The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 11

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “Tom Rimer.”

  He had a few more questions and I answered them honestly.

  “Soldier, eh?” the little one asked. He was older and I wasn’t surprised when he said, “My boy’s over there. Don’t suppose you knew him, Danny Breshca? He’s an MP.”

  “No sir,” I told him. “I was mostly in the boonies.”

  After that, both officers treated me with polite respect. I wondered if Julian had left me to talk to them because he knew they would.

  “You know a guy named Bill O’Daniel?”

  I started to say no.

  “They call him Brilly.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’ve met him. Why?”

  “He’s wanted for almost killing a woman this morning. Velma, waitress at Red’s next door.”

  “Damn.” My chest constricted. “Is she OK?”

  “She will be. She’s at the hospital up in Ludville. Lost a lot of blood. Looks like the guy tried to take her head off, but she fought him and some fishermen came along. She was lucky.”

  “He cut her?” My pot-bemused glow had blossomed into an adrenaline rush.

  “No, Tom. He used his teeth.”

  When the cops went away, I looked for Julian, but he’d left the theatre. Most of the troupe avoided me, like the aura of cop heat had rubbed off on me. I told Sheena what the officers had said and she shivered and hugged me.

  I understood that all of them were afraid, but whether of Brilly or Julian, I couldn’t say.

  The evening performance played to a half-empty house and we all knew why. The whole town buzzed with evil rumour. Two fishermen had vanished from a secluded cove; a little girl had been attacked.

  Already the boardwalk seemed deserted.

  After the late show closed, we sat in the big room behind the stage, drinking warm wine. No one passed a pipe or joint because we all knew the cops were watching, probably sniffing at the doors eager to make a bust.

  Julian sprawled on one of the mattresses. “It’s all right,” he said. “Maybe we’ll move along and come back next summer. We’ll give it a few more weeks.”

  I spoke as calmly as I could. “What did you do to him, Julian?”

  The room tensed. Sheena caught my arm with sharp nails.

  But Julian answered, calm and thoughtful, “Hmm? To Brillig? We did nothing to him. He is what he wants to be. Jabberwocks are the price of Wonderland, you see?”

  As usual, Julian’s words made no sense.

  “What are you going to do about him?” I asked.

  “Me?” Julian asked. I heard chuckles and suppressed giggles. He reached down, under the mattress and drew out a knife, the carving knife from the shed. My knife. He handed it to me and I accepted it from him. He hugged me and I felt a sweetly painful ache when we kissed. “There’s your Vorpal blade,” he said. “Now go kill the Jabberwock.”

  The hilt felt good in my hand. I thought about Velma, how frightened she must have been. I saw myself stalking Brillig in the darkness, almost smelled his stink there in the room with us. I stood up slowly, more aware than anyone else of just how closely their Jabberwock lurked.

  I held the blade and studied my reflection in its steel. The army gave me a gun and orders to kill. My family and town constructed conventional walls to cage me. Julian gave me choice.

  I tossed the blade lightly, so its point stuck in the old wooden floor between me and Julian. I loved Julian with all my soul and I would thank him every day of my life for what he had shown me.

  But I was a free man and I wouldn’t kill for him.

  “Not me,” I told him. “I’ve done that. You kill your own goddamn Jabberwock.”

  Then I walked out of the Theatre de Fantasia and I tried with all my soul never to look back.

  Of course, it wasn’t that easy.

  They never caught Brillig, but I had to go back to Waling three times to answer questions. The second time, well into October, the Theatre de Fantasia stood empty, its marquee blank. Officer Breshca told me that the bus had rolled out a week earlier, the troupe headed for Mexico. I thought a long time about following them, but I went home instead.

  A year later, I was living in New Orleans and a package came in the mail. Even before I had peeled the wrapping away, I recognized the contents. My knife. The Vorpal blade, and a note, “You may need this yet. Love, Julian.”

  I owe Julian a debt I can never repay. He freed me and, for almost forty years, I’ve lived just like he showed me. I’ve loved men and women and embraced colourful ecstasy and bright hope. I cherish the wonderland that is this world. He opened my mind and I live every day free in my heart and my soul.

