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Category: Erotica/Erotic Science Fiction/Science Fiction
Description: Bondage, science fiction, fetishism, real realities and virtual realities collide in this unique collection by one of the most popular authors of erotica--ever! The enigmatic M. Christian. "M. Christian's stories squat at the intersection of Primal Urges Avenue and Hi-Tech Parkway ... feral-eyed, half-naked ... Truly an author for our post-everything 21st century."--Paul Di Filippo, author of the Steampunk Trilogy. Two unforgettable novellas highlight Rude Mechanicals: In "Hot Definition," the story of a future just around our corner, Neko experiences the ultimate domination from the woman who is her master; and in "Speaking Parts," the second novella, two lovers, one with a camera-shutter eye, come together in a scorching, obsessive, edgy relationship that will take them both to the limits of sexuality and beyond. Plus four provocative, physically explicit short stories of sex and technosex. M. Christian "writes like dream!"--Paula Guran, DarkEcho
eBook Publisher: Renaissance E Books/Sizzler Editions,
eBookwise Release Date: November 2009

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Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [154 KB]
Words: 34513
Reading time: 98-138 min.

Introduction:

I love the title of this book. It's not mine, of course, and if you don't recognize it, try brushing up on your Shakespeare.

It works on so many wonderful levels, and with some delightfully odd connections. For one thing, it's a very cool title for a collection of erotica; for another, it's from A Midsummer Night's Dream, a play I (ahem) 'used' for the theme of the second anthology I ever edited, Midsummer Night's Dreams: One Story Many Tales; and, perhaps best of all, it jives with a theme I love to play with. A very personal theme: I adore gadgets ... gizmos, thingamajigs, thingamabobs, and doodads. As I write this on my loyal Mac, I'm also half-watching a movie streamed via Netflix through my Xbox360. Meanwhile, my iPhone is charging up as little scratch-built robots scuttle at my feet. It's no surprise that I've often thought about how technology fetishes such as my own mirror the traditional flesh-and-blood ones.

Especially these days: welcome to the future! More than ever, our love affair with gizmos and gadgets is becoming erotically intimate. We stroke our iPods, caress our mice, intimately interface with other cyborgs through millions of miles of copper wiring and trillions of lines of software code.

Rude Mechanicals was therefore a great chance to put together a collection of some of my favorite stories wrapped around one of my favorite themes. Sure, some of these stories are science fiction but others are more contemporary, and in all of them I've tried to explore how we quite literarily have come to love machinery: answering machines (which have now evolved into voicemail), motorcycles, vibrators, and even plastic inflatable balls. And what's even better, it's a book that you may very well be reading on your own personal gadget of choice.

I really hope you enjoy Rude Mechanicals. And, who knows, maybe the next time you stroke your iPod, caress your mouse, and otherwise interface with other cyborgs through millions of miles of copper wiring and trillions of lines of software code, you'll think, like I do, about all those circuits and all that plastic and metal that begin where your flesh and blood ends and think "Was it good for you, too?"

M.Christian, 2009

Blow Up

"How big?"

I spread my hands apart. "About this size?"

"Hummm..." she said, smiling at me. Her nametag said Betty. She was really pretty, or at least I thought so. Voluptuous I guess you'd call her: short, but with round up top and below. She really filled her Toys R Us, putting a lot of strain on that bright orange apron. "I think I might have something you'd like," she added, smiling again, but keeping the smile going for a lot longer than before. My heart began to beat faster; I felt lightheaded.

"G-great," I managed to stammer, covering it by coughing into my fist.

"This way," she said, crooking a finger, leading me towards the back of the store. Her ass rolled as she walked. "I think we have one more left in stock. Or at least I think so--it was here the other day." Just following her I was getting really excited, and even more nervous.

"This is where I saw it last," Betty said, digging around in some boxes at the end of the Hula-Hoop, Squirt Gun, and Kids' Sports section. Her plump breasts swung as she bent over, pushing brightly colored boxes aside. "Ah, here it is--voila! We do mean to serve." Betty breathed deeply, making her round little body gently swell up. In her hands was a box: Big Bouncy in cartoon letters on the side, "4' when inflated" right below. "Suitable for children of all ages" beneath that. "Is this what you were looking for?" her voice was deep, slow, and breathy.

