Posts Tagged ‘ literature ’

More erotic fiction

A few weeks ago I published an excerpt from Cold Tequila Comfort, an erotic fiction/crime thriller hybrid I’ve been working on. The response was huge. I received emails that made me squint such was the intensity of the glowing praise within, mailed underpants, several awards, eight marriage proposals, an offer from a condom company (they wanted to name a new brand of prophylactic devices after me: Haught Naughts) and numerous other things that I can’t mention here because my wife reads this blog.

The resounding message was “we want more”, so here it is:

(From Chapter 6, titled ‘Best Laid Plans’)

“I’ve been thinkin’,” said Brunden.

“Mind you don’t hurt yourself,” said Dierdre .

They laughed as heartily as an old-fashioned steak and kidney pie with a thick crust. They both had good senses of humour and could deprecate one another without fear of violent reprisals. And anyway, they both knew Brunden was smart. Real smart. He was, after all, a chartered accountant and knew some French.

“I’ve been thinkin’,” Brunden repeated, “Dierdre … it’s such an uncommon name these days.”

“You don’t like it?” Dierdre asked.

“No. That is not what I meant,” Brunden assured. “If I had to guess I would say it was German for hot – VERY HOT!”

And then it was on. Again. For the fourth time that morning. And as Brunden eased his hulking juggernaut into Dierdre ‘s humming inlet the fact that Dierdre was actually an Irish name meaning sorrowful meant precisely nothing.

They had intercourse three more times that day, for a total of seven.


“Where the hell have you been, Brunden?” Davis growled. If he hadn’t been so handsome, you might have mistaken him for a werewolf, such was the gruff, dog-like quality of his voice.

“I’ve been having sexual relations,” Brunden replied.

“I don’t need to hear that,” Davis said, shaking his head.

Brunden had a grin on his face that only a man who had vigorously and repeatedly used his corporal javelin earlier that day could sport.

Brunden had become a police informant, sometimes known as a “snitch”. But the word snitch didn’t seem to befit Brunden, who had licorice brown hair like the mane of a horse that used product.

Davis had short hair that was dishevelled and smelled slightly unpleasant because he had not been home to wash for three days.

It was a poignant contrast.

“You ready to do this?” asked Davis, who had led Brunden into an interview room. He was holding a tattered blue clipboard. It was one he had been using for seven years. The police just didn’t have the funds to spend on stationery.

“Your clipboard is tattered,” said Brunden, sitting down on a chair made from cheap aluminium. The small area of subtly-pinstriped trouser now touching the piece of furniture was more valuable than the chair itself.

“So will your career be, if you keep up with that,” Davis shot back. He was sharp, sharp like a stone age cutting implement and just as rough around the edges.

Brunden raised his hands in a show of apology and tried to subdue his grin. It was a grin that could moisten a woman standing up to forty metres away (Brunden himself had conducted scientifically rigorous experiments to prove it), but it did not stir anything in Davis, who was not a homosexual, other than bitter resentment. Bitter like a chinotto.

Davis clenched his jaw, painfully swallowed his pride like it was a large, unripe, unchewed strawberry, and got down to business.

“Let’s do this thing,” he said. He sometimes liked to use the vernacular of a younger generation when talking with informers. He felt it got better outcomes.

“OK,” said Brunden.

“Talk to me about Vince Tricalico, my main man,” said Davis.

It wasn’t strictly a question, but Brunden answered anyway. “They call him “Vinny”. He plays golf on Sundays. At the Royal Oaks.”

“I think that’s enough to go on, dude,” said Davis, and promptly ended the interview. “Interview with Mr Brunden ended at 2.36 pm,” he said.

The clock ticked over to 2.37.


