Maxim Jakubowski: The Mammoth Book of Short Erotic Novels

© 2000

NIGHT MOVES by Michael Perkins, copyright © 2000 by Michael Perkins. Printed by permission of the author.

HOTEL ROOM FUCK by Maxim Jakubowski, copyright © 2000 by Maxim Jakubowski. Printed by permission of the author.

SPANKING THE MAID by Robert Coover, copyright © 1982 by Robert Coover. Reprinted by permission of Grove/Atlantic and the author’s agent, George Borchardt, Inc.

LAIR OF THE RED WITCH by O’Neil De Noux, copyright © 2000 by O’Neil De Noux. Printed by permission of the author.

DE SADE’S LAST STAND by William T. Vollmann, copyright © 1992 by William T. Vollmann. Reprinted by permission of the author and Grove/Atlantic. Originally appeared in Esquire , an abbreviated version of ‘More Benadryl, Whined the Journalist’ from The Butterfly Stories .

SPEAKING PARTS by M. Christian, copyright © 2000 by M. Christian. Printed by permission of the author.

THE COMFORT OF WOMEN by Michael Hemmingson, copyright © 2000 by Michael Hemmingson. Printed by permission of the author.

THIEF OF NAMES by Lucy Taylor, copyright © 2000 by Lucy Taylor. Printed by permission of the author.

THE DARKLING BEETLES by Gene Santagada, copyright © 2000 by Gene Santagada. Printed by permission of the author.

SCRATCH by Nikki Dillon, copyright © 2000 by Nikki Dillon. Printed by permission of the author.

THE EMPEROR OF NIGHT by Marilyn Jaye-Lewis, copyright © 2000 by Marilyn Jaye-Lewis. Printed by permission of the author.

The short novel, the novella, the long story – call it what you will – is a tricky art form, especially for writers who write for publication, rather than self-esteem. While this literary form is considered (especially in mainland Europe) just that – an art form to be mastered – the situation in Britain and America, where commercial considerations dictate much of what is published, is more problematic.

Not long enough for solo book publication, too long for inclusion in magazines or anthologies: these are some of the obstacles the novella finds in its way.

However, the short novel is also the perfect form for literary erotica, allowing writers to develop their characters to greater depth beyond the gymnastics or hydraulics of the sexual act in all its myriad varieties. Both the editors of this anthology modestly claim to have, in the past, written some of their best erotic work at such length and this has been recognized by critics. We proudly refer you to MJ’s “The Map of the Pain” or “The State of Montana” or MH’s “The Naughty Yard” or “The Dress”, as satisfying examples (available in previous Mammoth Books of Erotica anthologies or in single volumes).

The contributions we have had from some of the best writers of erotica currently practising the art, which we include in the present volume, prove the point: the reader isn’t faced with a whole book of sensual forays, yet the reader also stays around longer, gets more involved, than they would with just a few pages of titillating prose and a “tableau vivant” in the form of a story.

We are confident that, once again in this series, you will be aroused, piqued, fascinated – hypnotized, even – by the halls of sexual mirrors our writers have conjured here. Some stories sound disturbingly autobiographical; others are fantastical; some are meditative; others full of action.

Putting this anthology together, with e-mail messages spanning the globe, was a joy and, at times, a pain, as so few writers could be included without fear of turning this mammoth into an unwieldy and too heavy and expensive volume, and many a good story could not be used. It’s all part of the process. But, at the end of the day, this is a damn good book of erotic literature – there’s definitely some sexy, thoughtful, funny and sad stuff going on in these pages: all the complexities and wonders of human sexuality. So, buy copies for friends, give them out as gifts, slip them mysteriously under the bed or on the bookshelves of those you are feeling rather amorous about…

Maxim Jakubowski & Michael Hemmingson,

London & San Diego, 1999

Mora and I had been in East Hampton for two days waiting for the sun to come out when we ran into Charles and Vy. It was July, the Bicentennial Summer, and we were on our first vacation as man and wife. We’d accepted a friend’s invitation to spend a few days at his beach house, but the afternoon we arrived the rains came, and lasted through the following day. We were grumpy stuck inside. We wanted to lie naked in the sun.

The next morning, the sun made its appearance, and it was windy when we walked to the beach. We had the ocean to ourselves, but it was too rough to go in. Empty blue sky, empty white beach, empty green ocean. The freckled, lively children further down the beach who were our only neighbors had to be content with building sandcastles. Mora read a novel and wrote in her journal, frowning and chewing her lip. It was her way of arguing with me without saying anything, and also of arguing with herself instead of with me. I shrugged at her silence and went for a long run on the wet hard sand, where high rolling breakers left thick clumps of seaweed, but I couldn’t outrace my frustration.

By evening, we were speaking only when spoken to and being scrupulously polite with each other. We brooded in marital silence over cold gin at Peaches, a restaurant in Bridgehampton where summer people went that year for a hamburger or a salad before rushing off to the parties that seem to run around the clock, summer weekends on the South Fork. When there was a breeze from the ocean, the leaves of the giant maples on the sidewalk outside scratched softly at the window screens. On each small round table a slender mirrored vase held a single rose. It should have been romantic; couples all around us thought it was.

I reached for her hand and she put it quickly in her lap.

“What the hell is wrong with us?”

She sighed and I knew she was grateful that I’d spoken first. The answer was sitting on her tongue. “It’s marriage. Holy Wedlock.”

“You want to expand on that?”

“I don’t have to. We both know it’s that – why it’s that.”

So we did. Jealousy. Possessiveness. Insecurity. Fights, screaming, threats, feeling trapped. And keeping score – that was the worst. That computerized reference file constantly added to of insult and injury, a never-to-be-erased tape of gritty misery.

“OK. What do we do now? Throw in the towel because the honeymoon isn’t working out?”