In HE the unnamed protagonist, a law student, is involved with a series of women who either loathe him, try to poison him, save his life or exploit him sexually. The first is the nanny of his ex boss’ kid. She sends him a hateful letter, enclosing a pubic hair and rubbed with pheromones. After observing a woman in a coffee shop whose breasts are ‘freaks of nature’ she leaves a briefcase and departs. He’s unsuccessful in returning it to her, but this karmic event exposes him to a bevy of dangerous and seductive paramours.
Book Trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qiZA1Ps10F8
DO NOT BE ALARMED. I would never give away your cloying secrets. But don't kid yourself; I know who you are.
You see, I've seen you staring at me in the foyer when I come to take charge of Sisco on Saturday mornings. Your hazel eyeballs have given you away. Don't think I don't get IT. I've noticed how your eyes hover over me, darting around my body like a laser. Picked up on your malingering stare. (I caught you eyeing my butt one day when I left the bathroom door open to tease my hair. Mirrors do reflect in case you didn't know.) When you do acknowledge me (if you do at all), your retinas hover around my chest instead of making eye contact. OMG! Do you think I'm that much of a dumb blonde? Really...
So in deference to the fact that you will never, ever have me, I am sending you these tokens of esteemlessness. (1) Since you would no doubt like to run your gruff fingers through my saintly pubic hairs (not to mention your liar's tongue), I have sent you one (enclosed). And (2) since you'd love to use your sizable nose to sniff me in luscious places I have rubbed certain of my pheromones on special spots (UR, LL) so that you may inhale (which is as much as you can ever hope for) (just the thought of you turns my tummy icky) the essence of my sensuality. Enjoy...
Misha T, the babe
P.S. I'm even hotter than your pathetic, perverted little mind could ever imagine.
Turning the envelope upside down, something fell out. Hesitant to exhale, lest it vanish, he pulled a small magnifying glass from his desk drawer and examined the specimen. There it was, a curly fury of blackness culled from the mine of her smoky mound.
Thank you so much to Total Eclipse Reviews for allowing me to introduce you to myself and my work. My name is Stephan Morsk and I’ve been writing for about fifteen years daily. I’ve won a 7th and an 8th place in a Writer’s Digest Contest out of a field of 19,000, earned honorable mentions in other years, published short stories, etc. My novella, “HE: A Sexual Odyssey” is one worthy of attention, I believe; literate, sexy and fun. My favorite author is Norman Mailer.
A couple of themes stand out in my work. (“HE” already has three sequels written: “Trashy Novel: A Love Story”, “She” and “I”. I guess I’m hung up on pronouns.) My protagonists, always unnamed, are seeking salvation in the form of Ms. Right. Another theme is the power women have over men, sexually and emotionally. A third is the absurdity of irrational, gonzo karma. My protagonists often find themselves in hideous situations through no fault of their own.
Take the protagonist in “HE”, a thirty-ish law student living in Manhattan. He’s entranced by the nanny of his ex-boss’ kid. She’s named Misha and is scorchingly hot, aloof, years younger and, in his mind, untouchable. Sitting in the foyer of the ex-boss’, ex-wife’s apartment where he crosses paths with her, he notices she’s left her shirt on the seat next to him.
There it sat, steeped in her sweat, suffused in her perfumes, laden with the scruffy cells of her desquamated dermis, only inches away. Looking around to make sure the coast was clear, he picked it up, that neon schmatte, aphorizing his lust. It had the frilly quality of women’s wear, sleekly light, taffeta smooth. Staring at it a moment, uncertain how to ravage it, he put the armpit of her sleeve against his nose and inhaled the spare essence of her sweat mixed with deodorant. Then he moved his nostrils to the other side in his prehensile grip, as if it might range any different. Closing his eyes he inhaled deeply...
His reverie was broken when the cloth was snapped from his fingers. There, standing above him, was the albescent Misha, a tart smirk gracing her lips, which were yanked to one side of her face in denunciation. “You’re pathetic,” she said, a sly smile orchestrating her mouth. p. 10.
Ultimately he enters into a sado-masochistic tarantella with her. She texts him the times she’ll be in a restaurant with her boyfriend. He goes there and hooks up with her in the women’s room, unbeknownst to the boyfriend of course. There he performs all kinds of humiliating acts at her command.
At the women’s room door, she put her finger to her lips and looked in. Apparently empty, she nodded for him to follow. Like an absurd marionette, he did so. She quickly opened a stall door and sat on the toilet seat. Following her in, she graced him with that sylvan smirk, which ignited her crime passionnel. Locking the stall door, he stood staring at her. “You’re being such a good boy. As a reward, I’ll let you kiss my feet.” Slipping off one of her sandals, she held her foot toward him. It was a young, dusky, filthy foot, salacious in and of itself with a slight odor of summer heat. While an ocean of conflict raced through his head, there must, he presumed, be some payoff for all of his obedience. Sinking to his knees on the hard tiled floor, he watched that arrant smirk unfold. She’d won, again, and would utilize him as her puppy. Holding her heal in his hand, he sniffed her toes, imbibing the uncouth scent, then, slowly, purposefully, he began sucking on each one, lusting after their obverse peculiarity in a manner of libidinization. p.14.
