by David Cain

“Who is this?”

“Who is whom, dear?”

“This guy in this story you wrote. Who is he?”

“Oh, you mean Roger? He’s a character I made up.”

“Yeah, Roger. Is there something I should know, some guy named Roger?”

“No, dear. I don’t know any Rogers. I just made the name up. Probably unconsciously stole it from some television program.”

“But who is he?”

“No one. I made up a story and I needed a guy’s name so I called him Roger.”

“Is he someone you know?”

“It isn’t that simple but no one in particular. When I write erotica, I try to keep my descriptions vague, so anyone can project whomever they fantasize about into the characters.”

“But it is kind of someone. Who is it?”

“Well, if it is anyone, it’s you.”

“Me? It isn’t me. I mean, it could be me but I don’t fit the descriptions. He’s a big hulking beast of a guy.”

“Where does it say that?”

“It doesn’t. But look here, you describe his gorgeous flowing hair.”

“You have gorgeous flowing hair.”

“No I don’t.”

“You have less hair than you used to but what remains is beautiful.”

“And here you go on about his muscles. I don’t have muscles like that.”

“You most certainly do. Does it mention body mass? Why are you assuming he’s a body builder?”

“He’s super strong.”

“All I really said is that he’s stronger than she is. You’re stronger than I am.”

“What about his big rigid staff of manhood?”

“Seriously? What part of that doesn’t describe your cock?”

“You mean that?”

“I certainly do.”

“What about this part here, where she sucks on his staff of manhood.”

“That’s my favorite part, except, well, read on.”

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hear not

The first thing is to exclude all the people who have ears and hear not.”

Marcel Proust, The Captive

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vulgar mind

Whenever an event occurs which is within the range of the vulgar mind of the moralising journalist, a political event as a rule, the moralising journalists are convinced that there has been some great change in France, that we shall never see such evenings again, that no one will ever again admire Ibsen, Renan, Dostoïevski, D’Annunzio, Tolstoi, Wagner, Strauss.

Marcel Proust, The Captive

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true greatness

It was the same with Vinteuil; if at his death he had left behind him — excepting certain parts of the sonata — only what he had been able to complete, what we should have known of him would have been, in relation to his true greatness, as little as, in the case of, say, Victor Hugo, if he had died after the Pas d’Armes du Roi Jean, the Fiancée du Timbalier and Sarah la Baigneuse, without having written a line of the Légende des Siècles or the Contemplations: what is to us his real work would have remained purely potential, as unknown as those universes to which our perception does not attain, of which we shall never form any idea.

Marcel Proust, The Captive

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enigma of Iago

The question that’s asked here remains as large as ever it was: which is, the nature of evil, how it’s born, why it grows, how it takes unilateral possession of a many-sided human soul. Or, let’s say: the enigma of Iago.

Salman Rushdie, The Satanic Verses

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Across the Line

Across the Line
by David Cain

We are swingers, my wife and I, and have been for a long time, since the beginning, in fact. We met at a swinger party.

Swinger means a lot of different things to different people. For me, it means we enjoy recreational sex and our relationship is strong enough to understand the joys of sexual attraction. We enjoy sex the way some people enjoy tennis. We don’t worry about our marriage falling apart. We’re a thing.

So while I have a casual attitude toward sexual play, I have a very serious attitude about relationships. Once a couple starts to lie to each other, the swinging is over and the cheating’s begun.

My wife brought a woman from work over to our house on Friday. She’d told me about her before. She had a husband who was really good looking and really nice but also really religious and a prude to boot. All they had, Erica told me, was minimalist procreational sex. And he didn’t plant very often.

I wasn’t thinking about any of this when I stepped out of the shower and walked into our living room while drying my hair. I wasn’t aware Erica had come home until I heard a stranger say, “No one’s ever licked my pussy.”

Of course, I’m hanging dong and realizing there is someone’s in front of me with a towel in front of my eyes and there is an ongoing discussion about a strange woman’s genitals.

My thoughts in a jumble, I lowered the towel and saw the pretty woman seated before me, her eyes fixed on my hardening pecker.

“Please, allow me,” I said, suddenly suave.

I am sexually experienced, so I know well that this was a miracle. I stepped out of the shower and an attractive stranger was pulling off her pants to spread cunt on my living room chair. I gave her the full treatment, didn’t tickle or nothing. She came fast and repeatedly, just what you might expect from a woman who hasn’t had any sex for a long time. She was close to passing out when I finally retreated, a shallow whimper almost begging for more.

We had made plans to go to a wild party that night, which is why Vanessa came over, so Erica could take her to the party. While Vanessa lay in a stupor on the chair, I shaved and Erica started preparations for the party. Erica mentioned Vanessa’s husband and I gave her a frown. She knows I don’t approve of cheats but what was done was done. Not only had he never licked her pussy, she’d never sucked his dick. Or any dick. I was blown away. Vanessa was at least thirty.

“I want a gangbang!” Erica shouted. Vanessa looked aghast.

We went to the party. I didn’t have anything more to do with Vanessa. We ran into a few friends and Erica had her gangbang, worked herself into a frenzy on three cocks. Vanessa ran off with another guy we know. Big dick. Quite a place for her to start.

Erica said they got together three or four times a week and then he moved into her apartment complex and they are together constantly. Hubby still doesn’t know. Vanessa said she’ll leave him if he finds out. She’s not going to give Bob up.

She is way across the line.

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the trimmer

Captain Ahab drowned, he reminded himself; it was the trimmer, Ishmael, who survived.

Salman Rushdie, The Satanic Verses

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