The advert appeared at just the right time. For several months I had been hibernating in South London teaching myself the fine art of composing short fiction. Although for more than twenty years, since the age of fifteen, I had been writing nothing but poetry and essays, and as an experienced journalist could churn out all sorts of newspaper copy off the top of my head, I found the new technique a surprisingly easy one to master. After only a few weeks I had completed more than a dozen stories ranging in length from a thousand to twelve thousand words. And my mental word generator was just starting to build up steam.
Many of my pieces were about traveling, tales culled from more than a decade of wandering around Europe, Asia and North Africa. But I soon discovered that the stories from which I derived the most pleasure were those that dealt very explicitly with sex. Some of these were based on actual experience, while others were pure fantasy—projections of a bisexual ego whose only inhibitions stemmed from lack of opportunity rather than any personal disinclinations. I have always said that I will try anything once; and if I like it, I will try it again. I seriously doubt I shall ever change my mind on that score.
What fascinated me most about erotic writing was the way in which the genre collaborated with my natural tendencies toward self-discovery. My first realization of this came whilst I was penning a short narrative in which I depicted myself as a dominant male taming a young submissive wench who adored being whipped. I hadn’t written more than a page before I felt a mighty hard-on pressing against my trousers. I had to masturbate before I could continue writing, and by the time I’d completed the story I was ready for another go.
That very evening, in fact, I answered three contact ads from submissive ladies, thereby initiating a series of sexual relationships for which I had never before known myself suited.
How much greater was my surprise the first time I fictionally played the role of a submissive male, hands tied behind my back whilst a beautiful dominatrix humiliated me with both crude words and tantalizing weapons! That tale alone brought me to three climaxes before I’d typed the last full stop and later had me telephoning a certain haughty lady in Earl’s Court, a skilled if foul-mouthed vixen who loves nothing more than to fuck a man she has just finished punishing.
These days nothing I learn about my sexual proclivities really shocks me, though I am far from sated. And I am still quickly aroused by straight sex activities, whether real or imagined.
My sex stories did, however, present me with one major problem. They were virtually impossible to sell on a freelance basis. Most so-called porn magazines seem to have staffs of regular writers who either mass produce reams of original fiction or rewrite stories sent in by readers, rearranging syntax, correcting spellings and punctuation and generally trying to make the yarns believable. By and large they do a fairly poor job of it, which is only to be expected, I suppose.
Given my desire to earn a living writing fiction, this state of affairs was anything but satisfactory. Randy porn readers might be content merely seeing their doctored words in print, but I—along with my landlord and grocer—preferred to have cash.
‘Oh well,’ I reflected, ‘better let the sex narratives go for a while, or at least relegate them to the pages of my diary.’ And after examining my finances and finding them less than healthy, I determined to again concentrate on non-fiction, and mainly the travel articles that readily found an abundance of well-paying markets. At which point I saw the advert.
Neatly laid out and tastefully boxed, it was in the latest edition of Day & Night, a politically-conscious weekly primarily devoted to cataloging and appraising the local entertainment scene. Yet instead of appearing in the Jobs Vacant section, it was listed under Contacts, which at first I thought rather strange.
The words Erotic Writer Wanted verily leapt out at me like a hot pecker on the verge of spurting its store of love fluid, whereas the come-hither invitation of £15,000 per annum (though not all that much, when you come right down to it) enfolded my Taurean eye for business with the enticing warmth one usually associates with wet pussies rather than typefaces.
‘My, my,’ I mused, ‘an androgynous advert.’
To be sure, there were many questions that needed answering. What, for instance, did the advertisers mean by ‘full-time’ and precisely how many words a week would that add up to? Would the job leave me sufficient space to pursue my other writing interests—the novel still in progress, the poems constantly crying for attention, not to mention my irregular contributions to a variety of underground periodicals? Would they, like Rake—the sexual freedom magazine for which I had written, in return for copies only, several stories as well as a monthly column simply because I subscribed to their politics—reassign all rights in case I ever wanted to publish a collection in book form? Or was this basically a rewriter’s job and consequently of little interest to a creative artist with a penchant for commercial erotica?
Only one way to find out, I decided; and so I wrote them, not a letter but a self-descriptive short story suitably embellished with a touch of the fantastic. Ten days later I received a brief note inviting me for an interview. Written on plain stationery, it told me as little about my prospective employers as had the box number to which I’d sent my unusual application. More intrigued than ever, I combed my shoulder-length hair, shook out my faded jeans, and trotted along. That was one year ago and even now I sometimes wake up wondering whether I am not actually dreaming.
The address given was that of a newly renovated Victorian building in the heart of Chelsea. An attractive manservant answered my knock and escorted me to a small, simply furnished sitting room on the ground floor. The walls, painted a vague sort of pink, were bare except for a single framed drawing which hung over the mantelpiece. It was a reproduction of Man Ray’s portrait of the Marquis de Sade.
