Pornographic Fruitcake Love Story

By David Lee

'Pornographic Fruitcake Love Story' is a comedy based upon a simple, time-tried, rather universal theme – the absurdity of a lover’s efforts to please the beloved. A work of light humor, it consists mainly of a writer’s bumbling efforts to produce a money making “filthy story” in order to impress a woman who claims to have no faith in men. The story enjoys the liberty of a highly malleable structure, which remains integral throughout the book despite apparent convolutions. The language, plain and unadorned, is consistent with the atmosphere of this distinctly satirical farce and with the character of the aspiring author, who appears in occasional ‘Personal Interludes’ between some of the chapters. This character is not really autobiographical, though he pretends to be, and this is not the story of my life. Pornographic Fruitcake is very much itself and is aimed at laughter, not at making a fine impression upon the academic mind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Sep 19, 2011
• ISBN: 9781447856139

Book preview

About the author

DavidLee2.jpg

Born March 29, 1945, David Lee grew up in Long Beach, California. Back in those days, parents believed in toughening up their kids, preparing them to survive in the working world, and words like Love and Peace weren’t popular yet. People believed in fearing the bomb and mistrusting their neighbors.

In the wake of protests against the war in Vietnam and disillusioned with politics after the exposure of Watergate, David left for Europe in the 70s, with his wife and three kids. He did as many others did at the time: look for new horizons, check out other cultures and alternative ways of living. In a converted van they toured Europe until they ran out of money in Greece. That’s where David took up playing guitar and singing in the streets to make a living. Leading the wandering life of street musicians, they came to set up their base in Spain, moving down the Mediterranean coast from Cadaqués to Málaga and on occasion crossing over to the Balearic Islands. The precarious hand-to-mouth existence finally wore out the family. On his own, David happened to meet a woman who inspired him to try his skills on a bigger work than poems and lyrics for songs. In the four years of their relationship she provided the moral and the occasional economic support to realize the project. Unfortunately, three years later, in Barcelona, 1995, he died from a brain tumor. 

Besides the book you hold in your hand, he left a couple of children’s tales and a number of poems and the lyrics of songs he had performed. Some of them could well be the subject of future publications. 

David Lee

Pornographic Fruitcake Love Story

An experimental novel

Illustrated with drawings by Djin Omen

Edited by Chris von Gagern

First published in the United States 2011 by Lulu.com

Layout and design: art-transfer.net

Cover: painting ‘In the Tower’ by Djin Omen, oil on canvas, 76 x 60 cm, 1990

Copyright © 2011 by Chris von Gagern

ISBN: 978-1-4478-5613-9

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address [e-mail]

Illustrations by Djin Omen

(www.djin-mora.de)

‘Claudia’, drawing on paper, 30 x 21 cm                                                   ch.  1

‘Sister Gretchen’, drawing, 30 x 21 cm                                                      ch.   2.5

‘Claudia on her sixteenth birthday’, drawing on paper                           ch.   3

‘Aunt Catherine’, drawing, 30 x 21 cm                                                       ch.   4

‘Hardship in a Trilian setting’, drawing, 30 x 21 cm                                 ch.   6

‘Prince Martin and his talking horse’, oil on canvas, 220 x 140 cm      ch.   8

‘Claudia and Hardship’, oil on canvas, 160 x 250 cm                             ch. 10

‘Claudia and wicked Sophie’, drawing, 30 x 21 cm                                 ch. 11

‘Wicked Sophie’s castle in Shagmoon Valley’, drawing, 30 x 21 cm   ch. 12

Author’s Preface

A note for the professional reader

The following is a comedy based upon a simple, time-tried, rather universal theme – the absurdity of a lover’s efforts to please the beloved – in this case the struggles of a writer with no talent for eroticism, to produce a money-making filthy story in order to impress a woman who claims to have no faith in men. This work of light humor, mainly consisting of the porn-maker‘s bumbling efforts, enjoys the liberty of a highly malleable structure, which remains integral throughout the book despite apparent convolutions. The opening chapter of the bogus pornography sets the tone for all that follows.

