I've been writing for a while, but erotica is a new genre for me. I'd read some, of course, but I had my doubts about how to make it both realistic and racy. Thoughts about my new venture invaded my dreams. One night I found myself standing at the top of the steps outside a huge house, next to Mark Twain.
"Mr. Clemens!" I exclaimed in surprise, "What an honor to meet you! And where in the world are we?"
He was wearing the white suit he is so often depicted in. I don't know if he ever wore one in real life, but it fit his image.
"We're here to meet the erotic story stereotypes," he said genially. "As one of your favorite authors, it's my honor to be your guide."
He opened the heavy front door without hesitation, and we went in, finding ourselves in a large hall, with more doors in every direction.
He headed right away to the door labeled "Naughty Schoolgirls."
"Let's go here first," he said with a wink. "It's always been a favorite of mine."
"Mr. Clemens!" I said for the second time that night.
Inside were dozens and dozens of women in plaid skirts and white knee high socks. Most of their uniforms didn't fit properly on top - their bounty was spilling over, as it were.
"They look like the cast of Beverly Hill 90210!" I said.
"How's that?" asked my guide, "I'm not familiar with that."
"People in their 20s pretending to be teenagers," I answered, marveling a the number of them, and how many were busy massaging each other or adjusting the seams on their white knee-highs. Some were in penny loafers, but a surprising number seemed to be in absurdly high heels for high school
"Ah, that's because you can't be younger than 18 to be in an erotica story," he explained. Most of these girls were held back in second and third grade, to ensure large breasts by their freshman year - though the hormones in today's milk helps that too - and legal age by the time they're sophomores."
"I see," I said, and I did. Two of these "girls" came in through a side door, each with teary eyes and rubbing their bottoms, while others came around to try to soothe them. A dozen ponytails in all colors bobbed in sympathy.
"Do they always wear these plaid skirts and white socks?"
"Always," he said confidently. "Notice how easily they flip up to reveal their youthful dewiness?" I can't believe he said that with a straight face.
"Even when they, like, go jogging?"
"Oh, yes, even then. Physical fitness is important for them to keep their perpetual slim hips and flat stomachs. Oh, wait, most of them have long flannel nighties for bed time too. I forgot about that."
"Thanks, I think I've seen enough of this room."
"As you wish," said my guide, and with a wistful sigh, he closed the door, but opened the one right next to it labeled "Stern School Marms and Governesses."
"Now the ladies next door never mix with these," said Mr. Clemmons. "These are reserved for naughty school boys." There were wooden-backed hair brushes lying scattered about, and blackboards with dozens of lines written on them, and even - did my eyes deceive me? - an enema bag. But the ladies themselves were not present.
"It's poker night," he said. "They're behind that door." He indicated a back door. "With all the layers they wear, strip poker lasts all night." Just then, a delivery boy emerged from the door, shutting it hastily behind him. He was astonishingly well muscled and his shirt was opened in front, but he was pale and had the look of someone who had recently escaped from a life-or-death experience. Nodding curtly at us, he brushed past us and on out the main door.
I laughed softly and we moved on to the next door, which had a shelf outside with some garlic cloves and silver crosses on chains. My guide put a cross around his neck and then one around mine, followed by a necklace of garlic cloves, one for each of us. He leaned back to look out the window.