You're going to be the best Bitch this school has ever had. I didn't even know what to say. She nodded up the aisle: "I'll take care of Megan and St. George's knot. You go make the announcement, little girl. I noticed that someone had replaced the magic marker in Mrs.
Zinnia's ass with a beer bottle. She didn't seem to mind, and was now working Coach's huge cock with both hands while Jeff fucked her face. Team Captain Rock had stopped to get a beer, and was watching as the little 6th-grader I had commanded to each my cunt was being held down and raped by a halfback named Rick. Her quiet friend, the one who had ignored me, sat on the little slut's chest and held Rick's dick steady as he rubbed his thick tool through her puffy, lily-white pussy lips. At the front of the bus, Coach's wife took a momentary break from sucking the driver's dick to hand me the microphone for the bus's public-address system.
I leaned in close to the seat to allow the driver to run his free hand over my body. May I have your attention! I could feel cum running down both of my legs as I bent over to accept it. George Mastiffs raped the living fuck out of the limp-wristed faggots of South Central! Our special guest was being used in all three holes now, with the duct tape which had once covered her mouth now firmly placed across her eyes. Someone must have convinced her that biting would be a bad idea, but that a rousing session of "three-prong outlet" might be a fun game that would get her home sooner.
George Bitch Squad is pleased to announce that, oh, fuck, mister - are you trying to get your whole hand up my shitter? And yes, he was. I pushed back, trying to see how this was going to work out. Coach's wife pulled an ass-cheek aside to help him, took his dick in one hand, threw one of my legs over her shoulder, and then applied those thick dick-sucking lips to my clit.
George Jesus fuck Christ mister, school spirit rape my fucking ass, Jesus, mister, please. Oh fuck. And by 'saved me', I mean that she helped her mom steer while the bus-driver lifted me up into his seat and fucked the holy shit out of my ass.
Go Mastiffs! Black Tie Affair - Nicholas Fellheimer I stepped into the gold-appointed bathroom, gazing at blond little Lydia chained down to the base of the sparkling toilet. Everything was immaculate, including her: frilly white dress, white ribbons in her hair, white knee-socks, black patent leather shoes and a stout length of black iron rings two feet in length and fastened to her slave-collar to keep the little whore firmly secured to the ground. Well, technically, she was held to the floor by both the chain and by my father, at the moment. With one great hand wrapped around her pale throat and another lifting her slender young leg up at an angle, he slipped his thick cock into her unwilling, hairless cunt with long, slow strokes.
She made soft sobbing noises as I watched his cock, slick with KY, punch into her tight quim. I had seen my dad fuck many times before, and I knew that he was just getting warmed up for the evening. God damn, he's gorgeous. He slipped his throbbing cock from Lydia with a wet POP and let her leg fall as he stood, straightening his black dinner jacket. As my father stroked a massive erection and slipped it between my slack lips, I watched Lydia curl up around the gleaming white toilet and weep softly.
I assume that your brother has checked the preparations in the other two bathrooms? Mather and his family will be running late, and I know that he will want to use the little redhead in your mother's bathroom when he arrives. Has she been lubricated? I tried to lick his balls, with limited success. He raped the little Japanese slit we got him for his birthday half to death in that bathroom, didn't he?
He had one hand on the back of my neck and another cupped under my chin with a thumb against my cheek, thrusting with one smooth motion down my throat like he was slipping on a condom. The maids will have a conniption if he ruins her hair, too - those ribbons, I'm told, are matched to her eyeshadow, the shower-curtain and the towels.
What is her name again? She's eleven years old, four-foot-three, and seventy-five pounds. Her hair color and nipples match the accents for mother's bathroom, she has been dressed in emerald to match the primary coloration in the room, and Reginald has been informed to keep his horse-cock out of her until midnight at least. She can take most of the dogs except for Whore-Ripper, she cries when her nipples are pinched, and she her asshole, while lubricated, is still technically virgin. Mather very much, then. As for you, Rachel, well - you will make your uncle a very fine wife someday.
He walked out, then turned. And find out where your little sister Raina has gotten off to, if you would. Listening to him casually discuss rape while he fucks my face always turns me on. I glanced down at my dress and at the floor, being certain that nothing had stained my black dress. No, I was immaculate as always. After checking the wet bar, the camera and the large plate of pills by the sink, I briefly considered tormenting Lydia but thought better of it. She was, after all, for the guests. I walked out of the upstairs bathroom and glanced over the banister down the spiral staircase at the scene in the foyer.
Reverend Marcus was shaking my father's hand, and already had his dick in the moth of our maid, Chloe. Marcus, still in her black fur coat, impassively held the leash of their family's large dalmatian Maximilian, who was rutting into Chloe's squishing pussy with abandon. Their 17 year old daughter, Angelique, was dressed and made up like a miniature version of her mother except that a thin Asian girl about 6 years old was at the end of her leash, outfitted in a dalmatian-print bikini with a tiny black spot drawn on her nose. She wore a headband with little black-spotted doggy ears, as well, and cum ran both of her inner thighs.
Although I didn't much care for the Marcus's, primarily because Angelique always calls me a baby and makes me tongue her asshole while my brother fucks her, I had to admire their style. Hours must have been spent on their hair. I slipped down the hall, to where my little sister Raina was still in the television room.
I opened the door and found her sprawled on the couch with a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels pressed against her clit and Whore-Ripper's tongue slurping out the inside of her peanut-butter smeared cunt. Want some? Whore-Ripper looked at me, snorted, and went back to rooting in my sister's slippery pussy.
She shuddered and twisted her tiny nipples. How difficult is it to be on your best behavior when dad throws a party? The only way any of the guys here, ung, god yes, will have the balls to fuck Randolph Raynard's middle girl is if they're, fuck Christ yes, sure that I'm proper good and fucked to begin with. I had to physically jam Uncle Horace's dick into myself at the dinner table when I was her age, and that was after squirming on his lap under an assault from three fingers for almost two hours.
I thought the poor old guy was going to have a heart attack when I came. Any of them will, oh shit yes, pound the living shit out of my pussy if given the slightest chance, and I feel that a little lubricant, whether alcoholic, orgasmic or canine-saliva in origin, is best called for in such instances. Her thirtieth birthday is certain to be a, ah fuck yes, a roaring success. Whore-Ripper continued to lick away. It's time that you, unh, fuck, oh, got acquainted with the facts of life one way or another. Papa is already talking to a very wealthy man from Gibson University who has an interest in Reanne, and I, oh Christ fuck me yes, wouldn't be at all surprised if the littlest Raynard girl was getting her pony tonight.
And pulling a train. I pinched a nipple and pressed my still-wet pussy against the arm of the couch through my dress. You're the one who, oh fuck yes, likes to squirm and tell Daddy what he wants to hear while he's fucking you, and Reanne is the one who pisses her panties and flashes the help and acts like a brat until Daddy holds her down and rapes it out of her.
I'm the one, shit yes fuck Christ, who makes Daddy talk dirty to me if he wants me getting wet on that thunder-dick of his, and he's very excited about putting on a show with Reanne tonight. She gets to watch the, fuck fuck fuck yes, the girl who has stolen her husband's heart for the last nine years finally take a dicking that would turn most whores inside out. Mom will be bent over the cake table with our big brother pounding her sloppy pregnant pussy from behind while she massages the balls of the next man in line to, oh shit yes god, rape her baby.
By the end of the night, Reanne is going to service a whole lot of dogs, a whole lot of guys, one very happy pony with a big pink pecker and at least one Reynard girl: me. It wasn't until it was too late that I realized she had slipped a fingerful of peanut-butter into my asshole. After having my colon cleaned-out by Whore-Ripper while he plowed into my sister's frothing cunt, I told the little bitch to get clean, get dressed and get downstairs in record time. In the kitchen, cooks and caterers scurried around, and dozen gleaming pots roiled away on stoves.
On the floor, my mother was bent over with her pretty face against the linoleum next to an empty glass of red wine, her dress hiked up to her swollen tits, and several inches of my brother's huge dick slowly easing in and out of her grasping pink shit-pipe. Both of her hands disappeared beneath her belly, and I could hear the sound of her slapping her meaty cunt.
Will you tell this bastard to stop raping my naked, vulnerable asshole? Reginald, will you please stop raping Mother's tight, hot, gaping asshole? There are single mothers in every grade from sixth to Seniors who fell for that smile. This churning little fuck-hole of hers is amazing. Watch: if I twist on this titty right here, her whole ass clamps down on my dick like she's trying to suck a nut out of me.
She does have guests to attend to. You know that. Mother has just seemed extra whorish tonight. I'm not one of his little starry-eyed, eleven-year-old fuck-dolls. Seriously, Rachel, come feel this. Here, slide underneath her so you can see it better. I'm just going to move under you so that I can use both hands to work this magnificent prick as it rapes you.
With a low 'umph', Reg emptied his balls into her, then pulled out and wiped his ass on her ass-cheek. Have a good time at your party, Mom. Along the way, he snagged a bread-stick off of a platter and groped a teenage girl on the wait-staff. All the Raynard men are like that, I suppose. It is the burden we bear. Why, your father did nearly the same thing to be on our very first date, fifteen years ago. Now, sweetheart, if you don't mind, I don't want any of your brother's hot, sticky fuck to run out of my ass and stain this lovely dress.
Would you be a dear and suck it out for me? Class Fuck-Doll - by Nicholas Fellheimer I hate it when my mom comes to my school, mostly because she's such a control freak, and it's gotten way worse since she started dating Gideon. There I was, in the middle of hottie Mrs. Devlin's math class, and my mother started knocking on the window. Everyone looked at me, and all I could do was roll my eyes. Jeez, she just loves intruding. Blaine, the cute guy who sits behind me, leaned in and whispered "Jesus, Haley, your mom's a fox. My mom is a total hottie, but it's so weird - ever since she and Gideon started going out, my mom never wears a bra or panties any more.
