The F Plus - 67: Where Can I Find A Tailor For These Pinstripe Balls?

Episode Date: February 15, 2012

For as long as man has had conscious thought, he has thought about sex, and this has certainly been reflected in his literary themes. From the literate but hypermasculine rememberances of Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer, to the literate but impishly comedic creations of Voltaire's Candide to the not-at-all literate nor interesting fap material in John Cleland's Fanny Hill, erotic writing has had a storied history inside the pages of legitimate fiction. But fortunately, the English published Literary Review has helpfully highlighted some of the least impressive examples for us to lend our voices to. This week, the F Plus is on top of you, Skinner.

🎵 And And welcome to the F Plus Podcast, Terrible Things Read with Enthusiasm. My name is John. And I'm the enthusiastic Acer Alcolotto. Very, very enthusiastic. Very good. I'm glad we got you as the host. What's going on with you, Acer? What's been going on with you lately? Well, I'm getting pretty excited, I've got to tell you. I mean, it's Valentine's Day and... All right, yeah, I see. I've been doing my due diligence all right good wait i got a little governmental on

you didn't i it's just fine well we're very proper here at the f plus yeah i mean it's it's valentine's day i'm hoping to get a little something special my wife here so i've been to the literary view it means literary and they got got a list of sex scenes. And I thought, all right, I'll get a little sexy. I'll read some of these things. It's going to be great. Well, you know, some writers, Literary Review. That sounds classy as hell.

Let me pull that up. Let me see that. Oh. Here's your link. There? What? I found it on Google already. And yeah.

What? ACR, I don't think this is what you're thinking about. I mean, it's from the literary review. Right. But it's not... I don't follow. Sexy. Actually, arousing or sexy or good.

Come on, Marlon Brando. Thomas Pinchot. Come on. They're not what I think of as sexy men, really. I don't... I mean, it's like the big... Acier, I don't think this is good the big I don't think this is good for

I don't think this is what you're thinking of okay which one of us hey which one of us is married then

that'd be me I'm not I guess yeah I guess I don't know bad sex when I see it well I don't I don't think you know

anything about romance tell you what tell you what I'm gonna be scientific about this if you will okay okay

when we get the readers we'll have them read some of this shit alright and then we'll you know we'll figure out read some of this shit. Alright. And then we'll, you know, we'll figure out whether this is romantic or not. How about that? Well, yeah, let's, I guess we'll see how sexy this is.

Let's go. Alright. In the room tonight, we have Boots Reingear. And then I totally came on her lobster. Nutshell Gulag. You're not coming anywhere near me with that. Bunnybread. Damn, this is sick

Acero Colada Reader And then I bit John Vortex I'm sorry, but my time here is ogre Kumquatsup Podcast, podcast, podcast, podcast Isfahan up. Podcast, podcast, podcast, podcast.

Isfahan. If Lewis Carroll wrote porn, it'd sound a little like this episode. And John Toast, reminding you that if you're going to get your balls pinstriped, make sure to do it correctly. It was uncomfortably hot in Mary's flat, but Skinner took a seat opposite a fat old woman. Can you help me, he said earnestly. What's your problem?

He told her that he believed that he had put a spell on somebody. He wanted to know if this was possible, how he could have done this, and how it could be reversed. Oh, aye, it's possible, Mary regarded him cannily. I can help you, but I need paying first, son.

Money's nae too used to me at my age. Her eyes wrinkled. You're a fine-looking laddie, she said harshly. A good cock, son, that's the payment I need. Skinner looked at her and shook his head. Take off your clothes, then. Let me see the goods, Mary rasped in a lecherous cheer. As Skinner undressed, the old woman removed her coat and began to struggle out of a series of cardigans,

pinafores, and vests. Lying on the bed, she looked smaller but still monstrous, wrinkled rolls of flab spilling over the mattress. Fool aromas rose from the putrefying pools of sweat and dead skin trapped within the folds of her flesh. Thought you'd be bigger,

Mary pouted as Skinner removed his Calvin Klein briefs. Fucking cheekily, old clout. Next time I'll be wearing a strap-on, he said bitterly. Ignored him. Mary lay back on the bed and pulled away at the sagging corrugations of her body until she was able to

locate her sex. I've nae cream to lubricate this. You'll hoof to you spit. Hoke it up, she commanded. Ellipsis. Work it in, Mary urged, as Skinner took his thick green slime and spread it like a chef might glaze some pastry,

at the same time slowly breaching and exploring. A ludicrously distended clitoris popped out from nowhere like a jack-in-the-box. Surprise! It bounced around a bit. It had a little hat on. Do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do. The size of a small boy's penis

and disconcertingly strangulated groans coming from the bed told Skinner that he was hitting a spot. After a while, she gasped, Pit it in now! Pit it in! The end! Holy shit. That's pretty good. end! Holy shit. That's pretty good. Oh, holy shit.

Green! The following is a selection from the book Shroud by John Banville. Published by Picador. Picador. Halfway through our slow-motion lovemaking, she squirmed out from under me and made me turn on my back and flipped herself upside down and lay with her belly on my chest and took me into her mouth and would not let me go until I'd spent myself

against the burning butt of her epiglottis. Oh, fuck. Then she swiveled right way up again, such an agile girl, and balanced the length of herself along me. On her epiglottis. A sprat riding on a shark. And for a second I saw Josette,

with her bobbed hair and upturned small breasts, smiling at me in the fish-scale light of Hendai. And something went through me, needle-sharp. That was surprisingly like pain. Maybe it was pain, did you ever think about that? Needle-sharp! And then she pinwheeled on my penis a couple more times. You can get that looked at, you know.

