Awards Night

Authors note

I hope all the other authors mentioned here understand and appreciate the extremely tongue in cheek nature of what I've written here. I love you guys and you are my inspiration, but I just couldn't resist this

.

All descriptions are purely fictional, since I've never met anyone from Literotica. It's just how I imagine people.

Thank you immensely to PennLady. All mistakes are hers. I'm a perfect writer, obviously.

*

It was time. We were there. It had arrived. The Literotica Awards night was finally here. We'd driven out from our home in Prescott, Arizona, to Vegas for the night. I remembered getting the gilt-edged invitation and not being sure how I felt. I mean, I love what Literotica is. I love what it represents -- everyone can have a go at writing and putting some emotion down, regardless of what they are into. It's a massive equalizer.

However it's also not something I can tell many people about. With what I do, I'm sometimes thrust in the limelight a bit. I'm known in my industry, so this is my way of letting some creativity out in a way I don't have in my day job.

My wife, of course, isn't really that interested. She knows I write. She knows I've published books myself on the Kindle and Nook -- she also knows I have a nice stack of rejection slips from agents, but she's just proud I've completed anything in that area at all, in a very abstract way. But she's never read my books or stories. She thinks my main genre is silly and she's just not interested. Oh don't get me wrong, Katie loves me, I know that; No question there. She just has bits of her life that are hers and I have bits that are mine, and we take a polite interest in those edge case respective interest areas and leave it at that.

But to be invited to an awards ceremony, well, that's different. And what's more, to be nominated, that's even better. Ok, so it's only in the "best newcomers" category -- mind you, this is the Literotica Awards, that should probably be spelt 'best newcummer' -- but still. To be nominated in anything is a huge honor and ego boost.

I should probably give some background. I'm Jezzaz. I write smutty fiction for a hobby. I live in AZ with my wife of 20 plus years, Katie and two kids who came to us late in life and who should be at university now, instead of in sixth grade. But, love them I do and grateful for our lives I most definitely am.

When the email came from the Literotica guys asking for a physical address, I almost marked the email as spam. I mean, an awards ceremony? Seriously? I mean, who's going to televise it? C-Span? The Playboy Channel? I'm prepared to believe that the Literotica website makes some bank, but it's gotta get spent in servers and so on -- who would fund an awards ceremony?

On further research, I found that yes, it was funded by an eccentric millionaire, who just wanted to meet all his favorite authors. Apparently it had been happening for the past seven years, and now, here I was, getting an invite.

So I'd explained about the stories to Katie, she'd called Mom and Dad and got them to come stay for the weekend -- without explaining exactly what we were driving to Las Vegas for - and then she'd gone to buy a new dress, new heels, new makeup and, from what I could see, new everything.

We'd grabbed my car -- no, it's not a bloody Mustang -, since she drives a van and headed for Las Vegas, Nevada, where Literotica had taken over one of the smaller hotels on the outskirts of the strip -- I won't mention which one because, well, the invite says not to. Don't want to piss off Laurel or Manu!

On the drive out to Vegas, Katie finally showed some interest and asked me about my stories -- why was I getting nominated? Where they any good? How come I hadn't told her about what I had written? I did my best to answer -- I was nominated for the MetaMorph series I'd written.

I thought they were ok, but I still had a lot to learn about characters. I hadn't mentioned them because I already knew she thought my fiction stories were dumb and stupid, and I didn't really want more judgment than I already had. Plus she'd think I was a sex manic. Or more to the point, more of a sex maniac than she already thought I was.

She accepted the answers and sat there, watching the world go by, asking questions about the hotel, who we'd meet, what we'd do and see and so on.

I explained about some of the other authors I wanted to meet, what they'd written about, what Literotica represents and everything else.

The time passed pretty fast in fact, and then we were over the Hoover Damn and into Vegas, baby!

We arrived mid-afternoon and checked in, after first calling home on our cell phones and checking that the kids were doing fine. They did not want to speak to us -- apparently being chucked around in the pool by granddad was more important than speaking to their parents. There is no respect these days.

The hotel was nice. Very new and had two different pools. Apparently one of them was open to all the strippers in town. I raised my eyebrows when I heard that at the desk, and got an elbow in the ribs for that.

