It is time for further explorations of today’s “You asked for it…” theme, via flash fiction on a Friday: 
Jai: As someone recently mentioned on the News tab, this blog is screaming for a Bad Sex in Fiction-themed 55Friday, like a man and woman simultaneously exploding in a 2000-gigaton thermonuclear detonation of desire and mutually-assured destruction, the mushroom cloud of their passion suffusing the bedroom like acid rain in a post-apocalyptic nuclear winter.
Pooja: A N N A did respond to my suggestion with a “Hell, yes!”
We’re waiting… ;).[linky]
Wait no longer, my pets (though allegedly, if you do it’s that much better)– the porntastic version of 55Friday is here. Jai and Pooja? Membership has its privileges, because this DJ doesn’t always take requests. 😉
For those of you who are utterly confused as to what we three book-lovin’ pervs are going on about, Ennis wrote a post entitled “Good Writers Finish Last” about a dubious competition–the Literary Review’s Bad Sex in Fiction Award— which inspired the comments you see quoted above.
Now in its 14th year, the award is given to the passage considered to be the most redundant in an otherwise excellent novel…
The judges said the award’s mandate is “to draw attention to the crude, tasteless, often perfunctory use of redundant passages of sexual description in the modern novel, and to discourage it”. [linkypoo]
Hopefully you still have enough stamina to mount an attempt at some 55age, though I know some of you must be exhausted from all of that passion expended over on the “size matters” thread. You may write total fiction, obscure some, ahem, non-fiction or use Mutineers or anyone else you please in your nanofiction. Come now, it can’t take you all that long to recover. 😉 After all a 55-word story is nothing but a quickie. You’ll be done (and so very satisfied) before you know it.:+:
A note about our theme song:
1) I’m referring to IWYS part one; appositely enough, it had some of the most cringe-inducing lyrics ever and I’m someone who had pictures of Georgios Kyriacos Panayiotou up in my locker Freshman year, so you know if I’m dissing it…
2) This is a bit of a departure for our 55s– I usually pick songs which I love, which meant something to me (and often, still do).
“hmm.. i think i can force it down”, he thought, trying to block out the smell, as his lips closed around the brown skin.
The scented breeze danced across the veranda and played through her hair. Her chest heaved. His manhood throbbed. A tiger growled in the darkening jungle when she raked her fingers down his back. She fumbled with the condom.
“Dear I think it’s a little loose!”
“Don’t worry babe, I also brought a rubber band.”
After violating Lina in the foulest way possible, Austin stepped back and shot her in the skull right between the ear and where the fur grew out under the horn.
Title: Hey, How much money did you withdraw from the ATM?
8:00 PM, Dallas, Texas summer night, 1998. I am at a high-dollar strip club talking to a tall blonde in a white bikini.
“Hey, How much money did you withdraw from the ATM?” “Why?” “My dance depends on that” “OK” “Lap dance $80, and this $300, we could” “No, only the dance” “Why not?”
He orders a black coffee, of course; she offers contrast with a peppermint latte. Staring into her eyes, he knows itÂ’s time to settle. She looks at a disgruntled family of three and prepares her defenses. They both sit with their legs crossed, a sip away from seduction, light years from the truth.
Scandalously she unwrapped her dupatta before flashing him a wickedly salacious smile. Making her way over to the bedpost she kissed his palm before encircling his wrist with the silky material and tying it tightly to the bedpost. Leaping atop the bed she straddled his chest before producing another dupatta to tie his other hand.
Well. That was more fun that I expected. 😉
Adaa Mathangya (a.k.a. hairy_d): Um…55 words? 🙂 You’re so good, you can’t blame a girl for wanting more. 😉
A package from his discarded ex-.
One CD:
Photo cover on jewel case: her foot, a bed, a young man, sultry eyes on camera, mouth poised to kiss her instep.
His best friend Amar!?!?
Her accent was exotic and she knew exactly what he wanted to hear. “Bi-directional stratal onlap into the collapsed zones is only found above the Coniacian-Santonian unconformity.” “Talk nerdy to me baby.” “That would be $97.99. Please come again.” “I can’t. Oh you mean … WAIT! $97.99? Wasn’t outsourcing supposed to make phone sex cheaper?”
apparently not…
Sorry for the threadjack, but is this shareworthy? I apologize on behalf of the malu contingent.