Then we flew around the room. She massaged my hippocampus. Seahorse. She touched my cerebral cortex and all the right things. Behindlings by Nicola Barker. This atrocity was made... Behindlings?

Behindlings? Behindlings? Behindlings? Whatever. Like the groundlings or a changeling? It's horrible either way. It's a changeling, only you've been turned into an ass. Yeah, let's go with behindlings.

Yeah, let's go with behindlings. The panda. Yes, let's think of pandas during the sex of lids. This is about romanticizing, so it's probably behindlings. Okay, let's go with behindlings. She was now all but naked, except for an old-fashioned bra, which looked like it was made from a combination of cream-colored tent fabric and some coordinated boot laces,

and a pair of loosely-fitting, almost contemporaneous 1920s, 30s... What did he know of historical trends in female undergarments? Cammy knickers. You're the author, why would I know? Hang on, honey, let me look up on my iPhone undergarment trends.

The Nickers hung off her hips, revealing her body was hairless. She was white as a maggot. Oh boy. Her breasts inside those hockey shoelace cricket white contraptions. Oh, shit.

Deliriously full in slack. The tangle. Then his teeth were pulling, too, but only very gently. And the lacens were dampened in the ancient moth-smelling cricket pad, English lawn, green wax-rubbing cotton, and the flesh just to the left of it, and to the right of it, and the damper flesh, pinkened by the pressure of fabric just under the

tightness. They were suddenly on the tiles hot, below the scrape and pale, and the knickers loose as butterfabric slipping with the ineluctable pleat of five fingers, each with she had five fingers, and they had that pressure warm push and determined force of...

of... snout. Brent D. Crune said... Brent said... Brent? Brent? Brent, is that you? Busy as any kind of sharp-nosed, wild, white, woodland creature you might care to mention in the ice-cold snow of winter, with the searing hot scarlet of... of...

Snowfox! Teeth! Fur! Claw! Combine into... Arthur Young! Man of history! hot scarlet of snow fox, teeth, fur, claw, Arthur Young, man of history, lay there, pulsating, whipped and panting, eyes without irises purple flowering, calm as a log split, and crashed into the moss-sodden forest

of infinite languor, while she bit and tunneled and dug him over. I have never been more aroused or confused. I'm just confused. So I want to get a duet on. Yeah, we're going to do this duet here. Where are we going? I'm going to fulfill my every fantasy with you,

ever bunny bunny. Damn, this is every fantasy. Ivory and ivory working together. I'm sorry. That doesn't make any sense, but okay. Please, do the honors. Introduce. Okay.

This is Wild Ginger, I guess, by Anchi Min. And it's published by the Women's Press. Oh, good, women. I'm sure this is really sensible and, you know, sensuous. We're pressing women. Yeah. To writing this. He leaned over and said,

Take off your shirt. No, why? I hunger only for you. I began to laugh. Go chew Mao quotations. Fill your stomach with them. Come on, Chairman Mao teaches us. A thousand years... What?

I'm trying to chew on these Mao quotations. A thousand years is too long. A thousand years is too long. A thousand years is too long. Cease the moment. He grabbed me. Chairman Mao also teaches us a revolution is an insurrection, an act of violence by which one class

overthrows another. Chairman Mao again teaches us I put down the buns and wrestled with him. We were cooking while we were having sex and talking about chairmen. Or she just had my ass in her hands. Put those down!

Could you give me my ass back for just a moment? I'm gonna need that to sit down. And then wrestle. Yes. How else would I be a chairman? Oh, everybody's toast tonight. Yay. The situation must change. It is the task of the people of the whole world to put an end to the aggression and the oppression perpetrated by imperialism.

Oh, God, I'm so hot. Damn, he went wild. If the U.S. monopoly capitalist groups persist in pushing their policies of aggression and war, the day is bound to come when they will be hanged by the people of the whole world. You could feel your body blowing, I know that much. I was unable to continue the reciting. Oh, wait.

Yeah, you were on... Oh, is this me? Yeah, whatever. Don't stop. Don't you stop, Maple? Maple? You're Maple, I guess. Yep. Okay. Don't you stop, Maple. Show your faith in Chairman Mao. Demonstrate your loyalty. Page 156.

Speech at the Moscow meeting of communist and workers' parties. Come on, now! Wait. Is this Treant fan? Yeah, I was actually thinking, maybe I'm Syrup. She's been arguing, like, communism with Syrup the whole time.

Wait, maybe I'm Maple? Because it says I began afterwards. She's been arguing communism with syrup the whole time. Wait, maybe I'm maple? Because it says I began afterwards. Oh. Oops. Am I talking to myself? This is the way it was formatted. I don't know. I genuinely don't know. By the way, was the big moment when they said

speech at the Moscow meeting of communist and workers parties? Because if not, I think I might have jumped the gun. It's okay. This is a pretty long passage. You can get back in it. Alright. It is my opinion, I began, that the international situation has now reached a new turning point. I stopped. My thoughts suddenly scattered.

The pleasure was too overwhelming. Okay. Is this like the news porn channel? Next on Siemens, boy. Is this like the news porn channel? Next on Siemens, man. I guess this next line is yours. Okay. Go on, Maple. Go on.

We're both going. You do that one. No, I think you're still talking. Okay. Go on, Maple. Go on. There are two winds in the world today. He caressed me, his hands cupping my breasts from behind.

The east wind, tweak, tweak, and the west wind, tweak, tweak. That's what I'm going to name them anyways. There is a Chinese saying, either the east wind, pinch, prevails over the west wind, pinch, pinch, or the west wind, tweak, twist, prevails over the east wind, cupping full. when, tweak, twist, prevails over the east wind, cupping full. God damn it. And then the east wind goes, what are you thinking of?

