Let's Have a Literotica Convention

Note: If you can read a piece of writing literally, it isn't literature. They named this site Literotica for a reason.

(Truth! Give or take a lie or two. How could I write a disclaimer for this story, an Idiot's vision of a Literotica Author's Convention. We're all fighting to be first in line for the Smithsonian's new Freaks Galore Wing. )

Harvey? What's a Literotica Convention?

The BW (that' Beautiful Wife, anon) met me at the door when I arrived home from work. She was waving this huge slice of green cheese edged in red lace.

In debossed letters filled with a suspect substance, this lunatic's medium of communication was inviting me to join the kindred souls of Literotica in Las Vegas.

I was bemused.

"Literotica is an internet site," I answered carefully, "where masochists, sadists and an assortment of failed individualists meet and try to figure out which is which and who is who."

My BW was so enthralled with the opportunity to go to Vegas that she didn't care if the invitation was from Big Foot. So, weeks passed and the day came that we were landing at McCarran. (That's the airport at Vegas, anon.)

For some reason the pilot came back to steerage to greet us. Hoot, mon! He was a girl, and what a girl. Now, I had known women with healthy blonde hair and happy eyes and admirable butts who could fly airplanes; but this one was off anybody's pulchritude chart, all categories inclusive.

(Pulchritude! No one can live the cultured life without that word! There's one for you to Google.)

Long ago I learned not to shoot from the hip when a pretty butt does something unexpected. This didn't startle me in the least. After all I had knelt and measured the hem distance from the floor of the first official nun's little black cocktail dress. All silk it was. And, well, just o'boy!

My wife and the 300 Literotica conventioneers aboard the plane saw our sexy pilot differently. We all did agree, however, that JPB would have drooled over her at the Landing Strip.

We'll see her in Harddaysnight's next if he's aboard observing astutely as is his wont. She's a scrubbed doll, just like he paints them. If not Harddaysnight, Ohio will capture her essence. Maybe Matt, Slirpuff or DGHear? Brittease or Ash? Maybe Tx?

"Her pants bag!" my wife carped.

"I'll bet she..." someone in the tail section began

"She wouldn't do that, you pervert..." a little prune to my right hissed.

"All pilots do it," my BW opined, joining the chorus.

"Do what?" I asked, truly curious.

"Don't ask me!" the prune snarled. "I'm anonymous!"

"They hide those gorgeous boobs," my wife answered, frowning and beginning to doubt the wisdom of attending.

I didn't dare tell this crowd about interviewing the first woman to make Captain with an XXX Big Time Airline. She had four grown kids and lawyer husband who began life as a professional wrestler. She was a devout Baptist and sang in the choir. (More truth, give or take a lie or two.)

"She's not part of the convention," I said sorrowfully.

We got to one of those hotels you can't believe until you see it.

At any convention, the first order of things is to sign in at the busy administration table. We were supposed to get badges. but anon started a riot by complaining.

The badges were color coded, an anon screamed "Cuck Shit" when the show girl pinned on his yellow badge. Deputies were all over us in the snap of an eyelid.

My badge was candy striped. What's this mean? Maybe you can eat it, my wife mused.

"I think it means you are a candidate for desert solitude," said a bald, twinkly eyed little fat man. "I spent six months buried in the desert my first year."

"It means you gotta get anal and make 'em swallow," shrieked a woman with a beard wearing only miniskirt and CFM shoes.

"Don't let them rattle you, old man," a hammer of a woman in a motorized wheel cheer wheezed. "These sombeeches whacked off and spurted their brains into their hands long ago."

At last! Someone I might enjoy. She handed me her card. It read: "Madame Earnie's Sodomy Center, San Francisco.

Then it was time for lunch. We were given cards assigning us to a table for 12.

"I'll serve as the Dean of The Table," announced an individual wearing a four-foot wooden penis strapped to his/her belly. "I was an original writer in 1985."

"Ha! Literotica didn't begin until 1998," shouted a tall, thin man wearing a suit made of what seemed to be smoldering chicken feathers.

Now the fight was on.

"I invented the gangbang!" asserted a person wearing an Obama mask. "If you doubt that, the FBI will visit you."

"You can't find anybody writing about gangbangs the way I do," sneered a voluptuous brunette with sultry eyes and long toned legs. Her ID button read: President of XXX Tranvestites International.

"Yeah, but your gangbangs are all white," laughed a naked black man who was painted green except for his 60-inch chartreuse penis.

"Are you the one who introduced us to the innocent housewife who learns she can't live without your three-footer six times a day?" The man asking the question wore a tweed coat, button down blue shirt and designer Jeans. He puffed a pipe as he flicked a spot of ash off the toe of his penny Oxfords.

"Sombeech!" said the green midget. "Recognition at last."

"But you also confessed that you and three other anons were actually priests," the tweedy, erudite man said, smiling as he removed his pipe for effect.

As half a dozen authors kicked their chairs back and ran away, the erudite man smiled.

"Who are you?" I asked warily.

"I'm just a 20th Century homosexual that the gays threw out when I said Donald Trump's wife was pure beauty personified."

He was waiting for a limo back to the airport."

Was he a writer?

"I'm researching a TV series from the archives that is tagged only as 'Andy Hardy.' " he answered, replacing his pipe. "It's a truly difficult assignment."

Revival?

Maybe! Many hostile variables! Too many probably. Innocence has truly taken some hits.

Too bad that you've been banned from Literotica.

"Not banned from Lit," he drawled intellectually. "Just the gays. They black balled and one-starred me for objecting to the practice of seeding straight stories with sleazy alternative sex propaganda that effectively demeans homosexuals by implication."

Frightening! But fascinating. It was the BW attempting to intuit what the man had said.

I would need to inform her that she would need a new brain, a comprehensively different cultural notation, to enter into this give and take. (And she would initiate that over my dead body.)

"Sorry,ma'am," the enigmatic man said, touching her hand sympathetically. "I don't approve of wife watching, swinging or swapping."

"Well! I never," the BW huffed.

"She's new to the 21st Century," I said stifling a chuckle.

"She's cute," the dapper homosexual said, removing his pipe once more and blowing smoke.

I was beginning to smell fish. No homosexual ever looked at my wife like that.

"Are you sorry they ran you off? the BW asked.

"Oh! I suppose so," he said, his eyes twinkling at her rather dreamy and philosophical.

Any appeal?

"I'm talking to Laurel."

"Tell me about reviving this 'Andy Hardy' series," I said.

"Why don't we move into the bar where we can get better acquainted," Mr. Erudite said, his voice now scaling down to bass instead of tenor. "I can introduce you and your lovely wife to a superb wine you would never find back home...and we can do a little dancing, if you wish."

Now the fish had become a stink looking for a pile.

"Thanks just the same," I croaked, lifting the BW out of her chair abruptly with a savage yank of an arm. "We just checked out and our cab to the airport is waiting."

"We have! It is!" the wife exclaimed in abject bewilderment.

"Nice to have met you," I whispered, having swallowed my voice.

"But we can't leave our clothes," she protested. "We paid hundreds of dollars for those suitcases, and it took three weeks on the internet to find them."

My wife was babbling all of this as I was dragging her through the swinging doors onto the sidewalk and hailing a cab.

Not my wife! Guess she'll just remain uncultured.

"Hotels have employees who pack everything and send the bags along."

Now! Just hope there's two stand-byes on a flight to Dallas!

END (The truth give or take a lie or two.)