I could see the dark outline of her nipples right through her dress shirt, and it looked like she had something wet and shiny running down her chin. She smiled at me, and gestured for me to come outside. I turned to Mrs. Devlin, my teacher, and she just smiled and shrugged. She has a real crush on me, I think - a lot of guys and girls both have started looking at me like that since I turned 12, and I've noticed that I can get away with a lot more.
I stood, and mooned Blaine behind me as I got up, which I had been doing recently just to fuck with him. I had noticed that a lot of guys in class had started leaning in to watch me do that, so I had stopped wearing panties. I mooned the class pretty well, that time. Seeing the wide-eyed reaction on the face of Mrs. Devlin, I decided to give her a hug to thank her for letting me leave class to see my mom.
She's pretty tall, and I'm short for my age even in the high heels that Gideon bought me, so I just walked up, threw my arms around her hips, and pressed my tits right below hers. God, she felt good. I looked up and batted my eyes at her. I'll make it up to you after school. I whispered in her ear: "Aren't you going to kiss me, Mr. Come by my room at , maybe, okay?
Devlin, you should kiss me. Man, she's cute, and a great kisser. I bit on her lower lip as she pulled back, and tried to whisper as softly as I could from the back of my throat: "I'm not wearing panties. Show my pussy to the class. I widened my stance and started bending at the waist. Pull up my skirt and show them my tight, bald, coral-pink pussy. This drew applause from the whole classroom. We kissed for a few more seconds, and then I pulled away, running one hand across her firm tits as I left the embrace. See you at Damn, my mom is rubbing off on me!
By the way, I don't mean that she was 'rubbing off' on me literally. I mean, a few times since she started dating Gideon she's had me help her shave her pussy and has started frigging her clit while I was using my mouth to dry her labia, and there was the one time that she came into my room drunk after a party and made me feel the inside of her to see if I could guess how many guys she had fucked that night, but she very rarely actually 'rubs off' on me. Sometimes, in the shower, I guess. Anyway, outside, my mom had a big grin on her face, and I could see that the slick, pearly wetness across her chin ran all the way down her neck and down the inside of both her thighs to her high-heels.
I wasn't sure. From who? Here, taste some and see if you can guess.. She pulled her skirt up to show me her abused cunt, with semen still leaking out of it. I bent and started tasting. Haley, you and I have a meeting in the Principal's office. Gideon asked me to talk to your school, so I came by.
Gideon wants the school to make some special arrangements for you girls, so he, oh, fuck, yes baby, had me come by to talk to the, fuck, yeah, school's administrators. You'll see. I think you'll, fuck fuck, really like this. Alright, now we don't have all day. Get you little ass moving. My mother nodded to him, dutifully turned to the wall and put both of her hands against it.
Uh, sir, would like to fuck my mommy? Your momma free later? She'll be in the principal's office when you want her. My little sister Dani, wearing nothing but the leash and collar that Gideon bought for her, had a cock in each hand and was sucking on a third.
My mom dropped to her knees and took a dick in each hand. High; these gentlemen are from the High School, these other two men are the administrators in charge of Dani's grade school, and the big-dicked gentleman fucking your sister's mouth is the Superintentant of schools. I shivered at how strong he was, and he let go of my hand to wrap it around my neck. Two guys began to move in behind me, running their hands across my legs, tits and ass.
My firm tits fell free as my shirt was cut away with a pair of scissors, and another cock slipped into my left hand. I started milking it. The superintendent tightened his grip on my throat "She feels fantastic, sir. Now, you and your little sister are both going to be moved to the High School as of tomorrow, and I'll be taking a firm hand regarding your education from now on. You'll be taking three blocks of Senior boys PE, a few automotive classes, and a photography course. The cock in my left hand started leaking pre-cum, which I rubbed up and down the shaft. Without hesitation, I licked two of my fingers and ran them across my sphincter, feeling my little teenage shitpipe warming up.
The superintendent let go of my throat: "Now, these men are going to take you on a little test drive, Haley. Specifically, they're going to fuck the holy hell out of you, and we're going to see if you're really ready to become our class fuck-doll.
The guy on my left walked around to my front, now letting me use both hands to milk his dick. Steve, tell this little bitch to slip your dick in her overheating cunt while I fuck her baby sister. She's dating a couple of Juniors these days, but I'm going steady with the entire Varsity football squad Still, I do happen to have a few unfinished stories here and there. Here it is, leaking out of my pussy, and nobody told me. Oh, heck, it's starting to leak pretty bad - I can feel it puddling in the wooden seat and up against my bare butt-cheeks. God, how did I ever let Sasha talk me into going out with her friend Nikolos?
Trying to be cool and keep all the thin, watery dog-cum from staining the back of my skirt, I lift my butt off the seat for a second and flip my pleats back. Bad move. There's this wet sucking sound as I get up, like a when titty gets a hickey, and then a little liquid sound when I sit, like a bare-assed fourteen year old mutt-slut sitting down in seven dog-cocks worth of fresh fuck-juice. A couple of heads turn to look at me, and I blush from head to toe. Reinhardt stops for a second to look over his glasses at the class, then continues. I look down, and I realize that my dark nipples are poking right through my white dress-shirt.
I start blushing so hard that my tits turn a reddish-pink, totally visible through the thin cotton shirt that I'm wearing without a bra. Oh, hell. I feel a cool breeze then, as the very back edge of my skirt is lifted from behind. There's a whisper: "Holy shit, dude. I think that's cum on there. A deeper voice: "Lift it higher, man. I think Bailey forgot her fucking panties.
Look at her ass! Fucking sweet! How'd she get all those red lines on there? I wanna see your asshole. Reinhardt is staring at us in the back of the room. The deeper voice. Warren, who sits behind me: "No, sir, Mr. Reinhardt, sir. Reinhardt walks to the back of the room. All eyes are on us. I'm in a half-crouch, tits mashed against my desk, with my ass a good six inches off the seat. Slobbery dog cum runs down both thighs to the insides of my knees, and I'm blushing as red as I ever have. Warren is leaned back in his chair, using the toe of his left boot to lift the back of my short, pleated school-girl skirt and look directly at my out-thrust ass.
He has a huge shit-eating grin on his face. He doesn't let my skirt drop as Mr. Reinhardt walks up, and I want to die like I never have before in my life. She seemed upset. I see. Reinhardt slowly takes his pointer out from under his arm and brings it down to the level of my pussy. I lean forward further, pressing my forehead and cheek against the desk, and my ass raises another inch off the seat. Everyone in the back row is leaning in now, staring at my dripping snatch. Reinhardt presses the tip of the pointer against my bubbling cunt, and a dollop of dog-fuck rolls into the pool in my seat.
As calm as ice, Mr. Reinhardt wipes the tip across my cheek and begins walking back to the front of the room. Would anyone here be willing to escort Bailey to the nurse's office? Bailey Lays, please stand up. I look down, and dog-cum is running the backs of both of my legs to my socks. I put my hands to my sides and try to stop blushing. Lays, these nice young men are going to escort you down to the nurse's office. I do not want you to give them any trouble, do you understand me? He leans in very close, and brings down the tip of the pointer in contact with my nipple.
I shudder and rub my knees together. He tags me hard across the painfully-erect nipple with the pointer: "I asked you a question. Do you understand me, Bailey? Now, before you go to the nurse's office, clean up that mess that you made in your seat. Everyone in the room staring at me. Every boy has a wicked gleam in his eye and a look of awe, every girl a smug look of superiority or a little tinge of hunger. Nikolos always says: "Everyone loves a fuck-doll. The thin material wasn't going to do much good trying to soak up semen, but the moment I stand topless I feel my nipples harden in the cold.
I crumple the warm shirt to use as a rag, wishing I could pinch my tits. I begin to bend over at the waist, keeping my knees straight like Nikolos has taught me, and a crack of lightning shoots through my backside as Mr. Reinhardt lays his pointer across my ass. I gasp, thrusting back, presenting white butt-cheeks streaked with pink marks from just such a flogging. Perhaps you should try licking it up. Reinhardt lays strokes across my ass, when I realize how glad I really am that my dad started dating Sasha.
Maybe I should start from the beginning: My dad is a great guy, and I do my best to be the best daughter ever. It can't be easy raising a year old girl all by yourself, especially since he also has to take care of the little hellions, my baby sisters Gracie and Natalie - they're 11 and 9, respectively. Steve, my dad, he says that Gracie and Natalie take more after my mom than I do, which is really sweet - he says that they really remind him of her during her 'wild days'.
I don't really know what he means by all that, but I guess that my mom IS kind of wild - she left my dad to go see the world when I was only six, right after Natalie was born, and my friend Mandy tells me that my mom had some kind of a 'reputation' when she left. I don't really know what that means, either, but Mandy says that her dad isn't allowed to mention my mom at home.
Something about a golf-ball through a garden hose, I guess, and her dad getting caught 'red-handed'. Anyway: my middle sister, Gracie, is always getting in trouble. She's been caught shoplifting a bunch of times, although somehow she and my dad have convinced all of the stores to drop the charges. Gracie sometimes come home and tells my dad that she's "been a bad girl" or is "feeling like a bad girl", and he takes her into his bed room to discipline her.
Boy, that girl sure needs a lot of disciplining! Anyway, I've heard through the grapevine that Gracie is sometimes disruptive in class, and she probably would have gotten kicked out of school if the principal and a few of her teachers didn't like her so much. She's only in 6th grade, but she joined the Jr.
