World Literature 101


Chaucer and I looked at each other in amazement. "See you back on the train, Homer. Now, I'm going to find that `lusty bacheler' Squire. My guess is the boy will be `slepen al the nyght with open eye.'"

London, circa 1595:

Virago Blue and I stepped off the train just outside a London garret. She had to duck to get through several doors as I led her confidently to the room Louie had told me about. We found
Shakespeare (who, amazingly, looked just like Joseph Fiennes) hunched over a small writing desk. A single beam of sunlight illuminated the dark room, which was just as well. It made it easier to see the young woman Shakespeare was eyeing in his imagination.

"Good morrow, Master Will," I greeted him.

"Forsooth! Prithee who be ye and whence cometh ye unto my chamber?" he replied.

"I'm sorry Will, but this is just a short story and I haven't got the time to write and, frankly, my readers haven't got the patience to wade through, Elizabethan English. So can we switch to 20th Century US?

"I'm cool," he agreed.

"Great! Let me introduce Ms Blue. She's a writer.

"And I've always wanted to meet you, Mr. Shakespeare" she cooed. Shakespeare looked up at the giantess, not knowing whether to be flattered or alarmed.

"So, what's cooking," I said trying to turn the conversation in a literary direction.

"It's this darned sonnet; it's just not working."

"What's the problem, Will?"

"Well, like there's this babe ...."

"Will, I said `20th Century US.' You don't have to do `Valley Girl.'"

"Oh, OK. Well, there's this woman and she is so hot, but I can't get anywhere with her."

"Blonde?" I asked glancing over at the figment.

"Yeah, how'd you know?"

"I'm one of those authors omniscient."

"I want to write something romantic so I can get into her pants."

"Do any of us write for any other reason?" I replied. "What about this? She's pretty now, but twenty, twenty-five years from now, who will remember what she looked like. You guys don't have Kodaks, after all. She should let you get her pregnant to preserve her `image.'"

"I like it!" Will exclaimed. "She's vain enough; it just might work. Let's see

I look upon you now and see you babe,
but in a while what's gonna come of you?'"

"Hmmm. Well, it IS the right meter, but I think you want something a little more lofty, serious-sounding. Chicks like that," I told him. "How about:

Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest,
Now is the time that face should form another,
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother."

"Hey, that's good, Homer! Then I tell her how good she'd look with a big belly poking out and huge tits dripping with milk!" he said with a maniacal glint in his eye and rubbing his hands in glee like Frank McCoy!

"I think you could phrase that a little more delicately, Will, say:

So should that beauty which you hold in lease
Find no determination, then you were
Your self again after your self's decease,
When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear."

"Yeah, she'll go for that, but it doesn't quite rhyme."

"It'll rhyme when you say it," I assured him.

"And then I tell her that just as she looks like her sexy Mom, a pretty daughter would look like her. Huh?"

"That's an idea," I agreed. "How about:

Thou art thy mother's glass and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime,
So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time."

"Right! So, she should let me knock her up!"

"Indeed, you just drive it home with a clincher:

But if thou live remembered not to be,
Die single and thine image dies with thee"

"If you boys are *quite* through with the literary foreplay," Virago Blue broke in with exasperation, "I believe this is MY section of the story and one of my prerogatives as a protagonist is supposed to be to fuck the author being visited. So if you will excuse us, Homer, I have some business to attend to with Will." Before he could object, William Shakespeare, poet and dramatist, found his hand grasped tightly as he was almost yanked out of the scene. "Let's see the length of your iambic pentameter, big boy," Virago purred.

"She's going to fuck his brains out!" remarked the pretty image.

"That's the point of bringing her here," I explained. "But aren't you supposed to be the `dark lady?' Why are you blonde?" I asked, struggling to regain narrative control.

"Hollywood casting!" she huffed. "Until a few months ago I had long black hair like all those other Italian women he has a thing for. Then some genius in Southern California decides that Shakespeare would be hot for Gwyneth Paltrow and, boom, I get this stupid dishwater hair."

"Oh, you shouldn't say that. You're very beautiful!"

"Oh, do you really think so?" she smiled and tucked a strand into her bun.

[NOT her bum, you dirty-minded freaks!]

"Of course you are, my dear, radiant!

Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest,
Now is the time that face should form another,
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother."

"Oh, God! That is sooo hot!" she sighed.

"You'd be such a pretty mother.

So should that beauty which you hold in lease
Find no determination, then you were
Your self again after your self's decease,
When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear,"

I whispered as I began to fondle her breasts.

