This is an excerpt from Futadelic — the Power of Potion. If you enjoy this free bit, please spend a couple of dollars to support me and my writing. Thanks.
Also, if you want to read it and you’re broke, just send me an email and I’ll probably be kind enough to gift one to you.
This is the kind of story that twelve year olds tell each other in the locker room. It is a cautionary tale, out of the desire to understand how hormones could suddenly take hold of their bodies. This like the story Jessica overheard her mother talking about, who then told her best friend Sam, who told Jill, who told Helena, who told Zuri, who told her boyfriend Jack, to slow him down when he was trying to feel her up for the first time. Jack told Dan, who told Timmy, and now the whole school, town, city, and country knew of this woman who was part man. Some say it isn’t true. Some say they know the people. Some say it’s something you should never talk about. Some shush you when you start.
Ao was a bar-girl, thus the one-syllable nickname. She worked at Foxy Diablo. You know, one of those bars where the girls sit and flag foreigners to come in and buy them lady’s drinks. They play Connect Four, dice, or who can bang a nail into a big log. Lucky for Ao, she really liked tequila shots. This made her the premier girl at the bar. Also, she had killer eye-hand coordination that could hit the nail on the hammer while the foreigners struggled, which meant more drinks, more tips, more money to send back home. Cancer was not cheap. Mom needed money, guys needed pussy—and so the merry-go-round kept turning.
Sasha was a doctor at the local clinic. She worked in a small room in the same building with a big crap store. This was where all the foreigners came to buy garish statues of the Buddha, elephants, silk that would make Jim Thompson turn over in his grave, junky pool cues, knock off electronics, and other crap. The doctor’s office was a place people went because they had to go. In a land of sex tourism the results were sometimes negative and that was positive, but when they were positive that was quite negative. Just this morning the doctor had fingered two slides that showed two positively unlucky bargirls had contracted HIV.
Once a week Ao went to the doctor to make sure she didn’t have anything. Today, she walked in and had her blood taken. Sasha showed her the results for the two unlucky girls and told her to be careful. Sasha was lucky, Ao thought. Sasha was a Russian immigrant and good-looking. White women had choices. Thai girls from the provinces didn’t. Ao could have stayed and been her mom’s nurse, or she could spread her legs and let men enjoy themselves on her and then hope her next life Buddha would be kind. After all Ao had been through, she was due for a life of royalty. Or at least life as a man. Damn, men had it easy. Their biggest responsibilities were holding their protrusions when then peed. Hold your cock right and you’re set. For women it was complicated.
Peter was a scientist from Germany. He’d been tasked with some weird business about growing appendages. The French government had hired him to help Cambodians with missing limbs due to the land mines stepped on since the 70s. It had to do with the war, land mines, and how they could help victims. There was a way to grow and regrow parts of the body. Think crabs. Think starfish. Think snakes. He was charged with doing the same for humans. This was no ordinary problem. From France, he was dispatched to a country—which always changes in the retelling of the story—you know which one, the one where laws are bent and human rights are optional.
In the Far East, Peter’s research really took flight. Sure, he grew ears where legs should be and gave women who had lost their hands the hairy hands of a man, but he was making superb progress. This was the real thing. He was on to something. He just needed one more little bit. He needed one more ingredient. His company sent him to Bangkok where the final part was available, if the rumors were true. Bangkok was the only place in the world where the completion of his project was possible. Thanks to politics—something about Laos and Cambodia and the French occupation of Vietnam years ago—he had to sneak into the country under a fake name. (If you try to verify this man existed, you will come up empty). In Bangkok, Peter could stumble on greatness. All he had to do was get his hands on the red liquid.
Ao was on her third shot of tequila when she saw him. He was completely shaven, even his eyebrows. Although he had piercing eyes he had a friendly smile. She saw him checking her out and knew immediately that he was going to “barfine” her. The bars collected money to let the girl go for the night, money that the bar would ostensibly make on the drinks the girl would get men to buy. But before the “barfine”, Peter and Ao had to play their roles. He had to buy her a few drinks. He had to win at Connect Four and lose at the nail game. He had to buy her and the mama a drink. He had to answer questions about Germany, about the value of the Euro, explain that he was a scientist here to get something. He had to pay her bar fine.
He took her by the hand and led her toward his hotel.
