odeon's ask away-thread

[duncvis]

dirty magazines? how last century.

[ALLDAYGLOWRANDY]

Excuse me, Westerly has terrible economy.
Excuse me if the jobs are below me.

[duncvis]

whats that got to do with owt?

[odeon]

Have you ever pulled an all nighter?

Many times. It happened all the time when I was younger.

Do you own dirty magazines?, and shame on you if you don't   I am not dissing you in anyway.  Damn women too slow, it should be on standby.

/thinks

No dirty mags, unfortunately, but a couple of dirty books. Those count?

Math is strong pt for me also, accelerated algebra, got a b+ with little effort. Highschool physics was not that bad either, mom always bragging I can do that.

Are you planning on doing something that involves math or physics? If you got good grades and like the subjects, you should.

[odeon]

dirty magazines? how last century.

Pretty much my point. 

[Calandale]

No dirty mags, unfortunately, but a couple of dirty books. Those count?
.

What kinda books get you moving?

[odeon]

No dirty mags, unfortunately, but a couple of dirty books. Those count?
.

What kinda books get you moving?

One that used to do it when I was younger was that book by Alex Comfort, The Joy of Sex, that used to be found in everyone's bookshelves. Lots of inspirational material in there, and I suspect that one of my kids was conceived with some, um, help from that book. Nowadays it feels more like a manual or something, though. Likewise for a Kama Sutra edition with nice pics that I own.

I have a really dreadful novel by Anne Rice, one of her Sleeping Beauty books. It's supposed to be kinky and hawt, but doesn't really do anything for me. Very disappointing.

But I stray from the subject. Any well-written erotic novel can do it for me, but I wish to emphasise well-written, and also highlight the need for a plot dealing with more than just getting the protagonist laid.

[Calandale]

Bad Sex Award 2007 shortlisted passages
News story: Bad sex contest heats up

Tuesday November 27, 2007

Guardian Unlimited

From Will by Christopher Rush (Beautiful Books) p132-3
O glorious pubes! The ultimate triangle, whose angles delve to hell but point to paradise. Let me sing the black banner, the blackbird's wing, the chink, the cleft, the keyhole in the door. The fig, the fanny, the cranny, the quim - I'd come close to it now, this sudden blush, this ancient avenue, the end of all odysseys and epic aim of life, pulling at my prick now, pulling like a lodestone.

Anne Hathaway's cow-milking fingers, cradling my balls in her almond palm, now took pity on the poor anguished erection, and in the infinite agony of her desire, guided it to the quick of the wound. At the same time I searched wildly with the fingers of my left hand, groping blind as Cyclops, found the pulpy furred wetness, parted the old lips of time and slipped my middle finger into the sancta sanctorum. It welcomed me with soft sucking sounds, syllables older than language, solace lovelier than words. She pulled my hand away, positioned the prick, slid her buttocks deep into the grass, raised her thighs back high, crossed her legs behind my back, dug her heels into my spine and hauled at me savagely and hard. I fell into her.

It was exhilarating, to be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space. But Anne Hathaway was a cruel queen. Her calves crushed my ribs, her crossed heels digging in hard, drawing me in deeper. She responded with those cries that men long to hear, the sweet deep moaning sounds that echo the sigh of oceans, the ebb and flow of fields, the sough of stars. So we drank from one another, clung together on the ship we'd made of ourselves, breasting the irrelevance of time.

All around us nature joined in ... Streamers of heat lashed my back and shoulders and far beneath me now the body of Anne Hathaway began to rage and founder in the rising foam as I clung like a mariner to her heaving haunches, the deep keel of her backbone dipping and lifting through July, through the green surge of growth, till at last the moment came when some colossal wave flung her up high, and I held on for my life, and she screamed loud and long Then O! then O! then O! my true love said and I felt death go through her. Our vessel ran shuddering onto the rocks, a wave of wetness ran through us, the air was rent with screams and I became aware that the bank on which we lay drenched and grounded was journey's end, love's end, the very sea-mark of our utmost sail.

From Apples by Richard Milward (Faber) p 179

She had on no knickers, and my heart went crash-bang-wallop and my eyes popped out. She hadn't shaved, and her fanny looked like a tropical <°)))>< or a bit of old carpet.

'So, you just gonna sit there?' Abi asked, and I laughed nervously. I was hardening up, but it was all a bit of a shock really. All I'd planned that night was listening to a selection of records and maybe some homework. I tried to go down on her, thinking back to the Razzle and how the boys did it in that. But my heart wasn't into it - her cunt smelt a bit like an armpit, and when I pulled the lips open I knew I'd have to shut them numerous times or else I'll die of Aids or I'd fall into it.

From The Stone Gods by Jeanette Winterson (Hamish Hamilton) p 27-28

Spike doesn't say anything, but she looks at me, and I know she'll be reading my data-chip implant. Everything about me is stored just above my wrist.

'I can't read your data,' she says, reading my mind instead. 'That function is passive while I'm draining.'

