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September 2014

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writing rengeek magpie mind

--stick it you know where you know why you don't care--

A cautionary tale about sex scenes, pursuant to limyaael's recent post and my own on the topic of writing nookie. Some of you will recall, back in March, that I posted the original comparison of one of the worst and one of the best sex scenes I'd encountered in my wide-ranging reading of the soft underbelly of Elizabethan historical fiction. And I posted a bit of my own period smut, because it only seemed fair when I was trashing other people.

At that time, I bemoaned the fact that I did not have local a copy of Tamburlaine Must Die, which contains still more Marlowe/Walsingham smut, and what I then described as "a somewhat tragic irrumation scene."

Well, ladies and gentlemen, guess what I copied when I went back to Las Vegas? 



Louise Welch, Tamburlaine Must Die pp 12-13

literary victims: Kit Marlowe (POV) and Tom Walsingham

Context, I think, is evident from the passage.



Some swore he was a maid in men's attire
For his looks were all that men desire.

I knew how it would go. The time had come to grant my patron his literary droit du seigneur.

When Walsingham straddled my torso, broad-shested, veiny groin prick-stout, I was reminded of a back-arching centaur. The image persisted through the face-fucking interlude that followed. The smell of sea and sweat and the conquest of my poetry took place in my head to the image of a white horse running across hard wet sands, The rough stabbing of the patron-of-poetry's cock which jarred this poet's head against the bed's head took on the rhythm of a gallop, until the Lord released with a groan, holding his pulsing prick firm between my lips because somehow satisfaction would not be complete until the mouth which reads him such fine verse consumed all Walsingham can give.

Afterwards I stared up at the canopy that tented the bed, hoping fellow feeling hadn't fled. My Lord leaned over and ruffled my hair then as he dismounted, concluded the verse, making me its hero. <td>And such as knew he was a man would say, Marlowe, thou art made for amorous play.



And, just because I am a completist, a bit of Mignon.



Chris Hunt, Mignon pp 222-223

literary victims: Kit Marlowe and Marc (POV) Whose last name I am too lazy to look up.


He began to unbutton his doublet. His hair fell over his face as he leaned forward. I turned away and wiped my eyes. I hated Anthony. I was about to achieve my desire, thanks to him - but, thanks to him, most horribly. I watched the candle burn. By its light I read half absentmindedly the words:

Stay, Sigismund, forget'st thou I am he
That  with the cannon shock shook Vienna walls
And made it dance upon the continent

and I looked ta him and of a sudden darted to him and helped him with his clothes. I kneeled at his feet and took off his shoes and I did not care if he thought I was a much traveled catamite. I hurried to make him naked; I strewed his clothes on the floor. I was between his legs; I put my face against them, nuzzling his lean thighs, kissing till I came up to his crotch and pounced, my lips around his prick, which filled my mouth and tipped into my throat. I was ecstatic, slobbering and panting - O, I covered his cock with kisses and O how badly did I want that in me. I lifted my adoring eyes to him, and he raised me up and kissed me very hard till tears came to my eyes. I flung my arms around his neck. He almost slung me on the bed then, face down, and I lay shaking, enraged that he had grease to hand for juicing me, and almost intending to pull away and sulk, as his fingers separated my arse cheeks, confident aggressive handling by one who had done that before and often. I spread my legs and he eased himself between.

"O," I whispered, "take me, take me..." I was excited as never before, and at his entrance I could not help spurting all my juices hot and wet against my belly. [Which was pressed against the bed, wasn't it? [ed.]] He arched his back, leaning on his wrists, gripping my arms like a predator on his prey; and then he dropped on my and fucked me hard, fisting my hair in a handful till I cried; and then as his passion grew stronger he was doing it to hurt, with no thought of me at all save as an object for his lust or something but of small account. I whimpered into the sheet. He took no notice. He said harshly in my ear, "Take it, take it, bitch," and flooded me. His face was against mine; I felt his eyelash on my cheek. His fingertips touched my tear-stained cheeks.

"I hurt?" he said, making a statement of fact.

"You know," I muttered. I could feel his heart thudding against my shoulder blades.

"You deserved it." I sensed the anger in his voice.



...okay, I'm swearing off semicolons forever.

Here, go read the Burgess again. You'll beel better.

***

Comments

This is kinda alphabet soup. some control got loose during all the nookie-heat?
Nah, semagic mucnched my format codes. fixed now?
"Take it, take it, bitch"? That line just never loses popularity, does it?
450 years and counting....
*blind*
"Veiny" is really, really high on the list of words that really ought not to appear in sex scenes ever. Because, ewwwwwwww.
Your tag should be literal wank, to accompany your literary wank.
Veiny, juicing and spurting.

I like homoerotica. I used to write it, mostly for fun, sometimes for pay, and all I've got to say is ewwww.

And this sentence:

The rough stabbing of the patron-of-poetry's cock which jarred this poet's head against the bed's head took on the rhythm of a gallop, until the Lord released with a groan, holding his pulsing prick firm between my lips because somehow satisfaction would not be complete until the mouth which reads him such fine verse consumed all Walsingham can give.

should get down on its knees and beg the dictionary's forgiveness for word abuse. But if it did get on its knees, it would probably be just to give an appallling written blow job, so never mind.
Those words are going to need therapy.

And it's made worse by the fact that you need to read it two or three times to understand what's going on there.
I wonder why every writer doing this Marlowe fellow feel the need to throw him in bed with everyone in sight.

Still, I liked yours - if for no other reason than that it had Morgan in it :D
It's because he's the little black dress of the Elizabethan poetry world.
Apparently, we need to get unshockable straight men writing our homoeroticism. Because man, that does not suck.
The semicolons are innocent!

*sits at the feet of St Anthony making offerings*
Those are NOT innocent semicolons.
Okay, maybe I could write historical fiction. I mean...I couldn't do worse than them, and they got published.
Also, because I am apparently in a "snickering at bad sex" mood today, this part

The smell of sea and sweat and the conquest of my poetry took place in my head to the image of a white horse running across hard wet sands

keeps making me think of two things: one is the scene at the ford of Bruinen in the film version of Lord of the Rings, which is a highly disturbing association to make, and the other one is the finale of Oedipus Tex, which contains the lines

Well, the moral of the story is, of course,
Don't love your mother, pardner, save it for your horse!
I guarantee you will be filled with great remorse
If you give your mom the love you should be saving for your horse!
Saaaaaaaaave it for your horse!
You've got to saaaaaaaaaaaave it for your horse!
Don't be a priiiiiiiiiiiisoner of remorse!
Take love and saaaaaaaaaaaaave it for your horse!


This may be because I am highly defective.
*snrch*

...yanno, I was just too busy with the tortured syntax of that sentence to even really contemplate what it was *saying.*
::is suddenly not worried at all about the sex scene in The Mirador, tra la::
*is quite looking forward to that* :)

Sure you are

You may be swearing at the semicolons; but I bet you can't leave off using them. It's like being a junkie; you can never settle for just one potato chip, or just one punctuation mark.
I just read Tamburlane Must Die and oof! The bad sex in particular.
That was the only one that really burned itself into my brain. Any other contenders?

(Poor Kit.)
Ow. Ow, I say.

My kingdom for three asterisks and a fast cut to the next scene...

Who had the bottle of Brain-Scrubbing Bubbles?