I love Google Alerts. I use them all the time to keep track of different things, including Internet Erotica Thievery. This happens more frequently than one might think, if one thinks about this topic at all. I usually make alerts for a random selection of sentences within a particular posted story of mine, whether here or on another authorized site. In this way I find out when stories, in some shape or form, are being used without permission -- invariably on a porn site that has, of course, a fake untraceable address overseas, usually in China. Once I got on the telephone and woke up some poor guy in the Czech Republic. He got rid of the scofflaw but quick. Mostly it's like tracking homing pigeons but I gave up stamp collecting and this keeps me busy and off the streets in my downtime.
Often, the Google Alert will direct me to a website that has nothing to do with anything but has picked up on some word within my selected text and has subsequently loaded paragraphs of my writing as content on that site. The work seems to be done by a combination of robot and human being because by the time I get to the scene of the supposed crime any traces of my words are gone.
Today's Google Alert made me laugh. It tracked this phrase:
"He had moved to the bed and was sitting there with his gigantic penis"
These 14 words can be found within E-I-E-I-O, a 580-word shorty I wrote in September for an online contest given by the lovely and eternally inspirational Alison Tyler. But today, with its clickable header: Penis Pencil Tops Beige (penis, tops, and beige appear in E-I-E-I-O), the Google Alert led me to a page full of interesting merchandise -- fun spring term back-to-school supplies for the kids! Handy when your erasers are rubbed down -- this happens to me a lot. But, seriously, a dozen for $2.73! "Work great as taste testers at parties." I think they look like pig feet (or snouts), which, in fact, is very apropos regarding E-I-E-I-O.
The original inspiration, presented to us by Alison: this drawing by the wonderful artist and creator of Naked Chicks on Post-it Notes. He ceased activity for a while so maybe this was Google's special "post it" signal to me that he is back in business and that I needed to post another story. Thanks again to Alison Tyler and Mr. Naked Chicks on Post-it Notes and thank you, Google, for the Freudian nudge!
© 2008 by EllaRegina
It was like Strip Poker except there were no cards or chips. W. and I, on the sofa, giving each other mouth-to-mouth resuscitation even though we were both very much alive. W. made me dizzy. He could make me come just by kissing. I had to sit, or better, lie down, such was the vertigo he gave me. Once he kissed me against a wooden gate and if the structure had not been there, neither would I have been for long, turned to vapor or ash and swirled in the wind, a confetti scattering of desire. So, to kiss W. I needed architecture, preferably the interior variety.
So, the sofa. Green velvet, the kind you buy for the rest of your life. I tried not to think of how many kisses, besides ours, had been exchanged there. It was not healthy to dwell on the past lives of furniture. W. and I had a game. Whenever either of us was close to coming we had to make an animal noise and take off a piece of our clothing. It was easy with W. Soon I was mooing. He laughed and pointed to my short skirt. Off it came, W. pleased that I'd worn no underpants. We resumed our game and he barked. I undid his fly and his trousers flew out the window, disembodied and running, like in a cartoon. W. put his serpent tongue as far as it would go into my mouth. He brought me to the brink again and I whinnied. My garter belt. Our lips together once more and I made him crow. His shirt. Then W. on top of me in gray tank undershirt and gray thermal underwear, his full weight -- twice my own -- pinning me like a butterfly in a specimen case, his cock unquestionably aimed at its target. Before long I was meowing. I pulled my black cashmere sweater over my head.
We had to pause. I needed air. I walked around W.'s bedroom in what was left of my outfit -- a crinkly black silk camisole, its straps falling down, grey thigh-high sheer stockings with black-ribboned bands like chokers at their tops, red patent leather high-heeled pumps. W. liked me to keep those on, no matter what else came off. I also wore a feathered cap, easier to imagine than describe. Its thin elastic string hooked under my chin, something à la Marlene Dietrich although I probably looked more like a circus monkey. If W. played an organ grinder we'd be all set. I paced the room surrounded by beige 1950s horizontally-striped wallpaper. He had moved to the bed and was sitting there with his gigantic penis, the biggest I'd ever seen. It needed its own building. W. enjoyed watching me perambulate before him, half dressed, especially when the combination of what I was wearing was the result of his command.
He pulled me onto the bed. I'd had enough air. His mouth was on mine again and his endless legs held me like a nutcracker. After a few shared breaths he growled and I dug my stilettos into his thighs. The long underwear landed on his wood floor. Then my turn with a squawk (the camisole) and his with a howl (the gray undershirt). We were left with just socks (W.) and stockings and pumps (me). It was at this point that we could travel beyond the tantric barnyard and the second part of the game would begin.
Copyright 2008 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.
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