Eric Allard explaining to Scott Gairdner how the cat-piloted Chewbacca robot is going to work. (at Warner Bros. Studios)
Once again I got to read at the great Competitive Erotic Fan Fiction show at Meltdown, and here’s what:
COMPETITIVE EROTIC FAN FICTION
Toby the terrier mix heard a human voice say “Wah wah wah wah WAH wah wah wah Toby!” as he was lifted by the nape of his neck and placed in the middle of a small, cartoony replica of a football field. He looked around excitedly, his glistening little lipstick shlong wagging like a sideways metronome. A dozen other puppies of various breeds clambered over and chased each other among scattered plush toys in a frolicsome maelstrom, and the astro-turf smelled like plastic and shit. From deep within Toby’s ancestral wolf soul an overwhelming feeling reverberated, a feeling that set Toby’s haunches jerking rhythmically like a mechanical stapler. Toby was too young to know that what he was feeling was horniness. All he knew is that he saw a bunch of dog butts that he wanted to treat like human ankles, and a bunch of stuffed animals that he wanted to treat like dog butts. In that primal split-second, if Toby could’ve understood his own thoughts, and those thoughts were translated into English, his mind would be echoing with five stentorian words: “Let’s. Get. Our. Hump. On.”
Toby’s nose shuddered with the excitement of vast inhalation as he processed the odors around him. Poodle with a vagina and butt. Golden Retriever with a dick and butt. Beagle with a dick and butt. Cocker Spaniel with a vagina and butt. Dick and butt. Vagina and butt. Dick and butt. Dick and butt. Vagina and butt. Vagina and butt. Vagina. Vagina. Dick. Butt. Butt. Butt. Butt. Butt. As the radius of smell grew wider and weaker he could only detect the butts. “I can work with this,” his tiny brain thought in words Toby couldn’t process. And he was off!
First up, a feisty little Yorkshire Terrier who was panting quietly among the chaos. “Hey Yorkie, time to porky,” thought Toby (again, were he to have human thoughts and those thoughts were translatable into English). Before she knew what hit her, he hit it. “Huh huh huh huh HUH!” And he didn’t quit it until the thing between his legs had jettisoned its mayonnaise packet of pleasure into her tiny sandwich of also pleasure. BLAM! Toby dismounted as the little bitch shivered with confused ecstasy. “Five. Five dollar. Five dollar inch looooong!” thought Toby in primitive canine terms, and again, were those thoughts possibly translated into English, said Subway jingle would be the best approximation of those thoughts. For our purposes. Here. Tonight.
Toby lept forward, and in a single bound was on top of a little Shih Tzu whom neither him nor herself knew was named Eowyn, after the character from ‘Lord of the Rings’ who’d never been fucked by a terrier mix. During that split-second leap, his glistening Chapstick had recharged completely, and was ready to discharge another dollop of mutt-making juice into wherever it was thrusted. Unlike that stupid Yorky, this Shih Tzu was an old pro. “Do me doggystyle!” she yipped. “Oh no,” Toby growled mischievously, “I’m gonna do you puppystyle.” With a “huh huh” here and a “huh HUH huh” there, Toby knew that Eowyn wouldn’t Shih Tzu right for a week. That’s right, this time, he buried his bone in the dirt. That aforementioned mutt-making juice wouldn’t be making any mutts, just mud. Mud the consistency of a Cadbury Crème Egg that had been chewed twice and spit out.
Toby hadn’t yet developed object permanence, so when he suddenly noticed his now shit-covered popsicle, or poopsicle, he slurped at it for a good long while in surprise and delight, until his pink swizzle stick was once again ready to compete in America’s favorite reality show: “So You Think You’re A Puppy Who’s Got A Dick And You Wanna Hump All Sortsa Shit Yeah HA HA HA Do It, You Fuckin’ Hump Machine, Do It!”, starring Simon Cowell, Shaquille O’Neal, Sinead O’Connor, Donald Rumsfeld, and Sting, tonight on Fox, which is also a type of canine LOL! Side note, the author of this piece was now quite drunk as he was writing this.
Toby looked up, mid-dick-lick, and spotted another dick. This one dangled from a boy Boxer’s crotch, and looked like a red Sharpie that had been rolled in lint. Toby didn’t know what bi-sexuality was, but he knew he was gonna “SNAP INTO THAT SLIM JIM!” Toby paused to reflect on the fact that he’d just made a reference to a human commercial for a human snack food, even though he didn’t understand human speak, much less his own thoughts. Fascinating. Toby shook his floppy head and composed himself. “Fuck it, today I’m not a canine, I’m a K-69”, he thought, without knowing what any of those words meant. And zoom! Toby was on that Boxer’s dick like white on rice, specifically, like whatever white dude or chick was currently boning Condaleeza Rice, whoever she was, and whatever boning was. Toby was a dog.
