Why CV never mentions his own writing

[gauchecritic]

Because this is how good it is.

Gauche

 

[Virtual_Burlesque]

Yes! I am. I'm Chilly's biggest fan!

Haven't I never said a kind word about him?

 

[Guest]

I voted 'fegh' cos I thought it meant bravo in Yorkshire. Anyway, thanks very much, Gauche. I loved it too; really really like that style and voice. Raw.

Perdita

p.s. your link opens on p. 2

 

[shereads]

Because this is how good it is.

Gauche

I've thanked CV for the story. Thank you too, Gauche. A worthwhile discovery.

 

[Rumple Foreskin]

Here's a scary thougth: CV isn't just among us, CV is one of us. He/She/It is a writer, and a pretty good one.

That almost breathless, semi-stream-of-consciousness style sometimes reminded my of the AWOL MathGirl's honeymoon saga. I only hope this one didn't end in the hospital.

Good work, CV. Keep it up.

Thanks for the "heads-up" Gauche.

Rumple Foreskin

 

[kinky shy girl]

Damn...

that is mighty fine work.

 

[neonlyte]

A worthy read and will be added to my favourites page. You draw a picture of a culture in two simple pages, it marks a passage in time with elegance and clarity.

Admiringly,


NL

 

[MagicFingers]

CV,

I'll read it since it was so highly recommended.

However, you might want to read it yourself before posting next time. I had trouble in the first paragraph trying to tell if you were talking about LIARS or LAIRS, thinking it might be some English thing I was unaware of. Don't mean to be nit picky, but it threw me off the story.

And the link to Page #1 is:
http://www.literotica.com:81/stories/showstory.php?id=141967&page=1

 

[English Lady]

Aye, I've already read that...a very intriguing and original story.


MAybe Mr Vodka is a little shy? *chuckles* or maybe just modest or even just too damn cool to self promote!

 

[Guest]

As I joined the long queue at the service store, for cigarettes, I rerecalled my penultimate infidelity (the ultimate infidelity, of course, had been with Mint). In a hotel room in Manchester I methodically undressed a twenty-year-old continuity girl. "Let me help you out of those nasty hot clothes," I said. Which was a line of mine. But the line felt accurate: the damp-dog sloppy joe, the woollen tights, the rubber boots. I was seated on the armchair when she finally straightened up in front of me. There was her body, with its familier circles and half-circles, its divine symmetries, but it included something I had never seen before. I was face to face with a pubic buzzcut. Also: "What's that doing there?" I asked. And she answered: "It helps me have an orgasm" . . . Well, it didn't help me have an orgasm. Something else was hard where everything was meant to be soft: I seemed to be pestling myself - against a steel ingot. Plus a nice telltale welt (with her name and phone number on it) to take home to a wife who was, in any case, and with good reason, psychopathically jealous (as was I). The continuity girl, then, had not been a continuity girl. Discontinuity, radical discontinuity, was what she had signalled. How clear did it need to be? No more monkeys jumping on the bed. I had been sleeping with Mint for four and a half years. Passion survived, but I knew it would dwindle; and I was prepared for that. I was on my way to realising that, after a while, marriage is a sibling relationship - marked by occasional, and rather regrettable, episodes of incest. - page 8

<snip>

"I'll have a . . ." There was a drink called a Blowjob. There was a drink called a Boobjob. I thought: it's like those companies called FCUK and TUNC. I shrigged. It was not my intention, now, to ponder the obscenification of everyday life. I said, "I'll have a Shithead. No, a Dickhead. No. Two Dickheads." - page 11

<snip>

Even before the first issue had hit the streets, it was universal practice, at the Evening Lark, to refer to the readers as wankers. This applied not only to specific features (Wankers' Letters, Our Wankers Ask the Questions, and so on), but also in phrases common to any newspapering concern, such as "the wanker comes first" and "the wanker's what it's all about" and "is this of genuine interest to our wankers?" The staff had long stopped smiling when anybody said it. - page 24

<snip>

A short while ago I had recieved a communication from a young woman. It was not addressed to me but to the Lark's Ecstasy Aunt. It began: "dear Lisa: honestly, what's all the fuss about orgasms about? I've never had one and i don't want one." I responded personally, to 'k' of Kentish Town, saying that I found her views "most refreshing". She'd e'd me back: dialogue. Ah, e-love, e-eros, e-amour; e-bimbo and e-toyboy; ah, e-wooing on the Web . . . What usually emerged (I found) was all vanity and shadow, inexistent, incorporeal: unreal mockery. But something told me that 'k' was a woman of substance. - page 30

 

[Guest]

Hombre, where can I read more? Surely the pages after 30 aren't on Lit. Your work is the most refreshingly new stuff I've read here. Your ability with the sound and 'feel' of English is remarkable. The only other author who has this, seemingly at his fingertips, is Gauche. I wonder if it's a masculine thing, this kind of writing. Or Englisher?

admiringly, Perdita

 

[Guest]

Beach night, not really dark:
stars, trawlers at the horizon,
lighted living rooms above the dune
headlights on the ranger's jeep
not too dark to really see, through my jacket tail
and your hair are in the way.

I see the sand, a litter of dying seaweed, the wave's lace
I see your head, your shoulders and arms
in borrowed leather.
I see your squatting thighs between my shod feet.
I feel the breez run along the ocean edge, brush my hands,
a buffeting caress to my face.
I see us, being boys, cock sucking on the beach - an honorable
tradition - even faked, it's honorable.

The hands of men passing by clap my shoulder,
pat my butt.
I see your hair stirred by affectionate mussing,
as boys walk down to the ocean.
Their touch is life, history striding into the future.
We are well among them now, riding the throes of brotherhood.
Filling, being filled, we do our best. We come close.
They see us. They smile.

 

[ABSTRUSE]

CV, you bastard, how dare you gain my respect.