Erotic fiction – a new excerpt
If you haven’t yet delved into the artistry that is my written erotica you’ve committed a grave sin.
You can start here:
Alternatively, or if you’re a Cold Tequila Comfort connoisseur, just wade straight into my latest billabong of ecstasy.
Kendel Elk was washing the dishes. It was really a job for Felicity, but he thought manual labour was good for the soul. Manual labour and making love to women.
And riding his horse, Barbados.
The water was turning a murky shade of grey, often appropriately referred to as dishwater grey. But Elk didn’t think of it in that way. He associated it with the colour of the sky the day his father had come home drunk and admitted he had killed a giant tortoise at Taronga Zoo and then molested the female zookeeper who had remonstrated with him.
Elk had a flashback.
It was 1972.
His father staggered up the driveway wearing flared, burnt umber overalls and a green and an off-white shirt, with rainbow epaulettes and a collar so large it could have been used as a queen-sized bedspread.
He had a moustache.
There was a haze in front of him. That was just the flashback, which lacked the clarity of the present, but also some wayward asbestos dust.
“Beverley!” he wailed as he opened a can of Emu Bitter with his fingernail. (In those days, beer came in cans made from pewter.)
“Beverley!” he called again, but his wife was not at home. She was at the general store buying thousand island dressing and canned pineapple.
Instead his son came to greet him.
“Dad! It’s me, Kendel! Your son!” said Elk, the person having the flashback in 1993, but a five year old boy in the flashback itself.
“Kendel!” his father slurred, before bending to pick his son up. He intended to lift him into the air and spin him round, the way he so often did, but he lost control one and a half rotations in and, like an unusually slim Olympic hammer thrower, flung the small boy into a neighbour’s flowering Callery pear tree (Pyrus calleryana) three doors down.
The tree smelled of seminal fluid.
The boy regained consciousness several minutes later. He was scratched, bruised and confused but not dead.
But not dead.
He opened his eyes and found that he was looking at the sky. It was an ugly grey colour – that would be telling later in his life and trigger a flashback.
He got to his feet, brushed himself down and noticed that he was stained with a thick, powerful odour. He said the word “poo-ee”, thought nothing more of it and then limped back to his house.
Kendel’s father swung around violently as if he’d been caught vigorously fornicating with the statue of Athena which graced the family’s front lawn, which he had been.
“Where the HELL have you been?” his father screamed, the entire front of his body naked, and coated with a fine grey powder, most of it from the statue, some of it asbestos.
“I’ve been in the neighbour’s garden,” his son replied.
“I’ve been worried sick! What the HELL were you doing there?” he demanded.
“You threw me into – “
But before he could remind his father of the alcohol-assisted mishap his father screamed “WHY DO YOU SMELL LIKE SEMINAL FLUID?”
Elk didn’t know what this meant and began to explain that the tree had given off a strong stench, but again he was interrupted.
“No boy of mine comes home smelling of spermatozoa!” he screamed. “GET OUT! GET OFF MY PROPERTY AND NEVER COME BACK!”
Elk wasn’t sure what was happening but he knew he had just been disowned. He picked two kumquats off the tree that stood beside the letterbox – they would need to sustain him over the next 24 to 36 hours. He dusted the asbestos off them and put them in his pocket. With his shoulders hunched and his head down, he left number 45 Vernon Street for the last time.
Or was it the last time?
After he had taken ten steps down the road, he heard his father’s voice again. “Kendel! Kendel!”
Kendel turned, his heart throbbing like the fleshy knolls of the many women he would woo and bed in his adolescence and adulthood. “Daddy?”
His father was wearing a safari suit and it was hard to fathom why. “Today, under the influence of alcohol, I slaughtered a giant tortoise with a rotary telephone at Taronga Zoo and when a woman tried to stop me I called her ‘toots’ and pinched her buttock and did an inappropriate disco move up against her and flashed her as I was fleeing.”
Shame inhabited Elk’s being like the blue liquid inhabited the chalk in that Colgate television advertisement with the nice lady in the classroom.
“That’s the last thing you’ll hear me say as my son. From now on I have no son,” his father yelled while eating a Custard Cream biscuit.
Elk turned and walked towards the rest of his life.
“And I have no father,” he whispered to himself has he turned out of Vernon Street and into Brendan Avenue where someone was walking an aardvark on a leash because the 1970s were a less regulated time and that sort of thing happened frequently.
It began to rain.
The flashback was over. Elk was adding brine to the dishwater. It was from his eyes. More specifically, it was tears. His tears. Tears caused by the flashback he had just experienced.
Felicity entered the kitchen wearing only a cheese slice.
“Kendel, you don’t need to do the dish- Kendel, you’re crying.”
The cheese slice slipped to the slate floor. It made a noise like this: blut.
They came together. Elk removed his clothes and put them through a document shredder.
They united in sex.
Elk began to recite poetry but his voice was drowned out by the music of their bodies. The music of moistness.
Davis was stumped.
Then he wasn’t anymore and he solved three cases in seven minutes and had half the day off.
He went to Cora-Lynne’s house and asked if she wanted to eat fish and chips on the beach.
She dragged him into her house by his tie and pushed him against the wall, making sure his head didn’t smash against the nautical-style barometer that sat beside a painting of a pride of lions. It represented the police force she so loved. One of the lions was killing an impala. The impala represented crime.
“How about you put your chip into my fish,” she whispered.
