Maxim Jakubowski - The Mammoth Book of Short Erotic Novels

2000

NIGHT MOVES by Michael Perkins, copyright 2000 by Michael Perkins. Printed by permission of the author.

HOTEL ROOM FUCK by Maxim Jakubowski, copyright 2000 by Maxim Jakubowski. Printed by permission of the author.

SPANKING THE MAID by Robert Coover, copyright 1982 by Robert Coover. Reprinted by permission of Grove/Atlantic and the authors agent, George Borchardt, Inc.

LAIR OF THE RED WITCH by ONeil De Noux, copyright 2000 by ONeil De Noux. Printed by permission of the author.

DE SADES LAST STAND by William T. Vollmann, copyright 1992 by William T. Vollmann. Reprinted by permission of the author and Grove/Atlantic. Originally appeared in Esquire, an abbreviated version of More Benadryl, Whined the Journalist from The Butterfly Stories.

SPEAKING PARTS by M. Christian, copyright 2000 by M. Christian. Printed by permission of the author.

THE COMFORT OF WOMEN by Michael Hemmingson, copyright 2000 by Michael Hemmingson. Printed by permission of the author.

THIEF OF NAMES by Lucy Taylor, copyright 2000 by Lucy Taylor. Printed by permission of the author.

THE DARKLING BEETLES by Gene Santagada, copyright 2000 by Gene Santagada. Printed by permission of the author.

SCRATCH by Nikki Dillon, copyright 2000 by Nikki Dillon. Printed by permission of the author.

THE EMPEROR OF NIGHT by Marilyn Jaye-Lewis, copyright 2000 by Marilyn Jaye-Lewis. Printed by permission of the author.

The short novel, the novella, the long story call it what you will is a tricky art form, especially for writers who write for publication, rather than self-esteem. While this literary form is considered (especially in mainland Europe) just that an art form to be mastered the situation in Britain and America, where commercial considerations dictate much of what is published, is more problematic.

Not long enough for solo book publication, too long for inclusion in magazines or anthologies: these are some of the obstacles the novella finds in its way.

However, the short novel is also the perfect form for literary erotica, allowing writers to develop their characters to greater depth beyond the gymnastics or hydraulics of the sexual act in all its myriad varieties. Both the editors of this anthology modestly claim to have, in the past, written some of their best erotic work at such length and this has been recognized by critics. We proudly refer you to MJs The Map of the Pain or The State of Montana or MHs The Naughty Yard or The Dress, as satisfying examples (available in previous Mammoth Books of Erotica anthologies or in single volumes).

The contributions we have had from some of the best writers of erotica currently practising the art, which we include in the present volume, prove the point: the reader isnt faced with a whole book of sensual forays, yet the reader also stays around longer, gets more involved, than they would with just a few pages of titillating prose and a tableau vivant in the form of a story.

We are confident that, once again in this series, you will be aroused, piqued, fascinated hypnotized, even by the halls of sexual mirrors our writers have conjured here. Some stories sound disturbingly autobiographical; others are fantastical; some are meditative; others full of action.

Putting this anthology together, with e-mail messages spanning the globe, was a joy and, at times, a pain, as so few writers could be included without fear of turning this mammoth into an unwieldy and too heavy and expensive volume, and many a good story could not be used. Its all part of the process. But, at the end of the day, this is a damn good book of erotic literature theres definitely some sexy, thoughtful, funny and sad stuff going on in these pages: all the complexities and wonders of human sexuality. So, buy copies for friends, give them out as gifts, slip them mysteriously under the bed or on the bookshelves of those you are feeling rather amorous about

Maxim Jakubowski & Michael Hemmingson,

London & San Diego, 1999

Mora and I had been in East Hampton for two days waiting for the sun to come out when we ran into Charles and Vy. It was July, the Bicentennial Summer, and we were on our first vacation as man and wife. Wed accepted a friends invitation to spend a few days at his beach house, but the afternoon we arrived the rains came, and lasted through the following day. We were grumpy stuck inside. We wanted to lie naked in the sun.

The next morning, the sun made its appearance, and it was windy when we walked to the beach. We had the ocean to ourselves, but it was too rough to go in. Empty blue sky, empty white beach, empty green ocean. The freckled, lively children further down the beach who were our only neighbors had to be content with building sandcastles. Mora read a novel and wrote in her journal, frowning and chewing her lip. It was her way of arguing with me without saying anything, and also of arguing with herself instead of with me. I shrugged at her silence and went for a long run on the wet hard sand, where high rolling breakers left thick clumps of seaweed, but I couldnt outrace my frustration.

By evening, we were speaking only when spoken to and being scrupulously polite with each other. We brooded in marital silence over cold gin at Peaches, a restaurant in Bridgehampton where summer people went that year for a hamburger or a salad before rushing off to the parties that seem to run around the clock, summer weekends on the South Fork. When there was a breeze from the ocean, the leaves of the giant maples on the sidewalk outside scratched softly at the window screens. On each small round table a slender mirrored vase held a single rose. It should have been romantic; couples all around us thought it was.

I reached for her hand and she put it quickly in her lap.

What the hell is wrong with us?

She sighed and I knew she was grateful that Id spoken first. The answer was sitting on her tongue. Its marriage. Holy Wedlock.

You want to expand on that?

I dont have to. We both know its that why its that.

So we did. Jealousy. Possessiveness. Insecurity. Fights, screaming, threats, feeling trapped. And keeping score that was the worst. That computerized reference file constantly added to of insult and injury, a never-to-be-erased tape of gritty misery.

OK. What do we do now? Throw in the towel because the honeymoon isnt working out?

I dont know, Richard. I just think being unhappy is a waste of time.

Agreed.

We stared at each other. Neither of us really wanted to be married. Not really. We were romantics, we werent interested in snug harbors when we spoke of love, we meant passion. Rub us together and you got fire.

From the time I first saw Mora I was under a spell. I know some magic was involved, because I was on the defensive after the break-up of a relationship Id taken more seriously than I should have. The home truths Id learned about my needs were so lacerating, I vowed eternal celibacy.