Toby and the Boxer gnawed appreciatively on each other’s fun-sized Twizzlers for what seemed like an eternity but was actually 17 seconds, until both of them erased an invisible grammar mistake on the other’s snout with doggie liquid paper. Spoot! They slinked away from each other with guilty expressions on their dopey puppy faces, both secretly thrilled.
No sooner had Toby expelled millions of microscopic students from weiner school for being too creamy did he spy a coy collie whom, unbeknownst to either of them, was named Rebecca Romjin-Stamos, whoever that was, and purely coincidentally, just like the human for which she was named, was a HUGE fan of getting double-penetrated during group sex, “trust me”, writes the super drunk author, “an acting coach told me this information in confidence once, and clearly I am not honoring that confidence at all!”
Toby sidled up to the coy collie.
“Do you like to play fetch? Then fetch my balls,” he yapped. Toby hadn’t been neutered yet.
She sniffed a nearby plush toy shaped like a raccoon and looked away.
Toby re-loaded his charm cannon and fired again: “Have you had all of your vaccinations? Because it’s time to vaccinate you against NOT having my cock in you.” Toby reflected on how awesome this pick-up line was, even though he didn’t know English or what words or thoughts were.
Again, the coy collie merely sniffed at a plush carrot-shaped toy with feigned indifference.
Toby regarded the collie as she sniffed the toy, and suddenly realized that this was the first time he’d bothered asking the boner recipient whether or not they’d wanted to receive the boner. So he fucked her. The vaccination against Toby’s cock not being in her was effective immediately, as Toby’s cock was definitely not not in her. He wasn’t sure if it was her vagina or her butt hole that he was swizzling with his stick, or what either of those two things were, or what his penis was, but deep down he knew that his vaccination joke had been clever. Anyway, he fucked her so good that if he could think in English (which we’ve already established he can’t) his thoughts would’ve been “ha ha HA yeah I humped her so super great she gonna give birth to a litter of dicks!”
Toby’s pheromonal hump cloud had now wafted through the entire mini-stadium, and The Puppy Bowl was now a fuck frenzy, unbeknownst to the human viewers at home, thanks to the incredible skills of the show’s unsung editors, or “hump removers” as they were called by their appreciative executive producers.
Meanwhile, amid the puppy orgy, a male parrot dressed as a referee who’d been watching all of the puppy-porking turned to camera, gestured one wing towards a female parrot also dressed as a referee, and said “Polly wanna crack: her’s!” Then he bobbed his head with amusement at his own double entendre, even though he didn’t understand the words he was speaking.
Soon, the puppies were all exhausted, and many had collapsed into napping on and among the stuffed toys. A peaceful post-hump haze hung in the air, and the green astroturf was sticky with puppy batter. In moments, America would collectively begin changing the channel back to the Super Bowl, but as a groggy Toby was gathered into the arms of a human animal handler, he knew that he had won the Puppy Bowl.
EPILOGUE the year was 2022, and President Gaga was leaning over Toby the C.I.A. espionage dog with a broad smile on her face. “This medal is for you, little guy, for saving Earth from resurrected Robo-Bin Laden. Without your amazing humping prowess, we would all be dead.” Toby panted with appreciation, but deep down he knew, this was just the second most coolest day of his life.
I did a show called “Competitive Erotic Fan Fiction” again tonight, and I think I outwitted myself this time. For my two previous pieces, I chose the categories of the show ‘Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives’, and then the poetry of Robert Frost. Both times I feel like I was pretty efficient with my writing, and landed numerous jokes in a short time. On THIS occasion, however…
The Testiculating Horror
by H.P.E.N.I.S. Lovecraft
Mr. Garamond stood next to the lamppost, suitcase in hand. A glance at his pocket watch informed him that his carriage was running three minutes late. He found this most displeasing to his fastidious nature, and made a mental note to write a letter of gentle complaint to the owner of the carriage company upon completion of this trip. He hoped to change the world to suit his liking, one polite letter of mild scolding at a time. Such was the way of Mr. Garamond. In the steadily dimming gloom on the outskirts of town, as his gaze shifted from his perfectly manicured fingernails to his pocket watch and back, Mr. Garamond grew less and less patient and more and more displeased with the vast unpunctuality of everyone who was not he.
After another interminable three minutes, Mr. G. finally found himself fretting and fussing his way aboard one of the more luxurious carriages he’d ever seen, a veritable horse-drawn hotel room of brass, leather, and oak. He could feel his bile receding as he shut the carriage door and scanned the opulent cabin interior. He raised an eyebrow - there were even cherry wood accents! Soon his anger had dwindled to a mere simmer. He supposed an extra six minutes of waiting was not an inconvenience that outweighed such comfort. He decided a letter to the carriage company might not be necessary after all. Mr. G. placed his suitcase between his feet, unbuttoned his tweed jacket, and reached inside for the envelope that had prompted this whole affair. “At the very least, this should prove to be a most interesting excursion”, he thought. “At the very least.”