My cock was hard. Very hard. She probably noticed, I realized, and my face blushed hot. "T-that's perfect. I'll take it." I took the box, positioning it to hide the evidence in my pants.

"You know, I don't do this very often but, well--" she blushed too, very quickly, but then she dropped her head just ever so and looked up at me through her dark eyelashes. "--if you want to, you know, go out sometime ..." Her number was written on a claim tag. I couldn't let go of the box, so I trapped it against the cardboard with a finger.

"T-that'd be great," I said, grinning wide, very glad for the box in my arms.

"I think so too," Betty said, as we walked up to the front, where I bought my ball and--with her waving goodbye--went out, and home.

Preparation is half the fun. Well, maybe not half, because when you get right down to it, when I get right down to it, it's a lot of fun. But getting ready is still a thrill: knowing what's coming, thinking about it, building anticipation.

I used to just leap in, but I got so excited I was a little ... rough, and it blew up in my face. So now I take my time, stretch it out. For instance, the right kind of lotion is essential. I used to use hand lotion, but while it left me feeling smooth and soft it also clotted up. I even tried Crisco, hearing that gay men used it; and while it worked really well, it also had this smell ... made me hungry for fried chicken. Kind of distracting.

I finally settled on basic, good old-fashioned baby oil. It's great: nice and slick, doesn't get all gummy, and a little goes a real long way--and no one looks at you funny when you buy a quart of it.

The best, though, is shaving. There's just something about it. Methodical, careful, with a bit of danger involved. You don't rush when you shave. You have to have control, patience. Shaving's the best part, except for the act itself, of course.

When I have enough time, or I just can't contain my excitement any longer--like today when I came home from Toys R Us with the Big Bouncy in my arms--I carefully clear all the furniture from my living room, pushing aside the sofa, the coffee table, the ugly lamp my mother gave me, and all the rest. Then I roll up the Persian rug. I love my floor; it's the best part of the house. When I bought it five years ago I saw the bad plumbing, the ancient wiring, and the crumbling plaster in the bedroom, but I bought it because of the living room floor. Exposed, even a bit dusty, it glowed. It always made me think of a tropical sunset, though I've never been out of LA. It was a warm floor. Seeing it, knowing what was coming always made me feel calm, serene--but also, bubbling down deep, excited.

Next I dust the floor, being careful to get all the dust and grit off it. I usually start with a mop, then finish with a soft chamois and some Pledge. When I'm done, the floor doesn't just glow, it shines. Brilliant gold. Sunlight. Beautiful.

I had a painter's tarp for a long time, but there was something about covering up that wonderful floor with cheap blue plastic that made me just a bit sad. Not that the floor was all that important, but it was pretty. I hunted around and was lucky to find a clear sheet of plastic just the right size, so now I not only get a great space, but I can see it when it ... well, when I do it, of course.

With the plastic down, I get in the bathtub with my shaving supplies. Nothing special about them, not really, but I quickly learned not to get shaving cream with anything in it. Nothing like menthol or mint. It burns. Just plain shaving cream. It's not easy to find, surprisingly, but a few months ago I stumbled on a little market that had some, so I bought all six cans.

Then I start to shave, starting with my face and then on down. I really wish I didn't have to work, because I'd really like to shave my head. Sometimes I think of that, imagine how wonderful it would be to be completely hairless, my whole body exposed, nothing between us but a thin coating of oil. Some day maybe, but for now I have to settle for shaving my chest, crotch, and legs. My penis and balls are the hardest--mainly because by then I'm very hard--but I take deep breaths and go as carefully and methodically as I can. A cut on the face can be painful enough, but nicking yourself down there is so bad it can make me cry; and I never cry, not usually.

After I go from my face to my feet (this usually takes at least half an hour) I shower all the foam off, trying not to get too much hair in the drain at the same time. By then I'm very excited, my cock very hard. I always smile at that, how hard my cock gets, as if it knows what's coming and keeps pointing at what it's hungry for.