Likewise the language, plain and uneducated in tone, is consistent with the atmosphere of this distinctly satirical farce and with the character of its aspiring author, who appears in occasional Personal Interludes between some of the chapters. This character is not really autobiographical, though he pretends to be, and this is not the story of my life. The story is very much itself and is aimed at laughter, not at making a fine impression upon the academic mind, nor at getting the real author invited to more cocktail parties.

I imagine the professional readers who work for agents and publishing houses to be very serious people. You probably get bonuses for picking winners, and conversely it must weaken your position somehow if you show enthusiasm about the work of amateurs and crackpots. But what could I say to convince you that this material fits into any of those categories for which you might have trays on your desk, or perhaps a rubber stamp, when in fact I see its value and its potency as a book as being represented by the probable absence of a tray for it? And while you might not know what to do with it, I can only suggest that you read the entire manuscript and decide what to do with it when you know what it is.

I have tried many times now, for several months, to write this letter or something like it, a detailed synopsis perhaps, with my writing experience and studies and travels thrown in to give it all some extra weight; but in the long run I have the mind of a car salesman: mainly I just want you take the car out and enjoy driving it. I want you to smell the upholstery and honk the horn and listen to the radio and feel pleasantly excited before we talk too much about it.

Really the essential value of this brief letter, as I see it, is that it will show you that I can construct a proper sentence, or a cohesive paragraph, and that the silliness which follows is intentionally so.

David Lee, Barcelona, 1992

Editor’s Preface

The author left the manuscript, fully edited and prepared for publishing, to close friends before he died in 1995 from a brain tumor. Trying to honor the promise to look for a publisher led to the usual frustrating responses. In order to please potential publishers, a streamlined version was recast for another try. A more convincing approach, without refashioning the original, only became possible with the advances of online publishing and the concept Print on Demand that permits an author’s edition – without paying for thousands of printed copies – and it makes the book available globally.

After 15 years of futile attempts, David Lee’s legacy will come to light. We have opted for the unexpurgated text as the author intended it to be: including all of the numbered chapters (1 to 12), interspersed with the interludes 1, 2, 4 and 6, finishing off with the appendices 1 through 7 and 11, and the ‘note for professional readers’ above. Though some passages may seem lengthy, being faithful to the original seems to suit the author’s legacy better than a revised edition not from him.

This first edition addresses the gentle reader and hopefully any interested publisher who recognizes its potential.

Ibiza, August 2011

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The young Countess Claudia

Chapter One

Once upon a time, in the Land of Smith, a brother and sister fell passionately in love with each other. It was not love at first sight (which is unusual in cases of incest); but the two siblings did fall in love simultaneously, at a particular moment. Claudia, the sister, was having her sixteenth birthday party that afternoon (so she was feeling especially romantic, ready to fall in love anyway). And it happened to be, as well, a beautiful day with lots of blue and yellow butterflies.

By the way, these events occurred back in the fifteenth century; and I don’t know much about the fifteenth century (excepting that there were kings and queens, etcetera, and the rich people wore sexy stockings, men and women both, and the poor people wore dirty tunics with no underwear; and if you were walking in the country in the springtime, you could hear pairs of lovers gasping and moaning among turbulent wildflowers).

The young Countess Claudia probably spoke some ancient form of Russian or French; but nobody’s very sure about what really happened in the Land of Smith back in the fifteenth century. Maybe the people didn’t speak a known language. Perhaps their conversations were all subconscious, like breathing, or dreaming. If we didn’t have spoken languages, isn’t it probable that we would find ourselves communicating somehow anyway – and perhaps more profoundly? It might even help us to enjoy this little story more fully if we believed in telepathy, as well as in clairvoyance, God, No-God, sexual freedom, witchcraft, individualism, spiritual unity and global culture, vasectomy, love, pornography, the evolution of consciousness, magic, masturbation and good cooking.

Incest is not something we are supposed to believe in. If we believe in something and consider it somehow important, we tend to imagine it. If we imagine something really well, the fantasy can be almost like actually doing it. And the little Countess Claudia’s mother was always fond of reminding her that she should (a) never look at her brother’s penis, or touch it, or talk about it, and (b) never do any other bad things. This provoked Claudia’s imagination severely.

