Stories About Penises (eBook)

An anthology of short stories & poems

Julianne Ingles (Herausgeber)

eBook Download: EPUB

2019 | 1. Auflage
170 Seiten
Guts Publishing (Verlag)
978-1-9998823-3-4 (ISBN)

Infos

Guts Publishing's debut anthology. A collection of 21 poems and short stories (fiction & nonfiction) by a talented group of writers, many award-winning, from the UK, US, Australia, Canada and India. Thoughtfully selected, each story and poem is focused in one way or another on the penis. Some are humorous, some deal with sexuality, some have a feminist slant, or are postmodern, or flat-out erotic, or deal with the medical and anatomical aspects of the penis. It's an eclectic mix that we hope will surprise you.

Textauszug

CATHERINE EDMUNDS

Wild Ideas

 

 

Jolyon was lost again. He propped his bicycle against an ash tree, sat down on the grassy bank, looking vaguely around for wild eglantine, and opened Cicely’s map. Her letter fell out, the one in which she had written of a strange experience on an aeroplane. They hadn’t corresponded since, but he had kept the letter close, taking it out at every ten minutes to read it and try to understand. After a week of worry, he had folded the delicate sheet of notepaper and slipped it into the map case to take with him on his tour of the Northern Pennines, the expectation being that once in the bracing air he would have an epiphany, he would go back to London, they would laugh at his confusion, and—he wasn’t entirely sure what followed.

Jolyon couldn’t imagine Cicely in an aeroplane. She lived quietly in a modest set of rooms behind the Bayswater Road and rarely ventured further than Lancaster Gate, though on a sunny afternoon she would sometimes take a turn in Hyde Park, accompanied by Roberts, her maid. Yet here was this letter, this slip of a thing, full of wild ideas. Some of it was sensible. She advised him to wear certain socks which she believed would protect his feet from blisters; she passed on sound advice from Roberts regarding the purchase of a Harris Tweed cap, and the best tailor to approach for a pair of plus fours. They had agreed on the need for string in case he lost his cycle clips. He remembered sitting in Cicely’s parlour while she and Roberts giggled about the string, which he’d thought most forward of Roberts, but who was he to complain about Cicely’s arrangements? It was not his province, and he knew nothing of such things anyway.

The fantastical aeroplane incident had been bad enough, but it had been followed in the very next paragraph by the bald announcement that she was pregnant. When he read those words the first time, at his club, he had exclaimed, and half risen from his chair. Simpkins had brought him a large brandy and he had recovered soon enough, but whatever had put such an absurd thought into her head? He was not entirely au fait with what he liked to call ‘family matters’, but he was certain the decorous peck on the cheek with which he habitually greeted her could not possibly have caused her to become with child. To do that would have required the insertion of his penis into the part of her anatomy that connected with her womb. The doctor had explained to him how this worked. He was aware of the workings of his penis anyway, having been public school educated, but he was sure he would have noticed if he’d inserted his penis into Cicely. Yet there it was, there was the thing she had written. He had never previously noticed any signs of hysteria in her.

Amongst the long moors and small wooded valleys, it all seemed impossibly, and thankfully, distant. He closed his eyes and lay back. The sun beat down and the scent of honeysuckle assailed his nostrils in a most pleasant way. A bird called with an eerie, chirring cry. He believed it to be a curlew, and felt proud of his knowledge, but there was something mournful about its call. He had yet to approach Cicely formally, but now, he was experiencing something that if it were not so ridiculous, he would call ‘fear’. How much of an understanding did he and Cicely really have? He wasn’t sure, but he knew breach of promise was a serious matter. People fought duels. Perhaps this was caused by his reluctance to take matters further. Had he unwittingly caused her to go insane? Should he have utilised his penis’s properties, even before the wedding night? He had visions of Bedlam, and shivered, but the sky was as bright as ever, mocking him. He opened the letter and read again: I have held in all but one tear, and that one is for you.

At first he thought this meant she’d been weeping for him, but now, as he read the words more carefully, he realised what they really said. What a confounded thing! Her words meant she had only shed one tear for him. One! That was all he was worth. He folded the letter and slipped it back into the map which he secured in his haversack. He had an urge to race his bicycle pell-mell across the moors, but a tyre would burst, and he was foolish in such matters with no idea how he might effect a repair. Best to stick to sensible roads with small villages within walking distance. Just one tear? Oh, Cicely.

