World Literature 101

"'Hot?' She's incendiary," Janey said. "I wonder how he got any writing done."

Janey and I were still watching a few minutes later when Mere Proust reluctantly pulled herself from Marcel and began dressing. "I've got to go to the store for a few things, honey. Can I get you anything?"

"Gee, thanks, Mom. How about another box of madeleines. We're almost out."

"The way you scarf them down, mon petit, I'd better go to the hypermart," she chuckled.

We waited a minute before entering. "Bone joower, Mar-cell," I said, jovially.

Janey covered her face. "I TOLD you not to try to speak French," she hissed.

"And who are you and what are you doing here?" the surprised author asked.

"Ms Urquhart, here is a writer and a great lover of French literature, although you're not her favorite ..." I felt Janey jab me in the ribs.

"You're not carrying any dangerous germs, are you?" Proust asked.

I saw Janey stiffen. "He's a hypochondriac -- worries about infection constantly," I whispered. "He's not suggesting you've got Herpes."

"We're clean Mis-your Proast." Janey cringed again. "In the USA, WE bathe every day."

"We thought we would stop by maybe to pick up a few pointers on writing," Janey added, trying to hide her embarrassment.

"I doubt you would want to imitate my style which is well known for having extremely long digressive sentences that start at one point and then move from point to point, taking you along all the while through meanders of thoughts and detours of phrases while it seems to develop a whole story in the sentence, just bouncing from idea to idea -- the longest being over a page -- and usually, but not always, coming back to the central point of the phrase which is probably why I am credited with having invented the 'pause' comma in French, that is, one which has no grammatical place in the sentence, but is necessary in order to allow respiration amidst the outpourings and help meaning to sink in, otherwise none of the poor souls who try to read my prose would ever understand anything -- few enough do, as it is - leading to endless revisions of the text and the enmity of my editors!" he said all in one breath.

"My God!," I thought, "His lungs must be a big as his ..."

"My God!," Denny Wheeler thought with enmity, "If Homer doesn't stop making his own bloody endless revisions, we'll never make the ASSM Gala Grand Opening!" Janey shushed him.

"I did have something like that in mind, but I've just had a better idea," said Janey, lust glowing in her eye. "That thing must be ..."

But, as I have explained before I don't *write* about the sizes of authors' cocks.

"Vingt-et-un centimetres," said Marcel.

I covered my face.

"Are you sure? Lemme see that," exclaimed Janey, going empirical. "Oh my God! Twenty one if it's a centimeter! To hell with the `recherche.' There's been too much `temps perdu' already. I want this bebe** in me," the aroused woman growled, dropping her skirt and clambering onto the bed. "I'm going to give this boy some times past to remember. If he ever starts going to bed early again to write another book he'll stay there for the first 45 pages and the first thing he'll think about will be a creme brulee, not a madeleine," Janey remarked, overloading the paragraph with cliche references.

{** An Urquhartian figure of speech, not "baby" in the Vargasian sense.}

I was halfway back to the train station when I heard Janey's voice rising above the sound of the waves, "Prends ca, Marcel! Prends ca! Ohhhhhh!"

"Plus ca change et plus c'est la meme chose," I thought.

----------
Lima Peru, circa 1955:

Miss B and I had taken a cab from the rail station in Lima down to Miraflores where Uncle Mario lived. It was a large but not ostentatious house on a quiet street. I knocked on the door. Miss B. was at my side. A maid answered.

"Tio Mario" I shouted as Vargas Llosa came into the parlor at the maid's call.

"Homero, que, haces por estas partes, hombre?" he responded returning my abrazo.

"I have someone who wants to meet you, Uncle Mario, Miss Behavin' She is a writer of erotic tales, one of the best of our NG. She has won prizes for her writing, including the coveted Golden Clitty."

Uncle Mario was already appraising Miss B, but I didn't think it was her writing ability on his mind. She no longer had on the eye-popping business suit from this morning, but the yellow sundress she was wearing now showed off her figure very nicely.

"So nice to meet you, Sr. Llosa," she said offering he hand. "You look a lot younger than I though you would, since you're Homer's uncle."

"It's Sr. `Vargas.' And thank you," he replied, slicking back a strand of hair and tossing his head. "Don't you know, an author is only as old as his most recent dust jacket photograph."

Miss B, who just that morning had discovered the first tiny line under her eye, looked at him thoughtfully. Maybe hardcover publishing had its advantages. Perhaps she should give up writing internet erotica and go for that novel.

"Oh, yeah, sorry, Sr. Vargas. I've been wanting to meet you to say how much I liked that wonderful story about the motorcyclist who has the accident and wakes up on the Aztec sacrificial slab."