  I saw Julian all through the eighties, late at night, on high-numbered cable channels, selling his vision for a penny less than twenty bucks. Brightstar Ministries. Now he’s on the internet. Thousands of people follow him.

  Sometimes I think about going to him, telling him how much he did for me, offering to give him my freedom like a sacrifice, but then I remember I am free.

  And I keep my Vorpal blade sharp and near.

  What Are You Wearing?

  Matt Thorne

  We’ve gone out four times when he asks me.

  I’ve already decided I’ll have sex with him, if he wants me, but I’m wrong-footed by his suggestion. He claims it’s research for a screenplay but I know he’s lying.

  The name of the auction-house – Greasby’s – seems fitting. They hold the viewings on Mondays between two-thirty and six. If you don’t go you have no idea what you’re buying because the details are so vague. It might say something like “Green Case containing 25 × New Knickers”, but nothing about whether the panties are La Perla’s finest or polyamide horrors from Littlewoods; for Damien’s purposes it’s too risky to take a gamble.

  It used to be only the most dedicated scavengers who showed up at auctions but the downturn has removed all the embarrassment from the process, especially with all the new booty arriving from Terminal 5. There’s good money in suitcases if you’re prepared to itemize and have the patience for eBay. Not a fortune, though: most times they take out the valuables and sell them separately. Damien isn’t interested in the laptops and iPods, but he does get upset when they remove the shoes. Shoes, he believes, should be part of the deal.

  “I’m no retifist,” he tells me at the end of this fourth date, after he’s explained what he wanted us to do, “but when I’m checking people out on the Tube it’s always the footwear that clinches it. That’s not just a male thing, right? Women feel that way too.”

  “Nothing worse than a sexy man in cheap shoes.”

  “Exactly, right? And when you see a woman in fucking Crocs it’s like she’s given up on ever wanting to get fucked again.”

  “Well, maybe not ever again, but certainly not that day.”

  “You agree. Now I’m not saying women should totter round in high heels the whole time, but there are plenty of other comfortable yet attractive options. What’s wrong with gladiator sandals?” He strokes the inside of my arm, our first physical contact aside from kisses of greeting and farewell. “You never wear ugly shoes.”

  I stick my feet out from underneath the tablecloth and examine my shoes – white patent Escada sandals I should’ve retired by now but wore tonight because I knew Damien would appreciate them. “Yeah, but that’s different, I get sent mine for free. Maybe you shouldn’t be spending so much time on the Tube.”

  He doesn’t like it when I criticize him, especially when I point out that his life is less glamorous than he wishes. His mouth gets anxious, amplified by his thick black moustache. He looks at his watch and changes the subject. “Can I tell you about something I watched on YouPorn today?”

  This is his attempt at regaining the upper hand so I just smile and say sweetly, “Isn’t that why you like me?”

  He returns my grin. “Cum-shots. A goth couple. Well, the girl was a goth, I’m assuming the man was too although you never saw him, just his helmet occasionally and most times not
even that. You heard the fucker though. Every time he ejaculated on her, he started sniggering. At least I assume it was him. It would be just too perverse if he invited a giggly mate round to film him every time he jizzed on his girly. I mean, can you imagine that?”

  We both take a moment to consider this.

  “Anyway, there were about fifty splurges edited together into a five- or ten-minute film. He came on her face, between her toes, up her back, in her shaven armpit, in her hairy armpit, in her ears, on her shaved cunt, on her hairy cunt, on her tits, on her bum, up her bum, in her anus, in her hair, in her mouth, on her teeth, down her legs . . . and every time he bust a nut, that infernal sniggering. It was an amateur film but I felt more sorry for this woman than any professional porn actress I’ve ever seen. Aside from Sabrina Deep and anyone who’s ended up at the wrong end of Max Hardcore.” He looks up and makes one of his mental leaps. “Did you have sex on your wedding night?”

  I don’t know why, but this question startles and embarrasses me much more than the porno talk. “No. I was too full.”

  “So when was the first time? The next morning?”

  “No, we slept late and nearly missed the flight.”

  “On the plane?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  The waiter delivers our coffees, smiles and backs away.

  “When you arrived?”

  “No. We were jet-lagged and the complimentary champagne sent us to sleep.”