"Please, stop. I getting so wet."

"I guess it's that time of the month, right, honey. Our baby is going to be so beautiful;

Thou art thy mother's glass and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime,
So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time."

"No, NO" she protested, but let me continue to feel her up.

"But if thou live remembered not to be,
Die single and thine image dies with thee."

"Oh, yes! Fuck me! Fuck me," she cried.

I wondered if Shakespeare would know he'd been cuckolded? Probably so, when he sees how brown the baby is. Maybe he'll blame it on Iago.

"This looks like more fun than I expected," said Maria when we were all back on the train. Who is next?"

"You are. I thought you might look in on Sor Juana."

"Sor Juana? Who's she?" Maria asked

"A seventeenth century nun in Mexico City who wrote passionate religious poetry `suffused with emotion of almost erotic intensity,'" Janey butted in.

Dammit! I hate it when my characters are more erudite than I am!

"You mean she got off on ...?" Maria said, turning up her nose as if she had swallowed a bug. Janey and I nodded our heads.

"Weird," said Maria. "Do I have to?"

"I was just teasing you, Maria. I know who you'd really like to see."

"Lady Godiva?" she asked.

"Some other story. Good chocolate, though. No, I thought while Virago is getting shagged there with Shakespeare, you could drop in on his contemporary in Spain."

"You mean Cervantes? They lived at the same time?

"Born the same day," Janey blurted out before I could. I ground my teeth, beginning to regret I had invited her.

La Mancha, Spain circa 1610:

"Kind of dry and desolate around here," Maria remarked as we stepped off the train and onto a barren landscape.

"That's the reason they call it 'La Mancha' instead of 'La Costa del Sol,'" I replied. "But if you want to find Cervantes, this is the place to come."

"Why can't we just go straight to his house or whatever like you did with Shakespeare and Chaucer?" Maria asked.

"Because," I replied, foreshadowing the action to come, "Sometimes the search is more interesting than its object. Let's just go into that taverna over there and you can ask around."

"I can't go into a taverna full of men dressed like this!" protested Maria who still had on the tight red miniskirt.

"You'll be perfect," I leered. "Remember `FAQ?'"

"You're going to make me humiliate myself!"

"Nothing you don't want to do, honey. Come on."

We walked into the dark room. It was early afternoon, but it was already filled with travelers. The gurgle of conversation abruptly ceased when the men saw Maria.

"Carajo! What a set of chichis she's got!" exclaimed a man near the bar.

"Gran Tetones," affirmed another.

"You've got their attention." I told her. "Ask."

More than a little nervous and fuming at the way I had set her up, Maria stepped farther into the room. "Perdonen, Senores, but I am looking for Don Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra. Do any of you know where I can find him?"

"You mean the one-armed guy who wrote about that crazy caballero Don Quixote and this faithful side-kick Tonto, er, ... I mean Sancho?"

"Yes, he!" Maria exclaimed, thinking this would be easier than she had feared.

"Never heard of him!" The room broke out in laughter and Maria glared at me for putting in such a stupid joke.

"Actually, we might be able to help you, little lady, if you make it worth our while," a grizzled mule driver smirked.

"I'm afraid to ask how." Maria replied, looking daggers at me again.

A lutenist struck up a slow, throbbing melody.

"We want to SEE something,"

"What? You cochinos want me to take off my clothes?"

The audience yelled and whistled their congratulation for her clever surmise.

Maria looked down at the clothes she had on. A short red skirt, a tight white short sleeve blouse covered with a black silk jacket. She tried to recall what she had on underneath, and remembered that her husband had convinced her to wear something sexy for the trip -- a pair of black satin panties and matching bra. The crowd kept whistling and as she looked out at them, she realized that all eyes were on her. Even the guy that smelled like he had bathed in Rioja red had awakened.

She reached her hand down, and unbuttoned the top button of her blouse. Looking up, she smiled at the crowd coquettishly and announced, "OK. Where is Don Miguel?"

"More! More!" The crowd was rowdy and she could hear voices yelling at her to "Take it off, take it all off. We want to see those chichis!"

"Go ahead, Maria. You make your characters do it all the time," I said. "Take off your clothes, then you'll know how it feels."

She shook her head, but her hands were reaching toward the front of her blouse. She watched as they slowly unbuttoned her blouse. The lute grew louder and was joined by a guitar.

"You've go to do it, Maria if you want to meet Cervantes."