"Yes, I liked that story, too. Julio Cortazar wrote it," the writer replied coolly.

"Oh, I see," Miss B. said, slightly chagrined. "But I really did enjoy your book where the yellow butterflies take the virgin to heaven."

"Indeed, `Cien Anos de Soledad' was a great book. Gabriel Garcia Marquez won a Nobel prize for it," Uncle Mario replied with growing ire. "Tell me Senorita Traviesa, have you actually READ any of my books, 'Conversacion en la Catedral?' for example?"

"Er, No."

"'La Ciudad y los Perros?'"

"No."

"'La Casa Verde?'"

"No."

"'Quien Mato a Palomino Mero?'"

"No."

"Well, excuse me, but just which of my books HAVE you read."

"Was the one about the university student who falls in love with his aunt while he's working at the radio station yours?" Miss B inquired with trepidation.

"Dios Mio! `La Tia Julia y el Escribidor!' A throw-away book! A harmless diversion and because I let them make it into a movie, "Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter," that's all the gringos know me for."

"I'm not a gringa. I am Canadian!" Miss B replied proudly.

"Shamadin! Who the hell cares. Norteamericanos! You must realize Miss Behavin', that book is a complete fiction, a total fabrication, there was never any tru ..."

"Con quien estas hablando, mi amor?" came a lilting voice as a shapely woman walked into the room.

"Julia, este no es el momento ..."

"Eso veo, Mario," observed Julia jealously. "Who ees thee gringa? She ees verry preetty."

"I am NOT a gringa! I am Can ..." Miss B tried to protest once more.

"Julia, this is Srta. Traviesa. She and mi sobrino, Homero have come for a visit."

"Julia, you're much prettier than Mario described you in the book. He didn't tell us you were stacked," Miss Behavin' broke in deciding to slay the green-eyed dragon before it slew her.

"Gracias."

"I couldn't. It would have made it too explicitly sexual," Mario protested.

"Poof! It is certainly obvious how a voluptuous woman like you could seduce a shy university boy."

"I seduced her!" Mario corrected.

Julia glanced nervously at the ceiling. Miss B. smiled knowingly. "Oh, I don't think there's any doubt about who was seduced. He was young, and inexperienced, and horny. You were older, and experienced, and horny."

"Srta. Traviesa," Julia tried to protest.

"There's not need to be bashful with me, Sweetie. I know how satisfying it can be to get ploughed by a nice strong boy, well, not TOO nice.Grown men have there uses - romantic dinners, cuddling by the fire, making love - but for a good hard fuck, give me an eighteen-year old any day. So I'll bet holding hands isn't all you two did in those dark downtown theaters.

"No, no solo eso." Julia admitted with a grin.

"Of course not, you zorrita. Mario must have loved it when you guided his hands up to those big beautiful breasts of yours," Miss Behavin' said. They were now sitting on the couch. "And how long did it take you to get his hand up under your skirt? I'll bet you're a hot and juicy one, aren't you. Did he call you that, 'Jugosita Julia?"

"Srta. Traviesa!" Stop at once! You are scandalizing my aunt," Mario exclaimed.

"Callate, Mario. Thees ees girl talk!"

"You heard her. Butt out, writer-boy!. Go compose a sequel to that filthy book about the twelve year old who seduces his step-mother, you hypocrite!" Miss B. said dismissively.

"What? You know about "Elogio a la Madrastra? But I thought ..."

"That I was a dumb blonde? Mario, if I had a nickel for every man that made THAT mistake, I'd own six firms instead of three."

"Let's go upstairs, Julia. I want to introduce you to a friend of mine."

"El hombrecito?" Julia asked, making a face as she looked over at me.

"No, un GRAN amigo," Miss B. grinned and pulled a large battery-powered vibrator from her handbag as she took Julia's hand.

Mario didn't know what to think. "Do American girls really put things like that up in their ...? he asked, embarrassed.

"*I* sure as hell do," Miss B called from upstairs.

"Yo tambien!" Julia squealed in delight.

Uncle Mario grew more and more distraught as giggles and gurgles of Julia's pleasure floated down from the upstairs bedroom. "Why don't you join her, Mario. I'm sure she'd like it!" I suggested.

It didn't take much to convince him. I followed him up the stairs and down the hall to the girls' noisy bedroom. After long minutes of happy whoops, a silence had fallen over the house. We peeked in. Miss B was sitting near the bed, taking care of business digitally, while Julia ran down the Evereadys.

Mario's eyes grew big on seeing what Julia was doing. Miss B. noticed him.

"Come in here, Mario. Didn't anybody ever teach you it's impolite to spy on ladies taking their pleasure?"

"Si! Mario! Mal hecho!" scolded Julia.

