You’d think that telling chicks you write music for movies and live in a terrace in Darlinghurst would be a winner. It’s when they find out more that everything turns to custard.
Yeah, I really do write music for movies. Soft porn, since you ask. You know, girls lying on the bonnet of a Ferrari and slooooowly taking their kit off, licking their lips, then their fingers, and putting those fingers places where the camera goes on full zoom to follow. Nothing violent, sometimes a couple of lezzies, sometimes a girl with a guy, often a girl on her own.
This bloke in America makes the movies and pays me to do the music. Every time some horny bugger with his tongue hanging out downloads one of the movies it’s royalties for me too. It’s a nice little earner that bulks up the money I make being a sparky. Until the bloody ATO discovers me Paypal account.
Women I date don’t like it that I have to watch the porn to write the music but I can’t write without seeing what I’m writing for, can I?
When I was a kid I wanted to be a rock star. The only sensible thing Dad ever done for me was force me to become an apprentice electrician instead. Get a trade first, he said, so’s if the music shit doesn’t work out you got a day job. It didn’t work out but a few years back I taught myself how to compose music on a synth and computer, doof doof stuff that sells well on the internet for those dance and rave places where nobody gives a shit about the music but wants the beat.
One contact led to another and for the last year it’s been the porn music, regular stuff, one soundtrack every two or three weeks. Bland sort of music, and I bet nobody notices if one soundtrack isn’t very different to another when they’re watching the action. I wonder if most of the blokes who watch this stuff notice the music at all really. Continue reading
When Layla, trapped under a fallen bookcase, calls for divine help, the last person she expects to answer her call is the Fuck Up Fairy….. Warning: Bad Language, religious irreverence. 18+
It had NOT been Layla’s day. The hot water system had died a natural death during her shower, she’d been overcharged at Sainsbury’s for some very indifferent Bulgarian red, a trolley had added a new feature in the way of a creative dent in the rear panel of her car when she finally found it in the carpark (after almost dropping the two bottles she’d fought over), a traffic snarl made her fifteen minute journey home take 35, and that was all before 10am. Since then she’d learned the water system wouldn’t be fixed for at least three days, her boyfriend had left an ominous message on the answering machine that simply said, “We have to talk,” in a way that said he was about to dump her, the secretary of the CEO she was supposed to interview that afternoon (deadline for major business article: tomorrow) rang to say she’d got the dates mixed up and the CEO was currently en route to Rio de Janeiro and couldn’t be contacted, and a letter from the bank informed her politely she was overdrawn.
Layla fought the impulse to scream at the secretary, but instead persisted like a bulldog until she got the Rio hotel details out of the stammering woman. She had a feeling the telephone on the other end had turned, of its own accord, to ice. Great, now she could add a nice international phone call to the overdraft. Continue reading
Freddy Kingdom is a twentieth century woman living in the wrong millennium. She’s sitting in the last great sports car ever built, stuck in traffic on the world’s biggest roundabout. And she’s in the WRONG LANE… Warning: Sexual scenes, bad language, dodgy sci fi. 18+
Freddy Kingdom was stuck in traffic. This was an unusual occurrence. Freddy prided herself on being able to READ traffic, as far into the distance as possible, and make the appropriate split-second decisions to keep herself moving and passing as many vehicles as possible.
But she’d stuffed up. One moment’s reverie, one nanosecond’s lack of attention, and traffic had swallowed her.
Here she was, stuck in the world’s biggest roundabout. What’s more, she was stuck in the WRONG LANE.
Freddy groaned and thumped the steering wheel, and put on her indicator without much hope. The cars and maxibuses in front of her had stopped completely, which indicated either a breakdown or a fender-bender. An electric motor scooter, one of which she’d owned herself until last week, swept down the middle lane with a triumphant squeak of its low decibel horn. She switched off the motor, and the snarly sound of the Porfer ceased. Continue reading
When she’d created a fictional alien hero with three dicks, Lucy never dreamed she’d meet him….or sleep with him! Warning: Sex scenes, bad language. 18+
“The best thing about creating a world is that you can do exactly what you like with it.” Lucy was fond of saying this. In her tours to schools as a successful author, she found this always put thoughtful looks and big smiles on small faces.
