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Desdmona's Erotic Story Contests
2007 Sixties Erotica Contest
Honorable Mention

Plaster Caster

Alex had broken into an empty house, jimmied a lock on the bottom floor, and then we’d slid though a window, one after another like soldiers into a foxhole. Our actions felt dangerous at the time, and also romantic, and very much like a political statement. We set up house in the basement. I went through all the records and pulled the good ones out. Neil Young, Buffalo Springfield, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Rolling Stones, Janis Joplin, Beatles, Doors, and Jimi Hendrix. Alex loved Jimi Hendrix. While I lit incense and candles, Alex found food and then wine by nearly toppling into a wine cellar.

“Alex!” I’d stood at the top looking down, waiting for another expletive, placing my hands on each side of the wall, waiting. “Alex?”

His face had appeared below me in a pool of light coming in through a window behind me. In his hands he’d gripped two wine bottles.

“You could have broken your legs or neck, you know.”

Alex had grinned at me. I’d dropped my hands from the wall and breathed.

Later, we wore nothing but black turtleneck sweaters, naked from the waist down; my heart beat faster; we sat touching knees on the floor. Alex had a boner. I coveted the smell of Merlot on his breath. We kissed, snaked our tongues. His shaggy hair stuck to his neck and forehead, sideburns like Peter Fonda’s. We’d made out countless times before, done oral, everything but or so they said. I lay back on a tongue of shag carpeting, Alex’s spit fresh on my lips, and the carpet beneath me licked my ass. Alex stood and opened a window, and I admired his plump, white ass cheeks as I opened my legs and felt a breeze kiss my panting vulva. Right there, I sweat as if I had a fever in my crotch. Alex knelt between my thighs while Jimi Hendrix sang, Excuse me while I kiss the sky, and the record crackled like what I sometimes heard inside a pillow at night. The world moved too fast lately. Man on the Moon. Boys I’d gone to high school with now in Vietnam.

Alex liked to look at me; he stared between my legs then leaned in and kissed my kneecaps, one after the other, then slid his knuckles across my cunt. I saw color, gold, on the insides of my eyelids. Incense and peppermints, he said about my smell. Jimi’s raw guitar playing soared above me. Alex had heard about two chicks who’d plaster casted Jimi’s dick. Wouldn’t that just be the way to be immortalized? Sure beats ashes in an urn. Some parents got body parts back from Nam or empty caskets. I opened my eyes. Pop. Alex finger fucked me with one hand and jerked off with the other.

Daniel, Alex’s best friend from high school, had come back from Nam with no legs and a face blank as a kitchen counter after my mother had wiped everything off it. Daniel would sit in a wheelchair in the middle of a party and not say a word to anyone. Night before he’d left for Nam, I’d kissed him goodbye, then he and Alex had argued and Daniel had shoved Alex into a swimming pool. Next day, after Daniel was gone, Alex had said, good, fucking asshole. And that’s when we’d begun to join protests. War pigs!

Alex lied beside me on the floor but didn’t feel close enough, which was weird. Twyla said I should tear up my draft card. Alex put his hand on my tit, flicked my nipple with his thumb. I held his hand to my breast, shivered. “Did you?”


Twyla was Alex’s cousin. Two weeks ago, she and I had sat outside on a lawn imagining different stars giving re-birth to Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy. Then Twyla had told me a story about Jimi Hendrix. Twyla of the Twiggy-huge eyes and ginger-brushed blond hair like Jayne Mansfield’s catching fire.

“So at a party,” she’d said, “he guided me against a wall before lifting one knee between my legs to push the hem of my skirt up and then just like this ...” Twyla held her mouth close to my ear, “he said did you count the stars tonight?”

I’d lied on the grass and tried. Did anyone else realize how many there were out there? I’d started to cry, and Twyla had held me and said, “What do you cry for, lovely?”

Since coming back, Daniel lived in a one-room apartment. On the outside of his door someone had carved, “Murderer.” He hadn’t painted over it, and he hadn’t mentioned it either. Actually he’d barely looked at me. He’d pushed his wheelchair up to the edge of a kitchen table, so I couldn’t see how abruptly his body ceased to exist.

“Do you need anything?” I’d already placed a basket my mother had sent with me on the counter: canned green beans, strawberries, sourdough bread, and fried chicken.

“Where’s Alex?”

“Want to see him?”


“Can I come back?”

“Why would you?”

“Because ... I’m sorry about what they put on your door.”

Daniel had backed his wheelchair away from the table. “Look Ma, no legs!”

I couldn’t look.

“Hey,” he’d said in a soft voice.

“What?” I’d looked at him then, in his eyes. A minute of helpless hopefulness, something I couldn’t articulate, aware of my own fear and contradictions. Coming here. Protesting. I’d taken a step backward, confused.

“Where you going?”

“I don’t know.” And I’d shaken my head then felt the anger rolling off Daniel. He’d wheeled his chair around and began tossing stuff from the basket onto the floor.

“Go back to your hippie boyfriend.” Liquid pooled near his feet; I saw a chicken leg, rolling strawberries.

Two day later, Alex had gotten thrown in jail, arrested for participating in a protest. War pigs. When I got home, my mother had her opinion. “Why would you love someone who doesn’t love you enough to protect you?” My grandfather had fought in World War II and come back seemingly whole. I hadn’t known how to ask her: what if he comes back different or doesn’t come back at all? We’d stood in the kitchen, my mother pressing dough with her hands, flour on the counter, on the floor, and then I’d remembered a moment ripe with heat and iced cola; the night before Daniel had left he’d said something before he’d kissed me. I love you, Nancy.

A guy could go to college. Protest. Dodge. Get somebody knocked up.

“Fuck me,” I told Alex on the basement floor that night.

Jimi Hendrix played. The air was ripe with body sweet smells and incense.

Yeah? OK. OK. Alex slid his finger inside me. Got to get you wet first. He kissed me, another warm tongue along the edge of my lip. What I hadn’t done was grab Daniel’s head between my hands that night and told him not to go. Now I was in a big hurry.

“I’m good,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

Alex pulled his finger from my cunt. OK. He smelled his finger, smiling.

“Now,” I said.

OK, OK. Alex spread himself over me, shaking. I saw it in his arms and met his eyes. Should I use something? he said.

“I don’t know. Spit?”

Alex licked his palm then spit in it twice. A second later, I experienced a weird sticky ripping sensation. I guessed because I hadn’t done it before. Alex went, Oh. Jimi’s guitar swelled above us. I closed my eyes and saw more colors: green then blue and then scarlet. I hurt inside, unbelievably painful. Alex gasped so loud I expected an explosion of stars and opened my eyes. A minute, later, Alex lowered himself beside me on the carpet and went altogether quiet like a fly crawling through gelled blood.

The song ended. Jimi’s never gonna die, Alex said.

Alana Noel Voth lives in Oregon with her ten-year-old son, one dog, two cats, and several freshwater fish. For story excerpts, rants and raves, publication news, random salacious musings, and some killer Supernatural Slash fiction visit Alana’s blog Thank you!

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Desdmona's Erotic Story Contests
2007 Sixties Erotica Contest
Honorable Mention