong to whoever buys her. Cash, credit, merchandise – the right amount and the woman would instead walk behind, following her owner towards palace or hovel, both with the same unmoving mask of her face.
Palace or hovel, she would walk in the door, standing still and quiet with an item’s posture. Maybe she’d look better in the living room window, where the afternoon would bathe her in golden light? Or perhaps she’d be better exhibited in the bedroom, where her kimono could be removed like one from a real woman.
Yes, the bedroom. That was where she would be best displayed. Moving past, it was clear in their eyes, the allure of her perfect submission. A thing. An object. A piece of feminine sculpture. Unable to disagree, unable to refuse, bendable in all kinds of imaginative ways. From behind, cock sliding between her cool ivory cheeks. Face to face, marble breasts for unimpeded kiss, licks, and sucks. On top, her tight thighs spread apart and welcoming upward thrusts. Anything you wanted, anytime you wanted.
Desire was a rippling wave behind her, a heat distortion in the warm city air. It was obvious in their eyes that there, in her, was a world without ‘no,’ a land without complaint, a woman without a soul.
Then they stopped, that wave of erections and licked dry lips chilled with a slap of frigid revelation. Stepping back with the rest of the crowd, these men retreated from the precise rhythm of her steps, with whimpering fear in their wide eyes, their shaking heads.
Ivory arms, marble legs, alabaster body: inflexible, unfeeling, stiff, unbending, unyielding, and -- worst of all -- cold. With her you’d never hear ‘no,’ never be refused, never be denied, but you’d also never hear the beat of her heart, the music of her voice, the chimes of her laughter, the moans and screams of her pleasure. You’d perform with her your deepest, darkest, most subterranean – and all she would do would be to look at you with inscrutably glass eyes.
She’s a tiger, some might think: a beast with the stripes of a traditional Japanese dress. Hidden beneath her Asian camouflage was a woman’s body, exercised into an extension of her erotic drive. Where other women had euphemisms and poetic alliterations, she had simple, direct, and powerful words to describe herself. Where other women had bosoms, she had tits of ideal jiggle and sway, covered in thrilling smooth skin. Where other women had nipples, she had a pair of dark brown direct connections to her clit. Where other women had posteriors, she had two plush muscular globes that clenched and released with the beating heat of her clit. Where other women had sexes, she had a demanding, insistent cunt.
To see and handle these differences would be more fortune than seduction. You did not take the tiger to dinner and slip hot words between dessert and coffee. You did not lay flowers at the feet of this hot blooded woman within the cool disguise of a geisha. You did not whisper poetry into the shell-like ear of this elegantly robed bitch.
There was no way to make her do anything, no way to slyly allure or simply trick her into a private room, no way to seduce her. The only thing anyone could do was to stand within the range of that sweeping predatory glance and hope that her eyes would positively estimate your worth as a device for her pleasure. Then, and only then, would her red-painted lips open ever-so, more than a whisper but less than full voice, and speak the one word you’d prayed to hear: “Come.”
Behind her, pulled along by her insatiable need, you would follow. It wouldn’t be a long journey, for her cunt has a very short attention span. Cheap hotel on the next street, expensive one even closer by, or just the nearest fetid and slimy alley – whatever was within range.
Patience was for ladies. Hesitation was for women. Tigers – even ones hidden within silks and satins – had no need for foreplay, patience, or hesitation. They wanted, so they took.
And if you were lucky, she would take you. Hands down to your cock, a squeezing judgment for size and firmness. Lips to yours, a tongue penetrating your mouth, am attacking kiss wanting nothing of you but to be kindling to her roaring heat.
On her knees, she would take you. But only because that was what she wanted. Your come was not expected or important. A flesh device to penetrate an orifice, you would be used until she was bored and ready to move onto other penetrations of other orifices.
Or perhaps she’d require something else. Falling back, satin fabric pulled roughly aside, she might bare an insistent slickness, the gleaming lips and fast-beating clit, and demand your service. Failure to accept or in performance too terrible to contemplate.
