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This month: sex in mud, on the tennis court and in a bar-mitzvah suit. Rate each entry below in three categories: literary merit, heat
and originality. Each month's highest-ranked entry will proceed to the
year-end competition.
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From I, Goldstein
by Al Goldstein and Josh Alan Friedman
(Thunder's Mouth) |
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OVERALL RATING: 3.319
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The lights were out. The first thing I smelled was her perfume as she welcomed me into the dark bedroom. She invited me to undress so I started to remove my bar-mitzvah suit. Then she directed my head to a pair of large tits in motherly fashion. As my mouth opened upon this womanly offering — the first time I suckled since infancy — she softly intoned, "Anything you want is all right. Anything a man and woman do together is good."
She sucked my dick and then instructed me to get a rubber waiting on the table. I saw my own teenage erection in the reflection of neon lights streaming in the window from Broadway. I was so excited, speech eluded me. She slipped the rubber on by herself and said, "Put your head between my legs and taste me." Apparently, George had instructed her to do this. It was delicious, better than whitefish, nearly as good as smoked sable. She told me to go slower and where to lick. I had masturbated to such fantasies. I'd read about it in the novels of Frank Harris and Henry Miller. And suddenly, here I have my tongue in the black hole. Then I climbed aboard and stuck it in. Finally sex — I, Alvin Goldstein was having it. After I came, I was the happiest I'd ever been in my life. She knew I had school the next morning, so she sent me off with a kiss while she remained in bed.
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From A Spot of Bother
by Mark Haddon
(Doubleday) |
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OVERALL RATING: 5.778
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He closed the curtains and led her over to the bed and laid her down and kissed her again and pushed the dressing gown off her shoulders and she was melting into that dark behind her eyelids, the way butter melted in a hot pan, the way you melted back into sleep after waking up at night, just letting it take you.
She put her hands around his neck and felt the muscles under the skin and those tiny hairs where the barber had run the razor close. And his own hands were slowly moving down her body and she could see the two of them from the far side of the room, doing this thing you only ever saw beautiful people doing in films. And maybe she did believe it now, that she was beautiful, that they were both beautiful.
Her body felt as if it were swaying back and forth with the movement of his fingers, a fairground ride that was taking her higher and faster with every swing so that she was weightless at each end, so high she could see the pleasure gardens and ferries in the bay and the green hills across the water.
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He closed the curtains and led her over to the bed and laid her down and kissed her again and pushed the dressing gown off her shoulders and she was melting into that dark behind her eyelids, the way butter melted in a hot pan, the way you melted back into sleep after waking up at night, just letting it take you.
She put her hands around his neck and felt the muscles under the skin and those tiny hairs where the barber had run the razor close. And his own hands were slowly moving down her body and she could see the two of them from the far side of the room, doing this thing you only ever saw beautiful people doing in films. And maybe she did believe it now, that she was beautiful, that they were both beautiful.
Her body felt as if it were swaying back and forth with the movement of his fingers, a fairground ride that was taking her higher and faster with every swing so that she was weightless at each end, so high she could see the pleasure gardens and ferries in the bay and the green hills across the water.
He said, "God, I love you," and she loved him back, for doing this, for understanding a part of her that she never knew existed. But she couldn't say it. Not now. She couldn't say anything. She just squeezed his shoulder, meaning, Keep going.
She put her hand around his penis and moved it back and forth and it no longer seemed strange, not even a part of his body, more a part of hers, the sensations flowing in one unbroken circle. And she could hear herself panting now, like a dog, but she didn't care.
And she realized that it was going to happen and she heard herself saying, "Yes, yes, yes," and even hearing the sound of her own voice didn't break the spell. And it swept over her like surf sweeping over sand then falling back and sweeping up over the sand again and falling back.
Images went off in her head like little fireworks. The smell of coconut. Brass firedogs. The starched bolster in her parents' bed. A hot cone of grass clippings. She was breaking up into a thousand tiny pieces, like snow, or bonfire sparks, tumbling high in the air, then starting to fall, so slowly it hardly seemed like falling at all.
She held his wrist to stop his hand and lay there with her eyes closed, dizzy and out of breath.
She was crying.
It was like finding your body again after fifty years and realizing you were old friends and suddenly understanding why you'd felt so alone all this time.