The girl sincerely wanted to please her Mom, like most young countesses; but either her mother was much too hard to please, or else Claudia herself was, as she often suspected, a sexually intense person. But this is supposed to be an erotic, even pornographic tale, a fantasy to give the reader a tingle and not a psychological complex.

I promise to try. I am a poor artist who needs to make a little bit of money, so I want you to enjoy the story.

It’s just that you’ll enjoy it far more if you can have some sympathy for the young Countess Claudia and her little brother, Hardship, whose mother, Claudia’s Mom too of course, had named him Hardship because this expressed her honest feeling about having another baby when she did.

If you’ve ever glanced into a book on child psychology, you’ll easily recognize the effects of prudish and repressive parents upon these two siblings. Claudia’s (and Hardship’s) family, and most of the 15th century adult world, by constantly referring to sex as a demonic force or a delicious but forbidden fruit, unwittingly made the two children seem erotic to each other. Nakedness and secrecy, the touching of their hands, these little pleasures tasted especially tangy and sweet, like stolen cakes or candies, like the forbidden cherries in the King’s orchard.

Thus it happened that Hardship was sent away to school from the age of seven onward, because he was caught peeing into the bathtub. Claudia, age eight, had not enticed her brother to do this; but on the other hand she didn’t really argue about it, because they might be overheard: and Hardship wasn’t supposed to be there while she took her bath.

He was her favorite companion, anyway, whenever they were allowed to be together – or if they could be together a bit secretly sometimes, such as this time. They were both naked, Claudia sitting in the bathtub and Hardship standing beside it on the wolfskin rug, the air steamy and everything all splashy, when the heavy wooden door crashed open, filling the room with angry adults: a father swinging his leather belt, a weeping grandmother, a savagely enraged medieval mama. It was a traumatic experience for Hardship, and not much fun for Claudia either. Screams and curses echoed all through the castle, while the rosy marble walls of the bathing chamber became spattered with blood.

Claudia’s sixteenth birthday was the first time she’d seen her brother Hardship in eight years. Hardship hadn’t even been allowed to come home for Christmas. He’d spent his Christmases and other holidays with a spinster aunt, his mother’s sister Catherine: a rather eccentric woman who’d been both a philosophy professor in a school for young girls (but only for two years) and a prostitute (but only for three weeks). Aunt Catherine had also been the mistress of a Prince (but only for seven months), and had once performed a successful appendectomy on a young girl (Catherine was in love with the girl at the time).

She’d lost her job as a philosophy professor when she was caught in the young Sophie’s bed, in a tiny dormitory room, where they were discovered by one of the two hatched-faced widows who ran the University For Exceptionally Refined Young Rich Girls. Catherine and Sophie then lived in Italy being lesbians (but only for three-and-a-half years); although at the time, back in the fifteenth century, nobody called them lesbians but simply unnatural women – which sounds a lot nicer, at least now, after five centuries, which produced a lot of dramatic incidents like the Inquisition, the fall of the aristocracy, the invention of the atomic bomb, and lots of wars, miracles, plagues and scandals, plus an increasing isolation of the individual, as tribal instincts and aggressive values very slowly dissolve out of the world, or hopefully something like that.

So Aunt Catherine had no thoughts about feminist politics, or beatnik poetry, or the danger of getting AIDS, herpes and syphilis through sexual contact. But she nevertheless taught young Hardship how to masturbate, shamelessly and with great skill.

Even modern pornography readers, familiar with dozens of exotic masturbation techniques, along with all the dildos, vibrators, rubber dolls and spring-loaded plastic orifices available at your local sex shop, would surely enjoy spending an afternoon back in the fifteenth century with Aunt Catherine (if they could spend one there). Gentle but passionate, mature but youthfully beautiful, Aunt Catherine was nothing like most of the tough, sophisticated characters typical of porn: she was a natural, warm, open person, an excellent conversationalist and an ardent student of interesting subjects. All the books in her library looked well-used, including the non-pornographic ones, and she spoke seventeen languages.

