Hughes Mister Gum

1. Auflage 2011
ISBN: 978-1-907133-21-3
Verlag: Dog Horn Publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 174 Seiten

Rhys Hughes plumbs the depths of perversity and satire in the shockingly brilliant novel Mister Gum, which follows the adventures of the world's most notorious creative writing tutor and his friends. On his way he discovers haunted hymens, Fellatio Nelson and Canon Alberic's Photo Album. 'A desperately needed antidote to nerd-friendly space fiction and inklingoid fantasy.' - The Guardian. 'Hughes' fiction has few parallels anywhere in the world. In some alternate universe with a better sense of justice, his work triumph-antly parades across all bestseller lists.' -Jeff Vandermeer

Autoren/Hrsg.

Hughes, Rhys

Leseproben

Boo to a Goose




“Rules are made to be broken,” said the Creative Writing tutor, “but only if you are a slimy liar or insignificant worm. “I’m not exaggerating. The best writers don’t break rules . . . “Don’t argue with me, I know what I’m talking about, I’m Mr Gum the Creative Writing tutor, I get paid to do this job, and I declare that the rules of good writing are immutable. “In other words they never change and they can’t decay. “A clumsy oaf might be able to snap parts of them off, but those parts will always remain strong and viable. “Are you listening? I guess you think my voice is a bit odd, that my tongue isn’t like a normal man’s tongue. If you think that, you’d be right. My tongue is indeed very strange. “Anyway, of all the rules that get broken but shouldn’t, there are three more important than the others. Let me explain what they are. Only write what you know. That’s the first. “Only write what you know. I’ve repeated that rule in italics to make sure there’s no misunderstanding. “For example, I once wrote a short story about prog rock musicians. I bet you think that owning several hundred prog rock albums and knowing the names of the guitarists from Yes and Genesis and maybe even playing in a prog rock band qualifies a writer to write about prog rock. Sadly the case is not that. It takes more. “If you’ve never cracked nuts with a prog rock musician, or im paled cubes of cheese and pineapple on little sticks with one, then you have no right to write a prog rock story. None. “The real world is the real place to learn real things . . . “In the case of prog rock, preparing savoury snacks is the real way to immerse yourself for real in the real prog rock scene, because that’s what prog rock musicians do when they aren’t doing prog rock, or so I’ve been told, by a real teller in my real ear. “A good writer uses the world for inspiration, the real world, not his or her imagination. And the real world is full of real people. Real people do real things. Some of those real people are prog rock musicians, as I’ve already strongly hinted, but many others are homosexuals and they have real homosexual sex. Yes they do. “Hard to believe, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true. And in fact it is true. Homosexuals. Out there. “Let me tell you a tale about myself, but in fact it’s not about myself but about Mr Mgu, a man identical in every way to me except that he had lots of homosexual sex when I didn’t. “How much is ‘lots’, I hear you ask? Tons, I reply! “Tons of juicy homosexual sex! “But the word ‘homosexual’ is offensive to most modern liberals, so I intend to say ‘gay’ from now on. “Thoughtful, aren’t I? Indeed I am! But I’m not gay. Never oiled a boy in my life. Not once. Not last month. “Warm slippery golden oil over his buttocks. Nope. “Nor did a boy or any man variant oil my own buttocks. Shaft of cock proud in the dim smoky light . . . “Tangents are acceptable in good writing, the fine writing of the best writers, the writing found in the unpublished novels of Mr Mgu. So don’t berate me when I say things like: moist rough tongue flicking throbbing purple man meat to spurting joy! That’s a tangent. Sucking rigid cock, hot in cheek pouch, licking veined length, chewing lightly, spurt in face! Yes, a tangent. Not gay talk. Cock. “Where was I? Ah yes, writing what I know — or rather what Mr Mgu knew — when he decided to write what he knew . . . A new novel about the real world, the world I’ve already described, full of real stiff cocks really being sucked to real satisfaction. Imperative to know it! Yes, to know hot gay sex for real in the real world. Real cock, real suck, real hard. Come in my mouth but save some for my face. “Now then, Mr Mgu didn’t know the first thing about cock, so he had to learn from scratch, but he was dedicated and he went in search of it. He knew he’d recognise it