She opened her eyes. David was looking down at her and she knew that she didn't need to explain anything.
He waited for a couple of minutes. "And now," he said, "I think it's my turn."
He got to his knees and moved between her legs. He opened her gently with his fingers and pushed himself inside. And this time she watched him as he rolled forward onto his arms until she was full of him.
Sometimes she enjoyed the fact that he was doing this to her. Sometimes she enjoyed the fact that she was doing this to him. Today the distinction didn't seem to exist.
He began to move faster and his eyes narrowed with pleasure and finally closed. So she closed her own eyes and held on to his arms and let herself be rocked back and forth, and finally he reached a climax and held himself inside her and did that little animal shiver. And when he opened his eyes he was breathing heavily and smiling.
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From I'll Steal You Away
by Niccolo Ammaniti
(Canongate) |
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OVERALL RATING: 6.048
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He lay her down.
It was a delicate operation, deflowering her. It required skill.
He looked into her eyes and saw in them an expectation and a fear that he head never seen in eyes of the old slappers he usually fucked on the Romagna riviera.
This is really fucking . . . "Don't worry, don't wo . . . " he said in a strangled voice, tossed back his hair and kneeled down in front of her. "I won't hurt you."
He opened her legs (she was trembling), took his cock in his right hand and found her vagina with his left, opened the lips (they were wet) and with a swift, precise movement slipped it a quarter of the way in.
It had slipped inside her.
Flora held her breath.
She dug her hands in the mud.
But the pain, the terrible, legendary, agonizing pain she had so dreaded didn't come.
No. It didn't hurt. Flora, expectant, open-mouthed, held her breath.
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He lay her down.
It was a delicate operation, deflowering her. It required skill.
He looked into her eyes and saw in them an expectation and a fear that he head never seen in eyes of the old slappers he usually fucked on the Romagna riviera.
This is really fucking . . . "Don't worry, don't wo . . . " he said in a strangled voice, tossed back his hair and kneeled down in front of her. "I won't hurt you."
He opened her legs (she was trembling), took his cock in his right hand and found her vagina with his left, opened the lips (they were wet) and with a swift, precise movement slipped it a quarter of the way in.
It had slipped inside her.
Flora held her breath.
She dug her hands in the mud.
But the pain, the terrible, legendary, agonizing pain she had so dreaded didn't come.
No. It didn't hurt. Flora, expectant, open-mouthed, held her breath.
The intruder inside her continued to advance.
"I'm going to go on . . . Tell me if it hurts."
Flora gasped and her breast rose and fell like a bellows. She panted, expecting the pain that didn't come. She felt filled, certainly, and that pole of flesh now pressed inside her but without hurting her.
She was so busy searching for the pain that the pleasure had been completely set aside.
She saw it in Graziano's eyes.
He seemed possessed by the devil and was sighing and moving backwards and forwards faster and faster and more and more forcefully and he seized her by the hips and he was on top of her and Flora was underneath with that thing inside her. She closed her eyes. She clung to his back with her legs like a baby monkey and raised them to make it easier for him to enter.
Gasping breath in her ear.
He plunged into her. Right in.
Flora felt a stab of pleasure that blocker her carotid artery and made the back of her head tingle. And then another. And yet another. And if she let herself go, if she abandoned herself, she felt that now it was continuous, like a radioactive element pulsing pleasure in her bowels and her legs and running up her spine and into her thread.
"Do you . . . like it?" Graziano asked her, running his fingers through her hair, squeezing her throat.
"Yes . . . Yes . . . "
"It doesn't hurt?"
"Noooh . . . "
He rolled over onto his side and with that pole inside her she was lifted up and found herself on top of him. It was her turn to move now. But she didn't know if she could. It was too big and it was right inside her. She felt it in her belly. Graziano put his hands on her breasts, but couldn't restrain himself and squeezed them hard.
Another stab of pain that took her breath away.
He wanted her to stay like that, on top, in that embarrassing position, but she threw herself over and embraced him and kissed him on the neck and nibbled his ear.
She heard Graziano's gasps getting faster and faster and faster and
and he can't. He can't do it inside. I haven't got anything.
She must tell him. But she didn't want him to take it out. "Graziano . . . you must be careful . . . I . . . "
He turned over again. And as he sought a new position, Flora tried to go along with him, but didn't quite know how to move, what to do.