At the end, your cock would be needed: hard, strong, and fast -- nothing else important to her. Burning hot, insanely wet, you’d enter and execute the task she’d ordered, working until her screams tore at your ears and her nails scratched along your back.
Then that would be it. Humiliating? Being reduced to only a device for someone’s pleasure usually is. But the blistering heat of her, the ferocious need of her cunt would put – and keep – a smile on your sweaty face.
But – and again men standing step back, retreat in shivering dread when she walks back – one does not ever tame a tiger, even after it is fed. Who knows what she might hunger for after? Meat, blood, flesh, dignity, any number of horrible violations – any of them within her grasp, and you too exhausted to resist.
Tigers are wild things, after all: enjoyable to watch in zoos, penned behind restraining bars, but far too bloodthirsty in bed.
She’s a machine, some might think: isn’t it wonderful what they’re doing with shape memory alloys, mnemetic plastics, optical fibers, and conductive polymers? Absolutely wonderful things coming out of Japan, India, the Wilding, and the young turks of the École Polytechnique, these days. Look up and there are dragonfliers pausing for location fixes before darting off at near-invisible speeds, packages clutched under their iridescent fuselages. Look down and there are myriad scurrying mechanisms trailing polished tracks of perfumed cleanliness through the city’s persistent grime. Look around and there are cinematics lazily scrolling across a lady’s fluttering fan, posters for the newest Malasian blockbuster cycling through tantalizing glimpses of furious martial arts and stiffly chaste duets, the hushed commuting fuel-cell and ethanol traffic, and the softly creaking carbon fibers of a prosthetic hand on a crumble-faced veteran of the Chinese genocide as he lays down a mah-jongg tile.
Look at her and you might see a device as carefully machined as a German car, a Swiss watch, a Japanese entertainment center, Indian software, or an African running shoe: breasts as ideal and resilient as silicone, skin of perfectly cured plastic, muscles as precise and strong as actuators, a genital-pleasuring interface between her thighs, a mouth with the same technology.
It was a safe bet that without her protective kimono covering, the pseudo-body of hers was as superlative as a supermodel, as sensuous as a Playmate of whatever month, as adept as an amalgamation of every courtesan who’d ever lived, as refined and machined as her manufacturers could make her.
Movement like the architecture in fine software, presence as authoritative as graceful as a jet fighter, skin as smooth as the polish on a fresh-from-the-factory-floor Ferrari, she passed by – and with her passing the tracking of lust and greed in the eyes of the male crowd, and sour envy on the faces of everyone else.
Here was the best of both of a man’s world: the twin allures of a clever device together with a well-articulated woman – or, to be more specific, as those men revealed so obviously, ‘coupled’ together, a mating between flesh and sex and advanced technology and power. Purchasing this – or simply leasing with an option to do the same – and putting it in the garage or the bedroom, would mean not just a product but also a woman of every dream, not just a sex partner but also a sophisticated piece of fine engineering.
But that wasn’t all. Look at them watching her move by. Lust was there, both for machine as well as woman, but there was also the dawning realization that there could be even more there: things that squeezed, buzzed, vibrated, hummed, heated, cooled, swirled, oscillated, tingled, and more, more, more so much more.
But then they pulled away, out of her way, out of her traffic, their fantasies dropping behind to be passed by the rushing acceleration of a nightmare, the barreling truck of a terrifying understanding.
Engineering, went their minds as they retreated, is fine and good, stimulating and thrilling. Sex, they thought as they ran away from her, is fantastic and wonderful. But to fuck a machine, to be intimate with gears and cogs, synthetics and electricity, hydraulics and radiators, could be good, but also could be like thrusting into a meshing, tearing, burning, shocking, scalding, blistering industrial accident.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Brushes, An Excerpt
Here's a teasing taste from my novel, Brushes, currently available as a print and ebook from the great folks at Phaze.