These encounters multiply. In the meantime he sees a woman in a coffee shop whose breasts are ‘freaks of nature’. When she departs, leaving her briefcase under the table he sees it as an opportunity to meet her. He runs after her but when she boards a bus he has no change and is unable to follow her. However, he finds a cell phone in the briefcase along with several cut up pictures of body parts, some of them presumably hers. They connect by phone and arrange a meeting. This one woman, who calls herself Eve, may just be the redemptive soul he’s been searching for. Terminally cute, sexy and fearless, she’s succeeded in casting her obverse spell on our hero. Out of nowhere, one day, she shows up at his door.
“I’ll be staying a while,” she said. He nodded excitedly at the news. Not that he had invited her. She’d brought her bosoms, and that was enough to engage his endorsement. “I’m in a bit of a mess,” she said, cutely as ever. She kept tossing off phrases, warnings really, puntos de informacion by way of explication. “I’m not who you think I am,” she said. Then finally, “I carry a gun.”
Ignoring all this data momentarily, he said, “Can I get you anything?” p. 37.
He’s perfectly capable of disavowing all contradictory input in light of the mere possibility of feminine salvation. She comes in and lies on his sofa, prostrate. It doesn’t last long, however, as she passes out and has to be carted away in an ambulance. Another dose of ignominious fate. Another woman, identifying herself only as Tinkerbell, intrigues him. She turns out to be part of a ruthless gang of international thieves. Just his luck.
...noticing a woman ambling about- one of the most extraordinary women he’d ever seen. Tall, almost six feet, young, dressed casually in jeans and T-shirt. She was thin, not an extra ounce of adipose tissue, yet not anorexic or even skinny... just gawkily streamlined with large nerdy glasses. Her body thrilled him nonchalantly. She was not exactly overdressed. She was just there, doing her thing, in that spiffy hotel lobby, no doubt some pecuniary dad’s spoiled daughter. But her physical being thrilled him. She wasn’t overly endowed in the frontal nether world, but what there was assumed an ovoid fullness. Likewise her derriere was just plump enough to enjoin approbation.
...He stared into her wide glasses. She wore her hair up in a dithery bun. She looked again at him a little self-consciously. By his estimation she couldn’t have been more than... twenty-three?
“You’re him then?” she asked.
“What?” he asked in surprise that she’d even spoken in his direction.
“The man with the rod.”
He nodded. “You’re not what I expected.” p. 56.
Tinkerbell turns out to be an ex-Russian whore, lesbian, who agrees to have sex with him in exchange for a mysterious metal rod left in his possession by the ethereal Eve. However, Tink turns out to be more than a little viperous. He ends up in need of hospitalization.
Collapsing more than sitting onto the back seat, he said, “Mount...”
“What?” the man asked. “Can’t hear ya’, brother.”
“Mount,” he said again, the words sticking on his lips. He was getting daffier by the moment.
“Mount... what?” the cabby said.
“Cy... an... ide...”
Shaking his head no, he said, “Sigh... nigh...”
“Oh, Mount Sinai hospital?” the guy asked. He nodded. “You all right, brother?” He shook his head no.
“Mer... gen... see...”
“You ain’t gonna die on me in my cab are you?” He shook his head no. “Okay, then I’m movin’. Otherwise I call you a ambulance man. Got no dyin’ in my cab, brother. Uh, uh.” p.65.
The protagonist’s adoration of women persists despite sexual humiliations, outright exploitation, and some near death experiences.
Well, I hope I’ve intrigued you enough to take a look at “HE: A Sexual Odyssey”. It’s available at Amazon in paperback, and in e formats on Kindle and Nook. I manage my own website morsklitmonthly.com which offers a new short story monthly. I’m on Twitter at @SMorsk. Also on Facebook.
Stephan Morsk is a mental health professional who writes daily. He won a 7th and an 8th place in the Writer’s Digest competition 2001 out of a field of 19,000 writers. He has published a short story and won honorable mentions in other years. His web site morsklitmonthly.com offers a new short story each month. He is interested in novellas and recently submitted “Parrot Moon” to the Paris Literary Prize. He’s finished several other short books, part of a four part series including “HE”, “Trashy Novel-A Love Story”, “She” and “I”. He lives in rural Minnesota with his family. Favorite novelist, Normal Mailer. He enjoys exercise and is a reasonable amateur magician.