  “So when you woke up?”

  “No, we were hungry and we went for dinner and then we were tired again.”

  “When then?”

  “The next morning.”

  “Wasn’t your husband anxious?”

  “No. He knew we’d get round to it.”

  Damien takes a moment to consider this. Then he says, “I had some friends. The first time they made love after they were married, he kept saying, ‘I’m fucking my wife, I’m fucking my wife,’ every time he thrust inside her.”

  I find this less profound than he does. “Shall we discuss your proposition now?”

  He smiles. “You’re up for it then?”

  “It’s not what I expected, but yes, Mr Joy, I believe I am.”

  “Good. There’s something else. It’s a story, OK? We’re characters. I want you to go to the Jury’s Inn in Islington and check in under the name Victoria Coles. When you go to your room you will find a suitcase waiting for you. I want you to choose some clothes from the suitcase and then go to The Castle, which is a pub more or less opposite the hotel. I’m not going to give you any back-story aside from this . . . you’ve come to The Castle because you are horny and you need to get fucked as a matter of supreme urgency. Do you understand?”

  “I understand. But . . .”

  “What?”

  “I know this probably isn’t what you want but I’d appreciate it if we could have a safe word.”

  “Why? Don’t you trust me?”

  “I’d trust you more with a safe word.”

  He seems reluctant. “Like what?”

  “November shovel.”

  When I arrive at Jury’s Inn, I’m expecting the front desk to request a credit card for extras and wondering how I’ll explain why I’m checking in under a different name to the one on my Marbles card, but instead they simply say, “Enjoy your stay, Ms Coles,” and hand me the keycard.

  There are three suitcases in the corner of the room and a note from Damien:

  AS THIS IS OUR FIRST TIME, I THOUGHT I’D EASE YOU INTO THIS GRADUALLY. HERE ARE THREE CASES FILLED WITH WOMEN’S CLOTHES. I HAVEN’T LOOKED INSIDE THEM AND YOU ARE FREE TO CHOOSE WHICHEVER YOU WISH. AS THE SHOES HAVE BEEN REMOVED I HAVE PURCHASED A SELECTION OF FOOTWEAR IN YOUR SIZE THAT YOU WILL FIND ALONGSIDE THE CASES. WEAR WHICHEVER PAIR BEST SUITS YOUR CHARACTER BUT YOU MUST NOT WEAR YOUR OWN SHOES! THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT. ALSO, BECAUSE I THOUGHT YOU MIGHT BE SQUEAMISH ABOUT WEARING A STRANGE WOMAN’S DIRTY UNDERWEAR, I HAVE FILLED THE DRAWER NEAREST THE TV WITH A SELECTION OF BRAS AND KNICKERS. PLEASE DO NOT MAKE A CHOICE TO PLEASE ME BUT SELECT THE UNDERWEAR THAT BEST SUITS YOUR CHARACTER. IF YOU DO FEEL COMFORTABLE WEARING A BRA AND KNICKERS FROM THE SUITCASE SO MUCH THE BETTER.

  SEE YOU VERY SOON,

  DAMIEN.

  I read the note twice, wondering whether I’m going to get annoyed. I decide against it and lift the first suitcase onto the bed. Whoever originally owned this suitcase was clearly a stylish woman – it’s full of expensive designer gear. But she’s also a slob: the clothes smell bad and the first two dresses I pulled out were marked with off-white stains. I find myself wondering whether I believe Damien’s claim that he hasn’t looked inside the cases – what if all the clothes belonged to fat women, or old ladies? I brought some safety pins with me and I am, it’s true, an average size 12, but it still occurs to me that maybe this would force my decision and I’ll have to wear these designer duds after all. I consider this a moment, then open suitcase two.

  The clothes in this case clearly belong to a poorer, and somewhat conservative woman. I’m relieved to discover that, once again, she is my size, which means I do at least now have a choice of outfits. While the other case had been cleared of anything that might identify the owner, in this one there’s a plastic wallet containing a temporary paper ID – no photo – to get her into a Greek hotel nightclub. (The club’s logo, bizarrely, is a lime-green iguana performing fellatio on an electric-pink dildo.) The name has been filled in with a pink pen and I’m amazed to see it is the alias Damien has given me – Victoria Coles. Is he deliberately toying with me? Or did he purchase this case first and decide to widen the choice later? I’m not sure how I feel about being given an identity along with the clothes and wonder whether there was anything else in this case that might fill out this woman’s character.