Chapter 1: Constance
There’d been good times. No, that was what she used to think: a habit she hadn’t yet completely broken. She thought they’d had good times. Since then, her vision had improved, and now she could look backwards with much greater clarity.
Even though her father would have reached out his latex-gloved influence and gotten them a nice place, he out of pride and she … well, it could have been spite, to be the pretty daughter of the rich, refined doctor living in a tiny, dirty, apartment, but she told herself it was more to show that she could make it on her own in the real world. It was noisy, near the highway where the trucks drove – day and night – to Barcelona. It was dirty, no matter how many bottles, sponges, brooms and mops she used. It was hot, even when the sky was overcast and rain streaked the darkly clouded windows.
As she’d done before they met, before they’d married, she worked in her father’s practice during the day, leading stooped and wrinkled citizens with chubby bellies -- and fat wallets -- from waiting to examination. All as before, except now her father seemed older, slower, his eyes heavier with age, or maybe just the weighty disappointment that his jewel had married a poor painter rather a man with a more pride-worthy occupation.
As he’d done before they met, he worked – or said he did. Some days she’d come home to canvases stacked against the walls, each one adding wet paint -- unwanted color -- to the forever grimy plaster, her husband stripped to the chest, gleaming with sweat, heaving with exhaustion as he attacked his work with brush or charcoal. Other times, though, he’d be sitting in front of the cheap little TV, remote in one hand, beer in the other.
Then there were the nights. Virginity having lost its value long before her adolescence in the 70s, she’d not come to their bed inexperienced. Igualada may not have been a big city, but the world still came to it through slick magazines, American movies, and television shows out of Madrid. Boys had always been available to practice with.
It was … no, she thought, believed, lied to herself, that it’d been good. But sitting in the lounge of the Pont Royal, she had a much better view of it all. His hands had been strong, yes, but also coarse. His body had been tight with muscle, yes, but also rough. His eyes had been hungry for her, yes, but no matter what she did, it was never enough.
A memory of a morning: sleeping in while the bells rang the rest of the city to church, another thing she’d discarded with her virginity. The night before, she’d been cooking, a skill she never believed she’d ever really perfect, when he’d come up, wrapped his arms around her, pulling her away from the rushing water, the rising mountain of foam in the sink. He’d worked that day, canvases drying on his easel, on the sofa, leaning on dining room chairs. When he worked, he had a broad grin on his face. When he smiled, his hands always came to her.
Cupping her breasts, fingers knowing intuitively where her nipples were hidden, he pulled her back still more, the insistence of his erection clear to her through his pants, the fabric of her skirt. “No,” was all she’d said, shaking her head. Women, her mother had said, should never argue.
“Dishes can wait -- everything in the whole wide world can wait. I have something to show you. Come on –“ A tug on her arm pulled her away from cleaning up. Drying her hands on her skirt, she allowed herself to be led from one room to another. The bedroom, she immediately noticed, was a mess: clothes on the floor, blanket wadded up, pillows slipping out of their covers. But he didn’t see any of it. Pulling her through the sleep-shuffled chaos, he put her in front of her mirror.
“Here,” he’d said, posing her like one of the little wooden models he studied. “Yeah, like that. Hand right here. Perfect. Okay? Now just relax.”
Shoes, first: slipping one off then the other. Then her stockings, his hands reaching up under her skirt, deftly sliding fingers between elastic and her waist, before steadily, teasingly down.
Buttons followed, only a few on the dress she’d worn that day. A few until they were all undone and he was slipping her shoulders free, dropping the weight of the dress to the floor in a hush of falling fabric. Reaching hehind her back, he found the hooks to her bra, pulled away the straps and the silken cups away with steady patience. Last were her panties, also removed with almost glacial drama, the spell only broken when she had to lift one foot to allow him to take them away.
Behind her, erection felt even though he was fully dressed and she wasn’t at all, he moved her again until she was perfectly in front of the mirror. “I want to show you something really beautiful,” he said.