So yeah, we should do the physical description thing. I'm 6ft, 210 -- but dropping. Been in a health kick recently and was working out a lot and running and not drinking beer and far more miserable because of it. But I looked better, that's for sure. I'm 45 years old and I feel like if I didn't know what age I was, I'd think I was 19.

The wife is Katie. She's 5'4", 120 -- same size she was when I married her years ago. She's also 47, but looks 30. I used to believe she had a painting of herself in the attic getting old for her, until I realized she doesn't bother with that. She just leeches her age onto me directly. She's definitely some kind of age vampire because she looks exactly the same as she did when I met her, back in Chicago twenty plus years ago, and I look like someone is practicing old man makeup on me.

She's firm, she's trim and she looks great and looks even better in a halter-top dress, courtesy of the supplemented 34C boobs she wanted for our 15 year anniversary. What's more, - and this really pisses off other women -- is that she does absolutely nothing for this killer petite body. She does some water aqua thing, where large ladies waddle around in a pool like a lot of mini Krakens, but other than that, she does nothing. And she looks like this. No cellulite, no dimples, and all soft and lovely to the touch. I have no idea how she does it, although I have taken a keen interest in reports of devil worshipping and animal sacrifices in the area. I've just never been able to catch her at it.

Anyway, she's got green eyes, brown, shoulder length hair, a sardonic smile and can raise a single eyebrow like Mr. Spock when mad at you. For 5'4", she somehow manages to look down at you and makes to make you feel about three feet tall, even when you've got almost a foot of height on her.

She has a wicked sense of humor and is also utterly blind to when she's being flirted with or hit on. It's not like someone else is going to get there because she's naive about it; it just doesn't cross her mind that someone actually is flirting with her, so she just entirely passes her by. It's quite lovely to see in practice -- some guy hitting on her and her not responding at all because she isn't really cognizant of what he's doing.

I used to get upset or worried about it. Now I just worry that some asshole will think she's a huge challenge and up his game to the point where I have to be involved. I've done it twice in our marriage, where words have had to be had in order to warn someone off, but that's ok. I know for a fact they wouldn't have got anywhere, but it was just embarrassing for everyone, and when the wife had finally realized what they were doing, she'd have gone ballistic on them. Better for everyone that they back off and everyone save face. Particularly me. Anything for a quiet life.

Anyway, I knew she'd had history with a fair number of guys before me, so I knew she was a woman of the world, so to speak. I was too, in my own way. When I got the states I had no idea the British accent worked as well as it does. For a while there, I was like a dog with two dicks.

I'm a Brit out of Water. Brought up back home, where people talk properly, spell properly and no one is frantic to own a gun. Where bacon is proper bacon, TV comedy is proper TV Comedy and drunken piss artists are proper drunken piss artists. I've been in the states for twenty-five years now and love it here. I will never go back to the UK to live; I just want to bring all my family out here.

Ok, getting away from the point a bit. Back to the story.

So hotel. Very nice. A suite no less! I'd learned a useful lesson a few years back, when I'd taken my bride to a swanky hotel in San Francisco, when we'd lived in the bay area, before we had kids. It was lovely, and we were on the 17

th

floor. I remember pulling back the curtains on the floor to ceiling panel windows and discovered a used condom on the floor behind where the curtains would normally be. A phone call later to a very embarrassed hotel manager and we'd been upgraded to a suite on the 21

st

floor.

In this case, it was more than sufficient. The view was gorgeous and the bottle of champagne (spelt correctly, you will notice) was an unexpected treat. Katie was excited and ran round the room, and then insisted we take a stroll on the Strip.

We've been to Vegas before, but it's usually years between trips, so we have a tradition of taking a stroll to see what is new. Hotels go up so fast in Vegas that there can be three more hotels in the space of a mile than there was last time we were there.

We did the local color thing, and then it was time to get back to the hotel for getting dressed and all that jazz. Or Jezzaz, as the case may be.

I climbed into my Ralph Lauren Monkey suit -- I did the 'Bond, James Bond' thing in front of the mirror, like every other man my age would do. Don't deny it. You put on a tux, you do it too, don't lie. Katie slipped into her backless electric blue shimmering halter-top dress, with the equally enthusiastic front plunge.