  I dump the contents onto the bed. Among the clothes are three spectacles cases, an asthma inhaler, a toiletries bag, a make-up bag and an alarm clock. I open the spectacles cases first. Ms Coles has taken three pairs of glasses on holiday: one pair of sunglasses and two pairs of glasses: one stylish and modern with Prada frames, and a far more dowdy pair she presumably only wears indoors. I’m short-sighted myself so I go to the bathroom, pop out my contacts, and try them on. Her prescription is much weaker than mine but not so much that I can’t wear them, at least not for the few hours it’ll presumably take Damien to get me into bed.

  It’s started to rain heavily. I unbutton the blouse I wore to the hotel and let it fall onto the bathroom floor. I study my body through her glasses, imagining I’m observing myself through her eyes. I still have another case to sort through, but I want, just for a minute, to imagine myself as Victoria Coles. I look at my bra and wonder whether Victoria would wear something like this. It’s not particularly stylish or elegant, just a purple and nude bra from the Elle Macpherson range, but somehow it doesn’t seem right for Ms Coles. I go back to the clothes heaped on the bed and discover my intuition is spot on – all her bras are either black or white. I take off my bra and drop it onto the bathroom floor.

  I suddenly find myself with an overwhelming desire to know whether Victoria ever wears G-strings. And as this curiosity sweeps over me I remember how quickly I confessed my voyeuristic tendencies to Damien. Even before we’d gone on our first date I’d told him how I’d persuaded my brothers that the only way to secure their diaries was to entrust them to me, and about the time my first female flatmate kicked me out of our shared accommodation when she found my fingerprints on her secret snapshots of her boyfriend’s stumpy cock. Maybe it was reverse psychology; by telling me I didn’t have to investigate these ladies’ underwear he guaranteed I would.

  And yes, there is a G-string in the suitcase. I knew it! Out of character, but that’s why it’s here – the contradictory detail that makes a person real. Plain girls are always kinkiest. Not that G-strings are necessarily kinky – I know lots of women find them practical – but I can’t help associating them with rappers and encouraging men to put their finger
s up your anus once they’ve stripped you down. I have to acknowledge that Victoria’s solitary G-string is tasteful, a rather pretty blue Cosabella brief with pink flowers and a matching lace trim that makes me think of the icing on birthday cakes. I gingerly open them up and look inside, expecting the prettiness to hide dried secretions and crap tracks, but they’re the freshest item in the suitcase, so I take off my jeans and knickers and slip them on. Then I go back into the bathroom and as I’m looking at myself in the mirror something extraordinary happens.

  I metamorphose.

  At first I assume it’s the glasses I’m still wearing, but when I put my hands down to my thighs I feel the muscles lengthening beneath my fingers. My whole body is tingling and stretching, the most immediately diverting development being the way my inverted nipples right themselves and pop out like the teat on a baby’s bottle. My fingers go up to touch them and I remove Victoria’s glasses. Unable to see without them, I have to move forward and squint in the mirror. When I’m that close I see my face has changed completely. My formerly blue eyes are now hazel, my cute button nose has become long and straight, my eyebrows have thickened considerably and my pretty, angular face has filled out.

  I am someone else.

  But I am not unattractive. I misjudged poor Miss Coles. My hair is my best new feature. My own hair looked great backcombed when I was a teenage goth – not something I copped to as an adult, one of the reasons I felt embarrassed when Damien told his story about the sniggering ejaculator and his girlfriend – but since then it’s always been thick and hard to manage, with too much grey I can’t be bothered to hide.

  All of these thoughts come quickly, of course, soon swamped by fear. But before I can panic I hear a voice – not my own – inside my head telling me, Relax, you can stop this at any time. Do you remember your safe word? Don’t say it. Just nod if you remember what it is.

  I nod.

  When you say your safe word aloud you will return to normal. Would you like to practise now?

  I nod again and put my glasses back on, wanting to witness the transformation. “November shovel.”