High boy's soccer team at our school last year at the coach's suggestion. He and Dad were hoping that a little bit of disciple and some "team effort" would help straighten her out, and so far it's seemed to work. Gracie is always talking about the coach and how cute he is, and even though she never actually plays on the field, the team gave her an MVP trophy this year at their big end-of-season dinner. She calls herself the team mascot and the "ball girl", and after they gave her the trophy she went to the showers to thank the whole team privately.
I've never seen a group of boys so happy, and the coach's wife was practically beaming when she came out. My littlest sister, Natalie, well She pretty much gets anything she wants: I wanted a dog for years, but it wasn't until Natalie asked for one that we got one. Champ, our golden retriever, sleeps in her room, and the two of them have a game which she calls "get the peanut-butter.
The one weird thing about Natalie, other than how she sometimes wants to sleep in Dad's room, is that although she's old enough to use the ladies-room like any other girl her age, she always insists on going into the men's-room. I remember, about a year ago, we all went to a movie at the local multiplex as a family, and Natalie announced that she had to pee just while we were sitting down. She and Dad went to the bathroom together, and it wasn't until the movie was over that I noticed that they hadn't come back.
Gracie had headed back to the back row to talk to the dad of one of her friends from school, but the lights came up and Natalie and Dad were still gone.
When I went to the back of the theater as the show was ending, Gracie was sitting on the guy's lap; she must not have been very comfortable there, because she kept squirming around. Her friend's dad was really nice, though, and said that he always enjoyed meeting polite young ladies like my sister. I told him that I wouldn't exactly call my sister polite, and he just laughed. When I excused myself to go find my dad, he said that he would take care of Gracie while I was gone.
I finally found my dad standing by the busiest men's room in the theater! There must have been six different bathrooms that he and Natalie could have chosen, and they had to choose the one with a half-dozen guys in line to go in!
Dad said that Natalie was still inside and that she was doing fine, but he wanted to stay here and watch out for her just in case. Anyway, we ended up staying the rest of the day: I watched the same movie three more times, and Gracie met up with a couple of dads of her different friends in the back row. At one point, she found the dad of one of her friends in the very front of the theater, and the two of them got to hollering quite a bit right in the middle of one show while she was sitting on his lap.
The usher came down and I thought that he was going to throw Gracie out, but after he took her up to the back row and talked with her for few minutes, everything seemed to be okay. On the way home, Natalie was wrapped up in a blanket in the back seat because she was feeling tired and had lost her sundress in the bathroom, and Gracie wanted to sit in the front seat with dad and talk about the friends she had made.
I guess that Dad was pretty upset with how she had behaved at the theater, because he took her to his room and disciplined her all night. Anyway: our family is otherwise pretty normal. That is, we were, until Dad started dating Sasha. I was pretty surprised when Dad came home with Sasha. It's not because she was so pretty - my dad is a very good-looking guy with a great job as a land developer, and has gone out with a couple of really attractive women over the years. It's just that Sasha was so young: at 20, she's only a few years older than I am, with a job as a waitress at a club that my dad and his friends go to, and she has a seven year old daughter named Erin.
Sasha and Erin came home with my dad one night, and she really wowed me right away: I was sitting watching television on the couch, and Sasha came right over, told me to stand up, and gave me a great big hug. It was a little wild, because she kind of grabbed my butt and and she nibbled on my ear a little bit, but she kept saying that we were going to be the best of friends, and I knew that she was right. She looked totally amazing in a tight red dress that looked like something out of a movie, and when I told her how pretty it looked she pulled it straight off over her head and asked me if I wanted to try it on!
I was blushing head to toe, standing there in my nightie while I tried not to embarrass either my dad or his date, but I had to admire Sasha's figure. She wasn't wearing any underclothes, and her breasts not that I was looking! I didn't know what to do, so I just fidgeted and tried not to look at anything - I glanced at my dad, and he was holding Sasha's daughter Erin and running his hands through her hair. You and I have GOT to be about the same size. It will look so pretty on you! Don't be! It's just us girls and your dad!
Here, let me help you with your nightie. My dad said something, low so I couldn't hear, and suddenly Sasha was stroking my arms. She didn't know it, but she accidentally started rubbing my nipples through my nightie with her thumbs. Lift your arms. With my eyes still closed, I felt her lift my tits with her hands, rolling my nipples with her fingers. Let's see your butt. They puddled around my ankles, and Sasha pulled my butt-cheeks open with her fingers. I heard Sasha put her fingers into her mouth and pull them out with a pop, the same way my dad does when he has to check my temperature when I look feverish.
Are you a virgin? She sunk two digits into me, and pressed her palm against my privates. I tried not to let her know what she was doing, but I jammed my lips and my little clitty against her hand as hard as I could.
I guess she didn't know what I was doing, because she started rubbing her hand back and forth. My dad spoke up: "Sasha asked you a question, Bailey. I am a vi-virgin. Trying not to let her know that it had happened, I pushed my hips back against her hand as slowly as possible. She laughed, and then she pulled her fingers out of my butt.
With my eyes still closed, I could hear her walk over to my dad, kiss him on the cheek, and then walk upstairs. A few minutes later, the lights in the TV room clicked off. Finally, I opened my eyes and stood up: the house was dark and quiet, and Sasha's dress was draped across the couch where I had been sitting. That night, Sasha left her daughter with Dad and spent the night in Natalie's room along with Champ and Gracie, and I really respected that - she and my dad were obviously dating, but I thought that it was really admirable that they didn't take it too far, too fast.
The next morning at breakfast, Sasha sat at the table completely naked, and so did Natalie. Once my other sister joined us, she wanted to get naked for breakfast, too. My dad was nowhere to be seen, but Sasha told us that he and Erin were taking a shower together. Breakfast was While she talked with us about school and boys, Sasha calmly took a banana off the counter, licked it, and slipped it between her legs. I wasn't sure what exactly was going on until she started breathing heavily.
We all stared, but I guess I was too obvious. Is that understood? Without realizing it, I spoke. Unf, fuck, this is good. I think I'm going to like Steve's family. Girls, do you want to try this? Bailey, get on your knees. See if it can fit into you baby sister's tight little cunt. Bailey, come over here.
Placing one leg over each of my shoulders, she slid down her chair and wrapped her knees behind my head. My sister spoke: "I think we got it in, Sasha. Gracie, go slip something into that hot little pussy of yours and then go get a yardstick. Moments later, Gracie returned - an inch of yellow fruit jutting out of her hairless sex, a yardstick in her hands, and a huge grin on her face. Panties are no longer allowed in this house. Now, we're going to play a a game called 'Truth or Get Raped', Bailey.
Do you understand? Sasha stared at me for a moment, then cast a glance to Gracie. Wolfe dressed her up, told her she was pretty as sin, and then fucked her senseless. Nobody could have resisted conditioning like that. So Jasmine relaxed, preened, and let Wolfe make her beautiful. Wolfe noticed the change, of course, and gave her a knowing grin. Finally, there was the perfume. Wolfe took the stopper from the bottle of a scent the slave girl had never seen before and touched it to the back of her ears, the hollows of her arms, the back of her knees. She took Jasmine by the upper arm, stood her up, and turned her critically this way and that, evaluating her in different gradations of light and shadow.
Wolfe abruptly bent Jasmine at the waist. The girl stifled a protesting gasp. But she was unable to hold back a moan that felt as if it had been pushed out of her by cold lubricant and the pointed tip of a glossy anal plug. A leather strap went around her waist, pulled tight enough to make her hiss. Another strap went between her legs, but before fastening it in front, Wolfe pushed something short but thick into her other opening.
The crotch strap of the harness fit smoothly when it was buckled, and Jasmine flexed her sex muscles against the smooth surface. You got one come already. It was then that Jasmine broke the form of what had been a remarkably obedient morning. The things that pen- etrated her were burning.
Had Wolfe put mentholated ointment on them? She had surprised Wolfe into giving her an explanation, and a rather lengthy one at that. There would be hell to pay, Jasmine knew. She put her wrists together and offered them to Wolfe, a silent way to say, 7 belong to you. I forgot my place. Please let me apologize. Wolfe finished pulling on her gloves and indicated that Jasmine should precede her out the door. If it pleased Wolfe to put her on display, so be it. She knew her owner by now well enough to trust that Wolfe was willing and able to deal with anyone who thought the visibility of all this female flesh was an invitation to trespass upon it.
She waited with her nose in the air like a grand duchess w'hile Wolfe started the bike. Jasmine did as she w'as told. Now stop fuss- ing and enjoy the ride, honey. You look great, everybody wants you, and nobody has the balls to do anything about it. The seat of the bike vibrated against the strap between her legs and made her orifices clench with excitement.
It was going to be hard to keep herself from coming, and she was pretty sure Wolfe would not give her permission to get off. It would be nice to know where they were going, and why she was so dressed up for a social event in the mid- dle of the afternoon. She had been told as much as Wolfe thought she needed to know.
Mack kept chickens and a few goats, and had the biggest vegetable garden that Jasmine had ever seen. Her fences were in much better repair than the house itself, and a shotgun loaded with rock salt sat by the back door in case Mack had to take potshots at prowlers or a bad dog try- ing to sneak itself a chicken. Wolfe was fond of saying that Mack had bounced in and out of AA more often than Martina had bounced a tennis ball. Jasmine thought Mack was a lot scarier than Wolfe, partly because her life just seemed so unstable.
