You might remember that I advertised a few weeks ago my new erotic novels, the Fifty Dicks trilogy . Unfortunately, at the time of advertis...

Fifty Dicks: Chapter 1

You might remember that I advertised a few weeks ago my new erotic novels, the Fifty Dicks trilogy. Unfortunately, at the time of advertising they weren't technically written yet. Even more unfortunately, they still aren't. However, I have a fantastic piece of news: I've written the first chapter of the first book. I'm really proud of this work of literary genius; I think it's unparalleled and unprecedented and unreadable, and I'd love you to be the first to lay your eyes on it. So give it a read below and let me know what you think - it might not be here long, depending on whether I wimp out and remove it or not.

   I growl with exasperated exasperation as I peel myself off the floor next to my bed, where I just fell off the top bunk straight onto my face. Looking in the mirror, I notice without even a jot of surprise that my hair is a state, as usual. Part of it is growing outwards like the branches of a palm tree, and some other parts look like small towns that have just been bombed and flooded and then coated in fluff, but mostly it just looks like my scalp has a horrible venereal disease. I say to myself: you're a stupid bitch for sleeping with a hat on, you're a stupid bitch for sleeping with a hat on. Luckily, after four hours of aggressive and emotional brushing and crying, I manage to comb it back into a ponytail, albeit an unruly one that no man could ever love. In my head, I'm all like, God damn you, Jillian Plumage, for making me do this.

   Jilly is my gal pal, who sleeps on the bottom bunk in my room. She is a stunner in every way imaginable - volumous blonde hair, huge tits, nice round arse, you name it. And she puts out generously. But today, she's ill with a terrifying case of some generic illness, so I'm having to go out and run an errand for her, instead of doing everything I had planned: finishing the book that'll earn me my doctorate; trying to train my feet not to fall over each other when I walk; drawing diagrams of my perfect retirement home living room layout which allows ample room for my doting husband (possibly a vampire), my seventeen cats and Jilly to all cohabit happily; and combing my ugly, ugly hair and crying some more. Damn you, Jilly Plumbago

   What I have to do is deliver a package to some gajillionaire who is always on TV and in the media and is young, attractive and cool, but somehow I've never heard of him. It's just a little box of anal beads, but my flatmate is so ill that she can't fulfil the requirements of her home-run, hand-delivering eBay sex shop today, so I'm having to traipse all the way over to Norwich to deliver it. 

   Walking into the living room in my frumpy dress (in which I still look attractive, but unlovable and ugly at the same time), I notice Jilly Perambulator on the sofa, with a big red nose and stinking of diarrhoea. 'Are you okay?' I ask. 

   'Yeah, I'm fine, I just can't be bothered to deliver that bullshit,' she replies, obviously joking.

   'I've fixed you some soup, it's in the fridge.'

   'I bet it's disgusting.'

   'Would you like a paracetamol?'

   'Get the fuck out.'

   'Can I get you any water or anything?' I ask. 

   'Seriously, Cinderella, leave me the fuck alone. You're hanging round like a bad smell and you look like you've just been dragged through a patch of stinging nettles backwards.'

   I giggle, but Jilly Philanthropy remains deadpan. She always has had the best sense of humour. Only for her would I deliver these anal beads. Only for you, Jilly Paralysis


   I love the drive from our tiny little flat to the swanky offices of Rainbow, Inc. I only have a beaten up old fiesta with a wheel missing, but Jilly has let me borrow her Bugatti Veyron (which she bought with her student loan, spending the change on a three bedroom house in Mayfair), so the trip whizzes by with a whizz whizz zip. And before I know it, I'm standing outside the impressive Rainbow towers. The humongous building takes my breath away, standing there as it does with an incredible three floors. I've never seen a building so big. 

   In the terrifyingly modern reception, all made of chrome and MDF, I speak to a woman who looks like a porn star, in a pencil skirt (made of actual charcoal) and nothing else. She wears a super-futuristic headset so that she doesn't have to use her hands to talk on the phone, golly gosh holy crap, and her hair is a stunning shade of red that nearly makes me vomit with envy. Now that I've seen her ultra-smart pencil skirt, I realise that maybe I haven't dressed as smart as I should have. I mean, I have worn my grey trainers, some socks I took from a sleeping tramp on the way here, shinpads, purple cycling shorts, a lime green t-shirt, a pair of 3D glasses from the cinema, and a plastic policeman's helmet from a fancy dress shop - to me, this is smart. I flatten down my unruly afro as it explodes out of the many pins and bands I've used to hold it down, and try not to look like I'm shitting myself, standing there in front of her. 

   When she looks up at me, she immediately presses a button on a console in front of her and says, 'Security...'

   'No, wait!' I cry, nearly bursting into tears because everything is such a big deal to me, 'I'm here to deliver a package to a Mr...' I have to check the package, because for some reason I don't know anything about this man who is like the biggest billionaire ever and pretty much owns the very university which I attend, '...Rainbow.'

   'Hmmm,' she says, before handing me a pass and pointing at another lobby, 'go through there then.'