Pretty – she’d been called that my her mother, her father, some aunts, some uncles. Attractive – she’d been called that by other girls, usually grudgingly. Good-looking – she’d been called that by a few boys, usually not wanting to flatter her out of reach.
Beautiful – of course she’d been called that, probably by more than a few relatives, maybe a girlfriend or two, or even by a few boys. But after that day, whenever she heard the word she would think about standing naked in front of a mirror. At first with a hidden, secret joy, but later – when she had been pulled out of the shade of her ignorance – with bitter tension.
But this was before, back in the days where she didn’t know anything except that she was standing naked in front of a mirror. Back when she and he were a poor, happy, couple in a dirty, cold, and noisy apartment.
Back when he’d stood behind her and said one word. “Look.”
And she had. What she saw had made her face sag into a weighty frown: a young woman dropping toward mid-twenties, early thirties, once high and firm breasts – petite but always well shaped -- now starting to suffer under gravity, tight belly now beginning to balloon outwards, and elegantly tapered legs approaching chubbiness. A woman once perhaps worth looking at, maybe even following, possibly even the recipient of a high then low whistle but now … now in the past tense, all of that tightness, that buoyancy, that life behind, not in front of her.
The dropping of her face must have been clear to her husband, as his own sagged as well. “Not what I mean,” he’d said, kissing her shoulder. “Not what I meant at all.” She tried to pull away from the contact of his lips, but his hand had become firm, keeping her facing the cold, hard, silver of the mirror. “Try to see the way I do, look at my eyes.”
And she had. What she did, at first, kept her face leaden with disappointment and her cheeks burning with hate. Why would he force her to face the harshness of her own image? But then she’d looked up and away from her reflection to see him peering over her shoulder. Peering over her shoulder with bright, heated eyes. Bright, heated eyes that bounced back into the mirror, echoing a reflection of herself in his vision. Imagination wasn’t a quality she’d ever really tried to develop in herself -- the world being previously all she’d ever wanted, never hungering for anything that wasn’t in front of her eyes. But that afternoon she really did try to imagine herself as the woman her husband touched whenever he could, kissed so often, watched getting dressed or undressed, and pressed a determined erection against while they slept in their too-small bed.
Beautiful … yes, she was. Spry and lean, body straight and tall, deep red nipples at the tips of gently rising breasts, shoulders shapely, skin with the glow of energy and passion, belly plush and warm, legs long and tight with girlish spring, thighs robust but not too muscular –and at the base of her tummy, between those vigorous thighs and legs, a thin feather of hair that led into her now moistening depths.
“You are too beautiful for words,” Escobar had said to her, his voice a bit of basso music in her ears. “Too beautiful,” that last falling away, she unsure if he’d added anything to the two words.
The burgundy tips at the ends of her breasts had wrinkled into firmness as she’d looked at herself, seeing herself the way he saw her. Her skin had begun to shine, the air in their bedroom starting to ring of salt from her sweat – and in the deeps of her, where there had just been moisture between her thighs, below her belly, there was now an urgent pulse and definitely, positive wetness. Listening to him, trying to pick out the exact words of his low tones, wasn’t important. Having him inside her was.
Turning, she’d embraced her husband, arms snaking around his waist, pulling him tight. Clothes. They were in the way, they had to come off. Buttons first, fingers popping them away one by one, doing to him with much more urgency and less divine ritual that he’d done to her.
Off, his shirt. Off, his undershirt. Hands on his belt, but then his words through her urgency. “I want to paint you, Constance. I want to really paint you. To get it right.”
It was not a new request -- after all, a flavor of it had been one of the first things he’d said to her -- but it wasn’t a common one. Instead, it was one that he asked only at certain moments. Like her birthday, claiming that no gift he could give her would measure up to finally being able to create a perfect portrait of her. Same for Christmas: with the same explanation. It would be a complete execution, not just a simple sketch. Color and not just pencil lines on paper.
