This is my entry for the 2018 Euphoff competition devoted to seriously bad erotic writing, run by the fabulous Other Livvy. This is the worst I could come up with. Check out the other entries here
I have crested many a range, conquered veritable Himalayas of female voluptuousness, scaled the mountains of desire, reaching for bright galaxies of ecstasy even as I plunged into the darkest depths. For it is the depth that I crave, not the heights. I still recall the first blissful night, when I sailed into the vast ocean of delight reached from the narrow bay between her thighs, its coastline thick with the gorse bushes of her pubic hair, warning me off, yet inviting me in. And I grew hard, my manhood swollen with desire and the creamy pulsations rising up from my spheres of sexuality. And I saw that I was glistening, my bell end a bright purple bauble hanging from the stout tree of my gym formed frame. I rose up, a very Mars unhorsed, and came down brutally to plunge my sceptre of masculinity deep, deep into the erotic chasm she had willed open for me in her desire. I drove my manly member into those soft sensual feminine folds, fragrant with female juice, and gasped as the foreskin slipped back and my semi-moist treat stick lapped at the pools of pleasure she had prepared. Our bodies moved in the synchrony of pure physical poetry, of a wonder beyond words.
She opened her beautiful mouth, its full lips rising and falling in hedonistic harmony as she moaned and gasped and said
“Oh Sixtus, just fuck me. I want it hard”
And she rose up and bit my shoulder ran her ombre nails down my back. And I knew the spell was broken by her cheap vulgarity I withdrew with more than a hunt of disgust.
“Sixtus, SIXTUS! Just give it to me now! I’m fucking gagging for it!”
“Oh Annunziata, how could you spoil such a special moment how…how can you deny the pulchritudinous poetry of the coupling, the sweet sonnet of sex, the hexameter of hedonism.”,
“For fuck’s sake Sixtus. Are you going to ram me or not?”
I remained stunned.
“Because if not just take your things and get out. In this corner of Brexitland sex means sex. I didn’t bring you back here for pulchritudinous poetry. I brought you back here for a rough shag.”
Again I said nothing.
She slid down so that my erotic rod of state was by her mouth and took it inside that temple of her vulgarity. And I released my seed into her softness, not to give her pleasure but to cleanse her, before making her whole in an aesthetic of atonement, how I forgave her for spoiling the moment, yet, even as I sought to deny her I calmed the waves, the rushing torrents of sensation. Now I knew I was to be the poet, she the writing tablet, the recipient of my art, marked with my manliness, engraved with the erotic. And I put out to sea a second time, knowing I would never return home.