Creating a world was exactly what Lucy had done. She had created Fod, the planet about which she’d written 25 stories and books to date. A crappy relationship had put her off writing for almost a year, much to the horror of her agent, and now she was over Jake – or Jerk, as she now privately called him – and was working on the synopsis for the new book. Continue reading
This time it’s a trip to Shakespeare’s England. Isabel ain’t your usual demure Tudor miss. She’s struggling to become a writer in a male-dominated world, even if it means cross-dressing, swilling beer and lighting farts. And the man of her dreams only had a bath last week… Warnings: Sex scenes, bad language, terrible liberties with history. 18+
Isabel tossed in her sleep. She was having the dream again.
Isabel sees the woman from behind. She is sitting in a peculiar chair, one spindle from the seat going down onto a brace affair with five wheels on the bottom. She is tapping her fingers on little grey squares and the glowing rectangle in front of her is throwing up words. The machine makes squawking noises every so often.
The woman sighs and scratches her head, then arches her back. She is wearing clothes like Isabel has never seen, a plain jersey and, of all things, trousers. No ruffles, no tight hose. She is dressed like a man in these cerulean blue trousers yet dressed like no man Isabel has ever seen. Her dark hair is loose and hangs to her shoulders. Continue reading
Well bred but impoverished Edwardian girl Henrietta needed a rich husband. Sebastian wanted a nubile young wife with money to match her charm. It’s up to Cyrus P. Brownknowes III to arrange things….but he didn’t take falling in love into account! Warning: Sexual scenes, bad language. 18+
Lord Sebastian Smallcock, Earl of Buttox, cleared his throat. “I must find a wife, Brownknowes. A rich one.”
Cyrus P. Brownknowes III, from New York, New York (as you might have guessed) was full of ideas. “Well, Seb -”
” – er, Lord Smallcock, you could get an ad made for television…”
“This is 1912, Brownknowes. Television won’t be invited for another thirty odd years.” Continue reading
What REALLY went on in the Dark Ages? Was King Arthur reallly pissed all the time? Was his sister Morgan really a lesbian? Were Guinevere and Lancelot really having it off? The introduction of gerbils to England and more is covered in this historical masterpiece! Warning: Sexual scenes, bad language, homosexuality, implied cruelty to gerbils. 18+
“He loveth me ….”
“….He loveth me not!”
“He loveth me….”
“….He loveth me not! Pustulent pox, it always endeth up as “he loveth me not”!” Queen Guinevere, spoilt teenaged queen of England, glared malevolently at her husband Arthur’s head torturer, a robust, muscly, hairy man clad in tight black leather trousers and a black mask on his face. It turned her on just watching him work. Continue reading
Hopelessly interbred Kate discovers the joys of first love during the Second World War in an English village so secret even its name is censored. Sexual references, bad language. 18+
Overhead the lumbering Lancasters limped back to the airfield, one with a portside engine on fire, one wavering perilously, almost falling from the sky, but most were intact. They just looked – weary.
Kate Harpington-Smythe looked eagerly at each tired ‘plane, hunting for the name on the nose. And there it was! K for Kate! Algy’s ‘plane! If she looked carefully she fancied she could see Algy, the tail-end Charlie, waving at her.
She waved frantically in return, her heart thudding absurdly. He was safe!
Kate helped out on a volunteer basis at the canteen at the airfield at Upp*r F*ttock (the name was top secret, and censored), which was how she had met Algy in the first place. Continue reading
Alix had been through enough men to become highly cynical. She’d had enough six-week relationships to kill her belief in love as a male emotion. When she met Mal she promised herself she wouldn’t fall in love…especially with a man who was writing a book called The Guide To Advanced Bastardry and had turned bonk-em-and-leave-em into an art form! Warning: this story contains sex and bad language. 18+
Mal Jackson was proud of his status as a bastard. Not meaning a person born out of wedlock, but his ability to be a total shit, particularly in the love ‘em and leave ‘em field. He was even writing a book about it: The Guide To Advanced Bastardry. Initially he had started it as a kind of memoir just for himself, then thought that perhaps other people would like to read it. After all, it was humorous, people could relate to it and it explained the difference between the sexes a lot better than Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus. Undoubtedly he’d cop a lawsuit or two if it was ever published, but it would mean that men everywhere could revel in their bastardry. Many did anyway, he knew, but this was one self-help book that might make them feel a lot better about their behaviour. Continue reading