Birthday, Christmas, she’d always shaken her head, another simple word -- because even about this women did not argue -- and then a refusal to discuss it further. She told herself that it was good to keep him waiting for some things, a sizzling spice to keep him interested – especially after that first initial taste of capturing her on that green grass hill those years ago -- but there was also pleasure in denying him.
Too hot, she almost agreed to his request, but then came to enough of her senses to shake her head. “Maybe,” came out as a throaty whisper.
It had been enough for him, and he’d dropped the rest of his clothes in a franticly clumsy strip. To the bed, messy or not: she throwing herself back, wantonly spread wide, brazenly exposed.
Again, restrained and patient despite his clearly determined erection, he carefully approached her, taking two minutes when she wanted two seconds, kneeling down on the ruffled covers to peer, intently and attentively, between her legs. For a man with hands that normally appeared rough and tough, he moved with a painters precision and admiration for detail: labia parted, he ran a slow, steady finger from opening to the tight bead of her clit, the direct contact at the end making her legs and thighs tighten and air get drawn into her lungs with a long, low whistle.
A kiss then, to her other lips, and to the hot button at their top. A kiss then, that turned into a lick, a butterfly flutter that made her whistle into a moan, approaching with each flick of his tongue, a rippling scream.
Then she wasn’t approaching; she’d come, arrived to her destination with a primal sound and involuntary trapping of his head between her thighs. The world went away, lost to a blushing flush and a body surge of pleasure.
And he was inside her, sliding himself deep into her with no resistance – either from her mind or her body. It was good. Lord, it was good. Filling her, he drove himself rhythmically and powerfully, making her breasts bounce and shake with each push, each thrust.
How long? Unsure. Time left her, retreating against the waves and surges and ripples and bursts that came with him inside her. Without her will, her arms again were snakes coiling around his back, and her legs lifted, giving him better entry and more traction from the soles of her feet leveraged against the sliding sheets.
Then it was his turn, and with his orgasm, a new form of it for herself. Again a reflection: the pleasure he took in her returned to her as an unexpected and blaze of delight.
They’d slept afterwards: he in her, she wrapped around him. Two people become one, joined by sweat and semen and slippery fluids.
Good times, yes, but only because she hadn’t opened her eyes, had slept through all of those years. Not that there hadn’t been signs, clues to what had been going on.
Like the next day, a Saturday, when he’d been out – dragging his canvases and sketches around town again, begging for patronage, trying to sell his work to galleries, setting up stands and easels to tempt the few off-season tourists who’d come to town – and she’d been cleaning. A smile on her face, yes, she remembered that: grinning like a young fool as she’d snapped sheets, bundled clothes into hampers, making their home a place worthy of living in.
Leaning against a wall in their tiny living room was a tilted stack of fresh paintings, just like many she’d seen – and moved – in the time they’d lived there. Didn’t know why, but this time she’d actually looked at them, flipping one after another, seeing images of the city, their neighborhood, bits of faces, pieces of their life, and then … and then … and then … a new one, a fresh one, a work just created.
On the bed, she lay, sublime and lovely, relaxed and illuminated from within. Around her covers twisted and bunched. It was obvious, unquestionably evident, that this young woman had just experienced a powerful bodily joy.
Obvious, too, unquestionably evident, as well, that this was herself: naked and spent. Here was a portrait taken -- not given. She’d never given him the permission he sought. She vaguely recalled whispering “maybe,” not “yes.” By painting her regardless, he’d shown how little her wishes mattered. She trembled, feeling violated and wronged. She’d pushed his insistence out of her mind, trying to focus instead on his passion, his possible talent, his kindness – and, of course, the way he saw her, the way he’d allowed her to see herself through his eyes.
Now, though, what it was: a betrayal of trust. Just one of many.
Another sip in the lounge of the Pont Royal hotel, but this time her tea wasn’t hot, wasn’t warm, wasn’t even tepid.
It was cold.
