A return to erotic fiction

Keep CalmVoltaire once famously said, “J’aime lire des gens copuler.” People during the Enlightenment used to wear T-shirts with those words printed on them.

During World War II the British Government released propaganda posters encouraging the citizens to get involved in nudie rudie literature.

In fact, every single milestone in history has as its very scaffolding a direction for the general populace to read about people going hard or going home… in the bedroomal sense.

Here’s my question: why stop now?

For those new to the blog, I’m an award-winning author of erotic literature and have previously posted short excerpts from my masterpiece, Cold Tequila Comfort. You can catch up now:

If you’re already an aficionado in the adventures of Hank Brunden,  Strom Ruk, Detective Inspector Gary Davis and whatever the sheilas’ names were, read on… and close the blinds first.


Mandrill Gridd had discovered a website that allowed you to chart your ancestry as far back as the beginning of the Mesozoic Era. He had just confirmed that he had nobility in his genes. In fact there was a king, queen or unusually dominant predatorial fish on every generational level of his tree for the last 40 million years. He gave a satisfied “hmm” clipped his laptop shut and then went into the bedroom to tell Dierdre.

Dierdre was wearing only a translucent salad bowl and some beetroot paste.

Blue blood filled Gridd’s aristocratic flesh pencil. He made a low moaning sound, tore off his clothes  and threw them into the open fire place, which had spontaneously combusted the moment their eyes had met. He strode over to Felicity, whisked the salad bowl from her head and threw it out the window. It landed in the Aegean Sea several hours later. He then picked up Felicity and threw her against the wall.

“Do me, your highness,” whispered Dierdre.

“Call me, your liege,” Gridd replied, attacking her neck with his lips like a declining superpower might attack an oil-rich developing country.

“I don’t know what liege means,” Dierdre breathed.

“It’s quite similar to highness, but refers to my status as your feudal overlord,” explained Gridd between labial drone strikes.

“What does that make me?” asked Dierdre, as she moved into a world beyond lust, beyond ecstasy, beyond Nirvana and quite near Valhalla.

“You’re like a vassal,” hummed Gridd, as he battered Dierdre’s nape with a vicious mouth assault.

They discussed the mechanics of medieval power structures and the dynamics of pre-industrial economies for the next six hours and never got round to doing sex.


Davis was mad. Mad as a cut snake. Mad as a cut snake who’d been cut by a sadistic red-headed child who had poured salt into the cut snake’s wound and then washed it away with Tabasco Sauce.

“So much bloody paperwork!” he said aloud to nobody in particular.

“Bureaucracy, eh, Davis?” replied Constable Frank Chapman. “Can’t live with it…”

“…can’t live with it,” said Davis, ending his colleague’s sentence. He considered the police force to be like a family and like all families, members within sometimes finished other members’ sentences, an act of empathy and familiarity. Even love.

God, he adored his job. Even when he hated it.

“You OK, Davis?” Chapman suddenly asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Davis replied, initially perplexed, before realising that Chapman had noticed the tears streaming down his face. “I just… I just… this means a lot to me. This. This whole goddamn collection of people we call Victoria Police. This whole motley crew. This ragtag team. This beautiful cross-section of people, from all across the world.”

Chapman had begun to cry too. And so had Detective Inspector Graeme Tremens and Senior Constable Warren Peake, who were also in the office doing administrative work. They could have been out on the beat, but there was a lot of bureaucracy.

“Did you know they inducted the first Muslim into the force just last week?” Davis said, before blowing his nose on a napkin he’d been forced to use every day for the past four weeks owing to budget cuts. It stank of greasy chicken and rancid tomato sauce.

“What’s a Muslim?” asked Chapman.

It was 1993.


It was raining outside. Felicity knew because she was looking out the window with an unimpeded view of the rain.

She had once believed that water was a cleansing element and that it had the power to wash away the deepest stains, but that, she now realised, was the faux philosophical musing of a foolish little girl. She now realised that the only element capable of purifying was fire. Water was only good for washing away top soil.

There was sediment at the bottom of her red wine glass. This was symbolic and significant.

“I’m going for a walk,” she said.

There was nobody else in the house. That was telling.

Felicity stepped outside her childhood home. It was built in 1857 and was worth $220,000 (it was 1993). She didn’t bother locking the door behind her.

Before she knew it she was halfway down the long driveway of the home she had grown so familiar with and which she had just left. Not for the last time, but nonetheless in a very dramatic manner.

She stepped in a puddle. It reminded her of Davis. She was a woman and found it difficult to control her emotions. She cried.