'How long will the draining take?'

'A few hours, including questions, then I'm done.'

'You were built entirely for the space mission, right?'

She nods and smiles. She is absurdly beautiful. I start to slip off my jeans and I feel her gaze as I stand in my bra and pants. Why am I embarrassed about taking off my clothes right in front of a robot? I pull the dress over my head like a schoolgirl, untie my hair, and sit down. She is smiling, just a little bit, as though she knows her effect.

To calm myself down and appear in control I reverse the problem. 'Spike, you're a robot, but why are you such a drop-dead gorgeous robot? I mean, is it necessary to be the most sophisticated machine ever built and to look like a movie star?'

She answers simply: 'They thought I would be good for the boys on the mission.'

I am pondering the implications of this. Like a wartime pin-up? Like a live anti-depressant? Like truth is beauty, beauty truth? 'How good? I mean, I'm assuming you're not talking sexual services here.'

'What else is there to do in space for three years?'

'But inter-species sex is illegal.'

'Not on another planet it isn't. Not in space it isn't.' ...

'So you had sex with spacemen for three years?'

'Yes. I used up three silicon-lined vaginas.' ...

p88

We made love by our fire, watching the snow shape the entrance to the cave.

When I touch her, my fingers don't question what she is. My body knows who she is. The strange thing about strangers is that they are unknown and known. There is a pattern to her, a shape I understand, a private geometry that numbers mine. She is a maze where I got lost years ago, and now find the way out. She is the missing map. She is the place that I am.

She is a stranger. She is the strange that I am beginning to love.

From The Castle in the Forest by Norman Mailer (Little, Brown) p67-68

'Are you all right?' she cried out as he lay beside her, his breath going in and out with a rasp that sounded as terrible as the last winds of their lost children.

'All right. Yes. No,' he said. Then she was on him. She did not know if this would resuscitate him or end him, but the same spite, sharp as a needle, that had come to her after Fanni's death was in her again. Fanni had told her once what to do. So Klara turned head to foot, and put her most unmentionable part down on his hard-breathing nose and mouth, and took his old battering ram into her lips. Uncle was now as soft as a coil of excrement. She sucked on him nonetheless with an avidity that could come only from the Evil One - that she knew. From there, the impulse had come. So now they both had their heads at the wrong end, and the Evil One was there. He had never been so close before.

The Hound began to come to life. Right in her mouth. It surprised her. Alois had been so limp. But now he was a man again! His mouth lathered with her sap, he turned around and embraced her face with all the passion of his own lips and face, ready at last to grind into her with the Hound, drive it into her piety.

From Absurdistan by Gary Shteyngart (Granta) p201

"You wanna pop me?" she said. This must have been some new-fangled youth term. The verb "to pop."

"I wanna bust a nut inside you, shorty," I said. "I wanna make you sweat, boo. Let's do this thing."

I'd like to say that she stepped out of her jeans, but in truth it took a while to maneuver two large dimpled buttocks and the accompanying vaginal wedge out of the hard shell of her Miss Sixty denims. We huffed and sweated; I had her hanging off the edge of the bed while I gripped the cuffs of her jeans; I nearly pulled a groin muscle getting her naked; but through it all I stayed hard, a testament to how much I wanted her. She kept her T-shirt on throughout the initial popping, which is just how I like my sex, infused with a little mystery. I slipped my hands beneath the cotton tee and felt the smooth creamery of her breasts while saving the visuals of those brown glossy globes for later. Her vagina was all that, as they say in the urban media - a powerful ethnic muscle scented by bitter melon, the breezes of the local sea, and the sweaty needs of a tiny nation trying to breed itself into a future. Was it especially hairy? Good Lord, yes it was. Mountains of kinkiness black as the night above the Serengeti with paprika shoots at the edges - the pubic hair alone must have clocked in at half a kilo, while providing the inspiration for two discernible trails of hair, one running up to the navel, the other to the base of the spine.

Naturally, considering my size, she got on top of me. But given her impressive overall body mass and natural resilience, I could see a day when we could broach the missionary position, not that there's anything special in attacking a poor woman that way. After we had fussed with the condom, I reached for her pubes, but she slapped me away. These preliminaries did not interest her. Instead, she just plain mounted me, holding on to my tits for balance, slipping me inside with no effort, both vaginal lips working to usher me into her tightness. I find it clichéd when couples insist that they have "the perfect fit," but between the busted-up, zigzag, Broadway boogie-woogie of my maligned purple khui and the all-encompassing nature of her Caspian pizda, we reached a third way, as it were.

That is to say, she rode me. It was all very classy and contemporary, like a modern-art survey course at NYU. I wanted to have the slogan I RODE MISHA VAINBERG imprinted on her T-shirt. "Yeah, do me," she kept saying, after issuing a few grunts so male and assertive they startled me into a brief homosexual fear, a fear compounded by one of her sharp nails digging into my tight rectum. "Do me, daddy," she said, her eyes closed, her thighs slapping against my upper and lower stomachs, my own tits making wet noises against my frame. "Just like that," she said, stealing a brief glance at me and then turning her head to the side so that I could lick her ear and plunge into her neck. "Just ... like ... that."