for what it was when he found it. Thrusting pelvis, taut buttocks, peachy pork pillar . . . “This is all getting confused. I think I might have given you the wrong impression. Mr Mgu didn’t want to have the cock he found — if find one he ever did — stuffed in his mouth with the creamy goodness spraying the back of his throat . . . No he wanted to force his own cock into a little eager mouth, between lips compressed just enough, work it more roughly, push to the back of the throat, harder. “I love fucking boys. I want to throat fuck boys. “That was Mr Mgu speaking, not me. I can’t imagine anything worse than throat fucking a boy, yanking his head more roughly onto the hilt of my enormous tool with masterful strong hands while his eyes widen in surprise and he feels a little panic and sucks harder to get the job done so I won’t keep forcing him down, obstructing his narrow windpipe with my swollen conic section, pushing into his throat, brutally, not caring about his discomfort, caring only to shoot my load, suffocating him, boneless joy column grating against teeth. “I like to kiss my own sperm from bruised lips straight after . . . Or so claimed Mr Mgu when I asked him about it . . . And I believe him. Don’t you? Well you should. Salty. “Anyway, Mr Mgu happened to be in Madrid. Men often happen to be in places. All the time in fact. Some place or other. Madrid has a vibrant gay quarter called Chueca where cocks are frequently sucked, some say sucked without cessation, but I’ve already warned you about hyperbole so let’s just say: many hot cocks, much sucked. “Buggery also. Sphincter muscle pulsing rhythmically, explosion deep in lower bowel, prostrate milk a-trickle. “Mr Mgu walked into a gay club for research purposes. “The name of the club was To Boldly Go. That’s a split infinitive, very bad — the split in the infinitive I mean, not the alluring split between the bum cheeks of smooth firm boys. “Poor grammar notwithstanding, in he went. “He sat on a stool at the bar and ordered tea and then he also ordered a smooth firm boy but the barman just looked at him in confusion and so did the other customers. ‘¿Que?’ they kept repeating, over and over, and the inverted question mark at the beginning of that word irked Mr Mgu’s best unwaxy ear like a rusty tuna hook. “Unwashed cocks smell like tuna also, Mr Mgu later revealed. To me. When I asked him to reveal things . . . “He raised his voice a few decibels. ‘Smooth firm boy!’ cried he with forceful manly decisiveness, but still those Spaniards didn’t understand, and then he realised that foreigners who don’t speak English would never know what a smooth firm boy was unless he showed one to them, and to do that he had to ask for one first. So he was stuck in a loop of negative comprehension. Cocks uncurling. “His only hope was to learn Spanish, but he was too impatient to stuff his wedge up a rectum, or down a throat, for that. The idea that a wedge might be stuffed down a rectum or up a throat simply never occurred to him. And why should it? Was Mr Mgu a surrealist? He was not. Was he a great writer? Verily he was! “But mostly unpublished. Unfair! “Luckily for Mr Mgu, or unluckily if you jump to the end of my story, which you can’t because you’re listening to it, not reading it, in walked a man who spoke English as well as foreign. He saw the cup of tea in Mr Mgu’s hand, a hand containing five fingers easily able to wank a boy to submission, and he nodded wisely. “Then he said, ‘English are you, buster?’ “To which Mr Mgu replied, “Absolutely and rightly so.’ “The newcomer asked, ‘What’s your desire, chum?’ “Mr Mgu answered, ‘Smooth firm boy.’ “The newcomer grinned. ‘How do you want him?’ “Mr Mgu considered the matter. ‘Chained to the bed.’ “The newcomer took Mr Mgu by the hand and led him to the rear of the club, through a little door, down a long corridor that twisted like a boy’s intestine, illuminated by spherical white lamps that resembled big globs of spunk on the walls, and towards a curtain. ‘Step through here, old son,’ sayeth the newcomer, ‘and you’ll get your desire right enough. Cock at the ready, huh? ¡Vamos!’ “Mr Mgu was utterly without suspicion, so he stepped through the curtain. Suddenly it was a dark and stormy night! No it wasn’t. On the contrary he was sliding down a greased chute under the club with that awful name, To Boldly Go, faster and faster, his velocity increasing and his acceleration also. Cock. Suck. “The newcomer had tricked him into falling through a trapdoor. The chute sped him onwards. Where would it end? It kept going. Bloody hell, it was a long chute. No friction, thankfully! “Thankfully or...