Chapter 1: Constance
Even though her father would have reached out his latex-gloved influence and gotten them a nice place, he out of pride and she … well, it could have been spite, to be the pretty daughter of the rich, refined doctor living in a tiny, dirty, apartment, but she told herself it was more to show that she could make it on her own in the real world. It was noisy, near the highway where the trucks drove – day and night – to Barcelona. It was dirty, no matter how many bottles, sponges, brooms and mops she used. It was hot, even when the sky was overcast and rain streaked the darkly clouded windows.
As she’d done before they met, before they’d married, she worked in her father’s practice during the day, leading stooped and wrinkled citizens with chubby bellies -- and fat wallets -- from waiting to examination. All as before, except now her father seemed older, slower, his eyes heavier with age, or maybe just the weighty disappointment that his jewel had married a poor painter rather a man with a more pride-worthy occupation.
As he’d done before they met, he worked – or said he did. Some days she’d come home to canvases stacked against the walls, each one adding wet paint -- unwanted color -- to the forever grimy plaster, her husband stripped to the chest, gleaming with sweat, heaving with exhaustion as he attacked his work with brush or charcoal. Other times, though, he’d be sitting in front of the cheap little TV, remote in one hand, beer in the other.
Then there were the nights. Virginity having lost its value long before her adolescence in the 70s, she’d not come to their bed inexperienced. Igualada may not have been a big city, but the world still came to it through slick magazines, American movies, and television shows out of Madrid. Boys had always been available to practice with.
It was … no, she thought, believed, lied to herself, that it’d been good. But sitting in the lounge of the Pont Royal, she had a much better view of it all. His hands had been strong, yes, but also coarse. His body had been tight with muscle, yes, but also rough. His eyes had been hungry for her, yes, but no matter what she did, it was never enough.
A memory of a morning: sleeping in while the bells rang the rest of the city to church, another thing she’d discarded with her virginity. The night before, she’d been cooking, a skill she never believed she’d ever really perfect, when he’d come up, wrapped his arms around her, pulling her away from the rushing water, the rising mountain of foam in the sink. He’d worked that day, canvases drying on his easel, on the sofa, leaning on dining room chairs. When he worked, he had a broad grin on his face. When he smiled, his hands always came to her.
Cupping her breasts, fingers knowing intuitively where her nipples were hidden, he pulled her back still more, the insistence of his erection clear to her through his pants, the fabric of her skirt. “No,” was all she’d said, shaking her head. Women, her mother had said, should never argue.
“Dishes can wait -- everything in the whole wide world can wait. I have something to show you. Come on –“ A tug on her arm pulled her away from cleaning up. Drying her hands on her skirt, she allowed herself to be led from one room to another. The bedroom, she immediately noticed, was a mess: clothes on the floor, blanket wadded up, pillows slipping out of their covers. But he didn’t see any of it. Pulling her through the sleep-shuffled chaos, he put her in front of her mirror.
“Here,” he’d said, posing her like one of the little wooden models he studied. “Yeah, like that. Hand right here. Perfect. Okay? Now just relax.”
Shoes, first: slipping one off then the other. Then her stockings, his hands reaching up under her skirt, deftly sliding fingers between elastic and her waist, before steadily, teasingly down.
Buttons followed, only a few on the dress she’d worn that day. A few until they were all undone and he was slipping her shoulders free, dropping the weight of the dress to the floor in a hush of falling fabric. Reaching hehind her back, he found the hooks to her bra, pulled away the straps and the silken cups away with steady patience. Last were her panties, also removed with almost glacial drama, the spell only broken when she had to lift one foot to allow him to take them away.
Behind her, erection felt even though he was fully dressed and she wasn’t at all, he moved her again until she was perfectly in front of the mirror. “I want to show you something really beautiful,” he said.
Pretty – she’d been called that my her mother, her father, some aunts, some uncles. Attractive – she’d been called that by other girls, usually grudgingly. Good-looking – she’d been called that by a few boys, usually not wanting to flatter her out of reach.
