When you’re desperate for a ballcock – call a plumber!
Cindy Ginger is having a bad month – a really bad month. She hasn’t had sex for so long she’s got cobwebs where the sun don’t shine and twenty-four of her romance erotica eBooks have been banned by CashCow, the financial institution embedded in her publisher’s website for easy purchase of books. Now she has a list of subjects she is to avoid in any further writing and it’s so restrictive she’s stuffed. Plus her editor is breathing down her neck for her latest book which is way past deadline and she a slight case of writer’s block. To make matters worse she’s not the only thing in the house that’s blocked: So is her toilet which is causing the biggest stink of all! Can things get any worse? Of course they can, because the hot plumber turns up when Cindy is still wearing her ill-fitting smock and her even worse fitting ginger wig. Cindy is, in reality, mild-mannered erotica writer, Tim Marsden. But maybe, just maybe, the hung, muscular plumber may be able to help him out with all his problems, not just a new ballcock.
Ebook ID: 5112_1160
lyd Category: Men-4-Men
Length: 46 pdf Pages / 6488 words
Formats Available: pdf, prc, lit, zipped html,
lrf, epub, RB,
Ebook Cover Price: $1.99
I was having a cunt of a day. No, make that a cunt of a week. I’d just had twenty-four of my books banned, Claudine my publisher at Perverts Ink was on my back because I was three weeks behind deadline for handing in my latest novel, Bettany my editor had just emailed a set of new rules for avoiding objectionable matter in my writing only for me to note that my works did not breach a single one of them. What was going on? It was my idiosyncratic vanilla fiction excluding those very same objectionable subjects that made me a modest best seller, flying in the face of the more graphic and unseemly fiction of my sister and brother writers. I knew these new rules were not aimed at me but at the utter sleazebags who persisted in including profanities in their titles or introducing fisting or double penetration or... forgive me for not going on.
What the fuck was I supposed to write about? Flower show sodomy? Mother’s Day ménage? Gangbangs in the garage? Oops, scrub them. Sodomy, ménage and gangbang, consensual or otherwise, were now all verboten. Seems I wasn’t even allowed to have a pet dog in a story unless it was always twenty feet or more away from a human, in case readers suspected there might be a bit of cross-species how’s-your-father going on.
Please note that I am not a hypocrite. Profanity in the privacy of your own home or your own mind is permissible but, really, no one wants to see it in print. Or at the movies. Do they?
If I ground my teeth any more I’d be down to my gums. I’d spent the best part of three days being totally unproductive, dealing with the fallout of the ban put in place by the near monopolistic financial monolith that is CashCow. The multinational corporation had originally been set up to make paying for items on eJunk that much easier but, like Topsy, it had ‘growed’ until now it was so ubiquitous it could dictate morality, wielding the big stick of disconnection if its demands weren’t followed.
CashCow had found a niche and plugged it, so now we were all fucked. If you channeled your money through them you didn’t have to pass on your credit card details to third parties. It was an easy way for small business, like my publisher, to set up a payment system that was comparatively painless to the people at either end of the deal.
Overnight, panic swept through the eBook market, in particular that genre known as erotica. That’s where I come in. That’s what I write: erotica.
Just to get it clear, we’re talking erotica rather than porn. There is a fine line admittedly between the two but I like to think of erotica as the difference between good sex and a quickie. Erotica has characterization and tension, winding you up until your body screams for sexual release. Porn is like sticking your dick in a glory hole and hoping someone is on the other side to take care of you. One describes the mood, the furniture, and where it’s all taking place; the other just tells you how big the cock is.
Not that I’m averse to describing a nice juicy dick or five. And I’ve described literally hundreds of them in my novels and short stories under various names, including my own, Tim Marsden. Tim writes vanilla gay erotica that usually ends with the happy monogamous couple riding off into the sunset together. Very popular with female readers. Sometimes I’m Luke Dark: vampire erotica. Sometimes Daisy Chayne: young adult fiction whose Pansy Prufrock and the Fairies is a favorite among eight to ten year old girls. Pussy Tussle: lesbian ménage. That day I was Cindy Ginger: heterosexual romance with a touch of spice.
Except Cindy’s ideas weren’t coming. No one was coming, not even me…
Barry Lowe’s dreams of winning the Nobel Prize for Literature faded about thirty years ago when he realised what he wrote best was about the wild, whacky, wonderful world of sex and that his vocabulary would never rival Patrick White’s or even Evelyn Waugh’s. Since then he’s been happily churning out the odd gay sex comedy for stage as well as a mountain of newspaper columns and an avalanche of erotica for print and eBooks. He is also the author of Atomic Blonde, a biography of 1950s sex goddess, Mamie Van Doren. He lives in Sydney, Australia, with his long-term partner, Wally.
Check out his website at www.barrylowe.net.