Felicity Montgomery was the daughter of the Establishment. She sometimes rode in a horse-drawn carriage, even though that mode of transport had been obsolete for more than a century and was extravagantly expensive and exceptionally inefficient. She had hair like a flowing waterfall of molten bronze and eyes like two shimmering orbs of cobalt, except with some white (the white) and black (the pupil). Her eyes not only looked like cobalt, they also had a cobalt-like radioactivity, and although they could not cause cancer in a man, they could certainly make him very ill indeed. Ill with love.

Felicity had a fine pair of buttocks.

Felicity was in a sauna. It was a male-only sauna, but she was not there by accident; she knew what she was doing. She knew big time.

In walked Whorl Broxell. At first he didn’t notice that anyone else was in the large sauna. It was steamy and Felicity had deliberately settled, like  a very attractive troll, in its darkest corner. (Soon she would be probed in her own dark corner.)

Thinking he was alone, Broxell, as was his wont, let his towel drop to the floor and began to dance. It was the dance of a confident man. Confident in his movement and in his body. Confident in his ability to make the music his companion, even when there was no music to befriend. He bucked and swayed and sometimes there was a pelack-ing noise like a cold pancake hitting a slab of granite.

Felicity, who had spent the last three weeks planning for this moment, suddenly melted, transformed from a calculating woman who knew she was the master of her own destiny to a beguiled schoolgirl believing that the man in front of her was not only the centre of her universe, but had the right to use her and discard her like an object with little intrinsic or sentimental value – a cheap spatula, or perhaps a paper napkin that had been used to pick up a dead bird.

Words entered her head that hadn’t been there since she had been a teenager, words like “beefcake”, “love-sponge” and “diddle”. She found them both sickeningly juvenile and profoundly appropriate.

Her heart felt like it was beating faster than the wings of a hummingbird (it wasn’t, as she would have died instantly if it had been). Goosebumps dimpled her skin so intensely that she felt like a human golf ball. A pink one. Sweat slid down her face in rivulets. They would have been there even if she had been outside in the freezing St Kilda morning.

Felicity Montgomery’s best laid plans had most definitely gone to waste.

Want more? Of course you bloody do.

Haught fact of the day:

Horses can’t use product because their legs are rigid.


My attempt at erotic fiction

A few years ago, I was reading Peter Temple’s crime thriller The Broken Shore and found it so inspiring, I decided to write some fan fiction. It was good, very good, but I got sidetracked by other projects and forgot to ring back the many many publishing houses who had asked me to turn it into a novel, or any of the Hollywood studios who had enquired as to whether I would give them the film options.

Only since the success of Fifty Shades of Grey, the book that began as erotic Twilight fan fiction and became an international best seller, have I revisited my work. I discovered  that what I had – its working title was Cold Comfort –  was undoubtedly first-class prose, but it was single-genre prose.

I’m a trendsetter by nature, but I’m also a brilliant entrepreneur and I know when to start from scratch and when to take a proven idea and make it even better. So Cold Comfort became Cold Tequila Comfort, an erotic crime thriller no longer based on Peter Temple characters.

Here’s an excerpt for your delectation.

(If you like it, I might post some more again soon.

Let’s be honest, I’m going to be posting some more again soon.)

(From Chapter 3, titled ‘Big Time’)

Boyd looked out his window. The city was cold. Cold like Boyd’s heart. Cold like the iceblock in the tumbler of whiskey that sat on his desk. A triple –  Boyd didn’t do half measures. Like Jensen used to say, if you wanted to do half measures, you should join the rodeo as a clown at the rodeo.

He’d never understood that advice, as taking half measures at a rodeo could lead to serious internal organ and brain injuries, but Jensen was a multi-layered character and probably hadn’t meant it strictly literally.



“Sorry, boss.”

It was Davis.

“Davis. You scared the shit out of me. I was thinking about Jensen.”

“Multi-layered man, Jensen,” said Davis.

“Yes he was. Now he’s dead.”

Davis nodded slowly, quietly, thoughtfully. He nodded like a man in deep thought. Hell – he was.

“What do you want? Make it quick. I’m busy.”