“It would have been a very large potato,” Davis whispered back.
“Oh god” Cora-Lynne breathed. “Let’s do it right here.” She was referring to sexual intercourse.
She exposed her dewy thicket.
The barometer reached its upper limit – Very Dry. It was a wholly inappropriate reading.
His weapon of lust moved intrepidly inside. He now knew what bliss felt like: it felt like being inside a plump, steamed gyoza dumpling.
Strom Ruk, still wanted for 74 murders in the European Union, and still desired by every single woman in western Europe without a single exception, was laying low in the United States.
Bored by copulating with Americans, he had, against his better judgement accepted an offer to dine at a medieval-themed restaurant at which visitors could eat while watching actors joust and act out scenes from a 13th century court on a massive central stage.
Ruk immediately regretted his decision, finding the smell – desperation mixed with delusion and flatulence – inside the castle-shaped building alone repugnant.
The historical inaccuracies flowed thick and fast from the very first moments of the show. At one point the King announced that he was meeting Shakespeare in Troy. At another a Jester announced that he had heard via telegraph that Christopher Columbus was about to set forth on a journey to discover “the greatest nation on the planet”.
This all would have been unbearable enough had his fellow diners not felt it necessary to whoop, holler and chant “dee-fence” and other wildly irrelevant words and phrases as the proceedings unfolded.
The food came and only worsened the situation. The entree was a whole deep-fried turkey, feathers on, with something described as an “eighteen cheese sauce”.
Ruk clenched his fists. He was becoming angry.
A beverage waitress, wearing chainmail, a tricorne hat and a lei, came to his table and asked whether he wanted a drink. Ruk asked whether they had anything from the Rhine Valley. The waitress said “Sure we do” and returned with a Pepsi.
Ruk felt fury bubble inside him like molten rock in a masculine, highly sexual volcano wearing a tailored shirt. At the same time, a trumpet sounded and an announcer asked whether anyone in the audience would like to “participate in the upcoming Crusades between the UK and Arabia”.
Ruk wordlessly accepted the invitation. He leapt onto his table, upturning a 15 kilogram bowl of french fries, and did a triple flip over the barrier that separated the diners from the performers. He landed on his feet before arming himself with a sword lying beside one of the ‘dead’ jousters from the earlier tourney (in which an actor representing Winston Churchill had competed).
“Oh wow! This guy couldn’t wait to kick some ass!” the announcer enthused. This was an understatement.
The sword was a prop, made from wood and painted silver, but Ruk quickly discovered that, if swung with sufficient force and accuracy, it was quite capable of inflicting mortal wounds. Real ones.
In a frenzy lasting twenty seconds, he killed thirty actors – a dozen with the sword, five with a broom and the rest with fly kicks and the barely-concealed semi-automatic weapons of the actors he’d already dispatched.
With each kill, the crowd became louder and louder in the vocalisation of their endorsement. What started with yells of “Woo! Yah!”, “That’s awesome!” and “This guy’s gone postal” had, by the time Ruk had stopped to wipe the blood from out of his eyes, become a repeated chant of “USA! USA! USA!”
This only incensed Ruk further and he began to fling wooden spears into the crowd, skewering audience-members through the gullet one after the other, starting with his host and then moving on to the loudest barrackers, then the children wearing foam hands and then the most incompetent of the waiting staff, and so on.
He only stopped when a security guard burst into the blood-soaked arena and confronted him. She was a woman of incomparable beauty, with skin the colour of burnished copper and eyes the colour of 85 per cent cocoa dark chocolate. Her hair was the colour of midnight.
She had big breasts.
“My name is Veronique Sensuales and I demand that you stop your orgy of violence at once,” she said with an accent that seemed to have taken the best elements of French and Spanish, and spat the rest away like cherry stones, but in a polite way and into a bin.
Ruk tore off her clothes, attached them to a spear and threw it through a window in the ‘turret’ of the building. It landed in the eye of the Vice-President of the United States who was asleep in the White House some 400 kilometres away. He never woke up.
They engaged in coition to the obnoxious cheers of those audience members who were still alive and had not fled in terror.
They drove to Nevada and were married the next day at a ceremony that involved 17 more deaths.
Strom Ruk had come to the United States to hide from the law, and to brutally kill people and have sex with women and chew gum.
And he was all out of gum.
Whorl Broxell strove for perfection. Now the United Nations had written to him, officially confirming he had attained it. He was initially exultant but soon realised he lived for the thrill of the chase and became bored with life.
He built a spaceship and went to Mars, where he established a very successful colony inside a dome. He derived little satisfaction from the mission and returned to Earth more disheartened than before.
He sold the spaceship at well below its market value and died of ennui, but doctors revived him using pseudoephedrine.
Then he went to the Royal Botanical Gardens in Sydney and found peace in a grove of ghost gums. He spent half an hour sitting in dappled light, only getting to his feet to do some tai chi. As he was doing Needle at Bottom of Sea, a woman interrupted his solitude.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hello,” Whorl replied, noticing instantly her searing beauty.
“Let’s hump,” she said.
“OK,” said Whorl, his serpent suddenly rigid.
“Do you have a franger?” she asked.
“No,” Whorl replied.
The woman left the grove.
Whorl stood alone, physically and emotionally flaccid.
I’d ask you to pass this on to your friends and family, but it’s only a matter of time now before it gets published, so don’t worry about it.
Stay aroused by following Cold Tequila Comfort on Twitter: