Wednesday, July 18, 2012

Rough Draft (A Story of a Difficult Story)

Dear Wildhack:

I can’t believe I’m writing this, but I thought your other Forum readers would want to know that even for a virile double hung young man like myself, family birthdays can still be fun.

Yesterday was my eighteenth birthday and I didn’t know where to start. I was planning an exciting evening on the town with my girlfriend, when I ran into trouble with my mom. She had been snooping on my laptop to see what web sites I’d been visiting and when she found out, I was grounded for a week.

I didn’t try to explain to her what I was really looking for - but I will confess it to all of you.

My step Aunt Linda moved in with us a week and a half ago. She’s getting a condo and she’s waiting for the owners to move out. I call her Aunt Leeny and we’re the best of friends. I get to talk to her a lot about girls and feelings and stuff. We’re real close. She’s about thirty or so. She’s taller than me, with big, perfect breasts like glorious water wings, smooth white skin like ice cream on a hot day, with freckles that dive all the way into her cleavage, kind eyes, a cruel mouth, and this red Irish hair that flows past her shoulders almost to her perfect round ass. She likes to walk around the house in cut off short-shorts and T shirt and you can tell, especially when the air conditioning is on high, that she isn’t wearing a bra. When the radio is on, she likes to dance in front of me and when those big glorious girls start to sway under there it makes it hard to breathe.

When my step dad married my mom, he used to get drunk sometimes. One night he told me Leeny had a tit job because she was once a famous porn star until she got out of the business. She had a show business name, they never use their real names ‘cause of family and all, but he wouldn’t tell me what it was. So I started searching around for her, and trying to make a guess at it but I never found anybody I was really sure looked like her though I might have come close a couple times.

Well, like I said, yesterday was my birthday and my plans got shot down by my mom. In the afternoon she went to get groceries and I sat down at the table in the kitchen all alone in the house with my step Aunt Leeny. While I was sitting there she came in and sat down too, and you could see she was naked under her t-shirt. Her big lovely honeybears rested on the table top beside her coffee cup and her nipples tented the front of her t shirt.

“Hey.” She said.


“I’m up here.”

I guess I was staring at them.

I looked up at her face and she was smiling. The way she smiled at me made me hard enough to blow my fizzing pop stand right there and I had to reach down and loosen my jeans a little to make room for my swelling cream horn.

“So big boy,” She said in this low voice. “What do you want for your birthday?” What the hell, I thought. I’m already in trouble from trying to find her picture; I might as well just say it.

“I want to fuck you,” I blurted out.

Her smile fell away. “What?”

“I feel like… my birthday… I kind of want to, you know, maybe we could sort of do it or something. Do a little, like, you know, take a nap or something with you.”

“Johnny!” She seemed shocked, but she didn’t sound exactly mad, not like when my mom gets mad. “What’s gotten into you, honey?”

“I want to just sort of do it with you, maybe in the shower or something. You want to do it? Maybe with some soap? For my birthday?”

“Are you insane?”

“I’m sorry. I thought, like, maybe you might want to, maybe, you know like, doggy style or something in the shower. Like that movie on Cinemax last night.”

“Is that what you were thinking?”

I nodded my head miserably. She stood up suddenly and I thought maybe she was going to go for it after all, but she just folded her arms under her big party pillows and looked mad. “You’re a minor.”

“Not anymore I’m not!” Now at least she wasn't saying no.

“You’re a relative.”

“You’re my step aunt, you’re not my real aunt or anything.”

“I’ll do you a big favor, birthday boy. I’ll forget you ever mentioned it and I won’t tell your mom. So happy birthday.”

I nodded again. She turned around and walked away slow with her wide hips swinging and I felt so crushed I couldn’t even try to pound my pud into a Kleenex.

But a few minutes later I was standing with the refrigerator open looking for something to drown my sorrows in and suddenly I heard her voice in my ear behind me.

“So birthday boy,” she whispered huskily and my fully loaded scream machine in my jeans jumped to attention, locked and loaded and safety set to off. “I think you have a dirty mind and you need to take a shower to clean up those dirty thoughts. What do you think?”

(….aw this is such horseshit. I don’t know how to write this Forum crap. Maybe a different style…)

“Sacred bleu monsieur Loveshaft!” Leeny the little French maid cried, throwing up her hands in a fit of feminine consternation. I think Little John must be getting the better of you, no?”

“Not so little as you shall behold soon enough, you insufferable wanton,” Sir James Loveshaft ejaculated excitedly, as he set down the bottle of sherry and turned to confront his persecutor there in the Royal buttery. “Dash it all, Leeny, you shall not speak to your betters in that impudent and shameless manner. I dare say there is someone here who shall now have a sound birching, and perhaps a good and proper rogering as well until she learns her place, eh what?”

So saying Sir James hiked up her black lace skirt and placed his hands amidst the forbidden steaming jungle of her love treasures. “Mon dieu!” she cried. “Sir Loveshaft, my lord and master, I think you are behaving most improperly with an innocent and virgin maid who meant you no harm in all the world. It is most wrong of you to abuse my chastity, though I am most powerless to resist you.”

“Come along, come along,” Sir James exclaimed, coarsely dismissing her protests. “It’s no good you know. Ah! Ah! Your cries for mercy only thrill me all the more, and I say it is the birch cane and the gamahuche for you. I am that gentleman as shall teach you your place in this world before I have done with you, naughty French minx!”

Her bosom heaved with shameless passion and her cheeks flamed crimson in her lascivious anticipation. “Mon dieu! What do you mean my place in the world sir? Do you mean my place in the natural order of Rousseau’s Noble Savage, tormented by the cruelty of an impersonal and mechanistic civilization imposing its unnatural values on the proletarian working class from which my only relief must be the utter submission of my delightful unsullied quim to the rapacious bourgeoisie?"

“No, you tedious little bitch,” Lord Loveshaft replied rigidly. “I mean your place tied to my bed with your little bung hole in the wind. Now stuff it, or by Saint George it shall be all the harder with you.”

So saying thus, he shouldered the hapless girl like a bag of potatoes over his back and ascended the stairs to his bedroom, all the while declaring to her his beastly intentions. Upon entrance of its sumptuous provisions, his cruel manhood craving release, he took up a great winged chair and threw the weeping girl unceremoniously across his knees.

“Oh stop your tears, you randy little nemmer.” And with a deft movement, Lord Loveshaft seized her delicate underthings and flung them across the room, exposing to his gross enjoyment the sight of her bare buttocks.

“Mon dieu! Mon dieu!” she implored, as he paddled her bare bum with his broad and callused palm. Ignoring her cries, with his other hand he found and explored her lovely young quim and found it as wet as April. Reaching under the bed he produced a thin cane of birch.

“Right, then!” And Sir James set to with the rod on the hapless maid’s barefaced love mounds which soon glowed as feverishly as a pair of tropical moons low over the Punjab. Her piteous cries excited his gross desires beyond all reason, and he chose to frig her quim with one hand while lashing her ass fiercely with the other. The poor inexperienced girl stimulated excessively by the heavenly sensations of voluptuousness produced by this conjunction of lascivious manipulations, spent copiously with unbridled cries of ecstasy.

Sir James carried her over to the bed and threw her roughly upon it after removing the rest of her clothes, exposing her firm and bounteous breasts undefended as a pair of young does to his lecherous intentions. “And now for a bit of the old gamahuche!” he exclaimed as he applied his long and active tongue to her lovenest, searching for and exploring her candy corn until she spent yet again and again, falling limp with exhaustion and excessive satiation.

He unbuttoned his trousers and his rampant and virile member sprang forth to do its master’s bidding.

“Time to think of England young lady!” he cried as he impaled her upon his throbbing eggplant


(This is the pits. If I don’t learn how to write romance shit that sells I’ll just starve.)


She bit her lip, poutingly, but not unfetchingly, as her earthly lover pressed her into the ancient and enchanted bedstead of Merlin, being careful not to crush her large delicate wings, as he covered the sensitive blue skin of her throat with blazing hot kisses. She wanted to be possessed by him and him alone. She longed for him to take her, own her, possess her completely and demandingly but with great respect for her as a sensitive and intelligent individual, and make her completely his forever.

The oaken door burst open and shattered. A fist seemed to somehow squeeze her heart. “Jean Michelle Armand!”

“Mon Dieu! Empress Leeny,” he snarled, curling his lip in disdain at seeing her in the arms of John Loveshaft, the notorious vampire hunter. “Well, mon cheri, it appears I have found two old friends at once. What is one to do when he encounters such fortune? But is this the gratitude you show your dark lord, Empress Leeny of the Gamahuche Clan of the Blue Fairies? I can hardly believe my eyes. You are in league with the hunters of my brethren, or so it would seem.”

Sir John lifted himself off of his royal faerie lover and gazed upon the vampire lord, with deep brown eyes clouded with a sheen of bloodlust. He tossed back his silken auburn tresses in defiance.

“It is your own doing, Jean Michelle,” said he. “Your meddling with the Lupus pack failed and so you jumped to the fairy clan only as a last resort hoping to mingle your bloodline with the Gamahuche clan in order to produce the ultimate vampire possessing all the powers of werewolf, Draculs, fairies and Brownie Scouts in one ultimate breed. But you had not counted on your human slave Aubrey, confessing everything in Saint Vies church because she thought I was Father Emil, not knowing that Father Emil had secretly been turned by the lupus wizard Claude-Antoine in hopes of gaining eternal life but had been betrayed by Claude-Antoine’s jealous lover, Jacques and was killed in the cemetery when lured there by Danielle the zombie resurrector.”


“What about what?”

“Jacques, he turned Father Emil?”

“No, that was Claude Antoine.”

“And Jacques did what?”

“Killed Father Emil.”

“Wait, now he turned Father Emil…“. Jean Michelle was counting on his fingers.

“Claude Antoine did.”

“Wait—wait. Father Emil?”

“Dead, I promise you.”

“Jacques did it, that little guy, with the awful clothes? That Jacques?”

“Worked for Marie Claudette Saint Claire de Leveaux, exiled werewolf pack queen of the Lupus.”


“Those little guys, you never know. They surprise you.”

“Oh shut up you morons, both of you,” said Empress Leeny, her blue skin glowing petulantly. “I’m horny as hell. Somebody needs to fuck me. Right now, and I don’t care who, or I’m leaving.”

But Sir John leaped across the room and seized the enchanted Crossbow of the Valkyries. “Nobody’s fucking you but me, Empress Leeny of the Gamahuche.”

A cry caught in her throat, and she knew in that instant she could not allow him to kill her ancient lover.

(Aw man. I’d rather throw myself under a truck than go back to cleaning tables at Hooters again. Start over.)


Dear Boy’s Life Magazine:

I can’t believe I’m writing to you, but I just thought that my fellow Eagle scouts would be excited to know that time spent learning about personal hygiene from your relatives can be fun in unexpected ways.

Last week my step Aunt Linda came to live with us. It was my eighteenth birthday and Aunt Leeny asked me what I really wanted. I should say that she has flowing red hair and big perfect …..”


  1. Oh Garce. I'll bet you had fun with this. But I wouldn't want to be standing next to you when the wrath of the romance writers comes down on you for equating that with what they write. Hoo boy. You might want to change your name and leave town while you still have a head start.

  2. Funny, you should mention that, its already happened before.

    In an essay here I once mentioned a book by title I had been reading and said something snarky about it and got something between 20 and 30 comments which is a record for me. Except of course the comments were all angry. I spent the next couple of days apologizing to people and most of them still think I'm a jerk.

    I don't know. That's why I do crits from time to time on ERWA but I don't do books reviews. The fact is I have a lot of respect for romance writers, no bullshit, I really do. I've tried to write romance stories, god knows I have, but I can;t do it. For the life of me. That's where the money is. That's where the readers are. And I'll tell you what, its a calling. If you're not wired for writing romance you'll never be able to do it. What ever those ladies got, the story fairy never gave it to me, so I respect them in my dark little heart.


  3. On the other hand I hope the Boy Scouts don't get pissed with me. That would be rough.


  4. This is hilarious, Garce. You could produce a book of Sex as High Comedy.

  5. This is one of my favorites, Garce!

    And actually, I don't think romance authors - at least those with a sense of humor - would be offended. I've seen the same sort of parody written by "insiders".

    I'm not sure I'd agree that you have to be wired in a certain way to write romance. However, you do have to be willing to bend your style somewhat to fit conventions.


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