"Gra . . . "
He had put her on her knees. Her hands in the mud. Her face in the mud. Her tits in her mouth. The rain on her back.
Like a bitch . . .
And him digging the fingernails of one hand into her buttock and with the other trying to grasp one of her breasts which slipped away from him and he drove into her as if he could penetrate up to her throat. And . . .
He can't take it out now.
He had taken it out and perhaps was about to come and Flora thought she would die of disappointment. She sighed. But an explosive blast of heat surrounded her neck, continued up into her jaws and spread onto her temples and nostrils and ears.
"Oh my God!"
He was touching her there, at the top of her vagina, and she realized that everything she had felt up to then had been chickenfeed. Child's play. Nothing. That finger, on that spot, was capable of making her lose her senses and driving her crazy.
Then he opened her legs and she opened them wider and perhaps, let's hope, he was going to put it back in.
And here Graziano made a mistake . . .
Who knows what went through his mind, who knows what he thought and how he organized it in his brain, that disastrous idea.
Graziano wanted more. He wanted to close the circle, he wanted to have his cake and eat it, he wanted to fish the moon from the well, he wanted to cut and thrust, he wanted his steer lassooed and branded, who knows what the hell he wanted, he wanted to deflower her fore and aft.
He wanted Flora Palmieri's arse.
He parted her buttocks, spat on them and pushed his cock into that contracted star.
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From Double Fault
by Lionel Shriver
(Serpent's Tail) |
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OVERALL RATING:
4.967
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In a single motion, Eric slipped one arm under her knees, the other behind her back, and lifted her off the couch. He marched with Willy bundled against his chest to the bedroom and dropped her, bouncing, on the mattress. He dropped on top, stretching her arms overhead with both her wrists manacled in his hands.
"Mentally ill," Eric lectured, "is not knowing the difference between some stupid little sport and real life. One of the main reasons I like Edberg and Becker is they keep their own careers in perspective. They recognize that the rest of the world would roll merrily along without them or tennis, if it came to that.
"Now, do I feel anything on the court?" he asked rhetorically, his forehead pressed against her own. "Sometimes. I don't give my reactions away. But tennis is not about 'everything,' you moron, not by a mile. Sure I like control, and dignity, in its place. This," his hands slid down her arms, "ain't the place."
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In a single motion, Eric slipped one arm under her knees, the other behind her back, and lifted her off the couch. He marched with Willy bundled against his chest to the bedroom and dropped her, bouncing, on the mattress. He dropped on top, stretching her arms overhead with both her wrists manacled in his hands.
"Mentally ill," Eric lectured, "is not knowing the difference between some stupid little sport and real life. One of the main reasons I like Edberg and Becker is they keep their own careers in perspective. They recognize that the rest of the world would roll merrily along without them or tennis, if it came to that.
"Now, do I feel anything on the court?" he asked rhetorically, his forehead pressed against her own. "Sometimes. I don't give my reactions away. But tennis is not about 'everything,' you moron, not by a mile. Sure I like control, and dignity, in its place. This," his hands slid down her arms, "ain't the place."
Grappling under her shirt, Eric popped a button. Willy decided this was not a very good time to go look for it. When he unzipped his fly his cock sprang forward, and for once Eric didn't seem self-possessed but simply possessed. He wouldn't wait for them both to get all their clothes off, and plunged into her with his jeans still binding his thighs. Willy had always considered fucking partially clad tacky, but now she changed her mind. Urgency took precedence over aesthetics. Apparently Eric did not always bother about appearances, about what people might think; he groaned loudly enough to titillate adjoining tenants. Yet his consideration was not so readily shed as his sense of decorum; even in the heat of the moment, he'd managed to slip a condom on.
Eric flipped her gracefully on top and grasped Willy by the waist. He raised her whole body until the tendons in his arms stood out. Bringing her pelvis back tight to his, he bellowed. In the echo of his exclamation, a rich, round cry she had never heard issue from that throat, Willy gaped wondrously at Eric's face. The muscles spasmed. The sharp planes of his brow and cheekbones sloughed and blurred. His countenance was almost unrecognizable; he didn't look clever, caustic, or contained. Some people would have found the contortion of his features ugly. To Willy, it was the most beautiful thing she's ever seen, and she came.
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