"Lo siento, Julia," he apologized.

"Let's see just how sorry he is," giggled Miss B. "Come over here to the bed, Mario."

Reluctantly he went. "Very naughty! Not only were you watching, but you got aroused watching us. Why is that Mario? Is it seeing two women who are really hot? Two warm and wet pussies that could be wrapped around your cock? Would you like to get in bed with both of us and let us fuck your brains out? Bronwen says that's what men fantasize about."

"I theenk so, Srta. Traviesa. "Loook, between hees legs."

"You've got a problem there I think we can help you with, Mario," Miss B. laughed. "Down here, on the bed. That's a good boy. We'll take care of undressing you, baby; just give me your hand. That's it. Now the other one."

"Srta. Traviesa! What are you doing? Let me go! Why did you tie my wrists to the bed?

"Do his ankles, Julia, while I distract him," Miss B. directed taking the writer's cock into her mouth.

"No! Stop! Si! Ay, Srta. Traviesa! UUuuuu! Ahhhhh"

"Hecho!" Julia announced.

"Now we are going to have some FUN. I want to give THIS a try!" Miss B gloated, straddling the author's hips and impaling herself on his prick. "Oh, very nice Mario! How big is that thing, anyway?"

"Vrtirffg cnmtrs," he replied.

"Cuantas veces tengo que decirte, Mario? No hables con la boca llena!" Julia reprimanded, shifting her pussy more firmly onto her lover's mouth.

"Prb mghfpr," Uncle Mario protested.

"See you back at the train, Miss B. Ciao, Julia. Ciao, Mario."

I was REALLY looking forward to Uncle Mario's next book.

---------
Relaxing with a brandy and cigar, I waited for the women to drift back to the club car at day's end.

"So, how did it go? Did all of you enjoy the trip?" I posed.

Bronwen said nothing but smiled and began warbling a few notes that sounded remarkably like the call of a "nyghtyngale."

Virago looked a little bored. "Shakespeare was OK, I guess, but frankly, since my husband found out I write dirty stories, he's been such an animal, better than poor Will, any day. Now if you could have arranged for me to visit Grendel or a few Norse gods, that's something a girl can get her teeth into."

We looked over at Maria who was obviously exhausted. Her little black jacket did not make it back to the train, nor her bra or panties, I guessed. The garments would no doubt be passed down like holy relics from father to son for generations. Her blouse was only half buttoned - wrongly -- and her skirt was on crooked. "I've never done anything like that before," she sighed. "There must have been twenty of them. They just kept fucking me. One old scrawny guy -- I though he wouldn't even be able to get it up, but he turned out to be not a bad fuck -- kept calling me Dulcinea. Weird!"

Janey, Bronwen, and I exchanged glances.

"The worst was the one called Sancho Panza. He kept jumping the queue so he could jump me again and again. Kind of short and looked a lot like ..." Maria's eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared as she glared over at me.

"Did you ever get to meet Cervantes?" I asked, trying to steer the conversation into safer waters.

"I think so. It was hard to tell since I was in the middle of my umpteenth orgasm, but I felt a one-armed guy fuck me there in the end."

"You mean he fucked you in the END?" Allison exclaimed, alarmed that LW might read this story and get ideas.

"I'm sure that Maria means that in the end, a one-armed man fucked her," Janey expounded hermeneutically.

"I think I'll just let Denny Wheeler sort it out," I said. "He's good at that."

"Ah jus had a MAH velous time!" Allison drawled. "They don't call him King Mahk fo nothin'! While you ladies were on the FAN-tasy Train, I was ridin' a streetcah name' desiah!'"

"Well, Proust was better than I expected," Janey admitted with a mysterious grin. "I even managed to polish off the better part of a bottle of Bordeaux between rounds. No creme brulee, though. Now if we could have gone to see Zola ..."

"Some other story," I told her.

"Those Latin lovers are not what they're stacked up to be," Miss Behavin' said authoritatively. "But that Julia, she was hot! Insisted I leave her my vibrator."

"Well, I'm glad things turned out so well for everybody. Shall we have wine and cheese before dinner?" I invited. "I poached a couple of bottles of Bordeaux from Marcel's stock." All the women were hungry after their "exertions" and eagerly took the cheese and wine I passed around.

Suddenly Janey frowned. "Cheese? Not THAT cheese!"

"Of course," I grinned, taking another bite and looking around at the six women at the table with me. "Don't you remember Shon Richard's post?"

"Uuuiiii, that magic diaphragm is starting to feel funny," Maria said.

"Tingly," Virago agreed.

"Itchy," squirmed Miss Behavin'.

"Burning," added Bronwen.

"Scratchy," said Allison

"Feel free to remove them; we're all friends," I remarked helpfully.