"I don't know if I even WANT to meet Cervantes," she replied , but she had begun moving to the beat. Ripping off her jacket, she heard the crowd whistle and cheer her on. "Take it all off Maria! Don Miguel is not far away."

"I don't want to do this!" she protested, but she continued to strip off her clothes. Soon she was dancing in just her bra and panties.

"Chi-chis! Chi-chis! Chi-chis!" chanted the crowd.

Maria's hands began to unsnap the bra as she listened to the rhythm of the music, her body mimicking it perfectly. Freeing her tits from the garment, the obviously excited woman flung it into the crowd and began to dance more energetically.

"A train! A train! A train!" the excited men roared.

Maria looked over at me in desperation. "Homer, you can't make me pull a train. Trains haven't been invented yet!"

"Maybe 'railroad' trains haven't been invented," I grinned with leprechaunious logic, "But haven't you heard of pack trains? Mule trains? Have a nice day, Maria." I waved and walked out the door.

Over a mile away I could still hear Maria's cries of ecstasy. Sounds really carried out here on the Mancha.

Wesendonck estate near Zurich, circa 1857:

"Good afternoon, Herr Wagner," Allison greeted the rather bony composer.

"Pardon our intruding, sir, but Ms. George here has long admired your music and wanted to see how you compose it." I added.

"Another Amerikan tourist?" he grumbled. "Oh, vell, go ahead, zay it! Get it out of ze vay."

"Say what?" Allison asked.

"Ze stupid zhoke."

"I don't understand."

"Ze zhoke, ze zhoke `9W.'" Wagner replied with growing disgust. "You know, `ze answer iss 9W, vhas iss ze qvestion?'"

"I'm confused," confessed Alison.

"All Amerikans know ze damned zhoke, get it over vith: `ze answer is 9W, vhas iss ze QVESTION?'"

"The question?" repeated Allison, totally baffled.

"Ja? Ze qvestion, `Do you spell your name vith a V, Herr Wagner?'"

"And the ANSWER is `9W?'" said Allison with an uncomprehending frown. Then she brightened. "Oh, I get it! `9 W.' `Nein, "W."' Oh, that's very funny, Herr Wagner, very - he he HE -- funny. Oh, I love it! `9' -- ha ha HA -- `W,' -- ho ho HO," cried Allison, LOL&ROF.

"Mein Gott! Mein Gott! Ze only Amerikan in ze vourld who never heard zees dizgustink zhoke and I'm zuckered into telling it!" Wagner buried his face in his hands.

"Vie haf you come to disturp me, anyvay?" he moaned.

"Vell, I mean, well, I'm a singer and I just love your operas and ..."

"You, a zinger? Vhat do you zing?" Wagner shot back, incredulous.

"I'm a soprano, well really more of a soubrette."

"A zoprano? You do not LOOK like a zoprano," Wagner said throwing out his hands to indicate HIS conception of a zo, er, a soprano.

"You mean I'm not Wagnerian enough? Well just because I don't have boobs as big as Birgit Nilsson's, doesn't mean I can't sing," Allison sniffed. "They aren't echo chambers, after all."

"Out! Out! I haf vork to do. I am vritink ze 'Luf Zolo' for 'Tristan and Isolde.' It must be ready as a birthday present for my vife, Minna."

"Oh, that's so sweet! I LOVE that opera! And the 'Love Duet' is one of the most erotic pieces of music in the entire operatic repertoire," Allison gushed sincerely.

"You zink zo?" Wagner replied, flattered. "But ... you zaid `duet' I am vriting a zo ... Javolh! Ein duet! Tristan declares his luf for Isolde and she responds in kind. He sings ..." Wagner broke into the first bars of the introduction.

"And Isolde replies ..." said Allison, breaking into song at the appropriate measure.

I began to see what Allison meant when she said the piece was erotic. As their voices flew up and down the scale, their hands grew busy undressing each other. As the music rose in intensity Wagner fondled Allison's 34 Bs even as Allison's clever hands found Wagner's ...

Ha! Bet you thought I was going to tell you the size of Wagner's cock. Wrong! I don't *write* about the sizes of authors' cocks! This is a serious literary exercise in which six well-known writers, each admired for her ASS ... work, are visiting some of the fonts of their artistic imagination. You can't expect me to insult men like that by talking about the sizes of their cocks!

"Zeven inges" called out Wagner.

I covered my face.

But then my attention was drawn again to the almost obscene spectacle unfolding before me. As the notes slowly climbed the chromatic scale, Wagner's and Allison's bodies became covered with sweat, Wagner's because he was near to coming, Allison's because she was nowhere near to coming - the bastard was going to leave her high and dry! Only a few bars remained before the approaching climax -- or lack thereof.