We were breathless. He insisted we continue reciting. I tasted his sweat as I went on. It is a characteristic of the situation today that the east wind is prevailing over the west wind. That is to say, the forces of socialism have become overwhelmingly superior to the forces of imperialism.

Uh, you can... Our bodies came together again. He groaned, Oh, Chairman Mao! Damn! Damn! This is from Will by Christopher Rush Oh glorious pubes

That's pretty good Pubes glorious pubes Hot sausage That's pretty good. Pubes, glorious pubes. Hot sausage and mustard. The ultimate triangle. Whose angles delve to hell, but point to paradise. Sex and geometry. Let me sing the black banner, the blackbird's wing, the chink, the cleft, the keyhole in the door. So offensive.

The fig, the fanny, the cranny, the quim. I'd come close to it now, this sudden blush, this ancient avenue. The end of all odysseys, an epic aim of life. Pulling at my prick now, pulling like a lodestone. How is lodestone spelled? That is how lodestone is spelled. That is how lodestone is spelled. No, I'm not reading it, so I was just asking him.

Oh, no, it's spelled correctly. I was wondering if it was spelled in other languages. He's talking about magnets. Sadly. Anne Hathaway's cow-milking fingers. No way. Anne Hathaway's Cow Milking Fingers That's my favorite cartoon adaptation of Cow Milking Fingers A sneak peek at

The Dark Knight Rises Cradling my balls in her almond palm Oh that's a good chocolate bar Now took pity on the poor anguished erection my balls in her almond palm. Oh, that's a good chocolate bar. Now took pity on the poor, anguished erection, and in the infinite agony of her desire,

guided it to the quick of the wound. Wait, what's he... Maybe there's some stabbing that was going on. Yeah, were they beating the shit out of each other? And that's gonna go all guar. At the same time, I searched wildly with the fingers of my left hand, groping

blind as cyclops, found the pulpy furred wetness, parted the old lips of time, and slipped my middle finger into the sancta sanctorum. Wait, so, parted theips of Time, and then where did your middle finger go? Did it come out in like 1955?

Yeah, I was like, oh no, my hand is fading, and my parents don't get back together. I think what he did is he just... I think he just shot the bird at a U.S. politician. This episode of Doctor Who makes me feel fun. I think that's

Rick's mother. Yes! It welcomed me with soft sucking sounds. Syllables older than language. Solace lovelier than words. Oh, God. She pulled my hand away. Positioned the prick.

Slid her buttocks deep into the grass, raised her thighs back high, crossed her legs behind my back, dug her heels into my spine, and hauled at me savagely and hard. I fell into her. It was exhilarating to be bounded in a nutshell.

Oh no! No! Name drop. And count myself a king of infinite space. That's what he yells out every time he jizzes? Okay. I'm gonna try that. I mean, will it? But Anne Hathaway was a cruel queen. Her calves crushed my ribs, Her crossed heels digging in hard

Drawing me in deeper She responded with those cries That men long to hear The sweet deep moaning sounds That echo the sigh of oceans The ebb and flow of fields The saw of stars Okay so

He's making it seem like she was like a Venus flytrap So he's like I'm gonna have sex with her. Just clamp down onto him. Now he can't escape. That is a Venus flytrap that is also somehow a boat. Yes. Venus boat trap. So we drank from one another.

Clung together on the ship. I was kidding! I was kidding when I said that. Jeez. It's also a boat. No, you're right, though. You're right. Clung together on the ship we'd made of

ourselves, breasting the irrelevance of time. What? What? Oh, god. All around us, nature joined in. Streamers of heat lashed my back and shoulders, and far beneath me now, the body of Anne Hathaway? Oh god, she's dead!

Oh no! What is... Just random words. What is this fanfiction for again? This is actual published fiction. This is published. Somebody was giving money in exchange for this.

Is this pitchfork erotica? I was thinking it's like whenever those spam bots try to post a message on a forum where it's like, I have good things heaving haunches lifting through July. Bye Viagra! Anne Hathaway.

Through the green surge of growth till at last the moment came when some colossal wave flung her up high and I held on for my life and she screamed loud and long then oh then oh then oh Oh no. You killed her with your dick!

It's the dick reaper he's come to collect. It's the grind reaper. Our vessel ran shuddering onto the rocks. A wave of wetness ran through us. The air was wet with screams and I became aware that the bank on which we lay drenched and grounded was Journey's end.

Love's end. The very sea mark of our utmost sail. Hot. And then I just fell over her back. I like how far he carried that metaphor. Did he carry it?

And then the boat of our love was raided by Somalian pirates as we scourged the seas. He carried it as far as he needed to until he needed a Kleenex. Oh, and then she died. Is this Christopher Rush narrating him watching, like, the Princess Diaries?

Oh, boy. Black Swan Green by David Mitchell. If Don Madden's breasts were a pair of Danish's, Debbie Crombie's got two space hoppers, each armed with a gribbly nipple. Tom Yu kissed them in turn, and his saliva glistened in the April sun.

I know watching was wrong, but I couldn't not. Tom Yu slipped off her red panties and stroked the cressy hair there. If you want me to stop Madam Crombie you have to say now oh master Yu she crudled don't you dare Tom Yu

got on her and sort of jiggled there and she gasped like he was giving her a Chinese burn and wrapped her legs around him froggily now he moved up and down, man from Atlantis-y. Wait, what? What was that adverb?

You heard me, man from Atlantis-y, like the TV show. Atlantis-ly? Atlantis-ly, yes. That doesn't really matter. Okay. His silver chain jiggled on his neck. Now her grubby soles met like they were praying.