If porn these days has come to have a bad name, this is partly because pornography has too often been shunned by sensitive artists, and by talented people who wanted to become famous. Pornography has been shunned because the Muse of Pornography, Pornofornonyotiti, was abducted from among the Pantheon, and erased from the cosmic memory of the ancient Greeks, by bandits from the planet Slozone. The bandits all had enormous penises with fur: can you imagine being impaled upon a penis with fur? Maybe not. But for some people, male as well as female, an alien creature with unusual sex organs or habits might be tremendously exciting to imagine.

In fact, this book should probably be sold along with furry rubber penises and other toys from the story. Imagine copies of Pornographic Fruitcake Love Story in sleazy little bookshops in back alleys, densely populated little streets filled with fat, sad hookers and skinny drug dealers and beautiful gypsies, plus a lot of people out shopping for some filthy reading material, the most desperately bored and lonely and secretive people, perhaps, all searching for something unusual or unexpected. What a thrill to find a book that comes equipped with lots of sexual implements and perhaps even some fifteenth century costumes, a whole theatrical repertory of props whereby the reader could freely indulge in a wide variety of sexual experiments taken directly from the pages of our story; and my publishers could advertise this bargain on television as a frank alternative to risking AIDS, syphilis, unwanted pregnancy, or even divorce (because your partner’s organs have grown boringly familiar now, and you really need something different, perhaps even something totally alien: satin-gray fur which would make a penis appear to be an oily snake, a vagina appear to be some otherworldly flower whose genetic survival pattern gave her seductive powers an extra strength – much like the muscles of people from a planet with ten times the gravity of Earth). Maybe this image is a little strong for a television sales campaign; but I’m just an unpublished writer, and I don’t know much about selling pornography. On the other hand, if I had a hundred dollars for every time I ever fucked or masturbated, I’d be rich. If you happen to be the sort of person I’ve always been, you are usually, either in your body or your mind or both, on your way to the next orgasm, rather than – year after year – sincerely involving yourself in making more money and earning a good reputation. After a while, though, you’ve gone too far to turn back, and you can only hope to somehow make a strength out of your weakness.

If only I could have learned this art once nurtured by the Muse – a sort of goddess or hybrid angel – Pornofornonyotiti, who, the last time she appeared in these pages, was being chained to a wall on her knees in the heavy cargo section of a Slozonian spacecraft, while huge furry throbbing alien socks were shoved into her in every possible way and others mercilessly squirted violet gobs of radioactive sperm all over her body, or bit her hard and pinched her breasts until she screamed with a sound of weird horny pain like some cats at night. It’s possible of course that this image is actually too hardcore for some of my readers; but then you’ve never seen the Muse of pornography, because she was so seductive that you, whether you’re male or female, earthling or alien, would not be able to resist using her to get your pleasure.

But if only, as I started to say, normal people like you and me could have learned to masturbate with the help of Hardship’s Aunt Catherine, we would easily be able to have some sympathy not only for the Countess Claudia but also for her poor little brother, who never got to go home for Christmas, and who was enchanted by the sexual witchcraft of his aunt, If we can feel some sympathy for the boy and not simply pass judgment on him, then we can identify with him and enjoy the story, we can imagine Aunt Catherine seducing us too: and we can have almost as much pleasure as Hardship himself when he first became addicted to women and incest and masturbation. We can imagine Hardship at the age of twelve opening a very special birthday present from his aunt, who had always been the black sheep of the family until the day he took her place, when he was caught peeing on his cooperative sister. Aunt Catherine laughed about her nephew’s infantile sin when she read his mother’s angry letter describing the scene. She also kissed the wounds on his bum left there by his father’s leather belt (of course this didn’t arouse him sexually, because he was only seven years old back then; but it broke his heart, because his aunt started weeping, and he fell in love with her as almost any boy would surely fall). Now, at the age of twelve, he’d begun having starkly sexual dreams, and had even reached a small orgasm once by rubbing and squeezing his animal part, as his aunt brazenly called his penis.

Animal part may sound very silly now; hut five hundred gears ago it was a very dirty way to talk in the Land of Smith, as well as in Europe and China. Of course Aunt Catherine showed him her animal part too, explaining that she often considered it her favorite part of herself; although she sometimes liked her adventurousness most, and quite often liked her sense of humor more than any other part of herself; and she was quite fond as well of her knees, and of her catfish casserole.

