Wednesday, April 08, 2009

Graydon Carter Short Story: God's Big Bang

Graydon Carter's Lothario reputation has inspired me to write a piece of fiction, titled God's Big Bang, based on his legendary hotel fucking, as reported by Rupert Everett.

Graydon Carter took in a deep breath and lost three of his five bellies - just enough to catch sight of his vast manhood from a vertical perspective, standing to attention the way Toby Young didn't in Graydon's presence when the little scamp was researching his book at Vanity Fair.

"That goddam son-of-a-bitch," growled Graydon thinking of Toby as he let out a vast gale of air and lost sight of his organ. For a moment his enormity quivered at the fear of deflation.

"Oh Graydon, Graydon, look at it! Bring it over here before you lose it," bellowed the awed blonde in the hotel four-poster, usually purple-shiny with the latest Eva Mendes De-luxe Duvet which had been carelessly cast to the floor.

"My God! Who's that?" barked the mighty editor-in-chief as he caught sight of a strange looking man in the bedroom. "What the - ?"

"There's no one there but you, honeybunch" said Blondie lightly. "It's just you're looking in the mirror."

For a moment he thought he had spotted the ectoplasmic effusion of a ghost, all cottoned up about the head. Then he realised it was just his own hair, a vast, proud luxuriance, the like of which once dreamt about by elderly periwigged gentlemen grandees of Louis XIV's court.

"Oh, Graydon, it's gone!"

He breathed in again, losing an impressive four bellies this time. But, alas, the combination of Toby Young and the imagined ghost had caused his blood to surge from his cock to his cheeks. All he could see now was the rolling result of one too many dinners at Gotham's finest restaurants. He knew choler was bad for the blood pressure.

"Ah, fuck it," shouted the man who had written diatribes against George W Bush every month in his women's magazine for eight years with no discernible effect. "Come over here and give it a rub."

Blondie sighed a little, and then spun out of bed on her pert naked buttocks. A scream followed and then the poor girl lay unconscious on the carpet. She had landed on the Eva Mendes De-luxe Duvet which proved slippery underfoot.

"That's great," said Graydon to himself. He swaggered over to the lifeless form of his inamorata and couldn't feel a pulse. "Fuck!" He began banging her chest with his fist, like they did in ER, causing the floor to tremble with each blow. The actor in the room below lay in his bed wondering how the old boy upstairs could keep up such a pace - the thought stirred him and he started thinking again of another man who had once lost his dental crown on the actor's cockring.

Mercifully, Blondie came round in Graydon's arms - he had mistakenly felt her Cartier Love Collection watch, not her pulse - "Hello God, I must be dead," she whispered, struck by Graydon's resemblance to the image of the Old Testament sky god she'd seen on a biscuit tin once. Graydon scowled, "Don't ever fucking say that in front of Hitchens - he's crazy about his atheism," he snarled.

"Oh, Graydon, it's up again," she whinnied. "Come here and do me."

The actor in his bed could only marvel at the resumption of banging above. "It must be Viagra," he bitched as he stroked his cockring. "It takes me at least an hour to recover."


Anonymous said...

LOL! Your fiction is much better that fact, as usual - much more colorful and entertaining. You read my mind; I was thinking how is it that a person that’s been-there-done-that with so many different people is gullible enough to immediately assume that the noise coming from upstairs must mean the guy has a monster cock and the girl is not a call girl more than used to making such a performance.

Can you come up with Rupert’s thoughts that night, feeling left out of the action, imagining what would happen if he went upstairs to “complain” about how loud they were, only to be greeted at the door by Graydon in the buff and ready to go and being pulled in to play too? To Rupert’s surprise, blondie is really a ginger tranny begging for more.

Anonymous said...

This is fantastic Madame. Your metier is fiction.

Madame Arcati said...

Thank you darlings, so sweet. I'll mention it to my useless, idle agent. The problem with getting into Rupes' head is that I would have to imagine Graydon Carter fucking Rupert Everett. Even I get giddy at the thought.

Anonymous said...

Are you sure Sylive Krin didn't ghost that for you ?

Madame Arcati said...

Sylvie is quite moral and would never write anything so tasteless. In any case she's under exclusive contract to Private Eye.

Anonymous said...

Really made me laugh this. Thank you.

Anonymous said...

MA: “I would have to imagine Graydon Carter fucking Rupert Everett. Even I get giddy at the thought”

Oooouuuu! You’re right! All that blubber moving back and forth! Urgh! You had to put that image in my mind, didn’t you? I will not be able to keep down my meals for days! LOL!

forgotten ones fund/stephmastini said...

MA, you are morphing into a modern Anaïs Nin... how wonderful! Rather kitschy...A true artistic statement is always personal and intimate.
It exposes the artist's personality!!!
"tongue in cheek comment..."
loved it..

Madame Arcati said...

Anaïs Nin? Do you think so? She used to do horoscopes, too. I have yet to be persuaded that the delectable father-fucker Nin had a sense of humour.

forgotten ones fund/stephmastini said...

...I was not privy to that fact (about her sexual deviant behavior)...your humor is giggly fun! she did not possess that literary faux pas.
s! x

Lisa Borgnes Giramonti said...

Nothing short of genius. That and a triple espresso have made my morning.

Madame Arcati said...

I love a triple espresso darling, and a muffin.