Keshavan licked her knees like they were his hand after a satisfying Nair wedding feast. Sarala shuddered as his razor sharp mustache grazed her calf on its way down a slow, warm, wet path to her right big toe. HeÂ’d always imagined what it looked like underneath that chappal. His lungie bulged with immeasurable excitement.
Akhbar went on down on her, the trail running down from the side of her lips, to the sepal of the lotus, his tongue as punctual as a hurried snail. He stayed there, until the hacking fit of a cough got him crawling back up, heaving, he surrendered his hairy(_d) chest upon her two arches.
“You should quit Akhbar” she said.
He rolled over, lit another one, spent it in few drags, and fell asleep, somehow still satisfied.
Sex and death kept swirling like a lava lamp from the skull right between her ears.
Grrrrrrooooowl dhak dhak growl dhak grunt moan Silence MOOAN grrrrrrrunt moooan grunt grunt moan moan GRUNNNNNNNT SIGH
Nisha lay back on the futon, stretching her body like a delicious banquet ready to be gorged on by a connoisseur of female flesh, her smoulderingly smoky eyes making her look like a deliriously sexy panda.
“I am so lucky”, thought Raj, his heart swelling with pride just like the Qutb Minar in his pants.
The two aashiques got down and dirty at last, burning the bridge of acceptable desi decorum and sticking a defiant middle finger up at American stereotypes regarding the exotificationalization of oppressed objectified “brown” minorities worldwide.
“You are my blue-eyed bleached-blonde Diwali Barbie”, muttered Raj, “You are my Naveen Andrews, my authentically-brown non-northie-looking Macaca”, groaned Nisha.
Drenched in vaguely turmeric-scented sweat, the lovers rolled around together on the sodden bedsheets like a
BangaloreanBangaluruian dosa being wrapped around its potato curry filling in a cheap restaurant’s kitchen. Their rhythmic contortions pumped in time to the incessant beat of the wedding dhol outside, reminding them that those damn Punjabis get everywhere these days.On and on and on they went, as minutes became hours, their feverish, desperate lovemaking lasting throughout the summer night as the monsoon thunder crackled in the sky.
“To hell with condom surveys”, thought Raj. “It’s not the size of the kebab that matters, but how well you can poke it around inside the tandoor”.
Finally, finally, finally, they neared the end of the marathon, like an impatient NRI waiting in the unending line at the Indian High Commission just so he can get his visa for his 5-yearly trip to the muthaland.
“Do you love me ?!”, gasped Sangeeta, her nails tearing a blood-streaked path down Raj’s hairy back.
“Of course I love you !!!” shouted Raj. “Our biodatas match. We met twice before the engagement. My mother hates you. What’s not to love ?!”
Tears began flowing down Sangeeta’s eyes, perhaps inspired by passion, perhaps in despair that Raj could think of his mother at a time like this.
She started grinding harder.
Sitars began playing. A shehnai wailed in the distance. Daler Mehdi appeared out of nowhere and started singing a soaring alaap. Flower blossoms poured into the bedroom from the heavens.
The ecstatic couple reached the peak of ecstasy like a mountaineer ecstatically arriving at the summit of Mount Everest, howling like psychotic chimpanzees.
The End.
Jai Singh – I bow to you sir 🙂
Fabulous, Jai. 🙂
Jamshed Before the Inquisition
The wine on your table was made and aged in France, Your music comes from Cuba and the salsa is your dance. You say your name is Jimmy, well Jimmy how d’you do? Your jacket is Italian, your Savior is a Jew. When you buy computers, you don’t settle for no phony: You get yourself on ebay and only buy from Sony. And out in the streets, you look vaguely Ethiopian, Though your last three girlfriends have all been Scandinavian. Your politics derive from the Abrahamic leftist cabal. (Don’t think we’ve not seen you with that pinko rabble!) So Jimmy, we ask—and we don’t mean to point the finger— But is the “Slim Jim” in your pants really made in India?
“Yes”, she said “all Indian women are well versed in the ways of the Kamasutra”. Her gently rounded calves were well depilitated. Her anklets jingled enticingly in front of his clavicles as she assumed the Position of the Lotus Clad Swan, his second favorite after Union of the Joyous Cheetahs. Indian night was his favorite.
Jai…AWESOME.
jai,
could i buy the movie rights to the epic saga you just unleashed?
After their lips and bodies part, she says, “Well, I didn’t expect that.” She sighs happily, and curls up againt him. He thinks of how he bumped her nose every time they kissed, or how distressingly happy she seems, or how she won’t stop talking, or how different it would be if he…loved her.
