it's a great life, if you don't weaken (matociquala) wrote,
it's a great life, if you don't weaken

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--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.

Tags: literary wank, stagecraft and sodomy, when i say wank i mean wank dammit

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