by Krissy Kneen
PRAISE FOR KRISSY KNEEN
Praise for Steeplechase
‘Kneen’s dark imagination and sharp intellect give her erotic writing an edgy quality that reminds the reader, with a genuine shock of recognition, of what sex can be like at its most extreme: ravenous, dangerous, chaotic and transformative.’ Sydney Morning Herald
‘This is a text steeped in the reactions of the body. It is this corporeality, a style honed from earlier works, that makes Kneen’s prose so remarkable, and attempts to categorise her writings into distinct genres so meaningless…With her most recent work [Kneen] has cemented her place as an author to be read because of the promise, sensual or otherwise, signified by her name on the spine.’ Australian
‘Krissy Kneen’s deceptively simple prose careens towards a startling and horrifying denouement; her talent for strikingly vibrant imagery shines…Her fans will continue to relish Kneen’s vivid imagery and fearless prose.’ Books+Publishing
‘Both disturbing and mesmerising. This is writing that displays incredible emotional depth. Krissy Kneen is an author who writes with generosity and truth.’ Favel Parrett, author of Past the Shallows
‘Kneen has a rare gift for constructing the most exquisite architectures of narrative and meaning from simple and elegant prose.’ John Birmingham
‘Absorbing writing with a menacing undertow that drags the reader deep inside a dysfunctional, disturbing relationship.’ TheHoopla.com.au
‘Densely plotted and compelling…Kneen’s first real fiction is an accomplished work that will not easily be forgotten.’ Adelaide Advertiser
‘A compelling tale with a brilliant climax…hypnotic, powerful, stirring.’ BookMooch.com
‘The voice is strong, the writing vivid, the prose disarmingly frank…Verdict: Lyrical, persuasive and intriguing.’ Courier-Mail
‘Steeplechase is superbly paced. It never breaks intensity, but increases it gradually with each hurdle and crossing… Kneen’s writing is elemental and corporeal, exploring an embodied psychological experience that is darkly feminine and exquisitely intense. Steeplechase is a worthy and chilling addition to the Australian gothic tradition.’ Readings
‘Understated and potent. Kneen’s restrained prose is elegant in its simplicity. Despite the highly emotive subject matter, it never becomes overblown or hysterical. The premise behind steeplechasing is that the obstacles make the horse demonstrate agility, power, intelligence, and bravery. Kneen achieves all of these qualities in her first novel.’ Australian Book Review
‘Kneen’s writing is taut, expertly paced and corporeal. The dramatic and bizarre climax set in a chic contemporary Beijing gallery pushes narrative boundaries to great effect.’ Newcastle Herald
‘A strange and intricate work that, like any excellent work of art, creates its own tight world whose engine is anxiety and suppression. Kneen has an unvarnished and natural voice that belies the immense sophistication framing the restrained texture of the emotion.’ Age
Praise for Affection: an intimate memoir
Shortlisted, Queensland Premier’s Award for non-fiction 2010
Shortlisted, Biography of the Year, Australian Book Industry Awards 2010
‘Sexy and beautifully written. Affection is a moving portrait and an absorbing read…An unforgettable book.’ James Frey
‘To focus on the prurient aspects of this memoir… is to miss its gorgeous heart…Affection is lushly written, a vivid and unabashed account of a woman coming to terms with her body.’ Courier-Mail
‘A rare feat…Beneath the surface sexuality, Affection’s triumph is that of an assured novelist of any genre. She sets a scene in curt but vivid detail and injects emotional vibrancy into even cursory encounters.’ Sunday Age
‘A lyrical gem. Kneen has a rare gift for constructing the most exquisite architectures of narrative and meaning from simple and elegant prose. Sometimes confronting, sometimes hilarious, and always amazingly honest.’ John Birmingham
‘Astonishing…Powerfully and voyeuristically erotic, a relentless yet tender examination of the body’s relationship to self-worth…An extraordinary debut.’ Matthew Condon
‘Beautifully written, painfully honest…Kneen’s stark, sensuous writing style and clear-eyed honesty are immensely appealing.’ Big Issue
‘Sex in Affection is well written, but it’s the contemplation in between that really shines. Insightful, evocative and bluntly, but never gratuitously, honest…Sexy, sad and deeply satisfying.’ Emily Maguire, Age
‘Affection is that rare beast: a sexual memoir that is not only uniquely interesting and daringly explicit but is also poetic, offbeat, confronting and funny.’ Linda Jaivin, Australian
Praise for Triptych
‘I have great admiration for this book and frankly enjoyed reading it.’ Sydney Morning Herald
‘This is an astounding look at different sorts of love and Kneen is, above all, a sensualist.’ Adelaide Advertiser
‘With nods to Anaïs Nin and Vladimir Nabokov, Kneen writes with tenderness, joy and delight. …Delightful, courageous and juicy.’ Big Issue
Krissy Kneen is a Brisbane writer. Her previous books are Affection (memoir), Triptych (erotica) and the literary novel Steeplechase.
