Fuckle Me, Elmo
... and other things I wrote in a writers' group
This week, I thought I’d share some pieces I wrote at the first ever Dream Baby Press Writing Club. If you’ve never heard of Dream Baby, they’re a small press (with their own groovy Substack) run by Matt Starr and Zack Roif specializing in erotica. But their big claim to fame is their Perverted Book Club event series, where authors, actors, and memers read their favorite literotica in the most random places — like the Sbarro in Penn Station or the famed Peter Pan Donut Shop.
The writing club was held at the three-story Burger King by City Hall — which is allegedly also the only Burger King in the city that sells beer. We all arrived and mingled over fries. Then, we were given a series of racy writing prompts and had 10 minutes to let it rip. Here are three of my favorite ones.
The prompt for this first piece was as follows: "You’re airdropped naked in the middle of Times Square." The poem basically wrote itself. It’s called Fuckle Me, Elmo.
Airdropped naked in the middle of Times Square. Who needs a compass when my rock hard cock will point me toward the North Star? My pure sexual prowess makes a group of French tourists part like the red sea, revealing the true Big Apple of my eye: Elmo. Mad Max: Furry Road. Here I go down the rabbit's hole. Tickle me, Elmo. Tickle my big bird while I eat your cookie like a monster. My beard looks like it's covered in fire ants. Elmo looks like he just got off the conveyor at Krispy Kreme. I'm in ecstasy until he puts out his hand and demands cash. Fuck! I thought Giuliani got rid of the prostitutes.
The next one is another poem, an ode to something I love. People wrote odes to sex toys, halal guys, and bodega cats. I wrote an Ode to Strangelove, the bar I like to go to when I want to decompress after work.
It’s particularly special because it’s the only dive bar in Midtown East. It’s the only place you can get hammered for $20 — the price of one drink anywhere else in the neighborhood. It’s a bizarre area full of PR girls and finance bros, and strangely, Strangelove is the most normal place there.
I stumble into the punk dive bar named after a Kubrick film wearing a sweaty white button down, carrying a bag of leftover food from work. Off-shift servers and Bloomberg finance managers sit together at the bar, bonding over their white button downs while Escape from New York plays silently on the TV. The Russian bartender pours me a bonus shot While a group of hot lesbians debates ethical non-monogamy in the corner. With a PBR tallboy and an arugula salad in front of me, I dream of a life without labor. Why do I give valuable time to people who don't care if I live or die? The Smiths play through the speaker behind my ear while my friend and I discuss whether Patti Smith is a musician or an author. Happy in the haze of a drunken hour, Heaven knows we're eating meatballs now.
Finally, we were prompted to write a personal ad for ourselves. I took this prompt very seriously on the off chance that the person I was looking for was in the room with me. He wasn’t, but maybe he’s reading this…
Gorgeous, mysterious manic pixie dream boy seeks buff daddy to rein him in — and also rain on him. Looking for a burly guy with pecs the size of Jenny McCarthy’s tits. Smelly, with a little belly. The hairier, the merrier, but bald or grey is A-OK! Must have a credit score over 700 and at least one international bank account. A second home in the Berkshires or Napa Valley, preferably — though Fire Island is serviceable. You’ll be my dom in real life, and I’ll be your dom in the bedroom. Force me to stop jacking off and write a fucking book by threatening to stop paying my rent. Finance this starving young artist and be rewarded with some gnarly cock and ball torture.