Katie loves to dress up. She's constantly teasing me for not having the kind of work that involves lots of evening soirées, where men dress up in tuxes and women swan around in cocktail dresses. I keep pointing out that, not being Chuck, Jason Bourne or 007, my evenings are not spent at embassy do's or south of France casinos, but are instead spent around a hot computer or, for preference, a grill with a filet mignon on it. Hell, I'd love to be a secret agent -- I even studied Russian in school in preparation -- but then she'd have to compete with all the femme fatales I'd no doubt be encountering, all hot for my body. When I mention that, she arches that damn eyebrow and says "In your dreams."

She looked fucking stunning. What's more, I was aware she had no underwear on, which for her was extremely out of character but I wasn't about to say boo to it. As we exited the hotel room, she looked at me, gave me a dazzling smile -- you know the kind; the one every husband wants to get from his wife, when he knows she is truly happy. She murmured, "I cannot wait to come back and fuck a winner!" which was great and troubling at the same time, because if I didn't win, then what? But then I smiled. She was with me. I was already a winner!

Then we were downstairs and everyone was there, looking great. Everyone was dressed to the nines -- there was so much product in people's hair, you could have made a paper maché White House out of it. There were drinks flowing, lots of lively discussion and more than a bit of flirting going on.

What was interesting is thatI noticed that no one there used their real names. Everyone was identified by their username on Literotica. In the case of spouses or partners, they were Mrs. Jezzaz, or Mr. PennLady. It was very strange and more like a meeting of Linux nerds, who all insist on juvenile user names than a bunch of authors at an awards ceremony.

But like I said, they were all there. Matt Moreau was standing, talking to several extremely attractive and apparently unescorted women. He was introduced to me in passing, and he nodded and took a keen interest in Katie and kissed her hand, saying something about being enchanted. But then everyone was, so that wasn't anything new.

I got to meet Darkniciad. What an interesting fellow he was, holding a drink and gesturing with it, and slurping champagne over the room every time he had something bellicose to say. I think he went through four glasses of champagne without drinking any of it in the telling of one story. Funny dude though.

While I was talking to him, Slirpuff was behind us, talking animatedly with Just Plain Bob, making some point about women who talk too much during sex.

Someone mentioned that The Wanderer had arrived fresh off the plane from Blighty, and was escorting no less than three women at once, all of which whom were married to someone else, and were actively telling people that. My Katie rolled her eyes at that, and then went off to take a look at this amazing specimen of authorship who could command such adulation.

While she did, I was introduced to PennLady,- who spent twenty minutes going on about how this whole thing was preposterous and completely unbelievable, and then bubbling about just being here and how nice everyone is in person-, and English Bob. I wish I'd known he was coming, because I'd have gotten him to bring some British Chocolate for me.

My kids love that Cadbury's stuff and stock up every time we hit the old country. They think Hershey's is strictly for the birds, and having eaten some myself, I have am forced to agree. The only reason anal sex is often called 'Riding the Hershey Highway' is because the chocolate tastes about the same as a shitty ass. I love the US of A, but chocolate is just not one of the things it does well. Pizza? Best in the world. Awesome theme parks? No one can touch it. Chocolate? Um, no.

I heard that DanielQSteele was in the building and so I went to find him since he was one of my all-time writing heroes. I found him in the corner of the lobby, with a gin and tonic in his hand that magically never went down in amount, despite him swigging from it often. He had a crowd around him and I had to wait twenty minutes just to say hello.

It would have been nice if he'd had a clue who I was or had heard of me, but he evidently hadn't and that was ok too. Next year.

One of the crowd was Rehnquist. That was interesting. I'd always believed they -- DanielQSteele and Rehnquist - were the same person since their writing style is so similar, but obviously not. I introduced myself and said hi, and he nodded and said hi back and then completely ignored me. It wasn't upset. I'd have ignored me too.

While I was waiting, there was a hell of noise from outside the hotel. I wandered out to see what was up and there, arriving, was StangStar06. Yes, he was in a Mustang. But not just one. No, he had four of them. He showed up in a bright yellow one, and accompanying him were three others, a red, blue and green one.

Each was a different year and design, and each of the others was driven by a gorgeous woman. They got out of the car wearing driving overalls, then unzipped themselves in the most vivacious manner possible, revealing a very brief cocktail dress underneath, and giving every man in the vicinity an involuntary erection.