Jasmine already knew it was a mistake to write a big girl off as a fat or out-of- shape weakling. Fat or not, she had seen Mack knock an obnoxious bounc- er down with a single punch, and w as sure she could never have done anything like that. She gave Jasmine die same sense of calm, reassur- ing physical presence that Wolfe did. But Wolfe had a litde more privilege, or maybe she had just been a litde more lucky. Mack had put the sweater back on under her leather jacket without seeming to notice any improvements.
You better watch yourself around her. Goes to night school, too. I better not catch you turning your nose up at her, girl. Not all of us have been to college. Wolfe stayed die course and eventually got her high school equivalency certificate. Mack had to drop out because they laid off some of the guys in the warehouse, and she sud- denly had to work a lot of overtime. Jasmine felt a pang of guilt when she heard that news, as if her unthinking snobbery had some how weakened Mack and made her waver. Mack came banging out of the screen door with a couple of barking dogs escorting her.
The two hutches briefly clasped hands, and Wolfe lit a cigarette so she could have a quick smoke before going into the house. Joanna was enjoying a no-doubt brief reconciliauon with her very strange family and had taken her kids to Europe to hang out with grandma. Mack, as usual, ignored Jasmine. Jasmine attempted to slide by them both and go about her usual tasks in the household, clearing a place in the Using room for them to talk, seeing what was available to drink.
If she was very lucky, there would be crackers and cheese or something else she could turn into a snack. The dogs, however, remembered her from previous visits and fawned on her, hoping to get brushed or driven to a frenzy chasing a foam football down the hall. A new mail man or meter reader was bound to experience their version of DNA testing at least once before being given safe passage. Today Wolfe would not let Jasmine pass.
Wolfe had definitely put something on the dildo and the plug; they were making her sweat. So Jasmine inadvertendy caught Mack staring at her. Jasmine shivered. Jasmine flinched at this intrusion into her thoughts, and Wolfe laughed. The master blew' smoke at Jasmine and tightened her grip when the slave girl tried to get out of its way. Jasmine tensed at the tone. They were making fun of her. She thought she might cry. Then Wolfe swept her into a one-armed hug, let her go, and fondled her front and back. The dogs frisked along behind, convinced it was all some new jolly human game.
Mack and Wolfe escorted Jasmine up the stairs and into a parlor that adjoined one of the bedrooms. She was startled to see three other women there, but not so surprised that she did not hear Mack turn a key and lock the door behind them. The dogs had been shut out, and she could faintly hear them whining and scratching at the door.
Thanks for coming. There were only five chairs, so she was obviously supposed to stand. There were some bottles and glass- es out on a sideboard, so she tried to move over there, to take up the role of a bartender, but Mack blocked her and, without touching 44 PAT CALI FI A her, kept her on the periphery of the room, a ghost at the feast. But the carpet on the floor was obviously a cheap American factory-made approximation of a Persian rug. The couches and chairs were overstuffed, upholstered in red, blue, or pink velveteen.
Some of the furniture was dressed up with draped pieces of old tat- ting or big crocheted doilies, probably stuff Joanna had found at a flea market. But Jasmine thought the tasseled brocade lamp shades might be genuine pieces from the s. And the silver tea service in a breakfront cabinet could probably have covered another shot at night school for Mack, if it was cleaned up. Jasmine thought unkind- ly that Joanna had probably stolen the tea service the first time she ran away from home, ostensibly to go to art school, but actually to smoke hash in Morocco and gradually wend her way to this town where she could trouble the sleep of decent dykes and make an open secret of her distinguished, if homophobic, heritage.
Saint Marilyn shook her head in dis- taste just at the thought of it. Besides, Jasmine knew something was up. The slave girl knew all of these women. What was going on? Race was a botanist who did environmental impact surveys. She was of average height, had neatly cut, sandy hair, and wore round wire-rim glasses.
She was somewhat of an oddity in this community since she rarely socialized with leatherdykes. She rode with a motorcycle club that was nominally mixed, but mostly gay men, and served on the board of an AIDS charity. She had gotten used to peo- ple flirting outrageously with Wolfe in her presence. Del had no sense at all that she and Jasmine were members of the same tribe. She took her ability to bottom for other butches totally for granted. If two butches went to bed with each other, everybody knew one of them had to walk on the ceiling and play femme for a day.
Somebody had to lose status, some- body had to come back to the bar shamefaced and angry, vowing not to make the same mistake again. She had to admit she got a lit- tle panicky at the idea of butches who had no erotic response to silk stockings or dangly earrings. Because if butches did not want her, that left her in a world where no one but straight men would see her as attractive, and that was worse than being dead. Of all the women who were here, Damien was the one who puz- zled Jasmine the most.
It had been five years, and as far as Jasmine knew, she and Wolfe had not spoken a civil word to each other since then. Damien was pretty much estab- lished as a top now, although her propensity for wearing lipstick with her tuxedo as she was this afternoon caused some muttering. She had also been seen around town in a sundress or two instead of the requisite cutoffs and tank tops.
She was tanned, tall, and had a salt- and-pepper crewcut. Was she a butchy femme or a femmey butch? But Wolfe seemed very moved by her presence, holding on to her hand and bringing her close so they could exchange a few words that no one else in the room could hear. Damien was so many things she was not.
She would look like a fashion model in some of the clothes that Wolfe liked to see her girls wear. She had narrow hips and long legs and small breasts. And she had the capacity to be butch, to top, to leave the messy world of sexual craving and submission behind. Even when she was enraged with Wolfe, Jasmine could not imagine leaving her. Well, elegance is all very well, but voluptuous ness had to count for something. Jasmine decided Damien was sim- ply a failed femme, and bottled up her hatred in a small, dark cham- ber at the bottom of her heart.
The gaze that she had been allowing to flit around the room landed on Mack. And Jasmine realized that Mack was cruising her. She was staring at her lips, then her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. Mack was assessing her legs, weighing the texture of her skin, think- ing about what it would be like to kiss her Jasmine blushed so hard it was painful. Mack moved to one of the armchairs, and Jasmine noticed that everybody else, including Wolfe, was seated. The only way to keep her balance was to sway from side to side, which made her hips move as if she were being penetrated.
And, in fact, she was. Jasmine realized suddenly that all the butches in the room knew that Wolfe had dressed her in these indecent clothes, stuffed things into her cunt and ass, and brought her here for them to admire. This w'as the audience she had been groomed for. But these were all experienced butches who had seen more than one pair of boobs. What traitors cunts were. No wonder calling somebody a cunt was like saying they were untrustworthy or faithless. I am, Jasmine thought, fish in a barrel. Deer in the headlights. The quick turn had made her a litde dizzy.
Wolfe saw her confu- sion and indicated, with a curt w-ave, that she could stand a little clos- er. Jasmine scurried to obey. Take a promenade. Mack was behind her, so there was no way to see whether that face was welcoming or forbidding. Confused by potential trouble from so many directions. Jasmine went to Race and Del. They w r ere wearing matching fatigues in a desert camouflage, with sand-colored T-shirts and very shiny com- bat boots. Jasmine felt rage come up from her feet and grab her stomach. She came within a hairbreadth of slapping the boy. You are to let my friends look at you and, if they like, they may handle you.
But Race used her forearm to push Del off the arm of her chair. It was the same nipple that Del had twisted like the knob on a stereo. Race said something about girls with big breasts being more sensi- tive than flat chested girls, and Jasmine had the brief satisfaction of seeing Del stiffen with the sort of resentment she knew only too well. It hurt to be compared unfavorably to another bottom, especially if your flaw was something you could not control. The sudden pressure drove the butt plug and dildo into the slave girl, and her legs almost crumpled.
The water- based lubricant had dried until it was tacky, so Jasmine cried out as the plug first clung to the sensi- tive lining of her ass and then suddenly moved inside it. She clamped her lips together and tried not to respond. But Wolfe would not let her be.
Could we get something bigger titan that up your ass? Use your nicest, softest mouth, boy, because I want to see those nipples wrinkled and hard when you are done. Jasmine will hold them up for you. Just your mouth. For now, anyway. Her nipples rap- idly hardened, and she could feel her pulse and breathing quicken. Del took more and more of her breast into her mouth, but that wicked little tongue continued to dance upon the point of her nip- ple.
Jasmine heard herself begin to cry out, and then Race forcibly separated the two of them and sent her on her way with a slap on the bottom. Damien was watching Jasmine with cool amusement. Jasmine found it increasingly difficult to stay on her high heels, to hold her skirt up and not react or push her aching cunt into the hand that touched her in other places. Damien also ran her fingernails down the front of her, digging their tips into her nipples, giving her goose bumps by dragging them down her upper arms and her shoul- ders.
Jasmine felt a firm rod, which directed her to use the masculine honorific. Jasmine went, energized by the clues she was finally getting about what kind of evening this was going to be. She was past feeling nervous, past feeling hesitant or resentful. She was up on the pony and running full tilt, in the race at last. Mack was seated in a pink overstuffed velveteen armchair that 50 PAT CALIFIA clashed in every possible way with the nubby red sweater decorated with white reindeer that she wore with her black leather pants.
Mack had pushed up the sleeves of her sweater, exposing a six inch long and two inch wide burn mark on her fore arm, a souvenir from the accident drat had required her to lay her bike down last year. How many girls had those hands disciplined and loved into oblivion? Mack was probably lucky she still had both of her legs. Then she forgot that extraneous crap, because Mack had caught her eye, and she was falling into two deep black pools of dangerous knowledge: butch wisdom about die guile of giris and how to defeat their automatic resistance to being roped and ridden home.