www.furiousvaginas.com
@krissykneen
textpublishing.com.au
The Text Publishing Company
Swann House
22 William Street
Melbourne Victoria 3000
Australia
Copyright © 2015 by Krissy Kneen
The moral right of Krissy Kneen to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
First published in 2015 by The Text Publishing Company
Cover and page design by Imogen Stubbs
Typeset by J&M Typesetting
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:
Creator: Kneen, Krissy, 1968- author.
Title: The adventures of Holly White and the incredible sex machine.
ISBN: 9781922079381 (paperback)
9781921961557 (ebook)
Subjects: Erotic stories, Australian.
Sex machines—Fiction.
Erotic literature.
Dewey Number: A823.4
This project has been assisted by the Commonwealth Government through the Australia Council, its arts funding and advisory body.
This book is for
Fiona Stager
dear friend and
purveyor of good literature at the
Avid Reader Orgone Accumulator Bookshop and Café
Nothing in the city was what it seemed—nothing at all!
ANGELA CARTER
The Infernal Desire Machines of Doctor Hoffman
Contents
PART 1
1991: A Book of Dreams
A Spy in the House of Love
The House of the Sleeping Beauties
1991: A Book of Dreams
Vox
Nadja
1996: A Book of Dreams
A Sport and a Pastime
Lolita
Philosophy in the Boudoir
Rodney’s Story
The Infernal Desire Machines of Doctor Hoffman
1996: Of Orgone and Girls
Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure
PART 2
Little Birds
The Lover
The Delta of Venus
The Eleven Thousand Rods
Remembering 1956: Listen Little Man
Les Liaisons Dangereuses
Story of O
The Bioelectrical Investigation of Sexuality and Anxiety
Quiet Days in Clichy
The Recollections of a Mary-Ann
The 120 Days of Sodom
The She-devils
The Story of the Eye
PART 3
Fear of Flying
The Misfortunes of Virtue
Eat Me
The Butcher
A Thousand Nights and Then One Night
Acknowledgments
Thanks
PART 1
It is impossible to control your dreams.
The forbidden ones are incandescent.
They burn through resolutions like parchment.
JAMES SALTER
A Sport and a Pastime
1991: A Book of Dreams
Nicholson snuggles into his father’s hug. His jacket smells of tobacco. His voice is soft and there is a slight sweet odour from the nip of whisky he always takes after dinner. These are the comforts of life, this strong arm around his shoulders, these dark sweet scents.
His father is telling Nick’s favourite story, the one about Dr Reich and the cloudbuster.
‘What does it look like Daddy?’
‘I just told you, Nicholson.’
‘Tell me again.’
His father eases away, his dark eyes peer down sternly; Nick blushes and wriggles back into the hug. ‘Please? Please tell me again.’
‘It looks like a church organ, and it makes a whistling noise with all the metal pipes shrieking towards heaven.’
‘Where were you, Daddy?’
‘I was hiding in the corridor. I was supposed to be asleep in Dr Reich’s guest room but I came out and found them there, fighting for their lives. Would you hide in your room?’
‘No!’ Nick shouts, too loud. He presses his hand against his mouth.
‘No. You are my brave boy. You would fight till the bitter end. You would have been there, just like I was, waiting to see if they needed my help.’
‘To fight off the bad EAs!’
‘Yes, exactly Nick. To fight off the EAs.’
‘Tell me about the EAs Daddy, please. Tell me, please, please.’
‘Nicholson, you know this and now you are getting too excited. This is supposed to be your bedtime story.’
‘Pleeeease?’
‘They are the bright lights in the sky that some people call UFOs. Dr Reich thought they were here to stop the orgone experiments. And only orgone energy would chase them away.’
‘And that’s what the cloudbuster does, isn’t it Daddy?’
‘It makes orgone, yes, Nick.’
‘To chase away the spacemen.’
