My eroticest fiction yet

Illustration by: Kristy McKenzie

If you haven’t yet read any of the publicly available excerpts from my erotic fiction novel, Cold Tequila Comfort, your life is about to change forever.

You can catch up here and here.

Once you’re done, lay some plastic down and get into the next instalment, below:





Brunk. Brunk. Brunk. Brunk. The bedhead struck the wall with a metronomic regularity – again and again and again.

Years later, the wall would collapse, killing an old woman by the name of Anne Glenroy. But Hank Brunden and Dierdre May-Heckleford weren’t concerned about the minor, albeit highly consequential, structural damage they were creating as they seethed and bubbled like frog spawn that had just been dusted with bicarbonate soda.

Magic came out of Brunden’s wand. His seed made its presence known to Dierdre’s insides and the bedhead finally stopped its unmusical percussion.

“Did you…?” asked Brunden. He didn’t need to finish the question. He was talking about sexual climax and Dierdre knew it. She knew it implicitly and it didn’t need to be articulated. She was a woman and had the refined instincts for which that particular species is renowned.

“No,” said Dierdre.

“That’s because you didn’t work for it,” said Brunden.

“You’re a bastard,” Dierdre fired back.

Since San Alfonso, their relationship had deteriorated like a biscuit in a cup of hot tea. It was bitter tea, like someone had accidentally put some tan bark in it, and it definitely didn’t have any sugar in it.

“You’re…” said Brunden, but he didn’t finish the sentence.

“I think we need to talk,” said Dierdre. She had an earnest look on her face. It aroused Brunden. His obelisk firmed, becoming a noble flesh statue.

“I think we need to make love,” Brunden said.

And they did. Again.

Brunden pumped Dierdre as if she was a receptacle containing crude oil and he was a greedy Texan with a groin siphon.

After that they had lunch. Then Dierdre cleaned the shower and Brunden worked on some accounting. Then they broke up.


Davis was wet. It was raining. He was tired. He could smell exhaust fumes. There was a shabby iceberg lettuce lying on the ground in front of him. A crow made a very loud noise nearby; it sounded like GAAAAARK. There was an overflowing bin about four metres away. A motorbike rushed by – Davis didn’t have a speed gun (that would have been absurd), but knew the rider was going above the speed limit. There was a park in the distance but there were no children playing in it. A street sign up ahead had been vandalised so that it now read “Turn Bight”. There were some trees around, but they were unattractive. There was broken glass in the gutter to his left.  A mangy dog walked out from behind a dilapidated fence; it looked like it was about to die. It didn’t. There was also a pair of underpants in the gutter – Davis thought they were probably drenched because of the rain, but he couldn’t be sure.

He couldn’t be sure of anything any more.

Davis spat on the ground. Sometimes he hated this city.

His phone rang. He didn’t recognise the number.


It was McGirk. “Davis, ya cocksucker.”

“You’re a grub, McGirk. I dislike you because you’re a convicted petty criminal and I suspect you of being a pervert and once I caught you in a laneway performing autoerotic acts on yourself, as well. What do you want?”

“How do you know I is McGirk?” said McGirk, who was born into poverty and used poor grammar.

“I can smell you down the phone,” said Davis. His wit was razor sharp. Razor sharp like a recently whetted axe that sometimes came down on chooks’ necks, but mostly cut wood.

“Fuck you, man,” said McGirk.

“What do you want, you scum ball?” asked Davis.

“I’ve gots a tip for ya,” said McGirk.

“I don’t need your tips,” said Davis. “I don’t need anything from slime like you. You’re a dirty rag.”

McGirk belched down the phone, as he had been drinking low-quality beer. His breath stank and he had crabs. “But – ” he began. Brunden interrupted.

“No buts, McGirk. I don’t want to hear from you again. You hear me? You’re a disgusting maggot and I don’t want anything to do with you.”

“But…” said McGirk, repeating the word he had used earlier.

“I gotta go, you snake. I’m going to break your fingers when I see you next,” said Davis.

“… it are about Felicity Montgomery.”

Davis took his finger off the red phone button which ended conversations on mobile phones such as the one Davis owned.

“You there, man?” McGirk asked.

“I’m here,” said Davis. He wanted to hear what McGirk had to say because he had mentioned a woman’s name that was of interest to him in his investigations.

That woman’s name was Felicity Montgomery.


Whorl Broxell was dancing. Again.

But this time he was dancing for his life.

He danced like a man possessed. A man possessed by a demon very much like a hip, well-coordinated black man at a discotheque.

But the only demon in the vicinity was Dr Ching Bo Ling. He was a communist.

“How long do I have to keep doing this, you bastard?” asked Whorl, who had been dancing for the last nineteen hours. His stamina was supreme, but he could feel his energy waning like energy in a poorly-manufactured battery. The fact there was an active volcano nearby wasn’t helping. It was hot. Real hot.

Suddenly the evil doctor died of hepatitis B.

Broxell undid his shackles, gently closed his great rival’s eyes to give him his dignity, used a stick to kill a bear that was guarding the entrance to the lair, left Death Island in a speed boat and went to Felicity’s house in East Brighton.

She answered the door wearing a flak jacket. And nothing else.

Broxell looked her up and down. “What if it had been the mailman?” he asked.

Felicity moaned, her body filling with reflexive desire like a startled pufferfish filling with water.

Broxell moaned, but it was deeper and more manly and he could have chosen not to moan if he didn’t want to. If he had been a sea creature, it might have been an octopus; he wasn’t startled but he was still going to squirt his ink.

Felicity began to remove the flak jacket.

Broxell said “No. Leave it on…”

There was a long pause, in which time the sun came up.

With the peach-coloured dawn light gently caressing his face like a horse’s tail caressing a pig’s snout in a farm where there was no space to separate different animals, Broxell finished what he was saying.

“…you’ll need it.”


When Davis returned to the office, there was an email waiting for him in his email inbox on his computer.

He read it:

I’m watching you.

Davis didn’t feel fear, but his blood ran cold like a river that someone had put a small glacier in.

Then Detective Inspector Bell came into the office. She had smooth skin.

They copulated on the floor.



If your tinder’s still dry after that, you probably need to see a GP. If your tinder is less than dry (and by tinder, I mean your genitals), you probably want some more Cold Tequila Comfort: 

Picture 1

Cold Tequila Comfort on Twitter:

Haught fact of the day:

I recently received a birthday card with Whorl Broxell on it.


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