A Billion Wicked Lopamudras

Stephanie’s neck was jacked back ferociously as the giant male vampire king in the black wool Giorgio Armani suit and wrap around Rayban sunglasses bared his enormous fangs and she felt a thrill of pure and undiluted lust rocket through her moist loins. For the first time in her life she felt pure mind blowing, incredibly lustfully hot lustfulness for Wrathebone Lebodeux, the Internationally famous opera star, multi media magnate and Nobel prize winning poet with the widest shoulders and narrowest waist and most prominently muscular butt she had ever gazed upon.

Stephanie had a svelte figure and small mink like face with firm round melon shaped breasts, wide hips and a narrow waist, long legs and blonde hair, While wearing a Krizia cream silk blouse and matching Krizia cream tweed skirt, she kicked at Wrathbone with her small delicate feet in d’ Orsay silk satin pumps.

A young man, a beta male dressed in poor clothes with pants cuffs that didn’t reach to the tops of his shoes tried to interfere. “Mr. Wrathbone, I beg you please don’t harm the girl. There’s no reason we can’t all get along and be friends.”

“Away with you!” Wrathbone snapped the man’s spine in a deeply sensitive manner that soaked Stephanie’s panties with animal need and maternal yearning for Wrathbone’s obviously wounded inner child and yet appropriately offended her womanly sensitivities. Moaning with wild desire as her orgasm blasted her senses, she went limp in protest as his hungry animal lustfully dominating claspings groped her deepest being.

He tore her clothes assertively as her aggressively erect nipples jutted helplessly outward to the yearning stars. “I must have you for my queen!” He tore his clothes and his massive, engorged organ entered

Organ entered organ played organ penetrated
Cock penis joint
His massive joint. No.
Wrathbone’s exploding boner. No.
His tumescent penis. No
Shit

I take a swing from my coffee at Barnes and Noble, and push down the lid of my scuffed up IBM Thinkpad to chew on a pencil. Organ. Dick. Prick. Ding. Dong. Prong. Wong. Wang. Weenie. Meatloaf. Johnny. Johnson. His hot throbbing meatloaf. No. Wrathbone’s overweening weenie. No.

Without letting my laptop quite out of my sight I go down to the reference book shelves and skim through the titles holding my head sideways. Not a lot of slang books for this kind of thing. Here’s one by Cosmopolitan, called “The Penis Name Book”. I bring it back to my little table, slouch down and pull my jacket collar up over my face and start thumbing through it.

Meat thermometer.
Tickle Pickle.
Boomerang (boomerang?)
He thrust his burning boomerang into her –

Magic Stick
Lincoln Log
Anaconda
Beaver Cleaver (like it)
Energizer Bunny
One Eyed Monster
Trouser snake.
Popeye.
Pipe Cleaner
Sea Biscuit
Pleasure Pump
Dick-tator
Pinnochio
Dildo Baggers
Beanstalk

I dunno. This isn’t helping, although I do like Beaver Cleaver which conjures up images of sex starved suburban housewives in perms and pearl necklaces. I’ve been studying a book called “A Billion Wicked Thoughts” to try to figure out how to write the perfect sex scene and populate it with the most technically alluring participants formula can calculate. According to the author’s research, there are universal male cues and universal female cues in successful erotic literature which I’m assured are archetypically derived from reproductive evolution.

The ideal fantasy woman would be statuesque, but roughly six inches shorter than the given male, with long legs, wide hips, round ass, full calves, big eyes, small feet, firm tits and upturned erectile nipples. Her disposition should be sexually ravenous though otherwise acquiescent and submissive, easily conquered but not quite servile. Intelligence is optional, if it doesn’t get in the way of more practical things. If upon being undressed, the lady is discovered to possess a hermaphroditic penis some guys have a thing for that too. What ever.

The ideal fantasy male would be a man of world class wealth and social status, with a glamorous creative profession which generates a lot of money while proving his vulnerable character, a hidden side that will only be revealed to the right woman. He should also be a good dancer, maybe with colorful feathers. His penis doesn’t have to be especially big, but involuntarily, and even painfully hard in her presence as a display of his uniquely urgent desire inspired by her alone. He should be physically strong with large muscular buttocks, very broad shoulders and narrow hips and fierce expressive eyes and a chiseled face, poetic and witty, dangerous, competent and confident, endearingly but not habitually an asshole, and clearly the man in charge wherever he goes. Also protective, hence having supernatural powers is a plus.

Sneer if you dare. For those of us in high school who watched the bad boys from auto shop class nail all the hot girls this shit isn’t funny. We know its true.

Why does a Wrathbone appeal to women? Why do such women appeal to men? It might be evolution, but I think because they represent something not available in nature, because such characters are so much less disappointing compared to the mundane realities of dealing with men folk who spend a lot of time on the couch watching sports or come home from dull jobs and we just want to crawl into our shells and not come out for hours. It might also be because they are so disposable in the end, compared to the people who actually live in our space with all that they need and give to us.

In Indian mythology one of the authors of the Rig Veda was a scholar named Sage Agastya. One day he went into a cave and found his ancestors hanging upside down from the ceiling like bats. Of course, he asked them why. One told him that because Agastya had no offspring to carry on the lineage they had no one to perform the correct funeral ceremonies and launch them off into the after life. They needed him to have offspring. So he decided to create an ideal woman for himself, composed of the most desirable parts of domesticated animals, called a “Lopamudra”. The idea of sitting down and custom designing myself an ideal sexual partner and magically bringing her into the world makes my imagination boil, but I have to admit composing her from the selected components of common barnyard animals isn’t the sort of thing that would occur to me. Maybe guys like Agastya need to put the books down for a while and get out in the world and meet some nice girls. But it raises a question that writers run into. How do you construct a fantasy lover that is better than the real thing? The only way is to make them simple, much simpler and easier to get along with than a real woman with all of her emotional, you know, stuff. A kind of Stepford Wife.

Is that what guys want? Is it what women want?

I’ll get back to you when I figure it out.


C. Sanchez-Garcia