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Desdmona's Erotic Story Contests
2004 Typewriter Contest
Second Prize

Come Back, Jen

PLUNK PLUNK PLUNK PLUNK PLUNK PLUNK PLUNK P-L-A-T-O-N-I-C. Platonic. Contains the word ton. Heaviest goddamn word in the dictionary – as dull and plodding as this manual typewriter; PLUNK, PLUNK, FUCKING PLUNK. Platonic.

Joyless, imagination-squelching, wholly stingy (not holy). A word that bruises the bottom lip on its way out. PLUNK. Drops like a lifeless blob of clay from the mouth. Once it smacks the ground it’s pretty clear it aint going anywhere. Won’t roll, don’t slide. Just sits there staring back. Big, steaming heaps of platonic everywhere. You’re lucky if you don’t step in one.

Really, Jennifer – (Call me Juniper, you whispered the night we met – me, on top, moaning your name like a mantra: Jen, Jennifer; you, all sighs and heaves below me – hhhhhhhhhh call me Juniper ) – really, Juniper, I’m still having a hard time believing the word “platonic” ever passed your lips (those Christly unplatonic lips of yours – both sets). Jennifer. Juniper. The Queen of Words. Word Meister. Word monger. Lover of words, mocker of words. You knew the power of them. Especially in the bedroom.

Jesus, the words you whispered in my ear, Jen. I should have written them down, typed them out, squirreled them away on scraps of paper for later consumption. Sure, I breathed a few hot syllables of my own into that exquisite, triple-pierced ear of yours, but with you, Jen, it was a dangerous game. A word could just as easily turn you off as on – bing! – just like that. Shit. I was never really sure whether to open my mouth or keep it shut. In the end I suggested you draft me a list: words you could tolerate, words you couldn’t. It was a joke, Jen, but I should have guessed it would be exactly your kind of fun.

You were up and off my dick in a hot second. I can still see you sitting over there, beside the sari-draped window (sari’s gone now, along with all your little touches) half naked at the typewriter (this typewriter – “E. Manual” you named him, goddamn old dinosaur. PLUNK PLUNK PLUNK. You rescued him from a Sunday morning garage sale like one might a sorry old hound from the pound. Two bucks fifty, if I recall). Yep, I can see you sitting at that desk over there, lavishing all your attentions on E. Manual (lucky bastard) wearing only the top of your string bikini (you know the one: Fawn-brown. Mock-suede. Little Pocahontas fringes that leapt up and down when you rode me; lucky cow-hide cups that didn’t mind sharing a hint of your nipples – two brown crescent moons slipping out, whispering of hidden molehills that I longed to kiss into mountains).

You sat there, Jen, plunking E. Manual instead of fucking me, looking up every now and then with lusty mischief in your eyes. Fifteen minutes and half a joint later, you snatched the paper from E’s jaws, all efficient and breezy like Miss Mary Secretary, and folded it concisely into a perfect paper airplane. It wasn’t until you took aim at the bed that you finally noticed what I was doing to myself. You shook your head and rolled your eyes, but the smirk at the corner of your lips was indulgent – generous, like your bikini top. Generous Jen (what happened to you, Juniper?). By the time I’d unfolded the airmail, you were already plunking away at the second page. Plunkety, plunkety, plunk, plunk, ding! How did you manage to make even old E. Manual seem young?

I found those two sheets of paper this morning jammed at the back of my beside drawer, all sacrilegiously coffee-stained and ripped. I’m re-typing it for you here – PLUNK, PLUNK, FUCKETY, PLUNK:

For Jim. The NO List: (tight-assed chicken-shit words that should never pass your lips)



CLIMAX (especially the verb. Use that word with me one more time, Jim, and the only head you’ll be getting is the froth on top of your beer)

PROFANITY (unless preceded by the word “Fuckin’” – Fuckin’ profanity, eh? What’s the world coming to?)