Beautiful – of course she’d been called that, probably by more than a few relatives, maybe a girlfriend or two, or even by a few boys. But after that day, whenever she heard the word she would think about standing naked in front of a mirror. At first with a hidden, secret joy, but later – when she had been pulled out of the shade of her ignorance – with bitter tension.
But this was before, back in the days where she didn’t know anything except that she was standing naked in front of a mirror. Back when she and he were a poor, happy, couple in a dirty, cold, and noisy apartment.
Back when he’d stood behind her and said one word. “Look.”
And she had. What she saw had made her face sag into a weighty frown: a young woman dropping toward mid-twenties, early thirties, once high and firm breasts – petite but always well shaped -- now starting to suffer under gravity, tight belly now beginning to balloon outwards, and elegantly tapered legs approaching chubbiness. A woman once perhaps worth looking at, maybe even following, possibly even the recipient of a high then low whistle but now … now in the past tense, all of that tightness, that buoyancy, that life behind, not in front of her.
The dropping of her face must have been clear to her husband, as his own sagged as well. “Not what I mean,” he’d said, kissing her shoulder. “Not what I meant at all.” She tried to pull away from the contact of his lips, but his hand had become firm, keeping her facing the cold, hard, silver of the mirror. “Try to see the way I do, look at my eyes.”
And she had. What she did, at first, kept her face leaden with disappointment and her cheeks burning with hate. Why would he force her to face the harshness of her own image? But then she’d looked up and away from her reflection to see him peering over her shoulder. Peering over her shoulder with bright, heated eyes. Bright, heated eyes that bounced back into the mirror, echoing a reflection of herself in his vision. Imagination wasn’t a quality she’d ever really tried to develop in herself -- the world being previously all she’d ever wanted, never hungering for anything that wasn’t in front of her eyes. But that afternoon she really did try to imagine herself as the woman her husband touched whenever he could, kissed so often, watched getting dressed or undressed, and pressed a determined erection against while they slept in their too-small bed.
Beautiful … yes, she was. Spry and lean, body straight and tall, deep red nipples at the tips of gently rising breasts, shoulders shapely, skin with the glow of energy and passion, belly plush and warm, legs long and tight with girlish spring, thighs robust but not too muscular –and at the base of her tummy, between those vigorous thighs and legs, a thin feather of hair that led into her now moistening depths.
“You are too beautiful for words,” Escobar had said to her, his voice a bit of basso music in her ears. “Too beautiful,” that last falling away, she unsure if he’d added anything to the two words.
The burgundy tips at the ends of her breasts had wrinkled into firmness as she’d looked at herself, seeing herself the way he saw her. Her skin had begun to shine, the air in their bedroom starting to ring of salt from her sweat – and in the deeps of her, where there had just been moisture between her thighs, below her belly, there was now an urgent pulse and definitely, positive wetness. Listening to him, trying to pick out the exact words of his low tones, wasn’t important. Having him inside her was.
Turning, she’d embraced her husband, arms snaking around his waist, pulling him tight. Clothes. They were in the way, they had to come off. Buttons first, fingers popping them away one by one, doing to him with much more urgency and less divine ritual that he’d done to her.
Off, his shirt. Off, his undershirt. Hands on his belt, but then his words through her urgency. “I want to paint you, Constance. I want to really paint you. To get it right.”
It was not a new request -- after all, a flavor of it had been one of the first things he’d said to her -- but it wasn’t a common one. Instead, it was one that he asked only at certain moments. Like her birthday, claiming that no gift he could give her would measure up to finally being able to create a perfect portrait of her. Same for Christmas: with the same explanation. It would be a complete execution, not just a simple sketch. Color and not just pencil lines on paper.
Birthday, Christmas, she’d always shaken her head, another simple word -- because even about this women did not argue -- and then a refusal to discuss it further. She told herself that it was good to keep him waiting for some things, a sizzling spice to keep him interested – especially after that first initial taste of capturing her on that green grass hill those years ago -- but there was also pleasure in denying him.