Because the eyes told you what that top knew, w'hat she carried in her soul, and without that, all the accessories were just fakes, theatrical props for a turkey that was going to fold after open ing night. I know your past, and I am your present and your future. It was like being in a porn shot, those images would live forever in bodr of your hearts, and you had no way to control how, where, or when they might turn up and change your life.
You carried a piece of her in your soul forever, for better or for worse, just as she carried a snapshot of you flailing around dressed in sweat and torn-up stockings, panting like a racehorse and w'ailing for more cunt pumping, more face slap- ping, more shark-bite kisses. Jasmine could not help but imagine herself and Mack clawing at each other, trying to get enough sweetness out of the clandestine encounter to ease the pain of paying for their betrayal later on.
You might as well have sex with the Mafia, honey. Still she moved, sinuous, shameless, as enticing as a gift sent from one king to another. She would pour herself out like gold for Mack to run her hands through, be a waterfall of shimmering pleasure. Just you wait till your father gets home! Jasmine thought spitefully. Jasmine had actually been given extensive lessons cm how to crawl beautifully.
Wolfe had videotaped her first efforts and forced her to watch them while her moves were critiqued. Now she knew she was swimming forward as gracefully as a mermaid, die to-and-fro movements of her white buttocks hope- fully engendering many dirty thoughts about fucking doggy-style. She was deep into the freedom of slav- ery now, wearing her sensuality as proudly as a patriot raises die flag. On her knees, she did a vaudeville bump- and-grind. Wolfe broke into a chuckle, and Jasmine felt a litde more tension leave her body. She was never punished for making Wolfe laugh. If you pass every test, my wild child, you get to graduate today.
The rules are very simple, Jasmine. You are to please each one of these, my associ- ates, as much as you would try to please me. They are authorized to use you as fully as I would, to suit myself. Jasmine gasped as her orifices were smoothly but quickly emptied. She remembered the first time Wolfe had tried to take out her butt plug, and shuddered.
Some control queen hygiene -freak part of her had been outraged at the idea of letting someone else perform such an intimate operation. Shut up, she told them firmly. Who would be first? Jasmine eyed each one of them in turn. Then Race stood up, hasing placed Del on a leash, and opened the door to the bedroom. I will be the inquisitor of your obedience, Jasmine. Go in. An ancient chandelier still swung from the center of the ceiling. Against one wall there was a bed, covered in a sheet of black leather, with manacles and chains clearly displayed. Race ordered Del to kneel at the foot of the bed, then dropped the end of his leash over one of tire posts.
She intercepted Jasmine on her way to lie down upon the bed and brought her close, encircled her in strong arms. Jasmine tolerated the contact uneasily, made skittish by such an unfa- miliar embrace. Jasmine could hear die others filing into the room behind her.
She had no doubt that Wolfe would get a prime vantage point. That would be easier than this. And yet. Jasmine had yet to meet a butch who did not come unglued when you played with the short hairs at the back of her head. She felt a flush of arousal and triumph. This ill prepared her for what came next. Race seized her face with both hands and tipped it back, then administered a disciplinary kiss of shocking force and duration. Jasmine responded by reflex, crying out as her body melted under the instructional assault. Del actually rocked back on the heels of her combat boots, as if struck by friendly fire.
Then Jasmine practically swarmed up her body, hand-over-hand, as if she were climbing a rope, and smothered Del with a sizzling screen test-quality smooch. She put a little more steel into this one than she had dared to offer Race, letting the boy know the sex kitten had sharp little teeth. Maybe that was why Del softened in her arms and then stiffened again, having caught herself violating the butch-on-butch code by juicing up for a girly-girl. Race also sprang the clips on her back garters and stowed them out of the way.
Jasmine thought unkindly. Hated it so much that Wolfe had consid- ered using it as a punishment, then discarded physical pain in favor of the suffering engendered by good old neglect. She could go for hours with a heavy leather flogger, and if she was built up to it, enjoy a quirt or a cat, but canes were, she was convinced, a toy that had been placed on this earth for the enjoyment of only one half of the sado- masochistic duo.
In other words, a top toy. Jasmine tucked her head and wondered if she was going to be allowed to scream. She tried to calm herself down by adding up the time that a dozen cane strokes might take. Surely no more than 15 minutes, perhaps half an hour if Race had the patience of Job. Could she tolerate half an hour of severe pain? Why did that sud- denly seem about as reassuring as an eternity of suffering?
However, you may not lift your torso from the bed or move from side to side. Would you like this quick or slow? Jasmine said She could hear a rapping sound as Race impatiently struck the side of her leg with the cane. The second landed before the first stroke had gone through all the permutations of pain that the cane delivers, and it was high as well, so she could not repress a kick or two. This was slow? Then there was a wait for three, such a long wait that Jasmine repented her choice a dozen times, having forgotten how much agony can be meted out by anticipation.
Four was cunning, five burned like a hot iron, six rolled over her like a tank. Seven and eight were a pair of lovers, tearing at her flesh so they could remain near to one another. Nine was a deep cut, ten was a rocket being launched across her backside, 11 severed her in half, and 12 was Judas Iscariot himself, doing all he could to persuade her to betray her lord and master.
Was it Damien? And Jasmine heard laughter. She had been giving Race a piece of her mind, then. That sometimes happened. She hoped it might be over- looked, and apparently it was. But when she tried to get up, Race pressed her back into the surface of the bed. It is one thing to take a thrashing from someone you like or respect. It is quite another to put up with being hurt by a pissant you despise. Jasmine bit the inside of her own cheek and did some fast and furious attitude adjusting. There was no way she could see Del as an honorable dominant who was entided to her pain.
So let Del drop out of the picture, she thought. Instead of Del, let me think about Wolfe. From the oudine of the prod, Jasmine thought Del was not using the same thin, flexible cane that Race had wielded. This was a short, rigid rod of bamboo, half an inch in diameter, with sharp, raised joints that would leave dis- tinctive marks. She was no shrink-wrapped hunk of rump roast to be poked by a cranky, hungover housewife in the supermarket! Del swatted her, deliberately landing on preexisting marks, and Jasmine found that silence was the only suitable container for her hostility.
She did not move. Nose to toes, she was a woman carved in ice. Disappointed and embarrassed, Del hit her again, much hard- er, on top of the first blow, and that pettiness was all the motivation Jasmine needed to maintain the barrier of her quiet disdain. Four more strokes followed in a flurry of impotent rage, and Jasmine cared less titan the dead care if their headstones fall over. Someone was trying to get her to stand up. She realized that someone was Race, and allowed herself to be pried up off the bed. She located Del in half no time, and gleefully moved in her direction. Or tried to.
Race was in the way. Then she waited, like a statue of patience. Her muscles were out lined, apparendy by bodybuilding, grooves built for the tongue of an adoring bottom. Jasmine did not think she could express in words the whirl of emotions that dizzied her. She had never even conceived of such a thing. Whip Race? That was like assassinating a king. In fact, killing a head of state would be easier. She knew there were femme tops, of course, duh! Sometimes Wolfe would threaten her, if she was sulky, with a weekend under the tutelage of one of the local Queens of Pain.
It would be too And there were people who switched, switches, yes, OK, but in mid scene? Then one word rang out, obliterating other thoughts like a comic Chinese gong. Jasmine really hated it when Wolfe stomped out of the house and left her alone, supposedly to get all humble and pen- itent.
Or viciousness. One of the sofa cush- ions had split open, but Jasmine had fixed it with a safety pin and turned it around so the tear would not show'. Wolfe never noticed the damaged pillow or the red ear Jasmine had gotten w hen she pulled die whip too close to her own head. Did she still have the knack? Jasmine frowned, and w'as reward- ed with a clear snap. This whip was not as easy to manage as a cane, but it was not nearly as long as a bullwhip. She tried again, and it did as she wished, an extension of her eye and arm. Turning, she located Race, who waited still.
There was a surprising amount of satisfaction to be had in hurting the strapping butch body in front of her. She w'as somehow able to keep herself from turning her head to see this tantrum. She had no doubt that Del had attempted to race over to the bed and throw herself at Jasmine. She also had no doubt that somebody else would restrain the rambunctious child. She told her- self it was probably going to be a good long while before Del got a graduation party that was half this good.
She moved a lit- tle to her left and placed a star of pain alongside the original mark. Race counted it off in style, without a single quiver in her voice. Jasmine wondered if anyone had ever looked at her and felt this weird sort of admiration. She went to her right and did her trick again. Still, not bad for a novice. Then Race turned around, and Jasmine dropped the whip and hit the deck, her incipient madamhood a tattered mist of fading memo- ry. Maybe Race was pissed off. Maybe she was deliriously happy. Either way. Jasmine did not want to know any more than Moses had wanted to look at the burning bush.
She was lifted off the floor and flung onto the foot of the bed, on her back, and entered roughly with a hand that did not doubt its mastery. Race had smaller hands than Wolfe, which meant they went in farther, deeper. Jasmine blushed, recalling the way she had bellowed for more and pumped her hips until she got it. But Wolfe did not shun her like a traitor. Wolfe came and got her, and straightened out her stockings and garters, and put her bra back on and fastened it in back. Wolfe took her into the parlor, poured her some lemonade, and after she drank it, sat her down and brushed her hair.
Race had not put her shirt back on, and Damien was with her, applying antibiotic ointment with the detached care of a veterinarian who is treating a fear- biter, and expressing purely aesthetic appreciation. Wolfe looked at Race with a question in her big, honest face. Race at first looked puzzled, then laughed and waved her hands.
Pass, A plus, good fucking show'. Jasmine whis- pered a request to pee, which was granted, and left the room as quick- ly as possible. The dogs were overjoyed when she came out of the par lor and accompanied her to the bathroom to supervise her toilette. Not for the first time, Jasmine was grateful that Wolfe had no pets save herself.
