Sponsored by Writer Marketing
Services
Welcome
to Books, Books, and More Books. I am
pleased to share this book with you.
Thank you for visiting and please come again.
Blurb
:
We had gotten
aboard a roller coaster, and it was a race for our lives, on a one-way track.
In New York City during the heady, tumultuous years of the 1960s, a young couple meet. Together they embark on a dark erotic journey into forbidden sexuality - travelling on an incandescent road to nowhere in their tragic fall from grace.
Scorching and poignant, and banned upon its first publication in England, Evil Companions is a masterpiece of contemporary erotica.
'Evil Companions is a meticulous miracle of language and observation . . . A dark jewel on the erotic landscape.' Samuel R. Delany
In New York City during the heady, tumultuous years of the 1960s, a young couple meet. Together they embark on a dark erotic journey into forbidden sexuality - travelling on an incandescent road to nowhere in their tragic fall from grace.
Scorching and poignant, and banned upon its first publication in England, Evil Companions is a masterpiece of contemporary erotica.
'Evil Companions is a meticulous miracle of language and observation . . . A dark jewel on the erotic landscape.' Samuel R. Delany
Excerpt:
Some of what happened
to us, what we did to each other, might have been prevented. But we had gotten
aboard a roller coaster, and it was a race for our lives, on a one-way track.
Circumstances, the
mood of the time, made our explorations seem natural, forecast in all our
stars. Most of them I haven’t seen in years, and wouldn’t care to—except for
Anne, that is. I’ve waited for her to come back, to finish the story. Maybe she
won’t because it doesn’t have an end, or because neither of us wants it to end.
Our life together was
a story we told each other at night, and we were always careful to consider the
obligations of plot and character. Anne, especially, watched the dialogue and
considered speech patterns, having decided that the nuances of conversation and
sound often tell the listener more than a character would ordinarily want to
tell. I had the same feeling about faces. We did more than tell each other
stories at night, though; we lived our whole lives then, like—vampires. History
is made at night, said Frank Borzage.
We met during
rehearsals of a play I was doing in a café theatre on the East Side. She sat at
a table on the side sipping coffee through a straw, and she looked ready to
scream. She was with friends, some people I knew slightly and hated. It was
obvious she was with them, but not of them. They ignored each other. The play
was dingy and amateurish, and I became quite loud in my objections to it; I had
the lead, but I had taken it in desperation, looking for anything to rouse me
from my lethargy. The actress I was working with missed her cue for the third
time and I exploded, cursing her, the director, and the script, which I felt no
affinity with.
Something hit me in
the middle of the back—the girl at the table had thrown her coffee at me. I
stood frozen, feeling the hot liquid run down my back.
“You fucking faggot
son-of-a-bitch! You actor! If you weren’t so goddamned illiterate, you
could handle that script!” Everyone just looked at her. As quickly as she had
flared up, she calmed down, and sank back into her seat. She looked so
embarrassed she might have sunk into the floor.
I didn’t say
anything; I went to the men’s room and cleaned myself off as well as I could.
Then I sat on the toilet and smoked a cigarette. When I got up, I went straight
to her table. She got up to join me without a word.
“Come on, let’s take
a walk,” I said. It was already dark outside. I hadn’t realized I had been
working so long. She had a peculiar gait, like a sailor’s; we walked along. “Did
I hurt you?” she asked me. “Let me see.” She pushed me in a doorway and slipped
her hand around so she could feel my back. Her hand slipped up under my coat
and over my buttocks with a man’s urgent touch. “You’re still wet. Come home
with me and you can get dried off.” It was practically a command. She took my
hand as if it were already a part of her, ready to pull me along if I
hesitated.
The building she
lived in was one part tenement and two parts gingerbread house. I went galumphing
up the stairs behind her, noticing the runs in her stockings. She wore stocking
with seams down the back, those clay-colored things my mother used to wear.
Her apartment had its
own particular smell, an aromatic combination I have never been able to forget:
a hideous incense called Dhoop, marijuana, and an exciting odor of pure, raw
sex,
mixed with the smell
of her cats. She had five of them; the leader was an old gray tom she called
Wino, who was missing one eye and any sense of decorum. I learned that it
wasn’t unusual for him to leap on guests with his claws out, or to urinate in
the middle of the floor and stand there proudly, daring you to rebuke him. I wanted
to call him Jean Genet.
She still had my
hand. She pulled me in the bedroom, but it was occupied by a young Puerto Rican
who was rolling his eyes at the ceiling. As soon as he saw us, he rolled off
and staggered out into the other room.
“Sit down and take
off your pants.” I sat on the bed and watched her move around. She seemed
unconscious of my presence as she took off her clothes. When she was naked in
the red light she sat down beside me and, without a word, unbuckled my belt and
pulled my trousers off.
“Don’t be uptight.
You’re an actor, aren’t you? Here’s a situation you can play your heart out
in.”
“Meaning you?”
“Oh man, don’t be
muley! You act like a thickhead. It’s hot in here, take off those damn clothes.
I don’t trust anybody in clothes.” I did what she asked. My scrotum was tight
and wrinkled, and I felt like washing my feet. I noticed that hers were black.
Her breasts were small and sharp, the nipples blood red.
She noticed me
looking at them.
“Touch. Go on. Then
maybe you’ll feel better,” she said dispassionately. I dragged my underwear
over my crotch and sat back, away from her. “What’s the matter? Is my hostility
showing?” she asked.
“Turn it off,” I
said.
“Turn what off?”
“Whatever the fuck
this game is. What’s your name, anyway?”
“Anne, sometimes.”
“Well, Anne, what’s
the game? I thought you hated me. It was a bad script.”
“If you thought that,
you wouldn’t have come home with me. You’re out in the cold. I could tell that
when I first saw you.”
*****
Other Modern Erotic Classics available:
The
Houdini Girl by Martyn Bedford
Lie
to Me by Tamara Faith Berger
The
Phallus of Osiris by Valentina Cilescu
Kiss
of Death by Valentina Cilescu
The
Flesh Constrained by Cleo Cordell
The
Flesh Endures by Cleo Cordell
Hogg
by Samuel R. Delany
The
Tides of Lust by Samuel R. Delany
Sad
Sister by Florence Dugas
The
Ties That Bind by Vanessa Duriés
Dark
Ride by Kent Harrington
3
by Julie Hilden
Neptune
& Surf by Marilyn Jaye Lewis
Violent
Silence by Paul Mayersberg
Homme
Fatale by Paul Mayersberg
The
Agency by David Meltzer
Burn
by Michael Perkins
Dark
Matter by Michael Perkins
Evil
Companions by Michael Perkins
Beautiful
Losers by Remittance Girl
Meeting
the Master by Elissa Wald
This
product or book may have been distributed for review; this in no way affects my
opinions or reviews.
No comments:
Post a Comment