"Don't do it!" Janey warned. "Don't you remember what the leprechaun said, `As long as you wear it you can't get knocked up.'"

"But I've GOT to take it out," Allison whined.

Bronwen said noting but had her head between her knees.

"It's the cheese!" Janey wailed. "We've been tricked. I can feel mine slipping out, too!"

I had to admire Louie. In spite of everything, all his tricks, even the price gouging, he had at last come through for me! Soon all six women were sprawled out on the floor of the dining car, moaning pitifully, "Oh, fuck me!" "Please fuck me!" "I need it so bad!" Music to my ears.

"Why did I give Julia my vibrator!" Miss B. yowled.

"Wouldn't have helped, anyway," Bronwen cried, as she vainly worked the dildo faster and faster.

What a long-awaited spectacle! This was what I had become a writer for! Gleefully I unzipped my pants and started to fish out my rock hard ... What! I was fishing, but whatever was in there was less than rock-hard. In fact my prick was limp as a 15 minute noodle!

"Louieeeee!" I bellowed. "What's the meaning of this? You said as soon as we ate the cheese they'd be ready and willing for me to fuck and get them pregnant."

"So I did. I don't remember saying that you COULD impregnate them."

"What? You mean ...? Why, you lying leprechaun! You prevaricating pimp! You tergiversating thief! Don't you know that when there's a fertile female in a story and the hero doesn't impregnate her, someone else always does?"

"Of course he knows," said a hulking figure who had walked in while I was distracted.

"John A! NO!" I screamed. "How did you get in here?"

"No little green motherfucker's gonna stop us," said a huge black man at his side.

"That, er ... wouldn't be Bad, Bad, Leroy Brown, would it?" I asked, a large knot forming in my stomach. John just stood there with aon his face. "I guess you're still mad about my review of your story?" I said weakly, not really needing an answer.

"Shut the fuck up Homey," Leroy boomed. "I'm still pissed about what you said about my man, here. You lucky I don't fuck you up, man." the black man snarled.

"Uh, Leroy, it's Homer not Homey. Now step aside Homer," John ordered. "We've got three authoresses, two authouresses, and una autora to knock up."

"Hey, John, my man. Afore we here starts knocking up these bitches..."

"Leroy, these ladies are my friends, don't call them bitches. Be nice," John said.

"I *was* bein' nice."

"You were?" I quavered, white with fear.

"Ah'll eat `em up good for us. I kin make'em come a buncha times an' get their twats all nice and juicy sos when we sticks `em wit our big pricks, they's shore to catch."

"I'm not sure that will be necessary, Leroy,"

"Come on John, I likes to eat pussy. Since I married that Miss Monique, she showed me how to do it good. Which one do you want to preg first? One of them blondes or the little Messican with the big tits? The tall ash blonde with the 2x4 is MINE. Come here woman! Ouu-wii! There's gonna be some big belly-
makin' tonight!"

"NO, no. You can't do this!" I cried. "Get away from those women! They're all MINE. *I* get to make the babies! *I* chartered this Fantasy Train. *I'm* writing this damn story."

"No, NO, NooOOO!!!" I screamed.

******
I sat up in bed, drenched in cold sweat. "What's wrong sweetie? Were you having a nightmare" Janey asked, cuddling me in her strong arms.

"Si, Homercito? Tuviste una pesadilla, mi amor?" Maria added scrunching over as close to me as her bulging tummy would allow.

"No, no everything is all right," I said with relief, laying a hand on the swollen tummy of each woman. "This is my story after all."

"Es culpa tuya!" spat Maria. "You were on him all night like an esnake. When the twins kicked, they disturbed him, pobrecito."

"More likely it was you and that thirteen-month size belly of yours," Janey replied. "I'm surprised he can sleep at all the way YOU poke it at him!"

"Darlings! Darlings. Please. Go back to sleep; getting upset isn't good for the babies." I reasoned.

"Bueno," sniffed Maria, burrowing back into a comfortable spot in the crook of my arm.

"But what *about* the babies, Homer?" asked Janey. "I know you've said that when this story is over we'll go back to our husbands as if nothing ever happened, but you'll have the babies. Who'll help you take care of them?"

"Don't worry about it, my dear, I've got that all figured out."

The End

Comments welcomed at
Vargas111-at]yahoo.com

World Lit 101 Glossary/Notes

1. Jalapeno: a chili pepper from Jalapa, Mexico

2. The Spanish "enye" is NOT indicated, but please be aware that Garcia Marquez wrote "One Hundred YEARS of Solitude, not "One Hundred ASSHOLES of Solitude. I also gave up on accented vowels in Spanish, French accents, and the "c-cedilla."