Davis could tell this was a lie. Boyd had been looking out the window. Again. Possibly for up to eighty consecutive minutes. But he let it slide.

“It’s King.”

“What about him?”

“He’s dead.”


“He drank thirty-eight alcopops, got slightly tipsy and fell into a pool.”


“No, someone had put three blue ringed octopuses into the pool and, well… one found the mark.”

“His balls?”

“Yeah, boss.”

“Jensen always said King would be bitten on the genitals by an octopus and die from the poison of the octopus.”

“We can’t think about Jensen now. He’s long dead. King, on the other hand, is still warm.”

“You are right, Davis. As usual. How warm?”

“Pathology thinks it happened between eight and nine minutes ago.” Davis was talking  in between deep breaths. He had obviously run to the office. He had some sweat on his face. It glistened like salt water on a statue. In many ways, that’s exactly what it was.

“Any suspects at this stage?”


“Who’s your prime?” asked Boyd, using the terse, cold idiomatic language of the Homicide Squad. It was just his way. The only way he’d ever known, since being kicked out of a state school in Form 4 and being told by a teacher he’d never amount to anything. (Ha! Where was Ms Cuthbertson now? Almost certainly dead, as she had been in her mid sixties at the time she had made the comment, which meant she would be nearly one hundred and ten now and very few people lived that long.)

“A guy called Hank. Hank Brunden.”

“Talk to him. And do it now, goddamn it, before he leaves the country!”

Davis turned to leave the office.

Boyd picked up his whiskey, went to sip, then said “Davis.”

Davis was at the door. He turned to face the rugged head of the Homicide Squad, who hadn’t shaved for a few days. “Yes boss?”

“The King is dead. Long live the king.”

Davis didn’t need to respond. But he did. He said “Mm.”


Hank Brunden had a broad mind, a broad chest and a broad share portfolio. He loved women, but more than that he loved accountancy. And accountancy was what he was doing right now, at 10.45 in the evening, in bed. He was doing some work for a very special client. The client was himself. You see, Hank had a passion for accountancy that transcended work hours. He “did the math”, as he called it, like someone else might do a soduko puzzle (or “sudaki” as his dim-witted brother would say).

Hank’s bed had satin sheets.

Hank completed a difficult equation and yelled with satisfaction, as he sometimes did while exercising his gift for arithmetic. It must have been loud, because he could hear Dierdre, the thirty-four year old divorcee who lived in the apartment next door wake up and ask herself groggily, “Wh-what’s going on?”

Then suddenly it was on.

Big time.

Dierdre was at the door with all her clothes on and a duffel coat and a prim early 19th century replica bonnet, then she was about halfway between the door and the bed without her duffel coat and only some of her clothes on, but the bonnet still on in a coquettish manner. Then she was straddling Hank Brunden completely naked, her gulf throbbing like a frightened mouse’s heart. It had been like watching a very early, very amateurish attempt at stop motion cinema.

As Dierdre reached for Hank’s burgeoning groin trunk – his poppet head purpling with the same uncontrolled urgency as his doltish brother the time he’d been on the inane 1980s game show that challenged you to run around a faux supermarket putting as many consumer items into a trolley as you could in thirty seconds – Detective Inspector Gary Davis kicked the door down and charged into the room, gun drawn. He had the look in his eye of a man on a mission, a mission that didn’t come with very many protocols or instructions. Or exit strategies.

Davis had size 9 shoes.

“No knock, Detective Inspector?” asked Hank, smiling broadly, as his embarrassed neighbour covered his still-engorged jabberwocky (and she did see it as a mythical creature) with her prim bonnet.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Brunden!” Davis growled. He fired two rounds into the roof. “Finish off here, get dressed, brush your teeth, eat some toast and meet me downstairs. We’re goin’ downtown.”

Davis and Brunden had form.

Big time.


I’m thinking of releasing an audio version with me as the narrator.

Haught fact of the day:

When Boyd asks Davis who his “prime” is, he means prime suspect.