Anonymous Blonde

The Anonymous Blonde's Erotic Science Fiction Is Not Finished

So, this publishing house that does erotic science fiction commissioned a serial epic from me. The idea was to weave a multi-layered, fascinating yarn that played with concepts of time, space, sex, and celebrity. I only had to give them a few pages for this week, but I was still too lazy to work on it. So I'm just sending them this:

H'ai-Morchorain, Cruse Medallious. The Year of Our Haeuma 44300

Colloidia turned restlessly among the butterfly-winged caftas of her puruhna. Could it be true that she was not fulfilling her wifely duties? Was it possible that a female with such passion, who had possessed since her earliest youth that elusive quality the Elderchai called Fierloin, who had been trained in the art of Fak-wrestling and erotic acoustics, who had been infused with sex-vitamins and cocaine since she left her mother's outer tubules, whose long and elephantine limbs gleamed with scales as brilliant and bewitching as the rays of Idaminon's seven moons, whose lips dripped with rare honeys and whose soft palate was covered with a slick film of hallucinogens, whose expressive toes had inspired countless oeptas to eviscerate their own children--was it possible that a female with these credentials could fail to please her life-cooker? And yet her puruhna remained empty, save for the wailing of a few wormwomen who had failed to find their way home after the last rain. And yet, despite the shame she felt, Colloidia found she did not miss the touch of her life-cooker's hands upon her, heavy as a brace of kinesthetic swamp-shallots. In fact, the thought of his prickly gamturnesses pressed against her own delicate muolf, his murky table-breaker enveloping her third growth, caused an ice-cold oil to rise up from the depths of her Castanini gland and douse her shivering body in a wave of disgust. There was nothing to do but take another sex-vitamin from a compartment in her skull and strap her three exposed neurons to the Ballakingetic sexual reactor that glittered sympathetically over her puruhna.

On the other side of the city, Colloidia's life-cooker, Bellephronusius, was squirming among the sweat-dampened Catliver rushes in search of wormwomen to fulfill his perverse desires. He had already inserted some half-dozen of the fragile creatures into the swollen veins that protruded from his forehead and his empurpled hands, and had a mouthful of others who were still quivering too much to be properly inserted. In the light of Idaminon's seven moons, the wormwomen looked like beautiful pustules on a face that did not deserve them. Believing that he was alone, Bellephronusius allowed himself a long draught of contraband Merkin-blood. "Life is good," he said, jamming a newly-stiffened wormwoman into his primary blood vessel.

But he was not alone. Among the citrus-colored stars that hovered above him, a small ship hummed and circled. From his command station inside the ship, Captain Kadaf'hir Delancey surveyed Bellephronusius' distinctive heat signature with disgust. Heaving a deep sigh, the Captain entered a few coordinates into a band on his wrist. Instantly, a shimmering Corpogram of Colloidia's naked body appeared before him, luisant with sex-vitamins and the guts of oeptas' eviscerated children. The Captain thought about what it would be like to delicately lave Colloidia's third growth. He momentarily forgot his rage and he sank into a dream of extreme pleasure.
Paris, the 1920s

Anais Nin and Henry Miller were going at it. "Won't it be great when we write a bunch of erotic fiction?" she said. "Uh-huh," he said. Then he said something unprintable. Then they started to write some beautiful erotic fiction, but this pervert told them it had to be less beautiful, and they were sad.

London, the 16th century.

Sir Francis Drake quivered like a bowlful of Jell-O under his queen's voluminous skirts. They were certainly voluminous, but he could still see that she wasn't wearing underwear. She was, however, wearing a big sandwich board that read, "I am no man's Elizabeth." Outside, he could hear the deceptively tender voices of the Spanish Armada. "Come on out, Francis," they said. "We won't hurt you this time, promise. Can't you see that we love you?" Then they said, "Francis, we miss the sound of your voice." Finally, they slipped a little teddy bear underneath the Queen's skirts. It was wearing a little T-shirt that said "Coed Naked Privateering" on it. It was very cute. "Francis," said the Spanish Armada, "This is our teddy bear Mr. Ruggles. He gives us advice."

The teddy bear was very cute, and the Spanish Armada sounded very nice. Sir Francis Drake didn't know what to do. He felt like a mule stuck between two equally delicious bales of hay. Finally, he decided to just hold onto his little pearl earring and softly weep. Under the Queen's skirts there was nothing but the wailing of some wormwomen.

The Chancellor's Offices, The Pao-Labian Pleasure Planet.

Kimberley Titmouse extinguished her Quiverscope with an impatient flick of her wrist. "Is everything all right?" said her lover, Antonio Banderas. Only Kimberley's toes were in his mouth, so it sounded more like "EEuheeeggawwigh?" Bruce Campbell, who was wearing lipstick and a golden cat, yawned indolently into Kimberley's ear.

"I don't have time for this, boys," Kimberley snapped. "This is a very complicated project. How are we going to manage to sexually satisfy a bunch of aliens, Anais Nin, and Sir Francis Drake, AND preserve the space-time continuum?"

Bruce Campbell said something about the Tobester. Antonio said something about being suffocated.

"Of course!" cried Kimberley, her face glowing with the combined radiance of a girl having an orgasm and some fuel cells melting down due to a low carbon/monoxodil ratio. "Bruce, take a letter. Antonio, bring me my Bottle of Sex Droplets! I think I'm onto something!"