The Writer On Tour Secretly, part two
by Matthew Simmons ()
I’ve gotten tired of reading the same chapters of my novel every night, so I decide to write something new to read at my next tour stop. But, I’m sick of literary fiction, and I’m sick of genre fiction, and I certainly won’t be writing any poetry. I decide what I’m going to do is write a piece of erotic fan fiction.
The idea really appeals to me, so I craft a Kirk/Spock story, because it is the best of erotic fan fiction premises; Kirk and Spock as gay lovers.
Here’s the story I produce:
“Kirk and Spock transport down to the planet for a mission, but there’s a malfunction, and they appear on the planet’s surface as a patchwork of each other’s body parts. They are giddy with the tingles of being changed from matter to energy to matter, and the additional sensations in their new, conflated bodies. Spock cuts open his finger, and the blood comes out in both red and green streaks. He dips his finger in a nearby pool, and it diffuses in multicolored rings.
He abandons logic at the sight of it.
Kirk sets his phaser on polyester, and burns away their Federation uniforms. They are lightheaded as they touch each other with each other’s fingers. The organs on in their bodies slide around from place to place, up and down, back and forth.
They are engorged with blood.
Kirk hails the Enterprise and requests three security officers, the expendable ones in the red shirts. Again, the transporter malfunctions and the three materialize as one mass of flesh, scarves of red and black fabric binding loose, flailing appendages that sprout from the form like cilia on bacteria.
Spock stoops down and touches the mound. He feels three hearts beating in succession. Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub, pause. Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub, pause. He grabs Kirk and shows him.
Kirk finds a hole, both rectum and mouth, and kisses it gently. Other holes emit sounds: groans and thrums and flatulence. He fingers the hole as Spock rests himself on the mound like a divan, like Oscar Wilde on a divan.
Kirk lubricates his hands from the jelly inside a sweet, green, alien fruit. He finds two folds leading to an aperture in the flesh, and he squeezes his way through, pushes his body to the core, the mound shuddering all the while. Spock traces the curves of the mound, and stares at the golden, auburn sunset. Silverish and yellow alien birds take wing, twirling helicopter paddles buzzing them aloft. He feels Kirk’s hands spread his legs open from inside the mound, hands still covered in the jelly, which has turned slightly sticky, and smells like brown sugar and apple blossoms.
They make love, Kirk thrusting up through a fleshy partition in his security personnel. All five come at once, and the mound melts into the grass. Kirk and Spock will beam back aboard soon, have their bodies put back together, and not file away the experience in supplemental personal logs. It will remain off the Star Fleet records forever.”
I like the piece a lot, but when I read it, my tiny audience asks if I am kidding. “No, I’m not kidding,” I say. “I’m championing a maligned genre.”
No one wants me to sign their book.
Neal gets up and reads after that.
