Menage a Trois

Space Porn

I’ve got a genius idea for some writing. A whole new genre.

Go on, I can hardly wait to hear.

Space porn.

Space porn?

Space porn.

Pray, do reveal more!

Ok, picture the scene.  Hot earth chick, a trip to Mars and aliens with tentacles.

I’m not feeling it.

Neither is the hot earth chick when the tentacles aren’t erect.

Yeah, it’s not exactly a genre is it?  More a random, sad idea.

Ok, give me a chance.  Hear me out.  Take the metaphor of the rocket, plunging into the dark recesses – the black holes, if you will – of space.

I’d rather not.  Take it, I mean.    You’ll be offering up Uranus next.

Please!  Though thinking about it, there’re depths to be mined there.

Anyway, think of the practicalities.

What do you mean?

Well, what would happen to an erection in zero gravity?  I bet you never thought of that.

As in most situations, I think the penix will rise.  See what I did there? And once it’s risen, I think it’ll stay up. Gravity acting kind of like cosmic Viagra.

Not too sure, but that doesn’t sound scientifically viable.

It’s a literary genre I’m inventing.  Not an entry in the Nobel prize for scientific advancement.

Anyway, do you see your (note the air bunnies) "genre", being funny or serious?

I’m thinking serious; you know.  Sexy.  Profound.  Imagine Nietzche crossed with Arthur C. Clarke and Henry Miller.  Maybe a bit of E L James for the ladies.

I’m not convinced.  Think you’re better going funny.  Any genre that can use the words probe and probing with impunity can’t take itself too seriously.

I take probing very seriously.  Criminally seriously in fact.

I can see an image of beauty though that you could build on.  Imagine ejaculation in space. With the globules of splooge floating around your head, like little, pearly stars.

Yeah, in space no one can hear you cream!

***

The Scarlet Harlot of Sunset Villas

On a rainy afternoon in mid-April, Judith Carlson was sitting in her chair in the communal lounge of Sunset Villas.  The all-prevailing smell of overcooked dinner didn’t bother her – she was used to that.  What did bother her, though, was the lack of attention she was getting from the other residents.

She’d made an effort.  A damned, big effort as a matter of fact.  Or the carers had.  They’d dressed her in royal blue, velvet lounge pants, a low cut purple blouse, set off with her usual, burgundy slippers. They’d made her up too.  Vampish, aubergine finger nails, peach blusher and blue eye shadow.  She felt bloody marvellous; back to what she’d been in her heyday.  She’d not even let what she knew she’d heard one of the carers say get her down.  “Poor, old dear. Talk about mutton dressed as lamb!  You’d need Polyfilla, not blusher to fill those wrinkles.”

So she sat there.  Ignored and overlooked until Reggie came in.  Judith immediately saw he’d seen the change in her appearance by the sparkle of his eyes behind his glasses and the weak “phwoah” she caught as he sat down in the armchair opposite.

With some effort, she sat up straighter and pulled her blouse down a little lower.   She moved slightly away from the glare of the energy saving light bulb, so the thinness of her pale orange hair didn’t reveal her skull underneath it.  Then, deliberately and slowly she licked her lips, aiming for sexy and safe in terms of keeping her false teeth in.

The carers had left them, as Judith hoped they would – what with origami and Ludo happening in the activity room - and she and Reggie were all alone.

She looked at him in a manner she knew in the past was sure-fire alluring and he instantly began to fiddle and claw at the zip of his slacks.  His breathing became quicker, laboured even, as Judith got up from her chair and went over to help him out.

Quarter past five and the carers and other residents had trailed into the lounge for tea and Flog It on the box.  Most of the residents mercifully didn’t notice the tableau d’amour on the armchair.  Judith kneeling, teeth on the floor next to her, gobbling at Reggie’s nethers.  Reggie, eyes closed, mouth open.  Caught somewhere between ecstasy and death.

As she was pulled off him, her teeth unceremoniously jammed back in her mouth, no one either would be able to see the images in Judith’s head.  Twenty five again, on the streets of Doncaster, the best head giver and toe sucker in the whole of South Yorkshire.

Well, old habits die hard.

***

Network

New neighbourhood, new house, new wireless network - that summer, Rob was living the dream.  Finally in a position at the age of thirty seven (after a few bonuses at the bank) to be able to afford to live away from mummy and buy a newbuild in a cul de sac in Staines.

So he’d got his tech. stuff, his wires and his router and around the boxes he’d not unpacked and the blinds he hadn’t put up, he began setting up his network.  The job went smoothly and as afternoon slipped into early evening, he was only left with the naming of his network.  What could he call it that defined him?  That did him justice?

Big Boy.

Yes, that worked.  Short, sharp and true.

The next day, his wifi seemed to have dropped; so he ran the diagnostics on his laptop and whilst waiting, idly browsed through the other networks round and about.  He was surprised and not a little flattered to find amongst the Silver Surfers, Home Networks and The Jones at Number 12s a network with the name, How’s it Going, Big Boy?

Wow, he felt hot. H.O.T. in fact and to cool off, he spent that evening with his head out of his living room window, looking at his neighbours’ houses, speculating on whose network was flirting with his.

He favoured number 7’s.  The tall, blonde haired, buxom woman’s.  A cliché, he knew in this day and age, but a man can’t help his tastes.  And so the virtual flirting continued with networks named and renamed.  And as in life, so virtually it followed a weary, human path.

Feeling all Barry White, oh buxom lady.

My fufu wants your hot rod.

Oh baby, baby.

Not tonight, I’ve got a headache.

Can’t you just make an effort?   I’ve got a surprise for you.

A surprise?  I call it a disappointment.

As summer's colours became autumn's dolour, Rob never did find out whose network had virtually fucked his.  But suffice to say, when the prim looking nonagenarian at number 15  slyly winked at him as they crossed on the driveway, he changed the name of his network to BTHUB27298.

***