By Nick Nicholson
Born on April 2, 1895, to a French mother and Spanish father, Jean-Baptiste Fuentes worked as a street sweeper, barber and smuggler before becoming, in the 1930s, the most successful pimp in Old Havana. Jean-Baptiste’s choice of livelihood was one of pragmatism because in those days Havana was flush with American tourists looking for a good time. “A little passion to forget the shit,” he would say to them. The sentiment resonated deeply so securing business was never difficult. Over the years, more than a few of Jean-Baptiste’s girls fell in love with him but the liaisons never developed into marriage. That some of his girls shared their bodies with him from time to time was enough for Jean-Baptiste. “Better that a tigress live in the jungle than a cage,” he always said with a wistful smile whenever one of his girls pressed him for a more permanent relationship. Jean-Baptiste had been stabbed three times during his life, in street brawls, but his passing on June 12, 1958 was without violence. After playing the seventh tile in a game of dominoes with Ernest Hemingway in the lobby of the Hotel Ambos Mundos, Jean-Baptiste Fuentes simply closed his eyes and died.
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© Nick Nicholson 2010, 2011. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or in part without written permission from the author.
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This is the fourth part of Nick Nicholson's theme-adventurous, eight-part Travelogue. Subsequent segments will be published here in upcoming months.
Next Travelogue story: Rotterdam
• • •
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
Throughout his life, Nick Nicholson has pursued a variety of creative vocations: music, photography, painting and, in recent years, writing. He lives in Australia.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Sunday, March 6, 2011
**One of my stories, Kat & Mirah's midnight show, published on Every Night Erotica site.
I published a 430-word Rocky Horror-themed/sexually explicit story, Kat and Mirah's midnight show, on the Every Night Erotica site.
Feel free to check it out, and/or comment!
Feel free to check it out, and/or comment!
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Listing from ‘Natural Drama Digest Weekly,’ issue #32907
As the Coral Sea Rises – Network: ZNB – weekdays, 3:00 pm: Charley the starfish regenerates his fifth arms after shedding it to escape hungry mugger shrimp; Selinda the seahorse, heartbroken that Thornton, her ex-mate, wasn’t carrying her eggs, but Darlene’s, takes comfort in her morning mating swims with Jack, arousing the deviant desires of Jack’s brother, Jeremy; Coraline, the stressed-out larva-polyp that spawned the hard shell reef, faces two threats: a neoplasmic – cancerous – tumor on one of her branches, and a neighboring reef-building polyp named Olly, whose invasive devouring intentions are all-too-clear; Hanna the shark, after accidentally killing her mate, Marty, during a feeding frenzy, worries that she may like the taste of shark flesh too much.
Copyright ©2007, 2010, 2011 Steve Isaak. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.
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This story was originally published on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association website in May 2007. It was republished last year in my anthology, Charge of the Scarlet B-sides: microsex stories & poems.
Copyright ©2007, 2010, 2011 Steve Isaak. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.
•
This story was originally published on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association website in May 2007. It was republished last year in my anthology, Charge of the Scarlet B-sides: microsex stories & poems.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Tokyo
By Nick Nicholson
Takashi Masuko, 36, a mid-level executive for a multinational electronics company, fell in love with Kimi Ishiguro, 23, on the evening of February 14, 1994, when he ate sushi off her naked body at a nyotaimori restaurant in Kabukichō, although it would be more accurate to say that he became obsessed with Kimi because he returned to the restaurant frequently over a period of several months, specifically to see her. Strangely, a friendship developed. As Takashi delicately picked up pieces of sushi with his chopsticks from Kimi’s torso and thighs, Kimi would tell him about her extraordinary life: she had been famous, briefly, when she published a book of erotic poems at the age of 17; in 1991 she posed nude for a series of arty pornographic photographs by Nobuyoshi Araki which were subsequently collected by the Tate; and she had travelled to America. By contrast, Takashi’s life amounted to little more than that of a worker bee. He was married, of course, but had no children. Takashi Masuko was last seen on January 11, 1995. He simply, and inexplicably, disappeared. Kimi Ishiguro quickly forgot about Takashi and in 1997 she became the hostess of a popular TV game show.
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© Nick Nicholson 2010, 2011. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or in part without written permission from the author.
------------------------
This is the third part of Nick Nicholson's theme-adventurous, eight-part Travelogue. Subsequent segments will be published here in upcoming months.
Next Travelogue story: Havana
• • •
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
Throughout his life, Nick Nicholson has pursued a variety of creative vocations: music, photography, painting and, in recent years, writing. He lives in Australia.
