Fifty Shelves of Grey Read online

  CYRANO: ‘You know what they say about men with big noses?’ Is that really the best you can do? I can think of twelve dozen ways to speculate on the size of my endowment.

  Aggressive: Oi, Big Schnozz. If your nob’s as massive as your nose you should chop it off and use it as a draught excluder.

  Friendly: What an impressive proboscis! You must be excessive in the cock arena! Nice one!

  Descriptive: Gadzooks! You have a whiffer like a longship. Your baton de berger must indeed be a collossus of penes, straining mightifully against the heavens like a pink, shiny lighthouse of cock.

  Inquisitive: Wow! Did your nose come from your mother’s side? Do you have a whopping great penis? Is that from your mother’s side?

  Kindly: Sorry about the massive snout, old boy. Still bet you’ve got a big old Mr Winky, eh?

  Insolent: Get your adenoidal beak out of my face, you massive dick.

  Cautious: Ooh, easy big nose. Don’t want to put your back out lugging your third leg about.

  Thoughtful: Somebody pitch a marquee, with a nose like that, he’s bound to have a willy that’ll need shelter from the elements.

  Pedantic: I believe that the traditions of British seaside puppet-based entertainment have already invented a man with a nose and a prick such as yours, and christened him Mr Punch.

  Familiar: Wotcher cock!

  Eloquent: What a volcanic sniffer you possess, dear sir. Your phallus must swing so low as to harvest the ground as you move about.

  Dramatic: Is that your nose or a ferret clinging to your face? Watch out for his dong, it’ll probably take your eye out!

  Enterprising: You know with a snout like that you should really get into modelling. If you’re as large down south you could make a killing. My brother-in-law’s in the business, let me give you his card.

  Respectful: Good heavens, but that’s a pleasing set of nostrils. Please allow me to shake you by the balls.

  Rustic: Lor luv a duck, ain’t you got a whopping sneezer, bet you’ve got a marrow down your trunks, and no mistake.

  Military: At ease, Beaky. I’ll bet your cannon fires at a distance.

  Lyric: Yay, but your snoot is gargantuan. Your wang must in all truth be Ozymandias, king of kings! Look on its works, ye mighty, and despair!

  Simple: Hey, big nose. Yeah, I’m talking to you. Bet you have a fucking gigantic dong.

  23

  Murder on the Orient Express

  by

  AGATHA CHRISTIE

  Hercule Poirot glanced around the restaurant car at the gathered passengers. The dashing Colonel Arbuthnot was smoking by the window, Victoria Denby was perched by the bar in a scarlet kimono, Princess Dragmeoff was looking furious and ugly as ever in her sable coat at a table to his left, the mysterious Turkish gentlemen spoke quietly to each other in the corner, whilst Celia Wratchett was sobbing into her handkerchief, being comforted by the rest of her bridge four. The Wagon-Lits’ conductor, M. Boucle, was the last to arrive. Poirot began:

  ‘Messieurs et mesdames, I have called you ensemble to investigate how it is that Mr Wratchett came to find himself attached, completely naked, to the upper berth of his compartment with handcuffs for which there is no key. Mais oui! As we know, the unfortunate monsieur claims to have slipped and fallen into the handcuffs, which he carries with him for the purposes of sécurité, at which point the restraints in question accidentally locked around his wrists, fixing him to the iron supports of the bed. I put it to you, messieurs et mesdames, that this is most improbable! People do not accidentally fall into handcuffs. Someone attached the handcuffs and therefore someone, on this train, has the key to free him. ‘

  M. Boucle felt his palms moisten. What terrible luck for the renowned Belgian detective to end up on his train! And how had they managed to leave the malheureux Wratchett still attached to be discovered by the chambermaid this morning? For a small sum, he was happy to overlook the compartment hopping and bizarre practices of the Stamboul–Calais coach, but he felt sure that the esteemed Compagnie Internationale des Wagon-Lits would not take the same position. He would lose his job and the extraordinary benefits that were his natural due. It was a disaster that must be averted! What could he do to throw Poirot and his cursed little grey cells off the scent?