Now his skin was glazed in roast pork sweat. Now she made a noise like a tortured Moomin troll. Now Tom used body jerked, jerked, judderly jackknifed, and a noise like a ripping cable tore out of him. Once more, like he'd been booted in the balls. Her fingernails had sunk so many welts into his arse.

Debbie Crombie's mouth made a perfect O. I like, I like, he made, she made a noise like a tortured Moomin troll. That's pretty much what drew me to the whole thing, was the fact that the Moomins were in there. Yeah, that's like saying,

he made a noise like a Pikachu getting stepped on. Like, think about all of that. He made a noise like somebody shaking a Smurf real hard. Tread Softly by Wendy Perriam and published by Peter Owen. He liked it so much he wanted to publish it. She lay back on the bed while he positioned himself above her. Then she slid her feet up his chest and onto his shoulders. Mr. Hughes' shoulders.

She closed her eyes, saw his darkest treacle toffee eyes gazing down at her. Oh, gazing down at her, sorry. Weirdly, he was clad in pinstripes at the same time as being naked. Pinstripes were exotic, the uniform of fathers, two-dimensional fathers. Even Mr. Hugh's penis had a seductive pinstriped

foreskin. Enticingly rough, yet soft inside her. The jargon he'd used at the consultation had become bewitching love talk. Dislocation of the second MTPG. Titanium hemai implant. Yes, she whispered back.

Dorsal subluxation. Flexion deformity of the first metatarsal. They were building up a rhythm, an electrifying rhythm with long fierce sliding strokes interspersed with gasping cries. Wait, Ralph panted. Let's do it the other way. Swiftly he withdrew,

arranged her on her hands and knees, and knelt above her on the bed. It was even better that way, tighter, more exciting. She cupped his pinstripe balls, felt him thrust more urgently in response. Oh yes, she shouted, screwing up her face in concentration, tossing back

her hair. Yes, oh Malcolm, yes! I was looking into pinstriping my job, but it's a lot more expensive than you'd imagine. It's like if you dropped acid, and then you blacked out, and you woke up, and this was in Microsoft Word. I think this won that year just because

they saw pinstripe balls and were like, alright, we got it. We're done. This is From Apple by Richard Millwood and it's published like Faber. She add on note knickers and her heart went crash bang wallop and my eyes popped out.

She hadn't shaved and her fanny looked like a tropical fish or a bit of old carpet. So you just gotta sit there, Abby asked, and I laughed nervously. I was hardening up, but it was all a bit of a shock, really. All I'd had planned that night was listening to a selection of records

and maybe some homework. I tried to go down on her, thinking back to the razzle and how the boys did it and all that. But my heart wasn't in it. Her cunt smelled a bit like an armpit. And when I pulled out the lips open, I knew I'd have to shut them numerous times or else I'd die of AIDS or I'd fall into it.

John, you're the Dick Van Dyke of us. I was going to say, the crocodile hunter got really weird. Like Thomas and Boppa's, Governor. Oh, you're going for Cockney? I thought it was Australia. I did too. I was like, throw another trip on the Barbie there. It's all not American to me.

How can you say that first sentence in any other way? I challenge you. Too Beautiful for You by Rod Little. Wait, wait, that's a real name. Yeah, that's... He didn't think about his porn name. Joanne hung with her head flung back over the side of the bed. Her hair splayed out across the floor, which required Christian to cling onto her waist so they both didn't fall off.

And then, after a modicum of congenial thrusting, she came with the exhilarating whoops and pant hoots of a troop of rhesus monkeys. Which was flattering, if alarming. I would go with alarming. Alarming. Paul ejaculates voluminously and with very great force indeed. In fact, he keeps on and on ejaculating. There's loads of the stuff. Out it all

comes, pint after pint, and he begins to wonder if it will ever cease. It's like the Energizer Bunny. It's a problem. Sophie the Minx trails the back of her hand across the back of his penis. What a wonderful trick, thinks Paul, vaguely, lost in a chemical oblivion, and delicately but decisively arches her body away from him to avoid the ostentatious spurting, which continues for so long that Paul becomes embarrassed

and wonders if there's maybe something seriously wrong with him. Is it normal? It was when the dehydration kicks in that he really starts to wonder. When, eventually, it does stop, they cling to opposite sides of the mattress, well away from the vast lagoon of semen in the center of the bed. The creature of the white lagoon. A thick coldness

which will still be damp when Paul awakes the next morning. His dreams are furred with a strange sort of exhaustion. A strange sort of exhaustion that comes from gushing all over the scene. This one's called Winkler.

That's by Giles. Oh, shit. Oh, do it. Please do it autistic. Winkler. Oh, yes. You know you have to do it autistic. I'm not going to stop. You're damn right you are.

Don't try to talk while I'm doing this. All right. And he came hard in her mouth, and his dick jumped around and rattled on her teeth, and he blacked out, and she took his dick out of her mouth and lifted herself from his face and whipped the pillow away, and he gasped and he glugged at the air, and he came hard again so that his dick wrenched out of her hand, and a shot of it hit him straight in the eye

and stung like nothing he'd ever had in there and then he yelled with pain but the yell could have been anything as she grabbed his dick which was leaping around like a shower drop in an empty bath she scratched his back deeply with nails of both hands and he shot three times in thick stripes on her chest

like Zorro fantastic what the fuck on her chest. Like Zora. Fantastic. What the fuck? The Crimson Petal and the White by Michael Faber. Brought to you by Canongate.

Sugar, pretending to seduce an invisible man, begging him in a voice almost hysterical with lust. Oh, you must let me stroke your balls. They are so beautiful, like a dog turd. What?