TEAT (not sure why)

SOIL – the verb (Crap your drawers and you can still maintain a little dignity, but someone who “SOILS their underpants, Mother” deserves to be pissed on)




STOOL (the brown kind)

DISCHARGE (the white kind)

CUNNILINGUS (goes without saying the act is divine – but the word sounds like a fungus – some sort of creeping crotch rot.)

BEAVER (grow up)



FUCKAMATE (just kidding. If it were a word, it would be on the Yes list for sure!)


RECTUM (arse-hole, please!)

“IF YOU’RE WILLING, MOTHER” (It’s what an old geezer in a book I once read whispered in his wife’s ear every night as he raised her nightie. I chucked the book in a BFI bin.)

CLIT (hot word, but sounds too much like a Bic lighter that won’t light – clit, clit, clit. Who’s got a friggin’ match?)

BRASSIERE (unless you’re referring to one of those Tent ‘n Awning dealies that old Italian women wear. Otherwise, tit-sling’ll do)

The YES! list:



SUCCUBUS (ever wake up after an eight-hour sleep and feel all sucked out for no reason, Jim? Heh heh. Look it up in the dic)

LICKETY-SPLIT (pretty please)


FINGER – the verb

TONGUE – the verb

NOSE – the verb (Oxford Definition: to thrust or rub one’s nose against or into. Oo-la-la!)


EJACULATE – the noun, NOT the verb (love the way it rhymes with immaculate. His conception was immaculate; totally free of ejaculate!)

LIBIDINOUS (granted, a little uppity, but oh, so gorgeous. Can almost hear the word “forbidden” in it)

TESTICULAR (beautiful sound. Bum rap it only ever gets stuck in front of the word Cancer. It should be paired with something just as pretty – um ... Gesticulation, maybe.)

TESTICULAR GESTICULATION – (You know, that little up-and-down ballet the balls sometimes do? Now, how to use that at a party ... )



GROPE (Mmm, the sweaty ugliness of that one)

COCK-A-LEEKIE (Even better: cock-a-leaky. Cock-a-leaky stains.)

LUBE JOB (I know it’s a car term, Jim, but yum!)

HEAD (on the unmade bed while the limousines wait in the street. Leonard C., you rascal)




WET SPOON (I can be a knife, and I can be a fork, but I’d rather be your wet spoon)




WET... com’ere, Jim

You know what I really liked about you, Jen? For all your balls, for all your bold and brassy doors, you still had a few shy ones. Ones you were reluctant to hand over the keys to. Things you wouldn’t do. Things you wouldn’t say. Surprising little islands of inhibition. You had trouble with the “C” words, do you remember? “Cock”, “Cunt”. As stupid as you felt about it, you couldn’t say them. Had to skin that cat some other way. “Come to my border,” you’d whisper, “and I’ll let your cockamamie into my cuntry.” Cockamamie. You used to kill me, Jen. From that time on you referred to my prick as your ‘illegal alien’. “I want to harbour you.” Remember?

For a while I wished I could just be a regular guy with a penis, a “dick”, even. But the old standbys bored you. You preferred to have euphemisms for euphemisms. “Get over here,” your hands on my fly, “Let’s let the Dicky Dee man out for a little air.” My Dicky Dee, my Prickle, my Woody Woodpecker – it pines for you, Jen. Suddenly I’m back to being what I thought I wanted to be – just a guy with a penis. The boredom of that fact alone is enough to suffocate me.

Once, when we were eating ice cream, naked, I asked if you liked the word lick (I think I was jealous of your French Vanilla – craving your tongue). You bit the pointy end from the bottom of your cone and hung the leaky end above your mouth, head tilted back, catching the drips. I knew I was jealous when you started sucking the cream from the hole. You answered with your mouth full. The word suck is better, you said, as single words go, but really, it was the combinations that interested you. You told me to pick a verb, any sexy verb, and put “hot” in front, or “hard” behind it. “You’ll increase its power a hundred-fold, babe. Really. Try it.” I chose “come” of course. “Hot or hard?” you wanted to know. “Hard.” You rewarded me with a vanilla kiss. “Come Hard – my favourite!” A person could knock their brains out for all eternity, you said, and not come up with a sexier pair.