StangStar himself got out of his car and walked around it, checking it, then patting the hood and saying something along the lines of "Don't worry Chrissie, I'll be back soon." Or something. I dunno. It was entirely too weird for me. Talking to cars is the start of a serious psychosis if you ask me.

I wandered back into the main hall as the ceremony was about to start, wondering where my wife was. I found her at the table we'd been assigned to, talking animatedly with a woman I discovered was SharedHousewife. I caught small patches of the conversation, which appeared to revolve around the best way to keep your cheating from your husband, and I met the weary eyes of the man she was with. Mr. SharedHousewife, I presumed. He raised his drink in resigned empathy, man to henpecked man.

Katie looked up at me as I found my chair and raised her cheek for a kiss, which I duly gave. That was interesting. She wasn't into PDA's. This was new. I fondly imagined it was some way of her showing her ownership of me. Either way, I was cool with it. Loving up an obvious Yummy Mummy like her just made me look good, and feel even better.

As everyone settled, I found The Wanderer himself sitting to my left. If there was ever someone who was a British Cowboy, this dude was it. He was like The Stranger in

The Big Lebowski

, as played by Sam Elliot. You just couldn't imagine him getting out of his tree, no matter how much he drank.

The lights went down, and we all stopped talking in anticipation. Out came Laurel and Manu to start the festivities. They introduced TxTallTales as the first guest presenter and off we went.

To be honest, it was a bit dull. Some of the categories were a stretch, to say the least. I mean, honestly, 'Best Sex Scene' I can see. Breaking it down into gender, and then further into specific genre is a bit much. By the time we got to 'Best sex scene between Father and Daughter', I was looking for the waitress to get another drink, because it looked like the night was going to drag on. Everyone who won something had what appeared to be a phone book's worth of comments prepared and all their in-jokes were totally lost on most us, but we all tittered dutifully, like you do at squirmingly embarrassing situations like this.

I also had difficulty really believing there was a category for "Best Body Swap Dialog" or "Best inconsequential details" or—my personal favorite—"Most Incongruous swearing." Weird.

Then it was time for Best Newcomer. I sat a bit straighter in the chair and my wife took my hand, smiling at me bravely. I did my best to be impartial and look regal, as they do in awards ceremonies. There was even a camera on me while they did the 'detailing the competitors' thing on stage. I sat there, smiling stupidly and applauding wildly for my competitors, whom I internally dearly hoped would die alone in flames.

And then it was announced. The winner was...not me. Fuck. Some woman from the sci-incest group won it. Apparently her first story was about adult Pokemon land, where all the Pokemon had huge cocks and were summoned not to fight, but to screw the opposition. In her diseased brain, Cockemon didn't fight each other, each was let loose on the others owner, to make them cum. The one who came the harder won. It was all quite sick and made me feel even worse since my daughter had spent three years desperately into Pokemon and as a result, I knew what all the Pokemon were called and could

really

get the in jokes peppered all over this story.

What was even more insulting was that for years this kind of story was kept out of Literotica, and only this year had Laurel and Manu relented and allowed them in.

But I did what all losers do. I smiled bravely, clapped, said things like, "She deserves it" for the lip readers and kept myself tightly under control. Katie dropped let go of my hand, gave me a sympathetic smile and bit her lip and looked away.

As soon as the camera went off me, I sagged down in the chair. I hadn't known I was that caught up in winning or not, but apparently I was. The Wanderer leaned across, put his hand on my arm and said simply, "Life goes on." I've never wanted to thump someone as much in all my life as I did at that precise moment.

So the rest of the evening dragged on, and I got plastered. It didn't really matter. StangStar06 won several awards -- one probably 'best deep description of mustang modifications in a story' or something like that; I wasn't paying much attention. I just remember hearing his name for yet another bloody award and being deep in the disappointed bitterness stakes at the time, murmuring "

mother-fucker!"

in what I thought was a sotto voice, but which obviously was not, since it was picked up by the whole table, who all smiled sympathetically, if a little strained. I remember hearing him launching into an attack on the new model Mustang in one of his acceptance speeches -- he said something like "I've never met a Mustang I didn't like, until now." And then there was a hushed stunned silence when he said this.