WARNING. Some rather bad innuendos are coming your way…
Many moons ago, when struggling to break through in writing, my then partner looked at my dream job and took it in hand to blow some inspiration into me, and thus she thrust ten inches of astonishment into my face; a newspaper article on how a novelist was finding more sales and fulfillment as an erotic writer than as a “serious” author. (Not that I’m saying writing erotica, isn’t being a series writer!!)
“Why don’t you have a go?” demanded the now-ex, knowing my work was flaccid, my determination limp and my work-ethic shrivelled, for I had been getting nowhere with mainstream writing and was therefore experiencing enormous difficulty in keeping it up.
I decided to have a go and was soon producing a steady drip of novella-length fantasy erotica which did actually sell a few copies. While modesty (and reality) forbids me from claiming I was enormous, I did have more success than hitherto, with readers gulping down the seeds of my modest pen. Is this going anywhere, you may ask? Or have I already finished while you were distracted by that new crack on the ceiling?
Well, after this frenzied activity, I was spent; my quill burnt out, my inspiration dried, the great throbbing rocket of my work toppled and refusing to go off. And so it remained until the present lock down, when I was furloughed and twiddling my body parts (thumbs, just in case you needed clarification). Having edited three works in progress, I needed something else to do, and I suddenly remembered I’d started an erotica years ago which never reached any sort of climax.
This one was a bit different. My previous work was all quite straight, and rather humourless. This one was a ridiculous over-the-top Carry On style Bond spoof. With bonking. Lots and lots of comedy bonking. In villainous lairs, in aeroplanes and under giant lasers. The story featured twosomes, threesomes, and about twenty-sixsomes.
The humour is silly, the puns awful, the scenarios deliberately laboured and the whole thing was contrived beyond all reason. I got it out, dusted it down, breathed on it, polished it, stiffened it up and finally thrust it up Amazon Kindle. And then did it twice more to make a trilogy, damn-near straining my wrist into the bargain. (What with all the added typing).
And here it is. The fruit of my literary loins. A thoroughly silly-sexy-Bondesque-spoof-type thing running to a rather brisk 10,000 words. With mutated snapping turtles, a space-faring flatulent monkey, a giant laser, a glamorous secret agent in the person of Agent 69, Juno Keswick, and a sexually inadequate villain promising death to the world. And the name of this literary masterpiece?
Doctor Blow.
By More.
Roger More.
Roger Much More.
And all for the price of 78 British pence. (That’s 99 cents, for US readers).
What more could you ask for?
Apart from (obviously) plot, character, suspense and higher literary meaning?
So, why not grab a coffee, grab a copy of the book, and have a giggle for an hour or so during these odd times?
Keep on rogering.
Roger.
Extract:
Juno Keswick, A.U.N.T Agent 69, unaware of the crisis engulfing the planet, was at that moment on a fairly routine mission. She was trapped in the secret lair of a megalomaniac super-villain who had suspended her upside down over a poisonous rock pool in which mutated snapping turtles swam in lazy circles, waiting for their dinner to be lowered down to them.
It was a good life, being the mutated snapping turtle of a megalomaniac villain. True, they had to wait some time for each meal to be lowered as their insane creator, Professor Havelock, liked to gloat over his victims, but the turtles had learned patience.
It was true also that the morality of consuming anyone who transgressed against the professor was a grey area at best, but when all was said and done, the turtles were on three square meals a day and had a nice pool to swim in. Against such luxury, morality was simply an inconvenience.
“Now, Miss Keswick,” called the professor from the control board of the mini crane that clasped Juno’s boots, holding her over the bubbling surface of the pool. “Do you now regret your desire to interfere in my plans?”
“Hardly a desire, professor,” drawled Juno as she swung gently back and forth. “It’s what I was trained to do.”
“Ah, yes, for glory and honour, queen and country,” sneered the professor. “And see where that has got you. Suspended over the pit of turtle doom!”
“It’s an occupational hazard.”
“Pah! Foolish girl. What did you think you could achieve against me? What can you do, suspended over the pit of turtle doom, when I hold your handbag with all your secret gadgets?
“The lipstick which turns into a laser,” continued the professor. “The mirror which doubles as a communicator; the pen which turns into a missile; the strange wand stamped as a Big Boy Mark 4 and with settings ranging from “Titillate” to “Oh my God Yes” which I haven’t quite worked out, as yet, though my laboratory will reveal all under analysis?”
“That last one’s not actually a weapon, and I don’t appreciate you getting your grubby fingerprints all over it,” observed Juno, her hands casually clasping the hem of her short silver dress to preserve her modesty. “And you forgot the compact,”
“What of the compact?”
“Oh, haven’t you worked that one out yet? I’m not surprised; it is quite complicated.”
“Complicated?” echoed the professor, pulling the tortoiseshell compact from the bag. “It’s a standard compact with a garrotting wire wrapped in the edge, a small tracker built into the upper lid and fake face powder which is in fact a powerful narcotic. There is no mystery here.”
“You have neglected the final surprise.”
“Oh, you mean the explosive charge hidden under the powder? I assure you, my dear, I have been very careful in not pressing the secret button moulded into the bottom of the case.”
“And therein lies your mistake.”
The professor frowned, angry at the implication he had missed something. “What mistake?”
“The secret button doesn’t activate the explosive charge. It deactivates it. If you hold the compact for longer than one minute without pressing the button, the charge will ignite. Right about now!”
The professor yelled as the compact exploded in his hand, spraying narcotic powder into his face. He staggered around in a strange semi-circle which rather improbably took him around the crane and up to the very edge of the turtle pool of death. He coughed and raged feebly as the narcotic seeped into his system, sending him into a deep sleep.
“No, this cannot be,” he slurred as his body hovered over the edge of the pool, one foot suspended over the swirling water. “Oh, the unforeseen irony, that after dumping so many of my enemies in here, I too should contrive to fall into my very own pit of zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.” With a huge snore, the professor tumbled forward into the pit.
Twitter: https://twitter.com/RogerMuch
Bio
“Roger Much More is known the world over as a top secret spy in a safari suit. But don’t tell anyone. It’s a secret…”
***
Many thanks Roger – happy blowing xx