A dog turd nestling under your... Your what? Shush had such a good word for it. A word to make you wet yourself. But Caroline has forgotten the word, and now it's not the time to ask. Passage two? That's really interesting. Yes, oh yes, she whispers, and embraces the small of his back to take more of him inside.

She kisses him tenderly. Their sexes are cleaved together. Their genders are joining at the hip. I don't know how that works. Their sexes are cleaved together. They are one flesh. A swirl of cloud folds around their conjoined bodies like a blanket as they drift through the balmy waves of eternity,

borne along like swimmers by rhythmic currents and their own urgent thrusts. Who would ever have thought it could be like this? She says. Like a dog turd. Don't talk now, bitch. He sighs. As he shifts his hands down from her shoulder blades to the cheeks of her behind. You're always talking.

Shut the fuck up. She laughs, knowing it's no. Bye, Bunny Bread. She laughs, knowing it's true. No. Bye, Bunny Bread. She laughs. What with this stuff? Who knows? She laughs, knowing it's true. I do never shut the fuck up.

The pressure of his chest against her bosom is at once comforting and arousing. Her nipples are swollen. Her birth passage sucks and swallows in its hunger for his seed. She was pretty good, but her birth passage fucking sucks. That's how they rate it on the high-class prostitute website.

Her birth canal, you know. On a great flank of cloud they roll and wreathe until her passion rushes through her body like a fire and she thrashed her head from side to side gasping with joy. A second ago it was present tense, now it's

past tense and we just can't keep track. Shut the fuck up. What you see is it's reverse chronological, so it makes sense. Oh, okay. Tarantino style. This is Dorian by Will Self.

Ah, yes. Who is a Viking? by Will Self. Ah, yes. Who is a Viking? Who is a Viking? In one fluid movement, Herman rolled forward onto his knees,

grasped Dorian by the shoulders, and kissed him. Such suction. Squidward, no. They were like two flamingos, each attempting... Standing the nutriment out of the other with great slurps of their muscular tongues. Adam's apples bobbed in the crap glowing. I gotta start jerking off more at the zoo.

This is The Crime Sar by Nicola McAuliffe. It's all right. I won't break, she whispered. She felt him aware of his size and weight, his care not to hurt her. his care not to hurt her. She moved to accommodate him and felt the blind probings before he slipped inside her. He was bigger than she had remembered. She tilted her hips

and felt the weight of his balls on her... What? Small expanse of skin between vagina and anus? Perineum? Was that it? Hermione screamed, Shut up, Lucy! You're not doing the cosmopolitan crossword now!

Hermione was wondering, What the hell is that thing called? Do you know why you're fucking me? I mean, do you have a minute? Could you tell me? This is gonna bug me the whole time we're fucking. You're just gonna have to tell me... Just call it a dog turd. I'm only gonna put half of this one, because it's

very long. And really, I think the first half pretty much hits it. It's Fan Tan by Marlon Brando and Donald Camel. Wait, that Marlon Brando? The Marlon Brando that writes smut, yeah. If you know of any other Marlon Brandos, maybe it's that one.

Let's all imagine Marlon Brando having sex right now. Yeah, with Dr. Moreau. It was all downhill from there. So who knows? Well, after I'm done this, you'll be the judge of where his career is now. In a moment, Annie was on his side, Madame Leigh was like a plant growing over him,

and her little fist, holding the biggest black pearl, was up his asshole, planting the pearl in the most appreciated place. Not in the asshole. I've been wanting to get there forever. Oh, Lord, he cried out. I'm a-coming.

I'm a-coming. Jumping Jehoshaphat. Great horn and toes. There's a jizz in it here. I'm just going to imagine him with Foghorn Leghorn's voice for the rest of this I'm thinking more of Yosemite saying, I'm the rootinest, tootinest, sex outest! She could

not answer. It is the one drawback of Flatio, as conscientious as hers, that eliminates the chance for small talk and poetry alike But nothing is exactly perfect in this life And for Anne Daltrey, the delicate but firm pressure on his rare parts Was in perfect harmony with the eruption

Of his cock He came and he came We are dealing with a hero here At one point his lover backed away To inspect the unaltered gush of it Like a plumber saying to a customer Don't blame me This water supply will stop when the dam's empty

Okay That's a sexy image right there customer, don't blame me. This water supply will stop when the dam's empty. Okay. That's a sexy image right there. Okay. Der Mukti and Other Tales of Woe by Will Self. Whimpering and grinding his teeth, Shiva swung open the gate and entered

another of the fields on his funny farm. He herded the cow into the hoof-craded corner by the water trough, then slipped his trousers off so he could mount her. His first wife Sandra bucked and mooed beneath him. Despite the tumult of upheaving flesh, Shiva still noticed,

with lofty, braminical pity, the sprinkling of livid spots on the inside of her anal cleft. Sandra's conical fingers, which resembled jeweler's ring trees, dug into an earthen bolster, and her high-pitched bellows rent the rapidly compressing

atmosphere. I'm going to assume since she had fingers that it was actually a person that he was having sex with and not a cow she had fingers that it was actually a person that he was having sex with and not a cow. Maybe it was a centaur chick. It was unclear at one point. Maybe she's a cow centaur.

When they talk about Shiva, they mean like destroyer of worlds Hindu god, right? I mean, that's the only thing that makes sense, fucking cows. Are they talking about the cow? Talking about the Final Fantasy summon, maybe? But I think Shiva was a lady? Ah, this is Lobster by

Guillaume Le Cable. Guillaume Le Cable. Ooh, you just got out fresh, bitch! Oh! She reached the staircase, climbed the first step, but the cold was numbing her mind. She fainted,

upright and motionless, with seawater up to her belly. Lobster swam to her purple feet. Cut off the bloodless hand with his pincers. Oh, this is a new sentence. Cut off the bloodless hand with his pincers and climbed up the inside of new sentence. Cut off the bloodless hand with his pincers and climbed up the inside of the leg

as far as the clenched knees. He was amazed at the pleasure he felt from being held this way. His pincers slipped between the thighs, prizing them gently apart. His feelers were just able to reach the satin of the panties. They fluttered, made the labia quiver.