"Yeah," I said, "I'm fucking you, boo," but the words did not convince me. "I'm busting my nut tonight," I sang.

"My pussy fills so tight," she sang back in perfect ghetto English.

"Ouch," I said. She was crushing my pubic bone, grinding into it. "Ouch," I repeated. "Baby doll ... ouch."

"Just a minute, pops," she said. "Just give me a minute. Do me right. Just like that."

"Move up a little," I said. "Move up. It hurts. My bone."

"Just ... like ... that," she said.

"My bone hurts," I said. "I'm losing it."

"AW," she shouted. "FUCK ME." She leaned back. I slipped out. Her thighs trembled before me, and I felt a warm, abundant liquid spreading on my own thighs, not sure which of us had issued it. My bedroom was filled with the smell of asparagus and related greenery. "Aw," she said again. "Fuck me."

From Boy Meets Girl by Ali Smith (Canongate)

Her hand opened me. Then her hand became a wing. Then everything about me became a wing, a single wing, and she was the other wing, we were a bird. We were a bird that could sing Mozart. Her beautiful head was down at my breast, she caught me between her teeth just once, she put the nip into nipple like the cub of a fox would.

Was that her tongue? Was that what they meant when they said flames had tongues? I was hard all right, and then I was sinew, I was a snake, I changed stone to snake in three simple moves, stoke stake snake, then I was a tree whose branches were all budded knots, and what were those felty buds, were they antlers? were antlers really growing out of both of us? was my whole front furring over? and were we the same pelt? were our hands black shining hoofs? were we kicking? were we bitten? We were blades, were a knife that could cut through myth, were two knives thrown by a magician, were arrows fired by a god, we hit heart, we hit home, we were the tail of a <°)))>< were the reek of a cat were the beak of a bird were the feather that mastered gravity were high above every landscape then down deep in the purple haze of the heather were roamin in a gloamin in a brash unending Scottish piece of perfect jigging reeling reel can we really keep this up?

From The Nature of Monsters by Clare Clark (Viking)

Unhooked by longing, my body arched towards him. When at last he reached in to touch me, there was nothing else left, nothing in the world but his fingers and the delirious incoherent frenzy of pure sensation they sent spiralling through me, as though I were an instrument vibrating with the exquisite hymns of the angels. Did that make him an angel? My toes clenched in my boots and my belly held itself aloft in a moment of stillness as the flame quivered, perfectly bright. I held my breath. In the explosion I lost sight of myself. I was a million brilliant fragments, the darkness of my belly alive with stars. When at last I opened my eyes to look at him, my lashes shone with tears. He raised a finger to his lips and smiled.

From The Late Hector Kipling by David Thewlis (Picador)

This is not pleasurable. How could anyone find having burning hot candle wax dripped onto the flesh of their belly pleasurable? But I don't want to tell her to stop cos the last time I told her to stop I got belted in the mouth. She wears an average of three rings on each finger. God, Mum was right, this lousy settee does stink. No wonder Dad's in hospital. I might well be joining him by the end of the night.

I think I'm still inside her but, quite honestly, it's difficult to tell ...

Avanti!

"You fucker!" she drawls, and brings the flame up close to my left nipple. "You pathetic little fucker," and tries to light it like a wick.

"Ooowwww!" Oh shit, my nipple's on fire. She's poured lighter fluid onto my chest and my tit's gone up in flames like some dessert in a posh restaurant.

"Fuck, Rosa! Aggghhhh! For fuck's sake! Blow it out! Blow it out!"

"OK, baby," she whispers, suddenly gentle, "OK, my angel," and with this she reaches down and pours half a can of Stella over my scorched chest. I'm beginning to regret that I ever invited her in. "How's that?" she says, lowering her head and lapping up the ale. "That nice? That nice, baby?"

"No!" I scream.

"No?"

"No, Rosa, no that is not fucking nice! It bloody kills!"

She cracks me across the face with the back of her hand, grips my throat, spits in my eye and scrapes her nails across my scalded flesh. And that's when I come. Oh yes. That's when the core of my soul spasms and snaps, spilling out its filthy pips.

 

[odeon]

Um, er... thank you? 

My head hurts.

[Calandale]

Just thought you'd like some samples
of 'good' erotica. 

[odeon]

"O glorious pubes!"

[Calandale]

 

[Coral]

Excuse me, Westerly has terrible economy.
Excuse me if the jobs are below me.

Ever think that with that attitude an employer thinks YOU are the one with nothing to bring to the table? After all you are asking them to pay you to do what they ask, so that attitude will get you nowhere fast (like you are now)

[ALLDAYGLOWRANDY]

You wish

I am pretty normal now, trauma gone

Ha hah

[Calandale]

You wish

No. Though I don't always agree
with her tactics, I think she WANTS
you to do better with yourself.