Takashi Masuko, 36, a mid-level executive for a multinational electronics company, fell in love with Kimi Ishiguro, 23, on the evening of February 14, 1994, when he ate sushi off her naked body at a nyotaimori restaurant in Kabukichō, although it would be more accurate to say that he became obsessed with Kimi because he returned to the restaurant frequently over a period of several months, specifically to see her. Strangely, a friendship developed. As Takashi delicately picked up pieces of sushi with his chopsticks from Kimi’s torso and thighs, Kimi would tell him about her extraordinary life: she had been famous, briefly, when she published a book of erotic poems at the age of 17; in 1991 she posed nude for a series of arty pornographic photographs by Nobuyoshi Araki which were subsequently collected by the Tate; and she had travelled to America. By contrast, Takashi’s life amounted to little more than that of a worker bee. He was married, of course, but had no children. Takashi Masuko was last seen on January 11, 1995. He simply, and inexplicably, disappeared. Kimi Ishiguro quickly forgot about Takashi and in 1997 she became the hostess of a popular TV game show.
------------------------
© Nick Nicholson 2010, 2011. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or in part without written permission from the author.
------------------------
This is the third part of Nick Nicholson's theme-adventurous, eight-part Travelogue. Subsequent segments will be published here in upcoming months.
Next Travelogue story: Havana
• • •
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
Throughout his life, Nick Nicholson has pursued a variety of creative vocations: music, photography, painting and, in recent years, writing. He lives in Australia.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Tragedies Weekly: Homophobic man burns down his own house! (October 13, 2007 issue)
By Steve Isaak
SAN MARIN, California – A house burned down Thursday when its owner, Patrick Boehner, plugged his vagelectrical car, a Lesbos, into his garage-stored spermbox charge, causing the car to explode.
Boehner was killed instantly, authorities said.
Dan Cleveland, spokesman for Vangine Motors, at a press conference the next afternoon, said, “You can’t change the charge orientation of our vehicles. You don’t run a Lesbos on spermcharge. Use a vagcharge box instead. For a Bisos, use a vermcharge box. Our electrical products are complex creations, like people.”
Reverend Sam Sandler, pastor of San Marin Baptist Church, commented, “I urged Pat to sell that car. His second wife, Evangeline, who bought it, left him for a woman. But he insisted on ‘fixing it.’”
Continued: HOMOPHOBIC / A10
Copyright ©2007, 2011 Steve Isaak. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.
•
This story was originally published on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association website, under the nom de plume Nikki Isaak, in October 2007.
SAN MARIN, California – A house burned down Thursday when its owner, Patrick Boehner, plugged his vagelectrical car, a Lesbos, into his garage-stored spermbox charge, causing the car to explode.
Boehner was killed instantly, authorities said.
Dan Cleveland, spokesman for Vangine Motors, at a press conference the next afternoon, said, “You can’t change the charge orientation of our vehicles. You don’t run a Lesbos on spermcharge. Use a vagcharge box instead. For a Bisos, use a vermcharge box. Our electrical products are complex creations, like people.”
Reverend Sam Sandler, pastor of San Marin Baptist Church, commented, “I urged Pat to sell that car. His second wife, Evangeline, who bought it, left him for a woman. But he insisted on ‘fixing it.’”
Continued: HOMOPHOBIC / A10
Copyright ©2007, 2011 Steve Isaak. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.
•
This story was originally published on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association website, under the nom de plume Nikki Isaak, in October 2007.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Morph.
By G. Russell
"Can I make love to you in my true form?"
"Baby, yeah!"
"Thank you, my love. This means so much. Close your eyes."
"Okay. They're closed," he said with a wolfish grin.
A modest, yet sensual pause. Then, timidly, "I'm ready."
Spaceman Jones stared.
The huge mucus ball tinkled, "My sexual orifice is here, at the back of my head. Please insert your penis when you're ready, my love."
Dribbling a greyish green mucoid detritus, the salivating opening, winking like a crazed eye glazed with a fiery cataract, beckoned winsomely to the startled astronaunt.
"Um...Okay, Deirdre. I gotta check the coolant pumps first."
"Why are you putting on your spacesuit?" asked the oscillating alien.
"I'll have to go outside. The valve's on the outer hull."
She fell silent, thoughtful.
"You'll come back?"
"...Sure!"
Deirdre quivered with delight.
"I'll be waiting," she said, and added; "I love you!"
© Nov 2003, 2011 Gary Russell. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or in part without written permission from the author.