Aunt Catherine was also a witch; and she most often practiced witchcraft in the springtime, when feverish desires were aroused in her flesh, along with the efflorescence of the season, tempting her to use mystical powers in forbidden ways.

Once, by a river, in a lonely spot where she felt sure that no passing knights on horseback, no drunken peasants or wandering minstrels would see her, she cast a spell on a large frog by repeating 327 dirty words over its tiny penis, after first rubbing her nose in some frog shit (so that the Frog Spirit would see her humility and not give her karmic trouble in some future incarnation). The enchanted frog became a live, green, hopping, erect male animal part which Catherine held between her thighs, where it lay throbbing and squirming. She was naked, of course, in the soft mud of the low, flat riverbank, soft clay which cuddled and sucked at her body, warm soft mud which seemed to be oozing up into her; and she felt that she could be turning to clay herself, melting into the earth, while the green, slippery penis creature began to pound aggressively at her animal part, wanting in, banging on her clitoris and making squeaky little mouse-like sounds, exactly like a frog penis creature when it screams Let me fuck you! at a closed witch’s animal part. She did not consider this a wise or good way to use her magical powers; but she found her squeaky little green monster irresistibly charming, as well as useful, and also surprisingly insistent, for a creature which eats only flies most of the time, and a mosquito larva or two in larva season.

The only person who observed Hardship’s aunt being fucked in the mud by a frog, by the way, was a truly bad witch, an intentionally wicked one, actually Catherine’s most dangerous enemy. This was none other, than Sophie, the girl Catherine had left rather coldly in Italy after three and a half years, when she fell out of love and realized that Sophie was never going to sweep the floor decently nor learn to fry an egg. Sophie was young, back then, and very proud. Her vanity could not accept Catherine’s total change of heart. If the dirty dishes or an unswept floor could matter more, ever, than her soft, sweet kisses, her pretty pink nipples, her teasing fingers, then what good was love? Grow up, Catherine advised insensitively: as though a girl could snap her fingers and be middle-aged (Aunt Catherine at 32 had seduced a girl of 16, exactly half her age). So the young Sophie, really still in love with Catherine, but vengeful now, became a student of witchcraft, hoping to someday do Catherine lots of harm. She imagined, for example, transforming herself into a gorilla, and raping Catherine with a terribly huge, biologically unrealistic penis. Gorilla sperm would explode like an endlessly raging river, and Catherine would be fucked in a way that no magical frog ever thought about. Or maybe she would cast a spell on a real gorilla, and watch him ravaging Catherine, using her in every way; and then perhaps the animal would insist on raping Sophie too, so that she might perish along with her long-lost love, naked in a beautiful jungle.

If you feel that you would enjoy more zoological fantasy with this young girl’s exciting nubile flesh writhing in pain and ecstasy on a cock the size of a baseball bat, and if you feel kinky enjoying this fantasy, just remember that Sophie herself enjoyed this fantasy for years, and had many delightful orgasms while imagining herself being fucked to pieces, although in reality she did not become a gorilla and, in fact, did not even see one (zoos were not very common in those days. A lot of animals were only fantasies for most of the people).

But Sophie did become a cruel, powerful witch, practicing and studying for twelve long years while she also spied upon Catherine, almost constantly, looking for some special weakness, waiting and watching. It was easy for Sophie to spy on people, because her witchcraft allowed her to form her body extravagantly. When she saw Catherine on the riverbank, for example, Sophie herself looked like a snail with a tiny eye in the middle of its forehead.

But in order to observe Catherine at home in her country mansion, which was a small castle really, Sophie used a series of underground passageways dug out by a perverse, bisexual, hideous-looking dwarf named Gnar. Payment for three of these tunnels was three male goats: Gnar let her watch while he performed a large variety of exotic sex acts with these animals. At first she was disgusted and threw a stone at Gnar; but when he said he could show her how to make the goats fuck her, Sophie was unable to resist such an exciting invitation.