Under the shimmering material, a hint of life was returning. Angelina's thighs relaxed. Lobster pulled back his feelers. Tensed and released his tail. His strokes were fast and powerful. He was making headway. He sank himself into her warming muscles.

His tail did not falter. He moved forward, centimeter at a time. Yes! Suddenly he could see the fabric clearly. Glistening. Oh. Am I too quiet? You were quiet all of a sudden.

We just assumed you were having an emotional moment there. Yeah, it was a dramatic finish. I'm going to say it. These Little Mermaid sequels need to stop. I'm not to say it. These Little Mermaid sequels need to stop. Under your skirt. Beautiful. Boy Meets Girl by Ali Smith. Brought to you by Canongate.

Her hand opened me. Then her hand became a wing. Then everything about me became a wing. A single wing. And she was the other wing. We were a bird. We were a bird that could sing Mozart. Her beautiful head was down at my breast.

She caught me between her teeth just once. She pulled the nip into nipple like the cub of a fox would. Was that her tongue? Was that what they meant when they said flames had tongues? I was hard, all right. And then I was sinew. I was a snake. I chained stone to snake in three simple strokes. Stoke, stake, snake. And then I was a tree whose branches were all budded knots. And what were those felty buds? Were they antlers? Were antlers really growing out of both of us? Was my whole front furring over? And were we the same pelt? Were our hands black shining hooves? Were we

kicking? Were we bitten? We were blades. We're a knife that could cut through myth. We're two knives thrown by a magician. We're arrows fired by a god. We hit heart. We hit home. We're a knife that could cut through myth. We're two knives thrown by a magician. We're arrows fired by a god. We hit heart. We hit home. We were the tail of a fish. We're the reek of a cat. We're the beak of a bird. We're the feather that mastered gravity. We're high above every landscape, then down deep

into the purple haze of the heather. We're Roman in a gloman, in a brash unending Scottish piece of perfect jigging, reeling real. Can we really keep this up? What the fuck was going on there? What the hell was any of that? Then we were like a wing and a brook.

And then boy met girl. Boy met wing. A boy never met a girl in that paragraph. You're right. Yeah, but there's a whole book for that. You can't brush into the boy meeting the girl. First there's gotta be pelt and antlers and jigging.

You know what? Somebody said to Ali Smith, I bet you can't write a book where you just say stoke, stake, snake in a paragraph and it actually makes sense in the paragraph. It's like, I gotcha. It's gonna happen. From Absurdistan by Gary Stegorinov Brought to you by Granta

This is page 201 Proceed You wanna pop me? She said This must have been some newfangled youth term. The verb to pop. I wanna bust a nut inside you, shower-ny. I said, I wanna make you sweat, boo. Let's do this thing.

I'd like to say that she stepped out of her jeans, but in truth it took a while to maneuver two large dimpled buttocks and the accompanying vaginal wedge out of the hard shell of her Miss Sixty denims. We hussed and sweated. I heard her hanging off the edge of the bed while I gripped the cuffs of her jeans. I nearly pulled a groin muscle getting her naked, but through it all, I stayed hard. A testament to how much I wanted her.

She kept her t-shirt on throughout the initial popping, which is just how I like my sex. Infused with a little mystery. A murder mystery for the most part. I slipped my hands beneath the cotton tee and felt the smooth creamery of her breasts while saving the visuals of those brown glossy globes for later. Her vagina was all that. The bag of chips was nowhere to be found at the moment, but

as they say in the urban media, a powerful ethnic muscle scented by bitter melon. An ethnic muscle? Her burka was flexing. The breezes of the local sea and the sweaty needs of a tiny nation trying to breed itself into a future. Was it

especially hairy? Good lord, yes it was. Mountains of kinkiness, black as the night above, the Serengeti with paprika shoots at the edges. The pubic hair alone must have clocked in at half a kilo.

I did weigh it, yes, of course. I sold it later. On the black market. Half a kilometer. Half a kilometer. While providing the inspiration for two discernible trails of hair, one running up to the navel,

the other to the base of the spine. I... Jesus, this is bitch hairy. I wish there was a line in there. As they say in the urban media, not bitch hairy. So she pretty much has like a pussy mohawk. Like it goes all the way front to back.

She's like Stripe from Gremlins. You know, let's be fair. This is probably the best form of a sex scene written by Tom Wolfe we're ever going to get. Little literary joke. I don't breathe, so shit. Okay. Naturally, considering my size, she got on top of me. But given her impressive overall body mass and natural resilience, I could see a day when we could broach the missionary position.

Not that there's anything special in attacking a poor woman that way. Attacking a poor... I do the missionary position with a gun. After we had fussed with the condom, I reached for her pubes, but she slapped me away. These preliminaries did not interest her. Instead, she just plain mounted me, holding on to my tits for balance,

slipping me inside with no effort. How fat am I? You're pretty fat. I'm pretty fat. I'm kind of a mess eater. If she's having to hang on to my tits to stay on top that's how wobbly I am I am a fucking water bed with a penis you're a walrus slipping me inside with no effort

both vaginal lips working to usher me into her tightness. I find it clichéd when couples insist that they have the perfect fit. But between the busted-up, zigzag, Broadway boogie-woogie, as they say in the urban media, of my maligned purple crrrr, and the all-encompassing nature of her Caspian pisder, we reached a third way, as it were. That is to say, she rode me.