When she returned to the conference of the butch dyke deans of depravity. Jasmine noticed that Damien was sitting on the edge of her chair. Without being told to do so, she blew Wolfe a kiss, stalked over to Damien, and made her obeisance, kneeling with knees apart, hands upuirned on her thighs like captive wild orchids.
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Wien she was in the presence of someone she read as butch, Jasmine felt as if she were being snared by an invisible net. She could strug- gle against it, but this would only excite the person who had caught her. But between herself and Damien, she could not sense the polar- ity, the distance and difference that made her quiver with hope and dread.
She might as well have been kneeling to a department store mannequin or a streetlight. The room disappeared. Jasmine was alone and reached out in a panic. Damien caught her hands and steadied her. Jasmine was instantly suspicious. That velvety and reassuring voice had to be up to something tricksy and sly. To her face, that is. Jasmine hung her head. Then she remembered Damien pressing their bodies together, the brief but electric contact with her strapped-on dick, a seductive promise.
She put her hands behind her back and fluttered them there, showing the entire room how beautifully she performed this symbol of helplessness. Then she went face first toward Damien, hoping that her sense of touch and smell would guide her to the fly of those expensive black tuxedo pants. Then she edged forward on her knees, trying to ignore some rather large particles of grit that made her kneecaps smart, and nibbled her way up.
Her teeth encountered no evidence of a zipper. This must be a piece of retro fashion, or it was tailor-made with a button fly. Jasmine made short work of die top hook-and-eye. In this county or the next. Jasmine visualized the caustic sound rolling off her back, like w'ater off a duck, and kept her mouth soft and pliant around the top button.
The fabric of the trousers was thick and scratchy, and left a dry coating on her tongue. Fortunately, Damien was wearing only a plain cotton jockstrap beneath her pants. She willed her salivary glands to speed up production of moisture, and slid her mouth down over the latex glans. Sucking dyke dick has much in common with bio-cock sucking, but there are some important differences.
Jasmine mused. Boris Kachka New York interviews monologuist Mike Albo and writing partner Virginia Heffernan , co-authors of The Underminer , a novelistic study of "the best friend who casually destroys your life.
And she was passing it off as being really careful. So I just cried myself to sleep that night. Brendan Bernhard LA Weekly profiles Bruce Wagner, " our premier 'Hollywood novelist ,'" who reveals his narrative strategy in its broadest terms:. The article's fairly long, but frequently fascinating. As I mentioned last week, one of the effects of the blizzard that hit New York was that I missed a couple author appearances, including one by Lauren Henderson to promote Jane Austen's Guide to Dating.
If your curiosity was raised by the title, the Telegraph confers with Lauren as she "leaves the world of rampant rabbits, serial cosmopolitans and toxic bachelors behind, to advise girls on how to snare a man the Regency way. What with Wickett being so respectful and all, Kooser doesn't get to show his sassy side much, but he explains, among other things, his belief in the poet's need for cost-benefit analysis:.
My first entry in my new book review blog, Beatrix , was about initial reactions to Curtis Sittenfeld's Prep , especially about the degree to which certain reviewers seemed to take it for granted that the author was telling tales out of school, as it were, by repackaging her own adolescence as fiction. Now, Sittenfeld responds to the reactions as Felicia R. Lee NYT takes notes:. Click on that link, by the way, for a free book. As it happens, Moonfleet is one of my favorite Fritz Lang films--and, yes, it's just as warped as you think a children's adventure story directed by Fritz Lang would be.
Especially with George Sanders and Joan Greenwood as a debauched lord and lady. And people took their children to it! Rachel Kramer Bussel's back in the Gothamist interviewer's seat, and she starts her latest cycle by speaking with Genevieve Field , the former Nerve. But not, Field admits, herself:. Deborah Solomon uses Simon Winchester as the foil for her questionable interviewing charms in this week's NYT Magaine , but an unfortunate transposition ruins her best shot at a wisecrack:.
This, however, was not my favorite Solomon bit; that would be the turn-on-a-dime transition: "One problem I have with geology is that it reduces existence to rocks. Do you believe in God? But this week's installment won't be making it into her greatest hits portfolio, except perhaps on the strength of Winchester's snappy answers, i. Sara Ivry Nextbook grills Jennifer Traig about how her obsessive-compulsive disorder manifested itself with a fixation on keeping shomer shabbos.
Traig's memoir, Devil in the Details , may surprise some readers by how much humor she finds in her condition:. Rob Hiaasen Baltimore Sun profiles debut novelist Paul Mandelbaum , who "might be the first University of Maryland graduate to invent a character who is dying because he ate a human brain during an expedition to New Guinea. Among those who have praised the trade paperback original: Carolyn See WaPo , who tries to frame potential reader reactions to the interweaving problems Garrett faces thanks to his wife's ex-husbands within a red state vs.
Plenty, some might say, but I haven't gotten to those 29 pages, so I'm not ready to venture an opinion. I thought it was a bit cute to see that Mandelbaum's official website pulled the " pages of surprise, originality, and joy" bit for a blurb, though If you want a little help making up your mind about a possible purchase, he's put up an MP3 from a bookstore reading.
Haskell, who has been reading from his first novel, American Purgatorio , in Manhattan recently, says:. I'm thinking that perhaps the review American Purgatorio has received from Joy Press Village Voice might be to his liking. Carolyn See WaPo also tries from the opening line to engage the reader in a rhetorical dialogue; the only problem with this strategy is that it takes her three paragraphs to get to the book.
David Mehegan Boston Globe writes about the growing reputation of novelist Jennifer Haigh as her second book, Baker Towers arrives in bookstores and the author begins a city tour. Along the way, Haigh reveals the advantages she discovered in quitting her magazine editing job to focus on fiction and, eventually, applying for an MFA in creative writing:.
Nichelle Stephens is doing the interviews at Gothamist this week, and she's spoken with self-help book packager Karen Salmansohn and AP reporter Pauline Millard. A year and a half ago, in reviewing A Tragic Honesty , I wrote [in PW ] that Blake Bailey "has done a great job of sorting through the facts of [Richard] Yates's difficult life, assembling them into a story that mirrors the best of his subject's fiction.
Robert Birnbaum interviewed Bailey and explored why the biographer "spent three years researching a man's life, who, it appeared to [Birnbaum], was probably miserable for at least the last half, maybe all of his life, every day of his life. As long as the writing was going well, Yates didn't much care. And then he would go and get drunk for dinner. But goddamn, by that time he had written for seven hours. If you don't have time to read the full biography, try a quick introduction to Yates, or at least avail yourself of Stewart O'Nan's appreciation.
But, he's careful to note, "I am not a biographer. I am not writing history. I enjoy history because it enables me to reflect on who we are, how we got there and what it means. Last month, on my way to a meeting with my publisher, I had the pleasure of getting together for lunch with Keith and Masha Gessen. By then, I'd gotten a copy of his older sister's book, Ester and Ruzya , a family history focusing on her two Russian grandmothers and their difficult paths through the twentieth-century Soviet Union, and I knew she'd surely be in town for her publicity efforts, so I suggested the three of us try to meet up.
So we did, and had I not been in the middle of book-writing hell, I would have had much more presence of mind to take notes and craft a decent story, but as it is, we just sort of chatted for an hour or so about how their parents brought them to the United States in the early '80s, where we grew up about ten miles from each other in various Boston suburbs, and how Masha decided to return to her homeland while young Kostya changed his name to Keith and became part of a fresh new crew of public intellectuals. Well, okay, I'm being a little silly and hyperbolic there.
Also, Masha urged me to tell the world that Keith makes the best scrambled eggs in the entire world. Masha gets the easier ride from the media, though it should be noted that by Observer standards, Keith and crew come out less scathed than usual. Masha also cites Keith for providing her with a crucial motivation. Describing a letter she wrote to her sibling about their grandmothers, she tells Rakoff:. I'm still making my way through Ester and Ruzya whenever I can grab an hour or so of free time, but it's a very gripping story and I would definitely urge it upon you.
Where did King get that striking title? Let's find out If for some reason you don't catch King on the radio, he'll be reading several times in New York City this month, then hitting the road--see his website for the full details. And he explains how he gets it all done:. Writing for Australia's The Age , Gerard Wright catches up with James Ellroy , who's got another collection of true-crime reportage, unrestrained soul-bearing, and hyperkinetic novellas out this one's called Destination: Morgue! He also shares the narrative strategy for the third volume of his Underworld USA trilogy, which will pick up in the summer of and track American history until just before Watergate because "I don't give a shit about it":.
Ellroy also shares his attitude towards Hollywood adaptations of his work, an attitude Ursula K. LeGuin might do well to contemplate: "If it's a bad movie, I have no right to criticise it for attribution because I took the money. I will always option anything I write to anybody who's got the money. Beam notes that Cornwell hasn't quite achieved the success here in America that Patrick O'Brian did, even though Cornwell's books are, in the reporter's view, "better plotted.
Because I really, really do--and his latest interview , with Dave Shulman of the LA Weekly , just adds to my enthusiasm, even if Dave tries a little too hard to keep up with his subject, character-wise. Maud also calls attention to Handler's answering of questions from Independent readers in the voice of Lemony Snicket, which is rather amusing in spots, as when he warns "there are countless people in Hollywood evil enough to play Count Olaf. Who knew his brother was a "famous-- or notorious, depending on how you regard graffiti--graffiti artist"? Well, you probably did, but I don't get out much.