Cicely… Cicely… rising from her dressing table, her hair shining, a small smile quivering on her lips, raising a finger and whispering, “Wait till the evening,” and he, wondering at being so blessed, at having this creature, this Cicely, looking up at him demurely as if awaiting permission—but then this awful fear, which in a woman would be ‘nerves’; his stuttering, unsure of the correct words, the shrug of her shoulders as she turned away to pick up the map with the words, “Perhaps you should go on that cycle tour,” and he, nonplussed, not having mentioned any such idea thinking, yes! A cycle tour! What a tremendous idea! And Roberts scuttling away—did she laugh? Now he was sure; the maid had been laughing at him.

He picked up the bicycle and surveyed the view, which went on forever, and the clouds, distant and thunderous, but shedding their precipitation no doubt over the mighty fells of the Lake District, far enough away not to worry him. He would cycle on, he would reach Hartside Summit, he would write to Cicely and tell her about the view. She would like that. He would hint that perhaps Roberts could be given her notice.

But even as he had the thought, he knew the letter would remain unwritten. An aeroplane! Had she been whisked away to the coast by some ne’er do well, and taken on a perilous flight across the channel? Had she arrived in France and sipped absinthe with dangerous artists? He had heard of such things. Had one of them kissed her, not just on the cheek—had one of them dared touch her lips? Had there been more? Had there been a penis insertion? He flushed. He didn’t know what he meant by that, not really. It seemed so unlikely, but even thinking about it was causing his organ to engorge a little.

Hard work, that’s what he needed. He mounted his bicycle, despite the temporary awkwardness, and pedalled up the road. The wind was against him, but he fought it, soon out of breath, aching with the effort. He passed a snake of men, coal-blackened, who stared at him as if he were something monstrous and strange, and he thought, perhaps he was, perhaps he had no right to be here. There were lights in the distance, perhaps a small chapel. That would be his goal. The clouds, which had seemed so far away moments earlier, crowded the sky. The bicycle had no lamps. This was unsafe. He stopped. The summit was too far away. Cicely was too far away. He was beastly cold.

The rain fell with great heavy drops. He remembered Roberts telling him that Harris Tweed was sovereign against a shower. He should have spoken then, should have dismissed Roberts for her impertinence, should have asked Cicely for her hand. He hadn’t, and now she had toppled into insanity, shedding only one tear for him. She was consorting with Frenchmen, she had embraced a French penis, and now she was with child. She had sent him away on a bicycle, and he had never even kissed her lips.

The blackened men tramped past him, a never-ending line, hurrying back to those rows of cottages with the smoke rising from the chimneys. They had wives, perhaps children. The rain poured down and Jolyon threw his bicycle into a ditch and the accursed Harris Tweed cap after it. He would catch pneumonia and die, and then perhaps she would deign to let the other tears flow. He scrabbled in his haversack for the map. Her letter dropped out onto the ground and the rain dissolved the writing. He tramped on in the direction of the chapel. There were sighs, voices, chaotic angels singing through the storm, calling him.

 

* * *

 

My dearest Jolyon,

Do you know what it is to fly? To be airborne, to let loose the bonds that tie you to the ground? I have had an adventure, unparalleled and fantastical, but I can see you shaking your head, and thinking about aeroplanes. Oh, my darling, sometimes I feel so sorry for you. But you have your trip coming up, you have something lovely to look forward to, and Roberts assures me those northern fells will blow the cobwebs away. You have your bicycle. I have the sky, the air, the heavens!

Roberts peered over Cicely’s shoulder and read what she had written so far.

“He really will think you’re talking about aeroplanes, won’t he.”

Cicely put down her pen and didn’t speak. Roberts put her hands on her mistress’ shoulders and leaned over to kiss the top of her head. “I know—tell him you’re pregnant.”

Cicely covered her mouth to stifle the laugh, then picked up her pen, and wrote, I’m pregnant.

“Golly,” she said.

The two women stared at the words.

“You would be if I were the footman rather than the maid,” said Roberts, quietly.

“I can’t leave it like that. Whatever will he think?”

“I don’t know. Does he think? I’ve never seen any evidence.”

“Don’t be mean. I know: I have held in all but one tear, and that one is for you. There. He’ll understand that I’ve saved the best, the most special tear for him. I owe him that at least.”

“You don’t owe him anything.”

“He’s been kind.”

“Haven’t I?”

“More than kind.”

Cicely took Roberts’ hand in her own and kissed it. “Now I must finish this.” She took up her pen again. The rest of the letter was...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 28.11.2019
• Verlagsort: London
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Anthologien
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• Schlagworte: Erotic Short Stories • Feminist writing • gay books • poetry anthology • Sexuality
• ISBN-10: 1-9998823-3-4 / 1999882334
• ISBN-13: 978-1-9998823-3-4 / 9781999882334