My take on “bad sex” was a little more literal than the 55-age outlined this week, I think.
Jai, I am in awe. Could we get another usage of the word “ecstatic” in there at the end somewhere?
Salil – bad writing about sex or writing about bad sex, it’s all good. But yes, the awards are about the former.
Along the lines of Salil’s contribution:
The Lord helps those who …
In preparation for her suhaag raat she had starved, exercised and depilated her body until it was as conventionally pretty as possible. She lay back on the bed, trembling with excitement.
An hour later, his tongue numb and weary, he asked “Ummm … have you ever given yourself an orgasm before?”
She flushed with shame.
Oh! Please donÂ’t touch me. Oh! Please donÂ’t touch. Oh! Please donÂ’t Oh! Please Oh!
Like the tripod-Biharis on the Western Local Line, you Padma are on your hefty haunches, while I attempt to colonize your deepest spaces like the British subaltern did when he first discovered the Port of Bombay; our passions ebb and tide like the Arabian Sea, the summer heat of our fecund friction culminating in the spicy torrent. Mango-pickle-juice.
Heramba* Mallivayanteeswaran’s “Mai Bhi Dick”
[1] Loomings
Call me Ismail. Some years ago – never mind how long precisely – having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me with the lingam, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the yoni. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp monsoon in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before burning ghats, and bringing up the rear of every baraat I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically beat myself off to Daler Mehndi- then, I account it high time to get back into the yoni as soon as I can. This is my use for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself forward with his sword; I quietly take to brown sugar. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, big or small, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the yoni with me.
[2] The Carpet Bag
I stuffed a shirt or two into my old carpet-bag, tucked it under my arm, and started for Cape Horn and the Pacific. Quitting the good city of old Madras, I duly arrived in New Delhi. It was on a Saturday night in December. Much was I disappointed upon learning that the little lingam survey had already left for Bombay, and that no way of reaching that place would offer, till the following Monday.
As most young candidates for the pains and penalties of lingam surveys stop at this same New Delhi, thence to embark on their voyage, it may as well be related that I, for one, had no idea of so doing. For my mind was made up to participate in no other than an IIT Bombay survey, because there was a fine, boisterous something about everything connected with that famous old city, which amazingly pleased me. Besides though New Delhi has of late been gradually monopolizing the business of jhanda-oing, and though in this matter poor old Bombay is now much behind her, yet Bombay was her great original – the Tyre of this Carthage; – the place where the first dead desi lingam was stranded. Where else but from Bombay did those aboriginal lingam surveyors, the Brown-Men, first sally out in canoes to give chase to the Leviathan? And where but from Bombay, too, did that first adventurous little sloop put forth, partly laden with imported condoms – so goes the story – to throw at the yonis, in order to discover when they were nigh enough to risk a harpoon from the bowsprit?
(to be continued)
I know this is supposed to be original but the original lent itself readily to our great Sepia cause.
Hotness.
Also – can we stop using the word “depilated” please? It makes me cringe.
…especially after watching “40 Year-Old Virgin,” which is currently on HBO.
“I’ll need more wax. And cancel all my appointments this afternoon.”
“I love your sweater. Can I get that in a V-neck?”
Her scent was saturated with mustard oil and the soil of Amritsar; it reminded him of her newness to this country, as well as to so much else. He was eager to be her teacher.
He embraced her.
Later, he had to ask. “Where did you learn to do that?”
“At my all girl’s school.”
This ABCD chori would tell epic tales of his fobulous kamasutra magic – he was sure of it. There was no H-1 cassanova that could rival him.
“So, did you enjoy yourself, jaanu?”
“Yeah… about thatÂ… you know how guys donÂ’t like it when girls use their teeth?”
“Yah, of course.”
“Girls don’t either.”
“Fuck.”
“Sorry.”
I know sex is messy and imprecise but the point of 55Friday is to write flash fiction, to tell a story in exactly 55 words. That’s the challenge and that’s the charm. If you have to screw with the rules, then honor the concept and tell a story in LESS than 55 words, like Hemingway brilliantly did.