Oh, well, when did you just say that? Because I had to describe how goddamn fat I am. And how wrecked his dick is. That's awesome. I also had to make up some words that I think black people say. It was all very classy and contemporary. Like a modern art survey course at NYU. What?

Gosh, remind me not to go there. Oh, and here we have the modern piece, Fat Douche Fucks a Lady Who's Black. I wanted to have the slogan I rode Misha Vainberg imprinted on her t-shirt. Yeah, do me!

She kept saying. After issuing a few grunts so male and assertive, they startled me into a brief homosexual fear. A fear compounded by one of her sharp nails digging into my tight rectum. Do me, daddy! She said, her eyes closed, her thighs slapping against my upper and lower stomachs. My own... My own tits making wet noises against my frame. Just like that.

She said, stealing a brief glance at me, and then turning her head to the side, so that I could lick her ear and plunge into her neck. Just like that. With each stroke, I grew more impatient for Bubba Fett to bring me Han Solo. Yeah, I said. I'm fucking you, boo! But the words did not convince me. I'm busting my nut tonight, I say. My pussy feels so tight.

She sang back in perfect ghetto English. Ghetto, not ghetto. Ghetto. Ghetto, English. Ouch! I said. She was crushing my pubic bone, grinding into it. Ouch!

I repeated. Baby doll, ouchic bone, grinding into it. Ouch! I repeated. Baby doll, ouch! Just a minute, Pops. She said. Just give me a minute. Do me right. Just like that. Move up a little, I said. Move up? It hurts my bone.

Just like that, she said. My bone hurts, I said said i'm losing it oh she shouted she leaned back i slipped out her thighs trembled before me and i felt a warm abundant liquid spreading on my own thighs not sure which of us had issued it. My bedroom was filled with the smell of a pssst. Jesus.

Come on, what was it filled with? My Oh boy. My Oh no. My bedroom was filled with the smell of asparagus and related greenery. Aww.

She said again. Fuck me. Fuck me. The end. Yay. Oh no. Oh no. Oh no. I am Charlotte Simmons by Tom Wolfe.

Hear me. Hoyt began moving his lips as if he were trying to suck the ice cream off the top of a cone without using his teeth. She tried to make her lips move in sync with his. The next thing she knew, Hoyt had put his hand sort of under her thigh and hoisted her leg up over his thigh. What was she to do? Was this the point?

She should say, stop? No! She shouldn't put it that way. It would be much cooler to say, no, hoit, in an even voice. The way you would talk to a dog that insists on begging at the table. Okay. That's why I was hit with a

newspaper throughout my college career. Slither! Slither! Slither! Went the tongue! Oh. But! the hand that was what she tried to concentrate on, the hand, since it has the entire terrain

of her torso to explore and not just the otorhinolaryngological caverns. Oh god. That is totally nice. It was not just at the border where the flesh of the breast joins the pectoral sheath of the chest. No!

The hand was cupping her entire right. Now she must say no, Hoyt, and talk to him like a dog. Ellipsis. Ellipsis. The fingers went under the elastic of the panties. Moan. Moan. Moan.

Moan. Moan. Went oint as he slithered. Slithered. Slithered. Slithered. And caress. Caress.

Caress. Caress. Crash. Crash. Crash. Hey guys, I think Sexbot is broken. Until they must only be eighths of inches from the border of her public hair. Oh, the public hair. The one that she shares with the general populace. The hair on top of her head, I would assume, right? Yeah, that's the one. What's that? Her panties were so wet down, Ellipsis. There. Dash. The fingers had definitely reached the outer stand of the field of pubic hair and would soon plunge into the wet mess that was waiting right...

Ellipsis, there, there. Dash. Man, these people are doing a great job of making sex so not sexy abstinence education this is all you need I don't understand I really like the Chuck E. Cheese was bought out by

and they repurposed the animatronic that weird purple thing that has the weird mouth and red neck. That's my penis. Harass. Harass. This is from The Late Hector Kipling by David Thewlis. What's it called? I want to follow along. The Late Hector Kipling is called The Late Hector Kipling.

Oh, God. All right. This is not pleasurable. How could anyone find having burning hot candle wax dripped onto their flesh of their belly pleasurable? But I don't want to tell her to stop, because the last time I told her to stop, I got belted in the mouth.

She wears an average of three rings on each finger. God, Mama's right. This lousy CT does stink. No wonder Dad's in the hospital. I might as well be joining him by the end of the night. I think I'm still inside her,

but quite honestly, it's difficult to tell. Avanti! You fucker! She draws and brings the flame up close to my left nipple. You pathetic little fucker! She tries to light it like a wick. Ow!

Oh shit, my nipple's on fire! She poured lighter fluid on my chest and my tits got up in flames like some dessert in a posh restaurant. Fuck, Rosa! Ah! For fuck's sake! Blow it out! Blow it out! Okay, baby. She whispers, suddenly gentle. Okay, my angel. And with this, she

reaches around and pours half a can of Stella over my scorched chest. I'm beginning to regret that I ever invited her in. I'm beginning to regret that I ever invited her in. How's that, she says, lowering her head and lapping up the ale. That nice? That nice, baby? No! I scream.

No? No, Rosa, that is not fucking nice. It bloody kills. She cracks me across the face with the back of her hand, grips my throat, spits in my eye, and scrapes her nails across my scalded flesh. And that's when I come. Oh yes. That's when the core of my soul spasms and snaps, spilling out its filthy pips.