You were right about the power of combinations. Take two fairly innocuous words – “just” and “friends” for example, and see what happens when you put them together. “Just friends”. The deadliest pair going. I don’t want to be your friend, Jen. I liked it better when we were lovers. People who were never lovers to begin with, they can be “just friends”. But how can a guy be a pal to a woman who once licked his dicky dee in the back row of the Concert Hall while the orchestra played Bolero, who once welcomed him to her cuntry with open arms (legs), and now refuses to stamp his passport? It’s not on, Jen. It can’t be done.

And no, I don’t want to “do coffee” with you. I want to do breakfast with you, in bed, after I’ve done you. I want to have supper with you. In bed. Chinese, from take-out cartons, in front of the tube. You, pointing a chopstick at Woody Allen and just about choking on your Chicken Guy Kue. That laugh of yours. I used to hate Woody Allen. Now I rent “Manhattan” on a regular basis and my heart breaks for the guy. Me and Woody. Fuck.

P-PLUNK-L-PLUNK-A-PLUNK-T-PLUNK-O-PLUNK-N-PLUNK-I-PLUNK-C-PLUNK. The very need for such a word presupposes something finer, lighter. A helium balloon of pleasure. Fill it with lead. Clunk. You’ve got platonic. I know. I know I know. I’m obsessing. But really, Jen, doesn’t that word deserve to be on your “tight-assed” list? Isn’t it just the kind of word you would have loved to hate? I’ve been trying to remember exactly how it came out of your mouth; the words you packed around it. Why can’t I remember? What was it you.... Oh.............. Oh, shit no.

It’s been five hours and six ounces of Rye since I’ve had the guts to face E. Manual again, to sit back down in front of his ugly mug and continue this god-forsaken plunking. I remember now. (It was easier forgetting). It wasn’t you, Jen. It was me. I’m the idiot that dropped the word; dropped the plutonium. “No, I won’t share you,” I said. “You’re mine,” – fool, fool, fool – “and if you want to lick other guys, maybe it’ll just have to be platonic between you and me.”

ULTIMATUM: another fuckin’ idiotic word. Turns you into a loser more than half the time.

PLUNK, PLUNK, PLUNK, PLATONIC. Plate tectonics. Plutonic. Do you know your geology, Jen? Plutonic rock sits like a ton weight deep in the earth’s groin. Just sits there, heavy, dead and useless. But I take heart in Geology’s three premises: 1) No rock is accidental. 2) Every Rock is capable of change. 3) That change is inevitable because the earth, like a man’s body is alive at its centre with hot, churning, molten energy. Energy enough to form mountains. Enough to make plates rise and butt and thrust. To take your heavy plutonic rock and melt it; pulverise it till it’s crazy with heat. And what happens then, Jen, to the earth’s spunk, to its hot, hot juice? The stuff is forced up, up, up, looking for a vent; a stiff tunnel ... a way to ... come ... hhhard... somewhere ... anywhere to..... ejacu...hhhhhh... ohhhh...

... Jesus. Look at that, Jen. Immaculate ejaculate. Cock-a-leaky everywhere – all over E. Manual’s face, yet – and not a Moist Towelette in sight. This isn’t the way it should be. It’s not the kind of wet I want. Come back and contain me, Jen. Harbour me. I’ll share. I’ll do anything. Just come. Hard.

Smokey Sexsmith is the pseudonym for a children’s author with four published books and a contract for a fifth due out in 2005. She has published three short stories, two of them erotic, in various small circulation magazines. She likes to flit from kid lit to tit lit (the more titilating the better) just to keep her writer’s mind agile.

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Desdmona's Erotic Story Contests
2004 Typewriter Contest
Second Prize