Within moments of the butler’s departure a very handsome and rather tall woman, seemingly in her early middle years, entered the room by a different door. She was sitting in a motor-driven wheelchair.
“Please,” she said, “don’t stand up. And you may smoke if you like.”
“You know that I smoke?”
“I am a non-smoker myself,” she said with a curt but incredibly captivating smile, “therefore I have extremely sensitive nostrils. Still, I do not believe in imposing my tastes on others, even in my own home. And after all, it may become your home, as well.”
“Excuse me?” I said.
“You’re American, are you not?”
“Yes, I am. I suppose my New York accent is quite pronounced.”
“Not at all,” she answered.
Her smile, which in some inexplicable manner actually bordered on lasciviousness, was now penetrating right through my skin. A strong shiver darted up my spine, but this was immediately followed by a warm inner glow that made me feel very much at ease.
“It’s that quaint expression,” she went on. “I’m afraid it’s a dead giveaway.”
“Excuse me?” I said again.
“Exactly. Now do you understand?”
“Oh,” I said, humorously feigning an air of polite malice, “I do beg your pardon.”
She laughed. Then, after a long pause during which I felt myself gradually returning her smile, a smile that emanated not only from her face but from the whole of her frail yet obviously passionate body, she said: “You write very well.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
“We both do.”
“My sister and I. We found your tale…what shall I say? Exciting? Yes, very exciting. Not only because it aroused our lust, but even more for what it seemed to promise. Margaret and I both think you can do much better, especially if you are given the chance to work directly from life, like a painter. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“You will. Come with me.”
The door through which she had made her imposing entrance led directly into a tiny vestibule where a private lift was waiting to take us to the floor above. For a second or two I visualized myself in a scene from Suddenly Last Summer. In fact my hostess, Evelyn, did bear a striking resemblance to Katherine Hepburn, except she was younger and much more lively.
“You may wheel me in,” she said as soon as the lift had stopped and the wooden doors parted, and then she switched off the chair’s barely audible motor.
I wheeled her straight into a large, lavishly mirrored bedroom where Margaret, a ravishing creature in her late teens, was relaxing on the bed quietly conversing with John, the manservant, and hardly taking notice of our arrival. They were both quite naked.
“Do make yourself comfortable,” Evelyn said, indicating a cushioned settee facing the oversized bed on which the couple, still apparently oblivious to our presence, were commencing to kiss and to caress each other’s magnificent body.
“And I do mean comfortable,” Evelyn continued, with which she smiled at me deeply and proceeded to remove her white silk blouse, revealing two perfectly rounded breasts that had no need of a brassiere to keep them high and firm.
Then, with a dexterity that belied her partial paralysis, she slowly and very salaciously slipped off both her long skirt and an exquisite pair of lace bikini panties. My unbelieving eyes didn’t know whether to watch her or concentrate on John and Margaret, who were now engaging in a somewhat noisy display of soixante-neuf.
Evelyn solved the dilemma by wheeling herself alongside the settee and deftly sliding onto the carpeted floor, crouching like a hungry she-panther right in front of my parted thighs.
As soon as I’d undressed, a trifle awkwardly perhaps, she leaned forward to take hold of my erect and throbbing penis, first stroking it gently with her hand, then gradually sucking it into her small but warm and sensuous mouth.
While thus fellating me she also tickled my balls with the sharp-nailed tips of five long, delicate fingers, making use of her other hand to stimulate her own genitals. By then John and Margaret were tempestuously locked in full coitus and I distinctly recall pumping my hot seed into Evelyn’s mouth just as John was making the final spending thrusts against his lover’s spread-eagled body.
Evelyn had also come, probably many times, for no sooner had she swallowed my sperm than she sank in a near swoon onto the Persian carpet, a luxuriously soft and shimmering Ardebil. I immediately fell to my knees and began covering the length of her slender body with kisses and even bites. Very soon we were making fierce and meaningful love. I had entirely forgotten my original reason for being there.
As I said before, all that took place just a year ago. Since then I have written more than two hundred erotic stories and verbally related at least twice that number, each and every one drawn from life. They are never published, of course, and probably never will be; nor does anyone outside of our household and its small circle of friends ever read or hear them. Their sole purpose is to entertain and arouse an elite band of Chelsea libertines for whom I am now the erotic writer-in-residence, working at his craft in the fashion of a court painter in days of old. And—need I add?—enjoying every minute of it.
Free accommodation in an elegant four-story house, food fit even for the most demanding gourmet, and more varieties of sexual experience than I ever imagined might exist, plus fifteen thousand practically unneeded pounds a year. I may well be the most unique writer in the history of letters.
And, what is more, I still manage to occasionally write poetry. Erotic poetry, for sure.
© 2010 by Eddie Woods