  ‘I put it to you,’ Poirot continued, ‘that a number of inappropriate and deviant sexual practices are being indulged in on this train, with the tacit approval of the Wagon-Lits’ representative!’

  There was a sharp intake of breath around the car. Victoria Denby looked faint and the Colonel blanched visibly. M. Boucle couldn’t restrain himself ‘Mais non!’ he ejaculated.

  ‘Arrête, M. Boucle! Do not pretend it is otherwise. I must ask you to stop this ejaculation and allow me to continue. We have two options. Either I am forced to report these practices to the appropriate autorité. M. Boucle you will lose your job, and all of you eminent figures will face public humiliation. Or, you permit me to join with you. It has been many years that I have been longing for a good whipping. I am particularly fond of the, how do you call it, riding crop?’

  24

  E Void

  by

  G-ORG-S P-R-C

  I’m Mimi (Gallic, innit.) I’m in this disco – music is brilliant – and I clock this hot guy. Hot as in smoking. So I bump and grind my way to his patch. I grin, I pout and I shimmy. I flick my long, shiny hair and it works. This guy grabs my hand and yanks yours truly towards him. I fall into him and my body links with his. For two songs I rub up against him. And naturally, this guy – I’ll call him Paul – grows hard. As a third song starts, I kiss his lips, drop my digits to his crotch and play a bit. Paul groans softly. I was throbbing and lustful and up for a fuck. So I took him by the hand to the girls’ lavatory. Bust my way in past two girls crying and sharing lipstick. I slam Paul into a bog-slot and jump on him. I whip down his zip and pull out his prick. I’m planning all kinds of licking and sucking, tickling and blowing, prioritizing shaft, but not ignoring balls. Graphic but that’s how it was.

  But just as I drop my lips to the tip of his phallus, that idiot lifts my chin and says, ‘You know what would amplify an orgasm now? You know what would aid this occasion a lot?’

  ‘Um, no, Paul. What?’ I ask.

  Paul grins. ‘What would assist this affair at this instant is an E.’

  My libido walks straight out and I follow. I just vanish. I’m possibly a slut, but I’m not a bloody junky.

  25

  The Metamorphosis

  by

  FRANZ KAFKA

  At first Gregor hadn’t considered the cockroach look a particularly sexy one. The idea had been hers, and he’d reluctantly agreed. Anything to liven up the grim monotony of his existence! Every day was the same: the early starts, the gruelling travel, the stresses of selling, his domineering boss. And living with his parents made it so difficult to meet girls. No wonder he’d turned to paying for sex.

  But once the outfit was on, he found he liked the shiny hardness of the carapace, how with his many legs, he could reach all of her erogenous zones at once, and how his antennae swept sensuously over her naked body. He was turned on by the smell of the rubber, and the way the tactile surface half stuck, half rubbed against his damp bare skin inside. He didn’t give a moment’s thought to the fact he couldn’t reach the zipper by himself.

  By the time she turned him onto his back, he was beside himself with anticipation, desperate for her to wrap herself around his smooth black thorax. But once his insect legs were flailing uselessly in the air, she’d stolen his wallet from the bedside table and climbed out of the bedroom window, and now he couldn’t right himself. He was completely stuck. The humiliation! Too awful to bear! How was he going to explain this to his family?

  He’d been in this dreadful position for six hours now. He looked over at the alarm clock on the chest of drawers; he was going to be late for work. He’d have to call in sick, but his boss would be suspicious; he hadn’t been ill once in all the
five years he’d worked for him. He’d be bound to get the medical insurance company involved and how on earth would he explain himself to them? Erotic transformation into an insect was not covered on any of their policies, not even Platinum.

  Just when he thought his predicament couldn’t get any worse, his mother knocked on the locked door. ‘Gregor, Gregor,’ she cried. He tried to answer her but found he couldn’t speak properly, due to the built-in ball gag in the rubber insect costume. All he could emit was a strange, strangled squeak. Other members of the family, alerted to the fact he was unexpectedly still at home, also came and knocked. When he heard his sister’s gentle voice, he literally wanted to die of shame. ‘Gregor? Are you all right? Do you need anything? Open up, I beg you!’