We also learn that "Mr. Lethem's first four novels were experiments in form," which is apparently how the publishing industry now refers to early science fiction novels by respectable mainstream novelists these days. It probably wouldn't be fair to blame Lethem himself; after all, he's been upfront from the beginning about his broader literary aspirations, and he certainly hasn't shied away from the fantastic in his recent work.
Juan Felipe Herrera speaks about poetry with the new online literary journal Dislocate , and gives aspiring authors some mildly head-scratching advice:. Meanwhile, James Ellroy tells the Onion A. Club about a restorative technique that's more lucrative than not-writing, namely writing for Hollywood:. Robert Birnbaum talks to author Lan Samantha Chang about life as "a child of immigrants, raised in the Midwest" and how she chose her college:. I'd invited along Damian McNicholl right , author of A Son Called Gabriel , because I'd imagined that putting together the two authors, who've written about growing up in Wolverhampton Slater and Northern Ireland McNicholl in the '60s, might spark an interesting conversation.
After trading notes on London neighborhoods for a bit, we turned to the origins of Toast in Slater's column for the Observer. A piece that he'd written about the memories associated with the British brand name foods he'd eaten as a child ran on a Sunday, the very next morning the phone calls from people offering book deals started coming in.
Despite steady pressure from the publishers of his cookbooks over the years, Slater had "never joined the celebrity band of cookery people," he said, carefully bracketing his personal life away from his public life. So a frank account of his childhood seemed counterintuitive at first, but he eventually became more comfortable with the idea.
Meanwhile, McNicholl had finished writing what he called a "cutting-my-teeth" novel which he almost immediately shelved, turning next to what he readily acknowledges as "a semi-autobiographical fiction--though I won't tell anybody which parts are real. McNicholl believes their emotional involvement with their material works in their favor. I hadn't known about it when I started Toast , but both stories deal with their authors' sexual confusion as young kids, dealing with the subject in a "fuzzy" says Slater way that allows, McNicholl observed, readers to "make the leap" for themselves.
He noted that when the memoir first came out in England last year, people wondered aloud if it was supposed to be a coming out book. McNicholl pointed out that his novel was as much about the corrosive effect of family secrets as it was about any one character's sexuality, which led the three of us to talk about how all families, including our own, had something kept hidden from the outside world. Then McNicholl and I chatted with Slater about his American book tour, which was just beginning its second leg. McNicholl had written for Beatrice about touring , and Slater had been in the States a few weeks earlier to read on the West Coast, so they had some stories to tell about favorite bookstores.
Slater had never read to an audience from the book when it was published in England though he did do both the audiobook and an adaptation for the BBC , so this was all a new experience for him, but he's finding the American audiences "delightful. Both worth a look if all you've heard about these nominees is in the press and maybe here, but the Bynum piece in particular has a lot of great stuff in it about her grad school background and what was on her mind as she wrote Madeleine Is Sleeping.
Robert Birnbaum posts his latest Identity Theory interview, chatting with Don Lee about, among other things, writing his first novel, Country of Origin :. He answers my e-mail [and] practically everyone in the company knows me by personal association. Knopf author for 32 years, until moving to Houghton Mifflin for Heir to the Glimmering World and in all that time never had a book tour.
Why not? She shrugged and said: Because they never asked me. Over at Nextbook , Natascha Freundel talks to Amos Oz , who was also recently featured in the New Yorker , the subject of a David Remnick profile --and, not surprisingly, a long Jerusalem Post interview. Leroy , it tells you.
Warren St. John profiles the " the de rigueur literary recommendation for a certain set of hipsters " who "has been embraced by established writers including Tobias Wolff, Michael Chabon and Mary Gaitskill, and by a cadre of celebrities with, as it happens, their own troubled pasts, like Courtney Love, Winona Rider, Tatum O'Neal and Billy Corgan. Of course, his popularity is pretty much among readers who, unlike the Sunday Styles target audience, don't need to be told who Billy Corgan is.
Mind you, the deft and imaginative " baby celebrity " hasn't exactly escaped notice from the Times in the past, but a maybe the folks at the Review don't talk to the Styles people or there's nobody left at the Review who remembers those pieces, b the Styles people don't think they get the same crowd the Review draws, or c why pass up a chance to tell a good story one more time? Now, if they could just do something about running these stories before the author's New York City readings Sarah Shun-Lien Bynum suggested we meet for lunch at a Korean restaurant around the corner from her office; the National Book Award-nominated novelist still makes ends meet by working as a consultant for non-profit organizations.
As the youngest of the five nominees for this year's fiction award, and the only one nominated for her first book, Bynum's arguably gotten knocks a little bit harder than those dished out to her four colleagues, but she's taking things in stride, noting that even if the book was attacked, its cover still appeared--in full color--on the front page of the NYT arts section.
It's the third piece the Times has run and they all seem to be making the same point, so a certain kind of immunity has built up. Henry collection," she enthused, recalling how much she enjoyed meeting Silber at the group photo shoot a few weeks earlier. But what of her own book, Madeleine Is Sleeping? Where does its fragmentary, deliberately dreamlike prose come from?
I was in such a state of excitement and agitation from reading all this and I wanted some way to apply all that stimulation to my writing. The title character, for example, was inspired by a footnote in Foucault about a man in 19th-century France who had been institutionalized after being caught receiving sexual favors from a young girl. What, she wondered, had been the girl's story, and why hadn't anyone thought to tell it? Another character was inspired by her fury at the treatment of a secondary character in the film Tous Les Matins du Monde ; as she remarked, with a bit of a laugh, "So often fiction seems like an opportunity to rewrite stories when you're not happy how they turn out.
So where does Bynum go from here? Her boss will be shutting down the consulting firm at the end of the year, and Bynum said she might be ready to return to teaching, perhaps even teaching creative writing now that she's a published author. In the meantime, she's savoring the nomination: "This whole process has been so astonishing that not much could diminish my delight. I called Kate Walbert a little after p. Veteran's Day, after she'd put her two children to sleep, and asked if she had seen Caryn James' complaints about the National Book Award shortlist that morning. At this point, it's funny.
This is just another angle The shelf life is even shorter, perhaps, for short story collections, even ones linked thematically, as hers is by its focus on a group of suburban women "of a certain age," as the Times "Metropolitan Diary" might say. She joked about an upcoming reading at the public library in Darien, Connecticut, as an excursion into " Our Kind territory," but insisted "it's not really Connecticut women I picture, although I've been around a lot of them.
I've always been interested in that generation of women; I find them to be so unique--a little too late, a little too early. The women in the stories are bonded together by Walbert's use of the first person plural voice, a move that took her by surprise when she wrote the first story, "The Intervention," in the mid-'90s. Taking the controversy over the shortlist in stride, she passed along her daughter's compliment for getting a sticker on her book and remarked, "Any time would be a tremendous thrill, but I'm so happy to be on this particular list, the first list that's all women, and be able to stand back and watch the reaction.
And it gives me four great writers to read. When they met for the first time, she recalled, "it was just five people who love books. We talked a little bit about the press, a little bit about our Amazon rankings, and then we talked about the books we were reading. I think the bond came out of that more than anything else.
Maud Newton interviews Josh Melrod , one of the editors of The Land Grant College Review , which raises funds not by holding readings here in Manhattan, but by hosting parties like the one last night where the booze flowed freely and smokes were handed out gratis :. Chipping in for the kegs cases? Nelly Reifler, that is. Not Auster and Hustvedt. But they'd fit right in with the other first-rate talents who are popping up in this magazine, as you'll see when you poke around the archives online.
National Book Award nominee Joan Silber left isn't too upset by the backlash against a fiction shortlist that includes her "ring of stories," Ideas of Heaven , and books by four other women. She's actually managing to enjoy being at the heart of a literary scandal. Fellow nominee Lily Tuck right agreed, and pointed out the industry's confused or even "double-faced" posturing over the awards. I mentioned a point that had come up in my earlier conversation with Christine Schutt about Knopf's bottom-line decision to turn down her novel, which finally found a home at Northwestern University Press, and asked if either of them had felt themselves in similar jeopardy.
But before that I switched publishers three times, and each time it was a struggle to find a new one. The two authors were acquainted with each other before the National Book Foundation released its nominations; Tuck had thrown a book party for mutual friend Margot Livesey where she met Silber, and the two had stayed in touch. But the bond between them--and the other three nominees--has strengthened in the last month. Of next week's ceremony, Silber observed, "It's terrible not to let us know in advance.
This is the only literary award that does that. I'm still sitting on the fence about actually renting a tux, seeing as I'll be well off the main floor for most of the proceedings Both were hesitant to discuss the exact nature of their new work, but Tuck allowed that it wouldn't be another historical novel, and both enthused over how much fun the research process was.
If I could, I'd probably still be reading books about Paraguay instead of having written the novel. The Paris Review interviews were one of the main inspirations when I decided to start talking with writers , though I can't pretend to anything like their thoroughness. As you can see for yourself starting tomorrow, when the magazine begins publishing its entire archive of interviews freely accessible online. They're releasing two interviews with William Styron for whom, not so coincidentally, they're throwing a party tonight and everything else from the s goes live Monday, while the remaining material will be staggered over the next six to eight months.
This will certainly make up for losing the tattered paperbacks I horded during college and graduate school until I had to de-accessorize to pay the rent one month I have very excellent reasons why I won't be able to attend Happy Ending on November 17th, but I'm still kicking myself in anticipation of missing what promises to be a heck of a show. Why am I telling you this now? Well, pretty much because Mediabistro had the smarts to get Rubinstein talking about his amazing true crime tale, Ballad of the Whiskey Robber --but then, calling it true crime is a bit like calling George Plimpton's Paper Lion a sports story or Tom Bissell's Chasing the Sea a travelogue.