All our heads snapped around to see the handsome young man who had just stepped through a papier mache set. "Herr Wagner! What is the meaning of this? Isolde is betrothed to me, King Marke!"

"Cut! Cut! Cut!" I interjected. "Mark Aster, you bastard! What the hell are you doing in this story? My deal with Louie is that only authoresses can be on the Fantasy Train - no authors!"

"I don't believe I am `on' the train," he replied smugly.

I was going to kill that lawyering leprechaun. "You're still interloping in my story."

"Sue me!" he smiled.

"LW can represent you!" Allison offered, her eyes lighting up as she appraised the promising bulge in Aster's pants.

"Outrageous!' I protested.

"Good-bye, Homer, Herr Wagner. I'll TRY to see that Allison gets back to the train by sometime tonight. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some serious authoress-fucking to do."

"Oh, Mahk!" cooed Allison, breaking into a phony Southern-Belle accent as she began fondling her favorite male body part. "Hauw ro-MAN-tic! Comin' awl the way from New Orelands jus to see littl' ole ME!"

Wagner and I were still staring at each other in disbelief when the final notes of the "Love Duet" resumed. Allison's climactic high B moll shattered every window in the house.

"I guezz," Wagner remarked, looking down at the score, "I zhould not haf marked zat as `molto orgasmisimo.'"


"So who do *I* get to visit," Janey inquired impatiently. "Bronwen, and Virago Blue, and Allison are all probably getting it for a second or third time by now and Maria's pulling a fuckin' train if I know her. I'm horny, dammit, and I want to fuck an author!"

"Just what I had in mind." I replied. "I have someone picked out I think you'll like. He's French."

"French? Oh, goody!" exclaimed Janey. "Paris! Paris, of course! Lots of pastis and Bordeaux and creme brulee. And sooo many sexy writers: Guy de Maupassant, or the guy who invented the Three Musketeers**--can't remember his name --or *sigh* Victor Hugo, or Beaudelaire, Balzac, Flaubert, or Zola, and then we can meet Jane Avril and Toulouse-Lautrec. She's my heroine and ..."

{** Janey is referring to Alexander Dumas, not the inventor of the candy bar, whose name I don't know, either.}

"I'd thought of Proust," I said.

"Proust?" she exploded in dismay. "That pansy! I'd twist him around my 2x4!"

"Look! I offered you the chance to write this section, Janey, and you turned it down, so you have to take whomever I choose," I replied. "Besides, it won't be as bad as you think."

Deauville, France circa 1890:

The train dropped us at the actual rail station of the chic
beach resort on the Channel coast north of Paris. Even dressed appropriately for the times, you can believe that a tall, fair, elegant, rather French-looking woman like Janey, walking through the cobbled streets of the little town with a short brown man like me, got a lot of stares. "Are you sure you can find the place?" Janey asked.

"To give proper directions, I trust Louie completely," I said. "Vas-y, it's not much farther."

"I'm coming," she replied with annoyance. "Don't hurry me. I wore these heels just to please you and it's hell to walk in them. And you can knock off trying to speak French. You don't know what you're saying and your accent is horrible."

Minutes later we were standing in front of a large sea-front hotel. "We can't just walk in," Janey said.

"That's the whole idea. Louie timed our arrival perfectly."

"'Timed?' I don't understand."

"You will. Come on." As we walked through the lobby we could hear muffled sounds coming from an upstairs room. I tugged on Janey's hand. "You'll like this."

Janey still looked doubtful as we got nearer the room the sounds were coming from.

"Vas-y, vas-y! Fais-le pour maman!" came an excited woman's voice. "Vas-y, vas-y! Donne-le moi, mon petit ..."

"Is that who I think it is?" Janey asked as we peeked into the small bedroom where a still shapely middle-aged woman was riding the cock of the young man under her with great enthusiasm.

I nodded.

"One of the masters of modern French prose is fucking the shit out of his mother?" Janey gasped.

"Or vice versa."

"Ah maman, t'es si douce, si profonde" Marcel grunted between strokes.

"Look at the size of that thing," Janey gasped. "No wonder mamma kept him cosseted away all those years."

"Prends ca, maman!" he shouted as he bucked up into her. "Ohhhhhh!"

"'Je viens, Marcel, 'Je viens! Oooooooh" she cried as she collapsed on top of him.

"Putain! Maman, t'es si chaude!" the exhausted son sighed.

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