  Eventually, his father used brute force to break down the door. The entire family gasped with horror to see their beloved son and brother gone, replaced by a monstrous, priapic insect. As his mother fetched the fly swat, Gregor used a final, monumental effort to roll over onto his front, and scuttled away underneath the fridge, never to be seen again.

  26

  Bridget Jones’s Diary

  by

  HELEN FIELDING

  Saturday, 18 March

  8st 13, alcohol units 7 (but necessary for lowering inhibitions), cigarettes 19 (practising smoking seductively), calories 2794 (not including whipped cream licked from nether regions), kinks explored 4.

  Have resolved to become kinky. At lunch yesterday, Jude mentioned Grazia article re: kinks of the stars, and suddenly whole table in flurry of revelation about exciting non-vanilla sex lives. Considered mentioning time made Mark Darcy wear Christmas jumper in bed and say, ‘Ho, Ho, Ho’, at point of orgasm but fear this is not what meant. Love of kink clearly vogueish attitude of liberated singleton, and thus must address it. Note to self: do not tell Mother. She would insist on demanding details, imparting vibrator advice etc.

  As Mark Darcy and I still not speaking since disagreement over my behaviour at his chambers Christmas party (entirely unreasonable on his part as if he had not hung mistletoe, I would not have kissed boss) called Daniel Cleaver to ask for assistance.

  ‘Looking to get fruity, Jones?’ he said. ‘As luck would have it I’m off to a sex party tonight, why not tag along?’

  Spent rest of afternoon trying on different insouciant sex outfits before settling on same little black dress worn to all occasions. One or two small glasses of Chardonnay to steady nerves. At ring on doorbell almost vomited from unsteadied nerves into handbag containing condoms, hand sanitizer and spare tit tape. Answered door, Cleaver on threshold with two gorgeous gigantaboobed stick insects. Both looked horrified at sight of my gargantuan thighs, but one said politely, ‘Hello, Bridget, I am looking forward to fucking you later,’ in Russian accent.

  ‘Getting cold feet, Bridge?’ said Daniel.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ I said. ‘Let’s go and have kinky party sex.’

  At arrival at house, immediately shown into vestibule packed with further bosomy Russians and told to disrobe, thus rendering selection of little black dress total waste of time, and also suggesting should have spent longer selecting undergarments rather than going for all purpose M&S, even if from Autograph range. Russians all resemble Agent Provocateur models who have allowed nothing to pass lips ever except caviar and cock.

  Followed friendly Russian into main room filled to brim with barely legal sex goddesses and fully-dressed paunchy middle-aged men in suits. Searched for Cleaver to buy me drinks as nowhere to keep money aside from in bra, which have not done since student days, which practice given up after embarrassing moment when boy got five pound note stuck down throat.

  ‘There you are, Jones!’ said Daniel, appearing with pair of Russian identical twins hanging off each arm. ‘What’s that on your boob? Is it Sellotape?’

  Realized with horror that had attached dress to self with tit tape and omitted to remove in vestibule.

  ‘I have a Sellotape kink,’ I said.

  ‘I prefer gaffer tape,’ said one of the twins, but I was not listening, as across room I caught sight of distinctive shape of antlers, last seen worn by Mark Darcy at Una and Geoffrey’s turkey curry buffet. Surely not?

  Picked way over writhing heaps of naked bodies to find Mark spread-eagled on torture rack, naked aside from antlers and Father Christmas boxer shorts.

  ‘I never knew you were kinky,’ I said.

  ‘It’s for a case,’ said Mark.

  ‘What’s the case?’

  ‘It’s in case we get back together.’

  I have a boyfriend again! Picked up a whip from floor next to the rack and gave him a good thrashing to celebrate. Note to self: wash hands when get home.

  ‘Bridget?’ said Mark when he got his breath back.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is that Sellotape on your boob?’

  27

  A Socratic Dialogue

  (of disputed authenticity)

  ALCHESELTSE:

  Come you only now from the country, Clytoris?