Too hot, she almost agreed to his request, but then came to enough of her senses to shake her head. “Maybe,” came out as a throaty whisper.
It had been enough for him, and he’d dropped the rest of his clothes in a franticly clumsy strip. To the bed, messy or not: she throwing herself back, wantonly spread wide, brazenly exposed.
Again, restrained and patient despite his clearly determined erection, he carefully approached her, taking two minutes when she wanted two seconds, kneeling down on the ruffled covers to peer, intently and attentively, between her legs. For a man with hands that normally appeared rough and tough, he moved with a painters precision and admiration for detail: labia parted, he ran a slow, steady finger from opening to the tight bead of her clit, the direct contact at the end making her legs and thighs tighten and air get drawn into her lungs with a long, low whistle.
A kiss then, to her other lips, and to the hot button at their top. A kiss then, that turned into a lick, a butterfly flutter that made her whistle into a moan, approaching with each flick of his tongue, a rippling scream.
Then she wasn’t approaching; she’d come, arrived to her destination with a primal sound and involuntary trapping of his head between her thighs. The world went away, lost to a blushing flush and a body surge of pleasure.
And he was inside her, sliding himself deep into her with no resistance – either from her mind or her body. It was good. Lord, it was good. Filling her, he drove himself rhythmically and powerfully, making her breasts bounce and shake with each push, each thrust.
How long? Unsure. Time left her, retreating against the waves and surges and ripples and bursts that came with him inside her. Without her will, her arms again were snakes coiling around his back, and her legs lifted, giving him better entry and more traction from the soles of her feet leveraged against the sliding sheets.
Then it was his turn, and with his orgasm, a new form of it for herself. Again a reflection: the pleasure he took in her returned to her as an unexpected and blaze of delight.
They’d slept afterwards: he in her, she wrapped around him. Two people become one, joined by sweat and semen and slippery fluids.
Good times, yes, but only because she hadn’t opened her eyes, had slept through all of those years. Not that there hadn’t been signs, clues to what had been going on.
Like the next day, a Saturday, when he’d been out – dragging his canvases and sketches around town again, begging for patronage, trying to sell his work to galleries, setting up stands and easels to tempt the few off-season tourists who’d come to town – and she’d been cleaning. A smile on her face, yes, she remembered that: grinning like a young fool as she’d snapped sheets, bundled clothes into hampers, making their home a place worthy of living in.
Leaning against a wall in their tiny living room was a tilted stack of fresh paintings, just like many she’d seen – and moved – in the time they’d lived there. Didn’t know why, but this time she’d actually looked at them, flipping one after another, seeing images of the city, their neighborhood, bits of faces, pieces of their life, and then … and then … and then … a new one, a fresh one, a work just created.
On the bed, she lay, sublime and lovely, relaxed and illuminated from within. Around her covers twisted and bunched. It was obvious, unquestionably evident, that this young woman had just experienced a powerful bodily joy.
Obvious, too, unquestionably evident, as well, that this was herself: naked and spent. Here was a portrait taken -- not given. She’d never given him the permission he sought. She vaguely recalled whispering “maybe,” not “yes.” By painting her regardless, he’d shown how little her wishes mattered. She trembled, feeling violated and wronged. She’d pushed his insistence out of her mind, trying to focus instead on his passion, his possible talent, his kindness – and, of course, the way he saw her, the way he’d allowed her to see herself through his eyes.
Now, though, what it was: a betrayal of trust. Just one of many.
Another sip in the lounge of the Pont Royal hotel, but this time her tea wasn’t hot, wasn’t warm, wasn’t even tepid.
It was cold.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
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?
Saturday, April 18, 2009
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.
Friday, April 17, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Monday, April 13, 2009
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:
Sunday, April 12, 2009
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.Here's what people have said about this funny, wild, scary, and fun collection:
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.
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
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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
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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
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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
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