I met Christine Schutt for lunch last week at a diner near her apartment on the Upper East Side, and while we waited for our sandwiches in as quiet a corner as we could find, I asked if she felt that she'd had a chance to enjoy the nomination of her novel, Florida for the National Book Foundation's fiction award, given the almost immediate backlash against her and the other four nominees. She had, she said, though she was "quite surprised" by the negative press. But the response has been otherwise.
So she was somewhat nervous when Deborah Solomon called wanted to interview her for the NYT magazine. Like Solomon, I noted that Knopf, which published Schutt's collection of short stories, passed on the novel. The editor who took over from him liked Florida enormously, but I don't think she had the power to put it through It was just a corporate decision. Stories like his and hers seem to undercut the argument from big publishing houses that books that aren't obvious commercial blockbusters are bad for the industry; if anything, they indicate that the biggest players might ever-so-slowly losing their touch for picking good books.
You live long enough to see it happen again and again, and you get used to it, but still The problem affects even those nominees who were published by the major houses, as Schutt learned when she tried to buy their books. For now, she's looking forward to joining the four authors on a road trip to the public library in Darien, Connecticut for a group reading this weekend, and then the awards ceremony next week.
Two of my favorite bloggers get together when Maud Newton interviews Terry Teachout about "the process and ethics of formal and informal criticism" and other literary issues. I'm not sure I buy into the first half of this reasoning completely--for one thing, hating on Broadway producers seems a bit too easy , and for another, I'm not totally sold on the idea that the wealthy whether artists or producers are due less consideration because they can shield themselves more comfortably against your criticism--though in all fairness I'd guess that's not the lesson Terry would want us to draw from his remarks.
I agree much more solidly with another portion of Terry's statement on this subject: "If not used in scrupulous moderation, [snark is] bad for the soul. I also think he's absolutely right that mockery is the best response to pretension; or, as I told one person who asked me if I thought ridicule was an effective means of communication, "Yes, when I wish to communicate that I find something ridiculous.
Terry, by the way, can also be seen in yesterday's NYTBR where he illuminates the life and work of Anthony Powell with barely a trace of snark, and that only for the unclever prose of Powell's biographer. He finds the media's emphasis on treating The Line of Beauty as a big gay novel "quite depressing," given how much more there is to be found in his work. While Hollinghurst was up in Toronto, one of that city's novelists, M.
Vassanji , came down to New York. He's from an Indian family that had been living in Kenya for two generations when he was born, and came to America in the s for a college education, an experience that proved transforming in more ways than one. In such a tight community, like the one I grew up in, it was never an issue.
Cory Doctorow , one of my favorite contemporary novelists, talks to English Matters , the newspaper for George Mason U. To those who say such a move would bankrupt authors by taking away their royalties, he raises this point well worth considering:. GalleyCat referred me to a Newsday interview with David Gilbert , who took up fiction when he was young because "creative writing was the only thing at school that wasn't graded.
Speaking of the question of an author's favorite authors, I've been sitting on this Walter Mosley link for a while, but he has his own take on the subject:. I'm still working my way through The System of the World , so I'll have to wait a few days before I can say anything about that to you, but in the meantime here's Neal Stephenson's Slashdot appearance , in which the science fiction novelist takes questions from one of his core audiences and gets to go on at much greater length than any newspaper or magazine would give him--which leads to some great ideas and some great stories.
The Davis Enterprise checks in on Kim Stanley Robinson , making me feel bad that I haven't even held a copy of Forty Degrees of Rain in my hands yet, let alone started reading it. He explains how his science fiction career is linked to his childhood:. After reading the article, though, I'm a bit more interested in his present, where he gets together with other Davis writers like Karen Joy Fowler and Sean Stewart so they can write in the same room without any distractions Meanwhile, Jordan Rosenfeld of AlterNet chats with Ben Marcus about the " new American short story ," like for example what exactly that's supposed to be, which is anything it wants to be, as long as it meets this criteria: "I wanted it to be memorable, to transport me, to consume me, devour me and completely engage and fascinate me, as well as trouble and confuse me.
I wanted to be overcome by stories in different kinds of ways. I've been sitting on the books themselves way too long, too, and I should really do something about that soon. Ed sums up most of what I would've said about the NYT profile of Toni Bentley , though I probably would've had made some "scummy little" comment about the "no less a highbrow than Leon Wieseltier" line. It's rather amusing, actually, to read through what one imagines as the struggle between Charles McGrath's infatuation with a not unattractive woman writing unabashedly about her anal sex adventures and his refined critical sensibilities, which find her "a throwback" in "the old tradition of hyperbole and overwriting" "nonsense, of course, but it's sometimes splendid nonsense.
Bentley is not your typical dirty-book writer," he assures us, but frankly, apart from the ballerina gig, she sounds a lot like every "dirty-book writer" I've ever met: well-educated women who aren't afraid to redefine sexual expression in their own terms, as entertaining or as informative as they want it to be. Maybe he should go catch a Rachel Kramer Bussel reading sometime so he can find out what today's "dirty-book writers" are really like.
The IT Conversations website recently recorded Wheaton reading from the book and answering audience questions, then slapped it online for all us I've always had the self-awareness to consider not having read the Adrian Mole novels a substantial gap in my cultural literacy. So I can't say that I entirely get this profile of Sue Townsend in The Independent , but the emotional register of the passages dealing with Townsend's gradual loss of sight is easily grasped.
On the other hand, if Adrian Mole and the Weapons of Mass Destruction is really the end of the series, maybe I will find the courage to plow my way through early next year, when The Karen Black Project is behind me Speaking of which, watch this space all this week for details It's a pleasant surprise for both the lazy assumptionalists and the careful readers, then, to see her seemingly cowed in the presence of genius when she interrogates Edward P. You would be too, I'm thinking, given the singleminded directness with which he seems to approach his vocation as a writer.
So my curiosity was piqued when he talked to Gothamist yesterday well, I assume he talked to them before yesterday, but you see what I mean and learned how location shapes philosophy:.
Meanwhile, the Significant Other, remembering my previous thoughts on Toni Bentley and her sodomemoir, alerted me to the inevitable Salon interview. No real surprises here for anybody who's been following the topic, unless you count the Anglo-Saxon vocabulary Salon lets her use to describe the hygenic concerns, which you certainly weren't going to find in the Times. Pulitzer-winning biographer Elizabeth Frank talks to Jennie Yabroff of Newsday about her first novel, Cheat and Charmer , which inspired Michiko Kakutani to get her hate on earlier this week.
I've only just started the novel, so I'll wait until next week to say more, but the Kakutani pan strikes me as somewhat lazy in its use of the press kit blurbs as a bludgeon against the author. New York readers who want further opportunity to judge for themselves can catch Frank at her neighborhood bookstore, Three Lives , on October Salon kicks off an irregular series of "authors who, while admired by their peers, haven't quite found the audience they deserve" as David Bowman chats with Vermont-based Craig Nova , who makes a blatant bid to attract Maud's interest :.
Robert Birnbaum gets Jennifer Finney Boylan , who writes about her transformation from James to Jennifer in She's Not There , to drive down from Maine for one of his extended conversations and learns why she believes her audience extends beyond the assumed appeal to transgendered readers:. One of my favorite books last year was Daniel Pinchbeck's Breaking Open the Head , which is to shamanic drug ingestion what Paper Lion to professional football--that is to say, a remarkable work of participatory journalism.
To strain the parallel even further, it's worth noting Pinchbeck's status as a founding editor of Open City. Mind you, his first answer starts off "I think Gurdjieff has the right idea," and gets deeper into High Weirdness from there, so about half of you who follow this link are going to think I'm a kook for recommending it--just don't say I didn't warn you.
Heck, even I think some of his ideas are a little flaky, but others are pretty darn insightful, and the book itself displays a healthy sense of skepticism, though not quite as much as John Horgan's Rational Mysticism , which I recommend even more highly. Stephen Elliott 's making his way around the country this month, reading from his campaign diary, Looking Forward to It.
I'll be doing my utmost best to catch him in Brooklyn on the 21st, but in the meantime--and before I start reading the book itself--I'm brushing up with some help from this online exclusive interview with Newsweek. It's got some background on Operation Ohio , Elliott's plan to organize writers who will spend Election Day calling college students in four swing states--Ohio, Iowa, Wisconsin, and Florida--and reminding them to vote.
If you've read the NYTBR literary website roundup, let me just repeat the praise handed out to Maud Newton and Identity Theory , both of which happen to have great new interviews. Maud, who the Times singles out for conducting "the kind of conversation that should happen more often in the book world," talks with Chris Lehmann in a new series of discussions of criticism with critics.
Meanwhile, Robert Birnbaum gets into it with Jonathan Ames , which may surprise folks who know him primarily through the recent Wodehouse-hommaging it's a word if I say it is! Wake Up, Sir! But soon enough, Ames dishes insider info: "Some people might have read Hemingway and wanted to write action hunting scenes. I read Wodehouse, and I wanted to write these ludicrous small descriptions of the way a valet might move. I've said it before , but that was six months ago, so I'll say it again: we already have Tom Robbins, Robert Pirsig and Richard Bach, so what do we need with Coelho?
Still, the handful of fans he has in the States can be awfully cute with their pretensions:. Yeah, Lord knows it can be hard to "get" groundbreakingly original concepts like "following your dream. And he is promoting a film based on an Evelyn Waugh novel, after all. In which regard Fry chats with The A. Club about Waugh's fiction:. Reading this article prompted me to visit, for the first time, Fry's official website , wherein I learned that the book I know and love as Revenge is called The Star's Tennis Balls over in the UK.