‘Aliens. Yes. Maybe they aren’t men at all, hmmm? Maybe they are big green blobs of jelly.’ His father reaches down to tickle him on his tummy and Nick giggles, pressing his hand to his mouth.
His father hugs him tight, and his voice becomes low and soft. ‘Dr Reich swung the pipes and your grandpopa was there beside him, and if there were clouds up there they would have all been busting apart—PEW PEW PEW, shooting silent notes up into the sky and the clouds cracking open!’
Nick can almost see it. His eyes are closing, the smell of pipe tobacco, the sound of his father’s voice fading to the hiss of rain, and he is in the room, watching, transported into the story he has heard so many times.
Dr Reich is hunched over, Popa stands much taller but Nick can see who is in charge. Charisma, that’s what his father calls it. Dr Reich with his hair and his accent and the way he says things and everyone jumps up to do what he asks.
The lights flash across the sky as if all the stars are falling. Dr Reich has a fine layer of sweat on his forehead. He wipes it away and his fingers track through his hair, so that it stands up in odd white peaks. Nick creeps out from the safety of the corridor. He will be in trouble because he is not in bed in the guest room where Popa told him to wait, but they are under attack! They need his help. He steps up onto the platform next to the doctor. Reich turns towards Nick with his wild meringue of hair and his eyes that look right through him to where his demons are lurking. Above him the sky is alight with the enemy, falling.
‘For heaven’s sake, boy! Take hold of the wheel!’ And Nick takes the wheel from his grandfather’s hands and turns it hard to the right, feeling the swing of the platform, the shining, screaming pipes dancing against the fireworks in the sky.
‘Good work, lad. Well done.’
‘Goodnight sweetheart.’
Nick opens his eyes. He is in his own bed. His father’s breath is like flowers soaked in alcohol and Nick squirms under the bristly kiss. ‘Goodnight,’ says his father again.
‘Good night,’ Nick whispers. But he is already back in that other place, the house full of twisting corridors, with the lights in the sky and the burny smell of orgone all around.
A Spy in the House of Love
by ANAÏS NIN
There is a point at any good party where an alchemic transformation occurs. The mix of alcohol, music and sweat comes to a boiling point and the world tips over. Dancing becomes less of a simple recreation and more like a prelude to sex. Clothes dampen and cling to naked flesh, sweat becomes musk-laden, pheromonal. The waking world startles into dream and things are not as they were only moments before. The party is abruptly, irretrievably galvanised with the insistence of desire.
At the tipping point of this particular party, Holly realised she was short of breath. She was suddenly aware of the unreasonable demand imposed by too many lungs sucking at a limited supply of oxygen. She began to press through a knot of students to get through the sliding doors. Strange hips intruding, her face pressed against a stranger’s chest, the cheeks of her arse caressed by someone’s t
high. The pulse of sexuality intensified and, with a rush of panic, she felt her body respond. Finally she pushed out onto the balcony and into the night air and took a deep breath of relief. The cold flooded her lungs and she was suddenly dizzy with it, only realising now that she was a little drunk. She swayed, prised off her shoes and sank down on the comfort of stockinged feet. The wooden floor of the balcony was a little sticky but it felt cool under her toes. There were stairs leading down to the garden and she headed towards them past the crush of bodies. Bourbon, perfume, sweat.
Down at the bottom of the stairs there was only the damp virginal smell of cut grass after rain. Her stockings soaked up the dew but it was worth it to feel her toes press into the ground. She moved into the moon-shadow of a clump of trees.
The Robinsons were rich. All her friends were comfortable, she supposed, but the Robinsons were definitely rich. They had a bath-house downstairs. She had often enjoyed the pleasures of their spa and sauna with her group of friends, wandering lazily from the wood-lined room with the smell of hot cedar clinging to their skin and plunging into the cold shock of the swimming pool. It was a saltwater pool, landscaped with natural rocks and ferns and lit from under the miniature waterfall by a row of lights. She knew there was a bench seat nestled in a bed of herbs here in the dark and moved to it blindly, reaching out to brush the spiky branches of rosemary, the soft grey caress of lavender.
She sat and gazed out onto the glow of the water; pulled one foot into her lap and massaged the ache from perching on her high heels. She lifted the back of her hand to her clammy forehead. Perhaps she was coming down with something. She shifted a little on the bench and unpeeled her silk dress from her damp legs. Just a little drunk. Not sick at all.
A gust of wind off the trees conjured the scent of grass and she found herself smiling slightly. It wasn’t so bad to be drunk after midnight.