  CLYTORIS:

  No, I arrived some time ago. I have been in the Agora looking for you and wondering that I could not find you.

  ALCHESELTSE:

  It is no wonder you could not find me. I was in the sauna.

  CLYTORIS:

  Ah! I remember meeting Socrates as a boy in the sauna.

  ALCHESELTSE:

  Oh yeah?

  CLYTORIS:

  A noble mind.

  ALCHESELTSE:

  I was accustomed to meet him there myself as a young man. Usually on Tuesdays. But let’s just say, I wasn’t that focused on his mind . . .

  CLYTORIS:

  Were you in love with him? It is true that the beauty of the mind far outshines that of the body. Though no one can forget his snub nose and stocky frame, his mind lent him the beauty of an Adonis. I am not surprised you fell in love!

  ALCHESELTSE:

  Um, it was more of a sex thing really.

  CLYTORIS:

  On the one hand you may have been distracted by the eager passion of youth, but on the other hand you must have acquired much insight through your conversations.

  ALCHESELTSE:

  He would not shut up while we were doing it. Actually I recall I wrote some of our conversation down in my little black scroll. Let us go together to my house and read.

  CLYTORIS:

  Let us. I am sure you will be persuaded that Socrates was a mighty teacher.

  ALCHESELTSE:

  Here is the roll. I’ll get my servant to read it. Olive?

  Alcheseltse’s servant reads. Clytoris takes an olive.

  SOCRATES:

  Alcheseltse, I see your body is well trained and I am told your mind is just as toned and defined. Tell me, what is knowledge?

  ALCHESELTSE:

  Well, handsome, let’s see. The shoemaker knows how to make shoes, the juror has knowledge about being a juror, etc., etc.

  SOCRATES:

  A fine answer. Sit on my lap while we test its mettle. Now, you have pointed to an example of knowledge but you have not explained what knowledge is. What is it that is common to the shoemaker and the juror in their understanding of their trade?

  ALCHESELTSE:

  Why don’t you ask me what I know how to do really well?

  SOCRATES:

  Let me be clearer. You have talked of particulars of knowledge, while I asked you about the Form Knowledge.

  ALCHESELTSE:

  So . . . let me see if I’ve understood you. If you asked me about the Form Penis and I just pointed to your penis, that would be a particular penis. And even if I touched it, it would still just be a particular penis. And even if I took it in my mouth . . .

  SOCRATES:

  All I know is that I know nothing, bla bla, bla, philosopher kings, yadda yadda yadda, I am a midwife assisting you in the labour of birthing ideas. Ah!

  Alcheseltse’s servant stops reading

  CLYTORIS:

  That is an ex
ceedingly brief account of his dialectic.

  ALCHESELTSE:

  Yeah, well, I used to tune out, but that’s the gist of it.

  CLYTORIS:

  You recall nothing more? It is a great pity that you were not able to take fuller notes of his teaching.

  ALCHESELTSE:

  Let’s just say we were too busy making pretty interesting shadow puppets on the wall of the steam-room cave ...

  28

  War and Peace

  by

  LEO TOLSTOY

  The moment Prince Andrey put his arm around Natasha’s slender, supple, quivering waist, and felt her stirring so close to him, the champagne of her beauty went to his head. He felt a thrill of new life and knew he must tell her.

  ‘Natasha, I’m not like other men. There’re things you must know about me, dark things.’

  What could he possibly be referring to? What could someone as fine and clever and upstanding as Prince Andrey be hiding? Was he a vampire? She longed for Sonya to be at her side so that she too could hear these strange words and together they would be able to properly contemplate them and come to understand their hidden meaning.

  ‘I’ve lived through terrible things; they’ve affected me in profound ways that I wouldn’t have anticipated, although in retrospect Nurse certainly bears some responsibility. The thing is, Natasha, I feel no fulfilment in the kind of banal copulation that people at this ball participate in. It brings me no sense of being alive, of communing with the other. I need to tie you up with my cravat, I need cries of pain and submission, I need . . . No, I must stop! Your young, innocent ears, I can’t defile them any further, such a life is not for you! Probably.’