“He couldn’t wait to get to the motel…its been a week since he met her last..he could remember every vivid detail like it was happening right this instant..the feel of her sensuous lips…the fragrance of her body….damn..he needed a shave before he met her..now he was hoping that she was late for their rendezvous and he had a few minutes to himself…he reaches the motel..ahh 207..she isnt here yet..undresses…wraps a towel around and ducks into the bathroom…jumps in the shower..he hopes that he doesn’t nick himself shaving…the hot water beating down on him brought back memories…they showered together last week…it was bliss..he remembers the fleeting sense of euphoria when he realized that he’d found heaven while he was inside of her…and that was the last thought he had..before that blinding flash of pain…”
When I came to the next day…I had three broken ribs and a mild concussion…I slipped and fell into the tub in the bathroom…
SM Intern @ 33:
Please free to delete my derivative effusion @ 28; also I meant no offence to Herman-bahi if you are fan. Original brevity ain’t my forte tonight. Thanks.
Sashi, we’re all about the derivative and a bunch of us dig your writing…we just can’t wait to see what you can do when you are restrained by the handcuffs of a 55-word limit. 😉
The third knock of the night, it was one of my regulars.
The scent of chameli wrapped around his wrist while he gnawed on my body and thrusted so deeply. When he left, the scent stayed behind in my hair and his disease in my body.
I should have insisted that he use a condom.
“so!! how was it?” “meh! he’s really small and really hairy. Hell, I had to sniff it out. It worked out but I’m still throwing up hair balls.” “no seconds?” “mmm why not. I’ll have less pussy gas to say the least. Plus he’s loaded”. “You’re wicked.” “Just pragmatic dear. Pass the ketchup.”
Queef
Sitting on the bed, his fingers awkwardly touched hers and nervous conversation gave way to silence. Rapidly thrusting her tongue inside his mouth, revealed both her inexperience and repressed desire that resulted from strict upbringing.
“Sri Lankan,” he thought, as she shuddered and quietly moaned when he kissed the skin cinnamon-colored skin behind her ear.
Without prompting she grabbed his hand, and in a single, deft maneuver, undid the top button on her jeans and slid his hand underneath her black lace underwear and over the abundant but neatly trimmed, and now rather moist black mound of her pubis.
“Touch her,” she said as she placed her hand over his.
Although he had often tried, he had never succeeded in getting a girl to touch herself down there.
She seemed more than willing to comply in exchanging his fingers for hers. Already with a sense of accomplishment he ran his fingers over her nose and mouth before her lips gave way and swallowed them.
They still laugh about the first time. “Ease into it, baby, don’t rush,” she told him. “You’re pushing too hard, being too aggressive; you’ve gotta slow down and catch the rhythm.”
With patience and soft kisses, she guided himÂ… taught him…
…now he shifts gears on the pavement like they shift positions in the bedroom.
Alright first try… and inspired by procrastination
His mouth agape he said, “You haven’t slept with anyone you’ve dated?” The silent assumption of difference between desi and ABCD was deafening. His mouth curled into a smile. She nodded affirming her intentions and brought him close. His whispered hindi flowed over her, kissing every inch of skin, beginning an endless night of firsts
34C-24-36
At last.
“Are you a virgin,” she asked?
He grunted a yes.
Open and honest, she said afterwards, “It’d be nice if you had some experience but I still love you.”
2.5 years later.
“Oh. Oh. Oh my. Oh my g-g-od.”
She caught her breath.
“You’re next girlfriend is going to be so lucky.”
“So, wait, wha- what happened?” I asked groggily.
“Panchod. Why did you pass out in my room? Why not Scotts? Why not in the hallway?”
“So I was on the floor? You two were messing around on the bed? She didn’t wanna cuz I might wake up?”
Long pause, staring at the ground.
“She had tigol bitties too.”
(A pair of six word stories)
Muslim daughter reads eulogy. Pope’s funeral.
One-night stand. Groundhog day. Hazaar fucked.
The pic above is real. Everything else is fiction.
The Malayalee kutty licked the neck of her Randy machan. Slowly, but surely, the machan stopped from shying away. He felt her, searching for her Open Source.
The BBC report fresh in mind, she whispered, “Monay, say something dirty, describe it to me. Say the first thing that comes to mind. Please.”
He whispered; “Microsoft.”
Ek Haath Ka Pyaar (Bollywood Edition, Six Words)
Jadoo hai. Nasha hai. Size nahin. “Roop tere mastana”, he whispered, fondling. “Kuch tho hota hai?!”, he exclaimed. “Rageela re”, he murmured, licking moustache. “Lage raho bahi!”, his friends smirked. Oh! Oh! Here comes the rain!
Ack! I messed up the href tags in the second and third six words @ 49. If you want to see the associated visuals, here are the links:
Roop tera mastana Kuch tho hota hai?!