I post this, with a note thanking my dear friend L, who co-authored this with me and generously allowed me to post this on the Minxdom. A special shout-out also to my friend D, bless his 70’s music loving socks, for providing the first line.
And now the reasoning behind this post. Recently, I have read some utterly TRAGIC crap in the sex blogosphere. Seriously awful. Yawnworthy in the extreme. Boring as fuck, basically.
Now I know that to each their own, and different strokes for different folks and all that. I mean, come on! There have even been those who would denigrate and rubbish my own erotica, back in the day when I used to publish any on the Minxdom. Yes, Miss Ch, you four-eyed lousy daughter of a camel whore, I do mean you. However, as we all know, those people suck and are not worthy of shit.
But there is a basic standard of sex-writing — and to call some of it erotica is to overstate it by vast proportions — which has sunk so low that it’s almost laughable. Some of the phrases and imagery in the below were pilfered from online genuine sex-writing, purporting to be erotica, but in reality being an online written wankfest for the writer, and the lover to whom they wrote.
And I thought… fuck, I bet I could write worse erotica than that. I wonder how difficult it could be?
Ergo, EvilMinxProductions brings to you, with all due fanfare and happy dances, the Absolute Worst Piece of Erotica Ever Written Ever.
Ever. No kidding. It knocks everything i was talking about above into a cocked hat. Trust me.
“I’m just a lurve machine”, he told her, swivelling his hips and toying with the velcro fasteners on the sides of his black PVC man-thong. “And I won’t work for nobody but you”.
She giggled with glee. PVC always made her bosoms swell. If she pinched hard enough, her cheeks would turn red too, and she knew this would turn him on — although she never did quite understand why making her face red aroused him so.
She ran her tongue over her lips, saucily, and savoured once again the powerful aromatic sensual flavors of the chicken vindaloo they’d just shared. A gentle breeze from behind reminded her of cardamon and the exotic east.
She prayed her love machine wouldn’t need his usual kickstart. The stiletto boots made her bunions hurt.
“You want a bite of my Big Kahuna burger, while i fuck you doggy-style?” he asked her, as he generously offered her the greasy package in his hand. “Food always makes me feel sexy.” She demurred, but licked her lips copiously anyway, knowing his penchant for cherry-flavored lipgloss. “Hold it for me anyway, babe — I need to get a good grip on those bri-nylon hot pants.”
She held his burger firmly yet gently, with an experienced flair that made him ache and long to empty himself over her. He smothered a burp just in time and tasted the vindaloo all over again, deciding on reflection not to mention the Special Sauce.
He pumped his hard and greasy cock into her (having not been able to resist stroking it before handing her the burger). He could feel mountains of lovejuice swelling inside him. He thrust as he spoke, the staccato increasing with his indigestion:
“You. Want. Me. Don’t you? Baby. Oo. Yeah. Give. It. To. Me. Good.”
She squealed like a 3-day-old puppy and squeezed him with her bulging vaginal muscles, all the while attempting vainly to suppress the nagging worry of whether there was enough carpet cleaner left in the bottle, and regretting not buying more when she’d had the chance the previous day. After all, it had been on sale, and the boy who bagged the groceries was quite dishy, in that acned, greasy-haired teenage kind of way. The smell of sex hung around him like that of old crusty socks, overpowering her with its masculinity.
She was reminded of this as she looked down at her lover’s feet, planted on either side of her like ficus, clothed in their trademark white polyester. How she loved the steaming dampness that arose from them after a good night’s sleep! The aroma gave her an extra frisson of delight as she felt him squelch deep within her.
“Stick it in me, baby!” she yelped orgasmically, drowning out the Star Trek convention taking place downstairs. With extra effort, she suppressed all thought of the Trekkies, only to be recalled much later, when there was a special screening of the Tribbles episode into which she was planning on sneaking. She saw his toes in their manly white socks flex rhythmically, digging into the nylon carpet. This evidence of his passion and the sight of his hairy muscled calves was almost enough to make her gush all over the carpet — like a waterfall, a summer storm, or the leaky tap in the bath — but she restrained herself, ever mindful of the dearth of cleaning fluid.
He rejoiced at her yelping and pounded her even harder, ignoring the electric shock generated between his big toe and the carpet beneath the hardened piece of gum on which he was standing. He knew she was nearing her peak as soon as she began to shout out the names of the final eleven in England’s 1966 world cup-winning team.
“Nobby! Bobby! Jackie! Gordon!”
He waited to hear “Besty!”, knowing that was his cue.
“Fuck,” she groaned, throwing her head back and smartly rapping it on the wall. The hollow echoey sound it made frightened yet soothed him. “YES!” she screamed, as he prepared to pump happy swimmy sperm into the swirling category-five hurricane of her orgasm.
“OH YES! Besty! Oh, Besty!”
Eat your heart out, Ms Ch. Bite me.