   In the lobby she directs me to, two more redheads in nothing but skirts made of charcoal direct me to another lobby, where a couple of redheads in charcoal skirts direct me to another lobby, where I sit for twenty minutes on a chair made of rocks and MDF and marble and money. The girl at the desk in this foyer must be in training, because she's jittery and nervous and her hair isn't even that red. Plus, when the other redhead asks her if she's fetched me a drink yet, she screams NOOOOOOOOO and runs out of the room crying. I don't even want a drink. 

   I'm so nervous about delivering this parcel that I roll my eyes at myself theatrically (pull yourself together, holy crap) and start to wonder what kind of things would make me seem like more of a three-dimensional character. Reading British novels, maybe; or a love of curling up on sofas. Maybe if I hadn't heard of laptops or I was a twenty-one year old, clumsy, ditsy, incredibly thick but accidentally beautiful virgin, I'd be more believable...

   My train of thought is suddenly sledgehammered by the opening of huge glass doors (which I've only just realised I could see through into the CEO's office before they were even open), from which Ronald Rainbow emerges, beckoning me into his office.

   When I stand up to shake his hand, I trip over a pebble that was on the floor and roll three metres into a fireplace which I haven't mentioned before because I thought it was probably more important to mention all the materials things were made of rather than describe my surroundings. My whole body now aflame, I try to gain my balance by grabbing hold of a poker that stands next to the fire, but end up falling onto it and impaling myself. Holy crappy poo, I'm on my hands and knees bleeding from a hole in my stomach on fire in the foyer outside Ronald Rainbow's office. 

   Having put me out with a fire extinguisher and bandaged me up, he extends his hand with all its tremendously long fingers (like, at least a foot long) to help me up. 'I'm Ronald Reliant Rainbow,' he says, 'and who the fuck are you?'

   He stands there with scruffy ginger hair and spots and eyes that are all different colours, striped like a rainbow, and I feel so fucking turned on by him that it takes me a while to speak without it coming out like an orgasmic groan. 'I'm Cinderella Porkchops,' I reply. 

   'Are you like, selling double glazing or something?' he says, warm but obviously damaged, like a bird with a broken wing that any creepy insane woman would love to just take in and fix. Because you can change people. Really, you can. And if this feller is over twenty, I'm an idiom that hasn't been used by anyone under fifty in the last twenty years. 'Why don't you come into my office to do whatever it is you've come to do?'

   In his office, I see the walls are covered in murderous sentiments scrawled in excrement. Impressed by the spelling and grammar, I ask who wrote it. 'Oh, it was a local artist called Picasso, a personal friend of mine from back when I invented time travel. Dead now.'

   I've never heard of this guy since I haven't been out of the house since before I was born, but I mutter, 'These murderous rantings pull the extraordinary out of the arse of the ordinary,' and take a seat.

   'How profound,' he replies, 'a great writer must be typing out this dialogue.'

   I fumble around with the parcel I have to deliver, dropping it several times and cursing under my breath, as my cheeks flush because he makes me so horny. Why does this man have such an effect on me? Maybe it's his rainbow coloured striped irises, or the fact that there's a crucifix fixed to the wall behind him, with handcuffs and whips and all sorts of torturous tools scattered around it. 

   'So Mr. Rainbow,' I say, delicately, 'I wondered if you could sign here.'

   'I am the best businessman in the world.'

   'I'm sorry?' I ask, vulnerably, and blushing because his eyes are burning into my soul. He just sounds so arrogant, so I say, 'You sound like a control freak.'

   'Yes, I am. I want to control you now.'

   You are a control freak

   'You are a control freak!'

   'Yes, I just said that. But I'm also delicate and damaged just like you thought, and I want to change deep down, it's just that I haven't met the right woman to change me yet. Maybe that could be you.'

   'Are you gay?' I ask, still blushing. Always blushing. Sometimes trembling as well. 

   He gasps, before ripping the biro from my hands and signing the slip that says he has received the delivery. He looks like he might be about to punch my face in. Holy moly crapnuggets. I've really done it now. 

   'Maybe a bit,' he replies, 'but why is that relevant?'

   I guess it's not. I'm not sure why I even would have asked it; maybe whoever is writing the dialogue isn't that good after all. 

   We talk for a while more, and it takes up about 12 pages and it's like, 99% irrelevant, so I'll spare you. Just know that he's sexy, I'm weak and we're both flirting in the most awkward way you could ever read in a book. 

   After handing over the delivery, I stand up to leave. 'Thanks for signing for the anal beads,' I say. 

   'The pleasure was all mine. We should do the sex some time.'

   I blush, and go to put on my red leather jacket from Thriller that I haven't mentioned yet, but Mr. Rainbow puts it on me before I can do so. His skin touches my shoulder as he drapes it over me, and I faint from the excitement. When I wake up again, in a puddle, his foot-long fingers are pressing the elevator button, which takes forever to arrive. I'm just standing there thinking, I need to escape from here before I go mad with horniness and vulnerability, holy Moses holy crap.

   Before I board the elevator, I take one last look at Ronald Rainbow. He really is incredibly tasty looking; it makes me feel dizzy. 

   'Cinderella Porkchops,' he nods, as the doors close. 

   'Ronald Rainbow,' I reply, before fainting again and missing my floor. 

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  1. That is some funny shit right there! Thanks!

  2. Thank you! Please share it with anyone who you think will enjoy it. Chapter 2 (possibly) coming soon.