Even the most experienced pornography lovers may never have had the opportunity to observe a beautiful young woman surrendering herself to sexual abandon with a bunch of goats in a secret passageway. Gnar, the extravagantly ugly dwarf, considered himself a very lucky fellow-indeed (before Sophie came into his life, Gnar had only seen goats and sheep having sex with drunken farmers and with peasant boys from the village). Sophie herself was a shameless exhibitionist; so it was’ pleasantly stimulating to her that Gnar was there, watching her spread her legs wide apart for the animals. She found herself, little by little, strangely attracted to the ugly dwarf, who stared at her intensely, slobbering and grunting, with his enormous erection oozing into his own mouth (Gnar could suck himself, so of course he was constantly doing it). She wanted Gnar to be her lover now, too: she wanted him to fuck her with his abnormally long, crooked cock which did not fit his fat, stumpy little body (it would have looked more natural on a horse, even though it was circumcised). When she told Gnar that she’d be his mistress and let him do everything with her, if he would promise that she could sometimes have a good romp with his goats, Gnar dug six extra spying tunnels at half price.

And by developing an elaborate system of tunnels, mirrors, disguises, invisibility techniques, Crystal balls and other elements of medieval spying equipment, often assisted by the randy dwarf, Sophie not only knew, immediately, that Catherine was falling deeply in love with Hardship (when the boy was about fourteen), but also gave birth, eventually, to the seven cute little dwarves who helped out Snow White in the movie by Walt Disney.

And of course it was the wicked Sophie who, on the Countess Claudia’s sixteenth birthday, cast a spell upon the two innocent siblings and fated them to become lovers, in order to deprive Catherine of her sweet young horny boy.

So we can imagine Sophie spying, smelling of goats, and pregnant with Grumpy or Frumpy or Sneezy or even Snoopy or Garfield or Spiderman. Why should sexual fantasy be bound to logic, realism, standardized plots and worn-out themes? If Daisy Duck makes you feel horny, do it with Daisy while Donald is at the office! Imagine: Donald has to stay at work doing a special project for Uncle Scrooge, while you and Daisy use each other like depraved animals, until you can never see her in comic books again without feeling that special tingle!

What is (or was, back in the fifteenth century) Hardship’s gift from Aunt Catherine, who said he should be naked and alone when he opened it?

Which hole in the wall was Aunt Catherine peeking through when 12-year-old (naked) Hardship, opening the gift, felt his penis grow and crave to be touched because of what he found in the package?

Through which hole did Sophie spy on the unsuspecting boy? Could she also see Aunt Catherine hiding in her own secret passageway within the thick stone wall?

Could either woman hear the sounds of the boy’s breathing, a gasp of excitement, a moth fluttering close to the candle on the small table by his chair?

Shall we not save these interesting discoveries for some future solitary night? Or, if you aren’t sleeping yet, nor bored, nor sexually stimulated in any noticeable way (which is my fault entirely, I fully realize); and if you really do enjoy pornography, or if you’re just lazy enough to prefer another person’s imagination to the laborious task of using your own, you could of course go right on to Chapter Two, where all of these delights, and more, are waiting for us, or will be waiting for us if I am able to put them there.

As a novice pornographer I feel somewhat insecure, of course; although fortunately I’ve got the valuable assistance of a girlfriend who is both sympathetic and critical, not the sort of person who normally reads pornography and other cheap trash: but she will roast me mercilessly if I can’t write a dirty story that makes her feel horny. I don’t get horny very easily, she promised me the other day. When I asked her what sort of material a pornographic book should contain, she said that first of all it should be extremely dirty, and secondly, in her opinion, there should somehow be some love in it, some poetic beauty, or something unexpected. Porn must also have painful tortures and exotic sexual behavior, she informed me, promising to buy me a copy of The Story of O. And the only way to write pornography, she insisted, although she’s never done much writing herself, is to think about money all the time. I might even get rich writing a filthy book, in other words, if I can make all you porn readers melt steamingly away into clouds of hot mindfuck and rip off your underclothes. At least that’s what I want from a good dirty story myself.

Maybe to write good porno is to jump much more directly into sex. Maybe the writer should lie down first in a bath or out in the garden, along with Ruby Rubberhips the