Peter and Ao passed a pretty Thai woman who worked at the hotel. She was rushing into the kitchen, where a tall white chef was waiting with his arms folded. The chef looked annoyed. Peter noticed that the chef was hiding a hard on. The tall, gorgeous receptionist had eyes like the girls on the walls of the old pyramids in Giza. Behind her was a wooden letter box and an old analog clock with chipped paint. There was an altar to Buddha in the corner with sweet incense burning. Ao checked in with her ID card and Peter had to sign a notebook with dog-eared corners.
The hotel was the Thai version of a Disney Polynesian resort, or vice versa. There was a central pool and bungalows sprouted around it. Theirs was on the south side of the village. In the room, Ao enjoyed talking to Peter who rambled on and on now about this being the best trip of his life because of something he had found. She inspected the room. There was a bed against a wall. Behind the wall was a bathroom. Beside the bed were two night tables with lamps. There was a sitting chair and coffee table with a box of tissues on it.
She sat in the chair, lifted her shirt and put her breasts in Peter’s mouth. “Take this, sir,” she said. The window was open. Tiki lamps lit the courtyard in the darkness where a tall Thai woman walked briskly. An even taller white man, the hotel chef, followed her. He was holding something in his hand. They both looked angry. Clearly they were dating and in the middle of an argument.
Ao started daydreaming about dating. Really dating, not having some guy she just met sucking her titties. She could see herself with an Australian guy. He needn’t be great looking but he had to be nice. She could then be free of all this trouble. She might even get her mom to a great doctor and cured.
She was in her fantasy so deep she didn’t notice Peter had stopped suckling on her tits. Her brown nipples hung in the air and he was now holding a vial of red liquid, which he subsequently poured on her lips. He smiled and told her, “I’m going to provide you the best life you could have ever wished for.” His smile was soft and caring. She felt a bit dizzy. It was like the Buddha had spoken to her. The red liquid was warm on her and tasted like bee pollen, mint leaves, and tar.
Ao heard someone playing the ranat ek, a traditional Thai instrument. It sounded like a woody xylophone. Somewhere a dog barked. She could hear the wind. Or was that the ocean? Where was she?
As a kid, Ao wanted to be a dancer. She saw the traditional Lao dance and was hooked. She was talented. Then her mom had to stop work when they found out she was terminal.
The ranat ek kept playing. It was repetitive, circular. Elliptical, like it was suspended, playing to the orbits of the planets. She tasted red. A dog barked again. It shook its head and she heard its collar.
She was floating over the ocean. The waves and their crests flowed beneath her.
Ao woke up at home. She couldn’t remember how she got there. Tequila. Why did she like it? She could taste that she had been drinking it. She was foggy. Her ears echoed, like the ocean had jumped into them. Her vision was sharp and crisp. Though foggy, she wasn’t sleepy at all. She felt something pulling her awake. She felt like she needed to do something, like she needed to release built up tension. She had something and it needed to be released. She never felt anything like this before. She noticed the covers sitting on her body. She felt a quick panic. The image of a man with a shaved head flashed in her mind. She felt her breast, where Peter had sucked, and everything was normal. As soon as her hand grazed her nipple it got hard. It was weird, like she was being touched, but it was her own hand. Tequila.
Something was wrong. The sheets were like a tent. Was someone in bed with her? She threw off the covers and that’s when she saw it.
^.^ — Enjoyed that so far? Buy the Book at Amazon
You’ve been waiting for the new one by Moctezuma Johnson. You have your reading device, you’ve poured yourself a whiskey, you’ve drawn the curtains, turned on your vibrating toy, and you’re ready to read some literary porn. You’ve been waiting for the prince of page porn, the self-proclaimed (yes, I know it’s ridiculous) King of Erotica to drop his new book down on your genitals (ouch!). Well, here it is: 9,000 words of pure #futadelic mayhem. So what does Futadelic look like?
Without further ado I give to you…
The Power of Potion
The story of Dr. Peter Engle in the seedy black markets of Bangkok. Think starfish, think crab, think amputee. Think wires crossed, think dick-girl. Think Futa Mayhem!
The Full Unadulterated Cover
The Censored (but still fucking awesome) Cover
The name’s Bootsy, baby!
Besides loving literary porn and erotica I am a huge funk fan. I love the Isley Brothers and Parliament/Funkadelic more than any other music. In anticip–ation of my next novelette, Futadelic, here is a little Cosmic Slop for ya.
Free Your Mind and Your Ass Will Follow, y’all
#futa #futadelic #funk #erotica