• • •
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
Born in the 60's, Gary Russell gained his considerable reputation whilst living underneath a magical bridge and riddling passers-by for gold dubloons. Whilst interred he was denied access to visitors, writing implements, and sharp metal objects. His present whereabouts, following the explosion that destroyed the facility, remain shrouded in mystery.
"Can I make love to you in my true form?"
"Baby, yeah!"
"Thank you, my love. This means so much. Close your eyes."
"Okay. They're closed," he said with a wolfish grin.
A modest, yet sensual pause. Then, timidly, "I'm ready."
Spaceman Jones stared.
The huge mucus ball tinkled, "My sexual orifice is here, at the back of my head. Please insert your penis when you're ready, my love."
Dribbling a greyish green mucoid detritus, the salivating opening, winking like a crazed eye glazed with a fiery cataract, beckoned winsomely to the startled astronaunt.
"Um...Okay, Deirdre. I gotta check the coolant pumps first."
"Why are you putting on your spacesuit?" asked the oscillating alien.
"I'll have to go outside. The valve's on the outer hull."
She fell silent, thoughtful.
"You'll come back?"
"...Sure!"
Deirdre quivered with delight.
"I'll be waiting," she said, and added; "I love you!"
© Nov 2003, 2011 Gary Russell. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or in part without written permission from the author.
• • •
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
Born in the 60's, Gary Russell gained his considerable reputation whilst living underneath a magical bridge and riddling passers-by for gold dubloons. Whilst interred he was denied access to visitors, writing implements, and sharp metal objects. His present whereabouts, following the explosion that destroyed the facility, remain shrouded in mystery.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
New York
By Nick Nicholson
ON JULY 18, 1953, four weeks after the electrocution of the Rosenbergs, the temperature in New York reached 101 degrees and within the crumbling walls of his apartment, after fucking his girlfriend, Latisha, from behind, Wesley Washington declared, “Damn dog days is a motherfucker,” which subsequently, and famously, became the first line of the first poem he ever wrote. On October 13 of that year, Latisha was murdered, shot. The police conducted an investigation of sorts but the killer was never found. Latisha’s death moved Washington to express his grief in words. He remembered the ferociously hot summer. He remembered lying naked with Latisha beneath the slowly rotating ceiling fan. Then he remembered the line that had sprung from his lips. He wrote it down and thus began Washington’s illustrious poetic career. Washington was prolific. By 1962, he had become a revered underground literary cult figure with a raw, urban voice that spoke to a generation of black youth. His fame eventually declined, however, and on July 4, 1977, Washington was found dead from an overdose of heroin. According to legend, an unfinished poem was discovered in his pocket and the last words he’d written were these: We all dogs.
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© Nick Nicholson 2010, 2011. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or in part without written permission from the author.
------------------------
This is the second part of Nick Nicholson's theme-adventurous, eight-part Travelogue. Subsequent segments will be published here in upcoming months.
Next Travelogue story: Tokyo
• • •
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
Throughout his life, Nick Nicholson has pursued a variety of creative vocations: music, photography, painting and, in recent years, writing. He lives in Australia.
ON JULY 18, 1953, four weeks after the electrocution of the Rosenbergs, the temperature in New York reached 101 degrees and within the crumbling walls of his apartment, after fucking his girlfriend, Latisha, from behind, Wesley Washington declared, “Damn dog days is a motherfucker,” which subsequently, and famously, became the first line of the first poem he ever wrote. On October 13 of that year, Latisha was murdered, shot. The police conducted an investigation of sorts but the killer was never found. Latisha’s death moved Washington to express his grief in words. He remembered the ferociously hot summer. He remembered lying naked with Latisha beneath the slowly rotating ceiling fan. Then he remembered the line that had sprung from his lips. He wrote it down and thus began Washington’s illustrious poetic career. Washington was prolific. By 1962, he had become a revered underground literary cult figure with a raw, urban voice that spoke to a generation of black youth. His fame eventually declined, however, and on July 4, 1977, Washington was found dead from an overdose of heroin. According to legend, an unfinished poem was discovered in his pocket and the last words he’d written were these: We all dogs.
------------------------
© Nick Nicholson 2010, 2011. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or in part without written permission from the author.
------------------------
This is the second part of Nick Nicholson's theme-adventurous, eight-part Travelogue. Subsequent segments will be published here in upcoming months.
Next Travelogue story: Tokyo
• • •
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
Throughout his life, Nick Nicholson has pursued a variety of creative vocations: music, photography, painting and, in recent years, writing. He lives in Australia.
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