A flick of reins from the cloaked driver soon had the carriage rumbling off into the dark, forest-ribboned farmlands that spanned the yawning chasm between the comfort of city life and the mysterious obligation contained within the envelope. The flickering amber light of the lamppost was soon but a firefly in the distance, and then, gone.
The monotony of hooves soon blanketed Mr. G.’s senses, and in the rocking cabin of the carriage, he felt himself not so much drifting off to sleep as being summoned there. That night he dreamt with remarkable clarity of a pale tower between two grey hills. The tower seemed to grow, curve and undulate as he approached, arching and growing taller and taller until it utterly dominated the howling dreamscape. Then, after a dreadful pause, the tower began to spasm and shudder as if it had been seized by an earthquake. With a clap of thunder, Mr. G. was suddenly pelted by a hot, milky rain that tasted like salted cod. As the steaming milk rain landed on his tweed jacket, it beaded-up and instantly became clammy and cold, and somehow he knew that far off in the dim reaches of this sleep realm there was a looming, sentient presence who thought that this was hilarious, and a second presence who thought it was inconsiderate and disgusting. Then, the tower shrank and shrank, until it was but a mushroom-shaped hut nestled between the two grey, thicket-covered hills. As he approached the hut, Mr. G. suddenly realized that a cascade of squirming lampreys was spilling out of his open pants zipper, and he awoke.
The carriage lurched to a halt in the moonlight, and deposited him in front of a massive arch formed by two stone wolves standing on their hind legs and fellating a double-penised elk. The tips of the elk’s antlers were also penises. The wolves’ tails were also penises. The wolves’ legs were also penises. The elk’s limbs were also all penises, as was its head. Mr. G. took a step back from the stone arch and considered it again. He frowned. There were no animal shapes represented in the stonework at all. What he’d thought were two wolves fellating a double-penised elk were just lots and lots of penises.
Mr. G. made a mental note of the preponderance of penises contained with the stone arch as he once again produced the mysterious envelope from his jacket pocket. For just the second time since it had been slid underneath his office door a fortnight prior, he opened the envelope and read the note contained within:
Dear Mr. Garamond,
I have discovered a relic beneath my mansion which defies classification. As such, your expertise would be quite welcome. Please accept my invitation to investigate. I can guarantee the comfort of your stay, as well as an appraisal fee of five hundred pounds,
and a soul-shattering glimpse into an indescribable realm of screams where sexual pleasure and necrotic horror are one and the same.(That last phrase had been casually crossed-out, as if the author of the note had thought better than to include it, but Mr. G. could still read it quite plainly – he frowned again.)
Eagerly Anticipating Your Arrival Via Luxurious Carriage,
The Insane Lord of Death Penis Manor(This title was also crossed-out, and replaced with…)
Mr. Normal Person
As the carriage began to trundle back out into the pre-dawn fog, Mr. Garamond slid the note back into its envelope, and the envelope back into his jacket. He was now alone in the dark, standing uncertainly in front of an arch made of stone penises, and frowning yet again. He thought to himself, “I am certainly willing to wager that the frown which I am making right now is not the last frown I shall make over the course of this particular excursion.” He looked down, noticed that his fully erect penis was protruding from his open zipper, and rectified the situation swiftly with thoughts of naked women and his own deft hands, which, after all, were those of a seasoned archaeologist. He could not be certain, but he sensed the approval some otherworldly presence at this act. A moment later, he proceeded through the arch, and down a cobblestone path that seemed to have elaborate animal patterns carved into it. He shook his head. No, those were not animal patterns either. Simply more penises.
After what seemed like exactly eight minutes, Mr. Garamond arrived at a mansion so foreboding it was practically five-boding. He chuckled to himself at this unexpected bit of mental wordplay, and surveyed the moss-encrusted edifice. It rose above him menacingly in the first light of morning, yet even as the sun took hold of the horizon, the building still seemed cloaked in shadow. Or something darker.
With a thunderous, grinding moan, the monolithic front door, a smooth slab of pink granite, slid to one side, revealing blackness beyond. Damp, salty air sighed from within the mansion, the scent reminding Mr. G. of the rain from his dream. As he peered into the impenetrable obsidian shadows of the chamber beyond, an unseen force suddenly unzipped his pants, grasped his recently spent member, and tugged him into the abyss.