She walked on, up up up the driveway, then down down down the driveway, which was almost pyramidal in shape and absurdly inconvenient, especially to those few pathetic wretches not wealthy enough to own an SUV with whom she maintained a reluctant acquaintance.

She turned into Treacle Lane. Up ahead she could make out a figure, blurred by the curtain of precipitation in front of it, walking towards her down the street. No, not walking… riding a horse. A stallion.

A kookaburra made a sound from up in one of the nearby trees, but it was not a laugh. It’s said “caca caca caca caca”, which is Spanish for “poo poo poo poo”. It seemed appropriate.

Melancholy descended upon her like the flatulence of an oafish fat man in a train. Felicity had never been in a train.

Then the figure was very close and it spoke to her. It had the same voice as Kendel Elk because it was Kendel Elk. His horse was called Barbados.

“What are you doing out here in the rain? In the nude?” asked Elk. He sounded concerned, but there was something else Felicity could detect in his voice as well. Was it pity? Was it disgust? No, it was desire. She should have known that because he had dismounted and unzipped his trousers as he had said it and released his sand worm.

She squeezed his part like it was a tube of toothpaste. Nothing emerged.

Not yet, anyway.


“Something’s not right,” said Davis to himself through a loud hailer.

He was at a fun fair and there were two clowns nearby, both with their face paint sliding from their face as if their faces themselves were metling away, both gyrating their hips in an explicit  manner while laughing hysterically and shooting at seagulls flying overhead with bolt-action rifles.  But that wasn’t what was bothering him.

He walked slowly towards a nearby ride. The man collecting money and seemingly in charge of pulling the leaver which stopped and started the rack and pinion machinery wore grubby overalls and had a corn cob pipe in his mouth and smelled of excrement and had eyes so protuberant that they appeared to have long ago left the socket behind like hermit crabs seeking out a new home. The man lit a firework which went high into the air before exploding into the words “Rosebud” and returning to the earth as droplets of sarsaparilla. But that wasn’t what was bothering him.

In the distance he could see a large shadow moving between the colourful tents  that housed the animals and oddities that the carnival was famous for. He watched it intently as it crept with remarkable stealth from one shadow zone to another, moving as if propelled by an arcane force. And then suddenly it seemed to lose its bearings, and it stepped into a floodlit patch of marshy turf. It was a creature so grotesque that it made Davis vomit with such immediacy that he yelled “Holy shit” as masticated, macerated fish and chips, and a pie floater, burst from within him and forced an unfortunate nearby child back into a jumping castle that he had only just bounced off. But that wasn’t what was bothering him.

Davis walked towards the beach. A unicorn was calling his name in the silvery moonlight just beyond the tea trees. He told it to fuck off and, without taking off his clothes, waded into the ocean. He stopped when the water lapped at his neck like salty river water lapping at his neck. Something slithered past his leg. Probably just a stench eel or a komodo dragon.

Behind him he could hear the waves crashing on the shore. He hoped one of them had washed away the used condom he’d seen as he’d gone into the ocean. That was disgusting and an OHS problem for the beach. Finally he realised what was bothering him

He had asked for peyote when he meant “paella” at one of the food stalls back at the carnival. He was off his chops.

“I’m off my chops,” he said through the loud hailer. It didn’t work because its circuitry had been shorted by the water.

He woke up inside the trunk of a boab tree.


Felicity woke early and found that Elk was awake too. He was reading a book on the wicker chair beside the bed, his face a study of handsome, roguish, granite-like, meandering, bold, sensual concentration. She began to talk about the work of Camus.

“That’s boring,” said Elk. “Let’s talk about this.” Elk had his vulgarity out.

They had sex in two different positions. One of them was scissor.


When I get a publishing deal, I’ll put the name of every single person who comments on this post in the dedication section.

Picture 1

The Grape Men quote of the day:

Grape Man 1: “I say to Enzo, I say, you no working hard enough.”

Grape Man 2: “Yeah? What does he say in responses?”

Grape Man 1: “He say, I pack grapes. I check engine oil. I bring you coffee. I make lasagne. I bring lasagne back for everyone to eat. I mow lawn. I fix fence. What else you want me to do?”

Grape Man 2: “How many times he smash rock with pickaxe?”

Grape Man 1: “Ah! AH! That exactly what I ask. Yeah yeah yea, that all very good and well, Enzo, I say, but how many fuck time you smash big rock with fuck pickaxe?”

Grape Man 2: “That stump him.”

Grape Man 1: “He stand there say Uh, uh, uh… I say, No uh, Enzo. You no smash rock with pickaxe, you no part of this fuck team. And then I eat his lasagne and tell him it no have enough salts.”

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