It’s Friday, I’ve got my good mate Vanessa De Sade here with some seriously hot words and images which are definitely Not Safe For Work! So enjoy!
I like to go to dark places sometimes. I mean, really, really dark places. Dark as a dark forest where the sun doesn’t penetrate. Where the ground’s covered in moss and dead leaves and the sound of your own footfalls is so deadened that you’re lost and disoriented. That’s the kind of dark place I like.
I think that there’s something deliciously sexy about being in a place like that. Some people call it bondage, of course. Being tied and blindfold so that you cease to be a person but just become a huge voluptuous pleasure machine, like you’re in a floatation tank of desire and your whole body is an orgasm machine.
Unfortunately, I could never get used to the idea of someone, no matter how much I trusted them, tying me up, and, let me tell you, no one is putting a gag in this lady’s mouth! So, when I want to go to my dark powerless place, I have to use a little magic. Which is why I’ve been a lifelong lover of the fairy tale.
These days we tend to think of fairy tales as something reserved for children, and two centuries of censorship and Disneyfication combined have done them no favours, but in essence the real fairy tale is a dark and often erotic exploration of our baser appetites. We meet all the deadly sins in those dark forests of the psyche that the Grimm brothers prospected. Greed, lust, avarice, duplicity, and, of course, sex in all its warped forms. Maiden’s hands (and bodies) are bartered for. Lovers are set tasks. Wolves prowl behind each tree and phallic symbolism lurks in every dark corner.
And in the old unexpurgated versions young boys have sex with wicked stepmothers, virginity is traded on the open market, and men fight for the hand of the girls with the hairiest cunts in all the land.
No wonder, then, that I took the traditional Bavarian tale as the inspiration for my latest collection, In the Forests of the Night, a reimagining of some of the classic Grimm tales. Though, in my book, though, Cinderella plays out on the set of TV reality show; Bluebeard has his castle in downtown Manhattan, and Thumbelina weaves its way through the porn stores and sex shows of a seedy English costal resort.
In the Forests of the Night is published by Sweetmeats Press and is available in all the usual places. Plus you can enter to win a copy of via my Goodreads give-away, – – plus I’ve got a little excerpt here to whet your appetite – and hopefully other places!
Once upon a time there lived a gentle boy called Edward Edwards who was determined to make his way in the world. He had no money but he possessed a knack for repairing mechanical things, and people, learning of his gift, would bring him broken clocks and toasters, marvelling at how he could make them good as new again. Encouraged by their praise, he started a small business that flourished, graduating eventually from his mother’s shed to a tiny workshop and, ultimately, his own factory. However, the work was hard and left him little time for a social life, but when, at the age of thirty-nine, he bought himself a large house, he had a fancy to fill its echoing halls with children, so he took to himself a beautiful but cold woman who bore him two fine sons.
But Edward Edwards, who could put his ear to a broken watch and learn its whole mechanism like a heartbeat, knew nothing of the ways of women, and his cold wife, once she had his offspring, placed locks upon their bedroom door and wantonly spent his money while giving him no warmth or comfort when he returned late and craving from his days at the works.
Furthermore, the cold woman loathed him for his stoic acceptance of her carnal refusals, and felt only contempt for this gentle man who had not broken her like a colt, resolving to hurt him whenever she could; and, when she saw that their twin boys brought him happiness, she divorced him and took them from him, claiming neglect and violence, showing, in court, the bruises that she paid a man from the internet to inflict on her once a week as she struggled ineffectually against her self-imposed bonds.
And, of course, no-one questioned her story and a paper-thin old judge, elated to experience his first erection in fifteen years, slipped her photographs into a brown manila folder to examine in his chambers, and handed her everything – children, factory, house, car – admonishing Edwards as a villain and leaving him penniless.
Which is where our story begins….
A broken man, Edward Edwards did not return to work. With no alternative but to class him as homeless, the local council allocated him a small flat in a moribund tower block and he signed fortnightly at the dole office, living frugally and seeing no-one. He did no repairs, made no more mechanical creations, and, in short, rejected everything that had previously given him joy and looked set to fade ignobly into an early grave.
Then, one day, while out walking, he discovered the city allotments, a living tapestry of miniature urban farms emblazoned like a defiant green flag behind the decay and neglect of the concrete-grey of the run-down housing estate where he lived. Here, cheek by jowl with squalor, green cabbages blossomed like fat bullfrogs sunning themselves near algaed ponds, shy cauliflowers congregated like crinoline ladies at a ball, and fat red tomatoes blossomed unashamedly scarlet in their voluptuous fruitfulness.
And Edward Edwards found new succour in the ruins of his former life.
He applied to the council for a plot and patiently filled in all their forms, waited for months without rancour while summer faded into winter and the town hall clerks lost the precious pieces of paper and made him recreate them, squirreled his money away each week while he pored over catalogues of garden tools, and, finally, on steely day in February, stood against the softly undulating sky, oblivious to the bite of the wind, and sliced the blade of his spade into the frost-bound earth and began to turn over the frigid soil, his heart pumping and all his senses heady with the scents of mud and loam, over-brimming with the excitement at the prospect of taking what was barren and making it bring forth fruit…
© Vanessa de Sade 2014