The massive door slid shut behind him with frightening speed, this time smoothly and noiselessly. As he fumbled with his trousers in the pitch black, Mr. Garamond began to think this entire trip may have been a dreadful mistake. He frowned, and though he did not think anyone could see him frown, he sensed something incomprehensibly powerful was delighting in his exposure. With a final “zip”, his manhood was once again safely ensconced in fabric, and he stood stone still in the unrelenting dark. He heard nothing. There was just he, the darkness, and that salty, clammy odor from his dream.
Then, the room was ablaze with candle light! Mr. G. gasped. He was standing in an opulent foyer, abounding in velvets and bannisters, the full appointment of tasteful accessories he’d always thought a finely-appointed foyer should possess! Even cherry wood accents abounded. And candle upon candle rested in sconces, casting their dancing illumination upon a staircase that caressed the curving walls of the foyer and ascended into yet more frustrating shadow. Mr. G. began to climb the stairs, but suddenly, the floor gave way beneath him! What he’d thought were tasteful bannisters were but massive hinges, and the floor of this foyer had been nothing more than a single, massive trap door! As the floor opened, he felt an unseen force unzip his pants and once again tug him downward via his frightened genitals.
(I apologize, but here there is a portion of the manuscript which is too stained to read. The ink seems to have been diluted heavily with some milky substance, and smeared about on the page as if by a large, squirming salamander. I shall simply have to continue reading from whence the text is yet again legible. Ah, here we are…)
“And now, your mind will be eviscerated as I plunge it into an indescribable realm of screams where sexual pleasure and necrotic horror are one and the same!” squealed the quivering, cyclopean worm-man that had, until moments earlier, been Mr. Normal Person.
“But you crossed that phrase out!” bellowed the indignant Mr. Garamond as he raised his scimitar. All vestiges of gentlemanliness had left him, and he was prepared to fight for his existence with every last ounce of mental and physical fortitude. After all, Mr. Normal Person had been quite dishonest about his intentions, so Mr. G. felt no more need to behave with any kind of civility. In fact, he intended to reciprocate the ill will of whom he was definitely beginning to suspect was actually The Insane Lord of Death Penis Manor quite stridently. For the first time during this whole regrettable affair, the frown that now crossed Mr. Garamond’s face was not one of fretting puzzlement, but one of grim determination.
A volcanic torrent of white fluid belched forth from The Insane Lord’s single eye, coalescing into a gibbering clitoral monstrosity that now towered over the scimitar-wielding Mr. Garamond. The creature began shuffling towards him, mewling with feverish anticipation of human meat.
The Insane Lord of Death Penis Manor retreated towards his scrotal throne as he observed with glee, his bulging testicular monopod sloshing him backwards in short bursts like some sort of nightmarish mollusk.
“I think I shall write a letter to that carriage company after all!” screamed Mr. Garamond as he took a swing with his scimitar. But as he swung, an unseen force from beyond the scrim of reality made one final effort to get his attention. One final effort to recruit him for the cause of…could it be? Yes, for the cause of GOOD! His scimitar flew from his hand and embedded in the thatched wall of the pubic maze, and yet again, the benevolent force from beyond tore open his zipper and his now ferociously hard cock burst forth. The Insane Lord of Death Penis Manor recoiled in terror. “No! The perfect cock!” he screamed.
Now Mr. G. knew. A confidence washed over him the likes of which he hadn’t felt since that occasion during which he couldn’t quite fit inside that one archaeological assistant, the very cute brunette one, and though they never completed the act of sex he came away from that particular romantic encounter thinking “Cool, I couldn’t really fit inside her, that’s never happened before! I guess I shouldn’t be so insecure about-“ WHAM! The clitoral beast was upon him! As it pinned him to the floor, he knew better than to fight back. Instead, he welcomed its warm embrace, and to put it simply, began fucking the shit out of it. Each new vaginal maw that opened in its translucent hide, he plugged with his perfect cock. Each blinking clitoral eye that attempted to peer into his soul, he licked with his tongue. Licking and thrusting like no archaeologist had ever done before! With a quiver and a pop, the monster orgasmed its way back to the dimension from whence it came.
Mr. Garamond stroked his cock methodically as he approached the now cowering Insane Lord of Death Penis Manor. He knew his salvation depended on maintaining rigidity, and thanks to the mental urging of the universe-spanning intelligence from beyond, he knew it was his own semen that could send his foe back to its realm. With one final stroke, he blew his massive load all over the evil lord. Sploot.The Insane Lord of Death Penis Manor howled a mind-shattering oath of fury, and was gone in a splash.
“Right on time,” thought Mr. Garamond.
In a blink, Mr. G. snapped awake at his desk, and examined the note that had just been slid under his office door. It was blank. “Hmm,” he thought, and tossed it in the trash, “archaeology is dull, and that’s how I like it.”