WIP: If on a Summer’s Day a Prostitute | Moctezuma Johnson |#LPRTG

This book, tentatively titled If On a Summer’s Day a Prostitute, is like one of Joan Miro’s burnt canvasses. Learn more about this Work in Progress.

“Wine and head” by Namio Harukawa


You’re so excited to read the new one by Mictezuma Jihnson. You’ve heard a lot about it. It’s been promoted on twitter by a thousand russian prostibots and it’s been shared in readers groups (you know the ones where authors like Mictezuma copy and paste the same links ad nauseum). Pins have made their way around various folders. Instagram accounts have been hashtagged from the tens to the thousands to get those invaluable likes. Influencers have gotten freebies and exponentially grown their own followers while promoting the heck out of this new one from the great MJ. ARCs have been given out. Special advanced copies have been given to subscribers and to patreons who have supported with $2 and higher per month. All of this has been done to create the buzz of the indie author. None of it does much, yet all of it does something. The Gestalt Philosophy is that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts, and it may be. This is the modern world. This is modern publishing. You are a modern reader, as comfortable with paper against your thumb and forefinger as you are swiping pages across a small pixelated screen. You fancy yourself a good reader, thus you can hang with the heavyweights like MiJi, the nickname they’ve given this Mictezuma Jihnson. MiJi’s writing is an acquired taste like whiskey. He is not for everyone. They’ve described him as Bukowski on steroids, the Great K’iche’-Mayab Philosopher with the cooking skills of the Mediterranean and the cock prowess of an out of work pornstar drinking beer on his couch in just his tube socks pulled up to his knees like Jimmy Connors in the 70s. He’s more like Bukowski on Steroids laced with Viagra, but that’s a debate for another day. Today, you’re happy to have one of the first copies of this new book. According to the internets, it’s a good one. You are done with work. Kick your shoes of, and tell your kids you’re done for the night, to leave you alone. And turn down the volume on that damn tablet so I can read, you say. There are so many tocsins stealing your attention. Devices are attention whores, and you want to be whored out right by Mictezuma’s new book. 

You turn on your device and wait for it to appear, like a phantom out of thin air. You begin reading, mouthing the words silently, “If on a Summer’s Day a Prostitute…” and already your heart is beating a tick faster. That one illicit word has affected you. That MJ’s words do that do you every time.

If on a summer’s day a prostitute

A small maple tree bloomed. In months it would shed. Now it was magnolia and cherry blossoms. The mother collected fallen leaves gingerly and placed them carefully in wooden boxes. She poured her husband’s sake with two hands. He accepted it with one. She was as delicate as a cherry blossom. She walked the house gently like a full step would shatter the floor, causing a rift that would sink the mountain into the Earth’s core. She wore pretty robes that hugged her fresh young body. She had a wonderful figure. She was geisha and hentai rolled up into one obedient wife. She pranced on her toes. Her breasts were perky and full. She spoiled her son with sweet breads and chocolate sticks. Everything about her was perfect. I was simply a guest of the house, part of their guesthouse. She brought me fresh cut fruit and cooked fish that she cut open for me expertly with chopsticks by slicing the skeleton straight down the bone with one stick, while she held the stick’s twin demurely with her crinkled pinky finger. She was an amazing woman. She let me gaze at her, admire her small nose, smooth skin, ample breasts, and ripe bottom. Her legs were always neatly together when she sat and her knees rarely parted. Yet, for all this delicate apparent conservatism, there was something sexually alluring about her like all this self-control was practiced to cage a ravenous wanton beast. I was sure her husband got to enjoy pleasures I could only dream about. In fact, I could hear some of them after the sun went down. One night I got up to investigate the sound and found their wooden door cracked open. I stood there and watched through the crack in the wall as she massaged him. He moaned like they were making love but all she was doing was cupping his balls in her hand. No woman ever cupped my balls to orgasm but I think that’s what I witnessed through the crack that night in the moonlight. I had to abandon my spot for fear of getting caught. I went back to my room but couldn’t get the sight of her naked bosom out of my mind. I was in love. She had me in her hand. I was her guest, her customer, and her adorer.


The kindle has started smoking from the sex scenes and it melts but still works. The whole thing hasn’t melted. Don’t let Mictezuma confuse you with his hyperbole. Also, what do you think about this second person bullshit? Ever read a story like this and liked it? You remember reading Half Asleep In Frog’s Pajamas, but that was probably the worst of all his books. Oh well. 


The kindle hasn’t melted like a Dali clock. It just gives off a faint smell of burning rubber, like the semiconductors have burned out. If you look closely at the ugly boxy corners of the Amazon reading device, you find they are slightly brown and rounded. 

Unfortunately, when you scroll you are stuck in a new story. You can backtrack to the boarder story but when you return to the present, the next story, that next story is different. It’s no longer the hot Japanese boarder story. 

It’s no longer the sultry wife skittering about among the weeping willows and japanese maple trees in the well-manicured garden. No more demure woman for which who you and the protagonist have teamed up to yearn. 

Now it’s an empath dealing with a murder. Wtf?

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