Huh. Yeah. So was she just like delivering a candy gram or something? Come on in, and while you're here... This is Against the Day by Thomas Pinchon. Oh no. Oh boy. Mouffette? She's a papillon. A sort of French lady's lap dog. Oh god. Mouffette? She's a papillon, a sort of French lady's lapdog.

Oh god. Uh, you say, gears in his mind beginning to crank. Lap? French? Lapdog? Somehow gathering that Ruperta had trained her toy spaniel to provide intimate French caresses of the tongue for the pleasure of its mistress. Well, you two are pretty close then, I guess.

I wuff my ickle woof woof as I do. Oh god. Time passes. His thoughts taking wing. The day alone with a French lap dog, who might be more than happy to do for Reef what he was

obviously already doing for old Pert here, who, in fact, maybe all this time has just been drooling for one-them penises for a change. And we'll turn out to know plenty of tricks.

And... Well, it took a while for Ruperta to get her toilette perfect and her bustle out the door. Reef found himself pacing and smoking, and whenever he took a look over at Muffet, could have sworn she was fidgeting too. The dog, it seemed to Reef, was giving him sidewise looks, which, if they'd come from a woman, you would have had to call flirtatious. Finally, after an extended farewell notable for its amount of

saliva exchange, Mufet slowly padded over to the divan where Reef was sitting and jumped up to sit next to him. Jumping on the furniture was something Ruperta seldom allowed her to do, and her gaze as Reef clearly assumed that he would not get upset. Far from it,

what he actually got was an erection. Oh, surprise twist here. Why wouldn't they? Oh, God. Mufet looked at it, looked away, looked back, and suddenly jumped up on his lap. Oh, boy. Oh, boy. He stroked the diminutive spaniel for a while until, with no warning, she jumped off the couch and slowly went into the bedroom, looking back

now and again over her shoulder. I'm just gonna sleep in a something more comfortable. Reef followed, taking out his penis, breathing heavily through his mouth. Here, Muffy. Nice big dog bone for you right here.

Look at this. Yeah. Seen many of these lately? Come on. Smells good, don't it? here. Look at this. Yeah. Seen many of these lately. Come on. Smells good, don't it? Mmm, yum. And so forth. Muffet, meantime, angling her head, edging closer, sniffing with curiosity. That's right. Now, open up.

Good girl. Good Muffet. Now, let's just put this to... Yuck! Reader, she bit him. Hooray! Oh, the good guy wins. Finally a happy ending.

This is Bunkers 13 by Anirudha Bachal, by Faber & Faber. She is taking off her blouse. It's on the floor. Her breasts are placards for the endomorphically endowed. In spite of yourself, a soft whistle of air escapes you. She's taking off her trousers now. There are heaps on the floor.

Her panties are white and translucent. You can see the dark hair sticking to them inside. There's a design as well. You gasp! Gasp, I say! It's written in second place. I can't believe it's written in second place. Gasp, everyone!

Gasp! No! Thank you. She shows you her vagina. You are likely to be eaten by her. Don't read her head! Wrapper and cling film. That's always the right choice.

Oh, shush. We save that till the end. The cling film is the end. Oh, that's it. Why buzzers reading anymore? What's that? You ask. You see a designer pussy. The designer pussy does not notice you yet. What do you do?

North, west, east, south. Run. Okay. You cannot run. Designer pussy fucks you. You have scored three points out of 210. Anyway,

you see the designer pussy. Hair raised and ordered in the shape of a swastika. The alien denominator. Oh, God. That would take some skill. Carefully, Vajazzle.

Sneak it in my Hitler hole. As your hands roam her back, her breasts, and trace the swastika on her mouth, you start feeling like an ancient Aryan warlord yourself. She sandwiches your nozzle between her teeth. Nozzle? Yes, a nozzle between her teeth. Nozzle? Yes, a nozzle! What do you call it? I have a robot in the middle of Wolfenstein.

In spite of what you say, none of this is happening right now. It is. It's happening to all of us. She sandwiches all of your nozzles between her teeth. Massaging it. I'll never be able to use that sink again. Massaging it with a slow rhythm.

A trailer to bookmark the events ahead. For now, she has taken you in her lovely mouth. Your palms are holding her neck and thumbs are at her ears, regulating the speed at her head as she swallows and then sucks up your machinery she is topping out your engine oil for the cross country coming up your rpm is hitting a new high to wait any longer would be to lose prime time

she picks up a bugatti's momentum you want her more at a Volkswagen. Steady trot. Squeeze the maximum mileage out of your gallon of gas. But she's eating up the road with all the cylinders blazing. You left her out. You want to try different kinds of fusion. Very many asterisks. The end. And then we wrapped them in cling wrap. And there we go.

About an hour or so of metaphors and sex and I don't know, anti-sex, whatever that was. Acer, what did you learn this week? Well, I don't know that I learned anything just yet, but I think I'm going to learn what a divorce feels like. I see. Yeah, these sections are a lot of things, but they're not good for actually getting any sex Or anything sexy going Look man They're big name authors I mean that's gotta get you some pussy I don't know

I'm really hoping This is less Barry White and wine and a nice evening This is more like Broken Side And horrible metaphors And please just go home I think I'm also gonna learn If romance doesn't work, Rohypnol will.

Yeah, well, you know. And with that creepy ending, we'll leave you to next week. Look at us on the website, check us out, comment, tell us how much you like us reading horrible things for you, and yeah, thanks for listening. And until next week, even if you're not having sex, at least you'll have horrible pubic hair metaphors to tide you over. See ya!

I never meant to tide you over. See ya! I never meant to hurt you Or sleep with all your friends Oh We reconciled We found ourselves Our love was meant to be Can I read about Nutbusted?

No. Okay. Let's bring the room up after mine. We haven't really covered that yet.